the magic skin-第2章

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welcome　him　respectfully；　and　these　evil　spirits　in　human　shape；

experienced　in　torments；　bowed　before　an　unheard…of　anguish。　By　the

depth　of　the　wound　which　met　their　eyes；　they　recognized　a　prince

among　them；　by　the　majesty　of　his　unspoken　irony；　by　the　refined

wretchedness　of　his　garb。　The　frock…coat　that　he　wore　was　well　cut；

but　his　cravat　was　on　terms　so　intimate　with　his　waistcoat　that　no　one

could　suspect　him　of　underlinen。　His　hands；　shapely　as　a　woman's　were

not　perfectly　clean；　for　two　days　past　indeed　he　had　ceased　to　wear

gloves。　If　the　very　croupier　and　the　waiters　shuddered；　it　was　because

some　traces　of　the　spell　of　innocence　yet　hung　about　his　meagre；

delicately…shaped　form；　and　his　scanty　fair　hair　in　its　natural　curls。



He　looked　only　about　twenty…five　years　of　age；　and　any　trace　of　vice

in　his　face　seemed　to　be　there　by　accident。　A　young　constitution　still

resisted　the　inroads　of　lubricity。　Darkness　and　light；　annihilation

and　existence；　seemed　to　struggle　in　him；　with　effects　of　mingled

beauty　and　terror。　There　he　stood　like　some　erring　angel　that　has　lost

his　radiance；　and　these　emeritus…professors　of　vice　and　shame　were

ready　to　bid　the　novice　depart；　even　as　some　toothless　crone　might　be

seized　with　pity　for　a　beautiful　girl　who　offers　herself　up　to　infamy。



The　young　man　went　straight　up　to　the　table；　and；　as　he　stood　there；

flung　down　a　piece　of　gold　which　he　held　in　his　hand；　without

deliberation。　It　rolled　on　to　the　Black；　then；　as　strong　natures　can；

he　looked　calmly；　if　anxiously；　at　the　croupier；　as　if　he　held　useless

subterfuges　in　scorn。



The　interest　this　coup　awakened　was　so　great　that　the　old　gamesters

laid　nothing　upon　it；　only　the　Italian；　inspired　by　a　gambler's

enthusiasm；　smiled　suddenly　at　some　thought；　and　punted　his　heap　of

coin　against　the　stranger's　stake。



The　banker　forgot　to　pronounce　the　phrases　that　use　and　wont　have

reduced　to　an　inarticulate　cry〃Make　your　game。　。　。　。　The　game　is

made。　。　。　。　Bets　are　closed。〃　The　croupier　spread　out　the　cards；　and

seemed　to　wish　luck　to　the　newcomer；　indifferent　as　he　was　to　the

losses　or　gains　of　those　who　took　part　in　these　sombre　pleasures。

Every　bystander　thought　he　saw　a　drama；　the　closing　scene　of　a　noble

life；　in　the　fortunes　of　that　bit　of　gold；　and　eagerly　fixed　his　eyes

on　the　prophetic　cards；　but　however　closely　they　watched　the　young

man；　they　could　discover　not　the　least　sign　of　feeling　on　his　cool　but

restless　face。



〃Even！　red　wins；〃　said　the　croupier　officially。　A　dumb　sort　of　rattle

came　from　the　Italian's　throat　when　he　saw　the　folded　notes　that　the

banker　showered　upon　him；　one　after　another。　The　young　man　only

understood　his　calamity　when　the　croupiers's　rake　was　extended　to

sweep　away　his　last　napoleon。　The　ivory　touched　the　coin　with　a　little

click；　as　it　swept　it　with　the　speed　of　an　arrow　into　the　heap　of　gold

before　the　bank。　The　stranger　turned　pale　at　the　lips；　and　softly　shut

his　eyes；　but　he　unclosed　them　again　at　once；　and　the　red　color

returned　as　he　affected　the　airs　of　an　Englishman；　to　whom　life　can

offer　no　new　sensation；　and　disappeared　without　the　glance　full　of

entreaty　for　compassion　that　a　desperate　gamester　will　often　give　the

bystanders。　How　much　can　happen　in　a　second's　space；　how　many　things

depend　on　a　throw　of　the　die！



〃That　was　his　last　cartridge；　of　course；〃　said　the　croupier；　smiling

after　a　moment's　silence；　during　which　he　picked　up　the　coin　between

his　finger　and　thumb　and　held　it　up。



〃He　is　a　cracked　brain　that　will　go　and　drown　himself；〃　said　a

frequenter　of　the　place。　He　looked　round　about　at　the　other　players；

who　all　knew　each　other。



〃Bah！〃　said　a　waiter；　as　he　took　a　pinch　of　snuff。



〃If　we　had　but　followed　HIS　example；〃　said　an　old　gamester　to　the

others；　as　he　pointed　out　the　Italian。



Everybody　looked　at　the　lucky　player；　whose　hands　shook　as　he　counted

his　bank…notes。



〃A　voice　seemed　to　whisper　to　me；〃　he　said。　〃The　luck　is　sure　to　go

against　that　young　man's　despair。〃



〃He　is　a　new　hand；〃　said　the　banker；　〃or　he　would　have　divided　his

money　into　three　parts　to　give　himself　more　chance。〃



The　young　man　went　out　without　asking　for　his　hat；　but　the　old

watch…dog；　who　had　noted　its　shabby　condition；　returned　it　to　him

without　a　word。　The　gambler　mechanically　gave　up　the　tally；　and　went

downstairs　whistling　Di　tanti　Palpiti　so　feebly；　that　he　himself

scarcely　heard　the　delicious　notes。



He　found　himself　immediately　under　the　arcades　of　the　Palais…Royal；

reached　the　Rue　Saint　Honore；　took　the　direction　of　the　Tuileries；　and

crossed　the　gardens　with　an　undecided　step。　He　walked　as　if　he　were　in

some　desert；　elbowed　by　men　whom　he　did　not　see；　hearing　through　all

the　voices　of　the　crowd　one　voice　alonethe　voice　of　Death。　He　was

lost　in　the　thoughts　that　benumbed　him　at　last；　like　the　criminals　who

used　to　be　taken　in　carts　from　the　Palais　de　Justice　to　the　Place　de

Greve；　where　the　scaffold　awaited　them　reddened　with　all　the　blood

spilt　here　since　1793。



There　is　something　great　and　terrible　about　suicide。　Most　people's

downfalls　are　not　dangerous；　they　are　like　children　who　have　not　far

to　fall；　and　cannot　injure　themselves；　but　when　a　great　nature　is

dashed　down；　he　is　bound　to　fall　from　a　height。　He　must　have　been

raised　almost　to　the　skies；　he　has　caught　glimpses　of　some　heaven

beyond　his　reach。　Vehement　must　the　storms　be　which　compel　a　soul　to

seek　for　peace　from　the　trigger　of　a　pistol。



How　much　young　power　starves　and　pines　away　in　a　garret　for　want　of　a

friend；　for　lack　of　a　woman's　consolation；　in　the　midst　of　millions　of

fellow…creatures；　in　the　presence　of　a　listless　crowd　that　is　burdened

by　its　wealth！　When　one　remembers　all　this；　suicide　looms　large。

Between　a　self…sought　death　and　the　abundant　hopes　whose　voices　call　a

young　man　to　Paris；　God　only　knows　what　may　intervene；　what　contending

ideas　have　striven　within　the　soul；　what　poems　have　been　set　aside；

what　moans　and　what　despair　have　been　repressed；　what　abortive

masterpieces　and　vain　endeavors！　Every　suicide　is　an　awful　poem　of

sorrow。　Where　will　you　find　a　work　of　genius　floating　above　the　seas

of　literature　that　can　compare　with　this　paragraph：



　　〃Yesterday；　at　four　o'clock；　a　young　woman　threw　herself　into　the

　　Seine　from　the　Pont　des　Arts。〃



Dramas　and　romances　pale　before　this　concise　Parisian　phrase；　so　must

even　that　old　frontispiece；　The　Lamentations　of　the　glorious　king　of

Kaernavan；　put　in　prison　by　his　children；　the　sole　remaining　fragment

of　a　lost　work　that　drew　tears　from　Sterne　at　the　bare　perusalthe

same　Sterne　who　deserted　his　own　wife　and　family。



The　stranger　was　beset　with　such　thoughts　as　these；　which　passed　in

fragments　through　his　mind；　like　tattered　flags　fluttering　above　the

combat。　If　he　set　aside　for　a　moment　the　burdens　of　consciousness　and

of　memory；　to　watch　the　flower　heads　gently　swayed　by　the　breeze　among

the　green　thickets；　a　revulsion　came　over　him；　life　struggled　against

the　oppressive　thought　of　suicide；　and　his　eyes　rose　to　the　sky：　gray

clouds；　melancholy　gusts　of　the　wind；　the　stormy　atmosphere；　all

decreed　that　he　should　die。



He　bent　his　way　toward　the　Pont　Royal；　musing　over　the　last　fancies　of

others　who　had　gone　before　him。　He　smiled　to　himself　as　he　remembered

that　Lord　Castlereagh　had　satisfied　the　humblest　of　our　needs　before

he　cut　his　throat；　and　that　the　academician　Auger　had　sought　for　his

snuff…box　as　he　went　to　his　death。　He　analyzed　these　extravagances；

and　even　examined　himself；　for　as　he　stood　aside　against　the　parapet

to　allow　a　porter　to　pass；　his　coat　had　been　whitened　somewhat　by　the

contact；　and　he　carefully　brushed　the　dust　from　his　sleeve；　to　his　own

surprise。　He　reached　the　middle　of　the　arch；　and　looked　forebodingly

at　the　water。



〃Wretched　weather　for　drowning　yourself；〃　said　a　ragged　old　woman；　who

grinned　at　him；　〃isn't　the　Seine　cold　and　dirty？〃



His　answer　was　a　ready　smile；　which　showed　the　frenzied　nature　of　his

courage；　then　he　shivered　all　at　once　as　he　saw　at　a　distance；　by　the

door　of　the　Tuileries；　a　shed　with　an　inscription　above　it　in　letters

twelve　inches　high：　THE　ROYAL　HUMANE　SOCIETY'S　APPARATUS。



A　vision　of　M。　Dacheux　rose　before　him；　equipped　by　his　philanthropy；

calling　out　and　setting　in　motion　the　too　efficacious　oars　which　break

the　heads　of　drowning　men；　if　unluckily　they　should　rise　to　the

surface；　he　saw　a　curious　crowd　collecting；　running　for　a　doctor；

preparing　fumigations；　he　read　the　maundering　paragraph　in　the　papers；

put　between　notes　on　a　festivity　and　on　the　smiles　of　a　ballet…dancer；

he　heard　the　francs　counted　down　by　the　prefect　of　police　to　the

watermen。　As　a　corpse；　he　was　worth　fifteen　francs；　but　now　while　he

lived　he　was　only　a　man　of　talent　without　patrons；　without　friends；

without　a　mattress　to　lie　on；　or　any　one　to　speak　a　word　for　hima

perfect　social　cipher；　useless　to　a　State　which　gave　itself　no　trouble

about　him。



A　death　in　broad　daylight　seemed　degrading　to　him；　he　made　up　his　mind

to　die　at　night　so　as　to　bequeath　an　unrecognizable　corpse　to　a　world

which　had　disregarded　the　greatness　of　life。　He　began　his　wanderings

again；　turning　towards　the　Quai　Voltaire；　imitating　the　lagging　gait

of　an　idler　seeking　to　kill　time。　As　he　came　down　the　steps　at　the　end

of　the　bridge；　his　notice　was　attracted　by　the　second…hand　books

displayed　on　the　parapet；　and　he　was　on　the　point　of　bargaining　for

some。　He　smiled；　thrust　his　hands　philosophically　into　his　pockets；

and　fell　to　strolling　on　again　with　a　proud　disdain　in　his　manner；

when　he　heard　to　his　surprise　some　coin　rattling　fantastically　in　his

pocket。



A　smile　of　hope　lit　his　face；　and　slid　from　his　lips　over　his

features；　over　his　brow；　and　brought　a　joyful　light　to　his　eyes　and

his　dark　cheeks。　It　was　a　spark　of　happiness　like　one　of　the　red　dots

that　flit　over　the　remains　of　a　burnt　scrap　of　paper；　but　as　it　is

with　the　black　ashes；　so　it　was　with　his　face；　it　became　dull　again

when　the　stranger　quickly　drew　out　his　hand　and　perceived　three

pennies。　〃Ah；　kind　gentleman！　carita；　carita；　for　the　love　of　St。

Catherine！　only　a　halfpenny　to　buy　some　bread！〃



A　little　chimney　sweeper；　with　puffed　cheeks；　all　black　with　soot；　and

clad　in　tatters；　held　out　his　hand　to　beg　for　the　man's　last　pence。



Two　paces　from　the　little　Savoyard　stood　an　old　pauvre　honteux；　sickly

and　feeble；　in　wretched　garments　of　ragged　druggeting；　who　asked　in　a

thick；　muffled　voice：



〃Anything　you　like　to　give；　monsieur；　I　will　pray　to　God　for

you　。　。　。〃



But　the　young　man　turned　his　eyes　on　him；　and　the　old　beggar　stopped

without　another　word；　discerning　in　that　mournful　face　an　abandonment

of　wretchedness　more　bitter　than　his　own。



〃La　carita！　la　carita！〃



The　stranger　threw　the　coins　to　the　old　man　and