stories by english authors in france(旅法英国作家的故事)-第3节
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of relief。 It was only a woman； and she dead。 He knelt beside her to make
sure upon this latter point。 She was freezing cold； and rigid like a stick。 A
little ragged finery fluttered in the wind about her hair； and her cheeks had
been heavily rouged that same afternoon。 Her pockets were quite empty；
but in her stocking； underneath the garter； Villon found two of the small
coins that went by the name of whites。 It was little enough； but it was
always something； and the poet was moved with a deep sense of pathos
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that she should have died before she had spent her money。 That seemed to
him a dark and pitiable mystery； and he looked from the coins in his hand
to the dead woman； and back again to the coins； shaking his head over the
riddle of man's life。 Henry V。 of England； dying at Vincennes just after he
had conquered France； and this poor jade cut off by a cold draught in a
great man's doorway before she had time to spend her couple of whitesit
seemed a cruel way to carry on the world。 Two whites would have taken
such a little while to squander； and yet it would have been one more good
taste in the mouth； one more smack of the lips； before the devil got the
soul； and the body was left to birds and vermin。 He would like to use all
his tallow before the light was blown out and the lantern broken。
While these thoughts were passing through his mind； he was feeling；
half mechanically； for his purse。 Suddenly his heart stopped beating； a
feeling of cold scales passed up the back of his legs； and a cold blow
seemed to fall upon his scalp。 He stood petrified for a moment； then he felt
again with one feverish movement； then his loss burst upon him； and he
was covered at once with perspiration。 To spendthrifts money is so living
and actualit is such a thin veil between them and their pleasures！ There is
only one limit to their fortunethat of time； and a spendthrift with only a
few crowns is the Emperor of Rome until they are spent。 For such a person
to lose his money is to suffer the most shocking reverse； and fall from
heaven to hell； from all to nothing； in a breath。 And all the more if he has
put his head in the halter for it； if he may be hanged to…morrow for that
same purse； so dearly earned； so foolishly departed！ Villon stood and
cursed； he threw the two whites into the street； he shook his fist at heaven；
he stamped； and was not horrified to find himself trampling the poor
corpse。 Then he began rapidly to retrace his steps toward the house beside
the cemetery。 He had forgotten all fear of the patrol； which was long gone
by at any rate； and had no idea but that of his lost purse。 It was in vain that
he looked right and left upon the snow； nothing was to be seen。 He had not
dropped it in the streets。 Had it fallen in the house？ He would have liked
dearly to go in and see； but the idea of the grisly occupant unmanned him。
And he saw besides； as he drew near； that their efforts to put out the fire
had been unsuccessful； on the contrary； it had broken into a blaze； and a
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changeful light played in the chinks of door and window； and revived his
terror for the authorities and Paris gibbet。
He returned to the hotel with the porch； and groped about upon the
snow for the money he had thrown away in his childish passion。 But he
could only find one white； the other had probably struck sideways and
sunk deeply in。 With a single white in his pocket； all his projects for a
rousing night in some wild tavern vanished utterly away。 And it was not
only pleasure that fled laughing from his grasp； positive discomfort；
positive pain； attacked him as he stood ruefully before the porch。 His
perspiration had dried upon him； and although the wind had now fallen； a
binding frost was setting in stronger with every hour； and he felt
benumbed and sick at heart。 What was to be done？ Late as was the hour；
improbable as was his success； he would try the house of his adopted
father； the chaplain of St。 Benoit。
He ran all the way； and knocked timidly。 There was no answer。 He
knocked again and again； taking heart with every stroke； and at last steps
were heard approaching from within。 A barred wicket fell open in the iron…
studded door； and emitted a gush of yellow light。
〃Hold up your face to the wicket；〃 said the chaplain from within。
〃It's only me；〃 whimpered Villon。
〃Oh； it's only you； is it？〃 returned the chaplain； and he cursed him with
foul； unpriestly oaths for disturbing him at such an hour； and bade him be
off to hell； where he came from。
〃My hands are blue to the wrist；〃 pleaded Villon； 〃my feet are dead
and full of twinges； my nose aches with the sharp air； the cold lies at my
heart。 I may be dead before morning。 Only this once； father； and； before
God； I will never ask again！〃
〃You should have come earlier；〃 said the ecclesiastic； coolly。 〃Young
men require a lesson now and then。〃 He shut the wicket and retired
deliberately into the interior of the house。
Villon was beside himself； he beat upon the door with his hands and
feet； and shouted hoarsely after the chaplain。
〃Wormy old fox！〃 he cried。 〃If I had my hand under your twist； I
would send you flying headlong into the bottomless pit。〃
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A door shut in the interior； faintly audible to the poet down long
passages。 He passed his hand over his mouth with an oath。 And then the
humour of the situation struck him； and he laughed and looked lightly up
to heaven； where the stars seemed to be winking over his discomfiture。
What was to be done？ It looked very like a night in the frosty streets。
The idea of the dead woman popped into his imagination； and gave him a
hearty fright； what had happened to her in the early night might very well
happen to him before morning。 And he so young！ And with such immense
possibilities of disorderly amusement before him！ He felt quite pathetic
over the notion of his own fate； as if it had been some one else's； and made
a little imaginative vignette of the scene in the morning when they should
find his body。
He passed all his chances under review； turning the white between his
thumb and forefinger。 Unfortunately he was on bad terms with some old
friends who would once have taken pity on him in such a plight。 He had
lampooned them in verses； he had beaten and cheated them； and yet now；
when he was in so close a pinch； he thought there was at least one who
might perhaps relent。 It was a chance。 It was worth trying at least； and he
would go and see。
On the way； two little accidents happened to him which coloured his
musings in a very different manner。 For； first； he fell in with the track of a
patrol； and walked in it for some hundred yards； although it lay out of his
direction。 And this spirited him up； at least he had confused his trail； for he
was still possessed with the idea of people tracking him all about Paris
over the snow； and collaring him next morning before he was awake。 The
other matter affected him quite differently。 He passed a street…corner
where； not so long before； a woman and her child had been devoured by
wolves。 This was just the kind of weather； he reflected； when wolves
might take it into their heads to enter Paris again； and a lone man in these
deserted streets would run the chance of something worse than a mere
scare。 He stopped and looked upon the place with an unpleasant interestit
was a centre where several lanes intersected each other； and he looked
down them all； one after another； and held his breath to listen； lest he
should detect some galloping black things on the snow or hear the sound
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of howling between him and the river。 He remembered his mother telling
him the story and pointing out the spot； while he was yet a child
