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 Magic Skin-Part36_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
are; your hand was moist and burning----Darling, you are young," she

added with a shudder, "and you could still get over it if



unfortunately----But, no," she cried cheerfully, "there is no

'unfortunately,' the disease is contagious, so the doctors say."



She flung both arms about Raphael, drawing in his breath through one

of those kisses in which the soul reaches its end.



"I do not wish to live to old age," she said. "Let us both die young,

and go to heaven while flowers fill our hands."



"We always make such designs as those when we are well and strong,"

Raphael replied, burying his hands in Pauline's hair. But even then a



horrible fit of coughing came on, one of those deep ominous coughs

that seem to come from the depths of the tomb, a cough that leaves the



sufferer ghastly pale, trembling, and perspiring; with aching sides

and quivering nerves, with a feeling of weariness pervading the very



marrow of the spine, and unspeakable languor in every vein. Raphael

slowly laid himself down, pale, exhausted, and overcome, like a man



who has spent all the strength in him over one final effort. Pauline's

eyes, grown large with terror, were fixed upon him; she lay quite



motionless, pale, and silent.

"Let us commit no more follies, my angel," she said, trying not to let



Raphael see the dreadful forebodings that disturbed her. She covered

her face with her hands, for she saw Death before her--the hideous



skeleton. Raphael's face had grown as pale and livid as any skull

unearthed from a churchyard to assist the studies of some scientific



man. Pauline remembered the exclamation that had escaped from Valentin

the previous evening, and to herself she said:



"Yes, there are gulfs that love can never cross, and therein love must

bury itself."



On a March morning, some days after this wretched scene, Raphael found

himself seated in an armchair, placed in the window in the full light



of day. Four doctors stood round him, each in turn trying his pulse,

feeling him over, and questioning him with apparent interest. The



invalid sought to guess their thoughts, putting a construction on

every movement they made, and on the slightest contractions of their



brows. His last hope lay in this consultation. This court of appeal

was about to pronounce its decision--life or death.



Valentin had summoned the oracles of modern medicine, so that he might

have the last word of science. Thanks to his wealth and title, there



stood before him three embodied theories; human knowledge fluctuated

round the three points. Three of the doctors brought among them the



complete circle of medicalphilosophy; they represented the points of

conflict round which the battle raged, between Spiritualism, Analysis,



and goodness knows what in the way of mocking eclecticism.

The fourth doctor was Horace Bianchon, a man of science with a future



before him, the most distinguished man of the new school in medicine,

a discreet and unassuming representative of a studious generation that



is preparing to receive the inheritance of fifty years of experience

treasured up by the Ecole de Paris, a generation that perhaps will



erect the monument for the building of which the centuries behind us

have collected the different materials. As a personal friend of the



Marquis and of Rastignac, he had been in attendance on the former for

some days past, and was helping him to answer the inquiries of the



three professors, occasionally insisting somewhat upon those symptoms

which, in his opinion, pointed to pulmonary disease.



"You have been living at a great pace, leading a dissipated life, no

doubt, and you have devoted yourself largely to intellectual work?"



queried one of the three celebrated authorities, addressing Raphael.

He was a square-headed man, with a large frame and energetic



organization, which seemed to mark him out as superior to his two

rivals.



"I made up my mind to kill myself with debauchery, after spending




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