In the cemetery of Pere-Lachaise, in the vicinity of the common grave, far from the elegant quarter of that city of sepulchres, far from all the tombs of fancy which display in the presence of eternity all the hideous fashions of death, in a deserted corner, beside an old wall, beneath a great yew tree over which climbs the wild convolvulus, amid dandelions and mosses, there lies a stone. That stone is no more exempt than others from the leprosy of time, of dampness, of the lichens and from the defilement of the birds. The water turns it green, the air blackens it. It is not near any path, and people are not fond of walking in that direction, because the grass is high and their feet are immediately wet. When there is a little sunshine, the lizards come thither. All around there is a quivering of weeds. In the spring, linnets warble in the trees.
This stone is perfectly plain. In cutting it the only thought was the requirements of the tomb, and no other care was taken than to make the stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man.
No name is to be read there.
Only, many years ago, a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines, which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust, and which are, to-day, probably effaced:
Il dort. Quoique le sort fut pour lui bien etrange, Il vivait. Il mourut quand il n'eut plus son ange. La chose simplement d'elle-meme arriva, Comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s'en va.[70]
[70] He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived. He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply, of itself, as the night comes when day is gone.
在拉雪兹神甫公墓里，靠近普通墓穴的旁边，远离这墓园中幽雅的地区，远离那些希奇古怪的在永恒面前还要展示死后时兴式样的丑墓，就在一个荒僻的角落里，靠着一堵旧墙，在一棵爬着牵牛花的大水杉下面，在茅草和青苔之中，有一块石板，这块石板和别的石板一样，日子一久也剥落得斑斑点点，发了霉，长着苔藓，堆着鸟粪。雨水使它发绿，空气使它变黑。它不在任何路旁，人们不爱到这边来，因为野草太高，使脚立刻浸湿。当少许太阳露面时，壁虎会出现，四周还有野燕麦围着沙沙作响，春天红雀在树上欢唱。
这块石板是光秃秃的，凿石的人只想到这是筑墓石所需，除了使它够长够宽能盖住一个人之外，就没有考虑过其他方面。
上面没有名字。
但是多年前，有只手用铅笔在上面写了四句诗，在雨露和尘土的洗刷下已慢慢地看不清楚了，而今天大概已经消失了：
他安息了。尽管命运多舛，
他仍偷生。失去了他的天使他就丧生；
事情是自然而然地发生，