LXI

But Schmucke was overcome with grief, his heart was throbbing painfully, his head fell back on the chair, he seemed to have lost con-sciousness.

Yes, he answered, "I can hear, but it is as if you vere doo huntert baces afay from me.... It seem to me dat I am going town into der grafe mit you," said Schmucke, crushed with pain.

He went over to the bed, took one of Pons' hands in both his own, and within himself put up a fervent prayer.

What is that that you are mumbling in German?

I asked Gott dat He vould take us poth togedders to Himself! Schmucke answered simply when he had finished his prayer.

Pons bent over—it was a great effort, for he was suffering intolerable pain; but he managed to reach Schmucke, and kissed him on the forehead, pouring out his soul, as it were, in benediction upon a nature that recalled the lamb that lies at the foot of the Throne of God.

See here, listen, my good Schmucke, you must do as dying people tell you—

I am lisdening.

The little door in the recess in your bedroom opens into that closet.

Yes, but it is blocked up mit bictures.

Clear them away at once, without making too much noise.

Yes.

Clear a passage on both sides, so that you can pass from your room into mine.—Now, leave the door ajar.—When La Cibot comes to take your place (and she is capable of coming an hour earlier than usual), you can go away to bed as if nothing had happened, and look very tired. Try to look sleepy. As soon as she settles down into the armchair, go into the closet, draw aside the muslin curtains over the glass door, and watch her....Do you understand?

I oondershtand; you belief dat die pad voman is going to purn der vill.

I do not know what she will do; but I am sure of this—that you will not take her for an angel afterwards.—And now play for me; improvise and make me happy. It will divert your thoughts; your gloomy ideas will vanish, and for me the dark hours will be filled with your dreams....

Schmucke sat down at the piano. Here he was in his element; and in a few moments, musical inspiration, quickened by the pain with which he was quivering and the consequent irritation that followed came upon the kindly German, and, after his wont, he was caught up and borne above the world. On one sublime theme after another he executed variations, putting into them sometimes Chopin's sorrow, Chopin's Raphael-like perfection; sometimes the stormy Dante's grandeur of Liszt—the two musicians who most nearly approach Paganini's temperament. When execution reaches this supreme degree, the executant stands beside the poet, as it were; he is to the composer as the actor is to the writer of plays, a divinely inspired interpreter of things divine. But that night, when Schmucke gave Pons an earnest of diviner symphonies, of that heavenly music for which Saint Cecile let fall her instruments, he was at once Beethoven and Paganini, creator and interpreter. It was an outpouring of music inexhaustible as the nightingale's song—varied and full of delicate undergrowth as the forest flooded with her trills; sublime as the sky overhead. Schmucke played as he had never played before, and the soul of the old musician listening to him rose to ecstasy such as Raphael once painted in a picture which you may see at Bologna. A terrific ringing of the door-bell put an end to these visions. The first-floor lodgers sent up a servant with a message. Would Schmucke please stop the racket overhead. Madame, Monsieur, and Mademoiselle Chapoulot had been wakened, and could not sleep for the noise; they called his attention to the fact that the day was quite long enough for rehearsals of theatrical music, and added that people ought not to "strum" all night in a house in the Marais.—It was then three o'clock in the morning. At half-past three, La Cibot appeared, just as Pons had predicted. He might have actually heard the conference between Fraisier and the portress: "Did I not guess exactly how it would be?" his eyes seemed to say as he glanced at Schmucke, and, turning a little, he seemed to be fast asleep.

Schmucke's guileless simplicity was an article of belief with La Cibot (and be it noted that this faith in simplicity is the great source and secret of the success of all infantine strategy); La Cibot, therefore, could not suspect Schmucke of deceit when he came to say to her, with a face half of distress, half of glad relief:

I haf had a derrible night! a derrible dime of it! I vas opliged to play to keep him kviet, and the virst-floor lodgers vas komm up to tell me to be kviet!... It was frightful, for der life of mein friend vas at shtake. I am so tired mit der blaying all night, dat dis morning I am all knocked up.

My poor Cibot is very bad, too; one more day like yesterday, and he will have no strength left.... One can't help it; it is God's will.

You haf a heart so honest, a soul so peautiful, dot gif der Zipod die, ve shall lif togedder, said the cunning Schmucke.

The craft of simple, straightforward folk is formidable indeed; they are exactly like children, setting their unsuspected snares with the perfect craft of the savage.

Oh, well go and sleep, sonny! returned La Cibot. "Your eyes look tired, they are as big as my fist. But there! if anything could comfort me for losing Cibot, it would be the thought of ending my days with a good man like you. Be easy. I will give Mme. Chapoulot a dressing down.... To think of a retired haberdasher's wife giving herself such airs!"

Schmucke went to his room and took up his post in the closet.

La Cibot had left the door ajar on the landing; Fraisier came in and closed it noiselessly as soon as he heard Schmucke shut his bedroom door. He had brought with him a lighted taper and a bit of very fine wire to open the seal of the will. La Cibot, meanwhile, looking under the pillow, found the handkerchief with the key of the bureau knotted to one corner; and this so much the more easily because Pons purposely left the end hanging over the bolster, and lay with his face to the wall. La Cibot went straight to the bureau, opened it cautiously so as to make as little noise as possible, found the spring of the secret drawer, and hurried into the salon with the will in her hand. Her flight roused Pons' curiosity to the highest pitch; and as for Schmucke, he trembled as if he were the guilty person.

Go back, said Fraisier, when she handed over the will. "He may wake, and he must find you there."

Fraisier opened the seal with a dexterity which proved that his was no 'prentice hand, and read the following curious document, headed "My Will," with ever-deepening astonishment:

15th April, 1845

I, being in my sound mind (as this my Will, drawn up in concert with M. Trognon, will testify), and feeling that I must shortly die of the malady from which I have suffered since the beginning of February last, am anxious to dispose of my property, and have herein recorded my last wishes:—

I have always been impressed by the untoward cir-cumstances that injure great pictures, and not unfrequently bring about total destruction. I have felt sorry for the beautiful paintings condemned to travel from land to land, never finding some fixed abode whither admirers of great masterpieces may travel to see them. And I have always thought that the truly deathless work of a great master ought to be national property; put where every one of every nation may see it, even as the light, God's masterpiece, shines for all His children.

And as I have spent my life in collecting together and choosing a few pictures, some of the greatest masters' most glorious work, and as these pictures are as the master left them—genuine examples, neither repainted nor retouched,—it has been a painful thought to me that the paintings which have been the joy of my life, may be sold by public auction, and go, some to England, some to Russia, till they are all scattered abroad again as if they had never been gathered together. From this wretched fate I have determined to save both them and the frames in which they are set, all of them the work of skilled craftsmen.

On these grounds, therefore, I give and bequeath the pictures which compose my collection to the King, for the gallery in the Louvre, subject to the charge (if the legacy is accepted) of a life-annuity of two thousand four hundred francs to my friend Wilhelm Schmucke.

If the King, as usufructuary of the Louvre collection, should refuse the legacy with the charge upon it, the said pictures shall form a part of the estate which I leave to my friend, Schmucke, on condition that he shall deliver the Monkey's Head, by Goya, to my cousin, President Camusot; a Flower-piece, the tulips, by Abraham Mignon, to M. Trognon, notary (whom I appoint as my executor): and allow Mme. Cibot, who has acted as my housekeeper for ten years, the sum of two hundred francs per annum.

Finally, my friend Schmucke is to give the Descent from the Cross, Ruben's sketch for his great picture at Antwerp, to adorn a chapel in the parish church, in grateful acknowledgment of M. Duplanty's kindness to me; for to him I owe it that I can die as a Christian and a Catholic. —So ran the will.

Pons

This is ruin! mused Fraisier, "the ruin of all my hopes. Ha! I begin to believe all that the Presidente told me about this old artist and his cunning."

Well? La Cibot came back to say.

Your gentleman is a monster. He is leaving everything to the Crown. Now, you cannot plead against the Crown.... The will cannot be disputed.... We are robbed, ruined, spoiled, and murdered!

What has he left to me?

Two hundred francs a year.

A pretty come-down!... Why, he is a finished scoundrel.

Go and see, said Fraisier, "and I will put your scoundrel's will back again in the envelope."

六十一、大失所望

被痛苦压倒的许模克，心跳得可怕，脑袋仰在椅背上，好似昏迷了。

“是的，我听见的！可是你的声音远得很……我好像跟你一块儿陷到坟墓里去了！……”德国人说着，难过到极点。

他过去捧着邦斯的手，很诚心地做了个祈祷。

“你念念有词地用德文说些什么呀？……”

祷告完了，他很简单地回答：“我求上帝把我们俩一块儿召回去。”

邦斯忍着胸口的疼痛，勉强探出身子，挨近许模克去亲他的额角，把自己的灵魂灌注给这个上帝脚下的羔羊，表示祝福。

“喂，听我呀，亲爱的许模克，快死的人的话，是非听从不可的……”

“我听着！”

“你知道，你的屋子跟我的屋子中间有个小房间，西边都有扇小门。”

“不错，可是里头全堆满了画。”

“你马上去轻轻地把门的地位腾出来！……”

“好吧……”

“你先把两边的过道出清，再把你那儿的门虚掩着。等西卜女人来跟你换班的时候（今天她可能提早一个钟点），你照常去睡觉，要做出很疲倦的神气。你得装作睡熟……只要她在椅子里坐下了，你就从门里走进我的小房间，把玻璃门上的窗纱撩开一点，留神看着这儿的动静……明白没有？”

“明白了。你的意思是那个坏女人要来烧掉遗嘱……”

“我不知道她要怎么办，反正以后你不会再拿她当作天使了。现在我要听听音乐，你来临时作些曲子让我享受一下……这样你心有所归，不至于太愁闷；而你的诗意也可以替我排遣这凄凉的一夜……”

许模克就开始弹琴了。悲痛的激动和反应所唤起的音乐灵感，不消几分钟，就像往常一样把德国人带到了另外一个世界。他找到些意境高远的主题，任意发挥，时而凄怆沉痛，委婉动人如肖邦；时而慷慨激昂，气势雄壮如李斯特：这是最接近帕格尼尼的两个音乐家。演技的完美到这一步，演奏家差不多与诗人并肩了；他与作曲家的关系，好比演员之于编剧：神妙的内容有了神妙的表现。那晚上，邦斯仿佛预先听到了天国的音乐，连音乐家的祖师圣女赛西尔也为之废然若失的神奇的音乐。许模克这一下是等于贝多芬而兼帕格尼尼，是创造者同时是表演者。涓涓不尽的乐思，像夜莺的歌喉，崇高伟大像夜莺头上的青天，精深宏博像夜莺在那里千啼百啭的丛林：他从来没有这样精彩的表现。邦斯听得悠然神往，有如博洛尼亚美术馆中那幅拉斐尔画上的情景。不料这团诗意给一阵粗暴的铃声打断了。二楼房客的老妈子，奉主人之命来请许模克停止吵闹。夏波罗先生，夏波罗太太，夏波罗小姐，都给吵醒了，没法再睡；他们认为戏院里的音乐白天尽有时间练习，而在玛莱区的屋子里也不该在夜里弹琴……那时已经三点了。到三点半，不出邦斯所料——他仿佛亲耳听见弗莱齐埃和西卜女人的约会的——看门女人出现了。病人对许模克会心地望了一眼，意思是说：“你瞧，我不是猜着了吗？”然后他装作睡得很熟的模样。

一个人的老实最容易使人上当，儿童的卖弄狡狯就利用他的天真烂漫做手段，而且往往是成功的。西卜女人绝对相信许模克是老实人，所以看他悲喜交集地走过来对她说话，一点也不疑心他扯谎。

“哎啊！他这一夜情形坏透了！烦躁不堪，像着了魔似的。我只得给他弹弹琴使他安静；想不到二楼的房客跑来叫我停止！……真正岂有此理！那是为救我朋友性命呀。我弹了一夜琴，累死了，到今儿早上简直撑不住啦。”

“我可怜的西卜情形也不好，今儿要再像昨天一样，就没希望了！……有什么法儿！只能听上帝的意思！”

“你人多老实，心多好，要是西卜老头死了，咱们住在一块儿！”狡狯的许模克说。

朴实正直的人作假的时候，会像儿童一样可怕，做的陷阱跟野蛮人做的一样精密。

“得啦，小乖乖，去睡吧！”西卜女人说，“瞧你眼睛多累，像核桃一样了。能跟你这样的好人一块儿养老，那我丢了西卜，还算有点安慰。放心，我会把夏波罗太太去训一顿的！……嘿，卖针线出身的女人也配拿架子吗！……”

这样以后，许模克就躲进了他的小房间。

西卜女人把大门虚掩着，弗莱齐埃溜了进来，轻轻地把门关上了，那时许模克已经走进自己屋子。律师拿着一支点着的蜡烛和一根极细的铜丝，预备拆遗嘱用的。病人有心让缚着钥匙的手帕露在长枕头外面，身子朝着墙，睡的姿势使西卜女人拿起手帕来格外方便。她拿了钥匙走向书桌，尽量轻手轻脚地开了锁，摸到抽斗的暗机关，抓着遗嘱到客厅去了。邦斯看见这情形骇坏了。许模克却从头到脚在那里哆嗦，仿佛他自己犯了什么罪。

“你回进屋子去，”弗莱齐埃从西卜女人手里接过遗嘱，吩咐她，“他要醒来，应当看见你坐在屋里才对。”

弗莱齐埃拆开封套的熟练，证明他已经不是初犯。他念着这古怪的文件，不由得大为惊异。

立自书遗嘱人邦斯，兹因自本年二月初患病以来，病势有增无减，自知不久人世，决将所有遗产亲自处分。余神志清楚，可以本遗嘱内容为证。又本遗嘱系会同公证人德洛浓先生拟定。

余素以历代名画聚散无常，卒至澌灭为恨。此等精品往往转辗贩卖，周游列国，从不能集中一地，以饱爱美人士眼福，尤为可慨。窃以为名家杰作均应归国家所有，俾能经常展览，公诸同好，一如上帝创造之光明永远为万民所共享。

余毕生搜集若干画幅，均系大家手迹，面目完整，绝未经过后人窜改或重修。此项图画为余一生幸福所在，极不愿其在余身后再经拍卖，流散四方，或为俄人所得，或入英人之手，使余过去搜集之功化为乌有。所有画框，均出名工巧匠之手，余亦不忍见其流离失所。

职是之故，余决将藏画全部遗赠国王，捐入卢浮宫博物馆。遗赠条件即受赠人必须对余友人威廉·许模克负担每年二千四百法郎之终身年金。

倘或国王以卢浮宫博物馆之代表人资格，不愿接受上述条件之遗赠，则该项图画当即遗赠余友人许模克。至图画以外之其他物件，本不在捐入公家之列，亦一并赠予许模克，但受赠人必须负责将谷雅所作《猴头》一画，致送与余外甥加缪索庭长；将弥浓所作花卉《郁金香》一幅，致送与公证人德洛浓先生。余并指定德洛浓先生为遗嘱执行人。又许模克当以二百法郎之年金，赠予为余服役十年之西卜太太。

余并委托友人许模克将鲁本斯所作《放下十字架》一画，赠予本区教堂，以表余对杜泼朗蒂神父之谢意。余临终深感杜神父指导，俾余得以基督徒身份魂归天国。（下略）

一八四五年四月十五日　邦斯（签名）

“这可完了蛋！”弗莱齐埃对自己说，“我所有的希望都完了蛋！啊！庭长夫人说老头儿如何如何奸刁，我这才相信了！……”

“怎么呢？”西卜女人走来问。

“你的先生真不是人！把全部东西送给了国家美术馆。咱们可不能跟政府打官司！……这遗嘱是推翻不了的。咱们真是遇到了贼，给偷盗了，抢光了，要了命了！……”

“他给我什么？”

“两百法郎终身年金……”

“哎啊！他手面这样阔！……这十恶不赦的坏蛋！……”

“你去看着他，”弗莱齐埃说，“我得把你那个坏蛋的遗嘱给封起来。”