Человек, который смеется / The Man Who Laughs. Уровень 4. Виктор Мари Гюго

was stirring. The doors were all carefully locked. The windows were covered by their shutters, as the eyes by their lids.

      There, by chance and without selection, he knocked violently at any house that he happened to pass. Nobody answered.

      The child felt the coldness of men more terribly than the coldness of night. The coldness of men is intentional.

      He set out again. But now he no longer walked; he dragged himself along. The houses ended there. He perceived the sea to the right. What was to become of him? Here was the country again. Should he continue this journey? Should he return and re-enter the streets? What was he to do between those two silences – the mute plain and the deaf city?

      MEETING SOMEONE

      All at once he heard a menace. A strange and alarming grinding of teeth reached him through the darkness. He advanced. To those to whom silence has become dreadful a howl is comforting.

      He advanced in the direction whence came the snarl. He turned the corner of a wall, and he saw a shelter. It was a cart, unless it was a hovel. It had wheels – it was a carriage. It had a roof – it was a dwelling. From the roof arose a funnel, and out of the funnel smoke. This smoke was red. He approached.

      The growl became furious. It was no longer a growl; it was a roar. He heard a sharp sound. At the same time a head was put through the window.

      “Peace there!” said the head.

      The mouth was silent. The head began again, -

      “Is anyone there?”

      The child answered, -

      “Yes.”

      “Who?”

      “I.”

      “You? Who are you? whence do you come?”

      “I am weary,” said the child.

      “What time is it?”

      “I am cold.”

      “What are you doing there?”

      “I am hungry.”

      The head replied, -

      “Everyone cannot be as happy as a lord. Go away.”

      The head was withdrawn and the window closed.

      The child bowed his forehead, drew the sleeping infant closer in his arms, and collected his strength to resume his journey. He had taken a few steps.

      However, at the same time that the window closed the door had opened. The voice which had spoken to the child cried out angrily from the inside of the van, -

      “Well! why do you not enter?”

      The child turned back.

      “Come in,” resumed the voice. “Who has sent me a fellow like this, who is hungry and cold, and who does not come in?”

      The child remained motionless.

      The voice continued, -

      “Come in, you young rascal.”

      He placed one foot on the lowest step. There was a great growl under the van. He drew back. The gaping jaws appeared.

      “Peace!” cried the voice of the man.

      The jaws retreated, the growling ceased.

      “Come up!” continued the man.

      The child with difficulty climbed up the three steps. He passed over the three steps; and having reached the threshold, stopped.

      No candle was burning in the caravan. The hut was lighted only by a red tinge, arising from the stove, in which sparkled a peat fire. On the stove were smoking a porringer and a saucepan, containing something to eat. The savoury odour was perceptible. The hut was furnished with a chest, a stool, and an unlighted lantern which hung from the ceiling. On the boards and nails were rows of glasses, coppers, an alembic, a vessel, and a confusion of strange objects of which the child understood nothing, and which were utensils for cooking and chemistry. The caravan was oblong in shape. It was not even a little room; it was scarcely a big box. Everything in the caravan was indistinct and misty. Nevertheless, a reflection of the fire on the ceiling enabled the spectator to read in large letters, – Ursus, Philosopher.

      The child, in fact, was entering the house of Homo and Ursus. The one was growling, the other speaking.

      “Come in!” said the man, who was Ursus.

      The child entered.

      “Put down your bundle.”

      The child placed his burden carefully on the top of the chest. The man continued, -

      “How gently you put it down! Worthless vagabond! In the streets at this hour! Who are you? Answer! But no. I forbid you to answer. There! You are cold. Warm yourself as quick as you can,” and he shoved him by the shoulders in front of the fire.

      “How wet you are! You’re frozen through! A nice state to come into a house! Come, take off those rags, you villain! Here are clothes.”

      He chose out of a heap a woollen rag, and chafed before the fire the limbs of the exhausted and bewildered child. The man wiped the boy’s feet.

      “Come, you rascal. Dress yourself!”

      The child put on the shirt, and the man slipped the knitted jacket over it.

      “Now…”

      The man kicked the stool forward. Then he pointed with his finger to the porringer which was smoking upon the stove. The child saw a potato and a bit of bacon.

      “You are hungry; eat!”

      The man took from the shelf a crust of hard bread and an iron fork, and handed them to the child.

      The boy hesitated.

      “Perhaps you expect me to lay the cloth,” said the man, and he placed the porringer on the child’s lap.

      Hunger overcame astonishment. The child began to eat. The poor boy devoured rather than ate. The man grumbled, -

      “Not so quick, you horrid glutton! Isn’t he a greedy scoundrel? In my time I have seen dukes eat. They don’t eat; that’s noble. They drink, however. Come, you pig!”

      The boy did not hear. He was absorbed by food and warmth. Ursus continued his imprecations, muttering to himself, -

      “I have seen King James in the Banqueting House. His Majesty touched nothing. This beggar here eats like a horse. Why did I come to this Weymouth? I have sold nothing since morning. I have played the flute to the hurricane. I have not pocketed a farthing; and now, tonight, beggars drop in. Horrid place! Well, today I’ve made nothing. Not an idiot on the highway, not a penny in the till. Eat away, hell-born boy! Fatten at my expense, parasite! This wretched boy is more than hungry; he is mad. It is not appetite, it is ferocity. He is carried away by a rabid virus. Perhaps he has the plague. Have you the plague, you thief? Let the populace die, but not my wolf. But I am hungry myself. I had but one potato, one crust of bread, a mouthful of bacon, and a drop of milk. I said to myself, ‘Good.’ I think I am going to eat, and bang! This crocodile falls upon me at the very moment. He installs himself between my food and myself. Behold, how my larder is devastated! Eat, pike, eat! You shark! How many teeth have you in your jaws? Guzzle, wolf-cub. I respect wolves. Swallow up my food, boa. I have worked all day, and far into the night, on an empty stomach; my throat is sore, my pancreas in distress, my entrails torn; and my reward is to see another eat. We will divide. He shall have the bread, the potato, and the bacon; but I will have the milk.”

      Just then a wail, touching and prolonged, arose in the hut. The man listened.

      “You cry, sycophant! Why do you cry?”

      The boy turned towards him. It was evident that it was not he who cried. He had his mouth full.

      The cry continued. The man went to the chest.

      “So it is your bundle that wails! What the devil…”

      He unrolled the jacket. An infant’s head appeared.

      “Well,