按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
rève； you know it？ it stands always ready。 It is horrible！ to see you ride in that tumbrel！ Oh mercy！ Until now I have never felt the power of my love for you。Oh！ follow me。 You shall take your time to love me after I have saved you。 You shall hate me as long as you will。 But come。 To…morrow！ to…morrow！ the gallows！ your execution！ Oh！ save yourself！ spare me！〃
He seized her arm； he was beside himself； he tried to drag her away。
She fixed her eye intently on him。
〃What has become of my Phoebus？〃
〃Ah！〃 said the priest； releasing her arm； 〃you are pitiless。〃
〃What has become of Phoebus？〃 she repeated coldly。
〃He is dead！〃 cried the priest。
〃Dead！〃 said she； still icy and motionless 〃then why do you talk to me of living？〃
He was not listening to her。
〃Oh！ yes；〃 said he； as though speaking to himself； 〃he certainly must be dead。 The blade pierced deeply。 I believe I touched his heart with the point。 Oh！ my very soul was at the end of the dagger！〃
The young girl flung herself upon him like a raging tigress； and pushed him upon the steps of the staircase with supernatural force。
〃Begone； monster！ Begone； assassin！ Leave me to die！ May the blood of both of us make an eternal stain upon your brow！ Be thine； priest！ Never！ never！ Nothing shall unite us！ not hell itself！ Go； accursed man！ Never！〃
The priest had stumbled on the stairs。 He silently disentangled his feet from the folds of his robe； picked up his lantern again； and slowly began the ascent of the steps which led to the door； he opened the door and passed through it。
All at once； the young girl beheld his head reappear； it wore a frightful expression； and he cried； hoarse with rage and despair；
〃I tell you he is dead！〃
She fell face downwards upon the floor； and there was no longer any sound audible in the cell than the sob of the drop of water which made the pool palpitate amid the darkness。
CHAPTER V。
THE MOTHER。
I do not believe that there is anything sweeter in the world than the ideas which awake in a mother's heart at the sight of her child's tiny shoe； especially if it is a shoe for festivals； for Sunday； for baptism； the shoe embroidered to the very sole； a shoe in which the infant has not yet taken a step。 That shoe has so much grace and daintiness； it is so impossible for it to walk； that it seems to the mother as though she saw her child。 She smiles upon it； she kisses it； she talks to it； she asks herself whether there can actually be a foot so tiny； and if the child be absent； the pretty shoe suffices to place the sweet and fragile creature before her eyes。 She thinks she sees it； she does see it； complete； living； joyous； with its delicate hands； its round head； its pure lips； its serene eyes whose white is blue。 If it is in winter； it is yonder； crawling on the carpet； it is laboriously climbing upon an ottoman； and the mother trembles lest it should approach the fire。 If it is summer time； it crawls about the yard； in the garden； plucks up the grass between the paving…stones； gazes innocently at the big dogs； the big horses； without fear； plays with the shells； with the flowers； and makes the gardener grumble because he finds sand in the flower…beds and earth in the paths。 Everything laughs； and shines and plays around it； like it； even the breath of air and the ray of sun which vie with each other in disporting among the silky ringlets of its hair。 The shoe shows all this to the mother； and makes her heart melt as fire melts wax。
But when the child is lost； these thousand images of joy； of charms； of tenderness； which throng around the little shoe； become so many horrible things。 The pretty broidered shoe is no longer anything but an instrument of torture which eternally crushes the heart of the mother。 It is always the same fibre which vibrates； the tenderest and most sensitive； but instead of an angel caressing it； it is a demon who is wrenching at it。
One May morning； when the sun was rising on one of those dark blue skies against which Garofolo loves to place his Descents from the Cross； the recluse of the Tour…Roland heard a sound of wheels； of horses and irons in the Place de Grève。 She was somewhat aroused by it； knotted her hair upon her ears in order to deafen herself； and resumed her contemplation； on her knees； of the inanimate object which she had adored for fifteen years。 This little shoe was the universe to her； as we have already said。 Her thought was shut up in it； and was destined never more to quit it except at death。 The sombre cave of the Tour…Roland alone knew how many bitter imprecations； touching complaints； prayers and sobs she had wafted to heaven in connection with that charming bauble of rose…colored satin。 Never was more despair bestowed upon a prettier and more graceful thing。
It seemed as though her grief were breaking forth more violently than usual； and she could be heard outside lamenting in a loud and monotonous voice which rent the heart。
〃Oh my daughter！〃 she said； 〃my daughter； my poor； dear little child； so I shall never see thee more！ It is over！ It always seems to me that it happened yesterday！ My God！ my God！ it would have been better not to give her to me than to take her away so soon。 Did you not know that our children are part of ourselves； and that a mother who has lost her child no longer believes in God？ Ah！ wretch that I am to have gone out that day！ Lord！ Lord！ to have taken her from me thus； you could never have looked at me with her； when I was joyously warming her at my fire； when she laughed as she suckled； when I made her tiny feet creep up my breast to my lips？ Oh！ if you had looked at that； my God； you would have taken pity on my joy； you would not have taken from me the only love which lingered； in my heart！ Was I then； Lord； so miserable a creature； that you could not look at me before condemning me？Alas！ Alas！ here is the shoe； where is the foot？ where is the rest？ Where is the child？ My daughter！ my daughter！ what did they do with thee？ Lord； give her back to me。 My knees have been worn for fifteen years in praying to thee； my God！ Is not that enough？ Give her back to me one day； one hour； one minute； one minute； Lord！ and then cast me to the demon for all eternity！ Oh！ if I only knew where the skirt of your garment trails； I would cling to it with both hands； and you would be obliged to give me back my child！ Have you no pity on her pretty little shoe？ Could you condemn a poor mother to this torture for fifteen years？ Good Virgin！ good Virgin of heaven！ my infant Jesus has been taken from me； has been stolen from me； they devoured her on a heath； they drank her blood； they cracked her bones！ Good Virgin； have pity upon me。 My daughter； I want my daughter！ What is it to me that she is in paradise？ I do not want your angel； I want my child！ I am a lioness； I want my whelp。 Oh！ I will writhe on the earth； I will break the stones with my forehead； and I will damn myself； and I will curse you； Lord； if you keep my child from me！ you see plainly that my arms are all bitten； Lord！ Has the good God no mercy？Oh！ give me only salt and black bread； only let me have my daughter to