The posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operated at this period by small mail-wagons of the time of the Empire. These mail-wagons were two-wheeled cabriolets， upholstered inside with fawn-colored leather， hung on springs， and having but two seats， one for the postboy， the other for the traveller. The wheels were armed with those long， offensive axles which keep other vehicles at a distance， and which may still be seen on the road in Germany. The despatch box， an immense oblong coffer， was placed behind the vehicle and formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black， and the cabriolet yellow.
These vehicles， which have no counterparts nowadays， had something distorted and hunchbacked about them; and when one saw them passing in the distance， and climbing up some road to the horizon， they resembled the insects which are called， I think， termites， and which， though with but little corselet， drag a great train behind them. But they travelled at a very rapid rate. The post-wagon which set out from Arras at one o'clock every night， after the mail from Paris had passed， arrived at M. sur M. a little before five o'clock in the morning.
That night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. by the Hesdin road， collided at the corner of a street， just as it was entering the town， with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horse， which was going in the opposite direction， and in which there was but one person， a man enveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received quite a violent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop， but the traveller paid no heed and pursued his road at full gallop.
"That man is in a devilish hurry!" said the postman.
The man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen struggling in convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity.
Whither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening? He did not know. He was driving at random， straight ahead. Whither? To Arras， no doubt; but he might have been going elsewhere as well. At times he was conscious of it， and he shuddered. He plunged into the night as into a gulf. Something urged him forward; something drew him on. No one could have told what was taking place within him; every one will understand it. What man is there who has not entered， at least once in his life， into that obscure cavern of the unknown?
However， he had resolved on nothing， decided nothing， formed no plan， done nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive. He was， more than ever， as he had been at the first moment.
Why was he going to Arras?
He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired Scaufflaire's cabriolet: that， whatever the result was to be， there was no reason why he should not see with his own eyes， and judge of matters for himself; that this was even prudent; that he must know what took place; that no decision could be arrived at without having observed and scrutinized; that one made mountains out of everything from a distance; that， at any rate， when he should have seen that Champmathieu， some wretch， his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there; and that Brevet， that Chenildieu， that Cochepaille， old convicts who had known him; but they certainly would not recognize him;--bah! what an idea! that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth; that all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu， and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures; that accordingly there was no danger.
That it was， no doubt， a dark moment， but that he should emerge from it; that， after all， he held his destiny， however bad it might be， in his own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought.
At bottom， to tell the whole truth， he would have preferred not to go to Arras.
Nevertheless， he was going thither.
As he meditated， he whipped up his horse， which was proceeding at that fine， regular， and even trot which accomplishes two leagues and a half an hour.
In proportion as the cabriolet advanced， he felt something within him draw back.
At daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. Lay far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes， but without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as the evening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it， and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical， these black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul.
Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which sometimes border on the highway， he said to himself， "And yet there are people there within who are sleeping!"
The trot of the horse， the bells on the harness， the wheels on the road， produced a gentle， monotonous noise. These things are charming when one is joyous， and lugubrious when one is sad.
It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front of the inn， to allow the horse a breathing spell， and to have him given some oats.
The horse belonged， as Scaufflaire had said， to that small race of the Boulonnais， which has too much head， too much belly， and not enough neck and shoulders， but which has a broad chest， a large crupper， thin， fine legs， and solid hoofs--a homely， but a robust and healthy race. The excellent beast had travelled five leagues in two hours， and had not a drop of sweat on his loins.
He did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.
"Are you going far in this condition?" said the man.
He replied， with an air of not having roused himself from his revery:--
"Why?"
"Have you come from a great distance?" went on the man.
"Five leagues."
"Ah!"
"Why do you say， `Ah?'"
The man bent down once more， was silent for a moment， with his eyes fixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said:--
"Because， though this wheel has travelled five leagues， it certainly will not travel another quarter of a league."
He sprang out of the tilbury.
"What is that you say， my friend?"
"I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway. Just see here!"
The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered by the mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub， so that the nut no longer held firm.
"My friend，" he said to the stableman， "is there a wheelwright here?"
"Certainly， sir."
"Do me the service to go and fetch him."
"He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard!"
Master Bourgaillard， the wheelwright， was standing on his own threshold. He came， examined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon when the latter thinks a limb is broken.
"Can you repair this wheel immediately?"
"Yes， sir."
"When can I set out again?"
"To-morrow."
"To-morrow!"
"There is a long day's work on it. Are you in a hurry， sir?"
"In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest."
"Impossible， sir."
"I will pay whatever you ask."
"Impossible."
"Well， in two hours， then."
"Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made. Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning."
"The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?"
"How so?"
"You are a wheelwright?"
"Certainly， sir."
"Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start again at once."
"A spare wheel?"
"Yes."
"I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard."
"In that case， sell me a pair of wheels."
"Not all wheels fit all axles， sir."
"Try， nevertheless."
"It is useless， sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We are but a poor country here."
"Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?"
The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.
"You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one， I would not let it to you!"
"Well， sell it to me， then."
"I have none."
"What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please， as you see."
"We live in a poor country. There is， in truth，" added the wheelwright， "an old calash under the shed yonder， which belongs to a bourgeois of the town， who gave it to me to take care of， and who only uses it on the thirty-sixth of the month--never， that is to say. I might let that to you， for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must not see it pass--and then， it is a calash; it would require two horses."
"I will take two post-horses."
"Where is Monsieur going?"
"To Arras."
"And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?"
"Yes， of course."
"By taking two post-horses?"
"Why not?"
"Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four o'clock to-morrow morning?"
"Certainly not."
"There is one thing to be said about that， you see， by taking post-horses-- Monsieur has his passport?"
"Yes."
"Well， by taking post-horses， Monsieur cannot reach Arras before to-morrow. We are on a cross-road. The relays are badly served， the horses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is just beginning; heavy teams are required， and horses are seized upon everywhere， from the post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will have to wait three or four hours at the least at every relay. And， then， they drive at a walk. There are many hills to ascend."
"Come then， I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet. Some one can surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood."
"Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle?"
"That is true; you remind me of that; he will not bear it."
"Then--"
"But I can surely hire a horse in the village?"
"A horse to travel to Arras at one stretch?"
"Yes."
"That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts. You would have to buy it to begin with， because no one knows you. But you will not find one for sale nor to let， for five hundred francs， or for a thousand."
"What am I to do?"
"The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man， and set out on your journey to-morrow."
"To-morrow will be too late."
"The deuce!"
"Is there not a mail-wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass?"
"To-night. Both the posts pass at night; the one going as well as the one coming."
"What! It will take you a day to mend this wheel?"
"A day， and a good long one."
"If you set two men to work?"
"If I set ten men to work."
"What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes?"
"That could be done with the spokes， not with the hub; and the felly is in a bad state， too."
"Is there any one in this village who lets out teams?"
"No."
"Is there another wheelwright?"
The stableman and the wheelwright replied in concert， with a toss of the head.
"No."
He felt an immense joy.
It was evident that Providence was intervening. That it was it who had broken the wheel of the tilbury and who was stopping him on the road. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons; he had just made every possible effort to continue the journey; he had loyally and scrupulously exhausted all means; he had been deterred neither by the season， nor fatigue， nor by the expense; he had nothing with which to reproach himself. If he went no further， that was no fault of his. It did not concern him further. It was no longer his fault. It was not the act of his own conscience， but the act of Providence.
He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent of his lungs for the first time since Javert's visit. It seemed to him that the hand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp for the last twenty hours had just released him.
It seemed to him that God was for him now， and was manifesting Himself.
He said himself that he had done all he could， and that now he had nothing to do but retrace his steps quietly.
If his conversation with the wheelwright had taken place in a chamber of the inn， it would have had no witnesses， no one would have heard him， things would have rested there， and it is probable that we should not have had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about to peruse; but this conversation had taken place in the street. Any colloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are always people who ask nothing better than to become spectators. While he was questioning the wheelwright， some people who were passing back and forth halted around them. After listening for a few minutes， a young lad， to whom no one had paid any heed， detached himself from the group and ran off.
At the moment when the traveller， after the inward deliberation which we have just described， resolved to retrace his steps， this child returned. He was accompanied by an old woman.
"Monsieur，" said the woman， "my boy tells me that you wish to hire a cabriolet."
These simple words uttered by an old woman led by a child made the perspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld the hand which had relaxed its grasp reappear in the darkness behind him， ready to seize him once more.
He answered:--
"Yes， my good woman; I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire."
And he hastened to add:--
"But there is none in the place."
"Certainly there is，" said the old woman.
"Where?" interpolated the wheelwright.
"At my house，" replied the old woman.
He shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again.
The old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring-cart. The wheelwright and the stable-man， in despair at the prospect of the traveller escaping their clutches， interfered.
"It was a frightful old trap; it rests flat on the axle; it is an actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs; the rain came into it; the wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture; it would not go much further than the tilbury; a regular ramshackle old stage-wagon; the gentleman would make a great mistake if he trusted himself to it，" etc.， etc.
All this was true; but this trap， this ramshackle old vehicle， this thing， whatever it was， ran on its two wheels and could go to Arras.
He paid what was asked， left the tilbury with the wheelwright to be repaired， intending to reclaim it on his return， had the white horse put to the cart， climbed into it， and resumed the road which he had been travelling since morning.
At the moment when the cart moved off， he admitted that he had felt， a moment previously， a certain joy in the thought that he should not go whither he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort of wrath， and found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turning back? After all， he was taking this trip of his own free will. No one was forcing him to it.
And assuredly nothing would happen except what he should choose.
As he left Hesdin， he heard a voice shouting to him: "Stop! Stop!" He halted the cart with a vigorous movement which contained a feverish and convulsive element resembling hope.
It was the old woman's little boy.
"Monsieur，" said the latter， "it was I who got the cart for you."
"Well?"
"You have not given me anything."
He who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant and almost odious.
"Ah! it's you， you scamp?" said he; "you shall have nothing."
He whipped up his horse and set off at full speed.
He had lost a great deal of time at Hesdin. He wanted to make it good. The little horse was courageous， and pulled for two; but it was the month of February， there had been rain; the roads were bad. And then， it was no longer the tilbury. The cart was very heavy， and in addition， there were many ascents.
He took nearly four hours to go from Hesdin to Saint-Pol; four hours for five leagues.
At Saint-Pol he had the horse unharnessed at the first inn he came to and led to the stable; as he had promised Scaufflaire， he stood beside the manger while the horse was eating; he thought of sad and confusing things.
The inn-keeper's wife came to the stable.
"Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast?"
"Come， that is true; I even have a good appetite."
He followed the woman， who had a rosy， cheerful face; she led him to the public room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth.
"Make haste!" said he; "I must start again; I am in a hurry."
A big Flemish servant-maid placed his knife and fork in all haste; he looked at the girl with a sensation of comfort.
"That is what ailed me，" he thought; "I had not breakfasted."
His breakfast was served; he seized the bread， took a mouthful， and then slowly replaced it on the table， and did not touch it again.
A carter was eating at another table; he said to this man:--
"Why is their bread so bitter here?"
The carter was a German and did not understand him.
He returned to the stable and remained near the horse.
An hour later he had quitted Saint-Pol and was directing his course towards Tinques， which is only five leagues from Arras.
What did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking? As in the morning， he watched the trees， the thatched roofs， the tilled fields pass by， and the way in which the landscape， broken at every turn of the road， vanished; this is a sort of contemplation which sometimes suffices to the soul， and almost relieves it from thought. What is more melancholy and more profound than to see a thousand objects for the first and the last time? To travel is to be born and to die at every instant; perhaps， in the vaguest region of his mind， be did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human existence: all the things of life are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark and bright intervals are intermingled; after a dazzling moment， an eclipse; we look， we hasten， we stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing; each event is a turn in the road， and， all at once， we are old; we feel a shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door; the gloomy horse of life， which has been drawing us halts， and we see a veiled and unknown person unharnessing amid the shadows.
Twilight was falling when the children who were coming out of school beheld this traveller enter Tinques; it is true that the days were still short; he did not halt at Tinques; as he emerged from the village， a laborer， who was mending the road with stones， raised his head and said to him:--
"That horse is very much fatigued."
The poor beast was， in fact， going at a walk.
"Are you going to Arras?" added the road-mender.
"Yes."
"If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early."
He stopped his horse， and asked the laborer:--
"How far is it from here to Arras?"
"Nearly seven good leagues."
"How is that? the posting guide only says five leagues and a quarter."
"Ah!" returned the road-mender， "so you don't know that the road is under repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour further on; there is no way to proceed further."
"Really?"
"You will take the road on the left， leading to Carency; you will cross the river; when you reach Camblin， you will turn to the right; that is the road to Mont-Saint-Eloy which leads to Arras."
"But it is night， and I shall lose my way."
"You do not belong in these parts?"
"No."
"And， besides， it is all cross-roads; stop! sir，" resumed the road-mender; "shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired; return to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there; you can reach Arras to-morrow."
"I must be there this evening."
"That is different; but go to the inn all the same， and get an extra horse; the stable-boy will guide you through the cross-roads."
He followed the road-mender's advice， retraced his steps， and， half an hour later， he passed the same spot again， but this time at full speed， with a good horse to aid; a stable-boy， who called himself a postilion， was seated on the shaft of the cariole.
Still， he felt that he had lost time.
Night had fully come.
They turned into the cross-road; the way became frightfully bad; the cart lurched from one rut to the other; he said to the postilion:--
"Keep at a trot， and you shall have a double fee."
In one of the jolts， the whiffle-tree broke.
"There's the whiffle-tree broken， sir，" said the postilion; "I don't know how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night; if you wish to return and sleep at Tinques， we could be in Arras early to-morrow morning."
He replied， "Have you a bit of rope and a knife?"
"Yes， sir."
He cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffle-tree of it.
This caused another loss of twenty minutes; but they set out again at a gallop.
The plain was gloomy; low-hanging， black， crisp fogs crept over the hills and wrenched themselves away like smoke: there were whitish gleams in the clouds; a strong breeze which blew in from the sea produced a sound in all quarters of the horizon， as of some one moving furniture; everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror. How many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night!
He was stiff with cold; he had eaten nothing since the night before; he vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain in the neighborhood of D——， eight years previously， and it seemed but yesterday.
The hour struck from a distant tower; he asked the boy:--
"What time is it?"
"Seven o'clock， sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have but three leagues still to go."
At that moment， he for the first time indulged in this reflection， thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner: that all this trouble which he was taking was， perhaps， useless; that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial; that he should， at least， have informed himself of that; that he was foolish to go thus straight ahead without knowing whether he would be of any service or not; then he sketched out some calculations in his mind: that， ordinarily， the sittings of the Court of Assizes began at nine o'clock in the morning; that it could not be a long affair; that the theft of the apples would be very brief; that there would then remain only a question of identity， four or five depositions， and very little for the lawyers to say; that he should arrive after all was over.
The postilion whipped up the horses; they had crossed the river and left Mont-Saint-Eloy behind them.
The night grew more profound.
当时，从阿拉斯到滨海蒙特勒伊的邮政仍使用着帝国时代的那种小箱车。那箱车是种两轮小车，内壁装了橙黄色的革，车身悬在螺旋式的弹簧上，只有两个位子，一个是给邮差坐的，一个是备乘客坐的。车轮上面装有那种妨害人的长毂，使旁的车子和它必须保持一定的距离，今日在德国的道路上还可以看见那种车子。邮件箱是一只长方形的大匣子，装在车子的后部，和车身连成一体。箱子是黑漆的，车身则是黄漆。
那种车子有一种说不出的佝偻丑态，在今日已没有什么东西和它相似的了；我们远远望见那种车子走过，或见它在地平线上沿路匍匐前进，它们正象，我想是，大家称作白蚁的那种有白色细腰、拖着庞大臀部的昆虫。但是它们走得相当快。那种箱车在每天晚上一点，在来自巴黎的邮车到了以后，便从阿拉斯出发，快到早晨五点时，便到了滨海蒙特勒伊。
那天晚上，经爱司丹去滨海蒙特勒伊的箱车，在正进城时，在一条街的转角处，撞上了一辆从对面来的小车，那小车是由一匹白马拉的，里面只有一个围着斗篷的人。小车的车轮受了一下颇猛的撞击，邮差叫那人停下来，但是那驾车的人不听，照旧快步趱赶，继续他的行程。
“这真是个鬼一样性急的人！”那邮差说。
那个匆忙到那种程度的人，便是我们刚才看见在狠命挣扎、确实值得怜悯的那个人。
他去什么地方？他不能说。他为什么匆忙？他不知道。他毫无目的地向前走。什么方向呢？想必是阿拉斯，但是他也许还要到别处去。有时，他觉得他会那样作，他不禁战栗起来。他沉没在那种黑夜里，如同沉没在深渊中一样。有样东西在推他，有样东西在拖他。他心里的事，这时大概没有人能说出来，但将来大家全会了解的。在一生中谁一次也不曾进入那种渺茫的幽窟呢？
况且他完全没有拿定主意，完全没有下定决心，完全没有选定，一点没有准备。他内心的一切活动全不是确定的。他完完全全是起初的那个样子。
他为什么去阿拉斯？
他心里一再重复着他在向斯戈弗莱尔定车子时曾向自己说过的那些话：“不论结果是什么，也绝不妨亲眼去看一下，亲自去判断那些事”；“为谨慎起见，也应当了解一下经过情形”；“没有观察研究，就作不出任何决定”；“离得远了，总不免遇事夸张，一旦看见了商马第这个无赖，自己的良心也许会大大地轻松下来，也就可以让他去代替自己受苦刑”；“沙威当然会在那里，还有那些老苦役犯布莱卫、舍尼杰、戈什巴依，从前虽然认识他，但现在决不会认出他”；“啐！胡想！”“沙威还完全睡在鼓里呢”；“一切猜想和一切怀疑，都集中在商马第身上，并且猜想和怀疑都是最顽固的东西”；“因此绝没有危险”。
那当然还是不幸的时刻，但是他不会受牵累；总之，无论他的命运会怎样险恶，他总还把它捏住在自己的手中；他是他命运的主人。他坚持那种想法。
实际上，说句真话，他更喜欢能不去阿拉斯。
可是他去了。
他一面思前想后，一面鞭马，那马稳步踏实，向前趱进，每小时要走二法里半。
车子越前进，他的心却越后退。
破晓时，他已到了平坦的乡间，滨海蒙特勒伊城已经远远落在他的后面。他望着天边在发白；他望着，却不看见，冬季天明时分的各种寒冷景象，一一在他眼前掠过。早晨和黄昏一样，有它的各种幻影。他并没有看见它们，但是那些树木和山丘的黑影，象穿过他的身体似的，在他不知不觉之中，使他那紧张的心情更增添一种无可言喻的凄凉。
他每经过一所孤零零的有时靠近路旁的房子，便向自己说：“那里肯定还有人睡在床上！”
马蹄、铜铃、车轮，一路上合成了柔和单调的声音。那些东西，在快乐的人听来非常悦耳，但伤心人却感到无限苍凉。
他到爱司丹时天已经大亮了。他在一家客栈门前停下来，让马喘口气，又叫人给他拿来荞麦。
那匹马，斯戈弗莱尔已经说过，是布洛涅种的小马，头部和腹部都太大，颈太短，但是胸部开展，臀部宽阔，腿干而细，脚劲坚实，貌不扬而体格强健；那头出色的牲口，在两个钟头之内，走了五法里，并且臀上没有一滴汗珠。
他没有下车。那送荞麦来喂马的马夫忽然蹲下去，检查那左边的轮子。
“您打算这样走远路吗？”那人说。
他几乎还在萦梦中，回答说：
“怎么呢？”
“您是从远处来的吗？”那小伙计又问。
“离此地五法里。”
“哎呀！”
“您为什么说‘哎呀’？”
那小伙计又弯下腰去，停了一会不响，仔细看那轮子，随后，立起来说道：
“就是因为这轮子刚才走了五法里路，也许没有错，但是现在它决走不了一法里的四分之一了。”
他从车上跳下来。
“您说什么，我的朋友？”
“我说您走了五法里路，而您却没有连人带马滚到大路边上的沟里去，那真是上帝显灵。您自己瞧吧。”
那轮子确实受了重伤。那辆邮政箱车撞断了两根轮辐，并且把那轮毂也撞破了一块，螺旋已经站不稳了。
“我的朋友，”他向那马房伙计说，“这里有车匠吗？”
“当然有的，先生。”
“请您帮我个忙，去找他来。”
“他就在那面，才两步路。喂！布加雅师父！”
车匠布加雅师父正在他门口，他走来检查了那车轮，装出一副丑脸，正象个研究一条断腿的外科医师。
“您能立刻把这轮子修好吗？”
“行，先生。”
“我在什么时候可以再上路呢？”
“明天。”
“明天！”
“这里有足足一整天的活呢。先生有急事吗？”
“非常急。我最晚也非在一个钟头以内上路不可。”
“不可能，先生。”
“您要多少钱，我都照给。”
“不可能。”
“那么，两个钟头以内。”
“今天是不行的了。我必须重新做两根轮辐和一个轮毂。
先生在明天以前是走不成的了。”
“我的事不能等到明天。要是不修那轮子，您另换一个，可以吗？”
“怎么换？”
“您是车匠师父吗？”
“当然，先生。”
“难道您没有一个轮子卖给我吗？我立刻就可以走了。”
“一个备用的轮子吗？”
“是呀。”
“我没有替您这轮车准备好轮子。轮子总是一对对配好的。两个轮子不是偶然碰上就能成双成对的。”
“既是这样，卖一对轮子给我。”
“先生，轮子不是和任何车辆都能配合的。”
“不妨试试。”
“不中用，先生。我只有小牛车轮子出卖，我们这里是个小地方。”
“您有没有一辆坐车租给我呢？”
那位车匠师父一眼就看出他那辆小车是租来的。他耸了耸肩。
“人家把车子租给您，您可真照顾得好！我有也不租给您。”
“那么，卖给我呢？”
“我没有卖。”
“什么！一辆破车也没有吗？您看得出，我不是难说话的。”
“我们是个小地方。在那边车棚里，”那车匠接着说，“我有一辆旧的软兜车，是城里的一位绅士交给我保管的，他要到每个月的三十六号①才用一次。我完全可以把它租给您，那和我有什么相干？但是切不可让那位绅士看见它走过；而且，那是一辆软兜车，非有两匹马不行。”
①等于说“从来不用”。
“我可以用邮局的马。”
“先生去什么地方？”
“去阿拉斯。”
“而且先生今天就要到吗？”
“是呀。”
“用邮局的马？”
“为什么不呢？”
“假使先生在今天夜里的四点钟到，可以不可以呢？”
“决不可以。”
“就是，您知道，有件事要说，用邮局的马的话……先生有护照吗？”
“有。”
“那么，用邮局的马的话，先生也不能在明天以前到达阿拉斯。我们是在一条支路上。换马站的工作做得很坏，马都在田里。犁田的季节已经开始了。大家都需要壮马，邮局和旁的地方都一样在四处找马。先生在每个换马站都至少得等上三四个钟头。并且只能慢慢地走。有许多斜坡要爬。”
“唉，我骑着马去吧。请您把车子解下来。在这地方我总买得到一套鞍子吧。”
“当然买得到。但是这匹马肯受鞍子吗？”
“真的，您提醒了我。这马不肯受鞍子。”
“那么……”
“在这村子里，我总可以找得到一匹出租的马吧。”
“一匹一口气走到阿拉斯的马吗？”
“对了。”
“您非得有一匹在我们这地方找不着的那种马才行。首先，您得买，因为我们不认识您。但是既没有卖的，也没有租的，五百法郎，一千法郎，都不中用。您找不到一匹那样的马。”
“怎么办？”
“最好是这样，老实人说老实话，我来修您的轮子，您等到明天再走。”
“明天太迟了。”
“圣母！”
“此地没有去阿拉斯的邮车吗？它在什么时候走过？”
“今晚。那两辆箱车，一上一下，都走夜路。”
“怎么！您非得有一天工夫才能修好那轮子吗？”
“一天，并且是整整的一天！”
“用两个工人呢？”
“用十个也不成！”
“如果我们用绳子把那两条轮辐绑起来呢？”
“绑轮辐，可以，绑轮毂，不行。并且轮箍也坏了。”
“城里有出租车子的人吗？”
“没有。”
“另外还有车匠吗？”
那马夫和车匠师父同时摇着头答道：
“没有。”
他感到一种极大的快乐。
上天从中布置，那是显然的了。折断车轮，使他中途停顿，那正是天意。他对这初次的昭示，还不折服，他刚才已竭尽全力想找出继续前进的可能性，他已忠诚地、细心地想尽了一切方法，他在时令、劳顿、费用面前都没有退缩，他没有丝毫可谴责自己的地方。假使他不再走远，那已不关他的事。那已不是他的过失，不是他的良心问题，而是天意。
他吐了一口气。自从沙威访问以后，他第一次舒畅地、长长地吐了口气。他仿佛觉得，二十个钟头以来紧握着他心的那只铁手刚才已经松下来了。
他仿佛觉得现在上帝是袒护他的了，并且表明了旨意。
他向自己说他已尽了他的全力，现在只好心安理得地转身回去。
假使他和那车匠的谈话是在客栈中的一间屋子里进行而没有旁人在场，没有旁人听到他们的谈话，事情也许会就此停顿下来，我们将要读到的那些波折也就无从谈起了，但是那次谈话是在街上进行的。街上的交接总免不了要引来一些围着看热闹的观众，随时随地都有那种专门爱看热闹的人。当他在问那车匠时，有些来往过路的人便在他们周围停了下来。其中有个年轻孩子，当时也没人注意他，他听了几分钟以后离开那群人跑了。
这位赶路人在经过了我们刚才所说的那些思想活动以后，正打算原路踅回头，那孩子回来了。还有一个老妇人跟着他。
“先生，”老妇人说，“我的孩子告诉我，说您想租一辆车子。”
出自那孩子带来的老妇人口中的这句简单的话，立刻使他汗流浃背。他仿佛看见那只已经放了他的手又出现在他背后的黑影里，准备再抓住他。
他回答：
“是的，好妈妈，我要找一辆出租的车子。”
他又连忙加上一句：
“不过这地方没有车子。”
“有。”那妇人说。
“哪儿会有？”车匠问。
“在我家里。”老妇人回答。
他吃了一惊。那只讨命的手又抓住他了。
老妇人在一个车棚下确有一辆柳条车。车匠和那客栈里的用人，看见自己的买卖做不成，大不高兴，岔着说些诸如此类的话：
“那是辆吓坏人的破车”，“它是直接安在轴上的”，“那些坐板的确是用些皮带子挂在车子里面的”，“里面漏水”，“轮子都锈了，并且都因潮湿锈坏了”，“它不见得能比这辆小车走得更远”，“一辆真正的破车！”，“这位先生如果去坐那种车子，才上当呢”。
那些话全是事实，但是那辆破车，那辆朽车，那东西，无论如何，总能在它的两只轮子上面滚动，并且能滚到阿拉斯。
他付了她要的租金，把那辆小车留在车匠家里，让他去修，约定回头再来取，把那匹白马套在车上，上了车，又走上他已走了一早晨的那条路。
当那车子开始起动时，他心里承认，刚才他想到他不用再到他要去的那地方，那一刻工夫是多么的轻松愉快。他气愤愤地检查那种愉快心情，觉得有些荒谬。向后退转，为什么要愉快呢？无论如何，他走不走都有自由。谁也没有强迫他。
况且他决不会碰到他不想碰到的事。
他正走出爱司丹，有个人的声音在对他喊叫：“停！停！”他用一种敏捷的动作停了车，在那动作里似乎又有一种急躁紧张、类似希望的意味。
是那老妇人的孩子。
“先生，”他说，“是我替您找来这辆车子的。”
“那又怎么样呢？”
“您什么也还没有给我。”
无处不施舍。并且那样乐于施舍的他，这时却觉得那种奢望是逾分的，并且是丑恶的。
“呀！是吗，小妖怪？”他说，“你什么也得不着！”
他鞭着马，一溜烟走了。
他在爱司丹耽误太久了，他想追上时间。那匹小马很得劲，拉起车来一匹可以当两匹，不过当时正是二月天气，下了雨，路也坏。并且，那已经不是那辆小车，这辆车实在难拉，而且又很重。还得上许多坡。
他几乎费了四个钟头，才从爱司丹走到圣波尔。四个钟头五法里。
进了圣波尔，他在最先见到的客栈里解下了马，叫人把它带到马房。在马吃粮时，他照他答应斯戈弗莱尔的去做，立在槽边。他想到一些伤心而漫无头绪的事。
那客栈的老板娘来到马房里。
“先生不吃午饭吗？”
“哈，真是，”他说，“我很想吃。”
他跟着那个面貌鲜润的快乐妇人走。她把他带进一间矮厅，厅里有些桌子，桌上铺着漆布台巾。
“请快一点，”他又说，“我还要赶路。我有急事。”
一个佛兰德胖侍女连忙摆上餐具。他望着那姑娘，有了点舒畅的感受。
“我原来为这件事不好受，”他想，“我没有吃早饭。”
吃的东西拿来了。他急忙拿起一块面包，咬了一大口，随后又慢慢地把它放在桌子上，不再动它了。
有个车夫在另外一张桌上吃东西。他向那个人说：
“他们这儿的面包为什么会这样苦巴巴的？”
那车夫是个德国人，没有听见。
他又回到马棚里，立在马的旁边。
一个钟头过后，他离开了圣波尔，向丹克进发，丹克离阿拉斯还有五法里。
在那一程路上，他做了些什么呢？想到些什么呢？象早晨一样，他望着树木、房屋的草顶、犁好的田一一在他的眼前显现消逝，每转一个弯，原来的景物忽又渺无踪影。那种欣赏有时是能使心神快慰的，也几乎能使人忘怀一切。生平第一次，也是最后一次，他望着万千景色，再没有什么比这更黯然销魂的了！旅行就是随时生又随时死。也许他正处在他精神上最朦胧的状态中，他在拿那些变幻无常的景致来比拟人生。人生的万事万物都在我们眼前随时消失，黑暗光明，交错相替；光辉灿烂之后，忽又天地晦冥；人们望着，忙着，伸出手抓住那些掠过的东西；每件事都是道路的拐角；倏忽之间，人已衰老。我们蓦然觉得一切都黑了，我们看见一扇幽暗的门，当年供我们驰骋的那匹暗色的生命之马停下来了，我们看见一个面目模糊、素不相识的人在黑暗中卸下了它的辔头。
将近黄昏时，一些放学的孩子望见那位旅人进了丹克。真的，那正是一年中日短夜长的季节。他在丹克没有停留。当他驰出那乡镇，一个在路上铺石子的路工抬起头来说：
“这马真够累了。”
那可怜的牲口确也只能慢慢地走了。
“您去阿拉斯吗？”那个路工又说。
“是的。”
“象您这样子走去，恐怕您不会到得太早吧。”
他勒住马，问那路工：
“从此地到阿拉斯还有多少路？”
“差不多整整还有七法里。”
“哪里的话？邮政手册上只标了五法里又四分之一。”
“呀！”那路工接着说，“您不知道我们正在修路吗？您从此地起走一刻钟，就会看见路断了。没有法子再走过去。”
“真的吗？”
“您可以向左转，走那条到加兰西去的路，过河，等您到了康白朗，再向右转，便是从圣爱洛山到阿拉斯的那条路。”
“可是天快黑了，我会走错路。”
“您不是本地人吗？”
“不是。”
“您又不熟悉，又全是岔路。这样吧，先生，”那路工接着说，“您要我替您出个主意吗？您的马累了，您回到丹克去。那里有家好客栈。在那里过了夜，明天再去阿拉斯。”
“我必须今晚到达阿拉斯。”
“那是另一回事了。那么，您仍到那客栈走一趟，加上一匹边马。马夫还可以引您走小路。”
他接受了那路工的建议，退转回去，半个钟头以后，他再走过那地方，但是加了一匹壮马，快步跑过去了。一个马夫坐在车辕上领路。
可是他觉得时间已给耽误了。
天已经完全黑了。
他们走进岔路。路坏极了。车子从这条辙里落到那条辙里。他向那向导说：
“再照先头那样快步跑，酒资加倍。”
车子落在一个坑里，把车前拴挽带的那条横木震断了。
“先生，”那向导说，“横木断了。我不知怎样套我的马，这条路在晚上太难走了，假使您愿回到丹克去睡，明天清早我们可以到阿拉斯。”
他回答说：
“你有根绳子和一把刀吗？”
“有，先生。”
他砍了一根树枝，做了一根拴挽带的横杆。
那样又耽误了二十分钟，但是他们跑着出发了。
平原是惨暗的。低垂的浓雾，象烟一样在山岗上交绕匍匐。浮云中映出微白的余辉。阵阵的狂风从海上吹来，在地平线上的每个角落发出了一片仿佛有人在拖动家具的声音。凡是隐隐可见的一切都显出恐怖的景象。多少东西在那夜气的广被中惴惴战栗！
他受到了寒气的侵袭。从昨夜起，他还一直没有吃东西。他隐约回忆起从前在迪涅城外旷野上夜行的情景。那已是八年前的事了，想来却好象是在昨天。
他听到远处的钟声，问那年轻人说：
“什么时候了？”
“七点了，先生。八点钟我们可以到达阿拉斯。我们只有三法里了。”
这时，他才第一次这样想，他觉得很奇怪，为什么他以前不曾这样想：他费了这么大的劲，也许只是徒劳往返，他连开庭的时间也还不知道；至少他应当先打听一下，只这样往前走而不知道究竟有无好处，确实有些孟浪。随后他心里又这样计算：平时法庭开审，常在早晨九点；这件案子不会需要多长时间的；偷苹果的事，很快就可以结束的；余下的只是怎样证明他是谁的问题了；陈述过四五件证据后律师们也就没有多少话可说；等到他到场，已经全部结案了。
那向导鞭着马。他们过了河，圣爱洛山落在他们后面了。
