姐,我要。。。
轻松的小说阅读环境
巴黎圣母院英文版 - BOOK ELEVENTH CHAPTER I.THE LITTLE SHOE. Page 1
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  La Esmeralda was sleeping at the moment when the outcasts assailed the church.Soon the ever-increasing uproar around the edifice, and the uneasy bleating of her goat which had been awakened, had roused her from her slumbers.She had sat up, she had listened, she had looked; then, terrified by the light and noise, she had rushed from her cell to see.The aspect of the place, the vision which was moving in it, the disorder of that nocturnal assault, that hideous crowd, leaping like a cloud of frogs, half seen in the gloom, the croaking of that hoarse multitude, those few red torches running and crossing each other in the darkness like the meteors which streak the misty surfaces of marshes, this whole scene produced upon her the effect of a mysterious battle between the phantoms of the witches' sabbath and the stone monsters of the church. Imbued from her very infancy with the superstitions of the Bohemian tribe, her first thought was that she had caught the strange beings peculiar to the night, in their deeds of witchcraft.Then she ran in terror to cower in her cell, asking of her pallet some less terrible nightmare.But little by little the first vapors of terror had been dissipated; from the constantly increasing noise, and from many other signs of reality, she felt herself besieged not by spectres, but by human beings.Then her fear, though it did not increase, changed its character.She had dreamed of the possibility of a popular mutiny to tear her from her asylum. The idea of once more recovering life, hope, phoebus, who was ever present in her future, the extreme helplessness of her condition, flight cut off, no support, her abandonment, her isolation,--these thoughts and a thousand others overwhelmed her.She fell upon her knees, with her head on her bed, her hands clasped over her head, full of anxiety and tremors, and, although a gypsy, an idolater, and a pagan, she began to entreat with sobs, mercy from the good Christian God, and to pray to our Lady, her hostess.For even if one believes in nothing, there are moments in life when one is always of the religion of the temple which is nearest at hand.She remained thus prostrate for a very long time, trembling in truth, more than praying, chilled by the ever-closer breath of that furious multitude, understanding nothing of this outburst, ignorant of what was being plotted, what was being done, what they wanted, but foreseeing a terrible issue.In the midst of this anguish, she heard some one walking near her.She turned round.Two men, one of whom carried a lantern, had just entered her cell.She uttered a feeble cry."Fear nothing," said a voice which was not unknown to her, "it is I.""Who are you?" she asked."pierre Gringoire."This name reassured her.She raised her eyes once more, and recognized the poet in very fact.But there stood beside him a black figure veiled from head to foot, which struck her by its silence."Oh!" continued Gringoire in a tone of reproach, "Djali recognized me before you!"The little goat had not, in fact, waited for Gringoire to announce his name.No sooner had he entered than it rubbed itself gently against his knees, covering the poet with caresses and with white hairs, for it was shedding its hair.Gringoire returned the caresses."Who is this with you?" said the gypsy, in a low voice."Be at ease," replied Gringoire."'Tis one of my friends." Then the philosopher setting his lantern on the ground, crouched upon the stones, and exclaimed enthusiastically, as he pressed Djali in his arms,--"Oh! 'tis a graceful beast, more considerable no doubt, for it's neatness than for its size, but ingenious, subtle, and lettered as a grammarian!Let us see, my Djali, hast thou forgotten any of thy pretty tricks?How does Master Jacques Charmolue?..."The man in black did not allow him to finish.He approached Gringoire and shook him roughly by the shoulder.Gringoire rose."'Tis true," said he: "I forgot that we are in haste.But that is no reason master, for getting furious with people in this manner.My dear and lovely child, your life is in danger, and Djali's also.They want to hang you again.We are your friends, and we have come to save you.Follow us.""Is it true?" she exclaimed in dismay."Yes, perfectly true.Come quickly!""I am willing," she stammered."But why does not your friend speak?""Ah!" said Gringoire, "'tis because his father and mother were fantastic people who made him of a taciturn temperament."She was obliged to content herself with this explanation. Gringoire took her by the hand; his companion picked up the lantern and walked on in front.Fear stunned the young girl. She allowed herself to be led away.The goat followed them, frisking, so joyous at seeing Gringoire again that it made him stumble every moment by thrusting its horns between his legs."Such is life," said the philosopher, every time that he came near falling down; "'tis often our best friends who cause us to be overthrown."They rapidly descended the staircase of the towers, crossed the church, full of shadows and solitude, and all reverberating with uproar, which formed a frightful contrast, and emerged into the courtyard of the cloister by the red door. The cloister was deserted; the canons had fled to the bishop's palace in order to pray together; the courtyard was empty, a few frightened lackeys were crouching in dark corners.They directed their steps towards the door which opened from this court upon the Terrain.The man in black opened it with a key which he had about him.Our readers are aware that the Terrain was a tongue of land enclosed by walls on the side of the City and belonging to the chapter of Notre-Dame, which terminated the island on the east, behind the church.They found this enclosure perfectly deserted.There was here less tumult in the air.The roar of the outcasts' assault reached them more confusedly and less clamorously.The fresh breeze which follows the current of a stream, rustled the leaves of the only tree planted on the point of the Terrain, with a noise that was already perceptible.But they were still very close to danger.The nearest edifices to them were the bishop's palace and the church.It was plainly evident that there was great internal commotion in the bishop's palace.Its shadowy mass was all furrowed with lights which flitted from window to window; as, when one has just burned paper, there remains a sombre edifice of ashes in which bright sparks run a thousand eccentric courses.Beside them, the enormous towers of Notre-Dame, thus viewed from behind, with the long nave above which they rise cut out in black against the red and vast light which filled the parvis, resembled two gigantic andirons of some cyclopean fire-grate.What was to be seen of paris on all sides wavered before the eye in a gloom mingled with light.Rembrandt has such backgrounds to his pictures.The man with the lantern walked straight to the point of the Terrain.There, at the very brink of the water, stood the wormeaten remains of a fence of posts latticed with laths, whereon a low vine spread out a few thin branches like the fingers of an outspread hand.Behind, in the shadow cast by this trellis, a little boat lay concealed.The man made a sign to Gringoire and his companion to enter.The goat followed them.The man was the last to step in.Then he cut the boat's moorings, pushed it from the shore with a long boat- hook, and, seizing two oars, seated himself in the bow, rowing with all his might towards midstream.The Seine is very rapid at this point, and he had a good deal of trouble in leaving the point of the island.Gringoire's first care on entering the boat was to place the goat on his knees.He took a position in the stern; and the young girl, whom the stranger inspired with an indefinable uneasiness, seated herself close to the poet.When our philosopher felt the boat sway, he clapped his hands and kissed Djali between the horns."Oh!" said he, "now we are safe, all four of us."He added with the air of a profound thinker, "One is indebted sometimes to fortune, sometimes to ruse, for the happy issue of great enterprises."The boat made its way slowly towards the right shore.The young girl watched the unknown man with secret terror.He had carefully turned off the light of his dark lantern.A glimpse could be caught of him in the obscurity, in the bow of the boat, like a spectre.His cowl, which was still lowered, formed a sort of mask; and every time that he spread his arms, upon which hung large black sleeves, as he rowed, one would have said they were two huge bat's wings.Moreover, he had not yet uttered a word or breathed a syllable.No other noise was heard in the boat than the splashing of the oars, mingled with the rippling of the water along her sides."On my soul!" exclaimed Gringoire suddenly, "we are as cheerful and joyous as young owls!We preserve the silence of pythagoreans or fishes!~pasque-Dieu~! my friends, I should greatly like to have some one speak to me.The human voice is music to the human ear.'Tis not I who say that, but Didymus of Alexandria, and they are illustrious words. Assuredly, Didymus of Alexandria is no mediocre philosopher.--One word, my lovely child! say but one word to me, I entreat you.By the way, you had a droll and peculiar little pout; do you still make it?Do you know, my dear, that parliament hath full jurisdiction over all places of asylum, and that you were running a great risk in your little chamber at Notre-Dame?Alas! the little bird trochylus maketh its nest in the jaws of the crocodile.--Master, here is the moon re-appearing.If only they do not perceive us. We are doing a laudable thing in saving mademoiselle, and yet we should be hung by order of the king if we were caught. Alas! human actions are taken by two handles.That is branded with disgrace in one which is crowned in another. He admires Cicero who blames Catiline.Is it not so, master? What say you to this philosophy?I possess philosophy by instinct, by nature, ~ut apes geometriam~.--Come! no one answers me.What unpleasant moods you two are in!I must do all the talking alone.That is what we call a monologue in tragedy.--~pasque-Dieu~!I must inform you that I have just seen the king, Louis XI., and that I have caught this oath from him,--~pasque-Dieu~!They are still making a hearty howl in the city.--'Tis a villanous, malicious old king. He is all swathed in furs.He still owes me the money for my epithalamium, and he came within a nick of hanging me this evening, which would have been very inconvenient to me.--He is niggardly towards men of merit.He ought to read the four books of Salvien of Cologne, _Adversits Avaritiam_.In truth!'Tis a paltry king in his ways with men of letters, and one who commits very barbarous cruelties. He is a sponge, to soak money raised from the people.His saving is like the spleen which swelleth with the leanness of all the other members.Hence complaints against the hardness of the times become murmurs against the prince.Under this gentle and pious sire, the gallows crack with the hung, the blocks rot with blood, the prisons burst like over full bellies. This king hath one hand which grasps, and one which hangs. He is the procurator of Dame Tax and Monsieur Gibbet. The great are despoiled of their dignities, and the little incessantly overwhelmed with fresh oppressions.He is an exorbitant prince.I love not this monarch.And you, master?"The man in black let the garrulous poet chatter on.He continued to struggle against the violent and narrow current, which separates the prow of the City and the stem of the island of Notre-Dame, which we call to-day the Isle St. Louis."By the way, master!" continued Gringoire suddenly. "At the moment when we arrived on the parvis, through the enraged outcasts, did your reverence observe that poor little devil whose skull your deaf man was just cracking on the railing of the gallery of the kings?I am near sighted and I could not recognize him.Do you know who he could be?"The stranger answered not a word.But he suddenly ceased rowing, his arms fell as though broken, his head sank on his breast, and la Esmeralda heard him sigh convulsively.She shuddered.She had heard such sighs before.The boat, abandoned to itself, floated for several minutes with the stream.But the man in black finally recovered himself, seized the oars once more and began to row against the current.He doubled the point of the Isle of Notre Dame, and made for the landing-place of the port an Foin."Ah!" said Gringoire, "yonder is the Barbeau mansion.--Stay, master, look: that group of black roofs which make such singular angles yonder, above that heap of black, fibrous grimy, dirty clouds, where the moon is completely crushed and spread out like the yolk of an egg whose shell is broken.--'Tis a fine mansion.There is a chapel crowned with a small vault full of very well carved enrichments.Above, you can see the bell tower, very delicately pierced.There is also a pleasant garden, which consists of a pond, an aviary, an echo, a mall, a labyrinth, a house for wild beasts, and a quantity of leafy alleys very agreeable to Venus.There is also a rascal of a tree which is called 'the lewd,' because it favored the pleasures of a famous princess and a constable of France, who was a gallant and a wit.--Alas! we poor philosophers are to a constable as a plot of cabbages or a radish bed to the garden of the Louvre.What matters it, after all? human life, for the great as well as for us, is a mixture of good and evil.pain is always by the side of joy, the spondee by the dactyl.--Master, I must relate to you the history of the Barbeau mansion.It ends in tragic fashion.It was in 1319, in the reign of philippe V., the longest reign of the kings of France.The moral of the story is that the temptations of the flesh are pernicious and malignant.Let us not rest our glance too long on our neighbor's wife, however gratified our senses may be by her beauty.Fornication is a very libertine thought. Adultery is a prying into the pleasures of others--Ohé!the noise yonder is redoubling!"The tumult around Notre-Dame was, in fact, increasing. They listened.Cries of victory were heard with tolerable distinctness.All at once, a hundred torches, the light of which glittered upon the helmets of men at arms, spread over the church at all heights, on the towers, on the galleries, on the flying buttresses.These torches seemed to be in search of something; and soon distant clamors reached the fugitives distinctly :--"The gypsy! the sorceress! death to the gypsy!"The unhappy girl dropped her head upon her hands, and the unknown began to row furiously towards the shore. Meanwhile our philosopher reflected.He clasped the goat in his arms, and gently drew away from the gypsy, who pressed closer and closer to him, as though to the only asylum which remained to her.It is certain that Gringoire was enduring cruel perplexity. He was thinking that the goat also, "according to existing law," would be hung if recaptured; which would be a great pity, poor Djali! that he had thus two condemned creatures attached to him; that his companion asked no better than to take charge of the gypsy.A violent combat began between his thoughts, in which, like the Jupiter of the Iliad, he weighed in turn the gypsy and the goat; and he looked at them alternately with eyes moist with tears, saying between his teeth:"But I cannot save you both!"A shock informed them that the boat had reached the land at last.The uproar still filled the city.The unknown rose, approached the gypsy, and endeavored to take her arm to assist her to alight.She repulsed him and clung to the sleeve of Gringoire, who, in his turn, absorbed in the goat, almost repulsed her.Then she sprang alone from the boat.She was so troubled that she did not know what she did or whither she was going.Thus she remained for a moment, stunned, watching the water flow past; when she gradually returned to her senses, she found herself alone on the wharf with the unknown.It appears that Gringoire had taken advantage of the moment of debarcation to slip away with the goat into the block of houses of the Rue Grenier-sur-l'Eau.The poor gypsy shivered when she beheld herself alone with this man.She tried to speak, to cry out, to call Gringoire; her tongue was dumb in her mouth, and no sound left her lips.All at once she felt the stranger's hand on hers. It was a strong, cold hand.Her teeth chattered, she turned paler than the ray of moonlight which illuminated her.The man spoke not a word.He began to ascend towards the place de Grève, holding her by the hand.At that moment, she had a vague feeling that destiny is an irresistible force.She had no more resistance left in her, she allowed herself to be dragged along, running while he walked.At this spot the quay ascended.But it seemed to her as though she were descending a slope.She gazed about her on all sides.Not a single passer-by. The quay was absolutely deserted.She heard no sound, she felt no people moving save in the tumultuous and glowing city, from which she was separated only by an arm of the Seine, and whence her name reached her, mingled with cries of "Death!"The rest of paris was spread around her in great blocks of shadows.Meanwhile, the stranger continued to drag her along with the same silence and the same rapidity.She had no recollection of any of the places where she was walking. As she passed before a lighted window, she made an effort, drew up suddenly, and cried out, "Help!"The bourgeois who was standing at the window opened it, appeared there in his shirt with his lamp, stared at the quay with a stupid air, uttered some words which she did not understand, and closed his shutter again.It was her last gleam of hope extinguished.The man in black did not utter a syllable; he held her firmly, and set out again at a quicker pace.She no longer resisted, but followed him, completely broken.From time to time she called together a little strength, and said, in a voice broken by the unevenness of the pavement and the breathlessness of their flight, "Who are you?Who are you?" He made no reply.They arrived thus, still keeping along the quay, at a tolerably spacious square.It was the Grève.In the middle, a sort of black, erect cross was visible; it was the gallows.She recognized all this, and saw where she was.The man halted, turned towards her and raised his cowl."Oh!" she stammered, almost petrified, "I knew well that it was he again!"It was the priest.He looked like the ghost of himself; that is an effect of the moonlight, it seems as though one beheld only the spectres of things in that light."Listen!" he said to her; and she shuddered at the sound of that fatal voice which she had not heard for a long time. He continued speaking with those brief and panting jerks, which betoken deep internal convulsions."Listen! we are here.I am going to speak to you.This is the Grève.This is an extreme point.Destiny gives us to one another.I am going to decide as to your life; you will decide as to my soul. Here is a place, here is a night beyond which one sees nothing. Then listen to me.I am going to tell you...In the first place, speak not to me of your phoebus.(As he spoke thus he paced to and fro, like a man who cannot remain in one place, and dragged her after him.) Do not speak to me of him.Do you see?If you utter that name, I know not what I shall do, but it will be terrible."
或许您还会喜欢:
江户川乱步短篇集
作者:佚名
章节:8 人气:0
摘要:再讲一个明智小五郎破案立功的故事。这个案件是我认识明智一年左右的时候发生的。它不仅充满着戏剧性的情节,引人入胜;还因为当事者是我的一个亲戚,更使我难以忘怀。通过这个案件,我发现明智具有猜解密码的非凡才能。为了引起读者的兴趣,让我将他解破的密码内容,先写在前面。“早就想看望您,但始终没有机会,延至今日,非常抱歉。连日来,天气转暖,最近一定前去拜访。,前赠小物,不成敬意,蒙你礼赞,深感不安。 [点击阅读]
汤姆·索亚历险记
作者:佚名
章节:36 人气:0
摘要:马克·吐温(MarkTwain,1835~1910)美国作家。原名塞缪尔·朗赫恩·克莱门斯。1835年11月30日生于密苏里州,1910年4月21日卒于康涅狄格州。马克•吐温是美国批判现实主义文学的奠基人,世界著名的短篇小说大师。 [点击阅读]
沉思录
作者:佚名
章节:13 人气:0
摘要:一本写给自己的书──《沉思录》译者前言斯多亚派着名哲学家、古罗马帝国皇帝马可.奥勒留.安东尼(公元121-180),原名马可.阿尼厄斯.维勒斯,生于罗马,其父亲一族曾是西班牙人,但早已定居罗马多年,并从维斯佩申皇帝(69-79年在位)那里获得了贵族身份。 [点击阅读]
沉睡的记忆
作者:佚名
章节:11 人气:0
摘要:既没有月亮也没有星星,可是不知在何处漂浮着微光。整个白色公馆朦胧地浮现在黑暗之中。L字形的公馆中,位于最黑暗处的门微开着。从门缝露出来的光线,像是窥探外面一样。周围是一片寂静的黑暗,冷雨持续地下着,甚至连虫鸣都停止了。关掉公馆内的灯,借着手电筒的微亮,三个男人走了出来。前面的男人手拿铁锹,后面的两个人一前一后地抬着木箱。 [点击阅读]
沉船
作者:佚名
章节:62 人气:0
摘要:谁都不怀疑哈梅西是准能够通过法科考试的。执掌各大学的学术女神,一向都不断从她金色的莲座上,对他撒下无数的花瓣,赐给他各种奖章,并使他屡次获得奖学金。大家以为,考试完毕后,哈梅西一定要马上回家了,但他却似乎并不十分急于收拾他的行囊。他父亲曾写信给他,吩咐他立刻回去。他回信说,等到考试的结果一公布,他马上就动身。安那达先生的儿子卓健拉是哈梅西的同学,和他住在紧隔壁。 [点击阅读]
沉默的羔羊
作者:佚名
章节:62 人气:0
摘要:《沉默的羔羊》还不能算是经典,可“名著”的殊荣它还是当之无愧的。一部书,印到四百万册以上,无论如何其影响力不能低估。《纽约时报》一九九二年的畅销书排行榜上,《沉默的羔羊》稳稳地坐着第一把交椅,而根据它改编的同名电影又在本年度一下获得了五项奥斯卡大奖,这一来更是推波助澜,使这部以悬念及恐怖著称的小说在全球范围内达到了家喻户晓的地步。我大约三年前在一个朋友的家中看到了《沉默的羔羊》。那是原版录像。 [点击阅读]
沙漠秘井
作者:佚名
章节:20 人气:0
摘要:埃及人把他们的首都开罗称之为“凯旋之城”和“东方的门户”。尽管前一称呼早已徒有虚名,但第二个称呼却是名副其实。开罗确是东方的大门。作为大门,它就不得不首当其冲地面临西方影响的冲击,而这个当年的“凯旋之城”已老朽不堪,没有还手之力了。 [点击阅读]
河边小镇的故事
作者:佚名
章节:10 人气:0
摘要:落水的孩子就像所有的小镇一样,战前位于郊外的这座小镇也曾显得十分宁静。然而,空袭焚毁了它。战争结束后不久,小站的南北出现了黑市,建起了市场,形成了一条热闹而狭窄的通道。这些市场又两三家两三家地被改建成住房的模样。不到一年的时间,这里便成了闹市。不过,这里的道路仍是像以往那样狭窄。在被称做电影院、游戏中心的两座建筑附近建起了十几家“弹子游戏厅”。 [点击阅读]
波洛圣诞探案记
作者:佚名
章节:10 人气:0
摘要:我亲爱的詹姆斯:你一直是我最忠实最宽容的读者之一,正因为这样,当我受到你一点儿批评,我就为此感到极大的不安。你抱怨说我的谋杀事件变得太文雅了,事实上是太贫血了。称渴望一件“血淋淋的暴力谋杀”,一件不容质疑的谋杀案:这就是特别为你而作的故事。我希望它能让你满意。 [点击阅读]
波罗探案集
作者:佚名
章节:11 人气:0
摘要:我正站在波洛房间的窗户旁悠闲地望着下面的大街。“奇怪呀!”我突然脱口而出。“怎么啦,我的朋友?”波洛端坐在他舒适的摇椅里,语调平静地问。“波洛,请推求如下事实!——位年轻女人衣着华贵——头戴时髦的帽子,身穿富丽的裘皮大衣。她正慢慢地走过来。边走边看两旁的房子。二个男子和一个中年女人正盯捎尾随着她,而她一无所知。突然又来了一个男孩在她身后指指点点,打着手势。 [点击阅读]
活法
作者:佚名
章节:14 人气:0
摘要:作者简介稻盛和夫,1932年生于鹿儿岛,鹿儿岛大学工业部毕业。1959年创立京都陶瓷株式会社(现在的京瓷公司)。历任总经理、董事长,1997年起任名誉董事长。此外,1984年创立第二电电株式会社(现在的KDDI公司)并任董事长。2001年起任最高顾问。1984年创立“稻盛集团”,同时设立“京都奖”,每年表彰为人类社会的发展进步作出重大贡献的人士。 [点击阅读]
海伯利安
作者:佚名
章节:76 人气:0
摘要:序章乌黑发亮的太空飞船的了望台上,霸主领事端坐在施坦威钢琴前,弹奏着拉赫马尼诺夫的《升C小调前奏曲》,虽然钢琴已是一件古董,却保存得完好如初。此时,舱下沼泽中,巨大的绿色蜥蜴状生物蠕动着,咆哮着。北方正酝酿着一场雷暴。长满巨大裸子植物的森林在乌青的黑云下现出黑色影像,而层积云就像万米高塔直插入狂暴天穹。闪电在地平线上肆虐。 [点击阅读]