第6章 The Piece of String 一截细绳

It was market-day, and from all the country round Goderville the peasants and their wives were coming toward the town. The men walked slowly, throwing the whole body forward at every step of their long, crooked legs. They were deformed from pushing the plough which makes the left-shoulder higher, and bends their figures side-ways; from reaping the grain, when they have to spread their legs so as to keep on their feet. Their starched blue blouses, glossy as though varnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with a little embroidered design and blown out around their bony bodies, looked very much like balloons about to soar, whence issued two arms and two feet.

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And just behind the animal followed their wives beating it over the back with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, and carrying large baskets out of which protruded the heads of chickens or ducks. These women walked more quickly and energetically than the men, with their erect, dried-up figures, adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over their flat bosoms, and their heads wrapped round with a white cloth, enclosing the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Now a char-a-banc passed by, jogging along behind a nag and shaking up strangely the two men on the seat, and the woman at the bottom of the cart who held fast to its sides to lessen the hard jolting.

In the market-place at Goderville was a great crowd, a mingled multitude of men and beasts. The horns of cattle, the high, long-napped hats of wealthy peasants, the headdresses of the women came to the surface of that sea. And the sharp, shrill, barking voices made a continuous, wild din, while above it occasionally rose a huge burst of laughter from the sturdy lungs of a merry peasant or a prolonged bellow from a cow tied fast to the wall of a house.

It all smelled of the stable, of milk, of hay and of perspiration, giving off that half-human, half-animal odor which is peculiar to country folks.

Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, had just arrived at Goderville and was making his way toward the square when he perceived on the ground a little piece of string. Maitre Hauchecorne, economical as are all true Normans, reflected that everything was worth picking up which could be of any use, and he stooped down, but painfully, because he suffered from rheumatism. He took the bit of thin string from the ground and was carefully preparing to roll it up when he saw Maitre Malandain, the harness maker, on his doorstep staring at him. They had once had a quarrel about a halter, and they had borne each other malice ever since. Maitre Hauchecorne was overcome with a sort of shame at being seen by his enemy picking up a bit of string in the road. He quickly hid it beneath his blouse and then slipped it into his breeches' pocket, then pretended to be still looking for something on the ground which he did not discover and finally went off toward the market-place, his head bent forward and his body almost doubled in two by rheumatic pains.

He was at once lost in the crowd, which kept moving about slowly and noisily as it chaffered and bargained. The peasants examined the cows, went off, came back, always in doubt for fear of being cheated, never quite daring to decide, looking the seller square in the eye in the effort to discover the tricks of the man and the defect in the beast.

The women, having placed their great baskets at their feet, had taken out the poultry, which lay upon the ground, their legs tied together, with terrified eyes and scarlet combs.

They listened to propositions, maintaining their prices in a decided manner with an impassive face or perhaps deciding to accept the smaller price offered, suddenly calling out to the customer who was starting to go away:

“All right, I'll let you have them, Mait' Anthime.”

Then, little by little, the square became empty, and when the Angelus struck midday those who lived at a distance poured into the inns.

At Jourdain's the great room was filled with eaters, just as the vast court was filled with vehicles of every sort—wagons, gigs, chars-a-bancs, tilburies, innumerable vehicles which have no name, yellow with mud, misshapen, pieced together, raising their shafts to heaven like two arms, or it may be with their nose on the ground and their rear in the air.

Just opposite to where the diners were at table the huge fireplace, with its bright flame, gave out a burning heat on the backs of those who sat at the right. Three spits were turning, loaded with chickens, with pigeons and with joints of mutton, and a delectable odor of roast meat and of gravy flowing over crisp brown skin arose from the hearth, kindled merriment, caused mouths to water.

All the aristocracy of the plough were eating there at Mait' Jourdain's, the innkeeper's, a dealer in horses also and a sharp fellow who had made a great deal of money in his day.

The dishes were passed round, were emptied, as were the jugs of yellow cider. Every one told of his affairs, of his purchases and his sales. They exchanged news about the crops. The weather was good for greens, but too wet for grain.

Suddenly the drum began to beat in the courtyard before the house. Every one, except some of the most indifferent, was on their feet at once and ran to the door, to the windows, their mouths full and napkins in their hand.

When the public crier had finished his taboo he called forth in a jerky voice, pausing in the wrong places:

“Be it known to the inhabitants of Goderville and in general to all persons present at the market that there has been lost this morning on the Beuzeville road, between nine and ten o'clock, a black leather pocketbook containing five hundred francs and business papers. You are requested to return it to the mayor's office at once or to Maitre Fortune Houlbreque, of Manneville. There will be twenty francs reward.”

Then the man went away. They heard once more at a distance the dull beating of the drum and the faint voice of the crier. Then they all began to talk of this incident, reckoning up the chances which Maitre Houlbreque had of finding or of not finding his pocketbook again.

The meal went on. They were finishing their coffee when the corporal of gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

He asked:

“Is Maitre Hauchecorne, of Breaute, here?”

Maitre Hauchecorne, seated at the other end of the table answered:

“Here I am, here I am.”

And he followed the corporal.

The mayor was waiting for him, seated in an armchair. He was the notary of the place, a tall, grave man of pompous speech.

“Maitre Hauchecorne,” said he, “this morning on the Beuzeville road, you were seen to pick up the pocketbook lost by Maitre Houlbreque, of Manneville.”

The countryman looked at the mayor in amazement frightened already at this suspicion which rested on him, he knew not why.

“I—I picked up that pocketbook?”

“Yes, YOU.”

“I swear I don't even know anything about it.”

“You were seen.”

“I was seen—I? Who saw me?”

“M. Malandain, the harness-maker.”

Then the old man remembered, understood, and, reddening with anger, said:

“Ah! he saw me, did he, the rascal? He saw me picking up this string here, M'sieu le Maire.”

And fumbling at the bottom of his pocket, he pulled out of it the little end of string.

But the mayor incredulously shook his head:

“You will not make me believe, Maitre Hauchecorne, that M. Malandain, who is a man whose word can be relied on, has mistaken this string for a pocketbook.”

The peasant, furious, raised his hand and spat on the ground beside him as if to attest his good faith, repeating:

“For all that, it is God's truth, M'sieu le Maire. There! On my soul's salvation, I repeat it.”

The mayor continued:

“After you picked up the object in question, you even looked about for some time in the mud to see if a piece of money had not dropped out of it.”

The good man was choking with indignation and fear.

“How can they tell—how can they tell such lies as that to slander an honest man! How can they?”

His protestations were in vain; he was not believed.

He was confronted with M. Malandain, who repeated and sustained his testimony. They railed at one another for an hour. At his own request Maitre Hauchecorne was searched. Nothing was found on him.

At last the mayor, much perplexed, sent him away, warning him that he would inform the public prosecutor and ask for orders.

The news had spread. When he left the mayor's office the old man was surrounded,interrogated with a curiosity which was serious or mocking, as the case might be, but into which no indignation entered. And he began to tell the story of the string. They did not believe him. They laughed.

He passed on, buttonholed by every one, himself buttonholing his acquaintances, beginning over and over again his tale and his protestations, showing his pockets turned inside out to prove that he had nothing in them.

They said to him:

“You old rogue!”

He grew more and more angry, feverish, in despair at not being believed, and kept on telling his story.

The night came. It was time to go home. He left with three of his neighbors, to whom he pointed out the place where he had picked up the string, and all the way he talked of his adventure.

That evening he made the round of the village of Breaute for the purpose of telling every one. He met only unbelievers.

He brooded over it all night long.

The next day, about one in the afternoon, Marius Paumelle, a farm hand of Maitre Breton, the market gardener at Ymauville, returned the pocketbook and its contents to Maitre Holbreque, of Manneville.

This man said, indeed, that he had found it on the road, but not knowing how to read, he had carried it home and given it to his master.

The news spread to the environs. Maitre Hauchecorne was informed. He started off at once and began to relate his story with the denouement. He was triumphant.

“What grieved me,” said he, “was not the thing itself, do you understand, but it was being accused of lying. Nothing does you so much harm as being in disgrace for lying.”

All day he talked of his adventure. He told it on the roads to the people who passed, at the cabaret to the people who drank and next Sunday when they came out of church. He even stopped strangers to tell them about it. He was easy now, and yet something worried him without his knowing exactly what it was. People had a joking manner while they listened. They did not seem convinced. He seemed to feel their remarks behind his back.

On Tuesday of the following week he went to market at Goderville, prompted solely by the need of telling his story.

Malandain, standing on his doorstep, began to laugh as he saw him pass. Why?

He accosted a farmer of Criquetot, who did not let him finish, and giving him a punch in the pit of the stomach cried in his face: “Oh, you great rogue!” Then he turned his heel upon him.

Maitre Hauchecorne remained speechless and grew more and more uneasy. Why had they called him “great rogue”?

When seated at table in Jourdain's tavern he began again to explain the whole affair.

A horse dealer of Montivilliers shouted at him:

“Get out, get out, you old scamp! I know all about your old string.”

Hauchecorne stammered:

“But since they found it again, the pocketbook!”

But the other continued:

“Hold your tongue, daddy; there's one who finds it and there's another who returns it. And no one the wiser.”

The farmer was speechless. He understood at last. They accused him of having had the pocketbook brought back by an accomplice, by a confederate.

He tried to protest. The whole table began to laugh.

He could not finish his dinner, and went away amid a chorus of jeers.

He went home indignant, choking with rage, with confusion, the more cast down since with his Norman craftiness he was, perhaps, capable of having done what they accused him of and even of boasting of it as a good trick. He was dimly conscious that it was impossible to prove his innocence, his craftiness being so well known. He felt himself struck to the heart by the injustice of the suspicion.

He began anew to tell his tale, lengthening his recital every day, each day adding new proofs, more energetic declarations and more sacred oaths, which he thought of, which he prepared in his hours of solitude, for his mind was entirely occupied with the story of the string. The more he denied it, the more artful his arguments, the less he was believed.

“Those are liars' proofs,” they said behind his back.

He felt this. It preyed upon him and he exhausted himself in useless efforts.

He was visibly wasting away.

Jokers would make him tell the story of “the piece of string”to amuse them, just as you make a soldier who has been on a campaign tell his story of the battle. His mind kept growing weaker and about the end of December he took to his bed.

He passed away early in January, and, in the ravings of death agony, he protested his innocence, repeating:

“A little bit of string—a little bit of string. See, here it is, M'sieu le Maire.”

今天是赶集日，农民们带着妻子从戈代维尔的四面八方朝镇子走来。男人们慢悠悠地走着，罗圈长腿每走一步，整个身体就向前猛然移动。他们的腿之所以畸形，是因为推犁时左肩较高，侧弯着身体，是因为收割粮食时，他们不得不分开两腿，才能站稳脚跟。他们浆硬的蓝上衣仿佛上了清漆似的光滑发亮，领口和袖口带有一点绣花图案，穿在他们瘦骨嶙峋的身上鼓囊囊的，活像一只将要腾空飞起的气球，从中伸出了两条胳膊和两只脚。

这些人中有的牵着一头母牛或牛犊。他们的妻子就跟在牲口后面，用一根挂满叶子的树枝抽打牲口的背部，催它快走。她们挎着大篮子，篮子里伸出了几只小鸡或鸭子的脑袋。这些女人比男人们走得更快、更有劲，干瘪挺直的身子披着窄小的披肩，披肩用别针别在扁平的胸脯上方；头上裹着一块白布，白布上面贴着头发戴了一顶便帽。

这时，一辆大型游览车擦身而过，一匹老马颠簸前进，颠得座位上的两个男人和车尾的一个女人摇来晃去，那个女人紧紧地抓住车沿，以减轻猛烈的颠簸。

戈代维尔的集市上，人和牲口混合在一起，水泄不通。牛的犄角、富裕农民的长绒高帽、女人们的头巾在那片海洋里纷纷浮现。尖锐刺耳的乱叫声形成了一片连绵不断的喧闹，越过这片喧闹声，偶尔爆发出一个开心农民从强健的肺部发出的哈哈大笑声，或者是拴在房墙上的母牛发出的一声长吼。

这里的一切都散发出一股牛棚、牛奶、干草和汗水的气味，同时散发出那种半人半畜的气味，这种气味是乡下人特有的。

布雷奥泰村的奥什科纳先生刚刚到达戈代维尔，正向广场走去，这时他看到地上有一小截细绳。作为地地道道的诺曼底人，奥什科纳管家格外节俭，寻思着凡是可能有用的东西都值得拾起来。他弯下腰，但非常吃力，因为他患有风湿病。他从地上拾起那截细绳，正准备仔细卷起，这时他看到马具制造商马朗丹老板站在门阶盯着他。他们曾为了一只笼头吵过架，从那以后彼此都怀恨在心。让仇人看到自己在路上拾了一截细绳，奥什科纳先生觉得羞愧难当。他飞快地把细绳藏在上衣下面，然后让它滑进马裤口袋，接着假装还在地上寻找着什么东西，什么也没有发现，头弯向前，佝偻着因患风湿病而疼痛的腰，向集市走去。

他立马就迷失在了人群里。人群讨价还价，闹哄哄的，继续缓慢移动。那些农民仔细查看母牛，去而复返，总是疑神疑鬼，怕上当受骗，从不敢完全决定，直盯着卖家的眼神，努力想识破那人的诡计，发现牲口的缺陷。

女人们把大篮子放在脚边后，掏出眼神恐惧、冠子发红、被捆住腿的家禽，放在地上。

她们听了还价，不动声色，果断坚持原价，或许突然决定同意还价，向那个正要开始离开的顾客大声喊道：

“好吧，昂蒂姆大爷，我就卖给你了。”

随后，广场渐渐地空了。当午祷钟声敲响时，那些家住得远的人纷纷涌进了客栈。

茹尔丹的大客店坐满了吃饭的人，宽大的院子里停满了各种车辆——有四轮马车，有轻便两轮马车，有大型游览车，有无盖轻便两轮马车，还有说不清的叫不出名字的车辆，沾满黄泥，奇形怪状，拼在一起，有些辕杆像两条手臂一样举向天空，有些是鼻子着地，尾部朝天。

就在那些人坐在硕大壁炉的桌边吃饭的对面，明亮的火焰把那些坐在右面的人的背部烤得暖烘烘的。三根烤肉铁扦都叉满小鸡、鸽子和羊腿，在火上转动着；烤肉的美味和酥脆烤焦的皮上流着肉汁的香味，从炉边飘出来，让人开心，嘴流口水。

农民中间的所有上层人物都在茹尔丹老板那里吃饭。茹尔丹既开店又贩马，当年是一个大赚了一把的机灵人物。

菜一盘盘端上来一盘盘吃光，黄色苹果酒也是一罐罐端上来，一罐罐喝光。每个人都谈起了自己的生意，谈起了自己买进卖出的东西。他们交换着有关庄稼的消息。天气对绿地来说不错，但对粮食来说却太湿了。

突然，咚咚咚的鼓声开始在前面的院子里响了起来。除了一些最漠不关心的人之外，每个人都马上站起来，嘴里塞得满满的，手里拿着餐巾，向门口，向窗口奔去。

公告差役宣布完禁令后，就磕磕绊绊地大声宣读，有些地方断句都断错了：

通知戈代维尔的居民和所有来赶集的人，有人九点钟到十点钟之间在伯兹维尔大路上遗失了，一只黑皮钱包，里面装有五百法郎和商用票据。拾到者请马上送交镇长办公室或送还马纳维尔的，福蒂内·乌尔布雷格先生。当面酬谢二十法郎。

说完，那个人就扬长而去。他们又一次听到远处传来了低沉的鼓声和公告差役微弱的声音。于是，大家开始谈论这件事，推测乌尔布雷格先生有没有可能找到他的钱包。

午饭继续进行。他们正要喝完咖啡，这时宪兵队下士突然出现在了门口。

他问道：

“布雷奥泰的奥什科纳先生在这里吗？”

坐在桌子另一端的奥什科纳先生回答说：

“我在这里，我在这里。”

之后，他跟在下士后面。

镇长坐在扶手椅里正等着他。镇长是当地的公证人，高大严肃、装腔作势。

“奥什科纳先生，”他说，“今天上午有人看到你在伯泽维尔的大路上，拾到了马纳维尔的乌尔布雷格先生丢失的钱包。”

这个乡下人望着镇长，目瞪口呆，对落在他头上的这个嫌疑感到莫名其妙。

“我——我拾到了那个钱包？”

“是的，就是你。”

“我发誓我甚至都不知道这件事啊。”

“有人看到你拾了。”

“有人看到我拾了——是我吗？是谁看到我的？”

“马具制造商马朗丹先生。”

这时，老人才想起来，幡然醒悟，气得脸色通红，说道：

“啊！是他，是他这个无赖看到我拾起的？他看到我拾起的是这根细绳，镇长先生。”

说着，他从口袋里摸出了那小截细绳。

但是，镇长摇了摇头，不相信：

“奥什科纳先生，马朗丹先生是一个可以信赖的人，你无法使我相信他会错把这根细绳当成一个钱包。”

这个乡下人怒不可遏，举起了一只手，向旁边吐了一口，以证明自己的诚信，又说道：

“尽管如此，但这千真万确，镇长先生。听着！我以自己的灵魂救赎发誓，我再说一遍。”

镇长接着说道：

“你拾起那个可疑的东西后，甚至还在泥地里寻找了一段时间，看有没有掉出来一张钱。”

这个好人因愤怒和害怕而喘不过气来。

“他们怎么能说——他们怎么能说这种谎话，来中伤一个老实人！他们怎么能说？”

他的抗议白费力气；对方不相信他。

马朗丹先生跟他对质，重述了一遍证词，一口咬定就是他。他们相互责骂了一个小时。应奥什科纳先生本人的请求，他们对他进行了搜身。什么也没有搜到。

镇长不知所措，最后就把他打发走了，同时警告他要通知公诉人，听候命令。

消息已经传开了。老人离开镇长办公室后，人们把他团团围住，好奇地对这个案子问来问去，要么是出于真心，要么是出于嘲笑，但谁也没有愤愤不平。于是，他就开始讲起了细绳的故事。他们都不相信他，而是哈哈大笑。

他一路走来，不是被大家截住，就是本人截住他认识的人，一遍又一遍地讲述他的故事，提出抗议，同时把各个口袋翻过来，证明他在里面什么也没有装。

他们对他说：

“你这老滑头！”

他对没有人相信自己越来越生气，紧张慌乱，陷入了绝望，就继续讲述他的故事。

夜晚来临。该回家了。他跟三个邻居一起离开，指给他们看他拾到细绳的地方，一路上讲着他的奇遇。

那天晚上，他在布雷奥泰村转了一圈，目的是告诉每个人。他遇到的只是不相信他的人。

他彻夜都郁闷沉思。

第二天下午一点钟左右，给依莫维尔村菜农布雷东先生当短工的马吕斯·波梅尔，把钱包和里面的东西，送还给了马纳维尔村的乌尔布雷格先生。

这个短工说，他是在大路上发现的，但他不识字，就带回去交给了东家。

这个消息传到了四里八乡。奥什科纳先生也听说了。他马上出发，开始讲述他那个故事的结局。他洋洋得意。

“你明白，让我伤心的，”他说，“不是事情本身，而是无端指责的谎话。再没有比谎话更伤害人的了，很不讨人喜欢。”

他一天到晚都谈论着自己的这次奇遇。他在大路上讲给过往的行人听，在酒馆里讲给喝酒的人听，到了下个礼拜日讲给礼拜完从教堂出来的人听。他甚至拦住陌生人，讲给他们听。他现在轻松了，但某个事儿折磨着他，他却又不知道究竟是什么。人们听他讲故事的同时，一副开玩笑的样子，好像没有心服口服。他似乎感到他们在他背后说三道四。

到了下一个星期二，仅仅需要讲述这件事，他就在这种心理驱使下去戈代维尔赶集。

马朗丹站在门阶上，看到他走过时，开始放声大笑起来。为什么呢？

他对克里格托的一个农场主说话，这个农场主没有让他说完，就在他心窝捣了一拳，对他当面嚷道：“噢，你这老滑头！”说完，他转身离去。

奥什科纳先生无言以对，越来越不安。他们为什么叫他“老滑头”呢？

他在茹尔丹酒馆落座后，又开始解释起了整个事情。

蒙蒂列埃的一个马贩子冲对他大声嚷道：

“出去，出去，你这老混蛋！我对你那根细绳的事儿一清二楚。”

奥什科纳结结巴巴地说：

“那个钱包可不是又找到了嘛！”

但是，那个人接着说道：

“闭嘴吧，老爹；拾的是一个人，还的是另一个人。没有人比这再聪明了。”

这个农民说不出话来。他终于明白了。他们指责是他让一个同伙、一个共犯把钱包送了回去。

他想设法抗辩。在座的人全都哈哈大笑。

他吃不完这顿饭，就在一片嘲笑声中离开了。

他回到家，愤愤不平，怒火和困惑憋得他透不出气来；更使他沮丧的是，他具有诺曼底人的狡猾，他们指责他的事儿，他说不定会做出来，甚至还会吹嘘这是一种高明手段。他隐约意识到不可能证明他的清白无罪了，因为他的狡猾众所周知。他觉得自己蒙受了不白之冤，就像在心里被扎了一刀似的。

他又开始讲起了自己的故事，每天都要拉长自己的叙述，每天都要增加一些新的证据，增加一些更有力的声明和更神圣的誓词，这都是他独处的时刻想出来、准备好的，因为他的思想完全被细绳这个故事占住了。他越矢口否认，他的争辩越巧妙，大家就越不相信他。

“那些都是说谎者的证据。”

他感受到了这一点。这折磨着他，他怎么努力都没用，自己筋疲力尽了。

显然，他日渐消瘦。

为了逗乐，一些爱开玩笑的人常常会使他讲“那根细绳”的故事，就像你让参加过战役的士兵讲打仗的故事一样。他的思想越来越脆弱。大约到了十二月底，他就倒在了床上。

他一月初去世，在临终痛苦的胡话中，他还在断言自己清白无罪，反复说道：

“一小截细绳——一小截细绳。看，在这里，镇长先生。”