Part 3 Book 8 Chapter 7 Strategy and Tactics
Marius, with a load upon his breast, was on the point of descending from the species of observatory which he had improvised, when a sound attracted his attention and caused him to remain at his post.
The door of the attic had just burst open abruptly. The eldest girl made her appearance on the threshold. On her feet, she had large, coarse, men's shoes, bespattered with mud, which had splashed even to her red ankles, and she was wrapped in an old mantle which hung in tatters. Marius had not seen it on her an hour previously, but she had probably deposited it at his door, in order that she might inspire the more pity, and had picked it up again on emerging. She entered, pushed the door to behind her, paused to take breath, for she was completely breathless, then exclaimed with an expression of triumph and joy:--
"He is coming!"
The father turned his eyes towards her, the woman turned her head, the little sister did not stir.
"Who?" demanded her father.
"The gentleman!"
"The philanthropist?"
"Yes."
"From the church of Saint-Jacques?"
"Yes."
"That old fellow?"
"Yes."
"And he is coming?"
"He is following me."
"You are sure?"
"I am sure."
"There, truly, he is coming?"
"He is coming in a fiacre."
"In a fiacre. He is Rothschild."
The father rose.
"How are you sure? If he is coming in a fiacre, how is it that you arrive before him? You gave him our address at least? Did you tell him that it was the last door at the end of the corridor, on the right? If he only does not make a mistake! So you found him at the church? Did he read my letter? What did he say to you?"
"Ta, ta, ta," said the girl, "how you do gallop on, my good man! See here: I entered the church, he was in his usual place, I made him a reverence, and I handed him the letter; he read it and said to me: `Where do you live, my child?' I said: `Monsieur, I will show you.' He said to me: `No, give me your address, my daughter has some purchases to make, I will take a carriage and reach your house at the same time that you do.' I gave him the address. When I mentioned the house, he seemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then he said: `Never mind, I will come.' When the mass was finished, I watched him leave the church with his daughter, and I saw them enter a carriage. I certainly did tell him the last door in the corridor, on the right."
"And what makes you think that he will come?"
"I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. That is what made me run so."
"How do you know that it was the same fiacre?"
"Because I took notice of the number, so there!"
"What was the number?"
"440."
"Good, you are a clever girl."
The girl stared boldly at her father, and showing the shoes which she had on her feet:--
"A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won't put these shoes on again, and that I won't, for the sake of my health, in the first place, and for the sake of cleanliness, in the next. I don't know anything more irritating than shoes that squelch,and go ghi, ghi, ghi, the whole time. I prefer to go barefoot."
"You are right," said her father, in a sweet tone which contrasted with the young girl's rudeness, "but then, you will not be allowed to enter churches, for poor people must have shoes to do that. One cannot go barefoot to the good God," he added bitterly.
Then, returning to the subject which absorbed him:--
"So you are sure that he will come?"
"He is following on my heels," said she.
The man started up. A sort of illumination appeared on his countenance.
"Wife!" he exclaimed, "you hear. Here is the philanthropist. Extinguish the fire."
The stupefied mother did not stir.
The father, with the agility of an acrobat, seized a broken-nosed jug which stood on the chimney, and flung the water on the brands.
Then, addressing his eldest daughter:--
"Here you! Pull the straw off that chair!"
His daughter did not understand.
He seized the chair, and with one kick he rendered it seatless. His leg passed through it.
As he withdrew his leg, he asked his daughter:--
"Is it cold?"
"Very cold. It is snowing."
The father turned towards the younger girl who sat on the bed near the window, and shouted to her in a thundering voice:--
"Quick! get off that bed, you lazy thing! will you never do anything? Break a pane of glass!"
The little girl jumped off the bed with a shiver.
"Break a pane!" he repeated.
The child stood still in bewilderment.
"Do you hear me?" repeated her father, "I tell you to break a pane!"
The child, with a sort of terrified obedience, rose on tiptoe, and struck a pane with her fist. The glass broke and fell with a loud clatter.
"Good," said the father.
He was grave and abrupt. His glance swept rapidly over all the crannies of the garret. One would have said that he was a general making the final preparation at the moment when the battle is on the point of beginning.
The mother, who had not said a word so far, now rose and demanded in a dull, slow, languid voice, whence her words seemed to emerge in a congealed state:--
"What do you mean to do, my dear?"
"Get into bed," replied the man.
His intonation admitted of no deliberation. The mother obeyed, and threw herself heavily on one of the pallets.
In the meantime, a sob became audible in one corner.
"What's that?" cried the father.
The younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fist, without quitting the corner in which she was cowering. She had wounded herself while breaking the window; she went off, near her mother's pallet and wept silently.
It was now the mother's turn to start up and exclaim:--
"Just see there! What follies you commit! She has cut herself breaking that pane for you!"
"So much the better!" said the man. "I foresaw that."
"What? So much the better?" retorted his wife.
"Peace!" replied the father, "I suppress the liberty of the press."
Then tearing the woman's chemise which he was wearing, he made a strip of cloth with which he hastily swathed the little girl's bleeding wrist.
That done, his eye fell with a satisfied expression on his torn chemise.
"And the chemise too," said he, "this has a good appearance."
An icy breeze whistled through the window and entered the room. The outer mist penetrated thither and diffused itself like a whitish sheet of wadding vaguely spread by invisible fingers. Through the broken pane the snow could be seen falling. The snow promised by the Candlemas sun of the preceding day had actually come.
The father cast a glance about him as though to make sure that he had forgotten nothing. He seized an old shovel and spread ashes over the wet brands in such a manner as to entirely conceal them.
Then drawing himself up and leaning against the chimney-piece:--
"Now," said he, "we can receive the philanthropist."
马吕斯心里憋得难受，正打算从他那临时凑合的了望台上下来，又忽然有一点声音引起了他的注意，使他留在原来的地方。
那破屋子的门突然开了。
大女儿出现在门口。
她脚上穿一双男人的大鞋，满鞋是污泥迹印，污泥也溅上了她的红脚脖，身上披一件稀烂的老式斗篷，这是马吕斯一个钟头以前不曾看见的，她当时也许是为了引起更多的怜悯心，把它留在门外，出去以后才披上的。她走了进来，顺手把门推上，接着，象欢呼胜利似的喊着说：
“他来了！”
她父亲转动了眼珠，那妇人转动了头，小妹没有动。
“谁？”父亲问。
“那位先生。”
“那慈善家吗？”
“是呀。”
“圣雅克教堂的那个吗？”
“是呀。”
“那老头？”
“对。”
“他要来了？”
“他就在我后面。”
“你拿得稳？”
“拿得稳。”
“是真的，他会来？”
“他坐马车来的。”
“坐马车。好阔气哟！”
那父亲站起来了。
“你怎么能说拿得稳呢？他要是坐马车，你又怎么能比他先到？你至少把我们的住址对他说清楚了吧？你有没有对他说明是过道底上右边最后一道门？希望他不弄错才好！你是在教堂里找到他的？他看了我的信没有？他说了些什么？”
“得，得，得！”那女儿说，“你象开连珠炮，老头！听我说：我走进教堂，他坐在平日坐的位子上，我向他请了安，把信递给他，他念过信，问我：‘您住在什么地方，我的孩子？’我说：‘先生，我来带路就是。’他说：‘不用，您把地址告诉我，我的女儿要去买东西，我雇一辆马车坐着，我会和您同时到达您家里的。’我便把地址告诉他。当我说到这栋房子时，他好象有点诧异，迟疑了一会儿，又说：‘没关系，我去就是。’弥撒完了以后，我看见他领着他女儿走出教堂，坐上一辆马车。我并且对他交代清楚了，是过道底上靠右边最后一道门。”
“你怎么知道他就一定会来呢？”
“我刚才看见那辆马车已经到了小银行家街。我便连忙跑了回来。”
“你怎么知道这马车是他坐的那辆呢？”
“因为我注意了车号嘛！”
“什么车号？”
“四四○。”
“好，你是个聪明姑娘。”
女儿大胆地望着父亲，把脚上的鞋跷给他看，说道：
“一个聪明姑娘，这也可能。但是我说我以后再也不穿这种鞋了，我再也不愿穿了。首先，为了卫生，其次，为了清洁。我不知道还有什么东西比这种出水的鞋底更讨厌的了，一路上只是唧呱唧呱叫。我宁愿打赤脚。”
“你说得对，”她父亲回答说，语调的温和和那姑娘的粗声粗气适成对比，“不过，赤着脚，人家不让你进教堂。穷人也得穿鞋。……人总不能光着脚板走进慈悲上帝的家。”他挖苦地加上这么一句。继又想到了心里的事：“这样说，你有把握他一定会来吗？”
“他就在我脚跟后面。”她说。
那男子挺起了腰板，容光焕发。
“我的娘子，”他吼道：“你听见了！慈善家马上就到。快把火熄掉。”
母亲被这话弄傻了，没有动。
做父亲的带着走江湖的那股矫捷劲儿，在壁炉上抓起一个缺口罐子，把水泼在两根焦柴上。
接着对大女儿说：
“你！把这椅子捅穿！”
女儿一点也不懂。
他抓起那把椅子，一脚便把它踹通了，腿也陷了进去。
他一面拔出自己的腿，一面问他的女儿：
“天冷吗？”
“冷得很，在下雪呢。”
父亲转向坐在窗口床边的小女儿，霹雳似的对她吼道：
“快！下床来，懒货！你什么事也不干！把这玻璃打破一块！”
小姑娘哆哆嗦嗦地跳下了床。
“打破一块玻璃！”他又说。
孩子吓呆了，立着不动。
“你听见我说吗？”父亲又说，“我叫你打破一块玻璃！”
那孩子被吓破了胆，只得服从，她踮起脚尖，对准玻璃一拳打去。玻璃破了，哗啦啦掉了下来。
“打得好。”她父亲说。
他神气严肃，动作急促，瞪大眼睛把那破屋的每个角落全迅速地扫了一遍。
他象个战争即将开始，作好最后部署的将军。
那母亲还没有说过一句话，她站起来，用一种慢而沉的语调，仿佛要说的话已凝固了似的，问道：
“心爱的，你要干什么呀？”
“给我躺到床上去。”那男人回答。
那种口气是不容商量的。妇人服服帖帖，沉甸甸一大堆倒在了一张破床上。
这时，屋角里有人在抽抽噎噎地哭。
“什么事？”那父亲吼着问。
那小姑娘，在一个黑旮旯里缩做一团，不敢出来，只伸着一个血淋淋的拳头。她在打碎玻璃时受了伤，她走到母亲床边，偷偷地哭着。
这一下轮到做母亲的竖起来大吵大闹了：
“你看见了吧！你干的蠢事！你叫她打玻璃，她的手打出血了！”
“再好没有！”那男子说，“这是早料到的。”
“怎么？再好没有？”那妇人接口说。
“不许开口！”那父亲反击说，“我禁止言论自由。”
接着，他从自己身上那件女人衬衫上撕下一条，做一根绷带，气冲冲地把女孩的血腕裹起来。
裹好以后，他低下头，望着撕破了的衬衫，颇为得意。他说：
“这衬衫也不坏。看来一切都很象样了。”
一阵冰冷的风从玻璃窗口飕的一声吹进屋子。外面的浓雾也钻进来，散成白茫茫的一片，仿佛有只瞧不见的手在暗中挥撒着棉絮。透过碎了玻璃的窗格，可以望见外面正下着雪。
昨天圣烛节许下的严寒果真到了。
那父亲又向四周望了一遍，好象在检查自己是否忘了什么要做的。他拿起一把旧铲子，撒了些灰在那两根泼湿了的焦柴上，把它们完全盖没。
然后他站起来，背靠在壁炉上说：
“现在我们可以接待那位慈善家了。”