第 3 页

每逢首场演出，玛格丽特必定光临。每天晚上，她都在剧场里或舞会上度过。只要有新剧本上演，准可以在剧场里看到她。她随身总带着三件东西：一副望远镜、一袋蜜饯和一束茶花，而且总是放在底层包厢的前栏上。

一个月里有二十五天玛格丽特带的茶花是白的，而另外五天她带的茶花却是红的，谁也摸不透茶花颜色变化的原因是什么，而我也无法解释其中的道理。在她常去的那几个剧院里，那些老观众和她的朋友们都像我一样注意到了这一现象。

除了茶花以外，从来没有人看见过她还带过别的花。因此，在她常去买花的巴尔戎夫人的花店里，有人替她取了一个外号，称她为茶花女，这个外号后来就这样给叫开了。

此外，就像所有生活在巴黎某一个圈子里的人一样，我知道玛格丽特曾经做过一些翩翩少年的情妇，她对此毫不隐讳，那些青年也以此为荣，说明情夫和情妇他们彼此都很满意。

然而，据说有一次从巴涅尔①旅行回来以后，有几乎三年时间她就只跟一个外国老公爵一起过日子了。这位老公爵是个百万富翁，他想尽方法要玛格丽特跟过去的生活一刀两断。而且，看来她也甘心情愿地顺从了。

①巴涅尔：法国有名的温泉疗养地区。到这里来治病的大多是贫血症患者。

关于这件事别人是这样告诉我的：

一八四二年春天，玛格丽特身体非常虚弱，气色越来越不好，医生嘱咐她到温泉去疗养，她便到巴涅尔去了。

在巴涅尔的病人中间，有一位公爵的女儿，她不仅害着跟玛格丽特同样的病，而且长得跟玛格丽特一模一样，别人甚至会把她们看作是姐妹俩。不过公爵小姐的肺病已经到了第三期，玛格丽特来巴涅尔没几天，公爵小姐便离开了人间。

就像有些人不愿意离开埋葬着亲人的地方一样，公爵在女儿去世后仍旧留在巴涅尔。一天早上，公爵在一条小路的拐角处遇见了玛格丽特。

他仿佛看到他女儿的影子在眼前掠过，便上前拉住了她的手，老泪纵横地搂着她，甚至也不问问清楚她究竟是谁，就恳求她允许他去探望她，允许他像爱自己去世的女儿的替身那样爱她。

和玛格丽特一起到巴涅尔去的只有她的侍女，再说她也不怕名声会受到什么损害，就同意了公爵的请求。

在巴涅尔也有一些人认识玛格丽特，他们专诚拜访公爵，将戈蒂埃小姐的社会地位据实相告。这对这个老年人来说，是一个沉重的打击，因为这一下就再也谈不上他女儿与玛格丽特还有什么相似之处了，但为时已晚，这个少妇已经成了他精神上的安慰，简直成了他赖以生存下去的唯一的借口和托词。

他丝毫没有责备玛格丽特，他也没有权利责备她，但是他对玛格丽特说，如果她觉得可以改变一下她那种生活方式的话，那么作为她的这种牺牲的交换条件，他愿意提供她所需要的全部补偿。玛格丽特答应了。

必须说明的是，生性热情的玛格丽特当时正在病中，她认为过去的生活似乎是她害病的一个主要原因。出于一种迷信的想法，她希望天主会因为她的改悔和皈依而把美貌和健康留给她。

果然，到夏末秋初的时候，由于洗温泉澡、散步、自然的体力消耗和正常的睡眠，她几乎已恢复了健康。

公爵陪同玛格丽特回到了巴黎，他还是像在巴涅尔一样，经常来探望她。

他们这种关系，别人既不知道真正的缘由，也不知道确切的动机，所以在巴黎引起了很大的轰动。因为公爵曾以他的万贯家财而著称，现在又以挥霍无度而闻名了。

大家把老公爵和玛格丽特的亲密关系归之于老年人贪淫好色，这是有钱的老头儿常犯的毛病，人们对他们的关系有各种各样的猜测，就是未猜到真情。

其实这位父亲对玛格丽特产生这样的感情，原因十分纯洁，除了跟她有心灵上的交往之外，任何其他关系在公爵看来都意味着乱伦。他始终没有对她讲过一句不适宜给女儿听的话。

我们对我们的女主人公除了如实描写，根本没想要把她写成别的样子。我们只是说，当玛格丽特待在巴涅尔的时候，她还是能够遵守对公爵许下的诺言的，她也是遵守了的；但是一旦返回巴黎，这个惯于挥霍享乐、喝酒跳舞的姑娘似乎就耐不住了，这种唯有老公爵定期来访才可以解解闷的孤寂生活使她觉得百无聊赖，无以排遣，过去生活的热辣辣的气息一下子涌上了她的脑海和心头。

而且玛格丽特从这次旅行回来以后显得从未有过的妩媚娇艳，她正当二十妙龄，她的病看起来已大有起色，但实际上并未根除，因此激起了她狂热的情欲，这种情欲往往也就是肺病的症状。

公爵的朋友们总是说公爵和玛格丽特在一起有损公爵的名誉，他们不断地监视她的行动，想抓住她行为不端的证据。一天，他们来告诉公爵，并向他证实，玛格丽特在拿准公爵不会去看她的时候，接待了别人，而且这种接待往往一直要延续到第二天。公爵知道后心里非常痛苦。

玛格丽特在受到公爵盘问的时候承认了一切，还坦率地劝告他以后不要再关心她了，因为她觉得自己已没有力量信守诺言，她也不愿意再接受一个被她欺骗的男人的好意了。

公爵有一个星期没有露面，他也只能做到这个地步。到了第八天，他就来恳求玛格丽特还是像过去一样跟他来往，只要能够见到玛格丽特，公爵同意完全让她自由行动，还向她发誓说，即使要了他的命，他也决不再说一句责备她的话。

这就是玛格丽特回到巴黎三个月以后，也就是一八四二年十一月或者十二月里的情况。

Chapter 3

All the famous names from the world of fashionable vice were there. They were being slyly observed by a number of society ladies who had again used the sale as a pretext for claiming the right to see, at close quarters, women in whose company they would not otherwise have had occasion to find themselves, and whose easy pleasures they perhaps secretly envied.

The Duchesse de F rubbed shoulders with Mademoiselle A, one of sorriest specimens of our modern courtesans; the Marquise de T shrank from buying an item of furniture for which the bidding was led by Madame D, the most elegant and most celebrated adulteress of our age; the Duc d'Y, who is believed in Madrid to be ruining himself in Paris, and in Paris to be ruining himself in Madrid, and who, when all is said and done, cannot even spend all his income, while continuing to chat with Madame M, one of our wittiest tale-tellers, who occasionally agrees to write down what she says and to sign what she writes, was exchanging confidential glances with Madame de N, the beauty who may be regularly seen driving on the Champs-Elysees, dressed almost invariably in pink or blue, in a carriage drawn by two large black horses sold to her by Tony for ten thousand francs...and paid for in full; lastly, Mademoiselle R, who by sheer talent makes twice what ladies of fashion make with their dowries, and three times as much as what the rest make out of their love affairs, had come in spite of the cold to make a few purchases, and it was not she who attracted the fewest eyes.

We could go on quoting the initials of many of those who had gathered in that drawing room and who were not a little astonished at the company they kept; but we should, we fear, weary the reader.

Suffice it to say that everyone was in the highest spirits and that, of all the women there, many had known the dead girl and gave no sign that they remembered her.

There was much loud laughter; the auctioneers shouted at the tops of their voices; the dealers who had crowded on to the benches placed in front of the auction tables called vainly for silence in which to conduct their business in peace. Never was a gathering more varied and more uproarious.

I slipped unobtrusively into the middle of the distressing tumult, saddened to think that all this was taking place next to the very room where the unfortunate creature whose furniture was being sold up to pay her debts, had breathed her last. Having come to observe rather than to buy, I watched the faces of the tradesmen who had forced the sale and whose features lit up each time an item reached a price they had never dared hope for.

Honest, men all, who had speculated in the prostitution of this woman, had obtained a one hundred per cent return on her, had dogged the last moments of her life with writs, and came after she was dead to claim both the fruits of their honourable calculations and the interest accruing on the shameful credit they had given her.

How right were the Ancients who had one God for merchants and thieves!

Dresses, Indian shawls, jewels, came under the hammer at an unbelievable rate. None of it took my fancy, and I waited on.

Suddenly I heard a voice shout:

'A book fully bound, gilt-edges, entitled: Manon Lescaut. There's something written on the first page: ten francs. '

'Twelve, ' said a voice, after a longish silence.

'Fifteen, ' I said.

Why? I had no idea. No doubt for that 'something written'.

'Fifteen, ' repeated the auctioneer.

'Thirty, ' said the first bidder, in a tone which seemed to defy anybody to go higher.

It was becoming a fight.

'Thirty-five!' I cried, in the same tone of voice.

'Forty.'

'Fifty.'

'Sixty.'

'A hundred.'

I confess that if I had set out to cause a stir, I would have succeeded completely, for my last bid was followed by a great silence, and people stared at me to see who this man was who seemed so intent on possessing the volume.

Apparently the tone in which I had made my latest bid was enough for my opponent: he chose therefore to abandon a struggle which would have served only to cost me ten times what the book was worth and, with a bow, he said very graciously but a little late:

'It's yours, sir.'

No other bids were forthcoming, and the book was knocked down to me.

Since I feared a new onset of obstinacy which my vanity might conceivably have borne but which would have assuredly proved too much for my purse, I gave my name, asked for the volume to be put aside and left by the stairs. I must have greatly intrigued the onlookers who, having witnessed this scene, doubtless wondered why on earth I had gone there to pay a hundred francs for a book that I could have got anywhere for ten or fifteen at most.

An hour later, I had sent round for my purchase.

On the first page, written in ink in an elegant hand, was the dedication of the person who had given the book. This dedication consisted simply of these words:

'Manon to Marguerite,

Humility.'

It was signed: Armand Duval.

What did this word 'Humility' mean?

Was it that Manon, in the opinion of this Monsieur Armand Duval, acknowledged Marguerite as her superior in debauchery or in true love?

The second interpretation seemed the more likely, for the first was impertinently frank, and Marguerite could never have accepted it, whatever opinion she had of herself.

I went out again and thought no more of the book until that night, when I retired to bed.

Manon Lescaut is a truly touching story every detail of which is familiar to me and yet, whenever I hold a copy in my hand, an instinctive feeling for it draws me on. I open it and for the hundredth time I live again with the abbe Prevost's heroine. Now, his heroine is so lifelike that I feel that I have met her. In my new circumstances, the kind of comparison drawn between her and Marguerite added an unexpected edge to my reading, and my forbearance was swelled with pity, almost love, for the poor girl, the disposal of whose estate I could thank for possessing the volume. Manon died in a desert, it is true, but in the terms of the man who loved her with all the strength of his soul and who, when she was dead, dug a grave for her, watered it with his tears and buried his heart with her; whereas Marguerite, a sinner like Manon, and perhaps as truly converted as she, had died surrounded by fabulous luxury, if I could believe what I had seen, on the bed of her own past, but no less lost in the desert of the heart which is much more arid, much vaster and far more pitiless than the one in which Manon had been interred.

Indeed Marguerite, as I had learned from friends informed of the circumstances of her final moments, had seen no true consolation settle at her bedside during the two months when she lay slowly and painfully dying.

Then, from Manon and Marguerite, my thoughts turned to those women whom I knew and whom I could see rushing gaily towards the same almost invariable death.

Poor creatures! If it is wrong to love them, the least one can do is to pity them. You pity the blind man who has never seen the light of day, the deaf man who has never heard the harmonies of nature, the mute who has never found a voice for his soul, and yet, under the specious pretext of decency, you will not pity that blindness of heart, deafness of soul and dumbness of conscience which turn the brains of poor, desperate women and prevent them, despite themselves, from seeing goodness, hearing the Lord and speaking the pure language of love and religion.

Hugo wrote Marion Delorme, Musset wrote Bernerette, Alexandre Dumas wrote Fernande. Thinkers and poets throughout the ages have offered the courtesan the oblation of their mercy and, on occasion, some great man has brought them back to the fold through the gift of his love and even his name. If I dwell on this point, it is because among those who will read these pages, many may already be about to throw down a book in which they fear they will see nothing but an apology for vice and prostitution, and doubtless the youth of the present author is a contributing factor in providing grounds for their fears. Let those who are of such a mind be undeceived. Let them read on, if such fears alone gave them pause.

I am quite simply persuaded of a principle which states that: To any woman whose education has not imparted knowledge of goodness, God almost invariably opens up two paths which will lead her back to it; these paths are suffering and love. They are rocky paths; women who follow them will cut their feet and graze their hands, but will at the same time leave the gaudy rags of vice hanging on the briars which line the road, and shall reach their journey's end in that naked state for which no one need feel shame in the sight of the Lord.

Any who encounter these brave wayfarers are duty bound to comfort them and to say to all the world that they have encountered them, for by proclaiming the news they show the way.

It is not a simple matter of erecting two signposts at the gateway to life, one bearing the inscription: 'The Way of Goodness' and the other carrying this warning: ' The way of evil', and of saying to those who come: 'Choose! ' Each of us, like Christ himself, must point to those paths which will redirect from the second way to the first the steps of those who have allowed themselves to be tempted by the approach roads; and above all let not the beginning of these paths be too painful, nor appear too difficult of access.

Christianity is ever-present, with its wonderful parable of the prodigal son, to urge us to counsels of forbearance and forgiveness. Jesus was full of love for souls of women wounded by the passions of men, and He loved to bind their wounds, drawing from those same wounds the balm which would heal them. Thus he said to Mary Magdalene: ' Your sins, which are many, shall be forgiven, because you loved much' ?a sublime pardon which was to awaken a sublime faith.

Why should we judge more strictly than Christ? Why, clinging stubbornly to the opinions of the world which waxes hard so that we shall think it strong, why should we too turn away souls that bleed from wounds oozing with the evil of their past, like infected blood from a sick body, as they wait only for a friendly hand to bind them up and restore them to a convalescent heart?

It is to my generation that I speak, to those for whom the theories of Monsieur de Voltaire are, happily, defunct, to those who, like myself, can see that humanity has, these fifteen years past, been engaged in one of its boldest leaps forward. The knowledge of good and evil is ours forever; religion is rebuilding, the respect for holy things has been restored to us, and, if the world is not yet wholly good, then at least it is becoming better. The efforts of all intelligent men tend to the same goal, and all those firm in purpose are yoked to the same principle: let us be good, let us be young, let us be true! Evil is but vanity: let us take pride in Goodness and, above all, let us not despair. Let us not scorn the woman who is neither mother nor sister nor daughter nor wife. Let us not limit respect to the family alone nor reduce forbearance to mere egoism. Since there is more rejoicing in heaven for the repentance of one sinner than for a hundred just men who have never sinned, let us try to give heaven cause to rejoice. Heaven may repay us with interest. Let us leave along our way the charity of our forgiveness for those whom earthly desires have brought low, who shall perhaps be saved by hope in heaven and, as wise old dames say when they prescribe remedies of their own making, if it dies no good then at least it can do no harm.

In truth, it must seem very forward of me to seek to derive such great results from the slender subject which I treat; but I am of those who believe that the whole is in the part. The child is small, and yet he is father to the man; the brain is cramped, and yet it is the seat of thought; the eye is but a point, yet it encompasses leagues of space.

十六日下午一点钟，我到昂坦街去了。 在大门口就能听到拍卖估价人的喊叫声。

房间里挤满了好奇的人。

所有花街柳巷的名媛都到场了，有几个贵妇人在偷偷打量她们。这一次她们又可以借着参加拍卖的名义，仔细瞧瞧那些她们从来没有机会与之共同相处的女人，也许她们私下还在暗暗羡慕这些女人自由放荡的享乐生活呢。

F公爵夫人的胳膊撞上了A小姐；A小姐是当今妓女圈子里一位典型的薄命红颜；T侯爵夫人正在犹豫要不要把D夫人一个劲儿在抬价的那件家具买下来；D夫人是当代最风流最有名的荡妇。那位Y公爵，在马德里风传他在巴黎破了产，而在巴黎又风传他在马德里破了产，而实际上连每年的年金都没有花完。这会儿他一面在跟M太太聊天，一面却在和N夫人眉来眼去调情。M太太是一位风趣诙谐的讲故事的好手，她常想把自己讲的东西写下来，并签上自己的大名。漂亮的N夫人经常在香榭丽舍大街上散步，穿的衣衫离不了粉红和天蓝两种颜色，有两匹高大的黑色骏马为她驾车，这两匹马，托尼①向她要价一万法郎……她如数照付；最后还有R小姐，她靠自己的才能挣得的地位使那些靠嫁妆的上流社会妇人自愧勿如，那些靠爱情生活的女人更是望尘莫及。她不顾天气寒冷，赶来购买一些东西，也引来了人们的注目。

①托尼：当时一位著名的马商。

我们还可以举出云集在这间屋里的很多人的姓氏起首字母，他们在这里相遇连他们自己也感到非常惊讶，不过为了不使读者感到厌烦，恕我不再一一介绍。