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An Episode Under the Terror-Part1_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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"How if it is a spy? . . . a plot? . . . Don't go. And take the box

away from her----"



The words whispered in the pastry-cook's ear cooled his hot fit of

courage down to zero.



"Oh! I will just go out and say a word or two. I will rid you of him

soon enough," he exclaimed, as he bounced out of the shop.



The old lady meanwhile, passive as a child and almost dazed, sat down

on her chair again. But the honest pastry-cook came back directly. A



countenance red enough to begin with, and further flushed by the bake-

house fire, was suddenly blanched; such terror perturbed him that he



reeled as he walked, and stared about him like a drunken man.

"Miserable aristocrat! Do you want to have our heads cut off?" he



shouted furiously. "You just take to your heels and never show

yourself here again. Don't come to me for materials for your plots."



He tried, as he spoke, to take away the little box which she had

slipped into one of her pockets. But at the touch of a profane hand on



her clothes, the stranger recovered youth and activity for a moment,

preferring to face the dangers of the street with no protector save



God, to the loss of the thing she had just paid for. She sprang to the

door, flung it open, and disappeared, leaving the husband and wife



dumfounded and quaking with fright.

Once outside in the street, she started away at a quick walk; but her



strength soon failed her. She heard the sound of the snow crunching

under a heavy step, and knew that the pitiless spy was on her track.



She was obliged to stop. He stopped likewise. From sheer terror, or

lack of intelligence, she did not dare to speak or to look at him. She



went slowly on; the man slackened his pace and fell behind so that he

could still keep her in sight. He might have been her very shadow.



Nine o'clock struck as the silent man and woman passed again by the

Church of Saint Laurent. It is in the nature of things that calm must



succeed to violentagitation, even in the weakest soul; for if feeling

is infinite, our capacity to feel is limited. So, as the stranger lady



met with no harm from her supposed persecutor, she tried to look upon

him as an unknown friend anxious to protect her. She thought of all



the circumstances in which the stranger had appeared, and put them

together, as if to find some ground for this comforting theory, and



felt inclined to credit him with good intentions rather than bad.

Forgetting the fright that he had given the pastry-cook, she walked on



with a firmer step through the upper end of the Faubourg Saint Martin;

and another half-hour's walk brought her to a house at the corner



where the road to the Barriere de Pantin turns off from the main

thoroughfare. Even at this day, the place is one of the least



frequented parts of Paris. The north wind sweeps over the Buttes-

Chaumont and Belleville, and whistles through the houses (the hovels



rather), scattered over an almost uninhabited low-lying waste, where

the fences are heaps of earth and bones. It was a desolate-looking



place, a fittingrefuge for despair and misery.

The sight of it appeared to make an impression upon the relentless



pursuer of a poor creature so daring as to walk alone at night through

the silent streets. He stood in thought, and seemed by his attitude to



hesitate. She could see him dimly now, under the street lamp that sent

a faint, flickering light through the fog. Fear gave her eyes. She



saw, or thought she saw, something sinister about the stranger's

features. Her old terrors awoke; she took advantage of a kind of



hesitation on his part, slipped through the shadows to the door of the

solitary house, pressed a spring, and vanished swiftly as a phantom.



For awhile the stranger stood motionless, gazing up at the house. It

was in some sort a type of the wretched dwellings in the suburb; a



tumble-down hovel, built of rough stones, daubed over with a coat of

yellowish stucco, and so riven with great cracks that there seemed to



be danger lest the slightest puff of wind might blow it down. The

roof, covered with brown moss-grown tiles, had given way in several



places, and looked as though it might break down altogether under the

weight of the snow. The frames of the three windows on each story were



rotten with damp and warped by the sun; evidently the cold must find

its way inside. The house standing thus quite by itself looked like



some old tower that Time had forgotten to destroy. A faint light shone

from the attic windows pierced at irregular distances in the roof;



otherwise the whole building was in total darkness.

Meanwhile the old lady climbed not without difficulty up the rough,






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