the memoirs of victor hugo-第12部分

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nd　so　disproportionate　that　they　create　phantoms。　　It　is　hardly　surprising；　therefore；　that　a　legend　should　be　connected　with　this　sinister　bouquet　offered　by　Bicêtre　to　La　Salpêtrière　or　by　La　Force　to　Saint　Lazare；　it　is　related　at　night　in　the　cells　and　wards　after　the　keepers　have　gone　their　rounds。

It　was　shortly　after　the　murder　of　the　money…changer　Joseph。　　A　bouquet　was　sent　from　La　Force　to　a　woman's　prison；　Saint　Lazare　or　the　Madelonnettes。　　In　this　bouquet　was　a　sprig　of　white　lilac　which　one　of　the　women　prisoners　selected。

A　month　or　two　elapsed；　the　woman　was　released　from　prison。　　She　was　extremely　enamoured；　through　the　white　lilac；　of　the　unknown　master　she　had　given　to　herself。　　She　began　to　perform　for　him　her　strange　function　of　sister；　mother；　and　mystic　spouse；　ignorant　of　his　name；　knowing　only　his　prison　number。　　All　her　miserable　savings；　religiously　deposited　with　the　clerk　of　the　prison；　went　to　this　man。　　In　order　the　better　to　affiance　herself　to　him；　she　took　advantage　of　the　advent　of　spring　to　cull　a　sprig　of　real　lilac　in　the　fields。　　This　sprig　of　lilac；　attached　by　a　piece　of　sky…blue　ribbon　to　the　head　of　his　bed；　formed　a　pendant　to　a　sprig　of　consecrated　box；　an　ornament　which　these　poor　desolate　alcoves　never　lack。　　The　lilac　withered　thus。

This　woman；　like　all　Paris；　had　heard　of　the　affair　of　the　Palais…Royal　and　of　the　two　Italians；　Malagutti　and　Ratta；　arrested　for　the　murder　of　the　money…changer。

She　thought　little　about　the　tragedy；　which　did　not　concern　her；　and　lived　only　in　her　white　lilac。　　This　lilac　was　all　in　all　to　her；　she　thought　only　of　doing　her　〃duty〃　to　it。

One　bright；　sunny　day　she　was　seated　in　her　room；　sewing　some　garment　or　other　for　her　sorry　evening　toilet。　Now　and　then　she　looked　up　from　her　work　at　the　lilac　that　hung　at　the　head　of　the　bed。　　At　one　of　these　moments　while　her　gaze　was　fixed　upon　the　sprig　of　faded　flower　the　clock　struck　four。

Then　she　fancied　she　saw　an　extraordinary　thing。

A　sort　of　crimson　pearl　oozed　from　the　extremity　of　the　stalk　of　the　flower；　grew　larger；　and　dripped　on　to　the　white　sheet　of　the　bed。

It　was　a　spot　of　blood。

That　day；　at　that　very　hour；　Ratta　and　Malagutti　were　executed。

It　was　evident　that　the　white　lilac　was　one　of　these　two。　But　which　one？

The　hapless　girl　became　insane　and　had　to　be　confined　in　La　Salpêtrière。　　She　died　there。　　From　morn　to　night；　and　from　night　to　morn；　she　would　gibber：　〃I　am　Mme。　Ratta…Malagutti。〃

Thus　are　these　sombre　hearts。




IV。



Prostitution　is　an　Isis　whose　final　veil　none　has　raised。　There　is　a　sphinx　in　this　gloomy　odalisk　of　the　frightful　Sultan　Everybody。　　None　has　solved　its　enigma。　　It　is　Nakedness　masked。　　A　terrible　spectacle！

Alas！　in　all　that　we　have　just　recounted　man　is　abominable；　woman　is　touching。

How　many　hapless　ones　have　been　driven　to　their　fall！

The　abyss　is　the　friend　of　dreams。　　Fallen；　as　we　have　said；　their　lamentable　hearts　have　no　other　resource　than　to　dream。

What　caused　their　ruin　was　another　dream；　the　dreadful　dream　of　riches；　nightmare　of　glory；　of　azure；　and　ecstasy　which　weighs　upon　the　chest　of　the　poor；　flourish　of　trumpets　heard　in　the　gehenna；　with　the　triumph　of　the　fortunate　appearing　resplendent　in　the　immense　night；　prodigious　overture　full　of　dawn！　　Carriages　roll；　gold　falls　in　showers；　laces　rustle。

Why　should　I　not　have　this；　too？　　Formidable　thought！

This　gleam　from　the　sinister　vent…hole　dazzled　them；　this　puff　of　the　sombre　vapour　inebriated　them；　and　they　were　lost；　and　they　were　rich。

Wealth　is　a　fatal　distant　light；　woman　flies　frantically　towards　it。　　This　mirror　catches　this　lark。

Wherefore　they　have　been　rich。　　They；　too；　have　had　their　day　of　enchantment；　their　minute　of　fête；　their　sparkle。

They　have　had　that　fever　which　is　fatal　to　modesty。　They　have　drained　the　sonorous　cup　that　is　full　of　nothingness。　　They　have　drunk　of　the　madness　of　forgetfulness。　What　a　flattering　hope！　　What　temptation！　　To　do　nothing　and　have　everything；　a＇as！　and　also　to　have　nothing；　not　even　one's　own　self。　　To　be　slave…flesh；　to　be　beauty　for　sale；　a　woman　fallen　to　a　thing！　　They　have　dreamed　and　they　have　hadwhich　is　the　same　thing；　complete　possession　being　but　a　dreammansions；　carriages；　servants　in　livery；　suppers　joyous　with　laughter；　the　house　of　gold；　silk；　velvet；　diamonds；　pearls；　life　giddy　with　voluptuousnessevery　pleasure。

Oh！　how　much　better　is　the　innocence　of　those　poor　little　barefooted　ones　on　the　shore　of　the　sea；　who　hear　at　nightfall　the　tinkling　of　the　cracked　bells　of　the　goats　on　the　cliffs！

There　was　a　disastrous　morrow　to　these　brief；　perfidious　joys　that　they　had　savoured。　　The　word　love　signified　hatred。　　The　invisible　doubles　the　visible；　and　it　is　lugubrious。　　Those　who　shared　their　raptures；　those　to　whom　they　gave　all；　received　all　and　accepted　nothing。　　Theythe　fallen　onessowed　their　seed　in　ashes。　　They　were　deserted　even　as　they　were　being　embraced。　　Abandonment　sniggered　behind　the　mask　of　the　kiss。

And　now；　what　are　they　to　do？　　They　must　perforce　continue　to　love。




V。



Oh！　if　they　could；　the　unhappy　creatures；　if　they　could　put　from　them　their　hearts；　their　dreams；　harden　themselves　with　a　hardness　that　could　not　be　softened；　be　forever　cold　and　passionless；　tear　out　their　entrails；　and；　since　they　are　filth；　become　monsters！　　If　they　could　no　longer　think！　　If　they　could　ignore　the　flower；　efface　the　star；　stop　up　the　mouth　of　the　pit；　close　heaven！　　They　would　at　least　no　longer　suffer。　　But　no。　　They　have　a　right　to　marriage；　they　have　a　right　to　the　heart；　they　have　a　right　to　torture；　they　have　a　right　to　the　ideal。　　No　chilling　of　their　hearts　can　put　out　the　internal　fire。　　However　cold　they　may　be　they　burn。　This；　we　have　said；　is　at　once　their　misery　and　their　crown。　This　sublimeness　combines　with　their　abjection　to　overwhelm　them　and　raise　them　up。　　Whether　they　will　or　not；　the　inextinguishable　does　not　become　extinguished。　　Illusion　is　untamable。　　Nothing　is　more　invincible　than　dreams；　and　man　is　almost　made　up　of　dreams。　　Nature　will　not　agree　to　be　insolvable。　　One　must　contemplate；　aspire；　love。　　If　need　be　marble　will　set　the　example。　　The　statue　becomes　a　woman　rather　than　the　woman　a　statue。

The　sewer　is　a　sanctuary　in　spite　of　itself。　　It　is　unhealthy；　there　is　vitiated　air　in　it；　but　the　irresistible　phenomenon　is　none　the　less　accomplished；　all　the　holy　generosities　bloom　livid　in　this　cave。　　Cynicism　and　the　secret　despair　of　pity　are　driven　back　by　ecstasy；　the　magnificences　of　kindness　shine　through　infamy；　this　orphan　creature　feels　herself　to　be　wife；　sister；　mother；　and　this　fraternity　which　has　no　family；　and　this　maternity　which　has　no　children；　and　this　adoration　which　has　no　altar；　she　casts　into　the　outer　darkness。　　Some　one　marries　her。　Who？　　The　man　in　the　gloom。　　She　sees　on　her　finger　the　ring　made　of　the　mysterious　gold　of　dreams。　　And　she　sobs。　　Torrents　of　tears　well　from　her　eyes。　　Sombre　delights！

And　at　the　same　time；　let　us　repeat　it；　she　suffers　unheard…of　tortures。　　She　does　not　belong　to　him　to　whom　she　has　given　herself。　　Everybody　takes　her　away　again。　The　brutal　public　hand　holds　the　wretched　creature　and　will　not　let　her　go。　　She　fain　would　flee。　　Flee　whither？　From　whom？　　From　you；　herself；　above　all　from　him　whom　she　loves；　the　funereal　ideal　man。　　She　cannot。

Thus；　and　these　are　extreme　afflictions；　this　hapless　wight　expiates；　and　her　expiation　is　brought　upon　her　by　her　grandeur。　　Whatever　she　may　do；　she　has　to　love。　　She　is　condemned　to　the　light。　　She　has　to　condole；　she　has　to　succour；　she　has　to　devote　herself；　she　has　to　be　kind。　　A　woman　who　has　lost　her　modesty；　fain　would　know　love　no　more；　impossible。　　The　refluxes　of　the　heart　are　as　inevitable　as　those　of　the　sea；　the　lights　of　the　heart　are　as　fixed　as　those　of　the　night。

There　is　within　us　that　which　we　can　never　lose。　　Abnegation；　sacrifice；　tenderness；　enthusiasm；　all　these　rays　turn　against　the　woman　within　her　inmost　self　and　attack　and　burn　her。　　All　these　virtues　remain　to　avenge　themselves　upon　her。　　When　she　would　have　been　a　wife；　she　is　a　slave。　　Hers　is　the　hopeless；　thankless　task　of　lulling　a　brigand　in　the　blue　nebulousness　of　her　illusions　and　of　decking　Mandrin　with　a　starry　rag。　　She　is　the　sister　of　charity　of　crime。　　She　loves；　alas！　　She　endures　her　inadmissible　divinity；　she　is　magnanimous　and　thrills　at　so　being。　　She　is　happy　with　a　horrible　happiness。　　She　enters　backwards　into　indignant　Eden。

We　do　not　sufficiently　reflect　upon　this　that　is　within　us　and　cannot　be　lost。

Prostitution；　vice；　crime；　what　matters！

Night　may　become　as　black　as　it　likes；　the　spark　is　still　there。　　However　low　you　go　there　is　light。　　Light　in　the　vagabond；　light　in　the　mendicant；　light　in　the　thief；　light　in　the　street…walker。　　The　deeper　you　go　the　more　the　miraculous　light　persists　in　showing　itself。

Every　heart　has　its　pearl；　which　is　the　same　for　the　heart　gutter　and　the　heart　oceanlove。

No　mire　can　dissolve　this　particle　of　God。

Wherefore；　there；　at　the　extreme　of　gloom；　of　despondency；　of　chill…heartedness　and　abandonment；　in　this　obscurity；　in　this　putrefaction；　in　these　gaols；　in　these　dark　paths；　in　this　shipwreck；　beneath　the　lowest　layer　of　the　heap　of　miseries；　under　the　bog　of　public　disdain　which　is　ice　and　night；　behind　the　eddying　of　those　frightful　snowflakes　the　judges；　the　gendarmes；　the　warders　and　the　executioners　for　the　bandit；　the　passers…by　for　the　prostitute；　which　cross　each　other；　innumerable；　in　the　dull　grey　mist　that　for　these　wretches　replace　the　sun；　beneath　these　pitiless　fatalities；　beneath　this　bewildering　maze　of　vaults；　some　of　granite；　the　others　of　hatred；　at　the　deepest　depths　of　horror；　in　the　midst　of　asphyxiation；　at　the　bottom　of　the　chaos　of　all　possible　blacknesses；　under　the　frightful　thickness　of　a　deluge　composed　of　expectorations；　there　where　all　is　extinct；　where　all　is　dead；　something　moves　and　shines。　　What　is　it？　　A　flame。

And　what　flame？

The　soul。

O　adorable　prodigy！

Love；　the　ideal；　is　found　even　in　the　Pit。






AT　THE　TUILERIES。

1844…1848。

I。　　　　THE　KING。　II。　　　THE　DUCHESS　D'ORLEANS。　III。　　THE　PRIN