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The Red Inn-Part3_Honore de Balzac(1799-1850)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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abolished by degrees; thoughts are incomplete, and the last quivering



of our consciousness seems like a sort of reverie. "How heavy the air

is!" he thought; "I seem to be breathing a moist vapor." He explained



this vaguely to himself by the difference which must exist between the

atmosphere of the close room and the purer air by the river. But



presently he heard a periodical noise, something like that made by

drops of water falling from a robinet into a fountain. Obeying a



feeling of panic terror he was about to rise and call the innkeeper

and waken Wahlenfer and Wilhelm, but he suddenly remembered, alas! to



his great misfortune, the tall wooden clock; he fancied the sound was

that of the pendulum, and he fell asleep with that confused and



indistinct perception.

["Do you want some water, Monsieur Taillefer?" said the master of the



house, observing that the banker was mechanically pouring from an

empty decanter.



Monsieur Hermann continued his narrative after the slight pause

occasioned by this interruption.]



The next morning Prosper Magnan was awakened by a great noise. He

seemed to hear piercing cries, and he felt that violent shuddering of



the nerves which we suffer when on awaking we continue to feel a

painful impression begun in sleep. A physiological fact then takes



place within us, a start, to use the common expression, which has

never been sufficiently observed, though it contains very curious



phenomena for science. This terrible agony, produced, possibly, by the

too sudden reunion of our two natures separated during sleep, is



usually transient; but in the poor young surgeon's case it lasted, and

even increased, causing him suddenly the most awful horror as he



beheld a pool of blood between Wahlenfer's bed and his own mattress.

The head of the unfortunate German lay on the ground; his body was



still on the bed; all its blood had flowed out by the neck.

Seeing the eyes still open but fixed, seeing the blood which had



stained his sheets and even his hands, recognizing his own surgical

instrument beside him, Prosper Magnan fainted and fell into the pool



of Wahlenfer's blood. "It was," he said to me, "the punishment of my

thoughts." When he recovered consciousness he was in the public room,



seated on a chair, surrounded by French soldiers, and in presence of a

curious and observing crowd. He gazed stupidly at a Republican officer



engaged in taking the testimony of several witnesses, and in writing

down, no doubt, the "proces-verbal." He recognized the landlord, his



wife, the two boatmen, and the servant of the Red Inn. The surgical

instrument which the murderer had used--



[Here Monsieur Taillefer coughed, drew out his handkerchief to blow

his nose, and wiped his forehead. These perfectly natural motions were



noticed by me only; the other guests sat with their eyes fixed on

Monsieur Hermann, to whom they were listening with a sort of avidity.



The purveyor leaned his elbow on the table, put his head into his

right hand and gazed fixedly at Hermann. From that moment he showed no



other sign of emotion or interest, but his face remained passive and

ghastly, as it was when I first saw him playing with the stopper of



the decanter.]

The surgical instrument which the murderer had used was on the table



with the case containing the rest of the instruments, together with

Prosper's purse and papers. The gaze of the assembled crowd turned



alternately from these convicting articles to the young man, who

seemed to be dying and whose half-extinguished eyes apparently saw



nothing. A confused murmur which was heard without proved the presence

of a crowd, drawn to the neighborhood of the inn by the news of the



crime, and also perhaps by a desire to see the murderer. The step of

the sentries placed beneath the windows of the public room and the



rattle of their accoutrements could be heard above the talk of the

populace; but the inn was closed and the courtyard was empty and



silent.

Incapable of sustaining the glance of the officer who was gathering



his testimony, Prosper Magnan suddenly felt his hand pressed by a man,

and he raised his eyes to see who his protector could be in that crowd



of enemies. He recognized by his uniform the surgeon-major of the

demi-brigade then stationed at Andernach. The glance of that man was



so piercing, so stern, that the poor young fellow shuddered, and

suffered his head to fall on the back of his chair. A soldier put






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