stories by english authors in france(旅法英国作家的故事)-第24节
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patient voice； 〃I have not lost a minute by the way。〃
〃Bah！ because no one will ask thee to turn in with them anywhere！〃
she continued。 〃If thou wert like everybody else thou wouldst have many a
friend to pass thy time with。 It is hard for me； thy mother； to have brought
thee into the world that all the world should despise and hate thee； as they
do this day。 Monsieur le Cure says there is no hope for thee if thou art so
obstinate； thou must go to hell； though I named thee after our great
archangel St。 Michel； and brought thee up as a good Christian。 /Quel
malheur！/ How hard it is for me to lie in bed all day； and think of my son
in the flames of hell！〃
Very quietly； as if he had heard such complainings hundreds of times
before； did Michel set about kindling a few sticks upon the open hearth。
This was so common a welcome home that he scarcely heard it； and had
ceased to heed it。 The room； as the flickering light fell upon it； was one of
the cheerless and comfortless chambers to be seen in any peasant's house：
a pile of wood in one corner； a single table with a chair or two； a shelf with
a few pieces of brown crockery； and the bed on which the paralytic woman
was lying； her hands crossed over her breast； and her bright black eyes
glistening in the gloom。 Michel brought her the soup he had made； and fed
her carefully and tenderly； before thinking of satisfying his own hunger。
〃It is of no good； Michel；〃 she said； when he laid her down again upon
the pillow he had made smooth for her； 〃it is of no good。 Thou mayest as
well leave me to perish； it will not weigh for thee。 Monsieur le Cure says
if thou hadst been born a heretic perhaps the good God might have taken it
into account。 But thou wert born a Christian； as good a Christian as all the
world； and thou hast sold thy birthright to the devil。 Leave me then； and
take thy pleasure in this life； for thou wilt have nothing but misery in the
next。〃
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〃I will not leave theenever！〃 he answered； briefly。 〃I have no fear of
the next world。〃
He was a man of few words evidently。 Perhaps the silence maintained
around him had partly frozen his power of speech。 Even to his mother he
spoke but little； though her complaining went on without ceasing； until he
extinguished both fire and lamp； and climbed the rude ladder into the loft
overhead； where her voice never failed to rouse him from his sleep； if she
only called 〃Michel！〃 He could not clearly explain his position even to
himself。 He had gone to Paris many years before； where he came across
some Protestants； who had taught him to read the Testament； and
instructed him in their religion。 The new faith had taken hold of him； and
thrust deep roots into his simple and constant nature； though he had no
words at command to express the change to others； and scarcely to himself。
So long as he had been in Paris there had been no need of this。
But now his father's death had compelled him to return to his native
place； and to the little knot of people who knew him as old Pierre Lorio's
son； a fisherman like themselves； with no more right to read or think than
they had。 The fierceness of the persecution he encountered filled him with
dismay； though it had not shaken his fidelity to his new faith。 But often a
dumb； inarticulate longing possessed him to make known to his old
neighbours the reason of the change in him； but speech failed him。 He
could only stammer out his confession； 〃I am no longer a Catholic； I am a
Protestant； I cannot pray to the saints； not even to the archangel St。 Michel
or the Blessed Virgin。 I pray only to God。〃 For anything else； for
explanation； and for all argument； he had no more language than the mute；
wistful language one sees in the eyes of dumb creatures； when they gaze
fully at us。
Perhaps there is nothing more pitiful than the painful want of words to
express that which lies deepest within us； a want common to us all； but
greatest in those who have had no training in thus shaping and expressing
their inmost thoughts。
There was not much to fear from a man like this。 Michel Lorio was a
living lesson against apostasy。 As he went up and down the street； and in
and out of the gate； his loneliness and dejection spoke more eloquently for
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the old faith than any banishment could have done。 Michel was suffered to
remain under a ban； not formal and ceremonial； but a tacit ban； which
quite as effectively set him apart； and made his life more solitary than if he
had been dwelling alone on a desert rock out at sea。
Michel accepted his lot without complaint and without bitterness。 He
never passed Monsieur le Cure without a salutation。 When he went daily
for water to the great cistern of the monastery； he was always ready to
carry the brimful pails too heavy for the arms of the old women and
children。 If he had leisure he mounted the long flights of grass…grown
steps three or four times for his neighbours； depositing his burden at their
doors； without a word of thanks for his help being vouchsafed to him。
Now and then he overheard a sneer at his usefulness； and his mother
taunted him often for his patience and forbearance。 But he went on his
way silently with deeper yearning for human love and sympathy than he
could make known。
If it had not been that； when he was kneeling at the rude dormer…
window of his loft and gazing dreamily across the wide sweep of sand；
with the moon shining across it and the solemn stars lighting up the sky；
he was at times vaguely conscious of an influence； almost a presence； as
of a hand that touched him and a voice that spoke to him； he must have
sunk under this intense longing for love and fellowship。 Had he been a
Catholic still； he would have believed that the archangel St。 Michel was
near and about to manifest himself as in former times in his splendid
shrine upon the Mont。 The new faith had not cast out all the old
superstitious nature； yet it was this vague spiritual presence which
supported him under the crushing and unnatural conditions of his social
life。 He endured； as seeing one who is invisible。
Yet at other times he could not keep his feet away from the little street
where all the life there was might be found。 At night he would creep
cautiously along the ramparts and descend by a quiet staircase into an
angle of the walls； where he could look on unseen upon the gathering of
townsfolk in the inn where he had often gone with his father in earlier
days。 The landlord； Nicolas； was a most bitter enemy now。 There was the
familiar room filled with bright light from an oil… lamp and the brighter
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flicker of a wood fire where the landlord's wife was cooking。 A deep； low
recess in the corner； with a crimson valance stretched across it； held a bed
with snow…white pillows； upon one of which rested a child's curly head
with eyes fast sealed against the glare of the lamp。 At a table close by sat
the landlord and three or four of the wealthier men of the Mont busily and
seriously eating the omelets and fried fish served to them from the pan
over the fire。
The copper and brass cooking utensils glittered in the light from the
walls where they hung。 It was a cheery scene； and Michel would stand in
his cold； dark corner； watching it until all was over and the guests ready to
depart。
〃Thou art Michel /le diable/！〃 said a childish voice to him one evening；
and he felt a small； warm hand laid for an instant upon his own。 It was
Delphine； Nicolas's eldest girl； a daring child； full of spirit and courage；
yet even she shrank back a step or two after touching him； and stood as if
ready to take flight。
〃I am Michel Lorio；〃 he answered； in a quiet； pleasant voice； which
won her back to his side。 〃Why dost
