酷兔英语
    当前位置:
  1. 首页
  2. 文章
  3. 娱乐英语
  4. 原版小说
  5. 正文

The Commission in Lunacy-Part3_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

0 收藏 0 分享 0 赞

章节正文
文章总共2页
Popinot was one of the few judges of the Court of the Seine on whom

the ribbon of the Legion of Honor had not been conferred.



Such was the man who had been instructed by the President of the

Second Chamber of the Court--to which Popinot had belonged since his



reinstatement among the judges in civil law--to examine the Marquis

d'Espard at the request of his wife, who sued for a Commission in



Lunacy.

The Rue du Fouarre, where so many unhappy wretches swarmed in the



early morning, would be deserted by nine o'clock, and as gloomy and

squalid as ever. Bianchon put his horse to a trot in order to find his



uncle in the midst of his business. It was not without a smile that he

thought of the curious contrast the judge's appearance would make in



Madame d'Espard's room; but he promised himself that he would persuade

him to dress in a way that should not be too ridiculous.



"If only my uncle happens to have a new coat!" said Bianchon to

himself, as he turned into the Rue du Fouarre, where a pale light



shone from the parlor windows. "I shall do well, I believe, to talk

that over with Lavienne."



At the sound of wheels half a score of startled paupers came out from

under the gateway, and took off their hats on recognizing Bianchon;



for the doctor, who treated gratuitously the sick recommended to him

by the lawyer, was not less well known than he to the poor creatures



assembled there.

Bianchon found his uncle in the middle of the parlor, where the



benches were occupied by patients presenting such grotesque

singularities of costume as would have made the least artistic passer-



by turn round to gaze at them. A draughtsman--a Rembrandt, if there

were one in our day--might have conceived of one of his finest



compositions from seeing these children of misery, in artless

attitudes, and all silent.



Here was the ruggedcountenance of an old man with a white beard and

an apostolic head--a Saint Peter ready to hand; his chest, partly



uncovered, showed salient muscles, the evidence of an iron

constitution which had served him as a fulcrum to resist a whole poem



of sorrows. There a young woman was suckling her youngest-born to keep

it from crying, while another of about five stood between her knees.



Her white bosom, gleaming amid rags, the baby with its transparent

flesh-tints, and the brother, whose attitude promised a street arab in



the future, touched the fancy with pathos by its almost graceful

contrast with the long row of faces crimson with cold, in the midst of



which sat this family group. Further away, an old woman, pale and

rigid, had the repulsive look of rebellious pauperism, eager to avenge



all its past woes in one day of violence.

There, again, was the young workman, weakly and indolent, whose



brightly intelligent eye revealed fine faculties crushed by necessity

struggled with in vain, saying nothing of his sufferings, and nearly



dead for lack of an opportunity to squeeze between the bars of the

vast stews where the wretched swim round and round and devour each



other.

The majority were women; their husbands, gone to their work, left it



to them, no doubt, to plead the cause of the family with the ingenuity

which characterizes the woman of the people, who is almost always



queen in her hovel. You would have seen a torn bandana on every head,

on every form a skirt deep in mud, ragged kerchiefs, worn and dirty



jackets, but eyes that burnt like live coals. It was a horrible

assemblage, raising at first sight a feeling of disgust, but giving a






文章总共2页
文章标签:翻译  译文  翻译文  

章节正文
Copyright © 2023 Qeto All rights reserved.
商务合作 | 联系我们 | 关于我们 | 版权声明 | 隐私条款 | 如果智培

京ICP备05059198号-1 京公网安备 11011202003401号