雙語(yǔ)·邦斯舅舅 三十、西卜女人的第一次攻勢(shì)

XXX

A torrent of evil thoughts invaded La Cibot's heart and brain so soon as Remonencq's diabolical suggestion opened the flood-gates of self-interest. La Cibot climbed, or, to be more accurate, fled up the stairs, opened the door on the landing, and showed a face disguised in false solicitude in the doorway of the room where Pons and Schmucke were bemoaning themselves. As soon as she came in, Schmucke made her a warning sign; for, true friend and sublime German that he was, he too had read the doctor's eyes, and he was afraid that Mme. Cibot might repeat the verdict. Mme. Cibot answered by a shake of the head indicative of deep woe.

Well, my dear monsieur, asked she, "how are you feeling?"

She sat down on the foot of the bed, hands on hips, and fixed her eyes lovingly upon the patient; but what a glitter of metal there was in them, a terrible, tiger-like gleam if any one had watched her.

I feel very ill, answered poor Pons. "I have not the slightest appetite left.—Oh! the world, the world!" he groaned, squeezing Schmucke's hand. Schmucke was sitting by his bedside, and doubtless the sick man was talking of the causes of his illness.—"I should have done far better to follow your advice, my good Schmucke, and dined here every day, and given up going into this society, that has fallen on me with all its weight, like a tumbril cart crushing an egg! And why?"

Come, come, don't complain, M. Pons, said La Cibot; "the doctor told me just how it is—"

Schmucke tugged at her gown.

And you will pull through, she continued, "only we must take great care of you. Be easy, you have a good friend beside you, and without boasting, a woman as will nurse you like a mother nurses her first child. I nursed Cibot round once when Dr. Poulain had given him over; he had the shroud up to his eyes, as the saying is, and they gave him up for dead. Well, well, you have not come to that yet, God be thanked, ill though you may be. Count on me; I would pull you through all by myself, I would! Keep still, don't you fidget like that."

She pulled the coverlet over the patient's hands as she spoke.

There, sonny! M. Schmucke and I will sit up with you of nights. A prince won't be no better nursed... and besides, you needn't refuse yourself nothing that's necessary, you can afford it.—I have just been talking things over with Cibot, for what would he do without me, poor dear?—Well, and I talked him round; we are both so fond of you, that he will let me stop up with you of a night. And that is a good deal to ask of a man like him, for he is as fond of me as ever he was the day we were married. I don't know how it is. It is the lodge, you see; we are always there together! Don't you throw off the things like that! she cried, making a dash for the bedhead to draw the coverlet over Pons' chest. "If you are not good, and don't do just as Dr. Poulain says—and Dr. Poulain is the image of Providence on earth—I will have no more to do with you. You must do as I tell you—"

Yes, Montame Zipod, he vill do vat you dell him, put in Schmucke; "he vants to lif for his boor friend Schmucke's sake, I'll pe pound."

And of all things, don't fidget yourself, continued La Cibot, "for your illness makes you quite bad enough without your making it worse for want of patience. God sends us our troubles, my dear good gentlemen; He punishes us for our sins. Haven't you nothing to reproach yourself with? some poor little bit of a fault or other?"

The invalid shook his head.

Oh! go on! You were young once, you had your fling, there is some love-child of yours somewhere—cold, and starving, and homeless.... What monsters men are! Their love doesn't last only for a day, and then in a jiffy they forget, they don't so much as think of the child at the breast for months.... Poor women!

But no one has ever loved me except Schmucke and my mother, poor Pons broke in sadly.

Oh! come, you aren't no saint! You were young in your time, and a fine-looking young fellow you must have been at twenty. I should have fallen in love with you myself, so nice as you are—

I always was as ugly as a toad, Pons put in desperately.

You say that because you are modest; nobody can't say that you aren't modest.

My dear Mme. Cibot, no, I tell you. I always was ugly, and I never was loved in my life.

You, indeed! cried the portress. "You want to make me believe at this time of day that you are as innocent as a young maid at your time of life. Tell that to your granny! A musician at a theatre too! Why, if a woman told me that, I wouldn't believe her."

Montame Zipod, you irritate him! cried Schmucke, seeing that Pons was writhing under the bedclothes.

You hold your tongue too! You are a pair of old libertines. If you were ugly, it don't make no difference; there was never so ugly a saucepan-lid but it found a pot to match, as the saying is. There is Cibot, he got one of the handsomest oyster-women in Paris to fall in love with him, and you are infinitely better looking than him! You are a nice pair, you are! Come, now, you have sown your wild oats, and God will punish you for deserting your children, like Abraham—

Exhausted though he was, the invalid gathered up all his strength to make a vehement gesture of denial.

Do lie quiet; if you have, it won't prevent you from living as long as Methuselah.

Then, pray let me be quiet! groaned Pons. "I have never known what it is to be loved. I have had no child; I am alone in the world."

Really, eh? returned the portress. "You are so kind, and that is what women like, you see—it draws them—and it looked to me impossible that when you were in your prime—"

Take her away, Pons whispered to Schmucke; "she sets my nerves on edge."

Then there's M. Schmucke, he has children. You old bachelors are not all like that—

I! cried Schmucke, springing to his feet, "vy!—"

Come, then, you have none to come after you either, eh? You both sprung up out of the earth like mushrooms—

Look here, komm mit me, said Schmucke.

The good German manfully took Mme. Cibot by the waist and carried her off into the next room, in spite of her exclamations.