Sign In Skip to main content See other formats Full text of "Les misérables" This is a digital copy of a book that was preserved for generations on library shelves before it was carefully scanned by Google as part of a project to make the world's books discoverable online. It has survived long enough for the copyright to expire and the book to enter the public domain. A public domain book is one that was never subject to copyright or whose legal copyright term has expired. Whether a book is in the public domain may vary country to country. Public domain books are our gateways to the past, representing a wealth of history, culture and knowledge that's often difficult to discover. Marks, notations and other marginalia present in the original volume will appear in this file - a reminder of this book's long journey from the publisher to a library and finally to you. 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About Google Book Search Google's mission is to organize the world's information and to make it universally accessible and useful. Google Book Search helps readers discover the world's books while helping authors and publishers reach new audiences. You can search through the full text of this book on the web at |http : //books . google . com/ 3 Digitized by VjOOQ IC /;»^-\ Digitized by VjOOQ IC Digitized by VjOOQ IC Digitized by VjOOQ IC HE FIXED HIS TRANQUIL EYE ON JAVERT, WHO WAS STILL STARING AT HIM. Digitized by VjOOQ IC ISÉEABLÈS BY VICTOR HUGO TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME NEW YORK THOMAS Y. OROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS Digitized by VjOOQ IC Kl. ! LIB RARY OOFYRIOHT, 1887, Bt Thomas Y. Obowuj;. & Oo. Digitized by VjOOQ IC PREFACE. So long as there shall exist, by virtue of law and custom, decrees of damnation pronounced by society, artificially creat- ing hells amid the civilization of earth, and adding the element of human fate to divine destiny ; so long as the three great problems of the century — the degradation of man through pauperism,the corruption of woman through hunger, the crippling of children through lack of light — are unsolved; so long as social asphyxia is possible in any part of the world; — in other words, and with a still wider significance, so long as ignorance and poverty exist on eai*th, books of the nature of Le» Misérables cannot fail to be of use. HAUTBVILLB HOUSE, 1862. Digitized by Google Digitized by Google CONTENTS. Book Paob I. A Just Man 1 II. The Fall 55 III. In the Yeae 1817 110 IV. To Confide is Sometimes to Deliver into a Person's Power . . 138 V. The Descent 151 VI. Javert 190 VIL The Champmathieu Affair 201 VIII. A Counter-Blow 268 1. Waterloo 1 II. The Ship Orion 63 III. Accomplishment of the Promise Made to THE Dead Woman 67 IV. The Gorbeau Hovel 119 V. For a Black Hunt, a Mute Pack .... 134 Vli Le Petit-Picpus 164 VIL Parenthesis 193 VIII. Cemeteries Take That Which is Committed Them 205 partus. I. Paris Studied in its Atom 1 IL The Great Bourgeois 20 III. The Grandfather and the Grandson ... 29 IV. The Friends of the ABC (^C) V. The Excellence of Misfortune 95 VL The Conjunction of Two Stars 115 VIL Patron Minette 132 VIII. The Wicked Poor Man 141 lii Digitized by Google CONTENTS. Jit Sctiîs* I. A Few Pages of History 1 II. Efonine 36 111. The House in the Rue Plumet 53 IV. Succor from Pelow may Turn Out to be Succor from on High 87 V. The End of Which Dors Not Kesemble the Beginning 97 VI. Little Gavroche 113 VII. Slang 149 VIII. Enchantments and Desolations 171 IX. Whither Are They Going ? 205 X. The 5th of June, 1832 212 XI. The Atom Fraternizes with the Hurricane, 233 XII. Corinthe 245 XIII. Marius Enters the Shadow 277 XIV. The Grandeurs of Despair 287 XV. The Rue de l'Homme Arme 305 gcati lEïalJcatt» T. The War Between Four Walls 1 II. The Intestine of the Leviathan .... 83 III. Mud but the Soul 102 IV. JAVERT Derailed 143 V. Grandson and Grandfather 154 VI. The Sleepless Night 185 VII. The Last Draught from the Cup .... 209 VIII. Fading Away of the Twilight 2.'13 IX. Supreme Shadow, Supreme Dawn .... 24(> Digitized by Google LES MISÉRABLES. iTantine- BOOK FIRST. — A JUST MAN. I. — M. Mtbiel. In 1815, M. Charles-François-Bienvenu Myriel was Bishop of D. He was an old man of about seventy-five years of age ; he had occupied the see of D. since 1806. Although this detail has no connection whatever with the real substance of what we are about to relate, it will not be superfluous, if merely for the sake of exactness in all points, to mention here the various rumors and remarks which had been in circulation about him from the very moment when he arrived in the diocese. True or false, that which is said of men often occupies as important a place in their lives, and above all, in their destinies, as that which they do. M. Myriel was the son of a councillor of the Parliament of Aix ; hence he belonged to the nobility of the bar. It was said that his father, destining him to be the heir of his own post, had married him at a very early age, eighteen or twenty, in accordance with a custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary families. In spite of this mar- riage, however, it was said that Charles Myriel created a great deal of talk. He was well formed, though rather short in stature, elegant^ graceful, intelligent ; the whole of tlie first portion of his life had been devoted to the world and to gallantry. The Revolution came ; events succeeded each otlier with pre- cipitation; the parliamentary families, decimated, pursued, hunted down, were dispersed. M. Charles Myriel emigrated to Italy at the very beginning of the Revolution. There his wife died of a malady of the chest, from which she had long suffered. He had no children. What took place next in the fate of M. Myriel? The ruin of the French society of the olden days, the fall of his own family, the tragic spectacles of '93, which were, perhaps, even more alarming to the emigrants ioogle 2 Lies MISÉRABLES. who viewed them from a distance, with the magnifying powen of tenor, — did these cause the ideas of renunciation and soli- tude to germinate in him? Was he, in the midst of these dis- tractions, these affections which absorbed his life, suddenly smitten with one of those mysterious ftiid terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm, by striking to his heart, a man whoa public catastrophes would not shake, by striking at his exist ence and his fortune ? No one could have told : all that was known was, that when he returned from Italy he was a priest. In 1804, M. Myriel was the Curé of B. [Brignolles]. He was already advanced in years, and lived in a very retired manner. About the epoch of the coronation, some petty affair con- nected with his curacy — just what, is not precisely known — took him to Paris. Among other powerful persons to whom he went to solicit aid for liis parishioners was M. le Cardinal Fesch. One day, when tlie Pimperor had come to visit his uncle, the worthy Curé, who was waiting in the anteroom, found himself present when His Majesty passed. Napoleou, on finding him- self observed with a certain curiosity by this old man, turned round and said abruptly : — " Who is this good man who is staring at me?" ** Sire," said M. Myriel, " you are looking at a good man, and I at a great man. Each of us can profit by it." That very evening, the P2mpcror asked the Cardinal the name of the Curé, and some time afterwards M, Myriel was utterly astonished to learn that he had been appointed Bishop of D. What truth was there, after all, in the stories which were Invented as to the early portion of M. Myriel's life? No one knew. Very few families had been acquainted with the Myriel family before the Revolution. M. Myriel had to undergo the fate of every newcomer in a little town, where there are many mouths which talk, and very few heads which think. He was obliged to undergo it although he was a bishop, and because he was a bishop. But after all, the rumors with which his name was connected were nimors only, — noise, sayings, words; loss than words — palabres^ as the energetic language of the Soutli expresses it. However that may be, after nine years of episcopal power and of residence in D., all the stories and subjects of con- versation which engross petty towns and petty people at the outset had fallen into profound oblivion. No one would have dared to mention them; no one would have dared to recaP them. Digitized by Google F4NTINE. 3 M. Myriel bad anrired at D. accompanied by an elderly spin • »ter, Mademoiselle Baptistine, who was his sister, and ten years his junior. Their only domestic waâ a female servant of the same age as Mademoiselle Bap tis tine, and named Madame Magloire, who, after having been the servant of M. le Curé, now assumed the double title of maid to Mademoiselle and housekeeper to Blonseignenr. Mademoiselle Baptistine was a long, pale, thin, gentle creature ; Bhe realized the ideal expressed by the word ^' respectable" ; for it seems that a woman must needs be a mother in order to be venerable. She had never been pretty ; lier whole life, wiiirh had been nothing but a succession of holy deeds, had finally conferred upon her a sort of pallor and transparency ; and as she advanced in years she had acquired what may be called the t>eauty of goodness. What had been leanness in her youth had become transparency in her maturity ; and this diaphaneity allowed the angel to be seen. She was a soul rather than a virgin. Her person seemed made of a shadow ; there was hardl}' sufficient body to provide for sex ; a little matter enclosing a light ; large eyes forcver drooping ; — a mere pretext for a soul's remaining on the earth. Madame Magloire was a little, fat, white old woman, corpu- lent and bustling ; always out of breath, — in the first place, because of her activity, and in the next, because of her asthma. On his arrival, M. Myriel was installed in the episcopal palace with the honors required by the Imperial decrees, which class a bishop immediately after a major-general. The mayor and the president paid the first call on him, and he, in turn, paid the first call on the general and the prefect. The installation over, the town waited to see its bishop at work. !!• — M. Mtkiel becomes M. Welcome. The episcopal palace of D. adjoins the hospital. The episcopal palace was a huge and beautiful house, built of stone at the beginning of the last century by M. Henri Paget, Doctor of Theology of the Faculty of Paris, Abbé of Simore, who had been Bishop of D. in 1712. This palace was a genuine seignorial residence. EveiTthing about it had a grand air, — the apartments of the Bishop, the drawing-rooms, the chambers, the principal courtyard, which was very large, with walks encircling it under arcades it the old Florentine fashion, Digitized by Google 4 LES MISERABLES. • aad gardens planted with magnificent trees. In the dining ioom, a long and superb gallery which was situated on th^ ground-floor and opened on the gardens, M. Henri Puget had entertained in state, on July 29, 1714, My Lords Charles Brû^ lart de Genlis, archbishop ; Prince d'Embrun ; Antoine de Mesgriguy, the capuchin, Bishop of Grasse ; Philippe de Ven- dôme, Grand Prior of France, Abbé of Saint Honoré de Lérins ; François de Berton de Grillon, bishop, Baron de Vence ; César de Sabrau de Forcalquier, bishop, Seignor of Glandève; and Jean Soanen, Priest of the Oratory, preacher in ordinary to the king, bishop, Seignor of Scnez. The portraits of these seyev reverend personages decorated this apartment ; and this memo- rable date, the 29th of July, 1714, was there engraved in letterf of gold on a table of white marble. The hospital was a low and narrow building of a single storyt with a small garden. Three days after his arrival, the Bishop visited the hospital* The visit ended, he had the director requested to be so good a# to come to his house. ^^ Monsieur the director of the hospital," said he to him^ *' how many sick people have you at the present moment?" " Twenty-six, Monseigneur." '' That was the number which I counted,'' said the Bishop. " The beds," pursued the director, " are very much crowded against each other." '' That is what I observed/* ^^ The halls are nothing but rooms, and it is with difficulty that the air can be changed in them." " So it seems to me." " And then, when there is a ray of sun, the garden is verj small for the convalescents." " That was what I said to myself." '* In case of epidemics, — we have had the typhus fever this year ; we had the sweating sickness two years ago, and a hun- dred patients at times, — we know not what to do." *' That is the thought which occurred to me." ** What would you have. Monseigneur?" said the director. *' One must resign one's self." This conversation took place in the gallery dining-room on the ground-floor. The Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he turned abruptly to the director of the hospital. "Monsieur," said he, "how man}' beds do you think this ball alone would hold ? " Digitized by Google FANTINE. 5 *' Monseignecir's dining-room?" exclaimed the stapefied d>- ?ector. The Bishop cast a glance round the apartment, and seemed to be taking measures and calculations with his eyes. ^^ It would hold full twenty beds/' said he, as though speak- ing to himself. Then, raising his voice : — ^^ Hold, Monsieur the director of the hospital, I will tell you something. There is evidently a mistake here. There are thirty-six of you, in five or six small rooms. There are three of us here, and we have room for sixty. There is some mis- take, I tell you ; you have my house, and I have yours. Give me back my house ; you are at home here." On the following day the thirty-six patients were installed in the Bishop's palace, and the Bishop was settled in the hospital. M. Myriel had no property, his family having been ruined by the Revolution. His sister was in receipt of a yearly income of five hundred francs, which sufficed for her personal wants at the vicarage. M. Myriel received from the State, in his quality of bishop, a salary of fifteen thousand francs. On the very day when he took up his abode in the hospital, M. Myriel settled on the disposition of this sum once for all, in the following man- ner. We transcribe here a note made by his^own hand : — MOTE ON THE REGULATION OF MT HOUSEHOLD EXPENSES. For the âttle seminary 1,500 livret Society of the mission 100 " For the Lazarists of Montdidier 100 '« Seminary for foreign missions in Paris 200 " Congregation of the Holy Spirit 160 *' Religious establishments of the Holy Land 100 ** Charitable maternity societies 300 *' Extra, for that of Aries 60 " Work for the amelioration of prisons 400 ** Work for the relief and delivery of prisoners 500 ** To liberate fathers of families incarcerated for debt . . . 1,000 " Addition to the salary of the poor teachers of the diocese . 2,000 *' Public granary of the Hautes- Alpes 100 ** Congregation of the ladies of D., of Manosque, and of Sisteron, for the gratuitous instruction of poor girls . . 1,500 " For the poor 6,000 '* My personal expenses 1,000 -' Total 15,000 « M. Myriel made no change in this arrangement during the entire period that he occupied the see of D. As has been seen, Be called it regukUing his household expenses. Digitized by Google LES MISERABLES. This arrangement was accepted with absolute submission b} Mademoiselle Baptistine. This holy woman regarded Mon- seigneur of D. as at one and the same time her brother and her bishop, her friend according to the flesh and her superior according to the Church. She simply loved and venerated him. When he spoke, she bowed; when he acted, she yielded het adherence. Their only servant, Madame Magloire, grumbled a little. It wili be observed that Monsieur the Bishop had re- served for himself only one thousand livres, which, added to the pension of Mademoiselle Baptistine, made fifteen hundred francs a year. On these fifteen hundred francs these two old women and the old man subsisted. And when a village curate came to D., the Bishop still found means to entertain him, thanks to the severe economy of Madame Magloire, and to the intelligent administration of Mademoiselle Baptistine. One day, after he had been in D. about three months, ttie Bishop said : — ^^ And still I am quite cramped with it all I " '' I should think so ! " exclaimed Madame Magloire. " Mon- seigneur has not even claimed the allowance which the depart- ment owes him for the expense of his carriage in town, and for his journeys about the diocese. It was customary for bishops in former da3*s.'* "Hold!" cried the Bishop^ "you are quite right, Madame Magloire." And he made his demand. Some time afterwards the General Council took this demand under consideration, and voted him an annual sum of three thousand francs, under this heading: Allowance to M. the Bishop for expenses of carriage^ ea^yenses of 2^osting^ and eos- penses of pastoral visits. This provoked a great outcry among the local burgesses ; and a senator of the .Empire, a former member of the Council of the Five Hundred which favored the 18 Brumaire, and who was provided with a magnificent senatorial office in the vicinity of the town of D., wrote to M. Bigot de Préameneu, the minister of public worship, a very angry and confidential note on the sub- ject, from which we extract these authentic lines : — "Expenses of carriage? What can be done with it in a town of less than four thousand inhabitants? Expenses of journeys? What is the use of these trips, m the first place? Next, how can the posting be accomplished in these mountain- ous parts ? There are no roads. No one travels otherwise than Digitized by Google FANTINS. T on horseback. Even the bridge between Durance and Chàtean* Amoux can barely support ox-teams. These priests are all thus, greedy and avaricious. This man played the good priest when he. first came. Now he does like the rest; he must have a carriage and a posting-chaise, he must have luxuries, like the bishops of the olden days. Oh, all this priesthood I Things will not go well, M. le Comte, until the £inperor has freed us from tiiese black-capped rascals. Down with the Pope I [Mat- ters were getting embroiled with Rome.] For my part, I am for Caesar alone." Etc., etc. On the other hand, this affair afforded great delight to Madame Magloire. ^^ Good," said she to Mademoiselle Baptistlne ; '^ Monseigneur began with other people, but he has had to wind up with himself, after all. He has regulated all his charities. Now here are three thousand francs for us ! At last ! " That same evening the Bishop wrote out and handed to his sister a memorandum conceived in the following terms : — EXPENSES OF CARRIAGE AND CIRCUIT. For fomishiDg meat Boup to the patients in the hospital . « 1,600 livres» For the maternity charitable society of Aix 260 " For the maternity charitable society of Draguig^an . . . 250 ** For foundlings 600 •« For orphans 600 « Total 3,000 « Such was M. MyrieFs budget. As for the chance episcopal perquisites, the fees for mairiage bans, dispensations, private baptisms, sermons, benedictions, of churches or chapels, marriages, etc., the Bishop levied tliem on the wealthy with all the more asperity, since he bestowed them on the needy. After a time, oflfering» of money flowed in. Those who had an' I those who lacked knocked at M. Myriel's door, — the latter in search of the alms which the former came to deposit. In less than a year the Bishop had become the treasurer of all benevolence and the cashier of all those in distress. Consid- erable sums of money passed through his hands ; but nothing could induce him to make any change whatever in his mode of life, or add anything superfluous to his bare necessities. Far from it. As there is always more wretchedness below than there is brotherhood above, all was given away, so to speak, before it was received. It was like water on dry soil ; oo matter how much money he received, he never had any* Then be stripped himself. Digitized by Google 8 LES MISERABLES. The usage being that bishops shall announce their baptismal names at the head of their charges and their pastoral letters, the poor people of the country-side liad selected, with a sort of affectionate instinct, among the names and prenomens . of their bishop, that which had a meaning for them ; and they never called him anything except Monseigneur Bienvenu [Welcome]. We will follow their example, and will also call him tluis when we have occasion to name him. Moreover, this appellation pleased him. *' I. like that name," said he. " Bienvenu makes up for the Monseigneur." We do not claim that the portrait herewith presented is prob- able ; we confine ourselves to statmg that it resembles the original. III. — A Hard Bishopric for a Good Bishop. The Bishop did not omit his pastoral visits because he had converted his carriage into alms. The diocese of D. is a fatiguing one. There are very few plains and a great man^ mountains ; hardly any roads, as we have just seen ; thirty-two curacies, forty-one vicarships, and two hundred and eighty-live auxiliary chapels. To visit all these is quite a task. The Bishop managed to do it. He went on foot when it waA in tlie neighborhood, in a tilted spring-cart when it was on the plain, and on a donkey in the mountains. The two old women accom- panied him. When the trip was too hard for them, he went alone. One day he arrived at Senez, which is an ancient episcopal city. He was mounted on an ass. His purse, which was very dry at that moment, did not permit him any other equipage. The mayor of the town came to receive him at the gate of the town, and watched him dismount from his ass, with scandalized eyes. Some of the citizens were laughing around him. *> Mon- sieur the Mayor," said the Bishop, "and Messieurs Citizens, I perceive that I shock you. You think it very arrogant in a poor priest to ride an animal which was used by Jesus Christ. I have done so from necessity, I assure you, and not from vanity." In the course of these trips he was kind and indulgent, and talked rather than preached. He never went far in search of his arguments and his examples. He quoted to the inhabitants ' of one district the example of a neighboring district. In the cantons where they were harsh to the poor, lie said : *' Look at the people of Briançon ! They have conferred on the poor, oi Digitized by Google FANTINE. 9 ifîdows and orphans, the right to have their meadows mown three days in advance of every one else. They rebuild tlieir houses for them gratuitously when they are ruined. Therefore it Î8 a country which is blessed by God. For a whole century, there has not been a single murderer among them." In villages which were greedj' for profit and harvest, he said t " Look at the people of Embrun ! If, at the harvest season, the father of a family has his son away on service in the army, and his daughters at service in the town, and if he is ill and incapacitated, the curé recommends him to the prayers of the congregation ; and on Sunday, after the mass, all the inhabi- tants of the village — men, women, and children — go to tlie poor man's field and do his harvesting for him, and carry his straw and his grain to his granary." To families divided by questions of money and inheritance he said : " Look at the mountaineers of Devolny, a country so wild that the nightingale is not heard there once in fifty years. Well, when the father of a family dies, the boys go off to seek their fortunes, leaving the property to the girls, so that they may find husbands." To the cantons which had a taste for lawsuits, and where the farmers ruined themselves in stamped paper, he said : " Look at those jood peasants in the valley of Queyras ! There are three thou- sand souls of them. Mon Dieu ! it is like a little republic, z^either judge nor bailiff is known there. The mayor does every- thing. He allots the imposts, taxes each person conscientiously, judges quarrels for nothing, divides inheritances without cliarj^e, pronounces sentences gratuitously ; and he is obeyed, because he is a just man among simple men." To villages where he found no schoolmaster, he quoted once more the people of Queyras : "Do you know how they manage?" he said. " Since a little country of a dozen or fifteen hearths cannot always support a teacher, they have schoolraastei's who are paid by the whole valley, who make the round of the villages, spending a week in this one, ten da3'8 in that, and instruct them. These teachers go to the fairs. I have seen them there. They are to be recog- nized by the quill pens which they wear in the cord of their hat. Those who teach reading only have one pen ; those who teach reading and reckoning have two pens ; those who teach reading, reckoning, and Latin have three pens. But what a disgrace to be ignorant ! Do like the people of Queyras ! " Thus he discoursed gravely and paternally ; in default of examples, he invented parables, going directly to the point, with few phrases and many images, which characteristic formed the real eloquence of Jesus Christ. And being convinced him««'f, lie was Dersnasive. Digitized by CjOOQ IC 10 LES MISÉRABLES. IV. — Works corresponding to Words. His ccKversation was gay and affable. lie put himself OQ i level with the two old women who had passed their lives beside him. When he laughed, it was the laugh of a schoolboy. Madame Magloire liked to call him Your Grace [ Votre Gh-an- deur']. One day he rose from his arm-chair, and went to his library in search of a book. This book was on one of the upper shelves. As the bishop was rather short of stature, he could not reach it. ^^ Madame Magloire," said he, ^^ fetch me a chair. My greatness [^grandeur^ does not reach as far as that shell " One of his distant relatives, Madame la Comtesse de Lô, rarely allowed an opportunity to escape of enumerating, in his pres- ence, what she designated as '* the expectations" of her three sons. She had numerous relatives, who were very old and near to death, and of whom her sons were the natural heirs. The youngest of the three was to receive from a grand-aunt a good hundred thousand livres of income ; the second was the heir by entail to the title of the Duke, his uncle ; tlie eldest was to succeed to the peerage of his grandfather. The Bishop was accustomed to listen in silence to tl)ese innocent and pardonable maternal boasts. On one occasion, however, he appeared to be more thoughtful than usual, while Madame de Lô was ré\&% ing once again the details of all these inheritances and all these " expectations.*' She interrupted lierself impatioptly : " Mon Dieu, cousin I What are you thinking about?" '' I am think- ing," replied the Bishop, ** of a singular remark, which is to be found, I believe, in St. Augustine, — ' Place your hopes in the man from whom 3'ou do not inherit.' " At another time, on receiving a notification of the decease of a gentleman of the country-side, wherein not only the dignities of the dead man, but also the feudal and noble qualifications of all his relatives, spread over an entire page: "What a stout back Death has ! " he exclaimed. " What a strange burden of titles is cheerfully imposed on him, and how much wit must men have, in order thus to press the tomb into the service of vanity ! " He was gifted, on occasion, with a gentle raillerj', which almost always concealed a serious meaning. In the course of one Lent, a youthful vicar came to D., and preached in the cathedral. He was tolerably eloquent. The subject of his ser- mon was charity. He urged the rich to give to the poor, in order to avoid hell, which he depicted in the most frightful manner of which he was capable, and to win paradise, which he Digitized by Google cepresented as charming and desirable. Among the audienoe there was a wealthy retired merchant, who was somewhat of a osurer, named M. Géborand, who had amassed two millions in the manufacUure of coarse cloth, seizes, and woollen galloons. Never in his whole life had M. Géborand bestowed alms on any poor wretch. After the delivery of that sermon, it was observeci that he gave a sou every Sunday to the poor old beggar-women at the door of the cathedral. There were six of them to shaic 't. One day the Bishop caught sight of him in the act of be* dtowing this chanty, and said to his sister, with a smile, ** There is M. Géborand purchasing paradise for a sou.*' When it was a question of charity, he was not to be rebuffed even by a refusal, and on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks which induced reflection. Once he was begging for itie poor in a drawing-room of the town ; there was present the llarquis de Champtercier, a wealthy and avaricious old man, nrho contrived to be, at one and the same time, an ultra-royal- bit and an ultra-Voltairian. This variety of man has actu- ally existed. When the Bishop came to him, he touched his «rm, " You must give me something^ M. le Marquis." The llarqois turned round and answered dryly, ''^ I have poor people if my oumy Monseigneur^" " Oive them to me" replied the Bishop. One day he preached the following sermon in the cathedral :— '* My very dear brethren, my good friends, there are thirteen hnndred and twenty thousand peasants' dwellings in France which have but tlnree openings ; eighteen hundred and seven- teen thousand hovels which have but two openings, the door and one window; and three hundred and forty-six thousand cabins besides which have but one opening, the door. And this arises from a thing which is called the tax on doors and windows. Just put poor families, old women and little chil- dren, in those buildings, and behold the fevers and maladies which result! Alas! God gives air to men; the law sells it to them. I do not blame the law, but I bless God. In the department of the Isère, in the Yar, in the two departments of the Alpes, the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even wheelbarrows; they transport their manure on the iiacks of men ; they have no candles, and they burn resinous ■ticks, and bits of lope dipped in pitch. That is the state of affairs throughout the whole of the hilly country of Dauphiné. Fhey make bread for six months at one time ; tliey bake it with Jriod cow-dung. In the winter they break this bread up with in «xd and they soak, it for twenty-four hours, in cider to Digitized by Google 12 LES MISÉRABLES. render it eatable. Mj brethren, have pitj 1 behold the saffer iug on all sides of you I *' Born a Froveuçai, he easily familiarized himself with the dia lect of the south. He said, *'J&w bé! moussu^ ses sage?" as îq lower Languedoc; ^^ Onté ayiaras passa?'* as in the Basses- Alp<« ; ** Puerte un bouen moutu embe vn botœn fromage grcLse,'* as in upper Dauphiné. This pleased the people extremely, and contributed not a little to win him access to all spirits. He wae perfectly at home in the thatched cottage and in tlie mountains, fie understood how to say the grandest things in the most vul- gar of idioms. As he Bix>ke all tongues, he entered into all hearts. Moreover, be was the same towards people of the world and towards the lower classes. He condemned nothing in haste and without taking circumstances into account. He said, " Kxamine the road over which the fault has passed.*' Being, as he described himself with a smile, an ex-sinner^ he had none of the asperities of austerity, and he professed, with a good deal of distinctness, and without the frown of the fei-o- piously virtuous, a doctrine which may be summed up as fol- lows : — '* Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden ind his temptation. He drags it with him and yields to it. He must watch it, check it, repress it, and obey it only at the last extremity. There may be some faiilt even in this obedi- ence ; but the fault thus committed is venial ; it is a fall, but % fall on the knees which may U'rminate in i)rayer. *' To be a saint is the exception ; to be an upright man is the rule. Err, fall, sin if you will, but be upright. " The least possible sin is the law of man. No sin at all is the dream of the angel. All which is terrestrial is subject to sin. Sin is a gravitation." When he saw every one exclaiming very loudly, and growing angry very quickly, *' Oh ! oh ! " he said, with a smile ; " to all ai)pearancc, this is a great crime which all the world commits These are hypocrisies which have taken fright, and are in haste to make protest and to put themselves under shelter." He was indulgent towards women and poor people, on whom Che burden of human society rest. He said, *'The faults of women, of children, of the feeble, the indigent, and che igno- rant, are the fault of the husbands, the fathers, the masters, (he strong, the rich, and the wise." He said, moreover, *' Teach those who are ignorant as many things as possible ; society is culpable, in that it does not afford Digitized by Google FANTINE 13 iftstroction gratis ; it is responsible for the night which it pro daces. This soul is full of shadow ; sin is therein committed. The guilty-one is not the person who has committed the sin, bat the person who has created the shadow." It will be perceived that he had a peculiar manner of his own of judging things : I suspect that he obtained it from the Gospel. One day he heard a criminal case, which was in preparation and on the point of trial, discussed in a drawing-room. A mretched man, being at the end of his resources, had coined counterfeit money, out of love for a woman, and for the child which he had had by her. Counterfeiting was still punishable with death at that epoch. The woman had been arrested in the act of passing the first false piece made by the man. She wafe held, but there were no proofs except against her. She alone could accuse her lover, and destroy him by her confession. She denied ; they insisted. She persisted in her denial. Thereupon an idea occurred to the attorney for the crown. He invented an infidelity on the part of the lover, and succeeded, by means of fragments of letters cunningly presented, in persuading the unfortunate woman that she had a rival, and that the man was deceiving her. Thereupon, exasperated by jealousy, she de- nounced her lover, confessed all, proved all. The man was ruined. He was shortly to be tried at Aix with his accomplice. They were relating the matter, and each one was expressing enthusiasm over the cleverness of the magis- trate. By bringing jealousy into play, he had caused the truth to burst forth in wrath, he had educed the justice of revenge. The Bishop listened to all this in silence. When they had finished, he inquired, — *' Where are this man and woman to be tried?'* ** At the Court of Assizes." He went on, '* And where will the advocate of the crown be tried?" A tragic event occurred at D. A man was condemned to leath for murder. He was a wretched fellow, not exactly edu- cated, not exactly ignorant, who had been a mountebank at fairs, and a writer for the public. The town took a great interest in the trial. On the eve of the day fixed for the execution of the condemned man, the chaplain of the prison fell ill. A priest was needed to attend the criminal in his last moments. The}' sent for the curé. It seems that he refused to come, saymg, *'That is no aflTair of mine. I have nothing to do with that un- pleasant task, and with that mountebank : T, too, am ill ; and besides, it is not my olace." Thifl reply was reported to the Digitized by Google 14 LES MISÉRABLES. Bishop, who said, ^^ Monsieur le Curé is right: it is not kia place; it is mine." He went instiintly to the prisoa, descended to the cell of the ^^ mountebank," called him by name, took him by the hand, and spoke to him. He passed the entire day with him, forget- ful of food and sleep, praying to God for the soul of the con- demned man, and praying the condemned man for his own. He told him the best truths, which are also the most simple* He was father, brother, friend ; he was bishop only to bless. He taught him every tiling, encouraged and consoled him. The man was on the point of dying in despair. Death was an abyss to him. As he stood trembling on its mournful brink, he recoiled with horror. He was not sufficiently ignorant to be absolu ti'ly indifferent. His condemnation, which had been a profound shock, had, in a manner, broken tlirough, here and there, that wall which separates us from the mystery of things^ and which we call life. He gazed incessantly beyond this world through these fatal breaches, and beheld only darkness. The Bisbop made him see light. On the following day, when thej' came to fetch the unhappy wretch, the Bishop was still there. He followed him, and exhibited himself to the eyes of the crowd in his purple camail and with his episcopal cross u|X)n his neck, side by side with the criminal bound with cords. He mounted the tumbril with him, he mounted the scaffolcj with him. The sufferer, who had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day, was radiant. He felt that his soul was reconciled, and he hoped in God. The Bishop embraced him, and at the moment when the knife was about to fall, he said to him : ** God raises from the dead him whom man slays ; he whom his brothers have rejected finds his Father once more. Pray, believe, enter into life : the Father is there." When he descended from the scaffold, there was something in his look, which made the people draw aside to let liim pass. They did not know which was most wortliy of admiration, his pallor or his serenity. On his return to the humble dwelling, which he designated, with a smile, as his palace^ he said to his sister, *' I have just officiated pontifically " Since the most sublime things are often those which are the least understood, there were people in the town who said, when commenting on this conduct of the Bishop, ''^ It is affecta^ tfoiu" This, however, was a remark which was confined to the « rawing-rooms. The populace, wliich perceives '^o jest in holy deeds, was touched, and admired him. Digitized by Google FANTINE. lÔ As for the Bishop, it was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine, and it was a long time before he recovered from it. In fact, when the scaffold is there, all erected and prepared, it has something about it which produces hallucination. One may feel a certain indifference to the death penalty, one may refrain from pronouncing upon it, from saying yes or no, so long as one has not seen a guillotine with one's own eyes : but if one encounters one of them, the shock is violent; one is forced to decide, and to take part for or against. Some admire it, like de Maistre ; others execrate^ it, like Beccaria. The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte; it is not neutral, and it does not permit you to remain neutral. He who sees it shivers with the most mysterious of shivers. All social problems erect their interrogation point around this chopping-knife. The scaffold is a vision. The scaffold is not a piece of carpentry ; the scaffold is not a machine ; the scaf- fold is not an inert bit of mechanism constructed of wood, iron, and cords. It seems as though it were a being, possessed of I know not what sombre initiative ; one would say that this piece of carpen- ter's work saw, that this machine heard, that this mechanism understood, that this wood, this iron, and these cords were possessed of will. In the frightful meditation into which its presence casts the soul the scaffold appears in terrible guise, and as though taking part in what is going on. The scaffold is the accomplice of the executioner ; it devours, it eats flesh, it drinks blood ; the scaffold is a sort of monster fabricated by the judge and the carpenter, a spectre which seems to live with a horrible vitalitj' composed of all the death which it has inflicted. Therefore, the impression was terrible and profound ; on the day following the execution, and on many succeeding days, the Bishop appeared to be crushed. The almost violent serenity of the funereal moment had disappeared ; the phantom of social iustice tormented him. He, who generally returned from all fais deeds with a radiant satisfaction, seemed to be reproaching himself. At times he talked to himself, and stammered lugu- brious monolc^ues in a low voice. This is one which his sister overheard one evening and preserved: "I did not think that it was so monstrous. It is wrong to become absorbed in the divine law to such a degree as not to perceive human law. Death belongs to God alone. By what right do men touch that unknown thing ? " In course of time these impressions weakened and probably Digitized by Google ^6 LES MISÉRABLES, vanished. Nevertheless, it was observed that the Bbbo;. tlienceforth avoided passing the place of execution. M. Myriel could be summoned at any hour to the bedside of the sick and dying. He did not ignore the fact that therein lay his greatest duty and his greatest labor. Widowed and orphaned families had no need to summon him ; he came of his own accord. He understood how to sit down and hold his peace for long hours beside the man who had lost the wife of his love, of tlie mother who had lost her child. As he knew the moment for silence, he kyew also the moment for speech. Oh, admirable consoler ! He sought not to efface sorrow by forget- fulness, but to magnify and dignify it by hope. He said : — '' Have a care of the manner in which you turn towards the dead. Think not of that which perishes. Gaze steadil}'. You will perceive the living light of your well-beloved dead in the depths of heaven." He knew that faith is wholesome. He sought to counsel and calm the despairing man, by pointing out to him the resigned man, and to transform the grief which gazes upon a grave by showing him the grief which fixes its gaze upon a star. V. — Monseigneur Bienvenu made his Cassocks last too LONG. The private life of M. Myriel was filled with the same thoughts as his public life. The voluntary poverty in which the Bishop of D. lived, would have been a solemn and charm- ing sight for any one who could have viewed it close at hand. Like all old men, and like the majority of thinkers, he slept little. This brief slumber was profound. In the morning he meditated for an hour, then he said his mass, either at the cathe- dral or in his own house. His mass said, he broke his fast on rye bread dii)ped in the milk of his own cows. Then he set to work. A Bishop is a very busy man : he must every day receive the secretary of the bisliopric, who is generally a canon, and nearly eveiT day his vicars-general. He has congregations to reprove, privileges to grant, a whole ecclesiastical library to examine, •—prayer-books, diocesan catechisms, books of hours, etc., — charges to write, sermons to authorize, curés and mayors to reconcile, a clerical correspondence, an administrative corre- spondence ; on one side the State, on the other the Holy See; and a thousand matters of business. Digitized by Google FANTJNE. It What time was left to him, after these thousand details cf basiness, and iiis ofBces and his breviary, he bestowed first on the necessitous, the sick, and the aiflicted ; the time which was left to him from the afflicted, the sick, and the necessitous, he devoted to work. Sometimes he dug in his garden ; again, he read or wrote. He had but one word for both these kinds of toil; he called them gardening, ^'The mind is a garden," said he. Towards mid-day, when the weather was fine, he went forth and took a stroll in the country or in town, often entering lowly dwellings. He was seen walking alone, buried in his own thoughts, his eyes cast down, supporting himself on his long cane, clad in his wadded purple garment of silk, which was very warm, wearing purple stockings inside his coarse shoes, and surmounted by a flat hat which allowed three golden tassels of lai^e bullion to droop from its three points. It was a perfect festival wherever he appeared. One would have said that his presence had something warming and lumi- nous about it. The children and the old people came out to the doorsteps for the Bishop as for the sun. He bestowed his blessing, and they blessed him. They pointed out his house to any one who was in need of anything. Here and there he halted, accosted the little boys and girls, and smiled upon the mothers. He visited the poor so long as he had any money ; when he no longer had any, he visited the rich. As he made his cassocks last a long while, and did not wish to have it noticed, he never went out in the town without his wadded purple cloak. This inconvenienced him somewhat in summer. On his return, he dined. The dinner resembled his break- fast. At half-past eight in the evening he supped with his sister, Madamti Magloire standing behind them and serving them at table. Nothing could be more frugal than this repast. If, however, the Bishop had one of his cures to supper, Madame Magloire took advantage of the opportunity to serve Monseig- neur with some excellent fish from the lake, or with some fine game from the mountains. Every curé furnished the pretext for a good meal : the Bishop did not interfere. With that ex- ception, his ordinary diet consisted only of vegetables boiled in water, and oil soup. Thus it was said in the town, When the BUhop does not indulge in the cheer of a curé, he indulges in the iheer of a trappist. Digitized by Google 18 LES MISERABLES, After supper he conversed for half an hour with Mademounllê Baptistine and Madame Magloire ; then he retired to his own room and set to writing, sometimes on loose sheets, and again on the margin of some folio. He was a man of lettere and rather learned. He left behind him five or six very curious manU'^ scripts ; among otht^rs, a dissertation on this verse in Genesis, In the beginning^ the spirit of God floated upon the waters. With this verse he compares three texts : the Arabic verse which sa3's, Hie winds of God blew; Flavius Josephus, who says, A wind from above teas precipitated upo7i the earth; and finally, the Chaldaic paraphrase of Onkelos, which renders it, A wind corning from God blew iqyon the face of the waters. In another dissertation, he examines the theohogical works of Hugo, Bishop of Ptolcmaïs, great-grand-uncle to the writer of this book, and he establishes the fact, that to this bishop must be attributed tiie divers little works published during the last century, under the pseudonym of Barleycourt. Sometimes, iu the midst of his reading, no matter what the book might be which he had in his hand, he would suddenly fall into a profound meditation, whence he only emerged to write a few lines on the pages of the volume itself. These lines have often no connection whatever with the book which con- tains them. We now have under our eyes a note written by him on the margin of a quarto entitled. Correspondence of Lord Germain with Generals Clinton^ ComwaUis^ and the Admirais on the American station. Versailles^ Poinçot^ bookseller; and Paris, Pissot^ bookseller, Quai des Augustins, Here is the note : — " Oh, 30U who are ! " Ecclesiastes calls you the All-powerful ; the Maccabees call you the Creator ; the Epistle to the Ei)he8ians calls you Liberty ; Baruch calls you Immensity ; the Psalms call you Wisdom and Truth ; John calls you Light ; the Books of Kings call you Lord ; EYodus calls you Providence ; Leviticus, Sanctitj* ; Ksdras, Jus- tice ; the creation calls you God ; tjan calls you Father ; but Solomon calls you Compassion, and that is the mo«t beautiful of all your names." Toward nine o'clock in the evening the two women retired and betook themselves to their chambers on the first floor, leav- ing him alone until morning on the ground floor. It is necessary that we should, in this place, give an exact Idea of the dwelling: of the Bishop of D. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 19 VI. — Who guarded his Rouse for his. Tbe house in which he lived consisted, as we have said, of a ground floor, and one story above; three rooms on the ground floor, three chambers oq the first, and an attic above. Behind the house was a garden, a quarter* of an acre in ex- tent. The two women occupied the first floor ; the Bishop was lodged below. The first room, opening on the street, served him as dining-room, the second was his bedroom, and ih% third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory, ex- cept by passing through the bedroom, nor from the bedroom, without passing through the dining-room. At the end of the suite, in the oratory, there was a detached alcove with a bed, for use in cases of hospitality. The Bishop offered this bed to country curates whom business or the requirements of their parishes brought to D. The pharmacy of the hospital, a small building which had been added to the house, and abutted on the garden, had been transformed into a kitchen and cellar. In addition to this, there was in the gai'den a stable, which had formerk been the kitchen of the hospital, and in which the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity of milk they gave, he invariably sent half of it every morning to the sick people in the hospital. ^^ I am paying my tithes^" he said. His bedroom was tolerably lai^e, and rather difiScult to warm in bad weather. As wood is extremely dear at D., he hit upon tbe idea of having a compartment of boards constructed in the oow-shed. Here he passed his evenings during seasons of severe cold : he called it his winter salon. In this winter salon, as in the dining-room, there was no other furniture than a square table in white wood, and four straw-seated chairs. In addition to this the dining-room was ornamented with an antique sideboard painted pink, in water- 3olors. Out of a similar sideboard, properly draped with white napery and imitation lace, the Bishop had constructed the altar which decorated his oratory. His wealthy penitents and the sainted women of D. had more than once assessed themselves to raise the money for a new altar for Monseigncur's oratory ; on each occasion lie had taken the money and had given it to the poor. '' The most beautiful of altars," he said, ^^ is the soul of an unhappy creature cou< soled and thanking God." In his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieu, and there was an arm-chair, also in straw, in his bedroom» When, by chance, Digitized by Google 20 LES MISÉRABLES. he received seven or eight persons at one time, the prefect, ot ihe general, or the staflf of the regiment in garrison, or several pupils from the little seminary, the cliairs had to be fetched from the winter salon in the stable, the prie-Dieii from the ora- tory, and the arm-chair from the bedroom : in this way as many as eleven chairs could be collected for the visitors. A room was dismantled for each new guest. It sometimes happened that there were twelve in the party ; the Bishop then relieved the embarrassment of the situation b\* standing in front of the chimney if it was winter, or by strolling in the garden if it was summer. There was still another chair in the detached alcove, but the straw was half gone from it, and it had but three legs, so that it was of service only when propped against the wall. Madem- oiselle Baptistine had also in her own room a very large easy- chair of wood, which had formerl}' been gilded, and which was covered with flowered pekin ; but thej^ had been obliged to hoist this bergère up to the first story through the window, as the staircase was too narrow ; it could not, tlierefore, be reck- oned among the possibilities in the way of furniture. Mademoiselle Baptistine's ambition had been to be able to purchase a set of drawing-room furniture in yellow Utrecht vel- vet, stamped with a rose pattern, and with mahogany in swan's- neck style, with a sofa. But this would have cost five hundred francs at least, and in view of the fact that she had only been able to lay by forty-two francs and ten sous for this purpose in the course of five years, she had ended by renouncing the idea. However, who is there who has attained his ideal? Nothing is more easy to present to the imagination than the Bishop's bedchamber. A glazed door opened on the garden ; opposite this was the bed, — a hospital bed of iron, witli a can- opy of gi-een serge ; in the shadow of the bed, behind a curtain, were the utensils of the toilet, which still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world : there were two doors, one near the chimney, opening into the oratory ; the other near the bookcase, opening into the dining-room. The bookcase was a large cupboard with glass doors filled with books ; the chimnc}- was of wood painted to represent marble, and habitually with- out fire. In the chimney stood a pair of firedogs of iron, orna- mented above with two garlanded vases, and fiutings which had formerly been silvered with silver leaf, whicli was a sort of episcopal luxury ; above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix of copper, with the silver worn off, fixed on a background of thread- bare black velvet in a wooden frame from which the gilding ha^ Digitized by Google FAN TINE. 81 fallen ^ near the glass door a large table with an inkstand, loaded with a confusion of papers and witli huge volumes ; before the table an arm-chair of straw ; in front of the bed a prie-Dieu, borrowed from the oratory. Two }x>rtrait8 in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain sur- face of the cloth at the side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented, one the Abbé of Chaliot, bisiiop of Saint-Claude ; the other, the Abbé Tourteau, vicar-general of Agde, abbé of Grand-Champ, order of Cîteaux, diocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment, after the hospital patients, he had found these portraits there, and had left them. They were priests, and probabl}' donors — two reasons for respecting them. All that he knew about these two persons was, that they had been appointed by the king, the one to his bishopric, the other to his benefice, on the same daj-, the 27th of April, 1785. Madame Magloire having taken the pic- tures down to dust, the Bishop had discovered these particulars written in whitish ink on a little square of paper, yellowed by time, and attached to the back of the portrait of the Abbé of Grand-Champ with four wafers. At his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff, which finally became so old, that, in order to avoid the expense of a new one, Madame Magloire was forced to take a lai^e seam in the very middle of it. This seam took the form of a cross. The Bishop often called attention to it: " How delightful that is ! '' he said. All the rooms in the house, without exception, those on the ground floor as well as those on the first floor, were white- washed, which is a fashion in barracks and hospitals. However, in their latter years, Madame Magloire discovered beneath the paper which had been washed over, paintings orna- menting the apartment of Mademoiselle Baptistine, as we shall Bee further on. Before becoming a hospital, this house had been the ancient parliament house of the Bourgeois. Hence this decoration. The chambers were paved in red bricks, which were washed every week, with straw mats in front of all the beds. Altogether, this dwelling, which was attended to by the two women, was exquisitely clean from top to bottom. Thi» was the sole luxury which the Bishop permitted. He said, " That takes notMvg from the poor.'' Ft must be confessed, however, that he still retained fVorn his former possessions six silver knives and forks and a soup- ladle, which Madame Magloire contemplated every day with Digitized by Google 22 LES MISERABLES. delight, as they glistened splendidly upon the coarse linei^ cloth* And since we are now painting the Bishop of D. as he was in reality, we must add that he had said more than once, ^^ I find it difficult to renounce eating from silver dishes.*' To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of massive silver, which he had inherited from a great-aunt- These candlesticks held two wax candles, and usually figured on the Bishop's chimney-piece. When he had any one to din- ner, Madame Magloire lighted the two candles and set the candlesticks on the table. In the Bishop's own chamber, at the head of his bed, there, was a small cupboard, in which Madame Magloire locked up the six silver knives and forks, and the big s[K)on every night. But it is necessary to add, tliat the key was never removed. The garden, which had been rather spoiled by the ugly build- mgs which we have mentioned, was composed of four alleys in cross-form, radiating from a tank. Another walk made the circuit of the garden, and skirted the white wall which enclosed it. These alleys left behind them four square plots rimmed with box. In three of these Madame Magloire cultivated vegetables ; in the fourth, the Bishop had planted some flowers ; here and there stood a few fruit-trees. Madame Magloire had once remarked, with a sort of gentle malice : " Monseigneur, you who turn everything to account have, nevertheless, one use- less plot. It would be better to grow salads there than bou- quets." ''Madame Magloire," retorted the Bishop, "you ai*6 mistaken. The beautiful is as useful as the useful." He added after a pause, *' More so, perhaps." This plot, consisting of three or four beds, occupied the Bishop almost as much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there, trimming, hoeing, and making holes here and there in the earth, into which he dropped seeds. He waa not as hostile to insects as a gardener could have wished to see him. Moreover, he made no pretensions to botany ; he ignored groups and consistency ; he made not the slightest effort to decide between Tournefort and the natural method ; he took part neither with the buds against the cotyledons, nor with Jussieu agamst Linnaeus. He did not study plants ; he loved flowers. . He respected learned men greatly ; he respected the ignorant still more; and, without ever failing in these two respects, he watered his flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green. The house bad not a single door which could be locked. The door of the dining-room, which, as we have said, opened directly Digitized by Google FANTINE. 21 on the cathedral square, had formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts like the door of a prison. The Bisliop had had all this ironwork removed, and this door was never fastened, either by night or by day, with anything except the latch. All that the first passer-by had to do at any hour, was to give it a push. At first, the two women had been very much tried by this door which was never fastened, but Monsieur de D. had said to them, "Have bolts put on your rooms, if that will please you." They had ended by sharing his confidence, or by at least acting as though they shared it. Madame Magloire aloue had frights from time to time. As for the Bishop, his thought can be found explained, or at least indicated, in the three lines which he wrote on the margin of a Bible, " This is the shade of difference : the door of the physician should never be shut, the door of the priest should always be open." On another book, entitled Philosophy of the Medical Science^ he had written this other note : " Am not I a physician like them? I also have my patients, and then, too, I have some whom I call my unfortunates." Again he wrote : " Do not inquire the name of him who asks a shelter of you. The very man who is embarrassed by his name is the one who needs shelter." It chanced that a worthy curé, I know not whether it was the core of Coiiloubroux or the curé of Pompierry, took it into his head to ask him one 'day, probably at the instigation of Madame Magloire, whether Monsieur was sure that he was not commit- ting an indiscretion, to a certain extent, in leaving his door unfastened day and night, at the mercy of any one who should choose to enter, and whether, in short, he did not fear lest some misfortune might occur in a house so little guarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder, with gentle gravity, and said to him, " Nisi Dominxis custodierit domum^ in vanum vigilant qui ctis- todiuni eam^'* Unless the Lord guard the house ^ in vain do they watch who guard it. Then he spoke of something else. He was fond of saying, ^' There is a bravery of the priest as well as the bravery of a colonel of dragoons, — only," he added, ^^ OUTS must be tranquil." VII. — Cravattb. It is here that a fact falls naturally into place, which we mast not omit, because it is one of the sort which show us best what sort of a man the Bishop of D. was. Digitized by Google 84 I^ES MISERABLES. After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Bè8, who baû infested the gorges of OUioules, one of his lieutenants, Cra- vatte, took refuge iu the mou u tains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits, the remnant of Gaspard Bès'a troop, in the county of Nice ; then he made his way to Pied- mont, and suddenly reappeared in France, in the vicinity of Barcelonette. He wa8L first seen at Jauziers, then at Tuiles. He hid himself in the caverus of tlie Joug-de-l' Aigle, and thence he descended towards the hamlets and villages through the ravines of Ubaye and Ubayette. He even pushed as far as Embrun, entered the cathedral one night, and despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the country-side. The gendarmes were set on his track, but in vain. He always escaped; sometimes he resisted bj main force. He was a bold wretch. In the midst of all this terror the Bishop arrived. He was making his circuit to Chastelar. The mayor came to meet him, aud urged him to retrace his steps. Cravatte was iu |>ossessiou of the mountains as far as Arche, and beyond ; there was danger even with an escort ; it merely exposed three or four unfortunate gendarmes to no purpose. '* Therefore," said the Bishop, " 1 intend to go without escort." ''You do not really mean that. Monseigneur!" exclaimed the ma3'or. " I do mean it so thoroughly that I absolutely refuse any gendarmes, and shall set out in an hour." "Set out?" ''Set out." "Alone?" "Alone." " Monseigneur, you will not do that ! " '^ There exists, yonder in the mountains," said the Bishop ^' a tiny community no bigger than that, which I have not seen for three years. They are my good fri*>,nd8, those gentle and honest shepherds. They own one goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty woollen cords of various colors, and they play the mountain airs on little flutes with six holes. They need to be told of the good God now and then. What would they say to a bishop who was afraid ? What would they say if I did not go?" " But tlie brigands, Monsiegneur?" " Hold," said the Bishop, " I must think of that. You are right. I raav meet them. Thev. ton,, need to be told of the firoodGod." " Digitized by Google FANTINE. 2à <^ But, Monseigneur, there is a baud of them ! A flock of irolves ! " ^^Mousieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock of ffolves that Jesus has coustituted me the shepherd. Whu knows the ways of Provideuce ? " *'They will rob 3'ou, Monseigneur." " I have nothing." "They wiU kill you." "An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayera ? Bah ! To what puriKJse ? ' * '*0h, mon Dieu ! what if you should meet them ! " "I should beg alms of them for my poor." " Do not go. Monseigneur. In the name of Heaven I You are risking your life ! " "Monsieur le maire," said the Bishop, "is that really all? I am not in the world to guard my own life, but to guard souls." They had to allow him to do as he pleased. He set out, accompanied only by a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy was bruited about the country-side, and caused great consternation. He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed the mountain on mule-back, encountered no one, and arrived safe and sound at the residence of his '*- good friends," the shepherds. He remained there for a fortnight,. preaching, administering the sacrament, teaching, exhorting. When the time of his departure approached, he resolved to chant a Te Deum pontifically. He mentioned it to the curé. But what was to be done? There were no episcopal ornaments. They could only place at his disposal a wretched village sacristy, with a few ancient chasubles of threadbare damask adorned with imitation lace. " Bah ! " said the Bishop. " Let us announce our Te Deum from the pulpit, nevertheless. Monsieur le Curé. Things will arrange themselves." They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood. AU the magnificence of these humble parishes combined would uot have sufficed to clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly. AVhile they were thus embarrassed, a large chest was brought and deposited in the presbytery for the Bishop, by two unknown borseracn, who departed on the instant. The chest was opened ; it contained a cope of cloth of gold, a mitre ornamented with diamonds, an archbishop's cross, a magnificent croëier, — all Uie pontifical vestments which had been stolen a month pre Digitized by Google £6 ^ES MISÉRABLES, viously from the treasury of Notre Dame d'Ëmbran. In the chest was a paper, on which these words were written, ^''From Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu,^' ^' Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?" said the Bishop. Then he added, with a smile, *' To him who contents himself with the surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop." " Monseigneur," murmured the curé, throwing back his head with a smile. " God — or the Devil." The Bishop looked steadilv at the curé, and repeated with authority, "God!" When he returned to Chastelar, the people came out to stare at him as at a curiosity, all along the road. At the priest's house in Chastelar he rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Miulamc Magloire, who were waiting for him, and he said to his sister; "Well! was I in the right? The poor priest went to his poor mountaineers with empty hands, and he returns from them with his hands full. I set out bearing only my faith in God ; I have brought back the treasure of a cathedral." That evening, before he went to bed, he said again : " Let us never fear robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from with- out, petty dangers. Let us fear ourselves. Prejudices are the real robbers ; vices are the real murderers. The great dangers lie within ourselves. What matters it what threatens our head or our puree ! Let us think only of that which threatens our soul." Then, turning to his sister: "Sister, never a precaution on the part of the priest, against his fellow-man. That which his fellow does, God permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayer, when we think that a danger is approaching us. Let us pray, not for ourselves, but that our brother may not fall into sin on our account." However, such incidents were rare in his life. We relate those of which we know ; but generally he passed his life in doing the same things at the same moment. One month of his year resembled one hour of his day. As to what became of " the treasure " of the cathedral of Em- brun, we should be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction. It consisted of very handsome things, very tempting things, and things which were very well adapted to be stolen for the benefit of the unfortunate. Stolen they had already been elsewhere. Half of the adventure was completed ; it onl}' remained to impart a new direction to the theft, and to cause it to take a short trip in the direction of the poor. However, we make no assertions on this point. Only, a rather obscure note was found among Digitized by Google FA NT I NE. 27 ••he Bishop's papers, which may bear some relation to this mat- ter, and which is couched in these terms, '''Jlie question is, la decide whether this should be turned over to the cathedral on to the hospitcU." VIII. — Philosophy after Drinking. The senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way, heedless of tiiose things which present obsta- cles, and which are called conscience, sworn faith, justice, duly : he had marched straight to bis goal, without once flinching in the Une of his advancement and his intere3t. He was an old attor- ney, softened by success ; not a bad man by any means, who ren- dered all the small services in his ix)wer to his sons, his sons-in- law, his relations, and even to his friends, having wi^^ely seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good windfalls. Everything else seemed to him very stupid. Ho was intelligent, and just sntlicieutly educated to think himself a disciple of Epicurus ; while he was, in reality, only a .product of Pigault- Lebrun. He laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and eternal things, and at the '' crotchets of tliat good old fellow the Bishop." He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in the presence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to him. On some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what. Count ***, [this senator], and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At dessert, the senator, who was slightly exhila- rated, though still perfectly dignified, exclaimed : — " Egad, Bishop, let's have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a bishop to look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am going to make a confession to you. I have a philosophy of my own." '' And you are right," replied the Bishop. " As one makes one's philosophy, so one lies on it. You are on the bed of pur pie, Senator." The senator was encouraged, and went on : — '' Let us be good fellows." " Good devils even," said the Bishop. " I declare to you," continued the senator, " that the Mar(}ui& d'Argens, Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the philosophers in my library gilded on the edges." '' Like yourself. Count," interposed the Bishop. The senator resumed : — " I hate Diderot ; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, atia a revo- tntiovUt- a bviiever In God at bottom, and more bigoted than Digitized by Google 88 LES MISERABLES. Voltaire. Voltaire made sport of Needham, and he was wrong for Needham's eels prove that God is useless. A drop of vine gar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies the fiat lux. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger ; you have the world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the Eternal Father ? The Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for nothing but to produce shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Down with that great All, which torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me in peace! Between you and me, and in order to empty my sack, and make confes- sion to my pastor, as it behooves me to do, I will admit to you that I have good sense. I am not enthusiastic over your Jesus, who preaches renunciation and sacrifice to the last ex- tremity. 'Tis the counsel of an avaricious man to beggars. Renunciation; why? Sacrifice; to what end? I do not sec one wolf immolating himself for the happiness of another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at thq top ; let us have « superior philosophy. What is the advantage of being at the top, if one sees no further than the end of other people's noses? Let us live merrily. Life is all. That man has another future elsewhere, on high, below, anywhere, I don't believe ; not one single word of it. Ah ! sacrifice and renunciation are recom- mended to me ; I must take heed to everything I do ; I must cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the just and the un- just, over the fus and the nefas. Why ? Because I shall have to render an account of my actions. When? After death. What a fine dream ! After my death it will be a vei^ clever person who cad catch me. Have a handful of dust seized hy a shadow-hand, if you can. Let us tell the truth, we who are initiated, and who have raised the veil of Isis : there is no such thing as either good or evil ; there is vegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us get to the bottom of It. Let us go into it thoroughly. What the deuce ! let us go to the bottom of It ! We must scent out the truth ; dig in the earth for it, and s ize it. Then it gives you exquisite joys. Thon you grow strong, and you laugh. I am square on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a waiting for dead men's shoes. Ah ! what a charming promise ! trust to it, if you like ! Wliat a fine lot Adam has ! We are souls, and we shall be angels, with blue wings on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my assistance : is it not Tertullian who says that the blessed shall travel from star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshoppers of the stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta, ta ! What twad- dle all tliese paradises are ! God is a nonsensical monster. ) Digitized by Google FA NT I NE. 29 would not say that in the Moniteur^ egad I bat I may whisper vt among friends. liUer pocula. To sacrifice the world to para- dise is to let slip the prey for the shadow. Be the dupe of the infinite ! I'm not such a fool. I am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nouglit, senator. Did I exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after my death? No. What am I? A little dust collected in an oi^anisra. What am I to do on this earth ? The choice rests with me : suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead me? To nothingness; but I shall hare suffered. Whither will enjoyment lead me? To nothingness ; but I shall have enjoyed myself. M5* choice is made. One must eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the tooth than the grass. Such is my wisdom. After which, go whither I push thee, the grave-digger is there ; the Pantheon for some of us : all falls into the great hole. End. Finis, Total liquidation. This is the vanishing-point. Death is death, believe me. I laugh at the idea of there being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject. Fables of nurses ; bagaboo for children ; Jehovah for men. No ; our to-morrow is the night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal noth- ingness. You have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul — it makes no difference. That is the truth. Then live your life, above all things. Make use of your / while you have it. In truth, Bishop, I tell you that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers. I don't let myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must be some- thing for those who are down, — for the baref(X)ted beggars, knife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimeras, tlie soul, immortality, paradise, the stars, ar* provided for them to swallow. They gobble it down. They spread it on their dry bread. He who has nothing else has the good God. That is the least he can have. I oppose no objection to that ; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The good God is good for the populace." The Bishop clapped his hands. " That's talking ! " he exclaimed. '* What an excellent and really marvellous thing is this materialism ! Not every one who wants it can have it. Ah ! when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does not stupidly allow one's self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like Stephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d'Arc. Those who have succeeded in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of feeling themselves irre- sponsible, and of thinking that they can devour everything without uneasiness, — places, sinecures, dignities, power, whether well or ill acquired^ lucrative recantations, useful treacheries, Digitized by Google 30 LES MISÉRABLES. savory capitulations of conscience, — and that they shall enter the tomb with their digestion accomplished. Ilow agreeable that is ! I do not say that with reference to you, Senator. Nevertheless, it is impossible for me to refrain from congratu- lating you. You great lords have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves, which is exquisite, refined, acces- sible to the rich alone, good for all sauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of life admirably. This philosophy has been extracted from the depths, and unearthed by special seekers. But you are good-natured princes, and you do not think it a bad thing that belief in the good God should consti- tute the philosophy of the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the truffled turkey of the poor." IX. — The Brother as depicted by the Sister. In order to furnish an idea of the private establishment of the Bishop of D., and of tlie manner in which those two sainted women subordinated their actions, their thoughts, their feminine instincts even, which are easily alarmed, to the habits and pur- poses of the Bishop, without his even taking the trouble of speaking in order to explain «them, we cannot do better than transcribe in this place a letter from Mademoiselle Bai)tistine to Madame the Vicomtesse de Boischevron, the friend of her childhood. This letter is in our possession. D., Dec. 16, 18—, My Good Madam : Not a day passes without our speaking of you. It is our established custom; but there is another reason besides. Just im- agine, wliile washing and dusting the ceilings and walls. Madam Magloire has made some discoveries; now our two cliambers hung w^ith antique paper whitewaslied over, would not discredit a chateau in the 'style oi yours. Madam Magloire has pulled off ail the paper. There were thingc beneath. My drawing-room, which contains no furniture, and which \\v use for spreading out the linen after washing, is fifteen feet in height, eighteen square, with a ceiling which was formerly painted and gilded, and with beams, as in yours. This was covered with a cloth while this was the hospital. And the woodwork was of the era of our grandmothers. But my room is the one you ought to see. Madam Magloire has discov- ered, under at least ten thicknesses of paper pasted on top, some paintings which without being good are very tolerable. The subject is Telemachus being knighted by Minerva in some gardens, the name of which escapes me. In short, where the lioman ladies repaired on one single night. What shall I say to you? I have Romans, and Roman ladies [here occurs an illegible word], and the whole train. Madam Magloire has cleaned it all off; this summer she is going to have some small injuries repaired, and the whole revamished, and my chamber will be a regular museum. She has also found in a corner of the attic two wooden pier-tables of ancient tashion. They asked us two crowns of six francs each to regiid them, but Digitized by Google FANTINE, 31 it is mnch better to give the money to the poor ; and they are very ngly besides, and I should much prefer a round table of mahogany. I am always very happy. My brother is so good. He gives all he has to the poor and sick. We are very much cramped. The country is trying in the winter, and we really must do something for those who are in need. We are almost comfortably lighted and warmed. You see that these are great treats. My brother has ways of his own. When he talks, he says that a biahop ought to be so. Just imagine! the door of our house is never fastened. Whoever chooses to enter finds himself at once in my brother's room. lie fears nothing, even at night. That is his sort of bravery, he says. He does not wish me or Madame Magloire feel any fear for him. He exposes himself to all sorta of dangers, and he does not like to have us even seem to notice it. One must know how to understand him. He goes out in the rain, he walks in the water, he travels in winter. He fears neither suspicious roads nor dangerous encounters, nor night. Last year he went quite alone into a country of robbers. He would not take us. He was absent for a fortnight. On his return nothing had happened to him ; he was thought to be dead, but was perfectly well, and said, " This is the way 1 have been robbed ! " And then he opened a trunk full of jewels, all the jewels of the cathedral of Embrun, wliich the thieves had given him. When he returned on that occasion, I could not refrain from scolding him a little, taking care, however, not t^ speak except when the carriage was making a noise, so that no one might hear me. At first I used to say to myself, "There are no dangers which will stop him; he is terrible." Now I have ended by getting used to it. I make a sign to Madam Magloire that she is not to oppose him. He risks himself as he sees fit. I carry off Madam Magloire, I enter my chamber, I pray for him and fall asleep. I am at ease, because I know that if anything were to happen to him, it would be the end of me. I should go to the good God with my brother and my bishop. It has cost Madam Magloire more trouble than it did me to accustom herself to what she terms his impru- dences. But now the habit has been acquired. We pray together, we tremble together, and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this house, he would be allowed to do so. After all, what is there for us to fear in this house ? There is always some one with us who is stronger than we. The devil may pass through it, but the good God dwells here. This sufiftces me. My brother has no longer any need of saying a word to me. I understand him without his speaking, and we abandon ourselves to the care of Providence. That is the way one has to do with a man who possesses grandeur of soul. I have interrogated my brother with regard to the information which you desire on the subject of the Faux family. You are aware that he knows everything, and that he has memories, because he is still a very good royalist. They rt»ally are a very ancient Norman family of the generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago there was a Raoul de Faux, a Jean de Faux, and a Thomas de Faux, wlio w^ere gentlemen, and one of whom was a seigneur de Rochefort, The last was Guy-Etienne- Alexandre, and was commander of a regiment, and something in the light horse of Bretagne. His daughter, Marie-Louise, married Adrien-Charles de Gra- niont, son of the Duke Louis de Gramont, peer of France, colonel of tht French guards, and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written Faux. Pauq, and Faoucq. Digitized by Google 82 LES MISÉRABLES Good Madame, recommend us to the prayers of jour sainted relatire^ Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanie, she has done well in not wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing to me. She is well, works as you would wish, and loves me. That is all that I desire. The souvenir whicli she sent through you reached me safely, and it makes me very happy. My health is not so very bad, and yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell ; my paper is at an end, and this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes. Baptistins. P.S. Your grandnephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon be five years old 1 Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback who had on knee-caps, and he said, " What has he got on his knees 1 ** He is a cliarming child ! His little brother is dragging an old broom about the room, like a carriage, and saying, " Uu ! " A» will be perceived from this letter, these two women under- stood how to mould themselves to the Bishop's ways with that special feminine genius which comprehends the man better than he comprehends himself. The Bishop of D., in spite of the gentle and candid air which never deserted him, sometimes did things that were grand, bold, and magnificent, without seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact. They trembled, but they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed a remon- strance in advance, but never at the time, nor afterwards. They never interfered with him by so much as a word or a sign, in any action once entered upon. At certain moments, without his hiving occasion to mention it, when he was not even con- scious of it himself in all probability, so perfect was his sim- plicity, they vaguely felt that he was acting as a bishop ; then they were nothing more than two shadows in the house. They served him passively ; and if obedience consisted in disapj^ear- ing, they disappeared. They understood, with an admirable delicacy of instinct, that certain cares may be put under con- straint. Thus, even when believing him to be in peril, they understood, I will not say his thought, but his nature, to such a degree that they no longer watched over him. They confided him to God. Moreover, Baptistine said, as we have just read, that hei brother's end would prove her own. Madame Magloire did no| eay this, but she knew it. X. — The Bishop in the Presence op an Unknown Light. At an eix>ch a little later than the date of the letter cited ii ^,he preceding pages, he did a thing which, if the whole town was to be believed, was even more hazardous than his trip across the mountains infested with bauditA. uigiiized by Google FANTINE. as In the oonntry near D. a man lived qaite alone. This man^ «e will state at once, was a former member of the Convention. Uis name was G. Member of the Convention, G. was mentioned with a sort of horror in the little world of D. A member of the Convention — can you ims^ne such a thing? That existed from the time when people called each other thou^ and when they said ^^ citi- zen." This man was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king, but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. Ho bad been a terrible man. How did it happen that such a man had not been bix>ught before a provost's court, on the return of the legitimate princes? They need not have cut off bis head, if you please ; clemency must be exercised, agieed ; but a good banishment for life. An example, in short, etc. Besides, he was an atheist, like all the rest of those people. Gossip of the geese about the vulture. Was G. a vulture after all ? Yes ; if he were to be judged by the element of ferocity in this solitude of his. As he had not voted for the death of the king, he had not been included in the decrees of exile, and had been able to remain in France. He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city, far from any hamlet, far from any road, in some hidden turn of a very wild valley, no one knew exactly where. He had there, it was said, a sort of field, a hole, a lair. There were no neighbors, not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valley, the path whicli led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass. The localitj* was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of a hangman. Nevertheless, the Bishop meditated on the subject, and from time to time he gazed at the horizon at a point where a clump of trees marked the valley of the former member of the Conven- tion, and he said, " There is a soul yonder which is lonely." And he added, deep in his own mind, " I owe him a visit." But, let us avow it, this idea, which seemed natural at the first blush, appeared to him after a moment's reflection, as strange, impossible, and almost repulsive. For, at bottom, he shared the general impression, and the old member of the Con- vention inspired him, without his being clearly conscious of the fact himself, with that sentiment which borders on hate, and which is so well expressed by the word estrangement. Still, should tlie scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil' No. But what a sheep ! The good Bishop was |)erplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction ; then he returned. Digitized by Google 84 LES MISÉRABLES. Finally, the rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of young sliepherd, who served the member of the Convea tion in his iiovel, had come in quest of a doctor ; that the old wretch was dying, tiiat paralysis was gaining on him, and that he wonld not live over the night. — *' Thank (îod 1" some added. The Bishop took his staff, put on his cloak, on account of his too tlireadbare cassock, as we have mentioned, and because of the evening breeze which was sure to rise soon, and set out. The sun was setting, and had almost touched the horizon when the Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating of the heart, he recognized the fact that he was near the lair. He strode over a ditch, leai)ed a hedge, made his way through a fence of dead boughs, entered a neglected paddock, took a few steps with a good deal of boldness, and suddenly, at the extremity of the waste land, and behind loflj' brambles, he caught sight of the cavern. It was a very low hut, poor, small, and clean, with a vine nailed against the outside. Near the door, in an old wheel-chair, the arm-chair of the peasants, there was a white-haired man, smiling at the sun. Near the seated man stood a young boy, the shepherd lad. He was offering the old man a jar of milk. Wiiile the Bishop was watching him, the old man spoke : ** Thank you," he said, '' I need notliing." And his smile qnit- ted the sun to rest upon the child. The Bishop stepped forward. At tlie sound which he made in walking, the old man turned his head, and his face expressed the sum total of the suq)rise which a man can still feel after a long life. " This is the first time since I have been here," said he, • that any one has entered here. Who are you, sir? " The Bishop answered : — *' My name is Bienvenu Myriel.'* ''Bienvenu Myriel? I have heard that name. Are you the man whom the people call Monseigneur Welcome?** '' I am." The old man resumed with a half -smile : — *' In that case, you are my bishop?" *' Something of that sort." " Enter, sir." The member of the Convention extended his hand to the Bishop, but the Bisliop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself to the remark : — Digitized by Google FANTn\E. as ''lam pleased to see that I have been misinfonned. You oertaialy do not seem to me to be ill." " Monsieur," replied the old man, '' I am going to recover.'* He paused, and then said : — '' I shall die three hours hence." Then he continued : — '' I am something of a doctor ; I know in what fashion the last hour di-aws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold ; to- day, the chill has ascended to my knees ; now I feel it mount- iug to my waist ; when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The son is beautiful, is it not? I had myself wheeled out here to take a last look at things. You can talk to me ; it does not fatigue me. You have done well to come and look at a man who is on the point of death. It is well that there should be witnesses at that moment. One has one's caprices ; I should have liked to lost until the dawn, but I know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then. What does it matter, after aU? Dying is a simple affair. One has no need of the light for that. So be it. I shall die by starlight." The old man turned to the shepherd lad : — ''Go to thy bed; thou wert awake all last night; thou art tired." The child entered the hut. The old man followed him with his eyes, and added, as though speaking to himself: — "I shall die while he sleeps. The two slumbers may be good neighbors." The Bishop was not touched as it seems that he should have been. He did not think he discerned God in this manner of dying ; let us say the whole, for these petty contradictions of great hearts must be indicated like the rest : he, who on oc- casion, was so fond of laughing at " His Grace," was rather shocked at not being addressed as Monseigneur, and he was almost tempted to retort "citizen." He was assailed by a fancy for peevish familiarity, common enough to doctors and priests, but which was not habitual with liim. This man, after sdl, this member of the Convention, this representative of the people, had been one of the powerful ones of the earth ; for the first time in his life, probably, tlie Bishop felt in a mood to be severe. Meanwhile, the member of the Convention had been survey- ing him with a modest cordiality, in which one could have dis- tinguished, possibly, tliat humility which is so fitting when ono is on the verge of returning to dust. Digitized by Google 36 LES MISÉRABLES. » The Bishop, on his side, although he generally restrained lii« curiosity, which, in his opinion, bordered on a fault, could not refrain from examining the member of the Convention with an attention which, as it did not have its source in sympathy, would have served his conscience as a matter of reproach, in connection with any other man. A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being outside the pale of the law, even , of the law of charity. G., calm, his body almost upright, his voice vibrating, was one of those octogena-' rians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist. The Revolution had many of these men, proportioned to the epoch. In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof. Though so near to his end, he preserved all the gestures of health. In his clear glance, in his firm tone, in the robust movement of his shoulders, there was something calculated to disconcert death. Azrael, the Mohammedan angel of the sepul- chre, would have turned back, and thought that he had mistaken the door. G. seemed to be dying because he willed it so. There was freedom in his agony. His legs alone were* motion- less. It was there that the shadows held him fast. His feet were cold and dead, but his head survived with all the power of life, and seemed full of light. G., at this solemn moment, re- sembled the king in that tale of the Orient who was flesh above and marble below. There was a stone there. The Bishop sat down. The exor- dium was abrupt. " I congratulate you," said he, in the tone which one uses for a reprimand. "You did not vote for the death of the king, after all." The old member of the Convention did not appear to notice the bitter meaning underlying the words ''after all." He replied. The smile had quite disappeared from his face. '* Do not congratulate me too much, sir. I did vote for the death of the tyrant.*' It was the tone of austerity answering the tone of severity. *' What do you mean to say?" resumed the Bishop. *' I mean tj) say that man has a tyrant, — ignorance. I voted for the death of that tyrant. That tyrant engendered royalty, which is authority falsely understood, while science is author- ity rightly understood. Man should be governed only by science." *' And conscience," added the Bishop. "It is the same thing. Conscience is the quantity of innate science which we have within us." Digitized by Google FA NT J NE, Sr Monseigneur Bienvena lîâtened in some astouishment to thia fftDguage, which was very new to him. The member of the Convention resumed : — " So far aB Louis XVI. was concerned, I said * no/ I did Dot think that I had the right to kill a man ; but I felt it my daty to exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say, the end of prostitution for woman, the end of shivery for man, the end of night for tlie child. In voting for the Re- public, I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the Jawn. I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors» The crumbling awa}' of prejudices and eri-ors causes lij;lit, We have caused the fall of the old world, and the old world, that vase of miseries, has become, through its upsetting upon the human race, an urn of joy." *' Mixed joy," said the Bishop. ^^ You may say troubled joy, and to-day, after that fatal re* turn of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared 1 Alas ! The work was incomplete, I admit : we demolished the ancient regime in deeds ; we were not able to suppress it entirely in ideas. To destroy abuses is not sufficient ; customs must be modified. The miU is there no longer ; the wind is still there.** *' You have demolished. It may be of use to demolish, but I distrust a demolition complicated with wrath." '* Right has its wrath, Bishop ; and the wrath of right is an element of progress. In any case, and in spite, of whatever may be said, the French Revolution is the most important step of the human race since the advent of Christ. Iucomi)lete, it may be, but sublime. It set free all the unknown social quan- tities; it softened spirits, it calmed, appeased, enlightened; it caused the waves of civilization to flow over the earth, it was a good thing. The French Revolution is the consecration of humanity." The Bishop could not refrain from murmuring : — "Yes? '93!" The member of the Convention straightened nimself up in his >hair with an almost lugubrious solemnity, and exclaimed, so far as a dying man is capable of exclamation : — " Ah, there you go ; '93 ! I was expecting that word. A cloud had been forming for the space of fifteen hundred years ; at the end of fifteen hundred years it burst. You are putting the thunderbolt on its trial." The Bishop felt, without, perhaps, confessing it, that some- thing witliin him had suffered extinction. Nevertheless, he put a g<»d face on the matter. He replied : — Digitized by VjOOQ IC 38 LES MISÉRABLES. ** The judge speaks in the name of justice ; the priest speaks in the name of pity, which is nothing but a more lofty justice. A thunderbolt should commit no error." And he added, re garding the member of the Convention steadily the while, ''Louis XVII.?" The couventiouary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop's arm. '' Louis XVII. ! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for tiie innocent child ? very good; iu that case I mourn with you. Is it for the royal child ? I demand time for reflection. To me, the brother of Cartouche, an innocent child who was hung up by the armpits in the Place de Grève, until death ensued, for the sole crime of having been the brother of Car* touche, is no less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an mnocent child, martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having been the grandson of Louis XV." '^ Monsieur," said the Bishop, ^'I like not this conjunctioB of names." ''Cartouche? Louis XV.? To which of the two do you object?" A momentary silence ensued. The Bishop almost regretted having come, and yet he felt vaguely and strangely shaken. The couventiouary resumed : — " Ah, Monsieur Priest, you love not the crudities of the true. Christ loved them. He seized a rod and cleared out the Temple. His scourge full of lightnings was a harsh speaker of truths. When he cried, ^Sinite jyaroidos,* he made no distinction between the little children. It would not have embarrassed him to bring together the Dauphin of Barabbas and the Dauphin of Herod. Innocence, Monsieur, is its own crown. Innocence has no need to be a highness. It is as august in rags as in fleurs de lys." " That is true," said the Bishop in a low voice. " I persist," continued the couventiouary G. " You have mentioned Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an undersUinil ing. Shall we weep for all the innocent, all martyrs, all chil- dren, the lowly as well as the exalted ? I agree to that. But in that case, as I have told you, we must go back further than '93, and our tears must begin before Ix>uis XVII. I will weep with you ov^r the children of kings, provided that you will weep with me over the children of the people.'* " I weep foi' all," said the Bishop. " r^qually J " oxclaimod convcntionary G, ; " and if the balance must inc^lino, let it be on the side of the people. They have been sufifering longer." Digitized by Google FANTTNE\ 83 Another silence ensued. The conventîonary was the first to oreak it. He raised himself on one olhow, took a bit of his cheek between his thumb and his forefinger, as one does mechanically when one interrogates aiUl judges, and appealed to the Bishop with a gaze full of all the forces of the death agony. It was almost an explosion. *' Yes, sir, the people hare been suffering a long while. And bold ! that is not all, either ; why have you just questioned me and talked to me about Louis XVII. ? I know you not. Ever since I have been in these parts I have dwelt in this enclosure alone, never setting foot outside, and seeing no one but that child who helps me. Your name has reached me in a confused manner, it is true, and very badly pronounced, 1 must admit ; but that signifies nothing : clever men have so many ways of imix)sing on that honest goodman, the people. By the way, I did not hear the sound of your carriage ; you have left it yonder, behind the coppice at the fork of the roads, no doubt. I do not know yon, I tell you. You have told me that you are the Bishop ; but that affords me no information as to your moral personality. In short, I repeat my question. Who are you? You are a bishop ; that is to say, a prince of the church, one of those gilded men with heraldic bearings and revenues, who have vast prebends, — the bishopric of D. fifteen thousand francs settled income, ten thousand in perquisites ; total, twentj'-five thousand francs, — who have kitchens, who have liveries, who make good cheer, who eat moor-hens on Friday, who strut about, a lackey before, a lackey behind, in a gala coach, and who have palaces, and who roll in their carriages in the name of Jesus Christ who went barefoot ! You are a prelate, — revé- cues, palace, horses, servants, good table, all the sensualities of life; you have this like the rest, and like the rest, you enjoy it ; it is well, but this says either too much or too little ; this does not enlighten me upon the intrinsic and essential value of the man who comes with the probable intention of bringing wisdom to me. To whom do I speak ? Who are you ? *' The Bishop hung his head and replied, " Vermis sum — I am a worm." "A worm of the earth in a carriage?" growled the conven- tlonar}'. It was the conventionary's turn to be arrogant, and the Bish- op's to be humble. The Bishop resumed ftiildly : — ** So be it, sir. But explain to me how my carriage, which is a few paces off behind the trees yonder, how my good table Digitized by Google 40 LES MISERABLES, and the raoor-hens which I eat on Friday, how my twenty five thousand francs income, how my palace and my lackeys prove that clemency is not a duty, and that *93 was not inex- orable." The conventionary passed his hand across his brow, as though to sweep away a cloud. " Before replying to you," he said, " I beseech you to pardon me. I have just committed a wrong, sir. You are at my house, you are ray guest, I owe 30U courtesy. You discuss my ideas, and it becomes me to confine myself to combating your arguments. Your riches and your pleasures are advantages which I hold over you in the debate ; but good taste dictates that I shall not make use of them. I promise you to make no use of them in the future." *' I thank you," said the Bishop. G. resumed : — '' Let us return to the explanation which you have asked of me. Where were we? What were you saying to me.»^ That '93 was inexorable ? " ** Inexorable ; yes," said the Bishop. "What think you of Marat clapping his hands at the guillotine?" '' What think you of Bossuet chanting the Te Deum over the dragonnades?" The retort was a harsh one, but it attained its mark with the dire(;tness of a point of steel. The Bishop quivered under it; no reply occurred to him ; but he was offended by this mode of alluding to Bossuet. The best of çainds will have their fetiches, and they sometimes feel vaguely wounded by the want of respect of logic. The conventionary began to pant ; the asthma of the agony which is mingled with the last breaths interrupted his voice ; still, there was a perfect lucidity of soul in his eyes. He went on: — ' ' Let me say a few words more in this and that direction ; I am willing. Apart from the Revolution, whicii, taken as a whole, is an immense human affirmation, '93 is, alas ! a rejoinder. You think it inexorable, sir; but what of the whole monarchy, sir? Carrier is a bandit; but what name do you give to Monti*e- vel ? Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal ; but what is your opinion as to Lamoignon-Bâville ? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx- Tavannes, if you please ? Duchône senior is ferocious ; but what epithet will you allow me for the elder Letellier? Jourdan- Coupe-Tete is a monster ; but not so great a one as M. the Marquis de Lou vois. Sur, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoi* Digitized by Google FANTÏNE. 41 nette, archduchess aud queeo ; bat I am also sorry for that pooi Hugueuc^t woman, who, in 1665, under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound, naked to the wais% to a stake, and the child kept at a distance ; her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish; the little one, hungrj and pale, beheld that breast and cried and agonized ; the exe- 3Utioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse, ^ Abjure ! ' TÎvûig her her choice between the death of her infant and the death of her conscience. What say you to tliat torture of Tan- talus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind, sir : the French Revolution had its reasons for existence ; its wratli will be absolved by the future ; its result is the world made better. From its most terrible blows there comes forth a caress for the human race. I abridge, I stop, I have too much the advantage ; •noreover, I am dying." And ceasing to gaze at the Bishop, the conventionary con- t;luded his thoughts in these tranquil words : — ^^Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions. W'hen they are over, this fact is recognized, — that the human Ltkce has been treated harshly, but tha. it has progressed." The conventionary doubted not that be had successively con- f^uered all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One re- mained, however, and from this intrenchraent, the last resource of Monseigneur Bienvcnu's resistance, came forth this reply, wherein appear^ nearly all the harshness of tlie beginning : — *^Pr<^e88 should believe in God. Good cannot have an tmpious servitor. He who is an atheist is but a bad leader for the human race." The former representative of the people made no reply. He was seized with a fit of trembling. He looked towards heaven, and in his glance a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was full, the tear trickled down his livid cheek, aud he said, almost in a stammer, quite low, and to himself, while his eyes «were plunged in the depths : — *' O thou ! O ideal ! Thou alone existest ! " The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock. After a pause, the old man raised a finger heavenward and said: — '^ The infinite is. He is there. If the infinite had no person, person would be without limit ; it would not be infinite ; in other words, it would not exist. There is, then, an 7. That i of the infinite is God." The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice* and with the shiver of ecstasy, as though he beheld some Digitized by Google 42 LES MISÉRABLES. one. When he had spoken, his eyes closed. The effort had exhausted him. It was evident that he had just lived through in a moment the few hours which had been left to him. That which he had said brought hi» nearer to him who is in death. The supreme moment was approaching. The Bishop understood this ; time pressed ; it was as a priest that he had come : from extreme coldness he had passed by degrees to extreme emotion ; he gazed at those closed eyes, he took that wrinkled, aged and ice-cold hand in his, and bent ovei the dying man. " This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would bo regrettable if we had met m vain ? " The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled with gloom was imprinted on his countenance. '* Bishop," said he, with a slowness which probably arose more from his dignity of soul than from the failing of his strength, " I have passed my life in meditation, study, and con- templation. I was sixty years of age when my country called me and commanded me to concern myself with its affairs. I obeyed. Abuses existed, I combated them ; tyrannies existed, I destroyed them ; rights and principles existed, I proclaimed and confessed them. Our territory was invaded, I defended it ; ï*rance was menaced, I offered my breast. I was not rich ; I am poor. I have» been one of the masters of the state; the vaults of the treasuiT were encumbered with specie to such a degree that we were forced to shore up the walls, which were on the point of bursting beneath the weight of gold and silver ; I dined in Dead Tree Street, at twenty-two sous. I have suc- cored the oppressed, I have comforted 'the suffering. I tore the cloth from the altar, it is true ; but it was to bind up the wounds of my country. I have always upheld the march for- ward of the human race, forward towards the light, and I have sometimes resisted progress without pity. I have, when the occasion offered, protected my own adversaries, men of your profession. And there is at Peteghem, in Flanders, at the very spot where the Merovingian kings had their siimmer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey of Sainte Claire en Beau- lieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done my duty according to mj- powers, aild all the good that I was able. After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened, jeered at, scornedy cursed, proscribed. For many years past I with my white hair have been conscious that many people think they have the right to despise me ; to the poor ignorant masses I •resent the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolatioi Digitized by Google FANTfNE. 4à of hatred, without hating any one mj'self. Now I am eighty six years old ; I am on the point of death. What is it that yon have come to ask of me ? " " Your blessing^" said the Bishop. And he knelt down. When the Bishop raised his head again, the face of the con« rentionary had become august. He had just expired. The Bishop returned home, deeply absorbed in thoughts Trhich cannot be known to us. He passed the whole night in prayer. On the following morning some bold and curious persons attempted to speak to him about member of the Con- vention G. ; he contented himself* with pointing heavenward. From that moment he redoubled his tenderness and brotherly feeling towards all children and sufferers. Any allusion to *' that old wretch of a G." caused him to fall into a singular preoccupation. No one could say that the passage of that soul before his, and the reflection of that grand conscience upon his, did not count for something in his approach to perfection. This ** pastoral visit" naturally furnished an occasion for a murmnr of comment in all the little local coteries. " Was the bedside of such a dying man as that the proper place for a bishop? There was evidently no conversion to be expected. All those revolutionists are backsliders. Then why go there? What was there to be seen there? He must have been very curious indeed to see a soul carried off by the devil." One day a dowager of the impertinent variety who thinks herself spiritual, addressed this sally to him, ''•Monseigneur, people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red cap !" — *' Oh ! oh 1 that's a coarae color," replied the Bishop. '* It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat." XI. — A Restriction. We should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselves, were we to oanclude from this that Monseigneur Welcome was " a phil- osophical bishop, " or a '* patriotic cui-é." His meeting, which may almost be designated as his union, with conventionary G., left behind it in his mind a sort of astonishment, which rendered him still more gentle. That is all. Although Monseigneur Bienvenu was far from being a politi- cian, this is, perhaps, the place to indicate very briefly what his Digitized by Google 44 LES MISERABLES. attitude was in the events of that epoch, suppoeing that Mon seigneur Bienvenu ever dreamed of having an attitude. Let us, then, go back a few years. Some time after the elevation of M. Myriel to the episcopate, the Emperor had made him a baron of the Empire, in company with many otlier bishops. The arrest of the Pope toolc place, as every one knows, on the night of the oth to the 6th of July, 1809 ; on this occasion, M. Myriel was summoned by Napoleon CO the synod of the bishops of France and Italy convened at Paris. This synod was held at Nôtre-Dame, and assembled foi the first time on the 15th of June, 1811, under the presidency of Cardinal Fesch. M. Myriel was one of the ninety-five bish- ops who attended it. But he was present only at one 'sitting and at three or four private conferences. Bishop of a mountain diocese, living so very close to nature, in rusticity and deprivation, it appeared that he imported among these eminent personages, ideas which altered the temperature of the assembly. He very soon returned to D. He was interrogated as to this speedy return, and he replied : *' / embarrassed theni. Tlie outside air penetrated to tliem through me. I produced on them the effect oj an open door.*' On another occasion he said, " WTiat would you have? Those gentlernen are piinces. lam only a poor peasant bishop.'* The fact is that he displeased them. Among other strange things, it is said that he chanced to remark one evening, when he found himself at the house of one of his most notable coU leagues: "What beautiful clocks! What beautiful carpets! What beautiful liveries ! They must be a great trouble. I would not have all those superfluities, crying incessantly in my ears : ' There are people who are hungry ! There are people who are cold ! There are poor people 1 There are pdor people r " Let us remark, by the way, that the hatred of luxury is not ao intelligent hatred. This hatred would involve the hatred of the arts. Nevertheless, in churchmen, luxury is wrong, except in connection with representations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal habits which have very little that is charitable about tliem. An opulent priest is a contradiction. The priest must keep close to the poor. Now, can one come in contact incessantly night and day with all this distress, all these misfortunes, and this poverty, without having about one's own person a little of that misery, like the dust of labor? Is it possible to imagine a man near a brazier who is not warm ? Can one imagine a workman who is working near a furnace, and who has neither a singed Digitized by Google FANTINE. 46 hair, nor blackened nails, nor a drop of sweat, nor a speck of ashes on bis face ? The first proof of charity in the priest, in the bishop especially, is poverty. This is, no doubt, what the Bishop of D. thought. It must not be supposed, however, that he shared what we call tiie ^^ ideas of the century '* on certain delicate points. He took very little part in the theological quarrels of the moment, and maintained silence on questions in which Church and State wer« implicated ; but if he had been strongly pressed, it seems that he would have been found to be an ultramontane rather than a gallican. Since we are making a portrait, and since we do not wish to conceal anything, we are forced to add that he was gla- cial towards Napoleon in his decline. Beginning with 1813, he gave in his adherence to or applauded all hostile manifestations. He refused to see him, as he passed through on his return from the island of Elba, and he abstained from ordering public prayers for the Emperor in his diocese during the Hundred Days. Besides his sister, Mademoiselle Baptistine, he had two brothers, one a general, the other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable frequency. He was harsh for a time towards the former, because, holding a command in Provence at the epoch of the disembarkation at Cannes, the general had put himself at the head of twelve hundred men and had pursued the Emperor as though the latter had been a person whom one is desirous of allowing to escape. His corresix)ndence with the other brother, the ex-prefect, a fine, worthy man who lived in retirement at Paris, Rue Cassette, remained more affectionate. Thus Monseigneur Bienvenu also had his hour of party spirit, his hour of bitterness, his cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment traversed this grand and gentle spirit occupied with eternal things. Certainly, such a man would have done well not to entertain any political opinions. Let there be no mistake as to our meaning : we are not confounding what is (ailed " political opinions " with the grand aspiration for prog- ress, with the sublime faith, patriotic, democratic, humane^ which in our day should be the very foundation of every gen- erous intellect. Without going deeply into questions which are only indirectly connected with the subject of this book, we will simply say this : It would have been well if Monseigneur Bien- venu had not been a Royalist, and if his glance had never been, for a single instant, turned away from that serene contempla- tion in which is flistinctly discernible, above the fictions and the hatrMJb of this world, above the stormv vicissitudes of Digitized by Google 46 LES MISERABLES. human things, the beaming of those three pare radiances, trnth, justice, and charity. While admitting that it was not for a political office that God created Monseigneur Welcome, we sliould have understood and admired his protest in the name of riglit and liberty, his proud opposition, his just but perilous resistance to the all-powerful Napoleon. But that which pleases us in people who are rising pleases us less in the case of people who are falling. We only !ove the fray so long as there is danger, and in any case, the combatants of the first hour have alone the right to be the ex- terminators of the last. He who has not been a stubborn accuser in prosperity should hold his peace in the face of rnin. The denunciator of success is the only legitimate executioner of the fall. As for us, when Providence intervenes and stiikes, we let it work. 1812 commenced to disarm us. In 1818 the cowardly breach of silence of that taciturn legislative body, emboldened by catastrophe, possessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a crime to applaud, in 1814, in the presence of those marshals who betrayed ; in the presence of that senate which passed from one dunghill to another, insult- ing after having deified ; in the presence of that idolatry which was loosing its footing and spitting on its idol, — it was a duty to turn aside the head. In 1815, when the supreme disasters filled the air, when France was seized with a shiver at their sinister approach, when Waterloo could be dimly discerned opening before Napoleon, the mournful acclamation of the army and the people to the condemned of destiny had nothing laugh* able in it, and, after making all allowance for the despot, a heart like that of the Bishop of D. ought not perhaps to have failed to recognize the august and touching features presented by the embrace of a great nation and a great man on the brink yt the abyss. With this exception, he was in all things just, true, equitable, intelligent, humble and dignified, beneficent, and kindly, which is only another sort of benevolence. He was a priest, a sage, and a man. It must be admitted, that even in the political views with which we have just reproached him, and which we are disposed to judge almost with severity, he was tolerant and easy, more so, perhaps, than we who are speaking here. The porter of the town-hall had been placed there by the Em- peror. He was an old non-commissioned ofi^icer of the old guard, a member of the Legion of Honor at Austerlitz, as much of a Bonapartist as the eagle. This poor fellow occa- sionally let slip inconsiderate remarks, which the law tbev Digitized by Google FANTINE. 4Î Btigmatized as sedMoua speeches. After the imperial profile disappeared from the Legion of Honor, he never dressed himself in his regimentals, as he said, so that he should not be obliged to . wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed the imperial elfigy from the cross which Napoleon had given him ; this made a hole, and he would not put anything in its place. ^' I will die^" he said, "^^ rather than wear the three frogs upon my heart ! *' He liked to scoff aloud at Louis XVIII. *' The gouty old créa ture in English gaiters I " he said ; ^'let him take himself off tc Prussia with that queue of his" He was happy to combine iu the same imprecation the two things which he most detested, Prussia and England. He did it so often that he lost his place. There he was, turned out of the house, with his wife and chil- dren, and without bread. The Bishop sent for him, reproved him gently, and appointed. him beadle in the cathedral. In the course of nine years Monseigneur Bienvenu had, by dint of holy deeds and gentle manners, filled the town of D. with a sort of tender and filial reverence. Even his conduct towards Napoleon had been accepted and tacitly pardoned, as it were, by the people, the good and weakly flock who adored their emperor, but loved their bishop. Xn. — The SoLrruDE op Monseigneur Welcome. A BISHOP is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of Uttle abbés, just as a general is by a covey of young officers. This is what that charming Saint François de Sales calls some- where '* les prêtres blancs-becs,*' callow priests. Every career has its aspirants, who form a tmin for those who have attained eminence in it. There is no power which has not its depend- ents. There is no fortune which has not its court. The seekers of the future eddy around the splendid present. Every metropolis has its staff of officials. Every bishop who possesses the least influence has about him his patrol of cberubim from the seminai-y, which goes the rouud, and main* tains good order in the episcopal palace, and mounts guard over monseigneur's smile. To please a bishop is equivalent to getting one's foot in the stirrup for a sub-diaconate. It is necessary to walk one's path discreetly ; the apostleship does not disdain the canonship. Just as there are big- wigs elsewhere, there are big mitres in the Church. These are the bishops who stand well at Court, who are rich, well endowed, skilful, accepted by the world, who know how to pray, no doubt, but who know also how to beg, Digitized by Google 48 LES MISÉRABLES. who feel ittle scruple at making a whole diocese dance attend* ance in iheir [)er8on, who are connecting links between the sacristy and diplomacy, who are abbés rather than priests, prel« ates rather than bishops. Happy those who approach them! Being persons of influence, they create a shower about them, jpon tlie assiduous and the favored, and upon all the young men who understand the art of pleasing, of large parishes, pre- bends, archidiaconates, chaplaincies, and cathedral posts, while awaiting episcopal honors. As they advance themselves, they cause their satellites to progress also ; it is a whole solar sys- tem on the march. Their radiance casts a gleam of purple over their suite. Their prosperity is crumbled up behind the scenes, into nice little promotions. The larger the diocese of the patron, tlie fatter the curacy for the favorite. And then, there is Rome. A bishop who understands how to become an archbishop, an archbishop who knows how to become a cardinal, cames you with him as conclavist ; you enter a court of papal jurisdiction, you receive the pallium, and behold ! you are an auditor, then a papal chamberlain, then monsignor, and from a Grace to an Eminence is only a step, and between the Eminence and the Holiness there is but the smoke of a ballot. Every skulUcap may dream of the tiara. The priest is nowadays the only man who can become a king in a regular mannet ; and what a king ! the supreme king. Then what a nursery of aspirations is a seminary ! How many blushing choristers, how many youthful abbés bear on their heads Perrette's pot of milk ! Who knows how easy it is for ambition to call itself vocation ? in good faith, perchance, and deceiving itself, devotee that it is. Monseigneur Bienvenu, poor, humble, retiring, was not ac counted among the big mitres. . This was plain from the com- plete absence of young priests about him. We have seen thai he '*did not take" in Paris. Not a single future dreamed of engrafting itself on tliis solitary old man. Not a single sprout- ing ambition committed tlie folly of putting forth its foliage in his shadow. His canons and grand-vicars were good old men, rather vulgar like himself, walled up like him in this diocese, without exit to a cardinalship, and who resembled their bishop, with this difference, that they were finished and he was com- pleted. The impossibility of growing great under Monseigneur Bienvenu was so well understood, that no sooner had the young men whom he ordained left the seminary than they got them- selves recommended to the archbishops of Aix or of Auch, and went off in a great hurry. For, in short, we repeat it, men wish U> be pushed. A sairt who dwells in n paroxysm of abnegation Digitized by Google FANTINE. 41 Ib a dangerous neighbor; he might communicate to you, b}* co&ti^ion, an incurable poverty, an anchylosis of the joints, which are useful in advancement, and, in short, more renuncia- tion than you desire ; and tliis infectious virtue is avoided. Hence the isolation of Monseigneur Bienvenu. We live in the midst of a gloomy society. Success ; that is the lesson which falls drop by drop from the slope of corruption. Be it said in passing, that success Is a very hideous thing. Its false resemblance to merit deceives men. For the masses ; success has almost the same profile as supremacy. Success, that Meusechmus of talent, has one dupe, — history. Juvenal and Tacitus alone ginimble at it. In our day, a philosophy which is almost official has entered into its service, wears the livery of success, and performs the service of its antechamber. iSuc- ceed : theory. Prosperity argues capacit}'. Win in the lottery, and behold ! you are a clever man. He who triumphs is vener- ated. Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth ! everything lies in that. Be lucky, and you will have all the rest ; be happy, and people will think you great. Outside of five or six immense exceptions, which compose the splendor of a century, contem- poraiy admii*ation is nothing but short-sightedness. Gilding is gold. It does no harm to be the first arrival" by pure chance, 60 IcHig as you do arrive. The common herd is an old Nar* cissus who adores himself, and who applauds the vulgar herd. That enormous ability by virtue of which one is Moses, -^schy- lus, Dante, Michael Angelo, or Napoleon, the multitude awards on the spot, and by acclamation, to whomsoever attains his object, in whatsoever it may consist. Let a notary transfigure himself into a deputy ; let a false Corneille compose Tiridate; let a eunuch come to possess a harem ; let a military Prud« homme accidentally' win the decisive battle of an e|x>ch ; let an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the army of the Sanibre-and-Meuse, and constiiict for himself, out of tiiis card- board, sold as leather, four hundred thousand francs of income ; let a pork-packer espouse usury, and cause it to bring forth seven or eight millions, of which he is the father and of which it is the mother ; let a preacher become a bishop by force of his nasal drawl ; let the steward of a fine family be so rich on retiring from service that he is made minister of finances, — and men call that Genius, just as they call the face of Mousqueton Beauty^ and tlie mien of Claude Majesty. With the constella- tions of space they confound the stars of the abyss which are made in the soft mire of the puddle by the feet of ducks. Digitized by Google BO LES MISÉRABLES. Xni. ^WhaT HE BELIEVED. We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D. on the soora of orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul wu feel ourselves in no mood but respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his word. Moreover, certain natures being given, we admit the possible development of all the beauties of human yirtuc in a belief that differs from our own. What did he think of this dogma, or of that mystery ? These secjrets of the inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb, where souls enter naked. The point on which we are certain is, that the difficulties of faith never resolved them- selves into hypocrisy in his case. No decay is possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of his powers. '* Credo in PaJtrem^'' he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew from good works that amount of satisfaction which suffices to the con- science, and which whispers to a ' man, *' Thou art with God!" The point which we consider it our duty to note is, that out- side of and beyond his faith, as it were, the Bishop possessed an excess of love. In was in that quarter, quia mtUtum amavit, — because he loved much — that he was regarded as vulnerable by " serious men," " grave persons " and ^^ reasonable people" ; favorite locutions of our sad world where egotism takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this excess of love? It was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as we have already pointed out, and which, on occasion, extended even to things. He lived without disdain. He was indulgent towards God's creation. Every man, even the best, has within him >a thouglitless harshness which he reserves for animals. The Bishop of D. had none of that harshness, which is peculiar to many priests, nevertheless. Ho did not go as far as the Brahmin, but he seemed to have weighed this saying of Ecclesiastes : '* Who knoweth whither the soul of the animal goeth?" Hideousness of aspect, de- formity of instinct, troubled him not, and did not arouse his indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It seemed as though he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the bounds of the life which is apparent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for them. He seemed at times to be asking God to commute these penalties. He examined without wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsest, that portion of chaos which still exists in nature. This revery sometimes caused him to utter odd sayings. One morning be Digitized by Google FANTINE. 51 was in his garden, and thought himself alone, but his sister was walking behind him, unseen by him : suddenly he paused and gazed at something on the ground ; it was a large, black, hairy, frightful spider. His sister heard him say : — "Poor beast I It is not its fault ! " Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness ? Puerile they may be ; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to Saint Francis d'Assisi and of Marcus Aure- lius. One day he sprained his ankle in his effort to avoid step- ping on an ant. Thus lived thjs just man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden, and then there was nothing more venerable possible. Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth, and even in regard to his manhood, were to be be- lieved, a passionate, and, possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an instinct of nature than the result of a gi-and conviction which had filtered into his heart through the medinm of life, and had trickled there slowly, thought by thought; for, in a character, as in a reck, there may exist apertures made by drops of water. These hollows are un- effaeeable; these formations are indestructible. In 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his seventy-fifth birthday, but he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was not tall ; he was rather plump ; and, in order to combat this tendency, he was fond of taking long strolls on foot : his step was firm, and his form was but slightly bent, a detail from which we do not pretend to draw any conclusion. Gregory XVI., at the age of eighty, held himself erect and smiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bishop. Monseigneur Wel- come had what the people term " a fine head," but so amiable was he that they forgot that it was fine. When he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his charms, and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease with him, and Joy seemed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh and ruddy complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had preserved, and which were displayed by his smile, gave him that open and easy air which causes the remark to be made of a man, *' He's a good fellow " ; and of an old man, "He is a fine man." That, it will be recalled, was the effect which he produced upon fîapoleon. On the first encounter, and to one who saw him for the first time, he was nothing, in fact, but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours, and beheld him in the least degree pensive, the fine man became gradually transfigured,, and took on some imposing quality, I Digitized by Google 62 LES MISÉRABLES. know not what ; his broad and serious brow, rendered august b^ bis white locks, became august also by virtue of meditation; najesty radiated from his goodness, though his goodness ceased *iot to be radiant ; one experienced something of the emotion which one would feel on beholding a smiling angel slowly unfold his wings, without ceasing to smile. Respect, an unutterable respect, penetrated you by degrees and mounted to your heart, and one felt that one had before him one of those strong, thor- oughly tried, and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it can no longer be anything but gentle. As we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of re- ligion, alms-giving, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit of land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence, study, work, filled every day of his life. Filled is exactly the word ; certainly the Bishop's day was quite full to the bnm, of good words and good deeds.' Nevertheless, it was not complete if cold or rainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his garden before going to bod, and after tlie two women had retired. It seemed to be a sort of rite with him, to prepare himself for slumber by meditation in the presence of the grand spectacles of the nocturnal heavens. Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep, they heard him pacing slowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of the night. He was there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring, comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved amid the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall from the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the hour when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a lamp amid the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the jni versai radiance of creation, he could not have told himself, probably, what was passing in his spirit ; he felt something take its flight from him, and something descend into him. Mysteri- ous exchange of the ab3'sses of tlie soul with the abysses of the universe ! He thought of the grandeur and the presence of God ; of the future eternit3', that strange mystery; of the eternity past, a mystery still more strange ; of all the infinities, which pierced their way into all his senses, beneath his eyes ; and, without seeking to comprehend tlie incomprehensible, he gazed upon it. He did not stud}' God ; he was dazzled by him. Ho considered 'those magnificent conjunctions of atoms, wliich communicate aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them, create indi- Digitized by Google FANTINE. 53 riduatities in unity, proportions in extent, the innumerable in the infinite, and, tbrougli light, produce beauty. These cou- juuctions are formed and dissolved iuoessantly ; hence life and death. He seated himself on a wooden bench, with his back agaiust .1 decrepit vine ; he gazed at the str«rs, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of his fruit-trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so encumbered with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him, and satisfied his wants. What more was needed by this old man, who divided the lei sare of his life, where there was so little leisure, between gar- dening in the daytime and contemplation at night ? Was not this narrow enclosure, with the heavens for a ceiling, sufFudeut to enable him to adore God in his most divine works, in turo " Does not this comprehend all, in fact? and what is there left U ileâire beyond it? A little garden in which to walk, and immen- sity in which to dream. At ope's feet that which can be culti- vated and plucked ; over head that which one can study and medi- tate upon : some flowers on earth, and all the stars in the sky, XIV. — What he thought. One last word. Since this sort of details might, particularly at the present moment, and to use an expression now in fashion, give to the Bishop of D. a certain '^ pantheistical" physiognomy, and induce the belief, either to his credit or his discredit, that he entertained one of those personal philosophies wliich are pecu- liar to our century, which sometimes spring up in solitary spirits, and there take on a form and grow until &ey usurp the place of religion, we insist upon it, that not one of those persons who knew Monseigneur Welcome would have thought himself author- ized to think anything of the sort. That which enlightened this man was his heart. His wisdom was made of the light which comes from there. No systems ; many works. Abstruse speculations contain vertigo ; no, there is nothing to indicate that he risked his mind in apocalypses. The apostle may be daring, but the bishop must be timid.* He would probably have felt a scruple at sounding too far in advance certain problems which are, in a manner, reserved for terrible great minds. There is a sacred horror be- neath the porches of the enigma ; those glolmy openings stand yawning there, but something tells you, you, a passer-by in life, that you must not enter. Woe to him who penetrates thither! Digitized by Google 64 LES MISERABLES. Geniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pun» spéculation, situated, so to speak, a))Ove all dogmas, propose their ideas to (iod. Their prayer audaciously offers discussion. Their adoration interrogates. This is direct religion, which is full of anxiet}' and responsibility for him who attempts ita steep cliffs. Human meditation has no limits. At its own risk and peril it analyzes and digs deep into its own bedazzlement. One might almost say, that by a sort of splendid reaction, it with it daz- zles nature ; the mysterious world which surrounds us render» back what it has received ; it is probable that the contemplator» are contemplated. However that may be, there are on earth men who — are they men ? — perceive distinctly at the verge of the horizons of revery the heights of the absolute, and who have the terrible vision of the infinite mountain. Monseigneur Welcome was not one of those men ; Monseigneur Welcome was not a genius. He would. have feared those sublimities whence some very great men even, like Swedenborg and Pascal, have slipped into insanity. Certainly, these powerful reveries have their moral utility, and by these arduous paths one ap- proaches to ideal perfection. As for him, he took the path which shortens, — the Gospel's. He did not attempt to impart to his chasuble the folds of Elijah's mantle ; he projected no ray of future upon the dark groundswell of events ; he did not seek to condense in flame the light of tilings ; he had nothing of the prophet and nothing of the magician about him. This humble soul loved, and that was all. That he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspira- tion is probable : but one can no more pra}- too much than one can love too much ; and if it is a heresy to pray beyond the texts. Saint Theresa and Saint Jerome would be heretics. He inclined towards all that groans and all that expiates. The universe appeared to him like an immense malady ; every- where he felt fever, everywhere he heard the sound of suffering, and, without seeking to solve the enigma, he strove to dress the wound. The teiTil)ïe spectacle of created things developed ten- derness in him ; he was occupied only in finding for himself, and in inspiring others with the best way to compassionate and relieve. That which exists was for this good and rare pHest a permanentu subject of sadness which sought consola- tion. V There are men who toil at extracting gold ; he toiled at the extraction of pity. Univereal misery was his mine. The Digitized by Google FANTINE. M MfdnesB which reigned everywhere was hut an excuse foi unfailing kindness. Love each other; 'he declared this to be complete, desired nothing further, and that was the whole of his doctrine. One day^ that man who believed himself to be a ^^ philosopher, ** the senator who has already been alluded to, said to the Bishop : ''Just survey the spectacle of the world: all war against all; the strongest has the most wit. Your love each other is non- sense." — " Well" replied Monseigneur Welcome, without con- testing the point, ^^if it is nonsense j the said shotUd shut itselj up in it^ as the pearl in the oyster,** Thus he shut himself up, he lived there, he was absolutely satisfied with it, leaving on one side the prodigious questions which attract and tciTify, the fathomless perspectives of abstraction, the precipices of meta- physics — all those profundities which converge, for the apostle in (rod, for the atheist in nothingness ; destiny, good and evil, the war of being against being, the conscience of man, the thoughtful somnambulism of the animal, the transformation in death, the recapitulation of existences which the tomb contains, the incomprehensible grafting of successive loves on the per- sistent /, the essence, the substance, the Nile, and the Ens, the soul, uatm*e, liberty, necessity ; perpendicular problems, sinister ol)seuritie8, where lean the gigantic archangels of the human mind ; formidable abysses, which Lucretius, Manou, Saint Paul, Dante, contemplate with eyes flashing lightning, which seems b}* its steady gaze on the infinite to cause stars to blaze forth there. Monseigneur Bienvenu was simply a man who took note of the exterior of m3sterious questions without scrutinizing them, and without troubling his own mind with them, and who cher- ished in his own soul a grave respect for darkness. ^cfi^Soo BOOK SECOND.— THE FALL. I. — The Evening op a Day of Walking. Early in the month of October, 1815, about an hour before sunset, a man who was travelling on foot entered the little town of D. The few inhabitants who were at their windows or on their thresholds at the moment stared at this traveller with & sort of uneasiness. It was difficult to encounter a wavfarei Digitized by Google 5C LES MISERABLES. of more wrctchf.'d appearance. He was a man of medium stat ure, thickset aud robust, in the prime of life. He might have been forty-six or forty-eight years old. A cap with a drooping leather visor partly concealed his face, burned and tanned by sun and wind, and dripping with perspiration. His shirt ol coarse yellow linen, fastened at the neck by a small silver an- chor, permitted a view of his hairy breast : he had a cravat twisted into a sti'ing ; trousers of blue drilling, worn and thread- bare, white on one knee and torn on the other ; an old gray, tat- tered blouse, patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on with twine ; a tightly packed soldier's knapsack, well buckled and perfectly new, on his back; an enormous, knott}' stick in his hand ; iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet ; a shaved head and a long beard. The sweat, the heat, the journey on foot, the dust, added I know not what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was closely cut, yet bristling, for it had begun to grow a lit- tle, and did not seem to have been cut for some time. No one knew him. He was evidently only a chance passer- by. Whence came he ? From the soath ; from the seashore, perhaps, for he made his entrance into D. by the same street which, seven months previously, had witnessed the passage of the Emperor Napoleon on his way from Cannes to Paris. This man must have been walking all day. He seemed very much fatigued. Some women of the ancient market town which is situated below the city had seen him pause beneath the trees of the boulevard Gassendi, and drink at the fountain which stands at the end of the promenade. He must have been very thirsty : for the children who followed him saw him stop again for a drink, two hundred paces further on, at the fountain in the market-place. On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poichevert, he turned to the left, and directed his steps toward the town-hall. He entered, then came out a quarter of an hour later. A gendarme was seated near the door, on the stone bench which General Drouot had mounted on the 4th of March to read to the fright- ened throng of inhabitants of D. the proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap and humbly saluted tlie gendarme. The gendarme, without replying to his salute, stared atten tively at him, followed him for a while with his eyes, and then entered the town-hall. There then existed at D. a fine inn at the sign of the C^^ss of Colbas. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquio Digitized by Google FANTINE. 5Ï Labarre, a man of consideration in the town on account of hia relationship to another Labarre, who kept the inn of the Titrée Dauphins in Grenoble, and had served in the Guides. At tlie time of the Emperor's landing many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard to this inn of the Three Lktuphins. It was said that General Bertrand, disguised as a carter, had made frequent trips thither in the month of Januarj-, and that he had distributed crosses of honor to the soldiers and bandfuls of gold to the citizens. The truth is, that when the Em- peror entered Grenoble he had refused to install himself at the hotel of the prefecture ; he had thanked the mayor, saying, ^^lam goiuQ to the house of a hxtve rnaii of my aoquaintance*' ; and he had betaken himself to the Three Dauphins, This glory of the Ubarre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the Labarre of the Cross of Oolbas, at a distance of five and twenty leagues. It was said of him in the town, ** Tliat is the cousin of the man of Grenoble," The man bent his steps towards this inn, which was the best in the country -side. He entered the kitchen, which opened on a level with the street. All the stoves were lighted ; a huge fire blaaed gayly in the fireplace. The host, who was also the chief cook, was going from one stew-pan to another, very busily snperintending an excellent dinner designed for the wagoners, whose loud talking, conversation, and laughter were audible from an adjoining apartment. Any one who has travelled knows that there is no one who indulges in better cheer than wagoners. A fat marmot, flanked by white partridges and heather-cocks, was turning on a long spit before the fire ; on the stove, two huge carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout from Lake Alloz were cooking. The host, hearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter, 8aid, without raising his eyes from his stoves : — "What do you wish, sir?" " Food and lodging," said the man. "Nothing easier," replied the host. At that moment he ^rned his head, took in the traveller's appearance with a single glance, and added, '* By paying for it." The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blonse, and answered, " I have money." "In that case, we are ai; your service," said the host. The man put his purse back in his pocket, removed his knap sack from his back, put it on the ground near the door, retained his grtick in his hand, and seated himself on a low stool close to the tire. D. is in the mountains. The evenings are cold there JÏ October. Digitized by Google 68 LES MISERABLES. But as the host went back and forth, be scrutinized the trav eller. " Will dinner be ready soon? " said the man. *' Immediately," replied the landlord. While the newcomer was warming himself before tûe fire, with his back turned, the worthy host, Jaequin Labarre, drew a pencil from his pocket, then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lyiug on a small table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two, folded it without sealing, and then intrusted this scrap of paper to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion and lackey. The landlord w^hispered a word in the scullion's ear, and the child set off on a run in the direction of the town-hall. The traveller saw nothing of all this. Once more he inquired, '* Will dinner be ready soon?" *' Immediately," responded the host. The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded it eagerly, like a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to read it attentively, then tossed his head, and re- mained thoughtful for a moment. Then he took a step in the direction of the traveller, who appeared to be immersed in reflections which were not very serene. *' I cannot receive you, sir," said he. The man half ro.^e. ''What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do yon want me to pay you in advance? I have money, I tell you." '' It is not that." ''What then?" " You have money — " " Yes," said the man. " And I," said the host, " have no room." The man resumed tranquilly, " Put me in the stable." " I cannot." "Why?" *' The horses take up all the space." " Very well ! " retorted the man ; " a comer of the loft then. a truss of straw. We will see about that after dinner." " I cannot give you any dinner." This declaration, made in a measured but firm tone, struck the stranger as grave. He rose. '• Ah ! bah ! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walk- ing since sunrise. I have travelled twelve league/»^ I pay. I wish to eat."- • " I have nothing," said the landlord. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 5^ Tha man burst ont laughing, and turned towards the flre|)Ue6 iiod the stoves : ^^ Nothing I and all that?" ^* All that is engaged." '♦By whom?** •* By messieurs the wagoners." •* How many are there of them?" •♦Twelve." *♦ There is enough food there for twenty.** ♦♦ They have engaged the whole of it and paid for It in ad- nmce/' The man seated himself again, and said, without raising his foioe, *^ I am at an inn ; I am hungry, and I shall remain." Then the host bent down to his ear, and said in a tone which made him start, '' Go away ! " At that moment the ti*ayeller was bending forward and thrust* Ing some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff ; he turned quickly round, and as he opened }iis mouth to reply, the host gazed steadily at him and added, still in a low voice : '* Stop I there's enough of that sort of talk. Do you want me to tell you your name? Your name is Jean Valjean. Now do you want me to tell you who you are ? When I saw you come in I suspected something ; I sent to the town-hall, and this is the reply that was sent to me. Can you read ? " So saying, he held out to the stranger, fully unfolded, th« paper which had just travelled from the inn to the town-hall, and from the town-hall to the inn. The man cast a glance upon it. The landlord resumed after a pause. •* I am in the habit of being polite to every one. Go away 1" The man dropped his head, picked up the knapsack which he had deposited on the gi-ound, and took his departure. He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a renture, keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man. He did not turn round a single time. Had he done so, he would have seen the host of the Gross of Colbas standing on hi9 threshold, surrounded by all the guests of his inn, and all the posaers-by in the street, talking vivaciously, and pointing him out with his finger ; and, from the glances of terror and distrust cast by the group, he might have divined that his urival would speedily become an event for the whole town. He saw nothing of all this. People who are crushed do not look behind them. They know but too well the evil fate which fbllows them. Thus he proceeded for some time, walking on without ceasmg, tmyersing at random streets of which he knew nothing, for Digitized by Google 60 LES MISERABLES. getfui of his fatigue, as is often the case when a man is sad. All at once he felt the i)ang8 of hunger sharply. Night waâ drawing near. He glanced about him, to see whether he could not discover some shelter. The tine hostelry was closed to him ; he was seeking some very humble public house, some hovel, however lowly. Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets ; a piue branch suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against the white sky of the twilight. He proceeded thither. It proved to be, in fact, a public house. The public house which is in the Rue de ChatTaut. The waymrer halted for a moment, and peeped through the window into the interior of the low-studded room of the public house, illuminated by a small lamp on a table and by a lai^e fire on the hearth. Some men were engaged in drinking thero The landlord was warming himself. An iron pot, suspended from a crane, bubbled over the flame. The entrance to this public house, which is also a sort of an Inn, is by two doors. One opens on the street, the other upon a small yard filled with manure. The traveller dared not enter by the street door. He slipped into the yard, halted again» theo raised the latch timidly and opened the door. ^* Who goes there?" said the master. ** Some one who wants supper and bed.** ** Good. We furnish supper and bed here.** He entered. All the men who were drinking turned round. The lamp illuminated him on one side, the firelight on the o<,hcr. They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack. The host said to hhn, ^^ There is the fire. The supper is cooking in the pot. Come aci warm yourself, comrade." He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched out bis feet, which were exhausted with fatigue, to the fire; a fine odor was emitted by the pot. All thai sould be distinguished of his face, beneath his cap, whicli was well pulled down, assumed a vague appearance of comfort mingled with that other poignant aspect which habitual suffering bestows. It was, moreover, a firm, energetic, and melancholy profile This physiognomy was strangely composed ; it began by seem ing humble, and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes like a fire beneath brushwood. One of the men seated at the table, however, was a fish oaongêr who, before entering the public house of the Bue d( Digitized by Google FANTINB. 61 Chaffaut, had been to stable his horse at Labarre*6. It chauoed that he had that very roorniug encountered tliU unprepossess- ing stranger on the road between Bras d*Asse and — I have forgotten the name. I think it was Ëscoublon. Now, when he met him, the man, who then seemed already extremely weary^ had requested him to take him on his crupper ; to which the Gshmonger had made no reply except b}* redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a member half an hour previously of the group which sui rounded Jaoquin Labarre, and had himself related his disagreeable eucouuter of the morning to the people at the Cross of Colbas, From where he sat he nmde an imper- ceptible sign to the tavern-keeper. The tavern-keeper went to him. They exchanged a few words in a low tone. The man had again become absorbed in his reflections. The tavern-keeper returned to the fireplace, laid his hand abruptly on the shoulder of the man, and said to him : — " You are going to get out of liere." The stranger turned round and replied gently, **Ahf You know?—" ''Yes." *' I was sent away from the other inn." " And you are to be turned out of this one." " Where would you have me go ? " ** Elsewhere." The man took his stick and his knapsack and departed. As he went out, some children who had followed him from Uie Ciryss of Colbas^ and who seemed to be lying in wait for bim, threw stoties at him. He retracme in," said the Bishop. Digitized by Google 70 i^S MJSEHABLEiS. m. — The Heroism or Fassitb Obédience. The door opened. It opened wide with a rapid movement, as though some one had given it an energetic and resolute push. A man entered. We already know the man. It was the wayfarer whom we have seen wandering about in search of shelter. He entered, advanced a step, and halted, leaving the door open behind him. He had his knapsack on his shoulders, bis cudgel in his hand, a rough, audacious, weary, and violent expression in his eyes. The fire on the hearth lighted him up. He was hideous. It was a sinister apparition. Madame Magloire had not even the strength to utter a cry. She trembled, and stood with her mouth wide open. Mademoiselle Baptistine turned round, beheld the man ca- tering, and half started up in terror ; then, turning her head by degrees towards the fireplace again, she- began to observe her brother, and her face became once more prof oundl}"^ calm and serene. The Bishop fixed a tranquil eye on the man. As he opened his mouth, doubtless to ask the new-comer what he desired, the man rested both hands on his staff, directed his gaze in turn at the old man and the two women, and without waiting for the Bishop to speak, he said, in a loud voice : — " See here. My name is Jean Valjean. I am a convict from the galleys. I have passed nineteen years in the galleys. I was liberated four days ago, and am on my waj' to Pontarlier, which is my destination. I have been walking for four days since I loft Toulon. I have travelled a dozen leagues to-day on foot. This evening, when I arrived in these parts, I went to an inn, and they turned me out, because of my yellow passport, which I had shown at the town-hall. I had to do it. I went to an inn. . They said to me, * Be off,* at both places. No one would take me. I went to the prison ; the jailer would not ad- mit me. I went into a dog's kennel ; the dog bit me and chased me off, as though he had been a man. One would have said that he knew who I was. I went into the fields, intending to sleep in the open air, beneath the stars. There were no stars. I thought that it was going to rain, and I re-entered the town, to seek the recess of a doorway. Yonder, in the square, I meant to sleep on a stone bench. A good woman pointed out your house to me, and said to me, ^ Knock there I ' I have Digitized by Google FANTINE. îl knocked. What is this place ? Do 3'ou keep an inn ? I have money — savings. One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous» which I earned in the galleys by my labor, in the course of nineteen years. I will pay. What is that to me? I have money. I am very weary ; twelve leagues on foot ; I am verj hungry. Are you willing that I should remain ? " '* Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, *' you will set another place." The man advanced three paces, and approached the lamp which was on the table. '^ Stop," he resumed, as though he had not quite understood; ^Mhat's not it. Did you hear? I am a galley-slave ; a convict. I come from the galle3's." He drew from his pocket a large sheet of yellow paper, which he unfolded. " Here's my passport. Yellow, as you see. This serves to expel me from every place where I go. Will you read it? I know how to read. I learned in the galleys. There is a school there for those who choose to learn. Hold, this is what they put on this passport: ^Jean Valjean, discharged convict, native of — that is nothing to you — 'has been nine- teen years in the galleys: five years for house-breaking and burglar}' ; fourteen years for having attempted to escape on four occasions. He is a very dangerous man.' There ! Every- one has cast me out. Are you willing to receive me ? Is this an inn ? Will you give me something to eat and a bed ? Have you a stable ? " ^'Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, ''you will put white sheets on the bed in the alcove." We have already explained the character of the two women's obedience. Madame Magloire retired to execute these orders. The Bishop turned to the man. " Sit down, sir, and warm yourself. We are going to sup in a few moments, and your bed will be prepared while you are sapping." At this point the man suddenly comprehended. The expres- sion of his face, np to that time sombre and harsh, bore the imprint of stupefaction, of doubt, of joy, and became extraordi- usry. He began stammering like a crazy man : — "Really? What! You will keep me? You do not drive me forth ? A convict ! You call me sir I You do not address me as thauf ' Get out of here, you dog 1 ' is what people always say to me. I felt sure that you would expel me, so I told yon at once who I am. Oh, what a good woman that was who di- rected me hither ! I am going to sup ! A bed with a mattress and sheets, like the rest of the world ! a bed I Tt is ninet«ieu Digitized by Google 72 LES MISERABLES. years since I have slept in a bed ! You actually do not want me to go ! You are good people. Besides, I liave money. I will pay well. Pardon me, monsieur the inn-keeper, but what is your name ? I will pay anything you ask. You are a fine man. You are an inn-keeper, are you not?" " I am," replied the Bishop, " a priest who lives here." " A priest ! " said the man. *'0h, what a fine priest ! Then you are not going to demand any money of mc ? You are the curé, are you not? the curé of this big church? Well! I am a fool, truly ! I had not perceived your skull-cap." As he spoke, he deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner, replaced his passport in his pocket, and seated himself. Mademoiselle Baptistine gazed mildly at him. He continued : " You are humane. Monsieur le Curé ; you have not scorned me. A good priest is a very good thing. Then you do not re- quire me to pay ? " "No," said the Bishop; "keep your money. How mnch have you? Did you not tell me one hundred and nine francs? ** " And fifteen sous," added the man. "One hundred and nine francs fifteen sous. And bow long did it take you to earn that?" " Nineteen years." " Nineteen years ! " The Bishop sighed deeply. The man continued: " I have still the whole of my money. In four da3's I have spent only twenty-five sous, which I earned by helping unload scToe wagons at Grasse. Since you are an abbé, I will tell you that we had a chaplain in the galleys. And one day I saw a bishop there. Monseigneur is what they call him. He was the Bishop of Majore at Marseilles. He is the curé who rules over the other curés, you understand. Par- don me, I say that very badly ; but it is such a far-off thing to me ! You understand what we are ! He said mass in the mid- dle of the galleys, on an altar. He had a pointed thing, made of gold, on his head ; it glittered in the bright light of midday. We were all ranged in lines on the three sides, with cannons with lighted matches facing us. We could not see very well. He spoke ; but he was too far off, and we did not hear. That is what a bishop is like." While he was speaking, the Bishop had gone and shut the door, which had remained wide open. Madame Magloire returned. She brought a silver fork and spoon, which slie placed on the table. " Madame Magloire," said the Bishop, " place those things Digitized by Google FANTINE. 73 as near the fire as possible." And turning to his guest : " The night wind is hai-sh on the Alps. You must be cold, sir." £ach time that he uttered the word sir, in his voice winch was so gently grave and polished, the man's face lighted up. Mon^ sieur to a convict is like a glass of water to one of the ship wrecked of the Medusa. Ignominy thirsts for consideration. '* This lamp gives a very bad light," said the Bishop. Madame Magloire understood him, and went to get the two silver candlesticks from the chimney-piece in Monseigneur'e bed-chamber, and placed them, lighted, on the table. " Monsieur le Curé," said the man, " you are good ; you do not despise me. You receive me into your house. You light yonr candles for me. Yet I have not concealed fixjm you whence I come and that I am an unfortunate man." The 3ishop, who was sitting close to him, gently touched his hand. " You could not help telling me who you were. This is not my house ; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty ; you are welcome. And do not thank me ; do not say that I receive 3'ou in my house. No one is at home here, except the man who needs a refuge. I say to jou, who are passing by, that you are much more at home here than I am myself. Every- thing here is 3-ours. What need have I to know your name ? Besides, before you told me, you had one which I knew." The man opened his eyes in astonishment. '* Really? You knew what I was called? " " Yes," replied the Bishop, " you are called my brother." " Stop, Monsieur le Curé ! " exclaimed the man. " I was very hungry when I entered here ; but you are so good, that I no longer know what has happened to me." The Bishop looked at him, and said, — " You have suffered much?" "Ob, the red coat, the ball on the ankle, a plank to sleep on, heat, cold, toil, the convicts, the thrashings, the double chain for nothing, the cell for one word ; even sick and in bed, still the chain ! Dogs, dogs are happier ! Nineteen years ! I am fortv-six. Now, there is the yellow passport. That is what it is like." "Yes," resumed the Bishop, "you have come from a very sad place. Listen. There will be more joy in heaven over the tear-bathed face of a repentant sinner than over the white robes if a hundred just men. Tf you emerge from that sad place with thoughts of hatred and of wrath against mankind, you are de- Digitized by Google 74 LES MISÉRABLES. BerviDg of pity ; it you emerge with thoughts of good-wiL éUM) of peace, you are more wortliy than any one of us." In the meantime, Madame M:i- board near the head of the bed. This was her last care every evening before she went to bed. The Bishop installed his guest in the alcove. A fresh white bed had been prepared there. The man set the candle down on a small table. **Well," said the Bishop, "may you pass a good night. To-morrow morning, before you set out, you shall drink a cup of warm milk from our cows." ** Thanks, Monsieur T Abbé," said the man. Hardly had he pronounced these words full of peace, when ail of a sudden, and without transition, he made a strange movement, which would iiave frozen the two sainted women with horror, had they witnessed it. Even at this day it is dilK- cult for us to explain what inspired him at that moment. Did he intend to convey a warning or to throw out a menace? Was he simply obeying a sort of instinctive impulse which was obscure even to himself? He turned abruptly to the old man, folded his arms, and bending upon his host a savage gaze, he exclaimed in a hoarse voice : — '* Ah ! really ! You lodge me in your house, close to your- self , like this ?" He broke off, and added with a laugh in which there lurked something monstrous : — " Have you really reflected well? How do you know that I Dave not been an assassin ? " The Bishop replied : — ** That is the concern of the good God." Then gravely, and moving his lips like one who is praying or talking to himself, he raised two Angers of his right band and bestowed his benediction on tiie man, who did not bow, and without turning his head or looking behind him, he returned to his bedroom. When the alcove was in use, a large serge curtain drawn from wall to wall concealed the altar. The Bishop knelt before this curtain as he passed and said a brief prayer. A moment later he was in his garden, walking, meditating, con- templating, his heart and soul wholly absorbed in those grand and mysterious things which God shows at night to the eyes which remain open. As for the man, he was actually so fatigued that he did not even profit by the nice white sheets. Snuffing out his candle with bis nostrils after the manner of convicts, he dropped, aV Digitized by Google FAN TINE. 79 dressed as he was, upon the bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep. Midnight struck as the Bishop returned from his garden to his apartment. A few minutes later all were asleep in the little house. VI. — Jean Valjean. Towards the middle of the night, Jean Valjean woke. Jean Valjenn came from a poor peasant family of Brie. He %ad not learned to read in his childhood. When he reached man's estate, he became a tree-pruner at Faverolles. His mother was named Jeanne Mathieu ; his father was called Jean Valjean or V4ajean, probaT)ly a sobriquet, and a contraction of voilà JeaUj "here's Jean." Jean Valjean was of that thoughtful but not gloomy disposi- tion which constitutes the peculiarity of affectionate natures. On the whole, however, there was something decidedly sluggish and insignificant about Jean Valjean, in appearance, at least. He had lost his father and mother at a very earh' age. His mother had died of a milk fever, which had not been properly attended to. His father, a tree-pruner, like himself, had been killed by a fall from a tree. All that remained to Jean Val- jean was a sister older than himself, — a widow with seven chil- dren, boys and girls. This sister had brought up Jean Valjean, and so long as she had a husband she lodged and fed her young brother. The husband died. The eldest of the seven children was eight jears old. The youngest, one. Jean Valjean had just attained his twenty-fifth year. He took the father's place, and, in his turn, supported the sister who had brought him up. This was done simply as a duty and even a little churlishly on the part of Jean Valjean. Thus Ills youth had been spent in rude and ill-paid toil. He had never known a "kind woman friend" in his native parts. He had not had the time to fall in love. He returned at night weary, and ate his broth without utter- mg a word. His sister, mother Jeanne, often took the best part of his repast from his bowl while he was eating, — a bit of meat, a slice of bacon, the heart of the cabbage, — to give to one of her children. As he went on eating, with his head bent over the table and almost into his soup, his long hair falling about his bowl and concealing his eyes, he had the air of per Digitized by Google 80 LES MISÉRABLES. oeiving nothing and allowing it. There was at FavePjUes, not far from tlie Val jean thatched cottage, on the other side of the» lane, a farmer's wife named Marie-Claude ; the Valjean chil- dren, habitually famished, sometimes went to borrow from Marie-Claude a pint of milk, in their mother's name, which they drank behind a hedge or in some alley corner, snatching ) the jug from each other so hastily that the little girls spilled it . on their aprons and down their necks. If their mother had known of this marauding, she would have punished the delin- quents severely. Jean Valjean gruffly and grumblingly paid Marie-Claude for the pint of milk behind their mother's back, and the children were not punished. In pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day ; then he hired out as a hay-maker, as laborer, as neat-herd on a farm, as a drudge. He did whatever he could. His lister workecl also, but what could she do with seven little children? It wa.'a a sad group enveloped in misery, which was being gradually annihilated. A very hard winter came. Jean had no work. The family had no bread. No bread literally. Seven children \ One Sunday evening, Maubert Tsabeau, the baker on the Church Square at Faverolles, was preparing to go to bed, whei> he heard a violent blow on the grated front of his shop. He arrived in time to see an arm passed through a hole made by a blow from a fist, through the grating and the glass. Th« arm seized a loaf of bread and carried it off. Isabeau ran out in haste ; the robber fled at the full speed of his legs. Isabeau ran after him and stopped him. The thief had flung away the loaf, but his arm was still bleeding. It was Jean Valjean. This took place in 1795. Jean Valjean was taken before the tribunals of the time for theft and breaking a ad entering an inhabited house at night. He had a gun . which he used better than any one else in the world, he was a bit of a poacher, and this injured his case. There exists a legitimate prejudice against i)oachers. The poacher, like the smuggler, smacks too strongly of the brigand. Nevertheless, we will remark cursorily, there is still an abyss between these races of men and the hideous assassin of the towns. The poacher lives in the forest, the smuggler lives in the mountains or on the sea The cities make ferocious men because they make corrupt men The mountain, the sea, the forest, make savage men ; they develop the fierce side, but often without destroying the humane side. Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty. The terms of the Cod* were explicit. There occur formidable hours in our civilization • Digitized by Google FANTINE. 81 there are moments when the penal laws decree a shipwreck. What an ominous minate is that in which society draws back and consummates the irreparable abandonment of a sentient l)eiug! Jean Valjean was condemned to five years in the galleys. On the 22d of April, 1796, the victory of Montenotte, won by the general-in-chief of the army of Italy, whom the mes- sage of the Directory to the Five Hundred, of the 2d of Flo- réal, year IV., calls Buona-Parte, was announced in Paris; on that same day a great gang of galley-slaves was put in chains at Bicetre. Jean Valjean formed a part of that gang. An old turnkey of the prison, who is now nearly eighty years old, still recalls perfectly that unfortunate wretch who was chained to the end of the fourth line, in the north angle of the court- yard. He was seated on the ground like the others. He did not seem to comprehend his position, except that it was horri- ble. It is probable that he, also, was disentangling from amid the vague ideas of a poor man, ignorant of everything, some- thing excessive. While the holt of his iron collar was being riveted behind his head with heavy blows from the hammer, he wept, his tears stifled him, they impeded his speech ; he only manned to say from time to time, '' I was a tree-pruner at FaveroUcs." Then still sobbing, he raised his right hand and lowered it gradually seven times, as though he were touching in succession seven heads of unequal heights, and from this gesture it was divined that the thing which he had done, what- ever it was, he had done for the sake of clothing and nourishing seven little children. He set out for Toulon. He arrived there, after a journey of twenty-seven days, on a cart, with a chain on his neck. At Toulon he was clothed in the red cassock. All that had consti- tuted his life, even to his name, was effaced ; he was no longer even Jean Valjean ; he was number 24,601. What became of his sister? What became of the seven children? Who troubled himself about that? What becomes of the handful of leaves from the young tree which is sawed off at the root ? It is alwa3*s the same story. These poor living beings, these '.reatures of God, henceforth without support, without guide, without refuge, wandered away at random, — who even knows? • -each in his own direction perhaps, and little by little buried themselves in that cold mist which engulfs solitary destinies; gloom V shades, into which disappear in succession so many unlucky heads, in the sombre march of the human race. They quitted the country. The clock-tower of what had been their Digitized by Google 82 LES MISERABLES. village forgot them ; the boundary line of what had been their field forgot them ; after a few years' residence in the galleys, Jean Val jean himself forgot them. In that heart, where there had been a wound, there was a scar. That is ail. Only once, during all the time which he spent at Toulon, did he hear his sister mentioned. This happened, I think, towards the end of the fourth year of his captivity. I know not through what channels the news reached him. Some one who had known thern in their own country had seen his sister. She was in Paris. She lived in a poor street near Saint-Sulpice, in the Rue du Giudre. She had with her only one child, a little boy, the youngest. Where were the other six ? Perhaps she did not know herself. Every morning she went to a printing ollice, No. 3 Rue du Sabot, where she was a folder and stitcher. She was obliged to be there at six o'clock in the morning — long before daylight in winter. In the same building with the printing office there was a school, and to this school she took her little boy, who was seven years old. But as she entered the printing office at six, and the school only opened at seven, the child had to wait in the courtyard, for the school to open, for an hour — one hour of a winter night in the open air ! They would not allow the child to come into the printing office, because he was in the way, they said. When the workmen passed in the morning, they beheld this poor little being seated on the pavement, overcome with drowsiness, and often fast asleep in the shadow, crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it rained, an old woman, the portress, took pity on him ; she took him into her den, where there was a pallet, a spinning-wheel, and two wooden chairs, and the little one slumbered in a corner, pressing himself close to the cat that he might suffer less from cold. At seven o'clock the school opened, and he entered. That is what was told to Jean Val jean. They talked to him about it for one day ; it was a moment, a flash, as though a window had suddenly been opened upon the destiny of those beings whom he had loved; then all closed again. He heard nothing more forever. Nothing fiom them ever reached him again ; he never beheld them ; he never met them again ; and in the continuation of this mournful history they will not be met with any more. Towards the end of this fourth year Jean Val jean's turn to escape arrived. His comrades assisted him, as is the custom in that sad place. He escaped. He wandered fur two clays in the fields at liberty, if being at liberty is to be hunted, to turn the head every instant, to quake at the slightest noise, to be afraid Digitized by Google FANTINE. m of everything, — of a smoking roof, of a passing man, of a barking clog, of a galloping horse, of a striking clock, of the day because one can see, of the niglit because one cannot see, of the highway, of the path, of a bush, of sleep. On tiie even- ing of the second day he was captured. He had neither eaten nor slept for thirty -six hours. The maritime tribunal con- demned him, for this crime, to a prolongation of his term for three years, which made eight years. In the sixth year his turn to escape occurred again ; he availed himself of it, but conld not accomplish his flight fully. He was missing at roll- call. The cannon were fired, and at night the patrol found him hidden under the keel of a vessel in process of construction ; he resisted the galley guards who seized him. Kscaix! and rebel- lion. This case, provided for by a special code, was punished by an addition of five years, two of them in the double chain. Thirteen years. In the tenth 3'ear his turn came round again ; he again profited by it ; he succeeded no better. Three years for this fresh attempt. Sixteen years. Fhially, I think it was during his thirteenth year, he made a last attempt, and only suc- ceeded in getting retaken at the end of four hours of absence. Tiiree years for those four hours. Nineteen years. In October, 1815, he was released ; he had entered there in 1796, for having broken a i)ane of glass and taken a loaf of bread. Room for a brief parenthesis. This is the second time, dur- ing his studies on the penal question and damnation by law, that tlie author of this book has come across tlie theft of a loaf of bread as the point of departure for the disaster of a destiny. Claude Guaux had stolen a loaf; Jean Valjean had stolen a loaf. English statistics prove the fact that four thefts out of five in Ix>ndon have hunger for their immediate cause. Jean Valjean had entered the galleys sobbing and shuddering; he emerged impassive. He had entered in despair ; he emerged gloomy. What bad taken place in that soul? VII. — The Interior op Despair. Let us try to say it. It is necessary that society should look at these things, be- cause it is itself which creates them. He was, as we have said, an ignorant man, but he was not a fool. The light of nature was ignited in him. Unhappiness, which also possesses a clearness of vision of its own, augmented the small amount of daylight which existed in this mind. Be* Digitized by Google 84 LES MISÉRABLES. neath the cudgel, beneath the chain, in the cell, in hardship^ beneath the burning sun of the galleys, upon the plank bed o( the convict, he withdrew into his own consciousness and medi* tated. He sonstituted himself the tribunal. He began by putting himself on trial. He recognized the fact that he was not an innocent man au« justly punished. He admitted that he had committed an ex treme and blamewortliy act ; that that loaf of bread would prob ably not have been refused to him had he asked for it ; that, in any case, it would have been better to wait until he could get it through compassion or through work ; that it is not an unan* swerable argument to say, '' Can one wait when one is hungry? " That, in the first place, it is very rare for any one to die ot hunger, literally; and next, that, fortunately or unfortunately, man is so constituted that he can suffer long and much, both morally and physically, without jlying ; that it is therefore nee • essary to liave patience ; that that would even have been bette" for those ix)or little children ; that it had been an act of mad • ness for him, a miserable, unfortunate wretch, to take society at large violently by the collar, and to imagine that one can ea cape from misery through theft; that that is in any case ft poor door through which to escape from misery through which infamy enters ; in short, that he was in the wrong. Then he asked himself — Whether he had been the onlj' one in fault in his fatal his • tory. Whether it was not a serious thing, that he, a laborer, out of work, that he, an industrious man, should have lacked bread. And whether, the fault once committed and confesseil, the chastisement had not been ferocious and disproportioned. Whether there liad not been more abuse on the part of the law. In respect to the penalty, than there had been on tlie part of the culprit in respect to his fault. Whether there had not been an excess of weights in one balance of the scale, in the one which contains expiation. Whether the over-weight of the pen- alty was not equivalent to the annihilation of the crime, ami did not result in reversing the situation, of replacing tlie fauU of the delinquent by the fault of the repression, of converting* the guilty man into the victim, and the debtor into the creditor, and of ranging the law definitely on the side of the man who bad violated it. Whether this penalty, complicated by successiye aggravationR for attempts at escape, had not ended in becoming a sort of outrage perpetrated by the stronger upon the feebler, a crime o^ Digitized by Google FANTINE. 85 society against the individual, a crime which was being com- mitted afresh every day, a crime which had lasted nineteen years. He asked himself whether human society could have the right to force its members to suffer equally in one case for its own unreasonable lack of foresight, and in the other case for its piti- less foresight; and to seize a poor man forever between a defect and an excess, a default of work and an excess of punish- ment. Whether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus pre- cisely those of its members who were the least well endowed in the division of goods made by chance, and consequently the most deserving of consideration. These questions put and answered, he judged society and condemned it. He condemned it to his hatred. He made it responsible for the fate which he was suffering, and he said to himself that it might be that one day he should not hesitate to call it to account. He declared to himself that there was no equilibrium between the harm which he had caused and the harm which was being done to him ; he finally arrived at the conclusion that his punishment was not, in truth, unjust, but that it most assuredly was iniquitous. Anger may be both foolish and absurd ; one can be irritated wrongifully ; one is exasperated only when there is some show of right on one's side at bottom. Jean Valjean felt himself exasperated. And besides, human society had done him nothing but harm *, he had never seen anything of it save that angry face which it calls Justice, and which it shows to those whom it strikes. Men had only touched him to bruise him. Eveiy contact with them had been a blow. Never, since his infancy, since the days of his mother, of his sister, had he ever encountered a friendl}^ word and a kindly glance. From suffering to suffering, he had gradually arrived at the conviction that life is a war ; and that in this war he was the conquered. He had no other weapon than his hate. He resolved to whet it in the galleys and to bear it away with him when he departed. There was at Toulon a school for the convicts, kept by the Ignorantin friars, where the most necessary branches were taught to those of the unfortunate men who had a mind for them. He was of the number who had a mind. He went to school at the nge of forty, and learned to read, to write, to cipher. He felt that to fortify his intelligence was to fortify his hate. In certain eases, edupation and enlightenment can serve to eke out evil. Digitized by Google 86 LES MISÉRABLES. This is a sad thing to say ; after having judged society, which had caused his unhappiness, he judged Provideuce, which had made society, and he condemned it also. Thus during nineteen years of torture and slavery, this soul mounted and at the same time fell. Light entered it on one side, and darkness on the other. Jean Val jean had not, as we have seen, an evil nature. He was still good when he arrived at the galleys. He there con- demned society, and felt that he was becoming wicked ; he there condemned Providence, and was conscious that he was becoming impious. It is diiUcult not to indulge in meditation at this point. Does human nature thus change utterly and from top to bot- tom ? Can the man created good by God be rendered wicked by man ? Can the soul be completely made over by fate, and become evil, fate being evil? Can the heart become misshapen and contract incurable deformities and infirmities under the op- pression of a disproportionate unhappiness, as the vertebral column beneath too low a vault? Is there not in every human soul, was there not in the soul of Jean Val jean in particular, a first spark, a divine element, incorruptible in this world, immortal in the other, which good can develop, fan, ignite, and make to glow with splendor, and which evil can never wholly extinguish ? Grave and obscure questions, to the last of which every phys- iologist would probably have responded no, and that without hesitation, had he beheld at Toulon, during the hours of repose, which were for Jean Val jean hours of re very, this gloom}' galley- slave, seated with folded arms upon the bar of some capstan, with the end of his chain thrust into his pocket to prevent it< dragging, serious, silent, and thoughtful, a pariah of the laws which regarded the man with wrath, condemned by civilization, and regarding heaven with severity. Certainly, — and we make no attempt to dissimulate the fact, — the observing physiologist wouul have beheld an irremediable misery ; he would, perchance, have pitied this sick man, of the law's making ; but he would not have even essayed any tieat- ment ; he would have turned aside his gaze from the caverns of which he would have caught a glimpse within this soul, and, like Dante at the portals of hell, he would have effaced from this Existence the word which the finger of God has, nevertheless, inscribed upon the brow of every man, — hope. Was this state of his soul, which we have attempted to ana- lyze, as perfectly clear to Jean Valjean as we have tried to ren- der it for those who read us? Did Jean Valjeaa distinctly Digitized by Google FAN TINE. S7 perceive, after their formation, and had he seen distinctly dur- ing the process of their formation, all the elements of which his moral misery was composed ? Had this rough and unlettered man gathered a perfectly clear perception of the succession of ideas through which lie had, by degrees, mounted and de» gcended to the lugubrious aspects which had, for so many years, formed the inkier horizon of his spirit? Was he conscious of all that passed within him, and of all that was working there? That is something which we do not presume to state ; it is some- thing which we do not even believe. There was too much igno- rance in Jean Valjean, even after his misfortune, to prevent much vagueness from still lingering there. At times, he did not rightly know himself what he felt. Jean Valjean was in the shadows ; he suffered in the shadows ; he hated in the shadows ; one might have said that he hated in advance of himself. He dwelt habitually in this shadow, feeling his way like a blind man and a dreamer. Only, at intervals, there suddenly came to him, from without and from within, an access of wrath, a surcharge of sufTering, a livid and rapid flash which illuminated his whole soul, and caused to appear abruptly all around him, in front, behind, amid the gleams of a frightful light, the hideous preci- pices and the sombre perspective of his destiny. The flash passed, the night closed in again ; and where was he ? He no longer knew. The peculiarity Df pains of this na- ture, in which that which is pitiless — that is to sa}', that which is brutalizing — predominates, is to transform a man, little by little, by a sort of stupid transfiguration, into a wild beast; sometimes into a ferocious beast. Jean Valjean's successive and obstinate attempts at escape would alone suffice to prove this strange working of the law upon the human soul. Jean Valjean would have renewed these attempts, utterly useless and foolish as they were, as often as the opportunity had presented itself, without reflecting for an instant on the result, nor on the experiences which he had al- ready gone through. He escaped impetuously, like the wolf who finds his cage open. Instinct said to him, " Flee ! " Rea- son would have said, " Remain ! " But in the presence of so violent a temptation, reason vanished ; nothing remained but instinct. The beast alone acted. When he was recaptured, the fresh severities inflicted ofl him only served to render him still more wild. One detail, which we must not omit, is that he possessed a physical strength which was not approached by a single one of the denizens of the galleys. At work, at paying out a cable 01 Digitized by Google 88 LES MISÉRABLES. wiuding up a capstan, Jean Valjean was worth four men. Ha Bometiines lifted and sustained enormous weights on his back ; and when the occasion demanded it, he ;*eplaced that implement which is called a jack-screw, and was formerly called orgueil [pride], whence, we may remark in passing, is derived the name of the Rue Montorgueil, near the Halles [Fishmarket] in Paris. His comrades had nicknamed him Jean the Jack-screw. Once, when they were repairing the balcony of the town-hall at Tou- lon, one of those admirable caryatids of Puget, which Bup]K>rt the balcony, became loosened, and was on the point of falling. Jean Valjean, who was present, sup|x>rted the caryatid with his shoulder, and gave the workmen time to arrive. His suppleness even exceeded his strength. Certain convicts who were forever dreaming of escape, ended by making a veri- table science of foi-ce and skill combined. It is the science of muscles. An entire system of mysterious statics is daily prac- tised by prisoners, men who are forever envious of the flies and birds. To climb a vertical surface, and to And ][>oints of sup- port where hardly a projection was visible, was play to Jean Valjean. An angle of the wall being given, with the tension of his back and his legs, with his elbows and his heels fitted into the unevennesscs of the stone, he raised himself as if by magic to the third story. He sometimes mounted thus even to the roof of the galley prison. He spoke but little. He laughed not at all. An excessive emotion was required to wring from him, once or twic« a year, that lugubrious laugh of the convict, which is like the echo oif the laugh of a demon. To all appearance, he seemed to be occupied in the constant contemplation of something terrible. He was absorbed, in fact. Athwart the unhealthy perceptions of an incomplete nature and a crushed intelligence, he was confusedly conscious that some monstrous thing was resting on him. In that obscure and wan shadow within which he crawled, each time that he turned his neck and essayed to raise his glance, he perceived with ter- ror, mingled with rage, a sort of frightful accumulation of things, collecting and mounting above him, beyond the range of his vision, — laws, prejudices, men, and deeds, — whose out- lines escaped him, whose mass terrified him, and which was nothing else than that prodigious pyramid which we call civili- zation. He distinguished, here and there in that swarming and formless mass, now near him, now afar oflP and on inaccessible table-lands, some group, some detail, vividly illuminated ; here the galley-sergeant and his cudgel ; there the gendarme and his Digitized by Google Jf'ANTINE. 89 •word ; yonder the mitred archbishop ; away at the top, like a Bort of sun, the Emperor, crowned and dazzling. Jt seemed tc him that these distant splendors, far from dissipating his nighty rendered it more funereal and more black. All this — laws, preju- dices, deeds, men, things — went and came above him, over his head, in accordance with the complicated and mysterious move- ment which God imparts to civilization, walking over him and crushing him with 1 know not what peacefulness in its crueltj and inexorability in its indifference. Souls which have fallen to the bottom of all possible misfortune, unhappy men lost in the lowest of those limbos at which no one any longer looks, the reproved of the law, feel the whole weight of this human society, so formidable for him who is without, so frightful for him who is beneath, resting uix)n their heads. In this situation Jean Valjean meditated ; and what could be the nature of his meditation? If the grain of millet beneath the millstone had thoughts, it would, doubtless, thiuk that same thing which Jean Valjean thought. All these things, realities full of spectres, phantasmagories full of realities, had eventually created for him a sort of intcrioi state which is almost indescribable. At times, amid his convict toil, he paused. He fell to think- ing. His reason, at one and the same time riper and morç troubled than of yore, rose in revolt. Everything which ha<| happened to him seemed to him absurd; everything that sur- rounded him seemed to him impossible. He said to himself, '^I{ is a dream." He gazed at the galley-sei^eant standing a few paces from him ; the galley-sergeant seemed a phantom to him. All of a sudden the phantom dealt him a blow with his cudgel. Visible nature hardly existed for him. It would almost be true to say that there existed for Jean Valjean neither sun, nor fine summer days, nor radiant sky, nor fresh April dawns. I know not what vent-hole daylight habitually illumined his soul. To sum up, in conclusion, that which can be summed up and translated into positive results in all that we have just pointed out, we will confine ourselves to the statement that, in the course of nineteen years, Jean Valjean, the inoffensive tree-pruner ol Faverolles, the formidable convict of Toulon, had become capa- ble, thanks to the manner in which the galleys had moulded him, of two sorts of evil action : fii-stly, of evil action which was rapid, unpremeditated, dashing, entirely instinctive, in the nature of reprisals for the evil which he had undergone ; sec- oo(ilv, of evil action which was serious, grave, consciously ar Digitized by Google 90 LES MISÉRABLES. gued ont and premeditated, with the false ideas which soch a misfortune can furnish. His deliberate deeds passed tlu'ougb three successive phases, which natures of a certain stamp can alone traverse, — reasoning, will, perseverance. He had for moving causes his habitual wrath, bitterness of soul, a profound sense of indignities suffered, the reaction even against the good, the innocent, and the just, if there are any such. The point of departure, like the point of arrival, for ail his thoughts, was hatred of human law ; that hatred which, if it be not arrested in 'its development by some providential incident, becomes, within V given time, the hatred of society, then the hatred of the juman race, then the hatred of creation, and which manifests itself by a vague, incessant, and brutal desire to do harm to some living being, no matter whom. It will be perceived thaï it was not without reason that Jean Valjean's passpoit described him as a very dangerous man. . From year to year this soul had dried away slowly, but witli fatal sureness. When the heart is dry, the eye is dry. On his departure from the galleys it had been nineteen yeara since he had shed a tear. Vin. — Billows and Shadows. A. MAN overboard ! What matters it ? The vessel does not halt. The wind blows. That sombre ship has a path which it is forced to pursue. It passes on. The man disappears, then reappears; he plunges, he rises again to the surface ; he calls, he stretches out his arms ; he is not heard. The vessel, trembling under the hurricane, is wholly absorbed in its own workings ; the passengers and sailors do not even see the drowning man ; his miserable head is but a speck amid the immensity of the waves. He gives vent to des« perate cries from out of the depths. What a spectre is that re- treating sail ! He gazes and gazes at it frantically. It retreats, it grows dim, it diminishes in size. He was there but just now, he was one of the crew, he went and came along the deck with the rest, he had his part of breath and of sunlight, he was a living man. Now, what has taken place? He has slipped, he has fallen ; all is at an end. He is in the tremendous sea. Under foot he has nothing but what flees and crumbles. The billows, torn and lashed by the wind, encompass him hideously ; the tossings of the abyss beat him away ; all the tongues of water dash over his head ; a popo- Digitized by Google FANTINE. 91 laoe of waves spite upon him ; confused opening half devoui him ; every time that he sinks, he catches glimpses of precipicel filled with night ; frightful aud unknown vegetations seize him, knot about his feet, draw him to them ; he is conscious that he is becoming an abyss, that he forms part of the foam ; the waves toss him from one to another ; he drinks in the bitterness ; the cowardly ocean attacks him furiously, to drown him ; the enor- mity plays with his agony. It seems as though all that water were hate. Nevertheless, he struggles. He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he makes an effort; he swims. He, his petty strength all el hausted instantly, combats the inexhaustible. Where, then, is the ship? Yonder. Barely visible in the pale shadows of the horizon. The wind blows iu gusts ; all the foam overwhelms him. He raises his eyes^ and beholds only the lividness of the clouds. He witnesses, amid his death-pangs, the immense madness of the sea. He is tortured by this madness ; he hears noises strange to man, which seem to come from be3'ond the limits of the earth, and from one knows not what frightful region beyond. There are birds in the clouds, just as there are angels above human distresses ; but what can they do for him ? They sing and fly and float, and he, he rattles in the death agony. He feels himself buried in those two infinities, the ocean and the sk^', at one and the same time : the one is a tomb ; the othe» is a shroud. Night descends; he has been swimming for hours; hiC strength is exhausted ; that ship, that distant thing in which therd were men, has vanished ; he is alone in the formidable twilight gulf ; he sinks, he stiffens himself, he tv/ists himself ; he feelff under him the monstrous billows of the invisible ; he shouts. There are no more men. Where is God? He shouts. Help ! Help ! He still shouts on. Nothing on the horizon ; nothing in heaven He implores the expanse, the waves, the seaweed, the reef ; they are deaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest obeys only the infinite. Around him darkness, fog, solitude, the stormy and non-sen- tient tumult, the undefined curling of those wild waters. In him horror and fatigue. Beneath him the depths. Not a point of support. He thinks of the gloomy adventures of the corpse in the limitless shadow. The bottomless cold paralyzes him. Uia iiands contract convulsively ; they close, and grasp nothingness. Digitized by Google 92 LES MISER ABIES. Winds, cloads, whirlwinds, gnsts, useless stare I What is t« ^ done? The desperate man gives up; he is weary, ha chooses the alternative of death ; he resists not ; he lets him delf go ; he abandons his grip ; and tlien he tosses forevermore in the lugubrious dreary depths of engulfment. Oh, implacable march of human societies ! Oh, losses of men ^nd of souls on the way ! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip ! Disastrous absence of help ! Oh, moral death ! The sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws fling their condemned. The sea is the immensity of wretch-- edness. The soul, going down stream in this gulf, may become m corpse. . Who shall resuscitate it? IX.— Nbw Troubles. When the hour came for him to take his departure from th« galleys, when Jean Valjean heard in his ear the strange woixis, Thou art free! the moment s'^emed improbable and unprece« dented ; a ray of vivid light, a ray of the time light of the living, suddenly penetrated within him. il(it it was not long before this ray paled. Jean Valjean had been dazzled by the idea of liberty . He had believed in a new life. He very speedily per- ceived what sort of liberty it is to which a yellow passport is provided. And this was encompassed with much bitterness. He had calculated that his earnings, during his sojourn in the galleys, ought to amount to a hundred and seventy-one francs. It is but just to add that he had forgotten to include in his calc:ila« tions the forced repose of Sundays and festival days during nineteen years, which entailed a diminution of about eighty francs. At all events, his hoard had been reduced by various local levies to the sum of one hundred and nine francs fifteen «ous, whicli had been counted out to him on his departure. He had understood nothing of this, and had thought himself wronged. Let us say the word — robbed. On the day following his liberation, he saw, at Grasse, in front of an orange-flower distillery, some men engaged in un- loadi ng bales. He offered his services. Business was pressing ; they were accepted. He set to work. He was intelligent, ro* bust, adroit ; he did his best ; the master seemed pleased. Whi.^ he was at work, a gendarme passed, observed him, and de- roauded his papers. It was necessary to show him the yellow Digitized by Google FANTINE. 93 passport. That done, Jean Valjean resumed his labor. A lit* tie while before he had questioned one of the workmen as to the amount which they earned each day at this occupation ; he had been told thiHy sous. When evening arrived, as he was forced to set out again on the following day, he presented himself to the owner of the distillery and requested to be paid. The owner did not utter a word, but handed him fifteen sous. He objected. He was told, ^^TIuU is enough for thee.'* He persisted. Tba master looked him straight between the eyes, and said to him, ^^ Beware of the prison.** There, again, he considered that he had been robbed. Society, the State, by diminishing his hoard, had robbed him wholesale. Now it was the individual who was robbing him at retail. Liberation is not deliverance. One gets free from the gal- leys, but not from the sentence. That is what happened to him at Grasse. We have seen m what manner he was received at D. X. — Th£ Man aroused» As the Cathedral clock struck two in the morning, Jean Val* ]ean awoke. What woke him was that his bed was too good. It was nearly twenty years since he had slept in a bed, and, altliough he had not undressed, the sensation was too novel not to disturb his slumbers. He had slept more than four hours. His fatigue had passed away. He was accustomed not to devote many hours to reix)se. He opened his eyes and stared into the gloom wliich sur- rounded him; then he closed them again, with the intention of going to sleep once more. When man}' varied sensations have agitated the day, when various matters preoccupy the mind, one falls asleep once, but not a second time. Sleep comes more easily than it returns. This is what happened to Jean Valjean. He could not get to sleep again, and he fell to thinking. He was at one of those moments when the thoughts which one has in one's mind are troubled. There was a sort of dark confusion in his brain. His memories of the olden time and of the immediate present floated there pell-pell and mingled con- fusedly, losing their proper forms, becoming disproportionately targe, then suddenlj disappearing, as in a muddy and perturbed Digitized by Google 94 t.ES MISÉRABLES. pool. Many thoughts occurred to him ; but there was one whicb kept constantly presenting itself afresh, and which drove away all the others. We will mention this thonght at once : he had observed the six sets of silver forks and spoons and the ladle which Madame Magloire had placed on the table. Those six sets of silver haunted him. — They were there. — A few paces distant. — Just as he was traversing the adjoining room to reach the one in which he then was, the old servant-woman had been in the act of placing them in a little cupboard near the head of the bed. — He had taken careful note of this cupboard. — On the right, as you entered from the dining-room. — They were solid. — And old silver. — From the ladle one could get at least two hundred francs. — Double what he had earned in ^neteen years. — It is true that he would have earned more if *' the administration had not robbed him,** His mind wavered for a whole hour in fluctuations with which there was certainly mingled some struggle. Three o'clock struck. He opened his eyes again, drew himself up abruptly into a sit- ting posture, stretched out his ann and felt of his knapsack^ which he had thrown down on a corner of the alcove ; then he hung his legs over the edge of the bed, and placed his feet on the floor, and thus found himself, almost without knowing it, seated on his bed. He remained for a time thoughtfully in this attitude, which vould have been suggestive of something sinister for any one who had seen him thus in the dark, the only person awake in Ihat house where all were sleeping. All of a sudden he stooped down, removed his shoes and placed them softly on the mat l)e- tide the bed ; then he resumed his thoughtful attitude, and be« came motionless once more. Throughout this hideous meditation, the thoughts which we have al)ove indicated moved incessantly through his brain; entered, withdrew, re-entered, and in a manner oppressed him ; and then he thought, also, without knowing why, and with the mechanical persistence of re very, of a convict named Brevet, whom he had known in the galleys, and whose trousers had been upheld by a single suspender of knitted cotton. The checkered pattern of that suspender recurred incessantly to his mind. He remained in this situation, and would have so remained indefinitely, even until daybreak, had not the clock struck one -^the half or quarter hour. It seemed to him that that stroke said to him, "Come on !" He rose to his feet, hesitated still another moment, and lis- tened; all was quiet in the house: theu he walked straight Digitized by Google PANTINE. 99 ahead, with short steps, to the window, of which he caught a glimpse. The night was not very dark ; there was a full moon, across which coursed large clouds, driven by the wind. Thia created, outdoors, alternate shadow and gleams of light, eclipses, then bright openings of the clouds; and indoors a sort of twi- light. This twilight, sufficient to enable a person to see his way, intermittent on account of the clouds, resembled the sort of livid light which falls through an air-hole in a cellar, befori which the passers-b}' come and go. On arriving at the window, Jean Valjean examined it. It had no grating ; it opened ii the garden and was fastened, according to the fashion of th€ country, only by a small pin. He opened it; but as a rush of cold and piercing air penetrated the room aL; iptl}-, he closed it again immediately. He scrutinized the garden with that atten- tive gaze which studies rather than looks. The garden was enclosed by a tolerably low white wall, easy to climb. Far away, at the extremity, he perceived tops of trees, spaced at regular intervals, which indicated that the wall separated the garden from an avenue or lane planted with trees. Having taken this survey, he executed a movement like that of a man who has made up his mind, strode to his alcove, grasped his knapsack, opened it, fumbled in it, pulled out of it something which he placed on the bed, put his shoes into one of his pockets^ shut the whole thing up again, threw the knapsack on his shoulders, put on his cap, drew the visor down over his eyes, felt for his cudgel, went and placed it in the angle of the window ; then returned to the bed, and resolutely seized the object which he had deposited there. It resembled a short bar of iron, pointed like a pike at one end. It would have been diffi- cult to distinguish in that darkness for what employment that bit of iron could have been designed. Perhaps it was a lever ; possibly it was a club. In the daytime it would have been possible to reoc^nize it as nothing more than a miner's candlestick. Convicts were, at that period, sometimes employed in quarrying stone from the lofty hills which environ Toulon, and it was not rare for them to have miners' tools at their command. These miners' candle sticks are of massive iron, terminated at the lower extremity bj a point, by means of which they are stuck into the rock. He took the candlestick in his right hand ; holding his breath and tryiiig to deaden the sound of his tread, he directed his steps to the door of the adjoining room, occupied by the Bishop, as we alread}' know. On arriving ai this door, he found it ajar. The Bishop had not closed it. Digitized by CjOOQ IC 86 LES MISEUABLES. XI. — What hk dobs. Jean Valjean listened. Not a souud. He gave the door a push. Ile pushed it gently with the tip of his finger, lightly, with tLi iUrtive and uneasy gentleness of a eat which is desirous o! sntering. The door yielded to this pressure, and made an imperceptibU and silent movement, which enlarged the opening a little. He waited a moment; then gave the door a second and a bolder push. It continued to yield in silence. The opening was now large enough to allow him to pass. But near the door there stood a little table, which formed an embarrassing angle with it, and barred the entrance. Jean Valjcan recognized the difliculty. It was necessary» at any cost, to enlarge the aperture still further. He decided on his course of action, and gave the door a third push, more energetic than the two preceding. This time a bacHy oiled hinge suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and pro- longed cry. Jean Valjean sliuddered. The noise of the hinge rang in his ears with something of the piercing and formidable sound of the trump of the Day of Judgment. In the fantastic exaggerations of the first moment he almost imagined that that hinge had just become animated, and had suddenl}' assumed a terrible life, and that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one, and warn and to wake those who were asleep. He halted, shuddering, bewildered, and fell back from the tips of his toes upon his heels. He heard the arteries in his temples beating like two forge hammers, and it seemed to him that his breath issued from his breast with the roar of the wind issuing from a cavern. It seemed impossible to him that the horrible clamor of that irritated hinge should not have disturbed the entire household, like the shock of an earthquake ; tlie door, pushed by him, had taken the alarm, and had shouted ; the old man would rise at once ; the two old women would shriek out ; people would come to their assistance ; in less than a quarter of an hour tlic town would be in an u[)roar, and the gendarmerie on hand. For a moment he thouirht himself lost. He remained where he was, petrified like the statue of saltf Digitized by Google FANTINB. W not dariDg to make a movement. Several minutes elapsed. The door had fallen wide open. He ventured to peep into the next room. Nothing had stirred there. lie lent an ear. Nothing was moving in the house. The noise made by the rusty hinge had not awakened any one. This first danger was past ; but there still reigned a frightful tumult within him. Nevertheless, he did not retreat. Even when he had thought himself lost, he had not drawn back. His only thought now was to finish as soon as possible. He took a gtep and entered the room. This room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague and confused forms were distinguishable, which in the daylight were papers scattered on a table, open folios, volumes piled upon a stool, an arm-chair heaped with clothing, a prie- Dieu, and which at that hour were only shadowy corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean advanced with precaution, taking care not to knock against the furniture. He could hear, at the extremity of the room, the even and tranquil breathing of the sleeping Bishop. He suddenly came to a halt. He was near the bed. He had arrived there sooner than he had thought for. Nature sometimes mingles her effects and her spectacles with our actions with sombre and intelligent appropriateness, as though she desired to make us reflect. For the last half-hour a large cloud had covered the heavens. At the moment when Jean Valjean paused in front of the bed, this cloud parted, as though on purpose, and a ray of light, traversing the long win- dow, suddenly illuminated the Bishop's pale face. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in his bed almost completely dressed, on account of the cold of the Basses- Alpes, in a gar- ment of brown wool, which covered his arms to the wrists. Hia heed was thrown back on the pillow, in the careless attitude of repose ; his hand, adorned with the pastoral ring, and whence had fallen so many good deeds and so many holy actions, was hanging over the edge of the bed. His whole face was illnrained with a vague expression of satisfaction, of hope, and of felicity. It was more than a smile, and almost a radiance. He bore upon his brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was invisi« ble. The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven. A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop. It was, at the same time, a luminous transparency, for thai heaven was within him. That heaven was his conscience. At the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itselfi Digitized by Google 98 LES MISjERABLBS. so to speak, upon that inward radiance, the sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory. It remained, however, gentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That moon in the sky, that slumber- ing nature, that garden without a quiver, that house which was «o calm, the hour, the moment, the silence, added some solemn and unspeakable qualit}' to the venerable repose of this man, and enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aureole that white hair, those closed eyes, that face in which all was hope and all was confidence, that head of an old man, and that slumber of an infant. There was something almost divine in this man, who was thus august, without being himself aware of it. Jean Val jean was in the shadow, and stood motionless, with his iron candlestick in his hand, frightened by this luminous old man. Never had he beheld anything like this. This confidence terrified him. The moral world has no grander spectacle than this : a troubled and uneasy conscience, which has arrived on the brink of an evil action, contemplating the slumber of the Just. That slumber in that isolation, and with a neighbor like him* self, had about it something sublime, of which he was vaguely but imperiously conscious. No one could have told what was passing within him, not even himself. In order to attempt to form an idea of it, it is neces- sary to think of the most violent of things in the presence of the most gentle. Even on his visage it would have been impossi- ble to distinguish anything with certainty. It was a sort of haggard astonishment. He gazed at it, and that was all. But what was his thought? It would have been impossible to divine it. What was evident was, that he was touched and astounded. But what was the nature of this emotion ? His eye never quitted the old man. The only thing which was ;$learly to be infened from his attitude and his physiognomy was a strange indecision. One would have said that he was hesitat- ing between the two abysses, — the one in which one loses one's self and that in which one saves one's self. He seemed prepared to crush that skull or to kiss that hand. At the expiration of a few minutes his left arm rose slowlj' towards his brow, and he took off his cap ; then his arm feU back with the same deliberation, and Jean Valjean fell to medi- tating once more, his cap in his left hand, his club in his right hand, his hair bristling all over his savage head. The Bishop continued to sleep in profound peace beneath that terrifying gazo. Digitized by Google I^ANTINB 99 The gleam of tiie moon rendered oonf nsedly visible the cmci fix over the chimney-piece, which seemed to be extending its arms to l>olh of them, with a benediction for one and pardon for the other. Suddenly Jean Valjean replaced his cap on his brow ; thea itepped rapidly past the bed, without glancing at the Bishop, straight to the cupboard, which he saw near the head ; he raised his iron candlestick as though to force the lock ; the key was there ; he opened it ; the first thing which presented itself to him was the basket of silverware ; he seized it, traversed the chamber with long strides, without taking any precautions and without troubling himself about the noise, gained the door, re« entered the oratory, opened the window, seized his cudgel, be< strode the window-sill of the ground-floor, put the silver into his knapsack, threw awa}' the basket, crossed the garden, leaped over the wall like a tiger, and fled. XII. — The Bishop wobks* The next morning at sunrise Monseigneur Bienvenu waa strolling in his garden. Madame Magloire ran up to him in utter consternation. *' Monseigneur, Monseigneur!" she exclaimed, '^does your Grace know where the basket of silver is ? " "Yes," replied the Bishop. '^ Jesus the Lord be blessed ! " she resumed ; " I did not know what had become of it." The Bishop had just picked up the basket in a flower-bed. He presented it to Madame Magloire. " Here it is." " Well ! " said she. » ' Nothing in it ! And the sUver ? " "Ah," returned the Bishop, "so it is the silver which trou Aes you? I don't know where it is." " Great, good God ! It is stolen I That man who was here last night has stolen it." In a twinkling, with all the vivacity of an alert old woman, Madame Magloire had rushed to the oratory, entered the alcove, and returned to the Bishop. The Bishop had just bent down, and was sighing as he examined a plant of cochlearia des Guil« Ions, which the basket had broken as it fell across the bed. Ha rose up at Madame Magloire's cry. "Monseigneur, tb^ 3iMd? H «one! The silver has beef itolca- • Digitized by Google \00 LES MISÉRABLES. As she uttered this exclamation, her eyes fell upon a cornel of the garden, where traces of the wall having been scaled were visible. The coping of the wall had been torn away. " Stay ! yonder is the waj' he went. He jumped over into Cochefîlet Lane. Ah, the abomination I He has stolen our sil- ver ! " The Bishop remained silent for a moment ; then he raised hie grave eyes, and said gently to Madame Magloire : — " And, in the first place, was that silver ours? " Madame Magloire was speechless. Another silence ensued 5 then the Bishop went on : — '' Madame Magloire, I have for a long time detained that silver wrongfully. It belonged to the poor. Who was that man? A poor man, evidently." '* Alas I Jesus ! " returned Madame Magloire. " It is not for my sake, nor for Mademoiselle's. It makes no difference to us. But it is for the sake of Monseigneur. What is Monseigneur to eat with now ? " The Bishop gazed at her with an air of amazement. ^^ Ah, come 1 Are there no such things as pewter forks and spoons?" Madame Magloire shrugged her shoulders. " Pewter has an odor." " Iron forks and spoons, then." Madame Magloire made an expressive grimace* '* Iron has a taste." " Very well," sai(i the Bishop ; " wooden ones then.** A few moments later he was breakfasting at the very table at which Jean Valjean had sat on the previous evening. As he ate his breakfast. Monseigneur Welcome remarked gayly to his sister, who said nothing, and to Madame Magloire, who was grumbling under her breath, that one really does not need either fork or spoon, even of wood, in order to dip a bit of bread in a oi.j) of milk. ** A pretty idea, truly," said Madame Magloire to herself, as she went and came, " to take in a man like that ! and to lodge him close to one's self ! And how fortunate that he did nothing but steal ! Ah, mon Dieu ! it makes one shudder to think of It!" As the brother and sister were about to rise from the table, there came a knock at the door. " Come in," said the Bishop. The door opened. A singular and violent group made ita appearance on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth Digitized by Google FA NT I NE. 101 man by the collar. The three men were gendarmes ; the other was Jean Valjean. A brigadier of gendarmes, who seemed to be in command of the group, was standing near the door. He entered and advanced to the Bishop, making a military salute. " Monseigneur — " said he. At this word, Jean Valjean, who was dejected and seemed overwhelmed, raised his head with an air of stupefaction. " Monseigneur ! '' he murmured. " So he is not the curé ? '" "Silence!'' said a gendarme. "He is Monseigneur the Bishop." In the meantime, Monseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly as his great age permitted. " Ah ! here you are ! " he exclaimed, looking at Jean Val- jean. " I am glad to see you. Well, but how is this ? I ^ave you the candlesticks too, which are of silver like the rest, and for which you can certainly get two hundred francs. Why did you not carry them away with your forks and spoons ? " Jean Valjean opened his eyes wide, and stared at the vener- able Bishop with an expression which no human tongue can render an}- account of. " Monseigneur," said the brigadier of gendarmes, '' so what this man said is true, then? We came across him. He was walking like a man who is running away. We stopped him to look into the matter. He had this silver — " " And he told you," interposed the Bishop, with a smile, ^^ that it had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom he had passed the niffht? I see how the matter stands. And you have brought him back here ? It is a mis- take." "In that case," replied the brigadier, ** we can let him go?'* " Certainly," replied the Bishop. The gendarmes released Jean Valjean, who recoiled. " Is it true that I am to be released? " he said, in an almost narticulate voice, and as though he were talking in his sleep. '*Ye8, thou art released; dost thou not understand ?" said one of the gendarmes. '* My friend," resumed the Bishop, " before you go, here are your candlesticks. Take them." He stepped to the chimney-piece, took the two silver candle- sticks, and brought them to Jean Valjean. The two women Icx>ked on without uttering a word, without a gesture, without a kok which coald disconcert the Bishop. Digitized by Google 102 LES MISÉRABLES. Jean Valîcan was trembling in every limb. He took the two :andlesticks mechanically, and with a bewildered air. '* Now," Baid the Bishop, *' go in peace. By the way, when jrou return, my friend, it is not necessary to pass through the garden. You can always enter and depart through the street floor. It is never fastened with anything but a latch, either by day or by night." Then, turning to the gendarmes ; — ** You may retire, gentlemen." The gendarmes retired. Jean Val jean was like a man on the point of fainting. The Bishop drew near to him, and said in a low voice : — '' Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this money in becoming an honest man." Jean Val jean, who had no recollection of ever having promised an}* thing, remained speechless. The Bishop had em- phasized the words when he uttered them. He resumed with solemnity : — *' Jean Valjean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil, but to good. It is your soul that I buy from you ; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God." Xin. — LnTLE Gebyais. Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it. He set out at a very hasty pace through the fields, taking whatever roads and paths presented themselves to him, without perceiving that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the whole morning, without having eatea any- thing and without feeling hungry. He was the prey of a throng of novel sensations. He was conscious of a sort of rage ; he did not know against whom it was directed. He could not have told whether he was touched or humiliated. There came over him at moments a strange emotion which he resisted and to which he opposed the hardness acquired during the last twenty years of his life. This state of mind fatigued him. He per- ceived with dismay that the sort of frightful calm which the injustice of his misfortune had conferred upon him was giving way within him. He asked himself what would replace this. A-t times he would bave actually preferred to be in prison with «.Le uçeiufarmes. and tbat things should not have hap|)ened in thi:: '/ay; ii would have agitated him less. Although the deason was tolerably far advanced, there were still a few lata Digitized by Google FANTINE. 108 flowers m the hedge-rows here and there, whose odor as he passed through them in his march recalled to him memories ot his childhood. These memories were almost intolerable to him, it was so long since they had recurred to him. Unutterable thoughts assembled within him in this manner all lay long. As the sun declined to its setting, casting long shadows itliwart the soil from every pebble, Jean Val jean sat down behind a bush upon a large ruddy plain, which was absolutely deserted. There was nothing on the horizon except the Alps. Not even the spire of a distant village. Jean Valjean might have been three leagues distant from D. A path which inter- sected the plain passed a lew paces from the bush. In the middle of this meditation, which would have contrib- uted not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might have encountered him, a joyous sound became audible. He turned his head and saw a little Savoyard, about ten years of age, coming up the path and singing, his hurdy-gurdy on his hip, and his marmot-box on his back. One of those gay and gentle children, who go from land to land affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers. Without stopping his song, the lad halted in his march from time to time, and played at knuckle-bones with some coins which he had in his hand — his whole fortune, probably. Among this money there was one forty-sou piece. The child halted beside the bush, without perceiving Jean Valjean, and tossed up his handful of sous, which, up to that time, he had caught with a good deal of adroitness on the back of his hand. This time the forty-sou piece escaped him, and went rolling towards the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean set his foot upon it. In the meantime, the child had looked after his coin and had caught sight of him. He showed no astonishment, but walked straight up to the man. The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could 8ee there was not a person on the plain or on the path. The only sound was the tiny, feeble criés of a flock of birds of passage, which was traversing the heavens at an immense height. The child was standing with his back to the sun, which cast threads of gold in his hair and empurpled with its blood- red gleam the savage face of Jean Valjean. Digitized by Google 104 LES MISERABLES, " Sir," said the little Savoyard, with that childish confidence which is coini)osed of ignorance and innocence, " my money." " What is your name ? " said Jean Valjean. " Little Gervais, sir." " Go away," said Jean Valjean. ** Sir," resumed the child, " give me back my money." Jean Valjean dropped his head, and made no reply. The child began again, " My money, sir." Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth. " My piece of money ! " cried the child, " my white piece Î my silver ! " It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasi)«d him by the collar of his blouse and shook him. At the same time he made an effort to displace the big iron- shod shoe which rested on his treiisure. " I want my piece of money ! my piece of forty sous ! " The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still re- mained seated. His eyes were troubled. He gazed at the child in a sort of amazement, then he stretched out liis hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voice, " Wlio's there ? " " I, sir," replied the child. " Little Gervais ! I ! Give me back my forty sous, if you please ! Take your foot away, sir, if you please ! " Then irritated, though he was so small, and becoming almost menacing : — " Come now, will you take your foot away ? Take your foot away, or we'll see ! " " Ah ! It's still you ! " said Jean Valjean, and rising abruptly to his feet, his foot still resting on the silver piece, he added: — " Will you take yourself off ! " The frightened child looked at him, then began to tremble from head to foot, jind after a few moments of stupor he set out, running at the top of his speed, without daring to turn his neck or to utter a cry. Nevertlieless, lack of breath forced him to halt after a cer- tain distance, and Jean Valjean heard him sobbing, in the midst of his own re very. At the end of a few moments the child had disappeared. The sun had set. The shadows were descending around Jean Valjean. He had eaten nothing all day ; it is probable that he was feverish. He had remained standing and had not changed his attitude after the child's flight. The breath heaved his chest at lonp and irregular intervals. His gaze, fixed ten or twelve pactss in Digitized by Google FA NT f NE. 103 front ^f him, Beemed to be scrutinizing with profound attentioc the s^ape of an ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass. All at once he shivered ; he had juHt begun to feel the chill of evening. lie settled his cap more firml}' on his brow, sought mechani- cally to cross and button his blouse, advanced a step, and itooped to pick up his cudgel. At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piece, which his foot had half ground into the earth, and which was shining among the pebbles. It was as though he had received a gal- vanic shock. " What is this?" he muttered between his teetli. He recoiled three paces, then halted, without being able to detach his gaze from the spot which his foot had trodden but an instant before, as though the thing which lay glittering there in the gloom had been an open eye riveted upon him. At the expiration of a few moments he darted convulsively towards the silver coin, seized it, and straightened himself up again and began to gaze afar off over the plain, at the same time casting his eyes towards all points of the horizon, as he stood there erect and shivering, like a terrified wild animai ^hich is seeking a refuge. He saw nothing. Night was falling, the plain was cold and vague, great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight. He said, ^^ Ah !" and set out rapidly in the direction in which the child had disappeared. After about thirty paces he paused, looked about him and saw nothing. Then he shouted with all his might : — *' Little Gervais ! Little Gervais 1 ** He paused and waited* There was no reply. The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encom passed by space. There was nothing around him but an ob scanty in which his gaze was lost, and a silence which engulfed his voice. An icy north wind was blowing, and imparted to things around him a sort of lugubrious life. The bushes shook their thin little arms with incredible fury. One would have said that they were threatening and pursuing some one. He set out on his march again, then he began to run ; and from time to time he halted and shouted into that solitude, with a voice which was the most formidable and the most dis- consolate that it was possible to hear, ^^ Little Gervais I Little Qervais I '^ Digitized by Google 106 LES MISERABLES Assuredly, if the child had heard him, he would haye bee« aiarmed and would have taken good care not to Rhow himself. But the child was no doubt already far away. He encountered a priest on horseback. He stepped up to him and said : — *•*' Monsieur le Curé, have you seen a child pass?" ''No," said the priest. *' One named Little Gervais?" " I have seen no one." He drew two five-franc pieces from his money-bag ano banded them to the priest. ''Monsieur le Curé, this is for your poor i)eople. Monsieur le Curé, he was a little lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, 1 think, and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyaitis, you know?" " I have not seen him." "Little Gervais? There are no villages here? Can you tell me?" " If he is like what you say, my friend, he is a little stranger. Such persons pass through tiiese parts. We know nothing of them." Jean Valjean seized two more coins of five francs each with violence, and gave them to. the priest. "For your poor," he said. Then he added, wildly : — " Monsieur l'Abbé, have me arrested. I am a thief •" The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in haste, much alarmed. Jean Valjean set out on a run, in the direction which he had first taken. In this way he traversed a tolerably long distance, gazing, calling, shouting, but he met no one. Two or three times he ran across the plain towards something which conveyed to him the effect of a human being reclining or couching down ; it turned out to be nothing but bnishwood or rocks nearly on a level with the earth. At length, at a spot where three paths intersected each other, he stopped. The moon had risen. He sent his gaze into the distance and shouted for the last time, " Little Gervais ! Little Gervais ! Little Gervais ! " His shout died away in the mist, without even awakening an echo. He murmured yet once more, " Little Gervais ! " but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was his last effort ; his legs gave way abruptly under him, as though an invisible power had sud- denly over^ helmed him with the weifirht of his evU conscience ; Digitized by Google FANTINE. 107 Ae fell exhansted, on a large stone, his fists clenched in his hair and his face on his knees, and he cried, " I am a wretch ! *' Then his heart burst, and he began to cry. It was the first time that be had wept in nineteen years. When Jean Valjeah left the Bishop's house, he was, as we have seen, quite thrown out of ever3*thing that had been his thought hitherto. He could not yield to the evidence of what iFas going on within him. He hardened himself against the HDgelic action and the gentle words of tiie old man. *'You have promised me to become an honest man. I buy your soul. I take it away from the spirit of perversit}' ; I give it to the good God." This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness he opposed pride, which is the fortress of evil within 08. He was indistinct!}' conscious that the pardon of this priest was the greatest assault and the most formidable attack which had moved him yet ; that his obduracy was finally settled if he resisted this clemency ; that if he yielded, he should be obliged to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men had filled his soul through so many years, and which pleased him ; that this time it was necessary to conquer or to be con- quered ; and that a struggle, a colossal and final struggle, had heen begun between his viciousness and the goodness of that man. In the presence of these lights, he proceeded like a man who is intoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyes, did he have a distinct perception of what might result to him from his adventure at D. ? Did he understand all those mysterious murmurs which warn or importune the spirit at certain moments of life? Did a voice whisper in his ear that he had just passed the solemn hour of his destiny ; that there no longer remained a middle course for him ; that if he were not henceforth the best of men, he would be the worst ; that it behooved him now, 80 to speak, to mount higher than the Bishop, or fall lower than the convict; that if he wished to become good, he must become an angel ; that if he wished to remain evil, he must be- come a monster? Here, again, some questions must be put, which we have already put to ourselves elsewhere : did he catch some shadow of all this in his thought, in a confused way? Misfortune cer- tainly, as we have said, does form the education of the inti'Ui- pence ; nevertheless, it is doubtful whether Jean Valjean was in a condition to disentangle all that we have here indicated. If these ideas occurred to him, he but caught glimpses of, Digitized by Google 108 LES MISERABLES. rather than saw them, and they only succeeded m throwing him into an uuiitterabic and almost painful state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed thing which is called the galleys, the Bishop had hurt his soul, as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on emerging from the dark. The future life, the possible life which offered itself to him henceforth, all pure and radiant, filled him with* tremors and anxiety. lie no longer knew where he really was. Like an owl, who should suddenly see the sun rise, the convict had been dazzled and blinded, as it were, by virtue. That which was certain, that which he did not doubt, was that he was no longer the same man, that ever3'thing about him was changed, that it was no longer in his power to make it as though the Bishop had not spoken to him and had not touched him. In this state of mind he had encountered little Gervais, and had robbed him of his forty sous. Why ? He certainly could not have explained it ; was this the last effect and the supreme effort, as it were, of the evil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys, — a remnant of impulse, a result of what is called in statics, acquired force? It was that, and it was also, perhaps, even less than that. Let us say it simply, it was not he who stole ; it was not the man ; it was the beast, who, by habit and instinct, had simply placed its foot upon that money, w^hile the intelligence was struggling amid so many novel and hitherto unheard-of thoughts besetting it. When intelligence re-awakened and beheld that action of the brute, Jean Valjean recoiled with anguish and uttered a crj* of terror. It was because, — strange phenomenon, and one which was possible only in the situation in which he found himself, — in stealing the money from that child, he had done a thing of which he was no longer capable. However that may be, this last evil action had a decisive effect on him ; it abruptly traversed that chaos which he boi e in his mind, and dispersed it, placed on one side the thick obscu- rity, and on the other the light, and acted on his soul, in the state in which it then was, as certain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture by precipitating one element and clari- fying the other. First of all, even before examining himself and reflecting, all bewildered, like one who seeks to save himself, he tried to find the child in order to return his money to him ; then, when he recognized the fact that this was impossible, he halted in despair. At the moment when he exclaimed ^^ I am a wretch!" he had Digitized by Google FANTINE. 109 Just perceived what he was, and he was already separated from himself to sach a degree, that he seemed to himself to be no longer anj'thing more than a phantom, and as if he had, there before him, in flesh and blood, the hideous galley-convict, Jean Valjean, cudgel in hand, his blouse on his hips, his knapsack filled with stolen objects on his back, with his resolute and gloomy visage, with his thoughts filled with abominable projects. Excess of unhappiness had, as we have remarked, made him in some sort a visionary. This, then, was in the nature of a vision. He actually saw that Jean Valjean, that sinister face, before him. He had almost reached the point of asking himself who that man was, and he was horrified by him. His brain was going through one of those violent and yet perfectly calm moments in which revery is so profound that it absorbs reality. One no longer beliolds the objects which one has before one, and one sees, as though apart from one's self, the figures which one has in one's own mind. Thus he contemplated himself, so to speak, face to face, and at the same time, athwart this hallucination, he perceived in a mysterious depth a sort of light which he at first took for a torch. On scrutinizing this light -which appeared to his con- science with more attention, he recognized the fact that it pos- sessed a human form and that this torch was the Bishop. His conscience weighed in turn these two men thus placed before it, — the Bishop and Jean Valjean. Nothing less than the first was required to soften the second. By one of those singular effects, which are peculiar to this sort of ecstasies, in proportion as his revery continued, as the Bishop grew great and resplendent in his eyes, so did Jean Valjean grow less and vanish. After a certain time he was no longer anything more than a shade. All at once he disappeared. The Bishop alone remained ; he filled the whole soul of this wretched man with a magnificent radiance. Jean Valjean wept for a long time. He wept burning tears, he sobbed with more weakness than a woman, with more fright than a child. As he wept, daylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul ; an extraordinary' light ; a light at once ravishing and terrible. His past life, his first fault, his long expiation, his external brutishness, his internal hardness, his dismissal to liberty, rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeance, what had hap- pened to him at the Bishop's, the last thing that he had done, that theft of forty sous from a child, a crime air the more cowardly and all the more monstrous since it had come after the Bishop's pardon, — all this recurred to his mind and appeared 110 LES MISERABLES. clearly to him, but with a clearness which he had never hitherto witnessed. He examined liis life, and it seemed horiii>le to him ; his soul, and it seemed frigiitfiil to him. In the luean- tirae a gentle light rested over tliis life and this soul. It seemed to liim that he beheld Satan by the light of Paradise. How many hours did he weep thus? What did he do after he had wept? Whither did he go! No one ever knew. The only thing which seems to be authenticated is that that same night the carrier who served Grenoble at that eix>oh, and who arrived at D. about three o'clock in the morning, saw, as he tnivei-sed the street in which the Bishop's residence was Bit uated, a man in t]\e attitude of prayer, kneeling on the pave ment in the shadow, in front of the door of Monseigneoi Welcome. BOOK THIRD.— IN THE YEAR 1817 I.— The Year 1817. 1817 is the year which Louis XVIII., with a certain royaJ assurance which was not wanting in pride, entitled the twenty- second of his reign. It is the year in which M. Bruguière de Sorsum was celebrated. All the hairdressers' shops, hoping for powder and the return of the royal bird, were besmearey8on steals, one feels that he has paws." As Cardinal Fesch refused to resign, M. de Pins, Archbishop of Amasie, administered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley of Dappes was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir from Captain, afterwards General, Dufour. Saint • Simon, ignored, was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier at the Academy of Science, whom posterity has forgotten ; and in some garret an obscure Fourier, whom the future will recall. Lord Byron was beginning to make his mark; a note to a poem by Mille voye introduced him to France in these terms : a certain Lord Baron. David d'Angers was trying to work in marble. Tiie Abbé Caron was speaking in terms of praise, to a private gathering of seminarists io the blind alley of Feuillantines, of an unknown priest, named Félicité-Robert, who, at a latter date, became Lamennais. A thing which smoked and clattered on the Seine with the noise of a swimming dog went and came beneath the windows of the Tuileries, from the Pont Royal to the Pont Louis XV. ; it was a piece of mechanism which was not good for much ; a sort of plaything, the idle dream of a dream-ridden inventor; an Utopia — a steamboat. The Parisians stared indifferently at this useless tiling. M. de Vaublanc, the reformer of the Insti- tute by a coup d'état, the distinguished author of numerous academicians, ordinances, and batches of members, after hav- ing created them, could not succeed in becoming one himself. The Faubourg Saint-Germain and the pavilion de Marsan wished to have M. Delaveau for prefect of police, on account of his piety. Dupuytren and Récamier entered into a quarrel in the amphitheatre of the School of Medicine, and threatened each other with their fists on the subject of tlie divinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvier, with one eye on Genesis and the other on nature, tried to please bigoted reaction by reconciling fossils with texts and by making mastodons flatter Moses. M. François de Neufchâteau, the praiseworthy cultivator of the memory of Parmentier, made a tiiousand efforts to have pomme de terre [potato] pronounced ixirmentière, and succeeded Digitized by Google FANTINB. 115 therein not at all. The Abbé Grégoire, ex-bishop, ex-conven tionarj, ex-senator^ had passed, in the royalist polemics, to the state of '^ Infamous Grégoire." The locution of which we have made use — passed to the state of — has been condemned as a neologism by M. Royer CoUard. Under the third arch of the Tont de Jena, the new stone with which, the two years previously, the mining aperture made by Blucher to blow up the bridge had hien stopped up, was still recognizable on account of its white- ness. Justice summoned to its bar a man who, on seeing the ^)omte d'Artois enter Nôtre Dame, had said aloud : ^^Sapristil f regret the time when I saw Bonaparte and Talma enter the Bel Sauvage^ arm in arm.** A seditious utterance. Six months in prison. Traitors showed themselves unbuttoned ; men who had gone over to the enemy on the eve of battle made no secret of their recompense, and strutted immodestly in the light of day, in tiie cynicism of riches and dignities ; deserters from Ligny and Quatre-Bras, in the brazeuness of their well-paid turpitude, exhibited their devotion to the monarchy in the most barefaced manner. This is what floats up confusedly, pell-mell, for the year 1817. and is now forgotten. History neglects nearly all these partic- ulars, and cannot do otherwise ; the infinity would overwhelm (t. Nevertheless, these details, which are wrongly called trivial,* — there are no trivial facts in humanity, nor little leaves in regetation, — are useful. It is of the physiognomy of the years that the physiognomy of the centuries is composed. In this year of 1817 four young Parisians arranged '^ a fine farce.*' n.— A Double Quartette. These Parisians came, one from Toulouse, another from Limites, the third from Cahors, and the fourth from Montau- han ; but they were students ; and when one says student, one says Parisian : to study in Paris is to be born in Paris. These young men were insignificant ; every one has seen such faces ; four specimens of humanity taken at random ; neither good nor bad, neither wise nor ignorant, neither geniuses nor fools; handsome, with that charming April which is called twenty j-ears. They were four Oscars ; for, at that epoch, Arthurs did not yet exist. Bum for him the perfumes of Arahy ! exclaimed romance. Oscar advances. Oscar ^ I shall behold him ! People had just emerged from Ossian ; elegance was Seaodinavian and Caledonian ; the pure English style was only Digitized by Google 116 LES MISERABLES, * lo prevail later, and the first of tlie Arthurs, Wellington, haa but just won the buttle of Waterloo. These Oscars bore the names, one of Felix Tholom^'ès, of Toulouse ; the second, Listolier, of Cahors ; the next, Fanieuil, of Limoges ; the last, Blachevelle, of Moutauban. Naturally, each of them had his mistress. Blachevelle loved Favourite, BO named because she had been in England ; Listolier adored Dahlia, who had taken for her nickname the name of a flower, Fameuil idolized Z^'phine, an abridgment of Joséphine ; Tho- lomyès had Fantine, called the Blonde, because of her beautiful, sunny hair. Favourite, Dahlia, Zéphine, and Fantine were four ravishing young women, perfumed and radiant, still a little like working- women, and not yet entirely divorced from their needles ; some- what disturbed by intrigues, but still retaining on their faces something of the serenity of toil, and in their souls that flower of honesty which survives the first fall in woman. One of the four was called the young, because she was the youngest of them, and one was called the old ; the old one was twenty-three. Not to conceal anything, the three first were more experienced, more heedless, and more emancipated into the tumult of life than Fantine the Blonde, who was still in her first illusions. • Dahlia, Zéphine, and especially Favourite, could not have said as much. Tliere had alrealendid scandal on Mount Saint-Geneviève. Tholomyès was a fast mai. of thirty, and badly preserved. He was wrinkled and toothless, and he had the beginning of a bald spot, of which he himself said without sadness, the skull at thirty y the knee at forty. His digestion was mediocre, and he had been attacked by a watering in one eye. But in proportion as his youth disap- peared, gayety was kindled ; he replaced his teeth with buf- fooneries, his hair with mirth, his health with irony, his weeping eye laughed incessantly. He was dilapidated but stiH in flower. His youth, which was packing up for departure long before its time, beat a retreat in good order, bursting with laughter, and no one saw anything but fire. He had had a piece rejected at the Vaudeville. He made a few verses now and then. In addition to this he doubted everything to the last degree, which is a vast force in the eyes of the weak. Being thus ironical and bald, he was the leader. Iron is an English word. Is it possible that irony is derived from it ? One day Tholomyès took the three others aside, with the gesture of an oracle, and said to them : — '• Fantine, Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite have been teasing us for nearly a year to give them a surprise. We have prom- ised them solemnly that we would. They are forever talking about it to us, to me in particular, just as the ohl women in Naples cry to Saint Januarius, * Fa^ccia gialluta^ fa o miracolo. Yellow face, perform thy miracle,' so our beauties say to me Digitized by Google ifANTIKJ. lia boessantly, ^ Tholomyès, when will you bring forth youi 8a^ prise?' At the same time our parents keep writing to as. Pressure on both sides. The moment has aiTived, it seems to me ; let us discuss the question." Thereupon, Tholomyès lowered his voice and articulated some- thing so mirthful, that a vast and enthusiastic griii broke out Dpon the four mouths simultaneously, and Blachevelle ex- claimed, " That is an idea." A smoky tap-room presented itself; they entered, and the remainder of their confidential colloquy was lost in shadow. The result of tliese shades was a dazzling pleasure party which took place on the following Sunday, the four young men .Miviting the four young girls. m. — Four and Pour. Iv U bard nowadays to picture to one's self what a pleasure- Crip of students and grisettes to the country was like, forty-five 3'ears ago. The suburbs of Paris are no longer the same ; the physiognomy of what may be called circumparisian life has changed completely in the last half -century ; where there was the cuckoo, tliere is the railway car ; where there was a tender- boat, there is now the steamboat; people speak of Fecamp nowadays as they spoke of Saint-Cloud in those days. The Paris of 1862 is a city which has France for its outskirts. The four couples conscientiously went through with all the country follies possible at that time. The vacation was begin- ning, and it was a warm, bright, summer day. On the pre- ceding day. Favourite, the only one who knew how to write, had written the following to Tholomyès in the name of the four : "It is a good hour to emerge from happiness." That is why they rose at five o'clock in the morning. Then they went to Saint-Cloud by the coach, looked at the dry cascade and ex- claimed, ''This must be very beautiful when there is water ! " rhey breakfasted at the Tète-Noire^ where Castaing had not yet been ; they treated themselves to a game of ring-throT\ ing ander the quincunx of trees of the grand fountain; tliey as- cended Diogenes' lantern, they gambled for macaroons at the roulette establishment of the Pont de Sèvres, picked bouquets at Puteaux, bought reed-pipes at Neuilly, ate apple tarts every- where, and were perfectly happy. The young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from their cage. It was a perfect delirium. From time to *.:me they bestowed little taps on the young men. Matutinal Digitized by Google 120 LES MISÉRABLES. iiitoxicatioQ of life ! adorable yeart} ! the wings of the drmgon. fly quiver. Oh, whoever you may be, do you not remember? Have you rambled through the brushwood, holding aside the brauches, on account of the charming head which is coming on behind you? Have you slid, laughing, down a slope all wet with rain, with a beloved woman holding your hand, and crying, '* Ah, my new boots ! what a state they are in ! " Let us sa}- at once that that merry obstacle, a shower, was lacking in the case of this good-humored party, although Favourite had said as they set out, with a magisterial and maternal tone, '* TJie slugs are crawling in thepaths, — a sign of rain^ children.*' All four were madly pretty. A good old classic poet, then famous, a good fellow who had an Éléonore, M. le Chevalier de Labouisse, as he strolled that day beneath the chestnut-trees of Saint-Cloud, saw them pass about ten o'clock in the morning, and exclaimed, ** There is one too many of them," as he thought of the Graces. Favourite, Blachevelle's friend, the one aged three and twenty, the old one, ran on in front under the great green boughs, jumped tiie ditches, stalked distractedl}' over bushes, and presided over this merry-making with the spirit of a young female faun. Zéphinc and Dahlia, whom chance had made beautiful in such a way that they set each off when they were together, and completed each other, never left each other, more from an instinct of coquetry than from friendship, and clinging to each otiier, they assumed English poses ; the first keepsakes had just made their api)earance, melancholy was dawning for women, as later on, Byronism dawned for men ; and the hair of the tender sex began to droop dolefully. Zéphine and Dahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Listolier and Fameuil, who were engaj^ed in discussing their professors, exj)lained to Fautinc the difference that existed between M. Del v incourt and M. Blondeau. Blachevelle seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favourite's single-bordered, imit:ition India shawl of Ternaux's manufacture, on his arm on Sundays. Tholomyès followed, dominating the group. He was very gay, but one felt tiie force of government in him ; there was dictation in his joviality ; liis principal ornament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern of nankeen, with straps of braided copper wire ; he carried a stout rattan worth two hundred francs in his hand, and, as ho treated iiimself to everything, a strange thii;g called a cigar in his mouth. Nothing was sacred to him ; he smoked. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 121 *^ That Tholomyès is astounding ! " said the others, with veneration. ** What trousers ! What energy ! ''* As for Fantine, she was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had evidently received an otiice from God, — laughter. She preferred to carry her httle hat of sewed straw, with its long white strings, in her hand rather than on her head. Her thick blond hair, which was inclined to wave, and which easily uncoiled, and which it was necessary to fasten up incessantly, seemed made for the flight of Galatea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly. The corners of her mouth voluptuously turned up, as in the antique masks of Erigone, bad an air of encouraging the audacious ; but her long, shadowy lashes drooped discreetly over the jollity of the lower part of the face as though to call a halt. There was soncething inde- scribably harmonious and striking about her entire dress. She wore a gown of mauve barège, little reddish brown buskins, whose ribbons traced an X on her fine, white, open-worked stockings, and that sort of muslin spencer, a Marseilles inven- tion, whose name, canezou^ a corruption of the words quinze a4>ût pronounced after the fashion of the Canebière, signifies fine weather, heat, and midday. The three others, less timid, as we have already said, wore low-necked dresses without dis- guise, which in summer^ beneath flower-adorned hats, are very graceful and enticing ; but by the side of these audacious out- fits, blond Fantine's canezou, with its transparencies, its indis- cretion, and its reticence, concealing and displaying at one and the same time, seemed an alluring godsend of decency, and the famous Court of Love, presided over by the Vicomtesse de Cette, with the sea-gieen eyes, would, perhaps, have awarded the prize for coquetry to this canezou, in the contest for the prize of modesty. The most ingenuous is, at times, the wisest. This does hapi)en. Brilliant of face, delicate of profile, with eyes of a deep blue^ heavy lids, feet arched and small, wrists and ankles admirably formed, a white skin which, here and there allowed the azure branching of the veins to be seen, joy, a cheek that was young and fresh, the robust throat of the Juno of ^gina, a strong and supple nape of the neck, shoulders modelled as though by Cous- tou, with a voluptuous dimple in the middle, visible through the iDQslin ; a gajety cooled by dreaminess ; sculptural and exquis- ite — such was Fantine ; and beneath these feminine adornments find these ribbons one could divine a statue, and in that statue a soul. Fantine was beautiful, without being too conscious of it. Digitized by Google IM LES MISERABLES. Thoee rare dreamers, mysterious priests of the beautifi wbo silently confront everything with perfection, would have caught a glimpse in this little working- worn an, through the transpart ncy of her Parisian grace, of the ancient sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred. She was beautiful in the two ways — style and rhythm. Style is the form of the ideal ; rhythm is its movement. We have said that Fantine was joy ; she was also modesty. To an observer who studied her attentively, that which breathed from her athwart all the intoxication of her age, the season, and her love affair, was an invincible expression of re- serve and modest}'. She remained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment is the shade of difference which separates Psyche from Venus. Fantine had the long, white, fine fingeis of the vestal virgin who stirs the ashes of the sacred fire with a golden pin. Although she would have refused nothing to Tho- lomyés, as we shall have more than ample opportunitv to see, her face in repose was supremely Virginia! ; a sort of serious and almost austere dignity suddenly overwhelmed her at certain times, and there was nothing more singular and disturbing than to see gayety become so suddenly extinct there, and meditation succeed to cheerfulness without any transition state. This sudden aud sometimes severely accentuated gravity resembled the disdain of a goddess. Her brow, her nose, her chin, presented that equilibrium of outline which is quite distinct from equilibrium of proportion, and from which harmony of countenance results ; in the very characteristic interval which separates the base of the nose from the upper lip, she had that imperceptible and charming fold, a mysterious sign of chastity, which makes Bar- bcrousse fall in love with a Diana found in the treasures of Iconia. Love is a fault ; so be it. Fantine was innocence floating high over fault. iV. — Tholomtès is so Merrt that he sinqs a Spamisb DiTTT' That day was composed of dawn, from one end to the other. Ali nature seemed to be having a holiday, and to be laughing. The flower-beds of Saint-Cloud perfumed the air ; the breath of ^Cî Seine rustled the leaves vaguely ; the branches gesticulated in the wind, bees pillnged the jasmines ; a whole bohemia of butterflies swooped down upon the yarrow, the clover, and tli« Digitized by Google FANTINE. 123 sterile oats ; in the august park of the King of France thers was a pack of vagabonds, the birds. - The four merry couples, mingled with the sun, the fields, the flowers, the trees, were resplendent. And in this community' of Paradise, talking, singing, running, dancing, chasing butterflies, plucking convolvulus, wetting their pink, open-work stockings in the tall grass, fresh, wild, without malice, all received, to some extent, the kisses of all, with the exception of Fan tine, who was hedged about with that vague resistance of hers composed of dreaminess and wildness, and who was in love. "You always have a queer look about you," said Favourite to her. Such things are joys. These passages of happy couples are a profound appeal to life and nature, and make a caress and light spring forth froni everything. There was once a fairy who created the fields and forests expressly for those in love, — in that eternal hedge-school of lovers, which is forever be- ginning anew, and which will last as long as there are hedges «od scholars. Hence the populaiity of spring among thinkers. The patrician and the knife-grinder, the duke and the peer, the limb of the law, the courtiers and townspeople, as they used to lay in olden times, all are subjects of this fairy. They laugh and hunt, and there is in the air the brilliance of an apotheosis — what a transfiguration effected by love ! Notaries' clerks are gods. And the little cries, the pursuits through the grass, the waists embraced on the fly, those jargons which are melodies, those adorations which burst forth in the manner of pronounc- ing a syllable, those cherries torn from one mouth by another, —all thi4 blazes forth and takes its place among the celestial glories. Beautiful women waste themselves sweetly. They think thftt this will never come to an end. Philosophers, poets, painters, observe these ecstasies and know not what to make of it, so greatly are they dazzled by it. The departure for Cythe- ra ! exclaims Watteau ; Lancret, the painter of plebeians, eon- templates his bourgeois, who have flitted away into the azure iky ; Diderot stretches out his arms to all these love idyls, and d'Urfé mingles druids with them. After breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the King's Squarg to see a newly arrived plant from India, whose name escapes our memory at this moment, and which, at that epoch, was attracting all Paris to Saint-Cloud. It was an odd and charming shrub with a long stem, whose numerous branches, bristling and leafless and as fine as threads, were covered with a miUioQ tiny white rosettes ; this gave the shrub the air of a Digitized by Google 124 LhS MISÉRABLES. Head oi hair studded with flowers. There was always an admif ing crowd about it. After viewing the shrub, ïholomyès exclaimed, " I offer yoM asses ! " and having agreed upon a price with the owner of the asses, they returned by way of Vanvres and Issy. At Issy an incident occurred. The ti'uly national park, at that time owned by Bourguin the contractor, happened to be wide open. They passed the gates, visited the manikin anchorite in his grotto, tried the mysterious little effects of the famous cabinet of mir- rors, the wanton trap worthy of a satyr become a millionnaire or of Turcaret metamorphosed into a Priapus. They had stoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut-trees celebrated by the Abbé de Bernis. As he swung these beauties, one after the other, producing folds in the fluttering skirts which Grcuze would have found to his taste, amid peals of laughter, the Tou- lousan Tholomyès, who was somewhat of a Spaniard, Toulouse being the cousin of Tolosa, sang, to a melancholy chant, the old ballad gallega, probably inspired by some lovely maid dash' ing in full flight upon a rope between two trees : — ''Soy de Badajoz, ^'Badajoz is my home. Amor me llama. And Love U my name; Toda ml alma. To my eyes in flame, Es en mi ojos, All my soul doth come; Porque enseSas, For instruction meet A tuas piernas. I receive at thy feet** Fantine alone refused to swing. *'I don't like to have people put on airs like that," mattered Favourite, with a good deal of acrimony. After leaving the asses there was a fresh delight ; they crossed the Seine in a boat, and proceeding from Passy ou foot they reached the barrier of l'Étoile. They had been up since five o'clock that morning, as the reader will remember; but bah! *Âere is 710 such thing as fatigue on Sunday^ said Favourite ; on Sunday fatigue does not work. About three o'clock the four couples, frightened at their hap- piness, were sliding down the Russian mountains, a singulai edifice which then occupied the heights of Beaujon, and whose undulating line was visible above the trees of the Champs Élysées. From time to time Favourite exclaimed : — *' And the surprise? I claim the surpri»e." ** Patience," replied Tholomyès. Digitized by Google FANTtNE. 1» V, — At Bombarda'8. The Russian mountains having been exhaiiBted, they began to think about dinner ; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bombaitla's public house, a ^)rânch establishment which had been set up in the Champs- Elysées by that famous restanrant-keepcr, Bombarda, whop«' âis:n could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near Delorme Alley. A large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had been obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd) ; two windows whence they could Hurvey beyond the elms, the quay, and the river ; a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the panes ; two tables ; upon «•ne of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets, mingled with ihe hats of men and of women ^, at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion of plattei-s, dishes, glasses, and wttles ; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine ; very little order on the table, some disorder beneath it ; ** They made beneath the table A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abommable," says Molière. This was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o'clock in the morning, had reached at half -past four in the iftemoon. The sun was setting ; their appetites were satisfied. The Champs-Elysées, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The horses of Marly, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent body-guaids, with their clarions at their head, were descending the Avenue de Neuilly ; *he white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, fiouied ner the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de la Concorde, fc'hich had become the Place Louis XV. once more, was choked with happ3' promenaders. Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys daspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from button -holes in the year 1817. Here and there choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passers-by, who formed into circles and ai)plauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was destined to strike the Hun- ^fed Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain ; — Digitized by Google 126 LES MISÉRABLES. " Rendez-nous notre père de Gand, Rendez-nous noire père.*' "Give us back our fatlier from Ghent, Give us back our father/* Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, some* times even decorated with the fleur-de-lys, like the boui^eois, scattered over the large square and the Mariguy square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses ; otliers were engaged in drinking ; some journeyman printers had on paper caps ; their laughter was audible. Everything was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace and profound roy- alist security ; it was the epoch when a special and private report of Chief of Police Angles to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris, terminated with these lines : — '* Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people. The}* are as heedless and as indolent as cats. The populace is restless in the provinces ; it is not in Paris. These are very petty men. Sire. It would take all of two of thom to make one of your grenadiers. There id nothing to be feared on the part of the populace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable that the stature of this [X)pulation should have diminished in the last fifty years ; and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the Revo- lution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble." Prefects of police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion ; that does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. More- over, the cat so despised by Couut Angles possessed the esteem of the republics of old. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to serve as pendant to the Minerva Aptera of the Piraeus, there stood on the pubUc square in Corinth the colos- sal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenuous police of the Restora- tion beheld the i)opulace of Paris in too " rose -colored " a light • it is not so much of * ' an amiable rabble " as it is thought. The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek : no one sleeps more soundly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy than he, no one can better assume the ah' of forgetfulness ; Let him not be trusted, nevertheless ; he is ready for any sort of cool deed ; but when there is glory at the end of it, he is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the 10th of August; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz. He is Napoleon's stay, and Danton's resource. Is it a question of country, he Digitized by Google FANTINE. 127 enlists ; is it a question of liberty, he tears up the pavements. Beware ! his hair, filled with wrath, is epic ; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a ehlamys. Take care ! he will make of the first Rue Greuétat which comes to hand Caudine Forks. When the hour strikes, this man of the faubourgs will grow in statare ; this little man will arise, and his gaze will be terrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps. It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the Revolution, mixed with arms, conquers Europe. He sings ; it is his 'delight. Proportion his song to his nature, and you will sec ! As long as he has for refrain nothing but la Carmagnole^ he only overthrows Louis XVI. ; make him sing the Marseillaise^ and he will free the world. This note jetted down on the margin of Angles' report, we will return to our four couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close. VI- — A Chapter in which they adore Each Other. Chat at tabic, the chat of love ; it is as impossible to repro- duce one as the other ; the chat of love is a cloud ; the chat at table is smoke. Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyès was drink- ing. Zéphine was laughing, Fantine smiling, Listolier blow- ing a wooden trumpet which he had purchased at Saint-Cloud. Favonrite gazed tenderly at Blachevelle and said : — " Blachevelle, I adore you." This called forth a question from Blachevelle : — *' What would you do. Favourite, if I were to cease to love you?" "I !" cried Favourite. "Ah ! Do not say that even in jest ! If you were to cease to love me, I would spring after you, I would scratch you, I should rend you, I would throw yon into the water, I would have you arrested." Blachevelle smiled with the voluptuous self-conceit of a man who is tickled in his self-love. Favourite resumed : — "Yes, I would scream to the police ! Ah ! I should not re- strain myself, not at all ! Rabble ! " Blachevelle threw himself back in his chair, in an ecstasy, and closed both eyes proudly. Dahlia, as she ate, said in a low voice to Favourite, amid the uproar:— Digitized by Google i28 LES MISÉRABLES, ^'So you really idolize biin deeply, that Blachevelle ot youra ? " ^^ I? I detest him/' replied Favourite in the same tone, seizing her fork again. **lle is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite me in my house. He is very nice, tiiat young man ; dc you know him? One can see that he is an actor by profession. I love actors. As soon as he comes in, his mother sajs to him : ' Ah ! mon Dieu ! my peace of mind is gone. There he goes with his shouting. But, my dear, you are splitting my head ! So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets, to black holes, as high as he can mount, and there he sets to singing, declaiming, how do I know what ? so that he can be heard down stairs ! He earns twenty sous a day at an attorney's by penning quibbles. He ia the son of a former precentor of 8aint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas. Ah ! he is very nice. He idolizes me so, that one day when he saw me making batter for some pancakes, he said to me : ^ -Mam selle^ make your gloves into fritters^ and I will eat them.* It is only artists who can say such tilings as that. Ah ! he is very )iice. I am in a fair way to go out of my head over that little fellow. Never mind ; I tell Blachevelle that I adore him — how Ilie! Hey! How I do lie !" Favourite paused, and then went on : — ^^1 am sad, you see. Dahlia. It has done nothing but rain all summer ; the wind irritates me ; the wind does not abate. Blachevelle is very stingy ; there are hardly any green peas in the market ; one does not know what to eat. I have the spleen^ as the English say, butter is so dear ! and then you see it is liorril)le, here we are dining in a room with a bed in it, and that flisgusts me with life." Vn. — The Wisdom of Tholomtès. In the meantime, while some sang, the rest talked together tumultuously all at once ; it was no longer anything but noise. Fholomyès intervened. " Let us not talk at random nor too fast," he exclaimed. " Jau HB reflect, if we wish to be brilliant. Too much improvisation empties the mind in a stupid wsiy. Running beer gathers no froth. No haste, gentlemen. Let us mingle majesty with the feast. Let us eat with meditation ; let us make haste slowly. Let us not hurry. Consider the sprin<^time ; if it makes haste, Jt is done for ; that is to say. it gets frozen. . Excess of zeal ruins peaoh-trees and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the Digitized by Google FANTÎNE. l29 grace and the mirth of good dinners. No seal, gentlemen ! Grimed de la Ilt*ynière agrees with Talleyrand." A lioUow sound of rebellion rumbled througii the group. '* Leave us in jxiaee, Tholomyès," said Blachevelle. "Down with the tyrant!" said Famenil. ^^ Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel !" cried Listolier. *' Sunday exists," resumed Fameuil. " We are sober," added Listolier. '^Tholomyès," remarked Blachevelle, ''contemplate my calm ^aess {mon calme],*' " You are the Marquis of that," retorted Tholomyès. This mediocre play upon words produced the effect of a stone in a pool. The Marquis de Montcalm was at that time a celebrated royalist. All the frogs held their peace. *^ Friends," cried Tholomyès, with the accent of a man who had recovered his empire, "come to yourselves. This pun which has fallen from the skies must not be received with too mach stupor. Everything which falls in that way is not neces- sarily worthy of enthusiasm and respect. The pun is the dung of the mind which soars. The jest falls, no matter where ; and the mind after producing a piece of stupidity plunges into the azure depths. A whitish speck flattened against the rock does not prevent the condor from soaring aloft. Far be it from me to insnlt the pun ! I honor it in proportion to its merits ; noth- ing more. AH the most august, the most sublime, the most charming of humanity, and perhaps outside of humanity, have made puns. Jesus Christ made a pun on Saint Peter, Moses on Isaac, JEschylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius. And observe that Cleopatra's pun preceded the battle of Ac- tium, and that had it not been for it, no one would have remem- bered the city of Toryne, a Greek name which signifies a ladle. That once conceded, I return to my exhortation. I repeat, brothers, I repeat, no zeal, no hubbub, no excess ; even in witti- cisms, gayety, jollities, or plays on words. Listen to me. I have the prudence of Amphiaraus and the baldness of Ccesar. There must be a limit, even to rebuses. Est modus in rebus. *' There must be a limit, even to dinners. You are fond of apple turnovers, ladies ; do not indulge in them to excess. Even in the matter of turnovers, good sense and art are requi- site. Gluttony chastises the glutton, Gula punit Gulax. Indi- gestion is charged by the good God with preaching morality to stomachs. And remember this : each one of our passions, even love, has a stomach which must not be filled too full. In all things the word finis must be written in good season ; self- con- Digitized by Google 130 LES MISÉRABLES. trol must be exercised when the matter becomes urgent; the bolt must be drawn on appetite ; one must set one's own fantasy to the violin, and carry one's self to tlie post. The sage is the man who knows how, at a given moment, to effect his own arrest. Have some confidence in me, for I have succeeded to some extent in my study of the law, according to the verdict of my examinations, for I know the difference between tlie ques- tion put and tlie question pending, for I have sustained a thesis in Latin ui)on the manner in which torture was administered at Rome at the epoch when Munatius Démens was quaBstor of the Parricide ; because I am going to be a doctor, apparently it does not follow that it is absolutely necessary that I should be an imbecile. I recommend you to moderation in your desires. It is true that my name is Félix Tholomyès ; I speak well. Happy- is he who, when the hour strikes, takes a heroic resolve, and abdicates like Sylla or Origenes." Favourite listened with profound attention. '^ Félix," said she, '' what a pretty word 1 I love that name. It is Latin ; it means prosper." Tholorayès went on : — " Quirites, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to feel the prick, to do without the nuptial bed, and to 6rave love? Nothing more simple. Here is the receipt : lem- onade, excessive exercise, hard labor ; work yourself to death, irag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil, gorge yourself with nitrous oeverages, and potions of nymphaeas ; drink emulsions of poppies and agnus castus ; season this with a strict diet, starve youreelf , and add thereto cold baths, girdles of herbs, the application of a plate of lead, lotions made with the subacetate of lead, and fomentations of oxycrat." ''1 prefer a woman," said Listolier. ''Woman," resumed Tholomyès ; '' distrust . her. Woe to him who yields himself to the unstable heart of woman ! Woman is perfidious and disingenuous. She detests the 8eri)ent from professional jealousy. The serpent is the shop over the way." *' Tholomyès ! " cried Blachevelle, " you are drunk ! " " Pardieu," said Tholomyès. '' Then be gay," resumed Blachevelle. *' I agree to that," responded Tholomyès. And, refilling his glass, he rose. ''Glory to wine! Nunc te y Bacche, canam! Pardon me, ladies ; that is Spanish. And the proof of it, seîîoras, is this . like people, like cask. The arrobe of Castille contains sixteei/ Digitized by Google i^ AN TINE. 131 liti-es ; the cantaro of Alicante, twelve ; the almude of the Caua« ries, twenty -five; the cuartin of the Balearic Isles, twenty-six; the boot of Tzar Peter, thirty. Long live that Tzar who waa great, and long live his boot, whicli was still greater ! Ladies, take the advice of a friend ; make a mistake in your neighbor if you see fit. The property of love is to err. A love affair is not made to crouch down and brutalize itself like an English serving-maid who has callouses on her knees from scrubbing. It is not made for that ; it errs gayly, our gentle love. It has been said, error is human ; I say, error is love. Ladies, I idol- ize you all. O Zéphine, O Joséphine ! face more than irregular, you would be charming were you not all askew. You have the air of a pretty face upon which some one has sat down by mis- take. As for Favourite, O nymphs and muses ! one day when Blachevelle was crossing the gutter in the Rue Guérin-Boisseau, he espied a beautiful girl with white stockings well drawn up, which displayed her legs. This prologue pleased him, and Blachevelle fell in love. The one he loved was Favourite. O Favourite, thou hast Ionian lips. There was a Greek painter named Euphorion, who was surnamed the painter of the lips. That Greek alone would have been worthy to paint thy mouth. Listen ! before thee, there was never a creature worthy of the name. Thou wert made to receive the apple like Venus, or to eat it like Eve ; beauty begins with thee. I have just referred to Eve ; it is thou who hast created her. Thou deservest the letters-patent of the beautiful woman. O Favourite, I cease to address you as 'thou,' because I pass from poetry to prose. You were speaking of my name a little while ago. That touched me ; but let us, whoever we may be, distrust names. The}' may delude us. I am called Félix, and I am not happy. Words are liars. Let us not blindly accept the indications which they afford us. It would be a mistake to write to Liège ' for corks, and to Pau for gloves. Miss Dahlia, were I in your place, I would call myself Rosa. A flower should smell sweet, and woman should have wit. I say nothing of Fan tine ; she is a dreamer, a musing, thoughtful, pensive person ; she is a phantom possessed of the form of a nymph and the modesty- of a nun, who has strayed into the life of a grisette, but who takes refuge in illusions, and who sings and prays and gazes into the azure without very well knowing what she sees or what she is doing, and who, with her eyes fixed on heaven, wanders in a garden where there are more birds than are in existence. O 1 Liège: a cork-tree. Pau: a jest on peat/, skin. Digitized by VjOOQ IC 132 LES MISERABLES. Fautiue, know this : I, Tholomyès, I am an illusion ; but sht does not even hear me, that blond maid of Chimeras ! as for the rest, everything about her is freshness, suavity, youth, sweet morning light. O Fantine, maid worthy of being called Marguerite or Pearl, you are a woman from the beauteous Orient. Ladies, a second p»eee of advice : do not marr}' ; mar- riage is a graft ; it takes well or ill : avoid that risk. But bah Î what am I. saying? I am wasting ray words. Girls are incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we wise men can say will not prevent the waistcoat-maker? and the shoe-stitchers from dreaming of husbands studded with diamonds. Well, so be it ; but, my beauties, remember this, you eat too much sugar. You have but one fault, O woman, and that i8 nibbling sugar. O nibbling sex, your pretty little white t^eth adore sugar. Now, heed me well, sugar is a salt. All salts are withering. Sugar is the most desiccating of all salts ; it sucks the liquids of the blood through the veins ; hence tlie coagulation, and then the solidification of the blood ; hence tubercles in the lungs, hence death. That is why diabetes borders on consumption. 'I hen- do not crunch sugar, and you will live. I turn to the men? gentlemen, make conquest, rob each other of your well-belove^ without remorse. Chassez across. In love there are no frienfi^ Everywhere where there is a pretty woman hostility is open No quarter, war to the death ! a pretty woman is a casus belli I a pretty woman is flagrant misdemeanor. All the invasions o( history have been determined by petticoats. Woman is man*tf right. Romulus cairied off the Sabines ; William carried off th* Saxon women ; Cœsar carried off the Roman women. The maw who is not loved soars like a vulture over the mistresses of other Juen ; and for my own part, to all those unfortunate men wh<^ are widowers, I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of Italy : '' Soldiers, you are in need of everything; the enemy has it." Tholomyès paused. *'Take breath, Tholomyès," said Blachevelle. At the same moment, Blachevelle, supported by Listolief and Fameuii, struck up to a plaintive air, one of those studio songs composed of the first words which come to hand, rhymed richly and not at all, as destitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound of the wind, which have their birth in the vapor of pipes, and are dissipated and take their flight with them. This is the couplet by which the group replied to Tholo myès' harangue : — Digitized by Google FANTINE. ISa •'The father turkey-cocks so grar* Some money to an agent gave, That master good Clermont-Tonnerre Might be made pope on Saint Jotms' day fair. But this good Clermont could not be Made pope, because no priest was he ; And then their agent, whose wrath burned, With all their money back returned." This was not calculated to calm Tholorayès' improvisation ; he emptied his glass, filled, refilled it, and began again : — '* Down with wisdom ! Forget all that I have said. Let us De neither prudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes. 1 pro- I)ose a toast to mirth ; be merry. Let us complete our course of law by folly and eating ! Indigestion and the digest. Let Justinian be the male, and Feasting, the female ! Joy in the depths ! Live, O creation ! The world is a great diamond. I am happy. The birds are astonishing. What a festival every- where ! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou. Summer, I salute thee ! O Luxembourg ! O Georgics of the Rue Madame and of the Allée de l'Observatoire ! O pensive infantry soldiers ! all those charming nurses who, while they guard the children, amuse themselves ! The pampas of America would please me if J had not the arcades of the Odéon. My soul flits away into the virgin forests and to the savannas. All is beautiful. The flies buzz in the sun. The sun has sneezed out the humming bird. Embrace me, Fantine ! " He made a mistake and embraced Favourite. Vin. — The Death of a Horse. " The dinners are better at Édon's than at Bombarda's," ex- claimed Zéphine. *' 1 prefer Bombarda to Édon," declared Blachevelle. ''There is more luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room dowii- stauïî ; there are miiTors [glaceti] on the walls." " I prefer them [glaces^ ices] on my plate," said Favourite. Bkchevelle persisted : — *' Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bom barda's and of bone at Édon's. Now, silver is more valuable than bone." " Except for those who have a silver chin," observed Tholo- myès. He was looking at the dome of the Invalides, which was visi- ble from Bombarda's windows. Digitized by Google 134 LES MISERABLES. A pause ensued. " Tholomyès," exclaimed Fameuil^ " Listolier and I were having a discussion just now." '' A discussion is a good thing/' replied Tholomjès ; ** a quar« rel is better." '* We were disputing about philosophy." ''Well?" *' Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?'* *' Désaugiers," said Tholomyès. This decree pronounced, he took a drink, and went on ! — " I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since wft can still talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immor- tal gods. We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts. The unexpected bursts forth from the syllo- gism. That is fine. There are still human beings here below who know how to open and close the surprise box of the para- dox merrily. This, ladies, which you are drinking with so tranquil an air is Madeira wine, you must know, from the vineyard of Coural das Freiras, which is three hundred and seventetiu fathoms above the level of the sea. Attention while you drink ! three hundred and seventeen fathoms ! and Mon- sieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you those tln*ee hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and fifty centimes." Again Fameuil interrupted him : — '' Tholomyès, your opinions fix the law. Who is your fayorite Author?" "Ber— *• *'Quin?" "No; Choux.*' And Tholomyès continued ; — ''Honor to Bombarda! Ile would equal Munophis of Elc- phanta if he could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thy- gelion of Chaeronea if he could bring me a Greek courtesan ; for, oh, ladies ! there were Bombaidiis in Greece and in Egypt, ^pnleuis tells us of them. Alas ! always the same, and nothing new ; nothing more unpublished by the creator in creation Î Nil sub sole novum^ says Solomon ; aynor omnibus idem^ says Virgil ; and Carabine mounts with Caral^in into "the bark at Saint-Cloud, as Aspasia embarked with Pericles uix)n the fleet at Samos. One last word. Do you know what Aspasia was, ladies? Although she lived at an epoch when women had, as yet, no soul, she was a soul; a soul of a rosy and purple hue, more ardent hued than fire, fresher than the dawn. Aspasia was a Digitized by Google FANTINE. 185 treature in whom the two extremes of womanhood met; she vras the goddess prostitute ; Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was created in case a mistress should he needed for Trometheus." Tholomyès, once started, would have found some difficulty in stopping, had not a horse fallen down upon the quay just at that moment. The shock caused the cart and the orator to come to a (lead halt. It was a. Beauceron mare, old and thin, and one fit for the knacker, which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda's, the worn-out, exhausted beast had refused to proceed any further. This incident attracted a crowd. Hardly had the cursing and indignant carter had time to utter with proper energy the sacramental word, Mâtin (the jade), backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip, when the jade fell, never to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made by the passers-by, Tholomyès' merry auditors turned their heads, and Tholomyès took advantage of the opportunity to bring his alio- cation to a close with this melancholy strophe : — '* Elle était de ce inonde ou coucous et carrosses ^ Ont le même destin ; Et, rosse, elle a vécu ce que vivent les rostet, L'espace d'un mâtin I " " Poor horse ! " sighed Fantine. And Dahlia exclaimed : — '* There is Fantine on the point of crying over horses. How can one be such a pitiful fool as that ! " At that moment Favoui'ite, folding her arms and throwing her head back, looked resolutely at Tholomyès and said : — "Come, now! the surprise?" "Exactly. The moment has arrived," replied Tholomyès. *' Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck. Wait for us a moment, ladies." ** It begins with a kiss," said Blaclievelle. "On the brow," added Tholomyès. Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress's brow ; then all four filed oat through the door, with their fingers on their lips. Favourite clapped her hands on their departure. " It is beginning to be amusing already," said she. "Don't be too long," murmured Fantine; "we are waiting for you." ^ She belonged to that circle where cuckoos and carriages share the same fate; and a jade herself, she lived, as jades live, for the space of a mominii lor Jade). Digitized by Google L86 t.ES MISÉRABLES. EX. — A Merry End to Mirth. When the young girls were left alone, they leaned two bj two on the window-sills, chatting, craning out their heatls, and talking from one window to the other. They saw the young men emerge from the Café Bombanls xrm in arm. The latter turned round, made signs to them smiled, and disappeared in that dusty Sunday throng which makes a weekly invasion into the Champs-Elysées. '' Don't be long ! " cried Fantine. '' What are they going to bring us?" said Zéphine. '* It will certainly be something pretty," said Dahlia. " For my part,*' said Favourite, '' I want it to be of gold." Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore of the lake, which they could see through the branches of the large trees, and which diverted them greatly. It was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and dili- gences. Nearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through the Champs-Elysées. The majority followed the quay and went through the Passy lîarrier. From moment to moment, some huge vehicle, painted yellow and black, heavily loaded, noisily harnessed, rendered shapeless by trunks, tar}>au- lins, and valises, full of heads which imnie8ses8' ing woman, b}' the way, though touching at that moment, was swinging the two children by means of a long cord, watching them carefully, for fear of accidents, with that animal and ct»les- tial expression which is peculiar to maternity. At every back- lYard and forward swing the hideous links emitted a strident 30und, which resembled a cry of rage ; the little girls were in ecstasies ; the setting sun mingled in this joy, and nothing could be more charming than this caprice of chance which had made of a chain of Titans the swing of cherubim. . As she rocked her little ones, the mother hummed in adis^ cordant voice a romance then celebrated : — " It must be, said a warrior." Her song, and the contemplation of her daughters, prevented ber hearing and seeing what was going on in the street. In the meantime, some one had approached her, as she was beginning the first couplet of the romance, and suddenly she heard a voice saying very near her ear : — '* You have two beautiful children there, Madame." ** To the fair and tender Imogene — *' replied the mother, continuing her romance ; then she turned her bead. A woman stood before her, a few paces distant. This woman also had a child, which she carried in her arms. She was carrying, in addition, a large carpet-bag, whicli seemed very heavy. This woman's child was one of the most divine creatures that it is possible to behold. It was a girl, two or three years of age. She could have entered into competition with tlie two other little ones, so far as the coquetry of her dress was con- cerned ; she wore a cap of fine linen, ribbons on her bodice, ami V^alenciennes lace on her cap. The folds of her skirt were raised so as to permit a view of her white, firm, and dimpled leg. Slir was admirably rosy and healthy. The little beauty inspired a desire to take a bite from the apples of her cheeks. Of her eyes nothing could be known, except that they must be very large, and that tiiey had magnificent lashes. She was asleep. She slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar to ber age The arms of mothers are made of tenderness ; in them children sleep profoundly. As for the mother, her appearance was sad and poverty^ Digitized by Google FANTINE. 141 stricken. She was dressed like a workiDg-woman who is in dined to turn into a peasant again. She was young. Was sho handsome ? Perhaps ; but in that attire it was not apparent. Her hair, a golden lock of which had escaped, seemed very thick, but was severely concealed beneath an ugly, tight, close, nun-like cap, tied under the chin. A smile displays beautiful teeth when one has them; but she did not smile. Her eyes did not seem to have been dry for a very long time. She was pale • she had a very weary and rather sickly appearance. She gazed upon her daughter asleep in her arms with the air peculiar to a mother who has nursed her own child. A large blue hand- irerchief, such as the Invalides use, was folded into a fichu, and aoncealed her figure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and «II dotted with freckles,, her forefinger was hardened and lacer- ated with the needle ; she wore a cloak of coarse brown woollen • tuff, a linen gown, and coarse shoes. It was Fantine. It was Fantine, but diflScult to recognize. Nevertheless, on icrutinizing her attentively, it was evident that she still retained l.er beauty. A melancholy fold, which resembled the beginning <.f irony, wrinkled her right cheek. As for her toilette, that aerial tDilette of muslin and nbbons, which seemed made of mirth, of folly, and of music, full of bells, and perfumed with lilacs, had lanished like that beautiful and dazzling hoar-frost which is uistaken for diamonds in the sunlight ; it melts and leaves the hranch quite black. Ten months had elapsed since the " pretty farce." What had taken place during those ten months? It can be «kivined. After abandonment, straightened circumstances. Fantine iad immediately lost sight of Favourite, Zéphine, and Dahlia ; the bond once broken on the side of the men, it was loosed between the women ; they would have been greatly astonished had any one told them a fortnight later, that they had been friends ; there no longer existed any reason for such a thing. Fantine had remained alone. The father of her child gone, — ilas ! such ruptures are irrevocable, — she found herself abso- lutely isolated, minus the habit of work and plus the taste for pleasure. Drawn away by her liaison with Tholomyès to dis- dain the petty trade which she knew, she had neglected to keep her market open ; it was now closed to her. She had no resource. Fantine barely knew how to read, and did not know how to write ; in her childhood she had only been taught to sign her name ; she had a public letter-writer indite an epistle to Tholomyèsi then a second, then a third. Tholomyès reolied to Digitized by Google 142 LES MISÉRABIKS- none of them. Fan tine heard the gossips sa}^ as they looked at her child: ''Who takes those eliildren seriously! One only shrugs one's shoulders over such childreu ! " Then she thought of Tholomyès, who had shrugged his shoulders over his child, and who did not take that innocent being seriously ; and her heart grew gloomy toward that man. But what was she to do? She no longer knew to whom to apply. She had com- mitted a fault, but the foundation of her nature, as will be remembered, was modesty and virtue. She was vaguely con- scious that she was ou the verge of falling into distress, and of gliding into a worse state. Courage was necessary ; she pos- sessed it, and held herself finn. The idea of returning to her native town of M. sur M. occurred to her. There, some one might possibly know her and give . her work ; yes, but it would be necessary to conceal her fault. In a confused way she perceived the necessity of a separation which would be more painful than the first one. Her heart contracted, but she took her resolution. Fan tine, as we shall see, had the fierce bravery of life. She had already valiantly renounced finery, had dressed herself in linen, and had put all her silks, all her ornaments, all her ribbons, and all her laces on her daughter, the only vanity which was left to her, and a holy one it was. She sold all that she had, which produced for her two hundred francs ; her little debts paid, she liad only about eighty francs left. At the age of twenty-two, on a beautiful spring morning, she quitted Paris, bearing her child on her back. Any one who had seen these two pass would have had pity on them. This woman had, in all the world, nothing but her child, and the child had, in all the world, no one but this woman. Fantine had nursed her child, and this had tired her chest, and she coughed a little. We shall have no further occasion to speak of M. Félix Tholomyès. Let us confine ourselves to saying, that, twenty years later, under King Louis Philippe, he was a great provin- cial lawyer, wealthy and influential, a wise elector, and a very severe juryman ; he was still a man of pleasure. Towards the middle of the day, after having, from time to time, for the sake of resting herself, travelled, for three or four sous a league, in what was then known as the Petites Voitures des Environs de PariSy the " little suburban coach serA'ice," Fantine found herself at Montfermeil, in the alley Boulanger. As she passed the Th^nardier hostelry, the two little girls, blissful in the monster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and ebe had halted in front of that vision of joy. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 143 Charms exist. These two little girls were a charm to this mother. She gazed at them in much emotion. The presence of angels is an announcement of Paradise. She thought that, above this inn, she beheld the mysterious UKKE of Providence. These two little creatures were evidently happy. Slie gazed at them, she admired them, in such emotion that at the moment when their mother was recovering her breath between two couplets of her song, she could not refrain from addressing to her the remark which we have just read : — " You have two pretty children, Madame." The most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses be- stowed on their young. The mother raised her head and thanked her, and bade the wayfarer sit down on the bench at the door, she herself being seated on the threshold. The two women began to chat. '* My name is Madame Thénardier," said the mother of the two little girls. ''We keep this inn." Then, her mind still running on her romance, she resumed, humming between her teeth : — " It must be 80 ; I am a knight. And I am off to Palestine." This Madame Thénardier was a sandy-complexioned woman, thin and angular — the type of the soldier's wife in all its unpleas- antness ; and what was odd, with a languishing air, which she owed to her perusal of romances. She was a simpering, but masculine creature. Old romances produce that effect when rubbed against the imagination of cook-shop woman. She was still young ; she was barely thirty. If this crouching woman had stood upright, her lofty stature and her frame of - ^.eram- bulatiug colossus suitable for fairs, might have frightened the traveller at the outset, troubled her confidence, and disturbed what caused what we have to relate to vanish. A person who is seated instead of standing erect — destinies hang upon such a thing as that. The traveller told her story, with slight modifications. That she was a working-woman ; that her husband was dead ; that her work in Paris had failed her, and that she was on her way to seek it elsewhere, in her own native parts ; that she had left Paris that morning, on foot ; that, as she was carrying her child, and felt fatigued, she had got into the Villemorable coach when she met it ; that from Villemomble she had come to Mont- fermeil on foot ; that the little one had walked a little, but not Digitized by Google 144 i^isiS MISKHAISLtsSi. much, because she was so young, and that she bad been obliged »o take her up, and the jewel had fallen asleep. At this word she bestowed on her daughter a passionate kiss, which woke her. The child opened lier eyes, great blue eyes like her mother's, and looked at — what? Nothing; with that serious and sometimes severe air of little children, which is a mystery of tlieir luminous innocence in the presence of our twilight of virtue. One would say that they feel themselves to be angels, and that they know us to be men. Then the child began to laugh ; and although the mother held fast to her, she slipped to the ground with the unconquerable energy of a little being which wished to run. All at once she caught sight of the two others in the swing, stopped short, and put out her tongue, in sign of admiration. Mother Thénardier released her daughters^ made them desoentl from the swing, and said : — '* Now amuse yourselves, all three of you.'* Children become acquainted quickly at that age, and at the expiration of a minute the little Thénardiers were playing with the new-comer at making holes in the ground, which was an immense pleasure. The new-comer was very gay ; the goodness of the mother is written in the gayety of the child ; she had seized a scrap of wood which served her for a shovel, and energetically dug a cavity big enough for a fly. The grave-digger's business be • comes a subject for laughter when performed by a child. The two women pursued their chat. *' What is vour little one's name?" "Cosette.'"' For Cosette, read Euphrasie. The child's name was Enphra sie. But out of Euphrasie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet and graceful instinct of mothers and of the po[)ulace which changes Josepha into Pépita, and Françoise into Sillette. It is a sort of derivative which disarranges and disconcerts the whole sjience of the etymologists. We have known a grand mother who succeeded in turning Theodore into Gnon. *'H()W old is she?'* *' She is going on three.** *' That is the age of my eldest." In the meantime, the three little girls were grouped in an al^ lîtude of profound anxiety and blis? fulness ; an event had hap- pened ; a big worm had emerged from the ground, and they were afraid ; and they were in ecstasies over it. Their radiant brows touched each other ; one would have satif «hat there were three heads iu oue aureole. Digitized by Google FANTINE, 145 **How easily children get acquainted at once!'* exclaimed tlother Thénardier; "one would swear that they were three «isters ! " This remark was probably the spark which the other mother had been waiting for. She seized the Thénardier's hand, looked at her fixedly, and said : — " Will you keep my child for me ? " Tlie Thénardier made one of those movements of surprise which signify neither assent nor refusal. Cosette's mother continued : — "You see, I cannot take my daughter to the country. My ffork will not permit it. With a child one can find no situation* People are ridiculous in the country. It was the good God who i;aQscd me to pass your inn. When I caught sight of your little ones, so pretty, so clean, and so happy, it overwhelmed me. I liaid : * Here is a good mother. That is just the thing ; that will make three sisters.' And then, it will not be long before I i-etum. Will you keep my child for me ? " "I must see about it," replied the Thénardier, "I will give you six francs a month." Here a man's voice called from the depths of the cook- fthop : — ^'Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in «dvance." "Six times seven makes forty-two," said the Thénardier. "I will give it," said the mother. "And fifteen francs in addition for preliminary expenses," added the man's voice." "Total, fifty-seven francs," said Madame Thénardier. And she hummed vaguely, with these Ggures :-» "It must be, said a warrior." *'I will pay it," said the mother. "I have eighty francs. 1 Jiall have enough left to reach the country, by travelling on {oot. I shall earn money there, and as soon as I have a little. [ ivill return for my darling." The man's voice resumed : — "The little one has an outfit?" "That is my husband," said the Thénardier. "Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure. — I undei^ btood perfectly that it was your husband. — And a beautiful out- fit, too! a senseless outfit, everything by the dozen, and silk gowns like a lady. It is here, in my carpet-bag." '^ YoQ must hand it over," struck in the man's voice again. Digitized by Google 146 LES MISERABLES. '*0f coui-se I shall give it to you,'* said tlie iiiotlier. *'R would be very queer if I were to leave mv daughter quite naked ! " The master's face appeared. '' That's good," said he. The bargain was concluded. The mother passed the night at the inn, gave up her money and left hor cliild, fastened lu r carpet-bag once more, now reduced in volume by the reniov:i' of the outfit, and light henceforth, and set out on the foUowint» morning, intending to return soon. People arrange such de- partures tranquilly ; but they are despairs ! A neighbor of the Thénardiers met this mother as she was setting out, and came back with the remark : — '• I have just seen a woman crying in the street so that it was enough to rend your heart." When Cosette's mother had taken her dei)arture, the man said to the woman : — "That will serve to pay my note for one hundred and ten francs which falls due to-morrow ; I lacked fifty francs. Do 3 uu know that 1 should have had a bailiff and a protest after me? You played the mouse-trap nicely with your young ones." '* Without suspecting it," said the woman. II. — First Sketch op two Unpkkpossessing Figures. The mouse which had been caught was a pitiful specimen ; but the cat rejoices even over a lean mouse. Who were these Thénardiers ? Let us say a word or two of them now. We will complete the sketch later on. Those beings belonged to that bastard class composed of coarse people who have been successful, and of intelligent people who have descended in the scale, which is between tin class called '* middle" and the class denominated as ** inferior,' and which combines some of the defects of the second with nearly all the vices of the first, without possessing the gener- ous impulse of the workingman nor the honest order of the bourgeois. They were of those dwarfed natures which, if a dull (Ire chances to warm them up, easily become monstrous. There was in the woman a substratum of the brute, and in the man the material for a blackguard. lioth w<'re susceptible, in llu» highest degree, of the sort of hideous progress which is acconi- Digitized by Google FANTINE. 147 plished in the direction of evil. There exist crab-like souls which are continually retreating towards the darkness, retro- grading in life rather than advancing, employing experience U) augment their deformity, growing incessantly worse, and becoming more and more impregnated with an ever-augment- ing blackness. This man and woman i)ossessed such souls. Thénardier, in particular, was troublesome for a physiogno- mist. One can only look at some men to distrust them ; foi one feels that they are dark in both directions. They are aneasy in the rear and threatening in front. There is some- thing of the unknown about them. One can no more answer for what they have done than for what they will do. The shadow which they bear in their glance denounces them. From merely hearing them utter a word or seeing them make a gesture, one obtains a glimpse of sombre secrets in their past aod of sombre mysteries in their future. This Thénardier, if he himself was to be believed, had been a soldier — a sergeant, he said. He had probably been through the campaign of 1815, and had even conducted himself with tolerable valor, it would seem. We shall see later on how much truth there was in this. The sign of his hostelry was in allu- sion to one of his feats of arms. He had painted it himself ; for he knew how to do a little of everything, and badly. It was at the epoch when the ancient classical romance which, after having been Clélie^ was no longer anything but LodfAska^ still noble, but ever more and more vulgar, having fallen from Mademoiselle de Scudéri to Madame Bournon- Malarme^ and from Madame de Lafayette to Madame Barthél- einy-Hadot, was setting the loving hearts of the portresses of Paris aflame, and even ravaging the suburbs to some extent. Madame Thénardier was just intelligent enough to read this sort of books. She lived on them. In them she drowned what brains she possessed. This had given her, when very young, iml even a little later, a sort of pensive attitude towards her husband, a scamp of a ceilain depth, a ruffian lettered to the extent of the grammar, coarse and fine at one and the same time, but, so far as sentimentalism was concerned, given to the perusal of Pigault- Lebrun, and '*in what concerns the sex," as he said in his jargon — a downright, unmitigated but. His wife was twelve or fifteen years younger than he was. Later on, when her hair, arranged in a romantically jlrooping fashion, began to grow gray, wlien tlie Magjera began to be developed from the Pamela, the female Thénardier was nothing but a coarse, vicious woman, who had dabbled in Digitized by Google 148 LES MISERABLES. Btupid romances. Now, one cannot read nonsense with in- |)unitv. The result was that her eldest daughter was namei Éponine ; as for the youuger, the poor little thing came near being called Guluare ; I know not to what divei*siou, effectei by a romance of Ducray-Dumenil, she owed the fact tliat she merely bore the name of Azelma. However, we will remark by the way, everything was not ridiculous and superficial in that curious epoch to which we are alluding, and which may be designated as the anarchy of bap- tismal names. By the side of this romantic element which we have just indicated there is the social symptom. It is not rare for the neatherd's boy nowadays to bear the name of Artliui, Alfred, or Alphonse, and for the vicomte — if there are still any vicomtes — to be called Thomas, Pierre, or Jacques. This displacement, which places the '' elegant" name on the plebeian and the rustic name on the aristocrat, is nothing else than an eddy of equality. The irresistible penetration of the new in^ spiration is there as everywhere else. Beneath this apparent discord there is a great and a profound thing, — the French Revolution. nL — The Lark. It is not all in all sufficient to be wicked in order to prosper The cook-shop was in a bad way. Thanks to the traveller's fifty -seven francs, Thénardier haxi been able to avoid a protest and to honor his signature. On the following month they were again in need of money. The woman took Cosette's outfit, to Paris, and pawned it at the pawnbroker's for sixty francs. As soon as that sum was spent^ the Thénardiers grew accustomed to look on the little girl merely as a child whom they were caring for out of charity ; and they treated her accordingly. As she had no longer any clothes, they dressed her in the cast-off petticoats and chemises of the Thénardier brats ; that is to say, in rags. They fed lioi on what all the rest had left — a little better than the dog, s Httle worse than the cat. Moreover, the cat and the dog wei-s her habitual' table-companions ; Cosette ate with them uiuley the table, from a wooden bowl similar to theirs. The mother, who had established herself, as we shall see later on, at M. sur M., wrote, or, more correctly, caused to hn written, a letter every month, that she might have news of her child. The Thénardiers reolied invariably, "Cosette is doin$; wonderfully' well. Digitized by Google FANTINB. 14» At the expiration of the first six moaths the mother sent aeven francs for the seventh montlj, and continued lier remiU tances with tolerable regularity from month to month. The year was not completed when Thénardier said : " A fine favor she is doing us, in sooth ! What does she expect us to do with her seven francs?" and he wrote to demand twelve francs. The mother, whom they had persuaded into the belief that her child was happy, '^and was coming on well," submitted, and forwarded the twelve francs. Certain natures cannot love on the one hand without hating on the other. Mother Théuardier loved her two daughters pas- sionately, which caused her to hate the stranger. It is sad to think that the love of a mother can possess vil- lanons aspects. Little as was the space occupied by Cosette, it seemed to her as though it were taken from her own, anci ihat that little child diminished the air which her daughters breathed. This woman, like many women of her sort, had a load of caresses and a burden of blows and injuries to dispense each day. If she had not had Cosette, it is certain that her daughters, idolized as they were, would have received the whole of it; but the stranger did them the service to divert the blows to herself. Her daughters received nothing but ca- resses. Cosette could not make a motion which did not draw down upon her head a heavy shower of violent blows and ud- merited chastisement. The sweet, feeble being, who should not have understood anything of this world or of God, inces- santly punished, scolded, ill-used, beaten, and seeing beside her two little creatures like herself, who lived in a ray of dawn ! Madame Thénardier was vicious with Cosette. Éponine and ^elina were vicious. Children at that age are only copies of their mother. The size is smaller ; that is all. A year passed ; then another. People in the village said : — '* Those Thénardiers are good people. They are not rich, and yet they are bringing up a poor child who was abandoned on their hands ! " They thought that Cosette's mother had forgotton her. In the meanwhile, Thénardier, having learned, it is impossible to say by what obscure means, that the child was probably a bastard, and that the mother could not acknowledge it, exacted fifteen francs a month, saying that " the creature" was growing and '* eating," and threatening to send her away. " Let her not botber me/' be exclaimed, ^^or I'll fire her brat right into Digitized by Google 150 LES MISJERABLES. Che middle of her secrets. I must have an increase." The mother paid the fifteen francs. From year to year the child grew, and so did her wretche'oung Savoyard who was roaming about the country and seeking chimneys to sweep, the mayor hat! him summoned, inquired his name, and gave him money. Tlie little Savoyards told each other about it : a great many of them passed that way V. — Vagdb Flashes on the Horizon. LriTLE by little, and in the course of time, all this opposition sub- sided. There had at firat been exercised against M. Madeleine, in virtue of a sort of law which all those who rise must sub- mit to, blackenings and calumnies ; then they grew to be nothiug more tiian ill-nature, then merely malicious remarks, then even this entirely disappeared ; respect became complete, unanimous, cordial, and towards 1821 the moment arrived when the word '* Monsieur Ic Maire " was pronounced at M. sur M. with almost the same accent as "Monseigneur the Bishop" had been nronounccd in D. in 1815. X*eople came from a distance of ten leagues around to consult M. Madeleine. He put an end to differences, he prevented lawsuits, he reconciled enemies. Every one took him for the judge, and with good i-eason. It seemed as though he had for a soul the book of the natural law. It was like an ei)idemic of veneration, which in the course of six or seven years gradually took possession of Uie whole district. One single man in the towu, in tlie arrondissement, absolutely escaped this contagion, and, whatever Father Madeleine did, remained his opponent as though a sort of incorruptible and imperturbable instinct kept him on tlie alert and uneasy. It seems, in fact, as though there existed in certain men a verita- ble bestial instinct, though pure and upright, like all instincts, which creates antipathies and sympathies, which fatally sepa* rates one nature from another nature, which does not hesitate, which feels no disquiet, which does not hold its peace, and which never belies itself, clear in its obscurity, infallible, imperious^ intractable, stubborn to all counsels of the intelligence and to al) the dissolvents of reason, and which, in whatever manner des- tinies are arranged, secretly warns the man-dog of the presence of the man-cat, and the man-fox of the presence of the man- tion. It frequently happened that when M. Madeleine was passing Digitized by Google FAN TINE. 161 along a street, calm, affectionate, surrounded by the blessings of all, a man of lofty stature, clad in an iron-gray frock-coat armed with a heavy cane, and wearing a battered hat, turned lound abruptly behind him, and followed him with his eyes until he disappeared, with folded arms and a slow shake of the head, and his upper lip raised in company with his lower to his nose, a sort of significant grimace which might be translated by: *' What is that man, after all? I certainly have seen him somewhere. In any case, I am not his dupe." This pei-son, grave with a gravity which was almost menacing, was one of those men who, even when only seen by a rapid glimpse, arrest the spectator's attention. His name was Javert, and he belonged to the police. At M. sur M. he exercised the unpleasant but useful func- tions of an inspector. He had not seen Madeleine's beginnings. Javert owed the post which he occupied to the protection of M. Chabouillet, the secretary of the Minister of State, Comte Angles, then prefect of police at Paris. When Javert arrived at M. sur M. the fortune of the great manufacturer was already made, and Father Madeleine had become Monsieur Madeleine. Certain police officers have a peculiar physiognomy, which is complieated with an air of baseness mingled with an air of authority. Javert possessed this physiognomy minus the base- ness. It is our conviction that if souls were visible to the ejes, we should be able to see distinctly that sti-ange thing that each one individual of the human race corresponds to some one of the species of the animal creation ; and we could easily recognize this truth, hardly perceived by the thinker, that from the oyster to the eagle, from the pig to the tiger, all animals exist in man, and that each one of them is in a man. Sometimes even several of them at a time. Animals are nothing else than the figures of our virtues and our vices, straying before our eyes, the visible phantoms of our souls. God shows them to us in order to induce us to reflect. Only since animals are mere shadows, God has not made them capable of education in the full sense of the word ; what is the lise? On the contrary, our souls being realities and having a goal which is appropriate to them, God has bestowed on them intelligence ; that is to say, the possibility of education. Social education, when well done, can always draw from a soul, of whatever sort it may be, the utility which it contains. This, be it said, is of course from the restricted point of Hew of the terrestrial life which is apparent, and without pre- Digitized by Google 162 LES MISÉRABLES, judging the profound question of the anterior or ulterior person* ality of the beings which are not man. The visible / in nowise authorizes the thinker to deny the latent J. Having made this reservation, let us pass on. Now, if the reader will admit, for a moment, with us, tiiat in every man there is one of the animal species of creation, it will be easy for us to say what there was in Police Officer Javert. The peasants of Asturias are convinced that in every litter of solves there is one dog, which is killed by the mother because, otherwise, as he grew up, he would devour the other little ones. Give to this dog-son of a wolf a human face, and the result will be Javert. Javert had been bom in prison, of a fortune-teller, whose husband was in the galleys. As he grew up, he thought that he was outside the pale of society, and he despaired of ever re- entering it. He observed that society unpardoningly excludes two classes of men, — those who attack it and those who guard it ; he had no choice except between these two classes ; at the same time, he was conscious of an indescribable foundation of rigidity, regularity, and probity, complicated with ah inexpres- sible hatred for the race of bohemians whence he was sprung. He entered the police ; he succeeded there. At forty years of age he was an inspector. During his youth he had been employed in the convict estab- lishments of the South. Before proceeding further, let us come to an understanding as to those words, *' human face," which we have just applied to Javert. The human face of Javert consisted of a flat nose, with two deep nostrils, towards which enormous whiskers ascended on his cheeks. One felt ill at ease when he saw these two forests and these two caverns for the first time . When Javert laughed , — and his laugh was rare and terrible, — his thin lips parted and re- vealed to view not only his teeth, but his gums, and around his nose there formed a flattened and savage fold, as on the muzzle of a wild beast. Javert, serious, was a watch-dog ; when he laughed, he was a tiger. As for the rest, he had very little skull and a great deal of jaw ; his hair concealed his forehead and fell over his eyebrows ; between his eyes there was a per- manent, central frown, like an imprint of wrath ; his gaze was obscure; his mouth pursed up and terrible; his air that of ferocious command. This man was composed of two very simple and two very good sentiments, comparatively ; but he rendered them almost Digitized by Google FANTINE. 163 bad, by dint of exaggerating them, — respect for authority, hatred of rebellion; and in his eyes, murder, robbery, all crimes, are only forms of rebellion. He enveloped in a blind and profound faith every one who had a function in the state, from the prime minister to the rural policeman. He covered with scorn, aversion, and disgust every one who had once crossed the legal threshold of evil. He was absolute, and admitted no exceptions. On the one hand, he said, " The functionary can •nake no mistake ; the magistrate is never in the wrong." On the other hand, he said, "These men are irremediably lost. Nothing good can come from them." He fully shared the opin» ion of those extreme minds wiiich attribute to human law I know not what power of making, or, if the reader will have it so, of authenticating, demons, and who place a Styx at the base of society. He was stoical, serious, austere ; a melancholy dreamer, humble and haught^^ like fanatics. His glance was like a gim* let, cold and piercing. His whole life hung on these two words : watchfulness and supervision. He had introduced a straight line into what is the most crooked thing in the world ; he pos- sessed the conscience of Tiis usefulness, the religion of his func- tions, and he was a spy as other men are priests. Woe to the man who fell into his hands ! He would have arrested his own father, if the latter had escaped from the galleys, and would have denounced his mother, if she bad broken her ban. And he would have done it with that sort of inward satisfaction which is conferred by virtue. And, withal, a life of privation, isola- tion, abnegation, chastity, with never a diversion. It was im- placable duty ; the police understood, as the Spartans understood Sparta, a pitiless lying in wait, a ferocious honesty, a marble informer, Brutus in Vidocq. Javerf s whole person was expressive of the man who spies and who withdraws himself from observation. The mystical school of Joseph de Maistre, which at that epoch seasoned with lofty cosmo<îony those things which were called the ultra news- papers, would not have failed to declare that Javert was a S3'm- bol- His brow was not visible ; it disappeared beneath his hat » his eyes were not visible, since they were lost under his eye* brows : his chin was not visible, for it was plunged in his cravat : his hands were not visible ; the}' were drawn up in his sleeves : and his cane was not visible ; he carried it under his coat. But when the occasion presented itself, there was suddenly seen to emerge from all this shadow, as from an ambuscade, a narrow and angular forehead, a baleful glance, a threatening chin, enor* moas hands, and a monstrous cudgel. Digitized by Google 164 LES MISERABLES. In his leîsare moments, which were far from flreqaent, he read, although he hated books ; this caused him to be not wholly illit erate. This could be recognized by some emphasis in hk speech. As we have said, he had no vices. When he was pleased with himself, he permitted himself a pinch of snuff. Thereil lay his connection with humanity. Tlie reader will have no difficulty in understanding that Javert was the terror of that whole class which the annual statistics of the Ministry of Justice designates under the rubric, Vagrants. Tlie name of Javert routed them by its mere utterance ; the face of Javert petrified them at sight. Such was this formidable man* Javert was like an eye constantly fixed on M. Madeleine* An eye full of suspicion and conjecture. M. Madeleine had finally perceived the fact ; but it seemed to be of no importance to him. He did not even put a question to Javert ; he neither sought nof avoided him ; he bore that embarrassing and almost oppressive gaze without appearing to notice it. .He treated Javert with ease and courtesy, as he did all the rest of the world. It was divined, from some words which escaped Javert, that he had secretly investigated, with that curiosity which belongs to the race, and into which there enters as much instinct as will, all the anterior traces which Father Madeleine might have left elsewhere. He seemed to know, and he sometimes said in cov- ert words, that some one had gleaned certain information in a certain district about a family which had disappeared. Once he chanced to say, as he was talking to himself, ^^ I think I have him I '* Then he remained pensive for three days, and uttered not a word. It seemed that the thread which he thought he held had broken. Moreover, and this furnishes the necessary corrective for the too absolute sense which certain words might present, there car be nothing really infallible in a human creature, and the |>ecu liarity of instinct is that it can become confused, thrown off th« track, and defeated. Otherwise, it would be superior to intelli- gence, and the beast would be found to be provided with a bet- ter light than man. Javert was evidently somewhat disconcerted by the perfect natnralness and tranquillity of M. Madeleine. One day, nevertheless, his strange manner appeared to pro- dace an impression on M. Madeleine. It was on the foDowing occasion. Digitized by Google FAN TINE. ^6d VI. — Father Fauchelevent. Om morning M. Madeleine was passing through an nnpaTed alley of M. sur M. ; he heard a noise» and saw a group some distance away. He approached. An old man named Fathei Fauchelevent had just fallen beneath his cart, his horse hav« mg tumbled down. This Fauchelevent was one of the few enemies whom M. Mad eleine bad at that time. When Madeleine arrived in the neigh* borhood, Fauchelevent, an ex-notary and a peasant who was almost educated, had a business which was beginning to be in a bad way. Fauchelevent had seen this simple workman grow rich, while he, a lawyer, was being mined. This had filled him with jealousy, and he had done all he could^ on every occasion, to injure Madeleine. Then bankmptcy had come ; and as the old man had nothing left but a cart and a horse, and neither family nor children, he had turned carter. The horse had two broken legs and could not rise. The old man was caught in the wheels. The fall had been so unlucky that the whole weight of the vehicle rested on his breast. The cart was quite heavily laden. Father Fauchelevent was rattling in the throat in the most lamentable manner. They had tried, but in vain, to drag him out. An unmethodical effort, aid awk> wardly given, a wrong shake, might kill him. It was impossible to disengage him otherwise than by lifting the vehicle off of him. Javert, who had come up at the moment of the accident, had sent for a jack-screw. M. Madeleine arrived. People stood aside respectfully. ^' Help ! ** cried old Fauchelevent ^' Who will be good and save the old man ? " M. Madeleine turned towards those present: — '* Is there a jack-screw to be had ?•* *^ One has been sent for,*' answered the peasant. " How long will it take to get it 1 ** ** They have gone for the nearest, to Flachot's place, whert there is a farrier ; but it makes no difference \ it will take a jooû quarter of an hour.** ^* A quarter of an hour Y '^ exclaimed Madeleine. It hsA rained on the preceding night ; the soil was soakcu. The cart was sinking deeper into the earth every moment, and cmshing the old carter^s breast more and more. It was evident Ibat his ribs would be broken in five minute» more Digitized by Google 166 L'ES MISERABLES, " It is impossible to wait another quarter of an hour," said Madeleine to the peasants, who were staring at him. « We must ! '* " But it will be too late then ! Don't you see that the cart is sinking ? " « Well ! '' <* Listen/' resumed Madeleine ; " there is still room enougli under the cart to allow a man to crawl beneath it and raise it with his back. Only half a minute, and the poor man can be taken out. Is there any one here who has stout loins and heart ? There are five louis d'or to be earned ! " Not a man in the group stirred. " Ten louis," said Madeleine. The persons present dropped their eyes. One of them mut- tered : "A man would need to be devilish strong. And then he runs the risk of getting crushed ! " "Come," began Madeleine again, "twenty louis." The same silence. " It is not the will which is lacking," said a voice. M. Madeleine turned round, and recognized Javert He had not noticed him on his arrival. Javert went on: — " It is strength. One would have to be a terrible man to do such a thing as lift a cart like that on his back." Then, gazing fixedly at M. Madeleine, he went on, emphar sizing every word that he uttered : — " Monsieur Madeleine, I have never known but one man capable of doing what you ask." Madeleine shuddered. Javert added, with an air of indifference, but without remov ing his eyes from Madeleine : — " He was a convict." " Ah ! " said Madeleine. " In the galleys at Toulon." Madeleine turned pale. Meanwhile, the cart continued to sink slowly. Father Fau- chelevent rattled in the throat, and shrieked : — " I am strangling ! My ribs are breaking ! a screw ! some- thing ! Ah ! " . Madeleine glanced about him. " Is there, then, no one who wishes to earn twenty louis and save the life of this i)oor old man ? " ' No one stirred. Javert resumed ; — " I have never known but one man who could take the place of a screw, and he was that convict." Digitized by Google FANTiNR. 1er '* Ah I It is crashing me I " cried the old man. Madeleine raised his head, met Javert's falcon eye still fixed open him, looked at the motionless peasants, and smiled sadly. Then, without saying a word, he fell on his knees, and before the crowd had even had time to utter a cry, he was underneath the vehicle* A terrible moment of expectation and silence ensued. They beheld Madeleine, almost flat on his stomach beneath that terrible weight, make two vain efforts to bring his knees and his elbows together. They shouted to him, '* Father Made- leine, come out ! '* Old Fauchelevent himself said to him, ^' Monsieur Madeleine, go away ! You see that I am fated to die I Leave me 1 You will get yourself crushed also 1 *' Mad- eleine made no reply. All the spectators were panting. The wheels had continued to sink, and it had become almost impossible for Madeleine to make his way from under the vehicle. Suddenly the enormous mass was seen to quiver, the cart rose slowly, the wheels half emerged from the ruts. They heard a stifled voice crying, ^^Make haste! Help I" It was Made- leine, who had Just made a final effort. They rushed forwards. The devotioa of a single man had given force and courage to all. The cart was raised by twenty arms. Old Fauchelevent was saved. Madeleine rose. He was pale, though dripping with perspira- tion. His clothes were torn and covered with mud. All wept. The old man kissed his knees and called him the good God. As for him, he bore upon his countenance an indescribable ex- pression of happy and celestial suffering, and he fixed his ti*an- quil eye on Javert, who was still staring at him. yn. — Fauchsleyemt becomes a Gardener in Paris. Faucheleyent had dislocated his kneepan in his fall. Father Madeleine had him conveyed to an infirmary which he had es- tablished for his workmen in the factory building itself, and which was served by two sisters of charity. On the following morning the old man found a thousand-franc bank-note on his night-stand, with these words in Father Madeleine's writing : " i purchase your horse and cxirt*' The cart was broken, and the horse was dead. Fauchelevent recovered, but his knee remained Btiff. M* Madeleine, on the recommendation of the Bisters of Digitized by Google 168 LES MISERABLES. charily and of his priest, got the good man a place as gardenei in a female convent in the Rue Saint- Antoine in Paris. Some time afterwards, M. Madeleine was appointed ma>'ot. The first time that Javert beheld M. Madeleine clothed in the scarf which gave him authority over the town, he felt the sort of shudder which a watch-dog might experiance on smelling u wolf in his master's clothes. From that time forth he avoiclt»() .him as much as he possibly could. When the requirements of the service imperatively demanded it, and he could not do other- wise than meet the mayor, he addressed him with profound re spect. This prosperity created at M. sur M. by Father Made* leine had, besides the visible signs which we have mentioned, another symptom which was none the less significant for not being visible. This never deceives. When the population suffers, when work is lacking, when there is no commerce, the tax-payer resists imposts through penury, he exhausts and oversteps his respite, and the state expends a great deal of money in the charges for compelling and collection. When work is abundant, when the country is rich and happy, the taxes are paid easily and cost the state nothing. It may be said, that there is one infallible thermometer of the public misery and riches,— the cost of collecting the taxes. In the course of seven years the ex- pense of collecting the taxes had diminished three-fourths in the arrondissement of M. sur M., and this led to this arron- dissement being frequently cited from all the rest by M. de Villèle, then Minister of Finance. Such was the condition of the country when Fan tine returned thither. No ope remembered her. Fortunately, the door of M. Madeleine's factory was like the face of a friend. She presen- ted herself there, and was admitted to the women's workroom. The trade was entirely new to Fantine ; she could not be very skilful at it, and she therefore earned but little by her day's work ; but it was sufficient ; the problem was solved ; she was earning her living. Vni. — Madamb Vioturnien expends Thibtt Francs ok Morality. When Fantine saw that she was making her living, she felt joyful for a moment. To live honestly by her own labor, what morcy from heaven ! The t.i8te for work had really returned to her. She bought a looking-giass, took pleasure in surveying Digitized by Google FANTINE. 1G9 tk it her youth, her beautiful hair, her fine teeth ; she forgot many things ; she thought only of Cosette aiid of the possible future, and was almost happy. She hired a little rooui and furnished on credit on the strength of her future work — a lin- gering trace of her improvident ways. As she was not able to »ay that she was married, she took good care, as we have seen, not to mention her little girl. At first, as the reader has seen, she paid the Thénardiers promptly. As she only knew how to sign her name, she was obliged to write through a public letter- writer. She wrote often, and this was noticed. It began to be said in an undertone, in the women's workroom, that Fan tine ^^ wrote letters " and that *^ she had ways about her." There is no one for spying on people's actions like those who are not concerned in them. Why does that gentleman never come except at nightfall ? Why does Mr. So-and-So never hang his key on its nail on Tuesday ? Why does he always take the narrow streets ? Why does Madame always descend from her hackney-coach before reaching her house? Why does she send out to purchase six sheets of note paper, when she has a ^^ whole stationer's shop full of it?" etc. There exist beings who^ for the sake of obtaining the key to these enigmas, which are, more- over, of no consequence whatever to them,. spend more money, waste more time, take more trouble, than would be required for ten good actions, and that gratuitously, for their own pleasure, without receiving any other payment for their curiosity than curiosity. They will follow up such and such a man or woman for whole days ; they will do sentry duty for hours at a time on the comers of the streets, under alley-way doors at night, in cold and rain ; they will bribe errand-porters, they will make the drivers of hackney-coaches and lackeys tipsy, buy a waiting- maid, suborn a porter. Why? For no reason. A pure passion for seeing, knowing, and penetrating into things. A pure itch for talking. And often these secrets once known, these mys- •eries made public, these enigmas illuminated by the light of day, bring on catastrophies, duels, failures, the ruin of families, and broken lives, to the great loy of those who have " found out everything," without any interest in the matter, and by pure mstinct.* A sad thing. Certain persons are malicious solely through a necessity for talking. Their conversation, the chat of the drawing-room, gos- sip of the anteroom, is like those chimneys which consume wood rapidly ; they need a great amount of combustibles ; and their combustibles are furnished by their neighbors. uigiiized by Google 170 LES MtSERABLhS. So Fantine was watched. In addition, many a one was jealous of her golden hair and of her white teeth. It was remarked that in the workroom she often turned aside, in the midst of the rest, to wipe away a tear. These were the moments when she was thinking of her child ; perhaps, also, of the man whom she had loved. Breaking the gloomy bonds of the past is a mournful tas]^. It was observed that she wrote twice a month at least, anc that she paid the carriage on the letter. They managed to ob tain the address : Monsieur^ Monsieur Thénardier^ inn^keepe: at MontfermeiL The public writer, a good old man who could not fill his stomach with red wine without emptying his pocket of secrets, was made to talk in the wine-shop. In short, it was discovered that Fantine had a child. ^^She must be a pretty sort of a woman." An old gossip was found, who made the trip to Montfermeil, talked to the Thénardiers, and said or her return : " For my five and thirty francs I have freed my mind. I have seen the child." The gossip who did this thing was a gorgon named Madame Victurnien, the guardian and door-keeper of every one's virtue. Madame Victurnien was fifty -six, and re-enforced the mask of ugliness with the mask of age. A quavenng voice, a whimsical mind. This old dame had once been young — astonishing fact! In her youth, in '93, she had married a monk who had fled from his cloister in a red cap, and passed from the Bernardinea to the Jacobins. She was dry, rough, peevish, sharp, captious, almost venomous ; all this in memory of her monk, whose widow she was, and who had ruled over her masterfully and bent her to his wilL She was a nettle in which the rustle of the cassock waa visible. At the Restoration she had turned bigot, and that with so much energy that the priests had forgiven her her monk. She had a small property, which she bequeathed with much os- tentation to a religious community. She was in high favor at the episcopal palace of Arras. So this Madame Victurnien went to Montfermeil, and returned with the remark, ^'*I have seen the child." All this took time. Fantine had been at the factory for more than a year, when, one morning, the superintendent of the work- room handed lier fifty francs from the mayor, told her that she was no longer employed in the shop, and requested her, in the mayor's name, to leave the neigliboi'hood; This was the very month when the Thénardiers, after having Digitized by Google rAJfiTINE. i1\ demanded twelve francs instead of six, bad Jnst exacted fifteen francs instead of twelve. Fantine was overwhelmed. She could not leave the neigh* borhood ; she was in debt for her rent and furniture. Fifty francs was not sufficient to cancel this debt. She stammered a few supplicating words. The superintendent ordered her to leave the shop on the instant. Besides, Fantine was only a moderately good workwoman. Overcome with shame, even .iiore than with despair, she quitted the shop, and returned to aer room. So her fault was now known to every one. She no longer felt strong enough to say a word. She was >d vised to see the mayor ; she did not dare. The mayor had ^ven her fifty francs because he was good, and had dismissed ^er because he was just. She bowed before the decision. IX. — Madame Victdrnien's Success. So the monk's widow was good for something. Bat M. Madeleine had heard nothing of all this. Life is fUl of just such combinations of events. M. Madeleine was in the habit of almost never entering the women's workroom. At the head of this room he had placed an elderly spinster, whom the priest had provided for him, and he had full confi- dence in this superintendent, — a truly respectable person, firm, equitable, upright, full of the charity which consists in giving, but not having in the same degree that charit}' which consists in understanding and in forgiving. M. Madeleine relied wholly on her. The best men are often obliged to dele<:^ate their authority. It was with this full power, and the conviction that she was doing right, that the superintendent had instituted the suit, judged, condemned, and excuted Fantine. As regards the fifty francs, she had given them from a fund irhich M. Madeleine had intrusted to her for charitable pur- poses, and for giving assistance to the workwomen, and of which she rendered no account. Fantine tried to obtain a situation as a servant in the neigh - t)orhood; she went from house to house. No one would have her. She could not leave town. The second-hand dealer, to whom she was in debt for her furniture — and what furniture ! — said to her, *'If you leave, I will have you arrested as a thief.*' The householder, whom she owed for her rent, said to ner, *' You are young and pretty ; you can pay." She divided the fiHy francs between the landlord and the furniture-dealer, Digitized by Google 172 LES MISERABLES. returned to the latter three-quarters of his goods, kept oiuj necessaries, and found herself without work, without a tiade, with nothing but her bed, and still about fifty francs iu debt. She began to make coarse shirts for soldiers of the garri- son, and earned twelve sous a day. Her daughter cost her ten. It was at this point that she began to pay the Thénardiera Irregularly. However, the old woman who lighted her candle for hei ^hen she returned at night, taught her the art of living in misery. Back of living on little, there is the living on nothing. These are the two chambers ; the first is dark, the second is black. Fantine learned how to live without fire entirely in the winter ; how to give up a bird which eats a half a farthing's worth of millet every two days ; how to make a coverlet of one's petti- coat, and a petticoat of one's coverlet ; how to save one's can- dle, by taking one's meals by the light of the opposite window. No one knows all that certain feeble creatures, who have grown old in privation and honesty, can get out of a sou. It ends by being a talent. Fantine acquired this sublime talent, and re- gained a little courage. At this epoch she said to a neighbor, '' Bah! I say to m3'- ■elf, by only sleeping five hours, and working all the rest oi the time at my sewing, I shall alwa3s manage to nearly earn my bread. And, then, when one is sad, one eats less. Well, sufferings, uneasiness, a little bread on one hand, trouble on the other, — all this will support me." It would have been a great happiness to have her little girl with her in this distress. She thought of having her come. But what then ! Make her share her own destitution ! And then, she was in debt to the Thénardiers ! How could she pay them? And the journey ! How pay for that? The old woman who had given her lessons in what may bf? called the life of indigence, was a sainted spin§ter named Mar- guerite, who was pious with a true piety, poor and charitable towards the poor, and even towards the rich, knowing how to write just sufficiently to sign herself Mai^uerite, and believing in God, which is science. There are many such virtuous people in this lower world ; some day they will be in the world above. This life has a morrow. At first, Fantine bad been so ashamed that she had not dared to go out. When she was in the street, she divined that people tarned Digitized by Google FANTiNE. 173 rouud behind her^ and pointed at her ; every one stared at her. and no one greeted her; the cold and bitter scorn of the pass- ers-by penetrated her very flesh and soul like a north wind. It seems as though an unfoitunate woman were utterly bare beneath the sarcasm and the curiosity of all in small towns. In Palis, at least, no one knows you, and this obscurity is a £;arment. Oh ! how she would have liked to betake herself to Paris ! Impossible I She was obliged to accustom herself to disrepute, as she had accnstomed herself to indigence. Gradually she decided on her course. At the expiration of two or three months she shook off her shame, and began to go about as though there were nothing the matter. '^ It is all the same to me," she said. She went and came, bearing her head well up, with a bitter smile, and was conscious that she was becoming brazen-faced. Madame Victurnien sometimes saw her passing, from her window, noticed the distress of *' that creature" who, " thanks to her," had been "put back in her proper place," and con- gratulated herself. The happiness of the evil-minded is black. Excess of toil wore out Fantine, and the little dry cough which troubled her increased. She sometimes said to her neigh* bor. Marguerite, " Just feel how hot my hands are ! " Nevertheless, when she combed her beautiful hair in the morning with an old broken comb, and it flowed about her like floss silk, she experienced a moment of happ^* coquetry. X. — Result op the Success. She had been dismissed towards the end of the winter ; the summer passed, but winter came again. Short days, less work. Winter: no warmth, no light, no noonday, the evening join- ing on to the morning, fogs, twilight ; the window is gray ; it is impossible to see clearly at it. The sky is but a veut-Iiolc. The whole day is a cavern. The sun has the air of a beggar. A frightful season! Winter changes the water of heaven and the heart of man into a stone. Her creditors harassed her. Fantine earned too little. Her debts had increased. The Thénardiers, who were not promptly paid, wrote to her con- stanth' letters whose contents drove her to despair, and whose carriage ruinecl her. One day they wrote to her that her little Gosette was entirely naked in that cold weather, that slie needed a woollen skirt, and that her mother must send at leasl Digitized by Google 174 LES MISËkABLES. ten francs for this. She received the letter, and crushed it w her liands all day long. That evening she went into a barber's sliop at the corner of the street, and pulled out her comb. Her admh*able golden hair fell to her knees. *' What, splendid hair ! " exclaimed the barber. " IIow much will you give me for it?" said she. '' Ten francs." " Cut it off." She purchased a knitted petticoat and sent it to the Thénar- Jiers. This petticoat made the Thénardiers furious. It was the money that they wanted. They gave the petticoat to Épo- nine. The poor Lark continued to shiver. Fantine thought: '•My child is no longer cold. I have clothed her with my hair." She i)ut on little round caps wliich concealed her shorn head, and in which she was still pretty. Dark thoughts held possession of Fan tine's heart. When she saw that she could no longer dress her hair, she began to hate every one about her. She had long shared the universal veneration for Father Madeleine; yet, by dint of repeating to herself that it was he who had discharged her, that he was the cause of her unhappiness, she came to hate him also, and most of all. When she passed the factor}' in working hours, when the workpeople were at tlie door, she affected to laugh and sing. An old workwoman who once saw her laughing and singings |n this fashion said, '' There's a girl who will come to a bad end." She took a lover, the first who offered, a man whom she did not love, out of bravado and with rnge in her heart. He was a miserable scamp, a sort of mendicant musician, a lazy begprar, who beat her, and who abandoned her as she bad taken him, iu disgust. She adored her child. The lower she descended, the darker everything grew about iKT, the more radiant shone that little angel at the bottom of her heart. She said, " When I get rich, I will have my Cosette with me ; " and she laughed. Her cough did not leave her, and she had sweats on her back. One day she received from the Thénardiers a letter couebed in the following terms: ^'Cosette is ill with a malady which is going the rounds of the neighborhood. A miliary fever, thev call it. Expensive drugs are required. This is rnining us, and we can no longer pay for them. If you do no^ send us fortv franca before the week is out, the little one will be dead." She burst out laughing, and said to her old neighbor : ^^ Ah 1 Digitized by Google FAN TINE. 175 they are good! Forty francs! the idea! That makes two napoleons ! Where do they think I am to get them ? These peasants are stupid, truly." Nevertheless she went to a dormer window in the staircase and read the letter once more. Then she descended the stairs aud emerged^ running and leaping and still laughing. Some one met her and said to her, " What makes you so gay?" She replied : ^' A fine piece of stupidity that some country people have written to me. They demand forty francs of me So much for you, you peasants I " As she crossed the square, she saw a great many people col- lected around a carriage of eccentric shape, upon the top of which stood a man dressed in red, who was holding forth. He was a quack dentist on his rounds, who was offering to the pub- lic fiill sets of teeth, opiates, powders, and elixirs. Fantiue mingled in the group, and began to laugh with the rest at the harangue, which contained slang for the populace and jargon for respectable people. The tooth-puller espied the lovely, laughing girl, and suddenly exclaimed: "You have beautiful teeth, you girl there, who are laughing ; if you want to sell me your palettes, I will give you a gold napoleon apiece for them." "What are ray palettes?" asked Fantine. "The palettes," replied the dental professor, " are the front teeth, the two upper ones." " How horrible ! " exclaimed Fantine. '* Two napoleons ! " grumbled a toothless old woman who was present. '* Here's a lucky girl ! " Fantine fled and stopped her ears that she might not hear the hoarse voice of the man shouting to her : " Reflect, my beauty ! two napoleons ; they may prove of service. If your heart bids you, come this evening to the inn of the Tillac é^ Argent; you will find me there." Fantine returned home. She was furious, and related the occurrence to her good neighbor Marguerite : " Can you under- stand such a thing ? Is he not an abominable man ? How can they allow such people to go about the country ! Pull out my two front teeth I Why, I should l)e horrible I My hair will grow again, but my teeth ! Ah ! what a monster of a man ! I ehould prefer to throw myself head first on the pavement from the fifth story ! He told me that he should be at the Tillar ^Argent this evening." " And what did he offer?" asked Marguerite. Digitized by Google 176 LES MISERABLES. ** Two napoleons." *' That makes forty francs/* " Yes," said Fantine ; '' that makes forty francs/* She remained thouglitful, and began her work. At the ex piration of a quarter of an hour she left her sewing and went to read the Théiiardiers' letter once more on the staircase. On her return, she said to Marguerite, who was at work beside her : — " What is a miliary fever? Do you know?" " Yes," answered the old spinster ; '' it is a diseaae." *' Does it require many drugs?" "Oh! terrible drugs/' " How does one get it? " " It is a malady tliat one gets without knowing how.** " Then it attacks children ? " " Children in particular." '* Do people die of it? " " They ma}/* said Marguerite. Fantine left the ix>om and went to read her letter onoe mora on the staircase. That evening she went out, and was seen to turn her steps in the direction of the Rue de Paris, where the inns are situated. The next morning, when Marguerite entered Fan tine's room before daylight, — for they always worked together, and in this manner used only one candle for the two, — she found Fantine seated on her bed, pale and frozen. She had not lain down. Her cap had fallen on her knees. Her candle had burned all night, and was almost entirely consumed. Marguerite halted on the threshold, petrified at this tremendous wastefuluess, and exclaimed ; — " Lord i the candle is all burned out! Something has hap- pened." Then she looked at Fantine, who turned toward her her head bereft of its hair. Fantine had grown ten years older since the preceding night. " Jesus ! " said Marguerite," what is the matter with you, Fantine?" ''Nothing," replied Fantine. *' Quite the contrary. My child will not die of that frightful malady, for lack of succor. I am content." So saying, she pointed out to the spinster two napoleons which were glittering on the table. *' Ah ! Jesus God ! " cried Marguerite. " Why, it is a for- tune ! Where did you get those louis d'or ? " Digitized by Google FANTINE. 171 **I got them," replied Faotine. At the same time she smiled. The candle illaminated her eountenance. It was a bloody smile. A reddish saliva soiled the comers of her lips, and she had a black hole in her mouth. The two teeth had been extracted. She sent the forty francs to Monfermeuil. After all it was a ruse of the Thénardiers to obtain money. Cosette was not ill. Fantine threw her mirror out of the window. She had long since quitted her cell on the second floor for an attic with ouly a latch to fasten it, next the roof; one of those attics whose extremity foims an angle with the floor, and knocks you on Uie head every instant. The poor occupant can reach the end of his chamber as he can the end of his destiuy, only by bending over more and more. She had no longer a bed ; a rag which she called her coverlet, a mattress on the floor, and a scatless chair still remained. A little rosebush which slie had, had dried up, forgotten, in one cor- ner. In the other corner was a butter-pot to hold water, which froze in winter, and in which the various levels of the water remained long marked by these circles of ice. She had lost her shame ; she lost her coquetry. A final sign. She went out, witii dirt}' caps. Whether from lack of time or from indiffér- ence, she no longer mended her linen. As the heels wore out, she dragged her stockings down into her shoes. This was evi- dent from the perpendicular wrinkles. She patched her bodice which was old and worn out, with scraps of calico which tore at the slightest movement. The people to whom she was in- debted made ''scenes" and gave her no peace. She found them in the street, slie found them again on her staircase. She passed many a night weeping and thinking. Her eyes were very bright, and she felt a steady pain in her shoulder towards the top of the left shoulder-blade. She coughed a great deal. She deeply hated Father Madeleine, but made no ix^mplaint. She sewed seventeen hours a day ; but a contractor for the work of prisons, who made the prisoners work at a discount, suddenly made prices fall, which reduced the daily earnings of working- women to nine sous. Seventeen hours of toil, and nine sous a day ! Her creditors were more pitiless than ever. The second-hand dealer, who had taken back nearly all his furniture, said to her incessantly ''When will you pay roe, you hussy? " What did they want of her, good God ! She felt that she was being hunted, and something of the wild beast developed in her. About the same time, Thénurdier wrote to Digitized by Google 178 LES MISERABLES. her that he had waited with decidedly too much amiabilfty and that he must have a hundred francs at once ; otherwise ha would turn little Cosette out of doora, convalescent as she was from her heavy illness, into the cold and the streets, and that she might do what she liked with herself, and die if she chose. '* A hundred francs," thought Fan tine. '* But in what trad^ 5Hn one earn a hundred sous a day ? " " Come ! "said she, " let us sell what is left.*' The unfortunate girl became a woman of the town* XI. — Christus nos liberayit. What is this history of Fantine? It is society purchasing a slave. From whom ? From misery. From hunger, cold, isolation, destitution. A dolorous bar- gain. A soul for a morsel of bread. Misery offers; society accepts. The sacred law of Jesus Christ governs our civilization, but it does not, as yet, permeate it ; it is said that slavery has dis- appeared from ïiuropean civilization. This is a mistake. It still exists ; but it weighs only upon the woman, and it is called prostitution. It weighs upon the woman, that is to say, upon grace, weak- ness, beauty, maternit}'. This is not one of the least of man*8 disgraces. At the point in this melancholy drama which we have dow reached, nothing is left to Fantine of that which she had for- merly been. She has become marble in becoming mire. Whoever touches her feels cold. She passes ; she endures you ; she ignores you ; 3hc is the severe and dishonored figure. Life and the soi*ial order have said their last word for her. All has happened to her that will hapi)en to her. She has felt everything, borne 3verything, experienced everything, suffered everything, lost everything, mourned everything. She is resigned, with that resignation which resembles indifference, as death resembles sleep. She no longer avoids anything. Let all the clouds fall upon her, and all the ocean sweep over her ! What matters it to her? She is a sponge that is soaked. At least, she believes it to be so ; but it is an error to imag^ine tliat fate can be exhausted, and that one has reached the bottom of anything whatever. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 179 Alas ! What are all these fates, driven on pell-mell? Whithei are they going? Why are they thus? He who knows that sees the whole of the shadow. He is alone. His name is God. Xn. — M. Bamatabois's iNAcnvnr. Therb is, in all small towns, and there was at M. sur M. iii particular, a class of young men who nibble away an income of fifteen hundred francs with the same air with which their proto* types devour two hundred thousand francs a year in Paris. These are beings of the great neuter species : impotent men, parasites, cyphers, who have a little land, a little folly, a little wit ; who would be rustics in a drawing-room, and who think themselves gentlemen in the dram-shop ; who say, *' My fields, my peasants, my woods " ; who hiss actresses at the theatre to prove that they are persons of taste ; quarrel with the officers of the garri- son to prove that they are men of war ; hunt, smoke, yawn, drink, smell of tobacco, play billiards, stare at travellers as they de- scend from the diligence, live at the café, dine at the inn, have a dog which eats the bones under the table, and a mistress who eats the dishes on the table ; who stick at a sou, exaggerate the fashions, admire tragedy, despise women, wear out their old boots, copy London through Paris, and Paris through the me- dium of Pont-à-Mousson, grow old as dullards, never work, serve no use, and do no great harm. M. Félix Tholomyès, had he remained in his own province and never beheld Paris, would have been one of these men. If they were richer, one would say, "They are dandies" ; if they were poorer, one would sa}-, " They are idlere." They are simply men without employment. Among these unemployed there are bores, the bored, dreamers, and some knaves. At that period a dandy was composed of a tall collar, a big cravat, a watch with trinkets, three vests of different colors, worn one on top of the other — the red and blue inside ; of a short-waisted olive coat, with a codfish tail, a double row of silver buttons set close to each other and running up to the shoulder; and a pair of trousers of a lighter shade of olive, ornamented on the two seams with an indefinite, but always uneven, number of lines, varying from one to eleven — a limit which was never exceeded. Add to this, high shoes with little irons on the heels, a tall hat with a narrow brim, hair worn in a taft« an emormous cane, and conversation set off by puns o( Digitized by Google 180 LES MISERABLES, Potier. Over all, spurs and a mustache. At that epoch mu» taches indicated the bonigeois, and spurs the pedestrian. The provincial dandy wore the longest of spurs and the fierc- est of mustaches. It was the period of the conflict of the republics of South \merica with the king of Spain, of Bolivar against Morillo. Narrow-brimmed hats were royalist, and were called moriUos; liberals wore hats with wide brims, which were called bolivars. Eight or ten months, then, after that which is related in the preceding pages, towards the first of January, 1823, on a SDowy evening, one of these dandies, one of these unemplo3'ed, a " right thinker," for he wore a morillo, and was, moreover, warmly enveloped in one of those large cloaks which completed the fashionable costume in cold weather, was amusing himself by tormenting a creature who was prowling about in a ball-dress, with neck uncovered and flowers in her hair, in front of the oflScers' café. This dandy was smoking, for he was decidedly fashionable. Each time that the woman passed in front of him, he bestowed on her, together with a puff from his cigar, some apostrophe which he considered witty and mirthful, such as, "How ugly you are ! — Will you get out of my sight ? — You have no teeth ! " etc., etc. This gentleman was known as M. Bamatabois. The woman, a melancholy, decorated spectre which went and came through the snow, made him no reply, did not even glance at him, and nevertheless continued her promenade in silence, and with a sombre regularity, which brought her every five minutes within reach of this sarcasm, like the condemned soldier who returns under the rods. The small effect which he produced no doubt piqued the lounger ; and taking advantage of a moment when her back was turned, he crept up behind her with the jjait of a wolf, and stifling his laugh, bent down, picked up a handful of snow from the pavement, and thrust it abruptly into her hack, between her bare shoulders. The woman uttered a roar, whirlecl round, gave a leap like a panther, and hurled herself ujwn the man, burying her nails in his face, with the most frightful words which could fall from the guard-room into the gutter. These insults, poured forth in a voice roughened by brandy, did, in- deed, proceed in hideous wise from a mouth which lacked ita two front teeth. It was Fantine. At the noise thus produced, the oflScers ran out in throng from the café, passers-by collected, and a large and merry cir- cle, hooting and applauding, was formed around this whirlwind composed of two beings, whom there was some diflliculty id Digitized by Google FANTINE. 181 #BO(^!zîng as a man and a woman : the man struggling, his hal on the ground ; the woman striking out with feet and fists, bare- lieaded, bowling, minus hair and teeth, livid with wrath, hor- rible. Suddenly a man of lofty stature emerged vivaciously from the crowd, seized the woman by her satin bodice, which was cov- ered with mud, and said to her, *' Follow me ! *' The woman raised her head ; her furious voice suddenly died away. Her eyes were glassy ; she turned pale instead of livid, and she trembled with a quiver of terror. She had recognized Javert. The dandy took advantage of the incident to make his es- cape. XIII. — The SoLimoN op Some Questions connected with THE Municipal Police. Javert thrust aside the spectators, broke the circle, and set cot with long strides towai-ds the police station, which is situated at the extremity of the square, dragging the wretched woman after him. She yielded mechanically. Neither he nor she ut- tered a word. The cloud of spectators followed, jesting, in a paroxysm of delight. Supreme misery an occasion for ob- scenity. On arriving at the police station, which was a low room, warmed by a stove, with a glazed and grated door opening on the street, and guarded by a detachment, Javert opened the door, entered with Fantine, and shut the door behind him, to the great disappointment of the curious, who raised themselves on tiptoe, and craned their necks in front of the thick glass of the station-house, in their effort to see. Curiosity is a sort of gluttony. ÏO see is to devour. On entering, Fantine fell down in a corner, motionless and mute, crouching down like a terrified dog. The sergeant of the guard brought a lighted candle to the table. Javert seated himself, drew a sheet of stamped paper from his pocket, and began to write. This class of women is consigned by our laws entirely to the discretion of the police. The latter do what they please, punish them, as seems good to them, and confiscate at their will those two sorry things which they entitle their industry and their liberty. Javeit was impassive; his grave face betrayed no emotion wbat«:ver. Nevertheless, he was seriously and deeply Digitized by Google 182 LES MISERABLES. preoccupied. It was one of those moments when he was exe? cisiiig without control, but subject to all the scruples of a severe conscience, his redoubtable discretionary power. At that mo- ment he was conscious that his i>oIice agent's stool was a tri- bunal. He was entering judgment. He judged and condemned. He summoned all the ideas which could possibly exist in his mind, around the great thing which he was doing. The more he examined the deed of this woman, the more shocked he felt. It was evident that he had just witnessed the commission of a crime. He had just beheld, yonder, in the street, society, in the person of a freeholder and an elector, insulted and attacked by a creature who was outside all pales. A prostitute had made an attempt on the life of a citizen. He had seen that, he, Javert. He wrote in silence. When he had finished lie signed the paper, folded it, and said to the sergeant, of the guard, as he handed it to him, ** Take three men and conduct this creature to jail." Then, turning to Fan tine, '' You are to have six months of it." The unhappy woman shuddered. '' Six months ! six months of prison ! '* she exclaimed. "Six months in which to earn seven sous a day ! But what will be- come of Cosctte? My daughter! my daughter! But I still owe the Thénardiers over a hundred francs ; do yon know that, Monsieur Inspector?" She dragged herself across the damp floor, among the muddy boots of all those men, without rising, with clasped hands, and taking great strides on her knees. " Monsieur Javert," said she, " I beseech your mere}'. } assure you that I was not in the wrong. If you had seen th* beginning, you would have seen. I swear to you by the good God that I was not to blame ! That gentleman, the bourgeois, whom I do not know, put snow in my back. Has any one the right to put snow down our backs when we are walking along peaceably, and doing no harm to any one? I am rather ill, as you see. And then, he had been saying impertinent things to m'î for a long time : ' You are ugly ! you have no teeth ! * J know well that I have no longer those teeth. I did nothing ; I said to myself, ' The gentleman is amusing himself.' I was honest with him ; I did not speak to him. It was at that moment that he put the snow down my back. Monsieur Javert, good Monsieur Inspector ! is there not some person here who saw it and can tell you that this is quite true ? Perhaps I did wrong to get angry. You know that one is not master of one's self at the first moment. One sives way to vivacity; and then, when Digitized by Google FA NT I NE. 183 pome one puts something cold down your back Just when yon are not expecting it! I did wrong to spoil that gentleman's hat. Why did he go away? I would ask his pardon. Oh, my God! It makes no difference to me whether I ask his pardon. Do me the favor to-day, for this once, Monsieur Javert. Hold ! joa do not know that in prison one can earn only seven sous a day ; it is not the government's fault, but seven sous is one's earnings ; and just fancy, I must pay one hundred francs, or my little girl will be sent to me. Oh, my God ! I cannot have her with me. What I do is so vile ! Oh, my Cosette ! Oh, my little angel of the Holy Virgin ! what will become of her, poor creature? I will tell you: it is the Thénardiers, inn-keepers, peasants ; and such people are unreasonable. They want money. Don't put me in prison I You see, there is a little girl who will he turned out into the street, to get along as best she may, in the very heart of the winter ; and you must have pity on such a being, my good Monsieur Javert. If she were older, she might earn her living ; but it cannot be done at that age. I am not a bad woman at bottom. It is not cowardliness and glut- tony that have made me what I am. If I have drunk brandy, it was out of misery. I do not not love it ; but it benumbs the senses. When I was happy, it was only necessary to glance into my closets, and it would have been evident that I was not a coquettish and untidy woman. I had linen, a great deal of linen. Have pity on me, Monsieur Javert ! " She spoke thus, rent in twain, shaken with sobs, blinded with tears, her neck bare, wringing her hands, and coughing with a dry, short cough, stammering softly with a voice of agony. Great sorrow is a divine and terrible ray, which transfigures the nnhappy. At that moment Fantine had become beautiful once more. From time to time she paused, and tenderly kissed tlie police agent's coat. She would have softened a heart of gran- ite ; but a heart of wood cannot be softened. " Come ! " said Javert, " I have heard you out. Have you entirely finished ? You will get six months. Now march ! The Eternal Father in person could do nothing more." At these solemn words, ^''the Eternal Father in person could do nothing mare," she understood that her fate was sealed. She sank down, murmuring, " Mercy I " Javert turned his back. The soldiers seized her by the arms. A few moments earlier a man had entered, but no one had paid any heed to him. He shut the door, leaned his bacb •gainst it, and listened to Fantinc's despairing supplications Digitized by Google t84 LES MISÉRABLES. At the instant when the soldiers laid their hands upon the on fortunate woman, who would not rise, he emerged from tbe shadow, and said : — - *' One moment, if you please/ Javert raised his eyes and recognized M. Madeleine. He re- moved his hat, and, saluting him with a sort of aggrieveâ awk* wardness : — " Excuse me, Mr. Mayor — " The words "Mr. Mayor" produced a curious effect npon Fantine. She rose to her feet with one bound, like a spectre springing from the earth, thrust aside the soldiers with both arms, walked straight up to M. Madeleine before any one could prevent her, and gazing intently at him, with a bewildered air, she cried : — *' Ah ! so it is you who are M. le Maire ! ** Then she burst into a laugh, and spit in his face. M. Madeleine wiped his face, and said : — " Inspector Javert, set this woman at liberty •** Javert felt that he was on tlie verge of going mad. He ex- perienced at that moment, blow upon blow and almost simulta- neously, the most violent emotions which he had ever undergone in all his life. To see a woman of the town spit in the mayor's face was a thing so monstrous that, in his most daring flights of fancy, he would have regarded it as a sacrilege to believe it possible. On the other hand, at the ver}' bottom of his thought, he made a hideous comparison as to what this woman was, and as to what this mayor might be ; and then he, with horror, caught a glimpse of I know not what simple explanation of this prodigious attack. But when he beheld that mayor, that magistrate, calmly wipe his face and say, " Set this woman ai liberty" he underwent a sort of intoxication of amazement; thought and word failed him equally ; the sum total of possible astouisliinciit had been exceeded in his case. He remained mute. The words had produced no less strange an effect on Fantine. She raised her bare arm, and clung to the damper of the stove. like a person who is reeling. Nevertheless, she glanced about her, and began to speak in a low voice, as though talking to herself : — " At liberty 1 I am to be allowed to go ! I am not to go to prison for six months ! Who said that? It is not possible that any one could have said that. I did not hear aright. It can- not have been that monster of a mayor ! Was it you, my good Monsieur Javert, who said that I was to be set free? Oh, see Digitized by Google FÂNTINE. 185 here ! I will tell you about it, and you will let me go. That monster of a mayor, tliat old blackguard of a mayor, is the cause of all. Just imagine. Monsieur Javert, he turned mc out 1 all because of a pack of rascally women, who gossip in the work- room. If that is not a horror, what is? To dismiss a poor girl who is doing her work honestly I Then I could no longer earn enough, and all this misery followed. In the first place, there is one improvement which these gentlemen of the police ought to make, and that is, to prevent prison contractors from wroDging poor people. I will exi>lain it to you, you see : you are earning twelve sous at shirt-making, the price falls to nine sous ; and it is not enough to live on. Then one has to become whatever one can. As for me, I had my little Cosette, and I was actually forced to become a bad woman. Now you under- stand how it is that that blackguard of a. mayor caused all the mischief. After that I stamped on that gentleman's hat in front of the officers* café ; but he had spoiled m}- whole dress with snow. We women have but one silk dress for evening wear. You see that I did not do wrong delibenitely — traly, Monsieur Javert; and everywhere I behold women who are far more wicked than I, and who are much happier, O Monsieur Javert I it was you who gave orders that I am to be set free, was it not? Make inquiries, speak to my landlord ; I am paying my rent now ; they will tell you that I am perfectly honest. Ah ! my God ! I beg your pardon ; I have unintentionally touched the damper of the stove, and it has made it smoke." M. Madeleine listened to her with profound attention. While she was speaking, he fumbled in his waistcoat, drew out his purse and opened it. It was empty. He put it back in his pocket. He said to Fantine, ^^ How much did you say that you owed?" Fantine, who was looking at Jatert only, turned towards Wm: — " Was I speaking to you P" Then, addressing the soldiers : — " Say, you fellows, did you see how I spit in his face ? Ah ! f-^u old wretch of a mayor, you came here to frighten me, but I'm not afraid of you. I am afraid of Monsieur Javert. I am afraid of my good Monsieur Javert ! " So saying, she turned to the inspector again : — "And yet, you see, Mr. Inspector, it is necessary to be just. I understand that you are just, Mr, Inspector ; in fact, it is perfectly simple : a man amuses himself by putting snow down % woman's back, and that makes the officers laugh ; one mus< Digitized by Google 186 LES MISERABLES. divert themselves in some way; and we — well, we are hen for them to amuse themselves with, of course ! And then, you, you come ; 30U are certainly obliged to preserve oi-der, you lead off the woman who is in the wrr g ; but on reflection, since you are a good man, you say tuc.t I am to be set at lib- erty ; it is for the sake of the little one, for six months in prison would prevent my supporting my child. ' Only, don*t do it again, you hussy ! * Oh ! I won't do it again. Monsieur Javert 1 They may do whatever they please to me now ; I will not stir. But to-day, you see, I cried because it hurt me. I was not ex- pecting that snow from the gentleman at all ; and then, as I told you, I am not well ; I have a cough ; I seem to have a Dnrning ball in my stomach, and the doctor tells me, ^Take care of yourself.' Here, feel, give me your hand ; don't be afraid — it is here." She no longer wept, her voice was caressing; she placed Javert's coarse hand on her delicate, white throat and looked smilingly at him. Alt at once she rapidly adjusted her disordered garments, dropped the folds of her skirt, which had been pushed up as she dragged herself along, almost to the height of her knee, and 8tei)ped towards the door, saying to the soldiers in a low voice, and with a friendly nod : — '^ Children, Monsieur l'Inspecteur has said that I am to 1> released, and I am going." She laid her hand on the latch of the door. One step more and she would be in the street. Javert up to that moment had remained erect, motionless, with his eyes fixed on the ground, cast athwart this scene like some displaced statue, which is waiting to be put away some- where. The sound of the latch roused him. He raised his head with an expression of sovereign authority, an expression all the more alarming in proportion as the authority rests on a low level, ferocious in the wild beast, atrocious in the man of no estate. ''Sergeant!" he cried, "don't you see that that jade is walking off! Who bade you let her go? " '' I," said Madeleine. Fantine trembled at the sound of Javert's voice, and let go of the latch as a thief relinquishes the article which he has stolen. At the sound of Madeleine's voice she turned around, and from that moment forth she uttered no word, nor dared so Qiuch as to breathe freely, but her glance strayed from Made- Digitized by Google FANTlNE. 18f ieine to Javert, and from Javert to Madeleine in turn, accord iDg to which was speaking. It was evident that Javert must have been exasperated be- yond measure before he would permit himself to apostrophize the sei-geant as he had done, after the mayor's suggestion that Fantine should be set at liberty. Had he reached the point of forgetting the mayor's presence? Had he finally declared to himself that it was impossible that any ^' authority " should have given such an order, and that the mayor must certainly have said one thing by mistake for another, without intending it? Or, in view of the enormities of which he had been a wit- ness for the past two hours, did he say to himself, that it was necessary to recur to supreme resolutions, that it was indis- pensable that the small should be made great, that the police Bpy should transform himself into a magistrate, that the police- man should become a dispenser of justice, and that, in this prodigious extremity, order, law, morality, government, society in its entirety-, was personified in him, Javert? However that may be, when M. Madeleine uttered that word, /, as we have just heard. Police Inspector Javert was seen to turn toward the mayor, pale, cold, with blue lips, and a look of despair, his whole body agitated by an imperceptible quivtr and an unprecedented occurrence, and say to him, with down- east eyes but a firm voice : — *'Mr. Mayor, that cannot be." " Why not ? " said M. Madeleine. ^^ This miserable woman has insulted a citizen.** " Inspector Javert," replied the mayor, in a calm and con- ciliating tone, ^' listen. You are an honest man, and I feel no hesitation in explaining matters to you. Here is the true state of the case : I was passing through the square just as you were leading this woman away ; there were still groups of people standing about, and I made inquiries, and learned everything,^ it was the townsman who was in the wrong and who should have been arrested by properly conducted police." Javert retorted : — ' This wretch has just insulted Monsieur le Maire.*' "That concerns me," said M. Madeleine. "My own insult Wongs to me, I think. I can do what I please about it." "I beg Monsieur le Maire's pardon. The insult is not to him, but to the law." /* Inspector Javert," replied M. Madeleine, " the highest law » conscience. I have heard this woman ; I know what I am doing." Digitized by Google 188 i'E^ MISERABLES. ♦•And I, Mr. Mayor, do not know what I see.'* *♦ Then content yourself with obeying." •' I am obeying *my duty. My duty demands that this wo^ man shall serve six months in prison.** •* M. Madeleine replied gently : — ** Heed this well ; she will not serve a single day*'* At this decisive word, Javert ventured to fix a searching look on the mayor and to say, but in a tone of voice that was still profoundly respectful : — ^^ 1 am sorr}' to oppose Monsieur le Maire ; it is for the first time in my life, but he will permit me to remark that I am witliin the bounds of my authorit3\ I confine myself, since Monsieur le Maire desires ft, to the question of the gentleman. I was present This woman flung herself on Monsieur Bama- tabois, who is an elector and the proprietor of that handsome house with a balcony, which forms the corner of the esplanade, three stories high and entirely of cut stone. Such things as there are in the world 1 In any case, Mousieur le Maire, this is a question of police regulations in the streets, and concerna me, and I shall detain this woman Fan tine." Then M. Madeleine folded his arms, and said in a severe voice which no one in the town had heard hitherto: — '*The matter to which you refer is one connected with the mu- nicipal police. According to the terms of articles nine, eleven, fifteen, and sixty-six of the code of criminal examination, I am the judge. I order that this woman shall be set at liberty." Javert ventured to make a final effort. **But, Mr. Mayor — " ^^ I refer you to article eighty-one of the law of the 13th of December, 1799, in regard to arbitrarv detention.^ '* Monsieur le Maire, permit me — " Not another word." "But — " *' Leave the room," said M. Madeleine. Javert received the blow erect, full in the face, in his breast, like a Russian soldier. He bowed to the very earth before the mayor and left the room. Fantine stood aside from the door and stared at him in amazement as he passed. Nevertheless, she also was the prey to a strange confusion. She had just seen herself a subject of dispute between two opposing powers. She had seen two men who held in theii hands her liberty, her life, hersouU her child, in combat befoYe ber very eyes ; one of these men was drawing her towards darb Digitized by Google FANTINR IM Dess, the other was leading her back towards the light. In this (X)nflict, viewed through the exaggerations of terror, these two tûcn had appeared to her like two giants ; the one spoke like ber demon, the other like her good angel. The angel had con< quered the demon, and, strange to saj', that which made her shudder from head to foot was the fact that this angel, this Hherator, was the very man whom she abhorred, that mayor whom she had so long regarded as the author of all her woes, that Madeleine ! And at the very moment when she had insult- ed him in so hideous a fashion, he had saved her I Had she, then, been mistaken ? Must she change her whole soul ? She did not know ; she trembled. She listened in bewilderment, she looked on in affright, and at every word uttered by M. Made- leine she felt the frightful shades of hatred crumble and melt within her, and something warm and ineffable, indescribable, which was both joy, confidence, and love, dawn in her heart. When Javert had taken his departure, M. Madeleine turned 1o her and said to her in a deliberate voice, like a serious man who does not wish to weep and who finds some difficulty in tpeaking : — *' I have heard you. I knew nothing about what you have loentioned. I believe that it is true, and I feel that it is true. I was even ignorant of the fact that you had left my shop. Why did you not apply to me? But here; I will pay your Hebts, I will send for your child, or you shall go to her. You i.hall live here, in Paris, or where you please. I undertake the vinced tone, which lent indescribable grandeur to this singular, honest man. '* We shall see," said M. Madeleine. And he offered him his hand. Javert recoiled, and said in a wild voice : — " Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor ioes not offer his hand to a police spy." He added between his teeth : — " A police spy, yes ; from the moment when I have misused the police, I am no more than a police spy." Then he bowed profoundly, and directed his steps towards the door. There be wheeled round, and with eyes still downcast : — " Mr. Mayor," he said, *'I shall continue to serve until I am «ai)ei'seded." He withdrew. M. Madeleine remained thougiitfull}- listening to the firm, sure step, which died away on the pavement of the corridor. BOOK SEVENTH.— THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR. I. — Sister Simplice. The incidents the reader is about to peruse were not all known at M. sur M. But the small portion of them which became known left such a memory in that town that a serious ga{) would exist in this book if we did not narrate tliera in their most minute details. Among, these details the reader will en- coQDter two or three improbable circumstances, which we pre- serve out of respect for the truth. On the afternoon following the visit of Javert, M. Madeleine went to see Fantine according to his wont. Before entering Fantine's room, he had Sister Simplice sum- DM>ned. The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary. Lazariste ladies, like all sisters of charity, bore the names of Sister Perpétue and Sister Simplice. Sister Perpétue was an ordinary villager, a sister of charity Digitized by Google 202 LES MISERABL}t!:^\ in a coarse style, who had entered the service of God as one enters any other service. Slie was a nnn as other women are cooks. This type is not so very rare. The monastic orders gladly accept this heavy peasant earthenware, which is easily fusliioned into a Capuchin or an Ureuline. These rustics are utilized for the rough work of devotion. The transition from a drover to a Carmelite is not in the least violent ; the one turns into the other without much effort; the fund of ignorance common . to the village and the cloister is a preparation ready at hand, and places the boor at once on the same footing as the monk : a little more amplitude in the smock, and it becomes a frock. Sister Perpétue was a robust nun from Marines near Pontoise, who chattered her patois, droned, grumbled, sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the hyjwcrisy of the invalid, treated her patients abruptly, roughly, was crabbed with the dying, almost flung God in their faces, stoned their death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage ; was bold, honest, and ruddy. Sister Simplice was white, with a waxen pallor. Beside Sis- ter Perpétue, she was the taper beside the candle. Vincent de Paul has divinely traced the features of the Sister of Charity in these admirable words, in which he mingles as much freedom as servitude : ' ' They shall have for their convent onl}' the house of the sick ; for cell only a hired room ; for chapel only their parish church ; for cloister only the streets of the town and the wards of the hospitals ; for enclosure only obedience ; for gratings only the fear of God ; for veil only modesty." This ideal was realized in the living person of Sister Simplice : she had never been young, and it seemed as though she would never grow old. No one could have told Sister Simplice's age. She was a person — we dare not say a woman — who was gentle, austere, well-bred, cold, and who had never lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile ; but she was more solid than granite. Slie touched the unhappy with fingers that were charm- ingly pure and fine. There was, so to speak, silence in her speech ; she said just what was necessary, and she possessed a tone of voice which would have equally edified a confessional or enchanted a drawing-room. This delicacy accommodated itself to the serge gown, finding in this harsh contact a continual reminder of heaven and of God. Let us emphasize one detail. Never to have lied, never to have said, for any interest what- ever, even in indifference, any single thing which was not the truth, the sacred truth, was Sister Simplice*s distinctive trait; it vfBS the accent of her virtue. She was almost renowned in Digitized by Google FA NT I NE. 203 the congregation for this imperturbable veracity. The AblWs Sicard s[>cak8 of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu. However pure and sincere we may be, we all bear upon our candor the crack of the little, innocent lie. She did not. Little lie, innocent lie — does such a thing exist? To lie is the absolute form of evil. To lie a little is not possible : be who lies, lies the whole lie. To lie is the very face of the iemon. Satan has two names ; lie is called Satan and Lying. That is what she thought; and as she thought, so she did. riie result was the whiteness wiiieh we have mentioned — a whiteness which covered even her lips and her eyes with radi- ance. Her smile was white, her glance was white. There was not a single spider's web, not a grain of dust, on the glass window of that conscience. On entering the order of Saint Vincent de Paul, she had taken the name of Simplice by special choice. Simplice of Sicily, as we know, is the saint who pre- ferred to allow both her breasts to be torn oflF rather than to say that she had been born at Segesta when she had been bom at Syracuse — a lie which would have saved her. This patron saint suited this soul. Sister Simplice, on her entrance into the order, had had two faults which she had gradually corrected : she had a taste for dainties, and she liked to receive letters. She never read any- thing but a book of prayers printed in Latin, in coarse type. She did not understand Lratin, but she understood the book. This pious w^oraan hdd conceived an affection for Fantine, probably feeling a latent virtue there, and she had devoted her- self almost exclusively to her care. M. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine to her in a singular tone, which the sister recalled later on. On leaving the sister, he approached Fantine. Fantine awaited M. Madeleine's appearance every day as one awaits a ray of warmth and joy. She said to the sisters, '• 1 only live when Monsieur le Maire is here." She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw ^I. Madeleine she asked him : — "AndCosette?" He replied with a smile ; — "Soon." M. Madeleine was the same as usaal with Fantine. Only he remained an hour instead of lialf an hour, to Fantine's great delight. He urged every one repeatedly not to allow the in- valid to want for anything. It was noticed that there was a moment when his countenance became very sombre. But this Digitized by Google 204 LES MISÉRABLES. was explained when it became known that the doctor had benl down to his ear and said to him, " She is losing ground fast.'* Then he returned to the town-hall, and tlie clerk obsei-^'ed him attentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study. lie wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil. n. — The Perspicaciit of Master Soaufflairk. From the town-hall he betook himself to the extremity of tJic town, to a Fleming named Master Scaufflaer, French Scaufflaire, who let out •* horses and cabriolets as desired." In order to reach this Scaufilaire, the shortest way was to tak^ the little-frequented street in which was situated the parson- age of the parish in which M. Madeleine resided. The curé was, it was said, a worthy, respectable, and sensible man. At the moment when M. Madeleine arrived in front of the parson* age there was but one passer-by in the street, and this person noticed this : After the mayor had passed the priest's house he halted, stood motionless, then turned about, and retraced his steps to the door of the parsonage, which had an iron knocker. He laid his hand quickly on the knocker and lifted it ; then he paused again and stopped short, as though in thought, and after the lapse of a few seconds, instead of allowing the knocker to fall abruptly, he replaced it gently, and resumed his way with a sort of haste which had not been apparent previously. M. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at home, engaged in stitching a harness over. "Master Scaufflaire," he inquired, '*have you a good horse?** " Mr. Mayor," said the Fleming, *' all my horses are good. Wliat do you mean by a good horse ? " "I mean a horse which can travel twenty leagues in a day.'* " The deuce ! " said the Fleming. '' Twenty leagues 1 " " Yes." " Hitched to a cabriolet? '* " Yes." *' And how long can he rest at the end of his journey? ** ^^ He must be able to set out again on the next day if neoe» wiry." " To traverse the same road?" ''Yes." " The deuce ! the deuce ! And it is twenty leagues? ** M. Madeleine drew from his pocket the paper on which he Digitized by Google FANTINE. 205 had pencilled some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures were 5, 6, 8^. '* You see,*' he said, '* total, nineteen and a half ; as well say twenty leagues." "Mr. Mayor," returned the Fleming, "I have just what you want. My little white horse — you may have seen him pass occasionally ; he is a small beast from Lower Boulonnais. He is full of fire. They wanted to make a saddle-horse of him at first. Bah ! He reared, he kicked, he laid everybody flat on the ground. He was thought to be vicious, and no one knew what to do with him. I bought him. I harnessed him to a carriage. That is what he wanted, sir; he is as gentle as a girl ; he goes like the wind. Ah ! indeed he must not be mounted. It does not suit his ideas to be a saddle-horse. Every one has his ambition. 'Draw? Yes. Carry? No!' We must sup- pose that is what he said to himself." '' And he will accomplish the trip? " '' Your twenty leagues all at a full trot, and in less than eight hours. But here are the conditions." " State them." **In the first place, you will give him half an hour's breath- ing spell midway of the road ; he will eat ; and some one must be by while he is eating to prevent the stable boy of the inn from stealing his oats ; for I have noticed that in inns the oats are more often drunk by the stable men than eaten by the horses." "Some one will be by." "In the second place — is the cabriolet for Monsieur le Maire?" "Yes." " Does Monsieur le Maire know how to drive?" "Yes." " Well, Monsieur le Maire will travel alone and without bag- gage, in order not to overload the horse ? " " Agreed." " But as Monsieur le Maire will have no one with him, he will be obliged to take the trouble himself of seeing that the oats are not stolen." "That is understood." " I am to have thirty francs a day. The days of rest to be paid for also — not a farthing less ; and the beast's food to be at Monsieur le Maire's expense." M. Madeleine drew three napoleons from his purse and laid them on the table. "Here is the pay for two days in advance." Digitized by Google toe LES MISÉRABLES. " Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy, and would fatiji;ne tlie horse. Monsieur le Maire must conseut to travel in a little tilbury that I own." "I consent to tliat." *' It is light, but it has no cover." "That makes no difference to me." *'Has Monsieur le Maire reflected that we are In the middle of winter?" M. Madeleine did not reply. The Fleming resumed : — '*That it is very cold?" M. Madeleine preserved silence. Master Scaufflaire continued: — "That it may rain?" M. Madeleine raised his head and said : — *' The tilbury and the horse will be in front of my door to- morrow morning at half-pjvst four o'clock." *' Of course, Monsieur le Maire," replied Scaufflaire ; then, scratching a speck in the wood of the table with his thumb-nail, he resumed with that careless air which the Flemings understand so well how to mingle with their shrewdness : — " But this is what I am thinking of now : Monsieur le Maire has not told me where he is going. Where is Monsieur le Maire going?" He had been thinking of nothing else since the beginning of the conversation, but he did not know why he had not dared to put the question. " Are your horse's forelegs good? " said M. Madeleine. " Yes, Monsieur le Maire. You must hold him in a little when going down hill. Are there many descents between here and the place whither yon are going?" " Do not forget to be at my door at preciriely half-past font o'clock to-morrow morning," replied M. Madeleine ; and he took his departure. The Fleming remained "utterly stupid," as he himâelf said some time afterwards. The mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened again : it was the ma^or once more. He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air. " Monsieur Scaufflaire," said he, " at what sum do you esti- mate the value of the horse and tilbury which vou are to let to me, — the one bearing the other? " "The one dragging the other, Moonieur le Maire." aaid the Fleming, with a broad smile- " So be it. WeU?'' Digitized by Google FANTINE. 207 "Does Monsieur le Maire wisli to purchase them of me? " ** No ; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me back the sura at ray return. At what value do you estimate your horse and cabriolet?" " Five hundred francs, Monsieur le Maire." '' Here it is." M. Madeleine laid a bank-bill on the table, then left the room ; and this time he did not return. Master Scaufflaire experienced a frightful regret that he had not said a thousand francs. Besides, the horse and tilbury together were worth but a hundred crowns. Tlie Fleming called his wife, and related the affair to her. '* Where the devil could Monsieur le Maire be going?" They held counsel together. *' lie is going to Paris," said the wife. " I don't believe it," said the husband. M. Madeleine had forgotten the paper with the figures on it, and it lay on tlie chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it. "Five, six, eight and a half? That must designate the posting relays." He turned to his wife : — " I have found out." "What?" *'It is five leagues from here to Hesdin, six from Hesdin to Saint-Pol, eight and a half from Saint-Pol to Arras. He is going to Arras." Meanwhile, M. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way to return from Master Scauflttaire's, as though the parsonage door had been a temptation for him, and he had wished to avoid it. He ascended to his room, and there he shut himself up, which was a very simple act, since he liked to go tc bed early. Nevertheless, the portress of the factory, who was, at the same time, M. Madeleine's only servant, noticed that the latter's light was extinguished at half- past eight, and she men- tioned it to the cashier when he came home, adding : — '' Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he bad a rather singu W air." This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Mad aleine's chamber. He paid no heed to the portress's word», but went to bed and to sleep. Towards midnight he woke up with a 8tai*t ; in his sleep he had heard a noise above his head. He listened ; it was a footstep pacing back and forth, as though some one were walking in the room above him. He listenod more attentively, and recognized M. Madeleine's step. This stnick him as strange ; usually, there was no noise in M. Madeleine's chamber u^til he rose in the morning. A moment Digitized by Google 208 LES MISERABLES. later the cashier heard a noise which resembled that of a cap board being opened, and then shut again ; then a piece of fur niture was disarranged ; tlien a pause ensued ; then the step begaie again. The cashier sat up in bed, quite awake now, and star- ing ; and through his window-panes he saw the reddish glean* of a lighted window reflected on the opposite wall; from the direction of the rays, it could only come from the window of M. Madeleine's chamber. The reflection wavered, as though it came rather from a fire which had been lighted than from a candle. The shadow of the window-frame was not shown, which indicated that the window was wide open. The fact that this window was open in such cold weather was surprising. The cashier fell asleep again. An hour or two later he waked again. The same step was st^ll passing slowly and regnlarlv back aud forth overliead. The reflection was still visible on the wall, but now it wafl pale nnd peaceful, like the reflection of a lamp or of a candle The window was still open. This is what had taken place in M. Madeleine's room. in. — A Tempest in a Skull. The reader has, no doubt, already divined that M. Madeleine is no other thau Jean Valjean. We have already gazed into the depths of this conscience ; the moment has now come when we must take another look into it. We do so not without emotion and trepidation. There is nothing more terrible in existence than this sort of contem- plation. The eye of the spirit can nowliere find more dazzling brilliance and more shadow than in man ; it can fix itself on no other thing which is more formidable, more complicated, nx re mysterious, and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grard than the sea ; it is heaven : there is a spectacle more grand than heaven ; it is the inmost recesses of the soul. To make the poem of the human conscience, were It only with reference to a single man, were it only in connection with the basest of men, would be to blend all epics into one snperioi and definitive epic. Conscience is the chaos of chimeras, of lusts, and of temptations ; the furnace of dreams ; the lair of Ideas of which we are ashamed ; it is the panderoonlnm of sophisms ; it is the battle-field of the passions. Penetrate, af rertain hours, past the livid face of a human being who is en- gaged in reflection, and look behind, gaze into that soul, gasf Digitized by Google FAN TINE. 209 into that obscurity. There, beneath that external silence, bat- tles of giants, like those recorded in Homer, are in progress ; Bkirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantoms, as in Milton ; visionary circles, as in Dante. What a solemn thing is this infinity which every man bears within him, and which he measures with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of his life ! iVlighieri one day met with a sinister-looking door, before which he hesitated. Here is one before us, upon whose thresh- jld we hesitate. Let us enter, nevertheless. We have but little to add to what the reader already knows of what had happened to Jean Valjean after the adventure with Little Gervais. From that moment forth he was, as we have seen, a totally different man. What the Bishop had wished to make of him, that he carried out. It was more than a trans- formation ; it was a transfiguration. He succeeded in disappearing, sold the Bishop's silver, reserv- ing only the candlesticks as a souvenir, crept from town to town, traversed France, came to M. sur M., conceived the idea which we have mentioned, accomplished what we have related, succeeded in rendering himself safe from seizure and inacces- sible, and, thenceforth, established at M. sur M., happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and the first half of his existence belied by the last, he lived in peace, reassured and hopeful, having henceforth only two thoughts, — to conceal his name and to sanctifv his life ; to escape men and to return to God. These two thoughts were so closely intertwined in his mind that they formed but a single one there ; both were equally ab- sorbing and imperative and ruled his slightest actions. In gen- eral, they conspired to regulate the conduct of his life ; they turned him towards the gloom ; they rendered him kindly and simple ; they counselled him to the same things. Sometimes, however, they conflicted. In that case, as the reader will re- member, the man whom all the country of M. sur M. called M. Madeleine did not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second — iiia security to his virtue. Thus, in spite of all his reserve and all his prudence, he had preserved the Bishop's candlesticks, worn mourning for him, summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed that way, collected information ^ega^ding the families at Faverolles, and saved old Fauchele- vent's life, despite the disquieting insinuations of Javert. It beemed, as we have already remarked, as though he thought, Digitized by Google 210 LES MISÉRABLES. following the example of all tiiose who h:ive been wise, holy, and just, that his first duty was not towards hiiDsclf. At the same time, it must be confessed, nothing just like this had yet presented itself. Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose sufferings we are narrating, engaged in bo serious a struggle. lie understood this confusedly but profoundly at tlu* very first words pronounced by Javert, when the latter entered his study. At the moment when that name, which he had bur- ied beneath so many la3ers, was so strangely articulated, he was struck with stupor, and as though intoxicated with the sin- ister eccentricity of his destiny ; and through this stupor be felt that shudder which precedes great shocks. He bent like an oak at the approach of a storm, like a soldier at the approach of an assault. He felt shadows filled with thunders and lightnings descending upon his head. As he listened to Javert, the first thought wliich occurred to him was to go, to run and de- nounce himself, to take that Chainpmatliieu out of prison and place himself there ; this was as painful and as poignant as an incision in the living flesh. Then it passed away, and he said to himself, " We will see ! We will see ! " He repressed this first, generous instinct, and recoiled before heroism. It would be beautiful, no doubt, after the Bishop's holy words, after so many years of repentance and abnegation, in the midst of a penitence admirably begun, if this man had not flinched for an instant, even in the presence of so ten*ible a conjecture, but had continued to walk with the same step towards tliis yawning precipice, at the bottom of which lay heaven ; that would have been beautiful ; but it was not thus. We must render an account of the things which went on in this soul, and we can only tell what there was there. He was car- ried away, at first, by the instinct of self-preservation ; lie rallied all his ideas in haste, stifled his emotions, took into eon sideration Javert's presence, that gieat danger, postponed all decision with the firmness of terror, shook off thought as to what he had to do, and resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up his buckler. He remained in this state during the rest of the day, a whirl- wind within, a profound tranquillity without. He took no ''* preservative measures," as they may be called. Everything was still confused, and jostling together in his brain. His trouble was so great that he could not perceive the form of a single idea distinctly, and he could have t<;ld nothing about him self, except that he had received a great blow. Digitized by Google FANTINE, 2n He repaired to Fantiiie's bed of suffering, as usual, and pro- longed his visit, through a kindly instinct, telling himself that he must behave thus, and recommend her well to the sisters, in case he should be obliged to be absent himself. He had a vague feeling that he might be obliged to go to Arras ; and without having the least in the world made up his mind to this trip, he said to himself that being, as he was, beyond the shadow of any suspicion, there could be nothing out of the way in being a witness to what was to take place, and he engaged the tilbury from Scaufflaire in order to be prepared in any event. He dined with a good deal of appetite. On returning to his room, he communed with himself. He examined the situation, and found it unprecedented ; so unprecedented that in the midst of his revery he rose from his 3hair, moved by some inexplicable impulse of anxiety, and bolted his door. He feared lest something more should enter. He was barricading himself against possibilities. A moment later he extinguished his light; it embarrassed Kim. It seemed to him as though he might be seen. By whom ? Alas ! That on which he desired to close the door had already . mtered ; that which he desired to blind was staring him in the face, — his conscience. His conscience ; that is to say, God. Nevertheless, he deluded himself at first; he had a feeling of security and of solitude ; the bolt once drawn, he thought him- st4f impregnable ; the candle extinguished, he felt himself invis- il)le. Then he took possession of himself : he set his elbows OQ the table, leaned his head on his hand, and began to medi- tate in the dark. '* Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard ? Js it really true that I have seen that Javert, and that he spoke to me in that manner? Who can that Champmathieu be ? So he resembles me ! Is it possible ? When I reflect that Yesterday I was so tranquil, and so far from suspecting anything ! What was I doing yesterday at this hour? What is there in this incident? What will the end be? What is to be done? " This was the torment in which he found himself. His brain had lost its power of retaining ideas ; they passed like waves, and he clutched his brow in both hands to arrest them. Nothing but anguish extricated itself from this tumult which overwhelmed his will and his reason, and from which he sought t<> tiraw proof and resolution. Digitized by Google 212 LES MISÉRABLES. His head was burning. He went to the window and thren t wide open. There were no stars in the sky. He retomeé and seated himself at the table. The first hour passed in this manner. Gradually, however, vague outlines began to take form ami to fix themselves in his meditation, and he was able to catch t glimpse with precision of the reality, — not the whole situation, but some of the details. He began by recognizing the fact that,' critical and extraordinary as was this situation, he was completely master of it. This only caused an increase of his stupor. Independently of the severe and religious aim which he har little Cosette who has no one in the wo^td but me, and who is, no doubt, blue with cold at this moment in the den of those Thénardiers ; those peoples are rascals ; and I was going to neglect my duty towards all these i>o()r creatm-es ; and I was going off to de- nounce myself ; and I was about ^o commit that unspeakable folly ! Let us put it at the wv^rst : supiK)se that there is a wrong action on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it sonje day, to accept, for the good of others, these reproaches which weigh only on myself ; this evil action which compromises my soul alone ; in that lies self-bacrifioe ; in that alone there is virtue." He rose and resumed his march ; this time, he seemed to ba content. Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth; wHiths are found only in the depths of thought. It seemed to him, that, after having descended into these depths, after having long groped among the darkest of these shadows, he had at last found one of these diamonds, one of these truths, and that he now held it in his hand, and he was dazzled as he gazed upon it. " Yes," he thought, '' this is right; I am on the right road ; I have the solution ; I must end by holding fast to something ; my resolve is taken ; let things take their course ; Jet us no longer vacillate ; let us no longer hang back ; tbis is for the interest of all, not for my own ; I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the man who is Jean Val j Digitized by Google FANTINE. 221 jeao ! I am no longer he ; I do not know that man ; I no longei know anything ; it turns out that some one is Jean Val jean at the present moment; let him look out for himself; that doea not ooncem me ; it is a fatal name which was floating abroad in the night; if it halts and descends on a head, so much the worse for that head." He looked into the little mirror which hung above his chim* ue3'-piece, and said : — ^^ Hold ! it has relieved me to come to a decision ; I am quite another man now.** He proceeded a few paces further, then he stopped short ** Come I " he said, '* I must not flinch before any of the con- lequenoes of the resolution which I have once adopted ; tliere are still threads which attach me to that Jean Valjean ; they must be broken ; in this very room there are objects which would betray me, dumb things whicli would bear witness against me ; it is settled ; all these things must disappear." He fumbled in his pocket, drew out his purse, opened it, and took out a small key ; he inserted the key in a lock whose i^rture could hardly be seen, so hidden was it in the most sombre tones of the design which coverod the wall-papcr ; a se- cret receptacle opened, a sort of false cnpl)oard constructed in the angle between the wall ana the chinniey-piece ; in this hid- ing-place there were some rags — a blue linen blouse, an old pair of trousers, an old knapsack, and a huge thorn cudgel shod with iron at both ends. Those who had seen Jean Vaijean at the epoch when he passed through D. in October, 1815, could easily have recognized all tlie pieces of. this miserable outfit. He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candle- sticks, in oixler to remind himself continually of his starting- point, but he had concealed all that came from the galleys, and he had allowed the candlesticks which came from the Bishop to be seen» He cast a furtive glance towards the door, as thougli he feared that it would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it ; then, with a quick and abrupt movement, he took the whole in his arms at once, without bestowing so much as a glance on the things which he had so religiously and so perilously preserved for so many years, and flung them all, rags,, cudgel, knapsack, into the fire. He closed the false cupboard again, and with redoubled pre- cautions, henceforth unnecessary, since it was now empty, he concealed the door behind a heavy piece of furniture, which he poshed in front of it. Digitized by Google 123 IBS MISÉRABLES. After the lapse of a few seconds, the room and the opposite wall were liglited up with a fierce, red, tremulous glow. Every- thing was on fire; the thorn cudgel snapped and threw out sparks to the middle of the chamber. As the knapsack was consumed, together with the hideous rags which it contained, it revealed something which sparkled in the ashes. By bending over, one could have readily recog- nized a coin, — no doubt the forty-sou piece stolen from the U^Ue Savoyard. He did not look at the fire, but paced back and forth with the same step. All at once his e^e fell on the two silver candlesticks, which shone vaguely on the chimney-piece, through tiie glow. " Hold ! " he thought ; "the whole of Jean Val jean is still hi them. They must be destroyed also." He seized the two candlesticks. There was still fire enough to allow of their being put out of shape, and converted into a sort of unrecognizable bar of metal. He bent over the hearth and warmed himself for a moment. He felt a sense of i*eal comfort. " How good warmth is ! " said he. He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks. A minute more, and they were both in the fire. At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within him shouting : " Jean Val jean ! Jean Valjean ! " His hair rose upright : he became like a man who is listening to some terrible thing. "Yes, that's it! finish! " said tlic voice. "Complete what 3'ou are about! Destroy these candlesticks! Auuihilate this souvenir! Forget the Bishop! Forget everything! Destroy this Champmathieu, do ! That is right ! Applaud yourself! 80 t is settled, resolved, fixed, agreed: here is an old man who loes not know what is wanted of him, who has, perhaps, done aothing, an innocent man, whose whole misfortune lies in your name, upon whom your name weighs like a crime, who is about to be taken for you, who will be condemned, who will finish his days in abjectness and hoiTor. That is good ! Be an honest man yourself; remain Monsieur le Maire ; remain honorable and honored ; enrich the town ; nourish the indigent ; rear the or- phan ; live happy, virtuous, and admired ; and, during this time, while yon are here in the midst of joy and light, there will be a man who will wear your red blouse, who will bear your name in Digitized by Google PANTINS. 223 Ignominy, and who will drag your chain in the galleys. Tes, it is well arranged thus. Ah, wretch I " The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggara eye on the candlesticks. But that witliiu him which had spoken bad not finished. The voice continued : — '* Jean Valjean, there will be around you many voices, which will make a great noise, which will talk very loud, and which will bless you, and only one which no one will hear, and which will curse you in the dark. Well ! listen, infamous man ! All those benedictions will fall back before they reach heaven, and only the malediction will ascend to God.'* This voice, feeble at first, and which had proceeded from the most obscure depths of his conscience, had gradually become startling and formidable, and he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed to him that it had detached itself from him, and that it was now speaking outside of him. He thought that he heard the last words so distinctly, that he glanced aronnd the room in a sort of terror. ^^ Is there any one here? " he demanded aloud, In utter bewil- derment. Then he resumed, with a laugh which resembled that of an Idiot : — " How stupid I am ! There can be no one ! " There was some one ; but the person who was there was of those whom the human eye cannot see. He placed the candlesticks on the chimney-piece. Then he resumed his monotonous and lugubrious tramp, which troubled the dreams of the sleeping man beneath him, and awoke bim with a start. This tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intox- icated him. It sometimes seems, on supreme occasions, as though people moved about for the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may encounter b}' change of place. After the la|)se of a few minutes he no longer knew his position. He now recoiled in equal terror before both the resolutions at which he had arrived in turn. The two ideas which counselled him appeared to him equally fatal. What a fatality ! What con- junction that that Champmathieu should have been taken for him ; to be overwhelmed by precisely' the means which Providence seemed to have employed, at first, to strengthen his position I There was a moment when he reflected on the future. De- nounce himself, great God ! Deliver himself up ! With immense despair he faced all that he should be obliged to leave, all that he should be obliged to take up once more. He should have to Digitized by Google 224 LES MISÉRABLES. bid farewell to that existence which was so good, so pare, so nidl« ant, to the respect of all, to honor, to liberty. He should never more stroll in the fields ; he should never more hear the birds sing m the month of May ; he should never more bestow alms on the little children ; he should never more experience tlie sweetness of having glances of gratitude and love fiied upon him ; he should quit that house which he had built, that little chamber ! Every- thing seemed charming to him at that moment. Never again should he read those books ; never more should he write on that little table of white wood ; his old portress, the only servant whom he kept, would never more bring him his coffee in the morn- ing. Great God ! instead of that, the convict gang, the iron neck- let, the red waistcoat, the chain on his ankle, fatigue, the cell, the camp bed, all those horrors which he knew so well ! At his age, after having been what he was ! If he were only young again ! but to be addressed in his old age as " thou " by any one who pleased ; to be searched by the convict guard ; to receive the galley-sergeant's cudgellings ; to wear iron-bound shoes on his bare feet ; to have to stretch out his leg night and morning to the hammer of the roundsman who visits the gang ; to submit to the curiosity of strangers, who would be told : *' That man yonder is the famous Jean Valjean, who was mayor of M. sur M."; and at night, dripping with perspiration, overwhelmed with lassitude, their green caps drawn over their e^^es, to remount, two by two, the ladder staircase of the galleys beneath the sei- geant's whip. Oh, what misery ! Can destiny, then, be as mali- cious as an intelligent being, and become as monstrous as the human heart? And do what he would, he always fell back upon the heart- rending dilemma which lay at the foundation of his revery : " Should he remain in paradise and become a demon? Should he return to hell and become an angel ? " What was to be done? Great God ! what was to be done? The torment fi*om which he had escaped with so much diffi- culty was unchained afresh within him. His ideas began to grow confused once more ; they assumed a kind of stupefied and mechanical quality which is peculiar to despair. The name of Romainville recurred incessantly to his mind, with the two verses of a song which he had heard in the past. He thought that Romainville was a little grove near Paris, where young lovers go to pluck lilacs in the month of April. He wavered outwardly as well as inwardly. He walked like a little child who is permitted to toddle alone. At intervals, as he combated his lassitude, he made an effort Digitized by Google FANTINE. 225 to recover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself t for the last time, and definitively, the problem over which hi bad, iD £i manner, fallen prostrate with fatigue : Ought he to denounce himself ? Ought he to hold his peace ? Ile could not manage to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects of all die courses of reasoning which had been sketched out by his meditations quivered and vanished, one after the other, into smoke. He only felt that, to whatever course of action he made Dp his mind, something in him must die, and that of necessity, and without his being able to escape the fact ; that he was en- tering a sepulchre on the right hand as much as on the left ; that he was passing through a death agony, — the agony of his happiness, or the agony of his virtue. Alas ! all his in'esolution had again taken possession of him. He was no further advanced than at the beginning. Thus did this unhappy sonl struggle in its anguish. Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate man, the mysterious Being in whom are summed up all the sanctities and all the Bufferings of humanity had also long thrust aside with his hand, while the olive-trees quivered in the wild wind of the infinite, the terrible cup which appeared to Him dripping with darkness and overflowing with shadows in the depths all studded with itars. rV. — Forms assttmed by Sufferino during Sleep. Three o'clock in the morning had just struck, and he had heen walking thus for five hours, almost uninterruptedly, when he at length allowed himself to drop into his chair. There he fell asleep and had a dream. This dream, like the majority of dreams, bore no relation to the situation, except by its painful and heart-rending character, but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him 80 forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of tlie papers in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think that we have here reproduced the thing in strict ac- cordance with the text. Of whatever nature this dream may be, the history of this night would be incomplete if we were to omit it : it is the gloomy Adventure of an ailing soul. Here it is. On the envelope we find this line inscribed, **The Dream I had that Night." ^^ I was in a plain ; a vast, gloomy plain, where there was no grass. It did not seem to me to be daylight nor yet night. Digitized by Google 126 LES MISÉRABLES. ^* I was walking with my brother, the brother of my cbildisb years, the brother of whom, I must say, I never think, and whom I now hardly remember. ' ' We were coDversing and we met some passers-by* We were talking of a neighbor of ours in former days, who had always worked with her window open from the time when she came to tive on the street. As we talked we felt cold because of that open window. ''*' There were no trees in the plain. We saw a man passing close to us. He was entirely nude, of the hue of ashes, and mounted on a horse which was earth color. The man had no hair ; we could see his skull and the veins on it. In his hand he held a switch which was as supple as a vine-shoot and as heavy as iron. This horseman passed and said nothing to us. " My brother said to me, ' Let us take to the hollow road.' ^^ There existed a hollow way wherein one saw neither a single shrub nor a spear of moss. Everything was dirt- colored, even the sky. After proceeding a few paces, I received no reply when I spoke : I perceived that my brother was no longer with me. ^^ I entered a village which I espied. I reflected that it must be Romainville. (Why Romainville ?) * "The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered a second street. Behind the angle formed by tiie two streets, a man was standing erect against the wall* I said to this man : — "* What country is this? Where am I?* The man made no reply. I saw the door of a house open, and I entered. ' ^ The fii st chamber was deserted. I entered the second . Be- hind the door of this chamber a man was standing erect against the wall. I inquired of this man, ^ Whose house is this ? Where am I?' The man replied not. " The house had a garden. I quitted the house and entered the garden. The garden was deserted. Behind the first tree I found a man standing upright. I said to this man, ^ What garden is this ? Where am I ? ' The man did not answer. " I strolled into the village, and perceived that it was a town. All the streets were deserted, all the doors were open. Not a single living being was passing in the streets, walking throngh the chambers, or strolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls, behind each door, behind each tree, stood a silent man. Only one was to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass. 1 This parenthesis is due to Jean ValjeaiL Digitized by Google FANTINB. f21 *^I left the town and began to ramble about the fields. *^ After the lapse of some time I turned back and saw a great crowd coming up behind me. I recognized all the men whom I bad seen in that town. They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurry, yet they walked faster than I did They made no noise as they walked. In an instant this crowd had overtaken and surrounded , me. The faces of these men were earthen in hue. ^^ Then the first one whom I had seen and questioned on en tering the town said to me : — ^^ ^ Whither are you going 1 Do you not know that you have been dead this long time?' ^^ I opened my mouth to reply, and I perceived that there was no one near me." He woke. He was icy cold. A wind which was chill like the breeze of dawn was rattling the leaves of the window, which had been left open on their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was uearing its end. It was still black night. He rose, he went to the window. There were no stars in the sky even yet. From his window the yard of the house and the street were visible. A sharp, harsh noise, which made him drop his eyes, resounded from aie eaiih. Below him he perceived two red stars, whose rays lengthened and shortened in a singular manner through the dai'kness. As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep, ^^ Hold ! " said he, ^' there are no stars in the sky. They are on earth now." Bat this confusion vanished ; a second sound similar to the first roused him thoroughly ; he looked and recognized the fact that these two stare were the lanterns of a carriage. By the light which they cast he was able to distinguish the form of this vehicle. It was a tilbury harnessed to a small white horse. The noise which he had heard was the trampling of the horse's hoofs on the pavement. " What vehicle is tliis? " he said to himself. '' Who is com- ing here so early in the morning?" At that moment there came a light tap on the door of hii chamber. He shuddered from head to foot, and cried in a terrible voice : -^ " Who is there?" ^ocne one said : — ^^ 1« Monsieur le Maire." Digitized by Google 228 LES MISERABLES, He recognized the voice of the old woman who was h:^ portress. " Well ! " he replied, '* what is it? " '^ Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o'clock in the momiDg." ''Wliat is thattome?" ** The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire." *'Whatcr.briolet?" '*The tilburv." *' What tilbury?" ** Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?*' '' No," said he. '^Tlie coachman says that he has come for Mousieoi le Maire." *' What coachman?" *'M, Scaufflaire's coachman." "M. Scaufflaire?" That name sent a shudder over him, as though a flash of lightning had passed in front of his face. *' Ah ! yes," he resumed ; " M. Scaufliaire ! " If the old woman could have seen him at that moment, s'nc would have been frightened. A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flaaie of the candle with a stupid air, and from around the wick he took some of the burning wax, which he rolled between his fingers. The old woman waited for him. iShe even ventured to uplift her voice once more : — *' What am I to say, Monsieur le Maire?" ^^ Say that it is well, and that I am coming down/* V. — Hlin>RAMCES. The posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operatcv^ 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 sccitc;, one for the postboy, the other for the traveller. The wheeb 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 counterimrts nowadays, had something distorted and hunchbacked about them ; and wheo Digitized by Google FANTINE. 229 ime 8aw them passiDg in the distance, and climbing up some road to the horizon, they resembled the insects which are called, I think, termites, and wliich, 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, ar- nved at M. sur M. a little before five o'clock in the morning. That night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. bv the Hesdin road, collided at the corner of a street, just as it iras 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 post- man 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 huiTy I " 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 oould have told what was taking place Within him ; every one will understand it. What man is chere 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 Scaufïiaire'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 thatCiianipmathieu, some wretch, his conscience would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go the galleys in his stead ; that Javert would indeed be there ; and that Brevet, that Chenildieu, that Coche* Digitized by Google 230 LES MISERABLES. paille, old convicts who had known him ; but they certainU would not recognize him; — bah! what an idea! that Javef was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth ; that all con- Jectures and all supi)osition8 were fixed on Champmathieu, and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and con jectures ; that accordingly tliere 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 pro- ceeding 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 gi'ow white ; he stared at all the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eves, 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 od 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. Tiie excellent beast had trav* elled five leagues in two hours, and had not a drop of sweat ov his loins. Digitized by Google FANTINB. 231 He did not get ont of the tilbury. The stableman wh« brought the oats suddenly bent down and examined the lefl wheel. ^' Are you going far in this condition ? " said the man. He replied, with an air of not having roused himself from hia fevery : — "Why?" *^ Have you come from a great distance? ** went on the man. " Five leagues/' "Ah!*' " Why do yon say, * Ah?'" The man bent down once more, was silent for a moment, lith his eyes fixed on the wheel ; then he rose erect and said :— ^^ Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it «ertainly 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 he leagues without you and your horse rolling into some ditch 00 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 wheel- wright here?" "Certainly, sir." " Do me the service to go and fetch him." " He is only a step from here. Hey ! Master Bourgaillard I " Master BonrgaiUard, 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 yon 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 a| e hitest." " 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 Digitized by Google 182 LES MISERABLES. made. Monsieur will not be able to start before to-mono^ morning." *'Tbe matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if jjk were to replace this wheel instead of repairing it?** "How so?'* ** You are a wheelwright?** *' Certainly, sir.** ^* Have you not a wheel that yon can seU me? Then 1 ocvk 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*wheeli« 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 tilbory was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders. " You treat the cabriolets that people let you so welll If I bad one, I would not let it to you I ** " 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 be- longs to a bourgeois of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it on the t!iirty-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 horsea.** " 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 différence whether Monsieur «t four o'clock to-morrow morning?" Digitized by Google FANTINE. 283 *• Certainly not." ^^ There is one thing to be said abont that, yoa see, by taking post-horses — Monsieur has his passport? " "Yes.'* " Well, by taking post-horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras before ta morrow. We are on a cross-road. Tlie relays are badly served, the horses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is just beginufng; 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 rela}*. And, then, they drive at a walk There are many hills to ascend." " Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabrio- lec. 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!" " la there not a mail«wagon which runs to An*as ? 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, witii a toss of the head : — Digitized by Google 234 LES MÏSKRAJiL . «* Nor He felt an immeiiBe Joy. [t was evident that Providence was intervening. *rhat it y il n\\o liad broken the wheel of tlie tilbury and who was stop* p\/ig 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 ProvidenoBc He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full ex* tent 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 mani- festing 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 la probable that we should not have had to relate any of the occur- rences which the reader is about to peruse ; but this conver- sation 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, de- tached himself from the gi'oup and ran off. At the moment when the traveller, after the inward délibéra tion 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 boj^ tells me that yon 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 Hiat he beheld the hand which liad relaxed its grasp reappear ixs the darkness behind him, ready to seize him once more. He answered : — " Yes. my good woman ; I am m search of a cabiiolet which I can hire." And he hastened to add t --^ Digitized by Google FANTINR. 235 '« Bat there is none in the place.** ** Certainly there is," said the old womaiL •* 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 springs .3irt. 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 ; i^ iS an actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs ; the rain came into it; the wheels were lusted and eaten with moisture ; it would not go much further than th^ 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 ît 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 ti-avelling since morning. At the moment when the cart moved off, he admitted that he had felt, a moment previously, a certain joy iu the thought that be should not go whither he was now proceeding. He ex- amined this joy with a sort of wrath, and found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turuiug 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 fo? /ou." "Well?" " You have not given me anything.'* fie who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbi- tant and almost odious. '*Ah! it's vou, you scamp?'* said he; "you shall have noth ing." He whipped np his horse and set off at full speed. He had lost a great deal of time at Hesdin. He wanted to make it ^ood. The little norse was courageous, and pulled ioi Digitized by Google ^38 LES MISÉRABLES. two ; but it was the month of February, there bad been rain the roads were bad. And then, it was no longer the tilbury. The cart was very lieuvy, and in addition, there were many ascents. He took nearly four hours to go from Ilesdin to Saint-Pol , four hours for five leagues. At 8aint-Pol he had the horse unharnessed at the first Inn he oame to and led to the stable ; as he had promised ScaufiQaire, he stood beside the manger while the horse was eating; he tihought 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 break- fasted." His breakfast was served; he seized the bread, took a mouthful, and then slowly replaced it otî 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 think- ing? As in the morning, he watched the trees, the thatched roofs, the tilled fields pass by, and the way in which the land- scape, broken at every turn of the road, vanislicd ; 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 tlie last time? To travel is to be born and to die at everj- in- stant ; perhaps, in the vaguest region of his mind, he did make comparisons between the shifting horizon and our human exist- ence : all the things of life are perpetually fleeing before as , tho dark and bright intervals are intermingled ; after a dazzling moment, an eclipse; we look, we hasten^ we stretch oat our Digitized by Google PANTINE. Wl mods to grasp what is passing ; each event is a turn in the road, and, all at once, we arc old ; we feci a shock ; all is black , we distinguish an obscure door ; the gloomy horse of life, which has been drawing iis 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 'vas 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 stoppa 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-SainVÉloy 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 3'ou through the cross- roads." He followed the road-mender's advice, retraced his steps, and, balf an hour later, he passed the same s|)ot again, but this time at full speed, with a good horse to aid ; a stable-boy, who called himself a ix>stiUon, was seated on the shaft of the cariole. Still, he felt that he had lost time. Digitized by Google 838 LES MISÉRABLES. Night had fully come. They turned into tlie cross-road ; the wa}* became frightf oil) 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 oad at night ; if you wish to return and sleep at Tiuques, we could be hi 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 whiffletree 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 m from the sea prosette, 8oon^ soonf He wants to give me a suiprise, 3'ou know ! be made me siga a letter so thai she coald be taken from the Thénardîers ; they cannot say any- thing, can they? they will give back Cosette, for they have been paid ; the authorities will not allow them to keep the child since they have received their pay. Do not make signs to me that I must not talk, sister ! I am extremely happy ; I am doing well ; I am not ill at all any more ; I am going to see Cosette again ; I am even quite hungry ; it is nearly five yeare since I 8aw her last ; you cannot imagine how much attached one gets to children, and then, she will be so pretty ; you will see I If you only knew what pretty little rosy fingers she had! In the first place, she will have very beautiful hands; she had ridiculous hands when she was only a year old ; like this ! she mast be a big girl now ; she is seven years old ; she is quite a youDg lady ; I call her Cosette, but her name is really Euphrasie. Stop ! this morning I was looking at the dust on the chimney- piece, and I had a sort of idea come across me, like that, that I should see Cosette fCgain soon. Mon Dieu ! how wrong it is not to see one's children for years ! One ought to reflect that life is not eternal. Oh, how good M. le Maire is to go ! it is very cold ! it is true ; he had on his cloak, at least? he will be here to-moiTOw, will he not? to-morrow will be a festival day; to-morrow morning, sister, you must remind me to put on my little cap that has lace on it. What a place that Montf ermeil is ! I took that journey on foot once ; it was very long for me, but the diligences go very quickly ! he will be here to-morrow with Cosette : how far is it from here to Montf ermeil ? " The sister, who had no idea of distances, replied, '' Oh, J think that he will be here to-morrow." " To-morrow ! to-morrow ! " said Fantine, " I shall see Co* «ette to-morrow ! you see, good sister of the good God, that I im no longer ill ; I am mad ; I could dance if any one wished it." A person who had seen her a quarter of an hour previously would not have understood the change ; she was all rosy now : she spoke in a lively and natural voice ; her whole face was one smile; now and then she talked, she laughed softly; the joy of a mother is almost infantile. "Well," resumed the nun, " now that you are happy, mind me, and do not talk any more." Fantine laid her head on her pillow and said in a low voice : '* Yes, lie down again ; be good, for you are going to have youf c-hild; Sister Simplice is right; every otie here is right." And then, without stirring, without even moving her headi Digitized by Google 244 LES MISERABLES. Bhe began to stare all about her with wide-open eyes and a Joy ous air, and she said nothing more. The sister drew the curtains together again, hoping that she would fall into a doze. Between seven and eight o'clock the doctor came ; not hearing any sound, he thought Fantine was asleep, entered softly, and approached the bed on tiptoe; he opened the curtains a little, and, by the light of the taper, he saw Fantine's big eyes gazing at him. She said to him, '' She will be allowed to sleep beside me it a little bed, will she not, sir?" The doctor thought that she was delirious. She added : — " See ! there is just room.** The doctor took Sister Simplice aside, and she explained matters to him ; that M. Madeleine was absent for a day or two, and that in their doubt they had not thought it well to undeceive the invalid, who believed that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil ; that it was possible, after all, that her guess was correct : the doctor approved. He returned to Fantine's bed, and she went on : — " You see, when she wakes up in the morning, I shall be able to say good morning to her, poor kitten, and when I cannot sleep at night, I can hear her asleep ; her little gentle breathing will do me good." "Give me youi* hand," said the doctor. She stretched out her arm, and exclaimed with a laugh: — "Ah, hold! in truth, 3 ou did not know it; I am cured; Cosette will arrive to-morrow." The doctor was surprised; she was better; the pressure on her chest had decreased ; her pulse had regained its strength ; a sort of life had suddenly supervened and reanimated this poor, worn-out creature. " Doctor," she went on, "did the sister tell you that M. k Maire has gone to get that mite of a child?" The doctor recommended silence, and that all painful emo tions should be avoided ; he prescribed an infusion of pure chin chona, and, in case the fever should increase again during the night, a calming potion. As he took his departure, he said to the sister : — "She is doing better; if good luck willed that the mayor should actually arrive to-morrow with the child, who knows? there are crises so astounding ; great joy has been known to arrest maladies ; I know well that this is an organic disease, and in an advanced state, but all those things are such mya ieries : we may be able to save her.** Digitized by Google CANTINE. 245 fU^ — Tte Tbatbixer on his Arrival takes Frbcao- noNs FOR Departure. It waA nearly eight o'clock in the evening when the cart. which we left on the road, entered the porte-coclièrc of ttie Hotel de la Poste in Arras ; the man whom we have been fol- lowing ap to this moment alighted from it, responded with an abstracted air to the attentions of the people of tlie inn, sent back the extra horse, and with his own hands led the little white horse to the stable ; then he opened the door of a billiard- room which was situated on the ground floor, sat down there, and leaned his elbows on a table ; he had taken fourteen hours for the journey which he had counted on making in six ; he did himself the justice to acknowledge that it was not his fault, but at bottom, he was not sorry. The landlady of the hotel entered. **Doe8 Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require sup- per?- He made a sign of the head in the negative. *^The stableman says that Monsieur's horse is extremely fatigued.'' Here he broke his silence. ** Will not the horse be in a condition to set out i^ain to morrow morning?" ^^Ohy Monsieur ! he must rest for two days at least*" He inquired: — **I8 not the posting-station located here?" "Yes, sir." The hostess conducted him to the office ; he showed his pass- port, and inquired whether there was any way of returning that same night to M. sur M. by the mail-wagon ; the scat beside the post-boy chanced to be vacant ; he engaged it and paid foi it. ** Monsieur," said the clerk, '' do not fail to be here ready t€ start H precisely one o'clock in the morning." This done, he left the hotel and began to wander about the town. He was not acquainted with Arras ; the streets were dark, and he walked on at random ; but he seemed bent upon not asking Ifae way of the passers-by. He crossed the little river Crinchon, and found himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way. A citizen was passing: along with a lantern. Aftef tome hesitation, he decided to apply to this man, not without Digitized by Google 246 I^S MISÉRABLES, having first glanced behind and in firont of him, as thoi^b he feared lest some one should hear the qncstion which he was about to put. '•Monsieur/* said he, "where is the court-liouse, if yoa please?" *'You do not belong in town, sir?" replied the bourgeois, who was an oldish man; ''well, follow me. I happen to be going in the direction of the court-house, that is to say, in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture ; for the court-house is undergoing repairs just at this moment, and the courts are hold- ing tlieir sittings provisionally in the prefecture." " Is it there that the Assizes are held? " he asked. "Certainly, sir; you see, the prefecture of to-day was the bishop's palace before the Revolution. M. de Conzié, who was bishop in '82, built a grand hall there. It is in this grand ball that the court is held.*' On the way, the bourgeois said to him : — " If Monsieur desires to witness a case, it is rather late. The sittings generally close at six o'clock." When they arrived on the grand square, however, the man pointed out to him four long windows all lighted up, in the front of a vast and gloomy building. " Upon my word, sir, you are in luck ; you have arrived in season. Do you see those four windows? That is the Court of Assizes. There is light there, so they are not through. The matter must have been greatly protracted, and they are holding an evening session. Do you take an interest in this affair? Is it a criminal case? Are you a witness?" He replied : — " I have not come on any business ; I only wish to speak to one of the law3*ers." " That is different," said the bourgeois. " Stop, sir; here is the door wliere the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase." He conformed to the bourgeois's directions, and a few minutes later he was in a hall containing many people, and wlicre groups, intermingled with lawyers in their gowns, were whispering to- gether here and there. It is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations of men robed in black, murmuring t<^ether in low voices, on the threshold of the halls of justice. It is rare that charity and pity are the outcome of these words. Condemnations* pro- nounced in advance are more likely to be the result. All these groups seem to the passing and thoughtful observer so manj Digitized by Google FANTINE. 247 lombre bives where buzzing spirits construct in concert aS Borts of dark edifices. This spacious hall, illuminated by a single lamp, was the old hall of the episcopal palace, and served as the lai^e hall of the palace of justice. A double-leaved door, which was closed at that moment, separated it from the large apartment where the court was sitting. The obscurity was such that he did not fear to accost the first lawyer whom he met. *^ What stage have they reached, sir?*' he asked. ^^ It is finished," said tibe lawver. "Finished!'' This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer tamed round. " Excuse me, sir ; perhaps you are a relative? " "No; I know no one here. Has judgment b^n pro- nounced?" " Of coarse. Nothing else was possible.'' ** To penal servitude ? " "For life." He continued, in a voice so weak that it wag barely audi- ble; - " Then his identity was established? " "What identity?" replied the lawyer. ** There was no identity to be established. The matter was very simple. The woman had murdered her child ; the infanticide was proved ; the jury threw out the question of premeditation, and she was con- demned for life." " So it was a woman? " said he. " Why, certainly. The limosin woman. Of what are yon speaking?" "Notiiing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the baU is still lighted?" " For another case, which was begun about two hours ago." "What other case?" " Oh ! this one is a clear case also. It is about a sort of blackguard ; a man arrested for a second ofifencc ; a convict who has been guilty of theft. I don't know his name exactly. There's a bandit* s phiz for you ! I'd send him to the galleys on the strength of his face alone." "Is there any way of getting into the court-room, sir?" Baid he. " I reality think that there is not. There is a great crowd. However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people hav^ Digitized by Google 148 LES MISÉRABLES. gone out, and when the hearing is resumed, you might mak« an effort." '* Where is the entrance?" " Through yonder large door." The lawyer left him. In the course of a few moments he had experienced, almost simultaneously, almost intermingled with each other, all possible emotions. The words of this in- different spectator had, in turn, pierced his heart like needles of ice and liko blades of fire. When he saw that nothing was settled, he breathed freely once more ; but he could not ha?e told whether what he felt was pain or pleasure. He drew near to many groups and listened to what they were saying. The docket of the session was very heavy ; the presi- dent had appointed for tlie same day two short and simple cases. They had begun with the infanticide, and now they had reached the coqvict, the old offender, the " return horse." This man had stolen apples, but that did not appear to be entirely proved ; what had been proved was, that he had already been in the galleys at Toulon. It was that which lent a bad aspect to his case. However, the man's examination and the de[X>sitions of the witnesses had been completed, but the lawyer's plea, and the speech of the public prosecutor were still to come ; it could not be finished before midnight. The man would probably be condemned ; the attorney- general was very clever, and never missed tiis culprits ; he was a brilliant fellow who wrote verses. An usher stood at the door communicating with the ball of the Assizes. He inquired of this usher : — " Will the door be opened soon, sir? " " It will not be opened at all," replied the usher. " What I It will not be opened when the hearing is resumed? Is not the hearing suspended ? " '* The hearing has just been begun again," replied the usher, *' but the door will not be opened again." '*Why?" " Because the hall is full." *' What ! There is not room for one more? " *^ Not another one. The door is closed. No one can enter now." The usher added after a pause: "There are, to tell the truth, two or three extra places behind Monsieur le Président, but Monsieur le Président only admits public functionaries to them." So saying, the usher turned his back. He retired with bowed head, traversed the antechamber, and Digitized by Google JtfANTlNE 249 slowly descended the stairs, as though hesitating at every step. It is probable that he was holding counsel with himself. The violent conflict which had been going on within him since the preceding evening was not yet ended ; and every moment he «Dcoantered some new phase of it. On reaching the landing- place, he leaned his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he opened his coat, drew out his pocket* book, took from it a pencil, tore out a leaf, and upon that leaf he wrote rapidly, by the light of the street lantern this line : M, Madeleine^ Mayor of M. sur M,; then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides, made his way through the erowd, walked straight up to the usher, handed him the paper, and said in an authoritative manner : — " Take this to Monsieur le Président.** The usher took the paper, cast a glance upon it, and obeyed. Vni. — An Entrance by Favor. Although he did not suspect the fact, the mayor of M. sur M. enjoyed a sort of celebrity. For the space of seven years his reputation for virtue had filled the whole of Bas Boulonnais ; it had eventually passed the confines of a small district and had been spread abroad through two or three neighboring depart- ments. Besides the service which he had rendered to the chief town b}' resuscitating the black jet industry, there was not one out of the hundred and forty communes of the arrondissenient of M. sur M. which was not indebted to him for some benefit. Ho had even at need contrived to aid and multiply the indus- tries of other arrondissements. It was thus that he had, when occasion offered, supported with his credit and his funds the Unen factory at Boulogne, the flax-spinning industry at Fré- vent, and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur- Canche. Everywhere the name of M. Madeleine was pro- nounced with veneration. Arras and Douai envied the happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor. The Councillor of the Royal Court of Douai, who was presid log over this session of the Assizes at Arras, was acquainted . in c*ommon with the rest of the world, with this name which waj so profoundly and universally honored. When the usher, dis- creetly opening the door which connected the council-chamber with the court-room, bent over the back of the .Pi-esident's arm- chair and handed him the paper on which was inscribed the line which we have just perased, adding : ^' The genUeman desires to Digitized by Google 250 LES MISÉRABLES. be present at the trioU^'* the PreBident, with a quick and defer ential movemeDt, seized a pen and wrote a few words at th« bottom of the paper and returned it to the usher, saying, ^^Ad- mit him." The unhappy man whose history we are relating had re- mained near the door of the hall, in the same place and the same attitude in which the usher had left him. In the midst of his revery he heard some one saying to him, "Will Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?" It was the same usher who had turned his back upon him but a moment previousU', and who was now bowing to the earth before him. At the same time, the usher handed him the paper. He unfolded it, and as he chanced to be near the light, he could read it. '' The President of the Court of Assizes presents his respects to M. Madeleine." He crushed the paper in his hand as though those words con* tained for him a strange and bitter aftertaste. He followed the usher. A few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of wain* Bcoted cabinet of severe aspect, lighted by two wax candles, placed upon -a table with a green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just quitted him still rang in his ears: ^^ Mon- sieur, you are now in the council -chamber ; you have only to turn the copper handle of yonder door, and you will find your- self in the court-room, behind the President's chair." These words were mingled in his thoughts witli a vague memory of naiTOw corridors and dark staircases which he had recently traversed. The usher had left him alone. The supreme moment had arrived. He sought to collect his faculties, but could not. It is chiefly at the moment when there is the greatest need for at- taching them to the painful realities of life, that the threads of thought snap within the brain. He was in the very place where the judges deliberated and condemned. With stupid tranquillitv he surveyed this peaceful and terrible apartment, where bo many lives had been broken, which was soon to nng with hia name, and which his fate was at that moment traversing. He stared at the wall, then he looked at himself, wondering that it ohould be that chamber and that it should be he. He had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours; he whs worn out by the jolts of the cart, but he was not conscious of it. It seemed to him that he felt nothing. He at)proached a black frame which was suspended on the wall, and which contained, under glass, an ancient autogrmpli Digitized by Google FANTINE. 261 letter of Jean Nicolas Pache, maj-or of Paris and minister, and dated, through an error, no doubt, the dth of June^ of the year II., and in which Pache forwarded to the commune the list of ministers and deputies held in arrest by them. Any spectator who had chanced to see him at that moment, and who had watched him, would have imagined, doubtless, that this letter âtruck him as vei'y curious, for he did not take his eyes from it, and he read it two or three times. He read it without paying ^y attention to it, and unconsciously. He was thinking of Fantine and Cosette. As he dreamed, he turned round, and his eyes fell upon the brass knob of the door which separated him from the Court of Assizes. He had almost forgotten that door. His glance, calm at first, paused there, remained fixed on that brass handle, then grew terrified, and little by little became impregnated with fear. Beads of perspiration burst forth among his hair and trickled down upon his temples. At a certain moment he made that indescribable gesture of a sort of authority mingled with rebellion, which is intended to convey, and which does so well convey, " Fardieu! who com- pels we to this?** Then he wheeled briskly round, caught sight of the door through which he had entered in front of him, went to it, opened it, and passed out. He was no longer in that chamber ; he was outside in a corridor, a long, narrow corridor, broken by steps and gratings, making all sorts of angles, lighted here and there by lanterns similar to the niglit taper of invalids, the corridor through which he had approached. He breathed, he listened ; not a sound in front, not a sound behind him, and he fled as though pursued. When he had turned many angles in this corridor, he still listened. The same silence reigned, and there was the same darkness around him. He was out of breath ; he staggered ; be leaned against the wall. The stone was cold ; the perspira- tion lay ice-cold on his brow ; he straightened himself up with a «hiver. Then, there alone in the darkness, trembling with cold and with something else, too, perchance, he meditated. He had meditated all night long ; he had meditated all the day: he heai*d within him but one voice, which said, *' Alas ! " A quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head, sighed with agony, dropped his arms, and retraced his steps. He walked slowly, and as though crushed. It seemed as though some one had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back. Digitized by Google 252 LES MISÉRABLES. He re-entered the council-chamber. The first thing h« caught sight of was the knob of the door. Tliis knob, whidi was round and of polished brass, shone like a terrible star for him. He gazed at it as a lamb might gaze into the eye of a tiger. He could not take his eyes from it. From time to time he advanced a step and approached the door. Had he listened, he would have heard the sound of the adjoin- ing hall like a sort of confused murmur \ but he did not listen, and he did not hear. Suddenly, without himself knowing how it happened, ha found himself near the door ; he grasped the knob convulsively ; the door opened. He was in the court-room. IX. — A Place where Contictions abe in Pbocess op For- mation. He advanced a pace, closed the door mechanically l)ehind him, and remained standing, contemplating what he saw. It was a vast and badly lighted apartment, now full of up- roar, now full of silence, where all the apparatus of a criminal case, with its petty and mournful gravity in the midst of the throng, was in process of development. At the one end of the hall, the one where he was, were judges, with abstracted air, in threadbare robes, who were gnaw- ing their nails or closing their eyelids; at the other end, a ragged crowd ; lawyers in all sorts of attitudes ; soldiers with hard but honest faces ; ancient, spotted woodwork, a dirty ceil- ing, tables covered with serge that was yellow rather than green ; doors blackened by handmarks ; tap-room lamps which emitted more smoke than light, suspended from nails in the wainscot ; on the tables candles in brass candlesticks ; darkness, ugliness, sadness ; and from all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression, for one there felt that grand hnisan thing which is called the law, and that grand divine thing which is called justice. No one in all that throng paid any attention to him ; all glances were directed towards a single point, a wooden bench placed against a small door, in the stretch of wall on the Presi- dent's left ; on this bench, illuminated by several candles, sat r man between two gendarmes. This man was the man. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 258 He did not seek bim ; he saw him ; his eyes went thither latHrally, as though they had known beforehand where that fig- ure was. He thought he was looking at himself, grown old ; not abso- Ijtely the same in face, of course, but exactly similar in atti- tude and aspect, with his bristling hair, with that wild and un- easy eye, with that blouse, just as it was on the 'day when he entered £>., full of hatred, concealing his soul in that hideous mass of frightful thoughts which he had spent nineteen years in collecting on the floor of the prison. He said to himself with a shudder, *' Good God ! shall I be- come like that again ? " This creature seemed to be at least sixty ; there was some- thing indescribably coarse, stupid, and frightened about him. At the sound made by the opening door, people had drawn t^ide to make way for him ; the President had turned his head, i.nd, understanding that the personage who had just entered was the mayor of M. sur M., he had bowed to him ; the attor- ney-general, who had seen M. Madeleine at M. sur M., whither the duties of his office had called him more tlian once, recog- nized him and saluted him also : he had hardly perceived it ; he was the victim of a sort of hallucination ; he was watching. Judges, clerks, gendarmes, a throng of cruelly curious heads, ull these he had already beheld once, in days gone by, twenty- i«ven years before ; he had encountered those fatal things once more ; there thej' were ; they moved ; they existed ; it was no longer an effort of his memory, a mirage of his thought ; they were real gendarmes and real judges, a real crowd, and reai men of flesh and blood : it was all over ; he beheld the mon- strous aspects of his past reappear and live once more around him, with all that there is formidable in reality. All this was yawning before him. He was hon-ified by it ; he shut his eyes, and exclaimed in he deepest recesses of his soul, " Never ! " And by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble, and rendered him nearly mad, it was another self of his that was there ! all called that man who was being tried Jean Valjean. Under his very eyes, unheard-of vision, he had a sort of rep- ipsentation of the most horrible moment of his life, enacted by his spectre. Everything was there ; the apparatus was the same, the hour of the night, the faces of the judges, of soldiers, and of spec- tators ; all were the same, only above the President's head there Digitized by Google 254 LES MISÉRABLES, hung a crucifix, something which the courts had lacked at th^ time of his condemnation : God had been absent when he had been judged. There was a chair behind him ; he dropped into it, terrified at the thought that he might be seen ; when he was seated, he took advantage of a pile of cardboaid boxes, which stood on the judge's desk, to conceal his face from the whole room ; he could now see without being seen ; he had fully regained con- sciousness of the reality of things ; gradually he recovered ; he attained that phase of composure where it is possible to listen. M. Bamatabois was one of the jurors. He looked for Javert, but did not see him ; the seat of the witnesses was hidden from him by the clerk's table, and then, as we have just said, the hall was sparely lighted. At the moment of this entrance, the defendant's lawyer had just finished his plea. The attention of all was excited to the highest pitch ; the affair had lasted for three hours : for three hours that crowd had been watching a strange man, a miserable specimen of humanity, either profoundly stupid or profoundly subtle, grad- ually bending beneath the weiglit of a terrible likeness. This man, as the reader already knows, was a vagal)ond who had been found in a field carrying a branch laden with ripe apples, broken in the orchard of a neighbor, called the Pierron orchard. Who was this man ? an examination had been made ; witnesses had been heard, and they were unanimous ; light had abounded throughout the entire debate ; the accusation said : " We have in our grasp not only a marauder, a stealer of fruit ; we have here, in our hands, a bandit, an old offender who has broken his ban, an ex-convict, a miscreant of the most dangerous de- scription, a malefactor named Jean Val jean, whom justice has long been in search of, and who, eight yeara ago, on emerging from the galleys at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, ac- companied by violence, on the person of a child, a Savoy ai-d named Little Gervais ; a crime provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code, the right to try him for which we reserve here- after, when his identity shall have been judicially established. He has just committed a fresli theft ; it is a case of a second offence ; condemn him for the fresh deed ; later on he will be judged for the old crime." In the face of this accusation, in the face of the unanimity of the witnesses, the accused appeared to be astonished more than anything else ; he made signs ami gestures which were meant to convey No, or else he stai'^d at Uie ceiling : he spoke with difificulty, replied with embarrassment. Digitized by Google FA NT I NE. 25a 0ut his whole person, from head to foot, was a denial ; he was an idiot in the presence of all these minds ranged in order of bat- tle around him, and like a stranger in the midst of this societj^ which was seizing fast upon him ; nevertheless, it was a ques- tion of the most menacing future for him ; the likeness increased every moment, and the entire crowd surveyed, with more anx- iety than he did himself, that sentence freighted with calamity, which descended ever closer over his head ; there was even a glimpse of a possibility afforded ; besides the galleys, a possi- ble death penal t}', in case his identity were established, and the affair of Little Gervais were to end thereafter in condemnation. Who was this man? what was the nature of his apathy? was it imbecility or craft? Did he understand too well, or did he not anderstand at all? these were questions which divided. the crowd, and seemed to divide the jury ; there was something both terrible and puzzling in this case : the drama was not only melancholy ; it was also ol)scure. The counsel for the defence had spoken tolerably well, in that provincial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar, and which was formerly employed by all advocates, at Paris as well as at Romorantin or at Montbrison, and which to- day, having become classic, is no longer spoken except by the official orators of magistracy, to whom it is suited on account of its grave sonorousness and its majestic stride ; a tongue in which a husband is called a consort^ and a woman a spouse; Paris, t?ie centre of art and civllizaJtion; the king, the monarch; Monseigneur the Bishop, a sainted pontiff; the district-attorney, the eloquent interpreter of public prosecution; the arguments, thje accents which we have just listened to; the age of Louis XIV., t?ie grand age ; a theatre, the temple of Melpomeiie ; the reigning family, the august blood of our kings; a concert, a musical solemnity; the General Commandant of the province, the illustrious warrior^ who, etc.; the pupils in the seminary, these tender lévites; errors imputed to newspapers, the impos ture which distills its venom through the columns of those organs; etc. The lawyer had, accordingly, begun with an explanation as to the theft of the apples, — an awkward matter couched in fine style ; but Bénigne Bossuct himself was obliged to allude to a chicken in the midst of a funeral oration, and he extricated himself from the situation in stately fashion. The lawyer es- tablished the fact that the theft of the apples had not been cir- cumstantially proved. His client, whom he, in his character of counsel, persisted in calling Champmathieu, had not been seen sealing that wall nor breaking that branch by any one. He Digitized by Google 256 t.ES AflSERABLES. bad been taken with that branch (whioh the lawyer preferred ta call a bough) in his possession ; but he said that he had found it broken off and lying on the ground, and had picked it up. Where was there any proof to the contrary ? No doubt that branch had been broken off and concealed after the scaling of the wall, then thrown away by the alarmed marauder; there was SÏO doubt that there had been a thief in the case. But what «oroof was there that that thief had been Champmathieu ? Ono. thing only. His character as an ex-convict. Tlie lawyer did not deny that that character appeared to be, nnhappily, well attested; the accused had resided at Faverolles; the accused Sad exercised the calling of a tree-pruner there ; the name of Champmathieu might well have had its origin in Jean Mathieu ; *ll that was true, — in short, four witnesses recognize Champ* raathieu, positively and without hesitation, as that convict, Jean Val jean ; to these signs, to this testimony, the counsel could oppose nothing but the denial of his client, the denial of an interested party; but supposing that he was the convict Jean Valjean, did that prove that he was the thief of the apples ; that was a presumption at the most, not a proof. The prisoner, it was true, and his counsel, ''in good faith," was obliged tf admit it, had adopted '' a bad system of defence." He obsti nately denied everything, the theft and his character of con- vict. An admission upon this last [X)int would certainly havo been better, and would have won for him the indulgence of his judges ; the counsel had advised him to do this ; but the accused had obstinately refused, thinking, no doubt, that he would save everything by admitting nothing. It was an error ; but ought not the paucity of this intelligence to be taken into considera- tion ? This man was visibly stupid. Long-continued wretched- ness in the galleys, long misery outside the galleys, had brutalized him, etc. He defended himself badly ; was that a reason for condemning him? As for the affair with Little Gervais, the counsel need not discuss it; it did not enter into the ease. The lawyer wound up by beseeching the jury and the court, if the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to be evident, to apply to him the police penalties which are provided for a criminal who has broken his ban, and not the frightful chastise- ment which descends upon the convict guilty of a second offence. The district-attorney answered tlie counsel for the defence. He was violent and florid, as district-attorneys usually are. He congratulated the counsel for the defence on his " loyalty, *• and skilfully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached th« •ceased through all the concessions made by his lawyer. The Digitized by Google FANTTNB. «57 advocate had Beemod t<> admit that the prisoner was Jean Val jean. He took note of this. So this man ^as Jean Vaijean. This point had been conceded to the accusation and could no .oiiger be disputed. Here, by means of a clever autcmoraasia which went bacic to the sources and causes of crime, the dis- trict-attorney thundered against the immorality of the romantic school, then dawning under the name of the Satanic school^ which had been bestowed upon it by the critics of the Quotidienne and the Oriflamme; he attributed, not without some probability, to the influence of this perverse literature the crime of Champ- mathieu, or rather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Vaijean. Having exhausted these considerations, he passed on to Jean Vai- jean himself. Who was this Jean Vaijean ? Description of Jean Vaijean : a monster spewed forth, etc. The model for this sort of description is contained in the tale of Théramène, which is not useful to tragedy, but which every day renders great services to judicial eloquence. The audience and the jury '' shuddered." The description finished, the district-attorney resumed with an aratorical turn calculated to raise the enthusiasm of the journal of the prefecture to the highest pitch on the following day : And it is such a man, etc., etc., etc., vagabond, beggar, without means of existence, etc., etc., inured by his past life to culpable deeds, and but little reformed by his sojourn in the galleys, as was proved by the crime committed against Little Ger\'ais, etc., etc. ; it is such a man, caught upon the highway in the very act of theft, a few paces from a wall that had been scaled, still holding in his hand the object stolen, who denies the crime, the theft, the climbing the wall ; denies everything ; denies even his own identity ! In addition to a hundred other proofs, to which we will not recur, four witnesses recognize him — Javeit, the upright inspector of police ; Javert, and' three of his former companions in infamy, the convicts Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille. What does he offer in opposition to this over- whelming unanimit}* ? His denial. What obduracy ! You will do justice, gentlemen of the jurj-, etc., etc. While the district-attorney was speaking, the accused listened to him open-mouthed, with a sort of amazement in which some admira- tion was assuredly blended. He was evidently surprised that a man could talk like that. From time to time, at those ^^ ener- getic" moments of the prosecutor's speech, when eloquence which cannot contain itself overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelops the accused like a storm, he moved his head slowly from right to left and from left to right in the sort of mute and melancholy protest with which he had contented Digitized by Google 258 LES MISERABLES. himself since the beginning of the argument. Two or three times the spectators who were nearest to him heard him say iu a low voice, '' That is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup." The district- attorney directed the attention of the jury .to this stupid attitude, evidently deliberate, which denoted not imbecility, but craft, skill, a habit of deceiving justice, and which set fortli in all its nakedness the " profound perversity" of this man. He ended by making his reserves on the afifair of Little Gervais and demanding a severe sentence. At that timc^ as the reader will remember, it was penal servi- tude for life. The counsel for the defence rose, began b}^ complimenting Monsieur TAvocat-General on his " admirable speech," then replied as best he could ; but he weakened ; the ground was evidently slipping away from under his feet. X. — The System of Denials. The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The Presi- dent had the accused stand up, and addressed to him the cus- tomary question, '' Have you anytbing to add to 3'our defence?" The man did not appear to understand, as he stood there, twisting in his hands a temble cap which he had. The President repeated the question. This time the man heard it. He seemed to understand. He made a motion like a man who is just waking up, cast his eyes about him, stared at the audience, the gendarmes, his counsel, the jur}', the court, laid his monstrous fist on the rim of wood- work in front of his bench, took another look, and all at once, fixing his glance uix)ii the district-attorney, he began to speak. It was like an eruption. It seemed, from the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth, — incoherent, impetuous, pell-mell, tumbling over each other, — as though they were al! pressing forward to issue forth at once. He said : — ''This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheel- wright in Paris, and that it was with Monsieur Baloup. It is a hard trade. In the wheelwright's trade one works always in the open air, in courtyards, under sheds when the masters are good, never in closed workshops, because space is i-equired, you Bee. In winter one gets so cold that one beats one's anna together to warm one's self; but the masters don't like it ; they say it wastes time. Handling iron when there is ice between the paving-stones is hard work. That wears a man out quickly Digitized by Google FANTINE, 259 One is old while he is still quite young in that trade. At forty a man is done for. I was fifty -three. I was in a bad state. And then, workmen are so mean ! When a man is no longer young, they call him nothing but old bird, old beast ! I was not earning more than thirty sous a day. The}* paid me as little as possi- ble. The masters took advantage of my age — and then I had my daughter, who was a laundress at the river. She earned a little, also. It sufficed for us two. She had trouble, also ; all day long up to her waist in a tub, in rain, in snow. When the wind cuts your face, when it freezes, it is all the same ; you must Btill wash. There are people who have not much linen, and wait until late ; if j'ou do not wash, you lose your custom. Tii« planks are badly joined, and water drops on you from every* where; you have your petticoats all damp above and below. That penetrates. She has also worked at the laundry of the Eu fan ts- Rouges, where the water comes through faucets. You are not in the tub there ; you wash at the faucet in front of you, and rinse in a basin behind you. As it is enclosed, you are not so cold ; but there is that hot steam, which is terrible, and which ruins your eyes. She came houie at seven o'clock in the evening, and went to bed at once, she was so tired. Her husband beat her. She is dead. We have not been very happy. She was a good girl, who did not go to the ball, and who was very peaceable. I remember one Shrove-Tuesday when she went to bed at eight o'clock. There, I am telling the truth ; yoii have only to ask. Ah, yes ! how stupid I am ! Paris is a gulf. Who knows Father Champmathieu there ? But M. Baloup does, I tell yow. Go see at M. Baloup's ; and after all, I don't know what is wanted of me." The man ceased speaking, and remained standing. He had said these things in a loud, rapid, hoarse voice, with a sort of irritated and savage ingenuousness. Once he paused to s«lule some one in the crowd. The sort of affirmations which he %emed to fling out before him at random came like hiccoughs, ind to each he added the gesture of a wood-cutter who is split- ting wood. When he had finished, the audience burst into c laugh. He stared at the public, and, perceiving that they were laughing, and not understanding why, he began to laugh himself. It was inauspicious. The President, an attentive and benevolent man, raised his v'oice. He reminded "the gentlemen of the jury" that "the sieur Baloap, formerly a master- wheelwright, with whom the accused stated that he had served, had been summoned in vain. He Digitized by Google 260 LES MISERABLES. /lad become bankrupt, and was not to be foand." Then tarn iiig to the accused, he enjoined him to listen to what he was about to say, and added : ^^ You are in a position where reflec- tion is necessary. The gravest presumptions rest upon vou, and may induce vital results. Prisoner, in your own interests, I summon you for the last time to explain yourself clearly on two points. In the first place, did you or did you not climb the wall of the Pierron orchard, break the branch, and steal the a])ples ; that is to say, commit the crime of breaking in and theft? In the second place, are you the discharged convict, Jean Valjean — yes or no?" The prisoner shook his head with a capable air, like a man who has thoroughly understood, and who knows what answer he is going to make. He opened his mouth, turned towards the President, and said : — '*In the first place — " Then he stared at his cap, stared at the ceiling, and held hm peace. " Prisoner," said the district-attorney, in a severe voice, ^' pay attention. You are not answering anything that ha 4 been asked of you. Your embarrassment condemns you. It is evident that your name is not Champmathieu ; that you ai<% the convict, Jean Valjean, concealed firet under the name cf Jean Mathieu, which was the name of his mother; that yon went to Auvergne ; that you were born at Faverolles, where you were a pruner of trees. It is evident that 30U have been guilty of entering, and of the theft of ripe apples from the Pierrou orchard. The gentlemen of tlie jury will form their ow\i opinion." The prisoner had finally resumed his seat ; he arose abruptly when the district-attorney had finished, and exclaimed ; — *' You are very wicked ; that you are ! This is what I wanted to say ; I could not find words for it at first. I have stolen nothing. I am a man who does not have something to eat every day. I was coming from Ailly ; I was walking through ihe country after a shower, which had made the whole country yellow : even the ponds were overfiowed, and nothing sprang from the sand any more but the little blades of grass at the wayside. I found a broken branch with apples on the ground ; I picked up the branch without knowing that it would get me into trouble. I have been in prison, and they have been drag- ging me about for the last three months ; more than that I can- not say; people talk against me, they tell me, * Answer !' The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow, and Digitized by Google FANTINB. f61 iays to me in a low voice, * Come, answer I ' I don't know how to ejsplain ; I have no education ; I am a poor man ; that is where thej wrong me, because they do not see this. I have not stolen; I picked up from the ground things that were lying there. You say, Jean Valjean, Jean Mathieu ! I don't know those persons ; they are villagers. I worked for M. Baloup, Boulevard de l'Hôpital ; my name is Champmathieu. You are very clever to tell me where I was born ; I don't know myself : it's not everybody who has a house in which to come into the world ; that would be too convenient. I think that my father and mother were people who strolled along the highways ; I know nothing different. When I was a child, they called me young fellow; now they call me oldfeHow; those are my bap- tismal names ; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne ; I have been at FaveroUes. Fardi. Well ! can't a man have been in Auvergne, or at Faverolles, without having been in the galleys? I tell you that I have not stolen, and that I am Father Champmathieu ; I have been with M. Baloup ; I have had a settled residence. You worry me with your nonsense, there I Why is everybody pursuing me so furiously ? " The district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the President : — " Monsieur le Président, in view of the confused but exceed- ingly clever denials of the prisoner, who would like to pass himself off as an idiot, but who will not succeed in so doing, — we shall attend to that, — we demand that it shall please you and that it shall please the court to summon once more into this place the convicts Brevet, Cochepaille, and Chenildieu, and Police-Inspector Javeit, and question them for the last time as to the identity of the prisoner with the convict Jean Valjean." '' I would remind the district-attorney," said the President, *that Police-Inspector Javert, recalled by his duties to the *>apital of a neighboring arrondissement, left the court-room md the town as soon as he had made his deposition ; we have uxorded him permission, with the consent of the district ittomey and of the counsel for the prisoner." '*That is true, Mr. President," responded the district- attorney. *' In the absence of sieur Javert, I think it my duty to remind the gentlemen of the jury of what he said here a few hours ago. Javert is an estimable man, who does honor by hia rigorous and strict probity to inferior but important functions. These are the terms of his deposition : ^ I do not even stand in need of circumstantial proofs and moral presumptions to give ^e lie to the prisoner's denial. I recognize him perfectly Digitized by Google 262 LES MISÉRABLES. The name of this man is not Champmathieu ; he is an ex-con- vict named Jean Val jean, and is very vicious and much to be feared. It was only with extreme regret that he was released at the expiration of his term. He underwent nineteen years of penal servitude for theft He made five or six attempts to escape. Besides the theft from Little Gervais, and from the Pierron orchard, I suspect him of a theft committed in the house of His Grace the late Bishop of D — . I often saw him at the time when I was adjutant of the galley-guard at the prison in Toulon. I repeat that I recognize him perfectly.' " This extremely precise statement appeared to produce a vivid impression on the public and on the jury. The district- attorney concluded by insisting, that in default of Javert, the three witnesses Brevet, Chenildieu, and Cochepaille should be heard once more and solemnly interrogated. The President transmitted the order to an usher, and, a moment later, the door of the witnesses' room opened. The usher, accompanied by a gendarme ready to lend him anned assistance, introduced the convict Brevet. The audience was in suspense ; and all breasts heaved as though they had con- tained but one soul. The ex-convict Brevet wore the black and gray waistcoat of the central prisons. Brevet was a person sixty years of age, who had a sort of business man's face, and the air of a rascal. The two sometimes go togetlier. In prison, whither fresh mis- deeds had led him, he had become something in the nature of a turnkey. He was a man of whom his superiors said, "He tries to make himself of use." The chaplains bore good testi- mony as to his religious habits. It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration. " Brevet," said the President, "you have undergone an igno- minious sentence, and you cannot take an oath." Brevet dropped his eyes. " Nevertheless," continued the President, *' even in the man whom the law has degraded, there may remain, when the divine mercy permits it, a sentiment of honor and of equity. It is to this sentiment that I appeal at this decisive hour. If it still exists in you, — and I hope it does, — reflect before replying to me : consider on the one hand, this man, whom a word from you may ruin ; on the other hand, justice, which a word from you may enlighten. The instant is solemn ; there is still time to retract if you think you have been mistaken. Rise, prisoner. Brevet, take a good look at the accused, recall your souvenirs, and tell us on your soul and conscience, if you persist in recog- Digitized by Google FANTINE. 263 lizing this man as your former companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?" Brevet looked at the prisoner, then turned towards the ooort. " Yes, Mr. President, I was the first to recognize him, and I stick to it ; that man is Jean Valjean, who entered at Toulon in 1796, and left in 1815. I left a year later. He has the air of a brute now ; but it must be because age has brutalized him ; he was sly at the galleys : I recognize him positively." *'ïake your seat, " said the President. "Prisoner, remain stanecn seeing her; I have not taken my eyes from her since 3'es- terday evening. Do you know? If she were brought to me now, I should talk to her very gently. That is all. Is it not quite natural that I should desire to see my daughter, who has been brought to me expressly from Montfermeil? I am not angry. I know well that I am about to be happy. All night long I have seen wliite things, and persons who smiled at me. When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosetto. I have no longer any fever ; I am well. I am perfectly con- scious that there is nothing the matter with me any more ; but I am going to behave as though I were ill, and not Btir, to please these ladies here. When it is seen that I am very calm, they will say, ' She must have her child.' " M. Madeleine was sitting on a chair beside the bed. 8b« turned towards him ; she was making a visible effort to be calm and " very good," as she expressed it in the feebleness of ill- ness which resembles infancy, in order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make no difficulty about bringing Coeette to her. But while she controlled herself she could not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine. *' Did you have a pleasant trip. Monsieur le Maire? Oh ! how good you were to go and get her for me ! Only tell me how she is. Did she stand the journey well? Alas! she will nol; recognize me. S lie must have forgotten me by this time, pcx>y darling! Children have no memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing to-day and another tiling to-morrow, and thinks of nothing any longer. And did she have white linen ? Did those Thénardiers keep her clean? How have they fod her? Oh ! if you only knew how I have suffered, putting such questions as that to myself during all the time of my wretclied- ness. Now, it is all past. I am hap{)y. Oh, how I should like to see her ! Do you think her pretty, Monsieur le Maire ? Is not my daughter beautiful? You must have been very cold in that diligence ! Could she not be brought for just one little instant? She might be taken away directly afterwards. Tell me ; you are the master ; it could be so if you chose ! " He took her hand. " Cosette is beautifuU" he said, " Cos» ette is well. You shall see her soon ; but calm yourself ; you are talking with too much vivacity, and you are throwing your arms out from under the clothes, and that makes you a)ugh." In fact, tits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word. Digitized by Google FANTINE. 2n Fantine did not murmur ; she feared that she had injured bv âer too passionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous of inspiring, and she began to talk of indifferent ihings. *' Montfermeil is quite prett}', is it not? People go there on pleasure parties in summer. Are the Thénardiers prosperous? There are not many travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs *i» a sort of a cook-shop." M. Madeleine was still holding her hand, and gazing at her ffith anxiety ; it was evident that he had come to tell her things before which his mind now hesitated. The doctor, having fin- ished his visit, retired. Sister Simplice remained alone with them. But in the midst of this pause Fantine exclaimed : — " I hear her ! mon Dieu, I hear her ! " She stretched out her arm to enjoin silence about her, held ker breath, and began to listen with rapture. There was a child playing in the yard — the child of the por- tress or of some work- woman. It was one of those accidents which are always occurring, and which seem to form a part of the mysterious stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child — a little girl — was going and coming, running to warm herself, laughing, singing at the top of her voice. Alas ! in what are the plays of children not intermingled. It was this little girl whom Fantine heard singing. "Oh!" she resumed, 'Mt is my Cosette} I recognize her loice." The child retreated as it had come ; the voice died awa}*. Fantine listened for a while longer, then her face clouded over, and M. Madeleine heard her say, in a low voice : " How wicked that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter ! That man has an evil countenance, that he has." But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again. She continued to talk to herself, with her head resting :)u the pillow : " How happy we are going to be ! "VVe shall bave a little garden the very first thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter will play in the garden. She uust know her letters bj' this time. I will make her spell. She will run over the grass after butterflies. I will watch her. Then she will take her first communion. Ah ! when will she take ber first communion ? " She began to reckon on her fingers. "One, two, three, four — she is seven years old. In five jears she will have a white veil, and openwork stockings ; she Digitized by Google i74 LES MISERABLES. will look like a little woman. O my good sister, you do noi know how foolish I become when I Uiiuk of my daughter*s first communion ! " 8 he began to laugh. He had released Fantine's hand. He listened to her words as one listens to the sighing of the breeze, with his eyes on Uie ground, his mind absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she ceased speaking, and this caused him to raist his head mechanically. Fantine had become terrible. She no longer spolie, she no longer breathed ; she had raised herself to a sitting posture, her thin shoulder emerged from lier chemise ; her face, which had been radiant but a mom<*nt before, was ghastl}*, and she seemed to have fixed her eyes, rendered larger with terror, on something alarming at the other extremity of the room. " Good God ! " he exclaimed ; " what ails you, Fantine?" She made no reply ; she did not remove her eyes from tlie object which she seemed to see. She removed one hand from his arm, and with the other made him a sign to look behind him.' He turned, and beheld Javert. m. — Javert Satisfisd. This is what had taken place. The half-hour after miduight had just struck when M. Made- leine quitted the Hall of Assizes in Arras. He regained his inu just in time to set out again by the mail- wagon, in which he bad engaged his place. A little before six o'clock in the morning he had arrived at M. sur M., and his first care had been to post a letter to M. Lafiittc, then to enter the infirmary and see Fan- tine. However, he had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of Assizes, when the district-attorney, recovering from his first shock, had taken the word to dejilore the mad deed of the hon- orable mayor of M. sur M., to declare that his convictions liad not been in the least modified by that curious incident, which would be explained thereafter, and to demand, in the meantime, the condemnation of that Champmathicu, who was evidently the real Jean Val jean. The district-attorney's persistence was vis- ibly at variance with the sentiments of every one, of the pubiic, of the court, and of tlie jury. The counsel for the defence had some difficulty in refuting this harangue and in establishing that, Digitized by Google FANTINE. 275 ID consequence of the revelations of M. Madeleine, that is to »ay, of the real Jean Val jean, tlie aspect of the matter had beeu tnoi-ooghly altered, aud that the jury liad before their eyes now only an innocent man. Thence the lawyer had drawn some epiphonemas, not very fresh, unfortunately, upon judicial errors, etc., etc. ; the President, in his summing up, had joined the counsel for the defence, and in a few minutes the jury had thrown Champmathieu out of the case. Nevertheless, the district-attorney was bent on having a Jean Val jean; and as he had no longer Champmathieu, he took Madeleine. Immediately after Champmathieu had been set at liberty, the district-attorney shut himself up with the President. They conferred *'as to the necessity of seizing the person of M. le Maire of M. sur M." This phrase, in which there was a great deal of o/, is the district-attorney's, written with his own hand, on the minutes of his report to the attorney-general. His lirst emotion having passed off, the President did not offer many objections. Justice must, after all, take its course. . And then, when all was said, although the President was a kindly and a tolerably intelligent man, he was, at the same time, a devoted and almost an ardent royalist, and he had been shocked to hear the Mayor of M. sur M. say the Emperor^ and not Bonaparte^ when alluding to the landing at Cannes. The order for his arrest was accordingly despatched. The district-attorney forwarded it to M. sur M. by a special mes- senger, at full speed, and entrusted its execution to Police Inspector Javert. The reader knows that Javert had returned to M. sur M. immediately after having given his deposition. Javert was just getting out of bed when the messenger handed him the order of arrest and the command to produce the pris- oner. The messenger himself was a very clever member of the police, who, in two words, informed Javert of what had taken place at Arras. The order of aiTest, signed by the district- attorney was couched in these words : '* Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the Sieur Madeleine, mayor of M. sur M., who, in this day's session of the court, was recognized as the liberated convict, Jean Val jean." Any one who did not know Javert, and who had chanced to see him at the moment when he penetrated the antechamber of the infirmary, could have divined nothing of what had taken place, and would have thought his air the most ordinary in the Digitized by Google 276 LES MISÉRABLES. world. He was cool, calm, grave, his gray hair was perfectly smooth upon his temples, and he had just mounted the staii t with his habitual deliberation. Any one who was thoroughl r acquainted with him, and who had examined him attentively î I the moment, would have shuddered. The buckle of his leaihc ! stock was under his left ear instead of at the nape of his necl« . This betrayed unwonted agitation. Javert was a complete character, who never had a wrinkle in his duty or in his uniform ; methodical with malefactors, ri^d with the buttons of his coat. That he should have set the buckle of his stock awry, it wa» indispensable that there should have taken place in him one cf those emotions which may be designated as internal oarthquakef . He had come in a simple way, had made a requisition on the neighl)oring post for a corporal and four soldiera, had left tht soldiers in the courtyard, had had Fan tine's room pointed out to him by the portress, who was utterly unsuspicious, accuf • tomed as she was to seeing armed men inquiring for the mayoi. On arriving in Fantine's chamber, Javert turned the handle , pushed the door open with the gentleness of a sick-nurse or i police spy, and entered. Properly speaking, he did not enter. He stood erect in thi half-open door, his hat on his head and his left hand thrust int > his coat, which was buttoned up to the chin. In the bend of hit elbow the leaden head of his enormous cane, which was bidde t behind him, could be seen. Thus he remained for nearl}' a minute, without his presence being perceived. All at once Fan tine raised her eyes, saw him, and made M. Madeleine turn round. The instant that Madeleine's glance encountered Javert's glance, Javert, without stirring, without moving from his post, without approaching, became terrible. No human sentiment can be as terrible as joy. It was the visage of a demon who has Just found his damned soul. The satisfaction of at last getting hold of Jean Valjean causen the detaining hand of Javert, ind opened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby, then he said to J avert : — '* You have murdered that woman." '' Let's have an end of this ! " shoute^l Javert, in a fury ; '* ) am not here to listen to argument. Ixît us economize all Uiat , the guard is below ; march on instantly, or you'll get tbe thumb- screws In the corner of the room stood an old iron bedstead, which was in a decidedly decrepit state*, and which served the sisters as a camp-bed when they were watching with the sick. Jean Val- jean stepped up to this bed, in a twinkling wrenched off the head- piece, which was already in a dilapidati'd condition, an easy matter to muscles like his, grasped the principal rod like a bludgeon, and glanced at Javert. Javert retreated towards the door. Jean Valjean, armed with his bar of iron, walked slowly up to Fantine's couch. When he arrived there he turned and said to Javert, in a voice that was barely audible : — '' I advise you not to disturb me at this moment." One thing is certain, and that is, that Javert ti'embled. It did occur to him to summon the guard, but Jean Valjean might avail himself of that moment to effect his escape ; so bo remained, grasped his cane b}' the small end, and leaned against the door-post, without removing his eyes from Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean rested his elbow on the knob at the head of the bed, and his brow on his hand, and began to contemplate the motionless body of Fantine, which lay extended there. He remained thus, mute, absorbed, evidently with no farther thought of anything connected with this life. Uix)n his face and in his attitude there was nothing but inexpressible pity. After a few moments of this meditation he bent towards Fan- tine, and spoke to her in a low voice. What did he say to her? What could this man, who was reproved, say to that woman, who was dead? AVhat words were those? No one on earth heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are some touching illusions wliicb are, perhaps, sublime realities. The point as to which there exists no doubt is, that Sister Simplice, the sole witness of the Digitized by VjOOQ IC FA NT I NE. 281 incident, often said that at the moment that Jean Valjean whis pered in Fan tine's ear, she distinctly beheld an ineffable smile dawn on those pale lips, and in those dim eyes, filled with the amazement of the tomb. Jean Valjean took Fan tine's head in both his bauds, and arranged it on the pillow as a mother might have done for her child ; then he tied the string of her chemise, and smoothed her hair back under her cap. That done, he closed her eyes. Fantine's face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment. Death, that signifies entrance into the great light. Fautine's hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean V^aljean knelt down before that hand, lifted it gently, and kissed it. Then he rose, and turned to Javert. " Now." said he, *' I am at your disposaJL** V.^A Suitable Tobib. Javkbt deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison. The arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensation, or rather, an extraordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are sorry that we cannot conceal the fact, that at the single word, '^ He was a convict," nearly every one deserted him. In less than two hours all the good that he had done had been forgotten, and he was nothing but a " convict from the galleys." It is just to add that the details of what had taken place at Arras were not yet known. All day long conversations like the following were to be heard in all quartera of the town : — *' You don't know ? He was a liberated convict !" '' Who? " "The mayor." ''Bah! M.Madeleine?" "Yes." "Really?" " His name was not Madeleine at all; he had a frightful name, Béjean, Bojean, Boujean." "Ah! Good God!" "He has l>een arrested." " Arrested !" "In prison, in the city prison, while waiting to be transferred." " Until he is transferred ! " * He is to be transferred !" " Where is he to be taken ?" "He will be tried at the Assizes for a highway robbery which he com- mitted long ago." "Well! I suspected as much. That man was too good, too perfect, too affected. He refused the cross ; he bestowed sous on all the little scamps he came across. I always thought there was some evil history back of all that." The *' drawing-rooms" particularly abounded in remarks of this nature. One old lady, a subscriber to the Drapeau EtanCy made tSi€ Digitized by Google t82 i^ES MISERABLES. following remark, the depth of which it is impossible \m fathom : — '' I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapart- ists!" It was thus that the phantom wliich had been called M. Made- :cine vanished from M. sur M. Only three or four persons in all the town remained faithful to his memory. The old por- tress who had served him was among the number. On the evening of that day the worthy old woman was sit- ting in her lodge, still in a thorough fright, and absorbed in sad reflections. The factory had been closed all day, the car- riage gate was bolted, the street was deserted. There was no one in the house but the two nuns. Sister Perpétue and Sister Simplice, who were watching beside the body of Fantiue. Towards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to return home, the good portress rose mechanically, took horn a drawer the key of M. Madeleine's chamber, and the flat candle- stick which he used every evening to go up to his quarters; then she hung the key on the nail whence he was accustomed to take it, and set the candlestick on one side, as though she was expecting hira. Then she sat down again on her chair, and became al)sorbed in thought once more. The poor, good old woman had done all this without being conscious of it. It was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself from her revery, and exclaimed, *'Hold! My good God Jesus ! And I hung his key on the nail ! " At that moment the small window in the lodge opened, a hand passed through, seized the key and the candlestick, and lighted the taper at the candle which was burning there. The portress raised her eyes, and stood there with gaping mouth, and a shriek which she confined to her throat. She knew that hand, that arm, the sleeve of that coat. It was M. Madeleine. * It was several seconds before she could speak ; she had a fetzare, as she said herself, when she related the adventure afterwards. *'Good God, Monsieur le Maire," she cried at last, "I thought you were — " She stopped ; the conclusion of her sentence would have been lacking in respect towards the beginning. Jean Valjean was still Monsieur le Maire to her. He finished her thought. ' In prison," said he. ^^I was there ; I broke a bar of one of the windows ; I let myself drop from the top of a roof, and Digitized by Google FANTINE. 288 tkere I am. I am going up to my room ; go and find Sister Sifflplice for me. She is with that poor woman, no doubt.*' The old woman obeyed in all haste. He gave her no orders ; he was quite sure that she would guard him better than he should guard himself. No one ever found out how he had managed to get into the coortjard without opening the big gates. He had, and always carried about him, a pass-key which opened a little side-door ; bat he must have been searched, and his latch-key must have been taken from him. This point was never explained. He ascended the stabrcase leading to his chamber. On arriv- ing at the top, he left his candle on the top step of his stairs, opened his door with very little noise, went and closed his win- dow and his shutters by feeling, then returned for his candle and re-entered his room. It was a useful precaution ; it will be recollected that his window could be seen from the street. He cast a glance about him, at his table, at his chair, at his bed which had not been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder of the night before last remained. The portress bad *' done up " his room ; only she had picked out of the ashes and placed neatly on the table the two iron ends of the cudgel and the forty-sou piece which had been blackened by the fire. He took a sheet of paper, on which he wrote: *^ These are the two tips of my iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen from Little Gervais, which I mentioned at the Court of Assizes," and he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of iron, tnd the coin in such a way that they were the first things to be seen on entering the room. From a cupboard he pulled out one of bis old shirts, which he tore in pieces. In the strips of linen thus prepared he wrapped the two silver candlesticks. He betrayed neither haste nor agitation ; and while he was wrapping up the Bishop's candlesticks, he nibbled at a piece of black bread. It was probably the prison-bread which he had carried with him in his flight. This was pi'oved by the crumbs which were found on the floor of the room when the authorities made an examination later on. There came two taps at the door. "Come in," said he. It was Sister Simplice. She was pale ; her eyes were red ; the candle which she carried trembled in her hand. The peculiar feature of the violences of destiny is, that however polished or cool we may be, they wring bamau nature from our very bowels, and force it to reappear on uigiiized by Google 284 LES MISEUABLES. the surface. The emotionB of that day had tamed the nu^ into a woman once more. She had wept, and she was trem bling. Jean Val jean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper, which he handed to the nun, saying, ^^ Sister, you will give this *o Monsieur le Cui-é." The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upor it '' You can read it," said he. She read : — '^I beg Monsieur le Curé to keep an eye on all that I leave oehiud nie. He will be so good as to pay out of it the ex\mv ses of my trial, and of the funeral of the woman who died ves terdîiy. The rest is for the poor.*' The sister tried to S|)eak, bn^ she only managed to stammer s few inarticulate sounds. She succeeded in saying, however: - *'^ Does not Monsieur le Maire desire to take a last look at that poor, unhappy woman?" *' No," said he ; ^' I am pursued ; it would only end in their arresting me in that room, and that would disturb her." He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the staircase. They heard a tumult of ascending footstepd. and the old portress saying in her loudest and most piercioii; tones : — *' My good sir, I swear to you by the good God, that not a soul has entered this house all day, nor all the evening, and that I have not even left the door." A man resi)onded : — *• But there is a light in that room, nevertheless." They recognized Javert's voice. The chamber was so arranged that the door in oi)ening masked the corner of the wall on the right. Jeun Val jean bk» out the light and placed himself in this angle. Sister Siinplice fell on her knees near the table. The d(X)r o[)ened. J avert entered. The whispers of many mon and the protestations of tbe portress were audible in the corridor. Tlie nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying. The caudle was on the chimney-piece, and gave but ven* litfip light. Javert canght sight of the nun and halted in amazement Tt will be remembered that the fuudamoutal point in Javert. nis element, the very air he bn^athed, was veneration for al^ ftuthority. Thss was impregnable, and admitted of neither ' b Digitized by Google jTANTINK 285 JectîoD nor restriction. In his eyes, of course, the ecciesiastica authority was the chiet of all ; he was religious, superficial and correct on this point as on all others. In his C3'es, a priest was a mind, who never makes a mistake; a nun was a creature who never sius ; they were souls walled in from this world, witb a single door which never opened except to allow the truth tc pass through. On perceiving the sister, his first movement was to retire But there was also another duty which bound him an.l im peiled him imperiousl}' in the opposite direction. His seconc movement was to remain and to ventuix) on at least one question This was Sister Slmplice, who had never told a lie in her life Javert knew it, and held her in special veneration in conse quence. " Sister,** said he, " are you alone in this room ? " A terrible moment ensued, during which the poor portreai felt as though she should faint. The sister raised her eyes and answered : — '^Yes.** **Then," resumed Javert, **you will excuse me if I persist, it is my duty; you have not seen a certain person — a man - this evening? He has escaped; we are in search of him — tiMrt Jean Valjean ; you have not seen him ? *' The sister replied : — "No." She lied. She had lied twice in succession, one after the other, without hesitation, promptly, as a person does when sao rificing herself. " Pardon me,** said Javert, and he retired with a deep bow. sainted maid ! you left this world many years ago i you have rejoined your sisters, the virgins, and your brothers, the auj^els, in the light ; may this lie be counted to your credit ic paradise I The sister's afidrmation was for Javert so decisive a thing tijut he did not even observe the singularity of that candle which had but just been extinguished, and which was still smoking on the table. An hour later, a man, marching amid trees and mists, wa« rapidly departing from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris. That man was Jean Valjean. It has been established by the tentimony of two or three caii;ers who met him, that he was carrying a bundle ; that he was dressed in a blouse. Whers bad he obtained that blouse ? No one ever found out. But ao 3ged workman had died in the infirmary of the factory a lew 286 LES MISERABLES, days before, leaving behind liim nothing but his blouse. Pe> haps that was the one. One last word about Fantine. We all have a mother, — the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother. The curé thought that he was doing right, and perhaps be really was, in reserving as much money as possible from what .lean Valjean had left for the poor. Who was concerned, after all ? A convict and a woman of the town. That is why he had a very simple funeral for Fantine, and reduced it to that strictly necessary form known as the pauper's grave. So Fantine was buried in the free corner of the cemetery which belongs to anybody and everybody, and where the |)oor are lost. Fortunately, God knows where to find the soul again. Fantine was laid in the shade, among the first bones that came to hand ; she was subjected to the promiscuousness of ashes. She was thrown into the public grave. Her grave resembled her bed Digitized by Google Digitized by Google THE MAN SEIZED THE HANDLE OF THE BUCKET WHICH SHE WAS CARRYING. Digitized by VjOOQ IC LES MISERABLES. Coscttc* BOOK FIRST. — WATERLOO. 1. —What is met wrm on the Way from Nivelle». Last year (1861), on a beautiful May morning, a traveller, the person who is telling this storv, was coining from Nivelles, and directing his course towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing a broad paved road, which undulated between two rows of trees, over the hills which succeed each other, raise the road and let it fall again, and produce something in the nature of enormous waves. He bad passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the wesfc he perceived the slate- roofed tower of Braine-rAlleud, which has the form of a reversed vase. He had just left behind a wood upon an eminence ; and at the angle of the cross-road, by the side of a sort of mouldy gibbet bearing the inscription Ancient Btirrier No. 4, a public house, bearing on^its front this sign : At tJie Four Winds (Aux Quatre Vents). Echabeau^ Pri- vate Café. A quarter of a league further on, he arrived at the bottom of a little valley, where there is water which passes beneath au arch made through the embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely t>lft"ted but very green trees, which fills the valley on one side of the road, is dispersed over the meadows on the other, and disappears gracefully and as in disorder in the direc- tion of BrRine-l'AUeud. On the right, close to the road, was an inn, with a four-wheeled cart at the door, a large bundle of hop- poles, a plough, a heap of dried brushwood near a flourishing hedge, lime smoking in a square hole, and a ladder suspended along an old penthouse with straw partitions. A young girl was weoding in a field, where a huge yellow poster, probably of some outside spectacle, sach a« a parish festival, was flntterins; in the wind. At oniB Digitized by Google 2 LES MISÉRABLES. ' corner of the inn, beside a pool in which a flotilla of ducks waa navigating, a badly paved path phmgcd into the bushes. The wayfarer struck into tliis. After traversing a hundred paces, skirting a wall of the fif- teenth century, surmounted by a pointed gable, with bricks set in contrast, he found himself before a large door of arched stone, with a rectilinear impost, in the sombre style of Louis XIV., flanked by two flat medallions. A severe façade rose above this door ; a wall, perpendicular to the facade, almost touched the door, and flanked it with an abrupt right angle. In tlie meadow before the door lay three harrows, through which, in disorder, grew all the flowers of May. The door was closed. The two decrepit leaves which barred it were ornamented with an old rusty knocker. The sun was charming ; the branches had that soft shivering of May, which seems to proceed rather from the nests than from the wind. A brave little binl, probably a lover, was carolling in a distracted manner in a large tree. The wayfarer bent over and examined a rather large circular excavation, resembling the hollow of a sphere, in the stone on the left, at the foot of the pier of the door. At this moment the leaves of the door paited, and a peasant woman emerged. She saw the wayfarer, and perceived what he was looking at. '* It was a French cannon-ball which made that," she said to him. And she added : — " That which you see there, higher up in the door, near a nail, is the hole of a big iron bullet as large as an egg. The bullet did not pierce the wood." " What is the name of this place?" inquired the wayfarer. *' Hougomont," said the peasant woman. The traveller straightened himself up. He walked on a few paces, and went off to look over the tops of the hedges. On the horizon, through the trees, he perceived a sort oflibkle elevation, and on this elevation something which at that distance resembled \ lion. He was on the battle-field of Waterloo. n. — Hougomont. Hougomont, — this was a funereal spot, the beginning of the obstacle, the first resistance, which that great wood-cutter of Europe, called Napoleon, encountered at Waterloo, the first knot under the blows of his axe. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 3 It was a châteaa ; it is no longer anything but a farm. Fof the antiquary, Hougomont is Ilugomons. Tiiis manor was built by Ilugo, Sire of Somorel, the same wlio endowed the sixth chaplaincy of the Abbey of Villiers. The traveller pushed open the door, elbowed an ancient calash ander the porch, and entered the courtyard. The first thing which struck him in this paddock was a dooi af the sixteenth century, which here simulates an arcade, every^ thing else having fallen prostrate around it. A monumental aspect often has its birth in ruin. Tn a wall near the arcade opens another arched door, of the time of Henry IV., permitting a glimpse of the trees of an orchard ; beside this door, a manure- hole, some pickaxes, some shovels, some carts, an old well, with its flagstone and its iron reel, a chicken jumping, and a turkey spreading its tail, a chapel surmounted by a small bell- tower, a blossoming pear-tree trained in espalier against the wall of the chapel — behold the court, tfie conquest of which was one of Napoleon's dreams. This corner of earth, could he but have seized it, would, perhaps, have given him the world likewise. Chickens are scattering its dust abroad with their beaks. A growl is audible ; it is a huge dog, who shows his teeth and replaces the English. The English behaved admirably there. Cooke's four com- panies of guards there held out for seven hours against the fury of an arm^'. Hougomont viewed on the map, as a geometrical plan, com- prising buildings and enclosures, presents a sort of irregular rectangle, one angle of which is nicked out. It is this angle which contains the southern door, guarded by this wall, which commands it only a gun's length away. Hougomont has two doors, — the southern door, that of the château ; and the north- em door, belonging to the farm. Napoleon sent his brother Jérôme against Hougomont; the divisions of Foy, Guillcminot, And Bachelu hurled themselves against it; nearly the entire corps of Reille was employed against it, and miscarried ; Kellermann's balls were exhausted on this heroic section of wall. Bauduin's brigade was not strong enough to force Hougo- mont on the north, and the brigade of Soye could not do more than effect the beginning of a breach on the south, but without taking it. The farm buildings border the courtyard on the south. A bit of the north door, broken by the French, hangs suspeiTdecl to the wall. It consists of four planks nailed to two cross beams, on which the scars of the attack arc visible. Digitized by Google 4 LES MISERABLES. The northern door, which was beaten in by the French, and whicii lias had a piece applied to it to replace the panel sus- pended on the wall stands half-open at the bottom of the pad- dock ; it is cut squarely in the wall, built of stone below, of brick above, which closes in the courtyard on the north. It is a simple door for carts, such as exist in all farms, with the two large leaves made of rustic planks : beyond lie the meadows. The dispute over this entrance was furious. For a long time, all sorts of imprints of bloody hands were visible on the door- posts. It was there that Bauduin was killed. The storm of the combat still lingers in this courtyard ; its hor- ror is visible there ; the confusion of the fray was petrified there ; it lives and it dies there ; it was only yesteixlay. The walls are in the death agony, the stones fall ; the breaches cry aloud ; the holes are wounds; the drooping, quivering trees seem to be making an effort to flpe. This courtyard was more built up in 1815 than it is to-day. Buildings which have since been pulled down, then formed redans and angles. The English barricaded themselves there ; the French made their way in, but could not stand their ground. Beside the chapel, one wing of the château, the only ruin now remaining of the manor of Ilougomont, rises in a crumbling state, — disem- bowelled, one might say. The château served for a dnngeon, the chapel for a block-house. There men exterminated each other. The French, fired on from every point, — from behind the walls, from the summits of the garrets, from the depths of the cellars, through all the casements, through all the air-holes, through every crack in the stones, — fetched fagots and set fire to walls and men ; the reply to the grape-shot was a conflagration. In the ruined wing, through windows garnished with bars of iron, the dismantled chambers ot the main building of brick are visible ; the English guards were in ambush in these rooms ; the spiral of the staircase, cracked from the ground floor to the very i-oof, appears like the inside of a broken shell. The stair- case has two stories ; the English, besieged on the staircase, and massed on its upper steps, had cut off the lower steps. These consisted of large slabs of blue stone, which form a heap among tlie nettles. Half a score of steps still cling to the wall ; on the first is cut the figure of a trident. These inacces- sible steps are solid in their niches. All the rest resembles a Jaw* which has been denuded of its teeth. There are two old trees there : one is dead ; the other is wounded at its base, and Is clothed with verdure in April. Since 1815 it has taken to growing through the staireafl^ Digitized by VjOOQ IC COSETTE. 6 A massacre took place in the chapel. The interior, which has recovered its calm, is singular. The mass has not been said there since the carnage. Nevertheless, the altar has been left there — an altar of unpolished wood, placed against a background of roughhewn stone. Four whitewashed walls, a door opposite the altar, two small arched windows ; over the door a large wooden crucifix, below the crucifix a square air-hole stopped up with a bundle of hay ; on the ground, in one corner, an old window- frame with the glass all broken to pieces — such is the chapel. Near the altar there is nailed up a wooden statue of Saint Anne, of the fifteenth century ; the head of the infant Jesus has been carried off by a large ball. The French, who were masters of the chapel for a moment, and were then dislodged, set fire to it. The flames filled this building ; it was a perfect furnace ; the door was burned, the floor was burned, the wooden Christ wa« not burned. The fire preyed upon his feet, of which only tht» blackened stumps are now to be seen ; then it stopped, — u miracle, according to the assertion of the people of the neigh- )K>rl)ood. The infant Jesus, decapitated, was less fortunate than the Christ. The walls are covered with inscriptions. Near the feet of Christ this name is to be read : Henquinez. Then these others : Conde de Rio Maior Marques y Marquesa de Almagro {Hor- bana) . There are French names with exclamation points, — a sign of wrath. The wall was freshly whitewashed in 1849. The nations insulted each other there. It was at the door of this chapel that the corpse was picked up which held an axe in its hand ; this corpse was Sub-Lieuten- ant Legros. On emerging from the chapel, a well is visible on the left. There are two in this courtyard. One inquires, Why is there no bucket and pulley to this? It is because water is no longer :lrawn there. Why is water not drawn there? Because it is lull of skeletons. The last person who drew water from the well was named Guillaume van Kylsom. He was a peasant who lived at Hougo- mont, and was gardener there. On the 18th of June, 1815, his family fled and concealed themselves in the woods. The forest surrounding the Abbey of Villiers sheltered these unfortunate people who had been scattered abroad, for many days and nights. There are at this day certain traces recog- nizable, such as old boles of burned trees, which mark the site of these poor bivouacs trembling in the depths of the tbicketB. Digitized by Google 6 LES MISERABLES. Guillaume van Kylsom remained at Hougomont, '*to gnafâ the château," and concealed himself in the cellar. The English discovered him there. They tore him from his hiding-place, and the combatants forced this frightened man to serve them, b; administrating blows with the flats of their swords. The}- were thirsty ; this Guillaume brought them water. It was from this well that he drew it. Many drank there their last draught. Tliis well where drank so many of the dead was destined tc die itself. After the engagement, they were in haste to bury the dead bodies. Death has a fashion of harassing victor}', and she causes the pest to follow glory. The typhus is a concomitant of triumph. This well was deep, and it was turned into a sepulchre. Three hundred dead bodies were cast into it With too much haste perhaps. Were they all dead? Legend says they wore not. It seems that on the night succeeding the interment, feeble voices were heard calling from the well. This well is isolated in the middle of the courtyard. Three walls, part stone, part brick, and simulating a small, square tower, and folded like the leaves of a screen, surround it on ftll sides. The fourth side is open. It is there that the water was drawn. The wall at the bottom has a sort of shapeless loop- hole, possibly the hole made by a shell. This little tower had a platform, of which only the beams remain. The iron supix>rts of the well on the right form a cross. On leaning over, the eye is lost in a deep cylinder of brick which is filled with a heaped- np mass of shadows. The base of the walls all about the well is concealed in a growth of nettles. This well has not in front of it that large blue slab which forms the table for all wells in Belgium. The slab has here been replaced by a cross-beam, against which lean five or six shapeless fragments of knotty and petrified wood which resemble huge bones. There is no longer either pail, chain, or pulley ; but there is still the stone basin which served the overflow. The rain-water collects there, and from time to time a bird of the neighboring forests comes thither to drink, and then flies away. One house in this ruin, the farmhouse, is still inhabited. The door of this house opens on the courtyard. Upon this door, beside a pretty gothic lock-plate, there is an iron handle with trefoils placed slanting. At the moment when the Hanoverian lieutenant, Wilda, grasped this handle in order to take refuge in the farm, a French sa]>per hewed off his hand with an axe. The family who occupy the house had for their grandfathei Digitized by Google COSETTE. 7 Guillaume van Kjlsoin, the old gardener, dead long since. A woman with gray hair said to us : "I was there. I was three years old. My sister, who was older, was terrified and wept, riiey carried us off to the woods. I went there in my mother's arms. We glued our ears to the earth to hear. I imitated the cannon, and went bouin ! bourn ! *' A door opening from the courtyard on the left led into the irchard, so we were told. The orchaixl is terrible. It is in three parts; one might almost say, in three acts. The fiiTst part is a gai-den, the second is an orchard, the third is 4 wood. These three parts have a common enclosure : on the side of the entrance, the buildings of the château and the farm ; on the left, a hedge; on the right, a wall; and at the end, a wall. The wall on the right is of brick, the wall at the bottom is of stone. One enters the garden first. It slopes downwards, is planted with goosebeiTy bushes, choked with a wild growth of vegetation, and terminated by a monumental terrace of cut stone, with balustrade with a double cur\'e. It was a seignorial garden in the first French style which preceded Le Nôtre ; to-da}' it is ruins and briars. The pilasters are surmounted by globes which resemble cannon-balls of stone. Fprty-three balusters can still be counted on their sockets ; the rest lie prostrate in the gi-ass. Almost all bear scratches of bullets. One broken baluster is placed on the pediment like a fractured leg. It was in this garden, further down than the orchard, that six light-infantry men of the 1st, having made their way thither, and being unable to escape, hunted down and caught like bears in their dens, accepted the combat with two Hanoverian com- panies, one of which was armed with carbines. Tlie Hanove- rians lined this balustrade and fired from above. The infantry men, rei)lying from below, six against two hundred, intrepid and with uo shelter save the currant-bushes, took a quarter of in hour to die. One mounts a few steps and passes from the garden into the jrchard, properly speaking. There, within the limits of those few aqnare fathoms, fifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour» The wall seems ready to renew the combat. Thirty-eight loop- holes, pierced by the English at irregular heights, are there still. In front of the sixth are placed two English tombs of granite. There are loopholes only in the south wall, as the |)rincipal attack came from that quarter. The wall is hidden on the outside by a tall hedge ; the French came up, thinking that they had to deal only with a hedge, crossed it, and found Digitized by Google 8 LES MISÉRABLES. Ilie wall both an obstacle and an ambuscade, with the English Guards belùrul it, the thirty-eight loopholes firing at once a shower of grape-shot and balls, and Soye's brigade wa^ broken against it. Thus Waterloo began. Nevertheless, the orchard was taken. As they had no lad- ders, the French scaled it with their nails. They fought hand to hand amid the trees. All this grass has been soaked in blood. A battalion of Nassau, seven hundred strong, was overwhelmed there. The outside of the wall, against which Kellermann's two batteries were trained, is gnawed by grape shot. This orchard is sentient, like others, in the month of May. It lias its buttercups and its daisies ; the grass is tall there ; the cart-horses browse there ; cords of hair, on which linen is drying, traverse the spaces between the trees and force the passer-by to bend his head ; one walks over this uncultivated land, and one's foot dives into mole-holes. In the middle of the grass one observes an uprooted tree-bole which lies there all verdant. Major Blackmann leaned against it to die. Be- neath a great tree in the neighborhood fell the German general, Duplat, descended from a French family which fled on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. An aged and falling apple- tree leans far over to one side, its wound dressed with a band- age of straw and of clayey loam. Nearly all the apple-trees are falling with age. There is not one which has not had its bullet or its biscayan.^ The skeletons of dead trees abound in this orchai-d. Crows fly through their branches, and at the end of it is a wood full of violets. Bauduin killed, Foy wounded, conflagration, massacre, car- nage, a rivulet formed of English blood, French blood, German blood mingled in fury, a well crammed with corpses, the regi- ment of Nassau and the regiment of Brunswick destroyeil, Duplat killed, Blackmann killed, the English Guards mi\tiiated, twenty French battalions, besides the forty from Reille's corjxs, decimated, three thousand men in that hovel of Hougomont alone cut down, slashed to pieces, shot, burned, with their throats cut, — and all this so that a peasant can say to-day to the traveller: Monsieur^ give me three franchi ^ and if you like^ IwiU wplain to you the affair of Waterloo ! ^ A ballet as larj^e as an «g|p Digitized by Google COSETTE. III. — The Eighteenth op June, 1815. Let us turn back, — that is one of the story-teller's rights,— md put ourselves once more in the year 181Ô, and even a little aarlier than the epoch when the action narrated in the first part )f this book took place. If it had not rained in the night between the 17th and the 18th >f June, 1815, the fate of Europe would have been different. A few drops of water, more or less, decided the downfall of Napo- leon. All that Providence required in order to make Waterloo the end of Austerlitz was a little more rain, and a clond travers- ing the sky out of season sufficed to make a world crumble. The battle of Waterloo could not be begun until half-past- eleven o'clock, and that gave Blticher time to come up. Why? Because the gi-ound was wet. The artillery bad to wait until it became a little firmer before they could manœuvre. Napoleon was an artillery officer, and felt the effects of this. The foundation of this wouderftil captain was the man who, in the report to the Directory on Aboukir, said: Such a one of our balls killed six men. All his plans of battle were arranged for projectiles. The key to his victory was to make the artillery converge on one point. He treated the strat- egy of the hostile general like a citadel, and made a breach in it. He overwhelmed the weak point with grape-shot ; he joined and dissolved battles with cannon. There was something of the sharpshooter in his genius. To beat in squares, to pulver- ize regiments, to break lines, to crush and disperse masses, — for him everything lay in this, to strike, strike, strike inces- santly, — and he intrusted this task to the cannon-ball. A redoubtable method, and one which, united with genius, ren- dered this gloomy athlete of the pugilism of war invincible for die space of fifteen years. On the 18th of June, 1815, he relied all the more on his artillery, because he had numbers on his side. Wellington had only one hundred and fifty-nine months of fire ; Napoleon had two hundred and forty. Snppose the soil dry, and the artillery capable of moving, the action would have begun at six o^clock in the morning. The battle would have been won and ended at two o'clock, three hours before the change of fortune in favor of the Prns* Bian8. Wliat amount of blame attaches to Napoleon for the loes of this battle? Is the shipwreck due to the pilot? Digitized by Google 10 LES MISERABLES. Was it the evident physical decline of Napoleon that com plicated this epoch by au inward diminution of force? Had the twenty years of war worn out the blade as it had worn the scabbard, the soul as wc4l as the b(xly? Did the veteran make himself disastrously felt in the leader? In a woi*d, was this genius, as many historians of note have thought, suffering fi-om an eclipse? Did he go into a frenzy in order to disguise his weakened powers from himself ? Did he begin to waver undei tlie delusion of a breath of adventure? Had he become — s grave matter in a general — unconscious of peril? Is there an age, in this class of material great men, who may be called the giants of action, when genius grows short-sighted? Old age has no hold on the geniuses of the ideal ; for the Dantes and Michael Angolos to grow old is to grow in greatness ; is it to grow less for the Hannibals and the Bonapartes? Had Napo- leon lost the direct sense of victory? Had he reached the point where he could no longer recognize the reef, could no longer divine tlie snare, no longer discern the crumbling brink of abysses? Had he lost his power of scenting out catastrophes? He who had in former days known all the roads to triumph, and who, from the summit of his chariot of lightning, pointed them out with a sovereign finger, had he now reached that state of sinister amazement when he could lead his tumultous legions harnessed to it, to the precipice? Was he seized at the age of forty-six with a supreme madness? Was that titanic charioteer of destiny no longer anything more than an immense dare-devil? We do not think so. His plan of battle was, by the confession of all, a master* piece. To go straight to the centre of the Allies' line, to make a breach in the enemy, to cut them in two, to drive the British iialf back on Hal, and the Prussian half on Tongres, to make two shattered fragments of Wellington and Bliicher, to carry Mont-Saint-Jean, to seize Brussels, to hurl the German into the Rhine, and the Englisliman into the sea. All this was con- tained in that battle, according to Napoleon. Afterward» people would see. Of course, we do not here pretend to furnish a history of the battle of Waterloo ; one of the scenes of tiie foundation of the story which we are relating is connected with this battle, but this history is not our subject ; this history, moreover, has been finished, and finished in a masterly- manner, from one point of view by Na|X)leon, and from another point of view by a whse of decamping. I will take prisoners the six thousand English who have just arrived at Ostend.' He conversed expansively ; he regained the animation which he had shown at his landing on the first of March, when he pointed out to the Grand-Marshal the enthusiastic peasant of the Gulf Jnan, and cried, "• Well, Bertrand, here is a reinforcement already ! '" On the nii^lit of the 17th to the IHtli of June he rallied WelHng- ton. ^^ That little Englishman needs a lesson," said Napoleon Digitized by Google COSETTE. 19 The rain redoubled in violence ; the thunder rolled while the Emperor was speakiug. At half -past three o'clock in the morning, he lost one illusion; offlcera who had been despatclied to reconnoitre announced to him that the enemy was not making any movement. Nothing was stuTing ; not a bivouac-fire had been extinguished ; tlie Kiiglisii army was asleep. The silence on earth was ;nofound ; the only noise was in the heavens. At four o'clock, a peasant was brought in to him by the scouts ; this peasant had served as guide to a brigade of English cavalry, probably Vivian's bri- gade, which was on its way to take up a position in the village of Chain, at the extreme left. At five o'clock, two Belgian deserters reported to him that they had just quitted their regi- ment, and that the English army was ready for battle. '* So much the better ! " exclaimed Napoleon. ''I prefer to overthrow them rather than to drive them back." In the morning he dismounted in the mud on the slope which forms an angle with the Plancenoit road, had a kitchen table and a i)easant's chair brought to him from the farm of Ros- 8omme, seated himself, with a truss of straw for a carpet, and Bpread out on the table the chart of tlie battle-field, saying to Soult as he did so, " A pretty checker-board." In consequence of the rains during the night, the transports of provisions, embedded in the soft roads, had not been able to arrive by morning ; the soldiera had had no sleep ; they W3re wet and fasting. This did not prevent Napoleon from ex- claiming cheerfully to Ne^*, ** We have ninety chances out of a hundred." At eight o'clock the timperor's breakfast was brought to him. He invited many generals to it. During breakfast, it was said that Wellington had been to a ball two nights before, in Brussels, at the Duchess of Richmond's ; and Soult, a rough man of war, with the face of an archbishop, said, ''The ball takes place to-day." The Emperor jested with Ney, who said, " Wellington will not be so simple as to wait for Your Majesty." That was his way, however. '' He was fond of jesting," says Fleory de Chaboulon. " A merry humor was at the foundation of his character," says Gourgaud. *' He abounded in pleasan- tries, which were more peculiar than witty," says Benjamin Constant. These gayeties of a giant are worthy of insistance. It was he who called his grenadiers " his grumblers " ; he pinched their ears ; he pulled their mustaches. '' The Emperor did nothing but play pranks on us," is the remark of one of them. During the mysterious trip trom the îcland of Elba to France, on the 27th of February, on the open sia, the Frencb Digitized by Google 20 LES MISÉRABLES. brig of war, Le Zéphyr^ having encountered the brig Ulncon slant ^ on whicli Napoleon was eoucealud, and having asked the news of Napoleon from U Inconstant ^^ the Emperor, who still wore in his hat the white and amaranthine cockade so.vn with bees, which he had adopted at the isle of Elba, laughingly seized tlie speaking-trumpet, and answered for himself , *'Thc Emperor is well." A man who laughs like that is on familiar terms with events. Napoleon indulged in many fits of thi£ laughter during the breakfast at Waterloo. After breakfast he meditated for a quarter of an hour ; then two generals seated themselves on the tiuss of straw, pen in hand and their pa|)er on their knees, and the Emperor dictated to them tlie order of battle. At nine o* clock, at the instant when the French army, ranged in echelons and set in motion in five columns, had deployed — the divisions in two lines, the artillery between the brigades, the music at their head ; as they beat the march, with rolls on tlie drums and the blasts of trumpets, mighty, vast, joyous, a sea of casques, of sabres, and of bayonets on the horizon, the Empe- ror was touched, and twice exclaimed, '* Magnificent I Magnifi- cent ! " Between nine o'clock and half-past ten the whole army, in- credible as it may appear, had taken up its position and ranged itself in six lines, forming, to repeat the Emperor's expression, *' the figure of six Vs." A few moments after the formation of the battle-array, in the midst of that profound silence, like that which heralds the beginning of a storm, which precedes engage- ments, the îiraperor tapped llaxo on the shoulder, as he beheld the three batteries of twelve-pounders, detached by his ordera from the corps of P>lon, R(;ille, and rx)bau, and destined to begin the action by taking Mont-Saiut-Jean, which was situated at the intersection of the Nivelles and the Genappe roads, and Wid to him, ''There are four and twentj' handsome maids, "îeneral." Sure of the issue, he encouraged with a smile, as they passed before him, the company of sappers of the first corps, which he had appointed to barricade Mont-Saint- Jean as soon as the vil- lage should be carried. All this serenity had been traversed by but a single word of haughty pity ; perceiving on his left, at a Apot where thc^re now stands a large tomb, tliose admirable Scotch Grays, with their superb horses, massing themselves, he aaid, " It is a pity." Then he mounted his horse, advanced beyond Rossomme, and selected for his post of observation a contracted élévation of Digitized by Google COSETTE. Ti tarf to the right of the road from Genappe to Brussels, which was his second station during tlie battle. The third station, tht one adopted at seven o'clock in the evening, between La Belle- Alliance and La Haie-Sainte, is formidable ; it is a rather ele* vated knoll, which still exists, and behind which the guard was massed on a slope of the plain. Around this knoll the balls re- bounded from the pavements of the road, up to Napoleon him- self. As at Brienne, he had over his head the shriek of the bullets and of thé heavy artillery. Mouldy cannon-balls, old sword-blades, and shapeless projectiles, eaten up with rust, were picked up at the spot where his horse's feet stood. Scabra nibigine. A few years ago, a shell of sixty pounds, still charged, and with its fuse broken off level with the bomb, was un- earthed. It was at this last post that the Emperor said to his gnide, Lacoste, a hostile and tcnificd peasant, who was attached to the saddle of a hussar, and who turned round at every dis- charge of canister and tried to hide behind Napoleon: " Fool, it is shameful ! You'll get yourself killed with a ball in the back." He who writes these lines has himself found, in the fri- able soil of this knoll, on turning over the sand, the remains of the neck of a bomb, disintegrated by the oxidization of six and forty 3'ears, and old fragments of iron which parted like elder- twigs between the fingers. Everj' one is aware that the variously inclined undulations of the plains, where the engagement between Napoleon and Wellington took place, are no longer what they were on June 18, 1815. By taking from this mournful field the wherewithal to make a monument to it, its real relief has been taken away, and history, disconcerted, no longer finds her bearings there. It has been disfigured for the sake of glorifying it. Wellington, when he beheld Waterloo once more, two years later, exclaimed, '* They have altered my field of battle ! " Where the great pyramid of earth, surmounted b}* the lion, rises to-day, there was a hillock which descended in an easy^ slope towards the Nivelles road, but which was almost an escarpment on the side of the highway to Genappe. The elevation of this escarpment can still be measured by the height of the two knolls of the two great sepulchres which enclose the road from Genappe to Brus- sels : one, the English tomb, is on the left ; the other, the German tomb, is on the right. There is no French tomb. The whole of that plain is a sepulchre for France. Thanks to the thousands upon thousands of cartloads of earth employed in the hillock one hundred and fifty feet in height and half a mile in circumference, the plateau of Mont-Saint- Jean is now acces' uigiiized by Google tS LES MISERABLES. «ible by an easy slope. On the day of battle, particularly on the side of La Ilaic-Saiiite, it was abrupt aud dilHcult of ap- proiich. The slope there is so steep tiiat the English cannon eon Id not see the farm, situated in the !)ottom of the valley, wiiich was the centre of the combat. On tlie 18th of June, 1815, the rains had still further increased this acclivity, the mud com- plicated the problem of the ascent, and the men not only slipped back, but stuck fast in tlie mire. Along the crest of the plateau ran a sort of trench whose presence it was impossible for the distant observer to divine. What was this trench ? Let us explain. Braine-rAUeud is a Belgian village ; Chain is another. These villages, both of them concealed in curves of the landscape, are connected by a road about a league and a half in length, which traverses the plain along its undulating level, and often enters and buries itself in the hills like a furrow, which makes a ravine of this road in some places. In 1815, as at the present day, this road cut the crest of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean between the two high- ways from Genappe and Nivelles ; only, it is now on a level with the plain ; it was then a hollow way. Its two slopes have been appropriated for the monumental hillock. This road was, and still is, a trench throughout the greater portion of its course ; a hollow trench, sometimes a dozen feet in depth, and whose banks, being too steep, crumbled away here and there, particu- larly in winter, under (iriving rains. Accidents happened here. The road was so narrow at the Hraine-rAlleud entrance that a p*isser-by was crushed by a cart, as is proved by a stone cross which stands near the cemetery, and which gives the name of the dead, Monsieur Bernard Debrye, Merchant of Brussels^ and the date of the accident, Fehniary^ 1637} It was so deep on the table-land of >Mont-Saint-Jean that a peasant, Mathieu Nicaise, was crushed there, in 178,'^, by a slide from the slope, as is stated on another stone cross, the top of which has disap peared in the process of clearing the ground, but whose over turned pedestal is still visible on the grassy slope to the left o) the highway between La Haie-Sainte and the farm of Mon^ Saint- Jean. ^This ifl the iiucription : — D. O. M. GY A ETE :ÊCRAS PAR MAI.IIKI'R SOirS ITN CHARIOT, MONSIEUR BKRNABD DB IIRYR MARCIIAHD A BRirxKLLR LK [illegible] rcvKiER 16372— Digitized by Google COSETTE. 23 Od the day of battle, this hollow road whose existence was n no way indicated, bordering the crest of Mont-Saint- Jean, a Ireuch at the summit of the escarpment, a rut concealed in the joil, was invisible ; that is to say, terrible. nil. - -The Emperor puts a Question to the Guide Lacoste So, on the morning of Waterloo, Napoleon was content. He was right ; the plan of battle conceived by him was, as we have seen, really admirable. The battle once begun, its very various changes, — the resist- ance of Hougomont; the tenacity of La Haie-Sair.te; the killing of Baiiduin ; the disabling of Foy ; the unexpected wall against which Soye's brigade was shattered ; Gnilleminot's fatal heedless- ness when he had neither petard nor powder sacks ; the miring of the batteries ; the fifteen unescorted pieces overwhelmed in a hollow way by Uxbridge ; the small effect of the bombs falling in the English lines, and there embedding themselves in the rain-soaked soil, and only succeeding in producing volcanoes of mod, so that the canister was turned into a splash ; the nseless- ness of Fire's demonstration on Braine-rAUeud ; all that cavalry, fifteen squadrons almost exterminated ; the right wing of the English badly alarmed, the left wing badly cut into; Ney's strange mistake in massing, instead of echelon ning the four divisions of the first corps ; men delivered over to grape-shot, arranged in ranks twenty-seven deep and with a frontage of two hundred ; the frightful holes made in these masses by the cannon-balls ; attacking columns disorganized ; the side-battery suddenl^^ unmasked on their flank ; Bourgeois, Donzelot, and Dunitte compromised ; Quiot repulsed ; Lieutenant Vieux, that Hercules graduated at the Polytechnic School, wounded at the .noment when he was beating in with an axe the door of La (laie-Satnte under the downright fire of the English barricade irhich barred the angle of the road from Genappe to Brussels; Marcognet's division caught between the infantry and the cav- alry, shot down at the very muzzle of the guns amid the forain by Best and Pack, put to the sword by Ponsonby ; his battery of seven pieces spiked ; the Prince of Saxe-Weimar holding and guarding, in spite of the Comte d'Erlon, both Frischemont and Smohain ; the flag of the 105th taken, tlie flag of the 45th cap- tured ; that black Prussian hussar stopi)ed l)y runners of the flying column of three hundred liuht cavalry on the scout be- tween Wavre and PlancenoU,' the alarming things that bad heel Digitized by Google $4 LES MISÉRABLES. said by prisoners ; Grouchv's delay ; fifteen hundred men killed in the orchard of Ilougoiiiont in less tlian an hour ; eighteen hundred men overthrown in a slill shorter time? about La Huic- Sahite, — all these stormy incidents passing like the clouds of battle before Napoleon, had hardly troubled his gaze and had not overshadowed that face of imperial certainty. Napoleon was accustomed to gaze steadily at war ; he never added up the heart-rending details, cipher by cipher ; ciphers mattered little to him, provided that they furnished the total, victor}- ; he was not alarmed if the beginnings did go astray, since he thought himself the master and the possessor at the end ; he knew how to wait, supposing himself to be out of the question, and he treated destiny as his equal : he seemed to say to fate, Thou wilt not dare. Composed half of light and half of shadow, Napoleon thought himself protected in good and tolerated in evil. lie had, or thought that he had, a connivance, one might almost say a com- plicity, of events in his favor, which was equivalent to tlie invul- nerability of antiquity. Nevertheless, when one has B^*résina, Leipzig, and Fontaine- bleau behind one, it seems as though one miglit distrust Water- loo. A mysterious frown becomes perceptible in the depths of the heavens. At the moment when Wellington retreated. Napoleon shud- dered. He suddenly beheld the tal)le-laiid of Mont-Saint-Jean cleared, and the van of the English army disappear. It was rallying, out hiding itself. The P^mperor half rose in his stir- rups. Tlic lightning of victory flashed from his eyes. Wellington, driven into a corner at the forest of Soignes and destroyed — tliat was the definitive conquest of England by France ; it was Crécy, Poitiers, Mal|)laquet, and Ramillies avenged. The man of Mnrotigo was wipitig out Azincourt. So the Emperor, meditating on this terrible turn of fortune, «wept his glass for the last time over all the points of the field of battle. His guard, standing behind him with grounded arms, watched him from below with a sort of religion. He pondered ; he examined the sh)pes, noted the declivities, scru- tinized the chimps of trees, the square of rye, the path ; he seemed to be counting each bush. He gazed with some intent- ness at the English barricades of the two highways, — two large, abatis of trees, that on the road to Genappe above La Haie- Sainte, armed with two cannon, the only ones out of all the English artillery wliieh commnnded the extremity' of the field of battle, and that on the road to Nivelles where gleamed the Digitized by Google COSETTE. 2è Dutch bayonets of Chassé's brigade. Near this barricade he observed the old chapel of Saint Nicholas, painted white, which stands at the angle of the cross-road near Braine-rAlleud ; he bent down and spoke in a low voice to the guide Lacoste. The guide made a negative sign with his head, which was probablj perfidious. The Emperor straightened himself up and fell to thinking. Wellington had drawn back. All that remained to do was to complete this retreat by crush ing him. Napoleon turning round abruptly, despatched an express at full speed to Paris to announce that the battle was won. Napoleon was one of those geniuses from whom thunder darts. He had just found his clap of thunder. He gave orders to Milhaud's cuirassiers to carry the table- land of Mont-Saint-Jean. IX. — The Unsxpected. Thebb were three thousand five hundred of them. They formed a front a quarter of a league in extent. They were giant men, on colossal horses. There were six and twenty squadrons of them ; and they had behind them to support them Lefebvre- Desnouettes's division, — the one hundred and six picked gen- darmes, the light cavalry of the Guard, eleven hundred and ninety-seventy men, and the lancers of the guard of eiglit hun- dred and eiglity lances. They wore casques without horse-tails, and cuirasses of beaten iron, with horse-pistols in their holsters, and long sabre-swords. That morning the whole army had admired them, when, at nine o'clock, with braying of trumpets and all the music playing ^^ Let us watch o'er the Safety of the Empire,*' they had come in a solid column, with one of their batteries on their flank, another in their centre, and deployed in two ranks between the roads to Genappe and Frischemont, and taken up their position for battle in that powerful second line, so cleverly arranged by Napoleon, which, having on its extreme left Kellermann's cuirassiers and on its extreme, right Milhaad's cuirassiers, had, so to speak, two wings of iron. Aide-de-camp Bernard carried them the Emperor's orders. Ney drew his sword and placed himself at their head. The enormous squadrons were set in motion. Then a formidable spectacle was seen. Digitized by Google 16 LES MISERABLES. AU their cavalry, with upraised Bwords, standards and trum* pets flung to tiie breeze, formed in columns by divisions, de- scended, by a simultaneous movement and like one man, with the precision of a brazen battering-ram which is affecting a breach, the hill of La Belle Alliance, plunged into the terrible depths in which so many men had already fallen, disappeared there in the smoke, then emeqjiug from that shadow, reappeared on the other side of the valley, still compact and in close ranks, mounting at a full trot, through a storm of grape-shot which burst upon them, the terrible muddy slope of the table>land of Mont-Saint- Jean. They ascended, grave, threatening, imper- turbable ; in the intervals between the musketry and the artil- lery, their colossal trampling was audible. Being two divisions, there were two columns of them ; Wathier's division held the right, Delort's division was on the left. It seemed as though two immense adders of steel were to be seen crawling towards the crest of the table-land. It ti'aversed the battle like a prodigy. Nothing like it had been seen since the taking of the great redoubt of the Moskowa by the heavy cavalry ; Murât was lacking here, but Ney was again present. It seemed as though that mass had become a monster and had but one soul. Each column undulated and swelled like the ring of a polyp. They could be seen through a vast cloud of smoke wlîich was rent here and there. A confusion of helmets, of cries, of sabres, a stormy heaving of the cruppers of horses amid the canons and the flourish of trumpets, a terrible and disciplined tumult ; over all, the cuirasses like the scales on the hydra. These narrations seemed to belong to another age. Some- thing parallel to this vision appeared, no doubt, in tlie ancient Orpliic epics, which told of the centaurs, the old hippanthropcs, those Titans with human heads and equestrian chests who scaled Olympus at a gallop, horrible, invulnerable, sublime — gods and beasts. Odd numerical coincidence, — twenty-six battalions rode to meet twenty-six battalions. Behind the crest of the plateau, in the shadow of the masked battery, the English infantry, formed into thirteen squares, two battalions to the square, in two lines, with seven in the first line, six in the second, th* stocks of their guns to their shoulders, taking aim at that which was on the point of appearing, waited, calm, mute, motionless. They did not see the cuirassiers, and tlie cuirassiers did not see them. They listened to the rise of this flood of men. They heard the swelling noise of three thousand horse, the alternate and symmetrical tramp of their l>oa^9 at full trot, the jingling of uigiiized by Google COSETTE. 27 Aie cuirassés, the clang of the sabres, and a sort of grand and savage breathing. There ensued a most terrible silence ; then, all at once, a long file of uplifted arms, brandishing sabres, ap- peared above the crest, and casques, trumpets, and standards, and three thousand heads with gray mustaches, shouting, ** Vive TEmpereur ! " All this cavalry debouched on the pla* teau, and it was like the appearance of an earthquake. All at once, a tragic incident ; on the English left, on our right, the head of the column of cuirassiers reared up with s frightful clamor. On arriving at the culminating point of the crest, ungovernable, utterly given over to fury and their course of extermination of tlie squai*es and cannon, the cuirassiers had just caught sight of a trench, — a trench between them and the English. It was the hollow road of Ohain. It was a terrible moment. The ravine was there, unexpected, yawning, directly under the horses' feet, two fathoms deep between its double slopes ; the second file pushed the first into it, and the third pushed on the second ; the horses reared and fell backward, landed on their haunches, slid down, all four feet in the air, crashing and overwhelming the riders ; and there being no means of retreat, — the whole column being no longer anything more than a projectile, — the force which had been acquired to crush the English crushed the French ; the inexora- ble ravine could only 3'ield when filled ; horses and riders. rolled there pell-mell, grinding each other, forming but one mass of flesh in this gulf : when this trench was full of living men, the rest marched over them and passed on. Almost a third of Dubois's brigade fell into that abyss. This began the loss of the battle. A local tradition, which evidently exaggerates matters, says that two thousand horses and fiHeen hundred men were buried in the hollow road of Ohain. This figure probably comprises all the other corpses which were flung into this ravine the day after the combat. Let us note in passing that it was Dubois's sorely tried bri- gade which, an hour previously, making a charge to one side, bad captured the flag of the Lunenl)urg battalion. NaiK)leon, before giving the order for this charge of Milhaud's cuirassiers, had scrutinized the gmnnd, but had not been able to see that hollow road, whicli did not even form a wrinkle on the surface of the plateau. Warned, nevertheless, and put on the alert by the little white chapel which marks its angle of junc- ture with the Nivelles highway, he had probably i)nt a question %B to the possibility of an obstacle, to tiie guide Lacoste. Tho uigiiized by Google 28 LES MISERABLES. guide had answered No. We might almost affirm that Napo leon's catastrophe originated in that sign of a peasant's head. Other fatalities were destined to arise. Was it possible tliat Napoleon should have won that battle! We answer No. Why? Because of Wellington? Because o( Bluclier? No. Because of God. Bonaparte victor at Waterloo ; that does not come within the law of the nineteenth century. Another series of facts was in preparation, in wliich there was no longer any room for Napo- leon. The ill will of events had declared itself long before. It was time that this vast man should fall. The excessive weight of this man in human destiny disturbed the balance. This individual alone counted for more than a universal group. These plethoras of all human vitality concen- trated in a single head ; the world mounting to the brain of one man, — this would be mortal to civilization were it to last. The moment had arrived for the incorruptible and supreme equitj' to alter its plan. Probably the principles and the elemeuts, on which the regular gravitations of the moral, as of the material, world depend, had complained. Smoking blood, over-filled ceme- teries, mothers in tears, — these are formidable pleaders. When the earth is suffering from too heavy a burden, there are myste- rious groanings of the shades, to which the abyss lends an ear. Napoleon had been denounced in the infinite, and his fall had been decided on. lie embarrassed God. Waterloo is not a battle ; it ia a change of front oo the part of the Universe. X. — The Plateau op Mont-Saint-Jean. The battery was unmasked at the same moment with the lavine. Sixty cannons and the thirteen squares darted lightning point - blank on the cuirassiers. The intrepid General Delort made the military salute to the English battery. The whole of the flying artillery of the English had re-en tered the squares at a gallop. The cuirassiers had not had even the time for a halt. The disaster of the hollow road had decimated, but not discouraged them. The}' belonged to that class of men who, when diminished in number, increase in courage. Wathier'a column alone had suffered in the disaster ; Delort'fl Digitized by Google COSETTE. 29 folomii, which Ney had deflected to the left, as though he had a presenUment of an ambush, had arrived whole. The cuirassiers hurled themselves on the P^nglish squares. At full speed, with bridles loose, swords in their teeth pistols in fist, — such was the attack. There are moments in battles in which the soul hardens the man until the soldier is changed into a statue, and when all this desh turns into granite. The English battalions, desperately assaulted, did not stir. Then it was terrible. All the faces of the English squares were attacked at once. A frenzied whirl enveloped them. That cold infantry remained impassive. The first rank knelt and received the cuirassiers on their bayonets, the second ranks shot them down ; behind the second rank the cannoneers charged their guns, the front of the square parted, permitted the passage of an erupK^ion of grape- shot, and closed again. The cuirassiers replied by crushing them. Their great horses reared, strode across the ranks, leaped over the bayonets and fell, gigantic, in the midst of these four living wells. The cannon-balls ploughed furrows in these cuirassiers; the cuirassiers made breaches in the squares. Files of men disappeared, ground to dust under the horses. The bayonets plunged into the bellies of these centaurs ; hence a hideousness of wounds which has probably never been seen anywhere else. The squares, wasted by this mad cavalry, closed np their ranks without flinching. Inexhaustible in the matter of gi-ape-shot, they created explosions in their assailants' midst. The form of this combat was monstrous. These squares were no longer battalions, they were craters ; those cuirassiers were no longer cavalry, they were a tempest. Each square was a volcano attacked b}' a cloud ; lava contended with lightning. The square on the extreme right, the most exposed of all, being in the air, was almost annihilated at the very first shock. ft was formed of the 75th regiment of Highlanders. The bag' pipe player iil the centre dropped his melancholy eyes, filled «rith the reflections of the forests and the lakes, in profound in- attention, while men were being exterminated around him, and seated on a drum, with his pibroch under his arm, played the Highland airs. Tliese Scotchmen died thinking of Ben Lothian, as did the Greeks recalling Argos. The sword of a cuirassier, which hewed down the bagpipes and the arm which bore it, pat an end to the song by killing the singer. The cuirassiers, relatively few in number, and still furthei diminished by the catastrophe of the ravine, had almost \h» Digitized by Google M LES MISERABLES. whole English army against them, but thej multiplied them selves so that each man of them was equal to ten. Neverthe less, some llano verian battalions yielded. Wellington perceived it, and thouglit of his cavalry. Had Ifapoleon at that same momenc thouglit of his infantry, he would have won the battle. This forgetfulness was his great and fatal mistake. All at once, the cuirassiers, who had been the assailauts, found themselves assailed. The English cavalry was at their back. Before them two squares, behind them Somerset ; Somer- set meant fourteen hundred dragoons of the guard. On the right, Somerset had Dornberg with the German light-horse, and on his left, Trip with the Belgian carabineers ; the cuirassiei-s attacked on the flank and in front, before and in the rear, by infantry and cavalry, had to face all sides. What mattered it to them? They were a whirlwind. Their valor was something indescribable. In addition to this, they had behind them the battery, which was still thundering. It was necessary that it should be so, or they could never have been wounded in the back. One of their cuirasses, pierced on the shoulder by a ball from a biscayan,^ is in the collection of the Waterloo Museum. For such Frenchmen nothing less than such Englishmen was needed. It was no longer a hand-to-hand conflict; it was a shadow, a fury, a dizzy transport of souls and courage, a hurri- cane of lightning swords. In an instant the fourteen hundred dragoon guards numbered only eight hundred. Fuller, their lieutenant-colonel, fell dead. Ney rushed up with the lancers and Ixîfebvrc-Desnouettes's light-horse. The plateau of Mont- Saint- Jean was captured, recaptured, captured again. The cuirassiers quitted the cavalry to return to the infantry ; or, to put it more exactly, the whole of that formidable rout collared each other without releasing the other. The squares still held ]3rm. There were a dozen assaults. Ney had four horaes killed ander him. Half the cuirassiers remained on the plateau. This conflict lasted two hours. The English army was profoundly shaken. There is no doubt that, had they not been enfeebled in their flrst shock by the dis- aster of the hollow road, the cuirassiers would have overwhelmed the centre and decided the victory. This extraordinary cavalry petrified Clinton, who had seen Talavera and Badajoz. Wel- liniïton, three-quarters vanquished, admired heroically. H« said m an undertone, '^ Sublime!" ^ A heavy rifled gati. Digitized by Google COSETTE, 81 The cuirassiers annihilated seven squares out of thirteen, kKjk or spiked sixty pieces of ordnance, and captured from the English regiments six flags, which three cuirassiers and three chasseurs of the Guard bore to the Emperor, in front of the farm of La Belle Alliance. Wellington's situation had grown worse. This strange battle was like a duel between two raging, wounded men, each of whom, still fighting and still resisting, is expending all his blood. Which of the two will be the first to fall? The conflict on the plateau continued. What had become of the cuirassiers? No one could have told. One thing is certain, that on the day after the battle, a cuirassier and his horse were found dead among the woodwork (f the scales for vehicles at Mont-Saint- Jean, at the very point uhere the four roads from Nivelles, Genappe, La Hulpe, and Hrussels meet and intersect each other. This horseman had pierced the English lines. One of the men who picked up the iKxly still lives at Mont-Saint- Jean. His name is Dehaze. He iras eighteen years old at that time. Wellington felt that he was yielding. The crisis was at hand. The cuirassiers bad not succeeded, since the centre was not iToken through. As every one was in possession of the plateau, no one held it, and in fact it remained, to a great extent, with the English. Wellington held the v .lage and the culminating plain ; Ney had only the crest and the slope. They seemed tooted in that fatal soil on both sides. Bat the weakening of the English seemed irremediable. The Heeding of that army was horrible. Kempt, on the left wing, demanded reinforcements. " There are none," replied Welling- ton ; ^^he must let himself be killed!'* Almost at that same moment, a singular coincidence which paints the exhaustion of the two armies, Ney demanded infantry from Napoleon, and Napoleon exclaimed, ''Infantry! Where does he expect me to get it? Does he think I can make it?" N3vertheless, the English army was in the worse case of the :wo. The furious onsets of those great squadrons with cui- rasses of iron and breasts of steel had ground the infantry to ftothing. A few men clustered round a flag marked the post of a regiment; such and such a battalion was commanded only by a captain or a lieutenant; Alten's division, already so ronghly handled at La Haie-Sainte, was almost destroyed ; the intrepid Belgians of Van Kluze's brigade strewed the rye- fields all along the Nivelles road ; hardly anything was left of those Dutch grenadiers, who, intermingled with Spaniards in our uigiiized by Google 32 LES MISÉRABLES. «-anks in 1811, fought against Wellington; and who, in 1815. rallied to the Eugli^li standard, fought against Napoleon. The loss in otficers was considerable. Lord Uxbridge, who had his leg 'buried on the following day, had his knee shattered. If, on the French side, in that tussle of the cuirassiers, Delort, THéritier, Colbert, Dnop, Travers, and Blancard were disabled, on the side of the English there was Alteu wounded, Barne wounded. Delanccy killed. Van Meeren killed, Ompteda killed, the whole of >yellington's staff decimated, and England had the worse of it in that bloody scale. The second regiment of foot-guards had lost five lieutenant-colonels, four captains, and three ensigns ; the first battalion of the 30th infantry had lost 24 officers and 1200 soldiers ; the 79th Highlanders had lost 24 officers wounded, 18 officers killed, 450 soldiers killed. The Hanoverian hus- sars of Cumberland, a whole regiment, with Colonel Hacke at its head, who was destined to be tried later on and cashiered, had turned bridle in the presence of the fray, and had fled to the forest of Soignes, sowing defeat all the way to Brussels. The transports, ammunition-wagons, the baggage- wagons, the wagons filled with wounded, on perceiving that the French were gaining groun(J and approaching the forest, rushed headlong thither. The Dutch, mowed down by the French cavalry, cried, *' Alarm ! " From Vert-Coucou to Groentendael, for a dis- tance of nearly two leagues in the direction of Brussels, accord- ing to the testimony of eye-witnesses who are still alive, the roads were encumbered with fugitives. This panic was such that it attacked the Prince de Condé at Mechlin, and Louis XVIll. at Ghent. With the exception of the feeble reserve echelonned behind the ambulance established at tlie farm of Mont-Saint- Jean, and of Vivian's and Vandeleur's brigades, which flanked the left wing, Wellington had no cavalry left. A number of batteries lay unhorsed. These facts are attested by Si borne ; and Pr ingle, exaggerating the disaster, goes so fai as to say that the Anglo-Dutch army was reduced to thirt3'-four thousand men. The Iron Duke remained calm, but his lip^ blanched. Vincent, the Austrian commissioner, Alava, the Spanish commissioner, who were present at the battle in the English staff, thought the Duke lost. At five o'clock Welling- ton drew out his watch^ and he was heard to murmur these sin- ister words, '' Blucher, or night ! " It was at about that moment that a distant line of bayonets gleamed on the heights In the direction of Frischemont. Here comes the change of face in this giant drama. Digitized by Google COSETTE- 8â XI. — A Bad Guide to Napoleon ; a Good Guide to Bulow. The painful surprise of Napoleon is well known. Grouchy hoped for, Bliicher arriving. Death instead of life. Fate has these turns ; the throne of the world was expected ; it was Saint Helena that was seen. If the little shepherd who served as guide to Billow, Blûcher's lieutenant, had advised him to debouch from the forest above F rischemont, instead of below Plancenoit, the form of the nineteenth century might, perhaps, have been different. Na- poleon would have won tlie battle of Waterloo. By any other route than that below Plancenoit, the Prussian army would have come out upon a ravine impassable for artillery, and Billow would not have arrived. Now the Prussian general. Muffling, declares that one hour's delay, and Bliicher would not have found Wellington on his feet " The battle was lost." It was time that Biilow should arrive, as will be seen. He had, moreover, been very much delayed. He had bivouacked at Dion-le-Mont, and had set out at daybreak ; but the roads were impassable, and his divisions stuck fast in the mire. The ruts were up to the hubs of the cannons. Moreover, he had been obliged to pass the Dyle on the narrow bridge of Wavre ; the street leading to the bridge had been fired by the French, so the caissons and ammunition-wagons could not pass between two rows of burning houses, and had been obliged to wait until the conflagration was extinguished. It was mid-day before Bulow's vanguard had been able to reach Chapelle-Saint- Lam- bert. Had the action been begun two hours earlier, it would have fecen over at four o'clock, and Bliicher would have fallen on the battle won by Napoleon. Such are these immense risks propor- tioned to an infinite which we cannot comprehend. The Emperor had been the first, as early as mid-day, to de- 3cry with his field-glass, on the extreme horizon, something which had attracted his attention. He had said, " I see yonder a cloud, which seems to me to be troops." Then he asked the Due de Dalniatie, " Soult, what do you see in the direction of Chapelle-Saint- Lambert?" The marshal, levelling his glass, answered, "Four or five thousand men, Sire; evidently Grou- chy." But it remained motionless in the mist. All the glasses of the staff bad studied " the cloud" pointed out bv the Emperor. Digitized by Google 34 LES MISÉRABLES. Some said : '^ It is trees." The truth is, that the cloud did not move. The Emperor detached Domon's division of light cav- alry to reconnoitre in that quarter. Billow had not moved, in fact. His vanguard was verj feeble, and could accomplish nothing. He was obliged to wait for the body of the army corps, and he had received orders to concentrate his forces before entering into line ; bat at five o'clock, perceiving Wellington's peril, Bliicher ordered Bulow to attack, and uttered these remarkable words : " We must give air to the English army." A little later, the divisions of Losthin, Hiller, Hacke, and Ryssel deployed before Lobau's corps, the cavalry of Prince William of Prussia debouched from the forest of Paris, Plance- noit was in flames, and the Prussian cannon-balls began to rain even upon the ranks of the guard in reserve behind Napoleon. Xn. — The Guakd. EvicRT one knows the rest, — the irruption of a third army : the battle broken to pieces ; eighty-six mouths of fire thunder- ing simultaneously ; Pirch the first coming up with Bulow ; Zie- teu's cavalry led by Bliicher in person, the French driven back ; Marcognet swept from the plateau of Ohain ; Durutte disloilgeti from Papelotte ; Donzelot and Quiot retreating ; Lobau caught on the flank ; a fresh battle precipitating itself on our dismantled regiments at nightfall ; the whole English line resuming the of* fensive and thrust forward ; the gigantic breach made in tb< French arm}* ; the English grape-shot and the Prussian grape- shot aiding each other ; the extermination ; disaster in front ; disaster on the flank ; the Guard entering the line in the midst of this teiTible crumbling of all things. Conscious that they were about to die, thej' shouted, " Vive TEmpereur!" History records nothing more touching than that agony bursting forth in acclamations. The sky had been overcast all day long. All of a sudden, at that very moment, — it was eight o'clock in the evening — the clouds on the horizon parted, and allowed the grand and sinister glow of the setting sun to pass through, athwart the elms or the Nivelles road. They had seen it rise at Austerlitz. Each battalion of the Guard was commanded by a general for this final catastrophe. Priant, Michel, Roguet, Harlet, Mallet- Poret de Morvan, were there. When the tall caps of the gren adiers of the Guard, with their large plaques bearing the eagU Digitized by Google COSETTE. as appeared, symmetrical, in line, tranquil, in the midst of that (j'jiDbat, the enemy felt a respect for France ; they thought they Ireheld twenty victories entering the field of battle, with wings rutspread, and those who were the conquerors, believing them- selves to be vanquished, retreated ; but Wellington shouted, " Up, Guards, and aim straight ! " The red regiment of P^nglish guards, lying flat behind the hedges, sprang up, a cloud of grape-shot riddled the tricolored flag and whistled round our eagles; all hurled themselves forwards, and the final carnage f3egan. In the darkness, the Imperial Guard felt the army losing ground around it, and in the vast shock of the rout it beard the desperate flight which had taken the place of the *' Vive TEmpereur!'* and, with flight behind it, it continued to advance, more crushed, losing more men at every step that it took. There were none who hesitated, no timid men in its ranks. The soldier in that troop was as much of a hero as the general. Not a man was missing in that suicide. Ney, bewildered, great with all the grandeur of accepted death, offered himself to all blows in that tempest. He had his fifth horae killed under him there. Perspiring, his eyes aflame, foaming at the mouth, with uniform unbuttoned, one of his epaulets half cut off by a sword-stroke from a horse-guard, his plaque with the great eagle dented by a bullet ; bleeding, be- mired, magnificent, a broken sword in his hand, he said, " Come and see how a Marshal of France dies on the field of battle ! " But in vain ; he did not die. He was haggard and angry. At Drouet d'Erlon he hurled this question, " Are you not going to get yourself killed ? " In the midst of all that artiller3' engaged in crushing a handful of men, he shouted : " So there is nothing for me ! Oh ! I should like to have all these English bullets enter my bowels ! " Unhappy man, thou wtrt reserved for French bullets ! Xm. — The Catastrophe. The rout behind the Guard was melancholy. The army yielded suddenly on all sides at once, — Hou- gomont, La Haie-Sainte, Papelotte, Plancenoit. The cry, *' Treachery ! " was- followed by a cry of " Save yourselves who can ! " An army which is disbanding is like a thaw. All yields, splits, cracks, floats, rolls, falls, jostles, hastens, is precipitated. The disintegration is unprecedented. Ney borrows a horse, leaps apoo it, and without hat, cravat, or sword, places himéclf Digitized by Google 86 LES MISÉRABLES. across the Bruseels road, stoppiDg both English and French He strives to detain the army, lie recalls it to its duty, he insults it, he clings to the rout. He is overwhehned. The soldiers fly from iiiui, shouting, '* Long live Marshal Ney ! " Two of Du- rutte's ri'giments go and come in affright as though tossed back and forth between the swords of the Uhlans and the fusillade of the brigades of Kempt, Best, Pack, and Rylandt; the woret of hand-to-hand conflicts is the defeat ; friends kill each other in order to escape ; squadrons and battalions break and dis- perse against each other, like the tremendous foam of battle. Lobau at one extremity, and Reille at the other, are drawn into the tide. In vain docs Nai>oleon erect walls from what is left to him of his Guard ; in vain does he expend in a last effort his last serviceable squadrons. Quiot retreats before Vivian, Kel- lermann before Vandcleur, Lobau before Billow, Morand before Pirch, Domon and Subervic before Prince William of Prussia ; Guyot, who led the Emperor's squadrons to the charge, falls beneath the feet of the English dragoons. Napoleon gallops past the line of fugitives, harangues, urges, threatens, entreats them. All the mouths which in the morning had shouted, ^^ Long live the lîmperor ! " remain gaping ; they hardly recognize him. The Prussian cavalry, newly arrived, dashes forwards, flies, hews, slashes, kills, exterminates. Horses lash out, the cannons flee ; the soldiers of the artlller3'-train unharness the caissons and use the horses to make their escape ; transports overturned, with all four wheels in the air, clog the road and occasion massacres. Men are crushed, trampled down, others walk over the dead and the living. Arms are lost. A dizzy multitude fills the roads, the paths, the bridges, the plains, the hills, the valleys, the woods, encumbered by this invasion of forty thousand men. Shouts, despair, knapsacks and guns flung among the rye, passages forced at the point of the sword, no more comrades, no more officers, no more generals, an inex- pressible terror. Zioten putting France to the sword at its leisure. Lions converted into goats. Such was the flight. At Genappe, an effort was made to wheel about, to present a battle front, to draw up in line. Lobau rallied three hundred men. The entrance to the village was barricaded, but at the first volley of Prussian canister, all took to flight again, and Lobau was taken. That volley of grape-shot can be seen to-day imprinted on the ancient gable of a brick building on the right of the road at a few minutes* distance before you enter Genappe. The Prussians threw themselves into Genappe, furious, no doubt, that they were not more entirely the oon* Digitized by Google COSETTE. 37 querors. The pursuit was stupendous. Bldcher ordered ex ter uiination. Rc^uet bad set the lugubrious example of tlireateuing with death any French grenadier who should bring him a Prus- sian prisoner. Blucher outdid Roguet. Duhesme, the general of the Young Guard, hemmed in at the doorway of an inn at Genappe, suirendered his sword to a huzzar of death, who took the sword and slew the prisoner. The victory was completed by the assassination of the vanquished. Let us iuflict punish- *Eent, since we are history : old Blucher disgraced himself. This ferocity put the finishing touch to the disaster. The desperate rout traversed Genappe, traversed Quatre-Bras, travei-sed Gos- selies, traversed Frasnes, traversed Charleroi, traversed Thuin, and only halted at the frontier. Alas ! and who, then, was fleeing in that manner? The Grand Army. This vertigo, this terror, this downfall into ruin of the loftiest bravery which ever astounded history, — is that causeless ? No. The shadow of an enormous right is projected athwart Water- loo. It is the day of destiny. The force which is mightier than man produced that day. Hence the terrified wrinkle of those brows ; hence all those great souls surrendering their swords. Those who had conquered Europe have fallen prone on the earth, with nothing left to say nor to do, feeling the present shadow of a terrible presence. Hoc erat in fatis. That daj- the perspective of the human race underwent a change. Waterloo is the hinge of the nineteenth century. The disap- jiearance of the great man was necessary to the advent of the great century. Some one, a person to whom one replies not, took the responsibility on himself. The panic of heroes can be explained. In the battle of Waterloo there is something more than a cloud, there is something of the meteor. God has passed by. At nightfall, in a meadow near Genappe, Bernard and Ber- trand seized by the skirt of his coat and detained a man, hag- gard, pensive, sinister, gloomy, who, dragged to that point by the current of the rout, had just dismounted, had passed the bridle of his horse over his arm, and with wild eye was return- ing alone to Waterloo. It was Napoleon, the immense som- nambulist of this dream which had crumbled, essaying ono« more to advance. XIV. — The Last Square. Several squares of the Guard, motionless amid this stream of the defeat, as rocks in running water, held their own until night. Night came, death also; they awaited that double Digitized by Google 38 LES MISÉRABLES. Bhadow, and, invincible, allowed themselves to be envelope I therein. Each regiment, isolated from the rest, and having ni bond with the army, now shattered in every part, died alone. They had taken up position for this final action, some on the heights of Rossomme, others on the plain of Mont-Saint-JeaD. There, abandoned, vanquished, terrible, those gloomy squares endured their death-throes in formidable fashion. Ulm, Wag- ram, Jena. Friedland, died with them. At twilight, towards nine o'clock in the evening, one of them was left at the foot of the plateau of Mont-Saint- Jean. In that fatal valley, at the foot of that declivity which the cuirassiers had ascended, now inundated by the masses of the English, under the converging fires of the victorious hostile cavalrN^ under a frightful density of projectiles, this square fought on. It was commanded by an obscure officer named Cambronne. At each discharge, the square diminished and replied. It replied to the grape-shot with a fusillade, continually contracting its four walls. The fugitives pausing breathless for a moment in the distance, listened in the darkness to that gloomy and ever* decreasing thunder. When this legion had been reduced to a handful, when noth- ing was left of their flag but a rag, when their guns, the bullets all gone, were no longer anything but clubs, when the heap of corpses was larger than the group of survivors, there reigned among the conquerors, around those men dying so sublimely, a sort of sacred terror, and the English artillery, taking breath, became silent. This furnished a sort of respite. These com- batants had around them something in the nature of a swarm of spectres, silhouettes of men on horseback, the black profiles of cannon, the white sky viewed through wheels and gnu* carriages, the colossal death's-head, which tlie heroes saw con stantly through the smoke, in the depths of the battle, advanced apon them and gazed at them. Through the slifides of twilight they could hear the pieces being loaded ; the matches all lighted, like the eyes of tigers at night, formed a circle round their heads; all the lintstocks of the English batteries approached the cannons, and then, with emotion, holding the supreme moment suspended above these men, an English general. Col- ville according to some, Maitland according to others, shouted to them, ' ' Surrender, brave Frenchmen 1 " Cambronne rt - Digitized by Google CAMBRONNB. 88a XV. — Cambron»b. If any French reader object to having his susceptibilities offended, one would have to refrain from repeating in his presence what is perhaps the finest reply that a Frenchman erer made." This would enjoin us from consigning something sublime to History. At our own risk and peril, let us violate this injunction. Kow, then, among those giants there was one Titan, — Cam- bronne. To make that reply and then perish, what could be grander ? For being willing to die is the same as to die ; and it was not this man's fault if he survived after he was shot. The winner of the battle of Waterloo was not Napoleon, who was put to flight ; nor Wellington, giving way at four o'clock, in despair at five ; nor Blucher, who took no part in the engagement. The winner of Waterloo was Canibroune. To thunder forth such a reply at the lightning-flash that kills you is to conquer ! Thus to answer the Catastrophe, thus to speak to Fate, to give this pedestal to the future lion, to hurl such a challenge to the midnight rainstorm, to the treacherous wall of Hougo- mont, to the sunken road of Ohain, to Grouchy's delay, to Blucher^s arrival, to be Irony itself in the tomb, to act so as to stand upright though fallen, to drown in two syllables the European coalition, to oifer kings privies which the Caesars once knew, to make the lowest of words the most lofty by entwining with it the glory of France, insolently to end Water- loo with Mardigras, to finish Leonidas with Rabelais, to set the crown on this victory by a word impossible to speak, to k)se the field and preserve history, to have the laugli on yout ^ide after such a carnage, — this is immense I Digitized by Google 866 LES MISERABLES, It was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl ! It reaches the grandeur of iEschylus ! Cambronne's reply produces the effect of a violent break. 'Tis like the breaking of a heart under a weight of scorn. 'Tis the overflow of agony bursting forth. Who conquered ? Wellington ? No ! Had it not been for Blucher, he was lost. Was it Blucher ? No ! If Wellington had not begun, Blucher could not have finished. This Cambronne, this man spending his last hour, this unknown soldier, this infinitesimal of war, realizes that here is a falsehood, a falsehood in a catastrophe, and so doubly agonizing ; and at the moment when his rage is bursting forth because of it, he is offered this mockery, — life ! How could he restrain himself ? Yonder are all the kings of Europe, the generals flushed with victory, the Jupiters dart- ing thunderbolts ; they have a hundred thousand victorious soldiers, and back of the hundred thousand a million ; their cannon stand with yawning mouths, the match is liglited ; they grind down under their heels the Imperial guards and the grand army ; they have just crushed Napoleon, and only Cambronne remains, — only this earthworm is left to protest. He will protest. Then he seeks for the appro- priate word as one seeks for a sword. His mouth froths, and the froth is the word. In face of this mean and mighty victory, in face of this victory which counts none victori- ous, this desperate soldier stands erect. He grants its over- whelming immensity, but he establishes its triviality ; and he does more than spit upon it. Borne down by numbers, by superior force, by brute matter, he finds in his soul au expression : " Excrement ! " We repeat it, — to use that word, to do thus, to invent such an expression, is to be the conqueror ! The spirit of mighty days at that portentous moment made its descent on that unknown man. Cambronne invents tlie word for Waterloo, as Rouget invents the " Marseillaise," under the visitation of a breath from on high. An emanation from the divine whirlwind leaps forth and comes sweeping over these men, and they shake, and one of them sings the song supreme, and the other utters the frightful cry. This challenge of titanic scorn Cambronne hurls not only at Europe in the name of the Empire, — that would be a trifle : he hurls it at the past in the name of the Revolution. It is heard, and Cambronne is recognized as possessed by the an- cient spirit of the Titans. Danton seems to be speakingi Kléber seems to be bellowing ! Digitized by Google COSETTE. 39 At that word from Cambronne, the English voice responded, * Fire ! " The batteries flamed, the hill trembled, from all those brazen mouths belched a last terrible gush of grape-shot ; a vast volume of smoke, vaguely white in the light of the rising moon, rolled out, and when the smoke dispersed, there was no longer anything there. That formidable remnant had been annihilated ; the Guard was dead. The four walls of the living redoubt lay prone, and hardly was there discernible, here and there, even a quiver in the bodies : it was thus that the French tegions, greater than the Roman legions, expired on Mont Saint-Jean, on the soil watered with rain and blood, amid the gloomy gi*ain, on the spot where nowadays Joseph, who drives the post-wagon from Nivelles, passes whistling, and cheerfully whipping up his horse at four o'clock in the morning. XV. — QUOT LIBRAS IN DuCE? The battle of Waterloo is an enigma. It is as obscure to those who won it as to those who lost it. For Napoleon it was a panic ; **Blûcher sees nothing in it but fire ; Wellington un- derstands nothing in regard to it. Look at the reports. 1'he bulletins are confused, the commentaries involved. Some stammer, others lisp. Jomini divides the battle of Waterloo into four moments ; Mufiling cuts it up into three changes ; Charras alone, though we hold another judgment than his on some i)oints, seized with his haughty glance the characteristic outlines of that catastrophe of human genius in conflict with divine chance. All the other historians suffer from being somewhat dazzled, and in this dazzled state they fumble about. It was a day of lightning brilliancy ; in fact, a crumbling of ths military monarchy which, to the vast stupefaction cf kings, drew all the kingdoms after it — the fall of force, the defeat ol war. In this event, stamped with superhuman necessity, the part ilayed by men amounts to nothing. If we toke Waterloo from Wellington and Bliicher, do we there- by deprive England and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious England nor that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo. Thank Heaven, nations are great, inde- pendently of the lugubrious feats of the sword. Neither Eng- i**A battle tenninated, a day finishod, false measures repaired, greatej BQiv^esses assnred for the morrow. — all was lost by a moment «f panU lemr." — Napoleon, Dictées de Sainte Hélène, Digitized by Google «0 ' l^S MISÉRABLES. land, nor Germany, nor France is contained in a scabbard. At tliis epoch when Waterloo is only a clashing of swords, above BlCicher, Germany has Schiller; above Wellin^j^ton, England has Byron. A vast dawn of ideas is tlie peculiarity of our cen- tury, and in that aurora England and Germany have a magnifi- cent radiance. They are majestic because they think. The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is in- trinsic with them ; it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident. The aggrandizement which they have brouglit to the nineteenth century has not Waterloo as its source. It is only barbarous peoples who undergo rapid growth after a victory. That is the temporary vanity of torrents swelled by a storm. Civilized people, especially in our day, are neither elevated nor abased by the good or bad fortune of a captain. Their specific gravity in the human species results from something more than a combat. Their honor, thank God ! their dignit}', their intelli* gence, their genius, are not numbers which those gamblers, heroes and conquerors, can put in the lottery of battles. Often a battle is lost and progress is conquered. There is less glory and more liberty. The drum holds its peace ; reason takes the word. It is a game in which he who loses wins. Let us, there- fore, speak of Waterloo coldly from lioth sides. Let us render to chance that which is due to chance, and to God that which is due to God. What is Waterloo? A victory? No. The win- ning number in the lottery. The quine ' won by Europe, paid by France. It was not worth while to place a lion there. Waterloo, moreover, is the strangest encounter in history. Napoleou and Wellington. They are not enemies ; they are opposites. Never did God, who is fond of antitheses, make a more striking contrast, a more extraordinary comparison. On one side, precision, foresight, geometry, prudence, an assured retreat, reserves spared, with an obstinate coolness, an imper- turbable method, strategy, which takes advantage of the ground, tactics, which preserve the equilibrium of battalions, carnage, executed according to rule, war regulated, watch in hand, noth ing voluntarilj' left to chance, the ancient classic courage, abso^ lute regularity; on the other, intuition, divination, military oddity, superhuman instinct, a flaming glance, an indescribable something which gazes like an eagle, and which strikes like the lightning, a prodigious art in disdainful impetuosity, all the mysterSes of a profound soul, association with destiny; the ^ Five winning numbers in a lottacj» Digitized by VjOOQ IC VOSETTE. 41 stream, the plain, the forest, the hill, summoned, and in a man Der, forced to obey, the despot going even so far as to tyran- nize over the field of battle ; faith in a star mingled with strate, gic science, elevating but perturbing it. Wellington was the Barème of war ; Napoleon was its Michael Angelo ; and on this occasion, genius was vanquished by calculation. On both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator who sue ceeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy ; he did not come Wellington expected Blucher ; he came. Wellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparte, at his dawning, had encountered him in Italy, and beaten him 8ui)erbly. The old owl had fled before the young vulture. The old tactics had been not only struck as by lightning, but disgraced. Who was that Corsican of six and twenty ? What signified that splendid ignoramus, who, with everything against him, nothing in his favor, without provisions, without ammunition, without can- non, without shoes, almost without an army, with a mere handful of men against masses, hurled himself on Europe combined, and absurdly won victories in the impossible? Whence had issued that fulminating convict, who almost without taking breath, and with the same set of combatants in hand, pulverized, one after the other, the five armies of the emperor of Germany, upsetting Beaulieu on Alvinzi, Wurmser on Beanlieu^ Mêlas on Wurmser, Mack on Mêlas? Who was this novice in war with the efifrontery of a luminary? The çicademical military school excommunicated him, and as it lost its footing; hence, the implac^able rancor of the old Caesarism against the new ; of the regular sword against the fl ia but the stupefied date of liberty. That such ^n eagle slioiild emeige from such an egsition to the iudoinitable French rioting. The final extinction of that vast people which had been in eruption for twenty-six years — such was the dream. The solidarity of the Brunswick», the Nassaus, the IlomauoflPs, the Hohenzollerns, the Hapshur^ with the Bourbons. Waterloo bears divine right on its crupper It is true, that the Empire having been despotic, the kingdom by the natural reaction of things, was forced to be liberal, and that a constitutional order was the unwilling result of Waterloo, to the great regret of the conquerors. It is because revolution cannot be really conquered, and that being providential and absolutely fatal, it is always cropping up afresh: before Water- loo, in Bonaparte overthrowing the old thrones ; after Waterloo, in Louis XVIII. granting and conforming to the charter. Bona- parte places a postilion on the throne of Naples, and a sergeant on the throne of Sweden, employing inequality to demonstrate equality ; Louis XVllI. at Saint-Ouen countersigns the declara- tion of tiie rights of man. If you wish to gain an idea of what revolution is, call it Progress ; and if you wish to acquire an idea of the nature of progress, call it To-morrow. To-morrow falûls its work iiTCsistibly , and it is already fulfilling it to-day. It always reaches its goal strangely. It employs Wellington to make of Foy, who was only a soldier, an orator. Foy falls at Uougo- mont and rises again in the tribune. Thus does progress pra cecd. There is no such thing as a bad tool for that workman. It does not become disconcerted, but adjusts to its divine work the man who has bestridden the Alps, and the good old totter- ing invalid of Father Elysée. It makes use of the gouty man as well as of the conqueror ; of the conqueror without, of the gouty man within. Waterloo, by cutting short the demolition of P^uropean thrones by the sword, had no other effect than tc cause the revolutionary work to be continued in another direction The slashers have finished ; it was the turn of the thinkers. The century that Waterloo was intended to arrest has pursued its march. That sinister victory was vanquished by liberty. In sliort, and incontestably , that which triumphed at Waterloo ; that which smiled in Wellington's rear ; that which brought him all the marshals' staffs of Europe, including, it is said, the staff of a marshal of France ; that which joyously trundled the barrowp foB of bones to erect the knoll of the lion ; that which triumphantlj Digitized by Google COSETTE. 45 inscribed on that pedestal the date ^^^ June 18, 1815"; that which encouraged Bliicher, as he put the flying army to the sword ; that which, from the heights of the plateau of Mont- Saiut-Jean, hovered over France as over its prey, was the counter-revolution. It was the counter-revolution which mur* mured that infamous word '* dismemberment." On arriving in Paris, it beheld the crater close at hand ; it felt those ashes which scorched its feet, and it changed its mind ; it returned to the stammer of a charter. Let us behold in Waterloo only that which is in Waterloo. Of intentional liberty there is none. The counter-revolution was invohintarily liberal, in the same manner as, by a corre- sponding phenomenon. Napoleon was involuntarily revolution- ary. On the 18th of June, 1815, the mounted Robespierre was hurled from his saddle. XVII. — À Recrudescence op Divine Right. End of the dictatorship. A whole European system crumbled away. The Empire sank into a gloom which resembled that of the Roman world as it expired. Again we behold the abyss, as in the days of the barbarians ; only the barbarism of 1815, which must be called by its pet name of the counter-revolution, was not long breathed, soon fell to panting, and halted short. The Em- pire was bewept, — let us acknowledge the fact, — and bewept by heroic eyes. If glory lies in the sword converted into a sceptre, the Empire had been glory in person. It had diflfused over the earth all the light which tyranny can give — a sombre light. We will say more ; an obscure light. Compared to the true daylight, it is night. This disappearance of night produces the effect of an eclipse. Louis XVIII. re-entered Paris. The circling dances of the 8th of July effaced the enthusiasms of the 20th of March. The Corsican became the antithesis of the Bearnese. The flag on the dome of the Tuileries was white. The exile reigned. Hartwell's pine table took its place in front of the fleur-de-lys-strewn throne of Louis XIV. Bou\ânes and Fontenoy were mentioned as though they had taken place on the preceding day, Austerlitz having become antiquated. The altar and the throne frater- nized majestically. One of the most undisputed forms of the health of society in the nineteenth century was established over France, and over the continent. Europe adopted the white cockade. Trestaillon was celebrated. The device Digitized by VjOOQIC 46 LES Misérables. non pluribus impar re-appeared on the stone rays representing a sun upon the front of the barriicks on the Quai d'Orsay. Where there had been an Imperuil Guard, there was now a red house. The Are du Carrousel, all laden with badly borne vic- tories, thrown out of its element among these novelties, a little ashamed, it .may be, of Marengo and Areola, extricated itself from its predicament with the statue of the Due d'Angoulêrae. The cemetery of the Madeleine, a terrible pauper's grave in 1793, was covered with jasper and marble, since the bones of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette lay in that dust. In the moat of Vincennes a sepulchral shaft sprang from the earth, recalling the fact that the Due d*Enghien had iJerished in the very month when Napoleon was crowned. Pope Pius VII., who had performed the coronation very near this death, tranquilly bestowed his blessing on the fall as he had bestowed it on the elevation. At Schoenbrunn there wjis a little shadow, aged four, whom it was seditious to call th ; King of Rome. And these things took plut-e, and the kings resumed their thrones, and the master of Europe was put in a cage, and the old regime became the new regime, and all the shadows and all the light of the earth changed place, because, on the afternoon of a certain summer's day, a shepherd said to a Prussian in the forest, " Go this way, and not that ! " This 1815 was a sort of lugubrious April. Ancient unhealthy and poisonous realities were covered with new appearances. A lie wedded 1789 ; the right divine was masked under a charter ; fictions became constitutional ; prejudices, superstitions, and mental reservations, with Article 14 in the heart, were var- nished over with liberalism. It was the serpent's change of skin. Man had been rendered both greater and smaller by Napo- leon. Under this reign of splendid matter, the ideal had received the strange name of ideology ! It is a grave imprudence in a great man to turn the future into derision. The populace, how- ever, that food for cannon which is so fond of the cannoneer, sought him with its glance. Where is he? What is he doing V *' Napoleon is dead," said a passer-by to a veteran of Marengo and Waterloo. '^He dead!" cried the soldier; "you don't know him." Imagination distrusted this man, even when over- thrown. The depths of Europe were full of darkness after Waterloo. Something enormous remained long empt}' through Napoleon's disai)i)oarance. The kings placed themselves in this void. Ancient Europe profited by it to undertake reforms. There was a H0I3' Alliance ; Digitized by Google COSETTE. 47 Betie-Alliance^ Beautiful Alliance, the fatal field of Waterloo had said in advance. In prleon. Defeat had rendered the vanquished greater. Bouaparte fallçn seemed more lofty than Napoleon erect. Those who had triumphed were alarmed. England had him guarded by Hudson Lowe, and France had him watched by Montchenu His folded arms became a source of uneasiness to thrones. Alexander called him "my sleeplessness." This terror was the result of tbe quantity of revolution wbich was contained in him. That is what explains and excuses Bonapartist liberalism. This phantom caused the old world to tremble. The kings reigned, but ill at their ease, witti the rock of Saint Helena on the horizon. * While Napoleon was passing through the death struggle at Longwood, the sixty thousand men who had fallen on the field of Waterloo were quietly rotting, and something of their peace was shed abroad over the world. The Congress of Vienna made the treaties in 1815, and Europe called this the Restora- tion. This is what Waterloo was. But wliat matters it to the Infinite? all that tempest, all that cloud, that war, then that peace? All that darkness did not trouble for a moment the light of that immense Eye before which a gnib skipping from one blade of grass to another equals the eagle soaring from belfry to belfry on the towers of Nôtre '^ame. XVIII. — The Battle-Field at Night. Let as retnrn — it is a necessity in this book — to that fatal Imttle-field. On the 18th of June the moon was full. Its light favored Blûcher's ferocious pursuit, betrayed the traces of the fugitives, delivered up that disastrous mass to the eager Prussian cavalr\-, and aided the massacre. Such tragic fiivors of the night do oecnr sometimes during catastrophes. After the last cannon-shot had been fired, the plain of Mont Saint-Jean remained deserted. Digitized by Google é^ LES MISÉRABLES. The English occupied the encampment of the French ; it '4 the usual sign of victory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished. They established their bivouac beyond Rossomme. The Prus- sians, let loose on the retreating rout, pushed forward. Wel- lington went to the village of Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst. If ever the sic vos non vobis was applicable, it certainly is to that village of Waterloo. Waterloo took no part, aud lay half a league from the scene of action. Mont-Saint- J can was can- nonaded, Hougumont was burned, La Haie-Sainte was taken by assault, Papelottc was burned, Plancenoit was burned, La Belle- Alliance beheld the embrace of the two conquerors ; these names are hardly known, and Waterloo, which worked not iu the battle, bears off all tlie honor. We are not of the number of those who flatter war ; when the occasion presents itself, we tell the truth about it. War has frightful beauties which we have not concealed ; it has also, we acknowledge, some hideous features. One of the most sur- prising is the prompt stripping of the bodies of the dead after the victory. The dawn which follows a battle always rises o\ naked corpses. Who does this? Who thus soils the triumph? What hideous, furtive hand is that which is slipped into the pocket of victory ? What picki)ockets are they who ply their trade in the rear elf glory ? Some pliilosophers — Voltaire among the number — af • firm that it is precisely those persons have made the glorj*. It is the same men, they say ; there is no relief corps ; those who are erect pillage those who are prone on the earth. The hero of the day is the vampire of the night. One has assuredly the right, after all, to strip a corpse a bit when one is the author of that corpse. For our own part, we do not think so ; it seems to us impossible that the same hand should pluck laurels and purloin the shoes from a dead man. One thing is certain, which is, that generall}* after conquerors follow thieves. But let us leave the soldier, especially the con- temporary soldier, out of the question. Every army has a rear -guard, and it is that which must b« blamed. Bat-like creatures, half brigands and lackeys ; all th*i sorts of vespertillos that that twilight called war engenders; wearers of uniforms, who tîike no part in the fighting ; pretended invalids ; formidable limpers ; interloping sutlers, trotting alon^^ in little carts, sometimes accompanied by their wives, and steal* ing tilings which they sell again ; beggars offering themselvei as guides to ofiScers ; soldiers' servants ; marauders ; armies cm Digitized by Google VOSETTB. 49 t.be inarch in days gone by, — we are not speaking of the près cnt, — dragged all this behind them, so that in the special Ian guage they are called '' stragglera." No army, no nation, was responsible for those beings ; they spoke Italian and followed the Germans, then spoke French and followed the English. It was by one of these wretches, a Spanish straggler who spoke French, that the Marquis of Fervacques, deceived b}' his Picard jargon, and taking him for one of our own men, was traitor- jMsiy slaiu and robbed on the battle-field itself, in the course of :hc night which followed the victory of Cerisoles. The rascal sprang from this marauding. The detestable maxim. Live on the enemy! produced this leprosy, which a strict discipline alone could heal. There are reputations which ai-e deceptive ; one docs not always know why certain generals, grea^ in other directions, have been so popular. Turenne was adored by his rtoldiers because he tolerated pillage ; evil permitted constitutes part of goodness. Turenne was so good that lie allowed the Palatinate to be delivered over to fire and blood. The ma- ."auders in the train of an army were more or less in number, according as the chief was more or less severe. Hoche and Marceau had no stragglers; Wellington had few, and we do him the justice to mention it. Nevertheless, on the night from the 18th to the 19th of June, the dead were robbed. Wellington was rigid ; he gave orders that any one caught in the act should be shot ; but rapine is tenacious. The marauders stole in one corner of the battle- Held while others were being shot in another. The moon was sinister over this plain. Towards midnight, a man was prowling about, or rather, climbing in the direction of the hollow road of Chain. To all appearance he was one of those whom we have just described, — neither English nor French, neither peasant nor soldier, less a man than a ghoul attracted by the scent of the dead bodies, having theft for his victory, and come to rifle Waterloo. He was clad in a blouse that was something like a great coat ; he was uneasy and audacious ; he walked forwards and gazed be« hind him. Who was this man? The night probably knew more of him than the day. He had no sack, but evidently he had large lK>ckets under his coat. From time to time he halted, scruti- nized the plain around him as though to see whether he were observed, bent over abruptly, disturbed something silent and Kiotionless on the ground, then rose and fled. His sliding mo- lion, his attitudes, his mysterious and rapid gestures, caused Digitized by Google 50 LES MISERABLES. Jim to resemble those twilight larvae which haant rains, ^nA whieii aiieient Norman legends call tlie AUeure. Certain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhouettée among the marHhcs. A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have perceived at some distance a sort of little sutler's wagon witl a fluted wicker hood, harnessed to a famisiied nag which wai cropping the grass across its bit as it halted, hidden, as it were behind the hovel which adjoins the highway to Nivelles, at tlu angle of the road from Mont-Saint-Jean to Braiiie TAlleud : and in the wagon, a sort of woman seated on coffers and pack- ages. Perhaps there was some connection between that wagon and that prowler. The darkness was serene. Not a cloud in the zenith. What matters it if the earth be red ! the moon remains white ; these are the indifferences of the sky. In the fields, branches of trees broken by grape-shot, but not fallen, upheld by their bark, swayed gently in the breeze of night. A breath, almost a respiration, moved the shrubbery. Quivers which resembled the departure of souls ran through the grass. In the distance the coming and going of patrols and the geor eral rounds of the English camp were audible. Hougomont and La Ilaie-Sainte continued to burn, forming, one in the west, the other in the east, two great flames which were joined by the cordon of bivouac fires of the English, like a necklace of rubies with two carbuncles at the extremities, aa they extended in an immense semicircle over the hills along the horizon. We have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohi»io. The heart is terrified at the thought of what that death must have been to so many brave men. If there is anything terrible, if there exists a reality whicl surpasses dreams, it is this : to live, to see the sun ; to be ic full possession of virile force ; to possess health and joy ; tc laugh valiantly ; to rush towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of one ; to feel in one's breast lungs which breathe, a heart which beats, a will which reasons ; to speak, think, hope, love ; to have a mother, to have a wife, to have children ; to have the light — and all at once, in the space of a shout, in less than a minute, to sink into an abyss ; to fall, to roll, to crush, to be crushed ; to see ears of wheat, flowers, leaves, branches ; not to be able to catch hold of anything ; to feel one's sword useless, men beneath one, horses on top of one ; to struggle in vain, since one's bones have been broken hy some kick in the Digitized by Google COSETTE. SI darkneflB ; to feel a heel which makes one's eyes start from theii sockets ; to bite horses* shoes in one's rage ; to stifle, to yell, to writhe; to be beneath, and to say to one's self, "But just a little while ago I was a living man ! " There, where that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-- rattle, all was silence now. The edges of the hollow road were encumbered with horses and riders, inextricably heaped up. Terrible entanglement ! There was no longer any slope, for the corpses had levelled the road with the plain, and reached the brim like a well-filled bushel of barley. A heap of dead bodies in the upper part, a river of blood in the lower part— « such was that road on the evening of the 18th of June, 1815. The blood ran even to the Nivelles highway, and there over- flowed in a large pool in front of the abatis of trees which barred the way, at a spot which is still pointed out. It will be remembered that it was at the opposite point, in the direction of the Genappe road, that the destruction of the cuirassiers had taken place. The thickness of the layer of bodies was proportioned to the depth of the hollow road. Towards the middle, at the point where it became level, where Delort's division had passed, the layer of corpses was thinner. The nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader was going in that direction. He was seartîhing that vast tomb. He gazed about. He passed the dead in some sort of hideous review. He walked with his feet in the blood. All at once he paused. A few paces in front of him, in the hollow road, at the point where the pile of dead came to an end, an open hand, illumined by the moon, projected from beneath that heap of men. Tliai hand had on its finger something sparkling, which was a ring ol gold. The man bent over, remained in a crouchmg attituile for f moment, and when he rose there was no longer a ring on the hand He did not precisely rise ; he remained in a stooping ana frightened attitude, with his back turned to the heap of dead» icanning the horizon on his knees, with the whole upper portiot. of his body supported on his two forefingers, which rested on tli« earth, and his head peering above the edge of the hollow road. The jackal's four paws suit some actions. Then coming to a decision, he rose to his feet. At that moment, he gave a terrible start. He felt some one clutch him from behind. He wheeled roimd ; it was the open hand, which had closed^ «nd had seized the skirt of his coat. Digitized by Google It LES MISÉRABLES. An bouest man would have been terrified ; this man bur^i into a laugh. '* Come," said he, " it's only a dead body. I prefer a spot^H to a goiularme." Hut the hand weakened and released him. Effort is quickly exhausted in the grave. *' Well now," said the prowler, " is that dead fellow alive? Let's see." He bent down again, fumbled among the heap, pushed aside everything that was in his way, seized the hand, grasped the arm, freed the head, pulled out the body, and a few momenta later he was dragging the lifeless, or at least the uneouscioug, man, through the shadows of hollow road. He was a cuirassiei, an offlcer, and even an officer of considerable rank; a largi gold epauli'tte peeped from beneath the cuirass ; this officer m longer possessed a helmet. A furious sword-cut had 8carre»i his face, where nothing was discernible but blood. However, he did not appear to have any broken limbs, and, by some happy chance, if that word is permissible here, th? dead had been vaulted above him in such a uiauner as to pre- serve him from being crushed. His eyes were still closed. On his cuirass he wore the silver cross of the Legion o( Honor. The prowler tore off this cross, which disappeared into oni of the gulfs which he had l)eneath his great coat. Then he felt of the officer's fob, discovered a watch there, and took possession of it. Next he searched his waistcoa% found a purse and pocketed it. When he had arrived at this sts^e of succor which he wa4 administering to this dying man, the officer opened his eyes. "Thanks," he said feebly. The abruptness of the movements of the man who was manip alating him, the freshness of the night, the air which he couM nhule freely, had roused him from his lethargy. The prowler made no reply. He raised his head. A sourJ of footsteps was audible in the plain; some patrol was probably approaching. The officer murmured, for the death agony was still in hU voice : — '* Who won the battle?" **The English," answered the prowler. The officer went on : — " I.vho was a stranger in tlie Department, and who bore the name of M. Madeleine, had, thanks to new methods, resuscitated some years ago an ancient local industry, tlie manu* facture of jet and of black glass trinkets. He had made his fortune in the business, and that of the arrondissement as well, we will admit. H« Digitized by Google 54 LJiâ MISERABLES, htid been appointed mayor, in recognition of hU aenrlcet. The police 4li coTered that M. Madeleine wa« no other than an ex-convict who had broken his ban, condemned in 1790 for theft, and named Jean Valjean Jean Valjean has been recommitted to prison. It appears that previoui to Iiis arrest he had sacceeded in withdrawing from the hands of M. Laf- fitte, a sum of over Iialf a million wliicli he Iiad lodged tliere, and which he had, moreover, and by perfectly legitimate means, acquired in his busi ness. No one has been able to discover where Jean Valjean has concealed tliis money since his return to prison at Tonlon. The second article, which enters a little more into detail, is aa extract from the Journal de Paris^ of the same date. A former convict, who had been liberated, named Jean Valjean, has just appeared before the Court of Assizes of the Var, under circumstances cal- culated to attract attention. This wretcli had succeeded in escaping the vigilance of the police, he had changed his name, and had succ«eded in getting himself appointed mayor of one of our small northern towns ; in this town he had established a considerable commerce. He has at last been unmasked and arrested, thanks to the indefatigable zeal of the public prosecutor. He had for his concubine a woman of the town, who died of a shock at the moment of liis arrest. This scoundrel, who is endowed with Herculean strength, fountl means to escape; but three or four days after his flight the police laid their hands on him once more, in Paris itself, at the very moment when he was entering one of those little vehicles which run between the capital and the village of Montfermeil (Seine-et-Oise). He is said to have profited by this interval of three or four days of lil>erty, to withdraw a considerable sum deposited by him with one of our leading bankers. This sum has been estimated at six or seven hundred thousand francs. U the indictment is to be trusted, he has hidden it in some place known to himself alone, and it has not been possible to lay hands on iL However that may Ikî, the said Jean Valjean has just been brought before the Assizes of the Department of the Var as accused of highway robbery accompanied with violence, about eight years ago, on the person of one of those honest children who, as the patriarch of Ferney lias said, in immortal verse, •• . . . Arrive from Savoy every year, Aad who, with gentle bands, do clear Those long canals choked up with sooft.** This bandit refused to defend himself. It was proved by the akilfiil %nd eloquent representative of the public prosecutor, that the theft waa committed in complicity with others, and that Jean Valjean was a member 9f a band of robbers in the south. Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty \m\ was condemned to the death penalty in consequence. This criminal refused to lodge an appeal. The king, in his inexhaustible clemency, haa deigned to commute his penalty to that of penal servitude for life. Jeaa Valjean was immediately taken to the prison at Toulon. The reader has not forgotten that Jean Valjean had relig^iom habits at M. snr M. Sorae papers, amon^ others the CoTistitu tional^ presented this commutation as a triumph of tbe piiesUj party. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 5d JeaD Yaljean changed his number in the galleys. He was called 9,430. However, and we will mention it at once in order that we may not be obliged to recur to the subject, the prosperity of M. sur M. vanished with M. Madeleine ; all that he had foreseen during his night of fever and hesitation was realized ; lacking him, there actually was a soul lacking. After this fall, there took place at M. sur M. that egotistical division of great existences which have fallen, that fatal dismemberment of flourishing things which is accomplished every day, obscurely, in the human com- mnnity, and which history has noted only once, because it occurred after the death of Alexander. Lieutenants are crowned kings ; superintendents improvise manufacturers out of tliemselves. Envious rivalries arose. M. Madeleine's vast workshops were shut ; his buildings fell to ruin, his workmen were scattered. Some of them quitted the country, others abandoned the trade. Thenceforth, everything was done on a small scale, instead of on a grand scale ; for lucre instead of the general good. There was no longer a centre ; everywhere there was competition and animosity. M. Madeleine had reigned over all and directed all. No sooner had he fallen, than each pulled things to himself ; the spirit of combat suc- ceeded to the spirit of organization, bitterness to cordialit}', hatred of one another to the benevolence of the founder towards all ; the threads which M. Madeleine had set were tangled and broken, the methods were adulterated, the products were debased, confidence was killed ; the market dimiuished, for lack of orders ; salaries were reduced, the workshops stood still, bankrupty ar- rived. And then there was nothing more for the poor. Ail had vanished. The state itself perceived that some one had been crushed somewhere. Less than four years after the judgment of the Conrt of Assizes establishing the identity of Jean Val jean and M. Madeleine, for the benelit of the galleys, the cost of collect- ing taxes had doubled in the an-ondissement of M. sur M. ; and M. de Villèlc called attention to the fact in the rostrum, in the month of February, 1827. II. — In which the Reader will peruse Two Verses, which ARE OF THE DeVIL'S COMPOSITION, POSSIBLY. Before proceeding further, it will be to the purpose to nar- rate in some detail, a singular occurrence which took place at about the same epoch, in Montfermeil, and which is not lacking ia coincidence with certain conjectures of the indictment. ioogle 56 i^ES MISÉRABLES. There exists in the region of Montfcrmeil a very ancient superstition, which is all the more curious and all the more precious, because a popular superstition in the vicinity of Paris is like an aloe in Siberia. We are among those who respect everything which is in the nature of a rare plant. Here, then, is the superstition of Montfermeil : it is thought that the devil, from time immemorial, has selected the forest as a hiding-plac« for his treasures. Good wives alKrm that it is no rarity to en- counter at nightfall, in sechided nooks of the forest, a black man with the air of a carter or a wood-chopper, wearing wooden shoes, clad in trousers and a blouse of linen, and recognizable by the fact, that, instead of a cap or hat, he has two immense horns on his head. This ought, in fact, to render him recog* nizable. This man is habitually engaged in digging a hole. There are three ways of proGting by such an encounter. The first is to approach the man and speak to him. Then it is seen that the man is simply a peasant, that he appears black because it is nightfall ; that he is not digging any hole whatever, but is cutting grass for his cows, and that what had been taken for horns is nothing but a dung-fork which he is carrying on his back, and whose teeth, thanks to the perspective of evening, seemed to spring from his head. The man returns home and dies within the week. The second way is to watch him, to wait until he has dug his hole, until he has filled it and has gone away ; then to run with great speed to the trench, to open it once more, and to seize the "treasure" which the black man has necessarily placed there. In this case one dies within the month. Finally, the last method is not to speak to the black man, not to look at him, and to flee at the best speed of one's legs. One then dies within the year. As all three methods are attended with their special incon- veniences, the second, which at all events, presents some advan- tages, among others that of possessing a treasure, if only for a month, is the one most generally adopted. So bold men, who are tempted by every chance, have quite frequentlj*, as we are assured, opened the holes excavated by the black man, and tried to rob the devil. The success of the operation appeai-s to be but moderate. At least, if the tradition is to be believed, and in particular the two enigmatical lines in barbarous Latin, which an evil Norman monk, a bit of a sorcerer, naratd Tryphon has loft on this subject. This Tryphon is buried at tlic Abbey of Saint-Georges de Bocherville, near Rouen, and tends ' spawn on his grave. Accordingly, enormous efforts are made. Such trenches are Digitized by Google COSETTE. 57 crdinarily extremely deep ; a man sweats, digs, toils all night — for it must be done at night ; he wets his shirt, burns out his candle, breaks his mattock, and when he arrives at the bottom of the hole, when he lays his hand on the "treasure," what does he find? What is the devil's ti'easure? A sou, sometimes a crown-piece, a stone, a skeleton, a bleeding body, sometimes a spectre folded in four like a sheet of paper in a portfolio, some- times nothing. This is what Tryphon's verses seem to announce to the indiscreet and curious : — " Fodit, et in fossa thesauros condit opaca, As, nummas, lapides, cadaver, simulacra, nihilque." It seems that in our day there is sometimes found a powder- horn with bullets, sometimes an old pack of cards greasy and worn, which has evidently served the devil. Tryphon does not record these two finds, since Tryphon lived in the twelfth century, and since the devil does not appear to have had the wit to invent powder before Roger Bacon's time, and cards before the time of Charles VI. Moreover, if one plays at cards, one is sure to lose all that one possesses ! and as for the powder in the horn, it possesses the property of making your gun burst in your face. Now, a very short time after the epoch when it seemed to the prosecuting attorney that the liberated convict Jean Val- jean during his flight of several days had been prowling around Montfermeil, it was remarked in that village that a certain old road-laborer, named Boulatruelle, had " peculiar ways" in the forest. People thereabouts thought they knew that this Boula- truelle had been in the galleys. He was subjected to. certain police supervision, and, as he could find work nowhere, the administration employed him at reduced rates as a road-mender on the cross-road from Gagny to Lagny. This Boulatruelle was a -man who was viewed with disfavor by the inhabitants of the district as too respectful, too humble, too prompt in removing his cap to every one, and trembling and smiling in the presence of the gendarmes, — probably aflili- ated to robber bands, they said; suspected of lying in am- bush at verge of copses at nightfall. The only thing in his favor was that he was a drunkard. This is what people thought they had noticed : — Of late, Boulatruelle had taken to quitting his task of stone breaking and care of the road at a very eaiiy hour, and to be- taking himself to the forest with his pickaxe. He was encoun- tered towards evening in the most deserted clearings, in the Digitized by Google M LES MISÉRABLES. wildest thickens ; aud he had the api>earaDce of being in searcl of sjiucthiug, aud boiuetiines he was digging lioles. The good- wive» who passed took him at first for Beelzebub : then thej recognized Boiilatruelle, aud were not in the least reassured thereby. These encountera seemed to cause Boulatruelle a lively displeasure. It was evident that he sought to hide, and that there was some mystery in what he was doing. It was said in the village: '^It is clear that the devil had appeared. Boulatruelle has seen him, and is on the search lu sooth, he is cuuuiug enough to pocket Lucifer's lioanl." The Voltairians added, '* Will Boulatruelle catch the devil, or will the devil catch Boulatruelle?" The old women made a great many signs of the cross. In the meantime, Boulatruelle's manœuvres in the forest ceased ; and he resumed his regular occupation of road- mending; and people gossiped of something else. Some persons, however, were still curious, suimising that in all this there was probably no fabulous treasure of tlie legends, but some fine windfall of a more serious and palpable sort than the devil's bank-bills, and that the road-mender had half discov- ered the secret. The most ^^ puzzled '* were the schoolmaster and Thénardier, the proprietor of the tavern, who was everybody's friend, and had not disdained to ally himself with Boulatruelle. '*He has been in the galleys," said Thénardier. ''Eh! Good God ! uo one knows who has been there or will be there." One evening the schoolmaster aflirmed that in former times the law would have instituted au inquiry as to what Boulatruelle did in the forest, and that the latter would have been forced to speak, and that he would have been put to the torture in case of need, and that Boulatruelle would not have resisted the water test, for example. ^' Let us put him to the wine test." 3aîd Thénardier. They made an effort, and got the old road-mender to drink- ing. Boulatruelle drank an enormous amount, but said very little. He combined with admirable art, and in masterly pro- portioua, the thirst of a gormandizer with the discretion of a judge. Nevertheless, by diut of returning to the charge and of comparing and putting together the few obscarc words which he did allow to escape him, this is what Thénardier and the schoolmaster imagined that they had made out: — One morning, when Boulatruelle was on his way to his work, at daybreak, he had been surprised to see, at a nook of the forest, in the underbrush, a shovel and a pickaxe, cancecdedf m Urne might say. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 53 However, ne might have supposed that they were probably the shovel and pick of Father Six-Fours, the water-carrier, aud would have thought no more about it. But, on the evening of that day, he saw, without being seen himself, as he was hidden by a large tree, "a person who did not belong in those parts, aud whom he, Boulatruelle, knew well," directing his steps towards the densest part of the wood. Translation by Thénar- dier: A comrade of the galleys. Boulatruelle obstinately refuseil to reveal his name. This person carried a package — something square, like a large box or a small trunk. Surprise on the part ol Boulatruelle. However, it was only after the expiration of seven or eight minutes that the idea of following that *' person " had occurred to him. But it was too late ; the person was already in the thicket, night had descended, and Boulatruelle had not been able to catch up with him. Then he had adopted the course of watching for liiiii at the edge of the woods. ** It was moonlight." Two or three hours later, Boulatruelle had seen this person emerge from the brushwood, carrying no longer the coffer, but a shovel and pick. Boulatruelle had allowed the |)erson to pass, and had not dreamed of accosting him, because he said to himself that the other man was three times as strong as he was, and armed with a pickaxe, and that he would probably knock him over the heail on recognizing him, and on perceiving that he was rec- ognized. Touching effusion of two old comrades on meeting again. But the shovel and pick had served as a ray of light to Boulatruelle ; he had hastened to the thicket in the morning, and had found neither shovel nor pick. From this he had drawn the inference that this person, once in the forest, had dug a hole with his pick, burit'd the coffer, and reclosed the hole witli his shovel, ^ow, the coffer was too small to contain a bof France as generalissimo, the Prince dc Carignan, afterwards Charles Albert, enrolling himself in that crusade of kings agaiust people as a volunteer, with grenadier epaulets of red worsted; the soldiers of the Empire setting out on a fresh campaign, but aged, saddened, after eight years of repose, and under the white cockade ; the tricolored standard waved abroad by a heroic handful of Frenchmen, as the white standard had been tliirty years earlier at Coblentz; monks mingled with our Iroops ; the spirit of liberty and of novelty brought to its senses by bayonets; principles slaughtered by canonnades; France undoing by her arms that which she had done hy her mind ; in addition to this, hostile leaders sold, soldiers hesitat- ing, cities besieged by millions; no military perils, and yet possible explosions, as in' every mine which is surprised and invaded ; but little bloodshed, little honor won, shame foi some, glory for no one. Such was this war, made by the princes descended from Louis XIV., and conducted by gen- erals who bad been under Napoleon. Its sad fate was to recall neither the grand war nor grand politics. Some feats of arms were serious ; the taking of the Trocadénv among others, was a fine military action ; but after all, we repeat^ the trumpets of this war give back a cracked sound, the whole eflFect was suspicious ; history approves of France for making a difficulty about accepting this false triumph. It seemed evident that certain Spanish officers charged with resistance yielded too easily ; the idea of corruption was connected with the victory ; it ap|)ears as though generals and not battles had been won, and the conquering soldier returned humiliated. A debasing war, in short, in which the Bank of Frarice could be read in the folds of the flag. Soldiers of the war of 1808, on whom Saragossa had fallen in formidable ruin, frowned in 1823 at the easy surrender of citadels, and began to regret Palafox. It is the nature of France to prefer to have Rostopchine rather than Ballesteros in front of her. From a still more serious point of view, and one which it is also proper to insist u|x>n here, this war, which wounded the military spirit of France, enraged the democratic spirit. It was an enterprise of inthralment. In that campaign, the object of the French soldier, the son of democracy, was the conquest of a yoke for others. A hideous contradiction. France is made to arouse the soul of nations, not to stifle it. All the revolutions of Europe since 1792 are the French Revolutior Digitized by Google 62 LES MISÉRABLES. liberty darts rays from France. That is a solar fact. BUnd is he who will uot see ! It was Bonaparte who said it. The war of 1823, an outrage on tiie genei*ous Spanish nation, was then, at the same time, an outrage on the French Revolu- tion. It was France who committed this monstrous violence ; by foul means, for, with the exception of wars of liberation, everything tliat armies do is by foul means. The woixis pa^ive obedience indicate this. An army is a strange masterpiece of combination where force results from an enormous sum of impotence. Thus is war, made by humanity against humanity, despite humanity, explained. As for the Bourbons, the war of 1823 was fatal to them. They took it for a success. They did not perceive the danger that lies in having an idea slain to 'order. The}' went astray, in their innocence, to such a degree that they introduced the immense enfeeblement of a crime into their establishment as an element of strength. The spirit of the ambush entered into their politics. 1830 had its germ in 1823 The Spanish cam- paign became in their counsels an argument for force and for adventures by right Divine. France, having re-established d rey netto in Spain, might well have re-established the absolute king at home. They fell into the alarming error of taking the obedience of the soldier for the consent of the cation. Such confidence is the ruin of thrones. It is not permitted to fall asleep, either in the shadow of a machined tree, nor in po; tions, which, taken as a whole, constitute the ship of the line, one has only to enter one of the six-story covered construction stocks, in the ports of Brest or Toulon. The vessels in proceso of construction are under a bell-glass there, as it were. This colossal beam is a yard; that great column of wood which stretclies out on the earth as far as the eye can reach is the main-mast. Taking it from its root in the stocks to its tip in the clouds, it is sixty fathoms long, and Its diameter at its basf» is three feet The English main-mast rises to a height of two hundred and seventeen feet above the water-line. The navy of our fathers employed cables, ours employs chains. The simple pile of chains oft a ship of a hundred guns is four feet high, twenty feet in breadth, and eight feet in depth. And how much w take the upper corner of the main-top-sail on the starboard, lost his balance ; he was seen to waver ; the multitude throng- ing the Arsenal quay uttered a cry ; the man's head overbal- anced his body ; the man fell around the yard, with his hands outstretched towards the abyss ; on his way he seized the foot- rope, first with one hand, then with the other, and remained hanging from it : the sea lay below him at a dizzy depth ; the shock of his fall had imparted to the foot-rope a violent swing- ing motion ; the man swayed back and forth at the end of that rope, like a stone in a sling. It was incurring a frightful risk to go to his assistance ; not one of the sailors, all fishermen of the coast, recently levied fof the service, dared to attempt it. In the meantime, the unfortu- Digitized by Google COSETTE. 65 nate topman was losing his strength ; his anguish oould not he discerned on his face, hut his exhaustion was visible in every limb ; his aims were contracted in horrible twitchiugs ; every effort which he made to re-ascend served but to augment the oscillations of the foot-rope ; he did not shout, for fear of ex- hausting his strength. All were awaiting the minute when he should release his hold on tlie rope, and, from instant to instant, beads were turned aside that his fall might not be seen. There are moments when a bit of rope, a pole, the branch of a tree, is life itself, and it is a terrible thing to see a living being detach himself from it and fall like a ripe fruit. AU at once, a man was seen climbing into the rigging with the agility of a tiger-cat ; this man was dressed in red ; he was % coQTict ; he wore a green cap ; he was a life convict. On arriving on a level with the top, a gust of wind carried away his cap, and allowed a perfectly white head to be seen : he was not a 3'oung man. A convict employed on board with a detachment from the galleys had, in fact, at the very first instant, hastened to the officer of the watch, and, in the midst of the consternation and the hesitation of the crew, while all the sailors were trembling and drawing back, he had asked the officer's permission to risk his life to save the topman ; at an affirmative sign from the officer he had broken the chain riveted to his ankle with one blow of a hammer, then he had caught up a rope, and had dashed into the rigging : no one noticed, at the instant, with what ease that chain had been broken ; it was only later on that the incident was recalled. In a twinkling he was on the yard; he paused for a few seconds and appeared to be measuring it with his eye ; these seconds, during which the breeze swayed the topman at the extremity of a thread, seemed centuries to those who were looking on. At last, the convict raised his eyes to heaven and advanced a step : the crowd drew a long breath. He was seen to run out along the yard : on arriving at the point, he fastened the rope which he had brought to it, and allowed tlie other end to hang down, then he began to descend the rope, hand over hand, and then, — and the anguish was indescribable, — instead of one man suspended over the gulf, there* were two. One would have said it was a spider coming to seize a fly, only here the spider brought life, not death. Ten thousand glances were fastened on this group ; not a cry, not a word ; the same tremor contracted «very brow ; all mouths held theii Digitized by Google 66 LES MISÉRABLES. breath, as though they feared to add the slightest paff to the wind which was swaying the two unfortunate men. In the meantime, the convict had succeeded in lowering him- self to a position near the sailor. It was high time ; one minute more, and the exhausted and despairing man would have allowed himself to fall into the abyss. The convict had moored him securely with the cord to which he clung with one hand, while he was working with the other. At last, he was seen to climb back on the yard, and to drag the sailor up after him ; he held him tliere a moment to allow him to recover his strength, then he grasped him in his arms and carried him, walking on the yard himself to the cap, and from there to the main-top, where he left him in the hands of his comrades. At that moment the crowd broke into applause : old convict- sergeants among them wept, and women embraced each other on the quay, and all voiced were heard to cry with a sort of tender rage, " Pardon for tliat man ! " He, in the meantime, had immediately begun to make his descent to rejoin his detachment. In order to reach them the more speedily, he dropped into the rigging, and ran along one of the lower yards ; all eyes were following him. At a certain moment fear assailed them; whether it was that he was fa- tigued, or that his head turned, they thought they saw him hes- itate and stagger. All at once the crowd uttered a loud shout : the convict had fallen into the sea. The fall was perilous. The frigate Algésiras was anchored alongside the Orion^ and the poor convict had fallen between the two vessels : it was to be feared that he would slip under one or the other of them. Four men flung themselves hastily into a boat ; the crowd cheered them on ; anxiety again took possession of all souls ; the man had not risen to the surface ; he had disappeared in the sea without leaving a ripple, as though he had fallen into a cask of oil : they sounded, they dived. In vain. The search was continned until the evening: they did not even find the body. On the following day the Toulon newspaper printed these tines : — "Nov. 17, 1823. Yesterda}', a convict belonging to the detachment on board of the Orion^ on his return from render- ing assistance to a sailor, fell into the sea and was drowned. The body has not yet been found ; it is supposed that it is en- tangled among the piles of the Arsenal point: this man was committed under the number 9,430, and his name was Jeai Valjean.'* Digitized by Google COSETTB. tl BOOK THIRD.— ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROM- ISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN. I. — Th£ Water Question at Montfermeil. MoKTFERifEiL is situated between Livry and Chelles, on the Bouthern edge of that lof tj' table-land which separates the Ourcq from the Marne. At the present day it is a tolerably large town, ornamented all the year through with plaster villas, a;id on Sundays with beaming bourgeois. In 1823 there were at Montfermeil neither so many white houses nor so many well- satisfied citizens : it was only a village in the forest. Some pleasure-houses of the last century were to be met with there, to be sure, which were recognizable by their grand air, their balconies in twisted iron, and their long windows, whose tiny panes cast all sorts of varying shades of green on the white of the closed shuttei's ; but Montfermeil was none the less a village. Retired cloth-merchants aud rusticating attorneys had not dis- covered it as yet ; it was a peaceful and charming place, which was not on the road to anywhere : there people lived, and cheaply, that peasant rustic life which is so bounteous and so easy ; only, water was rare there, on account of the elevation of the plateau. It was necessary to fetch it from a considerable distance ; the end of the village towards Gagny drew its water from the magnificent ponds which exist in the woods there. The other end, which surrounds the church and which lies in the direction of Chelles, found drinking-water only at a little spring half- way down the slope, near the road to Chelles, about a quarter -A an hour from Montfermeil. Thus each household found it hard work to keep supplied with water. The large houses, the aristocracy, of which the Thénardier tavern formed a part, paid half a farthing a bucket- ful to a man who made a business of it, and who earned about eight sous a day in his enterprise of supplying Montfermeil with water ; but this good man only worked until seven o'clock in the evening in summer, and five in winter ; and night once come and the shutters on the ground floor once closed, he who had no water to drink went to fetch it for himself or did without it. This constituted the terror of the poor creature whom the reader has probably not forgotten, — little Cosette. It will be re< Digitized by Google «s LES MISÉRABLES. membered that Cosette was useful to the Théuardiers in twc ways : they made the mother pay them, aud they made the child serve them. So when the mother ceased to pay altogether, tlic reason for which we have read in preceding chapters, the Thé- nardiers kept Cosette. She took the place of a servant in their house. In this capacity she it was who ran to fetch water when it was required. So the child, who was greatly terrified at the idea of going to the spring at night, took great care that water •hould never be lacking in the house. Christmas of the year 1823 was particularly^ brilliant at Mont- fermeil. The beginning of the winter had been mild ; there had been neither snow nor frost up to that time. Some mounte- banks from Paris had obtained permission of the mayor to erect their booths in the principal street of the village, and a band of itinerant merchants, under protection of the same tolerance, had constructed their stalls on the Church Square, and even extended them into Boulanger Alley, where, as the reader will perhaps remember, the Thénardiers' hostelry was situated. These people filled the inns and drinking-shops, and communi- cated to that tranquil little district a noisy and joyous life. In order to play the part of a faithful historian, we ought even to add that, among the curiosities displayed in the square, there was a menagerie, in which frightful clowns, clad in rags and coming no one knew whence, exhibited to the peasants of Mont- fermeil in 1823 one of those horrible Brazilian vultures, such as our Royal Museum did not possess until 1845, and which have a tricolored cockade for an eye. I believe that naturalists call this bird Caracara Polyborus ; it belongs to the order of the Apici- des, and to the family of the vultures. Some good old Bona- partist soldiers, who had retired to the village, went to see this creature with great devotion. The mountebanks gave out that the tricolored cockade was a unique phenomenon made by God 8xi)res8ly for their menagerie. On Christmas eve itself, a number of men, carters and pedlers, were seated at table, drinking and smoking ai'ound four or five candles in the public room of Thénardier's hostelry. This room resembled all drinkiug-shop I'ooms, — tables, pewter jugs, bottles, drinkers, smokers ; but little light and a great deal of noise. The date of the year 1823 was indicated, neverthe- less, by two objects which were then fashionable in the bour- geois class : to wit, a kaleidoscope and a lamp of ribbed tin. The female Thénardier was attending to the supper, which was roasting in front of a clear fire ; her husband was drinking witb his customers and talking politics. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 69 Besides political conversations which had for their principal subjects the Spanish war and M. le Due d'Angouleine, strictly local parentheses, like the following, were audible amid the up- roar : — " About Nan terre and Suresnes the vines have flourished greatly. When ten pieces were reckoned on there have been twelve. They have yielded a great deal of juice under the press." *'l}ut the grapes cannot be ripe?" ''In those parts the grapes should not be ripe ; the wine turns oily as soon as spring comes." ''Then it is very thin wine?" "There are wines poorer even than these. The grapes must be gathered while green." Etc. Or a miller would call out : — "Are we responsible for what is in the sacks? We find in them a quantity of small seed which we cannot sift out, and which we are obliged to send through the mill-stones; there are tares, fennel, vetches, hempseed, fox-tail, and a host of other weeds, not to mention pebbles, which abound in certain wheat, especially in Breton wheat. I am not fond of grinding Breton wheat, any more than long-sawyers like to saw beams with nails in them. You can judge of the bad dust that makes in grinding. And then people complain of the flour. They are in the wrong. The flour is no fault of ours." In a space between two windows a mower, who was seated at table with a landed proprietor who was fixing on a price for some meadow work to be performed in the spring, was saying : — " It does no harm to have the grass wet. It cuts better. Dew is a good thing, sir. It makes no difference with that grass. Your grass is young and very hard to cut still. It's terriblj' tender. It yields before the iron." Etc. Cosette was in her usual place, seated on the croHS-})ar of the kitchen table near the chimney. She was in rags ; her bare feet were thrust into wooden shoes, and by the firelight she was en- gaged in knitting woollen stockings destined for the young Thénardîers. A very young kitten was playing about among the chairs. Laughter and chatter were audible in the adjoining room, from two fresh children's voices : it was Éponine and Azelma. In the chimney-comer a cat-o'-nine-tails was hanging on a nail. At intervals the cry of a very young child, which was some- where in the house, rang through the noise of the dram-shop. It was a little boj* who had been born to the Thenardiers during one of the preceding winters, — '" she did not know why, "she Baid, *' the result of the cold," — and who was a little more than Digitized by Google ;0 LES MISÉRABLES. three years old. The mother had nursed him, but she did not love him. When the persistent clamor of the brat became too annoying, "Your son is squalling/' Tliénardier would say ; "do go and sec what he wants." '* liah ! " the mother would reply, " he bothers me." And the neglected child continued to shriek in the dark. II. — Two Complete Portraits. So far in this book the Thénardiers have been viewed only in profile ; the moment has arrived for making the circuit of this couple, and considering it under all its aspects. Thénardier had just passed his fiftieth birthday ; Madame Thénardier was approaching her forties, which is equivalent to fifty in a woman ; so that there existed a balance of age between husband and wife. Our readers have possibly preserved some recollection of this Thénardier woman, ever since her first appearance, — tall, blond, red, fat, angular, square, enormous, and agile ; she be- longed, as we have said, to the race of those colossal wild women, who contort themselves at fairs with paving-stones hanging from their hair. She did everything about the house, — made the beds, did the washing, the cooking, and everything else. Cosette was her only servant ; a mouse in the service of an elephant. P^verything trembled at the sound of her voice, — window panes, furniture, and people. Her big face, dotted with red blotches, presented the appearance of a skimmer. She had a beaiti. She was an ideal market-porter dressed in woman's clothes. She swore splendidly ; she boasted of being able to crack a nut with one blow of her fist. Except for the romances which she hud read, and which made the affected lady peep through the ogress at times, in a very queer way, the idea would never have occurred to any one to say of her, "That is a woman." This Thénardier female was like the product of a wench engrafted on a fishwife. When one heard her speak, one said, '' That is a gendarme" ; when one saw her drink, one said, "That is a carter"; when one saw her handle Cosette , one said, " That is the hangman." One of her teeth projected when her face was in repose. Thénardier was a small, thin, pale, angular, bony, ffeeble man, who had a sickly air and who was wonderfully healthy. His cunning began here ; he smiled habitually, by waj' of precaO' tion, and was almost polite to everybody, even to the beggar to whom he refused half a farthing. He had the glance of a pole- Digitized by Google COSETTE. 71 £at and the bearing of a man of letters. He greatly resembled the portraits of the Abbé Delille. His coquetry consisted in drinking with the carters. No one had ever succeeded in ren- dering him drunk. He smoked a big pipe. He wore a blouse, and under his blouse an old black coat. He made pretensions to literature and to materialism. There were certain names which he often pronounced to support whatever things he might be say- ing, — Voltaire, Raynal, Parny, and, singularly enough, Saint Augustine. He declared that he had " a system." In addition, he was a great swindler. A JUousophe [philosophe] , a scientific thief. The species does exist. It will be remembered that he pretended to have served in the army ; he was in the habit of relating with exuberance, how, being a sergeant in the 6th or the 9th light something or other, at Waterloo, he had alone, and in the presence of a squadron of death-dealing hussars, covered with his body and saved from death, in the midst of the grape- shot, " a general, who had been dangerously wounded." Thence arose for his wall the flaring sign, and for his inn the name which it bore in the neighborhood, of '' the cabaret of the Sergeant of Waterloo." He was a liberal, a classic, and a Bonapartist. He had subscribed for the Champ d'Asile. It was said in the village that he had studied for the priesthood. We believe that he had simply studied in Holland for an inn- keeper. This rascal of composite order was, in all probability, some Fleming from Lille, in Flanders, a Frenchman in Paris, a Belgian at Brussels, being comfortably astride of both fron- tiers. As for his prowess at Waterloo, the reader is already acquainted with that. It will be perceived that he exaggerated it a trifle. Ebb and flow, wandering, adventure, was the leven of his existence; a tattered conscience entails a fragmentary life, and, apparently at the stormy epoch of June 18, 1815, Thénardier belonged to that variety of marauding sutlers of which we have spoken, beating about the country, selling to some, stealing from others, and travelling like a family man, with wife and children, in a rickety cart, in the rear of troops on the march, with an instinct for always attaching himself to the victorious army. This campaign ended, and having, as he said, *'some quibus," he had come to Montfermeil and set up an inn there. This quibus^ composed of purses and watches, of gold rings and silver crosses, gathered in harvest- time in furrows sown with corpses, did not amount to a large total, and did not carry this sutler turned eating-house-keeper very far. Thénardier had that peculiar rectilinear something about his uignizeu uy vjOOvt Iv^ 72 LES MISÉRABLES. gestures which, accompanied by an oath, recalls the barracks, and by a sign of the cross, the seminary. He was a tine talker. He allowed it to be thought that he was an educated man. Nevertheless^ the schoolmaster had noticed that he pronounced improperly.^ He composed the travellers' tariff card in a superior manner, but practised eyes sometimes spied out orthographical errors in it. Thénardier was cunniug, greedy, slothful, and clever. He did not disdain his servants, which caused his wife to dis])euse with them. This giantess was jealous. It seemed to her that that thin and yellow little man must be an object coveted by all. Thénardier, who was, above all, an astute and well-balanced man, was a scamp of a temperate sort. This is the worst species ; hypocrisy enters into it. It is not that Thénardier was not, on occasion, capable of wrath to quite the • same degree as his wife ; but this was very rare, and at such times, since he was enraged with the human race in general, as he bore within him a deep furnace of hatred. And since he was one of those people who are contin- ually avenging their wrongs, who accuse everything that passes before them of everything which has befallen them, and who are alwa} s ready to cast upon the first person who comes to hand, as a legitimate grievance, the sum total of the deceptions, the bankruptcies, and the calamities of their lives, — when all this leaven was stirred up in him and boiled forth from his mouth and eyes, he was terrible. Woe to the person who came under his wrath at such a time ! In addition to his other qualities, Thénardier was attentive and penetrating, silent or talkative, according to circumstances, and always highly intelligent. He had something of the look of sailors, who are accustomed to screw up their eyes to gaze through marine glasses. Thénardier was a statesman. Every new-comer who entered the tavern said, on catching sight of Madame Thénardier, '* There is the master of the house." A mistake. She was not even the mistress. The husband was both master and mistress. She worked ; he created. He directed everything by a sort of invisible and constant magnetic action. A word was sufHeient for him, sometimes a sign ; the mastodon obeyed. Thénardier was a sort of special and sovereign being in Madame Thénardîer's eyes, though she did not thoroughly realize it. She was pos- 1 Literally " made cuire *' ; te., pronouDced a < or an i at the end of words whore the opposite letter should occur, or used either one of them whert neither exists. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 78 .** sessed of virtues after her own kiud ; if she had ever had a /lisagreemeiit as to any detail with '^ Monsieur Tliénardier," — which was an inadmissible hypothesis, by the way, — she would not have blameil her husband in public on any subject what- ever. She would never have committed '^ before strangers " that mistake so often committed by women, and which is called in parliamentary language, "exposing the crown." Although their concord had only evil as its result, there was contempla- tion in Madams Thénardicr's submission to lier husband. That mountain of noise and of flesh moved under the little finger of that frail despot. Viewed on its dwarfed and grotesque side, this was that grand and universal thing, the adoration of mind by matter ; for certain ugly features have a cause in the very depths of eternal beauty. There was an unknown quantity aliout Thénardier ; hence the absolute empire of the man over that woman. At certain moments she beheld him like a lighted candle ; at others she felt him like a claw. This woman was a formidable creature who loved no one except her children, and who did not fear any one except her husband. She was a mother because she was mammiferous. Bat her maternity stopped short with her daughters, and, as we shall see, did not extend to boys. The man had but one thought, — how to enrich himself. He did not succeed in this. A theatre woith}' of this great talent was lacking. Thénardier was ruining himself at Mont- fermeil, if ruin is possible to zero; in Switzerland or in the Pyrenees tliis penniless scamp would have become a millionnaire ; but an inn-keeper must browse where fate has hitched him. It will be understood that the word inn-keeper is here em- ployed in a restricted sense, and does not extend to an en tira class. In this same year, 1823, Thénardier was burdened with about fifteen hundred francs' worth of petty debts, and this rendered him anxious. Whatever may have been the obstinate injustice of destiny in this case, Thénardier was one of those men who undersUmd best, with the most profundity and in the most modern fashion, that thing which is a virtue among barbarous peoples and an object of merchandise among civilized peoples, — hospitality. Besides, he was an admirable poacher, and quoted for his skill in shooting. He had a certain cold and tranquil laugh, which was particularly dangerous. His theories as a landlord sometimes burst forth in lightning flashes. He bad professional aphorisms, which he inserted into Digitized by Google 74 LES MISÉRABLES. his wife's mind. .'^ The duty of the inn-keeper/' he said to hei one day, violently, and in a low voice, " is to sell to the first* comer, stews, repose, light, fire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, and a smile ; to stop passers-bj', to empty small purses, and to honestly lighten heavy ones ; to shelter travelling families re- spectfully : to shave the man, to pluck the woman, to pick the child clean ; to quote the window open, the window shut, the chimney-corner, the arm-chair, the chair, the ottoman, the stool, the feather-bed, the mattress and the trass of straw ; to know bow much the shadow uses up the mirror, and to put a price on it ; and, by five hundred thousand devils, to make the traveller pay for everything, even for the flies which his dog eats ! " This man and this woman were ruse and rage wedded — a hideous and terrible team. While the husband pondered and combined, Madame Thénar- dier thought not of absent creditors, took no heed of yesterday nor of to-morrovsette applied herself to her work once more, but for a quarter of an hour she felt her heart leaping in her bosom like a big snow-flake. She counted the minutes that passed in this manner, and wished it were the next morning. From time to time one of the drinkers looked into the street, and exclaimed, "It's as black as an oven ! " or, " One must needs be a cat to go about the streets without a lantern at this hour ! " And Cosette trembled. AU at once one of the pedlers who lodged in the. hostelry entered, and said in a harsh voice : — " My horse has not been watered." ** Yes, it has," said Madame Thénardier. ** I tell you that it has not," retorted the pedler. Cosette had emerged from under the table. ^^Oh, yes, sir!" said she, "the horse has had a dnnk; he drank out of a bucket, a whole bucketful, and it was I who sook the water to him, and I spoke to him." It was not true ; Cosette lied. " Tîiere's a brat as big as my fist who tells lies as big as the bouse," exclaimed the pedler. " I tell you that he has not Digitized by Google 76 LES MISERABLES. been watered, you little jade ! He has a way of blowing whet he has had no water,*which I know well." Cosette persisted, and added in a voice rendered hoarse with anguish, and which was haixily audible : — " And he even drank heartily." •'Come," said the pedler, in a rage, "this won't do at all, let my horse be watered, and let that be the end of it I " Cosette cropt under the table again. '' In truth, that is fair ! " said Madame Thénardier, '' if the <)east has not been watered, it must be." Then glancing about her : — '* Well, now ! Where's that other beast? " She bent down and discovered Cosette cowering at the other end of the table, almost under the drinkers* feet. ** Are you coming?" shrieked Madame Thénardier. Cosette crawled out of the sort of hole in which she had hid- den herself. The Thénardier resumed : — " Mademoiselle Dog-lack-name, go and water that horse." *' But, Madame," said Cosette, feebly, *' there is no water." The Thénardier threw the street door wide open : — '* Well, go and get some, then ! " Cosette dropped her head, and went for an empty bucket which stood near the chimney-corner. This bucket was bigger than she was, and the child could have set down in it at her ease. The Thénardier returned to her stove, and tasted what waa in the stewpan, with a wooden spoon, grumbling the while: — ''There's plenty in the spring. There never was such a malicious creature as that. I think I should have done better to strain my onions." Then she rummaged in a drawer which contained sous, pepper, and shallots. " Seebere, Mam'selle Toad," she added, " on your way back, you will get a big loaf from the baker. Here's a fifteen-sox] piece." Cosette had a little pocket on one side of her apron ; she took the coin without saying a word, and put it in that pocket. Then she stood motionless, bucket in hand, the open door before her. She seemed to be waiting for some one to come to her rescue. " Get along with you ! " screamed the Thénardier. Cosette went out. The door closed behind her. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 77 IV. — Entrance on the Scene op a Doll. The line of open-air booths starting at the church, extended, as the reader will remember, as far as the hostelry of the Thé* nardiers. These booths were all illuminated, because the citizens would soon pass on their way to the midnight mass, with candles burning in paper funnels, which, as the school* master, then seated at the table at the Thénardiers' observed, produced ^^ a magical effect." In compensation, not a star wa4 visible in the sky. The last of these stalls, established precisely opposite the Thénardiers' door, was a toy-shop all glittering with tinsel, glass, and magnificent objects of tin. In the first row, and far forwards, the merchant had placed on a background of white napkins, an immense doll, nearl}' two feet high, who was dressed in a robe of pink crepe, with gold wheat-ears on her head, which had real hair and enamel eyes. All that day, this mar* vel had been displayed to the wonderment of all passers-by under ten years of age, without a mother being found in Mont- fermeil sufficiently rich or suflîciently extravagant to give it to her child. Éponine and Azelma had passed hours in contemplât- ing it, and Cosette herself had ventured to cast a glance at it, on the sly, it is true. At the moment when Cosette emerged, bucket in hand, melancholy and overcome as she was, she could not refrain from lifting her eyes to that wonderful doll, towards the lady^ as she called it. The poor child paused in amazement. She had not 3et beheld that doll close to. The whole shop seemed a palace to her : the doll was not a doll ; it was a vision. It was joy, splendor, riches, happiness, which appeared in a sort of chimerical halo to that unhappy little being so profoundly en- gulfed in gloomy and chilU' miser}'. With the sad and innocent sagacity of childhood, Cosette measured the abyss which sepa- rated her from that doll. She said to herself that one must be a queen, or at least a princess, to have a " thing" like that. She gazed at that beautiful pink dress, that beautiful smooth hair, and she thought, " How happy that doll must be ! " She could not take her eyes from that fantastic stall. The more she looked, the more dazzled she grew. She thought she was gaz- ing at paradise. There were other dolls behind the large one, which seemed to her to fairies and genii. The merchant, who was pacing back and forth in front of his shop, produced on hei ■omewhat the effect of being the Eternal Father. Digitized by Google 78 LES MISÉRABLES. In this adoration she foi^ot everything, even the errand wiU «rhich she was charged. All at once the Thénardier's coarse voice recalled her to reality: "What, you silly jade! you have not gone? Wait I I'll give it to you ! I want to know what you are doing there I Get along, you little monster ! " The Thénardier had cast a glance into the street, and had •:a(i<]:ht sight of Cosette in her ecstasy. Oosette fled, dragging her pail, and taking the longest strides ot which she was capable. V. — The Lfttlr One All Alone. As the Thénardier hostelry was in that part of the village which is near the church, it was to the spring in the forest in the direction of Chelles that Cosette was obliged to go for her water. She did not glance at the display of a single other merchant. So long as she was in Boulanger Lane and in the neighborhood of the church, the lighted stalls illuminated the roml ; but soon tlie last light from the last stall vanished. The poor child found herself in the dark. She plunged into it. Only, as a certain emotion overcame her, she made as much motion as possible with the handle of the* bucket as she walked along. This made a noise which afforded her company. The further she went, the denser the darkness became. There was no one in the streets. However, she did encounter a woman, who turned around on seeing her, and stood still, mut- tering between her teeth : ** Where can that child be going? I& it a werewolf child ? " Then the woman recognized Cosette* " Well," said she, " it's the Lark ! " In this manner Cosette traversed the labyrinth of tortaons and deserted streets which terminate in tlie village of Montfer- meil on the side of Chelles. So long as she had the houses oi even the walls only on both sides of her path, she prooeede<î with tolerable boldness. From time to time she oanght the flicker of a candle through the crack of a shutter — this was light and life ; there were people there, and it reassured her. But in proportion as she advanced, her pace slackened mechan- ically, as it were. When she had passed the corner of the laî^t house, Cosette paused. It had been hard to advance further than the last stall ; it became impossible to proceed further than the last house. vShc set her bucket on the ground, thrust her hand into her hair, and began slowly to scratc^h lier heady - * Digitized by Google COSETTE. n a gesture peculiar to children when terrified and undecided what to do. It was no longer Montfermeil ; it was the open fields. Black and desert space was before her. She gazed in despaif at that darkness, where there was no longer an}* one, where there were beasts, where there were spectres, possibly. She took a good look, and heard the beasts walking on the grass, and she distinctly saw spectres moving in the trees. Then she seized her bucket again ; fear had lent her audacity. " Bah ! " said she; '^ I will tell him that there was no more water I' And she resolutely re-entered Montfermeil. Hardly had she gone a hundred paces when she paused and began to scratch her head again. Now it was the Thénardier who appeared to her, with her hideous, hyena mouth, and wrath flashing in her eyes. The child cast a melancholy glance before her and beliind her. What was she to do ? What was to become of her ? Where was she to go ? In front of her was the spectre of the Tliénardier ; behind her all the phantoms of the night and of the forest. It was before the Thénardier that she recoiled. She resumed her path to the spring, and began to run. She emerged from the village, she entered the forest at a run, no longer looking at or listening to anything. She only paused in her course when her breath failed her ; but she did not halt in her advance. She went straight before her in desperation. As she ran she felt like crying. The nocturnal quivering of the forest surrounded her com« pletely. She no longer thought, she no longer saw. The immensity of night was facing this tiny creature. On the one hand, all shadow ; on the other, an atom. It was only seven or eight minutes' walk «f rom the edge of the woods to the spring. Cosette knew the way, through having gone over it many times in daylight. Strange to say, she did not get lost. A remnant of instinct guided her vaguely. But she did not turn her eyes either to right or to left, for fear of seeing things in the branches and in the brushwood. In this manner she reached the spring. It was a narrow, natural basin, hollowed out by the water in a clayey soil, about two feet deep, surrounded with moss and with those tall, crimped grasses which are called Henry IV. 's frills, and paved with several large stones. A brook ran out <^f it, with a tranquil little noise. Oosette did not take time to breathe. It was very dark, but ■^e was in the habit of coming to this spring. She felt with hcl left hand in the dark for a young oak which leaned over th« Digitized by Google so LES MISÉRABLES. spring, and which usually served to support her, found one ol Its branches, clung to it, bent down, and plunged tlie bucket vo the water. She was in a state of such violent excitement that her strength was trebled. While thus bent over, she did not notice that the pocket of her ai)ron had emptied itself into the spring. The fifteen-sou piece fell into the water. Cosette neither saw nor heard it fall. She drew out the bucket nearly «hll, and set it on the grass. That done, she perceived that she was worn out with fatigue. She would have liked to set out again at once, but the effort rt^quired to fill the bucket had been such that she found it fi\iiK)ssible to take a step. She was forced to sit down. She dropped on the grass, and remained crouching there. She shut her eyes; then she opened them again, without knowing why, but because she could not do otherwise. The agitated water in the bucket beside her was describing circles which resembled tin serpents. Overhead the sky was covered with vast black clouds, which were like masses of smoke. The tragic mask of shadow seemed to bend vaguely over the child. Jupiter was setting in the depths. The child stared with bewildered eyes at this great star, with which she was unfamiliar, and which terrified her. The planet was, in fact, very near the horizon and was traversing a dense layer of mist which imparted to it a hoiTible ruddy hue. The mist, gloomily empurpled, magnified the star. One would have called it a luminous wound. A cold wind was blowing from the plain. The forest was dark, not a leaf was moving ; there were none of the vague, fresh gleams of sutnmertide. Great boughs uplifted themselves in friglitful wise. Slender and misshapen bushes whistled in lihe clearings. The tall grasses undulated like eels under the lorth wind. The nettles seemed to twist long arms furnished ^itli claws in search of prey. Some bits of dry heather, tossed by the breeze, flew rapidly by, and had the air of fleeing in icrror before something wliich was coming after. On all sides there were lugubrious stretches. The darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Who- ever buries himself in the opposite of day feels his heart con- tract. When the eye sees black, the heart sees trouble. In an eclipse in the night, in the sooty opacity, there is anxiety even for the stoutest of hearts. No one walks alone in the forest at night without treinblins:. Shadows and trees — two formidable densities. A chimerical reality appears in the indistinct depths. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 81 rhe inconceivable is outlined a few paces distant from you with a spectral clearuess. One beholds floating, either in space or in one's own brain, one knows not what vague and intangible thing, like the dreams of sleeping flowers. There are fierce attitudes on the horizon. One inhales the effluvia of the great black void. One is afraid to glance behind him, yet desirous of doing so. The cavities of night, things grown haggard, taciturn profiles which vanish when one advances, obscure dishevel- ments, irritated tufts, livid pools, the lugubrious reflected in the funereal, the sepulchral immensity of silence, unknown but pos sible beings, bendings of mysterious branches, alarming torsos of trees, long handfuls of quivering plants, — against all this one has no protection. There is no hardihood which does not shudder and which does not feel the vicinity of anguish. One is conscious of something hideous, as though one's soul were becoming amalgamated with the darkness. This penetration of the shadows is indescribably sinister in the case of a child. Forests are apocalypses, and the beating of the wings of a tiny soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault. Without understanding her sensations, Cosette was conscious that she was seized upon by. that black enormity of nature ; it was no longer terror alone which was gaining possession of her; it was something more terrible even than terror; she shivered. There are no words to express the strangeness of that shiver which chilled her to the very bottom of her heart ; her eye grew wild ; she thought she felt that she should not be able to refrain from returning there at the same hour on the morrow. Then, by a sort of instinct, she began to count aloud, one, two, three, four, and so on up to ten, in order to escape from that singular state which she did not understand, but whicb cerrified her, and, when she had finished, she began again ; this restored her to a true perception of the things about her. Hei hands, which she had wet in drawing the water, felt cold ; she rose ; her terror, a natural and unconquerable terror, had re- tamed : she had but one thought now, — to flee at full speed through the forest, across the fields to the houses, to the win clows, to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which stood before her ; such was the fright which the Thenar- dier inspired in her, that she dared not flee without that bucket of water : she seized the handle with both hands ; she could hardly lift the pail. In this manner she advanced a dozen paces, but the bucket Digitized by Google 82 LES MISERABLES. was full ; it was heavy ; she was forced to set it on the ground ouce more. She took breath for nn instant, then lifted the handle of the bucket again, and resumed her march, proceed* ing a little further this time, but again she was obliged to pause. After some seconds of repose she set out again. She walked bent forward, with drooping head, like an old woman ; the weight of the bucket strained and stiffened her thin arms. The iron handle completed the benumbing and freezing of hei wet and tiny hands ; she was forced to halt from time to time, 2ind each time that she did so, the cold water which splasheil from the pail fell on her bare legs. This took place in the deptlis of a forest, at night, in winter, far from all human sight ; she was a child of eight : no one but God saw that sad thing at the moment. And her mother, no doubt, alas ! For there are things that make the dead open their ej es in their graves. She panted with a sort of painful rattle ; sobs contracted her throat, but she dared not weep, so afraid was she of the Thénardier, even at a distance : it was her custom to imagine the Thénardier always present. However, she could not make much headway in that manner, and she went on very slowly. In spite of diminishing the length of her stops, and of walking as long as possible between them, she reflected with anguish that it would take her more than an hour to return to Montfermeil in this manner, and that the Thénardier would beat her. This anguish was mingled with her terror at being alone in the woods at night ; she was worn out with fatigue, and had not yet emerged from the forest. On arriving near an old chestnut-tree with which she WiUj acquainted, made a h\st halt, longer than the rest, in order that she might get well rested ; then she summoned up all her streugth, picked up her bucket again, and courageousl}' re- 3amed her march, but the poor little desperate creature oould QOt refrain from crying, " O my God ! my God ! " At that momeut she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer weighed anything at all : a hand, which seemed to her enormous, had just seized the handle, and lifted it vigor* ously. She raised her head. A large black form, sti*aight and erect, was walking beside her through the darkness ; it was a man who had come up l)ehind her, and whose approach she had not heard. This man, without uttering a word, had seized th« handle of the bucket which she was carrying. There are instincts for all the encounters of life. The child was not «teld. Digitized by Google COSETTB. 81 Vie — Which possibly proves Boulatbuelle's Intellioenge. On the afternoon of that same Christmas Day, 1823, a man had walked for rather a long time in the most deserted part of the Boulevard de l'Hôpital in Paris. This man had the air of a person who is seeking lodgings, and he seemed to halt, by preference, at the most modest houses on that dilapidated border of the fauborg Saint-Marceau. We shall see further on that this man had, in fact, hired a chamber in that isolated quarter. This man, in his attire, as in all his person, realized the type of what may be called the well-bred mendicant, — extreme wretchedness combined with extreme cleanliness. This is a very rare mixture which inspires intelligent hearts with that double respect which one feels for the man who is very poor, and for the man who is veiy worthy. He wore a very old and very well brushed round hat ; a coarse coat, worn perfectly threadbare, of an ochre yellow, a color that was not in the least eccentric at that epoch ; a large waistcoat with pockets of a venerable cut ; black breeches, worn gray at the knee, stockings of black worsted ; and thick shoes with copper buckles. He would have been pro- nounced a preceptor in some good family, returned from the emigration. He would have been taken for more than sixty years of age, from his perfectly white hair, his wrinkled brow, his livid lips, and his countenance, where everything breathed depression and weariness of life. Judging from his firm tread, from the singular vigor which stamped all his movements, he woald have hardly been thought fifty. The wrinkles on his brow were well placed, and would have disposed in his favor any one who observed him attentively. His lip contracted with a strange fold which seemed severe, and which was humble. Tliere was in the depth of his glance an indescribable melancholy serenity. In his left hand he carried a little bundle tied up in a handker- chief ; in his right he leaned on a sort of a cudgel, cut from some hedge. This stick had been carefull}' trimmed, and had an air that was not too threatening ; the most had been made of its knots, and it had received a coral-iike head, made from red wax : it was a cudgel, and it seemed to be a cane. There are but few passers-by on that boulevard, particularly in the winter. The man seemed to avoid them rather than to seek them, but this without any affectation. At that epoch. King Louis XVIII. went nearly every day to Choisy-le-Boi : it was one of his favorite excursions. Toward» Digitized by Google 84 LES MISERABLES. two o'clock, almost invariably, the royal carnage and cavalcad* was seen to pass at full speed along the Boulevard de THôpitaL. This served in lieu of a watch or clock to the poor women of the quarter who said, *' It is two o'clock ; there he is return- ing to tlie Tuileries." And some rushed forward, and others drew up in line, for a passing king always creates a tumult; besides, the appearance and disappearance of Louis XVIII. produced a certain eflect in the streets of Paris. It was rapid but majestic. This impotent king had a taste for a fast gallop ; as he was not able to walk, he wished to run : that cripple would gladly have had himself drawn by the lightning. He passed, pacific and severe, in the midst of naked swords. His massive couch, all covered with gilding, with great branches of lilies painted on the panels, thundered noisily along. There was hardly time to cast a glance upon it. In the rear angle on the right there was visible on tufted cushions of white satin a large, firm, and ruddy face, a brow freshly powdered à V oiseau royal, a proud, hard,. crafty eye, the smile of an educated man, two great epaulets with bul- lion fringe floating over a bourgeois coat, the Golden Fleece, the cross of Saint Louis, the cross of the Legion of Honor, the silver plaque of the Saint-Esprit, a huge belly, and a wide blue ribbon : it was the king. Outside of Paris, he lield his hat decked with white ostrich plumes on his knees enwrapped in high English gaiters ; when he re-entered the city, he put on his hat and saluted rarely ; he stared coldly at the people, and they returncMl it in kind. When he appeared for tlie first time in the Saint- Marceau quarter, the whole success which he produced is con- tained in this remark of an inhabitant of the faubourg to his comrade, " That big fellow yonder is tlie government.** This infallible passage of the king at the same hour was, therefore, the daily event of the Boulevard de ITIôpital. The promenader in the yellow coat evidently did not lx4onp in the quarter, and probably did not belong in Paris, for he waç ignorant as to this detail. When, at two o'clock, the royal ear- riîige, surrounded by a squadron of the body-guard all covered with silver lace, deboucihed on the boulevard, after having made the turn of the Salpctrii'Te, he appeared surprised and almost alarmed. There was no one but himself in this cross-lane. He drew up hastily behind the corner of the wall of an enelosnre, though this did not prevent M. le Due de Havre from spying him out. M. le Dnc de Havre, as captain of the guard on duty that day, was 8oat4?d in the carriîige, opposite the king. He said u» Digitized by Google COSETTE. 85 his Majesty, " Yonder is an evil-looking man." Members oi the ijolice, who were clearing the king's route, took equal note of him : one of them received an order to follow him. But the man plunged into the deserted little streets of the faubourg, and as twilight was beginning to fall, the agent lost trace of him, as is stated in a report addressed that same evening to M. le Comte d'Angles, Minister of State, Prefect of Police. When the man in the yellow coat had thrown the agent off bis track, he redoubled his pace, not without turning round many a time to assure himself that he was not being followed. At a quarter-past four, that is to say, when night was fully come, he passed in front of the theatre of the Porte Saiut-Martin, where The Two Convicts was being played that day. This poster, illuminated by the theatre lanterns, struck him ; for, although he was walking rapidly, he halted to read it. An instant later he was in the blind alley of La Planchette, and he entered the Plat d'Etain [the Pewter Platter], where the office of the coach for Lagny was then situated. Tlïis coach set out at half -past four. The horses were harnessed, and the iiavellers, summoned by the coachman, were hastily climbing the lofty iron ladder of the vehicle. The man inquired : — *'Have you a place?" "Only one — beside me on the box," said the coachman. '^ will take it." '' Climb up." Nevertheless, before setting out, the coachman cast a glance at the traveller's shabby dress, at the diminutive size of his bundle, and made him pay his fare. ** Are you going as far as Lagny? " demanded the coachman. " Yes," said the man. The traveller paid to Lagny. They started. When they had passed the barrier, the coach- 3ian tried to enter into conversation, but the traveller only re- plied in monosyllables. The coachman took to whistling and fiwearing at his horses. The coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak. It was cold. The man did not appear to be thinking of that. Thus they passed Gournay and Neuilly-sur-Marne. Towards six o'clock in the evening they reached Cholles. The coachman drew up in front of the carters' iuu installed in tlie ancient buildings of the. Royal Abbey, to give his horses a breathing spell. ^^ I get down here," said the man. Digitized by Google $6 LES MISÉRABLES. He took his bundle and his cudgel and jumped down froni slie vehicle. An instant later he had disappeared. He did not enter the inn. When the coach set out for Lagny a few minutes later, it did not encounter him in the principal street of Chelles. The coachman turned to the inside travellers. " There," said he, *' is a man who does not belong here, foi I do not know him. He had not the air of owning a sou, but he docs not consider money ; he pays to Lagny, and he goes only as far as Chelles. It is night ; all the houses are shut; be does not enter the inn, and he is not to be found. So he has dived tlirough the earth." The man had not plunged into the earth, but he had gone with great strides through the dark, down the principal street of Chelles, then he had turned to the right before reaching the church, into the cross-road leading taMontfermeil, like a person who was acquainted with the country and had been there before. He followed this road rapidl3\ At the spot where it is in- tersected by the ancient tree-bordered road which runs from Gagny to Lagny, he heard people coming. He concealed him- self precipitately in a ditch, and there waited until the passers- by were at a distance. The precaution was nearly superfluous, however; for, as we have already said, it was a very dark December night. Not more than two or three stars were visible in the sky. It is at this point that the ascent of the hill begins. The man did not return to the road to Montfermeil; he struck across the fields to the right, and entered the forest with long strides. Once in the forest he slackened his pace, and began a careful examination of all the trees, advancing, step by step, as though seeking and following a mysterious road known to himself alone. There came a moment when he appeared to lose him- self, and he paused in indecision. At last he arrived, by dint of feeling his way inch by inch, at a clearing where there was a great heap of whitish stones. He stepped up briskly to these stones, and examined them attentively through the mists of niglit, as though he were passing them in review. A large tree, covered with those excrescences which are the warts of vege- tation, stood a few paces distant from the pile of stones. He went up to this tree and passed his hand over the bark of the trunk, as thougli seek ins: to recognize and count all the warts. Opposite this tree, which was an ash, there was a chestnut- Digitized by Google COSETTE, 87 tree, suffering from a peeling of the bark, to which a band ot Line had been nailed by way of dressing. He raised himseK on tiptoe and toached this band of zinc. Then he trod about for awhile on the ground comprised in the space between the tree and the heap of stones, like a person wbo is trying to assure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed. That done, he took his bearings, and resumed his march through the forest. It was the man who had just met Cosette. As he walked through the thicket in the direction of Mont- fermeil, he had espied that tiny shadow moving with a groan, dei)ositing a burden on the ground, then taking it up and set- ting out again. He drew near, and perceived that it was a very young child, laden with an enormous bucket of water. Then he approached the child, and silently grasped the handle of the bucket. Vn. — Cosette Side by Side with the Stranger IN THE Dark. Cosette, as we have said, was not frightened. The man accosted her. He spoke in a voice that was grave and almost bass. *' My child, what you are carrying is very heavy for you." Cosette raised her head, and replied : — •' Yes, sir." " Give it to me," said the man ; *' I will carry it for 3'ou." Cosette let go of the bucket-handle. The man walked along beside her. "It really is very heavy," he muttered between his teeth Then he added : — '* How old are you, little one?" ''Eight, sir." " And have you come from far like this?" " From the spring in the forest." ** Are 30U going far?" " A good quarter of an hour's walk from here." The man said nothing for a moment; then he remarked abruptly : — " So you have no môtker?" '• I don't know," answered the child. Before the man had time to speak again, she added: — Digitized by Google g8 LES MISERABLES. ^^ I don't think so. Other people have mothers. I have none." And after a silence she went on : — *' I think that I never had any." The man halted ; he set the bucket on the ground, bent down and placed both hands on the child's shoulders, making an effort to look at her and to see her face in the dark. Cosette's thin and sickly face was vaguely outlined by the livid light in the sky. '* What is your name?'* said the man. " Cosette." The man seemed to have received an electric shock. He looked at her once more ; then he removed his hands from Co- sette's shoulders, seized the bucket, and set out again. After a moment he inquired : — " Where do you live, little one? " '' At Montfermeil, if you know where that is." " That is where we are going?" '* Yes, sir." He paused ; then began again : — " Who sent you at such an hour to get water in the forest?" " It was Madame Théuardier." The man resumed, in a voice which he strove to render in- different, but in which there was, nevertheless, a singular tremor : — *' What does your Madame Thénardicr do?" '* She is my mistress," said the child. *' She keeps the inn." "The inn?" said the man. "Well, I am going to lodge there to-night. Show me the way." " We are on the way there," said the child. The man walked tolerably fast. Cosette followed him with- out difficulty. She no longer felt any fatigue. From tiiue to time she raised her eyes towards the man, with a sort of tran- quillity and an indescribable confidence. She had never been taught to turn to Providence and to pray ; nevertheless, she felt within her something which resembled hope and joy, and which mounted towards heaven. Several minutes ela])8ed. The man resumed : — " Is there no servant in Madame Thénardier's house?** " No, sir." " Are you alone there?" " Yes, sir." Another pause ensued. Cosette lifted up her voice : — "That is to say, there are two little girls." Digitized by Google COSETTE. 8$ "What little girls?'* " Poiiine and Zelma." This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear to the female Thénardier. "Who are Popine and Zelma?" "They are Madaaie Thénardier's young ladies; her daugh- ters, as you would say." " And what do those girls do?" "Oh!" said the child, "they have beautiful dolls; things with gold in them, all full of affairs. They play ; they amuse themselves." "All dav long?" " Yes, sir." "And you?" "I? I work." "All day long?" The child raised her great eyes, in which hung a tear, which was not visible because of the darkness, and replied gently : — " Yes, sir." After an interval of silence she went on : — " Sometimes, when I have finished my work and they let me, I amuse myself, too." " How do you amuse yourself?" " In the best way I can. They let me alone ; but I have not many playthings. Ponine and Zelma will not let nie play with their dolls. I have only a little lead sword, no longer than that." The child held up her tiny finger. "And it will not cut?" " Yes, sir," said the child ; " it cuts salad and the heads of flies." They reached the village. Cosette guided the stranger through the streets. They passed the bakeshop, but Cosette did not think of the bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had ceased fc) ply her with questions, and now preser»-ed a gloomy silence. W\\*M\ they had left the church behind them, the man, on perceiving all the open-air booths, asked Cosette : — " So there is a fair going on here?" " No, sir ; it is Christmas." As they approached the tavern, Cosette timidly touched his arm: — "Monsieur?" '*What, my child?" Digitized by Google 90 LES MISERABLES, " Wc are quite near the house." ''Well?" " Will you let me take my bucket now?** "Why?" "If Miidame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat rae." The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at the tavern door. VIII. — The Unpleasantness op receiving into One's House a Poor Man who may be a Rich Man. Cosette could not refrain from casting a sidelong glance at the big doll, which was still displayed at the toy -merchant's ; then she knocked. The door opened. The Théuardier ap- peared with a candle in her hand. ''Ah ! so it's you, you little wretch ! good mercy, but you've taken your time ! The hussy has been amusing herself!" '' Madame," said Cosette, trembling all over, *' here is a gen- tleman who wants a lodging." The Thénardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace, a change of aspect common to tavern-keepers, and eagerly sought the new-comer with her eyes. " This is the gentleman ? " said she. ^* Yes, Madame," replied the man, raising his hand to his hat. Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gesture, and an inspection of the strau^^er's costume and baggage, which the Théuardier passed in review with one glance, caused the amiable grimace to vanish, and the gruff mien to reappear. She re- Buuied dryly : — *' Enter, my good man." The '' good man " entered. The Théuardier cast a second glance at iiim, paid particular attentiou to his frock-coat, which was absolutely threadbare, and to his hat, which was a littl^: battered, and, tossing her head, wrinkling her nose, and screw- ing up her eyes, she consulted her husband, who was still drinking with the carters. The husband replied by that im- perceptible movement of the forefinger, which, backed up by an inflation of the lips, signifies iu such cases : A regular beg- gar. Thereupon, the Thénardier exclaimed : — *' Ah ! see here, my good man ; I am very sorry, but I have no rix>m lef;." *' Put me where you like," said the man ; "in the attic, in the «table. I will pay as though I occupied a room ' Digitized by Google VOSETTB. 91 '•Forty 001».'' '• Forty BOOS ; agreed." "Very well, thenT' •^ Forty 80UB ! ** said a carter, in a low tone, to the Thénaiv lier woman ; ^* why, the charge is only twenty sous ! " ^^It is forty in his case," retorted the Thénardiei, in th« %ame tone. ^^ I don't lodge po<»r folks for less." *' That's true," added her husband, gently ; ^^ it ruins a hoDS« lo hare such people in it.*' In the meantime, the man, laying his bundle and his cudgd on a bench, had seated himself at a table, on which Cosette made haste to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The mer« chant who had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse himself. Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen table, and her knitting. The man, who had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had poured out for himself, observed the child with peculiar attention. Cosette was ugly. If she had been happy, she might have been pretty. We have already given a sketcli of that sombre little figure. Cosette was thin and pale ; she was nearly eight years old, but she seemed to be hardly six. Her large eyes, sunken in a sort of shadow, were almost put out with weeping. The comers of her month had that curve of habitual anguish which is seen in condemned persons and desperately sick people. Her hands were, as her mother had divined, ^^ ruined with chil- blains." The fire which illuminated her at that moment, brought into relief all the angles of her bones, and rendered her thinness frightfully apparent. As she was always shivering, she had acqnired the habit of pressing her knees one against the other. Her entire clothing was but a rag which would have inspired pity in summer, and which inspired hon*or in winter. All she had on was hole-ridden linen, not a scrap of woollen. Her skin was nsible here and there, and everywhere black and blue spots x>uld be descried, which marked the places where the Thé- aardiér woman had touched her. Her naked legs were thin and red. The hollows in her neck were enough to make one weep. This child's whole person, her mien, her attitude, the aoundof her voice, the intervals which she allowed to elapse between one word and the next, her glance, her silence, her slightest gesture, expressed and betrayed one sole idea, — fear. Fear was diffused all over her ; she was covered with it, so to speak ; fear drew her elbows close to her hips, withdrew her beels under her petticoat, made her occupy as little space af Digitized by Google 91 LES MISÉRABLES. possible, allowed her only the breath that was absolotelj neces sary, and hud become what might be called the habit of he» body, admitting of no possible variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes there was an astonished nook where terror lurked. Her fear was such, that on her arrival, wet as she was, Cosette did not dare to approach the fire and dry herself, bot sat silently down to her work again. The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was habitually so gloomy, and at times so tragic, that it seemed at certain moments as though she were on the verge of becomiDg an idiot or a demon. As we have stated, she had never known what it is to pray ; she had never set foot in a church. *^ Have I the time? " said the Thénardier. The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette* All at once, the Thénardier exclaimed: — " By the way, where's that bread?" Cosette, according to her custom whenever the Thénardier up- lifted her voice, emerged with great haste from beneath the table. She had completely foi'gotten the bread. She had recourse to the expedient of children who live in a constant state of féar. She lied. *^ Madame, the baker's shop was shot.*' •< *' You should have knocked/' ^* I did knock, Madame." **Well?" ^' He did not open the door.'* ^^ I'll find out to-morrow whether that is trae," said the Thé- nardier ; '* and if you are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a preUy dance. In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece.*' Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apron» and turned green. The fifteen-sou piece was not there. '^ Ah, come now," said Madame Thénardier, ^^did you hear me?" Cosette turned her pocket inside out ; there was nothing In it. What could have become of that money? The unhappy little creature could not find a word to say. She was petrified. ^^ Have you lost that fifteen*sou piece? " screamed the Thé- nardier, hoarsely, ''or do you want to rob me of it?" At the same time, she stretched out her arm towards the cat- o'-nine-tails which hung on a nail in the chimney-corner. This formidable gesture restored to Cosette sufiicieut strcDgtb lo shriek : — Digitized by Google COSETTE, 98 ** Merc;, Madame, Madame ! I will not do so any more !** The Thénardier took down the whip. In the meantime, the man in the yellow coat had been fum- bling in the fob of hi8 waistcoat, without any one having Doticed his movements. Besides, the other travellers were drinking or playing cards, and were not paying attention to anything. Cosette contracted herself into a ball, with anguish, within the augle of the chimney, endeavoring to gather up and concea) her poor half -nude limbs. The Thénardier raised her arm. *' Pardon me, Madame," said the man, "but just now 1 caught sight of something which had fallen from this little one'f apron pocket, and rolled aside. Perhaps this is it." At the same time he bent down and seemed to be searchinf on the floor for a moment. *' Exactly ; here it is," he went on, straightening himself up And he held out a silver coin to the Thénardier* *' Yes, that's it," said she. It was not it, for it was a twenty-sou piece ; but the Thé nardier found it to her advantage. She put the coin in her pocket, and confined herself to casting a fierce glance at the child, accompanied with the remark, '' Don't let this ever hap- pen again ! " Cosette returned to what the Thénardier called ** her kennel," and her large eyes, which were riveted on the traveller, began to take on an expression such as they had never worn before. Thus far it was only an innocent amazement, but a sort of stupefied confidence was mingled with it. " By the way, would you like some supper?" the Thénardier inquired of the traveller. He made no reply. He appeared to be absorbed in thought. *' What sort of a man is that?" she muttered between her teeth. " He's some frightfully poor wretch. He basnet a sou to pay for a supper. Will he even pay me for his lodging? It's very lucky, all the same, that it did not occur to him to steal, the money that was on the floor." In the meantime, a door had opened, and Éponine and Azelma entered. They were two really pretty little girls, more bourgeois than peasant in looks, and ver}' charming ; the one with shining chestnut tresses, the other with long black braids hanging down her back, both vivacious, neat, plump, rosy, and healthy, and a delight to the eye, They were warmly clad, but with so much maternal art that the thickness of the stuffs did not detract Digitized by Google M LES MISÉRABLES. from the coquetry of arrangement. There was a hint of winter. though the springtime was not wholly effaced. Light emanated from these two little beings. Besides this, they were on the throne. In their toilettes, in their gayety, in the noise which they made, there was sovereignty. When they entered, the Thénardier said to them in a grumbling tone which was full of adoration, "Ah ! there you are, you children 1 " Then drawing them, one after the other to her Knees, smooth- ing their hair, tying their ribbons afresh, and then releasing them with that gentle manner of shaking off which is peculiar to mothers, she exclaimed, '* What frights they are !" They went and seated themselves in the chimney-corner. They had a doll, which they turned over and over on Uieir knees with all sorts of joyous chatter. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes from her knitting, and watched their play with a melancholy air. Èponine and Azelma did not look at Cosette. She was the same as a dog to them. These three little girls did not yet reckon up four and twenty years between them, but they alreaily represented the whole society of man ; envy on the one aide, disdain on the other. The doll of the Thénardier sisters was very much faded, very old, and much broken ; but it seemed none the less admirable to Cosette, who had never had a doll in her life, a real doll^ to make use of the expression which all children will understand. All at once, the Thénardier, who had been going back and forth in the room, perceived that Cosette's mind was distracted, and that, instead of working, she was paying attention to tho little ones at their play. "Ah! Tve canglit you at it!" she cried. "So that's the way vou work I I'll make you work to the tune of the whip ; that i will." The stranger turned to the Thénardier, without quitting his chair. " Bah, Madame," he said, with an almost timid air, ^^ let her play!" Such a wish expressed by a traveller who had eaten a slice of mutton and had drunk a couple of bottles of wine with bis supper, and who had not the air of being frightfully poor, would have been equivalent to an order. But that a man with such a hat should permit himself such a desire, and that a man with such a coat should permit himself to have a will, was something which Madame Thénardier did not intend to tolerate the retorted with acrimony : — » Digitized by Google COSETTE. M out a quarter of an hour. But with all the precautions that Cosette had taken she did not perceive that one of the doll's legs stuck out and thai the fire on tiie hearth lighted it up very vividly. That pink and shining foot, projecting from the shadow, suddenly struck tiie eye of Azelma, who said to Eponine, *' Look ! sister." The two little girls paused in stupefaction ; Cosette had dared to take their doll ! Éponine rose, and, without releasing the cat, she ran to her mother, and began to tug at her skirt. " Let me alone ! " said her mother ; " what do you want? ** »' Mother," said the child, " look there Î " And she pointed to Cosette. Cosette, absorbed in the ecstasies of possession, no longer saw or heard anything. Madame Th^nardier's countenance assumed that peculiar expression which is composed of the terrible mingled with the Digitized by Google VOSETTE. 99 trifles of life, and which has caused this style of woman to be Lamed megaeras. On this occasion, wounded pride exasperated her wrath still further. Cosette had overstepped all bounds ; Cosette bad laid violent hands on the doll belonging to ^' these young ladies." A czarina who should see a muzhik trying on her imperial 3on's blue ribbon would wear no other face. She shrieked in a voice rendered hoarse with indignation : — '^Cîosette!" Cosette started as though the earth had trembled beneath her ; she turned round. " Cosette ! " repeated the Thénnrdier, Cosette took the doll and laid it gently on the floor with a sort of veneration mingled with despair; then, without taking her eyes from it, she clasped her hands, aud, what is terril)le to relate of a child of that age, she wrung them ; then — not one of the emotions of the day, neither the trip to tlie forest, nor the weight of the bucket of water, nor tlie loss of the money, nor the sight of the whip, nor even the sad words which she had heard Madame Thénardier utter had been able to wring this from her — she wept; she burst out sobbing. Meanwhile, the traveller had risen to his feet. '^ What is the matter?" he said to the Thénardier. " Don't you see ? " said the ïbénardier, pointing to the cor» pus delicti which lay at Cosette's feet. '* Well, what of it?" resumed the man. "That beggar," replied the Thénardier, *' has permitted her- self to touch the children's doll 1 " '' All this noise for that ! " said the man ; " well, what if she did play with that doll?" " She touched it with her dirty hands ! " pursued the Thénar- dier, " with her frightful hands ! " Here Cosette pedoubled her sobs. " Will you stop your noise?" screamed the Thénardier. The man went straight to the street door, opened it, and atepped out. As soon as he had gone, the Thénardier profited by his a))- aence to give Cosette a hearty kick under the table, which made the child utter loud cries. The door opene'ellous doll in a sort of terror. Her face was still flooded with tears, but her eyes began to fill, like the sky at daybreak, with stranfje beams of joy. What she felt at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if she had been abruptly told, " Little one, you are the Qneeo of France.*' Digitized by Google COSETTE. 101 It tfcemed to ber that if she touched that doll, lightning ^ould dnrt from it. This was truts up to a certain point, for she said to herself that the Tliéiiardier would scold and beat her. Nevertheless, the attraction carried the day. She ended by drawing near and murmuring timidly as she turned towards Madame ïhénardier : — "May I, Madame?" No words can render that air, at once despairing, terrified and ecstatic. " Pardi 1 " cried the Thénardier, "it is youre. The gentle- man has given it to you." ''Truly, sir?" said Cosette. ''Is it true? Is the 'lady' mine ? " The stranger's eyes seemed to be full of tears. He appeared to have reached that point of emotion where a man does not speak for fear lest he should weep. He nodded to Cosette, and placed the " lady's " hand in her tiny hand. Cosette hastily withdrew her hand, as though that of the " lady " scorched her, and began to stare at the floor. We are forced to add that at that moment she stuck out her tongue immoderately. All at once she wheeled round and seized the doll in a transport. " I shall call her Catherine," she said. It was an odd moment when Cosctte's rags met and clasped the ribbons and fresh pink muslins of the doll. " Madame," she resumed, " may I put her on a chair? " '* Yes, my child," replied the Thénardier. It was now the turn of Épouine and Azelma to gaze at Co* sette with envy. Cosette placed Catherine on a chair, then seated herself on the floor in front of her, and remained motionless, without uttering a word, in an attitude of contemplation. " Play, Cosette," said the stranger. "Oh! I am playing," returned the child. This stranger, this unknown individual, who had the air of a yisit which Providence was making on Cosette, was the person whoDQ the Thénardier hated worse than any one in the world ut that moment. However, it was necessary to control herself. Habituated as she was to dissimulation through endeavoring; to copy her husband in all his actions, theses emotions were more than she could endure. She made haste to send her daughters to bed, then she asked the man's fyermisaion to send ^om was deserted, the fire extinct, the stranger still remained in the same place and the 3ame attitude. From time to time he changed the elbow ou ^hich he leaned. That was all ; but he had not said a word ai nee Cosette had left the room. The Thénardiers alone, out of politeness and curiosity, had remained in the room. ^^Is he going to pass the night in that fashion?" grumbled the Thénardier. Wlicn two o'clock in the morning struck^ she- declared herself vanquished, and said to her husband. ** V\\\ going to bed. Do as you like." Her husband seated bixnsel^ Digitized by Google COSETTE. 108 at » Uble in the corner, lighted a candle, and began to read the Courrier IhxLnçais. A good hour passed thus. The worthy inn-keeper had perused the Courrier Français at least three times, from the date of the number to the printer's name. The stranger did Dot stir. Thénardier fidgeted, coughed, spit, blew his nose, and :Teaked his chair. Not a movement on the man*s part. ^^ Is he asleep?" thought Thénardier. The man was not asleep, but nothing could arouse him. At last Thénardier took off his cap, stepped gently ap to him, and ventured to say : — " Is not Monsieur going to his repose ? " Not gohig to bed would have seemed to him excessive and Jamiliar. To repose smacked of luxury and respect, Tliese words possess the mysterious and admirable proi>erty of swelling the bill on the following day. A chamber where one sleeps costs twenty sous ; a chamber in which one reposes costs twenty francs. " Well 1 " said the stranger, *' you are right. Where is your btable?" "Sir!" exclaimed Thénardier, with a smile, *'I will conduct you, sir-'* He took the candle ; the man picked up his bundle and cudgel, bind Thénardier conducted him to a chamber on the first floor, which was of rare splendor, all furnished in mahogany, with a low bedstead, curtained with red calico. " What is this?" said the traveller. '* It is really our bridal chamber," said the tavern-keeper. " My wife and I occupy another. This is only entered three or four times a year." '' I should have liked the stable quite as well," said the man, abruptly. Thénardier pretended not to hear this unamiable remark. He lighted two perfectly fresh wax candles which figured on the chimney-piece. A very good fire was flickering: on the hearth. On the chimney-piece, under a glass globe, stood a woman's head-dress in silver wire and orange flowers. ** And what is this? " resumed the stranger. "That, six," said Thénardier, "is my wife's wedding bonnet." The traveller surveyed the object with a glance which seemed to say, " There really was a time, then, when that monster was a maiden ? " Thénardier lied, however. When he had leased this paltry Digitized by Google 104 LES MISÉRABLES. building for the purpose of converting it into a tavern, he haQ found this chani})er decorated in just this manner, and ii&d pur chased the furniture and obtained the orange flowers at second hand, witli the idea that this would cast a graceful sliadow on " his spouse," and would result in what the English call respec- tability for his house. When the traveller turned round, the host had disappeared rhéuardier had withdrawn discreetly, without venturing to wish bim a good night, as he did not wish to treat with d'srespectful cordial it}' a man whom he proposed to fleece royally the follow- ing morning. The inn-keeper retired to his room. His wife was in bed, but she was not asleep. AVhen she heard her husband's step she turned over and said to him : — " Do 3'ou know, I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to- morrow." Thénardier replied coldly : — " How you do go on ! " They exchanged no further words, and a few moments later their candle was extinguished. As for the traveller, he had deposited his cudgel and his bundle in a corner. The landlord once gone, he threw bimscU into an arm-chair and remained for some time buried in thought. Then he removed his shoes, took one of the two candles, blew out the other, opened the door, and quitted the room, gazing about him like a person who is in search of something. He traversed a corridor and came upon a staircase. There he heard a very faint and gentle sound like the breathing of a child. He followed this sound, and came to a sort of triaug:iilar recess built under the staircase, or rather formed by the stair- case itself. This recess was nothing else than the'space under the steps. There, in the midst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds, among dust and spiders' webs, was a bed — if one can call by the name of bed a straw pallet so full of holes as to display the straw, and a coverlet so tattered as to show the pallet. No sheetb. This was plac*ed on the floor- In this bed Cosette was sleeping. • The man approached and gazed down upon her. Cosette was in a profound sleep ; she was fully dressed. In the winter she did not undress, in order that she might not be BO cold. Against her breast was pressed the dolK whose large eyes, wide open, glittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep sigh as though she were on the point of waking, and she Digitized by Google COSBTTB. 105 strained the doll almost conv ulsivek in her arms . Beside her bed there was only one of her wooden shoes. A door which stood open near Cosette's pallet permitted a view of a rather large, dark room. The stranger stepped into it« At the further extremity, through a glass door, he saw two smalU very white beds. They belonged to Éponine and Azelma, Behind these beds, and half hidden, stood an uncurtained wicker cradle, in which the little boy who had cried all the svening lay asleep. The stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of the Thénardier pair. He was on the point of retreat! iii; when his eye fell upon the fireplace — one of those vast tavern chimneys where there is always so little fire when there is any fire at all, and which are so cold to look at. There was no fire in this one, there was not even ashes ; but there was something which attracted the stranger's gaze, nevertheless. It was two tiny children's shoes, coquettish in shape and unequal in size. Ihe traveller recalled the graceful and immemorial custom in accordance with which children place their shoes in the chimney on Christmas eve, there to await in the darkness some sparkling gift from their good fairy. Éponine and Azelma had taken care not to omit this, and each of them had set one of her shoes on the hearth. The traveller bent over them. The fairy, that is to say, their mother, had already paid her visit, and in each he saw a brand-new and shining ten-sou i»ieee. The man straightened himself up, and was on tlie point of withdrawing, when far in, in the darkest corner of the hearth, he caught sight of another object. He looked at it, and re<*og- nized a wooden shoe, a frightful shoe of the coarsest descrip- tion, half dilapidated and all covered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cosette's sabot. Cosette, with that touching trust ol childhood, which can always be deceived yet never discouraged^ had placed her shoe on the hearth-stone also. Hope in a child who has never known anything but despair is i sweet and touching thing. There was nothing in this wooden shoe. The stranger ftimbled in his waistcont, bent over and placed a lonis d'or in Cosette's shoe. Then he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of b wolf. Digitized by Google C06 LES MISERABLES. IX. TnâNARDIER AT HIS MAHwHTBaB. On the following moruing, two hours at Ibaob before a«ybreak^ rhéuardier, seated beside a candle in the public room of the tavern, pen in hand, was making out the uiU for the travellet with tlie yellow coat. His wife, standing beside him, and half bent over him, was following him with her eyes. They exchanged not a word. On the one hand, there was profound meditation, on the other, the relig;ious admiration with which one watches the birth and de- velopment of a marvel of the human mind. A noise was audible in the house ; it was the Lark sweeping the stairs. After the lapse .of a good quarter of an hour, and feome erasures, Thénardier produced the following masterpiece : — Bill of the Gentlbican in No. 1. 8upper 3 francs. Chamber 10 * Candle 6 " Fire 4 « Service ....•• 1 ** ToUl . « . 28 franca. Service was written servisse, ^*' Twenty-three francs 1 " cried the woman, with an enthusiasn /hich was mingled with some hesitation. Like all great artists, Thénardier was dissatisfied. " Peuh ! " he exclaimed. It was the accent of Castlereagh auditing France's bill at th« Congress of Vienna. "Monsieur Thénardier, j'ou are right; he certainly owes that," murmured the wife, who was thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosettc in the presence of her daughters. "It is justt but t is too much. He will not pay it." Thénardier laughed coldly, as usual, and said : — "He will pay." This laugh was the supreme assertion of certainty and author- ity. That which was asserted in this inanner must needs be so. His wife did not insist. She set about arranging the table; her husband paoed the room. A moment later he added : — " I owe full fifteen hundred francs ! " He went and seated himself in the chimney -comer, méditât ing, with his feet among the warm ashes. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 101 •* Ah! by the way, ** resumed his wife, ''yon don't forge Ihat I'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-dav ? The mou Iter ! She breaks my lieart with that doll of hers ! I*d rather loarry Louis XVIII. than keep her another day in the house ' " Thénardier lighted his pipe, and replied between two puffs: — *' You will hand that bill to the man." Then he went out. Hardly had he loft the room when the traveller entered. Thénardier instantly reappeared behind him and remained BOtionless in the half-open door, visible only to his wife. The yellow man carried his bundle and his cudgel in his liand. *'Up so early?" said Madame Thénardier; "is Monsieur liaving us already ? " As she spoke thus, she was twisting the bill about in her Ijinds with an embarrassed air, and making creases in it with lier nails. Her hard face presented a shade which was not liabitual with it, — timidity and scruples. To present such a bill to a man who had so completely the »ir "of a poor wretch" seemed difficult to her. The traveller appeared to be preoccupied and absent-minded. lie replied : — " Yes, Madame, I am going." " So Monsieur has no business in Montf ermeil ? " " No, I was passing through That is all. What do I owe 3 on, Madame," he added. The Thénardier silently handed him the folded bill. The man unfolded the paper and glanced at it; but his tiioughts were evidently elsewhere. • ^^ Madame," he resumed, " is business good here in Montfer- meil?" *' So so, Monsieur," replied the Thénardier, stupefied at not witnessing another sort of explosion. She continued, in a dreary aud lamentable tone : — ^^Oh! Monsieur, times are so hard! and then, we have so few bourgeois in the neighborhood ! All the people are poor, jrou see. If we had not, now and then, some rich and generous travellers like Monsieur, we should not get along at all. We have so many expenses. Just see, that child is costing us our very eves." ** What child?" ** Why, the little one, you know ! Cosette — the Lark, as she is called hereabouts I " Digitized by CjOOQ IC i08 LES MISÉRABLES, ^^ Ah ! " said the man. She went on : — '^ How stupid these peasants are with their nicknames! Sho has more the air of a bat than of a lark. You see, sir, we do not ask charity, and we cannot bestow it. We earn nothing and we have to pay out a great deal. The license, the imposts, the door and window tax, the hundredths ! Monsieur is aware that the government demands a terrible deal of money. And then, I have my daughters. I have no need to bring up othei people's children." The man resumed, in that voice which he strove to rendei indifferent, and in which there lingered a tremor ; — '' What if one were to rid you of her? ** ''Who? Cosette?" '' Yes." The landlady's red and violent face brightened up hideoaely. '* Ah ! sir, my dear sir, take her, keep her, lead her off, carry her away, sugar her, stuff her with truffles, drink her, eat her, and the blessings of the good holy Virgin and of all the saints of paradise be upon you ! " '* Agreed." *' Really ! You will take her away?" " I will take her away." *' Immediately?" " Immediately. Call the child." *' Cosette ! " screamed the Thénardier. '' In the meantime," pursued the man, " I will pay you wba« I owe you. How much is it? " He cast a glance on the bill, and could not restrain a start >f surprise : — "Twenty-throe francs ! " He looked at the landlady, and repeated : — *' Twenty-three francs? " There was in the enunciation of these words, thus repeated, an accent between an exclamation and an interrogation point. The Thénardier had had time to prepare herself for the shock. She replied, with assurance : — "Good gracious, yes, sir, it is twenty-three francs." The stranger laid five five-franc pieces on the table. Go and get the child," said he. A^ that moment Thénardier advanced to the middle of th^ \)om, and said : — " Monsieur owes twenty-six sous." ' Twenty -six sous ! " exclaimed his wife. Digitized by Google COSETTE. lOS " Twenty sous for the chamber," resumed Thénardier, coldly, " and six sous for his supper. As lor the child, I must discuss that matter a little witli the gentleman. Leave us, wife." Madame Thénardier was dazzled as with the shock caused by unexpected lightning flashes of talent. She was conscious that a great actor was making his entrance on the stage, uttered not a word in reply, and left the room. As soon as they were aloge, Thénardier offered the traveller a chair. The traveller seated himself; Thénardier remained standing, and bis face assumed a singular expression of good- fellowship and simplicity. " Sir," said he, '' what I have to say to you is this, that I adore that child." The stranger gazed intently at him. "What child?" Thénardier continued : — " How strange it is, one grows attached. What money is that? Take back your hundred-sou piece. I adore the child." " Whom do you mean?" demanded the stranger. "Eh ! our little Cosette ! Are j^ou not intending to take her away from us? Well, I speak frankly ; as true as you are an honest man, T will not consent to it. I shall miss that child. I saw her first when she was a tiny thing. It is true that she costs us money ; it is true that she has her faults ; it is true that we are not rich ; it is true that I have paid out over four hun- dred francs for drugs for just one of her illnesses ! But one must do something for the good God's sake. She has neither father nor mother. I have brought her up. I have bread enough for her and for myself. In tmth, I think a great deal of that child. You understand, one conceives an affection for a person ; I am a good sort of a beast, I am ; I do not reason ; I love that little girl ; my wife is quick-tempered, but she loves her also. You see, she is just the same as our own child. I want to keep her to babble about the house." The stranger kept his eye intently fixed on Thénardier. The latter continued : — "Excuse me, sir, but one does not give away one's child to a passer-by, like that. I am right, am I not? Still, I don't say — you are rich ; you have the air of a very good man, — if it were for her happiness. But one must find out that. You understand : suppose that I were to let her go and to sacrifice myself, I should like to know what becomes of her ; I should not wish to lose sight of her ; I should like to know with whom she is living, so that I could go to see her from time to time ; so Digitized by Google 110 LES MISÉRABLES. that she may know that her good foster-father is alive, that he it watching over her. In short, there are things which are not pos- sible. I do not even know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say : ' Weil, and the Lark, what has become of her?' One must, at least, see some petty scrap of paper, some trifle in the way of a passport, you know ! " The stranger, still surveying him with that gaze which pene- trates, as the saying goes, to the vgry depths of the conscience, replied in a grave, firm voice : — '' Monsieur Thénardier, one does not require a passport to travel five leagues from Paris. If I take Cosette away, I shall take her away, and that is the end of the matter. You will not know my name, you will not know my residence, 3'ou will not know where she is ; and my intention is that she shall never sot eyes on you again so long as she lives. I break the thread which binds her foot, and she departs. Does that suit you? Yes or no ? " Since geniuses, like demons, recognize the presence of a supe- rior God by certain signs, Thénardier comprehended that he had to deal with a very strong person. It was like an intuition ; he comprehended it with his clear and sagacious promptitude- While drinking with the carters, smoking, and singing coarse songs on the preceding evening, he had devoted the whole of the time to observing the stranger, watching liim like a cat, and studying him like a mathematician. He had watched him, both on his own account, for the pleasure of the thing, and through instinct, and had spied upon him as though he had been paid for so doing. Not a movement, not a gesture, op the part of the man in the yellow great-coat had escrtped him. Even before the stranger had so clearly manifested his interest in Cosette, Thénardier had divined his purpose. He had caught the old man's deep glances returning constantl}* to the child* Who was this man? Why this interest? Why this hideoup costume, when he had so much money in his purse? Questions which he put to hiuiself without being able to solve them, and which irritated him. He had pondered it all night long. He could not be Cosette's father. Was he her grandfather? Then why not make himself known at once ? When one has a right, one asserts it. This man evidently had no right over Cosette. What was it, then? Thénardier lost himself in conjectures. He caught glimpees of everything, but he saw nothing. Be that as it may, on entering into conversation with the man, sure ihat there was some secret in the case, that the latter had some mterest in remaining in the shadow, he felt himself Digitized by Google ÇOSETTE, m strong; when he perceived from the stranger's dear and firm retort, that this mysterious personage was mysterious in so simple a way, he became conscious tliat he was weak* He iiad expected nothing of the sort. His conjectures were put to the rout. He rallied liis ideas. He weighed everything in the space of a second. Thénardier was one of those men wlio take in a situation at a glance. He decided that the moment imd arrived for proceeding straightforward, and quickly at that. He did as great leaders do at the decisive moment, wliich they know that they alone recognize ; he abi-uptly unmasked his batteries. '^ Sir," said he, '*I am in need of fifteen hundred francs." Tlie stranger took from his side pocket an old pocketbook of black leather, opened it, drew out three bank-bills, which he laid on the table. Then he placed his large thumb on the notes and said to the inn-keeper : — '* Go and fetch Cosette." While this was taking place, what had Cosette been doing? On waking up, Cosette had run to get her shoe. In it she had found the gold piece. It was not a Napoleon ; it.was one of those perfectly new twenty- franc pieces of the Restoration, on whose effigy the little Prussian queue had replaced the laurel wreath. Cosette was dazzled. Her destiny began to intoxicate her. She did not know what a gold piece was ; she had never seen one ; she hid it quickly in her pocket, as though she haii stolen it. Still, she felt that it really was hers ; she guessed whence her gift had come, but the joy which she experienced was full of fear. She was happy ; above all she was stupefied. Such magnificent and beautiful things did not appear real. The doll frightened her, the gold piece frightened her. She ti-embled vaguely in the presence of this magnificence. The stranger alone did not frighten her. On the contrary, he reassured her. Ever since the preceding evening, amid all her amazement, even in her sleep, she had been thinking in her little childish mind of that man who seemed to be so poor and so sad, and who was so rich and so kind. Everything had changed for her since she had met that good man in the forest. Cosette, less happy than the most insignificant swallow of heaven, had never known what it was to take refuge under a mother's shadow and under a wing. For the last five years, that is to say, as far back as her memory ran, the poor child had shivered and trem- bled. She had always been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind of adversity ; now it seemed to hei she was clothed. Formerly her soul had seemed cold, now it was warm. Cosettf Digitized by Google 112 LES MISÉRABLES, iras no longer afraid of tbe Thénardicr. She was do loDgei alone ; there was some one there. She hastily set about her regular morning duties. That louis, which she had about her, in tlie very a])ron pocket whence the fifbeen-sou piece had fallen on the night before, distracted her thoughts. She dared not touch it, but she spent five minutes in gazing at it, with her tongue hanging out, if the truth must be told. As she swept the staircase, she paused, remained standing there motionless, forgetful of her broom and of the entire universe, occupied in gazing at that star which was blaz- ing at the bottom of her pocket. It was during one of these periods of contemplation that the Thénardier joined her. She had gone in search of Cosette at her husband's orders. AVhat was quite unprecedented, she neither struck her nor said an insulting word to her. *' Cosette," she said, almost gendy, " come immediately." An instant later Cosette entered the public room. The stranger took up the bundle which he had brought and untied it. This bundle contained a little woollen gown, an apron, a fustian bodice, a kerchief, a petticoat, woollen stock- ings, shoes — a complete outfit for a girl of seven years. AH was black. '' My child," said the man, '' take these, and go and dreaB yourself quickly." Daylight was appearing when those of the inhabitants of ^lontfermeil who had begun to open their doors beheld a jworly clad old man leading a little girl dressed in mourning, and car- rying a pink doll in her arms, pass along the road to Paris, They were going in the direction of Livry. It was our man and Cosette. No one knew the man; as Cosette was no longer in ra^irs, many did not recognize her. Cosette was going away. With whom? She did not know. Whither? She knew not. All that she understood was that she was leaving the Thénardier tavern behind her. No one had thought of bidditig her fare- well, nor had she thought of taking leave of any one. She was leavin<^ that hated and hating house. Poor, gentle creature, whose heart had been repressed up to that hour ! Cosette walked along gravely, with her large eyes wide open, and gazing at the sky. She had put hor lonis in the pocket of her new apron. From time to time, she bent down and glanced at it ; then she looked at the good man. She felt something as thoujrh she were beside the good God. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 113 X. — He who seeks to betteb himself mat bendks Hlf Situation Worse. MadaME TnâNARDiER had allowed her husband to have his •^WD way, as was her wont. She had expected great results. When the man and Cosette had taken their departure, Thénar- iier allowed a full quarter of an hour to elapse ; then he tooL: -1er aside and showed her the fifteen hundred francs. ''Is that all?" said she. It was the first time since they had set up housekeeping that she had dared to criticise one of the master's acts. The blow told. '' You are right, in sooth," said he ; " I am a fool. Give me my hat." He folded up the three bank-bills, thrust them into his pocket, and ran out in all haste ; but he made a mistake and turned to the right first. Some neighbors, of whom he made inquiries, put him on the track again ; the Lark and the man had been seen going in the direction of Livr}'. He followed these hints, walking with great strides, and talking to himself the while : — '' That man is evidently a million dressed in yellow, and I am an animal. First he gave twentj* sous, then five francs, then fifty francs, then fifteen hundred francs, all with equal readi- ness. He would have given fifteen thousand francs. But I shall overtake him." And then, that bundle of clothes prepared beforehand for the child; all that was singular; many mysteries lay concealed under it. One does not let mysteries out of one's hand when one has once grasped them. The secrets of the wealthy arc sponges of gold ; one must know how to subject them to pres- .sure. All these thoughts whirled through his brain. '' I am an animal," said he. When one leaves Montfermeil and reaches the turn which the road takes that runs to Livry, it can be seen stretching out be- fore one to a great distance across ' the plateau. On arriving there, he calculated that he ought to be able to see the old man and the child. He looked as far as his vision reached, and saw nothing. He made fresh inquiries, but he had wasted time, î^ome passers-by informed him that the man and child of whom lie was in search had gone towards the forest in the direction <)f Oagny. He hastened in that direction. They were far in advance of him ; but a child walks slowly, Digitized by Google 114 LES MISERABLES. and he walked fast ; and then, he was well acquainted with the country. All at once he paused and dealt himself a blow on his fore- head like a inau who has forgotten some essential point and who is H'ady to retrace his steps. ^^ I ought to have taken my gun," said he to himself. Thénardier was one of those double natures which sometimec pass through our midst without our being aware of the fact and who disap[>ear without our finding them out, because des tiny has only (exhibited one side of them. It is the fate of many men to live thus half submerged. In a calm and even situation, Thénardier ]x>ssessed all that is required to make — - we will not say to be — what people have agreed to call an hon- est trader, a good bourgeois. At the same time certain circum- stances being given, certain shocks arriving to bring his under- nature to the surface, he had all the requisites for a blackguard. He was a shopkeeper in whom there was some taint of tlie monster. Satan must have occasionally crouched down in some corner of the hovel in which Thénardier dwelt, and have fallen a-dreaming in the presence of this hideous maaterpieee. After a momentary hesitation : — " Bah ! " he thought ; '' they will have time to make their es- cape." And he pursued his road, walking rapidly straight ahead, and with almost an air of certainty, with the sagacity of a fox scenting a covey of partridges. In truth, when he had passed the ponds and had traversed in an oblique direction the large clearing which lies on the right of the Avenue de Bellevue, and reached that turf alley which nearly makes the circuit of the hill, and covers the arch of the ancient aqueduct of the Abbey of Chelles, he caught sight, over the top of the brushwood, of the hat on which he had already erected so many conjectures; it was that man's hat. The brushwood was not high. Thénardier recognized the fact tluit the man and Cosette were sitting there. The child could Jot be seen on account of her small size, but the head of bei doll was visible. Thénardier was not mistaken. The man was sitting there, and letting Cosette get somewhat rested. The inn-keeper walked round the brushwood and presented himself abruptly tc the eyes of those whom he v;as in search of. "Pardon, excuse me, sir," he baid, quite breathless, ''but here are your fifteen hnndred francs." So saying, he handed the stranger the three bank-bills Digitized by Google COSETTE. \U Tue man raised his eyes. " What is the roeaniug of this? " Thénardier replied respectf ullj : — ^^ It means, sir, that I shall take back Cosette/' Cosette shuddered, and pressed close to the old man. He replied, gazing to the very bottom of Thénardier's eyes &e while, and enunciating every syllable distinctly : «— " You are go-ing to take back Co-sette? " ^' Yes, sir, I am. I will tell you ; I have considered the mat- ter. In fact, I have not the right to give her to you. I am an honest man, you see ; this child does not belong to me ; she be- longs to her mother. It was her mother who confided lier to me ; Ï can only resign her to her mother. You will say to me, ' But her mother is dead.' Good ; in that case I can only give the child up to the person who shall bring me a writing, signed by her mother, to the effect that I am to hand the child over to the person therein mentioned ; that is clear." The man, without making any reply, fumbled in his pocket, and Tbénardier beheld the pocket-book of bank-bills make its appearance once more. The tavern-keeper shivered with joy. ^' Grooà ! ** thought he ; ^' let us hold firm ; he is going to bri>)e me!" Before opening the pocket-book, the traveller cast a glance about him : the spot was absolutely deserted ; there was not a soul either in the woods or in the valley. The man opened his pocket-book once nnore and drew from it, not the handful of bills which Thénardier expected, but a simple little paper, which he unfolded and presented fully open to the inu-keeper, saying : — '* You are right ; read ! " Thénardier took the paper and read : — " M. SUR M., March 25. 182a ^MoKSiEnR Thénardier: — You will deliver Cosette to this person. You will be paid for all the little things. I have the honor to salute you with respect, Famtinb." ^^ Yoa know that signature? " resumed the man. It oertainlv was Fantine's signature ; Thénardier reoogniied it. There was no reply to make; he experienced two violent vexations, the vexation of renouncing the bribery which he had V>ped for, and the vexation of beins; beaten ; the man added : —* Digitized by Google 116 LES MlSERABLlBTf. •* You ma}' keep this paper as 3our receipt. *• Thénardier retreated in tolerably good order. "This signature is fairly well imitated," he growled between hi3 teeth ; *' however, let it go ! " Then he essayed a desperate effort. " It is well, sir," he said, " since yon are the person, bat I must be paid for all those little things. A great deal is owing to me." The man rose to his feet, filliping the dust from his thread bare sleeve : — " Monsieur Thénardier, in January last, the mother reckoned that she owed you one hundred and twenty francs. In Febru- ary, you sent her a bill of five hundred francs ; you received three hundred francs at the end of February, and three hundred francs at the beginning of March. Since then nine months have elapsed, at fifteen francs a month, the price agreed upon, which makes one hundred and thirty-five francs. You had re- ceived one hundred fmncs too much ; that makes thirty-five still owing you. I have just given you fifteen hundred francs.** Thénardîer's sensations were those of the wolf at the mo- ment when he feels himself nipped and seized by the steel jaw of the trap. "Who is this devil of a man? " he thought. He did what the wolf does : he shook himself. Audacity had succeeded with him once. * ' Monsicur-I-don*t-know-your-name," he said resolutely, and this time casting aside all respectful ceremony, " I shaU take back Cosette if you do not give me a thousand crowns." The stranger said tranquilly : — "Come, Cosette." He took Cosette by his left hand, and with his right he picked up his cudgel, which was lying on the ground. Thénardier noted the enormous size of the cudgel and the solitude of the spot. The man plunged into the forest with the child, leaving the inn-koeper motionless and speechless. While they were walking away, Thénardier scrutinized hii huge shoulders, which were a little rounded, and his great fists. Then, bringing his eyes back to his own person, they fell a|)OD his feeble arms and his thin hands. " I really must have beec exceedingly stupid not to have thought to bring my giui," Lc said to himself, '* since I was going hunting ! " However, the inn-keeper did not give up. Digitized by Google L'OSETTE. lir " I want CO know where he is going," said he, and he set out to follow them at a distance. Two things were left on liid hands, an irony in the shape of the paper signed Fantine^ and a consolation, the fifteen hundred francs. The man led Cosette off in the direction of Livry and Bondy. He walked slowly, with drooping head, in an attitude of reflec» tion and sadness. The winter had thinned out the forest, so that Thénardier did not lose them from sight, although he kept at a good distance. The man turned round from time to time, and looked to sec if he was being followed. All at once he caught sight of Thénardier. He plunged suddenly into the brushwood with Cosette, where they could both hide them- selves. '' The deuce ! " said Thénardier, and he redoubled his pace. The thickness of the undei^owth forced him to draw nearer to them. When the man had reached the densest part of the thicket, he wheeled ronnd. It was in vain that Thénardier sought to conceal himself in the branches ; he could not prevent the man seeing him. The man cast upon him an uneasy glance, then elevated his head and continued his course. The inn- keeper set out again in pursuit. Thus they continued for two or three hundred paces. All at once the man turned round once more ; he saw the inn-keeper. This time he gazed at bim with so sombre an air that Thénardier dc'cided that it was ^^ useless " to proceed further. Thénardier retraced his steps. XL — Number 9,430 reappears, and Cosette wins rr in the Lottery. Jean Yaljean was not dead. When he fell into the sea, or rather, when he threw himself Into it, he was not ironed, as we have seen. He swam under water until he reached a vessel at anchor, to which a boat was moored. He found means of hiding himself in this boat until night. At night he swam off again, and reached the shore a little way from Cape Brun. There, as ho did not lack money, he procured clothing. A small country-house in the neighbor- bood of Balaguier was at that time the dressing-room of escaped convicts, — a lucrative specialty. Then Jejui Valjean, like all the sorry fugitives who are seeking to evade the vigilance of the law and social fatality, pursued an oliscure and undulating itinerary. He found his first refuge at Pradojuix, nonr Beans- a^t. Then he directed his course towards Grand- Vilhird, nea Digitized by Google 118 LES MISERABLES. Briançon, In the Hautes Alpes. It was a f ambiing and aaeasj flight* — a mole's track, whose branchings are untraceable, liater on, some trace of his passage into Ain, in the territory of Civrieux, was discovered: in the Pyrenees, at Accons; at the spot called G range-de-Doumec, near the market of Cha- vailles, and in the environs of Perigueux at Brunies, canton of La Cha))elle-(Tonagnet. He reached Paris. We have Just seen him at Moutfermcil. His first care on arriving in Paris had been to buy mourning clothes for a little girl of from seven to eight 3'ears of age ; then to procure a loilging. That done, he had betaken himself to MontftM-meil. It will be remembered that already, during his preceding escape, he had made a mysterious trip thither, or somewhere in that neighborhood, of which the law had gathered) an inkling. However, he was thought to l>e dead, and this still farthet increased the obscurity which had gathered about hira. At Paris, one of the journals which chronicled the fact fell into hit Hands. He felt reassured and almost at peace, as though ht i)ad really been dead. On the evening of the day when Jean Valjean rescued Co- sette from the claws of the Thénardiers, he returned to Parie^ He re-entered it at nightfall, with the child, by way of the Barrier Monceaux. There he entered a cabriolet, whibh took him t) the esplanade of the Observatoire. There he got ont, paid thi coachman, took Cosette by the hand, and together they directe Digitized by Google VOSETTB. lt\ Mine pecnliarity of this sort of dwelling is the enormous size of •'ir spiders. To the left of the entrance door', on the boulevard side, at about the height of a man from the ground, a small window which had been walled up formed a square niche fhll of stones which the children had thrown there as they passed by. A portion of this building has recently been demolished. From what still remains of it one can form a judgment as to what it was in former dîlys. As a whole, it was not over a hundred yeara old. A hundred years is youth in a church and age in a house. It seems as though man's lodging partook of bis ephemeral character, and God's house of his eternity. The postmen called the house Number 50-52; but it was known in the neighborhood as the Gorbeau house. Let us explain whence this appellation was derived. Collectoi-s of petty details, who become lierbalists of aneo« dotes, and prick slippery dates into their memories with a pin, know that there was in Paris, during the last century, about 1770, two attorneys at the Châtelet named, one Corbeau (Raven), the other Renard (Fox). The two names had been forestalled by La Fontaine. The opportunity was too fine for die lawyers ; they made the most of it. A parody was immedi- ately put in circulation in the galleries of the court-house, im Terses that limped a little : — Mattre Corbeau, sur un dossier perchd, * Tenait dans son bec ane saisie exécutoire; Mattre Renard, par Todeur alMché, Lui fit à peu près cette histoire : Hél bonjour. Etc. The two honest practitioners, embarrassed by the jests, and finding the bearing of their heads interfered with by the shouts of laughter which followed them, resolved to get rid of their names, and hit u|)on the expedient of applying to the king. Their petition was presented to Louis XV. on the same day Ti^hen the Papal Nuncio, on the one hand, and the Cardinal de ia Roche-Aymon on the other, both devoutly kneeling, were sach engaged in putting on, in his Majesty's presence, a slipped DO the bare feet of Madame du Barry, who had just got out of bed. The king, who was laughing, continued to laugh, passed gayly from the two bishops to the two lawyers, and bestowed on these limbs of the law their former names, or nearly so, 1 Lawyer Corbeau, perched on a docket, held in his beak a writ of exec» tlon ; lawyer Renard, attracted by the smell, addressed him nearly as folr tows, elc Digitized by Google 122 LBS MISERABLES. By Ibe Idng's oomni&Dd, Maître Corbeau was permitted to mU a tail to his initiai letter and to call himself Gorbeau. Midtr^ Renard was less lucky ; all he obtained was leave to place a F in front of his R, and to call himself Prenard ; bo that tht second name bore almost as much resemblance as the first. Now, according to local tradition, this Maître Gorbeau had been the proprietor of the building numbered 50-4»2 on the Boulevard de l'Hôpital. He was even the author of the monu^ mental window. Hence the edi6ce bore the name of the Gorbeau house. Opposite this house, among the trees of the boulevard, rose a great elm which was three-quarters dead; almost directly facing it opens the Rue de la Barrière des Gobelins, a street then without houses, unpaved, planted with unhealthy trees, which was green or muddy according to the season, and whid ended squarely in the exterior wall of Paris. An odor of oop peras issued in pufTs from the roofs of the neighboring factory The barrier was close at hand. In 1823 the city wall wan still in existence. This barrier itself evoked gloomy fancies in the mind. It waf the road to Bicetre. It was through it that, under the Empire and the Restoration, prisoners condemned to death re-entered Paris on the day of their execution. It was there, that, abou^ 1829, was committi'd that mysterious assassination, called ^^ Thf? assassination of the Fontainebleau barrier," whose authors justice^ was never able to discover ; a melancholy problem which baa never been elucidated, a frightful enigma which has never beec unriddled. Take a few steps, and you come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe, where Ulbacli stabbed the goat-girl of Ivry to the sound of thunder, as in the melodramas. A few paces more, and you arrive at the abominable pollarded elms of the Barrière Saint- Jacques, that expedient of the philanthropist to conoeal the scaffold, that miserable and shameful Place de Grève of a shop-keeping and bourgeois society, which recoiled before the death penalty, neitlier daring to abolish it with grandeur, nor to uphold it with authority. Leaving aside tliis Place Saint-Jaex^ues, which was, as it were^ predestined, and which has always been horrible, probablj the most mournful spot on that mournful boulevard, seven and thirty years ago, was the spot which even to-day is so unattrac* tive, where stood the building Number 50-52. Bourgeois houses only began to spring up there twenty-fiye ycîirs later. The place was unpleasant. In addition to the gloomy thou«:hts which assailed one there, one was conscioua of Digitized by Google COSETTE. 123 1.1 ing between the Salpêtrière, a glimpse of whose dome oonld l»e seen, and Bicêtre, whose outskirts one was fairly touching ; that is to say, between the madness of women and the madnebs.4 i^f men. As far as the eye eould see, one could perceive noth- ing but the abattoirs, the city wall, and the fronts of a few factories, resembling barracks or monasteries ; everywhere 9bout stood hovels, rubbish, ancient walls blackened like cere cloths, new white walls like winding-sheets ; everywhere paral lei rows of trees, buildings erected on a line, flat constructions. Jlong, cold rows, and the melancholy sadness of right angles Not an uncvenness of the ground, not a caprice in the architec tnre, not a fold. The ensemble was glacial, regular, hideous. Nothing oppresses the heart like symmetry. It is because sym- metry is ennui, and ennui is at the very foundation of grief. i3espair yawns. Something more terrible than a hell where one suffers may be iraf^ined, and that is a hell where one is bored. If such a hell existed, that bit of the Boulevard de l'Hôpital tjiight have formed the entrance to it. Nevertheless, at nightfall, at the moment when the dajiight is vanishing, especially in winter, at the hour when the twilight breeze tears from the elms their last russet leaves, when the darkness is deep and starless, or when the moon and the wind are making openings in the clouds and losing themselves in the shadows, this boulevard suddenly becomes frightful. The tihick lines sink inwards and are lost in the shades, like morseli uf the infinite. The passer-by cannot refrain from recalling (he innumerable traditions of the place which are connected \fith the gibbet. The solitude of this spot, where so many crimes have been committed, had something terrible about it. One almost had a presentiment of meeting with traps in thaDf darkness ; all the confused forms of the darkness seemed sus- picious, and the long, hollow square, of which one caught a glimpse between each tree, seemed graves : by day it was ugly ; in the evening melancholy ; by night it was sinister. In summer, at twilight, one saw, here and there, a few old women seated at the foot of the elm, on benches mouldy witb rain. These good old women were fond of begging. However, this quarter, which had a superannuated rather than an antique air, was tending even then to transformation. Even at that time any one who was desirous of seeing it had to make haste. Each day some detail of the whole effect was disappearing. For the last twenty years the station of the Orleans railway has stood beside the old faubourg and distracted !t» as it does to-day. Wherever it is placed on the borders of Digitized by Google J 24 ^P^S MISERA nLEX a capital, a railway station is the death of a snbarb and ISn birth of a city. It seems as though, around these great contrrs of the movements of a people, the earth, full of germs, trembled «ind yawned, to engulf the ancient dwellings of men and to allow .lew ones to spruig forth, at the rattle of these powerfal nachines, at the breath of these monstrous horses of civiliza- tion which devour coal and vomit fire. The old houses crumble and new ones rise. Since the Orleans railwa}^ has invaded the region of the Sal- pe trière, the ancient, narrow streets which adjoin the moats Saint- Vict • Digitized by Google COSETTE. 125 He Btruck a match and lighted a candle. All this was pre [:ared beforehand on the table, and, as he had done on the previous evening, he began to scrutinize Cosette's face with a ^'aze full of ecstasy, in which the expression of kindness and tenderness almost amounted to aberration. Tlie little girl, with that tranquil confidence which belongs only to extreme strength and extreme weakness, had fallen asleep without knowing with whom she was, and continued to sleep without knowhig where she was. Jean Val jean bent down and kissed that child's hana. Nine mouths before he had kissed the hknd of the mothef) who had also just fallen asleep. The same sad, piercing, religious sentiment filled his heart. He knelt beside Cosette's bed. It was broad daylight, and the child still slept. A wan ray (if the December sun penetrated the window of the attic and lay upon the ceiling in long threads of light and shade. All 3it once a heavily laden carrier's cart, which was passing along the boulevard, shook the frail bed, like a clap of thunder, and made it quiver from top to bottom. " Yes, Madame ! " cried Cosette, waking with a start, " here IJ am ! here I am ! " And she sprang out of bed, her eyes still half shut with til heaviness of sleep, extending her arms towards the corner on ♦he wall. '* Ah, mon Dieu, my broom ! " said she. She oi)ened her eyes wide now, and beheld the smiling conn lenance of Jean Valjean. *'*' Ah ! so it is true ! " said the child. '^ Good morning, Mon- sieur." Children accept joy and happiness Instantly and familiarly, being themselves by nature joy and happiness. Cosette caught sight of Catherine at the foot of her bed, and took possession of her, and, as she played, she put a hundred questions to Jean Valjean. Where was she? Was Paris very Jai-ge? Was Madame Thénardier very far away? Was she to i;o back? etc., etc. All at once she exclaimed, '^Uowprett/ it is here I " It was a frightful hole, but she felt free. *' Must I sweep?" she resumed at last. " Play ! " said Jean Valjean. The day passed thus. Cosette, without troubling herself to anderstanh anything, was inexpressibly happy with that doï i'ud that kind man. Digitized by Google 126 i»SS MISERABLES KL — Two Misfortunes hake One Piece op Good Portuni On the following morning, at daybreak, Jean Valjean was still by Cosette's l)edside ; he watcued there uiotionless, waitin^» tor her to wake. Some new thing had come into his soul. Jean Valjean had never loved anything ; for twenty- five years be had been alone in the world. He bad never beon father, lover, husband, friend. In the prison he had been vicicms, gloomy, chaste, ignorant, and shy. The heart of tluit ex-con- vict was full of virginity'. His sister and his sister's children had left him only a vague and far-off memory whicn had finally almost completely vanished ; he had made every effort tf) find them, and not having been able to find them, he had forgotten them. Human nature is made thus ; the other tender emo- tions of his youth, if he had ever had any, had fallen into ao abyss. When he saw Cosette, when he had taken possession of her, carried her off, and delivered her, he felt his heart moved within him. All the passion and affection within him awoke, and rushed towards that child. He a[)proached the bed, where she lay sleeping, and trembled with joy. He suffered all the pangs of a mother, and he knew not what it meant ; for that great and singular movement of a heart which* begins to love is a very obscure and a ver}' sweet thing. Poor old man, with a perfectly new heart Î Only, as he was five and fifty, and Cosette eight years of age, all that raiglit have been love in the whole course of his life flowed together into a sort of ineffa])lc light. It was the second white apparition which he had encountered The Bishop had caused the dawn of virtue to rise on his hon zon ; Cosette caused tlie dawn of love to rise. The early days passed in this dazzled state. Cosette, on her side, had also, unknown to herself, become another being, poor little thing ! She was so little when her mother left her, that she no longer remembered her. Like all children, who resemble young shoots of the vine, which clinjr to everything, she had tried to love ; she had not succeeded, All had repulsed her, — the Thénardîers, their children, other children. She had loved the dog, and he had died, after which nothing and nobody would have anything to do with her. It if Digitized by Google COSETTB, 121 / oad thing to sayi» and we have already intimated it, that, M eight years of age, hei' heart was cold. It was not her fault; it was not the faculty of loviug that she lacked ; alas ! it wa| the possibility. Thus, from the very first day, all her sentieu* and thinking powers loved this kind man. She felt that which she had never felt before — a sensation of expansion. The man no longer produced on her the effect of being old o? poor ; she thought Jean Valjean handsome, just as she thought the hovel pretty. These are the effects of the dawn, of childhood, of joy. The novelty of the earth and of life counts for something here. Nothing is so charming as the coloring rejection of happiness on a garret. We all have in our past a delightful garret. Nature, a difference of fifty jears, had set a profound gulf l)etween Jean Valjean and Cosette ; destiny filled in this gulf. Destiny suddenly united and wedded with its irresistible power these two uprooted existences, differing in age, alike in sorrow. One, in fact, completed the other. Cosette's iiistinct souglit a father, as Jean Val jean's mstinct sought a child. To meet was to find each other. At the mysterious moment when their hands touched, they were welded together. When these two souls l>erceived each other, they recognized each other as necessary to each other, and embraced each other closely. Taking the words in their most comprehensive and absolute sense, we may say that, separated from every one by the walls of the tomb, Jean Valjean was the widower, and Cosette was the or[)han : this situation caused Jean Valjean to become Cosette's father after a celestial fashion. And in truth, the mysterious impression produced on Cosette in the depths of the forest of Chelles by the hand of Jean Val- jean grasping hers in the dark was not an illusion, but a reality. The entrance of that man into the destiny of that child had l>cen the advent of God. Moreover, Jean Valjean had chosen his refuge well. There he seemed perfectly secure. The chamber with a dressing-room, which he occupied witl Cosette, was the one whose window opened on the boulevard. This being the only window in the house, no neighbors' glances were to be feared from across the way or at the side. The ground-floor of Number 50-52, a sort of dilapidated penthouse, served as a wagon-house for market-gardeners, and no communication existed between it and the first story. ft was separated by the floorinor, which had neither traps noi fitairs, and which formed the diaphragm of the building, as ii Digitized by Google 128 LES MISERABLES. were. The fini story contained, as we have said, q amadous chambers and several attics, only one of which was occupied by the old woman who took charge of Jean Val jean's house- keeping ; all the rest was uninhabited. It was this old woman, ornamented with the name of the principal lodger, and in reality intrusted with the fonctions of portress, who had let him the lodging on Christmas eve. He had represented himself to her as a gentleman of means who had been ruined by Spanish bonds, who was coming there to live with his little daughter. He had paid her six mouths in advance, and had commissioned the old woman to furnish the chamber and dressing-room, as we have seen. It was this good woman who had lighted the fire in the stove, and prepared everything on the evening of their arrival. Week followed week ; these two beings led a happy life in that hovel. Cosette laughed, chattered, and sang from daybreak. Chil- dren have their morning song as well as birds. It sometimes 'happened that Jean Valjean clasped her tiny red hand, all cracked with chilblains, and kissed it. The poor child, who was used to being beaten, did not know the meaning of this, and ran away in confusion. At times slie became serious and stared at her little black gown. Cosette was no longer in rags ; she was in mourning. She had emerged from misery, and she was entering into life. Jean Valjean had undertaken to teach her to read. Sometimes, as he made the child spell, he remembered that it was with the idea of doing evil that he had learned to read in prison. This idea had ended in teaching a child to read. Then tlie ex-convict smiled with the pensive smile of tlie angels. He felt in it a premeditation from on high, the will of some one who was not man, and he became absorbed in revery. Good thoughts have their abysses as well as evil ones. To teach Cosette to read, and to let her play, tliis constituted nearly the whole of Jean Valjean*s existence. And then he talked of her mother, and he made her pray. She called hhn father, and knew no other name for him. He passed hours in watching her dressing and undressing her doll, and in listening to her prattle. Life, henceforth, appeared to him to be full of interest; men seemed to him good and just; he no longer reproached any one in thought; he saw no reason why he should not live to l)e a vory old man, now that this child loved him. He saw a whole future stretching put before him, illuminated by Cosette as by a charming light. The best of us Digitized by Google COSETTE. ^ iM are not exempt from egotistical thoughts. At times, he reflectei? with a sort of joy that she would be ugly. This is only a personal opinion ; but, to utter our whole ihought, at the point where Jean Valjean had arrived when he began to love Cosette, it is by no means clear to us tiiat he did not need this encouragement in order that he might perse- vere in well-doing. He had just viewed the malice of men and the miser}- of society under a new aspect — incomplete aspects, which unfortunately only exhibited one side of the truth, the fate of woman as summed up in Fantine, and public authority as personified in Javert. He had returned to prison, this time for having done right ; he had quaffed fresh bitterness ; disgust and lassitude were overpowering him ; even the memory of the Bishop probably suffered a temporary eclipse, though sure to re- 9ppear later on luminous and triumphant; but, after all, that sacred memorj* was growing dim. Who knows whether Jean Valjean had not been on the eve of growing discouraged and ot falling once more ? He loved and grew strong again. Alaâ! he walked with no less indecision than Cosette. He protected her, and she strengthened him. Thanks to him, she could walk through life ; thanks to her, he could continne in virtue. He was that child's stay, and she was his prop. Oh, unfathomable And divine mystery of the balances of destiny I IV. — The Remarks of the Principal Tenant. Jean Valjean was prudent enough never to go out by day. Every evening, at twilight, he walked for an hour or two, some- times alone, often with Cosette, seeking the most deserted side alleys of the boulevard, and entering churches at nightfall. He liked to go to Saint-Médard, which is the nearest church. When he did not take Cosette with him, she remained with the old woman ; but the child's delight was to go out witli the good man. She preferred an hour with him to all her rapturous tête- à-têteft with Catherine. He held her hand as they walked, and eaid sweet things to her. It turned oat that Cosette was a very gay little person. The old woman attended to the housekeeping and cooking Hod went to market. They lived soberly, always having a little fire, but like people in very moderate circumstances. Jean Valjean had made no altera ations in the furniture as it was the first day ; he had merely had the glass door leading to Cosette*s dressing-room replaced by a solid door. Digitized by VjOOQ IC 180 LES MISFsRABLES. He still wore his yellow coat, his black breeches, and his old .•jat. In the street, he was taken for a poor man. It somo' âmes happened that kini towards the door, seated on tlje chair from which he had noi stirred, and holding his breath in the dark. After the expiration of a rather long intei-val, he turned round, as he heard nothing more, and, as he raised his eye» Digitized by Google COSETTE. 133 towards the door of his chamber, he saw a light through the keyhole. This light formed a sort of sinister star in the black» ness' of the door and the wall. There was evidently some one there, who was holding a candle in ins hand and listening. Several minutes elapsed thus, and the light retreated, lint he 'i^eard no sound of footsteps, which seemed to indicate that the erson who had been listening at tlie door had removed his slioes. Jean Val jean threw himself, all dressed as he was, on his xhI, and could not close his eyes all night. At daybreak, just as he was falling into a doze througli fatigue, he was awakened by the creaking of a d(K)r which «opened on some attic at the end of the corridor, then he heard tiie same masculine footstep which had ascendecl the stairs on the preceding evening. The step was approaching. He sprang off the bed and applied his eye to the keyhole, which was toler- ably large, hoping to see thé person who had made his way by night into the house and had listened at his door, as he passed. It was a man, in fact, who passed, this time without paus- ing, in front of Jean Valjean*8 chamber. The corridor was too dark to allow of the person's face being distinguished ; but when the man reached the staircase, a ray of light from witliout made it stand out like a silhouette, and Jean Val jean had a complete view of his back. The man was of lofty stature, clad in a long frock-coat, with a cudgel under his arm. The formidable neck and shoulders belonged to Javert. Jean Valjean might have attempted to catch another glimpse of him through his window opening on the boulevard, but he would have been obliged to open the window : he dared not. It was evident that this man had entered with a key, and like himself. Who had given him that key ? What was the mean- ing of this ? When the old w©man came to do the work, at seven o'clock in the morning, Jean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on hor, out he did not question her. The good woman appeared as jsual. As she swept up she remarked to him : — ** Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last mght?** At that age, and on that boulevard, eight o'clock in the evening was the dead of the night. *' That is true, by the way," he replied, in the most natural tone possible. " Who was it?" " !*, was a new lodger who has come into the house," sai*' the old woman. Digitized by Google i34 LES MISÉRABLES. *' And what is bis name ? " "'^ I don't know exactly ; Duinout, or Daumont, or some naoK of that sort." '* And who is this Monsieur Dumont?" The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyes, and answered : — "A gentleman of property, like yourself." Perhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Val jean thought he perceived one. When the old woman had taken her departure, he did up a hundred francs which he had in a cupboard, into a roll, and put it in his pocket. In spite of all the precautions which he took in tliis operation so that lie might not be heard rattling silver, a hundred-sou piece escaped from his hands and rolled noisily on the floor. When darkness came on, he descended and carefully scruti- nized both sides of the boulevard. He saw no one. The boulevard appeared to be absolutely deserted. It is true that a person can conceal himself behind trees. He went up stairs again. " Come," he said to Cosette. He took her by the hand, and they both went out. BOOK FIFTH.— FOR A BLACK HUNT, A MUTE PACK. I. — The Zigzags of Strategy. An observation here becomes necessary, in view of the page» which the reader is about to peruse, and of others which will be met with further on. The author of this book, who regrets the necessity of men tioning himself, has been absent from Paris for mauj' yeai"s. Paris has been transformed since he (piitted it. A new citv has arisen, which is, after a fashion, unknown to him. There is no need for him to say that he loves Paris: Paris is his mind's natal city. In consequence of demolitions and rccoo- structions, the Paris of liis youth, that Paris which he bora away religiously in his memory, is now a Paris of days gone l>y. He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still existed. It is [)ossibie that when the author conducts his read- Digitized by Google COSETTE. \U a^ to a spot and aaj's, ^^ In such a street there stands such and siich a house," neither street nor house will anj' longer exist in i)at locality. Readers may verify the facts, if they care to take the trouble. For his own part, he is unacquainted with the new Paris, and he writes with the old Paris before his eyes in an illusion which is precious to him. It is a delight to him to dream that there still lingers behind him something of that ffhich he beheld when he was in his own country, and that all has not vanished. So long as you go and come in your ûative land, you imagine that those streets are a matter of in- difference to you ; that those windows, those roofs, and those doors are nothing to you ; that those walls are strangers to you ; that those trees are merely the first encountered hap-haz- ard ; that those houses, which you do not enter, are useless to you ; that the pavements which you tread are merely stones. Later on, when you are no longer there, you perceive that the streets are dear to you ; that you miss those roofs, those doors ; and that those walls are necessary to you, those trees are well beloved by you ; that you entered those houses which jou never entered, every day, and that you have left a part of your heart, of your blood, of your soul, in those pavements. All those places which you no longer behold, which you may never behold again, perchance, and whose memory you have cherished, take on a melancholy charm, recur to your mind with the melancholy of an apparition, make the holy land visible to you, and are, so to si>eak, the very form of France, and you love them ; and you call them up as they are, as they were, and you persist in this, and you will submit to no change : for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to the face of your mother. May we, then, be permitted to speak of the past in the pres- ent? That said, we beg the reader to take note of it, and we continue. Jean Valjean instantly quitted the boulevard and plungod into the streets, taking the most intricate lines which he could ievise, returning on his track at times,' to make sure that he vas not being followed. This manœuvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where an imprint of the track may be left, this manœuvre possesses, among other advantages, that of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs, by throwing thom on the wrong scent. In venery this is calle(f false re-imhushwenf. The moon was full that night. Jean Valjean was not sorry for this. The moon, still very close to the horizon, cast great «aa^^ses of light and shadow in the streets. Jean Valjean couJa] Digitized by Google 186 LES MISÉRABLES. glide along dose to the houses on the dark side, and yet keep watch of the light side. lie did not, perhaps, tiike suîîicicQtlv into consideration the fact tiiat the dark side escaped him. Still, in the deserted lanes which lie near the Hue Poli veau, he thought he felt certain tliat no one was following him. Cosette walked on without asking any questions. The suf- ferings of the first six years of her life had instilled sometliing passive into her nature. Moreover, — and this is a remark tc which we shall frequently have occasion to recur, — siie had grown used, without being herself aware of it, to the peculiari- ties of this good man and to tiie freaks of destiny. And then she was with him, and she felt safe. Jean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Co- sette. lie trusted in God, as she trusted in him. It seemeilas though he also were clinging to the hand of some one greater than himself ; he thought he felt a being leading him, tliough invisible. However, he had no settled idea, no plan, no pro- ject. He was not even absolutely sure that it -was Javert, and then it might have been Javert, without Javert knowing that he was Jean V^aljean. Was not he disguised? Was not he be-' lieved to be dead? Still, queer things had l)een going on for severa!. days. He wanted no more of them. He was deter- mined not to return to the Gorbeau house. Like the wild ani- mal chased from its lair, he was seeking a hole in which be roight hide until he could find one where he might dwell. Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard quarter, which was already asleep, as though the discipline of the Middle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed ; he combined in various manners, with cunning strat- egy, the Rue Censier and the Rue Copeau, the Rue du Battoir- Saint- Victor and the Rue du Puits TErmite. There are lodging- houses in this locality, but he did not even enter one, fiuding nothing which suited him. He had no doubt tiiat if any one had chanced to be upon his track, they would have lost it. As eleven o'clock struck from Saint-Étienne-du-M(mt, he wa£ traversing the Rue de Pontoise, in front of the office of the commissary of police, situated at No. 14. A few moment'^ later, the instinct of which we have spoken above made him turn round. At that moment he saw distinctly, thanks to the commissary's lantern, which betrayed them, three men who were following him closely, pass, one after the other, under that lantern, on the dark side of the street. One of the three entered the alley leading to the commissary's house. The one who marched at their head struck him as decidedly suspicious. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 13? '^ Come, child," he said to Cosette ; and he miide haste to quit the line Poiitoise. He to(^k a circuit, turned into the Passage des Patriarches, which was closed on account of the hour, strode along tlie Rue de rÉpée-de-Bois and the Rue de l'Arbalète, and plunged into the Rue des Postes. At that time there was a square formed by the intersection of streets, where the College Rolliu stands to-day, and where tbe Rue Neuve-Sainte-Geneviève tnrns off. It is understood, of course, that the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Gene- viève is an old street, and that a posting-chaise does not pxiss through the Rue des Postes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century this Rue des Postes was inhabited by potters, and its real name is Rue des Pots. The moon cast a vivid light into this open space. Jean Val- jean went into ambush in a doorway, calculating that if the men were still following him, he could not fail to get a good look at them, as they traversed this illuminated space. In point of fact, three minutes had not elapsed when the men made their appearance. There were four of them now. All were tall, dressed in long, brown coats, with round hats, and huge cudgels in their hands. Their great stature and their vast fists rendered them no less alarming than did their sinister stride through the darkness. One would have pronouced them four spectres disguised as bourgeois. They halted in the middle of the space and formed a group, like men in consultation. They had an air of indecision. The one who appeared to be their leader turned round and poii^ttîd hastily with his right hand in the direction which Jean Valjeau had taken ; another seemed to indicate the contrary direction with considerable obstinacy. At the moment when the first man wheeled round, the moon fell full in his face. Jean Val- jean reoc^nized Javert perfectly. n. — It is Lucky that the Pont d'Austerlitz bears Carriaoes. Uhcertainty was at an end for Jean Valjean : fortunately it still lasted for the men. He took advantage of their hesitation. It was time lost for them, but gained for him. He slipped from under the gate where he had concealed himself, and went dowr the Rue des Postes, towards the region of the Jardin des Plantes. Cosette was beginning to be tired. He took her in his arms Digitized by Google 138 LES MISÉRABLES. and carried her. There were do passers-by, anÀ the street lai terns bad not been lighted on account of there being a moon. He redoubled his pace. In a few strides he had reached the Goblet potteries, on the front of whicl) the moonlight rendered distinctly legible the ancient inscription : — Pe Goblet fils c'est ici la fabrique ; ^ Venez choisir des cruches et des brocs, Des pots à fleurs, des tuyaux, de la brique. À tout venant le Cœur vend des Carreaux. He left behind him the Rue de la Clef, then the Fonntam Saint-Victor, skirted the Jardin des Plantes by the lower streets, and reached the quay. There he turned round. The quay was deserted. The streets were deserted. There was no one be hind him. He drew a long breath. He gained the Pont d'Austerlitz. Tolls were still collected there at that epoch. He presented himself at the toll office and handed over a son. " It is two sous," said the old soldier in charge of the bridge. "You are carrying a child who can walk. Pay for two." He paid, vexed that his passage should have aroused remark. Every flight should be^an imperceptible slipping away. . A heavy cart was cmssing the Seine at the same time as him- self, and on its way, like him, to the right bank. This was of use to him. He could travei^e the bridge in the shadow of the cart. Towards the middle of the bridge, Cosette, whose feet were benumbed, wanted to walk. He set her on the ground and took her hand again. The bridge once crossed, he perceived some timber-yards on his right. He directed his course thither. In order to reach them, it was necessary to risk himself in a tolerably large unsheltered and illuminated space. He did not hesitate. Those who were on his track had evidently lost the scent, and Jean Valjean believed himself to be out of danger. Hunted, yes ; followed, no. A little street, the Rue du Chemin- Vert-Saint- Antoine, opened out between two timber-yards enclosed in walls. This street was dark and narrow and seemed made expressly for him. Before entering it he cast a glance behind him. 1 This is the factory of Goblet Junior: Come choose your jiijrs and crocks, Flower-pots, pipes, bricks. The Hearl sellf l>iaQinDds to everj oom«s. Digitized by VjOOQ IC COSETTE. 139 From the point where he stood he coald see the whole extent of the Pont d'Austerlitz. Four shadows were just entering on the bridge. Tliese shadows had their backs turned to the Jardin de§ Plantes and were on their way to the right bank. These four shadows were the four men. Jean Valjean shuddered like the wild beast which is recap inred. One hope remained to him ; it was, that the men had not, perhaps, stepped on the bridge, and had not caught sight of him while he was crossing the large illuminated space, holding Cosette by the hand. In that case, by plunging into the little street before him, he might escape, if he could reach the timber-yards, the marshes, ihe market-gardens, the uninhabited ground which was not built upon. It seemed to him that he might commit himself to that silent little street. He entered it* in. — To Wit, the Plan of Paris in 1727. Three hundred paces further on, he arrived at a point where the street forked. It separated into two streets, which ran in a slanting line, one to the right, and the other to the left. Jean Valjean had before him what resembled the two branches of a Y. Which should he choose? He did not hesitate, but took the one on the right. Why? Because that to the left ran towards a suburb, that is to sa}^ towards inhabited regions, and the right branch towards th# open country, that is to say, towards deserted regions. However, they no longer walked very fast. Cosette's pace retarded Jean Valjean*s. He took her up and carried her again. Cosette laid her head on the shoulder of the good man and said not a word. He turned round from time to time and looked behind him. He took cai'e to keep always on the dark side of the street. The street was straight in his rear. The first two or three times that he turned round he saw nothing ; the silence was profound, and he continued his march somewhat reassured. All at once, on turning round, lie thought he perceived in the portion of the street which he liad just passed through, far off (q tbe obsrnritv» something which was moving. Digitized by Google 140 LES MlSEît..BLËS. He rushed forward precipitately rather tlian walked, hoping to find some side-street, to make liis escape through it, and thua to break his scent ouce more. He arrived at a wall. This wall, however, did not absolutely prevent further prog- ress ; it was a wall which bordered a ti*ans verse street, io which the one he had taken ended. Here again, he was obliged to come to a decision ; should he go to the right or to the left. He glanced to the right. The fragmentary lane was pro- longed between buildings which were either sheds or barns» then ended at a blind alley. The extremity of -the cuMe-sae was distinctly visible, — a lofty wl^ite wall. He glanced to the left. On that side the lane was open, and about two hundred paces further on, ran into a street of which it was the affluent. On that side lay safety. At the moment when Jean Val jean was meditating a turn to the left, in an effort to reach the street which he saw at the end of the lane, he perceived a sort of motionless, black statue at the corner of the lane and the street towards which he was on the point of directing his steps. It was some one, a man, who had evidently just been posted there, and who was barring the passage and waiting. Jean Val jean recoiled. The point of Paris where Jean Val jean found himself, situ- ated between the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and la Râpée, is one of those which recent improvements have ti*ansformed from top to bottom,— 7 resulting in disfigurement according to some, and in a. transfiguration according to others. The maiiket-gardens, the timber yards, and the old buildings have been effaced. To- day, there are brand-new, wide streets, arenas, circuses, hippo- dromes, railway stations, and a prison, Mazas, there ; progress, as the reader sees, with its antidote. Half a century ago, in that ordinary, popular tongue, which is all compounded of traditions, which persists in calling tlie Institut les Quatre- Nation 3^ and the Opera-Comiquc Feydeaun the precise spot whither Jean Valjean had arrived was called ?€ Petit Picpus, The Porte Saint-Jacques, the Porte Paris, the Barrière des Sergents, the Porcherons, la Galiote, les Célestins, les Capucins, le Mail, la Bourbe, l'Arbre de Cracovie, la Petite- Pologne — these are the names of old Paris which survive amid the new. The memory of the populace hovers over these relics of the past. Le Petit-Picpus, which, moreover, hardly ever had an^ ezist- Digitized by Google COSETTE. 141 fnoe, and never was more than the outline of a quarter, had 4 early the monkish aspect of a Spanish town. ÏUe roads were i?ot much paved ; the streets were not much built up. With the exception of the two or thi-ee streets, of which we shall pres- ently speaky all was wall and solitude there. Not a shop, not a vehicle, hardly a candle lighted here and there in the windows ; all lights extinguished after ten o'clock. Gardens, convents, timber-yards, marshes; occasional lowly dwellings and great walls as high as the houses. Such was this quarter in the last century. The Revolution snubbed it soundl}'. The republican government demolished and cut through it. Rubbish shoots were established there. Thirty years ago, this quarter was disappearing under the erasing process of new buildings. To-day, it has been utterly dotted out. The Petit-Picpus, of which no existing plan has ]>reserved a trace, is indicated with sufficient clearness in the plan itt 1727, published at Paris by Denis Thierry, Rue Saint-Jacques, opposite the Rue du Plâtre ; and at Lyons, by Jean Girin, Rue Mercière, at the sign of Prudence. Petit-Picpus had, as we have just mentioned, a Y of streets, formed by the Rue du Ohemin-Vert-Saiut- Antoine, which spread out in two branches, taking on the left the name of Little Picpus Street, and on the )ight the name of the Rue Polonceau. The two limbs of the V were connected at the apex as by a bar ; this bar was called Rue Droit-Mur. The Rue Polonceau ended there ; Rue Petit- Picpus passed on, and ascended towards the Lenoir market. A person coming from the Seine reached the extremity of the Rue Polonceau, and had on his right the Rue Droit-Mur, turn- ing abruptly at a right angle, in front of him the wall of that street, and on his right a truncated prolongation of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had no issue and was called the Cul-de-Sac Genrot. It was here that Jean Valjean stood. As we have just said, on catching sight of that black silhou- ette standing on guard at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur and vhe Rue Petit-Picpus, he recoiled. There could be no doubt of it. That phantom was lying in wait for him. What was he to do ? The time for retreating was passed. That which he had per- ceived in movement an instant before, in the distant darkness, was Javert and his squad without a doubt. Javert was prob- ably already at the commencement of the street at whose end Jean Valjean stood. Javert, to all appearances, was ao- nainted with this little labyrinth, and had taken his precautions Digitized by Google 141 . LES MISERABLES. hy sending one of his men to «^iiard the exit. Pbese Bormidei, which so closely reseiuhled proofs, whirled suddenly, like a handful of dust cauagh in a very low tone : — " Pnt your back against the wall.** She obeyed. '^ Don't say a word, and don't be alarmed,'* went od Jeat Faljean. And she felt herself lifted from the ground. Before she had time to recover herself, she was on the top of the wall. Jean Valjean grasped her, put her on his back, took her two tiny hands in his large left band, lay clown flat on his stomach and crawled along on top of the wall as far as the cant. As he had guessed, there stood a building whose roof started from the top of tiie wooden barricade and descended to within a very Bhort distance of the ground, with a gentle slope which grazed the lindeta'tree. A lucky circumstance, for the wall was much higher on this side than on the street side. Jean Valjean could only see the ground at a great depth below him. He had just reached the slope of the roof, and had not yet left the crest of the wall, when a violent upmar announced the arrival of the patrol. The thundering voice of Javert was audi- We: — '^ Search the blind alley ! The Rue Droit-Mur is guarded ! BO is the Rue Petit-Picpus. I'll answer for it that he is in the bUnd alley." The soidiers rushed into the Genrot alley. Jean Valjean allowed himself to slide down the roof, still holding fast to Cosette, reached the linden-tree, and leaped to tiie ground. Whether from ten'or or courage, Cosette had not breathed a sound, though her hands were a little abraded. VI. — The Bboikxino of ak EiaovA. Jkah Valjean found himself in a sort of garden which was very vast and of singular aspect ; one of those melancholy gar* uens which seem made to be looked at in winter and at night. This garden was oblong in shape, with an alley of large poplars at the further end, tolerably tall forest trees in the corners, and an unshaded space in the centre, where could bo seen a very huge, solitary tree, then several fruit-trees, gnarled and bristlinjyi 148 LES MISÉRABLES. iîke bushes, beds of vegetables, a melon patch, whose glas^ frames sparkled in the moonlight, and an old well. Here &c>l ihere stood stone benches which seemed black with moss. Th« îîlleys were bordered with gloomy and very erect little shrubs. The gr&9s had half taken possession of them, and a green moul«4 L'overed the rest. Jean Valjcan had beside him the building whose roof had Gerved him as a means of descent, a pile of fagots, and, behind the fagots, directly against the wall, a stone statue, whose mutilated face was no longer anything more than a shapeless mask which loomed vaguely through the gloom. The building was a sort of ruin, where dismantled chambers were distinguishable, one of which, much encumbered, seeme^l to serve as a shed. The large building of the Rue Droit-Mur, which had a wing on the Rue Petit-Picpus, turned two façades, at right angles» towards this garden. These interior façades were even moru tragic than the exterior. All the windows were grated. Not a gleam of light was visible at any one of them. The uppe* story had scuttles like prisons. One of those façades cast it.'* shadow on the other, which fell over the garden like an immenst black pall. No other house was visible. The bottom of the garden wa% lost in mist and darkness. Nevertheless, walls could be con fusedly made out, which intersected as though there were mor« cultivated land beyond, and the low roofs of the Rue Polonceau. Notliing more wild and solita^*y than this gaixlcn could b<> imagined. There was no one in it, which was quite natural iu view of the hour ; but it did not seem as though tills spot were made for any one to walk in, even in broad daylight. Jean Val jean's first care had been to get hold of his shoes and put them on again, then to step under the shed with Cosette. A man who is fleeing never thinks himself sufficiently hidden. The child, whose thoughts were still on the Thénardler, shared his instinct for withdrawing from sight as much as possible. Cosette trembled and pressed close to him. They heard th'î tumultuous noise of the patrol searching the blind allé}' and th« streets ; the blows of their gun-stocks against the stones ; Javert*i appeals to the police spies whom he had posted, and his impre cations mingled with words which could not be distinguished. At the expiration of a quarter of an hour it seemed as though that species of stormy roar were becoming more distant. Jeaia Valjcan held his breath. He had laid Ids band lightly on Cosette's mouth. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 149 However, the solitude in which he stood was so strangely calm, that this frightful uproar, close and furious as it was, did not disturb hiiu by so much as the shadow of a misgiving. It seemed as though those walls had been built of the deaf stones of which the Scriptures speak. All at once, in the midst of this profound calm, a fresh sound arose ; a sound as celestial, divine, ineffable, ravishing, as the other had been horrible. It was a hymn which issued from the gloom, a dazzling burst of praj^er and harmony in the obscure and alarming silence of the night ; women's voices, but voices composed at one and the same time of the pure accents of vir- gins and the innocent accents of children, — voices which are not of the earth, and which resemble those that the new-born infant still hears, and which the dying man hears already. This song proceeded from the gloomy edifice which towered above the garden. At the moment when the hubbub of demons retreated, one would have said that a choir of angels was ap- proaching through the gloom. Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees. They knew not what it was, they knew not where they were ; but both of them, the man and the child, the penitent and the innocent, felt that they mast kneel. These voices had this strange characteristic, that they did not prevent the building from seeming to be deserted. It was a supernatural chant in an uninhabited house. While these voices were singing, Jean Valjean thought of nothing. He no longer beheld the night ; he beheld a blue sky. It seemed to him that he felt those wings which we all have within as, unfolding. The song died away. It may have lasted a long time. Jean V aljean could not have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment. All fell silent again. There was no longer anything in the 3trcet ; there was nothing in the garden. That which had mcn- ac?ed, that which had reassured him, — all had vanished. The breeze swayed a few dry weeds on the crest of the wall, and they gave cot a faint, sweet, melancholy sound. Vn. — Continuation op the Enioma. The night wind had risen, which indicated that it must b6 between one and two o'clock in the morning. Poor Cosette said nothing. As she had seated herself beside him aod leaned Digitized by Google 150 LES MISERABLES. her head against him, Jean Val jean had fancied that sbe was asleep. He bent down and looked at her. Cosette's eyes were wide open, and her thoughtful air pained Jean Valjean. She was still trembling. " Are you sleepy?" said Jean Valjean. *' I am very cold," she replied. A moment later she resumed : — "Is she still there?" ** Who?" said Jean Valjean. *' Madame Tiiénardier." Jean Valjean had already forgotten the means which he had employed to make Cosette keep silent. '' Ah ! " said he, '*she is gone. You need fear nothing fur- ther." The child sighed as though a load had been lifted from her breast. The ground was damp, the shed open on all sides, the breeze grew more keen every instant. The goodman took off his ooat and wrapped it round Cosette. '* Are you less cold now?" said he. " Oh, yes, father." ** Well, wait for me a moment. I will soon be back.** He quitted the ruin and crept along the large building, seeking a better shelter. He came across doors, but they were closed. There were bars at all the windows of tlie ground floor. Just after he had turned the inner angle of the edifice, he observed that he was coming to some arched windows, where he perceived a light. He stood on tiptoe and peeped through one of these windows. They all opened on a tolerably vast hall, paved with large flagstones, cut up by arcades and pillars, where only a tiny light and great shadows were visible. The light came from a taper which was burning in one corner. The apartment was deserted, and nothing was Stirling in it. Never- theless, by dint of gazing intently he thought he perceived on the ground something which appeared to be covered with a winding-sheet, and which resembled a human form. This form was lying face downward, flat on the pavement, with the arms extended in the form of a cross, in the immobility of death. One would have said, judging from a sort of serpent which undulated over the floor, that this sinister form had a rope round its neck. The whole chamber was bathed in that mist of places which are sparely illuminated, which adds to horror. Jean Valjean often said afterwards, that, althoogfa luanj Digitized by Google COSKTTE. 151 Ainereal spectres had crossed his path in life, he had never beheld anything more blood-curdling and terrible than that enigmatical form accomplishing some inexplicable mystery in that gloomy place, and beheld thus at night. It was alarming to suppose that that thing was perhaps dead ; and still more alanning to think that it was i)erhaps alive. He had the courage to plaster his face to the glass, and to watch whether the thing would move. In spite of liis remaining thus what seemed to him a very long time, the outstretched form made no movement. All at once he felt himself overpowered by an inexpressible terror, and he fled. He began to run towards the shed, not daring to look behind him. It seemed to him, that if he turned his head, he should see that form fol- lowing him with great strides and waving its arms. He reached the ruin all out of breath. His knees were giv' ing wa}^ beneath him ; the perspiration was pouring from him. Where was he? Who could ever have imagined anything like that sort of sepulchre in the midst of Paris ! What was this strange house? An edifice full of nocturnal mystery, call- ing to souls through the darkness with the voice of angels, and when they came, offering them abruptly that terrible vision ; promising to open the radiant portals of heaven, and then open- ing the horrible gates of the tomb ! And it actually was an edifice, a house, which bore a number on the street ! It was not a dream ! He had to touch the stones to convince himself that such was the fact. Cold, anxiet}', uneasiness, the emotions of the night, had given him a genuine fever, and all these ideas were clashing together in his brain. He stepped up to Cosette. She was asleep. Vni. — The Enioma becomes Doublt Mysterious. The child had laid her head on a stone and fallen asleep. He sat down beside her and began to think. Little by little, •8 he gazed at her, he grew calm and regained possession of his freedom of mind. He clearly perceived this truth, the foundation of his life henceforth, that so long as she was there, so long as he had her near him, he should need nothing except for her, he should fear nothing except for her. He was not even conscious that he was very cold, since he had taken off his coat to cover her. Nevertheless, athwart this revery into which he had fallen Digitized by Google 152 LES MISÉRABLES. he had heard for some time a peculiar noise. Tt was like the tinkling of a bell. This sound proceeded from the garden. It could he heard distinctly though faintly. It resembled the faint, vague music produced by the bells of cattle at night vo the pastures. This noise made Jean Val jean turn round. He looked and saw that there was some one in the garden. A being resembling a man was walking amid the bell-glasses of the melon beds, rising, stooping, halting, with regular move- ments, as though he were dragging or spreading out something on the ground. This person appeared to limp. Jean Valjean shuddered with the continual tremor of the un- happy. For them everything is hostile and suspicious. They distrust the day because it enables poople to see them, and the night because it aids in surprising them. A little while before he had shivered because the garden was deserted, and now he shivered because there was some one there. He fell back from chimerical terrors to real terrors. He said to himself tljat Javert and the spies had, perhaps, not taken their departure ; that they had, no donbt, left people on the watch in the street; that if this man should discover him in the garden, he would cry out for help against thieves and deliver "him up. He took the sleeping Cosette gently in his arms and carried her behind a heap of old furniture, which was out of use, in the most remote corner of the shed. Cosette did not stir. From that point he scrutinized the appearance of the being in the melon patch. The strange thing about it was, that the sound of the bell followed each of this man's movements. When the man approaiîhed, the sound approached; when the man retreated, the sound retreated ; if he made any hasty ges- ture, a tremulo accompanied the gesture ; when he halted, the sound ceased. It appeared evident that the bell was attached to that man ; but what could that signify? Who was this man who had a bell suspended about him like a ram or an ox ? ' As he put these questions to himself, he touched Cosette's hands. They were icv cold. '* Ah ! good God ! '' he cried. He spoke to her in a low voice : — " Cosette ! " She did not open her eyes. He shook her vigorously. She did not wake. " Is she dead? " he said to himself, and sprang to his feet quivering from head to foot. Digitized by Google COSETTB, 151 The moflt frightful thoughts rushed pell-mell through his mind. There are moments when hideous surmises assail us like a cohort of furies, and violently force the partitions of our hrains. When those we love are in question, our prudence in- vents every sort of madness. He remembered that sleep in the open air on a cold night may be fatal. Gosette was pale, and had fallen at full length on the ground at his feet, without a movement. He listened to her breathing : she still breathed, but with a respiration which seemed to him weak and on tlie point of ex- tinction. How was he to warm her back to life ? How was he to rouse her? All that was not connected with this vanished from his thoughts. He rushed wildly from the ruin. It was absolutely necessary that Cosotte should be in bed and beside a fire in less than a quai-ter of an hour. IX. — The Man with the Bell. Hk walked straight up to the man whom he saw in the gar- den. He had taken in his hand the roll of silver which was in the pocket of his waistcoat. The man's head was bent down, and he did not see him ap< preaching. In a few strides Jean Val jean stood beside him. Jean Valjean accosted him with the cry : — " One hundred francs I " The man gave a start and raised his eyes. ^^ You can earn a hundred francs," went on Jean Valjean, ^* if yon will grant me shelter for this night." The moon shone full upon Jean Valjean's terrified counte- nance. ^^ What I so it is you. Father Madeleine ! " said the man. That name, thus pronounced, at that obscure hour, in that unknown spot, by that strange man, made Jean Valjean start back. He had expected anything but that. The person who thus addressed him was a bent and lame old man, dressed almost like a peasant, who wore on his left knee a leather knee-cap, whence hung a moderately large bell. His face, which was in the shadow, was not distinguishable. However, the goodman had removed his cap, and exclaimed, trembling all over : — **Ah, good God! How come you here. Father Madeleine? Where did you enter? Dieu- Jésus ! Did you fall from heaven? Digitized by Google 154 LES MISERABLES. Tbere is no trouble about that : if ever you do fall^ it will be from there. And what a state you are in ! You have no cnir vat ; you have uo hat ; you have no coat ] Do you know, you would have frightened auy one who did not know you? No coat ! Lord God ! Are the saiuts going mad nowadays ? But how did you get in here ? " His words tumbled over each other. The goodman talked with a rustic volubility, in which tiiere was nothing alarming. All this was uttered with a mixture of stupefaction and naïve kindliness. '^ Who are you? and what house is this?" demanded Jean Valjean. ^^Ah! pardieu, this is too much!" exclaimed the old man. ^' I am the person for whom you got the place here, and this house is the one where you had me placed. What ! You don't recognize me?" ^'No," said Jean Valjean; ^'and how happens it that you know me?" " You saved my life," said the man. He turned. A ray of moonlight outlined his profile, and Jean Valjean recognized old Fauchelevent. ^^ Ah ! " said Jean Valjean, ^' so it is you? Yes, I recollect you." ^' That is very lucky," said the old man, in a reproachful tone. ^^ And what are you doing here?" resumed Jean Valjean. " Why, I am covering my melons, of course I " In fact, at the moment when Jean Valjean accosted him, old Fauchelevent held in his hand the end of a straw mat which he was occupied in spreading over the melon bed. During the hour or thereabouts that he had been in the garden he had already spread out a number of them. It was this operation which had caused him to execute the peculiar movements ob*^ served from the shed by Jean Valjean. He continued : — '^I said to myself, 'The moon is bright: it is gofing to freeze. What if I were to put my melons into their greatcoats ?' And," he added, looking at Jean Valjean with a broad smile, — ^' pardieu ! you ought to have done the same I Bat how do you come here ? " Jean Valjean, finding himself known to this man, at least only under the name of Madeleine, thenceforth advanced only with caution. He multiplied his questions. Strange to say, their rôles seemed to be reversed. It was he, the intruder, who interrogated. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 151 ** And what is tins bell which yoa wear on your knee?'' •* This," replied Fauchelevent, ** is bo that 1 may be avoided.* " What ! so that you may be avoided ? " Old Fauchelevent winked with an indedcribable air. ^< Ah, goodness ! there are only women in this house — mau]^ young girls. It appears that I should be a dangerous person to meet. The bell gives them warning. When I come, they go." "What house is this?" ** Come, you know well enough.** *' But I do not." ** Not when you got me the place here as gardener?** *' Answer me as though I knew nothing." "Well, then, this is àe Petit-Picpus convent." Memories recurred to Jean Val jean. Chance, that is to say, Providence, had cast him into precisely that convent in the Quartier Saint-Antoine where old Fauchelevent, crippled by the fair from his cart, had l>een admitted on his recommendation two years previously. He repeated, as though talking to him- self:— "The Petit-Picpus convent.** " Exactly," returned old Fauchelevent. " But to come to tiie point, how the deuce did 3'ou manage to get in here, you, Father Madeleine? No matter if you are a saint; you are a man as well, and no man enters here.*' "Yon certainly are here." *' There is no one but me." ** Still," said Jean Valjean, "I must stay here." " Ah, good God ! " cried Fauchelevent. Jean Valjean drew near to the old man, and said to him in a grave voice : — "Father Fauchelevent, I saved your life." " I was the first to recall it/' returned Fauchelevent. " Well, you can do to-day for me that which I did for you in iie olden days." ' Fauchelevent took in his aged, trembling, and wrinkled hands Jean Val jean's two robust hands, and stood for several minutes as though incapable of speaking. At length he exclaimed : — "Oh! that would be a blessing from the good God, if I could make you some little return for that ! Save your life ! Monsieur le Maire, dispose of the old man ! " A wonderful joy had transfigured this old man. His coants oance seemed to emit a ray of light. "What do you wish meto do?" he resumed. ♦* That I will explain to you. You have a chamber?** Digitized by Google 166 LES MISÉRABLES. '^ I have SD isolated hovel yonder, behind the ruins of the old convent, in a corner which no one ever looks into. There are three rooms in it." The but was, in fact, so well hidden behind the rums, and so cleverly arranged to prevent it being seen, that Jean Valjean had not perceived it. ^' Good," said Jean Valjean. ^^ Now I am going to ask two things of you." '' What are they, Mr. Mayor?" '^ In the first place, you are not to tell any one what yoQ know about me. In the second, you are not to try to find out anything more." ^^ As you please. I know Uiat you can do nothing that if not honest, that you have always been a man after the good God's heart. And then, moreover, you it was who placed me here. That concerns you. I am at your service." ^^ That is settled then. Now, come with me. We will go and get the child." "Ah! " said Fauchelevent, " so there is a child?*' He added not a word f uither, and followed Jean Valjean as a dog follows his master. Less than half an hour afterwards Cosette, who had grown rosy again before the flame of a good fire, was lying asleep id the old gardener's bed. Jean Valjean had put on his cravat and coat once more ; this hat, which he had flung over the wall, had been found and picked up. While Jean Valjean was putting on his coat, Fauchelevent had removed the bell and knee-cap, which now hung on a nail beside a vintage basket that adorned the wall. The two men were warming tliemselves with their elbows resting on a table upon which Fauchelevent bad placed a bit of cheese, black bread, a bottle of wine, and two glasses, and the old man was saying to Jean Valjean, as he laid his hand on the latter's knee : " Ah I Father Madeleine ! You did not recognize me immediately ; you save people's lives, and then you forget them! That is bad I But they rememb^ you I YoQ are an ingrate ! " X. — Which explains how Javkbt got om thk Sgbht. The events of which we have just beheld the reverse side, so lo speak, had come about in the simplest possible manner. When Jean Valjean, on the evening of the verj* day when Javert had arrested him beside Fantine's death-bed, had escaped from the town jail of M. sur M., tbe police had supposed that Digitized by Google COSETTE. 167 lie had betaken himself to Paris. Paris is a maelstrom where I verything is lost, and everything disappears in this belly of the world, as in the belly of the sea. No forest hides a man as does that crowd. Fugitives of every sort know this. They go 10 Paris as to an abyss ; there are gulfs which save. The police know it also, and it is in Paris that they seek what they bave lost elsewhere. There they sought the ex-mayor of M. smr M. Javert was summoned to Paris to throw light on their researches. Javert had, in fact, rendered powerful assistance in the recapture of Jean Valjean. Javert's zeal and intelli- gence on that occasion had been remarked b^' M. Cliabouillet, secretary of the Prefecture under Comte Angles. M. Chabonil- let, who had, moreover, aU-eady been Javert's patron, had the inspector of M. sur M. attached to the police force of Paris. There Javert rendered himself useful in divers and, though the ford may seem strange for such semces, honorable manners. He no longer thought of Jean Valjean, — the wolf of to-day Auses these dogs who are always on the chase to forget the wrolf of yesterday, — when, in December, 1823, he read a news- paper, he who never read newspapers ; but Javert, a monarchi- •»il man, had a desire to know the particulars of the triumphal imtr}' of the " Prince Generalissimo " into Bayonne. Just as he was finishing the article, which interested him, a name, the name of Jean Valjean, attracted his attention at tiie bottom of u page. The paper announced that the convict Jean Valjean was dead, and published the fact in such formal terms that Javert did not doubt it. He confined himself to the remark, ** That's a good entry.'* Then he threw aside the paper, and thought no more about it. Some time afterwards, it chanced that a police report was tamnsmitted from the prefecture of the Seiue-et-Oise to the pre- fectare of police in Paris, concerning the abduction of a child, which had taken place, under peculiar circumstances, as it was said, in the commune of Montfermeil. A little girl of seven or ?tght years of age, the report said, who had been intrusted by her mother to an inn-keeper of that neigliborhood, had been Atoieu by a stranger ; this child answered to the name of Co- lette, and was the daughter of a girl named Fantine, who bad died in the hospital, it was not known where or when. This report came under Javert's eye and set him to thinking. The name of Fantine was well known to him. He remem. Lered tliat Jean Valjean had made him, Javert, burst into laughter, by asking him for a respite of three days, for the pur- (KMse of going to fetch tliat creature's child* He recalled the fact !zeu ijy ^^^K^'Ky à'^ 158 LES MISÉRABLES. that Jean Valjcan had been arrested in Paris at the Tei^ motneut when be was Btepping into the coach for Montfcrmeil Some signs had made bit a suspect at tlie time that this was the, second occasion of his entering that coach, and that he had al- ready, on the previous day, made an excursion to the neigh!3or- hood of that village, for he haort. But their first vexation having passed off, Thénardier, with his wonderful instinct, had very quickly com- prehended that it is never advisable to stir up the prosecutor of the Crown, and that his complaints with regard to the cMnc- twn of Cosette would have as their first result to fix upon him- self, and upon many dark affairs which he had on hand, the glittering eye of justice. The last thing that owls desire Ls to have a candle brought to them. And in the first place, how explain the fifteen hundred francs which he had received? He turned squarely round, put a gag on his wife's mouth, and feigned astonishment when the stolen cftUd was mentioned to him. He understood nothing aboutit; no doubt he had grumbled for a while at having that dear little creature ^^ taken from him " so hastily ; he should have liked to keep her two or three days longer, out of tenderness; but her "grandfather" had come for her in the most natural way in the world. He added the "grandfather," which produced a good effect. This was the story that Javert hit upon when he arrived at Montfer* meil. The grandfather caused Jean Valjean to vanish. Nevertheless, Javert dropped a few questions, like plummets, into Thénardier's history. "Who was that grandfather.^ and what was his name?" Thénardier replied with simplicity: "He is a wealthy farmer. I saw his passport. I think hu name was M. Guillaume Lambert/' COSETTE. 169 Lambert is a respectable and extremely reaBsoring name. Thereupon Javert returned to Paris. '' Jean Valjean is ceiiainly dead," said lie, " and I am a ninny." He had again begun to forget this history, when, in the course of March, 1824, he heard of a singular personage who dwelt in the parish of Saint-Médard and who had been surnamcd ^ *• the mendicant who gives alms." This person, the story ran waa 1 man of means, whose name no one knew exactly, and who lived alone with a little girl of eight years, who knew nothing about herself, save that she had come from Montfermeil. Mont- fermeil ! that name was always coming up, and it made Javert prick up his ears. An old beggar police spy, an ex-beadle, to whom this person had given alms, added a few more details. This gentleman of property was very shy, — never coming out except in the evening, speaking to no one, except, occasion- ally to the poor, and never allowing any one to approach him. He wore a horrible old yellow frock-coat, which was worth many millions, being all wadded with bank-bills. This piqued Javert's curiosity in a decided manner. In order to get a close look at this fantastic gentleman without alarming him, he borrowed the headle's outfit for a day, and the place where the old spy was in the habit of crouching every evening, whining orisons through bis nose, and playing the spy under cover of prayer. "The suspected individual" did indeed approach Javert thus disguised, and bestow alms on him. At that moment Javert raised his head, and the shock which Jean Valjean received on recc^^izing Javert was equal to the one received by Javei't when he thought he recognized Jean Valjean. However, the darkness might have misled him ; Jean Valjean's death was official ; Javert cherished very grave doubts ; and when in doubt, Javert, the man of scruples, never laid a finger on any one's collar. He folk)wed his man to the Gorbeau house, and got " the old woman" to talking, which was no difficult matter. The old woman confirmed the fact regarding the coat lined with millions^ and narrated to him the episode of the thousand-franc bill. She had seen it ! She had handled it ! Javert hired a room ; that evening he installed himself in it. He came and listened at the mysterious lodger's door, hoping to catch the sound of his voice, but Jean Valjean saw his candle through the key-hole, and foiled the spy by keeping silent. On the following day Jean Valjean decamped ; but the noise made by the fall of the five-franc piece was noticed by the old Digitized by Google 160 LES MISÉRABLES woman, who, hearing the rattling of coin, suspected that ha might be intending to leave, and made haste to warn Javert. At night, when Joan Valjcan carae out, Javert was waiting for him behind the trees of the boulevard with two men. Javert had demanded assistance at the Prefecture, but he had not mentioned the name of tl)e individual whom he hoped to seize ; that was his secret, and he had kept it for three reasons : in the first place, because the slightest indiscretion might put Jean Valjean on the alert ; next, because, to lay hands on aa ex-convict who had made his escape and was reputed dead, od a criminal whom justice had formerly classed forever as among malefactors of the most dangerous sort^ was a magnificent suc- cess which the old members of the Parisian police would assur • edly not leave to a new-comer like Javert, and he was afraid of being deprived of his convict ; and lastlj', because Javert, bein|{ an artist, had a taste for the unforeseen. He hated those well- heralded successes which are talked of long in advance and have had the bloom brushed off. He preferred to elaborate his masterpieces in the dark and to unveil them suddenly at the last. Javert had followed Jean Valjean from tree to tree, then from comer to corner of the street, and had not lost sight of him for a single instant ; even at the moments when Jean Val- jean believed himself to be the most secure Javert's eye hac^ been on him. Why had not Javert arrested Jean Valjean? Be cause he was still in doubt. It must be remembered that at that epoch the police was no\ precisely at its ease ; the free press embarrassed it ; several arbitrary arrests, denounced by the newspapers, had echoed even as far as the Chambers, and had rendered the Prefecture timid. Interference with individual liberty was a grave matter. The police agents were afraid of making a mistake ; the prefect laid the blame on them ; a mistake meant dismissal. The reader can imagine the effect which this brief paragraph, repro- duced by twenty newspapers, would have caused in Paris: "Yesterday, an aged grandfather, with white hair, a respecta- ble and weil-to-do gentleman, who was walking with his grand- child, aged eight, was arrested and conducted to the agency of the Prefecture as an escaped convict ! " Let us repeat in addition that Javert had scruples of his own ; injunctions of his conscience were added to tlie injunctions of the prefect. He was really in doubt. Jean Valjean turned his back on him and walked in the dark. Sadness, uneasiness, anxiety, depression, this fresh misfortune of bein^ forced to flee by night* to seek a chance refuge in Parii Digitized by Google COSETTE. 161 fcH* Cofiette and himself, the necessity of regulating his pace to the pace of the child — all this, without his being aware of it, had altered Jean Valjean's walk, and impressed on his bearing such senility, that the police themselves, incarnate in the person of Javert, might, and did in fact, make a mistake. The impossi- bility of approaching too close, his costume of an émigré pre- ceptor, the declaration of Thénardier which made a grandfather of him, and, finally, the belief in his deatii in prison, added still «inrther to the uncertainty which gathered thick in Javert's mind. For an instant it occurred to him to make an abrupt demand for his papers; but if the man was not Jean Valjean, and if this man was not a good, honest old fellow living on his income, he was probably some merry blade deeply and cunningly implicated in the obscure web of Parisian misdeeds, some chief of a dan- gerous band, who gave alms to conceal his other talents, which was an old dodge. He had trusty fellows, accomplices' retreats in case of emergencies, in which he would, no doubt, take refuge. All these turns which he was making through the streets seemed to indicate that he was not a simple and honest man. To arrest him too hastily would be '^ to kill the hen that laid the golden ^ggs«" Where was the inconvenience in waiting? Javert was very snre that he would not escape. . Thus he proceeded in a tolerably perplexed state of mind, putting to himself a hundred questions about this enigmatical personage. It was only quite late in the Rue de Pon toise, that, thanks to the brilliant light thrown from a dram-shop, he decidedly recog- nized Jean Valjean. There are in this world two beings who give a profound start, — the mother who recovers her child and the tiger who recovers his prey. Javert gave that profound start. As soon as he had positively recognized Jean Valjean, the fonnidable convict, he perceived that there were only three of !;heni. and he asked for reinforcements at the police station of ^e Bue de Pontoise. One puts on gloves before grasping a ''hom cudgel. This delay and the halt at the Cavrefour Bollin to consult with his agents came near causing him to lose the trail. He tpeedily divined, however, t^at Jean Valjean would want to put the river between his pursuers and himself. He bent his head fLDcl reflected like a blood-hound who puts his nose to the ground to make sure that he is on the right scent. Javert, with his powerful rectitude of instinct, went straijîht to the bride:o of Austerlitz* A word with the toll-keeper furnished him with th« Digitized by Google 162 LES MISÉRABLES. information which he required: ^^ Have yon seen a man with a little girl ? " "I made him pay two sous/' replied the toll- Reeptu*. Javert reached the bridge in season to 8ee Jean Val- jean traverse the small illumiuated spot on the other side of the water, leading Cosctte by the hand. He saw him enter the Rue du Chemin-Vcrt-Saint-Antoine ;'he remembered the Cul-de-Sac (ïenrot arranged there like a trap, and of the sole exit of the Rue Droit-Mur into the Rue Petit-Picpus. He made sure of his back burrows^ as huntsmen say ; he hastily despatched one of his agents, by a roundabout wa}*, to guard that issue. A patrol which wa.s returning to the Arsenal post having passed him, he made a requisition on it, and caused it to accompany him. In such games soldiers are aces. Moreover, the principle is, that in order to get the host of a wild lx)ar, one must employ the science of venery and plenty of dogs. These combinations hav- ing been effected, feeling that Jean Valjean was caught between the blind alley Gen rot on the right, his agent on the left, and himself, Javert, in the rear, he took a pinch of snuff. Then he hegaxi the game. He expenenced one ecstatic and infernal moment ; he allowed his man to go on ahead, knowing that he had him safe, but desirous of postponing the moment of arrest as long as possible, happy at the thought that he was taken and yet at seeing him free, gloating over him with bis gaze, with that voluptuousness of the spider which allows the fly to flutter, and of the cut which lets the mouse run. Claws and talons possess a monstrous Bonsuality, — the obscure move- ments of the creature imprisoned in their pincers. What a delight this strangling is ! Javert was enjoying himself. The meshes of his net were stoutly knotted. He was sure of success ; all he had to do now was to close his hand. Accompanied as he was, the very idea of resistance was im- possible, however vigorous, energetic, and desperate Jean Val jean might be. Javert advanced slowly, sounding, searching on his wa}- all the nooks of the street like so many pockets of thieves. When he reached the centre of the web he found the fly no longer there. His exasperation can be imagined. He interrogated his sentinel of the Rnes Droit-Mur and Petit- Picpus ; that agent, who had remained impertnrbably at his post, had not seen the man pass. it sometimes happens that a stag is lost bead and horns ; that is to say, he escapes although he has the pack on bis very heelSf Digitized by Google COSETTE. 168 and then the oldest huntsnuen know not what to saj. Du vivier, Liguivllle, and Desprez halt sbort. In a discomfiture of this Bort, Artonge exclaims, "It was not a stag, but a sorcerer." Javert would have liked to utter tlie same cry. His disappointment bordered for a moment ou despair and rage. It is certain that Napoleon made mistakes during the war with Russia, that Alexander committed blunders in the war in India, that Caesar made mistakes in the war in Africa, that Cyrus was at fault in the war in Scjthia, and that Javert blun- dered in this campaign against Jean Valjean. He was wroug, perhaps, in hesitating in his recognition of the ex-convict. The first glance should hare sufficed him. He was wroug in not ar- resting him purely and simply in the old building ; he was wrong in not arresting him when he positively recognized him in the Rue de Pontoise. He was wroug in taking couusel with his auxiliaries in- the full light of the moon in the Carrefour Roilin. Advice is certainly useful ; it is a good thing to know and to interrogate those of the dogs who deserve confidence ; but the hunter cannot be too cautious when he is chasing uneasy ani- mals like the wolf and the convict. Javert, b}* taking too much thought as to how he should set the bloodhounds of the pack on the trail, alarmed the beast by giving him wind of the dart, and so made him run. Above all, he was wrong in that after he bad picked up the scent again on the bridge of Austcrlitz, he played that formidable and puorile game of keeping such a man at the end of a thread. He thought himself stronger than he was, and believed that he could play at the game of the mouse and the lion. At the same time, he reckoned himself as too weak, when he judged it necessary to obtain reinforcement. Fatal precaution, waste of precious time ! Javert committed all these blunders, and none the less was one of the cleverest and jiost correct spies that ever existed. He was, in the full force 3f the term, what is called in venery a knowing dog. But what is Uiere that is perfect? Great strategists have their eclipses. The greatest follies are often composed, like the largest ropes, of a multitude of strands. Take the cable thread by thread, take all the petty determining motives separately, and you can break them one after the other, and you say, " That is all there is of it ! " Braid them, twist them together ; the result is enor- mous : it is Attila hesitating between Marcian on the east and Valentinian on the west ; it is Hannibal tarrying at Capua ; it is Daoton falling asleep at Arcis-sur-Aube. Digitized by Google 164 LES MISERABLES. However that may be, even at the moment when he aaw thait Jean Val jean had escaped him, Javert did not lose his head. Snre that the convict who had broken his ban could not be far off, he established sentinels, he originized traps and ambuscades, and beat the quarter all that night. The first thing he saw was the disorder iu the street lantern whose rope had been cut. A precious sign which, however, led aim astray, since it caused him to turn all his researches in the direction of the Cul-de-Sac Genrot. In this blind alley there were tolerably low walls which abutted on gardens whoae bounds adjoined the immense stretches of waste land. Jean Val jean evidently must have fled in that direction. The fact is, that had he penetrate and have been lost. Javert explored these gardens and these waste stretches as though he had been hunting for a needle. At daybreak he left two intelligent men on the outlook, ani returned to the Prefecture of Police, as much ashamed as a police spy who had been captured by a robber might have been. BOOK SIXTH.— LE PETIT-PICPUS- I. — Number 62 Rob PErrr-Picpus. Nothing, half a century i^o, more resembled every other cai* riage gate tbau the carriage gate of Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. This entrance, which usually stood ajar in the most inviting fashion, i>ermitted a view of two things, neither of which have «iny thing very funereal about them, — a courtyard surrounded by walls hung with vines, and the face of a lounging porter. Above the wall, at the bottom of the court, tall trees were visible. When a ray of sunlight enlivened the courtyard, when a glass of wine cheered up the porter, it was difficult to pass Number 62 Little Picpus Street without carrying away a smiling impression of it. Nevertheless, it was a sombi*e place of which one had had a glimpse. The threshold smiled ; the house prayed and wept. If one succeeded in passing the porter, which was not easy, — which was even nearly impossible for every one, for there was an open sesame ! which it was necessary to know, — if, the porter once passed, one entered a little vestibule on the right, on which opened a staircase shut in between two walls and bo Digitized by Google COSETTB. 169 J^' lae of the Temple, leaves those two order* ^ Neil* only reseinblauce lies iu this praclitte of ^ 1^ ^jacrament and the Bernardines of JMurtin cy d? -^ ^fcisted a similarity in the study and the jy é^^"^ ^ «teries rehiting to the infancy, the life, <^ ^^^ e»"^ <^ ^^^ ^^^^ Virgin, between the two or- & 'Ks^^ ^ K '^^less, widely separated, and on occa- 5,^V^^Î^-^ .^V^tory of Italy, established at Flor- ^^° ^° c ^ <^% v.the Oratory of France, established ^>^^»CS^ x° ^^-(^ ^"^^^WffTwas all the more mysterioue ^^'{►^ ^ -'^ A^^ ^ ^ '^' ^^ ^"® opened it, one found one's #^^^ ^crl^^ ^^N?ier about six feet square, tiled, well- ^J^^ '' "^-cJ^vy* ^^'^^*"' ^"^ hung with nankin paper with green ^A °^U^ cr ^^^-^^^sous the roll. A white, dull light fell from a * ^L®^^^^^ <^^' ' ^^^^ ^*"y panes, on the left, which usurped the ^ ^ ^.^^'^a'^^* ^^ *^® room. One gazed about, but saw no one ; 5f .:^">i^ed, one heard neither a footstep nor a human murmur. <>' ^s alls were bare, the chamber was not furnished ; there '^1 not even a chair. One looked again, and beheld on the wall facing the door a quadrangular hole, about a foot square, with a grating of inter- lacing iron bars, black, knotted, solid, which formed squares — 1 had almost said meshes — of less than an inch and a half in diagonal length. The little green flowers of the nankin paper ran in a calm and orderly manner to those iron bars, without being startled or thrown into confusion by their funereal con- tact. Supposing that a living being had been so wonderfully thin as to essay an entrance or an exit through the square hole, this grating would have prevented it. It did not allow the passage of the body, but it did allow the passage of the eyes ; that is to say, of the mind. This seems to have occurred to them, for it had been re-enforced by a sheet of tin inserted in the wall a little in the rear, and pierced with a thousand holes more microscopic than the holes of a strainer. At the bottom of this plate, an aperture had been pierced exactly Bimilar to the orifice of a letter-box. A bit of tape attached to a bell-wire huni; at the right of the grated opening. If the tape was pulled, a bell rang, and one heard a voice ▼eiy near at hand, which made one start. " Who is there?" the voice demanded. It was a woman's voice, a gentle voice, so gentle that it was moamful. Here, again, there was a magical word which it was necessary to know. If one did not know it, the voice ceased, the wall Digitized by Google 164 LES MISERABLES. However that may be, even at the xnoaair Jean Valjean had escaped him, Javert ferrified obscudty of Sure that the convict who had broken hyf jt. oflF, he established sentinels, he originizç resumed, " Enter on and beat the quarter all that night. T the disorder in the street lantern whofci„g the window, a glass precious sign which, however, led 9 and painted gray. On him to turn all his researches in the|,reshold, one experienced ^enrot. In this blind alley there fen one enters at the theatre into a grated iaîJ75lêS5.^ whose bor grating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted. One'^BsJ^n fact, in a sort of theatre- box, naiTow, furnished with two old chairs, and a much-frayed straw matting, 8[)arely illuminated by the vague light from the glass door ; a regular box, with its front just of a height to lean u|K>n, bearing a tablet of black wood. This box wtis grated, only the grating of it was not of gilded wood, a» at the opera ; it was a monstrous lattice of iron bars, hideously interlaced and riveted to the wall by enormous fastenings which resembled clenched fists. The first minutes passed ; when one's eyes began to grow used to this cellnr-like half-twilight, one tried to pass the grating, but got no further than six inches beyond it. There he encountered a barrier of black shutters, re-enforced and forti- fied with transverse beams of wood painted a gingerbread yel- low. These shutters were divided into long, narrow slats, and they masked the entire length of the grating. They were always closed. At the expiration of a few moments one heard a voice proceeding from behind these shutters, and saying : — ** I am here. What do you wish with me ? " It was a beloved, sometimes an adored, voice. No one was visible. Hardly the sound of a breath was audible. It seemed as though it wore a spirit which had been evoked, that was speaking to you across the walls of the tomb. If one chanced to be within certain prescribed and very rare conditions^ the slat of one of these shutters opened opposite you ; the evoked spirit became an apparition. Behind the grating, behind the shutter, one perceived so far as the grating permitted sight, a head, of which only the mouth and the chin were visible ; the rest was covered with a black veil. One caoght a g1im[)se of a black gnimpe, and a form that was barely defined, covered with a black shroud. That head «spoke with you, but did not look at you and never smiled at you. The light which came from behind you was adjusted in such a manner that you saw her in the white, and she saw you in the black. This light was symbolic Digitized by CjOOQ IC COSETTE. 169 5e«cpa8 and to the houae of the Temple, leaves those two order* iiigiierfecUy distinct. Tlieir only resemblance lies in this pruclice of pnihe Ladies of the iluly Sacrament and tlie Bernardines of Martin Ir^^erga, just as there existed a similarity in the study and the s glorification of all the mysteries relating to the infancy, the life, ; and death of Jesus Christ and the Virgin, between the two or* ders, which were, nevertheless, widely separated, and on occa- sion even hostile. The Oratory of Italy, established at Flor- ence by Philip de Neri, and the Oratory of France, established by PieiTe de BéruUe. The Oratory of France claimed the pre* cedencc, since Philip de Neri was only a saint, while BémlU was a cardinal. Let us return to the harsh Spanish rule of Martin Verga. The Bernardioes-Benedictines of this obedience fast all the year round, abstain from meat, fast in Lent and on many other days which are peculiar to them, rise from their first sleep, from one to three o'clock in the morning, to read their breviary and chant matins, sleep in all seasons between serge sheets and on straw, make no nse of the bath, never light a fire, scourge themselves every Friday, observe the rule of silence, speak to each other only during the recreation hours, which are very brief, and wear drugget chemises for six months in the year, from September 14th, which is the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, until Easter. These six months are a modification : the rule says all the year, but this drugget chemise, intolerable in the heat of summer, produced fevers and nervous spasms. The use of it iiad to be restricted. Even with this palliation, when the nuns put on this chemise on the 14th of September, they suffer from fever for three or four days. Obedience, poverty, chas- tity, peraeverance in then: seclusion, — these are their vows, which the rule greatly aggravates. The prioress is elected for three years by the mothers, who are called mères vocales because they have a voice in the chap- ter. . A prioress can only be re-elected twice, which fixes the longest possible reign of a prioress at nine years. • The3' never see the officiating priest, who is always hidden from tiiem by a serge curtain nine feet in height. During the sermon, when the preacher is in the chapel, they drop their veils over their faces. They must always speak low, walk with their eyes on the ground and their heads bowed. One man only is allowed to enter the convent, — the archbishop of the diocese. There is reany one omer, — tne gardener. But he is always Ml old man, and, in order that he may always be alone in the Digitized by Google X70 LES MISÉRABLES, garden, and that the nuns mav be warned to avoid him, a bell is attached to his kuce. Their submission to the prioress is absolute and passive. It is the canonical subjection in the full force of its abnegation. As at the voice of Christ, ut voci Cliristi, at a gesture, at the first sign, ad nuhim^ ad jwimum signum^ immediately, with cheerfulness, with perseverance, with a certain blind obedience. prompte^ hilariter^ persei)eranter et cœca quadam ohedientiiu as the file in the hand of the workman, qriasi Umam in manihusfa' 'jri^ without power to read or to write without express permis- 3ion, légère vel scribere non addiscerU sine expressa supe^ioris licenlia. Each one of them in turn makes what they call reparation. The reparation is the prayer for all the sins, for all the faults, for all the dissensions, for all the violations, for all the iniqui- ties, for all the crimes committed on earth. For the space of twelve consecutive houi*s, from four o'clock in the aftenioon till four o'clock in the morning, or from four o'clock in the morning until four o'clock in the afternoon, the sister who is making reparaJtion remains on her knees on the stone before the Holy Sacrament, with hands clasped, a rope around her neck. When her fatigue becomes unendurable, she prostrates herself flat on her face against the earth, with her arms out- stretched in the form of a cross ; this is her only relief. In this attitude she prays for all the guilty in the universe. This is great to sublimity. As this act is performed in front of a post on which bums a candle, it is called without distinction, to make reparation or to be at the pout. The nuns even preftr, out of humility, this last expression, which contains an idea of torture and abasement. To make reparaJtion is a function in which the whole soul is absoibed. The sister at the post would not turn round were a thunderbolt to fall directly behind her. Besides this, there is always a sister kneeling before the [-loly Sacrament. This station lasts an hour. They relieve each 3ther like soldiers on guard. This is the Perpetual Adoration. ' The pnoresses and the mothers almost always bear names stamped with peculiar solemnity, recalling, not the saints and martyrs, but moments in the life of Jesus Christ : as Mother Nativity, Mother Conception, Mother Presentation, Mother Passion. But the names of saints are not intei*dicted. When one sees them, one never sees anything but their mouths. All their teeth are yellow. No tooth-brtwh ever entered that Digitized by Google COSBTTB. J 71 oonvent. Broshing one's teeth is at the top of a ladder at whose bottom is the loss of one's soul. They never say my. They possess nothing of their own, and they must not attach themselves to anything. They call every- thing our; thus : our veil, our chaplet ; if they were speaking of their chemise, they would say mir chemise. Sometimes they ^row attached to some petty object, — to a book of hours, a relic, a medal that has been blessed. As soon as the}* become aware that they are growing attaclied to this object, they mu.st give it up. They recall the words of Saint Thérèse, to whom a great lady said, as she was on the point of r^nterin^r her oider, ''Permit me, mother, to send for a Bible to which I am greatly attached/' "Ah, you are attached to something! In that case, do not enter our oixier !" Every peraon whatever is forbidden to shut herself up, to have a place of her oivn, a chamber. They live with their cells open. When they meet, one says, *' Blessed and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar I " The other responds, ** Forever." The same ceremony when one taps at the other's door. Hardly has she touched the door when a soft voice on the other side is heard to say hastily, '* Forever!" Like all practices, this becomes mechanical by force of habit ; and one sometimes says forever before the other has had time to say the rather long sentence, " Praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar." Among the Visitandines the one who enters says ; *' Ave Maria," and the one whose cell is entered says, '* Gratia plena." It is their way of saying good day, which is in fact full of grace. At each hour of the day three supplementary strokes sound from the church bell of the convent. At this signal prioress, vocal mothers, professed nuns, lay -sisters, novices, postulants, interrupt what they are saying, what they are doing, or what they are thinking, and all say in unison if it is five o'clock, for instance, '* At five o'clock and at all hours praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar ! " If it is eight o'clock, ^* At eight o'clock and at all hours I " and so on, according to the hoar. This custom, the object of which is to break the thread of thought and to lead it back constantly to God, exists in many communities ; the formula alone varies. Thus at The Infant Jesus they sa}', *' At this hour and at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!" The Beruardines-Benedictines of Martin Vei^a, cloisterer! fifty years njro at Petit-Picpus, chant the offices to a solemn psalmociy, a pure Gregorian chant, and Digitized by Google 172 J^ES MISERABLEis. always with full voice during the whole course of the ofDoa Everywhere in the missal where an asterisk occurs they pause, and say in a low voice, ^^ Jesus-Marie-Josepii." For the office of the dead they adopt a tone so low that the voices of women can hardly descend to such a depth. The effect produced is striking and tragic. The nuns of the Petit-Picpus had made a vault under their grand altar for the burial of their community. Tlie Govern- menl^ as titey say, does not permit this vault to receive coffins, so they leave the convent when they die. This is an affliction tc them, and causes them constc^rnation as an infraction of tlie rules. They had obtained a mediocre consolation at best, — i>ermi8- sioD to be interred at a special hour and in a special comer in the ancient Vaugirard cemetery, which was made of land which had formerly belonged to their community. On Fridays the nuns hear high mass, vespers, and all the offices, as on Sunday. Thej* scrupulously observe in addition all the little festivals unknown to people of the world, of which the Church of France was so prodigal in the olden days, and of which it is still prodigal in Spain and Italy. Their stations in the chapel are interminable. As for the number and duraUon of their prayers we can convey no better idea of them than by quoting the ingenuous remark of one of them : '^ The prayers of the postulants are frightful, the prayers of the novices are still worse, and the prayers of the professed nuns are still woree." Once a week the chapter assembles : the prioress presides ; the vocal mothers assist. Each sister kneels in turn on the stones, and confesses aloud, in the presence of all, the faults and sins which she has committed during the week. The vocal mothers consult after each confession and inflict the penance aloud. Beside this confession in a loud tone, for which all faults in the least seiious are reserved, they have for tlicir venial offences what they call the œulpe. To wake one's coulj)e means to prostrate one's self flat on one's face during the office in front of the prioress until the latter, who is never called anything but our mother^ notifies the culprit by a slight tap of her foot against the wood of her stall that she can rise. The œulpe or peccavi^ IS made for a very small matter — a broken glass, a torn veil, an involuntary delay of a few seconds at an office, a false note in church, etc. ; this suffices, and the coulpe is made. The coulpe is entirely spontaneous ; it is the culpable person herself (the word is etymologically in its place here) who judges herself and inflicts it on herself. On festival days and Sundays four mother precentors intone the offices before a large reading-desk witb Digitized by Google la o* «^ > that v*<é (^ nine yeaiS?"^, piDess! It was ht .'^^ u^^ ''A Voccu \ ^y^ The child ( .|^<. "> torv. She sa>f o?>' Mix, the l>iS* Tlie Mother. ^ Alix, àShe toi her any questioi]| V .ite .J she -er, and arate into ijlaiutive ac- j responds in a Jhrist ! " , a boarding-school .inor-school for yonng Aies, among whom could Digitized by Google 174 LES MISERABLES. be remarked Mademoiselle de Saint-Aulaire and de BélisBen, aoh an English girl bearing the illustrious Catholic name of Talbot These young girls, reared by these nuns between four walls, grew up with a horror of the world and of the age. One of Uiem said to us one day, ^^ The sight of the street pavement made me shudder from head to foot." They were dressed in blue, with a white cap and a Holy Spirit of silver gilt or of copper cm their breast. On certain gi-and festival days, particularly Saint Martha's day, they were permitted, as a high favor and a supreme happiness, to dress themselves as nuns and to carry out tlie otllws and practice of Saint-Benoît for a whole day. In the early days the nuns were in the habit of lending them their black garments. This seemed profane, and the prioress forbade it. Only the novices were permitted to lend. It is remarkable that these performances* tolerated and encouraged, no doubt, in the convent out of a secret spirit of proselytism and in order to give these children a foretaste of the holy habit, were a genuine hap- piness anrn veil, an IV. — Gayeties. Alse note in The coulpe None the less, these 3'oung girls filled this a herself (the charming souvenus. ges herself and At certain hours childhood sparkled in fays four mother lecreation hour struck. A door swung cadiug-desk witb Digitized by Google COSETTE. 17» birds said, **Good; here come the children!'* An irruption of youth inundated that garden intersected yvith a cross like a shroud. Radiant faces, while foreheads, innocent eyes full of merry light, all sorts of auroras, were scattered about amid these shadows. After the psaluKxlies, the bells, the peals, and knells and offices, the sound of these little girls burst forth on a sudden more sweetly than the noise of bees. The hive of joy was opened, and each one brought her honey. They played, they called to each other, they formed into groups, they ran about ; pretty little white teeth chattered in the corners ; the veils superintended the laughs from a distance, shades kept watch of the sunbeams, but what mattered it ? Still they beamed and laughed. Those four lugubrious walls had their moment of dazzling brilliancy. They looked on, vaguely blanched with the reflection of so much joy at this sweet swarming of the hives. It was like a shower of roses falling athwart this house of mourning. The young girls frolicked beneath the eyes of the nuns ; the gaze of impeccability does not embairass inno- cence. Thanks to these children, there was, among so many aus- tere hours, one hour of ingenuousness. The little ones skipped about ; the elder ones danced. In this cloister play was mingled with heaven. Nothing is so delightful and so august as all these fresh, expanding young souls. Homer would have come thither to Liugh with PerrauH ; and there was in that black gar- den, youtli, health, noise, cries, giddiness, pleasure, happiness enough to smooth out the wrinkles of all their ancestresses, those of the epic as well as those of the fairy-tale, those of the throne as well as those of the thatched cottage from Hecuba to la Mère-Grand. In that house more than anywhere else, perhaps, arise those children's sayings which are so graceful and which evoke a smile that is full of though tfulness. It was between those four gloomy walls that a child of five years exclaimed one day : " Mother 1 one of the big girls has Just told me thatl have only nine years and ten months longer to remain here. What hap piness ! " It was here, too, that this memorable dialogue took place:-» ^*'A Vocal Mother, Why are you weeping, my child? The child (aged six). I told Alix that I knew my French his- tory. She says that I do not know it, but I do. Alix^ the big girl (aged nine). No ; she does not know it. Tlie Mother. How is that, my child? Alix, She told me to open the book at random and to ask her any question in the book, and she would answer it. Digitized by Google !76 LES MISÉRABLES. '* She did not answer it/' ^' Let us see about it. What did you ask her? ^ '^ I opened the book at random, as she proposed, and I pi^t the first question that I came across." "And what was the question? " '* It was, ' What happened after that? •" It was there that that profound remark was made aneot a rather greedy paroquet which belonged to a lady boarder: — " IIow well bred ! it eats the top of the slice of bread and butter just like a person ! " It was on one of the flagstones of this cloister that there was once picked up a confession which had been written out in ad- vance, in order that she might not forget it, by a sinner of seven years : — *' Father, I accuse myself of having been avaricious. "Father, I accuse myself of having been an adulteress. " Father, I accuse myself of having raised my eyes to the gentlemen." It was on one of the turf benches of this garden that a rosy mouth six years of age improvised the following tale, which was listened to by blue eyes aged four and five years : — "There were three little cocks who owned a country wheie there were a great many flowers. They plucked the flowers anvjl put them in their pockets. After that tliey plucked the leaves and put them in their playthings. There was a wolf in that conn try ; there was a great deal of forest ; and the wolf was in the forest ; and he ate the little cocks." And this other ix)cm : — " There came a blow with a stick. " It was Punchinello who bestowed it on the cat. ** It was not good for her ; it hurt her. "Then a lady put Punchinello in prison." It was there that a little abandoned child, a fonndling whom the convent was bringing up out of charity, uttered this sweet and heart-breaking saying. She heard the others talking of their mothers, and she murmured in her corner : — " As for me, my mother was not there when I was born ! " There was a stout portress who could always be seen hurrying through the corridors with her bunch of keys, and whose name was Sister Agatha. The. big big girls — those over ten years of age — called her Agathodes. The refectory, a large apartment of an oblong square form, which received no light except through a vaulted cloister on f Digitized by Google COSETTE. ITT level with the garden, was dark and damp, and, as the children say, full of beasts. All the places round about furnished theLr contingent of insects. Each of its four comers had received, in the language of the pupils, a special and expressive name. There was Spider corner, Caterpillar comer, Wood-louse corner, and Cricket cor- ner. Cricket corner was near the kitchen and was highly esteemed. It was not so cold there as elsewhere. From the refectory the names had passed to the boarding-school, and there served as in the old College Mazarin to distinguish four nations. Every pupil belonged to one of these four nations according to the corner of the refectory in which she sat at meals. One day Mon- seigneur the Archbishop while making his pastoral visit saw a Iiretty little rosy girl with beautiful golden hair enter the class- loom through which he was passing. He inquired of another pupil, a charming bmnette with rosy #heeks, who stood near him : — "Who is that?" " She is a spider. Monseigneur." " Bah ! And that one yonder?" " She is a cricket." ''And that one?" *' She is a caterpillar.'' "Really! and yourself ? '* " I am a wood-louse. Monseigneur." Every house of this sort has its own peculiarities. At the beginning of this century Écouen was one of those strict and graceful peaces where young girls pass their childhood in a shadow that is almost august. At Éoouen, in order to take rank i&the procession of the Holy Sacrament, a distinction was made between virgins and florists. There were also the "dais" and the " censors," — the first who held the cords of the dais, and the others who carried incense before the Holy Sacrament. The flowers belonged by right to the florists. Four "vii^ins" walked in advance. On the morning of that great day it was AC rare thing to hear the question put in the dormitory, "Who H a virgin ? " Madame Campan used to quote this saying of a " little one " of seven years, to a " big girl " of sixteen, who took the head •f the procession, while she, the little one, remained at the rear) ^^ Ton are a virgin, but I am not.*' Digitized by Google i78 LES MISÉRABLES. Y. — DisnucnoKs. Aboyb the door of the refectory this prayer, which was caUea the white Paternoster^ and which possessed the property of bear- ing people straight to paradise, was inscribed in large blac^ letters : — *' Little white Paternoster, which God made, which God said which God placed in paradise. In the evening, when I went tc bed, I found three angels sitting on my bed, one at the foot, twc at the head, the good Virgin Mary in the middle, who told me to lie down without hesitation. The good God is my father, the good Virgin is my mother, the three a)>ostlesare my brothers, the three virgins are my sisters. The shirt in which God was born envelops my body ; Saint Margaret's cross is written on my breast. Madame the Virgin was walking through the mead- ows, weeping for God, when she met M. Saint John. ' Mon- sieur Saint John, whence come you ? ' 'I come from Ave Salua. * You have not seen the good God ; where is he ? ' ^ He is on the tree of the Cross, his feet hanging, his hands nailed, a little cap of white thorns on his head.* Whoever shall say this thrice at eventide, thrice in the morning, shall win paradise at the last." In 1827 this characteristic orison had disappeared from the wall under a triple coating of daubing paint. At the present time it is finally disappearing from the memories of several who were young girls then, and who are old women now. A large crucifix fastened to the wall completed the decoration of this refectory, whose only door, as we think we have men- tioned, opened on the garden. Two narrow tables, each fianked by two wooden benches, formed two long parallel lines from one end to the other of the refectory. The walls were white, the ta- hies were black ; these two mourning colors constitute the only va- riety in convents. The meals were plain, and the food of the children themselves severe. A single dish of meat and vege- tables combined, or salt fish — such was their luxury. Thia meagre fare, whîch was reserved for the pupils alone, was, nevertheless, an exception. The children ate in silence, under the eye of the mother whose turn it was, who, if a fly took a notion to fiy or to hum against the rule, opened and shut a wooden book from time to time. This silence was seasoned with the lives of the saints, read aloud from a little pulpit with a desk, which was situated at the foot of tl)e crucifix. The readier was one of the big girls< in weekly turn. At regular dist^iuces, on the bare tables, there were large, varnished bowU Digitized by Google COSETTE. 17f tn which the pupils washed their own silver caps aad kaives and forks, and into wliich the}- sometimes threw some scrap of tough meat or spoiled dsh ; this was punished. These bowls were ealled ronds d*eau. The child who broke the silence ^^ made a cross with her tongue." Where? On the ground. She licked the pavement. The dust, that end of all joys, was charged with the chastisement of those poor little rose*leaves which had been guilty of chirping. There was in the convent a book which has never been printed except as a unique copy, and which it is forbidden to read. It is the rule of Saint-Benott. An arcanum which no profane eye must penetrate. Nemo reçulasy seu constittUioties nostras^ exter- nis communicabU. The pupils one day succeeded in getting possession of this bookf and set to reading it with avidity, a reading which was often inteiTupted by the fear of being caught, wlîieh caused them to close the volume precipitately. From the great danger thus incurred they derived but a very moderate amount of pleasure. The most ^' interesting thing'' they found were some unintelligible pages about the sins of young boys. They played in an alley of the garden bordered with a few shabby fruit-trees. In spite of the extreme surveillance and the severity of the punishments administered, when the wind had shaken the trees, they sometimes succeeded in picking up a green apple or a spoiled apricot or an inhabited pear on the sly. I will now cede the privilege of speech to a letter which lies before me, a letter written five and twenty years ago by an old pupil, now Madame la Duchesse de one of the most elegant women in Paris. I quote literally : " One hides one's pear or one's apple as best one may. When one goes up stairs to put the veil on the bed before supper, one stuflfs them under one's pillow and at ni^ht one eats them in bed, and when one cannot do that, one Bats them in the closet." That was one of their greatest lux- uries. Once — it was at the epoch of the visit from the archbishop to the convent — one of the young giris, Mademoiselle Bouchard, who was connected with the Montmorency family, laid a wager that she would ask for a day's leave of absence — an enormity iu 80 austere a community. The wager was accepted, but n6t one of those who bet believed that she would do it. When the mo- ment came, as the archbishop was passing in front of the |)Upils, Mademoiselle Bouchard, to the indescribable terror of her coxxh panions, stepped out of the ranks, and said, ^^ Monseigneur, « Digitized by Google 180 LES MISÉRABLES. day's leave of absence." Mademoiselle Bouchard was taU* blooming, with the prettiest little rosy face in the world. - M de Quéleu smiled and said; ^' What, my dear child, a day's leave of absence ! Three da3's if you like. I grant yon thre« days." The prioress could do nothing; the archbishop had spoken. Horror of the convent, but joy of the pupil. The effect may be imagined. This stern cloister was not so well walled off, however, bat that the life of the passions of the outside world, drama, and e%'en romance, did not make their way in. To prove this, we will con' fine ourselves to recording here and to briefly mentioning a real and incontestable fact, wliich, however, bears no reference in itself to, and is not connected by any thread whatever with the story which we are relating. We mention the fact for the Bak« of completing the physi<^nomy of tlie convent in the reader's mind. About this time there was in the convent a mysterious peraou who was not a nun, who was treated with great respect, and who was addressed as Madame Albertitie. Nothing was known about her, save that she was mad, and that in the world she passed for dead. Beneath tliis history it was said there lay th« arrangements of fortune necessary for a great marriage. This woman, hardly thirty years of age, of dark oomplexiopi and tolerably pretty, had a vi^ue look in her lai^e black eyes. Could she see ? There was some doubt al)out this. She glides. Impossible ! One even went so far as to thrust her arm through the grating, and to wave her white handkerchief. Two were still bolder. They found means to climb on a roof, and risked their lives there, and succeeded at last in seeing " the young man.*' He was an old émigré gentleman, blind and penniless, who was playing his flute in his attic, in order to pass the time. VI. — The Little Convent. In this enclosure of the Petit- Picpus there were three per- fectly distinct buildings, — the Great Convent, inhabited by the nuns, the Boarding-school, where the scholars were lodged ; and lastly, what was called the Little Convent. It was a building with a garden, in which lived all sorts of aged nuns of various orders, the relics of cloistcre destroyed in the Revolu- tion ; a reunion of all the black, gray, and white medleys of all communities and all possible varieties ; what might be called, if such a coupling of words is permissible, a soit of harlequin convent. When the Empire was established, ail these poor old dispersed and exiled women had been accorded permission to come and take shelter under the wings of the Bçrnardines-Benedictines. The government paid them a small [)ension, the ladies of the Petit-Picpus received them cordially. It was a singular jh'II- mell. Each followed her own rule. Sometimes the pupils of the boarding-school were allowed, as a great recreation, to pay Dismas et Gesmas, media est divina pote8t«8; Alia petit Disnias, infelix, intima, Gesmas ; Nos et res nostras conservet summa potestas. Hos versus dicas, ne tu f urto tua perdas. These verses in sixth century Latin raise tlic question whethet the two thieves of Calvary were named, as is commonly be- lieved, Dismas and Gcstas, or Disraas and Gesmas. This orthography might have confounded the pretensions put for- ward in the last century by the Vicomte de Gestas, of a descent from the wicked thief. However, the useful virtue attached to these verses forms an article of faith in the order of the Hospitallers. Tlie church of the house, constructed in such a manner as to separate the Great Convent from the Boarding-school like a veritable intrenchment, was, of course, common to the Board- ing-school, the Great Convent, and the Little Convent. The public was even admitted by a sort of lazaretto entrance on the street. But all was so arranged, that none of the inhabitants of the cloister could see a face from the out- side world. Suppose a church whose choir is grasped in a gigantic hand, and folded in such a manner as to form, not, as in ordinary cliurches, a prolongation behind the altar, but a sort of hall, or obscure cellar, to the right of the officiating priest ; suppose this hall to be shut off by a curtain seven feet in height, of which we have already spoken ; in the shadow of that curtain, pile up on wooden stalls the nuns in the choir on the left, the school-girls on the right, the la^'-sisters and the novices at the bottom, and you will have some idea of the nuns of the Petit-Picpus assisting at divine service. That cavern, which was called the choir, communicated with the cloister by a lobby. The church was lighted from the garden. When the nuns were present at services where their rule enjoined silencte, the public was warned of thoir presence only by the folding seats of the stalls noisily rising and falling. VII. — Some Silhouettes of this Darkness. During the six years which separate 1819 from 1825, the prioress of the Petit-Picpus was Mademoiselle de Blemeur. 1 On the boughs hang three bodies of unequal merits: Dismas and Gesmas, between is the divine power. Dismays n<^eks the heights, Ciresmas, unhappy man, the lowest regions; the highest |M)wer will preserve as and our effects If you repeat this v«rse, you will uot lose your things by theft \ wbo was in her dotage, and Sister Sainte-Michel, whose long nose made them laugh. All these women were gentle with the children. The nuns were severe only towards themselves. No fire was lighted except in the school, and the food was choice compared to that in the convent. Moreover, they lavished a thousand cares on their scholars. Only, when a child passed near a nun and addressed her, the nun never replied. This rule of silence had had this efifect, that throughout the whole convent, speech had been withdrawn from human crea- tures, and bestowed on inanimate objects. Now it was the church-bell which spoke, now it was the gardener's bell. A very sonorous bell, placed beside the portress, and which waa audible throughout the house, indicated by its varied peals, which formed a sort of acoustic telegraph, all the actions of material life which were to be performed, and summoned to the parlor, in case of need, such or such an inhabitant of the house. Each person and each thing had its own peal. The prioi^ss had one and one, the sub-prioress one and two. Six-five announced lessons, so that the pupils never said ^^ to go to lessons," but ''to go to six-five." Four-four was Madame de Genlis's signal. It was very often heard. '^ C'est le diable a quatre," — it's the very deuce — said the uncharitable. Ten- nine strokes announced a great event. It was the opening of the door of aedusion^ a frightful sheet of iron bristling with bolts, which only turned on its hinges in the presence of the archbishop. With the exception of the archbishop and the gardener, no man entered the convent, as we have already said. The school- girls saw two others : one, the chaplain, the Abbé Banes, old and ugly, whom they were permitted to contemplate in the choir, through a grating; the other the drawing- master, M. Ansiaux, whom tiie letter, of which we have perused a few lines, calls M. Anciot^ and describes as a frightful old hunchback. It will be seen that all these men were carefully chosen. Such was this curious house. VIII. — Post Corda Lapides. After having sketched its moral face, it will not provo un- profitable to point out, in a few words, its material configurm- tion. The reader already lias some idea of it. cive ana neigiiDornooa, aua ne wiii oe aoie ix) lorm lor nimseii a complote image of what the house of the Bernardines of the Petit-Picpus was forty years ago. This holy house had been built on the precise site of a famous tennis-ground of the fourteenth to the sixteenth century, which was called the *' tennis-ground of the eleven thousand devils." All these streets, moreover, were more ancient than Paris. These names, Droit-Mur and An marais are very ancicDt ; the streets which bear them are very much more ancient still Aumarais Lane was called Maugout Lane ; the Rue Droit-Mur was called the Rue des Églantiers, for God opened flowers before man cut stones. IX. — A Century under a Guimpe. Since we are engaged in giving details as to what the convent of the Petit-Picpus was in former times, and since we have ven- tured to open a window on that discreet retreat, the reader will permit us one other little digression, utterly foreign to this book, but characteristic and useful, since it shows that the cloister even has its original figures. In the Little Convent there was a ceolienarian who came from the Abbey of Fontevrault. She had even been in society before the Revolution. She talked a great deal of M. de Miromesnil. Keeper of the Seals under Louis XVI. and of a Presidentcss Du plat, with whom she had been very intimate. It was bcr pleasure and her vanity to drag in these names on every pretext. She told wonders of the Abbey of Fontevrault, — that it was like a city, and that there were streets in the monastery. She talked with a Picard accent which amused the pupils. Every year, she solemnly renewed her vows, and at the moment. of taking the oath, she said to the priest, " Monseigneur Saint- François gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Julien, Monseigneur Saint- Julien gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Ëusebius, Monseig- neur Saint-Ëusebius gave it to Monseigneur Saint-Procopius^ etc., etc. ; and thus I give it to you, father." And the school- girls would begin to laugh, not in their sleeves, but onder their veils ; charming little stifled laughs which made the vocal mothers frown. On another occasion, the centenarian was telling stories. She said that in her yoiUh the Bernardine monks wei-e every tohit as good (w the mousquetaires. It was a century which spoke through her, but it was the eighteenth century. She told about 190 LES MISÉRABLES. X. — Origin of tue Perpetual âdoratioh. However, this almost sepulchral parlor, of which we bav» iought to convey an idea, is a purely local trait which is not re- produced with the same severity in other convents. At the convent of t!ie Rue du Temple, in particular, which belonp:ed, in truth, to another order, the black shutters were replaced by brown curtains, and the parlor itself was a salon with a polished wood floor, whose windows were draped in white muslin cur- tains and whose walls admitted all sorts of frames, a portrait of a Benedictine nuu with unveiled face, painted bouquets, and even the head of a Turk. It is in that garden of the Temple convent, that stoocî that famous chestnut-tree which was renowned as the finest and the largest in France, and which bore the reputation among the good people of the eighteenth century of being the father of all the chestnut-trees of the realm. As we have said, this convent of the Temple was occupied by Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration, Benedictines quite different from those who depended on Ctteaux. This order of the Perpetual Adoration is not very ancient and does not go back more than two hundred years. In 1649 the holy sacra- ment was profaned on two occasions a few days apart, in two churches in Paris, at Saint-Sul[)ice aud at Saint-Jean en Grève, a rare and frightful sacrilege which set the whole town in an uproar. M. the Prior and Vicar-General of Saint-Germain des Prés ordered a solemn procession of all his clergy, in which the Pope's Nuncio officiated. But this expiation did not satisfy two sainted women, Madame Courtin, Marquise de Boues, and the Comtesse de Châteauvieux. This outrage committed on *' the most holy sacrament of the altar," though but temporary, would not depart from these holy souls, and it seemed to them that it could only be extenuated by a " Perpetual Adoration " in some female monastery. Both of them, one in 1652, the other in 1653, made donations of notable sums to Mother Catherine de Bar, called of the Holy Sacrament, a Benedictine nun, for the purpose of founding, to this pious end, a monas- tery of the order of Saint-Benott ; the first permission for ^his foundation was given to Mother Catherine de Bar by M. de Metz, Abbé of Saint-Germain, ^' on condition that no woman could be received unless she contributed three hundred livres income, which amounts to six thousand livres, to the principal." After the Abbé of Saint-Germain, the king accorded letters- Digitized by Google COSETTB. 191 patent ; and all the rest, abbatial chai*ter, and ro3'al letters, was confirmed in 1654 by the Chamber of Accounts and the Parlia mcnt. Such is the origin and the legal consecration of the establish- ment of the Benedictines of the Perpetual Adoration of the Holy Sacrament at Paris. Their first convent was " a new building " in the Rue Cassette, out of the contributions of Mesdames de Boucs and de Château vieux. This order, as it will be seen, was not to be confounded with the Benedictine nuns of Cîteaux. It mounted back to the Abbé of Saint-(îcnnain des Prés, in the same manner that the Ifidies of the Sacred Heart go back to the general of the Jesuits, and the sisters of charity to the general of the Lazarists. It was also totally different from the Bernardines of the Petit-Picpus, whose interior we have just shown. In 1657, Pope Alexander VII. had authorized, by a special brief, the Bernardines of the Rue Petit-Picpus, to practise the Perpetual Adoration like the Benedictine nuns of the Holy Sacrament. But the two orders remained distinct none the less. XI. — End of the Pettt-Piopus. At the beginning of the Restoration, the convent of the Petit-Picpus was in its decay ; this forms a part of the general death of the order, which, after the eighteenth century, has been disappearing like all the religious orders. Contemplation is, like prayer, one of humanity's needs ; but, like everything which the Revolution touched, it will be transformed, and from being hostile to social progress, it will become favorable to it. The house of the Petit-Picpus was becoming rapidly depop- ulated. In 1840, the Little Convent had disappeared, the school had disappeared. There were no longer any old women, nor young girls; the first were dead, the latter had taken their departure. Volaverunt. The rule of the Perpetual Adoration is so rigid in its nature that it alarms, vocations recoil before it, the order receives no recruits. In 1845, it still obtained lay-sisters here and there. But of professed nuns, none at all. Forty years ago, the nuns numbered nearly a hundred ; fifteen years ago there were not more than twenty-eight of them. How many are there to-day ? In 1847, the prioress was young, a sign that the circle of choice was restricted. She was not forty years old. In proportion àa the number diminishes, the fatigue increases, the service of each Digitized by Google near when lucre woulu be out a dozen beat ami acuiiig shoul- ders to bear the heavy rule of Saiut-Beuoit. The burden is im- placable, and remains the same for the few as for the many. It weighs down, it crushes. Thus they die. At the period when the author of this book still lived in Paris, two died. One was twenty-five years old, the other twenty-three. This latter can say, like Julia Alpinula: " Hie jaceo. Vixi annos vigiuti et ires.'* It is in consequence of this decay that the convent gave up the education of girls. We have not felt able to pass before this extraordinary house without entering it, and without introducing the minds which accompany us, and which are listening to our tale, to the profit of some, perchance, of the melancholy history of Jean Valjean. We have penetrated into this community, full of those oh! prac- tices which seem so novel to-day. It is the closed garden, hoj'- tus condiisus. We have spoken of this singular place in detail, but with respect, in so far, at least, as detail and respect arc compatible. We do not understand all, but we insult nothing. We are equally far removed from the hosanna of Joseph de Maistre, who wound up by anointing the executioner, and from the sneer of Voltaire, who even goes so far as to ridicule the cross. An illogical act on Voltaire's part, we ma3' remark; by the way ; for Voltaire would have defended Jesus as he defended Calas ; and even for those who deny superhuman incarnations, what does the crucifix represent? The assassinated sage. In this ninteenth century, the religious idea is undergoing a crisis. People are unlearning certain things, and they do well, provided that, while unlearning them they learn this : There is no vacuum in the human heart. Certain demolitions take place, and it is well that they do, but on condition that they are fol- lowed by reconstructions. In the meantime, let us study things which are no more. li is necessary to know them, if only for the purpose of avoiding them. The counterfeits of the past assume false names, and gladly call themselves the future. This spectre, this past, is given to falsifying its own passport. Let us inform ourselves of the trap. Let us be on our guard. The past has a visage, superstition, and a mask, hypocrisy. Let us denounce the vis age and let us tear off the mask. As for convents, the}' present a complex problem, — a qnes- tion of civilization, which condemns them ; a question of lib erty, which protects them. \ nnues to set tne example. Claustration has had its day. Cloisters, useful in the earlj education of modern civilization, have embarrassed its growth, and are injurious to its development. So far as institution and formation with relation to man are concerned, monasteries, which were good in the tenth centur}^, questionable in the fif- teenth, are detestable in the nineteenth. The leprosy of monas- ticisra has gnawed nearly to a skeleton two wonderful nations, Italy and Spain ; the one the light, the other the splendor of Europe for centuries ; and, at the present day, these two illustri- ous peoples are but just beginning to convalesce, thanks to the healthy and vigorous hygiene of 1789 alone. The convent — the ancient female convent in particular, such as it still presents itself on the threshold of this century, in Italy, in Austria, in Spain — is one of the most sombre con- cretions of the Middle Ages. The cloister, that cloister, is the point of intereection of horrors. The Catholic cloister, properly speaking, is wholly filled with the black radiance of death. The Spanish convent is the most funereal of all. There rise, in obscurity, beneath vaults filled with gloom, beneath domes vague with shadow, massive altars of Babel, as high as cathe- drals ; there immense white crucifixes hang from chains in the dark ; there are extended, all nude on the ebony, great Christs of ivory ; more than bleeding, — bloody ; hideous and magnifi- cent, with their elbows displaying the bones, their kneo-pans showing their integuments, their wounds showing their flesh, crowned with silver thorns, nailed with nails of gold, with blood drops of rubies on their brows, and diamond tears in their eyes. The diamonds and rubies seem wet, and make veiled beings in the shadow below weep, their sides bruised with the hair shirt and their iron-tipped scourges, their breasts crushed with wicker hurdles, their knees excoriated with prayer ; women who think themselves wives, spectres who think themselves seraphim Do these women think ? No. Have they any will? No. Do ihey love? No. Do they live? No. Their nerves have turned to bone ; their bones have turned to stone. Their veil is of woven night. Their breath under their veil resembles the indescribably tragic respiration of death. The abbess, a Rpectre, sanctifies them and terrifies them. The immaculate one Is there, and very fierce. Such are the ancient monasteries of Spain. Lairs of terrible devotion, caverns of virgins, ferocious places. \ iiiese iron nmges, inese DecRiet», tnat lorty peep-noie on a level with the river's current, that box of stone closed with a lid of granite like a tomb, with this difference, that the dead man here was a living being, that soil which is but mud, that vault hole, those oozing walls, — what declaimers ! III. — On What Conditions One can respect the Past. MoNASTicisM, such ES It existed in Spain, and such as it still exists in Thibet, is a sort of phthisis for civilization. It stops life short. In simply depopulates. Ciaastration, castration. It has been the scourge of Europe. Add to this the violence 8o often done to the conscience, the forced vocations, feudalism bolstered up by the cloister, the right of the first-born pouring the excess of the family into monasticism, the ferocities of which we have just spoken, the inpace^ the closed mouths, the walled- up brains, so many unfortunate minds placed in the dungeon of eternal vows, the taking of the habit, the interment of living souls. Add individual tortures to national degradations, and, whoever you may be, you will shudder before the frock and 'nhe veil, ^- those two winding-sheets of human devising. Never- theless, at certain points and in certain places, in spite of philos- lyphy, in spite of progress, the spirit of the cloister persists in the midst of the nineteenth century, and a singular ascetic recrudes* cenoe is, at this moment, astonishing the civilized world. The obstinacy of antiquated institutions in perpetuating themselves i*esembles the stubbornness of the rancid perfume which should claim our hair, the pretensions of the spoiled fish which should persist in being eaten, the persecution of the child's garmont which should insist on clothing the man, the tenderness of corpvses which should return to embrace the living. " Ingrates ! " says the garment, *' I protected you in inclem ent weather. Why will you have nothing to do with me ? " * *• I iïave just come from the deep sea," says the fish. '* I have been a rose," says the perfume. ** I have loved yoo," says the oorpse. *^ I have civilized you," says the convent. To this there is but one reply : *' In former days.** To dream of the indefinite prolongation of defunct things, and of the government of men by embalming, to restore dogmas ia a bad condition, to regild shrines, tcT patch up cloisters, to re- bless reliquaries, to refurnish superstitions, to revirtnnl fanati* cisms^ to put new handles oo bo^ water brashes and militarisiiv k oouts, talapoius, and dervishes multiply even like swarms « I vermin. This said, the religious question remains. This question ho« certain mysterious, almost formidable sides; may we be oe*- mitted to look at it fixedly. IV. — The Convent from the Point of View of Principles Men unite themselves and dwell in communities. By virti-e of what right? By virtue of the right of association. They shut themselves up at home. By virtue of what right ? By virtue of the right which every man has to open or shut h*« door. They do not come forth. By virtue of what right? B3' vii tue of the right to go and come, which implies the right t % remain at home. There, at home, what do they do? They speak in low tones ; they drop their eyes ; they toi) They renounce the world, towns, sensualities, pleasures, vau:' • ties, pride, interests. They are clothed in coarse woollen c ' coarse linen. Not one of them possesses in his own right an^ • thing whatever. On entering there, each one who was ricd makes himself poor. What he has, he gives to all. He wb > was what is called noble, a gentleman and a lord, is the equ<«l of him who was a peasant. The cell is identical for all. AU undergo the same tonsure, wear the same frock, eat the sam^ black bread, sleep on the same straw, die on the same ashes. The same sack on their backs, the same rope around theii loins. If the decision has been to go barefoot, all go barefoot. There may be a prince among them ; that prince is the same shadow as the rest. No titles. Even family names have disappeared. TJiey bear only first names. All are bowed beneath the equality of baptismal names. They have dissolved the carnal family , and constituted in their community a spiritual family. They have no other relatives than all men. They succor the pooj , they care for the sick. They elect those whom they obey. Ther call each other " my brother." You stop me and exclaim, '' But that is the ideal convent ! '* It is sufilcient that it may be the possible «onvent, that I should take notice of it. Thence it results that, in the preceding book. I have spokei*. of a convent with respectful accents. The Middle Ages caFf in the lower infinity. Tiie / below is the soul; the Ion high is God. To place the infinity here below in con^ct, by the medium cf thought, with the infinity on high, is called praying. Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad. We must reform and transform. Certain faculties lu man are directed towards the Unknown ; thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown. Thought, revery, prayer, — these are great and mysterious radiations. Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations 6Î the soul? Into the shadow ; that is to say, to tiie light. The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing of humanity. Close to the right of the man, beside it at the least, there exists tlie right of the soul. To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinite, such is the law. Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree of creation, and to the contemplation of its branches full of stars. We have a duty to labor over the human soul, to defend the mystery against the miracle, to adore the incomprehensible and reject the absurd, to admit, as an in- explicable fact, only what is necessary, to purify belief, to remove superstitions from above religion ; to clear God of cater- pillars. VI. — The Absolute Goodness of Prater* With regard to the modes of prayer, all are good, provided that they are sincere. Turn your book upside down and be in the infinite. There is, as we know, a philosophy which denies the infinite. There is also a philosophy, pathologically classified, which denies the sun ; this philosophy is called blindness. To erect a sense which we lack into a source of truth, is a fine blind man's self-sufficiency. The curious thing is the haughty, superior, and compassion- ate airs which this groping philosophy assumes towards the philosophy which beholds God. One fancies he hears a mole crying, '* I pity them with their sun ! " There are, as we know, powerful and illustrious atheists. At bottom, led back to the truth by their very force, they ai'e not absolutely sure that they are atheists : it is with them only a tbem all as an elixir the nottou of God, to make conscience and science fraternize in them, to render them just by this mysteri- ous confrontation ; such is the function of real philosophy. Morality is a blossoming out of truths. Contemplation leads to action. The absolute should be practicable. It is neces- aary that the ideal should be breatiiable, drinkable, and eatable to tlie human mind. It is the ideal which has the right to say : Take, this is my body^ this is my blood. Wisdom is a holy sommunioD. It is on this condition that it ceases to be a sterile love of science and becomes the one and sovereign mode of human rallying, and that pliilosophy herself is promoted to religion. Philosophy should not be a corbel erected on mystery to gaze upon it at its eascj^ without any other result than "that of being ^convenient to curiosit}'. For our part, adjourning the development of our thonght to another occasion, we will confine ourselves to 8a3ing that wo neither understand man as a point of departure nor progress aa an end, without those two forces which are their two motors » faith and love. Pr(^es8 is the goal, the ideal is the type. What is this ideal? It is God. Ideal, absolute, perfection, infinity : identical words. VII. — Precautions to be observed in Blame. History and philosophy have eternal duties, which are, at the Bame time, simple duties ; to combat Caiphas the High-priest, Draco the Lawgiver, Trimalcion the Legislator, Tiberius the Emperor; this is clear, direct, and limpid, and offers no ol>- scurity. But the right to live apart, even with its inconveniences and its abuses, insists on being stated and taken into account. Cenobitism is a human problem. When one speaks of convents, those abodes of error, bat of innocence, of aberration but of good-will, of ignorance bat of devotion, of torture but of martyrdom, it always becomes neces- sary to say either yes or no. A convent is a contradiction. Its object, salvation ; its means thereto, sacrifice. The convent is supreme egoism h»¥^ ing for its result supreme abiiogatiou* work more divine thaa that performed by these soals." And we add : " Tbere is probably no work which is mçre useful." There certainly must be some who pray constantly for those who never pray at all. In our opinion the whole question lies in the amount of thought that is mingled with prayer. Leibnitz praying is grand, Voltaire adoring is fine. Deo irexit Voltaire. We are for religion as against religions. We are of the number who believe in the wretchedness of orisons, and the sublimity of prayer. Moreover, at this minute which we are now traversing, — a minute which will not, fortunately, leave its impress on the nine- teenth century, — at this hour, when so many men have low brows and souls but little elevated, among so many mortals whose morality consists in enjoyment, and who are busied with the brief and misshapen things of matter, whoever exiles him- self seem worthy of veneration to us. The monaster}' is a renunciation. Sacrifice wrongly directed is still sacrifice. To mistake a grave en*or for a duty has a grandeur of its own. Taken by itself, and ideally, and in order to examine thi truth on all sides until all aspects have been impartially ex- hausted, the monastery, the female convent in particular, — for in our century it is woman who suffers tlie most, and in this exile of the cloister there is something of protestation, — the female convent has incontestably a certain majesty. This cloistered existence which is so austere, so depressing, a few of whose features we have just traced, is not life, for it is not liberty ; it is not the tomb, for it is not plenitude ; it is the strange place whence one beholds, as from the crest of a lofty mountain, on one side the abyss where we are, on the other, the abyss whither we aliall go; it is the narrow and misty frontier separating two worlds, illuminated and obscured by both at the same time, where the ray of life which has bo- come enfeebled is mingled with the vague ray of death ; it is the half obscurity of tne tomb. We, who do not believe what these women believe, hut who, like them, live by faith, — we have never been able to think without a sort of tender and religious terror, with- out a sort of pity, that is full of envy, of those devoted, trembling and trusting creatures^ of these humble and aog^sl but one step intervening between the" convent and prison ; the safest, because, if he could manage to get himself accepted there and remain there, who would ever seek him in such a olaee? To dwell in an impossible place was safet}'. On his side, Fauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He began by declaring to himself that he understood nothing of jhe matter. How had M. Madeleine got there, when the walls were what they were? Cloister walls are not to be stepped over. How did he get there with a child? One cannot scale a perpendicular wall with a child in one's arms. Who was that child ? Where did they both come from ? Since Fauchelevent had lived in the convent, he had heanl nothing of M. sur M., and he knew nothing of .what had taken place there. Father Madeleine had an air which discouraged questions ; and be- sides, Fauchelevent said to himself: "One does not question a saint." M. Madeleine had preserved all his prestige in Fauchele vent's eyes. Only, from some words which Jean Val- Jean had let fall, the gardener thought he could draw the infer- ence that M. Madeleine had probably become bankrupt through the hard times, and that he was pursued by his creditors ; or that he had compromised himself in some political affair, and was in hiding ; whicli last did not displease Fauchelevent, who, like many of our peasants of the North, had an old fund of Bonapartism about him. While in hiding, M. Madeleine had selected the convent as a refuge, and it was quite simple that he should wish to remain there. But the inexplicable point, to which Fauchelevent returned constantly and over which he wearied his brain, was that M. Madeleine should be there, and that he should have that little girl with him. Fauchelevent saw them, touched them, spoke to them, and still did not believe ft possible. The incomprehensible had just made its entrance into Fa uchele vent's hut. Fauchelevent groped about amid conjectures, and could see nothing clearly but this : "M. Made- leine saved my life." This certainty alone was sufficient and decided his course. He said to himself : *' It is my turn now.** Ho added in his conscience : '* M. Madeleine did not stop to deliberate when it was a question of thrusting himself under the cart for the purpose of dragging me out." He made up his mind to save M. Madeleine. Nevertheless, he put many questions to himself and made himself divers replies : *' After what he did for me, would I save hrm if he were a thief? Just the same. If he were an k siijnify malice or stupidity. At daybreak, Father Fauchelevent opened his eyes, after having done an enormous deal of thinking, and beheld M. Made- leine seated on his truss of straw, and watching Cosette's slumbers. Fauchelevent sat up and said : — '* Now that you are here, how are you going to contrive to enter?" This remark summed up the situation and aroused Jean Val jean from his re very. The two men took counsel together. *' In the fii-st place," said Fauchelevent, '* you will begin by not setting foot outside of this chamber, cither you or the child One step in the garden and we are done for." '' That is true." '* Monsieur Madeleine," resumed Fauchelevent, ''you have arrived at a very auspicious moment, I mean to say a very in- auspicious moment ; one of the ladies is very ill. This wilfpre- vent them from looking much in our direction. It seems that she is dying. The prayers of the forty hours are being said. The whole community is in confusion. That occupies them. The one who is on the point of departure is a saint. In fact, we are all saints here ; all the difference between them and me is that they say ' our cell,' and that I say ' my cabin.' The prayers for the dying are to be said, and then the prayers for the dead. We shall be at peace here for to-day ; but I will not answer for to-morrow." " Still," observed Jean Valjean, " this cottage is in the niche of the wall, it is hidden by a sort of ruin, there are trees, it is not visible from the convent." " And I add that the nuns never come near it." " Well? " said Jean Valjean. The interrogation mark which accentuated this "well" signi- led ; " it seems to me that one may remain concealed here?" It was to this interrogation point that Fauchelevent responded: — " There are the little girls." " What little girls? " asked Jean Valjean. Just as Fauchelevent opened his mouth to explain the words vhich he had uttered, a bell emitted one stroke. " The nun is dead," said he. " There is the knell.'* And he made a sign to Jean Valjean to listen. The bell struck a second time. "It is the knell, Monsieur Madeleine. The bell will continue gaged in swariniug in that quarter, agents on the watch, senti* nels everywhere, frightful liste extended towards his collar, Ja- vert at the corner of the intersection of the streets perhaps. " Impossible ! " said he. " Father Fauchelevent, say that I fell from the sky." " But I believe it, I believe it," retorted Fauchelevent. " You have no need to tell mc that. The good God must have take&you tn his hand for the purpose of getting a good look at you close to, and then dropped you. Only, he meant to place you in a man's con veut ; he made a mistake. Come, there goes another peal, that is to order the porter to go and inform the municipal- ity that the dead-doctor is to come here and view a corpse. All that is the ceremony of dying. These good ladies are not at all fond of that visit. A doctor is a man who does not believe in anything. He lifts the veil. Sometimes he lids something else too. How quickly they have had the doctor summoned this time ! What is the matter ? Your little one is still asleep. What is her name?" ''Cosette." ^' She is your daughter? You are her grandfather, that is?** '' Yes." " It will be easy enough for her to get out of here. I have my service door which opens on the courtyard. 1 knock. The porter opens ; I have my vintage basket on my back, the child is in it, I go out. Father Fauchelevent goes out with his bas- ket — that is perfectly natural. Yon will tell the child to keep very quiet. She will be under the cover. I will leave her for whatever time is required with a good old friend, a fruit-seller whom I know in the Rue Chemin-Vert, who is deaf, and who has a little bed. I will shout in the fruit-seller's e-ar, tliat sht is a niece of mine, and that she is to keep her for me until to- morrow. Then the little one will re-enter with you ; for I will contrive to have you re-enter. It must be done. But how will you manage to get out?" Jean Val jean shook his head. ^^ No one must see me, the whole point lies there, Father Fauchelevent. Find some means of getting me out in a basket, under cover, like Cosette." Fauchelevent scratched the lobe of his ear with the middle finger of his left hand, a sign of serious embarrassment. A third peal created a diversion. *^ That is the dead-doctor taking his departure,** said Faoche \ l^ss than ten minutes later^ Father FaueUelevent, whose bell put the nuns in his road to fliglit, tapped gently at a door., aud a gentle voice replied: ^*' Forever! Forever!" that is to say: " Enter." The door was the one leading to the parlor reserved for seeing the gardener on business. This parlor adjoined the chapter hall. The prioress, seated on the ordy chair in the parlor, was waiting for Fauchelevent. II. — Faucheleveiît in the Presence of a Difficulty. It is the peculiarity of certain persons and certain professions, notably priests and nuns, to wear a grave and agitated air ou critical occasions. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, this double form of preoccupation was imprinted on the counte- nance of the prioress, who was that wise and charn^ng Matlem- Giselle de Blemeur, Mother Innocente, who was ordinarily cheerful. The gardener made a timid bow, ami remained at the door of the cell. The prioress, who was telling her beads, raised hef ej^es and said : — '' Ah ! it is you. Father Fauvent." This abbreviation had been adopted in the convent. Fauchelevent bowed again. " Father Fauvent, I have sent for you." *' Here I am, reverend Mother." " I have something to say to you." ^' And so have I," said Fauchelevent with a boldness which caused him inward terror, ^^ I have something to say to the very reverend Mother." The prioress stared at him. ^^Ah ! you have a communication to make to me*" "A request." *' Very well, speak." Goodman Fauchelevent, the ex-notary, belonged to the cate^ gory of peasants who have assurance. A certain clever igno- rance constitutes a force ; you do not distrust it, and 3'o«; are caught by it. Fauchelevent had been a success during the something more than two years which he had passed in the <«od- vent. Always solitary and busied about his gardening, he had nothing else to do than to indulge his curiosity. As he was at a distance from all those veiled women passing to and fro, he I When he had finished Speaking, the prioress stayed the 8li|H ping of her rosary between her fingers, and said to him : — >* Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and thii evening ? " '* For what purpose?" " To serve as a lever." *' Yes, reverend Mother," replied Fauchelevent. The prioross, witliout adding a word, rose and entered the adjoining room, which was the hall of the chapter, and where the vocal mothers were probably assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone. III. — Mother Innocente. About a quarter of an hour elapsed. The prioress returne»! and seated herself once more on her chair. The two interlocutors seemed preoccupied. We will present a stenographic report of the dialogue which then ensued, to the best of our ability. " Father Fauvent ! " " Reverend Mother ! " *' Do you know the chapel? ** " I have a little cage there, where I hear the mass and tht offices." "And you have been in the choir in pursuance of vour duties?" '* Two or three times." *' There is a stone to be raised." ''Heavy?" " The slab of the pavement which is at the side of the altar.'* "The slab which closes the vault?" " Yes." " It would be a good thing to have two men for it." "Mother Ascension, who is as strong as a man, will help you." *' A woman is never a man." " We have only a woman here to help you. Each one does what he can. Because I)om Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles of Saint Bernard, while Merlonus Horstins only gives three hundred and sixty-seven, I do not despise Merlonus Horstius." " Neither do I." *' Merit consists in working according to one's strength. A cloister is not a dock-yard^' I yuu uau vji must; cutci iiiiaii vuaujuort A fine sight it woald be, to see a man enter th« not say more often than what, I Why do you say more often ? ** x-^v v^i/uct xuaii itunu See to that, dead-room ! ' ** More often ! *' "Hey?" " More often ! " ^'Whatdoyousay?"* *' I say more often." " More often than what?' " Reverend Mother, I did said more often." " I don't understand you. *'In order to speak like you, reverend Mother." '' But I did not say * more often.' " At that moment, nine o'clock struck. **At nine o'clock in the morning and at all hours, praised and adored be the most Holy Sacrament of the altar," said tlie prioress. '' Amen," said Fauchelevent. The clock struck opportunely. It cut " more often" short. It is probable, that had it not been for this, the prioress and Fauchelevent would never have unravelled that skein. Fauchelevent mopped his forehead. The prioress indulged in another little inward murmur, prob- ably sacred, then raised her voice : — ''In her lifetime. Mother Crucifixion made converts; after her death, she will perform miracles." *' She will ! " replied Father Fauchelevent, falling into step, and striving not to fiinch again. '* Father Fauvent, the community has been blessed in Mother Crucifixion. No doubt, it is not granted to every one to die, like Cardinal de Bérulle, while saying the holy mass, and to breathe forth their souls to God, while pronouncing these words : Heme igitur oblationem. But without attaining to such happiness, Mother Crucifixion's death was ver}^ pi'eeiows. She retained her consciousness to the very last moment. She spoke to us, then she spoke to the angels. She gave us her l.nst commands. If you had a little more faith, and if you could have been in her cell, she would have cured your leg merely by touching it. She smiled. We felt that she was regaining her life in God. There was something of paradise in that death." Fauchelevent thought that it was an orison which she wa« finishing. I ^^ So I shall huve to uail up that coffin? '' '* Yes." ** And we are to reject the undertaker's coffin ?** ** Precisely." ^^ I am at the orders of the very reverend community/ ** The four Mother Precentors will assist you." <=^In nailing up tlie coffin? I do not need them.'* " No. In lowering the cofflin." *' Where?" *'Into the vault." ** What vault?" ** Under the altar.** Fauchelevent started. *' The vault under the altwr? " *' Under the altar." *'But— " " You will have an iron bar.** *' Yes, but — " ^^ You will raise the stone with Û» bar bj meaiM of Bkj ring." '*But — " '* The dead must be obeyed. To be buried in tho vauU under the altar of the chapel, not to go to profane earth, to remain there in death where she prayed while living ; audi was the last wish of Mother Crucifixion. She asked it of us ; that is to say, commanded us." " But it is forbidden." *' Forbidden by men, enjoined by Grod.** '* What if it became known?" '* We have confidence in you." *' Oh ! I am a stone in your walls." ^^ The chapter assembled. The vocal mothers, whom 1 Lave just consulted again, and who are now deliberating, have decided that Mother Crucifixion shall be buried, acconling to her wish, in her own coffin, under our altar. Think, Father Fauvent, if she were to work miracles here ! What a glory of God for the community ! And miracles issue from tombs." '^ But, reverend Mother, if the agent of the sanitaty oommis- Bion — " ^^ Saint Benoit II., in the matter of sepulture, resiated CoO' itantine Pogonatus." ^' But the commissary of police— ** L Î20 LES MISERABLES. huudred canonized saints, and has been in existence for fou» teen hundred years. On one side Saint Bernard, on the otiiei the agent of the sanitary department! On odc side Saint Benoit, ou the other the inspector of public ways ! The state, the road commissioners, the public undertaker, regulations, the administration, what do we know of all that? There is not a chance passer-by who would not be indignant to see how we are treated. We have not even the right to give our dust to Jesu9 Christ 1 Your sanitary department is a revolutionary invention. God subordinated to tiie commissary of police ; such is the age. Silence, Fauvent ! " Fauchelevent was but ill at ease under this shower bath. Tha prioress continued : — ^^ No one doubts the right of the monastery to sepultare. Only fanatics and those in error deny it. We live in times of terrible confusion. We do not know that which it is necessary to know, and we know tliat which we should ignore. We artt ignorant and impious. In this age there exist people who do not distinguish between the very great Saint Bernaixl and the Saint Bernard denominated of the poor Catholics, a certain good ecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century. Others are so blaspliemous as to compare the scaffold of Loais XVI . to the cross of Jesus Christ. Louis XVI. was merely a king. Let us beware of God ! There is no longer just nor unjust. The name of Voltaire is known, but not the name of César de Bus. Nevertheless, César de Bus is a man of blessed mem- ory, and Voltaire one of unblessed memory. The last arch- bishop, the Cardinal de Périgord, did not even know thai Charles de Gondren succeeded to BeruUe, and François Bour- goin to Gondren, and Jean-François Senault to Boui^oin, and Father Sainte Marthe to Jean-François Senault. The name of Father Coton is known, not because he was one of the three who urged the foundation of the Oratorie, but because he f ur> nishcd Henri IV., the Huguenot king, with the material for an oath. That which pleases people of the world in Saint François de Sales, is that he cheated at play. And then, religion is at- tacked. Why? Because there have been bad priests, because Sagittaire, Bishop of Gap, was the brother of Salone, Bishop of Embrun, and because both of them followed Mommol. What has that to do with the question ? Does that prevent Martin de Tours from being a saint, and giving half of his cloak to a beggar? They persecute the saints. They shut their eyes to the truth. Darkness is the rule. The most ferocious beasts are beasts which are blind. No one thinks of bell as a reality Digitized by Google COSETTE. 221 Dh! how wicked people are! By order of the king signifies k>-day, by order of the révolution. One no longer knows what is dae to the living or to the dead. A holy death is prohibited. Burial is a civil matter. This is horrible. Saint Leo II. wrote two special letters, one to Pierre Notaire, the other to the king of the Visigoths, for the purpose of combating and rejectmg, in questions touching the dead, the authority of the exarch and the supremacy of the Emperor. Gauthier, Bishop of Chalons, held his own in this matter against Otho, Duke of Burgundy. The ancient magistracy agreed with him. In former times we had voices in the chapter, even on matters of the day. The Abbot of Citeaux, the general of the order, was councillor by right of birth to the parliament of Bui^ndy. We do what we please with our dead. Is not the body of Saint Benoit himself in France, in the abbey of Fleury, called Saint Beno!t-sur-Loire, although he died in Italy at Mont-Cassin, on Saturday, the 2l8t of the month of March, of the year 548? All this is incontest- able. I abhor psalm-singers, I hate priors, I execrate heretics, but I should detest yet more any one who should maintain the contrary. One has only to read Arnoul Wion, Gabriel BuceliUy Trithemus, Maurolics, and Dom Luc d'Achcry.*' The prioress took breath, then turned to Fauchelevent* *' Is it settled, Father Fauvent?" *' It is settled, reverend Mother/' *' We may depend on you ?" " I will obey.*' " That is well." ** I am entirely devoted to the convent." ** That is understood. You will closs the coffin. The sisters will carry it to the chapel. The oillce for the dead will then be said. Then we shall return to the cloister. Between eleven o'clock and midnight, you will come with your iron bar. All will be done in the most profound secrec}^ Tliere will be in the chapel only the four Mother Precentors, Mother Ascension ind yourself." ^^ And the sister at the post?" ** She will not turn round." " But she will hear." ^* She will not listen. Besides, what the cloister knows the world learns not." A pause ensued. The prioress went on : — *^ You will remoye your bell. It is not necessary that the •ister at the post should '^<*rceive your presence." '* Reverend Mother; Digitized by Google 822 LES MISÉRABLES. ** What, Father Fauvent? " ^^ Has the doctor for the dead paid his visit?'' ^^ He will pay it at four o'clock to-day. The peal which orders the doctor for the dead to be summoned has already been rung. But you do not understand any of the peals? " ^^ I pay no attention to any but my own." " That is well, Father Fauvent." ^* Reverend Mother, a lever at least six feet long will be required." '* Where will you obtain it?" *^ Where gratiugs are not lacking, iron bars are not lacking I have my heap of old iron at the bottom of the garden." '^ About three-quarters of an hour before midnight; do not forget." *' Reverend Mother?" «'What?" «' If you were ever to have any other jobs of this sort, my brother is the strong man for you. A perfect Turk ! " «' You will do it as speedily as possible." «« I cannot work very fast. I am infirm ; that is why I re- quire an assistant. I limp." «'To limp is no sin, and perhaps it is a blessing. The Emperor Henry II., who combated Antipope Gregory and re-established Benoit VIII., has two surnames, the Saint and the Lame." ««Two surtouts are a good thing," murmured Fauchelevent, who really was a little hard of hearing. «« Now that I think of it, Father Fauvent, let us give a whole hour to it. That is not too much. Be near the principal altar, with your iron bar, at eleven o'clock. The office begins at midnight. Everything must have been completed a good quarter of an hour before that." «« I will do anything to prove my zeal towards the community. These are my orders. I am to nail up the colBn. At eleven o'clock exactly, I am to be in the chapel. The Mother Precen- tors will be there. Mother Ascension will be there. Two men would be better. However, never mind ! I shall have my lever. We will open the ^rault, we will lower the coffin, and we will dose the vault again. After which, there will be no trace of anything. The government will have no suspicion. Thoa all has been arranged, reverend Mother?" ««No!" «« What else remains ? " «« The empty coffin remains." Digitized by Google COSETTE, 223 This produced a paase. Faacheleveot meditated. The pn oreBs meditated. '^ Wliat is to )>e done with that cofBO) Father Fauvent?" " It will be giveu to the earth." *^ Empty?" Another silence. Fauchelevent made, with his left hand, that Bort of a gesture which dismisses a troublesome subject. ^^ Reverend Mother, I am the one who is to nail up the coffin In the btisemcnt of the church, and no one can enter there but myself, and I will cover the coffin with the pall." *•*• Yes, but the bearers, when they place it in the hearse and lower it into the grave, will be sure to feel that there is nothing in it." *' Ah ! tlie de — ! " exclaimed Fauchelevent. The prioress began to make the sign of tlie cross, and looked fixedly at the gardener. The vil stuck fast in his throat. He made haste to improvise an expedient to make her forget the oath. *'I will put earth in the coffin, reverend Mother. That will produce the effect of a corpse." ^^ You are right. Earth, that is the same thing as maii. So you will manage the empty coffin ? " "I will make that my special business." The prioress's face, up to that moment troubled and clouded,^ grew serene once more. She made the sign of a superior dis- missing an inferior to him. Fauchelevent went towards the door. As he was on the point of passing out, the prioress raised her voice gently : — *' I am pleased with you. Father Fan vent ; bring your brother to me to-morrow, after the burial, and tell him to fetch his daughter." IV*- ^ Ih which Jban Valjean has quttb the Air op haying BEAD Austin Castillbjo. The strides of a lame man are like the ogling glances of a one-eyed man ; they do not reach their goal very promptly. Moreover, Fauchelevent was in a dilemma. He took nearly a quarter of an hour to return to his cottage in the garden. Co- sette had waked up. Jean Valjean had placed ber near the lire. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered, iean Valjean was pointing out to her the vintner's basket on the wall, and saying to her. '' Listen attelitively to me, my little Cosette. We mast Digitized by Google 224 LES MISÉRABLES. go awaj from this house, bat we shall return to it, and we shal ^-^ very happy here. The good man who lives here is going Us carry you off on his back in that. You will wait for me at a lady's house. I shall come to fetch you. Obey, and say noth- ing, above all things, unless you want Madame Thénardier to get you again ! " Cosette nodded gravely. Jean Valjean turned round at the noise made by Fauchelevent opening the door. ''Well?" " Everything is arranged, and nothing is," said Fauchelevent. *' I have permission to bring you in ; but before bringing yoa in you must be got out. That's where the difficulty lies. It ia easy enough with the child." *' You will carry her out ? "' " And she will hold her tongue ?*• " I answer for that." " But you, Father Madeleine?" And, after a silence, fraught with anxiety, Fauchelevent ex< claimed : — " Why, get out as you came in ! " Jean Valjean, as in the first instance, contented himself with saying, " Impossible." . Fauchelevent grumbled, more to himself than to Jean Val- jean : — *' There is another thing which bothers me. I have said that I would put earth in it. When I come to think it over, the earth instead of the corpse will not seem like the real thing, it won't do, it will get displaced, it will move about. The men will hear it. You understand, Father Madeleine, the govern- ment will notice it. Jean Valjean stared him straight in the eye and thought that he was raving. Fauchelevent went on : — " How the de — uce are you going to get out? It must all be done by to-morrow morning. It is to-morrow that I am tc» bring you in. The prioress expects you." Then he explained to Jean Valjean that this was his recom- pense for a service which he, Fauclielevcnt, was to render to the community. That it fell among his duties to take part in their burials,, that he nailed up the cofRns and helped the grave-digger at the cemetery. That the nun who had died that morning had requested to be buried in the coffin which had served her for a bed, and interred in the vault under tlie altai Digitized by Google VOSETTB. 225 >f the cbapeL That the police regulations forbade this, but that she was one of those dead to whom nothing is refused. That the prioress and the vocal mothers intended to fulfil the wish of the deceased. That it was so much the worse for the government. Tiiat he, Fauchelevent, was to nail up the coffin in the cell, raise the stone in the chapel, and lower the corpse into the vault. And that, by way of thanks, the prioress was to admit his brother to the house as a gardener, and his niece as a pupil. That his brother was M. Madeleine, and that his niece was Cosette. That the prioress had told him to bring his brother on the following evening, after the counterfeit inter- ment in the cemetery'. But that he could not bring M. Made- leine in from the outside if M. Madeleine was not outside. That that was the first problem. And then, that there was another : the empty coffin." ^< What is that empty coffin?" asked Jean Valjean, Fauchelevent replied : — '^ The coffin of Uie administration." *' What coffin? What administration?" *' A nun dies. The municipal doctor comes and says, ^A nan has died.' The government sends a coffin. The next day it sends a hearse and undertaker's men to get the coffin and carry it to the cemetery. The undertaker's men will come and lift the coffin ; there will be nothing in it/* *' Put something in it." ** A corpse ? I have none.'* " No." ** What then?" ** A living person.** *'Whatpei-son?'* " Me ! " said Jean Valjean. Faachelevent, who was seated, sprang ap as though a bomb bad bnrst under his chair. "Yoal" "Why not?" Jean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which »i^hted up his face like a flash from heaven in the winter. ** You know, Fauchelevent, what you have said : * Mother Cru- cifixion is dead,' and I add : ^ and Father Madeleine is buried.' " *^ Ah ! good, you can laugh, you are not speaking seriously.** '* Very seriously, I must get out of this place." ** Certainly.*' ^* I have told you to find a basket, and a cover for me also.' **WeU?** Digitized by Google 226 LES MISÉRABLES. *' The basket will be of pine, and the cover a black dotii.* ^^ In the first place, it will be a white cloth. Nons are buried m white." " Let it be a white cloth, then." " You are not like other men, Father Madeleine.** To behold such devices, which are nothing else than the sav- age and daring inventions of the galleys, spring forth from the peaceable things which surrounded him, and mingle with what he called the " petty course of life in the convent,*' caused Fauchelevcnt as much amazement as a gnll fishing in the gutter of the Rue Saint-Denis would inspire in a passer-by. Jean Valjcan went on ; — ^^ The problem is to get out of here without being seen. This offers the means. But give me some information, in the first place. How is it managed? Where is this coffin?" "The empty one?'* " Yes." " Down stairs, in what is called the dead-Toom. It stands on two trestles, under the pall." " How long is the coffin?** " Six feet." *' What is this dead-room?" " It is a chamber on the ground floor which has a grated wii^ dow opening on the garden, which is closed on the outside by a shutter, and two doors ; one leads into the convent, the other into the church." ''What church?" " The church in the street, the church which any one can enter." "Have you the keys to those two doors?" "No ; I have the key to the door which communicates with the convent ; the porter has the key to the door which commun!» cates with the church." " When does the porter open that door?" "Only to allow the undertaker's men to enter, when they come to got the coffin. When the coffin has been taken out, the door is closed again." " Who nails up the coffin ? ** " I do." " Who spreads the pall over it?** " I do." " Are you alone?" " Not another man, except the police doctor, can enter the dead-room. Thiit is even written on the wall." Digitized by Google VOSETTB, 227 *^ Could you hide me in that room to«night when every one if asleep ? " ^^ No. Bat I could hide yoa in a small, dark nook which opens on the dead-room, where I keep my tools to use foi burials, and of which I have the key." " At what time will the hearse «omc for the coffin to-morrow ? " *'^ About three o'clock in the afternoon. The burial will take place at the Vanghrard cemetery a little before nightfall. It is not very near." ^^ £ will remain concealed in your tool-closet all night and all the morning. And how about food? I shall be hungry." *' I will bring you something." ** You can come and nail me up in the coffin at two o'clock." Fanchdevant recoiled and cracked his finger-joints. *' But that is impossible ! " *' Bah ! Impossible to take a hammer and drive some nails in a plank?" What seemed unprecedented to Fauchelevent was, we repeat, a simple matter to Jean Val jean. Jean Val jean had been in woi*se straits than this. Anj* man who has been a prisoner un- derstands how to contract himself to fit the diameter of the escape. The prisoner is subject to flight as the sick man is subject to a crisis which saves or kills him. An escape is a cur«. What does not a man undergo for the sake of a cure? To have himself nailed up in a case and carried off like a bale of goods, to live for a long time in a box, to find air where there is none, to economize his breath for hours, to know how to stifle without dying — this was one of Jean Valjean's gloomy talents. Moreover, a coffin containing a living being, — that convict's expedient, — is also an imperial expedient. If we are to credit the monk Austin Castillejo, this was the means ein[)loyed by Charles the Fifth, desirous of seeing the Plombes for the last ime after his abdication. He had her brought into and carried out of the monastery of Saint- Yuste in this manner. Fauchelevent, who had recovered himself a little, exclaimed : — ** But how, will 3'ou manage to breathe?" **I will breathe." '* In that box ! The mere thought of it suflTocates me.** " You surely must have a gimlet, you will make a few holes here and there, around my mouth, and you will nail the top niank on loosely." ^^Good! And what if you should t^%ppen to cough or to sneeze?" Digitized by Google 228 LES MISÉRABLES. ** A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze.* And Jean Valjean added : — '^Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: 1 must either be caught here, or accept this escape through tbe hearse." Every one has noticed the taste which cats have for pausing and lounging between the two leaves of a half-shut door- Who is tliere who has rot said to a cat, " Do come in ! " Thei-e are men who, when an incident stands half-open before them, have the same tendency to halt in indecision between two resolutions, at the risk of getting crushed through tlie abrupt closing of the adventure by fate. The over-prudent, cats as tliey are, and because they are cats, sometimes incur more danger than the audacious. Fauchelevent was of this hesitating nature. But Jean Valjean's coolness prevailed over him in spite of himself. He grumbled : — '' Well, since there is no other means." Jean Valjean resumed : — ^^ The only thing which troubles me is what will take place at the cemeter}-." '' That is the very point that is not troublesome,'' exclaimed Fauchelevent. " If 3'ou are sure of coming out of the coffiu all right, I am sure of getting you out of the grave. The grave- digger is a drunkard, and a friend of mine. He is Father Mes- tienne. An old fellow of the old school. The grave-digger puts the corpses in the grave, and I put the grave-digger in my pocket. 1 will tell you what will take place. They will arrive a little before dusk, three-quarters of an hour before the gates of the cemetery are closed. The hearse will drive directly up to the grave. I shall follow ; that is my business. I shall have a hammer, a chisel, and some pincers in my pocket. The hearse halts, the undertaker's men knot a rope around your coflin and lower you down. The priest says the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles tiie holy water, and ttdces his departure. I am left alone with Father Mestienne. He is my friend, I tell you. One of two things will happen, he will either be sober, or he will not be sober. If he i^ not dnmk, I shall say to him : ' Come and drink a bout while the Bon Coing [the Good Quince] is open.* I carry him off, I get him drunk, — it does not take long to make Father Mes- tienne drunk, he always has the beginning of it about him, — I lay him under the table, I take his card, so that I can gel" into the cemetery again, and I return without him. Then you have no longer any one but me to deal with. If he is drunks Digitized by Google VOSETTE. 229 I shall say to him :. * Be off ; 1 will do your work for yoo/ Ofl he goes, and 1 drag you out of the hole." Jean Yaljean held out his hand, and Fauchelevcnt precipitated himself upon it with the touching effusion of a peasant. " That is settled, Father Fauchelevent. All will go well." *' Provided -nothing goes wrong," thought Fauchelevent * ' In that case, it would be terrible." V. — It is hot Necbssart to be drunk in Order to be IliMORTAL. On the following day, as the sun was declining, the very rare passers-by on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an old-fashioned hearse, ornamented with skulls, cross-bones, and tears. This hearse contained a coffin covered with a white cloth over which spread a large black cross, like a huge corpse with drooping arms. A mourning-coach, in which could be seen a priest in his surplice, and a choir boy in his red cap, fol- lowed. Two undertaker's men in gray uniforms trimmed with black walked on the right and the left of the hearse. Behind it came an old man in the garments of a laborer, who limped along. The procession was going in the direction of the Vau- girard cemetery. The handle of a hammer, the blade of a cold chisel, and the antennae of a pair of pincers were visible, protruding from the man's pocket. The Vaugirard cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries of Paris. It had its peculiar usages, just as it had its carriage entrance and its house door, which old people in the quarter, who clung tenaciously to ancient words, still called the porte cavalière and the porte piétonne} The Bernardines-Bene- dictines of the Rue Petit-Picpus had obtained permission, as we have already stated, to be buried there in a corner apart, and at night, the plot of land having formerly belonged to their community. The grave-diggers being thus bound to service in the evening in summer and at night in winter, in this cemetery, they were subjected to a special discipline. The gates of the Paris cemeteries closed, at that epoch, at sundown, and this being a municipal regulation, the Vaugirard cemetery was bound by it like the rest. The carriage gate and the house door were two contiguous grated gates, adjoining a pavilion built by the architect Perronet, and inhabited by the door-keeper of th€ 1 Instead oiporiê cockers and tiorU bâtarde Digitized by VjOOQ IC 230 ùES MISÉRABLES. cemetery. These gates, therefore, swung inexorably on their hinges at the instant when the sun disappeared behind the dome of die Invalides. If any grave-digger were delayed after that moment in the cemetery, there was but one way for him to get out — his grave -digger's card furnished by the department of public funerals. A sort of letter-box was constructed in the porter's window. The grave-digger dropped his cai-d inlo this box, the porter heard it fall, pulled the rope, and the small door opened. If the man had not his card, he mentioned his name, the porter, who was sometimes in bed and asleep, rose, came out and identified tlie man, and opened the gate with his key; the grave-digger stepped out, but had to pay a fine of fifteen francs. This cemetery with its peculiarities outside the regulations, embarrassed the symmetry of the administration. It was sup- pressed a little later than 1830. The cemetery of Mont-Par- nasse, called the Eastern cemetery, succeeded to it, and inherited that famous dram-shop next to the Vaugirard cemetery, which iv^as surmounted by a quince painted on a board, and which formed an angle, one side on the drinkers* tables, and the other on the tombs, with this sign : Aa Bon Coiiig. The Vaugirard cemetery was what may be called a faded cem- etery. It was falling into disuse. Dampness was invading it, IJiie flowers were deserting it. The bourgeois did not care much about being buried in the Vaugirard ; it hinted at poverty. Père- Lachaise if you please ! to be buried in Père-Lachaise is equiva- lent to having furniture of mahogany. It is recognized as ele- gant. The Vaugirard cemetery was a venerable enclosure, planted like an okl-fashioned French garden. Straight alleys, l)ox, thuya-trees, holly, ancient tombs beneath aged cypress- trees, and very tall grass. In the evening it was tragic there. There were very lugubrious lines about it. The sun had not yet set, when the hoarse with the white pall %nd the black cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard ceme - !rery. The lame man who followed it was no other than Fauch- ilevent. The interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar, the exit of Cosette, the introduction of Jean Valjean to the dead-room, — all had been executed without difiSculty, and there had been no hitch. Let us remark in passing, that the burial of Mother Crucifix ion under the altar of the convent is a perfectly venial ofifence in our sight. It is one of the faults which resemble a duty. The nuns had committed it, not only without difilcalty, bat e^en Digitized by Google COSETTE. 231 #ith the applause of their own consciences. In the cloister, what JB called the ''government" is onl}' an intermeddling with au- thority, an interference which is always questionable. In the the first place, the rule ; as for the code, we shall see. Make as many laws as you please, men ; but keep them for yourselves. Tlie tribute to Caesar is never anything but the remnants of the tribute to God. A prince is nothing in the presence of a principle. Fauchelevent limped along behind the hearse in a very con I.ented frame of mind. His twin plots, the one with the nnns, the one for the convent, the other against it, the other with M„ Madeleine, had succeeded, to all appearance. Jean Valjean's composure was one of those powerful tranquillities which are contagious. Fauchelevent no longer felt doubtful as to his success. What remained to be done was a mere nothing. Within the last two years, he had made good Father Mestienne, a chubby- cheeked person, drunk at least ten times. He played with Father Mestienne. He did what he liked with him. He made him dance according to his whim. Mestienne's head adjusted itself to the cap of Fauchele vent's will. Fauchele vent's confi- dence was perfect. At the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the cemetery, Fauchelevent glanced cheerfully at the hearse, and said half aloud, as he rubbed his big hands : — '* Here's a fine farce !" All at once the hearse halted ; it had reached the gate. The permission for interment must be exhibited. The undertaker's man addressed himself to the porter of tlie cemetery. During this colloquy, which always is productive of a delay of from one to two minutes, some one, a stranger, came and placed himself behind the hearse, beside Fauchelevent. He was a sort of la- boring man, who wore a waistcoat with large pockets and car- ried a mattock under his arm. Fauchelevent surveyed this stranger. " Who are you?" he demanded. "The man replied : — **The grave-digger.** If a man could survive the blow of a cannon-ball full in the tireast, he would make the same face that Fauchelevent made. ** The grave-digger?** *»Te8.*' Yon?** **!.** **Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.** Digitized by Google 232 LES MISÉRABLES. ** He was." **What! He was?" "He is dead." Fauchelevent had expected anything but this, that a grave- digger oould die. It is true, nevertheless, that grave-diggers do die themselves. By dint of excavating graves for other people, one hollows out one's own. Fauchelevent stood there with his month wide open. He had hardly the strength to stammer: — " But it is not possible ! " " It is so." "But," he persisted feebly, " Father Mestienne is the grave- digger." "After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gnbier. Feasant, my name is Gribier." Fauchelevent, who was deadly pale, stared at this Gribier. He was a tall, thin, livid, utterly funereal man. He had the air of an unsuccessful doctor who had turned grave-digger. Fauchelevent burst out laughing. "Ah ! " said he, " what queer tilings do happen ! Father Mes* tienne is dead, but long live little Father Lenoir ! Do you know who little Father Lenoir is ? He is a jug of red wine. It is a jug of Surene, morbigou ! of real Paris Surône? Ah! So old Mestienne is dead ! I am sorry for it ; he was a jolly fellow. Hut you are a jolly fellow, too. Are you not, comrade? We'll go and have a drink together presently." The man replied : — " I have been a student. I passed my fonrth examination. I never drink." The hearse had set out again, and was rolling up the grand alley of the cemetery. Fauchelevent had slackened his pace. He limped more oat of anxiety than from infirmity. The grave-digger walked on in front of him. Fauchelevent passed the unexpected Gribier once more in re- view. He was one of those men who, though very young, have the air of age, and who, though slender, are extremely strong. " Comrade 1 " cried Fauchelevent. The man turned round. ** I am the convent grave-digger." ** My colleague," said the man. Fauchelevent, who was illiterate but very sharp, understood that he had to deal with a formidable species of man, with a fine talker. He muttered ^^^^ - Digitized by VjOOQIC COSETTE. 233 <^ So Father Mestienne is dead.'* The man replied : — ^^ Completely. The good God consulted his note-book which shows when the time is up. It was Father Mestienne's turn. Father Mestienne died.*' Fauchelevent repeated mechanically : The good God — " "The good God," said the man authoritatively. "Accord ing to the philosophers, the Eternal Father ; according to the Jacobins, the Supreme Being." " Shall we not make each other's acquaintance?" stammered Fauchelevent. " It is made. You are a peasant, I am a Parisian." "People do not know each other until they have drunk to- gether. He who empties his glass empties his heart. You must come and have a drink with me. Such a thing cannot be refused." " Business first." Fauchelevent thought : " I am lost." They were only a few turns of the wheel distant from the small alley leading to the nuns' corner. The grave-digger resumed : — " Peasant, I have seven small children who must be fed. As they must eat, I cannot drink." And he added » with the satisfaction of a serious man who is turning a phrase well : — " Their hunger is the enemy of my thirst." The hearse skirted a clump of cypress- trees, quitted the grand alley, turned into a narrow one, entered the waste land, an4 plunged into a thicket. This indicated the immediate proximity- of the place of sepulture. Fauchelevent slackened his pace, but he could not detain the- hearse. Fortunately, the soil, which was light and wet with the winter rains, clogged the wheels and retarded its speed. He approached the grave-digger. "They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine," murmured Fauchelevent. " Villager," retorted the man, " I ought not be a grave- digger. My father was a porter at the Prytaneum [Town-Hall], He destined me for literature. But he had reverses. He had tosses on 'change. I was obliged to renounce the profession of ftothor. But I am still a public writer." " So you are not a grave-digger, then?" returned Fauchele rent, clutching at this branch, feeble as it was. " The one does not hinder the other. 1 cumulate." Fauchelevent did not understjand this last word. uignized by CjOOQ IC 234 LE^ MISÉRABLES. "Come have a drink," said he. Here a remark becomes necessary. Fauchelevent, whatevei his anguish, offered a drink, but he did not explain himself on one point ; who was to pay ? Generally, Fauchelevent offered and Father Mestienue paid. An offer of a drink was the evi- dent result of the novel situation created by the new grave- digger, and it was necessary to make this offer, but the old £:ardener loft the proverbial quarter of an hour named after Rabelais in the dark, and that not unintentionally. As for himself, Fauchelevent did not wish to pay, troubled as he was, •The grave-digger went on with a superior smile : — " One must eat. I have accepted Father Mestienne's rever- sion. One gets to be a philosopher when one has nearly com- pleted h)s classes. To the labor of the hand I join the labor of the arm. I have my scrivener's stall in the market of the Rue de Sèvres. You know? the Umbrella Market. All the cooks of the Red Cross apply to me. I scribble their declara- tions of love to the raw soldiers. In the morning I write love letters ; in the evening I dig graves. Such is life, rustic." The hearse was still advancing. Fauchelevent, uneasy to the last degree, was gazing about him on all sides. Great drops of perspiration trickled down from his brow. " But," continued the grave-digger, " a man cannot serve two mistresses. I must choose between the pen and the mattock. The mattock is ruining my hand." The hearse halted. The choir boy alighted from the mourning-coach, then the priest. One of the small front wheels of the hearse had run up a little on a pile of earth, beyond which an open grave was visible. " What a farce this is !" repeated ï>Eiuchelevent in consterna* tion. VI. — Between Four Planks. Who was in the coffin? The reader knows. Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean had arranged things so that he could exist there, jind he could almost breathe. It is a strange thing to what a degree security of conscience confers security of the rest. Every combination thought out by Jean Valjean had been progressing, and progressing favorably, since the preceding day. He, like Fauchelevent, counted on Father Mestienne. He had no doubt as to the end. Never was there a more critical situation, never more complete cook posure. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 235 The foar planks of the ooflSn breathe oat a kind of terrible peace. It seemed as though something of the repose of the dead entered into Jean Valjean's tranquillity. From the depths of that coffin he had been able to follow, and he had followed, all the phases of the terrible drama which he was playing with death. Shortly after Fauchelevent had finished nailing on the nppei plank, Jean Valjean had felt himself carried out, then driven off. He knew, from the diminution in the jolting, when they left the pavements and reachod the earth road. He had tiivined, from a dnll noise, that they were crossing the bridge of Auster litz. At the first halt, he had understood that they were enter ing the cemetery ; at the second halt, he said to himself : — " Here is the grave." Suddenly, he felt hands seize the coffin, then a harsh grating against the planks ; he explained it to himself as the rope which was being fastened round the casket in order to lower it into the cavity. Tiien he experienced a giddiness. The undertaker's man and the grave-digger had probably allowed the coffin to lose its balance, and had lowered the head before the foot. He recovered himself fully when he felt him- self horizontal and motionless. He had just touched the bottom. He had a certain sensation of cold. A voice rose above him, glacial and solemn. He heard Latin words, which he did not understand, pass over him, so slowly that he was able to catch them one by one : — ** Qui dormlwU in terrœ pidvere^ evigilabunt; alii in vitam oBtemam^ et alU in opprobrium^ ut videant semper»** A child's voice said : — ^^^Deprofundis" The grave voice began again : -— ** Requiem cetemam dona e*. Domine,'^ The child's voice responded : — ^*^ Et lux perpétua luceaJt ei." He heard something like the gentle patter of several drops of ram on the plank which covered him. It was probably the boly water. He thought: " This will be over soon now. Patience for a little while longer. The priest will take his departure. Fauche- lèvent will take Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left. Then Fauehelevent will return alone, and I shall e:et out. That wiU be the work of a good hour/* The grave voice resumed : — Digitized by Google 236 LES MISÉRABLES. -** Requiescat in pace.** Ând tlie child's voice said : — " Amen,'' Jean Valjean strained his ears, and heard something like re treating footsteps. *' There, they are going now," thought he. *' I am alone." All at once, he heard over his head a sound which seemed to him to be a clap of thunder. It was a shovelful of earth falling on the coffin. A second shovelful fell. One of the holes through which he breathed had Just been stopped up. A third shovelful of earth fell. Then a fourth. There are tilings which are too strong for the strongest mao. Jean Valjean lost consciousness. VII. — In which will be poimD the Origin op the Satinq : Don't lose the Card. This is what had taken place above the coffin in which lay Jean Valjean. When the hearae had driven off, when the priest and the choir boy had entered the carriage again and taken their departure, Fauchelevent, who had not taken his eyes from the grave-digger, saw the latter bend over and grasp his shovel, which was stick* ing upright in the heap of dirt. Then Fauchelevent took a supreme resolve. He placed himself between the grave and the grave-digger, crossed his arms and said : — " I am the one to pay ! ** The grave-digger stared at him in amazement, and replied : -^ '* What's that, peasant?" Fauchelevent rei)eated : — " I am the one who pays I ** "What?" ** For the wine.'* "What wine?" " That Argenteuil wine.** " Where is the Argenteuil? *' *'Atthe J3ow Coing." "Go to the devil ! " said the grave-digger. And he flung a shovelful of earth on the coffin. The coffin gave back a hollow sound. Fauchelevent felt Ml» Digitized by Google COSETTE. 283 éelf stagger and on the point of falling headlong into the grave Himself. He shouted in a voice in which the strangling sound of the death rattle began to mingle : — '* Comrade ! Before the Bon Coing is shut 1 '* The grave-digger took some more earth on bis shovel* Faoche- tevent continued : — *' I will pay.'* • And he seized the man's arm. '* Listen to me, comrade. I am the convent grave-digger, I aave come to help you. It is a business which can be performed fit night. Let us begin, then, by going for a drink." And as he spoke, and clung to this desperate insistance, tliis melancholy reflection occurred to him* *'And if he drinks, will he get drunk?" " Pi-ovincial," said the man, '* if you positively insist upon it, I consent. We will drink. After work, never before." And he flourished his shovel briskly. Fauchelevent held him back. " It is Argenteuil wine, at six.'* "Oh, come," said the grave-digger, ''you are a bell-ringer. Ding dong, ding dong, that's all you know how to say. Go hang yourself." And he threw in a second shovelful. Fauchelevent had reached a point where he no longer knew what he was saying. ''Come along and drink," he cried, " since it is I who pay the bill." "When we have put the child to bed," said the grave-digger. He flung in the third shovelful. Then he thrust his shovel into the earth and added : — "It's cold to-night, you see, and the copse would shriek out if ter us if we were to plant her there without a coverlet." At that moment, as he loaded his shovel, the grave-digger bent over, and the pocket of )iis waistcoat gaped. Fauchelevent's wild gaze fell mechanically into that pocket, And there it stopped. The sun was not yet hidden behind the horizon ; there was still light enough to enable him to distinguish something white at the bottom of that yawning pocket. The sum total of lightning that the eye of a Picard peasant can contain, traversed Fauchelevent's pupils. An idea had Just occurred to him. He thrust his hand into the pocket from behind, without the gXfiye^iggeti who was wholly absorbed in his shovelful of earthy Digitized by Google 238 LES MISÉRABLES. observing it. and pulled out the white object which lay at the ))ottom of it. The man sent a fourth shovelful tumbling into the grave. Just as he turned round to get the fifth, Fauchelevent looked calmly at him and said : — '* By the wa}', you new man, have you your card?** The grave-digger paused. "What card?" ** The sun is on the point of setting." " Tliat/s gowi, it is going to put on its nightcap.** " The gate of the cemetery will close immed lately. ** "Well, what then?" " Have you your card ? " " Ah ! my card?" said the grave-digger. And he fumbled in his pocket. -Having searched one pocket, he ))roceeded to search the other. He passed on to his fobs, explored the firat, returned to the second. "Why, nc," said he, "I have not my card. I must have forgotten it." " Fifteen fVancs fine," said Fauchelevent. The grave-digger turned green. Green is the pallor of livid people. " Ah ! Jésos-mon-Dieu-baucroche-â-bas-la-lune ! " ' he ex- claimed. " Fifteen francs fine ! " " Three pieces of a hundred sous," said Fauchelevent. The grave-digger dropped his shovel. Fanchelevent's turn had come. " Ah, come now, conscript," said Fauchelevent, ** none of this despair. There is no question of committiug suicide and benefiting the grave. Fifteen francs is fifteen francs, and be- sides, yoa may not be able to |)ay it. I am an old hand, you are a new one. I know all the ropes and the devices. I will give you some friendly' advice. One thing is clear, the sun is on the point of setting, it is touching the dome now, the ceme- tery will be closed in five minutes more." " That is true," replied the man. " Five minutes more and you will not have time to fill the ^ave, it is as hollow as the devil, this grave, and to reach the |ate in season to pass it before it is shut." "Thatistrae." \^ In that case, a fine of fifteen francs.** " Fifteen francs." ^ Jesas-my-God-bandy-les: — down with the moon i Digitized by Google COSETTE. 239 " But you have time. Where do you live?" ^^ A couple of steps from the barrier, a quarter of an hour (h>m here. No. 87 Rue de Vaugirard." ^' You have just time to get out by taking to your heels at ^our best speed. '* *'That is exactly so." ^^Once outside the gate, you gallop home, you get your card, /OU return, the cemetery porter admits you. As you have your card, there will be nothing to pay. And you will bury your corpse. I'll watch it for you in the meantime, so that it shall not run away." ^'I am indebted to you for my life, peasant." "Decamp ! " said Fauchelevent. The gi*ave-diggery overwhelmed with gratitude, shook his hand and set off on a run. When the man had disappeared in the thicket, Fauchelevent listened until he heard his footsteps die away in the distance, then he leaned over the grave, and said in a low tone : — ''Father Madeleine]" There was no reply. Fauchelevent was seized with a shudder. He tumbled rather than climbed into the grave, flung himself on the head of the coffin and cried : — ''Are you there?" Silence in the coffin. Fauchelevent, hardly able to draw his breath for trembling, seized his cold chisel and his hammer, and pried up the coffin lid. Jean Valjean's face appeared in the twilight ; it was pale and his eyes were closed. Fauchelevent's hair rose upright on his head, he sprang to his feet, then fell back against tbe side of the grave, ready to swoon on the coffin. lie stared at Jean Val jean. Jean Valjcan lay there pallid and motionless. Fauchelevent murmured in a voice as faint as a sigh : — • "He is dead!" And, drawing himself up, and folding his arms with such vio lence that his clenched fists came in contact with his shoulders, he cried : — '* And tliis is the way I save his life !" Then the poor man fell to sobbing. He soliloquized the while, for it is an error to suppose that the soliloquy is unnatural. Powerful emotion often talks aloud. "It is Father Mestienne's fault. Why did that fool die! What need was there for him to give up the ghost at the verj Digitized by Google t40 LES MISERABLES. moment when no one was expecting it? It ia he who has killed M. Madeleine. Father Madeleine ! He is in the cotliu. It is quite handy. All is over. Now, is there any sense in these things? Ah! my God! he is dead! Well! and his little girl, what am I to do with her? What will the fruit-seller say? The idea of its being possible for a man like that to die like this ! When I think how he put himself under that cart! Father Madeleine ! Father Madeleine ! Pardine ! He was suffocated, I said so. He wouldn't believe me. Well ! Here's a pretty trick to play ! lie is dead, that good man, the very best man out of ail the good God's good folks ! And his little girl ! Ah ! In the first place, I won't go back there myself. I shall stay here. After having done such a thing as that! What's the use of being two old men, if we are two old fools ! But, in the first place, how did he manage to enter the convent? That was the bc'ginning of it all. One should not do such things. Father Madeleine ! Father Madeleine ! Father Madeleine ! Madeleine ! Monsieur Madeleine ! Monsieur le Maire ! He does not hear me. Now get out of this scrape if you can ! " And he tore his hair. A grating sound became audible through the trees in the dis- tance. It was the cemetery gate closing. Fauchelevent bent over Jean Vaijean, and all at once he bounded back and recoiled so far as the limits of a grave permit. Jean Valjcau's eyes were open and gazing at him. To see a corpse is alarming, to behold a resurrection is almost as much so. Fauchelevent became like stone, pale, haggard, overwhelmed by all these excesses of emotion, not knowing whether he had to do with a living man or a dead one, and star- ing at Jean Vaijean, who was gazing at him. "I fell asleep," said Jean Vaijean. And he raised himself to a sitting posture. Fauchelevent fell on his knees. '' Just, good Virgin ! How you frightened me ! " Then he sprang to his feet and cried : — " Thanks, Father Madeleine ! " Jean Vaijean had merely fainted. The fresh abr had revived him. Joy is the ebb of terror. Fauchelevent found almost as much difficulty in recovering himself as Jean Vaijean had. ** So you are not dead ! Oh ! How wise you are ! I called you so much that you came back. When I saw your eyes shut, I said: 'Good! there he is, stifled,* I should have gone raviug mad, mad enough for a s'^**ait jacket. They would have pat Digitized by Google VOSETTE. 241 me in BtoAtre. What do yon suppose I should have done if yoq had been dead? And your little girl? There's that fruit- seller, — she would never have understood it! The child is thrust into your arms, and then — the grandfather is dead I What a story ! good saints of paradise, what a tale I Ah I you are alive, that's the best of it ! " " I am cold," said Jean Valjean- This remark recalled Fauchelevent thoroughly to reality, and there was pressing need of it. The souls of these two men were troubled even when they had recovered themselves, al-* though they did not realize it, and there was about them some- thing uncanny, which was the sinister bewilderment inspired by the place. ** Let us get out of here quickly," exclaimed Fauchelevent. He fumbled in his pocket, and pulled out a gourd with which he had provided himself. " But first, take a drop," said he. The flask finished what tlie fresh air had begun, Jean Val jean swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and regained full possession of his faculties. He got out of the coffin^ and helped Fauchelevent to nail on the lid again. Three minutes later they were out of the grave. Moveover, Fauchelevent was perfectly composed. He took Ms time. The cemetery was closed. The arrival of the grave- digger Gribier was not to be apprehended. That " conscript" was at home busily engaged in looking for his card, and at some difliculty in finding it in his lodgiugs, since it was in Fauche- levenf s pocket. Without a card, he could not get back into the cemetery. Fauchelevent took the shovel, and Jean Yaljean the pickaxe, and together they buned the empty coflSn. When the grave was full, Fauchelevent said to Jean Val- îean : — " Let us go. I will keep the shovel ; do you carry off the Jiattock." Night was falling. Jean Valjean experienced some difidculty in moving and in walking. He had stiffened himself in that cofiSn, and had be- come a little like a corpse. The rigidity of dealîi had seized upon him between those four planks. He had, in a manner, to thaw out, from Uie tomb. " You are benumbed," said Fauchelevent. '' It is a pity that I have a game leg, for otherwise we might step out briskly." Digitized by Google 242 LES MISÉRABLES. *' Bah !*' replied Jean Yaljean, ^^ four paces will pat life inia my legs once more." They set off by the alleys through which the liearse had passed. On arriving before the closed gate and the porteras pavilion Fauchelevent, who held the grave-digger's card in his hand, dropped it into the box, the poiter pulled the rope, the gate opened, and they went out. '* How well everything is going ! " said Fauchelevcnt ; " what a capital idea that was of yours, Father Madeleine ! " They passed the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest manner \h the world. In the neighborhood of the cemetery, a shovel and pick are equal to two passi>orts. The Rue Vaugirard was deserted. ^* Father Madeleine," said Fauchelevent as they went along, and raising his eyes to Ibe houses, ^^ Your eyes are better than mine. Show me No. 87." "Here it is," said Jean Valjean. ^^ There is no one in the street," said Fauchelevent. ^^Give me your mattock and wait a couple of minutes for me.** Fauchelevent entered No. 87, ascended to the very top, guided by the instinct which always leads the poor man to the garret, and knocked in the dark, at the f"^ 'A an attic. A voice replied : " Come in." It was Gribier's voice. Fauchelevent opened the door. The grave-digger's dwelling «ras, hke all such wretched habitations, an unfurnished and en- cumbered gan*et. A packing-case — a coffin, perhaps — took the place of a commode, a butter-pot served for a drinking- fountain, a straw mattress served for a bed, the floor served in- stead of tables and chairs. In a corner, on a tattered fragment which had been a piece of an old carpet, a thin woman and a uiiiuber of children were piled in a heap. The whole of this |)overty-stricken interior bore traces of having been overturned. One would have said that there had been an earthquake '^foi c^ne." The covers were displaced, the rags scattered about, the jug broken, the mother had been crying, the children had probably been beaten ; traces of a vigorous and ill-tempered search. It was plain that the grave-digger had made a desperate search ibr his cai-d, and had made everybody in the garret, from the Jug to his wife, responsible for its loss. He wore an air of des- peration. But Fauchelevent was in too great a hurry to terminate this adventure to take any notice of this sad side of his success. He entered and said : ~ Digitized by Google COSETTS. 24a ^I have brought you back your shorel and pick.^ Gribier gazed at him in stupefaction. " Is it you, peasant ? " '' And to-morrow morning you will find your card with the potter of the cemetery." And he laid the shovel and mattock on the floor. "What is the meaning of this ? " demaned Gribier. " The meaning of it is, that you dropped your card out of your pocket, that 1 found it on the ground after you were gone, that I have buried the corpse, that I have filled the grave, that I have done your work, that the porter will return your card to you, and that you will not have to pay fifteen francs. There you have it, conscript." " Thanks, villager I " exclaimed Gribier, radiant. " The next time I will pay for the drinks." VIII. — A SuccBssFui. Interrogatory. An hour later, in the darkness of night, two men and a child presented themselves at No. 62 Rue Petit-Fiepus. The elder of the men lifted the knocker and rapped. They were Fauchelevent, Jean Val jean, and Gosette. The two old men had gone to fetch Cosette from the fruit- erer's in the Rue du Chemin-Vert, where Fauchelevent had deposited her on the preceding day. Cosette had passed these twenty-four hours trembling silently and understanding noth- ing. She trembled to such a degree that she wept. She liad neither eaten nor slept. The worthy fruit-seller had plied her with a hundred questions, without obtaining any other reply than a melancholy and unvarying gaze. Cosette had betrayed nothing of what she had seen and heard during the last two days. She divined that they were passing through a crisis. She was deeply conscious that it was necessary to " be good." Who has not experienced the sovereign power of those two words, pronounced with a certain accent in the ear of a terri- fied little being: Say nothing! Fear is mute. Moreover, no one guards a secret like a child. But when, at the expiration of these lugubrious twenty-four hours, she beheld Jean Valjean again, she gave vent to such a cry of joy, that any thoughtful person who had chanced to hear that cry, would have guessed that it issued from an abyss. Fauchelevent belonged to the convent and knew the pass- words. All the doors opened. Digitized by Google 244 LES MISÉRABLES. Thus was Bolved the double and alarming problem of how to get out and how to get in. The poi*ter, who had received his instructions, opened the little servant's door which connected the courtyard with the garden, and which could still be seen from the street twenty years ago, in the wall at the bottom of the court, which faced the carriage entrance. The poitcr admitted all three of them through this door, and from that point they reached the inner, reserved parlor where Fauchelevent, on the preceding day, had received his orders from the prioress. The prioress, rosary in hand, was waiting for them. A vocal mother, with her veil lowered, stood beside her. A discreet candle lighted, one might almost say, made a show of lighting the parlor. The prioress passed Jean Valjean in review. There is noth* ing which examines like a downcast eye. Tiien she questioned him : — ** You are the brother?" *'Ye8, reverend Mother," replied Fauchelevent. *' What is your name?" Fauchelevent replied : — " Ultime Fauchelevent." He really had had a brother named Ultime, who was dead* *' Where do you come from?" Fauchelevent replied : — " From Picquigny, near Amiens/' "What is your i^e?" Fauchelevent replied : — '* Fifty." "What is your profession?** Fauchelevent replied : — " Gardener." " Are 3'ou a good Christian?*' Fauchelevent replied : — "Every one is in the family.** •• Is this your little girl?" Fauchelevent replied : — " Yes, reverend Mother." "You are her father?" Fauchelevent replied : — "Her grandfather." The vocal mother said to the prioress in a low voice :-«- **He answers well." Digitized by Google COSETTE. 245 Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word. The prioress looked attentively at Cosette, and said hal; aloud to the vocal mother: — " She will grow up ugly." The two mothers consulted for a few moments in very low tones in the corner of the parlor, then the prioress turned round and said : — '^Father Fauvent, you will get another knee-cap with a belL Two will be required now." On the following day, therefore, two bells were audible in the garden, and the nuns could not resist the temptation to raise the corner of their veils. At the extreme end of the gar- den, under the trees, two men, Fauvent and another man, were risible as they dug side by side. An enormous event. Their silence was broken to the extent of saying to each other : ^^ He is an assistant gardener." The vocal mothers added: "He is a brother of Father Fau- vent." Jean Valjean was, in fact, regularly installed ; he had his belled knee-cap; henceforth he was ofQcial. His name was Ultime Fauchelevent. The most powerful determining cause of his admission had been the prioress's observation upon Cosette : " She will grow up ugly." The prioress, that pronounced prognosticator, immediately took a fancy to Cosette and gave her a place in the school as a charity pnpil. There is nothing that is not strictly logical about this. It is in vain that mirrors are banished from the convent, women are conscious of their faces ; now, girls who are con- scious of their beauty do not easily become nuns ; the vocation being voluntary in inverse proportion to their good looks, more is to be hoped from the ugly than from the pretty. Hence a lively taste for plain girls. The whole of this adventure increased the importance of good, old Fauchelevent ; he won a triple success ; in the eyes of Jean Valjean, whom he had saved and sheltered ; in those of grave-digger Gribier, who said to himself : " He spared me that fine " ; with the convent, which, being enabled, thanks to himr to retain the coffin of Mother Crucifixion under the altar, eluded Cœsar and satisfied God. There was a coffin containing a body in the Petit-Picpus, and a coffin without a body in the Vaugi- rard cemetery, public order had no doubt been deeply disturbed thereby, bat no one was aware of it. Digitized by Google 246 LES MISERABLES. As for the convent, its gratitude to Faucbelevcnt was very great. Fauclieleveut became the best of sorvilors and the uiost precious of gardeners. Upon the occasion of the arch* bishop's next visit, the prioress recounted the affair to his Grace, making something of a CH>nfe8sion at the same time, and jet boasting of her deed. On leaving the convent, the archbishop mentioned it with approval, and in a whisper to M* de Latil, Monsieur's confessor, afterwards Archbishop of Reim^ and Cardinal. This admiration for Fauchclevent became wide« spread, for it made its way to Rome. We have seen a note addressed by the then reigning Pope, Leo XII., to one of his relatives, a Monsignor in the Nuncio's establishment in Paris, and bearing, hke himself, the name of Delia Genga ; it contained these lines : ^^ It appears that there is in a convent in Paris an excellent gardener, who is also a holy man, named Fan vent.*' Nothing of this triumph reached Fauchelevent in his hut; he went on grafting, weeding, and covering np his melon beds^ without in the least suspecting his excellences and his sanctity. Neither did he suspect his glory, any more than a Durham or Surrey bull whose portrait is published in the TjOiidon IlhiMrcUed News^ with this inscription : ^^ Bull which carried off the prize at the Cattle Show." IX. — Cloistbrbd. CosETTis continued to hold her tongue in the convent. It was quite natural that Cosette should thmk herself Jean Vaijean's daughter. Moreover, as she knew nothing, she could say nothing, and then, she would not have said anything in any case. As we have just observed, nothing trains children to silence like unhappiness. Cosette had suffered so mach, that she feared everything, even to speak or to breathe. A single word had so often brought down an avalanche upon her. She had hardly begun to regain her confidence since she had been with Jean Val jean. She speedily became accustomed to the convent. Only she regretted Catherine, but she dared not sa}' BO. Once, however, she did say to Jean Valje&D : ^^ Father, if I had known, I would have brought her away with roe." Cosette had been obliged, on becoming a scholar in the con* vent, to don the garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean Bucceedeil in getting them to restore to him the garments which she laid aside. This was the same mourning suit which he had Digitized by Google COSETTE. 247 made her put on when she had quitted the Thénardiers' inn. It was not very threadbare even now. Jean Valjean locked up these garments, plus the stockings and the shoes, with a quan- tity of camphor and all the aromatics in which convents abound, in a little valise which he found means of procuring. He set this valise on a chair near his bed, and he always carried the key about his person. " Father," Cosette asked him one daj-, " what is there in that box which smells so good?" Father Fauchelevent received other recompense for his good action, in addition to the glory which we Just mentioned, and of which he knew nothing ; in the first place it made hiin happy ; next, he had much less work, since it was shared. Lastly, as he was very fond of snuff, he found the presence of M. Made- leine an advantage, in that he used three times as much as he had done previously, and that in an infinitely more luxurious manner, seeing that M. Madeleine paid for it. The nuns did not adopt the name of Ultime; they called Jean Valjean the other Fauvent. If these holy women had possessed anything of Javert's glance, they would eventually have noticed that when there was any errand to be done outside in the behalf of the garden, it was always the elder Fauchelevent, the old, the infirm, the lame man, who went, and never the other; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixed on God know not how to spy, or whether they were, by preference, occupied in keeping watch on each other, they paid no heed to this. Moreover, it was well for Jean Valjean that he kept close and did not stir out. Javert watched the quarter for more than a month. This convent was for Jean Valjean like an island surrounded by gulfs. Henceforth, those four walls constituted his world. He saw enough of the sky there to enable him to preserve his serenity, and Cosette enough to remain happy. A very sweet life began for him. He inhabited the old hnt at the end of the garden, in com- pany with Fauchelevent. This hovel, built of old rubbish, which was still in existence in 1845, was composed, as the reader already knows, of three chambers, all of which were utterly bare and bad nothing beyond the walls. The prin- cipal one had been given ui), by force, for Jean Valjean had opposed it in vain, to M. Madeleine, by Father Fauche- levent. The walls of this chamber had for ornament, în ad- dition to the two nails whereon to hang the knee-cap and Digitized by Google 248 LES MISERABLES. the basket, a Rojalîst bauk-notc of '93, applied to the waX over the chimney-pieoe, and of which the following is an exact facsimile : — XI^^|^f|qMiiaGittKil <^^ ^J ^ % ^ in ^ScC Sâie«. T w dbJop g aatle &]a Y^ 10390. y 1^ i^ ♦ \ 1^ i^Vt This specimen of Vendean paper money had been nailed to the wall by the preceding gardener, an old Chouan, who had died in the convent, and whose place Fauchelevent had taken. Jean Valjean worked in the garden every day and made him- self very useful. He had formerly been a pruner of trees, and he gladly found himself a gardener once more. It wUl be re- membered that he kûew all sorts of secrets and receipts for agriculture. He turned these to advantage. Almost all the trees in the orchard were ungrafted, and wild. He budded them and made them produce excellent fruit. Cosette had permission to pass an hour with him every day. As the sisters were melancholy and he was kind, the child made comparisons and adored him. At the appointed hour, she flew to the hut. When she entered the lowly cabin, she filled it with paradise. Jean Valjean blossomed out and felt his happiness increase with the happiness which he afforded Cosette. The joy which we inspire has this charming property, that, far from growing meagre, like all reflections, it returns to us more radi» ant than ever. At recreation hours, Jean Valjean watched her running and playing in the distance, and he distinguished her laugh from that of the rest. For Cosette laughed now. Cosette's face had even undergone a change, to a certain ex- tent. The gloom had disappeared from it. A smile is the same as sunshine ; it banishes winter from the human counte* nance. Recreation over, when Cosette went into the house again, Jean Valjean gazed at the windows of her class-room, and at night he rose to look at the windows of her dormitory. Digitized by Google COSETTE. 249 Grod has his own ways, moreover ; the convent contribated, like Cosette, to aphoid and complete the Bishop's work in Jean Val jean. It is certain that virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built b}' the devil exists there. Jean Valjean had been, onconsciously, perhaps, tolerably near that side and that bridge, when Providence cast his lot in the convent of the Fetit-Picpus ; so long as he had compared himself only to the Bishop, he had regarded himself as unworthy and had remained humble ; but for some time past he had been comparing himself to men in general, and pride was beginning to spring up. Who knows? He might have ended by returning very gradually to hatred. The convent stopped him on that downward path. This was the second ^lace of captivity which he had seen. In his youth, in what had been for him the beginning of his life, and later on, quite recently again, he had beheld another, — a frightful place, a terrible place, whose severities had al- waj-s appeared to him the iniquity of justice, and the crime of the law. Now, after he galleys, he saw the cloister ; and when he meditated how he had formed a part of the galleys, and that he now, so to speak, was a spectator of the cloister, he con- fronted the two in his own mind wi h anxiety. Sometimes he crossed his arms and leaned on his hoe, and slowly descended the endless spirals of re very. He recalled his former companions : how wretched they were ; they rose at dawn, and toiled until night ; hardly were they permitted to sleep ; the}' lay on camp beds, where nothing was tolerated but mattresses two inches thick, in rooms which were heated only in the very harshest months of the year ; they were clothed in frightful red blouses ; they were allowed, as a great favor, linen trousers in the hottest weather, and a wool- len carter's blouse on their backs when it was very cold ; they drank no wine, and ate no meat, except when they went on "fatigue duty." They lived nameless, designated only by numbci-s, and converted, after a manner, into ciphers them* selves, with downcast eyes, with lowered voices, with shorn heads, beneath the cudgel and in disgrace. Then his mind reverted to the beings whom he had under his ©yes. These beings also lived with shorn heads, with downcast eyes, with lowered voices, not in disgrace, but amid the scoffs of the world, not with their backs bruised with the cudgel, but with their shoulders lacerated with their discipline. Their aamea, alao, had vanished from among men ; they no longei Digitized by Google 250 LES MISÉRABLES. existed except under austere appellations. They never ate meat and they never drank wine ; they often remained antil evening without food ; they were attired, not in a red blouse, but in a black shroud, of woollen, which was heavy in summer and thin in winter, without the power to add or subtract any- thing from it ; without having even, according to the seasoa the resource of the linen garment or the woollen cloak ; and for six months in the year they wore serge chemises which gave them fever. They dwelt, not in rooms warmed only dur- ing ri|,orous cold, but in cells where no fire was ever lighted ; they slept, not on mattresses two inches thick, but on straw. And finally, they were not even allowed their sleep; ever}' night, after a day of toil, they were obliged, in the weariness of their first slumber, at the moment when they were falling sound asleep and beginning to get warm, to rouse themselves, to rise and to go and pray in an ice-cold and gloomy chapel, with their knees on the stones. On certain days each of these beings in turn had to remain for twelve successive hours in a kneeling posture, or prostrate, with face upon the pavement, and arms outstretched in the form of a cross. The others were men ; these were women. What had those men done? Tbey had stolen, violated, pil- laged, murdered, assassinated. They were bandits, counter- feiters, poisoners, incendiaries, murderers, parricides. What had these women done? They had done nothing whatever. On the one hand, highway robbery, fraud, deceit, violence, sensuality, homicide, all sorts of sacrilege, every variety of crime ; on the other, one thing only, innocence. Perfect innocence, almost caught up into heaven In a myste- rious assumption, attached to the earth by virtue, already pos- sessing something of heaven through holiness. On the one hand, confidences over crimes, which are ex- changed in whispers; on the other, the confession of faults made aloud. And what crimes ! And what faults ! On the one hand, miasms ; on the other, an ineffable per- fume. On the one hand, a moral pest, guarded from sight, penned up under the range of cannon, and literally devouring its plague-stricken victims ; on the other, the chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth. There, darkness; here, the shadow; but a shadow filled with gleams of light, and of gleams full of radiance. Two strongholds of slavery ; but in the first, deliverance pos- sible, a legaJ limit always in sight, and then, escape. In tlie Digitized by Google COSETTE. 251 second, perpetuity ; the sole hope, at the distant extremity of the future, that faiat light of liberty which men call death. In the first, men are bound only with chains ; in the other, chained by faith. What flowed from the first? An immense curse, the gnash- ing of teeth, hatred, desperate viciousness, a cry of rage against human society, a sarcasm against heaven. What results flowed from the second ? Blessings and love. And in these two places, so similar yet so unlike, these twc species of beings who were so very unlike, were undergoing the same work, expiation. Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the for mer; that personal expiation, the expiation for one's self. But he did not understand that of these last, that of creatures with- out reproach and without stain, and he trembled as he asked himself: The expiation of what? What expiation? A voice within his conscience replied : "The most divine of human generosities, the expiation for others." Here all personal theory is withheld ; we are only the narra- tor ; we place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of view, and we translate his impressions. Before his eyes he had the sublime summit of abnegation, the highest possible pitch of virtue ; the innocence which pardons men their faults, and which expiates in their stead ; servitude submitted to, torture accepted, punishment claimed by souls which have not sinned, for the sake of sparing it to souls which have fallen ; the love of humanity swallowed up in the love of God, but even tbere preserving its distinct and mediatorial character; sweet and feeble beings possessing the misery of those who are punished and the smile of those who are recom* pensed. And he remembered that he had dared to murmur ! Often, in the middle of the night, he rose to listen to the grateful song of those innocent creatures weighed down with severities, and the blood ran cold in his veins at the thouglit that those who were justly chastised raised their voices heaven- ward only in blasphemy, and that he, wretch that he was, had shaken his fist at God. There was one striking thing which caused him to meditate deeply, like a warning whisper from Providence itself: the scaling of that wall, the passing of those barriers, the adven ture accepted even at the risk of death, the painful and difhcult ascent, all those efforts even, which he had made to escape from that other place of expiation, he had made in order t« Digitized by Google S62 LES MISERABLES. gain entrance into this one. Was this a symbol of his destiny f This house was a prison likewise and bore a melancliol,v resem- blance to tliat other one whence he had fled, and yet he had never conceived an idea of anything similar. Again he beheld gratings, bolts, iron bars — to gnard whom? Angels. These lofty walls which he had seen around tigers, he now beheld once more around lambs. This was a place of expiation, and not of pnnishment ; and yet, it was still more austere, more gloomy, and more pitiless than the other. These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the con- victs. A cold, harsh wind, that wind which had chilled his youth, traversed the barred and padlocked grating of the vul- tures ; a still harsher and more biting breeze blew in the cage of these doves. Why? When he thought on these things, all that was within him was lost in amazement before this mystery of sublimity. In these meditations, his pride vanished. He scrutinized his own heart in all manner of ways ; he felt his pettiness, and many a time he wept. All that had entered into his life for the last six months had led him back towards the Bishop's holy injunctions; Cosette through love, the convent through humility. Sometimes at eventide, in the twilight, at en hour when the garden was deserted, he could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk which skiited the chapel, in fVont of the wmdow through which he had gazed on the night of his arrival, and turned towards the spot where, as he knew, the sister was making reparation, prostrated in prayer. Thus he prayed as he knelt before the sister. It seemed as though he dared not kneel directly before God. Everything that surrounded him, that peaoeful garden, those fragrant flowers, Uiose children who uttered }o3'ous cries, those grav<> and simple women, that silent cloister, slowly permeated him^ and little by little, his soul became compounded of silence like the cloister, of perfume like the flowers, of simplicity like the women, of joy like the children. And then he reflected that these had been two houses of God which had received him in succession at two critical moments in his life : the first, when all doors were closed and when human society rejected him ; the second, at a moment when human society had again set oat Digitized by Google COSETTE. 253 in pursuit of him, and when the galleys were again yawning ; and that, had it not been for the first, he should have relapsed into crime, and had it not been for the second, into torment. His whole heart melted in gratitude, and he loved more and more. Many years passed in this manner; Cosetf^ was growing up. Digitized by Google Digitized by Google Digitized by Google M. GILLENORMAND NEVER ADDRESSED THIS CHILD EXCEPT IN A SEVERE VOICE. Digitized by VjOOQ IC LES MISÉRABLES. BOOK FIRST. — PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM I. — Pabvulus. Paris has a child, and the forest has a bird; the bird is called the sparrow ; the child is called the gamin. Conple tliese two ideas which contain, the one all the furnace, the other all the dawn ; strike these two sparks together, Paris, childhood ; there leaps out from them a little being. HomunciOj Plantas would say. This little being is Joyous. He has not food every day, and he goes to the play every evening, if he sees good. He has no shirt on his boily, no shoes on his feet, no roof over his head ; he is like the flies of heaven, who have none of these things. He is from seven to thirteen years of age, he lives in bands, roams the streets, lodges in the open air, wears an old pair of trousers of his father's, which descend below his heels, an old hat of some other father, which descends below his ears, a single sus- pender of yellow listing ; he runs, lies in wait, rummages about, wastes time, blackens pipes, swears like a convict, haunts the wine-shop, knows thieves, calls gay women thou^ talks slang, sings ol»ceue songs, and has no evil in his heart. This is because he has in his heart a pearl, innocence ; and pearls are not to be dissolved in mud. So long as man is in his childhood, God wills that he shall be innocent. If one were to ask that enormous city : *' What is this?" she would reply ; *' It is my little one," n. — Som OP HIS Particular Characteristios. The gamin — the street Arab — of Paris is the dwarf of th« giant. Let us not exaggerate, this cherub of tlie gutter sometimes bas a ifairt, but, in that cai«e, he owni but one ; he sometimM Digitized by Google t LES MISERABLE!^, oas shoes, bnt then they have no soles ; he sometimes has a lodging, and he loves it, for he finds his mother there ; but he prefers the street, because there he finds liberty. He has his own games, his own bits of mischief, whose foundation consists of hatred for the bourgeois ; his peculiar metaphors : to be dead is to eat dandelions by the root; his own occupations, call- ing hackney-coaches, letting down cariiage-steps, establishing means of transit between the two sides of a street in heavy rains, which he calls making the bridge of arts^ crying dis- courses pronounced by the authorities in favor of the French people, cleaning out the cracks in the pavement ; he has his own coinage, which is composed of all the little morsels of worked copper which are found on the public streets. This curious money, which receives the name of loques — rags — has an inva- riable and well-regulated currenc}' in this little Bohemia of children. Lastly, he has his own fauna, which he observes attentively in the corners ; the lady-bird, the death's-head plant-louse, the daddy-long-legs, ^^ the devil,'* a black insect, which menaces by twisting about its tail armed with two horns. He has his fabulous monster, which has scales under its belly, but is not a lizzard, which has pustules on its back, but is not a toad, which inhabits the nooks of old lime-kilns and wells that have run diy, which is black, hairy, sticky, which crawls sometimes slowly, sometimes rapidly, which has no cry, but which has a look, and is so terrible that no one has ever beheld it ; he calls this monster *' the deaf thing." The search for these " deaf things" among the stones is a joy of formidable nature. Another pleasure consists in suddenly prying up a paving-stone, and taking a look at the wood-lice. Each region of Paris is celebrated for the interesting treasures which are to be found there. There are ear-wigs in the timber-yards of the Ursulines, there are millepeds in the Pantheon, there are tadpoles in the ditches of the Champs-de-Mars. As far as sayings are concerned, this child has as many of them as Talleyrand. He is no less cynical, but he is more honest. He is endowed with a certain indescribable, unexpected joviality ; he upsets the composure of the shopkeeper with his wild laughter. He ranges boldly from high comedy to farce. A funeral passes by. Among those who accompany the dead there is a doctor. *^ Hey there ! " shouts some street Arab, '' how long has it been customary for doctors to carry home their own work ? " Another is in a crowd. A grave man, adorned with spec- Digitized by Google MARIUS. 8 (scies and trinkets, tarns round indignantly: '^ Ton good for-uothing, yoa have seized my wife's waist 1" — ^^ I, sir Search me 1 ** in. — He IS Agbbeable. In the evening, thanks to a few sons, which he always finds means to procure, the homuncio enters a theatre. On crossing that magic threshold, he becomes transfigured; he was the street Aiab, he becomes the titi.^ Theati*es are a sort of ship turned upside down with the keel in the air. It is in that keel that the titi huddle together. The titi is to the gamin what the moth is to the larva ; the same being endowed with wings and soaring. It suffices for him to be there, with his radiance of happiness, with his power of enthusiasm and joy, with bis hand- clapping, which resembles a clapping of wings, to confer on that narrow, dark, fetid, sordid, unhealthy, hideous, abominable keel, the name of Paradise. Bestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of the the necessary, and you have the gamin. The gamin is not devoid of literary intuition. His tendency, and we say it with the proper amount of regret, would not constitute classic taste. He is not very academic by nature. Thus, to give an example, the popularity of Mademoiselle Mars among that little audience of stormy children was seasoned with a touch of h'ony. The gamin called her Mademoiselle Muche — " hide yourself." This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights, has rags like a baby and tatters like a philosopher, fishes in the sewer, hunts in the cesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, whips up the squares with his wit, grins and bites, whistles and sings, shouts and shrieks, tempers Alleluia with Ma tan tu r- lurette, chants every rhythm from the De Profundis to the Jack- pudding, finds without seeking, knows what he is ignorant of, is a Spartan to the point of thieving, is mad to wisdom, is lyrical to filth, would crouch down on Olympus, wallows in the dung- hill and emerges from it covered with stars. The gamin of Paris is Rabelais in this youth. He is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch- pocket. He is not easily astonished, he is still less easily terrified, he makes songs on superstitions, he takes the wind out of exag« 1 Chicken : ilang aUuBioa to the noise made in calling poultry Digitized by VjOOQ IC 4 LES MISÉRABLES. geratioDS, he twits nfysterics, he thrusts ont his tongue a.t ghosts, he takes the poetry out of stilted things, he introduces caricature into epic extravaganzas. It is not that he is prosaic ; far from that ; but he replaces the solemn vision by the farcical phantasmagoria. If Adamastor were to appear to him, the street Arab would say : ^' Hi there ! The bugaboo 1 ^ IV. — He mat be of Use. Paris begins with the lounger and ends with the street Arab, two beings of which no other city is capable ; the passive accep- tance, which contents itself with gazing, and the inexhaustible initiative ; Prudhomme and Fouillou. Paris alone has this in its natural history. The whole of the monarchy is contained in the lounger ; the whole of anarchy in the gamin. This pale child of the Parisian faubourgs lives and develops, makes connections, "grows supple" id suffering, in the pres- ence of social realities and of human things, a thoughtful wit- ness. He thinks himself heedless ; and he is not. He looks and is on the verge of laughter ; he is on the verge of something else also. Whoever you may be, if your name is Prejndice, Abuse, Ignorance, Oppression, Iniquity, Despotism, Injustice, Fanaticism, Tyranny, beware of the gaping gamin. The little fellow will grow up. Of wliat clay is he made ? Of the first mud that comes to hand. A handful of dirt, a breath, and behold Adam. It suf- fices for a God to pass by. A God has always passed over the street Arab. Fortune labors at this tiny being. By the word " fortune " we mean chance, to some extent. That pig- my kneaded out of common earth, ignorant, unlettered, giddy, vulgar, low. Will that become an Ionian or a Boeotian? Wait, i^wHt rota,, the spirit of Paris, that demon which creates the children of chance and the men of destiny, reversing the pro- cess of the Latin potter, makes of a jug an amphora. v. — His Frontiers. The gamin loves the city, he also loves solitude, since he has gomething of the sage in him. Urbis amator^ like Fuscun ; ru'- ris amator^ like Flaccus. To roam thoughtfully about, that is to say, to lounge, is a fine employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher ; partic- ularly in that rather illegitimate species of campaign, which \a Digitized by Google MARIUS. 5 lolerably ugly but odd and composed of two natures, which sur* lounds certain great cities, notably Paris. To study the sub- urbs is to study the amphibious animal. End of the ti-ees, beginning of the roofs; end of the grass, beginning of the pavements ; end of the furrows, beginniug of the shops ; end of the wheel-rats, beginning of the passions ; end of the divine murmur, beginning of the human uproar ; hence an extraordi- nary interest. Hence, in these not very attractive places, indelibly stamped by tlie passing stroller with the epithet : melancholy ^ the appar- ently objectless promenades of the dreamer. He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the barriers of Paris, and it is for him a source of profound souve* nirs. That close-shaven turf, those pebbly paths, that chalk, those pools, those harsh monotonies of waste and fallow lauds, the plants of early market-garden suddenly springing into sight in a bottom, that mixture of the savage and the citizen, those vast desert nooks where the garrison drums practise noisily, and produce a sort of lisping of battle, those hermits by day and cut-throats by night, that clumsy mill which turus in the wind, the hoisting-wheels of the quarries, the tea-gardens at the cor- ners of the cemeteries ; the mysterious charm of great, sombre walls squarely intersecting immense, vague stretches of land inundated wiài sunshine and full of butterflies, — all this at- tracted him. There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with those singular spots, the Glacière, the Cunette, the hideous wall of Grenelle all speckled with balls, Mont-Parnasse, the Fosse- aux-Loups, Aubiers on the bank of the Marne, Mont-Souris, the Tombe-Issoire, the Pierre-Plate de Châtillon, where there is an old, exhausted quarry which no longer serves any purpose except to raise mushrooms, and which is closed, on a level with the ground, by a trap-door of rotteu planks. The campagua of Rome is one idea, the banlieue of Paris is another ; to behold nothing but fields, houses, or trees in what a stretch of country offers us, is to remain on the surface ; all aspects of things are thoughts of God. The spot where a plain effects its junction with a city is always stamped with a certain piercing melan- choly. Nature and humanity both appeal to you at the same time there. Local originalities there make their appearance. Any one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these solitudes contiguous to our faubourgs, which may be designa- ted as the limbos of Paris, has seen here and there, in the most desert spot, at the moet unexpected moment, behind a meagre Digitized by Google e LES MISÉRABLES. hedge, or in the corner of a lugabrions wall, children groaped tumultaouBlj, fetid, muddy, dusty, ragged, dishevelled, playing hide-aud-Beek, and crowned with corn-flowers. All of them are little ones who have made their escape fi-om poor families. The outer boulevard is their breathing space ; the suburbs belong to them. There they are eternally playing truant. There they innocently sing their repertory of dirty songs. There they are, or rather, tbere tbey exist, far from every eye, in the sweet ligbl of May or June, kneeling round a hole in the ground, snapping marbles with their thumbs, quarrelling over half -farthings, irre- 8i>onsible, volatile, free and happy ; and, no sooner do they catch sight of you than they recollect that they have an indus- try, and that they must earn their living, and they offer to sell you an old woollen stocking filled with cockchafers, or a bunch of lilacs. These encounters with strange children are one of the charming and at the same time poignant graces of the envi- rons of Paris. Sometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys, --« are they their sisters? — who are almost young maidens, thin, feverish, with sunburnt hands, covered with freckles, crowned with poppies and ears of rye, gay, haggard, barefooted. They can be seen devouring cherries among the wheat. In the even- ing they can be heard laughing. These groups, warmly illumi- nated by the full glow of midday, or indistinctly seen in the twilight, occupy the thoughtful man for a very long time, and these visions mingle with his dreams. Paris, centre, banlieue, circumference; this constitntes all the earth to those children. They never venture beyond this. They can no more escape from the Parisian atmosphere than fish can escape from the water. For them, nothing exists two leagues beyond the barriers : Ivry, Gentilly, Arcueil, Belleville, Aubervilliers,Menilmontant, Choisy-le-Roi, Billancourt, Men- don, Issy, Vanvre, Sèvres, Puteaux, Neuilly, Gennevilliers, Colombes, Romainville, Chatou, Asnières, Bougival, Nanterre, Eiighien, Noisy -le-Sec, Nogent, Gonrnay, Drancy, Gonesse; the universe ends there. VL — A Bit of History. At the epoch, nearly contemporary by the way, when the ac- tion of this book takes place, there was not, as there is to-day, a policeman at the corner of every street (a benefit which there is no time to discuss here) ; stray children abounded in Paris. The statistics give an average of two hundred and sixty home* Digitized by Google MARIUS. » Jess children picked up annually at that period, by the police patrols, in unenclosed lands, in houses in process of construis tion, and under the arches of the bridges. One of tliese nests which has become famous, produced *^ the swallows of the bridge of Areola." This is, moreover, the most disastrous of social symptoms. All crimes of the man begin in the vagabondage :>f the child. Let us make an exception in favor of Paris, nevei-theless. In A relative measure, and in spite of the souvenir which we have just recalled, the exception is just. While in any otlier great city the vagabond child is a lost man, while nearly every wliere the child left to itself is, in some sort, sacrificed aud abandoned to a kind of fatal immersion in the public vices which devour in him honesty and conscience, the street boy of Paris, we insist on this point, however defaced and injured on the surface, is almost intact on the interior. It is a magnificent thing to put on record, and one which shines forth in the splendid probity of our popular revolutions, that a certain incoiTuptibility results from the idea which exists in the air of Paris, as salt exists in the water of the ocean. To breathe Paris preserves the soul. What we have just said takes away nothing of the anguish of heart which one experiences every time that one meets one of these children around whom one fancies that he beholds floating the threads of a broken family. In the civilization of the present day, incomplete as it still is, it is not a very abnornial thing to behold these fractured families pouring themselves out into the darkness, not knowing clearly what has become of their children, and allowing their own entrails to fall on the public highway. Hence these obscure destinies. This is called, for this sad thing has given rise to an expression, " to be cast on the pavements of Paris." Let it be said by the way, that this abandonment of children was not discourj^ed by the ancient monarchy. A little of Egypt and Bohemia in the lower regions suited the upper spheres, and compassed the aims of the powerful. The hatred of instruction for the children of the people was a dogma. What is the use of '' half-lights"? Such was the countersign. Now, the erring child is the corollary of the ignorant child. Besides this, the monarchy sometimes was in need of children, and in that case it skimmed the streets. Under Louis XIV., not to go any further back, the king rightl}' desired to create a fleet. The idea was a good one. But let us consider the means. There can be no fleet, if, beside the sailing ship, that plaything of the winds, aud for the pur- Digitized by Google g LES MISÉRAZLES. pose of towÎDg it, in case of necessity, there is not the yesse. which goes where it pleases, either by means of oars or of steam ; the galleys were then to the marine what steamers are to-day. Therefore, galleys were necessary ; but the galley is moved only by the galley-slave; hence, galley-slaves were required. Colbert had the commissioners of provinces and the parliaments make as many convicts as possible. The magis tracy showed a great deal of complaisance in the matter. A man kept his hat on in the presence of a procession — it was a Huguenot attitude ; he was sent to the galleys. A child was encountered in the streets ; provided that he was fifteen yeare of age and did not know where he was to sleep, he was sent to the galleys. Grand reign ; grand century. Under Louis XV. children disappeared in Paris ; the police carried them off, for what mysterious purpose no one knew* People whispered with tenor monstrous conjectures as to the king's baths of purple. Barbier speaks ingenuously of these things. It sometimes happened that the exempts of the guanl, when they ran short of children, took those who had fathers. The fathers, in despair, attacked the exempts. In that case, the parliament intervened and had some one hung. Who? The exempts? No, the fathers. VII. — Thb Gamik should hate his Place in thb Cla88> FICATIONS OF INDIA. The body of street Arabs in Paris almost constitutes a caste. One might almost say : Not every one who wishes to belong to it can do so. This word gamin was printed for the first time, and reached popular speech through the literary tongue, in 1834. It is in a little work entitled Claude Queuz that this word made its appear- ance. The horror was lively. The word passed into circulation. The elements which constitute the consideration of the gamins for each other are very various. We have known and asso- ciated with one who was greatly respected and vastly admired because he had seen a man fail from the top of the tower or Notre-Dame ; another, because he had succeeded in making his way into the rear courtyard where the statues of the dome of the Invalides had been temporarily deposited, and had ^' priggckl '' some lead from them ; a third, because he had seen a diligence tip over ; still another, because he '^ knew'' a soldier who came near putting out the eye of a citizen. Digitized by Google MARIU8. 9 This explains that famous exclamation of a Parisian gamin n {nrofound epiphonema, which the vulgar herd laughs at with- out comprehending, — Dieu de Dieu ! WhcU ill-luck I do have J to think that I have never yet seen anybody tumble from a fifth' 9tory window! (/ have pronounced / ^ave^ Bsxà fifth pronounced Surely, this saying of a peasant is a liue one : '' Father So- and-So, your wife has died of her malady ; why did you not send for the doctor?" ** What would j'on have, sir, we poor folks die of ourselves.** But if the peasant's whole passivity lies in this saying, the whole of the free-thinking anarchy of the brat of the faubourgs is, assuredly^ contained in this other saying. A man condemned to death is listening to his confessor m the tumbrel. The child of Paris exclaims : ^^ He is talking to his black cap ! Oh, the sneak ! ** A certain audacity on matters of religion sets off the gamin. To be strong-minded is an important item. To be present at executions constitutes a duty. He shows himself at the guillotine, and he laughs. He calls it by all sorts of pet names : The End of the Soup, The Growler, The Mothei in the Blue (the sky), The Last Mouthful, etc., etc. In ordei not to lose anything of the affair, he scales the walls, he hoista himself to balconies, he ascends trees, he suspends himself to gratings, he clings fast to chimneys. The gamin is boriva tiler as he is born a mariner. A roof inspires him with no more feat than a mast. There is no festival which comes up to an exe- cntion on the Place de Grève. Samson and the Abbé Montés are the truly popular names. They hoot at the victim in order to encourage him. They sometimes admire him. Lacenaire, when a gamin, on seeing the hideous Dautun die bravely, nttered these words which contain a future : "I was jealous ol him.** In the brotherhood of gamins Voltaire is not known, bat Papavoine is. " Politicians " are confused with assassins in the same legend. They have a tradition as to everybody's last garment. It is known that Tolleron had a fireman's cap, Avril an otter cap, Losvel a round hat, that old Delaporte was bald and bare-headed, that Castaing was all rudd}^ and very handsome, that Bories had a romantic small beard, that Jean Martin kept on his suspenders, that Lecouffé and his mother qaarrelled. *' Don't reproach each other for your basket," shouted a gamin to them. Another, in order to get a look at De backer as he passed, and being too small in the crowd, caught Bight of the lantern on the quay and climbed it. A gendarme stationed opposite frowned. '^ Let me climb up, m'sieu le ge» Digitized by Google 10 LES MISERABLES. danoe," said the gamin. And, to soften the heart of the aathorities, he added : '' I will not fall/' ^' I dou't care if yea do," retorted the gendarme. In the brotherhood of gamins, a memorable accident connu for a great deal. One reaches the height of consideration if one chances to cut one's self very deeply, *' to the very bone." The fist is no mediocre element of respect. One of the thing? that the gamin is fondest of saying is : ^^ I am One and stroiicTi come now ! " To be left-handed renders you very enviable A squint is highly esteemed. VIIL — In Which the Reader will fikd a Charmino Saying of tbb Last Kino. In summer, he metamorphoses himself into a frog ; and in die evening, when night is falling, in front of the bridges of Austerlitz and Jena, from the tops of coal wagons, and tlie washerwomen's boats, he hurls himself headlong into the 2Seiue, and into all possible infractions of the laws of modesty and of the iK>lice. Nevertheless the police keep an eye on him, and the result is a highly dramatic situation which once gave rise to a fraternal and memorable cry ; that cry which was celebrated about 1830, is a strategic warning from gamin to gamin; it scans tike a verse from Homer, with a notation as inexpressi* ble as the eleusiac chant of the Punathenœa, and in it one en- counters again the anciont Evohe. Here it is : ** Ohé, Titi, ohéée ! Here comes the bobby, here comes the p'lice, pick up your duds and be off, through the sewer with you 1 " Sometimes this gnat — that is what he call himself — knows how to read ; sometimes he knows how to write ; be always knows how to daub. He does, not hesitate to acquire, by no one knows what mysterious mutual instruction, all the talents which can be of use to the public; from 1815 to 1830, he imitated the cry of the turkey ; from 1830 to 1848, he scrawled pears on the walls. One summer evening, when Louis Philippe was returning home on foot, he saw a little fellow, no higher than bis knee, perspiring ^nd climbing up to draw a gigantic pear in charcoal on one of the pillars of the gate of Neuilly ; the King, with that good -nature which came to him from Henry IV., helped the gamin, finished the pear, and gave the child a louis, say- ing: '^The pear is on that also."' The gamin loves «proar 1 Loufs XVIII. is represented in comic pictures of that day as baring % pear-shaped head. Digitized by VjOOQ IC MARIUS. il A certain state of violence pleases him. He execrates ^^ the sarés." One da}, in the Rue de F Université, one of these Bcamps was putting his thumb to his nose at the carriage gate of No. 69. *' Why are you doing tliat at the gate?" a passer- by asked. The boy replied: "There is a curé there." It ras there, in fact, that the Papal Nuncio lived. Nevertheless, whatever may be the Voltairianism of the small gamin, if the occasion to become a chorister presents itself, it is quite possible that he will accept, and in that case he serves the mass civilly. There are two things to which he plays Tan- talus, and which he always desires without ever attaining them : to overthrow the government, and to get his trousers sewed up again. The gamin in his pei-fect state possesses all the policemen of Paris, and can always put the name to the face of any one which he chances to meet. He can tell them off on the tips of his fingers. He studies their habits, and he has special notes on each one of them. He reads the souls of the police like an open book. He will tell you fluently and without flinching: "Such an one \% 9, traitor; such another is very malicious; such another is great; such another is rididUous.*' (AH these words : traitor, malicious, great, ridiculous, have a particular meaning in his mouth.) That one imagines that he owns tlie Pont-Neuf , and he prevents people from walking on the cornice outside the parapet ; that other has a mania for pulling person's ears ; etc., etc. IX. — The Old Soul op Gaul. Thebe was something of that boy in Poquelin, the son of the fish-market; Beaumarchais had something of it. Gaminerie is a shade of the Gallic spirit. Mingled with good sense, it some- times adds force to the latter, as alcohol does to wine, lionie- times it is a defect. Homer repeats himself eternally, granted ; one may say that Voltaire plays the gamin. Camille Des- moulins was a native of the faubourgs. Championnet, who treated miracles brutally, rose from the pavements of Paris ; he had, when a small lad, inundated the porticos of Saint-Jean da Beaavais, and of Saint-Étienne du Mont ; he had addressed the shrine of Sainte-Geneviève familiarly to give orders to the phiâ^ of Saint Januarius. The gamin of Paris is respectful, ironical, and insolent. H? has villanons teeth, because he is badly fed and his stomach suffers, and handsome eyes because he has wit Xf Jehovab Digitized by Google 18 LES MISÉRABLES. himself were present, he would go hopping np tbe e%epk é. paradise on one foot. He is strong on boxing. All Deiieis ^x^ possible to him. He plays iu the gutter, and straigtitens him- self up with a revolt ; his effrontery persists even in tlie presence of grape-shot; he was a scapegrace, he is a hero; like the little Tbeban, he shakes the skin from the lion ; Barra the drummer-boy was a gamin of Paris ; he shouts : '* Forward ! " as the horse of Scripture says " Vah ! " and in a moment he haa passeci from the small brat to the giant. This child of the puddle is also the child of the ideal. Measure that spread of wings which reaches from Molière to Barra. To sum up the whole, and in one word, the gamin is a being who amuses himself, because he is unhappy. X. — EocE Paris, eocb Homo. To sum it all up once more, the Paris gamin of to-day, like the grœculus of Rome in days gone by, is the infant populace with the wrinkle of the old world on his brow. The gamin is a grace to the nation, and at the same time a disease ; a disease which must be cured, how ? By light. Light renders healthy. Light kindles. All generous social irradiations spring from science, letters, arts, education. Make men, make men. Give them light that they may warm you. Sooner or later the splendid question of universal education will present itself with the irresistible authority of the absolute truth; and then, those who govern under the superintendence of the French idea will have to make this choice ; the children of France or the gamins of Paris ; flames in the light or will-o'-the-wisps in the gloom. The gamin expresses Paris, and Paris expresses the world. For Paris ii a total. Paris is the ceiling of the hnman race. The whole of this prodigious city is a foreshortening of dead manners and living manners. He who sees Paris thinks he sees the bottom of all history with heaven and constellations in the intervals. Paris has a capital, the Town-Hall, a Parthenon, Notre-Dame, a Mount Aventine, the Faubourg Saint- Antoine, an Asinarium, the Sorbonne, a Pantheon, the Pantheon, a Via Sacra, the Boulevard des Italiens, a temple of the winds, opinion ; and it replaces the Gemoniœ by ridi» Digitized by Google MARIUS. 13 cale. Its ftujijo is called ^^ faraud," its Transteverin is the man of the fauboarg», its hammal is the market-porter, its lazzaronc is the pègre, its cockney is the native of Ghent Everything that exists elsewhere exists at Paris. The fish, woman of Damarsais can retort on the herb-seller of Euripi- des, the discobols Vejanos lives again in the Forioso, the tight-rope dancer. Therapontigonas Miles could walk arm in arm with Vadeboucœur the grenadier, Damasippus the second- hand dealer would be happy among biic-à-brac merchants, Vincennes could grasp Socrates in its fist as just as Agora could imprison Diderot, Grimod de la Reynière discovered larded roast beef, 4às Curtillus invented roast hedgehog, we see the trapeze which figures in Plautns reappear under the vault of the Arc of l'Etoile, the sword-eater of Pœcilus encountered by Apuleius is a sword-swallower on the Pont- Neuf, the nephew of Rameau and Curculio the parasite make a pair, Ergasilus could get himself presented to Cambacôres by d'Aigrefeuille ; the four dandies of Rome : Alcesimarchus, Phœ- dromus, Diabolus, and Argyrippus, descend from Conrtille in Labatnt*s posting-chaise ; Aulus Gellius would halt no longer in front of Congrio than would Charles Nodier in front of Punchinello ; Marto is not a tigress, but Pardalisca was not a dragon ; Pantolabus the wag jeers in the Caf^ Anglais at Nomentanus the fast liver, Heimc^enus is a tenor in the Champs-Elysées, and round him, Thracius the beggar, clad like Bobèche, takes up a collection; the bore who stops you by the button of your coat in the Tuileries makes you repeat after a lapse of two thousand years Thesprion's apostrophe: Quis praperantem me prehendit pcUUo f Tlie wine on Surêne is a parody of the wine of Alba, tlie red border of Desaugiers forms a balance to the great cutting of Balatro, Père Lachaise exhales beneath nocturnal rains same gleams as the Esqtyliœ, and the grave of the poor bought for five years, is certainly the equivalent of the slave's hived coffin. Seek something that Paris has not. The vat of Trophoniua oontains nothing that is not also in Mesmer's tub ; Ergaphilaa lives again in Cagliostro; the Brahmin YAsaphant become incarnate in the Comte de Saint-Germain; the cemetery of Saini-Médard works quite as good miracles as the Mosque of Oumonmié at Damascus. Paris has an ^sop-Mayeux, and a Canidia, Mademoiselle Lenormand. It is terrified, like Delphos at the fulgurating realities of the vision ; it makes tables turn as Dodona did tripods. It places the grisette on the throne, as Rome placed Digitized by Google eaiina. Paris combines in an unprecedented type, which haa existed and which we have elbowed, Grecian nudity, the Hebraic ulcer, and the Gascon pun. It mingles Dic^enes^ Job, and Jack-pudding, dresses up a spectre in old numbers of the Constitutionnel^ and makes Chodruc Duclos. Although Plutarch says : the tyrant never grows old^ Rome, under Sylla as under Domitian, resigned itself and willingly put water in its wine. The Tiber was a Lethe, if the ratiier doctrinary eulogiura made of it by Varus Vibiscus is to be credited: Contra Gracchos Tiherim hahemus^ Bibere Tiherim^ id est seditionem oblivisci. Paris drinks a million litres of water a day, but that does not prevent it from occasionally beating the general alarm and tinging the tocsin. With that exception, Paris is amiable. It accepts everything royally ; it is not too particular about its Venus ; its Callipyge is Hottentot; provided that it is made to laugh, it condones; ugliness cheers it, deformity provokes it to laughter, vice diverts it; be eccentric and you may be an eccentric; even hypocrisy, that supreme cynicism, does not disgust it; it is so literary that it does not hold its nose before Basile, and is no more scandalized by the prayer of Tartufife than Horace was repelled by the "hiccup" of Priapus. No titiit of the uni- versal face is lacking in the profile of Paris. The bal Mabile is not the polymnia dance of the Janiculum, but the dealer in ladies' wearing apparel there devours the lorette with her eyes, exactl}' as the procuress Staphyla lay in wait for the vii^n Planesium. The Barrière du Combat is not the Coliseam, but people are as ferocious there as though Ciesar were looking on. The Syrian hostess has more grace than Mother Sagnet, but, if Virgin haunted the Roman wine-shop, David d'Angers, Balzae and Charlct have sat at the tables of Parisian taverns. Paris reigns. Geniuses flash forth there, the red tails prosper tliere. AdonaY passes on his chariot with its twelve wheels of thunder and lightning ; Silenus makes his entry there on his ass. For Silenus read Ramponneau. Paris is the synonym of Cosmos, Paris is Athens, Sybaris, Jerusalem, Pantin. All civilizations are there in an abrid^^ form, all barbarisms also. Paris would greatly regret it if it had not a guillotine. A little of the Place de Grève is a good thing. What would all that eternal festival be without this seasoning ? Our laws are wisely provided, and thanks to them, this Made drips 00 this Shrove Tuesday. MARIUS. U XI. — To Scoff, to Reion. Thbre is no limit to Paris, No citj has had that domination which sometimes derides those whom it subjugates. To please yon, O Athenians! exclaimed Alexander. Paris makes more than the law, it makes the fashion ; Paris sets more than the fashion, it sets the routine. Paris may be stupid, if it sees fit; it sometimes allows itself this luxury; then the universe is stupid in company with it; then Paris awakes, rubs its eyes, says: ^' How stupid I am!" and bursts out laughing in the face of the human race. What a marvel is such a city ! it is a strange thing that this grandioseness and this burlesque should l>e amicable neighbors, that all this majesty should not be thrown into disorder by all this parody, and that the same mouth can to-day blow into the trump of the Judgment Day, and to-morrow into the reed-flute ! Paris has a sovereign joviality. Its gayety is of tlie thunder and its farce holds a sceptre. Its tempest sometimes proceeds from a grimace. Its ex- plosions, its days, its masterpieces, its prodigies, its epics, go forth to the bounds of the universe, and so also do its cock-and- bull stories. Its laugh is the mouth of a volcano which spatters the whole earth. Its jests are sparks. It imposes its carica- tures as well as its ideal on people ; the highest monuments of human civilization accept its ironies and lend their eternity to its mischievous pranks. It is superb ; it has a prodigious 14th of July, which delivers the globe ; it forces all nations to take the oath of tennis ; its night of the 4th of August dissolves in three hours a thousand years of feudalism ; it makes of its logic the muscle of unanimous will ; it multiplies itself under all sorts of forms of the sublime ; it fills with its light Washington, Kosm the torch of Prometheus to Cambronne's short pipe. MA RI us. 17 Xn. — The Future Lateut ik the People. As for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is always the street Arab ; to paint the child is to paint the city ; and it is for that reason that we have studied this eagle in this arrant sparrow. It is in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, that the Parisian race appears ; there is the pure bloo(\ with plenty of rights, perched on the code, and jealous at need, there is but one way of extricating himself from the quandary and of procuring peace, and that is to let his wife control the purse- strings. This abdication sets him free. Then his wife busies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets her fin- gers covered with veixligris in the process, undertakes tlie edu- cation of half-share tenants and the training of farmers* convokes lawyers, presides over notaries, harangues scriveners- visits limbs of the law, follows lawsuits, draws up leases, dic- tates contracts, feels herself the sovereign, sells, buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds fast and annuls, yields, con- cedes and rétrocèdes, arranges, disarranges, hoards, lavishes , she commits follies, a supreme and personal delight, and tha* consoles her. While her husband disdains her, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband.'* This theory M. Gillenor- mand had himself applied, and it had become his history. His wife — the second one — had administered his fortune in such a manner that, one fine day, when M. Gillenormand found him- self a widower, there remained to him just sufficient to live on, by sinking nearly the whole of it in an annuity of fifteen thou- sand francs, three-quarters of which would expire with him. He had not liesitated on this point, not being anxious to leave a property behind him. Besides, he had noticed that patrimo- nies are subject to adventures, and, for instance, become national property; he had been present at the avatars of consolidated three per cents, and he had no great faith in the Great Rook of tke Public Debt. '* All that's the Rue Quincampois ! " he said- Digitized by Google MARI us. 2< His house in the Rue Filles-du-Clavaire belonged to him, as w« 1 ave already stated. Ue had two servants, '* a male and a fe« male." When a servant entered his establishment, M. Gille" normand re-baptized him. He bestowed on the men the namj tf their province: Nimois, Comtois, Poitevin, Picard. His last valet was a big, foundered, short-winded fellow of fifty-live, who was incapable of running twenty paces; but, as he had been born at Bayoune, M. Gillenormand called him Basque. Ail the female servants in his house were called Nicolette (even the Maguon, of whom we shall hear more farther on). One day, a haughty cook, a cordon bleu, of the lofty race of porters, presented herself. '' How much wages do you want a month ? " asked M. Gillenormand. •' Thirty francs." '' What is your name? " " Olympic." '' You shall have fifty francs, and you shall be called Nicolette." VI. — In which Magnon and her Tviro Children are seen. With M. Gillenormand, sorrow was converted into wrath; he was furious at being in despair. He hud all sort-s of preju- dices and took all sorts of liberties. One of the facts of which his exterior relief and his internal satisfaction was composed, was, as we have just hinted, that he had remained a brisk spark, and that he passed energetically for such. This he called hav- ing " royal renown." This royal renown sometimes drew down upon him singular windfalls. One day, tlicre was brought to him in a basket, as though it had been a basket of oysters, a stout, newly born boy, who was yelling like the deuce, and duly wrapped in swaddling-clothes, which a servant-maid, dismissed six months previously, attributed to him. M. Gillenormand had, «t that time, fully completed his eighty-fourth year. Indigna- tion and uproar in the establishment. And whom did that bold hussy think she could persuade to believe that? What audac- ity ! What an abominable calumny ! M. Gillenormand him- self was not at all enraged. He gazed at the brat with the amiable smile of a good man who is flattered by the calumny, and said in an aside : " Well, what now? What's the matter? You are finely taken aback, and really, you are excessively ignorant. M. le Duc d*Angoulêrae, the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married a silly jade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M. Virginal, Marquis d'Alluye, brother to the Car- dinal de Sourdis^ Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, at the age of eighty-three, by the maid of Madame la Présidente Jacquin, a Digitized by Google B6 LES MISERABLES. son, a real child of love, who became a Chevalier of Malta ano a counsellor of state ; one of the great men of this century, the Abbé Tabaraud, is the son of a man of eighty-seven. There is nothing out of the ordinary in these things. And then, the Bible ! Upon that I declare that this little gentleman is none of mine. Let him be taken care of. It is not his fault.'' This manner of procedure was good-tempered. The woman. whose name was Mag non, sent him another parcel in the fol lowing year. It was a boy again. Thereuix)n, M. Gillenor- mand capitulated. He sent the two brats back to their mother, promising to pay eighty francs a month for their maintenance, on the condition that the said mother would not do so any more. He added : ^^ I insist upon it that the mother shall treat them well. I shall go to sec them from time to time." And this he did. He had had a brother who was a priest, and who had been rector of the Academy of Poitiers for three and thirty years, and had died at seventy-nine. '^ I lost him young," said he. This brother, of whom but little memory remains, was a peaceable miser, who, being a priest, thought himself bound to bestow alms on the poor whom he met, but he never gave them anything except bad or domonetized sous, thereby discovering a means of going to hell by way of paradise. As for M. Gillenormand the elder, he never higgled over his alms- giving, but gave gladly and nobly. He was kindly, abrupt, charitable, and if he had been rich, his turn of mind would have been magnificent. He desired that all which concerned him should be done in a grand manner, even his rogueries. One day, having been cheated by a business man in a matter of in- heritance, in a gross and apparent manner, he uttered this solemn exclamation : '* That was indecently done ! I am really ashamed of this pilfering. Everything has degenerated in this century, even the rascals. Morbleu ! this is not the way to rob a man of my standing. I am robbed as though in a forest, but badiy robbed. Silvœ sint consule dignœ I " He had had two wives, as we have alread}' mentioned ; by the firet he had had a daughter, who had remained unmarried, and by the second? another daughter, who had died at about the age of thirty, who bad wedded, through love, or chance, or otherwise, a soldier of fortune who had served in the armies of the Republic and of th« Empire, who had won the cross at Ansterlitz and had been made colonel at Waterloo. '* He is the disgrace of my family^" said the old bourgeois. He took an immense amount of snuff, and had a particularly graceful manner of plucking at his lace ruffle with the back of one hand. He believed very little in God. Digitized by Google MA RI us. 27 VU. — Bule: Receive No One except in the Evening. Such was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormaud, who had not lost his hair, — which was gray rather than white, — and which was always dressed in '' dog's ears.*' To sum up, he was venerable in spite of all this. He had something of the eighteenth century about him; frivolous and great. In 1814 and during the early years of the Restoration, M. Gillenormand, who was still young, — he was only seventy -four, — lived in the Faubourg Saint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near Saint-Sulpice. He had only retired to the Marais when he quitted society, long after attaining the age of eighty. And, on abandoning society, he had immured himself in his habits. The principal one, and that which was invariable, was lo keep his door absolutely closed during the day, and never to receive any one whatever except in the evening. He dined at five o'clock, and after that his door was open. That had been the fashion of his century, and he would not swerve from it. *^ The day is vulgar," said he, "-and deserves only a closed shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when the zenith lights up its stars." And he barricaded himself against every one, even had it been the king himself. This was the antiquated elegance of his day. VIII. — Two DO NOT MA.KE A PaIR. We have just spoken of M. Gillenormand's two daughters. They had come into the world ten years apart. In their youth they had borne very little resemblance to each otlier, either in charac- ter or countenance, and had also been as little like sisters to each other as possible. The youngest had a charming soul, which turned towards all that belongs to the light, was occupied with flowers, . with verses, with music, which fluttered away into glorious space, enthusiastic, ethereal, and was wedded from her ver3' youth, in ideal, to a vague and heroic figure. The elder had also her chimera ; she espied in the azure some very wealthy purveyor, a contractor, a splendidly stupid husband, a million made man, or even a prefect; the receptions of the Prefecture, an usher in the antechamber with a chain on his neck, official balls, the harangues of the town-hall, to be '' Madame la Pré- fète," — all this had created a whirlwind in her imagination. Digitized by Google leuorinaiicl was not of this nature ; his domination in tho Royalist salons which he frequented cost his self-respect nothing. He was an oracle everywhere. It had happened to him to hold his own against M. de Bonald, and even against M. Bengy-Puy- Vallée . About 1817, he invariably passed two afternoons a week in a house in his own neighborhood, in the Rue Pérou, with Madame la Baronne de T., a worthy and respectable person, whose husband had been Ambassador of France to Berlin under Louis XVI. Baron de T., who, during his lifetime, had gone very passionately into ecstasies and magnetic visions, had died bankrupt, during the emigration, leaving, as his entire fortune, some very curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tub, in ten manuscript volumes, bound in red morocco and gilded on the edges. Sladame de T. bad not published the memoirs, out of pride, and maintained herself on a meagre income which had survived no one knew how. Madame de T. lived far from the Court; "a very mixed society," as she said, in a noble isolation, proud and poor. A few friends assembled twice a week about her widowed hearth, and these constituted a purely Royalist salon. They sipped tea there, and uttered groans or cries of horror at the century, the charter, the Bonapartists, the prostitution of the blue rib- bon, or the Jacobinism of Louis XVIII., according as the wind v«ered towards elegy or dithyrambs ; and they spoke in low tones of the hopes which were presented by Monsieur, after- wards Charles X. The songs of the fish women, in which Napoleon was calle<] Nicolas, were received there with transiwrts of joy. Duchesses, the most delicate and charming women in the world, went into ecstasies over couplets like the following, addressed to ^^ the federates " : — Refoncez dans vos culottes ^ Le bout d' chemis' qui vous pend. Qu'on n' dis' pas qu' les patriotes Ont arboré V drapeau blanc ? There they amused themselves with puns which were considered terrible, with innocent plays upon words which they supposed to be venomous, with quatrains, with distiches even ; thus, upon 1 Tuck into your trousers the shirt>tail that is hanging out. Let it not Imi said that patriots have hoisted the white flag. excepi Ills siieut auu senrcniious air, nis coiu aua anguiar lacc, his perfectly polished maimers, his coat buttoned up to his cra- vat, and his long legs always crossed in long, flabby trousers of the hue of burnt sienna. His face was the same color as his trousers. This M. de Laroothe was '^held in consideration" in this salon on account of his "celebrity," and, strange to say, though true, because of his name of Valois. As for M. Gilleuormand, his consideration was of absolutclj' first-rate quality. He had, in spite of his levity, and without its interfering in any way with his dignity, a certain manner about him which was imposing, dignified, honest, and lofty, in a bour- geois fashion ; and his great age added to it. One is not a century with impunity. The years finally produce around a head, a venerable dishevelment. In addition to this, he said things which had the genuine sparkle of the old rock. Thus, when the King of Prussia, after having restored Louis XVIII., came to pay the latter a visit under the name of the Count de Ruppin, he was received by the descendant of Louis XIV^. soinewhat as though he had been the Marquis de Brandebourg, and with the most delicate imperti- nence. M. Gilleuormand approved: "All kings who are not the King of France," said he, "are provincial kings." One day, the following question was put and the following answer returned in his presence : " To what was the editor of the Courrier Pratt- çais condemned ?" " To be suspended. " " Sus is superfluous," observed M. Gilleuormand.* Remarks of this nature found a situation. At the Te Deum on the anniversary of the return of the Bour- bons, he said, on seeing M. de Talleyrand pass by: ** There goes his Excellency the Evil One." M. Gillenormand was always accompanied by his daughter, that tall mademoiselle, who was over forty and looked fifty, and by a handsome little boy of seven years, white, ix)sy, fresh, with happy and trusting eyes, who never appeared in that salori without hearing voices murmur around him : " How handsome he is ! What a pity ! Poor child !" This child was the one of whom we dropped a word a while ago. He was called " |K>or child," because he had for a father " a brigand of the Loire." This brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand's son-iii * w who has already been mentioned, and whom M. Gillenormand called " the disgrace of his family." ^Suêpendu, tmspended; pendu. t 84 LES MISÉRABLES. child could make him give waj, and his servant scolded him. He was so timid that lie seemed shy, ho rarely went out, and he saw no one but the poor people who tapped at his pane and his cure, the Abbé Mabeuf, a good old man. Nevertheless, if the inhabitants of the town, or strangers, or any chance comers, cunous to sec his tulips, rang at his little cottage, he opened his door with a smile. He was the " brigand of the Loire." Any one who had, at the same time, read military memoirs, biographies, the Moniteur^ and the bulletins of the grand army< would have been struck by a name which occurs there with tol- erable frequency, the name of Georges Pontmercy. When very young, this Georges Pontmercy had been a soldier in Saintonge*s regiment. The Revolution broke out. Saintonge's regiment formed a part of the army of the Rhine ; for the old regiments of the monarchy preserved their names of provinces even after the fall of the monarchy, and were only divided into brigades in 1794. Pontmercy fought at Spire, at Worms, at Neustadt, at Turkheim, at Alzey, at Mayence, where he was one of the two hundred who formed Houchard's rearguard. It was the twelfth to hold its ground against the corps of the Prince of Hesse, behind the old rampart of Andernach, and onl3' rejoined the main body of the army when the enemy's cannon had opened a breach from the cord of the parapet to the foot of the glacis. He was under Kléber at Marchiennes and at the battle of Mont-Palissel, where a ball from a biscaien broke his arm. Then he passed to the frontier of Italy, and was one of the thirty grenadiers who defended the Col de Tende with Joubert. Joubert was appointed its adjutant-general, and Pontmercy sub-lieutenant. Pontmercy was by Berthier's side in the midst of the grape-shot of that day at Lodi which caased Bonaparte to say : "Berthier has been cannoneer, cavalier, and grenadier." He beheld his old general, Joubert, fall at Novi, at the moment when, with uplifted sabre, he was shouting : *' For- ward ! " Having been embarked with his company in the exigencies of the campaign, on board a pinnace which was pro- ceeding from Genoa to some obscure port on the coast, he fell into a wasps'-nest of seven or eiglit English vessels. The Genoese commander wanted to throw his cannon into the sea, to hide the soldiers between decks, and to slip along in the dark as a merchant vessel. Pontmercy had tJie colors hoisted to the peak, and sailed proudly past under the guns of the British frigates. Twenty leagues further on, his audacity hav- ing increased, he attacked with his pinnace, and captured a large English transport which was carrying troops to Sicily, and Digitized by Google irhich was so loaded down with men and horses that the vessel was sunk to the level of the sea. lu 1805 he was in that Mai' her division which took Giinzberg from the Archduke Ferdi- nand. At Weltingen he received into his arras, beneath a storm of bullets, Colonel Maupetit, mortally wounded at the head of the 9th Dragoons. He distinguished himself at Austerlitz in that admirable march in echelons eflPected under the enemy's fire. When the cavalry of the Imperial Russian Guard crushed a battalion of the 4th of the line, Pontmercy was one of those who took their revenge and overthrew the Guard. The Emperor gave him the cross. Pontmercy saw Wurmser at Mantaa, Mêlas, and Alexandria, Mack at Ulm, made prisoners in suc- cession. He formed a part of the eighth corps of the grand army which Mortier commanded, and which captured Ham- burg. Then he was transferred to the 55th of the line, which was the old regiment of Flanders. At Eylau he was in the cemetery where, for the space of two hours, the heroic Captain Louis Hugo, the uncle of the author of this book, sustained alone with his company of eighty-three men every effort of the hostile army. Pontmercy was one of the three who emerged alive from that cemetery. He was at Friedland. Then he saw Moscow. Then La Bérésina, then Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden, Wachau, Leipzig, and the defiles of Gelenhausen ; then Mont- mirail, Château-Thierry, Craon, the banks of the Marne, the banks of the Aisne, and the redoubtable position of Laon. At Arnay-Le-Duc, being then a captain, he put ten Cossacks to the sword, and saved, not his general, but his corporal. He was well slashed up on this occasion, and twenty-seven splinters were extracted from his left arm alone. Eight days before the capitulation of Paris he had just exchanged with a comrade and entered the cavalry. He had what was called under the old regime, the double handy that is to say, an equal aptitude for handling the sabre or the musket as a soldier, or a squadron or a battalion as an officer. It is from this aptitude, perfected by a military education, which certain special bi*anches of the service arise, the dragoons, for example, who are both cavalry-men and infantry at one and the same time. He accompanied Napoleon to the Island of Elba. At Waterloo, he was chief of a squad- ron of cuirassiers, in Dubois' brigade. It was he who cap- tured the standard of the Lunenburg battalion. He came and east the flag at the Emperor's feet. He was covered with blood. While tearing down the banner he had received a sword-cut across his face. The Emperor, greatly pleased, shouted to him : ^' You are a colonel, you are a baron, you are an ofiScer Digitized by Google 36 LES MISÉRABLES. of the Legion of Honor I " Poutmercy replied : *' Sire, I thank you for my widow." An hour Inter, iie fell in ihe ravine of bhain. Now, who was this Georges Poutmercy? He was this same •' brigand of the Loire." We have ah'cady seen something of his history. After Wa- terloo, Pontmorey, who had been pulled out of the hollow road of Chain, as it will be remembered, had succeeded in joining the army, and had dragged himself from ambulance to ambulance as far as the cantonments of the Loire. The Restoration had placed him on half-pay, then had sent him into residence, that is to say, under surveillance, at Ver- non. King Louis XV I IL, regarding all that which had taken place during the Hundred Days as not having occurred at all, did not recognize his quality as an officer of the Legion of Honor, nor his grade of colonel, nor his title of baron. He, on his side, neglected no occasion of signing himself ^' Colonel Baron Pontmercy." He had only an old blue eoat, and he never went out without fastening to it his rosette as an officer of the Legion of Honor. The Attorney for the Crown had him warned that the authorities would prosecute him for *' illegal" wearing of this decoration. When this notice was conve3'ed to him through an officious intermediary, Pontmercy retorted with a bitter smile: "I do not know whether I no longer under- stand French, or whether you no longer speak it; but the fact is that I do not understand." Then he went out for eight successive days with his rosette. They dared not inter- fere with him. Two or three times the Minister of War and the general in command of the department wrote to him with tlic following address : '' A Monsieur le Coramandant PorUmercy,** He sent back the letters .with the seals unbroken. At the same moment, Napoleon at Saint Helena was treating in the same fashion the missives of Sir Hudson Lowe addressed to Oenerai Bonaparte, Pontmercy had ended, ma}' we be pardoned the ex- pression, by having in his mouth the same saliva as his Emperor, In the same way, there were at Rome Carthaginian prison- ers who refused to salute Flaminius, and who had a little of Hannibal's spirit. One day he encountered the district-attorney in one of the streets of Vernon, stepped up to him, and said: *'Mr. Crown Attorney, am I permitted to wear my scar? " He had nothing save his meagre half-pay as chief of squad- ron. He had hired the smallest house which he could find at Vernon. He lived there alone, we hâve just seen how. Under the Empire, between two wars, he had found time to marij Digitized by Google MARI us. 37 ftfademoiselle Giileoormand. The old bourgeois, thoroaghlj iiidiguant at bottom, bad given his consent with a sigh, saying: *• The greatest families are forced into it." In 1815, Madame Pontmercy, an admirable woman in every sense, by the way, lofty in sentiment and rare, and wortliy of her husband, died, leaving a child. This child had l)oen the colonel's joy in his solitude; but the grandfather had imperatively claimed his grandson, declaring that if the child were not given to him he would disinherit him. The father had yielded in the little one's interest, and bad transferred his love to flowers. Moreover, he had i-enounced everything, and neither stirred up mischief nor conspired. He shared his thoughts between the innocent things which he was tlien doing and the great things which he had done. lie passed his time in expecting a pink or in recalling Austerlitz. M. Gillenormand kept up no relations with his son-in-law. The colonel was ^' a bandit" to him. M. Gillenormand never mentioned the colonel, except when he occasionally made mock- ing allusions to '' his Baronship." It had been expressly agreed that Pontmercy should never attempt to see his son nor to speak to him, under penalty of having the latter handed over to him disowned and disinherited. For the Gillenormands, Pontmercy was a man afflicted witli the plague. They intended to bring up the child in their own way. Perhaps the colonel was wrong to accept these conditions, but he submitted to them, tliinking that he was doing right and sacrificing no one but himself. The inheritance of Father Gillenormand did not amount to much ; but the inheritance of Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder was considerable. This aunt, who had remained un- - married, was very rich on the maternal side, and her sister's son was her natural heir. The boy, whose name was Marins, knew that he had a father, but nothing more. No one opened bis mouth to him about it. Nevertlieless, in the society into ^hich his grandfather took him, whispers, innuendoes, and winks, had eventually enligiitened the little boy's mind ; he had finally underatood something of the case, and as he naturally took in the ideas and opinions which were, so to speak, the air he breathed, by a sort of infiltration and slow penetration, he gradually came to think of his father only with shame and with a pain at his heart. While he was growing up in this fashion, the colonel slipped away every two or three months, came to Paris on the sly, like a criminal breaking his ban, and went and posted himself at Digitized by Google 38 LES MISÉRABLES. Saint-Sulpice, at the hour when Auut Gilleaormaad led Marim to the mass. There, trembliug lest the aunt should turn round, cx>ncealed behind a pillar, motionless, not daring to breathe, he gazed at his child. The scarred veteran was afraid of that old spinster. From this had arisen his connection with the curé of Veraon, M. l'Abbé Mabeuf. That worthy priest was the brother of a warden of Saint Suipice, who had often observed this man gazing at his child, and the scar on his cheek, and the large teai*s in his eyes. That man, who had so raanl}' an air, yet who was weeping like a woman, had struck the warden. That face had clung to his mind. One day, having gone to Vernon to see his brother, he had encountered Colonel Pontmercy on the bridge, and had recognized the man of Saint-Sulpice. The warden had men- tioned the circumstance to the curé, and both had paid the colonel a visit, on some pretext or otlier. This visit led to others. Tlie colonel, who had been extremely reserved at first, ended by opening his heart, and the curé and the warden finally came to know the whole history, and how Pontmercy was sacrificing his happiness to his child's future. This caused the curé to regaixi him with veneration and tenderness, and the colonel, on his side, became fond of the curé. And moreover, when both ai'e sin cere and good, no men so penetrate each other, and so amalga* mate with each other, as an old priest and an old soldier. At bottom, the man is the same. The one has devoted his life to his country here below, the other to his country on high ; that is the only difference. Twice a year, on the first of January and on St. Greorge's day, Marius wrote duty letters to his father, whicb were die- tated by his aunt, and which one would have pronounced to be copied from some formula ; this was all that M. Gillenormand tolerated ; and tlie father answered them with very tender let- ters which the grandfather thrust into his pocket unread. III. — Requiescamt. Madame de T.'s salon was all that Marius Pontmercy knew of the world. It was the only opening through which he ooulq get a glimpse of life. This opening was sombre, and more cold than warmth, more night than day, came to him through this skylight. This child, wiio had been all joy find liïçht on entering this strange world, soon became melancholy, and, what Digitized by Google MARIUS, 39 is still more contrary to bis age, grave. Surrounded by all those singular and imposing personages, he gazed about hira with serious amazement. Everything conspired to increase this astonishment in him. There were in Madame de T.'s salon some very noble ladies named Mathan, No6, Levis, — which was pronounced Levi, — Cambis, pronounced Cambyse. These antique visages and these Biblical names mingled in the child's mind with the Old Testament which he was learning by heart, and when they were all there, seated in a circle around a dying fire, sparely lighted by a lamp shaded with green» with their severe profiles, their gray or white hair, their long gowns of another age, wliose lugubrious colors could not be distinguished, dropping, at rare intervals, words which were both majestic and severe, little Marins stared at them with frightened eyes, in th* conviction that he beheld not women, but patriarchs and magi, not real beings, but phantoms. With these phantoms, priests were sometimes* mingled, fre- quenters of this ancient salon, and some gentlemen ; the Mar- quis de Sass****, private secretary to Madame de Berry, the Vicomte de Val***, who published, under the pseudonyme oi Charles-Antoine, monorhymed odes, the Prince de Beauff.*******, who, though very young, had a gray head and a pretty and witty wife, whose very low-necked toilettes of scarlet velvet with gold torsades alarmed these shadows, the Marquis de ç*»**#(|'j5*****»^ the man in all France who best understood ** proportioned politeness," the Comte d'Am*****, the kindly nvin with tiie amiable chin, and the Chevalier de Port-de-Guy, a pillar of the library of the Louvre, called the King's cabinet. M. de Port-de-Guy, bald, and rather aged than old, was wont to relate that in 1793, at the age of sixteen, he had been put in tiie galleys as refractory and chained with an octogenarian, the Bishop of Mirepoix, also refractor}', but as a priest, while he was so in the capacity of a soldier. This was at Toulon. Their business was to go at night and gather up on the scaffold the heads and bodies of the ^persons who had been guillotined during the daj' ; they bore away on their backs these dripping corpses, and their red galley-slave blouses had a clot of blood at the back of the neck, which was dry in the morning and wet at night. These tragic tales aboundetl in Madame de T.'s salon, and by dint of cursing Marat, they applauded Trestaillon. Some deputies of the undiscoverable variety played their whist there ; M. Thibord du Chalard, M. Le marchant de Gomicourt, and the celebrated scoffer of the right, M. Cornet-Dincourt. The bailiff de Ferrette, with his short breeches and his thin legs. Digitized by Google 40 LES MISÉRABLES. sometimes traversed tliis salon on his way to M. de Talleyrand. He had been M. le Comte d'Artois' companion in pleasures and unlike Aristotle crouching under Campaspe, he had made the Guimard crawl on all fours, and in that way he had exhibited to the ages a philosopher avenged by a bailiff. As for the priests, there was the Abbé llalma, the same to whom M. Larose, his collaborator on la Foudre^ said: "Bah! Who is there who ia not fifty years old ? a few greenhorns perhaps ? " The Abbé Letourneur, preacher to the King, the Abbé Frayssinous, who was not, as yet, either count, or bishop, or minister, or peer, and who wore an old cassock whose buttons were missing, and the Abl)é Keravenaut, Curé of Saiut-Germain-des-Prés ; also the Pope's Nuncio, then Monsignor Macchi, Archbishop of Nisibi, later on Cardinal, remarkable for his long, pensive nose, and another Monsignor, entitled thus : Abbate Palmieri, do- mestic prelate, one of the seven participant prothonotaries of the Holy See, Cjinon of the illustrious Liberian basilica. Advocate of the saints, Fostulatore del Saiiti^ which refers to matters of canonization, and signifies very nearly: Master of Requests of the section of Paradise. Lastly, two cardinals, M. de la Luzerne, and M. do CI****** T*******. The Cardinal of Luzerne was a writer and was destined to have, a few years later, the honor of signing in the Conservateur articles side by side with Chateau- briand ; M . de Cl****** T******* was Archbishop of Toul****, and often made trips to Paris, to liis nephew, the Marquis do. T*******, who was Minister of Marine and War. The Cardi- nal of CI****** T******* was a merry little man, who displa^ted his red stockings beneath his tucked-up cassock ; his specialty' was a hatred of the Encyclopaedia, and his desperate play at billiards, and persons who, at that epoch, passed through the Rue M***** on summer evenings, where the hotel de Cl****** T******* then stood, halted to listen to the shock of the balls and the piercing voice of the Cardinal shouting to his conclavist. Monseigneur Cotiret, Bishop in partihus of Carvste : ** Mark, Abbé, I make a cannon." The Cardinal de Cl****** T******* [lad been brought to Madame de T.'s by his most intimate friend, M. de Roquelaure, former Bishop of Senlis, and one of the Forty. M. de Roquelaure was notable for his lofty figure and his assiduity at the Academy ; through the glass door of the neighboring hall of the library where the French Academy then held its meetings, the curions could, on every Tuesday, con- template the Ex-Bishop of Senlis, usually standing erect, freshly powdered, in violet hose, with his back turned to the door, ap- parently for the purpose of allowing a better view of his littie Digitized by Google MARIUS. 41 oollar. All these ecclesiastics, though for the most part aa much courtiers as churchmen, added to the gravity of the T. âalon, whose seigniorial aspect was accentuated by five peers of France, the Marquis de Vib****, the Marquis de Tal***, the Marquis de Herb*******, the Vicomte Damb***, and the Due de Val********. This Duc de Val********, although Prince de Mon***, that is to say, a reigning prince abroad, had so high an idea of France and its peerage, that he viewed every- thing through their medium. It was he who said : *' The Cardi- nals are the peers of France of Kome ; the lords are the peers of France of England." Moreover, as it is indispensable that the Revolution should be everywhere in this century, this feudal salon was, as we have said, dominated by a bourgeois. M. Gillenormand reigned there. There lay the essence and quintessence of the Parisian white society. There reputations, even Royalist reputations, were held in quarantine. There is always a trace of anarchy in renown. Chateaubriand, had he entered there, would have produced the effect of Père Duchêne. Some of the scoffed-at dld,^ nevertheless, penetrate thither on sufferance. Comte Beug*** was received there, subject to correction. The " noble " salons of the present da}' no longer resemble those salons. The Faubourg Saint-Germain reeks of the fagot even now. The Royalists of to-day are demagogues, let us record it to their credit. At Madame de T. 's the society was superior, taste was exquis- ite and haughty, under the cover of a great show of politeness. Manners there admitted of all sorts of involuntary refinements which were the old régime itself, buried but still alive. Some of these habits, especially in the matter of language, seem eccentric. Persons but superficially acquainted with them woold have taken for provincial that which was only antique. A woman was called Madame la Générale, Madame la ColoneUe was not entirely disused. The' charming Madame de Léon, in memory, no doubt, of the Duchesses de Longueville and de Chevreuse, preferred this appellation to her title of Princesse. The Marquise de Créquy was also called Madame la Colonelle. It was this little high society which invented at the Tuileries the refinement of speaking to the King in private as the King^ in the third person, and never as Yo^ir Majesty^ the designa- tion of Tour Majesty having been '* soiled b}- the usurper." Men and deeds were brought to judgment there. They jeered at the age, which released them from the necessity'' of understanding it. They abetted each other in amazement Digitized by CjOOQ IC 42 LES MISÉRABLES, Tbej communicated to each other tliat modicum of light which they possessed. Methusehih bestowed information on Epi- meuides. The deaf man made the blind man acquainted with the course of things. They declared that the time which had elapsed since Coblentz had not existed. In the same manner that Locis XVIII. was by the grace of God, in the five and twentieth year of his reign, the emigrants were, by rights, in the five and twentieth year of their adolescence. All was harmonious ; nothing was too much alive ; speech hardly amounted to a breath; the newspapers, agreeing with the salons, seemed a papyrus. There were some young people, but they were rather dead. The liveries in the antechamber were antiquated. These utterly obsolete personages were served by domestics of the same stamp. They all had the air of having lived a long time ago, and of obstinately resisting the sepulchre. Nearly the whole diction- ary consisted of Conserver^ Conservation^ Conset'vateur ; to be in good odor^ — that was the point. There are, in fact, aro- matics in the opinions of these venerable groups, and their ideas smelled of it. It was a mummified society. The ipaa- ters were embalmed, the servants were stuffed with straw. A worthy old marquise, an eviigrée and ruined, who had but a solitary maid, continued to say : *' My people." What did they do in Madame de T. 's salon? They were ultra. To be ultra ; this word, although what it represents ma}' not have disappeared, has no longer any meaning at the present day. Let us explain it. To be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in the name of the throne, and the mitre in the name of the altar ; it is to ill-treat the thing which one is dragging, it is to kick over the traces ; it is to cavil at the fagot on the score of the amount of cooking received by heretics ; it is to reproach the idol with its small amount of idolatry ; it is to insult through excess of respect ; it is to discover that the Pope is not suffi- ciently papish, that the King is not sufficiently royal, and that the night has too much light ; it is to be discontented with ala* baster, with snow, with the swan and the lily in tlie name of whiteness; it is to be a partisan of things to the point of becoming their enemy ; it is to be so strongly for, as to be igainst. The ultra spirit especially characterizes the first phase of tlie Restoration. Nothing in history resembles that quarter of an hour which Digitized by Google MARIUS. 48 begins in 1814 and terminates about 1820, with the advent of M. de Villèle, tlie practical man of the Right. These six years were an extraordinar}' moment ; at one and the same time brilliant and gloomy, smiling and sombre, ilhiminated as by the radiance of dawn and entirely covered, at the same time, with the shadows of the great catastrophes which still filled the hori- zon and were slowly sinking into the past. Tiiere existed in that light and that shadow, a complete little new and old world, comic and sad, juvenile and senile, which was rubbing its eyes ; nothing resembles an awakening like a return ; a group which regarded France with ill-temper, and which France regarded with irony ; good old owls of marquises by the streetful, who had returned, and of ghosts, the *' former" subjects of amaze- ment at everything, brave and noble gentlemen who smiled at being in France but wept also, delighted to behold their coun- try once more, in despair at not finding their monarchy ; the nobility of the Crusades treating the nobility of the Empire, tliat is to say, the nobility of the sword, with scorn ; historic races who had lost the sense of history ; the sons of tlie com- panions of Charlemagne disdaining the companions of Napo- leon. The swords, as we have just remarked, returned the insult ; the sword of Fontcnoy was laughable and nothing but a scrap of rasty iron; the sword of Marengo was odious and was only a sabre. Former days did not recognize Yesterday. People no longer had the feeling for what was grand. There was some one who called Bonaparte Scapin. This society no longer exists. Nothing of it, we repeat, exists to-day. When we select from it some one figure at random, and attempt to make it live again in thought, it seems as strange to us as the world before the Deluge. It is because it, too, as a matter of fact, has been engulfed in a deluge. It has disappeared beneath two Revolutions. What billows are ideas ! How quickly they cover all that it is their mission to destroy and to bury, and how promptly they create frightful gulfs ! Such was the physiognomy of the salons of those distant and candid times when M. Martainville had more wit than Voltaire. These salons had a literature and politics of their own. They believed in Fiévée. M. Agier laid down the law in them. They commentated M. Colnet, the old bookseller and publicist of the Quay Malaquais. Napoleon was to them thoroughly the Corsican Ogre. Later on the introduction into history of M. le Marquis de Bonaparte, Lieutenant-General of the King's armies, was a concession to the s{>irit of the age. These salons did not long preserve their purity. Beginning; Digitized by Google 44 LES MISERABLES. with 1818, doctrinarians began to spring ap in them, i^, dk turbing shade. Tlieir W2i)^ was to be Royalists and to excuse themselves for being so. Where the ultras were very proud, the doctrinarians were rather ashamed. They haii wit ; they had silence ; their political dogma was suitably impregnated with arrogance ; they should have succeeded. They indulged , and . usefully too, in excesses in the matter of white neckties and tightly buttoned coats. The mistake or the misfortune of the doctrinarian party was to create aged youth. They assumed the poses of wise men. They dreamod of engrafting a temper- ate power on the absolute and excessive principle. They opposed, and sometimes with rare intelligence, conservative liberalism to the liberalism which demolishes. They were heard to say : ^^ Thanks for Royalism ! It has reudered more than one service. It has brought back tradition, worship, religion, respect. It is faithful, brave, chivalric, loving, devoted. It has mingled, though witli regret, the secular grandeui-s of the monarchy with the new grandeurs of the nation. Its mistake is not to understand the Revolution, the Empire, glory, liberty, young ideas, young generations, the age. But this mistake which it makes with regaixl to us, — have we not sometimes been guilty of it towards them? The Revolution, whose heirs we are, ought to be inteUigent on all points. To attack Royal* ism is a misconstiiiction of liberalism. What an error I And what blindness ! Revolutionary France is wanting in respect towards historic France, that is to say, towards its mother, that is to say, towards itself. After the ôth of September, the no- bilit}' of the monarchy is treated as the nobility of the Empire was treated after the 8th of July. They were unjust to the eagle, we are unjust to the fleui-de-lys. It seems that we must always have something to proscribe ! Does it serve any pur- pose to ungild the crown of Louis XIV., to scrape the coat of arms of Henry IV. ? We 'scoflF. at M. de Vaublanc for eras* ing the N*s from the bridge of Jena ! What was it that he did ? What are we doing? Bouvines belongs to us as well as Maren- go. The fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the N's. That is our patrimony. To what pur|x>se shall we dimhiish it? We roust not deny our country in the past any more tlian in the present. Why not accept the whole of history? Why not love the whole of France? It is thus that the doctrinarians criticised and protected Royal* ism, which was displeased at criticism and furious at proteo* tion. The ultras marked the first eix>ch of Royalism, congregation Digitized by Google MARIVS. ^h characterized the second. Skill foUows ardor. Let us eonftue ourselves here to this sketch. In the course of this narrative, the author of this book has encountered in his path this curious moment of contetnporar}' history ; he has been forced to cast a passing glance upon it, and to trace once more some of the singular features of this society which is unknown to-day. But he does it rapidly and without any bitter or derisive idea. Souvenirs both respectful and affectionate, for they touch his mother, attach him to- this past. Moreover, let us remark, this same pett3* world had a grandeur of its own. One may smile at it, but one can neither despise nor hate it. It was the France of former days. Marius Pontmercy pursued some studies, as all children do. When he emerged from the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his grandfather confided him to a worthy professor of the most purely classic innocence. This young soul which was expand- ing passed from a prude to a vulgar pedant. Marius went through his 3'ears of college, then he entered the law school. He was a Royalist, fanatical and severe. He did not love his grandfather much, as the latter*s gayety and cyni- cism repelled him, and his feelings towards his father were gloomy. He was, on the whole, a cold and ardent, noble, generous, proud, religious, enthusiastic lad ; dignified to harshness, pure to shyness. IV. — End op the Bbioand* The conclusion of Marius' classical studies coincided with M. Gillenormand's departure from society. The old man bade farewell to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and to Madame de T. 's salon, and established himself in the Marais, in his house of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. There he had for servants, in ad- dition to the porter, that chambermaid, Nicolette, who had suc- ceeded to Magnon, and that short-breathed and pursy Basque, who have been mentioneed this name : Monsieur Mabettf^ warden. Mass had hardlj' begun wher ao old man presented himself and said to Marius : — Digitized by Google M A RI us. 49 •* This -8 my place, sir." Marius stepped aside promptly, and the old man took posses* Bion of his chair. The mass concluded, Marins still stood thoughtfully a few paces distant; the old man approached him again and daid : — *' I beg your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you awhile dgo, and for again disturbing you at this moment ; you must bave thought me intrusive, and I will explain myself." ^' There is no need of that, sir," said Marius. '* Yes ! " went on the old man, " I do not wish you to have a bad opinion of me. You see, I am attached to this place. It seems to me that the mass is better from here. Why ? I will tell you. It is from this place, that I have watched a poor, brave father come regularly, every two or three months, for the last ten years, since he had no other opportunity and no other way of seeing his child, because he was prevented by family arrangements. He came at the hour when he knew that his son would be brought to mass. The little one never suspected that his father was there. Perhaps he did not even know that he had a father, poor innocent ! The father kept behind a pillar, so that he might not be seen. He gazed at his child and he wept. He adored that little fellow, poor man ! I could see that. This spot has become sanctified in my sight, and I have contracted a habit of coming hither to listen to the mass. I prefer it to the stall to which I have a right, in my capacity of warden. I knew that unhappy gentleman a little, too. He had a father* in*law, a wealthy aunt, relatives,* I don't know exactly what all, who threatened to disinherit the child if he, the father, saw him. He sacnficed himself in order that his son might be rich and happy some day. He was separated from him because of political o[>inions. Certainly, I approve of political opinions, but there are jjeople who do not know where to stop. Mon Dieu ! a man is not a monster because he was at Waterloo ; a father is not separated from his child for such a reason as that. He was one of Bonaparte's colonels. lie is dead, I believe He lived at Vernon, where I have a brother who is a curé, and his name was something like Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had a fine sword-cut, on my honor." *'Pontmercy,** suggested Marius, turning pale. " Precisely, Pontmercy. Did you know him? •* " Sir," said Marius, '' he was ray father." The old warden clasped his hands and exclaimed : — '^Ah I you are the child 1 Yes, that's true, he must be a man Digitized by Google MîU'ius offered his arm to the old man and conducted him to his lodgings. On the following day, he said to M. Gillenormand : — " I have arranged a huu ting-party with some friends. Will you permit me to be absent for three days ? " **Four!" replied his grandfather. *'Go and amuse your- self." And he said to his daughter in a low tone, and with a wiukv ** Some love affair I " VI. — The Consequences of having met a Warden. Where it was that Marius went will be disclosed a little further on. Marius was absent for three days, then he returned to Paria, went straight to the library of the law-school aud asked for the files of the Moniteur, He read the Moniteur^ he read all the histories of the Repub- lic and the Empire, the Memorial de Sainte- Hélène^ all the memoirs, all the newspapers, the bulletins, the proclamations ; he devoured everything. The first time that he came aci-oss his father's name in the bulletins of the grand army, he had a fever for a week. He went to see the generals under whom Georges Pcntmercy had served, among others. Comte H. Church- warden Mabeuf, whom he went to see again, told him about the life at Vernon, the colonel's retreat, his flowers, his solitude. Marius came to a full knowledge of that rare, sweet, and sublime man, that species of lion-lamb who had been his father. In the meanwhile, occupied as he was with this study which absorbed all his moments as well as his thoughts, he hardly saw the Gillenormands at all. He made his api>earance at meals; then they searched for him, and he was not to be found. Father Gillenormand smiled. ''Bah! bah! He is just of the age for the girls!" Sometimes the old man added : ''The deuce! I thouo^ht it was only an affair of gallantry. It seems that it is an affair of passion ! " It was a passion, in fact. Marius was on the high road to adoring his father. At the same time, his ideas underwent an extraordinary change. Tlie phases of this change were numerous and suc- cessive. As this is the history of many minds of our day, we V dme, before the justice, the love of his son hiicl come to him? Marius had a continual sob in his heart, which said to him every moment: "Alas!" At the same time, he became more truly serious, mo|:e truly grave, more sure of his tliought and his faith. At each instant, gleams of the true came to com- plete his reason. An inward growth seemed to be in progress witliin him. He was conscious of a sort of natural enlarge- ment, which gave him two things that were new to him — his father and his country. As everything opens when one has a key, so he explained to himself that which he had hated, he penetrated that which he bad abhorred ; henceforth he plainly perceived the providential, divine and human sense of the great things which he had been taught to detest, and of tlie great men whom he had been in- structed to curse. When he reflected on his former opinions, which were but those of yesterday, and which, nevertheless, seemed to him already so very ancient, he grew indignant, yet he smiled. From the rehabilitation of his father, he naturally passed to the rehabilitation of Napoleon. But the latter, we will confess, was not effected withoat tabor. From his infancy, he had been imbued with the judgments of the party of 1814, on Bonaparte. Now, all the prejudices of the Restoration, all its interests, all its instincts tended to dis- figure Napoleon. It execrated him even more than it did Robes- pierre. It had very cleverly turned to sufficiently gopd account the fatigue of the nation, and the hatred of mothers. Bona- parte had become an almost fabulous monster, and in oixier to paint him to the imagination of the people, which, as we lately pointed out, resembles the imagination of children, the part}* of 1814 made him appear under all sorts of terrifying masks \l succession, from that which is terrible though it remains grandi- ose to that which is terrible and becomes grotesque, from Tibe- dus to the bugaboo. Thus, in speaking of Bonaparte, one was free to sob or to puff up with laughter, provided Ôiat hatred lay at the bottom. Marius had never entertained — about that 7nan, as he was called — any other ideas in his mind. They had combined with the tenacity which existed in his nature. Tber« wus in him a headstrong little man who hated Napoleon. On reading history, on studying him, espociall}' in the docu- ments and materials for history, the veil which concealed Napo \ glimpse of something immense, and he suspected that he had been deceived up to that moment, on the score of Bonaparte aa about all the rest ; each day he saw more distinctly ; and be set about mounting, slowly, step by step, almost regretfully in the beginning, then with intoxication and as though attracted bj an irresistible fascination, first the sombre steps, then the vaguely illuminated steps, at last the luminous and splendid steps of enthusiasm. One night, he was alone in his little chamber near the roof. His candle was burning ; he was reading, with his elbows rest- ing on his table close to the open window. All sorts of reveries reached him from space, and mingled with his thoughts. What a «poetacle is tlit: iii^dit ! One liuur.s dull sinnuls, without knowing whence they pioeeed ; one bchuUls »hj[iilci% nhicli is twelve hundred times k^rger tliaii tlie earth, glowirim^ like a fire- brand, the azure is black, the stars shine ; it is t'ormidable. He WHS pt^rnsing the bulletins of the gnimi nnny, Lliuso heroic strophob penned on the field of battle ; t fie re, at intervals, fm beheld liis father*B name, alwaya the name uf the Emiieror; Uie whole of that great Empire prei^eiited itself tu hiiu ; he felt a flixxl swelfiug and rising witliin him ; it j^eeitiiHl to him at mo- ments that tiis fîither passed elose to him like a breath, and whispered in his ear ; he f^nulually got into a siii^^idar state ; he thoiigiït til Ht fie heard drnnis, cannon, trumpets, the measured tread of liattalions, the dull and dist;\ut gallop of the cavalry; from time to time, his eyes were raised heaveïiward, aiid gazrd ujM>n the colossal eonstcliations as they gleamed in the measure- less ilcpths of Bpaee, then they fell upon his book once more, and tficre they beheld utlrer colossaf things moving confusedly. His heart contracted within him. He was in a trans(Mirl, trem- bling, panthig. All at ouee, without liimself knowing wfiat vvaa in ffim, and wtial iuipulse he wîis ofjcyiug, ht^ wpraug to fiis feet, stretctied fioth arms out of t!ie window, gazetl intently iiilu the ^loom, the silence, the infinite darknees, the eternal humcnsity, and exclaimed : ** Long live the Emperor ! " From that moment forth, all was over; the Ogre of Corsica, ^the UMuriJcr, ^ — the tyrant^ — tiie iuonRter wfio was the lover of hLs own sisters, — the aetor who took lei>suns of Talma, — the poisoner of Jaffa, — the tiger, — liiioua[tarte, — all this van- ished, aticl gave place in fiis mind to a vague and briltiant racïi anee in which sfionr, at an inacecHsihfc heif^fit, th*' p!ile mai hfe plmntom of Caesar, Tlie Kmpernr had tieen f't)r his father «»nl> the well-beloved captain wbom one admires, for whom one tao predestined constructor of tlie l spread, but not defiantly, the great-coat and the black ribbon. ** I like this better," said M. Gillenormand. And a moment later, he made his entrance into the salon, where Mademoiselle Gillenormand was already seated, busily embroidering her cart-wheels. The entrance was a triumphant one. M. Gillenormand held in one hand the great-coat, and in the other the neck-ribbon, and exclaimed ; — "Victory! We are about to penetrate the mystoiy! We ftre going to learn the most minute details ; we are going to lay owr finger on the debaucheries of our sly friend ! Here we have the romance itself. 1 have the portrait ! " In fact, a case of black shagreen, resembling a medallion poi-trait, was suspended from the ribbon. The old man took this case and gazed at it for some tims Digitized by Google 62 LES MISERABLES. without opening it, with that air of enjoyment, rapture, and wrath, with which a poor hungry fellow beholde an. admirable dinner which is not for him, pass under his very nose. ^^For this evidently is a poilrait. I know all about such things. That is worn tenderly on the heart. How stupid thej are ! Some abominable fright that will make us shudder, prob- ably ! Young men have such bad taste nowadays ! " ^^ Let us see, father," said the old spinster. The case opened by the pressure of a spring. They found in it nothing but a carefully folded paper. ^^ From the same to the same," said M. Gillenormand, bursting with laughter. " I know what it is. A billet-doux.' ^^ Ah ! let us read it ! *' said the aunt. And she put on her spectacles. They unfolded the papei and read as follows : — ^^ For my soji. — The Emperor made me a Baron on the battle- field of Waterloo. Since thg Restoration disputes my right tc this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of course.*' The feelings of father and daughter cannot be dcscribei). They felt chilled as by the breath of a death's-head. They did not exchange a word. Only, M. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though speaking to himself : — " It is the slasher's handwriting." The aunt examined the paper, turned it about in all direc- tions, then put it back in its case. At the same moment, a little oblong packet, envelopeti in blue paper, fell from one of the pockets of tlie great-coal. Mademoiselle Gillenormand picked it up and unfold^ the blue paper. It contained Marius' hundred cards. She handed one of them to M. Gillenormand, who read : Le Baron Mantis Pout mercy. The old man rang the bell. Nicolette came. M. Gillenor mand took the ribbon, the case, and the coat, flung them all on the floor in the middle of the room, and said : — *' Carry those duds away." A full hour passed in the most profound silence. The old man and the old spinster had seated themselves with their backs to each other, and were thinking, each on his own account, the same things, in all probability. At the expiration of this hour, Aunt Gillenormand said: — •' A pretty state of things ! " Digitized by Google MARI us. 61 A few moments later, Marius made his appearance. He entered. Even before !2c had crossed the thresliold he saw his grandfather holding one of his own cards in his hand, and oo catching sight of him, the latter exclaimed with his air of bour- geois and grinning superiority which was something crushing : -^ *'Well! well! well! well! well! so 3'ou are a baron now. I present you my compliments. What is the meaning of this? " Marius reddened slightly and replied : — *' It means that I am the son of my father." M. Gillenormand ceased to laugh, and said harshly : ~ *' I am your father." '^My father," retorted Marius, with downcast eyes and a severe air, ^^was a humble and heroic man, who served the Republic and France gloriously, who was great in the greatest history that men have ever made, who lived in the bivouac for a quarter of a century, beneath grape-shot and bullets, in snow and mud by day, beneath rain at night, who captured two flags, who received twenty wounds, who died forgotten and aban- doned, and who never committed but one mistake, which was to love too fondly two ingrates, his country and myself." This was more than M. Gillenormand could bear to hear. At the woixl republic, he rose, or, to speak more correctly, he sprang to his feet. Every word that Marina had just uttered produced * on the visage of the old Royalist the eiTsct of the putfs of air from a forge upon a blazing brand. From a dull hue he had turned red, from red, purple, and from purple, flame-colored. "Marius! "he cried. ''Abominable child! I do not know what your father was ! I do not wish to know ! I know aotb- ing about that, and I do not know him ! Hut what I do know is, that there never was anything but scoundrels among those men ! They were all rascals, assassins, red-caps, thieves ! I say all ! I say all ! I know not one ! I say all ! Do you hear me, Marius ! See here, 3*ou are no more a baron tlian my slipper is ! They were all bandits in the service of Robespierre ! All who served B-û-o-naparté were brigands ! They were all traitors who betrayed, betrayed, betrayed tlieir legitimate king ! All cow- ards who fled before the Prussians and the English at Waterloo ! That is what I do know ! Whether monsieur 3'our father comes in that category, I do not know ! I am soitj' for it. so much the worse, your humble servant ! " In his turn, it was Marius who was the firebrand and M. Gillenormand who was the bellows. Marius quivered in every limb, he did not know what would iiappen next, his brain was on flire. He was the priest who beholds all his sacred wafers Digitized by Google M LES MISÉRABLES. « cast to the winds, the fakir who beholds a passer-by spit apoo his idol. It could not be that such things had been uttered ii his presence. What was he to do ? His father had just been trampled under foot and stamped upon in his presence, but bj whom? B}' his grandfather. How was he to avenge. the one without outraging the other ? It was impossible for him to in- sult his grandfather and it was equally impossible for him to leave his father unavenged. On the one hand was a sacred grave, on the other hoary locks. He stood there for several moments, staggering as thoagh intoxicated, with all this whirlwind dashing through his head ; then he raised his eyes, gazed fixedly at his grandfather, and cried in a voice of thunder : — ^^ Down with the Bourbons, and that great hog of a Louis XVIII. ! " Louis XVIII. had been dead for four years ; bat it was all the same to him. The old man, who had been crimson, turned whiter than his hair. He wheeled round towards a bust of M. le Duc de Berry, which stood on the chimney-piece, and made a profound bow, with a sort of peculiar majesty. Then he paced twice, slowly and in silence, from the fireplace to the window and from tbt window to the fireplace, traversing the whole length of tb« room, and making the polished floor creak as though he had been a stone statue walking. On his second turn, he bent over his daughter, who was watching this encounter with the stupefied air of an antiquated Iamb, and said to her with a smile that was almost calm : ^' A baron like this gentleman, and a bourgeois like myself cannot remain under the same roof." And drawing himself up, all at once, pallid, trembling, terrible, with his brow rendered more lofty by the terrible radiance of wrath, he extended his arm towards Marius and shouted to him: — "Be off!" Marius left the house. On the following day, M. Gillenormand said to his daughter : — *^ You will send sixty pistoles every six months to that blood» drinker, and you will never mention his name to me." Having an immense reserve fund of wrath to get rid of, and not knowing what to do with it, he continued to address hia daughter as you instead of tkou for the next three months. Marius, on his side, had gone forth in indignation. There was one circumstance which, it must be admitted, aggravated Digitized by Google MARIUS. 6S His exasperation. There are always petty fatalities of the sort wliich complicate domestic dramas. They augment the griev- ances in such cases, although, in reality, the wrongs are not increased by them. While carrying Marins' "duds" precipi- tately to his chamber, at his grandfather* s command, Nicolette had, inadvertently, let fall, probably, on the attic staircase, which was dark, that medallion of black shagreen which con- tained the paper penned by the colonel. Neither paper nor case could afterwards be found. Marins was convinced that ** Monsieur Gillenorraand" — from that day forth he never al- luded to him otherwise —;- had flung "his father's testament" in the fire. He knew by heart the few lines which the colonel had written, and, consequently, nothing was lost. But the paper, the writing, that sacred relic, — all that was his very heart. What had been done with it? Marius had taken his departure without saying whither he was going, and without knowing where, with thirty francs, his watch, and a few clothes in a hand-bag. He had entered a hackney coach, had engaged it by the hour, and had directed his course at hap-liazaid towards tlie Latin quarter. What was to become of Marius? BOOK FOURTH. — THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC I. — A Group which barely missed becoming Historic. At that epoch, which was, to all appearances indifferent, a certain revolutionar}' quiver was vaguely current. Hreatlis wliich had started forth from the dcptlis of '89 and '93 were in the air. Youth was on the point, may the reader pardon us the word, of moulting. People were undergoing a transformation, almost without being conscious of it, through the movement of the age. The needle which moves round the compass also moves in souls. Each person was taking that step in advance which he was bound to take. The royalists were becoming liberals, liberals were turning democrats. It was a flood tide complicated with a thousand ebb movements ; the peculijirity of ebbs is to create intermixtures ; hence the combination of very singular ideas ; people adored both Napoleon and liberty. We arc making history here. These were the mirages of that period. Opinions traverse phases. Voltairian royalism, a Digitized by Google 66 LES MISÉRABLES. qaaint variety, had a no less singular sequel, Bonapartist lib- eralism. Other groups of minds were more serious. In that direction^ they sounded principles, they attaclied themselves to the right. They grew enthusiastic for the absolute, they caught glimpses of infinite realizations ; the absolute, by its very rigidity, urges spirits towards the sky and causes them to float in illimitable space. There is nothing like dogma for bringing forth dreams. And there is nothing like dreams for engendering the future. Utopia to-day, flesh and blood to-morrow. These advanced opinions had a double foundation. A begin- ning of mystery menaced *' the established order of things," which was suspicious and underhand. A sign which was revo- lutionary to the highest degree. The second tlioughts of power meet the second thoughts of the populace in the mine. The in- cubation of insurrections gives the retort to the premeditation of coups d*état. There did not, as yet, exist in France, any of those vast underlying organizations, like the German tngendhund and Ital- ian Carbonarism ; but here and there, there were dark under- minings, which were in process of throwing off shoots. The Oougourde was being outlined at Aix ; there existed at Paris, among other affiliations of that nature, the society of the Friends of the A B C. What were these Friends of the ABC? A society which had for its object apparently the education of children, in real- ity the elevation of man. They declared themselves the Friends of the ABC, — the Abaissé^ — the debased,» — that is to say, the people. They wished to elevate the people. It was a pun which we should do wrong to smile at. Puns are sometimes serious factore m poli- tics ; witness the Castratus ad castra^ which made a general of the army of Narses ; witness : Barbari et Barberini; witness : 2V es Peti-us et super hanc petram^ etc., etc. The Friends of the ABC were not numerous, it was a secret society in the state of embryo, we might almost say a coterie, if coteries ended in heroes. They assembled at Paris in two localities, near the fish-market, in a wine-shop called ConiUhe^ of which more will be heard later on, and near the Pantheon in a little café in the Rue Saint-Michel called the Café Musain^ now torn down ; tlie first of these meeting-places was close to the workingman, the second to the students. The assemblies of the Friends of the ABC were usually held in a back room of the Café Musain. Digitized by Google MAttWS. 67 This hall, which was tolerablj remote from the cafe, with which it was couaected by an extremely long corridor, had two windows and an exit witti a private stairway on the little Rue des Grès. There they smoked and drank, and gambled and laughed. There they conversed in very loud tones about every- thing, and in whispers of other things. An old map of France ander the Republic was nailed to the wall, — a sign quite suffi- cient to excite the suspicion of a police agent. The greater part of the Friends of the A B C were students, who were on cordial terms with the working classes. Here are the names of the principal ones. They belong, in a certain measure, to history: Enjolras, Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Lesgle or Laigle, Joly, Grantaire. These young men formed a sort of family, through the bond of friendship. All, with the exception of Laigle, were from the South. This was a remarkable group. It vanished in the invisible depths which lie behind us. At the point of this drama which we have now reached, it will not perhaps be supei^uous to throw a ray of light upon these youthful heads, before the reader beholds them plunging into the shadow of a tragic ad- venture. Enjolras, whose name we have mentioned first of all, — the reader shall see why later on, — was an only son and wealthy. Enjolras was a charming 3'ouug man, who was capable of being terrible. He was angelically handsome. He was a sav- age Antinous. One would have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some pre- vious state of existence, traversed the*revolutionary apocalypse. He possessed the tradition of it as though he had been a wit* ness. He was acquainted with all the minute details of the great affair. A pontifical and warlike nature, a singular thing in a 3'outh. He was an officiating priest and a man of war; from the immediate point of view, a soldier of the democracy ; above the contemporary movement, the priest of the ideal. His eyes were deep, his lids a little red, his lower lip was thick and easily became disdainful, his brow was lofty. A great deal of brow in a face is like a great deal of horizon in a view. Like certain young men at the beginning of this century and the end of the last, who became illustrious at an early age, he was endowed with excessive youth, and was as rosy as a young girl, althongh subject to hours of pallor. Already a man, be stiU seemed a child. His two and twenty years appeared to be but seventeen ; he was serious, it did not secro) \w t\\\y^\ b.e wece Digitized by Google one j)a88ioii — the right ; but one thought — to overthrow the obstacle. On Mount Aventine, he would have been Gracchus ; in the Convention, he would have been Saint-Just. He bardl; saw the roses, he ignored spring, he did not hear the earollÎDg of the birds ; the bare throat of Evadne would have moved him no raore than it would have moved Aristogeiton ; he, like Har- modius, thought flowers good for nothing except to conceal the sword. He was severe in his enjoyments. He chastely dropped his eyes before everything which was not the Republic. He was the marble lover of liberty. His speech was harshly inspired, and had the thrill of a hymn. He was subject to unex- pected outbursts of soul. Woe to the love-aflPair which shoald have risked itself beside him ! If any grisette of the Place Cambrai or the Rue Saint- Jean-de-Beau vais, seeing that face of a youth esea|ied from college, that page's mien, those long, golden lashes, those blue eyes, that hair billowing in the wind, those rosy cheeks, those fresh lips, those exquisite teeth, had conceived an appetite- for that complete aurora, and had tried her beauty on Enjolras, an astounding and terrible glance would have promptly shown her the abyss, and would have taught her not to confound the mighty cherub of Ezekiel with the gallaut Chenibino of Beaumarchais. By the side of Enjolras, who represented the logic of the Rev- olution, Combefcrre re[)re6onte, that was the exact effect of their different shades. Combeferre was as gentle as Enjolras was severe, through nat- ural whiteness. He loved the word citizen^ but he preferred the word man. He would gladly have said: Hombrej like the MARIUS, 69 Spanish. He read everything, went to the theatres, attended the courses of public lecturers, learned the polarization of light from Arago, grew enthusiastic over a lesson in which Geoffroy Sainte-Hilaire explained the double function of the external carotid artery, and the internal, the one which makes the face, and the one which makes the brain ; he kept up with what was going on, followed science step by step, compared Saint-Simon with Fourier, deciphered hieroglyphics, broke the pebble which he found and reasoned on geology, drew from memory a silk- worm moth, pointed out the faulty French in the Dictionary of the Academy, studied Puységur and Deleuze, affirmed nothing, not even miracles ; denied nothing, not even ghosts ; turned over the files of the Moniteur^ reflected. He declared that the future lies in the hand of the schoolmaster, and busied himself with educational questions. He desired that society should labor without relaxation at the elevation of the moral and intel- lectual level, at coining science, at putting ideas into circulation, at increasing the mind in youthful persons, and he feared lest the present poverty of method, the paltriness from a literary point of view confined to two or three centuries called classic, the tyrannical dogmatism of official pedants, scholastic preju- dices and routines should end by converting our colleges into artificial oyster beds. He was learned, a purist, exact, a grad* uate of the Polytechnic, a close student, and at the same time, thoughtful *' even to chimœras," so his friends said. He be- lieved in all dreams, railroads, the suppression of suffering in chirurgical operations, the fixing of images in the dark chamber» the electric telegraph, the steering of balloons. Moreover, he was not much alarmed by the citadels erected against the hu- man mind in every direction, b}' superstition, despotism, and prejudice. He was one of those who think that science will eventually turn the position. Enjolras was a cliief, Combeferre was a guide. One would have liked to fight under the one and io march behind the other. It is not that Combeferre was not capable of fighting, he did not refuse a hand-to-hand combat with the obstacle, and to attack it by main force and explosively ; but it suited him better to bring the human race into accord with its destiny gradually, by means of education, the inculca- tion of axioms, the promulgation of positive laws ; and, between two lights, his preference was rather for illumination than for conflagration. A conflagration can create an aurora, no doubt, but why not await the dawn ? A volcano illuminates, but day- break furnishes a still better illumination. Possibly, Combe- ferre preferred the whiteness of the beautiful to the blaze of the Digitized by Google the death of the game. Such was Feuilly's habitual text. This poor workingmau had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she recompensed him by rendering him great. The fact is, that there is eternity in right. Warsaw can no more b© Tartar than Venice can be Teuton. Kings lose their pains and theu honor in the attempt to make them so. Sooner or later, the submerged part floats to the surface and reappears. Greece becomes Greece again, Italy is once more Italj*. The protest of right against the deed persists forever. The theft of a na- tion cannot be allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds of rascality have no future. A nation cannot have its mark ex- tracted like a i)ocket handkerchief. Courfeyrac had a father who was called M. de Courfeyrac. One of the false ideas of the bourgeoisie under the Restoration as regards aristocracy and the nobility was to believe in the particle. The particle, as every one knows, possesses no sig- nificance. But the bourgeois of the epoch of la Minerve esti- mated so highly that poor de, that they thought themselves bound to abdicate it. Si. de Chauvelin had himself called M. Chauvelin ; M. de Caumartin, M. Caumartin ; M. de Constant de Robecqué, Benjamin Constant ; M. de Lafayette, M. Lafay- ette. Courfeyrac had not wished to remain behind the rest, and called himself plain Courfeyrac. We might almost, so far as Courfeyrac is concerned, stop here, and confine ourselves to saying with regard to what re- mains : " For Courfeyrac, see Tholomyès." . Courfeyrac had, in fact, that animation of youtli which may be called the beauté du diable of the mind. Later on, this dis- appears like the playfulness of the kitten, and all this grace ends, with the bourgeois, on two legs, and with the tomcat, ou four paws. This sort of wit is transmitted from generation to generation of the successive levies of youth who traverse the schools, who pass it from hand to hand, quasi cursores^ and is almost always exactly the same ; so that, as we have just pointed out, any one who had listened to Courfeyrac in 1828 would have thought he heard Tholomyès in 1817. Only, Courfeyrac was an honorable fellow. Beneatli the apparent similarities of the exterior mind, the difference between him and Tholomyès was very great. The latent man which existed in the two was totally different in the first from whîit it was in the second. There was in Thol- omyès a district attorney, and in Courfeyrac a paladin. I lou wsK» ttic ijcuuu. J. uv; v^tucis ^u.v^ uiwii; itgiiii, iii; aucvi luwit» warmth ; the truth is, that he possessed all the qualities of a centre, roundness and radiance. Bahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June, 1822, on the occasion of the burial of young Lallemand. Bahorel was a good-natured mortal, who kept bad company, brave, a spendthrift, prodigal, and to the verge of generosity, talkntive, and at times eloquent, bold to the verge of effrontery ; the best fellow possible ; he had daring waistcoats, and scarlet opinion» ; a wholesale blusterer, that is to say, loving nothing so much as a quarrel, unless it were an uprising ; and nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were a revolution ; always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the pavement, then to demolish a government, just to see the effect of it ; a student ini his eleventh year. He had nosed about the law but did not prac- tise it. He had taken for his device : " Never a lawyer," and for his armorial bearings a nightstand in which was visible a square cap. Every time that he passed the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned up his frock-coat, — the paletot had not yet been invented, — and took h^^gienic precautions. Of the school porter he said : " What a fine old man ! " and of the dean, M. Delvincourt : " What a monument ! " In his lectures he espied subjects for ballads, and in his professors occasions for caricature. He wasted a tolerably large allowance, some- thing like three thousand francs a year, in doing nothing. He had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue with respect for their son. He said of them: " They are peasants and not bourgeois; that is the reason they are intelligent." Bahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous cafés ; the others had habits, he had none. He sauntered. To Btray is human. To saunter is Parisian. In reality, he had a penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to new. He served as a connecting link between the Friends of the ABC and other still unorganized groups, which were destined to take form later on. In this conclave of young heads, there was one bald member. The Marquis d*Avaray, whom I^uis XVIII. made a duke /or having assisted him to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated, was wont to relate, that in 1814, on his re* turn to France, as the King was disembarking at Calais, a man banded him a petition. "' oire, a posi-ouice. " What is your name? *' *' L'Aigle." The King frowned, glanced at the signature of the pétition And beheld the name written thus : Lesgle. This non-B<>no< parte orthography touched tlie King and he began to smile. '' Sire," resumed the man with the petition, '' I had for an- cestor a keeper of the hounds surnamcd Lcsgueules. This surname furnished my name. I am called lcsgueules, by con- traction Lesgle, and by corruption TAigle." This caused the King to smile broadly. Later on he gave the man the posting office of Moaux, either intentionally or accidentally. The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle, or Légle, and he signed himself, Légle [de Meaux]. As an abbreviation, his companions called him Bossuet. Bossuet was a gay but unlucky fellow. His specialty was not to succeed in anything. As an offset, he laughed at every- thing. At five and twenty he was bald. His father had ended by owning a house and a field ; but he, the son, had made haste to lose that house and field in a bad speculation. He had notlîing left. He possessed knowledge and ?nt, but all he did miscarried. Everything failed him and everyboi saspected, with uneasiness, and without daring to avow it. ta himself, that he was not. The angle at which he saw every* thing began to be displaced anew. A certain oscillation set aU the horizons of his brains in motion. An odd internal upsetting. He almost suffered from it. It seemed as though there were no '^ consecrated things** fof those young men. Marins heard singular propositions on every %OTi of subject, which embarrassed his still timid mind. A theatre poster presented itself, atiorned with the title of a tragedy from the ancient repertory called classic: " Down with tragedy dear to the bourgeois ! " cried Bahorel. And Marius beard Combef erre reply : — '*You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy, and the bourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score. Be« wigged tragedy has a reason for its existence, and I am not one of those who, by order of JEschylus, contest its right to exists ence. There are rough outlines in nature ; there are, in créa* tion, ready-made parodies ; a beak which is not a beak, wings which are not wings, gills which are not gills, paws which are not paws, a cry of pain which arouses a desire to laugh, there is the duck. Now, since poultry exists b}' the side of the bird, I do not see why classic tragedy should not exist in the face of antique tragedy." Or chance decreed that Marius should traverse Rue Jeaii- Jacques liousseau between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac took his arm : — *' Pay attention. This is the Rue Plâtrière, now called Rao Jean- Jacques Rousseau, on account of a singular household which lived in it sixty years ago. This consisted of Jean- Jacques and Thérèse. From time to time, little beings were born there. Thérèse gave birth to them, Jean-Jacques repre- sented them as foundlings." And Enjolras addressed Courfeyrac roughly: — '* Silence in the presence of Jean -Jacques ! I admire that man* He denied his own children, that may be ; but he adopted the people.** Not one of these young men articulated the word : The Em- peror. Jean Prouvaire alone sometimes said Napoleon ; all the others said "Bonaparte." Enjolras pronounced it ^^Buoni^ parte." Marius was vaguely surprised. Initium sapientiœ. Digitized by Google MARWa. 83 nr. — Thb Back Room or tbb Café Musaih. Oms of the conversations among the young men, at whica êiarius was present and in which he sometimes joined, was a veritable shock to his mind. This took place in the back room of the Café Musain. Nearly ill the Friends of the A B C had convened that evening. The argund lamp was solemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another, without passion and with noise. With the exception of £njolras and Marins, who held their peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hnzard. Conversations between com* rades sometimes are subject to these peaceable tumults. It was a game and an uproar as much as a conversation. They tossed words to each other and caught them up in turn. They wer9 chattering in all quarters. No woman was admitted to this back room, except Louison the dish-washer of the café, who passed through it from time ti* time, to go to her washing in the ^^avatory." Gran taire, thoroughly drunk, was deafening the corner o» which he had taken possession, reasoning and contradicting n< the top of his Inngs^ and shouting : — ^* I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming : tiiat the tun ol* Heidelberg has an attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the dozen leeches which will be applied to it. I want a drink. I desire to forget life. Life is a hideous invention of I know no^ whom. It lasts no time at all, and is worth nothing. One breaks one's neck in living. Life is a theatre set in which there are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an antique reliquary painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says: 'All is vanity.' I agree with that good man, who never existed, perhaps. Zero not wishing to go stark naked, clothed himself In vanity. O vanity ! The patching up of everything with big words ! a kitchen is a laboratory-, a dancer is a professor, an su;robat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist, an apothecary is A chemist, a wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an architect, a Jockey is a six)rtsman, a wood-louse is a pterigybranche. Vanity has a right and a wrong side ; the right side is stupid, it is the negro with his glass beads ; the wrong side is foolish, it is the philosopher with his rags. I weep over the one and I laugh over the other. What are called honors and dignities, and even dignity and honor, are generally of pinchbeck. Kings make playthings of human pride. Caligula made a horse a consul { Charles II. made a knight of a sirloin. Wr:ip yourself up now* Digitized by Google 14 LES MISÉRABLES. iheD, between Consul Incitatus and Baronet Roastbeef. As for the intrinsic value of people, it is no longer respectable in the least. Listen to the panegyric which neighbor makes of neighbor. White on white is ferocious ; if the lily could speak, what a setting down it would give the dove ! A bigoted woman prating of a devout woman is more venomous than the asp and the cobra. It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things; but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty ; when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched little pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples ; rapin ' is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself ; as for the rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at your perfections, excellences, and qualities. Every good quality tends towards a defect ; economy borders on avarice, the generous man is next door to the prodigal, the brave man i*ubs elbows with the braggart; he who says very pious says a trifle bigoted ; there are just as many vices in virtue as there are holes in Diogenes' cloak. Whom do yoa admire, the slam or the slayer, Caesar or Brutus? Generally men are in favor of the slayer. Long live Brutus, he has slain ! There lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but madness also. There are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who killed Caesar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue was from the hand of tlie Greek sculptor Strongylion, who also carved that figure of an Amazon known as tbe Beaati* f ul Leg, Ëucnemos, which Nero carried with him in his travels. This Strongylion left but two statues which placed Nero and Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with the one, Nero with the other. All history is nothing but wearisome répétition* One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of Marengo copies the battle of Pydua; the Tolbiac of Clovis and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are as like each other as two drops of water. I don't attach much imix>rtance to victory. Nothing is so stupid as to conquer ; true glory lies in convinc- ing. But try to prove something! If you are content with success, what mediocrity, and with conquering, what wretcbed- ness! Alas, vanity and cowardice everywhere. Everything obeys success, even grammar. Si volet usus^ says Horace. Therefore I disdain the human race. Shall we descend to the party at all? Do you wish me to begin admiring the peoples? what people, if you please? Shall it be Greece? The Athenians, those Parisians of days gone by, slew Phocion, as we might say Coligny, and fawned upon tyrants to such an ex- 1 The BUng term for a painter's aBsistant Digitized by Google MA RI us. 86 tent that AnaoephoniB said of Pisistratus : '* His nrine attracte the bees." The most prominent man in Greece for filly years was that grammarian Philetas, who was so small and so thin Ihat he was obliged to load his shoes with lead in order not to Je blown away by the wind. There stood on the great square in Corinth a statue carved by Silanion and catalogued by Pliny ; this statue represented Episthates. What did Episthates do? He invented a trip. That sums up Greece and glory. Let us pass on to others. Shall I admire England? Shall I admire France ? France ? Why ? Because of Paris ? I have just told you my opinion of Athens. England ? Why ? Because of Lon- don? I hate Carthage. And then, London, the metropolis of luxury, is the headquarters of wretchedness. There are a hun- dred deaths a year of hunger in the parish of Charing-Cross alone. Such is Albion. I add, as the climax, that I have seen an Englishwoman dancing in a wreath of roses and blue spec- tacles. A fig then for England ! If I do not admire John Bull, shall I admire Brother Jonathan? I have but little taste for that slaveholding brother. Take away Time is money, what remains of England ? Take away Cotton is king, what remains of America? Germany is the lymph, Italy is the bile. Shall we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire admired it. He also admired China. I admit that Russia has its beauties, among others, a stout despotism; but I pity the despots. Their health is delicate. A decapitated Alexis, a poignarded Peter, a strangled Paul, another Paul crushed flat with kicks, divers Ivans strangled, with their throats cut, numerous Nicho- lases and Basils poisoned, all this indicates that the palace of the Emperors of Russia is in a condition of flagrant insalubrity. All civilized peoples offer this detail to the admiration of the thinker ; war ; now, war, civilized war, exhausts and sums up all the forms of ruffianism, from the brigandage of the Trabuce- ros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa to the marauding of the Co- manche Indians in the Doubtful Pass. ^ Bah ! ' you will say to me, *• but Europe is certainly better than Asia?' I admit that Asia is a farce; but I do not precisely see what yon find to laugh at in the Grand Lama, yon peoples of the west, who have mingled with your fashions and your elegances all the compli- cated filth of majesty, from the dirty chemise of Queen Isabella to the chamber-chair of the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the human race, I tell you, not a bit of it ! It is at Brussels that the most beer is consumed, at Stockholm the most brandy, at Madrid the most chocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at Ix)ndon the most wine, at Constantinople the most coffee, at Paris the mo«| Digitized by Google 86 LEt^ yflf^HRMU.rf^. absinthe ; there are all the nseful notions. Paris carries tfat day, in short. In Paris, even the r:ig-[)icker8 are sybarites; Diogenes would have loved to be a rag-picker of the Place Mïiubert better than to be a philosopher at the Piraeus. Learn this in addition ; the wineshops of the rag-pickers are called bibines; the most celebrated are the Saucepan and Tfie Slaughter- House. Hence, tea-gardens, goguettes, caboulots, bouibuis, mastroquets, bastringues, manezingnes, bibines of the rag- pickers, caravanseries of the caliphs, I certify to yon, I am a voluptuary, I eat at Richard's at forty sous a head, I must have Persian carpets to roll naked Cleopatra in ! Where is Cleopatra ? Ah ! So it is you, Louison. Good day." Thus did Grantaire, more than intoxicated, launch into speech, catching at tlie dish- washer in her passage, from his corner in the back room of the Café Musain. Bossuet, extending his hand towards him, tried to impose silence on him, and Grantaire began again worse than ever: — " Aigle de Meaux, down with your paws. You produce on me no eflPoct with your gesture of Hippocrates refusing Arta- xorxes' bric-à-brac. Î excuse you from 'the task of soothing me. Moreover, I am sad. What do you wish me to say to you? Man is evil, man is deformed ; the butterfly is a success, man IS a failure. God made a mistiike with that animal. A crowd offers a choice of ugliness. The first comer is a wretch. Femme — woman — rhymes with infâme^ — infamous. Yes, I have the spleen, complicated with melanchol}*, with homesickness, plus hypochondria, and I am vexed and I rage, and I yawn, and I am bored, and I am tired to death, and I am stupid ! Let Grod go to the devil ! " ''Silence then, capital R!" resumed Bossuet, who was dis- cussing a point of law behind the scenes, and who was plunged more than waist high in a phrase of judicial slang, of which this is the conclusion : — " — And as for me, although I am hardly a legist, and at the most, an amateur attorney, I maintain this: that, in accordance with the terms of the customs of Normandy, at Saint-Michel, and for each year, an equivalent must be paid to the profit of the lord of the manor, saving the rights of others, and by all and several, the proprietors as well as those seized with inheritance, and that, for all emphyteuses, leasee, freeholds, contracts of domain, mortgages — " " Echo, plaintive nymph," hummed Grantaire. Near Grantaire, an almost silent table, a Pheet of paper, an inkstand and a pen between two glasses of brandy, announced that a vaudeville was bein£ sketched out Digitized by VjOOQ IC MA1UU8, 8? This great afifair was being discussed in a low vdfce, and the two heads at work touched each other: '' Let us begin by find ing names. When one has the names, one finds th» subject '* ** That is true. Dictate. I will write." * ' Monsieur Dorimon . ' ' ** An independent gentleman?" **Of coarse." ** His daughter, Célestine.*' " — tine. What next?" " Colonel Sainval." ^^ Sain val is stale. I should say Yalsin." Beside the vaudeville aspirants, another group, which was also taking advantage of the uproar to talk low, was discussing a duel. An old follow of thirty was counselling a young one of eighteen, and explaining to him what sort of an adversary be had to deal with. " The deuce ! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swords- man. His play is neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning, a just parade, mathematical parries, bigrel and lie is left-handed." In the angle /)pposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were play- ing dominoes, and talking of love. '' You are in luck, that you ai-e," Joly was saying. " You have a mistress who is alwa3's laughing*" '* That is a fault of hers," returned Bahorel. ''One's mis- tress does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see her gay removes your remorse ; if you see her sad, your conscience pricks you." '' Ingrate ! a woman who laughs is such a good thing ! And you never quarrel ! " *' That is because of the treaty which we have made. On forming our little Holy Alliance we assigned ourselves each our frontier, which we never cross. What is situated on the aide of winter belongs to Vand, on the side of the wind to Gex. Heuce the peace." ** Peace is happiness digesting." *' And yon, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement irith Mamselle — you know whom I mean." *' She sulks at me with cruel patience." ** Yet you are a lover to soften the heart with gauntness." ** Alas ! '• '* In your place, I would let her a^one." ** That is easy enough to say." •* And to do. Is not her name Musichetta?** Digitized by Google 18 bes misérables. **Ye8. Ah! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, vet} jterary, with tiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and ifl white and dimpled, with the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her." ^^ My dear fellow, then in o^ âer to please her, you must be elegant, and produce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair of trousers of double-milled cloth at Staub's. That will assist." '* At what price?" shouted Grantaire. The third corner was delivered up to a poetical discussion» Pagan mythology was giving battle to Christian mythology. The question was about Olympus, whose part was taken by Jean Prouvaire, out of pure romanticism. Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he burst forth, a sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and be was at once both laughing and lyric. *' Let us not insult the gods," said he. " The gods may not have taken their departure. Jupiter does not impress me as dead. The gods are dreams, you say. Well, even in nature, such as it is to-day, after the flight of these dreams, we still find all the grand old pagan myths. Such and such a mountain with the profile of a citadel, like the Vignemale, for example, is still to me the headdress of Cybele ; it has not been proved to me that Pan does not come at night to breathe into the hol- low trunks of the willows, stopping up the holes in turn with his fingers, and I have always believed that lo had something to do with the cascade of Pissevache." In the last corner, they were talking politics. The Charter which had been granted was getting roughly handled. Combe- ferre was upholding it weakly. Courfeyrac was energetically making a breach in it. On the table lay an unfortunate copy of the famous Touquet Charter. Courfeyrac had seized it, and was brandishing it, mingling with his arguments the rattling of this sheet of paper. " In the first place, I won*t have any kings ; if it were only from an economical point of view, I don't want any ; a king is a parasite. One does not have kings gratis. Listen to this : the dearness of kings. At the death of François I., the national debt of France amounted to an income of thirty thousand livres ; at the death of Louis XIV. it was two mil- liards, six hundred millions, at twenty-eight livres the mark, which was equivalent in 1760, according to Desmarets, to fou? milliards, ^ve hundred millions, wliich would to-day be equiva- lent to twelve milliards. In the second place, and no offence to Combeferre, a charter granted is but a poor expedient of civili: Digitized by Google MARIUS. 89 nation. To save the transitioD, to soften the passage, to deaden the shock, to caase the nation to pass insensibly from the mon- archy to democracy by the practice of constitutional fictions, — what detestable reasons all those are ! No ! no ! let ns never enlighten the people with false daylight. Principles dwindle and pale in your constitutional cellar. No illegitimacy, no com- promise, no grant from the king to the people. In aC such grants there is an Article 14. By the side of the hand which gives there is the claw which snatches back. I refuse yoar charter point-Hblank. A charter is a mask ; the lie lurks beneath it. A people which accepts a charter abdicates. The law is only the law when entire. No ! no charter ! " It was winter ; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fire- place. This was tempting, and Courfeyrac could not resist. He crumpled the poor Touquet Charter in his fist, and flung it in the fire. The paper flashed up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis XVIII. bum philosophically, and contented himself with saying : — • '* The charter metamorphosed into flame." And sarcasms, sallies, jests, that French thing which is called entrain^ and that English thing which is called humor, good and bad taste, good and bad reasons, all the wild pyrotechnics of di- alogue, mounting together and crossing from all points of the room, produced a sort of merry bombardment over their heads. V. — Enlargement of Horizon. The shocks of youthful minds among themselves have this admirable property, that one can never foresee the spark, nor divine the lightning flash. What will dart out presently ? No one knows. The burst of laughter starts from a tender feeling. At the moment of jest, the serious makes its entry. Im- pulses depend on the first chance word. The spirit of each is sovereign, jest suffices to open the field to the unezpectec^ These are conversations with abrubt turns, in which the per- jpective changes suddenly. Chance is the stage-manager of such conversations. A severe thought, starting oddly from a clash of words, suddenly traversed the conflict of quips in which Gran taire, Bahorel, Prouvaire, Bossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were oonfusedl}' fencing. How does a phrase crop up in a dialogue ? Whence comes it that it suddenly impresses itself on the attention of those whtf Digitized by Google 90 LES MISÉRABLES. hear it ? We hare just said, that no one knows anything abont it. In the midst of the uproar, Bossuet all at once terminated iome aposti'ophe to Combeferre, with this date: — " June 18tb, 1815 : Waterloo." At this name of Waterloo, Marius, who was leaning his e^« bows on a table, beside a glass of water, removed his wrist from beneath his chin, and began to gaze fixedly at the audience. '* Pardieu 1 " exclaimed Courfeyrac ('' Parbleu " was falling into disuse at this period) , ^' that number 18 is stiange and strikes me. It is Bonaparte's fatal number. . Place Louis in front and Brumaire behind, you have the whole destiny of the man, with this significant peculiarity, that the end treads close on the heels of the commencement." Enjolras, who Imd remained mute up to that point, broke the silence and addressed this remark to CJombeferre : — ^^ You mean to say, the crime and the expiation." Tliis word crime overpassed the measure of what Marius, who was already greatly agitated by the abrupt evocation of Water- loo, could accept. He rose, walked slowly to the map of France spread out on the wall^ and at whose base an island was visible in a separate compartment, laid his finger on this compartment and said : — ^^ Corsica, a little island whieh has rendered France very great." This was like a breath of icy air. All ceased talking. They felt that something was on the point of occurring. Bahorel, replying to Bossuet, was just assuming an attitude of the torso to which he was addicted. He gave it up to listen. Enjolras, whose blue eye was not fixed on any one, and who seemed to be gazing at space, replied, without glancing at Ma- rius : — . "France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great be- cause she is France. Quia nominaleo." Marius felt no desire to retreat ; he turned towards Enjolras, and his voice burst forth with a vibration which came from a quiver of his very being : — " God forbid that I should diminish France ! But amalga- mating Napoleon with her is not diminishing her. Come ! let us ai^ue the question. I am a new comer among you, but 1 will confess that you amaze me. Where do we stand ? Who are we ? Who are you? Who am 1 ? Let us come to an explan- ation about tlie Emperor. I hear you say Buonaparte^ accenting the u like the Royalists. I warn you that my grandfather does better still; he says Buonaparte, I thought you were yonnir Digitized by Google MARIUS. * 91 «len. Where, then, is your enthusiasm? And what are you doing with it? Whom ilo you admire? if you do not admire the Emperor? And what more do you want? If you will have none of that great man, what great men would you like? He had everything. He was complete. He had in his brain the sum of human faculties. He made codes like Justinian, he dic- tated like Cœsar, his conversation was mingled with the light- ning flash of Pascal, with the thunder-clap of Tacitus, he made history and he wrote it, his bulletins are Iliads, he combined the cipher of Newton with the metaphor of Mahomet, he left behind him in the East words as great as the pyramids, at Tilsit he taught Emperoi-s majesty, at the Academy of Sciences he re- plied to Laplace, in the Council of State he held his own against Merlin, he gave a soul to the geometry of the first, and to the chicanery of the last, he was a legist with the attorneys and side- real with the astronomers ; like Cromwell blowing out one of two candles, he went to the Temple to bargain for a curtain tassel ; he saw everything ; he knew everything ; which did not prevent liim from laughing good-naturedly beside the cradle of his little child ; and all at once, frightened Europe lent an ear, armies put themselves in motion, parks of artillery rumbled, pontoons stretched over the rivers, clouds of cavalry galloped in the storm, cries, trumpets, a trembling of thrones in every direction, the frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map, the sound of a su- perhuman sword was heaixl, as it was drawn from its sheath ; they beheld him, him, rise erect on the horizon with a blazing brand in his hand, and a glow in his eyes, unfolding amid the thunder, his two wings, the grand army and the old guard, and he was the archangel of war ! " All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head. Silence always produces somewhat the effect of acquiescence, of the enemy being driven to the wall. Marius continued with increased enthusiasm, and almost without pausing for breath : — *' Let us be just, my friends ! What a splendid destiny for a nation to be the Empire of such an P^mperor, when that nation Ib France and when it adds its own genius to the genius of that man ! To appear and to reign, to march and to triumph, to have for lialting-places all capitals, to take his grenadiera and to make kings of them, to decree the falls of dynasties, and to trans- figure Europe at the pace of a charge ; to make you feel that when you threaten you lay your band on the hilt of the sword of God; to follow in a single man, Hannibal, Cœsar, Charle* magne; to be the people of some one who minj^les with yout dawns the startling announcement of a battle won, to have thp Digitized by Google îioysses or iigiii pnxugious woras wmcn name lorever, jn.ar- çngo. Areola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagrara ! To cause coDBtel* latious of victories to flash forth at each instant from the zenith of the centuries, to make the French Empire a pendant to the Roman Empire, to be the great nation and to give birth to the grand army, to make its legions fly forth over all the earth, as a mountain sends out its eagles on all sides to conquer, to domi nate, to strike with lightning, to be in Europe a sort of nation gilded through glory, to sound athwart the centuries a trumpet- blast of Titans, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by dazzling, that is sublime ; and what greater thing is there?*' " To be free," said Combeferre. Marins lowered his head in his turn ; that cold and simple word had traversed his epic effusion like a blade of steel, and he felt it vanishing within him. When he raised his eyes, Combeferre was no longer there. Probably satisfied with his reply to the apotheosis, he had just taken his departure, and all, with the exception of Enjolras, had followed him. The room had been emptied. Enjolras, left alone with Maiius, was gazing gravely at him. Marius, however, having rallied his ideas to some extent, did not consider himself beaten ; there lingered in him a trace of inward fermentation which was on tlie point, no doubt, of translating itself into s.vllogisms arrayed against Enjolras, when all of a sudden, they heard some ouè flinging on the stairs as he went. It was Combeferre, and thhs is what he was singing : — " Si Cesar m'avait donnée Lh gloire et la guerre, Et qu'il me fallait quitter L'amour de ma mère. Je dirais au grand Ceear : Reprends ton sceptre et ton char, J'aime mieu"c ma mère, ô gue! J'aime mieux ma mère I " The wild and tender accents with which Combeferre sang communicated to this couplet a sort of strange grandeur. Marius, thoughtfully, and with his eyes diked on the ceiling. repcatt'd almost mechanically: "My mother? — " At that moment, he felt Enjolras' hand on his shoulder. "Citizen," said Enjolras to him, "my mother is the Re- public." 1 If CsBsar had given me glory and war, and I were obliged to quit mj mother's love, I would say to great Caesar, " Take back thy sceptre and th| ehariot ; I prefer the love of my mother." iilARIUS. U3 VL — Res Angusta. That eyening left Marius profoundly shaken, and with a melancholy shadow in his soul. He felt what the eiirth nui}? possibly feel, at the moment when it is torn open with tlie iron, in order that grain may be deposited within it ; it feel ; onl^y the woand ; the quiver of the germ and the joy of the fruit only arrive later. Marias was gloomy. He had but just acquired a faith ; must he then reject it already ? He affirmed to himself that he would not. He declared to himself that he would not doubt, and he began to doubt in spite of himself. To stand between two re- ligionst from one of which you have not as yet emerged, and another into which you have not yet entered, is intolerable ; and twilight is pleasing only to bat-like souls. Marius was clear- eyed, and he required the true light. The half-lights of doubt pained him. Whatever may have been his desire to remain where he was, he could not halt there, he was irresistibly con- strained to continue, to advance, to examine, to think, to march further. Whither would this lead him ? He feared, after hav- ing taken so many steps which had brought him nearer to his father, to now take a step which should estrange him from that father. His discomfort was augmented by all the reflectious which occurred to him. An escarpment rose around him. He was in accord neither with his grandfather nor with his friends ; daring in the eyes of the one, he was behind the times in the eyes of the others; and he recognized the fact that he was doubly isolated, on the side of age and on the side of youth. He ceased to go to the Café Musain. In the troubled state of his conscience, he no longer thought of certain serious sides of. existence. The realities of life do not allow themselves to be forgotten. They soon elbowed him , abruptly. One morning, the proprietor of the hotel entered Marius' rooin and said to him : — ** Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you." ** Yes." *' But I must have my money." " Request Courfeyrac to come and talk to me," said Marins. ConrfejTac having made his appearance, the host left them. Marias then told him what it had not before occurred to him to Digitized by Google 94 LES MISERABLES. relate, that he was the same as aloae in the world, and had na relatives. " What is to become of you? " said Courfeyrac ^^ I do not know in the leafit," replied Marius. *' What are you going to do?" ** I do not know." *' Have you any money?'* *' Fifteen francs." *' Do vou want me to lend you some?** " Never." " Have you clothes?" ** Here is what I have.** *' Have yon trinkets?'* " A watch." ''Silver?" "Gold; here it is." " I know a clothes-dealer who will take your frock*ooat and a pair of trousers." " That is good." " You will then have only a pair of trousers, a waistooat, a hat and a coat." " And my boots." *' What ! you will not go barefoot? What opulence 1 ** " That will be enough." " I know a watchmaker who will buy your watch/' " That is good." *' No ; it is not good. What will you do after that? " " Whatever is necessary. Anything honest, that is to say." *' Do you know English ?** " No." " Do you know German?" " No." " So much the worse/* "Why?" " Because one of my friends, a publisher, is getting tip a sort of an encyclopaedia, for which you might have translated Eng- , lish or German articles. It is badly paid work, but one car live by it." " I will learn English and German/* " And in the meanwhile?" " In the meanwhile I will live on my clothes and my watch." The clothes-dealer was sent for. He paid twenty francs fof the cast-oflf garments. They went to the watchmaker'a. He bought the watch for forty-five francs/' Digitized by Google MA RI us, 95 •* That is not bad," said Marius to Courfeyruc, on the\r re- turn to the hotel, '' with my fifteen francs, that makes eighty." *' And the hotel bill?" observed Courfeyrac. ** Hello, I had forgotten that," said Marius. The landlord presented his bill, which had to be paid on the spot. It amounted to seventy francs. ** I have ten francs left," said Marius. "The deuce," exclaimed Courfeyrac, "30U will eat up five francs while you are learning ïinglish, and five while learning German. That will be swallowing a tongue very fast, or & hundred sous very slowly." In the meantime Aunt Gillenormand, a rather good-hearted person at bottom in difl3culties, had finally hunted up Marius' abode. One morning, on his return from the law-school, Marius found a letter from his aunt and the sixty pistoles^ that is to say, six hundred francs in gold, in a sealed box. Marius sent back the thirty lonis to his aunt, with a respect- ful letter, in which he stated that he had suflicient means of subsistence and that he should be able thencefortli to supply all his needs. At that moment, he had throe francs left. His aunt did not inform his grandfather of this refusal, for fear of exasperating him. Besides, had he not said : " Let me never hear the name of that blood-drinker again ! " Marius left the hotel de la Porte Saint- Jacques, as he did not vrish to run in debt there. BOOK FIFTH.— THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFOR- TUNE. I. — Marius Ikdigekt. Life became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his clothes and his watch. He ate of that terrible, inexpressible tiling that is called de la vache enragé; that is to say, he endured great hardships and privations. A terrible thing it is, containing days without bread, nights without sleep, evenings without a candle, a hearth without a fire, weeks without work, a future without hope, a coat out at the ellwws, an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door which one finds locked on one at night because one's rent is not paid, the Digitized by Google #6 LES MISÉRABLES. Insolence of the (K>rter and the cook-shop man, the sneers o\ neighbora, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of whatevei nature accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency. Marius learned how all this is eaten, and how such are often the only things which one has to devour. At that moment of his exist ence when a man needs his pride, because he needs love, he felt that he was jeered at because he was badly dressed, and ridiculous because he was poor. At the age when youth swells the heart with imperial pride, he dropped his eyes more than once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew the unjust shame and the poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable and terrible trial from which the feeble emerge base, from which the strong emerge sublime. A crucible into which destiny casts a man, whenever it desires a scoundrel or a demi-god. For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which defend themselves step by step in that fatal onslaught of neces- sities and turpitudes. Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholds, which are requited with no renown, which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life, misfortune, isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle which have tlieir heroes ; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander than the heroes who win renown. Firm and rare natures are thus created ; misery, almost always a step-mother, is sometimes a mother ; destitution gives birth to might of soul and spirit ; distress is the nurse of pride ; unhappiness is a good milk for the magnanimous. Tliere came a moment in Marins' life, when he swept his own landing, when he bought his sou's worth of Brie cheese at the fruiterer's, when he waited until twilight had fallen to slip into tfie baker's and purchase a loaf, which he carried off fur- tively to his attic as though he had stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding into the butcher's shop on the corner, in tlie midst of the bantering cooks who elbowed him, an awkward young man, carrying his books under his arm, who had a timid yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a brow whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to the butcher's astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid six or seven sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under his arm, between two books, and went away. It was Marius. On this cutlet, which he cooked for himself, he lived for three days. On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the fat, on the third be gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made Digitized by Google MARIUS. Vk repeated > «impts, and s^tit bim the sixty pidtoles severs, times. Ms^rfrts returned them on every occasiou, saying that be needed noching. He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution which we have just described was effected within him. From that time forth, he had not put off his black garments. But his garments were quitting him. The day came when he had no longer a coat. The trousers would go next. What was to be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some good turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got it turned by some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But this coat was green. Then Marius ceased to go out until after nightfall. This made his coat black. As be wished always to appear in mourning, he clothed himself with the night. In spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer. He was supposed to live in Courfeyrac's room, which was de- cent, and where a certain number of law-books backed up and completed by several dilapidated volumes of romance, passed as the library required by the regulations. He had his letters addressed to Courfeyrac's quarters. When Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather of the fact in a letter which was cold but full of submission and respect. M. Gillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read it, tore it in four pieces, and threw it into the waste-basket. Two or three days later. Mademoiselle Gillenormand beard her father, who was alone in his room, talking aloud to himself. He always did this whenever he was greatly agitated. She listened, and the old man was saying: "If you were not a fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer at the same time/' n. — Marius Pooe. It is the same with wretchedness as with everything else. It ends by becoming bearable. It finally assumes a form, and adjusts itself. One vegetates, that is to say, one develops in 8 certain meagre fashion, which is, however, sufficient for life. This is the mode in which the existence of Marius Fontmercy was arranged : He had passed the worst straits ; the narrow pass was open- ing out a little in front of him. By dint of toil, perseverance, courage, and will, he had managed to draw from his work about seven hundred francs a year. He had learned German and English ; thanks to Courfeyrac, who had put him in communK Digitized by Google 98 LES MISÉRABLES. cation with his friend the publisher, Marins filled the modest post of utilit}' man in the literature of the publishing house He drew ui) prospectuses, translated newspapers, annotate<) editions, compiled biographies, etc. ; net product, year in an<1 year out, seven hundred francs. He lived on it. How? Not so badly. We will explain. Marins occupied in the Gorbeau house, for an annual sum of thirty francs, a den minus a fireplace, called a cabinet, which contained only the most indispensable articles of furniture This furniture belonged to him. He gave three francs a montl. to the old prindpcd tenant to come and sweep his hole, and to bring him a little hot water every morning, a fresh egg, and a penny roll. He breakfasted on this egg and roll. His breaks fast varied in cost from two to four sous, according as egg« were dear or cheap. At six o'clock in the evening he descended Ihe Rue Saint-Jacques to dine at Rousseau's, opposite Basset's^ the stamp-dealer's, on the corner of the Rue des Mathurins. He ate no soup. He took a six-sou plate of meat, a half -por- tion of vegetables for three sous, and a three-sou dessert. For three sous he got as much bread as he wished. As for wine, he drank water. When he paid at the desk where Madam Rousseau, at that period still plump and rosy, majestically pre- sided, he gave a sou to the waiter, and Madam Rousseau gave him a smile. Then he went away. For sixteen sous he had a smile and a dinner. This Restaurant Rousseau, where so few bottles and so many water carafes were emptied, was a calming potion rather than a restaurant. It no longer exists. The proprietor had a fine nickname : he was called Rousseau the Aquatic. Thus, breakfast four sous, dinner sixteen sous ; his food cost him twenty sous a day ; which made three hundred and sixty- five francs a year. Add the tliirty francs for rent, and the thirty-six francs to the old woman, plus a few trifling expenses ; for four hundred and fifty francs. Marins was fed, lodged, and waited on. His clothing cost him a hundred francs, his linen fifty francs, his washing fifty francs ; the whole did not exceed six hundred and fifty francs. He was rich. He sometimes lent ten francs to a friend. Courfeyrac had once been able to borrow sixty francs of him. As far as fire wag concerned; as Marins had no fireplace, he had " simplified matters." Marins always had two complete suits of clothes, the one old, "for every day"; the other, brand new for special ooea- sions. Both were black. He had but three shirts, one on his person, the second in the commode, and the third in the waab Digitized by Google MA RI us. 99 erwoman's hands. He renewed them as they wore oat. They were always ragged, which caused him to button his coat to thic chin. It had required years for Marius to attain to this flourishing condition. Hard years; difficult, some of them to traverse, others to climb. Marias had not failed for a single day. He had endnred everything in the way of destitution ; he had done everything except contract debts. He did himself the justice to say that he had never owed any one a sou. A debt was, to bim, the beginning of slavery. He even said to himself, that a creditor is worse than a master ; for the master possesses only your person, a creditor possesses your dignity and can admin* ister to it a box on the ear. Rather than borrow, he went without food. He had passed many a day fasting. Feeling that all extremes meet, and that, if one is not on one's guard, lowered fortunes may lead to baseness of soul, he kept a jeal« ous watch on his pride. Such and such a formality or action, which, in any other situation would have appeared merely a deference to him, now seemed insipidity, and he nerved himself against it. His face wore a sort of severe flush. He was timid even to rudeness. During all these trials he had felt himself encouraged and even uplifted, at times, by a secret force that he possessed with- in himself. The soul aids the body, and at certain moments, raises it. It is the only bird which bears up its own cage. Besides his father's name, another name was graven in Ma- rias' heart, the name of Thénardier. Marius, with his grave and enthusiastic nature, surrounded with a sort of aureole the man to whom, in his thoughts, he owed his father's life, — that intrepid sergeant who had saved the colonel amid the ballets and the cannon-balls of Waterloo. He never separated the memory of this man from the memory of his father, and he associated them in his veneration. It was a sort of worship in two steps, with the grand altar for the colonel and the lesser one for Thénardier. What redoubled the tenderness of his gratitude towards Thénardier, was the idea of the distress into which he knew that Thénardier had fallen, and which had en- gulfed the latter. Marius had learned at Montfermeil of the ruin and bankruptcy of the nn fortunate inn-keeper. Since that time, he had made unheard-of efforts to find traces of him and to reach him in that dark abyss of misery in which Thénardier had disappeared. Marius had beaten the whole country ; he hfid gone to Chelles, to Bondy, to Gourney, to Nogont, to Lagny. He had persisted for three years, expending in these Digitized by Google supposed to bave goue abroad. His creditors had also sought him, with less love than MaHus, but with as much afisidaity, and had not been able to lay their hands on him. Marias blamed himself, and was almost angry with himself for his lack of success in his researches. It was the only debt left him by the colonel, and Marius made it a matter of honor to pay it. '"What," he thought, '*when my father lay dying on the field of battle, did Thénardier contrive to find him amid the smoke and the grape-shot, and bear him off on his shonl- ders, and yet he owed him nothing, and I, who owe so much to Thénardier, cannot join him in this shadow where he is lying in the pangs of death, and in mv turn bring him back from death to life ! Oil ! I will find him ! " To find Thénardier, in fact, Marius would have given one of his arms, to rescue him from his misery, he would have sacrificed all his blood. To see Thénardier, to render Thénardier some service, to say to him : ''You do not know me; well, I do know you! Here I am. Dispose of me ! " This was MariuB* sweetest and most most magnificent dream. in. — Marius Grown Up* At this epoch, Marius was twenty years of age. It was three years since he had left his grandfather. Both parties had remained on tlie same terms, without attempting to approach each other, and without seeking to see each other. Besides, what was the use of seeing each other? Marius was the brass vase, while Father (illlenormand was the iron pot. We adroit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's heart. He had imagined that M. Gillenormand bad never loved him, and that that crusty, harsh, and smiling old fellow who cursed, shouted, and stormed and brandished his' cane, cherished for him, at the most, only that affection, which is at once slight and severe, of the dotards of comedy. Marius was in error. There are fathers who do not love their children ; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his grandson. At bottom, as we have said, M. Gillenormand idolized Marius. He idolized him after his own fashion, with an accompaniment of snappish* ness and boxes on the ear ; but, this child once gone, he felt a black void in his heart ; he would allow no one to mention the child to him, and all the while secretly regretted that he was so MARIUH. 101 irell obeyed. At first, he hoçed that this Buonapartist, thia 5acobin, this terrorist, this Septembrist, would return. Bat (he weeks passed by, years passed ; to M. GillenoriDaQd's great despair, the ^^ blood-drinker" did not make his appearance. '^ I could not do othei-wise than turn him out," said the grand- father to himself, and he asked himself : ^^ If the thing were to do over again, would I do it?" His pride instantly an< Bwered ^^ yes/' but his aged head, which he shook in silence, replied sadly '^ no." He had his hours of depression. He missed Marius. Old men need affection as they need the sun. It is warmth. Strong as his nature was, the absence of Marias had wrought some change in him. Nothing in the world could have induced him to take a step towards '^ that rogue " ; but he suffered. He never inquired about him, but he thought of him incessantly. He lived in the Marais in a more and more retired manner ; he was still merry and violent as of old, but his merri« ment had a convulsive harshness, and his violences always tere, with his strenprth, his healthy his rapid walk, his brilliant eyes» his warmly circula- Digitized by Google MARIUS, 108 ting blood, ûis black hair, his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, wilî always arouse the envy of an aged emporor. And then, every morning, he sets himself afresh to the task of earn- ing his 1)read ; and while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, his brain gathers ideas. His task finished, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joys ; he beiiolds his feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the pavement, in the nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is firm, serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, kindly ; and he thanks God for having bestowed on faini those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks : work, which makes him free; and thought, which makes him dignified. This is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truth, he inclined a little too much to the side of contemplation. From the day when he had succeeded in earning his living with some approach to certainty, he had stopped, thinking it good to be poor, and retrenching time from his work to give to thought; that is to say, he sometimes passed entire days in meditation, absorbed, engulfed, like a visionary, in the mute voluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance. He had thus propounded the problem of his life : to toil as little as possible at material labor, in order to toil as much as possible at the labor which is impalpable ; in other words, to bestow a few hours on real life, and to cast the rest to the infinite. As he believed that he lacked nothing, he did not perceive that con- templation, thus understood, ends by becoming one of the forms of idleness ; that he was contenting himself with con- quering the first necessities of life, and that he was resting from his labors too soon. It was evident that, for this energetic and enthusiastic nature, this could only be a transitory state, and that, at the first shock against the inevitable complications of destiny, Marius would awaken. In the meantime, although he was a lawyer, and whatever Father Gillenormand thought about the matter, he was not practising, he was not even pettifogging. Meditation had turned him aside from pleading. To haunt attorneys, to follow the court, to hunt up cases — what a bore ! Why should he do it? He saw no reason for changing the mannar of gaining his livelihood? The obscure and ill-paid publishing establishment had come to mean for him a sure source of work which did not involve too much labor, as we have explained, and which suf Slced for his wants. Digitized by Google juiun.) uiLi^icvi tu i>u.n.c uiui invj uio i^nu uuuac, \,u luu^u iiiuj wtru« to furnish him with regular occupation, and to give him fifteen hundred francs a 3ear. To be well lodged ! Fifteen hundred francs ! No doubt. But renounce his liberty ! Be on fixed wages! A sort of hired man of letters! According to Marins' opinion, if he accepted, his position would be€x>me both better and worse at the same time, he acquired comfort, and lost his dignit}' ; it was a fine and complete unhappiness converted into a repulsive and ridiculous state of torture : Bomething like the case of a blind man who should recover the sight of one eye. He refused. Maiius dwelt in solitude. Owing to his taste for remaining outside of everything, and through having been too much alarmed, he had not entered decidedly into the group presided over by Enjolras. They had remained good friends ; they were ready to assist each other on occasion in every possible way ; but nothing more. Marins had two friends : one young, Cour- feyrac ; and one old, M. Mabeuf . He inclined more to the old man. In the first place, he owed to him the revolution which bad taken place within him ; to him he was indebted for having known and loved his father. ^* He operated on me for a cata- ract," he said. Tlae churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part. It was not, however, that M. Mabeuf had been anything but the calm and impassive agent of l^ovideuce in this connection. He had enlightened Marins by chance and without being aware of the fact, as does a candle which some one brings ; he had been the candle and not the some one. As for Marins' inward political revolution, M. Mal>euf was totally incapable of comprehending it, of willing or of direct- ing it. As we shall see M. Mabeuf again, later on, a few words will not be superfluous. IV. — M. Mabeuf. On the day when M. Mabeuf said to Marins : '* Certainly I approve of political opinions," he expressed the real state" of his mind. All political opinions were matters of indifference to him, and he approved them all, without distinction, provided they loft him in peace, as the Greeks called the Furies *' the beautiful, the. good, the charming," the Eumenides. M. Ma« MARI us. 109 beaf s political opinion consisted in a passionate love for plants, and, above all, for books. Like all the rest of the world, he possessed the termination in ist^ witliout which no one could exist at that time, but he was neither a Royalist, a Bouapartist, a Chartist, an Orleanist, nor an Anarchist ; he was a bovquinist^ a collector of old books. He did not understand how men could busy themselves with hating each other because of silly stuff like the charter, democracy, legitimacy, monarchy, the re- public, etc., when there were in the world all sorts of mosses, grasses, and shrubs which they might be looking at, and heaps of folios, and even of d2mos, which they might turn over. He took good care not to become useless; having books did not prevent his reading, being a botanist did not prevent his being a gardener. When he made Fontmercy's acquaintance, this sympathy had existed between the colonel and himself — that what the colonel did for flowers, he did for fruits. M. Ma« beuf had succeeded in producing seedling pears as savory as the pears of St. Germain ; it is fïrom one of his combinations, apparently, that the October Mirabelle, now celebrated and no less perfumed than the summer Mirabelle, owes its origin. He went to mass rather from gentleness than from piety, and because, as he loved the faces of men, but hated their noise, he found them assembled and silent only in church. Feeling that he must be something in the State, he had chosen the career of warden. However, he had never succeeded in loving any woman as much as a tulip bulb, nor any man as much as an Elzevir. He had long passed sixty, when, one day, some one asked him : "Have you never been married?" '* I have forgotten," said he. When it sometimes happened to him — and to whom does it not happen? — to say: "Oh! if I were only rich ! " it was not when ogling a pretty girl, as was the case with Father Gillenormand, but when contemplating an old book. He lived alone with an old housekeeper. He was some* what gout}*, and when he was asleep, his aged fingers, stiffened with rheumatism, lay crooked up in the folds of his sheets. He had composed and published a Fl(yi*a of the Environs of Cauteretz^ with colored plates, a work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem and which sold well. People rang his bell, in the Rue Mésières, two or three times a day, to ask for it. He drew as much as two thousand francs a year from it ; this constituted nearly the whole of his fortune. Although poor, he had had the talent to form for himself, by dint of patience, privations, and time, a precious collection of rare copies of every sort. He never went out without a book under his arm, and he often Digitized by Google 106 LES MISERABLES. returned with two. The sole decoration of the four rooms on the ground floor, which composed his lodgings, consisted ot framed herbariums, and engravings of the old mastci's. The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood. He had never approached a cannon in his life, even at the Invalides. He had a passable stomach, a brother who was a curé, perfectly white 'lair, no teeth, either in his mouth or his mind, a trembling in 3 7ery limb, a Picard accent, an infantile laugh, the air of an jld sheep, and lie was easily frightened. Add to this, that he had no other friendship, no other acquaintance among the living, than an old bookseller of the Porte-Sain t-Jacques, named Royal. His dream was to naturalize indigo in France. His servant was also a sort of innocent. The poor gooiî oia woman was a spinster. Sultan, her cat, which might have mewed AUegii's miserere in the Sixtine Chapel, had filled her heart and sulHced for the quantity of passion which existed in her. None of her dreams bad ever proceeded as far as man. She had never been able to get fiu'ther than her cat. Like him, she had a ihustache. Her glory consisted in her caps, which were always white. She passed her time, on Sundays, after mass, in counting over the linen in her chest, and in spreading out on her bed the dresses in the piece which she bought and never had made up. She knew how to read. M. Mabeuf had nicknamed her Mother Plutarque. M. Mabeuf had taken a fancy to Marius, because Marias, being young and gentle, warmed his age without startling his timidity. Youth . combined with gentleness produces on old people the effect of the sun witliout wind. When Marius was saturated with military glory, with gunpowder, with marches and countermarches, and with all those prodigious battles in which his father had given and received such tremendous blows of the sword, he went to see M. Mabeuf, and M. Mabeuf talked to him of his hero from the point of view of flowers. His brother the curé died about 1880, and almost immediately, as when the night is drawing on, the whole horizon grew dark for M. Mabeuf. A notary's failure deprived him of the sum of ten thousand francs, which was all that he possessed in his brother's right and his own. The Revolution of July brought a crisis to publishing. In a period of embarrassment, the first thing which does not sell is a Flora, The Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz stopped short. Weeks passed by without a single purchaser. Sometimes M. Mabeuf started at the sound of tiie bell. *' Monsieur," said Mother Plutarqne sadly. 'Mt is the water-carrier." la short, one day, M. Mabeuf quitted the Roe Digitized by Google MA RI us. 107 Mésîères, abdicated the functions of warden, gave up Saint- Sulpice, sold not a pai-t of his books, but of his prints, — that to which he was the least attached, — and installed himself in a little honse on the Rue Montparnasse, where, however, he re- mained but one quarter for two reasons : in the first place, the groond floor and the garden cost three hundred francs, and he dared not spend more than two hundred francs on his rent; in the second, being near Fatou's shooting-gallery, he could hear the pistol-shots ; which was intolerable to him. He carried off his Mora^ his copper-plates, his herbariums, bis portfolios, and his books, and established himself near the Salpêtrière, in a sort of thatched cottage of the village of Aus- terlitz, where, for fifty crowns a year, he got three rooms and a garden enclosed by a hedge, and containing a well. He took advantage of this removal to sell off nearly all his furniture. On the day of his entrance into his new quarters, he was very gay, and drove the nails on which his engravings and herbariums were to hang, with his own hands, dug ii: his garden the rest of the day, and at night, perceiving that Mother Plutarque had a melancholy air, and was very thoughtful, he tapped her on the shoulder and said to her with a smile : ^^ We have the indigo ! " Only two visitors, the bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques and Marius, were admitted to view the thatched cottage at Ansterlitz, a brawling name which was, to tell the truth, ex- tremely disagreeable to him. However, as we have just pointed out, brains which are ab- sorbed in some bit of wisdom, or folly, or, as it often happens, in both at once, are but slowly accessible to the things of actual life. Their own destiny is a far-off thing to them. There results from such concentration a passivity, which, if it were the outcome of reasoning, would resemble philosophy. One declines, descends, trickles away, even crumbles away, and yet is hardly conscious of it one's self. It always ends, it is true, in an awak- ening, bot the awakening is tardy. In the meantime, it seems aa though we held ourselves neutral in the game which is going on between oar happiness and our unhappiness. We are the stake, and we look on at the game with indifference. It is thus that, athwart the cloud which formed about him, when all his hopes were extingnished one after the other, M. Mabenf remained rather puerilely, but profoundly serene. His habits of mind had the regular swing of a pendulum. Once mounted on an illusion, he went for a very long time, even after the illusion had disappeared. A clock does not stop short al tbe precise moment when the key is lost* Digitized by Google 108 LES MISERABLES. M. Mabeuf had his innoceat pleasures. These pleasures were inexpensive and unexpected ; the merest chance furnished them. One day, Mother Piutarque was reading a romance in one corner of the room. She was reading ' aloud, finding tha she understood better thus. To read aloud is to assure one's sell of what one is reading. There are people who read very load, and who have the appearence of giving themselves their word of honor as to what they are perusing. It was with this sort of energy that Mother Piutarque was leading the romance which she had in hand. M. Mabenf heard her without listening to her. In the course of her reading, Mother Piutarque came to thia phrase. It was a question of an officer of dragoons and a beauty : — " — The beauty pouted, and the dragoon — *' Here she interrupted herself to wi|)e her glasses. ^'Bouddha and the Drt^on," struck in M. Mabenf in a low voice. ^^ Yes, it is true that there was a dragon, which, from the depths of its cave, spouted flame through his maw and set the heavens on fire. Many stars had already been consumed by this monster, which, besides, had tlie claws of a tiger. Bouddha went into its den and succeeded in converting the dragon. That is a good book that you are reading. Mother Piutarque. There is no more beautiful legend in existence.** And M. Mabeuf fell into a delicious revery. V. — Poverty a Good Nbighbob for Misert. Marius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually falling into tbe clutches of indigence, and who came to feel astonishment, little by little, without, however, being made melancholy by it. Marius met Courfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf. Very rarely, however ; twice a month at most. Marius' pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the outer boulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least frequented alleys of the Luxembourg. He often spent half a day in gazing at a market garden, the beds of lettuce, the chick- ens on the dung-heap, the horse turning the water-wheel. The passers-by stared at him in surprise, and some of them thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister. He was only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless way. It was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the Gorbeau house, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness. Digitized by Google MARIUS. 1(H( bAd taken up his abode there. He was known there only undet tlie name of M. Marins. Some of his father's old generals or old comrades had in vited him to go and see them, when they learned about him. Marius had not refused their invitations. They af- forded opportunities of talking about his father. Thus he ^ent from time to time, to Comte Pajol, to General Bellavesne, to General Fririon, to the Invalides. There was music and iancing there. On such evenings, Marius put on his new 3oat. But he never went to these evening parties or balls except on days when it was freezing cold, because he could not afford a carriage, and he did not wish to arrive with boots other* wise than like mirrors. He said sometimes, but without bitterness: ^^Men are so made that in a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes. In oi'der to insure a good reception there, only one irreproachable thing is asked of you ; your con- science? No, your boots." All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by revery- Marias' political fevers vanished thus. The Revolu- tion of 1830 assisted in the process, by satisfying and calming him. He remained the same, setting aside his fits of wrath. He still held the same opinions. Only, they had been tempered. To speak accurately, he had no longer any opinions, he had sympathies. To what party did he belong? To the party of humanity. Out of humanity he chose France ; out of the Nation he chose the people ; out of the people he chose the woman. It was to that point above all, that his pit}- was directed. Now he preferred an idea to a deed, a poet to a hero, and he admired a book like Job more than an event like Marengo. And then, when, after a day spent in meditation, he returned in the evening through the boulevards, and caught a glimpse through the branches of the trees of the fathomless space be- yond, the nameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the mystery, all that which is only human seemed very petty indeed to him. He thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived at the truth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended bj gazing at nothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth oan perceive from the bottom of her well. This did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his com- binations, his scaffoldings, his projects for tlie future. In this state of reveiy, an eye which could have cast a glance into Marius' interior would have been dazzled with the purity of that soul. In fact, had it been given to our eyes of the flesb Digitized by Google 110 LES MISERABLES. to gaze into the consciences of others, we should be able to judge a man much more surely according to what he dreams^ than according to what he thinks. There is will in thought.» there is none in dreams. Revery, which is utterk spontaneous, takes and keeps, even in the gigantic and the ideal, the form of our spirit. Nothing proceeds more directl}' and more sin- oerely from the very depth of our soul, than our unpremedi* tated and boundless aspirations towards the splendors of des- tiny. In these aspirations, much more than in deliberate, rational co-onlinated ideas, is the real character of a man to be found. Our chimœras are the things which the most resemble us. Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the impossi- ble in accordance with his nature. Towards the middle of this 3'ear 1831, the old woman who waited on Marius told him that his neighbors, the wretched Jondrette family, had been turned out of doors. Marius, who passed nearly the whole of his days out of the house, hardly knew that he had any neighbors. " Why are they turned out? " he asked. ^^ Because they do not pay their rent ; they owe for two quar- ters." "How much is it?" '* Twenty francs," said the old woman. Marius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer. "Here," he said to the old woman," take these twenty-five francs. Pay for the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell them that it was I." VI. — Thb Substitute. It chanced that the regiment to which Lieutenant Théodale belonged came to perform garrison duty in Paris. This inspired Aunt Gillenormand with a second idea. She had, on the first occasion, hit upon the plan of having Marius spied upon by Théodule : now she plotted to have Théodole take Marius' place. At all events and in case the grandfather should feel the vague need of a young face in the house, — these rays of dawn are sometimes sweet to ruin, — it -was expedient to find another Murius. " Take it as a simple erratum," she thought, " such as one sees in books. For Marius, read Théodule." A grand nephew is almost the same as a grandson ; in default Df a lawyer one takes a lancer. Digitized by Google MARIUS 111 One morning, when M. Gillenormand was about to read Bomething in the Quotidienne^ his daughter entered and said to him in her sweetest voice ; for the question concerned hei favorite : — ^' Father, Théodule is coming to present his respects to yoa this morning." "Who's Théodule?" " Your grandnephew." ** Ah ! " said the grandfather. Then he went back to his reading, thought no more of bis grandnephew, who was merely some Théodule or other, and soon flew into a rage, which almost always happened when he read. The ''sheet" which he held, although Royalist, of course, announced for the following day, without any softening phrases, one of these little events which were of daily occur- rence at that date in Paris : ' ' That the students of the schools of law and medicine were to assemble on the Place du Panthéon, at midday, — to deliberate." The discussion con- cerned one of the questions of the moment, the artillery of the National Guard, and a conflict between the Minister of War and " the citizen's militia," on the subject of the cannon parked in the courtyard of the Louvre. The students were to " deliberate" over this. It did not take much more than this to swell M. Gillenormand's rage. He thought of Marius, who was a student, and who would probably go with the rest, to " deliberate, at middav, on the Place du Panthéon. " As he was indulging in this painful dream. Lieutenant Théo- dale entered clad in plain clothes as a bourgeois, which was clever of him, and was discreetly introduced by Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The lancer had reasoned as follows : " The old druid has not sunk all his money in a life pension. It is well "o disguise one's self as a civilian from time to time.*' Mademoiselle Gillenormand said aloud to her father:— ** Théodule, your grandnephew." And in a Jow voice, to the lieutenant:*-* ** Approve of everything." And she withdrew. The lieutenant, who was but little accustomed to such ven* arable encounters, stammered with some timidity : " Good day, uncle," — and made a salute composed of the involuntary and mechanical outline of the military salute finished off as a bour* gtsois salute* Digitized by Google That said, he totally forgot the lancer. Théodule seated himself, and M. Gillenormand rose. M. Gillenormand began to pace back and forth, his hands in his pockets, talking aloud, and twitching, with his irritated old fingers, at the two watches which he wore in his two fobs. '' That pack of brats ! they convene on the Place du Pan- théon ! by my life ! urchins who were with their nurses but yes- terday ! If one were to squeeze their noses, milk would burst out. And they deliberate to-morrow, at midday. What are we coming to? What are we coming to? It is clear that we are making for the abyss. That is what the desca- misados have brought us to ! To deliberate on tiie citizen artillery! To go and jabber in the open air over the jibes of the National Guard ! And with whom are they to meet there ? Just see whither Jacobinism leads. I will bet anything you like, a million against a counter, that there will be no one there but returned convicts and released galley-slaves. The Republicans and the galley-slaves, — they form but one nose and one handkerchief. Carnot used to say : ' Where would you have me go, traitor?' Fouché replied: 'Wherever you please, imbecile!' That's what the Republican? are like" " That is true," said Théodule. M. Gillenormand half turned his head, saw Théodule, and went on : — " When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn carbonaro I Why did you leave my house? To go and become a Republican ! Pssst ! In the first place, the people want none of your republic, they have common sense, they know well that there always have been kings, and that there always will be ; they know well that the people are only the people, after all, thej make sport of it, of your republic — do you understand, idiot? Is it not a horrible caprice ? To fall in love with Père Duchesne, to make sheep's-eyes at the guillotine, to sing romances, and play on the guitar under the balcony of '93 — it's enough to make one spit ou all these young fellows, such fools are tiiey ! They are all alike. Not one escapes. It suffices for them to breathe the air which blows through the street to lose their senses. The nineteenth century is poison. The first scamp that happens along lets his beard gi-ow like a goat's, thinks himself a real scoundrel, and abandons his old relatives. He's a Roi)ublican, he's a romantic. What does that mean, romantic? Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible follies. A MARius. lia year ago, they ran to Hemani. Now, I just ask you, Hemcmil autitheses ! abominations which are not even written in French ! And then, they have cannons in the courtyai*d of the Louvre. Such are the rascalities of this age I " *' You are right, uncle, " said Théodule. M. Gillenormaud resumed : — " Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum ! For what pur- pose ? Do you want to fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere ? What have those cartridges to do with the Venus de Medici ? Jh! the young men of the present day are all blackguards! What a petty creature is their Benjamin Constant! And those who are not rascals are simpletons ! They do all they can to make themselves ugly, they are badly dressed, they are afraid of women, in the presence of petticoats they have a mendi* cant air which sets the girls into fits of laughter; on my word of honor, one would say the poor creatures were ashamed of love. They are deformed, and they complete themselves by being stupid; they repeat the puns of Tiercelin and Potier, they have sack coats, stablemen's waistcoats, shirts of coarse linen, trousers of coarse cloth, boots of coarse leather, and their ligmarole resembles their plumage. One might make use of their jargon to put new soles on their old shoes. And all this awkward batch of brats has political opinions, if you please. Political opinions should be strictly forbidden. They fabricate systems, they recast society, they demolish the monarchy, they fling all laws to the earth, they put the attic in the cellar's place and my porter in the place of the King, they turn Europe topsy- turvy, they reconstruct the world, and all their love affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the laundresses as these women climb into their carts. Ah ! Marins ! Ah ! you black- guard ! to go and vociferate on the public place ! to discuss, to debate, to take measures ! They call that measures, just God ! Disorder humbles itself and becomes silly. I have seen chaos, I now see a mess. Students deliberating on the National Guard, — such a thing could not be seen among the Ogibewas nor the Cadodaches ! Savages who go naked, with their noddles dressed like a shuttlecock, with a club in their paws, are less of brutes than those bachelors of arts ! The four-penny monkeys ! And they set up for judges ! Those creatures deliberate and ratioci- nate ! The end of the world is come ! This is plainly the end of this miserable ten-aqueous globe ! A final hiccough was required, and France has emitted it. Deliberate, my rascals ! Such things will happen so long as they go and read the news- papers under the arcades of the Odéon. That costs them r Digitized by Google 114 LES MISÉRABLES, sou, and theit good sense, and their intelligence, and their heart and their soul, and their wits. They euiei^e thence, and ed- camp from their families. All newspai>ers are pests ; all, even the Drapeau Blanc! At bottom, Martain ville was a Jacobin. Ah ! just Heaven ! you may boast of having driven your grand- father to despair, that you may ! " *'That is evident," said Théodule. And profiting by the fact that M. Gillenormand was taking breath, the lancer added in a magisterial manner : — " There should be no other newspaper than the Moniteur.^ and no other book than the Amiuaire Militaire,'^ M. Gillenormand continued : — ^'It is like their Sieves ! A regicide ending in a senator ; for that is the way they always end. They give themselves a scar with the address of thou as citizens, in oixler to get themselves called, eventually. Monsieur le Conite. Monsieur le Comte as big as my arm, assassins of September. The philosopher Sieyès ! I will do myself the justice to say, that I have nevei had any better opinion of the philosophies of all those philoso- phers, than of the spectacles of the grimacer of Tivoli ! One day I saw the Senators cross the Quai Malplaquet in mantles of violet velvet sown with bees, with hats à la Henri IV. They were hideous. One would have pronounced them monkeys from the tiger's court. Citizens, I declare to you, that your progress is madness, that your humanity is a dream, that your revolution is a crime, that your republic is a monster, that your young and virgin France comes from the brothel, and I main- tain it against all, whoever you may be, whether journalists, econ- omists, legists, or even were you better judges of liberty, of equality, and fraternity than the knife of the guillotine ! And that I announce to you, my fine fellows !" *' Parbleu ! " cried the lieutenant, ''that is wonderfully true." M. Gillenormand paused in a gesture which he had begun, wheeled round, stared Lancer Théodule intently in the eyes- and said to him : — (^ Yoa are afoo^^ Digitized by Google MA RI us. Hi BOOK SIXTH.— THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS I, — The Sobriquet : Mode of Formation of Family Names, Mari us was, at Ibis epoch, a handsome youug man, of medium stature, with thick and intensely black hair, a lofty and intelligent brow, well-opened and passionate nostrils, an air of calmness and sincerity, and with something indescribably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over his whole countenance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded, without thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic sweetness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy by wa}- of Alsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of angles which rendered the Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans, and which distinguishes tlie leonine from the aquiline race. He was at that period of life when the mind of men who think is composed, in nearly equal parts, of depth and ingenu- ousness. A grave situation being given, he had all that is re- quired to be stupid : one more turn of the key, and he might be sublime. His manners were reserved, cold, polished, not very genial. As his mouth was charming, his lips the reddest, and his teeth the whitest in the world, his smile corrected the se- verity of his face, as a whole. At certain moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous smile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his glance was larsre. At the period of his most abject misery, he had observed tliat voung girls turned round when he passed by, and he fled or hid, with death in his soul. He thought that they were staring at him because of his old clothes, antl that they were laughing at them ; the fact is, that they stared at him because of his grace, and that they dreamed of him. This mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty passers-by had made him shy. He chose none of them for the excellent reason that he fled from all of them. He lived thus indefinitely, — stupidly, as Courfej'rac said. Coorfeyrac also said to him: '' Do not aspire to be vener- able " [they called each other thou; it is the tendency of youth- ful friendships to slip into this mode of address]. '' Let me give you a piece of advice, my dear fellow, l>on't read so many books, and look a little more at the lasses. The jades havf Digitized by Google 116 LES MISERABLES. Bome good points about them, O Marius ! By dint of fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized." On otlier occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and said :— - " Good morning, Monsieur TAbbé !" When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature, Marius avoided women, both young and old, more thao ever for a week to come, and he avoided Courfeyrac to boot. Nevertherlcss, there existed in all the immensity of creation., iwo women whom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no attention whatever. In truth, he would have been very much amazed if be had been informed that they were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept out his chamber, and caused Courfeyrac to say: '^Seeing that bis servant woman wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard. " The other was a sort of little girl whom he saw very often, and whom he never looked at. For more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the walks of the Luxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet of the Pépinière, a man and a ver}* 3'oung girl, who were almost always seated side by side on the same bench, at the most solitary end of the alley, ou the Rue de TOuest side. Ever}' time that that chance which meddles with the strolls of persons whose gaze is turned inwards, led Marius to that walk, — and it was nearly every day, — he found this couple there. The man appeared to be about sixty years of age ; he seemed sad and serious ; his whole person presented the robust and weary aspect peculiar to mihtary men who have retired from the service. If he had worn a decoration, Marius would have said : '^ He is an ex- officer." He had kindly but unapproachable air, and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of any one. He wore blue trou* sers, a blue frock coat and a broad -brimmed hat, which alwa^^s appeared to be new, a black cravat, a quaker shirt, that is to say, it was dazzlingly white, but of coarse linen. A grisette whc passed near hira one day, said : '' Here's a very tidy widower/ His hair was very white. The first time that the young girl who accompanied him came and seated herself on the bench which they seemed to have adopted, she was a sort of child thirteen or fourteen years of age, so thin as to be almost homely, awkward, insignificant, and with a possible promise of handsome ej'es. Only, they were al- ways raised with a sort of displeasing assurance. Her dress was both aged and childish, like the dress of the scholars in a con- vent ; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black merino. They bad the air of being father and daughter. Digitized by Google MARIU3. 117 Marias scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and this little girl, who was not yet a person, for a few days, and there- after paid no attention to them. They, on their side, did not appear even to see him. They conversed together with a peace- ful and indifferent air. The girl chattered incessantly and mer- rily. The old man talked but little, and, at times, he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity. MariuB had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in that walk. He invariably found them there. This is the way things went : — Marius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was fur- thest from their bench ; he walked the whole length of the alley, passed in f^ont of them, then returned to the extremity whence he bad come, and began again. This he did five or six times in the cburse of his promenade, and the promenade was taken five or six times a week, without its having occurred to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That personage, and that young girl, although they appeared, — and perhaps because they appeared,' — to shun all glances, had, naturally, caused some attention on the part of the five or six students who strolled along the Pépinière from time to time ; the studious after their lectures, the others after their game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the last, had observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely, he had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fied, discharging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart. Impressed solely with the child's gown and the old man's hair, he had dubbed the daughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the father. Monsieur Leblanc, so that, as no one knew them under any other title, this nickname became a law i» the default of any other name. The students said: '*Ahl Monsieur Leblanc is on his bench." And Marius, like the restf had found it convenient to call this unknown gentleman Mon* sieur Ijc blanc. We shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc, in order to facilitate this tale. So Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, dur- ing the first year. He found the man to his taste, but the girl insipid. n. — Ltrx Facta Est. During the second year, precisely at the point in this history which the reader has now reached, it chanced that this habit of the Luxembourg was interrupted, without Marius himself being quite aware why, and nearly six months elapsed, during which Digitized by Google tlntner once more ; it was a serene summer morning, ana Ma- rins was in joyous mood, as one is when the weather is fine. It seemed to him that he had in his heart aL the songs of the birds that he was listening to, and all the bits of blue sky of which he caught glimpses through the leaves of the trees. He went straight to ^^his alley," and when he reached the end of it he perceived, still on the same bench, that well-known couple. Only, when he approached, it certainly was the same man ; but it seemed to him that it was no longer the same girl. The person whom he now beheld was a tall and beautiful creature, possessed of all the most charming lines of a woman at the precise moment when they are still combined with all the most ingenuous graces of the child ; a pure and fugitive mo- nent, which can be expressed only by these two worjfs, — ' fifteen years." She had wonderful brown hair, shaded with threads of gold, a brow that seemed made of marble, cheeka that seemed made of rose-leaf, a pale flush, an agitated whiteness, an exquisite mouth, whence smiles darted like (sunbeams, and words like music, a head such as Raphael would have given to Mary, set upon a neck that Jean Goujon would have attributed to a Venus. And, in order that nothing *uight be lacking to this bewitching face, her nose was not handsome — it^ was pretty ; neither straight nor curved, neither Italian nor Greek ; it was the Parisian nose, that is to say, spiritual, delicate, irregular, pure, — which drives painters to despair, and charms poets. When Marius passed near her, he could not sec her eyes, which were constantly lowered. He saw only her long chestnut lashes, permeated with shadow and modesty. This did not prevent the beautiful child from smiling as she listened to what the white-haired old man was saying to her, and nothing could be more fascinating than that fresh smile, combined with those drooping eyes. For a moment, Marius thought that she was another daughter of the same man, a sister of the former, no doubt. But when the invariable habit of his stroll brought him, for the second time, near the bench, and he had examined her attentively, he recognized her as the same. In six months the little girl had become a young maiden ; that was all. Nothing is more fre- quent than this phenomenon. There is a moment when ^irla blossom out in the twinkling of an eye, and become roses all at once. One left them children but yesterday ; to-day, one finds them disquieting to the feelings. MARI us. 119 This child had not onl}' gi'own, she had become idealized As three days in April suffice to cover certain trees with flowers, six months had sufficed to clothe her with beauty. Her April had arrived. One sometimes sees people, who, poor and mean, seem to wake up, pass suddenly from indigence to luxury, indulge in expenditures of all sorts, and become dazzling, prodigal, magnifi cent, all of a sudden. That is the result of having pocketed an income ; a note fell due yesterday. The young girl had received her quarterly income. And then, she was no longer the school-girl with her felt bat, her merino, gown, her scholar's shoes, and red hands ; taste had o6me to her with beauty ; she was a well-dressed person, clad with a sort of rich and simple elegance, and without affec- tation. She wore a dress of black damask, a cape of the same material, and bonnet of white crape. Her white gloves dis- played the delicacy of the hand which toyed with the carved, Chinese ivory handle of a parasol, and her silken shoe out- lined the smallness of her foot. When one passed near her, her whole toilette exhaled a youthful and penetrating perfume. As for the man, he was the same as usual. The second time that Marius approached her, the young girl raised her eyelids ; her eyes were of a deep, celestial blue, but in that veiled azure, there was, as yet, nothing but the glance of a child. She looked at Marius indifferently, as she would have stared at the brat running beneath the sycamores, or the marble vase which cast a shadow on the bench, and Marius, on his side, continued his promenade, and thought about something else. He passed near the bench where the young girl sat, five or 8ÎX times, but without even turning his eyes in her direction. On the following days, he returned, as was his wont, to the Luxembourg ; as usual, he found there " the father and daugh- ter"; but he paid no further attention to them. He thought no more about the girl now that she was beautiful, than he had when she was homely. He passed very near the bench where she sat, because such was his habit. HI. — Effect of the Sprino. Owe da}', the air was warm, the Luxembourg was inundated with light and shade, the sky was as pure as though the angels had washed it that morning, the sparrows were eiving vent to Digitized by Google 120 LES MISERABLES. little twittera in the depths of the chestnut-trees. Marins had thrown open his whole soul to nature, he was not thinking of anything, he simply lived and breathed, he passed near the bench, the young girl raised her eyes to him, the two glances met. What was there in the young girl's glance on this occasion? Marius could not have told. There was nothing and there was everything. It was a strange flash. She dropped her eyes, and he pursued his way. What he had just seen was no longer the ingenuous and sin: pie eye of a child; it was a mysterious gulf which had half opened, then abruptly closed again. There comes a day when the young girl glances In this manner. Woe to him who chances to be there 1 That first gaze of a soul which does not, as yet, know itself, is like the dawn in the sky. It is the awakening of something radiant and strange. Notliing can give any idea of the danger- ous charm of that unexpected gleam, which flashes suddenly and vaguely forth from adorable shadows, and which is composed of all the innocence of the present, and of all the passion of the future. It is a sort of undecided tenderness which reveals itself by chance, and which waits. It is a snare which the in- nocent maiden sets unknown to heraelf , and in which she cap- tures hearts without either wishing or knowing it. It is a vir- gin looking like a woman. It is rare that a profound revery does not spring from that glance, where it falls. All purities and all candore meet in that celestial and fatal gleam which, more than all the best- planned tender glances of coquettes, possesses the magic power of causing the sudden blossoming, in the depths of the soul, of that sombre flower, impregnated with perfume and with poison, which is called love. That evening, on his return to his garret, Marius cast his eyes over his garments, and preceived, for the fii'st time, that he had been so slovenly, indecorous, and inconceivabh' stupid as to go for his walk in the Luxembourg with his '^every-day clothes," that is to say, with a hat battered near the band, coarse car- ter's boots, black trousers which showed white at the knees, and a black coat which was pale at the elbows. IV. — Beginning op a Great Malady. On the following day, at the accustomed hour, Marius dren from his wardrobe his new coat, his new trousers, his new hat| Digitized by Google MARIUH. 121 and his new boots ; he clothed himself in this comi>'lete panoply, pat on his gloves, a tremendous luxury, and set off for thfl Luxembourg. On the way thither, he encountered Courfeyrac, and pre- tended not to see him. Courfeyrac, on his return home, said to his friends : — '* I have just met Marius' new hat and new coat, with Marias inside them. He was going to pass an examination, no doubt. He looked utterly stupid." On arriving at the Luxembourg, Marias made the tour of tne fountain basin, and stared at the swans ; then he remained for a long time in contemplation before a statue whose head was perfecth' black with mould, and one of whose hips was miss- ing. Near the basin there was a bourgeois forty years of age, with a prominent stomach, who was holding by the hand a little archin of five, and saying to him : ** Shun excess, my son, keep at an equal distance from despotism and from anarchy." Marius listened to this bourgeois. Then he made the circuit of the basin once more. At last he directed his course towards *'his alley," slowly, and as if with regret. One would have said that he was both forced to go there and withheld from doing so. He did not perceive it himself, and thought that he was doing as he always did. On turning into the walk, he saw M. Leblanc and the young ^*rl at the other end, " on their bench." He buttoned his coat up to the very top, pulled it down on his body so that there might be no wrinkles, examined, with a certain complaisance, the lustrous gleams of his trousers, and marched on the bench. This march savored of an attack, and certainly of a desire for conquest. So I say tliat he marched on the bench, as I should say: "Hannibal marched on Rome." However, all his movements were purely mechanical, and he had interrupted none of the habitual preoccupations of his mind and labors. At that moment, he was thinking that the Manuel du Baccalauréat was a stupid book, and that it must have been drawn up by rare idiots, to allow of three tragedies of Racine and only one comedy of Molière being analyzed therein as masterpieces of the human mind. There was a piercing whistling going on in his ears. As he ap{)roached the bench, he held fast to the folds in his coat, and fixed his eyes on the young girl. It seemed to him that she filled the entire extremity of the alley with a vague blue light. In proportion as he drew near, his pace slackened more and more. On arriving at some little distance from the bench, and Digitized by Google ou F id i Dhl I H •ac ! anc t; I BDC , Tl ip • ue esu Hi [ op i r.. . On î o ; vél rgci pe< I 3e the; re,: irlj tbi le < M 7 h er I 'Q 1 thi I io iie eof of me Digitized by Google Marius betook bimself to the Luxembourg. The young girl was there with M. Leblanc. Marina ap- proached as near as he could, pretending to be busy reading a book, but he halted afar off, then returned and seated himself on his bench, where he spent four hours in watching the house- sparrows who were skipping about the walk, and who produced on him the impression that they were making sport of him. A fortnight passed thus. Marius went to the Luxembourg no longer for the sake of strolling there, but to seat himself always in tlie same spot, and that without knowing why. Once arrived there, he did not stir. He put on his new coat every morning, for the purpose of not showing himself, and he began all over again on the morrow. She was decidedly a marvellous beauty. The only remark approaching a criticism, that could be made, was, that the con- tradiction between her gaze, which was melancholy, and her smile, which was merry, gave a rather wild effect to her face, which sometimes caused this sweet countenance to beconM strange without ceasing to be charming. VI. — Taken Prisonsb. On one of the last days of the second week, Marios wa» seated on his bench, as usual, holding in Ills hand an open book, • of which he had not turned a page for the last two hours. All at once, he started. An event was taking place at the other extremity of the walk. Leblanc and his daughter had just left their seat, and the daughter had taken her father's arm, and both were advancing slowly, towards the middle of the alley where Marius was. Marius closed his book, then opened it again, then forced himself to read ; he trembled ; the aureole was coming straight towards him. *'Ah! good Heavens!" thought he, *^ I shall not have time to strike an attitade.** Still the white-haired man and the girl advanced. It seemed to him that this lasted for a century, and that it was but a second. *' What are they coming in this direction for ? *' he asked himself. *'What! She will pass here? Her feet will tread this sand, this walk, two paces from me? " He was utterly upset, he would have liked to be very handsome, he would have liked to own the cross. He heard the soft and measured sound of tbeir approaching footsteps. He imagined that M. Leblanc was dsi^ when he raised it again, they were very near him. The young girl passed, and as she passed, she glanced at him. She gazed steadily at him, with a pensive sweetness whioh thrilled Marias from head to foot. It seemed to him that she was reproaching him for having allowed so long a time to elapse without coming as far as her, and that she was saying to him : ^^I am coming myself." Marius was dazzled by those eyes fraught with rays and abysses. He felt his brain on fire. She had come to him, what joyli And then, how she had looked at him ! She appeared to him more beautiful than he had ever seen her yet. Beautiful with a beauty which was wholly feminine and angelic, with a com* plete beauty which would have made Petrarch sing and Dante kneel. It seemed to him that he was floating free in the azure heavens. At the same time, he was horribly vexed because there was dust on his boots. • He tliought he felt sure that she had looked at his boots too. He followed her with his eyes, until she disappeared. Then he started up and walked about the Luxembourg garden like a madman. It is probable that, at times, he laughed to himself and talked aloud. He was so dreamy when he came near the children's nurses, that each one of them thought him in love with her. He quitted the Luxembourg, hoping to find her again in thtt street. He encountered Courfeyrac under the arcades of the Odéon, and said to him: "Come and dine with me." They went off to Rousseau's and spent six francs. Marins ate like an ogre. He gave the waiter six sous. At dessert, he said to Cour- feyrac. *'Have you read the paper? What a fine discourse Audry de Puyraveau delivered 1 " He was desperately in love. After dinner, he said to Courfeyrac: '* I will treat yon to the play." They went to the Porte-Saint-Martin to see Frederick in r Auberge des Adrets. Marius was enormouslj amused. At the same time, he had a redoubled attack of shyness. On emerging from the theatre, he refused to look at the gartei of a modiste who was stepping across a gutter, and Cour- feyrac, who said : ''I should like to put that woman in m^ collection," almost horrified him. Courfeyrac Invited him to breakfast at the Café Voltaire Google and very merry. One would have said that he was taking advantage of evei*y occasion to laugh uproariously. He ten- derly embraced some man or other from the provinces, who was presented to him. A circle of students formed round the table, and they spoke of the nonsense paid for by the State whicii was uttered from the rostrum in the Sorbonne, then the conversation fell upon the faults and omissions in Guichcrat's dictionaries and grammars. Marius interrupted the discussion to exclaim: ^^ But it is very agreeable, all the same to have the cross ! " " That's queer ! " whispered Courfeyrac to Jean Prouvaire. " No," responded Prouvaire " that's serious." It was serious ; in fact, Marius had reached that first riolent and chaiming hour with which grand passions begin. A glance had wrought all this. When the mine is charged, when the conflagration ia ready, nothing is more simple. A glance is a spark. It was all over with him. Marius loved a woman. His fate was entering the unknown. The glance of women resembles certain combinations ol wheels, which are tranquil in appearance yet formidable. You pass close to them every day, peaceably and with impunity, and without a suspicion of anything. A moment arrives when jou forget that the thmg is there. You go and oome, dream, speak, laugh. All at once you feel yourself clutched ; all is over. The wheels hold you fast, the glance has ensnared you. It has taught you, no matter where or how, by some portion of your thought which was fluttering loose, by some distraction which had attacked you. You are lost. The whole of you passes into it. A chain of mysterious foi*ces takes possession of you. You struggle in vain ; no more human succor is possi- ble. You go on falling from gearing to gearing, from agony •jo agony, from torture to torture, you, your mijid, your fortune, your future, your soul ; and, according to whether you are in the power of a wicked creature, or of a noble heart, you will not escape from this terrifying machine otherwise tban di»* 6p9ired with shame, or transfigured by pasuon. VII. — Advenitjres of the Letter U delivered over to Conjectures. Isolation, detachment from everything, pride, independence, the taste of nature, the absence of daily and material activity, the life within himself, the secret conflicts of chastity, a benevo- lent ecstasy towards all creation, had prepared Marins for this possession which is called passion. His worship of his father had gradually become a religion, and, like all religions, it had retreated to the depths of his soul. Something was required in the foreground. Love came. A full month elapsed, during which Marins went every day to the Luxembourg. When the hour arrived, nothing could hold him back. — *' He is on duty," said Courfeyrac. Marius lived in a state of delight. It is certain that the young girl did look at him. He had finally grown bold, and approached the bench. Still, he did not pass in front of it any more, in obedience to the instinct of timidity and to the instinct of prudence common to lovers. He considered it better not to attract " the attention of the father." He combined his stations behind the trees and the pedestals of the statues with a profound diplomacy, 80 that he might be seen as much as possible by the young girl and as little as possible by the old gentleman. Sometimes, he remained motionless by the half-hour together in the shade of a Leonidas or a Spartacus, holding in his hand a book, above which his eyes, gently raised, sought the beautiful girl, and she, on her side, turned her charming profile towards him with a vague smile. While conversing in the most natural and tran- quil manner in the world with the white-haired man, she bent upon Marius all the reveries of a virginal and passionate eye. Ancient and time-honored manœuvre which Eve understood from the very first day of the world, and which every woman under- stands from the ver}- first day of her life ! her mouth replied to one, and her glance replied to another. It must be supposed, that M. Leblanc finally noticed some- thing, for often, when Marius arrived, he rose and began to walk abont. He had abandoned their accustomed place and had adopted the bench by the Gladiator, near the other end of the walk, as though with the object of seeing whether Marius would pursue them thither. Marius did not understand, and committed this error. *'The father" began to grow inexact, opeci tne young girl in a delicious shiver, worthy of Virgirs nymphs, and the fawns of Theocritus, and lifted her dress, the rohc more sacred than that of Isis, almost to the height of her garter. A leg of exquisite shape appeared. Marius saw it. He was exasperated and furious. The young girl had hastily thrust down her dress, with a divinely troubled motion, but he was none the less angry for all that. He was alone in the alley, it is true. But there might have been some one there. And what if there had been some one there ! Can any one comprehend such a thing ? What she has just done is horrible ! — Alas ! the poor child had done noth- ing ; there had been but one culprit, the wind ; but Marius, in whom quivered the Bartholo who exists in Chérubin, was deter- mined to be vexed, and was jealous of his own shadow. It is thus, inVact, that the harsh and capricious jealousy of the flesh awakens in the human heart, and takes possession of it, even without any right. Moreover, setting aside even tliat jealousy, the sight of that charming leg had contained nothing agreeable for him ; the white stocking of the first woman he chanced to meet would have afforded him more pleasure. When " his Ursule," after having reached the end of the walk, retraced her steps with M. Leblanc, and passed in front of the bench on which Marius kad seated himself once more, Marius darted a sullen and ferocious glance at her. The young girl gave way to that slight straightening up with a backward movement, accompanied by a raising of the eyelids, which signifies: "Well, what is the matter?" This was ''their first quaiTel." Marius bad hardly made this scene at her with his eyes, when some one crossed the walk. It was a veteran, very much bent, extremely- wrinkled, and pale, in a uniform of the Louis XV. pattern, bearijig on his breast the little oval plaque of red cloth, with the crossed swords, the soldier's cross of Saint-Louis, and adorned, in addition, with a coat^sleeve, which liad no arm within it, with a silver chin and a wooden leg. Marius thought he perceived that this man had an extremely well satisfied air. It even struck him that the aged cynic, as he hobbled along past him, addressed to him a very fraternal and very merry wink, as though some chance had created an understanding between them, and as though they had shared some piece of good luck together. Wliat did that relic of Mars mean hy being so contented? What had passed between that wooden leg "Are you a police spy, sir?" Marius went off quite abashed, but delighted. He waa get* tiug on. "Good," thought he, "I know that her name is Ursule, that she is the daughter of a gentleman who lives on his inoome, and that she lives there, on the third floor, in the Rue de rOuest." On the following day, M. Leblanc and his daughter made only a very brief stay in the Luxembourg ; they went away while it was still broad daylight. Marius followed them to the Rue de rOuest, as he had taken up the habit of doing. On arriving at the carriage entrance, M. Leblanc made his daughter pass in first, then paused, before crossing the threshold, and stared in- tently at Marius. On the next day they did not come to the Luxembourg. Marius waited for them all day in vain. At nightfall, he went to the Rue de TOuest, and saw a light in the windows of the third story. He walked about beneath the windows until the light was ex- tinguished. The next day, no one at the Luxembourg. Marius waited all day, then went and did sentinel duty under their windows. This carried him on to ten o'clock in the evening. His dinner took care of itself. Fever nourishes the sick man, and love the lover. He spent a week in this manner. M. Leblanc no longer ap- peared at the Luxembourg. Marius indulged in melancholy conjectures; he dared not watch the porte cochère during the day ; he contented himself with going at night to gaze upon the red light of the windows. Ât times, he saw shadows flit across them, and his heart began to beat. On the eighth day, when he arrived under the windows, there was no light in them. " Hello!" he said, "the lamp is not lighted yet. But it is dark. Can they have gone out? " He waited until ten o'clock. Until midnight. Until one in the morning. Not a light ap- peared in the windows of the third story, and no one entered the house. He went away in a very gloomy frame of mind. On the morrow, — for he only existed from morrow to mor» fow, there was, so to speak, no to-day for him, — on the mon-ow, d by Google No light iu the windows ; the shades were drawn ; the third floor was totally dark. Marius rapped at the porte eochère, entered, and said to tlie porter : — '* The gentleman on the third floor?" "Has moved away," replied the porter. Marius reelod and said feebly : — " How long ago ? " "Yesterday." "Where is he living now?" "I don't know anything about it," " So he has not left his new address?" "No." And the porter, raising his eyes, recognized Marius. "Come ! So it's you !" said he ; "but you are decidedly a spy then ? " BOOK SEVENTH, — PATRON MINETTE. I. — Mines and Miners. Human societies all have what is called iu theatrical parlance, a third lower floor. The social soil is everywhere undermined, sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. These works are superposed one upon the other. There are superior mines and inferior mines. There is a top and a bottom in this obscure sub-soil, which sometimes gives way beneath civilization, and which our indifference and heedlessness trample under foot. riie P^ncyclo[)edia, in the last century, was a mine that was almost open to the sky. The shades, those sombre hatchers of primitive Christianity, only awaited an opportunity to bring about an explosion under the Caesars and to inundate the hu man race with light. P'or in the sacred shadows there lies latent light. Volcanoes are full of a shadow that is capable of flashing forth. Every form begins by being night. The cata- combs, in which the first mass was said, were not alone the cellar of Rome, there were the vaults of the world. Beneath the social construction, that complicated marvel of a structure, there are excavations of all sorts. There ia the a pick with ciphers. Such another with wrath. People hail and answer each other from one catacomb to another. Utopias travel about underground, in the pipes. There they branch out in ever^ direction. They sometimes meet, and fraternize there. Jean-Jacques lends his pick to Diogenes, who lends him his iantern. Sometimes they enter into combat there. Calvin seizes Socinius by the hair. But nothing arrests nor interrupts the ten- sion of all these energies toward the goal, and the vast, simulta- neous activity, which goes and comes, mounts, descends, and mounts again in these obscurities, and which immense unknown swarming slowlj* transforms the top and the bottom and the inside and the outside. Society hardly even suspects this dig- ging which leaves its surface intact and changes its bowels. There are as many difiPereut subterranean stages as there are varying works, as there are extractions. What emerges from . these deep excavations ? The future. The deeper one goes, the more mysterious are the toilers. The work is good, up to a degree which the social philosophies are able to recognize; beyond that degree it is doubtful and mixed; lower down, it becomes terrible. At a certain depth, the excavations are no longer penetrable by the spirit of civili- zation, the limit breathable by man has been passed ; a beginning of monsters is possible. The descending scale is a strange one ; and each one of the rungs of this ladder corresponds to a stage where philosophy tun find footUokl, and where outJ t'lieoiuitt^rs uuc of these vvork^ men, sometimes divine, sometime?* miàôliuinm* Below Ji>hn Ouiis, there is Luther ; below T.uilier, tli^re is Descurteô ; below Descartes, there i» Voltaire ; below Voltaire, chcre is Coudoreet; b«low Condoreet, there m Rob eg pierre ; bcluw Robespierre, there is Marat; below ^larat there is B.ibeuf, And so it j^oes on. Lower down, conruse:irutes the iritlis- rfriut from Lîie invbilïle, ona peiceiw^s other glooiuy men, who t^erhnps do not exist as yet The inen of yi^êjterdiiy are 8[jec* très ; those of to* morrow are forms. The eye of tlie spirit distiu- ^aishe» them but obBcurely, The erabryouic work of the future ia oniî of the visions of plnlosophy. k world in limbo, m the state of fo&tus, what an unheard-of »î>ectre ! Saint-Simon, Owen^ Fourier, are tluTc also^ in lateral gatleneSp Surely, although a divine and iiiviaible chain unknown to ^«tneielves, binds together all thèse subterranean pititieer? with the blaze of others. The first are paradisiacal, the last are tragic. Nevertheless, whatever may be the contrast, all these toilers, from the highest to the most nocturnal, from the wisest to the most foolish, possess one likeness, and this is it : disinter* estedness. Marat forgets himself like Jesus. They throw them- selves on one side, they omit themselves, they think not of themselves. They have a glance, and that glance seeks the ab- solute. The first has the whole heavens in his eyes ; the last, enigmatical though he may be, has still, beneath his eyelids, the pale beam of the infinite. Venerate the man, whoever he may be, who has this sign — the starry eye. The shadowy eye is the other sign. . With it, evil commences. Reflect and tremble in the presence of any one who has no glance at all. The social order has its black miners. There is a point where depth is tantamount to burial, and where light becomes extinct. Below all these mines which we have just mentioned, below all these galleries, below this whole immense, subterranean, venous system of progress and Utopia, much further on in the earth, much lower than Marat, lower than Babeuf, lower, much lower, and without any connection with the upper levels, there lies the last mine. A formidable spot. This is what we have designated as the le troisième dessous. It is the grave of shad- ows. It is the cellar of the blind. Inferi. This communicates with the abyss. II. — The Lowest Depths. There disinterestedness vanishes. The demon is vi^aely outlined ; each one is for himself. The / in the eyes howls seeks, fumbles, and gnaws. The social Ugolino is in this gulf. The wild spectres who roam in this grave, almost beasts, almost phantoms, are not occupied with universal progress, they are ignorant both of the idea and of the word ; they take no thought for anything but the satisfaction of their individua, desires. They are almost unconscious, and there exists within them a sort of terrible obliteration. They have two mothers- both step-mothers, ignorance and misery. They have a giiide^ necessity; and for all forms of satisfaction, appetite. They are brutally voracious, that is to say, ferocious, not after tlie fashion of the tyrant, but after the fashion of the tiger. Proni MARIUS. 135 luffering these spectres pass to crime ; fatal affiliation, dizzy créa- tiou, logic of darkness. That vvhich crawls in the social third lower level is no longer complaint stifled by the absolute ; it is the protest of matter. Man there becomes a dnigon. To be hungry, to be thirsty — that is the point of departure ; to be Satan — that is the point reached. From that vault Lacenaire emerges. We have just seen, in Book Fourth, one of the compartments af tlie upper mine, of the great political, revolutionaiy, and philosophical excavation. There, as we have just said, all is pure, noble, dignified, honest. There, assuredly, one might be misled ; but eiTor is worthy of veneration there, so thoroughly does it imply heroism. The work there effected, taken as a whole, has a name : Progress. The moment has now come when we must take a look at other depths, hideous depths. There exists beneath society, ire insist upon this point, and there will exist, until that day wben ignorance shall be dissipated, the great cavern of evil. This cavern is below all, and is the foe of all. It is hatred, without exception. This cavern knows no philosophers; its dagger has never cut a pen. Its blackness has no connection with the sublime blackness of the inkstand. Never have the fingers of night which contract beneath this stifling ceiling, turned the leaves of a book nor unfolded a newspaper. Babeuf is a speculator to Cartouche ; Marat is an aristocrat to Schinder- hannes. This cavern has for its object the destruction of everything. Of everything. Including the upper superior mines, which it execrates. It not only undermines, in its hideous swarming, the actual social order ; it undermines philosophy, it undermines human thought, it undermines civilization, it undermines revo- lution, it undermines progress. Its name is simply theft, pros- titution, murder, assassination. It is darkness, and it desires chaos. Its vault is formed of ignorance. All the others, those above it, have but one object — to sup- press it. It is to this point that philosophy and progress tend, with all their organs simultaneously, by their amelioration of the real, as well as by their contemplation of the absolute. Destroy the cavern Ignorance and you destroy the lair Crime. Let OS condense, in a few words, a part of what we have just written. The only social peril is darkness. Humanity is identity. All men are made of the same clay. There is no différence, here below, at lenst, in predestination. ^e same shadow in front* the same flesh in the present, the Digitized by Google of the interior of a man and is there converted into evil. III. — Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montpabnassr A QUARTETTE of ruffians, Claquesous, Guculemer, Babet, and Montparnasse governed the third lower floor of Paris, from 183C to 1835. Gueulemer was a Hercules of no defined position. For his lair he had the sewer of the Arche-Marion. He was six feet high, his pectoral muscles were of marble, his biceps of brass, his breath was that of a cavern, his torso that of a colossas, his head that of a bird. One thought one beheld the Farnese Hercules clad in duck trousers and a cotton velvet waistcoat. Gueulemer, built after this sculptural fashion, might have sub- dued monsters ; he had found it more expeditious to be one. A low brow, large temples, less than forty 3ears of age, but with crows' -feet, harsh, short hair, cheeks like a brush, a beard like that of a wild boar; the reader can see the man before him. His muscles called for work, his stupidity would have none of it. He was a great, idle force. He was an assassin through coolness. He was thought to be a créole. He had, probably, somewhat to do with Marshal Brune, having been a porter at Avignon in 1815. After this stage, he had turned rufllan. The diaphaneity of Babet contrasted with the grossness of Gueulemer. Babet was thin and learned. He was transparent but impenetrable. Daylight was visible through his bones, but nothing through his eyes. He declared that he was a chemist. He had been a jack of all trades. He had played in vaudeville at Saint-Mihiel. He was a man of purpose, a fine talker, who underlined his smiles and accentuated his gestures. His occu- pation consisted in selling, in the open air, plaster busts and portraits of ^^ the head of the State." In addition to this, he extracted teeth. He had exhibited phenomena at fairs, and he had owned a booth with a trumpet and this poster : ^^ Babet, Dental Artist, Member of the Academies, makes physical ex- periments on metals and metalloids, extracts teeth, undertakes stumps abandoned by his brother practitioners. Price : one tooth, one franc, fifty centimes ; two teeth, two francs ; three t^eth, two francs, fifty. Take advantage of this opportunity-** This Take advantage of this opportunity meant: Have sê MARIUS. 137 many teeth extracted as possible. He had been married and had had children. He did not know what had become of his wife and children. He had lost^^hem as one loses his handker- chief. Babet read the papers, a striking exception in the world to which he belonged. One day, at the period when he had his family with him in his booth on wheels, he had read in the Me&- S(iger, that a woman had just given birth to a child, who was doing well, and had a calf s muzzle, and he exclaimed : ^^ There's a fortune I my wife has not the wit to present me with a child like that ! " Later on he had abandoned everything, in order to ^^ under* take Paris." This was his expression. Who was Claquesous ? He was night. He waited until the 8ky was daubed with black, before he showed himself. At nightfall he emerged from the hole whither he returned before daylight. Where was this hole? No one knew. He only addressed his accomplices in the most absolute darkness, and with his back tum^ to them. Was his name Claquesous? Certainly not. If a candle was brought, he put on a mask. He was a ventriloquist. Babet said: ^^ Claquesous is a noc- turne for two voices." Claquesous was vague, terrible, and a roamer. No one was sure whether he had a name, Claquesous being a sobriquet ; none was sure that he had a voice, as his stomach spoke more frequently than his voice ; no one was sure that he had a face, as he was never seen without his mask. He disappeared as though he had vanished into thin air ; when he appeared, it was as though he sprang from the earth. A Ingubrious being was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a child ; less than twenty years of age, with a handsome face, lips like cherries, charming black hair, the brilliant light of springtime in his eyes; he had all vices and aspired to all crimes. The digestion of evil aroused in him an appetite for worse. £t was the street boy turned pickpocket, and a pickpocket turned garroter. He was genteel, effeminate, graceful, robust, sluggish, ferocious. T^e rim of his hat was curled up on the left side, in order to make room for a tuft of hair, after tiie style of 1829. He lived by robbery with violence. His coat was of the best cut, but threadbare. Montparnasse was a fashion-plate in misery and given to the commission of mur« ders. The cause of ail this youth's crimes was the desire to be well-dressed. The firat grisette who had said to him : *' Yoq are handsome ! " had cast the stain of darkness into his heart and bad made a Cain of this Abel. Finding that he was hand Digitized by Google were so dreaded as Moutparuasse. At eighteen, he bad alread}' numerous corpses in his past. More than one passer-by lay with outstretched arms in the presence of this wretch, with bis face in a pool of blood. Curled, pomaded, with laced waist, the hips of a woman, the bust of a Prussian officer, the murmui of admiration from the boulevard wenches surrounding him, bis cravat knowingly tied, a bludgeon in his pocket, a flower in bi£ buttonhole ; such was this dandy of the sepulchre. IV. — Composition of the Trodpe. These four ruffians formed a sort of Proteus, wmding like a serpent among the police, and striving to escape Vidocq's indis- creet glances '^ under divers forms, tree, flame, fountain," lending each other their names and their traps, biding in their own shadows, boxes with secret compartments and refuges for each other, stripping off their personalities, as one removes his false nose at a masked ball, sometimes simplifying matters to the point of consisting of but one indivirlual, sometimes multi- plying themselves to such a point that Coco-Latour himself took them for a whole throng. These four men were not four men ; they were a sort of mysterious robber with four heads, operating on a grand scale on Paris ; they were that monstrous polyp of evil, which in- habits the crypt of society. Thanks to their ramifications, and to the network underl3'lng their relations, Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montpar- nasse were charged with the general enterprise of the ambushes of the department of the Seine. The inventors of ideas of that nature, men with nocturnal imaginations, applied to them to have their ideas executed. They furnished the canvas to the four rascals, and the latter undertook the preparation of the scenery. They labored at the stage setting. They were always in a condition to lend a force proportioned and suitable to all crimes which demanded a lift of the shoulder, and which were sufficiently lucrative. When a crime was in quest of arms, they under-let their accomplices. They kept a troupe of actors of the shadows at the disposition of all underground tragedies. They were in the habit of assembling at nightfall, the hour when they woke up, on the plains which adjoin the Salpétrière. There they held their conforoneos. They had twelve black houn before them ) they r^ulated their employment accordingly. men. lu the fantastic, ancient, popular parlance, which is van- ishing day by day, Patron-Minette signifies the morning, the same as entre chien et loup — between dog and wolf — signifies the evening. This appellation, PcUron^Minette^ was probably de« rived from the hour at which their work ended, the dawn being the vanishing moment for phantoms and for the separation of rufi9ans. These four men were known under this title. When the President of the Assizes visited Lacenaire in his prison, and questioned him concerning a misdeed which Lacenaire de- nied, "Who did it?" demanded the President. Lacenaire made this response, enigmatical so far as the magistrate was concerned, but dear to the police: ''Perhaps it was Patron- Minette." A piece can sometimes be divined on the enunciation of the personages ; in the same manner a band can almost be judged from the list of ruffians composing it. Here are the appellations to which the principal members of Patron-Minette answered, --* for the names have survived in special memoirs. Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille. Brujon. [There was a Brujon dynasty ; we cannot refraip from interpolating this word.] Boftlatruelle, the road-mender already introduced. Laveuve. Finistère. Homère-Hogu, a negro. Mardisoir. (Tuesday evening.) Dép^he. (Make haste.) Fauntleroy, alias Bouquetière (the Flower Girl). Glorieux, a discharged convict. Barrecarrosse (Stop-carriage) , called Monsieur Dupout. L'£splanade-du-Sad. Foussagrtve. Carmagnolet. Kruideniers, called Bizarro. Mangeden telle. (Lace-eater.) Les-pieda-enTAir. (Feet in the air.) Demi-Liard, called Dcux-MilHanïs, Eté., etc. We pass over some, and not the worst of them* These oatnes have faces iittfiched, Tlicy do tmi pxpre&s merely lu'- ingfi, but species. Kach one nf these names corresponds to a vftripty of those fnis»iia[^en fungi frorn the under Bide oi>' «avihy^atlott* the streets. Fatigued by the wild nights which they passed, they went off by day to sleep, sometimes in the lime-kilns, sometimes in the abandoned quarries of Montmatre or Mont< rouge, sometimes in the sewers. They ran to earth. What became of these men ? They still exist. They have al- ways existed. Horace speaks of them : Aynbvbaiarum collegia^ phai-Triacopolce, mendici^ mimœ; and so long as society remains what it is, they will remain what they are. Beneath the ob- scure roof of their cavern, they are continually bom again from the social ooze. They return, spectres, but always identical ; only, they no longer bear the same names and they are no longer in the same skins. The individuals extirpated, the tribe subsists. They always have the same faculties. From the vagrant to the tramp, the race is maintained in its purity. They divine purses in pockets, they scent out watches in fobs. G<)ld and silver possess an odor for them. There exist ingenuous bour- geois, of whom it might be said, that they have a *' stealable" air. These men patiently pursue these bourgeois. They ex- j^erience the quivers of a spider at the passage of a stranger or of a man from the country. These men are terrible, when one encounters them, or catches a glimpse of them, towards midnight, on a deserted boulevard. They do not seem to be men, but forms composed of living mists ; one would say that they habitually constitute one mass with the shadows, that they are in no wise distinct from them, that they possess no other soul than the darkness, and that it is only momentarily and for the purpose of living for a few minutes a monstrous life, that they have separate from the nigh^ Wnat is necessary to cause these spectres to vanish? Light. Light in floods. Not a single bat can resist the dawn. light ap KXàety from below. Digitized by Google singing creatures on their way home from the feast, which passed close to him, as he, in his discouragement, breathed io the acrid scent of the wahmt-trees, along the road, in order to refresh his head. He took to living more and more alone, utterly overwhelmed, wholly given up to his inward anguish, going and ooming in his pain like the wolf in the trap, seeking the absent one every- where, stupefied by love. On another occasion, he had an encounter which produced on him a singular effect. He met, in the narrow streets in the vicinity of the Boulevard des Invalides, a man dressed like a workingman and wearing a cap with a long visor, which allowed a glimpse of locks of very white hair. Marius was struck with the beauty of this white hair, and scrutinized the man, who was walking slowly and as though absorbed in painful meditation. Strange to say, he thought that he recognized M. Leblanc. The hair was the same, also the profile, so far as the cap permitted a view of it, the mien identical, only more depressed. But why these workingman*s clothes? What was the meaning of this? What signified that disguise? Marius was greatly astonished. When he recovered himself, his first impulse was to follow the man ; who knows whether he did not hold at last tlie clue which he was seeking? In any case, he must see the man near at hand, and clear up the mystery. But the idea occurred to him too late, the man was no longer there. He had turned into some little side street, and Marius could not find him. This encounter occupied his mind for three days and then w.ns effaced. ''After all," he said to himself, " it was probably only a resemblance." II. — Treasure Trove. Marius had not left the Gorbeau house. He paid no atten- tion to any one there. At that epoch, to tell the truth, there were no other inhabitants in the house, except himself and those Jondrettes whose rent he had once paid, without, moreover, ever having spoken to either father, mother, or daughters. The other lodgers had moved away or had died, or had been turned out in default oi payment. . One day during that winter, the sun had shown itself a little in the afternoon, but it was the 2d of February, that ancient k lines, w I Marin I was the dining a i He ha | sweeping , logae : — ''Whi There is can get t i Mario; i order to : with dro( AU at : wheeled i i tall and i rapidly, i I of fleeing hitn, and light, Mi heads, tl I ragged p( thev ran. '' The I the half.( bolted, bo Througl armes or children, î They pi and there vague whil Marias 1 He was iittle grayi stooped an appeared ti ^ Whelhei Digitized by Google He retraced his steps, he called, he did not find them ; he reflected tiiat they must already be far away, put the package in his pocket, and went off to dine. On the wa}', he saw in an alley of the Rue Mouffetard, a child's coffin, covered with a black cloth, resting on three chairs, and illuminated by a candle. The two girls of the twilight recurred to his mind. '' Poor mothers ! " he thought. " There is one thing sadder than to see one's children die ; it is to see them leading an evil .ife." Then those shadows which had varied his melancholy vanished from his thoughts, and he fell back once more into his habitual preoccupations. He fell to thinking once more of his six months of love and happin/ess in the open air and the broad daylight, beneath the beautiful trees of Luxembourg. '' How gloom}' my life has become !" he said to himself. " Young girls are always appearing to me, only formerly they were angels and now they are ghouls." III. — QUADRIFRONS. That evening, as he was undressing preparatory* to going to bed, his hand came in contact, in the pocket of his coat, with the packet which he had picked up on the boulevard. He had forgotten it. He thought that it would be well to open it, and that this package might possibly contain the address of the young girls, if it really belonged to them, and, in any case, the information necessary to a restitution to the person who had lost it. He opened the envelope. It was not sealed, and contained four letters, also unsealed. They bore addresses. All four exhaled a horrible odor of tobacco. The first was addressed : " Tb Madame^ Madame la Marquise de Chrucheray^ the place opposite the Chamber of Deputies^ No. — " Marins said to himself, that he should probably find in it the Information which he sought, and that, moreover, the letu*r being open, it was probable that it could be read without irapro- prietiy. ■^--SS?SS|iii|' ^^^*»^«^ Digitized by Google In spite of these qualities I have reason to fear that jealousy, the egotism of priviliged authors, may obtaine my exclusion from the theatre, for I am not ignorant of the mortificateoni with which new-comers are treated. Monsiuer Pabourgeot, your just reputation as an enlightened protector of men of litters emboldens me to send you my daughter who will explain our indigant situation to you, lacking bread and fire in this wynter seasoa When I say to you that I beg you to accept the dedication of my drama whicli I desire to make to you and of all those that I shall make, is to prove to you how great is my ambition to have the honor of sheltering myself under your protection, and of adorning my writings with your name. If you deign to honor me with the most modest offering, I shall immedi- ately occupy myself in making a piesse of verse to pay you my tribute of gratitude. Which I shall endeavor to render this piesse as perfect as poa- iible, will be sent to you before it is inserted at the beginning of the drama and delivered on the stage. To Monsieur and Madame Pabourgeot, My most respectful complements, Genflot, man of letters. P.S. Even if it is only forty sous. Excuse me for sending my daughter and not presenting myself, but sad votives connected with the toilet do not permit me, alas ! to go out. Finally, Marius opened the fourth letter. The address ran : To the benevolent Gentleman of the church of Saint- Jacques^u- haiU'Pa^, It contained the following lines : — Benevolent man : If you deign to accompany my daughter, you will behold a misserable calamity, and I will show you my certificates. At the aspect of these writings your generous soul will be moved with a sentiment of obvious benevolence, for true philosophers always feel livelj emotions. Admll, compassionate man, that it is necessary to sufter the most cruel need, and that it is very painful, for the sake of obtaining a little relief, to get oneself attested, by the authorities as though one were not free to suffer and to die of inanition while waiting to have our misery relieved. Dcsti aies are very fatal for several and too prodigal or too protecting for others. I await your presence or your offering, if you deign to make one, and I beseech you to accept the respectful sentiments with wliich I have the honor to be, truly magnanimous man, your very humble and very obedient servant, P. Fabantou, dramatic artist. After perusing these four letters, Marius did not find himself much further advanced than before. In the first place, not one of the signers gave his address. Then, they seemed to come from four different individuals, Don *e /.„5"«'oo w.^' **e saii;''*, «boo*";?' «"drf^o 'Oore *4etn t^i tie ■>"«& ^<'^«^ "^ *."^, " J*': ft^'^^^^e^ïî!'. ''M cVootVL''Ve7rt^- Af. «'•/«s to van/. i-e. .«otue Of""'«''' «u^o«. *Y 'o t/,; »ot , «Ver *L '*""• nX '«e /« . .*Sïâ>s^««-. t/ie '^•^' and 2>"oi-. ' ^''e ^o/o» * J'OllOl! Digitized by Google I4S LES MISERABLES. IV. — A Rose in Misery. A VERT young girl was standing in the half-open door. Th^ dormor window of the garret, through which the light fell, was precisel}* opposite the door, and illuminated the figure with a wan light. She was a frail, emaciated, slender creature ; there was nothing but a chemise and a petticoat upon that chilled and shivering nakedness. Her girdle was a string, her head ribbon a string, her pointed shoulders emerged from her chemise, a blond and lymphatic pallor, earth-colored collar-bones, red hands, a half-open and degraded mouth, missing teeth, dull, bold, base eyes; she had the form of a young girl who has missed her youtli, and the look of a corrupt old woman ; fifty years mingled with fifteen ; one of those beings which are both feeble and horrible, and which cause those to shudder whom they do not cause to weep. Marins had risen, and was staring in a sort of stupor at this being, who was almost like the forms of the shadows which traverse dreams. The most heart-breaking thing of all was, that this young girl had not come into the world to be homely. In her early child- hood she must even have been pretty. The grace of her age was still struggling against the hideous, premature decrepitude of debauchery and poverty. The remains of beauty were dying away in that face of sixteen, like the pale sunlight which is extinguished under hideous clouds at dawn on a winter's day. That face was not wholly unknown to Marins. He tiiought he remembered having seen it somewhere. '* What do you wish, Mademoiselle?" he asked. The young girl replied in her voice of a drunken convict : — '' Here is a letter for you. Monsieur Marins." She called Marins by his name ; he could not doubt that he was the person whom she wanted ; but who was this girl? How did she know his name? Without waiting for him to tell her to advance, she entered. She entered resolutely, staring, with a sort of assurance that made the heart -bleed, at the whole room and the unmade bed. Her feet were bare. Large holes in her petticoat permitted glimpses of her long legs and her thin knees. She was shivering. She held a letter Cn her hand, which she presented to Marius. Marins, as he opened the letter, noticed that the enormous Digitized by Google MARIU8. 14t wafer which sealed it was still moist* The message ooald nol have come from a distance. He read : — Mt Amiablb Nsighbob, Young Man : I have learned of your good* nc88 to me, that you paid my rent six months ago. I bless you, young man. My eldest daughter will tell you that we have been without a morsel of bread for two days, four persons and my spouse ill. If I am not deseayed in my opinion, I think I may hope that yoiir generous heart will melt at this statement and the desire will subjugate you to be propi- tious to me by daigning to lavish on me a slight favor. I am «rith the distinguished consideration which is due to the benefac* tors of humanity, — Jondrette. F.S. My eldest daughter will await your orders, dear Monsieur Marius. This letter, coming in the very midst of the mysterious adveo'* ture which had occupied Marius' thoughts ever since the pre* ceding evening, was like a candle in a cellar. All was sud- denly illuminated. This letter came from the same place as the other four. There was the same writing, the same style, the same orthog- raphy, the same paper, the same odor of tobacco. There were five missives, five histories, five signatures, and a single signer. The Spanish Captain Don Alvarés, the un- happy Mistress Balizard, the dramatic poet Genflot, the old comedian Fahantou, were all four named Jondrette, if, indeed, Jondrette himself were named Jondrette. Marius had lived in the house for a tolerably long time, and he had had, as we have said, but very rare occasion to see, to even catch a glimpse of, his extremely mean neighbors. His mind was elsewhere, and where the mind is, there the eyes are also. He had been obliged more than once to pass the Jondrettes in the corridor or on the stairs ; but they were mere forms to him ; he liad paid so little heed to them, that, on the preceding evening, he hiid jostled the Jondrette girls on the boulevard, without recc^nizing them, for it had evidently been they, and it was with great difficulty that the one who had just entered his room had awakened in him, in spite of disgust and pity, a vague recollection of having met her elsewhere. Now he saw everything clearly. He understood that his neighbor Jondrette, in his distress, exercised the industry of speculating on the charity of benevolent persons, that he pro- cared addresses, and that be wrote under feigned names to people whom he judged to be wealthy and compassionate, letters which his daughters delivered at their risk and peril, for this father had come to such a pass, that he risked his Digitized by Google 150 LES MISERABLES. iaughters ; he was playing a game with fate, and he used tihem as the stake. Marius understood that probably, judging from their flight on the evening before, from their breathless condi- tion, from their terror and from the words of slang which he had overheard, these unfortunate creatures were plying some inexplicably sad profession, and that the result of the whole was, in the midst of human societ}^ as it is now con* stituted, two miserable beings who were neither girls noi women, a species of impure and innocent monsters produced by mi8er3'. Sad creatures, without name, or sex, or age, to whom neither good nor evil were any longer possible, and who, on emerging from childhood, have already nothing in this world, neither liberty, nor virtue, nor responsibility. Souls which blossomed out yesterday, and are faded to-day, like those flowers let fall in the streets, which are soiled with every soit of mire, while waiting for some wheel to crush them. Nevertheless, while Marius bent a pained and astonished gaze on her, the young girl was wandering back and forth in the garret with the audac- ity of a spectre. She kicked about, without troubling herself as to her nakedness. Occasionally, her chemise, which was untied and torn, fell almost to her waist. She moved the chairs about, she disarranged the toilet articles which stood on the commode, she handled Marius' clothes, she rammaged about to see what there was in the corners. *' Hullo ! " said she, *' you have a mirror ! " And she hummed scraps of vaudevilles, as though she had been alone, frolicsome refrains which her hoarse and guttural voice rendered lugubrious. An indescribable constraint, weariness, and humiliation were })erceptible beneath this hardihood. Effrontery is a disgrace. Nothing could be more melancholy than to see her sport about the room, and, so to speak, flit with the movements of a bird which is frightened by the daylight, or which has broken its wing. One felt that under other conditions of education and destiny, the gay and over-free mien of this young girl might have turned out sweet and charming. Never, even among animals, does the creature born to be a dove change into an osprey. That is only to be seen among men. Marius reflected, and allowed her to have her way. She approached the table. *' Ah ! " said she, *' books ! " A flash picfoid her glassy eye. She resumed, and ber aocebt Digitized by Google MARIUS. 161 expressed the happiness which she felt in boasting of some* thing, to which no human creature is insensible : — ** I know how to read, I do ! " She eagerly seized a book which lay open on the table, and read with tolerable fluency : — ^^ — General Bauduin received orders to take the chateau of Hougomout which stands in the middle of the plain of Water- loo, with five battalions of his brigade." She paused. '^ Ah ! Waterloo! I know about that. It was a battle long Ago. My father was there. My father has served in the armies. We are fine Bonapartists in our house, that we are I Waterloo was against the English." She laid down the book, caught up a pen, and exclaimed : — ♦* And I know how to write, too ! " She dipped her pen in the ink, and turning to Marius : — *' Do you want to see? Look here, I'm going to write a word to show you." And before he had time to answer, she wrote on a sheet of white paper, which lay in the middle of the table : '^ The bob- bies are here." Then throwing down the pen : — *' There are no faults of orthography. You can look. We have received an education, my sister and I. We have not alwa3's been as we are now. We were not made — " Here she paused, fixed her dull eyes on Marius, and burst oat laughing, saying, with an intonation which contained ever^ form of anguish, stifled bv every form of cynicism : — " Bah ! " And she began to hum these words to a gay air : -^ " J*ai faim, mon père. " I am hungry, father. Pas de fricot. I have no food. J'ai froid, ma mère. I am cold, mother. Paa de tricot. I have no clothee Grelotte, Shiver, Lolotte ! Lolotte 1 Sanglote, Sob, JacquotI"* • Jacquotl* She had hardly finished this couplet, when she exclaimed : — *' Do you ever go the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have B little brother who is a friend of the artists, and who gives me tickets sometimes. But I don't like the benches in the galleries. One is cramped and uncomfortable there. There are rough people there sometimes ; and people who smell bad." Digitized by Google 152 LES MISÉRABLES. Then she scratiiiized Marius, assomed a singular air aat said : — ^' Do you know, Mr. Marias, that joa are a very handsome fellow?" And at the same moment the same idea occnrred to them both, and made her smile and him blush. She stepped up to * him, and laid her hand on his shoulder: '^ You pay uo heed to me, but I know you, Mr. Marius. I meet you here on the staircase, and then I often see you going to a person named Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction of Austerlitz, some- times when I have been strolling in that quarter. It is very becoming to you to have your hair tumbled thus." She tried to render her voice soft, *»it only succeeded in mak- ing it very deep. A portion of htr words was lost in the transit from her larynx to her lips, as though on a piano where some notes are missing. Marius had retreated gently. " Mademoiselle," said he, with his cool gravity, " I have here a package which belongs to you, I think. Permit me to return it to you." And he held out the envelope containing the four letters. She clapped her hands and exclaimed : — *' We have been looking everj'where for that! " Then she eagerly seized the package, and opened the enyelope, saying as she did so : — ^^ Dieu de Dieu ! how my sister and I have hunted! And it was you who found it 1 On the boulevard, was- it not? It must have been on the boulevard? You see, we let it fall when we were running. It was tliat brat of a sister of mine who was so stupid. When we got home, we could not find it anywhere. As we did not wish to be beaten, as that is useless, as that is entirely useless, as that is absolutely useless, we said that we had carried the letters to the proper persons, and that they had said to us : ' Nix.' So here they are, those poor letters 1 And how did you find out that they belonged to me? Ah ! yes, the writing. So it was you that we jostled as we passed last night We couldn't see. I said to my sister : 'Is it a gentleman ? * My sister said to me : 'I think it is a gentleman.' " In the meanwhile, she had unfolded the petition addressed to *' the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jaoques-du- Haut-Pas." '^ Here ! " said she, '^ this is for that old fellow who goes to mass. By the way, this is his hour. I'll go and carry it to him. Perhaps he will give us something to breakfast on. Digitized by Google MARIU8. 153 Then slie began to laagh again, and added : — '* Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast to-day? It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day before yesterday, onr breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day, and all that at once, and this morning. Come I Parbleu ! if you are not satisfied, dogs, burst ! " This reminded Marius of the wretched girl's eiTand to him- self. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and found nothing there. The young girl went on, and seemed to have no consciousness of Marius' presence. *' I often go oif in the evening. Sometimes I don't come home again. Last winter, before we came here, we lived under the arches of the bridges. We huddled together to keep from freezing. My little sister cried. How melancholy the water is I When I thought of drowning myself, I said to myself: 'No, it's too cold.' I go out alone, whenever I choose, I sometimes sleep in the ditches. Do you know, at night, when I walk along the boulevard, I see the trees like forks, I see houses, all black and as big as Notre Dame, I fancy that the white walls are the river, I say to myself: 'Why, there's water there!' The stars are like the lamps in illuminations, one would say that they smoked and that the wind blew them out, I am bewildered, as though horses were breathing in my ears ; although it is night, I hear hand-organs and spinning-machines, and I don't know what all. I think people are flinging stones at me, I flee with- out knowing whither, everything whirls and whirls. You feel Tery queer when you have had no food." And then she stared at him with a bewildered air. By dint of searching and ransacking his pockets, Marius had finally collected five francs sixteen sous. This was all he owned in the world for the moment. '* At all events," he thought, " there is my dinner for to-da}', and to-morrow we will see." He kept the sixteen sous, and handed the five francs to the young girl. She seized the coin. •* Good ! " said she, «' the sun is shining ! " And, as though the sun had possessed the property of melting the avalanches of slang in her brain, she went on : — ** Five francs ! the shiner ! a monarch ! in tliis hole ! Ain't this fine! You're a jolly thief! I'm your humble ser^'ant! Bravo for the good fellows ! Two days' wine ! and meat ! and 3tew ! we'll have a royal feast ! and a good fill ! " She pulled her chemise up on her shoulders, made a low bow Digitized by Google '^ Good morning, sir. It's all right. Fll go and find my old man." As she passed, she caught sight of a dry crust of bread on the commode, which was moulding there amid the dust; she flung herself upon it and bit into it, muttering: — " That's good ! it's hard I it breaks my teeth 1 " Then she departed. V. — A Providential Peep-Hole. Marius bad lived for five years in poverty, in destitution, even in distress, but he now perceived that he had not known real misery. True misery he had but just had a view of. It was its spectre which had just passed before his eyes. In /act, he who has only beheld the misery of man has seen nothing ; the misery of woman is what he must see ; he who has seen onl}' the misery of woman has seen nothing ; he mast see the misery of the child. When a man has reached his last extremity, he has reached his last resources at the same time. Woe to the defenceless beings who surround him ! Work, wages, bread, fire, courage, good will, all fail him simultaneously. The light of day seems extinguished without, the moral light within ; in these shadows man encounters the feebleness of the woman and the child, and bends them violently to ignominy. Then all horrors become possible. Despair is suiTOunded with fragile partitions which all open on either vice or crime. Health, youth, honor, all the shy delicacies of the young body, the heart, virginity, modesty, that epidermis of the soul, are manipulated in sinister wise by that fumbling which seeks resources, which encounters opprobrium, and which accomo- dates itself to it. Fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters, men, women, daughters, adhere and become incorporated, almost like a mineral formation, in that dusky promiscuousness of sexes, relationships, ages, infamies, and innocences. They crouch, back to back, in a sort of hut of fate. They exchange woe-begone glances. Oh, the unfortunate wretches ! How pale they are ! How cold they are ! It seems as though they dwelt in a planet much further from the sun than ours. This young girl was to Marius a sort of messenger from the realm of sad shadows. She revealed to him a hideous side ol the night. \ ceiveu, uear tue lA^p, ciusu lu uie. ceuiu^; » irmu^ruiar uuie. ^hicli resulted from the space between tliree lathes. The plastei which should have filled this cavity was missing, and by mount- ing on the commode, a view could be had through this aper ture into the Jondrettes' attic. Commiseration has, and should have, its curiosity. This aperture formed a sort of peep-hole. It is permissible to gaze at misfortune like a traitor in order tc succor it.^ " Let us get some little idea of what these people are like," thought Marius, *' and in what condition they are." He climbed upon the commode, put his eye to the crerice, and looked. VI. — The Wild Man in his Laib. Cities, like forests, have their caverns in which all the most wicked and formidable creatures which they contain conceal themselves. Only, in cities, that which thus conceals itself is ferocious, unclean, and petty, that is to say, ugly; in forests that which conceals itself is ferocious, savage, and grand, that is to say, beautiful. Taking one lair with another, the beast's is preferable to the man's. Caverns are better than hovels. What Marius now beheld was a hovel. Marius was poor, and his chamber was poverty-stricken, but as his poverty was noble, his garret was neat. The den upon which his eye now rested was abject, dirty, fetid, pestiferous, mean, sordid. Thé only furniture consisted of a straw chair, an infirm table, some old bits of crockery, and in two of the corners, two indescribable pallets ; all the light was furnished by a dormer window of four panes, draped with spiders' wçbs. Through this aperture there penetrated just enough light to make the face of a man appear like the face of a phantom. The walls had a leprous aspect, and were covered with seams and scars, like a visage disfigured by some horrible malady ; a repulsive moisture exuded from them. Obscene sketches roughly sketched with charcoal could be distinguished upon them. , The ciiamber which Marius occupied had a dilapidated brick pavement ; this one was neither tiled nor planked ; its inhabi- tants stepped directl}' on the antique plaster of the hovel, which bad grown black under the long-continued pressure of feet. Upon this uneven floor, where the dirt seemed to be fairlj 1 The peep-hole is a Judas in French. Hence the half-panning «llniioa \ TbiB man had a long gray beard. 'He was clad in a woman's chemise, which allowed his hairy breast and his bare arms, bris- tling with gray hair, to be seen. Beneath this chemise, mudd^ trousers and boots through which his toes projected were visible. He had a pipe in his month and was smoking. There was dc bread-in the hovel, but there was still tobacco. He was writing probably some more letters like those whicL Marius had read. On the corner of the table lay an ancient, dilapidated, reddish volume, and the size, which was the antique 12mo of reading- rooms, betrayed a romance. On the cover sprawled the fol- lowing title, printed in large capitals : GOD ; THE KING ; HONOR AND THE LADIES ; BY DUCRA Y DUMINIL, 1814. As the man wrote, be talked aloud, and Marius heard his words : — *•*• The idea that there is no equality, even when you are dead ! Just look ai Pere Lachaise ! The great, those who are rich, are up above, in the acacia alley, which is paved. They can reach it in a carriage. The little people, the poor, the unhappy, well, what of them? the}' are put down below, where the mud is up to your knees, in the damp places. They are put there so that they will decay the sooner ! You cannot go to see them with- out sinking into the earth." He paused, smote the table with his fist, and added, as he ground his teeth : — '* Oh ! I could eat the whole world ! " A big woman, who might be fort}* 3'ear8 of age, or a hundredf was crouching near the fireplace on her bare heels. She, too, was clad only in a chemise and a knitted pettiooat patched with bits of old cloth. A coarse linen apron concealed the half of her petticoat. Although this woman was doubled up and bent together, it could be seen that she was of very lofty stature. She was a sort of giant, beside her husband. She had hideous hair, of a reddish blond which was turning gray, and which she thrust back from time to time, with her enormous shining hands, with their flat nails. Beside her, on the floor, wide open, lay a book of the same form as the other, and probably a volume of the same romance. On one of the pallets, Marius caught a glimpse of a sort of tall pale young girl, who sat there half naked and with |>eiidant feet, and who did not seem to be listening or seeing or living. caressing appellations bad survived, as is often the case. She called him : My dear, my little friend^ my good man, etc., with her mouth while her heart was silent. The man resumed his writing. VII. — Strategy and Tactics. Marius, with a load upon his breast, was on the point of descending from the species of observatory which he had im- provised, when a sound attracted his attention and caused him to remain at his post. The door of the attic had just burst open abruptly. The eldest girl made her appearance on the threshold. On her feet, she had large, coarse, men's shoes, bespattered with mud, which had splashed even to her red ankles, and she was wrapped in an old mantle which hung in tatters. Marius had not seen ii on her an hour previously, but she had probably deposited it at his door, in order that she might inspire the more pity, and had picked it up again on emerging. She entered, pushed the dix)r to behind her, paused to take breath, for she was completely breathless, then exclaimed with an expression of triumph and joy: — ** He is coming!" The father turned his eyes towards her, the woman turned her head, the little sister did not stir. i' Who?" demanded her father. *' The gentleman ! " " The philanthropist? " ** Yes." ** From the church of Saint-Jacques?** " Yes." *'That old fellow?" " Yes." "And he is coming?" ** He is following me.'* " You are sure?" " I am sure." *' There, truly, he is coming? ** *' He is coming in a fiacre." " In a fiacre. He is Rothschild.** The father rose. ^^ How are you sure? If he is coming in a fiacre, bow m it that you arrive before him You gave him our address at [ nosed jug which stood on the chimney, and flung the water oi the brands. Then, addressing his eldest daughter: — *' Here 3'ou ! Pull the straw off that chair I " His daughter did not understand. He seized the chair, and with one kick he rendered it seat less. His leg passed through it. As he withdrew his leg, he asked his daughter : — "Is it cold?" "Very cold. It is snowing." The father turned towards the younger girl who sat on the bed near the window, and shouted to her in a thundering voice : — *' Quick ! get off that bed, you lazy thing ! will you never do anything ! break a pane of glass ! " The little girl jumped off the bed with a shiver. " Break a pane !" he repeaited. The child stood still in bewilderment. " Do you hear me?" repeated her father, ** I tell you to break a pane ! " The child, with a sort of terrified obedience, rose on tiptoe, and struck a pane with her fist. The glass broke and fell with a loud clatter. "Good," said the father. He was grave and abrupt. His glance swept rapidly over all the crannies of the garret. One would have said that he was a general making the final preparation at the moment when tlie battle is on the point of beginning. The mother, who had not said a word so far, now rose and demanded in a dull, slow, languid voice, whence her words seemed to emerge in a congealed state : — " What do you mean to do, my dear?" "Get into bed," replied the man. His intonation admitted of no deliberation. The mother obeyed, and threw herself heavily on one of the pallets. In the meantime, a sob became audible in. one comer. " What's that? *' cried the father. The younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fist, without quitting the corner in which she was cowering. She had wounded herself while breaking the window ; she went off, neai her mother's pallet and wept silentlv. It was now the mother's turn to start up and exclaim : — Then turning to the elder : — '^ There now ! He is not coming ! What if he were not to oome ! I shall have extinguished my fire, wrecked my chair, torn my shirt, and broken my pane all for nothing." '^ And wounded the child ! " murmured the mother. *' Do you know," went on the father, '* that it's beastly cold in this devil's garret! What if that man should not oome! Oh ! See there, you ! He makes us wait ! He says to him- self : ' Well ! they will wait for me ! That's what they're there for.' Oh ! how I hate them, and with what joy, jubi* lation, enthusiasm, and satisfaction I could strangle all those rich folks ! all thoseople ïji the carriage would assuretlly notice an individual running at fuli six^ed in pursuit of a fiacre^j and the father would recognize him. At t bit moment, wouderfnl and nn [>re cede u ted good luck, Marins per- ceived an empty cab passing along the honlevard. There waa but one thing to he doue» to jump into this rîdi and follow the fiacre, that was sure, efflcacions^ and free from danger. Marins mnde tlie driver a aign to halt) and called to him : — ''By the hour?" Maritïs wore no cravat* he had ou his working^coat, which was destitute of buttons, his shirt was ttjrD along one of the plait© no the bosom. The driver Ivalted, winked, and held ont his left hand to Mariu^i ■fibbing his forefinger gently witli his thumbs ''''What is it?" said Marins. " Pay in advance*'' said the coachman. Marins recollected tliat he but sixteen sous about bim* '' How ranch?*' he demanded- '' Forty sous." '* I will pay on ray return." The diiver's only reply was to whistle the atr of La Palisse and to whip [ip his horse. Marins stared at the retreating cabriolet with a liewilderwi îiir. For tiie lack of four and twenty mous, lie wjis losing his Joy, his imppiness, his love ! Ht? hatl seen, and he was I becom- ing blintl again. He reflected l)jtterly, and it must be confessfih with profound regret, on the five francs whicli he liad bestowed* that very morniiig, on tliat miserable girl. If he had had tlH*se five francs, he would have been saved, he would have been bom ugain, he would have emerged from the limbo and darkm*ss* he wijuld ha%'C made his escape from isolation and sj)leen, from hh Widowt'd stale ; he niijiht hrivc re-knntfcd the lilack thrcïul of liia destiny to that beautiful golden thread, which Uati just floats 178 LES MISERABLES XI* — OfFKBS of SeBTICB from MiSBRT to WRKICHEDlfBaB« Marius ascended the ataire of the bovel with slow steps; al the moment when he was about to re-enter his cell, he caught sight of the elder Jondrette girl following hiui through the oorn< dor. The very sight of this girl was odious to him ; it was she who had his five francs, it was too late to demand them bai*k, the cab was no longer there, the fiacre was far away. Moreover, she would not liave given them back. As for questioning her about the residence of the persons who had jnst been there, that was useless ; it was evident that she did not know, since the let- ter si|rned Fabantou had been addressed ^^ to tlie iK'nevolent gentleman of tbe church of Saint-^Jacques-du^Hant-Fas." Marius entered his room and pushed the door to after him. It did not close ; he turned round and beheld a hand which held the door half open. '' What is it?" he asked^ '' who is thera?" It was the Jondrette girl. ''Is it you?" resumed Marius almost harshly, *^ still yon! What do you want with me? " She appeared to be thoughtful and did not look at him. She no longer had the air of assurance which had characterized her that morning. She did not enter, but held back in the darkness of the corridor, where Marius could see her through the half- open door. *' Come now? will you answer,'' cried Marius, '* What do you want with me ? " She raised her dull eyes, in which a sort of gleam seemed to flicker vaguely, and said : — '' Monsieur Marins, you loc^ sad. What is the matter with you?" *' With me ! " said Marias. *' Yes, you." **> There is nothing the matter with me** ** Yes, there is!" ** No." «a tell you there is!" ** Let me alone I " Marius gave the door another push, bat she rstaiiied her bold CD it. " Stop," said she, ** you are in the wrong. Although you are not rich, you were kind this morniniç. Be so again now. You gave me something to eat, now tell me what ails you. Yoa arf Digitized by Google MARIUS. m grieved, that is plain. I do not wantyoa to be grieved. What can be done for it? Can I be of an}- service? Employ me. I do not ask for your secrets, you need not tell them to me, but I may be of use, nevertheless. I may be able to help you, since I help my father. When it is necessary to carry letters, to go to houses, to inquire from door to door, to find out at address, to follow any one, I am of service. Well, you may assuredly tell me what is the matter with you, and I will go and apeak to the persons; sometimes it is enough if sone one 9p3aks to the persons, that suffices to let them understand mat ters, and everything comes right. Make use of me." An idea flashed across Marins' mind. What branch does one disdain when one feels that one is falling ? He drew near to the Jondrette girl. *' Listen — " he said to her. She interrupted him with a glean; of joy in her eyes. ^^ Oh yes, do call me thou! I like that better." ^^ Well," he*resumed, ^^ thou hast brought hither that old gen* tleman and his daughter ! " *'Ye8." ^^ Dost thou know their address?" ''No." " Find it for me." The Jondrette's dull eyes had grown joyous, and they now became gloomy. *' Is that what you want? " she demanded. **Yes." ** Do you know them ? " ** No." **That is to say," she resumed quickly, ^'you do not know ûer, but you wish to know her." This them which had turned into her had something inde- scribably significant and bitter about it. ** Well, can you do it? " said Marius. " You shall have the beautiful lady's address." There was still a shade in the words ^^the beautiful lady** which troubled Marius. He resumed : — ** Never mind, after all, the address of the father and daugb ter. Their address, indeed ! " She gazed fixedly at him. *• What will you give me?" " Anvthing you like." "Anything I like?" ** Yea.-' Digitized by Google She dropped her head ; then, with a brusque movement, she pulled to the door, which closed behind her. Marios found himself alone. He dropped into a chair, with his head and both elbows on his bed, absorbed in thoughts which he could not grasp, and as though a prey to vertigo. All that had taken place since the morning, the appearance of the angel, her disappearance, what that creature had just said to him, a gleam of hope floating ir an immense despair, — this was what filled his brain confusedly All at once he was violently aroused from his revery. He heard the shrill, hard voice of Jondrette utter these words, which were fraught with a strange interest for him : — " I tell you that I am sure of it, and that I recognized him." Of whom was Jondrette speaking? Whom had he recog- nized? M. Leblanc? Tha father of "his Ursule"? What! Did Jondrette know him? Was Marins about to obtain in this abrupt and unexpected fashion all the informatioif without which his life was so dark to him? Was he about to learn at last who it was that he loved, who that young girl was? Who hei father was ? Was the dense shadow which enwrapped them on the point of being dispelled? Was the veil about to be rent? All ! Heavens ! He boimded rather than climbed upon his commode, and resumed his post near the little peep-hole in the pai-tition wall. Again he beheld the interior of Jondrette's hovel. XII. — The Use made of M. Leblano's Five-Franc Piece. Nothing in the aspect of the family was altered, except that the wife and daughters had levied on the package and put on woollen stockings and jackets. Two new blankets were thrown across the two beds. Jondrette had evidently just returned. He still had the breathlessness of out of doors. His daughters were seated on the floor near the fireplace, the elder engaged in dressing the younger's wounded hand. His wife had sunk back on the bed near the fireplace, with a face indicative of astonishment. Jon- drette was pacing up and down the garret with long strides. His eyes were extraordinary. The woman, who seemed timid and overwhelmed with stapof in the presence of her husband, turned to say : — '* What, really? You are sure?" *^Sure! Eight years have passed! But I recognize himl "It is not possible!" she cried. "When I think that my daughters are going barefoot, and have not a gown to theii backs ! What ! A satin pelisse, a velvet bonnet, boots, and everything ; more than two hundred francs' worth of clothes ! so that one would think she was a lady ! No, joa are mis- taken ! Why, in the first place, the other was hideous, and this one is not so bad-looking ! She really is not bad-looking 1 It can't be she ! " '' I tell you that it is she. You will see." At this absolute assertion, tlie Jondrette woman raised her large, red, blonde face and stared at the ceiling with a horrible expression. At that moment, she seemed to Marius even more to be feared than her husband. She was a sow with the look of a tigress. ** What ! " she resumed, '' that horrible, beautiful young lady, who gazed at my daughters with an air of pity, — she is that beg- gar brat ! Oh ! I should like to kick her stomach in for her ! '* She sprang off of the bed, and remained standing for a mo- ment, her hair in disorder, her nostrils dilating, her mouth halt open, her fists clenched and drawn back. Then she fell back on the bed once more. The man paced to and fro and paid no attention to his female. After a silence lasting several minutes, he approached the female Jondrette, and halted in front of her, with folded arms, as he had done a moment before : — " And shall I tell you another thing?" ''What is it?" she asked. He answered in a low, curt voice : — '* My fortune is made." The woman stared at him with the look that signifies : " lé the person who is addressing me on the point of going mad?** He went on : — *' Thunder ! It was not so very long ago that I was a parishionci of the parish of die-of-hunger-if-you-have-a-fire,-die-of-cold-if- you-have-bread ! I have had enough of misery ! my share and other people's share ! I am not joking any longer, I don't find it comic any more, I 've had enough of puns, good God ! no more farces, Eternal Father ! I want to eat till I am full, I want to drink my fill ! to gormandize \ to sleep ! to do nothing ! 1 want to have my turn, so I do, come now ! before I die ! I want to be a bit of a millionnaire ! " He took a turn round the hove^ and added: — not have come back again. He would have slipped through our fingers! It was my beard that saved us! my romantic bsardl my pretty little romantic beard ! " And again he broke into a laugh. He stepped to the window. The snow was still faUing, and rttreaking the gray of the sk}'. *' What beastly weather ! " said he. Then lapping his overcoat across his breast : — '* This rind is too large for me. Never mind," he added, *' he did a devilish good thing in leaving it for me, the old scoundrel ! If it hadn't been for that, I couldn't have gone out, and every- thing would have gone wrong ! What small points things hang on, an}' way ! " And pulling his cap down over his eves, he quitted the room. He had barely had time to take half a dozen steps from the door, when the door opened again, and his savage but intelligent face made its appearance once more in the ooening. ** I came near forgetting," said he. " You are to have a bra- zier of charcoal ready." And he flung into his wife's apron the ûve-fratic piece whk^lr the *' philanthropist" had left with him. ** A brazier of charcoal ? " asked his wife. " Yes." ** How many bushels?" ** Two good ones." *^ That will come to thirty sous. With the res» L wjii ti<* something for dinner." *' The devil, no." "Why?" " Don't go and spend the hundred-son piece."* '*Why?" " Because I shall have to buy something, too.** *^What?" " Somethii^." ** How much shall you need?" *^ Whereabouts in the neighborhood is there an ironmonger*! shop?" " Rue Mouffetard." "Ah ! yes, at the corner of a street ; I can see the shop." " But tell me how much you will need for what yoa have U purchase ? " " Fifty sous — three francs." instant before his eyes, and had then plunged back again into the immense depths of Paris. Should he wait for M. Leblanc at the door that evening at six o'clock, at the moment of his arrival, and warn him of the trap? But Jondrette and his men would see him on the watch, the 8i)ot was lonely, they were stronger than he, they would devise means to seize him or tc get him away, and the man whom Mari us was anxious to save would be lost. One o'clock had just struck, the trap was to be sprung at six. Marius had five hours before him. There was but one tiling to be done. He put on his decent coat, knotted a silk handkerchief round his neck, took his hat, and went out, without making any more noise than if he had been treading on moss with bare feet. Moreover, the Jondrette woman continued to rummage among her old iron. Once outside of the house, he made for the Rue da Petit- Banquier. He had almost reached the middle of this street, near a very low wall which a man can easily step over at certain points, and which abuts on a waste space, and was walking slowly, in con- sequence of his preoccupied condition, and the snow deadened the sound of his steps ; all at once he heard voices talking very close by. He turned his head, the street was deserted, there was not a soul in it', it was broad daylight, and j'et he distiDetly heard voices. It occurred to him to glance over the wall which he was skirting. There, in fact, sat two men, flat on the snow, with their backs against the wall, talking together in subdued tones. These two persons were strangers to him ; one was a bearded man in a blouse, and the other a long-haired individual in rags. The bearded man had on a fez, the other's head was bare, and ^he snow had lodged in his hair. By thrusting his head over the wall, Marius could hear their remarks. The hairy one jogged the other man's elbow and said : — *' — With the assistance of Patron-Minette, it can't fail." '' Do you think so? " said the bearded man. And the long-haired one began again : — '* It's as good as a warrant for each one, of five hundred balls, and the worst that can happen is five years, six years, ten years at the most I ** 182 LES MISERABLES. might have been well said, not that it penetrated, bat thai II 'searched. This man's air was not much less ferocious nor less terrible than Jondrette's ; the dog is, at times, no less temble to meet than the wolf. ^^ What do you want?" he said to Manus, without adding ** monsieur." *' Is this Monsieur le Commissaire de Police?" *^ He is absent. I am licre in liis stead.^ *' The matter is very private." " Then speak." *^ And great haste is required.'' *' Then speak quick." This calm, abrupt man was both terrifying and reassaring at one and the same time. He inspireRBTTE JfAKES HIS PCRCHASBS. A FEW moments later, about three o'clock, Courfeyrac chanced to be passing along the Rue Mouffetaixl in company with Bos- saet. The snow had redoubled in violence, and filled the air. BosBuet was just saying to Courfeyrac : — ^^ One would say, to see all these snow-flakes fall, that there was a plague of white butterflies in heaven." All at once, Bos- saet caught sight of Marins coming up the street towards the barrier with a peculiar air. " Hold ! " said Bossuet. " There's Marius." ** I saw him," said Courfeyrac. *^ I>on't lef s speak to him." "Why?" ♦* He is busy." "With what?" *• Don't you see his air? ** "What air?" ** He has the air of a man who is following some one.** " That's true," said Bossuet *^ Just see the eyes he is making 1 " said Courfeyrac. ** But who the deuce is he following?" " Some fine, flowery bonneted wench I He's in love." ^^ But," observed Bossuet, ^' I don't see any wench nor any flowery bonnet in the street. There's not a woman round." Courfeyrac took a survey, and exclaimed : — ** He's following a man ! " A man, In fact, wearing a gray cap, and whose gray beard 9onld be distinguished, although they only saw his back, waa walking along about twenty paces in advance of Marius. This man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly new and too lai^e for him, and in a frightful pair of trousers %11 hanging in rags and black with mud. Bossuet burst out laughing. "Who is that man?" "He?" retorted Courfeyrac, "He's a poet. Poets are very fond of wearing the trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and th< overcoats of peers of France." Digitized by Google 186 USS MISÉRABLES. ^^ Let's see where Marius will go," said Bossaet; ^^letTs tei where the niaii is going, let's follow tiiem, hej'?" *^ Bossuet ! " exclaimed Coarfeyrac, ^^ eagle of Meaax I Tos are a prodigious brute. Follow a man who is following another man, indeed I " They retraced their steps. Marius had, in fact, seen Jondrette passing along the Rue Mouffetard, and was spying on his proceedings. Jondrette wallced straight ahead, without a suspicion that he was already held by a glance. He quitted the Rue Mouffetard, and Marins saw him enter one of the most ten*ible hovels in the Rue Gracieuse ; he remained there about a quarter of an hour, then returned to the Rue Mouffetard. He halted at an ironmonger's shop, which then stood at the corner of the Rue Pierre-Lombard, and a few min- utes later, Marius saw him emerge from the shop, holding ia his hand a huge cold chisel with a white wood handle, which he concealed beneath his great-coat. At the top of the Rue Petit-Gen tiUy, he turned to the left and proceeded rapidly to the Rue du Petit-Banquier. The day was declining; the snow, which had ceased for a moment, had just begun again. Manns posted himself on the watch at the very corner of the Rue du Petit- Banquier, which was deserted, as usual, and did not follow Jondrette into it. It was lucky that he did so, for, on arriving in the vicinity of tlie wall where Marius had heard the long- haired man and the bearded man conversing, Jondrette turned round, made sure that no one was following him, did not see him, then sprang across the wall and disappeared. The waste land bordered by this wall communicated with the back yard of an ex-livery stable-keeper of -bad repute, who had failed and who still kept a few old single-seated berlins under his sheds. Marius thought that it would be wise to profit by Jondrette'i absence to return home ; moreover, it was growing late ; ever^ evening. Ma'am Burgon when she set out for her dish-washing in town, had a habit of locking the door, which was always closed at dusk. Marius had given his key to the inspector of police ; it was important, therefore, that he should make haste. Evening had arrived, night had almost closed in; on the horizon and in the immensity of space, there remained but ont i^pot still illuminated by the sun, and that was the moon. It was rising in a ruddy glow behind the low dome o* ftal()etrière. Marius returned to No. 50-52 with great strides. The dooi Digitized by Google MARIU8. Wl waa still open when he arrived. He mounted the stairs on tip« toe and glided along the wall of the corridor to his chamber. Y'his corridor, as the reader will remember, was bordered on both sides by attics, all of which were, for the moment, empty and to let. Ma'am Burgon was in the habit of leaving all the doors open. As he passed one of these attics. Marins thought he perceived in the uninhabited cell, the motionless heads of four men, vaguely lighted up by a remnant of daylight, falling through a dormer window. Marins made no attempt to see, not wishing to be seen himself. He succeeded in reaching his chamber without being seen and without making any noise. It waH liigh time. A moment later he heard Ma'am Burgon take her departure, locking the door of the house behind her. XVI. — In which will be found the Words to an Eng- lish Am which was in Fashion in 1832. Mabius seated himself on his bed. It might have been half- past five o'clock. Only half an hour separated him from what was about to happen. He heard the beating of his arteries as one hears the ticking of a watch in the dark. He thought of the doable march which was going on at that moment in the dark, — crime advancing on one side, justice coming up on the other. He was not afraid, but he could not think without a shudder of what was about to take place. As is the case with all those who are suddenly assailed b}- an unforeseen adventure, the entire day produced upon him the effect of a dream, and, in oixler to per- suade himself that he was not the prey of a nightmare, he had to feel the cold barrels of the steel pistols in his trousers pockets. It was no longer snowing ; the moon disengaged itself more and more clearly from the mist, and its light, mingled with the white reflection of the snow which had fallen, communicated to the chamber a sort of twilight aspect. 'there was a light in the Jondrette den. Marins saw the hole in the wall shiniug with a reddish glow which seemed bloody to him. It was true that the light could not be produced by a candle. However, there was not a sound in the Jondrette quarters, not a soul was moving there, not a soul speaking, not a breath ; the silence was glacial and profound, and had it not been for that liirht, he might have thought himself next door to a sepulchre. Marins softly removed his boots and pushed them under his bed. Digitized by Google 188 LES MISERABLES. Several minutes elapsed. Marins heard the lower door tarn on its hinges ; a heavy step mounted the staircase, and hastened along the corridor ; the latch of the hovel was noisily lifted ; it was Jondrette returning. Instantly, several voices arose. The whole family was in the garret. Only, it had been silent in the master's absence, like wolf whelps in the absence of the wolf. " It's I," said he. •* Good evening, daddy," yelped the girls. "Well?" said the mother. ''All's going first-rate," responded Jondrette, "but my feet are beastly cold. Good ! You have dressed up. You have done well ! You must inspire confidence." ** All ready to go out. i( Don't forget what I told you ? You will do everything sure? Rest easy. '^ Because — " said Jondrette. And he left the phrase un- finished. Marins heard him lay something heav}* on the table, proba- bly the chisel which he had purchased. ♦* By the way," said Jondrette, *' have you been eating here?" *'Ye8," said the mother, "I got three large potatoes and some salt. I took advantage of the fire to cook them." " Good," returned Jondrette. '* To-morrow I will take yon out to dine with me. We will have a duck and fixings. Yon shall dine like Charles the Tenth ; all is going well ! " Then he added : — *' The mouse-trap is open. The cats are there." He lowered his voice still further, and said : — '' Put this in the fire." Marius heard a sound of charcoal being knocked with the tongs or some iron utensil, and Jondrette continued : — '' Have you greased the hinges of the door so that they will not squeak ? " *' Yes," replied the mother. "What time is it?" " Nearly six. The half -hour struck from Saint-Médard a while ago." " The devil ! " ejaculated Jondrette ; "the children must go ^nd watch. Come you, do you listen here." A whispering ensued. Jondrette's voice became audible again : — "Has old Burgon left?" " Yes," said the mother. Digitized by Google MARIUS. 189 *^Are yoa sure that there is no one in our neighbor's room ? " ^' He has not been in all day, and you know very well that this is his dinner hour.'' *• You are sure?" '' Sure." ^^ All the same," said Jondrette, ^^ there's no harm in going to see whether he is there. Here, my girl, take the candle and go there." Marins fell on his hands and knees and crawled silently undei his bed. Hardly had he concealed himself, when he perceived a light through the crack of his door. ^' P'pa," cried a voice, " he is not in here." He recognized the voice of the eldest daughter. *' Did you go in?" demanded her father. **No," replied the girl, ''but as his key is in the door, he must be out." The father exclaimed : — ** Go in, nevertheless." The door opened, and Marius saw the tall Jondrette come in with a candle in her hand. She was as she had been in the morning, only still more repulsive in this light. She walked straight up to the bed. Marius endured an in- describable moment of anxiety ; but near the bed there was a mirror nailed to the wall, and it was thither that she was direct- mg her steps. She raised herself on tiptoe and looked at her- self in it. In the neighboring room, the sound of iron articles being moved was audible. She smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand, and smiled into the mirror, humming with her cracked and sepulchral voice : — No6 amours ont duré toute une semaine, ^ Mais que du bonheur les instants sont courte ! S'adorer huit jours, c' e'tait bien la peine ! Le temps des amours devait durer toujours ! Devrait durer toujours! devrait durer toujours! In the meantime, Marius trembled. It seemed impossible to him that she should not hear his breathing. She stepped to the window and looked out with the half- foolish way she had. 1 Our love has lasted a whole week, but how short are the instants of hap- piness! To adore ^ach other for eight days was hardly worth the while I The tiiro of k»ve should last forever. Digitized by Google 190 LES MISÉRABLES. '^ How ugly Paris is when it has put on a white cheiuise!" said she. She returned to the mirror and began again to pat on airs before it, scrutinizing herself full-face and three-quarters fane in turn. " Well ! " cried her father, '' what are you about there? '' " I am looking under the bed and the furniture," she replied, continuing to arrange her hair ; '* there's no one here." ''Booby!" yelled her father. "Come here this minute! And don't waste any time about it 1 " '' Coming ! Coming I " said she. " One has no time for any- thing in this hovel ! " She hummed : — Vous mc qaittez pour aller à la gloire ; ^ Mon triste cœur suivra partout. She cast a parting glance in the mirror and went out, shutting the door behind her. A moment more, and Marius heard the sound of the two young girls* bare feet in the corridor, and Jondrette's voice shouting to them : — '^ Pay strict heed ! One on the side of the barrier, the other at the corner of the Rue du Petit- Banquier. Don't lose sight for a moment of the door of this house, and the moment you see anything, rush here on the instant ! as hard as you can go I You have a key to get in." The eldest girl grumbled : — ''The idea of standing watch in the snow barefoot!" ''To-morrow you shall have some dainty little green silk boots ! " said the fatiier. They ran down stairs, and a few seconds later the shock of the outer door as it banged to announced that they were outside. There now remained in the house only Marius, the Jondrettes and probably, also, the mysterious persons of whom Marius had cauifht a glimpse in the twilight, behind the door of the unused attic. XVU. — The Use made op Marius' Five-Frano Piece. Marius decided that the moment had now arrived when he must resume his post at his observatory. In a twinkling, and with the s^ility of his age, he had reached the hole in the par- tition. He looked. I You leave me to go to glory ; my sad heart will foUow you tvorywherfr Digitized by Google MAHiVS. 191 The interior of the Joodrette apartment presented a curious aspect, and Miirius found an explanation of the singular light which he had noticed. A candle was burning in a candlestick covered with verdigris, but that was not what really lighted the chamber. The hovel was completely illuminated, as it were, by the reflection from a rather large sheet-iron brazier standing in the fireplace, and filled with burning charcoal, the brazier pre- pared by the Jondrette woman that morning. The charcoal was glowing hot, and the brazier was red ; a blue flame flickered over it, and helped him to make out the form of the chisel purchased by Jondrette in the Rue Pierre-Lombard, where it had been thrust into the brazier to heat. In one corner, near the door, and as though prepared for s^me definite use, two heaps were visible, which appeared to be, the one a heap of old iron, the other a heap of ropes. All this would have caused the mind of a person who knew nothing of what was in preparation, to waver between a very sinister and a very simple idea. The lair thus lighted up more resembled a forge than a mouth of hell, but Jondrette, in this light, had rather the air of a demon than of a smith. The heat of the brazier was so great, that the candle on the table was melting on the side next the chafing-dish, and was drooping over. An old dark-lantern of copper, worthy of Diogenes turned Cartouche, stood on the chimney-piece. The brazier, placed in the fireplace itself, beside the nearly extinct brands, sent its vapors up the chimney, and gave out no odor. The moon, entering through the four panes of tlie window, cast its whiteness into the crimson and flaming garret ; and to the iM)etic spirit of Marius, who was dreamy even in the moment of action, it was like a thought of heaven mingled with the misshapen reveries of earth. A breath of air which made its way in through the open pane, helped to dissipate the smell of the charcoal and to conceal the presence of the brazier. The Jondrette lair was, if the reader recalls what we have said of the Gorbeau building, admirably chosen to serve as the theatre of a violent and sombre deed, and as the envelope for a crime. It was the most retired chamber in the most isolated house on the most deserted boulevard in Paris. If the system of ambush and traps had not already existed, they would have been invented there. The whole thickness of a house and a multitude of unin- habited rooms separated this den from the boulevard, and the Digitized by Google 192 LES MISERABLES. only window that existed opened on waste lands enclused ^ iili walls and palisudes. Jondretto had lighted his pipe, seated himself on the seatless chair, and was engaged in smoking. His wife was talking to him in a low tone. If Marias had been CoiirfejTac, that is to say, one of tboee men who laugh on- every occasion in life, he would have burst with laughter when his gaze fell on the Jondrette woman. 8hv: had on a black bonnet with plumes not unlike the hats of the heralds-at-arms at the coronation of Charles X., an immense tartan shawl over her knitted petticoat, and the man's 8h<>e^ which her daughter had scorne^l in the morning. It was this toilette which had extracted from Jondrette the exclamation : '' Good ! You have dressed up. You have done well. You must ins[)ire confidence ! " As for Jondrette, he had not taken off the new surtout, which was too large for him, and which M. Leblanc had given him, and his costume continued to present that contrast of coat and trousers which constituted the ideal of a poet in Courfeyrac's eyes. All at once, Jondrette lifted up his voice : — '' By the way ! Now that I think of it. In this weather, he will come in a carriage. Light the lantern, take it and go down stairs. You will stand behind the lower door. The very uk>- ment that you hear the carriage stop, you will open the door, instantly, he will come up, you will light the staii-case and the corridor, and when he enters here, you will go down stairs a^ain as speedily as possible, 3'ou will pay the coachman, and dismiss the fiacre. " And the money?" inquired the woman. Jondrette fumbled in his trousers pocket and handed her £▼€ francs. '* Whafs this?" she exclaimed. Jondrette replied with dignity : — '' That is the monarch which our neighbor gave us this morning.*' And he added.: — '' Do you know what? Two chairs will be needed here.** ** What for?" '* To sit on." Marius felt a cold chill pass through his limbs at hearing this mild answer from Jondrette. " Pardieu ! Til go and get one of our neighbor's." And with a rapid movement, she opened t^e door of the dan» and went out into the corridor. Digitized by Google MARIUS, 193 Marius abBolutely had not the time to descend from the com* 'mode, reach his bed, and conceal himself beneath it. ^* Take the candle," cried Jondrette. " No," said she, " it would embai-rass me, I have the two chairs to carry. There is moonlight." Marius heaid Mother Jondrette's heavy hand fumbling at his lock in the dark. The door opened. He remained nailed to the spot with the shock and with horror. The Jondrette entered. The dormer window permitted the entrance of a ray of moon- light between two blocks of shadow. One of these blocks of shadow entirely covered the wall against which Marius was leaning, so that he disappeared within it. Mother Jondrette raised her eyes, did not see Marius, took the two chairS) the only ones which Marius possessed, and went away, letting the door fall heavilj' to behind her. She re-entered the lair. *' Here are the two chairs." *' And here is the lantern. Go down as quick as you can." She hastily obeyed, and Jondrette was left alone. He placed the two chairs on opposite sides of the table, turned the chisel in the brazier, set in front of the fireplace an old screen which masked the chafing-dish, then went to the corner where lay the pile of rope, and bent down as though to examine something. Maiîus then recognized the fact, that what he had taken for a shapeless mass was a very well-made rope-ladder, with wooden rungs and two hooks with which to attach it. This ladder, and some large tools, veritable masses of iron, which were mingled with the old iron piled up behind the door, had not been in the Jondrette hovel in the morning, and had evidently been brought thither in the afternoon, during Marius' absence. ^^ Those are the utensils of an edge-tool maker," thought èlarius. Had Marius been a little more learned in this line, he would have recognized in what he took for the engines of an edge-t4)ol maker, certain instruments which will force a lock or pick a lock, and others which will cut or slice, the two families of tools which burglars call cadets and fauchants. The fireplace and the two chairs were exactly opposite Mariug. The brazier being concealed, the only light in the room was now furnished by the candle ; the smallest bit of crockery on thi table or on the chimney-piece cast a large shadow. There wab something indescribably calm, threatening, and hideous about Digitized by Google 294 LES MISÉRABLES. this chamber. One felt that there existed in it the anticipatioi of soniethiiig terrible. Joudretto had allowed his pipe to go out, a serious sign of pre- occupation, and had again seated himself. The candle brought out the fierce and the fine angles of his countenance. He in- dulged in scowls and in abrupt unfoldiugs of the right hand, as .though he were responding to the last counsels of a sombre inward monologue. In the course of one of there dark replies which he was making to himself, he pulled the table drawer rapidly towards him, took out a long kitchen knife which wa^^ concealed there, and tried the edge of its blade on his nail. That done, he put the knife back in the drawer and shut it. Marius, on his side, grasped the pistol in his right pocket, drew it out and cocked it. The pistol emitted a sharp, clear click, as he cocked it. Jondrette started, half rose, listened a moment, then began io laugh and said : — " What a fool I am ! It's the partition cracking I ** Marins kept the pistol in his hand. XVIII.— Mabius' Two Chairs form a Vis-l-Vis. Suddenly, the distant and melancholy vibration of a clock shook the panes. Six o'clock was striking from SaintrMédard. Jondrette marked off each stroke with a toss of his head. When the sixth had struck, he snuffed the candle with bis fingers. Then he began to pace up and down the room, listened at the corridor, walked on again, then listened once more. " Provided only that he comes ! " he muttered, then he re- turned to his chair. He had hardly reseated himself when the door opened. Mother Jondrette had opened it, and now remained in the corridor making a horrible, amiable grimace, which one of the holes of the dark-lantern illuminated from below. *' Enter, sir," she said. *' Enter, my benefactor," repeated Jondrette, rising hastily. M. Leblanc made his appearance. He wore an air of serenity which rendered him singularly venerable. He laid four louis on the table. *' Monsieur Fabantou," said he, *' this is for your rent and your most pressing necessities. We will attend to the rcsJ hereafter. " Digitized by Google MARItrS. IM ^* May God reqnite H to you, my gênerons benefactor I" said Jondrette. And rapidly approaeliing his wife : — " Dismiss the carriage ! " She slipped oat while her husband was lavishing salutes and offering M. Leblanc a chair. An instant later she returned and whispered in his ear : — " 'Tis done." The snow, which had not ceased falling since the morning, was so deep that the arrival of the fiacre had not been audible, and they did not now hear its departure. Meanwhile, M. Leblanc had seated himself. Jondrette had taken possession of the other chair, facing Bl. Leblanc. Now, in" order to form an idea of the scene which is to follow, let the reader picture to himself in his own mind, a cold night, the solitudes of the Salpêtrière covered with snow and white as ^wiDding-sheets in the moonlight, the taper-like lights of the street lanterns which shone redly here and there along those tragic boulevards, and the long rows of black elms, not a passer-by for perhaps a quarter of a league around, the Gorbeau hovel, at its highest pitch of silence, of horror, and of darkness ; in that building, in the midst of those solitudes, in the midst of that darkness, the vast Jondrette garret lighted by a single can- dle, and in that den two men seated at a table, M. Leblanc tran- quil, Jondrette smiling and alarming, the Jondrette woman, the female wolf, in one corner, and, behind the partition, Mari us, invisible, erect, not losing a word, not missing a single move- ment, his eye on the watch, and pistol in hand. However, Marius experienced only an emotion of horror, but no fear. He clasped tJie stock of the pistol firmly and felt reas- sured. *' I shall be able to stop that wretch whenever I please," he thought. He felt that the police were there somewhere in ambuscade, i^aiting for the signal n^eed upon and ready to stretch out their arm. Moreover, he was in hopes, that this violent encounter between Jondrette and M. Leblanc would cast some light on all the things hidi he was interested in learning. Digitized by Google 196 l'Es MISERABLES. XTK. — OœuPTiNG One's Self with Obscure Depths. Hakdly was M. Leblanc seated, when he turued his ejesi towards the pallets, which were empty. '^ How is the poor little wounded girl?" he inquired. ^^ Bad," replied Jondrette with a heart>broken and grateful smile, '" very bad, my worthy sir. Her elder sister has taken her to the Bourbe to have her hurt dressed. Yon will see them presently ; they will be back immediatel}'." '^ Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better," went on M. Leblanc, casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman, as she stood between him and the door, as though already guarding the exit, and gazed at him in an atti- tude of menace and almost of combat. ^^ She is dying," said Jondrette. ^^ But what do you expect, sir I She has so much courage, that woman has ! She's not a woman, she's an ox." The Jondrette, touched by this compliment, deprecated it with the affected airs of a flattered monster. '^ You are always too good to me. Monsieur Jondrette I " '^ Jondrette ! " said M. Leblanc, *^ I thought your name was Fabantou?" ^^ Fabantou, alias Jondrette I " replied the husband hurriedly. ^^ An artistic sobriquet ! " And launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders wtuch M. Leblanc did not catch, he continued with an emphatic and caressing inflection of voice : — ^' Ah! we have had a happy life together, this poor darling and I ! What would there be left for us if we had not that? We are so wretched, my respectable sir ! We have arms, but there is no work I We have the will, no work ! I don't know how the government arranges that, but, on my word of honor, sir, I am not Jacobin, sir, I am not a bousingot.^ I don't wish them any evil, but if I were the ministers, on my most sacred word, things would be different. Here, for instance, I wanted to have my girls taught the trade of paper-box makers. You will say to me : ' What ! a trade ? ' Yes ! A trade ! A simple trade ! A bread-winner ! What a fall, my benefactor ! What a degradation, when one has been what we have been ! Alas ! There is nothing left to us of our days of prosperity ! One thing only, a picture, of whioh 1 think a great deal, but which! am willing to part with, for I must live ! Item, one must live ! * 1 A democrat. Digitized by Google MARius. van While Jondrette thus talked, with an apparent inooherenee which detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious ex- pression of his physiognomy, Marius raised his eyes, and per- ceived at the other end of the room a person whom he had not seen before. A man had just entered, so softly that the door had not been heard to turn on its hinges. This man wore a violet knitted vest, which was old, worn, spotted, cut and gaping at every fold, wide trousers of cotton velvet, wooden shoes on his feet, no shirt, had his neck bare, his bare arms tattooed, and his face smeared with black. He had seated him- self in silence on the nearest bed, and, as he was behind Jondrette, he could only be indistinctly seen. That sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze, caused M. Leblanc to turn round almost at the same moment as Marius. He could not refrain from a gesture of surprise which did not escape Jondrette. *^Ah! I see !" exclaimed Jondrette, buttoning up his coat with an air of complaisance, *^you are looking at your over- coat? It fits me ! My faith, but it fits me ! " '* Who is that man?" said M. Leblanc. " Him?" ejaculated Jondrette, *' he's a neighbor of mine. Don't pay any attention to him." The neighbor was a singular-looking individuals However, manufactories of chemical products abound in the Faubourg 8aint-Marceau. Many of the workmen might have bladk faces. Besides this, M. Leblanc's whole person was expressive of candid and intrepid confidence. He went on : — '* Excuse me ; what were you saying, M. Fabantou?" " I was telling you, sir, and dear protector," replied Jon- drette, placing his elbows on the table and contemplating M. Leblanc with steady and tender eyes, not unlike the eyes of the boa-constrictor, ^^ I was telling you, that I have a picture to îell." A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just dntered and seated himself on the bed, behind Jondrette. Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink or lampblack. Although this man bad, literally, glided into the room, he had not been able to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight of him. " Don't mind them," said Jondrette, ** they are people who belong in the house. So I was saying, that there remains in my possession a valuable picture. But stop, sir, take a look at It.'' Digitized by Google 196 LES MISERABLES. He rose, went to the wall at the foot of which stood the panel which we have already mentioned, and turned it round, Btill leaving it supi)orted against the wall. It really was some thing which resembled a picture, and which the candle illumi- nated, somewhat. Marins could make nothing out of it, aa Jondrette stood between the picture and him ; he only saw a coarse daub, and a sort of principal personage colored with the harsh crudity of foreign canvasses and screen paintings. ♦' What is that?" asked M. Leblanc. Jondrette exclaimed : — ^^ A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my bene» factor! I am as much attached to it as I am to my two daughters ; it recallc souvenirs to me ! But I have told you, and I will not take it back, that I am so wretched tliat I will part with it. Either by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawning uneasiness, M. Leblanc's glance returned to the bottom of the room as he examined the picture. There were now four men, three seated on the bed, one stand- ing near the door-post, all four with bare arms and motionless, with faces smeared with black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall, with closed eyes, and it might have been supposed that he was asleep. He was old ; his white hair contrasting with his blackened face produced a horrible effect. The other two seemed to be young ; one wore a beard, the other wore his hair long. None of them had on shoes ; Uiose who did not wear socks were barefooted. Jondrette noticed that M. Leblanc's eye was ûxed on these 'men. *' They are friends. They are neighbors," said he. " Their faces are black because they work in charcoal. They are chim- ney-builders. Don't trouble yourself about them, my benefactoi'i but buy my picture. Have pity on my misery. I will not ask you much for it. How much do you think it is worth ? " *' Well," said M. Leblanc, looking Jondrette full in the eye, and with the manner of a man who is on his guard, ^' it is some signboard for a tavern, and is worth about three francs." Jondrette replied sweetly : — " Have you your pocket-book with you? I should be satis- fied with a thousand crowns." M. I^blanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and cast a rapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on hia left, on the side next the window, and the Jondrette woman nd the four men on his right, on the side next the door. Thr Digitized by Google MARIUS. 199 four men did not stir, and did not even seem to be looking an. Joudrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with so vj^ue an eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that M. Leblanc might have supposed that what he had before him was a man who had simply gone mad with misery. " If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor/' said Joudrette, "I shall be left without resources; there will be nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river. When I think that I wanted to have my two girls taught the middle- class paper-box trade, the making of boxes for New Year's gifts ! Well ! A tal)le with a board at the end to keep the glasses from falling off is required, then a special stove is needed, a pot with three compartments for the different degrees of strength of the paste, according as it is to be used for wood, paper, or stuff, a paring-knife to cut the cardboard, a mould to adjust it, a hammer to nail the steels, pincers, how the devil do I know what all ? And all that in order to earn four sous a day ! And you have to work fourteen hours a day ! And each box passes through the workwoman's hands thirteen times! And you can't wet the paper ! And you mustn't spot anything ! And you must keep the paste hot! The devil, I tell you I Four sous a day ! How do you suppose a man is to live ? " As he spoke, Joudrette did not look at M. Leblanc, who was observing him. M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on Joudrette, and Jondrette's eye was fixed on the door. Marius' eager attention was transferred from one to the other. M. Leblanc seemed to be asking himself : " Is this man an idiot? " Jondrette repeated two or three distinct times, with all manner of varying inflections of the whining and supplicating order: ''There is nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river ! I went down three steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz the other day for that purpose." All at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash ; the little man drew himself up and became terrible, took a step toward M. Leblanc and cried in a voice of thunder : " That has nothing to do with the question ! Do you know me?" XX. — The Trap. The door of the garret had just opened abruptly, and allowed a view of three men clad in blue linen blouses, and masked with masks of black paper. The first was thin, and had a long, >«»n-tipped cudgel ; the second, who was a sort of colossuSf Digitized by Google 20a LES MISERABLES. carried, by the middle of the handle, with the blade downward a butcher's pole-axe fur slaughtering cattle. The third, a ma* with thick-set shoulders, not so slender as the first, held in his hand an enormous key stolen from the door of some prison. It appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jondrette had been waiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between him and the man witii the cudgel, the thin one. '' Is everything ready?" said Jondrette* " Yes," replied the thin man. *' Where is Montparnasse?" " The young principal actor stopped to chat with your girl " •'Which?" •'The eldest." '' Is there a carriage at the door?** " Yes." ^' Is the team harnessed?'* •' Yes." *' With two good horses?" " Excellent." *• Is it waiting where I ordered?** ••Yes." " Good," said Jondrette. M. Leblanc was very pale. He was scrutinizing eTer3rthing around him in the den, like a man who understands what he has fallen into, and his head, directed in turn toward all the heads which surrounded him, moved on his neck with an astonished and attentive slowness, but there was nothing in his air which resembled fear. He had improvised an intrenchment out of the table ; and the man, who but an instant previously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly old man, had suddenly be- come a sort of athlete, and placed his robust fist on the back of his chair, with a formidable and surprising gesture. This old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence of such a danger, seemed to possess one of those natures which are as courageous as they are kind, both easily and simply. The father of a woman whom we love is never a stranger to us- Marius felt proud of that unknown man. Three of the men, of whom Jondrette had said : " They are chimney-builders," had armed themselves from the pile of old iron, one with a heavy pair of shears, the second with weighing- tongs, the third with a hammer, and had placed themselves across the entrance without uttering a syllable. The old man had remained on the bed, and had merely opened his eyes The Jondrette woman had seated herself beside him. Digitized by Google MARïUS. 201 Marias decided that in a few seconds more the moment Tot intervention would arrive, and he raised his right hand towards the ceiling, in the direction of the corridor, in readiness to dis- charge his pistol. Jondrette having terminated his colloquy with the man with the cudgel, turned once more to M. Leblanc, and repeated his question, accompanying it with that low, repressed, and terrible (augh which was peculiar to him : — " So you don't recognize me? " M. Leblanc looked him full in the face, and replied : — * ** No." Then Jondrette advanced to the table. He leaned across the candle, crossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious jaw close to M. Leblanc's calm face, and advancing as far as possi- ble without forcing M. Leblanc to reti*eat, and, in this posture of a wild beast who is about to bite, he exclaimed : — ^^ My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette, my name is Tbénardier! I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil! Do you understand ? Thénardier ! Now do you know me ? " An almost imperceptible flush crossed M. Leblanc's brow, and he replied with a voice which neiUier trembled nor rose above its ordinary level, with his accustomed placidity : — ** No more than before." Marius did not hear this reply. Any one who htid seen him at that moment through the darkness, would have perceived that he was haggard, stupid, thunder-struck. At the moment when Jondrette said : ^' My name is Thénardier," Marius had trem- bled in every limb, and had leaned against the wall, as though be felt the cold of a steel blade through his heart. Then his right arm, all ready to discharge the signal shot, dropped slowly, and at the moment when Jondrette repeated, ^* Thénardier, do you understand?" Marius's faltering fingers had come near letting the pistol fall. Jondi*ette, by revealing his identity, had not moved M. Leblanc, but he had quite upset Marius. That name of Thénardier, with which M. Leblanc did not seem to be acquainted, Marius knew well. Let the reader recall what that name meant to him I That name He had worn on his heart, in- scribed in his father's testament ! He bore it at the bottom of his mind, in the depths of his memory, in that sacred injunction : *^ A certain Thénardier saved my life. If my son encounters him, he will do him all the good that lies in his power." That name, it will be remembered, was one of the pieties of his soul ; he mingled it with the name of his father in his worshif). What J This man was that Thénardier, that inn-keeper of Monlferme» Digitized by Google «02 LES MISERABLES. wliom he had so long and so vainly sought ! He had f o*ind bin ut last, and how ! His father's saviour was a ruffian ! That roan, to whose service Mari us was burning to devote himself, was a monster! That liberator of Colonel Poiitmercy was on the point of committing a crime whose scope Marius did not, as yet, clearly comprehend, but which resembled an assassination ! And against whom, great God ! what a fatality ! What a bittei mockery of fate ! His father had commanded him from the depths of his coffin to do all the good in his power to this Thé- nardier, and for four years Marius had cherished no other thought than to acquit this debt of his father's, and at the moment when he was on the eve of having a brigand seized in the very act of crime by justice, destiny cried to him : **This is ThénaVdier !" He could at last repay this man for his father's life, saved amid a hail-stoi*m of grape-shot on the heroic field of Waterloo, and repay it with the scaffold ! He had sworn to himself that if ever he found that Thénardier, he would address him only by throw- ing himself at his feet ; and now he actually had found him, bat it was only to deliver him over to the executioner ! His father said to him: "Succor Thénardier!" And he replied to that adored and sainted voice by crushing Thénardier ! He was about to offer to his father in his grave the spectacle of that man who had torn him from death at the peril of his own life, executed on the Place Saint-Jacques through the means of his son, o\ that Marius to whom he had entrusted that man by his wilP And what a mockery- to have so long worn on his breast his father's last commands, written in his own hand, only to act io so hoiTibly contrary a sense! But, on the other hand, now look on at that trap and not prevent it ! What ! Condemn the victim and to spare the assassin ! Could one be held to any gratitude towards so miserable a wretch ? All the ideas which Marius had cherished for the last four jears were pierced through and through, as it were, by this unforeseen blow. He shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown tc themselves, he held in his hand all those beings who were mov- ing about there before his eyes. If he fired his pistol, M. Le blanc was saved, and Thénardier lost ; if he did not fire, M. Leblanc would be sacrificed, and, who knows? Thénardiei would escape. Should he dash down the one or allow the other to fall ? Remorse awaited him in either case. What was he to do? What should he choose? Be false to the most imperions souvenirs, to all those solemn vows to him- self, to the most sacred duty, to the most venerated text ! Should he ignore his father's testament, or allow the perpetration of a Digitized by Google MARIUS. 201 ^rlme I On the one hand, it seemed to him that he heard '^hia Uraule'' supplicating for her fatlier, and on the other, the colonel commending Thénardier to his care. lie felt that he was going mad. His knees gave way beneath him. And he oad not even the time for deliberation, so great was the fury with which the scene before his eyes was hastening to its catas- trophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he bad thought him- self the master, and which was now sweeping him away. He ' was on the verge of swooning. In the meantime, Thénardier, whom we shall henceforth call by no other name, was pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort of frenzy and wild triumph. He seized the candle in his list, and set it on the chimney- piece with so violent a bang that the wick came near being extin- guished, and the tallow bespattered the wall. Then he turned to M. Leblanc, with a horrible look, and spit out these words : — ^* Done for ! Smoked brown ! Cooked ! Spitchcocked ! *' And again he began to march back and forth, in full eruption. ^^Ah!" he cried, ^^so Tve found you again at last, Mister philanthropist ! Mister threadbare millionnaire ! Mister giver of dolls ! you old ninny ! Ah ! so you don't recognize me ! No, it wasn't you who came to Montfermeil, to my inn, eight years ago, on Christmas eve, 1823 ! It wasn't you who carried off that Fantine's child from me ! The Lark ! It wasn't you who had a yellow great-coat ! No 1 Nor a package of duds in your hand, as 3'ou had this morning here I Say, wife, it seems to be his mania to carry packets of woollen stockings into houses ! Old charity monger, get out with you ! Are you a hosier. Mister millionnaire ? You give avmy your stock in trade to the poor, holy man ! What bosh ! merry Andrew ! Ah ! and yon don't recognize me? Well, I recognize you, that I do I I recognized yon the very moment you poked your snout in here. Ah ! you'll find out presently, that it isn't all roses to thrust yourself in that fashion into the people's houses, under the pretext that they are taverns, in wretched clothes, with the air of a poor man, to whom one would give a sou, to deceive persons, to play the generous, to take away their means of livelihood, and to make threats in the woods, and you can't call things quits because afterwards, when people are ruined, you bring a coat that is too large, and two miserable hospital blankets, you old blackguard, you child- stealer!" He paused, and seemed to be talking to himself for a moment. Oae would have said that bis wrath had fallen into some hole, Digitized by Google 204 LES MISERABLES. like the Rhone ; then, as though he were concluding alond tb» things which he had been saving to himself in a wiiisper, he smote the table with his fist, and shouted : -^ "And with his goody-goody air !" And, apostrophizing M. Leblanc : -— " Parbleu ! You made game of me in the past I You are tb« cause of all my misfortunes ! For fifteen hundred francs you got a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich peo- ple, and who had already brought in a great deal of money, and from whom I might have extracted enough to live on all my life ! A girl who would have made up to me for everything that I lost in that vile cook-shop, where there was nothing hut one continual row, and where, like a fool, I ate up my last farthing ! Oh ! I wish all the wine folks drank in my house had been })oi6on to those who drank it ! Well, never mind ! Say, now ! You must have thought me ridiculous when you went off with the Lark ! You had your cudgel in the forest. You were the stronger. Revenge. " I'm the one to hold the trumps to-day ! You're in a sorry case, my good fellow ! Oh, but I can laugh ! Really, I laugh ! Didn't he fall into the trap ! I told him that I was an actor, that my name was Fahanton, that I had plaj-ed comedy with Mamselle Mars, with Mamselle Muche, that my landlord insisted on being paid to-morrow, the 4th of February, and he didn't even notice that the 8th of January, and not the 4th of February is the time when the quarter runs out ! Absurd idiot ! And the four miserable Philippes which he has brought me ! Scoundrel ! He hadn't the heart even to go as high as a hundred fVancs ! And how he swallowed my platitudes ! That did amuse me. I said to myself: 'Blockhead! Come, Fve got you ! I lick your paws this morning, but I'll gnaw your heart this evening ! ' " Thénardier paused. He was out of breath. His little, narrow chest panted like a forge bellows. His eyes were full of the ignoble happiness of a feeble, cruel, and cowardly creature, which finds that it can, at last, harsAs what it has feared, and insult what it has flattered, the joy of a dwarf who should be able to set his heel on tlte head of Goliath, the joy of a jackal which is beginning to rend a sick bull, so nearly dead that be can no longer defend himself, but suflSciently alive to suffer still. M. Leblanc did not interrupt him, but said to him when he paused : — '^ I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken in me. lama very poor man, and anything but a millionnaire Digitized by Google MARIUS. 205 I do not know yon. You are mistaking me for some other person." "Ah I" roared Thénardier hoarsel}', ''a pretty lie! Yon stick to that pleasantrj', do you ! You're floundering, my old buck ! Ah ! You don't remember 1 You don't see who I am ?" " Excuse me, sir/' said M. Leblanc with a politeness of accent, which at that moment seemed peculiarly strange and powerful, '* I see that you are a villain I " Who has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess a susceptibility of their own, that monsters are ticklish ! At this word " villain," the female Thénardier sprang from the bed, Thénardier grasped his chair as though he were about to crush it in his hands. "Don't you stir I" he shouted to his wife ; and, turning to M. Leblanc : — " Villain ! Yes, I know that you call us that, you rich gen- tlemen ! Stop ! it's true that I became bankrupt, that I am in biding, that I have no bread, that I have not a single sou, that I am a villain ! Ifs three days since I have had anything to eat, so I'm a villain 1 Ah ! you folks warm your feet, you have Sakoski boots, you have wadded great-coats, like archbishops, you lodge on the first floor in houses that have porters, you eat truffles, you eat asparagus at forty francs the bunch in the month of January, and green peas, you gorge yourselves, and when you want to know whether it is cold, yon look in the papers to see what the engineer Chevalier's thermometer says about it. We, it is we who are thermometers. We don't need to go out and look on the quay at the comer of the Tour de FHorologe, to find out the number of degrees of cold ; we feel our blood congealing in our veins, and the ice forming round our hearts, and we say : ' There is no God ! ' And you come to our caverns, yes, our caverns, for the purpose of calling us villains ! But we'll devour you ! But we'll devour you, poor little things ! Just see here. Mister millionnaire : I have been a solid man, I have held a license, I have been an elector, I am a bourgeois, that I am! And it's quite possible that you are not ! " Here Thénardier took a step towards the men who stood near the door, and added with a shudder : — '^ When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to me like a cobbler!" Then, addressing M. Leblanc with a fresh outburst of frenzy: — '^ And listen to this also, Mister philanthropist! I'm not a •Qspicioua character» not a bit of it! I'm not a man whose Digitized by Google 206 LES MISERABLES. name nobody knows, and who comes and abdacts children from bouses ! l*iu uu old French soldier, I ought to have been deco< rated ! I was at Waterloo, so I was ! And in tlie battle I saved a general called the Comte of I don't know what. He told me his name, but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn't hear. All I caught was Merci [thanks]. I'd rather have had hifi Qame than his thanks. That would have helped me to find him again. The picture that you see here, and which was painted by David at Bruqueselles, — do you know what it represents? [t represents me. David wished to immoi-talize that feat of prx>wess. I have that general on my back, and I am canying him through the grape-shot. There's the histoiy of it I That general never did a single thing for me ; he was no better than the rest ! But none the less, I saved his life at the risk of mj own, and I have the certificate of the fact in my (x>cket! I am a soldier of Waterloo, by all the ftn*ies ! And now that I have had the goodness to tell you all this, let's have an end of it. I want money, I want a deal of money, I must have an enormoas lot of money, or I'll exterminate you, by the thunder of the good God!" Marius had regained some measure of control over his an* guish, and was listening. The last possibility of doubt had just vanished. It certainly was the Thénardier of the will. Marius shuddered at that reproach of ingratitude directed i^ainst his father, and which he was on the point of so fatally Justifying. His perplexity was redoubled. Morover, there was in all these words of Thénardier, in his accent, in his gesture, in his glance which darted flames at every word, there was, in this explosion of an evil nature dis- elosing everything, in that mixture of braggadocio and abject- ness, of pride and pettiness, of rage and folly, in that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments, in that immodesty of a mali- cious man tasting the voluptuous delights of violence, in that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul, in that conflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds, something which was as hideous as evil, and as heart-rending as the truth. The picture of the master, the painting by David which be had proposed that M. Leblanc should purchase, was nothing else, as the reader has divined, than the sign of his taveini painted, as it will be remembered, by himself, the only relic which he had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermeil. As he had ceased to intercept Marius' visual ray, Marine Qonld examine this thing, and in the daub, he aetualiy did rec- ofi^nize a battle, a background of smoke, and a man carryiog Digitized by Google MABiUS. BM another man. It was the group composed of Pontmercy and Théuardier; the sergeant the rescuer, the colonel rescued. Marius was like a drunken man ; this picture restored his father to life, in some sort ; it was no longer the signboard of the wine-shop at Montfermeil) it was a resurrection ; a tomb had yawned, a phantom had risen there. Marius heard his heart beating in his temples, he had the cannon of Waterloo in his ^ars, his bleeding father, vaguely depicted on that sinister panel terrified him, aud it seemed to him that the misshapeo spectre was gazing intently at him. When Thlnardier had recovered his breath, he turned his bloodshot eyes on M. Leblanc, and said to him in a low, curt voice : — ^^ What have yon to say before we put the handcuffs on you?" M. Leblanc held his peace. In the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor : — " If there's any wood to be split, Tm there ! " It was the man with the axe, who was growing merry. At the same moment, an enormous, bristling, and clayey face made its appearance at the door, with a hideous laugh which exhibited not teeth, but fangs. It was the face of the man with the butcher's axe. *' Why have you taken off your mask? " cried Théuardier in a rage. " For fbn," retorted the man. For the last few minutes, M. Leblanc had appeared to be watching and following all the movements of Théuardier, who, blinded and dazzled by his own rage, was stalking to and fro in the den with full confidence that aie door was guarded, and ol holding an unarmed man fast, he being armed himself, of being nine against onef supposing that the female Thénardier counted for but one man. During his address to the man with the pole*axe, he had turned his back to M. Leblanc. M. Leblanc seized this moment, overturned the chair with his foot and the table with his fist, and with one bound, with prodigious agility, before Thénardier had time to turn round, he had reached the window. To open it, to scale the frame, to bestride it, was the work of a second only. He was half out when six robust fists seized him and dragged him back energetically into the hovel. These were the three " chim- aey-builders," who had flung themselves upon him. At ihfl Digitized by Google t08 LES MISÉRABLES. same time the Thénardier woman had wound her hands in his hair. At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed op from the corridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under the influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reel- ing up, with a stone-breaker's hammer in his hand. One of the ^'chimney-buUders," whose smirched face was lighted up by the candle, and in whom Marins recognized, in spite of his daubing, Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigre- naille, lifted above M. Leblanc*s head a sort of bludgeon made of two balls of lead, at the two ends of a bar of iron. Marius could not resist this sight. ^^ My father," he thought, " forgive me ! " And his finger sought the «trigger of his pistol. The shot was on the point of being discharged when Tbénai* dier's voice shouted : — '* Don't harm him!" This desperate attempt of the victim, far from exa^p^raung Thénardier, had calmed him. There existed in him two men, the ferocious man and the adroit man. Up to that motneut, in the excess of his triumph in the presence of the prey which had been brought down, and which did not stir, the ferocious roab had prevailed ; when the victim struggled and tried to resist, the adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand. '* Don't hurt him ! " he repeated, and without suspecting it, his first success was to arrest the pistol in the act of being dis- charged, and to paralyze Marius, in whose opinion the ui*gency of the case disappeared, and who, in the face of this new phase, saw no inconvenience in waiting a while longer. Who knows whether some chance would not arise which would deliver him from the horrible alternative of allowing Ursule's father to perish, or of destroying the coîoners saviour? A herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in tlie chest, M. Leblanc had sent the old man tumbling, rolling in the middle of the room, then with two backward sweeps of his hand he had overthrown two more assailants, and he held one under each of his knees; the wretches were rattling in the throat beneath this pressure as under a granite millstone ; but the other four had seized the formidable old man by both arms, and the back of his neck, and were holding him doubled up over the two *' chimney -builders " on the floor. Thus, the master of some and mastered by the rest, crushing those beneath him and stifling imder those on top of him, en- deavoring in vain to shake off all the efforts which were heaped Digitized by Google MARIUS. 209 upon him, M. Leblanc disappeared under the horrible group of ruffians like the wild boar beneath a howling pile of dogs and bounds. They succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest the window, and there they held him in awe. The Thénardier woman had not released her clutch on his hair. *^ Don't you mix yourself up in this affair," said Thénardier. " You'll tear your shawl." The Thénardier obeyed, as the female wolf obeys the mak wolf, with a growl. " Now," said Thénardier, " search him, you other fellows P M. Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance. They searched him. He had nothing on his person except a leather purse contain- ing six francs, and his handkerchief. Thénardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket. '' What ! No pocket-book ?" he demanded. '* No, nor watch," replied one of the " chimney-builders." *' Never mind," murmured the masked man who carried the big kejs in the voice of a ventriloquist, ^^he's a tough old fellow." Thénardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a bundle of ropes and threw them at the men. " Tie him to the leg of the bed," said he. And, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched across the room by the blow from M. Leblanc's fist, and who made no movement, he added : — *' Is Boulatruelle dead?" *' No," replied Bigrenaille, ** he's drunk." " Sweep him into a comer," said Thénardier. Two of the ^^ chimney-builders " pushed the drunken man into the corner near the heap of old iron with their feet. ^^ Babet," said Thénardier in a low tone to the man with the cudgel, ** why did you bring so many ; they were not needed." *' What can you do?" replied the man with the cudgel, '* they all wanted to be in it. This is a bad season. There's no busi oess going on." The pallet on which M. Leblanc had been thrown was a sort of hospital bed, elevated on four coarse wooden legs, roughly hewn. M. Leblanc let them take their own course. The ruffians bound him securely, in an upright attitude, with his feet on the ground at the head of the bed, the end which wa& most remote from the window^ and nearest to the fireplace. Digitized by Google 210 LES MISÉRABLES, When the last knot had been tied, Thénardier took a duui aud seated himself almost facing M. I^blane. Thénardier no longer looked like himself; in the course of a few moments, his face had passed from unbridled violence to tranquil and cunning sweetness. Marins found it diftlcult to recognize in that polished smile ol a man in official life, the almost bestial mouth which had been foaming but a moment before ; he gazed with amazement oo that fantastic and alarming metamorphosis, and he felt as i, man might feel who should behold a tiger converted into & lawyer. ''Monsieur — "said Thénardier. And dismissing with a gesture the ruffians who still kept their hands on M. Leblanc : — '' Stand off a little, and let me have a talk with the gentle- man." All retired towards the door. He went on : — *' Monsieur, you did wrong to try to jump out of the window. You might have broken your leg. Now, if you will permit me, we will converse quietly. In the first place, I must commaoi- cate to you an observation which I have made, which is, diat you have not uttered the faintest cry." Thénardier was right, this detail was correct, although it had escaped Marins in his agitation. M. Leblanc had barely pro- nounced a few words, without raising his voice, and even dur- ing his struggle with the six ruffians near the window, he had preserved the most profound and singular silence. Thénardier continued : — *^ Mon Dieu! You might have shouted "stop thief " a bit, and I should not have thought it improper. ' Murder ! ' That, too, is said occasionally, and, so far as I am concerned, I should not have taken it in bad part. It is very natural that you should make a little row when you find yourself with persons who don't inspire you with sufficient confidence. You might have done that, and no one would have troubled you on that account. You would not even have been gagged. And I will tell you why. This room is very private. That's its only recommenda- tion, but it has that in its favor. You might fire oflP a mortar and it would produce about as much noise at the nearest police station as the snores of a drunken man. Here a cannon would make a hovm^ and the thunder would make a ptmf. It's a handy lodging. But, in short, you did not shout, and it is better so. I present you my compliments, and I will tell yoQ Digitized by Google MAniuas, 211 the conclosion that I draw from that fact : M3' dear sir, when a mail shouts, who conies? The police. And after the police? Justice. Well ! You have not made an outcry ; that is because you don't care to have the police and the courts come in any more than we do. It is because, — I have long suspected it, — you have some interest in hiding something. On our side we have the same interest. So we can come to an understand- ing." As he spoke thus, it seemed as though Thénardier, who kept his eyes fixed on M. Leblanc, were trying to plunge the sharp points which darted from the pupils into. the very conscience of his prisoner. Moreover, his language, which was stamped with a sort of moderated, subdued insolence and crafty insolence, was reserved and almost choice, and in that rascal, who had been nothing but a robber a short time previously, one now felt *' the man who had studied for the priesthood." The silence preserved by the prisoner, that precaution which bad been cai'ried to the point of forgetting all anxiety for his own life, that resistance opposed to the first impulse of nature, which is to utter a cry, all this, it must be confessed, now that his attention had been called to it, troubled Marius, an(f affected him with painful astonishment. Thénardier*s well-grounded observation still further obscureo for Marius the dense mystery which enveloped that grave an(j Biagolar person on whom Courf eyrac . had bestowed the sobri^ quet of Monsieur Leblanc. But whoever he was, bound with ropes, surrounded with e^« eoationers, half plunged, so to speak, in a grave which was closing in upon him to the extent of a degree with every moment that passed, in the presence of Thenardier's wrath, as in the presence of his sweetness, this man remained impassive ; and Marius oould not refrain from admiring at such a moment the superbl}' melancholy visage. Here, evidently, was a soul which was inaccessible to terror, aad which did not know the meaning of despair. Here was one of those men who command amazement in desperate circum- stances. Extreme as was the crisis, inevitable as was the catastrophe, there was notliing here of the agony of the drown* ing man, who opens his horror-filled eyes under the water. Thénardier rose in an unpretending manner, went to the fire- place, shoved aside the screen, which he leaned against tlie ncicrhboring pallet, and thus unmasked the brazier full of glow- ing coals, in which the prisoner could plainly see the chise white-hot and spotted here and there with tin}^ scarlet starg^ Digitized by Google Let us arrange this matter in an amicable way. I was wrong to lose my temper just now, I don't know what I was thinking of, I went a great deal too far, I said extravagant things. Foi example, because you are a millionnaire, I told you that I ex- acted money, a lot of money, a deal of money. That would not be reasonable. Mon Dieu, in spite of your riches, you have ex- penses of your own — who has not ? 1 don't want to ruin you, I am not a greedy fellow, after all. I am not one of those people, who, because they have the advantage of the position, profit by the fact to make themselves ridiculous. Why, I'm taking things into consideration and making a sacrifice on my side. I only want two hundred thousand francs." M. Leblanc uttered not a word. Thénardier went on : — '' You see that I put not a little water in my wine ; I'm very moderate. I don't know the state of your fortune, but I do know that you don't stick at money, and a benevolent man like yourself can certainly give two hundred thousand francs to the father of a family who is out of luck. Certainly, you are rea« sonable, too; you haven't imagined that I should take all the trouble I have to-day and organized this affair this evening, which has been labor well bestowed, in the opinion of these gentlemen, merely to wind up by asking you for enough to go and drink red wine at fifteen sous and eat veal at Desnoyers. Two hundred thousand francs — it's surely worth all that. This trifle once out of your pocket, I guarantee you that that's the end of the matter, and that you have no further demands to fear. You will say to me : * But I haven't two hundred thou- sand francs about me.' Oh! I'm not extottionate. I don't demand that. I only ask one thing of you. Have the good*' ness to write what I am about to dictate to you." Here Thénardier paused ; then he added, emphasizing his irords, and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier : — ^^ I warn you that I shall not admit that you don't know tow to write." A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile. Thénardier pushed the table close to M. Leblanc, and took an inkstand, a pen, and a sheet of paper from the drawer which be left half open, and in which gleamed the long blade of the 'fnife. He placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc. *' Write," said he. MARIUS. 213 The prisoner spoke at last. '•* How do 3'ou expect me to write? I am bound.** "That's trae, excuse me!" ejaculated Thénardier, "you jure quite right." And turning to Bigrenaille : — " Untie the gentleman's right arm." Panchaud, alias Frintanier, alias Bigrenaille, executed Thé« nardier's order. When the prisoner's right arm was free, Thénardier dipped the pen in the ink and presented it to him. ^' Understand thoi*oughly, sir, that you are in our power, at our discretion, that no human power can get you out of this, and that we shall be really grieved if we are forced to proceed to disagi*eeable extremities. I know neither your name, nor your address, but I warn you, that you will remain bound until the person charged with carrying the letter which you are about to write shall have returned. Now, be so good as to write.'* ^* What? " demanded the prisoner. " I will dictate." M. Leblanc took the pen. Thénardier began to dictate : -** "My daughter— " The prisoner shuddered, and raised his eyes to Thénardier. " Put down ' My dear daughter' — " said Thénardier. M. Leblanc obeyed. Thénardier continued : — *' Come instantly — " He paused: — " You address her as thou^ do you not? ** " Who? " asked M. Leblanc. " Parbleu ! " cried Thénardier, '' the little one, the Lark." M. Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emotion : — " I do not know what you mean." " Go on, nevertheless," ejaculated Thénardier, and he con- tinued to dictate : — "Come immediately, I am in absolute need of thee. The person who will deliver this note to thee is instructed to con- duct thee to me. I am waiting for thee. Come with confix dence." M. Leblanc had written the whole of this. Thénardier resumed : — ** Ah ! erase ^ come with confidence ' ; that might lead her td suppose that everyth«cg was not as it should be, and that di» trust is possible." Digitized by Google 814 LES MISÉRABLES. M. Leblanc erased the three words. '' Now," pursued Thénardier, *' sign it. What's year name?* The prisoner laid down the pen and demanded : — " For whom is this letter?" *' You know well," retorted Thénardier, *' for the little one» I just told you so." It was evident Uiat Thénardier avoided naming the youno o[r\ in question, lie said ^^ the Lark," he said '' the little one," hut he did not pronounce her name — the precaution of a clever man guarding his secret from his accomplices. To men- tion the name was to deliver the whole '' affair " into their liands, and to tell them more about it than there was any need of their knowing. He went on : — . " Sign. What is your name ? ** *' Urbain Fabre," said the prisoner. Tliénardier, with the movement of a cat, dashed his hand into bis pocket and drew out the handkerchief which had been seized on M. Leblanc. He looked for the mark on it, and held it close to the candle. *' U. F. That's it. Urbain Fabre. WeU, sign it U. F/' The prisoner signed. ^^ As two hands are required to fold the letter, give it to me, I will fold it." That done, Thénardier resumed : — '* Address it, ' Mademoiselle Fabre,' at your house. I knoir that you live a long distance from here, near 8aint-Jaeques-du Haut-Pas, because you go to mass there every day, but I don't know in what street. I see that you understand your situation. As 3'ou have not lied al)out your name, you will not lie about your address. Writhe it yourself." The prisoner pansed thoughtfully for a moment, then he took the pen and wrote : — '* Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. Urbain Fabre's, Roe Saint Dorainique-D'Enfer, No. 17." Thénardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish oonvulsion. " Wife ! " he cried. The Thénardier woman hastened to him. *' Here's the letter. You know what you have to do. There is a carriage at the door. Set out at once, and return ditto." And addressing the man with the meat-axe : — '* Since you have taken off your nose-screen, accompany the mistress. You will get up behind the fiacre. You know wher* vou left the team ? " Digitized by Google MARIUS. 215 '* Yes," said the man. And depositing his axe in a comer, he followed Madame rhénardier. As they set off, Thénardier thrust his head throngh the half- open door, and shouted into the corridor : — ^^ Above all things, don't lose the letter ! remember that you carry two hundred thousand francs with you ! " The Thénai'dier's hoarse voice replied : — ** Be easy. I have it in my bosom." A minute had not elapsed, when the sound of the cracking of a whip was heard, which rapidly retreated and died away. "Good!" growled Thénardier. "They're going at a fine pace. At such a gallop, the bourgeoise will be back inside three-quarters of an hour." He drew a chair close to the fireplace, folding his arms, and presenting his muddy boots to the brazier. *^ My feet are cold ! " said he. Only five rufilans now remained in the den with Thénardier and the prisoner. These men, through the black masks or paste which covered their faces, and made of them, at fear's pleasure, charcoal- burners, negroes, or demons, had a stupid and gloomy air, and it could be felt that they perpetrated a crime like a bit of work, tranquilly, without either wrath or mercy, with a sort of ennui. They were crowded together in one comer like brutes, and re- mained silent. Thénardier warmed his feet. The prisoner had relapsed into his taciturnity. A sombre calm had succeeded to the wild uproar which had filled the garret but a few moments before. The candle, on which a large '* stranger " had formed, cast bat a dim light in the immense hovel, the brazier had grown doll, and all those monstrous heads cast misshapen shadows DD Xh% walls and ceiling. No sound was audible except the quiet breathing of the old Irunken man, who was fast asleep. Marius waited in a state of anxiety that was augmented by every trifle. The enigma was more impenetrable than ever. Who was this "little one" whom Thénardier had called the Lark ? Was she his " Ursule " ? The prisoner had not seemed to be aflTected by that word, " the Lark," and had replied in the most natural manner in the world : "I do not know what you mean." On the other hand, the two letters U. F. were explained; they meant Urbain Fabre; and Ursule was no Digitized by Google :ueariy oi au. A sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post, from which he was observing and commanding this whole scene There he stood, almost incapable of movement or reflectioa, as though annihilated by the abominable things viewed at sacb close quarters. He waited, in the hope of some incident, no matter of what nature, since he could not collect his thoughts and did not know upon what course to decide. *' In any case," he said, '^ if she is the Lark, I shall see her, for the Thénardier woman is to bring her hither. That will be the end, and then I will give my life and my blood if neces- sary, but I wQl deliver her ! Nothing shall stop me." Nearly half an hour passed in this manner. Thénardier seemed to be absorbed in gloomy reflections, the prisoner did not stir. Still, Marius fancied that at intervals, and for the last few moments, he had heard a faint, dull noise in the direc- tion of the prisoner. All at once, Thénardier addressed the prisoner: — '^ By the way, Monsieur Fabre, I might as weU say it to yoo at once." These few words appeared to be the beginning of an expiana» tion. Marius strained his ears. Thénardier continued : — ''My wife will be back shortly, don't get impatient. I think that the Lark really is your daughter, and it seems to me quite natural that you should keep her. Only, listen to me a bit. My wife will go and hunt her up with your letter. I told my wife to dress herself in the way she did, so that your youn^!; lady might make no difficulty about following her. They will both enter the carnage with my comrade behind. Somewhere, outside the barrier, there is a trap harnessed to two very good horses. Your young lady will be taken to it. She will alight from the fiacre. My comrade will enter the other vehicle with her, and my wife will come back here to tell us : ^ It*s done.' As for the young lady, no harm will be done to her ; the trap will conduct her to a place where she will be quiet, and just as soon as you have handed over to me those little two hundreci thousand francs, she will be returned to you. If yon have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark, that's all." The prisoner uttered not a syllable. After a paase, Thénar- dier continued : — ''It's very simple, as you see. There'll be no harm done MARIU& Slf unless you wish that there should be harm done. Fm telling you how things stand. I warn you so that you may be pre pared." He paused : the prisoner did not break the silence, and Thé* nardier resumed : — ^^As soou as my wife returns and says to me: ^The Lark is on the way/ we will release you, and you will be free to go and sleep at home. You see that our intentions are not evil." Terrible images passed through Marins' mind. What ! That young girl whom they were abducting was not to be brought back ? One of those monsters was to bear her off into the dark* ness ? Whither ? And what if it were she I It was clear that it was she. Marius felt his heart stop beating. What was he to do? Discharge the pistol? Place all those scoundrels in the hands of justice ? But the horrible man with the meat-axe would, none the less, be out of reach with the young girl, and Marius reflected on Thénardier's words, of which he preceived the bloody significance : ^' If you have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark." Now, it was not alone by the colonel's testament, it was by his own love, it was by the peril of the one he loved, that he felt himself restrained. This fright lui situation, which had already lasted above half an* hour, was changing its aspect evei7 moment. Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succes- sion all the most heart-breaking conjectures, seeking hope and finding none. The tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal silence of the den. In the midst of this silence, the door at the bottom of the ataitxsase was heard to open and shut again. The prisoner made a movement in his bonds. *' Here's the bourgeoise," said Thénardier. He had hardly uttered the words, when the Thénardier woman cfid in fact rush hastily into the room, red, panting, breathless, with flaming eyes, and cried, as she smote her huge hands on her thighs simultaneously : — *' False address!" The ruffian who had gone with her made his appearance behind her and picked up his axe again. She resumed:*— Digitized by Google 218 LES MISÉRABLES. *^Nobodj there! Rue Saint-Dominique, No. 17, no Mon BÎeur Urbain Fabre ! They know not what it means ! " She paused, choking, then went on : — ^'Monsieur Thénardier! That old fellow has duped yon! You are txx> good, you see ! If it had been me, I*d have ohopi>ed the beast in four quarters to begin witii ! And if be had acted ugly, I'd have boiled him alive ! He would have been obliged to speak, and say where the girl is, and where he keeps his shiners! That's the way I should have managed matters ! People are perfectly right when they say that meo are a deal stupider than women! Nobody at No. 17. It's nothing but a big carriage gate ! No Monsieur Fabre in the Rue Saint-Dominique! And after all that racing and fee to the coachman and all! I spoke to both tlie porter and tbe portress, a fine, stout woman, and they know nothing about him ! '' Marius breathed freely once more. She, Ursule or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her, was safe. While his exasperated wife vociferated, Thénardier htd seated himself on the table. For several minutes he uttered not a word, but swung his right foot, which hung down, and stared at the brazier with an air of savage revery. Finally, he said to the prisoner, with a slow and singularly ferocious tone : — " A false address? What did you expect to gain by that? " " To gain time ! " cried the prisoner in a thundering voice, and at the same instant he shook off his bonds ; they were cot. The prisoner was only attached to the bed now by one leg. Before the sevei. men had time to collect their senses and dash forward, he had bent down into the fireplace, had stretched out his hand to the brazier, and had then straightened himself up again, and now Thénardier, the female Thénardier, and the ruffians, huddled in amazement at the extremity of the hovel, stared at him in stupefaction, as almost free and in a formi- dable attitude, he brandished above his head the red-hot chisel, which emitted a threatening glow. The judicial examination to which the ambush in the Gorbeaa house eventually gave rise, established the fact that a large sou piece, cut and worked in a peculiar fashion, was found in the garret, when the police made their descent on it. This sou piece was one of those marvels of industry, which are engen- dered by the patience of the galleys in the shadows and for the Digitized by Google MARIUS. 219 shadows, marvels which are nothing else than instruments of escape. These hideous and delicate products of wonderful art are to jewellers' work what the metaphors of slang are to poetry. There are Benvenuto Cellinis in the galleys, just as there are Vil- lous in language. The unhappy wretch who aspires to deliver- ance finds means sometimes without tools, sometimes with a com- mon wooden-handled knife, to saw a sou into two thin plates, to hollow out these plates without affecting the coinage stamp, and to make a furrow on the edge of the sou in such a manner that the plates will adhere again. This can be screwed to- gether and unscrewed at will; it is a box. In this box he bides a watch-spring, and this watch-spring, properly handled, cuts good-sized chains and bars of iron. The unfortunate con- vict is supposed to possess merely a sou ; not at all, he posses- ses liberty. It was a large sou of this sort which, during the subsequent search of the police, was found under the bed near the window. They also found a tiny saw of blue steel which would fit the sou. It is probable that the prisoner had this sou piece on his per- son at the moment when the ruffians searched him, that he con- trived to conceal it in his hand, and that afterward, having his right hand free, he unscrewed it, and used it as a saw to cut tlie cords which fastened him, which would explain the faint noise and almost imperceptible movements which Marins had observed. As he had not been able to bend down, for fear of betraying himself, he had not cut the bonds of his left leg. The ruffians had recovered from their first surprise. '' Be easy," said Bigrenaille to Thénardier. '* He still holds by one leg, and he can't get away. 1*11 answer for that. I tied that paw for him." In the meanwhile, the prisoner had begun to speak : — *' You are wretches, but my life is not worth the trouble of defending it. When you think that you can make me speak, that you can make me write what I do not choose to write, that you can make me say what I do not choose to say — " He stripped up his left sleeve, and added : — '' See here." At the same moment, he extended his arm, and laid the glowing chisel which he held in his left hand by its wooden handle on his bare flesh. The crackling of the burning flesh became audible, and the odor peculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel. Marius reeled in utter horror, the very ruffians shuddered» Digitized by Google 220 LES MISERABLES. hardly a jiuscle of the old mau's face contracted, and while 1h red -hot irou sauk into the Hmoking wound, impassive and al- most august, he fixed on Thénardier his beautiful glance, io wltich ther3 was no hatred, and where suffering vanished in serene majesty. With grand and lofty natures, the revolts of the flesh and the senses when subjected to physical suffering cause the seal to spring forth, and make it appear on the brow, just as rebel- lions among the soldiery force the captain to show himself. '^ Wretches!" said he, ^^have no more fear of me than 1 have for you ! " And, tearing the chisel from the wound, he hurled it throui^b the window, which had beôn left open ; the horrible, glowing tool disappeared into the night, whirling as it flew, and fell far away on the snow. The prisoner resumed : — ^^ Do what you please with me." He was disarmed* *' Seize him ! " said Thénardier. Two of the rufflaus laid their hands on his shoulder, and the masked man with the ventriloquist's voice took up his atn* tion in fh>nt of him, ready to smash his skull at the slightest movement. At the same time. Marins heard below him, at the base of the partition, but so near that he could not see who was speaking, this colloquy conducted in a low tone : — *^ There is only one thing left to do.** "Cut his throat?" " That's it." It was the husband and wife taking counsel together. Thénardier walked slowly towards the table, opened ÛA drawer, and took out the knife. Marius fretted with the handle of his pistol. Unprecedented perplexity ! For the last hour he had had two voices in his conscience, the one enjoining him to respect his father's testament, the other crying to him to rescue the prisoner. These two voices continued unintermpt- cdly that struggle which tormented him to agony. Up to Uiat moment he had cherished a vague hope that he should find some means of reconciling these two duties, but nothing within the limits of possibility had presented itself. However, the peril was urgent, the last bounds of delay had ')een reached ; Thénardier was standing thoughtfully a few paces distant from the prisoner. Marins cast a wild glance about him. the last mechanical re source of despair. All at once a shudder ran through him* Digitized by Google MARIUS. 221 At his feet, on the table, a bright ray of light from the fhlt moon illnminated and seemed to point out to him a sheet of paper. On this paper he read the following line written that Yerj* morning, in large letters, by the eldest of the Thénardier girls : — "THE BOBBIES ARE HERE," An idea, a flash, crossed Marins' mind ; this was the expedient of which he was in search, the solution of that friglitful prob- lem which was torturing him, of sparing the assassin and saving the victim. He knelt down on his commode, stretched out his arm, seized the sheet of paper, softly detached a bit of plaster' from the wall, wrapped tbe paper round it, and tossed the whole through the crevice into the middle of the den. It was high time. Thénardier had conquered his last fears or his last scruples, and was advancing on the prisoner. ** Something is falling ! " cried the Thénardier woman. ** What is it?" asked her husband. The woman darted forward and picked up the bit of plaster. She handed it to her husband. " Where did this come from?" demanded Thénardier. "Pardie!" ejaculated his wife, ^^ where do you suppose it came from ? Through the window, of course." " I saw it pass," said Bigrenaille. Thénardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it dose to the candle. " It's in Éponine's handwriting. The devil ! " He made a sign to his wife, who hastily drew near, and showed her the line written on the sheet of paper, then he added m a subdued voice : — " Quick I The ladder I Let's leave the bacon in the mouse- Tap and decamp ! " ^^ Without cutting that man's throat?" asked the Thénardiei 7oman. " We haven't the time." " Through what?" resumed Bigrenaille. " Through the window," replied Thénardier. " Since Ponine has thrown the stone through the window, it indicates that tlie boase is not watched on that side." The mask with the ventriloquist's voice deposited his huge &ej on the floor, raised both arms in the air, and opened and clenched his fists three times rapidly without uttering a word. This was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks fol action on board shin. Digitized by Google 128 LBS MISERABLES. The rufllaos who were holding the prisoner released Urn; in the twiukiiug of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outtude cue window, and solidly fiistened to the sill hy the two iron books. The prisoner paid no attention to what was going on arouDd him. He seemed to be dreaming or praying. As soon as the ladder was arranged, Tiiénardîer cried : *- *^ Ck)me ! the bourgeoise first ! '* And he rushed headlong to the window. But gust as he was about to throw his leg over, Bigrenailie seized iiim roughly by tlie collar. '^ Not much, come now, you old dog, after us I ** '* After» us ! " yelled the ruffians. ^* You are children," said Thénardier, ^^we are losing time. The {)olice are on our heels." ^' Well,'* said the ruffians, ^^ let's draw lota to see who shall go down first." Th^»nardier exclaimed : — *' Are you mad ! Are you crazy I What a pack of boobies! You want to waste time, me, now ! And my mother?" **At Saint-Lazare." *' Well ! And my sisters?" " At the Madelonettes." The lad scratched his head behind his ear, stared at Ma'am Burgon, and said: — *'Ah!" Then he executed a pirouette on his heel ; a moment later, the old woman, who had remained on the door-step, heard him singing in his clear, young voice, as he plunged under the black elm-trees, in the wintry wind : — ** Le roi Conpdesabot * S'en allait a la chasse, A la chasse aux corheanz» Mont^ sur deux échasseti Quand on passait dessouB, On lui payait deux sous." 1 KfnfÇ Bootkick went a-huntin&; after crows, mounted ofk two stilts. When one vMuBsed beneath them, one paid him two sous. Digitized by Google SHE SET HER BACK AGAINST THE GATE AND FACED THE RUFFIANS. •' What a gocxl little king was he! We have marebed since daybreak, we have reached the evening of a long and toilsome day; we made our first change with Mirabeau, the second with Robespierre, the third with Bonaparte ; we are worn out. Each one demands a bed. Devotion which is weary, heroism which has grown old, am- bitions which are sated, fortunes which are made, seek, demand, implore, solicit, what? A shelter. They have it. They take possession of peace, of tranquillity, of leisure ; behold, they are content. But, at the same time certain facts arise, compel rec- ognition, and knock at the door in thcit turn. These facts are the products of revolutions and wars, they are, tîie^* exist, they have the right to install themselves in society, and they do in- stall themselves therein ; and most of the time, facts are the stewards of the household and fouriers^ who do nothing but prepare lodgings for principles. This, then, is what appears to philosophical politicians : — At the same time that weary men demand repose, accomplished facts demand guarantees. Guarantees are the same to facts that repose is to men. This is wh. t England demanded of the Stuarts after the Protec- tor; this is what France demanded of the Bourbons after the Empire. These guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must be accorded. Princes "grant" them, but in reality, it is the force of things which gives them. A profound truth, and one useful to know, which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1662, and which the Bourbons did not even obtain a glimpse of in 1814. The predestined family, which returned to France when Najw- leon fell, had the fatal simplicity to believe that it was itself which bestowed, and that what it had bestowed it could take back again ; that the House of Bourbon possessed the right divine, that France possessed nothing, and that the political right con- ceded in the charter of Ijouis XVIII. was merely a branch of Ui« right divine, was detached by the House of Bourbon and gra ciously given to the people until such day as it should please the King to reassume it. Still, the House of Bourbon should have felt, from the displeasure created by the gift, that it did not come from it. This house wa« churlish to the nineteenth century. It pat on an iU-temi>ered look at every development of the nation. To 1 In olden times, fcmriers were the officials wuo ^receded the Court and aUotted tbe iodginga. JJ — , ^w Under the Restoration, the nation had grown accustomed to CAlm discussion, which had been lacking under the Republic, and to grandeur in peace, which had been wanting under the Empire. France free and strong had offered an encouraging spectacle to the other peoples of Europe. The Revolution had had the word under Robespierre ; the cannon had iiad the won! under Bonaparte; it was under Ix)uis XVIII. and Charles X. that it was the turn of intelligence to have the word. T!u wind ceased, the torch was lighted once more. On the lofty heights, the pure light of mind could be seen flickering- À mîignificent, useful, and charming spectacle. For a space M fifteen years, those great principh^s which arc so old for tlie thinker, so new for the statesman, could be seen at work in per- fect peace, on the public square ; equality before the law, liberty of conscience, liberty of speech, liberty of the press, the ac<'e is 1830 made man. Moreover, be had in his favor that great recommendation to the throne, exile He had been proscribed, a wanderer, poor. He had lived by his first verdict; Louis Philippe was elected by those two almosls which are called the 221 and 1830, that is to say. by a half-Parliament, and a half-revolution ; and in any case, from the superior point of view where philosophy must place itself, we cannot judge him here, as the reader has seen above, except with certain reservations in the name of the absolute democratic principle ; in the eyes of the absolute, outside these two rights, the right of man in the first place, the right of the people in the second, all is usurpation ; but what we can say, even at the present day, that after making these reserves is, that to sum up the whole, and in whatever manner he is consid- ered, Louis Philippe, taken in himself, and from the point of view of human goodness, will remain, to use the antique lan- guage of ancient history, one of the best princes who ever sat on a throne. What is there against him ? That throne. Take away Louis Philippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is good. He is good at times even to the point of being admira- ble. Often, in the midst of his gravest souvenirs, after a day of conflict with the whole diplomacy of the continent, he returned at night to his apartments, and âiere, exhausted with fatigue, overwhelmed with sleep, what did he do? He took a death sentence and passed the night in revising a criminal suit, con- sidering it something to hold his own against Europe, but that it was a still greater matter to rescue a man from the execu- tioner. He obstinately maintained his opinion against his keeper of the seals ; he disputed the ground with the guillotine foot by foot against the crown attorneys, those chatterers of the lato, as he called them. Sometimes the pile of sentences cov- ered his table ; he examined them all ; it was anguish to him to abaudon these miserable, condemned heads. One day, he said to the same witness to whom we have recently referred: *'I won seven last night." During the early years of his reign, the death penalty was as good as abolished, and the erection of a scaffold was a violence committed against the King. The Grève having disappeared with the elder branch, a bourgeois place of executiou was instituted under the name of the Bar- rière- Saint- Jacques ; '' practical men " felt the necessity of a quasi-legitimate guillotine ; and this was one of the victories of Casimir Périer, who represented the narrow sides of the bour- geoisie, over Louis Philippe, who represented its libera] sides. Louis Philippe annotated Beccaria with his own hand. After I the air, the King defends Royalty, the democrac}* defends the people ; the relative, which is the monarch}', resists the abso- lute, which is the republic ; society bleeds in this conflict, but that which constitutes its suffering to-day will constitute its safety later on ; and, in an}' case, those who combat are not to be blamed ; one of the two parties is evidently mistaken ; the the right is not, like the Colossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once, with one foot on the republic, and one in Royalty ; it is indivisible, and all on one side ; but those who are in error are 80 sincerely ; a blind man is no more a criminal than a Vendean is a ruffian. Let us, then, impute to the fatality of things alone these formidable collisions. Whatever the nature of these tem- pests may be, human irresponsibility is mingled with them. Let us complete this exposition. The government of 1840 led a hard life immediately. Bom yesterday, it was obliged to fight to-day. Hardly installed, it was already everywhere conscious of vague movements of traction on the apparatus of July so re- cently laid, and so lacking in solidity. Resistance was born on the morrow ; perhaps even, it was born on the preceding evening. From month to month the hostility increased, and from being concealed it became patent. The Revolution of July, which gained but little acceptance outside of France by kings, had been diversely interpreted in France, as we have said. God delivers over to men his visible will in events, an obscure text written in a mysterious tongue." Men immediately make translations of it ; translations hasty, incorrect, full of errors» of gaps, and of nonsense. Very few minds comprehend the divine language. The most sagacious, the calmest, the most profound, decipher slowly, and when they arrive with their text, tlie task has long been completed ; there are already twenty translations on the public place. From each remaining springs a party, and from each misinterpretation a faction ; and each party thinks that it alone has the true text, and each faction thinks that it posesses the light. Power itself is often a faction. There are, in revolutions, swimmers who go against the cur- rent ; thvy are the old partie* For the old parties who chng to heredity by the grace of G ou, think that revolutions, having sprung from the right tc ••^•''.H, one has the right to revolt against them. Error. For in thcM masses ; in auother manner, but quite as much. Thinkers meditated, wbile the soil, that is to say, the people, traversed by revolutionary currents, trembled under them with in- describably vague epileptic shocks. These dreamers, some iso- lated, others united in families and almost in communion, turned over social questions in a pacific but profound manner ; impassive miners, who tranquilly pushed their galleries into the depths of a volcano, hardly disturbed by the dull commotion and the fur- naces of which the}' caught glimpses. This tranquillity was not the least beautiful spectacle of this agitated epoch. These men left to political parties the question of rights, they occupied themselves with the question of happiness. The well-being of man, that was what they wanted to extract from society. They raised material questions, questions of agriculture, of industry, of commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. In civilization, such as it has formed itself, a little by the com- mand of God, a great deal l)y the agency of man, intereste combine, unite, and amalgamate in a manner to form a verita- ble hard rock, in accordance with a dynamic law, patitntly studied by economists, those geologists o(* politics. These men who grouped themselves under different appellations, hut wlio may all be designated by the generic title of socialists, en- deavored to pierce that rock and to cause it to spout forth the living waters of human felicity. From the question of the scaffold to the question of war, their works embraced everything. To the rights of man, as proclaimed by the French Revolution, they added the rights of woman and the rights of the child. The reader will not be 8urpris(»d if, for various reasons, we do not here treat in a thorough manner, from the theoretic:^ point of view, the questions raised by socialism. We confine ourselves to indicating them. All the problems that the socialists proposed in themsehes cosmogonie visions, revery and mysticism being cast aside, can be reduced to two principal problems. First problem : To produce wealth. Second problem : To share it. The first problem contains the question of work. • The second contiiins the question of salary. In the first problem the employment of forces is in question. out of the feeble by the strong, put a bridle on the iniquitous jealousy of the man who is making his way against the man who has reached the goal, adjust, mathematically and frater- nally, salary to labor, mingle gratuitous and compulsory educa- tion with the growth of childhood, and make of science the base of manliness, develop minds while keeping arms bus}*, be at one and the same time a powerful people and a family of happy men, render property democratic, not by abolishing it. but by making it universal, so that every citizen, without ex- ception, may be a proprietor, an easier matter than is generally supposed; in two words, learn how to produce wealth and how to distribute it, and you will have at once moral and material greatness ; and you will be worthy to call yourself France. This is what socialism said outside and above a few sects which have gone astray ; that is what it sought in facts, that is what it sketched out in minds. Efforts worthy of admiration ! Sacred attempts ! These doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unfore- seen necessity for the statesman to take philosophers into ac- count, conftised evidences of which we catch a glimpse, a new system of politics to be created, which shall be in acxîord with the old world without too much disaccord with the new revo- lutionary ideal, a situation in which it became necessary to use Lafayette to defend Polignac, the intuition of progress transparent beneath the revolt, the chambers and streets, the competitions to be brought into equilibrium around him, his faith in the Revolution, perhaps an eventual indefinable resigna- tion born of the vague acceptance of a superior definitive right, his desire to remain of his race, his domestic spirit, his sincere respect for the people, his own honesty, preoccupied Louis Philippe almost painfully, and there were moments when, strong and courageous as he was, he was overwhelmed by the diflUculties of being a king. He felt under his feet a formidable disaggregation, which was not, nevertheless, a reduction to dust, France being more France than ever. Piles of shadows covered the horizon. A strange shade, gradually drawing nearer, extended little by little over men, over things, over ideas ; a shade which came from wraths and S}stems. Everything which had been hastily stifled was mov- ins; and fermenting. At times the conscience of the honest man resumed its iireathing, so great was the discomfort of sible revolution. France kept an eye on Paris ; Paris kept ao eye on the Fauburg Saint-Antoine. The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which was in a dull glow, was beginning its ebullition. The wine-shops of the Rue de Charonne were, although the anion of the two epithets seems singular when applied to wine- shops, grave and stormy. The government was tliere purely and simply called in ques- tion. There people publicly discussed the question of fighting or of keeping quiet. There were back shops where workingmen were made to swear that they would hasten into the street at the first cry of alarm, and " that they would fight without count- ing the number of the enemy." This engagement once entered into, a man seated in the corner of the wine-shop ^^ assumed a so- norous tone," and said : " You understand ! You have sworn ! " Sometimes they went up stairs, to a private room on the first floor, and there scenes that were almost masonic were enacted. They made the initiated take oaths to render service to MmselJ cw loell CLS to the fathers of families. That was the formula. In the tap-rooms, " subversive" pamphlets were read. They treated tlie government with corUempty says a secret report of that ^ime. Words like the following could be heard there : — '' I don't know the names of the leadei-s. We folks shall not know the day until two hours beforehand." One workman said : *' There are three hundred of us, let each contribute ten sous, that will make one hundred and fifty francs with which to procure powder and shot." Another said : ^^ I don't ask for six months, I don't ask for even two. In less than a fortnight we shall be parallel with the government. With twenty five thousand men we can face them." Another said: ^^I don't sleep at night, because I make car- tridges all night." From time to time, men '* of bourgeois ap- pearance, and in good coats" came and "caused embarrass- ment," and with the air of ''command," shook hands with the most important^ and then went away. They never stayed more than ten minutes. Significant remarks were exchanged in a low tone : '' The plot is ripe, the matter is arranged." " It was murmured by all who were there," to borrow the very expres- sion of one of those who were present. The exaltation was such that one day, a workingman exclaimed, before tiie whole wine-shop : " We have no arms ! " One of his comrades replied: I lution or couiiter-revolutiou. For, at oar epoch, we no longer believe either in inertia or in immobility. For the people against the people, that is the question. There is no other." — " On the day when we cease to suit you, break us, but up to that day, help us to march on." All this in broad daylight. Other deeds, more audacious still, were suspicious in the eyes of the people by reason of their very audacit}- . On the 4th of April, 1832, a passer-by mounted the post on the corner which forms the angle of the Rue Sainte-Marguerite and shouted: '^ I am a Babouvist ! ** But beneath Babeuf, the people scented Gisquet. Among other things, this man said : — " Down with property ! The opposition of the left is cowardly and treacherous. When it wants to be on the right side, it preaches revolution, it is democratic in order to escape being beaten, and royalist so that it may not have to fight. The re- publicans are beasts with feathers. Distrust the republicans» citizens of the laboring classes.*' " Silence, citizen spy !" cried an artisan. This shout put an end to the discourse. Mysterious incidents occurred. * At nightfall, a workingman encountered near the canal a *' very well dressed man," who said to him : ^' Whither are you bound, citizen?" "Sir," replied the workingman, ''I have not the the honor of your acquaintance." *' 1 know you very well, however." And the man added: '^ Don't be alarmed, I am an agent of the committee. You are suspected of not being quite faithful. You know that if you reveal anything, there is an eye fixed on you." Then he shook hands with the workingman and went away, saying: "We shall meet again soon." The police, who were on the alert, collected singular dia- logues, not only in the wine-shops, but in the street. " Get yourself received very soon," said a weaver to a caW- net-maker. "Why?" " There is going to be a shot to fire." Two ragged pedestrians exchanged these remarkable rwliei, fraught with evident Jacquerie : — " Who governs us? " "M. Philippe." " No, it is the bourgeoisie** » 26 LES MISÉRABLES. Q c D £ Leam thU list hy heart. After to doing you fffill tear it up. 7%