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Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

Translated by Isabel F. Hapgood

CONTENTS

VOLUME I

BOOK FIRST.--A JUST MAN

CHAPTER

I. M. Myriel
II. M. Myriel becomes M. Welcome
III. A Hard Bishopric for a Good Bishop
IV. Works corresponding to Words
V. Monseigneur Bienvenu made his Cassocks last too long
VI. Who guarded his House for him
VII. Cravatte
VIII. Philosophy after Drinking
IX. The Brother as depicted by the Sister
X. The Bishop in the Presence of an Unknown Light
XI. A Restriction
XII. The Solitude of Monseigneur Welcome
XIII. What he believed
XIV. What he thought
BOOK SECOND.--THE FALL

I. The Evening of a Day of Walking
II. Prudence counselled to Wisdom
III. The Heroism of Passive Obedience
IV. Details concerning the Cheese-Dairies of Pontarlier
V. Tranquillity
VI. Jean Valjean
VII. The Interior of Despair
VIII. Billows and Shadows
IX. New Troubles
X. The Man aroused
XI. What he does
XII. The Bishop works
XIII. Little Gervais
BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817

I. The Year 1817
II. A Double Quartette
III. Four and Four
IV. Tholomyes is so Merry that he sings a Spanish Ditty
V. At Bombardas
VI. A Chapter in which they adore Each Other
VII. The Wisdom of Tholomyes
VIII. The Death of a Horse
IX. A Merry End to Mirth
BOOK FOURTH.--TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON'S POWER

I. One Mother meets Another Mother

II. First Sketch of Two Unprepossessing Figures
III. The Lark
BOOK FIFTH.-- THE DESCENT
I. The History of a Progress in Black Glass Trinkets
II. Madeleine
III. Sums deposited with Laffitte
IV. M. Madeleine in Mourning
V. Vague Flashes on the Horizon
VI. Father Fauchelevent
VII. Fauchelevent becomes a Gardener in Paris
VIII. Madame Victurnien expends Thirty Francs on Morality
IX. Madame Victurnien's Success
X. Result of the Success
XI. Christus nos Liberavit
XII. M. Bamatabois's Inactivity
XIII. The Solution of Some Questions connected with the
Municipal Police
BOOK SIXTH.--JAVERT

I. The Beginning of Repose
II. How Jean may become Champ
BOOK SEVENTH.--THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR

I. Sister Simplice
II. The Perspicacity of Master Scaufflaire
III. A Tempest in a Skull
IV. Forms assumed by Suffering during Sleep
V. Hindrances
VI. Sister Simplice put to the Proof
VII. The Traveller on his Arrival takes Precautions
for Departure
VIII. An Entrance by Favor
IX. A Place where Convictions are in Process of Formation
X. The System of Denials
XI. Champmathieu more and more Astonished
BOOK EIGHTH.--A COUNTER-BLOW

I. In what Mirror M. Madeleine contemplates his Hair
II. Fantine Happy
III. Javert Satisfied
IV. Authority reasserts its Rights
V. A Suitable Tomb
VOLUME II

BOOK FIRST.--WATERLOO

CHAPTER

I. What is met with on the Way from Nivelles
II. Hougomont
III. The Eighteenth of June1815
IV. A
V. The Quid Obscurum of Battles
VI. Four o'clock in the Afternoon
VII. Napoleon in a Good Humor
VIII. The Emperor puts a Question to the Guide Lacoste
IX. The Unexpected

X. The Plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean
XI. A Bad Guide to Napoleon; a Good Guide to Bulow
XII. The Guard
XIII. The Catastrophe
XIV. The Last Square
XV. Cambronne
XVI. Quot Libras in Duce?
XVII. Is Waterloo to be considered Good?
XVIII. A Recrudescence of Divine Right
XIX. The Battle-Field at Night
BOOK SECOND.--THE SHIP ORION

I. Number 24601 becomes Number 9430
II. In which the reader will peruse Two Verses which are
of the Devil's Composition possibly
III. The Ankle-Chain must have undergone a Certain Preparatory
Manipulation to be thus broken with a Blow from a Hammer
BOOK THIRD.--ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN

I. The Water Question at Montfermeil
II. Two Complete Portraits
III. Men must have Wineand Horses must have Water
IV. Entrance on the Scene of a Doll
V. The Little One All Alone
VI. Which possibly proves Boulatruelle's Intelligence
VII. Cosette Side by Side with the Stranger in the Dark
VIII. The Unpleasantness of receiving into One's House a Poor
Man who may be a Rich Man
IX. Thenardier at his Manoeuvres
X. He who seeks to better himself may render his Situation Worse
XI. Number 9430 reappearsand Cosette wins it in the Lottery
BOOK FOURTH.--THE GORBEAU HOVEL

I. Master Gorbeau
II. A Nest for Owl and a Warbler
III. Two Misfortunes make One Piece of Good Fortune
IV. The Remarks of the Principal Tenant
V. A Five-Franc Piece falls on the Ground and produces a Tumult
BOOK FIFTH.--FOR A BLACK HUNTA MUTE PACK

I. The Zigzags of Strategy
II. It is Lucky that the Pont d'Austerlitz bears
Carriages
III. To Witthe Plan of Paris in 1727
IV. The Gropings of Flight
V. Which would be Impossible with Gas Lanterns
VI. The Beginning of an Enigma
VII. Continuation of the Enigma
VIII. The Enigma becomes Doubly Mysterious
IX. The Man with the Bell
X. Which explains how Javert got on the Scent
BOOK SIXTH.--LE PETIT-PICPUS

I. Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus
II. The Obedience of Martin Verga
III. Austerities
IV. Gayeties
V. Distractions
VI. The Little Convent

VII. Some Silhouettes of this Darkness
VIII. Post Corda Lapides
IX. A Century under a Guimpe
X. Origin of the Perpetual Adoration
XI. End of the Petit-Picpus
BOOK SEVENTH.--PARENTHESIS

I. The Convent as an Abstract Idea
II. The Convent as an Historical Fact
III. On What Conditions One can respect the Past
IV. The Convent from the Point of View of Principles
V. Prayer
VI. The Absolute Goodness of Prayer
VII. Precautions to be observed in Blame
VIII. FaithLaw
BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM

I. Which treats of the Manner of entering a Convent
II. Fauchelevent in the Presence of a Difficulty
III. Mother Innocente
IV. In which Jean Valjean has quite the Air of having read
Austin Castillejo
V. It is not Necessary to be Drunk in order to be Immortal
VI. Between Four Planks
VII. In which will be found the Origin of the Saying: Don't
lose the Card
VIII. A Successful Interrogatory
IX. Cloistered
VOLUME III

BOOK FIRST.--PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM

I. Parvulus
II. Some of his Particular Characteristics
III. He is Agreeable
IV. He may be of Use
V. His Frontiers
VI. A Bit of History
VII. The Gamin should have his Place in the Classifications
of India
VIII. In which the Reader will find a Charming Saying of the
Last King
IX. The Old Soul of Gaul
X. Ecce Parisecce Homo
XI. To Scoffto Reign
XII. The Future Latent in the People
XIII. Little Gavroche
BOOK SECOND.--THE GREAT BOURGEOIS

I. Ninety Years and Thirty-two Teeth
II. Like MasterLike House
III. Luc-Esprit
IV. A Centenarian Aspirant
V. Basque and Nicolette
VI. In which Magnon and her Two Children are seen
VII. Rule: Receive No One except in the Evening
VIII. Two do not make a Pair
BOOK THIRD.--THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON


I. An Ancient Salon
II. One of the Red Spectres of that Epoch
III. Requiescant
IV. End of the Brigand
V. The Utility of going to Massin order to become a
Revolutionist
VI. The Consequences of having met a Warden
VII. Some Petticoat
VIII. Marble against Granite
BOOK FOURTH.--THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC

I. A Group which barely missed becoming Historic
II. Blondeau's Funeral Oration by Bossuet
III. Marius' Astonishments
IV. The Back Room of the Cafe Musain
V. Enlargement of Horizon
VI. Res Angusta
BOOK FIFTH.--THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE

I. Marius Indigent
II. Marius Poor
III. Marius Grown Up
IV. M. Mabeuf
V. Poverty a Good Neighbor for Misery
VI. The Substitute
BOOK SIXTH.--THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS

I. The Sobriquet; Mode of Formation of Family Names
II. Lux Facta Est
III. Effect of the Spring
IV. Beginning of a Great Malady
V. Divers Claps of Thunder fall on Ma'am Bougon
VI. Taken Prisoner
VII. Adventures of the Letter U delivered over to Conjectures
VIII. The Veterans themselves can be Happy
IX. Eclipse
BOOK SEVENTH.--PATRON MINETTE

I. Mines and Miners
II. The Lowest Depths
III. BabetGueulemerClaquesousand Montparnasse
IV. Composition of the Troupe
BOOK EIGHTH.--THE WICKED POOR MAN

I. Mariuswhile seeking a Girl in a Bonnet encounters a
Man in a Cap
II. Treasure Trove
III. Quadrifrons
IV. A Rose in Misery
V. A Providential Peep-Hole
VI. The Wild Man in his Lair
VII. Strategy and Tactics
VIII. The Ray of Light in the Hovel
IX. Jondrette comes near Weeping
X. Tariff of Licensed CabsTwo Francs an Hour
XI. Offers of Service from Misery to Wretchedness
XII. The Use made of M. Leblanc's Five-Franc Piece
XIII. Solus cum Soloin Loco Remotonon cogitabuntur

orare Pater Noster

XIV. In which a Police Agent bestows Two Fistfuls on a Lawyer
XV. Jondrette makes his Purchases
XVI. In which will be found the Words to an English Air
which was in Fashion in 1832
XVII. The Use made of Marius' Five-Franc Piece
XVIII. Marius' Two Chairs form a Vis-a-Vis
XIX. Occupying One's Self with Obscure Depths
XX. The Trap
XXI. One should always begin by arresting the Victims
XXII. The Little One who was crying in Volume Two
VOLUME IV

BOOK FIRST.--A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY

I. Well Cut
II. Badly Sewed
III. Louis Philippe
IV. Cracks beneath the Foundation
V. Facts whence History springs and which History ignores
VI. Enjolras and his Lieutenants
BOOK SECOND.--EPONINE

I. The Lark's Meadow
II. Embryonic Formation of Crimes in the Incubation of Prisons
III. Apparition to Father Mabeuf
IV. An Apparition to Marius
BOOK THIRD.--THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET

I. The House with a Secret
II. Jean Valjean as a National Guard
III. Foliis ac Frondibus
IV. Change of Gate
V. The Rose perceives that it is an Engine of War
VI. The Battle Begun
VII. To One Sadness oppose a Sadness and a Half
VIII. The Chain-Gang
BOOK FOURTH.--SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY TURN OUT TO BE SUCCOR FROM ON HIGH

I. A Wound withoutHealing within
II. Mother Plutarque finds no Difficulty in explaining a Phenomenon
BOOK FIFTH.--THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING

I. Solitude and Barracks Combined
II. Cosette's Apprehensions
III. Enriched with Commentaries by Toussaint
IV. A Heart beneath a Stone
V. Cosette after the Letter
VI. Old People are made to go out opportunely
BOOK SIXTH.--LITTLE GAVROCHE

I. The Malicious Playfulness of the Wind
II. In which Little Gavroche extracts Profit from Napoleon the Great
III. The Vicissitudes of Flight
BOOK SEVENTH.--SLANG


I. Origin
II. Roots
III. Slang which weeps and Slang which laughs
IV. The Two Duties: To Watch and to Hope
BOOK EIGHTH.--ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS

I. Full Light
II. The Bewilderment of Perfect Happiness
III. The Beginning of Shadow
IV. A Cab runs in English and barks in Slang
V. Things of the Night
VI. Marius becomes Practical once more to the Extent of
Giving Cosette his Address
VII. The Old Heart and the Young Heart in the Presence
of Each Other
BOOK NINTH.--WHITHER ARE THEY GOING?

I. Jean Valjean
II. Marius
III. M. Mabeuf
BOOK TENTH.--THE 5TH OF JUNE1832

I. The Surface of the Question
II. The Root of the Matter
III. A Burial; an Occasion to be born again
IV. The Ebullitions of Former Days
V. Originality of Paris
BOOK ELEVENTH.--THE ATOM FRATERNIZES WITH THE HURRICANE

I. Some Explanations with Regard to the Origin of Gavroche's
Poetry. The Influence of an Academician on this Poetry
II. Gavroche on the March
III. Just Indignation of a Hair-dresser
IV. The Child is amazed at the Old Man
V. The Old Man
VI. Recruits
BOOK TWELFTH.--CORINTHE

I. History of Corinthe from its Foundation
II. Preliminary Gayeties
III. Night begins to descend upon Grantaire
IV. An Attempt to console the Widow Hucheloup
V. Preparations
VI. Waiting
VII. The Man recruited in the Rue des Billettes
VIII. Many Interrogation Points with Regard to a Certain
Le Cabucwhose Name may not have been Le Cabuc
BOOK THIRTEENTH.--MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW

I. From the Rue Plumet to the Quartier Saint-Denis
II. An Owl's View of Paris
III. The Extreme Edge
BOOK FOURTEENTH.--THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR

I. The Flag: Act First
II. The Flag: Act Second

III. Gavroche would have done better to accept Enjolras' Carbine
IV. The Barrel of Powder
V. End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire
VI. The Agony of Death after the Agony of Life
VII. Gavroche as a Profound Calculator of Distances
BOOK FIFTEENTH.--THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME

I. A Drinker is a Babbler
II. The Street Urchin an Enemy of Light
III. While Cosette and Toussaint are Asleep
IV. Gavroche's Excess of Zeal
VOLUME V

BOOK FIRST.--THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS

I. The Charybdis of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and the
Scylla of the Faubourg du Temple
II. What Is to Be Done in the Abyss if One Does Not Converse
III. Light and Shadow
IV. Minus FivePlus One
V. The Horizon Which One Beholds from the Summit of a Barricade
VI. Marius HaggardJavert Laconic
VII. The Situation Becomes Aggravated
VIII. The Artillery-men Compel People to Take Them Seriously
IX. Employment of the Old Talents of a Poacher and That
Infallible Marksmanship Which Influenced the
Condemnation of 1796
X. Dawn
XI. The Shot Which Misses Nothing and Kills No One
XII. Disorder a Partisan of Order
XIII. Passing Gleams
XIV. Wherein Will Appear the Name of Enjolras' Mistress
XV. Gavroche Outside
XVI. How from a Brother One Becomes a Father
XVII. Mortuus Pater Filium Moriturum Expectat
XVIII. The Vulture Becomes Prey
XIX. Jean Valjean Takes His Revenge
XX. The Dead Are in the Right and the Living Are Not in the Wrong
XXI. The Heroes
XXII. Foot to Foot
XXIII. Orestes Fasting and Pylades Drunk
XXIV. Prisoner
BOOK SECOND.--THE INTESTINE OF THE LEVIATHAN

I. The Land Impoverished by the Sea
II. Ancient History of the Sewer
III. Bruneseau
IV.
V. Present Progress
VI. Future Progress
BOOK THIRD.--MUD BUT THE SOUL

I. The Sewer and Its Surprises
II. Explanation
III. The "Spun" Man
IV. He Also Bears His Cross
V. In the Case of Sandas in That of WomanThere Is a
Fineness Which Is Treacherous

VI. The Fontis
VII. One Sometimes Runs Aground When One Fancies That
One Is Disembarking
VIII. The Torn Coat-Tail
IX. Marius Produces on Some One Who Is a Judge of the
Matterthe Effect of Being Dead
X. Return of the Son Who Was Prodigal of His Life
XI. Concussion in the Absolute
XII. The Grandfather
BOOK FOURTH.--JAVERT DERAILED

I.
BOOK FIFTH.--GRANDSON AND GRANDFATHER

I. In Which the Tree with the Zinc Plaster Appears Again
II. MariusEmerging from Civil WarMakes Ready for
Domestic War
III. Marius Attacked
IV. Mademoiselle Gillenormand Ends by No Longer Thinking
It a Bad Thing That M. Fauchelevent Should Have
Entered With Something Under His Arm
V. Deposit Your Money in a Forest Rather than with a Notary
VI. The Two Old Men Do EverythingEach One After His
Own Fashionto Render Cosette Happy
VII. The Effects of Dreams Mingled with Happiness
VIII. Two Men Impossible to Find
BOOK SIXTH.--THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT

I. The 16th of February1833
II. Jean Valjean Still Wears His Arm in a Sling
III. The Inseparable
IV. The Immortal Liver
BOOK SEVENTH.--THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP

I. The Seventh Circle and the Eighth Heaven
II. The Obscurities Which a Revelation Can Contain
BOOK EIGHTH.--FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT

I. The Lower Chamber
II. Another Step Backwards
III. They Recall the Garden of the Rue Plumet
IV. Attraction and Extinction
BOOK NINTH.--SUPREME SHADOWSUPREME DAWN

I. Pity for the Unhappybut Indulgence for the Happy
II. Last Flickerings of a Lamp Without Oil
III. A Pen Is Heavy to the Man Who Lifted the
Fauchelevent's Cart
IV. A Bottle of Ink Which Only Succeeded in Whitening
V. A Night Behind Which There Is Day
VI. The Grass Covers and the Rain Effaces
Les Miserables

VOLUME I.


FANTINE.

PREFACE

So long as there shall existby virtue of law and customdecrees of
damnation pronounced by societyartificially creating hells amid
the civilization of earthand adding the element of human fate to
divine destiny; so long as the three great problems of the century-the
degradation of man through pauperismthe corruption of woman
through hungerthe crippling of children through lack of light-are
unsolved; so long as social asphyxia is possible in any part
of the world;--in other wordsand with a still wider significance
so long as ignorance and poverty exist on earthbooks of the nature
of Les Miserables cannot fail to be of use.

HAUTEVILLE HOUSE1862.

FANTINE

BOOK FIRST--A JUST MAN

CHAPTER I

M. MYRIEL
In 1815M. Charles-Francois-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 relateit will not be superfluous
if merely for the sake of exactness in all pointsto 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 livesand above all in their destiniesas 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 fatherdestining him to be the heir of his own posthad married
him at a very early ageeighteen or twentyin accordance with a
custom which is rather widely prevalent in parliamentary families.
In spite of this marriagehoweverit was said that Charles Myriel
created a great deal of talk. He was well formedthough rather short
in statureelegantgracefulintelligent; the whole of the first
portion of his life had been devoted to the world and to gallantry.
The Revolution came; events succeeded each other with precipitation;
the parliamentary familiesdecimatedpursuedhunted 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 chestfrom 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 daysthe fall of his own familythe tragic
spectacles of '93which wereperhapseven more alarming to the
emigrants who viewed them from a distancewith the magnifying powers


of terror--did these cause the ideas of renunciation and solitude
to germinate in him? Was hein the midst of these distractions
these affections which absorbed his lifesuddenly smitten with one
of those mysterious and terrible blows which sometimes overwhelm
by striking to his hearta man whom public catastrophes would
not shakeby striking at his existence and his fortune? No one
could have told: all that was known wasthat when he returned
from Italy he was a priest.

In 1804M. Myriel was the Cure of B---- [Brignolles]. He was already
advanced in yearsand lived in a very retired manner.

About the epoch of the coronationsome petty affair connected
with his curacy--just whatis not precisely known--took him
to Paris. Among other powerful persons to whom he went to solicit
aid for his parishioners was M. le Cardinal Fesch. One day
when the Emperor had come to visit his unclethe worthy Cure
who was waiting in the anteroomfound himself present when His
Majesty passed. Napoleonon finding himself observed with a certain
curiosity by this old manturned round and said abruptly:-


Who is this good man who is staring at me?

Sire,said M. Myrielyou are looking at a good man, and I
at a great man. Each of us can profit by it.

That very eveningthe Emperor asked the Cardinal the name of the Cure
and some time afterwards M. Myriel was utterly astonished to learn
that he had been appointed Bishop of D----

What truth was thereafter allin 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 talkand very few heads which think.
He was obliged to undergo it although he was a bishopand because he
was a bishop. But after allthe rumors with which his name was
connected were rumors only--noisesayingswords; less than words-palabres
as the energetic language of the South expresses it.
However that may beafter nine years of episcopal power and of
residence in D----all the stories and subjects of conversation
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 recall them.

M. Myriel had arrived at D---- accompanied by an elderly spinster
Mademoiselle Baptistinewho was his sisterand ten years his junior.
Their only domestic was a female servant of the same age
as Mademoiselle Baptistineand named Madame Magloirewho
after having been the servant of M. le Curenow assumed
the double title of maid to Mademoiselle and housekeeper to Monseigneur.


Mademoiselle Baptistine was a longpalethingentle creature;
she 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; her whole lifewhich had been nothing
but a succession of holy deedshad finally conferred upon her
a sort of pallor and transparency; and as she advanced in years
she had acquired what may be called the beauty 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 hardly sufficient body to provide for sex;
a little matter enclosing a light; large eyes forever drooping;-a
mere pretext for a soul's remaining on the earth.

Madame Magloire was a littlefatwhite old womancorpulent
and bustling; always out of breath--in the first place
because of her activityand in the nextbecause of her asthma.

On his arrivalM. Myriel was installed in the episcopal palace with
the honors required by the Imperial decreeswhich class a bishop
immediately after a major-general. The mayor and the president
paid the first call on himand hein turnpaid the first call
on the general and the prefect.

The installation overthe town waited to see its bishop at work.

CHAPTER II

M. MYRIEL BECOMES M. WELCOME
The episcopal palace of D---- adjoins the hospital.

The episcopal palace was a huge and beautiful housebuilt of stone
at the beginning of the last century by M. Henri PugetDoctor of
Theology of the Faculty of ParisAbbe of Simorewho had been Bishop
of D---- in 1712. This palace was a genuine seignorial residence.
Everything about it had a grand air--the apartments of the Bishop
the drawing-roomsthe chambersthe principal courtyardwhich was
very largewith walks encircling it under arcades in the old
Florentine fashionand gardens planted with magnificent trees.
In the dining-rooma long and superb gallery which was situated
on the ground-floor and opened on the gardensM. Henri Puget had
entertained in stateon July 291714My Lords Charles Brulart
de Genlisarchbishop; Prince d'Embrun; Antoine de Mesgrigny
the capuchinBishop of Grasse; Philippe de VendomeGrand Prior
of FranceAbbe of Saint Honore de Lerins; Francois de Berton
de CrillonbishopBaron de Vence; Cesar de Sabran de Forcalquier
bishopSeignor of Glandeve; and Jean SoanenPriest of the Oratory
preacher in ordinary to the kingbishopSeignor of Senez.
The portraits of these seven reverend personages decorated this apartment;
and this memorable datethe 29th of July1714was there engraved
in letters of gold on a table of white marble.

The hospital was a low and narrow building of a single story
with a small garden.

Three days after his arrivalthe Bishop visited the hospital.
The visit endedhe had the director requested to be so good as to
come to his house.

Monsieur the director of the hospital,said he to himhow 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 directorare 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 very 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 hundred 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 hehow many beds do you think this hall alone
would hold?


Monseigneur's dining-room?exclaimed the stupefied director.


The Bishop cast a glance round the apartmentand seemed to be
taking measures and calculations with his eyes.


It would hold full twenty beds,said heas though speaking
to himself. Thenraising 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 mistake, 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 palaceand the Bishop was settled in the hospital.


M. Myriel had no propertyhis family having been ruined by
the Revolution. His sister was in receipt of a yearly income
of five hundred francswhich sufficed for her personal wants at
the vicarage. M. Myriel received from the Statein his quality
of bishopa salary of fifteen thousand francs. On the very day
when he took up his abode in the hospitalM. Myriel settled on
the disposition of this sum once for allin the following manner.
We transcribe here a note made by his own hand:-NOTE
ON THE REGULATION OF MY HOUSEHOLD EXPENSES.

For the little seminary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1500 livres
Society of the mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 100 "
For the Lazarists of Montdidier . . . . . . . . . . 100 "


Seminary for foreign missions in Paris . . . . . . 200 "
Congregation of the Holy Spirit . . . . . . . . . . 150 "
Religious establishments of the Holy Land . . . . . 100 "
Charitable maternity societies . . . . . . . . . . 300 "
Extrafor that of Arles . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50 "
Work for the amelioration of prisons . . . . . . . 400 "
Work for the relief and delivery of prisoners . . . 500 "
To liberate fathers of families incarcerated for debt 1000 "
Addition to the salary of the poor teachers of the


diocese . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2000 "
Public granary of the Hautes-Alpes . . . . . . . . 100 "
Congregation of the ladies of D----of Manosqueand of


Sisteronfor the gratuitous instruction of poor

girls . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1500 "
For the poor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6000 "
My personal expenses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1000 "


-----Total
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15000 "

M. Myriel made no change in this arrangement during the entire
period that he occupied the see of D---- As has been seenhe called
it regulating his household expenses.
This arrangement was accepted with absolute submission by
Mademoiselle Baptistine. This holy woman regarded Monseigneur of D---as
at one and the same time her brother and her bishopher friend
according to the flesh and her superior according to the Church.
She simply loved and venerated him. When he spokeshe bowed;
when he actedshe yielded her adherence. Their only servant
Madame Magloiregrumbled a little. It will be observed that
Monsieur the Bishop had reserved for himself only one thousand
livreswhichadded 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 himthanks to the severe economy of Madame Magloire
and to the intelligent administration of Mademoiselle Baptistine.

One dayafter he had been in D---- about three monthsthe Bishop said:-


And still I am quite cramped with it all!

I should think so!exclaimed Madame Magloire. "Monseigneur has
not even claimed the allowance which the department owes him
for the expense of his carriage in townand for his journeys
about the diocese. It was customary for bishops in former days."

Hold!cried the Bishopyou are quite right, Madame Magloire.

And he made his demand.

Some time afterwards the General Council took this demand under
considerationand voted him an annual sum of three thousand francs
under this heading: Allowance to M. the Bishop for expenses
of carriageexpenses of postingand expenses of pastoral visits.

This provoked a great outcry among the local burgesses;
and a senator of the Empirea former member of the Council
of the Five Hundred which favored the 18 Brumaireand who was
provided with a magnificent senatorial office in the vicinity
of the town of D----wrote to M. Bigot de Preameneu
the minister of public worshipa very angry and confidential


note on the subjectfrom 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, in the first place? Next, how can the posting
be accomplished in these mountainous parts? There are no roads.
No one travels otherwise than on horseback. Even the bridge
between Durance and Chateau-Arnoux 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!
Things will not go well, M. le Comte, until the Emperor has freed us
from these black-capped rascals. Down with the Pope! [Matters were
getting embroiled with Rome.] For my part, I am for Caesar alone.
Etc.etc.

On the other handthis affair afforded great delight to Madame Magloire.
Good,said she to Mademoiselle Baptistine; "Monseigneur began with
other peoplebut he has had to wind up with himselfafter 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 furnishing meat soup to the patients in the hospital. 1500 livres
For the maternity charitable society of Aix . . . . . . . 250 "
For the maternity charitable society of Draguignan . . . 250 "
For foundlings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 500 "
For orphans . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 500 "

----Total
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3000 "

Such was M. Myriel's budget.

As for the chance episcopal perquisitesthe fees for marriage bans
dispensationsprivate baptismssermonsbenedictionsof churches
or chapelsmarriagesetc.the Bishop levied them on the wealthy
with all the more asperitysince he bestowed them on the needy.

After a timeofferings of money flowed in. Those who had and
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. Considerable sums of money passed through
his handsbut nothing could induce him to make any change whatever
in his mode of lifeor add anything superfluous to his bare necessities.

Far from it. As there is always more wretchedness below than there
is brotherhood aboveall was given awayso to speakbefore it
was received. It was like water on dry soil; no matter how much
money he receivedhe never had any. Then he stripped himself.

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 had selectedwith a sort of
affectionate instinctamong 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 exampleand will also call him thus when we have occasion
to name him. Moreoverthis 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 probable;
we confine ourselves to stating that it resembles the original.


CHAPTER 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 many mountains; hardly any roads
as we have just seen; thirty-two curaciesforty-one vicarships
and two hundred and eighty-five auxiliary chapels. To visit all
these is quite a task.


The Bishop managed to do it. He went on foot when it was in
the neighborhoodin a tilted spring-cart when it was on the plain
and on a donkey in the mountains. The two old women accompanied him.
When the trip was too hard for themhe went alone.


One day he arrived at Senezwhich is an ancient episcopal city.
He was mounted on an ass. His pursewhich 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 townand watched him dismount
from his asswith scandalized eyes. Some of the citizens were
laughing around him. "Monsieur the Mayor said the Bishop,
and Messieurs CitizensI 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 necessityI assure you
and not from vanity."


In the course of these trips he was kind and indulgentand 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 poorhe said: "Look at the people of Briancon!
They have conferred on the pooron widows and orphansthe right
to have their meadows mown three days in advance of every one else.
They rebuild their houses for them gratuitously when they are ruined.
Therefore it is a country which is blessed by God. For a whole century
there has not been a single murderer among them."


In villages which were greedy for profit and harvesthe said:
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 cure
recommends him to the prayers of the congregation; and on Sunday,
after the mass, all the inhabitants of the village--men, women,
and children--go to the 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 lawsuitsand where the farmers



ruined themselves in stamped paperhe said: "Look at those good peasants
in the valley of Queyras! There are three thousand souls of them.
Mon Dieu! it is like a little republic. Neither judge nor bailiff
is known there. The mayor does everything. He allots the imposts
taxes each person conscientiouslyjudges quarrels for nothing
divides inheritances without chargepronounces sentences gratuitously;
and he is obeyedbecause he is a just man among simple men."
To villages where he found no schoolmasterhe 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 teacherthey have school-masters who are paid by the whole valley
who make the round of the villagesspending a week in this one
ten days in thatand instruct them. These teachers go to the fairs.
I have seen them there. They are to be recognized 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 readingreckoningand 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 parablesgoing directly to the pointwith few phrases
and many imageswhich characteristic formed the real eloquence
of Jesus Christ. And being convinced himselfhe was persuasive.

CHAPTER IV

WORKS CORRESPONDING TO WORDS

His conversation was gay and affable. He put himself on a level
with the two old women who had passed their lives beside him.
When he laughedit was the laugh of a schoolboy. Madame Magloire
liked to call him Your Grace [Votre Grandeur]. One day he rose
from his arm-chairand 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 staturehe could not reach it. "Madame Magloire said he,
fetch me a chair. My greatness [grandeur] does not reach as far as
that shelf."

One of his distant relativesMadame la Comtesse de Lorarely
allowed an opportunity to escape of enumeratingin his presence
what she designated as "the expectations" of her three sons.
She had numerous relativeswho 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 Dukehis uncle; the eldest was to succeed to the peerage
of his grandfather. The Bishop was accustomed to listen in silence
to these innocent and pardonable maternal boasts. On one occasion
howeverhe appeared to be more thoughtful than usualwhile Madame
de Lo was relating once again the details of all these inheritances
and all these "expectations." She interrupted herself impatiently:
Mon Dieu, cousin! What are you thinking about?I am thinking,
replied the Bishopof a singular remark, which is to be found,
I believe, in St. Augustine,--`Place your hopes in the man from whom
you do not inherit.'

At another timeon receiving a notification of the decease of
a gentleman of the country-sidewherein not only the dignities
of the dead manbut also the feudal and noble qualifications
of all his relativesspread over an entire page: "What a stout


back Death has!" he exclaimed. "What a strange burden of titles
is cheerfully imposed on himand how much wit must men have
in order thus to press the tomb into the service of vanity!"


He was giftedon occasionwith a gentle raillerywhich 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 sermon was charity.
He urged the rich to give to the poorin order to avoid hell
which he depicted in the most frightful manner of which he was capable
and to win paradisewhich he represented as charming and desirable.
Among the audience there was a wealthy retired merchantwho was
somewhat of a usurernamed M. Geborandwho had amassed two millions
in the manufacture of coarse clothsergesand woollen galloons.
Never in his whole life had M. Geborand bestowed alms on any poor wretch.
After the delivery of that sermonit was observed 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 share it. One day the Bishop caught sight
of him in the act of bestowing this charityand said to his sister
with a smileThere is M. Geborand purchasing paradise for
a sou.


When it was a question of charityhe was not to be rebuffed even
by a refusaland on such occasions he gave utterance to remarks
which induced reflection. Once he was begging for the poor in a
drawing-room of the town; there was present the Marquis de Champtercier
a wealthy and avaricious old manwho contrived to beat one
and the same timean ultra-royalist and an ultra-Voltairian. This
variety of man has actually existed. When the Bishop came to him
he touched his armYou must give me something, M. le Marquis.
The Marquis turned round and answered drylyI have poor people
of my own, Monseigneur.Give 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 hundred
and twenty thousand peasants' dwellings in France which have but
three openings; eighteen hundred and seventeen 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
children, 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 Isere, in the Var, in the two departments of the Alpes,
the Hautes, and the Basses, the peasants have not even wheelbarrows;
they transport their manure on the backs of men; they have no candles,
and they burn resinous sticks, and bits of rope dipped in pitch.
That is the state of affairs throughout the whole of the hilly
country of Dauphine. They make bread for six months at one time;
they bake it with dried cow-dung. In the winter they break this
bread up with an axe, and they soak it for twenty-four hours,
in order to render it eatable. My brethren, have pity! behold
the suffering on all sides of you!


Born a Provencalhe easily familiarized himself with the dialect of
the south. He saidEn be! moussu, ses sage?as in lower Languedoc;
Onte anaras passa?as in the Basses-Alpes; "Puerte un bouen moutu
embe un bouen fromage grase as in upper Dauphine. This pleased
the people extremely, and contributed not a little to win him
access to all spirits. He was perfectly at home in the thatched
cottage and in the mountains. He understood how to say the grandest



things in the most vulgar of idioms. As he spoke all tongues,
he entered into all hearts.

Moreover, he 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, Examine the road
over which the fault has passed."

Beingas he described himself with a smilean ex-sinnerhe had none
of the asperities of austerityand he professedwith a good deal
of distinctnessand without the frown of the ferociously virtuous
a doctrine which may be summed up as follows:-


Man has upon him his flesh, which is at once his burden
and his temptation. He drags it with him and yields to it.
He must watch it, cheek it, repress it, and obey it only at the
last extremity. There may be some fault even in this obedience;
but the fault thus committed is venial; it is a fall, but a fall
on the knees which may terminate in prayer.

To be a saint is the exception; to be an upright man is the rule.
Errfallsin if you willbut 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 everyone exclaiming very loudlyand growing angry
very quicklyOh! oh!he saidwith a smile; "to all appearance
this is a great crime which all the world commits. These are
hypocrisies which have taken frightand are in haste to make
protest and to put themselves under shelter."

He was indulgent towards women and poor peopleon whom the burden
of human society rest. He saidThe faults of women, of children,
of the feeble, the indigent, and the ignorant, are the fault
of the husbands, the fathers, the masters, the strong, the rich,
and the wise.

He saidmoreoverTeach those who are ignorant as many things
as possible; society is culpable, in that it does not afford
instruction gratis; it is responsible for the night which it produces.
This soul is full of shadow; sin is therein committed. The guilty
one is not the person who has committed the sin, but 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 casewhich was in preparation and on
the point of trialdiscussed in a drawing-room. A wretched man
being at the end of his resourceshad coined counterfeit money
out of love for a womanand 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 was heldbut there were no proofs
except against her. She alone could accuse her loverand 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 loverand succeeded
by means of fragments of letters cunningly presentedin persuading
the unfortunate woman that she had a rivaland that the man was
deceiving her. Thereuponexasperated by jealousyshe denounced
her loverconfessed allproved all.


The man was ruined. He was shortly to be tried at Aix with
his accomplice. They were relating the matterand each one was
expressing enthusiasm over the cleverness of the magistrate.
By bringing jealousy into playhe had caused the truth to burst
forth in wrathhe had educed the justice of revenge. The Bishop
listened to all this in silence. When they had finishedhe inquired--


Where are this man and woman to be tried?


At the Court of Assizes.


He went onAnd where will the advocate of the crown be tried?


A tragic event occurred at D---- A man was condemned to death
for murder. He was a wretched fellownot exactly educated
not exactly ignorantwho had been a mountebank at fairsand 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. They sent for the cure.
It seems that he refused to comesayingThat is no affair
of mine. I have nothing to do with that unpleasant task, and with
that mountebank: I, too, am ill; and besides, it is not my place.
This reply was reported to the Bishopwho saidMonsieur le Cure
is right: it is not his place; it is mine.


He went instantly to the prisondescended to the cell of the
mountebank,called him by nametook him by the handand spoke to him.
He passed the entire day with himforgetful of food and sleep
praying to God for the soul of the condemned manand praying the
condemned man for his own. He told him the best truthswhich are
also the most simple. He was fatherbrotherfriend; he was bishop
only to bless. He taught him everythingencouraged 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 brinkhe recoiled with horror.
He was not sufficiently ignorant to be absolutely indifferent.
His condemnationwhich had been a profound shockhadin a manner
broken throughhere and therethat wall which separates us
from the mystery of thingsand which we call life. He gazed
incessantly beyond this world through these fatal breaches
and beheld only darkness. The Bishop made him see light.


On the following daywhen they came to fetch the unhappy wretch
the Bishop was still there. He followed himand exhibited himself
to the eyes of the crowd in his purple camail and with his episcopal
cross upon his neckside by side with the criminal bound with cords.


He mounted the tumbril with himhe mounted the scaffold with him.
The suffererwho had been so gloomy and cast down on the preceding day
was radiant. He felt that his soul was reconciledand he hoped
in God. The Bishop embraced himand at the moment when the knife
was about to fallhe said to him: "God raises from the dead him
whom man slays; he whom his brothers have rejected finds his Father
once more. Praybelieveenter into life: the Father is there."
When he descended from the scaffoldthere was something in his look
which made the people draw aside to let him pass. They did not know
which was most worthy of admirationhis pallor or his serenity.
On his return to the humble dwellingwhich he designated
with a smileas his palacehe said to his sisterI have just
officiated pontifically.


Since the most sublime things are often those which are the
least understoodthere were people in the town who said



when commenting on this conduct of the BishopIt is affectation.

Thishoweverwas a remark which was confined to the drawing-rooms.
The populacewhich perceives no jest in holy deedswas touched
and admired him.

As for the Bishopit was a shock to him to have beheld the guillotine
and it was a long time before he recovered from it.

In factwhen the scaffold is thereall 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 itfrom saying yes or no
so long as one has not seen a guillotine with one's own eyes:
but if one encounters one of themthe shock is violent;
one is forced to decideand to take part for or against.
Some admire itlike de Maistre; others execrate itlike Beccaria.
The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte;
it is not neutraland 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 scaffold is not an inert bit of mechanism constructed of wood
iron and cords.

It seems as though it were a beingpossessed of I know not what
sombre initiative; one would say that this piece of carpenter's
work sawthat this machine heardthat this mechanism understood
that this woodthis ironand these cords were possessed of will.
In the frightful meditation into which its presence casts the soul
the scaffold appears in terrible guiseand as though taking part in
what is going on. The scaffold is the accomplice of the executioner;
it devoursit eats fleshit drinks blood; the scaffold is a sort
of monster fabricated by the judge and the carpentera spectre
which seems to live with a horrible vitality composed of all the death
which it has inflicted.

Thereforethe impression was terrible and profound; on the day
following the executionand on many succeeding daysthe Bishop
appeared to be crushed. The almost violent serenity of the
funereal moment had disappeared; the phantom of social justice
tormented him. Hewho generally returned from all his deeds
with a radiant satisfactionseemed to be reproaching himself.
At times he talked to himselfand stammered lugubrious monologues
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 vanished.
Neverthelessit was observed that the Bishop thenceforth 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 loveof the mother who had lost
her child. As he knew the moment for silence he knew also the moment
for speech. Ohadmirable consoler! He sought not to efface sorrow
by forgetfulnessbut 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 steadily. 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 manby 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.

CHAPTER 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---- livedwould have been a solemn and charming sight
for any one who could have viewed it close at hand.

Like all old menand like the majority of thinkershe slept little.
This brief slumber was profound. In the morning he meditated for an hour
then he said his masseither at the cathedral or in his own house.
His mass saidhe broke his fast on rye bread dipped 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 bishopricwho is generally a canonand nearly
every day his vicars-general. He has congregations to reprove
privileges to granta whole ecclesiastical library to examine-prayer-
booksdiocesan catechismsbooks of hoursetc.--charges
to writesermons to authorizecures and mayors to reconcile
a clerical correspondencean administrative correspondence;
on one side the Stateon the other the Holy See; and a thousand
matters of business.

What time was left to himafter these thousand details of business
and his offices and his breviaryhe bestowed first on the necessitous
the sickand the afflicted; the time which was left to him from
the afflictedthe sickand the necessitoushe devoted to work.
Sometimes he dug in his garden; againhe 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-daywhen the weather was finehe went forth and took
a stroll in the country or in townoften entering lowly dwellings.
He was seen walking aloneburied in his own thoughtshis eyes
cast downsupporting himself on his long caneclad in his wadded
purple garment of silkwhich was very warmwearing purple stockings
inside his coarse shoesand surmounted by a flat hat which allowed
three golden tassels of large 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 luminous about it.
The children and the old people came out to the doorsteps for the Bishop
as for the sun. He bestowed his blessingand they blessed him.
They pointed out his house to any one who was in need of anything.

Here and there he haltedaccosted 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 anyhe visited the rich.


As he made his cassocks last a long whileand did not wish to
have it noticedhe never went out in the town without his wadded
purple cloak. This inconvenienced him somewhat in summer.

On his returnhe dined. The dinner resembled his breakfast.

At half-past eight in the evening he supped with his sister
Madame Magloire standing behind them and serving them at table.
Nothing could be more frugal than this repast. Ifhoweverthe Bishop
had one of his cures to supperMadame Magloire took advantage
of the opportunity to serve Monseigneur with some excellent fish
from the lakeor with some fine game from the mountains. Every cure
furnished the pretext for a good meal: the Bishop did not interfere.
With that exceptionhis ordinary diet consisted only of vegetables
boiled in waterand oil soup. Thus it was said in the town
when the Bishop does not indulge in the cheer of a curehe indulges
in the cheer of a trappist.

After supper he conversed for half an hour with Mademoiselle Baptistine
and Madame Magloire; then he retired to his own room and set to writing
sometimes on loose sheetsand again on the margin of some folio.
He was a man of letters and rather learned. He left behind him
five or six very curious manuscripts; among othersa dissertation
on this verse in GenesisIn the beginningthe spirit of God
floated upon the waters. With this verse he compares three texts:
the Arabic verse which saysThe winds of God blew; Flavius Josephus
who saysA wind from above was precipitated upon the earth;
and finallythe Chaldaic paraphrase of Onkeloswhich renders it
A wind coming from God blew upon the face of the waters.
In another dissertationhe examines the theological works of Hugo
Bishop of Ptolemaisgreat-grand-uncle to the writer of this book
and establishes the factthat to this bishop must be attributed
the divers little works published during the last centuryunder the
pseudonym of Barleycourt.

Sometimesin the midst of his readingno matter what the book
might be which he had in his handhe would suddenly fall into
a profound meditationwhence 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 contains 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
Cornwallisand the Admirals on the American station. Versailles
Poincotbook-seller; and ParisPissotbooksellerQuai des Augustins.

Here is the note:-


Oh, you who are!

Ecclesiastes calls you the All-powerful; the Maccabees call you
the Creator; the Epistle to the Ephesians 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; Exodus calls
you Providence; LeviticusSanctity; EsdrasJustice; the creation
calls you God; man calls you Father; but Solomon calls you Compassion
and that is the most 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 floorleaving him alone
until morning on the ground floor.

It is necessary that we shouldin this placegive an exact idea
of the dwelling of the Bishop of D---



CHAPTER VI

WHO GUARDED HIS HOUSE FOR HIM

The house in which he lived consistedas we have saidof a ground floor
and one story above; three rooms on the ground floorthree chambers
on the firstand an attic above. Behind the house was a garden
a quarter of an acre in extent. The two women occupied the first floor;
the Bishop was lodged below. The first roomopening on the street
served him as dining-roomthe second was his bedroomand the
third his oratory. There was no exit possible from this oratory
except by passing through the bedroomnor from the bedroom
without passing through the dining-room. At the end of the suite
in the oratorythere was a detached alcove with a bedfor 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 hospitala small building which had been added
to the houseand abutted on the gardenhad been transformed into
a kitchen and cellar. In addition to thisthere was in the garden
a stablewhich had formerly been the kitchen of the hospital
and in which the Bishop kept two cows. No matter what the quantity
of milk they gavehe 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 large, and rather difficult to warm
in bad weather. As wood is extremely dear at D----, he hit upon
the idea of having a compartment of boards constructed in the
cow-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 colors. 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
Monseigneur's oratory; on each occasion he 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 consoled and thanking God."


In his oratory there were two straw prie-Dieuand there was
an arm-chairalso in strawin his bedroom. Whenby chance
he received seven or eight persons at one timethe prefect
or the generalor the staff of the regiment in garrisonor several
pupils from the little seminarythe chairs had to be fetched from
the winter salon in the stablethe prie-Dieu from the oratory
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 by
standing in front of the chimney if it was winteror by strolling
in the garden if it was summer.



There was still another chair in the detached alcovebut the straw
was half gone from itand it had but three legsso that it was of
service only when propped against the wall. Mademoiselle Baptistine
had also in her own room a very large easy-chair of woodwhich had
formerly been gildedand which was covered with flowered pekin;
but they had been obliged to hoist this bergere up to the first story
through the windowas the staircase was too narrow; it could not
thereforebe reckoned 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 velvet
stamped with a rose patternand 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. Howeverwho 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 ironwith a canopy of green serge; in the
shadow of the bedbehind a curtainwere the utensils of the toilet
which still betrayed the elegant habits of the man of the world:
there were two doorsone near the chimneyopening into the oratory;
the other near the bookcaseopening into the dining-room. The bookcase
was a large cupboard with glass doors filled with books; the chimney
was of wood painted to represent marbleand habitually without fire.
In the chimney stood a pair of firedogs of ironornamented above
with two garlanded vasesand flutings which had formerly been
silvered with silver leafwhich was a sort of episcopal luxury;
above the chimney-piece hung a crucifix of copperwith the silver
worn offfixed on a background of threadbare velvet in a wooden
frame from which the gilding had fallen; near the glass door
a large table with an inkstandloaded with a confusion of papers
and with huge volumes; before the table an arm-chair of straw;
in front of the bed a prie-Dieuborrowed from the oratory.


Two portraits in oval frames were fastened to the wall on each side
of the bed. Small gilt inscriptions on the plain surface of the cloth
at the side of these figures indicated that the portraits represented
one the Abbe of Chaliotbishop of Saint Claude; the otherthe Abbe
Tourteauvicar-general of Agdeabbe of Grand-Champorder of Citeaux
diocese of Chartres. When the Bishop succeeded to this apartment
after the hospital patientshe had found these portraits there
and had left them. They were priestsand probably donors--two reasons
for respecting them. All that he knew about these two persons was
that they had been appointed by the kingthe one to his bishopric
the other to his beneficeon the same daythe 27th of April
1785. Madame Magloire having taken the pictures down to dust
the Bishop had discovered these particulars written in whitish
ink on a little square of paperyellowed by timeand attached
to the back of the portrait of the Abbe of Grand-Champ with four wafers.


At his window he had an antique curtain of a coarse woollen stuff
which finally became so oldthatin order to avoid the expense
of a new oneMadame Magloire was forced to take a large 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 housewithout exceptionthose on the ground
floor as well as those on the first floorwere white-washed
which is a fashion in barracks and hospitals.



Howeverin their latter yearsMadame Magloire discovered beneath
the paper which had been washed overpaintingsornamenting the
apartment of Mademoiselle Baptistineas we shall see further on.
Before becoming a hospitalthis house had been the ancient
parliament house of the Bourgeois. Hence this decoration.
The chambers were paved in red brickswhich were washed every week
with straw mats in front of all the beds. Altogetherthis dwelling
which was attended to by the two womenwas exquisitely clean from top
to bottom. This was the sole luxury which the Bishop permitted.
He saidThat takes nothing from the poor.


It must be confessedhoweverthat he still retained from his
former possessions six silver knives and forks and a soup-ladle
which Madame Magloire contemplated every day with delight
as they glistened splendidly upon the coarse linen 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 onceI find it difficult
to renounce eating from silver dishes.


To this silverware must be added two large candlesticks of
massive silverwhich he had inherited from a great-aunt. These
candlesticks held two wax candlesand usually figured on the Bishop's
chimney-piece. When he had any one to dinnerMadame Magloire
lighted the two candles and set the candlesticks on the table.


In the Bishop's own chamberat the head of his bedthere was
a small cupboardin which Madame Magloire locked up the six
silver knives and forks and the big spoon every night.
But it is necessary to addthat the key was never removed.


The gardenwhich had been rather spoiled by the ugly buildings
which we have mentionedwas 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 fourththe Bishop
had planted some flowers; here and there stood a few fruit-trees.
Madame Magloire had once remarkedwith a sort of gentle malice:
Monseigneur, you who turn everything to account, have, nevertheless, one
useless plot. It would be better to grow salads there than bouquets.
Madame Magloire,retorted the Bishopyou are mistaken.
The beautiful is as useful as the useful.He added after a pause
More so, perhaps.


This plotconsisting of three or four bedsoccupied the Bishop almost
as much as did his books. He liked to pass an hour or two there
trimminghoeingand making holes here and there in the earth
into which he dropped seeds. He was not as hostile to insects
as a gardener could have wished to see him. Moreoverhe 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 cotyledonsnor with
Jussieu against Linnaeus. He did not study plants; he loved flowers.
He respected learned men greatly; he respected the ignorant still more;
andwithout ever failing in these two respectshe watered his
flower-beds every summer evening with a tin watering-pot painted green.


The house had not a single door which could be locked. The door
of the dining-roomwhichas we have saidopened directly on the
cathedral squarehad formerly been ornamented with locks and bolts
like the door of a prison. The Bishop had had all this ironwork removed
and this door was never fastenedeither by night or by day
with anything except the latch. All that the first passerby had
to do at any hourwas to give it a push. At firstthe two women



had been very much tried by this doorwhich was never fastened
but Monsieur de D---- had said to themHave 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
alone had frights from time to time. As for the Bishophis thought
can be found explainedor at least indicatedin the three lines
which he wrote on the margin of a BibleThis 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 bookentitled Philosophy of the Medical Science
he had written this other note: "Am not I a physician like them?
I also have my patientsand thentooI 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 cureI know not whether it was the cure
of Couloubroux or the cure of Pompierrytook it into his head
to ask him one dayprobably at the instigation of Madame Magloire
whether Monsieur was sure that he was not committing an indiscretion
to a certain extentin leaving his door unfastened day and night
at the mercy of any one who should choose to enterand whether
in shorthe did not fear lest some misfortune might occur
in a house so little guarded. The Bishop touched his shoulder
with gentle gravityand said to himNisi Dominus custodierit domum,
in vanum vigilant qui custodiunt 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 sayingThere is a bravery of the priest as well
as the bravery of a colonel of dragoons,--only,he added
ours must be tranquil.

CHAPTER VII

CRAVATTE

It is here that a fact falls naturally into placewhich we must
not omitbecause it is one of the sort which show us best what sort
of a man the Bishop of D---- was.

After the destruction of the band of Gaspard Beswho had infested
the gorges of Ollioulesone of his lieutenantsCravattetook refuge
in the mountains. He concealed himself for some time with his bandits
the remnant of Gaspard Bes's troopin the county of Nice;
then he made his way to Piedmontand suddenly reappeared in France
in the vicinity of Barcelonette. He was first seen at Jauziers
then at Tuiles. He hid himself in the caverns of the 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 Embrunentered the cathedral one night
and despoiled the sacristy. His highway robberies laid waste the
country-side. The gendarmes were set on his trackbut in vain.
He always escaped; sometimes he resisted by 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


and urged him to retrace his steps. Cravatte was in possession
of the mountains as far as Archeand beyond; there was danger even
with an escort; it merely exposed three or four unfortunate gendarmes
to no purpose.


Therefore,said the BishopI intend to go without escort.


You do not really mean that, Monseigneur!exclaimed the mayor.


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 Bishopa tiny
community no bigger than thatwhich I have not seen for three years.
They are my good friendsthose gentle and honest shepherds. They own
one goat out of every thirty that they tend. They make very pretty
woollen cords of various colorsand 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 the brigands, Monseigneur?


Hold,said the BishopI must think of that. You are right.
I may meet them. They, too, need to be told of the good God.


But, Monseigneur, there is a band of them! A flock of wolves!


Monsieur le maire, it may be that it is of this very flock
of wolves that Jesus has constituted me the shepherd. Who knows
the ways of Providence?


They will rob you, Monseigneur.


I have nothing.


They will kill you.


An old goodman of a priest, who passes along mumbling his prayers?
Bah! To what purpose?


Oh, 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! You are risking
your life!


Monsieur le maire,said the Bishopis 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 outaccompanied
only by a child who offered to serve as a guide. His obstinacy
was bruited about the country-sideand caused great consternation.



He would take neither his sister nor Madame Magloire. He traversed
the mountain on mule-backencountered no oneand 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 cure. 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
neverthelessMonsieur le Cure. Things will arrange themselves."


They instituted a search in the churches of the neighborhood.
All the magnificence of these humble parishes combined would not have
sufficed to clothe the chorister of a cathedral properly.


While they were thus embarrasseda large chest was brought and
deposited in the presbytery for the Bishopby two unknown horsemen
who departed on the instant. The chest was opened; it contained
a cope of cloth of golda mitre ornamented with diamonds
an archbishop's crossa magnificent crosier--all the pontifical
vestments which had been stolen a month previously from the treasury
of Notre Dame d'Embrun. In the chest was a paperon which
these words were writtenFrom Cravatte to Monseigneur Bienvenu.


Did not I say that things would come right of themselves?said
the Bishop. Then he addedwith a smileTo him who contents himself
with the surplice of a curate, God sends the cope of an archbishop.


Monseigneur,murmured the curethrowing back his head with a smile.
God--or the Devil.


The Bishop looked steadily at the cureand repeated
with authorityGod!


When he returned to Chastelarthe people came out to stare at him
as at a curiosityall along the road. At the priest's house in
Chastelar he rejoined Mademoiselle Baptistine and Madame Magloire
who were waiting for himand he said to his sister: "Well! was
I in the right? The poor priest went to his poor mountaineers
with empty handsand 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 eveningbefore he went to bedhe said again: "Let us
never fear robbers nor murderers. Those are dangers from without
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 purse! Let us think
only of that which threatens our soul."


Thenturning to his sister: "Sisternever a precaution on the part
of the priestagainst his fellow-man. That which his fellow does
God permits. Let us confine ourselves to prayerwhen we think
that a danger is approaching us. Let us praynot for ourselves
but that our brother may not fall into sin on our account."


Howeversuch 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 Embrun
we should be embarrassed by any inquiry in that direction.
It consisted of very handsome thingsvery 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 only remained to impart
a new direction to the theftand to cause it to take a short trip
in the direction of the poor. Howeverwe make no assertions
on this point. Onlya rather obscure note was found among
the Bishop's paperswhich may bear some relation to this matter
and which is couched in these termsThe question is, to decide
whether this should be turned over to the cathedral or to the hospital.


CHAPTER VIII


PHILOSOPHY AFTER DRINKING


The senator above mentioned was a clever manwho had made
his own wayheedless of those things which present obstacles
and which are called consciencesworn faithjusticeduty: he had
marched straight to his goalwithout once flinching in the line
of his advancement and his interest. He was an old attorney
softened by success; not a bad man by any meanswho rendered
all the small services in his power to his sonshis sons-in-law
his relationsand even to his friendshaving wisely seized upon
in lifegood sidesgood opportunitiesgood windfalls.
Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was intelligent
and just sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple of Epicurus;
while he wasin realityonly a product of Pigault-Lebrun. He
laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and eternal things
and at the "Crotchets of that good old fellow the Bishop."
He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in the
presence of M. Myriel himselfwho listened to him.


On some semi-official occasion or otherI do not recollect what
Count*** [this senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect.
At dessertthe senatorwho was slightly exhilaratedthough still
perfectly dignifiedexclaimed:--


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 purplesenator."


The senator was encouragedand went on:--


Let us be good fellows.


Good devils even,said the Bishop.


I declare to you,continued the senatorthat the Marquis
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, and a revolutionist,



a believer in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire.
Voltaire made sport of Needham, and he was wrong, for Needham's
eels prove that God is useless. A drop of vinegar 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 confession 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 extremity. 'Tis the counsel of an avaricious
man to beggars. Renunciation; why? Sacrifice; to what end?
I do not see one wolf immolating himself for the happiness of
another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at the top;
let us have a 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
recommended to me; I must take heed to everything I do; I must
cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the just and the unjust,
over the fas 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 very clever person who can catch me.
Have a handful of dust seized by 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 seize it. Then it gives you exquisite joys.
Then 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!
What 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 twaddle all
these paradises are! God is a nonsensical monster. I would not say
that in the Moniteur, egad! but I may whisper it among friends.
Inter pocula. To sacrifice the world to paradise 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 Nought, senator. Did I exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist
after death? No. What am I? A little dust collected in an organism.
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 have suffered. Whither will enjoyment lead me?
To nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My 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; bugaboo for children;
Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is the night. Beyond the tomb
there is nothing but equal nothingness. 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 _I_ 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 something for those who are down,--for the barefooted beggars,
knife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimeras, the soul,
immortality, paradise, the stars, are 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 itone is no longer a dupe
one does not stupidly allow one's self to be exiled like Cato
nor stoned like Stephennor burned alive like Jeanne d'Arc. Those
who have succeeded in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy
of feeling themselves irresponsibleand of thinking that they can devour
everything without uneasiness--placessinecuresdignitiespower
whether well or ill acquiredlucrative recantationsuseful treacheries
savory capitulations of conscience--and that they shall enter
the tomb with their digestion accomplished. How agreeable that is!
I do not say that with reference to yousenator. Neverthelessit is
impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you. You great
lords haveso you saya philosophy of your ownand for yourselves
which is exquisiterefinedaccessible to the rich alone
good for all saucesand 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 constitute the philosophy of the peoplevery much
as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the truffled turkey of the poor."


CHAPTER 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 the manner in which those two sainted women subordinated
their actionstheir thoughtstheir feminine instincts even
which are easily alarmedto the habits and purposes 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 Baptistine to Madame the Vicomtess de Boischevron
the friend of her childhood. This letter is in our possession.


D----Dec. 1618--.
MY GOOD MADAM: Not a day passes without our speaking of you.
It is our established custom; but there is another reason besides.
Just imaginewhile washing and dusting the ceilings and walls
Madam Magloire has made some discoveries; now our two chambers hung
with antique paper whitewashed overwould not discredit a chateau
in the style of yours. Madam Magloire has pulled off all the paper.
There were things beneath. My drawing-roomwhich contains no furniture
and which we use for spreading out the linen after washing
is fifteen feet in heighteighteen squarewith a ceiling which
was formerly painted and gildedand with beamsas 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 discovered
under at least ten thicknesses of paper pasted on topsome paintings
which without being good are very tolerable. The subject is
Telemachus being knighted by Minerva in some gardensthe name
of which escapes me. In shortwhere the Roman 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 repairedand the whole revarnished
and my chamber will be a regular museum. She has also found in a
corner of the attic two wooden pier-tables of ancient fashion.
They asked us two crowns of six francs each to regild them
but it is much better to give the money to the poor; and they
are very ugly besidesand 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 winterand 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 talkshe says that a bishop
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.
He fears nothingeven 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 sorts of dangersand he does not like to
have us even seem to notice it. One must know how to understand him.


He goes out in the rainhe walks in the waterhe 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 deadbut was perfectly well
and saidThis is the way I have been robbed!And then he opened
a trunk full of jewelsall the jewels of the cathedral of Embrun
which the thieves had given him.


When he returned on that occasionI could not refrain from
scolding him a littletaking carehowevernot to speak except
when the carriage was making a noiseso that no one might hear me.


At first I used to say to myselfThere 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 chamberI pray for him and fall asleep. I am at ease
because I know that if anything were to happen to himit 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 imprudences. But now
the habit has been acquired. We pray togetherwe tremble together
and we fall asleep. If the devil were to enter this house
he would be allowed to do so. After allwhat 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 itbut the good God
dwells here.



This suffices me. My brother has no longer any need of saying
a word to me. I understand him without his speakingand 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 everythingand that he has memoriesbecause he
is still a very good royalist. They really are a very ancient
Norman family of the generalship of Caen. Five hundred years ago
there was a Raoul de Fauxa Jean de Fauxand a Thomas de Faux
who were gentlemenand one of whom was a seigneur de Rochefort.
The last was Guy-Etienne-Alexandreand was commander of a regiment
and something in the light horse of Bretagne. His daughter
Marie-Louisemarried Adrien-Charles de Gramontson of the Duke
Louis de Gramontpeer of Francecolonel of the French guards
and lieutenant-general of the army. It is written FauxFauq
and Faoucq.

Good Madamerecommend us to the prayers of your sainted relative
Monsieur the Cardinal. As for your dear Sylvanieshe has done well
in not wasting the few moments which she passes with you in writing
to me. She is wellworks as you would wishand loves me.

That is all that I desire. The souvenir which she sent through you
reached me safelyand it makes me very happy. My health is not
so very badand yet I grow thinner every day. Farewell; my paper
is at an endand this forces me to leave you. A thousand good wishes.

BAPTISTINE.

P.S. Your grand nephew is charming. Do you know that he will soon
be five years old? Yesterday he saw some one riding by on horseback
who had on knee-capsand he saidWhat has he got on his knees?
He is a charming child! His little brother is dragging an old broom
about the roomlike a carriageand sayingHu!
As will be perceived from this letterthese two women understood
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 himsometimes did things that were grandbold
and magnificentwithout seeming to have even a suspicion of the fact.
They trembledbut they let him alone. Sometimes Madame Magloire essayed
a remonstrance in advancebut never at the timenor afterwards.
They never interfered with him by so much as a word or sign
in any action once entered upon. At certain momentswithout his
having occasion to mention itwhen he was not even conscious
of it himself in all probabilityso perfect was his simplicity
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 disappearingthey disappeared.
They understoodwith an admirable delicacy of instinctthat certain
cares may be put under constraint. Thuseven when believing
him to be in perilthey understoodI will not say his thought
but his natureto such a degree that they no longer watched over him.
They confided him to God.

MoreoverBaptistine saidas we have just readthat her brother's
end would prove her own. Madame Magloire did not say this
but she knew it.


CHAPTER X

THE BISHOP IN THE PRESENCE OF AN UNKNOWN LIGHT

At an epoch a little later than the date of the letter cited
in the preceding pageshe did a thing whichif the whole town
was to be believedwas even more hazardous than his trip across
the mountains infested with bandits.


In the country near D---- a man lived quite alone. This man
we will state at oncewas a former member of the Convention.
His name was G----


Member of the ConventionG---- was mentioned with a sort of horror
in the little world of D---- A member of the Convention--can you
imagine such a thing? That existed from the time when people
called each other thouand when they said "citizen." This man
was almost a monster. He had not voted for the death of the king
but almost. He was a quasi-regicide. He had been a terrible man.
How did it happen that such a man had not been brought before
a provost's courton the return of the legitimate princes?
They need not have cut off his headif you please; clemency must
be exercisedagreed; but a good banishment for life. An example
in shortetc. Besideshe was an atheistlike 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 kinghe had not been included in the decrees
of exileand had been able to remain in France.


He dwelt at a distance of three-quarters of an hour from the city
far from any hamletfar from any roadin some hidden turn
of a very wild valleyno one knew exactly where. He had there
it was saida sort of fielda holea lair. There were no neighbors
not even passers-by. Since he had dwelt in that valleythe path
which led thither had disappeared under a growth of grass.
The locality was spoken of as though it had been the dwelling of
a hangman.


Neverthelessthe Bishop meditated on the subjectand 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 Conventionand he said
There is a soul yonder which is lonely.


And he addeddeep in his own mindI owe him a visit.


Butlet us avow itthis ideawhich seemed natural at the first blush
appeared to him after a moment's reflectionas strangeimpossible
and almost repulsive. Forat bottomhe shared the general impression
and the old member of the Convention inspired himwithout his being
clearly conscious of the fact himselfwith that sentiment which
borders on hateand which is so well expressed by the word estrangement.


Stillshould the scab of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil?
No. But what a sheep!


The good Bishop was perplexed. Sometimes he set out in that direction;
then he returned.


Finallythe rumor one day spread through the town that a sort of
young shepherdwho served the member of the Convention in his hovel



had come in quest of a doctor; that the old wretch was dying
that paralysis was gaining on himand that he would not live over
night.--"Thank God!" some added.

The Bishop took his staffput on his cloakon account of his too
threadbare cassockas we have mentionedand because of the evening
breeze which was sure to rise soonand set out.

The sun was settingand had almost touched the horizon when the
Bishop arrived at the excommunicated spot. With a certain beating
of the hearthe recognized the fact that he was near the lair.
He strode over a ditchleaped a hedgemade his way through a fence
of dead boughsentered a neglected paddocktook a few steps
with a good deal of boldnessand suddenlyat the extremity of the
waste landand behind lofty brambleshe caught sight of the cavern.

It was a very low hutpoorsmalland cleanwith a vine nailed
against the outside.

Near the doorin an old wheel-chairthe arm-chair of the peasants
there was a white-haired mansmiling at the sun.

Near the seated man stood a young boythe shepherd lad.
He was offering the old man a jar of milk.

While the Bishop was watching himthe old man spoke: "Thank you
he said, I need nothing." And his smile quitted the sun to rest
upon the child.

The Bishop stepped forward. At the sound which he made in walking
the old man turned his headand his face expressed the sum total
of the surprise which a man can still feel after a long life.

This is the first time since I have been here,said hethat 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 Bishop did not take it. The Bishop confined himself
to the remark:-


I am pleased to see that I have been misinformed. You certainly
do not seem to me to be ill.

Monsieur,replied the old manI am going to recover.

He pausedand 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
draws on. Yesterday, only my feet were cold; to-day, the chill
has ascended to my knees; now I feel it mounting to my waist;
when it reaches the heart, I shall stop. The sun 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 last until the dawn, but I
know that I shall hardly live three hours. It will be night then.
What does it matter, after all? 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 eyesand addedas 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 wholefor these petty contradictions of great hearts must
be indicated like the rest: hewho on occasionwas 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 familiaritycommon enough
to doctors and priestsbut which was not habitual with him.
This manafter allthis member of the Conventionthis representative
of the peoplehad been one of the powerful ones of the earth;
for the first time in his lifeprobablythe Bishop felt in a mood to
be severe.


Meanwhilethe member of the Convention had been
surveying him with a modest cordialityin which one
could have distinguishedpossiblythat humility
which is so fitting when one is on the verge of returning to dust.


The Bishopon his sidealthough he generally restrained his curiosity
whichin his opinionbordered on a faultcould not refrain from
examining the member of the Convention with an attention which
as it did not have its course in sympathywould have served his
conscience as a matter of reproachin connection with any other man.
A member of the Convention produced on him somewhat the effect of being
outside the pale of the laweven of the law of charity. G----calm
his body almost uprighthis voice vibratingwas one of those
octogenarians who form the subject of astonishment to the physiologist.
The Revolution had many of these menproportioned to the epoch.
In this old man one was conscious of a man put to the proof.
Though so near to his endhe preserved all the gestures of health.
In his clear glancein his firm tonein the robust movement of
his shouldersthere was something calculated to disconcert death.
Azraelthe Mohammedan angel of the sepulchrewould 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 motionless. It was there that the shadows held him fast.
His feet were cold and deadbut his head survived with all the power
of lifeand seemed full of light. G----at this solemn moment
resembled 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 exordium
was abrupt.


I congratulate you,said hein the tone which one uses for
a reprimand. "You did not vote for the death of the kingafter 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 to 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 authority 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.


Monseigneur Bienvenu listened in some astonishment to this language
which was very new to him.


The member of the Convention resumed:--


So far as Louis XVI. was concerned, I said `no.' I did not think
that I had the right to kill a man; but I felt it my duty to
exterminate evil. I voted the end of the tyrant, that is to say,
the end of prostitution for woman, the end of slavery for man,
the end of night for the child. In voting for the Republic,
I voted for that. I voted for fraternity, concord, the dawn.
I have aided in the overthrow of prejudices and errors. The crumbling
away of prejudices and errors causes light. 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 return
of the past, which is called 1814, joy which has disappeared!
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 mill 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. Incomplete, it may be, but sublime.
It set free all the unknown social quantities; 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 himself up in his
chair with an almost lugubrious solemnityand 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 feltwithoutperhapsconfessing itthat something
within him had suffered extinction. Neverthelesshe put a good
face on the matter. He replied:--


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 addedregarding the
member of the Convention steadily the whileLouis XVII.?


The conventionary stretched forth his hand and grasped the Bishop's arm.


Louis XVII.! let us see. For whom do you mourn? is it for
the innocent child? very good; in 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 Greve, until death ensued,
for the sole crime of having been the brother of Cartouche, is no
less painful than the grandson of Louis XV., an innocent child,
martyred in the tower of the Temple, for the sole crime of having
been grandson of Louis XV.


Monsieur,said the BishopI like not this conjunction 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 conventionary 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 parvulos,' 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 conventionary G---- "You have mentioned
Louis XVII. to me. Let us come to an understanding. Shall we
weep for all the innocentall martyrsall childrenthe lowly



as well as the exalted? I agree to that. But in that caseas I
have told youwe must go back further than '93and our tears must
begin before Louis XVII. I will weep with you over the children
of kingsprovided that you will weep with me over the children
of the people."


I weep for all,said the Bishop.


Equally!exclaimed conventionary G----; "and if the balance
must inclinelet it be on the side of the people. They have been
suffering longer."


Another silence ensued. The conventionary was the first to break it.
He raised himself on one elbowtook a bit of his cheek between
his thumb and his forefingeras one does mechanically when one
interrogates and judgesand 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 have been suffering a long while. And hold!
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, I must admit; but that signifies nothing: clever men
have so many ways of imposing 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 you, 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, twenty-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,--revenues, 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 repliedVermis sum--I am a worm.


A worm of the earth in a carriage?growled the conventionary.


It was the conventionary's turn to be arrogantand the Bishop's
to be humble.


The Bishop resumed mildly:--


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 and the moor-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 inexorable.


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 wrongsir. You are at my houseyou are
my guestI owe you courtesy. You discuss my ideasand 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 onebut it attained its mark with the
directness 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 minds will have their fetichesand 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;
stillthere 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, which, 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 Montrevel?
Fouquier-Tainville is a rascal; but what is your opinion as to
Lamoignon-Baville? Maillard is terrible; but Saulx-Tavannes,
if you please? Duchene 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 Louvois.
Sir, sir, I am sorry for Marie Antoinette, archduchess and queen;
but I am also sorry for that poor Huguenot woman, who, in 1685,
under Louis the Great, sir, while with a nursing infant, was bound,
naked to the waist, to a stake, and the child kept at a distance;
her breast swelled with milk and her heart with anguish;
the little one, hungry and pale, beheld that breast and cried
and agonized; the executioner said to the woman, a mother and a nurse,
`Abjure!' giving her her choice between the death of her infant
and the death of her conscience. What say you to that torture
of Tantalus as applied to a mother? Bear this well in mind sir:
the French Revolution had its reasons for existence; its wrath 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;
moreover, I am dying.


And ceasing to gaze at the Bishopthe conventionary concluded
his thoughts in these tranquil words:--


Yes, the brutalities of progress are called revolutions.
When they are over, this fact is recognized,--that the human race
has been treated harshly, but that it has progressed.



The conventionary doubted not that he had successively conquered
all the inmost intrenchments of the Bishop. One remainedhowever
and from this intrenchmentthe last resource of Monseigneur
Bienvenu's resistancecame forth this replywherein appeared
nearly all the harshness of the beginning:-


Progress should believe in God. Good cannot have an impious 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 heavenand in his glance
a tear gathered slowly. When the eyelid was fullthe tear trickled
down his livid cheekand he saidalmost in a stammerquite low
and to himselfwhile his eyes were plunged in the depths:-


O thou! O ideal! Thou alone existest!

The Bishop experienced an indescribable shock.

After a pausethe 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 _I_.
That _I_ of the infinite is God.

The dying man had pronounced these last words in a loud voice
and with the shiver of ecstasyas though he beheld some one.
When he had spokenhis 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 him 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 eyeshe took that wrinkled
aged and ice-cold hand in hisand bent over the dying man.

This hour is the hour of God. Do you not think that it would
be regrettable if we had met in vain?

The conventionary opened his eyes again. A gravity mingled
with gloom was imprinted on his countenance.

Bishop,said hewith 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 contemplation.
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; France 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 treasury 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 succored 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 forward
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 summer palace, a convent of Urbanists, the Abbey
of Sainte Claire en Beaulieu, which I saved in 1793. I have done
my duty according to my powers, and all the good that I was able.
After which, I was hunted down, pursued, persecuted, blackened,
jeered at, scorned, 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 present
the visage of one damned. And I accept this isolation of hatred,
without hating any one myself. Now I am eighty-six years old;
I am on the point of death. What is it that you have come to ask
of me?


Your blessing,said the Bishop.


And he knelt down.


When the Bishop raised his head againthe face of the conventionary
had become august. He had just expired.


The Bishop returned homedeeply absorbed in thoughts which
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 Convention 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 hisand the reflection of that grand conscience
upon hisdid not count for something in his approach to perfection.


This "pastoral visit" naturally furnished an occasion for a murmur
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 spiritualaddressed this sally to himMonseigneur,
people are inquiring when Your Greatness will receive the red
cap!--"Oh! oh! that's a coarse color replied the Bishop.
It is lucky that those who despise it in a cap revere it in a hat."


CHAPTER XI


A RESTRICTION


We should incur a great risk of deceiving ourselveswere we to conclude
from this that Monseigneur Welcome was "a philosophical bishop
or a patriotic cure." His meetingwhich may almost be designated
as his unionwith conventionary G----left behind it in his mind
a sort of astonishmentwhich rendered him still more gentle.
That is all.


Although Monseigneur Bienvenu was far from being a politician



this isperhapsthe place to indicate very briefly what his
attitude was in the events of that epochsupposing that Monseigneur
Bienvenu ever dreamed of having an attitude.

Let usthengo back a few years.

Some time after the elevation of M. Myriel to the episcopate
the Emperor had made him a baron of the Empirein company with many
other bishops. The arrest of the Pope took placeas every one knows
on the night of the 5th to the 6th of July1809; on this occasion

M. Myriel was summoned by Napoleon to the synod of the bishops
of France and Italy convened at Paris. This synod was held at
Notre-Dameand assembled for the first time on the 15th of June
1811under the presidency of Cardinal Fesch. M. Myriel was one
of the ninety-five bishops who attended it. But he was present
only at one sitting and at three or four private conferences.
Bishop of a mountain dioceseliving so very close to nature
in rusticity and deprivationit appeared that he imported among
these eminent personagesideas which altered the temperature
of the assembly. He very soon returned to D---- He was interrogated
as to this speedy returnand he replied: "I embarrassed them.
The outside air penetrated to them through me. I produced on them
the effect of an open door."
On another occasion he saidWhat would you have? Those gentlemen
are princes. I am 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 eveningwhen he found
himself at the house of one of his most notable colleagues: "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! There are
poor people!'"

Let us remarkby the waythat the hatred of luxury is not
an intelligent hatred. This hatred would involve the hatred of
the arts. Neverthelessin churchmenluxury is wrongexcept in
connection with representations and ceremonies. It seems to reveal
habits which have very little that is charitable about them.
An opulent priest is a contradiction. The priest must keep close
to the poor. Nowcan one come in contact incessantly night and day
with all this distressall these misfortunesand 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 furnaceand who has neither a singed hairnor blackened nails
nor a drop of sweatnor a speck of ashes on his face? The first
proof of charity in the priestin the bishop especiallyis poverty.

This isno doubtwhat the Bishop of D---- thought.

It must not be supposedhoweverthat he shared what we call the "ideas
of the century" on certain delicate points. He took very little part
in the theological quarrels of the momentand maintained silence
on questions in which Church and State were implicated; but if he
had been strongly pressedit seems that he would have been found
to be an ultramontane rather than a gallican. Since we are making
a portraitand since we do not wish to conceal anythingwe are
forced to add that he was glacial towards Napoleon in his decline.
Beginning with 1813he gave in his adherence to or applauded all
hostile manifestations. He refused to see himas he passed through
on his return from the island of Elbaand he abstained from ordering


public prayers for the Emperor in his diocese during the Hundred Days.


Besides his sisterMademoiselle Baptistinehe had two brothers
one a generalthe other a prefect. He wrote to both with tolerable
frequency. He was harsh for a time towards the formerbecause
holding a command in Provence at the epoch of the disembarkation
at Cannesthe 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 correspondence
with the other brotherthe ex-prefecta fineworthy man who
lived in retirement at ParisRue Cassetteremained more affectionate.


Thus Monseigneur Bienvenu also had his hour of party spirithis hour
of bitternesshis cloud. The shadow of the passions of the moment
traversed this grand and gentle spirit occupied with eternal things.
Certainlysuch 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 called "political opinions" with the
grand aspiration for progresswith the sublime faithpatriotic
democratichumanewhich in our day should be the very foundation
of every generous 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
Bienvenu had not been a Royalistand if his glance had never been
for a single instantturned away from that serene contemplation
in which is distinctly discernibleabove the fictions and the hatreds
of this worldabove the stormy vicissitudes of human things
the beaming of those three pure radiancestruthjusticeand charity.


While admitting that it was not for a political office that God
created Monseigneur Welcomewe should have understood and admired
his protest in the name of right and libertyhis 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 love the fray
so long as there is dangerand in any casethe combatants
of the first hour have alone the right to be the exterminators
of the last. He who has not been a stubborn accuser in prosperity
should hold his peace in the face of ruin. The denunciator
of success is the only legitimate executioner of the fall.
As for uswhen Providence intervenes and strikeswe let it work.
1812 commenced to disarm us. In 1813 the cowardly breach of silence
of that taciturn legislative bodyemboldened by catastrophe
possessed only traits which aroused indignation. And it was a crime
to applaudin 1814in the presence of those marshals who betrayed;
in the presence of that senate which passed from one dunghill
to anotherinsulting 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 1815when the supreme
disasters filled the airwhen France was seized with a shiver
at their sinister approachwhen Waterloo could be dimly discerned
opening before Napoleonthe mournful acclamation of the army
and the people to the condemned of destiny had nothing laughable
in itandafter making all allowance for the despota 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 of the abyss.


With this exceptionhe was in all things justtrueequitable
intelligenthumble and dignifiedbeneficent and kindly
which is only another sort of benevolence. He was a priest
a sageand a man. It must be admittedthat even in the political
views with which we have just reproached himand which we are
disposed to judge almost with severityhe was tolerant and easy



more soperhapsthan we who are speaking here. The porter of
the town-hall had been placed there by the Emperor. He was an old
non-commissioned officer of the old guarda member of the Legion
of Honor at Austerlitzas much of a Bonapartist as the eagle.
This poor fellow occasionally let slip inconsiderate remarks
which the law then stigmatized as seditious speeches. After the
imperial profile disappeared from the Legion of Honorhe never
dressed himself in his regimentalsas he saidso that he should
not be obliged to wear his cross. He had himself devoutly removed
the imperial effigy from the cross which Napoleon had given him;
this made a holeand he would not put anything in its place.
I will die,he saidrather than wear the three frogs upon
my heart!He liked to scoff aloud at Louis XVIII. "The gouty
old creature in English gaiters!" he said; "let him take himself
off to Prussia with that queue of his." He was happy to combine
in 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 wasturned out of the housewith his wife and children
and without bread. The Bishop sent for himreproved him gently
and appointed him beadle in the cathedral.


In the course of nine years Monseigneur Bienvenu hadby dint
of holy deeds and gentle mannersfilled the town of D----
with a sort of tender and filial reverence. Even his conduct
towards Napoleon had been accepted and tacitly pardonedas it were
by the peoplethe good and weakly flock who adored their emperor
but loved their bishop.


CHAPTER XII


THE SOLITUDE OF MONSEIGNEUR WELCOME


A bishop is almost always surrounded by a full squadron of
little abbesjust as a general is by a covey of young officers.
This is what that charming Saint Francois de Sales calls somewhere "les
pretres blancs-becs callow priests. Every career has its aspirants,
who form a train for those who have attained eminence in it.
There is no power which has not its dependents. 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 cherubim from the seminary, which goes the round,
and maintains 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 bigwigs 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, who feel little scruple
at making a whole diocese dance attendance in their person,
who are connecting links between the sacristy and diplomacy,
who are abbes rather than priests, prelates rather than bishops.
Happy those who approach them! Being persons of influence,
they create a shower about them, upon the assiduous and the favored,
and upon all the young men who understand the art of pleasing,
of large parishes, prebends, 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 system 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, the 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, carries 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 skull-cap may dream of the tiara.
The priest is nowadays the only man who can become a king in a
regular manner; and what a king! the supreme king. Then what a
nursery of aspirations is a seminary! How many blushing choristers,
how many youthful abbes 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 accounted
among the big mitres. This was plain from the complete absence
of young priests about him. We have seen that he did not take"
in Paris. Not a single future dreamed of engrafting itself on
this solitary old man. Not a single sprouting ambition committed
the folly of putting forth its foliage in his shadow. His canons
and grand-vicars were good old menrather vulgar like himself
walled up like him in this diocesewithout exit to a cardinalship
and who resembled their bishopwith this differencethat they
were finished and he was completed. The impossibility of growing
great under Monseigneur Bienvenu was so well understoodthat no
sooner had the young men whom he ordained left the seminary than they
got themselves recommended to the archbishops of Aix or of Auch
and went off in a great hurry. Forin shortwe repeat it
men wish to be pushed. A saint who dwells in a paroxysm of abnegation
is a dangerous neighbor; he might communicate to youby contagion
an incurable povertyan anchylosis of the jointswhich are useful
in advancementand in shortmore renunciation than you desire;
and this 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 passingthat success is a very hideous thing. Its false
resemblance to merit deceives men. For the massessuccess has almost
the same profile as supremacy. Successthat Menaechmus of talent
has one dupe--history. Juvenal and Tacitus alone grumble at it.
In our daya philosophy which is almost official has entered into
its servicewears the livery of successand performs the service
of its antechamber. Succeed: theory. Prosperity argues capacity.
Win in the lotteryand behold! you are a clever man. He who
triumphs is venerated. Be born with a silver spoon in your mouth!
everything lies in that. Be luckyand you will have all the rest;
be happyand people will think you great. Outside of five or six
immense exceptionswhich compose the splendor of a century
contemporary admiration is nothing but short-sightedness. Gilding
is gold. It does no harm to be the first arrival by pure chance
so long as you do arrive. The common herd is an old Narcissus who
adores himselfand who applauds the vulgar herd. That enormous ability
by virtue of which one is MosesAeschylusDanteMichael Angelo
or Napoleonthe multitude awards on the spotand by acclamation
to whomsoever attains his objectin 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 Prudhomme accidentally win the decisive battle of
an epoch; let an apothecary invent cardboard shoe-soles for the army


of the Sambre-and-Meuseand construct for himselfout of this
cardboardsold as leatherfour hundred thousand francs of income;
let a pork-packer espouse usuryand cause it to bring forth seven
or eight millionsof 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 Beautyand the mien
of Claude Majesty. With the constellations of space they confound
the stars of the abyss which are made in the soft mire of the puddle
by the feet of ducks.

CHAPTER XIII

WHAT HE BELIEVED

We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D---- on the score
of orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul we feel ourselves
in no mood but respect. The conscience of the just man should
be accepted on his word. Moreovercertain natures being given
we admit the possible development of all beauties of human virtue
in a belief that differs from our own.

What did he think of this dogmaor of that mystery? These secrets
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 themselves into
hypocrisy in his case. No decay is possible to the diamond.
He believed to the extent of his powers. "Credo in Patrem
he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew from good works that amount
of satisfaction which suffices to the conscience, and which whispers
to a man, Thou art with God!"

The point which we consider it our duty to note isthat outside
of and beyond his faithas it werethe Bishop possessed an excess
of love. In was in that quarterquia multum 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 menas we have already pointed outand which
on occasionextended even to things. He lived without disdain.
He was indulgent towards God's creation. Every maneven the best
has within him a thoughtless harshness which he reserves for animals.
The Bishop of D---- had none of that harshnesswhich is peculiar
to many priestsnevertheless. He 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
deformity of instincttroubled him notand did not arouse
his indignation. He was touchedalmost softened by them.
It seemed as though he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond
the bounds of life which is apparentthe causethe explanation
or the excuse for them. He seemed at times to be asking God to
commute these penalties. He examined without wrathand with the
eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsestthat portion
of chaos which still exists in nature. This revery sometimes
caused him to utter odd sayings. One morning he was in his garden
and thought himself alonebut his sister was walking behind him
unseen by him: suddenly he paused and gazed at something on the ground;
it was a largeblackhairyfrightful spider. His sister heard
him say:-



Poor beast! 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 Aurelius. One day he
sprained his ankle in his effort to avoid stepping on an ant.
Thus lived this just man. Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden
and then there was nothing more venerable possible.

Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly beenif the stories anent
his youthand even in regard to his manhoodwere to be believed
a passionateandpossiblya violent man. His universal suavity
was less an instinct of nature than the result of a grand conviction
which had filtered into his heart through the medium of life
and had trickled there slowlythought by thought; forin a character
as in a rockthere may exist apertures made by drops of water.
These hollows are uneffaceable; these formations are indestructible.

In 1815as we think we have already saidhe reached his seventy-fifth
birthdaybut he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was
not tall; he was rather plump; andin order to combat this tendency
he was fond of taking long strolls on foot; his step was firm
and his form was but slightly benta detail from which we do not
pretend to draw any conclusion. Gregory XVI.at the age of eighty
held himself erect and smilingwhich did not prevent him from
being a bad bishop. Monseigneur Welcome 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 cause the remark to be made of a man, He's a good fellow";
and of an old manHe is a fine man.Thatit will be recalled
was the effect which he produced upon Napoleon. On the first encounter
and to one who saw him for the first timehe was nothingin fact
but a fine man. But if one remained near him for a few hours
and beheld him in the least degree pensivethe fine man became
gradually transfiguredand took on some imposing quality
I know not what; his broad and serious browrendered august
by his white locksbecame august also by virtue of meditation;
majesty radiated from his goodnessthough his goodness ceased not
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. Respectan unutterable respect
penetrated you by degrees and mounted to your heartand one felt
that one had before him one of those strongthoroughly tried
and indulgent souls where thought is so grand that it can no longer
be anything but gentle.

As we have seenprayerthe celebration of the offices of religion
alms-givingthe consolation of the afflictedthe cultivation
of a bit of landfraternityfrugalityhospitalityrenunciation
confidencestudyworkfilled every day of his life. Filled is
exactly the word; certainly the Bishop's day was quite full to the brim
of good words and good deeds. Neverthelessit was not complete
if cold or rainy weather prevented his passing an hour or two in his
garden before going to bedand after the two women had retired.
It seemed to be a sort of rite with himto prepare himself for
slumber by meditation in the presence of the grand spectacles of the
nocturnal heavens. Sometimesif 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 alonecommuning with himself
peacefuladoringcomparing the serenity of his heart with the
serenity of the ethermoved 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 momentswhile he offered his heart at the hour when
nocturnal flowers offer their perfumeilluminated like a lamp amid
the starry nightas he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst
of the universal radiance of creationhe could not have told himself
probablywhat was passing in his spirit; he felt something take
its flight from himand something descend into him. Mysterious
exchange of the abysses of the soul with the abysses of the universe!

He thought of the grandeur and presence of God; of the future eternity
that strange mystery; of the eternity pasta mystery still
more strange; of all the infinitieswhich pierced their way into
all his sensesbeneath his eyes; andwithout seeking to comprehend
the incomprehensiblehe gazed upon it. He did not study God;
he was dazzled by him. He considered those magnificent conjunctions
of atomswhich communicate aspects to matterreveal forces by
verifying themcreate individualities in unityproportions in extent
the innumerable in the infiniteandthrough lightproduce beauty.
These conjunctions are formed and dissolved incessantly;
hence life and death.

He seated himself on a wooden benchwith his back against a
decrepit vine; he gazed at the starspast the puny and stunted
silhouettes of his fruit-trees. This quarter of an acre
so poorly plantedso encumbered with mean buildings and sheds
was dear to himand satisfied his wants.

What more was needed by this old manwho divided the leisure
of his lifewhere there was so little leisurebetween gardening
in the daytime and contemplation at night? Was not this narrow
enclosurewith the heavens for a ceilingsufficient to enable
him to adore God in his most divine worksin turn? Does not this
comprehend allin fact? and what is there left to desire beyond it?
A little garden in which to walkand immensity in which to dream.
At one's feet that which can be cultivated and plucked; over head
that which one can study and meditate upon: some flowers on earth
and all the stars in the sky.

CHAPTER XIV

WHAT HE THOUGHT

One last word.

Since this sort of details mightparticularly at the present moment
and to use an expression now in fashiongive to the Bishop of D---a
certain "pantheistical" physiognomyand induce the belief
either to his credit or discreditthat he entertained one of
those personal philosophies which are peculiar to our century
which sometimes spring up in solitary spiritsand there take on a form
and grow until they usurp the place of religionwe insist upon it
that not one of those persons who knew Monseigneur Welcome would
have thought himself authorized 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 daringbut the bishop must be timid. He would
probably have felt a scruple at sounding too far in advance certain
problems which arein a mannerreserved for terrible great minds.
There is a sacred horror beneath the porches of the enigma;
those gloomy openings stand yawning therebut something
tells youyoua passer-by in lifethat you must not enter.
Woe to him who penetrates thither!


Geniuses in the impenetrable depths of abstraction and pure
speculationsituatedso to speakabove all dogmaspropose their
ideas to God. Their prayer audaciously offers discussion.
Their adoration interrogates. This is direct religionwhich is
full of anxiety and responsibility for him who attempts its steep cliffs.


Human meditation has no limits. At his own risk and perilit analyzes
and digs deep into its own bedazzlement. One might almost say
that by a sort of splendid reactionit with it dazzles nature;
the mysterious world which surrounds us renders back what it
has received; it is probable that the contemplators are contemplated.
However that may bethere are on earth men who--are they men?--
perceive distinctly at the verge of the horizons of revery the
heights of the absoluteand who have the terrible vision of the
infinite mountain. Monseigneur Welcome was one of these men;
Monseigneur Welcome was not a genius. He would have feared those
sublimities whence some very great men evenlike Swedenborg and Pascal
have slipped into insanity. Certainlythese powerful reveries
have their moral utilityand by these arduous paths one approaches
to ideal perfection. As for himhe 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 see to condense in flame the light of things; he had
nothing of the prophet and nothing of the magician about him.
This humble soul lovedand that was all.


That he carried prayer to the pitch of a superhuman aspiration
is probable: but one can no more pray 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; everywhere he
felt fevereverywhere he heard the sound of sufferingand
without seeking to solve the enigmahe strove to dress the wound.
The terrible spectacle of created things developed tenderness in him;
he was occupied only in finding for himselfand in inspiring others
with the best way to compassionate and relieve. That which exists
was for this good and rare priest a permanent subject of sadness
which sought consolation.


There are men who toil at extracting gold; he toiled at the extraction
of pity. Universal misery was his mine. The sadness which reigned
everywhere was but an excuse for unfailing kindness. Love each other;
he declared this to be completedesired nothing furtherand that was
the whole of his doctrine. One daythat 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 nonsense."--"Well replied Monseigneur Welcome,
without contesting the point, if it is nonsensethe soul should shut
itself up in itas the pearl in the oyster." Thus he shut himself up
he lived therehe was absolutely satisfied with itleaving on one side



the prodigious questions which attract and terrifythe fathomless
perspectives of abstractionthe precipices of metaphysics--all those
profundities which convergefor the apostle in Godfor the atheist
in nothingness; destinygood and evilthe way of being against being
the conscience of manthe thoughtful somnambulism of the animal
the transformation in deaththe recapitulation of existences
which the tomb containsthe incomprehensible grafting of successive
loves on the persistent _I_the essencethe substancethe Nile
and the Ensthe soulnaturelibertynecessity; perpendicular problems
sinister obscuritieswhere lean the gigantic archangels of the
human mind; formidable abysseswhich LucretiusManouSaint Paul
Dantecontemplate with eyes flashing lightningwhich seems
by 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 mysterious questions without scrutinizing themand without
troubling his own mind with themand who cherished in his own
soul a grave respect for darkness.

BOOK SECOND--THE FALL

CHAPTER I

THE EVENING OF A DAY OF WALKING

Early in the month of October1815about 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 a sort of uneasiness.
It was difficult to encounter a wayfarer of more wretched appearance.
He was a man of medium staturethickset and robustin 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 windand dripping with perspiration.
His shirt of coarse yellow linenfastened at the neck by a small
silver anchorpermitted a view of his hairy breast: he had a cravat
twisted into a string; trousers of blue drillingworn and threadbare
white on one knee and torn on the other; an old graytattered blouse
patched on one of the elbows with a bit of green cloth sewed on
with twine; a tightly packed soldier knapsackwell buckled and
perfectly newon his back; an enormousknotty stick in his hand;
iron-shod shoes on his stockingless feet; a shaved head and a long
beard.

The sweatthe heatthe journey on footthe dustadded I know
not what sordid quality to this dilapidated whole. His hair was
closely cutyet bristlingfor it had begun to grow a little
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 south; from the seashoreperhapsfor he made his
entrance into D---- by the same street whichseven 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 Gassendiand 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 onat the fountain in the market-place.


On arriving at the corner of the Rue Poicheverthe turned to the left
and directed his steps toward the town-hall. He enteredthen 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 frightened throng of the inhabitants of D---the
proclamation of the Gulf Juan. The man pulled off his cap
and humbly saluted the gendarme.

The gendarmewithout replying to his salutestared attentively
at himfollowed him for a while with his eyesand then entered
the town-hall.

There then existed at D---- a fine inn at the sign of the Cross
of Colbas. This inn had for a landlord a certain Jacquin Labarre
a man of consideration in the town on account of his relationship
to another Labarrewho kept the inn of the Three Dauphins in Grenoble
and had served in the Guides. At the time of the Emperor's landing
many rumors had circulated throughout the country with regard to this
inn of the Three Dauphins. It was said that General Bertrand
disguised as a carterhad made frequent trips thither in the month
of Januaryand that he had distributed crosses of honor to the
soldiers and handfuls of gold to the citizens. The truth is
that when the Emperor entered Grenoble he had refused to install
himself at the hotel of the prefecture; he had thanked the mayor
sayingI am going to the house of a brave man of my acquaintance;
and he had betaken himself to the Three Dauphins. This glory
of the Labarre of the Three Dauphins was reflected upon the Labarre
of the Cross of Colbasat a distance of five and twenty leagues.
It was said of him in the townThat is the cousin of the man
of Grenoble.

The man bent his steps towards this innwhich was the best in
the country-side. He entered the kitchenwhich opened on a level
with the street. All the stoves were lighted; a huge fire blazed
gayly in the fireplace. The hostwho was also the chief cook
was going from one stew-pan to anothervery busily superintending
an excellent dinner designed for the wagonerswhose loud talking
conversationand 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 marmotflanked by white
partridges and heather-cockswas turning on a long spit before
the fire; on the stovetwo huge carps from Lake Lauzet and a trout
from Lake Alloz were cooking.

The hosthearing the door open and seeing a newcomer enter
saidwithout 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 turned his head
took in the traveller's appearance with a single glanceand added
By paying for it.

The man drew a large leather purse from the pocket of his blouse
and answeredI have money.

In that case, we are at your service,said the host.

The man put his purse back in his pocketremoved his knapsack from
his backput it on the ground near the doorretained his stick
in his handand seated himself on a low stool close to the fire.


D---- is in the mountains. The evenings are cold there in October.

But as the host went back and forthhe scrutinized the traveller.

Will dinner be ready soon?said the man.

Immediately,replied the landlord.

While the newcomer was warming himself before the firewith his back
turnedthe worthy hostJacquin Labarredrew a pencil from his pocket
then tore off the corner of an old newspaper which was lying on a small
table near the window. On the white margin he wrote a line or two
folded it without sealingand then intrusted this scrap of paper
to a child who seemed to serve him in the capacity both of scullion
and lackey. The landlord whispered 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 inquiredWill dinner be ready soon?

Immediately,responded the host.

The child returned. He brought back the paper. The host unfolded
it eagerlylike a person who is expecting a reply. He seemed to
read it attentivelythen tossed his headand remained 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 rose.

What! Are you afraid that I will not pay you? Do you 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 hosthave no room.

The man resumed tranquillyPut me in the stable.

I cannot.

Why?

The horses take up all the space.

Very well!retorted the man; "a corner of the loft thena truss
of straw. We will see about that after dinner."

I cannot give you any dinner.

This declarationmade in a measured but firm tonestruck the
stranger as grave. He rose.

Ah! bah! But I am dying of hunger. I have been walking since sunrise.
I have travelled twelve leagues. I pay. I wish to eat.


I have nothing,said the landlord.


The man burst out laughingand turned towards the fireplace
and the stoves: "Nothing! 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 advance.


The man seated himself againand saidwithout raising his voice
I am at an inn; I am hungry, and I shall remain.


Then the host bent down to his earand said in a tone which made
him startGo away!


At that moment the traveller was bending forward and thrusting
some brands into the fire with the iron-shod tip of his staff;
he turned quickly roundand as he opened his mouth to reply
the host gazed steadily at him and addedstill in a low voice:
Stop! 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 was the reply that was sent to me.
Can you read?


So sayinghe held out to the strangerfully unfoldedthe paper
which had just travelled from the inn to the town-halland 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!


The man dropped his headpicked up the knapsack which he had
deposited on the groundand took his departure.


He chose the principal street. He walked straight on at a venture
keeping close to the houses like a sad and humiliated man.
He did not turn round a single time. Had he done sohe would have
seen the host of the Cross of Colbas standing on his threshold
surrounded by all the guests of his innand all the passers-by in
the streettalking vivaciouslyand pointing him out with his finger;
andfrom the glances of terror and distrust cast by the group
he might have divined that his arrival 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 follows them.


Thus he proceeded for some timewalking on without ceasing
traversing at random streets of which he knew nothingforgetful of
his fatigueas is often the case when a man is sad. All at once
he felt the pangs of hunger sharply. Night was drawing near.
He glanced about himto see whether he could not discover some shelter.



The fine hostelry was closed to him; he was seeking some very humble
public housesome hovelhowever lowly.


Just then a light flashed up at the end of the streets; a pine
branch suspended from a cross-beam of iron was outlined against
the white sky of the twilight. He proceeded thither.


It proved to bein facta public house. The public house
which is in the Rue de Chaffaut.


The wayfarer halted for a momentand peeped through the window into
the interior of the low-studded room of the public houseilluminated by
a small lamp on a table and by a large fire on the hearth. Some men
were engaged in drinking there. The landlord was warming himself.
An iron potsuspended from a cranebubbled over the flame.


The entrance to this public housewhich is also a sort of an inn
is by two doors. One opens on the streetthe other upon a small yard
filled with manure. The traveller dare not enter by the street door.
He slipped into the yardhalted againthen 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 sidethe firelight on the other.
They examined him for some time while he was taking off his knapsack.


The host said to himThere is the fire. The supper is cooking
in the pot. Come and warm yourself, comrade.


He approached and seated himself near the hearth. He stretched
out his feetwhich were exhausted with fatigueto the fire;
a fine odor was emitted by the pot. All that could be distinguished
of his facebeneath his capwhich was well pulled down
assumed a vague appearance of comfortmingled with that other
poignant aspect which habitual suffering bestows.


It wasmoreovera firmenergeticand melancholy profile.
This physiognomy was strangely composed; it began by seeming humble
and ended by seeming severe. The eye shone beneath its lashes
like a fire beneath brushwood.


One of the men seated at the tablehoweverwas a fishmonger who
before entering the public house of the Rue de Chaffaut
had been to stable his horse at Labarre's. It chanced that he
had that very morning encountered this unprepossessing stranger
on the road between Bras d'Asse and--I have forgotten the name.
I think it was Escoublon. Nowwhen he met himthe manwho then
seemed already extremely wearyhad requested him to take him
on his crupper; to which the fishmonger had made no reply except
by redoubling his gait. This fishmonger had been a member half
an hour previously of the group which surrounded Jacquin Labarre
and had himself related his disagreeable encounter of the morning
to the people at the Cross of Colbas. From where he sat he made
an imperceptible 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 fireplacelaid his hand abruptly
on the shoulder of the manand said to him:-


You are going to get out of here.

The stranger turned round and replied gentlyAh! 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 outsome children who had followed him from the Cross
of Colbasand who seemed to be lying in wait for himthrew stones
at him. He retraced his steps in angerand threatened them
with his stick: the children dispersed like a flock of birds.

He passed before the prison. At the door hung an iron chain
attached to a bell. He rang.

The wicket opened.

Turnkey,said heremoving his cap politelywill you have
the kindness to admit me, and give me a lodging for the night?

A voice replied:-


The prison is not an inn. Get yourself arrested, and you will
be admitted.

The wicket closed again.

He entered a little street in which there were many gardens.
Some of them are enclosed only by hedgeswhich lends a cheerful
aspect to the street. In the midst of these gardens and hedges
he caught sight of a small house of a single storythe window
of which was lighted up. He peered through the pane as he had
done at the public house. Within was a large whitewashed room
with a bed draped in printed cotton stuffand a cradle in one corner
a few wooden chairsand a double-barrelled gun hanging on the wall.
A table was spread in the centre of the room. A copper lamp
illuminated the tablecloth of coarse white linenthe pewter
jug shining like silverand filled with wineand the brown
smoking soup-tureen. At this table sat a man of about forty
with a merry and open countenancewho was dandling a little child
on his knees. Close by a very young woman was nursing another child.
The father was laughingthe child was laughingthe mother
was smiling.

The stranger paused a moment in revery before this tender
and calming spectacle. What was taking place within him?
He alone could have told. It is probable that he thought that
this joyous house would be hospitableand thatin a place
where he beheld so much happinesshe would find perhaps a little pity.

He tapped on the pane with a very small and feeble knock.


They did not hear him.

He tapped again.

He heard the woman sayIt seems to me, husband, that some one
is knocking.


No,replied the husband.


He tapped a third time.


The husband rosetook the lampand went to the doorwhich he opened.


He was a man of lofty staturehalf peasanthalf artisan.
He wore a huge leather apronwhich reached to his left shoulder
and which a hammera red handkerchiefa powder-hornand all
sorts of objects which were upheld by the girdleas in a pocket
caused to bulge out. He carried his head thrown backwards;
his shirtwidely opened and turned backdisplayed his bull neck
white and bare. He had thick eyelashesenormous black whiskers
prominent eyesthe lower part of his face like a snout;
and besides all thisthat air of being on his own ground
which is indescribable.


Pardon me, sir,said the wayfarerCould you, in consideration
of payment, give me a plate of soup and a corner of that shed
yonder in the garden, in which to sleep? Tell me; can you?
For money?


Who are you?demanded the master of the house.


The man replied: "I have just come from Puy-Moisson. I have
walked all day long. I have travelled twelve leagues. Can you?--
if I pay?"


I would not refuse,said the peasantto lodge any respectable
man who would pay me. But why do you not go to the inn?


There is no room.


Bah! Impossible. This is neither a fair nor a market day.
Have you been to Labarre?


Yes.


Well?


The traveller replied with embarrassment: "I do not know.
He did not receive me."


Have you been to What's-his-name's, in the Rue Chaffaut?


The stranger's embarrassment increased; he stammeredHe did
not receive me either.


The peasant's countenance assumed an expression of distrust;
he surveyed the newcomer from head to feetand suddenly exclaimed
with a sort of shudder:--


Are you the man?--


He cast a fresh glance upon the strangertook three steps backwards
placed the lamp on the tableand took his gun down from the wall.



Meanwhileat the wordsAre you the man? the woman had risen
had clasped her two children in her armsand had taken refuge
precipitately behind her husbandstaring in terror at the stranger
with her bosom uncoveredand with frightened eyesas she murmured
in a low toneTso-maraude.[1]

[1] Patois of the French Alps: chat de marauderascally marauder.
All this took place in less time than it requires to picture it
to one's self. After having scrutinized the man for several moments
as one scrutinizes a viperthe master of the house returned
to the door and said:--


Clear out!


For pity's sake, a glass of water,said the man.


A shot from my gun!said the peasant.


Then he closed the door violentlyand the man heard him shoot
two large bolts. A moment laterthe window-shutter was closed
and the sound of a bar of iron which was placed against it was
audible outside.


Night continued to fall. A cold wind from the Alps was blowing.
By the light of the expiring day the stranger perceived
in one of the gardens which bordered the streeta sort of hut
which seemed to him to be built of sods. He climbed over the wooden
fence resolutelyand found himself in the garden. He approached
the hut; its door consisted of a very low and narrow aperture
and it resembled those buildings which road-laborers construct for
themselves along the roads. He thought without doubtthat it was
in factthe dwelling of a road-laborer; he was suffering from cold
and hungerbut this wasat leasta shelter from the cold.
This sort of dwelling is not usually occupied at night. He threw
himself flat on his faceand crawled into the hut. It was warm there
and he found a tolerably good bed of straw. He layfor a moment
stretched out on this bedwithout the power to make a movement
so fatigued was he. Thenas the knapsack on his back was in
his wayand as it furnishedmoreovera pillow ready to his hand
he set about unbuckling one of the straps. At that moment
a ferocious growl became audible. He raised his eyes. The head
of an enormous dog was outlined in the darkness at the entrance of
the hut.


It was a dog's kennel.


He was himself vigorous and formidable; he armed himself with his staff
made a shield of his knapsackand made his way out of the kennel
in the best way he couldnot without enlarging the rents in his rags.


He left the garden in the same mannerbut backwardsbeing obliged
in order to keep the dog respectfulto have recourse to that
manoeuvre with his stick which masters in that sort of fencing
designate as la rose couverte.


When he hadnot without difficultyrepassed the fenceand found
himself once more in the streetalonewithout refugewithout shelter
without a roof over his headchased even from that bed of straw
and from that miserable kennelhe dropped rather than seated himself
on a stoneand it appears that a passer-by heard him exclaim
I am not even a dog!



He soon rose again and resumed his march. He went out of the town
hoping to find some tree or haystack in the fields which would afford
him shelter.


He walked thus for some timewith his head still drooping.
When he felt himself far from every human habitationhe raised
his eyes and gazed searchingly about him. He was in a field.
Before him was one of those low hills covered with close-cut stubble
whichafter the harvestresemble shaved heads.


The horizon was perfectly black. This was not alone the obscurity
of night; it was caused by very low-hanging clouds which seemed
to rest upon the hill itselfand which were mounting and filling
the whole sky. Meanwhileas the moon was about to riseand as
there was still floating in the zenith a remnant of the brightness
of twilightthese clouds formed at the summit of the sky a sort
of whitish archwhence a gleam of light fell upon the earth.


The earth was thus better lighted than the skywhich produces
a particularly sinister effectand the hillwhose contour was poor
and meanwas outlined vague and wan against the gloomy horizon.
The whole effect was hideouspettylugubriousand narrow.


There was nothing in the field or on the hill except a deformed tree
which writhed and shivered a few paces distant from the wayfarer.


This man was evidently very far from having those delicate habits
of intelligence and spirit which render one sensible to the mysterious
aspects of things; neverthelessthere was something in that sky
in that hillin that plainin that treewhich was so profoundly
desolatethat after a moment of immobility and revery he turned
back abruptly. There are instants when nature seems hostile.


He retraced his steps; the gates of D---- were closed. D----which had
sustained sieges during the wars of religionwas still surrounded
in 1815 by ancient walls flanked by square towers which have been
demolished since. He passed through a breach and entered the town again.


It might have been eight o'clock in the evening. As he was not
acquainted with the streetshe recommenced his walk at random.


In this way he came to the prefecturethen to the seminary.
As he passed through the Cathedral Squarehe shook his fist at
the church.


At the corner of this square there is a printing establishment.
It is there that the proclamations of the Emperor and of the Imperial
Guard to the armybrought from the Island of Elba and dictated
by Napoleon himselfwere printed for the first time.


Worn out with fatigueand no longer entertaining any hope
he lay down on a stone bench which stands at the doorway of this
printing office.


At that moment an old woman came out of the church. She saw the man
stretched out in the shadow. "What are you doing theremy friend?"
said she.


He answered harshly and angrily: "As you seemy good woman
I am sleeping." The good womanwho was well worthy the name
in factwas the Marquise de R----


On this bench?she went on.



I have had a mattress of wood for nineteen years,said the man;
to-day I have a mattress of stone.

You have been a soldier?

Yes, my good woman, a soldier.

Why do you not go to the inn?

Because I have no money.

Alas!said Madame de R----I have only four sous in my purse.

Give it to me all the same.

The man took the four sous. Madame de R---- continued: "You cannot
obtain lodgings in an inn for so small a sum. But have you tried?
It is impossible for you to pass the night thus. You are cold
and hungryno doubt. Some one might have given you a lodging out
of charity."

I have knocked at all doors.

Well?

I have been driven away everywhere.

The "good woman" touched the man's armand pointed out to him
on the other side of the street a smalllow housewhich stood
beside the Bishop's palace.

You have knocked at all doors?

Yes.

Have you knocked at that one?

No.

Knock there.

CHAPTER II

PRUDENCE COUNSELLED TO WISDOM.

That eveningthe Bishop of D----after his promenade through the town
remained shut up rather late in his room. He was busy over a great
work on Dutieswhich was never completedunfortunately. He was
carefully compiling everything that the Fathers and the doctors
have said on this important subject. His book was divided into
two parts: firstlythe duties of all; secondlythe duties
of each individualaccording to the class to which he belongs.
The duties of all are the great duties. There are four of these.
Saint Matthew points them out: duties towards God (Matt. vi.);
duties towards one's self (Matt. v. 2930); duties towards one's
neighbor (Matt. vii. 12); duties towards animals (Matt. vi.
2025). As for the other duties the Bishop found them pointed out
and prescribed elsewhere: to sovereigns and subjectsin the Epistle
to the Romans; to magistratesto wivesto mothersto young men
by Saint Peter; to husbandsfatherschildren and servants


in the Epistle to the Ephesians; to the faithfulin the Epistle
to the Hebrews; to virginsin the Epistle to the Corinthians.
Out of these precepts he was laboriously constructing a harmonious whole
which he desired to present to souls.


At eight o'clock he was still at workwriting with a good deal
of inconvenience upon little squares of paperwith a big book open
on his kneeswhen Madame Magloire enteredaccording to her wont
to get the silver-ware from the cupboard near his bed. A moment later
the Bishopknowing that the table was setand that his sister
was probably waiting for himshut his bookrose from his table
and entered the dining-room.


The dining-room was an oblong apartmentwith a fireplace
which had a door opening on the street (as we have said)
and a window opening on the garden.


Madame Magloire wasin factjust putting the last touches
to the table.


As she performed this serviceshe was conversing
with Mademoiselle Baptistine.


A lamp stood on the table; the table was near the fireplace.
A wood fire was burning there.


One can easily picture to one's self these two womenboth of whom
were over sixty years of age. Madame Magloire smallplumpvivacious;
Mademoiselle Baptistine gentleslenderfrailsomewhat taller
than her brotherdressed in a gown of puce-colored silkof the
fashion of 1806which she had purchased at that date in Paris
and which had lasted ever since. To borrow vulgar phrases
which possess the merit of giving utterance in a single word to an idea
which a whole page would hardly suffice to expressMadame Magloire
had the air of a peasantand Mademoiselle Baptistine that of a lady.
Madame Magloire wore a white quilted capa gold Jeannette cross
on a velvet ribbon upon her neckthe only bit of feminine jewelry
that there was in the housea very white fichu puffing out from a gown
of coarse black woollen stuffwith largeshort sleevesan apron
of cotton cloth in red and green checksknotted round the waist
with a green ribbonwith a stomacher of the same attached by two pins
at the upper cornerscoarse shoes on her feetand yellow stockings
like the women of Marseilles. Mademoiselle Baptistine's gown
was cut on the patterns of 1806with a short waista narrow
sheath-like skirtpuffed sleeveswith flaps and buttons.
She concealed her gray hair under a frizzed wig known as the baby wig.
Madame Magloire had an intelligentvivaciousand kindly air;
the two corners of her mouth unequally raisedand her upper lip
which was larger than the lowerimparted to her a rather crabbed
and imperious look. So long as Monseigneur held his peace
she talked to him resolutely with a mixture of respect and freedom;
but as soon as Monseigneur began to speakas we have seen
she obeyed passively like her mistress. Mademoiselle Baptistine did
not even speak. She confined herself to obeying and pleasing him.
She had never been prettyeven when she was young; she had large
blueprominent eyesand a long arched nose; but her whole visage
her whole personbreathed forth an ineffable goodnessas we stated
in the beginning. She had always been predestined to gentleness;
but faithcharityhopethose three virtues which mildly warm the soul
had gradually elevated that gentleness to sanctity. Nature had made
her a lambreligion had made her an angel. Poor sainted virgin!
Sweet memory which has vanished!


Mademoiselle Baptistine has so often narrated what passed at



the episcopal residence that eveningthat there are many people
now living who still recall the most minute details.

At the moment when the Bishop enteredMadame Magloire was talking
with considerable vivacity. She was haranguing Mademoiselle Baptistine
on a subject which was familiar to her and to which the Bishop was
also accustomed. The question concerned the lock upon the entrance door.

It appears that while procuring some provisions for supper
Madame Magloire had heard things in divers places. People had spoken
of a prowler of evil appearance; a suspicious vagabond had arrived
who must be somewhere about the townand those who should take it
into their heads to return home late that night might be subjected
to unpleasant encounters. The police was very badly organized
moreoverbecause there was no love lost between the Prefect and
the Mayorwho sought to injure each other by making things happen.
It behooved wise people to play the part of their own police
and to guard themselves welland care must be taken to duly close
bar and barricade their housesand to fasten the doors well.

Madame Magloire emphasized these last words; but the Bishop had just
come from his roomwhere it was rather cold. He seated himself
in front of the fireand warmed himselfand then fell to thinking
of other things. He did not take up the remark dropped with design
by Madame Magloire. She repeated it. Then Mademoiselle Baptistine
desirous of satisfying Madame Magloire without displeasing her brother
ventured to say timidly:-


Did you hear what Madame Magloire is saying, brother?

I have heard something of it in a vague way,replied the Bishop.
Then half-turning in his chairplacing his hands on his knees
and raising towards the old servant woman his cordial face
which so easily grew joyousand which was illuminated from below
by the firelight--"Comewhat is the matter? What is the matter?
Are we in any great danger?"

Then Madame Magloire began the whole story afreshexaggerating it
a little without being aware of the fact. It appeared that
a Bohemiana bare-footed vagabonda sort of dangerous mendicant
was at that moment in the town. He had presented himself at Jacquin
Labarre's to obtain lodgingsbut the latter had not been willing
to take him in. He had been seen to arrive by the way of the
boulevard Gassendi and roam about the streets in the gloaming.
A gallows-bird with a terrible face.

Really!said the Bishop.

This willingness to interrogate encouraged Madame Magloire;
it seemed to her to indicate that the Bishop was on the point
of becoming alarmed; she pursued triumphantly:-


Yes, Monseigneur. That is how it is. There will be some sort
of catastrophe in this town to-night. Every one says so. And withal,
the police is so badly regulated(a useful repetition). "The idea
of living in a mountainous countryand not even having lights
in the streets at night! One goes out. Black as ovensindeed!
And I sayMonseigneurand Mademoiselle there says with me--"

I,interrupted his sistersay nothing. What my brother does
is well done.

Madame Magloire continued as though there had been no protest:-



We say that this house is not safe at all; that if Monseigneur
will permit, I will go and tell Paulin Musebois, the locksmith,
to come and replace the ancient locks on the doors; we have them,
and it is only the work of a moment; for I say that nothing is more
terrible than a door which can be opened from the outside with a latch
by the first passer-by; and I say that we need bolts, Monseigneur,
if only for this night; moreover, Monseigneur has the habit of always
saying `come in'; and besides, even in the middle of the night,
O mon Dieu! there is no need to ask permission.

At that moment there came a tolerably violent knock on the door.

Come in,said the Bishop.

CHAPTER III

THE HEROISM OF PASSIVE OBEDIENCE.

The door opened.

It opened wide with a rapid movementas 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 enteredadvanced a stepand haltedleaving the door open
behind him. He had his knapsack on his shouldershis cudgel
in his handa roughaudaciouswearyand 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 trembledand stood with her mouth wide open.

Mademoiselle Baptistine turned roundbeheld the man entering
and half started up in terror; thenturning her head by degrees
towards the fireplace againshe began to observe her brother
and her face became once more profoundly calm and serene.

The Bishop fixed a tranquil eye on the man.

As he opened his mouthdoubtless to ask the new-comer what he desired
the man rested both hands on his staffdirected his gaze at the old
man and the two womenand without waiting for the Bishop to speak
he saidin 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 way to Pontarlier, which is my destination.
I have been walking for four days since I left 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 admit 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 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 have knocked.
What is this place? Do you 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 very hungry. Are you willing that I
should remain?


Madame Magloire,said the Bishopyou will set another place.


The man advanced three pacesand approached the lamp which was on
the table. "Stop he resumed, as though he had not quite understood;
that's not it. Did you hear? I am a galley-slave; a convict.
I come from the galleys." He drew from his pocket a large sheet
of yellow paperwhich 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. Holdthis is
what they put on this passport: `Jean Valjeandischarged convict
native of'--that is nothing to you--`has been nineteen years
in the galleys: five years for house-breaking and burglary;
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 Bishopyou 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 supping.


At this point the man suddenly comprehended. The expression
of his faceup to that time sombre and harshbore the imprint
of stupefactionof doubtof joyand became extraordinary.
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! You do not address me as thou?
`Get out of here, you dog!' is what people always say to me. I felt sure
that you would expel me, so I told you at once who I am. Oh, what a
good woman that was who directed me hither! I am going to sup!
A bed with a mattress and sheets, like the rest of the world! a bed!
It is nineteen years since I have slept in a bed! You actually do
not want me to go! You are good people. Besides, I have 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 Bishopa priest who lives here.


A priest!said the man. "Ohwhat a fine priest! Then you are
not going to demand any money of me? You are the cureare you
not? the cure of this big church? Well! I am a fooltruly!
I had not perceived your skull-cap."



As he spokehe deposited his knapsack and his cudgel in a corner
replaced his passport in his pocketand seated himself.
Mademoiselle Baptistine gazed mildly at him. He continued:


You are humane, Monsieur le Cure; you have not scorned me.
A good priest is a very good thing. Then you do not require me
to pay?


No,said the Bishop; "keep your money. How much 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 how 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 days I have spent only twenty-five souswhich I earned
by helping unload some wagons at Grasse. Since you are an abbe
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 cure who rules over
the other curesyou understand. Pardon meI say that very badly;
but it is such a far-off thing to me! You understand what we are!
He said mass in the middle of the galleyson an altar. He had a
pointed thingmade of goldon 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 offand we did not hear.
That is what a bishop is like."


While he was speakingthe Bishop had gone and shut the door
which had remained wide open.


Madame Magloire returned. She brought a silver fork and spoon
which she placed on the table.


Madame Magloire,said the Bishopplace those things as near
the fire as possible.And turning to his guest: "The night wind
is harsh on the Alps. You must be coldsir."


Each time that he uttered the word sirin his voice which was so gently
grave and polishedthe man's face lighted up. Monsieur to a convict
is like a glass of water to one of the shipwrecked of the Medusa.
Ignominy thirsts for consideration.


This lamp gives a very bad light,said the Bishop.


Madame Magloire understood himand went to get the two silver
candlesticks from the chimney-piece in Monseigneur's bed-chamber
and placed themlightedon the table.


Monsieur le Cure,said the manyou are good; you do not despise me.
You receive me into your house. You light your candles for me.
Yet I have not concealed from you whence I come and that I am an
unfortunate man.



The Bishopwho was sitting close to himgently 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 you in my house.
No one is at home here, except the man who needs a refuge.
I say to you, who are passing by, that you are much more at home
here than I am myself. Everything here is yours. 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 Bishopyou are called my brother.


Stop, Monsieur le Cure,exclaimed the man. "I was very hungry
when I entered here; but you are so goodthat I no longer know
what has happened to me."


The Bishop looked at himand said--


You have suffered much?


Oh, 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
forty-six. Now there is the yellow passport. That is what it is like.


Yes,resumed the Bishopyou 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 of a hundred just men.
If you emerge from that sad place with thoughts of hatred and of wrath
against mankind, you are deserving of pity; if you emerge with thoughts
of good-will and of peace, you are more worthy than any one of us.


In the meantimeMadame Magloire had served supper: soupmade with
wateroilbreadand salt; a little bacona bit of muttonfigsa
fresh cheeseand a large loaf of rye bread. She hadof her own accord
added to the Bishop's ordinary fare a bottle of his old Mauves wine.


The Bishop's face at once assumed that expression of gayety which is
peculiar to hospitable natures. "To table!" he cried vivaciously.
As was his custom when a stranger supped with himhe made the man
sit on his right. Mademoiselle Baptistineperfectly peaceable
and naturaltook her seat at his left.


The Bishop asked a blessing; then helped the soup himself
according to his custom. The man began to eat with avidity.


All at once the Bishop said: "It strikes me there is something
missing on this table."


Madame Magloire hadin factonly placed the three sets of forks
and spoons which were absolutely necessary. Nowit was the usage
of the housewhen the Bishop had any one to supperto lay out the
whole six sets of silver on the table-cloth--an innocent ostentation.
This graceful semblance of luxury was a kind of child's play
which was full of charm in that gentle and severe household
which raised poverty into dignity.



Madame Magloire understood the remarkwent out without saying a word
and a moment later the three sets of silver forks and spoons demanded
by the Bishop were glittering upon the clothsymmetrically arranged
before the three persons seated at the table.


CHAPTER IV


DETAILS CONCERNING THE CHEESE-DAIRIES OF PONTARLIER.


Nowin order to convey an idea of what passed at that table
we cannot do better than to transcribe here a passage from one
of Mademoiselle Baptistine's letters to Madame Boischevron
wherein the conversation between the convict and the Bishop
is described with ingenious minuteness.


. . . This man paid no attention to any one. He ate with the
voracity of a starving man. However, after supper he said:


`Monsieur le Cure of the good Godall this is far too good for me;
but I must say that the carters who would not allow me to eat with
them keep a better table than you do.'


Between ourselves, the remark rather shocked me. My brother replied:--


`They are more fatigued than I.'


`No,' returned the man, `they have more money. You are poor;
I see that plainly. You cannot be even a curate. Are you really
a cure? Ah, if the good God were but just, you certainly ought
to be a cure!'


`The good God is more than just' said my brother.


A moment later he added:--


`Monsieur Jean Valjeanis it to Pontarlier that you are going?'


`With my road marked out for me.'


I think that is what the man said. Then he went on:--


`I must be on my way by daybreak to-morrow. Travelling is hard.
If the nights are cold, the days are hot.'


`You are going to a good country' said my brother. `During the
Revolution my family was ruined. I took refuge in Franche-Comte
at firstand there I lived for some time by the toil of my hands.
My will was good. I found plenty to occupy me. One has only to choose.
There are paper millstanneriesdistilleriesoil factories
watch factories on a large scalesteel millscopper works
twenty iron foundries at leastfour of whichsituated at Lods
at Chatillonat Audincourtand at Beureare tolerably large.'


I think I am not mistaken in saying that those are the names which
my brother mentioned. Then he interrupted himself and addressed me:--


`Have we not some relatives in those partsmy dear sister?'


I replied,--



`We did have some; among othersM. de Lucenetwho was captain
of the gates at Pontarlier under the old regime.'


`Yes,' resumed my brother; `but in '93, one had no longer
any relatives, one had only one's arms. I worked. They have,
in the country of Pontarlier, whither you are going, Monsieur Valjean,
a truly patriarchal and truly charming industry, my sister.
It is their cheese-dairies, which they call fruitieres.'


Then my brotherwhile urging the man to eatexplained to him
with great minutenesswhat these fruitieres of Pontarlier were;
that they were divided into two classes: the big barns which belong
to the richand where there are forty or fifty cows which produce
from seven to eight thousand cheeses each summerand the associated
fruitiereswhich belong to the poor; these are the peasants of
mid-mountainwho hold their cows in commonand share the proceeds.
`They engage the services of a cheese-makerwhom they call the grurin;
the grurin receives the milk of the associates three times a day
and marks the quantity on a double tally. It is towards the end
of April that the work of the cheese-dairies begins; it is towards
the middle of June that the cheese-makers drive their cows to
the mountains.'


The man recovered his animation as he ate. My brother made him
drink that good Mauves wine, which he does not drink himself,
because he says that wine is expensive. My brother imparted all these
details with that easy gayety of his with which you are acquainted,
interspersing his words with graceful attentions to me. He recurred
frequently to that comfortable trade of grurin, as though he wished
the man to understand, without advising him directly and harshly,
that this would afford him a refuge. One thing struck me.
This man was what I have told you. Well, neither during supper,
nor during the entire evening, did my brother utter a single word,
with the exception of a few words about Jesus when he entered,
which could remind the man of what he was, nor of what my brother was.
To all appearances, it was an occasion for preaching him a little sermon,
and of impressing the Bishop on the convict, so that a mark of the
passage might remain behind. This might have appeared to any one else
who had this, unfortunate man in his hands to afford a chance to nourish
his soul as well as his body, and to bestow upon him some reproach,
seasoned with moralizing and advice, or a little commiseration,
with an exhortation to conduct himself better in the future.
My brother did not even ask him from what country he came,
nor what was his history. For in his history there is a fault,
and my brother seemed to avoid everything which could remind him
of it. To such a point did he carry it, that at one time, when my
brother was speaking of the mountaineers of Pontarlier, who exercise
a gentle labor near heaven, and who, he added, are happy because
they are innocent, he stopped short, fearing lest in this remark
there might have escaped him something which might wound the man.
By dint of reflection, I think I have comprehended what was passing
in my brother's heart. He was thinking, no doubt, that this man,
whose name is Jean Valjean, had his misfortune only too vividly
present in his mind; that the best thing was to divert him from it,
and to make him believe, if only momentarily, that he was a person
like any other, by treating him just in his ordinary way. Is not
this indeed, to understand charity well? Is there not, dear Madame,
something truly evangelical in this delicacy which abstains from sermon,
from moralizing, from allusions? and is not the truest pity,
when a man has a sore point, not to touch it at all? It has seemed
to me that this might have been my brother's private thought.
In any case, what I can say is that, if he entertained all these ideas,
he gave no sign of them; from beginning to end, even to me he
was the same as he is every evening, and he supped with this Jean



Valjean with the same air and in the same manner in which he would
have supped with M. Gedeon le Provost, or with the curate of
the parish.


Towards the endwhen he had reached the figsthere came a knock
at the door. It was Mother Gerbaudwith her little one in her arms.
My brother kissed the child on the browand borrowed fifteen sous
which I had about me to give to Mother Gerbaud. The man was not paying
much heed to anything then. He was no longer talkingand he seemed
very much fatigued. After poor old Gerbaud had taken her departure
my brother said grace; then he turned to the man and said to him
`You must be in great need of your bed.' Madame Magloire cleared
the table very promptly. I understood that we must retire
in order to allow this traveller to go to sleepand we both went
up stairs. NeverthelessI sent Madame Magloire down a moment later
to carry to the man's bed a goat skin from the Black Forest
which was in my room. The nights are frigidand that keeps one warm.
It is a pity that this skin is old; all the hair is falling out.
My brother bought it while he was in Germanyat Tottlingennear the
sources of the Danubeas well as the little ivory-handled knife
which I use at table.


Madame Magloire returned immediately. We said our prayers in the
drawing-room, where we hang up the linen, and then we each retired
to our own chambers, without saying a word to each other.


CHAPTER V


TRANQUILLITY


After bidding his sister good nightMonseigneur Bienvenu took
one of the two silver candlesticks from the tablehanded the
other to his guestand said to him--


Monsieur, I will conduct you to your room.


The man followed him.


As might have been observed from what has been said above
the house was so arranged that in order to pass into the oratory
where the alcove was situatedor to get out of itit was necessary
to traverse the Bishop's bedroom.


At the moment when he was crossing this apartmentMadame Magloire was
putting away the silverware in the cupboard 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 Bishopmay 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 l'Abbe,said the man.


Hardly had he pronounced these words full of peacewhen all
of a suddenand without transitionhe made a strange movement
which would have frozen the two sainted women with horror
had they witnessed it. Even at this day it is difficult 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 manfolded his armsand bending
upon his host a savage gazehe exclaimed in a hoarse voice:-


Ah! really! You lodge me in your house, close to yourself like this?

He broke offand added with a laugh in which there lurked
something monstrous:-


Have you really reflected well? How do you know that I have not
been an assassin?

The Bishop replied:-


That is the concern of the good God.

Then gravelyand moving his lips like one who is praying or talking
to himselfhe raised two fingers of his right hand and bestowed
his benediction on the manwho did not bowand without turning
his head or looking behind himhe returned to his bedroom.

When the alcove was in usea 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 gardenwalkingmeditatingconteplatinghis 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 manhe was actually so fatigued that he did not even profit
by the nice white sheets. Snuffing out his candle with his nostrils
after the manner of convictshe droppedall dressed as he was
upon the bedwhere 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.

CHAPTER VI

JEAN VALJEAN

Towards the middle of the night Jean Valjean woke.

Jean Valjean came from a poor peasant family of Brie. He had not learned
to read in his childhood. When he reached man's estatebe became
a tree-pruner at Faverolles. His mother was named Jeanne Mathieu;
his father was called Jean Valjean or Vlajeanprobably a sobriquet
and a contraction of viola Jeanhere's Jean.

Jean Valjean was of that thoughtful but not gloomy disposition
which constitutes the peculiarity of affectionate natures.
On the wholehoweverthere was something decidedly sluggish
and insignificant about Jean Valjean in appearanceat least.
He had lost his father and mother at a very early age. His mother
had died of a milk feverwhich had not been properly attended to.
His fathera tree-prunerlike himselfhad been killed by a fall
from a tree. All that remained to Jean Valjean was a sister older
than himself--a widow with seven childrenboys and girls.
This sister had brought up Jean Valjeanand 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
years old. The youngestone.


Jean Valjean had just attained his twenty-fifth year. He took
the father's placeandin his turnsupported 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 his 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 wearyand ate his broth without uttering a word.
His sistermother Jeanneoften took the best part of his repast
from his bowl while he was eating--a bit of meata slice of bacon
the heart of the cabbage--to give to one of her children.
As he went on eatingwith his head bent over the table and almost
into his souphis long hair falling about his bowl and concealing
his eyeshe had the air of perceiving nothing and allowing it.
There was at Faverollesnot far from the Valjean thatched cottage
on the other side of the lanea farmer's wife named Marie-Claude;
the Valjean childrenhabitually famishedsometimes went to borrow
from Marie-Claude a pint of milkin their mother's namewhich they
drank behind a hedge or in some alley cornersnatching 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 maraudingshe would have punished the delinquents severely.
Jean Valjean gruffly and grumblingly paid Marie-Claude for the
pint of milk behind their mother's backand the children were
not punished.


In pruning season he earned eighteen sous a day; then he hired out
as a hay-makeras laboreras neat-herd on a farmas a drudge.
He did whatever he could. His sister worked also but what could she
do with seven little children? It was 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 eveningMaubert Isabeauthe baker on the Church
Square at Faverolleswas preparing to go to bedwhen 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. The 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 loafbut 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 and entering an inhabited
house at night. He had a gun which he used better than any one
else in the worldhe was a bit of a poacherand this injured
his case. There exists a legitimate prejudice against poachers.
The poacherlike the smugglersmacks too strongly of the brigand.
Neverthelesswe will remark cursorilythere is still an abyss
between these races of men and the hideous assassin of the towns.
The poacher lives in the forestthe smuggler lives in the mountains
or on the sea. The cities make ferocious men because they make
corrupt men. The mountainthe seathe forestmake savage men;
they develop the fierce sidebut often without destroying the
humane side.


Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty. The terms of the Code
were explicit. There occur formidable hours in our civilization;
there are moments when the penal laws decree a shipwreck.



What an ominous minute is that in which society draws back and
consummates the irreparable abandonment of a sentient being!
Jean Valjean was condemned to five years in the galleys.


On the 22d of April1796the victory of Montenottewon by the
general-in-chief of the army of Italywhom the message of the
Directory to the Five Hundredof the 2d of Florealyear IV.calls
Buona-Partewas 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 prisonwho is now nearly
eighty years oldstill recalls perfectly that unfortunate wretch
who was chained to the end of the fourth linein the north angle
of the courtyard. He was seated on the ground like the others.
He did not seem to comprehend his positionexcept that it was horrible.
It is probable that healsowas disentangling from amid the vague
ideas of a poor manignorant of everythingsomething excessive.
While the bolt of his iron collar was being riveted behind his head
with heavy blows from the hammerhe wepthis tears stifled him
they impeded his speech; he only managed to say from time to time
I was a tree-pruner at Faverolles.Then still sobbinghe raised
his right hand and lowered it gradually seven timesas 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
whatever it washe had done for the sake of clothing and nourishing
seven little children.


He set out for Toulon. He arrived thereafter a journey of
twenty-seven dayson a cartwith a chain on his neck. At Toulon
he was clothed in the red cassock. All that had constituted
his lifeeven to his namewas effaced; he was no longer even
Jean Valjean; he was number 24601. 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 always the same story. These poor living beings
these creatures of Godhenceforth without supportwithout guide
without refugewandered away at random--who even knows?--
each in his own direction perhapsand little by little buried
themselves in that cold mist which engulfs solitary destinies;
gloomy shadesinto 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 village forgot them; the boundary
line of what had been their field forgot them; after a few years'
residence in the galleysJean Valjean himself forgot them.
In that heartwhere there had been a woundthere was a scar.
That is all. Only onceduring all the time which he spent at Toulon
did he hear his sister mentioned. This happenedI 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
them in their own country had seen his sister. She was in Paris.
She lived in a poor street Rear Saint-Sulpicein the Rue du Gindre.
She had with her only one childa little boythe youngest.
Where were the other six? Perhaps she did not know herself.
Every morning she went to a printing officeNo. 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 boywho was seven years old.
But as she entered the printing office at sixand the school only
opened at seventhe child had to wait in the courtyardfor the school
to openfor 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 waythey said. When the workmen passed in



the morningthey beheld this poor little being seated on the pavement
overcome with drowsinessand often fast asleep in the shadow
crouched down and doubled up over his basket. When it rained
an old womanthe portresstook pity on him; she took him into her den
where there was a palleta spinning-wheeland two wooden chairs
and the little one slumbered in a cornerpressing himself close
to the cat that he might suffer less from cold. At seven o'clock
the school openedand he entered. That is what was told to Jean
Valjean.


They talked to him about it for one day; it was a momenta flash
as though a window had suddenly been opened upon the destiny of
those things whom he had loved; then all closed again. He heard
nothing more forever. Nothing from 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 Valjean's turn to escape
arrived. His comrades assisted himas is the custom in that sad place.
He escaped. He wandered for two days in the fields at liberty
if being at liberty is to be huntedto turn the head every instant
to quake at the slightest noiseto be afraid of everything--of a
smoking roofof a passing manof a barking dogof a galloping horse
of a striking clockof the day because one can seeof the night
because one cannot seeof the highwayof the pathof a bush
of sleep. On the evening of the second day he was captured.
He had neither eaten nor slept for thirty-six hours. The maritime
tribunal condemned himfor this crimeto a prolongation of his
term for three yearswhich made eight years. In the sixth year
his turn to escape occurred again; he availed himself of it
but could not accomplish his flight fully. He was missing at
roll-call. The cannon were firedand 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. Escape and rebellion.
This caseprovided for by a special codewas punished by an addition
of five yearstwo of them in the double chain. Thirteen years.
In the tenth year his turn came round again; he again profited by it;
he succeeded no better. Three years for this fresh attempt.
Sixteen years. FinallyI think it was during his thirteenth year
he made a last attemptand only succeeded in getting retaken at
the end of four hours of absence. Three years for those four hours.
Nineteen years. In October1815he was released; he had entered
there in 1796for having broken a pane of glass and taken a loaf
of bread.


Room for a brief parenthesis. This is the second time
during his studies on the penal question and damnation by law
that the author of this book has come across the theft of a loaf
of bread as the point of departure for the disaster of a destiny.
Claude Gaux had stolen a loaf; Jean Valjean had stolen a loaf.
English statistics prove the fact that four thefts out of five in
London 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 had taken place in that soul?


CHAPTER VII


THE INTERIOR OF DESPAIR



Let us try to say it.

It is necessary that society should look at these thingsbecause it
is itself which creates them.

He wasas we have saidan ignorant manbut he was not a fool.
The light of nature was ignited in him. Unhappinesswhich also
possesses a clearness of vision of its ownaugmented the small
amount of daylight which existed in this mind. Beneath the cudgel
beneath the chainin the cellin hardshipbeneath the burning sun
of the galleysupon the plank bed of the convicthe withdrew into
his own consciousness and meditated.

He constituted himself the tribunal.

He began by putting himself on trial.

He recognized the fact that he was not an innocent man unjustly punished.
He admitted that he had committed an extreme and blameworthy act;
that that loaf of bread would probably not have been refused to him
had he asked for it; thatin any caseit would have been better
to wait until he could get it through compassion or through work;
that it is not an unanswerable argument to sayCan one wait when one
is hungry?Thatin the first placeit is very rare for any one to die
of hungerliterally; and nextthatfortunately or unfortunately
man is so constituted that he can suffer long and muchboth morally
and physicallywithout dying; that it is therefore necessary to
have patience; that that would even have been better for those poor
little children; that it had been an act of madness for hima miserable
unfortunate wretchto take society at large violently by the collar
and to imagine that one can escape from misery through theft;
that that is in any case a poor door through which to escape from
misery through which infamy enters; in shortthat he was in the wrong.

Then he asked himself--

Whether he had been the only one in fault in his fatal history.
Whether it was not a serious thingthat hea laborerout of work
that hean industrious manshould have lacked bread. And whether
the fault once committed and confessedthe chastisement had not been
ferocious and disproportioned. Whether there had not been more abuse
on the part of the lawin respect to the penaltythan there had been
on the 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 penalty was not equivalent to the annihilation of the crime
and did not result in reversing the situationof replacing the fault
of the delinquent by the fault of the repressionof converting
the guilty man into the victimand the debtor into the creditor
and of ranging the law definitely on the side of the man who had
violated it.

Whether this penaltycomplicated by successive aggravations for
attempts at escapehad not ended in becoming a sort of outrage
perpetrated by the stronger upon the feeblera crime of society
against the individuala crime which was being committed afresh
every daya 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 foresightand in the other case for its pitiless foresight;
and to seize a poor man forever between a defect and an excess
a default of work and an excess of punishment.


Whether it was not outrageous for society to treat thus precisely
those of its members who were the least well endowed in the division
of goods made by chanceand consequently the most deserving
of consideration.


These questions put and answeredhe judged society and condemned it.


He condemned it to his hatred.


He made it responsible for the fate which he was sufferingand 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 notin truthunjustbut that it most assuredly was iniquitous.


Anger may be both foolish and absurd; one can be irritated wrongfully;
one is exasperated only when there is some show of right on one's
side at bottom. Jean Valjean felt himself exasperated.


And besideshuman 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. Every contact with them had been a blow.
Neversince his infancysince the days of his motherof his sister
had he ever encountered a friendly word and a kindly glance.
From suffering to sufferinghe 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 convictskept by the
Ignorantin friarswhere 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 age of forty
and learned to readto writeto cipher. He felt that to fortify
his intelligence was to fortify his hate. In certain cases
education and enlightenment can serve to eke out evil.


This is a sad thing to say; after having judged societywhich had
caused his unhappinesshe judged Providencewhich had made society
and he condemned it also.


Thus during nineteen years of torture and slaverythis soul
mounted and at the same time fell. Light entered it on one side
and darkness on the other.


Jean Valjean had notas we have seenan evil nature. He was still
good when he arrived at the galleys. He there condemned society
and felt that he was becoming wicked; he there condemned Providence
and was conscious that he was becoming impious.


It is difficult not to indulge in meditation at this point.


Does human nature thus change utterly and from top to bottom?
Can the man created good by God be rendered wicked by man?
Can the soul be completely made over by fateand become evil
fate being evil? Can the heart become misshapen and contract
incurable deformities and infirmities under the oppression of a
disproportionate unhappinessas the vertebral column beneath
too low a vault? Is there not in every human soulwas there
not in the soul of Jean Valjean in particulara first spark
a divine elementincorruptible in this worldimmortal in the other



which good can developfanigniteand make to glow with splendor
and which evil can never wholly extinguish?


Grave and obscure questionsto the last of which every physiologist
would probably have responded noand that without hesitation
had he beheld at Toulonduring the hours of reposewhich were
for Jean Valjean hours of reverythis gloomy galley-slaveseated
with folded arms upon the bar of some capstanwith the end of his
chain thrust into his pocket to prevent its draggingserioussilent
and thoughtfula pariah of the laws which regarded the man with wrath
condemned by civilizationand regarding heaven with severity.


Certainly--and we make no attempt to dissimulate the fact--
the observing physiologist would have beheld an irremediable misery;
he wouldperchancehave pitied this sick manof the law's making;
but he would not have even essayed any treatment; he would have
turned aside his gaze from the caverns of which he would have caught
a glimpse within this soulandlike Dante at the portals of hell
he would have effaced from this existence the word which the finger
of God hasneverthelessinscribed upon the brow of every man--hope.


Was this state of his soulwhich we have attempted to analyze
as perfectly clear to Jean Valjean as we have tried to render it
for those who read us? Did Jean Valjean distinctly perceive
after their formationand had he seen distinctly during the process
of their formationall 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 he had
by degreesmounted and descended to the lugubrious aspects which had
for so many yearsformed the inner horizon of his spirit?
Was he conscious of all that passed within himand of all that was
working there? That is something which we do not presume to state;
it is something which we do not even believe. There was too much
ignorance in Jean Valjeaneven after his misfortuneto 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. Onlyat intervals
there suddenly came to himfrom without and from withinan access
of wratha surcharge of sufferinga livid and rapid flash which
illuminated his whole souland caused to appear abruptly all
around himin frontbehindamid the gleams of a frightful light
the hideous precipices and the sombre perspective of his destiny.


The flash passedthe night closed in again; and where was he?
He no longer knew. The peculiarity of pains of this nature
in which that which is pitiless--that is to saythat which
is brutalizing--predominatesis to transform a manlittle by
littleby a sort of stupid transfigurationinto 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 wereas often as the opportunity
had presented itselfwithout reflecting for an instant on the result
nor on the experiences which he had already gone through.
He escaped impetuouslylike the wolf who finds his cage open.
Instinct said to himFlee!Reason would have saidRemain!
But in the presence of so violent a temptationreason vanished;
nothing remained but instinct. The beast alone acted. When he
was recapturedthe fresh severities inflicted on him only served
to render him still more wild.



One detailwhich we must not omitis that he possessed a physical
strength which was not approached by a single one of the denizens of
the galleys. At workat paying out a cable or winding up a capstan
Jean Valjean was worth four men. He sometimes lifted and sustained
enormous weights on his back; and when the occasion demanded it
he replaced that implement which is called a jack-screwand was
formerly called orgueil [pride]whencewe may remark in passing
is derived the name of the Rue Montorgueilnear 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 Toulon
one of those admirable caryatids of Pugetwhich support the balcony
became loosenedand was on the point of falling. Jean Valjean
who was presentsupported the caryatid with his shoulderand gave
the workmen time to arrive.

His suppleness even exceeded his strength. Certain convicts
who were forever dreaming of escapeended by making a veritable
science of force and skill combined. It is the science of muscles.
An entire system of mysterious statics is daily practised
by prisonersmen who are forever envious of the flies and birds.
To climb a vertical surfaceand to find points of support
where hardly a projection was visiblewas play to Jean Valjean.
An angle of the wall being givenwith the tension of his back
and legswith his elbows and his heels fitted into the unevenness
of the stonehe 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 himonce or twice a yearthat lugubrious
laugh of the convictwhich is like the echo of the laugh of a demon.
To all appearancehe seemed to be occupied in the constant
contemplation of something terrible.

He was absorbedin fact.

Athwart the unhealthy perceptions of an incomplete nature and
a crushed intelligencehe was confusedly conscious that some
monstrous thing was resting on him. In that obscure and wan
shadow within which he crawledeach time that he turned his
neck and essayed to raise his glancehe perceived with terror
mingled with ragea sort of frightful accumulation of things
collecting and mounting above himbeyond the range of his vision-laws
prejudicesmenand deeds--whose outlines escaped him
whose mass terrified himand which was nothing else than that
prodigious pyramid which we call civilization. He distinguished
here and there in that swarming and formless massnow near him
now afar off and on inaccessible table-landssome groupsome detail
vividly illuminated; here the galley-sergeant and his cudgel;
there the gendarme and his sword; yonder the mitred archbishop;
away at the toplike a sort of sunthe Emperorcrowned and dazzling.
It seemed to him that these distant splendorsfar from dissipating
his nightrendered it more funereal and more black. All this-laws
prejudicesdeedsmenthings--went and came above him
over his headin accordance with the complicated and mysterious movement
which God imparts to civilizationwalking over him and crushing him
with I know not what peacefulness in its cruelty and inexorability
in its indifference. Souls which have fallen to the bottom of all
possible misfortuneunhappy men lost in the lowest of those limbos at
which no one any longer looksthe reproved of the lawfeel the whole
weight of this human societyso formidable for him who is without
so frightful for him who is beneathresting upon 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 woulddoubtlessthink that same thing which Jean Valjean thought.


All these thingsrealities full of spectresphantasmagories full
of realitieshad eventually created for him a sort of interior
state which is almost indescribable.


At timesamid his convict toilhe paused. He fell to thinking.
His reasonat one and the same time riper and more troubled
than of yorerose in revolt. Everything which had happened
to him seemed to him absurd; everything that surrounded him
seemed to him impossible. He said to himselfIt is a dream.
He gazed at the galley-sergeant 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 daysnor radiant skynor fresh April dawns.
I know not what vent-hole daylight habitually illumined his soul.


To sum upin conclusionthat 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 thatin the course
of nineteen yearsJean Valjeanthe inoffensive tree-pruner
of Faverollesthe formidable convict of Toulonhad become capable
thanks to the manner in which the galleys had moulded himof two
sorts of evil action: firstlyof evil action which was rapid
unpremeditateddashingentirely instinctivein the nature of
reprisals for the evil which he had undergone; secondlyof evil action
which was seriousgraveconsciously argued out and premeditated
with the false ideas which such a misfortune can furnish. His deliberate
deeds passed through three successive phaseswhich natures of a
certain stamp can alone traverse--reasoningwillperseverance.
He had for moving causes his habitual wrathbitterness of soul
a profound sense of indignities sufferedthe reaction even against
the goodthe innocentand the justif there are any such.
The point of departurelike the point of arrivalfor all his thoughts
was hatred of human law; that hatred whichif it be not arrested
in its development by some providential incidentbecomeswithin a
given timethe hatred of societythen the hatred of the human race
then the hatred of creationand which manifests itself by a vague
incessantand brutal desire to do harm to some living being
no matter whom. It will be perceived that it was not without
reason that Jean Valjean's passport described him as a very dangerous man.


From year to year this soul had dried away slowlybut with fatal
sureness. When the heart is drythe eye is dry. On his departure
from the galleys it had been nineteen years since he had shed a tear.


CHAPTER VIII


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 disappearsthen reappears; he plungeshe rises again to
the surface; he callshe stretches out his arms; he is not heard.
The vesseltrembling under the hurricaneis 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 desperate cries from out of the depths. What a spectre
is that retreating sail! He gazes and gazes at it frantically.
It retreatsit grows dimit diminishes in size. He was there
but just nowhe was one of the crewhe went and came along
the deck with the resthe had his part of breath and of sunlight
he was a living man. Nowwhat 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 billowstorn and lashed by the wind
encompass him hideously; the tossings of the abyss bear him away;
all the tongues of water dash over his head; a populace of waves
spits upon him; confused openings half devour him; every time
that he sinkshe catches glimpses of precipices filled with night;
frightful and unknown vegetations seize himknot 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 enormity plays with his agony. It seems as though all
that water were hate.


Neverthelesshe struggles.


He tries to defend himself; he tries to sustain himself; he makes
an effort; he swims. Hehis petty strength all exhausted instantly
combats the inexhaustible.


Wherethenis the ship? Yonder. Barely visible in the pale
shadows of the horizon.


The wind blows in gusts; all the foam overwhelms him.
He raises his eyes and beholds only the lividness of the clouds.
He witnessesamid his death-pangsthe immense madness of the sea.
He is tortured by this madness; he hears noises strange to man
which seem to come from beyond the limits of the earthand from one
knows not what frightful region beyond.


There are birds in the cloudsjust as there are angels above
human distresses; but what can they do for him? They sing and fly
and floatand hehe rattles in the death agony.


He feels himself buried in those two infinitiesthe ocean and the sky
at one and the same time: the one is a tomb; the other is a shroud.


Night descends; he has been swimming for hours; his strength
is exhausted; that shipthat distant thing in which there were men
has vanished; he is alone in the formidable twilight gulf;
he sinkshe stiffens himselfhe twists himself; he feels 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 expansethe wavesthe seaweedthe reef;
they are deaf. He beseeches the tempest; the imperturbable tempest



obeys only the infinite.

Around him darknessfogsolitudethe stormy and nonsentient 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. His hands contract convulsively;
they closeand grasp nothingness. Windscloudswhirlwindsgusts
useless stars! What is to be done? The desperate man gives up;
he is wearyhe chooses the alternative of death; he resists not;
he lets himself go; he abandons his grip; and then he tosses forevermore
in the lugubrious dreary depths of engulfment.

Ohimplacable march of human societies! Ohlosses of men and of
souls on the way! Ocean into which falls all that the law lets slip!
Disastrous absence of help! Ohmoral death!

The sea is the inexorable social night into which the penal laws
fling their condemned. The sea is the immensity of wretchedness.

The soulgoing down stream in this gulfmay become a corpse.
Who shall resuscitate it?

CHAPTER IX

NEW TROUBLES

When the hour came for him to take his departure from the galleys
when Jean Valjean heard in his ear the strange wordsThou art free!
the moment seemed improbable and unprecedented; a ray of vivid light
a ray of the true light of the livingsuddenly penetrated within him.
But 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 perceived 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 earningsduring his sojourn in the galleysought to amount
to a hundred and seventy-one francs. It is but just to add that he had
forgotten to include in his calculations the forced repose of Sundays
and festival days during nineteen yearswhich entailed a diminution
of about eighty francs. At all eventshis hoard had been reduced
by various local levies to the sum of one hundred and nine francs
fifteen souswhich had been counted out to him on his departure.
He had understood nothing of thisand had thought himself wronged.
Let us say the word--robbed.

On the day following his liberationhe sawat Grassein front
of an orange-flower distillerysome men engaged in unloading bales.
He offered his services. Business was pressing; they were accepted.
He set to work. He was intelligentrobustadroit; he did his best;
the master seemed pleased. While he was at worka gendarme passed
observed himand demanded his papers. It was necessary to show him
the yellow passport. That doneJean Valjean resumed his labor.
A little 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 thirty sous. When evening arrivedas he was
forced to set out again on the following dayhe presented himself
to the owner of the distillery and requested to be paid. The owner
did not utter a wordbut handed him fifteen sous. He objected.
He was toldThat is enough for thee.He persisted. The master


looked him straight between the eyesand said to him "Beware of
the prison."

Thereagainhe considered that he had been robbed.

Societythe Stateby diminishing his hoardhad robbed him wholesale.
Now it was the individual who was robbing him at retail.

Liberation is not deliverance. One gets free from the galleys
but not from the sentence.

That is what happened to him at Grasse. We have seen in what manner
he was received at D---


CHAPTER X

THE MAN AROUSED

As the Cathedral clock struck two in the morningJean Valjean awoke.

What woke him was that his bed was too good. It was nearly twenty
years since he had slept in a bedandalthough 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 repose.

He opened his eyes and stared into the gloom which surrounded him;
then he closed them againwith the intention of going to sleep
once more.

When many varied sensations have agitated the daywhen various matters
preoccupy the mindone falls asleep oncebut not a second time.
Sleep comes more easily than it returns. This is what happened
to Jean Valjean. He could not get to sleep againand 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-mell and mingled confusedlylosing their proper forms
becoming disproportionately largethen suddenly disappearing
as in a muddy and perturbed pool. Many thoughts occurred to him;
but there was one which kept constantly presenting itself afresh
and which drove away all others. We will mention this thought 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 wasthe 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 rightas 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 nineteen 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 againdrew himself up abruptly into a sitting posture


stretched out his arm and felt of his knapsackwhich he had thrown
down on a corner of the alcove; then he hung his legs over the edge
of the bedand placed his feet on the floorand thus found himself
almost without knowing itseated on his bed.


He remained for a time thoughtfully in this attitudewhich would
have been suggestive of something sinister for any one who had seen
him thus in the darkthe only person awake in that house where all
were sleeping. All of a sudden he stooped downremoved his shoes
and placed them softly on the mat beside the bed; then he resumed
his thoughtful attitudeand became motionless once more.


Throughout this hideous meditationthe thoughts which we have above
indicated moved incessantly through his brain; enteredwithdrew
re-enteredand in a manner oppressed him; and then he thoughtalso
without knowing whyand with the mechanical persistence of revery
of a convict named Brevetwhom he had known in the galleysand 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 situationand would have so remained indefinitely
even until daybreakhad 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 feethesitated still another momentand listened;
all was quiet in the house; then he walked straight ahead
with short stepsto the windowof which he caught a glimpse.
The night was not very dark; there was a full moonacross which
coursed large clouds driven by the wind. This createdoutdoors
alternate shadow and gleams of lighteclipsesthen bright openings
of the clouds; and indoors a sort of twilight. This twilight
sufficient to enable a person to see his wayintermittent on
account of the cloudsresembled the sort of livid light which falls
through an air-hole in a cellarbefore which the passersby come
and go. On arriving at the windowJean Valjean examined it.
It had no grating; it opened in the garden and was fastened
according to the fashion of the countryonly by a small pin.
He opened it; but as a rush of cold and piercing air penetrated
the room abruptlyhe closed it again immediately. He scrutinized
the garden with that attentive gaze which studies rather than looks.
The garden was enclosed by a tolerably low white walleasy to climb.
Far awayat the extremityhe perceived tops of treesspaced at
regular intervalswhich indicated that the wall separated the garden
from an avenue or lane planted with trees.


Having taken this surveyhe executed a movement like that of a man
who has made up his mindstrode to his alcovegrasped his knapsack
opened itfumbled in itpulled out of it something which he placed
on the bedput his shoes into one of his pocketsshut the whole
thing up againthrew the knapsack on his shouldersput on his cap
drew the visor down over his eyesfelt for his cudgelwent 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 ironpointed like a pike at one end.
It would have been difficult 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 recognize it as nothing
more than a miner's candlestick. Convicts wereat that period
sometimes employed in quarrying stone from the lofty hills which
environ Toulonand it was not rare for them to have miners' tools at
their command. These miners' candlesticks are of massive iron



terminated at the lower extremity by a pointby means of which
they are stuck into the rock.

He took the candlestick in his right hand; holding his breath
and trying to deaden the sound of his treadhe directed his
steps to the door of the adjoining roomoccupied by the Bishop
as we already know.

On arriving at this doorhe found it ajar. The Bishop had not
closed it.

CHAPTER XI

WHAT HE DOES

Jean Valjean listened. Not a sound.

He gave the door a push.

He pushed it gently with the tip of his fingerlightlywith the
furtive and uneasy gentleness of a cat which is desirous of entering.

The door yielded to this pressureand made an imperceptible
and silent movementwhich 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 itand barred the entrance.

Jean Valjean recognized the difficulty. It was necessaryat any cost
to enlarge the aperture still further.

He decided on his course of actionand gave the door a third push
more energetic than the two preceding. This time a badly oiled hinge
suddenly emitted amid the silence a hoarse and prolonged cry.

Jean Valjean shuddered. 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 animatedand had suddenly assumed
a terrible lifeand that it was barking like a dog to arouse every one
and warn and to wake those who were asleep. He haltedshuddering
bewilderedand 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 householdlike the shock of an earthquake;
the doorpushed by himhad taken the alarmand 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 the town would be in an uproarand the gendarmerie on hand.
For a moment he thought himself lost.

He remained where he waspetrified like the statue of salt
not daring 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. He 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. Neverthelesshe did not retreat. Even when he
had thought himself losthe had not drawn back. His only thought
now was to finish as soon as possible. He took a step and entered
the room.

This room was in a state of perfect calm. Here and there vague
and confused forms were distinguishablewhich in the daylight were
papers scattered on a tableopen foliosvolumes piled upon a stool
an arm-chair heaped with clothinga prie-Dieuand which at that hour
were only shadowy corners and whitish spots. Jean Valjean advanced
with precautiontaking care not to knock against the furniture.
He could hearat the extremity of the roomthe 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 appropriatenessas 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 bedthis cloud partedas though on purpose
and a ray of lighttraversing the long windowsuddenly illuminated
the Bishop's pale face. He was sleeping peacefully. He lay in
his bed almost completely dressedon account of the cold of the
Basses-Alpsin a garment of brown woolwhich covered his arms to
the wrists. His head was thrown back on the pillowin the careless
attitude of repose; his handadorned 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 illumined
with a vague expression of satisfactionof hopeand of felicity.
It was more than a smileand almost a radiance. He bore upon his
brow the indescribable reflection of a light which was invisible.
The soul of the just contemplates in sleep a mysterious heaven.

A reflection of that heaven rested on the Bishop.

It wasat the same timea luminous transparencyfor that heaven
was within him. That heaven was his conscience.

At the moment when the ray of moonlight superposed itselfso to speak
upon that inward radiancethe sleeping Bishop seemed as in a glory.
It remainedhowevergentle and veiled in an ineffable half-light. That
moon in the skythat slumbering naturethat garden without a quiver
that house which was so calmthe hourthe momentthe silence
added some solemn and unspeakable quality to the venerable repose
of this manand enveloped in a sort of serene and majestic aureole
that white hairthose closed eyesthat face in which all was hope
and all was confidencethat head of an old manand that slumber
of an infant.

There was something almost divine in this manwho was thus august
without being himself aware of it.

Jean Valjean was in the shadowand stood motionlesswith his iron
candlestick in his handfrightened 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 consciencewhich has arrived on the brink of an evil action


contemplating the slumber of the just.


That slumber in that isolationand with a neighbor like himself
had about it something sublimeof which he was vaguely but
imperiously conscious.


No one could have told what was passing within himnot even himself.
In order to attempt to form an idea of itit is necessary to think
of the most violent of things in the presence of the most gentle.
Even on his visage it would have been impossible to distinguish
anything with certainty. It was a sort of haggard astonishment.
He gazed at itand 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 clearly to be
inferred from his attitude and his physiognomy was a strange indecision.
One would have said that he was hesitating 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 slowly towards
his browand he took off his cap; then his arm fell back with the
same deliberationand Jean Valjean fell to meditating once more
his cap in his left handhis club in his right handhis hair
bristling all over his savage head.


The Bishop continued to sleep in profound peace beneath that
terrifying gaze.


The gleam of the moon rendered confusedly visible the crucifix
over the chimney-piecewhich seemed to be extending its arms
to both of themwith a benediction for one and pardon for the other.


Suddenly Jean Valjean replaced his cap on his brow; then stepped
rapidly past the bedwithout glancing at the Bishopstraight to
the cupboardwhich 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 ittraversed the chamber with
long strideswithout taking any precautions and without troubling
himself about the noisegained the doorre-entered the oratory
opened the windowseized his cudgelbestrode the window-sill
of the ground-floorput the silver into his knapsackthrew away
the basketcrossed the gardenleaped over the wall like a tiger
and fled.


CHAPTER XII


THE BISHOP WORKS


The next morning at sunrise Monseigneur Bienvenu was strolling
in his garden. Madame Magloire ran up to him in utter consternation.


Monseigneur, Monseigneur!she exclaimeddoes 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 silver?"


Ah,returned the Bishopso it is the silver which troubles you?
I don't know where it is.


Great, good God! It is stolen! That man who was here last night
has stolen it.


In a twinklingwith all the vivacity of an alert old woman
Madame Magloire had rushed to the oratoryentered the alcove
and returned to the Bishop. The Bishop had just bent down
and was sighing as he examined a plant of cochlearia des Guillons
which the basket had broken as it fell across the bed. He rose up
at Madame Magloire's cry.


Monseigneur, the man is gone! The silver has been stolen!


As she uttered this exclamationher eyes fell upon a corner of
the gardenwhere traces of the wall having been scaled were visible.
The coping of the wall had been torn away.


Stay! yonder is the way he went. He jumped over into
Cochefilet Lane. Ah, the abomination! He has stolen our silver!


The Bishop remained silent for a moment; then he raised his grave eyes
and said gently to Madame Magloire:--


And, in the first place, was that silver ours?


Madame Magloire was speechless. Another silence ensued; 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! 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! 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,said 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 sisterwho said nothing
and to Madame Magloirewho was grumbling under her breath
that one really does not need either fork or spooneven of wood
in order to dip a bit of bread in a cup of milk.

A pretty idea, truly,said Madame Magloire to herselfas she
went and cameto 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 its appearance
on the threshold. Three men were holding a fourth man by the collar.
The three men were gendarmes; the other was Jean Valjean.

A brigadier of gendarmeswho 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 wordJean Valjeanwho was dejected and seemed overwhelmed
raised his head with an air of stupefaction.

Monseigneur!he murmured. "So he is not the cure?"

Silence!said the gendarme. "He is Monseigneur the Bishop."

In the meantimeMonseigneur Bienvenu had advanced as quickly
as his great age permitted.

Ah! here you are!he exclaimedlooking at Jean Valjean.
I am glad to see you. Well, but how is this? I gave 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 wideand stared at the venerable Bishop
with an expression which no human tongue can render any account of.

Monseigneur,said the brigadier of gendarmesso 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 smilethat it
had been given to him by a kind old fellow of a priest with whom
he had passed the night? I see how the matter stands. And you
have brought him back here? It is a mistake.

In that case,replied the brigadierwe can let him go?

Certainly,replied the Bishop.

The gendarmes released Jean Valjeanwho recoiled.

Is it true that I am to be released?he saidin an almost
inarticulate voiceand as though he were talking in his sleep.

Yes, thou art released; dost thou not understand?said one


of the gendarmes.

My friend,resumed the Bishopbefore you go, here are
your candlesticks. Take them.

He stepped to the chimney-piecetook the two silver candlesticks
and brought them to Jean Valjean. The two women looked on without
uttering a wordwithout a gesturewithout a look which could
disconcert the Bishop.

Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. He took the two
candlesticks mechanicallyand with a bewildered air.

Now,said the Bishopgo in peace. By the way, when you return,
my friend, it is not necessary to pass through the garden.
You can always enter and depart through the street door. It is never
fastened with anything but a latch, either by day or by night.

Thenturning to the gendarmes:-


You may retire, gentlemen.

The gendarmes retired.

Jean Valjean was like a man on the point of fainting.

The Bishop drew near to himand said in a low voice:-


Do not forget, never forget, that you have promised to use this
money in becoming an honest man.

Jean Valjeanwho had no recollection of ever having promised anything
remained speechless. The Bishop had emphasized 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.

CHAPTER XIII

LITTLE GERVAIS

Jean Valjean left the town as though he were fleeing from it.
He set out at a very hasty pace through the fieldstaking whatever
roads and paths presented themselves to himwithout perceiving
that he was incessantly retracing his steps. He wandered thus the
whole morningwithout having eaten anything 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 perceived
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. At times he would have
actually preferred to be in prison with the gendarmesand that things
should not have happened in this way; it would have agitated him less.
Although the season was tolerably far advancedthere were still
a few late flowers in the hedge-rows here and therewhose odor


as he passed through them in his march recalled to him memories
of 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 day long.

As the sun declined to its settingcasting long shadows athwart the soil
from every pebbleJean Valjean sat down behind a bush upon a large
ruddy plainwhich 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 intersected the plain passed a few paces from the bush.

In the middle of this meditationwhich would have contributed
not a little to render his rags terrifying to any one who might
have encountered hima joyous sound became audible.

He turned his head and saw a little Savoyardabout ten years
of agecoming up the path and singinghis hurdy-gurdy on his hip
and his marmot-box on his back

One of those gay and gentle childrenwho go from land to land
affording a view of their knees through the holes in their trousers.

Without stopping his songthe lad halted in his march from time
to timeand played at knuckle-bones with some coins which he
had in his hand--his whole fortuneprobably.

Among this money there was one forty-sou piece.

The child halted beside the bushwithout perceiving Jean Valjean
and tossed up his handful of souswhichup to that timehe had
caught with a good deal of adroitness on the back of his hand.

This time the forty-sou piece escaped himand went rolling towards
the brushwood until it reached Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean set his foot upon it.

In the meantimethe child had looked after his coin and had caught
sight of him.

He showed no astonishmentbut walked straight up to the man.

The spot was absolutely solitary. As far as the eye could see
there was not a person on the plain or on the path. The only
sound was the tinyfeeble cries 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 sunwhich cast threads of gold
in his hair and empurpled with its blood-red gleam the savage face
of Jean Valjean.

Sir,said the little Savoyardwith that childish confidence
which is composed of ignorance and innocencemy money.

What is your name?said Jean Valjean.

Little Gervais, sir.

Go away,said Jean Valjean.

Sir,resumed the childgive me back my money.

Jean Valjean dropped his headand made no reply.


The child began againMy money, sir.

Jean Valjean's eyes remained fixed on the earth.

My piece of money!cried the childmy white piece! my silver!

It seemed as though Jean Valjean did not hear him. The child grasped
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 treasure.

I want my piece of money! my piece of forty sous!

The child wept. Jean Valjean raised his head. He still
remained seated. His eyes were troubled. He gazed at
the childin a sort of amazementthen he stretched out
his hand towards his cudgel and cried in a terrible voiceWho's there?

I, sir,replied the child. "Little Gervais! I! Give me back my
forty sousif you please! Take your foot awaysirif you please!"

Then irritatedthough he was so smalland 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 Valjeanand rising abruptly
to his feethis foot still resting on the silver piecehe added:-


Will you take yourself off!

The frightened child looked at himthen began to tremble from
head to footand after a few moments of stupor he set out
running at the top of his speedwithout daring to turn his neck
or to utter a cry.

Neverthelesslack of breath forced him to halt after a certain distance
and Jean Valjean heard him sobbingin the midst of his own revery.

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 long and irregular
intervals. His gazefixed ten or twelve paces in front of him
seemed to be scrutinizing with profound attention the shape of an
ancient fragment of blue earthenware which had fallen in the grass.
All at once he shivered; he had just begun to feel the chill of evening.

He settled his cap more firmly on his browsought mechanically
to cross and button his blouseadvanced a step and stopped to pick
up his cudgel.

At that moment he caught sight of the forty-sou piecewhich his
foot had half ground into the earthand which was shining among
the pebbles. It was as though he had received a galvanic shock.
What is this?he muttered between his teeth. He recoiled
three pacesthen haltedwithout 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 coinseized itand straightened himself up again
and began to gaze afar off over the plainat the same time casting
his eyes towards all points of the horizonas he stood there erect
and shiveringlike a terrified wild animal which is seeking refuge.

He saw nothing. Night was fallingthe plain was cold and vague
great banks of violet haze were rising in the gleam of the twilight.

He saidAh!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!

He paused and waited.

There was no reply.

The landscape was gloomy and deserted. He was encompassed by space.
There was nothing around him but an obscurity in which his gaze
was lostand a silence which engulfed his voice.

An icy north wind was blowingand 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 againthen he began to run; and from time
to time he halted and shouted into that solitudewith a voice
which was the most formidable and the most disconsolate that it
was possible to hearLittle Gervais! Little Gervais!

Assuredlyif the child had heard himhe would have been alarmed
and would have taken good care not to show 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 Cure, 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 and handed them
to the priest.

Monsieur le Cure, this is for your poor people. Monsieur le Cure,
he was a little lad, about ten years old, with a marmot, I think,
and a hurdy-gurdy. One of those Savoyards, 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 these 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 addedwildly:--


Monsieur l'Abbe, have me arrested. I am a thief.


The priest put spurs to his horse and fled in hastemuch alarmed.


Jean Valjean set out on a runin the direction which he had
first taken.


In this way he traversed a tolerably long distancegazing
callingshoutingbut 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 crouching down; it turned out to be
nothing but brushwood or rocks nearly on a level with the earth.
At lengthat 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 timeLittle Gervais! Little Gervais!
Little Gervais!His shout died away in the mistwithout even
awakening an echo. He murmured yet once moreLittle Gervais!
but in a feeble and almost inarticulate voice. It was his last effort;
his legs gave way abruptly under himas though an invisible power
had suddenly overwhelmed him with the weight of his evil conscience;
he fell exhaustedon a large stonehis fists clenched in his hair
and his face on his kneesand he criedI am a wretch!


Then his heart burstand he began to cry. It was the first time
that he had wept in nineteen years.


When Jean Valjean left the Bishop's househe wasas we have seen
quite thrown out of everything that had been his thought hitherto.
He could not yield to the evidence of what was going on within him.
He hardened himself against the angelic action and the gentle words
of the old man. "You have promised me to become an honest man.
I buy your soul. I take it away from the spirit of perversity;
I give it to the good God."


This recurred to his mind unceasingly. To this celestial kindness
he opposed pridewhich is the fortress of evil within us.
He was indistinctly 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 yieldedhe should be obliged
to renounce that hatred with which the actions of other men had
filled his soul through so many yearsand which pleased him;
that this time it was necessary to conquer or to be conquered;
and that a strugglea colossal and final strugglehad been begun
between his viciousness and the goodness of that man.


In the presence of these lightshe proceeded like a man who
is intoxicated. As he walked thus with haggard eyesdid 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 nowso to speak



to mount higher than the Bishopor fall lower than the convict;
that if he wished to become good be must become an angel; that if he
wished to remain evilhe must become a monster?


Hereagainsome questions must be putwhich we have already put
to ourselves elsewhere: did he catch some shadow of all this in
his thoughtin a confused way? Misfortune certainlyas we have said
does form the education of the intelligence; neverthelessit 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 ofrather than saw themand they only
succeeded in throwing him into an unutterable and almost painful
state of emotion. On emerging from that black and deformed
thing which is called the galleysthe Bishop had hurt his soul
as too vivid a light would have hurt his eyes on emerging from
the dark. The future lifethe possible life which offered itself
to him henceforthall pure and radiantfilled him with tremors
and anxiety. He no longer knew where he really was. Like an owl
who should suddenly see the sun risethe convict had been dazzled
and blindedas it wereby virtue.


That which was certainthat which he did not doubtwas that he
was no longer the same manthat everything 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 Gervaisand had robbed
him of his forty sous. Why? He certainly could not have explained it;
was this the last effect and the supreme effortas it were
of the evil thoughts which he had brought away from the galleys--
a remnant of impulsea result of what is called in statics
acquired force? It was thatand it was alsoperhapseven less
than that. Let us say it simplyit was not he who stole;
it was not the man; it was the beastwhoby habit and instinct
had simply placed his foot upon that moneywhile 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 cry of terror.


It was because--strange phenomenonand one which was possible only
in the situation in which he found himself--in stealing the money
from that childhe had done a thing of which he was no longer capable.


However that may bethis last evil action had a decisive effect
on him; it abruptly traversed that chaos which he bore in his mind
and dispersed itplaced on one side the thick obscurityand on
the other the lightand acted on his soulin the state in which it
then wasas certain chemical reagents act upon a troubled mixture
by precipitating one element and clarifying the other.


First of alleven before examining himself and reflecting
all bewilderedlike one who seeks to save himselfhe tried to
find the child in order to return his money to him; thenwhen he
recognized the fact that this was impossiblehe halted in despair.
At the moment when he exclaimed "I am a wretch!" he had just
perceived what he wasand he was already separated from himself
to such a degreethat he seemed to himself to be no longer
anything more than a phantomand as if he hadthere before him
in flesh and bloodthe hideous galley-convictJean Valjean
cudgel in handhis blouse on his hipshis knapsack filled with
stolen objects on his backwith his resolute and gloomy visage
with his thoughts filled with abominable projects.



Excess of unhappiness hadas we have remarkedmade him in some
sort a visionary. Thisthenwas in the nature of a vision.
He actually saw that Jean Valjeanthat sinister facebefore 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 beholds the object which one has before oneand one sees
as though apart from one's selfthe figures which one has in one's
own mind.

Thus he contemplated himselfso to speakface to face
and at the same timeathwart this hallucinationhe 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 conscience with more attentionhe recognized the
fact that it possessed 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 ecstasiesin proportion as his
revery continuedas 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 tearshe sobbed
with more weakness than a womanwith more fright than a child.

As he weptdaylight penetrated more and more clearly into his soul;
an extraordinary light; a light at once ravishing and terrible.
His past lifehis first faulthis long expiationhis external
brutishnesshis internal hardnesshis dismissal to liberty
rejoicing in manifold plans of vengeancewhat had happened to him
at the Bishop'sthe last thing that he had donethat theft of forty
sous from a childa crime all the more cowardlyand all the more
monstrous since it had come after the Bishop's pardon--all this
recurred to his mind and appeared clearly to himbut with a clearness
which he had never hitherto witnessed. He examined his lifeand it
seemed horrible to him; his souland it seemed frightful to him.
In the meantime a gentle light rested over this life and this soul.
It seemed to him 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 epochand who arrived at D---- about three o'clock
in the morningsawas he traversed the street in which the
Bishop's residence was situateda man in the attitude of prayer
kneeling on the pavement in the shadowin front of the door
of Monseigneur Welcome.

BOOK THIRD.--IN THE YEAR 1817

CHAPTER I

THE YEAR 1817


1817 is the year which Louis XVIII.with a certain royal assurance
which was not wanting in prideentitled the twenty-second of his reign.
It is the year in which M. Bruguiere de Sorsum was celebrated.
All the hairdressers' shopshoping for powder and the return of the
royal birdwere besmeared with azure and decked with fleurs-de-lys.
It was the candid time at which Count Lynch sat every Sunday as
church-warden in the church-warden's pew of Saint-Germain-des-Pres
in his costume of a peer of Francewith his red ribbon and his
long nose and the majesty of profile peculiar to a man who has
performed a brilliant action. The brilliant action performed
by M. Lynch was this: being mayor of Bordeauxon the 12th
of March1814he had surrendered the city a little too promptly
to M. the Duke d'Angouleme. Hence his peerage. In 1817 fashion
swallowed up little boys of from four to six years of age in vast
caps of morocco leather with ear-tabs resembling Esquimaux mitres.
The French army was dressed in whiteafter the mode of the Austrian;
the regiments were called legions; instead of numbers they bore the
names of departments; Napoleon was at St. Helena; and since England
refused him green clothhe was having his old coats turned.
In 1817 Pelligrini sang; Mademoiselle Bigottini danced; Potier reigned;
Odry did not yet exist. Madame Saqui had succeeded to Forioso.
There were still Prussians in France. M. Delalot was a personage.
Legitimacy had just asserted itself by cutting off the hand
then the headof Pleignierof Carbonneauand of Tolleron.
The Prince de Talleyrandgrand chamberlainand the Abbe Louis
appointed minister of financelaughed as they looked at each other
with the laugh of the two augurs; both of them had celebrated
on the 14th of July1790the mass of federation in the Champ de Mars;
Talleyrand had said it as bishopLouis had served it in the capacity
of deacon. In 1817in the side-alleys of this same Champ de Mars
two great cylinders of wood might have been seen lying in the rain
rotting amid the grasspainted bluewith traces of eagles and bees
from which the gilding was falling. These were the columns which two
years before had upheld the Emperor's platform in the Champ de Mai.
They were blackened here and there with the scorches of the bivouac
of Austrians encamped near Gros-Caillou. Two or three of these
columns had disappeared in these bivouac firesand had warmed
the large hands of the Imperial troops. The Field of May had this
remarkable point: that it had been held in the month of June
and in the Field of March (Mars). In this year1817two things
were popular: the Voltaire-Touquet and the snuff-box a la Charter.
The most recent Parisian sensation was the crime of Dautun
who had thrown his brother's head into the fountain of the
Flower-Market.


They had begun to feel anxious at the Naval Departmenton account
of the lack of news from that fatal frigateThe Medusawhich was
destined to cover Chaumareix with infamy and Gericault with glory.
Colonel Selves was going to Egypt to become Soliman-Pasha. The palace
of Thermesin the Rue de La Harpeserved as a shop for a cooper.
On the platform of the octagonal tower of the Hotel de Cluny
the little shed of boardswhich had served as an observatory to Messier
the naval astronomer under Louis XVI.was still to be seen.
The Duchesse de Duras read to three or four friends her unpublished
Ourikain her boudoir furnished by X. in sky-blue satin. The N's
were scratched off the Louvre. The bridge of Austerlitz had abdicated
and was entitled the bridge of the King's Garden [du Jardin du Roi]
a double enigmawhich disguised the bridge of Austerlitz and the
Jardin des Plantes at one stroke. Louis XVIII.much preoccupied
while annotating Horace with the corner of his finger-nailheroes
who have become emperorsand makers of wooden shoes who have
become dauphinshad two anxieties--Napoleon and Mathurin Bruneau.



The French Academy had given for its prize subjectThe Happiness
procured through Study. M. Bellart was officially eloquent.
In his shadow could be seen germinating that future advocate-general
of Broededicated to the sarcasms of Paul-Louis Courier.
There was a false Chateaubriandnamed Marchangyin the interim
until there should be a false Marchangynamed d'Arlincourt.
Claire d'Albe and Malek-Adel were masterpieces; Madame Cottin
was proclaimed the chief writer of the epoch. The Institute
had the academicianNapoleon Bonapartestricken from its list
of members. A royal ordinance erected Angouleme into a naval school;
for the Duc d'Angoulemebeing lord high admiralit was evident
that the city of Angouleme had all the qualities of a seaport;
otherwise the monarchical principle would have received a wound.
In the Council of Ministers the question was agitated whether
vignettes representing slack-rope performanceswhich adorned
Franconi's advertising postersand which attracted throngs of
street urchinsshould be tolerated. M. Paerthe author of Agnese
a good sort of fellowwith a square face and a wart on his cheek
directed the little private concerts of the Marquise de Sasenaye
in the Rue Ville l'Eveque. All the young girls were singing the
Hermit of Saint-Avellewith words by Edmond Geraud. The Yellow
Dwarf was transferred into Mirror. The Cafe Lemblin stood up for
the Emperoragainst the Cafe Valoiswhich upheld the Bourbons.
The Duc de Berrialready surveyed from the shadow by Louvel
had just been married to a princess of Sicily. Madame de Stael had
died a year previously. The body-guard hissed Mademoiselle Mars.
The grand newspapers were all very small. Their form was restricted
but their liberty was great. The Constitutionnel was constitutional.
La Minerve called Chateaubriand Chateaubriant. That t made the good
middle-class people laugh heartily at the expense of the great writer.
In journals which sold themselvesprostituted journalists
insulted the exiles of 1815. David had no longer any talent
Arnault had no longer any witCarnot was no longer honestSoult had
won no battles; it is true that Napoleon had no longer any genius.
No one is ignorant of the fact that letters sent to an exile by post
very rarely reached himas the police made it their religious
duty to intercept them. This is no new fact; Descartes complained
of it in his exile. Now Davidhavingin a Belgian publication
shown some displeasure at not receiving letters which had been
written to himit struck the royalist journals as amusing;
and they derided the prescribed man well on this occasion.
What separated two men more than an abyss was to saythe regicides
or to say the voters; to say the enemiesor to say the allies;
to say Napoleonor to say Buonaparte. All sensible people were
agreed that the era of revolution had been closed forever by King
Louis XVIII.surnamed "The Immortal Author of the Charter."
On the platform of the Pont-Neufthe word Redivivus was carved
on the pedestal that awaited the statue of Henry IV. M. Piet
in the Rue ThereseNo. 4was making the rough draft of his privy
assembly to consolidate the monarchy. The leaders of the Right
said at grave conjuncturesWe must write to Bacot.MM. Canuel
O'Mahoneyand De Chappedelaine were preparing the sketch
to some extent with Monsieur's approvalof what was to become
later on "The Conspiracy of the Bord de l'Eau"--of the waterside.
L'Epingle Noire was already plotting in his own quarter.
Delaverderie was conferring with Trogoff. M. Decazeswho was
liberal to a degreereigned. Chateaubriand stood every morning at
his window at No. 27 Rue Saint-Dominiqueclad in footed trousers
and slipperswith a madras kerchief knotted over his gray hair
with his eyes fixed on a mirrora complete set of dentist's instruments
spread out before himcleaning his teethwhich were charming
while he dictated The Monarchy according to the Charter to M. Pilorge
his secretary. Criticismassuming an authoritative tone
preferred Lafon to Talma. M. de Feletez signed himself A.;



M. Hoffmann signed himself Z. Charles Nodier wrote Therese Aubert.
Divorce was abolished. Lyceums called themselves colleges.
The collegiansdecorated on the collar with a golden fleur-de-lys
fought each other apropos of the King of Rome. The counter-police
of the chateau had denounced to her Royal Highness Madamethe portrait
everywhere exhibitedof M. the Duc d'Orleanswho made a better
appearance in his uniform of a colonel-general of hussars than
M. the Duc de Berriin his uniform of colonel-general of dragoons--
a serious inconvenience. The city of Paris was having the dome
of the Invalides regilded at its own expense. Serious men asked
themselves what M. de Trinquelague would do on such or such an occasion;
M. Clausel de Montals differed on divers points from M. Clausel
de Coussergues; M. de Salaberry was not satisfied. The comedian Picard
who belonged to the Academywhich the comedian Moliere had not been
able to dohad The Two Philiberts played at the Odeonupon whose
pediment the removal of the letters still allowed THEATRE OF THE
EMPRESS to be plainly read. People took part for or against Cugnet
de Montarlot. Fabvier was factious; Bavoux was revolutionary.
The LiberalPelicierpublished an edition of Voltairewith the
following title: Works of Voltaireof the French Academy.
That will attract purchasers,said the ingenious editor. The general
opinion was that M. Charles Loyson would be the genius of the century;
envy was beginning to gnaw at him--a sign of glory; and this verse was
composed on him:--
Even when Loyson steals, one feels that he has paws.

As Cardinal Fesch refused to resignM. de PinsArchbishop of Amasie
administered the diocese of Lyons. The quarrel over the valley
of Dappes was begun between Switzerland and France by a memoir
from Captainafterwards General Dufour. Saint-Simonignored
was erecting his sublime dream. There was a celebrated Fourier
at the Academy of Sciencewhom posterity has forgotten; and in
some garret an obscure Fourierwhom the future will recall.
Lord Byron was beginning to make his mark; a note to a poem
by Millevoye introduced him to France in these terms: a certain
Lord Baron. David d'Angers was trying to work in marble. The Abbe
Caron was speakingin terms of praiseto a private gathering of
seminarists in the blind alley of Feuillantinesof an unknown priest
named Felicite-Robertwhoat a latter datebecame 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 playthingthe idle dream
of a dream-ridden inventor; an utopia--a steamboat. The Parisians
stared indifferently at this useless thing. M. de Vaublanc
the reformer of the Institute by a coup d'etatthe distinguished
author of numerous academiciansordinancesand batches of members
after having created themcould not succeed in becoming one himself.
The Faubourg Saint-Germain and the pavilion de Marsan wished to
have M. Delaveau for prefect of policeon account of his piety.
Dupuytren and Recamier entered into a quarrel in the amphitheatre
of the School of Medicineand threatened each other with their fists
on the subject of the divinity of Jesus Christ. Cuvierwith one
eye on Genesis and the other on naturetried to please bigoted
reaction by reconciling fossils with texts and by making mastodons
flatter Moses.

M. Francois de Neufchateauthe praiseworthy cultivator of the memory
of Parmentiermade a thousand efforts to have pomme de terre
[potato] pronounced parmentiereand succeeded therein not at all.
The Abbe Gregoireex-bishopex-conventionaryex-senatorhad passed

in the royalist polemicsto the state of "Infamous Gregoire."
The locution of which we have made use--passed to the state of--has been
condemned as a neologism by M. Royer Collard. Under the third arch
of the Pont de Jenathe new stone with whichthe two years previously
the mining aperture made by Blucher to blow up the bridge had been
stopped upwas still recognizable on account of its whiteness.
Justice summoned to its bar a man whoon seeing the Comte d'Artois
enter Notre Damehad said aloud: "Sapristi! I regret the time
when I saw Bonaparte and Talma enter the Bel Sauvagearm 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 recompenseand strutted immodestly
in the light of dayin the cynicism of riches and dignities;
deserters from Ligny and Quatre-Brasin the brazenness of their
well-paid turpitudeexhibited their devotion to the monarchy in the
most barefaced manner.


This is what floats up confusedlypell-mellfor the year 1817
and is now forgotten. History neglects nearly all these particulars
and cannot do otherwise; the infinity would overwhelm it.
Neverthelessthese detailswhich are wrongly called trivial--
there are no trivial facts in humanitynor little leaves
in vegetation--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."


CHAPTER II


A DOUBLE QUARTETTE


These Parisians cameone from Toulouseanother from Limoges
the third from Cahorsand the fourth from Montauban; but they
were students; and when one says studentone 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 ignorantneither geniuses nor fools; handsome
with that charming April which is called twenty years. They were
four Oscars; forat that epochArthurs did not yet exist.
Burn for him the perfumes of Araby! exclaimed romance.
Oscar advances. OscarI shall behold him! People had just
emerged from Ossian; elegance was Scandinavian and Caledonian;
the pure English style was only to prevail laterand the first
of the ArthursWellingtonhad but just won the battle of Waterloo.


These Oscars bore the namesone of Felix Tholomyesof Toulouse;
the secondListolierof Cahors; the nextFameuilof Limoges;
the lastBlachevelleof Montauban. Naturallyeach of them
had his mistress. Blachevelle loved Favouriteso named because
she had been in England; Listolier adored Dahliawho had taken
for her nickname the name of a flower; Fameuil idolized Zephine
an abridgment of Josephine; Tholomyes had Fantinecalled the Blonde
because of her beautifulsunny hair.


FavouriteDahliaZephineand Fantine were four ravishing young women
perfumed and radiantstill a little like working-womenand not yet
entirely divorced from their needles; somewhat disturbed by intrigues
but still retaining on their faces something of the serenity
of toiland 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 themand one was called the old;
the old one was twenty-three. Not to conceal anythingthe three
first were more experiencedmore heedlessand more emancipated
into the tumult of life than Fantine the Blondewho was still
in her first illusions.


DahliaZephineand especially Favouritecould not have said as much.
There had already been more than one episode in their romance
though hardly begun; and the lover who had borne the name of Adolph
in the first chapter had turned out to be Alphonse in the second
and Gustave in the third. Poverty and coquetry are two fatal counsellors;
one scolds and the other flattersand the beautiful daughters
of the people have both of them whispering in their eareach on
its own side. These badly guarded souls listen. Hence the falls
which they accomplishand the stones which are thrown at them.
They are overwhelmed with splendor of all that is immaculate
and inaccessible. Alas! what if the Jungfrau were hungry?


Favourite having been in Englandwas admired by Dahlia and Zephine.
She had had an establishment of her own very early in life.
Her father was an old unmarried professor of mathematicsa brutal man
and a braggartwho went out to give lessons in spite of his age.
This professorwhen he was a young manhad one day seen a chambermaid's
gown catch on a fender; he had fallen in love in consequence of
this accident. The result had been Favourite. She met her father
from time to timeand he bowed to her. One morning an old woman
with the air of a devoteehad entered her apartmentsand had said
to herYou do not know me, Mamemoiselle?No.I am your mother.
Then the old woman opened the sideboardand ate and drank
had a mattress which she owned brought inand installed herself.
This cross and pious old mother never spoke to Favouriteremained hours
without uttering a wordbreakfasteddinedand supped for four
and went down to the porter's quarters for companywhere she spoke
ill of her daughter.


It was having rosy nails that were too pretty which had drawn
Dahlia to Listolierto others perhapsto idleness. How could
she make such nails work? She who wishes to remain virtuous must
not have pity on her hands. As for Zephineshe had conquered
Fameuil by her roguish and caressing little way of saying "Yessir."


The young men were comrades; the young girls were friends.
Such loves are always accompanied by such friendships.


Goodness and philosophy are two distinct things; the proof
of this is thatafter making all due allowances for these
little irregular householdsFavouriteZephineand Dahlia
were philosophical young womenwhile Fantine was a good girl.


Good! some one will exclaim; and Tholomyes? Solomon would reply
that love forms a part of wisdom. We will confine ourselves
to saying that the love of Fantine was a first lovea sole love
a faithful love.


She aloneof all the fourwas not called "thou" by a single
one of them.


Fantine was one of those beings who blossomso to speak
from the dregs of the people. Though she had emerged from the most
unfathomable depths of social shadowshe bore on her brow the sign
of the anonymous and the unknown. She was born at M. sur M. Of
what parents? Who can say? She had never known father or mother.
She was called Fantine. Why Fantine? She had never borne any
other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed.



She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name;
the Church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first
random passer-bywho had encountered herwhen a very small child
running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she
received the water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained.
She was called little Fantine. No one knew more than that. This human
creature had entered life in just this way. At the age of ten
Fantine quitted the town and went to service with some farmers in
the neighborhood. At fifteen she came to Paris "to seek her fortune."
Fantine was beautifuland remained pure as long as she could.
She was a lovely blondewith fine teeth. She had gold and pearls
for her dowry; but her gold was on her headand her pearls were in
her mouth.

She worked for her living; thenstill for the sake of her living-for
the heartalsohas its hunger--she loved.

She loved Tholomyes.

An amour for him; passion for her. The streets of the Latin quarter
filled with throngs of students and grisettessaw the beginning
of their dream. Fantine had long evaded Tholomyes in the mazes
of the hill of the Pantheonwhere so many adventurers twine
and untwinebut in such a way as constantly to encounter him again.
There is a way of avoiding which resembles seeking. In short
the eclogue took place.

BlachevelleListolierand Fameuil formed a sort of group
of which Tholomyes was the head. It was he who possessed the wit.

Tholomyes was the antique old student; he was rich; he had an income
of four thousand francs; four thousand francs! a splendid scandal
on Mount Sainte-Genevieve. Tholomyes was a fast man of thirty
and badly preserved. He was wrinkled and toothlessand he had
the beginning of a bald spotof which he himself said with sadness
the skull at thirtythe knee at forty. His digestion was mediocre
and he had been attacked by a watering in one eye. But in proportion
as his youth disappearedgayety was kindled; he replaced his teeth
with buffoonerieshis hair with mirthhis health with ironyhis weeping
eye laughed incessantly. He was dilapidated but still in flower.
His youthwhich was packing up for departure long before its time
beat a retreat in good orderbursting with laughterand 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 degreewhich is a vast force in the eyes
of the weak. Being thus ironical and baldhe was the leader.
Iron is an English word. Is it possible that irony is derived
from it?

One day Tholomyes took the three others asidewith the gesture
of an oracleand said to them:-


Fantine, Dahlia, Zephine, and Favourite have been teasing us
for nearly a year to give them a surprise. We have promised them
solemnly that we would. They are forever talking about it to us, to me
in particular, just as the old women in Naples cry to Saint Januarius,
`Faccia gialluta, fa o miracolo, Yellow face, perform thy miracle,'
so our beauties say to me incessantly, `Tholomyes, when will you bring
forth your surprise?' At the same time our parents keep writing to us.
Pressure on both sides. The moment has arrived, it seems to me;
let us discuss the question.

ThereuponTholomyes lowered his voice and articulated something
so mirthfulthat a vast and enthusiastic grin broke out upon the four


mouths simultaneouslyand Blachevelle exclaimedThat is an idea.

A smoky tap-room presented itself; they enteredand the remainder
of their confidential colloquy was lost in shadow.

The result of these shades was a dazzling pleasure party which took
place on the following Sundaythe four young men inviting the four
young girls.

CHAPTER III

FOUR AND FOUR

It is hard nowadays to picture to one's self what a pleasure-trip of
students and grisettes to the country was likeforty-five years 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 cuckoothere is the railway car;
where there was a tender-boatthere 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 beginningand it
was a warmbrightsummer day. On the preceding dayFavourite
the only one who knew how to writehad written the following
to Tholomyes 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 coachlooked at the dry cascade
and exclaimedThis must be very beautiful when there is water!
They breakfasted at the Tete-Noirwhere Castaing had not yet been;
they treated themselves to a game of ring-throwing under the
quincunx of trees of the grand fountain; they ascended Diogenes'
lanternthey gambled for macaroons at the roulette establishment
of the Pont de Sevrespicked bouquets at Pateauxbought reed-pipes
at Neuillyate apple tarts everywhereand were perfectly happy.

The young girls rustled and chatted like warblers escaped from
their cage. It was a perfect delirium. From time to time they
bestowed little taps on the young men. Matutinal intoxication of life!
adorable years! the wings of the dragonfly quiver. Ohwhoever you
may bedo you not remember? Have you rambled through the brushwood
holding aside the brancheson account of the charming head
which is coming on behind you? Have you slidlaughingdown a
slope all wet with rainwith a beloved woman holding your hand
and cryingAh, my new boots! what a state they are in!

Let us say at once that that merry obstaclea showerwas lacking
in the case of this good-humored partyalthough Favourite had said
as they set outwith a magisterial and maternal toneThe slugs
are crawling in the paths,--a sign of rain, children.

All four were madly pretty. A good old classic poetthen famous
a good fellow who had an EleonoreM. 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 morningand exclaimed
There is one too many of them,as he thought of the Graces.
FavouriteBlachevelle's friendthe one aged three and twenty
the old oneran on in front under the great green boughs
jumped the ditchesstalked distractedly over bushesand presided
over this merry-making with the spirit of a young female faun.


Zephine and Dahliawhom chance had made beautiful in such a way
that they set each off when they were togetherand completed
each othernever left each othermore from an instinct of coquetry
than from friendshipand clinging to each otherthey assumed
English poses; the first keepsakes had just made their appearance
melancholy was dawning for womenas later onByronism dawned for men;
and the hair of the tender sex began to droop dolefully. Zephine and
Dahlia had their hair dressed in rolls. Listolier and Fameuil
who were engaged in discussing their professorsexplained to Fantine
the difference that existed between M. Delvincourt and M. Blondeau.

Blachevelle seemed to have been created expressly to carry Favourite's
single-borderedimitation India shawl of Ternaux's manufacture
on his arm on Sundays.

Tholomyes followeddominating the group. He was very gaybut one felt
the force of government in him; there was dictation in his joviality;
his principal ornament was a pair of trousers of elephant-leg pattern
of nankeenwith straps of braided copper wire; he carried a stout
rattan worth two hundred francs in his handandas he treated
himself to everythinga strange thing called a cigar in his mouth.
Nothing was sacred to him; he smoked.

That Tholomyes is astounding!said the otherswith veneration.
What trousers! What energy!

As for Fantineshe was a joy to behold. Her splendid teeth had
evidently received an office from God--laughter. She preferred
to carry her little hat of sewed strawwith its long white strings
in her hand rather than on her head. Her thick blond hair
which was inclined to waveand which easily uncoiledand which it
was necessary to fasten up incessantlyseemed made for the flight
of Galatea under the willows. Her rosy lips babbled enchantingly.
The corners of her mouth voluptuously turned upas in the antique masks
of Erigonehad 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 something
indescribably harmonious and striking about her entire dress.
She wore a gown of mauve baregelittle reddish brown buskins
whose ribbons traced an X on her finewhiteopen-worked stockings
and that sort of muslin spencera Marseilles inventionwhose name
canezoua corruption of the words quinze aoutpronounced after the
fashion of the Canebieresignifies fine weatherheatand midday.
The three othersless timidas we have already saidwore low-necked
dresses without disguisewhich in summerbeneath flower-adorned
hatsare very graceful and enticing; but by the side of these
audacious outfitsblond Fantine's canezouwith its transparencies
its indiscretionand its reticenceconcealing and displaying
at one and the same timeseemed an alluring godsend of decency
and the famous Court of Lovepresided over by the Vicomtesse de Cette
with the sea-green eyeswouldperhapshave awarded the prize for
coquetry to this canezouin the contest for the prize of modesty.
The most ingenious isat timesthe wisest. This does happen.

Brilliant of facedelicate of profilewith eyes of a deep blue
heavy lidsfeet arched and smallwrists and ankles admirably formed
a white skin whichhere and there allowed the azure branching
of the veins to be seenjoya cheek that was young and fresh
the robust throat of the Juno of AEginaa strong and supple nape
of the neckshoulders modelled as though by Coustouwith a
voluptuous dimple in the middlevisible through the muslin; a gayety
cooled by dreaminess; sculptural and exquisite--such was Fantine;
and beneath these feminine adornments and these ribbons one could
divine a statueand in that statue a soul.


Fantine was beautifulwithout being too conscious of it.
Those rare dreamersmysterious priests of the beautiful who silently
confront everything with perfectionwould have caught a glimpse
in this little working-womanthrough the transparency of her
Parisian graceof 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 attentivelythat which breathed from
her athwart all the intoxication of her agethe seasonand her
love affairwas an invincible expression of reserve and modesty.
She remained a little astonished. This chaste astonishment
is the shade of difference which separates Psyche from Venus.
Fantine had the longwhitefine fingers of the vestal virgin who
stirs the ashes of the sacred fire with a golden pin. Although she
would have refused nothing to Tholomyesas we shall have more than
ample opportunity to seeher face in repose was supremely virginal;
a sort of serious and almost austere dignity suddenly overwhelmed
her at certain timesand 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 and sometimes severely accentuated gravity resembled the
disdain of a goddess. Her browher noseher chinpresented that
equilibrium of outline which is quite distinct from equilibrium
of proportionand from which harmony of countenance results;
in the very characteristic interval which separates the base of the nose
from the upper lipshe had that imperceptible and charming fold
a mysterious sign of chastitywhich makes Barberousse 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.


CHAPTER IV


THOLOMYES IS SO MERRY THAT HE SINGS A SPANISH DITTY


That day was composed of dawnfrom one end to the other.
All nature seemed to be having a holidayand to be laughing.
The flower-beds of Saint-Cloud perfumed the air; the breath of the Seine
rustled the leaves vaguely; the branches gesticulated in the wind
bees pillaged the jasmines; a whole bohemia of butterflies swooped
down upon the yarrowthe cloverand the sterile oats; in the
august park of the King of France there was a pack of vagabonds
the birds.


The four merry couplesmingled with the sunthe fieldsthe flowers
the treeswere resplendent.


And in this community of Paradisetalkingsingingrunningdancing
chasing butterfliesplucking convolvuluswetting their pink
open-work stockings in the tall grassfreshwildwithout malice
all receivedto some extentthe kisses of allwith the exception
of Fantinewho was hedged about with that vague resistance of
hers composed of dreaminess and wildnessand 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 natureand make a caress and light
spring forth from everything. There was once a fairy who created
the fields and forests expressly for those in love--in that
eternal hedge-school of loverswhich is forever beginning anew
and which will last as long as there are hedges and scholars.
Hence the popularity of spring among thinkers. The patrician
and the knife-grinderthe duke and the peerthe limb of the law
the courtiers and townspeopleas they used to say in olden times
all are subjects of this fairy. They laugh and huntand 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 grassthe waists embraced on the fly
those jargons which are melodiesthose adorations which burst
forth in the manner of pronouncing a syllablethose cherries
torn from one mouth by another--all this blazes forth and takes
its place among the celestial glories. Beautiful women waste
themselves sweetly. They think that this will never come to an end.
Philosopherspoetspaintersobserve these ecstasies and know not
what to make of itso greatly are they dazzled by it. The departure
for Cythera! exclaims Watteau; Lancretthe painter of plebeians
contemplates his bourgeoiswho have flitted away into the azure sky;
Diderot stretches out his arms to all these love idylsand d'Urfe
mingles druids with them.

After breakfast the four couples went to what was then called the King's
Square to see a newly arrived plant from Indiawhose name escapes
our memory at this momentand whichat that epochwas attracting
all Paris to Saint-Cloud. It was an odd and charming shrub with a
long stemwhose numerous branchesbristling and leafless and as
fine as threadswere covered with a million tiny white rosettes;
this gave the shrub the air of a head of hair studded with flowers.
There was always an admiring crowd about it.

After viewing the shrubTholomyes exclaimedI offer you asses!
and having agreed upon a price with the owner of the assesthey
returned by way of Vanvres and Issy. At Issy an incident occurred.
The truly national parkat that time owned by Bourguin the contractor
happened to be wide open. They passed the gatesvisited the manikin
anchorite in his grottotried the mysterious little effects of
the famous cabinet of mirrorsthe wanton trap worthy of a satyr
become a millionaire or of Turcaret metamorphosed into a Priapus.
They had stoutly shaken the swing attached to the two chestnut-trees
celebrated by the Abbe de Bernis. As he swung these beauties
one after the otherproducing folds in the fluttering skirts
which Greuze would have found to his tasteamid peals of laughter
the Toulousan Tholomyeswho was somewhat of a Spaniard
Toulouse being the cousin of Tolosasangto a melancholy chant
the old ballad gallegaprobably inspired by some lovely maid dashing
in full flight upon a rope between two trees:-


Soy de Badajoz, Badajoz is my home
Amor me llamaAnd Love is my name;
Toda mi almaTo my eyes in flame
Es en mi ojosAll my soul doth come;
Porque ensenasFor 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,muttered Favourite
with a good deal of acrimony.

After leaving the asses there was a fresh delight; they crossed the


Seine in a boatand proceeding from Passy on foot they reached the
barrier of l'Etoile. They had been up since five o'clock that morning
as the reader will remember; but bah! there is no such thing
as fatigue on Sundaysaid Favourite; on Sunday fatigue does not work.

About three o'clock the four couplesfrightened at their happiness
were sliding down the Russian mountainsa singular edifice which
then occupied the heights of Beaujonand whose undulating line
was visible above the trees of the Champs Elysees.

From time to time Favourite exclaimed:-


And the surprise? I claim the surprise.

Patience,replied Tholomyes.

CHAPTER V

AT BOMBARDA'S

The Russian mountains having been exhaustedthey began to think about
dinner; and the radiant party of eightsomewhat weary at lastbecame
stranded in Bombarda's public housea branch establishment which had been
set up in the Champs-Elysees by that famous restaurant-keeperBombarda
whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivolinear Delorme Alley.

A large but ugly roomwith 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 survey beyond the elms
the quay and the river; a magnificent August sunlight lightly
touching the panes; two tables; upon one of them a triumphant
mountain of bouquetsmingled with the hats of men and women;
at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion
of plattersdishesglassesand bottles; jugs of beer mingled
with flasks of wine; very little order on the tablesome disorder
beneath it;

They made beneath the table
A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable,


says Moliere.

This was the state which the shepherd idylbegun at five o'clock
in the morninghad reached at half-past four in the afternoon.
The sun was setting; their appetites were satisfied.

The Champs-Elyseesfilled with sunshine and with peoplewere nothing
but light and dustthe two things of which glory is composed.
The horses of Marlythose neighing marbleswere prancing in
a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron
of magnificent body-guardswith their clarions at their head
were descending the Avenue de Neuilly; the white flagshowing faintly
rosy in the setting sunfloated over the dome of the Tuileries.
The Place de la Concordewhich had become the Place Louis XV.
once morewas choked with happy promenaders. Many wore the silver
fleur-de-lys suspended from the white-watered ribbonwhich 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 passersbywho formed into circles and applaudedthe then
celebrated Bourbon airwhich was destined to strike the Hundred
Days with lightningand which had for its refrain:-



Rendez-nous notre pere de Gand,
Rendez-nous notre pere.

Give us back our father from Ghent,
Give us back our father.

Groups of dwellers in the suburbsin Sunday arraysometimes even
decorated with the fleur-de-lyslike the bourgeoisscattered over
the large square and the Marigny squarewere playing at rings
and revolving on the wooden horses; others were engaged in drinking;
some journeyman printers had on paper caps; their laughter was audible.
Every thing was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace
and profound royalist security; it was the epoch when a special
and private report of Chief of Police Angeles to the King
on the subject of the suburbs of Paristerminated with these lines:-


Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be
feared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats.
The populace is restless in the provinces; it is not in Paris.
These are very pretty men, Sire. It would take all of two of them
to make one of your grenadiers. There is nothing to be feared on
the part of the populace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable
that the stature of this population should have diminished in the
last fifty years; and the populace of the suburbs is still more
puny than at the time of the Revolution. It is not dangerous.
In short, it is an amiable rabble.

Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform
itself into a lion; that does happenhoweverand in that lies
the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreoverthe cat so
despised by Count 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 Piraeusthere stood on
the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat.
The ingenuous police of the Restoration beheld the populace 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 heno one is
more frankly frivolous and lazy than heno one can better assume
the air 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 ithe is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury.
Give him a pikehe 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 countryhe enlists; is it a question of liberty
he tears up the pavements. Beware! his hair filled with wrathis epic;
his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a chlamys. Take care! he
will make of the first Rue Grenetat which comes to hand Caudine Forks.
When the hour strikesthis man of the faubourgs will grow in stature;
this little man will ariseand his gaze will be terribleand his
breath will become a tempestand there will issue forth from that
slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps.
It isthanks to the suburban man of Paristhat the Revolution
mixed with armsconquers Europe. He sings; it is his delight.
Proportion his song to his natureand you will see! As long as he
has for refrain nothing but la Carmagnolehe only overthrows
Louis XVI.; make him sing the Marseillaiseand he will free
the world.

This note jotted down on the margin of Angles' reportwe will return
to our four couples. The dinneras we have saidwas drawing
to its close.


CHAPTER VI

A CHAPTER IN WHICH THEY ADORE EACH OTHER

Chat at tablethe chat of love; it is as impossible to reproduce
one as the other; the chat of love is a cloud; the chat at table
is smoke.


Fameuil and Dahlia were humming. Tholomyes was drinking.
Zephine was laughingFantine smilingListolier blowing a wooden
trumpet which he had purchased at Saint-Cloud.


Favourite 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 meI would spring after youI would
scratch youI should rend youI would throw you 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 restrain myself,
not at all! Rabble!


Blachevelle threw himself back in his chairin an ecstasy
and closed both eyes proudly.


Dahliaas she atesaid in a low voice to Favouriteamid the uproar:--


So you really idolize him deeply, that Blachevelle of yours?


I? I detest him,replied Favourite in the same toneseizing her
fork again. "He is avaricious. I love the little fellow opposite
me in my house. He is very nicethat young man; do you know him?
One can see that he is an actor by profession. I love actors.
As soon as he comes inhis mother says to him: `Ah! mon Dieu! my
peace of mind is gone. There he goes with his shouting. Butmy dear
you are splitting my head!' So he goes up to rat-ridden garrets
to black holesas high as he can mountand there he sets to singing
declaiminghow 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 is the son of a former precentor of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas.
Ah! he is very nice. He idolizes me sothat one day when he saw
me making batter for some pancakeshe said to me: `Mamsellemake
your gloves into frittersand I will eat them.' It is only
artists who can say such things as that. Ah! he is very nice.
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 I lie! Hey! How I
do lie!"


Favourite pausedand then went on:--


I 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 horrible, here we are
dining in a room with a bed in it, and that disgusts me with life.


CHAPTER VII


THE WISDOM OF THOLOMYES


In the meantimewhile some sangthe rest talked together
tumultuously all at once; it was no longer anything but noise.
Tholomyes intervened.


Let us not talk at random nor too fast,he exclaimed.
Let us reflect, if we wish to be brilliant. Too much improvisation
empties the mind in a stupid way. 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 springtime; if it makes haste, it is done for;
that is to say, it gets frozen. Excess of zeal ruins peach-trees
and apricot-trees. Excess of zeal kills the grace and the mirth
of good dinners. No zeal, gentlemen! Grimod de la Reyniere agrees
with Talleyrand.


A hollow sound of rebellion rumbled through the group.


Leave us in peace, Tholomyes,said Blachevelle.


Down with the tyrant!said Fameuil.


Bombarda, Bombance, and Bambochel!cried Listolier.


Sunday exists,resumed Fameuil.


We are sober,added Listolier.


Tholomyes,remarked Blachevellecontemplate my calmness [mon calme].


You are the Marquis of that,retorted Tholomyes.


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 Tholomyeswith the accent of a man who had
recovered his empireCome to yourselves. This pun which has
fallen from the skies must not be received with too much stupor.
Everything which falls in that way is not necessarily 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 insult the pun! I honor it in proportion
to its merits; nothing more. All 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 St. Peter, Moses on Isaac,
AEschylus on Polynices, Cleopatra on Octavius. And observe that
Cleopatra's pun preceded the battle of Actium, and that had it
not been for it, no one would have remembered 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 witticisms, gayety, jollities, or plays on words.
Listen to me. I have the prudence of Amphiaraus and the baldness
of Caesar. There must be a limit, even to rebuses. Est modus
in rebus.


There must be a limiteven to dinners. You are fond of
apple turnoversladies; do not indulge in them to excess.
Even in the matter of turnoversgood sense and art are requisite.
Gluttony chastises the gluttonGula punit Gulax. Indigestion is
charged by the good God with preaching morality to stomachs.
And remember this: each one of our passionseven lovehas a stomach
which must not be filled too full. In all things the word finis
must be written in good season; self-control must be exercised
when the matter becomes urgent; the bolt must be drawn on appetite;
one must set one's own fantasy to the violinand carry one's self
to the post. The sage is the man who knows howat a given moment
to effect his own arrest. Have some confidence in mefor I have
succeeded to some extent in my study of the lawaccording to the
verdict of my examinationsfor I know the difference between the
question put and the question pendingfor I have sustained a thesis
in Latin upon the manner in which torture was administered at Rome
at the epoch when Munatius Demens was quaestor of the Parricide;
because I am going to be a doctorapparently 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 Felix Tholomyes; I speak well. Happy is he whowhen the
hour strikestakes a heroic resolveand abdicates like Sylla
or Origenes."


Favourite listened with profound attention.


Felix,said shewhat a pretty word! I love that name.
It is Latin; it means prosper.


Tholomyes went on:--


Quirites, gentlemen, caballeros, my friends. Do you wish never to
feel the prick, to do without the nuptial bed, and to brave love?
Nothing more simple. Here is the receipt: lemonade, excessive exercise,
hard labor; work yourself to death, drag blocks, sleep not, hold vigil,
gorge yourself with nitrous beverages, and potions of nymphaeas;
drink emulsions of poppies and agnus castus; season this with
a strict diet, starve yourself, 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.


I prefer a woman,said Listolier.


Woman,resumed Tholomyes; "distrust her. Woe to him who yields
himself to the unstable heart of woman! Woman is perfidious
and disingenuous. She detests the serpent from professional jealousy.
The serpent is the shop over the way."


Tholomyes!cried Blachevelleyou are drunk!


Pardieu,said Tholomyes.


Then be gay,resumed Blachevelle.


I agree to that,responded Tholomyes.


Andrefilling his glasshe rose.



Glory to wine! Nunc te, Bacche, canam! Pardon me ladies;
that is Spanish. And the proof of it, senoras, is this: like people,
like cask. The arrobe of Castile contains sixteen litres; the cantaro
of Alicante, twelve; the almude of the Canaries, twenty-five;
the cuartin of the Balearic Isles, twenty-six; the boot of
Tzar Peter, thirty. Long live that Tzar who was great, and long
live his boot, which 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 idolize you all. O Zephine,
O Josephine, 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 mistake. As for Favourite, O nymphs and muses! one day
when Blachevelle was crossing the gutter in the Rue Guerin-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. They may delude us.
I am called Felix, 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 Liege[2] 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 Fantine; 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 Fantine, know this:
I, Tholomyes, I am all illusion; but she 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 piece of advice:
do not marry; marriage is a graft; it takes well or ill;
avoid that risk. But bah! what am I saying? I am wasting my words.
Girls are incurable on the subject of marriage, and all that we
wise men can say will not prevent the waistcoat-makers 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 is nibbling sugar.
O nibbling sex, your pretty little white teeth 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 the coagulation, and then the
solidification of the blood; hence tubercles in the lungs, hence death.
That is why diabetes borders on consumption. Then, do not crunch sugar,
and you will live. I turn to the men: gentlemen, make conquest,
rob each other of your well-beloved without remorse. Chassez across.
In love there are no friends. Everywhere where there is a pretty
woman hostility is open. No quarter, war to the death! a pretty



woman is a casus belli; a pretty woman is flagrant misdemeanor.
All the invasions of history have been determined by petticoats.
Woman is man's right. Romulus carried off the Sabines; William carried
off the Saxon women; Caesar carried off the Roman women. The man
who is not loved soars like a vulture over the mistresses of other men;
and for my own part, to all those unfortunate men who are widowers,
I throw the sublime proclamation of Bonaparte to the army of Italy:
Soldiersyou are in need of everything; the enemy has it."


[2] Liege: a cork-tree. Pau: a jest on peauskin.
Tholomyes paused.

Take breath, Tholomyes,said Blachevelle.

At the same moment Blachevellesupported by Listolier and Fameuil
struck up to a plaintive airone of those studio songs composed
of the first words which come to handrhymed richly and not at all
as destitute of sense as the gesture of the tree and the sound
of the windwhich have their birth in the vapor of pipesand are
dissipated and take their flight with them. This is the couplet
by which the group replied to Tholomyes' harangue:-


The father turkey-cocks so grave
Some money to an agent gave,
That master good Clermont-Tonnerre
Might be made pope on Saint Johns' 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 Tholomyes' improvisation; he emptied
his glassfilledrefilled itand began again:-


Down with wisdom! Forget all that I have said. Let us be neither
prudes nor prudent men nor prudhommes. I propose 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 everywhere! The nightingale is a gratuitous Elleviou.
Summer, I salute thee! O Luxembourg! O Georgics of the Rue Madame,
and of the Allee de l'Observatoire! O pensive infantry soldiers!
O all those charming nurses who, while they guard the children,
amuse themselves! The pampas of America would please me if I had not
the arcades of the Odeon. 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.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DEATH OF A HORSE

The dinners are better at Edon's than at Bombarda's,exclaimed Zephine.


I prefer Bombarda to Edon,declared Blachevelle. "There is
more luxury. It is more Asiatic. Look at the room downstairs;
there are mirrors [glaces] on the walls."


I prefer them [glaces, ices] on my plate,said Favourite.


Blachevelle persisted:--


Look at the knives. The handles are of silver at Bombarda's
and of bone at Edon's. Now, silver is more valuable than bone.


Except for those who have a silver chin,observed Tholomyes.


He was looking at the dome of the Invalideswhich was visible
from Bombarda's windows.


A pause ensued.


Tholomyes,exclaimed FameuilListolier and I were having
a discussion just now.


A discussion is a good thing,replied Tholomyes; "a quarrel
is better."


We were disputing about philosophy.


Well?


Which do you prefer, Descartes or Spinoza?


Desaugiers,said Tholomyes.


This decree pronouncedhe took a drinkand went on:--


I consent to live. All is not at an end on earth since we can still
talk nonsense. For that I return thanks to the immortal gods.
We lie. One lies, but one laughs. One affirms, but one doubts.
The unexpected bursts forth from the syllogism. That is fine.
There are still human beings here below who know how to open
and close the surprise box of the paradox 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 seventeen fathoms above the level of the sea.
Attention while you drink! three hundred and seventeen fathoms!
and Monsieur Bombarda, the magnificent eating-house keeper, gives you
those three hundred and seventeen fathoms for four francs and
fifty centimes.


Again Fameuil interrupted him:--


Tholomyes, your opinions fix the law. Who is your favorite author?


Ber--


Quin?


No; Choux.


And Tholomyes continued:--


Honor to Bombarda! He would equal Munophis of Elephanta if he
could but get me an Indian dancing-girl, and Thygelion of Chaeronea
if he could bring me a Greek courtesan; for, oh, ladies! there



were Bombardas in Greece and in Egypt. Apuleius tells us of them.
Alas! always the same, and nothing new; nothing more unpublished
by the creator in creation! Nil sub sole novum, says Solomon;
amor omnibus idem, says Virgil; and Carabine mounts with Carabin into
the bark at Saint-Cloud, as Aspasia embarked with Pericles upon 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 creature in whom
two extremes of womanhood met; she was the goddess prostitute;
Socrates plus Manon Lescaut. Aspasia was created in case a mistress
should be needed for Prometheus.


Tholomyesonce startedwould 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 dead halt.
It was a Beauceron mareold and thinand one fit for the knacker
which was dragging a very heavy cart. On arriving in front of Bombarda's
the worn-outexhausted 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
Matin (the jade)backed up with a pitiless cut of the whip
when the jade fellnever to rise again. On hearing the hubbub made
by the passersbyTholomyes' merry auditors turned their heads
and Tholomyes took advantage of the opportunity to bring his allocution
to a close with this melancholy strophe:--


Elle etait de ce monde ou coucous et carrosses[3]
Ont le meme destin;
Et, rosse, elle a vecu ce que vivant les rosses,
L'espace d'un matin!


[3] She belonged to that circle where cuckoos and carriages share
the same fate; and a jade herselfshe livedas jades live
for the space of a morning (or jade).
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 Favouritefolding her arms and throwing her head back
looked resolutely at Tholomyes and said:--


Come, now! the surprise?


Exactly. The moment has arrived,replied Tholomyes.
Gentlemen, the hour for giving these ladies a surprise has struck.
Wait for us a moment, ladies.


It begins with a kiss,said Blachevelle.


On the brow,added Tholomyes.


Each gravely bestowed a kiss on his mistress's brow; then all four
filed out through the doorwith 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."

CHAPTER IX

A MERRY END TO MIRTH

When the young girls were left alonethey leaned two by two on
the window-sillschattingcraning out their headsand talking
from one window to the other.

They saw the young men emerge from the Cafe Bombarda arm in arm.
The latter turned roundmade signs to themsmiledand disappeared
in that dusty Sunday throng which makes a weekly invasion into the
Champs-Elysees.

Don't be long!cried Fantine.

What are they going to bring us?said Zephine.

It will certainly be something pretty,said Dahlia.

For my part,said FavouriteI want it to be of gold.

Their attention was soon distracted by the movements on the shore
of the lakewhich they could see through the branches of the
large treesand which diverted them greatly.

It was the hour for the departure of the mail-coaches and diligences.
Nearly all the stage-coaches for the south and west passed through
the Champs-Elysees. The majority followed the quay and went through
the Passy Barrier. From moment to momentsome huge vehicle
painted yellow and blackheavily loadednoisily harnessed
rendered shapeless by trunkstarpaulinsand valisesfull of heads
which immediately disappearedrushed through the crowd with all
the sparks of a forgewith dust for smokeand an air of fury
grinding the pavementschanging all the paving-stones into steels.
This uproar delighted the young girls. Favourite exclaimed:-


What a row! One would say that it was a pile of chains flying away.

It chanced that one of these vehicleswhich they could only see
with difficulty through the thick elmshalted for a moment
then set out again at a gallop. This surprised Fantine.

That's odd!said she. "I thought the diligence never stopped."

Favourite shrugged her shoulders.

This Fantine is surprising. I am coming to take a look at her out
of curiosity. She is dazzled by the simplest things. Suppose a case:
I am a traveller; I say to the diligence, `I will go on in advance;
you shall pick me up on the quay as you pass.' The diligence passes,
sees me, halts, and takes me. That is done every day. You do not
know life, my dear.

In this manner a certain time elapsed. All at once Favourite made
a movementlike a person who is just waking up.

Well,said sheand the surprise?


Yes, by the way,joined in Dahliathe famous surprise?

They are a very long time about it!said Fantine.

As Fantine concluded this sighthe waiter who had served them
at dinner entered. He held in his hand something which resembled
a letter.

What is that?demanded Favourite.

The waiter replied:-


It is a paper that those gentlemen left for these ladies.

Why did you not bring it at once?

Because,said the waiterthe gentlemen ordered me not to deliver
it to the ladies for an hour.

Favourite snatched the paper from the waiter's hand. It was
in facta letter.

Stop!said she; "there is no address; but this is what is written
on it--"

THIS IS THE SURPRISE.

She tore the letter open hastilyopened itand read [she knew
how to read]:--


OUR BELOVED:--


You must know that we have parents. Parents--you do not know much
about such things. They are called fathers and mothers by the
civil codewhich is puerile and honest. Nowthese parents groan
these old folks implore usthese good men and these good women call us
prodigal sons; they desire our returnand offer to kill calves for us.
Being virtuouswe obey them. At the hour when you read this
five fiery horses will be bearing us to our papas and mammas. We are
pulling up our stakesas Bossuet says. We are going; we are gone.
We flee in the arms of Lafitte and on the wings of Caillard.
The Toulouse diligence tears us from the abyssand the abyss
is youO our little beauties! We return to societyto duty
to respectabilityat full trotat the rate of three leagues an hour.
It is necessary for the good of the country that we should be
like the rest of the worldprefectsfathers of familiesrural police
and councillors of state. Venerate us. We are sacrificing ourselves.
Mourn for us in hasteand replace us with speed. If this letter
lacerates youdo the same by it. Adieu.


For the space of nearly two years we have made you happy.
We bear you no grudge for that.


Signed:
BLACHEVELLE.
FAMUEIL.
LISTOLIER.
FELIX THOLOMYES.

Postscriptum. The dinner is paid for.

The four young women looked at each other.


Favourite was the first to break the silence.

Well!she exclaimedit's a very pretty farce, all the same.

It is very droll,said Zephine.

That must have been Blachevelle's idea,resumed Favourite.
It makes me in love with him. No sooner is he gone than he is loved.
This is an adventure, indeed.


No,said Dahlia; "it was one of Tholomyes' ideas. That is evident.


In that case,retorted Favouritedeath to Blachevelle, and long
live Tholomyes!


Long live Tholomyes!exclaimed Dahlia and Zephine.


And they burst out laughing.


Fantine laughed with the rest.


An hour laterwhen she had returned to her roomshe wept.
It was her first love affairas we have said; she had given herself
to this Tholomyes as to a husbandand the poor girl had a child.


BOOK FOURTH.--TO CONFIDE IS SOMETIMES TO DELIVER INTO A PERSON'S
POWER


CHAPTER I


ONE MOTHER MEETS ANOTHER MOTHER


There wasat Montfermeilnear Parisduring the first quarter
of this centurya sort of cook-shop which no longer exists.
This cook-shop was kept by some people named Thenardier
husband and wife. It was situated in Boulanger Lane. Over the door
there was a board nailed flat against the wall. Upon this board
was painted something which resembled a man carrying another man on
his backthe latter wearing the big gilt epaulettes of a general
with large silver stars; red spots represented blood; the rest of
the picture consisted of smokeand probably represented a battle.
Below ran this inscription: AT THE SIGN OF SERGEANT OF WATERLOO
(Au Sargent de Waterloo).


Nothing is more common than a cart or a truck at the door of
a hostelry. Neverthelessthe vehicleorto speak more accurately
the fragment of a vehiclewhich encumbered the street in front
of the cook-shop of the Sergeant of Waterlooone evening in the
spring of 1818would certainly have attractedby its mass
the attention of any painter who had passed that way.


It was the fore-carriage of one of those trucks which are used
in wooded tracts of countryand which serve to transport thick
planks and the trunks of trees. This fore-carriage was composed
of a massive iron axle-tree with a pivotinto which was fitted
a heavy shaftand which was supported by two huge wheels.
The whole thing was compactoverwhelmingand misshapen.
It seemed like the gun-carriage of an enormous cannon. The ruts of



the road had bestowed on the wheelsthe felliesthe hubthe axle
and the shafta layer of muda hideous yellowish daubing hue
tolerably like that with which people are fond of ornamenting cathedrals.
The wood was disappearing under mudand the iron beneath rust.
Under the axle-tree hunglike draperya huge chainworthy of
some Goliath of a convict. This chain suggestednot the beams
which it was its office to transportbut the mastodons and mammoths
which it might have served to harness; it had the air of the galleys
but of cyclopean and superhuman galleysand it seemed to have been
detached from some monster. Homer would have bound Polyphemus with it
and ShakespeareCaliban.


Why was that fore-carriage of a truck in that place in the street?
In the first placeto encumber the street; nextin order
that it might finish the process of rusting. There is a throng
of institutions in the old social orderwhich one comes across
in this fashion as one walks about outdoorsand which have
no other reasons for existence than the above.


The centre of the chain swung very near the ground in the middle
and in the loopas in the rope of a swingthere were seated
and groupedon that particular eveningin exquisite interlacement
two little girls; one about two years and a half oldthe other
eighteen months; the younger in the arms of the other. A handkerchief
cleverly knotted about themprevented their falling out.
A mother had caught sight of that frightful chainand had said
Come! there's a plaything for my children.


The two childrenwho were dressed prettily and with some elegance
were radiant with pleasure; one would have said that they were two
roses amid old iron; their eyes were a triumph; their fresh cheeks
were full of laughter. One had chestnut hair; the otherbrown.
Their innocent faces were two delighted surprises; a blossoming
shrub which grew near wafted to the passers-by perfumes which seemed
to emanate from them; the child of eighteen months displayed her
pretty little bare stomach with the chaste indecency of childhood.
Above and around these two delicate headsall made of happiness
and steeped in lightthe gigantic fore-carriageblack with rust
almost terribleall entangled in curves and wild angles
rose in a vaultlike the entrance of a cavern. A few paces apart
crouching down upon the threshold of the hostelrythe mother
not a very prepossessing womanby the waythough touching at
that momentwas swinging the two children by means of a long cord
watching them carefullyfor fear of accidentswith that animal
and celestial expression which is peculiar to maternity. At every
backward and forward swing the hideous links emitted a strident sound
which resembled a cry of rage; the little girls were in ecstasies;
the setting sun mingled in this joyand 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 onesthe mother hummed in a discordant
voice a romance then celebrated:--


It must be, said a warrior.

Her songand the contemplation of her daughtersprevented her
hearing and seeing what was going on in the street.

In the meantimesome one had approached heras she was beginning
the first couplet of the romanceand 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 mothercontinuing her romance; then she turned her head.

A woman stood before hera few paces distant. This woman also
had a childwhich she carried in her arms.


She was carryingin additiona large carpet-bagwhich seemed
very heavy.


This woman's child was one of the most divine creatures that it
is possible to behold. lt was a girltwo or three years of age.
She could have entered into competition with the two other little ones
so far as the coquetry of her dress was concerned; she wore a cap of
fine linenribbons on her bodiceand Valenciennes lace on her cap.
The folds of her skirt were raised so as to permit a view of her
whitefirmand dimpled leg. She 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 knownexcept that
they must be very largeand that they had magnificent lashes.
She was asleep.


She slept with that slumber of absolute confidence peculiar
to her age. The arms of mothers are made of tenderness; in them
children sleep profoundly.


As for the motherher appearance was sad and poverty-stricken.
She was dressed like a working-woman who is inclined to turn into
a peasant again. She was young. Was she handsome? Perhaps; but in
that attire it was not apparent. Her haira golden lock of which
had escapedseemed very thickbut was severely concealed beneath
an uglytightclosenun-like captied 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 handkerchief
such as the Invalides usewas folded into a fichuand concealed her
figure clumsily. Her hands were sunburnt and all dotted with freckles
her forefinger was hardened and lacerated with the needle; she wore
a cloak of coarse brown woollen stuffa linen gownand coarse shoes.
It was Fantine.


It was Fantinebut difficult to recognize. Neverthelesson scrutinizing
her attentivelyit was evident that she still retained her beauty.
A melancholy foldwhich resembled the beginning of irony
wrinkled her right cheek. As for her toilettethat aerial toilette
of muslin and ribbonswhich seemed made of mirthof folly
and of musicfull of bellsand perfumed with lilacs had vanished
like that beautiful and dazzling hoar-frost which is mistaken
for diamonds in the sunlight; it melts and leaves the branch quite black.


Ten months had elapsed since the "pretty farce."


What had taken place during those ten months? It can be divined.


After abandonmentstraightened circumstances. Fantine had
immediately lost sight of FavouriteZephine and Dahlia; the bond
once broken on the side of the menit was loosed between the women;



they would have been greatly astonished had any one told them
a fortnight laterthat they had been friends; there no longer
existed any reason for such a thing. Fantine had remained alone.
The father of her child gone--alas! such ruptures are irrevocable-she
found herself absolutely isolatedminus the habit of work and plus
the taste for pleasure. Drawn away by her liaison with Tholomyes
to disdain the pretty trade which she knewshe had neglected to keep
her market open; it was now closed to her. She had no resource.
Fantine barely knew how to readand 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 Tholomyes
then a secondthen a third. Tholomyes replied to none of them.
Fantine heard the gossips sayas they looked at her child:
Who takes those children seriously! One only shrugs one's shoulders
over such children!Then she thought of Tholomyeswho had shrugged
his shoulders over his childand 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 committed a faultbut the foundation of her nature
as will be rememberedwas modesty and virtue. She was vaguely
conscious that she was on the verge of falling into distress
and of gliding into a worse state. Courage was necessary;
she possessed itand held herself firm. The idea of returning to
her native town of M. sur M. occurred to her. Theresome one might
possibly know her and give her work; yesbut 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 contractedbut she took her resolution. Fantineas we
shall seehad the fierce bravery of life. She had already
valiantly renounced fineryhad dressed herself in linenand had
put all her silksall her ornamentsall her ribbonsand all
her laces on her daughterthe only vanity which was left to her
and a holy one it was. She sold all that she hadwhich produced
for her two hundred francs; her little debts paidshe had only
about eighty francs left. At the age of twenty-twoon a beautiful
spring morningshe quitted Parisbearing her child on her back.
Any one who had seen these two pass would have had pity on them.
This woman hadin all the worldnothing but her childand the
child hadin all the worldno one but this woman. Fantine had
nursed her childand this had tired her chestand she coughed
a little.

We shall have no further occasion to speak of M. Felix Tholomyes.
Let us confine ourselves to sayingthattwenty years later
under King Louis Philippehe was a great provincial lawyer
wealthy and influentiala wise electorand a very severe juryman;
he was still a man of pleasure.

Towards the middle of the dayafter havingfrom time to time
for the sake of resting herselftravelledfor three or four sous
a leaguein what was then known as the Petites Voitures des Environs
de Paristhe "little suburban coach service Fantine found herself
at Montfermeil, in the alley Boulanger.

As she passed the Thenardier hostelry, the two little girls,
blissful in the monster swing, had dazzled her in a manner, and she
had halted in front of that vision of joy.

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 HERE of Providence. These two little
creatures were evidently happy. She 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 childrenMadame."

The most ferocious creatures are disarmed by caresses bestowed
on their young.

The mother raised her head and thanked herand bade the wayfarer
sit down on the bench at the doorshe herself being seated
on the threshold. The two women began to chat.

My name is Madame Thenardier,said the mother of the two little girls.
We keep this inn.

Thenher mind still running on her romanceshe resumed humming
between her teeth:-


It must be so; I am a knight,
And I am off to Palestine.

This Madame Thenardier was a sandy-complexioned womanthin and angular--
the type of the soldier's wife in all its unpleasantness;
and what was oddwith a languishing airwhich she owed to her
perusal of romances. She was a simperingbut 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 uprighther lofty stature and her
frame of a perambulating colossus suitable for fairsmight have
frightened the traveller at the outsettroubled 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 storywith slight modifications.


That she was a working-woman; that her husband was dead;
that her work in Paris had failed herand that she was on her way
to seek it elsewherein her own native parts; that she had left
Paris that morning on foot; thatas she was carrying her child
and felt fatiguedshe had got into the Villemomble coach when she
met it; that from Villemomble she had come to Montfermeil on foot;
that the little one had walked a littlebut not muchbecause she
was so youngand that she had been obliged to 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 her eyesgreat blue eyes like
her mother'sand looked at--what? Nothing; with that serious
and sometimes severe air of little childrenwhich is a mystery
of their 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 hershe 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 shortand put out her tonguein sign of admiration.


Mother Thenardier released her daughtersmade them descend from
the swingand said:--



Now amuse yourselves, all three of you.

Children become acquainted quickly at that ageand at the expiration
of a minute the little Thenardiers were playing with the new-comer
at making holes in the groundwhich 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 shoveland energetically dug a cavity big
enough for a fly. The grave-digger's business becomes a subject
for laughter when performed by a child.

The two women pursued their chat.

What is your little one's name?

Cosette.

For Cosetteread Euphrasie. The child's name was Euphrasie.
But out of Euphrasie the mother had made Cosette by that sweet
and graceful instinct of mothers and of the populace which changes
Josepha into Pepitaand Francoise into Sillette. It is a sort
of derivative which disarranges and disconcerts the whole science
of etymologists. We have known a grandmother who succeeded in turning
Theodore into Gnon.

How old is she?

She is going on three.

That is the age of my eldest.

In the meantimethe three little girls were grouped in an attitude
of profound anxiety and blissfulness; an event had happened;
a big worm had emerged from the groundand they were afraid;
and they were in ecstasies over it.

Their radiant brows touched each other; one would have said
that there were three heads in one aureole.

How easily children get acquainted at once!exclaimed Mother Thenardier;
one would swear that they were three sisters!

This remark was probably the spark which the other mother had been
waiting for. She seized the Thenardier's handlooked at her fixedly
and said:-


Will you keep my child for me?

The Thenardier 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 work
will not permit it. With a child one can find no situation.
People are ridiculous in the country. It was the good God who caused
me to pass your inn. When I caught sight of your little ones,
so pretty, so clean, and so happy, it overwhelmed me. I said:
`Here is a good mother. That is just the thing; that will make
three sisters.' And then, it will not be long before I return.
Will you keep my child for me?

I must see about it,replied the Thenardier.


I will give you six francs a month.

Here a man's voice called from the depths of the cook-shop:-


Not for less than seven francs. And six months paid in advance.

Six times seven makes forty-two,said the Thenardier.

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 Thenardier. And she
hummed vaguelywith these figures:-


It must be, said a warrior.

I will pay it,said the mother. "I have eighty francs. I shall
have enough left to reach the countryby travelling on foot.
I shall earn money thereand as soon as I have a little I will return
for my darling."


The man's voice resumed:--


The little one has an outfit?


That is my husband,said the Thenardier.


Of course she has an outfit, the poor treasure.--I understood
perfectly that it was your husband.--And a beautiful outfit,
too! a senseless outfit, everything by the dozen, and silk gowns
like a lady. It is here, in my carpet-bag.


You must hand it over,struck in the man's voice again.


Of course I shall give it to you,said the mother. "It would
be very queer if I were to leave my 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 her childfastened her carpet-bag
once morenow reduced in volume by the removal of the outfit
and light henceforth and set out on the following morning
intending to return soon. People arrange such departures tranquilly;
but they are despairs!


A neighbor of the Thenardiers 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 departurethe 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 you know



that I 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.


CHAPTER II


FIRST SKETCH OF TWO UNPREPOSSESSING FIGURES


The mouse which had been caught was a pitiful specimen; but the cat
rejoices even over a lean mouse.


Who were these Thenardiers?


Let us say a word or two of them now. We will complete the sketch
later on.


These beings belonged to that bastard class composed of coarse
people who have been successfuland of intelligent people who have
descended in the scalewhich is between the 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 generous impulse of the workingman nor
the honest order of the bourgeois.


They were of those dwarfed natures which, if a dull fire 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.
Both were susceptible, in the highest degree, of the sort of hideous
progress which is accomplished in the direction of evil. There exist
crab-like souls which are continually retreating towards the darkness,
retrograding in life rather than advancing, employing experience
to augment their deformity, growing incessantly worse, and becoming
more and more impregnated with an ever-augmenting blackness.
This man and woman possessed such souls.


Thenardier, in particular, was troublesome for a physiognomist.
One can only look at some men to distrust them; for one feels that
they are dark in both directions. They are uneasy in the rear and
threatening in front. There is something 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 and of sombre
mysteries in their future.


This Thenardier, 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 allusion 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 Clelie, was no longer anything but Lodoiska, still noble, but ever
more and more vulgar, having fallen from Mademoiselle de Scuderi
to Madame Bournon-Malarme, and from Madame de Lafayette to Madame
Barthelemy-Hadot, was setting the loving hearts of the portresses
of Paris aflame, and even ravaging the suburbs to some extent.
Madame Thenardier 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, and even a little later, a sort
of pensive attitude towards her husband, a scamp of a certain 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 lout. His wife was
twelve or fifteen years younger than he was. Later on, when her hair,
arranged in a romantically drooping fashion, began to grow gray,
when the Magaera began to be developed from the Pamela, the female
Thenardier was nothing but a coarse, vicious woman, who had dabbled
in stupid romances. Now, one cannot read nonsense with impunity.
The result was that her eldest daughter was named Eponine; as for
the younger, the poor little thing came near being called Gulnare;
I know not to what diversion, effected by a romance of Ducray-Dumenil,
she owed the fact that 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 baptismal 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 Arthur, 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 inspiration is there as everywhere else.
Beneath this apparent discord there is a great and a profound thing--
the French Revolution.


CHAPTER III


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 francsThenardier had 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 Parisand pawned it at the pawnbroker's for sixty francs.
As soon as that sum was spentthe Thenardiers 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 clothesthey dressed her in the cast-off petticoats
and chemises of the Thenardier brats; that is to sayin rags.
They fed her on what all the rest had left--a little better than the dog
a little worse than the cat. Moreoverthe cat and the dog were her
habitual table-companions; Cosette ate with them under the table
from a wooden bowl similar to theirs.


The motherwho had established herselfas we shall see later on
at M. sur M.wroteormore correctlycaused to be written
a letter every monththat she might have news of her child.
The Thenardiers replied invariablyCosette is doing wonderfully well.


At the expiration of the first six months the mother sent seven
francs for the seventh monthand continued her remittances
with tolerable regularity from month to month. The year was not
completed when Thenardier 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 motherwhom they had
persuaded into the belief that her child was happyand was coming
on well,submittedand forwarded the twelve francs.


Certain natures cannot love on the one hand without hating on
the other. Mother Thenardier loved her two daughters passionately
which caused her to hate the stranger.


It is sad to think that the love of a mother can possess
villainous aspects. Little as was the space occupied by Cosette
it seemed to her as though it were taken from her ownand that
that little child diminished the air which her daughters breathed.
This womanlike many women of her sorthad a load of caresses
and a burden of blows and injuries to dispense each day.
If she had not had Cosetteit is certain that her daughters
idolized as they werewould have received the whole of it;
but the stranger did them the service to divert the blows to herself.
Her daughters received nothing but caresses. Cosette could not make
a motion which did not draw down upon her head a heavy shower of
violent blows and unmerited chastisement. The sweetfeeble being
who should not have understood anything of this world or of God
incessantly punishedscoldedill-usedbeatenand seeing beside
her two little creatures like herselfwho lived in a ray of dawn!


Madame Thenardier was vicious with Cosette. Eponine and Azelma
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 Thenardiers 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 forgotten her.


In the meanwhileThenardierhaving learnedit is impossible
to say by what obscure meansthat the child was probably a bastard
and that the mother could not acknowledge itexacted fifteen francs
a monthsaying that "the creature" was growing and "eating and
threatening to send her away. Let her not bother me he exclaimed,
or I'll fire her brat right into the middle of her secrets.
I must have an increase." The mother paid the fifteen francs.


From year to year the child grewand so did her wretchedness.


As long as Cosette was littleshe was the scape-goat of the
two other children; as soon as she began to develop a little
that is to saybefore she was even five years oldshe became
the servant of the household.


Five years old! the reader will say; that is not probable.
Alas! it is true. Social suffering begins at all ages.
Have we not recently seen the trial of a man named Dumollard
an orphan turned banditwhofrom the age of fiveas the official
documents statebeing alone in the worldworked for his living
and stole?


Cosette was made to run on errandsto sweep the roomsthe courtyard
the streetto wash the dishesto even carry burdens. The Thenardiers
considered themselves all the more authorized to behave in this manner
since the motherwho was still at M. sur M.had become irregular



in her payments. Some months she was in arrears.


If this mother had returned to Montfermeil at the end of these three
yearsshe would not have recognized her child. Cosetteso pretty
and rosy on her arrival in that housewas now thin and pale.
She had an indescribably uneasy look. "The sly creature
said the Thenardiers.


Injustice had made her peevish, and misery had made her ugly.
Nothing remained to her except her beautiful eyes, which inspired
pain, because, large as they were, it seemed as though one beheld
in them a still larger amount of sadness.


It was a heart-breaking thing to see this poor child, not yet
six years old, shivering in the winter in her old rags of linen,
full of holes, sweeping the street before daylight, with an enormous
broom in her tiny red hands, and a tear in her great eyes.


She was called the Lark in the neighborhood. The populace, who are
fond of these figures of speech, had taken a fancy to bestow this
name on this trembling, frightened, and shivering little creature,
no bigger than a bird, who was awake every morning before any one
else in the house or the village, and was always in the street
or the fields before daybreak.


Only the little lark never sang.


BOOK FIFTH.--THE DESCENT.


CHAPTER I


THE HISTORY OF A PROGRESS IN BLACK GLASS TRINKETS


And in the meantime, what had become of that mother who according
to the people at Montfermeil, seemed to have abandoned her child?
Where was she? What was she doing?


After leaving her little Cosette with the Thenardiers, she had
continued her journey, and had reached M. sur M.


This, it will be remembered, was in 1818.


Fantine had quitted her province ten years before. M. sur M. had
changed its aspect. While Fantine had been slowly descending
from wretchedness to wretchedness, her native town had prospered.


About two years previously one of those industrial facts which are
the grand events of small districts had taken place.


This detail is important, and we regard it as useful to develop it
at length; we should almost say, to underline it.


From time immemorial, M. sur M. had had for its special industry
the imitation of English jet and the black glass trinkets of Germany.
This industry had always vegetated, on account of the high
price of the raw material, which reacted on the manufacture.
At the moment when Fantine returned to M. sur M., an unheard-of
transformation had taken place in the production of black goods."
Towards the close of 1815 a mana strangerhad established himself



in the townand had been inspired with the idea of substituting
in this manufacturegum-lac for resinandfor bracelets in particular
slides of sheet-iron simply laid togetherfor slides of soldered
sheet-iron.

This very small change had effected a revolution.

This very small change hadin factprodigiously reduced the cost
of the raw materialwhich had rendered it possible in the first place
to raise the price of manufacturea benefit to the country;
in the second placeto improve the workmanshipan advantage
to the consumer; in the third placeto sell at a lower price
while trebling the profitwhich was a benefit to the manufacturer.

Thus three results ensued from one idea.

In less than three years the inventor of this process had
become richwhich is goodand had made every one about him rich
which is better. He was a stranger in the Department. Of his origin
nothing was known; of the beginning of his careervery little.
It was rumored that he had come to town with very little money
a few hundred francs at the most.

It was from this slender capitalenlisted in the service of an
ingenious ideadeveloped by method and thoughtthat he had drawn
his own fortuneand the fortune of the whole countryside.

On his arrival at M. sur M. he had only the garmentsthe appearance
and the language of a workingman.

It appears that on the very day when he made his obscure entry into
the little town of M. sur M.just at nightfallon a December evening
knapsack on back and thorn club in handa large fire had broken
out in the town-hall. This man had rushed into the flames and saved
at the risk of his own lifetwo children who belonged to the
captain of the gendarmerie; this is why they had forgotten to ask
him for his passport. Afterwards they had learned his name.
He was called Father Madeleine.

CHAPTER II

MADELEINE

He was a man about fifty years of agewho had a preoccupied air
and who was good. That was all that could be said about him.

Thanks to the rapid progress of the industry which he had so
admirably re-constructedM. sur M. had become a rather important
centre of trade. Spainwhich consumes a good deal of black jet
made enormous purchases there each year. M. sur M. almost rivalled
London and Berlin in this branch of commerce. Father Madeleine's
profits were suchthat at the end of the second year he was able
to erect a large factoryin which there were two vast workrooms
one for the menand the other for women. Any one who was hungry
could present himself thereand was sure of finding employment
and bread. Father Madeleine required of the men good will
of the women pure moralsand of allprobity. He had separated
the work-rooms in order to separate the sexesand so that the women
and girls might remain discreet. On this point he was inflexible.
It was the only thing in which he was in a manner intolerant.
He was all the more firmly set on this severitysince M. sur M.


being a garrison townopportunities for corruption abounded.
Howeverhis coming had been a boonand his presence was a godsend.
Before Father Madeleine's arrivaleverything had languished
in the country; now everything lived with a healthy life of toil.
A strong circulation warmed everything and penetrated everywhere.
Slack seasons and wretchedness were unknown. There was no pocket so
obscure that it had not a little money in it; no dwelling so lowly that
there was not some little joy within it.


Father Madeleine gave employment to every one. He exacted
but one thing: Be an honest man. Be an honest woman.


As we have saidin the midst of this activity of which he was the
cause and the pivotFather Madeleine made his fortune; but a singular
thing in a simple man of businessit did not seem as though that
were his chief care. He appeared to be thinking much of others
and little of himself. In 1820 he was known to have a sum of six
hundred and thirty thousand francs lodged in his name with Laffitte;
but before reserving these six hundred and thirty thousand francs
he had spent more than a million for the town and its poor.


The hospital was badly endowed; he founded six beds there. M. sur


M. is divided into the upper and the lower town. The lower town
in which he livedhad but one schoola miserable hovelwhich was
falling to ruin: he constructed twoone for girlsthe other for boys.
He allotted a salary from his own funds to the two instructors
a salary twice as large as their meagre official salaryand one
day he said to some one who expressed surpriseThe two prime
functionaries of the state are the nurse and the schoolmaster.
He created at his own expense an infant schoola thing then almost
unknown in Franceand a fund for aiding old and infirm workmen.
As his factory was a centrea new quarterin which there were a good
many indigent familiesrose rapidly around him; he established there
a free dispensary.
At firstwhen they watched his beginningsthe good souls said
He's a jolly fellow who means to get rich.When they saw him
enriching the country before he enriched himselfthe good souls said
He is an ambitious man.This seemed all the more probable
since the man was religiousand even practised his religion
to a certain degreea thing which was very favorably viewed
at that epoch. He went regularly to low mass every Sunday.
The local deputywho nosed out all rivalry everywheresoon began
to grow uneasy over this religion. This deputy had been a member
of the legislative body of the Empireand shared the religious
ideas of a father of the Oratoireknown under the name of Fouche
Duc d'Otrantewhose creature and friend he had been. He indulged
in gentle raillery at God with closed doors. But when he beheld
the wealthy manufacturer Madeleine going to low mass at seven o'clock
he perceived in him a possible candidateand resolved to outdo him;
he took a Jesuit confessorand went to high mass and to vespers.
Ambition was at that timein the direct acceptation of the word
a race to the steeple. The poor profited by this terror as well
as the good Godfor the honorable deputy also founded two beds in
the hospitalwhich made twelve.

Neverthelessin 1819 a rumor one morning circulated through the
town to the effect thaton the representations of the prefect
and in consideration of the services rendered by him to the country
Father Madeleine was to be appointed by the Kingmayor of M. sur

M. Those who had pronounced this new-comer to be "an ambitious fellow
seized with delight on this opportunity which all men desire,
to exclaim, There! what did we say!" All M. sur M. was in an uproar.
The rumor was well founded. Several days later the appointment appeared

in the Moniteur. On the following day Father Madeleine refused.


In this same year of 1819 the products of the new process invented
by Madeleine figured in the industrial exhibition; when the jury
made their reportthe King appointed the inventor a chevalier
of the Legion of Honor. A fresh excitement in the little town.
Wellso it was the cross that he wanted! Father Madeleine refused
the cross.


Decidedly this man was an enigma. The good souls got out of their
predicament by sayingAfter all, he is some sort of an adventurer.


We have seen that the country owed much to him; the poor owed
him everything; he was so useful and he was so gentle that people had been
obliged to honor and respect him. His workmenin particularadored him
and he endured this adoration with a sort of melancholy gravity.
When he was known to be richpeople in societybowed to him
and he received invitations in the town; he was calledin town
Monsieur Madeleine; his workmen and the children continued to call him
Father Madeleineand that was what was most adapted to make him smile.
In proportion as he mountedthroveinvitations rained down upon him.
Societyclaimed him for its own. The prim little drawing-rooms on


M. sur M.whichof coursehad at first been closed to the artisan
opened both leaves of their folding-doors to the millionnaire.
They made a thousand advances to him. He refused.
This time the good gossips had no trouble. "He is an ignorant man
of no education. No one knows where he came from. He would not
know how to behave in society. It has not been absolutely proved
that he knows how to read."


When they saw him making moneythey saidHe is a man of business.
When they saw him scattering his money aboutthey saidHe is
an ambitious man.When he was seen to decline honorsthey said
He is an adventurer.When they saw him repulse societythey said
He is a brute.


In 1820five years after his arrival in M. sur M.the services
which he had rendered to the district were so dazzlingthe opinion
of the whole country round about was so unanimousthat the King
again appointed him mayor of the town. He again declined;
but the prefect resisted his refusalall the notabilities of the
place came to implore himthe people in the street besought him;
the urging was so vigorous that he ended by accepting.
It was noticed that the thing which seemed chiefly to bring him
to a decision was the almost irritated apostrophe addressed to him
by an old woman of the peoplewho called to him from her threshold
in an angry way: "A good mayor is a useful thing. Is he drawing
back before the good which he can do?"


This was the third phase of his ascent. Father Madeleine had become
Monsieur Madeleine. Monsieur Madeleine became Monsieur le Maire.


CHAPTER III


SUMS DEPOSITED WITH LAFFITTE


On the other handhe remained as simple as on the first day.
He had gray haira serious eyethe sunburned complexion of a laborer
the thoughtful visage of a philosopher. He habitually wore a hat with
a wide brimand a long coat of coarse clothbuttoned to the chin.



He fulfilled his duties as mayor; butwith that exceptionhe lived
in solitude. He spoke to but few people. He avoided polite attentions;
he escaped quickly; he smiled to relieve himself of the necessity
of talking; he gavein order to get rid of the necessity for smiling
The women said of himWhat a good-natured bear!His pleasure
consisted in strolling in the fields.


He always took his meals alonewith an open book before him
which he read. He had a well-selected little library. He loved books;
books are cold but safe friends. In proportion as leisure came
to him with fortunehe seemed to take advantage of it to cultivate
his mind. It had been observed thatever since his arrival
at M. sur M.. his language had grown more polishedmore choice
and more gentle with every passing year. He liked to carry
a gun with him on his strollsbut he rarely made use of it.
When he did happen to do sohis shooting was something so infallible
as to inspire terror. He never killed an inoffensive animal.
He never shot at a little bird.


Although he was no longer youngit was thought that he was still
prodigiously strong. He offered his assistance to any one who was
in need of itlifted a horsereleased a wheel clogged in the mud
or stopped a runaway bull by the horns. He always had his pockets
full of money when he went out; but they were empty on his return.
When he passed through a villagethe ragged brats ran joyously
after himand surrounded him like a swarm of gnats.


It was thought that he mustin the pasthave lived a country life
since he knew all sorts of useful secretswhich he taught
to the peasants. He taught them how to destroy scurf on wheat
by sprinkling it and the granary and inundating the cracks in
the floor with a solution of common salt; and how to chase away
weevils by hanging up orviot in bloom everywhereon the walls
and the ceilingsamong the grass and in the houses.


He had "recipes" for exterminating from a fieldblighttares
foxtailand all parasitic growths which destroy the wheat.
He defended a rabbit warren against ratssimply by the odor
of a guinea-pig which he placed in it.


One day he saw some country people busily engaged in pulling up nettles;
he examined the plantswhich were uprooted and already dried
and said: "They are dead. Neverthelessit would be a good thing
to know how to make use of them. When the nettle is youngthe leaf
makes an excellent vegetable; when it is olderit has filaments and
fibres like hemp and flax. Nettle cloth is as good as linen cloth.
Chopped upnettles are good for poultry; poundedthey are good
for horned cattle. The seed of the nettlemixed with fodder
gives gloss to the hair of animals; the rootmixed with salt
produces a beautiful yellow coloring-matter. Moreoverit is an
excellent haywhich can be cut twice. And what is required for
the nettle? A little soilno careno culture. Only the seed falls
as it is ripeand it is difficult to collect it. That is all.
With the exercise of a little carethe nettle could be made useful;
it is neglected and it becomes hurtful. It is exterminated. How many
men resemble the nettle!" He addedafter a pause: "Remember this
my friends: there are no such things as bad plants or bad men.
There are only bad cultivators."


The children loved him because he knew how to make charming little
trifles of straw and cocoanuts.


When he saw the door of a church hung in blackhe entered:
he sought out funerals as other men seek christenings. Widowhood and



the grief of others attracted himbecause of his great gentleness;
he mingled with the friends clad in mourningwith families
dressed in blackwith the priests groaning around a coffin.
He seemed to like to give to his thoughts for text these funereal
psalmodies filled with the vision of the other world. With his eyes
fixed on heavenhe listened with a sort of aspiration towards
all the mysteries of the infinitethose sad voices which sing
on the verge of the obscure abyss of death.

He performed a multitude of good actionsconcealing his agency in them
as a man conceals himself because of evil actions. He penetrated
houses privatelyat night; he ascended staircases furtively.
A poor wretch on returning to his attic would find that his door
had been openedsometimes even forcedduring his absence.
The poor man made a clamor over it: some malefactor had been there!
He enteredand the first thing he beheld was a piece of gold lying
forgotten on some piece of furniture. The "malefactor" who had been
there was Father Madeleine.

He was affable and sad. The people said: "There is a rich man who has
not a haughty air. There is a happy man who has not a contented air."

Some people maintained that he was a mysterious personand that no
one ever entered his chamberwhich was a regular anchorite's cell
furnished with winged hour-glasses and enlivened by cross-bones
and skulls of dead men! This was much talked ofso that one
of the elegant and malicious young women of M. sur M. came to him
one dayand asked: "Monsieur le Mairepray show us your chamber.
It is said to be a grotto." He smiledand introduced them instantly
into this "grotto." They were well punished for their curiosity.
The room was very simply furnished in mahoganywhich was rather ugly
like all furniture of that sortand hung with paper worth twelve sous.
They could see nothing remarkable about itexcept two candlesticks
of antique pattern which stood on the chimney-piece and appeared
to be silverfor they were hall-marked,an observation full
of the type of wit of petty towns.

Neverthelesspeople continued to say that no one ever got into
the roomand that it was a hermit's cavea mysterious retreat
a holea tomb.

It was also whispered about that he had "immense" sums deposited
with Laffittewith this peculiar featurethat they were always
at his immediate disposalso thatit was addedM. Madeleine could
make his appearance at Laffitte's any morningsign a receipt
and carry off his two or three millions in ten minutes. In reality
these two or three millionswere reducibleas we have said
to six hundred and thirty or forty thousand francs.

CHAPTER IV

M. MADELEINE IN MOURNING
At the beginning of 1820 the newspapers announced the death
of M. MyrielBishop of D----surnamed "Monseigneur Bienvenu
who had died in the odor of sanctity at the age of eighty-two.

The Bishop of D---- --to supply here a detail which the papers omitted-had
been blind for many years before his death, and content to be blind,
as his sister was beside him.


Let us remark by the way, that to be blind and to be loved, is,
in fact, one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness
upon this earth, where nothing is complete. To have continually at
one's side a woman, a daughter, a sister, a charming being, who is
there because you need her and because she cannot do without you;
to know that we are indispensable to a person who is necessary to us;
to be able to incessantly measure one's affection by the amount
of her presence which she bestows on us, and to say to ourselves,
Since she consecrates the whole of her time to meit is because I
possess the whole of her heart"; to behold her thought in lieu
of her face; to be able to verify the fidelity of one being amid
the eclipse of the world; to regard the rustle of a gown as the sound
of wings; to hear her come and goretirespeakreturnsing
and to think that one is the centre of these stepsof this speech;
to manifest at each instant one's personal attraction; to feel
one's self all the more powerful because of one's infirmity;
to become in one's obscurityand through one's obscuritythe star
around which this angel gravitates--few felicities equal this.
The supreme happiness of life consists in the conviction that one
is loved; loved for one's own sake--let us say ratherloved in
spite of one's self; this conviction the blind man possesses.
To be served in distress is to be caressed. Does he lack anything?
No. One does not lose the sight when one has love. And what love!
A love wholly constituted of virtue! There is no blindness where
there is certainty. Soul seeks soulgropinglyand finds it.
And this soulfound and testedis a woman. A hand sustains you;
it is hers: a mouth lightly touches your brow; it is her mouth:
you hear a breath very near you; it is hers. To have everything
of herfrom her worship to her pitynever to be leftto have
that sweet weakness aiding youto lean upon that immovable reed
to touch Providence with one's handsand to be able to take
it in one's arms--God made tangible--what bliss! The heart
that obscurecelestial flowerundergoes a mysterious blossoming.
One would not exchange that shadow for all brightness!
The angel soul is thereuninterruptedly there; if she departs
it is but to return again; she vanishes like a dreamand reappears
like reality. One feels warmth approachingand behold! she is there.
One overflows with serenitywith gayetywith ecstasy; one is a
radiance amid the night. And there are a thousand little cares.
Nothingswhich are enormous in that void. The most ineffable
accents of the feminine voice employed to lull youand supplying
the vanished universe to you. One is caressed with the soul.
One sees nothingbut one feels that one is adored. It is a paradise
of shadows.

It was from this paradise that Monseigneur Welcome had passed
to the other.

The announcement of his death was reprinted by the local journal
of M. sur M. On the following dayM. Madeleine appeared clad
wholly in blackand with crape on his hat.

This mourning was noticed in the townand commented on. It seemed
to throw a light on M. Madeleine's origin. It was concluded that some
relationship existed between him and the venerable Bishop. "He has
gone into mourning for the Bishop of D----" said the drawing-rooms;
this raised M. Madeleine's credit greatlyand procured for him
instantly and at one blowa certain consideration in the noble
world of M. sur M. The microscopic Faubourg Saint-Germain of the
place meditated raising the quarantine against M. Madeleine
the probable relative of a bishop. M. Madeleine perceived the
advancement which he had obtainedby the more numerous courtesies
of the old women and the more plentiful smiles of the young ones.
One eveninga ruler in that petty great worldwho was curious


by right of seniorityventured to ask himM. le Maire is doubtless
a cousin of the late Bishop of D----?


He saidNo, Madame.


But,resumed the dowageryou are wearing mourning for him.


He repliedIt is because I was a servant in his family in my youth.


Another thing which was remarkedwasthat every time that he
encountered in the town a young Savoyard who was roaming about the
country and seeking chimneys to sweepthe mayor had him summoned
inquired his nameand gave him money. The little Savoyards told
each other about it: a great many of them passed that way.


CHAPTER V


VAGUE FLASHES ON THE HORIZON


Little by littleand in the course of timeall this opposition
subsided. There had at first been exercised against M. Madeleine
in virtue of a sort of law which all those who rise must submit to
blackening and calumnies; then they grew to be nothing more
than ill-naturethen merely malicious remarksthen even this
entirely disappeared; respect became completeunanimouscordial
and towards 1821 the moment arrived when the word "Monsieur le Maire"
was pronounced at M. sur M. with almost the same accent as "Monseigneur
the Bishop" had been pronounced in D---- in 1815. People came from
a distance of ten leagues around to consult M. Madeleine. He put
an end to differenceshe prevented lawsuitshe reconciled enemies.
Every one took him for the judgeand with good reason.
It seemed as though he had for a soul the book of the natural law.
It was like an epidemic of venerationwhich in the course
of six or seven years gradually took possession of the whole district.


One single man in the townin the arrondissementabsolutely escaped
this contagionandwhatever Father Madeleine didremained his
opponent as though a sort of incorruptible and imperturbable
instinct kept him on the alert and uneasy. It seemsin fact
as though there existed in certain men a veritable bestial instinct
though pure and uprightlike all instinctswhich creates antipathies
and sympathieswhich fatally separates one nature from another nature
which does not hesitatewhich feels no disquietwhich does not hold
its peaceand which never belies itselfclear in its obscurity
infallibleimperiousintractablestubborn to all counsels of the
intelligence and to all the dissolvents of reasonand whichin whatever
manner destinies are arrangedsecretly warns the man-dog of the
presence of the man-catand the man-fox of the presence of the man-lion.


It frequently happened that when M. Madeleine was passing along
a streetcalmaffectionatesurrounded by the blessings of all
a man of lofty statureclad in an iron-gray frock-coatarmed
with a heavy caneand wearing a battered hatturned round abruptly
behind himand followed him with his eyes until he disappeared
with folded arms and a slow shake of the headand his upper lip
raised in company with his lower to his nosea sort of significant
grimace which might be translated by: "What is that manafter all?
I certainly have seen him somewhere. In any caseI am not
his dupe."


This persongrave with a gravity which was almost menacing



was one of those men whoeven when only seen by a rapid glimpse
arrest the spectator's attention.


His name was Javertand he belonged to the police.


At M. sur M. he exercised the unpleasant but useful functions 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 StateComte Angelesthen prefect
of police at Paris. When Javert arrived at M. sur M. the fortune
of the great manufacturer was already madeand Father Madeleine
had become Monsieur Madeleine.


Certain police officers have a peculiar physiognomywhich is
complicated with an air of baseness mingled with an air of authority.
Javert possessed this physiognomy minus the baseness.


It is our conviction that if souls were visible to the eyes
we should be able to see distinctly that strange 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 thinkerthat from the oyster to the eagle
from the pig to the tigerall animals exist in manand 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 eyesthe visible phantoms of our souls.
God shows them to us in order to induce us to reflect. Only since
animals are mere shadowsGod has not made them capable of education
in the full sense of the word; what is the use? On the contrary
our souls being realities and having a goal which is appropriate
to themGod has bestowed on them intelligence; that is to say
the possibility of education. Social educationwhen well done
can always draw from a soulof whatever sort it may bethe utility
which it contains.


Thisbe it saidis of course from the restricted point of view
of the terrestrial life which is apparentand without prejudging
the profound question of the anterior or ulterior personality of
the beings which are not man. The visible _I_ in nowise authorizes
the thinker to deny the latent _I_. Having made this reservation
let us pass on.


Nowif the reader will admitfor a momentwith usthat in every
man there is one of the animal species of creationit 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
wolves there is one dogwhich is killed by the mother because
otherwiseas he grew uphe would devour the other little ones.


Give to this dog-son of a wolf a human faceand the result will
be Javert.


Javert had been born in prisonof a fortune-tellerwhose husband
was in the galleys. As he grew uphe thought that he was outside
the pale of societyand 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 timehe was conscious of
an indescribable foundation of rigidityregularityand probity
complicated with an inexpressible 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 establishments
of the South.

Before proceeding furtherlet us come to an understanding
as to the wordshuman face,which we have just applied to Javert.

The human face of Javert consisted of a flat nosewith two deep
nostrilstowards 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 revealed to view
not only his teethbut his gumsand around his nose there formed
a flattened and savage foldas on the muzzle of a wild beast.
Javertseriouswas a watchdog; when he laughedhe was a tiger.
As for the resthe 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 permanentcentral frownlike 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
sentimentscomparatively; but he rendered them almost badby dint
of exaggerating them--respect for authorityhatred of rebellion;
and in his eyesmurderrobberyall crimesare only forms
of rebellion. He enveloped in a blind and profound faith every
one who had a function in the statefrom the prime minister to
the rural policeman. He covered with scornaversionand disgust
every one who had once crossed the legal threshold of evil.
He was absoluteand admitted no exceptions. On the one hand
he saidThe functionary can make no mistake; the magistrate
is never the wrong.On the other handhe saidThese men are
irremediably lost. Nothing good can come from them.He fully
shared the opinion of those extreme minds which attribute to human
law I know not what power of makingorif the reader will have
it soof authenticatingdemonsand who place a Styx at the base
of society. He was stoicalseriousaustere; a melancholy dreamer
humble and haughtylike fanatics. His glance was like a gimlet
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 possessed
the conscience of his usefulnessthe religion of his functions
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 fatherif the latter
had escaped from the galleysand would have denounced his mother
if she had broken her ban. And he would have done it with that sort
of inward satisfaction which is conferred by virtue. Andwithal
a life of privationisolationabnegationchastitywith never
a diversion. It was implacable duty; the police understood
as the Spartans understood Spartaa pitiless lying in wait
a ferocious honestya marble informerBrutus in Vidocq.

Javert's whole person was expressive of the man who spies and
who withdraws himself from observation. The mystical school
of Joseph de Maistrewhich at that epoch seasoned with lofty
cosmogony those things which were called the ultra newspapers
would not have failed to declare that Javert was a symbol.
His brow was not visible; it disappeared beneath his hat:
his eyes were not visiblesince they were lost under his eyebrows:
his chin was not visiblefor it was plunged in his cravat:
his hands were not visible; they were drawn up in his sleeves:
and his cane was not visible; he carried it under his coat.
But when the occasion presented itselfthere was suddenly seen
to emerge from all this shadowas from an ambuscadea narrow and


angular foreheada baleful glancea threatening chinenormous hands
and a monstrous cudgel.


In his leisure momentswhich were far from frequenthe read
although he hated books; this caused him to be not wholly illiterate.
This could be recognized by some emphasis in his speech.


As we have saidhe had no vices. When he was pleased with himself
he permitted himself a pinch of snuff. Therein lay his connection
with humanity.


The 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 rubricVagrants.
The 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 nor 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 divinedfrom some words which escaped Javertthat he had
secretly investigatedwith that curiosity which belongs to the race
and into which there enters as much instinct as willall the
anterior traces which Father Madeleine might have left elsewhere.
He seemed to knowand he sometimes said in covert words
that some one had gleaned certain information in a certain
district about a family which had disappeared. Once he chanced
to sayas he was talking to himselfI think I have him!
Then he remained pensive for three daysand uttered not a word.
It seemed that the thread which he thought he held had broken.


Moreoverand this furnishes the necessary corrective for the too
absolute sense which certain words might presentthere can be
nothing really infallible in a human creatureand the peculiarity
of instinct is that it can become confusedthrown off the track
and defeated. Otherwiseit would be superior to intelligence
and the beast would be found to be provided with a better light
than man.


Javert was evidently somewhat disconcerted by the perfect naturalness
and tranquillity of M. Madeleine.


One dayneverthelesshis strange manner appeared to produce
an impression on M. Madeleine. It was on the following occasion.


CHAPTER VI


FATHER FAUCHELEVENT


One morning M. Madeleine was passing through an unpaved alley of


M. sur M.; he heard a noiseand saw a group some distance away.
He approached. An old man named Father Fauchelevent had just fallen
beneath his carthis horse having tumbled down.

This Fauchelevent was one of the few enemies whom M. Madeleine had at
that time. When Madeleine arrived in the neighborhoodFauchelevent
an ex-notary and a peasant who was almost educatedhad a business
which was beginning to be in a bad way. Fauchelevent had seen this
simple workman grow richwhile hea lawyerwas being ruined.
This had filled him with jealousyand he had done all he could
on every occasionto injure Madeleine. Then bankruptcy had come;
and as the old man had nothing left but a cart and a horse
and neither family nor childrenhe 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 triedbut in vain
to drag him out. An unmethodical effortaid awkwardly given
a wrong shakemight kill him. It was impossible to disengage him
otherwise than by lifting the vehicle off of him. Javertwho had
come up at the moment of the accidenthad 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?

They have gone for the nearest, to Flachot's place, where there
is a farrier; but it makes no difference; it will take a good
quarter of an hour.

A quarter of an hour!exclaimed Madeleine.

It had rained on the preceding night; the soil was soaked.

The cart was sinking deeper into the earth every moment
and crushing the old carter's breast more and more.
It was evident that his ribs would be broken in five minutes more.

It is impossible to wait another quarter of an hour,said Madeleine
to the peasantswho 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 enough under the
cart to allow a man to crawl beneath it and raise it with his back.
Only half a minuteand 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 muttered:
A man would need to be devilish strong. And then he runs the risk
of getting crushed!


Come,began Madeleine againtwenty louis.


The same silence.


It is not the will which is lacking,said a voice.


M. Madeleine turned roundand 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.

Thengazing fixedly at M. Madeleinehe went onemphasizing every
word that he uttered:-


Monsieur Madeleine, I have never known but one man capable of doing
what you ask.

Madeleine shuddered.

Javert addedwith an air of indifferencebut without removing
his eyes from Madeleine:-


He was a convict.

Ah!said Madeleine.

In the galleys at Toulon.

Madeleine turned pale.

Meanwhilethe cart continued to sink slowly. Father Fauchelevent
rattled in the throatand shrieked:-


I am strangling! My ribs are breaking! a screw! something! Ah!

Madeleine glanced about him.

Is there, then, no one who wishes to earn twenty louis and save
the life of this poor 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.

Ah! It is crushing me!cried the old man.

Madeleine raised his headmet Javert's falcon eye still fixed
upon himlooked at the motionless peasantsand smiled sadly.
Thenwithout saying a wordhe fell on his kneesand before the
crowd had even had time to utter a cryhe was underneath the vehicle.

A terrible moment of expectation and silence ensued.

They beheld Madeleinealmost flat on his stomach beneath that
terrible weightmake two vain efforts to bring his knees and his
elbows together. They shouted to himFather Madeleine, come out!


Old Fauchelevent himself said to himMonsieur Madeleine, go away!
You see that I am fated to die! Leave me! You will get yourself
crushed also!Madeleine 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 quiverthe cart rose slowly
the wheels half emerged from the ruts. They heard a stifled
voice cryingMake haste! Help!It was Madeleinewho had just
made a final effort.

They rushed forwards. The devotion 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 palethough dripping with perspiration.
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 expression of happy
and celestial sufferingand he fixed his tranquil eye on Javert
who was still staring at him.

CHAPTER VII

FAUCHELEVENT BECOMES A GARDENER IN PARIS

Fauchelevent had dislocated his kneepan in his fall. Father Madeleine
had him conveyed to an infirmary which he had established for his
workmen in the factory building itselfand which was served by two
sisters of charity. On the following morning the old man found
a thousand-franc bank-note on his night-standwith these words
in Father Madeleine's writing: "I purchase your horse and cart."
The cart was brokenand the horse was dead. Fauchelevent recovered
but his knee remained stiff. M. Madeleineon the recommendation
of the sisters of charity and of his priestgot the good man a place
as gardener in a female convent in the Rue Saint-Antoine in Paris.

Some time afterwardsM. Madeleine was appointed mayor. The first
time that Javert beheld M. Madeleine clothed in the scarf which gave
him authority over the townhe felt the sort of shudder which a
watch-dog might experience on smelling a wolf in his master's clothes.
From that time forth he avoided him as much as he possibly could.
When the requirements of the service imperatively demanded it
and he could not do otherwise than meet the mayorhe addressed him
with profound respect.

This prosperity created at M. sur M. by Father Madeleine had
besides the visible signs which we have mentionedanother symptom
which was none the less significant for not being visible.
This never deceives. When the population sufferswhen work
is lackingwhen there is no commercethe tax-payer resists imposts
through penuryhe exhausts and oversteps his respiteand the
state expends a great deal of money in the charges for compelling
and collection. When work is abundantwhen the country is rich
and happythe taxes are paid easily and cost the state nothing.
It may be saidthat there is one infallible thermometer of the
public misery and riches--the cost of collecting the taxes.
In the course of seven years the expense of collecting the taxes
had diminished three-fourths in the arrondissement of M. sur M.


and this led to this arrondissement being frequently cited from all
the rest by M. de Villelethen Minister of Finance.

Such was the condition of the country when Fantine returned thither.
No one remembered her. Fortunatelythe door of M. Madeleine's
factory was like the face of a friend. She presented herself there
and was admitted to the women's workroom. The trade was entirely
new to Fantine; she could not be very skilful at itand she
therefore earned but little by her day's work; but it was sufficient;
the problem was solved; she was earning her living.

CHAPTER VIII

MADAME VICTURNIEN EXPENDS THIRTY FRANCS ON MORALITY

When Fantine saw that she was making her livingshe felt joyful
for a moment. To live honestly by her own laborwhat mercy
from heaven! The taste for work had really returned to her.
She bought a looking-glasstook pleasure in surveying in it her youth
her beautiful hairher fine teeth; she forgot many things; she thought
only of Cosette and of the possible futureand was almost happy.
She hired a little room and furnished on credit on the strength
of her future work--a lingering trace of her improvident ways.
As she was not able to say that she was married she took good care
as we have seennot to mention her little girl.

At firstas the reader has seenshe paid the Thenardiers promptly.
As she only knew how to sign her nameshe was obliged to write
through a public letter-writer.

She wrote oftenand this was noticed. It began to be said in
an undertonein the women's workroomthat Fantine "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 paperwhen she has a "whole stationer's shop full of it?"
etc. There exist beings whofor the sake of obtaining the key
to these enigmaswhich aremoreoverof no consequence whatever
to themspend more moneywaste more timetake more trouble
than would be required for ten good actionsand that gratuitously
for their own pleasurewithout 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 corners of the streetsunder alley-way
doors at nightin cold and rain; they will bribe errand-porters
they will make the drivers of hackney-coaches and lackeys tipsy
buy a waiting-maidsuborn a porter. Why? For no reason.
A pure passion for seeingknowingand penetrating into things.
A pure itch for talking. And often these secrets once known
these mysteries made publicthese enigmas illuminated by the
light of daybring on catastrophiesduelsfailuresthe ruin
of familiesand broken livesto the great joy of those who have
found out everything,without any interest in the matter
and by pure instinct. A sad thing.

Certain persons are malicious solely through a necessity for talking.


Their conversationthe chat of the drawing-roomgossip of
the anteroomis like those chimneys which consume wood rapidly;
they need a great amount of combustibles; and their combustibles
are furnished by their neighbors.


So Fantine was watched.


In additionmany 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 restto wipe away a tear. These were the
moments when she was thinking of her child; perhapsalsoof the
man whom she had loved.


Breaking the gloomy bonds of the past is a mournful task.


It was observed that she wrote twice a month at leastand that she
paid the carriage on the letter. They managed to obtain the address:
MonsieurMonsieur Thenardierinn-keeper at Montfermeil.
The public writera good old man who could not fill his stomach
with red wine without emptying his pocket of secretswas made to talk
in the wine-shop. In shortit 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 Montfermeiltalked to the Thenardiersand said
on 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-sixand re-enforced the mask of ugliness
with the mask of age. A quavering voicea whimsical mind.
This old dame had once been young--astonishing fact! In her youth
in '93she had married a monk who had fled from his cloister
in a red capand passed from the Bernardines to the Jacobins.
She was dryroughpeevishsharpcaptiousalmost venomous;
all this in memory of her monkwhose widow she wasand who
had ruled over her masterfully and bent her to his will.
She was a nettle in which the rustle of the cassock was visible.
At the Restoration she had turned bigotand that with so much energy
that the priests had forgiven her her monk. She had a small property
which she bequeathed with much ostentation to a religious community.
She was in high favor at the episcopal palace of Arras. So this
Madame Victurnien went to Montfermeiland returned with the remark
I have seen the child.


All this took time. Fantine had been at the factory for more than
a yearwhenone morningthe superintendent of the workroom handed
her fifty francs from the mayortold her that she was no longer
employed in the shopand requested herin the mayor's name
to leave the neighborhood.


This was the very month when the Thenardiersafter having demanded
twelve francs instead of sixhad just exacted fifteen francs
instead of twelve.


Fantine was overwhelmed. She could not leave the neighborhood;
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.
BesidesFantine was only a moderately good workwoman.
Overcome with shameeven more than with despairshe quitted the shop
and returned to her room. So her fault was now known to every one.



She no longer felt strong enough to say a word. She was advised to see
the mayor; she did not dare. The mayor had given her fifty francs
because he was goodand had dismissed her because he was just.
She bowed before the decision.


CHAPTER IX


MADAME VICTURNIEN'S SUCCESS


So the monk's widow was good for something.


But M. Madeleine had heard nothing of all this. Life is full
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 himand he had full confidence
in this superintendent--a truly respectable personfirmequitable
uprightfull of the charity which consists in givingbut not having
in the same degree that charity which consists in understanding and
in forgiving. M. Madeleine relied wholly on her. The best men are
often obliged to delegate their authority. It was with this full power
and the conviction that she was doing rightthat the superintendent
had instituted the suitjudgedcondemnedand executed Fantine.


As regards the fifty francsshe had given them from a fund
which M. Madeleine had intrusted to her for charitable purposes
and for giving assistance to the workwomenand of which she
rendered no account.


Fantine tried to obtain a situation as a servant in the neighborhood;
she went from house to house. No one would have her. She could
not leave town. The second-hand dealerto whom she was in debt
for her furniture--and what furniture!--said to herIf you leave,
I will have you arrested as a thief.The householderwhom she
owed for her rentsaid to herYou are young and pretty;
you can pay.She divided the fifty francs between the landlord
and the furniture-dealerreturned to the latter three-quarters
of his goodskept only necessariesand found herself without work
without a tradewith nothing but her bedand still about fifty
francs in debt.


She began to make coarse shirts for soldiers of the garrison
and earned twelve sous a day. Her daughter cost her ten. It was
at this point that she began to pay the Thenardiers irregularly.


Howeverthe old woman who lighted her candle for her when she
returned at nighttaught her the art of living in misery.
Back of living on littlethere is the living on nothing.
These are the two chambers; the first is darkthe 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 petticoat
and a petticoat of one's coverlet; how to save one's candle
by taking one's meals by the light of the opposite window.
No one knows all that certain feeble creatureswho have grown old
in privation and honestycan get out of a sou. It ends by being
a talent. Fantine acquired this sublime talentand regained a
little courage.



At this epoch she said to a neighborBah! I say to myself, by only
sleeping five hours, and working all the rest of the time at my sewing,
I shall always 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 thenshe was in debt
to the Thenardiers! How could she pay them? And the journey!
How pay for that?

The old woman who had given her lessons in what may be called
the life of indigencewas a sainted spinster named Marguerite
who was pious with a true pietypoor and charitable towards the poor
and even towards the richknowing how to write just sufficiently
to sign herself Margueriteand believing in Godwhich 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 firstFantine had been so ashamed that she had not dared to go out.

When she was in the streetshe divined that people turned round
behind herand pointed at her; every one stared at her and no one
greeted her; the cold and bitter scorn of the passers-by penetrated
her very flesh and soul like a north wind.

It seems as though an unfortunate woman were utterly bare beneath
the sarcasm and the curiosity of all in small towns. In Paris
at leastno one knows youand this obscurity is a garment.
Oh! how she would have liked to betake herself to Paris! Impossible!

She was obliged to accustom herself to disreputeas she had accustomed
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 camebearing her head well upwith a bitter smile
and was conscious that she was becoming brazen-faced.

Madame Victurnien sometimes saw her passingfrom her window
noticed the distress of "that creature" whothanks to her,
had been "put back in her proper place and congratulated 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 neighbor,
Marguerite, Just feel how hot my hands are!"

Neverthelesswhen she combed her beautiful hair in the morning
with an old broken comband it flowed about her like floss silk
she experienced a moment of happy coquetry.

CHAPTER X

RESULT OF THE SUCCESS

She had been dismissed towards the end of the winter; the summer passed
but winter came again. Short daysless work. Winter: no warmth


no lightno noondaythe evening joining on to the morning
fogstwilight; the window is gray; it is impossible to see
clearly at it. The sky is but a vent-hole. 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 harrassed her.


Fantine earned too little. Her debts had increased. The Thenardiers
who were not promptly paidwrote to her constantly letters whose
contents drove her to despairand whose carriage ruined her.
One day they wrote to her that her little Cosette was entirely
naked in that cold weatherthat she needed a woollen skirt
and that her mother must send at least ten francs for this.
She received the letterand crushed it in her hands all day long.
That evening she went into a barber's shop at the corner of the street
and pulled out her comb. Her admirable golden hair fell to
her knees.


What splendid hair!exclaimed the barber.


How much will you give me for it?said she.


Ten francs.


Cut it off.


She purchased a knitted petticoat and sent it to the Thenardiers.
This petticoat made the Thenardiers furious. It was the money that
they wanted. They gave the petticoat to Eponine. The poor Lark
continued to shiver.


Fantine thought: "My child is no longer cold. I have clothed
her with my hair." She put on little round caps which concealed
her shorn headand in which she was still pretty.


Dark thoughts held possession of Fantine's heart.


When she saw that she could no longer dress her hairshe began
to hate every one about her. She had long shared the universal
veneration for Father Madeleine; yetby dint of repeating to herself
that it was he who had discharged herthat he was the cause
of her unhappinessshe came to hate him alsoand most of all.
When she passed the factory in working hourswhen the workpeople
were at the doorshe affected to laugh and sing.


An old workwoman who once saw her laughing and singing in this
fashion saidThere'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 rage in her heart. He was a miserable scamp,
a sort of mendicant musician, a lazy beggar, who beat her, and who
abandoned her as she had taken him, in disgust.


She adored her child.


The lower she descended, the darker everything grew about her,
the more radiant shone that little angel at the bottom of her heart.
She said, When I get richI will have my Cosette with me;"
and she laughed. Her cough did not leave herand she had sweats on
her back.


One day she received from the Thenardiers a letter couched in the
following terms: "Cosette is ill with a malady which is going
the rounds of the neighborhood. A miliary feverthey call it.



Expensive drugs are required. This is ruining usand we can no
longer pay for them. If you do not send us forty francs before
the week is outthe little one will be dead."


She burst out laughingand said to her old neighbor: "Ah! they
are good! Forty francs! the idea! That makes two napoleons!
Where do they think I am to get them? These peasants are stupidtruly."


Nevertheless she went to a dormer window in the staircase and read
the letter once more. Then she descended the stairs and emerged
running and leaping and still laughing.


Some one met her and said to herWhat 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!"


As she crossed the squareshe saw a great many people collected
around a carriage of eccentric shapeupon the top of which stood
a man dressed in redwho was holding forth. He was a quack
dentist on his roundswho was offering to the public full sets
of teethopiatespowders and elixirs.


Fantine mingled in the groupand began to laugh with the rest
at the haranguewhich contained slang for the populace and jargon
for respectable people. The tooth-puller espied the lovely
laughing girland suddenly exclaimed: "You have beautiful teeth
you girl therewho are laughing; if you want to sell me your palettes
I will give you a gold napoleon apiece for them."


What are my palettes?asked Fantine.


The palettes,replied the dental professorare 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: "Reflectmy beauty! two napoleons;
they may prove of service. If your heart bids youcome this
evening to the inn of the Tillac d'Argent; you will find me there."


Fantine returned home. She was furiousand related the occurrence
to her good neighbor Marguerite: "Can you understand 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! WhyI should be horrible!
My hair will grow againbut my teeth! Ah! what a monster of a man!
I should prefer to throw myself head first on the pavement from the
fifth story! He told me that he should be at the Tillac d'Argent
this evening."


And what did he offer?asked Marguerite.


Two napoleons.


That makes forty francs.


Yes,said Fantine; "that makes forty francs."


She remained thoughtfuland began her work. At the expiration



of a quarter of an hour she left her sewing and went to read
the Thenardiers' letter once more on the staircase.

On her returnshe said to Margueritewho was at work beside her:-


What is a miliary fever? Do you know?

Yes,answered the old spinster; "it is a disease."

Does it require many drugs?

Oh! terrible drugs.

How does one get it?

It is a malady that one gets without knowing how.

Then it attacks children?

Children in particular.

Do people die of it?

They may,said Marguerite.

Fantine left the room and went to read her letter once more on
the staircase.

That evening she went outand was seen to turn her steps in the
direction of the Rue de Pariswhere the inns are situated.

The next morningwhen Marguerite entered Fantine's room
before daylight--for they always worked togetherand in this
manner used only one candle for the two--she found Fantine
seated on her bedpale 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 wastefulnessand exclaimed:-


Lord! the candle is all burned out! Something has happened.

Then she looked at Fantinewho turned toward her her head bereft
of its hair.

Fantine had grown ten years older since the preceding night.

Jesus!said Margueritewhat is the matter with you, Fantine?

Nothing,replied Fantine. "Quite the contrary. My child will
not die of that frightful maladyfor lack of succor. I am content."

So sayingshe pointed out to the spinster two napoleons which were
glittering on the table.

Ah! Jesus God!cried Marguerite. "Whyit is a fortune!
Where did you get those louis d'or?"

I got them,replied Fantine.

At the same time she smiled. The candle illuminated her countenance.
It was a bloody smile. A reddish saliva soiled the corners of her lips
and she had a black hole in her mouth.

The two teeth had been extracted.


She sent the forty francs to Montfermeil.


After all it was a ruse of the Thenardiers 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 only a latch
to fasten itnext the roof; one of those attics whose extremity forms
an angle with the floorand knocks you on the head every instant.
The poor occupant can reach the end of his chamber as he can
the end of his destinyonly by bending over more and more.


She had no longer a bed; a rag which she called her coverlet
a mattress on the floorand a seatless chair still remained.
A little rosebush which she hadhad dried upforgottenin one corner.
In the other corner was a butter-pot to hold waterwhich froze
in winterand 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 outwith dirty caps.
Whether from lack of time or from indifferenceshe no longer mended
her linen. As the heels wore outshe dragged her stockings down
into her shoes. This was evident from the perpendicular wrinkles.
She patched her bodicewhich was old and worn outwith scraps
of calico which tore at the slightest movement. The people
to whom she was indebted made "scenes" and gave her no peace.
She found them in the streetshe found them again on her staircase.
She passed many a night weeping and thinking. Her eyes were
very brightand 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 Madeleinebut made no complaint. She sewed
seventeen hours a day; but a contractor for the work of prisons
who made the prisoners work at a discountsuddenly made prices fall
which reduced the daily earnings of working-women to nine sous.
Seventeen hours of toiland nine sous a day! Her creditors were more
pitiless than ever. The second-hand dealerwho had taken back nearly
all his furnituresaid to her incessantlyWhen will you pay me,
you hussy?What did they want of hergood God! She felt that she
was being huntedand something of the wild beast developed in her.
About the same timeThenardier wrote to her that he had waited
with decidedly too much amiability and that he must have a hundred
francs at once; otherwise he would turn little Cosette out of doors
convalescent as she was from her heavy illnessinto the cold
and the streetsand that she might do what she liked with herself
and die if she chose. "A hundred francs thought Fantine.
But in what trade can one earn a hundred sous a day?"


Come!said shelet us sell what is left.


The unfortunate girl became a woman of the town.


CHAPTER XI


CHRISTUS NOS LIBERAVIT


What is this history of Fantine? It is society purchasing a slave.


From whom? From misery.


From hungercoldisolationdestitution. A dolorous bargain.
A soul for a morsel of bread. Misery offers; society accepts.



The sacred law of Jesus Christ governs our civilizationbut it
does notas yetpermeate it; it is said that slavery has disappeared
from European civilization. This is a mistake. It still exists;
but it weighs only upon the womanand it is called prostitution.


It weighs upon the womanthat is to sayupon graceweakness
beautymaternity. This is not one of the least of man's disgraces.


At the point in this melancholy drama which we have now reached
nothing is left to Fantine of that which she had formerly been.


She has become marble in becoming mire. Whoever touches her feels cold.
She passes; she endures you; she ignores you; she is the severe
and dishonored figure. Life and the social order have said their
last word for her. All has happened to her that will happen to her.
She has felt everythingborne everythingexperienced everything
suffered everythinglost everythingmourned everything.
She is resignedwith that resignation which resembles indifference
as death resembles sleep. She no longer avoids anything.
Let all the clouds fall upon herand all the ocean sweep over her!
What matters it to her? She is a sponge that is soaked.


At leastshe believes it to be so; but it is an error to imagine
that fate can be exhaustedand that one has reached the bottom
of anything whatever.


Alas! What are all these fatesdriven on pell-mell? Whither
are they going? Why are they thus?


He who knows that sees the whole of the shadow.


He is alone. His name is God.


CHAPTER XII


M. BAMATABOIS'S INACTIVITY
There is in all small townsand there was at M. sur M. in particular
a class of young men who nibble away an income of fifteen hundred
francs with the same air with which their prototypes devour
two hundred thousand francs a year in Paris. These are beings
of the great neuter species: impotent menparasitescyphers
who have a little landa little follya little wit; who would
be rustics in a drawing-roomand who think themselves gentlemen
in the dram-shop; who sayMy 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 garrison to prove that
they are men of war; huntsmokeyawndrinksmell of tobacco
play billiardsstare at travellers as they descend from the diligence
live at the cafedine at the innhave a dog which eats the bones
under the tableand a mistress who eats the dishes on the table;
who stick at a souexaggerate the fashionsadmire tragedy
despise womenwear out their old bootscopy London through Paris
and Paris through the medium of Pont-A-Moussongrow old as dullards
never workserve no useand do no great harm.

M. Felix Tholomyeshad he remained in his own province and never
beheld Pariswould have been one of these men.
If they were richerone would sayThey are dandies;if they


were poorerone would sayThey are idlers.They are simply
men without employment. Among these unemployed there are bores
the boreddreamersand some knaves.

At that period a dandy was composed of a tall collara big cravat
a watch with trinketsthree vests of different colorsworn one
on top of the other--the red and blue inside; of a short-waisted
olive coatwith a codfish taila 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 oliveornamented on the two
seams with an indefinitebut always unevennumber of lines
varying from one to eleven--a limit which was never exceeded.
Add to thishigh shoes with little irons on the heelsa tall
hat with a narrow brimhair worn in a tuftan enormous cane
and conversation set off by puns of Potier. Over allspurs and
a mustache. At that epoch mustaches indicated the bourgeois
and spurs the pedestrian.

The provincial dandy wore the longest of spurs and the fiercest
of mustaches.

It was the period of the conflict of the republics of South
America with the King of Spainof Bolivar against Morillo.
Narrow-brimmed hats were royalistand were called morillos;
liberals wore hats with wide brimswhich were called bolivars.

Eight or ten monthsthenafter that which is related in the
preceding pagestowards the first of January1823on a snowy evening
one of these dandiesone of these unemployeda "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 officers' cafe. 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 womana melancholy
decorated spectre which went and came through the snow
made him no replydid not even glance at himand nevertheless
continued her promenade in silenceand 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 turnedhe crept up behind
her with the gait of a wolfand stifling his laughbent down
picked up a handful of snow from the pavementand thrust it abruptly
into her backbetween her bare shoulders. The woman uttered a roar
whirled roundgave a leap like a pantherand hurled herself upon
the manburying her nails in his facewith the most frightful words
which could fall from the guard-room into the gutter. These insults
poured forth in a voice roughened by brandydidindeedproceed in
hideous wise from a mouth which lacked its two front teeth.
It was Fantine.

At the noise thus producedthe officers ran out in throngs from
the cafepassers-by collectedand a large and merry circle
hooting and applaudingwas formed around this whirlwind composed
of two beingswhom there was some difficulty in recognizing
as a man and a woman: the man strugglinghis hat on the ground;
the woman striking out with feet and fistsbareheadedhowling


minus hair and teethlivid with wrathhorrible.


Suddenly a man of lofty stature emerged vivaciously from the crowd
seized the woman by her satin bodicewhich was covered with mud
and said to herFollow me!


The woman raised her head; her furious voice suddenly died away.
Her eyes were glassy; she turned pale instead of lividand she
trembled with a quiver of terror. She had recognized Javert.


The dandy took advantage of the incident to make his escape.


CHAPTER XIII


THE SOLUTION OF SOME QUESTIONS CONNECTED WITH THE MUNICIPAL POLICE


Javert thrust aside the spectatorsbroke the circleand set out
with long strides towards the police stationwhich is situated at
the extremity of the squaredragging the wretched woman after him.
She yielded mechanically. Neither he nor she uttered a word.
The cloud of spectators followedjestingin a paroxysm of delight.
Supreme misery an occasion for obscenity.


On arriving at the police stationwhich was a low roomwarmed by
a stovewith a glazed and grated door opening on the streetand guarded
by a detachmentJavert opened the doorentered with Fantineand shut
the door behind himto the great disappointment of the curious
who raised themselves on tiptoeand craned their necks in front
of the thick glass of the station-housein their effort to see.
Curiosity is a sort of gluttony. To see is to devour.


On enteringFantine fell down in a cornermotionless and mute
crouching down like a terrified dog.


The sergeant of the guard brought a lighted candle to the table.
Javert seated himselfdrew 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 pleasepunish them
as seems good to themand confiscate at their will those two
sorry things which they entitle their industry and their liberty.
Javert was impassive; his grave face betrayed no emotion whatever.
Neverthelesshe was seriously and deeply preoccupied. It was
one of those moments when he was exercising without control
but subject to all the scruples of a severe consciencehis redoubtable
discretionary power. At that moment he was conscious that his
police agent's stool was a tribunal. He was entering judgment.
He judged and condemned. He summoned all the ideas which could
possibly exist in his mindaround the great thing which he was doing.
The more he examined the deed of this womanthe more shocked he felt.
It was evident that he had just witnessed the commission of a crime.
He had just beheldyonderin the streetsocietyin the person
of a freeholder and an electorinsulted 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 thatheJavert. He wrote
in silence.


When he had finished he signed the paperfolded itand said
to the sergeant of the guardas he handed it to himTake three
men and conduct this creature to jail.



Thenturning to FantineYou 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 become of Cosette?
My daughter! my daughter! But I still owe the Thenardiers over a
hundred francs; do you know thatMonsieur Inspector?"


She dragged herself across the damp flooramong the muddy boots
of all those menwithout risingwith clasped handsand taking
great strides on her knees.


Monsieur Javert,said sheI beseech your mercy. I assure
you that I was not in the wrong. If you had seen the 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 me for a long time: `You are ugly! you have no teeth!'
I 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 gives way to vivacity; and then, when some one puts something
cold down your back just when you 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! you 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 Thenardiers, inn-keepers, peasants; and such people
are unreasonable. They want money. Don't put me in prison!
You see, there is a little girl who will be 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 gluttony that have made me what I am. If I have drunk brandy,
it was out of misery. I do 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 thusrent in twainshaken with sobsblinded with tears
her neck barewringing her handsand coughing with a dry
short coughstammering softly with a voice of agony. Great sorrow
is a divine and terrible raywhich transfigures the unhappy.
At that moment Fantine had become beautiful once more. From time
to time she pausedand tenderly kissed the police agent's coat.
She would have softened a heart of granite; but a heart of wood cannot
be softened.


Come!said JavertI 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 wordsthe Eternal Father in person could
do nothing more,she understood that her fate was sealed.
She sank downmurmuringMercy!

Javert turned his back.

The soldiers seized her by the arms.

A few moments earlier a man had enteredbut no one had paid
any heed to him. He shut the doorleaned his back against it
and listened to Fantine's despairing supplications.

At the instant when the soldiers laid their hands upon the
unfortunate womanwho would not risehe emerged from the shadow
and said:-


One moment, if you please.

Javert raised his eyes and recognized M. Madeleine. He removed
his hatandsaluting him with a sort of aggrieved awkwardness:-


Excuse me, Mr. Mayor--

The words "Mr. Mayor" produced a curious effect upon Fantine.
She rose to her feet with one boundlike a spectre springing from
the earththrust aside the soldiers with both armswalked straight
up to M. Madeleine before any one could prevent herand gazing
intently at himwith a bewildered airshe cried:-


Ah! so it is you who are M. le Maire!

Then she burst into a laughand spit in his face.

M. Madeleine wiped his faceand said:-"
Inspector Javertset this woman at liberty."


Javert felt that he was on the verge of going mad. He experienced
at that momentblow upon blow and almost simultaneouslythe 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 thatin his most daring flights of fancy
he would have regarded it as a sacrilege to believe it possible.
On the other handat the very bottom of his thoughthe made
a hideous comparison as to what this woman wasand as to what this
mayor might be; and then hewith horrorcaught a glimpse of I
know not what simple explanation of this prodigious attack.
But when he beheld that mayorthat magistratecalmly wipe his
face and saySet this woman at liberty,he underwent a sort
of intoxication of amazement; thought and word failed him equally;
the sum total of possible astonishment had been exceeded in his case.
He remained mute.


The words had produced no less strange an effect on Fantine.
She raised her bare armand clung to the damper of the stove
like a person who is reeling. Neverthelessshe glanced about her
and began to speak in a low voiceas though talking to herself:--


At liberty! 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 cannot 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 here! I will tell
you about it, and you will let me go. That monster of a mayor,
that old blackguard of a mayor, is the cause of all. Just imagine,
Monsieur Javert, he turned me out! all because of a pack of
rascally women, who gossip in the workroom. If that is not a horror,
what is? To dismiss a poor girl who is doing her work honestly!
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 wronging poor people. I will explain 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 understand 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' cafe; but he had spoiled my whole dress
with snow. We women have but one silk dress for evening wear.
You see that I did not do wrong deliberately--truly, Monsieur Javert;
and everywhere I behold women who are far more wicked than I,
and who are much happier. O Monsieur Javert! 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 speakinghe fumbled in his waistcoatdrew out his purse
and opened it. It was empty. He put it back in his pocket.
He said to FantineHow much did you say that you owed?
Fantinewho was looking at Javert onlyturned towards him:--


Was I speaking to you?


Thenaddressing the soldiers:--


Say, you fellows, did you see how I spit in his face?
Ah! you 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 sayingshe 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 a
woman's back, and that makes the officers laugh; one must divert
themselves in some way; and we--well, we are here for them to amuse
themselves with, of course! And then, you, you come; you are
certainly obliged to preserve order, you lead off the woman who is
in the wrong; but on reflection, since you are a good man, you say
that I am to be set at liberty; 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! 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 expecting 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
burning 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 wepther voice was caressing; she placed Javert's
coarse hand on her delicatewhite throat and looked smilingly
at him.


All at once she rapidly adjusted her disordered garmentsdropped the
folds of her skirtwhich had been pushed up as she dragged herself along
almost to the height of her kneeand stepped towards the door
saying to the soldiers in a low voiceand with a friendly nod:--


Children, Monsieur l'Inspecteur has said that I am to be 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 erectmotionlesswith his
eyes fixed on the groundcast athwart this scene like some
displaced statuewhich is waiting to be put away somewhere.


The sound of the latch roused him. He raised his head with an
expression of sovereign authorityan expression all the more
alarming in proportion as the authority rests on a low level
ferocious in the wild beastatrocious in the man of no estate.


Sergeant!he crieddon'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 voiceand let go of the
latch as a thief relinquishes the article which he has stolen.
At the sound of Madeleine's voice she turned aroundand from that moment
forth she uttered no wordnor dared so much as to breathe freely
but her glance strayed from Madeleine to Javertand from Javert
to Madeleine in turnaccording to which was speaking.


It was evident that Javert must have been exasperated beyond
measure before he would permit himself to apostrophize the sergeant
as he had doneafter 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 anotherwithout intending it? Orin view of the enormities
of which he had been a witness for the past two hoursdid he say
to himselfthat it was necessary to recur to supreme resolutions
that it was indispensable that the small should be made great
that the police spy should transform himself into a magistrate
that the policeman should become a dispenser of justiceand that
in this prodigious extremityorderlawmoralitygovernment
society in its entiretywas personified in himJavert?


However that may bewhen M. Madeleine uttered that word_I_as we
have just heardPolice Inspector Javert was seen to turn toward
the mayorpalecoldwith blue lipsand a look of despair
his whole body agitated by an imperceptible quiver and an unprecedented
occurrenceand say to himwith downcast 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 mayorin a calm and conciliating
tonelisten. 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 belongs 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. Madeleinethe highest law
is conscience. I have heard this woman; I know what I am doing.

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 woman shall serve
six months in prison.

M. Madeleine replied gently:-"
Heed this well; she will not serve a single day."


At this decisive wordJavert ventured to fix a searching look
on the mayor and to saybut in a tone of voice that was still
profoundly respectful:--


I am sorry to oppose Monsieur le Maire; it is for the first time
in my life, but he will permit me to remark that I am within the
bounds of my authority. I confine myself, since Monsieur le Maire
desires it, to the question of the gentleman. I was present.
This woman flung herself on Monsieur Bamatabnois, 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!
In any case, Monsieur le Maire, this is a question of police
regulations in the streets, and concerns me, and I shall detain
this woman Fantine.


Then M. Madeleine folded his armsand 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
municipal 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 arbitrary detention.



Monsieur le Maire, permit me--

Not another word.

But--

Leave the room,said M. Madeleine.

Javert received the blow erectfull in the facein 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.


Neverthelessshe 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 their hands her libertyher life
her soulher childin combat before her very eyes; one of these men
was drawing her towards darknessthe other was leading her back
towards the light. In this conflictviewed through the exaggerations
of terrorthese two men had appeared to her like two giants;
the one spoke like her demonthe other like her good angel.
The angel had conquered the demonandstrange to saythat which
made her shudder from head to foot was the fact that this angel
this liberatorwas the very man whom she abhorredthat mayor whom she
had so long regarded as the author of all her woesthat Madeleine!
And at the very moment when she had insulted him in so hideous
a fashionhe had saved her! Had shethenbeen mistaken?
Must she change her whole soul? She did not know; she trembled.
She listened in bewildermentshe looked on in affrightand at every
word uttered by M. Madeleine she felt the frightful shades of hatred
crumble and melt within herand something warm and ineffable
indescribablewhich was both joyconfidence and lovedawn in
her heart.


When Javert had taken his departureM. Madeleine turned to her
and said to her in a deliberate voicelike a serious man who does
not wish to weep and who finds some difficulty in speaking:--


I have heard you. I knew nothing about what you have mentioned.
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 debts, I will send for your child,
or you shall go to her. You shall live here, in Paris, or where
you please. I undertake the care of your child and yourself. You shall
not work any longer if you do not like. I will give all the money
you require. You shall be honest and happy once more. And listen!
I declare to you that if all is as you say,--and I do not doubt it,--
you have never ceased to be virtuous and holy in the sight of God.
Oh! poor woman.


This was more than Fantine could bear. To have Cosette! To leave this
life of infamy. To live freerichhappyrespectable with Cosette;
to see all these realities of paradise blossom of a sudden in the
midst of her misery. She stared stupidly at this man who was talking
to herand could only give vent to two or three sobsOh! Oh! Oh!


Her limbs gave way beneath hershe knelt in front of M. Madeleine
and before he could prevent her he felt her grasp his hand and press
her lips to it.


Then she fainted.



BOOK SIXTH.--JAVERT

CHAPTER I

THE BEGINNING OF REPOSE

M. Madeleine had Fantine removed to that infirmary which he had
established in his own house. He confided her to the sisters
who put her to bed. A burning fever had come on. She passed a part
of the night in delirium and raving. At lengthhowevershe fell asleep.
On the morrowtowards middayFantine awoke. She heard some one
breathing close to her bed; she drew aside the curtain and saw

M. Madeleine standing there and looking at something over her head.
His gaze was full of pityanguishand supplication. She followed
its directionand saw that it was fixed on a crucifix which was
nailed to the wall.
ThenceforthM. Madeleine was transfigured in Fantine's eyes. He seemed
to her to be clothed in light. He was absorbed in a sort of prayer.
She gazed at him for a long time without daring to interrupt him.
At last she said timidly:--


What are you doing?


M. Madeleine had been there for an hour. He had been waiting
for Fantine to awake. He took her handfelt of her pulse
and replied:-"
How do you feel?"

Well, I have slept,she replied; "I think that I am better
It is nothing."

He answeredresponding to the first question which she had put
to him as though he had just heard it:-


I was praying to the martyr there on high.

And he added in his own mindFor the martyr here below.

M. Madeleine had passed the night and the
morning in making inquiries. He knew all now.
He knew Fantine's history in all its heart-rending details. He went on:-"
You have suffered muchpoor mother. Oh! do not complain; you now
have the dowry of the elect. It is thus that men are transformed
into angels. It is not their fault they do not know how to go to
work otherwise. You see this hell from which you have just emerged
is the first form of heaven. It was necessary to begin there."

He sighed deeply. But she smiled on him with that sublime smile
in which two teeth were lacking.

That same nightJavert wrote a letter. The next morning be posted
it himself at the office of M. sur M. It was addressed to Paris
and the superscription ran: To Monsieur ChabouilletSecretary of
Monsieur le Prefet of Police. As the affair in the station-house
had been bruited aboutthe post-mistress and some other persons


who saw the letter before it was sent offand who recognized
Javert's handwriting on the coverthought that he was sending
in his resignation.


M.Madeleine made haste to write to the Thenardiers. Fantine owed them
one hundred and twenty francs. He sent them three hundred francs
telling them to pay themselves from that sumand to fetch the child
instantly to M. sur M.where her sick mother required her presence.


This dazzled Thenardier. "The devil!" said the man to his wife;
don't let's allow the child to go. This lark is going to turn
into a milch cow. I see through it. Some ninny has taken a fancy
to the mother.


He replied with a very well drawn-up bill for five hundred and some
odd francs. In this memorandum two indisputable items figured up
over three hundred francs--one for the doctorthe other for the
apothecary who had attended and physicked Eponine and Azelma through two
long illnesses. Cosetteas we have already saidhad not been ill.
It was only a question of a trifling substitution of names.
At the foot of the memorandum Thenardier wroteReceived on account
three hundred francs.


M. Madeleine immediately sent three hundred francs moreand wrote
Make haste to bring Cosette.
Christi!said Thenardierlet's not give up the child.


In the meantimeFantine did not recover. She still remained
in the infirmary.


The sisters had at first only received and nursed "that woman"
with repugnance. Those who have seen the bas-reliefs of Rheims
will recall the inflation of the lower lip of the wise virgins
as they survey the foolish virgins. The ancient scorn of the
vestals for the ambubajae is one of the most profound instincts
of feminine dignity; the sisters felt it with the double force
contributed by religion. But in a few days Fantine disarmed them.
She said all kinds of humble and gentle thingsand the mother
in her provoked tenderness. One day the sisters heard her say
amid her fever: "I have been a sinner; but when I have my
child beside meit will be a sign that God has pardoned me.
While I was leading a bad lifeI should not have liked to have my
Cosette with me; I could not have borne her sadastonished eyes.
It was for her sake that I did eviland that is why God pardons me.
I shall feel the benediction of the good God when Cosette is here.
I shall gaze at her; it will do me good to see that innocent creature.
She knows nothing at all. She is an angelyou seemy sisters.
At that age the wings have not fallen off."


M. Madeleine went to see her twice a dayand each time she asked him:-"
Shall I see my Cosette soon?"

He answered:-


To-morrow, perhaps. She may arrive at any moment. I am expecting her.

And the mother's pale face grew radiant.

Oh!she saidhow happy I am going to be!

We have just said that she did not recover her health. On the contrary
her condition seemed to become more grave from week to week.


That handful of snow applied to her bare skin between her
shoulder-blades had brought about a sudden suppression of perspiration
as a consequence of which the malady which had been smouldering
within her for many years was violently developed at last.
At that time people were beginning to follow the fine Laennec's
fine suggestions in the study and treatment of chest maladies.
The doctor sounded Fantine's chest and shook his head.

M. Madeleine said to the doctor:-"
Well?"

Has she not a child which she desires to see?said the doctor.

Yes.

Well! Make haste and get it here!

M. Madeleine shuddered.
Fantine inquired:-


What did the doctor say?

M. Madeleine forced himself to smile.
He said that your child was to be brought speedily. That that
would restore your health.

Oh!she rejoinedhe is right! But what do those Thenardiers
mean by keeping my Cosette from me! Oh! she is coming. At last I
behold happiness close beside me!

In the meantime Thenardier did not "let go of the child and gave
a hundred insufficient reasons for it. Cosette was not quite well
enough to take a journey in the winter. And then, there still
remained some petty but pressing debts in the neighborhood,
and they were collecting the bills for them, etc., etc.

I shall send some one to fetch Cosette!" said Father Madeleine.
If necessary, I will go myself.

He wrote the following letter to Fantine's dictationand made
her sign it:-


MONSIEUR THENARDIER:-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.

FANTINE."

In the meantime a serious incident occurred. Carve as we will
the mysterious block of which our life is madethe black vein
of destiny constantly reappears in it.

CHAPTER II

HOW JEAN MAY BECOME CHAMP


One morning M. Madeleine was in his studyoccupied in arranging
in advance some pressing matters connected with the mayor's office
in case he should decide to take the trip to Montfermeilwhen he
was informed that Police Inspector Javert was desirous of speaking
with him. Madeleine could not refrain from a disagreeable impression
on hearing this name. Javert had avoided him more than ever since
the affair of the police-stationand M. Madeleine had not seen him.

Admit him,he said.

Javert entered.

M. Madeleine had retained his seat near the firepen in hand
his eyes fixed on the docket which he was turning over and annotating
and which contained the trials of the commission on highways for
the infraction of police regulations. He did not disturb himself
on Javert's account. He could not help thinking of poor Fantine
and it suited him to be glacial in his manner.
Javert bestowed a respectful salute on the mayorwhose back
was turned to him. The mayor did not look at himbut went
on annotating this docket.

Javert advanced two or three paces into the studyand halted
without breaking the silence.

If any physiognomist who had been familiar with Javert
and who had made a lengthy study of this savage in the service
of civilizationthis singular composite of the Romanthe Spartan
the monkand the corporalthis spy who was incapable of a lie
this unspotted police agent--if any physiognomist had known his
secret and long-cherished aversion for M. Madeleinehis conflict
with the mayor on the subject of Fantineand had examined Javert at
that momenthe would have said to himselfWhat has taken place?
It was evident to any one acquainted with that clearuprightsincere
honestaustereand ferocious consciencethat Javert had but just
gone through some great interior struggle. Javert had nothing
in his soul which he had not also in his countenance. Like violent
people in generalhe was subject to abrupt changes of opinion.
His physiognomy had never been more peculiar and startling.
On entering he bowed to M. Madeleine with a look in which there was
neither rancorangernor distrust; he halted a few paces in the
rear of the mayor's arm-chairand there he stoodperfectly erect
in an attitude almost of disciplinewith the coldingenuous roughness
of a man who has never been gentle and who has always been patient;
he waited without uttering a wordwithout making a movement
in genuine humility and tranquil resignationcalmserioushat in
handwith eyes cast downand an expression which was half-way between
that of a soldier in the presence of his officer and a criminal
in the presence of his judgeuntil it should please the mayor
to turn round. All the sentiments as well as all the memories
which one might have attributed to him had disappeared. That face
as impenetrable and simple as graniteno longer bore any trace
of anything but a melancholy depression. His whole person breathed
lowliness and firmness and an indescribable courageous despondency.

At last the mayor laid down his pen and turned half round.

Well! What is it? What is the matter, Javert?

Javert remained silent for an instant as though collecting
his ideasthen raised his voice with a sort of sad solemnity
which did nothoweverpreclude simplicity.


This is the matter, Mr. Mayor; a culpable act has been committed.
What act?

An inferior agent of the authorities has failed in respect,
and in the gravest manner, towards a magistrate. I have come
to bring the fact to your knowledge, as it is my duty to do.

Who is the agent?asked M. Madeleine.
I,said Javert.

You?
I.

And who is the magistrate who has reason to complain of the agent?
You, Mr. Mayor.

M. Madeleine sat erect in his arm-chair. Javert went onwith a
severe air and his eyes still cast down.
Mr. Mayor, I have come to request you to instigate the authorities
to dismiss me.

M. Madeleine opened his mouth in amazement. Javert interrupted him:-"
You will say that I might have handed in my resignationbut that
does not suffice. Handing in one's resignation is honorable.
I have failed in my duty; I ought to be punished; I must be turned out."

And after a pause he added:-


Mr. Mayor, you were severe with me the other day, and unjustly.
Be so to-day, with justice.

Come, now! Why?exclaimed M. Madeleine. "What nonsense is this?
What is the meaning of this? What culpable act have you been guilty
of towards me? What have you done to me? What are your wrongs
with regard to me? You accuse yourself; you wish to be superseded--"

Turned out,said Javert.

Turned out; so it be, then. That is well. I do not understand.
You shall understand, Mr. Mayor.

Javert sighed from the very bottom of his chestand resumed
still coldly and sadly:-


Mr. Mayor, six weeks ago, in consequence of the scene over that woman,
I was furious, and I informed against you.

Informed against me!

At the Prefecture of Police in Paris.

M. Madeleinewho was not in the habit of laughing much oftener
than Javert himselfburst out laughing now:-"
As a mayor who had encroached on the province of the police?"
As an ex-convict.


The mayor turned livid.

Javertwho had not raised his eyeswent on:-


I thought it was so. I had had an idea for a long time;
a resemblance; inquiries which you had caused to be made at Faverolles;
the strength of your loins; the adventure with old Fauchelevant;
your skill in marksmanship; your leg, which you drag a little;--
I hardly know what all,--absurdities! But, at all events, I took you
for a certain Jean Valjean.


A certain--What did you say the name was?


Jean Valjean. He was a convict whom I was in the habit of seeing
twenty years ago, when I was adjutant-guard of convicts at Toulon.
On leaving the galleys, this Jean Valjean, as it appears, robbed a bishop;
then he committed another theft, accompanied with violence, on a public
highway on the person of a little Savoyard. He disappeared eight
years ago, no one knows how, and he has been sought, I fancied.
In short, I did this thing! Wrath impelled me; I denounced you
at the Prefecture!


M. Madeleinewho had taken up the docket again several moments
before thisresumed with an air of perfect indifference:-"
And what reply did you receive?"

That I was mad.

Well?

Well, they were right.

It is lucky that you recognize the fact.

I am forced to do so, since the real Jean Valjean has been found.

The sheet of paper which M. Madeleine was holding dropped from
his hand; he raised his headgazed fixedly at Javertand said
with his indescribable accent:-


Ah!

Javert continued:-


This is the way it is, Mr. Mayor. It seems that there was in
the neighborhood near Ailly-le-Haut-Clocher an old fellow who was
called Father Champmathieu. He was a very wretched creature.
No one paid any attention to him. No one knows what such people
subsist on. Lately, last autumn, Father Champmathieu was arrested
for the theft of some cider apples from--Well, no matter, a theft
had been committed, a wall scaled, branches of trees broken.
My Champmathieu was arrested. He still had the branch of apple-tree
in his hand. The scamp is locked up. Up to this point it was merely
an affair of a misdemeanor. But here is where Providence intervened.

The jail being in a bad conditionthe examining magistrate finds it
convenient to transfer Champmathieu to Arraswhere the departmental
prison is situated. In this prison at Arras there is an ex-convict
named Brevetwho is detained for I know not whatand who has
been appointed turnkey of the housebecause of good behavior.
Mr. Mayorno sooner had Champmathieu arrived than Brevet exclaims:
`Eh! WhyI know that man! He is a fagot![4] Take a good look at me


my good man! You are Jean Valjean!' `Jean Valjean! who's Jean Valjean?'
Champmathieu feigns astonishment. `Don't play the innocent dodge'
says Brevet. `You are Jean Valjean! You have been in the galleys
of Toulon; it was twenty years ago; we were there together.'
Champmathieu denies it. Parbleu! You understand. The case
is investigated. The thing was well ventilated for me. This is
what they discovered: This Champmathieu had beenthirty years ago
a pruner of trees in various localitiesnotably at Faverolles.
There all trace of him was lost. A long time afterwards he was seen
again in Auvergne; then in Pariswhere he is said to have been
a wheelwrightand to have had a daughterwho was a laundress;
but that has not been proved. Nowbefore going to the galleys for theft
what was Jean Valjean? A pruner of trees. Where? At Faverolles.
Another fact. This Valjean's Christian name was Jeanand his
mother's surname was Mathieu. What more natural to suppose than that
on emerging from the galleyshe should have taken his mother's
name for the purpose of concealing himselfand have called himself
Jean Mathieu? He goes to Auvergne. The local pronunciation turns Jean
into Chan--he is called Chan Mathieu. Our man offers no opposition
and behold him transformed into Champmathieu. You follow me
do you not? Inquiries were made at Faverolles. The family of Jean
Valjean is no longer there. It is not known where they have gone.
You know that among those classes a family often disappears.
Search was madeand nothing was found. When such people are not mud
they are dust. And thenas the beginning of the story dates thirty
years backthere is no longer any one at Faverolles who knew
Jean Valjean. Inquiries were made at Toulon. Besides Brevet
there are only two convicts in existence who have seen Jean Valjean;
they are Cochepaille and Chenildieuand are sentenced for life.
They are taken from the galleys and confronted with the
pretended Champmathieu. They do not hesitate; he is Jean Valjean
for them as well as for Brevet. The same age--he is fifty-four--
the same heightthe same airthe same man; in shortit is he.
It was precisely at this moment that I forwarded my denunciation
to the Prefecture in Paris. I was told that I had lost my reason
and that Jean Valjean is at Arrasin the power of the authorities.
You can imagine whether this surprised mewhen I thought that I
had that same Jean Valjean here. I write to the examining judge;
he sends for me; Champmathieu is conducted to me--"


[4] An ex-convict.
Well?interposed M. Madeleine.

Javert repliedhis face incorruptibleand as melancholy as ever:-


Mr. Mayor, the truth is the truth. I am sorry; but that man
is Jean Valjean. I recognized him also.

M. Madeleine resumed ina very low voice:-"
You are sure?"

Javert began to laughwith that mournful laugh which comes from
profound conviction.

O! Sure!

He stood there thoughtfully for a momentmechanically taking
pinches of powdered wood for blotting ink from the wooden bowl
which stood on the tableand he added:-



And even now that I have seen the real Jean Valjean, I do not see
how I could have thought otherwise. I beg your pardon, Mr. Mayor.

Javertas he addressed these grave and supplicating words to the man
who six weeks before had humiliated him in the presence of the whole
station-houseand bade him "leave the room--Javert, that haughty man,
was unconsciously full of simplicity and dignity,--M. Madeleine
made no other reply to his prayer than the abrupt question:-


And what does this man say?"

Ah! Indeed, Mr. Mayor, it's a bad business. If he is Jean Valjean,
he has his previous conviction against him. To climb a wall, to break
a branch, to purloin apples, is a mischievous trick in a child;
for a man it is a misdemeanor; for a convict it is a crime.
Robbing and housebreaking--it is all there. It is no longer a question
of correctional police; it is a matter for the Court of Assizes.
It is no longer a matter of a few days in prison; it is the galleys
for life. And then, there is the affair with the little Savoyard,
who will return, I hope. The deuce! there is plenty to dispute
in the matter, is there not? Yes, for any one but Jean Valjean.
But Jean Valjean is a sly dog. That is the way I recognized him.
Any other man would have felt that things were getting hot for him;
he would struggle, he would cry out--the kettle sings before the fire;
he would not be Jean Valjean, et cetera. But he has not the appearance
of understanding; he says, `I am Champmathieu, and I won't depart
from that!' He has an astonished air, he pretends to be stupid;
it is far better. Oh! the rogue is clever! But it makes no difference.
The proofs are there. He has been recognized by four persons;
the old scamp will be condemned. The case has been taken to the
Assizes at Arras. I shall go there to give my testimony. I have
been summoned.

M. Madeleine had turned to his desk againand taken up his docket
and was turning over the leaves tranquillyreading and writing
by turnslike a busy man. He turned to Javert:-"
That will doJavert. In truthall these details interest me
but little. We are wasting our timeand we have pressing business
on hand. Javertyou will betake yourself at once to the house
of the woman Buseaupiedwho sells herbs at the corner of the Rue
Saint-Saulve. You will tell her that she must enter her complaint
against carter Pierre Chesnelong. The man is a brutewho came near
crushing this woman and her child. He must be punished. You will
then go to M. CharcellayRue Montre-de-Champigny. He complained that
there is a gutter on the adjoining house which discharges rain-water
on his premisesand is undermining the foundations of his house.
After thatyou will verify the infractions of police regulations
which have been reported to me in the Rue Guibourgat Widow Doris's
and Rue du Garraud-Blancat Madame Renee le Bosse'sand you will
prepare documents. But I am giving you a great deal of work.
Are you not to be absent? Did you not tell me that you were going
to Arras on that matter in a week or ten days?"

Sooner than that, Mr. Mayor.

On what day, then?

Why, I thought that I had said to Monsieur le Maire that the case
was to be tried to-morrow, and that I am to set out by diligence to-night.

M. Madeleine made an imperceptible movement.
And how long will the case last?


One day, at the most. The judgment will be pronounced to-morrow evening
at latest. But I shall not wait for the sentence, which is certain;
I shall return here as soon as my deposition has been taken.

That is well,said M. Madeleine.

And he dismissed Javert with a wave of the hand.

Javert did not withdraw.

Excuse me, Mr. Mayor,said he.

What is it now?demanded M. Madeleine.

Mr. Mayor, there is still something of which I must remind you.

What is it?

That I must be dismissed.

M. Madeleine rose.
Javert, you are a man of honor, and I esteem you. You exaggerate
your fault. Moreover, this is an offence which concerns me.
Javert, you deserve promotion instead of degradation. I wish
you to retain your post.


Javert gazed at M. Madeleine with his candid eyesin whose depths
his not very enlightened but pure and rigid conscience seemed visible
and said in a tranquil voice:--


Mr. Mayor, I cannot grant you that.


I repeat,replied M. Madeleinethat the matter concerns me.


But Javertheeding his own thought onlycontinued:--


So far as exaggeration is concerned, I am not exaggerating. This is
the way I reason: I have suspected you unjustly. That is nothing.
It is our right to cherish suspicion, although suspicion directed
above ourselves is an abuse. But without proofs, in a fit of rage,
with the object of wreaking my vengeance, I have denounced you
as a convict, you, a respectable man, a mayor, a magistrate!
That is serious, very serious. I have insulted authority in your person,
I, an agent of the authorities! If one of my subordinates had done
what I have done, I should have declared him unworthy of the service,
and have expelled him. Well? Stop, Mr. Mayor; one word more.
I have often been severe in the course of my life towards others.
That is just. I have done well. Now, if I were not severe towards
myself, all the justice that I have done would become injustice.
Ought I to spare myself more than others? No! What! I should be good
for nothing but to chastise others, and not myself! Why, I should
be a blackguard! Those who say, `That blackguard of a Javert!'
would be in the right. Mr. Mayor, I do not desire that you should
treat me kindly; your kindness roused sufficient bad blood in me
when it was directed to others. I want none of it for myself.
The kindness which consists in upholding a woman of the town against
a citizen, the police agent against the mayor, the man who is down
against the man who is up in the world, is what I call false kindness.
That is the sort of kindness which disorganizes society. Good God!
it is very easy to be kind; the difficulty lies in being just.
Come! if you had been what I thought you, I should not have been kind
to you, not I! You would have seen! Mr. Mayor, I must treat myself



as I would treat any other man. When I have subdued malefactors,
when I have proceeded with vigor against rascals, I have often said
to myself, `If you flinch, if I ever catch you in fault, you may rest
at your ease!' I have flinched, I have caught myself in a fault.
So much the worse! Come, discharged, cashiered, expelled! That is well.
I have arms. I will till the soil; it makes no difference to me.
Mr. Mayor, the good of the service demands an example. I simply
require the discharge of Inspector Javert.


All this was uttered in a proudhumbledespairingyet convinced tone
which lent indescribable grandeur to this singularhonest man.


We shall see,said M. Madeleine.


And he offered him his hand.


Javert recoiledand said in a wild voice:--


Excuse me, Mr. Mayor, but this must not be. A mayor does 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 profoundlyand directed his steps towards the door.


There he wheeled roundand with eyes still downcast:--


Mr. Mayor,he saidI shall continue to serve until I am superseded.


He withdrew. M. Madeleine remained thoughtfully listening to the firm
sure stepwhich died away on the pavement of the corridor.


BOOK SEVENTH.--THE CHAMPMATHIEU AFFAIR


CHAPTER 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 gap would exist in this
book if we did not narrate them in their most minute details.
Among these details the reader will encounter two or three improbable
circumstanceswhich we preserve out of respect for the truth.


On the afternoon following the visit of JavertM. Madeleine went
to see Fantine according to his wont.


Before entering Fantine's roomhe had Sister Simplice summoned.


The two nuns who performed the services of nurse in the infirmary
Lazariste ladieslike all sisters of charitybore the names of
Sister Perpetue and Sister Simplice.


Sister Perpetue was an ordinary villagera sister of charity
in a coarse stylewho had entered the service of God as one enters



any other service. She was a nun as other women are cooks.
This type is not so very rare. The monastic orders gladly accept this
heavy peasant earthenwarewhich is easily fashioned into a Capuchin
or an Ursuline. 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 handand 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 Perpetue was a robust nun from
Marines near Pontoisewho chattered her patoisdronedgrumbled
sugared the potion according to the bigotry or the hypocrisy of
the invalidtreated her patients abruptlyroughlywas crabbed
with the dyingalmost flung God in their facesstoned their
death agony with prayers mumbled in a rage; was boldhonestand ruddy.

Sister Simplice was whitewith a waxen pallor. Beside Sister Perpetue
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 only 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 youngand 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 gentleausterewell-bredcold
and who had never lied. She was so gentle that she appeared fragile;
but she was more solid than granite. She touched the unhappy
with fingers that were charmingly pure and fine. There was
so to speaksilence 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 gownfinding in this harsh contact a continual
reminder of heaven and of God. Let us emphasize one detail.
Never to have liednever to have saidfor any interest whatever
even in indifferenceany single thing which was not the truth
the sacred truthwas Sister Simplice's distinctive trait;
it was the accent of her virtue. She was almost renowned in the
congregation for this imperturbable veracity. The Abbe Sicard
speaks of Sister Simplice in a letter to the deaf-mute Massieu.
However pure and sincere we may bewe all bear upon our candor
the crack of the littleinnocent 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: he who lies
lies the whole lie. To lie is the very face of the demon. Satan has
two names; he is called Satan and Lying. That is what she thought;
and as she thoughtso she did. The result was the whiteness which
we have mentioned--a whiteness which covered even her lips and her
eyes with radiance. Her smile was whiteher glance was white.
There was not a single spider's webnot a grain of duston the glass
window of that conscience. On entering the order of Saint Vincent
de Paulshe had taken the name of Simplice by special choice.
Simplice of Sicilyas we knowis the saint who preferred to
allow both her breasts to be torn off rather than to say that she
had been born at Segesta when she had been born at Syracuse-a
lie which would have saved her. This patron saint suited
this soul.

Sister Simpliceon her entrance into the orderhad had two
faults which she had gradually corrected: she had a taste
for daintiesand she liked to receive letters. She never read
anything but a book of prayers printed in Latinin coarse type.


She did not understand Latinbut she understood the book.

This pious woman had conceived an affection for Fantine
probably feeling a latent virtue thereand she had devoted
herself almost exclusively to her care.

M. Madeleine took Sister Simplice apart and recommended Fantine
to her in a singular tonewhich the sister recalled later on.
On leaving the sisterhe approached Fantine.

Fantine awaited M. Madeleine's appearance every day as one awaits
a ray of warmth and joy. She said to the sistersI only live
when Monsieur le Maire is here.

She had a great deal of fever that day. As soon as she saw

M. Madeleine she asked him:-"
And Cosette?"

He replied with a smile:-


Soon.

M. Madeleine was the same as usual with Fantine. Only he remained
an hour instead of half an hourto Fantine's great delight.
He urged every one repeatedly not to allow the invalid to want
for anything. It was noticed that there was a moment when his
countenance became very sombre. But this was explained when it became
known that the doctor had bent down to his ear and said to him
She is losing ground fast.
Then he returned to the town-halland the clerk observed him
attentively examining a road map of France which hung in his study.
He wrote a few figures on a bit of paper with a pencil.

CHAPTER II

THE PERSPICACITY OF MASTER SCAUFFLAIRE

From the town-hall he betook himself to the extremity of the town
to a Fleming named Master ScaufflaerFrench Scaufflairewho let
out "horses and cabriolets as desired."

In order to reach this Scaufflairethe shortest way was to take
the little-frequented street in which was situated the parsonage
of the parish in which M. Madeleine resided. The cure was
it was saida worthyrespectableand sensible man. At the moment
when M. Madeleine arrived in front of the parsonage there was but one
passer-by in the streetand this person noticed this: After the
mayor had passed the priest's house he haltedstood motionless
then turned aboutand 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 shortas though
in thoughtand after the lapse of a few secondsinstead of allowing
the knocker to fall abruptlyhe placed it gentlyand resumed
his way with a sort of haste which had not been apparent previously.

M. Madeleine found Master Scaufflaire at homeengaged in stitching
a harness over.

Master Scaufflaire,he inquiredhave you a good horse?

Mr. Mayor,said the Flemingall my horses are good. What 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!"

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 necessary.

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 had
pencilled some figures. He showed it to the Fleming. The figures
were 568 1/2.
You see,he saidtotal, nineteen and a half; as well say
twenty leagues.

Mr. Mayor,returned the FlemingI 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 suppose 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 breathing
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 baggage,
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.

Fourthly, for such a journey a cabriolet would be too heavy,
and would fatigue the horse. Monsieur le Maire must consent
to travel in a little tilbury that I own.

I consent to that.

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-past 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 descends between here and the place
whither you are going?

Do not forget to be at my door at precisely half-past four o'clock
to-morrow morning,replied M. Madeleine; and he took his departure.

The Fleming remained "utterly stupid as he himself said some
time afterwards.

The mayor had been gone two or three minutes when the door opened again;
it was the mayor once more.

He still wore the same impassive and preoccupied air.

Monsieur Scaufflaire said he, at what sum do you estimate
the value of the horse and tilbury which you are to let to me-the
one bearing the other?"

The one dragging the other, Monsieur le Maire,said the Fleming
with a broad smile.

So be it. Well?

Does Monsieur le Maire wish to purchase them or me?

No; but I wish to guarantee you in any case. You shall give me
back the sum at my 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 tablethen 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.


The Fleming called his wifeand related the affair to her.
Where the devil could Monsieur le Maire be going?They held
counsel together. "He 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 the chimney-piece. The Fleming picked it up and studied it.
Fivesixeight 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.

MeanwhileM. Madeleine had returned home. He had taken the longest way
to return from Master Scaufflaire'sas though the parsonage door had
been a temptation for himand he had wished to avoid it. He ascended
to his roomand there he shut himself upwhich was a very simple act
since he liked to go to bed early. Neverthelessthe portress of
the factorywho wasat the same timeM. Madeleine's only servant
noticed that the latter's light was extinguished at half-past eight


and she mentioned it to the cashier when he came homeadding:-


Is Monsieur le Maire ill? I thought he had a rather singular air.

This cashier occupied a room situated directly under M. Madeleine's
chamber. He paid no heed to the portress's wordsbut went
to bed and to sleep. Towards midnight he woke up with a start;
in his sleep he had heard a noise above his head. He listened;
it was a footstep pacing back and forthas though some one were
walking in the room above him. He listened more attentively
and recognized M. Madeleine's step. This struck him as strange;
usuallythere was no noise in M. Madeleine's chamber until he rose
in the morning. A moment later the cashier heard a noise which
resembled that of a cupboard being openedand then shut again;
then a piece of furniture was disarranged; then a pause ensued;
then the step began again. The cashier sat up in bedquite awake now
and staring; and through his window-panes he saw the reddish
gleam of a lighted window reflected on the opposite wall;
from the direction of the raysit could only come from the window
of M. Madeleine's chamber. The reflection waveredas though it
came rather from a fire which had been lighted than from a candle.
The shadow of the window-frame was not shownwhich 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 still
passing slowly and regularly back and forth overhead.


The reflection was still visible on the wallbut now it was pale
and peacefullike 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.


CHAPTER III


A TEMPEST IN A SKULL


The reader hasno doubtalready divined that M. Madeleine
is no other than 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 contemplation.
The eye of the spirit can nowhere find more dazzling brilliance
and more shadow than in man; it can fix itself on no other thing
which is more formidablemore complicatedmore mysterious
and more infinite. There is a spectacle more grand 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 consciencewere it only with reference
to a single manwere it only in connection with the basest of men
would be to blend all epics into one superior and definitive epic.
Conscience is the chaos of chimerasof lustsand of temptations;
the furnace of dreams; the lair of ideas of which we are ashamed;
it is the pandemonium of sophisms; it is the battlefield of the passions.
Penetrateat certain hourspast the livid face of a human being
who is engaged in reflectionand look behindgaze into that soul
gaze into that obscurity. Therebeneath that external silence
battles of giantslike those recorded in Homerare in progress;



skirmishes of dragons and hydras and swarms of phantomsas in Milton;
visionary circlesas in Dante. What a solemn thing is this
infinity which every man bears within himand which he measures
with despair against the caprices of his brain and the actions of
his life!


Alighieri one day met with a sinister-looking doorbefore which
he hesitated. Here is one before usupon whose threshold we hesitate.
Let us enternevertheless.


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 wasas we have seena totally different man.
What the Bishop had wished to make of himthat he carried out.
It was more than a transformation; it was a transfiguration.


He succeeded in disappearingsold the Bishop's silverreserving only
the candlesticks as a souvenircrept from town to towntraversed France
came to M. sur M.conceived the idea which we have mentioned
accomplished what we have relatedsucceeded in rendering himself
safe from seizure and inaccessibleandthenceforthestablished at


M. sur M.happy in feeling his conscience saddened by the past and
the first half of his existence belied by the lasthe lived in peace
reassured and hopefulhaving henceforth only two thoughts--to conceal
his name and to sanctify 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 absorbing
and imperative and ruled his slightest actions. In general
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. Sometimeshowever
they conflicted. In that caseas the reader will remember
the man whom all the country of M. sur M. called M. Madeleine did
not hesitate to sacrifice the first to the second--his security to
his virtue. Thusin spite of all his reserve and all his prudence
he had preserved the Bishop's candlesticksworn mourning for him
summoned and interrogated all the little Savoyards who passed
that waycollected information regarding the families at Faverolles
and saved old Fauchelevent's lifedespite the disquieting
insinuations of Javert. It seemedas we have already remarked
as though he thoughtfollowing the example of all those who have
been wiseholyand justthat his first duty was not towards himself.

At the same timeit must be confessednothing just like this
had yet presented itself.

Never had the two ideas which governed the unhappy man whose
sufferings we are narratingengaged in so serious a struggle.
He understood this confusedly but profoundly at the very first words
pronounced by Javertwhen the latter entered his study. At the
moment when that namewhich he had buried beneath so many layers
was so strangely articulatedhe was struck with stuporand as
though intoxicated with the sinister eccentricity of his destiny;
and through this stupor he 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 Javertthe first thought which occurred to him
was to goto run and denounce himselfto take that Champmathieu
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 himselfWe will see! We will see!He repressed
this firstgenerous instinctand recoiled before heroism.


It would be beautifulno doubtafter the Bishop's holy words
after so many years of repentance and abnegationin the midst
of a penitence admirably begunif this man had not flinched for
an instanteven in the presence of so terrible a conjecturebut had
continued to walk with the same step towards this 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 souland we can only tell what there was there.
He was carried awayat firstby the instinct of self-preservation;
he rallied all his ideas in hastestifled his emotionstook into
consideration Javert's presencethat great dangerpostponed all
decision with the firmness of terrorshook off thought as to
what he had to doand resumed his calmness as a warrior picks up
his buckler.

He remained in this state during the rest of the daya whirlwind 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
told nothing about himself, except that he had received a great blow.

He repaired to Fantine's bed of suffering, as usual, and prolonged
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 chair, 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 him.

lt seemed to him as though he might be seen.

By whom?

Alas! That on which he desired to close the door had already entered;
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 himself impregnable;
the candle extinguished, he felt himself invisible. Then he
took possession of himself: he set his elbows on the table,
leaned his head on his hand, and began to meditate in the dark.

Where do I stand? Am not I dreaming? What have I heard? Is it
really true that I have seen that Javertand 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 reasonand from which he sought
to draw proof and resolution.


His head was burning. He went to the window and threw it wide open.
There were no stars in the sky. He returned and seated himself at
the table.


The first hour passed in this manner.


Graduallyhowevervague outlines began to take form and to fix
themselves in his meditationand he was able to catch a 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 situationhe was completely
master of it.


This only caused an increase of his stupor.


Independently of the severe and religious aim which he had assigned
to his actionsall that he had made up to that day had been
nothing but a hole in which to bury his name. That which he had
always feared most of all in his hours of self-communionduring
his sleepless nightswas to ever hear that name pronounced;
he had said to himselfthat that would be the end of all things
for him; that on the day when that name made its reappearance it
would cause his new life to vanish from about himand--who knows?--
perhaps even his new soul within himalso. He shuddered at the
very thought that this was possible. Assuredlyif any one had said
to him at such moments that the hour would come when that name
would ring in his earswhen the hideous wordsJean Valjean
would suddenly emerge from the darkness and rise in front of him
when that formidable lightcapable of dissipating the mystery
in which he had enveloped himselfwould suddenly blaze forth above
his headand that that name would not menace himthat that light
would but produce an obscurity more densethat this rent veil
would but increase the mysterythat this earthquake would solidify
his edificethat this prodigious incident would have no other result
so far as he was concernedif so it seemed good to himthan that
of rendering his existence at once clearer and more impenetrable
and thatout of his confrontation with the phantom of Jean Valjean
the good and worthy citizen Monsieur Madeleine would emerge more honored
more peacefuland more respected than ever--if any one had told
him thathe would have tossed his head and regarded the words
as those of a madman. Wellall this was precisely what had just
come to pass; all that accumulation of impossibilities was a fact
and God had permitted these wild fancies to become real things!


His revery continued to grow clearer. He came more and more
to an understanding of his position.


It seemed to him that he had but just waked up from some inexplicable
dreamand that he found himself slipping down a declivity in the
middle of the nighterectshiveringholding back all in vain
on the very brink of the abyss. He distinctly perceived in the



darkness a strangera man unknown to himwhom destiny had mistaken
for himand whom she was thrusting into the gulf in his stead;
in order that the gulf might close once moreit was necessary
that some onehimself or that other manshould fall into it:
he had only let things take their course.


The light became completeand he acknowledged this to himself:
That his place was empty in the galleys; that do what he would
it was still awaiting him; that the theft from little Gervais had led
him back to it; that this vacant place would await himand draw him
on until he filled it; that this was inevitable and fatal; and then
he said to himselfthat, at this moment, be had a substitute;
that it appeared that a certain Champmathieu had that ill luck,
and that, as regards himself, being present in the galleys in the
person of that Champmathieu, present in society under the name
of M. Madeleine, he had nothing more to fear, provided that he did
not prevent men from sealing over the head of that Champmathieu this
stone of infamy which, like the stone of the sepulchre, falls once,
never to rise again.


All this was so strange and so violentthat there suddenly took
place in him that indescribable movementwhich no man feels
more than two or three times in the course of his lifea sort of
convulsion of the conscience which stirs up all that there is doubtful
in the heartwhich is composed of ironyof joyand of despair
and which may be called an outburst of inward laughter.


He hastily relighted his candle.


Well, what then?he said to himself; "what am I afraid of?
What is there in all that for me to think about? I am safe;
all is over. I had but one partly open door through which my past
might invade my lifeand behold that door is walled up forever!
That Javertwho has been annoying me so long; that terrible
instinct which seemed to have divined mewhich had divined me--
good God! and which followed me everywhere; that frightful
hunting-dogalways making a point at meis thrown off the scent
engaged elsewhereabsolutely turned from the trail: henceforth he
is satisfied; he will leave me in peace; he has his Jean Valjean.
Who knows? it is even probable that he will wish to leave town!
And all this has been brought about without any aid from meand I
count for nothing in it! Ah! but where is the misfortune in this?
Upon my honorpeople would thinkto see methat some catastrophe
had happened to me! After allif it does bring harm to some one
that is not my fault in the least: it is Providence which has done
it all; it is because it wishes it so to beevidently. Have I
the right to disarrange what it has arranged? What do I ask now?
Why should I meddle? It does not concern me; what! I am not satisfied:
but what more do I want? The goal to which I have aspired for
so many yearsthe dream of my nightsthe object of my prayers
to Heaven--security--I have now attained; it is God who wills it;
I can do nothing against the will of Godand why does God will it?
In order that I may continue what I have begunthat I may do good
that I may one day be a grand and encouraging examplethat it
may be said at lastthat a little happiness has been attached
to the penance which I have undergoneand to that virtue to which I
have returned. ReallyI do not understand why I was afraid
a little while agoto enter the house of that good cureand to
ask his advice; this is evidently what he would have said to me:
It is settled; let things take their course; let the good God do as he
likes!"


Thus did he address himself in the depths of his own conscience
bending over what may be called his own abyss; he rose from his chair



and began to pace the room: "Come said he, let us think no more
about it; my resolve is taken!" but he felt no joy.


Quite the reverse.


One can no more prevent thought from recurring to an idea than one can
the sea from returning to the shore: the sailor calls it the tide;
the guilty man calls it remorse; God upheaves the soul as he does
the ocean.


After the expiration of a few momentsdo what he would
he resumed the gloomy dialogue in which it was he who spoke and he
who listenedsaying that which he would have preferred to ignore
and listened to that which he would have preferred not to hear
yielding to that mysterious power which said to him: "Think!" as it
said to another condemned mantwo thousand years agoMarch on!


Before proceeding furtherand in order to make ourselves
fully understoodlet us insist upon one necessary observation.


It is certain that people do talk to themselves; there is no living
being who has not done it. It may even be said that the word is
never a more magnificent mystery than when it goes from thought
to conscience within a manand when it returns from conscience
to thought; it is in this sense only that the words so often
employed in this chapterhe saidhe exclaimedmust be understood;
one speaks to one's selftalks to one's selfexclaims to one's
self without breaking the external silence; there is a great tumult;
everything about us talks except the mouth. The realities of the
soul are none the less realities because they are not visible
and palpable.


So he asked himself where he stood. He interrogated himself upon that
settled resolve.He confessed to himself that all that he had just
arranged in his mind was monstrousthat "to let things take their course
to let the good God do as he liked was simply horrible; to allow
this error of fate and of men to be carried out, not to hinder it,
to lend himself to it through his silence, to do nothing, in short,
was to do everything! that this was hypocritical baseness in the last
degree! that it was a base, cowardly, sneaking, abject, hideous crime!


For the first time in eight years, the wretched man had just tasted
the bitter savor of an evil thought and of an evil action.


He spit it out with disgust.


He continued to question himself. He asked himself severely
what he had meant by this, My object is attained!" He declared
to himself that his life really had an object; but what object?
To conceal his name? To deceive the police? Was it for so petty
a thing that he had done all that he had done? Had he not another
and a grand objectwhich was the true one--to savenot his person
but his soul; to become honest and good once more; to be a just man?
Was it not that above allthat alonewhich he had always desired
which the Bishop had enjoined upon him--to shut the door on his past?
But he was not shutting it! great God! he was re-opening it by
committing an infamous action! He was becoming a thief once more
and the most odious of thieves! He was robbing another of
his existencehis lifehis peacehis place in the sunshine.
He was becoming an assassin. He was murderingmorally murdering
a wretched man. He was inflicting on him that frightful living death
that death beneath the open skywhich is called the galleys.
On the other handto surrender himself to save that man
struck down with so melancholy an errorto resume his own name



to become once moreout of dutythe convict Jean Valjeanthat was
in truthto achieve his resurrectionand to close forever that
hell whence he had just emerged; to fall back there in appearance
was to escape from it in reality. This must be done! He had done
nothing if he did not do all this; his whole life was useless;
all his penitence was wasted. There was no longer any need
of sayingWhat is the use?He felt that the Bishop was there
that the Bishop was present all the more because he was deadthat the
Bishop was gazing fixedly at himthat henceforth Mayor Madeleine
with all his virtueswould be abominable to himand that the
convict Jean Valjean would be pure and admirable in his sight;
that men beheld his maskbut that the Bishop saw his face;
that men saw his lifebut that the Bishop beheld his conscience.
So he must go to Arrasdeliver the false Jean Valjeanand denounce
the real one. Alas! that was the greatest of sacrificesthe most
poignant of victoriesthe last step to take; but it must be done.
Sad fate! he would enter into sanctity only in the eyes of God
when he returned to infamy in the eyes of men.


Well, said he, let us decide upon this; let us do our duty; let us
save this man." He uttered these words aloudwithout perceiving
that he was speaking aloud.


He took his booksverified themand put them in order.
He flung in the fire a bundle of bills which he had against
petty and embarrassed tradesmen. He wrote and sealed a letter
and on the envelope it might have been readhad there been
any one in his chamber at the momentTo Monsieur Laffitte
BankerRue d'ArtoisParis. He drew from his secretary a
pocket-book which contained several bank-notes and the passport
of which he had made use that same year when he went to the elections.


Any one who had seen him during the execution of these various acts
into which there entered such grave thoughtwould have had no
suspicion of what was going on within him. Only occasionally did
his lips move; at other times he raised his head and fixed his gaze
upon some point of the wallas though there existed at that point
something which he wished to elucidate or interrogate.


When he had finished the letter to M. Laffittehe put it into
his pockettogether with the pocket-bookand began his walk once more.


His revery had not swerved from its course. He continued to see his
duty clearlywritten in luminous letterswhich flamed before his
eyes and changed its place as he altered the direction of his glance:--


Go! Tell your name! Denounce yourself!


In the same way he beheldas though they had passed before him
in visible formsthe two ideas which hadup to that time
formed the double rule of his soul--the concealment of his name
the sanctification of his life. For the first time they appeared
to him as absolutely distinctand he perceived the distance
which separated them. He recognized the fact that one of these
ideas wasnecessarilygoodwhile the other might become bad;
that the first was self-devotionand that the other was personality;
that the one saidmy neighborand that the other saidmyself;
that one emanated from the lightand the other from darkness.


They were antagonistic. He saw them in conflict. In proportion
as he meditatedthey grew before the eyes of his spirit.
They had now attained colossal staturesand it seemed to him
that he beheld within himselfin that infinity of which we were
recently speakingin the midst of the darkness and the lights



a goddess and a giant contending.


He was filled with terror; but it seemed to him that the good
thought was getting the upper hand.


He felt that he was on the brink of the second decisive crisis of his
conscience and of his destiny; that the Bishop had marked the first
phase of his new lifeand that Champmathieu marked the second.
After the grand crisisthe grand test.


But the feverallayed for an instantgradually resumed possession
of him. A thousand thoughts traversed his mindbut they continued
to fortify him in his resolution.


One moment he said to himself that he wasperhapstaking the matter
too keenly; thatafter allthis Champmathieu was not interesting
and that he had actually been guilty of theft.


He answered himself: "If this man hasindeedstolen a few apples
that means a month in prison. It is a long way from that to the galleys.
And who knows? Did he steal? Has it been proved? The name of
Jean Valjean overwhelms himand seems to dispense with proofs.
Do not the attorneys for the Crown always proceed in this manner?
He is supposed to be a thief because he is known to be a convict."


In another instant the thought had occurred to him thatwhen he
denounced himselfthe heroism of his deed mightperhapsbe taken
into considerationand his honest life for the last seven years
and what he had done for the districtand that they would have mercy
on him.


But this supposition vanished very quicklyand he smiled bitterly as he
remembered that the theft of the forty sous from little Gervais put him
in the position of a man guilty of a second offence after conviction
that this affair would certainly come upandaccording to the precise
terms of the lawwould render him liable to penal servitude for life.


He turned aside from all illusionsdetached himself more and
more from earthand sought strength and consolation elsewhere.
He told himself that he must do his duty; that perhaps he should not
be more unhappy after doing his duty than after having avoided it;
that if he allowed things to take their own courseif he remained
at M. sur M.his considerationhis good namehis good works
the deference and veneration paid to himhis charityhis wealth
his popularityhis virtuewould be seasoned with a crime.
And what would be the taste of all these holy things when bound up
with this hideous thing? whileif he accomplished his sacrifice
a celestial idea would be mingled with the galleysthe post
the iron neckletthe green capunceasing toiland pitiless shame.


At length he told himself that it must be sothat his destiny was
thus allottedthat he had not authority to alter the arrangements made
on highthatin any casehe must make his choice: virtue without
and abomination withinor holiness within and infamy without.


The stirring up of these lugubrious ideas did not cause his courage
to failbut his brain grow weary. He began to think of other things
of indifferent mattersin spite of himself.


The veins in his temples throbbed violently; he still paced to and fro;
midnight sounded first from the parish churchthen from the town-hall;
he counted the twelve strokes of the two clocksand compared
the sounds of the two bells; he recalled in this connection the
fact thata few days previouslyhe had seen in an ironmonger's



shop an ancient clock for saleupon which was written the name
Antoine-Albin de Romainville.

He was cold; he lighted a small fire; it did not occur to him
to close the window.

In the meantime he had relapsed into his stupor; he was obliged
to make a tolerably vigorous effort to recall what had been the
subject of his thoughts before midnight had struck; he finally
succeeded in doing this.

Ah! yes,he said to himselfI had resolved to inform against myself.

And thenall of a suddenhe thought of Fantine.

Hold!said heand what about that poor woman?

Here a fresh crisis declared itself.

Fantineby appearing thus abruptly in his reveryproduced the effect
of an unexpected ray of light; it seemed to him as though everything
about him were undergoing a change of aspect: he exclaimed:-


Ah! but I have hitherto considered no one but myself; it is proper
for me to hold my tongue or to denounce myself, to conceal my person
or to save my soul, to be a despicable and respected magistrate,
or an infamous and venerable convict; it is I, it is always I
and nothing but I: but, good God! all this is egotism; these are
diverse forms of egotism, but it is egotism all the same.
What if I were to think a little about others? The highest
holiness is to think of others; come, let us examine the matter.
The _I_ excepted, the _I_ effaced, the _I_ forgotten, what would be
the result of all this? What if I denounce myself? I am arrested;
this Champmathieu is released; I am put back in the galleys; that is well-and
what then? What is going on here? Ah! here is a country,
a town, here are factories, an industry, workers, both men and women,
aged grandsires, children, poor people! All this I have created;
all these I provide with their living; everywhere where there is
a smoking chimney, it is I who have placed the brand on the hearth
and meat in the pot; I have created ease, circulation, credit;
before me there was nothing; I have elevated, vivified, informed
with life, fecundated, stimulated, enriched the whole country-side;
lacking me, the soul is lacking; I take myself off, everything dies:
and this woman, who has suffered so much, who possesses so many
merits in spite of her fall; the cause of all whose misery I have
unwittingly been! And that child whom I meant to go in search of,
whom I have promised to her mother; do I not also owe something
to this woman, in reparation for the evil which I have done her?
If I disappear, what happens? The mother dies; the child becomes
what it can; that is what will take place, if I denounce myself.
If I do not denounce myself? come, let us see how it will be if I do not
denounce myself.

After putting this question to himselfhe paused; he seemed to undergo
a momentary hesitation and trepidation; but it did not last long
and he answered himself calmly:-


Well, this man is going to the galleys; it is true, but what the
deuce! he has stolen! There is no use in my saying that he has
not been guilty of theft, for he has! I remain here; I go on:
in ten years I shall have made ten millions; I scatter them
over the country; I have nothing of my own; what is that to me?
It is not for myself that I am doing it; the prosperity of
all goes on augmenting; industries are aroused and animated;


factories and shops are multiplied; families, a hundred families,
a thousand families, are happy; the district becomes populated;
villages spring up where there were only farms before;
farms rise where there was nothing; wretchedness disappears,
and with wretchedness debauchery, prostitution, theft, murder;
all vices disappear, all crimes: and this poor mother rears her child;
and behold a whole country rich and honest! Ah! I was a fool!
I was absurd! what was that I was saying about denouncing myself?
I really must pay attention and not be precipitate about anything.
What! because it would have pleased me to play the grand and generous;
this is melodrama, after all; because I should have thought of no
one but myself, the idea! for the sake of saving from a punishment,
a trifle exaggerated, perhaps, but just at bottom, no one knows whom,
a thief, a good-for-nothing, evidently, a whole country-side must
perish! a poor woman must die in the hospital! a poor little
girl must die in the street! like dogs; ah, this is abominable!
And without the mother even having seen her child once more,
almost without the child's having known her mother; and all that for
the sake of an old wretch of an apple-thief who, most assuredly,
has deserved the galleys for something else, if not for that;
fine scruples, indeed, which save a guilty man and sacrifice the innocent,
which save an old vagabond who has only a few years to live at most,
and who will not be more unhappy in the galleys than in his hovel,
and which sacrifice a whole population, mothers, wives, children.
This poor little Cosette who has no one in the world but me,
and who is, no doubt, blue with cold at this moment in the den
of those Thenardiers; those peoples are rascals; and I was going to
neglect my duty towards all these poor creatures; and I was going off
to denounce myself; and I was about to commit that unspeakable folly!
Let us put it at the worst: suppose that there is a wrong action
on my part in this, and that my conscience will reproach me for it
some 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-sacrifice; in that alone there
is virtue.


He rose and resumed his march; this timehe seemed to be content.


Diamonds are found only in the dark places of the earth;
truths are found only in the depths of thought. It seemed
to himthatafter having descended into these depths
after having long groped among the darkest of these shadows
he had at last found one of these diamondsone of these truthsand
that he now held it in his handand he was dazzled as he gazed upon it.


Yes,he thoughtthis 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; let us no longer vacillate;
let us no longer hang back; this is for the interest of all,
not for my own; I am Madeleine, and Madeleine I remain. Woe to the
man who is Jean Valjean! I am no longer he; I do not know that man;
I no longer know anything; it turns out that some one is Jean
Valjean at the present moment; let him look out for himself;
that does not concern 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 chimney-piece
and said:--


Hold! it has relieved me to come to a decision; I am quite another
man now.


He proceeded a few paces furtherthen he stopped short.



Come!he saidI must not flinch before any of the consequences
of the resolution which I have once adopted; there 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 which would bear witness against me; it is settled;
all these things must disappear.

He fumbled in his pocketdrew out his purseopened itand took
out a small key; he inserted the key in a lock whose aperture could
hardly be seenso hidden was it in the most sombre tones of the
design which covered the wall-paper; a secret receptacle opened
a sort of false cupboard constructed in the angle between the wall
and the chimney-piece; in this hiding-place there were some rags-a
blue linen blousean old pair of trousersan old knapsack
and a huge thorn cudgel shod with iron at both ends. Those who
had seen Jean Valjean at the epoch when he passed through D---in
October1815could easily have recognized all the pieces of this
miserable outfit.

He had preserved them as he had preserved the silver candlesticks
in order to remind himself continually of his starting-pointbut he
had concealed all that came from the galleysand he had allowed
the candlesticks which came from the Bishop to be seen.

He cast a furtive glance towards the dooras though he feared that
it would open in spite of the bolt which fastened it; thenwith a
quick and abrupt movementhe 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 allragscudgelknapsackinto the fire.

He closed the false cupboard againand with redoubled precautions
henceforth unnecessarysince it was now emptyhe concealed the
door behind a heavy piece of furniturewhich he pushed in front
of it.

After the lapse of a few secondsthe room and the opposite wall
were lighted up with a fierceredtremulous glow. Everything was
on fire; the thorn cudgel snapped and threw out sparks to the middle
of the chamber.

As the knapsack was consumedtogether with the hideous rags which
it containedit revealed something which sparkled in the ashes.
By bending overone could have readily recognized a coin--no doubt
the forty-sou piece stolen from the little Savoyard.

He did not look at the firebut paced back and forth with the
same step.

All at once his eye fell on the two silver candlestickswhich shone
vaguely on the chimney-piecethrough the glow.

Hold!he thought; "the whole of Jean Valjean is still in 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 real comfort. "How good warmth is!" said he.


He stirred the live coals with one of the candlesticks.

A minute moreand they were both in the fire.

At that moment it seemed to him that he heard a voice within
him shouting: "Jean Valjean! Jean Valjean!"

His hair rose upright: he became like a man who is listening
to some terrible thing.

Yes, that's it! finish!said the voice. "Complete what you
are about! Destroy these candlesticks! Annihilate this souvenir!
Forget the Bishop! Forget everything! Destroy this Champmathieudo!
That is right! Applaud yourself! So it is settledresolved
fixedagreed: here is an old man who does not know what is
wanted of himwho hasperhapsdone nothingan innocent man
whose whole misfortune lies in your nameupon whom your name weighs
like a crimewho is about to be taken for youwho will be condemned
who will finish his days in abjectness and horror. That is good!
Be an honest man yourself; remain Monsieur le Maire; remain honorable
and honored; enrich the town; nourish the indigent; rear the orphan;
live happyvirtuousand admired; andduring this timewhile you are
here in the midst of joy and lightthere will be a man who will wear
your red blousewho will bear your name in ignominyand who will drag
your chain in the galleys. Yesit is well arranged thus. Ahwretch!"

The perspiration streamed from his brow. He fixed a haggard
eye on the candlesticks. But that within him which had spoken
had 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 voicefeeble at firstand which had proceeded from the most
obscure depths of his consciencehad gradually become startling
and formidableand he now heard it in his very ear. It seemed
to him that it had detached itself from himand that it was now
speaking outside of him. He thought that he heard the last words
so distinctlythat he glanced around the room in a sort of terror.

Is there any one here?he demanded aloudin utter bewilderment.

Then he resumedwith 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 trampwhich troubled
the dreams of the sleeping man beneath himand awoke him with a start.

This tramping to and fro soothed and at the same time intoxicated him.
It sometimes seemson supreme occasionsas though people moved
about for the purpose of asking advice of everything that they may
encounter by change of place. After the lapse 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 conjunction that that
Champmathieu should have been taken for him; to be overwhelmed
by precisely the means which Providence seemed to have employed
at firstto strengthen his position!

There was a moment when he reflected on the future. Denounce himself
great God! Deliver himself up! With immense despair he faced all
that he should be obliged to leaveall that he should be obliged
to take up once more. He should have to bid farewell to that existence
which was so goodso pureso radiantto the respect of all
to honorto liberty. He should never more stroll in the fields;
he should never more hear the birds sing in the month of May;
he should never more bestow alms on the little children;
he should never more experience the sweetness of having glances
of gratitude and love fixed upon him; he should quit that house
which he had builtthat little chamber! Everything 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 portressthe only servant whom he keptwould never more
bring him his coffee in the morning. Great God! instead of that
the convict gangthe iron neckletthe red waistcoatthe chain
on his anklefatiguethe cellthe camp bed all those horrors
which he knew so well! At his ageafter having been what he was!
If he were only young again! but to be addressed in his old age as
thouby 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 strangerswho would be told: "That man
yonder is the famous Jean Valjeanwho was mayor of M. sur M.";
and at nightdripping with perspirationoverwhelmed with lassitude
their green caps drawn over their eyesto remounttwo by two
the ladder staircase of the galleys beneath the sergeant's whip.
Ohwhat misery! Can destinythenbe as malicious as an intelligent
beingand become as monstrous as the human heart?

And do what he wouldhe always fell back upon the heartrending
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 from which he had escaped with so much difficulty
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 mindwith the two verses of a song which he had
heard in the past. He thought that Romainville was a little grove
near Pariswhere 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 intervalsas he combated his lassitudehe made an effort
to recover the mastery of his mind. He tried to put to himself
for the last timeand definitelythe problem over which he had
in a mannerfallen prostrate with fatigue: Ought he to
denounce himself? Ought he to hold his peace? He could not manage
to see anything distinctly. The vague aspects of all the courses
of reasoning which had been sketched out by his meditations quivered
and vanishedone after the otherinto smoke. He only felt that


to whatever course of action he made up his mindsomething in him
must dieand that of necessityand without his being able to
escape the fact; that he was entering a sepulchre on the right hand
as much as on the left; that he was passing through a death agony--
the agony of his happinessor the agony of his virtue.


Alas! all his resolution had again taken possession of him.
He was no further advanced than at the beginning.


Thus did this unhappy soul struggle in its anguish.
Eighteen hundred years before this unfortunate manthe mysterious
Being in whom are summed up all the sanctities and all the
sufferings 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 stars.


CHAPTER IV


FORMS ASSUMED BY SUFFERING DURING SLEEP


Three o'clock in the morning had just struckand he had been
walking thus for five hoursalmost uninterruptedlywhen he
at length allowed himself to drop into his chair.


There he fell asleep and had a dream.


This dreamlike the majority of dreamsbore no relation to
the situationexcept by its painful and heart-rending character
but it made an impression on him. This nightmare struck him so
forcibly that he wrote it down later on. It is one of the papers
in his own handwriting which he has bequeathed to us. We think
that we have here reproduced the thing in strict accordance with the text.


Of whatever nature this dream may bethe 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 inscribedThe 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.


I was walking with my brotherthe brother of my childish years
the brother of whomI must sayI never thinkand whom I now
hardly remember.


We were conversing 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 live 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 nudeof the hue of ashesand 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-coloredeven the sky.
After proceeding a few pacesI 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?)[5]


[5] This parenthesis is due to Jean Valjean.
The first street that I entered was deserted. I entered
a second street. Behind the angle formed by the 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 first chamber was deserted. I entered the second. Behind 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 villageand perceived that it was a town.
All the streets were desertedall the doors were open. Not a single
living being was passing in the streetswalking through the chambers
or strolling in the gardens. But behind each angle of the walls
behind each doorbehind each treestood a silent man. Only one was
to be seen at a time. These men watched me pass.


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 had seen in that town.
They had strange heads. They did not seem to be in a hurryyet 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 entering
the town said to me:--


`Whither are you going! 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 windowwhich had been left
open on their hinges. The fire was out. The candle was nearing
its end. It was still black night.


He rosehe 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 sharpharsh noisewhich made him drop his eyesresounded from
the earth.

Below him he perceived two red starswhose rays lengthened
and shortened in a singular manner through the darkness.

As his thoughts were still half immersed in the mists of sleep
Hold!said hethere are no stars in the sky. They are on
earth now.

But this confusion vanished; a second sound similar to the first
roused him thoroughly; he looked and recognized the fact that these
two stars 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 this?he said to himself. "Who is coming here
so early in the morning?"

At that moment there came a light tap on the door of his chamber.
He shuddered from head to footand cried in a terrible voice:--


Who is there?
Some one said:--


I, Monsieur le Maire.
He recognized the voice of the old woman who was his portress.


Well!he repliedwhat is it?
Monsieur le Maire, it is just five o'clock in the morning.


What is that to me?
The cabriolet is here, Monsieur le Maire.


What cabriolet?
The tilbury.


What tilbury?
Did not Monsieur le Maire order a tilbury?


No,said he.
The coachman says that he has come for Monsieur le Maire.


What coachman?
M. Scaufflaire's coachman.


M. Scaufflaire?


That name sent a shudder over himas though a flash of lightning
had passed in front of his face.

Ah! yes,he resumed; "M. Scaufflaire!"
If the old woman could have seen him at that momentshe would



have been frightened.

A tolerably long silence ensued. He examined the flame of the candle
with a stupid airand from around the wick he took some of the
burning waxwhich he rolled between his fingers. The old woman
waited for him. She 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.

CHAPTER V

HINDRANCES

The posting service from Arras to M. sur M. was still operated
at this period by small mail-wagons of the time of the Empire.
These mail-wagons were two-wheeled cabrioletsupholstered inside
with fawn-colored leatherhung on springsand having but two seats
one for the postboythe other for the traveller. The wheels were
armed with those longoffensive axles which keep other vehicles
at a distanceand which may still be seen on the road in Germany.
The despatch boxan immense oblong cofferwas placed behind the
vehicle and formed a part of it. This coffer was painted black
and the cabriolet yellow.

These vehicleswhich have no counterparts nowadayshad something
distorted and hunchbacked about them; and when one saw them passing
in the distanceand climbing up some road to the horizonthey
resembled the insects which are calledI thinktermitesand which
though with but little corseletdrag 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 nightafter the mail from Paris had
passedarrived at M. sur M. a little before five o'clock in the morning.

That night the wagon which was descending to M. sur M. by the Hesdin road
collided at the corner of a streetjust as it was entering the town
with a little tilbury harnessed to a white horsewhich was going
in the opposite directionand in which there was but one person
a man enveloped in a mantle. The wheel of the tilbury received
quite a violent shock. The postman shouted to the man to stop
but the traveller paid no heed and pursued his road at full gallop.

That man is in a devilish hurry!said the postman.

The man thus hastening on was the one whom we have just seen
struggling in convulsions which are certainly deserving of pity.

Whither was he going? He could not have told. Why was he hastening?
He did not know. He was driving at randomstraight ahead. Whither?
To Arrasno doubt; but he might have been going elsewhere as well.
At times he was conscious of itand he shuddered. He plunged into
the night as into a gulf. Something urged him forward; something drew
him on. No one could have told what was taking place within him;
every one will understand it. What man is there who has not entered
at least once in his lifeinto that obscure cavern of the unknown?

Howeverhe had resolved on nothingdecided nothingformed no plan
done nothing. None of the actions of his conscience had been decisive.
He wasmore than everas he had been at the first moment.


Why was he going to Arras?


He repeated what he had already said to himself when he had hired
Scaufflaire's cabriolet: thatwhatever 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; thatat any ratewhen he
should have seen that Champmathieusome wretchhis conscience
would probably be greatly relieved to allow him to go to the galleys
in his stead; that Javert would indeed be there; and that Brevet
that Chenildieuthat Cochepailleold convicts who had known him;
but they certainly would not recognize him;--bah! what an idea!
that Javert was a hundred leagues from suspecting the truth;
that all conjectures and all suppositions were fixed on Champmathieu
and that there is nothing so headstrong as suppositions and conjectures;
that accordingly there was no danger.


That it wasno doubta dark momentbut that he should emerge
from it; thatafter allhe held his destinyhowever bad it might be
in his own hand; that he was master of it. He clung to this thought.


At bottomto tell the whole truthhe would have preferred not
to go to Arras.


Neverthelesshe was going thither.


As he meditatedhe whipped up his horsewhich was proceeding at
that fineregularand even trot which accomplishes two leagues
and a half an hour.


In proportion as the cabriolet advancedhe felt something within
him draw back.


At daybreak he was in the open country; the town of M. sur M. lay
far behind him. He watched the horizon grow white; he stared at all
the chilly figures of a winter's dawn as they passed before his eyes
but without seeing them. The morning has its spectres as well as
the evening. He did not see them; but without his being aware of it
and by means of a sort of penetration which was almost physical
these black silhouettes of trees and of hills added some gloomy
and sinister quality to the violent state of his soul.


Each time that he passed one of those isolated dwellings which
sometimes border on the highwayhe said to himselfAnd yet
there are people there within who are sleeping!


The trot of the horsethe bells on the harnessthe wheels
on the roadproduced a gentlemonotonous noise. These things
are charming when one is joyousand lugubrious when one is sad.


It was broad daylight when he arrived at Hesdin. He halted in front
of the innto allow the horse a breathing spelland to have him
given some oats.


The horse belongedas Scaufflaire had saidto that small race
of the Boulonnaiswhich has too much headtoo much belly
and not enough neck and shouldersbut which has a broad chest
a large crupperthinfine legsand solid hoofs--a homely
but a robust and healthy race. The excellent beast had travelled
five leagues in two hoursand had not a drop of sweat on his loins.


He did not get out of the tilbury. The stableman who brought



the oats suddenly bent down and examined the left wheel.
Are you going far in this condition?said the man.


He repliedwith an air of not having roused himself from his revery:--
Why?


Have you come from a great distance?went on the man.
Five leagues.


Ah!
Why do you say, `Ah?'


The man bent down once morewas silent for a momentwith his eyes
fixed on the wheel; then he rose erect and said:-


Because, though this wheel has travelled five leagues, it certainly
will not travel another quarter of a league.

He sprang out of the tilbury.

What is that you say, my friend?

I say that it is a miracle that you should have travelled five leagues
without you and your horse rolling into some ditch on the highway.
Just see here!

The wheel really had suffered serious damage. The shock administered
by the mail-wagon had split two spokes and strained the hub
so that the nut no longer held firm.

My friend,he said to the stablemanis there a wheelwright here?

Certainly, sir.
Do me the service to go and fetch him.


He is only a step from here. Hey! Master Bourgaillard!


Master Bourgaillardthe wheelwrightwas standing on his own threshold.
He cameexamined the wheel and made a grimace like a surgeon
when the latter thinks a limb is broken.


Can you repair this wheel immediately?


Yes, sir.
When can I set out again?


To-morrow.
To-morrow!


There is a long day's work on it. Are you in a hurry, sir?
In a very great hurry. I must set out again in an hour at the latest.


Impossible, sir.
I will pay whatever you ask.



Impossible.
Well, in two hours, then.


Impossible to-day. Two new spokes and a hub must be made.
Monsieur will not be able to start before to-morrow morning.

The matter cannot wait until to-morrow. What if you were to replace
this wheel instead of repairing it?

How so?

You are a wheelwright?
Certainly, sir.

Have you not a wheel that you can sell me? Then I could start
again at once.

A spare wheel?

Yes.

I have no wheel on hand that would fit your cabriolet. Two wheels
make a pair. Two wheels cannot be put together hap-hazard.
In that case, sell me a pair of wheels.

Not all wheels fit all axles, sir.
Try, nevertheless.

It is useless, sir. I have nothing to sell but cart-wheels. We
are but a poor country here.

Have you a cabriolet that you can let me have?

The wheelwright had seen at the first glance that the tilbury
was a hired vehicle. He shrugged his shoulders.

You treat the cabriolets that people let you so well! If I had one,
I would not let it to you!

Well, sell it to me, then.

I have none.
What! not even a spring-cart? I am not hard to please, as you see.


We live in a poor country. There is, in truth,added the wheelwright
an old calash under the shed yonder, which belongs to a bourgeois
of the town, who gave it to me to take care of, and who only uses it
on the thirty-sixth of the month--never, that is to say. I might
let that to you, for what matters it to me? But the bourgeois must
not see it pass--and then, it is a calash; it would require two horses.

I will take two post-horses.
Where is Monsieur going?


To Arras.
And Monsieur wishes to reach there to-day?



Yes, of course.

By taking two post-horses?

Why not?

Does it make any difference whether Monsieur arrives at four
o'clock to-morrow morning?


Certainly not.


There is one thing to be said about that, you see, by taking post-horses--
Monsieur has his passport?


Yes.


Well, by taking post-horses, Monsieur cannot reach Arras before
to-morrow. We are on a cross-road. The relays are badly served,
the horses are in the fields. The season for ploughing is
just beginning; heavy teams are required, and horses are seized
upon everywhere, from the post as well as elsewhere. Monsieur will
have to wait three or four hours at the least at every relay.
And, then, they drive at a walk. There are many hills to ascend.


Come then, I will go on horseback. Unharness the cabriolet.
Some one can surely sell me a saddle in the neighborhood.


Without doubt. But will this horse bear the saddle?


That is true; you remind me of that; he will not bear it.


Then--


But I can surely hire a horse in the village?


A horse to travel to Arras at one stretch?


Yes.


That would require such a horse as does not exist in these parts.
You would have to buy it to begin with, because no one knows you.
But you will not find one for sale nor to let, for five hundred francs,
or for a thousand.


What am I to do?


The best thing is to let me repair the wheel like an honest man,
and set out on your journey to-morrow.


To-morrow will be too late.


The deuce!


Is there not a mail-wagon which runs to Arras? When will it pass?


To-night. Both the posts pass at night; the one going as well
as the one coming.


What! It will take you a day to mend this wheel?


A day, and a good long one.


If you set two men to work?



If I set ten men to work.

What if the spokes were to be tied together with ropes?

That could be done with the spokes, not with the hub; and the felly
is in a bad state, too.


Is there any one in this village who lets out teams?


No.


Is there another wheelwright?


The stableman and the wheelwright replied in concertwith a toss
of the head


No.


He felt an immense joy.


It was evident that Providence was intervening. That it was it
who had broken the wheel of the tilbury and who was stopping him
on the road. He had not yielded to this sort of first summons;
he had just made every possible effort to continue the journey;
he had loyally and scrupulously exhausted all means; he had been
deterred neither by the seasonnor fatiguenor by the expense;
he had nothing with which to reproach himself. If he went no further
that was no fault of his. It did not concern him further.
It was no longer his fault. It was not the act of his own conscience
but the act of Providence.


He breathed again. He breathed freely and to the full extent
of his lungs for the first time since Javert's visit. It seemed
to him that the hand of iron which had held his heart in its grasp
for the last twenty hours had just released him.


It seemed to him that God was for him nowand was manifesting Himself.


He said himself that he had done all he couldand 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 innit would have had no witnessesno one would have heard him
things would have rested thereand it is probable that we should not
have had to relate any of the occurrences which the reader is about
to peruse; but this conversation had taken place in the street.
Any colloquy in the street inevitably attracts a crowd. There are
always people who ask nothing better than to become spectators.
While he was questioning the wheelwrightsome people who were
passing back and forth halted around them. After listening
for a few minutesa young ladto whom no one had paid any heed
detached himself from the group and ran off.


At the moment when the travellerafter the inward deliberation
which we have just describedresolved to retrace his steps
this child returned. He was accompanied by an old woman.


Monsieur,said the womanmy boy tells me that you wish to hire
a cabriolet.


These simple words uttered by an old woman led by a child made
the perspiration trickle down his limbs. He thought that he beheld
the hand which had relaxed its grasp reappear in the darkness
behind himready to seize him once more.



He answered:-


Yes, my good woman; I am in search of a cabriolet which I can hire.

And he hastened to add:-


But there is none in the place.

Certainly there is,said the old woman.

Where?interpolated the wheelwright.

At my house,replied the old woman.

He shuddered. The fatal hand had grasped him again.

The old woman really had in her shed a sort of basket spring-cart.
The wheelwright and the stable-manin despair at the prospect
of the traveller escaping their clutchesinterfered.


It was a frightful old trap; it rests flat on the axle; it is an
actual fact that the seats were suspended inside it by leather thongs;
the rain came into it; the wheels were rusted and eaten with moisture;
it would not go much further than the tilbury; a regular ramshackle
old stage-wagon; the gentleman would make a great mistake if he
trusted himself to it,etc.etc.


All this was true; but this trapthis ramshackle old vehicle
this thingwhatever it wasran on its two wheels and could go
to Arras.


He paid what was askedleft the tilbury with the wheelwright
to be repairedintending to reclaim it on his return
had the white horse put to the cartclimbed into itand resumed
the road which he had been travelling since morning.


At the moment when the cart moved offhe admitted that he had felt
a moment previouslya certain joy in the thought that he should not
go whither he was now proceeding. He examined this joy with a sort
of wrathand found it absurd. Why should he feel joy at turning back?
After allhe 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 Hesdinhe 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 latterit was I who got the cart for you.


Well?


You have not given me anything.


He who gave to all so readily thought this demand exorbitant
and almost odious.


Ah! it's you, you scamp?said he; "you shall have nothing."


He whipped up his horse and set off at full speed.



He had lost a great deal of time at Hesdin. He wanted to make it good.
The little horse was courageousand pulled for two; but it was
the month of Februarythere had been rain; the roads were bad.
And thenit was no longer the tilbury. The cart was very heavy
and in additionthere were many ascents.

He took nearly four hours to go from Hesdin to Saint-Pol; four hours
for five leagues.

At Saint-Pol he had the horse unharnessed at the first inn he
came to and led to the stable; as he had promised Scaufflaire
he stood beside the manger while the horse was eating; he thought
of sad and confusing things.

The inn-keeper's wife came to the stable.

Does not Monsieur wish to breakfast?

Come, that is true; I even have a good appetite.

He followed the womanwho had a rosycheerful face; she led him
to the public room where there were tables covered with waxed cloth.

Make haste!said he; "I must start again; I am in a hurry."

A big Flemish servant-maid placed his knife and fork in all haste;
he looked at the girl with a sensation of comfort.

That is what ailed me,he thought; "I had not breakfasted."

His breakfast was served; he seized the breadtook a mouthful
and then slowly replaced it on the tableand 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 Tinqueswhich is only five leagues from Arras.

What did he do during this journey? Of what was he thinking?
As in the morninghe watched the treesthe thatched roofs
the tilled fields pass byand the way in which the landscape
broken at every turn of the roadvanished; this is a sort of
contemplation which sometimes suffices to the souland almost
relieves it from thought. What is more melancholy and more profound
than to see a thousand objects for the first and the last time?
To travel is to be born and to die at every instant; perhapsin the
vaguest region of his mindbe did make comparisons between the
shifting horizon and our human existence: all the things of life
are perpetually fleeing before us; the dark and bright intervals
are intermingled; after a dazzling momentan eclipse; we look
we hastenwe stretch out our hands to grasp what is passing;
each event is a turn in the roadandall at oncewe are old;
we feel a shock; all is black; we distinguish an obscure door;
the gloomy horse of lifewhich has been drawing us haltsand 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 villagea laborerwho was mending the road with stones
raised his head and said to him:--


That horse is very much fatigued.


The poor beast wasin factgoing at a walk.


Are you going to Arras?added the road-mender.


Yes.


If you go on at that rate you will not arrive very early.


He stopped his horseand 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-menderso you don't know that the road
is under repair? You will find it barred a quarter of an hour
further on; there is no way to proceed further.


Really?


You will take the road on the left, leading to Carency; you will
cross the river; when you reach Camblin, you will turn to the right;
that is the road to Mont-Saint-Eloy which leads to Arras.


But it is night, and I shall lose my way.


You do not belong in these parts?


No.


And, besides, it is all cross-roads; stop! sir,resumed the road-mender;
shall I give you a piece of advice? your horse is tired;
return to Tinques; there is a good inn there; sleep there;
you can reach Arras to-morrow.


I must be there this evening.


That is different; but go to the inn all the same, and get an
extra horse; the stable-boy will guide you through the cross-roads.


He followed the road-mender's adviceretraced his stepsand
half an hour laterhe passed the same spot againbut this time
at full speedwith a good horse to aid; a stable-boywho called
himself a postilionwas seated on the shaft of the cariole.


Stillhe felt that he had lost time.


Night had fully come.


They turned into the cross-road; the way became frightfully bad;
the cart lurched from one rut to the other; he said to the postilion:--


Keep at a trot, and you shall have a double fee.


In one of the joltsthe whiffle-tree broke.



There's the whiffle-tree broken, sir,said the postilion; "I don't
know how to harness my horse now; this road is very bad at night;
if you wish to return and sleep at Tinqueswe could be in Arras
early to-morrow morning."


He repliedHave you a bit of rope and a knife?


Yes, sir.


He cut a branch from a tree and made a whiffle-tree of it.


This caused another loss of twenty minutes; but they set out again
at a gallop.


The plain was gloomy; low-hangingblackcrisp fogs crept over the hills
and wrenched themselves away like smoke: there were whitish gleams
in the clouds; a strong breeze which blew in from the sea produced
a sound in all quarters of the horizonas of some one moving furniture;
everything that could be seen assumed attitudes of terror.
How many things shiver beneath these vast breaths of the night!


He was stiff with cold; he had eaten nothing since the night before;
he vaguely recalled his other nocturnal trip in the vast plain
in the neighborhood of D----eight years previouslyand it seemed
but yesterday.


The hour struck from a distant tower; he asked the boy:--


What time is it?


Seven o'clock, sir; we shall reach Arras at eight; we have
but three leagues still to go.


At that momenthe for the first time indulged in this reflection
thinking it odd the while that it had not occurred to him sooner:
that all this trouble which he was taking wasperhapsuseless;
that he did not know so much as the hour of the trial; that he should
at leasthave informed himself of that; that he was foolish to go
thus straight ahead without knowing whether he would be of any
service or not; then he sketched out some calculations in his mind:
thatordinarilythe sittings of the Court of Assizes began at
nine o'clock in the morning; that it could not be a long affair;
that the theft of the apples would be very brief; that there would
then remain only a question of identityfour or five depositions
and very little for the lawyers to say; that he should arrive after
all was over.


The postilion whipped up the horses; they had crossed the river
and left Mont-Saint-Eloy behind them.


The night grew more profound.


CHAPTER VI


SISTER SIMPLICE PUT TO THE PROOF


But at that moment Fantine was joyous.


She had passed a very bad night; her cough was frightful; her fever
had doubled in intensity; she had had dreams: in the morning



when the doctor paid his visitshe was delirious; he assumed
an alarmed lookand ordered that he should be informed as soon
as M. Madeleine arrived.


All the morning she was melancholysaid but littleand laid
plaits in her sheetsmurmuring the whilein a low voice
calculations which seemed to be calculations of distances.
Her eyes were hollow and staring. They seemed almost extinguished
at intervalsthen lighted up again and shone like stars.
It seems as thoughat the approach of a certain dark hour
the light of heaven fills those who are quitting the light of earth.


Each time that Sister Simplice asked her how she felt
she replied invariablyWell. I should like to see M. Madeleine.


Some months before thisat the moment when Fantine had just lost
her last modestyher last shameand her last joyshe was the shadow
of herself; now she was the spectre of herself. Physical suffering
had completed the work of moral suffering. This creature of five
and twenty had a wrinkled browflabby cheekspinched nostrils
teeth from which the gums had recededa leaden complexion
a bony neckprominent shoulder-bladesfrail limbsa clayey skin
and her golden hair was growing out sprinkled with gray.
Alas! how illness improvises old-age!


At mid-day the physician returnedgave some directions
inquired whether the mayor had made his appearance at the infirmary
and shook his head.


M. Madeleine usually came to see the invalid at three o'clock. As
exactness is kindnesshe was exact.
About half-past twoFantine began to be restless. In the course
of twenty minutesshe asked the nun more than ten timesWhat time
is it, sister?


Three o'clock struck. At the third strokeFantine sat up in bed;
she who couldin generalhardly turn overjoined her yellow
fleshless hands in a sort of convulsive claspand the nun heard her
utter one of those profound sighs which seem to throw off dejection.
Then Fantine turned and looked at the door.


No one entered; the door did not open.


She remained thus for a quarter of an hourher eyes riveted on
the doormotionless and apparently holding her breath. The sister
dared not speak to her. The clock struck a quarter past three.
Fantine fell back on her pillow.


She said nothingbut began to plait the sheets once more.


Half an hour passedthen an hourno one came; every time the
clock struckFantine started up and looked towards the door
then fell back again.


Her thought was clearly perceptiblebut she uttered no nameshe made
no complaintshe blamed no one. But she coughed in a melancholy way.
One would have said that something dark was descending upon her.
She was livid and her lips were blue. She smiled now and then.


Five o'clock struck. Then the sister heard her sayvery low and gently
He is wrong not to come to-day, since I am going away to-morrow.


Sister Simplice herself was surprised at M. Madeleine's delay.



In the meantimeFantine was staring at the tester of her bed.
She seemed to be endeavoring to recall something. All at once she
began to sing in a voice as feeble as a breath. The nun listened.
This is what Fantine was singing:-


Lovely things we will buy
As we stroll the faubourgs through.
Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue,
I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.


Yestere'en the Virgin Mary came near my stovein a broidered
mantle cladand said to me`Herehide 'neath my veil the child
whom you one day begged from me. Haste to the citybuy linen
buy a needlebuy thread.'

Lovely things we will buy
As we stroll the faubourgs through.


Dear Holy Virginbeside my stove I have set a cradle
with ribbons decked. God may give me his loveliest star;
I prefer the child thou hast granted me. `Madamewhat shall
I do with this linen fine?'--`Make of it clothes for thy new-born babe.'


Roses are pink and corn-flowers are blue,
I love my love, and corn-flowers are blue.


`Wash this linen.'--`Where?'--`In the stream. Make of it
soiling notspoiling nota petticoat fair with its bodice fine
which I will embroider and fill with flowers.'--`Madamethe
child is no longer here; what is to be done?'--`Then make of it
a winding-sheet in which to bury me.'

Lovely things we will buy
As we stroll the faubourgs through,
Roses are pink, corn-flowers are blue,
I love my love, corn-flowers are blue.


This song was an old cradle romance with which she hadin former days
lulled her little Cosette to sleepand which had never recurred
to her mind in all the five years during which she had been parted
from her child. She sang it in so sad a voiceand to so sweet an air
that it was enough to make any oneeven a nunweep. The sister
accustomed as she was to austeritiesfelt a tear spring to her eyes.

The clock struck six. Fantine did not seem to hear it. She no
longer seemed to pay attention to anything about her.

Sister Simplice sent a serving-maid to inquire of the portress
of the factorywhether the mayor had returnedand if he would
not come to the infirmary soon. The girl returned in a few minutes.

Fantine was still motionless and seemed absorbed in her own thoughts.

The servant informed Sister Simplice in a very low tonethat the mayor
had set out that morning before six o'clockin a little tilbury harnessed


to a white horsecold as the weather was; that he had gone alone
without even a driver; that no one knew what road he had taken;
that people said he had been seen to turn into the road to Arras;
that others asserted that they had met him on the road to Paris.
That when he went away he had been very gentleas usualand that he
had merely told the portress not to expect him that night.


While the two women were whispering togetherwith their backs turned
to Fantine's bedthe sister interrogatingthe servant conjecturing
Fantinewith the feverish vivacity of certain organic maladies
which unite the free movements of health with the frightful
emaciation of deathhad raised herself to her knees in bed
with her shrivelled hands resting on the bolsterand her head
thrust through the opening of the curtainsand was listening.
All at once she cried:--


You are speaking of M. Madeleine! Why are you talking so low?
What is he doing? Why does he not come?


Her voice was so abrupt and hoarse that the two women thought they
heard the voice of a man; they wheeled round in affright.


Answer me!cried Fantine.


The servant stammered:--


The portress told me that he could not come to-day.


Be calm, my child,said the sister; "lie down again."


Fantinewithout changing her attitudecontinued in a loud voice
and with an accent that was both imperious and heart-rending:--


He cannot come? Why not? You know the reason. You are whispering
it to each other there. I want to know it.


The servant-maid hastened to say in the nun's earSay that he
is busy with the city council.


Sister Simplice blushed faintlyfor it was a lie that the maid
had proposed to her.


On the other handit seemed to her that the mere communication of the
truth to the invalid wouldwithout doubtdeal her a terrible blow
and that this was a serious matter in Fantine's present state.
Her flush did not last long; the sister raised her calmsad eyes
to Fantineand saidMonsieur le Maire has gone away.


Fantine raised herself and crouched on her heels in the bed:
her eyes sparkled; indescribable joy beamed from that melancholy face.


Gone!she cried; "he has gone to get Cosette."


Then she raised her arms to heavenand her white face became ineffable;
her lips moved; she was praying in a low voice.


When her prayer was finishedSister,she saidI am willing to lie
down again; I will do anything you wish; I was naughty just now;
I beg your pardon for having spoken so loud; it is very wrong
to talk loudly; I know that well, my good sister, but, you see,
I am very happy: the good God is good; M. Madeleine is good;
just think! he has gone to Montfermeil to get my little Cosette.


She lay down againwith the nun's assistancehelped the nun



to arrange her pillowand kissed the little silver cross which she
wore on her neckand which Sister Simplice had given her.


My child,said the sistertry to rest now, and do not talk
any more.


Fantine took the sister's hand in her moist handsand the latter
was pained to feel that perspiration.


He set out this morning for Paris; in fact, he need not even go
through Paris; Montfermeil is a little to the left as you come thence.
Do you remember how he said to me yesterday, when I spoke
to him of Cosette, Soon, soon? He wants to give me a surprise,
you know! he made me sign a letter so that she could be taken from
the Thenardiers; they cannot say anything, 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 years since I saw her last; you cannot imagine how much
attached one gets to children, and then, she will be so pretty;
you will see! 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 must be a big girl now; she is seven years old; she is quite
a young 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 again 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-morrow, 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 Montfermeil 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 Montfermeil?


The sisterwho had no idea of distancesrepliedOh, I think
that be will be here to-morrow.


To-morrow! to-morrow!said FantineI shall see Cosette to-morrow!
you see, good sister of the good God, that I am 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 talkedshe laughed softly; the joy of a mother
is almost infantile.


Well,resumed the nunnow 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 your child;
Sister Simplice is right; every one here is right.


And thenwithout stirringwithout even moving her headshe began
to stare all about her with wide-open eyes and a joyous air
and she said nothing more.



The sister drew the curtains together againhoping that she would
fall into a doze. Between seven and eight o'clock the doctor came;
not hearing any soundhe thought Fantine was asleepentered softly
and approached the bed on tiptoe; he opened the curtains a little
andby the light of the taperhe saw Fantine's big eyes gazing
at him.

She said to himShe will be allowed to sleep beside
me in 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 asideand 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 invalidwho believed that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil;
that it was possibleafter allthat her guess was correct:
the doctor approved.

He returned to Fantine's bedand 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 your hand,said the doctor.

She stretched out her armand exclaimed with a laugh:-


Ah, hold! in truth, you 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 poorworn-out creature.

Doctor,she went ondid the sister tell you that M. le Maire
has gone to get that mite of a child?

The doctor recommended silenceand that all painful emotions should
be avoided; he prescribed an infusion of pure chinchonaandin case
the fever should increase again during the nighta calming potion.
As he took his departurehe 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 mysteries: we may be able to save her.

CHAPTER VII

THE TRAVELLER ON HIS ARRIVAL TAKES PRECAUTIONS FOR DEPARTURE

It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening when the cartwhich we
left on the roadentered the porte-cochere of the Hotel de la Poste
in Arras; the man whom we have been following up to this moment
alighted from itresponded with an abstracted air to the attentions


of the people of the innsent back the extra horseand 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 thereand 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 bottomhe was not sorry.


The landlady of the hotel entered.


Does Monsieur wish a bed? Does Monsieur require supper?


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 again to-morrow morning?


Oh, Monsieur! he must rest for two days at least.


He inquired:--


Is not the posting-station located here?


Yes, sir.


The hostess conducted him to the office; he showed his passport
and inquired whether there was any way of returning that same night
to M. sur M. by the mail-wagon; the seat beside the post-boy chanced
to be vacant; he engaged it and paid for it. "Monsieur said
the clerk, do not fail to be here ready to start at precisely
one o'clock in the morning."


This donehe left the hotel and began to wander about the town.


He was not acquainted with Arras; the streets were darkand he
walked on at random; but he seemed bent upon not asking the way
of the passers-by. He crossed the little river Crinchonand found
himself in a labyrinth of narrow alleys where he lost his way.
A citizen was passing along with a lantern. After some hesitation
he decided to apply to this mannot without having first glanced
behind and in front of himas though he feared lest some one should
hear the question which he was about to put.


Monsieur,said hewhere is the court-house, if you please.


You do not belong in town, sir?replied the bourgeois
who was an oldish man; "wellfollow me. I happen to be
going in the direction of the court-housethat is to say
in the direction of the hotel of the prefecture; for the
court-house is undergoing repairs just at this momentand
the courts are holding their 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 Conzie, who was bishop in '82,
built a grand hall there. It is in this grand hall that the court
is held.


On the waythe 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 squarehoweverthe man pointed
out to him four long windows all lighted upin 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 lawyers.


That is different,said the bourgeois. "Stopsir; here is the door
where the sentry stands. You have only to ascend the grand staircase."


He conformed to the bourgeois's directionsand a few minutes
later he was in a hall containing many peopleand where groups
intermingled with lawyers in their gownswere whispering together
here and there.


It is always a heart-breaking thing to see these congregations
of men robed in blackmurmuring together 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 pronounced
in advance are more likely to be the result. All these groups
seem to the passing and thoughtful observer so many sombre hives
where buzzing spirits construct in concert all sorts of dark edifices.


This spacious hallilluminated by a single lampwas the old hall
of the episcopal palaceand served as the large hall of the palace
of justice. A double-leaved doorwhich 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 the lawyer.


Finished!


This word was repeated in such accents that the lawyer turned round.


Excuse me sir; perhaps you are a relative?


No; I know no one here. Has judgment been pronounced?


Of course. Nothing else was possible.


To penal servitude?


For life.


He continuedin a voice so weak that it was barely audible:--


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 premeditationand she was condemned for life."

So it was a woman?said he.

Why, certainly. The Limosin woman. Of what are you speaking?

Nothing. But since it is all over, how comes it that the hall
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 offence; 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?said he.

I really think that there is not. There is a great crowd.
However, the hearing has been suspended. Some people have gone out,
and when the hearing is resumed, you might make 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 simultaneouslyalmost intermingled with each other
all possible emotions. The words of this indifferent spectator had
in turnpierced his heart like needles of ice and like blades of fire.
When he saw that nothing was settledhe breathed freely once more;
but he could not have 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 president had
appointed for the same day two short and simple cases. They had
begun with the infanticideand now they had reached the convict
the old offenderthe "return horse." This man had stolen apples
but that did not appear to be entirely proved; what had been
proved wasthat he had already been in the galleys at Toulon.
It was that which lent a bad aspect to his case. Howeverthe man's
examination and the depositions of the witnesses had been completed
but the lawyer's pleaand 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 his culprits; he was a brilliant fellow who
wrote verses.

An usher stood at the door communicating with the hall 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! 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 areto tell the truth
two or three extra places behind Monsieur le Presidentbut Monsieur
le President only admits public functionaries to them."

So sayingthe usher turned his back.

He retired with bowed headtraversed the antechamberand slowly
descended the stairsas 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 encountered
some new phase of it. On reaching the landing-placehe leaned
his back against the balusters and folded his arms. All at once he
opened his coatdrew out his pocket-booktook from it a pencil
tore out a leafand upon that leaf he wrote rapidlyby the light
of the street lanternthis line: M. MadeleineMayor of M. sur M.;
then he ascended the stairs once more with great strides
made his way through the crowdwalked straight up to the usher
handed him the paperand said in an authoritative manner:-


Take this to Monsieur le President.

The usher took the papercast a glance upon itand obeyed.

CHAPTER VIII

AN ENTRANCE BY FAVOR

Although he did not suspect the factthe 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 departments. Besides the service
which he had rendered to the chief town by resuscitating the black
jet industrythere was not one out of the hundred and forty communes
of the arrondissement of M. sur M. which was not indebted to him
for some benefit. He had even at need contrived to aid and multiply
the industries of other arrondissements. It was thus that he had
when occasion offeredsupported with his credit and his funds the
linen factory at Boulognethe flax-spinning industry at Frevent
and the hydraulic manufacture of cloth at Boubers-sur-Canche.
Everywhere the name of M. Madeleine was pronounced with veneration.
Arras and Douai envied the happy little town of M. sur M. its mayor.

The Councillor of the Royal Court of Douaiwho was presiding over
this session of the Assizes at Arraswas acquaintedin common
with the rest of the worldwith this name which was so profoundly
and universally honored. When the usherdiscreetly opening the door
which connected the council-chamber with the court-roombent over the


back of the President's arm-chair and handed him the paper on which was
inscribed the line which we have just perusedadding: "The gentleman
desires to be present at the trial the President, with a quick
and deferential movement, seized a pen and wrote a few words at
the bottom of the paper and returned it to the usher, saying, Admit him."

The unhappy man whose history we are relating had remained near
the door of the hallin 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 himWill Monsieur do me the honor to follow me?
It was the same usher who had turned his back upon him but a
moment previouslyand who was now bowing to the earth before him.
At the same timethe usher handed him the paper. He unfolded it
and as he chanced to be near the lighthe 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 contained
for him a strange and bitter aftertaste.

He followed the usher.

A few minutes later he found himself alone in a sort of wainscoted
cabinet of severe aspectlighted by two wax candlesplaced upon a table
with a green cloth. The last words of the usher who had just quitted him
still rang in his ears: "Monsieuryou are now in the council-chamber;
you have only to turn the copper handle of yonder doorand you will
find yourself in the court-roombehind the President's chair."
These words were mingled in his thoughts with a vague memory
of narrow 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 facultiesbut could not. It is chiefly
at the moment when there is the greatest need for attaching them
to the painful realities of lifethat the threads of thought
snap within the brain. He was in the very place where the judges
deliberated and condemned. With stupid tranquillity he surveyed this
peaceful and terrible apartmentwhere so many lives had been broken
which was soon to ring with his nameand which his fate was at that
moment traversing. He stared at the wallthen he looked at himself
wondering that it should be that chamber and that it should be he.

He had eaten nothing for four and twenty hours; he was worn
out by the jolts of the cartbut he was not conscious of it.
It seemed to him that he felt nothing.

He approached a black frame which was suspended on the wall
and which containedunder glassan ancient autograph letter
of Jean Nicolas Pachemayor of Paris and ministerand dated
through an errorno doubtthe 9th of Juneof 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 momentand who had watched himwould have imagined
doubtlessthat this letter struck him as very curiousfor he did
not take his eyes from itand he read it two or three times.
He read it without paying any attention to itand unconsciously.
He was thinking of Fantine and Cosette.

As he dreamedhe turned roundand 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 glancecalm at first
paused thereremained fixed on that brass handlethen 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 rebellionwhich is intended to convey
and which does so well conveyPardieu! who compels me to this?
Then he wheeled briskly roundcaught sight of the door through which he
had entered in front of himwent to itopened itand passed out.
He was no longer in that chamber; he was outside in a corridora long
narrow corridorbroken by steps and gratingsmaking all sorts
of angleslighted here and there by lanterns similar to the night
taper of invalidsthe corridor through which he had approached.
He breathedhe listened; not a sound in frontnot a sound behind him
and he fled as though pursued.


When he had turned many angles in this corridorhe still listened.
The same silence reignedand there was the same darkness around him.
He was out of breath; he staggered; he leaned against the wall.
The stone was cold; the perspiration lay ice-cold on his brow;
he straightened himself up with a shiver.


Thenthere alone in the darknesstrembling with cold and with
something elsetooperchancehe meditated.


He had meditated all night long; he had meditated all the day:
he heard within him but one voicewhich saidAlas!


A quarter of an hour passed thus. At length he bowed his head
sighed with agonydropped his armsand retraced his steps.
He walked slowlyand as though crushed. It seemed as though some one
had overtaken him in his flight and was leading him back.


He re-entered the council-chamber. The first thing he caught
sight of was the knob of the door. This knobwhich was round
and of polished brassshone 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 listenedhe would have heard the sound of the adjoining
hall like a sort of confused murmur; but he did not listenand he
did not hear.


Suddenlywithout himself knowing how it happenedhe found himself
near the door; he grasped the knob convulsively; the door opened.


He was in the court-room.


CHAPTER IX


A PLACE WHERE CONVICTIONS ARE IN PROCESS OF FORMATION


He advanced a paceclosed the door mechanically behind him
and remained standingcontemplating what he saw.


It was a vast and badly lighted apartmentnow full of uproar
now full of silencewhere 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 hallthe one where he waswere judges
with abstracted airin threadbare robeswho were gnawing their
nails or closing their eyelids; at the other enda ragged crowd;
lawyers in all sorts of attitudes; soldiers with hard but honest
faces; ancientspotted woodworka dirty ceilingtables 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; darknessuglinesssadness; and from
all this there was disengaged an austere and august impression
for one there felt that grand human 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 pointa wooden bench placed against
a small doorin the stretch of wall on the President's left;
on this benchilluminated by several candlessat a man between
two gendarmes.

This man was the man.

He did not seek him; he saw him; his eyes went thither naturally
as though they had known beforehand where that figure was.

He thought he was looking at himselfgrown old; not absolutely the
same in faceof coursebut exactly similar in attitude and aspect
with his bristling hairwith that wild and uneasy eyewith that blouse
just as it was on the day when he entered D----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 shudderGood God! shall I become
like that again?

This creature seemed to be at least sixty; there was something
indescribably coarsestupidand frightened about him.

At the sound made by the opening doorpeople had drawn aside to make
way for him; the President had turned his headandunderstanding that
the personage who had just entered was the mayor of M. sur M.he had
bowed to him; the attorney-generalwho had seen M. Madeleine at M. sur
M.whither the duties of his office had called him more than once
recognized him and saluted him also: he had hardly perceived it;
he was the victim of a sort of hallucination; he was watching.

Judgesclerksgendarmesa throng of cruelly curious headsall these he
had already beheld oncein days gone bytwenty-seven years before;
he had encountered those fatal things once more; there they 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 crowdand real men of flesh and blood: it was all over;
he beheld the monstrous aspects of his past reappear and live once
more around himwith all that there is formidable in reality.

All this was yawning before him.

He was horrified by it; he shut his eyesand exclaimed in the
deepest recesses of his soulNever!

And by a tragic play of destiny which made all his ideas tremble
and rendered him nearly madit was another self of his that was
there! all called that man who was being tried Jean Valjean.

Under his very eyesunheard-of visionhe had a sort of representation


of the most horrible moment of his lifeenacted by his spectre.

Everything was there; the apparatus was the samethe hour of the night
the faces of the judgesof soldiersand of spectators; all were
the sameonly above the President's head there hung a crucifix
something which the courts had lacked at the time of his condemnation:
God had been absent when he had been judged.

There was a chair behind him; he dropped into itterrified at
the thought that he might be seen; when he was seated
he took advantage of a pile of cardboard boxeswhich stood
on the judge's deskto conceal his face from the whole room;
he could now see without being seen; he had fully regained
consciousness 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 Javertbut did not see him; the seat of the
witnesses was hidden from him by the clerk's tableand then
as we have just saidthe hall was sparely lighted.


At the moment of this entrancethe 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 mana miserable specimen of humanityeither profoundly
stupid or profoundly subtlegradually bending beneath the weight
of a terrible likeness. This manas the reader already knows
was a vagabond who had been found in a field carrying a branch
laden with ripe applesbroken in the orchard of a neighbor
called the Pierron orchard. Who was this man? an examination
had been made; witnesses had been heardand 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 description,
a malefactor named Jean Valjean, whom justice has long been in
search of, and who, eight years ago, on emerging from the galleys
at Toulon, committed a highway robbery, accompanied by violence,
on the person of a child, a Savoyard named Little Gervais; a crime
provided for by article 383 of the Penal Code, the right to try
him for which we reserve hereafter, when his identity shall have
been judicially established. He has just committed a fresh 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 accusationin the face of the unanimity of the witnesses
the accused appeared to be astonished more than anything else;
he made signs and gestures which were meant to convey No
or else he stared at the ceiling: he spoke with difficulty
replied with embarrassmentbut his whole personfrom head to foot
was a denial; he was an idiot in the presence of all these minds
ranged in order of battle around himand like a stranger
in the midst of this society which was seizing fast upon him;
neverthelessit was a question of the most menacing future for him;
the likeness increased every momentand the entire crowd surveyed
with more anxiety than he did himselfthat sentence freighted
with calamitywhich descended ever closer over his head; there was
even a glimpse of a possibility afforded; besides the galleys
a possible death penaltyin 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 wellor did he not



understand 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 obscure.


The counsel for the defence had spoken tolerably wellin that
provincial tongue which has long constituted the eloquence of the bar
and which was formerly employed by all advocatesat Paris as well as at
Romorantin or at Montbrisonand which to-dayhaving 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; Paristhe centre of art and civilization;
the kingthe monarch; Monseigneur the Bishopa sainted pontiff;
the district-attorneythe eloquent interpreter of public prosecution;
the argumentsthe accents which we have just listened to; the age
of Louis XIV.the grand age; a theatrethe temple of Melpomene;
the reigning familythe august blood of our kings; a concert
a musical solemnity; the General Commandant of the province
the illustrious warriorwhoetc.; the pupils in the seminary
these tender levities; errors imputed to newspapersthe imposture
which distills its venom through the columns of those organs; etc.
The lawyer hadaccordinglybegun with an explanation as to the
theft of the apples--an awkward matter couched in fine style;
but Benigne Bossuet himself was obliged to allude to a chicken
in the midst of a funeral orationand he extricated himself from
the situation in stately fashion. The lawyer established the fact
that the theft of the apples had not been circumstantially proved.
His clientwhom hein his character of counselpersisted in
calling Champmathieuhad not been seen scaling that wall nor
breaking that branch by any one. He had been taken with that branch
(which the lawyer preferred to 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 wallthen thrown away by the alarmed marauder;
there was no doubt that there had been a thief in the case.
But what proof was there that that thief had been Champmathieu?
One thing only. His character as an ex-convict. The lawyer did not
deny that that character appeared to beunhappilywell attested;
the accused had resided at Faverolles; the accused had exercised
the calling of a tree-pruner there; the name of Champmathieu might
well have had its origin in Jean Mathieu; all that was true--
in shortfour witnesses recognize Champmathieupositively and
without hesitationas that convictJean Valjean; to these signs
to this testimonythe counsel could oppose nothing but the denial
of his clientthe denial of an interested party; but supposing that he
was the convict Jean Valjeandid that prove that he was the thief
of the apples? that was a presumption at the mostnot a proof.
The prisonerit was trueand his counselin good faith,
was obliged to admit ithad adopted "a bad system of defence."
He obstinately denied everythingthe theft and his character of convict.
An admission upon this last point would certainly have 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
thinkingno doubtthat he would save everything by admitting nothing.
It was an error; but ought not the paucity of this intelligence
to be taken into consideration? This man was visibly stupid.
Long-continued wretchedness in the galleyslong misery outside
the galleyshad brutalized himetc. He defended himself badly;
was that a reason for condemning him? As for the affair with
Little Gervaisthe counsel need not discuss it; it did not enter
into the case. The lawyer wound up by beseeching the jury and
the courtif the identity of Jean Valjean appeared to them to



be evidentto apply to him the police penalties which are provided
for a criminal who has broken his banand not the frightful
chastisement which descends upon the convict guilty of a second
offence.

The district-attorney answered the counsel for the defence.
He was violent and floridas district-attorneys usually are.

He congratulated the counsel for the defence on his "loyalty and
skilfully took advantage of this loyalty. He reached the accused
through all the concessions made by his lawyer. The advocate had seemed
to admit that the prisoner was Jean Valjean. He took note of this.
So this man was Jean Valjean. This point had been conceded to the
accusation and could no longer be disputed. Here, by means of a clever
autonomasia which went back to the sources and causes of crime,
the district-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 Champmathieu,
or rather, to speak more correctly, of Jean Valjean. Having exhausted
these considerations, he passed on to Jean Valjean himself.
Who was this Jean Valjean? Description of Jean Valjean: a monster
spewed forth, etc. The model for this sort of description is
contained in the tale of Theramene, 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 oratorical 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.vagabondbeggarwithout means of existence
etc.etc.inured by his past life to culpable deedsand but little
reformed by his sojourn in the galleysas was proved by the crime
committed against Little Gervaisetc.etc.; it is such a man
caught upon the highway in the very act of thefta few paces
from a wall that had been scaledstill holding in his hand
the object stolenwho denies the crimethe theftthe climbing
the wall; denies everything; denies even his own identity!
In addition to a hundred other proofsto which we will not recur
four witnesses recognize him--Javertthe upright inspector
of police; Javertand three of his former companions in infamy
the convicts BrevetChenildieuand Cochepaille. What does he
offer in opposition to this overwhelming unanimity? His denial.
What obduracy! You will do justicegentlemen of the juryetc.etc.
While the district-attorney was speakingthe accused listened to him
open-mouthedwith a sort of amazement in which some admiration
was assuredly blended. He was evidently surprised that a man could
talk like that. From time to timeat those "energetic" moments
of the prosecutor's speechwhen eloquence which cannot contain itself
overflows in a flood of withering epithets and envelops the accused
like a stormhe 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 himself since the beginning of the argument.
Two or three times the spectators who were nearest to him heard him say
in a low voiceThat is what comes of not having asked M. Baloup.
The district-attorney directed the attention of the jury to this
stupid attitudeevidently deliberatewhich denoted not imbecility
but craftskilla habit of deceiving justiceand which set
forth in all its nakedness the "profound perversity" of this man.
He ended by making his reserves on the affair of Little Gervais and
demanding a severe sentence.

At that timeas the reader will rememberit was penal servitude
for life.


The counsel for the defence rosebegan by complimenting Monsieur
l'Avocat-General on his "admirable speech then replied as best
he could; but he weakened; the ground was evidently slipping away
from under his feet.


CHAPTER X


THE SYSTEM OF DENIALS


The moment for closing the debate had arrived. The President had
the accused stand up, and addressed to him the customary question,
Have you anything to add to your defence?"


The man did not appear to understandas he stood there
twisting in his hands a terrible 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 upcast his eyes about him
stared at the audiencethe gendarmeshis counselthe jurythe court
laid his monstrous fist on the rim of woodwork in front of his bench
took another lookand all at oncefixing his glance upon the
district-attorneyhe began to speak. It was like an eruption.
It seemedfrom the manner in which the words escaped from his mouth--
incoherentimpetuouspell-melltumbling over each other--
as though they were all pressing forward to issue forth at once.
He said:--


This is what I have to say. That I have been a wheelwright 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 required, you see. In winter
one gets so cold that one beats one's arms 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 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 an old bird, old beast!
I was not earning more than thirty sous a day. They paid me
as little as possible. 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 still wash. There are people who have not much linen,
and wait until late; if you do not wash, you lose your custom.
The planks are badly joined, and water drops on you from everywhere;
you have your petticoats all damp above and below. That penetrates.
She has also worked at the laundry of the Enfants-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 home 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;
you 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 you.
Go see at M. Baloup's; and after all, I don't know what is wanted of
me.

The man ceased speakingand remained standing. He had said these
things in a loudrapidhoarse voicewith a sort of irritated and
savage ingenuousness. Once he paused to salute some one in the crowd.
The sort of affirmations which he seemed to fling out before him
at random came like hiccoughsand to each he added the gesture
of a wood-cutter who is splitting wood. When he had finished
the audience burst into a laugh. He stared at the publicand
perceiving that they were laughingand not understanding why
he began to laugh himself.

It was inauspicious.

The Presidentan attentive and benevolent manraised his voice.

He reminded "the gentlemen of the jury" that "the sieur Baloup
formerly a master-wheelwrightwith whom the accused stated that he
had servedhad been summoned in vain. He had become bankrupt
and was not to be found." Then turning to the accusedhe enjoined
him to listen to what he was about to sayand added: "You are in
a position where reflection is necessary. The gravest presumptions
rest upon youand may induce vital results. Prisonerin your
own interestsI summon you for the last time to explain yourself
clearly on two points. In the first placedid you or did you not
climb the wall of the Pierron orchardbreak the branchand steal
the apples; that is to saycommit the crime of breaking in and theft?
In the second placeare you the discharged convictJean Valjean-yes
or no?"

The prisoner shook his head with a capable airlike a man who has
thoroughly understoodand who knows what answer he is going to make.
He opened his mouthturned towards the Presidentand said:-


In the first place--

Then he stared at his capstared at the ceilingand held his peace.

Prisoner,said the district-attorneyin a severe voice;
pay attention. You are not answering anything that has been
asked of you. Your embarrassment condemns you. It is evident
that your name is not Champmathieu; that you are the convict,
Jean Valjean, concealed first under the name of Jean Mathieu,
which was the name of his mother; that you went to Auvergne;
that you were born at Faverolles, where you were a pruner of trees.
It is evident that you have been guilty of entering, and of the theft
of ripe apples from the Pierron orchard. The gentlemen of the jury
will form their own opinion.

The prisoner had finally resumed his seat; he arose abruptly
when the district-attorney had finishedand exclaimed:-


You are very wicked; that you are! This 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 the country after
a shower, which had made the whole country yellow: even the ponds
were overflowed, 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 dragging me about for the last three months;
more than that I cannot say; people talk against me, they tell me,
`Answer!' The gendarme, who is a good fellow, nudges my elbow,
and says to me in a low voice, `Come, answer!' I don't know how
to explain; I have no education; I am a poor man; that is where
they 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'Hopital;
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 old fellow; those are
my baptismal names; take that as you like. I have been in Auvergne;
I have been at Faverolles. Pardi. 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! Why is everybody pursuing me so
furiously?


The district-attorney had remained standing; he addressed the President:--


Monsieur le President, in view of the confused but exceedingly
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 Javert, 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 capital
of a neighboring arrondissement, left the court-room and the town
as soon as he had made his deposition; we have accorded him permission,
with the consent of the district-attorney 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 his 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 the lie to the prisoner's denial.
I recognize him perfectly. The name of this man is not Champmathieu;
he is an ex-convict named Jean Valjean, and is very vicious and much
to be feared. It is 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 insistingthat in default of Javertthe three
witnesses BrevetChenildieuand Cochepaille should be heard



once more and solemnly interrogated.


The President transmitted the order to an usheranda moment
laterthe door of the witnesses' room opened. The usher
accompanied by a gendarme ready to lend him armed assistance
introduced the convict Brevet. The audience was in suspense;
and all breasts heaved as though they had contained 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 faceand the air of a rascal.
The two sometimes go together. In prisonwhither fresh misdeeds
had led himhe had become something in the nature of a turnkey.
He was a man of whom his superiors saidHe tries to make himself
of use.The chaplains bore good testimony as to his religious habits.
It must not be forgotten that this passed under the Restoration.


Brevet,said the Presidentyou have undergone an ignominious
sentence, and you cannot take an oath.


Brevet dropped his eyes.


Nevertheless,continued the Presidenteven 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 recognizing this man as your former
companion in the galleys, Jean Valjean?


Brevet looked at the prisonerthen turned towards the court.


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.


Take your seat,said the President. "Prisonerremain standing."


Chenildieu was brought ina prisoner for lifeas was indicated
by his red cassock and his green cap. He was serving out his sentence
at the galleys of Toulonwhence he had been brought for this case.
He was a small man of about fiftybriskwrinkledfrailyellow
brazen-facedfeverishwho had a sort of sickly feebleness about all
his limbs and his whole personand an immense force in his glance.
His companions in the galleys had nicknamed him I-deny-God (Je-nie Dieu
Chenildieu).


The President addressed him in nearly the same words which he had
used to Brevet. At the moment when he reminded him of his infamy
which deprived him of the right to take an oathChenildieu raised
his head and looked the crowd in the face. The President invited
him to reflectionand asked him as he had asked Brevetif he
persisted in recognition of the prisoner.


Chenildieu burst out laughing.


Pardieu, as if I didn't recognize him! We were attached to the



same chain for five years. So you are sulking, old fellow?

Go take your seat,said the President.

The usher brought in Cochepaille. He was another convict for life
who had come from the galleysand was dressed in redlike Chenildieu
was a peasant from Lourdesand a half-bear of the Pyrenees.
He had guarded the flocks among the mountainsand from a shepherd
he had slipped into a brigand. Cochepaille was no less savage
and seemed even more stupid than the prisoner. He was one of
those wretched men whom nature has sketched out for wild beasts
and on whom society puts the finishing touches as convicts in
the galleys.

The President tried to touch him with some grave and pathetic words
and asked himas he had asked the other twoif he persisted
without hesitation or troublein recognizing the man who was standing
before him.

He is Jean Valjean,said Cochepaille. "He was even called
Jean-the-Screwbecause he was so strong."

Each of these affirmations from these three menevidently sincere
and in good faithhad raised in the audience a murmur of bad augury
for the prisoner--a murmur which increased and lasted longer
each time that a fresh declaration was added to the proceeding.

The prisoner had listened to themwith that astounded face which was
according to the accusationhis principal means of defence;
at the firstthe gendarmeshis neighborshad heard him mutter between
his teeth: "Ahwellhe's a nice one!" after the secondhe said
a little louderwith an air that was almost that of satisfaction
Good!at the thirdhe criedFamous!

The President addressed him:-


Have you heard, prisoner? What have you to say?

He replied:-


I say, `Famous!'

An uproar broke out among the audienceand was communicated
to the jury; it was evident that the man was lost.

Ushers,said the Presidentenforce silence! I am going to sum
up the arguments.

At that moment there was a movement just beside the President;
a voice was heard crying:-


Brevet! Chenildieu! Cochepaille! look here!

All who heard that voice were chilledso lamentable and terrible
was it; all eyes were turned to the point whence it had proceeded.
A manplaced among the privileged spectators who were seated behind
the courthad just risenhad pushed open the half-door which separated
the tribunal from the audienceand was standing in the middle
of the hall; the Presidentthe district-attorneyM. Bamatabois
twenty personsrecognized himand exclaimed in concert:-


M. Madeleine!


CHAPTER XI

CHAMPMATHIEU MORE AND MORE ASTONISHED

It was hein fact. The clerk's lamp illumined his countenance.
He held his hat in his hand; there was no disorder in his clothing;
his coat was carefully buttoned; he was very paleand he trembled
slightly; his hairwhich had still been gray on his arrival in Arras
was now entirely white: it had turned white during the hour he
had sat there.


All heads were raised: the sensation was indescribable;
there was a momentary hesitation in the audiencethe voice had
been so heart-rending; the man who stood there appeared so calm
that they did not understand at first. They asked themselves
whether he had indeed uttered that cry; they could not believe
that that tranquil man had been the one to give that terrible outcry.


This indecision only lasted a few seconds. Even before
the President and the district-attorney could utter a word
before the ushers and the gendarmes could make a gesture
the man whom all still calledat that momentM. Madeleine
had advanced towards the witnesses CochepailleBrevetand Chenildieu.


Do you not recognize me?said he.


All three remained speechlessand indicated by a sign of the head
that they did not know him. Cochepaillewho was intimidated
made a military salute. M. Madeleine turned towards the jury
and the courtand said in a gentle voice:--


Gentlemen of the jury, order the prisoner to be released!
Mr. President, have me arrested. He is not the man whom you are
in search of; it is I: I am Jean Valjean.


Not a mouth breathed; the first commotion of astonishment had been
followed by a silence like that of the grave; those within the hall
experienced that sort of religious terror which seizes the masses
when something grand has been done.


In the meantimethe face of the President was stamped with sympathy
and sadness; he had exchanged a rapid sign with the district-attorney
and a few low-toned words with the assistant judges; he addressed
the publicand asked in accents which all understood:--


Is there a physician present?


The district-attorney took the word:--


Gentlemen of the jury, the very strange and unexpected incident
which disturbs the audience inspires us, like yourselves,
only with a sentiment which it is unnecessary for us to express.
You all know, by reputation at least, the honorable M. Madeleine,
mayor of M. sur M.; if there is a physician in the audience,
we join the President in requesting him to attend to M. Madeleine,
and to conduct him to his home.


M.Madeleine did not allow the district-attorney to finish;
he interrupted him in accents full of suavity and authority.
These are the words which he uttered; here they are literally
as they were written downimmediately after the trial by one
of the witnesses to this sceneand as they now ring in the ears



of those who heard them nearly forty years ago:-


I thank you, Mr. District-Attorney, but I am not mad; you shall see;
you were on the point of committing a great error; release this man!
I am fulfilling a duty; I am that miserable criminal. I am the
only one here who sees the matter clearly, and I am telling you
the truth. God, who is on high, looks down on what I am doing at
this moment, and that suffices. You can take me, for here I am:
but I have done my best; I concealed myself under another name;
I have become rich; I have become a mayor; I have tried to re-enter
the ranks of the honest. It seems that that is not to be done.
In short, there are many things which I cannot tell. I will not narrate
the story of my life to you; you will hear it one of these days.
I robbed Monseigneur the Bishop, it is true; it is true that I
robbed Little Gervais; they were right in telling you that Jean
Valjean was a very vicious wretch. Perhaps it was not altogether
his fault. Listen, honorable judges! a man who has been so greatly
humbled as I have has neither any remonstrances to make to Providence,
nor any advice to give to society; but, you see, the infamy from
which I have tried to escape is an injurious thing; the galleys
make the convict what he is; reflect upon that, if you please.
Before going to the galleys, I was a poor peasant, with very
little intelligence, a sort of idiot; the galleys wrought a change
in me. I was stupid; I became vicious: I was a block of wood;
I became a firebrand. Later on, indulgence and kindness saved me,
as severity had ruined me. But, pardon me, you cannot understand
what I am saying. You will find at my house, among the ashes in
the fireplace, the forty-sou piece which I stole, seven years ago,
from little Gervais. I have nothing farther to add; take me.
Good God! the district-attorney shakes his head; you say, 'M. Madeleine
has gone mad!' you do not believe me! that is distressing. Do not,
at least, condemn this man! What! these men do not recognize me!
I wish Javert were here; he would recognize me.

Nothing can reproduce the sombre and kindly melancholy of tone
which accompanied these words.

He turned to the three convictsand said:-


Well, I recognize you; do you remember, Brevet?

He pausedhesitated for an instantand said:-


Do you remember the knitted suspenders with a checked pattern
which you wore in the galleys?

Brevet gave a start of surpriseand surveyed him from head to foot
with a frightened air. He continued:-


Chenildieu, you who conferred on yourself the name of
`Jenie-Dieu,' your whole right shoulder bears a deep burn,
because you one day laid your shoulder against the chafing-dish
full of coals, in order to efface the three letters T. F. P.,
which are still visible, nevertheless; answer, is this true?

It is true,said Chenildieu.

He addressed himself to Cochepaille:-


Cochepaille, you have, near the bend in your left arm, a date stamped
in blue letters with burnt powder; the date is that of the landing
of the Emperor at Cannes, March 1, 1815; pull up your sleeve!

Cochepaille pushed up his sleeve; all eyes were focused on him


and on his bare arm.

A gendarme held a light close to it; there was the date.

The unhappy man turned to the spectators and the judges with a smile
which still rends the hearts of all who saw it whenever they think
of it. It was a smile of triumph; it was also a smile of despair.


You see plainly,he saidthat I am Jean Valjean.


In that chamber there were no longer either judgesaccusers
nor gendarmes; there was nothing but staring eyes and sympathizing
hearts. No one recalled any longer the part that each might be
called upon to play; the district-attorney forgot he was there
for the purpose of prosecutingthe President that he was there
to presidethe counsel for the defence that he was there to defend.
It was a striking circumstance that no question was putthat no
authority intervened. The peculiarity of sublime spectacles is
that they capture all souls and turn witnesses into spectators.
No oneprobablycould have explained what he felt; no one
probablysaid to himself that he was witnessing the splendid
outburst of a grand light: all felt themselves inwardly dazzled.


It was evident that they had Jean Valjean before their eyes.
That was clear. The appearance of this man had sufficed to suffuse
with light that matter which had been so obscure but a moment previously
without any further explanation: the whole crowdas by a sort
of electric revelationunderstood instantly and at a single glance
the simple and magnificent history of a man who was delivering
himself up so that another man might not be condemned in his stead.
The detailsthe hesitationslittle possible oppositions
were swallowed up in that vast and luminous fact.


It was an impression which vanished speedilybut which was
irresistible at the moment.


I do not wish to disturb the court further,resumed Jean Valjean.
I shall withdraw, since you do not arrest me. I have many things to do.
The district-attorney knows who I am; he knows whither I am going;
he can have me arrested when he likes.


He directed his steps towards the door. Not a voice was raised
not an arm extended to hinder him. All stood aside. At that moment
there was about him that divine something which causes multitudes
to stand aside and make way for a man. He traversed the crowd slowly.
It was never known who opened the doorbut it is certain that he
found the door open when he reached it. On arriving there he turned
round and said:--


I am at your command, Mr. District-Attorney.


Then he addressed the audience:--


All of you, all who are present--consider me worthy of pity,
do you not? Good God! When I think of what I was on the point
of doing, I consider that I am to be envied. Nevertheless, I should
have preferred not to have had this occur.


He withdrewand the door closed behind him as it had opened
for those who do certain sovereign things are always sure of being
served by some one in the crowd.


Less than an hour after thisthe verdict of the jury freed
the said Champmathieu from all accusations; and Champmathieu



being at once releasedwent off in a state of stupefactionthinking
that all men were foolsand comprehending nothing of this vision.

BOOK EIGHTH.--A COUNTER-BLOW

CHAPTER I

IN WHAT MIRROR M. MADELEINE CONTEMPLATES HIS HAIR

The day had begun to dawn. Fantine had passed a sleepless and
feverish nightfilled with happy visions; at daybreak she fell asleep.
Sister Simplicewho had been watching with heravailed herself
of this slumber to go and prepare a new potion of chinchona.
The worthy sister had been in the laboratory of the infirmary but
a few momentsbending over her drugs and phialsand scrutinizing
things very closelyon account of the dimness which the half-light
of dawn spreads over all objects. Suddenly she raised her head
and uttered a faint shriek. M. Madeleine stood before her;
he had just entered silently.

Is it you, Mr. Mayor?she exclaimed.

He replied in a low voice:-


How is that poor woman?

Not so bad just now; but we have been very uneasy.

She explained to him what had passed: that Fantine had been
very ill the day beforeand that she was better nowbecause she
thought that the mayor had gone to Montfermeil to get her child.
The sister dared not question the mayor; but she perceived plainly
from his air that he had not come from there.

All that is good,said he; "you were right not to undeceive her."

Yes,responded the sister; "but nowMr. Mayorshe will see you
and will not see her child. What shall we say to her?"

He reflected for a moment.

God will inspire us,said he.

But we cannot tell a lie,murmured the sisterhalf aloud.

It was broad daylight in the room. The light fell full
on M. Madeleine's face. The sister chanced to raise her eyes to it.

Good God, sir!she exclaimed; "what has happened to you?
Your hair is perfectly white!"

White!said he.

Sister Simplice had no mirror. She rummaged in a drawerand pulled
out the little glass which the doctor of the infirmary used to see
whether a patient was dead and whether he no longer breathed.

M. Madeleine took the mirrorlooked at his hairand said:-"
Well!"


He uttered the word indifferentlyand as though his mind were
on something else.

The sister felt chilled by something strange of which she caught
a glimpse in all this.

He inquired:-


Can I see her?

Is not Monsieur le Maire going to have her child brought back to her?
said the sisterhardly venturing to put the question.

Of course; but it will take two or three days at least.

If she were not to see Monsieur le Maire until that time,went on
the sistertimidlyshe would not know that Monsieur le Maire
had returned, and it would be easy to inspire her with patience;
and when the child arrived, she would naturally think Monsieur le
Maire had just come with the child. We should not have to enact
a lie.

M. Madeleine seemed to reflect for a few moments; then he said
with his calm gravity:-"
NosisterI must see her. I mayperhapsbe in haste."

The nun did not appear to notice this word "perhaps which communicated
an obscure and singular sense to the words of the mayor's speech.
She replied, lowering her eyes and her voice respectfully:-


In that caseshe is asleep; but Monsieur le Maire may enter."

He made some remarks about a door which shut badlyand the noise of
which might awaken the sick woman; then he entered Fantine's chamber
approached the bed and drew aside the curtains. She was asleep.
Her breath issued from her breast with that tragic sound which is
peculiar to those maladiesand which breaks the hearts of mothers
when they are watching through the night beside their sleeping
child who is condemned to death. But this painful respiration
hardly troubled a sort of ineffable serenity which overspread
her countenanceand which transfigured her in her sleep.
Her pallor had become whiteness; her cheeks were crimson; her long
golden lashesthe only beauty of her youth and her virginity
which remained to herpalpitatedthough they remained closed
and drooping. Her whole person was trembling with an indescribable
unfolding of wingsall ready to open wide and bear her away
which could be felt as they rustledthough they could not be seen.
To see her thusone would never have dreamed that she was an invalid
whose life was almost despaired of. She resembled rather something
on the point of soaring away than something on the point of dying.

The branch trembles when a hand approaches it to pluck a flower
and seems to both withdraw and to offer itself at one and the same time.
The human body has something of this tremor when the instant arrives
in which the mysterious fingers of Death are about to pluck the soul.

M. Madeleine remained for some time motionless beside that bed
gazing in turn upon the sick woman and the crucifixas he had done
two months beforeon the day when he had come for the first time to see
her in that asylum. They were both still there in the same attitude-she
sleepinghe praying; only nowafter the lapse of two months
her hair was gray and his was white.

The sister had not entered with him. He stood beside the bed
with his finger on his lipsas though there were some one in the
chamber whom he must enjoin to silence.


She opened her eyessaw himand said quietlywith a smile:--


And Cosette?


CHAPTER II


FANTINE HAPPY


She made no movement of either surprise or of joy; she was joy itself.
That simple questionAnd Cosette?was put with so profound
a faithwith so much certaintywith such a complete absence
of disquiet and of doubtthat he found not a word of reply.
She continued:--


I knew that you were there. I was asleep, but I saw you.
I have seen you for a long, long time. I have been following you
with my eyes all night long. You were in a glory, and you had around
you all sorts of celestial forms.


He raised his glance to the crucifix.


But,she resumedtell me where Cosette is. Why did not you
place her on my bed against the moment of my waking?


He made some mechanical reply which he was never afterwards able
to recall.


Fortunatelythe doctor had been warnedand he now made his appearance.
He came to the aid of M. Madeleine.


Calm yourself, my child,said the doctor; "your child is here."


Fantine's eyes beamed and filled her whole face with light.
She clasped her hands with an expression which contained all that is
possible to prayer in the way of violence and tenderness.


Oh!she exclaimedbring her to me!


Touching illusion of a mother! Cosette wasfor herstill the
little child who is carried.


Not yet,said the doctornot just now. You still have some fever.
The sight of your child would agitate you and do you harm.
You must be cured first.


She interrupted him impetuously:--


But I am cured! Oh, I tell you that I am cured! What an ass
that doctor is! The idea! I want to see my child!


You see,said the doctorhow excited you become. So long as you
are in this state I shall oppose your having your child. It is not
enough to see her; it is necessary that you should live for her.
When you are reasonable, I will bring her to you myself.


The poor mother bowed her head.



I beg your pardon, doctor, I really beg your pardon. Formerly I
should never have spoken as I have just done; so many misfortunes
have happened to me, that I sometimes do not know what I am saying.
I understand you; you fear the emotion. I will wait as long
as you like, but I swear to you that it would not have harmed
me to see my daughter. I have been seeing her; I have not
taken my eyes from her since yesterday 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 white things, and persons who smiled at me.
When Monsieur le Docteur pleases, he shall bring me Cosette.
I have no longer any fever; I am well. I am perfectly conscious that
there is nothing the matter with me any more; but I am going to behave
as though I were ill, and not stir, 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. She turned
towards him; she was making a visible effort to be calm and "very good
as she expressed it in the feebleness of illness which resembles
infancy, in order that, seeing her so peaceable, they might make
no difficulty about bringing Cosette to her. But while she
controlled herself she could not refrain from questioning M. Madeleine.
Did you have a pleasant tripMonsieur 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 not recognize me.
She must have forgotten me by this timepoor darling! Children have
no memories. They are like birds. A child sees one thing to-day
and another thing to-morrowand thinks of nothing any longer.
And did she have white linen? Did those Thenardiers keep her clean?
How have they fed her? Oh! if you only knew how I have suffered
putting such questions as that to myself during all the time of
my wretchedness. Nowit is all past. I am happy. Ohhow I should
like to see her! Do you think her prettyMonsieur 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 beautiful he said, Cosette is well.
You shall see her soon; but calm yourself; you are talking with
too much vivacityand you are throwing your arms out from under
the clothesand that makes you cough."

In factfits of coughing interrupted Fantine at nearly every word.

Fantine did not murmur; she feared that she had injured by her
too passionate lamentations the confidence which she was desirous
of inspiringand she began to talk of indifferent things.

Montfermeil is quite pretty, is it not? People go there on
pleasure parties in summer. Are the Thenardiers prosperous?
There are not many travellers in their parts. That inn of theirs
is a sort of a cook-shop.

M. Madeleine was still holding her handand gazing at her
with anxiety; it was evident that he had come to tell her things
before which his mind now hesitated. The doctorhaving finished
his visitretired. 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 herheld her breath
and began to listen with rapture.

There was a child playing in the yard--the child of the portress
or of some work-woman. It was one of those accidents which are
always occurringand which seem to form a part of the mysterious
stage-setting of mournful scenes. The child--a little girl-was
going and comingrunning to warm herselflaughingsinging 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 resumedit is my Cosette! I recognize her voice.

The child retreated as it had come; the voice died away.
Fantine listened for a while longerthen her face clouded over
and M. Madeleine heard her sayin a low voice: "How wicked
that doctor is not to allow me to see my daughter! That man has
an evil countenancethat he has."

But the smiling background of her thoughts came to the front again.
She continued to talk to herselfwith her head resting on the pillow:
How happy we are going to be! We shall have a little garden the
very first thing; M. Madeleine has promised it to me. My daughter
will play in the garden. She must know her letters by 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 her first communion?

She began to reckon on her fingers.

One, two, three, four--she is seven years old. In five years
she will have a white veil, and openwork stockings; she will look
like a little woman. O my good sister, you do not know how foolish
I become when I think of my daughter's first communion!

She began to laugh.

He had released Fantine's hand. He listened to her words as one
listens to the sighing of the breezewith his eyes on the ground
his mind absorbed in reflection which had no bottom. All at once she
ceased speakingand this caused him to raise his head mechanically.
Fantine had become terrible.

She no longer spokeshe no longer breathed; she had raised herself
to a sitting postureher thin shoulder emerged from her chemise;
her facewhich had been radiant but a moment beforewas ghastly
and she seemed to have fixed her eyesrendered large with terror
on something alarming at the other extremity of the room.

Good God!he exclaimed; "what ails youFantine?"

She made no reply; she did not remove her eyes from the 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 turnedand beheld Javert.

CHAPTER III


JAVERT SATISFIED

This is what had taken place.

The half-hour after midnight had just struck when M. Madeleine quitted
the Hall of Assizes in Arras. He regained his inn just in time to set
out again by the mail-wagonin which he had 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. Laffitte
then to enter the infirmary and see Fantine.


Howeverhe had hardly quitted the audience hall of the Court of Assizes
when the district-attorneyrecovering from his first shock
had taken the word to deplore the mad deed of the honorable
mayor of M. sur M.to declare that his convictions had not been
in the least modified by that curious incidentwhich would be
explained thereafterand to demandin the meantimethe condemnation
of that Champmathieuwho was evidently the real Jean Valjean.
The district-attorney's persistence was visibly at variance
with the sentiments of every oneof the publicof the court
and of the jury. The counsel for the defence had some difficulty
in refuting this harangue and in establishing thatin consequence
of the revelations of M. Madeleinethat is to sayof the real
Jean Valjeanthe aspect of the matter had been thoroughly altered
and that the jury had before their eyes now only an innocent man.
Thence the lawyer had drawn some epiphonemasnot very fresh
unfortunatelyupon judicial errorsetc.etc.; the President
in his summing uphad joined the counsel for the defence
and in a few minutes the jury had thrown Champmathieu out of the case.


Neverthelessthe district-attorney was bent on having a Jean Valjean;
and as he had no longer Champmathieuhe 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 phrasein which there was a great deal
of ofis the district-attorney'swritten with his own hand
on the minutes of his report to the attorney-general. His first emotion
having passed offthe President did not offer many objections.
Justice mustafter alltake its course. And thenwhen all was said
although the President was a kindly and a tolerably intelligent man
he wasat the same timea devoted and almost an ardent royalist
and he had been shocked to hear the Mayor of M. sur M. say the Emperor
and not Bonapartewhen 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 messenger
at full speedand 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 prisoner.


The messenger himself was a very clever member of the policewho
in two wordsinformed Javert of what had taken place at Arras.
The order of arrestsigned by the district-attorneywas couched
in these words: "Inspector Javert will apprehend the body of the
Sieur Madeleinemayor of M. sur M.whoin this day's session
of the courtwas recognized as the liberated convictJean Valjean."



Any one who did not know Javertand 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 placeand would
have thought his air the most ordinary in the world. He was cool
calmgravehis gray hair was perfectly smooth upon his temples
and he had just mounted the stairs with his habitual deliberation.
Any one who was thoroughly acquainted with himand who had examined
him attentively at the momentwould have shuddered. The buckle
of his leather stock was under his left ear instead of at the nape
of his neck. This betrayed unwonted agitation.

Javert was a complete characterwho never had a wrinkle in his
duty or in his uniform; methodical with malefactorsrigid with
the buttons of his coat.

That he should have set the buckle of his stock awry
it was indispensable that there should have taken place in him
one of those emotions which may be designated as internal earthquakes.

He had come in a simple wayhad made a requisition on the
neighboring post for a corporal and four soldiershad left
the soldiers in the courtyardhad had Fantine's room pointed
out to him by the portresswho was utterly unsuspicious
accustomed as she was to seeing armed men inquiring for the mayor.

On arriving at Fantine's chamberJavert turned the handle
pushed the door open with the gentleness of a sick-nurse
or a police spyand entered.

Properly speakinghe did not enter. He stood erect in the half-open
doorhis hat on his head and his left hand thrust into his coat
which was buttoned up to the chin. In the bend of his elbow
the leaden head of his enormous canewhich was hidden behind him
could be seen.

Thus he remained for nearly a minutewithout his presence
being perceived. All at once Fantine raised her eyessaw him
and made M. Madeleine turn round.

The instant that Madeleine's glance encountered Javert's glanceJavert
without stirringwithout moving from his postwithout approaching
himbecame 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 caused all
that was in his soul to appear in his countenance. The depths having
been stirred upmounted to the surface. The humiliation of having
in some slight degreelost the scentand of having indulged
for a few momentsin an error with regard to Champmathieu
was effaced by pride at having so well and accurately divined in the
first placeand of having for so long cherished a just instinct.
Javert's content shone forth in his sovereign attitude. The deformity
of triumph overspread that narrow brow. All the demonstrations
of horror which a satisfied face can afford were there.

Javert was in heaven at that moment. Without putting the thing
clearly to himselfbut with a confused intuition of the necessity
of his presence and of his successheJavertpersonified justice
lightand truth in their celestial function of crushing out evil.
Behind him and around himat an infinite distancehe had authority
reasonthe case judgedthe legal consciencethe public prosecution
all the stars; he was protecting orderhe was causing the law


to yield up its thundershe was avenging societyhe was lending
a helping hand to the absolutehe was standing erect in the midst
of a glory. There existed in his victory a remnant of defiance
and of combat. Erecthaughtybrillianthe flaunted abroad
in open day the superhuman bestiality of a ferocious archangel.
The terrible shadow of the action which he was accomplishing caused
the vague flash of the social sword to be visible in his clenched fist;
happy and indignanthe held his heel upon crimevicerebellion
perditionhell; he was radianthe exterminatedhe smiled
and there was an incontestable grandeur in this monstrous Saint Michael.


Javertthough frightfulhad nothing ignoble about him.


Probitysinceritycandorconvictionthe sense of duty
are things which may become hideous when wrongly directed;
but whicheven when hideousremain grand: their majesty
the majesty peculiar to the human conscienceclings to them in the
midst of horror; they are virtues which have one vice--error.
The honestpitiless joy of a fanatic in the full flood of his
atrocity preserves a certain lugubriously venerable radiance.
Without himself suspecting the factJavert in his formidable
happiness was to be pitiedas is every ignorant man who triumphs.
Nothing could be so poignant and so terrible as this face
wherein was displayed all that may be designated as the evil of the good.


CHAPTER IV


AUTHORITY REASSERTS ITS RIGHTS


Fantine had not seen Javert since the day on which the mayor had torn
her from the man. Her ailing brain comprehended nothingbut the
only thing which she did not doubt was that he had come to get her.
She could not endure that terrible face; she felt her life quitting her;
she hid her face in both handsand shrieked in her anguish:--


Monsieur Madeleine, save me!


Jean Valjean--we shall henceforth not speak of him otherwise--
had risen. He said to Fantine in the gentlest and calmest of voices:--


Be at ease; it is not for you that he is come.


Then he addressed Javertand said:--


I know what you want.


Javert replied:--


Be quick about it!


There lay in the inflection of voice which accompanied these words
something indescribably fierce and frenzied. Javert did not say
Be quick about it!he said "Bequiabouit."


No orthography can do justice to the accent with which it was uttered:
it was no longer a human word: it was a roar.


He did not proceed according to his customhe did not enter
into the matterhe exhibited no warrant of arrest. In his eyes
Jean Valjean was a sort of mysterious combatantwho was not to be
laid hands upona wrestler in the dark whom he had had in his



grasp for the last five yearswithout being able to throw him.
This arrest was not a beginningbut an end. He confined himself
to sayingBe quick about it!

As he spoke thushe did not advance a single step; he hurled at
Jean Valjean a glance which he threw out like a grappling-hook
and with which he was accustomed to draw wretches violently to him.

It was this glance which Fantine had felt penetrating to the very
marrow of her bones two months previously.

At Javert's exclamationFantine opened her eyes once more.
But the mayor was there; what had she to fear?

Javert advanced to the middle of the roomand cried:-


See here now! Art thou coming?

The unhappy woman glanced about her. No one was present excepting
the nun and the mayor. To whom could that abject use of "thou"
be addressed? To her only. She shuddered.

Then she beheld a most unprecedented thinga thing so unprecedented
that nothing equal to it had appeared to her even in the blackest
deliriums of fever.

She beheld Javertthe police spyseize the mayor by the collar;
she saw the mayor bow his head. It seemed to her that the world was
coming to an end.

Javert hadin factgrasped Jean Valjean by the collar.

Monsieur le Maire!shrieked Fantine.

Javert burst out laughing with that frightful laugh which displayed
all his gums.

There is no longer any Monsieur le Maire here!

Jean Valjean made no attempt to disengage the hand which grasped
the collar of his coat. He said:-


Javert--

Javert interrupted him: "Call me Mr. Inspector."

Monsieur,said Jean ValjeanI should like to say a word to you
in private.

Aloud! Say it aloud!replied Javert; "people are in the habit
of talking aloud to me."

Jean Valjean went on in a lower tone:-


I have a request to make of you--

I tell you to speak loud.

But you alone should hear it--

What difference does that make to me? I shall not listen.

Jean Valjean turned towards him and said very rapidly
and in a very low voice:-



Grant me three days' grace! three days in which to go and fetch
the child of this unhappy woman. I will pay whatever is necessary.
You shall accompany me if you choose.

You are making sport of me!cried Javert. "Come nowI did
not think you such a fool! You ask me to give you three days in
which to run away! You say that it is for the purpose of fetching
that creature's child! Ah! Ah! That's good! That's really capital!"

Fantine was seized with a fit of trembling.

My child!she criedto go and fetch my child! She is not here,
then! Answer me, sister; where is Cosette? I want my child!
Monsieur Madeleine! Monsieur le Maire!

Javert stamped his foot.

And now there's the other one! Will you hold your tongue, you hussy?
It's a pretty sort of a place where convicts are magistrates,
and where women of the town are cared for like countesses! Ah! But we
are going to change all that; it is high time!

He stared intently at Fantineand addedonce more taking into
his grasp Jean Valjean's cravatshirt and collar:-


I tell you that there is no Monsieur Madeleine and that there is
no Monsieur le Maire. There is a thief, a brigand, a convict named
Jean Valjean! And I have him in my grasp! That's what there is!

Fantine raised herself in bed with a boundsupporting herself on
her stiffened arms and on both hands: she gazed at Jean Valjean
she gazed at Javertshe gazed at the nunshe opened her mouth
as though to speak; a rattle proceeded from the depths of her throat
her teeth chattered; she stretched out her arms in her agony
opening her hands convulsivelyand fumbling about her like a
drowning person; then suddenly fell back on her pillow.

Her head struck the head-board of the bed and fell forwards
on her breastwith gaping mouth and staringsightless eyes.

She was dead.

Jean Valjean laid his hand upon the detaining hand of Javert
and opened it as he would have opened the hand of a baby; then he
said to Javert:-


You have murdered that woman.

Let's have an end of this!shouted Javertin a fury; "I am not
here to listen to argument. Let us economize all that; the guard
is below; march on instantlyor you'll get the thumb-screws!"

In the corner of the room stood an old iron bedsteadwhich was in a
decidedly decrepit stateand which served the sisters as a camp-bed
when they were watching with the sick. Jean Valjean stepped up
to this bedin a twinkling wrenched off the head-piecewhich was
already in a dilapidated conditionan easy matter to muscles like his
grasped the principal rod like a bludgeonand glanced at Javert.
Javert retreated towards the door. Jean Valjeanarmed with his bar
of ironwalked slowly up to Fantine's couch. When he arrived there
he turned and said to Javertin a voice that was barely audible:-


I advise you not to disturb me at this moment.


One thing is certainand that isthat Javert trembled.

It did occur to him to summon the guardbut Jean Valjean might
avail himself of that moment to effect his escape; so he remained
grasped his cane by the small endand 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 handand began to contemplate the motionless
body of Fantinewhich lay extended there. He remained thus
muteabsorbedevidently with no further thought of anything
connected with this life. Upon his face and in his attitude there
was nothing but inexpressible pity. After a few moments of this
meditation he bent towards Fantineand spoke to her in a low voice.

What did he say to her? What could this manwho was reproved
say to that womanwho was dead? What words were those? No one
on earth heard them. Did the dead woman hear them? There are
some touching illusions which areperhapssublime realities.
The point as to which there exists no doubt isthat Sister Simplice
the sole witness of the incidentoften said that at the moment
that Jean Valjean whispered in Fantine's earshe distinctly beheld
an ineffable smile dawn on those pale lipsand in those dim eyes
filled with the amazement of the tomb.

Jean Valjean took Fantine's head in both his handsand arranged it
on the pillow as a mother might have done for her child; then he tied
the string of her chemiseand smoothed her hair back under her cap.
That donehe closed her eyes.

Fantine's face seemed strangely illuminated at that moment.

Deaththat signifies entrance into the great light.

Fantine's hand was hanging over the side of the bed. Jean Valjean
knelt down before that handlifted it gentlyand kissed it.

Then he roseand turned to Javert.

Now,said heI am at your disposal.

CHAPTER V

A SUITABLE TOMB

Javert deposited Jean Valjean in the city prison.

The arrest of M. Madeleine occasioned a sensationor rather
an extraordinary commotion in M. sur M. We are sorry that we cannot
conceal the factthat at the single wordHe was a convict,
nearly every one deserted him. In less than two hours all the good
that he had done had been forgottenand 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 quarters 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, Bejean, Bojean, Boujean.Ah!
Good God!He has been 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 committed 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 ladya subscriber to the Drapeau Blancmade the
following remarkthe depth of which it is impossible to fathom:--


I am not sorry. It will be a lesson to the Bonapartists!


It was thus that the phantom which had been called M. Madeleine
vanished from M. sur M. Only three or four persons in all the town
remained faithful to his memory. The old portress who had served
him was among the number.


On the evening of that day the worthy old woman was sitting in her lodge
still in a thorough frightand absorbed in sad reflections.
The factory had been closed all daythe carriage gate was bolted
the street was deserted. There was no one in the house but the
two nunsSister Perpetue and Sister Simplicewho were watching
beside the body of Fantine.


Towards the hour when M. Madeleine was accustomed to return home
the good portress rose mechanicallytook from a drawer the key
of M. Madeleine's chamberand the flat candlestick 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 itand set the candlestick
on one sideas though she was expecting him. Then she sat down
again on her chairand became absorbed in thought once more.
The poorgood old woman bad done all this without being conscious
of it.


It was only at the expiration of two hours that she roused herself
from her reveryand exclaimedHold! My good God Jesus!
And I hung his key on the nail!


At that moment the small window in the lodge openeda hand
passed throughseized the key and the candlestickand lighted
the taper at the candle which was burning there.


The portress raised her eyesand stood there with gaping mouth
and a shriek which she confined to her throat.


She knew that handthat armthe sleeve of that coat.


It was M. Madeleine.


It was several seconds before she could speak; she had a seizure
as she said herselfwhen she related the adventure afterwards.


Good God, Monsieur le Maire,she cried at lastI 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 roofand here I am.
I am going up to my room; go and find Sister Simplice for me.
She is with that poor womanno 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 courtyard
without opening the big gates. He hadand always carried about him
a pass-key which opened a little side-door; but he must have
been searchedand his latch-key must have been taken from him.
This point was never explained.


He ascended the staircase leading to his chamber. On arriving at the top
he left his candle on the top step of his stairsopened his door
with very little noisewent and closed his window and his shutters
by feelingthen 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 himat his tableat his chairat his bed
which had not been disturbed for three days. No trace of the disorder
of the night before last remained. The portress had "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 paperon which he wrote: "These are the
two tips of my iron-shod cudgel and the forty-sou piece stolen
from Little Gervaiswhich I mentioned at the Court of Assizes
and he arranged this piece of paper, the bits of iron, and 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 his
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 proved 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 human nature
from our very bowels, and force it to reappear on the surface.
The emotions of that day had turned the nun into a woman once more.
She had wept, and she was trembling.


Jean Valjean had just finished writing a few lines on a paper,
which he handed to the nun, saying, Sisteryou will give this
to Monsieur le Cure."


The paper was not folded. She cast a glance upon it.



You can read it,said he.

She read:-


I beg Monsieur le Cure to keep an eye on all that I leave behind me.
He will be so good as to pay out of it the expenses of my trial,
and of the funeral of the woman who died yesterday. The rest is for
the poor.

The sister tried to speakbut she only managed to stammer a few
inarticulate sounds. She succeeded in sayinghowever:-


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 roomand that would disturb her."

He had hardly finished when a loud noise became audible on the staircase.
They heard a tumult of ascending footstepsand the old portress
saying in her loudest and most piercing 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 responded:-


But there is a light in that room, nevertheless.

They recognized Javert's voice.

The chamber was so arranged that the door in opening masked the corner
of the wall on the right. Jean Valjean blew out the light and placed
himself in this angle. Sister Simplice fell on her knees near the table.

The door opened.

Javert entered.

The whispers of many men and the protestations of the portress
were audible in the corridor.

The nun did not raise her eyes. She was praying.

The candle was on the chimney-pieceand gave but very little light.

Javert caught sight of the nun and halted in amazement.

It will be remembered that the fundamental point in Javerthis element
the very air he breathedwas veneration for all authority.
This was impregnableand admitted of neither objection nor restriction.
In his eyesof coursethe ecclesiastical authority was the chief
of all; he was religioussuperficial and correct on this point
as on all others. In his eyesa priest was a mindwho never makes
a mistake; a nun was a creature who never sins; they were souls
walled in from this worldwith a single door which never opened
except to allow the truth to pass through.

On perceiving the sisterhis first movement was to retire.

But there was also another duty which bound him and impelled
him imperiously in the opposite direction. His second movement
was to remain and to venture on at least one question.


This was Sister Simplicewho had never told a lie in her life.
Javert knew itand held her in special veneration in consequence.

Sister,said heare you alone in this room?

A terrible moment ensuedduring which the poor portress felt
as though she should faint.

The sister raised her eyes and answered:-


Yes.

Then,resumed Javertyou 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--that Jean Valjean;
you have not seen him?

The sister replied:-


No.

She lied. She had lied twice in successionone after the other
without hesitationpromptlyas a person does when sacrificing herself.

Pardon me,said Javertand he retired with a deep bow.

O sainted maid! you left this world many years ago; you have
rejoined your sistersthe virginsand your brothersthe angels
in the light; may this lie be counted to your credit in paradise!

The sister's affirmation was for Javert so decisive a thing that he
did not even observe the singularity of that candle which had but
just been extinguishedand which was still smoking on the table.

An hour latera manmarching amid trees and mistswas rapidly
departing from M. sur M. in the direction of Paris. That man
was Jean Valjean. It has been established by the testimony of
two or three carters who met himthat he was carrying a bundle;
that he was dressed in a blouse. Where had he obtained that blouse?
No one ever found out. But an aged workman had died in the infirmary
of the factory a few days beforeleaving behind him nothing
but his blouse. Perhaps that was the one.

One last word about Fantine.

We all have a mother--the earth. Fantine was given back to that mother.

The cure thought that he was doing rightand perhaps he really was
in reserving as much money as possible from what Jean Valjean
had left for the poor. Who was concernedafter all? A convict
and a woman of the town. That is why he had a very simple funeral
for Fantineand 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 everybodyand where the poor
are lost. FortunatelyGod knows where to find the soul again.
Fantine was laid in the shadeamong 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.

[The end of Volume I. "Fantine"]


VOLUME II.

COSETTE

BOOK FIRST.--WATERLOO

CHAPTER I

WHAT IS MET WITH ON THE WAY FROM NIVELLES

Last year (1861)on a beautiful May morninga travellerthe person
who is telling this storywas coming from Nivellesand directing
his course towards La Hulpe. He was on foot. He was pursuing
a broad paved roadwhich undulated between two rows of trees
over the hills which succeed each otherraise the road and let it
fall againand produce something in the nature of enormous waves.


He had passed Lillois and Bois-Seigneur-Isaac. In the west he
perceived the slate-roofed tower of Braine-l'Alleudwhich has
the form of a reversed vase. He had just left behind a wood upon
an eminence; and at the angle of the cross-roadby the side
of a sort of mouldy gibbet bearing the inscription Ancient
Barrier No. 4a public housebearing on its front this sign:
At the Four Winds (Aux Quatre Vents). EchabeauPrivate Cafe.


A quarter of a league further onhe arrived at the bottom of a
little valleywhere there is water which passes beneath an arch
made through the embankment of the road. The clump of sparsely
planted but very green treeswhich fills the valley on one side of
the roadis dispersed over the meadows on the otherand disappears
gracefully and as in order in the direction of Braine-l'Alleud.


On the rightclose to the roadwas an innwith a four-wheeled cart
at the doora large bundle of hop-polesa plougha heap of dried
brushwood near a flourishing hedgelime smoking in a square hole
and a ladder suspended along an old penthouse with straw partitions.
A young girl was weeding in a fieldwhere a huge yellow poster
probably of some outside spectaclesuch as a parish festival
was fluttering in the wind. At one corner of the innbeside a pool
in which a flotilla of ducks was navigatinga badly paved path plunged
into the bushes. The wayfarer struck into this.


After traversing a hundred pacesskirting a wall of the
fifteenth centurysurmounted by a pointed gablewith bricks set
in contrasthe found himself before a large door of arched stone
with a rectilinear impostin the sombre style of Louis XIV.flanked
by two flat medallions. A severe facade rose above this door;
a wallperpendicular to the facadealmost touched the door
and flanked it with an abrupt right angle. In the meadow
before the door lay three harrowsthrough whichin 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 birdprobably a loverwas 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 spherein the stone on the left
at the foot of the pier of the door.

At this moment the leaves of the door partedand a peasant
woman emerged.

She saw the wayfarerand 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 treeshe perceived a sort of little elevation
and on this elevation something which at that distance resembled
a lion.

He was on the battle-field of Waterloo.

CHAPTER II

HOUGOMONT

Hougomont--this was a funereal spotthe beginning of the obstacle
the first resistancewhich that great wood-cutter of Europe
called Napoleonencountered at Waterloothe first knot under the
blows of his axe.

It was a chateau; it is no longer anything but a farm. For the antiquary
Hougomont is Hugomons. This manor was built by HugoSire of Somerel
the same who endowed the sixth chaplaincy of the Abbey of Villiers.

The traveller pushed open the doorelbowed an ancient calash
under the porchand entered the courtyard.

The first thing which struck him in this paddock was a door of the
sixteenth centurywhich here simulates an arcadeeverything else
having fallen prostrate around it. A monumental aspect often has its
birth in ruin. In 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 doora manure-holesome pickaxes
some shovelssome cartsan old wellwith its flagstone and its
iron reela chicken jumpingand a turkey spreading its tail
a chapel surmounted by a small bell-towera blossoming pear-tree
trained in espalier against the wall of the chapel--behold the court
the conquest of which was one of Napoleon's dreams. This corner
of earthcould he but have seized itwouldperhapshave given
him the world likewise. Chickens are scattering its dust abroad
with their beaks. A growl is audible; it is a huge dogwho shows
his teeth and replaces the English.

The English behaved admirably there. Cooke's four companies


of guards there held out for seven hours against the fury of an army.


Hougomont viewed on the mapas a geometrical plancomprising
buildings and enclosurespresents a sort of irregular rectangle
one angle of which is nicked out. It is this angle which contains
the southern doorguarded by this wallwhich commands it only
a gun's length away. Hougomont has two doors--the southern door
that of the chateau; and the northern doorbelonging to the farm.
Napoleon sent his brother Jerome against Hougomont; the divisions
of FoyGuilleminotand Bachelu hurled themselves against it;
nearly the entire corps of Reille was employed against itand miscarried;
Kellermann's balls were exhausted on this heroic section of wall.
Bauduin's brigade was not strong enough to force Hougomont on the north
and the brigade of Soye could not do more than effect the beginning
of a breach on the southbut without taking it.


The farm buildings border the courtyard on the south. A bit of the
north doorbroken by the Frenchhangs suspended to the wall.
It consists of four planks nailed to two cross-beamson which the
scars of the attack are visible.


The northern doorwhich was beaten in by the Frenchand which has
had a piece applied to it to replace the panel suspended on the wall
stands half-open at the bottom of the paddock; it is cut squarely
in the wallbuilt of stone belowof brick above which closes in the
courtyard on the north. It is a simple door for cartssuch as exist
in all farmswith the two large leaves made of rustic planks:
beyond lie the meadows. The dispute over this entrance was furious.
For a long timeall 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 horror
is visible there; the confusion of the fray was petrified there;
it lives and it dies there; it was only yesterday. The walls
are in the death agonythe stones fall; the breaches cry aloud;
the holes are wounds; the droopingquivering trees seem to be making
an effort to flee.


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 chapelone wing of
the chateauthe only ruin now remaining of the manor of Hougomont
rises in a crumbling state--disembowelledone might say.
The chateau served for a dungeonthe chapel for a block-house.
There men exterminated each other. The Frenchfired on from
every point--from behind the wallsfrom the summits of the garrets
from the depths of the cellarsthrough all the casements
through all the air-holesthrough 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 wingthrough windows garnished with bars of iron
the dismantled chambers of the main building of brick are visible;
the English guards were in ambush in these rooms; the spiral
of the staircasecracked from the ground floor to the very roof
appears like the inside of a broken shell. The staircase has two stories;
the Englishbesieged on the staircaseand massed on its upper steps
had cut off the lower steps. These consisted of large slabs
of blue stonewhich form a heap among the nettles. Half a score
of steps still cling to the wall; on the first is cut the figure
of a trident. These inaccessible 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 baseand is clothed with verdure in April. Since 1815 it has
taken to growing through the staircase.


A massacre took place in the chapel. The interiorwhich has
recovered its calmis singular. The mass has not been said there
since the carnage. Neverthelessthe altar has been left there--
an altar of unpolished woodplaced against a background of
roughhewn stone. Four whitewashed wallsa 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 groundin one corneran 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 Anneof the fifteenth century;
the head of the infant Jesus has been carried off by a large ball.
The Frenchwho were masters of the chapel for a momentand were
then dislodgedset fire to it. The flames filled this building;
it was a perfect furnace; the door was burnedthe floor was burned
the wooden Christ was not burned. The fire preyed upon his feet
of which only the blackened stumps are now to be seen; then it stopped--
a miracleaccording to the assertion of the people of the neighborhood.
The infant Jesusdecapitatedwas 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 (Habana). 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-Lieutenant Legros.


On emerging from the chapela well is visible on the left.
There are two in this courtyard. One inquiresWhy is there no bucket
and pulley to this? It is because water is no longer drawn there.
Why is water not drawn there? Because it is full of skeletons.


The last person who drew water from the well was named
Guillaume van Kylsom. He was a peasant who lived at Hougomont
and was gardener there. On the 18th of June1815his family
fled and concealed themselves in the woods.


The forest surrounding the Abbey of Villiers sheltered these unfortunate
people who had been scattered abroadfor many days and nights.
There are at this day certain traces recognizablesuch as old
boles of burned treeswhich mark the site of these poor bivouacs
trembling in the depths of the thickets.


Guillaume van Kylsom remained at Hougomontto guard the chateau,
and concealed himself in the cellar. The English discovered
him there. They tore him from his hiding-placeand the combatants
forced this frightened man to serve themby administering blows
with the flats of their swords. They were thirsty; this Guillaume
brought them water. It was from this well that he drew it.
Many drank there their last draught. This well where drank so many
of the dead was destined to die itself.


After the engagementthey were in haste to bury the dead bodies.
Death has a fashion of harassing victoryand she causes the pest
to follow glory. The typhus is a concomitant of triumph.
This well was deepand 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 were not. It seems that on



the night succeeding the intermentfeeble voices were heard calling
from the well.


This well is isolated in the middle of the courtyard. Three walls
part stonepart brickand simulating a smallsquare tower
and folded like the leaves of a screensurround it on all sides.
The fourth side is open. It is there that the water was drawn.
The wall at the bottom has a sort of shapeless loophole
possibly the hole made by a shell. This little tower had a platform
of which only the beams remain. The iron supports of the well on
the right form a cross. On leaning overthe eye is lost in a deep
cylinder of brick which is filled with a heaped-up 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-beamagainst which lean five or six shapeless
fragments of knotty and petrified wood which resemble huge bones.
There is no longer either pailchainor pulley; but there is
still the stone basin which served the overflow. The rain-water
collects thereand from time to time a bird of the neighboring
forests comes thither to drinkand then flies away. One house
in this ruinthe farmhouseis still inhabited. The door of this
house opens on the courtyard. Upon this doorbeside a pretty Gothic
lock-platethere is an iron handle with trefoils placed slanting.
At the moment when the Hanoverian lieutenantWildagrasped this
handle in order to take refuge in the farma French sapper hewed
off his hand with an axe.


The family who occupy the house had for their grandfather Guillaume
van Kylsomthe old gardenerdead long since. A woman with gray
hair said to us: "I was there. I was three years old. My sister
who was olderwas terrified and wept. They 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 cannonand went boum! boum!"


A door opening from the courtyard on the left led into the orchard
so we were told. The orchard is terrible.


It is in three parts; one might almost sayin three acts.
The first part is a gardenthe second is an orchardthe third
is a wood. These three parts have a common enclosure: on the
side of the entrancethe buildings of the chateau and the farm;
on the lefta hedge; on the righta wall; and at the enda wall.
The wall on the right is of brickthe wall at the bottom is of stone.
One enters the garden first. It slopes downwardsis planted
with gooseberry busheschoked with a wild growth of vegetation
and terminated by a monumental terrace of cut stonewith balustrade
with a double curve.


It was a seignorial garden in the first French style which
preceded Le Notre; to-day it is ruins and briars. The pilasters
are surmounted by globes which resemble cannon-balls of stone.
Forty-three balusters can still be counted on their sockets; the rest
lie prostrate in the grass. Almost all bear scratches of bullets.
One broken baluster is placed on the pediment like a fractured leg.


It was in this gardenfurther down than the orchardthat six
light-infantry men of the 1sthaving made their way thither
and being unable to escapehunted down and caught like bears
in their densaccepted the combat with two Hanoverian companies
one of which was armed with carbines. The Hanoverians lined
this balustrade and fired from above. The infantry men



replying from belowsix against two hundredintrepid and with
no shelter save the currant-bushestook a quarter of an hour to die.


One mounts a few steps and passes from the garden into the orchard
properly speaking. Therewithin the limits of those few
square fathomsfifteen hundred men fell in less than an hour.
The wall seems ready to renew the combat. Thirty-eight loopholes
pierced by the English at irregular heightsare there still.
In front of the sixth are placed two English tombs of granite.
There are loopholes only in the south wallas the principal attack came
from that quarter. The wall is hidden on the outside by a tall hedge;
the French came upthinking that they had to deal only with a hedge
crossed itand found the wall both an obstacle and an ambuscade
with the English guards behind itthe thirty-eight loopholes firing
at once a shower of grape-shot and ballsand Soye's brigade was broken
against it. Thus Waterloo began.


Neverthelessthe orchard was taken. As they had no ladders
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 Nassauseven hundred strongwas overwhelmed there.
The outside of the wallagainst which Kellermann's two batteries
were trainedis gnawed by grape-shot.


This orchard is sentientlike othersin the month of May.
It has its buttercups and its daisies; the grass is tall there;
the cart-horses browse there; cords of hairon which linen
is dryingtraverse 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. Beneath a great tree
in the neighborhood fell the German generalDuplatdescended 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 bandage 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.[6] The skeletons of dead
trees abound in this orchard. Crows fly through their branches
and at the end of it is a wood full of violets.


[6] A bullet as large as an egg.
BauduinkilledFoy woundedconflagrationmassacrecarnage
a rivulet formed of English bloodFrench bloodGerman blood
mingled in furya well crammed with corpsesthe regiment of
Nassau and the regiment of Brunswick destroyedDuplat killed
Blackmann killedthe English Guards mutilatedtwenty French battalions
besides the forty from Reille's corpsdecimatedthree thousand
men in that hovel of Hougomont alone cut downslashed to pieces
shotburnedwith their throats cut--and all this so that a peasant
can say to-day to the traveller: Monsieurgive me three francs
and if you likeI will explain to you the affair of Waterloo!


CHAPTER III


THE EIGHTEENTH OF JUNE1815


Let us turn back--that is one of the story-teller's rights--



and put ourselves once more in the year 1815and even a little
earlier than the epoch when the action narrated in the first part
of this book took place.


If it had not rained in the night between the 17th and the 18th
of June1815the fate of Europe would have been different.
A few drops of watermore or lessdecided the downfall of Napoleon.
All that Providence required in order to make Waterloo the end
of Austerlitz was a little more rainand a cloud traversing the sky
out of season sufficed to make a world crumble.


The battle of Waterloo could not be begun until half-past eleven
o'clockand that gave Blucher time to come up. Why? Because the
ground was wet. The artillery had to wait until it became a little
firmer before they could manoeuvre.


Napoleon was an artillery officerand felt the effects of this.
The foundation of this wonderful captain was the man whoin the report
to the Directory on Aboukirsaid: 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 strategy 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 squaresto pulverize
regimentsto break linesto crush and disperse masses--for him
everything lay in thisto strikestrikestrike incessantly--
and he intrusted this task to the cannon-ball. A redoubtable method
and one whichunited with geniusrendered this gloomy athlete
of the pugilism of war invincible for the space of fifteen years.


On the 18th of June1815he relied all the more on his artillery
because he had numbers on his side. Wellington had only one hundred
and fifty-nine mouths of fire; Napoleon had two hundred and forty.


Suppose the soil dryand 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'clockthree
hours before the change of fortune in favor of the Prussians.
What amount of blame attaches to Napoleon for the loss of this battle?
Is the shipwreck due to the pilot?


Was it the evident physical decline of Napoleon that complicated
this epoch by an inward diminution of force? Had the twenty years
of war worn out the blade as it had worn the scabbardthe soul
as well as the body? Did the veteran make himself disastrously
felt in the leader? In a wordwas this geniusas many historians
of note have thoughtsuffering from an eclipse? Did he go into
a frenzy in order to disguise his weakened powers from himself?
Did he begin to waver under the delusion of a breath of adventure?
Had he become--a grave matter in a general--unconscious of peril?
Is there an agein this class of material great menwho may be
called the giants of actionwhen genius grows short-sighted? Old
age has no hold on the geniuses of the ideal; for the Dantes and
Michael Angelos to grow old is to grow in greatness; is it to grow
less for the Hannibals and the Bonapartes? Had Napoleon lost the
direct sense of victory? Had he reached the point where he could
no longer recognize the reefcould no longer divine the 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 triumphand whofrom the summit of his
chariot of lightningpointed them out with a sovereign finger
had he now reached that state of sinister amazement when he could
lead his tumultuous legions harnessed to itto 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 wasby the confession of alla masterpiece.
To go straight to the centre of the Allies' lineto make a breach
in the enemyto cut them in twoto drive the British half back on Hal
and the Prussian half on Tongresto make two shattered fragments
of Wellington and Blucherto carry Mont-Saint-Jeanto seize Brussels
to hurl the German into the Rhineand the Englishman into the sea.
All this was contained in that battleaccording to Napoleon.
Afterwards people would see.


Of coursewe do not here pretend to furnish a history of the battle
of Waterloo; one of the scenes of the foundation of the story which
we are relating is connected with this battlebut this history
is not our subject; this historymoreoverhas been finished
and finished in a masterly mannerfrom one point of view by Napoleon
and from another point of view by a whole pleiad of historians.[7]


[7] Walter ScottLamartineVaulabelleCharrasQuinetThiers.
As for uswe leave the historians at loggerheads; we are but a
distant witnessa passer-by on the plaina seeker bending over
that soil all made of human fleshtaking appearances for realities
perchance; we have no right to opposein the name of science
a collection of facts which contain illusionsno doubt; we possess
neither military practice nor strategic ability which authorize
a system; in our opiniona chain of accidents dominated the two
leaders at Waterloo; and when it becomes a question of destiny
that mysterious culpritwe judge like that ingenious judge
the populace.

CHAPTER IV

A

Those persons who wish to gain a clear idea of the battle of Waterloo
have only to placementallyon the grounda capital A. The left limb
of the A is the road to Nivellesthe right limb is the road to Genappe
the tie of the A is the hollow road to Ohain from Braine-l'Alleud. The
top of the A is Mont-Saint-Jeanwhere Wellington is; the lower left
tip is Hougomontwhere Reille is stationed with Jerome Bonaparte;
the right tip is the Belle-Alliancewhere Napoleon was. At the
centre of this chord is the precise point where the final word of the
battle was pronounced. It was there that the lion has been placed
the involuntary symbol of the supreme heroism of the Imperial Guard.

The triangle included in the top of the Abetween the two limbs
and the tieis the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean. The dispute over
this plateau constituted the whole battle. The wings of the two
armies extended to the right and left of the two roads to Genappe
and Nivelles; d'Erlon facing PictonReille facing Hill.

Behind the tip of the Abehind the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean
is the forest of Soignes.


As for the plain itselflet the reader picture to himself a vast
undulating sweep of ground; each rise commands the next rise
and all the undulations mount towards Mont-Saint-Jeanand there
end in the forest.

Two hostile troops on a field of battle are two wrestlers. It is
a question of seizing the opponent round the waist. The one seeks
to trip up the other. They clutch at everything: a bush is a point
of support; an angle of the wall offers them a rest to the shoulder;
for the lack of a hovel under whose cover they can draw up
a regiment yields its ground; an unevenness in the grounda chance
turn in the landscapea cross-path encountered at the right moment
a grovea ravinecan stay the heel of that colossus which is
called an armyand prevent its retreat. He who quits the field
is beaten; hence the necessity devolving on the responsible leader
of examining the most insignificant clump of treesand of studying
deeply the slightest relief in the ground.

The two generals had attentively studied the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean
now called the plain of Waterloo. In the preceding yearWellington
with the sagacity of foresighthad examined it as the possible seat
of a great battle. Upon this spotand for this duelon the 18th
of JuneWellington had the good postNapoleon the bad post.
The English army was stationed abovethe French army below.

It is almost superfluous here to sketch the appearance of Napoleon
on horsebackglass in handupon the heights of Rossomme
at daybreakon June 181815. All the world has seen him before we
can show him. That calm profile under the little three-cornered
hat of the school of Briennethat green uniformthe white revers
concealing the star of the Legion of Honorhis great coat hiding
his epauletsthe corner of red ribbon peeping from beneath his vest
his leather trousersthe white horse with the saddle-cloth of purple
velvet bearing on the corners crowned N's and eaglesHessian boots
over silk stockingssilver spursthe sword of Marengo--that whole
figure of the last of the Caesars is present to all imaginations
saluted with acclamations by someseverely regarded by others.

That figure stood for a long time wholly in the light; this arose
from a certain legendary dimness evolved by the majority of heroes
and which always veils the truth for a longer or shorter time;
but to-day history and daylight have arrived.

That light called history is pitiless; it possesses this peculiar and
divine qualitythatpure light as it isand precisely because it is
wholly lightit often casts a shadow in places where people had hitherto
beheld rays; from the same man it constructs two different phantoms
and the one attacks the other and executes justice on itand the
shadows of the despot contend with the brilliancy of the leader.
Hence arises a truer measure in the definitive judgments of nations.
Babylon violated lessens AlexanderRome enchained lessens Caesar
Jerusalem murdered lessens Titustyranny follows the tyrant.
It is a misfortune for a man to leave behind him the night which
bears his form.

CHAPTER V

THE QUID OBSCURUM OF BATTLES

Every one is acquainted with the first phase of this battle;
a beginning which was troubleduncertainhesitatingmenacing to


both armiesbut still more so for the English than for the French.


It had rained all nightthe earth had been cut up by the downpour
the water had accumulated here and there in the hollows of the plain
as if in casks; at some points the gear of the artillery carriages
was buried up to the axlesthe circingles of the horses were dripping
with liquid mud. If the wheat and rye trampled down by this cohort
of transports on the march had not filled in the ruts and strewn a
litter beneath the wheelsall movementparticularly in the valleys
in the direction of Papelotte would have been impossible.


The affair began late. Napoleonas we have already explained
was in the habit of keeping all his artillery well in hand
like a pistolaiming it now at one pointnow at another
of the battle; and it had been his wish to wait until the horse
batteries could move and gallop freely. In order to do that it
was necessary that the sun should come out and dry the soil.
But the sun did not make its appearance. It was no longer
the rendezvous of Austerlitz. When the first cannon was fired
the English generalColvillelooked at his watchand noted
that it was thirty-five minutes past eleven.


The action was begun furiouslywith more furyperhapsthan the
Emperor would have wishedby the left wing of the French resting
on Hougomont. At the same time Napoleon attacked the centre by
hurling Quiot's brigade on La Haie-Sainteand Ney pushed forward
the right wing of the French against the left wing of the English
which rested on Papelotte.


The attack on Hougomont was something of a feint; the plan was
to draw Wellington thitherand to make him swerve to the left.
This plan would have succeeded if the four companies of the English
guards and the brave Belgians of Perponcher's division had not held the
position solidlyand Wellingtoninstead of massing his troops there
could confine himself to despatching thitheras reinforcements
only four more companies of guards and one battalion from Brunswick.


The attack of the right wing of the French on Papelotte was calculated
in factto overthrow the English leftto cut off the road
to Brusselsto bar the passage against possible Prussians
to force Mont-Saint-Jeanto turn Wellington back on Hougomont
thence on Braine-l'Alleudthence on Hal; nothing easier.
With the exception of a few incidents this attack succeeded
Papelotte was taken; La Haie-Sainte was carried.


A detail to be noted. There was in the English infantry
particularly in Kempt's brigadea great many raw recruits. These young
soldiers were valiant in the presence of our redoubtable infantry;
their inexperience extricated them intrepidly from the dilemma;
they performed particularly excellent service as skirmishers:
the soldier skirmisherleft somewhat to himselfbecomesso to speak
his own general. These recruits displayed some of the French
ingenuity and fury. This novice of an infantry had dash.
This displeased Wellington.


After the taking of La Haie-Sainte the battle wavered.


There is in this day an obscure intervalfrom mid-day to four o'clock;
the middle portion of this battle is almost indistinctand participates
in the sombreness of the hand-to-hand conflict. Twilight reigns
over it. We perceive vast fluctuations in that foga dizzy mirage
paraphernalia of war almost unknown to-daypendant colbacks
floating sabre-tachescross-beltscartridge-boxes for grenades
hussar dolmansred boots with a thousand wrinklesheavy shakos



garlanded with torsadesthe almost black infantry of Brunswick mingled
with the scarlet infantry of Englandthe English soldiers with great
white circular pads on the slopes of their shoulders for epaulets
the Hanoverian light-horse with their oblong casques of leather
with brass hands and red horse-tailsthe Scotch with their bare
knees and plaidsthe great white gaiters of our grenadiers;
picturesnot strategic lines--what Salvator Rosa requires
not what is suited to the needs of Gribeauval.


A certain amount of tempest is always mingled with a battle.
Quid obscurumquid divinum. Each historian tracesto some extent
the particular feature which pleases him amid this pellmell.
Whatever may be the combinations of the generalsthe shock of armed
masses has an incalculable ebb. During the action the plans of
the two leaders enter into each other and become mutually thrown
out of shape. Such a point of the field of battle devours more
combatants than such anotherjust as more or less spongy soils
soak up more or less quickly the water which is poured on them.
It becomes necessary to pour out more soldiers than one would like;
a series of expenditures which are the unforeseen. The line of battle
waves and undulates like a threadthe trails of blood gush illogically
the fronts of the armies waverthe regiments form capes and gulfs
as they enter and withdraw; all these reefs are continually moving
in front of each other. Where the infantry stood the artillery arrives
the cavalry rushes in where the artillery wasthe battalions are
like smoke. There was something there; seek it. It has disappeared;
the open spots change placethe sombre folds advance and retreat
a sort of wind from the sepulchre pushes forwardhurls back
distendsand disperses these tragic multitudes. What is a fray?
an oscillation? The immobility of a mathematical plan expresses
a minutenot a day. In order to depict a battlethere is required
one of those powerful painters who have chaos in their brushes.
Rembrandt is better than Vandermeulen; Vandermeulenexact at noon
lies at three o'clock. Geometry is deceptive; the hurricane alone
is trustworthy. That is what confers on Folard the right to
contradict Polybius. Let us addthat there is a certain instant
when the battle degenerates into a combatbecomes specialized
and disperses into innumerable detailed featswhichto borrow
the expression of Napoleon himselfbelong rather to the biography
of the regiments than to the history of the army.The historian has
in this casethe evident right to sum up the whole. He cannot
do more than seize the principal outlines of the struggleand it
is not given to any one narratorhowever conscientious he may be
to fixabsolutelythe form of that horrible cloud which is called
a battle.


Thiswhich is true of all great armed encountersis particularly
applicable to Waterloo.


Neverthelessat a certain moment in the afternoon the battle came
to a point.


CHAPTER VI


FOUR O'CLOCK IN THE AFTERNOON


Towards four o'clock the condition of the English army was serious.
The Prince of Orange was in command of the centreHill of the
right wingPicton of the left wing. The Prince of Orange
desperate and intrepidshouted to the Hollando-Belgians: "Nassau!
Brunswick! Never retreat!" Hillhaving been weakenedhad come up



to the support of Wellington; Picton was dead. At the very moment
when the English had captured from the French the flag of the 105th
of the linethe French had killed the English generalPictonwith a
bullet through the head. The battle hadfor Wellingtontwo bases
of actionHougomont and La Haie-Sainte; Hougomont still held out
but was on fire; La Haie-Sainte was taken. Of the German battalion
which defended itonly forty-two men survived; all the officers
except fivewere either dead or captured. Three thousand combatants
had been massacred in that barn. A sergeant of the English Guards
the foremost boxer in Englandreputed invulnerable by his companions
had been killed there by a little French drummer-boy. Baring had
been dislodgedAlten put to the sword. Many flags had been lost
one from Alten's divisionand one from the battalion of Lunenburg
carried by a prince of the house of Deux-Ponts. The Scotch Grays no
longer existed; Ponsonby's great dragoons had been hacked to pieces.
That valiant cavalry had bent beneath the lancers of Bro and
beneath the cuirassiers of Travers; out of twelve hundred horses
six hundred remained; out of three lieutenant-colonelstwo lay
on the earth--Hamilton woundedMater slain. Ponsonby had fallen
riddled by seven lance-thrusts. Gordon was dead. Marsh was dead.
Two divisionsthe fifth and the sixthhad been annihilated.


Hougomont injuredLa Haie-Sainte takenthere now existed but
one rallying-pointthe centre. That point still held firm.
Wellington reinforced it. He summoned thither Hillwho was
at Merle-Braine; he summoned Chassewho was at Braine-l'Alleud.


The centre of the English armyrather concavevery dense
and very compactwas strongly posted. It occupied the plateau
of Mont-Saint-Jeanhaving behind it the villageand in front of it
the slopewhich was tolerably steep then. It rested on that stout
stone dwelling which at that time belonged to the domain of Nivelles
and which marks the intersection of the roads--a pile of the
sixteenth centuryand so robust that the cannon-balls rebounded from
it without injuring it. All about the plateau the English had cut
the hedges here and theremade embrasures in the hawthorn-treesthrust
the throat of a cannon between two branchesembattled the shrubs.
There artillery was ambushed in the brushwood. This punic labor
incontestably authorized by warwhich permits trapswas so well done
that Haxowho had been despatched by the Emperor at nine o'clock
in the morning to reconnoitre the enemy's batterieshad discovered
nothing of itand had returned and reported to Napoleon that there
were no obstacles except the two barricades which barred the road
to Nivelles and to Genappe. It was at the season when the grain
is tall; on the edge of the plateau a battalion of Kempt's brigade
the 95tharmed with carabineswas concealed in the tall wheat.


Thus assured and buttressedthe centre of the Anglo-Dutch army was
well posted. The peril of this position lay in the forest of Soignes
then adjoining the field of battleand intersected by the ponds
of Groenendael and Boitsfort. An army could not retreat thither
without dissolving; the regiments would have broken up immediately there.
The artillery would have been lost among the morasses. The retreat
according to many a man versed in the art--though it is disputed
by others--would have been a disorganized flight.


To this centreWellington added one of Chasse's brigades taken
from the right wingand one of Wincke's brigades taken from the
left wingplus Clinton's division. To his Englishto the regiments
of Halkettto the brigades of Mitchellto the guards of Maitland
he gave as reinforcements and aidsthe infantry of Brunswick
Nassau's contingentKielmansegg's Hanoveriansand Ompteda's
Germans. This placed twenty-six battalions under his hand.
The right wingas Charras sayswas thrown back on the centre.



An enormous battery was masked by sacks of earth at the spot
where there now stands what is called the "Museum of Waterloo."
Besides thisWellington hadbehind a rise in the ground
Somerset's Dragoon Guardsfourteen hundred horse strong.
It was the remaining half of the justly celebrated English cavalry.
Ponsonby destroyedSomerset remained.


The batterywhichif completedwould have been almost a redoubt
was ranged behind a very low garden wallbacked up with a coating
of bags of sand and a large slope of earth. This work was not finished;
there had been no time to make a palisade for it.


Wellingtonuneasy but impassivewas on horsebackand there
remained the whole day in the same attitudea little in advance
of the old mill of Mont-Saint-Jeanwhich is still in existence
beneath an elmwhich an Englishmanan enthusiastic vandal
purchased later on for two hundred francscut downand carried off.
Wellington was coldly heroic. The bullets rained about him.
His aide-de-campGordonfell at his side. Lord Hillpointing to a
shell which had burstsaid to him: "My lordwhat are your orders
in case you are killed?" "To do like me replied Wellington.
To Clinton he said laconically, To hold this spot to the last man."
The day was evidently turning out ill. Wellington shouted to his
old companions of Talaveraof Vittoriaof Salamanca: "Boyscan
retreat be thought of? Think of old England!"


Towards four o'clockthe English line drew back. Suddenly nothing
was visible on the crest of the plateau except the artillery
and the sharpshooters; the rest had disappeared: the regiments
dislodged by the shells and the French bulletsretreated into the bottom
now intersected by the back road of the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean;
a retrograde movement took placethe English front hid itself
Wellington drew back. "The beginning of retreat!" cried Napoleon.


CHAPTER VII


NAPOLEON IN A GOOD HUMOR


The Emperorthough ill and discommoded on horseback by a
local troublehad never been in a better humor than on that day.
His impenetrability had been smiling ever since the morning. On the
18th of Junethat profound soul masked by marble beamed blindly.
The man who had been gloomy at Austerlitz was gay at Waterloo.
The greatest favorites of destiny make mistakes. Our joys are
composed of shadow. The supreme smile is God's alone.


Ridet CaesarPompeius flebitsaid the legionaries of the
Fulminatrix Legion. Pompey was not destined to weep on that occasion
but it is certain that Caesar laughed. While exploring on horseback
at one o'clock on the preceding nightin storm and rainin company
with Bertrandthe communes in the neighborhood of Rossomme
satisfied at the sight of the long line of the English camp-fires
illuminating the whole horizon from Frischemont to Braine-l'Alleud
it had seemed to him that fateto whom he had assigned a day on the
field of Waterloowas exact to the appointment; he stopped his horse
and remained for some time motionlessgazing at the lightning
and listening to the thunder; and this fatalist was heard to cast
into the darkness this mysterious sayingWe are in accord.
Napoleon was mistaken. They were no longer in accord.


He took not a moment for sleep; every instant of that night was marked



by a joy for him. He traversed the line of the principal outposts
halting here and there to talk to the sentinels. At half-past two
near the wood of Hougomonthe heard the tread of a column on
the march; he thought at the moment that it was a retreat on the part
of Wellington. He said: "It is the rear-guard of the English
getting under way for the purpose 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 Marchwhen he pointed out
to the Grand-Marshal the enthusiastic peasant of the Gulf Juan
and criedWell, Bertrand, here is a reinforcement already!
On the night of the 17th to the 18th of June he rallied Wellington.
That little Englishman needs a lesson,said Napoleon. The rain
redoubled in violence; the thunder rolled while the Emperor
was speaking.


At half-past three o'clock in the morninghe lost one illusion;
officers who had been despatched to reconnoitre announced to him
that the enemy was not making any movement. Nothing was stirring;
not a bivouac-fire had been extinguished; the English army was asleep.
The silence on earth was profound; the only noise was in the heavens.
At four o'clocka peasant was brought in to him by the scouts;
this peasant had served as guide to a brigade of English cavalry
probably Vivian's brigadewhich was on its way to take up a position
in the village of Ohainat the extreme left. At five o'clock
two Belgian deserters reported to him that they had just quitted
their regimentand 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 roadhad a kitchen table and a peasant's
chair brought to him from the farm of Rossommeseated himself
with a truss of straw for a carpetand spread out on the table
the chart of the battle-fieldsaying to Soult as he did so
A pretty checker-board.


In consequence of the rains during the nightthe transports
of provisionsembedded in the soft roadshad not been able
to arrive by morning; the soldiers had had no sleep; they were
wet and fasting. This did not prevent Napoleon from exclaiming
cheerfully to NeyWe have ninety chances out of a hundred.
At eight o'clock the Emperor's breakfast was brought to him.
He invited many generals to it. During breakfastit was said
that Wellington had been to a ball two nights beforein Brussels
at the Duchess of Richmond's; and Soulta rough man of war
with a face of an archbishopsaidThe ball takes place to-day.
The Emperor jested with Neywho saidWellington will not be so
simple as to wait for Your Majesty.That was his wayhowever.
He was fond of jesting,says Fleury de Chaboulon. "A merry
humor was at the foundation of his character says Gourgaud.
He abounded in pleasantrieswhich were more peculiar than witty
says Benjamin Constant. These gayeties of a giant are worthy
of insistence. 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 from the island of Elba to France,
on the 27th of February, on the open sea, the French brig of war,
Le Zephyr, having encountered the brig L'Inconstant, on which Napoleon
was concealed, and having asked the news of Napoleon from L'Inconstant,
the Emperor, who still wore in his hat the white and amaranthine
cockade sown with bees, which he had adopted at the isle of Elba,
laughingly seized the speaking-trumpet, and answered for himself,
The Emperor is well." A man who laughs like that is on familiar



terms with events. Napoleon indulged in many fits of this laughter
during the breakfast at Waterloo. After breakfast he meditated
for a quarter of an hour; then two generals seated themselves on
the truss of strawpen in hand and their paper on their knees
and the Emperor dictated to them the order of battle.

At nine o'clockat the instant when the French armyranged in
echelons and set in motion in five columnshad deployed-the
divisions in two linesthe artillery between the brigades
the music at their head; as they beat the marchwith rolls on the drums
and the blasts of trumpetsmightyvastjoyousa sea of casques
of sabresand of bayonets on the horizonthe Emperor was touched
and twice exclaimedMagnificent! Magnificent!

Between nine o'clock and half-past ten the whole armyincredible as it
may appearhad taken up its position and ranged itself in six lines
formingto repeat the Emperor's expressionthe figure of six V's.
A few moments after the formation of the battle-arrayin the midst
of that profound silencelike that which heralds the beginning
of a stormwhich precedes engagementsthe Emperor tapped Haxo on
the shoulderas he beheld the three batteries of twelve-pounders
detached by his orders from the corps of ErlonReilleand Lobau
and destined to begin the action by taking Mont-Saint-Jeanwhich was
situated at the intersection of the Nivelles and the Genappe roads
and said to himThere are four and twenty handsome maids, General.

Sure of the issuehe encouraged with a smileas they passed
before himthe company of sappers of the first corpswhich he
had appointed to barricade Mont-Saint-Jean as soon as the village
should be carried. All this serenity had been traversed by but
a single word of haughty pity; perceiving on his leftat a spot
where there now stands a large tombthose admirable Scotch Grays
with their superb horsesmassing themselveshe saidIt is a pity.

Then he mounted his horseadvanced beyond Rossommeand selected
for his post of observation a contracted elevation of turf to the right
of the road from Genappe to Brusselswhich was his second station
during the battle. The third stationthe one adopted at seven
o'clock in the eveningbetween La Belle-Alliance and La Haie-Sainte
is formidable; it is a rather elevated knollwhich still exists
and behind which the guard was massed on a slope of the plain.
Around this knoll the balls rebounded from the pavements of
the roadup to Napoleon himself. As at Briennehe had over
his head the shriek of the bullets and of the heavy artillery.
Mouldy cannon-ballsold sword-bladesand shapeless projectiles
eaten up with rustwere picked up at the spot where his horse'
feet stood. Scabra rubigine. A few years agoa shell of sixty pounds
still chargedand with its fuse broken off level with the bomb
was unearthed. It was at this last post that the Emperor said
to his guideLacostea hostile and terrified peasantwho was
attached to the saddle of a hussarand who turned round at every
discharge of canister and tried to hide behind Napoleon: "Foolit
is shameful! You'll get yourself killed with a ball in the back."
He who writes these lines has himself foundin the friable soil
of this knollon turning over the sandthe remains of the neck
of a bombdisintegratedby the oxidization of six and forty years
and old fragments of iron which parted like elder-twigs between
the fingers.

Every 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 181815. By taking from this
mournful field the wherewithal to make a monument to itits real
relief has been taken awayand historydisconcertedno longer


finds her bearings there. It has been disfigured for the sake
of glorifying it. Wellingtonwhen he beheld Waterloo once more
two years laterexclaimedThey have altered my field of battle!
Where the great pyramid of earthsurmounted by the lion
rises to-daythere was a hillock which descended in an easy slope
towards the Nivelles roadbut 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 Brussels: onethe English tombis on the left; the other
the German tombis 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 accessible by an easy slope.
On the day of battleparticularly on the side of La Haie-Sainte
it was abrupt and difficult of approach. The slope there is so
steep that the English cannon could not see the farmsituated in
the bottom of the valleywhich was the centre of the combat.
On the 18th of June1815the rains had still farther increased
this acclivitythe mud complicated the problem of the ascent
and the men not only slipped backbut stuck fast in the 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-l'Alleud is a
Belgian village; Ohain is another. These villagesboth of them
concealed in curves of the landscapeare connected by a road about
a league and a half in lengthwhich traverses the plain along its
undulating leveland often enters and buries itself in the hills
like a furrowwhich makes a ravine of this road in some places.
In 1815as at the present daythis road cut the crest of the plateau
of Mont-Saint-Jean between the two highways from Genappe and Nivelles;
onlyit 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 wasand still isa trench throughout the greater portion
of its course; a hollow trenchsometimes a dozen feet in depth
and whose banksbeing too steepcrumbled away here and there
particularly in winterunder driving rains. Accidents happened here.
The road was so narrow at the Braine-l'Alleud entrance that a
passer-by was crushed by a cartas is proved by a stone cross
which stands near the cemeteryand which gives the name of the dead
Monsieur Bernard DebryeMerchant of Brusselsand the date of
the accidentFebruary1637.[8] It was so deep on the table-land
of Mont-Saint-Jean that a peasantMathieu Nicaisewas crushed there
in 1783by a slide from the slopeas is stated on another stone cross
the top of which has disappeared in the process of clearing the ground
but whose overturned pedestal is still visible on the grassy slope
to the left of the highway between La Haie-Sainte and the farm
of Mont-Saint-Jean.

[8] This is the inscription:-D.
O. M.
CY A ETE ECRASE
PAR MALHEUR
SOUS UN CHARIOT
MONSIEUR BERNARD
DE BRYE MARCHAND

A BRUXELLE LE [Illegible]
FEVRIER 1637.


On the day of battlethis hollow road whose existence was in no
way indicatedbordering the crest of Mont-Saint-Jeana trench


at the summit of the escarpmenta rut concealed in the soil
was invisible; that is to sayterrible.

CHAPTER VIII

THE EMPEROR PUTS A QUESTION TO THE GUIDE LACOSTE

Soon the morning of WaterlooNapoleon was content.

He was right; the plan of battle conceived by him wasas we have seen
really admirable.

The battle once begunits very various changes--the resistance
of Hougomont; the tenacity of La Haie-Sainte; the killing of Bauduin;
the disabling of Foy; the unexpected wall against which Soye's
brigade was shattered; Guilleminot's fatal heedlessness 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 linesand there
embedding themselves in the rain-soaked soiland only succeeding
in producing volcanoes of mudso that the canister was turned into
a splash; the uselessness of Pire's demonstration on Braine-l'Alleud;
all that cavalryfifteen squadronsalmost exterminated; the right
wing of the English badly alarmedthe left wing badly cut into;
Ney's strange mistake in massinginstead of echelonning 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 suddenly unmasked on
their flank; BourgeoisDonzelotand Durutte compromised; Quiot repulsed;
Lieutenant Vieuxthat Hercules graduated at the Polytechnic School
wounded at the moment when he was beating in with an axe the door
of La Haie-Sainte under the downright fire of the English barricade
which barred the angle of the road from Genappe to Brussels;
Marcognet's division caught between the infantry and the cavalry
shot down at the very muzzle of the guns amid the grain by Best
and Packput 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'Erlonboth Frischemont and Smohain;
the flag of the 105th takenthe flag of the 45th captured; that black
Prussian hussar stopped by runners of the flying column of three
hundred light cavalry on the scout between Wavre and Plancenoit;
the alarming things that had been said by prisoners; Grouchy's delay;
fifteen hundred men killed in the orchard of Hougomont in less
than an hour; eighteen hundred men overthrown in a still shorter
time about La Haie-Sainte--all these stormy incidents passing
like the clouds of battle before Napoleonhad 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 detailscipher by cipher; ciphers mattered
little to himprovided that they furnished the totalvictory;
he was not alarmed if the beginnings did go astraysince he
thought himself the master and the possessor at the end; he knew
how to waitsupposing himself to be out of the questionand he
treated destiny as his equal: he seemed to say to fateThou wilt
not dare.

Composed half of light and half of shadowNapoleon thought himself
protected in good and tolerated in evil. He hador thought
that he hada connivanceone might almost say a complicity
of events in his favorwhich was equivalent to the invulnerability
of antiquity.


Neverthelesswhen one has BeresinaLeipzigand Fontainebleau
behind oneit seems as though one might distrust Waterloo.
A mysterious frown becomes perceptible in the depths of the heavens.

At the moment when Wellington retreatedNapoleon shuddered.
He suddenly beheld the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean cleared
and the van of the English army disappear. It was rallying
but hiding itself. The Emperor half rose in his stirrups.
The lightning of victory flashed from his eyes.

Wellingtondriven into a corner at the forest of Soignes
and destroyed--that was the definitive conquest of England by France;
it was CrecyPoitiersMalplaquetand Ramillies avenged.
The man of Marengo was wiping out Agincourt.

So the Emperormeditating on this terrible turn of fortune
swept his glass for the last time over all the points of the field
of battle. His guardstanding behind him with grounded arms
watched him from below with a sort of religion. He pondered;
he examined the slopesnoted the declivitiesscrutinized the
clumps of treesthe square of ryethe path; he seemed to be
counting each bush. He gazed with some intentness at the English
barricades of the two highways--two large abatis of treesthat on
the road to Genappe above La Haie-Saintearmed with two cannon
the only ones out of all the English artillery which commanded the
extremity of the field of battleand that on the road to Nivelles
where gleamed the Dutch bayonets of Chasse's brigade. Near this
barricade he observed the old chapel of Saint Nicholaspainted white
which stands at the angle of the cross-road near Braine-l'Alleud;
he bent down and spoke in a low voice to the guide Lacoste. The guide
made a negative sign with his headwhich was probably 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 crushing him.

Napoleon turning round abruptlydespatched 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.

CHAPTER IX

THE UNEXPECTED

There 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 gendarmesthe light
cavalry of the Guardeleven hundred and ninety-seven men
and the lancers of the guard of eight hundred and eighty lances.
They wore casques without horse-tailsand cuirasses of beaten iron


with horse-pistols in their holstersand long sabre-swords. That
morning the whole army had admired themwhenat 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 Milhaud'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.

All their cavalry, with upraised swords, standards and trumpets
flung to the breeze, formed in columns by divisions, descended,
by a simultaneous movement and like one man, with the precision
of a brazen battering-ram which is effecting 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 emerging 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, imperturbable; in the intervals between the
musketry and the artillery, 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 traversed the battle like a prodigy.

Nothing like it had been seen since the taking of the great redoubt
of the Muskowa by the heavy cavalry; Murat 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
which was rent here and there. A confusion of helmets, of cries,
of sabres, a stormy heaving of the cruppers of horses amid the cannons
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. Something parallel
to this vision appeared, no doubt, in the ancient Orphic epics,
which told of the centaurs, the old hippanthropes, 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, the 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 the 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 hoofs at full trot, the jingling of the cuirasses,
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, appeared above the crest,


and casques, trumpets, and standards, and three thousand heads with
gray mustaches, shouting, Vive l'Empereur!" All this cavalry debouched
on the plateauand it was like the appearance of an earthquake.


All at oncea tragic incident; on the English lefton our right
the head of the column of cuirassiers reared up with a frightful clamor.
On arriving at the culminating point of the crestungovernable
utterly given over to fury and their course of extermination of the
squares and cannonthe 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 thereunexpectedyawning
directly under the horses' feettwo fathoms deep between its
double slopes; the second file pushed the first into itand the third
pushed on the second; the horses reared and fell backwardlanded on
their haunchesslid downall four feet in the aircrushing 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 inexorable ravine could only yield when filled;
horses and riders rolled there pell-mellgrinding each other
forming but one mass of flesh in this gulf: when this trench
was full of living menthe 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 traditionwhich evidently exaggerates matterssays that two
thousand horses and fifteen 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 brigade which
an hour previouslymaking a charge to one sidehad captured
the flag of the Lunenburg battalion.


Napoleonbefore giving the order for this charge of Milhaud's
cuirassiershad scrutinized the groundbut had not been able to see
that hollow roadwhich did not even form a wrinkle on the surface of
the plateau. Warnedneverthelessand put on the alert by the little
white chapel which marks its angle of junction with the Nivelles highway
he had probably put a question as to the possibility of an obstacle
to the guide Lacoste. The guide had answered No. We might almost affirm
that Napoleon's catastrophe originated in that sign of a peasant's head.


Other fatalities were destined to arise.


Was it possible that Napoleon should have won that battle?
We answer No. Why? Because of Wellington? Because of Blucher?
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 which there was no longer any room for Napoleon. 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 concentrated 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 equity to alter its plan. Probably the



principles and the elementson which the regular gravitations
of the moralas of the materialworld dependhad complained.
Smoking bloodover-filled cemeteriesmothers in tears-these
are formidable pleaders. When the earth is suffering from
too heavy a burdenthere are mysterious 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.

He embarrassed God.

Waterloo is not a battle; it is a change of front on the part
of the Universe.

CHAPTER X

THE PLATEAU OF MONT-SAINT-JEAN

The battery was unmasked at the same moment with the ravine.

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-entered
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. They belonged to that class of men who
when diminished in numberincrease in courage.

Wathier's column alone had suffered in the disaster; Delort's column
which Ney had deflected to the leftas though he had a presentiment
of an ambushhad arrived whole.

The cuirassiers hurled themselves on the English squares.

At full speedwith bridles looseswords 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 statueand when all this flesh
turns into granite. The English battalionsdesperately 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 gunsthe front of the square partedpermitted the passage
of an eruption of grape-shotand closed again. The cuirassiers
replied by crushing them. Their great horses rearedstrode across
the ranksleaped over the bayonets and fellgiganticin 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 disappearedground 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 cavalryclosed up their ranks without flinching.


Inexhaustible in the matter of grape-shotthey created explosions
in their assailants' midst. The form of this combat was monstrous.
These squares were no longer battalionsthey were craters;
those cuirassiers were no longer cavalrythey were a tempest.
Each square was a volcano attacked by a cloud; lava contended
with lightning.

The square on the extreme rightthe most exposed of all
being in the airwas almost annihilated at the very first shock.
lt was formed of the 75th regiment of Highlanders. The bagpipe-player
in the centre dropped his melancholy eyesfilled with the reflections
of the forests and the lakesin profound inattentionwhile men
were being exterminated around himand seated on a drumwith his
pibroch under his armplayed the Highland airs. These Scotchmen
died thinking of Ben Lothianas did the Greeks recalling Argos.
The sword of a cuirassierwhich hewed down the bagpipes and the arm
which bore itput an end to the song by killing the singer.

The cuirassiersrelatively few in numberand still further diminished
by the catastrophe of the ravinehad almost the whole English army
against thembut they multiplied themselves so that each man of them
was equal to ten. Neverthelesssome Hanoverian battalions yielded.
Wellington perceived itand thought of his cavalry. Had Napoleon
at that same moment thought of his infantryhe would have won
the battle. This forgetfulness was his great and fatal mistake.

All at oncethe cuirassierswho had been the assailants
found themselves assailed. The English cavalry was at their back.
Before them two squaresbehind them Somerset; Somerset meant
fourteen hundred dragoons of the guard. On the rightSomerset had
Dornberg with the German light-horseand on his leftTrip with
the Belgian carabineers; the cuirassiers attacked on the flank and
in frontbefore and in the rearby infantry and cavalryhad to
face all sides. What mattered it to them? They were a whirlwind.
Their valor was something indescribable.

In addition to thisthey had behind them the batterywhich was
still thundering. It was necessary that it should be soor they
could never have been wounded in the back. One of their cuirasses
pierced on the shoulder by a ball from a biscayan[9] is in the
collection of the Waterloo Museum.

[9] A heavy rifled gun.
For such Frenchmen nothing less than such Englishmen was needed.
It was no longer a hand-to-hand conflict; it was a shadowa fury
a dizzy transport of souls and couragea hurricane of lightning swords.
In an instant the fourteen hundred dragoon guards numbered only
eight hundred. Fullertheir lieutenant-colonelfell dead.
Ney rushed up with the lancers and Lefebvre-Desnouettes's light-horse.
The plateau of Mont-Saint-Jean was capturedrecapturedcaptured again.
The cuirassiers quitted the cavalry to return to the infantry;
orto put it more exactlythe whole of that formidable rout
collared each other without releasing the other. The squares still
held firm.


There were a dozen assaults. Ney had four horses killed under 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 first shock by the disaster



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. Wellingtonthree-quarters vanquished
admired heroically. He said in an undertoneSublime!


The cuirassiers annihilated seven squares out of thirteentook or
spiked sixty pieces of ordnanceand captured from the English
regiments six flagswhich three cuirassiers and three chasseurs of
the Guard bore to the Emperorin front of the farm of La Belle Alliance.


Wellington's situation had grown worse. This strange battle
was like a duel between two ragingwounded meneach of whom
still fighting and still resistingis 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 certainthat on the day after the battlea cuirassier
and his horse were found dead among the woodwork of the scales
for vehicles at Mont-Saint-Jeanat the very point where the four
roads from NivellesGenappeLa Hulpeand Brussels meet and
intersect each other. This horseman had pierced the English lines.
One of the men who picked up the body still lives at Mont-Saint-Jean.
His name is Dehaze. He was eighteen years old at that time.


Wellington felt that he was yielding. The crisis was at hand.


The cuirassiers had not succeededsince the centre was not
broken through. As every one was in possession of the plateauno one
held itand in fact it remainedto a great extentwith the English.
Wellington held the village and the culminating plain; Ney had only the
crest and the slope. They seemed rooted in that fatal soil on both sides.


But the weakening of the English seemed irremediable.
The bleeding of that army was horrible. Kempton the left wing
demanded reinforcements. "There are none replied Wellington;
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 Napoleonand Napoleon exclaimedInfantry!
Where does he expect me to get it? Does he think I can make it?


Neverthelessthe English army was in the worse case of the two.
The furious onsets of those great squadrons with cuirasses of iron
and breasts of steel had ground the infantry to nothing. 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 divisionalready so roughly 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 grenadierswhointermingled with Spaniards
in our ranks in 1811fought against Wellington; and whoin 1815
rallied to the English standardfought against Napoleon.
The loss in officers was considerable. Lord Uxbridgewho had
his leg buried on the following dayhad his knee shattered.
Ifon the French sidein that tussle of the cuirassiersDelort
l'HeritierColbertDnopTraversand Blancard were disabled
on the side of the English there was Alten woundedBarne wounded
Delancey killedVan Meeren killedOmpteda killedthe whole
of Wellington's staff decimatedand England had the worse of it
in that bloody scale. The second regiment of foot-guards had
lost five lieutenant-colonelsfour captainsand 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 killed450 soldiers killed. The Hanoverian hussars
of Cumberlanda whole regimentwith Colonel Hacke at its head
who was destined to be tried later on and cashieredhad turned
bridle in the presence of the frayand had fled to the forest
of Soignessowing defeat all the way to Brussels. The transports
ammunition-wagonsthe baggage-wagonsthe wagons filled with wounded
on perceiving that the French were gaining ground and approaching
the forestrushed headlong thither. The Dutchmowed down by the
French cavalrycriedAlarm!From Vert-Coucou to Groentendael
for a distance of nearly two leagues in the direction of Brussels
according 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 Conde at Mechlinand Louis XVIII.
at Ghent. With the exception of the feeble reserve echelonned
behind the ambulance established at the farm of Mont-Saint-Jean
and of Vivian's and Vandeleur's brigadeswhich flanked the left wing
Wellington had no cavalry left. A number of batteries lay unhorsed.
These facts are attested by Siborne; and Pringleexaggerating
the disastergoes so far as to say that the Anglo-Dutch army was
reduced to thirty-four thousand men. The Iron Duke remained calm
but his lips blanched. Vincentthe Austrian commissionerAlava
the Spanish commissionerwho were present at the battle in the
English staffthought the Duke lost. At five o'clock Wellington
drew out his watchand he was heard to murmur these sinister 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.


CHAPTER XI


A BAD GUIDE TO NAPOLEON; A GOOD GUIDE TO BULOW


The painful surprise of Napoleon is well known. Grouchy hoped for
Blucher 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 BulowBlucher's lieutenant
had advised him to debouch from the forest above Frischemont
instead of below Plancenoitthe form of the nineteenth century might
perhapshave been different. Napoleon would have won the battle
of Waterloo. By any other route than that below Plancenoit
the Prussian army would have come out upon a ravine impassable
for artilleryand Bulow would not have arrived.


Now the Prussian generalMufflingdeclares that one hour's delay
and Blucher would not have found Wellington on his feet. "The battle
was lost."


It was time that Bulow should arriveas will be seen. He had
moreoverbeen very much delayed. He had bivouacked at Dion-le-Mont
and had set out at daybreak; but the roads were impassableand his
divisions stuck fast in the mire. The ruts were up to the hubs
of the cannons. Moreoverhe had been obliged to pass the Dyle on
the narrow bridge of Wavre; the street leading to the bridge had been
fired by the Frenchso the caissons and ammunition-wagons could



not pass between two rows of burning housesand 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-Lambert.


Had the action been begun two hours earlierit would have been
over at four o'clockand Blucher would have fallen on the battle
won by Napoleon. Such are these immense risks proportioned
to an infinite which we cannot comprehend.


The Emperor had been the firstas early as mid-dayto descry
with his field-glasson the extreme horizonsomething which had
attracted his attention. He had saidI see yonder a cloud,
which seems to me to be troops.Then he asked the Duc de Dalmatie
Soult, what do you see in the direction of Chapelle-Saint-Lambert?
The marshallevelling his glassansweredFour or five
thousand men, Sire; evidently Grouchy.But it remained motionless
in the mist. All the glasses of the staff had studied "the cloud"
pointed out by the Emperor. Some said: "It is trees." The truth is
that the cloud did not move. The Emperor detached Domon's division
of light cavalry to reconnoitre in that quarter.


Bulow had not movedin fact. His vanguard was very feeble
and could accomplish nothing. He was obliged to wait for the body
of the army corpsand he had received orders to concentrate his
forces before entering into line; but at five o'clockperceiving
Wellington's perilBlucher ordered Bulow to attackand uttered
these remarkable words: "We must give air to the English army."


A little laterthe divisions of LosthinHillerHackeand Ryssel
deployed before Lobau's corpsthe cavalry of Prince William of
Prussia debouched from the forest of ParisPlancenoit was in flames
and the Prussian cannon-balls began to rain even upon the ranks
of the guard in reserve behind Napoleon.


CHAPTER XII


THE GUARD


Every one knows the rest--the irruption of a third army; the battle
broken to pieces; eighty-six months of fire thundering simultaneously;
Pirch the first coming up with Bulow; Zieten's cavalry led
by Blucher in personthe French driven back; Marcognet swept
from the plateau of Ohain; Durutte dislodged 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 offensive and thrust forward;
the gigantic breach made in the French army; 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 terrible crumbling of all things.


Conscious that they were about to diethey shoutedVive l'Empereur!
History records nothing more touching than that agony bursting
forth in acclamations.


The sky had been overcast all day long. All of a suddenat that
very moment--it was eight o'clock in the evening--the clouds on
the horizon partedand allowed the grand and sinister glow of the
setting sun to pass throughathwart the elms on the Nivelles road.
They had seen it rise at Austerlitz.



Each battalion of the Guard was commanded by a general for this
final catastrophe. FriantMichelRoguetHarletMallet
Poret de Morvanwere there. When the tall caps of the grenadiers
of the Guardwith their large plaques bearing the eagle appeared
symmetricalin linetranquilin the midst of that combat
the enemy felt a respect for France; they thought they beheld twenty
victories entering the field of battlewith wings outspread
and those who were the conquerorsbelieving themselves to be vanquished
retreated; but Wellington shoutedUp, Guards, and aim straight!
The red regiment of English guardslying flat behind the hedges
sprang upa cloud of grape-shot riddled the tricolored flag
and whistled round our eagles; all hurled themselves forwards
and the final carnage began. In the darknessthe Imperial Guard
felt the army losing ground around itand in the vast shock of
the rout it heard the desperate flight which had taken the place
of the "Vive l'Empereur!" andwith flight behind itit continued
to advancemore crushedlosing more men at every step that it took.
There were none who hesitatedno 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.


Neybewilderedgreat with all the grandeur of accepted death
offered himself to all blows in that tempest. He had his fifth horse
killed under him there. Perspiringhis eyes aflamefoaming at
the mouthwith uniform unbuttonedone of his epaulets half cut
off by a sword-stroke from a horseguardhis plaque with the great
eagle dented by a bullet; bleedingbemiredmagnificenta broken
sword in his handhe saidCome 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 artillery engaged in crushing a handful of menhe shouted:
So there is nothing for me! Oh! I should like to have all these
English bullets enter my bowels!Unhappy manthou wert reserved
for French bullets!


CHAPTER XIII


THE CATASTROPHE


The rout behind the Guard was melancholy.


The army yielded suddenly on all sides at once--HougomontLa
Haie-SaintePapelottePlancenoit. The cry "Treachery!" was
followed by a cry of "Save yourselves who can!" An army which is
disbanding is like a thaw. All yieldssplitscracksfloats
rollsfallsjostleshastensis precipitated. The disintegration
is unprecedented. Ney borrows a horseleaps upon itand without
hatcravator swordplaces himself across the Brussels road
stopping both English and French. He strives to detain the army
he recalls it to its dutyhe insults ithe clings to the rout.
He is overwhelmed. The soldiers fly from himshoutingLong live
Marshal Ney!Two of Durutte's regiments go and come in affright
as though tossed back and forth between the swords of the Uhlans
and the fusillade of the brigades of KemptBestPackand Rylandt;
the worst of hand-to-hand conflicts is the defeat; friends kill each
other in order to escape; squadrons and battalions break and disperse
against each otherlike the tremendous foam of battle. Lobau at
one extremityand Reille at the otherare drawn into the tide.
In vain does Napoleon 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 VivianKellermann before Vandeleur



Lobau before BulowMorand before PirchDomon and Subervic before
Prince William of Prussia; Guyotwho led the Emperor's squadrons
to the chargefalls beneath the feet of the English dragoons.
Napoleon gallops past the line of fugitivesharanguesurgesthreatens
entreats them. All the mouths which in the morning had shouted
Long live the Emperor!remain gaping; they hardly recognize him.
The Prussian cavalrynewly arriveddashes forwardsflieshews
slasheskillsexterminates. Horses lash outthe cannons flee;
the soldiers of the artillery-train unharness the caissons and use
the horses to make their escape; transports overturnedwith all
four wheels in the airclog the road and occasion massacres.
Men are crushedtrampled downothers walk over the dead and
the living. Arms are lost. A dizzy multitude fills the roads
the pathsthe bridgesthe plainsthe hillsthe valleys
the woodsencumbered by this invasion of forty thousand men.
Shouts despairknapsacks and guns flung among the ryepassages forced
at the point of the swordno more comradesno more officers
no more generalsan inexpressible terror. Zieten putting France to the
sword at its leisure. Lions converted into goats. Such was the flight.


At Genappean effort was made to wheel aboutto present a
battle frontto draw up in line. Lobau rallied three hundred men.
The entrance to the village was barricadedbut at the first volley
of Prussian canisterall took to flight againand 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 Genappefuriousno doubtthat they were
not more entirely the conquerors. The pursuit was stupendous.
Blucher ordered extermination. Roguet had set the lugubrious example
of threatening with death any French grenadier who should bring him
a Prussian prisoner. Blucher outdid Roguet. Duhesmethe general
of the Young Guardhemmed in at the doorway of an inn at Genappe
surrendered his sword to a huzzar of deathwho took the sword and
slew the prisoner. The victory was completed by the assassination
of the vanquished. Let us inflict punishmentsince we are history:
old Blucher disgraced himself. This ferocity put the finishing
touch to the disaster. The desperate route traversed Genappe
traversed Quatre-Brastraversed Gosseliestraversed Frasnes
traversed Charleroitraversed Thuinand only halted at the frontier.
Alas! and whothenwas fleeing in that manner? The Grand Army.


This vertigothis terrorthis downfall into ruin of the loftiest
bravery which ever astounded history--is that causeless?
No. The shadow of an enormous right is projected athwart Waterloo.
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 earthwith nothing left
to say nor to dofeeling the present shadow of a terrible presence.
Hoc erat in fatis. That day the perspective of the human race
underwent a change. Waterloo is the hinge of the nineteenth century.
The disappearance of the great man was necessary to the advent of the
great century. Some onea person to whom one replies nottook 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 nightfallin a meadow near GenappeBernard and Bertrand
seized by the skirt of his coat and detained a manhaggard
pensivesinistergloomywhodragged to that point by the
current of the routhad just dismountedhad passed the bridle
of his horse over his armand with wild eye was returning
alone to Waterloo. It was Napoleonthe immense somnambulist



of this dream which had crumbledessaying once more to advance.

CHAPTER XIV

THE LAST SQUARE

Several squares of the Guardmotionless amid this stream of
the defeatas rocks in running waterheld their own until night.
Night camedeath also; they awaited that double shadow
andinvincibleallowed themselves to be enveloped therein.
Each regimentisolated from the restand having no bond with
the armynow shattered in every partdied alone. They had taken
up position for this final actionsome on the heights of Rossomme
others on the plain of Mont-Saint-Jean. Thereabandonedvanquished
terriblethose gloomy squares endured their death-throes
in formidable fashion. UlmWagramJenaFriedlanddied with them.

At twilighttowards nine o'clock in the eveningone 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 Englishunder the converging
fires of the victorious hostile cavalryunder a frightful density
of projectilesthis square fought on. It was commanded by an obscure
officer named Cambronne. At each dischargethe 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 distancelistened in the darkness
to that gloomy and ever-decreasing thunder.

When this legion had been reduced to a handfulwhen nothing was left
of their flag but a ragwhen their gunsthe bullets all gone
were no longer anything but clubswhen the heap of corpses was larger
than the group of survivorsthere reigned among the conquerors
around those men dying so sublimelya sort of sacred terror
and the English artillerytaking breathbecame silent. This furnished
a sort of respite. These combatants had around them something in
the nature of a swarm of spectressilhouettes of men on horseback
the black profiles of cannonthe white sky viewed through wheels
and gun-carriagesthe colossal death's-headwhich the heroes
saw constantly through the smokein the depths of the battle
advanced upon them and gazed at them. Through the shades of twilight
they could hear the pieces being loaded; the matches all lighted
like the eyes of tigers at nightformed a circle round their heads;
all the lintstocks of the English batteries approached the cannons
and thenwith emotionholding the supreme moment suspended above
these menan English generalColville according to someMaitland
according to othersshouted to themSurrender, brave Frenchmen!
Cambronne replied-----.

{EDITOR'S COMMENTARY: Another edition of this book has the word
Merde!in lieu of the ----- above.}

CHAPTER XV

CAMBRONNE

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 ever made. This would
enjoin us from consigning something sublime to History.


At our own risk and perillet us violate this injunction.


Nowthenamong those giants there was one Titan--Cambronne.


To make that reply and then perishwhat 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 Napoleonwho was put
to flight; nor Wellingtongiving way at four o'clockin despair
at five; nor Blucherwho took no part in the engagement.
The winner of Waterloo was Cambronne.


To thunder forth such a reply at the lightning-flash that kills
you is to conquer!


Thus to answer the Catastrophethus to speak to Fateto give
this pedestal to the future lionto hurl such a challenge to the
midnight rainstormto the treacherous wall of Hougomontto the
sunken road of Ohainto Grouchy's delayto Blucher's arrival
to be Irony itself in the tombto act so as to stand upright
though fallento drown in two syllables the European coalition
to offer kings privies which the Caesars once knewto make the lowest
of words the most lofty by entwining with it the glory of France
insolently to end Waterloo with Mardigrasto finish Leonidas
with Rabellaisto set the crown on this victory by a word impossible
to speakto lose the field and preserve historyto have the laugh
on your side after such a carnage--this is immense!


It was an insult such as a thunder-cloud might hurl! It reaches
the grandeur of AEschylus!


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 Blucherhe was lost.
Was it Blucher? No! If Wellington had not begunBlucher could
not have finished. This Cambronnethis man spending his last hour
this unknown soldierthis infinitesimal of warrealizes that here is
a falsehooda falsehood in a catastropheand 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 Europethe general's flushed with victory
the Jupiter's darting thunderbolts; they have a hundred thousand
victorious soldiersand back of the hundred thousand a million;
their cannon stand with yawning mouthsthe match is lighted; they grind
down under their heels the Imperial guardsand the grand army;
they have just crushed Napoleonand only Cambronne remains--
only this earthworm is left to protest. He will protest. Then he seeks
for the appropriate 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 victoriousthis desperate
soldier stands erect. He grants its overwhelming immensitybut he
establishes its triviality; and he does more than spit upon it.
Borne down by numbersby superior forceby brute matter
he finds in his soul an expression: "Excrement!" We repeat it--
to use that wordto do thusto invent such an expressionis to be
the conqueror!


The spirit of mighty days at that portentous moment made its descent
on that unknown man. Cambronne invents the 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 ancient spirit of the Titans.
Danton seems to be speaking! Kleber seems to be bellowing!

At that word from Cambronne, the English voice responded, Fire!"
The batteries flamedthe hill trembledfrom all those brazen
mouths belched a last terrible gush of grape-shot; a vast volume
of smokevaguely white in the light of the rising moonrolled out
and when the smoke dispersedthere was no longer anything there.
That formidable remnant had been annihilated; the Guard was dead.
The four walls of the living redoubt lay proneand hardly was
there discerniblehere and thereeven a quiver in the bodies;
it was thus that the French legionsgreater than the Roman legions
expired on Mont-Saint-Jeanon the soil watered with rain and blood
amid the gloomy grainon the spot where nowadays Josephwho drives
the post-wagon from Nivellespasses whistlingand cheerfully
whipping up his horse at four o'clock in the morning.

CHAPTER XVI

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;[10]
Blucher sees nothing in it but fire; Wellington understands
nothing in regard to it. Look at the reports. The bulletins
are confusedthe commentaries involved. Some stammerothers lisp.
Jomini divides the battle of Waterloo into four moments; Muffling cuts
it up into three changes; Charras alonethough we hold another
judgment than his on some pointsseized 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 dazzledand in this dazzled state they fumble about.
It was a day of lightning brilliancy; in facta crumbling of
the military monarchy whichto the vast stupefaction of kings
drew all the kingdoms after it--the fall of forcethe defeat of war.

[10] "A battle terminateda day finishedfalse measures repaired
greater successes assured for the morrow--all was lost by a moment
of panicterror."--NapoleonDictees de Sainte Helene.
In this eventstamped with superhuman necessitythe part played
by men amounts to nothing.

If we take Waterloo from Wellington and Blucherdo we thereby deprive
England and Germany of anything? No. Neither that illustrious
England nor that august Germany enter into the problem of Waterloo.
Thank Heavennations are greatindependently of the lugubrious
feats of the sword. Neither Englandnor Germanynor France
is contained in a scabbard. At this epoch when Waterloo is
only a clashing of swordsabove BlucherGermany has Schiller;
above WellingtonEngland has Byron. A vast dawn of ideas is the


peculiarity of our centuryand in that aurora England and Germany
have a magnificent radiance. They are majestic because they think.
The elevation of level which they contribute to civilization is intrinsic
with them; it proceeds from themselves and not from an accident.
The aggrandizement which they have brought 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 dayare 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 dignitytheir intelligencetheir geniusare not
numbers which those gamblersheroes and conquerorscan 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 usthereforespeak of Waterloo coldly from both sides.
Let us render to chance that which is due to chanceand to God
that which is due to God. What is Waterloo? A victory? No. The
winning number in the lottery.

The quine[11] won by Europepaid by France.

[11] Five winning numbers in a lottery.
It was not worth while to place a lion there.

Waterloomoreoveris the strangest encounter in history.
Napoleon and Wellington. They are not enemies; they are opposites.
Never did Godwho is fond of antithesesmake a more striking
contrasta more extraordinary comparison. On one sideprecision
foresightgeometryprudencean assured retreatreserves spared
with an obstinate coolnessan imperturbable methodstrategy
which takes advantage of the groundtacticswhich preserve the
equilibrium of battalionscarnageexecuted according to rule
war regulatedwatch in handnothing voluntarily left to chance
the ancient classic courageabsolute regularity; on the other
intuitiondivinationmilitary odditysuperhuman instinct
a flaming glancean indescribable something which gazes like
an eagleand which strikes like the lightninga prodigious art
in disdainful impetuosityall the mysteries of a profound soul
associated with destiny; the streamthe plainthe forest
the hillsummonedand in a mannerforced to obeythe despot going
even so far as to tyrannize over the field of battle; faith in a
star mingled with strategic scienceelevating but perturbing it.
Wellington was the Bareme of war; Napoleon was its Michael Angelo;
and on this occasiongenius was vanquished by calculation.
On both sides some one was awaited. It was the exact calculator
who succeeded. Napoleon was waiting for Grouchy; he did not come.
Wellington expected Blucher; he came.

Wellington is classic war taking its revenge. Bonaparteat his
dawninghad encountered him in Italyand beaten him superbly.
The old owl had fled before the young vulture. The old tactics
had been not only struck as by lightningbut disgraced. Who was
that Corsican of six and twenty? What signified that splendid
ignoramuswhowith everything against himnothing in his favor
without provisionswithout ammunitionwithout cannonwithout shoes
almost without an armywith a mere handful of men against masses
hurled himself on Europe combinedand absurdly won victories
in the impossible? Whence had issued that fulminating convict
who almost without taking breathand with the same set of combatants


in handpulverizedone after the otherthe five armies of the emperor
of Germanyupsetting Beaulieu on AlvinziWurmser on Beaulieu
Melas on WurmserMack on Melas? Who was this novice in war
with the effrontery of a luminary? The academical military school
excommunicated himand as it lost its footing; hencethe implacable
rancor of the old Caesarism against the new; of the regular sword
against the flaming sword; and of the exchequer against genius.
On the 18th of June1815that rancor had the last word.
and beneath LodiMontebelloMontenotteMantuaArcola
it wrote: Waterloo. A triumph of the mediocres which is sweet
to the majority. Destiny consented to this irony. In his decline
Napoleon found Wurmserthe youngeragain in front of him.


In factto get Wurmserit sufficed to blanch the hair of Wellington.


Waterloo is a battle of the first orderwon by a captain of the second.


That which must be admired in the battle of Waterloois England;
the English firmnessthe English resolutionthe English blood;
the superb thing about England thereno offence to herwas herself.
It was not her captain; it was her army.


Wellingtonoddly ungratefuldeclares in a letter to Lord Bathurst
that his armythe army which fought on the 18th of June1815
was a "detestable army." What does that sombre intermingling
of bones buried beneath the furrows of Waterloo think of that?


England has been too modest in the matter of Wellington. To make
Wellington so great is to belittle England. Wellington is nothing
but a hero like many another. Those Scotch Graysthose Horse Guards
those regiments of Maitland and of Mitchellthat infantry of Pack
and Kemptthat cavalry of Ponsonby and Somersetthose Highlanders
playing the pibroch under the shower of grape-shotthose battalions
of Rylandtthose utterly raw recruitswho hardly knew how to
handle a musket holding their own against Essling's and Rivoli's
old troops--that is what was grand. Wellington was tenacious;
in that lay his meritand we are not seeking to lessen it:
but the least of his foot-soldiers and of his cavalry would have been
as solid as he. The iron soldier is worth as much as the Iron Duke.
As for usall our glorification goes to the English soldier
to the English armyto the English people. If trophy there be
it is to England that the trophy is due. The column of Waterloo would
be more justifinstead of the figure of a manit bore on high
the statue of a people.


But this great England will be angry at what we are saying here.
She still cherishesafter her own 1688 and our 1789
the feudal illusion. She believes in heredity and hierarchy.
This peoplesurpassed by none in power and gloryregards itself
as a nationand not as a people. And as a peopleit willingly
subordinates itself and takes a lord for its head. As a workman
it allows itself to be disdained; as a soldierit allows itself
to be flogged.


It will be rememberedthat at the battle of Inkermann a sergeant
who hadit appearssaved the armycould not be mentioned
by Lord Paglanas the English military hierarchy does not permit
any hero below the grade of an officer to be mentioned in the reports.


That which we admire above allin an encounter of the nature of Waterloo
is the marvellous cleverness of chance. A nocturnal rainthe wall
of Hougomontthe hollow road of OhainGrouchy deaf to the cannon
Napoleon's guide deceiving himBulow's guide enlightening him--
the whole of this cataclysm is wonderfully conducted.



On the wholelet us say it plainlyit was more of a massacre
than of a battle at Waterloo.


Of all pitched battlesWaterloo is the one which has the smallest
front for such a number of combatants. Napoleon three-quarters
of a league; Wellingtonhalf a league; seventy-two thousand
combatants on each side. From this denseness the carnage arose.


The following calculation has been madeand the following
proportion established: Loss of men: at AusterlitzFrench
fourteen per cent; Russiansthirty per cent; Austrians
forty-four per cent. At WagramFrenchthirteen per cent;
Austriansfourteen. At the MoskowaFrenchthirty-seven per cent;
Russiansforty-four. At BautzenFrenchthirteen per cent;
Russians and Prussiansfourteen. At WaterlooFrenchfifty-six
per cent; the Alliesthirty-one. Total for Waterlooforty-one per
cent; one hundred and forty-four thousand combatants; sixty thousand dead.


To-day the field of Waterloo has the calm which belongs to the earth
the impassive support of manand it resembles all plains.


At nightmoreovera sort of visionary mist arises from it;
and if a traveller strolls thereif he listensif he watchesif he
dreams like Virgil in the fatal plains of Philippithe hallucination
of the catastrophe takes possession of him. The frightful 18th
of June lives again; the false monumental hillock disappears
the lion vanishes in airthe battle-field resumes its reality
lines of infantry undulate over the plainfurious gallops traverse
the horizon; the frightened dreamer beholds the flash of sabres
the gleam of bayonetsthe flare of bombsthe tremendous interchange
of thunders; he hearsas it werethe death rattle in the depths
of a tombthe vague clamor of the battle phantom; those shadows
are grenadiersthose lights are cuirassiers; that skeleton Napoleon
that other skeleton is Wellington; all this no longer exists
and yet it clashes together and combats still; and the ravines
are empurpledand the trees quiverand there is fury even in the
clouds and in the shadows; all those terrible heightsHougomont
Mont-Saint-JeanFrischemontPapelottePlancenoitappear confusedly
crowned with whirlwinds of spectres engaged in exterminating each other.


CHAPTER XVII


IS WATERLOO TO BE CONSIDERED GOOD?


There exists a very respectable liberal school which
does not hate Waterloo. We do not belong to it.
To usWaterloo is but the stupefied date of liberty.
That such an eagle should emerge from such an egg is certainly unexpected.


If one places one's self at the culminating point of view of the question
Waterloo is intentionally a counter-revolutionary victory. It is Europe
against France; it is PetersburgBerlinand Vienna against Paris;
it is the statu quo against the initiative; it is the 14th of July
1789attacked through the 20th of March1815; it is the monarchies
clearing the decks in opposition to the indomitable 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 Brunswicksthe Nassausthe Romanoffsthe Hohenzollerns
the Hapsburgs with the Bourbons. Waterloo bears divine right on
its crupper. It is truethat the Empire having been despotic



the kingdom by the natural reaction of thingswas 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 conqueredand that being providential and absolutely fatal
it is always cropping up afresh: before Waterlooin Bonaparte
overthrowing the old thrones; after Waterlooin Louis XVIII.
granting and conforming to the charter. Bonaparte places a postilion
on the throne of Naplesand a sergeant on the throne of Sweden
employing inequality to demonstrate equality; Louis XVIII.
at Saint-Ouen countersigns the declaration of the rights of man.
If you wish to gain an idea of what revolution iscall it Progress;
and if you wish to acquire an idea of the nature of progress
call it To-morrow. To-morrow fulfils its work irresistiblyand it is
already fulfilling it to-day. It always reaches its goal strangely.
It employs Wellington to make of Foywho was only a soldier
an orator. Foy falls at Hougomont and rises again in the tribune.
Thus does progress proceed. There is no such thing as a bad tool
for that workman. It does not become disconcertedbut adjusts
to its divine work the man who has bestridden the Alpsand the
good old tottering invalid of Father Elysee. It makes use of the
gouty man as well as of the conqueror; of the conqueror without
of the gouty man within. Waterlooby cutting short the demolition
of European thrones by the swordhad no other effect than to 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 shortand incontestablythat which triumphed at Waterloo;
that which smiled in Wellington's rear; that which brought him all
the marshals' staffs of Europeincludingit is saidthe staff
of a marshal of France; that which joyously trundled the barrows full
of bones to erect the knoll of the lion; that which triumphantly
inscribed on that pedestal the date "June 181815"; that which
encouraged Blucheras he put the flying army to the sword; that which
from the heights of the plateau of Mont-Saint-Jeanhovered over
France as over its preywas the counter-revolution. It was the
counter-revolution which murmured that infamous word "dismemberment."
On arriving in Parisit beheld the crater close at hand; it felt
those ashes which scorched its feetand 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
involuntarily liberalin the same manner asby a corresponding
phenomenonNapoleon was involuntarily revolutionary. On the 18th
of June1815the mounted Robespierre was hurled from his saddle.

CHAPTER XVIII

A RECRUDESCENCE OF 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 abyssas in the days
of the barbarians; only the barbarism of 1815which must be called
by its pet name of the counter-revolutionwas not long breathed
soon fell to pantingand halted short. The Empire was bewept-let
us acknowledge the fact--and bewept by heroic eyes.
If glory lies in the sword converted into a sceptrethe Empire


had been glory in person. It had diffused over the earth all the
light which tyranny can give a sombre light. We will say more;
an obscure light. Compared to the true daylightit 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.
Bouvines and Fontenoy were mentioned as though they had taken
place on the preceding dayAusterlitz having become antiquated.
The altar and the throne fraternized majestically. One of the
most undisputed forms of the health of society in the nineteenth
century was established over Franceand over the continent.
Europe adopted the white cockade. Trestaillon was celebrated.
The device non pluribus impar re-appeared on the stone rays
representing a sun upon the front of the barracks on the Quai d'Orsay.
Where there had been an Imperial Guardthere was now a red house.
The Arc du Carrouselall laden with badly borne victories
thrown out of its element among these noveltiesa little ashamed
it may beof Marengo and Arcolaextricated itself from its
predicament with the statue of the Duc d'Angouleme. The cemetery
of the Madeleinea terrible pauper's grave in 1793was covered
with jasper and marblesince 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 Duc d'Enghien had perished in the
very month when Napoleon was crowned. Pope Pius VII.who had
performed the coronation very near this deathtranquilly bestowed
his blessing on the fall as he had bestowed it on the elevation.
At Schoenbrunn there was a little shadowaged fourwhom it was
seditious to call the King of Rome. And these things took place
and the kings resumed their thronesand the master of Europe
was put in a cageand the old regime became the new regime
and all the shadows and all the light of the earth changed place
becauseon the afternoon of a certain summer's daya shepherd
said to a Prussian in the forestGo 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; prejudicessuperstitions and
mental reservationswith Article 14 in the heartwere varnished
over with liberalism. It was the serpent's change of skin.

Man had been rendered both greater and smaller by Napoleon.
Under this reign of splendid matterthe ideal had received the
strange name of ideology! It is a grave imprudence in a great man
to turn the future into derision. The populacehoweverthat food
for cannon which is so fond of the cannoneersought him with
its glance. Where is he? What is he doing? "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 maneven when overthrown. The depths of Europe were full
of darkness after Waterloo. Something enormous remained long empty
through Napoleon's disappearance.

The kings placed themselves in this void. Ancient Europe
profited by it to undertake reforms. There was a Holy Alliance;
Belle-AllianceBeautiful Alliancethe fatal field of Waterloo
had said in advance.


In presence and in face of that antique Europe reconstructed
the features of a new France were sketched out. The future
which the Emperor had ralliedmade its entry. On its brow it bore
the starLiberty. The glowing eyes of all young generations were
turned on it. Singular fact! people wereat one and the same time
in love with the futureLibertyand the pastNapoleon. Defeat had
rendered the vanquished greater. Bonaparte fallen seemed more
lofty than Napoleon erect. Those who had triumphed were alarmed.
England had him guarded by Hudson Loweand 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 the quantity of revolution which 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 easewith 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 rottingand something of their peace was shed abroad
over the world. The Congress of Vienna made the treaties in 1815
and Europe called this the Restoration.


This is what Waterloo was.


But what matters it to the Infinite? all that tempestall that cloud
that warthen that peace? All that darkness did not trouble
for a moment the light of that immense Eye before which a grub
skipping from one blade of grass to another equals the eagle
soaring from belfry to belfry on the towers of Notre Dame.


CHAPTER XIX


THE BATTLE-FIELD AT NIGHT


Let us return--it is a necessity in this book--to that fatal
battle-field.


On the 18th of June the moon was full. Its light favored
Blucher's ferocious pursuitbetrayed the traces of the fugitives
delivered up that disastrous mass to the eager Prussian cavalry
and aided the massacre. Such tragic favors of the night do occur
sometimes during catastrophes.


After the last cannon-shot had been firedthe plain of Mont-Saint-Jean
remained deserted.


The English occupied the encampment of the French; it is the
usual sign of victory to sleep in the bed of the vanquished.
They established their bivouac beyond Rossomme. The Prussians
let loose on the retreating routpushed forward. Wellington went
to the village of Waterloo to draw up his report to Lord Bathurst.


If ever the sic vos non vobis was applicableit certainly is
to that village of Waterloo. Waterloo took no partand lay half
a league from the scene of action. Mont-Saint-Jean was cannonaded
Hougomont was burnedLa Haie-Sainte was taken by assault
Papelotte was burnedPlancenoit was burnedLa Belle-Alliance beheld
the embrace of the two conquerors; these names are hardly known
and Waterloowhich worked not in the battlebears off all the honor.


We are not of the number of those who flatter war; when the occasion



presents itselfwe tell the truth about it. War has frightful
beauties which we have not concealed; it has alsowe acknowledge
some hideous features. One of the most surprising is the prompt
stripping of the bodies of the dead after the victory. The dawn
which follows a battle always rises on 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 pickpockets are they who ply their trade in the rear of glory?
Some philosophers--Voltaire among the number--affirm that it is
precisely those persons have made the glory. 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 rightafter all
to strip a corpse a bit when one is the author of that corpse.
For our own partwe 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 certainwhich isthat generally after conquerors
follow thieves. But let us leave the soldierespecially the
contemporary soldierout of the question.

Every army has a rear-guardand it is that which must be blamed.
Bat-like creatureshalf brigands and lackeys; all the sorts
of vespertillos that that twilight called war engenders; wearers
of uniformswho take no part in the fighting; pretended invalids;
formidable limpers; interloping sutlerstrotting along in little carts
sometimes accompanied by their wivesand stealing things which they
sell again; beggars offering themselves as guides to officers;
soldiers' servants; marauders; armies on the march in days gone by-we
are not speaking of the present--dragged all this behind them
so that in the special language they are called "stragglers." No army
no nationwas responsible for those beings; they spoke Italian and
followed the Germansthen spoke French and followed the English.
It was by one of these wretchesa Spanish straggler who spoke French
that the Marquis of Fervacquesdeceived by his Picard jargon
and taking him for one of our own menwas traitorously slain
and robbed on the battle-field itselfin the course of the night
which followed the victory of Cerisoles. The rascal sprang
from this marauding. The detestable maximLive on the enemy!
produced this leprosywhich a strict discipline alone could heal.
There are reputations which are deceptive; one does not always know why
certain generalsgreat in other directionshave been so popular.
Turenne was adored by his soldiers because he tolerated pillage;
evil permitted constitutes part of goodness. Turenne was so good that
he allowed the Palatinate to be delivered over to fire and blood.
The marauders 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 fewand we do him the justice to
mention it.

Neverthelesson 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 battlefield while others
were being shot in another.

The moon was sinister over this plain.

Towards midnighta man was prowling aboutor ratherclimbing in
the direction of the hollow road of Ohain. To all appearance he
was one of those whom we have just described--neither English
nor Frenchneither peasant nor soldierless a man than a ghoul


attracted by the scent of the dead bodies having theft for
his victoryand 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 behind him. Who was this man?
The night probably knew more of him than the day. He had no sack
but evidently he had large pockets under his coat. From time to
time he haltedscrutinized the plain around him as though to see
whether he were observedbent over abruptlydisturbed something
silent and motionless on the groundthen rose and fled.
His sliding motionhis attitudeshis mysterious and rapid gestures
caused him to resemble those twilight larvae which haunt ruins
and which ancient Norman legends call the Alleurs.


Certain nocturnal wading birds produce these silhouettes among
the marshes.


A glance capable of piercing all that mist deeply would have
perceived at some distance a sort of little sutler's wagon
with a fluted wicker hoodharnessed to a famished nag which was
cropping the grass across its bit as it haltedhiddenas it were
behind the hovel which adjoins the highway to Nivelles
at the angle of the road from Mont-Saint-Jean to Braine l'Alleud;
and in the wagona sort of woman seated on coffers and packages.
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 fieldsbranches of trees broken by grape-shot
but not fallenupheld by their barkswayed gently in the breeze
of night. A breathalmost a respirationmoved the shrubbery.
Quivers which resembled the departure of souls ran through the grass.


In the distance the coming and going of patrols and the general
rounds of the English camp were audible.


Hougomont and La Haie-Sainte continued to burnformingone in
the westthe other in the easttwo great flames which were joined
by the cordon of bivouac fires of the Englishlike a necklace
of rubies with two carbuncles at the extremitiesas they extended
in an immense semicircle over the hills along the horizon.


We have described the catastrophe of the road of Ohain. The heart
is terrified at the thought of what that death must have been
to so many brave men.


If there is anything terribleif there exists a reality which
surpasses dreamsit is this: to liveto see the sun; to be in full
possession of virile force; to possess health and joy; to laugh valiantly;
to rush towards a glory which one sees dazzling in front of one;
to feel in one's breast lungs which breathea heart which beats
a will which reasons; to speakthinkhopelove; to have a mother
to have a wifeto have children; to have the light--and all at once
in the space of a shoutin less than a minuteto sink into an abyss;
to fallto rollto crushto be crushed; to see ears of wheat
flowersleavesbranches; not to be able to catch hold of anything;
to feel one's sword uselessmen beneath onehorses on top of one;
to struggle in vainsince one's bones have been broken by some
kick in the darkness; to feel a heel which makes one's eyes start
from their sockets; to bite horses' shoes in one's rage; to stifle
to yellto writhe; to be beneathand to say to one's self
But just a little while ago I was a living man!


Therewhere that lamentable disaster had uttered its death-rattle
all was silence now. The edges of the hollow road were encumbered



with horses and ridersinextricably heaped up. Terrible entanglement!
There was no longer any slopefor the corpses had levelled the road
with the plainand reached the brim like a well-filled bushel
of barley. A heap of dead bodies in the upper parta river of
blood in the lower part--such was that road on the evening of the
18th of June1815. The blood ran even to the Nivelles highway
and there overflowed in a large pool in front of the abatis
of trees which barred the wayat a spot which is still pointed out.

It will be remembered that it was at the opposite point
in the direction of the Genappe roadthat 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 middleat the point where it became level
where Delort's division had passedthe layer of corpses was thinner.

The nocturnal prowler whom we have just shown to the reader
was going in that direction. He was searching 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 himin the hollow roadat the point
where the pile of dead came to an endan open handillumined by
the moonprojected from beneath that heap of men. That hand
had on its finger something sparklingwhich was a ring of gold.

The man bent overremained in a crouching attitude for a moment
and when he rose there was no longer a ring on the hand.

He did not precisely rise; he remained in a stooping and
frightened attitudewith his back turned to the heap of dead
scanning the horizon on his kneeswith the whole upper portion
of his body supported on his two forefingerswhich rested on
the earthand his head peering above the edge of the hollow road.
The jackal's four paws suit some actions.

Then coming to a decisionhe rose to his feet.

At that momenthe gave a terrible start. He felt some one clutch
him from behind.

He wheeled round; it was the open handwhich had closedand had
seized the skirt of his coat.

An honest man would have been terrified; this man burst into a laugh.

Come,said heit's only a dead body. I prefer a spook
to a gendarme.

But the hand weakened and released him. Effort is quickly exhausted
in the grave.

Well now,said the prowleris that dead fellow alive?
Let's see.

He bent down againfumbled among the heappushed aside everything
that was in his wayseized the handgrasped the armfreed the head
pulled out the bodyand a few moments later he was dragging
the lifelessor at least the unconsciousmanthrough the shadows
of hollow road. He was a cuirassieran officerand even an officer
of considerable rank; a large gold epaulette peeped from beneath
the cuirass; this officer no longer possessed a helmet. A furious


sword-cut had scarred his facewhere nothing was discernible but blood.


Howeverhe did not appear to have any broken limbsandby some
happy chanceif that word is permissible herethe dead had been vaulted
above him in such a manner as to preserve him from being crushed.
His eyes were still closed.


On his cuirass he wore the silver cross of the Legion of Honor.


The prowler tore off this crosswhich disappeared into one
of the gulfs which he had beneath his great coat.


Then he felt of the officer's fobdiscovered a watch there
and took possession of it. Next he searched his waistcoat
found a purse and pocketed it.


When he had arrived at this stage of succor which he was administering
to this dying manthe officer opened his eyes.


Thanks,he said feebly.


The abruptness of the movements of the man who was manipulating him
the freshness of the nightthe air which he could inhale freely
had roused him from his lethargy.


The prowler made no reply. He raised his head. A sound of footsteps
was audible in the plain; some patrol was probably approaching.


The officer murmuredfor the death agony was still in his voice:--


Who won the battle?


The English,answered the prowler.


The officer went on:--


Look in my pockets; you will find a watch and a purse. Take them.


It was already done.


The prowler executed the required feintand said:--


There is nothing there.


I have been robbed,said the officer; "I am sorry for that.
You should have had them."


The steps of the patrol became more and more distinct.


Some one is coming,said the prowlerwith the movement of a man
who is taking his departure.


The officer raised his arm feeblyand detained him.


You have saved my life. Who are you?


The prowler answered rapidlyand in a low voice:--


Like yourself, I belonged to the French army. I must leave you.
If they were to catch me, they would shoot me. I have saved your life.
Now get out of the scrape yourself.


What is your rank?



Sergeant.

What is your name?

Thenardier.

I shall not forget that name,said the officer; "and do you
remember mine. My name is Pontmercy."

BOOK SECOND.--THE SHIP ORION

CHAPTER I

NUMBER 24601 BECOMES NUMBER 9430

Jean Valjean had been recaptured.

The reader will be grateful to us if we pass rapidly over
the sad details. We will confine ourselves to transcribing
two paragraphs published by the journals of that daya few
months after the surprising events which had taken place at M. sur M.

These articles are rather summary. It must be rememberedthat at
that epoch the Gazette des Tribunaux was not yet in existence.

We borrow the first from the Drapeau Blanc. It bears the date
of July 251823.

An arrondissement of the Pas de Calais has just been the
theatre of an event quite out of the ordinary course. A man
who was a stranger in the Departmentand who bore the name of

M. Madeleinehadthanks to the new methodsresuscitated some
years ago an ancient local industrythe manufacture of jet and of
black glass trinkets. He had made his fortune in the business
and that of the arrondissement as wellwe will admit. He had been
appointed mayorin recognition of his services. The police discovered
that M. Madeleine was no other than an ex-convict who had broken
his bancondemned in 1796 for theftand named Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean has been recommitted to prison. It appears that previous
to his arrest he had succeeded in withdrawing from the hands of
M. Laffittea sum of over half a million which he had lodged there
and which he hadmoreoverand by perfectly legitimate means
acquired in his business. No one has been able to discover where Jean
Valjean has concealed this money since his return to prison at Toulon.
The second articlewhich enters a little more into detail
is an extract from the Journal de Parisof the same date.
A former convictwho had been liberatednamed Jean Valjean
has just appeared before the Court of Assizes of the Var
under circumstances calculated to attract attention. This wretch
had succeeded in escaping the vigilance of the policehe had changed
his nameand had succeeded 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 townwho died of a shock
at the moment of his arrest. This scoundrelwho is endowed with


Herculean strengthfound means to escape; but three or four days
after his flight the police laid their hands on him once more
in Paris itselfat 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 libertyto 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.
If the indictment is to be trustedhe has hidden it in some place
known to himself aloneand it has not been possible to lay hands
on it. However that may bethe said Jean Valjean has just been
brought before the Assizes of the Department of the Var as accused
of highway robbery accompanied with violenceabout eight years ago
on the person of one of those honest children whoas the patriarch
of Ferney has saidin immortal verse

. . . Arrive from Savoy every year,

And who, with gentle hands, do clear

Those long canals choked up with soot.

This bandit refused to defend himself. It was proved by the
skilful and eloquent representative of the public prosecutor
that the theft was committed in complicity with othersand that
Jean Valjean was a member of a band of robbers in the south.
Jean Valjean was pronounced guilty and was condemned to the death
penalty in consequence. This criminal refused to lodge an appeal.
The kingin his inexhaustible clemencyhas deigned to commute
his penalty to that of penal servitude for life. Jean Valjean was
immediately taken to the prison at Toulon.

The reader has not forgotten that Jean Valjean had religious
habits at M. sur M. Some papersamong others the Constitutional
presented this commutation as a triumph of the priestly party.

Jean Valjean changed his number in the galleys. He was called 9430.

Howeverand we will mention it at once in order that we may not be
obliged to recur to the subjectthe prosperity of M. sur M. vanished
with M. Madeleine; all that he had foreseen during his night
of fever and hesitation was realized; lacking himthere actually
was a soul lacking. After this fallthere 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 dayobscurelyin the human communityand which history has
noted only oncebecause it occurred after the death of Alexander.
Lieutenants are crowned kings; superintendents improvise manufacturers
out of themselves. Envious rivalries arose. M. Madeleine's vast
workshops were shut; his buildings fell to ruinhis workmen
were scattered. Some of them quitted the countryothers abandoned
the trade. Thencefortheverything 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 fallenthan each pulled things to himself;
the spirit of combat succeeded to the spirit of organization
bitterness to cordialityhatred of one another to the benevolence
of the founder towards all; the threads which M. Madeleine had set
were tangled and brokenthe methods were adulteratedthe products
were debasedconfidence was killed; the market diminished
for lack of orders; salaries were reducedthe workshops stood still
bankruptcy arrived. And then there was nothing more for the poor.

All had vanished.

The state itself perceived that some one had been crushed somewhere.
Less than four years after the judgment of the Court of Assizes
establishing the identity of Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine
for the benefit of the galleysthe cost of collecting taxes had
doubled in the arrondissement of M. sur M.; and M. de Villele called
attention to the fact in the rostrumin the month of February1827.

CHAPTER II

IN WHICH THE READER WILL PERUSE TWO VERSESWHICH ARE OF THE
DEVIL'S COMPOSITIONPOSSIBLY

Before proceeding furtherit will be to the purpose to narrate
in some detaila singular occurrence which took place at about the
same epochin Montfermeiland which is not lacking in coincidence
with certain conjectures of the indictment.

There exists in the region of Montfermeil a very ancient superstition
which is all the more curious and all the more preciousbecause 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. Herethenis the superstition of Montfermeil:
it is thought that the devilfrom time immemorialhas selected
the forest as a hiding-place for his treasures. Goodwives affirm
that it is no rarity to encounter at nightfallin secluded nooks
of the foresta black man with the air of a carter or a wood-chopper
wearing wooden shoesclad in trousers and a blouse of linen
and recognizable by the factthatinstead of a cap or hat
he has two immense horns on his head. This oughtin factto render
him recognizable. This man is habitually engaged in digging a hole.
There are three ways of profiting 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 peasantthat he appears black because it is nightfall;
that he is not digging any hole whateverbut is cutting grass
for his cowsand that what had been taken for horns is nothing
but a dung-fork which he is carrying on his backand whose teeth
thanks to the perspective of eveningseemed to spring from his head.
The man returns home and dies within the week. The second way is
to watch himto wait until he has dug his holeuntil 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. Finallythe last method is not to speak to the black man
not to look at himand 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 inconveniences
the secondwhich at all eventspresents some advantages
among others that of possessing a treasureif only for a month
is the one most generally adopted. So bold menwho are tempted
by every chancehave quite frequentlyas we are assuredopened the
holes excavated by the black manand tried to rob the devil.
The success of the operation appears to be but moderate. At least
if the tradition is to be believedand in particular the two
enigmatical lines in barbarous Latinwhich an evil Norman monk
a bit of a sorcerernamed Tryphon has left on this subject.
This Tryphon is buried at the Abbey of Saint-Georges de Bocherville
near Rouenand toads spawn on his grave.


Accordinglyenormous efforts are made. Such trenches are
ordinarily extremely deep; a man sweatsdigstoils all night--
for it must be done at night; he wets his shirtburns out his candle
breaks his mattockand 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 treasure? 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, sometimes nothing.
This is what Tryphon's verses seem to announce to the indiscreet
and curious:--


Foditet in fossa thesauros condit opaca
Asnummaslapidescadaversimulacranihilque."

It seems that in our day there is sometimes found a powder-horn
with bulletssometimes an old pack of cards greasy and worn
which has evidently served the devil. Tryphon does not record
these two findssince 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 timeand cards before the time of Charles VI.


Moreoverif one plays at cardsone is sure to lose all that
one possesses! and as for the powder in the hornit possesses
the property of making your gun burst in your face.


Nowa very short time after the epoch when it seemed to the prosecuting
attorney that the liberated convict Jean Valjean during his flight
of several days had been prowling around Montfermeilit was remarked
in that village that a certain old road-laborernamed Boulatruelle
had "peculiar ways" in the forest. People thereabouts thought
they knew that this Boulatruelle had been in the galleys.
He was subjected to certain police supervisionandas he could
find work nowherethe 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 respectfultoo humbletoo prompt
in removing his cap to every oneand trembling and smiling in the
presence of the gendarmes--probably affiliated to robber bands
they said; suspected of lying in ambush 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 lateBoulatruelle had taken to quitting his task of stone-breaking
and care of the road at a very early hourand to betaking himself
to the forest with his pickaxe. He was encountered towards
evening in the most deserted clearingsin the wildest thickets;
and he had the appearance of being in search of something
and sometimes he was digging holes. The goodwives who passed took
him at first for Beelzebub; then they recognized Boulatruelle
and were not in the least reassured thereby. These encounters seemed
to cause Boulatruelle a lively displeasure. It was evident that he
sought to hideand that there was some mystery in what he was doing.


It was said in the village: "It is clear that the devil has appeared.
Boulatruelle has seen himand is on the search. In soothhe is
cunning enough to pocket Lucifer's hoard."


The Voltairians addedWill Boulatruelle catch the devil,
or will the devil catch Boulatruelle?The old women made a great
many signs of the cross.



In the meantimeBoulatruelle's manoeuvres in the forest ceased;
and he resumed his regular occupation of roadmending; and people
gossiped of something else.


Some personshoweverwere still curioussurmising that in all
this there was probably no fabulous treasure of the legends
but some fine windfall of a more serious and palpable sort than
the devil's bank-billsand that the road-mender had half discovered
the secret. The most "puzzled" were the school-master and Thenardier
the proprietor of the tavernwho was everybody's friend
and had not disdained to ally himself with Boulatruelle.


He has been in the galleys,said Thenardier. "Eh! Good God!
no one knows who has been there or will be there."


One evening the schoolmaster affirmed that in former times the law
would have instituted an inquiry as to what Boulatruelle did in
the forestand 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 said Thenardier.


They made an effort, and got the old road-mender to drinking.
Boulatruelle drank an enormous amount, but said very little.
He combined with admirable art, and in masterly proportions,
the thirst of a gormandizer with the discretion of a judge.
Nevertheless, by dint of returning to the charge and of comparing
and putting together the few obscure words which he did allow to
escape him, this is what Thenardier 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, concealed, as one might say.


However, he might have supposed that they were probably the shovel
and pick of Father Six-Fours, the water-carrier, and 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 partsand whom heBoulatruelle
knew well directing his steps towards the densest part of
the wood. Translation by Thenardier: A comrade of the galleys.
Boulatruelle obstinately refused to reveal his name. This person
carried a package--something square, like a large box or a small trunk.
Surprise on the part of 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 thicketnight had descended
and Boulatruelle had not been able to catch up with him. Then he
had adopted the course of watching for him at the edge of the woods.
It was moonlight.Two or three hours laterBoulatruelle had seen
this person emerge from the brushwoodcarrying no longer the coffer
but a shovel and pick. Boulatruelle had allowed the person to pass
and had not dreamed of accosting himbecause he said to himself
that the other man was three times as strong as he wasand armed
with a pickaxeand that he would probably knock him over the head
on recognizing himand on perceiving that he was recognized.
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 morningand had found neither shovel
nor pick. From this he had drawn the inference that this person
once in the foresthad dug a hole with his pickburied the coffer
and reclosed the hole with his shovel. Nowthe coffer was too small



to contain a body; therefore it contained money. Hence his researches.
Boulatruelle had exploredsoundedsearched the entire forest
and the thicketand had dug wherever the earth appeared to him
to have been recently turned up. In vain.

He had "ferreted out" nothing. No one in Montfermeil thought
any more about it. There were only a few brave gossipswho said
You may be certain that the mender on the Gagny road did not take
all that trouble for nothing; he was sure that the devil had come.

CHAPTER III

THE ANKLE-CHAIN MUST HAVE UNDERGONE A CERTAIN PREPARATORY MANIPULATION
TO BE THUS BROKEN WITH A BLOW FROM A HAMMER

Towards the end of Octoberin that same year1823the inhabitants
of Toulon beheld the entry into their portafter heavy weather
and for the purpose of repairing some damagesof the ship Orion
which was employed later at Brest as a school-shipand which then
formed a part of the Mediterranean squadron.

This vesselbattered as it was--for the sea had handled it roughly-produced
a fine effect as it entered the roads. It flew some
colors which procured for it the regulation salute of eleven guns
which it returnedshot for shot; totaltwenty-two. It has been
calculated that what with salvosroyal and military politenesses
courteous exchanges of uproarsignals of etiquetteformalities of
roadsteads and citadelssunrises and sunsetssaluted every day
by all fortresses and all ships of waropenings and closings
of portsetc.the civilized worlddischarged all over the earth
in the course of four and twenty hoursone hundred and fifty
thousand useless shots. At six francs the shotthat comes to nine
hundred thousand francs a daythree hundred millions a year
which vanish in smoke. This is a mere detail. All this time the
poor were dying of hunger.

The year 1823 was what the Restoration called "the epoch of the
Spanish war."

This war contained many events in oneand a quantity of peculiarities.
A grand family affair for the house of Bourbon; the branch of France
succoring and protecting the branch of Madridthat is to say
performing an act devolving on the elder; an apparent return to our
national traditionscomplicated by servitude and by subjection to the
cabinets of the North; M. le Duc d'Angoulemesurnamed by the liberal
sheets the hero of Andujarcompressing in a triumphal attitude
that was somewhat contradicted by his peaceable airthe ancient
and very powerful terrorism of the Holy Office at variance with the
chimerical terrorism of the liberals; the sansculottes resuscitated
to the great terror of dowagersunder the name of descamisados;
monarchy opposing an obstacle to progress described as anarchy;
the theories of '89 roughly interrupted in the sap; a European halt
called to the French ideawhich was making the tour of the world;
beside the son of France as generalissimothe Prince de Carignan
afterwards Charles Albertenrolling himself in that crusade of kings
against people as a volunteerwith grenadier epaulets of red worsted;
the soldiers of the Empire setting out on a fresh campaignbut aged
saddenedafter eight years of reposeand under the white cockade;
the tricolored standard waved abroad by a heroic handful of Frenchmen
as the white standard had been thirty years earlier at Coblentz;
monks mingled with our troops; the spirit of liberty and of novelty


brought to its senses by bayonets; principles slaughtered by cannonades;
France undoing by her arms that which she had done by her mind;
in addition to thishostile leaders soldsoldiers hesitating
cities besieged by millions; no military perilsand yet possible
explosionsas in every mine which is surprised and invaded;
but little bloodshedlittle honor wonshame for someglory for no one.
Such was this warmade by the princes descended from Louis XIV.
and conducted by generals who had 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 Trocadero
among otherswas a fine military action; but after allwe repeat
the trumpets of this war give back a cracked soundthe whole
effect 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 appears as though generals and not battles had been won
and the conquering soldier returned humiliated. A debasing war
in shortin which the Bank of France could be read in the folds
of the flag.


Soldiers of the war of 1808on whom Saragossa had fallen in
formidable ruinfrowned 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 viewand one which it is also
proper to insist upon herethis warwhich wounded the military
spirit of Franceenraged the democratic spirit. It was an enterprise
of inthralment. In that campaignthe object of the French soldier
the son of democracywas 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 Revolution: liberty darts rays from France. That is a
solar fact. Blind is he who will not see! It was Bonaparte who said it.


The war of 1823an outrage on the generous Spanish nation
was thenat the same timean outrage on the French Revolution.
It was France who committed this monstrous violence; by foul means
forwith the exception of wars of liberationeverything that armies
do is by foul means. The words passive obedience indicate this.
An army is a strange masterpiece of combination where force results
from an enormous sum of impotence. Thus is warmade by humanity
against humanitydespite humanityexplained.


As for the Bourbonsthe 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. They went astrayin 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 campaign became in their counsels an argument for force
and for adventures by right Divine. Francehaving re-established
elrey netto in Spainmight 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 nation. Such confidence
is the ruin of thrones. It is not permitted to fall asleep
either in the shadow of a machineel treenor in the shadow of an army.


Let us return to the ship Orion.


During the operations of the army commanded by the prince generalissimo
a squadron had been cruising in the Mediterranean. We have just



stated that the Orion belonged to this fleetand that accidents
of the sea had brought it into port at Toulon.


The presence of a vessel of war in a port has something about it
which attracts and engages a crowd. It is because it is great
and the crowd loves what is great.


A ship of the line is one of the most magnificent combinations
of the genius of man with the powers of nature.


A ship of the line is composedat the same timeof the heaviest
and the lightest of possible matterfor it deals at one and the same
time with three forms of substance--solidliquidand fluid--
and it must do battle with all three. It has eleven claws of
iron with which to seize the granite on the bottom of the sea
and more wings and more antennae than winged insectsto catch
the wind in the clouds. Its breath pours out through its hundred
and twenty cannons as through enormous trumpetsand replies
proudly to the thunder. The ocean seeks to lead it astray in the
alarming sameness of its billowsbut the vessel has its soul
its compasswhich counsels it and always shows it the north.
In the blackest nightsits lanterns supply the place of the stars.
Thusagainst the windit has its cordage and its canvas;
against the waterwood; against the rocksits ironbrassand lead;
against the shadowsits light; against immensitya needle.


If one wishes to form an idea of all those gigantic proportions which
taken as a wholeconstitute the ship of the lineone has only to
enter one of the six-story covered construction stocksin the ports
of Brest or Toulon. The vessels in process of construction are
under a bell-glass thereas it were. This colossal beam is a yard;
that great column of wood which stretches 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 cloudsit is sixty fathoms long
and its diameter at its base 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 cablesours employs chains.
The simple pile of chains on a ship of a hundred guns is four feet high
twenty feet in breadthand eight feet in depth. And how much
wood is required to make this ship? Three thousand cubic metres.
It is a floating forest.


And moreoverlet this be borne in mindit is only a question
here of the military vessel of forty years agoof the simple
sailing-vessel; steamthen in its infancyhas since added
new miracles to that prodigy which is called a war vessel.
At the present timefor examplethe mixed vessel with a screw
is a surprising machinepropelled by three thousand square
metres of canvas and by an engine of two thousand five hundred horse-power.


Not to mention these new marvelsthe ancient vessel of Christopher
Columbus and of De Ruyter is one of the masterpieces of man.
It is as inexhaustible in force as is the Infinite in gales;
it stores up the wind in its sailsit is precise in the immense
vagueness of the billowsit floatsand it reigns.


There comes an hourneverthelesswhen the gale breaks that sixty-foot
yard like a strawwhen the wind bends that mast four hundred feet tall
when that anchorwhich weighs tens of thousandsis twisted in the
jaws of the waves like a fisherman's hook in the jaws of a pike
when those monstrous cannons utter plaintive and futile roars
which the hurricane bears forth into the void and into night
when all that power and all that majesty are engulfed in a power
and majesty which are superior.



Every time that immense force is displayed to culminate
in an immense feebleness it affords men food for thought
Hence in the ports curious people abound around these marvellous
machines of war and of navigationwithout being able to explain
perfectly to themselves why. Every dayaccordinglyfrom morning
until nightthe quayssluicesand the jetties of the port
of Toulon were covered with a multitude of idlers and loungers
as they say in Pariswhose business consisted in staring at the Orion.

The Orion was a ship that had been ailing for a long time;
in the course of its previous cruises thick layers of barnacles
had collected on its keel to such a degree as to deprive it of half
its speed; it had gone into the dry dock the year before this
in order to have the barnacles scraped offthen it had put to
sea again; but this cleaning had affected the bolts of the keel:
in the neighborhood of the Balearic Isles the sides had been
strained and had opened; andas the plating in those days was not
of sheet ironthe vessel had sprung a leak. A violent equinoctial
gale had come upwhich had first staved in a grating and a porthole
on the larboard sideand damaged the foretop-gallant-shrouds;
in consequence of these injuriesthe Orion had run back to Toulon.

It anchored near the Arsenal; it was fully equippedand repairs
were begun. The hull had received no damage on the starboard
but some of the planks had been unnailed here and there
according to customto permit of air entering the hold.

One morning the crowd which was gazing at it witnessed an accident.

The crew was busy bending the sails; the topmanwho had to
take the upper corner of the main-top-sail on the starboard
lost his balance; he was seen to waver; the multitude thronging
the Arsenal quay uttered a cry; the man's head overbalanced his body;
the man fell around the yardwith his hands outstretched towards
the abyss; on his way he seized the footropefirst with one hand
then with the otherand 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 swinging motion; the man swayed back
and forth at the end of that ropelike a stone in a sling.

It was incurring a frightful risk to go to his assistance; not one of
the sailorsall fishermen of the coastrecently levied for the service
dared to attempt it. In the meantimethe unfortunate topman was
losing his strength; his anguish could not be discerned on his face
but his exhaustion was visible in every limb; his arms were contracted
in horrible twitchings; 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 exhausting his strength. All were awaiting the minute
when he should release his hold on the ropeandfrom instant
to instantheads were turned aside that his fall might not be seen.
There are moments when a bit of ropea polethe branch of a tree
is life itselfand it is a terrible thing to see a living being
detach himself from it and fall like a ripe fruit.

All 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 a convict;
he wore a green cap; he was a life convict. On arriving on a level
with the topa gust of wind carried away his capand allowed
a perfectly white head to be seen: he was not a young man.

A convict employed on board with a detachment from the galleys had
in factat the very first instanthastened to the officer of
the watchandin the midst of the consternation and the hesitation


of the crewwhile 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 ropeand had dashed into the rigging:
no one noticedat the instantwith 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 threadseemed centuries to those who were looking on.
At lastthe 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 pointhe fastened the rope which he had brought
to itand allowed the other end to hang downthen he began
to descend the ropehand over handand 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 lifenot death. Ten thousand glances
were fastened on this group; not a crynot a word; the same tremor
contracted every brow; all mouths held their breath as though they
feared to add the slightest puff to the wind which was swaying
the two unfortunate men.

In the meantimethe convict had succeeded in lowering himself
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 handwhile he was working
with the other. At lasthe was seen to climb back on the yard
and to drag the sailor up after him; he held him there a moment
to allow him to recover his strengththen he grasped him in his
arms and carried himwalking on the yard himself to the cap
and from there to the main-topwhere he left him in the hands
of his comrades.

At that moment the crowd broke into applause: old convict-sergeants
among them weptand women embraced each other on the quay
and all voices were heard to cry with a sort of tender rage
Pardon for that man!

Hein the meantimehad immediately begun to make his descent
to rejoin his detachment. In order to reach them the more speedily
he dropped into the riggingand 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 fatiguedor that his head turned
they thought they saw him hesitate and stagger. All at once the crowd
uttered a loud shout: the convict had fallen into the sea.

The fall was perilous. The frigate Algesiras was anchored alongside
the Orionand 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 rippleas though he had fallen into a cask of oil: they sounded
they dived. In vain. The search was continued until the evening:
they did not even find the body.

On the following day the Toulon newspaper printed these lines:-



Nov. 17, 1823. Yesterday, a convict belonging to the detachment on
board of the Orion, on his return from rendering assistance to a sailor,
fell into the sea and was drowned. The body has not yet been found; it is
supposed that it is entangled among the piles of the Arsenal point: this
man was committed under the number 9,430, and his name was Jean Valjean.


BOOK THIRD.--ACCOMPLISHMENT OF THE PROMISE MADE TO THE DEAD WOMAN


CHAPTER I


THE WATER QUESTION AT MONTFERMEIL


Montfermeil is situated between Livry and Chelleson the southern edge
of that lofty table-land which separates the Ourcq from the Marne.
At the present day it is a tolerably large townornamented all the year
through with plaster villasand 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 surewhich were recognizable by their grand airtheir balconies
in twisted ironand their long windowswhose tiny panes cast all
sorts of varying shades of green on the white of the closed shutters;
but Montfermeil was none the less a village. Retired cloth-merchants
and rusticating attorneys had not discovered it as yet; it was a
peaceful and charming placewhich was not on the road to anywhere:
there people livedand cheaplythat peasant rustic life which is
so bounteous and so easy; onlywater was rare thereon 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 Chellesabout a quarter of an hour from Montfermeil.


Thus each household found it hard work to keep supplied with water.
The large housesthe aristocracyof which the Thenardier tavern
formed a partpaid half a farthing a bucketful to a man who made a
business of itand 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 summerand 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 remembered
that Cosette was useful to the Thenardiers in two ways:
they made the mother pay themand they made the child serve them.
So when the mother ceased to pay altogetherthe reason for which we
have read in preceding chaptersthe Thenardiers 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 should never be lacking in the house.


Christmas of the year 1823 was particularly brilliant at Montfermeil.
The beginning of the winter had been mild; there had been neither snow



nor frost up to that time. Some mountebanks from Paris had obtained
permission of the mayor to erect their booths in the principal street
of the villageand a band of itinerant merchantsunder protection
of the same tolerancehad constructed their stalls on the Church Square
and even extended them into Boulanger Alleywhereas the reader
will perhaps rememberthe Thenardiers' hostelry was situated.
These people filled the inns and drinking-shopsand communicated
to that tranquil little district a noisy and joyous life. In order
to play the part of a faithful historianwe ought even to add that
among the curiosities displayed in the squarethere was a menagerie
in which frightful clownsclad in rags and coming no one knew whence
exhibited to the peasants of Montfermeil in 1823 one of those
horrible Brazilian vulturessuch as our Royal Museum did not
possess until 1845and which have a tricolored cockade for an eye.
I believe that naturalists call this bird Caracara Polyborus;
it belongs to the order of the Apicidesand to the family of
the vultures. Some good old Bonapartist soldierswho had retired
to the villagewent to see this creature with great devotion.
The mountebanks gave out that the tricolored cockade was a unique
phenomenon made by God expressly for their menagerie.


On Christmas eve itselfa number of mencartersand peddlers
were seated at tabledrinking and smoking around four or five
candles in the public room of Thenardier's hostelry. This room
resembled all drinking-shop rooms--tablespewter jugsbottles
drinkerssmokers; but little light and a great deal of noise.
The date of the year 1823 was indicatedneverthelessby two
objects which were then fashionable in the bourgeois class: to wit
a kaleidoscope and a lamp of ribbed tin. The female Thenardier was
attending to the supperwhich was roasting in front of a clear fire;
her husband was drinking with his customers and talking politics.


Besides political conversations which had for their principal subjects
the Spanish war and M. le Duc d'Angoulemestrictly local parentheses
like the followingwere audible amid the uproar:--


About Nanterre 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.
But 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 mowerwho was seated at table
with a landed proprietor who was fixing on a price for some meadow
work to be performed in the springwas 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 terribly tender.
It yields before the iron.Etc.



Cosette was in her usual placeseated on the cross-bar of the kitchen
table near the chimney. She was in rags; her bare feet were thrust
into wooden shoesand by the firelight she was engaged in knitting
woollen stockings destined for the young Thenardiers. A very young
kitten was playing about among the chairs. Laughter and chatter were
audible in the adjoining roomfrom two fresh children's voices:
it was Eponine and Azelma.

In the chimney-corner a cat-o'-nine-tails was hanging on a nail.

At intervals the cry of a very young childwhich was somewhere
in the houserang through the noise of the dram-shop. It was
a little boy who had been born to the Thenardiers during one
of the preceding winters--"she did not know why she said,
the result of the cold--and who was a little more than 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 Thenardier would say; do go and see
what he wants." "Bah!" the mother would replyhe bothers me.
And the neglected child continued to shriek in the dark.

CHAPTER II

TWO COMPLETE PORTRAITS

So far in this book the Thenardiers have been viewed only in profile;
the moment has arrived for making the circuit of this couple
and considering it under all its aspects.

Thenardier had just passed his fiftieth birthday; Madame Thenardier
was approaching her fortieswhich 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
Thenardier womanever since her first appearance--tallblond
redfatangularsquareenormousand agile; she belongedas we
have saidto the race of those colossal wild womenwho contort
themselves at fairs with paving-stones hanging from their hair.
She did everything about the house--made the bedsdid the washing
the cookingand everything else. Cosette was her only servant;
a mouse in the service of an elephant. Everything trembled at
the sound of her voice--window panesfurnitureand people.
Her big facedotted with red blotchespresented the appearance
of a skimmer. She had a beard. 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 had readand which made the affected lady
peep through the ogress at timesin a very queer waythe idea would
never have occurred to any one to say of herThat is a woman.
This Thenardier female was like the product of a wench engrafted
on a fishwife. When one heard her speakone saidThat is
a gendarme; when one saw her drinkone saidThat is a carter;
when one saw her handle Cosetteone saidThat is the hangman.
One of her teeth projected when her face was in repose.

Thenardier was a smallthinpaleangularbonyfeeble manwho had
a sickly air and who was wonderfully healthy. His cunning began here;
he smiled habituallyby way of precautionand was almost polite
to everybodyeven to the beggar to whom he refused half a farthing.
He had the glance of a pole-cat and the bearing of a man of letters.


He greatly resembled the portraits of the Abbe Delille.
His coquetry consisted in drinking with the carters. No one had
ever succeeded in rendering him drunk. He smoked a big pipe.
He wore a blouseand 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 saying--VoltaireRaynalParnyandsingularly enough
Saint Augustine. He declared that he had "a system." In addition
he was a great swindler. A filousophe [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 exuberancehowbeing a sergeant in the 6th or the 9th light
something or otherat Waterloohe had aloneand in the presence
of a squadron of death-dealing hussarscovered with his body and saved
from deathin the midst of the grape-shota 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 neighborhoodof "the
cabaret of the Sergeant of Waterloo." He was a liberala 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 wasin all probability
some Fleming from Lillein Flandersa Frenchman in Paris
a Belgian at Brusselsbeing comfortably astride of both frontiers.
As for his prowess at Waterloothe reader is already acquainted
with that. It will be perceived that he exaggerated it a trifle.
Ebb and flowwanderingadventurewas the leven of his existence;
a tattered conscience entails a fragmentary lifeandapparently at
the stormy epoch of June 181815Thenardier belonged to that
variety of marauding sutlers of which we have spokenbeating about
the countryselling to somestealing from othersand travelling
like a family manwith wife and childrenin a rickety cart
in the rear of troops on the marchwith an instinct for always
attaching himself to the victorious army. This campaign ended
and havingas he saidsome quibus,he had come to Montfermeil
and set up an inn there.


This quibuscomposed of purses and watchesof gold rings and
silver crossesgathered in harvest-time in furrows sown with corpses
did not amount to a large totaland did not carry this sutler
turned eating-house-keeper very far.


Thenardier had that peculiar rectilinear something about his
gestures whichaccompanied by an oathrecalls the barracks
and by a sign of the crossthe seminary. He was a fine talker.
He allowed it to be thought that he was an educated man. Nevertheless
the schoolmaster had noticed that he pronounced improperly.[12]


[12] Literally "made cuirs"; i. e.pronounced a t or an s at
the end of words where the opposite letter should occuror used
either one of them where neither exists.
He composed the travellers' tariff card in a superior manner
but practised eyes sometimes spied out orthographical errors in it.
Thenardier was cunninggreedyslothfuland clever. He did not
disdain his servantswhich caused his wife to dispense with them.
This giantess was jealous. It seemed to her that that thin and yellow
little man must be an object coveted by all.

Thenardierwho wasabove allan 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 Thenardier was noton occasioncapable of wrath
to quite the same degree as his wife; but this was very rareand at
such timessince 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 continually avenging their wrongs
who accuse everything that passes before them of everything
which has befallen themand who are always ready to cast upon
the first person who comes to handas a legitimate grievance
the sum total of the deceptionsthe bankruptciesand the
calamities of their lives--when all this leaven was stirred up
in him and boiled forth from his mouth and eyeshe was terrible.
Woe to the person who came under his wrath at such a time!

In addition to his other qualitiesThenardier was attentive
and penetratingsilent or talkativeaccording to circumstances
and always highly intelligent. He had something of the look
of sailorswho are accustomed to screw up their eyes to gaze
through marine glasses. Thenardier was a statesman.

Every new-comer who entered the tavern saidon catching sight
of Madame ThenardierThere 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 sufficient for himsometimes a sign; the mastodon obeyed.
Thenardier was a sort of special and sovereign being in Madame
Thenardier's eyesthough she did not thoroughly realize it.
She was possessed of virtues after her own kind; if she had ever had
a disagreement as to any detail with "Monsieur Thenardier--which was
an inadmissible hypothesis, by the way,--she would not have blamed
her husband in public on any subject whatever. She would never have
committed before strangers" that mistake so often committed by women
and which is called in parliamentary languageexposing the crown.
Although their concord had only evil as its resultthere was
contemplation in Madame Thenardier's submission to her 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 thingthe adoration of mind
by matter; for certain ugly features have a cause in the very depths
of eternal beauty. There was an unknown quantity about Thenardier;
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 childrenand who did not fear any one except her husband.
She was a mother because she was mammiferous. But her maternity
stopped short with her daughtersandas we shall seedid not extend
to boys. The man had but one thought--how to enrich himself.

He did not succeed in this. A theatre worthy of this great talent
was lacking. Thenardier was ruining himself at Montfermeil
if ruin is possible to zero; in Switzerland or in the Pyrenees this
penniless scamp would have become a millionaire; but an inn-keeper
must browse where fate has hitched him.

It will be understood that the word inn-keeper is here employed
in a restricted senseand does not extend to an entire class.

In this same year1823Thenardier was burdened with about fifteen
hundred francs' worth of petty debtsand this rendered him anxious.


Whatever may have been the obstinate injustice of destiny in
this caseThenardier was one of those men who understand best
with the most profundity and in the most modern fashionthat thing
which is a virtue among barbarous peoples and an object of
merchandise among civilized peoples--hospitality. Besideshe was
an admirable poacherand quoted for his skill in shooting. He had
a certain cold and tranquil laughwhich was particularly dangerous.


His theories as a landlord sometimes burst forth in lightning flashes.
He had professional aphorismswhich he inserted into his wife's mind.
The duty of the inn-keeper,he said to her one dayviolently
and in a low voiceis to sell to the first comer, stews, repose,
light, fire, dirty sheets, a servant, lice, and a smile; to stop
passers-by, to empty small purses, and to honestly lighten heavy ones;
to shelter travelling families respectfully: 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
truss of straw; to know how 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 combinedMadame Thenardier thought
not of absent creditorstook no heed of yesterday nor of to-morrow
and lived in a fit of angerall in a minute.


Such were these two beings. Cosette was between themsubjected to
their double pressurelike a creature who is at the same time being
ground up in a mill and pulled to pieces with pincers. The man
and the woman each had a different method: Cosette was overwhelmed
with blows--this was the woman's; she went barefooted in winter--
that was the man's doing.


Cosette ran up stairs and downwashedsweptrubbeddustedran
fluttered aboutpantedmoved heavy articlesand weak as she was
did the coarse work. There was no mercy for her; a fierce mistress
and venomous master. The Thenardier hostelry was like a spider's web
in which Cosette had been caughtand where she lay trembling.
The ideal of oppression was realized by this sinister household.
It was something like the fly serving the spiders.


The poor child passively held her peace.


What takes place within these souls when they have but just
quitted Godfind themselves thusat the very dawn of life
very small and in the midst of men all naked!


CHAPTER III


MEN MUST HAVE WINEAND HORSES MUST HAVE WATER


Four new travellers had arrived.


Cosette was meditating sadly; foralthough she was only eight years old
she had already suffered so much that she reflected with the lugubrious
air of an old woman. Her eye was black in consequence of a blow
from Madame Thenardier's fistwhich caused the latter to remark



from time to timeHow ugly she is with her fist-blow on her eye!

Cosette was thinking that it was darkvery darkthat the pitchers
and caraffes in the chambers of the travellers who had arrived must
have been filled and that there was no more water in the cistern.

She was somewhat reassured because no one in the Thenardier establishment
drank much water. Thirsty people were never lacking there;
but their thirst was of the sort which applies to the jug rather
than to the pitcher. Any one who had asked for a glass of water
among all those glasses of wine would have appeared a savage to
all these men. But there came a moment when the child trembled;
Madame Thenardier raised the cover of a stew-pan which was boiling
on the stovethen seized a glass and briskly approached the cistern.
She turned the faucet; the child had raised her head and was following
all the woman's movements. A thin stream of water trickled from
the faucetand half filled the glass. "Well said she, there is
no more water!" A momentary silence ensued. The child did not breathe.

Bah!resumed Madame Thenardierexamining the half-filled glass
this will be enough.

Cosette applied herself to her work once morebut 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 mannerand wished it
were the next morning.

From time to time one of the drinkers looked into the street
and exclaimedIt's as black as an oven!orOne must needs
be a cat to go about the streets without a lantern at this hour!
And Cosette trembled.

All 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 Thenardier.

I tell you that it has not,retorted the pedler.

Cosette had emerged from under the table.

Oh, yes, sir!said shethe horse has had a drink; he drank
out of a bucket, a whole bucketful, and it was I who took the water
to him, and I spoke to him.

It was not true; Cosette lied.

There's a brat as big as my fist who tells lies as big as the house,
exclaimed the pedler. "I tell you that he has not been watered
you little jade! He has a way of blowing when he has had no water
which I know well."

Cosette persistedand added in a voice rendered hoarse with anguish
and which was hardly audible:-


And he drank heartily.

Come,said the pedlerin a ragethis won't do at all,
let my horse be watered, and let that be the end of it!


Cosette crept under the table again.

In truth, that is fair!said Madame Thenardierif the beast
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 tablealmost under the drinkers' feet.

Are you coming?shrieked Madame Thenardier.

Cosette crawled out of the sort of hole in which she had hidden herself.
The Thenardier resumed:-


Mademoiselle Dog-lack-name, go and water that horse.

But, Madame,said Cosettefeeblythere is no water.

The Thenardier threw the street door wide open:-


Well, go and get some, then!

Cosette dropped her headand went for an empty bucket which stood
near the chimney-corner.

This bucket was bigger than she wasand the child could have set
down in it at her ease.

The Thenardier returned to her stoveand tasted what was
in the stewpanwith a wooden spoongrumbling 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 souspepperand shallots.

See here, Mam'selle Toad,she addedon your way back, you will
get a big loaf from the baker. Here's a fifteen-sou piece.

Cosette had a little pocket on one side of her apron; she took
the coin without saying a wordand put it in that pocket.

Then she stood motionlessbucket in handthe open door before her.
She seemed to be waiting for some one to come to her rescue.

Get along with you!screamed the Thenardier.

Cosette went out. The door closed behind her.

CHAPTER IV

ENTRANCE ON THE SCENE OF A DOLL

The line of open-air booths starting at the churchextendedas the
reader will rememberas far as the hostelry of the Thenardiers.
These booths were all illuminatedbecause the citizens would
soon pass on their way to the midnight masswith candles burning


in paper funnelswhichas the schoolmasterthen seated at the
table at the Thenardiers' observedproduced "a magical effect."
In compensationnot a star was visible in the sky.


The last of these stallsestablished precisely opposite the Thenardiers'
doorwas a toy-shop all glittering with tinselglassand magnificent
objects of tin. In the first rowand far forwardsthe merchant had
placed on a background of white napkinsan immense dollnearly two
feet highwho was dressed in a robe of pink crepewith gold wheat-ears
on her headwhich had real hair and enamel eyes. All that day
this marvel had been displayed to the wonderment of all passers-by
under ten years of agewithout a mother being found in Montfermeil
sufficiently rich or sufficiently extravagant to give it to her child.
Eponine and Azelma had passed hours in contemplating itand Cosette
herself had ventured to cast a glance at iton the slyit is true.


At the moment when Cosette emergedbucket in handmelancholy and
overcome as she wasshe could not refrain from lifting her eyes
to that wonderful dolltowards the ladyas she called it.
The poor child paused in amazement. She had not yet 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 joysplendor
richeshappinesswhich appeared in a sort of chimerical halo
to that unhappy little being so profoundly engulfed in gloomy and
chilly misery. With the sad and innocent sagacity of childhood
Cosette measured the abyss which separated her from that doll.
She said to herself that one must be a queenor at least a princess
to have a "thing" like that. She gazed at that beautiful pink dress
that beautiful smooth hairand she thoughtHow happy that doll
must be!She could not take her eyes from that fantastic stall.
The more she lookedthe more dazzled she grew. She thought she
was gazing at paradise. There were other dolls behind the large one
which seemed to her to be fairies and genii. The merchantwho was
pacing back and forth in front of his shopproduced on her somewhat
the effect of being the Eternal Father.


In this adoration she forgot everythingeven the errand with
which she was charged.


All at once the Thenardier's coarse voice recalled her to reality:
What, you silly jade! you have not gone? Wait! I'll give it
to you! I want to know what you are doing there! Get along,
you little monster!


The Thenardier had cast a glance into the streetand had caught
sight of Cosette in her ecstasy.


Cosette fleddragging her pailand taking the longest strides
of which she was capable.


CHAPTER V


THE LITTLE ONE ALL ALONE


As the Thenardier hostelry was in that part of the village which is
near the churchit 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 road; but soon the last light from



the last stall vanished. The poor child found herself in the dark.
She plunged into it. Onlyas 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 wentthe denser the darkness became. There was no
one in the streets. Howevershe did encounter a womanwho turned
around on seeing herand stood stillmuttering between her teeth:
Where can that child be going? Is it a werewolf child?Then the
woman recognized Cosette. "Well said she, it's the Lark!"


In this manner Cosette traversed the labyrinth of tortuous and
deserted streets which terminate in the village of Montfermeil
on the side of Chelles. So long as she had the houses or even
the walls only on both sides of her pathshe proceeded with
tolerable boldness. From time to time she caught the flicker of
a candle through the crack of a shutter--this was light and life;
there were people thereand it reassured her. But in proportion
as she advancedher pace slackened mechanicallyas it were.
When she had passed the corner of the last houseCosette paused.
It had been hard to advance further than the last stall;
it became impossible to proceed further than the last house.
She set her bucket on the groundthrust her hand into her hair
and began slowly to scratch her head--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 despair at that darknesswhere there was no longer
any onewhere there were beastswhere there were spectrespossibly.
She took a good lookand 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!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 Thenardier who appeared to her
with her hideoushyena mouthand wrath flashing in her eyes.
The child cast a melancholy glance before her and behind 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 Thenardier; behind her all
the phantoms of the night and of the forest. It was before the
Thenardier that she recoiled. She resumed her path to the spring
and began to run. She emerged from the villageshe entered the
forest at a runno 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 completely.


She no longer thoughtshe no longer saw. The immensity of night
was facing this tiny creature. On the one handall shadow;
on the otheran atom.


It was only seven or eight minutes' walk from the edge of the woods
to the spring. Cosette knew the waythrough having gone over it
many times in daylight. Strange to sayshe did not get lost.
A remnant of instinct guided her vaguely. But she did not turn
her eyes either to right or to leftfor fear of seeing things
in the branches and in the brushwood. In this manner she reached
the spring.



It was a narrownatural basinhollowed out by the water in a
clayey soilabout two feet deepsurrounded with moss and with
those tallcrimped grasses which are called Henry IV.'s frills
and paved with several large stones. A brook ran out of it
with a tranquil little noise.


Cosette did not take time to breathe. It was very darkbut she
was in the habit of coming to this spring. She felt with her left
hand in the dark for a young oak which leaned over the spring
and which usually served to support herfound one of its branches
clung to itbent downand plunged the bucket in the water.
She was in a state of such violent excitement that her strength
was trebled. While thus bent overshe did not notice that the pocket
of her apron 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 fulland set it on the grass.


That doneshe perceived that she was worn out with fatigue.
She would have liked to set out again at oncebut the effort required
to fill the bucket had been such that she found it impossible 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 againwithout 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 cloudswhich 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 starwith which
she was unfamiliarand which terrified her. The planet was
in factvery near the horizon and was traversing a dense layer
of mist which imparted to it a horrible ruddy hue. The mist
gloomily empurpledmagnified 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 vaguefresh gleams
of summertide. Great boughs uplifted themselves in frightful wise.
Slender and misshapen bushes whistled in the clearings. The tall
grasses undulated like eels under the north wind. The nettles
seemed to twist long arms furnished with claws in search of prey.
Some bits of dry heathertossed by the breezeflew rapidly byand had
the air of fleeing in terror before something which was coming after.
On all sides there were lugubrious stretches.


The darkness was bewildering. Man requires light. Whoever buries
himself in the opposite of day feels his heart contract. When the eye
sees blackthe heart sees trouble. In an eclipse in the night
in the sooty opacitythere is anxiety even for the stoutest of hearts.
No one walks alone in the forest at night without trembling.
Shadows and trees--two formidable densities. A chimerical
reality appears in the indistinct depths. The inconceivable is
outlined a few paces distant from you with a spectral clearness.
One beholds floatingeither in space or in one's own brain
one knows not what vague and intangible thinglike 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 himyet desirous of doing so. The cavities of night



things grown haggardtaciturn profiles which vanish when one advances
obscure dishevelmentsirritated tuftslivid poolsthe lugubrious
reflected in the funerealthe sepulchral immensity of silence
unknown but possible beingsbendings of mysterious branches
alarming torsos of treeslong 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 hideousas 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 apocalypsesand the beating of the wings of a tiny
soul produces a sound of agony beneath their monstrous vault.


Without understanding her sensationsCosette 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.


Thenby a sort of instinctshe began to count aloud
onetwothreefourand so on up to tenin order to escape
from that singular state which she did not understandbut which
terrified herandwhen she had finishedshe began again;
this restored her to a true perception of the things about her.
Her handswhich she had wet in drawing the waterfelt cold;
she rose; her terrora natural and unconquerable terror
had returned: she had but one thought now--to flee at full speed
through the forestacross the fields to the housesto the windows
to the lighted candles. Her glance fell upon the water which stood
before her; such was the fright which the Thenardier inspired
in herthat 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 pacesbut the bucket was full;
it was heavy; she was forced to set it on the ground once more.
She took breath for an instantthen lifted the handle of the bucket
againand resumed her marchproceeding a little further this time
but again she was obliged to pause. After some seconds of repose
she set out again. She walked bent forwardwith 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 her wet and tiny hands; she was forced to halt from time to time
and each time that she did sothe cold water which splashed from
the pail fell on her bare legs. This took place in the depths
of a forestat nightin winterfar from all human sight;
she was a child of eight: no one but God saw that sad thing at
the moment.


And her motherno doubtalas!


For there are things that make the dead open their eyes in their graves.


She panted with a sort of painful rattle; sobs contracted her throat
but she dared not weepso afraid was she of the Thenardier
even at a distance: it was her custom to imagine the Thenardier
always present.


Howevershe could not make much headway in that mannerand she went
on very slowly. In spite of diminishing the length of her stops
and of walking as long as possible between themshe reflected



with anguish that it would take her more than an hour to return to
Montfermeil in this mannerand that the Thenardier would beat her.
This anguish was mingled with her terror at being alone in the woods
at night; she was worn out with fatigueand had not yet emerged from
the forest. On arriving near an old chestnut-tree with which she
was acquaintedmade a last haltlonger than the restin order
that she might get well rested; then she summoned up all her strength
picked up her bucket againand courageously resumed her march
but the poor little desperate creature could not refrain from crying
O my God! my God!

At that moment she suddenly became conscious that her bucket no longer
weighed anything at all: a handwhich seemed to her enormous
had just seized the handleand lifted it vigorously. She raised
her head. A large black formstraight and erectwas walking beside
her through the darkness; it was a man who had come up behind her
and whose approach she had not heard. This manwithout uttering
a wordhad seized the handle of the bucket which she was carrying.

There are instincts for all the encounters of life.

The child was not afraid.

CHAPTER VI

WHICH POSSIBLY PROVES BOULATRUELLE'S INTELLIGENCE

On the afternoon of that same Christmas Day1823a man had walked
for rather a long time in the most deserted part of the Boulevard
de l'Hopital in Paris. This man had the air of a person who is
seeking lodgingsand he seemed to haltby preferenceat the most
modest houses on that dilapidated border of the faubourg Saint-Marceau.

We shall see further on that this man hadin facthired a chamber
in that isolated quarter.

This manin his attireas in all his personrealized 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 poorand for the man who is very worthy.
He wore a very old and very well brushed round hat; a coarse coat
worn perfectly threadbareof an ochre yellowa color that was
not in the least eccentric at that epoch; a large waistcoat with
pockets of a venerable cut; black breechesworn gray at the knee
stockings of black worsted; and thick shoes with copper buckles.
He would have been pronounced a preceptor in some good family
returned from the emigration. He would have been taken for more than
sixty years of agefrom his perfectly white hairhis wrinkled brow
his livid lipsand his countenancewhere everything breathed
depression and weariness of life. Judging from his firm tread
from the singular vigor which stamped all his movements
he would have hardly been thought fifty. The wrinkles on his brow
were well placedand would have disposed in his favor any one
who observed him attentively. His lip contracted with a strange
fold which seemed severeand which was humble. There was in
the depth of his glance an indescribable melancholy serenity.
In his left hand he carried a little bundle tied up in a handkerchief;
in his right he leaned on a sort of a cudgelcut from some hedge.
This stick had been carefully trimmedand had an air that was not
too threatening; the most had been made of its knotsand it had


received a coral-like headmade from red wax: it was a cudgel
and it seemed to be a cane.

There are but few passers-by on that boulevardparticularly in
the winter. The man seemed to avoid them rather than to seek them
but this without any affectation.

At that epochKing Louis XVIII. went nearly every day to
Choisy-le-Roi: it was one of his favorite excursions. Towards two
o'clockalmost invariablythe royal carriage and cavalcade
was seen to pass at full speed along the Boulevard de l'Hopital.

This served in lieu of a watch or clock to the poor women of the quarter
who saidIt is two o'clock; there he is returning to the Tuileries.

And some rushed forwardand others drew up in linefor a passing king
always creates a tumult; besidesthe appearance and disappearance
of Louis XVIII. produced a certain effect 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 walkhe wished to run: that cripple
would gladly have had himself drawn by the lightning. He passed
pacific and severein the midst of naked swords. His massive couch
all covered with gildingwith great branches of lilies painted on
the panelsthundered 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 largefirmand ruddy face
a brow freshly powdered a l'oiseau royala proudhardcrafty eye
the smile of an educated mantwo great epaulets with bullion
fringe floating over a bourgeois coatthe Golden Fleecethe cross
of Saint Louisthe cross of the Legion of Honorthe silver
plaque of the Saint-Esprita huge bellyand a wide blue ribbon:
it was the king. Outside of Parishe held his hat decked with white
ostrich plumes on his knees enwrapped in high English gaiters;
when he re-entered the cityhe put on his hat and saluted rarely;
he stared coldly at the peopleand they returned it in kind.
When he appeared for the first time in the Saint-Marceau quarter
the whole success which he produced is contained in this remark of an
inhabitant of the faubourg to his comradeThat big fellow yonder is
the government.

This infallible passage of the king at the same hour wastherefore
the daily event of the Boulevard de l'Hopital.

The promenader in the yellow coat evidently did not belong in
the quarterand probably did not belong in Parisfor he was ignorant
as to this detail. Whenat two o'clockthe royal carriage
surrounded by a squadron of the body-guard all covered with
silver lacedebouched on the boulevardafter having made the turn
of the Salpetrierehe 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 enclosure
though this did not prevent M. le Duc de Havre from spying him out.

M. le Duc de Havreas captain of the guard on duty that day
was seated in the carriageopposite the king. He said to his
MajestyYonder is an evil-looking man.Members of the police
who were clearing the king's routetook equal note of him:
one of them received an order to follow him. But the man plunged
into the deserted little streets of the faubourgand as twilight
was beginning to fallthe agent lost trace of himas is stated
in a report addressed that same evening to M. le Comte d'Angles
Minister of StatePrefect of Police.
When the man in the yellow coat had thrown the agent off his track


he redoubled his pacenot without turning round many a time to assure
himself that he was not being followed. At a quarter-past four
that is to saywhen night was fully comehe passed in front of the
theatre of the Porte Saint-Martinwhere The Two Convicts was being
played that day. This posterilluminated by the theatre lanterns
struck him; foralthough he was walking rapidlyhe halted to read it.
An instant later he was in the blind alley of La Planchetteand he
entered the Plat d'Etain [the Pewter Platter]where the office
of the coach for Lagny was then situated. This coach set out at
half-past four. The horses were harnessedand the travellers
summoned by the coachmanwere 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.


I will take it.


Climb up.


Neverthelessbefore setting outthe coachman cast a glance at
the traveller's shabby dressat 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 barrierthe coachman
tried to enter into conversationbut the traveller only replied
in monosyllables. The coachman took to whistling and swearing
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 Chelles. The coachman
drew up in front of the carters' inn installed in the ancient
buildings of the Royal Abbeyto give his horses a breathing spell.


I get down here,said the man.


He took his bundle and his cudgel and jumped down from the vehicle.


An instant later he had disappeared.


He did not enter the inn.


When the coach set out for Lagny a few minutes laterit did not
encounter him in the principal street of Chelles.


The coachman turned to the inside travellers.


There,said heis a man who does not belong here, for I do not
know him. He had not the air of owning a sou, but he does not
consider money; he pays to Lagny, and he goes only as far as Chelles.
It is night; all the houses are shut; he does not enter the inn,
and he is not to be found. So he has dived through the earth.



The man had not plunged into the earthbut he had gone with great
strides through the darkdown the principal street of Chelles
then he had turned to the right before reaching the church
into the cross-road leading to Montfermeillike a person who was
acquainted with the country and had been there before.

He followed this road rapidly. At the spot where it is intersected
by the ancient tree-bordered road which runs from Gagny to Lagny
he heard people coming. He concealed himself precipitately in
a ditchand there waited until the passers-by were at a distance.
The precaution was nearly superfluoushowever; foras we have
already saidit 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 rightand entered the forest with long strides.

Once in the forest he slackened his paceand began a careful
examination of all the treesadvancingstep by stepas though
seeking and following a mysterious road known to himself alone.
There came a moment when he appeared to lose himselfand he paused
in indecision. At last he arrivedby dint of feeling his way inch
by inchat a clearing where there was a great heap of whitish stones.
He stepped up briskly to these stonesand examined them attentively
through the mists of nightas though he were passing them in review.
A large treecovered with those excrescences which are the warts
of vegetationstood 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 though seeking to recognize and count all the warts.

Opposite this treewhich was an ashthere was a chestnut-tree
suffering from a peeling of the barkto which a band of zinc
had been nailed by way of dressing. He raised himself on tiptoe
and touched this band of zinc.

Then he trod about for awhile on the ground comprised in the space
between the tree and the heap of stoneslike a person who is trying
to assure himself that the soil has not recently been disturbed.

That donehe took his bearingsand 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 Montfermeil
he had espied that tiny shadow moving with a groandepositing a
burden on the groundthen taking it up and setting out again.
He drew nearand 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.

CHAPTER VII

COSETTE SIDE BY SIDE WITH THE STRANGER IN THE DARK

Cosetteas we have saidwas 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 you."


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 you 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 mother.


I don't know,answered the child.
Before the man had time to speak againshe added:--


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 groundbent down and
placed both hands on the child's shouldersmaking 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 Cosette's shoulders
seized the bucketand 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 Thenardier.
The man resumedin a voice which he strove to render indifferent


but in which there wasneverthelessa singular tremor:--
What does your Madame Thenardier do?
She is my mistress,said the child. "She keeps the inn."
The inn?said the man. "WellI 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 without difficulty.


She no longer felt any fatigue. From time to time she raised


her eyes towards the manwith a sort of tranquillity and an


indescribable confidence. She had never been taught to turn to


Providence and to pray; neverthelessshe felt within her something


which resembled hope and joyand which mounted towards heaven.

Several minutes elapsed. The man resumed:-


Is there no servant in Madame Thenardier'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.

What little girls?

Ponine and Zelma.

This was the way the child simplified the romantic names so dear


to the female Thenardier.
Who are Ponine and Zelma?
They are Madame Thenardier's young ladies; her daughters, as you


would say.
And what do those girls do?
Oh!said the childthey have beautiful dolls; things with gold


in them, all full of affairs. They play; they amuse themselves.
All day long?
Yes, sir.
And you?
I? I work.



All day long?


The child raised her great eyesin which hung a tearwhich was
not visible because of the darknessand 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 me 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 bakeshopbut Cosette did not think
of the bread which she had been ordered to fetch. The man had
ceased to ply her with questionsand now preserved a gloomy silence.

When they had left the church behind themthe manon perceiving
all the open-air boothsasked Cosette:--
So there is a fair going on here?
No, sir; it is Christmas.
As they approached the tavernCosette timidly touched his arm:--
Monsieur?
What, my child?
We are quite near the house.
Well?
Will you let me take my bucket now?
Why?


If Madame sees that some one has carried it for me, she will beat me.
The man handed her the bucket. An instant later they were at
the tavern door.


CHAPTER VIII


THE UNPLEASANTNESS OF 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 Thenardier appeared 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 Cosettetrembling all overhere's a gentleman
who wants a lodging.

The Thenardier speedily replaced her gruff air by her amiable grimace
a change of aspect common to tavern-keepersand eagerly sought
the new-comer with her eyes.

This is the gentleman?said she.

Yes, Madame,replied the manraising his hand to his hat.

Wealthy travellers are not so polite. This gestureand an inspection
of the stranger's costume and baggagewhich the Thenardier passed
in review with one glancecaused the amiable grimace to vanish
and the gruff mien to reappear. She resumed dryly:-


Enter, my good man.

The "good man" entered. The Thenardier cast a second glance
at himpaid particular attention to his frock-coatwhich was
absolutely threadbareand to his hatwhich was a little battered
andtossing her headwrinkling her noseand screwing up her eyes
she consulted her husbandwho was still drinking with the carters.
The husband replied by that imperceptible movement of the forefinger
whichbacked up by an inflation of the lipssignifies in such cases:
A regular beggar. Thereuponthe Thenardier exclaimed:-


Ah! see here, my good man; I am very sorry, but I have no room left.

Put me where you like,said the man; "in the atticin the stable.
I will pay as though I occupied a room."

Forty sous.

Forty sous; agreed.

Very well, then!

Forty sous!said a carterin a low toneto the Thenardier woman;
why, the charge is only twenty sous!

It is forty in his case,retorted the Thenardierin the same tone.
I don't lodge poor folks for less.

That's true,added her husbandgently; "it ruins a house to have
such people in it."

In the meantimethe manlaying his bundle and his cudgel on
a benchhad seated himself at a tableon which Cosette made
haste to place a bottle of wine and a glass. The merchant who
had demanded the bucket of water took it to his horse himself.
Cosette resumed her place under the kitchen tableand her knitting.

The manwho had barely moistened his lips in the wine which he had
poured out for himselfobserved the child with peculiar attention.

Cosette was ugly. If she had been happyshe might have been pretty.


We have already given a sketch of that sombre little figure.
Cosette was thin and pale; she was nearly eight years oldbut she
seemed to be hardly six. Her large eyessunken in a sort of shadow
were almost put out with weeping. The corners of her mouth had that
curve of habitual anguish which is seen in condemned persons and
desperately sick people. Her hands wereas her mother had divined
ruined with chilblains.The fire which illuminated her at that
moment brought into relief all the angles of her bonesand rendered
her thinness frightfully apparent. As she was always shivering
she had acquired the habit of pressing her knees one against the other.
Her entire clothing was but a rag which would have inspired pity
in summerand which inspired horror in winter. All she had on was
hole-ridden linennot a scrap of woollen. Her skin was visible
here and there and everywhere black and blue spots could be descried
which marked the places where the Thenardier 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 personher mien
her attitudethe sound of her voicethe intervals which she
allowed to elapse between one word and the nexther glance
her silenceher slightest gestureexpressed and betrayed one
sole idea--fear.

Fear was diffused all over her; she was covered with itso to speak;
fear drew her elbows close to her hipswithdrew her heels under
her petticoatmade her occupy as little space as possible
allowed her only the breath that was absolutely necessaryand had
become what might be called the habit of her bodyadmitting of no
possible variation except an increase. In the depths of her eyes
there was an astonished nook where terror lurked.

Her fear was suchthat on her arrivalwet as she wasCosette did
not dare to approach the fire and dry herselfbut sat silently
down to her work again.

The expression in the glance of that child of eight years was habitually
so gloomyand at times so tragicthat it seemed at certain moments
as though she were on the verge of becoming an idiot or a demon.

As we have statedshe had never known what it is to pray; she had
never set foot in a church. "Have I the time?" said the Thenardier.

The man in the yellow coat never took his eyes from Cosette.

All at oncethe Thenardier exclaimed:-


By the way, where's that bread?

Cosetteaccording to her custom whenever the Thenardier uplifted
her voiceemerged with great haste from beneath the table.

She had completely forgotten the bread. She had recourse to the
expedient of children who live in a constant state of fear.
She lied.

Madame, the baker's shop was shut.

You should have knocked.

I did knock, Madame.

Well?

He did not open the door.


I'll find out to-morrow whether that is true,said the Thenardier;
and if you are telling me a lie, I'll lead you a pretty dance.
In the meantime, give me back my fifteen-sou piece.


Cosette plunged her hand into the pocket of her apronand turned green.
The fifteen-sou piece was not there.


Ah, come now,said Madame Thenardierdid 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 Thenardier
hoarselyor do you want to rob me of it?


At the same timeshe 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 sufficient strength
to shriek:--


Mercy, Madame, Madame! I will not do so any more!


The Thenardier took down the whip.


In the meantimethe man in the yellow coat had been fumbling in the
fob of his waistcoatwithout any one having noticed his movements.
Besidesthe other travellers were drinking or playing cards
and were not paying attention to anything.


Cosette contracted herself into a ballwith anguishwithin the
angle of the chimneyendeavoring to gather up and conceal
her poor half-nude limbs. The Thenardier raised her arm.


Pardon me, Madame,said the manbut just now I caught sight
of something which had fallen from this little one's apron pocket,
and rolled aside. Perhaps this is it.


At the same time he bent down and seemed to be searching
on the floor for a moment.


Exactly; here it is,he went onstraightening himself up.


And he held out a silver coin to the Thenardier.


Yes, that's it,said she.


It was not itfor it was a twenty-sou piece; but the Thenardier
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 remarkDon't let this ever happen again!


Cosette returned to what the Thenardier 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 waywould you like some supper?" the Thenardier 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 hasn't 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 meantimea door had openedand Eponine and Azelma entered.

They were two really pretty little girlsmore bourgeois than
peasant in looksand very charming; the one with shining chestnut
tressesthe other with long black braids hanging down her back
both vivaciousneatplumprosyand healthyand a delight
to the eye. They were warmly cladbut with so much maternal art
that the thickness of the stuffs did not detract from the coquetry
of arrangement. There was a hint of winterthough the springtime
was not wholly effaced. Light emanated from these two little beings.
Besides thisthey were on the throne. In their toilettes
in their gayetyin the noise which they madethere was sovereignty.
When they enteredthe Thenardier said to them in a grumbling
tone which was full of adorationAh! there you are, you children!

Then drawing themone after the other to her kneessmoothing
their hairtying their ribbons afreshand then releasing them
with that gentle manner of shaking off which is peculiar to mothers
she exclaimedWhat frights they are!

They went and seated themselves in the chimney-corner. They had
a dollwhich they turned over and over on their knees with all
sorts of joyous chatter. From time to time Cosette raised her eyes
from her knittingand watched their play with a melancholy air.

Eponine 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 thembut they already represented
the whole society of man; envy on the one sidedisdain on the other.

The doll of the Thenardier sisters was very much fadedvery old
and much broken; but it seemed none the less admirable to Cosette
who had never had a doll in her lifea real dollto make use
of the expression which all children will understand.

All at oncethe Thenardierwho had been going back and forth
in the roomperceived that Cosette's mind was distractedand that
instead of workingshe was paying attention to the little ones
at their play.

Ah! I've caught you at it!she cried. "So that's the way you work!
I'll make you work to the tune of the whip; that I will."

The stranger turned to the Thenardierwithout quitting his chair.

Bah, Madame,he saidwith an almost timid airlet 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 his supper
and who had not the air of being frightfully poorwould have been
equivalent to an order. But that a man with such a hat should
permit himself such a desireand that a man with such a coat
should permit himself to have a willwas something which Madame
Thenardier did not intend to tolerate. She retorted with acrimony:-


She must work, since she eats. I don't feed her to do nothing.

What is she making?went on the strangerin a gentle voice


which contrasted strangely with his beggarly garments and his
porter's shoulders.


The Thenardier deigned to reply:--


Stockings, if you please. Stockings for my little girls,
who have none, so to speak, and who are absolutely barefoot just now.


The man looked at Cosette's poor little red feetand continued:-"
When will she have finished this pair of stockings?"

She has at least three or four good days' work on them still,
the lazy creature!

And how much will that pair of stockings be worth when she has
finished them?

The Thenardier cast a glance of disdain on him.

Thirty sous at least.
Will you sell them for five francs?went on the man.


Good heavens!exclaimed a carter who was listeningwith a loud laugh;
five francs! the deuce, I should think so! five balls!

Thenardier thought it time to strike in.

Yes, sir; if such is your fancy, you will be allowed to have that pair
of stockings for five francs. We can refuse nothing to travellers.

You must pay on the spot,said the Thenardierin her curt
and peremptory fashion.

I will buy that pair of stockings,replied the manand,he added
drawing a five-franc piece from his pocketand laying it on the table
I will pay for them.

Then he turned to Cosette.

Now I own your work; play, my child.

The carter was so much touched by the five-franc piecethat he
abandoned his glass and hastened up.

But it's true!he criedexamining it. "A real hind wheel!
and not counterfeit!"

Thenardier approached and silently put the coin in his pocket.

The Thenardier had no reply to make. She bit her lipsand her
face assumed an expression of hatred.
In the meantimeCosette was trembling. She ventured to ask:-


Is it true, Madame? May I play?
Play!said the Thenardierin a terrible voice.


Thanks, Madame,said Cosette.


And while her mouth thanked the Thenardierher whole little soul
thanked the traveller.


Thenardier had resumed his drinking; his wife whispered in his ear:-


Who can this yellow man be?

I have seen millionaires with coats like that,replied Thenardier
in a sovereign manner.


Cosette had dropped her knittingbut had not left her seat.
Cosette always moved as little as possible. She picked up some old
rags and her little lead sword from a box behind her.


Eponine and Azelma paid no attention to what was going on.
They had just executed a very important operation; they had just
got hold of the cat. They had thrown their doll on the ground
and Eponinewho was the elderwas swathing the little catin spite
of its mewing and its contortionsin a quantity of clothes and red
and blue scraps. While performing this serious and difficult work
she was saying to her sister in that sweet and adorable language
of childrenwhose gracelike the splendor of the butterfly's wing
vanishes when one essays to fix it fast.


You see, sister, this doll is more amusing than the other.
She twists, she cries, she is warm. See, sister, let us play with her.
She shall be my little girl. I will be a lady. I will come to
see you, and you shall look at her. Gradually, you will perceive
her whiskers, and that will surprise you. And then you will see
her ears, and then you will see her tail and it will amaze you.
And you will say to me, `Ah! Mon Dieu!' and I will say to you:
`Yes, Madame, it is my little girl. Little girls are made like that
just at present.'


Azelma listened admiringly to Eponine.


In the meantimethe drinkers had begun to sing an obscene song
and to laugh at it until the ceiling shook. Thenardier accompanied
and encouraged them.


As birds make nests out of everythingso children make a doll
out of anything which comes to hand. While Eponine and Azelma were
bundling up the catCosetteon her sidehad dressed up her sword.
That doneshe laid it in her armsand sang to it softlyto lull
it to sleep.


The doll is one of the most imperious needs andat the same time
one of the most charming instincts of feminine childhood.
To care forto clotheto deckto dressto undressto redress
to teachscold a littleto rockto dandleto lull to sleep
to imagine that something is some one--therein lies the whole
woman's future. While dreaming and chatteringmaking tiny outfits
and baby clotheswhile sewing little gownsand corsages and bodices
the child grows into a young girlthe young girl into a big girl
the big girl into a woman. The first child is the continuation of the
last doll.


A little girl without a doll is almost as unhappyand quite
as impossibleas a woman without children.


So Cosette had made herself a doll out of the sword.


Madame Thenardier approached the yellow man; "My husband is right
she thought; perhaps it is M. Laffitte; there are such queer
rich men!"



She came and set her elbows on the table.

Monsieur,said she. At this wordMonsieurthe man turned;
up to that timethe Thenardier had addressed him only as brave homme
or bonhomme.

You see, sir,she pursuedassuming a sweetish air that was
even more repulsive to behold than her fierce mienI am willing
that the child should play; I do not oppose it, but it is good
for once, because you are generous. You see, she has nothing;
she must needs work.

Then this child is not yours?demanded the man.

Oh! mon Dieu! no, sir! she is a little beggar whom we have taken
in through charity; a sort of imbecile child. She must have water
on the brain; she has a large head, as you see. We do what we
can for her, for we are not rich; we have written in vain to her
native place, and have received no reply these six months.
It must be that her mother is dead.

Ah!said the manand fell into his revery once more.

Her mother didn't amount to much,added the Thenardier;
she abandoned her child.

During the whole of this conversation Cosetteas though warned
by some instinct that she was under discussionhad not taken her
eyes from the Thenardier's face; she listened vaguely; she caught
a few words here and there.

Meanwhilethe drinkersall three-quarters intoxicatedwere repeating
their unclean refrain with redoubled gayety; it was a highly
spiced and wanton songin which the Virgin and the infant Jesus
were introduced. The Thenardier went off to take part in the shouts
of laughter. Cosettefrom her post under the tablegazed at the fire
which was reflected from her fixed eyes. She had begun to rock
the sort of baby which she had madeandas she rocked itshe sang
in a low voiceMy mother is dead! my mother is dead! my mother is dead!

On being urged afresh by the hostessthe yellow manthe millionaire,
consented at last to take supper.

What does Monsieur wish?

Bread and cheese,said the man.

Decidedly, he is a beggarthought Madame Thenardier.

The drunken men were still singing their songand the child under
the table was singing hers.

All at onceCosette paused; she had just turned round and caught
sight of the little Thenardiers' dollwhich they had abandoned for
the cat and had left on the floor a few paces from the kitchen table.

Then she dropped the swaddled swordwhich only half met her needs
and cast her eyes slowly round the room. Madame Thenardier
was whispering to her husband and counting over some money;
Ponine and Zelma were playing with the cat; the travellers were
eating or drinking or singing; not a glance was fixed on her.
She had not a moment to lose; she crept out from under the table on
her hands and kneesmade sure once more that no one was watching her;
then she slipped quickly up to the doll and seized it. An instant


later she was in her place againseated motionlessand only turned
so as to cast a shadow on the doll which she held in her arms.
The happiness of playing with a doll was so rare for her that it
contained all the violence of voluptuousness.

No one had seen herexcept the travellerwho was slowly devouring
his meagre supper.

This joy lasted about 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 that the fire on
the hearth lighted it up very vividly. That pink and shining foot
projecting from the shadowsuddenly struck the eye of Azelma
who said to EponineLook! sister.

The two little girls paused in stupefaction; Cosette had dared
to take their doll!

Eponine roseandwithout releasing the catshe ran to her mother
and began to tug at her skirt.

Let me alone!said her mother; "what do you want?"

Mother,said the childlook there!

And she pointed to Cosette.

Cosetteabsorbed in the ecstasies of possessionno longer saw
or heard anything.

Madame Thenardier's countenance assumed that peculiar expression
which is composed of the terrible mingled with the trifles of life
and which has caused this style of woman to be named megaeras.

On this occasionwounded pride exasperated her wrath still further.
Cosette had overstepped all bounds; Cosette had laid violent hands
on the doll belonging to "these young ladies." A czarina who should
see a muzhik trying on her imperial son's blue ribbon would wear
no other face.

She shrieked in a voice rendered hoarse with indignation:-


Cosette!

Cosette started as though the earth had trembled beneath her;
she turned round.

Cosette!repeated the Thenardier.

Cosette took the doll and laid it gently on the floor with a
sort of venerationmingled with despair; thenwithout taking
her eyes from itshe clasped her handsandwhat is terrible
to relate of a child of that ageshe wrung them; then--not one
of the emotions of the dayneither the trip to the forest
nor the weight of the bucket of waternor the loss of the money
nor the sight of the whipnor even the sad words which she had
heard Madame Thenardier utter had been able to wring this from her-she
wept; she burst out sobbing.

Meanwhilethe traveller had risen to his feet.

What is the matter?he said to the Thenardier.


Don't you see?said the Thenardierpointing to the corpus delicti
which lay at Cosette's feet.

Well, what of it?resumed the man.

That beggar,replied the Thenardierhas permitted herself
to touch the children's doll!

All this noise for that!said the man; "wellwhat if she did
play with that doll?"

She touched it with her dirty hands!pursued the Thenardier
with her frightful hands!

Here Cosette redoubled her sobs.

Will you stop your noise?screamed the Thenardier.

The man went straight to the street dooropened itand stepped out.

As soon as he had gonethe Thenardier profited by his absence
to give Cosette a hearty kick under the tablewhich made the child
utter loud cries.

The door opened againthe man re-appeared; he carried in both
hands the fabulous doll which we have mentionedand which all
the village brats had been staring at ever since the morning
and he set it upright in front of Cosettesaying:-


Here; this is for you.

It must be supposed that in the course of the hour and more which he
had spent there he had taken confused notice through his revery of that
toy shoplighted up by fire-pots and candles so splendidly that it
was visible like an illumination through the window of the drinking-shop.

Cosette raised her eyes; she gazed at the man approaching her
with that doll as she might have gazed at the sun; she heard
the unprecedented wordsIt is for you; she stared at him;
she stared at the doll; then she slowly retreatedand hid herself
at the extreme endunder the table in a corner of the wall.

She no longer cried; she no longer wept; she had the appearance
of no longer daring to breathe.

The ThenardierEponineand Azelma were like statues also;
the very drinkers had paused; a solemn silence reigned through
the whole room.

Madame Thenardierpetrified and muterecommenced her conjectures:
Who is that old fellow? Is he a poor man? Is he a millionaire?
Perhaps he is both; that is to say, a thief.

The face of the male Thenardier presented that expressive fold
which accentuates the human countenance whenever the dominant
instinct appears there in all its bestial force. The tavern-keeper
stared alternately at the doll and at the traveller; he seemed to be
scenting out the manas he would have scented out a bag of money.
This did not last longer than the space of a flash of lightning.
He stepped up to his wife and said to her in a low voice:-


That machine costs at least thirty francs. No nonsense.
Down on your belly before that man!


Gross natures have this in common with naive naturesthat they
possess no transition state.


Well, Cosette,said the Thenardierin a voice that strove to be sweet
and which was composed of the bitter honey of malicious women
aren't you going to take your doll?


Cosette ventured to emerge from her hole.


The gentleman has given you a doll, my little Cosette,
said Thenardierwith a caressing air. "Take it; it is yours."


Cosette gazed at the marvellous doll in a sort of terror.
Her face was still flooded with tearsbut her eyes began to fill
like the sky at daybreakwith strange beams of joy. What she felt
at that moment was a little like what she would have felt if she
had been abruptly toldLittle one, you are the Queen of France.


It seemed to her that if she touched that dolllightning would
dart from it.


This was trueup to a certain pointfor she said to herself
that the Thenardier would scold and beat her.


Neverthelessthe attraction carried the day. She ended by drawing
near and murmuring timidly as she turned towards Madame Thenardier:--


May I, Madame?


No words can render that airat once despairingterrifiedand ecstatic.


Pardi!cried the Thenardierit is yours. The gentleman 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 Cosetteand placed
the "lady's" hand in her tiny hand.


Cosette hastily withdrew her handas though that of the "lady"
scorched herand 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 Cosette's rags met and clasped the ribbons
and fresh pink muslins of the doll.


Madame,she resumedmay I put her on a chair?


Yes, my child,replied the Thenardier.


It was now the turn of Eponine and Azelma to gaze at Cosette with envy.


Cosette placed Catherine on a chairthen seated herself on the floor
in front of herand remained motionlesswithout uttering a word
in an attitude of contemplation.


Play, Cosette,said the stranger.


Oh! I am playing,returned the child.



This strangerthis unknown individualwho had the air of a
visit which Providence was making on Cosettewas the person
whom the Thenardier hated worse than any one in the world at
that moment. Howeverit was necessary to control herself.
Habituated as she was to dissimulation through endeavoring to copy
her husband in all his actionsthese emotions were more than
she could endure. She made haste to send her daughters to bed
then she asked the man's permission to send Cosette off also;
for she has worked hard all day,she added with a maternal air.
Cosette went off to bedcarrying Catherine in her arms.

From time to time the Thenardier went to the other end of the
room where her husband wasto relieve her soulas she said.
She exchanged with her husband words which were all the more furious
because she dared not utter them aloud.

Old beast! What has he got in his belly, to come and upset us
in this manner! To want that little monster to play! to give away
forty-franc dolls to a jade that I would sell for forty sous,
so I would! A little more and he will be saying Your Majesty to her,
as though to the Duchess de Berry! Is there any sense in it?
Is he mad, then, that mysterious old fellow?

Why! it is perfectly simple,replied Thenardierif that amuses him!
It amuses you to have the little one work; it amuses him to have
her play. He's all right. A traveller can do what he pleases
when he pays for it. If the old fellow is a philanthropist,
what is that to you? If he is an imbecile, it does not concern you.
What are you worrying for, so long as he has money?

The language of a masterand the reasoning of an innkeeper
neither of which admitted of any reply.

The man had placed his elbows on the tableand resumed his
thoughtful attitude. All the other travellersboth pedlers
and cartershad withdrawn a littleand had ceased singing.
They were staring at him from a distancewith a sort of respectful awe.
This poorly dressed manwho drew "hind-wheels" from his pocket with
so much easeand who lavished gigantic dolls on dirty little brats
in wooden shoeswas certainly a magnificent fellowand one to be feared.

Many hours passed. The midnight mass was overthe chimes had ceased
the drinkers had taken their departurethe drinking-shop was closed
the public room was desertedthe fire extinctthe stranger still
remained in the same place and the same attitude. From time
to time he changed the elbow on which he leaned. That was all;
but he had not said a word since Cosette had left the room.

The Thenardiers aloneout of politeness and curiosityhad remained
in the room.

Is he going to pass the night in that fashion?grumbled the Thenardier.
When two o'clock in the morning struckshe declared herself vanquished
and said to her husbandI'm going to bed. Do as you like.
Her husband seated himself at a table in the cornerlighted a candle
and began to read the Courrier Francais.

A good hour passed thus. The worthy inn-keeper had perused the
Courrier Francais at least three timesfrom the date of the number
to the printer's name. The stranger did not stir.

Thenardier fidgetedcoughedspitblew his noseand creaked
his chair. Not a movement on the man's part. "Is he asleep?"


thought Thenardier. The man was not asleepbut nothing could
arouse him.


At last Thenardier took off his capstepped gently up to him
and ventured to say:--


Is not Monsieur going to his repose?


Not going to bed would have seemed to him excessive and familiar.
To repose smacked of luxury and respect. These words possess
the mysterious and admirable property 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!said the strangeryou are right. Where is your stable?


Sir!exclaimed Thenardierwith a smileI will conduct you, sir.


He took the candle; the man picked up his bundle and cudgel
and Thenardier conducted him to a chamber on the first floor
which was of rare splendorall furnished in mahoganywith a
low bedsteadcurtained 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 manabruptly.


Thenardier 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-pieceunder a glass globestood a woman's head-dress
in silver wire and orange flowers.


And what is this?resumed the stranger.


That, sir,said Thenardieris 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?


Thenardier liedhowever. When he had leased this paltry building
for the purpose of converting it into a tavernhe had found
this chamber decorated in just this mannerand had purchased
the furniture and obtained the orange flowers at second hand
with the idea that this would cast a graceful shadow on "his spouse
and would result in what the English call respectability for his house.


When the traveller turned round, the host had disappeared.
Thenardier had withdrawn discreetly, without venturing to wish him
a good night, as he did not wish to treat with disrespectful cordiality
a man whom he proposed to fleece royally the following morning.


The inn-keeper retired to his room. His wife was in bed, but she
was not asleep. When she heard her husband's step she turned
over and said to him:--


Do you knowI'm going to turn Cosette out of doors to-morrow."



Thenardier replied coldly:-


How you do go on!

They exchanged no further wordsand a few moments later their
candle was extinguished.


As for the travellerhe had deposited his cudgel and his bundle
in a corner. The landlord once gonehe threw himself into
an arm-chair and remained for some time buried in thought.
Then he removed his shoestook one of the two candles
blew out the otheropened the doorand 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 soundand came to a sort of triangular recess built
under the staircaseor rather formed by the staircase itself.
This recess was nothing else than the space under the steps.
Therein the midst of all sorts of old papers and potsherds
among dust and spiders' webswas 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 sheets.
This was placed 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 undressin order that she might not be so cold.


Against her breast was pressed the dollwhose large eyeswide open
glittered in the dark. From time to time she gave vent to a deep
sigh as though she were on the point of wakingand she strained
the doll almost convulsively 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 largedark room. The stranger stepped into it.
At the further extremitythrough a glass doorhe saw two small
very white beds. They belonged to Eponine and Azelma.
Behind these bedsand half hiddenstood an uncurtained wicker cradle
in which the little boy who had cried all the evening lay asleep.


The stranger conjectured that this chamber connected with that of
the Thenardier pair. He was on the point of retreating 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 gazenevertheless. It was two tiny children's shoes
coquettish in shape and unequal in size. The traveller recalled
the graceful and immemorial custom in accordance with which children
place their shoes in the chimney on Christmas evethere to await
in the darkness some sparkling gift from their good fairy.
Eponine and Azelma had taken care not to omit thisand each of them
had set one of her shoes on the hearth.


The traveller bent over them.


The fairythat is to saytheir motherhad already paid her visit
and in each he saw a brand-new and shining ten-sou piece.


The man straightened himself upand was on the point of withdrawing



when far inin the darkest corner of the hearthhe caught sight
of another object. He looked at itand recognized a wooden shoe
a frightful shoe of the coarsest descriptionhalf dilapidated
and all covered with ashes and dried mud. It was Cosette's sabot.
Cosettewith that touching trust of childhoodwhich can always
be deceived yet never discouragedhad placed her shoe on the
hearth-stone also.

Hope in a child who has never known anything but despair is a sweet
and touching thing.

There was nothing in this wooden shoe.

The stranger fumbled in his waistcoatbent over and placed a louis
d'or in Cosette's shoe.

Then he regained his own chamber with the stealthy tread of a wolf.

CHAPTER IX

THENARDIER AND HIS MANOEUVRES

On the following morningtwo hours at least before day-breakThenardier
seated beside a candle in the public room of the tavernpen in hand
was making out the bill for the traveller with the yellow coat.

His wifestanding beside himand half bent over himwas following
him with her eyes. They exchanged not a word. On the one hand
there was profound meditationon the otherthe religious
admiration with which one watches the birth and development
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 hourand some erasures
Thenardier produced the following masterpiece:-


BILL OF THE GENTLEMAN IN No. 1.

Supper . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 francs.
Chamber . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 "
Candle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 "
Fire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 "
Service . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 "

---------Total
. . . . . . 23 francs.

Service was written servisse.

Twenty-three francs!cried the womanwith an enthusiasm which
was mingled with some hesitation.

Like all great artistsThenardier was dissatisfied.

Peuh!he exclaimed.

It was the accent of Castlereagh auditing France's bill at the
Congress of Vienna.

Monsieur Thenardier, you are right; he certainly owes that,
murmured the wifewho was thinking of the doll bestowed on Cosette


in the presence of her daughters. "It is justbut it is too much.
He will not pay it."


Thenardier laughed coldlyas usualand said:--


He will pay.


This laugh was the supreme assertion of certainty and authority.
That which was asserted in this manner must needs be so. His wife did
not insist.


She set about arranging the table; her husband paced the room.
A moment later he added:--


I owe full fifteen hundred francs!


He went and seated himself in the chimney-cornermeditating
with his feet among the warm ashes.


Ah! by the way,resumed his wifeyou don't forget that I'm
going to turn Cosette out of doors to-day? The monster! She breaks
my heart with that doll of hers! I'd rather marry Louis XVIII.
than keep her another day in the house!


Thenardier lighted his pipeand replied between two puffs:--


You will hand that bill to the man.


Then he went out.


Hardly had he left the room when the traveller entered.


Thenardier instantly reappeared behind him and remained motionless
in the half-open doorvisible only to his wife.


The yellow man carried his bundle and his cudgel in his hand.


Up so early?said Madame Thenardier; "is Monsieur leaving us already?"


As she spoke thusshe was twisting the bill about in her hands
with an embarrassed airand making creases in it with her nails.
Her hard face presented a shade which was not habitual with it--
timidity and scruples.


To present such a bill to a man who had so completely the air "of
a poor wretch" seemed difficult to her.


The traveller appeared to be preoccupied and absent-minded. He replied:--


Yes, Madame, I am going.


So Monsieur has no business in Montfermeil?


No, I was passing through. That is all. What do I owe you,
Madame,he added.


The Thenardier silently handed him the folded bill.


The man unfolded the paper and glanced at it; but his thoughts
were evidently elsewhere.


Madame,he resumedis business good here in Montfermeil?


So so, Monsieur,replied the Thenardierstupefied at not



witnessing another sort of explosion.

She continuedin a dreary and lamentable tone:-


Oh! Monsieur, times are so hard! and then, we have so few bourgeois
in the neighborhood! All the people are poor, you 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 eyes.


What child?


Why, the little one, you know! Cosette--the Lark, as she
is called hereabouts!


Ah!said the man.


She went on:--


How stupid these peasants are with their nicknames! She 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 other people's children.


The man resumedin that voice which he strove to render 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 hideously.


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 Thenardier.


In the meantime,pursued the manI will pay you what I owe you.
How much is it?


He cast a glance on the billand could not restrain a start
of surprise:--


Twenty-three francs!


He looked at the landladyand repeated:--



Twenty-three francs?

There was in the enunciation of these wordsthus repeated
an accent between an exclamation and an interrogation point.

The Thenardier had had time to prepare herself for the shock.
She repliedwith 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.

At that moment Thenardier advanced to the middle of the room
and said:-


Monsieur owes twenty-six sous.

Twenty-six sous!exclaimed his wife.

Twenty sous for the chamber,resumed Thenardiercoldlyand six
sous for his supper. As for the child, I must discuss that matter
a little with the gentleman. Leave us, wife.

Madame Thenardier 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 stageuttered not a word in reply
and left the room.

As soon as they were aloneThenardier offered the traveller a chair.
The traveller seated himself; Thenardier remained standing
and his face assumed a singular expression of good-fellowship
and simplicity.

Sir,said hewhat I have to say to you is this, that I adore
that child.

The stranger gazed intently at him.

What child?

Thenardier 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 you not intending to take her away
from us? Well, I speak frankly; as true as you are an honest man,
I 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 hundred 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 truth, 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 Thenardier.
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 that she may know
that her good foster-father is alive, that he is watching over her.
In short, there are things which are not possible. I do not even
know your name. If you were to take her away, I should say:
`Well, 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 strangerstill surveying him with that gaze which penetrates
as the saying goesto the very depths of the consciencereplied in
a gravefirm voice:--


Monsieur Thenardier, 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, you will not know where she is;
and my intention is that she shall never set 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 geniuseslike demonsrecognize the presence of a superior
God by certain signsThenardier 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 carterssmokingand singing coarse songs on the preceding evening
he had devoted the whole of the time to observing the stranger
watching him like a catand studying him like a mathematician.
He had watched himboth on his own accountfor the pleasure of
the thingand through instinctand had spied upon him as though
he had been paid for so doing. Not a movementnot a gesture
on the part of the man in the yellow great-coat had escaped him.
Even before the stranger had so clearly manifested his interest
in CosetteThenardier had divined his purpose. He had caught
the old man's deep glances returning constantly to the child.
Who was this man? Why this interest? Why this hideous costume
when he had so much money in his purse? Questions which he put to
himself without being able to solve themand 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 rightone asserts it. This man evidently had no
right over Cosette. What was itthen? Thenardier lost himself
in conjectures. He caught glimpses of everythingbut he saw nothing.
Be that as it mayon entering into conversation with the man
sure that there was some secret in the casethat the latter had
some interest in remaining in the shadowhe felt himself strong;
when he perceived from the stranger's clear and firm retort
that this mysterious personage was mysterious in so simple a way
he became conscious that he was weak. He had expected nothing
of the sort. His conjectures were put to the rout. He rallied
his ideas. He weighed everything in the space of a second.
Thenardier was one of those men who take in a situation at a glance.
He decided that the moment had arrived for proceeding straightforward



and quickly at that. He did as great leaders do at the decisive moment
which they know that they alone recognize; he abruptly unmasked his
batteries.

Sir,said heI am in need of fifteen hundred francs.

The stranger took from his side pocket an old pocketbook of black leather
opened itdrew out three bank-billswhich 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 placewhat had Cosette been doing?

On waking upCosette 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 Restorationon 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 pocketas though she had stolen it.
Stillshe felt that it really was hers; she guessed whence her gift
had comebut 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 trembled vaguely in the presence
of this magnificence. The stranger alone did not frighten her.
On the contraryhe reassured her. Ever since the preceding evening
amid all her amazementeven in her sleepshe had been thinking
in her little childish mind of that man who seemed to be so poor
and so sadand who was so rich and so kind. Everything had
changed for her since she had met that good man in the forest.
Cosetteless 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 yearsthat is to sayas far
back as her memory ranthe poor child had shivered and trembled.
She had always been exposed completely naked to the sharp wind
of adversity; now it seemed to her she was clothed. Formerly her
soul had seemed coldnow it was warm. Cosette was no longer
afraid of the Thenardier. She was no longer alone; there was some
one there.

She hastily set about her regular morning duties. That louis
which she had about herin the very apron pocket whence the fifteen-sou
piece had fallen on the night beforedistracted her thoughts.
She dared not touch itbut she spent five minutes in gazing at it
with her tongue hanging outif the truth must be told. As she
swept the staircaseshe pausedremained standing there motionless
forgetful of her broom and of the entire universeoccupied in gazing
at that star which was blazing at the bottom of her pocket.

It was during one of these periods of contemplation that the
Thenardier joined her. She had gone in search of Cosette at her
husband's orders. What was quite unprecedentedshe neither
struck her nor said an insulting word to her.

Cosette,she saidalmost gentlycome 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 gownan aprona fustian bodice
a kerchiefa petticoatwoollen stockingsshoes--a complete outfit
for a girl of seven years. All was black.


My child,said the mantake these, and go and dress yourself quickly.

Daylight was appearing when those of the inhabitants of Montfermeil
who had begun to open their doors beheld a poorly clad old man
leading a little girl dressed in mourningand carrying a pink
doll in her armspass 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 ragsmany 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 Thenardier tavern behind her. No one had
thought of bidding her farewellnor had she thought of taking
leave of any one. She was leaving that hated and hating house.

Poorgentle creaturewhose heart had been repressed up to that hour!

Cosette walked along gravelywith her large eyes wide open
and gazing at the sky. She had put her louis in the pocket of her
new apron. From time to timeshe bent down and glanced at it;
then she looked at the good man. She felt something as though she
were beside the good God.

CHAPTER X

HE WHO SEEKS TO BETTER HIMSELF MAY RENDER HIS SITUATION WORSE

Madame Thenardier had allowed her husband to have his own way
as was her wont. She had expected great results. When the man
and Cosette had taken their departureThenardier allowed a full
quarter of an hour to elapse; then he took her 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-billsthrust them into his pocketand ran
out in all haste; but he made a mistake and turned to the right first.
Some neighborsof whom he made inquiriesput him on the track again;
the Lark and the man had been seen going in the direction of Livry.
He followed these hintswalking with great stridesand talking
to himself the while:-


That man is evidently a million dressed in yellow, and I am an animal.
First he gave twenty sous, then five francs, then fifty francs,
then fifteen hundred francs, all with equal readiness. He would
have given fifteen thousand francs. But I shall overtake him.

And thenthat 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 are sponges of gold;


one must know how to subject them to pressure. 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 before
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. Some passers-by
informed him that the man and child of whom he was in search had
gone towards the forest in the direction of Gagny. He hastened
in that direction.

They were far in advance of him; but a child walks slowly, 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 forehead
like a man who has forgotten some essential point and who is ready
to retrace his steps.

I ought to have taken my gun said he to himself.

Thenardier was one of those double natures which sometimes pass
through our midst without our being aware of the fact, and who
disappear without our finding them out, because destiny 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, Thenardier
possessed all that is required to make--we will not say to be-what
people have agreed to call an honest trader, a good bourgeois.
At the same time certain circumstances 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 the monster. Satan must have occasionally
crouched down in some corner of the hovel in which Thenardier dwelt,
and have fallen a-dreaming in the presence of this hideous masterpiece.

After a momentary hesitation:-


Bah!" he thought; "they will have time to make their escape."

And he pursued his roadwalking rapidly straight aheadand with
almost an air of certaintywith the sagacity of a fox scenting
a covey of partridges.

In truthwhen he had passed the ponds and had traversed in an oblique
direction the large clearing which lies on the right of the Avenue
de Bellevueand reached that turf alley which nearly makes the circuit
of the hilland covers the arch of the ancient aqueduct of the Abbey
of Chelleshe caught sightover the top of the brushwoodof the hat
on which he had already erected so many conjectures; it was that
man's hat. The brushwood was not high. Thenardier recognized the fact
that the man and Cosette were sitting there. The child could not be
seen on account of her small sizebut the head of her doll was visible.

Thenardier 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 to the eyes
of those whom he was in search of.

Pardon, excuse me, sir,he saidquite breathlessbut here
are your fifteen hundred francs.

So sayinghe handed the stranger the three bank-bills.


The man raised his eyes.

What is the meaning of this?

Thenardier replied respectfully:-


It means, sir, that I shall take back Cosette.

Cosette shudderedand pressed close to the old man.

He repliedgazing to the very bottom of Thenardier's eyes the 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 matter.
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 belongs to her mother.
It was her mother who confided her to me; I 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 manwithout making any replyfumbled in his pocketand Thenardier
beheld the pocket-book of bank-bills make its appearance once more.


The tavern-keeper shivered with joy.


Good!thought he; "let us hold firm; he is going to bribe me!"


Before opening the pocket-bookthe 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 more
and drew from itnot the handful of bills which Thenardier expected
but a simple little paperwhich he unfolded and presented fully
open to the inn-keepersaying:--


You are right; read!


Thenardier took the paper and read:--


M. SUR M., March 25, 1823.

MONSIEUR THENARDIER:-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

FANTINE."

You know that signature?resumed the man.

It certainly was Fantine's signature; Thenardier recognized it.

There was no reply to make; he experienced two violent vexations
the vexation of renouncing the bribery which he had hoped for
and the vexation of being beaten; the man added:-


You may keep this paper as your receipt.

Thenardier retreated in tolerably good order.

This signature is fairly well imitated,he growled between his teeth;


however, let it go!

Then he essayed a desperate effort.

It is well, sir,he saidsince you are the person, but I must
be paid for all those little things. A great deal is owing to me.


The man rose to his feetfilliping the dust from his thread-bare sleeve:--


Monsieur Thenardier, in January last, the mother reckoned that she owed
you one hundred and twenty francs. In February, 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 received one hundred francs too much; that makes thirty-five
still owing you. I have just given you fifteen hundred francs.


Thenardier's sensations were those of the wolf at the moment 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.


Monsieur-I-don't-know-your-name,he said resolutelyand this
time casting aside all respectful ceremonyI shall take back
Cosette if you do not give me a thousand crowns.


The stranger said tranquilly:--


Come, Cosette.


He took Cosette by his left handand with his right he picked up
his cudgelwhich was lying on the ground.


Thenardier noted the enormous size of the cudgel and the solitude
of the spot.


The man plunged into the forest with the childleaving the inn-keeper
motionless and speechless.


While they were walking awayThenardier scrutinized his huge shoulders
which were a little roundedand his great fists.


Thenbringing his eyes back to his own personthey fell upon his
feeble arms and his thin hands. "I really must have been exceedingly
stupid not to have thought to bring my gun he said to himself,
since I was going hunting!"


Howeverthe inn-keeper did not give up.


I want to know where he is going,said heand he set out to
follow them at a distance. Two things were left on his hands
an irony in the shape of the paper signed Fantineand a consolation
the fifteen hundred francs.


The man led Cosette off in the direction of Livry and Bondy.
He walked slowlywith drooping headin an attitude of reflection
and sadness. The winter had thinned out the forestso that Thenardier
did not lose them from sightalthough he kept at a good distance.
The man turned round from time to timeand looked to see if he
was being followed. All at once he caught sight of Thenardier.



He plunged suddenly into the brushwood with Cosettewhere they could
both hide themselves. "The deuce!" said Thenardierand he redoubled
his pace.


The thickness of the undergrowth forced him to draw nearer to them.
When the man had reached the densest part of the thicket
he wheeled round. It was in vain that Thenardier sought to conceal
himself in the branches; he could not prevent the man seeing him.
The man cast upon him an uneasy glancethen 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 him with so sombre an air that Thenardier decided
that it was "useless" to proceed further. Thenardier retraced
his steps.


CHAPTER XI


NUMBER 9430 REAPPEARSAND COSETTE WINS IT IN THE LOTTERY


Jean Valjean was not dead.


When he fell into the seaor ratherwhen he threw himself into it
he was not ironedas we have seen. He swam under water until
he reached a vessel at anchorto which a boat was moored.
He found means of hiding himself in this boat until night.
At night he swam off againand reached the shore a little way from
Cape Brun. Thereas he did not lack moneyhe procured clothing.
A small country-house in the neighborhood of Balaguier was at that
time the dressing-room of escaped convicts--a lucrative specialty.
Then Jean Valjeanlike all the sorry fugitives who are seeking to
evade the vigilance of the law and social fatalitypursued an obscure
and undulating itinerary. He found his first refuge at Pradeaux
near Beausset. Then he directed his course towards Grand-Villard
near Brianconin the Hautes-Alpes. It was a fumbling and uneasy flight--
a mole's trackwhose branchings are untraceable. Later onsome trace
of his passage into Ainin the territory of Civrieuxwas discovered;
in the Pyreneesat Accons; at the spot called Grange-de-Doumec
near the market of Chavaillesand in the environs of Perigueux
at Bruniescanton of La Chapelle-Gonaguet. He reached Paris.
We have just seen him at Montfermeil.


His first care on arriving in Paris had been to buy mourning clothes
for a little girl of from seven to eight years of age; then to procure
a lodging. That donehe had betaken himself to Montfermeil.
It will be remembered that alreadyduring his preceding escape
he had made a mysterious trip thitheror somewhere in that neighborhood
of which the law had gathered an inkling.


Howeverhe was thought to be deadand this still further
increased the obscurity which had gathered about him. At Paris
one of the journals which chronicled the fact fell into his hands.
He felt reassured and almost at peaceas though he had really
been dead.


On the evening of the day when Jean Valjean rescued Cosette from
the claws of the Thenardiershe returned to Paris. He re-entered
it at nightfallwith the childby way of the Barrier Monceaux.
There he entered a cabrioletwhich took him to the esplanade
of the Observatoire. There he got outpaid the coachman
took Cosette by the handand together they directed their steps



through the darkness--through the deserted streets which adjoin
the Ourcine and the Glacieretowards the Boulevard de l'Hopital.

The day had been strange and filled with emotions for Cosette.
They had eaten some bread and cheese purchased in isolated taverns
behind hedges; they had changed carriages frequently; they had
travelled short distances on foot. She made no complaintbut she
was wearyand Jean Valjean perceived it by the way she dragged
more and more on his hand as she walked. He took her on his back.
Cosettewithout letting go of Catherinelaid her head on Jean
Valjean's shoulderand there fell asleep.

BOOK FOURTH.--THE GORBEAU HOVEL

CHAPTER I

MASTER GORBEAU

Forty years agoa rambler who had ventured into that unknown
country of the Salpetriereand who had mounted to the Barriere
d'Italie by way of the boulevardreached a point where it might
be said that Paris disappeared. It was no longer solitude
for there were passers-by; it was not the countryfor there were
houses and streets; it was not the cityfor the streets had ruts
like highwaysand the grass grew in them; it was not a village
the houses were too lofty. What was itthen? It was an inhabited
spot where there was no one; it was a desert place where there was
some one; it was a boulevard of the great citya street of Paris;
more wild at night than the forestmore gloomy by day than a cemetery.

It was the old quarter of the Marche-aux-Chevaux.

The ramblerif he risked himself outside the four decrepit walls
of this Marche-aux-Chevaux; if he consented even to pass beyond
the Rue du Petit-Banquierafter leaving on his right a garden
protected by high walls; then a field in which tan-bark mills rose
like gigantic beaver huts; then an enclosure encumbered with timber
with a heap of stumpssawdustand shavingson which stood
a large dogbarking; then a longlowutterly dilapidated wall
with a little black door in mourningladen with mosses
which were covered with flowers in the spring; thenin the most
deserted spota frightful and decrepit buildingon which ran
the inscription in large letters: POST NO BILLS--this daring
rambler would have reached little known latitudes at the corner
of the Rue des Vignes-Saint-Marcel. Therenear a factory
and between two garden wallsthere could be seenat that epoch
a mean buildingwhichat the first glanceseemed as small as a
thatched hoveland which wasin realityas large as a cathedral.
It presented its side and gable to the public road; hence its
apparent diminutiveness. Nearly the whole of the house was hidden.
Only the door and one window could be seen.

This hovel was only one story high.

The first detail that struck the observer wasthat the door could
never have been anything but the door of a hovelwhile the window
if it had been carved out of dressed stone instead of being in
rough masonrymight have been the lattice of a lordly mansion.


The door was nothing but a collection of worm-eaten planks roughly
bound together by cross-beams which resembled roughly hewn logs.
It opened directly on a steep staircase of lofty stepsmuddy
chalkyplaster-staineddusty stepsof the same width as itself
which could be seen from the streetrunning straight up like a
ladder and disappearing in the darkness between two walls. The top
of the shapeless bay into which this door shut was masked by a narrow
scantling in the centre of which a triangular hole had been sawed
which served both as wicket and air-hole when the door was closed.
On the inside of the door the figures 52 had been traced with a
couple of strokes of a brush dipped in inkand above the scantling
the same hand had daubed the number 50so that one hesitated.
Where was one? Above the door it saidNumber 50; the inside replied
no, Number 52.No one knows what dust-colored figures were
suspended like draperies from the triangular opening.


The window was largesufficiently elevatedgarnished with
Venetian blindsand with a frame in large square panes;
only these large panes were suffering from various wounds
which were both concealed and betrayed by an ingenious paper bandage.
And the blindsdislocated and unpastedthreatened passers-by
rather than screened the occupants. The horizontal slats were
missing here and there and had been naively replaced with boards
nailed on perpendicularly; so that what began as a blind ended
as a shutter. This door with an uncleanand this window with
an honest though dilapidated airthus beheld on the same house
produced the effect of two incomplete beggars walking side by side
with different miens beneath the same ragsthe one having
always been a mendicantand the other having once been a gentleman.


The staircase led to a very vast edifice which resembled a shed
which had been converted into a house. This edifice hadfor its
intestinal tubea long corridoron which opened to right and left
sorts of compartments of varied dimensions which were inhabitable
under stress of circumstancesand rather more like stalls than cells.
These chambers received their light from the vague waste grounds
in the neighborhood.


All this was darkdisagreeablewanmelancholysepulchral;
traversed according as the crevices lay in the roof or in the door
by cold rays or by icy winds. An interesting and picturesque
peculiarity of this sort of dwelling is the enormous size of the spiders.


To the left of the entrance dooron the boulevard sideat about
the height of a man from the grounda small window which had been
walled up formed a square niche full 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 days. As a wholeit was not over a hundred years old.
A hundred years is youth in a church and age in a house.
It seems as though man's lodging partook of his 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.


Collectors of petty detailswho become herbalists of anecdotes
and prick slippery dates into their memories with a pin
know that there was in Parisduring the last centuryabout 1770
two attorneys at the Chatelet namedone Corbeau (Raven)the other



Renard (Fox). The two names had been forestalled by La Fontaine.
The opportunity was too fine for the lawyers; they made the most of it.
A parody was immediately put in circulation in the galleries of the
court-housein verses that limped a little:--


Maitre Corbeausur un dossier perche[13]
Tenait dans son bee une saisie executoire;
Maitre Renardpar l'odeur alleche
Lui fit a peu pres cette histoire:
He! bonjour. Etc.

[13] Lawyer Corbeauperched on a docketheld in his beak a writ
of execution; Lawyer Renardattracted by the smelladdressed him
nearly as followsetc.
The two honest practitionersembarrassed by the jestsand finding
the bearing of their heads interfered with by the shouts of laughter
which followed themresolved to get rid of their namesand hit
upon the expedient of applying to the king.

Their petition was presented to Louis XV. on the same day when the
Papal Nuncioon the one handand the Cardinal de la Roche-Aymon on
the otherboth devoutly kneelingwere each engaged in putting on
in his Majesty's presencea slipper on the bare feet of Madame
du Barrywho had just got out of bed. The kingwho was laughing
continued to laughpassed gayly from the two bishops to the two
lawyersand bestowed on these limbs of the law their former names
or nearly so. By the kings commandMaitre Corbeau was permitted
to add a tail to his initial letter and to call himself Gorbeau.
Maitre Renard was less lucky; all he obtained was leave to place a P
in front of his Rand to call himself Prenard; so that the second
name bore almost as much resemblance as the first.

Nowaccording to local traditionthis Maitre Gorbeau had been
the proprietor of the building numbered 50-52 on the Boulevard de
l'Hopital. He was even the author of the monumental window.

Hence the edifice bore the name of the Gorbeau house.

Opposite this houseamong the trees of the boulevardrose a great elm
which was three-quarters dead; almost directly facing it opens the Rue de
la Barriere des Gobelinsa street then without housesunpavedplanted
with unhealthy treeswhich was green or muddy according to the season
and which ended squarely in the exterior wall of Paris. An odor
of copperas issued in puffs from the roofs of the neighboring factory.

The barrier was close at hand. In 1823 the city wall was still
in existence.

This barrier itself evoked gloomy fancies in the mind. It was
the road to Bicetre. It was through it thatunder the Empire
and the Restorationprisoners condemned to death re-entered Paris
on the day of their execution. It was therethatabout 1829
was committed that mysterious assassinationcalled "The assassination
of the Fontainebleau barrier whose authors justice was never able
to discover; a melancholy problem which has never been elucidated,
a frightful enigma which has never been unriddled. Take a few steps,
and you come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe, where Ulbach 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 Barriere Saint-Jacques, that expedient of the philanthropist
to conceal the scaffold, that miserable and shameful Place de Grove


of a shop-keeping and bourgeois society, which recoiled before
the death penalty, neither daring to abolish it with grandeur,
nor to uphold it with authority.

Leaving aside this Place Saint-Jacques, which was, as it were,
predestined, and which has always been horrible, probably the
most mournful spot on that mournful boulevard, seven and thirty
years ago, was the spot which even to-day is so unattractive,
where stood the building Number 50-52.

Bourgeois houses only began to spring up there twenty-five years later.
The place was unpleasant. In addition to the gloomy thoughts which
assailed one there, one was conscious of being between the Salpetriere,
a glimpse of whose dome could be seen, and Bicetre, whose outskirts
one was fairly touching; that is to say, between the madness of women
and the madness of men. As far as the eye could see, one could
perceive nothing but the abattoirs, the city wall, and the fronts of
a few factories, resembling barracks or monasteries; everywhere about
stood hovels, rubbish, ancient walls blackened like cerecloths,
new white walls like winding-sheets; everywhere parallel rows of trees,
buildings erected on a line, flat constructions, long, cold rows,
and the melancholy sadness of right angles. Not an unevenness
of the ground, not a caprice in the architecture, not a fold.
The ensemble was glacial, regular, hideous. Nothing oppresses
the heart like symmetry. It is because symmetry is ennui,
and ennui is at the very foundation of grief. Despair yawns.
Something more terrible than a hell where one suffers may be imagined,
and that is a hell where one is bored. If such a hell existed,
that bit of the Boulevard de l'Hopital might have formed the entrance
to it.

Nevertheless, at nightfall, at the moment when the daylight
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 black lines sink
inwards and are lost in the shades, like morsels of the infinite.
The passer-by cannot refrain from recalling the innumerable
traditions of the place which are connected with 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 that darkness; all the confused forms
of the darkness seemed suspicious, 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 with 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 it, as it does
to-day. Wherever it is placed on the borders of a capital,
a railway station is the death of a suburb and the birth of a city.
It seems as though, around these great centres of the movements
of a people, the earth, full of germs, trembled and yawned, to engulf
the ancient dwellings of men and to allow new ones to spring forth,
at the rattle of these powerful machines, at the breath of these


monstrous horses of civilization which devour coal and vomit fire.
The old houses crumble and new ones rise.

Since the Orleans railway has invaded the region of the Salpetriere,
the ancient, narrow streets which adjoin the moats Saint-Victor
and the Jardin des Plantes tremble, as they are violently traversed
three or four times each day by those currents of coach fiacres
and omnibuses which, in a given time, crowd back the houses
to the right and the left; for there are things which are odd
when said that are rigorously exact; and just as it is true to say
that in large cities the sun makes the southern fronts of houses
to vegetate and grow, it is certain that the frequent passage of
vehicles enlarges streets. The symptoms of a new life are evident.
In this old provincial quarter, in the wildest nooks, the pavement
shows itself, the sidewalks begin to crawl and to grow longer,
even where there are as yet no pedestrians. One morning,--a memorable
morning in July, 1845,--black pots of bitumen were seen smoking there;
on that day it might be said that civilization had arrived in the Rue
de l'Ourcine, and that Paris had entered the suburb of Saint-Marceau.

CHAPTER II

A NEST FOR OWL AND A WARBLER

It was in front of this Gorbeau house that Jean Valjean halted.
Like wild birds, he had chosen this desert place to construct
his nest.

He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, drew out a sort of a pass-key,
opened the door, entered, closed it again carefully, and ascended
the staircase, still carrying Cosette.

At the top of the stairs he drew from his pocket another key,
with which he opened another door. The chamber which he entered,
and which he closed again instantly, was a kind of moderately
spacious attic, furnished with a mattress laid on the floor,
a table, and several chairs; a stove in which a fire was burning,
and whose embers were visible, stood in one corner. A lantern
on the boulevard cast a vague light into this poor room.
At the extreme end there was a dressing-room with a folding bed;
Jean Valjean carried the child to this bed and laid her down there
without waking her.

He struck a match and lighted a candle. All this was prepared
beforehand on the table, and, as he had done on the previous evening,
he began to scrutinize Cosette's face with a gaze full of ecstasy,
in which the expression of kindness and tenderness almost amounted
to aberration. The 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 knowing where she was.

Jean Valjean bent down and kissed that child's hand.

Nine months before he had kissed the hand of the mother, who had
also just fallen asleep.

The same sad, piercing, religious sentiment filled his heart.

He knelt beside Cosette's bed.


lt was broad daylight, and the child still slept. A wan ray
of the December sun penetrated the window of the attic and lay
upon the ceiling in long threads of light and shade. All at 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.


Yesmadame!" cried Cosettewaking with a starthere I am!
here I am!


And she sprang out of bedher eyes still half shut with the heaviness
of sleepextending her arms towards the corner of the wall.


Ah! mon Dieu, my broom!said she.


She opened her eyes wide nowand beheld the smiling countenance
of Jean Valjean.


Ah! so it is true!said the child. "Good morningMonsieur."


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 herandas she playedshe put a hundred
questions to Jean Valjean. Where was she? Was Paris very large?
Was Madame Thenardier very far away? Was she to go back? etc.etc.
All at once she exclaimedHow pretty it is here!


It was a frightful holebut she felt free.


Must I sweep?she resumed at last.


Play!said Jean Valjean.


The day passed thus. Cosettewithout troubling herself to understand
anythingwas inexpressibly happy with that doll and that kind man.


CHAPTER III


TWO MISFORTUNES MAKE ONE PIECE OF GOOD FORTUNE


On the following morningat daybreakJean Valjean was still by
Cosette's bedside; he watched there motionlesswaiting for her to wake.


Some new thing had come into his soul.


Jean Valjean had never loved anything; for twenty-five years he had been
alone in the world. He had never been fatherloverhusbandfriend.
In the prison he had been viciousgloomychasteignorant
and shy. The heart of that ex-convict was full of virginity.
His sister and his sister's children had left him only a vague
and far-off memory which had finally almost completely vanished;
he had made every effort to find themand not having been able
to find themhe had forgotten them. Human nature is made thus;
the other tender emotions of his youthif he had ever had any
had fallen into an abyss.


When he saw Cosettewhen he had taken possession of her
carried her offand delivered herhe felt his heart moved within him.



All the passion and affection within him awokeand rushed towards
that child. He approached the bedwhere 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 very sweet thing.


Poor old manwith a perfectly new heart!


Onlyas he was five and fiftyand Cosette eight years of age
all that might have been love in the whole course of his life flowed
together into a sort of ineffable light.


It was the second white apparition which he had encountered.
The Bishop had caused the dawn of virtue to rise on his horizon;
Cosette caused the dawn of love to rise.


The early days passed in this dazzled state.


Cosetteon her sidehad alsounknown to herselfbecome another
beingpoor little thing! She was so little when her mother
left herthat she no longer remembered her. Like all children
who resemble young shoots of the vinewhich cling to everything
she had tried to love; she had not succeeded. All had repulsed her--
the Thenardierstheir childrenother children. She had loved the dog
and he had diedafter which nothing and nobody would have anything
to do with her. It is a sad thing to sayand we have already
intimated itthatat eight years of ageher heart was cold.
It was not her fault; it was not the faculty of loving that she lacked;
alas! it was the possibility. Thusfrom the very first day
all her sentient 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 or poor;
she thought Jean Valjean handsomejust as she thought the hovel pretty.


These are the effects of the dawnof childhoodof joy. The novelty
of the earth and of life counts for something here. Nothing is
so charming as the coloring reflection of happiness on a garret.
We all have in our past a delightful garret.


Naturea difference of fifty yearshad set a profound gulf
between Jean Valjean and Cosette; destiny filled in this gulf.
Destiny suddenly united and wedded with its irresistible power
these two uprooted existencesdiffering in agealike in sorrow.
Onein factcompleted the other. Cosette's instinct sought a father
as Jean Valjean's instinct 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 perceived each other
they recognized each other as necessary to each otherand embraced
each other closely.


Taking the words in their most comprehensive and absolute sense
we may say thatseparated from every one by the walls of the tomb
Jean Valjean was the widowerand Cosette was the orphan:
this situation caused Jean Valjean to become Cosette's father after
a celestial fashion.


And in truththe mysterious impression produced on Cosette in
the depths of the forest of Chelles by the hand of Jean Valjean
grasping hers in the dark was not an illusionbut a reality.
The entrance of that man into the destiny of that child had been
the advent of God.


MoreoverJean Valjean had chosen his refuge well. There he seemed



perfectly secure.

The chamber with a dressing-roomwhich he occupied with Cosette
was the one whose window opened on the boulevard. This being the
only window in the houseno neighbors' glances were to be feared
from across the way or at the side.

The ground-floor of Number 50-52a sort of dilapidated penthouse
served as a wagon-house for market-gardenersand no communication
existed between it and the first story. It was separated by
the flooringwhich had neither traps nor stairsand which formed
the diaphragm of the buildingas it were. The first story contained
as we have saidnumerous chambers and several atticsonly one
of which was occupied by the old woman who took charge of Jean
Valjean's housekeeping; all the rest was uninhabited.

It was this old womanornamented with the name of the principal
lodgerand in reality intrusted with the functions 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 bondswho was coming there to live with his little daughter.
He had paid her six months in advanceand had commissioned the old
woman to furnish the chamber and dressing-roomas 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 laughedchatteredand sang from daybreak. Children have
their morning song as well as birds.

It sometimes happened that Jean Valjean clasped her tiny red hand
all cracked with chilblainsand kissed it. The poor child
who was used to being beatendid not know the meaning of this
and ran away in confusion.

At times she became serious and stared at her little black gown.
Cosette was no longer in rags; she was in mourning. She had emerged
from miseryand she was entering into life.

Jean Valjean had undertaken to teach her to read. Sometimesas he
made the child spellhe 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 the ex-convict smiled
with the pensive smile of the angels.

He felt in it a premeditation from on highthe will of some one
who was not manand he became absorbed in revery. Good thoughts
have their abysses as well as evil ones.

To teach Cosette to readand to let her playthis constituted
nearly the whole of Jean Valjean's existence. And then he talked
of her motherand he made her pray.

She called him fatherand knew no other name for him.

He passed hours in watching her dressing and undressing her doll
and in listening to her prattle. Lifehenceforthappeared 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 be a very old mannow that this child loved him.
He saw a whole future stretching out before himilluminated by
Cosette as by a charming light. The best of us are not exempt from
egotistical thoughts. At timeshe reflected with a sort of joy


that she would be ugly.


This is only a personal opinion; butto utter our whole thought
at the point where Jean Valjean had arrived when he began to love Cosette
it is by no means clear to us that he did not need this encouragement
in order that he might persevere in well-doing. He had just viewed
the malice of men and the misery of society under a new aspect--
incomplete aspectswhich unfortunately only exhibited one side
of the truththe fate of woman as summed up in Fantineand 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 eclipsethough sure to reappear
later on luminous and triumphant; butafter allthat sacred
memory was growing dim. Who knows whether Jean Valjean had not
been on the eve of growing discouraged and of falling once more?
He loved and grew strong again. Alas! he walked with no less
indecision than Cosette. He protected herand she strengthened him.
Thanks to himshe could walk through life; thanks to her
he could continue in virtue. He was that child's stayand she
was his prop. Ohunfathomable and divine mystery of the balances
of destiny!


CHAPTER IV


THE REMARKS OF THE PRINCIPAL TENANT


Jean Valjean was prudent enough never to go out by day.
Every eveningat twilighthe walked for an hour or two
sometimes aloneoften with Cosetteseeking the most deserted
side alleys of the boulevardand entering churches at nightfall.
He liked to go to Saint-Medardwhich is the nearest church.
When he did not take Cosette with himshe remained with the old woman;
but the child's delight was to go out with the good man. She preferred
an hour with him to all her rapturous tete-a-tetes with Catherine.
He held her hand as they walkedand said sweet things to her.


It turned out that Cosette was a very gay little person.


The old woman attended to the housekeeping and cooking and went
to market.


They lived soberlyalways having a little firebut like people
in very moderate circumstances. Jean Valjean had made no alterations
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.


He still wore his yellow coathis black breechesand his old hat.
In the streethe was taken for a poor man. It sometimes happened
that kind-hearted women turned back to bestow a sou on him.
Jean Valjean accepted the sou with a deep bow. It also happened
occasionally that he encountered some poor wretch asking alms;
then he looked behind him to make sure that no one was observing him
stealthily approached the unfortunate manput a piece of money
into his handoften a silver coinand walked rapidly away.
This had its disadvantages. He began to be known in the neighborhood
under the name of the beggar who gives alms.


The old principal lodgera cross-looking creaturewho was
thoroughly permeatedso far as her neighbors were concernedwith the
inquisitiveness peculiar to envious personsscrutinized Jean Valjean



a great dealwithout his suspecting the fact. She was a little deaf
which rendered her talkative. There remained to her from her past
two teeth--one abovethe other below--which she was continually
knocking against each other. She had questioned Cosettewho had
not been able to tell her anythingsince she knew nothing herself
except that she had come from Montfermeil. One morningthis spy saw
Jean Valjeanwith an air which struck the old gossip as peculiar
entering one of the uninhabited compartments of the hovel.
She followed him with the step of an old catand was able to observe
him without being seenthrough a crack in the doorwhich was directly
opposite him. Jean Valjean had his back turned towards this door
by way of greater securityno doubt. The old woman saw him fumble
in his pocket and draw thence a casescissorsand thread; then he
began to rip the lining of one of the skirts of his coatand from
the opening he took a bit of yellowish paperwhich he unfolded.
The old woman recognizedwith terrorthe fact that it was
a bank-bill for a thousand francs. It was the second or third
only that she had seen in the course of her existence. She fled in alarm.


A moment laterJean Valjean accosted herand asked her to go
and get this thousand-franc bill changed for himadding that it
was his quarterly incomewhich he had received the day before.
Where?thought the old woman. "He did not go out until six
o'clock in the eveningand the government bank certainly is not
open at that hour." The old woman went to get the bill changed
and mentioned her surmises. That thousand-franc notecommented on
and multipliedproduced a vast amount of terrified discussion among
the gossips of the Rue des Vignes Saint-Marcel.


A few days laterit chanced that Jean Valjean was sawing some wood
in his shirt-sleevesin the corridor. The old woman was in the chamber
putting things in order. She was alone. Cosette was occupied
in admiring the wood as it was sawed. The old woman caught sight
of the coat hanging on a nailand examined it. The lining had been
sewed up again. The good woman felt of it carefullyand thought
she observed in the skirts and revers thicknesses of paper.
More thousand-franc bank-billsno doubt!


She also noticed that there were all sorts of things in the pockets.
Not only the needlesthreadand scissors which she had seenbut a
big pocket-booka very large knifeand--a suspicious circumstance--
several wigs of various colors. Each pocket of this coat had the air
of being in a manner provided against unexpected accidents.


Thus the inhabitants of the house reached the last days of winter.


CHAPTER V


A FIVE-FRANC PIECE FALLS ON THE GROUND AND PRODUCES A TUMULT


Near Saint-Medard's church there was a poor man who was in the habit
of crouching on the brink of a public well which had been condemned
and on whom Jean Valjean was fond of bestowing charity. He never passed
this man without giving him a few sous. Sometimes he spoke to him.
Those who envied this mendicant said that he belonged to the police.
He was an ex-beadle of seventy-fivewho was constantly mumbling
his prayers.


One eveningas Jean Valjean was passing bywhen he had not Cosette
with himhe saw the beggar in his usual placebeneath the lantern



which had just been lighted. The man seemed engaged in prayer
according to his customand was much bent over. Jean Valjean
stepped up to him and placed his customary alms in his hand.
The mendicant raised his eyes suddenlystared intently at
Jean Valjeanthen dropped his head quickly. This movement was
like a flash of lightning. Jean Valjean was seized with a shudder.
It seemed to him that he had just caught sightby the light
of the street lanternnot of the placid and beaming visage
of the old beadlebut of a well-known and startling face.
He experienced the same impression that one would have on finding
one's selfall of a suddenface to facein the darkwith a tiger.
He recoiledterrifiedpetrifieddaring neither to breathe
to speakto remainnor to fleestaring at the beggar who had
dropped his headwhich was enveloped in a ragand no longer appeared
to know that he was there. At this strange momentan instinct--
possibly the mysterious instinct of self-preservation--restrained
Jean Valjean from uttering a word. The beggar had the same figure
the same ragsthe same appearance as he had every day. "Bah!" said
Jean ValjeanI am mad! I am dreaming! Impossible!And he
returned profoundly troubled.


He hardly dared to confesseven to himselfthat the face which he
thought he had seen was the face of Javert.


That nighton thinking the matter overhe regretted not having
questioned the manin order to force him to raise his head
a second time.


On the following dayat nightfallhe went back. The beggar was at
his post. "Good daymy good man said Jean Valjean, resolutely,
handing him a sou. The beggar raised his head, and replied in
a whining voice, Thanksmy good sir." It was unmistakably the ex-beadle.


Jean Valjean felt completely reassured. He began to laugh.
How the deuce could I have thought that I saw Javert there?
he thought. "Am I going to lose my eyesight now?" And he thought
no more about it.


A few days afterwards--it might have been at eight o'clock in
the evening--he was in his roomand engaged in making Cosette
spell aloudwhen he heard the house door open and then shut again.
This struck him as singular. The old womanwho was the only inhabitant
of the house except himselfalways went to bed at nightfall
so that she might not burn out her candles. Jean Valjean made a sign
to Cosette to be quiet. He heard some one ascending the stairs.
It might possibly be the old womanwho might have fallen ill
and have been out to the apothecary's. Jean Valjean listened.


The step was heavyand sounded like that of a man; but the old woman
wore stout shoesand there is nothing which so strongly resembles
the step of a man as that of an old woman. NeverthelessJean Valjean
blew out his candle.


He had sent Cosette to bedsaying to her in a low voiceGet into
bed very softly; and as he kissed her browthe steps paused.


Jean Valjean remained silentmotionlesswith his back towards
the doorseated on the chair from which he had not stirred
and holding his breath in the dark.


After the expiration of a rather long intervalhe turned round
as he heard nothing moreandas he raised his eyes towards the door
of his chamberhe saw a light through the keyhole. This light formed
a sort of sinister star in the blackness of the door and the wall.



There was evidently some one therewho was holding a candle in his
hand and listening.

Several minutes elapsed thusand the light retreated. But he heard
no sound of footstepswhich seemed to indicate that the person
who had been listening at the door had removed his shoes.

Jean Valjean threw himselfall dressed as he wason his bed
and could not close his eyes all night.

At daybreakjust as he was falling into a doze through fatigue
he was awakened by the creaking of a door which opened on some
attic at the end of the corridorthen he heard the same masculine
footstep which had ascended the stairs on the preceding evening.
The step was approaching. He sprang off the bed and applied his eye
to the keyholewhich was tolerably largehoping to see the person
who had made his way by night into the house and had listened at
his dooras he passed. It was a manin factwho passedthis time
without pausingin front of Jean Valjean's chamber. The corridor
was too dark to allow of the person's face being distinguished;
but when the man reached the staircasea ray of light from without
made it stand out like a silhouetteand Jean Valjean had a complete
view of his back. The man was of lofty statureclad in a long
frock-coatwith 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 boulevardbut he would have been
obliged to open the window: he dared not.

It was evident that this man had entered with a keyand like himself.
Who had given him that key? What was the meaning of this?

When the old woman came to do the workat seven o'clock
in the morningJean Valjean cast a penetrating glance on her
but he did not question her. The good woman appeared as usual.

As she swept up she remarked to him:-


Possibly Monsieur may have heard some one come in last night?

At that ageand on that boulevardeight o'clock in the evening
was the dead of the night.

That is true, by the way,he repliedin the most natural
tone possible. "Who was it?"

It was a new lodger who has come into the house,said the old woman.

And what is his name?

I don't know exactly; Dumont, or Daumont, or some name of that sort.

And who is this Monsieur Dumont?

The old woman gazed at him with her little polecat eyesand answered:-


A gentleman of property, like yourself.

Perhaps she had no ulterior meaning. Jean Valjean thought he
perceived one.

When the old woman had taken her departurehe did up a hundred francs
which he had in a cupboardinto a rolland put it in his pocket.


In spite of all the precautions which he took in this operation
so that he might not be heard rattling silvera hundred-sou piece
escaped from his hands and rolled noisily on the floor.


When darkness came onhe descended and carefully scrutinized 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 handand they both went out.


BOOK FIFTH.--FOR A BLACK HUNTA MUTE PACK


CHAPTER I


THE ZIGZAGS OF STRATEGY


An observation here becomes necessaryin view of the pages
which the reader is about to peruseand of others which will
be met with further on.


The author of this bookwho regrets the necessity of mentioning himself
has been absent from Paris for many years. Paris has been transformed
since he quitted it. A new city has arisenwhich isafter 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 reconstructionsthe Paris of his youththat Paris which he bore
away religiously in his memoryis now a Paris of days gone by.
He must be permitted to speak of that Paris as though it still existed.
It is possible that when the author conducts his readers to a spot
and saysIn such a street there stands such and such a house,
neither street nor house will any longer exist in that locality.
Readers may verify the facts if they care to take the trouble.
For his own parthe is unacquainted with the new Parisand 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 which he beheld when he was
in his own countryand that all has not vanished. So long as you
go and come in your native landyou imagine that those streets are
a matter of indifference to you; that those windowsthose roofs
and those doors are nothing to you; that those walls are strangers
to you; that those trees are merely the first encountered haphazard;
that those houseswhich you do not enterare useless to you;
that the pavements which you tread are merely stones. Later on
when you are no longer thereyou perceive that the streets are dear
to you; that you miss those roofsthose doors; and that those
walls are necessary to youthose trees are well beloved by you;
that you entered those houses which you never enteredevery day
and that you have left a part of your heartof your blood
of your soulin those pavements. All those places which you
no longer beholdwhich you may never behold againperchance
and whose memory you have cherishedtake on a melancholy charm
recur to your mind with the melancholy of an apparitionmake the holy
land visible to youand areso to speakthe very form of France
and you love them; and you call them up as they areas they were
and you persist in thisand you will submit to no change:



for you are attached to the figure of your fatherland as to the face
of your mother.


May wethenbe permitted to speak of the past in the present?
That saidwe beg the reader to take note of itand we continue.


Jean Valjean instantly quitted the boulevard and plunged into
the streetstaking the most intricate lines which he could devise
returning on his track at timesto make sure that he was not
being followed.


This manoeuvre is peculiar to the hunted stag. On soil where
an imprint of the track may be leftthis manoeuvre possesses
among other advantagesthat of deceiving the huntsmen and the dogs
by throwing them on the wrong scent. In venery this is called
false re-imbushment.


The moon was full that night. Jean Valjean was not sorry for this.
The moonstill very close to the horizoncast great masses of light
and shadow in the streets. Jean Valjean could glide along close
to the houses on the dark sideand yet keep watch on the light side.
He did notperhapstake sufficiently into consideration the fact
that the dark side escaped him. Stillin the deserted lanes which
lie near the Rue Poliveauhe thought he felt certain that no one
was following him.


Cosette walked on without asking any questions. The sufferings
of the first six years of her life had instilled something passive
into her nature. Moreover--and this is a remark to which we
shall frequently have occasion to recur--she had grown used
without being herself aware of itto the peculiarities of this
good man and to the freaks of destiny. And then she was with him
and she felt safe.


Jean Valjean knew no more where he was going than did Cosette.
He trusted in Godas she trusted in him. It seemed as though he
also were clinging to the hand of some one greater than himself;
he thought he felt a being leading himthough invisible.
Howeverhe had no settled ideano planno project. He was not
even absolutely sure that it was Javertand then it might have
been Javertwithout Javert knowing that he was Jean Valjean. Was not
he disguised? Was not he believed to be dead? Stillqueer things
had been going on for several days. He wanted no more of them.
He was determined not to return to the Gorbeau house. Like the wild
animal chased from its lairhe was seeking a hole in which he
might hide until he could find one where he might dwell.


Jean Valjean described many and varied labyrinths in the Mouffetard
quarterwhich was already asleepas though the discipline
of the Middle Ages and the yoke of the curfew still existed;
he combined in various mannerswith cunning strategythe Rue
Censier and the Rue Copeauthe Rue du Battoir-Saint-Victor and the
Rue du Puits l'Ermite. There are lodging houses in this locality
but he did not even enter onefinding nothing which suited him.
He had no doubt that if any one had chanced to be upon his track
they would have lost it.


As eleven o'clock struck from Saint-Etienne-du-Monthe was
traversing the Rue de Pontoisein front of the office of the
commissary of policesituated at No. 14. A few moments later
the instinct of which we have spoken above made him turn round.
At that moment he saw distinctlythanks to the commissary's lantern
which betrayed themthree men who were following him closelypass
one after the otherunder that lanternon 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.

Come, child,he said to Cosette; and he made haste to quit
the Rue Pontoise.

He took a circuitturned into the Passage des Patriarches
which was closed on account of the hourstrode along the Rue de
l'Epee-de-Bois and the Rue de l'Arbaleteand plunged into the Rue
des Postes.

At that time there was a square formed by the intersection
of streetswhere the College Rollin stands to-day
and where the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve turns off.

It is understoodof coursethat the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve
is an old streetand that a posting-chaise does not pass through
the Rue des Postes once in ten years. In the thirteenth century
this Rue des Postes was inhabited by pottersand its real name
is Rue des Pots.

The moon cast a livid light into this open space. Jean Valjean
went into ambush in a doorwaycalculating that if the men were
still following himhe could not fail to get a good look at them
as they traversed this illuminated space.

In point of factthree minutes had not elapsed when the men made
their appearance. There were four of them now. All were tall
dressed in longbrown coatswith round hatsand 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 pronounced them four spectres disguised as bourgeois.

They halted in the middle of the space and formed a grouplike men
in consultation. They had an air of indecision. The one who appeared
to be their leader turned round and pointed hastily with his right
hand in the direction which Jean Valjean had taken; another seemed
to indicate the contrary direction with considerable obstinacy.
At the moment when the first man wheeled roundthe moon fell full
in his face. Jean Valjean recognized Javert perfectly.

CHAPTER II

IT IS LUCKY THAT THE PONT D'AUSTERLITZ BEARS CARRIAGES

Uncertainty 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 thembut gained for him. He slipped from
under the gate where he had concealed himselfand went down the Rue
des Postestowards the region of the Jardin des Plantes. Cosette was
beginning to be tired. He took her in his arms and carried her.
There were no passers-byand the street lanterns had not been
lighted on account of there being a moon.

He redoubled his pace.

In a few strides he had reached the Goblet potterieson the front of
which the moonlight rendered distinctly legible the ancient inscription:-


De Goblet fils c'est ici la fabrique;[14]


Venez choisir des cruches et des broos
Des pots a fleursdes tuyauxde la brique.
A tout venant le Coeur vend des Carreaux.

[14] This is the factory of Goblet Junior:
Come choose your jugs and crocks
Flower-potspipesbricks.
The Heart sells Diamonds to every comer.
He left behind him the Rue de la Clefthen the Fountain Saint-Victor
skirted the Jardin des Plantes by the lower streetsand reached
the quay. There he turned round. The quay was deserted. The streets
were deserted. There was no one behind 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 sou.

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 paidvexed that his passage should have aroused remark.
Every flight should be an imperceptible slipping away.

A heavy cart was crossing the Seine at the same time as himself
and on its waylike himto the right bank. This was of use to him.
He could traverse the bridge in the shadow of the cart.

Towards the middle of the BridgeCosettewhose feet were benumbed
wanted to walk. He set her on the ground and took her hand again.

The bridge once crossedhe 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 scentand Jean Valjean believed
himself to be out of danger. Huntedyes; followedno.

A little streetthe Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoineopened 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

From the point where he stood he could see the whole extent
of the Pont d'Austerlitz.

Four shadows were just entering on the bridge.

These shadows had their backs turned to the Jardin des 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 recaptured.

One hope remained to him; it wasthat the men had notperhaps
stepped on the bridgeand had not caught sight of him while he
was crossing the large illuminated spaceholding Cosette by the hand.

In that caseby plunging into the little street before him


he might escapeif he could reach the timber-yardsthe marshes
the market-gardensthe uninhabited ground which was not built upon.


It seemed to him that he might commit himself to that silent
little street. He entered it.


CHAPTER III


TO WITTHE PLAN OF PARIS IN 1727


Three hundred paces further onhe arrived at a point where
the street forked. It separated into two streetswhich ran
in a slanting lineone to the rightand 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 hesitatebut took
the one on the right.


Why?


Because that to the left ran towards a suburbthat is to say
towards inhabited regionsand the right branch towards the open country
that is to saytowards deserted regions.


Howeverthey 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 care 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 roundhe thought he perceived in the portion of the
street which he had just passed throughfar off in the obscurity
something which was moving.


He rushed forward precipitately rather than walkedhoping to find
some side-streetto make his escape through itand thus to break
his scent once more.


He arrived at a wall.


This wallhoweverdid not absolutely prevent further progress;
it was a wall which bordered a transverse streetin which the one he
had taken ended.


Here againhe 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 prolonged
between buildings which were either sheds or barnsthen ended at a
blind alley. The extremity of the cul-de-sac was distinctly visible--
a lofty white wall.


He glanced to the left. On that side the lane was open
and about two hundred paces further onran into a street
of which it was the affluent. On that side lay safety.



At the moment when Jean Valjean 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 motionlessblack statue at the corner of the
lane and the street towards which he was on the point of directing
his steps.


It was some onea manwho had evidently just been posted there
and who was barring the passage and waiting.


Jean Valjean recoiled.


The point of Paris where Jean Valjean found himselfsituated
between the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and la Rapeeis one of those
which recent improvements have transformed from top to bottom--
resulting in disfigurement according to someand in a transfiguration
according to others. The market-gardensthe timber-yardsand
the old buildings have been effaced. To-daythere are brand-new
wide streetsarenascircuseshippodromesrailway stationsand
a prisonMazasthere; progressas the reader seeswith its antidote.


Half a century agoin that ordinarypopular tonguewhich is all
compounded of traditionswhich persists in calling the Institut
les Quatre-Nationsand the Opera-Comique Feydeauthe precise
spot whither Jean Valjean had arrived was called le Petit Picpus.
The Porte Saint-Jacquesthe Porte Paristhe Barriere des Sergents
the Porcheronsla Galioteles Celestinsles Capucinsle Mail
la Bourbel'Arbre de Cracoviela 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-Picpuswhichmoreoverhardly ever had any existence
and never was more than the outline of a quarterhad nearly the
monkish aspect of a Spanish town. The roads were not much paved;
the streets were not much built up. With the exception of the two
or three streetsof which we shall presently speakall was wall
and solitude there. Not a shopnot a vehiclehardly a candle
lighted here and there in the windows; all lights extinguished
after ten o'clock. Gardensconventstimber-yardsmarshes;
occasional lowly dwellings and great walls as high as the houses.


Such was this quarter in the last century. The Revolution snubbed
it soundly. The republican government demolished and cut through it.
Rubbish shoots were established there. Thirty years agothis quarter
was disappearing under the erasing process of new buildings.
To-dayit has been utterly blotted out. The Petit-Picpus
of which no existing plan has preserved a traceis indicated
with sufficient clearness in the plan of 1727published at Paris
by Denis ThierryRue Saint-Jacquesopposite the Rue du Platre;
and at Lyonsby Jean GirinRue Merciereat the sign of Prudence.
Petit-Picpus hadas we have just mentioneda Y of streets
formed by the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoinewhich spread
out in two branchestaking on the left the name of Little
Picpus Streetand on the right the name of the Rue Polonceau.
The two limbs of the Y 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 onand ascended towards the Lenoir market.
A person coming from the Seine reached the extremity of the
Rue Polonceauand had on his right the Rue Droit-Murturning
abruptly at a right anglein front of him the wall of that street
and on his right a truncated prolongation of the Rue Droit-Murwhich
had no issue and was called the Cul-de-Sac Genrot.


It was here that Jean Valjean stood.



As we have just saidon catching sight of that black silhouette
standing on guard at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur and the Rue
Petit-Picpushe 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 perceived
in movement an instant beforein the distant darknesswas Javert
and his squad without a doubt. Javert was probably already at
the commencement of the street at whose end Jean Valjean stood.
Javertto all appearanceswas acquainted with this little labyrinth
and had taken his precautions by sending one of his men to guard
the exit. These surmiseswhich so closely resembled proofs
whirled suddenlylike a handful of dust caught up by an
unexpected gust of windthrough Jean Valjean's mournful brain.
He examined the Cul-de-Sac Genrot; there he was cut off.
He examined the Rue Petit-Picpus; there stood a sentinel. He saw
that black form standing out in relief against the white pavement
illuminated by the moon; to advance was to fall into this man's hands;
to retreat was to fling himself into Javert's arms. Jean Valjean
felt himself caughtas in a netwhich was slowly contracting;
he gazed heavenward in despair.


CHAPTER IV


THE GROPINGS OF FLIGHT


In order to understand what followsit is requisite to form an
exact idea of the Droit-Mur laneandin particularof the angle
which one leaves on the left when one emerges from the Rue Polonceau
into this lane. Droit-Mur lane was almost entirely bordered on
the rightas far as the Rue Petit-Picpusby houses of mean aspect;
on the left by a solitary building of severe outlinescomposed of
numerous parts which grew gradually higher by a story or two as
they approached the Rue Petit-Picpus side; so that this building
which was very lofty on the Rue Petit-Picpus sidewas tolerably low
on the side adjoining the Rue Polonceau. Thereat the angle of
which we have spokenit descended to such a degree that it consisted
of merely a wall. This wall did not abut directly on the Street;
it formed a deeply retreating nicheconcealed by its two corners
from two observers who might have beenone in the Rue Polonceau
the other in the Rue Droit-Mur.


Beginning with these angles of the nichethe wall extended along
the Rue Polonceau as far as a house which bore the number 49
and along the Rue Droit-Murwhere the fragment was much shorter
as far as the gloomy building which we have mentioned and whose gable
it intersectedthus forming another retreating angle in the street.
This gable was sombre of aspect; only one window was visibleor
to speak more correctlytwo shutters covered with a sheet of zinc
and kept constantly closed.


The state of the places of which we are here giving a description
is rigorously exactand will certainly awaken a very precise
memory in the mind of old inhabitants of the quarter.


The niche was entirely filled by a thing which resembled a
colossal and wretched door; it was a vastformless assemblage
of perpendicular planksthe upper ones being broader than
the lowerbound together by long transverse strips of iron.



At one side there was a carriage gate of the ordinary dimensions
and which had evidently not been cut more than fifty years previously.


A linden-tree showed its crest above the nicheand the wall was
covered with ivy on the side of the Rue Polonceau.


In the imminent peril in which Jean Valjean found himself
this sombre building had about it a solitary and uninhabited look
which tempted him. He ran his eyes rapidly over it; he said to himself
that if he could contrive to get inside ithe might save himself.
First he conceived an ideathen a hope.


In the central portion of the front of this buildingon the Rue
Droit-Mur sidethere were at all the windows of the different
stories ancient cistern pipes of lead. The various branches of the
pipes which led from one central pipe to all these little basins
sketched out a sort of tree on the front. These ramifications
of pipes with their hundred elbows imitated those old leafless
vine-stocks which writhe over the fronts of old farm-houses.


This odd espalierwith its branches of lead and ironwas the
first thing that struck Jean Valjean. He seated Cosette with
her back against a stone postwith an injunction to be silent
and ran to the spot where the conduit touched the pavement.
Perhaps there was some way of climbing up by it and entering the house.
But the pipe was dilapidated and past serviceand hardly hung to
its fastenings. Moreoverall the windows of this silent dwelling
were grated with heavy iron barseven the attic windows in the roof.
And thenthe moon fell full upon that facadeand the man who was
watching at the corner of the street would have seen Jean Valjean in
the act of climbing. And finallywhat was to be done with Cosette?
How was she to be drawn up to the top of a three-story house?


He gave up all idea of climbing by means of the drain-pipe
and crawled along the wall to get back into the Rue Polonceau.


When he reached the slant of the wall where he had left Cosette
he noticed that no one could see him there. As we have just explained
he was concealed from all eyesno matter from which direction
they were approaching; besides thishe was in the shadow.
Finallythere were two doors; perhaps they might be forced.
The wall above which he saw the linden-tree and the ivy evidently
abutted on a garden where he couldat leasthide himself
although there were as yet no leaves on the treesand spend
the remainder of the night.


Time was passing; he must act quickly.


He felt over the carriage doorand immediately recognized the fact
that it was impracticable outside and in.


He approached the other door with more hope; it was frightfully decrepit;
its very immensity rendered it less solid; the planks were rotten;
the iron bands--there were only three of them--were rusted. It seemed
as though it might be possible to pierce this worm-eaten barrier.


On examining it he found that the door was not a door; it had
neither hingescross-barslocknor fissure in the middle;
the iron bands traversed it from side to side without any break.
Through the crevices in the planks he caught a view of unhewn slabs
and blocks of stone roughly cemented togetherwhich passers-by
might still have seen there ten years ago. He was forced to
acknowledge with consternation that this apparent door was simply
the wooden decoration of a building against which it was placed.



It was easy to tear off a plank; but thenone found one's self face
to face with a wall.


CHAPTER V


WHICH WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE WITH GAS LANTERNS


At that moment a heavy and measured sound began to be audible
at some distance. Jean Valjean risked a glance round the corner
of the street. Seven or eight soldiersdrawn up in a platoon
had just debouched into the Rue Polonceau. He saw the gleam of
their bayonets. They were advancing towards him; these soldiers
at whose head he distinguished Javert's tall figureadvanced slowly
and cautiously. They halted frequently; it was plain that they
were searching all the nooks of the walls and all the embrasures
of the doors and alleys.


This was some patrol that Javert had encountered--there could
be no mistake as to this surmise--and whose aid he had demanded.


Javert's two acolytes were marching in their ranks.


At the rate at which they were marchingand in consideration
of the halts which they were makingit would take them about
a quarter of an hour to reach the spot where Jean Valjean stood.
It was a frightful moment. A few minutes only separated Jean
Valjean from that terrible precipice which yawned before him for
the third time. And the galleys now meant not only the galleys
but Cosette lost to him forever; that is to saya life resembling
the interior of a tomb.


There was but one thing which was possible.


Jean Valjean had this peculiaritythat he carriedas one might say
two beggar's pouches: in one he kept his saintly thoughts;
in the other the redoubtable talents of a convict. He rummaged
in the one or the otheraccording to circumstances.


Among his other resourcesthanks to his numerous escapes
from the prison at Toulonhe wasas it will be remembered
a past master in the incredible art of crawling up without
ladder or climbing-ironsby sheer muscular forceby leaning
on the nape of his neckhis shouldershis hipsand his knees
by helping himself on the rare projections of the stonein the
right angle of a wallas high as the sixth storyif need be;
an art which has rendered so celebrated and so alarming that corner
of the wall of the Conciergerie of Paris by which Battemolle
condemned to deathmade his escape twenty years ago.


Jean Valjean measured with his eyes the wall above which he espied
the linden; it was about eighteen feet in height. The angle
which it formed with the gable of the large building was filled
at its lower extremityby a mass of masonry of a triangular shape
probably intended to preserve that too convenient corner from
the rubbish of those dirty creatures called the passers-by. This
practice of filling up corners of the wall is much in use in Paris.


This mass was about five feet in height; the space above the summit
of this mass which it was necessary to climb was not more than
fourteen feet.



The wall was surmounted by a flat stone without a coping.


Cosette was the difficultyfor she did not know how to climb a wall.
Should he abandon her? Jean Valjean did not once think of that.
It was impossible to carry her. A man's whole strength is required
to successfully carry out these singular ascents. The least burden
would disturb his centre of gravity and pull him downwards.


A rope would have been required; Jean Valjean had none. Where was he to
get a rope at midnightin the Rue Polonceau? Certainlyif Jean Valjean
had had a kingdomhe would have given it for a rope at that moment.


All extreme situations have their lightning flashes which
sometimes dazzlesometimes illuminate us.


Jean Valjean's despairing glance fell on the street lantern-post
of the blind alley Genrot.


At that epoch there were no gas-jets in the streets of Paris.
At nightfall lanterns placed at regular distances were lighted;
they were ascended and descended by means of a ropewhich traversed
the street from side to sideand was adjusted in a groove of the post.
The pulley over which this rope ran was fastened underneath the lantern
in a little iron boxthe key to which was kept by the lamp-lighter
and the rope itself was protected by a metal case.


Jean Valjeanwith the energy of a supreme strugglecrossed the
street at one boundentered the blind alleybroke the latch of
the little box with the point of his knifeand an instant later he
was beside Cosette once more. He had a rope. These gloomy inventors
of expedients work rapidly when they are fighting against fatality.


We have already explained that the lanterns had not been lighted
that night. The lantern in the Cul-de-Sac Genrot was thus
naturally extinctlike the rest; and one could pass directly
under it without even noticing that it was no longer in its place.


Neverthelessthe hourthe placethe darknessJean Valjean's
absorptionhis singular gestureshis goings and comingsall had
begun to render Cosette uneasy. Any other child than she would
have given vent to loud shrieks long before. She contented herself
with plucking Jean Valjean by the skirt of his coat. They could
hear the sound of the patrol's approach ever more and more distinctly.


Father,said shein a very low voiceI am afraid. Who is
coming yonder?


Hush!replied the unhappy man; "it is Madame Thenardier."


Cosette shuddered. He added:--


Say nothing. Don't interfere with me. If you cry out, if you weep,
the Thenardier is lying in wait for you. She is coming to take
you back.


Thenwithout hastebut without making a useless movement
with firm and curt precisionthe more remarkable at a moment
when the patrol and Javert might come upon him at any moment
he undid his cravatpassed it round Cosette's body under the armpits
taking care that it should not hurt the childfastened this cravat
to one end of the ropeby means of that knot which seafaring men
call a "swallow knot took the other end of the rope in his teeth,
pulled off his shoes and stockings, which he threw over the wall,
stepped upon the mass of masonry, and began to raise himself in the



angle of the wall and the gable with as much solidity and certainty
as though he had the rounds of a ladder under his feet and elbows.
Half a minute had not elapsed when he was resting on his knees on
the wall.


Cosette gazed at him in stupid amazement, without uttering a word.
Jean Valjean's injunction, and the name of Madame Thenardier,
had chilled her blood.


All at once she heard Jean Valjean's voice crying to her,
though in a very low tone:--


Put your back against the wall."


She obeyed.


Don't say a word, and don't be alarmed,went on Jean Valjean.


And she felt herself lifted from the ground.


Before she had time to recover herselfshe was on the top of the wall.


Jean Valjean grasped herput her on his backtook her two tiny hands
in his large left handlay down 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 the wooden
barricade and descended to within a very short distance of the ground
with a gentle slope which grazed the linden-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 roofand had not yet left
the crest of the wallwhen a violent uproar announced the arrival
of the patrol. The thundering voice of Javert was audible:--


Search the blind alley! The Rue Droit-Mur is guarded! so is the Rue
Petit-Picpus. I'll answer for it that he is in the blind alley.


The soldiers rushed into the Genrot alley.


Jean Valjean allowed himself to slide down the roofstill holding
fast to Cosettereached the linden-treeand leaped to the ground.
Whether from terror or courageCosette had not breathed a sound
though her hands were a little abraded.


CHAPTER VI


THE BEGINNING OF AN ENIGMA


Jean Valjean found himself in a sort of garden which was very vast
and of singular aspect; one of those melancholy gardens 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 endtolerably tall
forest trees in the cornersand an unshaded space in the centre
where could be seen a very largesolitary treethen several fruit-trees
gnarled and bristling like bushesbeds of vegetablesa melon patch
whose glass frames sparkled in the moonlightand an old well.
Here and there stood stone benches which seemed black with moss.
The alleys were bordered with gloomy and very erect little shrubs.
The grass had half taken possession of themand a green mould
covered the rest.



Jean Valjean had beside him the building whose roof had served him
as a means of descenta pile of fagotsandbehind the fagots
directly against the walla stone statuewhose mutilated face was
no longer anything more than a shapeless mask which loomed vaguely
through the gloom.


The building was a sort of ruinwhere dismantled chambers were
distinguishableone of whichmuch encumberedseemed to serve as a shed.


The large building of the Rue Droit-Murwhich had a wing on the Rue
Petit-Picpusturned two facadesat right anglestowards this garden.
These interior facades were even more tragic than the exterior.
All the windows were grated. Not a gleam of light was visible
at any one of them. The upper story had scuttles like prisons.
One of those facades cast its shadow on the otherwhich fell over the
garden like an immense black pall.


No other house was visible. The bottom of the garden was lost in mist
and darkness. Neverthelesswalls could be confusedly made out
which intersected as though there were more cultivated land beyond
and the low roofs of the Rue Polonceau.


Nothing more wild and solitary than this garden could be imagined.
There was no one in itwhich was quite natural in view of the hour;
but it did not seem as though this spot were made for any one to walk in
even in broad daylight.


Jean Valjean's first care had been to get hold of his shoes
and put them on againthen to step under the shed with Cosette.
A man who is fleeing never thinks himself sufficiently hidden.
The childwhose thoughts were still on the Thenardiershared his
instinct for withdrawing from sight as much as possible.


Cosette trembled and pressed close to him. They heard the tumultuous
noise of the patrol searching the blind alley and the streets;
the blows of their gun-stocks against the stones; Javert's appeals
to the police spies whom he had postedand his imprecations 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. Jean Valjean
held his breath.


He had laid his hand lightly on Cosette's mouth.


Howeverthe solitude in which he stood was so strangely calm
that this frightful uproarclose and furious as it was
did not disturb him 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 oncein the midst of this profound calma fresh sound arose;
a sound as celestialdivineineffableravishingas the other had
been horrible. It was a hymn which issued from the glooma dazzling
burst of prayer and harmony in the obscure and alarming silence of
the night; women's voicesbut voices composed at one and the same time
of the pure accents of virgins and the innocent accents of children--
voices which are not of the earthand which resemble those that the
newborn infant still hearsand 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 retreatedone
would have said that a choir of angels was approaching through the gloom.



Cosette and Jean Valjean fell on their knees.


They knew not what it wasthey knew not where they were; but both
of themthe man and the childthe penitent and the innocent
felt that they must kneel.


These voices had this strange characteristicthat they
did not prevent the building from seeming to be deserted.
It was a supernatural chant in an uninhabited house.


While these voices were singingJean 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 usunfolding.


The song died away. It may have lasted a long time. Jean Valjean
could not have told. Hours of ecstasy are never more than a moment.


All fell silent again. There was no longer anything in the street;
there was nothing in the garden. That which had menaced
that which had reassured him--all had vanished. The breeze
swayed a few dry weeds on the crest of the walland they gave
out a faintsweetmelancholy sound.


CHAPTER VII


CONTINUATION OF THE ENIGMA


The night wind had risenwhich indicated that it must be between
one and two o'clock in the morning. Poor Cosette said nothing.
As she had seated herself beside him and leaned her head against him
Jean Valjean had fancied that she was asleep. He bent down and
looked at her. Cosette's eyes were wide openand 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 Thenardier.


Jean Valjean had already forgotten the means which he had employed
to make Cosette keep silent.


Ah!said heshe is gone. You need fear nothing further.


The child sighed as though a load had been lifted from her breast.


The ground was dampthe shed open on all sidesthe breeze grew
more keen every instant. The goodman took off his coat 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 buildingseeking a
better shelter. He came across doorsbut they were closed.
There were bars at all the windows of the ground floor.

Just after he had turned the inner angle of the edificehe observed
that he was coming to some arched windowswhere he perceived a light.
He stood on tiptoe and peeped through one of these windows.
They all opened on a tolerably vast hallpaved with large flagstones
cut up by arcades and pillarswhere only a tiny light and great
shadows were visible. The light came from a taper which was
burning in one corner. The apartment was desertedand nothing
was stirring in it. Neverthelessby dint of gazing intently he
thought he perceived on the ground something which appeared to be
covered with a winding-sheetand which resembled a human form.
This form was lying face downwardflat on the pavementwith the
arms extended in the form of a crossin the immobility of death.
One would have saidjudging from a sort of serpent which undulated
over the floorthat this sinister form had a rope round its neck.

The whole chamber was bathed in that mist of places which are
sparely illuminatedwhich adds to horror.

Jean Valjean often said afterwardsthatalthough many funereal
spectres had crossed his path in lifehe had never beheld anything more
blood-curdling and terrible than that enigmatical form accomplishing
some inexplicable mystery in that gloomy placeand beheld thus
at night. It was alarming to suppose that that thing was perhaps dead;
and still more alarming to think that it was perhaps alive.

He had the courage to plaster his face to the glassand to watch whether
the thing would move. In spite of his remaining thus what seemed
to him a very long timethe 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 shednot daring to
look behind him. It seemed to himthat if he turned his head
he should see that form following him with great strides and waving
its arms.

He reached the ruin all out of breath. His knees were giving way
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 mysterycalling to souls through the
darkness with the voice of angelsand when they cameoffering them
abruptly that terrible vision; promising to open the radiant portals
of heavenand then opening the horrible gates of the tomb! And it
actually was an edificea housewhich 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.

Coldanxietyuneasinessthe emotions of the nighthad given
him a genuine feverand all these ideas were clashing together
in his brain.

He stepped up to Cosette. She was asleep.

CHAPTER VIII


THE ENIGMA BECOMES DOUBLY 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
as he gazed at herhe grew calm and regained possession of his
freedom of mind.

He clearly perceived this truththe foundation of his life henceforth
that so long as she was thereso long as he had her near him
he should need nothing except for herhe 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.

Neverthelessathwart this revery into which he had fallen he had
heard for some time a peculiar noise. It was like the tinkling
of a bell. This sound proceeded from the garden. It could be heard
distinctly though faintly. It resembled the faintvague music
produced by the bells of cattle at night in the pastures.

This noise made Valjean 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 bedsrisingstoopinghaltingwith regular movements
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 unhappy.
For them everything is hostile and suspicious. They distrust the day
because it enables people to see themand the night because it
aids in surprising them. A little while before he had shivered
because the garden was desertedand now he shivered because there
was some one there.

He fell back from chimerical terrors to real terrors. He said
to himself that Javert and the spies hadperhapsnot taken
their departure; that they hadno doubtleft 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 furniturewhich was out of usein 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 wasthat the sound of the
bell followed each of this man's movements. When the man approached
the sound approached; when the man retreatedthe sound retreated;
if he made any hasty gesturea tremolo accompanied the gesture;
when he haltedthe 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 himselfhe touched Cosette's hands.
They were icy 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 himselfand sprang to his feet
quivering from head to foot.


The most frightful thoughts rushed pell-mell through his mind.
There are moments when hideous surmises assail us like a cohort
of furiesand violently force the partitions of our brains.
When those we love are in questionour prudence invents every sort
of madness. He remembered that sleep in the open air on a cold night
may be fatal.


Cosette was paleand had fallen at full length on the ground
at his feetwithout a movement.


He listened to her breathing: she still breathedbut with a
respiration which seemed to him weak and on the point of extinction.


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 Cosette should be in bed and beside
a fire in less than a quarter of an hour.


CHAPTER IX


THE MAN WITH THE BELL


He walked straight up to the man whom he saw in the garden.
He had taken in his hand the roll of silver which was in the pocket
of his waistcoat.


The man's head was bent downand he did not see him approaching.
In a few strides Jean Valjean stood beside him.


Jean Valjean accosted him with the cry:--


One hundred francs!


The man gave a start and raised his eyes.


You can earn a hundred francs,went on Jean Valjeanif you
will grant me shelter for this night.


The moon shone full upon Jean Valjean's terrified countenance.


What! so it is you, Father Madeleine!said the man.


That namethus pronouncedat that obscure hourin that unknown spot
by that strange manmade Jean Valjean start back.


He had expected anything but that. The person who thus addressed
him was a bent and lame old mandressed almost like a peasant



who wore on his left knee a leather knee-capwhence hung a moderately
large bell. His facewhich was in the shadowwas not distinguishable.


Howeverthe goodman had removed his capand exclaimed
trembling all over:--


Ah, good God! How come you here, Father Madeleine? Where did
you enter? Dieu-Jesus! Did you fall from heaven? There 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 cravat; you have no hat;
you have no coat! Do you know, you would have frightened any one
who did not know you? No coat! Lord God! Are the saints going
mad nowadays? But how did you get in here?


His words tumbled over each other. The goodman talked with a
rustic volubilityin which there was nothing alarming. All this
was uttered with a mixture of stupefaction and naive 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 profileand Jean
Valjean recognized old Fauchelevent.


Ah!said Jean Valjeanso it is you? Yes, I recollect you.


That is very lucky,said the old manin a reproachful tone.


And what are you doing here?resumed Jean Valjean.


Why, I am covering my melons, of course!


In factat the moment when Jean Valjean accosted himold 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 observed from the shed by Jean Valjean.


He continued:--


I said to myself, `The moon is bright: it is going 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! But how do you come here?"


Jean Valjeanfinding himself known to this manat least only under
the name of Madeleinethenceforth advanced only with caution.
He multiplied his questions. Strange to saytheir roles seemed
to be reversed. It was hethe intruderwho interrogated.


And what is this bell which you wear on your knee?


This,replied Faucheleventis so that I may be avoided.


What! so that you may be avoided?



Old Fauchelevent winked with an indescribable air.


Ah, goodness! there are only women in this house--many 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 the Petit-Picpus convent.


Memories recurred to Jean Valjean. Chancethat is to sayProvidence
had cast him into precisely that convent in the Quartier Saint-Antoine
where old Faucheleventcrippled by the fall from his cart
had been admitted on his recommendation two years previously.
He repeatedas though talking to himself:--


The Petit-Picpus convent.


Exactly,returned old Fauchelevent. "But to come to the point
how the deuce did you manage to get in hereyouFather Madeleine?
No matter if you are a saint; you are a man as welland no man
enters here."


You certainly are here.


There is no one but me.


Still,said Jean ValjeanI must stay here.


Ah, good God!cried Fauchelevent.


Jean Valjean drew near to the old manand 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 the
olden days.


Fauchelevent took in his agedtremblingand wrinkled hands Jean
Valjean's two robust handsand 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 countenance
seemed to emit a ray of light.


What do you wish me to do?he resumed.


That I will explain to you. You have a chamber?


I have an 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 hut wasin factso well hidden behind the ruinsand so
cleverly arranged to prevent it being seenthat 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 you know about me.
In the second, you are not to try to find out anything more.


As you please. I know that you can do nothing that is 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 Faucheleventso there is a child?


He added not a word furtherand followed Jean Valjean as a dog
follows his master.


Less than half an hour afterwards Cosettewho had grown rosy
again before the flame of a good firewas lying asleep in the old
gardener's bed. Jean Valjean had put on his cravat and coat
once more; his hatwhich he had flung over the wallhad been
found and picked up. While Jean Valjean was putting on his coat
Fauchelevent had removed the bell and kneecapwhich now hung on
a nail beside a vintage basket that adorned the wall. The two men
were warming themselves with their elbows resting on a table upon
which Fauchelevent had placed a bit of cheeseblack breada bottle
of wineand two glassesand the old man was saying to Jean Valjean
as he laid his hand on the latter's knee: "Ah! Father Madeleine!
You did not recognize me immediately; you save people's lives
and then you forget them! That is bad! But they remember you!
You are an ingrate!"


CHAPTER X


WHICH EXPLAINS HOW JAVERT GOT ON THE SCENT


The events of which we have just beheld the reverse sideso to speak
had come about in the simplest possible manner.


When Jean Valjeanon the evening of the very day when Javert had
arrested him beside Fantine's death-bedhad escaped from the town
jail of M. sur M.the police had supposed that he had betaken
himself to Paris. Paris is a maelstrom where everything is lost
and everything disappears in this belly of the worldas in the
belly of the sea. No forest hides a man as does that crowd.
Fugitives of every sort know this. They go to Paris as to an abyss;
there are gulfs which save. The police know it alsoand it
is in Paris that they seek what they have lost elsewhere.
They sought the ex-mayor of M. sur M. Javert was summoned to
Paris to throw light on their researches. Javert hadin fact



rendered powerful assistance in the recapture of Jean Valjean.
Javert's zeal and intelligence on that occasion had been remarked
by M. Chabouilletsecretary of the Prefecture under Comte Angles.

M. Chabouilletwho hadmoreoveralready 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 andthough the word
may seem strange for such serviceshonorable manners.
He no longer thought of Jean Valjean--the wolf of to-day causes these
dogs who are always on the chase to forget the wolf of yesterday--when
in December1823he read a newspaperhe who never read newspapers;
but Javerta monarchical manhad a desire to know the particulars
of the triumphal entry of the "Prince Generalissimo" into Bayonne.
Just as he was finishing the articlewhich interested him; a name
the name of Jean Valjeanattracted his attention at the bottom of
a 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 remarkThat's a good entry.
Then he threw aside the paperand thought no more about it.

Some time afterwardsit chanced that a police report was transmitted
from the prefecture of the Seine-et-Oise to the prefecture of police
in Parisconcerning the abduction of a childwhich had taken place
under peculiar circumstancesas it was saidin the commune
of Montfermeil. A little girl of seven or eight years of age
the report saidwho had been intrusted by her mother to an inn-keeper
of that neighborhoodhad been stolen by a stranger; this child answered
to the name of Cosetteand was the daughter of a girl named Fantine
who had died in the hospitalit 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 remembered that Jean
Valjean had made himJavertburst into laughterby asking him
for a respite of three daysfor the purpose of going to fetch that
creature's child. He recalled the fact that Jean Valjean had been
arrested in Paris at the very moment when he was stepping into the coach
for Montfermeil. Some signs had made him suspect at the time that
this was the second occasion of his entering that coachand that he
had alreadyon the previous daymade an excursion to the neighborhood
of that villagefor he had not been seen in the village itself.
What had he been intending to do in that region of Montfermeil?
It could not even be surmised. Javert understood it now.
Fantine's daughter was there. Jean Valjean was going there in
search of her. And now this child had been stolen by a stranger!
Who could that stranger be? Could it be Jean Valjean? But Jean
Valjean was dead. Javertwithout saying anything to anybody
took the coach from the Pewter PlatterCul-de-Sac de la Planchette
and made a trip to Montfermeil.

He expected to find a great deal of light on the subject there;
he found a great deal of obscurity.

For the first few days the Thenardiers had chattered in their rage.
The disappearance of the Lark had created a sensation in the village.
He immediately obtained numerous versions of the storywhich ended
in the abduction of a child. Hence the police report. But their first
vexation having passed offThenardierwith his wonderful instinct
had very quickly comprehended that it is never advisable to stir up
the prosecutor of the Crownand that his complaints with regard
to the abduction of Cosette would have as their first result to fix
upon himselfand upon many dark affairs which he had on hand
the glittering eye of justice. The last thing that owls desire
is 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 roundput a gag on his wife's mouth
and feigned astonishment when the stolen child was mentioned to him.
He understood nothing about it; no doubt he had grumbled for awhile
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 Montfermeil. The grandfather caused Jean Valjean
to vanish.

Nevertheless, Javert dropped a few questions, like plummets,
into Thenardier's history. Who was that grandfather? and what was
his name?" Thenardier replied with simplicity: "He is a wealthy farmer.
I saw his passport. I think his name was M. Guillaume Lambert."

Lambert is a respectable and extremely reassuring name.
Thereupon Javert returned to Paris.

Jean Valjean is certainly dead,said heand I am a ninny.

He had again begun to forget this historywhenin the course
of March1824he heard of a singular personage who dwelt in the
parish of Saint-Medard and who had been surnamed "the mendicant
who gives alms." This personthe story ranwas a man of means
whose name no one knew exactlyand who lived alone with a little
girl of eight yearswho knew nothing about herselfsave that she
had come from Montfermeil. Montfermeil! that name was always
coming upand it made Javert prick up his ears. An old beggar
police spyan ex-beadleto whom this person had given alms
added a few more details. This gentleman of property was very shy-never
coming out except in the eveningspeaking to no oneexcept
occasionally to the poorand never allowing any one to approach him.
He wore a horrible old yellow frock-coatwhich 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 himhe borrowed the beadle's outfit
for a dayand the place where the old spy was in the habit
of crouching every eveningwhining orisons through his nose
and playing the spy under cover of prayer.

The suspected individualdid 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 recognizing Javert was
equal to the one received by Javert when he thought he recognized
Jean Valjean.

Howeverthe darkness might have misled him; Jean Valjean's death
was official; Javert cherished very grave doubts; and when in doubt
Javertthe man of scruplesnever laid a finger on any one's collar.

He followed his man to the Gorbeau houseand got "the old woman"
to talkingwhich was no difficult matter. The old woman confirmed
the fact regarding the coat lined with millionsand 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 voicebut Jean Valjean saw his candle
through the key-holeand 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 womanwhohearing the
rattling of coinsuspected that he might be intending to leave


and made haste to warn Javert. At nightwhen Jean Valjean came out
Javert was waiting for him behind the trees of the boulevard with two men.


Javert had demanded assistance at the Prefecturebut he had not
mentioned the name of the individual whom he hoped to seize;
that was his secretand he had kept it for three reasons:
in the first placebecause the slightest indiscretion might put Jean
Valjean on the alert; nextbecauseto lay hands on an ex-convict
who had made his escape and was reputed deadon a criminal whom
justice had formerly classed forever as among malefactors of the most
dangerous sortwas a magnificent success which the old members
of the Parisian police would assuredly not leave to a new-comer
like Javertand he was afraid of being deprived of his convict;
and lastlybecause Javertbeing an artisthad 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 treethen from
corner to corner of the streetand had not lost sight of him for
a single instant; even at the moments when Jean Valjean believed
himself to be the most secure Javert's eye had been on him.
Why had not Javert arrested Jean Valjean? Because he was still
in doubt.


It must be remembered that at that epoch the police was not precisely
at its ease; the free press embarrassed it; several arbitrary arrests
denounced by the newspapershad 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
reproduced by twenty newspaperswould have caused in Paris:
Yesterday, an aged grandfather, with white hair, a respectable
and well-to-do gentleman, who was walking with his grandchild,
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 the injunctions of
the prefect. He was really in doubt.


Jean Valjean turned his back on him and walked in the dark.


Sadnessuneasinessanxietydepressionthis fresh misfortune
of being forced to flee by nightto seek a chance refuge in Paris
for Cosette and himselfthe necessity of regulating his pace
to the pace of the child--all thiswithout his being aware of it
had altered Jean Valjean's walkand impressed on his bearing
such senilitythat the police themselvesincarnate in the person
of Javertmightand did in factmake a mistake. The impossibility
of approaching too closehis costume of an emigre preceptor
the declaration of Thenardier which made a grandfather of him
andfinallythe belief in his death in prisonadded still
further 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 Valjeanand if this man
was not a goodhonest old fellow living on his incomehe was
probably some merry blade deeply and cunningly implicated in the
obscure web of Parisian misdeedssome chief of a dangerous band
who gave alms to conceal his other talentswhich was an old dodge.
He had trusty fellowsaccomplices' retreats in case of emergencies



in which he wouldno doubttake 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 eggs." Where was the inconvenience
in waiting? Javert was very sure that he would not escape.

Thus he proceeded in a tolerably perplexed state of mindputting to
himself a hundred questions about this enigmatical personage.

It was only quite late in the Rue de Pontoisethatthanks to the
brilliant light thrown from a dram-shophe decidedly recognized
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 Valjeanthe formidable
convicthe perceived that there were only three of themand he asked
for reinforcements at the police station of the Rue de Pontoise.
One puts on gloves before grasping a thorn cudgel.

This delay and the halt at the Carrefour Rollin to consult
with his agents came near causing him to lose the trail.
He speedily divinedhoweverthat Jean Valjean would want to put
the river between his pursuers and himself. He bent his head and
reflected like a blood-hound who puts his nose to the ground to make
sure that he is on the right scent. Javertwith his powerful
rectitude of instinctwent straight to the bridge of Austerlitz.
A word with the toll-keeper furnished him with the information
which he required: "Have you seen a man with a little girl?"
I made him pay two sous,replied the toll-keeper. Javert reached
the bridge in season to see Jean Valjean traverse the small illuminated
spot on the other side of the waterleading Cosette by the hand.
He saw him enter the Rue du Chemin-Vert-Saint-Antoine; he remembered
the Cul-de-Sac Genrot arranged there like a trapand of the sole
exit of the Rue Droit-Mur into the Rue Petit-Picpus. He made
sure of his back burrowsas huntsmen say; he hastily despatched
one of his agentsby a roundabout wayto guard that issue.
A patrol which was returning to the Arsenal post having passed him
he made a requisition on itand caused it to accompany him.
In such games soldiers are aces. Moreoverthe principle isthat in
order to get the best of a wild boarone must employ the science
of venery and plenty of dogs. These combinations having been effected
feeling that Jean Valjean was caught between the blind alley Genrot
on the righthis agent on the leftand himselfJavertin the rear
he took a pinch of snuff.

Then he began the game. He experienced one ecstatic and infernal moment;
he allowed his man to go on aheadknowing 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 his gazewith that voluptuousness of the
spider which allows the fly to flutterand of the cat which lets
the mouse run. Claws and talons possess a monstrous sensuality-the
obscure movements 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 wasthe very idea of resistance was impossible
however vigorousenergeticand desperate Jean Valjean might be.


Javert advanced slowlysoundingsearching on his way 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 Rues Droit-Mur and Petit-Picpus;
that agentwho had remained imperturbably at his posthad not seen
the man pass.


It sometimes happens that a stag is lost head and horns;
that is to sayhe escapes although he has the pack on his
very heelsand then the oldest huntsmen know not what to say.
DuvivierLignivilleand Desprez halt short. In a discomfiture
of this sortArtonge exclaimsIt was not a stag, but a sorcerer.
Javert would have liked to utter the same cry.


His disappointment bordered for a moment on despair and rage.


It is certain that Napoleon made mistakes during the war with Russia
that Alexander committed blunders in the war in Indiathat Caesar
made mistakes in the war in Africathat Cyrus was at fault in the
war in Scythiaand that Javert blundered in this campaign against
Jean Valjean. He was wrongperhapsin hesitating in his recognition
of the exconvict. The first glance should have sufficed him.
He was wrong in not arresting 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 wrong in taking counsel with his
auxiliaries in the full light of the moon in the Carrefour Rollin.
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 animals
like the wolf and the convict. Javertby 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 dartand so made him run.
Above allhe was wrong in that after he had picked up the scent
again on the bridge of Austerlitzhe played that formidable
and puerile game of keeping such a man at the end of a thread.
He thought himself stronger than he wasand believed that he could
play at the game of the mouse and the lion. At the same time
he reckoned himself as too weakwhen he judged it necessary to
obtain reinforcement. Fatal precautionwaste of precious time!
Javert committed all these blundersand none the less was one of
the cleverest and most correct spies that ever existed. He was
in the full force of the termwhat is called in venery a knowing dog.
But what is there that is perfect?


Great strategists have their eclipses.


The greatest follies are often composedlike the largest ropes
of a multitude of strands. Take the cable thread by thread
take all the petty determining motives separatelyand you can break
them one after the otherand you sayThat is all there is of it!
Braid themtwist them together; the result is enormous: it is Attila
hesitating between Marcian on the east and Valentinian on the west;
it is Hannibal tarrying at Capua; it is Danton falling asleep at
Arcis-sur-Aube.


However that may beeven at the moment when he saw that Jean
Valjean had escaped himJavert did not lose his head.
Sure that the convict who had broken his ban could not be far off
he established sentinelshe organized traps and ambuscades
and beat the quarter all that night. The first thing he saw



was the disorder in the street lantern whose rope had been cut.
A precious sign whichhoweverled him astraysince 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 whose bounds adjoined the immense stretches of waste land.
Jean Valjean evidently must have fled in that direction. The fact is
that had he penetrated a little further in the Cul-de-Sac Genrot
he would probably have done so 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 outlookand returned
to the Prefecture of Policeas much ashamed as a police spy
who had been captured by a robber might have been.

BOOK SIXTH.--LE PETIT-PICPUS

CHAPTER I

NUMBER 62 RUE PETIT-PICPUS

Nothinghalf a century agomore resembled every other carriage gate
than the carriage gate of Number 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. This entrance
which usually stood ajar in the most inviting fashionpermitted a
view of two thingsneither of which have anything very funereal
about them--a courtyard surrounded by walls hung with vines
and the face of a lounging porter. Above the wallat the bottom
of the courttall trees were visible. When a ray of sunlight
enlivened the courtyardwhen 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. Neverthelessit was
a sombre place of which one had had a glimpse.

The threshold smiled; the house prayed and wept.

If one succeeded in passing the porterwhich was not easy-which
was even nearly impossible for every onefor there was
an open sesame! which it was necessary to know--ifthe porter
once passedone entered a little vestibule on the right
on which opened a staircase shut in between two walls and so narrow
that only one person could ascend it at a timeif one did not
allow one's self to be alarmed by a daubing of canary yellow
with a dado of chocolate which clothed this staircaseif one
ventured to ascend itone crossed a first landingthen a second
and arrived on the first story at a corridor where the yellow wash
and the chocolate-hued plinth pursued one with a peaceable persistency.
Staircase and corridor were lighted by two beautiful windows.
The corridor took a turn and became dark. If one doubled this cape
one arrived a few paces further onin front of a door which was all
the more mysterious because it was not fastened. If one opened it
one found one's self in a little chamber about six feet square
tiledwell-scrubbedcleancoldand hung with nankin paper with
green flowersat fifteen sous the roll. A whitedull light fell
from a large windowwith tiny paneson the leftwhich usurped
the whole width of the room. One gazed aboutbut saw no one;
one listenedone heard neither a footstep nor a human murmur.
The walls were barethe chamber was not furnished; there was not
even a chair.

One looked againand beheld on the wall facing the door


a quadrangular holeabout a foot squarewith a grating of
interlacing iron barsblackknottedsolidwhich formed squares-I
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 barswithout being
startled or thrown into confusion by their funereal contact.
Supposing that a living being had been so wonderfully thin as to
essay an entrance or an exit through the square holethis 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 sayof the mind.
This seems to have occurred to themfor 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 platean aperture had been
pierced exactly similar to the orifice of a letter box. A bit
of tape attached to a bell-wire hung at the right of the grated opening.

If the tape was pulleda bell rangand one heard a voice very near
at handwhich made one start.

Who is there?the voice demanded.

It was a woman's voicea gentle voiceso gentle that it was mournful.

Hereagainthere was a magical word which it was necessary to know.
If one did not know itthe voice ceasedthe wall became silent
once moreas though the terrified obscurity of the sepulchre had
been on the other side of it.

If one knew the passwordthe voice resumedEnter on the right.

One then perceived on the rightfacing the windowa glass door
surmounted by a frame glazed and painted gray. On raising the latch
and crossing the thresholdone experienced precisely the same
impression as when one enters at the theatre into a grated baignoire
before the grating is lowered and the chandelier is lighted.
One wasin factin a sort of theatre-boxnarrowfurnished with
two old chairsand a much-frayed straw mattingsparely illuminated
by the vague light from the glass door; a regular boxwith its front
just of a height to lean uponbearing a tablet of black wood.
This box was gratedonly the grating of it was not of gilded wood
as 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
cellar-like half-twilightone tried to pass the gratingbut got no
further than six inches beyond it. There he encountered a barrier of
black shuttersre-enforced and fortified with transverse beams of wood
painted a gingerbread yellow. These shutters were divided into long
narrow slatsand 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 shuttersand saying:-


I am here. What do you wish with me?

It was a belovedsometimes an adoredvoice. No one was visible.
Hardly the sound of a breath was audible. It seemed as though it
were a spirit which had been evokedthat 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 the shutters opened opposite you; the evoked
spirit became an apparition. Behind the gratingbehind the shutter


one perceived so far as the grating permitted sighta head
of which only the mouth and the chin were visible; the rest was
covered with a black veil. One caught a glimpse of a black guimpe
and a form that was barely definedcovered with a black shroud.
That head spoke with youbut 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 whiteand she saw you in the black.
This light was symbolical.

Neverthelessyour eyes plunged eagerly through that opening which was
made in that place shut off from all glances. A profound vagueness
enveloped that form clad in mourning. Your eyes searched that vagueness
and sought to make out the surroundings of the apparition.
At the expiration of a very short time you discovered that you could
see nothing. What you beheld was nightemptinessshadowsa wintry
mist mingled with a vapor from the tomba sort of terrible peace
a silence from which you could gather nothingnot even sighs
a gloom in which you could distinguish nothingnot even phantoms.

What you beheld was the interior of a cloister.

It was the interior of that severe and gloomy edifice which was
called the Convent of the Bernardines of the Perpetual Adoration.
The box in which you stood was the parlor. The first voice which had
addressed you was that of the portress who always sat motionless
and silenton the other side of the wallnear the square opening
screened by the iron grating and the plate with its thousand holes
as by a double visor. The obscurity which bathed the grated box
arose from the fact that the parlorwhich had a window on the side
of the worldhad none on the side of the convent. Profane eyes must
see nothing of that sacred place.

Neverthelessthere was something beyond that shadow; there was
a light; there was life in the midst of that death. Although this
was the most strictly walled of all conventswe shall endeavor
to make our way into itand to take the reader inand to say
without transgressing the proper boundsthings which story-tellers
have never seenand havethereforenever described.

CHAPTER II

THE OBEDIENCE OF MARTIN VERGA

This conventwhich in 1824 had already existed for many a long
year in the Rue Petit-Picpuswas a community of Bernardines
of the obedience of Martin Verga.

These Bernardines were attachedin consequencenot to Clairvaux
like the Bernardine monksbut to Citeauxlike the Benedictine monks.
In other wordsthey were the subjectsnot of Saint Bernard
but of Saint Benoit.

Any one who has turned over old folios to any extent
knows that Martin Verga founded in 1425 a congregation
of Bernardines-Benedictineswith Salamanca
for the head of the orderand Alcala as the branch establishment.

This congregation had sent out branches throughout all the Catholic
countries of Europe.


There is nothing unusual in the Latin Church in these grafts of one
order on another. To mention only a single order of Saint-Benoit
which is here in question: there are attached to this order
without counting the obedience of Martin Vergafour congregations-two
in ItalyMont-Cassin and Sainte-Justine of Padua; two in France
Cluny and Saint-Maur; and nine orders--VallombrosaGranmont
the Celestinsthe Camaldulesthe Carthusiansthe Humilies
the Olivateursthe Silvestrinsand lastlyCiteaux; for Citeaux itself
a trunk for other ordersis only an offshoot of Saint-Benoit.
Citeaux dates from Saint RobertAbbe de Molesmein the diocese
of Langresin 1098. Now it was in 529 that the devilhaving retired
to the desert of Subiaco--he was old--had he turned hermit?-was
chased from the ancient temple of Apollowhere he dwelt
by Saint-Benoitthen aged seventeen.

After the rule of the Carmeliteswho go barefootwear a bit
of willow on their throatsand never sit downthe harshest
rule is that of the Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga.
They are clothed in blackwith a guimpewhichin accordance
with the express command of Saint-Benoitmounts to the chin.
A robe of serge with large sleevesa large woollen veilthe guimpe
which mounts to the chin cut square on the breastthe band which
descends over their brow to their eyes--this is their dress.
All is black except the bandwhich is white. The novices wear
the same habitbut all in white. The professed nuns also wear
a rosary at their side.

The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga practise the Perpetual
Adorationlike the Benedictines called Ladies of the Holy Sacrament
whoat the beginning of this centuryhad two houses in Paris-one
at the Templethe other in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve. However
the Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpusof whom we are speaking
were a totally different order from the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament
cloistered in the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve and at the Temple.
There were numerous differences in their rule; there were some in
their costume. The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Petit-Picpus
wore the black guimpeand the Benedictines of the Holy Sacrament
and of the Rue Neuve-Sainte-Genevieve wore a white oneand had
besideson their breastsa Holy Sacrament about three inches long
in silver gilt or gilded copper. The nuns of the Petit-Picpus did not
wear this Holy Sacrament. The Perpetual Adorationwhich was common
to the house of the Petit-Picpus and to the house of the Temple
leaves those two orders perfectly distinct. Their only resemblance
lies in this practice of the Ladies of the Holy Sacrament and the
Bernardines of Martin Vergajust as there existed a similarity
in the study and the glorification of all the mysteries relating
to the infancythe lifeand death of Jesus Christ and the Virgin
between the two orderswhich wereneverthelesswidely separated
and on occasion even hostile. The Oratory of Italyestablished at
Florence by Philip de Neriand the Oratory of Franceestablished by
Pierre de Berulle. The Oratory of France claimed the precedence
since Philip de Neri was only a saintwhile Berulle was a cardinal.

Let us return to the harsh Spanish rule of Martin Verga.

The Bernardines-Benedictines of this obedience fast all the year round
abstain from meatfast in Lent and on many other days which are
peculiar to themrise from their first sleepfrom one to three
o'clock in the morningto read their breviary and chant matins
sleep in all seasons between serge sheets and on strawmake no use
of the bathnever light a firescourge themselves every Friday
observe the rule of silencespeak to each other only during
the recreation hourswhich are very briefand wear drugget


chemises for six months in the yearfrom September 14th
which is the Exaltation of the Holy Crossuntil Easter.
These six months are a modification: the rule says all the year
but this drugget chemiseintolerable in the heat of summer
produced fevers and nervous spasms. The use of it had to be restricted.
Even with this palliationwhen the nuns put on this chemise on the
14th of Septemberthey suffer from fever for three or four days.
Obediencepovertychastityperseverance in their seclusion--
these are their vowswhich the rule greatly aggravates.


The prioress is elected for three years by the motherswho are
called meres vocales because they have a voice in the chapter.
A prioress can only be re-elected twicewhich fixes the longest
possible reign of a prioress at nine years.


They never see the officiating priestwho is always hidden from them
by a serge curtain nine feet in height. During the sermonwhen the
preacher is in the chapelthey drop their veils over their faces.
They must always speak lowwalk 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 really one other--the gardener. But he is always an
old manandin order that he may always be alone in the garden
and that the nuns may be warned to avoid hima bell is attached
to his knee.


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 Christut voci Christiat a gesture
at the first signad nutumad primum signumimmediately
with cheerfulnesswith perseverancewith a certain blind obedience
promptehilariterperseveranter et caeca quadam obedientia
as the file in the hand of the workmanquasi limam in manibus fabri
without power to read or to write without express permission
legere vel scribere non addiscerit sine expressa superioris licentia.


Each one of them in turn makes what they call reparation.
The reparation is the prayer for all the sinsfor all the faults
for all the dissensionsfor all the violationsfor all the iniquities
for all the crimes committed on earth. For the space of twelve
consecutive hoursfrom four o'clock in the afternoon till four o'clock
in the morningor from four o'clock in the morning until four o'clock
in the afternoonthe sister who is making reparation remains on her
knees on the stone before the Holy Sacramentwith hands clasped
a rope around her neck. When her fatigue becomes unendurable
she prostrates herself flat on her face against the earthwith her
arms outstretched 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 burns a candle
it is called without distinctionto make reparation or to be at
the post. The nuns even preferout of humilitythis last expression
which contains an idea of torture and abasement.


To make reparation is a function in which the whole soul is absorbed.
The sister at the post would not turn round were a thunderbolt
to fall directly behind her.


Besides thisthere is always a sister kneeling before the
Holy Sacrament. This station lasts an hour. They relieve
each other like soldiers on guard. This is the Perpetual Adoration.



The prioresses and the mothers almost always bear names stamped
with peculiar solemnityrecallingnot the saints and martyrs
but moments in the life of Jesus Christ: as Mother Nativity
Mother ConceptionMother PresentationMother Passion. But the names
of saints are not interdicted.


When one sees themone never sees anything but their mouths.


All their teeth are yellow. No tooth-brush ever entered that convent.
Brushing 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 ownand they must not
attach themselves to anything. They call everything our; thus: our veil
our chaplet; if they were speaking of their chemisethey would say
our chemise. Sometimes they grow attached to some petty object--
to a book of hoursa relica medal that has been blessed. As soon
as they become aware that they are growing attached to this object
they must give it up. They recall the words of Saint Therese
to whom a great lady saidas she was on the point of entering
her orderPermit 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 order!


Every person whatever is forbidden to shut herself upto have
a place of her owna chamber. They live with their cells open.
When they meetone saysBlessed and adored be the most Holy
Sacrament of the altar!The other respondsForever.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 hastilyForever!Like all practicesthis 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 daywhich 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 prioressvocal mothers
professed nunslay-sistersnovicespostulantsinterrupt what
they are sayingwhat they are doingor what they are thinking
and all say in unison if it is five o'clockfor 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'clockAt eight
o'clock and at all hours!and so onaccording to the hour.


This customthe object of which is to break the thread of thought
and to lead it back constantly to Godexists in many communities;
the formula alone varies. Thus at The Infant Jesus they sayAt this
hour and at every hour may the love of Jesus kindle my heart!
The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Vergacloistered fifty
years ago at Petit-Picpuschant the offices to a solemn psalmody
a pure Gregorian chantand always with full voice during the whole
course of the office. Everywhere in the missal where an asterisk
occurs they pauseand say in a low voiceJesus-Marie-Joseph.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. The Government
as they saydoes not permit this vault to receive coffins so they



leave the convent when they die. This is an affliction to them
and causes them consternation as an infraction of the rules.


They had obtained a mediocre consolation at best--permission to be
interred at a special hour and in a special corner in the ancient
Vaugirard cemeterywhich was made of land which had formerly
belonged to their community.


On Fridays the nuns hear high massvespersand all the offices
as on Sunday. They scrupulously observe in addition all the little
festivals unknown to people of the worldof which the Church of France
was so prodigal in the olden daysand of which it is still prodigal
in Spain and Italy. Their stations in the chapel are interminable.
As for the number and duration 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 worse.


Once a week the chapter assembles: the prioress presides;
the vocal mothers assist. Each sister kneels in turn on the stones
and confesses aloudin the presence of allthe faults and sins
which she has committed during the week. The vocal mothers consult
after each confession and inflict the penance aloud.


Besides this confession in a loud tonefor which all faults
in the least serious are reservedthey have for their venial
offences what they call the coulpe. To make one's coulpe means
to prostrate one's self flat on one's face during the office
in front of the prioress until the latterwho is never called
anything but our mothernotifies the culprit by a slight tap
of her foot against the wood of her stall that she can rise.
The coulpe or peccaviis made for a very small matter--a broken glass
a torn veilan involuntary delay of a few seconds at an office
a false note in churchetc.; this sufficesand 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
with four places. One day one of the mother precentors intoned
a psalm beginning with Ecceand instead of Ecce she uttered aloud
the three notes do si sol; for this piece of absent-mindedness
she underwent a coulpe which lasted during the whole service:
what rendered the fault enormous was the fact that the chapter
had laughed.


When a nun is summoned to the parloreven were it the prioress herself
she drops her veilas will be rememberedso that only her mouth
is visible.


The prioress alone can hold communication with strangers.
The others can see only their immediate familyand that very rarely.
Ifby chancean outsider presents herself to see a nunor one
whom she has known and loved in the outer worlda regular series
of negotiations is required. If it is a womanthe authorization
may sometimes be granted; the nun comesand they talk to her
through the shutterswhich are opened only for a mother or sister.
It is unnecessary to say that permission is always refused to men.


Such is the rule of Saint-Benoitaggravated by Martin Verga.


These nuns are not gayrosyand freshas the daughters of other
orders often are. They are pale and grave. Between 1825 and 1830
three of them went mad.



CHAPTER III

AUSTERITIES

One is a postulant for two years at leastoften for four; a novice
for four. It is rare that the definitive vows can be pronounced
earlier than the age of twenty-three or twenty-four years.
The Bernardines-Benedictines of Martin Verga do not admit widows
to their order.

In their cellsthey deliver themselves up to many unknown macerations
of which they must never speak.

On the day when a novice makes her professionshe is dressed in her
handsomest attireshe is crowned with white rosesher hair is
brushed until it shinesand curled. Then she prostrates herself;
a great black veil is thrown over herand the office for the dead
is sung. Then the nuns separate into two files; one file passes
close to hersaying in plaintive accentsOur sister is dead;
and the other file responds in a voice of ecstasyOur sister is
alive in Jesus Christ!

At the epoch when this story takes placea boarding-school
was attached to the convent--a boarding-school for young girls
of noble and mostly wealthy familiesamong whom could be remarked
Mademoiselle de Saint-Aulaire and de Belissenand an English girl
bearing the illustrious Catholic name of Talbot. These young girls
reared by these nuns between four wallsgrew up with a horror
of the world and of the age. One of them said to us one day
The sight of the street pavement made me shudder from head to foot.
They were dressed in bluewith a white cap and a Holy Spirit
of silver gilt or of copper on their breast. On certain grand
festival daysparticularly Saint Martha's daythey were permitted
as a high favor and a supreme happinessto dress themselves
as nuns and to carry out the offices and practice of Saint-Benoit
for a whole day. In the early days the nuns were in the habit
of lending them their black garments. This seemed profaneand the
prioress forbade it. Only the novices were permitted to lend.
It is remarkable that these performancestolerated and encouraged
no doubtin 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 happiness and a real recreation for the scholars.
They simply amused themselves with it. It was new; it gave them
a change. Candid reasons of childhoodwhich do nothowever
succeed in making us worldlings comprehend the felicity of holding
a holy water sprinkler in one's hand and standing for hours together
singing hard enough for four in front of a reading-desk.

The pupils conformedwith the exception of the austerities
to all the practices of the convent. There was a certain young
woman who entered the worldand who after many years of married
life had not succeeded in breaking herself of the habit of saying
in great haste whenever any one knocked at her doorforever!
Like the nunsthe pupils saw their relatives only in the parlor.
Their very mothers did not obtain permission to embrace them.
The following illustrates to what a degree severity on that point
was carried. One day a young girl received a visit from her mother
who was accompanied by a little sister three years of age.
The young girl weptfor she wished greatly to embrace her sister.
Impossible. She begged thatat leastthe child might be permitted


to pass her little hand through the bars so that she could kiss it.
This was almost indignantly refused.

CHAPTER IV

GAYETIES

None the lessthese young girls filled this grave house with
charming souvenirs.

At certain hours childhood sparkled in that cloister. The recreation
hour struck. A door swung on its hinges. The birds said
Good; here come the children!An irruption of youth inundated
that garden intersected with a cross like a shroud. Radiant faces
white foreheadsinnocent eyesfull of merry lightall sorts of auroras
were scattered about amid these shadows. After the psalmodies
the bellsthe pealsand knells and officesthe sound of these little
girls burst forth on a sudden more sweetly than the noise of bees.
The hive of joy was openedand each one brought her honey.
They playedthey called to each otherthey formed into groups
they ran about; pretty little white teeth chattered in the corners;
the veils superintended the laughs from a distanceshades kept watch
of the sunbeamsbut what mattered it? Still they beamed and laughed.
Those four lugubrious walls had their moment of dazzling brilliancy.
They looked onvaguely 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 embarrass innocence. Thanks to these childrenthere was
among so many austere hoursone 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 freshexpanding young souls. Homer would have come
thither to laugh with Perrault; and there was in that black garden
youthhealthnoisecriesgiddinesspleasurehappiness enough
to smooth out the wrinkles of all their ancestressesthose of the
epic as well as those of the fairy-talethose of the throne as well
as those of the thatched cottage from Hecuba to la Mere-Grand.

In that house more than anywhere elseperhapsarise those
children's sayings which are so graceful and which evoke a smile
that is full of thoughtfulness. It was between those four
gloomy walls that a child of five years exclaimed one day:
Mother! one of the big girls has just told me that I have
only nine years and ten months longer to remain here. What happiness!

It was heretoothat this memorable dialogue took place:-


A Vocal Mother. Why are you weepingmy child?

The child (aged six). I told Alix that I knew my French history.
She says that I do not know itbut I do.

Alixthe big girl (aged nine). No; she does not know it.

The Mother. How is thatmy child?

Alix. She told me to open the book at random and to ask her any
question in the bookand she would answer it.

Well?


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 put 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 anent a rather
greedy paroquet which belonged to a lady boarder:-


How 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 advance
in order that she might not forget itby a sinner of seven years:-


Father, I accuse myself of having been avaricious.

FatherI 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 talewhich was listened
to by blue eyes aged four and five years:-


There were three little cocks who owned a country where there
were a great many flowers. They plucked the flowers and put them
in their pockets. After that they plucked the leaves and put
them in their playthings. There was a wolf in that country;
there was a great deal of forest; and the wolf was in the forest;
and he ate the little cocks.

And this other poem:-


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 childa foundling whom
the convent was bringing up out of charityuttered 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 keysand whose name was
Sister Agatha. The big big girls--those over ten years of age-called
her Agathocles.

The refectorya large apartment of an oblong square formwhich received
no light except through a vaulted cloister on a level with the garden
was dark and dampandas the children sayfull of beasts.


All the places round about furnished their contingent of insects.


Each of its four corners had receivedin the language of the pupils
a special and expressive name. There was Spider corner
Caterpillar cornerWood-louse cornerand Cricket corner.


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-schooland 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 Monseigneur the Archbishop
while making his pastoral visit saw a pretty little rosy girl
with beautiful golden hair enter the class-room through which he
was passing.


He inquired of another pupila charming brunette with rosy cheeks
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 Ecouen was one of those strict and graceful places where
young girls pass their childhood in a shadow that is almost august.
At Ecouenin order to take rank in the procession of the Holy
Sacramenta 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 virgins" walked in advance. On the morning of that great day
it was no rare thing to hear the question put in the dormitory
Who is a virgin?


Madame Campan used to quote this saying of a "little one" of seven years
to a "big girl" of sixteenwho took the head of the procession
while shethe little oneremained at the rearYou are a virgin,
but I am not.


CHAPTER V


DISTRACTIONS


Above the door of the refectory this prayerwhich was called
the white Paternosterand which possessed the property of bearing
people straight to paradisewas inscribed in large black letters:--


Little white Paternoster, which God made, which God said,



which God placed in paradise. In the evening, when I went
to bed, I found three angels sitting on my bed, one at the foot,
two 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 apostles are my brothers,
the three virgins are my sisters. The shirt in which God was born
envelopes my body; Saint Margaret's cross is written on my breast.
Madame the Virgin was walking through the meadows, weeping for God,
when she met M. Saint John. `Monsieur Saint John, whence come you?'
`I come from Ave Salus.' `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 thenand who are old women now.


A large crucifix fastened to the wall completed the decoration
of this refectorywhose only dooras we think we have mentioned
opened on the garden. Two narrow tableseach flanked by two
wooden benchesformed two long parallel lines from one end
to the other of the refectory. The walls were whitethe tables
were black; these two mourning colors constitute the only variety
in convents. The meals were plainand the food of the children
themselves severe. A single dish of meat and vegetables combined
or salt fish--such was their luxury. This meagre farewhich was
reserved for the pupils alonewasneverthelessan exception.
The children ate in silenceunder the eye of the mother whose
turn it waswhoif a fly took a notion to fly or to hum against
the ruleopened and shut a wooden book from time to time.
This silence was seasoned with the lives of the saintsread aloud
from a little pulpit with a deskwhich was situated at the foot of
the crucifix. The reader was one of the big girlsin weekly turn.
At regular distanceson the bare tablesthere were large
varnished bowls in which the pupils washed their own silver cups
and knives and forksand into which they sometimes threw some scrap
of tough meat or spoiled fish; this was punished. These bowls were
called ronds d'eau. The child who broke the silence "made a cross
with her tongue." Where? On the ground. She licked the pavement.
The dustthat end of all joyswas 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 copyand which it is forbidden to read. It is the rule
of Saint-Benoit. An arcanum which no profane eye must penetrate.
Nemo regulasseu constitutiones nostrasexternis communicabit.


The pupils one day succeeded in getting possession of this book
and set to reading it with aviditya reading which was often
interrupted by the fear of being caughtwhich 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 administeredwhen 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 mea letter written five
and twenty years ago by an old pupilnow 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 stuffs them under one's pillow and at night one eats them
in bed, and when one cannot do that, one eats them in the closet.
That was one of their greatest luxuries.


Once--it was at the epoch of the visit from the archbishop to the convent--
one of the young girlsMademoiselle Bouchardwho was connected
with the Montmorency familylaid a wager that she would ask for
a day's leave of absence--an enormity in so austere a community.
The wager was acceptedbut not one of those who bet believed that she
would do it. When the moment cameas the archbishop was passing
in front of the pupilsMademoiselle Bouchardto the indescribable
terror of her companionsstepped out of the ranksand said
Monseigneur, a day's leave of absence.Mademoiselle Bouchard
was tallbloomingwith the prettiest little rosy face in the world.


M. de Quelen smiled and saidWhat, my dear child, a day's leave
of absence! Three days if you like. I grant you three days.
The prioress could do nothing; the archbishop had spoken.
Horror of the conventbut joy of the pupil. The effect may
be imagined.
This stern cloister was not so well walled offhoweverbut that the
life of the passions of the outside worlddramaand even romance
did not make their way in. To prove thiswe will confine
ourselves to recording here and to briefly mentioning a real
and incontestable factwhichhoweverbears no reference
in itself toand is not connected by any thread whatever with
the story which we are relating. We mention the fact for the
sake of completing the physiognomy of the convent in the reader's mind.

About this time there was in the convent a mysterious person
who was not a nunwho was treated with great respectand who
was addressed as Madame Albertine. Nothing was known about her
save that she was madand that in the world she passed for dead.
Beneath this history it was said there lay the arrangements of fortune
necessary for a great marriage.

This womanhardly thirty years of ageof dark complexion
and tolerably prettyhad a vague look in her large black eyes.
Could she see? There was some doubt about this. She glided rather
than walkedshe never spoke; it was not quite known whether
she breathed. Her nostrils were livid and pinched as after yielding
up their last sigh. To touch her hand was like touching snow.
She possessed a strange spectral grace. Wherever she entered
people felt cold. One day a sisteron seeing her passsaid to
another sisterShe passes for a dead woman.Perhaps she is one,
replied the other.

A hundred tales were told of Madame Albertine. This arose from the
eternal curiosity of the pupils. In the chapel there was a gallery
called L'OEil de Boeuf. It was in this gallerywhich had only
a circular bayan oeil de boeufthat Madame Albertine listened
to the offices. She always occupied it alone because this gallery
being on the level of the first storythe preacher or the
officiating priest could be seenwhich was interdicted to the nuns.
One day the pulpit was occupied by a young priest of high rank

M. Le Duc de Rohanpeer of Franceofficer of the Red Musketeers
in 1815 when he was Prince de Leonand who died afterward
in 1830as cardinal and Archbishop of Besancon. It was the first
time that M. de Rohan had preached at the Petit-Picpus convent.

Madame Albertine usually preserved perfect calmness and complete
immobility during the sermons and services. That dayas soon
as she caught sight of M. de Rohanshe half roseand saidin a
loud voiceamid the silence of the chapelAh! Auguste!The whole
community turned their heads in amazementthe preacher raised
his eyesbut Madame Albertine had relapsed into her immobility.
A breath from the outer worlda flash of lifehad passed for an
instant across that cold and lifeless face and had then vanished
and the mad woman had become a corpse again.


Those two wordshoweverhad set every one in the convent who
had the privilege of speech to chattering. How many things were
contained in that "Ah! Auguste!" what revelations! M. de Rohan's
name really was Auguste. It was evident that Madame Albertine
belonged to the very highest societysince she knew M. de Rohan
and that her own rank there was of the highestsince she spoke
thus familiarly of so great a lordand that there existed between
them some connectionof relationshipperhapsbut a very close
one in any casesince she knew his "pet name."


Two very severe duchessesMesdames de Choiseul and de Serent
often visited the communitywhither they penetratedno doubt
in virtue of the privilege Magnates mulieresand caused great
consternation in the boarding-school. When these two old ladies
passed byall the poor young girls trembled and dropped their eyes.


MoreoverM. de Rohanquite unknown to himselfwas an object of
attention to the school-girls. At that epoch he had just been made
while waiting for the episcopatevicar-general of the Archbishop
of Paris. It was one of his habits to come tolerably often to celebrate
the offices in the chapel of the nuns of the Petit-Picpus. Not one
of the young recluses could see himbecause of the serge curtain
but he had a sweet and rather shrill voicewhich they had come
to know and to distinguish. He had been a mousquetaireand then
he was said to be very coquettishthat his handsome brown hair
was very well dressed in a roll around his headand that he had
a broad girdle of magnificent moireand that his black cassock
was of the most elegant cut in the world. He held a great place
in all these imaginations of sixteen years.


Not a sound from without made its way into the convent. But there
was one year when the sound of a flute penetrated thither.
This was an eventand the girls who were at school there at the time
still recall it.


It was a flute which was played in the neighborhood. This flute
always played the same airan air which is very far away
nowadays--"My Zetulbecome reign o'er my soul--and it was heard
two or three times a day. The young girls passed hours in listening
to it, the vocal mothers were upset by it, brains were busy,
punishments descended in showers. This lasted for several months.
The girls were all more or less in love with the unknown musician.
Each one dreamed that she was Zetulbe. The sound of the flute
proceeded from the direction of the Rue Droit-Mur; and they would
have given anything, compromised everything, attempted anything
for the sake of seeing, of catching a glance, if only for a second,
of the young man" who played that flute so deliciouslyand who
no doubtplayed on all these souls at the same time. There were some
who made their escape by a back doorand ascended to the third story
on the Rue Droit-Mur sidein order to attempt to catch a glimpse
through the gaps. Impossible! One even went so far as to thrust
her arm through the gratingand to wave her white handkerchief.
Two were still bolder. They found means to climb on a roofand risked
their lives thereand succeeded at last in seeing "the young man."



He was an old emigre gentlemanblind and pennilesswho was playing
his flute in his atticin order to pass the time.


CHAPTER VI


THE LITTLE CONVENT


In this enclosure of the Petit-Picpus there were three perfectly
distinct buildings--the Great Conventinhabited by the nuns
the Boarding-schoolwhere 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 ordersthe relics
of cloisters destroyed in the Revolution; a reunion of all the black
grayand white medleys of all communities and all possible varieties;
what might be calledif such a coupling of words is permissible
a sort of harlequin convent.


When the Empire was establishedall these poor old dispersed and
exiled women had been accorded permission to come and take shelter
under the wings of the Bernardines-Benedictines. The government
paid them a small pensionthe ladies of the Petit-Picpus received
them cordially. It was a singular pell-mell. Each followed her
own ruleSometimes the pupils of the boarding-school were allowed
as a great recreationto pay them a visit; the result is
that all those young memories have retained among other souvenirs
that of Mother Sainte-BazileMother Sainte-Scolastiqueand Mother Jacob.


One of these refugees found herself almost at home. She was a nun
of Sainte-Aurethe only one of her order who had survived.
The ancient convent of the ladies of Sainte-Aure occupied
at the beginning of the eighteenth centurythis very house
of the Petit-Picpuswhich belonged later to the Benedictines
of Martin Verga. This holy womantoo poor to wear the magnificent
habit of her orderwhich was a white robe with a scarlet scapulary
had piously put it on a little manikinwhich she exhibited with
complacency and which she bequeathed to the house at her death.
In 1824only one nun of this order remained; to-daythere remains
only a doll.


In addition to these worthy motherssome old society women
had obtained permission of the prioresslike Madame Albertine
to retire into the Little Convent. Among the number were Madame
Beaufort d'Hautpoul and Marquise Dufresne. Another was never known
in the convent except by the formidable noise which she made when
she blew her nose. The pupils called her Madame Vacarmini (hubbub).


About 1820 or 1821Madame de Genliswho was at that time editing
a little periodical publication called l'Intrepideasked to be
allowed to enter the convent of the Petit-Picpus as lady resident.
The Duc d'Orleans recommended her. Uproar in the hive; the vocal-mothers
were all in a flutter; Madame de Genlis had made romances.
But she declared that she was the first to detest themand then
she had reached her fierce stage of devotion. With the aid of God
and of the Princeshe entered. She departed at the end of six
or eight monthsalleging as a reasonthat there was no shade
in the garden. The nuns were delighted. Although very old
she still played the harpand did it very well.


When she went away she left her mark in her cell. Madame de Genlis
was superstitious and a Latinist. These two words furnish a tolerably
good profile of her. A few years agothere were still to be seen



pasted in the inside of a little cupboard in her cell in which she
locked up her silverware and her jewelsthese five lines in Latin
written with her own hand in red ink on yellow paperand which
in her opinionpossessed the property of frightening away robbers:-


Imparibus meritis pendent tria corpora ramis:[15]
Dismas et Gesmasmedia est divina potestas;
Alta petit DismasinfelixinfimaGesmas;
Nos et res nostras conservet summa potestas.
Hos versus dicasne tu furto tua perdas.


[15] On the boughs hang three bodies of unequal merits:
Dismas and Gesmasbetween is the divine power. Dismas seeks
the heightsGesmasunhappy manthe lowest regions; the highest
power will preserve us and our effects. If you repeat this verse
you will not lose your things by theft.
These verses in sixth century Latin raise the question whether
the two thieves of Calvary were namedas is commonly believed
Dismas and Gestasor Dismas and Gesmas. This orthography might
have confounded the pretensions put forward in the last century
by the Vicomte de Gestasof a descent from the wicked thief.
Howeverthe useful virtue attached to these verses forms an article
of faith in the order of the Hospitallers.


The church of the houseconstructed in such a manner as to separate
the Great Convent from the Boarding-school like a veritable intrenchment
wasof coursecommon to the Boarding-schoolthe 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 outside world. Suppose a church whose choir is grasped
in a gigantic handand folded in such a manner as to formnot
as in ordinary churchesa prolongation behind the altarbut a sort
of hallor obscure cellarto 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 rightthe lay-sisters and the novices at
the bottomand you will have some idea of the nuns of the Petit-Picpus
assisting at divine service. That cavernwhich 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 silencethe public was warned of their presence
only by the folding seats of the stalls noisily rising and falling.


CHAPTER VII


SOME SILHOUETTES OF THIS DARKNESS


During the six years which separate 1819 from 1825the prioress of
the Petit-Picpus was Mademoiselle de Blemeurwhose namein religion
was Mother Innocente. She came of the family of Marguerite de Blemeur
author of Lives of the Saints of the Order of Saint-Benoit. She
had been re-elected. She was a woman about sixty years of age
shortthicksinging like a cracked pot,says the letter which we
have already quoted; an excellent womanmoreoverand the only
merry one in the whole conventand for that reason adored.



She was learnederuditewisecompetentcuriously proficient
in historycrammed with Latinstuffed with Greekfull of Hebrew
and more of a Benedictine monk than a Benedictine nun.


The sub-prioress was an old Spanish nunMother Cinereswho was
almost blind.


The most esteemed among the vocal mothers were Mother Sainte-Honorine;
the treasurerMother Sainte-Gertrudethe chief mistress of the novices;
Mother-Saint-Angethe assistant mistress; Mother Annonciation
the sacristan; Mother Saint-Augustinthe nursethe only one
in the convent who was malicious; then Mother Sainte-Mechtilde
(Mademoiselle Gauvain)very young and with a beautiful voice;
Mother des Anges (Mademoiselle Drouet)who had been in the convent
of the Filles-Dieuand in the convent du Tresorbetween Gisors
and Magny; Mother Saint-Joseph (Mademoiselle de Cogolludo)Mother
Sainte-Adelaide (Mademoiselle d'Auverney)Mother Misericorde
(Mademoiselle de Cifuenteswho could not resist austerities)
Mother Compassion (Mademoiselle de la Miltierereceived at
the age of sixty in defiance of the ruleand very wealthy);
Mother Providence (Mademoiselle de Laudiniere)Mother Presentation
(Mademoiselle de Siguenza)who was prioress in 1847; and finally
Mother Sainte-Celigne (sister of the sculptor Ceracchi)who went mad;
Mother Sainte-Chantal (Mademoiselle de Suzon)who went mad.


There was alsoamong the prettiest of thema charming girl of
three and twentywho was from the Isle de Bourbona descendant
of the Chevalier Rozewhose name had been Mademoiselle Roze
and who was called Mother Assumption.


Mother Sainte-Mechtildeintrusted with the singing and the choir
was fond of making use of the pupils in this quarter. She usually
took a complete scale of themthat is to saysevenfrom ten
to sixteen years of ageinclusiveof assorted voices and sizes
whom she made sing standingdrawn up in a lineside by side
according to agefrom the smallest to the largest. This presented
to the eyesomething in the nature of a reed-pipe of young girls
a sort of living Pan-pipe made of angels.


Those of the lay-sisters whom the scholars loved most were Sister
EuphrasieSister Sainte-MargueriteSister Sainte-Marthewho was
in her dotageand Sister Sainte-Michelwhose 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.
Moreoverthey lavished a thousand cares on their scholars. Only
when a child passed near a nun and addressed herthe nun never replied.


This rule of silence had had this effectthat throughout the
whole conventspeech had been withdrawn from human creatures
and bestowed on inanimate objects. Now it was the church-bell
which spokenow it was the gardener's bell. A very sonorous bell
placed beside the portressand which was audible throughout
the houseindicated by its varied pealswhich formed a sort
of acoustic telegraphall the actions of material life which were
to be performedand summoned to the parlorin case of need
such or such an inhabitant of the house. Each person and each thing
had its own peal. The prioress had one and onethe sub-prioress
one and two. Six-five announced lessonsso 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.
Tennine strokes announced a great event. It was the opening of the



door of seclusiona 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 gardenerno man
entered the conventas we have already said. The schoolgirls
saw two others: onethe chaplainthe Abbe Banesold and ugly
whom they were permitted to contemplate in the choirthrough a grating;
the other the drawing-masterM. Ansiauxwhom the letter
of which we have perused a few linescalls M. Anciotand describes
as a frightful old hunchback.


It will be seen that all these men were carefully chosen.


Such was this curious house.


CHAPTER VIII


POST CORDA LAPIDES


After having sketched its moral faceit will not prove unprofitable
to point outin a few wordsits material configuration.
The reader already has some idea of it.


The convent of the Petit-Picpus-Sainte-Antoine filled almost the
whole of the vast trapezium which resulted from the intersection
of the Rue Polonceauthe Rue Droit-Murthe Rue Petit-Picpus
and the unused lanecalled Rue Aumarais on old plans.
These four streets surrounded this trapezium like a moat.
The convent was composed of several buildings and a garden.
The principal buildingtaken in its entiretywas a juxtaposition
of hybrid constructions whichviewed from a bird's-eye viewoutlined
with considerable exactnessa gibbet laid flat on the ground.
The main arm of the gibbet occupied the whole of the fragment
of the Rue Droit-Mur comprised between the Rue Petit-Picpus and
the Rue Polonceau; the lesser arm was a loftygraysevere grated
facade which faced the Rue Petit-Picpus; the carriage entrance No. 62
marked its extremity. Towards the centre of this facade was a low
arched doorwhitened with dust and asheswhere the spiders wove
their websand which was open only for an hour or two on Sundays
and on rare occasionswhen the coffin of a nun left the convent.
This was the public entrance of the church. The elbow of the gibbet
was a square hall which was used as the servants' halland which
the nuns called the buttery. In the main arm were the cells
of the mothersthe sistersand the novices. In the lesser arm
lay the kitchensthe refectorybacked up by the cloisters and
the church. Between the door No. 62 and the corner of the closed
lane Aumaraiswas the schoolwhich was not visible from without.
The remainder of the trapezium formed the gardenwhich was much
lower than the level of the Rue Polonceauwhich caused the walls
to be very much higher on the inside than on the outside.
The gardenwhich was slightly archedhad in its centreon the
summit of a hillocka fine pointed and conical fir-treewhence ran
as from the peaked boss of a shieldfour grand alleysand
ranged by twos in between the branchings of theseeight small ones
so thatif the enclosure had been circularthe geometrical plan
of the alleys would have resembled a cross superposed on a wheel.
As the alleys all ended in the very irregular walls of the garden
they were of unequal length. They were bordered with currant bushes.
At the bottoman alley of tall poplars ran from the ruins of the
old conventwhich was at the angle of the Rue Droit-Mur to the house
of the Little Conventwhich was at the angle of the Aumarais lane.



In front of the Little Convent was what was called the little garden.
To this wholelet the reader add a courtyardall sorts of varied
angles formed by the interior buildingsprison wallsthe long
black line of roofs which bordered the other side of the Rue
Polonceau for its sole perspective and neighborhoodand he will
be able to form for himself a complete 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 centurywhich was
called the "tennis-ground of the eleven thousand devils."

All these streetsmoreoverwere more ancient than Paris. These names
Droit-Mur and Aumaraisare very ancient; 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 Eglantiers
for God opened flowers before man cut stones.

CHAPTER 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 timesand since we have ventured
to open a window on that discreet retreatthe reader will permit
us one other little digressionutterly foreign to this book
but characteristic and usefulsince it shows that the cloister
even has its original figures.

In the Little Convent there was a centenarian who came from the Abbey
of Fontevrault. She had even been in society before the Revolution.
She talked a great deal of M. de MiromesnilKeeper of the Seals
under Louis XVI. and of a Presidentess Duplatwith whom she had been
very intimate. It was her 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 cityand that there were streets in the monastery.

She talked with a Picard accent which amused the pupils. Every year
she solemnly renewed her vowsand at the moment of taking the oath
she said to the priestMonseigneur Saint-Francois gave it
to Monseigneur Saint-Julien, Monseigneur Saint-Julien gave it
to Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius, Monseigneur Saint-Eusebius 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 sleevesbut under their veils; charming little
stifled laughs which made the vocal mothers frown.

On another occasionthe centenarian was telling stories. She said
that in her youth the Bernardine monks were every whit as good as
the mousquetaires. It was a century which spoke through herbut it
was the eighteenth century. She told about the custom of the four wines
which existed before the Revolution in Champagne and Bourgogne.
When a great personagea marshal of Francea princea duke
and a peertraversed a town in Burgundy or Champagnethe city
fathers came out to harangue him and presented him with four silver
gondolas into which they had poured four different sorts of wine.
On the first goblet this inscription could be readmonkey wine;
on the secondlion wine; on the thirdsheep wine; on the fourth
hog wine. These four legends express the four stages descended
by the drunkard; the firstintoxicationwhich enlivens; the second
that which irritates; the thirdthat which dulls; and the fourth
that which brutalizes.


In a cupboardunder lock and keyshe kept a mysterious object
of which she thought a great deal. The rule of Fontevrault did
not forbid this. She would not show this object to anyone.
She shut herself upwhich her rule allowed her to do
and hid herselfevery time that she desired to contemplate it.
If she heard a footstep in the corridorshe closed the cupboard
again as hastily as it was possible with her aged hands. As soon
as it was mentioned to hershe became silentshe who was so fond
of talking. The most curious were baffled by her silence and the
most tenacious by her obstinacy. Thus it furnished a subject of
comment for all those who were unoccupied or bored in the convent.
What could that treasure of the centenarian bewhich was so precious
and so secret? Some holy bookno doubt? Some unique chaplet?
Some authentic relic? They lost themselves in conjectures.
When the poor old woman diedthey rushed to her cupboard more
hastily than was fittingperhapsand opened it. They found the
object beneath a triple linen clothlike some consecrated paten.
It was a Faenza platter representing little Loves flitting
away pursued by apothecary lads armed with enormous syringes.
The chase abounds in grimaces and in comical postures. One of the
charming little Loves is already fairly spitted. He is resisting
fluttering his tiny wingsand still making an effort to fly
but the dancer is laughing with a satanical air. Moral: Love conquered
by the colic. This platterwhich is very curiousand which had
possiblythe honor of furnishing Moliere with an ideawas still
in existence in September1845; it was for sale by a bric-a-brac
merchant in the Boulevard Beaumarchais.

This good old woman would not receive any visits from outside because
said shethe parlor is too gloomy.

CHAPTER X

ORIGIN OF THE PERPETUAL ADORATION

Howeverthis almost sepulchral parlorof which we have sought
to convey an ideais a purely local trait which is not reproduced
with the same severity in other convents. At the convent of the Rue
du Templein particularwhich belongedin truthto another order
the black shutters were replaced by brown curtainsand the parlor
itself was a salon with a polished wood floorwhose windows were
draped in white muslin curtains and whose walls admitted all sorts
of framesa portrait of a Benedictine nun with unveiled face
painted bouquetsand even the head of a Turk.

It is in that garden of the Temple conventthat stood that famous
chestnut-tree which was renowned as the finest and the largest
in Franceand 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 saidthis convent of the Temple was occupied by Benedictines
of the Perpetual AdorationBenedictines quite different from those
who depended on Citeaux. This order of the Perpetual Adoration is
not very ancient and does not go back more than two hundred years.
In 1649 the holy sacrament was profaned on two occasions a few
days apartin two churches in Parisat Saint-Sulpice and at
Saint-Jean en Grevea rare and frightful sacrilege which set
the whole town in an uproar. M. the Prior and Vicar-General of
Saint-Germain des Pres ordered a solemn procession of all his clergy


in which the Pope's Nuncio officiated. But this expiation did
not satisfy two sainted womenMadame CourtinMarquise de Boucs
and the Comtesse de Chateauvieux. 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 themone in 1652the other in 1653made donations of notable
sums to Mother Catherine de Barcalled of the Holy Sacrament
a Benedictine nunfor the purpose of foundingto this pious end
a monastery of the order of Saint-Benoit; the first permission for
this foundation was given to Mother Catherine de Bar by M. de Metz
Abbe of Saint-Germainon 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 Abbe of Saint-Germainthe king accorded letters-patent;
and all the restabbatial charterand royal letterswas confirmed
in 1654 by the Chamber of Accounts and the Parliament.


Such is the origin of the legal consecration of the establishment
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 Chateauvieux.


This orderas it will be seenwas not to be confounded with
the Benedictine nuns of Citeaux. It mounted back to the Abbe
of Saint-Germain des Presin the same manner that the ladies
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 1657Pope Alexander VII.
had authorizedby a special briefthe Bernardines of the Rue
Petit-Picpusto practise the Perpetual Adoration like the Benedictine
nuns of the Holy Sacrament. But the two orders remained distinct
none the less.


CHAPTER XI


END OF THE PETIT-PICPUS


At the beginning of the Restorationthe convent of the Petit-Picpus
was in its decay; this forms a part of the general death of the order
whichafter the eighteenth centuryhas been disappearing like
all the religious orders. Contemplation islike prayerone of
humanity's needs; butlike everything which the Revolution touched
it will be transformedand from being hostile to social progress
it will become favorable to it.


The house of the Petit-Picpus was becoming rapidly depopulated.
In 1840the Little Convent had disappearedthe school had disappeared.
There were no longer any old womennor young girls; the first
were deadthe latter had taken their departure. Volaverunt.


The rule of the Perpetual Adoration is so rigid in its nature
that it alarmsvocations recoil before itthe order receives
no recruits. In 1845it still obtained lay-sisters here and there.
But of professed nunsnone at all. Forty years agothe 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 younga sign that the circle of choice was restricted.
She was not forty years old. In proportion as the number diminishes



the fatigue increasesthe service of each becomes more painful;
the moment could then be seen drawing near when there would be
but a dozen bent and aching shoulders to bear the heavy rule of
Saint-Benoit. The burden is implacableand remains the same for the
few as for the many. It weighs downit crushes. Thus they die.
At the period when the author of this book still lived in Paris
two died. One was twenty-five years oldthe other twenty-three.
This latter can saylike Julia Alpinula: "Hic jaceo. Vixi annos
viginti et tres." 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 itand without introducing the minds which
accompany usand which are listening to our taleto the profit
of someperchanceof the melancholy history of Jean Valjean.
We have penetrated into this communityfull of those old practices
which seem so novel to-day. It is the closed gardenhortus conclusus.
We have spoken of this singular place in detailbut with respect
in so farat leastas detail and respect are compatible.
We do not understand allbut we insult nothing. We are equally
far removed from the hosanna of Joseph de Maistrewho wound up
by anointing the executionerand from the sneer of Voltaire
who even goes so far as to ridicule the cross.


An illogical act on Voltaire's partwe may remarkby the way;
for Voltaire would have defended Jesus as he defended Calas;
and even for those who deny superhuman incarnationswhat does the
crucifix represent? The assassinated sage.


In this nineteenth centurythe religious idea is undergoing
a crisis. People are unlearning certain thingsand they do well
provided thatwhile unlearning them they learn this: There is
no vacuum in the human heart. Certain demolitions take place
and it is well that they dobut on condition that they are followed
by reconstructions.


In the meantimelet us study things which are no more. It is necessary
to know themif only for the purpose of avoiding them. The counterfeits
of the past assume false namesand gladly call themselves the future.
This spectrethis pastis given to falsifying its own passport.
Let us inform ourselves of the trap. Let us be on our guard.
The past has a visagesuperstitionand a maskhypocrisy. Let us
denounce the visage and let us tear off the mask.


As for conventsthey present a complex problem--a question
of civilizationwhich condemns them; a question of liberty
which protects them.


BOOK SEVENTH.--PARENTHESIS


CHAPTER I


THE CONVENT AS AN ABSTRACT IDEA


This book is a dramawhose leading personage is the Infinite.


Man is the second.



Such being the caseand a convent having happened to be on our road
it has been our duty to enter it. Why? Because the convent
which is common to the Orient as well as to the Occident
to antiquity as well as to modern timesto paganismto Buddhism
to Mahometanismas well as to Christianityis one of the optical
apparatuses applied by man to the Infinite.


This is not the place for enlarging disproportionately on
certain ideas; neverthelesswhile absolutely maintaining
our reservesour restrictionsand even our indignationswe must
say that every time we encounter man in the Infiniteeither well
or ill understoodwe feel ourselves overpowered with respect.
There isin the synagoguein the mosquein the pagoda
in the wigwama hideous side which we execrateand a sublime side
which we adore. What a contemplation for the mindand what endless
food for thoughtis the reverberation of God upon the human wall!


CHAPTER II


THE CONVENT AS AN HISTORICAL FACT


From the point of view of historyof reasonand of truth
monasticism is condemned. Monasterieswhen they abound in a nation
are clogs in its circulationcumbrous establishmentscentres of
idleness where centres of labor should exist. Monastic communities
are to the great social community what the mistletoe is to the oak
what the wart is to the human body. Their prosperity and their
fatness mean the impoverishment of the country. The monastic regime
good at the beginning of civilizationuseful in the reduction
of the brutal by the spiritualis bad when peoples have reached
their manhood. Moreoverwhen it becomes relaxedand when it
enters into its period of disorderit becomes bad for the very
reasons which rendered it salutary in its period of purity
because it still continues to set the example.


Claustration has had its day. Cloistersuseful in the early education
of modern civilizationhave embarrassed its growthand are injurious
to its development. So far as institution and formation with relation
to man are concernedmonasterieswhich were good in the tenth century
questionable in the fifteenthare detestable in the nineteenth.
The leprosy of monasticism has gnawed nearly to a skeleton two
wonderful nationsItaly and Spain; the one the lightthe other
the splendor of Europe for centuries; andat the present day
these two illustrious peoples are but just beginning to convalesce
thanks to the healthy and vigorous hygiene of 1789 alone.


The convent--the ancient female convent in particularsuch as it still
presents itself on the threshold of this centuryin Italyin Austria
in Spain--is one of the most sombre concretions of the Middle Ages.
The cloisterthat cloisteris the point of intersection of horrors.
The Catholic cloisterproperly speakingis wholly filled with the
black radiance of death.


The Spanish convent is the most funereal of all. There rise
in obscuritybeneath vaults filled with gloombeneath domes
vague with shadowmassive altars of Babelas high as cathedrals;
there immense white crucifixes hang from chains in the dark;
there are extendedall nude on the ebonygreat Christs of ivory;
more than bleeding--bloody; hideous and magnificentwith their elbows
displaying the bonestheir knee-pans showing their integuments
their wounds showing their fleshcrowned with silver thorns



nailed with nails of goldwith 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 weeptheir sides bruised
with the hair shirt and their iron-tipped scourgestheir breasts
crushed with wicker hurdlestheir knees excoriated with prayer;
women who think themselves wivesspectres who think themselves seraphim.
Do these women think? No. Have they any will? No. Do they 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 abbessa spectresanctifies them and terrifies them.
The immaculate one is thereand very fierce. Such are the ancient
monasteries of Spain. Liars of terrible devotioncaverns of virgins
ferocious places.


Catholic Spain is more Roman than Rome herself. The Spanish convent was
above all othersthe Catholic convent. There was a flavor of
the Orient about it. The archbishopthe kislar-aga of heaven
locked up and kept watch over this seraglio of souls reserved
for God. The nun was the odalisquethe priest was the eunuch.
The fervent were chosen in dreams and possessed Christ.
At nightthe beautifulnude young man descended from the cross
and became the ecstasy of the cloistered one. Lofty walls guarded
the mystic sultanawho had the crucified for her sultanfrom all
living distraction. A glance on the outer world was infidelity.
The in pace replaced the leather sack. That which was cast into
the sea in the East was thrown into the ground in the West.
In both quarterswomen wrung their hands; the waves for the first
the grave for the last; here the drownedthere the buried.
Monstrous parallel.


To-day the upholders of the pastunable to deny these things
have adopted the expedient of smiling at them. There has come into
fashion a strange and easy manner of suppressing the revelations
of historyof invalidating the commentaries of philosophy
of eliding all embarrassing facts and all gloomy questions. A matter
for declamationssay the clever. Declamationsrepeat the foolish.
Jean-Jacques a declaimer; Diderot a declaimer; Voltaire on Calas
Labarreand Sirvendeclaimers. I know not who has recently
discovered that Tacitus was a declaimerthat Nero was a victim
and that pity is decidedly due to "that poor Holofernes."


Factshoweverare awkward things to disconcertand they are obstinate.
The author of this book has seenwith his own eyeseight leagues
distant from Brussels--there are relics of the Middle Ages there
which are attainable for everybody--at the Abbey of Villers
the hole of the oubliettesin the middle of the field which was
formerly the courtyard of the cloisterand on the banks of the Thil
four stone dungeonshalf under groundhalf under the water.
They were in pace. Each of these dungeons has the remains of an
iron doora vaultand a grated opening whichon the outside
is two feet above the level of the riverand on the inside
six feet above the level of the ground. Four feet of river flow
past along the outside wall. The ground is always soaked.
The occupant of the in pace had this wet soil for his bed.
In one of these dungeonsthere is a fragment of an iron necklet
riveted to the wall; in anotherthere can be seen a square box made
of four slabs of granitetoo short for a person to lie down in
too low for him to stand upright in. A human being was put inside
with a coverlid of stone on top. This exists. It can be seen.
It can be touched. These in pacethese dungeonsthese iron hinges
these neckletsthat lofty peep-hole on a level with the river's current
that box of stone closed with a lid of granite like a tomb
with this differencethat the dead man here was a living being



that soil which is but mudthat vault holethose oozing walls-what
declaimers!

CHAPTER III

ON WHAT CONDITIONS ONE CAN RESPECT THE PAST

Monasticismsuch as it existed in Spainand such as it still
exists in Thibetis a sort of phthisis for civilization. It stops
life short. It simply depopulates. Claustrationcastration.
It has been the scourge of Europe. Add to this the violence so often
done to the consciencethe forced vocationsfeudalism bolstered
up by the cloisterthe right of the first-born pouring the excess
of the family into monasticismthe ferocities of which we have
just spokenthe in pacethe closed mouthsthe walled-up brains
so many unfortunate minds placed in the dungeon of eternal vows
the taking of the habitthe interment of living souls.
Add individual tortures to national degradationsandwhoever you
may beyou will shudder before the frock and the veil--those two
winding-sheets of human devising. Neverthelessat certain points
and in certain placesin spite of philosophyin spite of progress
the spirit of the cloister persists in the midst of the nineteenth
centuryand a singular ascetic recrudescence isat this moment
astonishing the civilized world. The obstinacy of antiquated
institutions in perpetuating themselves resembles the stubbornness
of the rancid perfume which should claim our hairthe pretensions
of the spoiled fish which should persist in being eatenthe persecution
of the child's garment which should insist on clothing the man
the tenderness of corpses which should return to embrace the living.

Ingrates!says the garmentI protected you in inclement weather.
Why will you have nothing to do with me?I have just come from the
deep sea,says the fish. "I have been a rose says the perfume.
I have loved you says the corpse. 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 thingsand of the
government of men by embalmingto restore dogmas in a bad condition
to regild shrinesto patch up cloistersto rebless reliquaries
to refurnish superstitionsto revictual fanaticismsto put
new handles on holy water brushes and militarismto reconstitute
monasticism and militarismto believe in the salvation of society
by the multiplication of parasitesto force the past on the present-this
seems strange. Stillthere are theorists who hold such theories.
These theoristswho are in other respects people of intelligence
have a very simple process; they apply to the past a glazing which
they call social orderdivine rightmoralityfamilythe respect
of eldersantique authoritysacred traditionlegitimacyreligion;
and they go about shoutingLook! take this, honest people.
This logic was known to the ancients. The soothsayers practise it.
They rubbed a black heifer over with chalkand saidShe is white,
Bos cretatus.

As for uswe respect the past here and thereand we spare it
above allprovided that it consents to be dead. If it insists on
being alivewe attack itand we try to kill it.

Superstitionsbigotriesaffected devotionprejudicesthose forms
all forms as they areare tenacious of life; they have teeth and


nails in their smokeand they must be clasped closebody to body
and war must be made on themand that without truce; for it is one
of the fatalities of humanity to be condemned to eternal combat
with phantoms. It is difficult to seize darkness by the throat
and to hurl it to the earth.


A convent in Francein the broad daylight of the nineteenth century
is a college of owls facing the light. A cloistercaught in the
very act of asceticismin the very heart of the city of '89 and of
1830 and of 1848Rome blossoming out in Parisis an anachronism.
In ordinary timesin order to dissolve an anachronism and to
cause it to vanishone has only to make it spell out the date.
But we are not in ordinary times.


Let us fight.


Let us fightbut let us make a distinction. The peculiar
property of truth is never to commit excesses. What need has it
of exaggeration? There is that which it is necessary to destroy
and there is that which it is simply necessary to elucidate
and examine. What a force is kindly and serious examination!
Let us not apply a flame where only a light is required.


Sogiven the nineteenth centurywe are opposedas a general
propositionand among all peoplesin Asia as well as in Europe
in India as well as in Turkeyto ascetic claustration.
Whoever says cloistersays marsh. Their putrescence is evident
their stagnation is unhealthytheir fermentation infects people
with feverand etiolates them; their multiplication becomes a
plague of Egypt. We cannot think without affright of those lands
where fakirsbonzessantonsGreek monksmaraboutstalapoins
and dervishes multiply even like swarms of vermin.


This saidthe religious question remains. This question has
certain mysteriousalmost formidable sides; may we be permitted
to look at it fixedly.


CHAPTER IV


THE CONVENT FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF PRINCIPLES


Men unite themselves and dwell in communities. By virtue 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 his door.


They do not come forth. By virtue of what right? By virtue of
the right to go and comewhich implies the right to remain at home.


Thereat homewhat do they do?


They speak in low tones; they drop their eyes; they toil.
They renounce the worldtownssensualitiespleasuresvanities
prideinterests. They are clothed in coarse woollen or coarse linen.
Not one of them possesses in his own right anything whatever.
On entering thereeach one who was rich makes himself poor.
What he hashe gives to all. He who was what is called noble
a gentleman and a lordis the equal of him who was a peasant.
The cell is identical for all. All undergo the same tonsure
wear the same frockeat the same black breadsleep on the same straw



die on the same ashes. The same sack on their backsthe same rope
around their 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. They bear only first names. All are bowed
beneath the equality of baptismal names. They have dissolved the
carnal familyand constituted in their community a spiritual family.
They have no other relatives than all men. They succor the poor
they care for the sick. They elect those whom they obey. They call
each other "my brother."

You stop me and exclaimBut that is the ideal convent!

It is sufficient that it may be the possible conventthat I
should take notice of it.

Thence it results thatin the preceding bookI have spoken
of a convent with respectful accents. The Middle Ages cast aside
Asia cast asidethe historical and political question held
in reservefrom the purely philosophical point of viewoutside the
requirements of militant policyon condition that the monastery
shall be absolutely a voluntary matter and shall contain only
consenting partiesI shall always consider a cloistered community
with a certain attentiveandin some respectsa deferential gravity.

Wherever there is a communitythere is a commune; where there
is a communethere is right. The monastery is the product of
the formula: EqualityFraternity. Oh! how grand is liberty!
And what a splendid transfiguration! Liberty suffices to transform
the monastery into a republic.

Let us continue.

But these menor these women who are behind these four walls.
They dress themselves in coarse woollenthey are equalsthey call
each other brothersthat is well; but they do something else?

Yes.

What?

They gaze on the darknessthey kneeland they clasp their hands.

What does this signify?

CHAPTER V

PRAYER

They pray.

To whom?

To God.

To pray to God--what is the meaning of these words?

Is there an infinite beyond us? Is that infinite thereinherent
permanent; necessarily substantialsince it is infinite; and because
if it lacked matter it would be bounded; necessarily intelligent
since it is infiniteand becauseif it lacked intelligenceit would


end there? Does this infinite awaken in us the idea of essence
while we can attribute to ourselves only the idea of existence?
In other termsis it not the absoluteof which we are only the relative?


At the same time that there is an infinite without usis there
not an infinite within us? Are not these two infinites (what an
alarming plural!) superposedthe one upon the other? Is not this
second infiniteso to speaksubjacent to the first? Is it not
the latter's mirrorreflectionechoan abyss which is concentric
with another abyss? Is this second infinity intelligent also?
Does it think? Does it love? Does it will? If these two infinities
are intelligenteach of them has a will principleand there is an
_I_ in the upper infinity as there is an _I_ in the lower infinity.
The _I_ below is the soul; the _I_ on high is God.


To place the infinity here below in contactby the medium of thought
with the infinity on highis called praying.


Let us take nothing from the human mind; to suppress is bad.
We must reform and transform. Certain faculties in man are directed
towards the Unknown; thoughtreveryprayer. The Unknown is
an ocean. What is conscience? It is the compass of the Unknown.
Thoughtreveryprayer--these are great and mysterious radiations.
Let us respect them. Whither go these majestic irradiations
of the soul? Into the shadow; that is to sayto the light.


The grandeur of democracy is to disown nothing and to deny nothing
of humanity. Close to the right of the manbeside itat the least
there exists the right of the soul.


To crush fanaticism and to venerate the infinitesuch is the law.
Let us not confine ourselves to prostrating ourselves before the tree
of creationand to the contemplation of its branches full of stars.
We have a duty to labor over the human soulto defend the mystery
against the miracleto adore the incomprehensible and reject
the absurdto admitas an inexplicable factonly what is necessary
to purify beliefto remove superstitions from above religion;
to clear God of caterpillars.


CHAPTER VI


THE ABSOLUTE GOODNESS OF PRAYER


With regard to the modes of prayerall are goodprovided that they
are sincere. Turn your book upside down and be in the infinite.


There isas we knowa philosophy which denies the infinite.
There is also a philosophypathologically classifiedwhich denies
the sun; this philosophy is called blindness.


To erect a sense which we lack into a source of truthis a fine
blind man's self-sufficiency.


The curious thing is the haughtysuperiorand compassionate
airs which this groping philosophy assumes towards the philosophy
which beholds God. One fancies he hears a mole cryingI pity
them with their sun!


There areas we knowpowerful and illustrious atheists. At bottom
led back to the truth by their very forcethey are not absolutely sure
that they are atheists; it is with them only a question of definition



and in any caseif they do not believe in Godbeing great minds
they prove God.

We salute them as philosopherswhile inexorably denouncing
their philosophy.

Let us go on.

The remarkable thing about it isalsotheir facility in paying
themselves off with words. A metaphysical school of the North
impregnated to some extent with foghas fancied that it has worked
a revolution in human understanding by replacing the word Force
with the word Will.

To say: "the plant wills instead of: the plant grows":
this would be fecund in resultsindeedif we were to add:
the universe wills.Why? Because it would come to this:
the plant willstherefore it has an _I_; the universe wills
therefore it has a God.

As for uswhohoweverin contradistinction to this school
reject nothing a prioria will in the plantaccepted by this school
appears to us more difficult to admit than a will in the universe
denied by it.

To deny the will of the infinitethat is to sayGodis impossible
on any other conditions than a denial of the infinite. We have
demonstrated this.

The negation of the infinite leads straight to nihilism.
Everything becomes "a mental conception."

With nihilismno discussion is possible; for the nihilist logic
doubts the existence of its interlocutorand is not quite sure
that it exists itself.

From its point of viewit is possible that it may be for itself
only "a mental conception."

Onlyit does not perceive that all which it has denied it admits
in the lumpsimply by the utterance of the wordmind.

In shortno way is open to the thought by a philosophy which makes
all end in the monosyllableNo.

To No there is only one replyYes.

Nihilism has no point.

There is no such thing as nothingness. Zero does not exist.
Everything is something. Nothing is nothing.

Man lives by affirmation even more than by bread.

Even to see and to show does not suffice. Philosophy should be an energy;
it should have for effort and effect to ameliorate the condition
of man. Socrates should enter into Adam and produce Marcus Aurelius;
in other wordsthe man of wisdom should be made to emerge from
the man of felicity. Eden should be changed into a Lyceum.
Science should be a cordial. To enjoy--what a sad aimand what a
paltry ambition! The brute enjoys. To offer thought to the thirst
of mento give them all as an elixir the notion of Godto make
conscience and science fraternize in themto render them just by this
mysterious 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 necessary that the ideal
should be breathabledrinkableand eatable to the human mind.
It is the ideal which has the right to say: Takethis

is my bodythis is my blood. Wisdom is a holy communion.
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 philosophy herself is promoted to religion.

Philosophy should not be a corbel erected on mystery to gaze upon it
at its easewithout any other result than that of being convenient
to curiosity.


For our partadjourning the development of our thought to
another occasionwe will confine ourselves to saying that we neither
understand man as a point of departure nor progress as an end
without those two forces which are their two motors: faith and love.


Progress is the goalthe ideal is the type.


What is this ideal? It is God.


Idealabsoluteperfectioninfinity: identical words.


CHAPTER VII


PRECAUTIONS TO BE OBSERVED IN BLAME


History and philosophy have eternal dutieswhich areat the
same timesimple duties; to combat Caiphas the High-priestDraco
the LawgiverTrimalcion the LegislatorTiberius the Emperor;
this is cleardirectand limpidand offers no obscurity.


But the right to live aparteven with its inconveniences and
its abusesinsists on being stated and taken into account.
Cenobitism is a human problem.


When one speaks of conventsthose abodes of errorbut of innocence
of aberration but of good-willof ignorance but of devotion
of torture but of martyrdomit always becomes necessary to say
either yes or no.


A convent is a contradiction. Its object
salvation; its means theretosacrifice.
The convent is supreme egoism having for its result supreme abnegation.


To abdicate with the object of reigning seems to be the device
of monasticism.


In the cloisterone suffers in order to enjoy. One draws a bill of
exchange on death. One discounts in terrestrial gloom celestial light.
In the cloisterhell is accepted in advance as a post obit on paradise.


The taking of the veil or the frock is a suicide paid for with eternity.


It does not seem to usthat on such a subject mockery is permissible.
All about it is seriousthe good as well as the bad.


The just man frownsbut never smiles with a malicious sneer.
We understand wrathbut not malice.



CHAPTER VIII

FAITHLAW

A few words more.

We blame the church when she is saturated with intrigues
we despise the spiritual which is harsh toward the temporal;
but we everywhere honor the thoughtful man.

We salute the man who kneels.

A faith; this is a necessity for man. Woe to him who believes nothing.

One is not unoccupied because one is absorbed. There is visible
labor and invisible labor.

To contemplate is to laborto think is to act.

Folded arms toilclasped hands work. A gaze fixed on heaven
is a work.

Thales remained motionless for four years. He founded philosophy.

In our opinioncenobites are not lazy menand recluses are not idlers.

To meditate on the Shadow is a serious thing.

Without invalidating anything that we have just saidwe believe
that a perpetual memory of the tomb is proper for the living.
On this pointthe priest and the philosopher agree. We must die.
The Abbe de la Trappe replies to Horace.

To mingle with one's life a certain presence of the sepulchre-this
is the law of the sage; and it is the law of the ascetic.
In this respectthe ascetic and the sage converge. There is a
material growth; we admit it. There is a moral grandeur; we hold
to that. Thoughtless and vivacious spirits say:-


What is the good of those motionless figures on the side of mystery?
What purpose do they serve? What do they do?

Alas! In the presence of the darkness which environs us
and which awaits usin our ignorance of what the immense
dispersion will make of uswe reply: "There is probably no work
more divine than that performed by these souls." And we add:
There is probably no work which is more 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 grandVoltaire adoring is fine. Deo erexit 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.


Moreoverat this minute which we are now traversing--a minute which
will notfortunatelyleave its impress on the nineteenth century-at
this hourwhen so many men have low brows and souls but little
elevatedamong so many mortals whose morality consists in enjoyment
and who are busied with the brief and misshapen things of matter
whoever exiles himself seems worthy of veneration to us.

The monastery is a renunciation. Sacrifice wrongly directed is
still sacrifice. To mistake a grave error for a duty has a grandeur
of its own.

Taken by itselfand ideallyand in order to examine the truth
on all sides until all aspects have been impartially exhausted
the monasterythe female convent in particular--for in our
century it is woman who suffers the mostand 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 austereso depressing
a few of whose features we have just tracedis not lifefor it
is not liberty; it is not the tombfor it is not plenitude;
it is the strange place whence one beholdsas from the crest of a
lofty mountainon one side the abyss where we areon the other
the abyss whither we shall go; it is the narrow and misty frontier
separating two worldsilluminated and obscured by both at the
same timewhere the ray of life which has become enfeebled is mingled
with the vague ray of death; it is the half obscurity of the tomb.

Wewho do not believe what these women believebut wholike them
live by faith--we have never been able to think without a sort
of tender and religious terrorwithout a sort of pitythat is
full of envyof those devotedtrembling and trusting creatures
of these humble and august soulswho dare to dwell on the very brink
of the mysterywaiting between the world which is closed and heaven
which is not yet openturned towards the light which one cannot see
possessing the sole happiness of thinking that they know where it is
aspiring towards the gulfand the unknowntheir eyes fixed motionless
on the darknesskneelingbewilderedstupefiedshuddering
half liftedat timesby the deep breaths of eternity.

BOOK EIGHTH.--CEMETERIES TAKE THAT WHICH IS COMMITTED THEM

CHAPTER I

WHICH TREATS OF THE MANNER OF ENTERING A CONVENT

It was into this house that Jean Valjean hadas Fauchelevent
expressed itfallen from the sky.

He had scaled the wall of the garden which formed the angle
of the Rue Polonceau. That hymn of the angels which he had heard
in the middle of the nightwas the nuns chanting matins; that hall
of which he had caught a glimpse in the gloomwas the chapel.
That phantom which he had seen stretched on the ground was the
sister who was making reparation; that bellthe sound of which
had so strangely surprised himwas the gardener's bell attached
to the knee of Father Fauchelevent.


Cosette once put to bedJean Valjean and Fauchelevent hadas we
have already seensupped on a glass of wine and a bit of cheese
before a goodcrackling fire; thenthe only bed in the hut being
occupied by Cosetteeach threw himself on a truss of straw.

Before he shut his eyesJean Valjean said: "I must remain
here henceforth." This remark trotted through Fauchelevent's
head all night long.

To tell the truthneither of them slept.

Jean Valjeanfeeling that he was discovered and that Javert was on
his scentunderstood that he and Cosette were lost if they returned
to Paris. Then the new storm which had just burst upon him had stranded
him in this cloister. Jean Valjean hadhenceforthbut one thought-to
remain there. Nowfor an unfortunate man in his position
this convent was both the safest and the most dangerous of places;
the most dangerousbecauseas no men might enter thereif he
were discoveredit was a flagrant offenceand Jean Valjean would
find but one step intervening between the convent and prison;
the safestbecauseif he could manage to get himself accepted
there and remain therewho would ever seek him in such a place?
To dwell in an impossible place was safety.

On his sideFauchelevent was cudgelling his brains. He began
by declaring to himself that he understood nothing of the matter.
How had M. Madeleine got therewhen 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 conventhe had heard nothing
of M. sur M.and he knew nothing of what had taken place there.
Father Madeleine had an air which discouraged questions; and besides
Fauchelevent said to himself: "One does not question a saint."

M. Madeleine had preserved all his prestige in Fauchelevent's eyes.
Onlyfrom some words which Jean Valjean had let fallthe gardener
thought he could draw the inference that M. Madeleine had probably become
bankrupt through the hard timesand that he was pursued by his creditors;
or that he had compromised himself in some political affairand was
in hiding; which last did not displease Faucheleventwholike many
of our peasants of the Northhad an old fund of Bonapartism about him.
While in hidingM. Madeleine had selected the convent as a refuge
and it was quite simple that he should wish to remain there.
But the inexplicable pointto which Fauchelevent returned constantly
and over which he wearied his brainwas that M. Madeleine should
be thereand that he should have that little girl with him.
Fauchelevent saw themtouched themspoke to themand still
did not believe it possible. The incomprehensible had just made
its entrance into Fauchelevent's hut. Fauchelevent groped
about amid conjecturesand could see nothing clearly but this:
M. Madeleine saved my life.This certainty alone was sufficient
and decided his course. He said to himself: "It is my turn now."
He 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.
Neverthelesshe put many questions to himself and made himself
divers replies: "After what he did for mewould I save him if he
were a thief? Just the same. If he were an assassinwould I
save him? Just the same. Since he is a saintshall I save him?
Just the same."

But what a problem it was to manage to have him remain in the convent!


Fauchelevent did not recoil in the face of this almost chimerical
undertaking; this poor peasant of Picardy without any other ladder than
his self-devotionhis good willand a little of that old rustic cunning
on this occasion enlisted in the service of a generous enterprise
undertook to scale the difficulties of the cloisterand the steep
escarpments of the rule of Saint-Benoit. Father Fauchelevent was an old
man who had been an egoist all his lifeand whotowards the end
of his dayshaltinfirmwith no interest left to him in the world
found it sweet to be gratefuland perceiving a generous action
to be performedflung himself upon it like a manwho at the moment
when he is dyingshould find close to his hand a glass of good wine
which he had never tastedand should swallow it with avidity.
We may addthat the air which he had breathed for many years
in this convent had destroyed all personality in himand had
ended by rendering a good action of some kind absolutely necessary to him.

So he took his resolve: to devote himself to M. Madeleine.

We have just called him a poor peasant of Picardy. That description
is justbut incomplete. At the point of this story which we
have now reacheda little of Father Fauchelevent's physiology
becomes useful. He was a peasantbut he had been a notarywhich added
trickery to his cunningand penetration to his ingenuousness.
Havingthrough various causesfailed in his businesshe had
descended to the calling of a carter and a laborer. Butin spite
of oaths and lashingswhich horses seem to requiresomething of
the notary had lingered in him. He had some natural wit; he talked
good grammar; he conversedwhich is a rare thing in a village;
and the other peasants said of him: "He talks almost like a gentleman
with a hat." Fauchelevent belongedin factto that species
which the impertinent and flippant vocabulary of the last century
qualified as demi-bourgeoisdemi-loutand which the metaphors showered
by the chateau upon the thatched cottage ticketed in the pigeon-hole
of the plebeian: rather rusticrather citified; pepper and salt.
Faucheleventthough sorely tried and harshly used by fate
worn outa sort of poorthreadbare old soulwasnevertheless
an impulsive manand extremely spontaneous in his actions;
a precious quality which prevents one from ever being wicked.
His defects and his vicesfor he had somewere all superficial;
in shorthis physiognomy was of the kind which succeeds with
an observer. His aged face had none of those disagreeable
wrinkles at the top of the foreheadwhich signify malice or stupidity.

At daybreakFather Fauchelevent opened his eyesafter having
done an enormous deal of thinkingand beheld M. Madeleine
seated on his truss of strawand 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 Valjean from
his revery.

The two men took counsel together.

In the first place,' said Faucheleventyou will begin by not
setting foot outside of this chamber, either you or the child.
One step in the garden and we are done for.

That is true.

Monsieur Madeleine,resumed Faucheleventyou have arrived at
a very auspicious moment, I mean to say a very inauspicious moment;
one of the ladies is very ill. This will prevent 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 Valjeanthis 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" signified:
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 which he
had uttereda 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
to strike once a minute for twenty-four hours, until the body is
taken from the church.--You see, they play. At recreation hours
it suffices to have a ball roll aside, to send them all hither,
in spite of prohibitions, to hunt and rummage for it all about here.
Those cherubs are devils.


Who?asked Jean Valjean.


The little girls. You would be very quickly discovered.
They would shriek: `Oh! a man!' There is no danger to-day. There
will be no recreation hour. The day will be entirely devoted
to prayers. You hear the bell. As I told you, a stroke each minute.
It is the death knell.


I understand, Father Fauchelevent. There are pupils.


And Jean Valjean thought to himself:--


Here is Cosette's education already provided.


Fauchelevent exclaimed:--


Pardine! There are little girls indeed! And they would bawl
around you! And they would rush off! To be a man here is to have
the plague. You see how they fasten a bell to my paw as though
I were a wild beast.


Jean Valjean fell into more and more profound thought.--"This convent
would be our salvation he murmured.



Then he raised his voice:-


Yesthe difficulty is to remain here."

No,said Faucheleventthe difficulty is to get out.

Jean Valjean felt the blood rush back to his heart.

To get out!

Yes, Monsieur Madeleine. In order to return here it is first
necessary to get out.


And after waiting until another stroke of the knell had sounded
Fauchelevent went on:--


You must not be found here in this fashion. Whence come you?
For me, you fall from heaven, because I know you; but the nuns require
one to enter by the door.


All at once they heard a rather complicated pealing from another bell.


Ah!said Faucheleventthey are ringing up the vocal mothers.
They are going to the chapter. They always hold a chapter when any
one dies. She died at daybreak. People generally do die at daybreak.
But cannot you get out by the way in which you entered? Come, I do
not ask for the sake of questioning you, but how did you get in?


Jean Valjean turned pale; the very thought of descending again
into that terrible street made him shudder. You make your
way out of a forest filled with tigersand once out of it
imagine a friendly counsel that shall advise you to return thither!
Jean Valjean pictured to himself the whole police force still
engaged in swarming in that quarteragents on the watch
sentinels everywherefrightful fists extended towards his collar
Javert at the corner of the intersection of the streets perhaps.


Impossible!said he. "Father Faucheleventsay that I fell
from the sky."


But I believe it, I believe it,retorted Fauchelevent.
You have no need to tell me that. The good God must have taken you
in 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 convent;
he made a mistake. Come, there goes another peal, that is to order
the porter to go and inform the municipality 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 lifts 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. I 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 basket--that is perfectly natural.
You 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 ear,
that she 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 Valjean 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 handa sign of serious embarrassment.


A third peal created a diversion.


That is the dead-doctor taking his departure,said Fauchelevent.
He has taken a look and said: `She is dead, that is well.'
When the doctor has signed the passport for paradise, the undertaker's
company sends a coffin. If it is a mother, the mothers lay her out;
if she is a sister, the sisters lay her out. After which, I nail
her up. That forms a part of my gardener's duty. A gardener is
a bit of a grave-digger. She is placed in a lower hall of the church
which communicates with the street, and into which no man may enter
save the doctor of the dead. I don't count the undertaker's men
and myself as men. It is in that hall that I nail up the coffin.
The undertaker's men come and get it, and whip up, coachman! that's
the way one goes to heaven. They fetch a box with nothing in it,
they take it away again with something in it. That's what a burial
is like. De profundis.


A horizontal ray of sunshine lightly touched the face of
the sleeping Cosettewho lay with her mouth vaguely open
and had the air of an angel drinking in the light. Jean Valjean
had fallen to gazing at her. He was no longer listening to Fauchelevent.


That one is not listened to is no reason for preserving silence.
The good old gardener went on tranquilly with his babble:--


The grave is dug in the Vaugirard cemetery. They declare that they
are going to suppress that Vaugirard cemetery. It is an ancient
cemetery which is outside the regulations, which has no uniform,
and which is going to retire. It is a shame, for it is convenient.
I have a friend there, Father Mestienne, the grave-digger. The nuns
here possess one privilege, it is to be taken to that cemetery
at nightfall. There is a special permission from the Prefecture on
their behalf. But how many events have happened since yesterday!
Mother Crucifixion is dead, and Father Madeleine--


Is buried,said Jean Valjeansmiling sadly.


Fauchelevent caught the word.


Goodness! if you were here for good, it would be a real burial.


A fourth peal burst out. Fauchelevent hastily detached the belled
knee-cap from its nail and buckled it on his knee again.



This time it is for me. The Mother Prioress wants me. Good, now I
am pricking myself on the tongue of my buckle. Monsieur Madeleine,
don't stir from here, and wait for me. Something new has come up.
If you are hungry, there is wine, bread and cheese.


And he hastened out of the hutcrying: "Coming! coming!"


Jean Valjean watched him hurrying across the garden as fast as his
crooked leg would permitcasting a sidelong glance by the way
on his melon patch.


Less than ten minutes laterFather Faucheleventwhose bell put
the nuns in his road to flighttapped gently at a doorand 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 prioressseated on the only chair in the parlorwas waiting
for Fauchelevent.


CHAPTER II


FAUCHELEVENT IN THE PRESENCE OF A DIFFICULTY


It is the peculiarity of certain persons and certain professions
notably priests and nunsto wear a grave and agitated air on
critical occasions. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered
this double form of preoccupation was imprinted on the countenance
of the prioresswho was that wise and charming Mademoiselle de Blemeur
Mother Innocentewho was ordinarily cheerful.


The gardener made a timid bowand remained at the door of the cell.
The prioresswho was telling her beadsraised her eyes 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 terrorI 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 Faucheleventthe ex-notarybelonged to the category of
peasants who have assurance. A certain clever ignorance constitutes
a force; you do not distrust itand you are caught by it.
Fauchelevent had been a success during the something more than two



years which he had passed in the convent. Always solitary and busied
about his gardeninghe had nothing else to do than to indulge
his curiosity. As he was at a distance from all those veiled women
passing to and frohe saw before him only an agitation of shadows.
By dint of attention and sharpness he had succeeded in clothing all
those phantoms with fleshand those corpses were alive for him.
He was like a deaf man whose sight grows keenerand like a blind man
whose hearing becomes more acute. He had applied himself to riddling
out the significance of the different pealsand he had succeeded
so that this taciturn and enigmatical cloister possessed no
secrets for him; the sphinx babbled all her secrets in his ear.
Fauchelevent knew all and concealed all; that constituted his art.
The whole convent thought him stupid. A great merit in religion.
The vocal mothers made much of Fauchelevent. He was a curious mute.
He inspired confidence. Moreoverhe was regularand never went
out except for well-demonstrated requirements of the orchard and
vegetable garden. This discretion of conduct had inured to his credit.
None the lesshe had set two men to chattering: the porter
in the conventand he knew the singularities of their parlor
and the grave-diggerat the cemeteryand he was acquainted with
the peculiarities of their sepulture; in this wayhe possessed
a double light on the subject of these nunsone as to their life
the other as to their death. But he did not abuse his knowledge.
The congregation thought a great deal of him. Oldlameblind to
everythingprobably a little deaf into the bargain--what qualities!
They would have found it difficult to replace him.

The goodmanwith the assurance of a person who feels that he
is appreciatedentered into a rather diffuse and very deep
rustic harangue to the reverend prioress. He talked a long time
about his agehis infirmitiesthe surcharge of years counting
double for him henceforthof the increasing demands of his work
of the great size of the gardenof nights which must be passed
like the lastfor instancewhen he had been obliged to put straw mats
over the melon bedsbecause of the moonand he wound up as follows:
That he had a brother--(the prioress made a movement)--"a brother
no longer young"--(a second movement on the part of the prioress
but one expressive of reassurance)--"thatif he might be permitted
this brother would come and live with him and help himthat he
was an excellent gardenerthat the community would receive from him
good servicebetter than his own; thatotherwiseif his brother
were not admittedas hethe elderfelt that his health was broken
and that he was insufficient for the workhe should be obliged
greatly to his regretto go away; and that his brother had a little
daughter whom he would bring with himwho might be reared for God
in the houseand who mightwho knowsbecome a nun some day."

When he had finished speakingthe prioress stayed the slipping
of her rosary between her fingersand said to him:-


Could you procure a stout iron bar between now and this evening?

For what purpose?

To serve as a lever.

Yes, reverend Mother,replied Fauchelevent.

The prioresswithout adding a wordrose and entered the adjoining room
which was the hall of the chapterand where the vocal mothers
were probably assembled. Fauchelevent was left alone.


CHAPTER III
MOTHER INNOCENTE

About a quarter of an hour elapsed. The prioress returned
and seated herself once more on her chair.

The two interlocutors seemed preoccupied. We will present a stenographic
report of the dialogue which then ensuedto 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 the offices.
And you have been in the choir in pursuance of your 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 Dom Mabillon gives four hundred and seventeen epistles
of Saint Bernard, while Merlonus Horstius 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.

And a woman is not a man. But my brother is the strong one, though!
And can you get a lever?


That is the only sort of key that fits that sort of door.
There is a ring in the stone.


I will put the lever through it.
And the stone is so arranged that it swings on a pivot.


That is good, reverend Mother. I will open the vault.
And the four Mother Precentors will help you.



And when the vault is open?
It must be closed again.
Will that be all?
No.
Give me your orders, very reverend Mother.
Fauvent, we have confidence in you.
I am here to do anything you wish.
And to hold your peace about everything!
Yes, reverend Mother.
When the vault is open--
I will close it again.
But before that--
What, reverend Mother?
Something must be lowered into it.
A silence ensued. The prioressafter a pout of the under lip


which resembled hesitationbroke it.
Father Fauvent!
Reverend Mother!
You know that a mother died this morning?
No.
Did you not hear the bell?
Nothing can be heard at the bottom of the garden.
Really?
I can hardly distinguish my own signal.
She died at daybreak.
And then, the wind is not blowing in my direction this morning.
It was Mother Crucifixion. A blessed woman.
The prioress pausedmoved her lipsas though in mental prayer


and resumed:--


Three years ago, Madame de Bethune, a Jansenist, turned orthodox,
merely from having seen Mother Crucifixion at prayer.
Ah! yes, now I hear the knell, reverend Mother.
The mothers have taken her to the dead-room, which opens on the church.



I know.

No other man than you can or must enter that chamber. See to that.
A fine sight it would be, to see a man enter the dead-room!

More often!

Hey?

More often!

What do you say?

I say more often.

More often than what?

Reverend Mother, I did not say more often than what, I said
more often.

I don't understand you. Why do you say more often?

In order to speak like you, reverend Mother.

But I did not say `more often.'

At that momentnine 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 the prioress.

Amen,said Fauchelevent.

The clock struck opportunely. It cut "more often" short.
It is probablethat had it not been for thisthe prioress
and Fauchelevent would never have unravelled that skein.

Fauchelevent mopped his forehead.

The prioress indulged in another little inward murmurprobably sacred
then raised her voice:-


In her lifetime, Mother Crucifixion made converts; after her death,
she will perform miracles.

She will!replied Father Faucheleventfalling into step
and striving not to flinch 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 Berulle, while saying the holy mass, and to breathe forth their
souls to God, while pronouncing these words: Hanc igitur oblationem.
But without attaining to such happiness, Mother Crucifixion's
death was very precious. She retained her consciousness to the
very last moment. She spoke to us, then she spoke to the angels.
She gave us her last 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 was finishing.

Amen,said he.


Father Fauvent, what the dead wish must be done.


The prioress took off several beads of her chaplet. Fauchelevent held
his peace.


She went on:--


I have consulted upon this point many ecclesiastics laboring in
Our Lord, who occupy themselves in the exercises of the clerical life,
and who bear wonderful fruit.


Reverend Mother, you can hear the knell much better here than
in the garden.


Besides, she is more than a dead woman, she is a saint.


Like yourself, reverend Mother.


She slept in her coffin for twenty years, by express permission
of our Holy Father, Pius VII.--


The one who crowned the Emp--Buonaparte.


For a clever man like Faucheleventthis allusion was an awkward one.
Fortunatelythe prioresscompletely absorbed in her own thoughts
did not hear it. She continued:--


Father Fauvent?


Reverend Mother?


Saint Didorus, Archbishop of Cappadocia, desired that this single
word might be inscribed on his tomb: Acarus, which signifies,
a worm of the earth; this was done. Is this true?


Yes, reverend Mother.


The blessed Mezzocane, Abbot of Aquila, wished to be buried beneath
the gallows; this was done.


That is true.


Saint Terentius, Bishop of Port, where the mouth of the Tiber
empties into the sea, requested that on his tomb might be engraved
the sign which was placed on the graves of parricides, in the
hope that passers-by would spit on his tomb. This was done.
The dead must be obeyed.


So be it.


The body of Bernard Guidonis, born in France near Roche-Abeille, was,
as he had ordered, and in spite of the king of Castile, borne to
the church of the Dominicans in Limoges, although Bernard Guidonis
was Bishop of Tuy in Spain. Can the contrary be affirmed?


For that matter, no, reverend Mother.


The fact is attested by Plantavit de la Fosse.


Several beads of the chaplet were told offstill in silence.
The prioress resumed:--


Father Fauvent, Mother Crucifixion will be interred in the coffin
in which she has slept for the last twenty years.



That is just.
It is a continuation of her slumber.
So I shall have to nail 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 the coffin? I do not need them.
No. In lowering the coffin.
Where?
Into the vault.
What vault?
Under the altar.
Fauchelevent started.
The vault under the altar?
Under the altar.
But--
You will have an iron bar.
Yes, but--
You will raise the stone with the bar by means of the ring.
But--
The dead must be obeyed. To be buried in the vault under the


altar of the chapel, not to go to profane earth; to remain there


in death where she prayed while living; such 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 God.

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 I have just

consulted again, and who are now deliberating, have decided

that Mother Crucifixion shall be buried, according 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 sanitary commission--


Saint Benoit II., in the matter of sepulture, resisted
Constantine Pogonatus.


But the commissary of police--


Chonodemaire, one of the seven German kings who entered among
the Gauls under the Empire of Constantius, expressly recognized
the right of nuns to be buried in religion, that is to say,
beneath the altar.


But the inspector from the Prefecture--


The world is nothing in the presence of the cross. Martin, the
eleventh general of the Carthusians, gave to his order this device:
Stat crux dum volvitur orbis.


Amen,said Faucheleventwho imperturbably extricated himself
in this manner from the dilemmawhenever he heard Latin.


Any audience suffices for a person who has held his peace too long.
On the day when the rhetorician Gymnastoras left his prison
bearing in his body many dilemmas and numerous syllogisms which had
struck inhe halted in front of the first tree which he came to
harangued it and made very great efforts to convince it. The prioress
who was usually subjected to the barrier of silenceand whose
reservoir was overfullrose and exclaimed with the loquacity of a dam
which has broken away:--


I have on my right Benoit and on my left Bernard. Who was Bernard?
The first abbot of Clairvaux. Fontaines in Burgundy is a country
that is blest because it gave him birth. His father was named Tecelin,
and his mother Alethe. He began at Citeaux, to end in Clairvaux;
he was ordained abbot by the bishop of Chalon-sur-Saone, Guillaume
de Champeaux; he had seven hundred novices, and founded a hundred
and sixty monasteries; he overthrew Abeilard at the council
of Sens in 1140, and Pierre de Bruys and Henry his disciple,
and another sort of erring spirits who were called the Apostolics;
he confounded Arnauld de Brescia, darted lightning at the monk Raoul,
the murderer of the Jews, dominated the council of Reims in 1148,
caused the condemnation of Gilbert de Porea, Bishop of Poitiers,
caused the condemnation of Eon de l'Etoile, arranged the disputes
of princes, enlightened King Louis the Young, advised Pope Eugene III.,
regulated the Temple, preached the crusade, performed two hundred
and fifty miracles during his lifetime, and as many as thirty-nine
in one day. Who was Benoit? He was the patriarch of Mont-Cassin;
he was the second founder of the Saintete Claustrale, he was the Basil
of the West. His order has produced forty popes, two hundred cardinals,
fifty patriarchs, sixteen hundred archbishops, four thousand six
hundred bishops, four emperors, twelve empresses, forty-six kings,
forty-one queens, three thousand six hundred canonized saints,
and has been in existence for fourteen hundred years. On one side
Saint Bernard, on the other the agent of the sanitary department!
On one side Saint Benoit, on 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
Jesus Christ! Your sanitary department is a revolutionary invention.
God subordinated to the commissary of police; such is the age.



Silence, Fauvent!


Fauchelevent was but ill at ease under this shower bath.
The prioress continued:--


No one doubts the right of the monastery to sepulture. 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 that
which we should ignore. We are ignorant and impious. In this age
there exist people who do not distinguish between the very great Saint
Bernard and the Saint Bernard denominated of the poor Catholics,
a certain good ecclesiastic who lived in the thirteenth century.
Others are so blasphemous as to compare the scaffold of Louis 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 Cesar de Bus.
Nevertheless, Cesar de Bus is a man of blessed memory, and Voltaire one
of unblessed memory. The last arch-bishop, the Cardinal de Perigord,
did not even know that Charles de Gondren succeeded to Berulle,
and Francois Bourgoin to Gondren, and Jean-Francois Senault
to Bourgoin, and Father Sainte-Marthe to Jean-Francois 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 furnished
Henri IV., the Huguenot king, with the material for an oath.
That which pleases people of the world in Saint Francois de Sales,
is that he cheated at play. And then, religion is attacked.
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 hell as a reality. Oh! how wicked people are!
By order of the king signifies to-day, by order of the revolution.
One no longer knows what is due 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 rejecting, 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 Burgundy. 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 Benoit-sur-Loire, although he died in Italy
at Mont-Cassin, on Saturday, the 21st of the month of March,
of the year 543? All this is incontestable. 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 Bucelin, Trithemus, Maurolics, and Dom Luc
d'Achery.


The prioress took breaththen 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 close the coffin. The sisters will
carry it to the chapel. The office 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 secrecy. There will be in the chapel only
the four Mother Precentors, Mother Ascension and 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 remove your bell. It is not necessary that the sister
at the post should perceive your presence.

Reverend Mother?

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 gratings 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 require
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 Faucheleventwho 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 coffin. At eleven
o'clock exactly, I am to be in the chapel. The Mother Precentors
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 vault, we will lower the coffin, and we will close
the vault again. After which, there will be no trace of anything.
The government will have no suspicion. Thus all has been arranged,
reverend Mother?


No!


What else remains?


The empty coffin remains.


This produced a pause. Fauchelevent meditated. The prioress meditated.


What is to be done with that coffin, Father Fauvent?


It will be given to the earth.


Empty?


Another silence. Fauchelevent madewith his left handthat sort
of a gesture which dismisses a troublesome subject.


Reverend Mother, I am the one who is to nail up the coffin in the
basement 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! the de--!exclaimed Fauchelevent.


The prioress began to make the sign of the crossand 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 man. So you
will manage the empty coffin?


I will make that my special business.


The prioress's faceup to that moment troubled and clouded
grew serene once more. She made the sign of a superior dismissing
an inferior to him. Fauchelevent went towards the door. As he was
on the point of passing outthe prioress raised her voice gently:--



I am pleased with you, Father Fauvent; bring your brother to me
to-morrow, after the burial, and tell him to fetch his daughter.


CHAPTER IV


IN WHICH JEAN VALJEAN HAS QUITE THE AIR OF HAVING READ AUSTIN
CASTILLEJO


The strides of a lame man are like the ogling glances of a one-eyed man;
they do not reach their goal very promptly. MoreoverFauchelevent was
in a dilemma. He took nearly a quarter of an hour to return to his
cottage in the garden. Cosette had waked up. Jean Valjean had
placed her near the fire. At the moment when Fauchelevent entered
Jean Valjean was pointing out to her the vintner's basket on the wall
and saying to herListen attentively to me, my little Cosette.
We must go away from this house, but we shall return to it, and we shall
be very happy here. The good man who lives here is going to 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 nothing, above all things,
unless you want Madame Thenardier 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 you in you
must be got out. That's where the difficulty lies. It is easy
enough with the child.


You will carry her out?


And she will hold her tongue?


I answer for that.


But you, Father Madeleine?


Andafter a silencefraught with anxietyFauchelevent exclaimed:--


Why, get out as you came in!


Jean Valjeanas in the first instancecontented himself
with sayingImpossible.


Fauchelevent grumbledmore to himself than to Jean Valjean:--


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 bear it.
You understand, Father Madeleine, the government 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 to bring you in.
The prioress expects you.

Then he explained to Jean Valjean that this was his recompense for
a service which heFaucheleventwas to render to the community.
That it fell among his duties to take part in their burialsthat he
nailed up the coffins 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 bedand interred in the vault
under the altar of the chapel. 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.
That heFaucheleventwas to nail up the coffin in the cell
raise the stone in the chapeland lower the corpse into the vault.
And thatby way of thanksthe prioress was to admit his brother
to the house as a gardenerand his niece as a pupil. That his brother
was M. Madeleineand that his niece was Cosette. That the prioress
had told him to bring his brother on the following eveningafter the
counterfeit interment in the cemetery. But that he could not bring

M. Madeleine in from the outside if M. Madeleine was not outside.
That that was the first problem. And thenthat there was another:
the empty coffin."
What is that empty coffin?asked Jean Valjean.

Fauchelevent replied:-


The coffin of the administration.

What coffin? What administration?

A nun dies. The municipal doctor comes and says, `A nun 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.

What person?

Me!said Jean Valjean.

Faucheleventwho was seatedsprang up as though a bomb had burst
under his chair.

You!

Why not?

Jean Valjean gave way to one of those rare smiles which lighted up
his face like a flash from heaven in the winter.

You know, Fauchelevent, what you have said: `Mother Crucifixion


is dead.' and I add: `and Father Madeleine is buried.'
Ah! goodyou can laughyou are not speaking seriously."
Very seriously, I must get out of this place.
Certainly.
l have told you to find a basket, and a cover for me also,
Well?
The basket will be of pine, and the cover a black cloth.
In the first place, it will be a white cloth. Nuns are buried


in white.
Let it be a white cloth, then.
You are not like other men, Father Madeleine.
To behold such deviceswhich are nothing else than the savage and daring


inventions of the galleysspring forth from the peaceable things
which surrounded himand mingle with what he called the "petty course
of life in the convent caused Fauchelevent as much amazement as a gull
fishing in the gutter of the Rue Saint-Denis would inspire in a passer-by.

Jean Valjean went on:--
The problem is to get out of here without being seen. This offers


the means. But give me some informationin the first place.
How is it managed? Where is this coffin?"
The empty one?
Yes.
Down stairs, in what is called the dead-room. 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 window


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 communicates with the church.


When does the porter open that door?
Only to allow the undertaker's men to enter, when they come
to get 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.
That is even written on the wall.


Could you hide me in that room to-night when every one is asleep?


No. But I could hide you in a small, dark nook which opens
on the dead-room, where I keep my tools to use for burials,
and of which I have the key.


At what time will the hearse come for the coffin to-morrow?


About three o'clock in the afternoon. The burial will take
place at the Vaugirard cemetery a little before nightfall.
It is not very near.


I 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.


Fauchelevent 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 waswe repeat
a simple matter to Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean had been in worse
straits than this. Any man who has been a prisoner understands
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 cure.
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 boxto find air where there is none
to economize his breath for hoursto know how to stifle without dying--
this was one of Jean Valjean's gloomy talents.


Moreovera coffin containing a living being--that convict's expedient--
is also an imperial expedient. If we are to credit the monk
Austin Castillejothis was the means employed by Charles the Fifth
desirous of seeing the Plombes for the last time after his abdication.


He had her brought into and carried out of the monastery
of Saint-Yuste in this manner.


Faucheleventwho had recovered himself a littleexclaimed:--


But how will you manage to breathe?


I will breathe.



In that box! The mere thought of it suffocates 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 plank on loosely.


Good! And what if you should happen to cough or to sneeze?


A man who is making his escape does not cough or sneeze.


And Jean Valjean added:--


Father Fauchelevent, we must come to a decision: I must either
be caught here, or accept this escape through the 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
there who has not said to a catDo come in!There are men who
when an incident stands half-open before themhave the same tendency
to halt in indecision between two resolutionsat the risk of getting
crushed through the abrupt closing of the adventure by fate.
The over-prudentcats as they areand 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 cemetery.


That is the very point that is not troublesome,exclaimed Fauchelevent.
If you are sure of coming out of the coffin 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 Mestienne. 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. I 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 coffin and lower you down. The priest says
the prayers, makes the sign of the cross, sprinkles the holy water,
and takes 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 is not drunk,
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 Mestienne drunk, he always
has the beginning of it about him,--I lay him under the table,
I take his card, so that I can get into the cemetery again,
and I return without him. Then you have no longer any one but me
to deal with. If he is drunk, I shall say to him: `Be off;
I will do your work for you.' Off he goes, and I drag you out of
the hole.


Jean Valjean held out his handand Fauchelevent 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."

CHAPTER V

IT IS NOT NECESSARY TO BE DRUNK IN ORDER TO BE IMMORTAL

On the following dayas the sun was decliningthe very rare
passers-by on the Boulevard du Maine pulled off their hats to an
old-fashioned hearseornamented with skullscross-bonesand tears.
This hearse contained a coffin covered with a white cloth over which
spread a large black crosslike a huge corpse with drooping arms.
A mourning-coachin which could be seen a priest in his surplice
and a choir boy in his red capfollowed. 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 Vaugirard cemetery.

The handle of a hammerthe blade of a cold chiseland the antennae
of a pair of pincers were visibleprotruding from the man's pocket.

The Vaugirard cemetery formed an exception among the cemeteries
of Paris. It had its peculiar usagesjust as it had its carriage
entrance and its house doorwhich old people in the quarter
who clung tenaciously to ancient wordsstill called the porte cavaliere
and the porte pietonne.[16] The Bernardines-Benedictines of the Rue
Petit-Picpus had obtained permissionas we have already stated
to be buried there in a corner apartand at nightthe 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 cemeterythey were subjected to a special discipline.
The gates of the Paris cemeteries closedat that epochat sundown
and this being a municipal regulationthe Vaugirard cemetery
was bound by it like the rest. The carriage gate and the house
door were two contiguous grated gatesadjoining a pavilion built
by the architect Perronetand inhabited by the door-keeper of
the cemetery. These gatesthereforeswung inexorably on their
hinges at the instant when the sun disappeared behind the dome
of the Invalides. If any grave-digger were delayed after that
moment in the cemeterythere 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 card into this boxthe porter heard
it fallpulled the ropeand the small door opened. If the man
had not his cardhe mentioned his namethe porterwho was
sometimes in bed and asleeprosecame out and identified the man
and opened the gate with his key; the grave-digger stepped out
but had to pay a fine of fifteen francs.

[16] Instead of porte cochere and porte batarde.
This cemeterywith its peculiarities outside the regulations
embarrassed the symmetry of the administration. It was suppressed
a little later than 1830. The cemetery of Mont-Parnassecalled
the Eastern cemeterysucceeded to itand inherited that famous
dram-shop next to the Vaugirard cemeterywhich was surmounted
by a quince painted on a boardand which formed an angleone side


on the drinkers' tablesand the other on the tombswith this sign:
Au Bon Coing.

The Vaugirard cemetery was what may be called a faded cemetery.
It was falling into disuse. Dampness was invading itthe flowers
were deserting it. The bourgeois did not care much about being
buried in the Vaugirard; it hinted at poverty. Pere-Lachaise if
you please! to be buried in Pere-Lachaise is equivalent to having
furniture of mahogany. It is recognized as elegant. The Vaugirard
cemetery was a venerable enclosureplanted like an old-fashioned
French garden. Straight alleysboxthuya-treesholly
ancient tombs beneath aged cypress-treesand 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 hearse with the white pall and
the black cross entered the avenue of the Vaugirard cemetery.
The lame man who followed it was no other than Fauchelevent.

The interment of Mother Crucifixion in the vault under the altar
the exit of Cosettethe introduction of Jean Valjean to the dead-room-all
had been executed without difficultyand there had been no hitch.

Let us remark in passingthat the burial of Mother Crucifixion
under the altar of the convent is a perfectly venial offence
in our sight. It is one of the faults which resemble a duty.
The nuns had committed itnot only without difficultybut even
with the applause of their own consciences. In the cloisterwhat is
called the "government" is only an intermeddling with authority
an interference which is always questionable. In the first place
the rule; as for the codewe shall see. Make as many laws
as you pleasemen; but keep them for yourselves. The 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 contented
frame of mind. His twin plotsthe one with the nunsthe one
for the conventthe other against itthe other with M. Madeleine
had succeededto 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 yearshe had made good Father Mestiennea 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 Fauchelevent's will.
Fauchelevent's confidence was perfect.

At the moment when the convoy entered the avenue leading to the cemetery
Fauchelevent glanced cheerfully at the hearseand 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 the cemetery. During this colloquy
which always is productive of a delay of from one to two minutes
some onea strangercame and placed himself behind the hearse
beside Fauchelevent. He was a sort of laboring manwho wore a
waistcoat with large pockets and carried 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 breast
he would make the same face that Fauchelevent made.
The grave-digger?

Yes.
You?


I.
Father Mestienne is the grave-digger.


He was.
What! He was?


He is dead.


Fauchelevent had expected anything but thisthat a grave-digger
could die. It is trueneverthelessthat grave-diggers do
die themselves. By dint of excavating graves for other people
one hollows out one's own.

Fauchelevent stood there with his mouth wide open. He had hardly
the strength to stammer:-


But it is not possible!

It is so.
But,he persisted feeblyFather Mestienne is the grave-digger.


After Napoleon, Louis XVIII. After Mestienne, Gribier.
Peasant, my name is Gribier.

Faucheleventwho was deadly palestared at this Gribier.

He was a tallthinlividutterly funereal man. He had the air
of an unsuccessful doctor who had turned grave-digger.

Fauchelevent burst out laughing.

Ah!said hewhat queer things do happen! Father Mestienne
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 Surene? Ah! So old Mestienne is dead!
I am sorry for it; he was a jolly fellow. But 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 fourth examination.
I never drink.

The hearse had set out againand was rolling up the grand alley


of the cemetery.


Fauchelevent had slackened his pace. He limped more out of anxiety
than from infirmity.
The grave-digger walked on in front of him.
Fauchelevent passed the unexpected Gribier once more in review.
He was one of those men whothough very younghave the air of age


and whothough slenderare extremely strong.
Comrade!cried Fauchelevent.
The man turned round.
I am the convent grave-digger.
My colleague,said the man.
Faucheleventwho was illiterate but very sharpunderstood that he


had to deal with a formidable species of manwith a fine talker.
He muttered:
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. "According to


the philosophersthe 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 together.


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 addedwith 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-treesquitted the grand alley


turned into a narrow oneentered the waste landand plunged into



a thicket. This indicated the immediate proximity of the place
of sepulture. Fauchelevent slackened his pacebut he could not
detain the hearse. Fortunatelythe soilwhich was light and wet
with the winter rainsclogged the wheels and retarded its speed.


He approached the grave-digger.


They have such a nice little Argenteuil wine,murmured Fauchelevent.


Villager,retorted the manI 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 losses on 'change.
I was obliged to renounce the profession of author. But I am still
a public writer.


So you are not a grave-digger, then?returned Fauchelevent
clutching at this branchfeeble as it was.


The one does not hinder the other. I cumulate.


Fauchelevent did not understand this last word.


Come have a drink,said he.


Here a remark becomes necessary. Faucheleventwhatever his anguish
offered a drinkbut he did not explain himself on one point; who was
to pay? GenerallyFauchelevent offered and Father Mestienne paid.
An offer of a drink was the evident result of the novel situation
created by the new grave-diggerand it was necessary to make
this offerbut the old gardener left the proverbial quarter of an hour
named after Rabelais in the darkand that not unintentionally.
As for himselfFauchelevent did not wish to paytroubled as he was.


The grave-digger went on with a superior smile:--


One must eat. I have accepted Father Mestienne's reversion.
One gets to be a philosopher when one has nearly completed
his 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 Sevres.
You know? the Umbrella Market. All the cooks of the Red Cross apply
to me. I scribble their declarations 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. Faucheleventuneasy to the
last degreewas gazing about him on all sides. Great drops
of perspiration trickled down from his brow.


But,continued the grave-diggera 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-coachthen the priest.


One of the small front wheels of the hearse had run up a little
on a pile of earthbeyond which an open grave was visible.


What a farce this is!repeated Fauchelevent in consternation.


CHAPTER 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
and 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 progressingand progressing favorably
since the preceding day. Helike Faucheleventcounted on
Father Mestienne. He had no doubt as to the end. Never was
there a more critical situationnever more complete composure.

The four planks of the coffin breathe out 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 followedall the phases of the terrible drama which he
was playing with death.

Shortly after Fauchelevent had finished nailing on the upper plank
Jean Valjean had felt himself carried outthen driven off. He knew
from the diminution in the joltingwhen they left the pavements
and reached the earth road. He had divinedfrom a dull noise
that they were crossing the bridge of Austerlitz. At the first halt
he had understood that they were entering the cemetery; at the
second halthe said to himself:-


Here is the grave.

Suddenlyhe felt hands seize the coffinthen 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.

Then he experienced a giddiness.

The undertaker's man and the grave-digger had probably allowed
the coffin to lose its balanceand had lowered the head before
the foot. He recovered himself fully when he felt himself
horizontal and motionless. He had just touched the bottom.

He had a certain sensation of cold.

A voice rose above himglacial and solemn. He heard Latin words
which he did not understandpass over himso slowly that he was
able to catch them one by one:-


Qui dormiunt in terrae pulvere, evigilabunt; alii in vitam aeternam,
et alii in approbrium, ut videant semper.

A child's voice said:-


De profundis.

The grave voice began again:-


Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine.

The child's voice responded:-



Et lux perpetua luceat ei.


He heard something like the gentle patter of several drops of rain
on the plank which covered him. It was probably the holy water.


He thought: "This will be over soon now. Patience for a
little while longer. The priest will take his departure.
Fauchelevent will take Mestienne off to drink. I shall be left.
Then Fauchelevent will return aloneand I shall get out.
That will be the work of a good hour."


The grave voice resumed


Requiescat in pace.


And the child's voice said:--


Amen.


Jean Valjean strained his earsand heard something
like retreating footsteps.


There, they are going now,thought he. "I am alone."


All at oncehe 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 things which are too strong for the strongest man.
Jean Valjean lost consciousness.


CHAPTER VII


IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE ORIGIN OF THE SAYING: DON'T LOSE THE
CARD


This is what had taken place above the coffin in which lay Jean Valjean.


When the hearse had driven offwhen the priest and the choir
boy had entered the carriage again and taken their departure
Faucheleventwho had not taken his eyes from the grave-digger
saw the latter bend over and grasp his shovelwhich was sticking
upright in the heap of dirt.


Then Fauchelevent took a supreme resolve.


He placed himself between the grave and the grave-diggercrossed
his arms and said:--


I am the one to pay!


The grave-digger stared at him in amazementand replied:--



What's that, peasant?
Fauchelevent repeated:--
I am the one who pays!
What?
For the wine.
What wine?
That Argenteuil wine.
Where is the Argenteuil?
At the Bon 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 himself


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!

The grave-digger took some more earth on his shovel.
Fauchelevent continued.
I will pay.
And he seized the man's arm.
Listen to me, comrade. I am the convent grave-digger, I have come


to help you. It is a business which can be performed at night.


Let us begin, then, by going for a drink.
And as he spokeand clung to this desperate insistence
this melancholy reflection occurred to him: "And if he drinks
will he get drunk?"


Provincial,said the manif 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-diggeryou 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 criedsince it is I who pays the bill.
When we have put the child to bed,said the grave-digger.



He flung in a third shovelful.
Then he thrust his shovel into the earth and added:--


It's cold to-night, you see, and the corpse would shriek out
after us if we were to plant her there without a coverlet.

At that momentas he loaded his shovelthe grave-digger bent over
and the pocket of his waistcoat gaped. Fauchelevent's wild gaze
fell mechanically into that pocketand 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 behindwithout the grave-digger
who was wholly absorbed in his shovelful of earthobserving it
and pulled out the white object which lay at the bottom of it.

The man sent a fourth shovelful tumbling into the grave.

Just as he turned round to get the fifthFauchelevent looked
calmly at him and said:-


By the way, you new man, have you your card?

The grave-digger paused.
What card?


The sun is on the point of setting.
That's good, it is going to put on its nightcap.


The gate of the cemetery will close immediately.
Well, what then?


Have you your card?
Ah! my card?said the grave-digger.


And he fumbled in his pocket.


Having searched one pockethe proceeded to search the other.
He passed on to his fobsexplored the firstreturned to the second.
Why, no,said heI have not my card. I must have forgotten it.


Fifteen francs fine,said Fauchelevent.
The grave-digger turned green. Green is the pallor of livid people.


Ah! Jesus-mon-Dieu-bancroche-a-bas-la-lune![17] he exclaimed.
Fifteen francs fine!

[17] Jesus-my-God-bandy-leg--down with the moon!
Three pieces of a hundred sous,said Fauchelevent.


The grave-digger dropped his shovel.

Fauchelevent's turn had come.

Ah, come now, conscript,said Faucheleventnone of this despair.
There is no question of committing suicide and benefiting the grave.
Fifteen francs is fifteen francs, and besides, you may not be able
to pay 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 cemetery 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 grave,
it is as hollow as the devil, this grave, and to reach the gate
in season to pass it before it is shut.

That is true.

In that case, a fine of fifteen francs.

Fifteen francs.

But you have time. Where do you live?

A couple of steps from the barrier, a quarter of an hour from here.
No. 87 Rue de Vaugirard.

You have just time to get out by taking to your heels at your
best speed.

That is exactly so.

Once outside the gate, you gallop home, you get your card,
you 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 grave-diggeroverwhelmed with gratitudeshook his hand and set
off on a run.

When the man had disappeared in the thicketFauchelevent listened
until he heard his footsteps die away in the distancethen he
leaned over the graveand said in a low tone:-


Father Madeleine!

There was no reply.

Fauchelevent was seized with a shudder. He tumbled rather than
climbed into the graveflung himself on the head of the coffin
and cried:-


Are you there?

Silence in the coffin.


Faucheleventhardly able to draw his breath for trembling
seized his cold chisel and his hammerand 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 headhe sprang to his feet
then fell back against the side of the graveready to swoon on
the coffin. He stared at Jean Valjean.


Jean Valjean lay there pallid and motionless.


Fauchelevent murmured in a voice as faint as a sigh:--


He is dead!


Anddrawing himself upand folding his arms with such violence
that his clenched fists came in contact with his shoulders
he cried:--


And this 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 very moment when no
one was expecting it? It is he who has killed M. Madeleine.
Father Madeleine! He is in the coffin. 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!
He is dead, that good man, the very best man out of all 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 beginning 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 distance.
It was the cemetery gate closing.


Fauchelevent bent over Jean Valjeanand all at once he bounded
back and recoiled so far as the limits of a grave permit.


Jean Valjean's eyes were open and gazing at him.


To see a corpse is alarmingto behold a resurrection is almost as much
so. Fauchelevent became like stonepalehaggardoverwhelmed by all
these excesses of emotionnot knowing whether he had to do with a living
man or a dead oneand staring at Jean Valjeanwho was gazing at him.


I fell asleep,said Jean Valjean.



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 Valjean had merely fainted. The fresh air had revived him.

Joy is the ebb of terror. Fauchelevent found almost as much
difficulty in recovering himself as Jean Valjean 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 raving mad,
mad enough for a strait jacket. They would have put me in Bicetre.
What do you suppose I should have done if you 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! What a story! good saints of paradise,
what a tale! Ah! 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 themselvesalthough they
did not realize itand there was about them something uncanny
which was the sinister bewilderment inspired by the place.


Let us get out of here quickly,exclaimed Fauchelevent.


He fumbled in his pocketand pulled out a gourd with which he
had provided himself.


But first, take a drop,said he.


The flask finished what the fresh air had begunJean Valjean swallowed
a mouthful of brandyand regained full possession of his faculties.


He got out of the coffinand helped Fauchelevent to nail
on the lid again.


Three minutes later they were out of the grave.


MoreoverFauchelevent was perfectly composed. He took his 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 cardand at some difficulty in finding
it in his lodgingssince it was in Fauchelevent's pocket.
Without a cardhe could not get back into the cemetery.


Fauchelevent took the shoveland Jean Valjean the pick-axe
and together they buried the empty coffin.


When the grave was fullFauchelevent said to Jean Valjean:--


Let us go. I will keep the shovel; do you carry off the mattock.


Night was falling.



Jean Valjean experienced rome difficulty in moving and in walking.
He had stiffened himself in that coffinand had become a little
like a corpse. The rigidity of death had seized upon him between
those four planks. He hadin a mannerto thaw outfrom the tomb.


You are benumbed,said Fauchelevent. "It is a pity that I have
a game legfor otherwise we might step out briskly."


Bah!replied Jean Valjeanfour paces will put life into my legs
once more.


They set off by the alleys through which the hearse had passed.
On arriving before the closed gate and the porter's pavilion Fauchelevent
who held the grave-digger's card in his handdropped it into the box
the porter pulled the ropethe gate openedand they went out.


How well everything is going!said Fauchelevent; "what a capital
idea that was of yoursFather Madeleine!"


They passed the Vaugirard barrier in the simplest manner in the world.
In the neighborhood of the cemeterya shovel and pick are equal
to two passports.


The Rue Vaugirard was deserted.


Father Madeleine,said Fauchelevent as they went along
and raising his eyes to the housesYour 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. 87ascended to the very topguided by
the instinct which always leads the poor man to the garret
and knocked in the darkat the door of an attic.


A voice replied: "Come in."


It was Gribier's voice.


Fauchelevent opened the door. The grave-digger's dwelling was
like all such wretched habitationsan unfurnished and encumbered garret.
A packing-case--a coffinperhaps--took the place of a commode
a butter-pot served for a drinking-fountaina straw mattress served
for a bedthe floor served instead of tables and chairs. In a corner
on a tattered fragment which had been a piece of an old carpeta thin
woman and a number of children were piled in a heap. The whole of this
poverty-stricken interior bore traces of having been overturned.
One would have said that there had been an earthquake "for one."
The covers were displacedthe rags scattered aboutthe jug broken
the mother had been cryingthe 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 for his card
and had made everybody in the garretfrom the jug to his wife
responsible for its loss. He wore an air of desperation.


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:--


I have brought you back your shovel and pick.



Gribier gazed at him in stupefaction.

Is it you, peasant?

And to-morrow morning you will find your card with the porter
of the cemetery.


And he laid the shovel and mattock on the floor.


What is the meaning of this?demanded Gribier.


The meaning of it is, that you dropped your card out of your pocket,
that I 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!exclaimed Gribierradiant. "The next time I
will pay for the drinks."


CHAPTER VIII


A SUCCESSFUL INTERROGATORY


An hour laterin the darkness of nighttwo men and a child
presented themselves at No. 62 Rue Petit-Picpus. The elder
of the men lifted the knocker and rapped.


They were FaucheleventJean Valjeanand Cosette.


The two old men had gone to fetch Cosette from the fruiterer's
in the Rue du Chemin-Vertwhere Fauchelevent had deposited
her on the preceding day. Cosette had passed these twenty-four
hours trembling silently and understanding nothing. She trembled
to such a degree that she wept. She had 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 terrified little being:
Say nothing! Fear is mute. Moreoverno one guards a secret like
a child.


But whenat the expiration of these lugubrious twenty-four hours
she beheld Jean Valjean againshe 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.


Thus was solved the double and alarming problem of how to get
out and how to get in.


The porterwho had received his instructionsopened 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 courtwhich faced the carriage entrance.



The porter admitted all three of them through this doorand from
that point they reached the innerreserved parlor where Fauchelevent
on the preceding dayhad received his orders from the prioress.

The prioressrosary in handwas waiting for them. A vocal mother

with her veil loweredstood beside her.
A discreet candle lightedone might almost saymade a show
of lighting the parlor.


The prioress passed Jean Valjean in review. There is nothing


which examines like a downcast eye.


Then she questioned him:--


You are the brother?


Yes, reverend Mother,replied Fauchelevent.


What is your name?


Fauchelevent replied:--


Ultime Fauchelevent.


He really had had a brother named Ultimewho was dead.


Where do you come from?


Fauchelevent replied:--


From Picquigny, near Amiens.


What is your age?


Fauchelevent replied:--


Fifty.


What is your profession?


Fauchelevent replied:--


Gardener.


Are you 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.

Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word.

The prioress looked attentively at Cosetteand said half 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 parlorthen 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 daythereforetwo 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 gardenunder the trees
two menFauvent and another manwere visible 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 Fauvent."


Jean Valjean wasin factregularly installed; he had his belled
knee-cap; henceforth he was official. 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 prioressthat pronounced prognosticatorimmediately took a fancy
to Cosette and gave her a place in the school as a charity pupil.


There is nothing that is not strictly logical about this.


It is in vain that mirrors are banished from the conventwomen are
conscious of their faces; nowgirls who are conscious of their
beauty do not easily become nuns; the vocation being voluntary
in inverse proportion to their good looksmore 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
whichbeing enabledthanks to himto retain the coffin of Mother
Crucifixion under the altareluded Caesar and satisfied God.
There was a coffin containing a body in the Petit-Picpusand a coffin
without a body in the Vaugirard cemeterypublic order had no doubt
been deeply disturbed therebybut no one was aware of it.


As for the conventits gratitude to Fauchelevent was very great.
Fauchelevent became the best of servitors and the most precious
of gardeners. Upon the occasion of the archbishop's next visit
the prioress recounted the affair to his Gracemaking something
of a confession at the same timeand yet boasting of her deed.
On leaving the conventthe archbishop mentioned it with approval
and in a whisper to M. de LatilMonsieur's confessor
afterwards Archbishop of Reims and Cardinal. This admiration
for Fauchelevent became widespreadfor it made its way to Rome.
We have seen a note addressed by the then reigning PopeLeo XII.
to one of his relativesa Monsignor in the Nuncio's establishment



in Parisand bearinglike himselfthe name of Della Genga;
it contained these lines: "It appears that there is in a convent in
Paris an excellent gardenerwho is also a holy mannamed Fauvent."
Nothing of this triumph reached Fauchelevent in his hut;
he went on graftingweedingand covering up his melon beds
without in the least suspecting his excellences and his sanctity.
Neither did he suspect his gloryany more than a Durham or Surrey
bull whose portrait is published in the London Illustrated News
with this inscription: "Bull which carried off the prize at the
Cattle Show."


CHAPTER IX


CLOISTERED


Cosette continued to hold her tongue in the convent.


It was quite natural that Cosette should think herself Jean Valjean's
daughter. Moreoveras she knew nothingshe could say nothing
and thenshe would not have said anything in any case. As we have
just observednothing trains children to silence like unhappiness.
Cosette had suffered so muchthat 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 Valjean. She speedily
became accustomed to the convent. Only she regretted Catherine
but she dared not say so. Oncehowevershe did say to Jean Valjean:
Father, if I had known, I would have brought her away with me.


Cosette had been obligedon becoming a scholar in the convent
to don the garb of the pupils of the house. Jean Valjean succeeded
in getting them to restore to him the garments which she laid aside.
This was the same mourning suit which he had made her put on when she
had quitted the Thenardiers' inn. It was not very threadbare even now.
Jean Valjean locked up these garmentsplus the stockings and the shoes
with a quantity of camphor and all the aromatics in which convents
aboundin a little valise which he found means of procuring.
He set this valise on a chair near his bedand he always carried
the key about his person. "Father Cosette asked him one day,
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 mentionedand of which he
knew nothing; in the first place it made him happy; nexthe had
much less worksince it was shared. Lastlyas he was very fond
of snuffhe found the presence of M. Madeleine an advantage
in that he used three times as much as he had done previously
and that in an infinitely more luxurious mannerseeing 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 gardenit was always the
elder Faucheleventthe oldthe infirmthe lame manwho went
and never the other; but whether it is that eyes constantly fixed
on God know not how to spyor whether they wereby preference
occupied in keeping watch on each otherthey paid no heed to this.


Moreoverit 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. Henceforththose 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 hut at the end of the gardenin company
with Fauchelevent. This hovelbuilt of old rubbishwhich was still
in existence in 1845was composedas the reader already knows
of three chambersall of which were utterly bare and had nothing
beyond the walls. The principal one had been given upby force
for Jean Valjean had opposed it in vainto M. Madeleine
by Father Fauchelevent. The walls of this chamber had for ornament
in addition to the two nails whereon to hang the knee-cap and
the basketa Royalist bank-note of '93applied to the wall over
the chimney-pieceand of which the following is an exact facsimile:--


{GRAPHIC HERE}


This specimen of Vendean paper money had been nailed to the wall
by the preceding gardeneran old Chouanwho had died in the convent
and whose place Fauchelevent had taken.


Jean Valjean worked in the garden every day and made himself very useful.
He had formerly been a pruner of treesand he gladly found himself
a gardener once more. It will be remembered that he knew all sorts
of secrets and receipts for agriculture. He turned these to advantage.
Almost all the trees in the orchard were ungraftedand 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 kindthe child made
comparisons and adored him. At the appointed hour she flew to the hut.
When she entered the lowly cabinshe 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 propertythatfar from growing meagre
like all reflectionsit returns to us more radiant than ever.
At recreation hoursJean Valjean watched her running and playing
in the distanceand he distinguished her laugh from that of
the rest.


For Cosette laughed now.


Cosette's face had even undergone a changeto a certain extent.
The gloom had disappeared from it. A smile is the same as sunshine;
it banishes winter from the human countenance.


Recreation overwhen 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.


God has his own waysmoreover; the convent contributedlike Cosette
to uphold and complete the Bishop's work in Jean Valjean. It is
certain that virtue adjoins pride on one side. A bridge built by the
devil exists there. Jean Valjean had beenunconsciouslyperhaps
tolerably near that side and that bridgewhen Providence cast his
lot in the convent of the Petit-Picpus; so long as he had compared



himself only to the Bishophe had regarded himself as unworthy
and had remained humble; but for some time past he had been comparing
himself to men in generaland 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 place of captivity which he had seen.
In his youthin what had been for him the beginning of his life
and later onquite recently againhe had beheld another--
a frightful placea terrible placewhose severities had always
appeared to him the iniquity of justiceand the crime of the law.
Nowafter the galleyshe saw the cloister; and when he meditated
how he had formed a part of the galleysand that he nowso to speak
was a spectator of the cloisterhe confronted the two in his own
mind with anxiety.


Sometimes he crossed his arms and leaned on his hoeand slowly
descended the endless spirals of revery.


He recalled his former companions: how wretched they were;
they rose at dawnand toiled until night; hardly were they permitted
to sleep; they lay on camp bedswhere nothing was tolerated but
mattresses two inches thickin rooms which were heated only in the
very harshest months of the year; they were clothed in frightful
red blouses; they were allowedas a great favorlinen trousers
in the hottest weatherand a woollen carter's blouse on their
backs when it was very cold; they drank no wineand ate no meat
except when they went on "fatigue duty." They lived nameless
designated only by numbersand convertedafter a manner
into ciphers themselveswith downcast eyeswith lowered voices
with shorn headsbeneath the cudgel and in disgrace.


Then his mind reverted to the beings whom he had under his eyes.


These beings also lived with shorn headswith downcast eyes
with lowered voicesnot in disgracebut amid the scoffs of the world
not with their backs bruised with the cudgelbut with their shoulders
lacerated with their discipline. Their namesalsohad vanished from
among men; they no longer existed except under austere appellations.
They never ate meat and they never drank wine; they often remained
until evening without food; they were attirednot in a red blouse
but in a black shroudof woollenwhich was heavy in summer and thin
in winterwithout the power to add or subtract anything from it;
without having evenaccording to the seasonthe 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 dweltnot in
rooms warmed only during rigorous coldbut in cells where no fire
was ever lighted; they sleptnot on mattresses two inches thick
but on straw. And finallythey were not even allowed their sleep;
every nightafter a day of toilthey were obligedin the weariness
of their first slumberat the moment when they were falling sound
asleep and beginning to get warmto rouse themselvesto rise and
to go and pray in an ice-cold and gloomy chapelwith their knees
on the stones.


On certain days each of these beings in turn had to remain for twelve
successive hours in a kneeling postureor prostratewith face
upon the pavementand arms outstretched in the form of a cross.


The others were men; these were women.


What had those men done? They had stolenviolated
pillagedmurderedassassinated. They were bandits



counterfeiterspoisonersincendiariesmurderers
parricides. What had these women done? They had done nothing whatever.


On the one handhighway robberyfrauddeceitviolence
sensualityhomicideall sorts of sacrilegeevery variety
of crime; on the otherone thing onlyinnocence.


Perfect innocencealmost caught up into heaven in a mysterious
assumptionattached to the earth by virtuealready possessing
something of heaven through holiness.


On the one handconfidences over crimeswhich are exchanged
in whispers; on the otherthe confession of faults made aloud.
And what crimes! And what faults!


On the one handmiasms; on the otheran ineffable perfume.
On the one handa moral pestguarded from sightpenned up under the
range of cannonand literally devouring its plague-stricken victims;
on the otherthe chaste flame of all souls on the same hearth.
Theredarkness; herethe shadow; but a shadow filled with gleams
of lightand of gleams full of radiance.


Two strongholds of slavery; but in the firstdeliverance possible
a legal limit always in sightand thenescape. In the second
perpetuity; the sole hopeat the distant extremity of the future
that faint light of liberty which men call death.


In the firstmen are bound only with chains; in the other
chained by faith.


What flowed from the first? An immense cursethe gnashing of teeth
hatreddesperate viciousnessa cry of rage against human society
a sarcasm against heaven.


What results flowed from the second? Blessings and love.


And in these two placesso similar yet so unlikethese two species of
beings who were so very unlikewere undergoing the same workexpiation.


Jean Valjean understood thoroughly the expiation of the former;
that personal expiationthe expiation for one's self. But he
did not understand that of these lastthat of creatures without
reproach and without stainand he trembled as he asked himself:
The expiation of what? What expiation?


A voice within his conscience replied: "The most divine
of human generositiesthe expiation for others."


Here all personal theory is withheld; we are only the narrator;
we place ourselves at Jean Valjean's point of viewand 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 faultsand which expiates in their stead;
servitude submitted totorture acceptedpunishment claimed
by souls which have not sinnedfor the sake of sparing it
to souls which have fallen; the love of humanity swallowed up
in the love of Godbut even there 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 recompensed.


And he remembered that he had dared to murmur!



Oftenin the middle of the nighthe 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 thought that those who were
justly chastised raised their voices heavenward only in blasphemy
and that hewretch that he washad 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 barriersthe adventure accepted even at the risk
of deaththe painful and difficult ascentall those efforts even
which he had made to escape from that other place of expiation
he had made in order to gain entrance into this one. Was this
a symbol of his destiny? This house was a prison likewise and bore
a melancholy resemblance to that other one whence he had fled
and yet he had never conceived an idea of anything similar.


Again he beheld gratingsboltsiron bars--to guard whom? Angels.


These lofty walls which he had seen around tigershe now beheld
once more around lambs.


This was a place of expiationand not of punishment; and yet
it was still more austeremore gloomyand more pitiless than
the other.


These virgins were even more heavily burdened than the convicts.
A coldharsh windthat wind which had chilled his youth
traversed the barred and padlocked grating of the vultures; a still
harsher and more biting breeze blew in the cage of these doves.


Why?


When he thought on these thingsall that was within him was lost
in amazement before this mystery of sublimity.


In these meditationshis pride vanished. He scrutinized his own
heart in all manner of ways; he felt his pettinessand 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 lovethe convent through humility.


Sometimes at eventidein the twilightat an hour when the garden
was desertedhe could be seen on his knees in the middle of the walk
which skirted the chapelin front of the window through which he had
gazed on the night of his arrivaland turned towards the spot where
as he knewthe sister was making reparationprostrated 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 himthat peaceful gardenthose fragrant
flowersthose children who uttered joyous criesthose grave
and simple womenthat silent cloisterslowly permeated him
and little by littlehis soul became compounded of silence
like the cloisterof perfume like the flowersof simplicity
like the womenof 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 secondat a moment when human society had again set out in
pursuit of himand when the galleys were again yawning; and that
had it not been for the firsthe should have relapsed into crime
and had it not been for the secondinto torment.



His whole heart melted in gratitudeand he loved more and more.

Many years passed in this manner; Cosette was growing up.

[The end of Volume II. "Cosette"]

VOLUME III

MARIUS.

BOOK FIRST.--PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM

CHAPTER I

PARVULUS

Paris has a childand the forest has a bird; the bird is called
the sparrow; the child is called the gamin.

Couple these two ideas which containthe one all the furnacethe other
all the dawn; strike these two sparks togetherParischildhood;
there leaps out from them a little being. HomuncioPlautus would say.

This little being is joyous. He has not food every dayand he
goes to the play every eveningif he sees good. He has no
shirt on his bodyno shoes on his feetno roof over his head;
he is like the flies of heavenwho have none of these things.
He is from seven to thirteen years of agehe lives in bands
roams the streetslodges in the open airwears an old pair
of trousers of his father'swhich descend below his heels
an old hat of some other fatherwhich descends below his ears
a single suspender of yellow listing; he runslies in wait
rummages aboutwastes timeblackens pipesswears like a convict
haunts the wine-shopknows thievescalls gay women thou
talks slangsings obscene songsand has no evil in his heart.
This is because he has in his heart a pearlinnocence; 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.

CHAPTER II

SOME OF HIS PARTICULAR CHARACTERISTICS

The gamin--the street Arab--of Paris is the dwarf of the giant.

Let us not exaggeratethis cherub of the gutter sometimes has
a shirtbutin that casehe owns but one; he sometimes has shoes
but then they have no soles; he sometimes has a lodgingand he
loves itfor he finds his mother there; but he prefers the street
because there he finds liberty. He has his own gameshis own bits
of mischiefwhose foundation consists of hatred for the bourgeois;


his peculiar metaphors: to be dead is to eat dandelions by the root;
his own occupationscalling hackney-coachesletting down
carriage-stepsestablishing means of transit between the two
sides of a street in heavy rainswhich he calls making the bridge
of artscrying discourses pronounced by the authorities in favor
of the French peoplecleaning out the cracks in the pavement;
he has his own coinagewhich is composed of all the little
morsels of worked copper which are found on the public streets.
This curious moneywhich receives the name of loques--rags--has an
invariable and well-regulated currency in this little Bohemia
of children.

Lastlyhe has his own faunawhich he observes attentively
in the corners; the lady-birdthe death's-head plant-louse
the daddy-long-legsthe devil,a black insectwhich menaces
by twisting about its tail armed with two horns. He has his
fabulous monsterwhich has scales under its bellybut is not
a lizardwhich has pustules on its backbut is not a toad
which inhabits the nooks of old lime-kilns and wells that have run dry
which is blackhairystickywhich crawls sometimes slowly
sometimes rapidlywhich has no crybut 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-stoneand 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 Ursulinesthere are millepeds
in the Pantheonthere are tadpoles in the ditches of the Champs-de-Mars.

As far as sayings are concernedthis child has as many of them
as Talleyrand. He is no less cynicalbut he is more honest.
He is endowed with a certain indescribableunexpected 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 Arabhow long has
it been customary for doctors to carry home their own work?

Another is in a crowd. A grave manadorned with spectacles
and trinketsturns round indignantly: "You good-for-nothing
you have seized my wife's waist!"--"Isir? Search me!"

CHAPTER III

HE IS AGREEABLE

In the eveningthanks to a few souswhich he always finds means
to procurethe homuncio enters a theatre. On crossing that
magic thresholdhe becomes transfigured; he was the street Arab
he becomes the titi.[18] Theatres 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 therewith his radiance of happiness
with his power of enthusiasm and joywith his hand-clapping
which resembles a clapping of wingsto confer on that narrowdark
fetidsordidunhealthyhideousabominable keelthe name of Paradise.


[18] Chicken: slang allusion to the noise made in calling poultry.
Bestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of 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 regretwould not constitute
classic taste. He is not very academic by nature. Thusto give
an examplethe popularity of Mademoiselle Mars among that little
audience of stormy children was seasoned with a touch of irony.
The gamin called her Mademoiselle Muche--"hide yourself."


This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fightshas rags
like a baby and tatters like a philosopherfishes in the sewer
hunts in the cesspoolextracts mirth from foulnesswhips up the
squares with his witgrins and biteswhistles and singsshouts
and shriekstempers Alleluia with Matantur-lurettechants every rhythm
from the De Profundis to the Jack-puddingfinds without seeking
knows what he is ignorant ofis a Spartan to the point of thieving
is mad to wisdomis lyrical to filthwould crouch down on Olympus
wallows in the dunghill 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 astonishedhe is still less easily terrified
he makes songs on superstitionshe takes the wind out of exaggerations
he twits mysterieshe thrusts out his tongue at ghostshe takes
the poetry out of stilted thingshe 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 himthe street Arab would say:
Hi there! The bugaboo!


CHAPTER IV


HE MAY 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 acceptance
which contents itself with gazingand 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 connectionsgrows supplein sufferingin the presence
of social realities and of human thingsa thoughtful witness.
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 beif your name is PrejudiceAbuseIgnorance
OppressionIniquityDespotismInjusticeFanaticismTyranny
beware of the gaping gamin.


The little fellow will grow up.


Of what clay is he made? Of the first mud that comes to hand.
A handful of dirta breathand behold Adam. It suffices 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 chanceto some extent. That pigmy kneaded out of common
earthignorantunletteredgiddyvulgarlow. Will that become
an Ionian or a Boeotian? Waitcurrit rotathe Spirit of Paris
that demon which creates the children of chance and the men of destiny
reversing the process of the Latin pottermakes of a jug an amphora.

CHAPTER V

HIS FRONTIERS

The gamin loves the cityhe also loves solitudesince he
has something of the sage in him. Urbis amatorlike Fuscus;
ruris amatorlike Flaccus.

To roam thoughtfully aboutthat is to sayto loungeis a fine
employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher; particularly in
that rather illegitimate species of campaignwhich is tolerably
ugly but odd and composed of two natureswhich surrounds certain
great citiesnotably Paris. To study the suburbs is to study
the amphibious animal. End of the treesbeginning of the roofs;
end of the grassbeginning of the pavements; end of the furrows
beginning of the shopsend of the wheel-rutsbeginning of
the passions; end of the divine murmurbeginning of the human uproar;
hence an extraordinary interest.

Hencein these not very attractive placesindelibly stamped by
the passing stroller with the epithet: melancholythe apparently
objectless promenades of the dreamer.

He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the barriers
of Parisand it is for him a source of profound souvenirs.
That close-shaven turfthose pebbly pathsthat chalkthose pools
those harsh monotonies of waste and fallow landsthe plants
of early market-garden suddenly springing into sight in a bottom
that mixture of the savage and the citizenthose vast desert nooks
where the garrison drums practise noisilyand produce a sort of
lisping of battlethose hermits by day and cut-throats by night
that clumsy mill which turns in the windthe hoisting-wheels
of the quarriesthe tea-gardens at the corners of the cemeteries;
the mysterious charm of greatsombre walls squarely intersecting
immensevague stretches of land inundated with sunshine and full
of butterflies--all this attracted him.

There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with those
singular spotsthe Glacierethe Cunettethe hideous wall of Grenelle
all speckled with ballsMont-Parnassethe Fosse-aux-LoupsAubiers on
the bank of the MarneMont-Souristhe Tombe-Issoirethe Pierre-Plate
de Chatillonwhere there is an oldexhausted quarry which no longer
serves any purpose except to raise mushroomsand which is closed
on a level with the groundby a trap-door of rotten planks.
The campagna of Rome is one ideathe banlieue of Paris is another;
to behold nothing but fieldshousesor trees in what a stretch of
country offers usis 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 melancholy.
Nature and humanity both appeal to you at the same time there.
Local originalities there make their appearance.

Any one wholike ourselveshas wandered about in these solitudes
contiguous to our faubourgswhich may be designated as the limbos
of Parishas seen here and therein the most desert spotat the


most unexpected momentbehind a meagre hedgeor in the corner
of a lugubrious wallchildren grouped tumultuouslyfetidmuddy
dustyraggeddishevelledplaying hide-and-seekand crowned with
corn-flowers. All of them are little ones who have made their escape
from 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 areor ratherthere they existfar from every eye
in the sweet light of May or Junekneeling round a hole in the ground
snapping marbles with their thumbsquarrelling over half-farthings
irresponsiblevolatilefree and happy; andno sooner do they
catch sight of you than they recollect that they have an industry
and that they must earn their livingand they offer to sell you an
old woollen stocking filled with cockchafersor a bunch of lilacs.
These encounters with strange children are one of the charming
and at the same time poignant graces of the environs of Paris.


Sometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys--
are they their sisters?--who are almost young maidensthinfeverish
with sunburnt handscovered with frecklescrowned with poppies
and ears of ryegayhaggardbarefooted. They can be seen devouring
cherries among the wheat. In the evening they can be heard laughing.
These groupswarmly illuminated by the full glow of midday
or indistinctly seen in the twilightoccupy the thoughtful
man for a very long timeand these visions mingle with his dreams.


Pariscentrebanlieuecircumference; this constitutes 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 themnothing exists two leagues
beyond the barriers: IvryGentillyArcueilBelleville
AubervilliersMenilmontantChoisy-le-RoiBillancourtMendon
IssyVanvreSevresPuteauxNeuillyGennevilliersColombes
RomainvilleChatouAsnieresBougivalNanterreEnghien
Noisy-le-SecNogentGournayDrancyGonesse; the universe ends there.


CHAPTER VI


A BIT OF HISTORY


At the epochnearly contemporary by the waywhen the action
of this book takes placethere was notas 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 homeless
children picked up annually at that periodby the police patrols
in unenclosed landsin houses in process of construction
and under the arches of the bridges. One of these nestswhich has
become famousproduced "the swallows of the bridge of Arcola."
This ismoreoverthe most disastrous of social symptoms.
All crimes of the man begin in the vagabondage of the child.


Let us make an exception in favor of Parisnevertheless. In a
relative measureand in spite of the souvenir which we have
just recalledthe exception is just. While in any other great city
the vagabond child is a lost manwhile nearly everywhere the child
left to itself isin some sortsacrificed and abandoned to a kind
of fatal immersion in the public vices which devour in him honesty
and consciencethe street boy of Pariswe insist on this point
however defaced and injured on the surfaceis almost intact on
the interior. It is a magnificent thing to put on recordand one



which shines forth in the splendid probity of our popular revolutions
that a certain incorruptibility results from the idea which exists
in the air of Parisas 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 isit is not a very abnormal thing
to behold these fractured families pouring themselves out into
the darknessnot 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 calledfor this sad thing
has given rise to an expressionto be cast on the pavements of Paris.


Let it be said by the waythat this abandonment of children
was not discouraged 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. Nowthe erring
child is the corollary of the ignorant child.


Besides thisthe monarchy sometimes was in need of children
and in that case it skimmed the streets.


Under Louis XIV.not to go any further backthe king rightly desired
to create a fleet. The idea was a good one. But let us consider
the means. There can be no fleetifbeside the sailing ship
that plaything of the windsand for the purpose of towing it
in case of necessitythere is not the vessel which goes where
it pleaseseither by means of oars or of steam; the galleys were
then to the marine what steamers are to-day. Thereforegalleys
were necessary; but the galley is moved only by the galley-slave;
hencegalley-slaves were required. Colbert had the commissioners
of provinces and the parliaments make as many convicts as possible.
The magistracy 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 years of age
and did not know where he was to sleephe was sent to the galleys.
Grand reign; grand century.


Under Louis XV. children disappeared in Paris; the police
carried them offfor what mysterious purpose no one knew.
People whispered with terror monstrous conjectures as to the king's
baths of purple. Barbier speaks ingenuously of these things.
It sometimes happened that the exempts of the guardwhen they
ran short of childrentook those who had fathers. The fathers
in despairattacked the exempts. In that casethe parliament
intervened and had some one hung. Who? The exempts? Nothe fathers.


CHAPTER VII


THE GAMIN SHOULD HAVE HIS PLACE IN THE CLASSIFICATIONS 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 timeand reached popular
speech through the literary tonguein 1834. It is in a little
work entitled Claude Gueux that this word made its appearance.
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 associated
with one who was greatly respected and vastly admired because he
had seen a man fall from the top of the tower of Notre-Dame;
anotherbecause he had succeeded in making his way into the rear
courtyard where the statues of the dome of the Invalides had been
temporarily depositedand had "prigged" some lead from them; a third
because he had seen a diligence tip over; still anotherbecause he
knewa soldier who came near putting out the eye of a citizen.


This explains that famous exclamation of a Parisian gamin
a profound epiphonemawhich the vulgar herd laughs at without
comprehending--Dieu de Dieu! What ill-luck I do have! to think
that I have never yet seen anybody tumble from a fifth-story window!
(I have pronounced I'ave and fifth pronounced fift'.)


Surelythis saying of a peasant is a fine one: "Father So-and-So
your wife has died of her malady; why did you not send for the doctor?"
What would you have, sir, we poor folks die of ourselves.
But if the peasant's whole passivity lies in this sayingthe whole
of the free-thinking anarchy of the brat of the faubourgs isassuredly
contained in this other saying. A man condemned to death is listening
to his confessor in 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 guillotineand he laughs. He calls it by all sorts of pet names:
The End of the SoupThe GrowlerThe Mother in the Blue (the
sky)The Last Mouthfuletc.etc. In order not to lose anything
of the affairhe scales the wallshe hoists himself to balconies
he ascends treeshe suspends himself to gratingshe clings fast
to chimneys. The gamin is born a tiler as he is born a mariner.
A roof inspires him with no more fear than a mast. There is no
festival which comes up to an execution on the Place de Greve.
Samson and the Abbe Montes are the truly popular names. They hoot
at the victim in order to encourage him. They sometimes admire him.
Lacenairewhen a gaminon seeing the hideous Dautin die bravely
uttered these words which contain a future: "I was jealous of him."
In the brotherhood of gamins Voltaire is not knownbut Papavoine is.
Politiciansare 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 capAvril an otter cap
Losvel a round hatthat old Delaporte was bald and bare-headed
that Castaing was all ruddy and very handsomethat Bories had
a romantic small beardthat Jean Martin kept on his suspenders
that Lecouffe and his mother quarrelled. "Don't reproach each other
for your basket shouted a gamin to them. Another, in order to get
a look at Debacker as he passed, and being too small in the crowd,
caught sight of the lantern on the quay and climbed it. A gendarme
stationed opposite frowned. Let me climb upm'sieu le gendarme
said the gamin. And, to soften the heart of the authorities he added:
I will not fall." "I don't care if you do retorted the gendarme.


In the brotherhood of gamins, a memorable accident counts 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 things
that the gamin is fondest of saying is: "I am fine and strong
come now!" To be left-handed renders you very enviable. A squint
is highly esteemed.

CHAPTER VIII

IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A CHARMING SAYING OF THE LAST KING

In summerhe metamorphoses himself into a frog; and in the evening
when night is fallingin front of the bridges of Austerlitz and Jena
from the tops of coal wagonsand the washerwomen's boatshe hurls
himself headlong into the Seineand into all possible infractions
of the laws of modesty and of the police. Nevertheless the
police keep an eye on himand the result is a highly dramatic
situation which once gave rise to a fraternal and memorable cry;
that cry which was celebrated about 1830is a strategic warning
from gamin to gamin; it scans like a verse from Homerwith a
notation as inexpressible as the eleusiac chant of the Panathenaea
and in it one encounters again the ancient Evohe. Here it is:
Ohe, Titi, oheee! Here comes the bobby, here comes the p'lice,
pick up your duds and be off, through the sewer with you!

Sometimes this gnat--that is what he calls himself--knows how to read;
sometimes he knows how to write; he always knows how to daub.
He does not hesitate to acquireby no one knows what mysterious
mutual instructionall the talents which can be of use to the public;
from 1815 to 1830he imitated the cry of the turkey; from 1830
to 1848he scrawled pears on the walls. One summer evening
when Louis Philippe was returning home on foothe saw a little fellow
no higher than his kneeperspiring and climbing up to draw a gigantic
pear in charcoal on one of the pillars of the gate of Neuilly;
the Kingwith that good-nature which came to him from Henry IV.
helped the gaminfinished the pearand gave the child a louis
saying: "The pear is on that also."[19] The gamin loves uproar.
A certain state of violence pleases him. He execrates "the cures."
One dayin the Rue de l'Universiteone of these scamps was putting
his thumb to his nose at the carriage gate of No. 69. "Why are you
doing that at the gate?" a passer-by asked. The boy replied:
There is a cure there.It was therein factthat the Papal
Nuncio lived.

[19] Louis XVIII. is represented in comic pictures of that day
as having a pear-shaped head.
Neverthelesswhatever may be the Voltairianism of the small gamin
if the occasion to become a chorister presents itselfit is
quite possible that he will acceptand in that case he serves
the mass civilly. There are two things to which he plays Tantalus
and which he always desires without ever attaining them:
to overthrow the governmentand to get his trousers sewed up again.

The gamin in his perfect 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 habitsand 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
is a traitor; such another is very malicious; such another
is great; such another is ridiculous." (All these words:
traitormaliciousgreatridiculoushave a particular meaning
in his mouth.) That one imagines that he owns the Pont-Neufand he
prevents people from walking on the cornice outside the parapet;
that other has a mania for pulling person's ears; etc.etc.


CHAPTER IX


THE OLD SOUL OF GAUL


There was something of that boy in Poquelinthe son of the fish-market;
Beaumarchais had something of it. Gaminerie is a shade of the
Gallic spirit. Mingled with good senseit sometimes adds force
to the latteras alcohol does to wine. Sometimes it is a defect.
Homer repeats himself eternallygranted; one may say that
Voltaire plays the gamin. Camille Desmoulins was a native
of the faubourgs. Championnetwho treated miracles brutally
rose from the pavements of Paris; he hadwhen a small lad
inundated the porticos of Saint-Jean de Beauvaisand of Saint-Etienne
du Mont; he had addressed the shrine of Sainte-Genevieve
familiarly to give orders to the phial of Saint Januarius.


The gamin of Paris is respectfulironicaland insolent. He has
villainous teethbecause he is badly fed and his stomach suffers
and handsome eyes because he has wit. If Jehovah himself were present
he would go hopping up the steps of paradise on one foot.
He is strong on boxing. All beliefs are possible to him.
He plays in the gutterand straightens himself up with a revolt;
his effrontery persists even in the presence of grape-shot; he was
a scapegracehe is a hero; like the little Thebanhe 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
has passed 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 Moliere to Barra.


To sum up the wholeand in one wordthe gamin is a being
who amuses himselfbecause he is unhappy.


CHAPTER X


ECCE PARISECCE HOMO


To sum it all up once morethe Paris gamin of to-daylike
the graeculus of Rome in days gone byis the infant populace
with the wrinkle of the old world on his brow.


The gamin is a grace to the nationand at the same time a disease;
a disease which must be curedhow? By light.


Light renders healthy.


Light kindles.


All generous social irradiations spring from sciencelettersarts



education. Make menmake 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 thenthose 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 Parisand Paris expresses the world.


For Paris is a total. Paris is the ceiling of the human 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 capitalthe Town-Halla ParthenonNotre-Damea Mount Aventine
the Faubourg Saint-Antoinean Asinariumthe Sorbonnea Pantheon
the Pantheona Via Sacrathe Boulevard des Italiensa temple
of the windsopinion; and it replaces the Gemoniae by ridicule.
Its majo is called "faraud its Transteverin is the man of the faubourgs,
its hammal is the market-porter, its lazzarone is the pegre, its cockney
is the native of Ghent. Everything that exists elsewhere exists
at Paris. The fishwoman of Dumarsais can retort on the herb-seller
of Euripides, the discobols Vejanus lives again in the Forioso,
the tight-rope dancer. Therapontigonus Miles could walk arm in arm
with Vadeboncoeur the grenadier, Damasippus the second-hand dealer
would be happy among bric-a-brac merchants, Vincennes could grasp
Socrates in its fist as just as Agora could imprison Diderot,
Grimod de la Reyniere discovered larded roast beef, as Curtillus
invented roast hedgehog, we see the trapeze which figures in Plautus
reappear under the vault of the Arc of l'Etoile, the sword-eater of
Poecilus encountered by Apuleius is a sword-swallower on the PontNeuf,
the nephew of Rameau and Curculio the parasite make a pair,
Ergasilus could get himself presented to Cambaceres by d'Aigrefeuille;
the four dandies of Rome: Alcesimarchus, Phoedromus, Diabolus,
and Argyrippus, descend from Courtille in Labatut'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 Cafe
Anglais at Nomentanus the fast liver, Hermogenus is a tenor in the
Champs-Elysees, and round him, Thracius the beggar, clad like Bobeche,
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 properantem me prehendit pallio?
The wine on Surene is a parody of the wine of Alba, the red border
of Desaugiers forms a balance to the great cutting of Balatro,
Pere Lachaise exhales beneath nocturnal rains same gleams as
the Esquiliae, 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 Trophonius
contains nothing that is not in Mesmer's tub; Ergaphilas lives
again in Cagliostro; the Brahmin Vasaphanta become incarnate
in the Comte de Saint-Germain; the cemetery of Saint-Medard
works quite as good miracles as the Mosque of Oumoumie at Damascus.


Paris has an AEsop-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 the courtesan there;
and, taking it altogether, if Louis XV. is worse than Claudian,
Madame Dubarry is better than Messalina. Paris combines in an
unprecedented type, which has existed and which we have elbowed,
Grecian nudity, the Hebraic ulcer, and the Gascon pun.
It mingles Diogenes, Job, and Jack-pudding, dresses up a spectre
in old numbers of the Constitutional, 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 rather doctrinary eulogium
made of it by Varus Vibiscus is to be credited: Contra Gracchos
Tiberim habemus, Bibere Tiberim, 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 ringing 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 Tartuffe than Horace was repelled by the hiccup" of Priapus.
No trait of the universal 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 eyesexactly as the procuress Staphyla lay in wait for
the virgin Planesium. The Barriere du Combat is not the Coliseum
but people are as ferocious there as though Caesar were looking on.
The Syrian hostess has more grace than Mother Saguetbutif Virgil
haunted the Roman wine-shopDavid d'AngersBalzac and Charlet
have sat at the tables of Parisian taverns. Paris reigns.
Geniuses flash forth therethe red tails prosper there.
Adonai 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 CosmosParis is AthensSybarisJerusalem
Pantin. All civilizations are there in an abridged formall barbarisms
also. Paris would greatly regret it if it had not a guillotine.


A little of the Place de Greve is a good thing. What would all that
eternal festival be without this seasoning? Our laws are wisely
providedand thanks to themthis blade drips on this Shrove Tuesday.


CHAPTER XI


TO SCOFFTO REIGN


There is no limit to Paris. No city has had that domination
which sometimes derides those whom it subjugates. To please you
O Athenians! exclaimed Alexander. Paris makes more than the law
it makes the fashion; Paris sets more than the fashionit sets
the routine. Paris may be stupidif it sees fit; it sometimes
allows itself this luxury; then the universe is stupid in company
with it; then Paris awakesrubs its eyessays: "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 be amicable neighbors
that all this majesty should not be thrown into disorder by all
this parodyand that the same mouth can to-day blow into the trump
of the Judgment Dayand to-morrow into the reed-flute! Paris has
a sovereign joviality. Its gayety is of the thunder and its farce
holds a sceptre.


Its tempest sometimes proceeds from a grimace. Its explosions
its daysits masterpiecesits prodigiesits epicsgo forth to the



bounds of the universeand 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 caricatures 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 Julywhich 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 WashingtonKosciuskoBolivarBozzaris
RiegoBemManinLopezJohn BrownGaribaldi; it is everywhere
where the future is being lighted upat Boston in 1779
at the Isle de Leon in 1820at Pesth in 1848at Palermo in 1860
it whispers the mighty countersign: Libertyin the ear of the
American abolitionists grouped about the boat at Harper's Ferry
and in the ear of the patriots of Ancona assembled in the shadow
to the Archi before the Gozzi inn on the seashore; it creates Canaris;
it creates Quiroga; it creates Pisacane; it irradiates the great
on earth; it was while proceeding whither its breath urge them
that Byron perished at Missolonghiand that Mazet died at Barcelona;
it is the tribune under the feet of Mirabeauand a crater under the
feet of Robespierre; its booksits theatreits artits science
its literatureits philosophyare the manuals of the human race;
it has PascalRegnierCorneilleDescartesJean-Jacques: Voltaire
for all momentsMoliere for all centuries; it makes its language to
be talked by the universal mouthand that language becomes the word;
it constructs in all minds the idea of progressthe liberating dogmas
which it forges are for the generations trusty friendsand it is
with the soul of its thinkers and its poets that all heroes of all
nations have been made since 1789; this does not prevent vagabondism
and that enormous genius which is called Pariswhile transfiguring
the world by its lightsketches in charcoal Bouginier's nose on
the wall of the temple of Theseus and writes Credeville the thief on
the Pyramids.


Paris is always showing its teeth; when it is not scolding it
is laughing.


Such is Paris. The smoke of its roofs forms the ideas of the universe.
A heap of mud and stoneif you willbutabove alla moral being.
It is more than greatit is immense. Why? Because it is daring.


To dare; that is the price of progress.


All sublime conquests aremore or lessthe prizes of daring.
In order that the Revolution should take placeit does not suffice
that Montesquieu should foresee itthat Diderot should preach it
that Beaumarchais should announce itthat Condorcet should calculate it
that Arouet should prepare itthat Rousseau should premeditate it;
it is necessary that Danton should dare it.


The cry: Audacity! is a Fiat lux. It is necessaryfor the sake
of the forward march of the human racethat there should be proud
lessons of courage permanently on the heights. Daring deeds
dazzle history and are one of man's great sources of light.
The dawn dares when it rises. To attemptto braveto persist
to persevereto be faithful to one's selfto grasp fate bodily
to astound catastrophe by the small amount of fear that it occasions us
now to affront unjust poweragain to insult drunken victory
to hold one's positionto stand one's ground; that is the example
which nations needthat is the light which electrifies them.
The same formidable lightning proceeds from the torch of Prometheus to
Cambronne's short pipe.



CHAPTER XII

THE FUTURE LATENT IN THE PEOPLE

As for the Parisian populaceeven when a man grownit 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 faubourgsabove allwe maintainthat the Parisian
race appears; there is the pure blood; there is the true physiognomy;
there this people toils and suffersand suffering and toil are the two
faces of man. There exist there immense numbers of unknown beings
among whom swarm types of the strangestfrom the porter of la
Rapee to the knacker of Montfaucon. Fex urbisexclaims Cicero;
mobadds Burkeindignantly; rabblemultitudepopulace. These are
words and quickly uttered. But so be it. What does it matter?
What is it to me if they do go barefoot! They do not know how to read;
so much the worse. Would you abandon them for that? Would you
turn their distress into a malediction? Cannot the light penetrate
these masses? Let us return to that cry: Light! and let us obstinately
persist therein! Light! Light! Who knows whether these opacities
will not become transparent? Are not revolutions transfigurations?
Comephilosophersteachenlightenlight upthink aloud
speak aloudhasten joyously to the great sunfraternize with the
public placeannounce the good newsspend your alphabets lavishly
proclaim rightssing the Marseillaisessow enthusiasms
tear green boughs from the oaks. Make a whirlwind of the idea.
This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let us learn how to make use
of that vast conflagration of principles and virtueswhich sparkles
bursts forth and quivers at certain hours. These bare feet
these bare armsthese ragsthese ignorancesthese abjectnesses
these darknessesmay be employed in the conquest of the ideal.
Gaze past the peopleand you will perceive truth. Let that vile
sand which you trample under foot be cast into the furnacelet it
melt and seethe thereit will become a splendid crystaland it
is thanks to it that Galileo and Newton will discover stars.

CHAPTER XIII

LITTLE GAVROCHE

Eight or nine years after the events narrated in the second part
of this storypeople noticed on the Boulevard du Templeand in the
regions of the Chateau-d'Eaua little boy eleven or twelve years
of agewho would have realized with tolerable accuracy that ideal
of the gamin sketched out aboveifwith the laugh of his age
on his lipshe had not had a heart absolutely sombre and empty.
This child was well muffled up in a pair of man's trousersbut he
did not get them from his fatherand a woman's chemisebut he
did not get it from his mother. Some people or other had clothed
him in rags out of charity. Stillhe had a father and a mother.
But his father did not think of himand his mother did not love him.

He was one of those children most deserving of pityamong all
one of those who have father and motherand who are orphans nevertheless.

This child never felt so well as when he was in the street.
The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart.


His parents had despatched him into life with a kick.

He simply took flight.

He was a boisterouspallidnimblewide-awakejeeringladwith a
vivacious but sickly air. He went and camesangplayed at hopscotch
scraped the guttersstole a littlebutlike cats and sparrows
gayly laughed when he was called a rogueand got angry when
called a thief. He had no shelterno breadno fireno love;
but he was merry because he was free.


When these poor creatures grow to be menthe millstones of the social
order meet them and crush thembut so long as they are children
they escape because of their smallness. The tiniest hole saves them.


Neverthelessabandoned as this child wasit sometimes happened
every two or three monthsthat he saidCome, I'll go and see mamma!
Then he quitted the boulevardthe Cirquethe Porte Saint-Martin
descended to the quayscrossed the bridgesreached the suburbs
arrived at the Salpetriereand came to a haltwhere? Precisely at
that double number 50-52 with which the reader is acquainted--
at the Gorbeau hovel.


At that epochthe hovel 50-52 generally deserted and eternally
decorated with the placard: "Chambers to let chanced to be,
a rare thing, inhabited by numerous individuals who, however, as is
always the case in Paris, had no connection with each other.
All belonged to that indigent class which begins to separate
from the lowest of petty bourgeoisie in straitened circumstances,
and which extends from misery to misery into the lowest depths
of society down to those two beings in whom all the material
things of civilization end, the sewer-man who sweeps up the mud,
and the ragpicker who collects scraps.


The principal lodger" of Jean Valjean's day was dead and had been
replaced by another exactly like her. I know not what philosopher
has said: "Old women are never lacking."


This new old woman was named Madame Bourgonand had nothing
remarkable about her life except a dynasty of three paroquets
who had reigned in succession over her soul.


The most miserable of those who inhabited the hovel were a family
of four personsconsisting of fathermotherand two daughters
already well grownall four of whom were lodged in the same attic
one of the cells which we have already mentioned.


At first sightthis family presented no very special feature except
its extreme destitution; the fatherwhen he hired the chamber
had stated that his name was Jondrette. Some time after his moving in
which had borne a singular resemblance to the entrance of nothing
at allto borrow the memorable expression of the principal tenant
this Jondrette had said to the womanwholike her predecessor
was at the same time portress and stair-sweeper: "Mother So-and-So
if any one should chance to come and inquire for a Pole or an Italian
or even a Spaniardperchanceit is I."


This family was that of the merry barefoot boy. He arrived
there and found distressandwhat is still sadderno smile;
a cold hearth and cold hearts. When he enteredhe was asked:
Whence come you?He replied: "From the street." When he
went awaythey asked him: "Whither are you going?" He replied:
Into the streets.His mother said to him: "What did you come



here for?"


This child livedin this absence of affectionlike the pale
plants which spring up in cellars. It did not cause him suffering
and he blamed no one. He did not know exactly how a father
and mother should be.


Neverthelesshis mother loved his sisters.


We have forgotten to mentionthat on the Boulevard du Temple this
child was called Little Gavroche. Why was he called Little Gavroche?


Probably because his father's name was Jondrette.


It seems to be the instinct of certain wretched families to break
the thread.


The chamber which the Jondrettes inhabited in the Gorbeau hovel
was the last at the end of the corridor. The cell next to it
was occupied by a very poor young man who was called M. Marius.


Let us explain who this M. Marius was.


BOOK SECOND.--THE GREAT BOURGEOIS


CHAPTER I


NINETY YEARS AND THIRTY-TWO TEETH


In the Rue BoucheratRue de Normandie and the Rue de Saintonge
there still exist a few ancient inhabitants who have preserved
the memory of a worthy man named M. Gillenormandand who mention
him with complaisance. This good man was old when they were young.
This silhouette has not yet entirely disappeared--for those who regard
with melancholy that vague swarm of shadows which is called the past--
from the labyrinth of streets in the vicinity of the Temple to which
under Louis XIV.the names of all the provinces of France were
appended exactly as in our daythe streets of the new Tivoli quarter
have received the names of all the capitals of Europe; a progression
by the wayin which progress is visible.


M.Gillenormandwho was as much alive as possible in 1831
was one of those men who had become curiosities to be viewed
simply because they have lived a long timeand who are strange
because they formerly resembled everybodyand now resemble nobody.
He was a peculiar old manand in very trutha man of another age
the realcomplete and rather haughty bourgeois of the eighteenth
centurywho wore his goodold bourgeoisie with the air with which
marquises wear their marquisates. He was over ninety years of age
his walk was erecthe talked loudlysaw clearlydrank neat
atesleptand snored. He had all thirty-two of his teeth.
He only wore spectacles when he read. He was of an amorous disposition
but declared thatfor the last ten yearshe had wholly and
decidedly renounced women. He could no longer pleasehe said;
he did not add: "I am too old but: I am too poor." He said:
If I were not ruined--Heee!All he had leftin factwas an
income of about fifteen thousand francs. His dream was to come
into an inheritance and to have a hundred thousand livres income
for mistresses. He did not belongas the reader will perceive



to that puny variety of octogenaries wholike M. de Voltaire
have been dying all their life; his was no longevity of a cracked pot;
this jovial old man had always had good health. He was superficial
rapideasily angered. He flew into a passion at everything
generally quite contrary to all reason. When contradictedhe raised
his cane; he beat people as he had done in the great century.
He had a daughter over fifty years of ageand unmarriedwhom he
chastised severely with his tonguewhen in a rageand whom he
would have liked to whip. She seemed to him to be eight years old.
He boxed his servants' ears soundlyand said: "Ah! carogne!"
One of his oaths was: "By the pantoufloche of the pantouflochade!"
He had singular freaks of tranquillity; he had himself shaved
every day by a barber who had been mad and who detested him
being jealous of M. Gillenormand on account of his wifea pretty
and coquettish barberess. M. Gillenormand admired his own discernment
in all thingsand declared that he was extremely sagacious;
here is one of his sayings: "I havein truthsome penetration;
I am able to say when a flea bites mefrom what woman it came."


The words which he uttered the most frequently were: the sensible man
and nature. He did not give to this last word the grand acceptation
which our epoch has accorded to itbut he made it enter
after his own fashioninto his little chimney-corner satires:
Nature,he saidin order that civilization may have a little
of everything, gives it even specimens of its amusing barbarism.
Europe possesses specimens of Asia and Africa on a small scale.
The cat is a drawing-room tiger, the lizard is a pocket crocodile.
The dancers at the opera are pink female savages. They do not eat men,
they crunch them; or, magicians that they are, they transform them
into oysters and swallow them. The Caribbeans leave only the bones,
they leave only the shell. Such are our morals. We do not devour,
we gnaw; we do not exterminate, we claw.


CHAPTER II


LIKE MASTERLIKE HOUSE


He lived in the MaraisRue des Filles-du-CalvaireNo. 6.
He owned the house. This house has since been demolished and rebuilt
and the number has probably been changed in those revolutions
of numeration which the streets of Paris undergo. He occupied
an ancient and vast apartment on the first floorbetween street
and gardensfurnished to the very ceilings with great Gobelins
and Beauvais tapestries representing pastoral scenes; the subjects
of the ceilings and the panels were repeated in miniature on the
arm-chairs. He enveloped his bed in a vastnine-leaved screen
of Coromandel lacquer. Longfull curtains hung from the windows
and formed greatbroken folds that were very magnificent.
The garden situated immediately under his windows was attached
to that one of them which formed the angleby means of a staircase
twelve or fifteen steps longwhich the old gentleman ascended and
descended with great agility. In addition to a library adjoining
his chamberhe had a boudoir of which he thought a great deal
a gallant and elegant retreatwith magnificent hangings of straw
with a pattern of flowers and fleurs-de-lys made on the galleys
of Louis XIV. and ordered of his convicts by M. de Vivonne for
his mistress. M. Gillenormand had inherited it from a grim maternal
great-auntwho had died a centenarian. He had had two wives.
His manners were something between those of the courtier
which he had never beenand the lawyerwhich he might have been.
He was gayand caressing when he had a mind. In his youth he



had been one of those men who are always deceived by their wives
and never by their mistressesbecause they areat the same time
the most sullen of husbands and the most charming of lovers
in existence. He was a connoisseur of painting. He had in his chamber
a marvellous portrait of no one knows whompainted by Jordaens
executed with great dashes of the brushwith millions of details
in a confused and hap-hazard manner. M. Gillenormand's attire
was not the habit of Louis XIV. nor yet that of Louis XVI.;
it was that of the Incroyables of the Directory. He had thought
himself young up to that period and had followed the fashions.
His coat was of light-weight cloth with voluminous reversa long
swallow-tail and large steel buttons. With this he wore knee-breeches
and buckle shoes. He always thrust his hands into his fobs.
He said authoritatively: "The French Revolution is a heap
of blackguards."

CHAPTER III

LUC-ESPRIT

At the age of sixteenone evening at the operahe had had the
honor to be stared at through opera-glasses by two beauties at the
same time--ripe and celebrated beauties thenand sung by Voltaire
the Camargo and the Salle. Caught between two fireshe had beaten
a heroic retreat towards a little dancera young girl named Nahenry
who was sixteen like himselfobscure as a catand with whom he was
in love. He abounded in memories. He was accustomed to exclaim:
How pretty she was--that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette, the
last time I saw her at Longchamps, her hair curled in sustained
sentiments, with her come-and-see of turquoises, her gown of the
color of persons newly arrived, and her little agitation muff!
He had worn in his young manhood a waistcoat of Nain-Londrin
which he was fond of talking about effusively. "I was dressed
like a Turk of the Levant Levantin said he. Madame de Boufflers,
having seen him by chance when he was twenty, had described him as a
charming fool." He was horrified by all the names which he saw
in politics and in powerregarding them as vulgar and bourgeois.
He read the journalsthe newspapersthe gazettes as he said
stifling outbursts of laughter the while. "Oh!" he said
what people these are! Corbiere! Humann! Casimir Perier!
There's a minister for you! I can imagine this in a journal:
`M. Gillenorman, minister!' that would be a farce. Well! They are so
stupid that it would pass; he merrily called everything by its name
whether decent or indecentand did not restrain himself in the least
before ladies. He uttered coarse speechesobscenitiesand filth
with a certain tranquillity and lack of astonishment which was elegant.
It was in keeping with the unceremoniousness of his century.
It is to be noted that the age of periphrase in verse was the age
of crudities in prose. His god-father had predicted that he
would turn out a man of geniusand had bestowed on him these two
significant names: Luc-Esprit.

CHAPTER IV

A CENTENARIAN ASPIRANT

He had taken prizes in his boyhood at the College of Moulinswhere he
was bornand he had been crowned by the hand of the Duc de Nivernais


whom he called the Duc de Nevers. Neither the Conventionnor the
death of Louis XVI.nor the Napoleonnor the return of the Bourbons
nor anything else had been able to efface the memory of this crowning.
The Duc de Nevers wasin his eyesthe great figure of the century.
What a charming grand seigneur,he saidand what a fine air he
had with his blue ribbon!

In the eyes of M. GillenormandCatherine the Second had made reparation
for the crime of the partition of Poland by purchasingfor three
thousand roublesthe secret of the elixir of goldfrom Bestucheff.
He grew animated on this subject: "The elixir of gold he exclaimed,
the yellow dye of BestucheffGeneral Lamotte's dropsin the
eighteenth century--this was the great remedy for the catastrophes
of lovethe panacea against Venusat one louis the half-ounce phial.
Louis XV. sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope." He would have
been greatly irritated and thrown off his balancehad any one told
him that the elixir of gold is nothing but the perchloride of iron.

M. Gillenormand adored the Bourbonsand had a horror of 1789;
he was forever narrating in what manner he had saved himself during
the Terrorand how he had been obliged to display a vast deal of
gayety and cleverness in order to escape having his head cut off.
If any young man ventured to pronounce an eulogium on the Republic
in his presencehe turned purple and grew so angry that he was on
the point of swooning. He sometimes alluded to his ninety years
and saidI hope that I shall not see ninety-three twice.
On these occasionshe hinted to people that he meant to live to be
a hundred.
CHAPTER V

BASQUE AND NICOLETTE

He had theories. Here is one of them: "When a man is passionately
fond of womenand when he has himself a wife for whom he cares
but littlewho is homelycrosslegitimatewith plenty of rights
perched on the codeand jealous at needthere is but one way
of extricating himself from the quandry 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 coingets her fingers
covered with verdigris in the processundertakes the education
of half-share tenants and the training of farmersconvokes lawyers
presides over notariesharangues scrivenersvisits limbs of the law
follows lawsuitsdraws up leasesdictates contractsfeels herself
the sovereignsellsbuysregulatespromises and compromises
binds fast and annulsyieldsconcedes and retrocedesarranges
disarrangeshoardslavishes; she commits folliesa supreme
and personal delightand that consoles her. While her husband
disdains hershe has the satisfaction of ruining her husband."
This theory M. Gillenormand had himself appliedand it had become
his history. His wife--the second one--had administered his fortune
in such a manner thatone fine daywhen M. Gillenormand found
himself a widowerthere remained to him just sufficient to live on
by sinking nearly the whole of it in an annuity of fifteen
thousand francsthree-quarters of which would expire with him.
He had not hesitated on this pointnot being anxious to leave
a property behind him. Besideshe had noticed that patrimonies are
subject to adventuresandfor instancebecome national property;
he had been present at the avatars of consolidated three per cents
and he had no great faith in the Great Book of the Public Debt.
All that's the Rue Quincampois!he said. His house in the Rue


Filles-du-Clavaire belonged to himas we have already stated.
He had two servantsa male and a female.When a servant entered
his establishmentM. Gillenormand re-baptized him. He bestowed on
the men the name of their province: NimoisComtoisPoitevinPicard.
His last valet was a bigfounderedshort-winded fellow of fifty-five
who was incapable of running twenty paces; butas he had been born
at BayonneM. Gillenormand called him Basque. All the female
servants in his house were called Nicolette (even the Magnon
of whom we shall hear more farther on). One daya haughty cook
a cordon bleuof the lofty race of porterspresented herself.
How much wages do you want a month?asked M. Gillenormand.
Thirty francs.What is your name?Olympie.You shall
have fifty francs, and you shall be called Nicolette.


CHAPTER VI


IN WHICH MAGNON AND HER TWO CHILDREN ARE SEEN


With M. Gillenormandsorrow was converted into wrath; he was furious
at being in despair. He had all sorts of prejudices and took
all sorts of liberties. One of the facts of which his exterior
relief and his internal satisfaction was composedwasas we have
just hintedthat he had remained a brisk sparkand that he passed
energetically for such. This he called having "royal renown."
This royal renown sometimes drew down upon him singular windfalls.
One daythere was brought to him in a basketas though it had
been a basket of oystersa stoutnewly born boywho was yelling
like the deuceand duly wrapped in swaddling-clotheswhich a
servant-maiddismissed six months previouslyattributed to him.


M. Gillenormand hadat that timefully completed his
eighty-fourth year. Indignation and uproar in the establishment.
And whom did that bold hussy think she could persuade to believe that?
What audacity! What an abominable calumny! M. Gillenormand himself
was not at all enraged. He gazed at the brat with the amiable smile
of a good man who is flattered by the calumnyand 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'Angouleme,
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 Cardinal de Sourdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, had, at the age
of eighty-three, by the maid of Madame la Presidente Jacquin,
a son, a real child of love, who became a Chevalier of Malta
and a counsellor of state; one of the great men of this century,
the Abbe 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 womanwhose name was Magnon
sent him another parcel in the following year. It was a boy again.
ThereuponM. Gillenormand capitulated. He sent the two brats
back to their motherpromising to pay eighty francs a month
for their maintenanceon 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 see them from time to time."
And this he did. He had had a brother who was a priestand 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 demonetized sous, thereby discovering a means of going

to hell by way of paradise. As for M. Gillenormand the elder,
he never haggled 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 inheritance, 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 centuryeven the rascals. Morbleu! this is not the way
to rob a man of my standing. I am robbed as though in a forest
but badly robbed. Silvasint consule dignae!" He had had two wives
as we have already mentioned; by the first he had had a daughter
who had remained unmarriedand by the second another daughter
who had died at about the age of thirtywho had weddedthrough love
or chanceor otherwisea soldier of fortune who had served
in the armies of the Republic and of the Empirewho had won
the cross at Austerlitz and had been made colonel at Waterloo.
He is the disgrace of my family,said the old bourgeois.
He took an immense amount of snuffand had a particularly graceful
manner of plucking at his lace ruffle with the back of one hand.
He believed very little in God.


CHAPTER VII


RULE: RECEIVE NO ONE EXCEPT IN THE EVENING


Such was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormandwho had not lost his hair--
which was gray rather than white--and which was always dressed in
dog's ears.To sum uphe 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 RestorationM. Gillenormand
who was still young--he was only seventy-four--lived in the
Faubourg Saint GermainRue Servandoninear Saint-Sulpice.
He had only retired to the Marais when he quitted society
long after attaining the age of eighty.


Andon abandoning societyhe had immured himself in his habits.
The principal oneand that which was invariablewas to keep his
door absolutely closed during the dayand never to receive any one
whatever except in the evening. He dined at five o'clockand 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 oneeven had it been the king himself.
This was the antiquated elegance of his day.


CHAPTER VIII


TWO DO NOT MAKE 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 othereither in character
or countenanceand had also been as little like sisters to each



other as possible. The youngest had a charming soulwhich turned
towards all that belongs to the lightwas occupied with flowers
with verseswith musicwhich fluttered away into glorious space
enthusiasticetherealand was wedded from her very youthin ideal
to a vague and heroic figure. The elder had also her chimera;
she espied in the azure some very wealthy purveyora contractor
a splendidly stupid husbanda million made manor even a prefect;
the receptions of the Prefecturean usher in the antechamber
with a chain on his neckofficial ballsthe harangues of the
town-hallto be "Madame la Prefete--all this had created
a whirlwind in her imagination. Thus the two sisters strayed,
each in her own dream, at the epoch when they were young girls.
Both had wings, the one like an angel, the other like a goose.


No ambition is ever fully realized, here below at least.
No paradise becomes terrestrial in our day. The younger wedded
the man of her dreams, but she died. The elder did not marry at all.


At the moment when she makes her entrance into this history which we
are relating, she was an antique virtue, an incombustible prude,
with one of the sharpest noses, and one of the most obtuse minds
that it is possible to see. A characteristic detail; outside of
her immediate family, no one had ever known her first name.
She was called Mademoiselle Gillenormand, the elder.


In the matter of cant, Mademoiselle Gillenormand could have given
points to a miss. Her modesty was carried to the other extreme
of blackness. She cherished a frightful memory of her life; one day,
a man had beheld her garter.


Age had only served to accentuate this pitiless modesty. Her guimpe
was never sufficiently opaque, and never ascended sufficiently high.
She multiplied clasps and pins where no one would have dreamed
of looking. The peculiarity of prudery is to place all the more
sentinels in proportion as the fortress is the less menaced.


Nevertheless, let him who can explain these antique mysteries
of innocence, she allowed an officer of the Lancers, her grand nephew,
named Theodule, to embrace her without displeasure.


In spite of this favored Lancer, the label: Prude, under which we have
classed her, suited her to absolute perfection. Mademoiselle Gillenormand
was a sort of twilight soul. Prudery is a demi-virtue and a demi-vice.


To prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted lining. She belonged
to the society of the Virgin, wore a white veil on certain festivals,
mumbled special orisons, revered the holy blood venerated the
sacred heart remained for hours in contemplation before a
rococo-jesuit altar in a chapel which was inaccessible to the rank
and file of the faithful, and there allowed her soul to soar among
little clouds of marble, and through great rays of gilded wood.


She had a chapel friend, an ancient virgin like herself,
named Mademoiselle Vaubois, who was a positive blockhead,
and beside whom Mademoiselle Gillenormand had the pleasure of being
an eagle. Beyond the Agnus Dei and Ave Maria, Mademoiselle Vaubois
had no knowledge of anything except of the different ways of
making preserves. Mademoiselle Vaubois, perfect in her style,
was the ermine of stupidity without a single spot of intelligence.


Let us say it plainly, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had gained rather
than lost as she grew older. This is the case with passive natures.
She had never been malicious, which is relative kindness; and then,
years wear away the angles, and the softening which comes with time



had come to her. She was melancholy with an obscure sadness
of which she did not herself know the secret. There breathed
from her whole person the stupor of a life that was finished,
and which had never had a beginning.

She kept house for her father. M. Gillenormand had his daughter
near him, as we have seen that Monseigneur Bienvenu had his sister
with him. These households comprised of an old man and an old
spinster are not rare, and always have the touching aspect of two
weaknesses leaning on each other for support.

There was also in this house, between this elderly spinster
and this old man, a child, a little boy, who was always trembling
and mute in the presence of M. Gillenormand. M. Gillenormand
never addressed this child except in a severe voice, and sometimes,
with uplifted cane: Heresir! rascalscoundrelcome here!--
Answer meyou scamp! Just let me see youyou good-for-nothing!"
etc.etc. He idolized him.

This was his grandson. We shall meet with this child again later on.

BOOK THIRD.--THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON

CHAPTER I

AN ANCIENT SALON

When M. Gillenormand lived in the Rue Servandonihe had frequented
many very good and very aristocratic salons. Although a bourgeois

M. Gillenormand was received in society. As he had a double
measure of witin the first placethat which was born with him
and secondlythat which was attributed to himhe was even sought
out and made much of. He never went anywhere except on condition
of being the chief person there. There are people who will have
influence at any priceand who will have other people busy
themselves over them; when they cannot be oraclesthey turn wags.
M. Gillenormand was not of this nature; his domination in the
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 Bonaldand even against M. Bengy-Puy-Vallee.
About 1817he invariably passed two afternoons a week in a house in his
own neighborhoodin the Rue Ferouwith Madame la Baronne de T.a worthy
and respectable personwhose husband had been Ambassador of France
to Berlin under Louis XVI. Baron de T.whoduring his lifetime
had gone very passionately into ecstasies and magnetic visions
had died bankruptduring the emigrationleavingas his entire
fortunesome very curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tubin ten
manuscript volumesbound in red morocco and gilded on the edges.
Madame de T. had not published the memoirsout of prideand
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 ribbon, or the Jacobinism of Louis
XVIII., according as the wind veered towards elegy or dithyrambs;


and they spoke in low tones of the hopes which were presented
by Monsieur, afterwards Charles X.

The songs of the fishwomen, in which Napoleon was called Nicolas,
were received there with transports 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[20]
Le bout d' chemis' qui vous pend.
Qu'on n' dis' pas qu' les patriotes
Ont arbore l' drapeau blanc?


[20] Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that is hanging out.
Let it not be said that patriots have hoisted the white flag.
There they amused themselves with puns which were considered terrible
with innocent plays upon words which they supposed to be venomous
with quatrainswith distiches even; thusupon the Dessolles ministry
a moderate cabinetof which MM. Decazes and Deserre were members:-


Pour raffermir le trone ebranle sur sa base[21]
Il faut changer de solet de serre et de case.

[21] In order to re-establish the shaken throne firmly on its base
soil (Des solles)greenhouse and house (Decazes) must be changed.
Or they drew up a list of the chamber of peersan abominably
Jacobin chamber,and from this list they combined alliances of names
in such a manner as to formfor examplephrases like the following:
Damas. Sabran. Gouvion-Saint-Cyr.--All this was done merrily.
In that societythey parodied the Revolution. They used I know
not what desires to give point to the same wrath in inverse sense.
They sang their little Ca ira:--


Ah! ca ira ca ira ca ira!
Les Bonapartistes a la lanterne!


Songs are like the guillotine; they chop away indifferently
to-day this headto-morrow that. It is only a variation.


In the Fualdes affairwhich belongs to this epoch1816they took
part for Bastide and Jausionbecause Fualdes was "a Buonapartist."
They designated the liberals as friends and brothers; this constituted
the most deadly insult.


Like certain church towersMadame de T.'s salon had two cocks.
One of them was M. Gillenormandthe other was Comte de Lamothe-Valois
of whom it was whispered aboutwith a sort of respect: "Do you know?
That is the Lamothe of the affair of the necklace." These singular
amnesties do occur in parties.


Let us add the following: in the bourgeoisiehonored situations
decay through too easy relations; one must beware whom one admits;
in the same way that there is a loss of caloric in the vicinity of those
who are coldthere is a diminution of consideration in the approach
of despised persons. The ancient society of the upper classes held
themselves above this lawas above every other. Marignythe brother
of the Pompadourhad his entry with M. le Prince de Soubise.
In spite of? Nobecause. Du Barrythe god-father of the Vaubernier



was very welcome at the house of M. le Marechal de Richelieu.
This society is Olympus. Mercury and the Prince de Guemenee are
at home there. A thief is admitted thereprovided he be a god.


The Comte de Lamothewhoin 1815was an old man seventy-five
years of agehad nothing remarkable about him except his silent
and sententious airhis cold and angular facehis perfectly
polished mannershis coat buttoned up to his cravatand his long legs
always crossed in longflabby trousers of the hue of burnt sienna.
His face was the same color as his trousers.


This M. de Lamothe was "held in consideration" in this salon
on account of his "celebrity" andstrange to saythough true
because of his name of Valois.


As for M. Gillenormandhis consideration was of absolutely
first-rate quality. He hadin spite of his levityand without its
interfering in any way with his dignitya certain manner about him
which was imposingdignifiedhonestand loftyin a bourgeois 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 thishe said things which had the genuine sparkle
of the old rock. Thuswhen the King of Prussiaafter having restored
Louis XVIII.came to pay the latter a visit under the name of the
Count de Ruppinhe was received by the descendant of Louis XIV.
somewhat as though he had been the Marquis de Brandebourgand with
the most delicate impertinence. M. Gillenormand approved: "All kings
who are not the King of France said he, are provincial kings."
One daythe following question was put and the following answer
returned in his presence: "To what was the editor of the Courrier
Francais condemned?" "To be suspended." "Sus is superfluous
observed M. Gillenormand.[22] Remarks of this nature found a situation.


[22] Suspendu, suspended; pendu, hung.
At the Te Deum on the anniversary of the return of the Bourbons,
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 mademoisellewho was over forty and looked fifty
and by a handsome little boy of seven yearswhiterosyfresh
with happy and trusting eyeswho never appeared in that salon
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 "poor child
because he had for a father a brigand of the Loire."
This brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand's son-in-law
who has already been mentionedand whom M. Gillenormand called
the disgrace of his family.

CHAPTER II

ONE OF THE RED SPECTRES OF THAT EPOCH

Any one who had chanced to pass through the little town of Vernon
at this epochand who had happened to walk across that fine


monumental bridgewhich will soon be succeededlet us hope
by some hideous iron cable bridgemight have observedhad he
dropped his eyes over the parapeta man about fifty years of age
wearing a leather capand trousers and a waistcoat of coarse
gray clothto which something yellow which had been a red ribbon
was sewnshod with wooden sabotstanned by the sunhis face
nearly black and his hair nearly whitea large scar on his forehead
which ran down upon his cheekbowedbentprematurely aged
who walked nearly every dayhoe and sickle in handin one of
those compartments surrounded by walls which abut on the bridge
and border the left bank of the Seine like a chain of terraces
charming enclosures full of flowers of which one could saywere they
much larger: "these are gardens and were they a little smaller:
these are bouquets." All these enclosures abut upon the river
at one endand on a house at the other. The man in the waistcoat
and the wooden shoes of whom we have just spokeninhabited the
smallest of these enclosures and the most humble of these houses
about 1817. He lived there alone and solitarysilently and poorly
with a woman who was neither young nor oldneither homely
nor prettyneither a peasant nor a bourgeoisewho served him.
The plot of earth which he called his garden was celebrated in the
town for the beauty of the flowers which he cultivated there.
These flowers were his occupation.

By dint of laborof perseveranceof attentionand of buckets
of waterhe had succeeded in creating after the Creatorand he
had invented certain tulips and certain dahlias which seemed to have
been forgotten by nature. He was ingenious; he had forestalled
Soulange Bodin in the formation of little clumps of earth of
heath mouldfor the cultivation of rare and precious shrubs from
America and China. He was in his alleys from the break of day
in summerplantingcuttinghoeingwateringwalking amid
his flowers with an air of kindnesssadnessand sweetness
sometimes standing motionless and thoughtful for hourslistening to
the song of a bird in the treesthe babble of a child in a house
or with his eyes fixed on a drop of dew at the tip of a spear of grass
of which the sun made a carbuncle. His table was very plain
and he drank more milk than wine. A child could make him give way
and his servant scolded him. He was so timid that be seemed shy
he rarely went outand he saw no one but the poor people who
tapped at his pane and his curethe Abbe Mabeufa good old man.
Neverthelessif the inhabitants of the townor strangersor any
chance comerscurious to see his tulipsrang at his little cottage
he opened his door with a smile. He was the "brigand of the Loire."

Any one who hadat the same timeread military memoirsbiographies
the Moniteurand the bulletins of the grand armywould have been
struck by a name which occurs there with tolerable frequencythe name
of Georges Pontmercy. When very youngthis 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 monarchyand were only
divided into brigades in 1794. Pontmercy fought at Spireat Worms
at Neustadtat Turkheimat Alzeyat Mayencewhere 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 Andernachand only 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 Kleber at
Marchiennes and at the battle of Mont-Palisselwhere 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-generaland


Pontmercy sub-lieutenant. Pontmercy was by Berthier's side in the
midst of the grape-shot of that day at Lodi which caused Bonaparte
to say: "Berthier has been cannoneercavalierand grenadier."
He beheld his old generalJoubertfall at Noviat the moment when
with uplifted sabrehe was shouting: "Forward!" Having been embarked
with his company in the exigencies of the campaignon board a pinnace
which was proceeding from Genoa to some obscure port on the coast
he fell into a wasps'-nest of seven or eight English vessels.
The Genoese commander wanted to throw his cannon into the sea
to hide the soldiers between decksand to slip along in the dark
as a merchant vessel. Pontmercy had the colors hoisted to the peak
and sailed proudly past under the guns of the British frigates.
Twenty leagues further onhis audacity having increasedhe attacked
with his pinnaceand captured a large English transport which was
carrying troops to Sicilyand which was so loaded down with men
and horses that the vessel was sunk to the level of the sea.
In 1805 he was in that Malher division which took Gunzberg from
the Archduke Ferdinand. At Weltingen he received into his arms
beneath a storm of bulletsColonel Maupetitmortally wounded at
the head of the 9th Dragoons. He distinguished himself at Austerlitz
in that admirable march in echelons effected under the enemy's fire.
When the cavalry of the Imperial Russian Guard crushed a battalion
of the 4th of the linePontmercy was one of those who took their
revenge and overthrew the Guard. The Emperor gave him the cross.
Pontmercy saw Wurmser at MantuaMelasand AlexandriaMack at Ulm
made prisoners in succession. He formed a part of the eighth corps
of the grand army which Mortier commandedand which captured Hamburg.
Then he was transferred to the 55th of the linewhich was the old
regiment of Flanders. At Eylau he was in the cemetery where
for the space of two hoursthe heroic Captain Louis Hugo
the uncle of the author of this booksustained 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 Beresinathen Lutzen
BautzenDresdenWachauLeipzigand the defiles of Gelenhausen;
then MontmirailChateau-ThierryCraonthe banks of the Marne
the banks of the Aisneand the redoubtable position of Laon.
At Arnay-Le-Ducbeing then a captainhe put ten Cossacks to the sword
and savednot his generalbut his corporal. He was well slashed
up on this occasionand 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 regimethe double hand
that is to sayan equal aptitude for handling the sabre or the musket
as a soldieror a squadron or a battalion as an officer. It is
from this aptitudeperfected by a military educationwhich certain
special branches of the service arisethe dragoonsfor example
who are both cavalry-men and infantry at one and the same time.
He accompanied Napoleon to the Island of Elba. At Waterloohe was
chief of a squadron of cuirassiersin Dubois' brigade. It was he
who captured the standard of the Lunenburg battalion. He came and
cast 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 Emperorgreatly pleasedshouted to him: "You are
a colonelyou are a baronyou are an officer of the Legion of Honor!"
Pontmercy replied: "SireI thank you for my widow." An hour later
he fell in the ravine of Ohain. Nowwho was this Georges Pontmercy?
He was this same "brigand of the Loire."

We have already seen something of his history. After Waterloo
Pontmercywho had been pulled out of the hollow road of Ohain
as it will be rememberedhad 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-paythen had sent him
into residencethat is to sayunder surveillanceat Vernon.
King Louis XVIII.regarding all that which had taken place
during the Hundred Days as not having occurred at alldid not
recognize his quality as an officer of the Legion of Honor
nor his grade of colonelnor his title of baron. Heon his side
neglected no occasion of signing himself "Colonel Baron Pontmercy."
He had only an old blue coatand 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 conveyed to him through an officious intermediary
Pontmercy retorted with a bitter smile: "I do not know whether I
no longer understand Frenchor 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 interfere with him.
Two or three times the Minister of War and the general in command
of the department wrote to him with the following address:
A Monsieur le Commandant Pontmercy." He sent back the letters
with the seals unbroken. At the same momentNapoleon at Saint
Helena was treating in the same fashion the missives of Sir Hudson
Lowe addressed to General Bonaparte. Pontmercy had endedmay we
be pardoned the expressionby having in his mouth the same saliva as
his Emperor.


In the same waythere were at Rome Carthaginian prisoners who refused
to salute Flaminiusand who had a little of Hannibal's spirit.


One day he encountered the district-attorney in one of the streets
of Vernonstepped up to himand said: "Mr. Crown Attorney
am I permitted to wear my scar?"


He had nothing save his meagre half-pay as chief of squadron.
He had hired the smallest house which he could find at Vernon.
He lived there alonewe have just seen how. Under the Empire
between two warshe had found time to marry Mademoiselle Gillenormand.
The old bourgeoisthoroughly indignant at bottomhad given his consent
with a sighsaying: "The greatest families are forced into it."
In 1815Madame Pontmercyan admirable woman in every sense
by the waylofty in sentiment and rareand worthy of her husband
diedleaving a child. This child had been the colonel's joy
in his solitude; but the grandfather had imperatively claimed
his grandsondeclaring that if the child were not given to him he would
disinherit him. The father had yielded in the little one's interest
and had transferred his love to flowers.


Moreoverhe had renounced everythingand neither stirred up mischief
nor conspired. He shared his thoughts between the innocent things
which he was then doing and the great things which he had done.
He 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 colonelexcept when he occasionally made mocking allusions
to "his Baronship." It had been expressly agreed that Pontmercy
should never attempt to see his son nor to speak to himunder penalty
of having the latter handed over to him disowned and disinherited.
For the GillenormandsPontmercy was a man afflicted with the plague.
They intended to bring up the child in their own way. Perhaps the
colonel was wrong to accept these conditionsbut he submitted to them
thinking 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 auntwho had remained unmarriedwas very rich on the
maternal sideand her sister's son was her natural heir. The boy
whose name was Mariusknew that he had a fatherbut nothing more.
No one opened his mouth to him about it. Neverthelessin the society
into which his grandfather took himwhispersinnuendoesand winks
had eventually enlightened the little boy's mind; he had finally
understood something of the caseand as he naturally took in the
ideas and opinions which wereso to speakthe air he breathed
by a sort of infiltration and slow penetrationhe gradually came
to think of his father only with shame and with a pain at his heart.

While he was growing up in this fashionthe colonel slipped away
every two or three monthscame to Paris on the slylike a criminal
breaking his banand went and posted himself at Saint-Sulpice
at the hour when Aunt Gillenormand led Marius to the mass.
Theretrembling lest the aunt should turn roundconcealed behind
a pillarmotionlessnot daring to breathehe gazed at his child.
The scarred veteran was afraid of that old spinster.

From this had arisen his connection with the cure of Vernon

M. l'Abbe Mabeuf.
That worthy priest was the brother of a warden of Saint-Sulpice
who had often observed this man gazing at his childand the scar on
his cheekand the large tears in his eyes. That manwho had so manly
an airyet who was weeping like a womanhad struck the warden.
That face had clung to his mind. One dayhaving gone to Vernon to
see his brotherhe had encountered Colonel Pontmercy on the bridge
and had recognized the man of Saint-Sulpice. The warden had mentioned
the circumstance to the cureand both had paid the colonel a visit
on some pretext or other. This visit led to others. The colonel
who had been extremely reserved at firstended by opening his heart
and the cure 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 cure to regard him with veneration and tenderness
and the colonelon his sidebecame fond of the cure. And moreover
when both are sincere and goodno men so penetrate each other
and so amalgamate with each otheras an old priest and an old soldier.
At bottomthe man is the same. The one has devoted his life to his
country here belowthe other to his country on high; that is the
only difference.


Twice a yearon the first of January and on St. George's day
Marius wrote duty letters to his fatherwhich were dictated by his aunt
and which one would have pronounced to be copied from some formula;
this was all that M. Gillenormand tolerated; and the father answered
them with very tender letters which the grandfather thrust into his
pocket unread.


CHAPTER III


REQUIESCANT


Madame de T.'s salon was all that Marius Pontmercy knew of the world.
It was the only opening through which he could get a glimpse
of life. This opening was sombreand more cold than warmth
more night than daycame to him through this skylight. This child
who had been all joy and light on entering this strange world
soon became melancholyandwhat is still more contrary to his age
grave. Surrounded by all those singular and imposing personages



he gazed about him with serious amazement. Everything conspired
to increase this astonishment in him. There were in Madame de T.'s
salon some very noble ladies named MathanNoeLevis--which was
pronounced Levi--Cambispronounced Cambyse. These antique visages
and these Biblical names mingled in the child's mind with the Old
Testament which he was learning by heartand when they were
all thereseated in a circle around a dying firesparely lighted
by a lamp shaded with greenwith their severe profilestheir gray
or white hairtheir long gowns of another agewhose lugubrious
colors could not be distinguisheddroppingat rare intervals
words which were both majestic and severelittle Marius stared
at them with frightened eyesin the conviction that he beheld
not womenbut patriarchs and maginot real beingsbut phantoms.

With these phantomspriests were sometimes mingledfrequenters of this
ancient salonand some gentlemen; the Marquis de Sass****private
secretary to Madame de Berrythe Vicomte de Val***who published
under the pseudonyme of Charles-Antoinemonorhymed odesthe Prince
de Beauff*******whothough very younghad a gray head and a pretty
and witty wifewhose very low-necked toilettes of scarlet velvet with
gold torsades alarmed these shadowsthe Marquis de C*****d'E******
the man in all France who best understood "proportioned politeness
the Comte d'Am*****, the kindly man with the 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 the galleys as refractory and chained with an
octogenarian, the Bishop of Mirepoix, also refractory, 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 day; 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 abounded 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. Lemarchant de Gomicourt, and the celebrated scoffer
of the right, M. Cornet-Dincourt. The bailiff de Ferrette, with his
short breeches and his thin legs, sometimes traversed this 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 Abbe Halma, the same to whom

M. Larose, his collaborator on la Foudre, said: Bah! Who is
there who is not fifty years old? a few greenhorns perhaps?"
The Abbe Letourneurpreacher to the Kingthe Abbe Frayssinous
who was notas yeteither countor bishopor ministeror peer
and who wore an old cassock whose buttons were missingand the Abbe
KeravenantCure of Saint-Germain-des-Pres; also the Pope's Nuncio
then Monsignor MacchiArchbishop of Nisibilater on Cardinal
remarkable for his longpensive noseand another Monsignor
entitled thus: Abbate Palmieridomestic prelateone of the seven
participant prothonotaries of the Holy SeeCanon of the illustrious
Liberian basilicaAdvocate of the saintsPostulatore dei Santi
which refers to matters of canonizationand signifies very nearly:
Master of Requests of the section of Paradise. Lastlytwo cardinals
M. de la Luzerneand M. de Cl****** T*******. The Cardinal of Luzerne
was a writer and was destined to havea few years laterthe honor
of signing in the Conservateur articles side by side with Chateaubriand;
M. de Cl****** T******* was Archbishop of Toul****and often made
trips to Paristo his nephewthe Marquis de T*******who was
Minister of Marine and War. The Cardinal of Cl****** T*******

was a merry little manwho displayed his red stockings beneath his
tucked-up cassock; his specialty was a hatred of the Encyclopaedia
and his desperate play at billiardsand persons whoat that epoch
passed through the Rue M***** on summer eveningswhere the hotel
de Cl****** T******* then stoodhalted to listen to the shock
of the balls and the piercing voice of the Cardinal shouting to
his conclavistMonseigneur CotiretBishop in partibus of Caryste:
Mark, Abbe, I make a cannon.The Cardinal de Cl****** T*******
had been brought to Madame de T.'s by his most intimate friend

M. de Roquelaureformer Bishop of Senlisand 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 curious couldon every Tuesdaycontemplate the Ex-Bishop
of Senlisusually standing erectfreshly powderedin violet hose
with his back turned to the doorapparently for the purpose of
allowing a better view of his little collar. All these ecclesiastics
though for the most part as much courtiers as churchmenadded to the
gravity of the T. salonwhose seigniorial aspect was accentuated
by five peers of Francethe Marquis de Vib****the Marquis de
Tal***the Marquis de Herb*******the Vicomte Damb***and the Duc
de Val********. This Duc de Val********although Prince de Mon***
that is to say a reigning prince abroadhad so high an idea of France
and its peeragethat he viewed everything through their medium.
It was he who said: "The Cardinals are the peers of France of Rome;
the lords are the peers of France of England." Moreoveras it is
indispensable that the Revolution should be everywhere in this century
this feudal salon wasas we have saiddominated by a bourgeois.
M. Gillenormand reigned there.
There lay the essence and quintessence of the Parisian white society.
There reputationseven Royalist reputationswere held in quarantine.
There is always a trace of anarchy in renown. Chateaubriandhad he
entered therewould have produced the effect of Pere Duchene. Some of
the scoffed-at didneverthelesspenetrate thither on sufferance.
Comte Beug*** was received theresubject to correction.


The "noble" salons of the present day no longer resemble those salons.
The Faubourg Saint-Germain reeks of the fagot even now. The Royalists
of to-day are demagogueslet us record it to their credit.


At Madame de T.'s the society was superiortaste was exquisite
and haughtyunder the cover of a great show of politeness.
Manners there admitted of all sorts of involuntary refinements
which were the old regime itselfburied but still alive. Some of
these habitsespecially in the matter of languageseem eccentric.
Persons but superficially acquainted with them would have taken
for provincial that which was only antique. A woman was called
Madame la Generale. Madame la Colonelle was not entirely disused.
The charming Madame de Leonin memoryno doubtof the Duchesses
de Longueville and de Chevreusepreferred this appellation to her
title of Princesse. The Marquise de Crequy 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 personand never as Your Majestythe designation
of Your Majesty having been "soiled by 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. They communicated
to each other that modicum of light which they possessed.
Methuselah bestowed information on Epimenides. The deaf man made



the blind man acquainted with the course of things. They declared
that the time which had elasped since Coblentz had not existed.
In the same manner that Louis XVIII. was by the grace of God
in the five and twentieth year of his reignthe emigrants were
by rightsin the five and twentieth year of their adolescence.


All was harmonious; nothing was too much alive; speech hardly
amounted to a breath; the newspapersagreeing with the salons
seemed a papyrus. There were some young peoplebut 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 agoand of obstinately
resisting the sepulchre. Nearly the whole dictionary consisted
of ConserverConservationConservateur; to be in good odor--
that was the point. There arein factaromatics in the opinions
of these venerable groupsand their ideas smelled of it.
It was a mummified society. The masters were embalmedthe servants
were stuffed with straw.


A worthy old marquisean emigree and ruinedwho had
but a solitary maidcontinued to say: "My people."


What did they do in Madame de T.'s salon? They were ultra.


To be ultra; this wordalthough what it represents may not
have disappearedhas 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 throneand the mitre in the name of the attar; it is to ill-treat
the thing which one is draggingit 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 sufficiently papish
that the King is not sufficiently royaland that the night
has too much light; it is to be discontented with alabaster
with snowwith the swan and the lily in the name of whiteness;
it is to be a partisan of things to the point of becoming their enemy;
it is to be so strongly foras to be against.


The ultra spirit especially characterizes the first phase
of the Restoration.


Nothing in history resembles that quarter of an hour which begins in 1814
and terminates about 1820with the advent of M. de Villelethe practical
man of the Right. These six years were an extraordinary moment;
at one and the same time brilliant and gloomysmiling and sombre
illuminated as by the radiance of dawn and entirely coveredat the
same timewith the shadows of the great catastrophes which still filled
the horizon and were slowly sinking into the past. There existed
in that light and that shadowa complete little new and old world
comic and sadjuvenile and senilewhich was rubbing its eyes;
nothing resembles an awakening like a return; a group which regarded
France with ill-temperand which France regarded with irony;
good old owls of marquises by the streetfulwho had returned
and of ghoststhe "former" subjects of amazement at everything
brave and noble gentlemen who smiled at being in France but wept also
delighted to behold their country once morein despair at not finding
their monarchy; the nobility of the Crusades treating the nobility
of the Empirethat is to saythe nobility of the swordwith scorn;
historic races who had lost the sense of history; the sons of the



companions of Charlemagne disdaining the companions of Napoleon.
The swordsas we have just remarkedreturned the insult; the sword
of Fontenoy was laughable and nothing but a scrap of rusty 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 itwe repeat
exists to-day. When we select from it some one figure at random
and attempt to make it live again in thoughtit seems as strange
to us as the world before the Deluge. It is because ittooas a
matter of facthas 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 Fievee. M. Agier laid down the law in them.
They commentated M. Colnetthe 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 armieswas a concession to the spirit
of the age.


These salons did not long preserve their purity. Beginning with 1818
doctrinarians began to spring up in thema disturbing shade.
Their way was to be Royalists and to excuse themselves for being so.
Where the ultras were very proudthe doctrinarians were rather ashamed.
They had wit; they had silence; their political dogma was
suitably impregnated with arrogance; they should have succeeded.
They indulgedand usefully tooin 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 dreamed of engrafting a temperate
power on the absolute and excessive principle. They opposed
and sometimes with rare intelligenceconservative liberalism
to the liberalism which demolishes. They were heard to say:
Thanks for Royalism! It has rendered more than one service. It has
brought back tradition, worship, religion, respect. It is faithful,
brave, chivalric, loving, devoted. It has mingled, though with regret,
the secular grandeurs 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 regard to us,--
have we not sometimes been guilty of it towards them? The Revolution,
whose heirs we are, ought to be intelligent on all points.
To attack Royalism is a misconstruction of liberalism. What an error!
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 5th of September,
the nobility of the monarchy is treated as the nobility of the Empire
was treated after the 5th of July. They were unjust to the eagle,
we are unjust to the fleur-de-lys. It seems that we must always
have something to proscribe! Does it serve any purpose to ungild
the crown of Louis XIV., to scrape the coat of arms of Henry IV.? We
scoff at M. de Vaublanc for erasing 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 Marengo. The fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the N's.
That is our patrimony. To what purpose shall we diminish it?
We must not deny our country in the past any more than in the present.
Why not accept the whole of history? Why not love the whole
of France?



It is thus that doctrinarians criticised and protected Royalism,
which was displeased at criticism and furious at protection.


The ultras marked the first epoch of Royalism,
congregation characterized the second.
Skill follows ardor. Let us confine 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 contemporary 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 petty 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 expanding passed from a prude to a
vulgar pedant.


Marius went through his years 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 cynicism
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.


CHAPTER IV


END OF THE BRIGAND


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 Mardis, in his house of the Rue
des Filles-du-Calvaire. There he had for servants, in addition to
the porter, that chambermaid, Nicolette, who had succeeded to Magnon,
and that short-breathed and pursy Basque, who have been mentioned above.
In 1827, Marius had just attained his seventeenth year. One evening,
on his return home, he saw his grandfather holding a letter in his hand.

Marius said M. Gillenormand, you will set out for Vernon to-morrow."

Why?said Marius.

To see your father.

Marius was seized with a trembling fit. He had thought of everything
except this--that he should one day be called upon to see his father.
Nothing could be more unexpectedmore surprisingandlet us
admit itmore disagreeable to him. It was forcing estrangement into
reconciliation. It was not an afflictionbut it was an unpleasant duty.

Mariusin addition to his motives of political antipathy


was convinced that his fatherthe slasheras M. Gillenormand
called him on his amiable daysdid not love him; this was evident
since he had abandoned him to others. Feeling that he was not beloved
he did not love. "Nothing is more simple he said to himself.

He was so astounded that he did not question M. Gillenormand.
The grandfather resumed:-


It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence."

And after a pausehe added:-


Set out to-morrow morning. I think there is a coach which leaves the
Cour des Fontaines at six o'clock, and which arrives in the evening.
Take it. He says that here is haste.

Then he crushed the letter in his hand and thrust it into his pocket.
Marius might have set out that very evening and have been with his
father on the following morning. A diligence from the Rue du
Bouloi took the trip to Rouen by night at that dateand passed
through Vernon. Neither Marius nor M.Gillenormand thought of making
inquiries about it.

The next dayat twilightMarius reached Vernon. People were
just beginning to light their candles. He asked the first person
whom be met for "M. Pontmercy's house." For in his own mind
he agreed with the Restorationand like itdid not recognize
his father's claim to the title of either colonel or baron.

The house was pointed out to him. He rang; a woman with a little
lamp in her hand opened the door.

M. Pontmercy?said Marius.

The woman remained motionless.

Is this his house?demanded Marius.

The woman nodded affirmatively.

Can I speak with him?

The woman shook her head.

But I am his son!persisted Marius. "He is expecting me."

He no longer expects you,said the woman.

Then he perceived that she was weeping.

She pointed to the door of a room on the ground-floor; he entered.

In that roomwhich was lighted by a tallow candle standing
on the chimney-piecethere were three menone standing erect
another kneelingand one lying at full lengthon the floor
in his shirt. The one on the floor was the colonel.

The other two were the doctorand the priestwho was engaged
in prayer.

The colonel had been attacked by brain fever three days previously.
As he had a foreboding of evil at the very beginning of his illness
he had written to M. Gillenormand to demand his son. The malady
had grown worse. On the very evening of Marius' arrival at Vernon


the colonel had had an attack of delirium; he had risen from his bed
in spite of the servant's efforts to prevent himcrying: "My son
is not coming! I shall go to meet him!" Then he ran out of his
room and fell prostrate on the floor of the antechamber. He had
just expired.

The doctor had been summonedand the cure. The doctor had arrived
too late. The son had also arrived too late.

By the dim light of the candlea large tear could be distinguished
on the pale and prostrate colonel's cheekwhere it had trickled
from his dead eye. The eye was extinguishedbut the tear was
not yet dry. That tear was his son's delay.

Marius gazed upon that man whom he beheld for the first time
on that venerable and manly faceon those open eyes which saw not
on those white locksthose robust limbson whichhere and there
brown linesmarking sword-thrustsand a sort of red stars
which indicated bullet-holeswere visible. He contemplated that
gigantic sear which stamped heroism on that countenance upon which God
had imprinted goodness. He reflected that this man was his father
and that this man was deadand a chill ran over him.

The sorrow which he felt was the sorrow which he would have felt
in the presence of any other man whom he had chanced to behold
stretched out in death.

Anguishpoignant anguishwas in that chamber. The servant-woman was
lamenting in a cornerthe cure was prayingand his sobs were audible
the doctor was wiping his eyes; the corpse itself was weeping.

The doctorthe priestand the woman gazed at Marius in the
midst of their affliction without uttering a word; he was the
stranger there. Mariuswho was far too little affectedfelt ashamed
and embarrassed at his own attitude; he held his hat in his hand;
and he dropped it on the floorin order to produce the impression
that grief had deprived him of the strength to hold it.

At the same timehe experienced remorseand he despised himself
for behaving in this manner. But was it his fault? He did not
love his father? Why should he!

The colonel had left nothing. The sale of big furniture barely
paid the expenses of his burial.

The servant found a scrap of paperwhich she handed to Marius.
It contained the followingin the colonel's handwriting:-


For my son.--The Emperor made me a Baron on the battle-field
of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to 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.Belowthe colonel
had added: "At that same battle of Waterlooa sergeant saved my life.
The man's name was Thenardier. I think that he has recently been
keeping a little innin a village in the neighborhood of Paris
at Chelles or Montfermeil. If my son meets himhe will do all
the good he can to Thenardier."

Marius took this paper and preserved itnot out of duty
to his fatherbut because of that vague respect for death
which is always imperious in the heart of man.

Nothing remained of the colonel. M. Gillenormand had his sword
and uniform sold to an old-clothes dealer. The neighbors devastated


the garden and pillaged the rare flowers. The other plants turned
to nettles and weedsand died.


Marius remained only forty-eight hours at Vernon. After the interment
he returned to Parisand applied himself again to his law studies
with no more thought of his father than if the latter had never lived.
In two days the colonel was buriedand in three forgotten.


Marius wore crape on his hat. That was all.


CHAPTER V


THE UTILITY OF GOING TO MASSIN ORDER TO BECOME A REVOLUTIONIST


Marius had preserved the religious habits of his childhood.
One Sundaywhen he went to hear mass at Saint-Sulpiceat that same
chapel of the Virgin whither his aunt had led him when a small lad
he placed himself behind a pillarbeing more absent-minded and
thoughtful than usual on that occasionand knelt downwithout paying
any special heedupon a chair of Utrecht velveton the back of
which was inscribed this name: Monsieur Mabeufwarden. Mass had
hardly begun when an old man presented himself and said to Marius:--


This is my place, sir.


Marius stepped aside promptlyand the old man took possession
of his chair.


The mass concludedMarius still stood thoughtfully a few paces distant;
the old man approached him again and said:--


I beg your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you a while ago,
and for again disturbing you at this moment; you must have thought
me intrusive, and I will explain myself.


There is no need of that, Sir,said Marius.


Yes!went on the old manI 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 sacrificed himself in order that his son
might be rich and happy some day. He was separated from him
because of political opinions. Certainly, I approve of political
opinions, but there are people 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. He is dead, I believe. He lived
at Vernon, where I have a brother who is a cure, and his name was
something like Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had a fine sword-cut, on
my honor.

Pontmercy,suggested Mariusturning pale.

Precisely, Pontmercy. Did you know him?

Sir,said Mariushe was my father.

The old warden clasped his hands and exclaimed:-


Ah! you are the child! Yes, that's true, he must be a man by
this time. Well! poor child, you may say that you had a father
who loved you dearly!

Marius offered his arm to the old man and conducted him to his lodgings.

On the following dayhe said to M. Gillenormand:-


I have arranged a hunting-party with some friends. Will you
permit me to be absent for three days?

Four!replied his grandfather. "Go and amuse yourself."

And he said to his daughter in a low toneand with a wink
Some love affair!

CHAPTER 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 daysthen he returned to Paris
went straight to the library of the law-school and asked for the
files of the Moniteur.

He read the Moniteurhe read all the histories of the Republic
and the Empirethe Memorial de Sainte-Heleneall the memoirs
all the newspapersthe bulletinsthe proclamations; he devoured
everything. The first time that he came across his father's name
in the bulletins of the grand armyhe had a fever for a week.
He went to see the generals under whom Georges Pontmercy had served
among othersComte H. Church-warden Mabeufwhom he went to see again
told him about the life at Vernonthe colonel's retreathis flowers
his solitude. Marius came to a full knowledge of that raresweet
and sublime manthat species of lion-lamb who had been his father.

In the meanwhileoccupied as he was with this study which absorbed
all his moments as well as his thoughtshe hardly saw the Gillenormands
at all. He made his appearance 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 thought it was only an affair of gallantry, It seems
that it is an affair of passion!

It was a passionin fact. Marius was on the high road to adoring
his father.


At the same timehis ideas underwent an extraordinary change.
The phases of this change were numerous and successive. As this is
the history of many minds of our daywe think it will prove useful
to follow these phases step by step and to indicate them all.


That history upon which he had just cast his eyes appalled him.


The first effect was to dazzle him.


Up to that timethe Republicthe Empirehad been to him only
monstrous words. The Republica guillotine in the twilight;
the Empirea sword in the night. He had just taken a look at it
and where he had expected to find only a chaos of shadowshe had beheld
with a sort of unprecedented surprisemingled with fear and joy
stars sparklingMirabeauVergniaudSaint-JustRobespierre
CamilleDesmoulinsDantonand a sun ariseNapoleon. He did not
know where he stood. He recoiledblinded by the brilliant lights.
Little by littlewhen his astonishment had passed off
he grew accustomed to this radiancehe contemplated these deeds
without dizzinesshe examined these personages without terror;
the Revolution and the Empire presented themselves luminously
in perspectivebefore his mind's eye; he beheld each of these
groups of events and of men summed up in two tremendous facts:
the Republic in the sovereignty of civil right restored to the masses
the Empire in the sovereignty of the French idea imposed on Europe;
he beheld the grand figure of the people emerge from the Revolution
and the grand figure of France spring forth from the Empire.
He asserted in his consciencethat all this had been good.
What his dazzled state neglected in thishis first far too
synthetic estimationwe do not think it necessary to point out here.
It is the state of a mind on the march that we are recording.
Progress is not accomplished in one stage. That statedonce for all
in connection with what precedes as well as with what is to follow
we continue.


He then perceived thatup to that momenthe had comprehended his
country no more than he had comprehended his father. He had not
known either the one or the otherand a sort of voluntary night
had obscured his eyes. Now he sawand on the one hand he admired
while on the other he adored.


He was filled with regret and remorseand he reflected in despair
that all he had in his soul could now be said only to the tomb.
Oh! if his father had still been in existenceif he had still
had himif Godin his compassion and his goodnesshad permitted
his father to be still among the livinghow he would have run
how he would have precipitated himselfhow he would have cried
to his father: "Father! Here I am! It is I! I have the same heart
as thou! I am thy son!" How he would have embraced that white head
bathed his hair in tearsgazed upon his scarpressed his hands
adored his garmentkissed his feet! Oh! Why had his father died
so earlybefore his timebefore the justicethe love of his
son had 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 seriousmore truly gravemore sure of his
thought and his faith. At each instantgleams of the true came
to complete his reason. An inward growth seemed to be in progress
within him. He was conscious of a sort of natural enlargement
which gave him two things that were new to him--his father and
his country.


As everything opens when one has a keyso he explained to himself
that which he had hatedhe penetrated that which he had abhorred;



henceforth he plainly perceived the providentialdivine and human
sense of the great things which he had been taught to detest
and of the great men whom he had been instructed to curse. When he
reflected on his former opinionswhich were but those of yesterday
and whichneverthelessseemed to him already so very ancient
he grew indignantyet he smiled.


From the rehabilitation of his fatherhe naturally passed
to the rehabilitation of Napoleon.


But the latterwe will confesswas not effected without labor.


From his infancyhe had been imbued with the judgments of the party
of 1814on Bonaparte. Nowall the prejudices of the Restoration
all its interestsall its instincts tended to disfigure Napoleon.
It execrated him even more than it did Robespierre. It had very
cleverly turned to sufficiently good account the fatigue of the nation
and the hatred of mothers. Bonaparte had become an almost
fabulous monsterand in order to paint him to the imagination
of the peoplewhichas we lately pointed outresembles the
imagination of childrenthe party of 1814 made him appear under
all sorts of terrifying masks in successionfrom that which is
terrible though it remains grandiose to that which is terrible and
becomes grotesquefrom Tiberius to the bugaboo. Thusin speaking
of Bonaparteone was free to sob or to puff up with laughter
provided that hatred lay at the bottom. Marius had never entertained--
about that manas he was called--any other ideas in his mind.
They had combined with the tenacity which existed in his nature.
There was in him a headstrong little man who hated Napoleon.


On reading historyon studying himespecially in the documents
and materials for historythe veil which concealed Napoleon
from the eyes of Marius was gradually rent. He caught a glimpse
of something immenseand he suspected that he had been deceived up
to that momenton the score of Bonaparte as about all the rest;
each day he saw more distinctly; and he set about mountingslowly
step by stepalmost regretfully in the beginningthen with
intoxication and as though attracted by an irresistible fascination
first the sombre stepsthen the vaguely illuminated steps
at last the luminous and splendid steps of enthusiasm.


One nighthe was alone in his little chamber near the roof.
His candle was burning; he was readingwith his elbows resting on
his table close to the open window. All sorts of reveries reached
him from spaceand mingled with his thoughts. What a spectacle is
the night! One hears dull soundswithout knowing whence they proceed;
one beholds Jupiterwhich is twelve hundred times larger than the earth
glowing like a firebrandthe azure is blackthe stars shine;
it is formidable.


He was perusing the bulletins of the grand armythose heroic
strophes penned on the field of battle; thereat intervals
he beheld his father's namealways the name of the Emperor;
the whole of that great Empire presented itself to him; he felt
a flood swelling and rising within him; it seemed to him at moments
that his father passed close to him like a breathand whispered
in his ear; he gradually got into a singular state; he thought that he
heard drumscannontrumpetsthe measured tread of battalions
the dull and distant gallop of the cavalry; from time to time
his eyes were raised heavenwardand gazed upon the colossal
constellations as they gleamed in the measureless depths of space
then they fell upon his book once moreand there they beheld other
colossal things moving confusedly. His heart contracted within him.
He was in a transporttremblingpanting. All at oncewithout



himself knowing what was in himand what impulse he was obeying
he sprang to his feetstretched both arms out of the window
gazed intently into the gloomthe silencethe infinite darkness
the eternal immensityand exclaimed: "Long live the Emperor!"


From that moment forthall was over; the Ogre of Corsica--
the usurper--the tyrant--the monster who was the lover of his
own sisters--the actor who took lessons of Talma--the poisoner
of Jaffa--the tiger--Buonaparte--all this vanishedand gave
place in his mind to a vague and brilliant radiance in which shone
at an inaccessible heightthe pale marble phantom of Caesar.
The Emperor had been for his father only the well-beloved captain whom
one admiresfor whom one sacrifices one's self; he was something more
to Marius. He was the predestined constructor of the French group
succeeding the Roman group in the domination of the universe.
He was a prodigious architectof a destructionthe continuer
of Charlemagneof Louis XI.of Henry IV.of Richelieuof Louis
XIV.and of the Committee of Public Safetyhaving his spots
no doubthis faultshis crimes evenbeing a manthat is to say;
but august in his faultsbrilliant in his spotspowerful in
his crime.


He was the predestined manwho had forced all nations to say:
The great nation!He was better than thathe was the very
incarnation of Franceconquering Europe by the sword which
he graspedand the world by the light which he shed. Marius saw
in Bonaparte the dazzling spectre which will always rise upon
the frontierand which will guard the future. Despot but dictator;
a despot resulting from a republic and summing up a revolution.
Napoleon became for him the man-people as Jesus Christ is the man-God.


It will be perceivedthat like all new converts to a religion
his conversion intoxicated himhe hurled himself headlong into
adhesion and he went too far. His nature was so constructed;
once on the downward slopeit was almost impossible for him
to put on the drag. Fanaticism for the sword took possession
of himand complicated in his mind his enthusiasm for the idea.
He did not perceive thatalong with geniusand pell-mellhe
was admitting forcethat is to saythat he was installing in two
compartments of his idolatryon the one hand that which is divine
on the other that which is brutal. In many respectshe had set
about deceiving himself otherwise. He admitted everything.
There is a way of encountering error while on one's way to the truth.
He had a violent sort of good faith which took everything in the lump.
In the new path which he had entered onin judging the mistakes
of the old regimeas in measuring the glory of Napoleonhe neglected
the attenuating circumstances.


At all eventsa tremendous step had been taken. Where he had formerly
beheld the fall of the monarchyhe now saw the advent of France.
His orientation had changed. What had been his East became the West.
He had turned squarely round.


All these revolutions were accomplished within himwithout his
family obtaining an inkling of the case.


Whenduring this mysterious laborhe had entirely shed his old Bourbon
and ultra skinwhen he had cast off the aristocratthe Jacobite
and the Royalistwhen he had become thoroughly a revolutionist
profoundly democratic and republicanhe went to an engraver on the
Quai des Orfevres and ordered a hundred cards bearing this name:
Le Baron Marius Pontmercy.


This was only the strictly logical consequence of the change which



had taken place in hima change in which everything gravitated
round his father.


Onlyas he did not know any one and could not sow his cards
with any porterhe put them in his pocket.


By another natural consequencein proportion as he drew nearer
to his fatherto the latter's memoryand to the things for which
the colonel had fought five and twenty years beforehe receded
from his grandfather. We have long ago saidthat M. Gillenormand's
temper did not please him. There already existed between them all
the dissonances of the grave young man and the frivolous old man.
The gayety of Geronte shocks and exasperates the melancholy
of Werther. So long as the same political opinions and the same
ideas had been common to them bothMarius had met M. Gillenormand
there as on a bridge. When the bridge fellan abyss was formed.
And thenover and above allMarius experienced unutterable
impulses to revoltwhen he reflected that it was M. Gillenormand
who hadfrom stupid motivestorn him ruthlessly from the colonel
thus depriving the father of the childand the child of the father.


By dint of pity for his fatherMarius had nearly arrived at aversion
for his grandfather.


Nothing of this sorthoweverwas betrayed on the exterior
as we have already said. Only he grew colder and colder;
laconic at mealsand rare in the house. When his aunt scolded him
for ithe was very gentle and alleged his studieshis lectures
the examinationsetc.as a pretext. His grandfather never departed
from his infallible diagnosis: "In love! I know all about it."


From time to time Marius absented himself.


Where is it that he goes off like this?said his aunt.


On one of these tripswhich were always very brief
he went to Montfermeilin order to obey the injunction
which his father had left himand he sought the old sergeant
to Waterloothe inn-keeper Thenardier. Thenardier had failed
the inn was closedand no one knew what had become of him.
Marius was away from the house for four days on this quest.


He is getting decidedly wild,said his grandfather.


They thought they had noticed that he wore something on his breast
under his shirtwhich was attached to his neck by a black ribbon.


CHAPTER VII


SOME PETTICOAT


We have mentioned a lancer.


He was a great-grand-nephew of M. Gillenormandon the paternal side
who led a garrison lifeoutside the family and far from the
domestic hearth. Lieutenant Theodule Gillenormand fulfilled all
the conditions required to make what is called a fine officer.
He had "a lady's waist a victorious manner of trailing his
sword and of twirling his mustache in a hook. He visited Paris
very rarely, and so rarely that Marius had never seen him.
The cousins knew each other only by name. We think we have



said that Theodule was the favorite of Aunt Gillenormand,
who preferred him because she did not see him. Not seeing
people permits one to attribute to them all possible perfections.

One morning, Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder returned to her
apartment as much disturbed as her placidity was capable of allowing.
Marius had just asked his grandfather's permission to take a
little trip, adding that he meant to set out that very evening.
Go!" had been his grandfather's replyand M. Gillenormand
had added in an asideas he raised his eyebrows to the top
of his forehead: "Here he is passing the night out again."
Mademoiselle Gillenormand had ascended to her chamber greatly puzzled
and on the staircase had dropped this exclamation: "This is
too much!"--and this interrogation: "But where is it that he goes?"
She espied some adventure of the heartmore or less illicit
a woman in the shadowa rendezvousa mysteryand she would
not have been sorry to thrust her spectacles into the affair.
Tasting a mystery resembles getting the first flavor of a scandal;
sainted souls do not detest this. There is some curiosity about
scandal in the secret compartments of bigotry.

So she was the prey of a vague appetite for learning a history.

In order to get rid of this curiosity which agitated her
a little beyond her wontshe took refuge in her talents
and set about scallopingwith one layer of cotton after another
one of those embroideries of the Empire and the Restoration
in which there are numerous cart-wheels. The work was clumsy
the worker cross. She had been seated at this for several hours
when the door opened. Mademoiselle Gillenormand raised her nose.
Lieutenant Theodule stood before hermaking the regulation salute.
She uttered a cry of delight. One may be oldone may be a prude
one may be piousone may be an auntbut it is always agreeable
to see a lancer enter one's chamber.

You here, Theodule!she exclaimed.

On my way through town, aunt.

Embrace me.

Here goes!said Theodule.

And he kissed her. Aunt Gillenormand went to her writing-desk
and opened it.

You will remain with us a week at least?

I leave this very evening, aunt.

It is not possible!

Mathematically!

Remain, my little Theodule, I beseech you.

My heart says `yes,' but my orders say `no.' The matter is simple.
They are changing our garrison; we have been at Melun, we are being
transferred to Gaillon. It is necessary to pass through Paris
in order to get from the old post to the new one. I said: `I am
going to see my aunt.'

Here is something for your trouble.


And she put ten louis into his hand.
For my pleasure, you mean to say, my dear aunt.


Theodule kissed her againand she experienced the joy of having some
of the skin scratched from her neck by the braidings on his uniform.

Are you making the journey on horseback, with your regiment?
she asked him.

No, aunt. I wanted to see you. I have special permission.
My servant is taking my horse; I am travelling by diligence.
And, by the way, I want to ask you something.

What is it?

Is my cousin Marius Pontmercy travelling so, too?

How do you know that?said his auntsuddenly pricked to the quick
with a lively curiosity.

On my arrival, I went to the diligence to engage my seat in the coupe.
Well?

A traveller had already come to engage a seat in the imperial.
I saw his name on the card.

What name?
Marius Pontmercy.

The wicked fellow!exclaimed his aunt. "Ah! your cousin is not
a steady lad like yourself. To think that he is to pass the night
in a diligence!"

Just as I am going to do.
But you--it is your duty; in his case, it is wildness.


Bosh!said Theodule.


Here an event occurred to Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder-an
idea struck her. If she had been a manshe would have slapped
her brow. She apostrophized Theodule:-


Are you aware whether your cousin knows you?

No. I have seen him; but he has never deigned to notice me.
So you are going to travel together?


He in the imperial, I in the coupe.
Where does this diligence run?


To Andelys.
Then that is where Marius is going?


Unless, like myself, he should stop on the way. I get down at Vernon,
in order to take the branch coach for Gaillon. I know nothing
of Marius' plan of travel.


Marius! what an ugly name! what possessed them to name him Marius?
While you, at least, are called Theodule.
I would rather be called Alfred,said the officer.
Listen, Theodule.
I am listening, aunt.
Pay attention.
I am paying attention.
You understand?
Yes.
Well, Marius absents himself!
Eh! eh!
He travels.
Ah! ah!
He spends the night out.
Oh! oh!
We should like to know what there is behind all this.
Theodule replied with the composure of a man of bronze:--
Some petticoat or other.
And with that inward laugh which denotes certaintyhe added:--
A lass.
That is evident,exclaimed his auntwho thought she heard


M. Gillenormand speakingand who felt her conviction become
irresistible at that word filletteaccentuated in almost the
very same fashion by the granduncle and the grandnephew. She resumed:-"
Do us a favor. Follow Marius a little. He does not know you
it will be easy. Since a lass there istry to get a sight of her.
You must write us the tale. It will amuse his grandfather."

Theodule had no excessive taste for this sort of spying; but he
was much touched by the ten louisand he thought he saw a chance
for a possible sequel. He accepted the commission and said:
As you please, aunt.

And he added in an asideto himself: "Here I am a duenna."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand embraced him.

You are not the man to play such pranks, Theodule. You obey discipline,
you are the slave of orders, you are a man of scruples and duty,
and you would not quit your family to go and see a creature.

The lancer made the pleased grimace of Cartouche when praised
for his probity.


Mariuson the evening following this dialoguemounted the diligence
without suspecting that he was watched. As for the watcher
the first thing he did was to fall asleep. His slumber was complete
and conscientious. Argus snored all night long.


At daybreakthe conductor of the diligence shouted: "Vernon! relay
of Vernon! Travellers for Vernon!" And Lieutenant Theodule woke.


Good,he growledstill half asleepthis is where I get out.


Thenas his memory cleared by degreesthe effect of waking
he recalled his auntthe ten louisand the account which he
had undertaken to render of the deeds and proceedings of Marius.
This set him to laughing.


Perhaps he is no longer in the coach,he thoughtas he rebuttoned
the waistcoat of his undress uniform. "He may have stopped at Poissy;
he may have stopped at Triel; if he did not get out at Meulan
he may have got out at Mantesunless he got out at Rolleboise
or if he did not go on as far as Pacywith the choice of turning
to the left at Evreusor to the right at Laroche-Guyon. Run
after himaunty. What the devil am I to write to that good
old soul?"


At that moment a pair of black trousers descending from the imperial
made its appearance at the window of the coupe.


Can that be Marius?said the lieutenant.


It was Marius.


A little peasant girlall entangled with the horses and the postilions
at the end of the vehiclewas offering flowers to the travellers.
Give your ladies flowers!she cried.


Marius approached her and purchased the finest flowers in her
flat basket.


Come now,said Theoduleleaping down from the coupethis piques
my curiosity. Who the deuce is he going to carry those flowers to?
She must be a splendidly handsome woman for so fine a bouquet.
I want to see her.


And no longer in pursuance of ordersbut from personal curiosity
like dogs who hunt on their own accounthe set out to follow Marius.


Marius paid no attention to Theodule. Elegant women descended
from the diligence; he did not glance at them. He seemed to see
nothing around him.


He is pretty deeply in love!thought Theodule.


Marius directed his steps towards the church.


Capital,said Theodule to himself. "Rendezvous seasoned with a
bit of mass are the best sort. Nothing is so exquisite as an ogle
which passes over the good God's head."


On arriving at the churchMarius did not enter itbut skirted
the apse. He disappeared behind one of the angles of the apse.


The rendezvous is appointed outside,said Theodule. "Let's have
a look at the lass."



And he advanced on the tips of his boots towards the corner
which Marius had turned.

On arriving therehe halted in amazement.

Mariuswith his forehead clasped in his handswas kneeling upon
the grass on a grave. He had strewn his bouquet there. At the
extremity of the graveon a little swelling which marked the head
there stood a cross of black wood with this name in white letters:
COLONEL BARON PONTMERCY. Marius' sobs were audible.

The "lass" was a grave.

CHAPTER VIII

MARBLE AGAINST GRANITE

It was hither that Marius had come on the first occasion of his
absenting himself from Paris. It was hither that he had come
every time that M. Gillenormand had said: "He is sleeping out."

Lieutenant Theodule was absolutely put out of countenance by this
unexpected encounter with a sepulchre; he experienced a singular
and disagreeable sensation which he was incapable of analyzing
and which was composed of respect for the tombmingled with respect
for the colonel. He retreatedleaving Marius alone in the cemetery
and there was discipline in this retreat. Death appeared to him
with large epauletsand he almost made the military salute to him.
Not knowing what to write to his aunthe decided not to write at all;
and it is probable that nothing would have resulted from the discovery
made by Theodule as to the love affairs of Mariusifby one
of those mysterious arrangements which are so frequent in chance
the scene at Vernon had not had an almost immediate counter-shock
at Paris.

Marius returned from Vernon on the third dayin the middle of
the morningdescended at his grandfather's doorandwearied by the two
nights spent in the diligenceand feeling the need of repairing his
loss of sleep by an hour at the swimming-schoolhe mounted rapidly to
his chambertook merely time enough to throw off his travelling-coatand
the black ribbon which he wore round his neckand went off to the bath.

M.Gillenormandwho had risen betimes like all old men in good health
had heard his entranceand had made haste to climbas quickly as his
old legs permittedthe stairs to the upper story where Marius lived
in order to embrace himand to question him while so doing
and to find out where he had been.

But the youth had taken less time to descend than the old man
had to ascendand when Father Gillenormand entered the attic
Marius was no longer there.

The bed had not been disturbedand on the bed layoutspread
but not defiantly the great-coat and the black ribbon.

I like this better,said M. Gillenormand.

And a moment laterhe 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-coatand in the other
the neck-ribbonand exclaimed:-"
Victory! We are about to penetrate the mystery! We are going
to learn the most minute details; we are going to lay our finger on
the debaucheries of our sly friend! Here we have the romance itself.
I have the portrait!"


In facta case of black shagreenresembling a medallion portrait
was suspended from the ribbon.


The old man took this case and gazed at it for some time without
opening itwith that air of enjoymentraptureand wrath
with which a poor hungry fellow beholds an admirable dinner
which is not for himpass under his very nose.


For this evidently is a portrait. I know all about such things.
That is worn tenderly on the heart. How stupid they are!
Some abominable fright that will make us shudder, probably! 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. Gillenormandbursting
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 paper and read
as follows:--


For my son.--The Emperor made me a Baron on the battlefield
of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to 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 described. They felt
chilled as by the breath of a death's-head. They did not exchange
a word.


OnlyM. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though speaking
to himself:--


It is the slasher's handwriting.


The aunt examined the paperturned it about in all directions
then put it back in its case.


At the same moment a little oblong packetenveloped in blue paper
fell from one of the pockets of the great-coat. Mademoiselle
Gillenormand picked it up and unfolded the blue paper.


It contained Marius' hundred cards. She handed one of them
to M. Gillenormandwho read: Le Baron Marius Pontmercy.


The old man rang the bell. Nicolette came. M. Gillenormand took
the ribbonthe caseand the coatflung them all on the floor
in the middle of the roomand 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 thinkingeach on his own accountthe same things
in all probability.

At the expiration of this hourAunt Gillenormand said:--"A pretty
state of things!"

A few moments laterMarius made his appearance. He entered.
Even before he had crossed the thresholdhe saw his grandfather
holding one of his own cards in his handand on catching sight
of himthe latter exclaimed with his air of bourgeois and grinning
superiority which was something crushing:-


Well! well! well! well! well! so you 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 laughand said harshly:-"
I am your father."

My father,retorted Mariuswith 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 abandoned, 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
word republiche roseorto speak more correctlyhe sprang
to his feet. Every word that Marius had just uttered produced on
the visage of the old Royalist the effect of the puffs of air from
a forge upon a blazing brand. From a dull hue he had turned red
from redpurpleand from purpleflame-colored.

Marius!he cried. "Abominable child! I do not know what your
father was! I do not wish to know! I know nothing about that
and I do not know him! But what I do know isthat there
never was anything but scoundrels among those men! They were
all rascalsassassinsred-capsthieves! I say all! I say all!
I know not one! I say all! Do you hear meMarius! See here
you are no more a baron than my slipper is! They were all bandits
in the service of Robespierre! All who served B-u-o-naparte
were brigands! They were all traitors who betrayedbetrayed
betrayed their legitimate king! All cowards who fled before the
Prussians and the English at Waterloo! That is what I do know!
Whether Monsieur your father comes in that categoryI do not know!
I am sorry for itso much the worseyour humble servant!"

In his turnit was Marius who was the firebrand and M. Gillenormand
who was the bellows. Marius quivered in every limbhe did
not know what would happen nexthis brain was on fire. He was
the priest who beholds all his sacred wafers cast to the winds
the fakir who beholds a passer-by spit upon his idol. It could
not be that such things had been uttered in his presence.
What was he to do? His father had just been trampled under foot


and stamped upon in his presencebut by whom? By his grandfather.
How was he to avenge the one without outraging the other?
It was impossible for him to insult his grandfather and it
was equally impossible for him to leave his father unavenged.
On the one hand was a sacred graveon the other hoary locks.


He stood there for several momentsstaggering as though intoxicated
with all this whirlwind dashing through his head; then he raised
his eyesgazed fixedly at his grandfatherand 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; but it was all the same
to him.


The old manwho had been crimsonturned whiter than his hair.
He wheeled round towards a bust of M. le Duc de Berrywhich stood
on the chimney-pieceand made a profound bowwith a sort of
peculiar majesty. Then he paced twiceslowly and in silence
from the fireplace to the window and from the window to the fireplace
traversing the whole length of the roomand making the polished
floor creak as though he had been a stone statue walking.


On his second turnhe bent over his daughterwho was watching this
encounter with the stupefied air of an antiquated lamband 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 upall at oncepallidtremblingterrible
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 dayM. 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 ofand not
knowing what to do with ithe continued to address his daughter
as you instead of thou for the next three months.


Mariuson his sidehad gone forth in indignation. There was one
circumstance whichit must be admittedaggravated his exasperation.
There are always petty fatalities of the sort which complicate
domestic dramas. They augment the grievances in such cases
althoughin realitythe wrongs are not increased by them.
While carrying Marius' "duds" precipitately to his chamberat his
grandfather's commandNicolette hadinadvertentlylet fall
probablyon the attic staircasewhich was darkthat medallion
of black shagreen which contained the paper penned by the colonel.
Neither paper nor case could afterwards be found. Marius was
convinced that "Monsieur Gillenormand"--from that day forth he
never alluded to him otherwise--had flung "his father's testament"
in the fire. He knew by heart the few lines which the colonel
had writtenandconsequentlynothing was lost. But the paper
the writingthat 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 wherewith thirty francshis watchand a few
clothes in a hand-bag. He had entered a hackney-coachhad engaged
it by the hourand had directed his course at hap-hazard towards
the Latin quarter.


What was to become of Marius?


BOOK FOURTH.--THE FRIENDS OF THE A B C


CHAPTER I


A GROUP WHICH BARELY MISSED BECOMING HISTORIC


At that epochwhich wasto all appearances indifferenta certain
revolutionary quiver was vaguely current. Breaths which had started
forth from the depths of '89 and '93 were in the air. Youth was
on the pointmay the reader pardon us the wordof moulting.
People were undergoing a transformationalmost without being
conscious of itthrough 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 liberalsliberals were turning democrats.
It was a flood tide complicated with a thousand ebb movements;
the peculiarity of ebbs is to create intermixtures; hence the combination
of very singular ideas; people adored both Napoleon and liberty.
We are making history here. These were the mirages of that period.
Opinions traverse phases. Voltairian royalisma quaint variety
had a no less singular sequelBonapartist liberalism.


Other groups of minds were more serious. In that direction
they sounded principlesthey attached themselves to the right.
They grew enthusiastic for the absolutethey caught glimpses of
infinite realizations; the absoluteby its very rigidityurges 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 beginning
of mystery menaced "the established order of things which was
suspicious and underhand. A sign which was revolutionary
to the highest degree. The second thoughts of power meet the
second thoughts of the populace in the mine. The incubation
of insurrections gives the retort to the premeditation of coups d'etat.


There did not, as yet, exist in France any of those vast underlying
organizations, like the German tugendbund and Italian Carbonarism;
but here and there there were dark underminings, which were in process
of throwing off shoots. The Cougourde 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 A B C? A society which had for its object
apparently the education of children, in reality the elevation of man.


They declared themselves the Friends of the A B C,--the Abaisse,--
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 factors in politics; witness the Castratus
ad castra, which made a general of the army of Narses; witness:



Barbari et Barberini; witness: Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram,
etc., etc.

The Friends of the A B C 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 in Paris in two localities,
near the fish-market, in a wine-shop called Corinthe, of which more
will be heard later on, and near the Pantheon in a little cafe
in the Rue Saint-Michel called the Cafe Musain, now torn down;
the first of these meeting-places was close to the workingman,
the second to the students.

The assemblies of the Friends of the A B C were usually held
in a back room of the Cafe Musain.

This hall, which was tolerably remote from the cafe, with which it
was connected by an extremely long corridor, had two windows and an
exit with a private stairway on the little Rue des Gres. There they
smoked and drank, and gambled and laughed. There they conversed
in very loud tones about everything, and in whispers of other things.
An old map of France under the Republic was nailed to the wall,-a
sign quite sufficient 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 superfluous to throw a ray
of light upon these youthful heads, before the reader beholds
them plunging into the shadow of a tragic adventure.

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 young man, who was capable of being terrible.
He was angelically handsome. He was a savage Antinous. One would
have said, to see the pensive thoughtfulness of his glance, that he
had already, in some previous state of existence, traversed the
revolutionary apocalypse. He possessed the tradition of it as though
he had been a witness. He was acquainted with all the minute details
of the great affair. A pontifical and warlike nature, a singular
thing in a youth. 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, although subject to hours of pallor.
Already a man, he still seemed a child. His two and twenty years
appeared to be but seventeen; he was serious, it did not seem
as though he were aware there was on earth a thing called woman.
He had but one passion--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 hardly saw
the roses, he ignored spring, he did not hear the carolling


of the birds; the bare throat of Evadne would have moved him no
more than it would have moved Aristogeiton; he, like Harmodius,
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 unexpected outbursts of soul.
Woe to the love-affair which should have risked itself beside him!
If any grisette of the Place Cambrai or the Rue Saint-Jean-de-Beauvais,
seeing that face of a youth escaped 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 gallant Cherubino
of Beaumarchais.


By the side of Enjolras, who represented the logic of the Revolution,
Combeferre represented its philosophy. Between the logic of the
Revolution and its philosophy there exists this difference--that its
logic may end in war, whereas its philosophy can end only in peace.
Combeferre complemented and rectified Enjolras. He was less lofty,
but broader. He desired to pour into all minds the extensive
principles of general ideas: he said: Revolutionbut civilization";
and around the mountain peak he opened out a vast view of the blue sky.
The Revolution was more adapted for breathing with Combeferre than
with Enjolras. Enjolras expressed its divine rightand Combeferre
its natural right. The first attached himself to Robespierre;
the second confined himself to Condorcet. Combeferre lived
the life of all the rest of the world more than did Enjolras.
If it had been granted to these two young men to attain to history
the one would have been the justthe other the wise man.
Enjolras was the more virileCombeferre the more humane. Homo and vir
that was the exact effect of their different shades. Combeferre was
as gentle as Enjolras was severethrough natural whiteness.
He loved the word citizenbut he preferred the word man. He would
gladly have said: Hombrelike the Spanish. He read everything
went to the theatresattended the courses of public lecturers
learned the polarization of light from Aragogrew enthusiastic
over a lesson in which Geoffrey Sainte-Hilaire explained the
double function of the external carotid arteryand the internal
the one which makes the faceand the one which makes the brain;
he kept up with what was going onfollowed science step by step
compared Saint-Simon with Fourierdeciphered hieroglyphics
broke the pebble which he found and reasoned on geology
drew from memory a silkworm mothpointed out the faulty French
in the Dictionary of the Academystudied Puysegur and Deleuze
affirmed nothingnot even miracles; denied nothingnot even ghosts;
turned over the files of the Moniteurreflected. He declared
that the future lies in the hand of the schoolmasterand busied
himself with educational questions. He desired that society
should labor without relaxation at the elevation of the moral
and intellectual levelat coining scienceat putting ideas
into circulationat increasing the mind in youthful persons
and he feared lest the present poverty of methodthe paltriness
from a literary point of view confined to two or three centuries
called classicthe tyrannical dogmatism of official pedants
scholastic prejudices and routines should end by converting our
colleges into artificial oyster beds. He was learneda purist
exacta graduate of the Polytechnica close studentand at the
same timethoughtful "even to chimaeras so his friends said.
He believed 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 human mind
in every direction, by superstition, despotism, and prejudice.
He was one of those who think that science will eventually turn
the position. Enjolras was a chief, Combeferre was a guide.
One would have liked to fight under the one and to 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 inculcation 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 daybreak furnishes a still
better illumination. Possibly, Combeferre preferred the whiteness
of the beautiful to the blaze of the sublime. A light troubled
by smoke, progress purchased at the expense of violence, only half
satisfied this tender and serious spirit. The headlong precipitation
of a people into the truth, a '93, terrified him; nevertheless,
stagnation was still more repulsive to him, in it he detected
putrefaction and death; on the whole, he preferred scum to miasma,
and he preferred the torrent to the cesspool, and the falls of Niagara
to the lake of Montfaucon. In short, he desired neither halt
nor haste. While his tumultuous friends, captivated by the absolute,
adored and invoked splendid revolutionary adventures, Combeferre was
inclined to let progress, good progress, take its own course;
he may have been cold, but he was pure; methodical, but irreproachable;
phlegmatic, but imperturbable. Combeferre would have knelt and
clasped his hands to enable the future to arrive in all its candor,
and that nothing might disturb the immense and virtuous evolution
of the races. The good must be innocent, he repeated incessantly.
And in fact, if the grandeur of the Revolution consists in keeping
the dazzling ideal fixedly in view, and of soaring thither athwart
the lightnings, with fire and blood in its talons, the beauty of
progress lies in being spotless; and there exists between Washington,
who represents the one, and Danton, who incarnates the other,
that difference which separates the swan from the angel with the wings
of an eagle.


Jean Prouvaire was a still softer shade than Combeferre. His name
was Jehan, owing to that petty momentary freak which mingled
with the powerful and profound movement whence sprang the very
essential study of the Middle Ages. Jean Prouvaire was in love;
he cultivated a pot of flowers, played on the flute, made verses,
loved the people, pitied woman, wept over the child, confounded God
and the future in the same confidence, and blamed the Revolution
for having caused the fall of a royal head, that of Andre Chenier.
His voice was ordinarily delicate, but suddenly grew manly.
He was learned even to erudition, and almost an Orientalist.
Above all, he was good; and, a very simple thing to those who know
how nearly goodness borders on grandeur, in the matter of poetry,
he preferred the immense. He knew Italian, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew;
and these served him only for the perusal of four poets:
Dante, Juvenal, AEschylus, and Isaiah. In French, he preferred
Corneille to Racine, and Agrippa d'Aubigne to Corneille.
He loved to saunter through fields of wild oats and corn-flowers,
and busied himself with clouds nearly as much as with events.
His mind had two attitudes, one on the side towards man, the other
on that towards God; he studied or he contemplated. All day long,
he buried himself in social questions, salary, capital, credit,
marriage, religion, liberty of thought, education, penal servitude,
poverty, association, property, production and sharing, the enigma
of this lower world which covers the human ant-hill with darkness;



and at night, he gazed upon the planets, those enormous beings.
Like Enjolras, he was wealthy and an only son. He spoke softly,
bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with embarrassment,
dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere nothing,
and was very timid. Yet he was intrepid.


Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father
and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had
but one thought, to deliver the world. He had one other preoccupation,
to educate himself; he called this also, delivering himself.
He had taught himself to read and write; everything that he knew,
he had learned by himself. Feuilly had a generous heart. The range
of his embrace was immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples.
As his mother had failed him, he meditated on his country.
He brooded with the profound divination of the man of the people,
over what we now call the idea of the nationality, had learned history
with the express object of raging with full knowledge of the case.
In this club of young Utopians, occupied chiefly with France,
he represented the outside world. He had for his specialty Greece,
Poland, Hungary, Roumania, Italy. He uttered these names incessantly,
appropriately and inappropriately, with the tenacity of right.
The violations of Turkey on Greece and Thessaly, of Russia
on Warsaw, of Austria on Venice, enraged him. Above all things,
the great violence of 1772 aroused him. There is no more
sovereign eloquence than the true in indignation; he was eloquent
with that eloquence. He was inexhaustible on that infamous date
of 1772, on the subject of that noble and valiant race suppressed
by treason, and that three-sided crime, on that monstrous ambush,
the prototype and pattern of all those horrible suppressions
of states, which, since that time, have struck many a noble nation,
and have annulled their certificate of birth, so to speak.
All contemporary social crimes have their origin in the partition
of Poland. The partition of Poland is a theorem of which all present
political outrages are the corollaries. There has not been a despot,
nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed, approved,
counter-signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of Poland.
When the record of modern treasons was examined, that was the first
thing which made its appearance. The congress of Vienna consulted
that crime before consummating its own. 1772 sounded the onset;
1815 was the death of the game. Such was Feuilly's habitual text.
This poor workingman 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 be Tartar
than Venice can be Teuton. Kings lose their pains and their 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 Italy. The protest of right against the deed
persists forever. The theft of a nation cannot be allowed
by prescription. These lofty deeds of rascality have no future.
A nation cannot have its mark extracted like a pocket 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 significance.
But the bourgeois of the epoch of la Minerve estimated so highly
that poor de, that they thought themselves bound to abdicate it.


M. de Chauvelin had himself called M. Chauvelin; M. de Caumartin,
M. Caumartin; M. de Constant de Robecque, Benjamin Constant;
M. de Lafayette, M. Lafayette. 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 remains:


For Courfeyracsee Tholomyes."

Courfeyrac hadin factthat animation of youth which may be
called the beaute du diable of the mind. Later onthis disappears
like the playfulness of the kittenand all this grace ends
with the bourgeoison two legsand with the tomcaton 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 handquasi cursoresand is almost
always exactly the same; so thatas we have just pointed out
any one who had listened to Courfeyrac in 1828 would have thought he
heard Tholomyes in 1817. OnlyCourfeyrac was an honorable fellow.
Beneath the apparent similarities of the exterior mindthe difference
between him and Tholomyes was very great. The latent man which
existed in the two was totally different in the first from what it
was in the second. There was in Tholomyes a district attorney
and in Courfeyrac a paladin.

Enjolras was the chiefCombeferre was the guideCourfeyrac was
the centre. The others gave more lighthe shed more warmth;
the truth isthat he possessed all the qualities of a centre
roundness and radiance.

Bahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June1822on the
occasion of the burial of young Lallemand.

Bahorel was a good-natured mortalwho kept bad companybrave
a spendthriftprodigaland to the verge of generositytalkative
and at times eloquentbold to the verge of effrontery; the best
fellow possible; he had daring waistcoatsand scarlet opinions;
a wholesale blustererthat is to sayloving nothing so much as
a quarrelunless 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 pavementthen to demolish a government
just to see the effect of it; a student in his eleventh year.
He had nosed about the lawbut did not practise 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
hygienic precautions. Of the school porter he said: What a fine
old man!" and of the deanM. Delvincourt: "What a monument!"
In his lectures he espied subjects for balladsand in his professors
occasions for caricature. He wasted a tolerably large allowance
something like three thousand francs a yearin 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."

Bahorela man of capricewas scattered over numerous cafes;
the others had habitshe had none. He sauntered. To stray is human.
To saunter is Parisian. In realityhe had a penetrating mind and
was more of a thinker than appeared to view.

He served as a connecting link between the Friends of the A B C
and other still unorganized groupswhich were destined to take
form later on.

In this conclave of young headsthere was one bald member.


The Marquis d'Avaraywhom Louis XVIII. made a duke for having
assisted him to enter a hackney-coach on the day when he emigrated
was wont to relatethat in 1814on his return to Franceas the
King was disembarking at Calaisa man handed him a petition.


What is your request?said the King.


Sire, a post-office.


What is your name?


L'Aigle.


The King frownedglanced at the signature of the petition and beheld
the name written thus: LESGLE. This non-Bonoparte orthography
touched the King and he began to smile. "Sire resumed the man
with the petition, I had for ancestor a keeper of the hounds
surnamed Lesgueules. This surname furnished my name. I am
called Lesgueulesby contraction Lesgleand by corruption l'Aigle."
This caused the King to smile broadly. Later on he gave the man
the posting office of Meauxeither intentionally or accidentally.


The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgleor Legle
and he signed himselfLegle [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 offsethe laughed at everything.
At five and twenty he was bald. His father had ended by owning
a house and a field; but hethe sonhad made haste to lose
that house and field in a bad speculation. He had nothing left.
He possessed knowledge and witbut all he did miscarried.
Everything failed him and everybody deceived him; what he was building
tumbled down on top of him. If he were splitting woodhe cut off
a finger. If he had a mistresshe speedily discovered that he
had a friend also. Some misfortune happened to him every moment
hence his joviality. He said: "I live under falling tiles."
He was not easily astonishedbecausefor himan accident was
what he had foreseenhe took his bad luck serenelyand smiled at
the teasing of fatelike a person who is listening to pleasantries.
He was poorbut his fund of good humor was inexhaustible.
He soon reached his last sounever his last burst of laughter.
When adversity entered his doorshe saluted this old acquaintance
cordiallyhe tapped all catastrophes on the stomach; he was
familiar with fatality to the point of calling it by its nickname:
Good day, Guignon,he said to it.


These persecutions of fate had rendered him inventive. He was full
of resources. He had no moneybut he found meanswhen it seemed
good to himto indulge in "unbridled extravagance." One night
he went so far as to eat a "hundred francs" in a supper with a wench
which inspired him to make this memorable remark in the midst of
the orgy: "Pull off my bootsyou five-louis jade."


Bossuet was slowly directing his steps towards the profession
of a lawyer; he was pursuing his law studies after the manner
of Bahorel. Bossuet had not much domicilesometimes none at all.
He lodged now with onenow with anothermost often with Joly.
Joly was studying medicine. He was two years younger than Bossuet.


Joly was the "malade imaginaire" junior. What he had won in medicine
was to be more of an invalid than a doctor. At three and twenty he
thought himself a valetudinarianand passed his life in inspecting
his tongue in the mirror. He affirmed that man becomes magnetic



like a needleand in his chamber he placed his bed with its head
to the southand the foot to the northso thatat night
the circulation of his blood might not be interfered with by the
great electric current of the globe. During thunder storms
he felt his pulse. Otherwisehe was the gayest of them all.
All these youngmaniacalpunymerry incoherences lived in
harmony togetherand the result was an eccentric and agreeable
being whom his comradeswho were prodigal of winged consonants
called Jolllly . "You may fly away on the four L's Jean Prouvaire
said to him.[23]

[23] L'Aile, wing.
Joly had a trick of touching his nose with the tip of his cane,
which is an indication of a sagacious mind.


All these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on the whole,
can only be discussed seriously, held the same religion: Progress.


All were the direct sons of the French Revolution. The most giddy of
them became solemn when they pronounced that date: '89. Their fathers
in the flesh had been, either royalists, doctrinaires, it matters
not what; this confusion anterior to themselves, who were young,
did not concern them at all; the pure blood of principle ran in
their veins. They attached themselves, without intermediate shades,
to incorruptible right and absolute duty.


Affiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal underground.


Among all these glowing hearts and thoroughly convinced minds,
there was one sceptic. How came he there? By juxtaposition.
This sceptic's name was Grantaire, and he was in the habit of
signing himself with this rebus: R. Grantaire was a man who took
good care not to believe in anything. Moreover, he was one of the
students who had learned the most during their course at Paris;
he knew that the best coffee was to be had at the Cafe Lemblin,
and the best billiards at the Cafe Voltaire, that good cakes and
lasses were to be found at the Ermitage, on the Boulevard du Maine,
spatchcocked chickens at Mother Sauget's, excellent matelotes
at the Barriere de la Cunette, and a certain thin white wine at
the Barriere du Com pat. He knew the best place for everything;
in addition, boxing and foot-fencing and some dances; and he was a
thorough single-stick player. He was a tremendous drinker to boot.
He was inordinately homely: the prettiest boot-stitcher of that day,
Irma Boissy, enraged with his homeliness, pronounced sentence on him
as follows: Grantaire is impossible"; but Grantaire's fatuity was
not to be disconcerted. He stared tenderly and fixedly at all women
with the air of saying to them all: "If I only chose!" and of trying
to make his comrades believe that he was in general demand.


All those words: rights of the peoplerights of man
the social contractthe French Revolutionthe Republic
democracyhumanitycivilizationreligionprogresscame very near
to signifying nothing whatever to Grantaire. He smiled at them.
Scepticismthat caries of the intelligencehad not left him
a single whole idea. He lived with irony. This was his axiom:
There is but one certainty, my full glass.He sneered at all devotion
in all partiesthe father as well as the brotherRobespierre junior
as well as Loizerolles. "They are greatly in advance to be dead
he exclaimed. He said of the crucifix: There is a gibbet which has
been a success." A rovera gamblera libertineoften drunk
he displeased these young dreamers by humming incessantly:
J'aimons les filles, et j'aimons le bon vin.Air: Vive Henri IV.



Howeverthis sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism was
neither a dogmanor an ideanor an artnor a science; it was
a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admiredlovedand venerated Enjolras.
To whom did this anarchical scoffer unite himself in this phalanx
of absolute minds? To the most absolute. In what manner had
Enjolras subjugated him? By his ideas? No. By his character.
A phenomenon which is often observable. A sceptic who adheres to a
believer is as simple as the law of complementary colors. That which
we lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man.
The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his eyes
fixed on heaven. Why? In order to watch the bird in its flight.
Grantairein whom writhed doubtloved to watch faith soar in Enjolras.
He had need of Enjolras. That chastehealthyfirmuprighthard
candid nature charmed himwithout his being clearly aware of it
and without the idea of explaining it to himself having occurred
to him. He admired his opposite by instinct. His softyielding
dislocatedsicklyshapeless ideas attached themselves to Enjolras
as to a spinal column. His moral backbone leaned on that firmness.
Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some one once more.
He washimselfmoreovercomposed of two elementswhich were
to all appearanceincompatible. He was ironical and cordial.
His indifference loved. His mind could get along without belief
but his heart could not get along without friendship.
A profound contradiction; for an affection is a conviction.
His nature was thus constituted. There are men who seem to be born
to be the reversethe obversethe wrong side. They are Pollux
PatroclesNisusEudamidasEphestionPechmeja. They only exist
on condition that they are backed up with another man; their name
is a sequeland is only written preceded by the conjunction and;
and their existence is not their own; it is the other side of an
existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these men.
He was the obverse of Enjolras.


One might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of
the alphabet. In the series O and P are inseparable. You can
at willpronounce O and P or Orestes and Pylades.


GrantaireEnjolras' true satelliteinhabited this circle of
young men; he lived therehe took no pleasure anywhere but there;
he followed them everywhere. His joy was to see these forms go
and come through the fumes of wine. They tolerated him on account
of his good humor.


Enjolrasthe believerdisdained this sceptic; anda sober
man himselfscorned this drunkard. He accorded him a little
lofty pity. Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades. Always harshly
treated by Enjolrasroughly repulsedrejected yet ever returning
to the chargehe said of Enjolras: "What fine marble!"


CHAPTER II


BLONDEAU'S FUNERAL ORATION BY BOSSUET


On a certain afternoonwhich hadas will be seen hereafter
some coincidence with the events heretofore relatedLaigle de Meaux
was to be seen leaning in a sensual manner against the doorpost
of the Cafe Musain. He had the air of a caryatid on a vacation;
he carried nothing but his reveryhowever. He was staring at the
Place Saint-Michel. To lean one's back against a thing is equivalent
to lying down while standing erectwhich attitude is not hated



by thinkers. Laigle de Meaux was pondering without melancholy
over a little misadventure which had befallen him two days previously
at the law-schooland which had modified his personal plans
for the futureplans which were rather indistinct in any case.


Revery does not prevent a cab from passing bynor the dreamer
from taking note of that cab. Laigle de Meauxwhose eyes
were straying about in a sort of diffuse loungingperceived
athwart his somnambulisma two-wheeled vehicle proceeding
through the placeat a foot pace and apparently in indecision.
For whom was this cabriolet? Why was it driving at a walk?
Laigle took a survey. In itbeside the coachmansat a young man
and in front of the young man lay a rather bulky hand-bag. The
bag displayed to passers-by the following name inscribed in large
black letters on a card which was sewn to the stuff: MARIUS PONTMERCY.


This name caused Laigle to change his attitude. He drew himself
up and hurled this apostrophe at the young man in the cabriolet:--


Monsieur Marius Pontmercy!


The cabriolet thus addressed came to a halt.


The young manwho also seemed deeply buried in thoughtraised his eyes:--


Hey?said he.


You are M. Marius Pontmercy?


Certainly.


I was looking for you,resumed Laigle de Meaux.


How so?demanded Marius; for it was he: in facthe had just
quitted his grandfather'sand had before him a face which he
now beheld for the first time. "I do not know you."


Neither do I know you,responded Laigle.


Marius thought he had encountered a wagthe beginning of a mystification
in the open street. He was not in a very good humor at the moment.
He frowned. Laigle de Meaux went on imperturbably:--


You were not at the school day before yesterday.


That is possible.


That is certain.


You are a student?demanded Marius.


Yes, sir. Like yourself. Day before yesterday, I entered the school,
by chance. You know, one does have such freaks sometimes.
The professor was just calling the roll. You are not unaware that
they are very ridiculous on such occasions. At the third call,
unanswered, your name is erased from the list. Sixty francs in the gulf.


Marius began to listen.


It was Blondeau who was making the call. You know Blondeau, he has
a very pointed and very malicious nose, and he delights to scent out
the absent. He slyly began with the letter P. I was not listening,
not being compromised by that letter. The call was not going badly.
No erasures; the universe was present. Blondeau was grieved.



I said to myself: `Blondeau, my love, you will not get the very
smallest sort of an execution to-day.' All at once Blondeau calls,
`Marius Pontmercy!' No one answers. Blondeau, filled with hope,
repeats more loudly: `Marius Pontmercy!' And he takes his pen.
Monsieur, I have bowels of compassion. I said to myself hastily:
`Here's a brave fellow who is going to get scratched out. Attention.
Here is a veritable mortal who is not exact. He's not a good student.
Here is none of your heavy-sides, a student who studies,
a greenhorn pedant, strong on letters, theology, science, and sapience,
one of those dull wits cut by the square; a pin by profession.
He is an honorable idler who lounges, who practises country jaunts,
who cultivates the grisette, who pays court to the fair sex,
who is at this very moment, perhaps, with my mistress. Let us
save him. Death to Blondeau!' At that moment, Blondeau dipped
his pen in, all black with erasures in the ink, cast his yellow
eyes round the audience room, and repeated for the third time:
`Marius Pontmercy!' I replied: `Present!' This is why you were not
crossed off.


Monsieur!--said Marius.


And why I was,added Laigle de Meaux.


I do not understand you,said Marius.


Laigle resumed:--


Nothing is more simple. I was close to the desk to reply, and close
to the door for the purpose of flight. The professor gazed at me
with a certain intensity. All of a sudden, Blondeau, who must
be the malicious nose alluded to by Boileau, skipped to the letter


L. L is my letter. I am from Meaux, and my name is Lesgle.
L'Aigle!interrupted Mariuswhat fine name!


Monsieur, Blondeau came to this fine name, and called:
`Laigle!' I reply: `Present!' Then Blondeau gazes at me, with the
gentleness of a tiger, and says to me: `lf you are Pontmercy,
you are not Laigle.' A phrase which has a disobliging air for you,
but which was lugubrious only for me. That said, he crossed me off.


Marius exclaimed:--


I am mortified, sir--


First of all,interposed LaigleI demand permission to embalm
Blondeau in a few phrases of deeply felt eulogium. I will assume
that he is dead. There will be no great change required in
his gauntness, in his pallor, in his coldness, and in his smell.
And I say: `Erudimini qui judicatis terram. Here lies Blondeau,
Blondeau the Nose, Blondeau Nasica, the ox of discipline,
bos disciplinae, the bloodhound of the password, the angel of the
roll-call, who was upright, square exact, rigid, honest, and hideous.
God crossed him off as he crossed me off.'


Marius resumed:--


I am very sorry--


Young man,said Laigle de Meauxlet this serve you as a lesson.
In future, be exact.


I really beg you a thousand pardons.



Do not expose your neighbor to the danger of having his name
erased again.


I am extremely sorry--


Laigle burst out laughing.


And I am delighted. I was on the brink of becoming a lawyer.
This erasure saves me. I renounce the triumphs of the bar.
I shall not defend the widow, and I shall not attack the orphan.
No more toga, no more stage. Here is my erasure all ready for me.
It is to you that I am indebted for it, Monsieur Pontmercy.
I intend to pay a solemn call of thanks upon you. Where do you
live?


In this cab,said Marius.


A sign of opulence,retorted Laigle calmly. "I congratulate you.
You have there a rent of nine thousand francs per annum."


At that momentCourfeyrac emerged from the cafe.


Marius smiled sadly.


I have paid this rent for the last two hours, and I aspire
to get rid of it; but there is a sort of history attached to it,
and I don't know where to go.


Come to my place, sir,said Courfeyrac.


I have the priority,observed Laiglebut I have no home.


Hold your tongue, Bossuet,said Courfeyrac.


Bossuet,said Mariusbut I thought that your name was Laigle.


De Meaux,replied Laigle; "by metaphorBossuet."


Courfeyrac entered the cab.


Coachman,said hehotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques.


And that very eveningMarius found himself installed in a chamber
of the hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques side by side with Courfeyrac.


CHAPTER III


MARIUS' ASTONISHMENTS


In a few daysMarius had become Courfeyrac's friend. Youth is
the season for prompt welding and the rapid healing of scars.
Marius breathed freely in Courfeyrac's societya decidedly new
thing for him. Courfeyrac put no questions to him. He did not
even think of such a thing. At that agefaces disclose everything
on the spot. Words are superfluous. There are young men of whom
it can be said that their countenances chatter. One looks at them
and one knows them.


One morninghoweverCourfeyrac abruptly addressed this interrogation
to him:--



By the way, have you any political opinions?

The idea!said Mariusalmost affronted by the question.

What are you?

A democrat-Bonapartist.

The gray hue of a reassured rat,said Courfeyrac.

On the following dayCourfeyrac introduced Marius at the Cafe Musain.
Then he whispered in his earwith a smile: "I must give you your
entry to the revolution." And he led him to the hall of the Friends
of the A B C. He presented him to the other comradessaying this
simple word which Marius did not understand: "A pupil."


Marius had fallen into a wasps'-nest of wits. Howeveralthough he
was silent and gravehe wasnone the lessboth winged and armed.


Mariusup to that time solitary and inclined to soliloquy
and to asidesboth by habit and by tastewas a little fluttered
by this covey of young men around him. All these various
initiatives solicited his attention at onceand pulled him about.
The tumultuous movements of these minds at liberty and at work
set his ideas in a whirl. Sometimesin his troublethey fled
so far from himthat he had difficulty in recovering them.
He heard them talk of philosophyof literatureof artof history
of religionin unexpected fashion. He caught glimpses of
strange aspects; andas he did not place them in proper perspective
he was not altogether sure that it was not chaos that he grasped.
On abandoning his grandfather's opinions for the opinions of his father
he had supposed himself fixed; he now suspectedwith uneasiness
and without daring to avow it to himselfthat he was not.
The angle at which he saw everything began to be displaced anew.
A certain oscillation set all 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"
for those young men. Marius heard singular propositions
on every sort of subjectwhich embarrassed his still timid mind.


A theatre poster presented itselfadorned with the title of a tragedy
from the ancient repertory called classic: "Down with tragedy dear
to the bourgeois!" cried Bahorel. And Marius heard Combeferre reply:--


You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy,
and the bourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score.
Bewigged tragedy has a reason for its existence, and I am not one
of those who, by order of AEschylus, contest its right to existence.
There are rough outlines in nature; there are, in creation,
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 by 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 Jean-Jacques
Rousseau between Enjolras and Courfeyrac.


Courfeyrac took his arm:--


Pay attention. This is the Rue Platriere, now called Rue
Jean-Jacques Rousseau, on account of a singular household which lived
in it sixty years ago. This consisted of Jean-Jacques and Therese.



From time to time, little beings were born there. Therese gave
birth to them, Jean-Jacques represented 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 Emperor.
Jean Prouvaire alone sometimes said Napoleon; all the others
said "Bonaparte." Enjolras pronounced it "Buonaparte."


Marius was vaguely surprised. Initium sapientiae.


CHAPTER IV


THE BACK ROOM OF THE CAFE MUSAIN


One of the conversations among the young menat which Marius was
present and in which he sometimes joinedwas a veritable shock
to his mind.


This took place in the back room of the Cafe Musain. Nearly all
the Friends of the A B C had convened that evening. The argand
lamp was solemnly lighted. They talked of one thing and another
without passion and with noise. With the exception of Enjolras
and Mariuswho held their peaceall were haranguing rather at
hap-hazard. Conversations between comrades 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 were chattering in all quarters.


No woman was admitted to this back roomexcept Louison
the dish-washer of the cafewho passed through it from time to time
to go to her washing in the "lavatory."


Grantairethoroughly drunkwas deafening the corner of which he
had taken possessionreasoning and contradicting at the top
of his lungsand shouting:--


I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun of 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 not 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 acrobat 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 sportsman, 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. Wrap yourself up now, then, 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[24] 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, excellencies, 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 rubs
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 you admire, the slain 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 the Greek sculptor Strongylion,
who also carved that figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful Leg,
Eucnemos, 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 repetition. One century is the plagiarist
of the other. The battle of Marengo copies the battle of Pydna;
the Tolbiac of Clovis and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are as like each
other as two drops of water. I don't attach much importance to victory.
Nothing is so stupid as to conquer; true glory lies in convincing.
But try to prove something! If you are content with success,
what mediocrity, and with conquering, what wretchedness! 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 extent
that Anacephorus said of Pisistratus: His urine attracts the bees."
The most prominent man in Greece for fifty years was that grammarian
Philetaswho was so small and so thin that he was obliged to load
his shoes with lead in order not to be 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 London?
I hate Carthage. And thenLondonthe metropolis of luxury
is the headquarters of wretchedness. There are a hundred deaths a year
of hunger in the parish of Charing-Cross alone. Such is Albion.
I addas the climaxthat I have seen an Englishwoman dancing
in a wreath of roses and blue spectacles. A fig then for England!
If I do not admire John Bullshall I admire Brother Jonathan?
I have but little taste for that slave-holding brother. Take away
Time is moneywhat remains of England? Take away Cotton is king
what remains of America? Germany is the lymphItaly is the bile.
Shall we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire admired it. He also
admired China. I admit that Russia has its beautiesamong others
a stout despotism; but I pity the despots. Their health is delicate.
A decapitated Alexisa poignarded Petera strangled Paul
another Paul crushed flat with kicksdivers Ivans strangled
with their throats cutnumerous Nicholases 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; nowwar
civilized warexhausts and sums up all the forms of ruffianism
from the brigandage of the Trabuceros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa
to the marauding of the Comanche 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 you
find to laugh at in the Grand Lamayou peoples of the west
who have mingled with your fashions and your elegances all the
complicated filth of majestyfrom the dirty chemise of Queen Isabella
to the chamber-chair of the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the human race
I tell younot a bit of it! It is at Brussels that the most
beer is consumedat Stockholm the most brandyat Madrid the
most chocolateat Amsterdam the most ginat London the most wine
at Constantinople the most coffeeat Paris the most absinthe;
there are all the useful notions. Paris carries the dayin short.
In Pariseven the rag-pickers are sybarites; Diogenes would have loved
to be a rag-picker of the Place Maubert better than to be a philosopher
at the Piraeus. Learn this in addition; the wineshops of the ragpickers
are called bibines; the most celebrated are the Saucepan and The
Slaughter-House. Hencetea-gardensgoguettescaboulotsbouibuis
mastroquetsbastringuesmanezinguesbibines of the rag-pickers
caravanseries of the caliphsI certify to youI am a voluptuary
I eat at Richard's at forty sous a headI must have Persian carpets
to roll naked Cleopatra in! Where is Cleopatra? Ah! So it
is youLouison. Good day."

[24] The slang term for a painter's assistant.
Thus did Grantairemore than intoxicatedlaunch into speech
catching at the dish-washer in her passagefrom his corner in the
back room of the Cafe Musain.

Bossuetextending his hand towards himtried to impose silence
on himand Grantaire began again worse than ever:-


Aigle de Meaux, down with your paws. You produce on me no effect
with your gesture of Hippocrates refusing Artaxerxes' bric-a-brac. I
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 mistake
with that animal. A crowd offers a choice of ugliness.
The first comer is a wretch, Femme--woman--rhymes with infame,-infamous.
Yes, I have the spleen, complicated with melancholy,
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 God go to the devil!

Silence then, capital R!resumed Bossuetwho was discussing a
point of law behind the scenesand who was plunged more than waist
high in a phrase of judicial slangof 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, leases, freeholds, contracts of domain, mortgages--

Echo, plaintive nymph,hummed Grantaire.


Near Grantairean almost silent tablea sheet of paperan inkstand
and a pen between two glasses of brandyannounced that a vaudeville
was being sketched out.

This great affair was being discussed in a low voiceand the two
heads at work touched each other: "Let us begin by finding names.
When one has the namesone finds the subject."

That is true. Dictate. I will write.

Monsieur Dorimon.

An independent gentleman?

Of course.

His daughter, Celestine.

--tine. What next?

Colonel Sainval.

Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin.

Beside the vaudeville aspirantsanother groupwhich was also
taking advantage of the uproar to talk lowwas discussing a duel.
An old fellow of thirty was counselling a young one of eighteen
and explaining to him what sort of an adversary he had to deal with.

The deuce! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swordsman. His play
is neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, wrist, dash, lightning,
a just parade, mathematical parries, bigre! and he is left-handed.

In the angle opposite GrantaireJoly and Bahorel were playing dominoes
and talking of love.

You are in luck, that you are,Joly was saying. "You have
a mistress who is always laughing."

That is a fault of hers,returned Bahorel. "One's mistress
does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive her. To see
her gay removes your remorse; if you see her sadyour 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 side of winter belongs
to Vaud, on the side of the wind to Gex. Hence the peace.

Peace is happiness digesting.

And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement with 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 alone.

That is easy enough to say.

And to do. Is not her name Musichetta?

Yes. Ah! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, very literary,
with tiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is white and dimpled,
with the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am wild over her.


My dear fellow, then in order 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 Olympuswhose part was taken by Jean Prouvaire
out of pure romanticism.


Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excitedhe burst forth
a sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasmand he 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 dreamsyou say. Welleven in naturesuch as it
is to-dayafter the flight of these dreamswe still find all the
grand old pagan myths. Such and such a mountain with the profile
of a citadellike the Vignemalefor exampleis 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 hollow trunks of the willows
stopping up the holes in turn with his fingersand I have always
believed that Io had something to do with the cascade of Pissevache."


In the last cornerthey were talking politics. The Charter which had
been granted was getting roughly handled. Combeferre 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 itand was brandishing itmingling 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 Francois I., the national
debt of France amounted to an income of thirty thousand livres;
at the death of Louis XIV. it was two milliards, six hundred millions,
at twenty-eight livres the mark, which was equivalent in 1760,
according to Desmarets, to four milliards, five hundred millions,
which would to-day be equivalent to twelve milliards. In the
second place, and no offence to Combeferre, a charter granted
is but a poor expedient of civilization. To save the transition,
to soften the passage, to deaden the shock, to cause the nation
to pass insensibly from the monarchy to democracy by the practice
of constitutional fictions,--what detestable reasons all those are!
No! no! let us never enlighten the people with false daylight.
Principles dwindle and pale in your constitutional cellar.
No illegitimacy, no compromise, no grant from the king to the people.
In all such grants there is an Article 14. By the side of the hand
which gives there is the claw which snatches back. I refuse your
charter point-blank. 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 fireplace.
This was temptingand Courfeyrac could not resist. He crumpled
the poor Touquet Charter in his fistand flung it in the fire.
The paper flashed up. Combeferre watched the masterpiece of Louis XVIII.
burn philosophicallyand contented himself with saying:--


The charter metamorphosed into flame.


And sarcasmssalliesjeststhat French thing which is called entrain
and that English thing which is called humorgood and bad taste
good and bad reasonsall the wild pyrotechnics of dialogue
mounting together and crossing from all points of the room
produced a sort of merry bombardment over their heads.


CHAPTER V


ENLARGEMENT OF HORIZON


The shocks of youthful minds among themselves have this admirable
propertythat one can never foresee the sparknor 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 jestthe serious makes its entry. Impulses depend on
the first chance word. The spirit of each is sovereignjest suffices
to open the field to the unexpected. These are conversations
with abrupt turnsin which the perspective changes suddenly.
Chance is the stage-manager of such conversations.


A severe thoughtstarting oddly from a clash of wordssuddenly
traversed the conflict of quips in which GrantaireBahorel
ProuvaireBossuetCombeferreand Courfeyrac were confusedly fencing.


How does a phrase crop up in a dialogue? Whence comes it that it
suddenly impresses itself on the attention of those who hear it?
We have just saidthat no one knows anything about it. In the
midst of the uproarBossuet all at once terminated some apostrophe
to Combeferrewith this date:--


June 18th, 1815, Waterloo.


At this name of WaterlooMariuswho was leaning his elbows on a table
beside a glass of waterremoved his wrist from beneath his chin
and began to gaze fixedly at the audience.


Pardieu!exclaimed Courfeyrac ("Parbleu" was falling into disuse
at this period)that number 18 is strange 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.


Enjolraswho had remained mute up to that pointbroke the silence
and addressed this remark to Combeferre:--


You mean to say, the crime and the expiation.


This word crime overpassed the measure of what Mariuswho was
already greatly agitated by the abrupt evocation of Waterloo
could accept.



He rosewalked 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 which 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.

Bahorelreplying to Bossuetwas just assuming an attitude
of the torso to which he was addicted. He gave it up to listen.

Enjolraswhose blue eye was not fixed on any oneand who seemed
to be gazing at spacerepliedwithout glancing at Marius:-


France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great because she
is France. Quia nomina leo.

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 amalgamating Napoleon
with her is not diminishing her. Come! let us argue the question.
I am a new comer among you, but I will confess that you amaze me.
Where do we stand? Who are we? Who are you? Who am I? Let us come
to an explanation about the 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
young men. Where, then, is your enthusiasm? And what are you doing
with it? Whom do 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 dictated like Caesar, his conversation was mingled
with the lightning-flash of Pascal, with the thunderclap 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
Emperors majesty, at the Academy of Sciences he replied to Laplace,
in the Council of State be 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 sidereal 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 him 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 superhuman sword was heard, 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 peaceand Enjolras bowed his head. Silence always
produces somewhat the effect of acquiescenceof 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 Emperor, when that nation is 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 halting-places
all capitals, to take his grenadiers and to make kings of them,
to decree the falls of dynasties, and to transfigure Europe at
the pace of a charge; to make you feel that when you threaten
you lay your hand on the hilt of the sword of God; to follow
in a single man, Hannibal, Caesar, Charlemagne; to be the people
of some one who mingles with your dawns the startling announcement
of a battle won, to have the cannon of the Invalides to rouse you
in the morning, to hurl into abysses of light prodigious words
which flame forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, Wagram!
To cause constellations 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 dominate, 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.

Marius 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 apotheosishe had just taken his departureand all
with the exception of Enjolrashad followed him. The room had
been emptied. Enjolrasleft alone with Mariuswas gazing gravely
at him. Mariushoweverhaving rallied his ideas to some extent
did not consider himself beaten; there lingered in him a trace
of inward fermentation which was on the pointno doubt
of translating itself into syllogisms arrayed against Enjolras
when all of a suddenthey heard some one singing on the stairs
as he went. It was Combeferreand this is what he was singing:-


Si Cesar m'avait donne[25]
La gloire et la guerre,
Et qu'il me fallait quitter

L'amour de ma mere,
Je dirais au grand Cesar:
Reprends ton sceptre et ton char,
J'aime mieux ma mere, o gue!
J'aime mieux ma mere!

[25] If Cesar had given me glory and warand I were obliged
to quit my mother's loveI would say to great CaesarTake back
thy sceptre and thy chariot; I prefer the love of my mother.
The wild and tender accents with which Combeferre sang communicated
to this couplet a sort of strange grandeur. Mariusthoughtfully
and with his eyes diked on the ceilingrepeated almost mechanically:
My mother?--

At that momenthe felt Enjolras' hand on his shoulder.

Citizen,said Enjolras to himmy mother is the Republic.


CHAPTER VI

RES ANGUSTA

That evening left Marius profoundly shakenand with a melancholy
shadow in his soul. He felt what the earth may possibly feel
at the moment when it is torn open with the ironin order
that grain may be deposited within it; it feels only the wound;
the quiver of the germ and the joy of the fruit only arrive later.


Marius 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 doubtand he began
to doubt in spite of himself. To stand between two religions
from one of which you have not as yet emergedand another into
which you have not yet enteredis intolerable; and twilight is
pleasing only to bat-like souls. Marius was clear-eyedand he
required the true light. The half-lights of doubt pained him.
Whatever may have been his desire to remain where he washe could not
halt therehe was irresistibly constrained to continueto advance
to examineto thinkto march further. Whither would this lead him?
He fearedafter having taken so many steps which had brought him
nearer to his fatherto now take a step which should estrange
him from that father. His discomfort was augmented by all the
reflections 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 onehe was behind the times in the eyes
of the othersand 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
Cafe Musain.


In the troubled state of his consciencehe 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 morningthe proprietor of the hotel entered Marius' room and
said to him:--


Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you.


Yes.


But I must have my money.


Request Courfeyrac to come and talk with me,said Marius.


Courfeyrac having made his appearancethe host left them.
Marius then told him what it had not before occurred to him to relate
that he was the same as alone in the worldand had no relatives.


What is to become of you?said Courfeyrac.


I do not know in the least,replied Marius.


What are you going to do?


I do not know.


Have you any money?


Fifteen francs.


Do you want me to lend you some?



Never.
Have you clothes?


Here is what I have.
Have you trinkets?


A watch.
Silver?


Gold; here it is.


I know a clothes-dealer who will take your frock-coat and a pair
of trousers.
That is good.


You will then have only a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, a hat
and a coat.

And my boots.

What! you will not go barefoot? What opulence!
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 up a sort
of an encyclopaedia, for which you might have translated English
or German articles. It is badly paid work, but one can 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 for the
cast-off garments. They went to the watchmaker's. He bought
the watch for forty-five francs.

That is not bad,said Marius to Courfeyracon their return


to the hotelwith my fifteen francs, that makes eighty.

And the hotel bill?observed Courfeyrac.

Hello, I had forgotten that,said Marius.

The landlord presented his billwhich had to be paid on the spot.
It amounted to seventy francs.


I have ten francs left,said Marius.


The deuce,exclaimed Courfeyracyou will eat up five francs
while you are learning English, and five while learning German.
That will be swallowing a tongue very fast, or a hundred sous
very slowly.


In the meantime Aunt Gillenormanda rather good-hearted person
at bottom in difficultieshad finally hunted up Marius' abode.


One morningon his return from the law-schoolMarius found
a letter from his auntand the sixty pistolesthat is to say
six hundred francs in goldin a sealed box.


Marius sent back the thirty louis to his auntwith a respectful letter
in which he stated that he had sufficient means of subsistence
and that he should be able thenceforth to supply all his needs.
At that momenthe had three francs left.


His aunt did not inform his grandfather of this refusal for fear
of exasperating him. Besideshad he not said: "Let me never hear
the name of that blood-drinker again!"


Marius left the hotel de la Porte Saint-Jacquesas he did not wish
to run in debt there.


BOOK FIFTH.--THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE


CHAPTER I


MARIUS INDIGENT


Life became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his clothes
and his watch. He ate of that terribleinexpressible thing that is
called de la vache enrage; that is to sayhe endured great hardships
and privations. A terrible thing it iscontaining days without bread
nights without sleepevenings without a candlea hearth without a fire
weeks without worka future without hopea coat out at the elbows
an old hat which evokes the laughter of young girlsa door which
one finds locked on one at night because one's rent is not paid
the insolence of the porter and the cook-shop manthe sneers
of neighborshumiliationsdignity trampled onwork of whatever
nature accepteddisgustsbitternessdespondency. Marius learned
how all this is eatenand how such are often the only things
which one has to devour. At that moment of his existence when a man
needs his pridebecause he needs lovehe felt that he was jeered
at because he was badly dressedand 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 bootsand 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 manwhenever it desires a scoundrel or a demi-god.


For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. There are
instances of bravery ignored and obstinatewhich defend themselves
step by step in that fatal onslaught of necessities and turpitudes.
Noble and mysterious triumphs which no eye beholdswhich are
requited with no renownwhich are saluted with no trumpet blast.
Lifemisfortuneisolationabandonmentpovertyare the
fields of battle which have their heroes; obscure heroes
who aresometimesgrander than the heroes who win renown.


Firm and rare natures are thus created; miseryalmost always
a step-motheris 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.


There came a moment in Marius' lifewhen 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 the baker's
and purchase a loafwhich he carried off furtively to his attic
as though he had stolen it. Sometimes there could be seen gliding
into the butcher's shop on the cornerin the midst of the bantering
cooks who elbowed himan awkward young mancarrying big books
under his armwho had a timid yet angry airwhoon entering
removed his hat from a brow whereon stood drops of perspiration
made a profound bow to the butcher's astonished wifeasked for
a mutton cutletpaid six or seven sous for itwrapped it up in
a paperput it under his armbetween two booksand went away.
It was Marius. On this cutletwhich he cooked for himselfhe lived
for three days.


On the first day he ate the meaton the second he ate the fat
on the third he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand made
repeated attemptsand sent him the sixty pistoles several times.
Marius returned them on every occasionsaying that he needed nothing.


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? Courfeyracto whom
he hadon his sidedone some good turnsgave him an old coat.
For thirty sousMarius 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 he wished always to appear in mourninghe clothed himself with
the night.


In spite of all thishe got admitted to practice as a lawyer.
He was supposed to live in Courfeyrac's roomwhich was decent
and where a certain number of law-books backed up and completed
by several dilapidated volumes of romancepassed as the library
required by the regulations. He had his letters addressed to
Courfeyrac's quarters.


When Marius became a lawyerhe 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 letterread ittore it
in four piecesand threw it into the waste-basket. Two or three
days laterMademoiselle Gillenormand heard her fatherwho was alone
in his roomtalking aloud to himself. He always did this whenever
he was greatly agitated. She listenedand 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.


CHAPTER II


MARIUS POOR


It is the same with wretchedness as with everything else. It ends
by becoming bearable. It finally assumes a formand adjusts itself.
One vegetatesthat is to sayone develops in a certain meagre fashion
which ishoweversufficient for life. This is the mode in which
the existence of Marius Pontmercy was arranged:


He had passed the worst straits; the narrow pass was opening out a little
in front of him. By dint of toilperseverancecourageand will
he had managed to draw from his work about seven hundred francs a year.
He had learned German and English; thanks to Courfeyracwho had put
him in communication with his friend the publisherMarius filled the
modest post of utility man in the literature of the publishing house.
He drew up prospectusestranslated newspapersannotated editions
compiled biographiesetc.; net productyear in and year out
seven hundred francs. He lived on it. How? Not so badly.
We will explain.


Marius occupied in the Gorbeau housefor an annual sum of thirty francs
a den minus a fireplacecalled a cabinetwhich contained only the
most indispensable articles of furniture. This furniture belonged
to him. He gave three francs a month to the old principal tenant
to come and sweep his holeand to bring him a little hot water
every morninga fresh eggand a penny roll. He breakfasted on this
egg and roll. His breakfast varied in cost from two to four sous
according as eggs were dear or cheap. At six o'clock in the
evening he descended the Rue Saint-Jacques to dine at Rousseau's
opposite Basset'sthe stamp-dealer'son the corner of the Rue
des Mathurins. He ate no soup. He took a six-sou plate of meat
a half-portion of vegetables for three sousand 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 presided
he gave a sou to the waiterand Madam Rousseau gave him a smile.
Then he went away. For sixteen sous he had a smile and a dinner.


This Restaurant Rousseauwhere so few bottles and so many water
carafes were emptiedwas a calming potion rather than a restaurant.
It no longer exists. The proprietor had a fine nickname: he was
called Rousseau the Aquatic.


Thusbreakfast four sousdinner sixteen sous; his food cost
him twenty sous a day; which made three hundred and sixty-five
francs a year. Add the thirty francs for rentand the thirty-six
francs to the old womanplus a few trifling expenses; for four
hundred and fifty francsMarius was fedlodgedand waited on.
His clothing cost him a hundred francshis 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 was concernedas Marius had no fireplacehe had
simplified matters.


Marius always had two complete suits of clothesthe one old
for every day; the otherbrand new for special occasions.



Both were black. He had but three shirtsone on his person
the second in the commodeand the third in the washerwoman's hands.
He renewed them as they wore out. They were always raggedwhich caused
him to button his coat to the chin.


It had required years for Marius to attain to this flourishing condition.
Hard years; difficultsome of themto traverseothers to climb.
Marius had not failed for a single day. He had endured 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 wasto himthe beginning of slavery. He even said to himself
that a creditor is worse than a master; for the master possesses only
your persona creditor possesses your dignity and can administer
to it a box on the ear. Rather than borrowhe went without food.
He had passed many a day fasting. Feeling that all extremes meet
and thatif one is not on one's guardlowered fortunes may lead
to baseness of soulhe kept a jealous watch on his pride.
Such and such a formality or actionwhichin any other situation
would have appeared merely a deference to himnow 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 timesby a secret force that he possessed within himself.
The soul aids the bodyand at certain momentsraises it.
It is the only bird which bears up its own cage.


Besides his father's nameanother name was graven in Marius' heart
the name of Thenardier. Mariuswith his grave and enthusiastic nature
surrounded with a sort of aureole the man to whomin his thoughts
he owed his father's life--that intrepid sergeant who had saved
the colonel amid the bullets 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 stepswith the grand altar for the colonel and the lesser
one for Thenardier. What redoubled the tenderness of his gratitude
towards Thenardierwas the idea of the distress into which he knew
that Thenardier had fallenand which had engulfed the latter.
Marius had learned at Montfermeil of the ruin and bankruptcy of the
unfortunate inn-keeper. Since that timehe had made unheard-of efforts
to find traces of him and to reach him in that dark abyss of misery in
which Thenardier had disappeared. Marius had beaten the whole country;
he had gone to Chellesto Bondyto Gourneyto Nogentto Lagny.
He had persisted for three yearsexpending in these explorations
the little money which he had laid by. No one had been able to give
him any news of Thenardier: he was supposed to have gone abroad.
His creditors had also sought himwith less love than Marius
but with as much assiduityand had not been able to lay their hands
on him. Marius blamed himselfand was almost angry with himself
for his lack of success in his researches. It was the only debt left
him by the coloneland Marius made it a matter of honor to pay it.
What,he thoughtwhen my father lay dying on the field of battle,
did Thenardier contrive to find him amid the smoke and the grape-shot,
and bear him off on his shoulders, and yet he owed him nothing,
and I, who owe so much to Thenardier, cannot join him in this
shadow where he is lying in the pangs of death, and in my turn
bring him back from death to life! Oh! I will find him!
To find Thenardierin factMarius would have given one of his arms
to rescue him from his miseryhe would have sacrificed all his blood.
To see Thenardierto render Thenardier some serviceto say to him:
You do not know me; well, I do know you! Here I am. Dispose of me!
This was Marius' sweetest and most magnificent dream.



CHAPTER III

MARIUS GROWN UP

At this epochMarius was twenty years of age. It was three years
since he had left his grandfather. Both parties had remained
on the same termswithout attempting to approach each other
and without seeking to see each other. Besideswhat was the use
of seeing each other? Marius was the brass vasewhile Father
Gillenormand was the iron pot.


We admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's heart.
He had imagined that M. Gillenormand had never loved him
and that that crustyharshand smiling old fellow who cursed
shoutedand stormed and brandished his canecherished for him
at the mostonly that affectionwhich is at once slight
and severeof 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 saidM. Gillenormand idolized Marius. He idolized him
after his own fashionwith an accompaniment of snappishness and
boxes on the ear; butthis child once gonehe 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 well obeyed.
At firsthe hoped that this Buonapartistthis Jacobinthis terrorist
this Septembristwould return. But the weeks passed byyears passed;
to M. Gillenormand's great despairthe "blood-drinker" did
not make his appearance. "I could not do otherwise than turn
him out said the grandfather to himself, and he asked himself:
If the thing were to do over againwould I do it?" His pride
instantly answered "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 wasthe absence of Marius
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 himbut 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 oldbut his merriment
had a convulsive harshnessand his violences always terminated
in a sort of gentle and gloomy dejection. He sometimes said:
Oh! if he only would return, what a good box on the ear I would
give him!


As for his auntshe thought too little to love much; Marius was
no longer for her much more than a vague black form; and she
eventually came to occupy herself with him much less than with the
cat or the paroquet which she probably had. What augmented Father
Gillenormand's secret suffering wasthat he locked it all up
within his breastand did not allow its existence to be divined.
His sorrow was like those recently invented furnaces which consume
their own smoke. It sometimes happened that officious busybodies spoke
to him of Mariusand asked him: "What is your grandson doing?"
What has become of him?The old bourgeois replied with a sigh
that he was a sad caseand giving a fillip to his cuffif he
wished to appear gay: "Monsieur le Baron de Pontmercy is practising
pettifogging in some corner or other."


While the old man regrettedMarius applauded himself.
As is the case with all good-hearted peoplemisfortune had
eradicated his bitterness. He only thought of M. Gillenormand
in an amiable lightbut he had set his mind on not receiving



anything more from the man who had been unkind to his father.
This was the mitigated translation of his first indignation.
Moreoverhe was happy at having sufferedand at suffering still.
It was for his father's sake. The hardness of his life satisfied
and pleased him. He said to himself with a sort of joy that--
it was certainly the least he could do; that it was an expiation;--
thathad it not been for thathe would have been punished in some
other way and later on for his impious indifference towards his father
and such a father! that it would not have been just that his father
should have all the sufferingand he none of it; and thatin any case
what were his toils and his destitution compared with the colonel's
heroic life? thatin shortthe only way for him to approach his
father and resemble himwas to be brave in the face of indigence
as the other had been valiant before the enemy; and that that was
no doubtwhat the colonel had meant to imply by the words:
He will be worthy of it.Words which Marius continued to wear
not on his breastsince the colonel's writing had disappeared
but in his heart.


And thenon the day when his grandfather had turned him out of doors
he had been only a childnow he was a man. He felt it. Misery
we repeathad been good for him. Poverty in youthwhen it succeeds
has this magnificent property about itthat it turns the whole
will towards effortand the whole soul towards aspiration.
Poverty instantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous;
hence inexpressible bounds towards the ideal life. The wealthy young
man has a hundred coarse and brilliant distractionshorse races
huntingdogstobaccogaminggood repastsand all the rest of it;
occupations for the baser side of the soulat the expense of the
loftier and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread
with difficulty; he eats; when he has eatenhe has nothing more
but meditation. He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis;
he gazes at the skyspacethe starsflowerschildrenthe humanity
among which he is sufferingthe creation amid which he beams.
He gazes so much on humanity that he perceives its soulhe gazes
upon creation to such an extent that he beholds God. He dreams
he feels himself great; he dreams onand feels himself tender.
From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the
compassion of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment
breaks forth in himforgetfulness of self and pity for all.
As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers
givesand lavishes to souls which stand openand refuses to souls
that are closedhe comes to pityhe the millionnaire of the mind
the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from his heart
in proportion as light penetrates his spirit. And is he unhappy?
No. The misery of a young man is never miserable. The first young
lad who comes to handhowever poor he may bewith his strength
his healthhis rapid walkhis brilliant eyeshis warmly
circulating bloodhis black hairhis red lipshis white teeth
his pure breathwill always arouse the envy of an aged emperor.
And thenevery morninghe sets himself afresh to the task of
earning his bread; and while his hands earn his breadhis dorsal
column gains pridehis brain gathers ideas. His task finished
he returns to ineffable ecstasiesto contemplationto joys;
he beholds his feet set in afflictionsin obstacleson the pavement
in the nettlessometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is
firm serenegentlepeacefulattentiveseriouscontent with little
kindly; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two forms
of riches which many a rich man lacks: workwhich makes him free;
and thoughtwhich makes him dignified.


This is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truthhe 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 stoppedthinking it good to be poorand retrenching time
from his work to give to thought; that is to sayhe sometimes passed
entire days in meditationabsorbedengulfedlike 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 laborin order to toil as much as possible
at the labor which is impalpable; in other wordsto bestow a few hours
on real lifeand to cast the rest to the infinite. As he believed
that he lacked nothinghe did not perceive that contemplation
thus understoodends by becoming one of the forms of idleness;
that he was contenting himself with conquering the first necessities
of lifeand that he was resting from his labors too soon.

It was evident thatfor this energetic and enthusiastic nature
this could only be a transitory stateand thatat the first shock
against the inevitable complications of destinyMarius would awaken.

In the meantimealthough he was a lawyerand whatever Father
Gillenormand thought about the matterhe was not practisinghe was
not even pettifogging. Meditation had turned him aside from pleading.
To haunt attorneysto follow the courtto hunt up cases-what
a bore! Why should he do it? He saw no reason for changing
the manner 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 laboras we have explained
and which sufficed for his wants.

One of the publishers for whom he workedM. MagimelI think
offered to take him into his own houseto lodge him wellto furnish
him with regular occupationand to give him fifteen hundred francs
a year. 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 Marius' opinionif he accepted
his position would become both better and worse at the same time
he acquired comfortand lost his dignity; it was a fine and complete
unhappiness converted into a repulsive and ridiculous state of torture:
something like the case of a blind man who should recover the sight
of one eye. He refused.

Marius dwelt in solitude. Owing to his taste for remaining outside
of everythingand through having been too much alarmedhe 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.
Marius had two friends: one youngCourfeyrac; and one old

M. Mabeuf. He inclined more to the old man. In the first place
he owed to him the revolution which had taken place within him;
to him he was indebted for having known and loved his father.
He operated on me for a cataract,he said.
The churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part.

It was nothoweverthat M. Mabeuf had been anything but the calm
and impassive agent of Providence in this connection. He had
enlightened Marius 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 Marius' inward political revolutionM. Mabeuf was totally
incapable of comprehending itof willing or of directing it.

As we shall see M. Mabeuf againlater ona few words will not
be superfluous.


CHAPTER IV

M. MABEUF
On the day when M. Mabeuf said to Marius: "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 left him
in peace, as the Greeks called the Furies the beautifulthe good
the charming the Eumenides. M. Mabeuf'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,
without which no one could exist at that time, but he was neither
a Royalist, a Bonapartist, a Chartist, an Orleanist, nor an Anarchist;
he was a bouquinist, 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 republic,
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 32mos, 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 Pontmercy's acquaintance, this sympathy had existed between
the colonel and himself--that what the colonel did for flowers,
he did for fruits. M. Mabeuf had succeeded in producing seedling
pears as savory as the pears of St. Germain; it is from 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 girlas was the case with Father Gillenormandbut when
contemplating an old book. He lived alone with an old housekeeper.
He was somewhat goutyand when he was asleephis aged fingers
stiffened with rheumatismlay crooked up in the folds of his sheets.
He had composed and published a Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz
with colored platesa work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem
and which sold well. People rang his bellin the Rue Mesieres
two or three times a dayto ask for it. He drew as much as two
thousand francs a year from it; this constituted nearly the whole of
his fortune. Although poorhe had had the talent to form for himself
by dint of patienceprivationsand timea precious collection
of rare copies of every sort. He never went out without a book
under his armand he often returned with two. The sole decoration
of the four rooms on the ground floorwhich composed his lodgings
consisted of framed herbariumsand engravings of the old masters.
The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood. He had never
approached a cannon in his lifeeven at the Invalides. He had
a passable stomacha brother who was a cureperfectly white hair
no teetheither in his mouth or his minda trembling in every limb
a Picard accentan infantile laughthe air of an old sheepand he
was easily frightened. Add to thisthat he had no other friendship
no other acquaintance among the livingthan an old bookseller of the
Porte-Saint-Jacquesnamed Royal. His dream was to naturalize indigo


in France.

His servant was also a sort of innocent. The poor good old woman
was a spinster. Sultanher catwhich might have mewed Allegri's
miserere in the Sixtine Chapelhad filled her heart and sufficed
for the quantity of passion which existed in her. None of her dreams
had ever proceeded as far as man. She had never been able to get
further than her cat. Like himshe had a mustache. Her glory
consisted in her capswhich were always white. She passed her time
on Sundaysafter massin 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 Mariusbecause Mariusbeing young
and gentlewarmed his age without startling his timidity.
Youth combined with gentleness produces on old people the effect of
the sun without wind. When Marius was saturated with military glory
with gunpowderwith marches and countermarchesand with all
those prodigious battles in which his father had given and received
such tremendous blows of the swordhe went to see M. Mabeuf
and M. Mabeuf talked to him of his hero from the point of view
of flowers.
His brother the cure died about 1830and almost immediatelyas when
the night is drawing onthe 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 embarrassmentthe 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 the bell. "Monsieur said Mother Plutarque sadly,
it is the water-carrier." In shortone dayM. Mabeuf quitted
the Rue Mesieresabdicated the functions of wardengave up
Saint-Sulpicesold not a part of his booksbut of his prints-that
to which he was the least attached--and installed himself in
a little house on the Rue Montparnassewherehoweverhe remained
but one quarter for two reasons: in the first placethe ground
floor and the garden cost three hundred francsand he dared not
spend more than two hundred francs on his rent; in the second
being near Faton's shooting-galleryhe could hear the pistol-shots;
which was intolerable to him.

He carried off his Florahis copper-plateshis herbariums
his portfoliosand his booksand established himself near
the Salpetrierein a sort of thatched cottage of the village
of Austerlitzwherefor fifty crowns a yearhe got three rooms
and a garden enclosed by a hedgeand 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 quartershe was very gay
and drove the nails on which his engravings and herbariums were
to hangwith his own handsdug in his garden the rest of the day
and at nightperceiving that Mother Plutarque had a melancholy air
and was very thoughtfulhe tapped her on the shoulder and said
to her with a smile: "We have the indigo!"

Only two visitorsthe bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques and Marius
were admitted to view the thatched cottage at Austerlitza brawling
name which wasto tell the truthextremely disagreeable to him.

Howeveras we have just pointed outbrains which are absorbed
in some bit of wisdomor follyoras it often happensin both
at onceare 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 passivitywhichif it were the outcome of reasoning
would resemble philosophy. One declinesdescendstrickles away
even crumbles awayand yet is hardly conscious of it one's self.
It always endsit is truein an awakeningbut the awakening is tardy.
In the meantimeit seems as though we held ourselves neutral in the
game which is going on between our happiness and our unhappiness.
We are the stakeand we look on at the game with indifference.

It is thus thatathwart the cloud which formed about himwhen all
his hopes were extinguished one after the otherM. Mabeuf remained
rather puerilelybut profoundly serene. His habits of mind had
the regular swing of a pendulum. Once mounted on an illusion
he went for a very long timeeven after the illusion had disappeared.
A clock does not stop short at the precise moment when the key
is lost.

M. Mabeuf had his innocent pleasures. These pleasures were inexpensive
and unexpected; the merest chance furnished them. One day
Mother Plutarque was reading a romance in one corner of the room.
She was reading aloudfinding that she understood better thus.
To read aloud is to assure one's self of what one is reading.
There are people who read very loudand who have the appearance of
giving themselves their word of honor as to what they are perusing.
It was with this sort of energy that Mother Plutarque was reading
the romance which she had in hand. M. Mabeuf heard her without
listening to her.


In the course of her readingMother Plutarque came to this phrase.
It was a question of an officer of dragoons and a beauty:--


--The beauty pouted, and the dragoon--


Here she interrupted herself to wipe her glasses.


Bouddha and the Dragon,struck in M. Mabeuf 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 the 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 Plutarque. There is no more beautiful legend in existence.


And M. Mabeuf fell into a delicious revery.


CHAPTER V


POVERTY A GOOD NEIGHBOR FOR MISERY


Marius liked this candid old man who saw himself gradually falling
into the clutches of indigenceand who came to feel astonishment
little by littlewithouthoweverbeing made melancholy by it.
Marius met Courfeyrac and sought out M. Mabeuf. Very rarelyhowever;
twice a month at most.


Marius' pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the outer
boulevardsor in the Champs-de-Marsor in the least frequented alleys
of the Luxembourg. He often spent half a day in gazing at a market
gardenthe beds of lettucethe chickens on the dung-heapthe 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
houseandtempted by its isolation and its cheapnesshad taken
up his abode there. He was known there only under the name of M. Marius.


Some of his father's old generals or old comrades had invited him
to go and see themwhen they learned about him. Marius had not
refused their invitations. They afforded opportunities of talking
about his father. Thus he went from time to timeto Comte Pajol
to General Bellavesneto General Fririonto the Invalides.
There was music and dancing there. On such eveningsMarius put
on his new coat. But he never went to these evening parties or
balls except on days when it was freezing coldbecause he could
not afford a carriageand he did not wish to arrive with boots
otherwise than like mirrors.


He said sometimesbut without bitterness: "Men are so made that in
a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere except on your shoes.
In order to insure a good reception thereonly one irreproachable
thing is asked of you; your conscience? Noyour boots."


All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by revery.
Marius' political fevers vanished thus. The Revolution of 1830
assisted in the processby satisfying and calming him.
He remained the samesetting aside his fits of wrath.
He still held the same opinions. Onlythey had been tempered.
To speak accuratelyhe had no longer any opinionshe 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 pity was directed. Now he preferred an idea to a deed
a poet to a heroand he admired a book like Job more than an event
like Marengo. And thenwhenafter a day spent in meditation
he returned in the evening through the boulevardsand caught
a glimpse through the branches of the trees of the fathomless
space beyondthe nameless gleamsthe abyssthe shadowthe mystery
all that which is only human seemed very pretty indeed to him.


He thought that he hadand he really hadin factarrived at
the truth of life and of human philosophyand he had ended
by gazing at nothing but heaventhe only thing which Truth
can perceive from the bottom of her well.


This did not prevent him from multiplying his planshis combinations
his scaffoldingshis projects for the future. In this state
of reveryan eye which could have cast a glance into Marius'
interior would have been dazzled with the purity of that soul.
In facthad it been given to our eyes of the flesh to gaze into
the consciences of otherswe should be able to judge a man much
more surely according to what he dreamsthan according to what
he thinks. There is will in thoughtthere is none in dreams.
Reverywhich is utterly spontaneoustakes and keepseven in the
gigantic and the idealthe form of our spirit. Nothing proceeds
more directly and more sincerely from the very depth of our soul
than our unpremeditated and boundless aspirations towards the splendors
of destiny. In these aspirationsmuch more than in deliberate
rational coordinated ideasis the real character of a man to
be found. Our chimeras are the things which the most resemble us.
Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the impossible in accordance
with his nature.


Towards the middle of this year 1831the old woman who waited on



Marius told him that his neighborsthe wretched Jondrette family
had been turned out of doors. Mariuswho passed nearly the whole
of his days out of the househardly knew that he had any neighbors.

Why are they turned out?he asked.

Because they do not pay their rent; they owe for two quarters.

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 womantake these twenty-five francs.
Pay for the poor people and give them five francs, and do not tell
them that it was I.

CHAPTER VI

THE SUBSTITUTE

It chanced that the regiment to which Lieutenant Theodule belonged
came to perform garrison duty in Paris. This inspired Aunt
Gillenormand with a second idea. She hadon the first occasion
hit upon the plan of having Marius spied upon by Theodule; now she
plotted to have Theodule 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 Marius. "Take it
as a simple erratum she thought, such as one sees in books.
For Mariusread Theodule."

A grandnephew is almost the same as a grandson; in default
of a lawyer one takes a lancer.

One morningwhen M. Gillenormand was about to read something
in the Quotidiennehis daughter entered and said to him in her
sweetest voice; for the question concerned her favorite:-


Father, Theodule is coming to present his respects to you this morning.

Who's Theodule?

Your grandnephew.

Ah!said the grandfather.

Then he went back to his readingthought no more of his grandnephew
who was merely some Theodule or otherand soon flew into a rage
which almost always happened when he read. The "sheet" which he held
although Royalistof courseannounced for the following day
without any softening phrasesone of these little events which were
of daily occurrence at that date in Paris: "That the students
of the schools of law and medicine were to assemble on the Place
du Pantheonat midday--to deliberate." The discussion concerned one
of the questions of the momentthe 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 Mariuswho was a studentand who would probably go
with the restto "deliberateat middayon the Place du Pantheon."

As he was indulging in this painful dreamLieutenant Theodule
entered clad in plain clothes as a bourgeoiswhich was clever
of himand 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 to disguise one's self
as a civilian from time to time."

Mademoiselle Gillenormand said aloud to her father:-


Theodule, your grandnephew.

And in a low voice to the lieutenant:-


Approve of everything.

And she withdrew.

The lieutenantwho was but little accustomed to such venerable
encountersstammered with some timidity: "Good dayuncle-and
made a salute composed of the involuntary and mechanical
outline of the military salute finished off as a bourgeois salute.

Ah! so it's you; that is wellsit down said the old gentleman.

That said, he totally forgot the lancer.

Theodule 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 Pantheon!
by my life! urchins who were with their nurses but yesterday!
If one were to squeeze their nosesmilk would burst out.
And they deliberate to-morrowat 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 descamisados have brought us to! To deliberate
on the 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 counterthat 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 gotraitor?'
Fouche replied: `Wherever you pleaseimbecile!' That's what the
Republicans are like."


That is true,said Theodule.


M. Gillenormand half turned his headsaw Theoduleand went on:-"
When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn carbonaro!
Why did you leave my house? To go and become a Republican! Pssst!
In the first placethe people want none of your republicthey have
common sensethey know well that there always have been kings
and that there always will be; they know well that the people are
only the peopleafter allthey make sport of itof your republic-do
you understandidiot? Is it not a horrible caprice? To fall


in love with Pere Duchesneto make sheep's-eyes at the guillotine
to sing romancesand play on the guitar under the balcony
of '93--it's enough to make one spit on all these young fellows
such fools are they! 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 grow like a goat's
thinks himself a real scoundreland abandons his old relatives.
He's a Republicanhe's a romantic. What does that meanromantic?
Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible follies.
A year agothey ran to Hernani. NowI just ask youHernani!
antitheses! abominations which are not even written in French!
And thenthey have cannons in the courtyard of the Louvre.
Such are the rascalities of this age!"


You are right, uncle,said Theodule.


M. Gillenormand resumed:-"
Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum! For what purpose?
Do you want to fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere? What have
those cartridges to do with the Venus de Medici? Oh! the young men
of the present day are all blackguards! What a pretty creature is their
Benjamin Constant! And those who are not rascals are simpletons!
They do all they can to make themselves uglythey are badly dressed
they are afraid of womenin the presence of petticoats they have a
mendicant air which sets the girls into fits of laughter; on my word
of honorone would say the poor creatures were ashamed of love.
They are deformedand they complete themselves by being stupid;
they repeat the puns of Tiercelin and Potierthey have sack coats
stablemen's waistcoatsshirts of coarse linentrousers of coarse cloth
boots of coarse leatherand their rigmarole 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 systemsthey recast societythey demolish the monarchy
they fling all laws to the earththey put the attic in the cellar's
place and my porter in the place of the Kingthey turn Europe
topsy-turvythey reconstruct the worldand all their love
affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the laundresses
as these women climb into their carts. Ah! Marius! Ah! you
blackguard! to go and vociferate on the public place! to discuss
to debateto take measures! They call that measuresjust 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 nakedwith their noddles dressed like a shuttlecock
with a club in their pawsare less of brutes than those bachelors
of arts! The four-penny monkeys! And they set up for judges!
Those creatures deliberate and ratiocinate! The end of the world
is come! This is plainly the end of this miserable terraqueous globe!
A final hiccough was requiredand France has emitted it.
Deliberatemy rascals! Such things will happen so long as they
go and read the newspapers under the arcades of the Odeon.
That costs them a souand their good senseand their intelligence
and their heart and their souland their wits. They emerge thence
and decamp from their families. All newspapers are pests; alleven the
Drapeau Blanc! At bottomMartainville was a Jacobin. Ah! just
Heaven! you may boast of having driven your grandfather to despair
that you may!"


That is evident,said Theodule.


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 Annuaire Militaire.

M. Gillenormand continued:-"
It is like their Sieyes! 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 citizensin order to get themselves
calledeventuallyMonsieur le Comte. Monsieur le Comte as big
as my armassassins of September. The philosopher Sieyes!
I will do myself the justice to saythat I have never had any better
opinion of the philosophies of all those philosophersthan 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 a la Henri IV. They were hideous. One would have pronounced
them monkeys from the tiger's court. CitizensI declare to you
that your progress is madnessthat your humanity is a dream
that your revolution is a crimethat your republic is a monster
that your young and virgin France comes from the brotheland I
maintain it against allwhoever you may bewhether journalists
economistslegistsor even were you better judges of liberty
of equalityand fraternity than the knife of the guillotine!
And that I announce to youmy flne fellows!"


Parbleu!cried the lieutenantthat is wonderfully true.


M. Gillenormand paused in a gesture which he had begunwheeled round
stared Lancer Theodule intently in the eyesand said to him:-"
You are a fool."


BOOK SIXTH.--THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS


CHAPTER I


THE SOBRIQUET: MODE OF FORMATION OF FAMILY NAMES


Marius wasat this epocha handsome young manof medium stature
with thick and intensely black haira lofty and intelligent brow
well-opened and passionate nostrilsan air of calmness and sincerity
and with something indescribably proudthoughtfuland innocent
over his whole countenance. His profileall of whose lines
were roundedwithout thereby losing their firmnesshad a certain
Germanic sweetnesswhich has made its way into the French physiognomy
by way of Alsace and Lorraineand that complete absence of angles
which rendered the Sicambres so easily recognizable among the Romans
and which distinguishes the leonine from the aquiline race.
He was at that period of life when the mind of men who think
is composedin nearly equal partsof depth and ingenuousness.
A grave situation being givenhe had all that is required to
be stupid: one more turn of the keyand he might be sublime.
His manners were reservedcoldpolishednot very genial.
As his mouth was charminghis lips the reddestand his teeth the
whitest in the worldhis smile corrected the severity of his face
as a whole. At certain momentsthat pure brow and that voluptuous
smile presented a singular contrast. His eyes were smallbut his
glance was large.



At the period of his most abject miseryhe had observed that
young girls turned round when he passed byand he fled or hid
with death in his soul. He thought that they were staring at him
because of his old clothesand that they were laughing at them;
the fact isthat they stared at him because of his graceand 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--
stupidlyas Courfeyrac said.


Courfeyrac also said to him: "Do not aspire to be venerable"
[they called each other thou; it is the tendency of youthful
friendships to slip into this mode of address]. "Let me give you
a piece of advicemy dear fellow. Don't read so many books
and look a little more at the lasses. The jades have some good
points about themO Marius! By dint of fleeing and blushing
you will become brutalized."


On other occasionsCourfeyrac encountered him and said:--"Good morning
Monsieur l'Abbe!"


When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this nature
Marius avoided womenboth young and oldmore than ever for a week
to comeand he avoided Courfeyrac to boot.


Neverthelessthere existed in all the immensity of creationtwo women
whom Marius did not fleeand to whom he paid no attention whatever.
In truthhe would have been very much amazed if he had been informed
that they were women. One was the bearded old woman who swept
out his chamberand caused Courfeyrac to say: "Seeing that his
servant woman wears his beardMarius 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 yearMarius had noticed in one of the walks of
the Luxembourgthe one which skirts the parapet of the Pepiniere
a man and a very young girlwho were almost always seated side
by side on the same benchat the most solitary end of the alley
on the Rue de l'Ouest side. Every 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 military men who have retired from
the service. If he had worn a decorationMarius would have said:
He is an ex-officer.He had a kindly but unapproachable air
and he never let his glance linger on the eyes of any one.
He wore blue trousersa blue frock coat and a broad-brimmed hat
which always appeared to be newa black cravata quaker shirt
that is to sayit was dazzlingly whitebut of coarse linen. A grisette
who passed near him one daysaid: "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 ageso thin
as to be almost homelyawkwardinsignificantand with a possible
promise of handsome eyes. Onlythey were always raised with a sort
of displeasing assurance. Her dress was both aged and childish
like the dress of the scholars in a convent; it consisted of a
badly cut gown of black merino. They had the air of being father



and daughter.

Marius scanned this old manwho was not yet agedand this little girl
who was not yet a personfor a few daysand thereafter paid no
attention to them. Theyon their sidedid not appear even to see him.
They conversed together with a peaceful and indifferent air. The girl
chattered incessantly and merrily. The old man talked but littleand
at timeshe fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity.

Marius 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 furthest
from their bench; he walked the whole length of the alleypassed in
front of themthen returned to the extremity whence he had come
and began again. This he did five or six times in the course
of his promenadeand the promenade was taken five or six times
a weekwithout its having occurred to him or to these people
to exchange a greeting. That personageand that young girl
although they appeared--and perhaps because they appeared-to
shun all glanceshadnaturallycaused some attention on the
part of the five or six students who strolled along the Pepiniere
from time to time; the studious after their lecturesthe others
after their game of billiards. Courfeyracwho was among the last
had observed them several timesbutfinding the girl homely
he had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled
discharging at them a sobriquetlike a Parthian dart.
Impressed solely with the child's gown and the old man's hair
he had dubbed the daughter Mademoiselle Lanoireand the father
Monsieur Leblancso that as no one knew them under any other title
this nickname became a law in the default of any other name.
The students said: "Ah! Monsieur Leblanc is on his bench."
And Mariuslike the resthad found it convenient to call this
unknown gentleman Monsieur Leblanc.

We shall follow their exampleand we shall say M. Leblanc
in order to facilitate this tale.

So Marius saw them nearly every dayat the same hourduring the
first year. He found the man to his tastebut the girl insipid.

CHAPTER II

LUX FACTA EST

During the second yearprecisely at the point in this history
which the reader has now reachedit chanced that this habit of
the Luxembourg was interruptedwithout Marius himself being quite
aware whyand nearly six months elapsedduring which he did not set
foot in the alley. One dayat lasthe returned thither once more;
it was a serene summer morningand Marius was in joyous mood
as one is when the weather is fine. It seemed to him that he had
in his heart all 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 moment, which can be expressed only by these two words,--
fifteen years." She had wonderful brown hairshaded with threads
of golda brow that seemed made of marblecheeks that seemed made
of rose-leafa pale flushan agitated whitenessan exquisite mouth
whence smiles darted like sunbeamsand words like musica head
such as Raphael would have given to Maryset upon a neck that Jean
Goujon would have attributed to a Venus. Andin order that nothing
might be lacking to this bewitching faceher nose was not handsome--
it was pretty; neither straight nor curvedneither Italian nor Greek;
it was the Parisian nosethat is to sayspiritualdelicate
irregularpure--which drives painters to despairand charms poets.


When Marius passed near herhe could not see her eyeswhich 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 momentMarius thought that she was another daughter of the
same mana sister of the formerno doubt. But when the invariable
habit of his stroll brought himfor the second timenear the bench
and he had examined her attentivelyhe recognized her as the same.
In six months the little girl had become a young maiden; that was all.
Nothing is more frequent than this phenomenon. There is a moment
when girls blossom out in the twinkling of an eyeand become roses
all at once. One left them children but yesterday; todayone finds
them disquieting to the feelings.


This child had not only grownshe 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 peoplewhopoor and meanseem to wake up
pass suddenly from indigence to luxuryindulge in expenditures
of all sortsand become dazzlingprodigalmagnificentall 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 thenshe was no longer the school-girl with her felt hat
her merino gownher scholar's shoesand red hands; taste had
come to her with beauty; she was a well-dressed personclad with
a sort of rich and simple eleganceand without affectation.
She wore a dress of black damaska cape of the same material
and a bonnet of white crape. Her white gloves displayed the delicacy
of the hand which toyed with the carvedChinese ivory handle of
a parasoland her silken shoe outlined the smallness of her foot.
When one passed near herher whole toilette exhaled a youthful and
penetrating perfume.


As for the manhe was the same as usual.


The second time that Marius approached herthe young girl raised
her eyelids; her eyes were of a deepcelestial bluebut in that
veiled azurethere wasas yetnothing but the glance of a child.
She looked at Marius indifferentlyas she would have stared at the brat
running beneath the sycamoresor the marble vase which cast a shadow
on the benchand Mariuson his sidecontinued his promenade



and thought about something else.


He passed near the bench where the young girl satfive or six times
but without even turning his eyes in her direction.


On the following dayshe returnedas was his wontto the Luxembourg;
as usualhe found there "the father and daughter;" 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 satbecause such was
his habit.


CHAPTER III


EFFECT OF THE SPRING


One daythe air was warmthe Luxembourg was inundated with
light and shadethe sky was as pure as though the angels had
washed it that morningthe sparrows were giving vent to little
twitters in the depths of the chestnut-trees. Marius had thrown
open his whole soul to naturehe was not thinking of anything
he simply lived and breathedhe passed near the benchthe young
girl raised her eyes to himthe 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 eyesand he pursued his way.


What he had just seen was no longer the ingenuous and simple
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!


That first gaze of a soul which does notas yetknow itself
is like the dawn in the sky. It is the awakening of something
radiant and strange. Nothing can give any idea of the dangerous
charm of that unexpected gleamwhich flashes suddenly and vaguely
forth from adorable shadowsand which is composed of all the
innocence of the presentand 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 innocent maiden sets
unknown to herselfand in which she captures hearts without either
wishing or knowing it. It is a virgin looking like a woman.


It is rare that a profound revery does not spring from that glance
where it falls. All purities and all candors meet in that celestial
and fatal gleam whichmore than all the best-planned tender
glances of coquettespossesses the magic power of causing the
sudden blossomingin the depths of the soulof that sombre flower
impregnated with perfume and with poisonwhich is called love.


That eveningon his return to his garretMarius cast his eyes
over his garmentsand perceivedfor the first timethat he had
been so slovenlyindecorousand inconceivably 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 carter's boots,
black trousers which showed white at the knees, and a black coat



which was pale at the elbows.

CHAPTER IV

BEGINNING OF A GREAT MALADY

On the following day, at the accustomed hour, Marius drew from his
wardrobe his new coat, his new trousers, his new hat, and his new boots;
he clothed himself in this complete panoply, put on his gloves,
a tremendous luxury, and set off for the Luxembourg.

On the way thither, he encountered Courfeyrac, and pretended not
to see him. Courfeyrac, on his return home, said to his friends:-


I have just met Marius' new hat and new coatwith Marius
inside them. He was going to pass an examinationno doubt.
He looked utterly stupid."

On arriving at the LuxembourgMarius made the tour of the fountain
basinand stared at the swans; then he remained for a long time
in contemplation before a statue whose head was perfectly black
with mouldand one of whose hips was missing. Near the basin
there was a bourgeois forty years of agewith a prominent stomach
who was holding by the hand a little urchin of fiveand saying
to him: "Shun excessmy sonkeep 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 girl
at the other end, on their bench." He buttoned his coat up
to the very toppulled it down on his body so that there might be
no wrinklesexaminedwith a certain complaisancethe lustrous
gleams of his trousersand marched on the bench. This march savored
of an attackand certainly of a desire for conquest. So I say that
he marched on the benchas I should say: "Hannibal marched on Rome."

Howeverall his movements were purely mechanicaland he had
interrupted none of the habitual preoccupations of his mind
and labors. At that momenthe was thinking that the Manuel du
Baccalaureat was a stupid bookand that it must have been drawn
up by rare idiotsto allow of three tragedies of Racine and only
one comedy of Moliere being analyzed therein as masterpieces of the
human mind. There was a piercing whistling going on in his ears.
As he approached the benchhe 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 nearhis pace slackened more and more.
On arriving at some little distance from the benchand long before
he had reached the end of the walkhe haltedand could not explain
to himself why he retraced his steps. He did not even say to himself
that he would not go as far as the end. It was only with difficulty
that the young girl could have perceived him in the distance and noted
his fine appearance in his new clothes. Neverthelesshe held himself
very erectin case any one should be looking at him from behind.

He attained the opposite endthen came backand this time he


approached a little nearer to the bench. He even got to within
three intervals of treesbut there he felt an indescribable
impossibility of proceeding furtherand he hesitated. He thought
he saw the young girl's face bending towards him. But he exerted
a manly and violent effortsubdued his hesitationand walked
straight ahead. A few seconds laterhe rushed in front of the bench
erect and firmreddening to the very earswithout daring to cast
a glance either to the right or to the leftwith his hand thrust
into his coat like a statesman. At the moment when he passed-under
the cannon of the place--he felt his heart beat wildly.
As on the preceding dayshe wore her damask gown and her crape bonnet.
He heard an ineffable voicewhich must have been "her voice."
She was talking tranquilly. She was very pretty. He felt it
although he made no attempt to see her. "She could nothowever
he thought, help feeling esteem and consideration for meif she
only knew that I am the veritable author of the dissertation on
Marcos Obregon de la Rondewhich M. Francois de Neufchateau put
as though it were his ownat the head of his edition of Gil Blas."
He went beyond the bench as far as the extremity of the walk
which was very nearthen turned on his heel and passed once
more in front of the lovely girl. This timehe was very pale.
Moreoverall his emotions were disagreeable. As he went further
from the bench and the young girland while his back was turned
to herhe fancied that she was gazing after himand that made
him stumble.

He did not attempt to approach the bench again; he halted near
the middle of the walkand therea thing which he never did
he sat downand reflecting in the most profoundly indistinct depths
of his spiritthat after allit was hard that persons whose white
bonnet and black gown he admired should be absolutely insensible
to his splendid trousers and his new coat.

At the expiration of a quarter of an hourhe roseas though he
were on the point of again beginning his march towards that bench
which was surrounded by an aureole. But he remained standing there
motionless. For the first time in fifteen monthshe said to himself
that that gentleman who sat there every day with his daughterhad
on his sidenoticed himand probably considered his assiduity singular.

For the first timealsohe was conscious of some irreverence
in designating that strangereven in his secret thoughts
by the sobriquet of M. le Blanc.

He stood thus for several minuteswith drooping headtracing figures
in the sandwith the cane which he held in his hand.

Then he turned abruptly in the direction opposite to the bench
to M. Leblanc and his daughterand went home.

That day he forgot to dine. At eight o'clock in the evening he
perceived this factand as it was too late to go down to the Rue
Saint-Jacqueshe said: "Never mind!" and ate a bit of bread.

He did not go to bed until he had brushed his coat and folded it
up with great care.

CHAPTER V

DIVRS CLAPS OF THUNDER FALL ON MA'AM BOUGON


On the following dayMa'am Bougonas Courfeyrac styled the old
portress-principal-tenanthousekeeper of the Gorbeau hovel
Ma'am Bougonwhose name wasin realityMadame Burgonas we have
found outbut this iconoclastCourfeyracrespected nothing--
Ma'am Bougon observedwith stupefactionthat M. Marius was going
out again in his new coat.


He went to the Luxembourg againbut he did not proceed further
than his bench midway of the alley. He seated himself thereas on
the preceding daysurveying from a distanceand clearly making out
the white bonnetthe black dressand above allthat blue light.
He did not stir from itand only went home when the gates of the
Luxembourg closed. He did not see M. Leblanc and his daughter retire.
He concluded that they had quitted the garden by the gate on the Rue
de l'Ouest. Later onseveral weeks afterwardswhen he came to think
it overhe could never recall where he had dined that evening.


On the following daywhich was the thirdMa'am Bougon
was thunderstruck. Marius went out in his new coat.
Three days in succession!she exclaimed.


She tried to follow himbut Marius walked brisklyand with immense
strides; it was a hippopotamus undertaking the pursuit of a chamois.
She lost sight of him in two minutesand returned breathless
three-quarters choked with asthmaand furious. "If there is
any sense she growled, in putting on one's best clothes every day
and making people run like this!"


Marius betook himself to the Luxembourg.


The young girl was there with M. Leblanc. Marius approached
as near as he couldpretending to be busy reading a bookbut he
halted afar offthen returned and seated himself on his bench
where he spent four hours in watching the house-sparrows who were
skipping about the walkand 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 therebut to seat himself always in the
same spotand that without knowing why. Once arrived therehe did
not stir. He put on his new coat every morningfor the purpose
of not showing himselfand he began all over again on the morrow.


She was decidedly a marvellous beauty. The only remark approaching
a criticismthat could be madewasthat the contradiction between
her gazewhich was melancholyand her smilewhich was merry
gave a rather wild effect to her facewhich sometimes caused this
sweet countenance to become strange without ceasing to be charming.


CHAPTER VI


TAKEN PRISONER


On one of the last days of the second weekMarius was seated on
his benchas usualholding in his hand an open bookof 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 seatand the daughter
had taken her father's armand both were advancing slowlytowards the
middle of the alley where Marius was. Marius closed his book
then opened it againthen forced himself to read; he trembled;



the aureole was coming straight towards him. "Ah! good Heavens!"
thought heI shall not have time to strike an attitude.
Still the white-haired man and the girl advanced. It seemed to him
that this lasted for a centuryand 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 upsethe would have
liked to be very handsomehe would have liked to own the cross.
He heard the soft and measured sound of their approaching footsteps.
He imagined that M. Leblanc was darting angry glances at him.
Is that gentleman going to address me?he thought to himself.
He dropped his head; when he raised it againthey were very near him.
The young girl passedand as she passedshe glanced at him.
She gazed steadily at himwith a pensive sweetness which
thrilled Marius 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 herand 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 himwhat joy!
And thenhow 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 angelicwith a complete 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 thought 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 possible thatat timeshe laughed to himself and talked aloud.
He was so dreamy when he came near the children's nursesthat each
one of them thought him in love with her.


He quitted the Luxembourghoping to find her again in the street.


He encountered Courfeyrac under the arcades of the Odeonand said
to him: "Come and dine with me." They went off to Rousseau's and spent
six francs. Marius ate like an ogre. He gave the waiter six sous.
At desserthe said to Courfeyrac. "Have you read the paper?
What a fine discourse Audry de Puyraveau delivered!"


He was desperately in love.


After dinnerhe said to Courfeyrac: "I will treat you to the play."
They went to the Porte-Sainte-Martin to see Frederick in l'Auberge
des Adrets. Marius was enormously amused.


At the same timehe had a redoubled attack of shyness.
On emerging from the theatrehe refused to look at the garter
of a modiste who was stepping across a gutterand Courfeyrac
who said: "I should like to put that woman in my collection
almost horrified him.


Courfeyrac invited him to breakfast at the Cafe Voltaire on the
following morning. Marius went thither, and ate even more than on
the preceding evening. He was very thoughtful and very merry.
One would have said that he was taking advantage of every occasion
to laugh uproariously. He tenderly 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 which was uttered from the rostrum in the Sorbonne,



then the conversation fell upon the faults and omissions in Guicherat's
dictionaries and grammars. Marius interrupted the discussion
to exclaim: But it is very agreeableall the same to have the cross!"

That's queer!whispered Courfeyrac to Jean Prouvaire.

No,responded Prouvairethat's serious.

It was serious; in factMarius had reached that first violent
and charming hour with which grand passions begin.

A glance had wrought all this.

When the mine is chargedwhen the conflagration is 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 of wheels
which are tranquil in appearance yet formidable. You pass close to
them every daypeaceably and with impunityand without a suspicion
of anything. A moment arrives when you forget that the thing
is there. You go and comedreamspeaklaugh. All at once you
feel yourself clutched; all is over. The wheels hold you fast
the glance has ensnared you. It has caught youno matter where
or howby 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 forces takes possession
of you. You struggle in vain; no more human succor is possible.
You go on falling from gearing to gearingfrom agony to agony
from torture to tortureyouyour mindyour fortuneyour future
your soul; andaccording to whether you are in the power of a
wicked creatureor of a noble heartyou will not escape from
this terrifying machine otherwise than disfigured with shame
or transfigured by passion.

CHAPTER VII

ADVENTURES OF THE LETTER U DELIVERED OVER TO CONJECTURES

Isolationdetachmentfrom everythingprideindependence
the taste of naturethe absence of daily and material activity
the life within himselfthe secret conflicts of chastity
a benevolent ecstasy towards all creationhad prepared Marius
for this possession which is called passion. His worship of his
father had gradually become a religionandlike all religions
it had retreated to the depths of his soul. Something was required
in the foreground. Love came.

A full month elapsedduring which Marius went every day to
the Luxembourg. When the hour arrivednothing 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 diplomacyso that he might be seen


as much as possible by the young girl and as little as possible
by the old gentleman. Sometimeshe remained motionless by the
half-hour together in the shade of a Leonidas or a Spartacus
holding in his hand a bookabove which his eyesgently raised
sought the beautiful girland sheon her sideturned her charming
profile towards him with a vague smile. While conversing in the most
natural and tranquil 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 manoeuvre which Eve understood from the
very first day of the worldand which every woman understands
from the very first day of her life! her mouth replied to one
and her glance replied to another.

It must be supposedthat M. Leblanc finally noticed something
for oftenwhen Marius arrivedhe rose and began to walk about.
He had abandoned their accustomed place and had adopted the bench
by the Gladiatornear the other end of the walkas though with
the object of seeing whether Marius would pursue them thither.
Marius did not understandand committed this error. "The father"
began to grow inexactand no longer brought "his daughter"
every day. Sometimeshe came alone. Then Marius did not stay.
Another blunder.

Marius paid no heed to these symptoms. From the phase of timidity
he had passedby a natural and fatal progressto the phase
of blindness. His love increased. He dreamed of it every night.
And thenan unexpected bliss had happened to himoil on the fire
a redoubling of the shadows over his eyes. One eveningat dusk
he had foundon the bench which "M. Leblanc and his daughter"
had just quitteda handkerchiefa very simple handkerchief
without embroiderybut whiteand fineand which seemed to
him to exhale ineffable perfume. He seized it with rapture.
This handkerchief was marked with the letters U. F. Marius knew
nothing about this beautiful child--neither her family name
her Christian name nor her abode; these two letters were the first
thing of her that he had gained possession ofadorable initials
upon which he immediately began to construct his scaffolding.
U was evidently the Christian name. "Ursule!" he thought
what a delicious name!He kissed the handkerchiefdrank it in
placed it on his hearton his fleshduring the dayand at night
laid it beneath his lips that he might fall asleep on it.

I feel that her whole soul lies within it!he exclaimed.

This handkerchief belonged to the old gentlemanwho had simply
let it fall from his pocket.

In the days which followed the finding of this treasurehe only
displayed himself at the Luxembourg in the act of kissing the
handkerchief and laying it on his heart. The beautiful child understood
nothing of all thisand signified it to him by imperceptible signs.

O modesty!said Marius.

CHAPTER VIII

THE VETERANS THEMSELVES CAN BE HAPPY

Since we have pronounced the word modestyand since we conceal nothing
we ought to say that onceneverthelessin spite of his ecstasies
his Ursulecaused him very serious grief. It was on one of the


days when she persuaded M. Leblanc to leave the bench and stroll
along the walk. A brisk May breeze was blowingwhich swayed
the crests of the plaintain-trees. The father and daughter
arm in armhad just passed Marius' bench. Marius had risen
to his feet behind themand was following them with his eyes
as was fitting in the desperate situation of his soul.

All at oncea gust of windmore merry than the restand probably
charged with performing the affairs of Springtimeswept down from
the nurseryflung itself on the alleyenveloped the young girl
in a delicious shiverworthy of Virgil's nymphsand the fawns
of Theocritusand lifted her dressthe robe more sacred than that
of Isisalmost 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 dresswith a divinely troubled
motionbut he was none the less angry for all that. He was alone
in the alleyit 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 had just done is horrible!--Alasthe poor
child had done nothing; there had been but one culpritthe wind;
but Mariusin whom quivered the Bartholo who exists in Cherubin
was determined to be vexedand was jealous of his own shadow.
It is thusin factthat the harsh and capricious jealousy of
the flesh awakens in the human heartand takes possession of it
even without any right. Moreoversetting aside even that 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 had 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: Wellwhat is the matter?"

This was "their first quarrel."

Marius had hardly made this scene at her with his eyes
when some one crossed the walk. It was a veteranvery much bent
extremely wrinkledand palein a uniform of the Louis XV.
patternbearing on his breast the little oval plaque of red cloth
with the crossed swordsthe soldier's cross of Saint-Louis
and adornedin additionwith a coat-sleevewhich had no arm
within itwith 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 cynicas he hobbled along
past himaddressed 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.
What did that relic of Mars mean by being so contented? What had
passed between that wooden leg and the other? Marius reached a
paroxysm of jealousy.--"Perhaps he was there!" he said to himself;
perhaps he saw!--And he felt a desire to exterminate the veteran.

With the aid of timeall points grow dull. Marius' wrath against
Ursule,just and legitimate as it waspassed off. He finally
pardoned her; but this cost him a great effort; he sulked for three days.

Neverthelessin spite of all thisand because of all this
his passion augmented and grew to madness.


CHAPTER IX

ECLIPSE

The reader has just seen how Marius discoveredor thought that
he discoveredthat She was named Ursule.

Appetite grows with loving. To know that her name was Ursule
was a great deal; it was very little. In three or four weeks
Marius had devoured this bliss. He wanted another. He wanted
to know where she lived.

He had committed his first blunderby falling into the ambush
of the bench by the Gladiator. He had committed a secondby not
remaining at the Luxembourg when M. Leblanc came thither alone.
He now committed a thirdand an immense one. He followed "Ursule."

She lived in the Rue de l'Ouestin the most unfrequented spot
in a newthree-story houseof modest appearance.

From that moment forthMarius added to his happiness of seeing
her at the Luxembourg the happiness of following her home.

His hunger was increasing. He knew her first nameat least
a charming namea genuine woman's name; he knew where she lived;
he wanted to know who she was.

One eveningafter he had followed them to their dwelling
and had seen them disappear through the carriage gatehe entered
in their train and said boldly to the porter:-


Is that the gentleman who lives on the first floor, who has just
come in?

No,replied the porter. "He is the gentleman on the third floor."

Another step gained. This success emboldened Marius.

On the front?he asked.

Parbleu!said the porterthe house is only built on the street.

And what is that gentleman's business?began Marius again.

He is a gentleman of property, sir. A very kind man who does
good to the unfortunate, though not rich himself.

What is his name?resumed Marius.

The porter raised his head and said:-


Are you a police spy, sir?

Marius went off quite abashedbut delighted. He was getting on.

Good,thought heI know that her name is Ursule, that she is
the daughter of a gentleman who lives on his income, and that she
lives there, on the third floor, in the Rue de l'Ouest.

On the following dayM. 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 l'Ouestas he


had taken up the habit of doing. On arriving at the carriage
entrance M. Leblanc made his daughter pass in firstthen paused
before crossing the thresholdand stared intently at Marius.


On the next day they did not come to the Luxembourg. Marius waited
for them all day in vain.


At nightfallhe went to the Rue de l'Ouestand saw a light
in the windows of the third story.


He walked about beneath the windows until the light was extinguished.


The next dayno 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 appeared
at the Luxembourg.


Marius indulged in melancholy conjectures; he dared not watch
the porte cochere during the day; he contented himself with going
at night to gaze upon the red light of the windows. At times
he saw shadows flit across themand his heart began to beat.


On the eighth daywhen he arrived under the windowsthere was
no light in them.


Hello!he saidthe 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 appeared in the windows of the
third storyand 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 morrow
there wasso to speakno to-day for him--on the morrow
he found no one at the Luxembourg; he had expected this. At dusk
he went to the house.


No light in the windows; the shades were drawn; the third floor
was totally dark.


Marius rapped at the porte cochereenteredand said to the porter:--


The gentleman on the third floor?


Has moved away,replied the porter.


Marius reeled 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 porterraising his eyesrecognized Marius.

Come! So it's you!said he; "but you are decidedly a spy then?"

BOOK SEVENTH.--PATRON MINETTE

CHAPTER I

MINES AND MINERS

Human societies all have what is called in theatrical parlance
a third lower floor. The social soil is everywhere undermined
sometimes for goodsometimes 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-soilwhich sometimes
gives way beneath civilizationand which our indifference and
heedlessness trample under foot. The Encyclopediain the last century
was a mine that was almost open to the sky. The shadesthose sombre
hatchers of primitive Christianityonly awaited an opportunity to
bring about an explosion under the Caesars and to inundate the human
race with light. For 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 catacombsin which the first
mass was saidwere not alone the cellar of Romethey were the vaults
of the world.


Beneath the social constructionthat complicated marvel of a structure
there are excavations of all sorts. There is the religious mine
the philosophical minethe economic minethe revolutionary mine.
Such and such a pick-axe with the ideasuch a pick with ciphers.
Such another with wrath. People hail and answer each other from one
catacomb to another. Utopias travel about undergroundin the pipes.
There they branch out in every direction. They sometimes meet
and fraternize there. Jean-Jacques lends his pick to Diogenes
who lends him his lantern. Sometimes they enter into combat there.
Calvin seizes Socinius by the hair. But nothing arrests nor interrupts
the tension of all these energies toward the goaland the vast
simultaneous activitywhich goes and comesmountsdescends
and mounts again in these obscuritiesand which immense unknown
swarming slowly transforms the top and the bottom and the inside
and the outside. Society hardly even suspects this digging
which leaves its surface intact and changes its bowels. There are
as many different subterranean stages as there are varying works
as there are extractions. What emerges from these deep excavations?
The future.


The deeper one goesthe more mysterious are the toilers.
The work is goodup to a degree which the social philosophies
are able to recognize; beyond that degree it is doubtful and mixed;
lower downit becomes terrible. At a certain depththe excavations
are no longer penetrable by the spirit of civilizationthe 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 can find foothold
and where one encounters one of these workmensometimes divine
sometimes misshapen. Below John Hussthere is Luther; below Luther
there is Descartes; below Descartesthere is Voltaire; below Voltaire



there is Condorcet; below Condorcetthere is Robespierre;
below Robespierrethere is Marat; below Marat there is Babeuf.
And so it goes on. Lower downconfusedlyat the limit which separates
the indistinct from the invisibleone perceives other gloomy men
who perhaps do not exist as yet. The men of yesterday are spectres;
those of to-morrow are forms. The eye of the spirit distinguishes
them but obscurely. The embryonic work of the future is one of the
visions of philosophy.

A world in limboin the state of foetuswhat an unheard-of spectre!

Saint-SimonOwenFourierare there alsoin lateral galleries.

Surelyalthough a divine and invisible chain unknown to themselves
binds together all these subterranean pioneers whoalmost always
think themselves isolatedand who are not sotheir works vary greatly
and the light of some contrasts with the blaze of others. The first
are paradisiacalthe last are tragic. Neverthelesswhatever may be
the contrastall these toilersfrom the highest to the most nocturnal
from the wisest to the most foolishpossess one likenessand this
is it: disinterestedness. Marat forgets himself like Jesus.
They throw themselves on one sidethey omit themselvesthey think
not of themselves. They have a glanceand that glance seeks
the absolute. The first has the whole heavens in his eyes; the last
enigmatical though he may behas stillbeneath his eyelids
the pale beam of the infinite. Venerate the manwhoever he may be
who has this sign--the starry eye.

The shadowy eye is the other sign.

With itevil 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 burialand where
light becomes extinct.

Below all these mines which we have just mentionedbelow all
these galleriesbelow this whole immensesubterraneanvenous system
of progress and utopiamuch further on in the earthmuch lower
than Maratlower than Babeuflowermuch lowerand without
any connection with the upper levelsthere lies the last mine.
A formidable spot. This is what we have designated as the le
troisieme dessous. It is the grave of shadows. It is the cellar
of the blind. Inferi.

This communicates with the abyss.

CHAPTER II

THE LOWEST DEPTHS

There disinterestedness vanishes. The demon is vaguely outlined;
each one is for himself. The _I_ in the eyes howlsseeksfumbles
and gnaws. The social Ugolino is in this gulf.

The wild spectres who roam in this gravealmost beasts
almost phantomsare 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 individual desires.
They are almost unconsciousand there exists within them a sort
of terrible obliteration. They have two mothersboth step-mothers


ignorance and misery. They have a guidenecessity; and for all
forms of satisfactionappetite. They are brutally voracious
that is to sayferociousnot after the fashion of the tyrant
but after the fashion of the tiger. From suffering these spectres
pass to crime; fatal affiliationdizzy creationlogic of darkness.
That which 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 dragon. To be hungryto be thirsty--that is
the point of departure; to be Satan--that is the point reached.
From that vault Lacenaire emerges.


We have just seenin Book Fourthone of the compartments
of the upper mineof the great politicalrevolutionaryand
philosophical excavation. Thereas we have just saidall is pure
nobledignifiedhonest. Thereassuredlyone might be misled;
but error is worthy of veneration thereso thoroughly does it imply
heroism. The work there effectedtaken 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 societywe insist upon
this pointand there will existuntil that day when ignorance
shall be dissipatedthe great cavern of evil.


This cavern is below alland 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 ceilingturned the leaves of a book
nor unfolded a newspaper. Babeuf is a speculator to Cartouche;
Marat is an aristocrat to Schinderhannes. This cavern has for its
object the destruction of everything.


Of everything. Including the upper superior mineswhich it execrates.
It not only underminesin its hideous swarmingthe actual social order;
it undermines philosophyit undermines human thoughtit undermines
civilizationit undermines revolutionit undermines progress.
Its name is simply theftprostitutionmurderassassination.
It is darknessand it desires chaos. Its vault is formed of ignorance.


All the othersthose above ithave but one object--to suppress it.
It is to this point that philosophy and progress tendwith all
their organs simultaneouslyby 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 us condensein a few wordsa 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 differencehere belowat leastin predestination.
The same shadow in frontthe same flesh in the presentthe same
ashes afterwards. But ignorancemingled with the human paste
blackens it. This incurable blackness takes possession of the
interior of a man and is there converted into evil.


CHAPTER III


BABETGUEULEMERCLAQUESOUSAND MONTPARNASSE


A quartette of ruffiansClaquesousGueulemerBabetand Montparnasse
governed the third lower floor of Parisfrom 1830 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 highhis pectoral muscles
were of marblehis biceps of brasshis breath was that of a cavern
his torso that of a colossushis head that of a bird. One thought
one beheld the Farnese Hercules clad in duck trousers and a cotton
velvet waistcoat. Gueulemerbuilt after this sculptural fashion
might have subdued monsters; he had found it more expeditious to
be one. A low browlarge templesless than forty years of age
but with crow's-feetharshshort haircheeks like a brusha beard
like that of a wild boar; the reader can see the man before him.
His muscles called for workhis stupidity would have none of it.
He was a greatidle force. He was an assassin through coolness.
He was thought to be a creole. He hadprobablysomewhat to do
with Marshal Brunehaving been a porter at Avignon in 1815.
After this stagehe had turned ruffian.


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 bonesbut 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 talkerwho underlined his smiles and accentuated his gestures.
His occupation consisted in sellingin the open airplaster 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
experiments 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 teeth,
two francs, fifty. Take advantage of this opportunity.
This Take advantage of this opportunity meant: Have as 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 them as one loses his handkerchief. 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 Messagerthat a woman had just given birth to a child
who was doing welland had a calf's muzzleand he exclaimed:
There's a fortune! my wife has not the wit to present me with a child
like that!


Later on he had abandoned everythingin order to "undertake Paris."
This was his expression.


Who was Claquesous? He was night. He waited until the sky was daubed
with blackbefore 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
darknessand with his back turned to them. Was his name Claquesous?
Certainly not. If a candle was broughthe put on a mask.
He was a ventriloquist. Babet said: "Claquesous is a nocturne
for two voices." Claquesous was vagueterribleand a roamer.
No one was sure whether he had a nameClaquesous being a sobriquet;
none was sure that he had a voiceas 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 appearedit was as though he
sprang from the earth.


A lugubrious being was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a child;
less than twenty years of agewith a handsome facelips like cherries
charming black hairthe 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. It was
the street boy turned pickpocketand a pickpocket turned garroter.
He was genteeleffeminategracefulrobustsluggishferocious.
The rim of his hat was curled up on the left sidein order to make
room for a tuft of hairafter the style of 1829. He lived by robbery
with violence. His coat was of the best cutbut threadbare.
Montparnasse was a fashion-plate in misery and given to the commission
of murders. The cause of all this youth's crimes was the desire
to be well-dressed. The first grisette who had said to him:
You are handsome!had cast the stain of darkness into his heart
and had made a Cain of this Abel. Finding that he was handsome
he desired to be elegant: nowthe height of elegance is idleness;
idleness in a poor man means crime. Few prowlers were so dreaded
as Montparnasse. At eighteenhe had already numerous corpses
in his past. More than one passer-by lay with outstretched arms
in the presence of this wretchwith his face in a pool of blood.
Curledpomadedwith laced waistthe hips of a womanthe bust
of a Prussian officerthe murmur of admiration from the boulevard
wenches surrounding himhis cravat knowingly tieda bludgeon
in his pocketa flower in his buttonhole; such was this dandy of
the sepulchre.

CHAPTER IV

COMPOSITION OF THE TROUPE

These four ruffians formed a sort of Proteuswinding like a serpent
among the policeand striving to escape Vidocq's indiscreet
glances "under divers formstreeflamefountain lending each
other their names and their traps, hiding 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 individual, sometimes multiplying 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 inhabits the crypt
of society.

Thanks to their ramifications, and to the network underlying
their relations, Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse
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 Salpetriere. There they
held their conferences. They had twelve black hours before them;
they regulated their employment accordingly.


Patron-Minette,--such was the name which was bestowed in the
subterranean circulation on the association of these four men.
In the fantastic, ancient, popular parlance, which is vanishing day
by day, Patron-Minette signifies the morning, the same as entre chien
et loup--between dog and wolf--signifies the evening. This appellation,
Patron-Minette, was probably derived from the hour at which their
work ended, the dawn being the vanishing moment for phantoms and for the
separation of ruffians. 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 denied,
Who did it?" demanded the President. Lacenaire made this response
enigmatical so far as the magistrate was concernedbut clear
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.

Panchaudalias Printanieralias Bigrenaille.

Brujon. [There was a Brujon dynasty; we cannot refrain from
interpolating this word.]

Boulatruellethe road-mender already introduced.

Laveuve.

Finistere.

Homere-Hogua negro.

Mardisoir. (Tuesday evening.)

Depeche. (Make haste.)

Fauntleroyalias Bouquetiere (the Flower Girl).

Glorieuxa discharged convict.

Barrecarrosse (Stop-carriage)called Monsieur Dupont.

L'Esplanade-du-Sud.

Poussagrive.

Carmagnolet.

Kruidenierscalled Bizarro.

Mangedentelle. (Lace-eater.)

Les-pieds-en-l'Air. (Feet in the air.)

Demi-Liardcalled Deux-Milliards.

Etc.etc.

We pass over someand not the worst of them. These names have
faces attached. They do not express merely beingsbut species.
Each one of these names corresponds to a variety of those misshapen
fungi from the under side of civilization.


Those beingswho were not very lavish with their countenances
were not among the men whom one sees passing along the streets.
Fatigued by the wild nights which they passedthey went off by day
to sleepsometimes in the lime-kilnssometimes in the abandoned
quarries of Montmatre or Montrougesometimes in the sewers.
They ran to earth.


What became of these men? They still exist. They have always existed.
Horace speaks of them: Ambubaiarum collegiapharmacopolae
mendicimimae; and so long as society remains what it is
they will remain what they are. Beneath the obscure roof of
their cavernthey are continually born again from the social ooze.
They returnspectresbut always identical; onlythey no longer
bear the same names and they are no longer in the same skins.
The individuals extirpatedthe 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. Gold and silver possess an odor
for them. There exist ingenuous bourgeoisof whom it might be said
that they have a "stealable" air. These men patiently pursue
these bourgeois. They experience the quivers of a spider at the
passage of a stranger or of a man from the country.


These men are terriblewhen one encounters themor catches
a glimpse of themtowards midnighton 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 themthat they possess
no other soul than the darknessand that it is only momentarily
and for the purpose of living for a few minutes a monstrous life
that they have separated from the night.


What is necessary to cause these spectres to vanish? Light.
Light in floods. Not a single bat can resist the dawn.
Light up society from below.


BOOK EIGHTH.--THE WICKED POOR MAN


CHAPTER I


MARIUSWHILE SEEKING A GIRL IN A BONNETENCOUNTERS A MAN IN A CAP


Summer passedthen the autumn; winter came. Neither M. Leblanc
nor the young girl had again set foot in the Luxembourg garden.
ThenceforthMarius had but one thought--to gaze once more on that
sweet and adorable face. He sought constantlyhe sought everywhere;
he found nothing. He was no longer Mariusthe enthusiastic dreamer
the firmresoluteardent manthe bold defier of fatethe brain
which erected future on futurethe young spirit encumbered with plans
with projectswith pridewith ideas and wishes; he was a lost dog.
He fell into a black melancholy. All was over. Work disgusted him
walking tired him. Vast natureformerly so filled with forms
lightsvoicescounselsperspectiveshorizonsteachingsnow lay
empty before him. It seemed to him that everything had disappeared.


He thought incessantlyfor he could not do otherwise; but he
no longer took pleasure in his thoughts. To everything that they
proposed to him in a whisperhe replied in his darkness:



What is the use?

He heaped a hundred reproaches on himself. "Why did I follow her?
I was so happy at the mere sight of her! She looked at me;
was not that immense? She had the air of loving me. Was not
that everything? I wished to havewhat? There was nothing
after that. I have been absurd. It is my own fault etc., etc.
Courfeyrac, to whom he confided nothing,--it was his nature,-but
who made some little guess at everything,--that was his nature,-had
begun by congratulating him on being in love, though he was
amazed at it; then, seeing Marius fall into this melancholy state,
he ended by saying to him: I see that you have been simply
an animal. Herecome to the Chaumiere."

Oncehaving confidence in a fine September sunMarius had allowed
himself to be taken to the ball at Sceaux by CourfeyracBossuet
and Grantairehopingwhat a dream! that he mightperhaps
find her there. Of course he did not see the one he sought.--"But
this is the placeall the samewhere all lost women are found
grumbled Grantaire in an aside. Marius left his friends at the ball
and returned home on foot, alone, through the night, weary, feverish,
with sad and troubled eyes, stunned by the noise and dust of the
merry wagons filled with singing creatures on their way home from
the feast, which passed close to him, as he, in his discouragement,
breathed in the acrid scent of the walnut-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 coming in his pain
like the wolf in the trap, seeking the absent one everywhere,
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 the 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
was effaced. After all he said to himself, it was probably only
a resemblance."

CHAPTER II

TREASURE TROVE

Marius had not left the Gorbeau house. He paid no attention
to any one there.

At that epochto tell the truththere were no other inhabitants


in the houseexcept himself and those Jondrettes whose rent he had
once paidwithoutmoreoverever having spoken to either father
motheror daughters. The other lodgers had moved away or had died
or had been turned out in default of payment.

One day during that winterthe sun had shown itself a little
in the afternoonbut it was the 2d of Februarythat ancient
Candlemas day whose treacherous sunthe precursor of a six weeks'
cold spellinspired Mathieu Laensberg with these two lines
which have with justice remained classic:-


Qu'il luise ou qu'il luiserne
L'ours rentre dans en sa caverne.[26]


[26] Whether the sun shines brightly or dimthe bear returns
to his cave.
Marius had just emerged from his: night was falling. It was the hour
for his dinner; for he had been obliged to take to dining again
alas! ohinfirmities of ideal passions!

He had just crossed his thresholdwhere Ma'am Bougon was sweeping
at the momentas she uttered this memorable monologue:-


What is there that is cheap now? Everything is dear.

There is nothing in the world that is cheap except trouble;
you can get that for nothing, the trouble of the world!

Marius slowly ascended the boulevard towards the barrierin order
to reach the Rue Saint-Jacques. He was walking along with drooping head.

All at oncehe felt some one elbow him in the dusk; he wheeled round
and saw two young girls clad in ragsthe one tall and slimthe other
a little shorterwho were passing rapidlyall out of breath
in terrorand with the appearance of fleeing; they had been coming
to meet himhad not seen himand had jostled him as they passed.
Through the twilightMarius could distinguish their livid faces
their wild headstheir dishevelled hairtheir hideous bonnets
their ragged petticoatsand their bare feet. They were talking as
they ran. The taller said in a very low voice:-


The bobbies have come. They came near nabbing me at the half-circle.
The other answered: "I saw them. I boltedboltedbolted!"

Through this repulsive slangMarius understood that gendarmes
or the police had come near apprehending these two children
and that the latter had escaped.

They plunged among the trees of the boulevard behind him
and there createdfor a few minutesin the glooma sort
of vague white spotthen disappeared.

Marius had halted for a moment.

He was about to pursue his waywhen his eye lighted on a little
grayish package lying on the ground at his feet. He stooped and picked
it up. It was a sort of envelope which appeared to contain papers.

Good,he said to himselfthose unhappy girls dropped it.


He retraced his stepshe calledhe did not find them; he reflected
that they must already be far awayput the package in his pocket
and went off to dine.

On the wayhe saw in an alley of the Rue Mouffetarda child's coffin
covered with a black cloth resting on three chairsand 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 life."

Then those shadows which had varied his melancholy vanished
from his thoughtsand he fell back once more into his habitual
preoccupations. He fell to thinking once more of his six months
of love and happiness in the open air and the broad daylight
beneath the beautiful trees of Luxembourg.

How gloomy my life has become!he said to himself. "Young girls
are always appearing to meonly formerly they were angels and now
they are ghouls."

CHAPTER III

QUADRIFRONS

That eveningas he was undressing preparatory to going to bed
his hand came in contactin the pocket of his coatwith the packet
which he had picked up on the boulevard. He had forgotten it.
He thought that it would be well to open itand that this package
might possibly contain the address of the young girlsif it really
belonged to themandin any casethe information necessary to a
restitution to the person who had lost it.

He opened the envelope.

It was not sealed and contained four lettersalso unsealed.

They bore addresses.

All four exhaled a horrible odor of tobacco.

The first was addressed: "To MadameMadame la Marquise de Grucheray
the place opposite the Chamber of DeputiesNo.--"

Marius said to himselfthat he should probably find in it the
information which he soughtand thatmoreoverthe letter being open
it was probable that it could be read without impropriety.

It was conceived as follows:-


Madame la Marquise: The virtue of clemency and piety is that which
most closely unites sosiety. Turn your Christian spirit and cast
a look of compassion on this unfortunate Spanish victim of loyalty
and attachment to the sacred cause of legitimacywho has given
with his bloodconsecrated his fortuneevverythingto defend
that causeand to-day finds himself in the greatest missery.
He doubts not that your honorable person will grant succor to preserve
an existence exteremely painful for a military man of education
and honor full of woundscounts in advance on the humanity which
animates you and on the interest which Madame la Marquise bears


to a nation so unfortunate. Their prayer will not be in vain
and their gratitude will preserve theirs charming souvenir.

My respectful sentimentswith which I have the honor to be

Madame
Don AlvaresSpanish Captain
of Cavalrya royalist who
has take refuge in France
who finds himself on travells
for his countryand the
resources are lacking him to
continue his travells.

No address was joined to the signature. Marius hoped to find
the address in the second letterwhose superscription read:
A MadameMadame la Comtesse de MontvernetRue CassetteNo. 9.
This is what Marius read in it:-


Madame la Comtesse: It is an unhappy mother of a family of six
children the last of which is only eight months old. I sick
since my last confinementabandoned by my husband five months ago
haveing no resources in the world the most frightful indigance.

In the hope of Madame la Comtesseshe has the honor to be
Madamewith profound respect
Mistress Balizard.

Marius turned to the third letterwhich was a petition like
the preceding; he read:-


Monsieur PabourgeotElectorwholesale stocking merchant
Rue Saint-Denis on the corner of the Rue aux Fers.

I permit myself to address you this letter to beg you to grant me
the pretious favor of your simpaties and to interest yourself in a man
of letters who has just sent a drama to the Theatre-Francais. The subject
is historicaland the action takes place in Auvergne in the time
of the Empire; the styleI thinkis naturallaconicand may have
some merit. There are couplets to be sung in four places. The comic
the seriousthe unexpectedare mingled in a variety of characters
and a tinge of romanticism lightly spread through all the intrigue
which proceeds misteriouslyand endsafter striking altarations
in the midst of many beautiful strokes of brilliant scenes.

My principal object is to satisfi the desire which progressively
animates the man of our centurythat is to saythe fashion
that capritious and bizarre weathervane which changes at almost
every new wind.

In spite of these qualities I have reason to fear that jealousy
the egotism of priviliged authorsmay obtaine my exclusion from
the theatrefor I am not ignorant of the mortifications with which
new-comers are treated.

Monsiuer Pabourgeotyour just reputation as an enlightened protector
of men of litters emboldens me to send you my daughter who will
explain our indigant situation to youlacking bread and fire
in this wynter season. When I say to you that I beg you to accept
the dedication of my drama which I desire to make to you and of all
those that I shall makeis 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 offeringI shall immediately 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 possible
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

Genflotman of letters.

P. S. Even if it is only forty sous.
Excuse me for sending my daughter and not presenting myself
but sad motives connected with the toilet do not permit me
alas! to go out.


FinallyMarius opened the fourth letter. The address ran:
To the benevolent Gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacquesdu-haut-Pas.
It contained the following lines:--


Benevolent Man: If you deign to accompany my daughteryou will
behold a misserable calamityand I will show you my certificates.


At the aspect of these writings your generous soul will be moved
with a sentiment of obvious benevolencefor true philosophers
always feel lively emotions.


Admitcompassionate manthat it is necessary to suffer the most
cruel needand that it is very painfulfor the sake of obtaining
a little reliefto 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. Destinies are very fatal for several
and too prodigal or too protecting for others.


I await your presence or your offeringif you deign to make one
and I beseech you to accept the respectful sentiments with which I
have the honor to be


truly magnanimous man

your very humble

and very obedient servant

P. Fabantoudramatic artist.
After perusing these four lettersMarius did not find himself much
further advanced than before.

In the first placenot one of the signers gave his address.

Thenthey seemed to come from four different individualsDon Alveras
Mistress Balizardthe poet Genflotand dramatic artist Fabantou;
but the singular thing about these letters wasthat all four were
written by the same hand.

What conclusion was to be drawn from thisexcept that they all
come from the same person?

Moreoverand this rendered the conjecture all the more probable
the coarse and yellow paper was the same in all fourthe odor
of tobacco was the sameandalthough an attempt had been made
to vary the stylethe same orthographical faults were reproduced
with the greatest tranquillityand the man of letters Genflot was
no more exempt from them than the Spanish captain.


It was waste of trouble to try to solve this petty mystery. Had it
not been a chance findit would have borne the air of a mystification.
Marius was too melancholy to take even a chance pleasantry well
and to lend himself to a game which the pavement of the street seemed
desirous of playing with him. It seemed to him that he was playing
the part of the blind man in blind man's buff between the four letters
and that they were making sport of him.

Nothinghoweverindicated that these letters belonged to the two
young girls whom Marius had met on the boulevard. After all
they were evidently papers of no value. Marius replaced them
in their envelopeflung the whole into a corner and went to bed.
About seven o'clock in the morninghe had just risen and breakfasted
and was trying to settle down to workwhen there came a soft knock
at his door.

As he owned nothinghe never locked his doorunless occasionally
though very rarelywhen he was engaged in some pressing work.
Even when absent he left his key in the lock. "You will be robbed
said Ma'am Bougon. Of what?" said Marius. The truth ishowever
that he hadone daybeen robbed of an old pair of bootsto the
great triumph of Ma'am Bougon.

There came a second knockas gentle as the first.

Come in,said Marius.

The door opened.

What do you want, Ma'am Bougon?asked Mariuswithout raising
his eyes from the books and manuscripts on his table.

A voice which did not belong to Ma'am Bougon replied:-


Excuse me, sir--

It was a dullbrokenhoarsestrangled voicethe voice
of an old manroughened with brandy and liquor.

Marius turned round hastilyand beheld a young girl.

CHAPTER IV

A ROSE IN MISERY

A very young girl was standing in the half-open door. The dormer
window of the garretthrough which the light fellwas precisely
opposite the doorand illuminated the figure with a wan light.
She was a frailemaciatedslender creature; there was nothing but a
chemise and a petticoat upon that chilled and shivering nakedness.
Her girdle was a stringher head ribbon a stringher pointed
shoulders emerged from her chemisea blond and lymphatic pallor
earth-colored collar-bonesred handsa half-open and degraded mouth
missing teethdullboldbase eyes; she had the form of a young
girl who has missed her youthand the look of a corrupt old woman;
fifty years mingled with fifteen; one of those beings which are both
feeble and horribleand which cause those to shudder whom they do not
cause to weep.

Marius had risenand 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 wasthat this young girl had not
come into the world to be homely. In her early childhood she must
even have been pretty. The grace of her age was still struggling
against the hideouspremature 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 Marius. He thought 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 Marius.

She called Marius 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 advanceshe entered.
She entered resolutelystaringwith a sort of assurance that made
the heart bleedat 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 in her handwhich she presented to Marius.

Mariusas he opened the letternoticed that the enormous wafer
which sealed it was still moist. The message could not have come
from a distance. He read:--

My amiable neighboryoung man: I have learned of your goodness to me
that you paid my rent six months ago. I bless youyoung man.
My eldest daughter will tell you that we have been without a morsel
of bread for two daysfour persons and my spouse ill. If I am
not deseaved in my opinionI think I may hope that your generous
heart will melt at this statement and the desire will subjugate you
to be propitious to me by daigning to lavish on me a slight favor.

I am with the distinguished consideration which is due to the
benefactors of humanity-Jondrette.


P.S. My eldest daughter will await your ordersdear Monsieur Marius.
This lettercoming in the very midst of the mysterious adventure
which had occupied Marius' thoughts ever since the preceding evening
was like a candle in a cellar. All was suddenly illuminated.


This letter came from the same place as the other four.
There was the same writingthe same stylethe same orthography
the same paperthe same odor of tobacco.


There were five missivesfive historiesfive signatures
and a single signer. The Spanish Captain Don Alvaresthe unhappy
Mistress Balizardthe dramatic poet Genflotthe old comedian Fabantou
were all four named JondretteifindeedJondrette himself
were named Jondrette.



Marius had lived in the house for a tolerably long time
and he had hadas we have saidbut very rare occasion to see
to even catch a glimpse ofhis extremely mean neighbors. His mind
was elsewhereand where the mind isthere 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 had
paid so little heed to themthaton the preceding eveninghe had
jostled the Jondrette girls on the boulevardwithout recognizing them
for it had evidently been theyand it was with great difficulty
that the one who had just entered his room had awakened in him
in spite of disgust and pitya vague recollection of having met
her elsewhere.

Now he saw everything clearly. He understood that his neighbor
Jondrettein his distressexercised the industry of speculating
on the charity of benevolent personsthat he procured addresses
and that he wrote under feigned names to people whom he judged to be
wealthy and compassionateletters which his daughters delivered
at their risk and perilfor this father had come to such a pass
that he risked his daughters; he was playing a game with fate
and he used them as the stake. Marius understood that probably
judging from their flight on the evening beforefrom their
breathless conditionfrom their terror and from the words of slang
which he had overheardthese unfortunate creatures were plying
some inexplicably sad professionand that the result of the
whole wasin the midst of human societyas it is now constituted
two miserable beings who were neither girls nor womena species
of impure and innocent monsters produced by misery.

Sad creatureswithout nameor sexor ageto whom neither good nor
evil were any longer possibleand whoon emerging from childhood
have already nothing in this worldneither libertynor virtue
nor responsibility. Souls which blossomed out yesterdayand are faded
to-daylike those flowers let fall in the streetswhich are soiled
with every sort of mirewhile waiting for some wheel to crush them.
Neverthelesswhile Marius bent a pained and astonished gaze on her
the young girl was wandering back and forth in the garret with the
audacity of a spectre. She kicked aboutwithout troubling herself
as to her nakedness. Occasionally her chemisewhich was untied
and tornfell almost to her waist. She moved the chairs about
she disarranged the toilet articles which stood on the commode
she handled Marius' clothesshe rummaged about to see what there
was in the corners.

Hullo!said sheyou have a mirror!

And she hummed scraps of vaudevillesas though she had
been alonefrolicsome refrains which her hoarse and guttural
voice rendered lugubrious.

An indescribable constraintwearinessand humiliation were
perceptible beneath this hardihood. Effrontery is a disgrace.

Nothing could be more melancholy than to see her sport about
the roomandso to speakflit with the movements of a bird
which is frightened by the daylightor 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. Nevereven among animalsdoes the creature
born to be a dove change into an osprey. That is only to be seen
among men.

Marius reflectedand allowed her to have her way.


She approached the table.

Ah!said shebooks!

A flash pierced her glassy eye. She resumedand her accent
expressed the happiness which she felt in boasting of something
to which no human creature is insensible:--


I know how to read, I do!


She eagerly seized a book which lay open on the tableand read
with tolerable fluency:--


--General Bauduin received orders to take the chateau of Hougomont
which stands in the middle of the plain of Waterloo, 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! Waterloo was against
the English.


She laid down the bookcaught up a penand exclaimed:--


And I know how to write, too!


She dipped her pen in the inkand 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 answershe wrote on a sheet of white paper
which lay in the middle of the table: "The bobbies 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 always been as we are now.
We were not made--


Here she pausedfixed her dull eyes on Mariusand burst
out laughingsayingwith an intonation which contained
every form of anguishstifled by every form of cynicism:--


Bah!


And she began to hum these words to a gay air:--


J'ai faim, mon pere.I am hungryfather.
Pas de fricot. I have no food.
J'ai froidma mere. I am coldmother.
Pas de tricot. I have no clothes.
GrelotteLolotte!


Lolotte! Shiver
SangloteSob
Jacquot!" Jacquot!"

She had hardly finished this coupletwhen she exexclaimed:-


Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I have a
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.


Then she scrutinized Mariusassumed a singular air and said:--


Do you know, Mr. Marius, that you are a very handsome fellow?


And at the same moment the same idea occurred to them both
and made her smile and him blush. She stepped up to himand laid
her hand on his shoulder: "You pay no heed to mebut I know you
Mr. Marius. I meet you here on the staircaseand then I often see
you going to a person named Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction
of Austerlitzsometimes 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 softbut only succeeded in making
it very deep. A portion of her words was lost in the transit
from her larynx to her lipsas though on a piano where some notes
are missing.


Marius had retreated gently.


Mademoiselle,said hewith his cool gravityI 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 everywhere for that!


Then she eagerly seized the package and opened the envelope
saying as she did so:--


Dieu de Dieu! how my sister and I have hunted! And it was you
who found it! 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 that 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! 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-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas."


Here!said shethis 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.


Then she began to laugh againand added:--


Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast today?
It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the day
before yesterday, our breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of to-day,
and all that at once, and this morning. Come! Parbleu! if you
are not satisfied, dogs, burst!


This reminded Marius of the wretched girl's errand to himself.



He fumbled in his waistcoat pocketand found nothing there.


The young girl went onand seemed to have no consciousness
of Marius' presence.


I often go off 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! 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 without knowing whither, everything whirls and whirls.
You feel very queer when you have had no food.


And then she stared at him with a bewildered air.


By dint of searching and ransacking his pocketsMarius 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-dayand 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 shethe sun is shining!


Andas though the sun had possessed the property of melting
the avalanches of slang in her brainshe went on:--


Five francs! the shiner! a monarch! in this hole! Ain't this fine!
You're a jolly thief! I'm your humble servant! Bravo for the
good fellows! Two days' wine! and meat! and stew! we'll have
a royal feast! and a good fill!


She pulled her chemise up on her shouldersmade a low bow to Marius
then a familiar sign with her handand went towards the doorsaying:--


Good morning, sir. It's all right. I'll go and find my old man.


As she passedshe 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 itmuttering:--


That's good! it's hard! it breaks my teeth!


Then she departed.


CHAPTER V


A PROVIDENTIAL PEEP-HOLE


Marius had lived for five years in povertyin destitution
even in distressbut 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 facthe who has only beheld the misery of man has seen nothing;
the misery of woman is what he must see; he who has seen only the
misery of woman has seen nothing; he must see the misery of the child.


When a man has reached his last extremityhe has reached his last
resources at the same time. Woe to the defenceless beings who
surround him! Workwagesbreadfirecouragegood willall 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 childand bends them violently to ignominy.


Then all horrors become possible. Despair is surrounded with fragile
partitions which all open on either vice or crime.


Healthyouthhonorall the shy delicacies of the young body
the heartvirginitymodestythat epidermis of the soul
are manipulated in sinister wise by that fumbling which seeks resources
which encounters opprobriumand which accomodates itself to it.
Fathersmotherschildrenbrotherssistersmenwomendaughters
adhere and become incorporatedalmost like a mineral formation
in that dusky promiscuousness of sexesrelationshipsagesinfamies
and innocences. They crouchback to backin a sort of hut of fate.
They exchange woe-begone glances. Ohthe 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 of the night.


Marius almost reproached himself for the preoccupations of revery
and passion which had prevented his bestowing a glance on his
neighbors up to that day. The payment of their rent had been
a mechanical movementwhich any one would have yielded to;
but heMariusshould have done better than that. What! only
a wall separated him from those abandoned beings who lived
gropingly in the dark outside the pale of the rest of the world
he was elbow to elbow with themhe wasin some sortthe last link
of the human race which they touchedhe heard them liveor rather
rattle in the death agony beside himand he paid no heed to them!
Every dayevery instanthe heard them walking on the other side
of the wallhe heard them goand comeand speakand he did
not even lend an ear! And groans lay in those wordsand he did
not even listen to themhis thoughts were elsewheregiven up
to dreamsto impossible radiancesto loves in the airto follies;
and all the whilehuman creatureshis brothers in Jesus Christ
his brothers in the peoplewere agonizing in vain beside him!
He even formed a part of their misfortuneand he aggravated it.
For if they had had another neighbor who was less chimerical and
more attentiveany ordinary and charitable manevidently their
indigence would have been noticedtheir signals of distress would have
been perceivedand they would have been taken hold of and rescued!
They appeared very corrupt and very depravedno doubtvery vile
very odious even; but those who fall without becoming degraded
are rare; besidesthere is a point where the unfortunate and the
infamous unite and are confounded in a single worda fatal word
the miserable; whose fault is this? And then should not the charity
be all the more profoundin proportion as the fall is great?


While reading himself this moral lessonfor there were occasions
on which Mariuslike all truly honest heartswas his own pedagogue
and scolded himself more than he deservedhe stared at the wall
which separated him from the Jondrettesas though he were able



to make his gazefull of pitypenetrate that partition and warm
these wretched people. The wall was a thin layer of plaster
upheld by lathes and beamsandas the reader had just learned
it allowed the sound of voices and words to be clearly distinguished.
Only a man as dreamy as Marius could have failed to perceive this
long before. There was no paper pasted on the walleither on the
side of the Jondrettes or on that of Marius; the coarse construction
was visible in its nakedness. Marius examined the partition
almost unconsciously; sometimes revery examinesobserves
and scrutinizes as thought would. All at once he sprang up;
he had just perceivednear the topclose to the ceiling
a triangular holewhich resulted from the space between three lathes.
The plaster which should have filled this cavity was missingand by
mounting on the commodea view could be had through this aperture
into the Jondrettes' attic. Commiseration hasand should have
its curiosity. This aperture formed a sort of peep-hole. It is
permissible to gaze at misfortune like a traitor in order to succor it.[27]


[27] The peep-hole is a Judas in French. Hence the half-punning allusion.
Let us get some little idea of what these people are like,
thought Mariusand in what condition they are.


He climbed upon the commodeput his eye to the creviceand looked.


CHAPTER VI


THE WILD MAN IN HIS LAIR


Citieslike forestshave their caverns in which all the most
wicked and formidable creatures which they contain conceal
themselves. Onlyin citiesthat which thus conceals itself
is ferociousuncleanand pettythat is to sayugly; in forests
that which conceals itself is ferocioussavageand grand
that is to saybeautiful. 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 poorand his chamber was poverty-strickenbut as his
poverty was noblehis garret was neat. The den upon which his eye now
rested was abjectdirtyfetidpestiferousmeansordid. The only
furniture consisted of a straw chairan infirm tablesome old bits
of crockeryand in two of the cornerstwo indescribable pallets;
all the light was furnishd by a dormer window of four panes
draped with spiders' webs. 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 aspectand were covered with
seams and scarslike 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 chamber which Marius occupied had a dilapidated brick pavement;
this one was neither tiled nor planked; its inhabitants stepped
directly on the antique plaster of the hovelwhich had grown black
under the long-continued pressure of feet. Upon this uneven floor
where the dirt seemed to be fairly incrustedand which possessed
but one virginitythat of the broomwere capriciously grouped
constellations of old shoessocksand repulsive rags; however



this room had a fireplaceso it was let for forty francs a year.
There was every sort of thing in that fireplacea braziera pot
broken boardsrags suspended from nailsa bird-cageashes
and even a little fire. Two brands were smouldering there in a
melancholy way.

One thing which added still more to the horrors of this garret was
that it was large. It had projections and angles and black holes
the lower sides of roofsbaysand promontories. Hence horrible
unfathomable nooks where it seemed as though spiders as big as one's fist
wood-lice as large as one's footand perhaps even--who knows?-some
monstrous human beingsmust be hiding.

One of the pallets was near the doorthe other near the window.
One end of each touched the fireplace and faced Marius. In a corner
near the aperture through which Marius was gazinga colored
engraving in a black frame was suspended to a nail on the wall
and at its bottomin large letterswas the inscription: THE DREAM.
This represented a sleeping womanand a childalso asleepthe child
on the woman's lapan eagle in a cloudwith a crown in his beak
and the woman thrusting the crown away from the child's head
without awaking the latter; in the backgroundNapoleon in a glory
leaning on a very blue column with a yellow capital ornamented with
this inscription:

MARINGO

AUSTERLITS
IENA
WAGRAMME
ELOT


Beneath this framea sort of wooden panelwhich was no longer
than it was broadstood on the ground and rested in a sloping
attitude against the wall. It had the appearance of a picture
with its face turned to the wallof a frame probably showing
a daub on the other sideof some pier-glass detached from a wall
and lying forgotten there while waiting to be rehung.


Near the tableupon which Marius descried a peninkand paper
sat a man about sixty years of agesmallthinlividhaggard
with a cunningcrueland uneasy air; a hideous scoundrel.


If Lavater had studied this visagehe would have found the vulture
mingled with the attorney therethe bird of prey and the pettifogger
rendering each other mutually hideous and complementing each other;
the pettifogger making the bird of prey ignoblethe bird of prey
making the pettifogger horrible.


This man had a long gray beard. He was clad in a woman's chemise
which allowed his hairy breast and his bare armsbristling with
gray hairto be seen. Beneath this chemisemuddy trousers
and boots through which his toes projected were visible.


He had a pipe in his mouth and was smoking. There was no bread
in the hovelbut there was still tobacco.


He was writing probably some more letters like those which Marius
had read.


On the corner of the table lay an ancientdilapidatedreddish volume
and the sizewhich was the antique 12mo of reading-rooms
betrayed a romance. On the cover sprawled the following title
printed in large capitals: GOD; THE KING; HONOR AND THE LADIES;
BY DUCRAY DUMINIL1814.



As the man wrotehe talked aloudand Marius heard his words:--


The idea that there is no equality, even when you are dead!
Just look at 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? they
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 without sinking into the earth.


He pausedsmote the table with his fistand addedas he ground
his teeth:--


Oh! I could eat the whole world!


A big womanwho might be forty years of ageor a hundred
was crouching near the fireplace on her bare heels.


Shetoowas clad only in a chemise and a knitted petticoat
patched with bits of old cloth. A coarse linen apron concealed
the half of her petticoat. Although this woman was doubled up and
bent togetherit could be seen that she was of very lofty stature.
She was a sort of giantbeside her husband. She had hideous hair
of a reddish blond which was turning grayand which she thrust
back from time to timewith her enormous shining handswith their
flat nails.


Beside heron the floorwide openlay a book of the same form
as the otherand probably a volume of the same romance.


On one of the palletsMarius caught a glimpse of a sort of tall
pale young girlwho sat there half naked and with pendant feet
and who did not seem to be listening or seeing or living.


No doubt the younger sister of the one who had come to his room.


She seemed to be eleven or twelve years of age. On closer
scrutiny it was evident that she really was fourteen. She was
the child who had saidon the boulevard the evening before:
I bolted, bolted, bolted!


She was of that puny sort which remains backward for a long time
then suddenly starts up rapidly. It is indigence which produces
these melancholy human plants. These creatures have neither childhood
nor youth. At fifteen years of age they appear to be twelve
at sixteen they seem twenty. To-day a little girlto-morrow a woman.
One might say that they stride through lifein order to get through
with it the more speedily.


At this momentthis being had the air of a child.


Moreoverno trace of work was revealed in that dwelling;
no handicraftno spinning-wheelnot a tool. In one corner lay
some ironmongery of dubious aspect. It was the dull listlessness
which follows despair and precedes the death agony.


Marius gazed for a while at this gloomy interiormore terrifying
than the interior of a tombfor the human soul could be felt
fluttering thereand life was palpitating there. The garret
the cellarthe lowly ditch where certain indigent wretches crawl at
the very bottom of the social edificeis not exactly the sepulchre
but only its antechamber; butas the wealthy display their greatest
magnificence at the entrance of their palacesit seems that death



which stands directly side by side with themplaces its greatest
miseries in that vestibule.

The man held his peacethe woman spoke no wordthe young girl did
not even seem to breathe. The scratching of the pen on the paper
was audible.

The man grumbledwithout pausing in his writing. "Canaille! canaille!
everybody is canaille!"

This variation to Solomon's exclamation elicited a sigh from the woman.

Calm yourself, my little friend,she said. "Don't hurt yourself
my dear. You are too good to write to all those peoplehusband."

Bodies press close to each other in miseryas in coldbut hearts
draw apart. This woman must have loved this manto all appearance
judging from the amount of love within her; but probably
in the daily and reciprocal reproaches of the horrible distress
which weighed on the whole groupthis had become extinct. There no
longer existed in her anything more than the ashes of affection
for her husband. Neverthelesscaressing appellations had survived
as is often the case. She called him: My dearmy little friend
my good manetc.with her mouth while her heart was silent.

The man resumed his writing.

CHAPTER VII

STRATEGY AND TACTICS

Mariuswith a load upon his breastwas on the point of descending
from the species of observatory which he had improvisedwhen 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 feetshe had large
coarsemen's shoesbespattered with mudwhich had splashed even
to her red anklesand she was wrapped in an old mantle which hung
in tatters. Marius had not seen it on her an hour previously
but she had probably deposited it at his doorin order that she
might inspire the more pityand had picked it up again on emerging.
She enteredpushed the door to behind herpaused to take breath
for she was completely breathlessthen exclaimed with an expression
of triumph and joy:-


He is coming!

The father turned his eyes towards herthe woman turned her head
the little sister did not stir.

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, how is it that you
arrive before him? You gave him our address at least? Did you tell him
that it was the last door at the end of the corridor, on the right?
If he only does not make a mistake! So you found him at the church?
Did he read my letter? What did he say to you?


Ta, ta, ta,said the girlhow you do gallop on, my good man!
See here: I entered the church, he was in his usual place, I made him
a reverence, and I handed him the letter; he read it and said to me:
`Where do you live, my child?' I said: `Monsieur, I will show you.'
He said to me: `No, give me your address, my daughter has some purchases
to make, I will take a carriage and reach your house at the same time
that you do.' I gave him the address. When I mentioned the house,
he seemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then he said:
`Never mind, I will come.' When the mass was finished, I watched
him leave the church with his daughter, and I saw them enter
a carriage. I certainly did tell him the last door in the corridor,
on the right.


And what makes you think that he will come?


I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit-Banquier. That
is what made me run so.


How do you know that it was the same fiacre?


Because I took notice of the number, so there!


What was the number?


440.


Good, you are a clever girl.


The girl stared boldly at her fatherand showing the shoes
which she had on her feet:--


A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won't put these
shoes on again, and that I won't, for the sake of my health,
in the first place, and for the sake of cleanliness, in the next.
I don't know anything more irritating than shoes that squelch,
and go ghi, ghi, ghi, the whole time. I prefer to go barefoot.



You are right,said her fatherin a sweet tone which contrasted
with the young girl's rudenessbut then, you will not be allowed
to enter churches, for poor people must have shoes to do that.
One cannot go barefoot to the good God,he added bitterly.

Thenreturning to the subject which absorbed him:-


So you are sure that he will come?

He is following on my heels,said she.

The man started up. A sort of illumination appeared on his countenance.

Wife!he exclaimedyou hear. Here is the philanthropist.
Extinguish the fire.

The stupefied mother did not stir.

The fatherwith the agility of an acrobatseized a broken-nosed
jug which stood on the chimneyand flung the water on the brands.

Thenaddressing his eldest daughter:-


Here you! Pull the straw off that chair!

His daughter did not understand.

He seized the chairand with one kick he rendered it seatless.
His leg passed through it.

As he withdrew his leghe 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 windowand 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 repeated.

The child stood still in bewilderment.

Do you hear me?repeated her fatherI tell you to break a pane!

The childwith a sort of terrified obediencerose 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 the battle is on the point of beginning.

The motherwho had not said a word so farnow rose and demanded
in a dullslowlanguid voicewhence 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 meantimea sob became audible in one corner.

What's that?cried the father.

The younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fistwithout quitting
the corner in which she was cowering. She had wounded herself
while breaking the window; she went offnear her mother's pallet
and wept silently.

It was now the mother's turn to start up and exclaim:-


Just see there! What follies you commit! She has cut herself
breaking that pane for you!

So much the better!said the man. "I foresaw that."

What? So much the better?retorted his wife.

Peace!replied the fatherI suppress the liberty of the press.

Then tearing the woman's chemise which he was wearinghe made
a strip of cloth with which he hastily swathed the little girl's
bleeding wrist.

That donehis eye fell with a satisfied expression on his torn chemise.

And the chemise too,said hethis has a good appearance.

An icy breeze whistled through the window and entered the room.
The outer mist penetrated thither and diffused itself like a whitish
sheet of wadding vaguely spread by invisible fingers. Through the
broken pane the snow could be seen falling. The snow promised
by the Candlemas sun of the preceding day had actually come.

The father cast a glance about him as though to make sure that he
had forgotten nothing. He seized an old shovel and spread ashes
over the wet brands in such a manner as to entirely conceal them.

Then drawing himself up and leaning against the chimney-piece:-


Now,said hewe can receive the philanthropist.

CHAPTER VIII

THE RAY OF LIGHT IN THE HOVEL

The big girl approached and laid her hand in her father's.

Feel how cold I am,said she.

Bah!replied the fatherI am much colder than that.

The mother exclaimed impetuously:-



You always have something better than any one else, so you do!
even bad things.


Down with you!said the man.


The motherbeing eyed after a certain fashionheld her tongue.


Silence reigned for a moment in the hovel. The elder girl was
removing the mud from the bottom of her mantlewith a careless air;
her younger sister continued to sob; the mother had taken the
latter's head between her handsand was covering it with kisses
whispering to her the while:--


My treasure, I entreat you, it is nothing of consequence, don't cry,
you will anger your father.


No!exclaimed the fatherquite the contrary! sob! sob! that's right.


Then turning to the elder:--


There now! He is not coming! What if he were not to come!
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 fatherthat it's beastly cold in this
devil's garret! What if that man should not come! Oh! See there,
you! He makes us wait! He says to himself: `Well! they will wait
for me! That's what they're there for.' Oh! how I hate them,
and with what joy, jubilation, enthusiasm, and satisfaction I
could strangle all those rich folks! all those rich folks!
These men who pretend to be charitable, who put on airs, who go
to mass, who make presents to the priesthood, preachy, preachy,
in their skullcaps, and who think themselves above us, and who come
for the purpose of humiliating us, and to bring us `clothes,'
as they say! old duds that are not worth four sous! And bread!
That's not what I want, pack of rascals that they are, it's money!
Ah! money! Never! Because they say that we would go off and
drink it up, and that we are drunkards and idlers! And they!
What are they, then, and what have they been in their time! Thieves!
They never could have become rich otherwise! Oh! Society ought to
be grasped by the four corners of the cloth and tossed into the air,
all of it! It would all be smashed, very likely, but at least,
no one would have anything, and there would be that much gained!
But what is that blockhead of a benevolent gentleman doing?
Will he come? Perhaps the animal has forgotten the address!
I'll bet that that old beast--


At that moment there came a light tap at the doorthe man rushed
to it and opened itexclaimingamid profound bows and smiles
of adoration:--


Enter, sir! Deign to enter, most respected benefactor, and your
charming young lady, also.


A man of ripe age and a young girl made their appearance
on the threshold of the attic.


Marius had not quitted his post. His feelings for the moment
surpassed the powers of the human tongue.


It was She!



Whoever has loved knows all the radiant meanings contained
in those three letters of that word: She.

It was certainly she. Marius could hardly distinguish her through
the luminous vapor which had suddenly spread before his eyes.
It was that sweetabsent beingthat star which had beamed upon
him for six months; it was those eyesthat browthat mouth
that lovely vanished face which had created night by its departure.
The vision had been eclipsednow it reappeared.

It reappeared in that gloomin that garretin that misshapen attic
in all that horror.

Marius shuddered in dismay. What! It was she! The palpitations
of his heart troubled his sight. He felt that he was on the brink
of bursting into tears! What! He beheld her again at last
after having sought her so long! It seemed to him that he had lost
his souland that he had just found it again.

She was the same as everonly a little pale; her delicate face
was framed in a bonnet of violet velvether figure was concealed
beneath a pelisse of black satin. Beneath her long dress
a glimpse could be caught of her tiny foot shod in a silken boot.

She was still accompanied by M. Leblanc.

She had taken a few steps into the roomand had deposited
a tolerably bulky parcel on the table.

The eldest Jondrette girl had retired behind the doorand was
staring with sombre eyes at that velvet bonnetthat silk mantle
and that charminghappy face.

CHAPTER IX

JONDRETTE COMES NEAR WEEPING

The hovel was so darkthat people coming from without felt
on entering it the effect produced on entering a cellar.
The two new-comers advancedthereforewith a certain hesitation
being hardly able to distinguish the vague forms surrounding them
while they could be clearly seen and scrutinized by the eyes of the
inhabitants of the garretwho were accustomed to this twilight.

M. Leblanc approachedwith his sad but kindly lookand said
to Jondrette the father:-"
Monsieurin this package you will find some new clothes and some
woollen stockings and blankets."

Our angelic benefactor overwhelms us,said Jondrettebowing to
the very earth.

Thenbending down to the ear of his eldest daughterwhile the
two visitors were engaged in examining this lamentable interior
he added in a low and rapid voice:-


Hey? What did I say? Duds! No money! They are all alike!
By the way, how was the letter to that old blockhead signed?


Fabantou,replied the girl.

The dramatic artist, good!

It was lucky for Jondrettethat this had occurred to him
for at the very momentM. Leblanc turned to himand said to him
with the air of a person who is seeking to recall a name:-


I see that you are greatly to be pitied, Monsieur--

Fabantou,replied Jondrette quickly.

Monsieur Fabantou, yes, that is it. I remember.

Dramatic artist, sir, and one who has had some success.

Here Jondrette evidently judged the moment propitious for capturing
the "philanthropist." He exclaimed with an accent which smacked
at the same time of the vainglory of the mountebank at fairs
and the humility of the mendicant on the highway:-


A pupil of Talma! Sir! I am a pupil of Talma! Fortune formerly
smiled on me--Alas! Now it is misfortune's turn. You see,
my benefactor, no bread, no fire. My poor babes have no fire!
My only chair has no seat! A broken pane! And in such weather!
My spouse in bed! Ill!

Poor woman!said M. Leblanc.

My child wounded!added Jondrette.

The childdiverted by the arrival of the strangershad fallen
to contemplating "the young lady and had ceased to sob.

Cry! bawl!" said Jondrette to her in a low voice.

At the same time he pinched her sore hand. All this was done
with the talent of a juggler.

The little girl gave vent to loud shrieks.

The adorable young girlwhom Mariusin his heartcalled "his Ursule
approached her hastily.

Poordear child!" said she.

You see, my beautiful young lady,pursued Jondrette "her
bleeding wrist! It came through an accident while working at a
machine to earn six sous a day. It may be necessary to cut off her arm."

Really?said the old gentlemanin alarm.

The little girltaking this seriouslyfell to sobbing more
violently than ever.

Alas! yes, my benefactor!replied the father.

For several minutesJondrette had been scrutinizing "the benefactor"
in a singular fashion. As he spokehe seemed to be examining the
other attentivelyas though seeking to summon up his recollections.
All at onceprofiting by a moment when the new-comers were
questioning the child with interest as to her injured handhe passed
near his wifewho lay in her bed with a stupid and dejected air
and said to her in a rapid but very low tone:-



Take a look at that man!

Thenturning to M. Leblancand continuing his lamentations:-


You see, sir! All the clothing that I have is my wife's chemise!
And all torn at that! In the depths of winter! I can't go out
for lack of a coat. If I had a coat of any sort, I would go and see
Mademoiselle Mars, who knows me and is very fond of me. Does she
not still reside in the Rue de la Tour-des-Dames? Do you know, sir?
We played together in the provinces. I shared her laurels.
Celimene would come to my succor, sir! Elmire would bestow alms
on Belisaire! But no, nothing! And not a sou in the house!
My wife ill, and not a sou! My daughter dangerously injured,
not a sou! My wife suffers from fits of suffocation. It comes
from her age, and besides, her nervous system is affected.
She ought to have assistance, and my daughter also! But the doctor!
But the apothecary! How am I to pay them? I would kneel to
a penny, sir! Such is the condition to which the arts are reduced.
And do you know, my charming young lady, and you, my generous protector,
do you know, you who breathe forth virtue and goodness, and who perfume
that church where my daughter sees you every day when she says
her prayers?--For I have brought up my children religiously, sir.
I did not want them to take to the theatre. Ah! the hussies!
If I catch them tripping! I do not jest, that I don't! I read them
lessons on honor, on morality, on virtue! Ask them! They have
got to walk straight. They are none of your unhappy wretches
who begin by having no family, and end by espousing the public.
One is Mamselle Nobody, and one becomes Madame Everybody.
Deuce take it! None of that in the Fabantou family! I mean
to bring them up virtuously, and they shall be honest, and nice,
and believe in God, by the sacred name! Well, sir, my worthy sir,
do you know what is going to happen to-morrow? To-morrow is the fourth
day of February, the fatal day, the last day of grace allowed me by
my landlord; if by this evening I have not paid my rent, to-morrow my
oldest daughter, my spouse with her fever, my child with her wound,--
we shall all four be turned out of here and thrown into the street,
on the boulevard, without shelter, in the rain, in the snow.
There, sir. I owe for four quarters--a whole year! that is to say,
sixty francs.


Jondrette lied. Four quarters would have amounted to only forty francs
and he could not owe fourbecause six months had not elapsed
since Marius had paid for two.


M. Leblanc drew five francs from his pocket and threw them on the table.
Jondrette found time to mutter in the ear of his eldest daughter:-


The scoundrel! What does he think I can do with his five francs?
That won't pay me for my chair and pane of glass! That's what comes
of incurring expenses!

In the meanwhileM. Leblanc had removed the large brown great-coat
which he wore over his blue coatand had thrown it over the back
of the chair.

Monsieur Fabantou,he saidthese five francs are all that I have
about me, but I shall now take my daughter home, and I will return
this evening,--it is this evening that you must pay, is it not?

Jondrette's face lighted up with a strange expression.
He replied vivaciously:-



Yes, respected sir. At eight o'clock, I must be at my landlord's.

I will be here at six, and I will fetch you the sixty francs.

My benefactor!exclaimed Jondretteoverwhelmed. And he added
in a low tone: "Take a good look at himwife!"

M. Leblanc had taken the arm of the young girlonce more
and had turned towards the door.
Farewell until this evening, my friends!said he.

Six o'clock?said Jondrette.

Six o'clock precisely.

At that momentthe overcoat lying on the chair caught the eye
of the elder Jondrette girl.

You are forgetting your coat, sir,said she.

Jondrette darted an annihilating look at his daughter
accompanied by a formidable shrug of the shoulders.

M. Leblanc turned back and saidwith a smile:-"
I have not forgotten itI am leaving it."

O my protector!said Jondrettemy august benefactor, I melt
into tears! Permit me to accompany you to your carriage.

If you come out,answered M. Leblancput on this coat.
It really is very cold.

Jondrette did not need to be told twice. He hastily donned
the brown great-coat. And all three went outJondrette preceding
the two strangers.

CHAPTER X

TARIFF OF LICENSED CABS: TWO FRANCS AN HOUR

Marius had lost nothing of this entire sceneand yetin reality
had seen nothing. His eyes had remained fixed on the young girl
his heart hadso to speakseized her and wholly enveloped her from
the moment of her very first step in that garret. During her entire
stay therehe had lived that life of ecstasy which suspends material
perceptions and precipitates the whole soul on a single point.
He contemplatednot that girlbut that light which wore a satin
pelisse and a velvet bonnet. The star Sirius might have entered
the roomand he would not have been any more dazzled.

While the young girl was engaged in opening the packageunfolding the
clothing and the blanketsquestioning the sick mother kindly
and the little injured girl tenderlyhe watched her every movement
he sought to catch her words. He knew her eyesher browher beauty
her formher walkhe did not know the sound of her voice.
He had once fancied that he had caught a few words at the Luxembourg
but he was not absolutely sure of the fact. He would have given
ten years of his life to hear itin order that he might bear away
in his soul a little of that music. But everything was drowned


in the lamentable exclamations and trumpet bursts of Jondrette.
This added a touch of genuine wrath to Marius' ecstasy. He devoured
her with his eyes. He could not believe that it really was that
divine creature whom he saw in the midst of those vile creatures in
that monstrous lair. It seemed to him that he beheld a humming-bird
in the midst of toads.


When she took her departurehe had but one thoughtto follow her
to cling to her tracenot to quit her until he learned where she lived
not to lose her againat leastafter having so miraculously
re-discovered her. He leaped down from the commode and seized
his hat. As he laid his hand on the lock of the doorand was on
the point of opening ita sudden reflection caused him to pause.
The corridor was longthe staircase steepJondrette was talkative


M. Leblanc hadno doubtnot yet regained his carriage; ifon turning
round in the corridoror on the staircasehe were to catch sight
of himMariusin that househe wouldevidentlytake the alarm
and find means to escape from him againand this time it would
be final. What was he to do? Should he wait a little? But while he
was waitingthe carriage might drive off. Marius was perplexed.
At last he accepted the risk and quitted his room.
There was no one in the corridor. He hastened to the stairs.
There was no one on the staircase. He descended in all haste
and reached the boulevard in time to see a fiacre turning the corner
of the Rue du Petit-Banquieron its way back to Paris.


Marius rushed headlong in that direction. On arriving at the angle
of the boulevardhe caught sight of the fiacre againrapidly descending
the Rue Mouffetard; the carriage was already a long way off
and there was no means of overtaking it; what! run after it?
Impossible; and besidesthe people in the carriage would assuredly
notice an individual running at full speed in pursuit of a fiacre
and the father would recognize him. At that momentwonderful and
unprecedented good luckMarius perceived an empty cab passing along
the boulevard. There was but one thing to be doneto jump into this cab
and follow the fiacre. That was sureefficaciousand free from danger.


Marius made the driver a sign to haltand called to him:--


By the hour?


Marius wore no cravathe had on his working-coatwhich was destitute
of buttonshis shirt was torn along one of the plaits on the bosom.


The driver haltedwinkedand held out his left hand to Marius
rubbing his forefinger gently with his thumb.


What is it?said Marius.


Pay in advance,said the coachman.


Marius recollected that he had but sixteen sous about him.


How much?he demanded.


Forty sous.


I will pay on my return.


The driver's only reply was to whistle the air of La Palisse
and to whip up his horse.


Marius stared at the retreating cabriolet with a bewildered air.



For the lack of four and twenty soushe was losing his joy
his happinesshis love! He had seenand he was becoming
blind again. He reflected bitterlyand it must be confessed
with profound regreton the five francs which he had bestowed
that very morningon that miserable girl. If he had had those
five francshe would have been savedhe would have been born again
he would have emerged from the limbo and darknesshe would have
made his escape from isolation and spleenfrom his widowed state;
he might have re-knotted the black thread of his destiny to that
beautiful golden threadwhich had just floated before his eyes
and had broken at the same instantonce more! He returned to his
hovel in despair.


He might have told himself that M. Leblanc had promised to return
in the eveningand that all he had to do was to set about the matter
more skilfullyso that he might follow him on that occasion;
butin his contemplationit is doubtful whether he had heard this.


As he was on the point of mounting the staircasehe perceivedon the
other side of the boulevardnear the deserted wall skirting the Rue De
la Barriere-des-GobelinsJondrettewrapped in the "philanthropist's"
great-coatengaged in conversation with one of those men of
disquieting aspect who have been dubbed by common consentprowlers of
the barriers; people of equivocal faceof suspicious monologues
who present the air of having evil mindsand who generally sleep
in the daytimewhich suggests the supposition that they work by night.


These two menstanding there motionless and in conversation
in the snow which was falling in whirlwindsformed a group that a
policeman would surely have observedbut which Marius hardly noticed.


Stillin spite of his mournful preoccupationhe could not
refrain from saying to himself that this prowler of the barriers
with whom Jondrette was talking resembled a certain Panchaud
alias Printanieralias Bigrenaillewhom Courfeyrac had once
pointed out to him as a very dangerous nocturnal roamer.
This man's name the reader has learned in the preceding book.
This Panchaudalias Printanieralias Bigrenaillefigured later
on in many criminal trialsand became a notorious rascal.
He was at that time only a famous rascal. To-day he exists in the
state of tradition among ruffians and assassins. He was at the head
of a school towards the end of the last reign. And in the evening
at nightfallat the hour when groups form and talk in whispers
he was discussed at La Force in the Fosse-aux-Lions. One might even
in that prisonprecisely at the spot where the sewer which served
the unprecedented escapein broad daylightof thirty prisoners
in 1843passes under the culvertread his namePANCHAUD
audaciously carved by his own hand on the wall of the sewer
during one of his attempts at flight. In 1832the police already
had their eye on himbut he had not as yet made a serious beginning.


CHAPTER XI


OFFERS OF SERVICE FROM MISERY TO WRETCHEDNESS


Marius ascended the stairs of the hovel with slow steps; at the moment
when he was about to re-enter his cellhe caught sight of the elder
Jondrette girl following him through the corridor. 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 backthe cab was no longer there
the fiacre was far away. Moreovershe would not have given them back.



As for questioning her about the residence of the persons who had
just been therethat was useless; it was evident that she did
not knowsince the letter signed Fabantou had been addressed "to
the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas."


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 askedwho is there?


It was the Jondrette girl.


Is it you?resumed Marius almost harshlystill you! 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 enterbut 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 eyesin which a sort of gleam seemed
to flicker vaguelyand said:--


Monsieur Marius, you look sad. What is the matter with you?


With me!said Marius.


Yes, you.


There is nothing the matter with me.


Yes, there is!


No.


I tell you there is!


Let me alone!


Marius gave the door another pushbut she retained her hold on it.


Stop,said sheyou are in the wrong. Although you are
not rich, you were kind this morning. Be so again now.
You gave me something to eat, now tell me what ails you.
You are grieved, that is plain. I do not want you to be grieved.
What can be done for it? Can I be of any 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 an 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 speak to the persons;
sometimes it is enough if some one speaks to the persons, that suffices
to let them understand matters, and everything comes right.
Make use of me.


An idea flashed across Marius' 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 gleam of joy in her eyes.
Oh yes, do call me thou! I like that better.
Well,he resumedthou hast brought hither that old gentleman


and his daughter!
Yes.
Dost thou know their address?
No.
Find it for me.
The Jondrette's dull eyes had grown joyousand they now became gloomy.
Is that what you want?she demanded.
Yes.
Do you know them?
No.
That is to say,she resumed quicklyyou do not know her,


but you wish to know her.


This them which had turned into her had something indescribably
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 daughter.


Their address, indeed!


She gazed fixedly at him.


What will you give me?


Anything you like.


Anything I like?


Yes.


You shall have the address.


She dropped her head; thenwith a brusque movementshe pulled


to the doorwhich closed behind her.
Marius found himself alone.
He dropped into a chairwith his head and both elbows on his bed


absorbed in thoughts which he could not graspand as though



a prey to vertigo. All that had taken place since the morning
the appearance of the angelher disappearancewhat that creature
had just said to hima gleam of hope floating in an immense despair--
this was what filled his brain confusedly.


All at once he was violently aroused from his revery.


He heard the shrillhard 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 recognized? M. Leblanc?
The father of "his Ursule"? What! Did Jondrette know him?
Was Marius about to obtain in this abrupt and unexpected fashion
all the information without which his life was so dark to him?
Was he about to learn at last who it was that he lovedwho that
young girl was? Who her father was? Was the dense shadow which
enwrapped them on the point of being dispelled? Was the veil about
to be rent? Ah! Heavens!


He bounded rather than climbed upon his commodeand resumed his
post near the little peep-hole in the partition wall.


Again he beheld the interior of Jondrette's hovel.


CHAPTER XII


THE USE MADE OF M. LEBLANC'S FIVE-FRANC PIECE


Nothing in the aspect of the family was alteredexcept 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 fireplacethe 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. Jondrette was pacing
up and down the garret with long strides. His eyes were extraordinary.


The womanwho seemed timid and overwhelmed with stupor in the
presence of her husbandturned to say:--


What, really? You are sure?


Sure! Eight years have passed! But I recognize him! Ah! I recognize
him. I knew him at once! What! Didn't it force itself on you?


No.


But I told you: `Pay attention!' Why, it is his figure,
it is his face, only older,--there are people who do not grow old,
I don't know how they manage it,--it is the very sound of his voice.
He is better dressed, that is all! Ah! you mysterious old devil,
I've got you, that I have!


He pausedand said to his daughters:--


Get out of here, you!--It's queer that it didn't strike you!



They arose to obey.

The mother stammered:-


With her injured hand.

The air will do it good,said Jondrette. "Be off."

It was plain that this man was of the sort to whom no one offers
to reply. The two girls departed.

At the moment when they were about to pass through the door
the father detained the elder by the armand said to her with
a peculiar accent:-


You will be here at five o'clock precisely. Both of you.
I shall need you.

Marius redoubled his attention.

On being left alone with his wifeJondrette began to pace the
room againand made the tour of it two or three times in silence.
Then he spent several minutes in tucking the lower part of the
woman's chemise which he wore into his trousers.

All at oncehe turned to the female Jondrettefolded his arms
and exclaimed:-


And would you like to have me tell you something? The young lady--

Well, what?retorted his wifethe young lady?

Marius could not doubt that it was really she of whom they were speaking.
He listened with ardent anxiety. His whole life was in his ears.

But Jondrette had bent over and spoke to his wife in a whisper.
Then he straightened himself up and concluded aloud:-


It is she!

That one?said his wife.

That very one,said the husband.

No expression can reproduce the significance of the mother's words.
Surpriseragehatewrathwere mingled and combined in one
monstrous intonation. The pronunciation of a few wordsthe name
no doubtwhich her husband had whispered in her earhad sufficed
to rouse this hugesomnolent womanand from being repulsive
she became terrible.

It is not possible!she cried. "When I think that my daughters
are going barefootand have not a gown to their backs! What!
A satin pelissea velvet bonnetbootsand everything; more than
two hundred francs' worth of clothes! so that one would think
she was a lady! Noyou are mistaken! Whyin the first place
the other was hideousand this one is not so bad-looking!
She really is not bad-looking! It can't be she!"

I tell you that it is she. You will see.

At this absolute assertionthe Jondrette woman raised her largered
blonde face and stared at the ceiling with a horrible expression.
At that momentshe seemed to Marius even more to be feared than


her husband. She was a sow with the look of a tigress.


What!she resumedthat horrible, beautiful young lady,
who gazed at my daughters with an air of pity,--she is that
beggar brat! Oh! I should like to kick her stomach in for her!


She sprang off of the bedand remained standing for a moment
her hair in disorderher nostrils dilatingher mouth half 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 minuteshe approached the
female Jondretteand halted in front of herwith 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 lowcurt voice:--


My fortune is made.


The woman stared at him with the look that signifies: "Is 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 parishioner 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! I 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 hoveland added:--


Like other people.


What do you mean by that?asked the woman.


He shook his headwinkedscrewed up one eyeand raised his voice
like a medical professor who is about to make a demonstration:--


What do I mean by that? Listen!


Hush!muttered the womannot so loud! These are matters
which must not be overheard.


Bah! Who's here? Our neighbor? I saw him go out a little
while ago. Besides, he doesn't listen, the big booby.
And I tell you that I saw him go out.


Neverthelessby a sort of instinctJondrette lowered his voice
although not sufficiently to prevent Marius hearing his words.
One favorable circumstancewhich enabled Marius not to lose a word
of this conversation was the falling snow which deadened the sound of
vehicles on the boulevard.


This is what Marius heard:--



Listen carefully. The Croesus is caught, or as good as caught!
That's all settled already. Everything is arranged. I have seen
some people. He will come here this evening at six o'clock. To
bring sixty francs, the rascal! Did you notice how I played that
game on him, my sixty francs, my landlord, my fourth of February?
I don't even owe for one quarter! Isn't he a fool! So he will come
at six o'clock! That's the hour when our neighbor goes to his dinner.
Mother Bougon is off washing dishes in the city. There's not a soul
in the house. The neighbor never comes home until eleven o'clock.
The children shall stand on watch. You shall help us. He will
give in.

And what if he does not give in?demanded his wife.

Jondrette made a sinister gestureand said:-


We'll fix him.

And he burst out laughing.

This was the first time Marius had seen him laugh. The laugh
was cold and sweetand provoked a shudder.

Jondrette opened a cupboard near the fireplaceand drew from it an
old capwhich he placed on his headafter brushing it with his sleeve.

Now,said heI'm going out. I have some more people that I
must see. Good ones. You'll see how well the whole thing will work.
I shall be away as short a time as possible, it's a fine stroke
of business, do you look after the house.

And with both fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers
he stood for a moment in thoughtthen exclaimed:-


Do you know, it's mighty lucky, by the way, that he didn't
recognize me! If he had recognized me on his side, he would not
have come back again. He would have slipped through our fingers!
It was my beard that saved us! my romantic beard! my pretty little
romantic beard!

And again he broke into a laugh.

He stepped to the window. The snow was still fallingand streaking
the gray of the sky.

What beastly weather!said he.

Then lapping his overcoat across his breast:-


This rind is too large for me. Never mind,he addedhe 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 everything
would have gone wrong! What small points things hang on, anyway!

And pulling his cap down over his eyeshe quitted the room.

He had barely had time to take half a dozen steps from the door
when the door opened againand his savage but intelligent face made
its appearance once more in the opening.

I came near forgetting,said he. "You are to have a brazier
of charcoal ready."

And he flung into his wife's apron the five-franc piece which


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 rest I will buy something


for dinner.
The devil, no.
Why?
Don't go and spend the hundred-sou piece.
Why?
Because I shall have to buy something, too.
What?
Something.
How much shall you need?
Whereabouts in the neighborhood is there an ironmonger's 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 you have to purchase?
Fifty sous--three francs.
There won't be much left for dinner.
Eating is not the point to-day. There's something better to be done.
That's enough, my jewel.
At this word from his wifeJondrette closed the door again


and this timeMarius heard his step die away in the corridor
of the hoveland descend the staircase rapidly.
At that momentone o'clock struck from the church of Saint-Medard.


CHAPTER XIII


SOLUS CUM SOLOIN LOCO REMOTONON COGITABUNTUR ORARE PATER NOSTER


Mariusdreamer as he waswasas we have saidfirm and energetic
by nature. His habits of solitary meditationwhile they had developed
in him sympathy and compassionhadperhapsdiminished the faculty
for irritationbut had left intact the power of waxing indignant;
he had the kindliness of a brahminand the severity of a judge;


he took pity upon a toadbut he crushed a viper. Nowit was
into a hole of vipers that his glance had just been directed
it was a nest of monsters that he had beneath his eyes.

These wretches must be stamped upon,said he.

Not one of the enigmas which he had hoped to see solved had
been elucidated; on the contraryall of them had been rendered
more denseif anything; he knew nothing more about the beautiful
maiden of the Luxembourg and the man whom he called M. Leblanc
except that Jondrette was acquainted with them. Athwart the
mysterious words which had been utteredthe only thing of which he
caught a distinct glimpse was the fact that an ambush was in course
of preparationa dark but terrible trap; that both of them
were incurring great dangershe probablyher father certainly;
that they must be saved; that the hideous plots of the Jondrettes
must be thwartedand the web of these spiders broken.

He scanned the female Jondrette for a moment. She had pulled
an old sheet-iron stove from a cornerand she was rummaging among
the old heap of iron.

He descended from the commode as softly as possibletaking care not
to make the least noise. Amid his terror as to what was in preparation
and in the horror with which the Jondrettes had inspired him
he experienced a sort of joy at the idea that it might be granted
to him perhaps to render a service to the one whom he loved.

But how was it to be done? How warn the persons threatened?
He did not know their address. They had reappeared for an instant
before his eyesand 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'clockat the moment of his arrivaland warn him
of the trap? But Jondrette and his men would see him on the watch
the spot was lonelythey were stronger than hethey would devise
means to seize him or to get him awayand the man whom Marius
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 thing to be done.

He put on his decent coatknotted a silk handkerchief round his neck
took his hatand went outwithout making any more noise than if he
had been treading on moss with bare feet.

Moreoverthe Jondrette woman continued to rummage among her old iron.

Once outside of the househe made for the Rue du Petit-Banquier.

He had almost reached the middle of this streetnear a very low wall
which a man can easily step over at certain pointsand which abuts
on a waste spaceand was walking slowlyin consequence of his
preoccupied conditionand the snow deadened the sound of his steps;
all at once he heard voices talking very close by. He turned
his headthe street was desertedthere was not a soul in it
it was broad daylightand yet he distinctly heard voices.

It occurred to him to glance over the wall which he was skirting.

Therein factsat two menflat on the snowwith their backs
against the walltalking together in subdued tones.

These two persons were strangers to him; one was a bearded man
in a blouseand the other a long-haired individual in rags.


The bearded man had on a fezthe other's head was bareand the snow
had lodged in his hair.

By thrusting his head over the wallMarius 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!

The other replied with some hesitationand shivering beneath
his fez:-


That's a real thing. You can't go against such things.

I tell you that the affair can't go wrong,resumed the long-haired man.
Father What's-his-name's team will be already harnessed.

Then they began to discuss a melodrama that they had seen
on the preceding evening at the Gaite Theatre.

Marius went his way.

It seemed to him that the mysterious words of these men
so strangely hidden behind that walland crouching in the snow
could not but bear some relation to Jondrette's abominable projects.
That must be the affair.

He directed his course towards the faubourg Saint-Marceau and asked
at the first shop he came to where he could find a commissary
of police.

He was directed to Rue de PontoiseNo. 14.

Thither Marius betook himself.

As he passed a baker's shophe bought a two-penny rolland ate it
foreseeing that he should not dine.

On the wayhe rendered justice to Providence. He reflected that had
he not given his five francs to the Jondrette girl in the morning
he would have followed M. Leblanc's fiacreand consequently have
remained ignorant of everythingand that there would have been
no obstacle to the trap of the Jondrettes and that M. Leblanc
would have been lostand his daughter with himno doubt.

CHAPTER XIV

IN WHICH A POLICE AGENT BESTOWS TWO FISTFULS ON A LAWYER

On arriving at No. 14Rue de Pontoisehe ascended to the first
floor and inquired for the commissary of police.

The commissary of police is not here,said a clerk; "but there is


an inspector who takes his place. Would you like to speak to him?
Are you in haste?"

Yes,said Marius.

The clerk introduced him into the commissary's office. There stood
a tall man behind a gratingleaning against a stoveand holding up
with both hands the tails of a vast topcoatwith three collars.
His face was squarewith a thinfirmmouththickgrayand very
ferocious whiskersand a look that was enough to turn your
pockets inside out. Of that glance it might have been well said
not that it penetratedbut that it searched.

This man's air was not much less ferocious nor less terrible
than Jondrette's; the dog isat timesno less terrible to meet
than the wolf.

What do you want?he said to Mariuswithout adding "monsieur."

Is this Monsieur le Commissaire de Police?

He is absent. I am here in his stead.

The matter is very private.'

Then speak.

And great haste is required.

Then speak quick.

This calmabrupt man was both terrifying and reassuring
at one and the same time. He inspired fear and confidence.
Marius related the adventure to him: That a person with whom he
was not acquainted otherwise than by sightwas to be inveigled
into a trap that very evening; thatas he occupied the room
adjoining the denheMarius Pontmercya lawyerhad heard the
whole plot through the partition; that the wretch who had planned
the trap was a certain Jondrette; that there would be accomplices
probably some prowlers of the barriersamong others a certain
Panchaudalias Printanieralias Bigrenaille; that Jondrette's
daughters were to lie in wait; that there was no way of warning
the threatened mansince he did not even know his name; and that
finallyall this was to be carried out at six o'clock that eveningat
the most deserted point of the Boulevard de l'Hopitalin house No. 50-52.

At the sound of this numberthe inspector raised his head
and said coldly:-


So it is in the room at the end of the corridor?

Precisely,answered Mariusand he added: "Are you acquainted
with that house?"

The inspector remained silent for a momentthen repliedas he
warmed the heel of his boot at the door of the stove:-


Apparently.

He went onmuttering between his teethand not addressing Marius
so much as his cravat:-


Patron-Minette must have had a hand in this.


This word struck Marius.

Patron-Minette,said heI did hear that word pronounced,
in fact.

And he repeated to the inspector the dialogue between the long-haired
man and the bearded man in the snow behind the wall of the Rue
du Petit-Banquier.

The inspector muttered:-


The long-haired man must be Brujon, and the bearded one Demi-Liard,
alias Deux-Milliards.
He had dropped his eyelids againand became absorbed in thought.


As for Father What's-his-name, I think I recognize him.
Here, I've burned my coat. They always have too much fire
in these cursed stoves. Number 50-52. Former property of Gorbeau.


Then he glanced at Marius.
You saw only that bearded and that long-haired man?


And Panchaud.
You didn't see a little imp of a dandy prowling about the premises?


No.


Nor a big lump of matter, resembling an elephant in the Jardin
des Plantes?

No.
Nor a scamp with the air of an old red tail?


No.


As for the fourth, no one sees him, not even his adjutants, clerks,
and employees. It is not surprising that you did not see him.
No. Who are all those persons?asked Marius.

The inspector answered:--
Besides, this is not the time for them.


He relapsed into silencethen resumed:--


50-52. I know that barrack. Impossible to conceal ourselves
inside it without the artists seeing us, and then they will get
off simply by countermanding the vaudeville. They are so modest!
An audience embarrasses them. None of that, none of that. I want
to hear them sing and make them dance.

This monologue concludedhe turned to Mariusand demanded
gazing at him intently the while:-


Are you afraid?

Of what?said Marius.
Of these men?


No more than yourself!retorted Marius rudelywho had begun
to notice that this police agent had not yet said "monsieur" to him.

The inspector stared still more intently at Mariusand continued
with sententious solemnity:-


There, you speak like a brave man, and like an honest man.
Courage does not fear crime, and honesty does not fear authority.

Marius interrupted him:-


That is well, but what do you intend to do?

The inspector contented himself with the remark:-


The lodgers have pass-keys with which to get in at night.
You must have one.

Yes,said Marius.

Have you it about you?

Yes.

Give it to me,said the inspector.

Marius took his key from his waistcoat pockethanded it to the
inspector and added:-


If you will take my advice, you will come in force.

The inspector cast on Marius such a glance as Voltaire might have
bestowed on a provincial academician who had suggested a rhyme to him;
with one movement he plunged his handswhich were enormous
into the two immense pockets of his top-coatand pulled out two
small steel pistolsof the sort called "knock-me-downs." Then he
presented them to Mariussaying rapidlyin a curt tone:-


Take these. Go home. Hide in your chamber, so that you may be
supposed to have gone out. They are loaded. Each one carries
two balls. You will keep watch; there is a hole in the wall,
as you have informed me. These men will come. Leave them to
their own devices for a time. When you think matters have reached
a crisis, and that it is time to put a stop to them, fire a shot.
Not too soon. The rest concerns me. A shot into the ceiling,
the air, no matter where. Above all things, not too soon. Wait until
they begin to put their project into execution; you are a lawyer;
you know the proper point.Marius took the pistols and put them
in the side pocket of his coat.

That makes a lump that can be seen,said the inspector.
Put them in your trousers pocket.

Marius hid the pistols in his trousers pockets.

Now,pursued the inspectorthere is not a minute more to be
lost by any one. What time is it? Half-past two. Seven o'clock
is the hour?

Six o'clock,answered Marius.

I have plenty of time,said the inspectorbut no more than enough.
Don't forget anything that I have said to you. Bang. A pistol shot.


Rest easy,said Marius.

And as Marius laid his hand on the handle of the door on his way out
the inspector called to him:-


By the way, if you have occasion for my services between now and then,
come or send here. You will ask for Inspector Javert.

CHAPTER XV

JONDRETTE MAKES HIS PURCHASES

A few moments laterabout three o'clockCourfeyrac chanced
to be passing along the Rue Mouffetard in company with Bossuet.
The snow had redoubled in violenceand filled the air. Bossuet 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
Bossuet caught sight of Marius coming up the street towards
the barrier with a peculiar air.

Hold!said Bossuet. "There's Marius."

I saw him,said Courfeyrac. "Don't let'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!said Courfeyrac.

But who the deuce is he following?

Some fine, flowery bonneted wench! He's in love.

But,observed BossuetI don't see any wench nor any flowery
bonnet in the street. There's not a woman round.

Courfeyrac took a surveyand exclaimed:-


He's following a man!

A manin factwearing a gray capand whose gray beard could
be distinguishedalthough they only saw his backwas walking
along about twenty paces in advance of Marius.

This man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly new and
too large for himand in a frightful pair of trousers all hanging
in rags and black with mud.


Bossuet burst out laughing.

Who is that man?

He?retorted Courfeyrache's a poet. Poets are very fond of
wearing the trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and the overcoats
of peers of France.


Let's see where Marius will go,said Bossuet; "let's see where
the man is goinglet's follow themhey?"


Bossuet!exclaimed Courfeyraceagle of Meaux! You are
a prodigious brute. Follow a man who is following another man, indeed!


They retraced their steps.


Marius hadin factseen Jondrette passing along the Rue Mouffetard
and was spying on his proceedings.


Jondrette walked straight aheadwithout a suspicion that he was
already held by a glance.


He quitted the Rue Mouffetardand Marius saw him enter one of
the most terrible hovels in the Rue Gracieuse; he remained there
about a quarter of an hourthen returned to the Rue Mouffetard.
He halted at an ironmonger's shopwhich then stood at the corner
of the Rue Pierre-Lombardand a few minutes later Marius saw him
emerge from the shopholding in his hand a huge cold chisel with
a white wood handlewhich he concealed beneath his great-coat. At
the top of the Rue Petit-Gentilly he turned to the left and proceeded
rapidly to the Rue du Petit-Banquier. The day was declining;
the snowwhich had ceased for a momenthad just begun again.
Marius posted himself on the watch at the very corner of the Rue du
Petit-Banquierwhich was desertedas usualand did not follow
Jondrette into it. It was lucky that he did soforon arriving
in the vicinity of the wall where Marius had heard the long-haired
man and the bearded man conversingJondrette turned roundmade sure
that no one was following himdid not see himthen 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 reputewho 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's absence
to return home; moreoverit was growing late; every evening
Ma'am Bougon when she set out for her dish-washing in town
had a habit of locking the doorwhich was always closed at dusk.
Marius had given his key to the inspector of police; it was important
thereforethat he should make haste.


Evening had arrivednight had almost closed in; on the horizon and
in the immensity of spacethere remained but one spot illuminated
by the sunand that was the moon.


It was rising in a ruddy glow behind the low dome of Salpetriere.


Marius returned to No. 50-52 with great strides. The door was still
open when he arrived. He mounted the stairs on tip-toe and glided
along the wall of the corridor to his chamber. This corridor
as the reader will rememberwas bordered on both sides by attics
all of which werefor the momentempty and to let. Ma'am Bougon
was in the habit of leaving all the doors open. As he passed one



of these atticsMarius thought he perceived in the uninhabited cell
the motionless heads of four menvaguely lighted up by a remnant
of daylightfalling through a dormer window


Marius made no attempt to seenot wishing to be seen himself.
He succeeded in reaching his chamber without being seen and without
making any noise. It was high time. A moment later he heard
Ma'am Bougon take her departurelocking the door of the house
behind her.


CHAPTER XVI


IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE WORDS TO AN ENGLISH AIR WHICH WAS IN
FASHION IN 1832


Marius 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 double 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 afraidbut 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 by an
unforeseen adventurethe entire day produced upon him the effect
of a dreamand in order to persuade himself that he was not the
prey of a nightmarehe 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 mistand its light
mingled with the white reflection of the snow
which had fallencommunicated to the chamber a sort of twilight aspect.


There was a light in the Jondrette den. Marius saw the hole
in the wall shining with a reddish glow which seemed bloody to him.


It was true that the light could not be produced by a candle.
Howeverthere was not a sound in the Jondrette quartersnot a soul
was moving therenot a soul speakingnot a breath; the silence
was glacial and profoundand had it not been for that light
he might have thought himself next door to a sepulchre.


Marius softly removed his boots and pushed them under his bed.


Several minutes elapsed. Marius heard the lower door turn on its hinges;
a heavy step mounted the staircaseand hastened along the corridor;
the latch of the hovel was noisily lifted; it was Jondrette returning.


Instantlyseveral voices arose. The whole family was in
the garret. Onlyit 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 Jondrettebut my feet are
beastly cold. Good! You have dressed up. You have done well!
You must inspire confidence.



All ready to go out.
Don't forget what I told you. You will do everything sure?
Rest easy.
Because--said Jondrette. And he left the phrase unfinished.
Marius heard him lay something heavy on the tableprobably the


chisel which he had purchased.
By the way,said Jondrettehave you been eating here?
Yes,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 you out


to dine with me. We will have a duck and fixings. You 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 furtherand said:--
Put this in the fire.
Marius heard a sound of charcoal being knocked with the tongs


or some iron utensiland 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-Medard a while ago.
The devil!ejaculated Jondrette; "the children must go and watch.


Come youdo you listen here."
A whispering ensued.
Jondrette's voice became audible again:--
Has old Bougon left?
Yes,said the mother.
Are you 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 Jondrettethere's no harm in going to see


whether he is there. Here, my girl, take the candle and go there.
Marius fell on his hands and knees and crawled silently under his bed.



Hardly had he concealed himselfwhen he perceived a light through
the crack of his door.


P'pa,cried a voicehe is not in here.


He recognized the voice of the eldest daughter.


Did you go in?demanded her father.


No,replied the girlbut as his key is in the door, he must
be out.


The father exclaimed:--


Go in, nevertheless.


The door openedand 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 indescribable
moment of anxiety; but near the bed there was a mirror nailed
to the walland it was thither that she was directing her steps.
She raised herself on tiptoe and looked at herself in it.
In the neighboring roomthe sound of iron articles being moved
was audible.


She smoothed her hair with the palm of her handand smiled into
the mirrorhumming with her cracked and sepulchral voice:--


Nos amours ont dure toute une semaine[28]
Mais que du bonheur les instants sont courts!
S'adorer huit joursc' etait bien la peine!
Le temps des amours devait durer toujours!
Devrait durer toujours! devrait durer toujours!

[28] Our love has lasted a whole weekbut how short are the instants
of happiness! To adore each other for eight days was hardly worth
the while! The time of love should last forever.
In the meantimeMarius 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.

How ugly Paris is when it has put on a white chemise!said she.

She returned to the mirror and began again to put on airs before it
scrutinizing herself full-face and three-quarters face in turn.

Well!cried her fatherwhat 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!"

Coming! Coming!said she. "One has no time for anything
in this hovel!"


She hummed:-


Vous me quittez pour aller a la gloire;[29]
Mon triste coeur suivra partout.


[29] You leave me to go to glory; my sad heart will follow
you everywhere.
She cast a parting glance in the mirror and went outshutting the
door behind her.


A moment moreand Marius heard the sound of the two young girls'
bare feet in the corridorand 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! 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 father.


They ran down stairsand 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 Mariusthe Jondrettes
and probablyalsothe mysterious persons of whom Marius had caught
a glimpse in the twilightbehind the door of the unused attic.


CHAPTER XVII


THE USE MADE OF MARIUS' FIVE-FRANC PIECE


Marius decided that the moment had now arrived when he must resume
his post at his observatory. In a twinklingand with the agility
of his agehe had reached the hole in the partition.


He looked.


The interior of the Jondrette apartment presented a curious aspect
and Marius found an explanation of the singular light which he
had noticed. A candle was burning in a candlestick covered
with verdigrisbut that was not what really lighted the chamber.
The hovel was completely illuminatedas it wereby the reflection
from a rather large sheet-iron brazier standing in the fireplace
and filled with burning charcoalthe brazier prepared by the Jondrette
woman that morning. The charcoal was glowing hot and the brazier was red;
a blue flame flickered over itand 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 doorand as though prepared for some definite use
two heaps were visiblewhich appeared to bethe one a heap of
old ironthe 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 Jondrettein this lighthad rather the air of a demon than
of a smith.

The heat of the brazier was so greatthat the candle on the table
was melting on the side next the chafing-dishand was drooping over.
An old dark-lantern of copperworthy of Diogenes turned Cartouche
stood on the chimney-piece.

The brazierplaced in the fireplace itselfbeside the nearly
extinct brandssent its vapors up the chimneyand gave out no odor.

The moonentering through the four panes of the windowcast its
whiteness into the crimson and flaming garret; and to the poetic
spirit of Mariuswho 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 wasif the reader recalls what we have said
of the Gorbeau buildingadmirably chosen to serve as the theatre
of a violent and sombre deedand 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 existedthey would have been invented there.

The whole thickness of a house and a multitude of uninhabited
rooms separated this den from the boulevardand the only window
that existed opened on waste lands enclosed with walls and palisades.

Jondrette had lighted his pipeseated himself on the seatless chair
and was engaged in smoking. His wife was talking to him in a low tone.

If Marius had been Courfeyracthat is to sayone of those men who
laugh on every occasion in lifehe would have burst with laughter
when his gaze fell on the Jondrette woman. She 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 petticoatand the man's shoes which her daughter had
scorned 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 inspire confidence!"

As for Jondrettehe had not taken off the new surtoutwhich was
too large for himand which M. Leblanc had given himand his
costume continued to present that contrast of coat and trousers
which constituted the ideal of a poet in Courfeyrac's eyes.

All at onceJondrette 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 moment that you hear
the carriage stop, you will open the door, instantly, he will come up,
you will light the staircase and the corridor, and when he enters here,
you will go down stairs again as speedily as possible, you will pay
the coachman, and dismiss the fiacre.

And the money?" inquired the woman.


Jondrette fumbled in his trousers pocket and handed her five francs.

What's 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! I'll go and get one of our neighbor's.

And with a rapid movementshe opened the door of the denand went
out into the corridor.

Marius absolutely had not the time to descend from the commode
reach his bedand conceal himself beneath it.

Take the candle,cried Jondrette.

No,said sheit would embarrass me, I have the two chairs to carry.
There is moonlight.

Marius heard 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 moonlight
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 eyesdid not see Mariustook the
two chairsthe only ones which Marius possessedand went away
letting the door fall heavily 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 obeyedand Jondrette was left alone.

He placed the two chairs on opposite sides of the tableturned the
chisel in the brazierset in front of the fireplace an old screen
which masked the chafing-dishthen went to the corner where lay
the pile of ropeand bent down as though to examine something.
Marius then recognized the factthat what he had taken for a
shapeless mass was a very well-made rope-ladderwith wooden rungs
and two hooks with which to attach it.


This ladderand some large toolsveritable masses of iron
which were mingled with the old iron piled up behind the door
had not been in the Jondrette hovel in the morningand had evidently
been brought thither in the afternoonduring Marius' absence.


Those are the utensils of an edge-tool maker,thought Marius.


Had Marius been a little more learned in this linehe would have
recognized in what he took for the engines of an edge-tool maker
certain instruments which will force a lock or pick a lock
and others which will cut or slicethe two families of tools
which burglars call cadets and fauchants.


The fireplace and the two chairs were exactly opposite Marius.
The brazier being concealedthe only light in the room was now
furnished by the candle; the smallest bit of crockery on the table
or on the chimney-piece cast a large shadow. There was something
indescribably calmthreateningand hideous about this chamber.
One felt that there existed in it the anticipation of something terrible.


Jondrette had allowed his pipe to go outa serious sign of preoccupation
and had again seated himself. The candle brought out the fierce
and the fine angles of his countenance. He indulged in scowls and
in abrupt unfoldings of the right handas though he were responding
to the last counsels of a sombre inward monologue. In the course
of one of these dark replies which he was making to himself
he pulled the table drawer rapidly towards himtook out a long kitchen
knife which was concealed thereand tried the edge of its blade
on his nail. That donehe put the knife back in the drawer and shut it.


Mariuson his sidegrasped the pistol in his right pocket
drew it out and cocked it.


The pistol emitted a sharpclear clickas he cocked it.


Jondrette startedhalf roselistened a momentthen began to laugh
and said:--


What a fool I am! It's the partition cracking!


Marius kept the pistol in his hand.


CHAPTER XVIII


MARIUS' TWO CHAIRS FORM A VIS-A-VIS


Suddenlythe distant and melancholy vibration of a clock shook
the panes. Six o'clock was striking from Saint-Medard.


Jondrette marked off each stroke with a toss of his head.
When the sixth had struckhe snuffed the candle with his fingers.


Then he began to pace up and down the roomlistened at the corridor
walked on againthen listened once more.


Provided only that he comes!he mutteredthen he returned
to his chair.


He had hardly reseated himself when the door opened.


Mother Jondrette had opened itand now remained in the corridor



making a horribleamiable grimacewhich one of the holes
of the dark-lantern illuminated from below.

Enter, sir,she said.

Enter, my benefactor,repeated Jondretterising 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 hethis is for your rent and your most
pressing necessities. We will attend to the rest hereafter.

May God requite it to you, my generous benefactor!said Jondrette.

And rapidly approaching his wife:-


Dismiss the carriage!

She slipped out 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 snowwhich 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.


MeanwhileM. Leblanc had seated himself.


Jondrette had taken possession of the other chairfacing M. Leblanc.


Nowin order to form an idea of the scene which is to follow
let the reader picture to himself in his own minda cold night
the solitudes of the Salpetriere covered with snow and white as
winding-sheets in the moonlightthe taper-like lights of the street
lanterns which shone redly here and there along those tragic boulevards
and the long rows of black elmsnot a passer-by for perhaps
a quarter of a league aroundthe Gorbeau hovelat its highest
pitch of silenceof horrorand of darkness; in that building
in the midst of those solitudesin the midst of that darkness
the vast Jondrette garret lighted by a single candleand in that den
two men seated at a tableM. Leblanc tranquilJondrette smiling
and alarmingthe Jondrette womanthe female wolfin one corner
andbehind the partitionMariusinvisibleerectnot losing
a wordnot missing a single movementhis eye on the watch
and pistol in hand.


HoweverMarius experienced only an emotion of horrorbut no fear.
He clasped the stock of the pistol firmly and felt reassured.
I shall be able to stop that wretch whenever I please,
he thought.


He felt that the police were there somewhere in ambuscade
waiting for the signal agreed upon and ready to stretch out their arm.


Moreoverhe was in hopesthat this violent encounter between
Jondrette and M. Leblanc would cast some light on all the things
which he was interested in learning.



CHAPTER XIX

OCCUPYING ONE'S SELF WITH OBSCURE DEPTHS

Hardly was M. Leblanc seatedwhen he turned his eyes towards
the palletswhich 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. You will see them presently;
they will be back immediately.


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 dooras though already guarding
the exitand gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost
of combat.


She is dying,said Jondrette. "But what do you expectsir!
She has so much couragethat woman has! She's not a woman
she's an ox."


The Jondrettetouched by his complimentdeprecated it with the
affected airs of a flattered monster.


You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette!


Jondrette!said M. LeblancI thought your name was Fabantou?


Fabantou, alias Jondrette!replied the husband hurriedly.
An artistic sobriquet!


And launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders which M. Leblanc
did not catchhe 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! 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.[30] 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 which I think a great deal, but which I am willing to part with,
for I must live! Item, one must live!


[30] A democrat.
While Jondrette thus talkedwith an apparent incoherence which
detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious expression
of his physiognomyMarius raised his eyesand perceived at
the other end of the room a person whom he had not seen before.


A man had just enteredso softly that the door had not been heard
to turn on its hinges. This man wore a violet knitted vest
which was oldwornspottedcut and gaping at every fold
wide trousers of cotton velvetwooden shoes on his feetno shirt
had his neck barehis bare arms tattooedand his face smeared
with black. He had seated himself in silence on the nearest bed
andas he was behind Jondrettehe 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 Jondrettebuttoning up his coat with an air
of complaisanceyou are looking at your overcoat? It fits me!
My faith, but it fits me!

Who is that man?said M. Leblanc.

Him?ejaculated Jondrettehe's a neighbor of mine. Don't pay
any attention to him.

The neighbor was a singular-looking individual. Howevermanufactories
of chemical products abound in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Many
of the workmen might have black faces. Besides thisM. 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 Jondrette
placing his elbows on the table and contemplating M. Leblanc with
steady and tender eyesnot unlike the eyes of the boa-constrictor
I was telling you, that I have a picture to sell.

A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just entered
and seated himself on the bedbehind Jondrette.

Like the firsthis arms were bareand he had a mask of ink
or lampblack.

Although this man hadliterallyglided into the roomhe had
not been able to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight of him.

Don't mind them,said Jondrettethey 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.

He rosewent to the wall at the foot of which stood the panel which we
have already mentionedand turned it roundstill leaving it supported
against the wall. It really was something which resembled a picture
and which the candle illuminatedsomewhat. Marius could make
nothing out of itas Jondrette stood between the picture and him;
he only saw a coarse dauband 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 benefactor!
I am as much attached to it as I am to my two daughters; it recalls
souvenirs to me! But I have told you, and I will not take it back,


that I am so wretched that I will part with it.

Either by chanceor 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 menthree seated on the bedone standing near
the door-postall four with bare arms and motionlesswith faces smeared
with black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall
with closed eyesand 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 beardthe other wore his hair long. None of them had
on shoes; those who did not wear socks were barefooted.


Jondrette noticed that M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on these men.


They are friends. They are neighbors,said he. "Their faces
are black because they work in charcoal. They are chimney-builders.
Don't trouble yourself about themmy benefactorbut 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. Leblanclooking Jondrette full in the eye
and with the manner of a man who is on his guardit 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 satisfied
with a thousand crowns.


M. Leblanc sprang upplaced his back against the walland cast
a rapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on his left
on the side next the windowand the Jondrette woman and the four men
on his righton the side next the door. The four men did not stir
and did not even seem to be looking on.
Jondrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tonewith so vague an
eyeand so lamentable an intonationthat 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 Jondrette
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 table 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! Four sous a day!
How do you suppose a man is to live?

As he spokeJondrette did not look at M. Leblancwho was observing him.

M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on Jondretteand 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 timeswith 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 terribletook a step
toward M. Leblanc and cried in a voice of thunder: "That has
nothing to do with the question! Do you know me?"

CHAPTER XX

THE TRAP

The door of the garret had just opened abruptlyand allowed a view
of three men clad in blue linen blousesand masked with masks
of black paper. The first was thinand had a longiron-tipped cudgel;
the secondwho was a sort of colossuscarriedby the middle
of the handlewith the blade downwarda butcher's pole-axe for
slaughtering cattle. The thirda man with thick-set shoulders
not so slender as the firstheld 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
with the cudgelthe 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 everything around
him in the denlike a man who understands what he has fallen into
and his headdirected 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 manwho but
an instant previouslyhad borne merely the appearance of a kindly
old manhad suddenly become a sort of athleteand placed his robust
fist on the back of his chairwith a formidable and surprising gesture.

This old manwho was so firm and so brave in the presence
of such a dangerseemed to possess one of those natures which
are as courageous as they are kindboth 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 menof 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.

Marius decided that in a few seconds more the moment for intervention
would arrive, and he raised his right hand towards the ceiling,
in the direction of the corridor, in readiness to discharge 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 laugh
which was peculiar to him:-


So you do not recognize me?"

M. Leblanc looked him full in the faceand replied:-"
No."

Then Jondrette advanced to the table. He leaned across the candle
crossing his armsputting his angular and ferocious jaw close
to M. Leblanc's calm faceand advancing as far as possible without
forcing M. Leblanc to retreatandin this posture of a wild beast
who is about to bitehe exclaimed:-


My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette,
my name is Thenardier. I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil!
Do you understand? Thenardier! Now do you know me?

An almost imperceptible flush crossed M. Leblanc's browand he
replied with a voice which neither trembled nor rose above its
ordinary levelwith his accustomed placidity:-


No more than before.

Marius did not hear this reply. Any one who had seen him at
that moment through the darkness would have perceived that he
was haggardstupidthunder-struck. At the moment when Jondrette said:
My name is Thenardier,Marius had trembled in every limb
and had leaned against the wallas though he felt the cold of
a steel blade through his heart. Then his right armall ready
to discharge the signal shotdropped slowlyand at the moment
when Jondrette repeatedThenardier, do you understand?
Marius's faltering fingers had come near letting the pistol fall.
Jondretteby revealing his identityhad not moved M. Leblanc
but he had quite upset Marius. That name of Thenardierwith which

M. Leblanc did not seem to be acquaintedMarius knew well.
Let the reader recall what that name meant to him! That name
he had worn on his heartinscribed in his father's testament!

He bore it at the bottom of his mindin the depths of his memory
in that sacred injunction: "A certain Thenardier saved my life.
If my son encounters himhe will do him all the good that lies
in his power." That nameit will be rememberedwas one of the
pieties of his soul; he mingled it with the name of his father in
his worship. What! This man was that Thenardierthat inn-keeper
of Montfermeil whom he had so long and so vainly sought! He had
found him at lastand how? His father's saviour was a ruffian!
That manto whose service Marius was burning to devote himself
was a monster! That liberator of Colonel Pontmercy was on the
point of committing a crime whose scope Marius did notas yet
clearly comprehendbut which resembled an assassination!
And against whomgreat God! what a fatality! What a bitter mockery
of fate! His father had commanded him from the depths of his coffin
to do all the good in his power to this Thenardierand for four
years Marius had cherished no other thought than to acquit this
debt of his father'sand 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 Thenardier!" He could at last repay
this man for his father's lifesaved amid a hail-storm of grape-shot
on the heroic field of Waterlooand repay it with the scaffold!
He had sworn to himself that if ever he found that Thenardier
he would address him only by throwing himself at his feet; and now
he actually had found himbut it was only to deliver him over to
the executioner! His father said to him: "Succor Thenardier!"
And he replied to that adored and sainted voice by crushing Thenardier!
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
of that Marius to whom he had entrusted that man by his will!
And what a mockery to have so long worn on his breast his father's
last commandswritten in his own handonly to act in so horribly
contrary a sense! Buton the other handnow look on that trap
and not prevent it! 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 years
were pierced through and throughas it wereby this unforeseen
blow.

He shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown to themselves
he held in his hand all those beings who were moving about there
before his eyes. If he fired his pistolM. Leblanc was saved
and Thenardier lost; if he did not fireM. Leblanc would be sacrificed
andwho knows? Thenardier 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
imperious souvenirsto all those solemn vows to himselfto the
most sacred dutyto the most venerated text! Should he ignore
his father's testamentor allow the perpetration of a crime!
On the one handit seemed to him that he heard "his Ursule"
supplicating for her father and on the otherthe colonel commending
Thenardier to his care. He felt that he was going mad. His knees
gave way beneath him. And he had not even the time for deliberation
so great was the fury with which the scene before his eyes was
hastening to its catastrophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he
had thought himself the masterand which was now sweeping him away.
He was on the verge of swooning.

In the meantimeThenardierwhom we shall henceforth call by no
other namewas pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort
of frenzy and wild triumph.

He seized the candle in his fistand set it on the chimney-piece


with so violent a bang that the wick came near being extinguished
and the tallow bespattered the wall.


Then he turned to M. Leblanc with a horrible lookand spit out
these words:--


Done for! Smoked brown! Cooked! Spitchcocked!


And again he began to march back and forthin full eruption.


Ah!he criedso I've 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!
Nor a package of duds in your hand, as you had this morning here!
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 away your stock
in trade to the poor, holy man! What bosh! merry Andrew!
Ah! and you don't recognize me? Well, I recognize you, that I do!
I recognized you 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 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 pausedand seemed to be talking to himself for a moment.
One would have said that his wrath had fallen into some hole
like the Rhone; thenas though he were concluding aloud the things
which he had been saying to himself in a whisperhe smote the table
with his fistand shouted:--


And with his goody-goody air!


Andapostrophizing M. Leblanc:--


Parbleu! You made game of me in the past! You are the cause
of all my misfortunes! For fifteen hundred francs you got
a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich people,
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 but 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 poison 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 Fabantou,
that I had played comedy with Mamselle Mars, with Mamselle Muche,
that my landlord insisted on being paid tomorrow, 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 francs! And how



he swallowed my platitudes! That did amuse me. I said to myself:
`Blockhead! Come, I've got you! I lick your paws this morning,
but I'll gnaw your heart this evening!'

Thenardier paused. He was out of breath. His littlenarrow chest
panted like a forge bellows. His eyes were full of the ignoble
happiness of a feeblecrueland cowardly creaturewhich finds
that it canat lastharass what it has fearedand insult what it
has flatteredthe joy of a dwarf who should be able to set his heel
on the head of Goliaththe joy of a jackal which is beginning to rend
a sick bullso nearly dead that he can no longer defend himself
but sufficiently alive to suffer still.

M. Leblanc did not interrupt himbut said to him when he paused:-"
I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken in me. I am
a very poor manand anything but a millionnaire. I do not know you.
You are mistaking me for some other person."

Ah!roared Thenardier hoarselya pretty lie! You stick
to that pleasantry, do you! You're floundering, my old buck!
Ah! You don't remember! 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 powerfulI see
that you are a villain!

Who has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess a
susceptibility of their ownthat monsters are ticklish! At this
word "villain the female Thenardier sprang from the bed, Thenardier
grasped his chair as though he were about to crush it in his hands.
Don't you stir!" he shouted to his wife; andturning to M. Leblanc:-


Villain! Yes, I know that you call us that, you rich gentlemen!
Stop! it's true that I became bankrupt, that I am in hiding, that I
have no bread, that I have not a single sou, that I am a villain!
It's three days since I have had anything to eat, so I'm a villain!
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,
you 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 corner of the
Tour de l'Horologe, 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 Thenardier 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
suspicious character, not a bit of it! I'm not a man whose name


nobody knows, and who comes and abducts children from houses!
I'm an old French soldier, I ought to have been decorated!
I was at Waterloo, so I was! And in the 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 his name 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? It represents me. David wished to immortalize
that feat of prowess. I have that general on my back, and I am
carrying him through the grape-shot. There's the history of it!
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 my own, and I have the certificate of the fact in my pocket!
I am a soldier of Waterloo, by all the furies! 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 enormous
lot of money, or I'll exterminate you, by the thunder of the
good God!


Marius had regained some measure of control over his anguish
and was listening. The last possibility of doubt had just vanished.
It certainly was the Thenardier of the will. Marius shuddered
at that reproach of ingratitude directed against his father
and which he was on the point of so fatally justifying. His perplexity
was redoubled.


Moreoverthere was in all these words of Thenardierin his accent
in his gesturein his glance which darted flames at every word
there wasin this explosion of an evil nature disclosing everything
in that mixture of braggadocio and abjectnessof pride and pettiness
of rage and follyin that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments
in that immodesty of a malicious man tasting the voluptuous
delights of violencein that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul
in that conflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds
something which was as hideous as eviland as heart-rending as
the truth.


The picture of the masterthe painting by David which he had
proposed that M. Leblanc should purchasewas nothing else
as the reader has divinedthan the sign of his tavern painted
as it will be rememberedby himselfthe only relic which he
had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermeil.


As he had ceased to intercept Marius' visual rayMarius could
examine this thingand in the daubhe actually did recognize
a battlea background of smokeand a man carrying another man.
It was the group composed of Pontmercy and Thenardier; the sergeant
the rescuerthe 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 Montfermeilit was a resurrection;
a tomb had yawneda phantom had risen there. Marius heard his heart
beating in his templeshe had the cannon of Waterloo in his ears
his bleeding fathervaguely depicted on that sinister panel
terrified himand it seemed to him that the misshapen spectre was
gazing intently at him.


When Thenardier had recovered his breathhe turned his bloodshot
eyes on M. Leblancand said to him in a lowcurt voice:--


What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on you?


M. Leblanc held his peace.

In the midst of this silencea cracked voice launched this
lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor:-


If there's any wood to be split, I'm there!

It was the man with the axewho was growing merry.

At the same momentan enormousbristlingand clayey face made
its appearance at the doorwith a hideous laugh which exhibited
not teethbut fangs.

It was the face of the man with the butcher's axe.

Why have you taken off your mask?cried Thenardier in a rage.

For fun,retorted the man.

For the last few minutes M. Leblanc had appeared to be watching and
following all the movements of Thenardierwhoblinded and dazzled
by his own ragewas stalking to and fro in the den with full
confidence that the door was guardedand of holding an unarmed
man fasthe being armed himselfof being nine against one
supposing that the female Thenardier counted for but one man.

During his address to the man with the pole-axehe had turned
his back to M. Leblanc.

M. Leblanc seized this momentoverturned the chair with his foot and
the table with his fistand with one boundwith prodigious agility
before Thenardier had time to turn roundhe had reached the window.
To open itto scale the frameto bestride itwas 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 "chimney-builders who had flung themselves upon him.
At the same time the Thenardier woman had wound her hands in his hair.
At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up
from the corridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under the
influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up,
with a stone-breaker's hammer in his hand.

One of the chimney-builders whose smirched face was lighted up by the
candle, and in whom Marius recognized, in spite of his daubing, Panchaud,
alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, 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 Thenardier's
voice shouted:-


Don't harm him!

This desperate attempt of the victimfar from exasperating Thenardier
had calmed him. There existed in him two menthe ferocious man
and the adroit man. Up to that momentin the excess of his triumph
in the presence of the prey which had been brought downand which did
not stirthe ferocious man had prevailed; when the victim struggled
and tried to resistthe adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand.

Don't hurt him!he repeatedand without suspecting ithis first


success was to arrest the pistol in the act of being discharged
and to paralyze Mariusin whose opinion the urgency of the
case disappearedand whoin 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 colonel's saviour?

A herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in the chest

M. Leblanc had sent the old man tumblingrolling in the middle of
the roomthen with two backward sweeps of his hand he had overthrown
two more assailantsand 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 neckand were
holding him doubled up over the two "chimney-builders" on the floor.
Thusthe master of some and mastered by the restcrushing those
beneath him and stifling under those on top of himendeavoring in
vain to shake off all the efforts which were heaped upon him

M. Leblanc disappeared under the horrible group of ruffians
like the wild boar beneath a howling pile of dogs and hounds.
They succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest the window
and there they held him in awe. The Thenardier woman had not released
her clutch on his hair.

Don't you mix yourself up in this affair,said Thenardier.
You'll tear your shawl.

The Thenardier obeyedas the female wolf obeys the male wolf
with a growl.

Now,said Thenardiersearch him, you other fellows!

M. Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance.
They searched him.

He had nothing on his person except a leather purse containing
six francsand his handkerchief.

Thenardier 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 key
in the voice of a ventriloquisthe's a tough old fellow.

Thenardier went to the corner near the doorpicked up a bundle
of ropes and threw them at the men.

Tie him to the leg of the bed,said he.

Andcatching sight of the old man who had been stretched across
the room by the blow from M. Leblanc's fistand who made no movement
he added:-


Is Boulatruelle dead?

No,replied Bigrenaillehe's drunk.


Sweep him into a corner,said Thenardier.

Two of the "chimney-builders" pushed the drunken man into the corner
near the heap of old iron with their feet.

Babet,said Thenardier 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 cudgelthey all wanted
to be in it. This is a bad season. There's no business going on.

The pallet on which M. Leblanc had been thrown was a sort
of hospital bedelevated on four coarse wooden legsroughly hewn.

M. Leblanc let them take their own course.
The ruffians bound him securelyin an upright attitudewith his
feet on the ground at the head of the bedthe end which was most
remote from the windowand nearest to the fireplace.


When the last knot had been tiedThenardier took a chair and seated
himself almost facing M. Leblanc.


Thenardier no longer looked like himself; in the course of a few
moments his face had passed from unbridled violence to tranquil
and cunning sweetness.


Marius found it difficult to recognize in that polished smile
of a man in official life the almost bestial mouth which had
been foaming but a moment before; he gazed with amazement
on that fantastic and alarming metamorphosisand he felt
as a man might feel who should behold a tiger converted into a lawyer.


Monsieur--said Thenardier.


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 gentleman.


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 communicate
to you an observation which I have made which is, that you have not
uttered the faintest cry.


Thenardier was rightthis detail was correctalthough it had
escaped Marius in his agitation. M. Leblanc had barely pronounced
a few wordswithout raising his voiceand even during his
struggle with the six ruffians near the window he had preserved
the most profound and singular silence.


Thenardier 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 recommendation, but it has that in its favor.
You might fire off 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 boum, and the thunder would make a pouf.
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
you the conclusion that I draw from that fact: My dear sir,
when a man shouts, who comes? 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 understanding.


As he spoke thusit seemed as though Thenardierwho kept his eyes
fixed on M. Leblancwere trying to plunge the sharp points which
darted from the pupils into the very conscience of his prisoner.
Moreoverhis languagewhich was stamped with a sort of moderated
subdued insolence and crafty insolencewas reserved and almost choice
and in that rascalwho had been nothing but a robber a short time
previouslyone now felt "the man who had studied for the priesthood."


The silence preserved by the prisonerthat precaution which had
been carried to the point of forgetting all anxiety for his
own lifethat resistance opposed to the first impulse of nature
which is to utter a cryall thisit must be confessed
now that his attention had been called to ittroubled Marius
and affected him with painful astonishment.


Thenardier's well-grounded observation still further obscured for
Marius the dense mystery which enveloped that grave and singular
person on whom Courfeyrac had bestowed the sobriquet of Monsieur Leblanc.


But whoever he wasbound with ropessurrounded with executioners
half plungedso to speakin a grave which was closing in upon him
to the extent of a degree with every moment that passedin the
presence of Thenardier's wrathas in the presence of his sweetness
this man remained impassive; and Marius could not refrain from
admiring at such a moment the superbly melancholy visage.


Hereevidentlywas a soul which was inaccessible to terror
and which did not know the meaning of despair. Here was one
of those men who command amazement in desperate circumstances.
Extreme as was the crisisinevitable as was the catastrophe
there was nothing here of the agony of the drowning manwho opens
his horror-filled eyes under the water.


Thenardier rose in an unpretending mannerwent to the fireplace
shoved aside the screenwhich he leaned against the neighboring
palletand thus unmasked the brazier full of glowing coals
in which the prisoner could plainly see the chisel white-hot
and spotted here and there with tiny scarlet stars.


Then Thenardier returned to his seat beside M. Leblanc.


I continue,said he. "We can come to an understanding.
Let us arrange this matter in an amicable way. I was wrong to lose
my temper just nowI don't know what I was thinking ofI went
a great deal too farI said extravagant things. For example
because you are a millionnaireI told you that I exacted money
a lot of moneya deal of money. That would not be reasonable.



Mon Dieuin spite of your richesyou have expenses of your own-who
has not? I don't want to ruin youI am not a greedy fellow
after all. I am not one of those people whobecause they
have the advantage of the positionprofit by the fact to make
themselves ridiculous. WhyI'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.
Thenardier 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 reasonable, 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
Desnoyer's. 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 thousand francs
about me.' Oh! I'm not extortionate. I don't demand that.
I only ask one thing of you. Have the goodness to write what I am
about to dictate to you.

Here Thenardier paused; then he addedemphasizing his words
and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier:-


I warn you that I shall not admit that you don't know how to write.

A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile.

Thenardier pushed the table close to M. Leblancand took an inkstand
a penand a sheet of paper from the drawer which he left half open
and in which gleamed the long blade of the knife.

He placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc.

Write,said he.

The prisoner spoke at last.

How do you expect me to write? I am bound.

That's true, excuse me!ejaculated Thenardieryou are quite right.

And turning to Bigrenaille:-


Untie the gentleman's right arm.

Panchaudalias Printanieralias Bigrenailleexecuted
Thenardier's order.

When the prisoner's right arm was freeThenardier dipped the pen
in the ink and presented it to him.

Understand thoroughly, 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 disagreeable 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.
Thenardier began to dictate:-"
My daughter--"

The prisoner shudderedand raised his eyes to Thenardier.
Put down `My dear daughter'--said Thenardier.

M. Leblanc obeyed.
Thenardier continued:-"
Come instantly--"
He paused:-


You address her as thou, do you not?
Who?asked M. Leblanc.

Parbleu!cried Thenardierthe little one, the Lark.

M. Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emotion:-"
I do not know what you mean."

Go on, nevertheless,ejaculated Thenardierand he continued
to dictate:-


Come immediately, I am in absolute need of thee. The person who
will deliver this note to thee is instructed to conduct thee to me.
I am waiting for thee. Come with confidence.

M. Leblanc had written the whole of this.
Thenardier resumed:-


Ah! erase `come with confidence'; that might lead her to suppose
that everything was not as it should be, and that distrust is possible.

M. Leblanc erased the three words.
Now,pursued Thenardiersign it. What's your name?
The prisoner laid down the pen and demanded:-"
For whom is this letter?"

You know well,retorted Thenardierfor the little one I just
told you so.

It was evident that Thenardier avoided naming the young girl
in question. He said "the Lark he said the little one
but he did not pronounce her name--the precaution of a clever man
guarding his secret from his accomplices. To mention the name


was to deliver the whole affair" into their handsand 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.

Thenardierwith the movement of a catdashed his hand into his pocket
and drew out the handkerchief which had been seized on M. Leblanc.
He looked for the mark on itand held it close to the candle.

U. F. That's it. Urbain Fabre. Well, 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 doneThenardier resumed:-


Address it, `Mademoiselle Fabre,' at your house. I know that you
live a long distance from here, near Saint-Jacquesdu-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 you have not lied about
your name, you will not lie about your address. Write it yourself.

The prisoner paused thoughtfully for a momentthen he took the pen
and wrote:-


Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. Urbain Fabre's, Rue Saint-Dominique-D'Enfer,
No. 17.

Thenardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish convulsion.

Wife!he cried.

The Thenardier 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 where you left
the team?

Yes,said the man.

And depositing his axe in a cornerhe followed Madame Thenardier.

As they set offThenardier thrust his head through 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 Thenardier's hoarse voice replied:-


Be easy. I have it in my bosom.

A minute had not elapsedwhen the sound of the cracking of a whip


was heardwhich rapidly retreated and died away.


Good!growled Thenardier. "They're going at a fine pace.
At such a gallopthe bourgeoise will be back inside three-quarters
of an hour."


He drew a chair close to the fireplacefolding his arms
and presenting his muddy boots to the brazier.


My feet are cold!said he.


Only five ruffians now remained in the den with Thenardier
and the prisoner.


These menthrough the black masks or paste which covered their faces
and made of themat fear's pleasurecharcoal-burnersnegroes
or demonshad a stupid and gloomy airand it could be felt that they
perpetrated a crime like a bit of worktranquillywithout either
wrath or mercywith a sort of ennui. They were crowded together
in one corner like brutesand remained silent.


Thenardier 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 candleon which a large "stranger" had formedcast but a dim
light in the immense hovelthe brazier had grown dulland all
those monstrous heads cast misshapen shadows on the walls and ceiling.


No sound was audible except the quiet breathing of the old drunken 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 Thenardier had called the Lark?
Was she his "Ursule"? The prisoner had not seemed to be affected
by that wordthe 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 longer named Ursule. This was what Marius perceived
most clearly of all.


A sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post
from which he was observing and commanding this whole scene.
There he stoodalmost incapable of movement or reflectionas though
annihilated by the abominable things viewed at such close quarters.
He waitedin the hope of some incidentno matter of what nature
since he could not collect his thoughts and did not know upon what
course to decide.


In any case,he saidif she is the Lark, I shall see her,
for the Thenardier woman is to bring her hither. That will be
the end, and then I will give my life and my blood if necessary,
but I will deliver her! Nothing shall stop me.


Nearly half an hour passed in this manner. Thenardier seemed
to be absorbed in gloomy reflectionsthe prisoner did not stir.
StillMarius fancied that at intervalsand for the last few moments
he had heard a faintdull noise in the direction of the prisoner.


All at onceThenardier addressed the prisoner:



By the way, Monsieur Fabre, I might as well say it to you at once.

These few words appeared to be the beginning of an explanation.
Marius strained his ears.

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 young lady might make no difficulty
about following her. They will both enter the carriage 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
hundred thousand francs, she will be returned to you. If you 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 pause
Thenardier continued:-


It's very simple, as you see. There'll be no harm done unless you wish
that there should be harm done. I'm telling you how things stand.
I warn you so that you may be prepared.

He paused: the prisoner did not break the silenceand Thenardier
resumed:-


As soon 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 Marius' 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 darkness?
Whither? And what if it were she!

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 wouldnone the lessbe out of reach with
the young girland Marius reflected on Thenardier's words
of which he perceived the bloody significance: "If you
have me arrestedmy comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark."

Nowit was not alone by the colonel's testamentit was by his
own loveit was by the peril of the one he lovedthat he felt
himself restrained.

This frightful situationwhich had already lasted above half an hour
was changing its aspect every moment.

Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succession all
the most heart-breaking conjecturesseeking hope and finding none.

The tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal silence
of the den.


In the midst of this silencethe door at the bottom of the staircase
was heard to open and shut again.

The prisoner made a movement in his bonds.

Here's the bourgeoise,said Thenardier.

He had hardly uttered the wordswhen the Thenardier woman did in fact
rush hastily into the roomredpantingbreathlesswith flaming eyes
and criedas 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:-


Nobody there! Rue Saint-Dominique, No. 17, no Monsieur Urbain Fabre!
They know not what it means!

She pausedchokingthen went on:-


Monsieur Thenardier! That old fellow has duped you! You are
too good, you see! If it had been me, I'd have chopped the beast
in four quarters to begin with! And if he 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 men 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 the porter and the portress, a fine,
stout woman, and they know nothing about him!

Marius breathed freely once more.

SheUrsule or the Larkhe no longer knew what to call her
was safe.

While his exasperated wife vociferatedThenardier had seated
himself on the table.

For several minutes he uttered not a wordbut swung his right foot
which hung downand stared at the brazier with an air of savage revery.

Finallyhe said to the prisonerwith 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 cut.
The prisoner was only attached to the bed now by one leg.

Before the seven men had time to collect their senses and dash forward
he had bent down into the fireplacehad stretched out his hand
to the brazierand had then straightened himself up again
and now Thenardierthe female Thenardierand the ruffians
huddled in amazement at the extremity of the hovelstared at him
in stupefactionas almost free and in a formidable attitude
he brandished above his head the red-hot chiselwhich emitted
a threatening glow.


The judicial examination to which the ambush in the Gorbeau house
eventually gave riseestablished the fact that a large sou piece
cut and worked in a peculiar fashionwas found in the garret
when the police made their descent on it. This sou piece was
one of those marvels of industrywhich are engendered by the
patience of the galleys in the shadows and for the 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 galleysjust as there are Villons in language.
The unhappy wretch who aspires to deliverance finds means sometimes
without toolssometimes with a common wooden-handled knife
to saw a sou into two thin platesto hollow out these plates without
affecting the coinage stampand to make a furrow on the edge
of the sou in such a manner that the plates will adhere again.
This can be screwed together and unscrewed at will; it is a box.
In this box he hides a watch-springand this watch-spring
properly handledcuts good-sized chains and bars of iron.
The unfortunate convict is supposed to possess merely a sou; not at all
he possesses liberty. It was a large sou of this sort which
during the subsequent search of the policewas 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 person
at the moment when the ruffians searched himthat he contrived
to conceal it in his handand that afterwardhaving his right
hand freehe unscrewed itand used it as a saw to cut the cords
which fastened himwhich would explain the faint noise and almost
imperceptible movements which Marius had observed.


As he had not been able to bend downfor 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 Thenardier. "He still holds by one leg
and he can't get away. I'll answer for that. I tied that paw
for him."


In the meanwhilethe 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 sleeveand added:--


See here.


At the same moment he extended his armand 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 audibleand the odor
peculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel.


Marius reeled in utter horrorthe very ruffians shudderedhardly a
muscle of the old man's face contractedand while the red-hot iron
sank into the smoking woundimpassive and almost augusthe fixed
on Thenardier his beautiful glancein which there was no hatred
and where suffering vanished in serene majesty.


With grand and lofty naturesthe revolts of the flesh and the senses



when subjected to physical suffering cause the soul to spring forth
and make it appear on the browjust as rebellions among the soldiery
force the captain to show himself.


Wretches!said hehave no more fear of me than I have for you!


Andtearing the chisel from the woundhe hurled it through the window
which had been left open; the horribleglowing tool disappeared
into the nightwhirling as it flewand fell far away on the snow.


The prisoner resumed:--


Do what you please with me.He was disarmed.


Seize him!said Thenardier.


Two of the ruffians laid their hands on his shoulderand the masked
man with the ventriloquist's voice took up his station in front
of himready to smash his skull at the slightest movement.


At the same timeMarius heard below himat the base of the partition
but so near that he could not see who was speakingthis 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.


Thenardier walked slowly towards the tableopened the 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 consciencethe one enjoining him to respect his
father's testamentthe other crying to him to rescue the prisoner.
These two voices continued uninterruptedly that struggle which
tormented him to agony. Up to that 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.


Howeverthe peril was urgentthe last bounds of delay had
been reached; Thenardier was standing thoughtfully a few paces
distant from the prisoner.


Marius cast a wild glance about himthe last mechanical resource
of despair. All at once a shudder ran through him.


At his feeton the tablea bright ray of light from the full
moon illuminated and seemed to point out to him a sheet of paper.
On this paper he read the following line written that very morning
in large lettersby the eldest of the Thenardier girls:--


THE BOBBIES ARE HERE.


An ideaa flashcrossed Marius' mind; this was the expedient
of which he was in searchthe solution of that frightful problem
which was torturing himof sparing the assassin and saving the victim.


He knelt down on his commodestretched out his armseized the
sheet of papersoftly detached a bit of plaster from the wall
wrapped the paper round itand tossed the whole through the crevice
into the middle of the den.



It was high time. Thenardier had conquered his last fears or his
last scruplesand was advancing on the prisoner.

Something is falling!cried the Thenardier 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 Thenardier.

Pardie!ejaculated his wifewhere do you suppose it came from?
Through the window, of course.

I saw it pass,said Bigrenaille.

Thenardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it close to the candle.

It's in Eponine's handwriting. The devil!

He made a sign to his wifewho hastily drew nearand showed her the
line written on the sheet of paperthen he added in a subdued voice:-


Quick! The ladder! Let's leave the bacon in the mousetrap
and decamp!

Without cutting that man's throat?askedthe Thenardier woman.

We haven't the time.

Through what?resumed Bigrenaille.

Through the window,replied Thenardier. "Since Ponine has
thrown the stone through the windowit indicates that the house
is not watched on that side."

The mask with the ventriloquist's voice deposited his huge key
on the floorraised both arms in the airand opened and clenched
his fiststhree times rapidly without uttering a word.

This was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks
for action on board ship.

The ruffians who were holding the prisoner released him; in the
twinkling of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outside the window
and solidly fastened to the sill by the two iron hooks.

The prisoner paid no attention to what was going on around him.
He seemed to be dreaming or praying.

As soon as the ladder was arrangedThenardier cried:

Come! the bourgeoise first!

And he rushed headlong to the window.

But just as he was about to throw his leg overBigrenaille seized
him roughly by the collar.

Not much, come now, you old dog, after us!

After us!yelled the ruffians.


You are children,said Thenardierwe are losing time.
The police are on our heels.

Well, said the ruffians, let's draw lots to see who shall go
down first."

Thenardier exclaimed:-


Are you mad! Are you crazy! What a pack of boobies! You want
to waste time, do you? Draw lots, do you? By a wet finger,
by a short straw! With written names! Thrown into a hat!--

Would you like my hat?cried a voice on the threshold.

All wheeled round. It was Javert.

He had his hat in his handand was holding it out to them with
a smile.

CHAPTER XXI

ONE SHOULD ALWAYS BEGIN BY ARRESTING THE VICTIMS

At nightfallJavert had posted his men and had gone into ambush
himself between the trees of the Rue de la Barrieredes-Gobelins
which faced the Gorbeau houseon the other side of the boulevard.
He had begun operations by opening "his pockets and dropping
into it the two young girls who were charged with keeping a watch
on the approaches to the den. But he had only caged" Azelma.
As for Eponineshe was not at her postshe had disappeared
and he had not been able to seize her. Then Javert had made a
point and had bent his ear to waiting for the signal agreed upon.
The comings and goings of the fiacres had greatly agitated him.
At lasthe had grown impatientandsure that there was a nest there
sure of being in "luck having recognized many of the ruffians who
had entered, he had finally decided to go upstairs without waiting for
the pistol-shot.

It will be remembered that he had Marius' pass-key.

He had arrived just in the nick of time.

The terrified ruffians flung themselves on the arms which they
had abandoned in all the corners at the moment of flight. In less
than a second, these seven men, horrible to behold, had grouped
themselves in an attitude of defence, one with his meat-axe, another
with his key, another with his bludgeon, the rest with shears,
pincers, and hammers. Thenardier had his knife in his fist.
The Thenardier woman snatched up an enormous paving-stone which lay
in the angle of the window and served her daughters as an ottoman.

Javert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple of paces into
the room, with arms folded, his cane under one arm, his sword
in its sheath.

Halt there said he. You shall not go out by the window
you shall go through the door. It's less unhealthy. There are seven
of youthere are fifteen of us. Don't let's fall to collaring
each other like men of Auvergne."


Bigrenaille drew out a pistol which he had kept concealed under his
blouseand put it in Thenardier's handwhispering in the latter's ear:-


It's Javert. I don't dare fire at that man. Do you dare?

Parbleu!replied Thenardier.
Well, then, fire.

Thenardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert.

Javertwho was only three paces from himstared intently at him
and contented himself with saying:-"
Come nowdon't fire. You'll miss fire."

Thenardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missed fire.
Didn't I tell you so!ejaculated Javert.


Bigrenaille flung his bludgeon at Javert's feet.
You're the emperor of the fiends! I surrender.


And you?Javert asked the rest of the ruffians.
They replied:--


So do we.
Javert began again calmly:--


That's right, that's good, I said so, you are nice fellows.


I only ask one thing said Bigrenaille, and that isthat I
may not be denied tobacco while I am in confinement."

Granted,said Javert.
And turning round and calling behind him:--


Come in now!


A squad of policemensword in handand agents armed with bludgeons
and cudgelsrushed in at Javert's summons. They pinioned the ruffians.

This throng of mensparely lighted by the single candle
filled the den with shadows.

Handcuff them all!shouted Javert.

Come on!cried a voice which was not the voice of a man
but of which no one would ever have said: "It is a woman's voice."

The Thenardier woman had entrenched herself in one of the angles
of the windowand it was she who had just given vent to this roar.

The policemen and agents recoiled.

She had thrown off her shawl. but retained her bonnet;
her husbandwho was crouching behind herwas almost hidden under
the discarded shawland she was shielding him with her body
as she elevated the paving-stone above her head with the gesture
of a giantess on the point of hurling a rock.


Beware!she shouted.


All crowded back towards the corridor. A broad open space was
cleared in the middle of the garret.


The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians who had allowed
themselves to be pinionedand muttered in hoarse and guttural accents:--


The cowards!


Javert smiledand advanced across the open space which the Thenardier
was devouring with her eyes.


Don't come near me,she criedor I'll crush you.


What a grenadier!ejaculated Javert; "you've got a beard like
a manmotherbut I have claws like a woman."


And he continued to advance.


The Thenardierdishevelled and terribleset her feet far apart
threw herself backwardsand hurled the paving-stone at Javert's head.
Javert duckedthe stone passed over himstruck the wall behind
knocked off a huge piece of plasteringandrebounding from angle
to angle across the hovelnow luckily almost emptyrested at
Javert's feet.


At the same momentJavert reached the Thenardier couple.
One of his big hands descended on the woman's shoulder; the other
on the husband's head.


The handcuffs!he shouted.


The policemen trooped in in forceand in a few seconds Javert's
order had been executed.


The Thenardier femaleoverwhelmedstared at her pinioned hands
and at those of her husbandwho had dropped to the floor
and exclaimedweeping:--


My daughters!


They are in the jug,said Javert.


In the meanwhilethe agents had caught sight of the drunken man
asleep behind the doorand were shaking him:--


He awokestammering:--


Is it all over, Jondrette?


Yes,replied Javert.


The six pinioned ruffians were standingand still preserved their
spectral mien; all three besmeared with blackall three masked.


Keep on your masks,said Javert.


And passing them in review with a glance of a Frederick II.
at a Potsdam paradehe said to the three "chimney-builders":--


Good day, Bigrenaille! good day, Brujon! good day, Deuxmilliards!



Then turning to the three masked menhe said to the man with
the meat-axe:-


Good day, Gueulemer!

And to the man with the cudgel:-


Good day, Babet!

And to the ventriloquist:-


Your health, Claquesous.

At that momenthe caught sight of the ruffians' prisoner. who
ever since the entrance of the policehad not uttered a word
and had held his head down.

Untie the gentleman!said Javertand let no one go out!

That saidhe seated himself with sovereign dignity before the table
where the candle and the writing-materials still remaineddrew a
stamped paper from his pocketand began to prepare his report.

When he had written the first lineswhich are formulas that never vary
he raised his eyes:-


Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen bound step forward.

The policemen glanced round them.

Well,said Javertwhere is he?

The prisoner of the ruffiansM. LeblancM. Urbain Fabre
the father of Ursule or the Larkhad disappeared.

The door was guardedbut the window was not. As soon as he had
found himself released from his bondsand while Javert was drawing
up his reporthe had taken advantage of confusionthe crowd
the darknessand of a moment when the general attention was diverted
from himto dash out of the window.

An agent sprang to the opening and looked out. He saw no one outside.

The rope ladder was still shaking.

The devil!ejaculated Javert between his teethhe must have
been the most valuable of the lot.

CHAPTER XXII

THE LITTLE ONE WHO WAS CRYING IN VOLUME TWO

On the day following that on which these events took place in the
house on the Boulevard de l'Hopitala childwho seemed to be coming
from the direction of the bridge of Austerlitzwas ascending the
side-alley on the right in the direction of the Barriere de Fontainebleau.

Night had fully come.

This lad was palethinclad in ragswith linen trousers
in the month of Februaryand was singing at the top of his voice.


At the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquiera bent old woman was
rummaging in a heap of refuse by the light of a street lantern;
the child jostled her as he passedthen recoiledexclaiming:-


Hello! And I took it for an enormous, enormous dog!

He pronounced the word enormous the second time with a jeering swell
of the voice which might be tolerably well represented by capitals:
an enormous, ENORMOUS dog.

The old woman straightened herself up in a fury.

Nasty brat!she grumbled. "If I hadn't been bending over
I know well where I would have planted my foot on you."

The boy was already far away.

Kisss! kisss!he cried. "After thatI don't think I was mistaken!"

The old womanchoking with indignationnow rose completely upright
and the red gleam of the lantern fully lighted up her livid face
all hollowed into angles and wrinkleswith crow's-feet meeting the
corners of her mouth.

Her body was lost in the darknessand only her head was visible.
One would have pronounced her a mask of Decrepitude carved out by a
light from the night.

The boy surveyed her.

Madame,said hedoes not possess that style of beauty which
pleases me.

He then pursued his roadand resumed his song:-


Le roi Coupdesabot
S'en allait a la chasse,
A la chasse aux corbeaux--


At the end of these three lines he paused. He had arrived in front
of No. 50-52and finding the door fastenedhe began to assault it
with resounding and heroic kickswhich betrayed rather the man's
shoes that he was wearing than the child's feet which he owned.


In the meanwhilethe very old woman whom he had encountered at
the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier hastened up behind him
uttering clamorous cries and indulging in lavish and exaggerated gestures.


What's this? What's this? Lord God! He's battering the door down!
He's knocking the house down.


The kicks continued.


The old woman strained her lungs.


Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays?


All at once she paused.


She had recognized the gamin.


What! so it's that imp!



Why, it's the old lady,said the lad. "Good dayBougonmuche.
I have come to see my ancestors."

The old woman retorted with a composite grimaceand a wonderful
improvisation of hatred taking advantage of feebleness and ugliness
which wasunfortunatelywasted in the dark:-


There's no one here.

Bah!retorted the boywhere's my father?

At La Force.

Come, now! And my mother?

At Saint-Lazare.

Well! And my sisters?

At the Madelonettes.

The lad scratched his head behind his earstared at Ma'am Bougon
and said:-


Ah!

Then he executed a pirouette on his heel; a moment laterthe old woman
who had remained on the door-stepheard him singing in his clear
young voiceas he plunged under the black elm-treesin the wintry wind:-


Le roi Coupdesabot[31]
S'en allait a la chasse,
A la chasse aux corbeaux,
Monte sur deux echasses.
Quand on passait dessous,
On lui payait deux sous.


[31] King Bootkick went a-hunting after crowsmounted on two stilts.
When one passed beneath themone paid him two sous.
[The end of Volume III. "Marius"]

VOLUME IV.

SAINT-DENIS.

THE IDYL IN THE RUE PLUMET AND THE EPIC IN THE RUE SAINT-DENIS

BOOK FIRST.--A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY

CHAPTER I

WELL CUT

1831 and 1832the two years which are immediately connected with


the Revolution of Julyform one of the most peculiar and striking
moments of history. These two years rise like two mountains midway
between those which precede and those which follow them. They have
a revolutionary grandeur. Precipices are to be distinguished there.
The social massesthe very assizes of civilizationthe solid group
of superposed and adhering intereststhe century-old profiles of the
ancient French formationappear and disappear in them every instant
athwart the storm clouds of systemsof passionsand of theories.
These appearances and disappearances have been designated as movement
and resistance. At intervalstruththat daylight of the human soul
can be descried shining there.


This remarkable epoch is decidedly circumscribed and is beginning
to be sufficiently distant from us to allow of our grasping
the principal lines even at the present day.


We shall make the attempt.


The Restoration had been one of those intermediate phaseshard to define
in which there is fatiguebuzzingmurmurssleeptumultand which
are nothing else than the arrival of a great nation at a halting-place.


These epochs are peculiar and mislead the politicians who desire
to convert them to profit. In the beginningthe nation asks nothing
but repose; it thirsts for but one thingpeace; it has but one ambition
to be small. Which is the translation of remaining tranquil.
Of great eventsgreat hazardsgreat adventuresgreat menthank God
we have seen enoughwe have them heaped higher than our heads. We would
exchange Caesar for Prusiasand Napoleon for the King of Yvetot.
What a good little king was he!We have marched since daybreak
we have reached the evening of a long and toilsome day; we have
made our first change with Mirabeauthe second with Robespierre
the third with Bonaparte; we are worn out. Each one demands a bed.


Devotion which is wearyheroism which has grown oldambitions which
are satedfortunes which are madeseekdemandimploresolicit
what? A shelter. They have it. They take possession of peace
of tranquillityof leisure; beholdthey are content. Butat the
same time certain facts arisecompel recognitionand knock at
the door in their turn. These facts are the products of revolutions
and warsthey arethey existthey have the right to install
themselves in societyand they do install themselves therein;
and most of the timefacts are the stewards of the household
and fouriers[32] who do nothing but prepare lodgings for principles.


[32] In olden timesfouriers were the officials who preceded
the Court and allotted the lodgings.
Thisthenis what appears to philosophical politicians:--

At the same time that weary men demand reposeaccomplished facts
demand guarantees. Guarantees are the same to facts that repose
is to men.

This is what England demanded of the Stuarts after the Protector;
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" thembut in realityit is the force of things
which gives them. A profound truthand 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 familywhich returned to France when Napoleon 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 divinethat France possessed nothing
and that the political right conceded in the charter of Louis XVIII.
was merely a branch of the right divinewas detached by the House
of Bourbon and graciously given to the people until such day as it
should please the King to reassume it. Stillthe House of Bourbon
should have feltfrom the displeasure created by the giftthat it
did not come from it.


This house was churlish to the nineteenth century. It put on an
ill-tempered look at every development of the nation. To make use
of a trivial wordthat is to sayof a popular and a true word
it looked glum. The people saw this.


It thought it possessed strength because the Empire had been carried
away before it like a theatrical stage-setting. It did not perceive
that it haditselfbeen brought in in the same fashion. It did
not perceive that it also lay in that hand which had removed Napoleon.


It thought that it had rootsbecause it was the past. It was mistaken;
it formed a part of the pastbut the whole past was France.
The roots of French society were not fixed in the Bourbons
but in the nations. These obscure and lively roots constituted
not the right of a familybut the history of a people.
They were everywhereexcept under the throne.


The House of Bourbon was to France the illustrious and bleeding knot
in her historybut was no longer the principal element of her destiny
and the necessary base of her politics. She could get along without
the Bourbons; she had done without them for two and twenty years;
there had been a break of continuity; they did not suspect the fact.
And how should they have suspected itthey who fancied that Louis XVII.
reigned on the 9th of Thermidorand that Louis XVIII. was reigning
at the battle of Marengo? Neversince the origin of history
had princes been so blind in the presence of facts and the portion
of divine authority which facts contain and promulgate. Never had
that pretension here below which is called the right of kings denied
to such a point the right from on high.


A capital error which led this family to lay its hand once more
on the guarantees "granted" in 1814on the concessionsas it
termed them. Sad. A sad thing! What it termed its concessions
were our conquests; what it termed our encroachments were our rights.


When the hour seemed to it to have comethe Restoration
supposing itself victorious over Bonaparte and well-rooted in
the countrythat is to saybelieving itself to be strong and deep
abruptly decided on its plan of actionand risked its stroke.
One morning it drew itself up before the face of Franceandelevating
its voiceit contested the collective title and the individual
right of the nation to sovereigntyof the citizen to liberty.
In other wordsit denied to the nation that which made it a nation
and to the citizen that which made him a citizen.


This is the foundation of those famous acts which are called
the ordinances of July. The Restoration fell.


It fell justly. Butwe admitit had not been absolutely hostile
to all forms of progress. Great things had been accomplished
with it alongside.



Under the Restorationthe nation had grown accustomed to calm discussion
which had been lacking under the Republicand 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 had the word under Bonaparte; it was under Louis XVIII.
and Charles X. that it was the turn of intelligence to have
the word. The wind ceasedthe torch was lighted once more.
On the lofty heightsthe pure light of mind could be seen flickering.
A magnificentusefuland charming spectacle. For a space of
fifteen yearsthose great principles which are so old for the thinker
so new for the statesmancould be seen at work in perfect peace
on the public square; equality before the lawliberty of conscience
liberty of speechliberty of the pressthe accessibility of
all aptitudes to all functions. Thus it proceeded until 1830.
The Bourbons were an instrument of civilization which broke in the
hands of Providence.


The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeurnot on their side
but on the side of the nation. They quitted the throne with gravity
but without authority; their descent into the night was not one of
those solemn disappearances which leave a sombre emotion in history;
it was neither the spectral calm of Charles I.nor the eagle scream
of Napoleon. They departedthat is all. They laid down the crown
and retained no aureole. They were worthybut they were not august.
They lackedin a certain measurethe majesty of their misfortune.
Charles X. during the voyage from Cherbourgcausing a round table
to be cut over into a square tableappeared to be more anxious
about imperilled etiquette than about the crumbling monarchy.
This diminution saddened devoted men who loved their personsand serious
men who honored their race. The populace was admirable. The nation
attacked one morning with weaponsby a sort of royal insurrection
felt itself in the possession of so much force that it did not go
into a rage. It defended itselfrestrained itselfrestored things
to their placesthe government to lawthe Bourbons to exilealas! and
then halted! It took the old king Charles X. from beneath that dais
which had sheltered Louis XIV. and set him gently on the ground.
It touched the royal personages only with sadness and precaution.
It was not one manit was not a few menit was France
France entireFrance victorious and intoxicated with her victory
who seemed to be coming to herselfand who put into practice
before the eyes of the whole worldthese grave words of Guillaume
du Vair after the day of the Barricades:--


It is easy for those who are accustomed to skim the favors
of the great, and to spring, like a bird from bough to bough,
from an afflicted fortune to a flourishing one, to show themselves
harsh towards their Prince in his adversity; but as for me,
the fortune of my Kings and especially of my afflicted Kings,
will always be venerable to me.


The Bourbons carried away with them respectbut not regret.
As we have just statedtheir misfortune was greater than they were.
They faded out in the horizon.


The Revolution of July instantly had friends and enemies throughout
the entire world. The first rushed toward her with joy and enthusiasm
the others turned awayeach according to his nature. At the first blush
the princes of Europethe owls of this dawnshut their eyes
wounded and stupefiedand only opened them to threaten.
A fright which can be comprehendeda wrath which can be pardoned.
This strange revolution had hardly produced a shock; it had not even
paid to vanquished royalty the honor of treating it as an enemy
and of shedding its blood. In the eyes of despotic governments



who are always interested in having liberty calumniate itself
the Revolution of July committed the fault of being formidable
and of remaining gentle. Nothinghoweverwas attempted or
plotted against it. The most discontentedthe most irritated
the most tremblingsaluted it; whatever our egotism and our rancor
may bea mysterious respect springs from events in which we are
sensible of the collaboration of some one who is working above man.


The Revolution of July is the triumph of right overthrowing the fact.
A thing which is full of splendor.


Right overthrowing the fact. Hence the brilliancy of the Revolution
of 1830hencealsoits mildness. Right triumphant has no need
of being violent.


Right is the just and the true.


The property of right is to remain eternally beautiful and pure.
The facteven when most necessary to all appearanceseven when most
thoroughly accepted by contemporariesif it exist only as a fact
and if it contain only too little of rightor none at all
is infallibly destined to becomein the course of timedeformed
impureperhapseven monstrous. If one desires to learn at one blow
to what degree of hideousness the fact can attainviewed at the
distance of centurieslet him look at Machiavelli. Machiavelli is
not an evil geniusnor a demonnor a miserable and cowardly writer;
he is nothing but the fact. And he is not only the Italian fact;
he is the European factthe fact of the sixteenth century.
He seems hideousand so he isin the presence of the moral idea
of the nineteenth.


This conflict of right and fact has been going on ever since the origin
of society. To terminate this duelto amalgamate the pure idea
with the humane realityto cause right to penetrate pacifically
into the fact and the fact into rightthat is the task of sages.


CHAPTER II


BADLY SEWED


But the task of sages is one thingthe task of clever men is another.
The Revolution of 1830 came to a sudden halt.


As soon as a revolution has made the coastthe skilful make haste
to prepare the shipwreck.


The skilful in our century have conferred on themselves the title
of Statesmen; so that this wordstatesmenhas ended by becoming
somewhat of a slang word. It must be borne in mindin fact
that wherever there is nothing but skillthere is necessarily pettiness.
To say "the skilful" amounts to saying "the mediocre."


In the same wayto say "statesmen" is sometimes equivalent
to saying "traitors." Ifthenwe are to believe the skilful
revolutions like the Revolution of July are severed arteries; a prompt
ligature is indispensable. The righttoo grandly proclaimedis shaken.
Alsoright once firmly fixedthe state must be strengthened.
Liberty once assuredattention must be directed to power.


Here the sages are notas yetseparated from the skilful
but they begin to be distrustful. Powervery good. Butin the



first placewhat is power? In the secondwhence comes it?
The skilful do not seem to hear the murmured objectionand they
continue their manoeuvres.

According to the politicianswho are ingenious in putting the
mask of necessity on profitable fictionsthe first requirement
of a people after a revolutionwhen this people forms part
of a monarchical continentis to procure for itself a dynasty.
In this waysay theypeacethat is to saytime to dress
our woundsand to repair the housecan be had after a revolution.
The dynasty conceals the scaffolding and covers the ambulance.
Nowit is not always easy to procure a dynasty.

If it is absolutely necessarythe first man of genius or even the first
man of fortune who comes to hand suffices for the manufacturing of
a king. You havein the first caseNapoleon; in the secondIturbide.

But the first family that comes to hand does not suffice to make
a dynasty. There is necessarily required a certain modicum of antiquity
in a raceand the wrinkle of the centuries cannot be improvised.

If we place ourselves at the point of view of the "statesmen after
making all allowances, of course, after a revolution, what are the
qualities of the king which result from it? He may be and it is useful
for him to be a revolutionary; that is to say, a participant in his
own person in that revolution, that he should have lent a hand to it,
that he should have either compromised or distinguished himself therein,
that he should have touched the axe or wielded the sword in it.

What are the qualities of a dynasty? It should be national; that is
to say, revolutionary at a distance, not through acts committed,
but by reason of ideas accepted. It should be composed of past
and be historic; be composed of future and be sympathetic.

All this explains why the early revolutions contented themselves
with finding a man, Cromwell or Napoleon; and why the second
absolutely insisted on finding a family, the House of Brunswick
or the House of Orleans.

Royal houses resemble those Indian fig-trees, each branch of which,
bending over to the earth, takes root and becomes a fig-tree itself.
Each branch may become a dynasty. On the sole condition that it shall
bend down to the people.

Such is the theory of the skilful.

Here, then, lies the great art: to make a little render to success
the sound of a catastrophe in order that those who profit by it may
tremble from it also, to season with fear every step that is taken,
to augment the curve of the transition to the point of retarding progress,
to dull that aurora, to denounce and retrench the harshness of enthusiasm,
to cut all angles and nails, to wad triumph, to muffle up right,
to envelop the giant-people in flannel, and to put it to bed
very speedily, to impose a diet on that excess of health, to put
Hercules on the treatment of a convalescent, to dilute the event
with the expedient, to offer to spirits thirsting for the ideal
that nectar thinned out with a potion, to take one's precautions
against too much success, to garnish the revolution with a shade.

1830 practised this theory, already applied to England by 1688.

1830 is a revolution arrested midway. Half of progress, quasi-right. Now,
logic knows not the almost absolutely as the sun knows not the candle.


Who arrests revolutions half-way? The bourgeoisie?

Why?

Because the bourgeoisie is interest which has reached satisfaction.
Yesterday it was appetite, to-day it is plenitude, to-morrow it will
be satiety.

The phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon was reproduced in 1830 after
Charles X.

The attempt has been made, and wrongly, to make a class of
the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie is simply the contented portion
of the people. The bourgeois is the man who now has time to sit down.
A chair is not a caste.

But through a desire to sit down too soon, one may arrest the very march
of the human race. This has often been the fault of the bourgeoisie.

One is not a class because one has committed a fault. Selfishness is
not one of the divisions of the social order.

Moreover, we must be just to selfishness. The state to which
that part of the nation which is called the bourgeoisie aspired
after the shock of 1830 was not the inertia which is complicated
with indifference and laziness, and which contains a little shame;
it was not the slumber which presupposes a momentary forgetfulness
accessible to dreams; it was the halt.

The halt is a word formed of a singular double
and almost contradictory sense: a troop
on the march, that is to say, movement; a stand, that is to say, repose.

The halt is the restoration of forces; it is repose armed and on
the alert; it is the accomplished fact which posts sentinels
and holds itself on its guard.

The halt presupposes the combat of yesterday and the combat of to-morrow.

It is the partition between 1830 and 1848.

What we here call combat may also be designated as progress.

The bourgeoisie then, as well as the statesmen, required a man
who should express this word Halt. An Although-Because.
A composite individuality, signifying revolution and
signifying stability, in other terms, strengthening
the present by the evident compatibility of the past with the future.

This man was already found." His name was Louis Philippe d'Orleans.

The 221 made Louis Philippe King. Lafayette undertook the coronation.

He called it the best of republics. The town-hall of Paris took
the place of the Cathedral of Rheims.

This substitution of a half-throne for a whole throne was "the work
of 1830."

When the skilful had finishedthe immense vice of their
solution became apparent. All this had been accomplished
outside the bounds of absolute right. Absolute right cried:
I protest!thenterrible to sayit retired into the darkness.


CHAPTER III

LOUIS PHILIPPE

Revolutions have a terrible arm and a happy handthey strike firmly
and choose well. Even incompleteeven debased and abused and reduced
to the state of a junior revolution like the Revolution of 1830
they nearly always retain sufficient providential lucidity to prevent
them from falling amiss. Their eclipse is never an abdication.


Neverthelesslet us not boast too loudly; revolutions also may
be deceivedand grave errors have been seen.


Let us return to 1830. 1830in its deviationhad good luck.
In the establishment which entitled itself order after the revolution
had been cut shortthe King amounted to more than royalty.
Louis Philippe was a rare man.


The son of a father to whom history will accord certain attenuating
circumstancesbut also as worthy of esteem as that father had been
of blame; possessing all private virtues and many public virtues;
careful of his healthof his fortuneof his personof his affairs
knowing the value of a minute and not always the value of a year;
soberserenepeaceablepatient; a good man and a good prince;
sleeping with his wifeand having in his palace lackeys charged
with the duty of showing the conjugal bed to the bourgeois
an ostentation of the regular sleeping-apartment which had become
useful after the former illegitimate displays of the elder branch;
knowing all the languages of Europeandwhat is more rare
all the languages of all interestsand speaking them; an admirable
representative of the "middle class but outstripping it, and in every
way greater than it; possessing excellent sense, while appreciating
the blood from which he had sprung, counting most of all on his
intrinsic worth, and, on the question of his race, very particular,
declaring himself Orleans and not Bourbon; thoroughly the first
Prince of the Blood Royal while he was still only a Serene Highness,
but a frank bourgeois from the day he became king; diffuse in public,
concise in private; reputed, but not proved to be a miser;
at bottom, one of those economists who are readily prodigal at their
own fancy or duty; lettered, but not very sensitive to letters;
a gentleman, but not a chevalier; simple, calm, and strong;
adored by his family and his household; a fascinating talker,
an undeceived statesman, inwardly cold, dominated by immediate interest,
always governing at the shortest range, incapable of rancor and
of gratitude, making use without mercy of superiority on mediocrity,
clever in getting parliamentary majorities to put in the wrong
those mysterious unanimities which mutter dully under thrones;
unreserved, sometimes imprudent in his lack of reserve, but with
marvellous address in that imprudence; fertile in expedients,
in countenances, in masks; making France fear Europe and Europe France!
Incontestably fond of his country, but preferring his family;
assuming more domination than authority and more authority than dignity,
a disposition which has this unfortunate property, that as it turns
everything to success, it admits of ruse and does not absolutely
repudiate baseness, but which has this valuable side, that it
preserves politics from violent shocks, the state from fractures,
and society from catastrophes; minute, correct, vigilant, attentive,
sagacious, indefatigable; contradicting himself at times and giving
himself the lie; bold against Austria at Ancona, obstinate against
England in Spain, bombarding Antwerp, and paying off Pritchard;
singing the Marseillaise with conviction, inaccessible to despondency,



to lassitude, to the taste for the beautiful and the ideal,
to daring generosity, to Utopia, to chimeras, to wrath, to vanity,
to fear; possessing all the forms of personal intrepidity; a general
at Valmy; a soldier at Jemappes; attacked eight times by regicides
and always smiling. brave as a grenadier, courageous as a thinker;
uneasy only in the face of the chances of a European shaking up,
and unfitted for great political adventures; always ready to risk
his life, never his work; disguising his will in influence, in order
that he might be obeyed as an intelligence rather than as a king;
endowed with observation and not with divination; not very attentive
to minds, but knowing men, that is to say requiring to see in order
to judge; prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wisdom,
easy speech, prodigious memory; drawing incessantly on this memory,
his only point of resemblance with Caesar, Alexander, and Napoleon;
knowing deeds, facts, details, dates, proper names, ignorant
of tendencies, passions, the diverse geniuses of the crowd,
the interior aspirations, the hidden and obscure uprisings of souls,
in a word, all that can be designated as the invisible currents
of consciences; accepted by the surface, but little in accord
with France lower down; extricating himself by dint of tact;
governing too much and not enough; his own first minister;
excellent at creating out of the pettiness of realities an obstacle
to the immensity of ideas; mingling a genuine creative faculty
of civilization, of order and organization, an indescribable spirit
of proceedings and chicanery, the founder and lawyer of a dynasty;
having something of Charlemagne and something of an attorney; in short,
a lofty and original figure, a prince who understood how to create
authority in spite of the uneasiness of France, and power in spite
of the jealousy of Europe. Louis Philippe will be classed among
the eminent men of his century, and would be ranked among the most
illustrious governors of history had he loved glory but a little,
and if he had had the sentiment of what is great to the same degree
as the feeling for what is useful.

Louis Philippe had been handsome, and in his old age he remained graceful;
not always approved by the nation, he always was so by the masses;
he pleased. He had that gift of charming. He lacked majesty; he wore
no crown, although a king, and no white hair, although an old man;
his manners belonged to the old regime and his habits to the new;
a mixture of the noble and the bourgeois which suited 1830;
Louis Philippe was transition reigning; he had preserved the
ancient pronunciation and the ancient orthography which he placed
at the service of opinions modern; he loved Poland and Hungary,
but he wrote les Polonois, and he pronounced les Hongrais. He wore
the uniform of the national guard, like Charles X., and the ribbon
of the Legion of Honor, like Napoleon.

He went a little to chapel, not at all to the chase, never to the opera.
Incorruptible by sacristans, by whippers-in, by ballet-dancers;
this made a part of his bourgeois popularity. He had no heart.
He went out with his umbrella under his arm, and this umbrella
long formed a part of his aureole. He was a bit of a mason, a bit
of a gardener, something of a doctor; he bled a postilion who had
tumbled from his horse; Louis Philippe no more went about without
his lancet, than did Henri IV. without his poniard. The Royalists
jeered at this ridiculous king, the first who had ever shed blood
with the object of healing.

For the grievances against Louis Philippe, there is one deduction
to be made; there is that which accuses royalty, that which
accuses the reign, that which accuses the King; three columns
which all give different totals. Democratic right confiscated,
progress becomes a matter of secondary interest, the protests of the
street violently repressed, military execution of insurrections,


the rising passed over by arms, the Rue Transnonain, the counsels
of war, the absorption of the real country by the legal country,
on half shares with three hundred thousand privileged persons,-these
are the deeds of royalty; Belgium refused, Algeria too
harshly conquered, and, as in the case of India by the English,
with more barbarism than civilization, the breach of faith,
to Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutz bought, Pritchard paid,--these are
the doings of the reign; the policy which was more domestic than
national was the doing of the King.

As will be seen, the proper deduction having been made, the King's
charge is decreased.

This is his great fault; he was modest in the name of France.

Whence arises this fault?

We will state it.

Louis Philippe was rather too much of a paternal king; that incubation
of a family with the object of founding a dynasty is afraid
of everything and does not like to be disturbed; hence excessive
timidity, which is displeasing to the people, who have the
14th of July in their civil and Austerlitz in their military tradition.

Moreover, if we deduct the public duties which require to be fulfilled
first of all, that deep tenderness of Louis Philippe towards his
family was deserved by the family. That domestic group was worthy
of admiration. Virtues there dwelt side by side with talents.
One of Louis Philippe's daughters, Marie d'Orleans, placed the name
of her race among artists, as Charles d'Orleans had placed it
among poets. She made of her soul a marble which she named Jeanne
d'Arc. Two of Louis Philippe's daughters elicited from Metternich
this eulogium: They are young people such as are rarely seen
and princes such as are never seen."

Thiswithout any dissimulationand also without any exaggeration
is the truth about Louis Philippe.

To be Prince Equalityto bear in his own person the contradiction
of the Restoration and the Revolutionto have that disquieting
side of the revolutionary which becomes reassuring in governing
powertherein lay the fortune of Louis Philippe in 1830;
never was there a more complete adaptation of a man to an event;
the one entered into the otherand the incarnation took place.
Louis Philippe is 1830 made man. Moreoverhe had in his favor that
great recommendation to the throneexile. He had been proscribed
a wandererpoor. He had lived by his own labor. In Switzerland
this heir to the richest princely domains in France had sold an old
horse in order to obtain bread. At Reichenauhe gave lessons
in mathematicswhile his sister Adelaide did wool work and sewed.
These souvenirs connected with a king rendered the bourgeoisie
enthusiastic. He hadwith his own handsdemolished the iron cage
of Mont-Saint-Michelbuilt by Louis XIand used by Louis XV.
He was the companion of Dumouriezhe was the friend of Lafayette;
he had belonged to the Jacobins' club; Mirabeau had slapped
him on the shoulder; Danton had said to him: "Young man!"
At the age of four and twentyin '93being then M. de Chartres
he had witnessedfrom the depth of a boxthe trial of Louis
XVI.so well named that poor tyrant. The blind clairvoyance
of the Revolutionbreaking royalty in the King and the King
with royaltydid so almost without noticing the man in the fierce
crushing of the ideathe vast storm of the Assembly-Tribunal
the public wrath interrogatingCapet not knowing what to reply


the alarmingstupefied vacillation by that royal head beneath that
sombre breaththe relative innocence of all in that catastrophe
of those who condemned as well as of the man condemned--he had looked
on those thingshe had contemplated that giddiness; he had seen
the centuries appear before the bar of the Assembly-Convention;
he had beheldbehind Louis XVI.that unfortunate passer-by
who was made responsiblethe terrible culpritthe monarchy
rise through the shadows; and there had lingered in his soul
the respectful fear of these immense justices of the populace
which are almost as impersonal as the justice of God.


The trace left in him by the Revolution was prodigious. Its memory
was like a living imprint of those great yearsminute by minute.
One dayin the presence of a witness whom we are not permitted
to doubthe rectified from memory the whole of the letter A in the
alphabetical list of the Constituent Assembly.


Louis Philippe was a king of the broad daylight. While he
reigned the press was freethe tribune was freeconscience and
speech were free. The laws of September are open to sight.
Although fully aware of the gnawing power of light on privileges
he left his throne exposed to the light. History will do justice
to him for this loyalty.


Louis Philippelike all historical men who have passed from the scene
is to-day put on his trial by the human conscience. His case is
as yetonly in the lower court.


The hour when history speaks with its free and venerable accent
has not yet sounded for him; the moment has not come to pronounce
a definite judgment on this king; the austere and illustrious
historian Louis Blanc has himself recently softened his first verdict;
Louis Philippe was elected by those two almosts which are called
the 221 and 1830that is to sayby a half-Parliamentand
a half-revolution; and in any casefrom the superior point of view
where philosophy must place itselfwe cannot judge him hereas the
reader has seen aboveexcept with certain reservations in the name
of the absolute democratic principle; in the eyes of the absolute
outside these two rightsthe right of man in the first place
the right of the people in the secondall is usurpation; but what we
can sayeven at the present daythat after making these reserves is
that to sum up the wholeand in whatever manner he is considered
Louis Philippetaken in himselfand from the point of view
of human goodnesswill remainto use the antique language
of ancient historyone of the best princes who ever sat on a throne.


What is there against him? That throne. Take away Louis Philippe
the kingthere remains the man. And the man is good. He is good at
times even to the point of being admirable. Oftenin the midst of his
gravest souvenirsafter a day of conflict with the whole diplomacy
of the continenthe returned at night to his apartmentsand there
exhausted with fatigueoverwhelmed with sleepwhat did he do?
He took a death sentence and passed the night in revising a criminal suit
considering it something to hold his own against Europebut that it
was a still greater matter to rescue a man from the executioner.
He obstinately maintained his opinion against his keeper of the seals;
he disputed the ground with the guillotine foot by foot against the
crown attorneysthose chatterers of the lawas he called them.
Sometimes the pile of sentences covered his table; he examined them all;
it was anguish to him to abandon these miserablecondemned heads.
One dayhe 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 abolishedand the erection of a
scaffold was a violence committed against the King. The Greve having



disappeared with the elder brancha bourgeois place of execution
was instituted under the name of the Barriere-Saint-Jacques;
practical menfelt the necessity of a quasi-legitimate guillotine;
and this was one of the victories of Casimir Perierwho represented
the narrow sides of the bourgeoisieover Louis Philippe
who represented its liberal sides. Louis Philippe annotated Beccaria
with his own hand. After the Fieschi machinehe exclaimed:
What a pity that I was not wounded! Then I might have pardoned!
On another occasionalluding to the resistance offered by his ministry
he wrote in connection with a political criminalwho is one of the most
generous figures of our day: "His pardon is granted; it only remains
for me to obtain it." Louis Philippe was as gentle as Louis IX.
and as kindly as Henri IV.


Nowto our mindin historywhere kindness is the rarest of pearls
the man who is kindly almost takes precedence of the man who is great.


Louis Philippe having been severely judged by someharshlyperhaps
by othersit is quite natural that a manhimself a phantom at
the present daywho knew that kingshould come and testify in his
favor before history; this depositionwhatever else it may be
is evidently and above all thingsentirely disinterested; an epitaph
penned by a dead man is sincere; one shade may console another shade;
the sharing of the same shadows confers the right to praise it;
it is not greatly to be feared that it will ever be said of two
tombs in exile: "This one flattered the other."


CHAPTER IV


CRACKS BENEATH THE FOUNDATION


At the moment when the drama which we are narrating is on the point
of penetrating into the depths of one of the tragic clouds which
envelop the beginning of Louis Philippe's reignit was necessary
that there should be no equivoqueand it became requisite that
this book should offer some explanation with regard to this king.


Louis Philippe had entered into possession of his royal authority
without violencewithout any direct action on his partby virtue
of a revolutionary changeevidently quite distinct from the real
aim of the Revolutionbut in which hethe Duc d'Orleans
exercised no personal initiative. He had been born a Prince
and he believed himself to have been elected King. He had not served
this mandate on himself; he had not taken it; it had been offered
to himand he had accepted it; convincedwronglyto be sure
but convinced neverthelessthat the offer was in accordance with
right and that the acceptance of it was in accordance with duty.
Hence his possession was in good faith. Nowwe say it in
good conscienceLouis Philippe being in possession in perfect
good faithand the democracy being in good faith in its attack
the amount of terror discharged by the social conflicts weighs neither
on the King nor on the democracy. A clash of principles resembles
a clash of elements. The ocean defends the waterthe hurricane
defends the airthe King defends Royaltythe democracy defends
the people; the relativewhich is the monarchyresists the absolute
which is the republic; society bleeds in this conflictbut that
which constitutes its suffering to-day will constitute its safety
later on; andin any casethose who combat are not to be blamed;
one of the two parties is evidently mistaken; the right is not
like the Colossus of Rhodeson two shores at oncewith one
foot on the republicand one in Royalty; it is indivisible



and all on one side; but those who are in error are so sincerely;
a blind man is no more a criminal than a Vendean is a ruffian.
Let usthenimpute to the fatality of things alone these
formidable collisions. Whatever the nature of these tempests may be
human irresponsibility is mingled with them.


Let us complete this exposition.


The government of 1840 led a hard life immediately. Born yesterday
it was obliged to fight to-day.


Hardly installedit was already everywhere conscious of vague
movements of traction on the apparatus of July so recently laid
and so lacking in solidity.


Resistance was born on the morrow; perhaps evenit was born on
the preceding evening. From month to month the hostility increased
and from being concealed it became patent.


The Revolution of Julywhich gained but little acceptance outside
of France by kingshad been diversely interpreted in France
as we have said.


God delivers over to men his visible will in eventsan obscure text
written in a mysterious tongue. Men immediately make translations
of it; translations hastyincorrectfull of errorsof gaps
and of nonsense. Very few minds comprehend the divine language.
The most sagaciousthe calmestthe most profounddecipher slowly
and when they arrive with their textthe task has long been completed;
there are already twenty translations on the public place.
From each remaining springs a partyand from each misinterpretation
a faction; and each party thinks that it alone has the true text
and each faction thinks that it possesses the light.


Power itself is often a faction.


There arein revolutionsswimmers who go against the current;
they are the old parties.


For the old parties who clung to heredity by the grace of God
think that revolutionshaving sprung from the right to revolt
one has the right to revolt against them. Error. For in these
revolutionsthe one who revolts is not the people; it is the king.
Revolution is precisely the contrary of revolt. Every revolution
being a normal outcomecontains within itself its legitimacy
which false revolutionists sometimes dishonorbut which remains even
when soiledwhich survives even when stained with blood.


Revolutions spring not from an accidentbut from necessity.
A revolution is a return from the fictitious to the real. It is
because it must be that it is.


None the less did the old legitimist parties assail the Revolution
of 1830 with all the vehemence which arises from false reasoning.
Errors make excellent projectiles. They strike it cleverly in its
vulnerable spotin default of a cuirassin its lack of logic;
they attacked this revolution in its royalty. They shouted to it:
Revolution, why this king?Factions are blind men who aim correctly.


This cry was uttered equally by the republicans. But coming from them
this cry was logical. What was blindness in the legitimists was
clearness of vision in the democrats. 1830 had bankrupted the people.
The enraged democracy reproached it with this.



Between the attack of the past and the attack of the future
the establishment of July struggled. It represented the minute
at loggerheads on the one hand with the monarchical centuries
on the other hand with eternal right.

In additionand beside all thisas it was no longer revolution and had
become a monarchy1830 was obliged to take precedence of all Europe.
To keep the peacewas an increase of complication. A harmony
established contrary to sense is often more onerous than a war.
From this secret conflictalways muzzledbut always growling
was born armed peacethat ruinous expedient of civilization which
in the harness of the European cabinets is suspicious in itself.
The Royalty of July reared upin spite of the fact that it caught
it in the harness of European cabinets. Metternich would gladly
have put it in kicking-straps. Pushed on in France by progress
it pushed on the monarchiesthose loiterers in Europe. After having
been towedit undertook to tow.

Meanwhilewithin herpauperismthe proletariatsalary
educationpenal servitudeprostitutionthe fate of the woman
wealthmiseryproductionconsumptiondivisionexchange
coincreditthe rights of capitalthe rights of labor-all
these questions were multiplied above societya terrible slope.

Outside of political parties properly so calledanother movement
became manifest. Philosophical fermentation replied to democratic
fermentation. The elect felt troubled as well as the masses;
in another mannerbut quite as much.

Thinkers meditatedwhile the soilthat is to saythe people
traversed by revolutionary currentstrembled under them with
indescribably vague epileptic shocks. These dreamerssome isolated
others united in families and almost in communionturned 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 furnaces of which they
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 manthat was what they wanted to extract
from society.

They raised material questionsquestions of agricultureof industry
of commercealmost to the dignity of a religion. In civilization
such as it has formed itselfa little by the command of Goda great
deal by the agency of maninterests combineuniteand amalgamate in a
manner to form a veritable hard rockin accordance with a dynamic law
patiently studied by economiststhose geologists of politics.
These men who grouped themselves under different appellations
but who may all be designated by the generic title of socialists
endeavored 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 wartheir works
embraced everything. To the rights of manas proclaimed by the French
Revolutionthey added the rights of woman and the rights of the child.

The reader will not be surprised iffor various reasonswe do
not here treat in a thorough mannerfrom the theoretical point


of viewthe questions raised by socialism. We confine ourselves
to indicating them.

All the problems that the socialists proposed to themselves
cosmogonic visionsrevery and mysticism being cast asidecan 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 contains the question of salary.

In the first problem the employment of forces is in question.

In the secondthe distribution of enjoyment.

From the proper employment of forces results public power.

From a good distribution of enjoyments results individual happiness.

By a good distributionnot an equal but an equitable distribution
must be understood.

From these two things combinedthe public power without
individual happiness withinresults social prosperity.

Social prosperity means the man happythe citizen freethe nation great.

England solves the first of these two problems. She creates
wealth admirablyshe divides it badly. This solution which is
complete on one side only leads her fatally to two extremes:
monstrous opulencemonstrous wretchedness. All enjoyments for some
all privations for the restthat is to sayfor the people;
privilegeexceptionmonopolyfeudalismborn from toil itself.
A false and dangerous situationwhich sates public power or
private miserywhich sets the roots of the State in the sufferings
of the individual. A badly constituted grandeur in which are combined
all the material elements and into which no moral element enters.

Communism and agrarian law think that they solve the second problem.
They are mistaken. Their division kills production. Equal partition
abolishes emulation; and consequently labor. It is a partition
made by the butcherwhich kills that which it divides. It is
therefore impossible to pause over these pretended solutions.
Slaying wealth is not the same thing as dividing it.

The two problems require to be solved togetherto be well solved.
The two problems must be combined and made but one.

Solve only the first of the two problems; you will be Venice
you will be England. You will havelike Venicean artificial
powerorlike Englanda material power; you will be the wicked
rich man. You will die by an act of violenceas Venice died
or by bankruptcyas England will fall. And the world will allow
to die and fall all that is merely selfishnessall that does
not represent for the human race either a virtue or an idea.

It is well understood herethat by the words VeniceEngland
we designate not the peoplesbut social structures; the oligarchies
superposed on nationsand not the nations themselves. The nations
always have our respect and our sympathy. Veniceas a people


will live again; Englandthe aristocracywill fallbut England
the nationis immortal. That saidwe continue.

Solve the two problemsencourage the wealthyand protect the poor
suppress miseryput an end to the unjust farming out of the
feeble by the strongput a bridle on the iniquitous jealousy
of the man who is making his way against the man who has reached
the goaladjustmathematically and fraternallysalary to labor
mingle gratuitous and compulsory education with the growth of childhood
and make of science the base of manlinessdevelop minds while keeping
arms busybe at one and the same time a powerful people and a family
of happy menrender property democraticnot by abolishing it
but by making it universalso that every citizenwithout exception
may be a proprietoran easier matter than is generally supposed;
in two wordslearn 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 doctrinesthese theoriesthese resistancesthe unforeseen
necessity for the statesman to take philosophers into account
confused evidences of which we catch a glimpsea new system
of politics to be createdwhich shall be in accord with the old
world without too much disaccord with the new revolutionary ideal
a situation in which it became necessary to use Lafayette to
defend Polignacthe intuition of progress transparent beneath
the revoltthe chambers and streetsthe competitions to be
brought into equilibrium around himhis faith in the Revolution
perhaps an eventual indefinable resignation born of the vague
acceptance of a superior definitive righthis desire to remain
of his racehis domestic spirithis sincere respect for the people
his own honestypreoccupied Louis Philippe almost painfully
and there were moments when strong and courageous as he was
he was overwhelmed by the difficulties of being a king.

He felt under his feet a formidable disaggregationwhich was not
neverthelessa reduction to dustFrance being more France than ever.

Piles of shadows covered the horizon. A strange shade
gradually drawing nearerextended little by little over men
over thingsover ideas; a shade which came from wraths and systems.
Everything which had been hastily stifled was moving and fermenting.
At times the conscience of the honest man resumed its breathing
so great was the discomfort of that air in which sophisms were
intermingled with truths. Spirits trembled in the social anxiety
like leaves at the approach of a storm. The electric tension
was such that at certain instantsthe first comera stranger
brought light. Then the twilight obscurity closed in again.
At intervalsdeep and dull mutterings allowed a judgment to be formed
as to the quantity of thunder contained by the cloud.

Twenty months had barely elapsed since the Revolution of July
the year 1832 had opened with an aspect of something impending
and threatening.

The distress of the peoplethe laborers without breadthe last Prince
de Conde engulfed in the shadowsBrussels expelling the Nassaus
as Paris did the BourbonsBelgium offering herself to a French
Prince and giving herself to an English Princethe Russian hatred


of Nicolasbehind us the demons of the SouthFerdinand in Spain
Miguel in Portugalthe earth quaking in ItalyMetternich extending
his hand over BolognaFrance treating Austria sharply at Ancona
at the North no one knew what sinister sound of the hammer nailing up
Poland in her coffinirritated glances watching France narrowly all
over EuropeEnglanda suspected allyready to give a push to that
which was tottering and to hurl herself on that which should fall
the peerage sheltering itself behind Beccaria to refuse four heads
to the lawthe fleurs-de-lys erased from the King's carriage
the cross torn from Notre DameLafayette lessenedLaffitte ruined
Benjamin Constant dead in indigenceCasimir Perier dead in the
exhaustion of his power; political and social malady breaking
out simultaneously in the two capitals of the kingdomthe one
in the city of thoughtthe other in the city of toil; at Paris
civil warat Lyons servile war; in the two citiesthe same glare
of the furnace; a crater-like crimson on the brow of the people;
the South rendered fanaticthe West troubledthe Duchesse
de Berry in la Vendeeplotsconspiraciesrisingscholera
added the sombre roar of tumult of events to the sombre roar of ideas.


CHAPTER V


FACTS WHENCE HISTORY SPRINGS AND WHICH HISTORY IGNORES


Towards the end of Aprileverything had become aggravated.
The fermentation entered the boiling state. Ever since 1830
petty partial revolts had been going on here and there
which were quickly suppressedbut ever bursting forth afresh
the sign of a vast underlying conflagration. Something terrible
was in preparation. Glimpses could be caught of the features still
indistinct and imperfectly lightedof a possible revolution.
France kept an eye on Paris; Paris kept an eye on the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine.


The Faubourg Saint-Antoinewhich was in a dull glowwas beginning
its ebullition.


The wine-shops of the Rue de Charonne werealthough the union
of the two epithets seems singular when applied to wine-shops
grave and stormy.


The government was there purely and simply called in question.
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 counting the number of the enemy."
This engagement once entered intoa man seated in the corner of the
wine-shop "assumed a sonorous tone and said, You understand!
You have sworn!"


Sometimes they went up stairsto 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 himself as well as
to the fathers of families. That was the formula.


In the tap-roomssubversivepamphlets were read. They treated
the government with contemptsays a secret report of that time.


Words like the following could be heard there:--


I don't know the names of the leaders. 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 monthsI 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 cartridges all night.
From time to timemen "of bourgeois appearanceand in good coats"
came and "caused embarrassment 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 ripethe matter is arranged." "It was
murmured by all who were there to borrow the very expression of one
of those who were present. The exaltation was such that one day,
a workingman exclaimed, efore the whole wine-shop: We have no arms!"
One of his comrades replied: "The soldiers have!" thus parodying
without being aware of the factBonaparte's proclamation to the army
in Italy: "When they had anything of a more secret nature on hand
adds one report, they did not communicate it to each other."
It is not easy to understand what they could conceal after what they
said.


These reunions were sometimes periodical. At certain ones of them
there were never more than eight or ten persons presentand they
were always the same. In othersany one entered who wished
and the room was so full that they were forced to stand.
Some went thither through enthusiasm and passion; others because
it was on their way to their work. As during the Revolution
there were patriotic women in some of these wine-shops who embraced
new-comers.


Other expressive facts came to light.


A man would enter a shopdrinkand go his way with the remark:
Wine-merchant, the revolution will pay what is due to you.


Revolutionary agents were appointed in a wine-shop facing the Rue
de Charonne. The balloting was carried on in their caps.


Workingmen met at the house of a fencing-master who gave lessons
in the Rue de Cotte. There there was a trophy of arms formed of
wooden broadswordscanesclubsand foils. One daythe buttons
were removed from the foils.


A workman said: "There are twenty-five of usbut they don't
count on mebecause I am looked upon as a machine." Later on
that machine became Quenisset.


The indefinite things which were brewing gradually acquired a strange
and indescribable notoriety. A woman sweeping off her doorsteps said
to another woman: "For a long timethere has been a strong force
busy making cartridges." In the open streetproclamation could
be seen addressed to the National Guard in the departments.
One of these proclamations was signed: Burtotwine-merchant.


One day a man with his beard worn like a collar and with an Italian
accent mounted a stone post at the door of a liquor-seller in the
Marche Lenoirand read aloud a singular documentwhich seemed
to emanate from an occult power. Groups formed around him
and applauded.


The passages which touched the crowd most deeply were collected and



noted down. "--Our doctrines are trammelledour proclamations torn
our bill-stickers are spied upon and thrown into prison."--"The
breakdown which has recently taken place in cottons has converted
to us many mediums."--"The future of nations is being worked out in
our obscure ranks."--" Here are the fixed terms: action or reaction
revolution or counter-revolution. Forat our epochwe no longer
believe either in inertia or in immobility. For the people
against the peoplethat is the question. There is no other."--"On
the day when we cease to suit youbreak usbut up to that day
help us to march on." All this in broad daylight.

Other deedsmore audacious stillwere suspicious in the eyes of the
people by reason of their very audacity. On the 4th of April1832
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 Babeufthe people scented Gisquet.

Among other thingsthis 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 republicans 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 nightfalla 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 honor
of your acquaintance." "I know you very wellhowever." And the
man added: "Don't be alarmedI am an agent of the committee.
You are suspected of not being quite faithful. You know that if you
reveal anythingthere is an eye fixed on you." Then he shook hands
with the workingman and went awaysaying: "We shall meet again soon."

The policewho were on the alertcollected singular dialogues
not only in the wine-shopsbut in the street.

Get yourself received very soon,said a weaver to a cabinet-maker.

Why?

There is going to be a shot to fire.

Two ragged pedestrians exchanged these remarkable replies
fraught with evident Jacquerie:-


Who governs us?

M. Philippe.

No, it is the bourgeoisie.

The reader is mistaken if he thinks that we take the word Jacquerie
in a bad sense. The Jacques were the poor.

On another occasion two men were heard to say to each other as they
passed by: "We have a good plan of attack."


Only the following was caught of a private conversation between four
men who were crouching in a ditch of the circle of the Barriere
du Trone:-


Everything possible will be done to prevent his walking about Paris
any more.

Who was the he? Menacing obscurity.

The principal leaders,as they said in the faubourgheld themselves
apart. It was supposed that they met for consultation in a wine-shop
near the point Saint-Eustache. A certain Aug--chief of the Society
aid for tailorsRue Mondetourhad the reputation of serving
as intermediary central between the leaders and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.

Neverthelessthere was always a great deal of mystery about
these leadersand no certain fact can invalidate the singular
arrogance of this reply made later on by a man accused before
the Court of Peers:-


Who was your leader?

I knew of none and I recognized none.

There was nothing but wordstransparent but vague; sometimes
idle reportsrumorshearsay. Other indications cropped up.

A carpenteroccupied in nailing boards to a fence around
the ground on which a house was in process of construction
in the Rue de Reuilly found on that plot the torn fragment
of a letter on which were still legible the following lines:--

The committee must take measures to prevent recruiting in the
sections for the different societies.

Andas a postscript:--

We have learned that there are guns in the Rue du Faubourg-Poissonniere
No. 5 [bis]to the number of five or six thousandin the house
of a gunsmith in that court. The section owns no arms.

What excited the carpenter and caused him to show this thing to his
neighbors was the factthat a few paces further on he picked up
another papertorn like the firstand still more significant
of which we reproduce a facsimilebecause of the historical interest
attaching to these strange documents:-


+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Q
| C | D | E | Learn this list by heart. After so doing | | | | |
| you will tear it up. The men admitted | | | | | | will do the
same when you have transmitted | | | | | | their orders to them.
| | | | | | Health and Fraternity| | | | | | u og a fe L. |
+------------------------------------------------------------+

It was only later on that the persons who were in the secret
of this find at the timelearned the significance of those four
capital letters: quinturionscenturionsdecurionseclaireurs
[scouts]and the sense of the letters: u og a fewhich was a date


and meant April 15th1832. Under each capital letter were inscribed
names followed by very characteristic notes. Thus: Q. Bannerel.
8 guns83 cartridges. A safe man.--C. Boubiere. 1 pistol
40 cartridges.--D. Rollet. 1 foil1 pistol1 pound of powder.-


E. Tessier. 1 sword1 cartridge-box. Exact.--Terreur. 8 guns.
Braveetc.
Finallythis carpenter foundstill in the same enclosure
a third paper on which was written in pencilbut very legibly
this sort of enigmatical list:-


Unite: Blanchard: Arbre-Sec. 6.
Barra. Soize. Salle-au-Comte.
Kosciusko. Aubry the Butcher?

J. J. R.
Caius Gracchus.
Right of revision. Dufond. Four.
Fall of the Girondists. Derbac. Maubuee.
Washington. Pinson. 1 pistol86 cartridges.
Marseillaise.
Sovereignty of the people. Michel. Quincampoix. Sword.
Hoche.
Marceau. Plato. Arbre-Sec.
Warsaw. Tillycrier of the Populaire.
The honest bourgeois into whose hands this list fell knew
its significance. It appears that this list was the complete nomenclature
of the sections of the fourth arondissement of the Society of the Rights
of Manwith the names and dwellings of the chiefs of sections.
To-daywhen all these facts which were obscure are nothing more than
historywe may publish them. It should be addedthat the foundation
of the Society of the Rights of Man seems to have been posterior to
the date when this paper was found. Perhaps this was only a rough draft.

Stillaccording to all the remarks and the wordsaccording to
written notesmaterial facts begin to make their appearance.

In the Rue Popincourtin the house of a dealer in bric-abracthere
were seized seven sheets of gray paperall folded alike lengthwise
and in four; these sheets enclosed twenty-six squares of this
same gray paper folded in the form of a cartridgeand a card

on which was written the following:-Saltpetre
. . . . . . . . . . . 12 ounces.
Sulphur . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ounces.
Charcoal . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ounces and a half.
Water . . . . . . . . . . . 2 ounces.

The report of the seizure stated that the drawer exhaled a strong
smell of powder.

A mason returning from his day's workleft behind him a little
package on a bench near the bridge of Austerlitz. This package
was taken to the police station. It was openedand in it were
found two printed dialoguessigned Lahautierea song entitled:
Workmen, band together,and a tin box full of cartridges.

One artisan drinking with a comrade made the latter feel him to see
how warm he was; the other man felt a pistol under his waistcoat.

In a ditch on the boulevardbetween Pere-Lachaise and the Barriere
du Troneat the most deserted spotsome childrenwhile playing


discovered beneath a mass of shavings and refuse bits of wood
a bag containing a bullet-moulda wooden punch for the preparation
of cartridgesa wooden bowlin which there were grains of
hunting-powderand a little cast-iron pot whose interior presented
evident traces of melted lead.

Police agentsmaking their way suddenly and unexpectedly at five
o'clock in the morninginto the dwelling of a certain Pardon
who was afterwards a member of the Barricade-Merry section and got
himself killed in the insurrection of April1834found him standing
near his bedand holding in his hand some cartridges which he
was in the act of preparing.

Towards the hour when workingmen reposetwo men were seen to meet
between the Barriere Picpus and the Barriere Charenton in a little
lane between two wallsnear a wine-shopin front of which there
was a "Jeu de Siam."[33] One drew a pistol from beneath his blouse
and handed it to the other. As he was handing it to himhe noticed
that the perspiration of his chest had made the powder damp.
He primed the pistol and added more powder to what was already
in the pan. Then the two men parted.

[33] A game of ninepinsin which one side of the ball is smaller
than the otherso that it does not roll straightbut describes
a curve on the ground.
A certain Gallaisafterwards killed in the Rue Beaubourg in the
affair of Aprilboasted of having in his house seven hundred
cartridges and twenty-four flints.

The government one day received a warning that arms and two hundred
thousand cartridges had just been distributed in the faubourg.
On the following week thirty thousand cartridges were distributed.
The remarkable point about it wasthat the police were not able to
seize a single one.

An intercepted letter read: "The day is not far distant when
within four hours by the clockeighty thousand patriots will be
under arms."

All this fermentation was publicone might almost say tranquil.
The approaching insurrection was preparing its storm calmly in the
face of the government. No singularity was lacking to this still
subterranean crisiswhich was already perceptible. The bourgeois
talked peaceably to the working-classes of what was in preparation.
They said: "How is the rising coming along?" in the same tone in
which they would have said: "How is your wife?"

A furniture-dealerof the Rue Moreauinquired: "Wellwhen are
you going to make the attack?"

Another shop-keeper said:-


The attack will be made soon.

I know it. A month ago, there were fifteen thousand of you,
now there are twenty-five thousand.He offered his gun
and a neighbor offered a small pistol which he was willing to sell
for seven francs.

Moreoverthe revolutionary fever was growing. Not a point in Paris
nor in France was exempt from it. The artery was beating everywhere.


Like those membranes which arise from certain inflammations and form
in the human bodythe network of secret societies began to spread
all over the country. From the associations of the Friends
of the Peoplewhich was at the same time public and secret
sprang the Society of the Rights of Manwhich also dated from one
of the orders of the day: PluvioseYear 40 of the republican era
which was destined to survive even the mandate of the Court of
Assizes which pronounced its dissolutionand which did not hesitate
to bestow on its sections significant names like the following:-


Pikes.
Tocsin.
Signal cannon.
Phrygian cap.
January 21.
The beggars.
The vagabonds.
Forward march.
Robespierre.
Level.
Ca Ira.


The Society of the Rights of Man engendered the Society of Action.
These were impatient individuals who broke away and hastened ahead.
Other associations sought to recruit themselves from the great
mother societies. The members of sections complained that they
were torn asunder. Thusthe Gallic Societyand the committee
of organization of the Municipalities. Thus the associations for the
liberty of the pressfor individual libertyfor the instruction
of the people against indirect taxes. Then the Society of Equal
Workingmen which was divided into three fractionsthe levellers
the communiststhe reformers. Then the Army of the Bastilles
a sort of cohort organized on a military footingfour men commanded
by a corporalten by a sergeanttwenty by a sub-lieutenantforty by
a lieutenant; there were never more than five men who knew each other.
Creation where precaution is combined with audacity and which seemed
stamped with the genius of Venice.

The central committeewhich was at the headhad two arms
the Society of Actionand the Army of the Bastilles.

A legitimist associationthe Chevaliers of Fidelitystirred about
among these the republican affiliations. It was denounced
and repudiated there.

The Parisian societies had ramifications in the principal cities
LyonsNantesLilleMarseillesand each had its Society
of the Rights of Manthe Charbonniereand The Free Men.
All had a revolutionary society which was called the Cougourde.
We have already mentioned this word.

In Paristhe Faubourg Saint-Marceau kept up an equal buzzing with
the Faubourg Saint-Antoineand the schools were no less moved than
the faubourgs. A cafe in the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe and the wine-shop
of the Seven BilliardsRue des Mathurins-Saint-Jacquesserved
as rallying points for the students. The Society of the Friends
of the A B C affiliated to the Mutualists of Angersand to the
Cougourde of Aixmetas we have seenin the Cafe Musain.
These same young men assembled alsoas we have stated alreadyin a
restaurant wine-shop of the Rue Mondetour which was called Corinthe.
These meetings were secret. Others were as public as possible
and the reader can judge of their boldness from these fragments
of an interrogatory undergone in one of the ulterior prosecutions:
Where was this meeting held?In the Rue de la Paix.


At whose house?In the street.What sections were there?
Only one.Which?The Manuel section.Who was its leader?
I.You are too young to have decided alone upon the bold course
of attacking the government. Where did your instructions come from?
From the central committee.


The army was mined at the same time as the populationas was proved
subsequently by the operations of BefordLunevilleand Epinard.
They counted on the fifty-second regimenton the fifthon the eighth
on the thirty-seventhand on the twentieth light cavalry.
In Burgundy and in the southern towns they planted the liberty tree;
that is to saya pole surmounted by a red cap.


Such was the situation.


The Faubourg Saint-Antoinemore than any other group of the population
as we stated in the beginningaccentuated this situation and made
it felt. That was the sore point. This old faubourgpeopled like
an ant-hilllaboriouscourageousand angry as a hive of bees
was quivering with expectation and with the desire for a tumult.
Everything was in a state of agitation therewithout any interruption
howeverof the regular work. It is impossible to convey an idea
of this lively yet sombre physiognomy. In this faubourg exists
poignant distress hidden under attic roofs; there also exist rare
and ardent minds. It is particularly in the matter of distress
and intelligence that it is dangerous to have extremes meet.


The Faubourg Saint-Antoine had also other causes to tremble;
for it received the counter-shock of commercial crisesof failures
strikesslack seasonsall inherent to great political disturbances.
In times of revolution misery is both cause and effect. The blow
which it deals rebounds upon it. This population full of proud virtue
capable to the highest degree of latent heatalways ready to fly
to armsprompt to explodeirritateddeepunderminedseemed to
be only awaiting the fall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks
float on the horizon chased by the wind of eventsit is impossible
not to think of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and of the formidable
chance which has placed at the very gates of Paris that powder-house
of suffering and ideas.


The wine-shops of the Faubourg Antoinewhich have been more than
once drawn in the sketches which the reader has just perused
possess historical notoriety. In troublous times people grow
intoxicated there more on words than on wine. A sort of prophetic
spirit and an afflatus of the future circulates thereswelling hearts
and enlarging souls. The cabarets of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine
resemble those taverns of Mont Aventine erected on the cave of
the Sibyl and communicating with the profound and sacred breath;
taverns where the tables were almost tripodsand where was drunk
what Ennius calls the sibylline wine.


The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is a reservoir of people.
Revolutionary agitations create fissures therethrough which
trickles the popular sovereignty. This sovereignty may do evil;
it can be mistaken like any other; buteven when led astray
it remains great. We may say of it as of the blind cyclopsIngens.


In '93according as the idea which was floating about was good
or evilaccording as it was the day of fanaticism or of enthusiasm
there leaped forth from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine now savage legions
now heroic bands.


Savage. Let us explain this word. When these bristling men
who in the early days of the revolutionary chaostatteredhowling



wildwith uplifted bludgeonpike on highhurled themselves
upon ancient Paris in an uproarwhat did they want? They wanted
an end to oppressionan end to tyrannyan end to the sword
work for meninstruction for the childsocial sweetness for
the womanlibertyequalityfraternitybread for allthe idea
for allthe Edenizing of the world. Progress; and that holy
sweetand good thingprogressthey claimed in terrible wise
driven to extremities as they werehalf nakedclub in fista roar
in their mouths. They were savagesyes; but the savages of civilization.


They proclaimed right furiously; they were desirousif only
with fear and tremblingto force the human race to paradise.
They seemed barbariansand they were saviours. They demanded
light with the mask of night.


Facing these menwho were ferociouswe admitand terrifying
but ferocious and terrifying for good endsthere are other men
smilingembroideredgildedberibbonedstarredin silk stockings
in white plumesin yellow glovesin varnished shoeswhowith their
elbows on a velvet tablebeside a marble chimney-pieceinsist gently
on demeanor and the preservation of the pastof the Middle Ages
of divine rightof fanaticismof innocenceof slaveryof the
death penaltyof warglorifying in low tones and with politeness
the swordthe stakeand the scaffold. For our partif we were
forced to make a choice between the barbarians of civilization
and the civilized men of barbarismwe should choose the barbarians.


Butthank Heavenstill another choice is possible. No perpendicular
fall is necessaryin front any more than in the rear.


Neither despotism nor terrorism. We desire progress with a gentle slope.


God takes care of that. God's whole policy consists in rendering
slopes less steep.


CHAPTER VI


ENJOLRAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS


It was about this epoch that Enjolrasin view of a possible catastrophe
instituted a kind of mysterious census.


All were present at a secret meeting at the Cafe Musain.


Enjolras saidmixing his words with a few half-enigmatical
but significant metaphors:--


It is proper that we should know where we stand and on whom we
may count. If combatants are required, they must be provided.
It can do no harm to have something with which to strike.
Passers-by always have more chance of being gored when there are
bulls on the road than when there are none. Let us, therefore,
reckon a little on the herd. How many of us are there?
There is no question of postponing this task until to-morrow.
Revolutionists should always be hurried; progress has no time to lose.
Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us not be caught unprepared.
We must go over all the seams that we have made and see whether they
hold fast. This business ought to be concluded to-day. Courfeyrac,
you will see the polytechnic students. It is their day to go out.
To-day is Wednesday. Feuilly, you will see those of the Glaciere,
will you not? Combeferre has promised me to go to Picpus.



There is a perfect swarm and an excellent one there. Bahorel will
visit the Estrapade. Prouvaire, the masons are growing lukewarm;
you will bring us news from the lodge of the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honore.
Joly will go to Dupuytren's clinical lecture, and feel the pulse
of the medical school. Bossuet will take a little turn in the court
and talk with the young law licentiates. I will take charge of the
Cougourde myself.

That arranges everything,said Courfeyrac.

No.

What else is there?

A very important thing.

What is that?asked Courfeyrac.

The Barriere du Maine,replied Enjolras.

Enjolras remained for a moment as though absorbed in reflection
then he resumed:-


At the Barriere du Maine there are marble-workers, painters,
and journeymen in the studios of sculptors. They are an enthusiastic
family, but liable to cool off. I don't know what has been the matter
with them for some time past. They are thinking of something else.
They are becoming extinguished. They pass their time playing dominoes.
There is urgent need that some one should go and talk with them a little,
but with firmness. They meet at Richefeu's. They are to be found
there between twelve and one o'clock. Those ashes must be fanned into
a glow. For that errand I had counted on that abstracted Marius,
who is a good fellow on the whole, but he no longer comes to us.
I need some one for the Barriere du Maine. I have no one.

What about me?said Grantaire. "Here am I."

You?

I.

You indoctrinate republicans! you warm up hearts that have grown
cold in the name of principle!

Why not?

Are you good for anything?

I have a vague ambition in that direction,said Grantaire.

You do not believe in everything.

I believe in you.

Grantaire will you do me a service?

Anything. I'll black your boots.

Well, don't meddle with our affairs. Sleep yourself sober from
your absinthe.

You are an ingrate, Enjolras.

You the man to go to the Barriere du Maine! You capable of it!


I am capable of descending the Rue de Gres, of crossing the Place
Saint-Michel, of sloping through the Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, of taking
the Rue de Vaugirard, of passing the Carmelites, of turning into the
Rue d'Assas, of reaching the Rue du Cherche-Midi, of leaving behind
me the Conseil de Guerre, of pacing the Rue des Vielles Tuileries,
of striding across the boulevard, of following the Chaussee du Maine,
of passing the barrier, and entering Richefeu's. I am capable of that.
My shoes are capable of that.

Do you know anything of those comrades who meet at Richefeu's?

Not much. We only address each other as thou.

What will you say to them?

I will speak to them of Robespierre, pardi! Of Danton.
Of principles.

You?

I. But I don't receive justice. When I set about it, I am terrible.
I have read Prudhomme, I know the Social Contract, I know my
constitution of the year Two by heart. `The liberty of one citizen
ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.' Do you take me
for a brute? I have an old bank-bill of the Republic in my drawer.
The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people, sapristi! I am
even a bit of a Hebertist. I can talk the most superb twaddle
for six hours by the clock, watch in hand.

Be serious,said Enjolras.

I am wild,replied Grantaire.

Enjolras meditated for a few momentsand made the gesture of a man
who has taken a resolution.

Grantaire,he said gravelyI consent to try you. You shall go
to the Barriere du Maine.

Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Cafe Musain.
He went outand five minutes later he returned. He had gone home
to put on a Robespierre waistcoat.

Red,said he as he enteredand he looked intently at Enjolras.
Thenwith the palm of his energetic handhe laid the two scarlet
points of the waistcoat across his breast.

And stepping up to Enjolrashe whispered in his ear:-


Be easy.

He jammed his hat on resolutely and departed.

A quarter of an hour laterthe back room of the Cafe Musain
was deserted. All the friends of the A B C were goneeach in his
own directioneach to his own task. Enjolraswho had reserved
the Cougourde of Aix for himselfwas the last to leave.

Those members of the Cougourde of Aix who were in Paris then met
on the plain of Issyin one of the abandoned quarries which are
so numerous in that side of Paris.

As Enjolras walked towards this placehe passed the whole situation


in review in his own mind. The gravity of events was self-evident.
When factsthe premonitory symptoms of latent social malady
move heavilythe slightest complication stops and entangles them.
A phenomenon whence arises ruin and new births. Enjolras descried
a luminous uplifting beneath the gloomy skirts of the future.
Who knows? Perhaps the moment was at hand. The people were
again taking possession of rightand what a fine spectacle!
The revolution was again majestically taking possession of France and
saying to the world: "The sequel to-morrow!" Enjolras was content.
The furnace was being heated. He had at that moment a powder train
of friends scattered all over Paris. He composedin his own mind
with Combeferre's philosophical and penetrating eloquence
Feuilly's cosmopolitan enthusiasmCourfeyrac's dashBahorel's smile
Jean Prouvaire's melancholyJoly's scienceBossuet's sarcasms
a sort of electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once.
All hands to work. Surelythe result would answer to the effort.
This was well. This made him think of Grantaire.

Hold,said he to himselfthe Barriere du Maine will not take me
far out of my way. What if I were to go on as far as Richefeu's?
Let us have a look at what Grantaire is about, and see how he
is getting on.

One o'clock was striking from the Vaugirard steeple when Enjolras
reached the Richefeu smoking-room.

He pushed open the doorenteredfolded his armsletting the door
fall to and strike his shouldersand gazed at that room filled
with tablesmenand smoke.

A voice broke forth from the mist of smokeinterrupted by another voice.
It was Grantaire holding a dialogue with an adversary.

Grantaire was sitting opposite another figureat a marble Saint-Anne
tablestrewn with grains of bran and dotted with dominos. He was
hammering the table with his fistand this is what Enjolras heard:-


Double-six.

Fours.

The pig! I have no more.

You are dead. A two.

Six.

Three.

One.

It's my move.

Four points.

Not much.

It's your turn.

I have made an enormous mistake.

You are doing well.

Fifteen.


Seven more.

That makes me twenty-two.[ThoughtfullyTwenty-two!]

You weren't expecting that double-six. If I had placed it
at the beginning, the whole play would have been changed.

A two again.

One.

One! Well, five.

I haven't any.

It was your play, I believe?

Yes.

Blank.

What luck he has! Ah! You are lucky! [Long revery.] Two.

One.

Neither five nor one. That's bad for you.

Domino.

Plague take it!

BOOK SECOND.--EPONINE

CHAPTER I

THE LARK'S MEADOW

Marius had witnessed the unexpected termination of the ambush upon
whose track he had set Javert; but Javert had no sooner quitted
the buildingbearing off his prisoners in three hackney-coaches
than Marius also glided out of the house. It was only nine
o'clock in the evening. Marius betook himself to Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac was no longer the imperturbable inhabitant of the
Latin Quarterhe had gone to live in the Rue de la Verrerie "for
political reasons"; this quarter was one whereat that epoch
insurrection liked to install itself. Marius said to Courfeyrac:
I have come to sleep with you.Courfeyrac dragged a mattress off
his bedwhich was furnished with twospread it out on the floor
and said: "There."

At seven o'clock on the following morningMarius returned to
the hovelpaid the quarter's rent which he owed to Ma'am Bougon
had his bookshis bedhis tablehis commodeand his two chairs
loaded on a hand-cart and went off without leaving his address
so that when Javert returned in the course of the morning
for the purpose of questioning Marius as to the events of the
preceding eveninghe found only Ma'am Bougonwho answered:
Moved away!


Ma'am Bougon was convinced that Marius was to some extent an
accomplice of the robbers who had been seized the night before.
Who would ever have said it?she exclaimed to the portresses
of the quartera young man like that, who had the air of a girl!


Marius had two reasons for this prompt change of residence.
The first wasthat he now had a horror of that housewhere he
had beheldso close at handand in its most repulsive and most
ferocious developmenta social deformity which isperhaps
even more terrible than the wicked rich manthe wicked poor man.
The second wasthat he did not wish to figure in the lawsuit
which would insue in all probabilityand be brought in to testify
against Thenardier.


Javert thought that the young manwhose name he had forgotten
was afraidand had fledor perhapshad not even returned home
at the time of the ambush; he made some efforts to find him
howeverbut without success.


A month passedthen another. Marius was still with Courfeyrac.
He had learned from a young licentiate in lawan habitual frequenter
of the courtsthat Thenardier was in close confinement. Every Monday
Marius had five francs handed in to the clerk's office of La Force
for Thenardier.


As Marius had no longer any moneyhe borrowed the five francs
from Courfeyrac. It was the first time in his life that he had ever
borrowed money. These periodical five francs were a double riddle
to Courfeyrac who lent and to Thenardier who received them. "To whom
can they go?" thought Courfeyrac. "Whence can this come to me?"
Thenardier asked himself.


MoreoverMarius was heart-broken. Everything had plunged through
a trap-door once more. He no longer saw anything before him;
his life was again buried in mystery where he wandered fumblingly.
He had for a moment beheld very close at handin that obscurity
the young girl whom he lovedthe old man who seemed to be her father
those unknown beingswho were his only interest and his only hope
in this world; andat the very moment when he thought himself on
the point of grasping thema gust had swept all these shadows away.
Not a spark of certainty and truth had been emitted even in the
most terrible of collisions. No conjecture was possible. He no
longer knew even the name that he thought he knew. It certainly
was not Ursule. And the Lark was a nickname. And what was he to
think of the old man? Was he actually in hiding from the police?
The white-haired workman whom Marius had encountered in the vicinity
of the Invalides recurred to his mind. It now seemed probable that
that workingman and M. Leblanc were one and the same person. So he
disguised himself? That man had his heroic and his equivocal sides.
Why had he not called for help? Why had he fled? Was he
or was he notthe father of the young girl? Was hein short
the man whom Thenardier thought that he recognized? Thenardier might
have been mistaken. These formed so many insoluble problems.
All thisit is truedetracted nothing from the angelic charms
of the young girl of the Luxembourg. Heart-rending distress;
Marius bore a passion in his heartand night over his eyes.
He was thrust onwardhe was drawnand he could not stir.
All had vanishedsave love. Of love itself he had lost the instincts
and the sudden illuminations. Ordinarilythis flame which burns
us lights us also a littleand casts some useful gleams without.
But Marius no longer even heard these mute counsels of passion.
He never said to himself: "What if I were to go to such a place?
What if I were to try such and such a thing?" The girl whom he could
no longer call Ursule was evidently somewhere; nothing warned Marius



in what direction he should seek her. His whole life was now summed
up in two words; absolute uncertainty within an impenetrable fog.
To see her once again; he still aspired to thisbut he no longer
expected it.


To crown allhis poverty had returned. He felt that icy breath
close to himon his heels. In the midst of his tormentsand long
before thishe had discontinued his workand nothing is more
dangerous than discontinued work; it is a habit which vanishes.
A habit which is easy to get rid ofand difficult to take up again.


A certain amount of dreaming is goodlike a narcotic in discreet doses.
It lulls to sleep the fevers of the mind at laborwhich are
sometimes severeand produces in the spirit a soft and fresh
vapor which corrects the over-harsh contours of pure thought
fills in gaps here and therebinds together and rounds off the
angles of the ideas. But too much dreaming sinks and drowns.
Woe to the brain-worker who allows himself to fall entirely from
thought into revery! He thinks that he can re-ascend with equal ease
and he tells himself thatafter allit is the same thing. Error!


Thought is the toil of the intelligencerevery its voluptuousness.
To replace thought with revery is to confound a poison with a food.


Marius had begun in that wayas the reader will remember.
Passion had supervened and had finished the work of precipitating
him into chimaeras without object or bottom. One no longer emerges
from one's self except for the purpose of going off to dream.
Idle production. Tumultuous and stagnant gulf. Andin proportion
as labor diminishesneeds increase. This is a law. Manin a state
of reveryis generally prodigal and slack; the unstrung mind cannot
hold life within close bounds.


There isin that mode of lifegood mingled with evil
for if enervation is balefulgenerosity is good and healthful.
But the poor man who is generous and nobleand who does not work
is lost. Resources are exhaustedneeds crop up.


Fatal declivity down which the most honest and the firmest as well
as the most feeble and most vicious are drawnand which ends
in one of two holdssuicide or crime.


By dint of going outdoors to thinkthe day comes when one goes
out to throw one's self in the water.


Excess of revery breeds men like Escousse and Lebras.


Marius was descending this declivity at a slow pacewith his eyes
fixed on the girl whom he no longer saw. What we have just written
seems strangeand yet it is true. The memory of an absent being
kindles in the darkness of the heart; the more it has disappeared
the more it beams; the gloomy and despairing soul sees this light
on its horizon; the star of the inner night. She--that was Marius'
whole thought. He meditated of nothing else; he was confusedly
conscious that his old coat was becoming an impossible coatand that
his new coat was growing oldthat his shirts were wearing out
that his hat was wearing outthat his boots were giving out
and he said to himself: "If I could but see her once again before
I die!"


One sweet idea alone was left to himthat she had loved him
that her glance had told him sothat she did not know his name
but that she did know his souland thatwherever she was
however mysterious the placeshe still loved him perhaps.



Who knows whether she were not thinking of him as he was thinking
of her? Sometimesin those inexplicable hours such as are experienced
by every heart that lovesthough he had no reasons for anything but
sadness and yet felt an obscure quiver of joyhe said to himself:
It is her thoughts that are coming to me!Then he added:
Perhaps my thoughts reach her also.


This illusionat which he shook his head a moment later
was sufficientneverthelessto throw beamswhich at times
resembled hopeinto his soul. From time to timeespecially at
that evening hour which is the most depressing to even the dreamy
he allowed the purestthe most impersonalthe most ideal
of the reveries which filled his brainto fall upon a notebook
which contained nothing else. He called this "writing to her."


It must not be supposed that his reason was deranged.
Quite the contrary. He had lost the faculty of working and of
moving firmly towards any fixed goalbut he was endowed with
more clear-sightedness and rectitude than ever. Marius surveyed
by a calm and realalthough peculiar lightwhat passed before
his eyeseven the most indifferent deeds and men; he pronounced
a just criticism on everything with a sort of honest dejection
and candid disinterestedness. His judgmentwhich was almost
wholly disassociated from hopeheld itself aloof and soared on high.


In this state of mind nothing escaped himnothing deceived him
and every moment he was discovering the foundation of life
of humanityand of destiny. Happyeven in the midst of anguish
is he to whom God has given a soul worthy of love and of unhappiness!
He who has not viewed the things of this world and the heart of man
under this double light has seen nothing and knows nothing of
the true.


The soul which loves and suffers is in a state of sublimity.


Howeverday followed dayand nothing new presented itself.
It merely seemed to himthat the sombre space which still remained
to be traversed by him was growing shorter with every instant.
He thought that he already distinctly perceived the brink of the
bottomless abyss.


What!he repeated to himselfshall I not see her again before then!


When you have ascended the Rue Saint-Jacquesleft the barrier on
one side and followed the old inner boulevard for some distance
you reach the Rue de la Santethen the Glaciereanda little
while before arriving at the little river of the Gobelinsyou come
to a sort of field which is the only spot in the long and monotonous
chain of the boulevards of Pariswhere Ruysdeel would be tempted
to sit down.


There is something indescribable there which exhales gracea green
meadow traversed by tightly stretched linesfrom which flutter
rags drying in the windand an old market-gardener's house
built in the time of Louis XIII.with its great roof oddly
pierced with dormer windowsdilapidated palisadesa little
water amid poplar-treeswomenvoiceslaughter; on the horizon
the Pantheonthe pole of the Deaf-Mutesthe Val-de-Graceblack
squatfantasticamusingmagnificentand in the background
the severe square crests of the towers of Notre Dame.


As the place is worth looking atno one goes thither. Hardly one
cart or wagoner passes in a quarter of an hour.



It chanced that Marius' solitary strolls led him to this plot of ground
near the water. That daythere was a rarity on the boulevard
a passer-by. Mariusvaguely impressed with the almost savage beauty
of the placeasked this passer-by:--"What is the name of this spot?"


The person replied: "It is the Lark's meadow."


And he added: "It was here that Ulbach killed the shepherdess
of Ivry."


But after the word "Lark" Marius heard nothing more. These sudden
congealments in the state of reverywhich a single word suffices
to evokedo occur. The entire thought is abruptly condensed around
an ideaand it is no longer capable of perceiving anything else.


The Lark was the appellation which had replaced Ursule in the depths
of Marius' melancholy.--"Stop said he with a sort of unreasoning
stupor peculiar to these mysterious asides, this is her meadow.
I shall know where she lives now."


It was absurdbut irresistible.


And every day he returned to that meadow of the Lark.


CHAPTER II


EMBRYONIC FORMATION OF CRIMES IN THE INCUBATION OF PRISONS


Javert's triumph in the Gorbeau hovel seemed completebut had
not been so.


In the first placeand this constituted the principal anxiety
Javert had not taken the prisoner prisoner. The assassinated man
who flees is more suspicious than the assassinand it is probable that
this personagewho had been so precious a capture for the ruffians
would be no less fine a prize for the authorities.


And thenMontparnasse had escaped Javert.


Another opportunity of laying hands on that "devil's dandy"
must be waited for. Montparnasse hadin factencountered Eponine
as she stood on the watch under the trees of the boulevardand had
led her offpreferring to play Nemorin with the daughter rather
than Schinderhannes with the father. It was well that he did so.
He was free. As for EponineJavert had caused her to be seized;
a mediocre consolation. Eponine had joined Azelma at Les Madelonettes.


And finallyon the way from the Gorbeau house to La Forceone of
the principal prisonersClaquesoushad been lost. It was not known
how this had been effectedthe police agents and the sergeants "could
not understand it at all." He had converted himself into vapor
he had slipped through the handcuffshe had trickled through the
crevices of the carriagethe fiacre was crackedand he had fled;
all that they were able to say wasthat on arriving at the prison
there was no Claquesous. Either the fairies or the police had had a
hand in it. Had Claquesous melted into the shadows like a snow-flake
in water? Had there been unavowed connivance of the police agents?
Did this man belong to the double enigma of order and disorder?
Was he concentric with infraction and repression? Had this
sphinx his fore paws in crime and his hind paws in authority?
Javert did not accept such comminationsand would have bristled up



against such compromises; but his squad included other inspectors
besides himselfwho were more initiated than heperhapsalthough they
were his subordinates in the secrets of the Prefectureand Claquesous
had been such a villain that he might make a very good agent.
It is an excellent thing for ruffianism and an admirable thing for
the police to be on such intimate juggling terms with the night.
These double-edged rascals do exist. However that may be
Claquesous had gone astray and was not found again. Javert appeared
to be more irritated than amazed at this.


As for Mariusthat booby of a lawyer,who had probably become
frightenedand whose name Javert had forgottenJavert attached
very little importance to him. Moreovera lawyer can be hunted
up at any time. But was he a lawyer after all?


The investigation had begun.


The magistrate had thought it advisable not to put one of these men
of the band of Patron Minette in close confinementin the hope that he
would chatter. This man was Brujonthe long-haired man of the Rue du
Petit-Banquier. He had been let loose in the Charlemagne courtyard
and the eyes of the watchers were fixed on him.


This name of Brujon is one of the souvenirs of La Force.
In that hideous courtyardcalled the court of the Batiment-Neuf (New
Building)which the administration called the court Saint-Bernard
and which the robbers called the Fosseaux-Lions (The Lion's Ditch)
on that wall covered with scales and leprosywhich rose on the
left to a level with the roofsnear an old door of rusty iron
which led to the ancient chapel of the ducal residence of La Force
then turned in a dormitory for ruffiansthere could still be seen
twelve years agoa sort of fortress roughly carved in the stone
with a nailand beneath it this signature:--


BRUJON1811.

The Brujon of 1811 was the father of the Brujon of 1832.

The latterof whom the reader caught but a glimpse at the
Gorbeau housewas a very cunning and very adroit young spark
with a bewildered and plaintive air. It was in consequence of this
plaintive air that the magistrate had released himthinking him
more useful in the Charlemagne yard than in close confinement.

Robbers do not interrupt their profession because they are in the hands
of justice. They do not let themselves be put out by such a trifle
as that. To be in prison for one crime is no reason for not beginning
on another crime. They are artistswho have one picture in the salon
and who toilnone the lesson a new work in their studios.

Brujon seemed to be stupefied by prison. He could sometimes
be seen standing by the hour together in front of the sutler's
window in the Charlemagne yardstaring like an idiot at the
sordid list of prices which began with: garlic62 centimes
and ended with: cigar5 centimes. Or he passed his time in trembling
chattering his teethsaying that he had a feverand inquiring
whether one of the eight and twenty beds in the fever ward was vacant.

All at oncetowards the end of February1832it was discovered
that Brujonthat somnolent fellowhad had three different
commissions executed by the errand-men of the establishment
not under his own namebut in the name of three of his comrades;
and they had cost him in all fifty sousan exorbitant outlay


which attracted the attention of the prison corporal.


Inquiries were institutedand on consulting the tariff of
commissions posted in the convict's parlorit was learned that
the fifty sous could be analyzed as follows: three commissions;
one to the Pantheonten sous; one to Val-de-Gracefifteen sous;
and one to the Barriere de Grenelletwenty-five sous. This last
was the dearest of the whole tariff. Nowat the Pantheon
at the Val-de-Graceand at the Barriere de Grenelle were situated
the domiciles of the three very redoubtable prowlers of the barriers
Kruideniersalias BizarreGlorieuxan ex-convictand Barre-Carosse
upon whom the attention of the police was directed by this incident.
It was thought that these men were members of Patron Minette;
two of those leadersBabet and Gueulemerhad been captured.
It was supposed that the messageswhich had been addressed
not to housesbut to people who were waiting for them in the street
must have contained information with regard to some crime that
had been plotted. They were in possession of other indications;
they laid hand on the three prowlersand supposed that they had
circumvented some one or other of Brujon's machinations.


About a week after these measures had been takenone night
as the superintendent of the watchwho had been inspecting the lower
dormitory in the Batiment-Neufwas about to drop his chestnut in
the box--this was the means adopted to make sure that the watchmen
performed their duties punctually; every hour a chestnut must be
dropped into all the boxes nailed to the doors of the dormitories--
a watchman looked through the peep-hole of the dormitory and beheld
Brujon sitting on his bed and writing something by the light of the
hall-lamp. The guardian enteredBrujon was put in a solitary cell
for a monthbut they were not able to seize what he had written.
The police learned nothing further about it.


What is certain isthat on the following morninga "postilion"
was flung from the Charlemagne yard into the Lions' Ditchover the
five-story building which separated the two court-yards.


What prisoners call a "postilion" is a pallet of bread
artistically mouldedwhich is sent into Irelandthat is to say
over the roofs of a prisonfrom one courtyard to another.
Etymology: over England; from one land to another; into Ireland.
This little pellet falls in the yard. The man who picks it up opens
it and finds in it a note addressed to some prisoner in that yard.
If it is a prisoner who finds the treasurehe forwards the note to
its destination; if it is a keeperor one of the prisoners secretly
sold who are called sheep in prisons and foxes in the galleys
the note is taken to the office and handed over to the police.


On this occasionthe postilion reached its address
although the person to whom it was addressed wasat that moment
in solitary confinement. This person was no other than Babet
one of the four heads of Patron Minette.


The postilion contained a roll of paper on which only these two
lines were written:--


Babet. There is an affair in the Rue Plumet. A gate on a garden.


This is what Brujon had written the night before.


In spite of male and female searchersBabet managed to pass
the note on from La Force to the Salpetriereto a "good friend"
whom he had and who was shut up there. This woman in turn transmitted
the note to another woman of her acquaintancea certain Magnon



who was strongly suspected by the policethough not yet arrested.
This Magnonwhose name the reader has already seenhad relations
with the Thenardierwhich will be described in detail later on
and she couldby going to see Eponineserve as a bridge between the
Salpetriere and Les Madelonettes.

It happenedthat at precisely that momentas proofs were wanting
in the investigation directed against Thenardier in the matter
of his daughtersEponine and Azelma were released. When Eponine
came outMagnonwho was watching the gate of the Madelonettes
handed her Brujon's note to Babetcharging her to look into
the matter.

Eponine went to the Rue Plumetrecognized the gate and the garden
observed the housespiedlurkedanda few days later
brought to Magnonwho delivers in the Rue Clochepercea biscuit
which Magnon transmitted to Babet's mistress in the Salpetriere.
A biscuitin the shady symbolism of prisonssignifies: Nothing to
be done.

So that in less than a week from that timeas Brujon and Babet met
in the circle of La Forcethe one on his way to the examination
the other on his way from it:-


Well?asked Brujonthe Rue P.?

Biscuit,replied Babet. Thus did the foetus of crime engendered
by Brujon in La Force miscarry.

This miscarriage had its consequenceshoweverwhich were perfectly
distinct from Brujon's programme. The reader will see what they were.

Often when we think we are knotting one threadwe are tying
quite another.

CHAPTER III

APPARITION TO FATHER MABEUF

Marius no longer went to see any onebut he sometimes encountered
Father Mabeuf by chance.

While Marius was slowly descending those melancholy steps
which may be called the cellar stairsand which lead to places
without lightwhere the happy can be heard walking overhead

M. Mabeuf was descending on his side.
The Flora of Cauteretz no longer sold at all. The experiments on
indigo had not been successful in the little garden of Austerlitz
which had a bad exposure. M. Mabeuf could cultivate there only
a few plants which love shade and dampness. Neverthelesshe did
not become discouraged. He had obtained a corner in the Jardin
des Planteswith a good exposureto make his trials with indigo "at
his own expense." For this purpose he had pawned his copperplates
of the Flora. He had reduced his breakfast to two eggsand he left
one of these for his old servantto whom he had paid no wages for
the last fifteen months. And often his breakfast was his only meal.
He no longer smiled with his infantile smilehe had grown morose
and no longer received visitors. Marius did well not to dream
of going thither. Sometimesat the hour when M. Mabeuf was on
his way to the Jardin des Plantesthe old man and the young man


passed each other on the Boulevard de l'Hopital. They did not speak
and only exchanged a melancholy sign of the head. A heart-breaking
thing it is that there comes a moment when misery looses bonds!
Two men who have been friends become two chance passers-by.

Royal the bookseller was dead. M. Mabeuf no longer knew his books
his gardenor his indigo: these were the three forms which happiness
pleasureand hope had assumed for him. This sufficed him for
his living. He said to himself: "When I shall have made my balls
of blueingI shall be richI will withdraw my copperplates from
the pawn-shopI will put my Flora in vogue again with trickery
plenty of money and advertisements in the newspapers and I will buy
I know well wherea copy of Pierre de Medine's Art de Naviguer
with wood-cutsedition of 1655." In the meantimehe toiled
all day over his plot of indigoand at night he returned home
to water his gardenand to read his books. At that epoch

M. Mabeuf was nearly eighty years of age.
One evening he had a singular apparition.


He had returned home while it was still broad daylight.
Mother Plutarquewhose health was decliningwas ill and in bed.
He had dined on a boneon which a little meat lingeredand a bit
of bread that he had found on the kitchen tableand had seated
himself on an overturned stone postwhich took the place of a bench
in his garden.


Near this bench there roseafter the fashion in orchard-gardens
a sort of large chestof beams and planksmuch dilapidated
a rabbit-hutch on the ground floora fruit-closet on the first.
There was nothing in the hutchbut there were a few apples in
the fruit-closet--the remains of the winter's provision.


M. Mabeuf had set himself to turning over and readingwith the
aid of his glassestwo books of which he was passionately fond
and in whicha serious thing at his agehe was interested.
His natural timidity rendered him accessible to the acceptance of
superstitions in a certain degree. The first of these books was the
famous treatise of President DelancreDe l'inconstance des Demons;
the other was a quarto by Mutor de la RubaudiereSur les Diables
de Vauvert et les Gobelins de la Bievre. This last-mentioned old
volume interested him all the morebecause his garden had been
one of the spots haunted by goblins in former times. The twilight
had begun to whiten what was on high and to blacken all below.
As he readover the top of the book which he held in his hand
Father Mabeuf was surveying his plantsand among others
a magnificent rhododendron which was one of his consolations;
four days of heatwindand sun without a drop of rainhad passed;
the stalks were bendingthe buds droopingthe leaves falling;
all this needed waterthe rhododendron was particularly sad.
Father Mabeuf was one of those persons for whom plants have souls.
The old man had toiled all day over his indigo plothe was worn out
with fatiguebut he roselaid his books on the benchand walked
all bent over and with tottering footstepsto the wellbut when he
had grasped the chainhe could not even draw it sufficiently to
unhook it. Then he turned round and cast a glance of anguish toward
heaven which was becoming studded with stars.
The evening had that serenity which overwhelms the troubles of man
beneath an indescribably mournful and eternal joy. The night
promised to be as arid as the day had been.

Stars everywhere!thought the old man; "not the tiniest cloud!
Not a drop of water!"


And his headwhich had been upraised for a momentfell back upon
his breast.


He raised it againand once more looked at the skymurmuring:--


A tear of dew! A little pity!


He tried again to unhook the chain of the welland could not.


At that momenthe heard a voice saying:--


Father Mabeuf, would you like to have me water your garden for you?


At the same timea noise as of a wild animal passing became
audible in the hedgeand he beheld emerging from the shrubbery
a sort of tallslender girlwho drew herself up in front of him
and stared boldly at him. She had less the air of a human being
than of a form which had just blossomed forth from the twilight.


Before Father Mabeufwho was easily terrifiedand who wasas we
have saidquick to take alarmwas able to reply by a single syllable
this beingwhose movements had a sort of odd abruptness in the darkness
had unhooked the chainplunged in and withdrawn the bucket
and filled the watering-potand the goodman beheld this apparition
which had bare feet and a tattered petticoatrunning about among
the flower-beds distributing life around her. The sound of the
watering-pot on the leaves filled Father Mabeuf's soul with ecstasy.
It seemed to him that the rhododendron was happy now.


The first bucketful emptiedthe girl drew a secondthen a third.
She watered the whole garden.


There was something about heras she thus ran about among paths
where her outline appeared perfectly blackwaving her angular arms
and with her fichu all in ragsthat resembled a bat.


When she had finishedFather Mabeuf approached her with tears
in his eyesand laid his hand on her brow.


God will bless you,said heyou are an angel since you take
care of the flowers.


No,she replied. "I am the devilbut that's all the same to me."


The old man exclaimedwithout either waiting for or hearing
her response:--


What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and that I can
do nothing for you!


You can do something,said she.


What?


Tell me where M. Marius lives.


The old man did not understand. "What Monsieur Marius?"


He raised his glassy eyes and seemed to be seeking something
that had vanished.


A young man who used to come here.



In the meantimeM. Mabeuf had searched his memory.


Ah! yes--he exclaimed. "I know what you mean. Wait!
Monsieur Marius--the Baron Marius Pontmercyparbleu! He lives--
or ratherhe no longer lives--ah wellI don't know."


As he spokehe had bent over to train a branch of rhododendron
and he continued:--


Hold, I know now. He very often passes along the boulevard,
and goes in the direction of the Glaciere, Rue Croulebarbe.
The meadow of the Lark. Go there. It is not hard to meet him.


When M. Mabeuf straightened himself upthere was no longer any
one there; the girl had disappeared.


He was decidedly terrified.


Really,he thoughtif my garden had not been watered, I should
think that she was a spirit.


An hour laterwhen he was in bedit came back to him
and as he fell asleepat that confused moment when thought
like that fabulous bird which changes itself into a fish in order
to cross the sealittle by little assumes the form of a dream
in order to traverse slumberhe said to himself in a bewildered way:--


In sooth, that greatly resembles what Rubaudiere narrates
of the goblins. Could it have been a goblin?


CHAPTER IV


AN APPARITION TO MARIUS


Some days after this visit of a "spirit" to Farmer Mabeufone morning--
it was on a Mondaythe day when Marius borrowed the hundred-sou
piece from Courfeyrac for Thenardier--Marius had put this coin
in his pocketand before carrying it to the clerk's office
he had gone "to take a little stroll in the hope that this would
make him work on his return. It was always thus, however. As soon
as he rose, he seated himself before a book and a sheet of paper
in order to scribble some translation; his task at that epoch
consisted in turning into French a celebrated quarrel between Germans,
the Gans and Savigny controversy; he took Savigny, he took Gans,
read four lines, tried to write one, could not, saw a star between him
and his paper, and rose from his chair, saying: I shall go out.
That will put me in spirits."


And off he went to the Lark's meadow.


There he beheld more than ever the starand less than ever Savigny
and Gans.


He returned hometried to take up his work againand did not succeed;
there was no means of re-knotting a single one of the threads which
were broken in his brain; then he said to himself: "I will not go
out to-morrow. It prevents my working." And he went out every day.


He lived in the Lark's meadow more than in Courfeyrac's lodgings.
That was his real address: Boulevard de la Santeat the seventh
tree from the Rue Croulebarbe.



That morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had seated himself
on the parapet of the River des Gobelins. A cheerful sunlight
penetrated the freshly unfolded and luminous leaves.


He was dreaming of "Her." And his meditation turning to a reproach
fell back upon himself; he reflected dolefully on his idleness
his paralysis of soulwhich was gaining on himand of that night
which was growing more dense every moment before himto such a point
that he no longer even saw the sun.


Neverthelessathwart this painful extrication of indistinct ideas
which was not even a monologueso feeble had action become in him
and he had no longer the force to care to despairathwart this
melancholy absorptionsensations from without did reach him.
He heard behind himbeneath himon both banks of the river
the laundresses of the Gobelins beating their linenand above
his headthe birds chattering and singing in the elm-trees.
On the one handthe sound of libertythe careless happiness
of the leisure which has wings; on the otherthe sound of toil.
What caused him to meditate deeplyand almost reflectwere two
cheerful sounds.


All at oncein the midst of his dejected ecstasyhe heard
a familiar voice saying:--


Come! Here he is!


He raised his eyesand recognized that wretched child who had come to him
one morningthe elder of the Thenardier daughtersEponine; he knew
her name now. Strange to sayshe had grown poorer and prettier
two steps which it had not seemed within her power to take.
She had accomplished a double progresstowards the light and
towards distress. She was barefooted and in ragsas on the day
when she had so resolutely entered his chamberonly her rags were two
months older nowthe holes were largerthe tatters more sordid.
It was the same harsh voicethe same brow dimmed and wrinkled with tan
the same freewildand vacillating glance. She had besides
more than formerlyin her face that indescribably terrified
and lamentable something which sojourn in a prison adds to wretchedness.


She had bits of straw and hay in her hairnot like Ophelia
through having gone mad from the contagion of Hamlet's madness
but because she had slept in the loft of some stable.


And in spite of it allshe was beautiful. What a star art thou
O youth!


In the meantimeshe had halted in front of Marius with a trace
of joy in her livid countenanceand something which resembled a smile.


She stood for several moments as though incapable of speech.


So I have met you at last!she said at length. "Father Mabeuf
was rightit was on this boulevard! How I have hunted for you!
If you only knew! Do you know? I have been in the jug. A fortnight!
They let me out! seeing that there was nothing against me
and thatmoreoverI had not reached years of discretion. I lack
two months of it. Oh! how I have hunted for you! These six weeks!
So you don't live down there any more?"


No,said Marius.


Ah! I understand. Because of that affair. Those take-downs



are disagreeable. You cleared out. Come now! Why do you wear old
hats like this! A young man like you ought to have fine clothes.
Do you know, Monsieur Marius, Father Mabeuf calls you Baron Marius,
I don't know what. It isn't true that you are a baron? Barons are
old fellows, they go to the Luxembourg, in front of the chateau,
where there is the most sun, and they read the Quotidienne for a sou.
I once carried a letter to a baron of that sort. He was over a hundred
years old. Say, where do you live now?


Marius made no reply.


Ah!she went onyou have a hole in your shirt. I must sew it
up for you.


She resumed with an expression which gradually clouded over:--


You don't seem glad to see me.


Marius held his peace; she remained silent for a momentthen exclaimed:--


But if I choose, nevertheless, I could force you to look glad!


What?demanded Marius. "What do you mean?"


Ah! you used to call me thou,she retorted.


Well, then, what dost thou mean?


She bit her lips; she seemed to hesitateas though a prey to some
sort of inward conflict. At last she appeared to come to a decision.


So much the worse, I don't care. You have a melancholy air,
I want you to be pleased. Only promise me that you will smile.
I want to see you smile and hear you say: `Ah, well, that's good.'
Poor Mr. Marius! you know? You promised me that you would give me
anything I like--


Yes! Only speak!


She looked Marius full in the eyeand said:--


I have the address.


Marius turned pale. All the blood flowed back to his heart.


What address?


The address that you asked me to get!


She addedas though with an effort:--


The address--you know very well!


Yes!stammered Marius.


Of that young lady.


This word utteredshe sighed deeply.


Marius sprang from the parapet on which he had been sitting
and seized her hand distractedly.


Oh! Well! lead me thither! Tell me! Ask of me anything you wish!
Where is it?



Come with me,she responded. "I don't know the street or number
very well; it is in quite the other direction from herebut I know
the house wellI will take you to it."

She withdrew her hand and went onin a tone which could have rent
the heart of an observerbut which did not even graze Marius
in his intoxicated and ecstatic state:-


Oh! how glad you are!
A cloud swept across Marius' brow. He seized Eponine by the arm:--


Swear one thing to me!
Swear!said shewhat does that mean? Come! You want me to swear?


And she laughed.


Your father! promise me, Eponine! Swear to me that you will not
give this address to your father!
She turned to him with a stupefied air.


Eponine! How do you know that my name is Eponine?
Promise what I tell you!


But she did not seem to hear him.
That's nice! You have called me Eponine!


Marius grasped both her arms at once.


But answer me, in the name of Heaven! pay attention to what I am
saying to you, swear to me that you will not tell your father this
address that you know!


My father!said she. "Ah yesmy father! Be at ease.
He's in close confinement. Besideswhat do I care for my father!"


But you do not promise me!exclaimed Marius.


Let go of me!she saidbursting into a laughhow you do shake me!
Yes! Yes! I promise that! I swear that to you! What is that to me?
I will not tell my father the address. There! Is that right?
Is that it?


Nor to any one?said Marius.
Nor to any one.


Now,resumed Mariustake me there.
Immediately?


Immediately.
Come along. Ah! how pleased he is!said she.


After a few steps she halted.


You are following me too closely, Monsieur Marius. Let me go
on ahead, and follow me so, without seeming to do it. A nice


young man like you must not be seen with a woman like me.


No tongue can express all that lay in that wordwomanthus pronounced
by that child.


She proceeded a dozen paces and then halted once more; Marius joined her.
She addressed him sidewaysand without turning towards him:--


By the way, you know that you promised me something?


Marius fumbled in his pocket. All that he owned in the world
was the five francs intended for Thenardier the father. He took
them and laid them in Eponine's hand.


She opened her fingers and let the coin fall to the ground
and gazed at him with a gloomy air.


I don't want your money,said she.


BOOK THIRD.--THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET


CHAPTER I


THE HOUSE WITH A SECRET


About the middle of the last centurya chief justice in the Parliament
of Paris having a mistress and concealing the factfor at that period
the grand seignors displayed their mistressesand the bourgeois
concealed themhad "a little house" built in the Faubourg Saint-Germain
in the deserted Rue Blometwhich is now called Rue Plumet
not far from the spot which was then designated as Combat des Animaux.


This house was composed of a single-storied pavilion; two rooms
on the ground floortwo chambers on the first floora kitchen
down stairsa boudoir up stairsan attic under the roofthe whole
preceded by a garden with a large gate opening on the street.
This garden was about an acre and a half in extent. This was all
that could be seen by passers-by; but behind the pavilion there was
a narrow courtyardand at the end of the courtyard a low building
consisting of two rooms and a cellara sort of preparation destined
to conceal a child and nurse in case of need. This building communicated
in the rear by a masked door which opened by a secret spring
with a longnarrowpaved winding corridoropen to the sky
hemmed in with two lofty wallswhichhidden with wonderful art
and lost as it were between garden enclosures and cultivated land
all of whose angles and detours it followedended in another door
also with a secret lock which opened a quarter of a league away
almost in another quarterat the solitary extremity of the Rue
du Babylone.


Through this the chief justice enteredso that even those who were
spying on him and following him would merely have observed that the
justice betook himself every day in a mysterious way somewhere
and would never have suspected that to go to the Rue de Babylone
was to go to the Rue Blomet. Thanks to clever purchasers of land
the magistrate had been able to make a secretsewer-like passage on
his own propertyand consequentlywithout interference. Later on
he had sold in little parcelsfor gardens and market gardens
the lots of ground adjoining the corridorand the proprietors



of these lots on both sides thought they had a party wall before
their eyesand did not even suspect the longpaved ribbon winding
between two walls amid their flower-beds and their orchards.
Only the birds beheld this curiosity. It is probable that the
linnets and tomtits of the last century gossiped a great deal about
the chief justice.


The pavilionbuilt of stone in the taste of Mansard
wainscoted and furnished in the Watteau stylerocaille on
the insideold-fashioned on the outsidewalled in with a
triple hedge of flowershad something discreetcoquettish
and solemn about itas befits a caprice of love and magistracy.


This house and corridorwhich have now disappearedwere in
existence fifteen years ago. In '93 a coppersmith had purchased
the house with the idea of demolishing itbut had not been able
to pay the price; the nation made him bankrupt. So that it was
the house which demolished the coppersmith. After thatthe house
remained uninhabitedand fell slowly to ruinas does every
dwelling to which the presence of man does not communicate life.
It had remained fitted with its old furniturewas always for sale
or to letand the ten or a dozen people who passed through
the Rue Plumet were warned of the fact by a yellow and illegible
bit of writing which had hung on the garden wall since 1819.


Towards the end of the Restorationthese same passers-by might have
noticed that the bill had disappearedand even that the shutters
on the first floor were open. The house was occupiedin fact.
The windows had short curtainsa sign that there was a woman about.


In the month of October1829a man of a certain age had presented
himself and had hired the house just as it stoodincludingof course
the back building and the lane which ended in the Rue de Babylone.
He had had the secret openings of the two doors to this passage repaired.
The houseas we have just mentionedwas still very nearly
furnished with the justice's old fitting; the new tenant had
ordered some repairshad added what was lacking here and there
had replaced the paving-stones in the yardbricks in the floors
steps in the stairsmissing bits in the inlaid floors and the glass
in the lattice windowsand had finally installed himself there
with a young girl and an elderly maid-servantwithout commotion
rather like a person who is slipping in than like a man who is
entering his own house. The neighbors did not gossip about him
for the reason that there were no neighbors.


This unobtrusive tenant was Jean Valjeanthe young girl was Cosette.
The servant was a woman named Toussaintwhom Jean Valjean had
saved from the hospital and from wretchednessand who was elderly
a stammererand from the provincesthree qualities which had
decided Jean Valjean to take her with him. He had hired the
house under the name of M. Faucheleventindependent gentleman.
In all that has been related heretoforethe reader hasdoubtless
been no less prompt than Thenardier to recognize Jean Valjean.


Why had Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the Petit-Picpus? What
had happened?


Nothing had happened.


It will be remembered that Jean Valjean was happy in the convent
so happy that his conscience finally took the alarm. He saw
Cosette every dayhe felt paternity spring up and develop within
him more and morehe brooded over the soul of that childhe said
to himself that she was histhat nothing could take her from him



that this would last indefinitelythat she would certainly become
a nunbeing thereto gently incited every daythat thus the convent
was henceforth the universe for her as it was for himthat he
should grow old thereand that she would grow up therethat she
would grow old thereand that he should die there; thatin short
delightful hopeno separation was possible. On reflecting upon this
he fell into perplexity. He interrogated himself. He asked himself
if all that happiness were really hisif it were not composed of
the happiness of anotherof the happiness of that child which he
an old manwas confiscating and stealing; if that were not theft?
He said to himselfthat this child had a right to know life before
renouncing itthat to deprive her in advanceand in some sort
without consulting herof all joysunder the pretext of saving her
from all trialsto take advantage of her ignorance of her isolation
in order to make an artificial vocation germinate in her
was to rob a human creature of its nature and to lie to God.
And who knows ifwhen she came to be aware of all this some day
and found herself a nun to her sorrowCosette would not come
to hate him? A lastalmost selfish thoughtand less heroic than
the restbut which was intolerable to him. He resolved to quit
the convent.


He resolved on this; he recognized with anguishthe fact
that it was necessary. As for objectionsthere were none.
Five years' sojourn between these four walls and of disappearance
had necessarily destroyed or dispersed the elements of fear.
He could return tranquilly among men. He had grown old
and all had undergone a change. Who would recognize him now?
And thento face the worstthere was danger only for himself
and he had no right to condemn Cosette to the cloister for the reason
that he had been condemned to the galleys. Besideswhat is danger
in comparison with the right? Finallynothing prevented his being
prudent and taking his precautions.


As for Cosette's educationit was almost finished and complete.


His determination once takenhe awaited an opportunity.
It was not long in presenting itself. Old Fauchelevent died.


Jean Valjean demanded an audience with the revered prioress and told
her thathaving come into a little inheritance at the death of
his brotherwhich permitted him henceforth to live without working
he should leave the service of the convent and take his daughter
with him; but thatas it was not just that Cosettesince she had
not taken the vowsshould have received her education gratuitously
he humbly begged the Reverend Prioress to see fit that he
should offer to the communityas indemnityfor the five years
which Cosette had spent therethe sum of five thousand francs.


It was thus that Jean Valjean quitted the convent
of the Perpetual Adoration.


On leaving the conventhe took in his own arms the little valise
the key to which he still wore on his personand would permit
no porter to touch it. This puzzled Cosettebecause of the odor
of embalming which proceeded from it.


Let us state at oncethat this trunk never quitted him more.
He always had it in his chamber. It was the first and only thing
sometimesthat he carried off in his moving when he moved about.
Cosette laughed at itand called this valise his inseparablesaying:
I am jealous of it.


NeverthelessJean Valjean did not reappear in the open air without



profound anxiety.

He discovered the house in the Rue Plumetand hid himself from
sight there. Henceforth he was in the possession of the name:-Ultime
Fauchelevent.

At the same time he hired two other apartments in Parisin order
that he might attract less attention than if he were to remain
always in the same quarterand so that he couldat need
take himself off at the slightest disquietude which should assail him
and in shortso that he might not again be caught unprovided
as on the night when he had so miraculously escaped from Javert.
These two apartments were very pitiablepoor in appearance
and in two quarters which were far remote from each otherthe one
in the Rue de l'Ouestthe other in the Rue de l'Homme Arme.

He went from time to timenow to the Rue de l'Homme Arme
now to the Rue de l'Ouestto pass a month or six weeks
without taking Toussaint. He had himself served by the porters
and gave himself out as a gentleman from the suburbsliving on
his fundsand having a little temporary resting-place in town.
This lofty virtue had three domiciles in Paris for the sake
of escaping from the police.

CHAPTER II

JEAN VALJEAN AS A NATIONAL GUARD

Howeverproperly speakinghe lived in the Rue Plumetand he
had arranged his existence there in the following fashion:--

Cosette and the servant occupied the pavilion; she had the big
sleeping-room with the painted pier-glassesthe boudoir with the
gilded filletsthe justice's drawing-room furnished with tapestries
and vast arm-chairs; she had the garden. Jean Valjean had a canopied
bed of antique damask in three colors and a beautiful Persian rug
purchased in the Rue du Figuier-Saint-Paul at Mother Gaucher'sput
into Cosette's chamberandin order to redeem the severity of these
magnificent old thingshe had amalgamated with this bric-a-brac all
the gay and graceful little pieces of furniture suitable to young girls
an etagerea bookcase filled with gilt-edged booksan inkstand
a blotting-bookpapera work-table incrusted with mother of pearl
a silver-gilt dressing-casea toilet service in Japanese porcelain.
Long damask curtains with a red foundation and three colors
like those on the bedhung at the windows of the first floor.
On the ground floorthe curtains were of tapestry. All winter long
Cosette's little house was heated from top to bottom. Jean Valjean
inhabited the sort of porter's lodge which was situated at the end
of the back courtyardwith a mattress on a folding-beda white
wood tabletwo straw chairsan earthenware water-juga few old
volumes on a shelfhis beloved valise in one cornerand never
any fire. He dined with Cosetteand he had a loaf of black bread
on the table for his own use.

When Toussaint camehe had said to her: "It is the young lady who is
the mistress of this house."--"And youmonsieur?" Toussaint replied in
amazement.--"I am a much better thing than the masterI am the father."

Cosette had been taught housekeeping in the conventand she
regulated their expenditurewhich was very modest. Every day
Jean Valjean put his arm through Cosette's and took her for a walk.


He led her to the Luxembourgto the least frequented walk
and every Sunday he took her to mass at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas
because that was a long way off. As it was a very poor quarter
he bestowed alms largely thereand the poor people surrounded him
in churchwhich had drawn down upon him Thenardier's epistle:
To the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas.
He was fond of taking Cosette to visit the poor and the sick.
No stranger ever entered the house in the Rue Plumet. Toussaint brought
their provisionsand Jean Valjean went himself for water to a
fountain near by on the boulevard. Their wood and wine were put
into a half-subterranean hollow lined with rock-work which lay near
the Rue de Babylone and which had formerly served the chief-justice
as a grotto; for at the epoch of follies and "Little Houses" no love
was without a grotto.


In the door opening on the Rue de Babylonethere was a box destined
for the reception of letters and papers; onlyas the three inhabitants
of the pavilion in the Rue Plumet received neither papers nor letters
the entire usefulness of that boxformerly the go-between of a
love affairand the confidant of a love-lorn lawyerwas now limited
to the tax-collector's noticesand the summons of the guard.
For M. Faucheleventindependent gentlemanbelonged to the national
guard; he had not been able to escape through the fine meshes of the
census of 1831. The municipal information collected at that time had
even reached the convent of the Petit-Picpusa sort of impenetrable
and holy cloudwhence Jean Valjean had emerged in venerable guise
andconsequentlyworthy of mounting guard in the eyes of the townhall.


Three or four times a yearJean Valjean donned his uniform and
mounted guard; he did this willinglyhowever; it was a correct
disguise which mixed him with every oneand yet left him solitary.
Jean Valjean had just attained his sixtieth birthdaythe age
of legal exemption; but he did not appear to be over fifty;
moreoverhe had no desire to escape his sergeant-major nor
to quibble with Comte de Lobau; he possessed no civil status
he was concealing his namehe was concealing his identity
so he concealed his agehe concealed everything; andas we have
just saidhe willingly did his duty as a national guard; the sum
of his ambition lay in resembling any other man who paid his taxes.
This man had for his idealwithinthe angelwithoutthe bourgeois.


Let us note one detailhowever; when Jean Valjean went out with Cosette
he dressed as the reader has already seenand had the air of a
retired officer. When he went out alonewhich was generally at night
he was always dressed in a workingman's trousers and blouseand wore
a cap which concealed his face. Was this precaution or humility?
Both. Cosette was accustomed to the enigmatical side of her destiny
and hardly noticed her father's peculiarities. As for Toussaint
she venerated Jean Valjeanand thought everything he did right.


One dayher butcherwho had caught a glimpse of Jean Valjean
said to her: "That's a queer fish." She replied: "He's a saint."


Neither Jean Valjean nor Cosette nor Toussaint ever entered or emerged
except by the door on the Rue de Babylone. Unless seen through
the garden gate it would have been difficult to guess that they
lived in the Rue Plumet. That gate was always closed. Jean Valjean
had left the garden uncultivatedin order not to attract attention.


In thispossiblyhe made a mistake.


CHAPTER III



FOLIIS AC FRONDIBUS

The garden thus left to itself for more than half a century had
become extraordinary and charming. The passers-by of forty years
ago halted to gaze at itwithout a suspicion of the secrets which
it hid in its fresh and verdant depths. More than one dreamer
of that epoch often allowed his thoughts and his eyes to penetrate
indiscreetly between the bars of that ancientpadlocked gate
twistedtotteringfastened to two green and moss-covered pillars
and oddly crowned with a pediment of undecipherable arabesque.

There was a stone bench in one cornerone or two mouldy statues
several lattices which had lost their nails with timewere rotting
on the walland there were no walks nor turf; but there was
enough grass everywhere. Gardening had taken its departure
and nature had returned. Weeds aboundedwhich was a great piece
of luck for a poor corner of land. The festival of gilliflowers
was something splendid. Nothing in this garden obstructed the
sacred effort of things towards life; venerable growth reigned
there among them. The trees had bent over towards the nettles
the plant had sprung upwardthe branch had inclinedthat which crawls
on the earth had gone in search of that which expands in the air
that which floats on the wind had bent over towards that which trails
in the moss; trunksboughsleavesfibresclusterstendrils
shootsspinesthornshad mingledcrossedmarriedconfounded
themselves in each other; vegetation in a deep and close embrace
had celebrated and accomplished thereunder the well-pleased
eye of the Creatorin that enclosure three hundred feet square
the holy mystery of fraternitysymbol of the human fraternity.
This garden was no longer a gardenit was a colossal thicket
that is to saysomething as impenetrable as a forestas peopled
as a cityquivering like a nestsombre like a cathedral
fragrant like a bouquetsolitary as a tombliving as a throng.

In Floreal[34] this enormous thicketfree behind its gate and within
its four wallsentered upon the secret labor of germination
quivered in the rising sunalmost like an animal which drinks
in the breaths of cosmic loveand which feels the sap of April
rising and boiling in its veinsand shakes to the wind its
enormous wonderful green lockssprinkled on the damp earth
on the defaced statueson the crumbling steps of the pavilion
and even on the pavement of the deserted streetflowers like stars
dew like pearlsfecunditybeautylifejoyperfumes. At midday
a thousand white butterflies took refuge thereand it was a divine
spectacle to see that living summer snow whirling about there
in flakes amid the shade. Therein those gay shadows of verdure
a throng of innocent voices spoke sweetly to the souland what the
twittering forgot to say the humming completed. In the evening
a dreamy vapor exhaled from the garden and enveloped it; a shroud
of mista calm and celestial sadness covered it; the intoxicating
perfume of the honeysuckles and convolvulus poured out from every
part of itlike an exquisite and subtle poison; the last appeals
of the woodpeckers and the wagtails were audible as they dozed among
the branches; one felt the sacred intimacy of the birds and the trees;
by day the wings rejoice the leavesby night the leaves protect
the wings.

[34] From April 19 to May 20.
In winter the thicket was blackdrippingbristlingshivering


and allowed some glimpse of the house. Instead of flowers on the branches
and dew in the flowersthe long silvery tracks of the snails were
visible on the coldthick carpet of yellow leaves; but in any fashion
under any aspectat all seasonsspringwintersummerautumn
this tiny enclosure breathed forth melancholycontemplation
solitudelibertythe absence of manthe presence of God; and
the rusty old gate had the air of saying: "This garden belongs to me."


It was of no avail that the pavements of Paris were there on
every sidethe classic and splendid hotels of the Rue de Varennes
a couple of paces awaythe dome of the Invalides close at hand
the Chamber of Deputies not far off; the carriages of the Rue de
Bourgogne and of the Rue Saint-Dominique rumbled luxuriouslyin vain
in the vicinityin vain did the yellowbrownwhiteand red
omnibuses cross each other's course at the neighboring cross-roads;
the Rue Plumet was the desert; and the death of the former proprietors
the revolution which had passed over itthe crumbling away of
ancient fortunesabsenceforgetfulnessforty years of abandonment
and widowhoodhad sufficed to restore to this privileged spot ferns
mulleinshemlockyarrowtall weedsgreat crimped plants
with large leaves of pale green clothlizardsbeetlesuneasy and
rapid insects; to cause to spring forth from the depths of the earth
and to reappear between those four walls a certain indescribable
and savage grandeur; and for naturewhich disconcerts the petty
arrangements of manand which sheds herself always thoroughly
where she diffuses herself at allin the ant as well as in
the eagleto blossom out in a petty little Parisian garden with
as much rude force and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New World.


Nothing is smallin fact; any one who is subject to the profound
and penetrating influence of nature knows this. Although no
absolute satisfaction is given to philosophyeither to circumscribe
the cause or to limit the effectthe contemplator falls into
those unfathomable ecstasies caused by these decompositions
of force terminating in unity. Everything toils at everything.


Algebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star profits
the rose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the perfume of the
hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Whothencan calculate
the course of a molecule? How do we know that the creation of worlds
is not determined by the fall of grains of sand? Who knows the
reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely
littlethe reverberations of causes in the precipices of being
and the avalanches of creation? The tiniest worm is of importance;
the great is littlethe little is great; everything is balanced
in necessity; alarming vision for the mind. There are marvellous
relations between beings and things; in that inexhaustible whole
from the sun to the grubnothing despises the other; all have
need of each other. The light does not bear away terrestrial
perfumes into the azure depthswithout knowing what it is doing;
the night distributes stellar essences to the sleeping flowers.
All birds that fly have round their leg the thread of the infinite.
Germination is complicated with the bursting forth of a meteor
and with the peck of a swallow cracking its eggand it places on
one level the birth of an earthworm and the advent of Socrates.
Where the telescope endsthe microscope begins. Which of the two
possesses the larger field of vision? Choose. A bit of mould
is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an ant-hill of stars.
The same promiscuousnessand yet more unprecedentedexists between
the things of the intelligence and the facts of substance.
Elements and principles minglecombinewedmultiply with each other
to such a point that the material and the moral world are brought
eventually to the same clearness. The phenomenon is perpetually
returning upon itself. In the vast cosmic exchanges the universal life



goes and comes in unknown quantitiesrolling entirely in the invisible
mystery of effluviaemploying everythingnot losing a single dream
not a single slumbersowing an animalcule herecrumbling to bits
a planet thereoscillating and windingmaking of light a force
and of thought an elementdisseminated and invisibledissolving all
except that geometrical pointthe I; bringing everything back to
the soul-atom; expanding everything in Godentangling all activity
from summit to basein the obscurity of a dizzy mechanism
attaching the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth
subordinatingwho knows? Were it only by the identity of the law
the evolution of the comet in the firmament to the whirling
of the infusoria in the drop of water. A machine made of mind.
Enormous gearingthe prime motor of which is the gnatand whose
final wheel is the zodiac.

CHAPTER IV

CHANGE OF GATE

It seemed that this gardencreated in olden days to conceal
wanton mysterieshad been transformed and become fitted to shelter
chaste mysteries. There were no longer either arborsor bowling greens
or tunnelsor grottos; there was a magnificentdishevelled obscurity
falling like a veil over all. Paphos had been made over into Eden.
It is impossible to say what element of repentance had rendered
this retreat wholesome. This flower-girl now offered her blossom
to the soul. This coquettish gardenformerly decidedly compromised
had returned to virginity and modesty. A justice assisted by a gardener
a goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lamoignon
and another goodman who thought that he was a continuation of Lenotre
had turned it aboutcutruffleddeckedmoulded it to gallantry;
nature had taken possession of it once morehad filled it with shade
and had arranged it for love.

There wasalsoin this solitudea heart which was quite ready.
Love had only to show himself; he had here a temple composed
of verduregrassmossthe sight of birdstender shadows
agitated branchesand a soul made of sweetnessof faithof candor
of hopeof aspirationand of illusion.

Cosette had left the convent when she was still almost a child;
she was a little more than fourteenand she was at the "ungrateful age";
we have already saidthat with the exception of her eyesshe was
homely rather than pretty; she had no ungraceful featurebut she
was awkwardthintimid and bold at oncea grown-up little girl
in short.

Her education was finishedthat is to sayshe has been taught religion
and even and above alldevotion; then "history that is to say
the thing that bears that name in convents, geography, grammar,
the participles, the kings of France, a little music, a little
drawing, etc.; but in all other respects she was utterly ignorant,
which is a great charm and a great peril. The soul of a young
girl should not be left in the dark; later on, mirages that are
too abrupt and too lively are formed there, as in a dark chamber.
She should be gently and discreetly enlightened, rather with the
reflection of realities than with their harsh and direct light.
A useful and graciously austere half-light which dissipates puerile
fears and obviates falls. There is nothing but the maternal instinct,
that admirable intuition composed of the memories of the virgin
and the experience of the woman, which knows how this half-light


is to be created and of what it should consist.


Nothing supplies the place of this instinct. All the nuns in
the world are not worth as much as one mother in the formation
of a young girl's soul.


Cosette had had no mother. She had only had many mothers,
in the plural.


As for Jean Valjean, he was, indeed, all tenderness, all solicitude;
but he was only an old man and he knew nothing at all.


Now, in this work of education, in this grave matter of preparing
a woman for life, what science is required to combat that vast
ignorance which is called innocence!


Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent.
The convent turns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown.
The heart, thus thrown back upon itself, works downward within itself,
since it cannot overflow, and grows deep, since it cannot expand.
Hence visions, suppositions, conjectures, outlines of romances,
a desire for adventures, fantastic constructions, edifices built
wholly in the inner obscurity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes
where the passions immediately find a lodgement as soon as the open
gate permits them to enter. The convent is a compression which,
in order to triumph over the human heart, should last during the
whole life.


On quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing more
sweet and more dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet.
It was the continuation of solitude with the beginning of liberty;
a garden that was closed, but a nature that was acrid, rich, voluptuous,
and fragrant; the same dreams as in the convent, but with glimpses
of young men; a grating, but one that opened on the street.


Still, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a child.
Jean Valjean gave this neglected garden over to her. Do what you
like with it he said to her. This amused Cosette; she turned
over all the clumps and all the stones, she hunted for beasts"; she
played in itwhile awaiting the time when she would dream in it;
she loved this garden for the insects that she found beneath
her feet amid the grasswhile awaiting the day when she would
love it for the stars that she would see through the boughs above
her head.


And thenshe loved her fatherthat is to sayJean Valjean
with all her soulwith an innocent filial passion which made
the goodman a beloved and charming companion to her. It will be
remembered that M. Madeleine had been in the habit of reading a
great deal. Jean Valjean had continued this practice; he had come
to converse well; he possessed the secret riches and the eloquence
of a true and humble mind which has spontaneously cultivated itself.
He retained just enough sharpness to season his kindness; his mind
was rough and his heart was soft. During their conversations
in the Luxembourghe gave her explanations of everything
drawing on what he had readand also on what he had suffered.
As she listened to himCosette's eyes wandered vaguely about.


This simple man sufficed for Cosette's thoughtthe same as the wild
garden sufficed for her eyes. When she had had a good chase after
the butterfliesshe came panting up to him and said: "Ah! How I
have run!" He kissed her brow.


Cosette adored the goodman. She was always at his heels.



Where Jean Valjean wasthere happiness was. Jean Valjean lived
neither in the pavilion nor the garden; she took greater pleasure
in the paved back courtyardthan in the enclosure filled with flowers
and in his little lodge furnished with straw-seated chairs than
in the great drawing-room hung with tapestryagainst which stood
tufted easy-chairs. Jean Valjean sometimes said to hersmiling at
his happiness in being importuned: "Do go to your own quarters!
Leave me alone a little!"


She gave him those charming and tender scoldings which are
so graceful when they come from a daughter to her father.


Father, I am very cold in your rooms; why don't you have a carpet
here and a stove?


Dear child, there are so many people who are better than I
and who have not even a roof over their heads.


Then why is there a fire in my rooms, and everything that is needed?


Because you are a woman and a child.


Bah! must men be cold and feel uncomfortable?


Certain men.


That is good, I shall come here so often that you will be obliged
to have a fire.


And again she said to him:--


Father, why do you eat horrible bread like that?


Because, my daughter.


Well, if you eat it, I will eat it too.


Thenin order to prevent Cosette eating black breadJean Valjean
ate white bread.


Cosette had but a confused recollection of her childhood. She prayed
morning and evening for her mother whom she had never known.
The Thenardiers had remained with her as two hideous figures
in a dream. She remembered that she had gone "one dayat night
to fetch water in a forest. She thought that it had been very far
from Paris. It seemed to her that she had begun to live in an abyss,
and that it was Jean Valjean who had rescued her from it.
Her childhood produced upon her the effect of a time when there
had been nothing around her but millepeds, spiders, and serpents.
When she meditated in the evening, before falling asleep, as she
had not a very clear idea that she was Jean Valjean's daughter,
and that he was her father, she fancied that the soul of her mother had
passed into that good man and had come to dwell near her.


When he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his white hair,
and dropped a silent tear, saying to herself: Perhaps this man is
my mother."


Cosettealthough this is a strange statement to make
in the profound ignorance of a girl brought up in a convent--
maternity being also absolutely unintelligible to virginity--
had ended by fancying that she had had as little mother as possible.
She did not even know her mother's name. Whenever she asked Jean Valjean
Jean Valjean remained silent. If she repeated her question



he responded with a smile. Once she insisted; the smile ended in a tear.

This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness.

Was it prudence? Was it respect? Was it a fear that he should
deliver this name to the hazards of another memory than his own?


So long as Cosette had been smallJean Valjean had been willing to talk
to her of her mother; when she became a young girlit was impossible
for him to do so. It seemed to him that he no longer dared. Was it
because of Cosette? Was it because of Fantine? He felt a certain
religious horror at letting that shadow enter Cosette's thought;
and of placing a third in their destiny. The more sacred this
shade was to himthe more did it seem that it was to be feared.
He thought of Fantineand felt himself overwhelmed with silence.


Through the darknesshe vaguely perceived something which appeared
to have its finger on its lips. Had all the modesty which had been
in Fantineand which had violently quitted her during her lifetime
returned to rest upon her after her deathto watch in indignation
over the peace of that dead womanand in its shynessto keep her in
her grave? Was Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure?
We who believe in deathare not among the number who will reject
this mysterious explanation.


Hence the impossibility of utteringeven for Cosettethat name
of Fantine.


One day Cosette said to him:--


Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night. She had two big wings.
My mother must have been almost a saint during her life.


Through martyrdom,replied Jean Valjean.


HoweverJean Valjean was happy.


When Cosette went out with himshe leaned on his armproud and happy
in the plenitude of her heart. Jean Valjean felt his heart melt within
him with delightat all these sparks of a tenderness so exclusive
so wholly satisfied with himself alone. The poor man trembled
inundated with angelic joy; he declared to himself ecstatically
that this would last all their lives; he told himself that he
really had not suffered sufficiently to merit so radiant a bliss
and he thanked Godin the depths of his soulfor having permitted
him to be loved thushea wretchby that innocent being.


CHAPTER V


THE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT IT IS AN ENGINE OF WAR


One dayCosette chanced to look at herself in her mirror
and she said to herself: "Really!" It seemed to her almost that
she was pretty. This threw her in a singularly troubled state
of mind. Up to that moment she had never thought of her face.
She saw herself in her mirrorbut she did not look at herself.
And thenshe had so often been told that she was homely;
Jean Valjean alone said gently: "No indeed! no indeed!"
At all eventsCosette had always thought herself homelyand had
grown up in that belief with the easy resignation of childhood.
And hereall at oncewas her mirror saying to heras Jean Valjean



had said: "No indeed!" That nightshe did not sleep. "What if I
were pretty!" she thought. "How odd it would be if I were pretty!"
And she recalled those of her companions whose beauty had produced
a sensation in the conventand she said to herself: "What! Am I to
be like Mademoiselle So-and-So?"

The next morning she looked at herself againnot by accident this time
and she was assailed with doubts: "Where did I get such an idea?"
said she; "noI am ugly." She had not slept wellthat was all
her eyes were sunken and she was pale. She had not felt very joyous
on the preceding evening in the belief that she was beautiful
but it made her very sad not to be able to believe in it any longer.
She did not look at herself againand for more than a fortnight she
tried to dress her hair with her back turned to the mirror.

In the eveningafter dinnershe generally embroidered in wool
or did some convent needlework in the drawing-roomand Jean
Valjean read beside her. Once she raised her eyes from her work
and was rendered quite uneasy by the manner in which her father
was gazing at her.

On another occasionshe was passing along the street
and it seemed to her that some one behind herwhom she
did not seesaid: "A pretty woman! but badly dressed."
Bah!she thoughthe does not mean me. I am well dressed
and ugly.She was then wearing a plush hat and her merino gown.

At lastone day when she was in the gardenshe heard poor old
Toussaint saying: "Do you notice how pretty Cosette is growingsir?"
Cosette did not hear her father's replybut Toussaint's words
caused a sort of commotion within her. She fled from the garden
ran up to her roomflew to the looking-glass--it was three
months since she had looked at herself--and gave vent to a cry.
She had just dazzled herself.

She was beautiful and lovely; she could not help agreeing with
Toussaint and her mirror. Her figure was formedher skin had
grown whiteher hair was lustrousan unaccustomed splendor had
been lighted in her blue eyes. The consciousness of her beauty
burst upon her in an instantlike the sudden advent of daylight;
other people noticed it alsoToussaint had said soit was
evidently she of whom the passer-by had spokenthere could no
longer be any doubt of that; she descended to the garden again
thinking herself a queenimagining that she heard the birds singing
though it was winterseeing the sky gildedthe sun among the trees
flowers in the thicketsdistractedwildin inexpressible delight.

Jean Valjeanon his sideexperienced a deep and undefinable
oppression at heart.

In facthe hadfor some time pastbeen contemplating with terror
that beauty which seemed to grow more radiant every day on Cosette's
sweet face. The dawn that was smiling for all was gloomy for him.

Cosette had been beautiful for a tolerably long time before she
became aware of it herself. Butfrom the very first day
that unexpected light which was rising slowly and enveloping the whole
of the young girl's personwounded Jean Valjean's sombre eye.
He felt that it was a change in a happy lifea life so happy
that he did not dare to move for fear of disarranging something.
This manwho had passed through all manner of distresses
who was still all bleeding from the bruises of fatewho had been
almost wicked and who had become almost a saintwhoafter having
dragged the chain of the galleyswas now dragging the invisible


but heavy chain of indefinite miserythis man whom the law had
not released from its grasp and who could be seized at any moment
and brought back from the obscurity of his virtue to the broad
daylight of public opprobriumthis man accepted allexcused all
pardoned alland merely asked of Providenceof manof the law
of societyof natureof the worldone thingthat Cosette might
love him!

That Cosette might continue to love him! That God would not prevent
the heart of the child from coming to himand from remaining with him!
Beloved by Cosettehe felt that he was healedrestedappeased
loaded with benefitsrecompensedcrowned. Beloved by Cosette
it was well with him! He asked nothing more! Had any one said
to him: "Do you want anything better?" he would have answered:
No.God might have said to him: "Do you desire heaven?" and he
would have replied: "I should lose by it."

Everything which could affect this situationif only on the surface
made him shudder like the beginning of something new. He had never
known very distinctly himself what the beauty of a woman means;
but he understood instinctivelythat it was something terrible.

He gazed with terror on this beautywhich was blossoming out ever
more triumphant and superb beside himbeneath his very eyes
on the innocent and formidable brow of that childfrom the depths
of her homelinessof his old ageof his miseryof his reprobation.

He said to himself: "How beautiful she is! What is to become
of me?"

Theremoreoverlay the difference between his tenderness
and the tenderness of a mother. What he beheld with anguish
a mother would have gazed upon with joy.

The first symptoms were not long in making their appearance.

On the very morrow of the day on which she had said to herself:
Decidedly I am beautiful!Cosette began to pay attention to
her toilet. She recalled the remark of that passer-by: "Pretty
but badly dressed the breath of an oracle which had passed
beside her and had vanished, after depositing in her heart one
of the two germs which are destined, later on, to fill the whole
life of woman, coquetry. Love is the other.

With faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soul expanded within her.
She conceived a horror for her merinos, and shame for her plush hat.
Her father had never refused her anything. She at once acquired
the whole science of the bonnet, the gown, the mantle, the boot,
the cuff, the stuff which is in fashion, the color which is becoming,
that science which makes of the Parisian woman something so charming,
so deep, and so dangerous. The words heady woman were invented for
the Parisienne.

In less than a month, little Cosette, in that Thebaid of the Rue
de Babylone, was not only one of the prettiest, but one of the
best dressed" women in Pariswhich means a great deal more.

She would have liked to encounter her "passer-by to see
what he would say, and to teach him a lesson!" The truth is
that she was ravishing in every respectand that she distinguished
the difference between a bonnet from Gerard and one from Herbaut
in the most marvellous way.

Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety. He who felt


that he could never do anything but crawlwalk at the most
beheld wings sprouting on Cosette.


Moreoverfrom the mere inspection of Cosette's toilet
a woman would have recognized the fact that she had no mother.
Certain little proprietiescertain special conventionalities
were not observed by Cosette. A motherfor instancewould have
told her that a young girl does not dress in damask.


The first day that Cosette went out in her black damask gown
and mantleand her white crape bonnetshe took Jean Valjean's arm
gayradiantrosyprouddazzling. "Father she said, how do
you like me in this guise?" Jean Valjean replied in a voice which
resembled the bitter voice of an envious man: "Charming!" He was the
same as usual during their walk. On their return homehe asked Cosette:--


Won't you put on that other gown and bonnet again,--you know
the ones I mean?


This took place in Cosette's chamber. Cosette turned towards
the wardrobe where her cast-off schoolgirl's clothes were hanging.


That disguise!said she. "Fatherwhat do you want me to do with it?
Oh nothe idea! I shall never put on those horrors again.
With that machine on my headI have the air of Madame Mad-dog."


Jean Valjean heaved a deep sigh.


From that moment forthhe noticed that Cosettewho had always
heretofore asked to remain at homesaying: "FatherI enjoy myself
more here with you now was always asking to go out. In fact,
what is the use of having a handsome face and a delicious costume
if one does not display them?


He also noticed that Cosette had no longer the same taste for the
back garden. Now she preferred the garden, and did not dislike
to promenade back and forth in front of the railed fence.
Jean Valjean, who was shy, never set foot in the garden.
He kept to his back yard, like a dog.


Cosette, in gaining the knowledge that she was beautiful, lost the
grace of ignoring it. An exquisite grace, for beauty enhanced by
ingenuousness is ineffable, and nothing is so adorable as a dazzling
and innocent creature who walks along, holding in her hand the key
to paradise without being conscious of it. But what she had lost
in ingenuous grace, she gained in pensive and serious charm.
Her whole person, permeated with the joy of youth, of innocence,
and of beauty, breathed forth a splendid melancholy.


It was at this epoch that Marius, after the lapse of six months,
saw her once more at the Luxembourg.


CHAPTER VI


THE BATTLE BEGUN


Cosette in her shadow, like Marius in his, was all ready to take fire.
Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, slowly drew together
these two beings, all charged and all languishing with the stormy
electricity of passion, these two souls which were laden with love
as two clouds are laden with lightning, and which were bound



to overflow and mingle in a look like the clouds in a flash of fire.


The glance has been so much abused in love romances that it has
finally fallen into disrepute. One hardly dares to say, nowadays,
that two beings fell in love because they looked at each other.
That is the way people do fall in love, nevertheless, and the
only way. The rest is nothing, but the rest comes afterwards.
Nothing is more real than these great shocks which two souls convey
to each other by the exchange of that spark.


At that particular hour when Cosette unconsciously darted
that glance which troubled Marius, Marius had no suspicion
that he had also launched a look which disturbed Cosette.


He caused her the same good and the same evil.


She had been in the habit of seeing him for a long time, and she had
scrutinized him as girls scrutinize and see, while looking elsewhere.
Marius still considered Cosette ugly, when she had already begun
to think Marius handsome. But as he paid no attention to her,
the young man was nothing to her.


Still, she could not refrain from saying to herself that he had
beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, handsome teeth, a charming tone
of voice when she heard him conversing with his comrades, that he
held himself badly when he walked, if you like, but with a grace
that was all his own, that he did not appear to be at all stupid,
that his whole person was noble, gentle, simple, proud, and that,
in short, though he seemed to be poor, yet his air was fine.


On the day when their eyes met at last, and said to each other
those first, obscure, and ineffable things which the glance lisps,
Cosette did not immediately understand. She returned thoughtfully
to the house in the Rue de l'Ouest, where Jean Valjean, according to
his custom, had come to spend six weeks. The next morning, on waking,
she thought of that strange young man, so long indifferent and icy,
who now seemed to pay attention to her, and it did not appear to her
that this attention was the least in the world agreeable to her.
She was, on the contrary, somewhat incensed at this handsome and
disdainful individual. A substratum of war stirred within her.
It struck her, and the idea caused her a wholly childish joy, that she
was going to take her revenge at last.


Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly conscious,
though in an indistinct fashion, that she possessed a weapon.
Women play with their beauty as children do with a knife.
They wound themselves.


The reader will recall Marius' hesitations, his palpitations,
his terrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach.
This vexed Cosette. One day, she said to Jean Valjean:
Fatherlet us stroll about a little in that direction."
Seeing that Marius did not come to hershe went to him. In such cases
all women resemble Mahomet. And thenstrange to saythe first
symptom of true love in a young man is timidity; in a young girl it
is boldness. This is surprisingand yet nothing is more simple.
It is the two sexes tending to approach each other and assuming
each the other's qualities.


That dayCosette's glance drove Marius beside himselfand Marius'
glance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went away confident
and Cosette uneasy. From that day forththey adored each other.


The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and profound melancholy.



It seemed to her that her soul had become black since the day before.
She no longer recognized it. The whiteness of soul in young girls
which is composed of coldness and gayetyresembles snow. It melts
in lovewhich is its sun.


Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word
uttered in its terrestrial sense. On the books of profane music
which entered the conventamour (love) was replaced by tambour (drum)
or pandour. This created enigmas which exercised the imaginations
of the big girlssuch as: Ahhow delightful is the drum! or
Pity is not a pandour. But Cosette had left the convent too early
to have occupied herself much with the "drum." Thereforeshe did
not know what name to give to what she now felt. Is any one
the less ill because one does not know the name of one's malady?


She loved with all the more passion because she loved ignorantly.
She did not know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing
useful or dangerouseternal or temporaryallowable or prohibited;
she loved. She would have been greatly astonishedhad any
one said to her: "You do not sleep? But that is forbidden!
You do not eat? Whythat is very bad! You have oppressions
and palpitations of the heart? That must not be! You blush
and turn palewhen a certain being clad in black appears at
the end of a certain green walk? But that is abominable!"
She would not have understoodand she would have replied:
What fault is there of mine in a matter in which I have no power
and of which I know nothing?


It turned out that the love which presented itself was exactly
suited to the state of her soul. It was a sort of admiration at
a distancea mute contemplationthe deification of a stranger.
It was the apparition of youth to youththe dream of nights
become a reality yet remaining a dreamthe longed-for phantom
realized and made flesh at lastbut having as yetneither name
nor faultnor spotnor exigencenor defect; in a word
the distant lover who lingered in the ideala chimaera with a form.
Any nearer and more palpable meeting would have alarmed Cosette
at this first stagewhen she was still half immersed in the
exaggerated mists of the cloister. She had all the fears of children
and all the fears of nuns combined. The spirit of the convent
with which she had been permeated for the space of five years
was still in the process of slow evaporation from her person
and made everything tremble around her. In this situation he
was not a loverhe was not even an admirerhe was a vision.
She set herself to adoring Marius as something charmingluminous
and impossible.


As extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetryshe smiled at him
with all frankness.


Every dayshe looked forward to the hour for their walk with impatience
she found Marius thereshe felt herself unspeakably happy
and thought in all sincerity that she was expressing her whole
thought when she said to Jean Valjean:--


What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is!


Marius and Cosette were in the dark as to one another. They did
not address each otherthey did not salute each otherthey did
not know each other; they saw each other; and like stars of heaven
which are separated by millions of leaguesthey lived by gazing
at each other.


It was thus that Cosette gradually became a woman and developed



beautiful and lovingwith a consciousness of her beauty
and in ignorance of her love. She was a coquette to boot through
her ignorance.


CHAPTER VII


TO ONE SADNESS OPPOSE A SADNESS AND A HALF


All situations have their instincts. Old and eternal Mother Nature
warned Jean Valjean in a dim way of the presence of Marius.
Jean Valjean shuddered to the very bottom of his soul. Jean Valjean
saw nothingknew nothingand yet he scanned with obstinate attention
the darkness in which he walkedas though he felt on one side of him
something in process of constructionand on the othersomething which
was crumbling away. Mariusalso warnedandin accordance with
the deep law of Godby that same Mother Naturedid all he could
to keep out of sight of "the father." Neverthelessit came to pass
that Jean Valjean sometimes espied him. Marius' manners were no
longer in the least natural. He exhibited ambiguous prudence and
awkward daring. He no longer came quite close to them as formerly.
He seated himself at a distance and pretended to be reading;
why did he pretend that? Formerly he had come in his old coat
now he wore his new one every day; Jean Valjean was not sure that he
did not have his hair curledhis eyes were very queerhe wore gloves;
in shortJean Valjean cordially detested this young man.


Cosette allowed nothing to be divined. Without knowing just what
was the matter with her she was convinced that there was something
in itand that it must be concealed.


There was a coincidence between the taste for the toilet which had
recently come to Cosetteand the habit of new clothes developed
by that stranger which was very repugnant to Jean Valjean. It might
be accidentalno doubtcertainlybut it was a menacing accident.


He never opened his mouth to Cosette about this stranger. One day
howeverhe could not refrain from so doingandwith that vague
despair which suddenly casts the lead into the depths of its despair
he said to her: "What a very pedantic air that young man has!"


Cosettebut a year before only an indifferent little girl
would have replied: "Whynohe is charming." Ten years later
with the love of Marius in her heartshe would have answered:
A pedant, and insufferable to the sight! You are right!--
At the moment in life and the heart which she had then attained
she contented herself with replyingwith supreme calmness:
That young man!


As though she now beheld him for the first time in her life.


How stupid I am!thought Jean Valjean. "She had not noticed him.
It is I who have pointed him out to her."


Ohsimplicity of the old! ohthe depth of children!


It is one of the laws of those fresh years of suffering and trouble
of those vivacious conflicts between a first love and the first
obstaclesthat the young girl does not allow herself to be caught
in any trap whateverand that the young man falls into every one.
Jean Valjean had instituted an undeclared war against Marius
which Mariuswith the sublime stupidity of his passion and his age



did not divine. Jean Valjean laid a host of ambushes for him;
he changed his hourhe changed his benchhe forgot his handkerchief
he came alone to the Luxembourg; Marius dashed headlong into
all these snares; and to all the interrogation marks planted
by Jean Valjean in his pathwayhe ingenuously answered "yes."
But Cosette remained immured in her apparent unconcern and in her
imperturbable tranquillityso that Jean Valjean arrived at the
following conclusion: "That ninny is madly in love with Cosette
but Cosette does not even know that he exists."


None the less did he bear in his heart a mournful tremor.
The minute when Cosette would love might strike at any moment.
Does not everything begin with indifference?


Only once did Cosette make a mistake and alarm him. He rose from
his seat to departafter a stay of three hoursand she said:
What, already?


Jean Valjean had not discontinued his trips to the Luxembourgas he
did not wish to do anything out of the wayand asabove all things
he feared to arouse Cosette; but during the hours which were so
sweet to the loverswhile Cosette was sending her smile to the
intoxicated Mariuswho perceived nothing else nowand who now saw
nothing in all the world but an adored and radiant faceJean Valjean
was fixing on Marius flashing and terrible eyes. Hewho had
finally come to believe himself incapable of a malevolent feeling
experienced moments when Marius was presentin which he thought he
was becoming savage and ferocious once moreand he felt the old
depths of his soulwhich had formerly contained so much wrath
opening once more and rising up against that young man. It almost
seemed to him that unknown craters were forming in his bosom.


What! he was therethat creature! What was he there for?
He came creeping aboutsmelling outexaminingtrying!
He camesaying: "Hey! Why not?" He came to prowl about his
Jean Valjean'slife! to prowl about his happinesswith the
purpose of seizing it and bearing it away!


Jean Valjean added: "Yesthat's it! What is he in search of?
An adventure! What does he want? A love affair! A love affair!
And I? What! I have been firstthe most wretched of men
and then the most unhappyand I have traversed sixty years of life
on my kneesI have suffered everything that man can sufferI have
grown old without having been youngI have lived without a family
without relativeswithout friendswithout lifewithout children
I have left my blood on every stoneon every brambleon every
mile-postalong every wallI have been gentlethough others have
been hard to meand kindalthough others have been malicious
I have become an honest man once morein spite of everything
I have repented of the evil that I have done and have forgiven
the evil that has been done to meand at the moment when I
receive my recompenseat the moment when it is all over
at the moment when I am just touching the goalat the moment
when I have what I desireit is wellit is goodI have paid
I have earned itall this is to take flightall this will vanish
and I shall lose Cosetteand I shall lose my lifemy joy
my soulbecause it has pleased a great booby to come and lounge at
the Luxembourg."


Then his eyes were filled with a sad and extraordinary gleam.


It was no longer a man gazing at a man; it was no longer an enemy
surveying an enemy. It was a dog scanning a thief.



The reader knows the rest. Marius pursued his senseless course.
One day he followed Cosette to the Rue de l'Ouest. Another day he
spoke to the porter. The porteron his sidespokeand said
to Jean Valjean: "Monsieurwho is that curious young man who is
asking for you?" On the morrow Jean Valjean bestowed on Marius
that glance which Marius at last perceived. A week later
Jean Valjean had taken his departure. He swore to himself that he
would never again set foot either in the Luxembourg or in the Rue
de l'Ouest. He returned to the Rue Plumet.


Cosette did not complainshe said nothingshe asked no questions
she did not seek to learn his reasons; she had already reached the point
where she was afraid of being divinedand of betraying herself.
Jean Valjean had no experience of these miseriesthe only miseries
which are charming and the only ones with which he was not acquainted;
the consequence was that he did not understand the grave significance
of Cosette's silence.


He merely noticed that she had grown sadand he grew gloomy.
On his side and on hersinexperience had joined issue.


Once he made a trial. He asked Cosette:--


Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?


A ray illuminated Cosette's pale face.


Yes,said she.


They went thither. Three months had elapsed. Marius no longer
went there. Marius was not there.


On the following dayJean Valjean asked Cosette again:--


Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?


She repliedsadly and gently:--


No.


Jean Valjean was hurt by this sadnessand heart-broken
at this gentleness.


What was going on in that mind which was so young and yet already
so impenetrable? What was on its way there within? What was taking place
in Cosette's soul? Sometimesinstead of going to bedJean Valjean
remained seated on his palletwith his head in his handsand he
passed whole nights asking himself: "What has Cosette in her mind?"
and in thinking of the things that she might be thinking about.


Oh! at such momentswhat mournful glances did he cast towards
that cloisterthat chaste peakthat abode of angelsthat inaccessible
glacier of virtue! How he contemplatedwith despairing ecstasy
that convent gardenfull of ignored flowers and cloistered virgins
where all perfumes and all souls mount straight to heaven!
How he adored that Eden forever closed against himwhence he had
voluntarily and madly emerged! How he regretted his abnegation
and his folly in having brought Cosette back into the world
poor hero of sacrificeseized and hurled to the earth by his
very self-devotion! How he said to himselfWhat have I done?


Howevernothing of all this was perceptible to Cosette.
No ill-temperno harshness. His face was always serene and kind.
Jean Valjean's manners were more tender and more paternal than ever.



If anything could have betrayed his lack of joyit was his
increased suavity.

On her sideCosette languished. She suffered from the absence of
Marius as she had rejoiced in his presencepeculiarlywithout exactly
being conscious of it. When Jean Valjean ceased to take her on
their customary strollsa feminine instinct murmured confusedly
at the bottom of her heartthat she must not seem to set store
on the Luxembourg gardenand that if this proved to be a matter
of indifference to herher father would take her thither once more.
But daysweeksmonthselapsed. Jean Valjean had tacitly accepted
Cosette's tacit consent. She regretted it. It was too late.
So Marius had disappeared; all was over. The day on which she returned
to the LuxembourgMarius was no longer there. What was to be done?
Should she ever find him again? She felt an anguish at her heart
which nothing relievedand which augmented every day; she no
longer knew whether it was winter or summerwhether it was raining
or shiningwhether the birds were singingwhether it was the season
for dahlias or daisieswhether the Luxembourg was more charming
than the Tuilerieswhether the linen which the laundress brought
home was starched too much or not enoughwhether Toussaint had

done "her marketing" well or ill; and she remained dejected
absorbedattentive to but a single thoughther eyes vague
and staring as when one gazes by night at a black and fathomless
spot where an apparition has vanished.

Howevershe did not allow Jean Valjean to perceive anything of this
except her pallor.

She still wore her sweet face for him.

This pallor sufficed but too thoroughly to trouble Jean Valjean.
Sometimes he asked her:-


What is the matter with you?

She replied: "There is nothing the matter with me."

And after a silencewhen she divined that he was sad also
she would add:-


And you, father--is there anything wrong with you?

With me? Nothing,said he.

These two beings who had loved each other so exclusively
and with so touching an affectionand who had lived so long for
each other now suffered side by sideeach on the other's account;
without acknowledging it to each otherwithout anger towards
each otherand with a smile.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CHAIN-GANG

Jean Valjean was the more unhappy of the two. Youtheven in
its sorrowsalways possesses its own peculiar radiance.

At timesJean Valjean suffered so greatly that he became puerile.
It is the property of grief to cause the childish side of man


to reappear. He had an unconquerable conviction that Cosette was
escaping from him. He would have liked to resistto retain her
to arouse her enthusiasm by some external and brilliant matter.
These ideaspuerileas we have just saidand at the same time senile
conveyed to himby their very childishnessa tolerably just notion
of the influence of gold lace on the imaginations of young girls.
He once chanced to see a general on horsebackin full uniform
pass along the streetComte Coutardthe commandant of Paris.
He envied that gilded man; what happiness it would behe said to himself
if he could put on that suit which was an incontestable thing;
and if Cosette could behold him thusshe would be dazzledand when
he had Cosette on his arm and passed the gates of the Tuileries
the guard would present arms to himand that would suffice for Cosette
and would dispel her idea of looking at young men.


An unforeseen shock was added to these sad reflections.


In the isolated life which they ledand since they had come
to dwell in the Rue Plumetthey had contracted one habit.
They sometimes took a pleasure trip to see the sun risea mild
species of enjoyment which befits those who are entering life
and those who are quitting it.


For those who love solitudea walk in the early morning is equivalent
to a stroll by nightwith the cheerfulness of nature added.
The streets are deserted and the birds are singing. Cosettea bird
herselfliked to rise early. These matutinal excursions were
planned on the preceding evening. He proposedand she agreed.
It was arranged like a plotthey set out before daybreak
and these trips were so many small delights for Cosette.
These innocent eccentricities please young people.


Jean Valjean's inclination led himas we have seento the least
frequented spotsto solitary nooksto forgotten places.
There then existedin the vicinity of the barriers of Paris
a sort of poor meadowswhich were almost confounded with the city
where grew in summer sickly grainand whichin autumn
after the harvest had been gatheredpresented the appearance
not of having been reapedbut peeled. Jean Valjean loved to haunt
these fields. Cosette was not bored there. It meant solitude
to him and liberty to her. Thereshe became a little girl
once moreshe could run and almost play; she took off her hat
laid it on Jean Valjean's kneesand gathered bunches of flowers.
She gazed at the butterflies on the flowersbut did not catch them;
gentleness and tenderness are born with loveand the young girl
who cherishes within her breast a trembling and fragile ideal has
mercy on the wing of a butterfly. She wove garlands of poppies
which she placed on her headand whichcrossed and penetrated
with sunlightglowing until they flamedformed for her rosy face a
crown of burning embers.


Even after their life had grown sadthey kept up their custom
of early strolls.


One morning in Octoberthereforetempted by the serene perfection
of the autumn of 1831they set outand found themselves at break
of day near the Barriere du Maine. It was not dawnit was daybreak;
a delightful and stern moment. A few constellations here and there
in the deeppale azurethe earth all blackthe heavens all white
a quiver amid the blades of grasseverywhere the mysterious
chill of twilight. A larkwhich seemed mingled with the stars
was carolling at a prodigious heightand one would have declared
that that hymn of pettiness calmed immensity. In the East
the Valde-Grace projected its dark mass on the clear horizon



with the sharpness of steel; Venus dazzlingly brilliant was rising
behind that dome and had the air of a soul making its escape from
a gloomy edifice.


All was peace and silence; there was no one on the road;
a few stray laborersof whom they caught barely a glimpse
were on their way to their work along the side-paths.


Jean Valjean was sitting in a cross-walk on some planks deposited at
the gate of a timber-yard. His face was turned towards the highway
his back towards the light; he had forgotten the sun which was on the
point of rising; he had sunk into one of those profound absorptions
in which the mind becomes concentratedwhich imprison even the eye
and which are equivalent to four walls. There are meditations
which may be called vertical; when one is at the bottom of them
time is required to return to earth. Jean Valjean had plunged into
one of these reveries. He was thinking of Cosetteof the happiness
that was possible if nothing came between him and herof the light
with which she filled his lifea light which was but the emanation
of her soul. He was almost happy in his revery. Cosettewho was
standing beside himwas gazing at the clouds as they turned rosy.


All at once Cosette exclaimed: "FatherI should think some one
was coming yonder." Jean Valjean raised his eyes.


Cosette was right. The causeway which leads to the ancient Barriere
du Maine is a prolongationas the reader knowsof the Rue
de Sevresand is cut at right angles by the inner boulevard.
At the elbow of the causeway and the boulevardat the spot where
it branchesthey heard a noise which it was difficult to account
for at that hourand a sort of confused pile made its appearance.
Some shapeless thing which was coming from the boulevard was turning
into the road.


It grew largerit seemed to move in an orderly manner
though it was bristling and quivering; it seemed to be a vehicle
but its load could not be distinctly made out. There were horses
wheelsshouts; whips were cracking. By degrees the outlines
became fixedalthough bathed in shadows. It was a vehicle
in factwhich had just turned from the boulevard into the highway
and which was directing its course towards the barrier near which sat
Jean Valjean; a secondof the same aspectfollowedthen a third
then a fourth; seven chariots made their appearance in succession
the heads of the horses touching the rear of the wagon in front.
Figures were moving on these vehiclesflashes were visible
through the dusk as though there were naked swords there
a clanking became audible which resembled the rattling of chains
and as this something advancedthe sound of voices waxed louder
and it turned into a terrible thing such as emerges from the cave
of dreams.


As it drew nearerit assumed a formand was outlined behind the trees
with the pallid hue of an apparition; the mass grew white; the day
which was slowly dawningcast a wan light on this swarming heap
which was at once both sepulchral and livingthe heads of the figures
turned into the faces of corpsesand this is what it proved to be:--


Seven wagons were driving in a file along the road. The first
six were singularly constructed. They resembled coopers' drays;
they consisted of long ladders placed on two wheels and forming
barrows at their rear extremities. Each drayor rather let us say
each ladderwas attached to four horses harnessed tandem.
On these ladders strange clusters of men were being drawn.
In the faint lightthese men were to be divined rather than seen.



Twenty-four on each vehicletwelve on a sideback to back
facing the passers-bytheir legs dangling in the air--this was
the manner in which these men were travellingand behind their backs
they had something which clankedand which was a chainand on
their necks something which shoneand which was an iron collar.
Each man had his collarbut the chain was for all; so that if these
four and twenty men had occasion to alight from the dray and walk
they were seized with a sort of inexorable unityand were obliged
to wind over the ground with the chain for a backbonesomewhat after
the fashion of millepeds. In the back and front of each vehicle
two men armed with muskets stood erecteach holding one end
of the chain under his foot. The iron necklets were square.
The seventh vehiclea huge rack-sided baggage wagonwithout a hood
had four wheels and six horsesand carried a sonorous pile of
iron boilerscast-iron potsbraziersand chainsamong which were
mingled several men who were pinioned and stretched at full length
and who seemed to be ill. This wagonall lattice-workwas
garnished with dilapidated hurdles which appeared to have served for
former punishments. These vehicles kept to the middle of the road.
On each side marched a double hedge of guards of infamous aspect
wearing three-cornered hatslike the soldiers under the Directory
shabbycovered with spots and holesmuffled in uniforms
of veterans and the trousers of undertakers' menhalf gray
half bluewhich were almost hanging in ragswith red epaulets
yellow shoulder beltsshort sabresmusketsand cudgels; they were
a species of soldier-blackguards. These myrmidons seemed composed
of the abjectness of the beggar and the authority of the executioner.
The one who appeared to be their chief held a postilion's whip
in his hand. All these detailsblurred by the dimness of dawn
became more and more clearly outlined as the light increased.
At the head and in the rear of the convoy rode mounted gendarmes
serious and with sword in fist.

This procession was so long that when the first vehicle reached
the barrierthe last was barely debauching from the boulevard.
A throngsprungit is impossible to say whenceand formed in
a twinklingas is frequently the case in Parispressed forward
from both sides of the road and looked on. In the neighboring lanes
the shouts of people calling to each other and the wooden shoes
of market-gardeners hastening up to gaze were audible.

The men massed upon the drays allowed themselves to be jolted
along in silence. They were livid with the chill of morning.
They all wore linen trousersand their bare feet were thrust into
wooden shoes. The rest of their costume was a fantasy of wretchedness.
Their accoutrements were horribly incongruous; nothing is more funereal
than the harlequin in rags. Battered felt hatstarpaulin caps
hideous woollen nightcapsandside by side with a short blouse
a black coat broken at the elbow; many wore women's headgear
others had baskets on their heads; hairy breasts were visible
and through the rent in their garments tattooed designs could be descried;
temples of Loveflaming heartsCupids; eruptions and unhealthy red
blotches could also be seen. Two or three had a straw rope attached
to the cross-bar of the drayand suspended under them like a stirrup
which supported their feet. One of them held in his hand and raised
to his mouth something which had the appearance of a black stone
and which he seemed to be gnawing; it was bread which he was eating.
There were no eyes there which were not either drydulledor flaming
with an evil light. The escort troop cursedthe men in chains did
not utter a syllable; from time to time the sound of a blow became
audible as the cudgels descended on shoulder-blades or skulls;
some of these men were yawning; their rags were terrible; their feet
hung downtheir shoulders oscillatedtheir heads clashed together
their fetters clankedtheir eyes glared ferociouslytheir fists


clenched or fell open inertly like the hands of corpses; in the rear
of the convoy ran a band of children screaming with laughter.

This file of vehicleswhatever its nature waswas mournful.
It was evident that to-morrowthat an hour hencea pouring rain
might descendthat it might be followed by another and another
and that their dilapidated garments would be drenchedthat once soaked
these men would not get dry againthat once chilledthey would
not again get warmthat their linen trousers would be glued to
their bones by the downpourthat the water would fill their shoes
that no lashes from the whips would be able to prevent their jaws
from chatteringthat the chain would continue to bind them
by the neckthat their legs would continue to dangleand it was
impossible not to shudder at the sight of these human beings thus
bound and passive beneath the cold clouds of autumnand delivered
over to the rainto the blastto all the furies of the air
like trees and stones.

Blows from the cudgel were not omitted even in the case of the sick men
who lay there knotted with ropes and motionless on the seventh wagon
and who appeared to have been tossed there like sacks filled with misery.

Suddenlythe sun made its appearance; the immense light of the Orient
burst forthand one would have said that it had set fire to all
those ferocious heads. Their tongues were unloosed; a conflagration
of grinsoathsand songs exploded. The broad horizontal sheet
of light severed the file in two partsilluminating heads and bodies
leaving feet and wheels in the obscurity. Thoughts made their
appearance on these faces; it was a terrible moment; visible demons
with their masks removedfierce souls laid bare. Though lighted up
this wild throng remained in gloom. Somewho were gayhad in
their mouths quills through which they blew vermin over the crowd
picking out the women; the dawn accentuated these lamentable
profiles with the blackness of its shadows; there was not one of
these creatures who was not deformed by reason of wretchedness;
and the whole was so monstrous that one would have said that the
sun's brilliancy had been changed into the glare of the lightning.
The wagon-load which headed the line had struck up a songand were
shouting at the top of their voices with a haggard joviality
a potpourri by Desaugiersthen famouscalled The Vestal; the trees
shivered mournfully; in the cross-lanescountenances of bourgeois
listened in an idiotic delight to these coarse strains droned by spectres.

All sorts of distress met in this procession as in chaos; here were
to be found the facial angles of every sort of beastold menyouths
bald headsgray beardscynical monstrositiessour resignation
savage grinssenseless attitudessnouts surmounted by caps
heads like those of young girls with corkscrew curls on the temples
infantile visagesand by reason of thathorrible thin skeleton faces
to which death alone was lacking. On the first cart was a negro
who had been a slavein all probabilityand who could make
a comparison of his chains. The frightful leveller from below
shamehad passed over these brows; at that degree of abasement
the last transformations were suffered by all in their extremest depths
and ignoranceconverted into dulnesswas the equal of intelligence
converted into despair. There was no choice possible between
these men who appeared to the eye as the flower of the mud.
It was evident that the person who had had the ordering of that
unclean procession had not classified them. These beings had been
fettered and coupled pell-mellin alphabetical disorderprobably
and loaded hap-hazard on those carts. Neverthelesshorrors
when grouped togetheralways end by evolving a result; all additions
of wretched men give a sum totaleach chain exhaled a common soul
and each dray-load had its own physiognomy. By the side of the one


where they were singingthere was one where they were howling;
a third where they were begging; one could be seen in which they
were gnashing their teeth; another load menaced the spectators
another blasphemed God; the last was as silent as the tomb.
Dante would have thought that he beheld his seven circles of hell
on the march. The march of the damned to their torturesperformed
in sinister wisenot on the formidable and flaming chariot of
the Apocalypsebutwhat was more mournful than thaton the gibbet cart.


One of the guardswho had a hook on the end of his cudgelmade a
pretence from time to timeof stirring up this mass of human filth.
An old woman in the crowd pointed them out to her little boy five
years oldand said to him: "Rascallet that be a warning to you!"


As the songs and blasphemies increasedthe man who appeared to be
the captain of the escort cracked his whipand at that signal
a fearful dull and blind floggingwhich produced the sound of hail
fell upon the seven dray-loads; many roared and foamed at the mouth;
which redoubled the delight of the street urchins who had hastened up
a swarm of flies on these wounds.


Jean Valjean's eyes had assumed a frightful expression.
They were no longer eyes; they were those deep and glassy objects
which replace the glance in the case of certain wretched men
which seem unconscious of realityand in which flames the reflection
of terrors and of catastrophes. He was not looking at a spectacle
he was seeing a vision. He tried to riseto fleeto make
his escape; he could not move his feet. Sometimesthe things
that you see seize upon you and hold you fast. He remained nailed
to the spotpetrifiedstupidasking himselfathwart confused
and inexpressible anguishwhat this sepulchral persecution signified
and whence had come that pandemonium which was pursuing him.
All at oncehe raised his hand to his browa gesture habitual
to those whose memory suddenly returns; he remembered that this was
in factthe usual itinerarythat it was customary to make this
detour in order to avoid all possibility of encountering royalty on
the road to Fontainebleauand thatfive and thirty years before
he had himself passed through that barrier.


Cosette was no less terrifiedbut in a different way. She did
not understand; what she beheld did not seem to her to be possible;
at length she cried:--


Father! What are those men in those carts?


Jean Valjean replied: "Convicts."


Whither are they going?


To the galleys.


At that momentthe cudgellingmultiplied by a hundred hands
became zealousblows with the flat of the sword were mingled
with itit was a perfect storm of whips and clubs; the convicts
bent before ita hideous obedience was evoked by the torture
and all held their peacedarting glances like chained wolves.


Cosette trembled in every limb; she resumed:--


Father, are they still men?


Sometimes,answered the unhappy man.


It was the chain-gangin factwhich had set out before daybreak



from Bicetreand had taken the road to Mans in order to avoid
Fontainebleauwhere the King then was. This caused the horrible
journey to last three or four days longer; but torture may surely
be prolonged with the object of sparing the royal personage a sight of it.

Jean Valjean returned home utterly overwhelmed. Such encounters
are shocksand the memory that they leave behind them resembles
a thorough shaking up.

NeverthelessJean Valjean did not observe thaton his way back
to the Rue de Babylone with Cosettethe latter was plying him
with other questions on the subject of what they had just seen;
perhaps he was too much absorbed in his own dejection to notice
her words and reply to them. But when Cosette was leaving him
in the eveningto betake herself to bedhe heard her say in a
low voiceand as though talking to herself: "It seems to me
that if I were to find one of those men in my pathwayohmy God
I should die merely from the sight of him close at hand."

Fortunatelychance ordained that on the morrow of that tragic day
there was some official solemnity apropos of I know not what-fetes
in Parisa review in the Champ de Marsjousts on the Seine
theatrical performances in the Champs-Elyseesfireworks at
the Arc de l'Etoileilluminations everywhere. Jean Valjean did
violence to his habitsand took Cosette to see these rejoicings
for the purpose of diverting her from the memory of the day before
and of effacingbeneath the smiling tumult of all Paris
the abominable thing which had passed before her. The review
with which the festival was spiced made the presence of uniforms
perfectly natural; Jean Valjean donned his uniform of a national
guard with the vague inward feeling of a man who is betaking himself
to shelter. Howeverthis trip seemed to attain its object.
Cosettewho made it her law to please her fatherand to whom
moreoverall spectacles were a noveltyaccepted this diversion
with the light and easy good grace of youthand did not pout too
disdainfully at that flutter of enjoyment called a public fete;
so that Jean Valjean was able to believe that he had succeeded
and that no trace of that hideous vision remained.

Some days laterone morningwhen the sun was shining brightly
and they were both on the steps leading to the gardenanother infraction
of the rules which Jean Valjean seemed to have imposed upon himself
and to the custom of remaining in her chamber which melancholy had
caused Cosette to adoptCosettein a wrapperwas standing erect
in that negligent attire of early morning which envelops young girls
in an adorable way and which produces the effect of a cloud drawn over
a star; andwith her head bathed in lightrosy after a good sleep
submitting to the gentle glances of the tender old manshe was picking
a daisy to pieces. Cosette did not know the delightful legend
I love a littlepassionatelyetc.--who was there who could
have taught her? She was handling the flower instinctively
innocentlywithout a suspicion that to pluck a daisy apart is to
do the same by a heart. If there were a fourthand smiling Grace
called Melancholyshe would have worn the air of that Grace.
Jean Valjean was fascinated by the contemplation of those tiny
fingers on that flowerand forgetful of everything in the radiance
emitted by that child. A red-breast was warbling in the thicket
on one side. White cloudlets floated across the skyso gayly
that one would have said that they had just been set at liberty.
Cosette went on attentively tearing the leaves from her flower;
she seemed to be thinking about something; but whatever it was
it must be something charming; all at once she turned her head
over her shoulder with the delicate languor of a swanand said
to Jean Valjean: "Fatherwhat are the galleys like?"


BOOK FOURTH.--SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY TURN OUT TO BE SUCCOR FROM ON
HIGH


CHAPTER I


A WOUND WITHOUTHEALING WITHIN


Thus their life clouded over by degrees.


But one diversionwhich had formerly been a happinessremained to them
which was to carry bread to those who were hungryand clothing to those
who were cold. Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean on these visits
to the pooron which they recovered some remnants of their former
free intercourse; and sometimeswhen the day had been a good one
and they had assisted many in distressand cheered and warmed
many little childrenCosette was rather merry in the evening.
It was at this epoch that they paid their visit to the Jondrette den.


On the day following that visitJean Valjean made his appearance
in the pavilion in the morningcalm as was his wontbut with a
large wound on his left arm which was much inflamedand very angry
which resembled a burnand which he explained in some way or other.
This wound resulted in his being detained in the house for a month
with fever. He would not call in a doctor. When Cosette urged him
Call the dog-doctor,said he.


Cosette dressed the wound morning and evening with so divine an air
and such angelic happiness at being of use to himthat Jean Valjean
felt all his former joy returninghis fears and anxieties dissipating
and he gazed at Cosettesaying: "Oh! what a kindly wound!
Oh! what a good misfortune!"


Cosette on perceiving that her father was illhad deserted the pavilion
and again taken a fancy to the little lodging and the back courtyard.
She passed nearly all her days beside Jean Valjean and read to him
the books which he desired. Generally they were books of travel.
Jean Valjean was undergoing a new birth; his happiness was reviving
in these ineffable rays; the Luxembourgthe prowling young stranger
Cosette's coldness--all these clouds upon his soul were growing dim.
He had reached the point where he said to himself: "I imagined all that.
I am an old fool."


His happiness was so great that the horrible discovery of the Thenardiers
made in the Jondrette hovelunexpected as it washadafter a fashion
glided over him unnoticed. He had succeeded in making his escape;
all trace of him was lost--what more did he care for! he only thought
of those wretched beings to pity them. "Here they are in prison
and henceforth they will be incapacitated for doing any harm
he thought, but what a lamentable family in distress!"


As for the hideous vision of the Barriere du MaineCosette had
not referred to it again.


Sister Sainte-Mechtilde had taught Cosette music in the convent;
Cosette had the voice of a linnet with a souland sometimes
in the eveningin the wounded man's humble abodeshe warbled
melancholy songs which delighted Jean Valjean.



Spring came; the garden was so delightful at that season of the year
that Jean Valjean said to Cosette:-


You never go there; I want you to stroll in it.

As you like, father,said Cosette.

And for the sake of obeying her fathershe resumed her walks
in the gardengenerally aloneforas we have mentioned
Jean Valjeanwho was probably afraid of being seen through the fence
hardly ever went there.

Jean Valjean's wound had created a diversion.

When Cosette saw that her father was suffering lessthat he
was convalescingand that he appeared to be happyshe experienced
a contentment which she did not even perceiveso gently and naturally
had it come. Thenit was in the month of Marchthe days were
growing longerthe winter was departingthe winter always bears
away with it a portion of our sadness; then came Aprilthat daybreak
of summerfresh as dawn always isgay like every childhood;
a little inclined to weep at times like the new-born being that it is.
In that monthnature has charming gleams which pass from the sky
from the treesfrom the meadows and the flowers into the heart
of man.

Cosette was still too young to escape the penetrating influence
of that April joy which bore so strong a resemblance to herself.
Insensiblyand without her suspecting the factthe blackness
departed from her spirit. In springsad souls grow light
as light falls into cellars at midday. Cosette was no longer sad.
Howeverthough this was soshe did not account for it to herself.
In the morningabout ten o'clockafter breakfastwhen she had
succeeded in enticing her father into the garden for a quarter
of an hourand when she was pacing up and down in the sunlight
in front of the stepssupporting his left arm for himshe did
not perceive that she laughed every moment and that she was happy.

Jean Valjeanintoxicatedbeheld her growing fresh and rosy once more.

Oh! What a good wound!he repeated in a whisper.

And he felt grateful to the Thenardiers.

His wound once healedhe resumed his solitary twilight strolls.

It is a mistake to suppose that a person can stroll alone in
that fashion in the uninhabited regions of Paris without meeting
with some adventure.

CHAPTER II

MOTHER PLUTARQUE FINDS NO DIFFICULTY IN EXPLAINING A PHENOMENON

One eveninglittle Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he remembered
that he had not dined on the preceding day either; this was becoming
tiresome. He resolved to make an effort to secure some supper.
He strolled out beyond the Salpetriere into deserted regions;
that is where windfalls are to be found; where there is no one
one always finds something. He reached a settlement which appeared
to him to be the village of Austerlitz.


In one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old garden
haunted by an old man and an old womanand in that gardena passable
apple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a sort of fruit-house
which was not securely fastenedand where one might contrive to get
an apple. One apple is a supper; one apple is life. That which was
Adam's ruin might prove Gavroche's salvation. The garden abutted
on a solitaryunpaved lanebordered with brushwood while awaiting
the arrival of houses; the garden was separated from it by a hedge.


Gavroche directed his steps towards this garden; he found the lane
he recognized the apple-treehe verified the fruit-househe examined
the hedge; a hedge means merely one stride. The day was declining
there was not even a cat in the lanethe hour was propitious.
Gavroche began the operation of scaling the hedgethen suddenly paused.
Some one was talking in the garden. Gavroche peeped through one of
the breaks in the hedge.


A couple of paces distantat the foot of the hedge on the other side
exactly at the point where the gap which he was meditating would
have been madethere was a sort of recumbent stone which formed
a benchand on this bench was seated the old man of the garden
while the old woman was standing in front of him. The old woman
was grumbling. Gavrochewho was not very discreetlistened.


Monsieur Mabeuf!said the old woman.


Mabeuf!thought Gavrochethat name is a perfect farce.


The old man who was thus addresseddid not stir. The old
woman repeated:--


Monsieur Mabeuf!


The old manwithout raising his eyes from the groundmade up
his mind to answer:--


What is it, Mother Plutarque?


Mother Plutarque!thought Gavrocheanother farcical name.


Mother Plutarque began againand the old man was forced to accept
the conversation:--


The landlord is not pleased.


Why?


We owe three quarters rent.


In three months, we shall owe him for four quarters.


He says that he will turn you out to sleep.


I will go.


The green-grocer insists on being paid. She will no longer
leave her fagots. What will you warm yourself with this winter?
We shall have no wood.


There is the sun.


The butcher refuses to give credit; he will not let us have any
more meat.



That is quite right. I do not digest meat well. It is too heavy.

What shall we have for dinner?

Bread.

The baker demands a settlement, and says, `no money, no bread.'

That is well.

What will you eat?

We have apples in the apple-room.

But, Monsieur, we can't live like that without money.

I have none.

The old woman went awaythe old man remained alone. He fell
into thought. Gavroche became thoughtful also. It was almost dark.

The first result of Gavroche's meditation wasthat instead
of scaling the hedgehe crouched down under it. The branches
stood apart a little at the foot of the thicket.

Come,exclaimed Gavroche mentallyhere's a nook!and he curled up
in it. His back was almost in contact with Father Mabeuf's bench.
He could hear the octogenarian breathe.

Thenby way of dinnerhe tried to sleep.

It was a cat-napwith one eye open. While he dozedGavroche kept
on the watch.

The twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earthand the lane
formed a livid line between two rows of dark bushes.

All at oncein this whitish bandtwo figures made their appearance.
One was in frontthe other some distance in the rear.

There come two creatures,muttered Gavroche.

The first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeoiswho was bent
and thoughtfuldressed more than plainlyand who was walking slowly
because of his ageand strolling about in the open evening air.

The second was straightfirmslender. It regulated its pace
by that of the first; but in the voluntary slowness of its gait
suppleness and agility were discernible. This figure had also
something fierce and disquieting about itthe whole shape was
that of what was then called an elegant; the hat was of good shape
the coat blackwell cutprobably of fine clothand well fitted
in at the waist. The head was held erect with a sort of robust grace
and beneath the hat the pale profile of a young man could be made
out in the dim light. The profile had a rose in its mouth.
This second form was well known to Gavroche; it was Montparnasse.

He could have told nothing about the otherexcept that he was
a respectable old man.

Gavroche immediately began to take observations.

One of these two pedestrians evidently had a project connected with


the other. Gavroche was well placed to watch the course of events.
The bedroom had turned into a hiding-place at a very opportune moment.


Montparnasse on the hunt at such an hourin such a place
betokened something threatening. Gavroche felt his gamin's heart
moved with compassion for the old man.


What was he to do? Interfere? One weakness coming to the aid
of another! It would be merely a laughing matter for Montparnasse.
Gavroche did not shut his eyes to the fact that the old man
in the first placeand the child in the secondwould make but two
mouthfuls for that redoubtable ruffian eighteen years of age.


While Gavroche was deliberatingthe attack took place
abruptly and hideously. The attack of the tiger on the wild ass
the attack of the spider on the fly. Montparnasse suddenly tossed
away his rosebounded upon the old manseized him by the collar
grasped and clung to himand Gavroche with difficulty restrained
a scream. A moment later one of these men was underneath
the othergroaningstrugglingwith a knee of marble upon
his breast. Onlyit was not just what Gavroche had expected.
The one who lay on the earth was Montparnasse; the one who was on top
was the old man. All this took place a few paces distant from Gavroche.


The old man had received the shockhad returned itand that
in such a terrible fashionthat in a twinklingthe assailant
and the assailed had exchanged roles.


Here's a hearty veteran!thought Gavroche.


He could not refrain from clapping his hands. But it was applause
wasted. It did not reach the combatantsabsorbed and deafened
as they wereeach by the otheras their breath mingled in the struggle.


Silence ensued. Montparnasse ceased his struggles. Gavroche indulged
in this aside: "Can he be dead!"


The goodman had not uttered a wordnor given vent to a cry.
He rose to his feetand Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse:--


Get up.


Montparnasse rosebut the goodman held him fast.
Montparnasse's attitude was the humiliated
and furious attitude of the wolf who has been caught by a sheep.


Gavroche looked on and listenedmaking an effort to reinforce
his eyes with his ears. He was enjoying himself immensely.


He was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character
of a spectator. He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue
which borrowed from the darkness an indescribably tragic accent.
The goodman questionedMontparnasse replied.


How old are you?


Nineteen.


You are strong and healthy. Why do you not work?


It bores me.


What is your trade?



An idler.

Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What would you
like to be?

A thief.

A pause ensued. The old man seemed absorbed in profound thought.
He stood motionlessand did not relax his hold on Montparnasse.

Every moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged in the
twitchings of a wild beast caught in a snare. He gave a jerk
tried a crook of the kneetwisted his limbs desperatelyand made
efforts to escape.

The old man did not appear to notice itand held both his arms
with one handwith the sovereign indifference of absolute force.

The old man's revery lasted for some timethenlooking steadily
at Montparnassehe addressed to him in a gentle voice
in the midst of the darkness where they stooda solemn harangue
of which Gavroche did not lose a single syllable:-


My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one of the most
laborious of lives. Ah! You declare yourself to be an idler! prepare
to toil. There is a certain formidable machine, have you seen it?
It is the rolling-mill. You must be on your guard against it,
it is crafty and ferocious; if it catches hold of the skirt of
your coat, you will be drawn in bodily. That machine is laziness.
Stop while there is yet time, and save yourself! Otherwise, it is
all over with you; in a short time you will be among the gearing.
Once entangled, hope for nothing more. Toil, lazybones! there is no
more repose for you! The iron hand of implacable toil has seized you.
You do not wish to earn your living, to have a task, to fulfil a duty!
It bores you to be like other men? Well! You will be different.
Labor is the law; he who rejects it will find ennui his torment.
You do not wish to be a workingman, you will be a slave.
Toil lets go of you on one side only to grasp you again on
the other. You do not desire to be its friend, you shall be its
negro slave. Ah! You would have none of the honest weariness
of men, you shall have the sweat of the damned. Where others sing,
you will rattle in your throat. You will see afar off, from below,
other men at work; it will seem to you that they are resting.
The laborer, the harvester, the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear
to you in glory like the blessed spirits in paradise. What radiance
surrounds the forge! To guide the plough, to bind the sheaves,
is joy. The bark at liberty in the wind, what delight! Do you,
lazy idler, delve, drag on, roll, march! Drag your halter.
You are a beast of burden in the team of hell! Ah! To do nothing
is your object. Well, not a week, not a day, not an hour shall
you have free from oppression. You will be able to lift nothing
without anguish. Every minute that passes will make your muscles crack.
What is a feather to others will be a rock to you. The simplest
things will become steep acclivities. Life will become monstrous
all about you. To go, to come, to breathe, will be just so many
terrible labors. Your lungs will produce on you the effect of weighing
a hundred pounds. Whether you shall walk here rather than there,
will become a problem that must be solved. Any one who wants to go
out simply gives his door a push, and there he is in the open air.
If you wish to go out, you will be obliged to pierce your wall.
What does every one who wants to step into the street do? He goes
down stairs; you will tear up your sheets, little by little you
will make of them a rope, then you will climb out of your window,
and you will suspend yourself by that thread over an abyss, and it


will be night, amid storm, rain, and the hurricane, and if the
rope is too short, but one way of descending will remain to you,
to fall. To drop hap-hazard into the gulf, from an unknown height,
on what? On what is beneath, on the unknown. Or you will crawl up
a chimney-flue, at the risk of burning; or you will creep through
a sewer-pipe, at the risk of drowning; I do not speak of the holes
that you will be obliged to mask, of the stones which you will have
to take up and replace twenty times a day, of the plaster that you
will have to hide in your straw pallet. A lock presents itself;
the bourgeois has in his pocket a key made by a locksmith. If you
wish to pass out, you will be condemned to execute a terrible work
of art; you will take a large sou, you will cut it in two plates;
with what tools? You will have to invent them. That is your business.
Then you will hollow out the interior of these plates, taking great
care of the outside, and you will make on the edges a thread, so that
they can be adjusted one upon the other like a box and its cover.
The top and bottom thus screwed together, nothing will be suspected.
To the overseers it will be only a sou; to you it will be a box.
What will you put in this box? A small bit of steel. A watch-spring,
in which you will have cut teeth, and which will form a saw.
With this saw, as long as a pin, and concealed in a sou, you will
cut the bolt of the lock, you will sever bolts, the padlock of
your chain, and the bar at your window, and the fetter on your leg.
This masterpiece finished, this prodigy accomplished, all these miracles
of art, address, skill, and patience executed, what will be your
recompense if it becomes known that you are the author? The dungeon.
There is your future. What precipices are idleness and pleasure!
Do you know that to do nothing is a melancholy resolution?
To live in idleness on the property of society! to be useless,
that is to say, pernicious! This leads straight to the depth
of wretchedness. Woe to the man who desires to be a parasite!
He will become vermin! Ah! So it does not please you to work?
Ah! You have but one thought, to drink well, to eat well,
to sleep well. You will drink water, you will eat black bread,
you will sleep on a plank with a fetter whose cold touch you
will feel on your flesh all night long, riveted to your limbs.
You will break those fetters, you will flee. That is well.
You will crawl on your belly through the brushwood, and you will eat
grass like the beasts of the forest. And you will be recaptured.
And then you will pass years in a dungeon, riveted to a wall,
groping for your jug that you may drink, gnawing at a horrible
loaf of darkness which dogs would not touch, eating beans that
the worms have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in
a cellar. Ah! Have pity on yourself, you miserable young child,
who were sucking at nurse less than twenty years ago, and who have,
no doubt, a mother still alive! I conjure you, listen to me,
I entreat you. You desire fine black cloth, varnished shoes,
to have your hair curled and sweet-smelling oils on your locks,
to please low women, to be handsome. You will be shaven clean,
and you will wear a red blouse and wooden shoes. You want rings
on your fingers, you will have an iron necklet on your neck.
If you glance at a woman, you will receive a blow. And you will
enter there at the age of twenty. And you will come out at fifty!
You will enter young, rosy, fresh, with brilliant eyes, and all
your white teeth, and your handsome, youthful hair; you will come
out broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white locks!
Ah! my poor child, you are on the wrong road; idleness is
counselling you badly; the hardest of all work is thieving.
Believe me, do not undertake that painful profession of an idle man.
It is not comfortable to become a rascal. It is less disagreeable
to be an honest man. Now go, and ponder on what I have said
to you. By the way, what did you want of me? My purse? Here it
is.



And the old manreleasing Montparnasseput his purse in the
latter's hand; Montparnasse weighed it for a momentafter which
he allowed it to slide gently into the back pocket of his coat
with the same mechanical precaution as though he had stolen it.

All this having been said and donethe goodman turned his back
and tranquilly resumed his stroll.

The blockhead!muttered Montparnasse.

Who was this goodman? The reader hasno doubtalready divined.

Montparnasse watched him with amazementas he disappeared in the dusk.
This contemplation was fatal to him.

While the old man was walking awayGavroche drew near.

Gavroche had assured himselfwith a sidelong glancethat Father
Mabeuf was still sitting on his benchprobably sound asleep.
Then the gamin emerged from his thicketand began to crawl after
Montparnasse in the darkas the latter stood there motionless.
In this manner he came up to Montparnasse without being seen or heard
gently insinuated his hand into the back pocket of that frock-coat
of fine black clothseized the pursewithdrew his handand having
recourse once more to his crawlinghe slipped away like an adder
through the shadows. Montparnassewho had no reason to be on his guard
and who was engaged in thought for the first time in his life
perceived nothing. When Gavroche had once more attained the point
where Father Mabeuf washe flung the purse over the hedgeand fled
as fast as his legs would carry him.

The purse fell on Father Mabeuf's foot. This commotion roused him.

He bent over and picked up the purse.

He did not understand in the leastand opened it.

The purse had two compartments; in one of them there was some
small change; in the other lay six napoleons.

M. Mabeufin great alarmreferred the matter to his housekeeper.
That has fallen from heaven,said Mother Plutarque.

BOOK FIFTH.--THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING

CHAPTER I

SOLITUDE AND THE BARRACKS COMBINED

Cosette's griefwhich had been so poignant and lively four or five
months previouslyhadwithout her being conscious of the fact
entered upon its convalescence. Naturespringyouthlove for
her fatherthe gayety of the birds and flowerscaused something
almost resembling forgetfulness to filter graduallydrop by drop
into that soulwhich was so virgin and so young. Was the fire wholly
extinct there? Or was it merely that layers of ashes had formed?
The truth isthat she hardly felt the painful and burning spot
any longer.


One day she suddenly thought of Marius: "Why!" said sheI no
longer think of him.

That same weekshe noticed a very handsome officer of lancers
with a wasp-like waista delicious uniformthe cheeks of a young girl
a sword under his armwaxed mustachesand a glazed schapka
passing the gate. Moreoverhe had light hairprominent blue eyes
a round facewas vaininsolent and good-looking; quite the reverse
of Marius. He had a cigar in his mouth. Cosette thought that this
officer doubtless belonged to the regiment in barracks in the Rue
de Babylone.

On the following dayshe saw him pass again. She took note
of the hour.

From that time forthwas it chance? she saw him pass nearly every day.

The officer's comrades perceived that there wasin that "badly kept"
gardenbehind that malicious rococo fencea very pretty creature
who was almost always there when the handsome lieutenant--who is not
unknown to the readerand whose name was Theodule Gillenormand-passed
by.

See here!they said to himthere's a little creature there
who is making eyes at you, look.

Have I the time,replied the lancerto look at all the girls
who look at me?

This was at the precise moment when Marius was descending heavily
towards agonyand was saying: "If I could but see her before I die!"--
Had his wish been realizedhad he beheld Cosette at that moment
gazing at the lancerhe would not have been able to utter a word
and he would have expired with grief.

Whose fault was it? No one's.

Marius possessed one of those temperaments which bury themselves
in sorrow and there abide; Cosette was one of those persons
who plunge into sorrow and emerge from it again.

Cosette wasmoreoverpassing through that dangerous period
the fatal phase of feminine revery abandoned to itselfin which
the isolated heart of a young girl resembles the tendrils of the
vine which clingas chance directsto the capital of a marble
column or to the post of a wine-shop: A rapid and decisive moment
critical for every orphanbe she rich or poorfor wealth does not
prevent a bad choice; misalliances are made in very high circles
real misalliance is that of souls; and as many an unknown young man
without namewithout birthwithout fortuneis a marble column
which bears up a temple of grand sentiments and grand ideasso such
and such a man of the world satisfied and opulentwho has polished
boots and varnished wordsif looked at not outsidebut inside
a thing which is reserved for his wifeis nothing more than a
block obscurely haunted by violentuncleanand vinous passions;
the post of a drinking-shop.

What did Cosette's soul contain? Passion calmed or lulled to sleep;
something limpidbrillianttroubled to a certain depth
and gloomy lower down. The image of the handsome officer was
reflected in the surface. Did a souvenir linger in the depths?--
Quite at the bottom?--Possibly. Cosette did not know.


A singular incident supervened.

CHAPTER II

COSETTE'S APPREHENSIONS

During the first fortnight in AprilJean Valjean took a journey.
Thisas the reader knowshappened from time to timeat very
long intervals. He remained absent a day or two days at the utmost.
Where did he go? No one knewnot even Cosette. Once only
on the occasion of one of these departuresshe had accompanied him
in a hackney-coach as far as a little blind-alley at the corner
of which she read: Impasse de la Planchette. There he alighted
and the coach took Cosette back to the Rue de Babylone. It was
usually when money was lacking in the house that Jean Valjean took
these little trips.

So Jean Valjean was absent. He had said: "I shall return
in three days."

That eveningCosette was alone in the drawing-room. In order to get
rid of her ennuishe had opened her piano-organand had begun
to singaccompanying herself the whilethe chorus from Euryanthe:
Hunters astray in the wood!which is probably the most beautiful
thing in all the sphere of music. When she had finishedshe remained
wrapped in thought.

All at onceit seemed to her that she heard the sound of footsteps
in the garden.

It could not be her fatherhe was absent; it could not be Toussaint
she was in bedand it was ten o'clock at night.

She stepped to the shutter of the drawing-roomwhich was closed
and laid her ear against it.

It seemed to her that it was the tread of a manand that he was
walking very softly.

She mounted rapidly to the first floorto her own chamber
opened a small wicket in her shutterand peeped into the garden.
The moon was at the full. Everything could be seen as plainly as
by day.

There was no one there.

She opened the window. The garden was absolutely calmand all
that was visible was that the street was deserted as usual.

Cosette thought that she had been mistaken. She thought that she
had heard a noise. It was a hallucination produced by the melancholy
and magnificent chorus of Weberwhich lays open before the mind
terrified depthswhich trembles before the gaze like a dizzy forest
and in which one hears the crackling of dead branches beneath
the uneasy tread of the huntsmen of whom one catches a glimpse
through the twilight.

She thought no more about it.

MoreoverCosette was not very timid by nature. There flowed
in her veins some of the blood of the bohemian and the adventuress


who runs barefoot. It will be remembered that she was more of a lark
than a dove. There was a foundation of wildness and bravery in her.


On the following dayat an earlier hourtowards nightfallshe was
strolling in the garden. In the midst of the confused thoughts
which occupied hershe fancied that she caught for an instant a sound
similar to that of the preceding eveningas though some one were
walking beneath the trees in the duskand not very far from her;
but she told herself that nothing so closely resembles a step on
the grass as the friction of two branches which have moved from side
to sideand she paid no heed to it. Besidesshe could see nothing.


She emerged from "the thicket"; she had still to cross a small lawn
to regain the steps.


The moonwhich had just risen behind hercast Cosette's shadow
in front of her upon this lawnas she came out from the shrubbery.


Cosette halted in alarm.


Beside her shadowthe moon outlined distinctly upon the turf
another shadowwhich was particularly startling and terrible
a shadow which had a round hat.


It was the shadow of a manwho must have been standing on the border
of the clump of shrubberya few paces in the rear of Cosette.


She stood for a moment without the power to speakor cryor call
or stiror turn her head.


Then she summoned up all her courageand turned round resolutely.


There was no one there.


She glanced on the ground. The figure had disappeared.


She re-entered the thicketsearched the corners boldlywent as far
as the gateand found nothing.


She felt herself absolutely chilled with terror. Was this
another hallucination? What! Two days in succession!
One hallucination might passbut two hallucinations?
The disquieting point about it wasthat the
shadow had assuredly not been a phantom. Phantoms do not wear round hats.


On the following day Jean Valjean returned. Cosette told him what
she thought she had heard and seen. She wanted to be reassured
and to see her father shrug his shoulders and say to her:
You are a little goose.


Jean Valjean grew anxious.


It cannot be anything,said he.


He left her under some pretextand went into the gardenand she
saw him examining the gate with great attention.


During the night she woke up; this time she was sureand she distinctly
heard some one walking close to the flight of steps beneath her window.
She ran to her little wicket and opened it. In point of fact
there was a man in the gardenwith a large club in his hand.
Just as she was about to screamthe moon lighted up the man's profile.
It was her father. She returned to her bedsaying to herself:
He is very uneasy!



Jean Valjean passed that night and the two succeeding nights
in the garden. Cosette saw him through the hole in her shutter.

On the third nightthe moon was on the waneand had begun
to rise later; at one o'clock in the morningpossiblyshe heard
a loud burst of laughter and her father's voice calling her:-


Cosette!

She jumped out of bedthrew on her dressing-gownand opened
her window.

Her father was standing on the grass-plot below.

I have waked you for the purpose of reassuring you,said he;
look, there is your shadow with the round hat.

And he pointed out to her on the turf a shadow cast by the moon
and which did indeedbear considerable resemblance to the spectre of a
man wearing a round hat. It was the shadow produced by a chimney-pipe
of sheet ironwith a hoodwhich rose above a neighboring roof.

Cosette joined in his laughterall her lugubrious suppositions
were allayedand the next morningas she was at breakfast
with her fathershe made merry over the sinister garden haunted
by the shadows of iron chimney-pots.

Jean Valjean became quite tranquil once more; as for Cosette
she did not pay much attention to the question whether the chimney-pot
was really in the direction of the shadow which she had seen
or thought she had seenand whether the moon had been in the same
spot in the sky.

She did not question herself as to the peculiarity of a chimney-pot
which is afraid of being caught in the actand which retires
when some one looks at its shadowfor the shadow had taken
the alarm when Cosette had turned roundand Cosette had thought
herself very sure of this. Cosette's serenity was fully restored.
The proof appeared to her to be completeand it quite vanished
from her mindwhether there could possibly be any one walking
in the garden during the evening or at night.

A few days laterhowevera fresh incident occurred.

CHAPTER III

ENRICHED WITH COMMENTARIES BY TOUSSAINT

In the gardennear the railing on the streetthere was a stone bench
screened from the eyes of the curious by a plantation of yoke-elms
but which couldin case of necessitybe reached by an arm from
the outsidepast the trees and the gate.

One evening during that same month of AprilJean Valjean had
gone out; Cosette had seated herself on this bench after sundown.
The breeze was blowing briskly in the treesCosette was meditating;
an objectless sadness was taking possession of her little by little
that invincible sadness evoked by the eveningand which arises
perhapswho knowsfrom the mystery of the tomb which is ajar at
that hour.


Perhaps Fantine was within that shadow.


Cosette roseslowly made the tour of the gardenwalking on
the grass drenched in dewand saying to herselfthrough the
species of melancholy somnambulism in which she was plunged:
Really, one needs wooden shoes for the garden at this hour.
One takes cold.


She returned to the bench.


As she was about to resume her seat thereshe observed on the
spot which she had quitteda tolerably large stone which had
evidentlynot been there a moment before.


Cosette gazed at the stoneasking herself what it meant. All at once
the idea occurred to her that the stone had not reached the bench
all by itselfthat some one had placed it therethat an arm had been
thrust through the railingand this idea appeared to alarm her.
This timethe fear was genuine; the stone was there. No doubt
was possible; she did not touch itfled without glancing behind her
took refuge in the houseand immediately closed with shutter
boltand bar the door-like window opening on the flight of steps.
She inquired of Toussaint:--


Has my father returned yet?


Not yet, Mademoiselle.


[We have already noted once for all the fact that Toussaint stuttered.
May we be permitted to dispense with it for the future. The musical
notation of an infirmity is repugnant to us.]


Jean Valjeana thoughtful manand given to nocturnal strolls
often returned quite late at night.


Toussaint,went on Cosetteare you careful to thoroughly
barricade the shutters opening on the garden, at least with bars,
in the evening, and to put the little iron things in the little
rings that close them?


Oh! be easy on that score, Miss.


Toussaint did not fail in her dutyand Cosette was well aware
of the factbut she could not refrain from adding:--


It is so solitary here.


So far as that is concerned,said Toussaintit is true.
We might be assassinated before we had time to say ouf!
And Monsieur does not sleep in the house, to boot.
But fear nothing, Miss, I fasten the shutters up like prisons.
Lone women! That is enough to make one shudder, I believe you!
Just imagine, what if you were to see men enter your chamber at
night and say: `Hold your tongue!' and begin to cut your throat.
It's not the dying so much; you die, for one must die, and that's
all right; it's the abomination of feeling those people touch you.
And then, their knives; they can't be able to cut well with them!
Ah, good gracious!


Be quiet,said Cosette. "Fasten everything thoroughly."


Cosetteterrified by the melodrama improvised by Toussaint
and possiblyalsoby the recollection of the apparitions of the



past weekwhich recurred to her memorydared not even say to her:
Go and look at the stone which has been placed on the bench!
for fear of opening the garden gate and allowing "the men" to enter.
She saw that all the doors and windows were carefully fastened
made Toussaint go all over the house from garret to cellarlocked herself
up in her own chamberbolted her doorlooked under her couch
went to bed and slept badly. All night long she saw that big stone
as large as a mountain and full of caverns.


At sunrise--the property of the rising sun is to make us laugh
at all our terrors of the past nightand our laughter is in direct
proportion to our terror which they have caused--at sunrise Cosette
when she wokeviewed her fright as a nightmareand said to herself:
What have I been thinking of? It is like the footsteps that I
thought I heard a week or two ago in the garden at night!
It is like the shadow of the chimney-pot! Am I becoming a coward?
The sunwhich was glowing through the crevices in her shutters
and turning the damask curtains crimsonreassured her to such an extent
that everything vanished from her thoughtseven the stone.


There was no more a stone on the bench than there was a man in a round
hat in the garden; I dreamed about the stone, as I did all the rest.


She dressed herselfdescended to the gardenran to the bench
and broke out in a cold perspiration. The stone was there.


But this lasted only for a moment. That which is terror by night
is curiosity by day.


Bah!said shecome, let us see what it is.


She lifted the stonewhich was tolerably large. Beneath it was
something which resembled a letter. It was a white envelope.
Cosette seized it. There was no address on one sideno seal
on the other. Yet the envelopethough unsealedwas not empty.
Papers could be seen inside.


Cosette examined it. It was no longer alarmit was no longer curiosity;
it was a beginning of anxiety.


Cosette drew from the envelope its contentsa little notebook
of papereach page of which was numbered and bore a few lines
in a very fine and rather pretty handwritingas Cosette thought.


Cosette looked for a name; there was none. To whom was this addressed?
To herprobablysince a hand had deposited the packet on her bench.
From whom did it come? An irresistible fascination took possession
of her; she tried to turn away her eyes from the leaflets which were
trembling in her handshe gazed at the skythe streetthe acacias
all bathed in lightthe pigeons fluttering over a neighboring roof
and then her glance suddenly fell upon the manuscriptand she said
to herself that she must know what it contained.


This is what she read.


CHAPTER IV


A HEART BENEATH A STONE


The reduction of the universe to a single beingthe expansion
of a single being even to Godthat is love.



Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars.

How sad is the soulwhen it is sad through love!

What a void in the absence of the being whoby herself alone fills
the world! Oh! how true it is that the beloved being becomes God.
One could comprehend that God might be jealous of this had not God
the Father of all evidently made creation for the souland the soul
for love.


The glimpse of a smile beneath a white crape bonnet with a lilac
curtain is sufficient to cause the soul to enter into the palace
of dreams.


God is behind everythingbut everything
hides God. Things are blackcreatures
are opaque. To love a being is to render that being transparent.


Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments whenwhatever the
attitude of the body may bethe soul is on its knees.


Parted lovers beguile absence by a thousand chimerical devices
which possesshowevera reality of their own. They are
prevented from seeing each otherthey cannot write to each other;
they discover a multitude of mysterious means to correspond.
They send each other the song of the birdsthe perfume of the flowers
the smiles of childrenthe light of the sunthe sighings
of the breezethe rays of starsall creation. And why not?
All the works of God are made to serve love. Love is sufficiently
potent to charge all nature with its messages.


Oh Spring! Thou art a letter that I write to her.


The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to minds.
Lovethat is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity.
In the infinitethe inexhaustible is requisite.


Love participates of the soul itself. It is of the same nature.
Like itit is the divine spark; like itit is incorruptible
indivisibleimperishable. It is a point of fire that exists
within uswhich is immortal and infinitewhich nothing can confine
and which nothing can extinguish. We feel it burning even to the
very marrow of our bonesand we see it beaming in the very depths
of heaven.


Oh Love! Adorations! voluptuousness of two minds which understand each
otherof two hearts which exchange with each otherof two glances which
penetrate each other! You will come to mewill you notbliss! strolls
by twos in the solitudes! Blessed and radiant days! I have sometimes
dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the
lives of the angels and came here below to traverse the destinies of men.



God can add nothing to the happiness of those who loveexcept to give
them endless duration. After a life of lovean eternity of love is
in factan augmentation; but to increase in intensity even the
ineffable felicity which love bestows on the soul even in this world
is impossibleeven to God. God is the plenitude of heaven;
love is the plenitude of man.


You look at a star for two reasonsbecause it is luminous
and because it is impenetrable. You have beside you a sweeter
radiance and a greater mysterywoman.


All of uswhoever we may behave our respirable beings. We lack air
and we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of love is horrible.
Suffocation of the soul.


When love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred
and angelic unitythe secret of life has been discovered
so far as they are concerned; they are no longer anything
more than the two boundaries of the same destiny; they
are no longer anything but the two wings of the same spirit. Lovesoar.


On the day when a woman as she passes before you emits light as she walks
you are lostyou love. But one thing remains for you to do:
to think of her so intently that she is constrained to think of you.


What love commences can be finished by God alone.


True love is in despair and is enchanted over a glove lost
or a handkerchief foundand eternity is required for its
devotion and its hopes. It is composed both of the infinitely
great and the infinitely little.


If you are a stonebe adamant; if you are a plantbe the
sensitive plant; if you are a manbe love.


Nothing suffices for love. We have happinesswe desire paradise;
we possess paradisewe desire heaven.


Oh ye who love each otherall this is contained in love.
Understand how to find it there. Love has contemplation as well
as heavenand more than heavenit has voluptuousness.


Does she still come to the Luxembourg?No, sir.This is the church
where she attends mass, is it not?She no longer comes here.
Does she still live in this house?She has moved away.
Where has she gone to dwell?


She did not say.


What a melancholy thing not to know the address of one's soul!


Love has its childishnessother passions have their pettinesses.
Shame on the passions which belittle man! Honor to the one which
makes a child of him!



There is one strange thingdo you know it? I dwell in the night.
There is a being who carried off my sky when she went away.

Oh! would that we were lying side by side in the same grave
hand in handand from time to timein the darknessgently caressing
a finger--that would suffice for my eternity!

Ye who suffer because ye lovelove yet more. To die of love
is to live in it.

Love. A sombre and starry transfiguration is mingled with this torture.
There is ecstasy in agony.

Oh joy of the birds! It is because they have nests that they sing.

Love is a celestial respiration of the air of paradise.

Deep heartssage mindstake life as God has made it; it is a
long trialan incomprehensible preparation for an unknown destiny.
This destinythe true onebegins for a man with the first step
inside the tomb. Then something appears to himand he begins to
distinguish the definitive. The definitivemeditate upon that word.
The living perceive the infinite; the definitive permits itself
to be seen only by the dead. In the meanwhilelove and suffer
hope and contemplate. Woealas! to him who shall have loved
only bodiesformsappearances! Death will deprive him of all.
Try to love soulsyou will find them again.

I encountered in the streeta very poor young man who was in love.
His hat was oldhis coat was wornhis elbows were in holes;
water trickled through his shoesand the stars through his soul.

What a grand thing it is to be loved! What a far grander thing
it is to love! The heart becomes heroicby dint of passion.
It is no longer composed of anything but what is pure; it no longer
rests on anything that is not elevated and great. An unworthy
thought can no more germinate in itthan a nettle on a glacier.
The serene and lofty soulinaccessible to vulgar passions and emotions
dominating the clouds and the shades of this worldits follies
its liesits hatredsits vanitiesits miseriesinhabits the blue
of heavenand no longer feels anything but profound and subterranean
shocks of destinyas the crests of mountains feel the shocks
of earthquake.

If there did not exist some one who lovedthe sun would become extinct.

CHAPTER V

COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER

As Cosette readshe gradually fell into thought. At the very moment


when she raised her eyes from the last line of the note-book
the handsome officer passed triumphantly in front of the gate--
it was his hour; Cosette thought him hideous.


She resumed her contemplation of the book. It was written in the
most charming of chirographythought Cosette; in the same hand
but with divers inkssometimes very blackagain whitish
as when ink has been added to the inkstandand consequently on
different days. It wasthena mind which had unfolded itself there
sigh by sighirregularlywithout orderwithout choice
without objecthap-hazard. Cosette had never read anything like it.
This manuscriptin which she already perceived more light than
obscurityproduced upon her the effect of a half-open sanctuary.
Each one of these mysterious lines shone before her eyes and inundated
her heart with a strange radiance. The education which she had
received had always talked to her of the souland never of love
very much as one might talk of the firebrand and not of the flame.
This manuscript of fifteen pages suddenly and sweetly revealed
to her all of lovesorrowdestinylifeeternitythe beginning
the end. It was as if a hand had opened and suddenly flung upon
her a handful of rays of light. In these few lines she felt
a passionateardentgeneroushonest naturea sacred will
an immense sorrowand an immense despaira suffering heart
an ecstasy fully expanded. What was this manuscript? A letter.
A letter without namewithout addresswithout datewithout signature
pressing and disinterestedan enigma composed of truthsa message
of love made to be brought by an angel and read by a virgin
an appointment made beyond the bounds of earththe love-letter of
a phantom to a shade. It was an absent onetranquil and dejected
who seemed ready to take refuge in death and who sent to the absent love
his ladythe secret of fatethe key of lifelove. This had been
written with one foot in the grave and one finger in heaven.
These lineswhich had fallen one by one on the paperwere what
might be called drops of soul.


Nowfrom whom could these pages come? Who could have penned them?


Cosette did not hesitate a moment. One man only.


He!


Day had dawned once more in her spirit; all had reappeared.
She felt an unheard-of joyand a profound anguish. It was he! he
who had written! he was there! it was he whose arm had been thrust
through that railing! While she was forgetful of himhe had found
her again! But had she forgotten him? Nonever! She was foolish
to have thought so for a single moment. She had always loved him
always adored him. The fire had been smotheredand had smouldered
for a timebut she saw all plainly now; it had but made headway
and now it had burst forth afreshand had inflamed her whole being.
This note-book was like a spark which had fallen from that other soul
into hers. She felt the conflagration starting up once more.


She imbued herself thoroughly with every word of the manuscript:
Oh yes!said shehow perfectly I recognize all that! That is
what I had already read in his eyes.As she was finishing it
for the third timeLieutenant Theodule passed the gate once more
and rattled his spurs upon the pavement. Cosette was forced
to raise her eyes. She thought him insipidsillystupid
uselessfoppishdispleasingimpertinentand extremely ugly.
The officer thought it his duty to smile at her.


She turned away as in shame and indignation. She would gladly
have thrown something at his head.



She fledre-entered the houseand shut herself up in her
chamber to peruse the manuscript once moreto learn it by heart
and to dream. When she had thoroughly mastered it she kissed
it and put it in her bosom.

All was overCosette had fallen back into deepseraphic love.
The abyss of Eden had yawned once more.

All day longCosette remained in a sort of bewilderment.
She scarcely thoughther ideas were in the state of a tangled
skein in her brainshe could not manage to conjecture anything
she hoped through a tremorwhat? vague things. She dared make
herself no promisesand she did not wish to refuse herself anything.
Flashes of pallor passed over her countenanceand shivers ran through
her frame. It seemed to herat intervalsthat she was entering
the land of chimaeras; she said to herself: "Is this reality?"
Then she felt of the dear paper within her bosom under her gown
she pressed it to her heartshe felt its angles against her flesh;
and if Jean Valjean had seen her at the momenthe would have shuddered
in the presence of that luminous and unknown joywhich overflowed
from beneath her eyelids.--"Oh yes!" she thoughtit is certainly he!
This comes from him, and is for me!

And she told herself that an intervention of the angels
a celestial chancehad given him back to her.

Oh transfiguration of love! Oh dreams! That celestial chance
that intervention of the angelswas a pellet of bread tossed
by one thief to another thieffrom the Charlemagne Courtyard
to the Lion's Ditchover the roofs of La Force.

CHAPTER VI

OLD PEOPLE ARE MADE TO GO OUT OPPORTUNELY

When evening cameJean Valjean went out; Cosette dressed herself.
She arranged her hair in the most becoming mannerand she put on
a dress whose bodice had received one snip of the scissors too much
and whichthrough this slopepermitted a view of the beginning
of her throatand wasas young girls saya trifle indecent.
It was not in the least indecentbut it was prettier than usual.
She made her toilet thus without knowing why she did so.

Did she mean to go out? No.

Was she expecting a visitor? No.

At duskshe went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy
in her kitchenwhich opened on the back yard.

She began to stroll about under the treesthrusting aside
the branches from time to time with her handbecause there
were some which hung very low.

In this manner she reached the bench.

The stone was still there.

She sat downand gently laid her white hand on this stone as though
she wished to caress and thank it.


All at onceshe experienced that indefinable impression which one
undergoes when there is some one standing behind oneeven when she
does not see the person.


She turned her head and rose to her feet.


It was he.


His head was bare. He appeared to have grown thin and pale.
His black clothes were hardly discernible. The twilight threw
a wan light on his fine browand covered his eyes in shadows.
Beneath a veil of incomparable sweetnesshe had something about
him that suggested death and night. His face was illuminated
by the light of the dying dayand by the thought of a soul that is
taking flight.


He seemed to be not yet a ghostand he was no longer a man.


He had flung away his hat in the thicketa few paces distant.


Cosettethough ready to swoonuttered no cry. She retreated slowly
for she felt herself attracted. He did not stir. By virtue
of something ineffable and melancholy which enveloped him
she felt the look in his eyes which she could not see.


Cosettein her retreatencountered a tree and leaned against it.
Had it not been for this treeshe would have fallen.


Then she heard his voicethat voice which she had really never heard
barely rising above the rustle of the leavesand murmuring:--


Pardon me, here I am. My heart is full. I could not live on as I
was living, and I have come. Have you read what I placed there
on the bench? Do you recognize me at all? Have no fear of me.
It is a long time, you remember the day, since you looked at me
at the Luxembourg, near the Gladiator. And the day when you passed
before me? It was on the 16th of June and the 2d of July. It is nearly
a year ago. I have not seen you for a long time. I inquired of the
woman who let the chairs, and she told me that she no longer saw you.
You lived in the Rue de l'Ouest, on the third floor, in the front
apartments of a new house,--you see that I know! I followed you.
What else was there for me to do? And then you disappeared.
I thought I saw you pass once, while I was reading the newspapers
under the arcade of the Odeon. I ran after you. But no. It was
a person who had a bonnet like yours. At night I came hither.
Do not be afraid, no one sees me. I come to gaze upon your windows
near at hand. I walk very softly, so that you may not hear,
for you might be alarmed. The other evening I was behind you,
you turned round, I fled. Once, I heard you singing. I was happy.
Did it affect you because I heard you singing through the shutters?
That could not hurt you. No, it is not so? You see, you are
my angel! Let me come sometimes; I think that I am going to die.
If you only knew! I adore you. Forgive me, I speak to you, but I
do not know what I am saying; I may have displeased you; have I
displeased you?


Oh! my mother!said she.


And she sank down as though on the point of death.


He grasped hershe fellhe took her in his armshe pressed her close
without knowing what he was doing. He supported herthough he was
tottering himself. It was as though his brain were full of smoke;



lightnings darted between his lips; his ideas vanished; it seemed
to him that he was accomplishing some religious actand that he
was committing a profanation. Moreoverhe had not the least passion
for this lovely woman whose force he felt against his breast.
He was beside himself with love.


She took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there
he stammered:--


You love me, then?


She replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything more
than a barely audible breath:--


Hush! Thou knowest it!


And she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb
and intoxicated young man.


He fell upon the benchand she beside him. They had no words more.
The stars were beginning to gleam. How did it come to pass that their
lips met? How comes it to pass that the birds singthat snow melts
that the rose unfoldsthat May expandsthat the dawn grows white
behind the black trees on the shivering crest of the hills?


A kissand that was all.


Both startedand gazed into the darkness with sparkling eyes.


They felt neither the cool nightnor the cold stonenor the
damp earthnor the wet grass; they looked at each otherand their
hearts were full of thoughts. They had clasped hands unconsciously.


She did not ask himshe did not even wonderhow he had entered there
and how he had made his way into the garden. It seemed so simple
to her that he should be there!


From time to timeMarius' knee touched Cosette's kneeand both shivered.


At intervalsCosette stammered a word. Her soul fluttered
on her lips like a drop of dew on a flower.


Little by little they began to talk to each other. Effusion followed
silencewhich is fulness. The night was serene and splendid overhead.
These two beingspure as spiritstold each other everything
their dreamstheir intoxicationstheir ecstasiestheir chimaeras
their weaknesseshow they had adored each other from afar
how they had longed for each othertheir despair when they
had ceased to see each other. They confided to each other in an
ideal intimacywhich nothing could augmenttheir most secret and
most mysterious thoughts. They related to each otherwith candid
faith in their illusionsall that loveyouthand the remains of
childhood which still lingered about themsuggested to their minds.
Their two hearts poured themselves out into each other in such wise
that at the expiration of a quarter of an hourit was the young
man who had the young girl's souland the young girl who had
the young man's soul. Each became permeated with the other
they were enchanted with each otherthey dazzled each other.


When they had finishedwhen they had told each other everything
she laid her head on his shoulder and asked him:--


What is your name?



My name is Marius,said he. "And yours?"

My name is Cosette.

BOOK SIXTH.--LITTLE GAVROCHE

CHAPTER I

THE MALICIOUS PLAYFULNESS OF THE WIND

Since 1823when the tavern of Montfermeil was on the way to shipwreck
and was being gradually engulfednot in the abyss of a bankruptcy
but in the cesspool of petty debtsthe Thenardier pair had had two
other children; both males. That made five; two girls and three boys.

Madame Thenardier had got rid of the last twowhile they were still
young and very smallwith remarkable luck.

Got rid of is the word. There was but a mere fragment of nature
in that woman. A phenomenonby the wayof which there
is more than one example extant. Like the Marechale de La
Mothe-Houdancourtthe Thenardier was a mother to her daughters only.
There her maternity ended. Her hatred of the human race began
with her own sons. In the direction of her sons her evil
disposition was uncompromisingand her heart had a lugubrious
wall in that quarter. As the reader has seenshe detested
the eldest; she cursed the other two. Why? Because. The most
terrible of motivesthe most unanswerable of retorts--Because.
I have no need of a litter of squalling brats,said this mother.

Let us explain how the Thenardiers had succeeded in getting rid of
their last two children; and even in drawing profit from the operation.

The woman Magnonwho was mentioned a few pages further backwas the
same one who had succeeded in making old Gillenormand support the two
children which she had had. She lived on the Quai des Celestins
at the corner of this ancient street of the Petit-Musc which afforded
her the opportunity of changing her evil repute into good odor.
The reader will remember the great epidemic of croup which ravaged
the river districts of the Seine in Paris thirty-five years ago
and of which science took advantage to make experiments on a grand
scale as to the efficacy of inhalations of alumso beneficially
replaced at the present day by the external tincture of iodine.
During this epidemicthe Magnon lost both her boyswho were still
very youngone in the morningthe other in the evening of the same day.
This was a blow. These children were precious to their mother;
they represented eighty francs a month. These eighty francs were
punctually paid in the name of M. Gillenormandby collector of his rents

M. Bargea retired tip-staffin the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile. The
children deadthe income was at an end. The Magnon sought an expedient.
In that dark free-masonry of evil of which she formed a part
everything is knownall secrets are keptand all lend mutual aid.
Magnon needed two children; the Thenardiers had two. The same sex
the same age. A good arrangement for the onea good investment
for the other. The little Thenardiers became little Magnons.
Magnon quitted the Quai des Celestins and went to live in the
Rue Clocheperce. In Paristhe identity which binds an individual
to himself is broken between one street and another.

The registry office being in no way warnedraised no objections
and the substitution was effected in the most simple manner
in the world. Onlythe Thenardier exacted for this loan of
her childrenten francs a monthwhich Magnon promised to pay
and which she actually did pay. It is unnecessary to add that

M. Gillenormand continued to perform his compact. He came to see
the children every six months. He did not perceive the change.
Monsieur,Magnon said to himhow much they resemble you!
Thenardierto whom avatars were easyseized this occasion
to become Jondrette. His two daughters and Gavroche had hardly
had time to discover that they had two little brothers. When a
certain degree of misery is reachedone is overpowered with a sort
of spectral indifferenceand one regards human beings as though
they were spectres. Your nearest relations are often no more for
you than vague shadowy formsbarely outlined against a nebulous
background of life and easily confounded again with the invisible.


On the evening of the day when she had handed over her two little
ones to Magnonwith express intention of renouncing them forever
the Thenardier had feltor had appeared to feela scruple. She said
to her husband: "But this is abandoning our children!" Thenardier
masterful and phlegmaticcauterized the scruple with this saying:
Jean Jacques Rousseau did even better!From scruplesthe mother
proceeded to uneasiness: "But what if the police were to annoy us?
Tell meMonsieur Thenardieris what we have done permissible?"
Thenardier replied: "Everything is permissible. No one will see
anything but true blue in it. Besidesno one has any interest in
looking closely after children who have not a sou."


Magnon was a sort of fashionable woman in the sphere of crime.
She was careful about her toilet. She shared her lodgings
which were furnished in an affected and wretched stylewith a clever
gallicized English thief. This English womanwho had become
a naturalized Parisiennerecommended by very wealthy relations
intimately connected with the medals in the Library and Mademoiselle
Mar's diamondsbecame celebrated later on in judicial accounts.
She was called Mamselle Miss.


The two little creatures who had fallen to Magnon had no reason to
complain of their lot. Recommended by the eighty francsthey were
well cared foras is everything from which profit is derived;
they were neither badly clothednor badly fed; they were treated
almost like "little gentlemen--better by their false mother than
by their real one. Magnon played the lady, and talked no thieves'
slang in their presence.


Thus passed several years. Thenardier augured well from the fact.
One day, he chanced to say to Magnon as she handed him his monthly
stipend of ten francs: The father must give them some education."


All at oncethese two poor childrenwho had up to that time been
protected tolerably welleven by their evil fatewere abruptly
hurled into life and forced to begin it for themselves.


A wholesale arrest of malefactorslike that in the Jondrette garret
necessarily complicated by investigations and subsequent incarcerations
is a veritable disaster for that hideous and occult counter-society
which pursues its existence beneath public society; an adventure of this
description entails all sorts of catastrophes in that sombre world.
The Thenardier catastrophe involved the catastrophe of Magnon.


One daya short time after Magnon had handed to Eponine the note



relating to the Rue Plumeta sudden raid was made by the police
in the Rue Clocheperce; Magnon was seizedas was also Mamselle Miss;
and all the inhabitants of the housewhich was of a suspicious character
were gathered into the net. While this was going onthe two little
boys were playing in the back yardand saw nothing of the raid.
When they tried to enter the house againthey found the door
fastened and the house empty. A cobbler opposite called them to him
and delivered to them a paper which "their mother" had left for them.
On this paper there was an address: M. Bargecollector of rents
Rue du Roi-de-SicileNo. 8. The proprietor of the stall said to them:
You cannot live here any longer. Go there. It is near by.
The first street on the left. Ask your way from this paper.


The children set outthe elder leading the youngerand holding
in his hand the paper which was to guide them. It was cold
and his benumbed little fingers could not close very firmly
and they did not keep a very good hold on the paper. At the
corner of the Rue Clochepercea gust of wind tore it from him
and as night was fallingthe child was not able to find it again.


They began to wander aimlessly through the streets.


CHAPTER II


IN WHICH LITTLE GAVROCHE EXTRACTS PROFIT FROM NAPOLEON THE GREAT


Spring in Paris is often traversed by harsh and piercing breezes which
do not precisely chill but freeze one; these north winds which sadden
the most beautiful days produce exactly the effect of those puffs
of cold air which enter a warm room through the cracks of a badly
fitting door or window. It seems as though the gloomy door of winter
had remained ajarand as though the wind were pouring through it.
In the spring of 1832the epoch when the first great epidemic
of this century broke out in Europethese north gales were more
harsh and piercing than ever. It was a door even more glacial than
that of winter which was ajar. It was the door of the sepulchre.
In these winds one felt the breath of the cholera.


From a meteorological point of viewthese cold winds possessed
this peculiaritythat they did not preclude a strong electric tension.
Frequent stormsaccompanied by thunder and lightningburst forth
at this epoch.


One eveningwhen these gales were blowing rudelyto such a degree
that January seemed to have returned and that the bourgeois had
resumed their cloaksLittle Gavrochewho was always shivering
gayly under his ragswas standing as though in ecstasy before a
wig-maker's shop in the vicinity of the Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was
adorned with a woman's woollen shawlpicked up no one knows where
and which he had converted into a neck comforter. Little Gavroche
appeared to be engaged in intent admiration of a wax bride
in a low-necked dressand crowned with orange-flowerswho was
revolving in the windowand displaying her smile to passers-by
between two argand lamps; but in realityhe was taking an observation
of the shopin order to discover whether he could not "prig"
from the shop-front a cake of soapwhich he would then proceed
to sell for a sou to a "hair-dresser" in the suburbs. He had often
managed to breakfast off of such a roll. He called his species
of workfor which he possessed special aptitudeshaving barbers.


While contemplating the brideand eyeing the cake of soap



he muttered between his teeth: "Tuesday. It was not Tuesday.
Was it Tuesday? Perhaps it was Tuesday. Yesit was Tuesday."

No one has ever discovered to what this monologue referred.

Yesperchancethis monologue had some connection with the last
occasion on which he had dinedthree days beforefor it was now Friday.

The barber in his shopwhich was warmed by a good stovewas shaving
a customer and casting a glance from time to time at the enemy
that freezing and impudent street urchin both of whose hands were
in his pocketsbut whose mind was evidently unsheathed.

While Gavroche was scrutinizing the shop-window and the cakes of
windsor soaptwo children of unequal staturevery neatly dressed
and still smaller than himselfone apparently about seven years
of agethe other fivetimidly turned the handle and entered
the shopwith a request for something or otheralms possibly
in a plaintive murmur which resembled a groan rather than a prayer.
They both spoke at onceand their words were unintelligible because
sobs broke the voice of the youngerand the teeth of the elder were
chattering with cold. The barber wheeled round with a furious look
and without abandoning his razorthrust back the elder with his left
hand and the younger with his kneeand slammed his doorsaying:
The idea of coming in and freezing everybody for nothing!

The two children resumed their march in tears. In the meantime
a cloud had risen; it had begun to rain.

Little Gavroche ran after them and accosted them:-


What's the matter with you, brats?

We don't know where we are to sleep,replied the elder.

Is that all?said Gavroche. "A great mattertruly. The idea
of bawling about that. They must be greenies!"

And adoptingin addition to his superioritywhich was rather bantering
an accent of tender authority and gentle patronage:-


Come along with me, young 'uns!

Yes, sir,said the elder.

And the two children followed him as they would have followed
an archbishop. They had stopped crying.

Gavroche led them up the Rue Saint-Antoine in the direction
of the Bastille.

As Gavroche walked alonghe cast an indignant backward glance
at the barber's shop.

That fellow has no heart, the whiting,[35] he muttered.
He's an Englishman.

[35] Merlan: a sobriquet given to hairdressers because they are
white with powder.
A woman who caught sight of these three marching in a file
with Gavroche at their headburst into noisy laughter. This laugh


was wanting in respect towards the group.

Good day, Mamselle Omnibus,said Gavroche to her.

An instant laterthe wig-maker occurred to his mind once more
and he added:-


I am making a mistake in the beast; he's not a whiting,
he's a serpent. Barber, I'll go and fetch a locksmith, and I'll
have a bell hung to your tail.

This wig-maker had rendered him aggressive. As he strode over
a gutterhe apostrophized a bearded portress who was worthy
to meet Faust on the Brockenand who had a broom in her hand.

Madam,said heso you are going out with your horse?

And thereuponhe spattered the polished boots of a pedestrian.

You scamp!shouted the furious pedestrian.

Gavroche elevated his nose above his shawl.

Is Monsieur complaining?

Of you!ejaculated the man.

The office is closed,said GavrocheI do not receive any
more complaints.

In the meanwhileas he went on up the streethe perceived a
beggar-girlthirteen or fourteen years oldand clad in so short
a gown that her knees were visiblelying thoroughly chilled
under a porte-cochere. The little girl was getting to be too old
for such a thing. Growth does play these tricks. The petticoat
becomes short at the moment when nudity becomes indecent.

Poor girl!said Gavroche. "She hasn't even trousers. Hold on
take this."

And unwinding all the comfortable woollen which he had around his neck
he flung it on the thin and purple shoulders of the beggar-girl
where the scarf became a shawl once more.

The child stared at him in astonishmentand received the shawl
in silence. When a certain stage of distress has been reached
in his miserythe poor man no longer groans over evilno longer
returns thanks for good.

That done: "Brrr!" said Gavrochewho was shivering more than
Saint Martinfor the latter retained one-half of his cloak.

At this brrr! the downpour of rainredoubled in its spite
became furious. The wicked skies punish good deeds.

Ah, come now!exclaimed Gavrochewhat's the meaning of this?
It's re-raining! Good Heavens, if it goes on like this, I shall stop
my subscription.

And he set out on the march once more.

It's all right,he resumedcasting a glance at the beggar-girl
as she coiled up under the shawlshe's got a famous peel.


And looking up at the clouds he exclaimed:-


Caught!

The two children followed close on his heels.

As they were passing one of these heavy grated lattices
which indicate a baker's shopfor bread is put behind
bars like goldGavroche turned round:-


Ah, by the way, brats, have we dined?

Monsieur,replied the elderwe have had nothing to eat since
this morning.

So you have neither father nor mother?resumed Gavroche majestically.

Excuse us, sir, we have a papa and a mamma, but we don't know
where they are.

Sometimes that's better than knowing where they are,said Gavroche
who was a thinker.

We have been wandering about these two hours,continued the elder
we have hunted for things at the corners of the streets, but we
have found nothing.

I know,ejaculated Gavrocheit's the dogs who eat everything.

He went onafter a pause:-


Ah! we have lost our authors. We don't know what we have done
with them. This should not be, gamins. It's stupid to let old people
stray off like that. Come now! we must have a snooze all the same.

Howeverhe asked them no questions. What was more simple than
that they should have no dwelling place!

The elder of the two childrenwho had almost entirely recovered
the prompt heedlessness of childhooduttered this exclamation:-


It's queer, all the same. Mamma told us that she would take us
to get a blessed spray on Palm Sunday.

Bosh,said Gavroche.

Mamma,resumed the elderis a lady who lives with Mamselle Miss.

Tanflute!retorted Gavroche.

Meanwhile he had haltedand for the last two minutes he had been
feeling and fumbling in all sorts of nooks which his rags contained.

At last he tossed his head with an air intended to be merely satisfied
but which was triumphantin reality.

Let us be calm, young 'uns. Here's supper for three.

And from one of his pockets he drew forth a sou.

Without allowing the two urchins time for amazementhe pushed
both of them before him into the baker's shopand flung his sou
on the countercrying:-



Boy! five centimes' worth of bread.

The bakerwho was the proprietor in persontook up a loaf and a knife.

In three pieces, my boy!went on Gavroche.

And he added with dignity:-


There are three of us.

And seeing that the bakerafter scrutinizing the three customers
had taken down a black loafhe thrust his finger far up his nose
with an inhalation as imperious as though he had had a pinch of the
great Frederick's snuff on the tip of his thumband hurled this
indignant apostrophe full in the baker's face:-


Keksekca?

Those of our readers who might be tempted to espy in this
interpellation of Gavroche's to the baker a Russian or a Polish word
or one of those savage cries which the Yoways and the Botocudos hurl
at each other from bank to bank of a riverathwart the solitudes
are warned that it is a word which they [our readers] utter every day
and which takes the place of the phrase: "Qu'est-ce que c'est
que cela?" The baker understood perfectlyand replied:-


Well! It's bread, and very good bread of the second quality.

You mean larton brutal [black bread]!retorted Gavroche
calmly and coldly disdainful. "White breadboy! white bread
[larton savonne]! I'm standing treat."

The baker could not repress a smileand as he cut the white bread
he surveyed them in a compassionate way which shocked Gavroche.

Come, now, baker's boy!said hewhat are you taking our measure
like that for?

All three of them placed end to end would have hardly made a measure.

When the bread was cutthe baker threw the sou into his drawer
and Gavroche said to the two children:-


Grub away.

The little boys stared at him in surprise.

Gavroche began to laugh.

Ah! hullo, that's so! they don't understand yet, they're too small.

And he repeated:-


Eat away.

At the same timehe held out a piece of bread to each of them.

And thinking that the elderwho seemed to him the more worthy
of his conversationdeserved some special encouragement and ought
to be relieved from all hesitation to satisfy his appetitehe added
as be handed him the largest share:-


Ram that into your muzzle.


One piece was smaller than the others; he kept this for himself.


The poor childrenincluding Gavrochewere famished.
As they tore their bread apart in big mouthfulsthey blocked up
the shop of the bakerwhonow that they had paid their money
looked angrily at them.


Let's go into the street again,said Gavroche.


They set off once more in the direction of the Bastille.


From time to timeas they passed the lighted shop-windows
the smallest halted to look at the time on a leaden watch
which was suspended from his neck by a cord.


Well, he is a very green 'un,said Gavroche.


Thenbecoming thoughtfulhe muttered between his teeth:--


All the same, if I had charge of the babes I'd lock 'em up better
than that.


Just as they were finishing their morsel of breadand had reached
the angle of that gloomy Rue des Balletsat the other end
of which the low and threatening wicket of La Force was visible:--


Hullo, is that you, Gavroche?said some one.


Hullo, is that you, Montparnasse?said Gavroche.


A man had just accosted the street urchinand the man was no
other than Montparnasse in disguisewith blue spectacles
but recognizable to Gavroche.


The bow-wows!went on Gavrocheyou've got a hide the color
of a linseed plaster, and blue specs like a doctor. You're putting
on style, 'pon my word!


Hush!ejaculated Montparnassenot so loud.


And he drew Gavroche hastily out of range of the lighted shops.


The two little ones followed mechanicallyholding each other
by the hand.


When they were ensconced under the arch of a portecochere
sheltered from the rain and from all eyes:--


Do you know where I'm going?demanded Montparnasse.
To the Abbey of Ascend-with-Regret,[36] replied Gavroche.


[36] The scaffold.
Joker!
And Montparnasse went on:--


I'm going to find Babet.
Ah!exclaimed Gavrocheso her name is Babet.



Montparnasse lowered his voice:--
Not she, he.
Ah! Babet.
Yes, Babet.
I thought he was buckled.
He has undone the buckle,replied Montparnasse.
And he rapidly related to the gamin howon the morning of that very day


Babethaving been transferred to La Conciergeriehad made his escape
by turning to the left instead of to the right in "the police office."
Gavroche expressed his admiration for this skill.
What a dentist!he cried.
Montparnasse added a few details as to Babet's flightand ended with:--


Oh! That's not all.
Gavrocheas he listenedhad seized a cane that Montparnasse
held in his handand mechanically pulled at the upper part
and the blade of a dagger made its appearance.


Ah!he exclaimedpushing the dagger back in hasteyou have
brought along your gendarme disguised as a bourgeois.

Montparnasse winked.
The deuce!resumed Gavrocheso you're going to have a bout
with the bobbies?


You can't tell,replied Montparnasse with an indifferent air.
It's always a good thing to have a pin about one.
Gavroche persisted:--


What are you up to to-night?
Again Montparnasse took a grave toneand saidmouthing
every syllable: "Things."


And abruptly changing the conversation:--
By the way!
What?
Something happened t'other day. Fancy. I meet a bourgeois.


He makes me a present of a sermon and his purse. I put it in my pocket.
A minute later, I feel in my pocket. There's nothing there.
Except the sermon,said Gavroche.
But you,went on Montparnassewhere are you bound for now?
Gavroche pointed to his two protegesand said:--
I'm going to put these infants to bed.



Whereabouts is the bed?
At my house.


Where's your house?
At my house.


So you have a lodging?
Yes, I have.


And where is your lodging?
In the elephant,said Gavroche.


Montparnassethough not naturally inclined to astonishment
could not restrain an exclamation.

In the elephant!

Well, yes, in the elephant!retorted Gavroche. "Kekcaa?"

This is another word of the language which no one writes
and which every one speaks.

Kekcaa signifies: Quest que c'est que cela a? [What's the matter
with that?]

The urchin's profound remark recalled Montparnasse to calmness
and good sense. He appeared to return to better sentiments
with regard to Gavroche's lodging.

Of course,said heyes, the elephant. Is it comfortable there?

Very,said Gavroche. "It's really bully there. There ain't
any draughtsas there are under the bridges."
How do you get in?


Oh, I get in.
So there is a hole?demanded Montparnasse.


Parbleu! I should say so. But you mustn't tell. It's between
the fore legs. The bobbies haven't seen it.

And you climb up? Yes, I understand.

A turn of the hand, cric, crac, and it's all over, no one there.
After a pauseGavroche added:-


I shall have a ladder for these children.
Montparnasse burst out laughing:-


Where the devil did you pick up those young 'uns?
Gavroche replied with great simplicity:-


They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present of.
MeanwhileMontparnasse had fallen to thinking:-



You recognized me very readily,he muttered.

He took from his pocket two small objects which were nothing more than
two quills wrapped in cottonand thrust one up each of his nostrils.
This gave him a different nose.

That changes you,remarked Gavrocheyou are less homely so,
you ought to keep them on all the time.

Montparnasse was a handsome fellowbut Gavroche was a tease.

Seriously,demanded Montparnassehow do you like me so?

The sound of his voice was different also. In a twinkling
Montparnasse had become unrecognizable.

Oh! Do play Porrichinelle for us!exclaimed Gavroche.

The two childrenwho had not been listening up to this point
being occupied themselves in thrusting their fingers up their noses
drew near at this nameand stared at Montparnasse with dawning joy
and admiration.

UnfortunatelyMontparnasse was troubled.

He laid his hand on Gavroche's shoulderand said to him
emphasizing his words: "Listen to what I tell youboy! if I
were on the square with my dogmy knifeand my wifeand if you
were to squander ten sous on meI wouldn't refuse to work
but this isn't Shrove Tuesday."

This odd phrase produced a singular effect on the gamin.
He wheeled round hastilydarted his little sparkling eyes about him
with profound attentionand perceived a police sergeant standing
with his back to them a few paces off. Gavroche allowed an:
Ah! good!to escape himbut immediately suppressed itand shaking
Montparnasse's hand:-


Well, good evening,said heI'm going off to my elephant
with my brats. Supposing that you should need me some night,
you can come and hunt me up there. I lodge on the entresol.
There is no porter. You will inquire for Monsieur Gavroche.

Very good,said Montparnasse.

And they partedMontparnasse betaking himself in the direction
of the Greveand Gavroche towards the Bastille. The little one
of fivedragged along by his brother who was dragged by Gavroche
turned his head back several times to watch "Porrichinelle" as he went.

The ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche
of the presence of the policemancontained no other talisman than
the assonance dig repeated five or six times in different forms.
This syllablediguttered alone or artistically mingled with the
words of a phrasemeans: "Take carewe can no longer talk freely."
There was besidesin Montparnasse's sentencea literary beauty
which was lost upon Gavrochethat is mon doguema dague et ma digue
a slang expression of the Templewhich signifies my dogmy knife
and my wifegreatly in vogue among clowns and the red-tails in the
great century when Moliere wrote and Callot drew.

Twenty years agothere was still to be seen in the southwest corner
of the Place de la Bastillenear the basin of the canalexcavated in


the ancient ditch of the fortress-prisona singular monument
which has already been effaced from the memories of Parisians
and which deserved to leave some tracefor it was the idea of
a "member of the Institutethe General-in-chief of the army of Egypt."


We say monumentalthough it was only a rough model. But this
model itselfa marvellous sketchthe grandiose skeleton of an idea
of Napoleon'swhich successive gusts of wind have carried away
and thrownon each occasionstill further from ushad become
historical and had acquired a certain definiteness which contrasted
with its provisional aspect. It was an elephant forty feet high
constructed of timber and masonrybearing on its back a tower
which resembled a houseformerly painted green by some dauber
and now painted black by heaventhe windand time. In this deserted
and unprotected corner of the placethe broad brow of the colossus
his trunkhis tuskshis towerhis enormous crupperhis four feet
like columns producedat nightunder the starry heavensa surprising
and terrible form. It was a sort of symbol of popular force.
It was sombremysteriousand immense. It was some mighty
visible phantomone knew not whatstanding erect beside the invisible
spectre of the Bastille.


Few strangers visited this edificeno passer-by looked at it.
It was falling into ruins; every season the plaster which detached
itself from its sides formed hideous wounds upon it. "The aediles
as the expression ran in elegant dialect, had forgotten it ever
since 1814. There it stood in its corner, melancholy, sick, crumbling,
surrounded by a rotten palisade, soiled continually by drunken coachmen;
cracks meandered athwart its belly, a lath projected from its tail,
tall grass flourished between its legs; and, as the level of the
place had been rising all around it for a space of thirty years,
by that slow and continuous movement which insensibly elevates
the soil of large towns, it stood in a hollow, and it looked
as though the ground were giving way beneath it. It was unclean,
despised, repulsive, and superb, ugly in the eyes of the bourgeois,
melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. There was something about it
of the dirt which is on the point of being swept out, and something
of the majesty which is on the point of being decapitated.
As we have said, at night, its aspect changed. Night is the real
element of everything that is dark. As soon as twilight descended,
the old elephant became transfigured; he assumed a tranquil and
redoubtable appearance in the formidable serenity of the shadows.
Being of the past, he belonged to night; and obscurity was in keeping
with his grandeur.


This rough, squat, heavy, hard, austere, almost misshapen,
but assuredly majestic monument, stamped with a sort of magnificent
and savage gravity, has disappeared, and left to reign in peace,
a sort of gigantic stove, ornamented with its pipe, which has replaced
the sombre fortress with its nine towers, very much as the bourgeoisie
replaces the feudal classes. It is quite natural that a stove
should be the symbol of an epoch in which a pot contains power.
This epoch will pass away, people have already begun to understand that,
if there can be force in a boiler, there can be no force except in
the brain; in other words, that which leads and drags on the world,
is not locomotives, but ideas. Harness locomotives to ideas,--
that is well done; but do not mistake the horse for the rider.


At all events, to return to the Place de la Bastille, the architect
of this elephant succeeded in making a grand thing out of plaster;
the architect of the stove has succeeded in making a pretty thing
out of bronze.


This stove-pipe, which has been baptized by a sonorous name, and called



the column of July, this monument of a revolution that miscarried,
was still enveloped in 1832, in an immense shirt of woodwork,
which we regret, for our part, and by a vast plank enclosure,
which completed the task of isolating the elephant.

It was towards this corner of the place, dimly lighted by the reflection
of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided his two brats."

The reader must permit us to interrupt ourselves here and to remind
him that we are dealing with simple realityand that twenty
years agothe tribunals were called upon to judgeunder the charge
of vagabondageand mutilation of a public monumenta child
who had been caught asleep in this very elephant of the Bastille.
This fact notedwe proceed.

On arriving in the vicinity of the colossus
Gavroche comprehended the effect which
the infinitely great might produce on the infinitely smalland said:-


Don't be scared, infants.

Then he entered through a gap in the fence into the elephant's
enclosure and helped the young ones to clamber through the breach.
The two childrensomewhat frightenedfollowed Gavroche without
uttering a wordand confided themselves to this little Providence
in rags which had given them bread and had promised them a shelter.

Thereextended along the fencelay a ladder which by day
served the laborers in the neighboring timber-yard. Gavroche
raised it with remarkable vigorand placed it against one of
the elephant's forelegs. Near the point where the ladder ended
a sort of black hole in the belly of the colossus could be distinguished.

Gavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests
and said to them:-


Climb up and go in.

The two little boys exchanged terrified glances.

You're afraid, brats!exclaimed Gavroche.

And he added:-


You shall see!

He clasped the rough leg of the elephantand in a twinkling
without deigning to make use of the ladderhe had reached
the aperture. He entered it as an adder slips through a crevice
and disappeared withinand an instant laterthe two children
saw his headwhich looked paleappear vaguelyon the edge
of the shadowy holelike a wan and whitish spectre.

Well!he exclaimedclimb up, young 'uns! You'll see how snug
it is here! Come up, you!he said to the elderI'll lend you
a hand.

The little fellows nudged each otherthe gamin frightened and
inspired them with confidence at one and the same timeand then
it was raining very hard. The elder one undertook the risk.
The youngeron seeing his brother climbing upand himself left alone
between the paws of this huge beastfelt greatly inclined to cry
but he did not dare.


The elder lad climbedwith uncertain stepsup the rungs of the ladder;
Gavrochein the meanwhileencouraging him with exclamations
like a fencing-master to his pupilsor a muleteer to his mules.


Don't be afraid!--That's it!--Come on!--Put your feet there!--
Give us your hand here!--Boldly!


And when the child was within reachhe seized him suddenly
and vigorously by the armand pulled him towards him.


Nabbed!said he.


The brat had passed through the crack.


Now,said Gavrochewait for me. Be so good as to take
a seat, Monsieur.


And making his way out of the hole as he had entered ithe slipped
down the elephant's leg with the agility of a monkeylanded on
his feet in the grassgrasped the child of five round the body
and planted him fairly in the middle of the ladderthen he began
to climb up behind himshouting to the elder:--


I'm going to boost him, do you tug.


And in another instantthe small lad was pusheddraggedpulled
thruststuffed into the holebefore he had time to recover himself
and Gavrocheentering behind himand repulsing the ladder with a
kick which sent it flat on the grassbegan to clap his hands and to cry:--


Here we are! Long live General Lafayette!


This explosion overhe added:--


Now, young 'uns, you are in my house.


Gavroche was at homein fact.


Ohunforeseen utility of the useless! Charity of great things!
Goodness of giants! This huge monumentwhich had embodied
an idea of the Emperor'shad become the box of a street urchin.
The brat had been accepted and sheltered by the colossus.
The bourgeois decked out in their Sunday finery who passed the
elephant of the Bastillewere fond of saying as they scanned it
disdainfully with their prominent eyes: "What's the good of that?"
It served to save from the coldthe frostthe hailand rain
to shelter from the winds of winterto preserve from slumber
in the mud which produces feverand from slumber in the snow
which produces deatha little being who had no fatherno mother
no breadno clothesno refuge. It served to receive the innocent
whom society repulsed. It served to diminish public crime.
It was a lair open to one against whom all doors were shut.
It seemed as though the miserable old mastodoninvaded by vermin
and oblivioncovered with wartswith mouldand ulcerstottering
worm-eatenabandonedcondemneda sort of mendicant colossus
asking alms in vain with a benevolent look in the midst of the
cross-roadshad taken pity on that other mendicantthe poor pygmy
who roamed without shoes to his feetwithout a roof over his head
blowing on his fingersclad in ragsfed on rejected scraps.
That was what the elephant of the Bastille was good for.
This idea of Napoleondisdained by menhad been taken back by God.
That which had been merely illustrioushad become august.
In order to realize his thoughtthe Emperor should have had porphyry
brassirongoldmarble; the old collection of planksbeams and



plaster sufficed for God. The Emperor had had the dream of a genius;
in that Titanic elephantarmedprodigiouswith trunk uplifted
bearing its tower and scattering on all sides its merry and vivifying
watershe wished to incarnate the people. God had done a grander
thing with ithe had lodged a child there.


The hole through which Gavroche had entered was a breach which was
hardly visible from the outsidebeing concealedas we have stated
beneath the elephant's bellyand so narrow that it was only cats
and homeless children who could pass through it.


Let's begin,said Gavrocheby telling the porter that we are
not at home.


And plunging into the darkness with the assurance of a person who is
well acquainted with his apartmentshe took a plank and stopped
up the aperture.


Again Gavroche plunged into the obscurity. The children heard
the crackling of the match thrust into the phosphoric bottle.
The chemical match was not yet in existence; at that epoch the Fumade
steel represented progress.


A sudden light made them blink; Gavroche had just managed to
ignite one of those bits of cord dipped in resin which are called
cellar rats. The cellar ratwhich emitted more smoke than light
rendered the interior of the elephant confusedly visible.


Gavroche's two guests glanced about themand the sensation
which they experienced was something like that which one would
feel if shut up in the great tun of Heidelbergorbetter still
like what Jonah must have felt in the biblical belly of the whale.
An entire and gigantic skeleton appeared enveloping them. Abovea long
brown beamwhence started at regular distancesmassivearching ribs
represented the vertebral column with its sidesstalactites of
plaster depended from them like entrailsand vast spiders'
webs stretching from side to sideformed dirty diaphragms.
Here and therein the cornerswere visible large blackish spots
which had the appearance of being aliveand which changed places
rapidly with an abrupt and frightened movement.


Fragments which had fallen from the elephant's back into his belly
had filled up the cavityso that it was possible to walk upon it
as on a floor.


The smaller child nestled up against his brotherand whispered
to him:--


It's black.


This remark drew an exclamation from Gavroche. The petrified air
of the two brats rendered some shock necessary.


What's that you are gabbling about there?he exclaimed.
Are you scoffing at me? Are you turning up your noses?
Do you want the tuileries? Are you brutes? Come, say! I warn you
that I don't belong to the regiment of simpletons. Ah, come now,
are you brats from the Pope's establishment?


A little roughness is good in cases of fear. It is reassuring.
The two children drew close to Gavroche.


Gavrochepaternally touched by this confidencepassed from grave
to gentleand addressing the smaller:--



Stupid,said heaccenting the insulting wordwith a caressing
intonationit's outside that it is black. Outside it's raining,
here it does not rain; outside it's cold, here there's not an atom
of wind; outside there are heaps of people, here there's no one;
outside there ain't even the moon, here there's my candle,
confound it!

The two children began to look upon the apartment with less terror;
but Gavroche allowed them no more time for contemplation.

Quick,said he.

And he pushed them towards what we are very glad to be able to call
the end of the room.

There stood his bed.

Gavroche's bed was complete; that is to sayit had a mattress
a blanketand an alcove with curtains.

The mattress was a straw matthe blanket a rather large strip
of gray woollen stuffvery warm and almost new. This is what
the alcove consisted of:--

Three rather long polesthrust into and consolidatedwith the rubbish
which formed the floorthat is to saythe belly of the elephant
two in front and one behindand united by a rope at their summits
so as to form a pyramidal bundle. This cluster supported
a trellis-work of brass wire which was simply placed upon it
but artistically appliedand held by fastenings of iron wire
so that it enveloped all three holes. A row of very heavy stones kept
this network down to the floor so that nothing could pass under it.
This grating was nothing else than a piece of the brass screens
with which aviaries are covered in menageries. Gavroche's bed stood
as in a cagebehind this net. The whole resembled an Esquimaux tent.

This trellis-work took the place of curtains.

Gavroche moved aside the stones which fastened the net down in front
and the two folds of the net which lapped over each other fell apart.

Down on all fours, brats!said Gavroche.

He made his guests enter the cage with great precautionthen he
crawled in after thempulled the stones togetherand closed
the opening hermetically again.

All three had stretched out on the mat. Gavroche still had
the cellar rat in his hand.

Now,said hego to sleep! I'm going to suppress the candelabra.

Monsieur,the elder of the brothers asked Gavrochepointing to
the nettingwhat's that for?

That,answered Gavroche gravelyis for the rats. Go to sleep!

Neverthelesshe felt obliged to add a few words of instruction
for the benefit of these young creaturesand he continued:-


It's a thing from the Jardin des Plantes. It's used for fierce animals.
There's a whole shopful of them there. All you've got to do is to
climb over a wall, crawl through a window, and pass through a door.


You can get as much as you want.


As he spokehe wrapped the younger one up bodily in a fold
of the blanketand the little one murmured:--


Oh! how good that is! It's warm!


Gavroche cast a pleased eye on the blanket.


That's from the Jardin des Plantes, too,said he. "I took
that from the monkeys."


Andpointing out to the eldest the mat on which he was lying
a very thick and admirably made mathe added:--


That belonged to the giraffe.


After a pause he went on:--


The beasts had all these things. I took them away from them.
It didn't trouble them. I told them: `It's for the elephant.'


He pausedand then resumed:--


You crawl over the walls and you don't care a straw for the government.
So there now!


The two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on this
intrepid and ingenious beinga vagabond like themselves
isolated like themselvesfrail like themselveswho had something
admirable and all-powerful about himwho seemed supernatural
to themand whose physiognomy was composed of all the grimaces
of an old mountebankmingled with the most ingenuous and charming smiles.


Monsieur,ventured the elder timidlyyou are not afraid
of the police, then?


Gavroche contented himself with replying:--


Brat! Nobody says `police,' they say `bobbies.'


The smaller had his eyes wide openbut he said nothing.
As he was on the edge of the matthe elder being in the middle
Gavroche tucked the blanket round him as a mother might have done
and heightened the mat under his head with old ragsin such a way
as to form a pillow for the child. Then he turned to the elder:--


Hey! We're jolly comfortable here, ain't we?


Ah, yes!replied the eldergazing at Gavroche with the expression
of a saved angel.


The two poor little children who had been soaked through
began to grow warm once more.


Ah, by the way,continued Gavrochewhat were you bawling about?


And pointing out the little one to his brother:--


A mite like that, I've nothing to say about, but the idea of a big
fellow like you crying! It's idiotic; you looked like a calf.


Gracious, replied the child, we have no lodging."



Bother!retorted Gavrocheyou don't say `lodgings,' you say
`crib.'


And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at night.


You don't say `night,' you say `darkmans.'


Thank you, sir,said the child.


Listen,went on Gavrocheyou must never bawl again over anything.
I'll take care of you. You shall see what fun we'll have.
In summer, we'll go to the Glaciere with Navet, one of my pals,
we'll bathe in the Gare, we'll run stark naked in front of the rafts
on the bridge at Austerlitz,--that makes the laundresses raging.
They scream, they get mad, and if you only knew how ridiculous they are!
We'll go and see the man-skeleton. And then I'll take you to the play.
I'll take you to see Frederick Lemaitre. I have tickets, I know
some of the actors, I even played in a piece once. There were a lot
of us fellers, and we ran under a cloth, and that made the sea.
I'll get you an engagement at my theatre. We'll go to see the savages.
They ain't real, those savages ain't. They wear pink tights
that go all in wrinkles, and you can see where their elbows have
been darned with white. Then, we'll go to the Opera. We'll get
in with the hired applauders. The Opera claque is well managed.
I wouldn't associate with the claque on the boulevard. At the Opera,
just fancy! some of them pay twenty sous, but they're ninnies.
They're called dishclouts. And then we'll go to see the guillotine work.
I'll show you the executioner. He lives in the Rue des Marais.
Monsieur Sanson. He has a letter-box at his door. Ah! we'll have
famous fun!


At that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche's fingerand recalled
him to the realities of life.


The deuce!said hethere's the wick giving out. Attention!
I can't spend more than a sou a month on my lighting. When a body
goes to bed, he must sleep. We haven't the time to read M. Paul de
Kock's romances. And besides, the light might pass through the cracks
of the porte-cochere, and all the bobbies need to do is to see it.


And then,remarked the elder timidly--he alone dared talk
to Gavrocheand reply to hima spark might fall in the straw,
and we must look out and not burn the house down.


People don't say `burn the house down,'remarked Gavroche
they say `blaze the crib.'


The storm increased in violenceand the heavy downpour
beat upon the back of the colossus amid claps of thunder.
You're taken in, rain!said Gavroche. "It amuses me to hear
the decanter run down the legs of the house. Winter is a stupid;
it wastes its merchandiseit loses its laborit can't wet us
and that makes it kick up a rowold water-carrier that it is."


This allusion to the thunderall the consequences of which Gavroche
in his character of a philosopher of the nineteenth centuryaccepted
was followed by a broad flash of lightningso dazzling that a
hint of it entered the belly of the elephant through the crack.
Almost at the same instantthe thunder rumbled with great fury.
The two little creatures uttered a shriekand started up so eagerly
that the network came near being displacedbut Gavroche turned
his bold face to themand took advantage of the clap of thunder
to burst into a laugh.



Calm down, children. Don't topple over the edifice. That's fine,
first-class thunder; all right. That's no slouch of a streak
of lightning. Bravo for the good God! Deuce take it! It's almost
as good as it is at the Ambigu.


That saidhe restored order in the nettingpushed the two children
gently down on the bedpressed their kneesin order to stretch
them out at full lengthand exclaimed:--


Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine.
Now, babes, now, my young humans, you must shut your peepers.
It's very bad not to sleep. It'll make you swallow the strainer,
or, as they say, in fashionable society, stink in the gullet.
Wrap yourself up well in the hide! I'm going to put out the light.
Are you ready?


Yes,murmured the elderI'm all right. I seem to have feathers
under my head.


People don't say `head,'cried Gavrochethey say `nut'.


The two children nestled close to each otherGavroche finished arranging
them on the matdrew the blanket up to their very earsthen repeated
for the third timehis injunction in the hieratical tongue:--


Shut your peepers!


And he snuffed out his tiny light.


Hardly had the light been extinguishedwhen a peculiar trembling
began to affect the netting under which the three children lay.


It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a
metallic soundas if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire.
This was accompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries.


The little five-year-old boyon hearing this hubbub overhead
and chilled with terrorjogged his brother's elbow; but the elder
brother had already shut his peepersas Gavroche had ordered.
Then the little onewho could no longer control his terror
questioned Gavrochebut in a very low toneand with bated breath:--


Sir?


Hey?said Gavrochewho had just closed his eyes.


What is that?


It's the rats,replied Gavroche.


And he laid his head down on the mat again.


The ratsin factwho swarmed by thousands in the carcass of
the elephantand who were the living black spots which we have
already mentionedhad been held in awe by the flame of the candle
so long as it had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern
which was the same as their cityhad returned to darkness
scenting what the good story-teller Perrault calls "fresh meat
they had hurled themselves in throngs on Gavroche's tent,
had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to bite the meshes
as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap.


Still the little one could not sleep.



Sir?" he began again.
Hey?said Gavroche.

What are rats?
They are mice.

This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white
mice in the course of his lifeand he was not afraid of them.
Neverthelesshe lifted up his voice once more.

Sir?
Hey?said Gavroche again.


Why don't you have a cat?


I did have one,replied GavrocheI brought one here, but they
ate her.

This second explanation undid the work of the firstand the little
fellow began to tremble again.

The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:--
Monsieur?


Hey?
Who was it that was eaten?


The cat.
And who ate the cat?


The rats.
The mice?


Yes, the rats.


The childin consternationdismayed at the thought of mice
which ate catspursued:-


Sir, would those mice eat us?
Wouldn't they just!ejaculated Gavroche.


The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:--


Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here!
Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!


At the same time Gavroche grasped the little fellow's hand
across his brother. The child pressed the hand close to him
and felt reassured. Courage and strength have these mysterious
ways of communicating themselves. Silence reigned round them
once morethe sound of their voices had frightened off the rats;
at the expiration of a few minutesthey came raging backbut in vain
the three little fellows were fast asleep and heard nothing more.


The hours of the night fled away. Darkness covered the vast
Place de la Bastille. A wintry galewhich mingled with



the rainblew in guststhe patrol searched all the doorways
alleysenclosuresand obscure nooksand in their search for
nocturnal vagabonds they passed in silence before the elephant;
the monstererectmotionlessstaring open-eyed into the shadows
had the appearance of dreaming happily over his good deed;
and sheltered from heaven and from men the three poor sleeping children.

In order to understand what is about to followthe reader must
rememberthatat that epochthe Bastille guard-house was situated
at the other end of the squareand that what took place in the
vicinity of the elephant could neither be seen nor heard by the sentinel.

Towards the end of that hour which immediately precedes the dawn
a man turned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a runmade the circuit
of the enclosure of the column of Julyand glided between
the palings until he was underneath the belly of the elephant.
If any light had illuminated that manit might have been divined
from the thorough manner in which he was soaked that he had passed
the night in the rain. Arrived beneath the elephanthe uttered
a peculiar crywhich did not belong to any human tongueand which
a paroquet alone could have imitated. Twice he repeated this cry
of whose orthography the following barely conveys an idea:-


Kirikikiou!

At the second crya clearyoungmerry voice responded from
the belly of the elephant:-


Yes!

Almost immediatelythe plank which closed the hole was drawn aside
and gave passage to a child who descended the elephant's legand fell
briskly near the man. It was Gavroche. The man was Montparnasse.

As for his cry of Kirikikiou--that wasdoubtlesswhat the child
had meantwhen he said:-


You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche.

On hearing ithe had waked with a starthad crawled out of his
alcove,pushing apart the netting a littleand carefully drawing
it together againthen he had opened the trapand descended.

The man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom:
Montparnasse confined himself to the remark:-


We need you. Come, lend us a hand.

The lad asked for no further enlightenment.

I'm with you,said he.

And both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoinewhence
Montparnasse had emergedwinding rapidly through the long file
of market-gardeners' carts which descend towards the markets at that hour.

The market-gardenerscrouchinghalf-asleepin their wagons
amid the salads and vegetablesenveloped to their very eyes in
their mufflers on account of the beating raindid not even glance
at these strange pedestrians.

CHAPTER III


THE VICISSITUDES OF FLIGHT

This is what had taken place that same night at the La Force:--

An escape had been planned between BabetBrujonGuelemer
and Thenardieralthough Thenardier was in close confinement.
Babet had arranged the matter for his own benefiton the same day
as the reader has seen from Montparnasse's account to Gavroche.
Montparnasse was to help them from outside.

Brujonafter having passed a month in the punishment cell
had had timein the first placeto weave a ropein the second
to mature a plan. In former timesthose severe places where the
discipline of the prison delivers the convict into his own hands
were composed of four stone wallsa stone ceilinga flagged pavement
a camp beda grated windowand a door lined with ironand were
called dungeons; but the dungeon was judged to be too terrible;
nowadays they are composed of an iron doora grated window
a camp beda flagged pavementfour stone wallsand a stone ceiling
and are called chambers of punishment. A little light penetrates
towards mid-day. The inconvenient point about these chambers which
as the reader seesare not dungeonsis that they allow the persons
who should be at work to think.

So Brujon meditatedand he emerged from the chamber of punishment
with a rope. As he had the name of being very dangerous in
the Charlemagne courtyardhe was placed in the New Building.
The first thing he found in the New Building was Guelemerthe second
was a nail; Guelemerthat is to saycrime; a nailthat is
to sayliberty. Brujonof whom it is high time that the reader
should have a complete ideawaswith an appearance of delicate health
and a profoundly premeditated languora polishedintelligent sprig
and a thiefwho had a caressing glanceand an atrocious smile.
His glance resulted from his willand his smile from his nature.
His first studies in his art had been directed to roofs. He had
made great progress in the industry of the men who tear off lead
who plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the process called
double pickings.

The circumstance which put the finishing touch on the moment
peculiarly favorable for an attempt at escapewas that the roofers
were re-laying and re-jointingat that very momenta portion of
the slates on the prison. The Saint-Bernard courtyard was no longer
absolutely isolated from the Charlemagne and the Saint-Louis courts.
Up above there were scaffoldings and ladders; in other words
bridges and stairs in the direction of liberty.

The New Buildingwhich was the most cracked and decrepit thing
to be seen anywhere in the worldwas the weak point in the prison.
The walls were eaten by saltpetre to such an extent that the
authorities had been obliged to line the vaults of the dormitories
with a sheathing of woodbecause stones were in the habit of
becoming detached and falling on the prisoners in their beds.
In spite of this antiquitythe authorities committed the error
of confining in the New Building the most troublesome prisoners
of placing there "the hard cases as they say in prison parlance.

The New Building contained four dormitories, one above the other,
and a top story which was called the Bel-Air (FineAir). A large
chimney-flue, probably from some ancient kitchen of the Dukes de
la Force, started from the groundfloor, traversed all four stories,
cut the dormitories, where it figured as a flattened pillar,


into two portions, and finally pierced the roof.


Guelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been placed,
by way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that
the heads of their beds should rest against the chimney.


Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story
known as Fine-Air. The pedestrian who halts on the Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherine, after passing the barracks of the firemen,
in front of the porte-cochere of the bathing establishment,
beholds a yard full of flowers and shrubs in wooden boxes, at the
extremity of which spreads out a little white rotunda with two wings,
brightened up with green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques.


Not more than ten years ago, there rose above that rotunda
an enormous black, hideous, bare wall by which it was backed up.


This was the outer wall of La Force.


This wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through Berquin.


Lofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker roof,
which could be seen beyond. This was the roof of the New Building.
There one could descry four dormer-windows, guarded with bars;
they were the windows of the Fine-Air.


A chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which traversed
the dormitories.


The Bel-Air, that top story of the New Building, was a sort of
large hall, with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple gratings and
double doors of sheet iron, which were studded with enormous bolts.
When one entered from the north end, one had on one's left the four
dormer-windows, on one's right, facing the windows, at regular intervals,
four square, tolerably vast cages, separated by narrow passages,
built of masonry to about the height of the elbow, and the rest,
up to the roof, of iron bars.


Thenardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages
since the night of the 3d of February. No one was ever able to
discover how, and by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring,
and secreting a bottle of wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues,
with which a narcotic is mixed, and which the band of the Endormeurs,
or Sleep-compellers, rendered famous.


There are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half-jailers,
half-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the police
an unfaithful service, and who turn a penny whenever they can.


On that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up the two
lost children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet, who had
escaped that morning, was waiting for them in the street as well
as Montparnasse, rose softly, and with the nail which Brujon had found,
began to pierce the chimney against which their beds stood.
The rubbish fell on Brujon's bed, so that they were not heard.
Showers mingled with thunder shook the doors on their hinges,
and created in the prison a terrible and opportune uproar.
Those of the prisoners who woke, pretended to fall asleep again,
and left Guelemer and Brujon to their own devices. Brujon was adroit;
Guelemer was vigorous. Before any sound had reached the watcher,
who was sleeping in the grated cell which opened into the dormitory,
the wall had, been pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron grating which
barred the upper orifice of the flue forced, and the two redoubtable
ruffians were on the roof. The wind and rain redoubled, the roof



was slippery.

What a good night to leg it!" said Brujon.

An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from
the surrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyssthey could
see the musket of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom.
They fastened one end of the rope which Brujon had spun in his dungeon
to the stumps of the iron bars which they had just wrenched off
flung the other over the outer wallcrossed the abyss at one bound
clung to the coping of the wallgot astride of itlet themselves slip
one after the otheralong the ropeupon a little roof which
touches the bath-housepulled their rope after themjumped down
into the courtyard of the bath-housetraversed itpushed open
the porter's wicketbeside which hung his ropepulled this
opened the porte-cochereand found themselves in the street.


Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen
in bed in the darknail in handand their project in their heads.


A few moments later they had joined Babet and Montparnasse
who were prowling about the neighborhood.


They had broken their rope in pulling it after themand a bit
of it remained attached to the chimney on the roof. They had
sustained no other damagehoweverthan that of scratching
nearly all the skin off their hands.


That nightThenardier was warnedwithout any one being able
to explain howand was not asleep.


Towards one o'clock in the morningthe night being very dark
he saw two shadows pass along the roofin the rain and squalls
in front of the dormer-window which was opposite his cage.
One halted at the windowlong enough to dart in a glance.
This was Brujon.


Thenardier recognized himand understood. This was enough.


Thenardierrated as a burglarand detained as a measure of precaution
under the charge of organizing a nocturnal ambushwith armed force
was kept in sight. The sentrywho was relieved every two hours
marched up and down in front of his cage with loaded musket.
The Fine-Air was lighted by a skylight. The prisoner had on his
feet fetters weighing fifty pounds. Every dayat four o'clock
in the afternoona jailerescorted by two dogs--this was still
in vogue at that time--entered his cagedeposited beside his bed
a loaf of black bread weighing two poundsa jug of watera bowl
filled with rather thin bouillonin which swam a few Mayagan beans
inspected his irons and tapped the bars. This man and his dogs made
two visits during the night.


Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron bolt
which he used to spike his bread into a crack in the wallin order
to preserve it from the rats,as he said. As Thenardier was kept
in sightno objection had been made to this spike. Stillit was
remembered afterwardsthat one of the jailers had said:
It would be better to let him have only a wooden spike.


At two o'clock in the morningthe sentinelwho was an old soldier
was relievedand replaced by a conscript. A few moments later
the man with the dogs paid his visitand went off without
noticing anythingexceptpossiblythe excessive youth and "the
rustic air" of the "raw recruit." Two hours afterwardsat four



o'clockwhen they came to relieve the conscripthe was found
asleep on the floorlying like a log near Thenardier's cage.
As for Thenardierhe was no longer there. There was a hole in
the ceiling of his cageandabove itanother hole in the roof.
One of the planks of his bed had been wrenched offand probably
carried away with himas it was not found. They also seized
in his cell a half-empty bottle which contained the remains
of the stupefying wine with which the soldier had been drugged.
The soldier's bayonet had disappeared.

At the moment when this discovery was madeit was assumed that
Thenardier was out of reach. The truth isthat he was no longer
in the New Buildingbut that he was still in great danger.

Thenardieron reaching the roof of the New Buildinghad found
the remains of Brujon's rope hanging to the bars of the upper trap
of the chimneybutas this broken fragment was much too short
he had not been able to escape by the outer wallas Brujon and
Guelemer had done.

When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du
Roi-de-Sicileone almost immediately encounters a repulsive ruin.
There stood on that spotin the last centurya house of which only
the back wall now remainsa regular wall of masonrywhich rises
to the height of the third story between the adjoining buildings.
This ruin can be recognized by two large square windows which are
still to be seen there; the middle onethat nearest the right gable
is barred with a worm-eaten beam adjusted like a prop. Through these
windows there was formerly visible a lofty and lugubrious wall
which was a fragment of the outer wall of La Force.

The empty space on the street left by the demolished house is
half-filled by a fence of rotten boardsshored up by five stone posts.
In this recess lies concealed a little shanty which leans against
the portion of the ruin which has remained standing. The fence
has a gatewhicha few years agowas fastened only by a latch.

It was the crest of this ruin that Thenardier had succeeded
in reachinga little after one o'clock in the morning.

How had he got there? That is what no one has ever been able
to explain or understand. The lightning mustat the same time
have hindered and helped him. Had he made use of the ladders
and scaffoldings of the slaters to get from roof to roof
from enclosure to enclosurefrom compartment to compartment
to the buildings of the Charlemagne courtthen to the buildings
of the Saint-Louis courtto the outer walland thence to the hut
on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But in that itinerary there existed
breaks which seemed to render it an impossibility. Had he placed
the plank from his bed like a bridge from the roof of the Fine-Air
to the outer walland crawled flaton his belly on the coping of the
outer wall the whole distance round the prison as far as the hut?
But the outer wall of La Force formed a crenellated and unequal line;
it mounted and descendedit dropped at the firemen's barracks
it rose towards the bath-houseit was cut in twain by buildings
it was not even of the same height on the Hotel Lamoignon as on
the Rue Pavee; everywhere occurred falls and right angles; and then
the sentinels must have espied the dark form of the fugitive; hence
the route taken by Thenardier still remains rather inexplicable.
In two mannersflight was impossible. Had Thenardierspurred on
by that thirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches
iron bars into wattles of osiera legless man into an athletea gouty
man into a birdstupidity into instinctinstinct into intelligence
and intelligence into geniushad Thenardier invented a third mode?


No one has ever found out.

The marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The man
who makes his escapewe repeatis inspired; there is something
of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight;
the effort towards deliverance is no less surprising than the
flight towards the sublimeand one says of the escaped thief:
How did he contrive to scale that wall?in the same way that one
says of Corneille: "Where did he find the means of dying?"

At all eventsdripping with perspirationdrenched with rain
with his clothes hanging in ribbonshis hands flayedhis elbows
bleedinghis knees tornThenardier had reached what children
in their figurative languagecall the edge of the wall of the ruin
there he had stretched himself out at full lengthand there his
strength had failed him. A steep escarpment three stories high
separated him from the pavement of the street.

The rope which he had was too short.

There he waitedpaleexhausteddesperate with all the despair
which he had undergonestill hidden by the nightbut telling
himself that the day was on the point of dawningalarmed at the idea
of hearing the neighboring clock of Saint-Paul strike four within
a few minutesan hour when the sentinel was relieved and when the
latter would be found asleep under the pierced roofstaring in
horror at a terrible depthat the light of the street lanterns
the wetblack pavementthat pavement longed for yet frightful
which meant deathand which meant liberty.

He asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight had succeeded
if they had heard himand if they would come to his assistance.
He listened. With the exception of the patrolno one had passed
through the street since he had been there. Nearly the whole of
the descent of the market-gardeners from Montreuilfrom Charonne
from Vincennesand from Bercy to the markets was accomplished
through the Rue Saint-Antoine.

Four o'clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A few moments later
that terrified and confused uproar which follows the discovery
of an escape broke forth in the prison. The sound of doors opening
and shuttingthe creaking of gratings on their hingesa tumult
in the guard-housethe hoarse shouts of the turnkeysthe shock
of musket-butts on the pavement of the courtsreached his ears.
Lights ascended and descended past the grated windows of the dormitories
a torch ran along the ridge-pole of the top story of the New Building
the firemen belonging in the barracks on the right had been summoned.
Their helmetswhich the torch lighted up in the rainwent and came
along the roofs. At the same timeThenardier perceived in the
direction of the Bastille a wan whiteness lighting up the edge
of the sky in doleful wise.

He was on top of a wall ten inches widestretched out under the
heavy rainswith two gulfs to right and leftunable to stir
subject to the giddiness of a possible falland to the horror
of a certain arrestand his thoughtslike the pendulum of a clock
swung from one of these ideas to the other: "Dead if I fall
caught if I stay." In the midst of this anguishhe suddenly saw
the street being still darka man who was gliding along the walls
and coming from the Rue Paveehalt in the recess above which
Thenardier wasas it weresuspended. Here this man was joined
by a secondwho walked with the same cautionthen by a third
then by a fourth. When these men were re-unitedone of them lifted
the latch of the gate in the fenceand all four entered the enclosure


in which the shanty stood. They halted directly under Thenardier.
These men had evidently chosen this vacant space in order that they
might consult without being seen by the passers-by or by the
sentinel who guards the wicket of La Force a few paces distant.
It must be addedthat the rain kept this sentinel blocked in
his box. Thenardiernot being able to distinguish their visages
lent an ear to their words with the desperate attention of a wretch
who feels himself lost.

Thenardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash before
his eyes--these men conversed in slang.

The first said in a low but distinct voice:-


Let's cut. What are we up to here?

The second replied: "It's raining hard enough to put out the
very devil's fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter.
There's a soldier on guard yonder. We shall get nabbed here."

These two wordsicigo and icicailleboth of which mean ici
and which belongthe first to the slang of the barriersthe second
to the slang of the Templewere flashes of light for Thenardier.
By the icigo he recognized Brujonwho was a prowler of the barriers
by the icicaille he knew Babetwhoamong his other tradeshad been
an old-clothes broker at the Temple.

The antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken except
in the Templeand Babet was really the only person who spoke it in
all its purity. Had it not been for the icicailleThenardier would
not have recognized himfor he had entirely changed his voice.

In the meanwhilethe third man had intervened.

There's no hurry yet, let's wait a bit. How do we know that he
doesn't stand in need of us?

By thiswhich was nothing but FrenchThenardier recognized
Montparnassewho made it a point in his elegance to understand
all slangs and to speak none of them.

As for the fourthhe held his peacebut his huge shoulders
betrayed him. Thenardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer.

Brujon replied almost impetuously but still in a low tone:-


What are you jabbering about? The tavern-keeper hasn't managed
to cut his stick. He don't tumble to the racket, that he don't!
You have to be a pretty knowing cove to tear up your shirt, cut up
your sheet to make a rope, punch holes in doors, get up false papers,
make false keys, file your irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself,
and disguise yourself! The old fellow hasn't managed to play it,
he doesn't understand how to work the business.

Babet addedstill in that classical slang which was spoken
by Poulailler and Cartoucheand which is to the boldnew
highly colored and risky argot used by Brujon what the language
of Racine is to the language of Andre Chenier:-


Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have
to be knowing. He's only a greenhorn. He must have let himself be
taken in by a bobby, perhaps even by a sheep who played it on him as
his pal. Listen, Montparnasse, do you hear those shouts in the prison?
You have seen all those lights. He's recaptured, there! He'll get


off with twenty years. I ain't afraid, I ain't a coward, but there
ain't anything more to do, or otherwise they'd lead us a dance. Don't
get mad, come with us, let's go drink a bottle of old wine together.

One doesn't desert one's friends in a scrape,grumbled Montparnasse.

I tell you he's nabbed!retorted Brujon. "At the present moment
the inn-keeper ain't worth a ha'penny. We can't do nothing for him.
Let's be off. Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist."

Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance;
the fact isthat these four menwith the fidelity of ruffians who
never abandon each otherhad prowled all night long about La Force
great as was their perilin the hope of seeing Thenardier make
his appearance on the top of some wall. But the nightwhich was
really growing too fine--for the downpour was such as to render
all the streets deserted--the cold which was overpowering them
their soaked garmentstheir hole-ridden shoesthe alarming noise
which had just burst forth in the prisonthe hours which had elapsed
the patrol which they had encounteredthe hope which was vanishing
all urged them to beat a retreat. Montparnasse himselfwho was
perhapsalmost Thenardier's son-in-lawyielded. A moment more
and they would be gone. Thenardier was panting on his wall like the
shipwrecked sufferers of the Meduse on their raft when they beheld
the vessel which had appeared in sight vanish on the horizon.

He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything.
An idea occurred to hima last ideaa flash of inspiration;
he drew from his pocket the end of Brujon's ropewhich he had detached
from the chimney of the New Buildingand flung it into the space
enclosed by the fence.

This rope fell at their feet.

A widow,[37] said Babet.

[37] Argot of the Temple.
My tortouse![38] said Brujon.

[38] Argot of the barriers.
The tavern-keeper is there,said Montparnasse.

They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a very little.

Quick!said Montparnassehave you the other end of the rope, Brujon?

Yes.

Knot the two pieces together, we'll fling him the rope, he can
fasten it to the wall, and he'll have enough of it to get down with.

Thenardier ran the riskand spoke:-


I am paralyzed with cold.

We'll warm you up.

I can't budge.


Let yourself slide, we'll catch you.
My hands are benumbed.
Only fasten the rope to the wall.
I can't.
Then one of us must climb up,said Montparnasse.
Three stories!ejaculated Brujon.
An ancient plaster fluewhich had served for a stove that had


been used in the shanty in former timesran along the wall and
mounted almost to the very spot where they could see Thenardier.
This fluethen much damaged and full of crackshas since fallen
but the marks of it are still visible.

It was very narrow.
One might get up by the help of that,said Montparnasse.
By that flue?exclaimed Babeta grown-up cove, never! it would


take a brat.
A brat must be got,resumed Brujon.
Where are we to find a young 'un?said Guelemer.
Wait,said Montparnasse. "I've got the very article."
He opened the gate of the fence very softlymade sure that no one


was passing along the streetstepped out cautiouslyshut the gate


behind himand set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.
Seven or eight minutes elapsedeight thousand centuries to Thenardier;
BabetBrujonand Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate
opened once moreand Montparnasse appearedbreathlessand followed
by Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.

Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these
ruffians with a tranquil air. The water was dripping from his hair.
Guelemer addressed him:-


Are you a man, young 'un?
Gavroche shrugged his shouldersand replied:--
A young 'un like me's a man, and men like you are babes.
The brat's tongue's well hung!exclaimed Babet.
The Paris brat ain't made of straw,added Brujon.
What do you want?asked Gavroche.
Montparnasse answered:--
Climb up that flue.
With this rope,said Babet.
And fasten it,continued Brujon.



To the top of the wall,went on Babet.

To the cross-bar of the window,added Brujon.

And then?said Gavroche.

There!said Guelemer.

The gamin examined the ropethe fluethe wallthe windows
and made that indescribable and disdainful noise with his lips
which signifies:-


Is that all!

There's a man up there whom you are to save,resumed Montparnasse.

Will you?began Brujon again.

Greenhorn!replied the ladas though the question appeared
a most unprecedented one to him.

And he took off his shoes.

Guelemer seized Gavroche by one armset him on the roof of the shanty
whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin's weight
and handed him the rope which Brujon had knotted together during
Montparnasse's absence. The gamin directed his steps towards
the fluewhich it was easy to enterthanks to a large crack
which touched the roof. At the moment when he was on the point
of ascendingThenardierwho saw life and safety approaching
bent over the edge of the wall; the first light of dawn struck white
upon his brow dripping with sweatupon his livid cheek-boneshis sharp
and savage nosehis bristling gray beardand Gavroche recognized him.

Hullo! it's my father! Oh, that won't hinder.

And taking the rope in his teethhe resolutely began the ascent.

He reached the summit of the hutbestrode the old wall as though
it had been a horse. and knotted the rope firmly to the upper
cross-bar of the window.

A moment laterThenardier was in the street.

As soon as he touched the pavementas soon as he found himself out
of dangerhe was no longer either wearyor chilled or trembling;
the terrible things from which he had escaped vanished like smoke
all that strange and ferocious mind awoke once moreand stood erect
and freeready to march onward.

These were this man's first words:-


Now, whom are we to eat?

It is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully transparent remark
which signifies both to killto assassinateand to plunder.
To eattrue sense: to devour.

Let's get well into a corner,said Brujon. "Let's settle it
in three wordsand part at once. There was an affair that promised
well in the Rue Plumeta deserted streetan isolated house
an old rotten gate on a gardenand lone women."


Well! why not?demanded Thenardier.
Your girl, Eponine, went to see about the matter,replied Babet.


And she brought a biscuit to Magnon,added Guelemer. "Nothing to
be made there."

The girl's no fool,said Thenardier. "Stillit must be seen to."

Yes, yes,said Brujonit must be looked up.

In the meanwhilenone of the men seemed to see Gavrochewho
during this colloquyhad seated himself on one of the fence-posts;
he waited a few momentsthinking that perhaps his father would
turn towards himthen he put on his shoes againand said:-


Is that all? You don't want any more, my men? Now you're out
of your scrape. I'm off. I must go and get my brats out of bed.

And off he went.

The five men emergedone after anotherfrom the enclosure.

When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets
Babet took Thenardier aside.
Did you take a good look at that young 'un?he asked.


What young 'un?
The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope.


Not particularly.
Well, I don't know, but it strikes me that it was your son.


Bah!said Thenardierdo you think so?


BOOK SEVENTH.--SLANG


CHAPTER I
ORIGIN


Pigritia is a terrible word.


It engenders a whole worldla pegrefor which read theft
and a hellla pegrennefor which read hunger.
Thusidleness is the mother.

She has a sontheftand a daughterhunger.
Where are we at this moment? In the land of slang.

What is slang? It is at one and the same timea nation and a dialect;
it is theft in its two kinds; people and language.

Whenfour and thirty years agothe narrator of this grave


and sombre history introduced into a work written with the same
aim as this[39] a thief who talked argotthere arose amazement
and clamor.--"What! How! Argot! Whyargot is horrible!
It is the language of prisonsgalleysconvictsof everything
that is most abominable in society!" etc.etc.

[39] The Last Day of a Condemned Man.
We have never understood this sort of objections.


Since that timetwo powerful romancersone of whom is a profound
observer of the human heartthe other an intrepid friend of
the peopleBalzac and Eugene Suehaving represented their ruffians
as talking their natural languageas the author of The Last Day
of a Condemned Man did in 1828the same objections have been raised.
People repeated: "What do authors mean by that revolting dialect?
Slang is odious! Slang makes one shudder!"


Who denies that? Of course it does.


When it is a question of probing a wounda gulfa society
since when has it been considered wrong to go too far? to go
to the bottom? We have always thought that it was sometimes a
courageous actandat leasta simple and useful deedworthy of
the sympathetic attention which duty accepted and fulfilled merits.
Why should one not explore everythingand study everything?
Why should one halt on the way? The halt is a matter depending
on the sounding-lineand not on the leadsman.


Certainlytooit is neither an attractive nor an easy task to
undertake an investigation into the lowest depths of the social order
where terra firma comes to an end and where mud beginsto rummage
in those vaguemurky wavesto follow upto seize and to fling
still quiveringupon the pavement that abject dialect which is dripping
with filth when thus brought to the lightthat pustulous vocabulary
each word of which seems an unclean ring from a monster of the mire
and the shadows. Nothing is more lugubrious than the contemplation
thus in its nudityin the broad light of thoughtof the horrible
swarming of slang. It seemsin factto be a sort of horrible beast
made for the night which has just been torn from its cesspool.
One thinks one beholds a frightfullivingand bristling thicket
which quiversrustleswaversreturns to shadowthreatens and glares.
One word resembles a clawanother an extinguished and bleeding eye
such and such a phrase seems to move like the claw of a crab.
All this is alive with the hideous vitality of things which have been
organized out of disorganization.


Nowwhen has horror ever excluded study? Since when has malady
banished medicine? Can one imagine a naturalist refusing to study
the viperthe batthe scorpionthe centipedethe tarantula
and one who would cast them back into their darknesssaying: "Oh! how
ugly that is!" The thinker who should turn aside from slang would
resemble a surgeon who should avert his face from an ulcer or a wart.
He would be like a philologist refusing to examine a fact in language
a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact in humanity.
Forit must be stated to those who are ignorant of the case
that argot is both a literary phenomenon and a social result.
What is slangproperly speaking? It is the language of wretchedness.


We may be stopped; the fact may be put to us in general terms
which is one way of attenuating it; we may be toldthat all trades
professionsit may be addedall the accidents of the social



hierarchy and all forms of intelligencehave their own slang.
The merchant who says: "Montpellier not activeMarseilles fine quality
the broker on 'change who says: Assets at end of current month
the gambler who says: Tiers et toutrefait de pique the sheriff
of the Norman Isles who says: The holder in fee reverting to his landed
estate cannot claim the fruits of that estate during the hereditary
seizure of the real estate by the mortgagor,the playwright who says:
The piece was hissed,the comedian who says: "I've made a hit
the philosopher who says: Phenomenal triplicity the huntsman
who says: Voileci allaisVoileci fuyant the phrenologist
who says: Amativenesscombativenesssecretiveness the infantry
soldier who says: My shooting-iron the cavalry-man who says:
My turkey-cock the fencing-master who says: Tiercequartebreak
the printer who says: My shooting-stick and galley--all, printer,
fencing-master, cavalry dragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist,
huntsman, philosopher, comedian, playwright, sheriff, gambler,
stock-broker, and merchant, speak slang. The painter who says:
My grinder the notary who says: My Skip-the-Gutter
the hairdresser who says: My mealyback the cobbler who says:
My cub talks slang. Strictly speaking, if one absolutely insists on
the point, all the different fashions of saying the right and the left,
the sailor's port and starboard, the scene-shifter's court-side, and
garden-side, the beadle's Gospel-side and Epistle-side, are slang.
There is the slang of the affected lady as well as of the precieuses.
The Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the Cour des Miracles. There is
a slang of duchesses, witness this phrase contained in a love-letter
from a very great lady and a very pretty woman of the Restoration:
You will find in this gossip a fultitude of reasons why I should
libertize."[40] Diplomatic ciphers are slang; the pontifical
chancellery by using 26 for Romegrkztntgzyal for despatch
and abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI. for the Due de Modenaspeaks slang.
The physicians of the Middle Ages whofor carrotradishand turnip
said Opoponachperfroschinumreptitalmusdracatholicumangelorum
postmegorumtalked slang. The sugar-manufacturer who says:
Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common, burnt,--this honest
manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of criticism twenty years ago
which used to say: "Half of the works of Shakespeare consists of plays
upon words and puns--talked slang. The poet, and the artist who,
with profound understanding, would designate M. de Montmorency
as a bourgeois if he were not a judge of verses and statues,
speak slang. The classic Academician who calls flowers Flora fruits,
Pomona the sea, Neptune love, fires beauty, charms a horse,
a courser the white or tricolored cockade, the rose of Bellona
the three-cornered hat, Mars' triangle--that classical Academician
talks slang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have each their slang.
The tongue which is employed on board ship, that wonderful language
of the sea, which is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken
by Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre, which mingles with
the whistling of the rigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets,
the shock of the boarding-irons, the roll of the sea, the wind,
the gale, the cannon, is wholly a heroic and dazzling slang, which
is to the fierce slang of the thieves what the lion is to the jackal.


[40] Vous trouverez dans ces potains-laune foultitude de raisons
pour que je me libertise."
No doubt. But say what we willthis manner of understanding
the word slang is an extension which every one will not admit.
For our partwe reserve to the word its ancient and precise
circumscribed and determined significanceand we restrict slang
to slang. The veritable slang and the slang that is pre-eminently
slangif the two words can be coupled thusthe slang immemorial


which was a kingdomis nothing elsewe repeatthan the homely
uneasycraftytreacherousvenomouscruelequivocalvileprofound
fatal tongue of wretchedness. There existsat the extremity of all
abasement and all misfortunesa last misery which revolts and makes
up its mind to enter into conflict with the whole mass of fortunate
facts and reigning rights; a fearful conflictwherenow cunning
now violentunhealthy and ferocious at one and the same time
it attacks the social order with pin-pricks through viceand with
club-blows through crime. To meet the needs of this conflict
wretchedness has invented a language of combatwhich is slang.

To keep afloat and to rescue from oblivionto hold above the gulf
were it but a fragment of some language which man has spoken and
which wouldotherwisebe lostthat is to sayone of the elements
good or badof which civilization is composedor by which it
is complicatedto extend the records of social observation;
is to serve civilization itself. This service Plautus rendered
consciously or unconsciouslyby making two Carthaginian soldiers
talk Phoenician; that service Moliere renderedby making so many
of his characters talk Levantine and all sorts of dialects.
Here objections spring up afresh. Phoenicianvery good!
Levantinequite right! Even dialectlet that pass! They are
tongues which have belonged to nations or provinces; but slang!
What is the use of preserving slang? What is the good of assisting
slang "to survive"?

To this we reply in one wordonly. Assuredlyif the tongue
which a nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest
the language which has been spoken by a misery is still more worthy
of attention and study.

It is the language which has been spokenin Francefor example
for more than four centuriesnot only by a miserybut by every
possible human misery.

And thenwe insist upon itthe study of social deformities
and infirmitiesand the task of pointing them out with a view
to remedyis not a business in which choice is permitted.
The historian of manners and ideas has no less austere a mission than
the historian of events. The latter has the surface of civilization
the conflicts of crownsthe births of princesthe marriages of kings
battlesassemblagesgreat public menrevolutions in the daylight
everything on the exterior; the other historian has the interior
the depthsthe people who toilsufferwaitthe oppressed woman
the agonizing childthe secret war between man and man
obscure ferocitiesprejudicesplotted iniquitiesthe subterranean
the indistinct tremors of multitudesthe die-of-hunger
the counter-blows of the lawthe secret evolution of souls
the go-bare-footthe bare-armedthe disinheritedthe orphans
the unhappyand the infamousall the forms which roam through
the darkness. He must descend with his heart full of charity
and severity at the same timeas a brother and as a judgeto those
impenetrable casemates where crawlpell-mellthose who bleed
and those who deal the blowthose who weep and those who curse
those who fast and those who devourthose who endure evil and those
who inflict it. Have these historians of hearts and souls duties
at all inferior to the historians of external facts? Does any one
think that Alighieri has any fewer things to say than Machiavelli?
Is the under side of civilization any less important than the upper
side merely because it is deeper and more sombre? Do we really
know the mountain well when we are not acquainted with the cavern?

Let us saymoreoverparentheticallythat from a few words
of what precedes a marked separation might be inferred between


the two classes of historians which does not exist in our mind.
No one is a good historian of the patentvisiblestriking
and public life of peoplesif he is notat the same time
in a certain measurethe historian of their deep and hidden life;
and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he
understands howat needto be the historian of the exterior also.
The history of manners and ideas permeates the history of events
and this is true reciprocally. They constitute two different orders
of facts which correspond to each otherwhich are always interlaced
and which often bring forth results. All the lineaments which
providence traces on the surface of a nation have their parallels
sombre but distinctin their depthsand all convulsions of the
depths produce ebullitions on the surface. True history being
a mixture of all thingsthe true historian mingles in everything.

Man is not a circle with a single centre; he is an ellipse with
a double focus. Facts form one of theseand ideas the other.

Slang is nothing but a dressing-room where the tongue having some
bad action to performdisguises itself. There it clothes itself
in word-masksin metaphor-rags. In this guise it becomes horrible.

One finds it difficult to recognize. Is it really the French tongue
the great human tongue? Behold it ready to step upon the stage
and to retort upon crimeand prepared for all the employments
of the repertory of evil. It no longer walksit hobbles; it limps
on the crutch of the Court of Miraclesa crutch metamorphosable
into a club; it is called vagrancy; every sort of spectre
its dressershave painted its faceit crawls and rearsthe double
gait of the reptile. Henceforthit is apt at all rolesit is made
suspicious by the counterfeitercovered with verdigris by the forger
blacked by the soot of the incendiary; and the murderer applies its rouge.

When one listensby the side of honest menat the portals of society
one overhears the dialogues of those who are on the outside.
One distinguishes questions and replies. One perceiveswithout
understanding ita hideous murmursounding almost like human accents
but more nearly resembling a howl than an articulate word.
It is slang. The words are misshapen and stamped with an indescribable
and fantastic bestiality. One thinks one hears hydras talking.

It is unintelligible in the dark. It gnashes and whispers
completing the gloom with mystery. It is black in misfortune
it is blacker still in crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated
compose slang. Obscurity in the atmosphereobscurity in acts
obscurity in voices. Terribletoad-like tongue which goes
and comesleapscrawlsslobbersand stirs about in monstrous
wise in that immense gray fog composed of rain and nightof hunger
of viceof falsehoodof injusticeof nudityof suffocation
and of winterthe high noonday of the miserable.

Let us have compassion on the chastised. Alas! Who are we ourselves?
Who am I who now address you? Who are you who are listening to me?
And are you very sure that we have done nothing before we were born?
The earth is not devoid of resemblance to a jail. Who knows
whether man is not a recaptured offender against divine justice?
Look closely at life. It is so madethat everywhere we feel the sense
of punishment.

Are you what is called a happy man? Well! you are sad every day.
Each day has its own great grief or its little care. Yesterday you
were trembling for a health that is dear to youto-day you fear
for your own; to-morrow it will be anxiety about moneythe day
after to-morrow the diatribe of a slandererthe day after that


the misfortune of some friend; then the prevailing weatherthen something
that has been broken or lostthen a pleasure with which your
conscience and your vertebral column reproach you; againthe course
of public affairs. This without reckoning in the pains of the heart.
And so it goes on. One cloud is dispelledanother forms.
There is hardly one day out of a hundred which is wholly joyous
and sunny. And you belong to that small class who are happy!
As for the rest of mankindstagnating night rests upon them.


Thoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the fortunate
and the unfortunate. In this worldevidently the vestibule
of anotherthere are no fortunate.


The real human division is this: the luminous and the shady.
To diminish the number of the shadyto augment the number
of the luminous--that is the object. That is why we cry:
Education! science! To teach readingmeans to light the fire;
every syllable spelled out sparkles.


Howeverhe who says light does notnecessarilysay joy.
People suffer in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy
of the wing. To burn without ceasing to fly--therein lies the
marvel of genius.


When you shall have learned to knowand to loveyou will
still suffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep
if only over those in darkness.


CHAPTER II


ROOTS


Slang is the tongue of those who sit in darkness.


Thought is moved in its most sombre depthssocial philosophy
is bidden to its most poignant meditationsin the presence
of that enigmatic dialect at once so blighted and rebellious.
Therein lies chastisement made visible. Every syllable has
an air of being marked. The words of the vulgar tongue appear
therein wrinkled and shrivelledas it werebeneath the hot iron
of the executioner. Some seem to be still smoking. Such and such
a phrase produces upon you the effect of the shoulder of a thief
branded with the fleur-de-lyswhich has suddenly been laid bare.
Ideas almost refuse to be expressed in these substantives which
are fugitives from justice. Metaphor is sometimes so shameless
that one feels that it has worn the iron neck-fetter.


Moreoverin spite of all thisand because of all thisthis strange
dialect has by rightsits own compartment in that great impartial
case of pigeon-holes where there is room for the rusty farthing
as well as for the gold medaland which is called literature.
Slangwhether the public admit the fact or not has its syntax
and its poetry. It is a language. Yesby the deformity of
certain termswe recognize the fact that it was chewed by Mandrin
and by the splendor of certain metonymieswe feel that Villon spoke it.


That exquisite and celebrated verse--


Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
But where are the snows of years gone by?



is a verse of slang. Antam--ante annum--is a word of Thunes slang
which signified the past yearand by extensionformerly.
Thirty-five years agoat the epoch of the departure of the great
chain-gangthere could be read in one of the cells at Bicetre
this maxim engraved with a nail on the wall by a king of Thunes
condemned to the galleys: Les dabs d'antan trimaient siempre pour
la pierre du Coesre. This means Kings in days gone by always
went and had themselves anointed. In the opinion of that king
anointment meant the galleys.

The word decaradewhich expresses the departure of heavy vehicles
at a gallopis attributed to Villonand it is worthy of him.
This wordwhich strikes fire with all four of its feetsums up in a
masterly onomatopoeia the whole of La Fontaine's admirable verse:-


Six forts chevaux tiraient un coche.
Six stout horses drew a coach.


From a purely literary point of viewfew studies would prove more
curious and fruitful than the study of slang. It is a whole language
within a languagea sort of sickly excrescencean unhealthy graft
which has produced a vegetationa parasite which has its roots
in the old Gallic trunkand whose sinister foliage crawls all over
one side of the language. This is what may be called the first
the vulgar aspect of slang. Butfor those who study the tongue as it
should be studiedthat is to sayas geologists study the earth
slang appears like a veritable alluvial deposit. According as one digs
a longer or shorter distance into itone finds in slangbelow the old
popular FrenchProvencalSpanishItalianLevantinethat language
of the Mediterranean portsEnglish and Germanthe Romance language
in its three varietiesFrenchItalianand Romance RomanceLatin
and finally Basque and Celtic. A profound and unique formation.
A subterranean edifice erected in common by all the miserable.
Each accursed race has deposited its layereach suffering has
dropped its stone thereeach heart has contributed its pebble.
A throng of evilbaseor irritated soulswho have traversed
life and have vanished into eternitylinger there almost entirely
visible still beneath the form of some monstrous word.

Do you want Spanish? The old Gothic slang abounded in it.
Here is boffetea box on the earwhich is derived from bofeton;
vantanewindow (later on vanterne)which comes from vantana;
gatcatwhich comes from gato; aciteoilwhich comes from aceyte.
Do you want Italian? Here is spadeswordwhich comes from spada;
carvelboatwhich comes from caravella. Do you want English?
Here is bichotwhich comes from bishop; raillespywhich comes from
rascalrascalion; pilchea casewhich comes from pilchera sheath.
Do you want German? Here is the caleurthe waiterkellner; the hers
the masterherzog (duke). Do you want Latin? Here is frangir
to breakfrangere; affurerto stealfur; cadenechaincatena.
There is one word which crops up in every language of the continent
with a sort of mysterious power and authority. It is the word magnus;
the Scotchman makes of it his macwhich designates the chief
of the clan; Mac-FarlaneMac-Callumorethe great Farlane
the great Callumore[41]; slang turns it into meck and later le meg
that is to sayGod. Would you like Basque? Here is gahisto
the devilwhich comes from gaiztoaevil; sorgabongood night
which comes from gabongood evening. Do you want Celtic?
Here is blavina handkerchiefwhich comes from blavetgushing water;
menessea woman (in a bad sense)which comes from meinecfull
of stones; barantbrookfrom barantonfountain; goffeurlocksmith
from goffblacksmith; guedouzedeathwhich comes from guenn-du
black-white. Finallywould you like history? Slang calls crowns les


maltesesa souvenir of the coin in circulation on the galleys of Malta.

[41] It must be observedhoweverthat mac in Celtic means son.
In addition to the philological origins just indicatedslang possesses
other and still more natural rootswhich springso to speak
from the mind of man itself.


In the first placethe direct creation of words. Therein lies
the mystery of tongues. To paint with wordswhich contains
figures one knows not how or whyis the primitive foundation
of all human languageswhat may be called their granite.


Slang abounds in words of this descriptionimmediate words
words created instantaneously no one knows either where or by whom
without etymologywithout analogieswithout derivativessolitary
barbaroussometimes hideous wordswhich at times possess a singular
power of expression and which live. The executionerle taule;
the forestle sabri; fearflighttaf; the lackeyle larbin;
the mineralthe prefectthe ministerpharos; the deville rabouin.
Nothing is stranger than these words which both mask and reveal.
Somele rabouinfor exampleare at the same time grotesque
and terribleand produce on you the effect of a cyclopean grimace.


ln the second placemetaphor. The peculiarity of a language which
is desirous of saying all yet concealing all is that it is rich
in figures. Metaphor is an enigmawherein the thief who is plotting
a strokethe prisoner who is arranging an escapetake refuge.
No idiom is more metaphorical than slang: devisser le coco (to
unscrew the nut)to twist the neck; tortiller (to wriggle)to eat;
etre gerbeto be tried; a rata bread thief; il lansquineit rains
a strikingancient figure which partly bears its date about it
which assimilates long oblique lines of rainwith the dense and
slanting pikes of the lancersand which compresses into a single word
the popular expression: it rains halberds. Sometimesin proportion
as slang progresses from the first epoch to the secondwords pass
from the primitive and savage sense to the metaphorical sense.
The devil ceases to be le rabouinand becomes le boulanger (the
baker)who puts the bread into the oven. This is more witty
but less grandsomething like Racine after Corneillelike Euripides
after AEschylus. Certain slang phrases which participate in the two
epochs and have at once the barbaric character and the metaphorical
character resemble phantasmagories. Les sorgueuers vont solliciter
des gails a la lune--the prowlers are going to steal horses by night--
this passes before the mind like a group of spectres. One knows not
what one sees.


In the third placethe expedient. Slang lives on the language.
It uses it in accordance with its fancyit dips into it hap-hazard
and it often confines itselfwhen occasion arisesto alter it
in a gross and summary fashion. Occasionallywith the ordinary
words thus deformed and complicated with words of pure slang
picturesque phrases are formedin which there can be felt the mixture
of the two preceding elementsthe direct creation and the metaphor:
le cab jaspineje marronne que la roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri
the dog is barkingI suspect that the diligence for Paris is passing
through the woods. Le dab est sinvela dabuge est merloussiere
la fee est bativethe bourgeois is stupidthe bourgeoise is cunning
the daughter is pretty. Generallyto throw listeners off the track
slang confines itself to adding to all the words of the language
without distinctionan ignoble taila termination in aille
in orguein iergueor in uche. Thus: Vousiergue trouvaille



bonorgue ce gigotmuche? Do you think that leg of mutton good?
A phrase addressed by Cartouche to a turnkey in order to find out
whether the sum offered for his escape suited him.


The termination in mar has been added recently.


Slangbeing the dialect of corruptionquickly becomes corrupted itself.
Besides thisas it is always seeking concealmentas soon as it feels
that it is understoodit changes its form. Contrary to what happens
with every other vegetationevery ray of light which falls upon
it kills whatever it touches. Thus slang is in constant process
of decomposition and recomposition; an obscure and rapid work which
never pauses. It passes over more ground in ten years than a language
in ten centuries. Thus le larton (bread) becomes le lartif; le gail
(horse) becomes le gaye; la fertanche (straw) becomes la fertille;
le momignard (brat)le momacque; les fiques (duds)frusques;
la chique (the church)l'egrugeoir; le colabre (neck)le colas.
The devil is at firstgahistothen le rabouinthen the baker;
the priest is a ratichonthen the boar (le sanglier); the dagger is
le vingt-deux (twenty-two)then le surinthen le lingre; the police
are raillesthen roussinsthen roussesthen marchands de lacets
(dealers in stay-laces)then coquersthen cognes; the executioner
is le taulethen Charlotl'atigeurthen le becquillard.
In the seventeenth centuryto fight was "to give each other snuff";
in the nineteenth it is "to chew each other's throats."
There have been twenty different phrases between these two extremes.
Cartouche's talk would have been Hebrew to Lacenaire. All the words
of this language are perpetually engaged in flight like the men
who utter them.


Stillfrom time to timeand in consequence of this very movement
the ancient slang crops up again and becomes new once more. It has
its headquarters where it maintains its sway. The Temple preserved
the slang of the seventeenth century; Bicetrewhen it was a prison
preserved the slang of Thunes. There one could hear the termination
in anche of the old Thuneurs. Boyanches-tu (bois-tu)do you drink?
But perpetual movement remains its lawnevertheless.


If the philosopher succeeds in fixingfor a momentfor purposes
of observationthis language which is incessantly evaporating
he falls into doleful and useful meditation. No study is more
efficacious and more fecund in instruction. There is not a metaphor
not an analogyin slangwhich does not contain a lesson.
Among these mento beat means to feign; one beats a malady;
ruse is their strength.


For themthe idea of the man is not separated from the idea
of darkness. The night is called la sorgue; manl'orgue. Man
is a derivative of the night.


They have taken up the practice of considering society in the
light of an atmosphere which kills themof a fatal force
and they speak of their liberty as one would speak of his health.
A man under arrest is a sick man; one who is condemned is a dead man.


The most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four walls
in which he is buriedis a sort of glacial chastityand he calls
the dungeon the castus. In that funereal placelife outside
always presents itself under its most smiling aspect. The prisoner
has irons on his feet; you thinkperhapsthat his thought
is that it is with the feet that one walks? No; he is thinking
that it is with the feet that one dances; sowhen he has succeeded
in severing his fettershis first idea is that now he can dance
and he calls the saw the bastringue (public-house ball).--A name



is a centre; profound assimilation.--The ruffian has two heads
one of which reasons out his actions and leads him all his life long
and the other which he has upon his shoulders on the day of his death;
he calls the head which counsels him in crime la sorbonne
and the head which expiates it la tronche.--When a man has no
longer anything but rags upon his body and vices in his heart
when he has arrived at that double moral and material degradation
which the word blackguard characterizes in its two acceptations
he is ripe for crime; he is like a well-whetted knife; he has
two cutting edgeshis distress and his malice; so slang does
not say a blackguardit says un reguise.--What are the galleys?
A brazier of damnationa hell. The convict calls himself a fagot.--
And finallywhat name do malefactors give to their prison?
The college. A whole penitentiary system can be evolved from
that word.

Does the reader wish to know where the majority of the songs of
the galleysthose refrains called in the special vocabulary lirlonfa
have had their birth?

Let him listen to what follows:--

There existed at the Chatelet in Paris a large and long cellar.
This cellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had
neither windows nor air-holesits only aperture was the door;
men could enter thereair could not. This vault had for ceiling
a vault of stoneand for floor ten inches of mud. It was flagged;
but the pavement had rotted and cracked under the oozing of the water.
Eight feet above the floora long and massive beam traversed this
subterranean excavation from side to side; from this beam hung
at short distances apartchains three feet longand at the end
of these chains there were rings for the neck. In this vault
men who had been condemned to the galleys were incarcerated until the
day of their departure for Toulon. They were thrust under this beam
where each one found his fetters swinging in the darkness and waiting
for him.

The chainsthose pendant armsand the neckletsthose open hands
caught the unhappy wretches by the throat. They were rivetted and
left there. As the chain was too shortthey could not lie down.
They remained motionless in that cavernin that nightbeneath
that beamalmost hangingforced to unheard-of efforts to reach
their breadjugor their vault overheadmud even to mid-leg
filth flowing to their very calvesbroken asunder with fatigue
with thighs and knees giving wayclinging fast to the chain with
their hands in order to obtain some restunable to sleep except
when standing erectand awakened every moment by the strangling
of the collar; some woke no more. In order to eatthey pushed
the breadwhich was flung to them in the mudalong their leg
with their heel until it reached their hand.

How long did they remain thus? One monthtwo monthssix months
sometimes; one stayed a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys.
Men were put there for stealing a hare from the king. In this
sepulchre-hellwhat did they do? What man can do in a sepulchre
they went through the agonies of deathand what can man do in hell
they sang; for song lingers where there is no longer any hope.
In the waters of Maltawhen a galley was approachingthe song could
be heard before the sound of the oars. Poor Survincentthe poacher
who had gone through the prison-cellar of the Chateletsaid:
It was the rhymes that kept me up.Uselessness of poetry.
What is the good of rhyme?

It is in this cellar that nearly all the slang songs had


their birth. It is from the dungeon of the Grand-Chatelet of Paris
that comes the melancholy refrain of the Montgomery galley:
Timaloumisaine, timaloumison.The majority of these

Icicaille est la theatre Here is the theatre
Du petit dardant. Of the little archer (Cupid).


Do what you willyou cannot annihilate that eternal relic
in the heart of manlove.


In this world of dismal deedspeople keep their secrets.
The secret is the thing above all others. The secretin the eyes
of these wretchesis unity which serves as a base of union.
To betray a secret is to tear from each member of this fierce
community something of his own personality. To inform against
in the energetic slang dialectis called: "to eat the bit."
As though the informer drew to himself a little of the substance
of all and nourished himself on a bit of each one's flesh.


What does it signify to receive a box on the ear?
Commonplace metaphor replies: "It is to see thirty-six candles."


Here slang intervenes and takes it up: Candlecamoufle.
Thereuponthe ordinary tongue gives camouflet[42] as the synonym
for soufflet. Thusby a sort of infiltration from below upwards
with the aid of metaphorthat incalculabletrajectory slang
mounts from the cavern to the Academy; and Poulailler saying:
I light my camoufle,causes Voltaire to write: "Langleviel La
Beaumelle deserves a hundred camouflets."


[42] Smoke puffed in the face of a person asleep.
Researches in slang mean discoveries at every step. Study and
investigation of this strange idiom lead to the mysterious point
of intersection of regular society with society which is accursed.

The thief also has his food for cannonstealable matteryouI
whoever passes by; le pantre. (Paneverybody.)

Slang is language turned convict.

That the thinking principle of man be thrust down ever so lowthat it
can be dragged and pinioned there by obscure tyrannies of fatality
that it can be bound by no one knows what fetters in that abyss
is sufficient to create consternation.

Ohpoor thought of miserable wretches!

Alas! will no one come to the succor of the human soul in that darkness?
Is it her destiny there to await forever the mindthe liberator
the immense rider of Pegasi and hippo-griffsthe combatant of heroes
of the dawn who shall descend from the azure between two wings
the radiant knight of the future? Will she forever summon in vain
to her assistance the lance of light of the ideal? Is she condemned
to hear the fearful approach of Evil through the density of the gulf
and to catch glimpsesnearer and nearer at handbeneath the
hideous water of that dragon's headthat maw streaked with foam
and that writhing undulation of clawsswellingsand rings?
Must it remain therewithout a gleam of lightwithout hope
given over to that terrible approachvaguely scented out
by the monstershudderingdishevelledwringing its arms


forever chained to the rock of nighta sombre Andromeda white
and naked amid the shadows!

CHAPTER III

SLANG WHICH WEEPS AND SLANG WHICH LAUGHS

As the reader perceivesslang in its entiretyslang of four hundred
years agolike the slang of to-dayis permeated with that sombre
symbolical spirit which gives to all words a mien which is now mournful
now menacing. One feels in it the wild and ancient sadness of those
vagrants of the Court of Miracles who played at cards with packs
of their ownsome of which have come down to us. The eight of clubs
for instancerepresented a huge tree bearing eight enormous
trefoil leavesa sort of fantastic personification of the forest.
At the foot of this tree a fire was burningover which three hares
were roasting a huntsman on a spitand behind himon another fire
hung a steaming potwhence emerged the head of a dog. Nothing can be
more melancholy than these reprisals in paintingby a pack of cards
in the presence of stakes for the roasting of smugglers and of the
cauldron for the boiling of counterfeiters. The diverse forms
assumed by thought in the realm of slangeven songeven raillery
even menaceall partook of this powerless and dejected character.
All the songsthe melodies of some of which have been collected
were humble and lamentable to the point of evoking tears.
The pegre is always the poor pegreand he is always the hare
in hidingthe fugitive mousethe flying bird. He hardly complains
he contents himself with sighing; one of his moans has come
down to us: "I do not understand how Godthe father of men
can torture his children and his grandchildren and hear them cry
without himself suffering torture."[43] The wretchwhenever he has
time to thinkmakes himself small before the lowand frail in the
presence of society; he lies down flat on his facehe entreats
he appeals to the side of compassion; we feel that he is conscious
of his guilt.

[43] Je n'entrave que le dail comment meckle daron des orgues
peut atiger ses momes et ses momignards et les locher criblant sans
etre agite lui-meme.
Towards the middle of the last century a change took place
prison songs and thieves' ritournelles assumedso to speakan insolent
and jovial mien. The plaintive malure was replaced by the larifla.
We find in the eighteenth centuryin nearly all the songs of
the galleys and prisonsa diabolical and enigmatical gayety.
We hear this strident and lilting refrain which we should say had
been lighted up by a phosphorescent gleamand which seems to have
been flung into the forest by a will-o'-the-wisp playing the fife:-


Miralabi suslababo
Mirliton ribonribette
Surlababi mirlababo
Mirliton ribonribo.

This was sung in a cellar or in a nook of the forest while cutting
a man's throat.

A serious symptom. In the eighteenth centurythe ancient


melancholy of the dejected classes vanishes. They began to laugh.
They rally the grand meg and the grand dab. Given Louis XV.
they call the King of France "le Marquis de Pantin." And behold
they are almost gay. A sort of gleam proceeds from these miserable
wretchesas though their consciences were not heavy within them
any more. These lamentable tribes of darkness have no longer
merely the desperate audacity of actionsthey possess the heedless
audacity of mind. A sign that they are losing the sense of their
criminalityand that they feeleven among thinkers and dreamers
some indefinable support which the latter themselves know not of.
A sign that theft and pillage are beginning to filter into doctrines
and sophismsin such a way as to lose somewhat of their ugliness
while communicating much of it to sophisms and doctrines. A sign
in shortof some outbreak which is prodigious and near unless some
diversion shall arise.


Let us pause a moment. Whom are we accusing here? Is it the
eighteenth century? Is it philosophy? Certainly not. The work
of the eighteenth century is healthy and good and wholesome.
The encyclopedistsDiderot at their head; the physiocrates
Turgot at their head; the philosophersVoltaire at their head;
the UtopiansRousseau at their head--these are four sacred legions.
Humanity's immense advance towards the light is due to them.
They are the four vanguards of the human racemarching towards
the four cardinal points of progress. Diderot towards the beautiful
Turgot towards the usefulVoltaire towards the trueRousseau
towards the just. But by the side of and above the philosophers
there were the sophistsa venomous vegetation mingled with a
healthy growthhemlock in the virgin forest. While the executioner
was burning the great books of the liberators of the century
on the grand staircase of the court-housewriters now forgotten
were publishingwith the King's sanctionno one knows what strangely
disorganizing writingswhich were eagerly read by the unfortunate.
Some of these publicationsodd to saywhich were patronized
by a princeare to be found in the Secret Library. These facts
significant but unknownwere imperceptible on the surface.
Sometimesin the very obscurity of a fact lurks its danger.
It is obscure because it is underhand. Of all these writers
the one who probably then excavated in the masses the most unhealthy
gallery was Restif de La Bretonne.


This workpeculiar to the whole of Europeeffected more ravages
in Germany than anywhere else. In Germanyduring a given period
summed up by Schiller in his famous drama The Robberstheft and pillage
rose up in protest against property and laborassimilated certain
specious and false elementary ideaswhichthough just in appearance
were absurd in realityenveloped themselves in these ideas
disappeared within themafter a fashionassumed an abstract name
passed into the state of theoryand in that shape circulated
among the laborioussufferingand honest massesunknown even to
the imprudent chemists who had prepared the mixtureunknown even
to the masses who accepted it. Whenever a fact of this sort
presents itselfthe case is grave. Suffering engenders wrath;
and while the prosperous classes blind themselves or fall asleep
which is the same thing as shutting one's eyesthe hatred of the
unfortunate classes lights its torch at some aggrieved or ill-made
spirit which dreams in a cornerand sets itself to the scrutiny
of society. The scrutiny of hatred is a terrible thing.


Henceif the ill-fortune of the times so wills itthose fearful
commotions which were formerly called jacqueriesbeside which purely
political agitations are the merest child's playwhich are no
longer the conflict of the oppressed and the oppressorbut the
revolt of discomfort against comfort. Then everything crumbles.



Jacqueries are earthquakes of the people.


It is this perilpossibly imminent towards the close of the
eighteenth centurywhich the French Revolutionthat immense
act of probitycut short.


The French Revolutionwhich is nothing else than the idea armed
with the swordrose erectandwith the same abrupt movement
closed the door of ill and opened the door of good.


It put a stop to torturepromulgated the truthexpelled miasma
rendered the century healthycrowned the populace.


It may be said of it that it created man a second timeby giving
him a second soulthe right.


The nineteenth century has inherited and profited by its work
and to-daythe social catastrophe to which we lately alluded is
simply impossible. Blind is he who announces it! Foolish is he
who fears it! Revolution is the vaccine of Jacquerie.


Thanks to the Revolutionsocial conditions have changed.
Feudal and monarchical maladies no longer run in our blood.
There is no more of the Middle Ages in our constitution. We no
longer live in the days when terrible swarms within made irruptions
when one heard beneath his feet the obscure course of a dull rumble
when indescribable elevations from mole-like tunnels appeared
on the surface of civilizationwhere the soil cracked open
where the roofs of caverns yawnedand where one suddenly beheld
monstrous heads emerging from the earth.


The revolutionary sense is a moral sense. The sentiment of right
once developeddevelops the sentiment of duty. The law of all
is libertywhich ends where the liberty of others begins
according to Robespierre's admirable definition. Since '89the
whole people has been dilating into a sublime individual; there is
not a poor manwhopossessing his righthas not his ray of sun;
the die-of-hunger feels within him the honesty of France; the dignity
of the citizen is an internal armor; he who is free is scrupulous;
he who votes reigns. Hence incorruptibility; hence the miscarriage
of unhealthy lusts; hence eyes heroically lowered before temptations.
The revolutionary wholesomeness is suchthat on a day of deliverance
a 14th of Julya 10th of Augustthere is no longer any populace.
The first cry of the enlightened and increasing throngs is:
death to thieves! Progress is an honest man; the ideal and the
absolute do not filch pocket-handkerchiefs. By whom were the wagons
containing the wealth of the Tuileries escorted in 1848? By the
rag-pickers of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Rags mounted guard over
the treasure. Virtue rendered these tatterdemalions resplendent.
In those wagons in chestshardly closedand someevenhalf-open
amid a hundred dazzling casketswas that ancient crown of France
studded with diamondssurmounted by the carbuncle of royalty
by the Regent diamondwhich was worth thirty millions. Barefooted
they guarded that crown.


Henceno more Jacquerie. I regret it for the sake of the skilful.
The old fear has produced its last effects in that quarter;
and henceforth it can no longer be employed in politics. The principal
spring of the red spectre is broken. Every one knows it now.
The scare-crow scares no longer. The birds take liberties with
the mannikinfoul creatures alight upon itthe bourgeois laugh
at it.



CHAPTER IV

THE TWO DUTIES: TO WATCH AND TO HOPE

This being the caseis all social danger dispelled? Certainly not.
There is no Jacquerie; society may rest assured on that point;
blood will no longer rush to its head. But let society take heed to
the manner in which it breathes. Apoplexy is no longer to be feared
but phthisis is there. Social phthisis is called misery.


One can perish from being undermined as well as from being struck
by lightning.


Let us not weary of repeatingand sympathetic souls must not forget
that this is the first of fraternal obligationsand selfish hearts
must understand that the first of political necessities consists
in thinking first of all of the disinherited and sorrowing throngs
in solacingairingenlighteningloving themin enlarging
their horizon to a magnificent extentin lavishing upon them
education in every formin offering them the example of labor
never the example of idlenessin diminishing the individual burden
by enlarging the notion of the universal aimin setting a limit
to poverty without setting a limit to wealthin creating vast
fields of public and popular activityin havinglike Briareus
a hundred hands to extend in all directions to the oppressed
and the feeblein employing the collective power for that grand
duty of opening workshops for all armsschools for all aptitudes
and laboratories for all degrees of intelligencein augmenting salaries
diminishing troublebalancing what should be and what isthat is
to sayin proportioning enjoyment to effort and a glut to need;
in a wordin evolving from the social apparatus more light and more
comfort for the benefit of those who suffer and those who are ignorant.


Andlet us say itall this is but the beginning. The true
question is this: labor cannot be a law without being a right.


We will not insist upon this point; this is not the proper place
for that.


If nature calls itself Providencesociety should call itself foresight.


Intellectual and moral growth is no less indispensable than
material improvement. To know is a sacramentto think is
the prime necessitytruth is nourishment as well as grain.
A reason which fasts from science and wisdom grows thin. Let us
enter equal complaint against stomachs and minds which do not eat.
If there is anything more heart-breaking than a body perishing
for lack of breadit is a soul which is dying from hunger for the light.


The whole of progress tends in the direction of solution.
Some day we shall be amazed. As the human race mounts upward
the deep layers emerge naturally from the zone of distress.
The obliteration of misery will be accomplished by a simple elevation
of level.


We should do wrong were we to doubt this blessed consummation.


The past is very strongit is trueat the present moment. It censures.
This rejuvenation of a corpse is surprising. Beholdit is walking
and advancing. It seems a victor; this dead body is a conqueror.
He arrives with his legionssuperstitionswith his sworddespotism



with his bannerignorance; a while agohe won ten battles.
He advanceshe threatenshe laughshe is at our doors. Let us
not despairon our side. Let us sell the field on which Hannibal
is encamped.


What have we to fearwe who believe?


No such thing as a back-flow of ideas exists any more than there
exists a return of a river on its course.


But let those who do not desire a future reflect on this matter.
When they say "no" to progressit is not the future but themselves
that they are condemning. They are giving themselves a sad malady;
they are inoculating themselves with the past. There is but one way
of rejecting To-morrowand that is to die.


Nowno deaththat of the body as late as possiblethat of the
soul never--this is what we desire.


Yesthe enigma will utter its wordthe sphinx will speak
the problem will be solved.


Yesthe peoplesketched out by the eighteenth centurywill be
finished by the nineteenth. He who doubts this is an idiot!
The future blossomingthe near blossoming forth of universal
well-beingis a divinely fatal phenomenon.


Immense combined propulsions direct human affairs and conduct
them within a given time to a logical statethat is to say
to a state of equilibrium; that is to sayto equity. A force
composed of earth and heaven results from humanity and governs it;
this force is a worker of miracles; marvellous issues are no more
difficult to it than extraordinary vicissitudes. Aided by science
which comes from one manand by the eventwhich comes from another
it is not greatly alarmed by these contradictions in the attitude
of problemswhich seem impossibilities to the vulgar herd.
It is no less skilful at causing a solution to spring forth from the
reconciliation of ideasthan a lesson from the reconciliation of facts
and we may expect anything from that mysterious power of progress
which brought the Orient and the Occident face to face one fine day
in the depths of a sepulchreand made the imaums converse with
Bonaparte in the interior of the Great Pyramid.


In the meantimelet there be no haltno hesitationno pause
in the grandiose onward march of minds. Social philosophy consists
essentially in science and peace. Its object isand its result
must beto dissolve wrath by the study of antagonisms. It examines
it scrutinizesit analyzes; then it puts together once more
it proceeds by means of reductiondiscarding all hatred.


More than oncea society has been seen to give way before the wind
which is let loose upon mankind; history is full of the shipwrecks
of nations and empires; mannerscustomslawsreligions--and some
fine day that unknown forcethe hurricanepasses by and bears them
all away. The civilizations of Indiaof Chaldeaof Persiaof Syria
of Egypthave disappeared one after the other. Why? We know not.
What are the causes of these disasters? We do not know.
Could these societies have been saved? Was it their fault?
Did they persist in the fatal vice which destroyed them?
What is the amount of suicide in these terrible deaths of a
nation and a race? Questions to which there exists no reply.
Darkness enwraps condemned civilizations. They sprung a leak
then they sank. We have nothing more to say; and it is with a sort
of terror that we look onat the bottom of that sea which is called



the pastbehind those colossal wavesat the shipwreck of those
immense vesselsBabylonNinevehTarsusThebesRomebeneath the
fearful gusts which emerge from all the mouths of the shadows.
But shadows are thereand light is here. We are not acquainted
with the maladies of these ancient civilizationswe do not know
the infirmities of our own. Everywhere upon it we have the right
of lightwe contemplate its beautieswe lay bare its defects.
Where it is illwe probe; and the sickness once diagnosed
the study of the cause leads to the discovery of the remedy.
Our civilizationthe work of twenty centuriesis its law and
its prodigy; it is worth the trouble of saving. It will be saved.
It is already much to have solaced it; its enlightenment is yet
another point. All the labors of modern social philosophies must
converge towards this point. The thinker of to-day has a great duty--
to auscultate civilization.


We repeatthat this auscultation brings encouragement; it is by this
persistence in encouragement that we wish to conclude these pages
an austere interlude in a mournful drama. Beneath the social mortality
we feel human imperishableness. The globe does not perish
because it has these woundscraterseruptionssulphur pits
here and therenor because of a volcano which ejects its pus.
The maladies of the people do not kill man.


And yetany one who follows the course of social clinics shakes
his head at times. The strongestthe tenderestthe most logical
have their hours of weakness.


Will the future arrive? It seems as though we might almost
put this questionwhen we behold so much terrible darkness.
Melancholy face-to-face encounter of selfish and wretched. On the
part of the selfishthe prejudicesshadows of costly education
appetite increasing through intoxicationa giddiness of prosperity
which dullsa fear of suffering whichin somegoes as far
as an aversion for the sufferingan implacable satisfaction
the I so swollen that it bars the soul; on the side of the
wretched covetousnessenvyhatred of seeing others enjoy
the profound impulses of the human beast towards assuaging its desires
hearts full of mistsadnessneedfatalityimpure and simple ignorance.


Shall we continue to raise our eyes to heaven? is the luminous
point which we distinguish there one of those which vanish?
The ideal is frightful to beholdthus lost in the depthssmall
isolatedimperceptiblebrilliantbut surrounded by those great
black menacesmonstrously heaped around it; yet no more in danger
than a star in the maw of the clouds.


BOOK EIGHTH.--ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS


CHAPTER I


FULL LIGHT


The reader has probably understood that Eponinehaving recognized
through the gatethe inhabitant of that Rue Plumet whither
Magnon had sent herhad begun by keeping the ruffians away from
the Rue Plumetand had then conducted Marius thitherand that
after many days spent in ecstasy before that gateMariusdrawn on
by that force which draws the iron to the magnet and a lover towards



the stones of which is built the house of her whom he loves
had finally entered Cosette's garden as Romeo entered the garden
of Juliet. This had even proved easier for him than for Romeo;
Romeo was obliged to scale a wallMarius had only to use a little
force on one of the bars of the decrepit gate which vacillated
in its rusty recessafter the fashion of old people's teeth.
Marius was slender and readily passed through.


As there was never any one in the streetand as Marius never
entered the garden except at nighthe ran no risk of being seen.


Beginning with that blessed and holy hour when a kiss betrothed
these two soulsMarius was there every evening. Ifat that period
of her existenceCosette had fallen in love with a man in the least
unscrupulous or debauchedshe would have been lost; for there are
generous natures which yield themselvesand Cosette was one of them.
One of woman's magnanimities is to yield. Loveat the height where
it is absoluteis complicated with some indescribably celestial
blindness of modesty. But what dangers you runO noble souls!
Often you give the heartand we take the body. Your heart remains
with youyou gaze upon it in the gloom with a shudder. Love has
no middle course; it either ruins or it saves. All human destiny
lies in this dilemma. This dilemmaruinor safetyis set forth
no more inexorably by any fatality than by love. Love is life
if it is not death. Cradle; also coffin. The same sentiment says
yesand "no" in the human heart. Of all the things that God
has madethe human heart is the one which sheds the most light
alas! and the most darkness.


God willed that Cosette's love should encounter one of the loves
which save.


Throughout the whole of the month of May of that year 1832
there were therein every nightin that poorneglected garden
beneath that thicket which grew thicker and more fragrant day by day
two beings composed of all chastityall innocenceoverflowing with
all the felicity of heavennearer to the archangels than to mankind
purehonestintoxicatedradiantwho shone for each other amid
the shadows. It seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crownand to
Marius that Cosette had a nimbus. They touched each otherthey gazed
at each otherthey clasped each other's handsthey pressed close
to each other; but there was a distance which they did not pass.
Not that they respected it; they did not know of its existence.
Marius was conscious of a barrierCosette's innocence; and Cosette
of a supportMarius' loyalty. The first kiss had also been
the last. Mariussince that timehad not gone further than to touch
Cosette's handor her kerchiefor a lock of her hairwith his lips.
For himCosette was a perfume and not a woman. He inhaled her.
She refused nothingand he asked nothing. Cosette was happy
and Marius was satisfied. They lived in this ecstatic state which
can be described as the dazzling of one soul by another soul.
It was the ineffable first embrace of two maiden souls in the ideal.
Two swans meeting on the Jungfrau.


At that hour of lovean hour when voluptuousness is absolutely mute
beneath the omnipotence of ecstasyMariusthe pure and seraphic Marius
would rather have gone to a woman of the town than have raised
Cosette's robe to the height of her ankle. Oncein the moonlight
Cosette stooped to pick up something on the groundher bodice fell
apart and permitted a glimpse of the beginning of her throat.
Marius turned away his eyes.


What took place between these two beings? Nothing. They adored
each other.



At nightwhen they were therethat garden seemed a living and a
sacred spot. All flowers unfolded around them and sent them incense;
and they opened their souls and scattered them over the flowers.
The wanton and vigorous vegetation quiveredfull of strength
and intoxicationaround these two innocentsand they uttered words
of love which set the trees to trembling.

What words were these? Breaths. Nothing more. These breaths
sufficed to trouble and to touch all nature round about.
Magic power which we should find it difficult to understand were we
to read in a book these conversations which are made to be borne away
and dispersed like smoke wreaths by the breeze beneath the leaves.
Take from those murmurs of two lovers that melody which proceeds
from the soul and which accompanies them like a lyreand what
remains is nothing more than a shade; you say: "What! is that all!"
eh! yeschildish prattlerepetitionslaughter at nothing
nonsenseeverything that is deepest and most sublime in the world!
The only things which are worth the trouble of saying and hearing!

The man who has never heardthe man who has never uttered
these absurditiesthese paltry remarksis an imbecile
and a malicious fellow. Cosette said to Marius:-


Dost thou know?--

[In all this and athwart this celestial maidenlinessand without
either of them being able to say how it had come aboutthey had
begun to call each other thou.]

Dost thou know? My name is Euphrasie.

Euphrasie? Why, no, thy name is Cosette.

Oh! Cosette is a very ugly name that was given to me when I
was a little thing. But my real name is Euphrasie. Dost thou
like that name--Euphrasie?

Yes. But Cosette is not ugly.

Do you like it better than Euphrasie?

Why, yes.

Then I like it better too. Truly, it is pretty, Cosette.
Call me Cosette.

And the smile that she added made of this dialogue an idyl worthy
of a grove situated in heaven. On another occasion she gazed
intently at him and exclaimed:-


Monsieur, you are handsome, you are good-looking, you are witty,
you are not at all stupid, you are much more learned than I am,
but I bid you defiance with this word: I love you!

And Mariusin the very heavensthought he heard a strain sung
by a star.

Or she bestowed on him a gentle tap because he coughedand she
said to him:-


Don't cough, sir; I will not have people cough on my domain without
my permission. It's very naughty to cough and to disturb me.
I want you to be well, because, in the first place, if you were


not well, I should be very unhappy. What should I do then?

And this was simply divine.

Once Marius said to Cosette:-


Just imagine, I thought at one time that your name was Ursule.

This made both of them laugh the whole evening.

In the middle of another conversationhe chanced to exclaim:-


Oh! One day, at the Luxembourg, I had a good mind to finish
breaking up a veteran!But he stopped shortand went no further.
He would have been obliged to speak to Cosette of her garter
and that was impossible. This bordered on a strange themethe flesh
before which that immense and innocent love recoiled with a sort
of sacred fright.


Marius pictured life with Cosette to himself like this
without anything else; to come every evening to the Rue Plumet
to displace the old and accommodating bar of the chief-justice's gate
to sit elbow to elbow on that benchto gaze through the trees at
the scintillation of the on-coming nightto fit a fold of the knee
of his trousers into the ample fall of Cosette's gownto caress
her thumb-nailto call her thouto smell of the same flower
one after the otherforeverindefinitely. During this time
clouds passed above their heads. Every time that the wind blows it
bears with it more of the dreams of men than of the clouds of heaven.


This chastealmost shy love was not devoid of gallantry
by any means. To pay compliments to the woman whom a man loves
is the first method of bestowing caressesand he is half audacious
who tries it. A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil.
Voluptuousness mingles there with its sweet tiny pointwhile it
hides itself. The heart draws back before voluptuousness only to
love the more. Marius' blandishmentsall saturated with fancy
wereso to speakof azure hue. The birds when they fly up yonder
in the direction of the angelsmust hear such words. There were
mingled with themneverthelesslifehumanityall the positiveness
of which Marius was capable. It was what is said in the bower
a prelude to what will be said in the chamber; a lyrical effusion
strophe and sonnet intermingledpleasing hyperboles of cooing
all the refinements of adoration arranged in a bouquet and exhaling
a celestial perfumean ineffable twitter of heart to heart.


Oh!murmured Mariushow beautiful you are! I dare not look at you.
It is all over with me when I contemplate you. You are a grace.
I know not what is the matter with me. The hem of your gown,
when the tip of your shoe peeps from beneath, upsets me. And then,
what an enchanted gleam when you open your thought even but a little!
You talk astonishingly good sense. It seems to me at times
that you are a dream. Speak, I listen, I admire. Oh Cosette!
how strange it is and how charming! I am really beside myself.
You are adorable, Mademoiselle. I study your feet with the microscope
and your soul with the telescope.


And Cosette answered:--


I have been loving a little more all the time that has passed
since this morning.


Questions and replies took care of themselves in this dialogue
which always turned with mutual consent upon loveas the little



pith figures always turn on their peg.


Cosette's whole person was ingenuousnessingenuitytransparency
whitenesscandorradiance. It might have been said of Cosette
that she was clear. She produced on those who saw her the
sensation of April and dawn. There was dew in her eyes.
Cosette was a condensation of the auroral light in the form of a woman.


It was quite simple that Marius should admire hersince he adored her.
But the truth isthat this little school-girlfresh from the convent
talked with exquisite penetration and utteredat timesall sorts
of true and delicate sayings. Her prattle was conversation.
She never made a mistake about anythingand she saw things justly.
The woman feels and speaks with the tender instinct of the heart
which is infallible.


No one understands so well as a womanhow to say things that are
at onceboth sweet and deep. Sweetness and depththey are the whole
of woman; in them lies the whole of heaven.


In this full felicitytears welled up to their eyes every instant.
A crushed lady-buga feather fallen from a nesta branch of
hawthorn brokenaroused their pityand their ecstasysweetly mingled
with melancholyseemed to ask nothing better than to weep.
The most sovereign symptom of love is a tenderness that isat times
almost unbearable.


Andin addition to this--all these contradictions are the lightning
play of love--they were fond of laughingthey laughed readily
and with a delicious freedomand so familiarly that they sometimes
presented the air of two boys.


Stillthough unknown to hearts intoxicated with puritynature is always
present and will not be forgotten. She is there with her brutal and
sublime object; and however great may be the innocence of soulsone feels
in the most modest private interviewthe adorable and mysterious
shade which separates a couple of lovers from a pair of friends.


They idolized each other.


The permanent and the immutable are persistent. People live
they smilethey laughthey make little grimaces with the tips of
their lipsthey interlace their fingersthey call each other thou
and that does not prevent eternity.


Two lovers hide themselves in the eveningin the twilight
in the invisiblewith the birdswith the roses; they fascinate
each other in the darkness with their hearts which they throw
into their eyesthey murmurthey whisperand in the meantime
immense librations of the planets fill the infinite universe.


CHAPTER II


THE BEWILDERMENT OF PERFECT HAPPINESS


They existed vaguelyfrightened at their happiness. They did not notice
the cholera which decimated Paris precisely during that very month.
They had confided in each other as far as possiblebut this
had not extended much further than their names. Marius had told
Cosette that he was an orphanthat his name was Marius Pontmercy
that he was a lawyerthat he lived by writing things for publishers



that his father had been a colonelthat the latter had been a hero
and that heMariuswas on bad terms with his grandfather who
was rich. He had also hinted at being a baronbut this had produced
no effect on Cosette. She did not know the meaning of the word.
Marius was Marius. On her sideshe had confided to him that she
had been brought up at the Petit-Picpus conventthat her mother
like his ownwas deadthat her father's name was M. Fauchelevent
that he was very goodthat he gave a great deal to the poor
but that he was poor himselfand that he denied himself everything
though he denied her nothing.

Strange to sayin the sort of symphony which Marius had lived
since he had been in the habit of seeing Cosettethe past
even the most recent pasthad become so confused and distant
to himthat what Cosette told him satisfied him completely.
It did not even occur to him to tell her about the nocturnal
adventure in the hovelabout Thenardierabout the burn
and about the strange attitude and singular flight of her father.
Marius had momentarily forgotten all this; in the evening he did
not even know that there had been a morningwhat he had done
where he had breakfastednor who had spoken to him; he had songs
in his ears which rendered him deaf to every other thought;
he only existed at the hours when he saw Cosette. Thenas he
was in heavenit was quite natural that he should forget earth.
Both bore languidly the indefinable burden of immaterial pleasures.
Thus lived these somnambulists who are called lovers.

Alas! Who is there who has not felt all these things? Why does
there come an hour when one emerges from this azureand why does
life go on afterwards?

Loving almost takes the place of thinking. Love is an ardent
forgetfulness of all the rest. Then ask logic of passion if you will.
There is no more absolute logical sequence in the human heart than
there is a perfect geometrical figure in the celestial mechanism.
For Cosette and Marius nothing existed except Marius and Cosette.
The universe around them had fallen into a hole. They lived in a
golden minute. There was nothing before themnothing behind.
It hardly occurred to Marius that Cosette had a father. His brain
was dazzled and obliterated. Of what did these lovers talk then?
We have seenof the flowersand the swallowsthe setting sun and
the rising moonand all sorts of important things. They had told
each other everything except everything. The everything of lovers
is nothing. But the fatherthe realitiesthat lairthe ruffians
that adventureto what purpose? And was he very sure that this
nightmare had actually existed? They were twoand they adored
each otherand beyond that there was nothing. Nothing else existed.
It is probable that this vanishing of hell in our rear is inherent
to the arrival of paradise. Have we beheld demons? Are there any?
Have we trembled? Have we suffered? We no longer know. A rosy cloud
hangs over it.

So these two beings lived in this mannerhigh aloftwith all
that improbability which is in nature; neither at the nadir nor at
the zenithbetween man and seraphimabove the mirebelow the ether
in the clouds; hardly flesh and bloodsoul and ecstasy from head
to foot; already too sublime to walk the earthstill too heavily
charged with humanity to disappear in the bluesuspended like atoms
which are waiting to be precipitated; apparently beyond the bounds
of destiny; ignorant of that rut; yesterdayto-dayto-morrow;
amazedrapturousfloatingsoaring; at times so light that they
could take their flight out into the infinite; almost prepared to soar
away to all eternity. They slept wide-awakethus sweetly lulled.
Oh! splendid lethargy of the real overwhelmed by the ideal.


Sometimesbeautiful as Cosette wasMarius shut his eyes in
her presence. The best way to look at the soul is through closed eyes.


Marius and Cosette never asked themselves whither this was to lead them.
They considered that they had already arrived. It is a strange
claim on man's part to wish that love should lead to something.


CHAPTER III


THE BEGINNING OF SHADOW


Jean Valjean suspected nothing.


Cosettewho was rather less dreamy than Mariuswas gay
and that sufficed for Jean Valjean's happiness. The thoughts which
Cosette cherishedher tender preoccupationsMarius' image which
filled her hearttook away nothing from the incomparable purity
of her beautifulchasteand smiling brow. She was at the age when
the virgin bears her love as the angel his lily. So Jean Valjean
was at ease. And thenwhen two lovers have come to an understanding
things always go well; the third party who might disturb their love
is kept in a state of perfect blindness by a restricted number
of precautions which are always the same in the case of all lovers.
ThusCosette never objected to any of Jean Valjean's proposals.
Did she want to take a walk? "Yesdear little father." Did she
want to stay at home? Very good. Did he wish to pass the evening
with Cosette? She was delighted. As he always went to bed at ten
o'clockMarius did not come to the garden on such occasions until
after that hourwhenfrom the streethe heard Cosette open the
long glass door on the veranda. Of courseno one ever met Marius
in the daytime. Jean Valjean never even dreamed any longer that
Marius was in existence. Only onceone morninghe chanced to say
to Cosette: "Whyyou have whitewash on your back!" On the previous
eveningMariusin a transporthad pushed Cosette against the wall.


Old Toussaintwho retired earlythought of nothing but her sleep
and was as ignorant of the whole matter as Jean Valjean.


Marius never set foot in the house. When he was with Cosette
they hid themselves in a recess near the stepsin order that they
might neither be seen nor heard from the streetand there they sat
frequently contenting themselvesby way of conversation
with pressing each other's hands twenty times a minute as they
gazed at the branches of the trees. At such timesa thunderbolt
might have fallen thirty paces from themand they would not have
noticed itso deeply was the revery of the one absorbed and sunk
in the revery of the other.


Limpid purity. Hours wholly white; almost all alike. This sort
of love is a recollection of lily petals and the plumage of the dove.


The whole extent of the garden lay between them and the street.
Every time that Marius entered and lefthe carefully adjusted the bar
of the gate in such a manner that no displacement was visible.


He usually went away about midnightand returned
to Courfeyrac's lodgings. Courfeyrac said to Bahorel:--


Would you believe it? Marius comes home nowadays at one o'clock
in the morning.



Bahorel replied:-


What do you expect? There's always a petard in a seminary fellow.

At timesCourfeyrac folded his armsassumed a serious air
and said to Marius:-


You are getting irregular in your habits, young man.

Courfeyracbeing a practical mandid not take in good part
this reflection of an invisible paradise upon Marius; he was not
much in the habit of concealed passions; it made him impatient
and now and then he called upon Marius to come back to reality.

One morninghe threw him this admonition:-


My dear fellow, you produce upon me the effect of being located
in the moon, the realm of dreams, the province of illusions,
capital, soap-bubble. Come, be a good boy, what's her name?

But nothing could induce Marius "to talk." They might have torn
out his nails before one of the two sacred syllables of which that
ineffable nameCosettewas composed. True love is as luminous
as the dawn and as silent as the tomb. OnlyCourfeyrac saw this
change in Mariusthat his taciturnity was of the beaming order.

During this sweet month of MayMarius and Cosette learned to know
these immense delights. To dispute and to say you for thou
simply that they might say thou the better afterwards. To talk at
great length with very minute detailsof persons in whom they took
not the slightest interest in the world; another proof that in that
ravishing opera called lovethe libretto counts for almost nothing;

For Mariusto listen to Cosette discussing finery;

For Cosetteto listen to Marius talk in politics;

To listenknee pressed to kneeto the carriages rolling along
the Rue de Babylone;

To gaze upon the same planet in spaceor at the same glowworm
gleaming in the grass;

To hold their peace together; a still greater delight than conversation;

Etc.etc.

In the meantimedivers complications were approaching.

One eveningMarius was on his way to the rendezvousby way of the
Boulevard des Invalides. He habitually walked with drooping head.
As he was on the point of turning the corner of the Rue Plumet
he heard some one quite close to him say:-


Good evening, Monsieur Marius.

He raised his head and recognized Eponine.

This produced a singular effect upon him. He had not thought
of that girl a single time since the day when she had conducted
him to the Rue Plumethe had not seen her againand she had
gone completely out of his mind. He had no reasons for anything
but gratitude towards herhe owed her his happinessand yet


it was embarrassing to him to meet her.

It is an error to think that passionwhen it is pure and happy
leads man to a state of perfection; it simply leads himas we
have notedto a state of oblivion. In this situationman forgets
to be badbut he also forgets to be good. Gratitudeduty
matters essential and important to be rememberedvanish. At any
other timeMarius would have behaved quite differently to Eponine.
Absorbed in Cosettehe had not even clearly put it to himself
that this Eponine was named Eponine Thenardierand that she bore
the name inscribed in his father's willthat namefor which
but a few months beforehe would have so ardently sacrificed himself.
We show Marius as he was. His father himself was fading out of his
soul to some extentunder the splendor of his love.

He replied with some embarrassment:-


Ah! so it's you, Eponine?

Why do you call me you? Have I done anything to you?

No,he answered.

Certainlyhe had nothing against her. Far from it. Onlyhe felt
that he could not do otherwisenow that he used thou to Cosette
than say you to Eponine.

As he remained silentshe exclaimed:-


Say--

Then she paused. It seemed as though words failed that creature
formerly so heedless and so bold. She tried to smile and could not.
Then she resumed:-


Well?

Then she paused againand remained with downcast eyes.

Good evening, Mr. Marius,said she suddenly and abruptly;
and away she went.

CHAPTER IV

A CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG

The following day was the 3d of June1832a date which it
is necessary to indicate on account of the grave events
which at that epoch hung on the horizon of Paris in the state
of lightning-charged clouds. Mariusat nightfallwas pursuing
the same road as on the preceding eveningwith the same thoughts
of delight in his heartwhen he caught sight of Eponine approaching
through the trees of the boulevard. Two days in succession-this
was too much. He turned hastily asidequitted the boulevard
changed his course and went to the Rue Plumet through the Rue Monsieur.

This caused Eponine to follow him to the Rue Plumeta thing
which she had not yet done. Up to that timeshe had contented
herself with watching him on his passage along the boulevard
without ever seeking to encounter him. It was only on the evening
before that she had attempted to address him.


So Eponine followed himwithout his suspecting the fact.
She saw him displace the bar and slip into the garden.


She approached the railingfelt of the bars one after the other
and readily recognized the one which Marius had moved.


She murmured in a low voice and in gloomy accents:--


None of that, Lisette!


She seated herself on the underpinning of the railingclose beside
the baras though she were guarding it. It was precisely
at the point where the railing touched the neighboring wall.
There was a dim nook therein which Eponine was entirely concealed.


She remained thus for more than an hourwithout stirring
and without breathinga prey to her thoughts.


Towards ten o'clock in the eveningone of the two or three persons
who passed through the Rue Plumetan oldbelated bourgeois who
was making haste to escape from this deserted spot of evil repute
as he skirted the garden railings and reached the angle which it
made with the wallheard a dull and threatening voice saying:--


I'm no longer surprised that he comes here every evening.


The passer-by cast a glance around himsaw no onedared not peer
into the black nicheand was greatly alarmed. He redoubled his pace.


This passer-by had reason to make hastefor a very few
instants latersix menwho were marching separately
and at some distance from each otheralong the wall
and who might have been taken for a gray patrolentered the Rue Plumet.


The first to arrive at the garden railing haltedand waited
for the others; a second laterall six were reunited.


These men began to talk in a low voice.


This is the place,said one of them.


Is there a cab [dog] in the garden?asked another.


I don't know. In any case, I have fetched a ball that we'll make
him eat.


Have you some putty to break the pane with?


Yes.


The railing is old,interpolated a fifthwho had the voice
of a ventriloquist.


So much the better,said the second who had spoken. "It won't
screech under the sawand it won't be hard to cut."


The sixthwho had not yet opened his lipsnow began to inspect
the gateas Eponine had done an hour earliergrasping each bar
in successionand shaking them cautiously.


Thus he came to the bar which Marius had loosened. As he was on the
point of grasping this bara hand emerged abruptly from the darkness
fell upon his arm; he felt himself vigorously thrust aside by a



push in the middle of his breastand a hoarse voice said to him
but not loudly:--


There's a dog.


At the same momenthe perceived a pale girl standing before him.


The man underwent that shock which the unexpected always brings.
He bristled up in hideous wise; nothing is so formidable to behold as
ferocious beasts who are uneasy; their terrified air evokes terror.


He recoiled and stammered:--


What jade is this?


Your daughter.


It wasin factEponinewho had addressed Thenardier.


At the apparition of Eponinethe other fivethat is to say
ClaquesousGuelemerBabetBrujonand Montparnasse had noiselessly
drawn nearwithout precipitationwithout uttering a word
with the sinister slowness peculiar to these men of the night.


Some indescribable but hideous tools were visible in their hands.
Guelemer held one of those pairs of curved pincers which prowlers
call fanchons.


Ah, see here, what are you about there? What do you want with us?
Are you crazy?exclaimed Thenardieras loudly as one can exclaim
and still speak low; "what have you come here to hinder our work for?"


Eponine burst out laughingand threw herself on his neck.


I am here, little father, because I am here. Isn't a person
allowed to sit on the stones nowadays? It's you who ought not
to be here. What have you come here for, since it's a biscuit?
I told Magnon so. There's nothing to be done here. But embrace me,
my good little father! It's a long time since I've seen you!
So you're out?


Thenardier tried to disentangle himself from Eponine's arms
and grumbled:--


That's good. You've embraced me. Yes, I'm out. I'm not in.
Now, get away with you.


But Eponine did not release her holdand redoubled her caresses.


But how did you manage it, little pa? You must have been very
clever to get out of that. Tell me about it! And my mother?
Where is mother? Tell me about mamma.


Thenardier replied:--


She's well. I don't know, let me alone, and be off, I tell you.


I won't goso there now pouted Eponine like a spoiled child;
you send me offand it's four months since I saw youand I've
hardly had time to kiss you."


And she caught her father round the neck again.


Come, now, this is stupid!said Babet.



Make haste!said Guelemerthe cops may pass.

The ventriloquist's voice repeated his distich:-


Nous n' sommes pas le jour de l'an, This isn't New Year's day
A becoter papamaman." To peck at pa and ma."

Eponine turned to the five ruffians.


Why, it's Monsieur Brujon. Good day, Monsieur Babet. Good day,
Monsieur Claquesous. Don't you know me, Monsieur Guelemer?
How goes it, Montparnasse?


Yes, they know you!ejaculated Thenardier. "But good day
good eveningsheer off! leave us alone!"


It's the hour for foxes, not for chickens,said Montparnasse.


You see the job we have on hand here,added Babet.


Eponine caught Montparnasse's hand.


Take care,said heyou'll cut yourself, I've a knife open.


My little Montparnasse,responded Eponine very gentlyyou must
have confidence in people. I am the daughter of my father, perhaps.
Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Guelemer, I'm the person who was charged
to investigate this matter.


It is remarkable that Eponine did not talk slang. That frightful
tongue had become impossible to her since she had known Marius.


She pressed in her handsmallbonyand feeble as that of a skeleton
Guelemer's hugecoarse fingersand continued:--


You know well that I'm no fool. Ordinarily, I am believed.
I have rendered you service on various occasions. Well, I have
made inquiries; you will expose yourselves to no purpose, you see.
I swear to you that there is nothing in this house.


There are lone women,said Guelemer.


No, the persons have moved away.


The candles haven't, anyway!ejaculated Babet.


And he pointed out to Eponineacross the tops of the treesa light
which was wandering about in the mansard roof of the pavilion.
It was Toussaintwho had stayed up to spread out some linen
to dry.


Eponine made a final effort.


Well,said shethey're very poor folks, and it's a hovel
where there isn't a sou.


Go to the devil!cried Thenardier. "When we've turned the house
upside down and put the cellar at the top and the attic below
we'll tell you what there is insideand whether it's francs or sous
or half-farthings."



And he pushed her aside with the intention of entering.


My good friend, Mr. Montparnasse,said EponineI entreat you,
you are a good fellow, don't enter.


Take care, you'll cut yourself,replied Montparnasse.


Thenardier resumed in his decided tone:--


Decamp, my girl, and leave men to their own affairs!


Eponine released Montparnasse's handwhich she had grasped again
and said:--


So you mean to enter this house?


Rather!grinned the ventriloquist.


Then she set her back against the gatefaced the six ruffians
who were armed to the teethand to whom the night lent the visages
of demonsand said in a firmlow voice:--


Well, I don't mean that you shall.


They halted in amazement. The ventriloquisthoweverfinished his grin.
She went on:--


Friends! Listen well. This is not what you want. Now I'm talking.
In the first place, if you enter this garden, if you lay a hand on
this gate, I'll scream, I'll beat on the door, I'll rouse everybody,
I'll have the whole six of you seized, I'll call the police.


She'd do it, too,said Thenardier in a low tone to Brujon
and the ventriloquist.


She shook her head and added:--


Beginning with my father!


Thenardier stepped nearer.


Not so close, my good man!said she.


He retreatedgrowling between his teeth:--


Why, what's the matter with her?


And he added:--


Bitch!


She began to laugh in a terrible way:--


As you like, but you shall not enter here. I'm not the daughter
of a dog, since I'm the daughter of a wolf. There are six of you,
what matters that to me? You are men. Well, I'm a woman.
You don't frighten me. I tell you that you shan't enter this house,
because it doesn't suit me. If you approach, I'll bark. I told you,
I'm the dog, and I don't care a straw for you. Go your way,
you bore me! Go where you please, but don't come here, I forbid it!
You can use your knives. I'll use kicks; it's all the same to me,
come on!


She advanced a pace nearer the ruffiansshe was terribleshe burst



out laughing:--


Pardine! I'm not afraid. I shall be hungry this summer, and I shall
be cold this winter. Aren't they ridiculous, these ninnies of men,
to think they can scare a girl! What! Scare? Oh, yes, much!
Because you have finical poppets of mistresses who hide under the bed
when you put on a big voice, forsooth! I ain't afraid of anything,
that I ain't!


She fastened her intent gaze upon Thenardier and said:--


Not even of you, father!


Then she continuedas she cast her blood-shotspectre-like eyes
upon the ruffians in turn:--


What do I care if I'm picked up to-morrow morning on the pavement
of the Rue Plumet, killed by the blows of my father's club,
or whether I'm found a year from now in the nets at Saint-Cloud
or the Isle of Swans in the midst of rotten old corks and drowned dogs?


She was forced to pause; she was seized by a dry coughher breath
came from her weak and narrow chest like the death-rattle.


She resumed:--


I have only to cry out, and people will come, and then slap, bang!
There are six of you; I represent the whole world.


Thenardier made a movement towards her.


Don't approach!she cried.


He haltedand said gently:--


Well, no; I won't approach, but don't speak so loud. So you intend
to hinder us in our work, my daughter? But we must earn our living
all the same. Have you no longer any kind feeling for your father?


You bother me,said Eponine.


But we must live, we must eat--


Burst!


So sayingshe seated herself on the underpinning of the fence


and hummed:-"
Mon bras si doduMy arm so plump,
Ma jambe bien faite My leg well formed,
Et le temps perdu.And time wasted."

She had set her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand
and she swung her foot with an air of indifference. Her tattered
gown permitted a view of her thin shoulder-blades. The neighboring
street lantern illuminated her profile and her attitude.
Nothing more resolute and more surprising could be seen.

The six rascalsspeechless and gloomy at being held in check
by a girlretreated beneath the shadow cast by the lantern
and held counsel with furious and humiliated shrugs.

In the meantime she stared at them with a stern but peaceful air.


There's something the matter with her,said Babet. "A reason.
Is she in love with the dog? It's a shame to miss thisanyway.
Two womenan old fellow who lodges in the back-yardand curtains
that ain't so bad at the windows. The old cove must be a Jew.
I think the job's a good one."


Well, go in, then, the rest of you,exclaimed Montparnasse.
Do the job. I'll stay here with the girl, and if she fails us--


He flashed the knifewhich he held open in his handin the light
of the lantern.


Thenardier said not a wordand seemed ready for whatever
the rest pleased.


Brujonwho was somewhat of an oracleand who hadas the reader knows
put up the job,had not as yet spoken. He seemed thoughtful.
He had the reputation of not sticking at anythingand it was
known that he had plundered a police post simply out of bravado.
Besides this he made verses and songswhich gave him great authority.


Babet interrogated him:--


You say nothing, Brujon?


Brujon remained silent an instant longerthen he shook his head
in various waysand finally concluded to speak:--


See here; this morning I came across two sparrows fighting,
this evening I jostled a woman who was quarrelling. All that's bad.
Let's quit.


They went away.


As they wentMontparnasse muttered:--


Never mind! if they had wanted, I'd have cut her throat.


Babet responded


I wouldn't. I don't hit a lady.


At the corner of the street they halted and exchanged the following
enigmatical dialogue in a low tone:--


Where shall we go to sleep to-night?


Under Pantin [Paris].


Have you the key to the gate, Thenardier?


Pardi.


Eponinewho never took her eyes off of themsaw them retreat
by the road by which they had come. She rose and began to creep
after them along the walls and the houses. She followed them thus
as far as the boulevard.


There they partedand she saw these six men plunge into the gloom
where they appeared to melt away.



CHAPTER V

THINGS OF THE NIGHT

After the departure of the ruffiansthe Rue Plumet resumed its tranquil
nocturnal aspect. That which had just taken place in this street
would not have astonished a forest. The lofty treesthe copses
the heathsthe branches rudely interlacedthe tall grass
exist in a sombre manner; the savage swarming there catches glimpses
of sudden apparitions of the invisible; that which is below
man distinguishesthrough the miststhat which is beyond man;
and the things of which we living beings are ignorant there
meet face to face in the night. Naturebristling and wild
takes alarm at certain approaches in which she fancies that she
feels the supernatural. The forces of the gloom know each other
and are strangely balanced by each other. Teeth and claws fear what
they cannot grasp. Blood-drinking bestialityvoracious appetites
hunger in search of preythe armed instincts of nails and jaws
which have for source and aim the bellyglare and smell out
uneasily the impassive spectral forms straying beneath a shroud
erect in its vague and shuddering robeand which seem to them
to live with a dead and terrible life. These brutalities
which are only matterentertain a confused fear of having to deal
with the immense obscurity condensed into an unknown being.
A black figure barring the way stops the wild beast short.
That which emerges from the cemetery intimidates and disconcerts
that which emerges from the cave; the ferocious fear the sinister;
wolves recoil when they encounter a ghoul.


CHAPTER VI


MARIUS BECOMES PRACTICAL ONCE MORE TO THE EXTENT OF GIVING COSETTE
HIS ADDRESS


While this sort of a dog with a human face was mounting guard
over the gateand while the six ruffians were yielding to a girl
Marius was by Cosette's side.


Never had the sky been more studded with stars and more charming
the trees more tremblingthe odor of the grass more penetrating;
never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter noise;
never had all the harmonies of universal serenity responded more
thoroughly to the inward music of love; never had Marius been
more captivatedmore happymore ecstatic.


But he had found Cosette sad; Cosette had been weeping. Her eyes
were red.


This was the first cloud in that wonderful dream.


Marius' first word had been: "What is the matter?"


And she had replied: "This."


Then she had seated herself on the bench near the stepsand while
he tremblingly took his place beside hershe had continued:--


My father told me this morning to hold myself in readiness,
because he has business, and we may go away from here.



Marius shivered from head to foot.

When one is at the end of one's lifeto die means to go away;
when one is at the beginning of itto go away means to die.

For the last six weeksMarius had little by littleslowlyby degrees
taken possession of Cosette each day. As we have already explained
in the case of first lovethe soul is taken long before the body;
later onone takes the body long before the soul; sometimes one
does not take the soul at all; the Faublas and the Prudhommes add:
Because there is none; but the sarcasm isfortunatelya blasphemy.
So Marius possessed Cosetteas spirits possessbut he enveloped her
with all his souland seized her jealously with incredible conviction.
He possessed her smileher breathher perfumethe profound radiance
of her blue eyesthe sweetness of her skin when he touched her hand
the charming mark which she had on her neckall her thoughts.
Thereforehe possessed all Cosette's dreams.

He incessantly gazed atand he sometimes touched lightly with
his breaththe short locks on the nape of her neckand he declared
to himself that there was not one of those short hairs which did
not belong to himMarius. He gazed upon and adored the things
that she woreher knot of ribbonher glovesher sleeves
her shoesher cuffsas sacred objects of which he was the master.
He dreamed that he was the lord of those pretty shell combs which
she wore in her hairand he even said to himselfin confused
and suppressed stammerings of voluptuousness which did not make
their way to the lightthat there was not a ribbon of her gown
not a mesh in her stockingsnot a fold in her bodicewhich was
not his. Beside Cosette he felt himself beside his own property
his own thinghis own despot and his slave. It seemed as though they
had so intermingled their soulsthat it would have been impossible
to tell them apart had they wished to take them back again.--"This
is mine." "Noit is mine." "I assure you that you are mistaken.
This is my property." "What you are taking as your own is myself."--
Marius was something that made a part of Cosetteand Cosette
was something which made a part of Marius. Marius felt Cosette
within him. To have Cosetteto possess Cosettethisto him
was not to be distinguished from breathing. It was in the midst
of this faithof this intoxicationof this virgin possession
unprecedented and absoluteof this sovereigntythat these words:
We are going away,fell suddenlyat a blowand that the harsh voice
of reality cried to him: "Cosette is not yours!"

Marius awoke. For six weeks Marius had been livingas we have said
outside of life; those wordsgoing away! caused him to re-enter
it harshly.

He found not a word to say. Cosette merely felt that his hand
was very cold. She said to him in her turn: "What is the matter?"

He replied in so low a tone that Cosette hardly heard him:-


I did not understand what you said.

She began again:-


This morning my father told me to settle all my little affairs
and to hold myself in readiness, that he would give me his linen
to put in a trunk, that he was obliged to go on a journey, that we
were to go away, that it is necessary to have a large trunk for me
and a small one for him, and that all is to be ready in a week
from now, and that we might go to England.


But this is outrageous!exclaimed Marius.

It is certainthatat that momentno abuse of powerno violence
not one of the abominations of the worst tyrantsno action of Busiris
of Tiberiusor of Henry VIII.could have equalled this in atrocity
in the opinion of Marius; M. Fauchelevent taking his daughter off
to England because he had business there.

He demanded in a weak voice:--
And when do you start?


He did not say when.
And when shall you return?


He did not say when.
Marius rose and said coldly:--


Cosette, shall you go?


Cosette turned toward him her beautiful eyesall filled with anguish
and replied in a sort of bewilderment:-


Where?
To England. Shall you go?


Why do you say you to me?
I ask you whether you will go?


What do you expect me to do?she saidclasping her hands.
So, you will go?


If my father goes.
So, you will go?


Cosette took Marius' handand pressed it without replying.
Very well,said Mariusthen I will go elsewhere.


Cosette felt rather than understood the meaning of these words.
She turned so pale that her face shone white through the gloom.
She stammered:--


What do you mean?


Marius looked at herthen raised his eyes to heaven
and answered: "Nothing."


When his eyes fell againhe saw Cosette smiling at him.
The smile of a woman whom one loves possesses a visible radiance
even at night.


How silly we are! Marius, I have an idea.


What is it?


If we go away, do you go too! I will tell you where! Come and
join me wherever I am.



Marius was now a thoroughly roused man. He had fallen back
into reality. He cried to Cosette:-


Go away with you! Are you mad? Why, I should have to have money,
and I have none! Go to England? But I am in debt now, I owe,
I don't know how much, more than ten louis to Courfeyrac, one of
my friends with whom you are not acquainted! I have an old hat
which is not worth three francs, I have a coat which lacks buttons
in front, my shirt is all ragged, my elbows are torn, my boots let
in the water; for the last six weeks I have not thought about it,
and I have not told you about it. You only see me at night,
and you give me your love; if you were to see me in the daytime,
you would give me a sou! Go to England! Eh! I haven't enough to pay
for a passport!

He threw himself against a tree which was close at handerect
his brow pressed close to the barkfeeling neither the wood which
flayed his skinnor the fever which was throbbing in his temples
and there he stood motionlesson the point of fallinglike the
statue of despair.

He remained a long time thus. One could remain for eternity
in such abysses. At last he turned round. He heard behind him
a faint stifled noisewhich was sweet yet sad.

It was Cosette sobbing.

She had been weeping for more than two hours beside Marius
as he meditated.

He came to herfell at her kneesand slowly prostrating himself
he took the tip of her foot which peeped out from beneath her robe
and kissed it.

She let him have his way in silence. There are moments when a
woman acceptslike a sombre and resigned goddessthe religion
of love.

Do not weep,he said.

She murmured:-


Not when I may be going away, and you cannot come!

He went on:-


Do you love me?

She repliedsobbingby that word from paradise which is never
more charming than amid tears:-


I adore you!

He continued in a tone which was an indescribable caress:-


Do not weep. Tell me, will you do this for me, and cease to weep?

Do you love me?said she.

He took her hand.

Cosette, I have never given my word of honor to any one,
because my word of honor terrifies me. I feel that my father


is by my side. Well, I give you my most sacred word of honor,
that if you go away I shall die.

In the tone with which he uttered these words there lay a melancholy
so solemn and so tranquilthat Cosette trembled. She felt that
chill which is produced by a true and gloomy thing as it passes by.
The shock made her cease weeping.

Now, listen,said hedo not expect me to-morrow.
Why?


Do not expect me until the day after to-morrow.
Oh! Why?


You will see.
A day without seeing you! But that is impossible!


Let us sacrifice one day in order to gain our whole lives, perhaps.
And Marius added in a low tone and in an aside:--


He is a man who never changes his habits, and he has never received
any one except in the evening.

Of what man are you speaking?asked Cosette.

I? I said nothing.
What do you hope, then?

Wait until the day after to-morrow.
You wish it?

Yes, Cosette.

She took his head in both her handsraising herself on tiptoe
in order to be on a level with himand tried to read his hope
in his eyes.

Marius resumed:-


Now that I think of it, you ought to know my address:
something might happen, one never knows; I live with that friend
named Courfeyrac, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16.

He searched in his pocketpulled out his penknifeand with the
blade he wrote on the plaster of the wall:-


16 Rue de la Verrerie.
In the meantimeCosette had begun to gaze into his eyes once more.


Tell me your thought, Marius; you have some idea. Tell it to me.
Oh! tell me, so that I may pass a pleasant night.


This is my idea: that it is impossible that God should mean
to part us. Wait; expect me the day after to-morrow.


What shall I do until then?said Cosette.
You are outside, you go, and come! How happy men are!



I shall remain entirely alone! Oh! How sad I shall
be! What is it that you are going to do to-morrow evening? tell me.


I am going to try something.


Then I will pray to God and I will think of you here, so that you
may be successful. I will question you no further, since you
do not wish it. You are my master. I shall pass the evening
to-morrow in singing that music from Euryanthe that you love,
and that you came one evening to listen to, outside my shutters.
But day after to-morrow you will come early. I shall expect
you at dusk, at nine o'clock precisely, I warn you. Mon Dieu!
how sad it is that the days are so long! On the stroke of nine,
do you understand, I shall be in the garden.


And I also.


And without having uttered itmoved by the same thought
impelled by those electric currents which place lovers in
continual communicationboth being intoxicated with delight
even in their sorrowthey fell into each other's arms
without perceiving that their lips met while their uplifted
eyesoverflowing with rapture and full of tearsgazed upon the stars.


When Marius went forththe street was deserted. This was the
moment when Eponine was following the ruffians to the boulevard.


While Marius had been dreaming with his head pressed to the tree
an idea had crossed his mind; an ideaalas! that he himself judged
to be senseless and impossible. He had come to a desperate decision.


CHAPTER VII


THE OLD HEART AND THE YOUNG HEART IN THE PRESENCE OF EACH OTHER


At that epochFather Gillenormand was well past his ninety-first
birthday. He still lived with Mademoiselle Gillenormand in the Rue
des Filles-du-CalvaireNo. 6in the old house which he owned.
He wasas the reader will rememberone of those antique old men
who await death perfectly erectwhom age bears down without bending
and whom even sorrow cannot curve.


Stillhis daughter had been saying for some time: "My father
is sinking." He no longer boxed the maids' ears; he no longer thumped
the landing-place so vigorously with his cane when Basque was slow
in opening the door. The Revolution of July had exasperated him
for the space of barely six months. He had viewedalmost tranquilly
that coupling of wordsin the Moniteur: M. Humblot-Contepeer
of France. The fact isthat the old man was deeply dejected.
He did not bendhe did not yield; this was no more a characteristic
of his physical than of his moral naturebut he felt himself giving
way internally. For four years he had been waiting for Marius
with his foot firmly plantedthat is the exact wordin the conviction
that that good-for-nothing young scamp would ring at his door
some day or other; now he had reached the pointwhereat certain
gloomy hourshe said to himselfthat if Marius made him wait
much longer--It was not death that was insupportable to him;
it was the idea that perhaps he should never see Marius again.
The idea of never seeing Marius again had never entered his
brain until that day; now the thought began to recur to him
and it chilled him. Absenceas is always the case in genuine



and natural sentimentshad only served to augment the grandfather's
love for the ungrateful childwho had gone off like a flash.
It is during December nightswhen the cold stands at ten degrees
that one thinks oftenest of the son.

M. Gillenormand wasor thought himselfabove all things
incapable of taking a single stephe--the grandfather
towards his grandson; "I would die rather he said to himself.
He did not consider himself as the least to blame; but he thought
of Marius only with profound tenderness, and the mute despair
of an elderly, kindly old man who is about to vanish in the dark.
He began to lose his teeth, which added to his sadness.

M. Gillenormand, without however acknowledging it to himself,
for it would have rendered him furious and ashamed, had never loved
a mistress as he loved Marius.
He had had placed in his chamber, opposite the head of his bed,
so that it should be the first thing on which his eyes fell on waking,
an old portrait of his other daughter, who was dead, Madame Pontmercy,
a portrait which had been taken when she was eighteen. He gazed
incessantly at that portrait. One day, he happened to say, as he
gazed upon it:-


I think the likeness is strong."

To my sister?inquired Mademoiselle Gillenormand. "Yescertainly."

The old man added:-


And to him also."

Once as he sat with his knees pressed togetherand his eyes
almost closedin a despondent attitudehis daughter ventured
to say to him:-


Father, are you as angry with him as ever?

She pausednot daring to proceed further.

With whom?he demanded.

With that poor Marius.

He raised his aged headlaid his withered and emaciated fist on
the tableand exclaimed in his most irritated and vibrating tone:-


Poor Marius, do you say! That gentleman is a knave, a wretched
scoundrel, a vain little ingrate, a heartless, soulless, haughty,
and wicked man!

And he turned away so that his daughter might not see the tear
that stood in his eye.

Three days later he broke a silence which had lasted four hours
to say to his daughter point-blank:-


I had the honor to ask Mademoiselle Gillenormand never to mention
him to me.

Aunt Gillenormand renounced every effortand pronounced this
acute diagnosis: "My father never cared very much for my sister
after her folly. It is clear that he detests Marius."


After her follymeant: "after she had married the colonel."

Howeveras the reader has been able to conjectureMademoiselle
Gillenormand had failed in her attempt to substitute her favorite
the officer of lancersfor Marius. The substituteTheodule
had not been a success. M. Gillenormand had not accepted the quid
pro quo. A vacancy in the heart does not accommodate itself to a
stop-gap. Theoduleon his sidethough he scented the inheritance
was disgusted at the task of pleasing. The goodman bored the lancer;
and the lancer shocked the goodman. Lieutenant Theodule was gay
no doubtbut a chatter-boxfrivolousbut vulgar; a high liver
but a frequenter of bad company; he had mistressesit is true
and he had a great deal to say about themit is true also;
but he talked badly. All his good qualities had a defect.

M. Gillenormand was worn out with hearing him tell about the love
affairs that he had in the vicinity of the barracks in the Rue
de Babylone. And thenLieutenant Gillenormand sometimes came
in his uniformwith the tricolored cockade. This rendered him
downright intolerable. FinallyFather Gillenormand had said to
his daughter: "I've had enough of that Theodule. I haven't much
taste for warriors in time of peace. Receive him if you choose.
I don't know but I prefer slashers to fellows that drag their swords.
The clash of blades in battle is less dismalafter allthan the
clank of the scabbard on the pavement. And thenthrowing out your
chest like a bully and lacing yourself like a girlwith stays under
your cuirassis doubly ridiculous. When one is a veritable man
one holds equally aloof from swagger and from affected airs. He is
neither a blusterer nor a finnicky-hearted man. Keep your Theodule
for yourself."
It was in vain that his daughter said to him: "But he is your
grandnephewnevertheless--it turned out that M. Gillenormand, who was
a grandfather to the very finger-tips, was not in the least a grand-uncle.

In fact, as he had good sense, and as he had compared the two,
Theodule had only served to make him regret Marius all the more.

One evening,--it was the 24th of June, which did not prevent
Father Gillenormand having a rousing fire on the hearth,--he had
dismissed his daughter, who was sewing in a neighboring apartment.
He was alone in his chamber, amid its pastoral scenes, with his
feet propped on the andirons, half enveloped in his huge screen of
coromandel lacquer, with its nine leaves, with his elbow resting on
a table where burned two candles under a green shade, engulfed in his
tapestry armchair, and in his hand a book which he was not reading.
He was dressed, according to his wont, like an incroyable,
and resembled an antique portrait by Garat. This would have made
people run after him in the street, had not his daughter covered
him up, whenever he went out, in a vast bishop's wadded cloak,
which concealed his attire. At home, he never wore a dressing gown,
except when he rose and retired. It gives one a look of age
said he.

Father Gillenormand was thinking of Marius lovingly and bitterly;
and, as usual, bitterness predominated. His tenderness once
soured always ended by boiling and turning to indignation.
He had reached the point where a man tries to make up his mind and
to accept that which rends his heart. He was explaining to himself
that there was no longer any reason why Marius should return,
that if he intended to return, he should have done it long ago,
that he must renounce the idea. He was trying to accustom himself
to the thought that all was over, and that he should die without
having beheld that gentleman" again. But his whole nature revolted;


his aged paternity would not consent to this. "Well!" said he--
this was his doleful refrain--"he will not return!" His bald head
had fallen upon his breastand he fixed a melancholy and irritated
gaze upon the ashes on his hearth.


In the very midst of his reveryhis old servant Basque entered
and inquired:--


Can Monsieur receive M. Marius?


The old man sat up erectpallidand like a corpse which rises
under the influence of a galvanic shock. All his blood had retreated
to his heart. He stammered:--


M. Marius what?


I don't know,replied Basqueintimidated and put out of countenance
by his master's air; "I have not seen him. Nicolette came in and
said to me: `There's a young man here; say that it is M. Marius.'"


Father Gillenormand stammered in a low voice:--


Show him in.


And he remained in the same attitudewith shaking headand his eyes
fixed on the door. It opened once more. A young man entered.
It was Marius.


Marius halted at the dooras though waiting to be bidden to enter.


His almost squalid attire was not perceptible in the obscurity
caused by the shade. Nothing could be seen but his calmgrave
but strangely sad face.


It was several minutes before Father Gillenormanddulled with amazement
and joycould see anything except a brightness as when one is in
the presence of an apparition. He was on the point of swooning;
he saw Marius through a dazzling light. It certainly was he
it certainly was Marius.


At last! After the lapse of four years! He grasped him entire
so to speakin a single glance. He found him noblehandsome
distinguishedwell-growna complete manwith a suitable
mien and a charming air. He felt a desire to open his arms
to call himto fling himself forward; his heart melted with rapture
affectionate words swelled and overflowed his breast; at length
all his tenderness came to the light and reached his lipsand
by a contrast which constituted the very foundation of his nature
what came forth was harshness. He said abruptly:--


What have you come here for?


Marius replied with embarrassment:--


Monsieur--


M. Gillenormand would have liked to have Marius throw himself
into his arms. He was displeased with Marius and with himself.
He was conscious that he was brusqueand that Marius was cold.
It caused the goodman unendurable and irritating anxiety to feel
so tender and forlorn withinand only to be able to be hard outside.
Bitterness returned. He interrupted Marius in a peevish tone:--
Then why did you come?


That "then" signified: If you do not come to embrace me.
Marius looked at his grandfatherwhose pallor gave him a face
of marble.

Monsieur--

Have you come to beg my pardon? Do you acknowledge your faults?

He thought he was putting Marius on the right roadand that "the child"
would yield. Marius shivered; it was the denial of his father
that was required of him; he dropped his eyes and replied:-


No, sir.

Then,exclaimed the old man impetuouslywith a grief that was
poignant and full of wrathwhat do you want of me?

Marius clasped his handsadvanced a stepand said in a feeble
and trembling voice:-


Sir, have pity on me.

These words touched M. Gillenormand; uttered a little sooner
they would have rendered him tenderbut they came too late.
The grandfather rose; he supported himself with both hands on his cane;
his lips were whitehis brow waveredbut his lofty form towered
above Marius as he bowed.

Pity on you, sir! It is youth demanding pity of the old man
of ninety-one! You are entering into life, I am leaving it;
you go to the play, to balls, to the cafe, to the billiard-hall;
you have wit, you please the women, you are a handsome fellow;
as for me, I spit on my brands in the heart of summer; you are rich
with the only riches that are really such, I possess all the poverty
of age; infirmity, isolation! You have your thirty-two teeth,
a good digestion, bright eyes, strength, appetite, health, gayety,
a forest of black hair; I have no longer even white hair,
I have lost my teeth, I am losing my legs, I am losing my memory;
there are three names of streets that I confound incessantly,
the Rue Charlot, the Rue du Chaume, and the Rue Saint-Claude,
that is what I have come to; you have before you the whole future,
full of sunshine, and I am beginning to lose my sight, so far am
I advancing into the night; you are in love, that is a matter
of course, I am beloved by no one in all the world; and you ask pity
of me! Parbleu! Moliere forgot that. If that is the way you jest
at the courthouse, Messieurs the lawyers, I sincerely compliment you.
You are droll.

And the octogenarian went on in a grave and angry voice:-


Come, now, what do you want of me?

Sir,said MariusI know that my presence is displeasing to you,
but I have come merely to ask one thing of you, and then I shall go
away immediately.

You are a fool!said the old man. "Who said that you were
to go away?"

This was the translation of the tender words which lay at the bottom
of his heart:-


Ask my pardon! Throw yourself on my neck!


M. Gillenormand felt that Marius would leave him in a few moments
that his harsh reception had repelled the ladthat his hardness was
driving him away; he said all this to himselfand it augmented his grief;
and as his grief was straightway converted into wrathit increased
his harshness. He would have liked to have Marius understand
and Marius did not understandwhich made the goodman furious.
He began again:-


What! you deserted me, your grandfather, you left my house to go
no one knows whither, you drove your aunt to despair, you went off,
it is easily guessed, to lead a bachelor life; it's more convenient,
to play the dandy, to come in at all hours, to amuse yourself;
you have given me no signs of life, you have contracted debts without
even telling me to pay them, you have become a smasher of windows
and a blusterer, and, at the end of four years, you come to me,
and that is all you have to say to me!

This violent fashion of driving a grandson to tenderness was
productive only of silence on the part of Marius. M. Gillenormand
folded his arms; a gesture which with him was peculiarly imperious
and apostrophized Marius bitterly:-


Let us make an end of this. You have come to ask something of me,
you say? Well, what? What is it? Speak!

Sir,said Mariuswith the look of a man who feels that he is falling
over a precipiceI have come to ask your permission to marry.

M. Gillenormand rang the bell. Basque opened the door half-way.
Call my daughter.

A second laterthe door was opened once moreMademoiselle Gillenormand
did not enterbut showed herself; Marius was standingmutewith
pendant arms and the face of a criminal; M. Gillenormand was pacing
back and forth in the room. He turned to his daughter and said to her:-


Nothing. It is Monsieur Marius. Say good day to him.
Monsieur wishes to marry. That's all. Go away.

The curthoarse sound of the old man's voice announced a strange
degree of excitement. The aunt gazed at Marius with a frightened air
hardly appeared to recognize himdid not allow a gesture or a
syllable to escape herand disappeared at her father's breath
more swiftly than a straw before the hurricane.

In the meantimeFather Gillenormand had returned and placed his
back against the chimney-piece once more.

You marry! At one and twenty! You have arranged that! You have
only a permission to ask! a formality. Sit down, sir. Well, you
have had a revolution since I had the honor to see you last.
The Jacobins got the upper hand. You must have been delighted.
Are you not a Republican since you are a Baron? You can make
that agree. The Republic makes a good sauce for the barony.
Are you one of those decorated by July? Have you taken the Louvre
at all, sir? Quite near here, in the Rue Saint-Antoine, opposite
the Rue des Nonamdieres, there is a cannon-ball incrusted in
the wall of the third story of a house with this inscription:
`July 28th, 1830.' Go take a look at that. It produces a good effect.
Ah! those friends of yours do pretty things. By the way, aren't they
erecting a fountain in the place of the monument of M. le Duc de Berry?


So you want to marry? Whom? Can one inquire without indiscretion?
He pausedandbefore Marius had time to answerhe added violently:-


Come now, you have a profession? A fortune made? How much do you
earn at your trade of lawyer?

Nothing,said Mariuswith a sort of firmness and resolution
that was almost fierce.

Nothing? Then all that you have to live upon is the twelve hundred
livres that I allow you?

Marius did not reply. M. Gillenormand continued:--
Then I understand the girl is rich?


As rich as I am.
What! No dowry?


No.
Expectations?


I think not.
Utterly naked! What's the father?


I don't know.
And what's her name?


Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.
Fauchewhat?


Fauchelevent.
Pttt!ejaculated the old gentleman.


Sir!exclaimed Marius.


M. Gillenormand interrupted him with the tone of a man who is
speaking to himself:-"
That's rightone and twenty years of ageno profession
twelve hundred livres a yearMadame la Baronne de Pontmercy will go
and purchase a couple of sous' worth of parsley from the fruiterer."

Sir,repeated Mariusin the despair at the last hope
which was vanishingI entreat you! I conjure you in the name
of Heaven, with clasped hands, sir, I throw myself at your feet,
permit me to marry her!

The old man burst into a shout of strident and mournful laughter
coughing and laughing at the same time.

Ah! ah! ah! You said to yourself: `Pardine! I'll go hunt up
that old blockhead, that absurd numskull! What a shame that I'm
not twenty-five! How I'd treat him to a nice respectful summons!
How nicely I'd get along without him! It's nothing to me,
I'd say to him: You're only too happy to see meyou old idiot
I want to marryI desire to wed Mamselle No-matter-whomdaughter



of Monsieur No-matter-whatI have no shoesshe has no chemise
that just suits; I want to throw my careermy futuremy youth
my life to the dogs; I wish to take a plunge into wretchedness with
a woman around my neckthat's an ideaand you must consent to it!"
and the old fossil will consent.' Gomy laddo as you like
attach your paving-stonemarry your Pousseleventyour Coupelevent--
Neversirnever!"


Father--


Never!


At the tone in which that "never" was utteredMarius lost all hope.
He traversed the chamber with slow stepswith bowed headtottering and
more like a dying man than like one merely taking his departure.


M. Gillenormand followed him with his eyesand at the moment
when the door openedand Marius was on the point of going out
he advanced four paceswith the senile vivacity of impetuous and
spoiled old gentlemenseized Marius by the collarbrought him back
energetically into the roomflung him into an armchair and said
to him:-"
Tell me all about it!"


It was that single word father" which had effected this revolution.


Marius stared at him in bewilderment. M. Gillenormand's mobile
face was no longer expressive of anything but rough and ineffable
good-nature. The grandsire had given way before the grandfather.


Come, see here, speak, tell me about your love affairs, jabber,
tell me everything! Sapristi! how stupid young folks are!


Father--repeated Marius.


The old man's entire countenance lighted up with indescribable radiance.


Yes, that's right, call me father, and you'll see!


There was now something so kindso gentleso openhearted
and so paternal in this brusquenessthat Mariusin the sudden
transition from discouragement to hopewas stunned and intoxicated
by itas it were. He was seated near the tablethe light
from the candles brought out the dilapidation of his costume
which Father Gillenormand regarded with amazement.


Well, father--said Marius.


Ah, by the way,interrupted M. Gillenormandyou really have
not a penny then? You are dressed like a pickpocket.


He rummaged in a drawerdrew forth a pursewhich he laid
on the table: "Here are a hundred louisbuy yourself a hat."


Father,pursued Mariusmy good father, if you only knew! I love her.
You cannot imagine it; the first time I saw her was at the Luxembourg,
she came there; in the beginning, I did not pay much heed to her,
and then, I don't know how it came about, I fell in love with her.
Oh! how unhappy that made me! Now, at last, I see her every day,
at her own home, her father does not know it, just fancy, they are
going away, it is in the garden that we meet, in the evening,
her father means to take her to England, then I said to myself:
`I'll go and see my grandfather and tell him all about the affair.
I should go mad first, I should die, I should fall ill, I should



throw myself into the water. I absolutely must marry her,
since I should go mad otherwise.' This is the whole truth, and I
do not think that I have omitted anything. She lives in a garden
with an iron fence, in the Rue Plumet. It is in the neighborhood of
the Invalides.


Father Gillenormand had seated himselfwith a beaming countenance
beside Marius. As he listened to him and drank in the sound of
his voicehe enjoyed at the same time a protracted pinch of snuff.
At the words "Rue Plumet" he interrupted his inhalation and allowed
the remainder of his snuff to fall upon his knees.


The Rue Plumet, the Rue Plumet, did you say?--Let us see!--Are there
not barracks in that vicinity?--Why, yes, that's it. Your cousin
Theodule has spoken to me about it. The lancer, the officer.
A gay girl, my good friend, a gay girl!--Pardieu, yes, the Rue Plumet.
It is what used to be called the Rue Blomet.--It all comes back
to me now. I have heard of that little girl of the iron railing
in the Rue Plumet. In a garden, a Pamela. Your taste is not bad.
She is said to be a very tidy creature. Between ourselves,
I think that simpleton of a lancer has been courting her a bit.
I don't know where he did it. However, that's not to the purpose.
Besides, he is not to be believed. He brags, Marius! I think
it quite proper that a young man like you should be in love.
It's the right thing at your age. I like you better as a lover
than as a Jacobin. I like you better in love with a petticoat,
sapristi! with twenty petticoats, than with M. de Robespierre.
For my part, I will do myself the justice to say, that in the line
of sans-culottes, I have never loved any one but women. Pretty girls
are pretty girls, the deuce! There's no objection to that. As for
the little one, she receives you without her father's knowledge.
That's in the established order of things. I have had adventures of
that same sort myself. More than one. Do you know what is done then?
One does not take the matter ferociously; one does not precipitate
himself into the tragic; one does not make one's mind to marriage
and M. le Maire with his scarf. One simply behaves like a fellow
of spirit. One shows good sense. Slip along, mortals; don't marry.
You come and look up your grandfather, who is a good-natured fellow
at bottom, and who always has a few rolls of louis in an old drawer;
you say to him: `See here, grandfather.' And the grandfather says:
`That's a simple matter. Youth must amuse itself, and old age
must wear out. I have been young, you will be old. Come, my boy,
you shall pass it on to your grandson. Here are two hundred pistoles.
Amuse yourself, deuce take it!' Nothing better! That's the way the
affair should be treated. You don't marry, but that does no harm.
You understand me?


Mariuspetrified and incapable of uttering a syllablemade a sign
with his head that he did not.


The old man burst out laughingwinked his aged eyegave him
a slap on the kneestared him full in the face with a mysterious
and beaming airand said to himwith the tenderest of shrugs
of the shoulder:--


Booby! make her your mistress.


Marius turned pale. He had understood nothing of what his grandfather
had just said. This twaddle about the Rue BlometPamelathe barracks
the lancerhad passed before Marius like a dissolving view.
Nothing of all that could bear any reference to Cosettewho was
a lily. The good man was wandering in his mind. But this wandering
terminated in words which Marius did understandand which were
a mortal insult to Cosette. Those wordsmake her your mistress,



entered the heart of the strict young man like a sword.

He rosepicked up his hat which lay on the floorand walked
to the door with a firmassured step. There he turned round
bowed deeply to his grandfatherraised his head erect again
and said:-


Five years ago you insulted my father; to-day you have insulted
my wife. I ask nothing more of you, sir. Farewell.

Father Gillenormandutterly confoundedopened his mouth
extended his armstried to riseand before he could utter a word
the door closed once moreand Marius had disappeared.

The old man remained for several minutes motionless and as though
struck by lightningwithout the power to speak or breatheas though
a clenched fist grasped his throat. At last he tore himself from his
arm-chairranso far as a man can run at ninety-oneto the door
opened itand cried:-


Help! Help!

His daughter made her appearancethen the domestics. He began again
with a pitiful rattle: "Run after him! Bring him back! What have I
done to him? He is mad! He is going away! Ah! my God! Ah! my God!
This time he will not come back!"

He went to the window which looked out on the streetthrew it open
with his aged and palsied handsleaned out more than half-way
while Basque and Nicolette held him behindand shouted:-


Marius! Marius! Marius! Marius!

But Marius could no longer hear himfor at that moment he was
turning the corner of the Rue Saint-Louis.

The octogenarian raised his hands to his temples two or three times
with an expression of anguishrecoiled totteringand fell back
into an arm-chairpulselessvoicelesstearlesswith quivering
head and lips which moved with a stupid airwith nothing in his eyes
and nothing any longer in his heart except a gloomy and profound
something which resembled night.

BOOK NINTH.--WHITHER ARE THEY GOING?

CHAPTER I

JEAN VALJEAN

That same daytowards four o'clock in the afternoonJean Valjean
was sitting alone on the back side of one of the most solitary
slopes in the Champ-de-Mars. Either from prudenceor from a desire
to meditateor simply in consequence of one of those insensible
changes of habit which gradually introduce themselves into the
existence of every onehe now rarely went out with Cosette.
He had on his workman's waistcoatand trousers of gray linen;
and his long-visored cap concealed his countenance.

He was calm and happy now beside Cosette; that which hadfor a time


alarmed and troubled him had been dissipated; but for the last
week or twoanxieties of another nature had come up. One day
while walking on the boulevardhe had caught sight of Thenardier;
thanks to his disguiseThenardier had not recognized him; but since
that dayJean Valjean had seen him repeatedlyand he was now certain
that Thenardier was prowling about in their neighborhood.

This had been sufficient to make him come to a decision.

MoreoverParis was not tranquil: political troubles presented this
inconvenient featurefor any one who had anything to conceal in
his lifethat the police had grown very uneasy and very suspicious
and that while seeking to ferret out a man like Pepin or Morey
they might very readily discover a man like Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean had made up his mind to quit Parisand even France
and go over to England.

He had warned Cosette. He wished to set out before the end of the week.

He had seated himself on the slope in the Champ-de-Marsturning
over all sorts of thoughts in his mind--Thenardierthe police
the journeyand the difficulty of procuring a passport.

He was troubled from all these points of view.

Last of allan inexplicable circumstance which had just attracted
his attentionand from which he had not yet recoveredhad added
to his state of alarm.

On the morning of that very daywhen he alone of the household
was stirringwhile strolling in the garden before Cosette's
shutters were openhe had suddenly perceived on the wall
the following lineengravedprobably with a nail:-


16 Rue de la Verrerie.

This was perfectly freshthe grooves in the ancient black mortar
were whitea tuft of nettles at the foot of the wall was powdered
with the finefresh plaster.

This had probably been written on the preceding night.

What was this? A signal for others? A warning for himself?

In any caseit was evident that the garden had been violated
and that strangers had made their way into it.

He recalled the odd incidents which had already alarmed the household.

His mind was now filling in this canvas.

He took good care not to speak to Cosette of the line written
on the wallfor fear of alarming her.

In the midst of his preoccupationshe perceivedfrom a shadow
cast by the sunthat some one had halted on the crest of the slope
immediately behind him.

He was on the point of turning roundwhen a paper folded in four
fell upon his knees as though a hand had dropped it over his head.

He took the paperunfolded itand read these words written
in large characterswith a pencil:-



MOVE AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE.


Jean Valjean sprang hastily to his feet; there was no one on the slope;
he gazed all around him and perceived a creature larger than
a childnot so large as a manclad in a gray blouse and trousers
of dust-colored cotton velvetwho was jumping over the parapet
and who slipped into the moat of the Champde-Mars.


Jean Valjean returned home at oncein a very thoughtful mood.


CHAPTER II


MARIUS


Marius had left M. Gillenormand in despair. He had entered the
house with very little hopeand quitted it with immense despair.


Howeverand those who have observed the depths of the human
heart will understand thisthe officerthe lancerthe ninny
Cousin Theodulehad left no trace in his mind. Not the slightest.
The dramatic poet mightapparentlyexpect some complications from
this revelation made point-blank by the grandfather to the grandson.
But what the drama would gain therebytruth would lose.
Marius was at an age when one believes nothing in the line of evil;
later on comes the age when one believes everything. Suspicions are
nothing else than wrinkles. Early youth has none of them.
That which overwhelmed Othello glides innocuous over Candide.
Suspect Cosette! There are hosts of crimes which Marius could sooner
have committed.


He began to wander about the streetsthe resource of those who suffer.
He thought of nothingso far as he could afterwards remember.
At two o'clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac's quarters
and flung himselfwithout undressingon his mattress. The sun
was shining brightly when he sank into that frightful leaden slumber
which permits ideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke
he saw CourfeyracEnjolrasFeuillyand Combeferre standing in the
room with their hats on and all ready to go out.


Courfeyrac said to him:--


Are you coming to General Lamarque's funeral?


It seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese.


He went out some time after them. He put in his pocket the pistols
which Javert had given him at the time of the adventure on the 3d
of Februaryand which had remained in his hands. These pistols
were still loaded. It would be difficult to say what vague thought
he had in his mind when he took them with him.


All day long he prowled aboutwithout knowing where he was going;
it rained at timeshe did not perceive it; for his dinnerhe purchased
a penny roll at a baker'sput it in his pocket and forgot it.
It appears that he took a bath in the Seine without being aware of it.
There are moments when a man has a furnace within his skull.
Marius was passing through one of those moments. He no longer hoped
for anything; this step he had taken since the preceding evening.
He waited for night with feverish impatiencehe had but one idea
clearly before his mind;--this wasthat at nine o'clock he should



see Cosette. This last happiness now constituted his whole future;
after thatgloom. At intervalsas he roamed through the most deserted
boulevardsit seemed to him that he heard strange noises in Paris.
He thrust his head out of his revery and said: "Is there fighting
on hand?"


At nightfallat nine o'clock preciselyas he had promised Cosette
he was in the Rue Plumet. When he approached the grating he
forgot everything. It was forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette;
he was about to behold her once more; every other thought was effaced
and he felt only a profound and unheard-of joy. Those minutes in which
one lives centuries always have this sovereign and wonderful property
that at the moment when they are passing they fill the heart completely.


Marius displaced the barand rushed headlong into the garden.
Cosette was not at the spot where she ordinarily waited for him.
He traversed the thicketand approached the recess near the flight
of steps: "She is waiting for me there said he. Cosette was
not there. He raised his eyes, and saw that the shutters of the house
were closed. He made the tour of the garden, the garden was deserted.
Then he returned to the house, and, rendered senseless by love,
intoxicated, terrified, exasperated with grief and uneasiness,
like a master who returns home at an evil hour, he tapped on
the shutters. He knocked and knocked again, at the risk of seeing
the window open, and her father's gloomy face make its appearance,
and demand: What do you want?" This was nothing in comparison
with what he dimly caught a glimpse of. When he had rapped
he lifted up his voice and called Cosette.--"Cosette!" he cried;
Cosette!he repeated imperiously. There was no reply. All was over.
No one in the garden; no one in the house.


Marius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal housewhich was as black
and as silent as a tomb and far more empty. He gazed at the stone
seat on which he had passed so many adorable hours with Cosette.
Then he seated himself on the flight of stepshis heart filled
with sweetness and resolutionhe blessed his love in the depths
of his thoughtand he said to himself thatsince Cosette was gone
all that there was left for him was to die.


All at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the street
and which was calling to him through the trees:--


Mr. Marius!


He started to his feet.


Hey?said he.


Mr. Marius, are you there?


Yes.


Mr. Marius,went on the voiceyour friends are waiting for you
at the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie.


This voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him. It resembled the hoarse
rough voice of Eponine. Marius hastened to the gatethrust aside
the movable barpassed his head through the apertureand saw
some one who appeared to him to be a young mandisappearing at
a run into the gloom.


CHAPTER III



M. MABEUF
Jean Valjean's purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf
in his venerableinfantile austerityhad not accepted the gift
of the stars; he had not admitted that a star could coin itself
into louis d'or. He had not divined that what had fallen from heaven
had come from Gavroche. He had taken the purse to the police
commissioner of the quarteras a lost article placed by the finder
at the disposal of claimants. The purse was actually lost.
It is unnecessary to say that no one claimed itand that it did
not succor M. Mabeuf.

MoreoverM. Mabeuf had continued his downward course.

His experiments on indigo had been no more successful in the
Jardin des Plantes than in his garden at Austerlitz. The year
before he had owed his housekeeper's wages; nowas we have seen
he owed three quarters of his rent. The pawnshop had sold the
plates of his Flora after the expiration of thirteen months.
Some coppersmith had made stewpans of them. His copper plates gone
and being unable to complete even the incomplete copies of his
Flora which were in his possessionhe had disposed of the text
at a miserable priceas waste paperto a second-hand bookseller.
Nothing now remained to him of his life's work. He set to work
to eat up the money for these copies. When he saw that this
wretched resource was becoming exhaustedhe gave up his garden
and allowed it to run to waste. Before thisa long time before
he had given up his two eggs and the morsel of beef which he ate
from time to time. He dined on bread and potatoes. He had sold
the last of his furniturethen all duplicates of his bedding
his clothing and his blanketsthen his herbariums and prints;
but he still retained his most precious booksmany of which were
of the greatest rarityamong othersLes Quadrins Historiques de
la Bibleedition of 1560; La Concordance des Biblesby Pierre
de Besse; Les Marguerites de la Margueriteof Jean de La Haye
with a dedication to the Queen of Navarre; the book de la Charge
et Dignite de l'Ambassadeurby the Sieur de Villiers Hotman;
a Florilegium Rabbinicum of 1644; a Tibullus of 1567with this
magnificent inscription: Venetiisin aedibus Manutianis; and lastly
a Diogenes Laertiusprinted at Lyons in 1644which contained
the famous variant of the manuscript 411thirteenth century
of the Vaticanand those of the two manuscripts of Venice
393 and 394consulted with such fruitful results by Henri Estienne
and all the passages in Doric dialect which are only found
in the celebrated manuscript of the twelfth century belonging to
the Naples Library. M. Mabeuf never had any fire in his chamber
and went to bed at sundownin order not to consume any candles.
It seemed as though he had no longer any neighbors: people avoided
him when he went out; he perceived the fact. The wretchedness of a
child interests a motherthe wretchedness of a young man interests
a young girlthe wretchedness of an old man interests no one.
It isof all distressesthe coldest. StillFather Mabeuf had
not entirely lost his childlike serenity. His eyes acquired some
vivacity when they rested on his booksand he smiled when he gazed
at the Diogenes Laertiuswhich was a unique copy. His bookcase
with glass doors was the only piece of furniture which he had kept
beyond what was strictly indispensable.

One dayMother Plutarque said to him:-


I have no money to buy any dinner.


What she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five potatoes.

On credit?suggested M. Mabeuf.

You know well that people refuse me.

M. Mabeuf opened his bookcasetook a long look at all his books
one after anotheras a father obliged to decimate his children would
gaze upon them before making a choicethen seized one hastily
put it in under his arm and went out. He returned two hours later
without anything under his armlaid thirty sous on the table
and said:-"
You will get something for dinner."

From that moment forthMother Plutarque saw a sombre veil
which was never more lifteddescend over the old man's candid face.

On the following dayon the day afterand on the day after that
it had to be done again.

M. Mabeuf went out with a book and returned with a coin.
As the second-hand dealers perceived that he was forced to sell
they purchased of him for twenty sous that for which he had paid
twenty francssometimes at those very shops. Volume by volume
the whole library went the same road. He said at times: "But I
am eighty;" as though he cherished some secret hope that he should
arrive at the end of his days before reaching the end of his books.
His melancholy increased. Oncehoweverhe had a pleasure.
He had gone out with a Robert Estiennewhich he had sold for
thirty-five sous under the Quai Malaquaisand he returned with an
Aldus which he had bought for forty sous in the Rue des Gres.--"I
owe five sous he said, beaming on Mother Plutarque. That day he
had no dinner.
He belonged to the Horticultural Society. His destitution became
known there. The president of the society came to see him,
promised to speak to the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce
about him, and did so.--Whywhat!" exclaimed the Minister
I should think so! An old savant! a botanist! an inoffensive man!
Something must be done for him!On the following dayM. Mabeuf
received an invitation to dine with the Minister. Trembling with joy
he showed the letter to Mother Plutarque. "We are saved!" said he.
On the day appointedhe went to the Minister's house. He perceived
that his ragged cravathis longsquare coatand his waxed shoes
astonished the ushers. No one spoke to himnot even the Minister.
About ten o'clock in the eveningwhile he was still waiting
for a wordhe heard the Minister's wifea beautiful woman in a
low-necked gown whom he had not ventured to approachinquire:
Who is that old gentleman?He returned home on foot at midnight
in a driving rain-storm. He had sold an Elzevir to pay for a carriage
in which to go thither.

He had acquired the habit of reading a few pages in his Diogenes
Laertius every nightbefore he went to bed. He knew enough
Greek to enjoy the peculiarities of the text which he owned.
He had now no other enjoyment. Several weeks passed. All at once
Mother Plutarque fell ill. There is one thing sadder than having
no money with which to buy bread at the baker's and that is having
no money to purchase drugs at the apothecary's. One evening
the doctor had ordered a very expensive potion. And the malady was
growing worse; a nurse was required. M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase;
there was nothing there. The last volume had taken its departure.
All that was left to him was Diogenes Laertius. He put this unique


copy under his armand went out. It was the 4th of June1832;
he went to the Porte Saint-Jacquesto Royal's successorand returned
with one hundred francs. He laid the pile of five-franc pieces
on the old serving-woman's nightstandand returned to his chamber
without saying a word.


On the following morningat dawnhe seated himself on the overturned
post in his gardenand he could be seen over the top of the hedge
sitting the whole morning motionlesswith drooping headhis eyes
vaguely fixed on the withered flower-beds. It rained at intervals;
the old man did not seem to perceive the fact.


In the afternoonextraordinary noises broke out in Paris.
They resembled shots and the clamors of a multitude.


Father Mabeuf raised his head. He saw a gardener passing
and inquired:--


What is it?


The gardenerspade on backreplied in the most unconcerned tone:--


It is the riots.


What riots?


Yes, they are fighting.


Why are they fighting?


Ah, good Heavens!ejaculated the gardener.


In what direction?went on M. Mabeuf.


In the neighborhood of the Arsenal.


Father Mabeuf went to his roomtook his hatmechanically sought
for a book to place under his armfound nonesaid: "Ah! truly!"
and went off with a bewildered air.


BOOK TENTH.--THE 5TH OF JUNE1832


CHAPTER I


THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION


Of what is revolt composed? Of nothing and of everything.
Of an electricity disengagedlittle by littleof a flame suddenly
darting forthof a wandering forceof a passing breath.
This breath encounters heads which speakbrains which dream
souls which sufferpassions which burnwretchedness which howls
and bears them away.


Whither?


At random. Athwart the statethe lawsathwart prosperity
and the insolence of others.


Irritated convictionsembittered enthusiasmsagitated indignations



instincts of war which have been repressedyouthful courage which has
been exaltedgenerous blindness; curiositythe taste for change
the thirst for the unexpectedthe sentiment which causes one to
take pleasure in reading the posters for the new playand love
the prompter's whistleat the theatre; the vague hatreds
rancorsdisappointmentsevery vanity which thinks that destiny
has bankrupted it; discomfortempty dreamsambitious that are
hedged aboutwhoever hopes for a downfallsome outcomein short
at the very bottomthe rabblethat mud which catches fire--
such are the elements of revolt. That which is grandest and that
which is basest; the beings who prowl outside of all bounds
awaiting an occasionbohemiansvagrantsvagabonds of the
cross-roadsthose who sleep at night in a desert of houses with no
other roof than the cold clouds of heaventhose whoeach day
demand their bread from chance and not from toilthe unknown
of poverty and nothingnessthe bare-armedthe bare-footedbelong
to revolt. Whoever cherishes in his soul a secret revolt against
any deed whatever on the part of the stateof life or of fate
is ripe for riotandas soon as it makes its appearance
he begins to quiverand to feel himself borne away with the whirlwind.


Revolt is a sort of waterspout in the social atmosphere which
forms suddenly in certain conditions of temperatureand which
as it eddies aboutmountsdescendsthunderstearsrazes
crushesdemolishesuprootsbearing with it great natures
and smallthe strong man and the feeble mindthe tree
trunk and the stalk of straw. Woe to him whom it bears away
as well as to him whom it strikes! It breaks the one against the other.


It communicates to those whom it seizes an indescribable
and extraordinary power. It fills the first-comer with the
force of events; it converts everything into projectiles.
It makes a cannon-ball of a rough stoneand a general of a porter.


If we are to believe certain oracles of crafty political views
a little revolt is desirable from the point of view of power. System:
revolt strengthens those governments which it does not overthrow.
It puts the army to the test; it consecrates the bourgeoisie
it draws out the muscles of the police; it demonstrates the force
of the social framework. It is an exercise in gymnastics;
it is almost hygiene. Power is in better health after a revolt
as a man is after a good rubbing down.


Revoltthirty years agowas regarded from still other points
of view.


There is for everything a theorywhich proclaims itself "good sense";
Philintus against Alcestis; mediation offered between the false and
the true; explanationadmonitionrather haughty extenuation which
because it is mingled with blame and excusethinks itself wisdom
and is often only pedantry. A whole political school called "the
golden mean" has been the outcome of this. As between cold water
and hot waterit is the lukewarm water party. This school with its
false depthall on the surfacewhich dissects effects without going
back to first causeschides from its height of a demi-science
the agitation of the public square.


If we listen to this schoolThe riots which complicated the affair of
1830 deprived that great event of a portion of its purity. The Revolution
of July had been a fine popular gale, abruptly followed by blue sky.
They made the cloudy sky reappear. They caused that revolution,
at first so remarkable for its unanimity, to degenerate into a quarrel.
In the Revolution of July, as in all progress accomplished by fits
and starts, there had been secret fractures; these riots rendered



them perceptible. It might have been said: `Ah! this is broken.'
After the Revolution of July, one was sensible only of deliverance;
after the riots, one was conscious of a catastrophe.


All revolt closes the shopsdepresses the fundsthrows the
Exchange into consternationsuspends commerceclogs business
precipitates failures; no more moneyprivate fortunes rendered uneasy
public credit shakenindustry disconcertedcapital withdrawing
work at a discountfear everywhere; counter-shocks in every town.
Hence gulfs. It has been calculated that the first day of a riot
costs France twenty millionsthe second day fortythe third sixty
a three days' uprising costs one hundred and twenty millionsthat is
to sayif only the financial result be taken into consideration
it is equivalent to a disastera shipwreck or a lost battle
which should annihilate a fleet of sixty ships of the line.


No doubt, historically, uprisings have their beauty; the war of the
pavements is no less grandiose, and no less pathetic, than the war
of thickets: in the one there is the soul of forests, in the other
the heart of cities; the one has Jean Chouan, the other has a Jeanne.
Revolts have illuminated with a red glare all the most original points
of the Parisian character, generosity, devotion, stormy gayety,
students proving that bravery forms part of intelligence,
the National Guard invincible, bivouacs of shopkeepers, fortresses of
street urchins, contempt of death on the part of passers-by. Schools
and legions clashed together. After all, between the combatants,
there was only a difference of age; the race is the same; it is
the same stoical men who died at the age of twenty for their ideas,
at forty for their families. The army, always a sad thing in
civil wars, opposed prudence to audacity. Uprisings, while proving
popular intrepidity, also educated the courage of the bourgeois.


This is well. But is all this worth the bloodshed? And to
the bloodshed add the future darknessprogress compromised
uneasiness among the best menhonest liberals in despair
foreign absolutism happy in these wounds dealt to revolution
by its own handthe vanquished of 1830 triumphing and saying:
`We told you so!' Add Paris enlargedpossiblybut France most
assuredly diminished. Addfor all must needs be toldthe massacres
which have too often dishonored the victory of order grown ferocious
over liberty gone mad. To sum up alluprisings have been disastrous."


Thus speaks that approximation to wisdom with which the bourgeoisie
that approximation to the peopleso willingly contents itself.


For our partswe reject this word uprisings as too large
and consequently as too convenient. We make a distinction
between one popular movement and another popular movement.
We do not inquire whether an uprising costs as much as a battle.
Why a battlein the first place? Here the question of war comes up.
Is war less of a scourge than an uprising is of a calamity? And then
are all uprisings calamities? And what if the revolt of July did
cost a hundred and twenty millions? The establishment of Philip


V. in Spain cost France two milliards. Even at the same price
we should prefer the 14th of July. Howeverwe reject these figures
which appear to be reasons and which are only words. An uprising
being givenwe examine it by itself. In all that is said by the
doctrinarian objection above presentedthere is no question of
anything but effectwe seek the cause.
We will be explicit.


CHAPTER II

THE ROOT OF THE MATTER

There is such a thing as an uprisingand there is such a thing
as insurrection; these are two separate phases of wrath; one is
in the wrongthe other is in the right. In democratic states
the only ones which are founded on justiceit sometimes happens
that the fraction usurps; then the whole rises and the necessary claim
of its rights may proceed as far as resort to arms. In all questions
which result from collective sovereigntythe war of the whole
against the fraction is insurrection; the attack of the fraction
against the whole is revolt; according as the Tuileries contain
a king or the Conventionthey are justly or unjustly attacked.
The same cannonpointed against the populaceis wrong on the 10th
of Augustand right on the 14th of Vendemiaire. Alike in appearance
fundamentally different in reality; the Swiss defend the false
Bonaparte defends the true. That which universal suffrage has effected
in its liberty and in its sovereignty cannot be undone by the street.
It is the same in things pertaining purely to civilization;
the instinct of the massesclear-sighted to-daymay be troubled
to-morrow. The same fury legitimate when directed against Terray
and absurd when directed against Turgot. The destruction of machines
the pillage of warehousesthe breaking of railsthe demolition
of docksthe false routes of multitudesthe refusal by the people
of justice to progressRamus assassinated by studentsRousseau driven
out of Switzerland and stoned--that is revolt. Israel against Moses
Athens against PhocianRome against Cicero--that is an uprising;
Paris against the Bastille--that is insurrection. The soldiers
against Alexanderthe sailors against Christopher Columbus-this
is the same revolt; impious revolt; why? Because Alexander
is doing for Asia with the sword that which Christopher Columbus
is doing for America with the compass; Alexander like Columbus
is finding a world. These gifts of a world to civilization are such
augmentations of lightthat all resistance in that case is culpable.
Sometimes the populace counterfeits fidelity to itself. The masses
are traitors to the people. Is therefor exampleanything stranger
than that long and bloody protest of dealers in contraband salt
a legitimate chronic revoltwhichat the decisive moment
on the day of salvationat the very hour of popular victory
espouses the throneturns into chouannerieandfrom having been
an insurrection againstbecomes an uprising forsombre masterpieces
of ignorance! The contraband salt dealer escapes the royal gibbets
and with a rope's end round his neckmounts the white cockade.
Death to the salt duties,brings forthLong live the King!
The assassins of Saint-Barthelemythe cut-throats of September
the manslaughterers of Avignonthe assassins of Colignythe assassins
of Madam Lamballethe assassins of BruneMiqueletsVerdets
Cadenettesthe companions of Jehuthe chevaliers of Brassard-behold
an uprising. La Vendee is a grandcatholic uprising.
The sound of right in movement is recognizableit does not always
proceed from the trembling of excited masses; there are mad rages
there are cracked bellsall tocsins do not give out the sound
of bronze. The brawl of passions and ignorances is quite another
thing from the shock of progress. Show me in what direction you
are going. Riseif you willbut let it be that you may grow great.
There is no insurrection except in a forward direction. Any other sort
of rising is bad; every violent step towards the rear is a revolt;
to retreat is to commit a deed of violence against the human race.
Insurrection is a fit of rage on the part of truth; the pavements
which the uprising disturbs give forth the spark of right.
These pavements bequeath to the uprising only their mud.
Danton against Louis XIV. is insurrection; Hebert against Danton is


revolt.


Hence it results that if insurrection in given cases may be
as Lafayette saysthe most holy of dutiesan uprising may be
the most fatal of crimes.


There is also a difference in the intensity of heat; insurrection is
often a volcanorevolt is often only a fire of straw.


Revoltas we have saidis sometimes found among those in power.
Polignac is a rioter; Camille Desmoulins is one of the governing powers.


Insurrection is sometimes resurrection.


The solution of everything by universal suffrage being an absolutely
modern factand all history anterior to this fact being
for the space of four thousand yearsfilled with violated right
and the suffering of peopleseach epoch of history brings
with it that protest of which it is capable. Under the Caesars
there was no insurrectionbut there was Juvenal.


The facit indignatio replaces the Gracchi.


Under the Caesarsthere is the exile to Syene; there is also
the man of the Annales. We do not speak of the immense exile
of Patmos whoon his part alsooverwhelms the real world with a
protest in the name of the ideal worldwho makes of his vision
an enormous satire and casts on Rome-Ninevehon Rome-Babylon
on Rome-Sodomthe flaming reflection of the Apocalypse. John on
his rock is the sphinx on its pedestal; we may understand him
he is a Jewand it is Hebrew; but the man who writes the Annales
is of the Latin racelet us rather say he is a Roman.


As the Neros reign in a black waythey should be painted to match.
The work of the graving-tool alone would be too pale; there must be
poured into the channel a concentrated prose which bites.


Despots count for something in the question of philosophers.
A word that is chained is a terrible word. The writer doubles and
trebles his style when silence is imposed on a nation by its master.
From this silence there arises a certain mysterious plenitude
which filters into thought and there congeals into bronze.
The compression of history produces conciseness in the historian.
The granite solidity of such and such a celebrated prose is nothing
but the accumulation effected by the tyrant.


Tyranny constrains the writer to conditions of diameter which are
augmentations of force. The Ciceronian periodwhich hardly
sufficed for Verreswould be blunted on Caligula. The less
spread of sail in the phrasethe more intensity in the blow.
Tacitus thinks with all his might.


The honesty of a great heartcondensed in justice and truth
overwhelms as with lightning.


Be it remarkedin passingthat Tacitus is not historically
superposed upon Caesar. The Tiberii were reserved for him.
Caesar and Tacitus are two successive phenomenaa meeting between
whom seems to be mysteriously avoidedby the One whowhen He sets
the centuries on the stageregulates the entrances and the exits.
Caesar is greatTacitus is great; God spares these two greatnesses
by not allowing them to clash with one another. The guardian
of justicein striking Caesarmight strike too hard and be unjust.
God does not will it. The great wars of Africa and Spain



the pirates of Sicily destroyedcivilization introduced into Gaul
into Britannyinto Germany--all this glory covers the Rubicon.
There is here a sort of delicacy of the divine justicehesitating to
let loose upon the illustrious usurper the formidable historian
sparing Caesar Tacitusand according extenuating circumstances
to genius.


Certainlydespotism remains despotismeven under the despot
of genius. There is corruption under all illustrious tyrants
but the moral pest is still more hideous under infamous tyrants.
In such reignsnothing veils the shame; and those who make examples
Tacitus as well as Juvenalslap this ignominy which cannot reply
in the facemore usefully in the presence of all humanity.


Rome smells worse under Vitellius than under Sylla. Under Claudius
and under Domitianthere is a deformity of baseness corresponding
to the repulsiveness of the tyrant. The villainy of slaves is a
direct product of the despot; a miasma exhales from these cowering
consciences wherein the master is reflected; public powers are unclean;
hearts are small; consciences are dullsouls are like vermin;
thus it is under Caracallathus it is under Commodusthus it
is under Heliogabaluswhilefrom the Roman Senateunder Caesar
there comes nothing but the odor of the dung which is peculiar
to the eyries of the eagles.


Hence the adventapparently tardyof the Tacituses and the Juvenals;
it is in the hour for evidencethat the demonstrator makes
his appearance.


But Juvenal and Tacituslike Isaiah in Biblical timeslike Dante
in the Middle Agesis man; riot and insurrection are the multitude
which is sometimes right and sometimes wrong.


In the majority of casesriot proceeds from a material fact;
insurrection is always a moral phenomenon. Riot is Masaniello;
insurrectionSpartacus. Insurrection borders on mindriot on
the stomach; Gaster grows irritated; but Gasterassuredlyis not
always in the wrong. In questions of famineriotBuzancais
for exampleholds a truepatheticand just point of departure.
Neverthelessit remains a riot. Why? It is becauseright at bottom
it was wrong in form. Shy although in the rightviolent although
strongit struck at random; it walked like a blind elephant;
it left behind it the corpses of old menof womenand of children;
it wished the blood of inoffensive and innocent persons without
knowing why. The nourishment of the people is a good object;
to massacre them is a bad means.


All armed protestseven the most legitimateeven that of the 10th
of Augusteven that of July 14thbegin with the same troubles.
Before the right gets set freethere is foam and tumult.
In the beginningthe insurrection is a riotjust as a river
is a torrent. Ordinarily it ends in that ocean: revolution.
Sometimeshowevercoming from those lofty mountains which dominate
the moral horizonjusticewisdomreasonrightformed of the
pure snow of the idealafter a long fall from rock to rock
after having reflected the sky in its transparency and increased
by a hundred affluents in the majestic mien of triumphinsurrection
is suddenly lost in some quagmireas the Rhine is in a swamp.


All this is of the pastthe future is another thing.
Universal suffrage has this admirable propertythat it dissolves
riot in its inceptionandby giving the vote to insurrection
it deprives it of its arms. The disappearance of wars
of street wars as well as of wars on the frontierssuch is the



inevitable progression. Whatever To-day may beTo-morrow will be peace.

Howeverinsurrectionriotand points of difference between
the former and the latter--the bourgeoisproperly speaking
knows nothing of such shades. In his mindall is sedition
rebellion pure and simplethe revolt of the dog against his master
an attempt to bite whom must be punished by the chain and the
kennelbarkingsnappinguntil such day as the head of the dog
suddenly enlargedis outlined vaguely in the gloom face to face
with the lion.

Then the bourgeois shouts: "Long live the people!"

This explanation givenwhat does the movement of June1832signify
so far as history is concerned? Is it a revolt? Is it an insurrection?

It may happen to usin placing this formidable event on the stage
to say revolt now and thenbut merely to distinguish superficial facts
and always preserving the distinction between revoltthe form
and insurrectionthe foundation.

This movement of 1832 hadin its rapid outbreak and in its
melancholy extinctionso much grandeurthat even those who see in it
only an uprisingnever refer to it otherwise than with respect.
For themit is like a relic of 1830. Excited imaginationssay they
are not to be calmed in a day. A revolution cannot be cut off short.
It must needs undergo some undulations before it returns to a state
of restlike a mountain sinking into the plain. There are no Alps
without their Juranor Pyrenees without the Asturias.

This pathetic crisis of contemporary history which the memory
of Parisians calls "the epoch of the riots is certainly
a characteristic hour amid the stormy hours of this century.
A last word, before we enter on the recital.

The facts which we are about to relate belong to that dramatic
and living reality, which the historian sometimes neglects
for lack of time and space. There, nevertheless, we insist
upon it, is life, palpitation, human tremor. Petty details,
as we think we have already said, are, so to speak, the foliage
of great events, and are lost in the distance of history. The epoch,
surnamed of the riots abounds in details of this nature.
Judicial inquiries have not revealed, and perhaps have not sounded
the depths, for another reason than history. We shall therefore
bring to light, among the known and published peculiarities,
things which have not heretofore been known, about facts over which
have passed the forgetfulness of some, and the death of others.
The majority of the actors in these gigantic scenes have disappeared;
beginning with the very next day they held their peace; but of what
we shall relate, we shall be able to say: We have seen this."
We alter a few namesfor history relates and does not inform against
but the deed which we shall paint will be genuine. In accordance
with the conditions of the book which we are now writingwe shall
show only one side and one episodeand certainlythe least known
at thatof the two daysthe 5th and the 6th of June1832but we
shall do it in such wise that the reader may catch a glimpse
beneath the gloomy veil which we are about to liftof the real form
of this frightful public adventure.

CHAPTER III

A BURIAL; AN OCCASION TO BE BORN AGAIN


In the spring of 1832although the cholera had been chilling all
minds for the last three months and had cast over their agitation
an indescribable and gloomy pacificationParis had already long
been ripe for commotion. As we have saidthe great city resembles
a piece of artillery; when it is loadedit suffices for a spark
to falland the shot is discharged. In June1832the spark
was the death of General Lamarque.


Lamarque was a man of renown and of action. He had had in succession
under the Empire and under the Restorationthe sorts of bravery
requisite for the two epochsthe bravery of the battle-field
and the bravery of the tribune. He was as eloquent as he had
been valiant; a sword was discernible in his speech. Like Foy
his predecessorafter upholding the commandhe upheld liberty;
he sat between the left and the extreme leftbeloved of the people
because he accepted the chances of the futurebeloved of the
populace because he had served the Emperor well; he wasin company
with Comtes Gerard and Drouetone of Napoleon's marshals in petto.
The treaties of 1815 removed him as a personal offence. He hated
Wellington with a downright hatred which pleased the multitude;
andfor seventeen yearshe majestically preserved the sadness
of Waterloopaying hardly any attention to intervening events.
In his death agonyat his last hourhe clasped to his breast a sword
which had been presented to him by the officers of the Hundred Days.
Napoleon had died uttering the word armyLamarque uttering the
word country.


His deathwhich was expectedwas dreaded by the people as a loss
and by the government as an occasion. This death was an affliction.
Like everything that is bitteraffliction may turn to revolt.
This is what took place.


On the preceding eveningand on the morning of the 5th of June
the day appointed for Lamarque's burialthe Faubourg Saint-Antoine
which the procession was to touch atassumed a formidable aspect.
This tumultuous network of streets was filled with rumors.
They armed themselves as best they might. Joiners carried off
door-weights of their establishment "to break down doors." One of them
had made himself a dagger of a stocking-weaver's hook by breaking
off the hook and sharpening the stump. Anotherwho was in a fever
to attack,slept wholly dressed for three days. A carpenter named
Lombier met a comradewho asked him: "Whither are you going?"
Eh! well, I have no weapons.What then?I'm going to my
timber-yard to get my compasses.What for?I don't know,
said Lombier. A certain Jacquelinean expeditious manaccosted some
passing artisans: "Come hereyou!" He treated them to ten sous'
worth of wine and said: "Have you work?" "No." "Go to Filspierre
between the Barriere Charonne and the Barriere Montreuiland you
will find work." At Filspierre's they found cartridges and arms.
Certain well-known leaders were going the roundsthat is to say
running from one house to anotherto collect their men.
At Barthelemy'snear the Barriere du Troneat Capel'snear the
Petit-Chapeauthe drinkers accosted each other with a grave air.
They were heard to say: "Have you your pistol?" "Under my blouse."
And you?Under my shirt.In the Rue Traversierein front
of the Bland workshopand in the yard of the Maison-Brulee
in front of tool-maker Bernier'sgroups whispered together.
Among them was observed a certain Mavotwho never remained more than
a week in one shopas the masters always discharged him "because
they were obliged to dispute with him every day." Mavot was killed
on the following day at the barricade of the Rue Menilmontant.
Pretotwho was destined to perish also in the struggle



seconded Mavotand to the question: "What is your object?"
he replied: "Insurrection." Workmen assembled at the corner of
the Rue de Bercywaited for a certain Lemarinthe revolutionary
agent for the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Watchwords were exchanged
almost publicly.


On the 5th of Juneaccordinglya day of mingled rain and sun
General Lamarque's funeral procession traversed Paris with official
military pompsomewhat augmented through precaution. Two battalions
with draped drums and reversed armsten thousand National Guards
with their swords at their sidesescorted the coffin.
The hearse was drawn by young men. The officers of the Invalides
came immediately behind itbearing laurel branches. Then came
an innumerablestrangeagitated multitudethe sectionaries of the
Friends of the Peoplethe Law Schoolthe Medical Schoolrefugees of
all nationalitiesand SpanishItalianGermanand Polish flags
tricolored horizontal bannersevery possible sort of banner
children waving green boughsstone-cutters and carpenters who were
on strike at the momentprinters who were recognizable by their
paper capsmarching two by twothree by threeuttering cries
nearly all of them brandishing stickssome brandishing sabres
without order and yet with a single soulnow a tumultuous rout
again a column. Squads chose themselves leaders; a man armed
with a pair of pistols in full viewseemed to pass the host
in reviewand the files separated before him. On the side alleys
of the boulevardsin the branches of the treeson balconies
in windowson the roofsswarmed the heads of menwomenand children;
all eyes were filled with anxiety. An armed throng was passing
and a terrified throng looked on.


The Governmenton its sidewas taking observations. It observed
with its hand on its sword. Four squadrons of carabineers could
be seen in the Place Louis XV. in their saddleswith their
trumpets at their headcartridge-boxes filled and muskets loaded
all in readiness to march; in the Latin country and at the Jardin
des Plantesthe Municipal Guard echelonned from street to street;
at the Halle-aux-Vinsa squadron of dragoons; at the Greve half
of the 12th Light Infantrythe other half being at the Bastille;
the 6th Dragoons at the Celestins; and the courtyard of the Louvre
full of artillery. The remainder of the troops were confined
to their barrackswithout reckoning the regiments of the environs
of Paris. Power being uneasyheld suspended over the menacing
multitude twenty-four thousand soldiers in the city and thirty
thousand in the banlieue.


Divers reports were in circulation in the cortege. Legitimist tricks
were hinted at; they spoke of the Duc de Reichstadtwhom God had marked
out for death at that very moment when the populace were designating
him for the Empire. One personagewhose name has remained unknown
announced that at a given hour two overseers who had been won over
would throw open the doors of a factory of arms to the people.
That which predominated on the uncovered brows of the majority
of those present was enthusiasm mingled with dejection.
Here and therealsoin that multitude given over to such violent
but noble emotionsthere were visible genuine visages of criminals
and ignoble mouths which said: "Let us plunder!" There are certain
agitations which stir up the bottoms of marshes and make clouds
of mud rise through the water. A phenomenon to which "well drilled"
policemen are no strangers.


The procession proceededwith feverish slownessfrom the house
of the deceasedby way of the boulevards as far as the Bastille.
It rained from time to time; the rain mattered nothing to that throng.
Many incidentsthe coffin borne round the Vendome column



stones thrown at the Duc de Fitz-Jameswho was seen on a balcony
with his hat on his headthe Gallic cock torn from a popular flag
and dragged in the mirea policeman wounded with a blow from a sword
at the Porte Saint-Martinan officer of the 12th Light Infantry
saying aloud: "I am a Republican the Polytechnic School coming
up unexpectedly against orders to remain at home, the shouts of:
Long live the Polytechnique! Long live the Republic!" marked the
passage of the funeral train. At the Bastillelong files of curious
and formidable people who descended from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine
effected a junction with the processionand a certain terrible
seething began to agitate the throng.

One man was heard to say to another: "Do you see that fellow with a
red beardhe's the one who will give the word when we are to fire."
It appears that this red beard was presentat another riot
the Quenisset affairentrusted with this same function.

The hearse passed the Bastilletraversed the small bridgeand reached
the esplanade of the bridge of Austerlitz. There it halted.
The crowdsurveyed at that moment with a bird'seye viewwould have
presented the aspect of a comet whose head was on the esplanade and
whose tail spread out over the Quai Bourdoncovered the Bastille
and was prolonged on the boulevard as far as the Porte Saint-Martin. A
circle was traced around the hearse. The vast rout held their peace.
Lafayette spoke and bade Lamarque farewell. This was a touching
and august instantall heads uncoveredall hearts beat high.

All at oncea man on horsebackclad in blackmade his appearance
in the middle of the group with a red flagothers saywith a pike
surmounted with a red liberty-cap. Lafayette turned aside his head.
Exelmans quitted the procession.

This red flag raised a stormand disappeared in the midst of it.
From the Boulevard Bourdon to the bridge of Austerlitz one of
those clamors which resemble billows stirred the multitude.
Two prodigious shouts went up: "Lamarque to the Pantheon!--
Lafayette to the Town-hall!" Some young menamid the declamations
of the throngharnessed themselves and began to drag Lamarque
in the hearse across the bridge of Austerlitz and Lafayette in a
hackney-coach along the Quai Morland.

In the crowd which surrounded and cheered Lafayetteit was
noticed that a German showed himself named Ludwig Snyderwho died
a centenarian afterwardswho had also been in the war of 1776
and who had fought at Trenton under Washingtonand at Brandywine
under Lafayette.

In the meantimethe municipal cavalry on the left bank had been set
in motionand came to bar the bridgeon the right bank the dragoons
emerged from the Celestins and deployed along the Quai Morland.
The men who were dragging Lafayette suddenly caught sight of
them at the corner of the quay and shouted: "The dragoons!"
The dragoons advanced at a walkin silencewith their pistols
in their holsterstheir swords in their scabbardstheir guns slung
in their leather socketswith an air of gloomy expectation.

They halted two hundred paces from the little bridge. The carriage
in which sat Lafayette advanced to themtheir ranks opened and
allowed it to passand then closed behind it. At that moment
the dragoons and the crowd touched. The women fled in terror.
What took place during that fatal minute? No one can say.
It is the dark moment when two clouds come together. Some declare
that a blast of trumpets sounding the charge was heard in the direction
of the Arsenal others that a blow from a dagger was given by a child


to a dragoon. The fact isthat three shots were suddenly discharged:
the first killed Choletchief of the squadronthe second killed
an old deaf woman who was in the act of closing her window
the third singed the shoulder of an officer; a woman screamed:
They are beginning too soon!and all at oncea squadron
of dragoons which had remained in the barracks up to this time
was seen to debouch at a gallop with bared swordsthrough the Rue
Bassompierre and the Boulevard Bourdonsweeping all before them.


Then all is saidthe tempest is loosedstones rain down
a fusillade breaks forthmany precipitate themselves to the bottom
of the bankand pass the small arm of the Seinenow filled in
the timber-yards of the Isle Louviersthat vast citadel ready to hand
bristle with combatantsstakes are torn uppistol-shots fired
a barricade begunthe young men who are thrust back pass the
Austerlitz bridge with the hearse at a runand the municipal guard
the carabineers rush upthe dragoons ply their swordsthe crowd
disperses in all directionsa rumor of war flies to all four
quarters of Parismen shout: "To arms!" they runtumble down
fleeresist. Wrath spreads abroad the riot as wind spreads a fire.


CHAPTER IV


THE EBULLITIONS OF FORMER DAYS


Nothing is more extraordinary than the first breaking out of a riot.
Everything bursts forth everywhere at once. Was it foreseen?
Yes. Was it prepared? No. Whence comes it? From the pavements.
Whence falls it? From the clouds. Here insurrection assumes the
character of a plot; there of an improvisation. The first comer
seizes a current of the throng and leads it whither he wills.
A beginning full of terrorin which is mingled a sort of
formidable gayety. First come clamorsthe shops are closed
the displays of the merchants disappear; then come isolated shots;
people flee; blows from gun-stocks beat against portes cocheres
servants can be heard laughing in the courtyards of houses and saying:
There's going to be a row!


A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when this is what was taking
place at twenty different spots in Paris at once.


In the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerietwenty young men
bearded and with long hairentered a dram-shop and emerged
a moment latercarrying a horizontal tricolored flag covered
with crapeand having at their head three men armedone with
a swordone with a gunand the third with a pike.


In the Rue des Nonaindieresa very well-dressed bourgeoiswho had
a prominent bellya sonorous voicea bald heada lofty brow
a black beardand one of these stiff mustaches which will not
lie flatoffered cartridges publicly to passers-by.


In the Rue Saint-Pierre-Montmartremen with bare arms carried about
a black flagon which could be read in white letters this inscription:
Republic or Death!In the Rue des JeuneursRue du Cadran
Rue MontorgueilRue Mandargroups appeared waving flags on which could
be distinguished in gold lettersthe word section with a number.
One of these flags was red and blue with an almost imperceptible
stripe of white between.


They pillaged a factory of small-arms on the Boulevard Saint-Martin



and three armorers' shopsthe first in the Rue Beaubourgthe second
in the Rue Michel-le-Comtethe other in the Rue du Temple.
In a few minutesthe thousand hands of the crowd had seized and
carried off two hundred and thirty gunsnearly all double-barrelled
sixty-four swordsand eighty-three pistols. In order to provide
more armsone man took the gunthe other the bayonet.


Opposite the Quai de la Greveyoung men armed with muskets installed
themselves in the houses of some women for the purpose of firing.
One of them had a flint-lock. They rangenteredand set about
making cartridges. One of these women relates: "I did not know
what cartridges were; it was my husband who told me."


One cluster broke into a curiosity shop
in the Rue des Vielles Haudriettesand seized yataghans and Turkish arms.


The body of a mason who had been killed by a gun-shot lay in the Rue
de la Perle.


And then on the right bankthe left bankon the quays
on the boulevardsin the Latin countryin the quarter of the Halles
panting menartisansstudentsmembers of sections read proclamations
and shouted: "To arms!" broke street lanternsunharnessed carriages
unpaved the streetsbroke in the doors of housesuprooted trees
rummaged cellarsrolled out hogsheadsheaped up paving-stones
rough slabsfurniture and planksand made barricades.


They forced the bourgeois to assist them in this. They entered the
dwellings of womenthey forced them to hand over the swords and guns
of their absent husbandsand they wrote on the doorwith whiting:
The arms have been delivered; some signed "their names" to receipts
for the guns and swords and said: "Send for them to-morrow at
the Mayor's office." They disarmed isolated sentinels and National
Guardsmen in the streets on their way to the Townhall. They tore
the epaulets from officers. In the Rue du Cimitiere-Saint-Nicholas
an officer of the National Guardon being pursued by a crowd armed
with clubs and foilstook refuge with difficulty in a house
whence he was only able to emerge at nightfall and in disguise.


In the Quartier Saint-Jacquesthe students swarmed out of their
hotels and ascended the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe to the Cafe du Progress
or descended to the Cafe des Sept-Billardsin the Rue des Mathurins.
Therein front of the dooryoung men mounted on the stone
corner-postsdistributed arms. They plundered the timber-yard
in the Rue Transnonain in order to obtain material for barricades.
On a single point the inhabitants resistedat the corner
of the Rue Sainte-Avoye and the Rue Simon-Le-Francwhere they
destroyed the barricade with their own hands. At a single point
the insurgents yielded; they abandoned a barricade begun in the Rue
de Temple after having fired on a detachment of the National Guard
and fled through the Rue de la Corderie. The detachment picked up
in the barricade a red flaga package of cartridgesand three
hundred pistol-balls. The National Guardsmen tore up the flag
and carried off its tattered remains on the points of their bayonets.


All that we are here relating slowly and successively took place
simultaneously at all points of the city in the midst of a vast tumult
like a mass of tongues of lightning in one clap of thunder.
In less than an hourtwenty-seven barricades sprang out of the
earth in the quarter of the Halles alone. In the centre was that
famous house No. 50which was the fortress of Jeanne and her six
hundred companionsand whichflanked on the one hand by a barricade
at Saint-Merryand on the other by a barricade of the Rue Maubuee
commanded three streetsthe Rue des Arcisthe Rue Saint-Martin



and the Rue Aubry-le-Boucherwhich it faced. The barricades
at right angles fell backthe one of the Rue Montorgueil on the
Grande-Truanderiethe other of the Rue Geoffroy-Langevin on the Rue
Sainte-Avoye. Without reckoning innumerable barricades in twenty
other quarters of Parisin the Maraisat Mont-Sainte-Genevieve;
one in the Rue Menilmontantwhere was visible a porte cochere torn
from its hinges; another near the little bridge of the Hotel-Dieu
made with an "ecossais which had been unharnessed and overthrown,
three hundred paces from the Prefecture of Police.


At the barricade of the Rue des Menetriers, a well-dressed man
distributed money to the workmen. At the barricade of the Rue Grenetat,
a horseman made his appearance and handed to the one who seemed
to be the commander of the barricade what had the appearance
of a roll of silver. Here said he, this is to pay expenses
wineet caetera." A light-haired young manwithout a cravat
went from barricade to barricadecarrying pass-words. Another
with a naked sworda blue police cap on his headplaced sentinels.
In the interiorbeyond the barricadesthe wine-shops and porters'
lodges were converted into guard-houses. Otherwise the riot
was conducted after the most scientific military tactics.
The narrowunevensinuous streetsfull of angles and turns
were admirably chosen; the neighborhood of the Hallesin particular
a network of streets more intricate than a forest. The Society
of the Friends of the People hadit was saidundertaken to direct
the insurrection in the Quartier Sainte-Avoye. A man killed in the Rue
du Ponceau who was searched had on his person a plan of Paris.


That which had really undertaken the direction of the uprising
was a sort of strange impetuosity which was in the air.
The insurrection had abruptly built barricades with one hand
and with the other seized nearly all the posts of the garrison.
In less than three hourslike a train of powder catching fire
the insurgents had invaded and occupiedon the right bank
the Arsenalthe Mayoralty of the Place Royalethe whole
of the Maraisthe Popincourt arms manufactoryla Galiote
the Chateau-d'Eauand all the streets near the Halles; on the left bank
the barracks of the VeteransSainte-Pelagiethe Place Maubert
the powder magazine of the Deux-Moulinsand all the barriers.
At five o'clock in the eveningthey were masters of the Bastille
of the Lingerieof the Blancs-Manteaux; their scouts had reached the
Place des Victoiresand menaced the Bankthe Petits-Peres barracks
and the Post-Office. A third of Paris was in the hands of the rioters.


The conflict had been begun on a gigantic scale at all points;
andas a result of the disarming domiciliary visitsand armorers'
shops hastily invadedwasthat the combat which had begun with
the throwing of stones was continued with gun-shots.


About six o'clock in the eveningthe Passage du Saumon became
the field of battle. The uprising was at one endthe troops were
at the other. They fired from one gate to the other. An observer
a dreamerthe author of this bookwho had gone to get a near view
of this volcanofound himself in the passage between the two fires.
All that he had to protect him from the bullets was the swell of
the two half-columns which separate the shops; he remained in this
delicate situation for nearly half an hour.


Meanwhile the call to arms was beatenthe National Guard armed
in hastethe legions emerged from the Mayoralitiesthe regiments
from their barracks. Opposite the passage de l'Ancre a drummer
received a blow from a dagger. Anotherin the Rue du Cygne
was assailed by thirty young men who broke his instrumentand took
away his sword. Another was killed in the Rue Grenier-Saint-Lazare.



In the Rue-Michelle-Comtethree officers fell dead one after
the other. Many of the Municipal Guardson being wounded
in the Rue des Lombardsretreated.


In front of the Cour-Batavea detachment of National Guards found
a red flag bearing the following inscription: Republican revolution
No. 127. Was this a revolutionin fact?


The insurrection had made of the centre of Paris a sort
of inextricabletortuouscolossal citadel.


There was the hearth; thereevidentlywas the question.
All the rest was nothing but skirmishes. The proof that all would
be decided there lay in the fact that there was no fighting going
on there as yet.


In some regimentsthe soldiers were uncertainwhich added to
the fearful uncertainty of the crisis. They recalled the popular
ovation which had greeted the neutrality of the 53d of the Line
in July1830. Two intrepid mentried in great warsthe Marshal
Lobau and General Bugeaudwere in commandBugeaud under Lobau.
Enormous patrolscomposed of battalions of the Lineenclosed in
entire companies of the National Guardand preceded by a commissary
of police wearing his scarf of officewent to reconnoitre the streets
in rebellion. The insurgentson their sideplaced videttes
at the corners of all open spacesand audaciously sent their
patrols outside the barricades. Each side was watching the other.
The Governmentwith an army in its handhesitated; the night
was almost upon themand the Saint-Merry tocsin began to make
itself heard. The Minister of War at that timeMarshal Soult
who had seen Austerlitzregarded this with a gloomy air.


These old sailorsaccustomed to correct manoeuvres and having
as resource and guide only tacticsthat compass of battles
are utterly disconcerted in the presence of that immense foam
which is called public wrath.


The National Guards of the suburbs rushed up in haste and disorder.
A battalion of the 12th Light came at a run from Saint-Denis
the 14th of the Line arrived from Courbevoiethe batteries of
the Military School had taken up their position on the Carrousel;
cannons were descending from Vincennes.


Solitude was formed around the Tuileries. Louis Philippe was
perfectly serene.


CHAPTER V


ORIGINALITY OF PARIS


During the last two yearsas we have saidParis had witnessed
more than one insurrection. Nothing isgenerallymore singularly
calm than the physiognomy of Paris during an uprising beyond the
bounds of the rebellious quarters. Paris very speedily accustoms
herself to anything--it is only a riot--and Paris has so many
affairs on handthat she does not put herself out for so small
a matter. These colossal cities alone can offer such spectacles.
These immense enclosures alone can contain at the same time civil
war and an odd and indescribable tranquillity. Ordinarilywhen an
insurrection commenceswhen the shop-keeper hears the drumthe call
to armsthe general alarmhe contents himself with the remark:--



There appears to be a squabble in the Rue Saint-Martin.

Or:-


In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.

Often he adds carelessly:-


Or somewhere in that direction.

Later onwhen the heart-rending and mournful hubbub of musketry
and firing by platoons becomes audiblethe shopkeeper says:--


It's getting hot! Hullo, it's getting hot!


A moment laterthe riot approaches and gains in forcehe shuts up
his shop precipitatelyhastily dons his uniformthat is to say
he places his merchandise in safety and risks his own person.


Men fire in a squarein a passagein a blind alley; they take
and re-take the barricade; blood flowsthe grape-shot riddles
the fronts of the housesthe balls kill people in their beds
corpses encumber the streets. A few streets awaythe shock
of billiard-balls can be heard in the cafes.


The theatres open their doors and present vaudevilles; the curious
laugh and chat a couple of paces distant from these streets filled
with war. Hackney-carriages go their way; passers-by are going
to a dinner somewhere in town. Sometimes in the very quarter
where the fighting is going on.


In 1831a fusillade was stopped to allow a wedding party to pass.


At the time of the insurrection of 1839in the Rue Saint-Martin a little
infirm old manpushing a hand-cart surmounted by a tricolored rag
in which he had carafes filled with some sort of liquidwent and
came from barricade to troops and from troops to the barricade
offering his glasses of cocoa impartially--now to the Government
now to anarchy.


Nothing can be stranger; and this is the peculiar character of
uprisings in Pariswhich cannot be found in any other capital.
To this endtwo things are requisitethe size of Paris and its gayety.
The city of Voltaire and Napoleon is necessary.


On this occasionhoweverin the resort to arms of June 25th1832
the great city felt something which wasperhapsstronger than itself.
It was afraid.


Closed doorswindowsand shutters were to be seen everywhere
in the most distant and most "disinterested" quarters. The courageous
took to armsthe poltroons hid. The busy and heedless passer-by
disappeared. Many streets were empty at four o'clock in the morning.


Alarming details were hawked aboutfatal news was disseminated--
that they were masters of the Bank;--that there were six hundred
of them in the Cloister of Saint-Merry aloneentrenched and embattled
in the church; that the line was not to be depended on; that Armand
Carrel had been to see Marshal Clausel and that the Marshal had said:
Get a regiment first; that Lafayette was illbut that he had
said to themnevertheless: "I am with you. I will follow you
wherever there is room for a chair"; that one must be on one's guard;
that at night there would be people pillaging isolated dwellings



in the deserted corners of Paris (there the imagination of the police
that Anne Radcliffe mixed up with the Government was recognizable);
that a battery had been established in the Rue Aubry le Boucher;
that Lobau and Bugeaud were putting their heads togetherand that
at midnightor at daybreak at latestfour columns would march
simultaneously on the centre of the uprisingthe first coming from
the Bastillethe second from the Porte Saint-Martinthe third
from the Grevethe fourth from the Halles; that perhapsalso
the troops would evacuate Paris and withdraw to the Champ-de-Mars;
that no one knew what would happenbut that this timeit certainly
was serious.


People busied themselves over Marshal Soult's hesitations. Why did
not he attack at once? It is certain that he was profoundly absorbed.
The old lion seemed to scent an unknown monster in that gloom.


Evening camethe theatres did not open; the patrols circulated with
an air of irritation; passers-by were searched; suspicious persons
were arrested. By nine o'clockmore than eight hundred persons
had been arrestedthe Prefecture of Police was encumbered with them
so was the Conciergerieso was La Force.


At the Conciergerie in particularthe long vault which is
called the Rue de Paris was littered with trusses of straw upon
which lay a heap of prisonerswhom the man of LyonsLagrange
harangued valiantly. All that straw rustled by all these men
produced the sound of a heavy shower. Elsewhere prisoners
slept in the open air in the meadowspiled on top of each other.


Anxiety reigned everywhereand a certain tremor which was not
habitual with Paris.


People barricaded themselves in their houses; wives and mothers
were uneasy; nothing was to be heard but this: "Ah! my God!
He has not come home!" There was hardly even the distant rumble
of a vehicle to be heard.


People listened on their thresholdsto the rumorsthe shouts
the tumultthe dull and indistinct soundsto the things that
were said: "It is cavalry or: Those are the caissons galloping
to the trumpets, the drums, the firing, and, above all, to that
lamentable alarm peal from Saint-Merry.


They waited for the first cannon-shot. Men sprang up at the corners
of the streets and disappeared, shouting: Go home!" And people made
haste to bolt their doors. They said: "How will all this end?"
From moment to momentin proportion as the darkness descended
Paris seemed to take on a more mournful hue from the formidable
flaming of the revolt.


BOOK ELEVENTH.--THE ATOM FRATERNIZES WITH THE HURRICANE


CHAPTER I


SOME EXPLANATIONS WITH REGARD TO THE ORIGIN OF GAVROCHE'S POETRY.
THE INFLUENCE OF AN ACADEMICIAN ON THIS POETRY


At the instant when the insurrectionarising from the shock
of the populace and the military in front of the Arsenal



started a movement in advance and towards the rear in the multitude
which was following the hearse and whichthrough the whole
length of the boulevardsweighedso to speakon the head of
the processionthere arose a frightful ebb. The rout was shaken
their ranks were brokenall ranfledmade their escape
some with shouts of attackothers with the pallor of flight.
The great river which covered the boulevards divided in a twinkling
overflowed to right and leftand spread in torrents over two
hundred streets at once with the roar of a sewer that has broken loose.


At that momenta ragged child who was coming down through the
Rue Menilmontantholding in his hand a branch of blossoming laburnum
which he had just plucked on the heights of Bellevillecaught sight of
an old holster-pistol in the show-window of a bric-a-brac merchant's shop.


Mother What's-your-name, I'm going to borrow your machine.


And off he ran with the pistol.


Two minutes latera flood of frightened bourgeois who were fleeing
through the Rue Amelot and the Rue Basseencountered the lad
brandishing his pistol and singing:--


La nuit on ne voit rien
Le jour on voit tres bien
D'un ecrit apocrypha
Le bourgeois s'ebouriffe
Pratiquez la vertu
Tutuchapeau pointu![44]


[44] At night one sees nothingby day one sees very well;
the bourgeois gets flurried over an apocryphal scrawl
practice virtuetutupointed hat!
It was little Gavroche on his way to the wars.


On the boulevard he noticed that the pistol had no trigger.


Who was the author of that couplet which served to punctuate his march
and of all the other songs which he was fond of singing on occasion?
We know not. Who does know? Himselfperhaps. HoweverGavroche was
well up in all the popular tunes in circulationand he mingled with
them his own chirpings. An observing urchin and a roguehe made a
potpourri of the voices of nature and the voices of Paris. He combined
the repertory of the birds with the repertory of the workshops.
He was acquainted with thievesa tribe contiguous to his own.
He hadit appearsbeen for three months apprenticed to a printer.
He had one day executed a commission for M. Baour-Lormianone of
the Forty. Gavroche was a gamin of letters.


MoreoverGavroche had no suspicion of the fact that when he
had offered the hospitality of his elephant to two brats on that
villainously rainy nightit was to his own brothers that he
had played the part of Providence. His brothers in the evening
his father in the morning; that is what his night had been like.
On quitting the Rue des Ballets at daybreakhe had returned in haste
to the elephanthad artistically extracted from it the two brats
had shared with them some sort of breakfast which he had invented
and had then gone awayconfiding them to that good mother
the streetwho had brought him upalmost entirely. On leaving them
he had appointed to meet them at the same spot in the evening
and had left them this discourse by way of a farewell: "I break a cane



otherwise expressedI cut my stickoras they say at the court
I file off. If you don't find papa and mammayoung 'unscome back
here this evening. I'll scramble you up some supperand I'll give
you a shakedown." The two childrenpicked up by some policeman
and placed in the refugeor stolen by some mountebankor having
simply strayed off in that immense Chinese puzzle of a Paris
did not return. The lowest depths of the actual social world
are full of these lost traces. Gavroche did not see them again.
Ten or twelve weeks had elapsed since that night. More than once he
had scratched the back of his head and said: "Where the devil are my
two children?"

In the meantimehe had arrivedpistol in handin the Rue du
Pont-aux-Choux. He noticed that there was but one shop open
in that streetanda matter worthy of reflectionthat was
a pastry-cook's shop. This presented a providential occasion
to eat another apple-turnover before entering the unknown.
Gavroche haltedfumbled in his fobturned his pocket inside out
found nothingnot even a souand began to shout: "Help!"

It is hard to miss the last cake.

NeverthelessGavroche pursued his way.

Two minutes later he was in the Rue Saint-Louis. While traversing
the Rue du Parc-Royalhe felt called upon to make good the loss
of the apple-turnover which had been impossibleand he indulged
himself in the immense delight of tearing down the theatre posters
in broad daylight.

A little further onon catching sight of a group
of comfortable-looking personswho seemed to be
landed proprietorshe shrugged his shoulders and spit out
at random before him this mouthful of philosophical bile as they passed:

How fat those moneyed men are! They're drunk! They just
wallow in good dinners. Ask 'em what they do with their money.
They don't know. They eat it, that's what they do! As much
as their bellies will hold.

CHAPTER II

GAVROCHE ON THE MARCH

The brandishing of a triggerless pistolgrasped in one's hand
in the open streetis so much of a public function that Gavroche
felt his fervor increasing with every moment. Amid the scraps
of the Marseillaise which he was singinghe shouted:-


All goes well. I suffer a great deal in my left paw, I'm all broken
up with rheumatism, but I'm satisfied, citizens. All that the
bourgeois have to do is to bear themselves well, I'll sneeze them
out subversive couplets. What are the police spies? Dogs. And I'd
just like to have one of them at the end of my pistol. I'm just from
the boulevard, my friends. It's getting hot there, it's getting
into a little boil, it's simmering. It's time to skim the pot.
Forward march, men! Let an impure blood inundate the furrows!
I give my days to my country, I shall never see my concubine more,
Nini, finished, yes, Nini? But never mind! Long live joy!
Let's fight, crebleu! I've had enough of despotism.


At that momentthe horse of a lancer of the National Guard
having fallenGavroche laid his pistol on the pavementand picked
up the manthen he assisted in raising the horse. After which he
picked up his pistol and resumed his way. In the Rue de Thorigny
all was peace and silence. This apathypeculiar to the Marais
presented a contrast with the vast surrounding uproar. Four gossips
were chatting in a doorway.


Scotland has trios of witchesParis has quartettes of old gossiping hags;
and the "Thou shalt be King" could be quite as mournfully hurled
at Bonaparte in the Carrefour Baudoyer as at Macbeth on the heath
of Armuyr. The croak would be almost identical.


The gossips of the Rue de Thorigny busied themselves only with
their own concerns. Three of them were portressesand the fourth
was a rag-picker with her basket on her back.


All four of them seemed to be standing at the four corners of old age
which are decrepitudedecayruinand sadness.


The rag-picker was humble. In this open-air societyit is
the rag-picker who salutes and the portress who patronizes.
This is caused by the corner for refusewhich is fat or lean
according to the will of the portressesand after the fancy
of the one who makes the heap. There may be kindness in the broom.


This rag-picker was a grateful creatureand she smiledwith what
a smile! on the three portresses. Things of this nature were said:--


Ah, by the way, is your cat still cross?


Good gracious, cats are naturally the enemies of dogs, you know.
It's the dogs who complain.


And people also.


But the fleas from a cat don't go after people.


That's not the trouble, dogs are dangerous. I remember one year
when there were so many dogs that it was necessary to put it in
the newspapers. That was at the time when there were at the Tuileries
great sheep that drew the little carriage of the King of Rome.
Do you remember the King of Rome?


I liked the Duc de Bordeau better.


I knew Louis XVIII. I prefer Louis XVIII.


Meat is awfully dear, isn't it, Mother Patagon?


Ah! don't mention it, the butcher's shop is a horror.
A horrible horror--one can't afford anything but the poor cuts nowadays.


Here the rag-picker interposed:--


Ladies, business is dull. The refuse heaps are miserable.
No one throws anything away any more. They eat everything.


There are poorer people than you, la Vargouleme.


Ah, that's true,replied the rag-pickerwith deference
I have a profession.


A pause succeededand the rag-pickeryielding to that necessity



for boasting which lies at the bottom of manadded:--


In the morning, on my return home, I pick over my basket, I sort
my things. This makes heaps in my room. I put the rags in a basket,
the cores and stalks in a bucket, the linen in my cupboard,
the woollen stuff in my commode, the old papers in the corner
of the window, the things that are good to eat in my bowl,
the bits of glass in my fireplace, the old shoes behind my door,
and the bones under my bed.


Gavroche had stopped behind her and was listening.


Old ladies,said hewhat do you mean by talking politics?


He was assailed by a broadsidecomposed of a quadruple howl.


Here's another rascal.


What's that he's got in his paddle? A pistol?


Well, I'd like to know what sort of a beggar's brat this is?


That sort of animal is never easy unless he's overturning
the authorities.


Gavroche disdainfully contented himselfby way of reprisal
with elevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening his
hand wide.


The rag-picker cried:--


You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch!


The one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her hands
together in horror.


There's going to be evil doings, that's certain. The errand-boy
next door has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass every day
with a young person in a pink bonnet on his arm; to-day I saw him pass,
and he had a gun on his arm. Mame Bacheux says, that last week
there was a revolution at--at--at--where's the calf!--at Pontoise.
And then, there you see him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol!
It seems that the Celestins are full of pistols. What do you suppose
the Government can do with good-for-nothings who don't know how to do
anything but contrive ways of upsetting the world, when we had just begun
to get a little quiet after all the misfortunes that have happened,
good Lord! to that poor queen whom I saw pass in the tumbril!
And all this is going to make tobacco dearer. It's infamous!
And I shall certainly go to see him beheaded on the guillotine,
the wretch!


You've got the sniffles, old lady,said Gavroche.
Blow your promontory.


And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Paveethe rag-picker
occurred to his mindand he indulged in this soliloquy:--


You're in the wrong to insult the revolutionists,
Mother Dust-Heap-Corner. This pistol is in your interests.
It's so that you may have more good things to eat in your basket.


All at oncehe heard a shout behind him; it was the portress
Patagon who had followed himand who was shaking her fist at him
in the distance and crying:--



You're nothing but a bastard.

Oh! Come now,said GavrocheI don't care a brass farthing
for that!

Shortly afterwardshe passed the Hotel Lamoignon. There he uttered
this appeal:-


Forward march to the battle!

And he was seized with a fit of melancholy. He gazed at his pistol
with an air of reproach which seemed an attempt to appease it:-


I'm going off,said hebut you won't go off!

One dog may distract the attention from another dog.[45] A very gaunt
poodle came along at the moment. Gavroche felt compassion for him.

[45] Chiendogtrigger.
My poor doggy,said heyou must have gone and swallowed a cask,
for all the hoops are visible.


Then he directed his course towards l'Orme-Saint-Gervais.


CHAPTER III


JUST INDIGNATION OF A HAIR-DRESSER


The worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the two
little fellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal interior
of the elephant was at that moment in his shop engaged in shaving
an old soldier of the legion who had served under the Empire.
They were talking. The hair-dresser hadnaturallyspoken to the
veteran of the riotthen of General Lamarqueand from Lamarque
they had passed to the Emperor. Thence sprang up a conversation
between barber and soldier which Prudhommehad he been present
would have enriched with arabesquesand which he would have entitled:
Dialogue between the razor and the sword.


How did the Emperor ride, sir?said the barber.


Badly. He did not know how to fall--so he never fell.


Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses!


On the day when he gave me my cross, I noticed his beast.
It was a racing mare, perfectly white. Her ears were very wide apart,
her saddle deep, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck,
strongly articulated knees, prominent ribs, oblique shoulders and
a powerful crupper. A little more than fifteen hands in height.


A pretty horse,remarked the hair-dresser.


It was His Majesty's beast.


The hair-dresser feltthat after this observationa short silence
would be fittingso he conformed himself to itand then went on:--



The Emperor was never wounded but once, was he, sir?

The old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign tone of a man
who had been there:-


In the heel. At Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed as on
that day. He was as neat as a new sou.

And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been often wounded?

I?said the soldierah! not to amount to anything. At Marengo,
I received two sabre-blows on the back of my neck, a bullet
in the right arm at Austerlitz, another in the left hip at Jena.
At Friedland, a thrust from a bayonet, there,--at the Moskowa seven
or eight lance-thrusts, no matter where, at Lutzen a splinter
of a shell crushed one of my fingers. Ah! and then at Waterloo,
a ball from a biscaien in the thigh, that's all.

How fine that is!exclaimed the hair-dresserin Pindaric accents
to die on the field of battle! On my word of honor, rather than
die in bed, of an illness, slowly, a bit by bit each day,
with drugs, cataplasms, syringes, medicines, I should prefer
to receive a cannon-ball in my belly!

You're not over fastidious,said the soldier.

He had hardly spoken when a fearful crash shook the shop.
The show-window had suddenly been fractured.

The wig-maker turned pale.

Ah, good God!he exclaimedit's one of them!

What?

A cannon-ball.

Here it is,said the soldier.

And he picked up something that was rolling about the floor.
It was a pebble.

The hair-dresser ran to the broken window and beheld Gavroche fleeing
at the full speedtowards the Marche Saint-Jean. As he passed the
hair-dresser's shop Gavrochewho had the two brats still in his mind
had not been able to resist the impulse to say good day to him
and had flung a stone through his panes.

You see!shrieked the hair-dresserwho from white had turned blue
that fellow returns and does mischief for the pure pleasure of it.
What has any one done to that gamin?

CHAPTER IV

THE CHILD IS AMAZED AT THE OLD MAN

In the meantimein the Marche Saint-Jeanwhere the post had
already been disarmedGavroche had just "effected a junction"
with a band led by EnjolrasCourfeyracCombeferreand Feuilly.
They were armed after a fashion. Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had found


them and swelled the group. Enjolras had a double-barrelled hunting-gun
Combeferre the gun of a National Guard bearing the number of his legion
and in his belttwo pistols which his unbuttoned coat allowed
to be seenJean Prouvaire an old cavalry musketBahorel a rifle;
Courfeyrac was brandishing an unsheathed sword-cane. Feuilly
with a naked sword in his handmarched at their head shouting:
Long live Poland!


They reached the Quai Morland. Cravatlesshatlessbreathless
soaked by the rainwith lightning in their eyes. Gavroche accosted
them calmly:--


Where are we going?


Come along,said Courfeyrac.


Behind Feuilly marchedor rather boundedBahorelwho was
like a fish in water in a riot. He wore a scarlet waistcoat
and indulged in the sort of words which break everything.
His waistcoat astounded a passer-bywho cried in bewilderment:--


Here are the reds!


The reds, the reds!retorted Bahorel. "A queer kind
of fearbourgeois. For my part I don't tremble before a poppy
the little red hat inspires me with no alarm. Take my advice
bourgeoislet's leave fear of the red to horned cattle."


He caught sight of a corner of the wall on which was placarded the
most peaceable sheet of paper in the worlda permission to eat eggs
a Lenten admonition addressed by the Archbishop of Paris to his "flock."


Bahorel exclaimed:--


`Flock'; a polite way of saying geese.


And he tore the charge from the nail. This conquered Gavroche.
From that instant Gavroche set himself to study Bahorel.


Bahorel,observed Enjolrasyou are wrong. You should have let
that charge alone, he is not the person with whom we have to deal,
you are wasting your wrath to no purpose. Take care of your supply.
One does not fire out of the ranks with the soul any more than with
a gun.


Each one in his own fashion, Enjolras,retorted Bahorel.
This bishop's prose shocks me; I want to eat eggs without
being permitted. Your style is the hot and cold; I am amusing
myself. Besides, I'm not wasting myself, I'm getting a start;
and if I tore down that charge, Hercle! 'twas only to whet my appetite.


This wordHerclestruck Gavroche. He sought all occasions
for learningand that tearer-down of posters possessed his esteem.
He inquired of him:--


What does Hercle mean?


Bahorel answered:--


It means cursed name of a dog, in Latin.


Here Bahorel recognized at a window a pale young man with a black
beard who was watching them as they passedprobably a Friend
of the A B C. He shouted to him:--



Quick, cartridges, para bellum.

A fine man! that's true,said Gavrochewho now understood Latin.

A tumultuous retinue accompanied them--studentsartistsyoung men
affiliated to the Cougourde of Aixartisanslongshoremen
armed with clubs and bayonets; somelike Combeferrewith pistols
thrust into their trousers.

An old manwho appeared to be extremely agedwas walking in the band.

He had no armsand he made great hasteso that he might not be
left behindalthough he had a thoughtful air.

Gavroche caught sight of him:-


Keksekca?said he to Courfeyrac.

He's an old duffer.

It was M. Mabeuf.

CHAPTER V

THE OLD MAN

Let us recount what had taken place.

Enjolras and his friends had been on the Boulevard Bourdon
near the public storehousesat the moment when the dragoons had made
their charge. EnjolrasCourfeyracand Combeferre were among those
who had taken to the Rue Bassompierreshouting: "To the barricades!"
In the Rue Lesdiguieres they had met an old man walking along.
What had attracted their attention was that the goodman was walking
in a zig-zagas though he were intoxicated. Moreoverhe had his
hat in his handalthough it had been raining all the morning
and was raining pretty briskly at the very time. Courfeyrac had
recognized Father Mabeuf. He knew him through having many times
accompanied Marius as far as his door. As he was acquainted with the
peaceful and more than timid habits of the old beadle-book-collector
and was amazed at the sight of him in the midst of that uproar
a couple of paces from the cavalry chargesalmost in the midst
of a fusilladehatless in the rainand strolling about among
the bulletshe had accosted himand the following dialogue
had been exchanged between the rioter of fire and the octogenarian:-


M. Mabeuf, go to your home.

Why?

There's going to be a row.

That's well.

Thrusts with the sword and firing, M. Mabeuf.

That is well.

Firing from cannon.


That is good. Where are the rest of you going?

We are going to fling the government to the earth.

That is good.

And he had set out to follow them. From that moment forth he
had not uttered a word. His step had suddenly become firm;
artisans had offered him their arms; he had refused with a sign
of the head. He advanced nearly to the front rank of the column
with the movement of a man who is marching and the countenance
of a man who is sleeping.

What a fierce old fellow!muttered the students. The rumor spread
through the troop that he was a former member of the Convention-an
old regicide. The mob had turned in through the Rue de la Verrerie.

Little Gavroche marched in front with that deafening song which made
of him a sort of trumpet.

He sang:

Voici la lune qui paratt,
Quand irons-nous dans la foret?
Demandait Charlot a Charlotte.


Tou tou tou
Pour Chatou.
Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un liard, et qu'une botte.

Pour avoir bu de grand matin
La rosee a meme le thym
Deux moineaux etaient en ribotte.


Zi zi zi
Pour Passy.
Je n'ai qu'un Dieuqu'un roiqu'un liardet qu'une botte.

Et ces deux pauvres petits loups,
Comme deux grives estaient souls;
Une tigre en riait dans sa grotte.


Don don don
Pour Meudon.
Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un liard, et qu'une botte.

L'un jurait et l'autre sacrait.
Quand irons nous dans la foret?
Demandait Charlot a Charlotte.


Tin tin tin
Pour Pantin.
Je n'ai qu'un Dieuqu'un roiqu'un liardet qu'une botte."[46]

They directed their course towards Saint-Merry.

[46] Here is the morn appearing. When shall we go to the forest
Charlot asked Charlotte. Toutoutoufor ChatouI have but one God
one Kingone half-farthingand one boot. And these two poor little
wolves were as tipsy as sparrows from having drunk dew and thyme very
early in the morning. And these two poor little things were as drunk
as thrushes in a vineyard; a tiger laughed at them in his cave.
The one cursedthe other swore. When shall we go to the forest?
Charlot asked Charlotte.

CHAPTER VI

RECRUITS

The band augmented every moment. Near the Rue des Billettes
a man of lofty staturewhose hair was turning grayand whose bold
and daring mien was remarked by CourfeyracEnjolrasand Combeferre
but whom none of them knewjoined them. Gavrochewho was occupied
in singingwhistlinghummingrunning on ahead and pounding on
the shutters of the shops with the butt of his triggerless pistol;
paid no attention to this man.

It chanced that in the Rue de la Verreriethey passed in front
of Courfeyrac's door.

This happens just right,said CourfeyracI have forgotten my purse,
and I have lost my hat.

He quitted the mob and ran up to his quarters at full speed.
He seized an old hat and his purse.

He also seized a large square cofferof the dimensions
of a large valisewhich was concealed under his soiled linen.

As he descended again at a runthe portress hailed him:-


Monsieur de Courfeyrac!

What's your name, portress?

The portress stood bewildered.

Why, you know perfectly well, I'm the concierge; my name
is Mother Veuvain.

Well, if you call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac again, I shall call you
Mother de Veuvain. Now speak, what's the matter? What do you want?

There is some one who wants to speak with you.

Who is it?

I don't know.

Where is he?

In my lodge.

The devil!ejaculated Courfeyrac.

But the person has been waiting your return for over an hour,
said the portress.

At the same timea sort of palethinsmallfreckledand
youthful artisanclad in a tattered blouse and patched trousers
of ribbed velvetand who had rather the air of a girl accoutred
as a man than of a manemerged from the lodge and said to Courfeyrac
in a voice which was not the least in the world like a woman's voice:-


Monsieur Marius, if you please.


He is not here.

Will he return this evening?

I know nothing about it.

And Courfeyrac added:-


For my part, I shall not return.

The young man gazed steadily at him and said:-


Why not?

Because.

Where are you going, then?

What business is that of yours?

Would you like to have me carry your coffer for you?

I am going to the barricades.

Would you like to have me go with you?

If you like!replied Courfeyrac. "The street is freethe pavements
belong to every one."

And he made his escape at a run to join his friends. When he
had rejoined themhe gave the coffer to one of them to carry.
It was only a quarter of an hour after this that he saw the young man
who had actually followed them.

A mob does not go precisely where it intends. We have explained
that a gust of wind carries it away. They overshot Saint-Merry
and found themselveswithout precisely knowing howin the Rue
Saint-Denis.

BOOK TWELFTH.--CORINTHE

CHAPTER I

HISTORY OF CORINTHE FROM ITS FOUNDATION

The Parisians who nowadays on entering on the Rue Rambuteau at the end
near the Hallesnotice on their rightopposite the Rue Mondetour
a basket-maker's shop having for its sign a basket in the form
of Napoleon the Great with this inscription:-


NAPOLEON IS MADE
WHOLLY OF WILLOW

have no suspicion of the terrible scenes which this very spot
witnessed hardly thirty years ago.

It was there that lay the Rue de la Chanvreriewhich ancient deeds
spell Chanverrerieand the celebrated public-house called Corinthe.


The reader will remember all that has been said about the
barricade effected at this pointand eclipsedby the way
by the barricade Saint-Merry. It was on this famous barricade
of the Rue de la Chanvrerienow fallen into profound obscurity
that we are about to shed a little light.


May we be permitted to recurfor the sake of clearness in the recital
to the simple means which we have already employed in the case
of Waterloo. Persons who wish to picture to themselves in a
tolerably exact manner the constitution of the houses which stood
at that epoch near the Pointe Saint-Eustacheat the northeast
angle of the Halles of Pariswhere to-day lies the embouchure
of the Rue Rambuteauhave only to imagine an N touching the Rue
Saint-Denis with its summit and the Halles with its baseand whose
two vertical bars should form the Rue de la Grande-Truanderie
and the Rue de la Chanvrerieand whose transverse bar should be
formed by the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The old Rue Mondetour
cut the three strokes of the N at the most crooked angles.
So that the labyrinthine confusion of these four streets sufficed
to formon a space three fathoms squarebetween the Halles and
the Rue Saint-Denis on the one handand between the Rue du Cygne
and the Rue des Precheurs on the otherseven islands of houses
oddly cut upof varying sizesplaced crosswise and hap-hazardand
barely separatedlike the blocks of stone in a dockby narrow crannies.


We say narrow cranniesand we can give no more just idea of those dark
contractedmany-angled alleyslined with eight-story buildings.
These buildings were so decrepit thatin the Rue de la Chanvrerie
and the Rue de la Petite-Truanderiethe fronts were shored up
with beams running from one house to another. The street was narrow
and the gutter broadthe pedestrian there walked on a pavement
that was always wetskirting little stalls resembling cellars
big posts encircled with iron hoopsexcessive heaps of refuse
and gates armed with enormouscentury-old gratings. The Rue
Rambuteau has devastated all that.


The name of Mondetour paints marvellously well the sinuosities of
that whole set of streets. A little further onthey are found still
better expressed by the Rue Pirouettewhich ran into the Rue Mondetour.


The passer-by who got entangled from the Rue Saint-Denis in the Rue
de la Chanvrerie beheld it gradually close in before him as though
he had entered an elongated funnel. At the end of this street
which was very shorthe found further passage barred in the direction
of the Halles by a tall row of housesand he would have thought
himself in a blind alleyhad he not perceived on the right and left
two dark cuts through which he could make his escape. This was
the Rue Mondetourwhich on one side ran into the Rue de Precheurs
and on the other into the Rue du Cygne and the Petite-Truanderie. At
the bottom of this sort of cul-de-sacat the angle of the cutting
on the rightthere was to be seen a house which was not so tall
as the restand which formed a sort of cape in the street.
It is in this houseof two stories onlythat an illustrious
wine-shop had been merrily installed three hundred years before.
This tavern created a joyous noise in the very spot which old
Theophilus described in the following couplet:--


La branle le squelette horrible
D'un pauvre amant qui se pendit.[47]

[47] There swings the horrible skeleton of a poor lover who hung himself.

The situation was goodand tavern-keepers succeeded each other there
from father to son.


In the time of Mathurin Regnierthis cabaret was called the
Pot-aux-Rosesand as the rebus was then in fashionit had for its
sign-boarda post (poteau) painted rose-color. In the last century
the worthy Natoireone of the fantastic masters nowadays despised
by the stiff schoolhaving got drunk many times in this wine-shop
at the very table where Regnier had drunk his fillhad painted
by way of gratitudea bunch of Corinth grapes on the pink post.
The keeper of the cabaretin his joyhad changed his device and had
caused to be placed in gilt letters beneath the bunch these words:
At the Bunch of Corinth Grapes("Au Raisin de Corinthe"). Hence the name
of Corinthe. Nothing is more natural to drunken men than ellipses.
The ellipsis is the zig-zag of the phrase. Corinthe gradually
dethroned the Pot-aux-Roses. The last proprietor of the dynasty
Father Hucheloupno longer acquainted even with the tradition
had the post painted blue.


A room on the ground floorwhere the bar was situatedone on the
first floor containing a billiard-tablea wooden spiral staircase
piercing the ceilingwine on the tablessmoke on the walls
candles in broad daylight--this was the style of this cabaret.
A staircase with a trap-door in the lower room led to the cellar.
On the second floor were the lodgings of the Hucheloup family.
They were reached by a staircase which was a ladder rather than
a staircaseand had for their entrance only a private door in the
large room on the first floor. Under the roofin two mansard attics
were the nests for the servants. The kitchen shared the ground-floor
with the tap-room.


Father Hucheloup hadpossiblybeen born a chemistbut the fact
is that he was a cook; people did not confine themselves to drinking
alone in his wine-shopthey also ate there. Hucheloup had invented
a capital thing which could be eaten nowhere but in his house
stuffed carpswhich he called carpes au gras. These were eaten by
the light of a tallow candle or of a lamp of the time of Louis XVI.
on tables to which were nailed waxed cloths in lieu of table-cloths.
People came thither from a distance. Hucheloupone fine morning
had seen fit to notify passers-by of this "specialty"; he had dipped
a brush in a pot of black paintand as he was an orthographer
on his own accountas well as a cook after his own fashion
he had improvised on his wall this remarkable inscription:--


CARPES HO GRAS.

One winterthe rain-storms and the showers had taken a fancy
to obliterate the S which terminated the first wordand the G
which began the third; this is what remained:-


CARPE HO RAS.

Time and rain assistinga humble gastronomical announcement had
become a profound piece of advice.


In this way it came aboutthat though he knew no FrenchFather Hucheloup
understood Latinthat he had evoked philosophy from his kitchen
and thatdesirous simply of effacing Lenthe had equalled Horace.
And the striking thing about it wasthat that also meant:
Enter my wine-shop.



Nothing of all this is in existence now. The Mondetour labyrinth
was disembowelled and widely opened in 1847and probably no longer
exists at the present moment. The Rue de la Chanvrerie and Corinthe
have disappeared beneath the pavement of the Rue Rambuteau.


As we have already saidCorinthe was the meeting-place if not the
rallying-pointof Courfeyrac and his friends. It was Grantaire
who had discovered Corinthe. He had entered it on account of the
Carpe horasand had returned thither on account of the Carpes
au gras. There they drankthere they atethere they shouted;
they did not pay muchthey paid badlythey did not pay at all
but they were always welcome. Father Hucheloup was a jovial host.


Hucheloupthat amiable manas was just saidwas a wine-shop-keeper
with a mustache; an amusing variety. He always had an ill-tempered air
seemed to wish to intimidate his customersgrumbled at the people
who entered his establishmentand had rather the mien of seeking
a quarrel with them than of serving them with soup. And yet
we insist upon the wordpeople were always welcome there. This oddity
had attracted customers to his shopand brought him young men
who said to each other: "Come hear Father Hucheloup growl." He had
been a fencing-master. All of a suddenhe would burst out laughing.
A big voicea good fellow. He had a comic foundation under
a tragic exteriorhe asked nothing better than to frighten you
very much like those snuff-boxes which are in the shape of a pistol.
The detonation makes one sneeze.


Mother Huchelouphis wifewas a bearded and a very homely creature.


About 1830Father Hucheloup died. With him disappeared the secret
of stuffed carps. His inconsolable widow continued to keep the
wine-shop. But the cooking deterioratedand became execrable;
the winewhich had always been badbecame fearfully bad.
NeverthelessCourfeyrac and his friends continued to go to Corinthe--
out of pityas Bossuet said.


The Widow Hucheloup was breathless and misshapen and given
to rustic recollections. She deprived them of their flatness
by her pronunciation. She had a way of her own of saying things
which spiced her reminiscences of the village and of her springtime.
It had formerly been her delightso she affirmedto hear
the loups-de-gorge (rouges-gorges) chanter dans les ogrepines
(aubepines)--to hear the redbreasts sing in the hawthorn-trees.


The hall on the first floorwhere "the restaurant" was situated
was a large and long apartment encumbered with stoolschairsbenches
and tablesand with a crippledlameold billiard-table. It
was reached by a spiral staircase which terminated in the corner
of the room at a square hole like the hatchway of a ship.


This roomlighted by a single narrow windowand by a lamp that
was always burninghad the air of a garret. All the four-footed
furniture comported itself as though it had but three legs--
the whitewashed walls had for their only ornament the following
quatrain in honor of Mame Hucheloup:--


Elle etonne a dix paselle epouvente a deux
Une verrue habite en son nez hasardeux;
On tremble a chaque instant qu'elle ne vous la mouche
Et qu'un beau jour son nez ne tombe dans sa bouche.[48]


[48] She astounds at ten pacesshe frightens at twoa wart inhabits
her hazardous nose; you tremble every instant lest she should blow it

at youand lestsome fine dayher nose should tumble into her mouth.

This was scrawled in charcoal on the wall.

Mame Hucheloupa good likenesswent and came from morning till
night before this quatrain with the most perfect tranquillity.
Two serving-maidsnamed Matelote and Gibelotte[49] and who had
never been known by any other nameshelped Mame Hucheloup to set
on the tables the jugs of poor wineand the various broths
which were served to the hungry patrons in earthenware bowls.
Matelotelargeplumpredhairedand noisythe favorite
ex-sultana of the defunct Hucheloupwas homelier than any
mythological monsterbe it what it may; stillas it becomes the
servant to always keep in the rear of the mistressshe was less
homely than Mame Hucheloup. Gibelottetalldelicatewhite with
a lymphatic pallorwith circles round her eyesand drooping lids
always languid and wearyafflicted with what may be called
chronic lassitudethe first up in the house and the last in bed
waited on every oneeven the other maidsilently and gently
smiling through her fatigue with a vague and sleepy smile.

[49] Matelote: a culinary preparation of various fishes.
Gibelotte: stewed rabbits.
Before entering the restaurant roomthe visitor read on the door
the following line written there in chalk by Courfeyrac:-


Regale si tu peux et mange si tu l'oses.[50]

[50] Treat if you canand eat if you dare.
CHAPTER II


PRELIMINARY GAYETIES


Laigle de Meauxas the reader knowslived more with Joly
than elsewhere. He had a lodgingas a bird has one on a branch.
The two friends lived togetherate togetherslept together.
They had everything in commoneven Musichettato some extent.
They werewhat the subordinate monks who accompany monks
are calledbini. On the morning of the 5th of Junethey went to
Corinthe to breakfast. Jolywho was all stuffed uphad a catarrh
which Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare
but Joly was well dressed.


It was about nine o'clock in the morningwhen they opened the door
of Corinthe.


They ascended to the first floor.


Matelote and Gibelotte received them.


Oysters, cheese, and ham,said Laigle.


And they seated themselves at a table.


The wine-shop was empty; there was no one there but themselves.



Gibelotteknowing Joly and Laigleset a bottle of wine on the table.

While they were busy with their first oystersa head appeared
at the hatchway of the staircaseand a voice said:-


I am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor
of Brie cheese. I enter.It was Grantaire.

Grantaire took a stool and drew up to the table.

At the sight of GrantaireGibelotte placed two bottles of wine
on the table.

That made three.

Are you going to drink those two bottles?Laigle inquired
of Grantaire.

Grantaire replied:-


All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles never
yet astonished a man.

The others had begun by eatingGrantaire began by drinking.
Half a bottle was rapidly gulped down.

So you have a hole in your stomach?began Laigle again.

You have one in your elbow,said Grantaire.

And after having emptied his glasshe added:-


Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat is old.

I should hope so,retorted Laigle. "That's why we get on
well togethermy coat and I. It has acquired all my folds
it does not bind me anywhereit is moulded on my deformities
it falls in with all my movementsI am only conscious of it
because it keeps me warm. Old coats are just like old friends."

That's true,ejaculated Jolystriking into the dialogue
an old goat is an old abi(amifriend).

Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed up,
said Grantaire.

Grantaire,demanded Laiglehave you just come from the boulevard?

No.

We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly and I.

It's a marvellous sight,said Joly.

How quiet this street is!exclaimed Laigle. "Who would suspect
that Paris was turned upside down? How plainly it is to be seen
that in former days there were nothing but convents here!
In this neighborhood! Du Breul and Sauval give a list of them
and so does the Abbe Lebeuf. They were all round herethey fairly
swarmedbooted and barefootedshavenbeardedgrayblackwhite
FranciscansMinimsCapuchinsCarmelitesLittle Augustines
Great Augustinesold Augustines--there was no end of them."


Don't let's talk of monks,interrupted Grantaireit makes
one want to scratch one's self.


Then he exclaimed:--


Bouh! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochondria is taking
possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly.
I hate the human race. I just passed through the Rue Richelieu,
in front of the big public library. That pile of oyster-shells which
is called a library is disgusting even to think of. What paper!
What ink! What scrawling! And all that has been written! What rascal
was it who said that man was a featherless biped?[51] And then, I met
a pretty girl of my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring,
worthy to be called Floreal, and who is delighted, enraptured,
as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful
banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to her!
Alas! woman keeps on the watch for a protector as much as for a lover;
cats chase mice as well as birds. Two months ago that young woman
was virtuous in an attic, she adjusted little brass rings in the
eyelet-holes of corsets, what do you call it? She sewed, she had
a camp bed, she dwelt beside a pot of flowers, she was contented.
Now here she is a bankeress. This transformation took place last night.
I met the victim this morning in high spirits. The hideous point
about it is, that the jade is as pretty to-day as she was yesterday.
Her financier did not show in her face. Roses have this advantage
or disadvantage over women, that the traces left upon them by
caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no morality on earth.
I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel,
the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the symbol of peace,
the apple-tree which came nearest rangling Adam with its pips,
and the fig-tree, the grandfather of petticoats. As for right, do you
know what right is? The Gauls covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium,
and demands what wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers:
`The wrong that Alba did to you, the wrong that Fidenae did to you,
the wrong that the Eques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have done
to you. They were your neighbors. The Clusians are ours.
We understand neighborliness just as you do. You have stolen Alba,
we shall take Clusium.' Rome said: `You shall not take Clusium.'
Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: `Vae victis!' That is what right is.
Ah! what beasts of prey there are in this world! What eagles!
It makes my flesh creep.


[51] Bipede sans plume: biped without feathers--pen.
He held out his glass to Jolywho filled itthen he drank and
went onhaving hardly been interrupted by this glass of wine
of which no onenot even himselfhad taken any notice:-


Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who takes
the grisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in the one
case than in the other. So we believe in nothing. There is but
one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion may be in favor of the
lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in favor of the fat cock,
like the Canton of Glaris, it matters little, drink. You talk to me
of the boulevard, of that procession, et caetera, et caetera.
Come now, is there going to be another revolution? This poverty
of means on the part of the good God astounds me. He has to keep
greasing the groove of events every moment. There is a hitch,
it won't work. Quick, a revolution! The good God has his hands
perpetually black with that cart-grease. If I were in his place,
I'd be perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my mechanism
every minute, I'd lead the human race in a straightforward way,


I'd weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the thread, I would
have no provisional arrangements, I would have no extraordinary
repertory. What the rest of you call progress advances by means
of two motors, men and events. But, sad to say, from time to time,
the exceptional becomes necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices
neither for event nor for men: among men geniuses are required,
among events revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order
of things cannot do without them; and, judging from the apparition
of comets, one would be tempted to think that Heaven itself finds
actors needed for its performance. At the moment when one expects
it the least, God placards a meteor on the wall of the firmament.
Some queer star turns up, underlined by an enormous tail.
And that causes the death of Caesar. Brutus deals him a blow
with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. Crac, and behold
an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, behold a great man;
'93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the comet of 1811 at the head
of the poster. Ah! what a beautiful blue theatre all studded
with unexpected flashes! Boum! Boum! extraordinary show!
Raise your eyes, boobies. Everything is in disorder, the star
as well as the drama. Good God, it is too much and not enough.
These resources, gathered from exception, seem magnificence and poverty.
My friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does
a revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a coup
d'etat because he, God, has not been able to make both ends meet.
In fact, this confirms me in my conjectures as to Jehovah's fortune;
and when I see so much distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird
who has not a grain of millet to myself without a hundred thousand
livres of income, when I see human destiny, which is very badly worn,
and even royal destiny, which is threadbare, witness the Prince de
Conde hung, when I see winter, which is nothing but a rent in the
zenith through which the wind blows, when I see so many rags even
in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests of hills,
when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when I see the frost,
that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart and events patched up,
and so many spots on the sun and so many holes in the moon, when I
see so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich.
The appearance exists, it is true, but I feel that he is hard up.
He gives a revolution as a tradesman whose money-box is empty
gives a ball. God must not be judged from appearances.
Beneath the gilding of heaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe.
Creation is bankrupt. That is why I am discontented. Here it
is the 4th of June, it is almost night; ever since this morning
I have been waiting for daylight to come; it has not come, and I
bet that it won't come all day. This is the inexactness of an
ill-paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits
anything else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand on
the opposition, everything goes awry; the universe is a tease.
It's like children, those who want them have none, and those who don't
want them have them. Total: I'm vexed. Besides, Laigle de Meaux,
that bald-head, offends my sight. It humiliates me to think that I
am of the same age as that baldy. However, I criticise, but I
do not insult. The universe is what it is. I speak here without
evil intent and to ease my conscience. Receive, Eternal Father,
the assurance of my distinguished consideration. Ah! by all
the saints of Olympus and by all the gods of paradise, I was not
intended to be a Parisian, that is to say, to rebound forever,
like a shuttlecock between two battledores, from the group of the
loungers to the group of the roysterers. I was made to be a Turk,
watching oriental houris all day long, executing those exquisite
Egyptian dances, as sensuous as the dream of a chaste man, or a
Beauceron peasant, or a Venetian gentleman surrounded by gentlewoman,
or a petty German prince, furnishing the half of a foot-soldier
to the Germanic confederation, and occupying his leisure with
drying his breeches on his hedge, that is to say, his frontier.


Those are the positions for which I was born! Yes, I have said
a Turk, and I will not retract. I do not understand how people can
habitually take Turks in bad part; Mohammed had his good points;
respect for the inventor of seraglios with houris and paradises
with odalisques! Let us not insult Mohammedanism, the only religion
which is ornamented with a hen-roost! Now, I insist on a drink.
The earth is a great piece of stupidity. And it appears that they
are going to fight, all those imbeciles, and to break each other's
profiles and to massacre each other in the heart of summer, in the
month of June, when they might go off with a creature on their arm,
to breathe the immense heaps of new-mown hay in the meadows!
Really, people do commit altogether too many follies. An old broken
lantern which I have just seen at a bric-a-brac merchant's suggests
a reflection to my mind; it is time to enlighten the human race.
Yes, behold me sad again. That's what comes of swallowing an
oyster and a revolution the wrong way! I am growing melancholy
once more. Oh! frightful old world. People strive, turn each
other out, prostitute themselves, kill each other, and get used
to it!


And Grantaireafter this fit of eloquencehad a fit of coughing
which was well earned.


A propos of revolution,said Jolyit is decidedly abberent
that Barius is in lub.


Does any one know with whom?demanded Laigle.


Do.


No?


Do! I tell you.


Marius' love affairs!exclaimed Grantaire. "I can imagine it.
Marius is a fogand he must have found a vapor. Marius is of the race
of poets. He who says poetsays foolmadmanTymbraeus Apollo.
Marius and his Marieor his Marionor his Mariaor his Mariette.
They must make a queer pair of lovers. I know just what it is like.
Ecstasies in which they forget to kiss. Pure on earthbut joined
in heaven. They are souls possessed of senses. They lie among
the stars."


Grantaire was attacking his second bottle andpossiblyhis second
haranguewhen a new personage emerged from the square aperture
of the stairs. It was a boy less than ten years of ageragged
very smallyellowwith an odd phiza vivacious eyean enormous
amount of hair drenched with rainand wearing a contented air.


The child unhesitatingly making his choice among the three
addressed himself to Laigle de Meaux.


Are you Monsieur Bossuet?


That is my nickname,replied Laigle. "What do you want with me?"


This. A tall blonde fellow on the boulevard said to me:
`Do you know Mother Hucheloup?' I said: `Yes, Rue Chanvrerie,
the old man's widow;' he said to me: `Go there. There you will find


M. Bossuet. Tell him from me: A B C".' It's a joke that they're
playing on youisn't it. He gave me ten sous."
Joly, lend me ten sous,said Laigle; andturning to Grantaire:
Grantaire, lend me ten sous.


This made twenty souswhich Laigle handed to the lad.

Thank you, sir,said the urchin.

What is your name?inquired Laigle.

Navet, Gavroche's friend.

Stay with us,said Laigle.

Breakfast with us,said Grantaire

The child replied:-


I can't, I belong in the procession, I'm the one to shout `Down
with Polignac!'

And executing a prolonged scrape of his foot behind himwhich is
the most respectful of all possible saluteshe took his departure.

The child goneGrantaire took the word:-


That is the pure-bred gamin. There are a great many varieties
of the gamin species. The notary's gamin is called Skip-the-Gutter,
the cook's gamin is called a scullion, the baker's gamin is called
a mitron, the lackey's gamin is called a groom, the marine gamin is
called the cabin-boy, the soldier's gamin is called the drummer-boy,
the painter's gamin is called paint-grinder, the tradesman's gamin
is called an errand-boy, the courtesan gamin is called the minion,
the kingly gamin is called the dauphin, the god gamin is called
the bambino.

In the meantimeLaigle was engaged in reflection; he said half aloud:-


A B C, that is to say: the burial of Lamarque.

The tall blonde,remarked Grantaireis Enjolras, who is sending
you a warning.

Shall we go?ejaculated Bossuet.

It's raiding,said Joly. "I have sworn to go through fire
but not through water. I don't wand to ged a gold."

I shall stay here,said Grantaire. "I prefer a breakfast
to a hearse."

Conclusion: we remain,said Laigle. "Wellthenlet us drink.
Besideswe might miss the funeral without missing the riot."

Ah! the riot, I am with you!cried Joly.

Laigle rubbed his hands.

Now we're going to touch up the revolution of 1830. As a matter
of fact, it does hurt the people along the seams.

I don't think much of your revolution,said Grantaire. "I don't
execrate this Government. It is the crown tempered by the cotton
night-cap. It is a sceptre ending in an umbrella. In factI think
that to-daywith the present weatherLouis Philippe might utilize
his royalty in two directionshe might extend the tip of the sceptre
end against the peopleand open the umbrella end against heaven."


The room was darklarge clouds had just finished the extinction
of daylight. There was no one in the wine-shopor in the street
every one having gone off "to watch events."


Is it mid-day or midnight?cried Bossuet. "You can't see your
hand before your face. Gibelottefetch a light."


Grantaire was drinking in a melancholy way.


Enjolras disdains me,he muttered. "Enjolras said: `Joly is ill
Grantaire is drunk.' It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet.
If he had come for meI would have followed him. So much the worse
for Enjolras! I won't go to his funeral."


This resolution once arrived atBossuetJolyand Grantaire did
not stir from the wine-shop. By two o'clock in the afternoon
the table at which they sat was covered with empty bottles.
Two candles were burning on itone in a flat copper candlestick
which was perfectly greenthe other in the neck of a cracked carafe.
Grantaire had seduced Joly and Bossuet to wine; Bossuet and Joly had
conducted Grantaire back towards cheerfulness.


As for Grantairehe had got beyond winethat merely moderate inspirer
of dreamsever since mid-day. Wine enjoys only a conventional
popularity with serious drinkers. There isin factin the matter
of inebrietywhite magic and black magic; wine is only white magic.
Grantaire was a daring drinker of dreams. The blackness of a terrible
fit of drunkenness yawning before himfar from arresting him
attracted him. He had abandoned the bottle and taken to the beerglass.
The beer-glass is the abyss. Having neither opium nor hashish
on handand being desirous of filling his brain with twilight
he had had recourse to that fearful mixture of brandystoutabsinthe
which produces the most terrible of lethargies. It is of these
three vaporsbeerbrandyand absinthethat the lead of the soul
is composed. They are three grooms; the celestial butterfly is
drowned in them; and there are formed there in a membranous smoke
vaguely condensed into the wing of the batthree mute furies
NightmareNightand Deathwhich hover about the slumbering Psyche.


Grantaire had not yet reached that lamentable phase; far from it.
He was tremendously gayand Bossuet and Joly retorted.
They clinked glasses. Grantaire added to the eccentric accentuation
of words and ideasa peculiarity of gesture; he rested his left
fist on his knee with dignityhis arm forming a right angleand
with cravat untiedseated astride a stoolhis full glass in his
right handhe hurled solemn words at the big maid-servant Matelote:--


Let the doors of the palace be thrown open! Let every one be a member
of the French Academy and have the right to embrace Madame Hucheloup.
Let us drink.


And turning to Madame Huchelouphe added:--


Woman ancient and consecrated by use, draw near that I may
contemplate thee!


And Joly exclaimed:--


Matelote and Gibelotte, dod't gib Grantaire anything more to drink.
He has already devoured, since this bording, in wild prodigality,
two francs and ninety-five centibes.


And Grantaire began again:--



Who has been unhooking the stars without my permission, and putting
them on the table in the guise of candles?

Bossuetthough very drunkpreserved his equanimity.

He was seated on the sill of the open windowwetting his back
in the falling rainand gazing at his two friends.

All at oncehe heard a tumult behind himhurried footsteps
cries of "To arms!" He turned round and saw in the Rue Saint-Denis
at the end of the Rue de la ChanvrerieEnjolras passing
gun in handand Gavroche with his pistolFeuilly with his sword
Courfeyrac with his swordand Jean Prouvaire with his blunderbuss
Combeferre with his gunBahorel with his gunand the whole armed
and stormy rabble which was following them.

The Rue de la Chanvrerie was not more than a gunshot long.
Bossuet improvised a speaking-trumpet from his two hands placed
around his mouthand shouted:-


Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Hohee!

Courfeyrac heard the shoutcaught sight of Bossuetand advanced a few
paces into the Rue de la Chanvrerieshouting: "What do you want?"
which crossed a "Where are you going?"

To make a barricade,replied Courfeyrac.

Well, here! This is a good place! Make it here!

That's true, Aigle,said Courfeyrac.

And at a signal from Courfeyracthe mob flung themselves into
the Rue de la Chanvrerie.

CHAPTER III

NIGHT BEGINS TO DESCEND UPON GRANTAIRE

The spot wasin factadmirably adaptedthe entrance to the street
widened outthe other extremity narrowed together into a pocket
without exit. Corinthe created an obstaclethe Rue Mondetour was
easily barricaded on the right and the leftno attack was possible
except from the Rue Saint-Denisthat is to sayin frontand in
full sight. Bossuet had the comprehensive glance of a fasting Hannibal.

Terror had seized on the whole street at the irruption of the mob.
There was not a passer-by who did not get out of sight. In the
space of a flash of lightningin the rearto right and left
shopsstablesarea-doorswindowsblindsattic skylights
shutters of every description were closedfrom the ground floor
to the roof. A terrified old woman fixed a mattress in front
of her window on two clothes-poles for drying linenin order to
deaden the effect of musketry. The wine-shop alone remained open;
and that for a very good reasonthat the mob had rushed into
it.--"Ah my God! Ah my God!" sighed Mame Hucheloup.

Bossuet had gone down to meet Courfeyrac.

Jolywho had placed himself at the windowexclaimed:-



Courfeyrac, you ought to have brought an umbrella. You will
gatch gold.


In the meantimein the space of a few minutestwenty iron bars
had been wrenched from the grated front of the wine-shopten fathoms
of street had been unpaved; Gavroche and Bahorel had seized in
its passageand overturnedthe dray of a lime-dealer named Anceau;
this dray contained three barrels of limewhich they placed beneath
the piles of paving-stones: Enjolras raised the cellar trap
and all the widow Hucheloup's empty casks were used to flank
the barrels of lime; Feuillywith his fingers skilled in painting
the delicate sticks of fanshad backed up the barrels and the dray
with two massive heaps of blocks of rough stone. Blocks which
were improvised like the rest and procured no one knows where.
The beams which served as props were torn from the neighboring
house-fronts and laid on the casks. When Bossuet and Courfeyrac
turned roundhalf the street was already barred with a rampart
higher than a man. There is nothing like the hand of the populace
for building everything that is built by demolishing.


Matelote and Gibelotte had mingled with the workers. Gibelotte went
and came loaded with rubbish. Her lassitude helped on the barricade.
She served the barricade as she would have served winewith a
sleepy air.


An omnibus with two white horses passed the end of the street.


Bossuet strode over the paving-stonesran to itstopped the driver
made the passengers alightoffered his hand to "the ladies
dismissed the conductor, and returned, leading the vehicle and the
horses by the bridle.


Omnibuses said he, do not pass the Corinthe. Non licet omnibus
adire Corinthum."


An instant laterthe horses were unharnessed and went off at
their willthrough the Rue Mondetourand the omnibus lying
on its side completed the bar across the street.


Mame Hucheloupquite upsethad taken refuge in the first story.


Her eyes were vagueand stared without seeing anythingand she
cried in a low tone. Her terrified shrieks did not dare to emerge
from her throat.


The end of the world has come,she muttered.


Joly deposited a kiss on Mame Hucheloup's fatredwrinkled neck
and said to Grantaire: "My dear fellowI have always regarded
a woman's neck as an infinitely delicate thing."


But Grantaire attained to the highest regions of dithryamb.
Matelote had mounted to the first floor once moreGrantaire seized
her round her waistand gave vent to long bursts of laughter at
the window.


Matelote is homely!he cried: "Matelote is of a dream of ugliness!
Matelote is a chimaera. This is the secret of her birth:
a Gothic Pygmalionwho was making gargoyles for cathedrals
fell in love with one of themthe most horribleone fine morning.
He besought Love to give it lifeand this produced Matelote.
Look at hercitizens! She has chromate-of-lead-colored hair
like Titian's mistressand she is a good girl. I guarantee that



she will fight well. Every good girl contains a hero. As for
Mother Hucheloupshe's an old warrior. Look at her moustaches!
She inherited them from her husband. A hussar indeed! She will
fight too. These two alone will strike terror to the heart of
the banlieue. Comradeswe shall overthrow the government as true
as there are fifteen intermediary acids between margaric acid
and formic acid; howeverthat is a matter of perfect indifference
to me. Gentlemenmy father always detested me because I could
not understand mathematics. I understand only love and liberty.
I am Grantairethe good fellow. Having never had any money
I never acquired the habit of itand the result is that I have
never lacked it; butif I had been richthere would have been
no more poor people! You would have seen! Ohif the kind hearts
only had fat purseshow much better things would go! I picture
myself Jesus Christ with Rothschild's fortune! How much good he
would do! Mateloteembrace me! You are voluptuous and timid!
You have cheeks which invite the kiss of a sisterand lips which claim
the kiss of a lover."

Hold your tongue, you cask!said Courfeyrac.

Grantaire retorted:-


I am the capitoul[52] and the master of the floral games!

[52] Municipal officer of Toulouse.
Enjolraswho was standing on the crest of the barricadegun in hand
raised his beautifulaustere face. Enjolrasas the reader knows
had something of the Spartan and of the Puritan in his composition.
He would have perished at Thermopylae with Leonidasand burned at
Drogheda with Cromwell.

Grantaire,he shoutedgo get rid of the fumes of your wine
somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusiasm,
not for drunkenness. Don't disgrace the barricade!

This angry speech produced a singular effect on Grantaire. One would
have said that he had had a glass of cold water flung in his face.
He seemed to be rendered suddenly sober.

He sat downput his elbows on a table near the windowlooked at
Enjolras with indescribable gentlenessand said to him:-


Let me sleep here.

Go and sleep somewhere else,cried Enjolras.

But Grantairestill keeping his tender and troubled eyes fixed
on himreplied:-


Let me sleep here,--until I die.

Enjolras regarded him with disdainful eyes:-


Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing,
of living, and of dying.

Grantaire replied in a grave tone:-


You will see.


He stammered a few more unintelligible wordsthen his head fell
heavily on the tableandas is the usual effect of the second
period of inebrietyinto which Enjolras had roughly and abruptly
thrust himan instant later he had fallen asleep.


CHAPTER IV


AN ATTEMPT TO CONSOLE THE WIDOW HUCHELOUP


Bahorelin ecstasies over the barricadeshouted:--


Here's the street in its low-necked dress! How well it looks!


Courfeyracas he demolished the wine-shop to some extent
sought to console the widowed proprietress.


Mother Hucheloup, weren't you complaining the other day because
you had had a notice served on you for infringing the law,
because Gibelotte shook a counterpane out of your window?


Yes, my good Monsieur Courfeyrac. Ah! good Heavens, are you
going to put that table of mine in your horror, too? And it was
for the counterpane, and also for a pot of flowers which fell from
the attic window into the street, that the government collected
a fine of a hundred francs. If that isn't an abomination, what is!


Well, Mother Hucheloup, we are avenging you.


Mother Hucheloup did not appear to understand very clearly
the benefit which she was to derive from these reprisals made
on her account. She was satisfied after the manner of that
Arab womanwhohaving received a box on the ear from her husband
went to complain to her fatherand cried for vengeancesaying:
Father, you owe my husband affront for affront.The father asked:
On which cheek did you receive the blow?On the left cheek.
The father slapped her right cheek and said: "Now you are satisfied.
Go tell your husband that he boxed my daughter's earsand that I
have accordingly boxed his wife's."


The rain had ceased. Recruits had arrived. Workmen had brought
under their blouses a barrel of powdera basket containing
bottles of vitrioltwo or three carnival torchesand a basket
filled with fire-potsleft over from the King's festival.
This festival was very recenthaving taken place on the 1st of May.
It was said that these munitions came from a grocer in the Faubourg
Saint-Antoine named Pepin. They smashed the only street lantern
in the Rue de la Chanvreriethe lantern corresponding to one in the
Rue Saint-Denisand all the lanterns in the surrounding streets
de Mondetourdu Cygnedes Precheursand de la Grande and de la
Petite-Truanderie.


EnjolrasCombeferreand Courfeyrac directed everything. Two barricades
were now in process of construction at onceboth of them resting
on the Corinthe house and forming a right angle; the larger shut
off the Rue de la Chanvreriethe other closed the Rue Mondetour
on the side of the Rue de Cygne. This last barricadewhich was
very narrowwas constructed only of casks and paving-stones. There
were about fifty workers on it; thirty were armed with guns; for
on their waythey had effected a wholesale loan from an armorer's shop.


Nothing could be more bizarre and at the same time more motley



than this troop. One had a round-jacketa cavalry sabreand two
holster-pistolsanother was in his shirt-sleeveswith a round hat
and a powder-horn slung at his sidea third wore a plastron
of nine sheets of gray paper and was armed with a saddler's awl.
There was one who was shouting: "Let us exterminate them to the last
man and die at the point of our bayonet." This man had no bayonet.
Another spread out over his coat the cross-belt and cartridge-box
of a National Guardsmanthe cover of the cartridge-box being
ornamented with this inscription in red worsted: Public Order.
There were a great many guns bearing the numbers of the legions
few hatsno cravatsmany bare armssome pikes. Add to this
all agesall sorts of facessmallpale young menand bronzed
longshoremen. All were in haste; and as they helped each other
they discussed the possible chances. That they would receive
succor about three o'clock in the morning--that they were sure
of one regimentthat Paris would rise. Terrible sayings with
which was mingled a sort of cordial joviality. One would have
pronounced them brothersbut they did not know each other's names.
Great perils have this fine characteristicthat they bring to light
the fraternity of strangers. A fire had been lighted in the kitchen
and there they were engaged in moulding into bulletspewter mugs
spoonsforksand all the brass table-ware of the establishment.
In the midst of it allthey drank. Caps and buckshot were mixed
pell-mell on the tables with glasses of wine. In the billiard-hall
Mame HucheloupMateloteand Gibelottevariously modified by terror
which had stupefied onerendered another breathlessand roused
the thirdwere tearing up old dish-cloths and making lint;
three insurgents were assisting themthree bushy-hairedjolly
blades with beards and moustacheswho plucked away at the linen
with the fingers of seamstresses and who made them tremble.


The man of lofty stature whom CourfeyracCombeferreand Enjolras
had observed at the moment when he joined the mob at the corner
of the Rue des Billetteswas at work on the smaller barricade
and was making himself useful there. Gavroche was working on
the larger one. As for the young man who had been waiting for
Courfeyrac at his lodgingsand who had inquired for M. Marius
he had disappeared at about the time when the omnibus had been overturned.


Gavrochecompletely carried away and radianthad undertaken
to get everything in readiness. He wentcamemounteddescended
re-mountedwhistledand sparkled. He seemed to be there for
the encouragement of all. Had he any incentive? Yescertainly
his poverty; had he wings? yescertainlyhis joy. Gavroche was
a whirlwind. He was constantly visiblehe was incessantly audible.
He filled the airas he was everywhere at once. He was a sort
of almost irritating ubiquity; no halt was possible with him.
The enormous barricade felt him on its haunches. He troubled
the loungershe excited the idlehe reanimated the weary
he grew impatient over the thoughtfulhe inspired gayety in some
and breath in otherswrath in othersmovement in allnow pricking
a studentnow biting an artisan; he alightedpausedflew off again
hovered over the tumultand the effortsprang from one party
to anothermurmuring and hummingand harassed the whole company;
a fly on the immense revolutionary coach.


Perpetual motion was in his little arms and perpetual clamor
in his little lungs.


Courage! more paving-stones! more casks! more machines!
Where are you now? A hod of plaster for me to stop this hole with!
Your barricade is very small. It must be carried up. Put everything
on it, fling everything there, stick it all in. Break down the house.
A barricade is Mother Gibou's tea. Hullo, here's a glass door.



This elicited an exclamation from the workers.

A glass door? what do you expect us to do with a glass door, tubercle?

Hercules yourselves!retorted Gavroche. "A glass door is an
excellent thing in a barricade. It does not prevent an attack
but it prevents the enemy taking it. So you've never prigged apples
over a wall where there were broken bottles? A glass door cuts the
corns of the National Guard when they try to mount on the barricade.
Pardi! glass is a treacherous thing. Wellyou haven't a very
wildly lively imaginationcomrades."


Howeverhe was furious over his triggerless pistol. He went
from one to anotherdemanding: "A gunI want a gun! Why don't
you give me a gun?"


Give you a gun!said Combeferre.


Come now!said Gavrochewhy not? I had one in 1830 when we
had a dispute with Charles X.


Enjolras shrugged his shoulders.


When there are enough for the men, we will give some to the children.


Gavroche wheeled round haughtilyand answered:--


If you are killed before me, I shall take yours.


Gamin!said Enjolras.


Greenhorn!said Gavroche.


A dandy who had lost his way and who lounged past the end of the
street created a diversion! Gavroche shouted to him:--


Come with us, young fellow! well now, don't we do anything for this
old country of ours?


The dandy fled.


CHAPTER V


PREPARATIONS


The journals of the day which said that that nearly impregnable structure
of the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerieas they call it
reached to the level of the first floorwere mistaken. The fact is
that it did not exceed an average height of six or seven feet.
It was built in such a manner that the combatants couldat their will
either disappear behind it or dominate the barrier and even scale
its crest by means of a quadruple row of paving-stones placed on top
of each other and arranged as steps in the interior. On the outside
the front of the barricadecomposed of piles of paving-stones
and casks bound together by beams and plankswhich were entangled
in the wheels of Anceau's dray and of the overturned omnibus
had a bristling and inextricable aspect.


An aperture large enough to allow a man to pass through had been
made between the wall of the houses and the extremity of the
barricade which was furthest from the wine-shopso that an exit



was possible at this point. The pole of the omnibus was placed
upright and held up with ropesand a red flagfastened to this pole
floated over the barricade.


The little Mondetour barricadehidden behind the wine-shop building
was not visible. The two barricades united formed a veritable redoubt.
Enjolras and Courfeyrac had not thought fit to barricade the other
fragment of the Rue Mondetour which opens through the Rue des
Precheurs an issue into the Halleswishingno doubtto preserve
a possible communication with the outsideand not entertaining
much fear of an attack through the dangerous and difficult street
of the Rue des Precheurs.


With the exception of this issue which was left freeand which
constituted what Folard in his strategical style would have termed
a branch and taking into accountalsothe narrow cutting arranged
on the Rue de la Chanvreriethe interior of the barricadewhere the
wine-shop formed a salient anglepresented an irregular square
closed on all sides. There existed an interval of twenty paces
between the grand barrier and the lofty houses which formed the
background of the streetso that one might say that the barricade
rested on these housesall inhabitedbut closed from top to bottom.


All this work was performed without any hindrancein less than
an hourand without this handful of bold men seeing a single
bear-skin cap or a single bayonet make their appearance.
The very bourgeois who still ventured at this hour of riot to enter
the Rue Saint-Denis cast a glance at the Rue de la Chanvrerie
caught sight of the barricadeand redoubled their pace.


The two barricades being finishedand the flag run upa table was
dragged out of the wine-shop; and Courfeyrac mounted on the table.
Enjolras brought the square cofferand Courfeyrac opened it.
This coffer was filled with cartridges. When the mob saw the cartridges
a tremor ran through the bravestand a momentary silence ensued.


Courfeyrac distributed them with a smile.


Each one received thirty cartridges. Many had powderand set
about making others with the bullets which they had run.
As for the barrel of powderit stood on a table on one side
near the doorand was held in reserve.


The alarm beat which ran through all Parisdid not ceasebut it
had finally come to be nothing more than a monotonous noise to which
they no longer paid any attention. This noise retreated at times
and again drew nearwith melancholy undulations.


They loaded the guns and carbinesall togetherwithout haste
with solemn gravity. Enjolras went and stationed three sentinels
outside the barricadesone in the Rue de la Chanvreriethe second
in the Rue des Precheursthe third at the corner of the Rue de la
Petite Truanderie.


Thenthe barricades having been builtthe posts assigned
the guns loadedthe sentinels stationedthey waitedalone in
those redoubtable streets through which no one passed any longer
surrounded by those dumb houses which seemed dead and in which no human
movement palpitatedenveloped in the deepening shades of twilight
which was drawing onin the midst of that silence through which
something could be felt advancingand which had about it something
tragic and terrifyingisolatedarmeddeterminedand tranquil.



CHAPTER VI

WAITING

During those hours of waitingwhat did they do?

We must needs tellsince this is a matter of history.

While the men made bullets and the women lintwhile a large saucepan
of melted brass and leaddestined to the bullet-mould smoked over
a glowing brazierwhile the sentinels watchedweapon in hand
on the barricadewhile Enjolraswhom it was impossible to divert
kept an eye on the sentinelsCombeferreCourfeyracJean Prouvaire
FeuillyBossuetJolyBahoreland some otherssought each other
out and united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations
in their student lifeandin one corner of this wine-shop which
had been converted into a casementa couple of paces distant
from the redoubt which they had builtwith their carbines loaded
and primed resting against the backs of their chairsthese fine
young fellowsso close to a supreme hourbegan to recite love verses.

What verses? These:-


Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie
Lorsque nous etions si jeunes tous deux
Et que nous n'avions au coeur d'autre envie
Que d'etre bien mis et d'etre amoureux

Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre age a mon age
Nous ne comptions pas a deux quarante ans
Et quedans notre humble et petit menage
Toutmeme l'hivernous etait printemps?

Beaux jours! Manuel etait fier et sage
Paris s'asseyait a de saints banquets
Foy lancait la foudreet votre corsage
Avait une epingle ou je me piquais.

Tout vous contemplait. Avocat sans causes
Quand je vous menais au Prado diner
Vous etiez jolie au point que les roses
Me faisaient l'effet de se retourner.

Je les entendais dire: Est elle belle!
Comme elle sent bon! Quels cheveux a flots!
Sous son mantelet elle cache une aile
Son bonnet charmant est a peine eclos.

J'errais avec toipressant ton bras souple.
Les passants crovaient que l'amour charme
Avait mariedans notre heureux couple
Le doux mois d'avril au beau mois de mai.

Nous vivions cachescontentsporte close
Devorant l'amourbon fruit defendu
Ma bouche n'avait pas dit une chose
Que deja ton coeur avait repondu.

La Sorbonne etait l'endroit bucolique
Ou je t'adorais du soir au matin.
C'est ainsi qu'une ame amoureuse applique
La carte du Tendre au pays Latin.


O place Maubert! o place Dauphine!
Quanddans le taudis frais et printanier
Tu tirais ton bas sur ton jambe fine
Je voyais un astre au fond du grenier.

J'ai fort lu Platonmais rien ne m'en reste;
Mieux que Malebranche et que Lamennais
Tu me demontrais la bonte celeste
Avec une fleur que tu me donnais.

Je t'obeissaistu m' etais soumise;
O grenier dore! te lacer! te voir
Aller et venir des l'aube en chemise
Mirant ton jeune front a ton vieux miroir.

Et qui done pourrait perde la memoire
De ces temps d'aurore et de firmament
De rubansde fleursde gaze et de moire
Ou l'amour begaye un argot charmant?

Nos jardins etaient un pot de tulipe;
Tu masquais la vitre avec un jupon;
Je prenais le bol de terre de pipe
Et je te donnais le tasse en japon.

Et ces grands malheurs qui nous faisaient rire!
Ton manchon bruleton boa perdu!
Et ce cher portrait du divin Shakespeare
Qu'un soir pour souper nons avons vendu!

J'etais mendiant et toi charitable.
Je baisais au vol tes bras frais et ronds.
Dante in folio nous servait de table
Pour manger gaiment un cent de marrons.

La premiere fois qu'en mon joyeux bouge
Je pris un baiser a ton levre en feu
Quand tu t'en allais decoiffee et rouge
Je restai tout pale et je crus en Dieu!

Te rappelles-tu nos bonheurs sans nombre
Et tous ces fichus changes en chiffons?
Oh que de soupirsde nos coeurs pleins d'ombre
Se sont envoles dans les cieux profonds![53]

[53] Do you remember our sweet lifewhen we were both so young
and when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well
dressed and in love? Whenby adding your age to my age
we could not count forty years between usand whenin our humble
and tiny householdeverything was spring to us even in winter.
Fair days! Manuel was proud and wiseParis sat at sacred banquets
Foy launched thunderboltsand your corsage had a pin on which I
pricked myself. Everything gazed upon you. A briefless lawyer
when I took you to the Prado to dineyou were so beautiful
that the roses seemed to me to turn roundand I heard them say:
Is she not beautiful! How good she smells! What billowing hair!
Beneath her mantle she hides a wing. Her charming bonnet is
hardly unfolded. I wandered with theepressing thy supple arm.
The passers-by thought that love bewitched had weddedin our
happy couplethe gentle month of April to the fair month of May.
We lived concealedcontentwith closed doorsdevouring love
that sweet forbidden fruit. My mouth had not uttered a thing

when thy heart had already responded. The Sorbonne was the bucolic
spot where I adored thee from eve till morn. 'Tis thus that an
amorous soul applies the chart of the Tender to the Latin country.
O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine! When in the fresh spring-like
hut thou didst draw thy stocking on thy delicate legI saw a star
in the depths of the garret. I have read a great deal of Plato
but nothing of it remains by me; better than Malebranche and then
Lamennais thou didst demonstrate to me celestial goodness with a flower
which thou gavest to meI obeyed theethou didst submit to me;
oh gilded garret! to lace thee! to behold thee going and coming from
dawn in thy chemisegazing at thy young brow in thine ancient mirror!
And whothenwould forego the memory of those days of aurora
and the firmamentof flowersof gauze and of moirewhen love
stammers a charming slang? Our gardens consisted of a pot of tulips;
thou didst mask the window with thy petticoat; I took the earthenware
bowl and I gave thee the Japanese cup. And those great misfortunes
which made us laugh! Thy cuff scorchedthy boa lost! And that
dear portrait of the divine Shakespeare which we sold one evening
that we might sup! I was a beggar and thou wert charitable.
I kissed thy fresh round arms in haste. A folio Dante served us
as a table on which to eat merrily a centime's worth of chestnuts.
The first time thatin my joyous denI snatched a kiss from thy
fiery lipwhen thou wentest forthdishevelled and blushing
I turned deathly pale and I believed in God. Dost thou recall our
innumerable joysand all those fichus changed to rags? Oh! what
sighs from our hearts full of gloom fluttered forth to the heavenly
depths!

The hourthe spotthese souvenirs of youth recalleda few stars
which began to twinkle in the skythe funeral repose of those
deserted streetsthe imminence of the inexorable adventure
which was in preparationgave a pathetic charm to these verses
murmured in a low tone in the dusk by Jean Prouvairewhoas we
have saidwas a gentle poet.

In the meantimea lamp had been lighted in the small barricade
and in the large oneone of those wax torches such as are to be
met with on Shrove-Tuesday in front of vehicles loaded with masks
on their way to la Courtille. These torchesas the reader has seen
came from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.

The torch had been placed in a sort of cage of paving-stones closed
on three sides to shelter it from the windand disposed in such
a fashion that all the light fell on the flag. The street and the
barricade remained sunk in gloomand nothing was to be seen except
the red flag formidably illuminated as by an enormous dark-lantern.

This light enhanced the scarlet of the flagwith an indescribable
and terrible purple.

CHAPTER VII

THE MAN RECRUITED IN THE RUE DES BILLETTES

Night was fully comenothing made its appearance. All that they heard
was confused noisesand at intervalsfusillades; but these were rare
badly sustained and distant. This respitewhich was thus prolonged
was a sign that the Government was taking its timeand collecting
its forces. These fifty men were waiting for sixty thousand.


Enjolras felt attacked by that impatience which seizes on strong souls
on the threshold of redoubtable events. He went in search of Gavroche
who had set to making cartridges in the tap-roomby the dubious
light of two candles placed on the counter by way of precaution
on account of the powder which was scattered on the tables.
These two candles cast no gleam outside. The insurgents had
moreovertaken pains not to have any light in the upper stories.


Gavroche was deeply preoccupied at that momentbut not precisely
with his cartridges. The man of the Rue des Billettes had just
entered the tap-room and had seated himself at the table which was
the least lighted. A musket of large model had fallen to his share
and he held it between his legs. Gavrochewho had been
up to that momentdistracted by a hundred "amusing" things
had not even seen this man.


When he enteredGavroche followed him mechanically with his eyes
admiring his gun; thenall at oncewhen the man was seated
the street urchin sprang to his feet. Any one who had spied upon
that man up to that momentwould have seen that he was observing
everything in the barricade and in the band of insurgents
with singular attention; butfrom the moment when he had entered
this roomhe had fallen into a sort of brown studyand no longer
seemed to see anything that was going on. The gamin approached
this pensive personageand began to step around him on tiptoe
as one walks in the vicinity of a person whom one is afraid of waking.
At the same timeover his childish countenance which wasat once
so impudent and so seriousso giddy and so profoundso gay and so
heart-breakingpassed all those grimaces of an old man which signify:
Ah bah! impossible! My sight is bad! I am dreaming! can this be? no
it is not! but yes! whyno! etc. Gavroche balanced on his heels
clenched both fists in his pocketsmoved his neck around like a bird
expended in a gigantic pout all the sagacity of his lower lip.
He was astoundeduncertainincredulousconvinceddazzled.
He had the mien of the chief of the eunuchs in the slave mart
discovering a Venus among the blowsy femalesand the air of an
amateur recognizing a Raphael in a heap of daubs. His whole being
was at workthe instinct which scents outand the intelligence
which combines. It was evident that a great event had happened in
Gavroche's life.


It was at the most intense point of this preoccupation that Enjolras
accosted him.


You are small,said Enjolrasyou will not be seen. Go out
of the barricade, slip along close to the houses, skirmish about
a bit in the streets, and come back and tell me what is going on.


Gavroche raised himself on his haunches.


So the little chaps are good for something! that's very lucky!
I'll go! In the meanwhile, trust to the little fellows, and distrust
the big ones.And Gavrocheraising his head and lowering
his voiceaddedas he indicated the man of the Rue des Billettes:
Do you see that big fellow there?


Well?


He's a police spy.


Are you sure of it?


It isn't two weeks since he pulled me off the cornice of the
Port Royal, where I was taking the air, by my ear.



Enjolras hastily quitted the urchin and murmured a few words
in a very low tone to a longshoreman from the winedocks who
chanced to be at hand. The man left the roomand returned
almost immediatelyaccompanied by three others. The four men
four porters with broad shoulderswent and placed themselves
without doing anything to attract his attentionbehind the table on
which the man of the Rue des Billettes was leaning with his elbows.
They were evidently ready to hurl themselves upon him.

Then Enjolras approached the man and demanded of him:-


Who are you?

At this abrupt querythe man started. He plunged his gaze deep
into Enjolras' clear eyes and appeared to grasp the latter's meaning.
He smiled with a smile than which nothing more disdainful
more energeticand more resolute could be seen in the world
and replied with haughty gravity:-


I see what it is. Well, yes!

You are a police spy?

I am an agent of the authorities.

And your name?

Javert.

Enjolras made a sign to the four men. In the twinkling of an eye
before Javert had time to turn roundhe was collaredthrown down
pinioned and searched.

They found on him a little round card pasted between two pieces of glass
and bearing on one side the arms of Franceengravedand with
this motto: Supervision and vigilanceand on the other this note:
JAVERT, inspector of police, aged fifty-two,and the signature
of the Prefect of Police of that dayM. Gisquet.

Besides thishe had his watch and his pursewhich contained several
gold pieces. They left him his purse and his watch. Under the watch
at the bottom of his fobthey felt and seized a paper in an envelope
which Enjolras unfoldedand on which he read these five lines
written in the very hand of the Prefect of Police:-


As soon as his political mission is accomplished, Inspector Javert
will make sure, by special supervision, whether it is true that the
malefactors have instituted intrigues on the right bank of the Seine,
near the Jena bridge.

The search endedthey lifted Javert to his feetbound his arms
behind his backand fastened him to that celebrated post in the
middle of the room which had formerly given the wine-shop its name.

Gavrochewho had looked on at the whole of this scene and had
approved of everything with a silent toss of his headstepped up
to Javert and said to him:-


It's the mouse who has caught the cat.

All this was so rapidly executedthat it was all over when those
about the wine-shop noticed it.


Javert had not uttered a single cry.

At the sight of Javert bound to the postCourfeyracBossuetJoly
Combeferreand the men scattered over the two barricades came running up.

Javertwith his back to the postand so surrounded with ropes
that he could not make a movementraised his head with the intrepid
serenity of the man who has never lied.

He is a police spy,said Enjolras.

And turning to Javert: "You will be shot ten minutes before
the barricade is taken."

Javert replied in his most imperious tone:-


Why not at once?

We are saving our powder.

Then finish the business with a blow from a knife.

Spy,said the handsome Enjolraswe are judges and not assassins.

Then he called Gavroche:-


Here you! go about your business! Do what I told you!

I'm going!cried Gavroche.

And halting as he was on the point of setting out:-


By the way, you will give me his gun!and he added: "I leave
you the musicianbut I want the clarionet."

The gamin made the military salute and passed gayly through
the opening in the large barricade.

CHAPTER VIII

MANY INTERROGATION POINTS WITH REGARD TO A CERTAIN LE CABUC WHOSE
NAME MAY NOT HAVE BEEN LE CABUC

The tragic picture which we have undertaken would not be complete
the reader would not see those grand moments of social birth-pangs
in a revolutionary birthwhich contain convulsion mingled with effort
in their exact and real reliefwere we to omitin the sketch
here outlinedan incident full of epic and savage horror which
occurred almost immediately after Gavroche's departure.

Mobsas the reader knowsare like a snowballand collect
as they roll alonga throng of tumultuous men. These men do not
ask each other whence they come. Among the passers-by who had
joined the rabble led by EnjolrasCombeferreand Courfeyrac
there had been a person wearing the jacket of a street porter
which was very threadbare on the shoulderswho gesticulated
and vociferatedand who had the look of a drunken savage. This man
whose name or nickname was Le Cabucand who wasmoreoveran utter
stranger to those who pretended to know himwas very drunk
or assumed the appearance of being soand had seated himself
with several others at a table which they had dragged outside


of the wine-shop. This Cabucwhile making those who vied with him
drunk seemed to be examining with a thoughtful air the large house
at the extremity of the barricadewhose five stories commanded
the whole street and faced the Rue Saint-Denis. All at once he exclaimed:--


Do you know, comrades, it is from that house yonder that we must fire.
When we are at the windows, the deuce is in it if any one can
advance into the street!


Yes, but the house is closed,said one of the drinkers.


Let us knock!


They will not open.


Let us break in the door!


Le Cabuc runs to the doorwhich had a very massive knockerand knocks.
The door opens not. He strikes a second blow. No one answers.
A third stroke. The same silence.


Is there any one here?shouts Cabuc.


Nothing stirs.


Then he seizes a gun and begins to batter the door with the butt end.


It was an ancient alley doorlowvaultednarrowsolidentirely
of oaklined on the inside with a sheet of iron and iron stays
a genuine prison postern. The blows from the butt end of the gun
made the house tremblebut did not shake the door.


Neverthelessit is probable that the inhabitants were disturbed
for a tinysquare window was finally seen to open on the third story
and at this aperture appeared the reverend and terrified face of a
gray-haired old manwho was the porterand who held a candle.


The man who was knocking paused.


Gentlemen,said the porterwhat do you want?


Open!said Cabuc.


That cannot be, gentlemen.


Open, nevertheless.


Impossible, gentlemen.


Le Cabuc took his gun and aimed at the porter; but as he was below
and as it was very darkthe porter did not see him.


Will you open, yes or no?


No, gentlemen.


Do you say no?


I say no, my goo--


The porter did not finish. The shot was fired; the ball entered
under his chin and came out at the nape of his neckafter traversing
the jugular vein.



The old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell
and was extinguishedand nothing more was to be seen except
a motionless head lying on the sill of the small window
and a little whitish smoke which floated off towards the roof.


There!said Le Cabucdropping the butt end of his gun to the pavement.


He had hardly uttered this wordwhen he felt a hand laid on his
shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talonand he heard a voice
saying to him:--


On your knees.


The murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras' coldwhite face.


Enjolras held a pistol in his hand.


He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge.


He had seized Cabuc's collarblouseshirtand suspender with
his left hand.


On your knees!he repeated.


Andwith an imperious motionthe frail young man of twenty years
bent the thickset and sturdy porter like a reedand brought him
to his knees in the mire.


Le Cabuc attempted to resistbut he seemed to have been seized
by a superhuman hand.


Enjolraspalewith bare neck and dishevelled hairand his woman's face
had about him at that moment something of the antique Themis.
His dilated nostrilshis downcast eyesgave to his implacable Greek
profile that expression of wrath and that expression of Chastity which
as the ancient world viewed the matterbefit Justice.


The whole barricade hastened upthen all ranged themselves in
a circle at a distancefeeling that it was impossible to utter
a word in the presence of the thing which they were about to behold.


Le Cabucvanquishedno longer tried to struggleand trembled
in every limb.


Enjolras released him and drew out his watch.


Collect yourself,said he. "Think or pray. You have one minute."


Mercy!murmured the murderer; then he dropped his head
and stammered a few inarticulate oaths.


Enjolras never took his eyes off of him: he allowed a minute to pass
then he replaced his watch in his fob. That donehe grasped Le
Cabuc by the hairas the latter coiled himself into a ball at his
knees and shriekedand placed the muzzle of the pistol to his ear.
Many of those intrepid menwho had so tranquilly entered upon the
most terrible of adventuresturned aside their heads.


An explosion was heardthe assassin fell to the pavement face downwards.


Enjolras straightened himself upand cast a convinced and severe
glance around him. Then he spurned the corpse with his foot and said:--


Throw that outside.



Three men raised the body of the unhappy wretchwhich was still
agitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had fled
and flung it over the little barricade into the Rue Mondetour.


Enjolras was thoughtful. It is impossible to say what grandiose
shadows slowly spread over his redoubtable serenity. All at once
he raised his voice.


A silence fell upon them.


Citizens,said Enjolraswhat that man did is frightful,
what I have done is horrible. He killed, therefore I killed him.
I had to do it, because insurrection must have its discipline.
Assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere; we are under
the eyes of the Revolution, we are the priests of the Republic, we are
the victims of duty, and must not be possible to slander our combat.
I have, therefore, tried that man, and condemned him to death.
As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet
abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to
what I have condemned myself.


Those who listened to him shuddered.


We will share thy fate,cried Combeferre.


So be it,replied Enjolras. "One word more. In executing
this manI have obeyed necessity; but necessity is a monster
of the old worldnecessity's name is Fatality. Nowthe law
of progress isthat monsters shall disappear before the angels
and that Fatality shall vanish before Fraternity. It is a bad
moment to pronounce the word love. No matterI do pronounce it.
And I glorify it. Lovethe future is thine. DeathI make use
of theebut I hate thee. Citizensin the future there will be
neither darkness nor thunderbolts; neither ferocious ignorance
nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more Satanthere will
be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill any one else
the earth will beam with radiancethe human race will love.
The day will comecitizenswhen all will be concordharmonylight
joy and life; it will comeand it is in order that it may come
that we are about to die."


Enjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained for some time
standing on the spot where he had shed bloodin marble immobility.
His staring eye caused those about him to speak in low tones.


Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands silently
andleaning against each other in an angle of the barricade
they watched with an admiration in which there was some compassion
that grave young manexecutioner and priestcomposed of light
like crystaland also of rock.


Let us say at once that later onafter the actionwhen the bodies
were taken to the morgue and searcheda police agent's card was found
on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his handsin 1848
the special report on this subject made to the Prefect of Police
in 1832.


We will addthat if we are to believe a tradition of the police
which is strange but probably well foundedLe Cabuc was Claquesous.
The fact isthat dating from the death of Le Cabucthere was no
longer any question of Claquesous. Claquesous had nowhere left
any trace of his disappearance; he would seem to have amalgamated
himself with the invisible. His life had been all shadowshis end



was night.


The whole insurgent group was still under the influence of the
emotion of that tragic case which had been so quickly tried and so
quickly terminatedwhen Courfeyrac again beheld on the barricade
the small young man who had inquired of him that morning for Marius.


This ladwho had a bold and reckless airhad come by night to join
the insurgents.


BOOK THIRTEENTH.--MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW


CHAPTER I


FROM THE RUE PLUMET TO THE QUARTIER SAINT-DENIS


The voice which had summoned Marius through the twilight to the
barricade of the Rue de la Chanvreriehad produced on him the
effect of the voice of destiny. He wished to die; the opportunity
presented itself; he knocked at the door of the tomba hand
in the darkness offered him the key. These melancholy openings
which take place in the gloom before despairare tempting.
Marius thrust aside the bar which had so often allowed him to pass
emerged from the gardenand said: "I will go."


Mad with griefno longer conscious of anything fixed or solid
in his brainincapable of accepting anything thenceforth of fate
after those two months passed in the intoxication of youth and love
overwhelmed at once by all the reveries of despairhe had but one
desire remainingto make a speedy end of all.


He set out at rapid pace. He found himself most opportunely armed
as he had Javert's pistols with him.


The young man of whom he thought that he had caught a glimpse
had vanished from his sight in the street.


Mariuswho had emerged from the Rue Plumet by the boulevard
traversed the Esplanade and the bridge of the Invalidesthe Champs
Elyseesthe Place Louis XV.and reached the Rue de Rivoli.
The shops were open therethe gas was burning under the arcades
women were making their purchases in the stallspeople were eating
ices in the Cafe Laiterand nibbling small cakes at the English
pastry-cook's shop. Only a few posting-chaises were setting out
at a gallop from the Hotel des Princes and the Hotel Meurice.


Marius entered the Rue Saint-Honore through the Passage Delorme.
There the shops were closedthe merchants were chatting in front
of their half-open doorspeople were walking aboutthe street
lanterns were lightedbeginning with the first floorall the
windows were lighted as usual. There was cavalry on the Place du
Palais-Royal.


Marius followed the Rue Saint-Honore. In proportion as he left
the Palais-Royal behind himthere were fewer lighted windows
the shops were fast shutno one was chatting on the thresholds
the street grew sombreandat the same timethe crowd increased
in density. For the passers-by now amounted to a crowd. No one could
be seen to speak in this throngand yet there arose from it a dull



deep murmur.


Near the fountain of the Arbre-Secthere were "assemblages"
motionless and gloomy groups which were to those who went and came
as stones in the midst of running water.


At the entrance to the Rue des Prouvairesthe crowd no longer walked.
It formed a resistingmassivesolidcompactalmost impenetrable
block of people who were huddled togetherand conversing in
low tones. There were hardly any black coats or round hats now
but smock frocksblousescapsand bristling and cadaverous heads.
This multitude undulated confusedly in the nocturnal gloom.
Its whisperings had the hoarse accent of a vibration. Although not
one of them was walkinga dull trampling was audible in the mire.
Beyond this dense portion of the throngin the Rue du Roulein the
Rue des Prouvairesand in the extension of the Rue Saint-Honore
there was no longer a single window in which a candle was burning.
Only the solitary and diminishing rows of lanterns could be seen
vanishing into the street in the distance. The lanterns of that
date resembled large red starshanging to ropesand shed upon
the pavement a shadow which had the form of a huge spider.
These streets were not deserted. There could be descried piles of guns
moving bayonetsand troops bivouacking. No curious observer passed
that limit. There circulation ceased. There the rabble ended and
the army began.


Marius willed with the will of a man who hopes no more. He had
been summonedhe must go. He found a means to traverse the throng
and to pass the bivouac of the troopshe shunned the patrols
he avoided the sentinels. He made a circuitreached the Rue
de Bethisyand directed his course towards the Halles. At the
corner of the Rue des Bourdonnaisthere were no longer any lanterns.


After having passed the zone of the crowdhe had passed the limits
of the troops; he found himself in something startling. There was
no longer a passer-byno longer a soldierno longer a light
there was no one; solitudesilencenightI know not what chill
which seized hold upon one. Entering a street was like entering
a cellar.


He continued to advance.


He took a few steps. Some one passed close to him at a run. Was it
a man? Or a woman? Were there many of them? he could not have told.
It had passed and vanished.


Proceeding from circuit to circuithe reached a lane which he
judged to be the Rue de la Poterie; near the middle of this street
he came in contact with an obstacle. He extended his hands.
It was an overturned wagon; his foot recognized pools
of watergulliesand paving-stones scattered and piled up.
A barricade had been begun there and abandoned. He climbed over
the stones and found himself on the other side of the barrier.
He walked very near the street-postsand guided himself along
the walls of the houses. A little beyond the barricadeit seemed
to him that he could make out something white in front of him.
He approachedit took on a form. It was two white horses;
the horses of the omnibus harnessed by Bossuet in the morning
who had been straying at random all day from street to street
and had finally halted therewith the weary patience of brutes
who no more understand the actions of menthan man understands the
actions of Providence.


Marius left the horses behind him. As he was approaching



a street which seemed to him to be the Rue du Contrat-Social
a shot coming no one knows whenceand traversing the darkness
at randomwhistled close by himand the bullet pierced a brass
shaving-dish suspended above his head over a hairdresser's shop.
This pierced shaving-dish was still to be seen in 1848in the
Rue du Contrat-Socialat the corner of the pillars of the market.

This shot still betokened life. From that instant forth he
encountered nothing more.

The whole of this itinerary resembled a descent of black steps.

NeverthelessMarius pressed forward.

CHAPTER II

AN OWL'S VIEW OF PARIS

A being who could have hovered over Paris that night with the wing
of the bat or the owl would have had beneath his eyes a gloomy spectacle.

All that old quarter of the Halleswhich is like a city within
a citythrough which run the Rues Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin
where a thousand lanes crossand of which the insurgents had made
their redoubt and their strongholdwould have appeared to him like
a dark and enormous cavity hollowed out in the centre of Paris.
There the glance fell into an abyss. Thanks to the broken lanterns
thanks to the closed windowsthere all radianceall life
all soundall movement ceased. The invisible police of the
insurrection were on the watch everywhereand maintained order
that is to saynight. The necessary tactics of insurrection
are to drown small numbers in a vast obscurityto multiply every
combatant by the possibilities which that obscurity contains.
At duskevery window where a candle was burning received a shot.
The light was extinguishedsometimes the inhabitant was killed.
Hence nothing was stirring. There was nothing but frightmourning
stupor in the houses; and in the streetsa sort of sacred horror.
Not even the long rows of windows and storesthe indentations
of the chimneysand the roofsand the vague reflections which
are cast back by the wet and muddy pavementswere visible.
An eye cast upward at that mass of shadows mightperhaps
have caught a glimpse here and thereat intervalsof indistinct
gleams which brought out broken and eccentric linesand profiles
of singular buildingssomething like the lights which go and come
in ruins; it was at such points that the barricades were situated.
The rest was a lake of obscurityfoggyheavyand funereal
above whichin motionless and melancholy outlinesrose the tower
of Saint-Jacquesthe church of Saint-Merryand two or three more
of those grand edifices of which man makes giants and the night
makes phantoms.

All around this deserted and disquieting labyrinthin the
quarters where the Parisian circulation had not been annihilated
and where a few street lanterns still burnedthe aerial observer
might have distinguished the metallic gleam of swords and bayonets
the dull rumble of artilleryand the swarming of silent battalions
whose ranks were swelling from minute to minute; a formidable
girdle which was slowly drawing in and around the insurrection.

The invested quarter was no longer anything more than a monstrous cavern;
everything there appeared to be asleep or motionlessandas we


have just seenany street which one might come to offered nothing
but darkness.

A wild darknessfull of trapsfull of unseen and formidable shocks
into which it was alarming to penetrateand in which it was terrible
to remainwhere those who entered shivered before those whom they
awaitedwhere those who waited shuddered before those who were coming.
Invisible combatants were entrenched at every corner of the street;
snares of the sepulchre concealed in the density of night.
All was over. No more light was to be hoped forhenceforth
except the lightning of gunsno further encounter except the abrupt
and rapid apparition of death. Where? How? When? No one knew
but it was certain and inevitable. In this place which had been
marked out for the strugglethe Government and the insurrection
the National Guardand popular societiesthe bourgeois and
the uprisinggroping their waywere about to come into contact.
The necessity was the same for both. The only possible issue
thenceforth was to emerge thence killed or conquerors. A situation
so extremean obscurity so powerfulthat the most timid felt
themselves seized with resolutionand the most daring with terror.

Moreoveron both sidesthe furythe rageand the determination
were equal. For the one partyto advance meant deathand no
one dreamed of retreating; for the otherto remain meant death
and no one dreamed of flight.

It was indispensable that all should be ended on the following day
that triumph should rest either here or therethat the insurrection
should prove itself a revolution or a skirmish. The Government understood
this as well as the parties; the most insignificant bourgeois felt it.
Hence a thought of anguish which mingled with the impenetrable
gloom of this quarter where all was at the point of being decided;
hence a redoubled anxiety around that silence whence a catastrophe
was on the point of emerging. Here only one sound was audiblea sound
as heart-rending as the death rattleas menacing as a malediction
the tocsin of Saint-Merry. Nothing could be more blood-curdling than
the clamor of that wild and desperate bellwailing amid the shadows.

As it often happensnature seemed to have fallen into accord
with what men were about to do. Nothing disturbed the harmony
of the whole effect. The stars had disappearedheavy clouds
filled the horizon with their melancholy folds. A black sky
rested on these dead streetsas though an immense winding-sheet
were being outspread over this immense tomb.

While a battle that was still wholly political was in preparation
in the same locality which had already witnessed so many
revolutionary eventswhile youththe secret associations
the schoolsin the name of principlesand the middle classes
in the name of interestswere approaching preparatory to dashing
themselves togetherclasping and throwing each otherwhile each
one hastened and invited the last and decisive hour of the crisis
far away and quite outside of this fatal quarterin the most profound
depths of the unfathomable cavities of that wretched old Paris which
disappears under the splendor of happy and opulent Paristhe sombre
voice of the people could be heard giving utterance to a dull roar.

A fearful and sacred voice which is composed of the roar of the brute
and of the word of Godwhich terrifies the weak and which warns
the wisewhich comes both from below like the voice of the lion
and from on high like the voice of the thunder.


CHAPTER III

THE EXTREME EDGE

Marius had reached the Halles.

There everything was still calmermore obscure and more motionless
than in the neighboring streets. One would have said that the
glacial peace of the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth
and had spread over the heavens.

Neverthelessa red glow brought out against this black background
the lofty roofs of the houses which barred the Rue de la Chanvrerie
on the Saint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch which
was burning in the Corinthe barricade. Marius directed his steps
towards that red light. It had drawn him to the Marche-aux-Poirees
and he caught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Precheurs.
He entered it. The insurgents' sentinelwho was guarding
the other enddid not see him. He felt that he was very close
to that which he had come in search ofand he walked on tiptoe.
In this manner he reached the elbow of that short section of the
Rue Mondetour which wasas the reader will rememberthe only
communication which Enjolras had preserved with the outside world.
At the corner of the last houseon his lefthe thrust his
head forwardand looked into the fragment of the Rue Mondetour.

A little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la Chanvrerie
which cast a broad curtain of shadowin which he was himself engulfed
he perceived some light on the pavementa bit of the wine-shop
and beyonda flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall
and men crouching down with guns on their knees. All this was ten
fathoms distant from him. It was the interior of the barricade.

The houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest
of the wine-shopthe large barricadeand the flag from him.

Marius had but a step more to take.

Then the unhappy young man seated himself on a postfolded his arms
and fell to thinking about his father.

He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercywho had been so proud
a soldierwho had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic
and had touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleonwho had beheld Genoa
AlexandriaMilanTurinMadridViennaDresdenBerlinMoscow
who had left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops
of that same bloodwhich heMariushad in his veinswho had
grown gray before his time in discipline and commandwho had lived
with his sword-belt buckledhis epaulets falling on his breast
his cockade blackened with powderhis brow furrowed with his helmet
in barracksin campin the bivouacin ambulancesand who
at the expiration of twenty yearshad returned from the great wars
with a scarred cheeka smiling countenancetranquiladmirablepure
as a childhaving done everything for France and nothing against her.

He said to himself that his day had also come nowthat his hour
had struckthat following his fatherhe too was about to show himself
braveintrepidboldto run to meet the bulletsto offer his breast
to bayonetsto shed his bloodto seek the enemyto seek deaththat he
was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of battle
and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was the
streetand that the war in which he was about to engage was civil war!


He beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before himand into this
he was about to fall. Then he shuddered.

He thought of his father's swordwhich his grandfather had sold
to a second-hand dealerand which he had so mournfully regretted.
He said to himself that that chaste and valiant sword had done
well to escape from himand to depart in wrath into the gloom;
that if it had thus fledit was because it was intelligent and
because it had foreseen the future; that it had had a presentiment
of this rebellionthe war of the guttersthe war of the pavements
fusillades through cellar-windowsblows given and received in the rear;
it was becausecoming from Marengo and Friedlandit did not wish
to go to the Rue de la Chanvrerie; it was becauseafter what it
had done with the fatherit did not wish to do this for the son!
He told himself that if that sword were thereif after taking
possession of it at his father's pillowhe had dared to take it
and carry it off for this combat of darkness between Frenchmen
in the streetsit would assuredly have scorched his hands and
burst out aflame before his eyeslike the sword of the angel!
He told himself that it was fortunate that it was not there and
that it had disappearedthat that was wellthat that was just
that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father's glory
and that it was far better that the colonel's sword should be sold
at auctionsold to the old-clothes manthrown among the old junk
than that it shouldto-daywound the side of his country.

And then he fell to weeping bitterly.

This was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without Cosette he
could not. Since she was gonehe must needs die. Had he not given
her his word of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that;
this meant that it pleased her that Marius should die. And then
it was clear that she no longer loved himsince she had departed thus
without warningwithout a wordwithout a letteralthough she knew
his address! What was the good of livingand why should he live now?
And thenwhat! should he retreat after going so far? should he
flee from danger after having approached it? should he slip away
after having come and peeped into the barricade? slip awayall in
a tremblesaying: "After allI have had enough of it as it is.
I have seen itthat sufficesthis is civil warand I shall take
my leave!" Should he abandon his friends who were expecting him?
Who were in need of him possibly! who were a mere handful against
an army! Should he be untrue at once to his loveto country
to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of patriotism?
But this was impossibleand if the phantom of his father was there
in the gloomand beheld him retreatinghe would beat him on the
loins with the flat of his swordand shout to him: "March on
you poltroon!"

Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughtshe dropped
his head.

All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification
had just been effected in his mind. There is a widening of the
sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave;
it makes one see clearly to be near death. The vision of the action
into which he felt that he wasperhapson the point of entering
appeared to him no more as lamentablebut as superb. The war
of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable
inward working of his soulbefore the eye of his thought.
All the tumultuous interrogation points of revery recurred to him
in throngsbut without troubling him. He left none of them unanswered.

Let us seewhy should his father be indignant? Are there


not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty?
What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy
in the combat which was about to begin? It is no longer Montmirail
nor Champaubert; it is something quite different. The question
is no longer one of sacred territory--but of a holy idea.
The country wailsthat may bebut humanity applauds. But is it
true that the country does wail? France bleedsbut liberty smiles;
and in the presence of liberty's smileFrance forgets her wound.
And then if we look at things from a still more lofty point of view
why do we speak of civil war?


Civil war--what does that mean? Is there a foreign war?
Is not all war between men war between brothers? War is qualified
only by its object. There is no such thing as foreign or civil war;
there is only just and unjust war. Until that day when the grand
human agreement is concludedwarthat at least which is the effort
of the futurewhich is hastening on against the pastwhich is
lagging in the rearmay be necessary. What have we to reproach
that war with? War does not become a disgracethe sword does
not become a disgraceexcept when it is used for assassinating
the rightprogressreasoncivilizationtruth. Then war
whether foreign or civilis iniquitous; it is called crime.
Outside the pale of that holy thingjusticeby what right does
one form of man despise another? By what right should the sword
of Washington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas against
the strangerTimoleon against the tyrantwhich is the greater?
the one is the defenderthe other the liberator. Shall we brand
every appeal to arms within a city's limits without taking the object
into a consideration? Then note the infamy of BrutusMarcel
Arnould von BlankenheimColignyHedgerow war? War of the streets?
Why not? That was the war of Ambiorixof Arteveldeof Marnix
of Pelagius. But Ambiorix fought against RomeArtevelde against France
Marnix against SpainPelagius against the Moors; all against
the foreigner. Wellthe monarchy is a foreigner; oppression is
a stranger; the right divine is a stranger. Despotism violates
the moral frontieran invasion violates the geographical frontier.
Driving out the tyrant or driving out the Englishin both cases
regaining possession of one's own territory. There comes an hour when
protestation no longer suffices; after philosophyaction is required;
live force finishes what the idea has sketched out; Prometheus chained
beginsArostogeiton ends; the encyclopedia enlightens souls
the 10th of August electrifies them. After AEschylusThrasybulus;
after DiderotDanton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept the master.
Their mass bears witness to apathy. A crowd is easily led as a whole
to obedience. Men must be stirred uppushed ontreated roughly
by the very benefit of their deliverancetheir eyes must be wounded
by the truelight must be hurled at them in terrible handfuls.
They must be a little thunderstruck themselves at their own well-being;
this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity of tocsins and wars.
Great combatants must risemust enlighten nations with audacity
and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with gloom by the
right divineCaesarian gloryforcefanaticismirresponsible power
and absolute majesty; a rabble stupidly occupied in the contemplation
in their twilight splendorof these sombre triumphs of the night.
Down with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking? Do you call
Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI.
Both of them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings;
but principles are not to be parcelled outthe logic of the true
is rectilinearthe peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complaisance;
no concessionsthen; all encroachments on man should be repressed.
There is a divine right in Louis XVI.there is because a Bourbon
in Louis Philippe; both represent in a certain measure the confiscation
of rightandin order to clear away universal insurrectionthey must
be combated; it must be doneFrance being always the one to begin.



When the master falls in Francehe falls everywhere. In short
what cause is more justand consequentlywhat war is greaterthan that
which re-establishes social truthrestores her throne to liberty
restores the people to the peoplerestores sovereignty to man
replaces the purple on the head of Francerestores equity and reason
in their plenitudesuppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring
each one to himselfannihilates the obstacle which royalty presents
to the whole immense universal concordand places the human race
once more on a level with the right? These wars build up peace.
An enormous fortress of prejudicesprivilegessuperstitions
liesexactionsabusesviolencesiniquitiesand darkness
still stands erect in this worldwith its towers of hatred.
It must be cast down. This monstrous mass must be made to crumble.
To conquer at Austerlitz is grand; to take the Bastille is immense.


There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case--the soul--
and therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity
has a strange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most
violent extremitiesand it often happens that heartbroken passion
and profound despair in the very agony of their blackest monologues
treat subjects and discuss theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion
and the thread of the syllogism floatswithout breakingin the
mournful storm of thought. This was the situation of Marius' mind.


As he meditated thusdejected but resolutehesitating in
every directionandin shortshuddering at what he was about
to dohis glance strayed to the interior of the barricade.
The insurgents were here conversing in a low voicewithout moving
and there was perceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last
stage of expectation. Overheadat the small window in the third
story Marius descried a sort of spectator who appeared to him to
be singularly attentive. This was the porter who had been killed
by Le Cabuc. Belowby the lights of the torchwhich was thrust
between the paving-stonesthis head could be vaguely distinguished.
Nothing could be strangerin that sombre and uncertain gleam
than that lividmotionlessastonished facewith its bristling hair
its eyes fixed and staringand its yawning mouthbent over
the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that
the man who was dead was surveying those who were about to die.
A long trail of blood which had flowed from that headdescended in
reddish threads from the window to the height of the first floor
where it stopped.


BOOK FOURTEENTH.--THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR


CHAPTER I


THE FLAG: ACT FIRST


As yetnothing had come. Ten o'clock had sounded from Saint-Merry.
Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated themselves
carbines in handnear the outlet of the grand barricade.
They no longer addressed each otherthey listened
seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of marching.


Suddenlyin the midst of the dismal calma cleargayyoung voice
which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denisrose and began to
sing distinctlyto the old popular air of "By the Light of the Moon
this bit of poetry, terminated by a cry like the crow of a cock:--



Mon nez est en larmes,
Mon ami Bugeaud,
Prete moi tes gendarmes
Pour leur dire un mot.


En capote bleue,
La poule au shako,
Voici la banlieue!
Co-cocorico![54]


[54] My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy gendarmes
that I may say a word to them. With a blue capote and a chicken
in his shako, here's the banlieue, co-cocorico.
They pressed each other's hands.

That is Gavroche said Enjolras.

He is warning us said Combeferre.

A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a being
more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and Gavroche
bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying:-


My gun! Here they are!"

An electric quiver shot through the whole barricadeand the sound
of hands seeking their guns became audible.

Would you like my carbine?said Enjolras to the lad.

I want a big gun,replied Gavroche.

And he seized Javert's gun.

Two sentinels had fallen backand had come in almost at the
same moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels from the end
of the streetand the vidette of the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie.
The vidette of the Lane des Precheurs had remained at his post
which indicated that nothing was approaching from the direction
of the bridges and Halles.

The Rue de la Chanvrerieof which a few paving-stones alone were
dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag
offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black door vaguely
opened into a smoke.

Each man had taken up his position for the conflict.

Forty-three insurgentsamong whom were EnjolrasCombeferre
CourfeyracBossuetJolyBahoreland Gavrochewere kneeling inside
the large barricadewith their heads on a level with the crest
of the barrierthe barrels of their guns and carbines aimed on the
stones as though at loop-holesattentivemuteready to fire. Six
commanded by Feuillyhad installed themselveswith their guns levelled
at their shouldersat the windows of the two stories of Corinthe.

Several minutes passed thusthen a sound of footsteps
measuredheavyand numerousbecame distinctly audible in the
direction of Saint-Leu. This soundfaint at firstthen precise
then heavy and sonorousapproached slowlywithout halt


without intermissionwith a tranquil and terrible continuity.
Nothing was to be heard but this. It was that combined silence
and soundof the statue of the commanderbut this stony step had
something indescribably enormous and multiple about it which awakened
the idea of a throngandat the same timethe idea of a spectre.
One thought one heard the terrible statue Legion marching onward.
This tread drew near; it drew still nearerand stopped. It seemed
as though the breathing of many men could be heard at the end
of the street. Nothing was to be seenhoweverbut at the bottom
of that dense obscurity there could be distinguished a multitude
of metallic threadsas fine as needles and almost imperceptible
which moved about like those indescribable phosphoric networks which one
sees beneath one's closed eyelidsin the first mists of slumber at
the moment when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and
gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection of the torch.


A pause ensuedas though both sides were waiting. All at once
from the depths of this darknessa voicewhich was all the
more sinistersince no one was visibleand which appeared
to be the gloom itself speakingshouted:--


Who goes there?


At the same timethe click of gunsas they were lowered into position
was heard.


Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone:--


The French Revolution!


Fire!shouted the voice.


A flash empurpled all the facades in the street as though the door
of a furnace had been flung openand hastily closed again.


A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The red flag fell.
The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut
the staffthat is to saythe very tip of the omnibus pole.


Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the houses
penetrated the barricade and wounded several men.


The impression produced by this first discharge was freezing.
The attack had been roughand of a nature to inspire reflection
in the boldest. It was evident that they had to deal with an entire
regiment at the very least.


Comrades!shouted Courfeyraclet us not waste our powder.
Let us wait until they are in the street before replying.


And, above all,said Enjolraslet us raise the flag again.


He picked up the flagwhich had fallen precisely at his feet.


Outsidethe clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be heard;
the troops were re-loading their arms.


Enjolras went on:--


Who is there here with a bold heart? Who will plant the flag
on the barricade again?


Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the very
moment whenwithout any doubtit was again the object of



their aimwas simply death. The bravest hesitated to pronounce
his own condemnation. Enjolras himself felt a thrill. He repeated:-


Does no one volunteer?

CHAPTER II

THE FLAG: ACT SECOND

Since they had arrived at Corintheand had begun the construction
of the barricadeno attention had been paid to Father Mabeuf.

M. Mabeuf had not quitted the mobhowever; he had entered
the ground-floor of the wine-shop and had seated himself behind
the counter. There he hadso to speakretreated into himself.
He no longer seemed to look or to think. Courfeyrac and others
had accosted him two or three timeswarning him of his peril
beseeching him to withdrawbut he did not hear them. When they
were not speaking to himhis mouth moved as though he were replying
to some oneand as soon as he was addressedhis lips became
motionless and his eyes no longer had the appearance of being alive.
Several hours before the barricade was attackedhe had assumed an
attitude which he did not afterwards abandonwith both fists planted
on his knees and his head thrust forward as though he were gazing over
a precipice. Nothing had been able to move him from this attitude;
it did not seem as though his mind were in the barricade.
When each had gone to take up his position for the combat
there remained in the tap-room where Javert was bound to the post
only a single insurgent with a naked swordwatching over Javert
and himselfMabeuf. At the moment of the attackat the detonation
the physical shock had reached him and hadas it wereawakened him;
he started up abruptlycrossed the roomand at the instant when
Enjolras repeated his appeal: "Does no one volunteer?" the old man
was seen to make his appearance on the threshold of the wine-shop.
His presence produced a sort of commotion in the different groups.
A shout went up:--


It is the voter! It is the member of the Convention!
It is the representative of the people!


It is probable that he did not hear them.


He strode straight up to Enjolrasthe insurgents withdrawing
before him with a religious fear; he tore the flag from Enjolras
who recoiled in amazement and thensince no one dared to stop or to
assist himthis old man of eightywith shaking head but firm foot
began slowly to ascend the staircase of paving-stones arranged in
the barricade. This was so melancholy and so grand that all around
him cried: "Off with your hats!" At every step that he mounted
it was a frightful spectacle; his white lockshis decrepit face
his loftybaldand wrinkled browhis amazed and open mouth
his aged arm upholding the red bannerrose through the gloom and
were enlarged in the bloody light of the torchand the bystanders
thought that they beheld the spectre of '93 emerging from the earth
with the flag of terror in his hand.


When he had reached the last stepwhen this trembling and
terrible phantomerect on that pile of rubbish in the presence
of twelve hundred invisible gunsdrew himself up in the face
of death and as though he were more powerful than itthe whole
barricade assumed amid the darknessa supernatural and colossal form.



There ensued one of those silences which occur only in the presence
of prodigies. In the midst of this silencethe old man waved
the red flag and shouted:-


Long live the Revolution! Long live the Republic! Fraternity!
Equality! and Death!

Those in the barricade heard a low and rapid whisperlike the
murmur of a priest who is despatching a prayer in haste.
It was probably the commissary of police who was making the legal
summons at the other end of the street.

Then the same piercing voice which had shouted: "Who goes there?"
shouted:-


Retire!

M. Mabeufpalehaggardhis eyes lighted up with the mournful
flame of aberrationraised the flag above his head and repeated:-"
Long live the Republic!"


Fire!said the voice.


A second dischargesimilar to the firstrained down upon the barricade.


The old man fell on his kneesthen rose againdropped the flag
and fell backwards on the pavementlike a logat full length
with outstretched arms.


Rivulets of blood flowed beneath him. His aged headpale and sad
seemed to be gazing at the sky.


One of those emotions which are superior to manwhich make
him forget even to defend himselfseized upon the insurgents
and they approached the body with respectful awe.


What men these regicides were!said Enjolras.


Courfeyrac bent down to Enjolras' ear:--


This is for yourself alone, I do not wish to dampen the enthusiasm.
But this man was anything rather than a regicide. I knew him.
His name was Father Mabeuf. I do not know what was the matter
with him to-day. But he was a brave blockhead. Just look at
his head.


The head of a blockhead and the heart of a Brutus,replied Enjolras.


Then he raised his voice:--


Citizens! This is the example which the old give to the young.
We hesitated, he came! We were drawing back, he advanced! This is
what those who are trembling with age teach to those who tremble
with fear! This aged man is august in the eyes of his country.
He has had a long life and a magnificent death! Now, let us place
the body under cover, that each one of us may defend this old man
dead as he would his father living, and may his presence in our midst
render the barricade impregnable!


A murmur of gloomy and energetic assent followed these words.


Enjolras bent downraised the old man's headand fierce as he was



he kissed him on the browthenthrowing wide his armsand handling
this dead man with tender precautionas though he feared to hurt it
he removed his coatshowed the bloody holes in it to all
and said:-


This is our flag now.

CHAPTER III

GAVROCHE WOULD HAVE DONE BETTER TO ACCEPT ENJOLRAS' CARBINE

They threw a long black shawl of Widow Hucheloup's over Father Mabeuf.
Six men made a litter of their guns; on this they laid the body
and bore itwith bared headswith solemn slownessto the large
table in the tap-room.

These menwholly absorbed in the grave and sacred task in which
they were engagedthought no more of the perilous situation
in which they stood.

When the corpse passed near Javertwho was still impassive
Enjolras said to the spy:-


It will be your turn presently!

During all this timeLittle Gavrochewho alone had not quitted
his postbut had remained on guardthought he espied some men
stealthily approaching the barricade. All at once he shouted:-


Look out!

CourfeyracEnjolrasJean ProuvaireCombeferreJolyBahorelBossuet
and all the rest ran tumultuously from the wine-shop. It was almost
too late. They saw a glistening density of bayonets undulating
above the barricade. Municipal guards of lofty stature were making
their way insome striding over the omnibusothers through the cut
thrusting before them the urchinwho retreatedbut did not flee.

The moment was critical. It was that firstredoubtable moment
of inundationwhen the stream rises to the level of the levee
and when the water begins to filter through the fissures of dike.
A second more and the barricade would have been taken.

Bahorel dashed upon the first municipal guard who was entering
and killed him on the spot with a blow from his gun; the second
killed Bahorel with a blow from his bayonet. Another had already
overthrown Courfeyracwho was shouting: "Follow me!" The largest
of alla sort of colossusmarched on Gavroche with his bayonet fixed.
The urchin took in his arms Javert's immense gunlevelled it
resolutely at the giantand fired. No discharge followed.
Javert's gun was not loaded. The municipal guard burst into a laugh
and raised his bayonet at the child.

Before the bayonet had touched Gavrochethe gun slipped from
the soldier's graspa bullet had struck the municipal guardsman
in the centre of the foreheadand he fell over on his back.
A second bullet struck the other guardwho had assaulted Courfeyrac
in the breastand laid him low on the pavement.

This was the work of Mariuswho had just entered the barricade.


CHAPTER IV

THE BARREL OF POWDER

Mariusstill concealed in the turn of the Rue Mondetourhad witnessed
shuddering and irresolutethe first phase of the combat. But he
had not long been able to resist that mysterious and sovereign vertigo
which may be designated as the call of the abyss. In the presence
of the imminence of the perilin the presence of the death of

M. Mabeufthat melancholy enigmain the presence of Bahorel killed
and Courfeyrac shouting: "Follow me!" of that child threatened
of his friends to succor or to avengeall hesitation had vanished
and he had flung himself into the conflicthis two pistols in hand.
With his first shot he had saved Gavrocheand with the second
delivered Courfeyrac.
Amid the sound of the shotsamid the cries of the assaulted guards
the assailants had climbed the entrenchmenton whose summit
Municipal Guardssoldiers of the line and National Guards from
the suburbs could now be seengun in handrearing themselves
to more than half the height of their bodies.


They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrierbut they
did not leap into the enclosureas though wavering in the fear of
some trap. They gazed into the dark barricade as one would gaze into
a lion's den. The light of the torch illuminated only their bayonets
their bear-skin capsand the upper part of their uneasy and angry faces.


Marius had no longer any weapons; he had flung away his discharged
pistols after firing them; but he had caught sight of the barrel
of powder in the tap-roomnear the door.


As he turned half roundgazing in that directiona soldier took
aim at him. At the moment when the soldier was sighting Marius
a hand was laid on the muzzle of the gun and obstructed it.
This was done by some one who had darted forward--the young workman
in velvet trousers. The shot spedtraversed the hand and possibly
alsothe workmansince he fellbut the ball did not strike Marius.
All thiswhich was rather to be apprehended than seen through
the smokeMariuswho was entering the tap-roomhardly noticed.
Stillhe hadin a confused wayperceived that gun-barrel aimed at him
and the hand which had blocked itand he had heard the discharge.
But in moments like thisthe things which one sees vacillate and
are precipitatedand one pauses for nothing. One feels obscurely
impelled towards more darkness stilland all is cloud.


The insurgentssurprised but not terrifiedhad rallied.
Enjolras had shouted: "Wait! Don't fire at random!"
In the first confusionthey mightin factwound each other.
The majority of them had ascended to the window on the first story
and to the attic windowswhence they commanded the assailants.


The most determinedwith EnjolrasCourfeyracJean Prouvaire
and Combeferrehad proudly placed themselves with their backs
against the houses at the rearunsheltered and facing the ranks
of soldiers and guards who crowned the barricade.


All this was accomplished without hastewith that strange and
threatening gravity which precedes engagements. They took aim
point blankon both sides: they were so close that they could
talk together without raising their voices.



When they had reached this point where the spark is on the brink
of darting forthan officer in a gorget extended his sword and said:-


Lay down your arms!

Fire!replied Enjolras.

The two discharges took place at the same momentand all disappeared
in smoke.

An acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded lay with weakdull
groans. When the smoke cleared awaythe combatants on both sides could
be seen to be thinned outbut still in the same positionsreloading
in silence. All at oncea thundering voice was heardshouting:-


Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade!

All turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded.

Marius had entered the tap-roomand had seized the barrel of powder
then he had taken advantage of the smokeand the sort of obscure mist
which filled the entrenched enclosureto glide along the barricade
as far as that cage of paving-stones where the torch was fixed.
To tear it from the torchto replace it by the barrel of powder
to thrust the pile of stones under the barrelwhich was instantly
staved inwith a sort of horrible obedience--all this had cost
Marius but the time necessary to stoop and rise again; and now all
National GuardsMunicipal Guardsofficerssoldiershuddled at
the other extremity of the barricadegazed stupidly at him
as he stood with his foot on the stoneshis torch in his hand
his haughty face illuminated by a fatal resolutiondrooping the
flame of the torch towards that redoubtable pile where they could
make out the broken barrel of powderand giving vent to that
startling cry:-


Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade!

Marius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the vision
of the young revolution after the apparition of the old.

Blow up the barricade!said a sergeantand yourself with it!

Marius retorted: "And myself also."

And he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder.

But there was no longer any one on the barrier. The assailants
abandoning their dead and woundedflowed back pell-mell and in
disorder towards the extremity of the streetand there were again
lost in the night. It was a headlong flight.

The barricade was free.

CHAPTER V

END OF THE VERSES OF JEAN PROUVAIRE

All flocked around Marius. Courfeyrac flung himself on his neck.

Here you are!


What luck!said Combeferre.

You came in opportunely!ejaculated Bossuet.

If it had not been for you, I should have been dead!
began Courfeyrac again.


If it had not been for you, I should have been gobbled up!
added Gavroche.


Marius asked:--


Where is the chief?


You are he!said Enjolras.


Marius had had a furnace in his brain all day long; now it was
a whirlwind. This whirlwind which was within himproduced on
him the effect of being outside of him and of bearing him away.
It seemed to him that he was already at an immense distance from life.
His two luminous months of joy and loveending abruptly at that frightful
precipiceCosette lost to himthat barricadeM. Mabeuf getting
himself killed for the Republichimself the leader of the insurgents--
all these things appeared to him like a tremendous nightmare.
He was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the fact that all
that surrounded him was real. Marius had already seen too much of
life not to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible
and that what it is always necessary to foresee is the unforeseen. He
had looked on at his own drama as a piece which one does not understand.


In the mists which enveloped his thoughtshe did not recognize
Javertwhobound to his posthad not so much as moved his head
during the whole of the attack on the barricadeand who had
gazed on the revolt seething around him with the resignation
of a martyr and the majesty of a judge. Marius had not even seen him.


In the meanwhilethe assailants did not stirthey could be heard
marching and swarming through at the end of the street but they
did not venture into iteither because they were awaiting orders
or because they were awaiting reinforcements before hurling
themselves afresh on this impregnable redoubt. The insurgents
had posted sentinelsand some of themwho were medical students
set about caring for the wounded.


They had thrown the tables out of the wine-shopwith the exception
of the two tables reserved for lint and cartridgesand of the one
on which lay Father Mabeuf; they had added them to the barricade
and had replaced them in the tap-room with mattresses from the bed
of the widow Hucheloup and her servants. On these mattresses
they had laid the wounded. As for the three poor creatures
who inhabited Corintheno one knew what had become of them.
They were finally foundhoweverhidden in the cellar.


A poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencumbered barricade.


The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing. And who was it?
One of the dearest. One of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire.
He was sought among the woundedhe was not there. He was sought
among the deadhe was not there. He was evidently a prisoner.
Combeferre said to Enjolras:--


They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set
on the death of that spy?



Yes,replied Enjolras; "but less so than on the life of Jean Prouvaire."

This took place in the tap-room near Javert's post.

Well,resumed CombeferreI am going to fasten my handkerchief
to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to exchange our man
for theirs.

Listen,said Enjolraslaying his hand on Combeferre's arm.

At the end of the street there was a significant clash of arms.

They heard a manly voice shout:-


Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!

They recognized the voice of Prouvaire.

A flash passeda report rang out.

Silence fell again.

They have killed him,exclaimed Combeferre.

Enjolras glanced at Javertand said to him:-


Your friends have just shot you.

CHAPTER VI

THE AGONY OF DEATH AFTER THE AGONY OF LIFE

A peculiarity of this species of war isthat the attack of the
barricades is almost always made from the frontand that the assailants
generally abstain from turning the positioneither because they
fear ambushesor because they are afraid of getting entangled in the
tortuous streets. The insurgents' whole attention had been directed
thereforeto the grand barricadewhich wasevidentlythe spot
always menacedand there the struggle would infallibly recommence.
But Marius thought of the little barricadeand went thither.
It was deserted and guarded only by the fire-pot which trembled between
the paving-stones. Moreoverthe Mondetour alleyand the branches of
the Rue de la Petite Truanderie and the Rue du Cygne were profoundly calm.

As Marius was withdrawingafter concluding his inspection
he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness.

Monsieur Marius!

He startedfor he recognized the voice which had called to him
two hours before through the gate in the Rue Plumet.

Onlythe voice now seemed to be nothing more than a breath.

He looked about himbut saw no one.

Marius thought he had been mistakenthat it was an illusion added
by his mind to the extraordinary realities which were clashing
around him. He advanced a stepin order to quit the distant
recess where the barricade lay.


Monsieur Marius!repeated the voice.


This time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly;
he looked and saw nothing.
At your feet,said the voice.


He bent downand saw in the darkness a form which was dragging
itself towards him.

It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had spoken
to him.

The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blousetorn trousers
of coarse velvetbare feetand something which resembled a pool
of blood. Marius indistinctly made out a pale head which was lifted
towards him and which was saying to him:-


You do not recognize me?

No.
Eponine.

Marius bent hastily down. It wasin factthat unhappy child.
She was dressed in men's clothes.

How come you here? What are you doing here?
I am dying,said she.

There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings.
Marius cried out with a start:-


You are wounded! Wait, I will carry you into the room! They will
attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I take hold of you
in order not to hurt you? Where do you suffer? Help! My God!
But why did you come hither?

And he tried to pass his arm under herin order to raise her.
She uttered a feeble cry.

Have I hurt you?asked Marius.
A little.

But I only touched your hand.

She raised her hand to Mariusand in the middle of that hand
Marius saw a black hole.

What is the matter with your hand?said he.
It is pierced.

Pierced?
Yes.

What with?
A bullet.


How?

Did you see a gun aimed at you?

Yes, and a hand stopping it.

It was mine.

Marius was seized with a shudder.

What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that is all,
it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will dress your wound;
one does not die of a pierced hand.


She murmured:--


The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my back.
It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell you how you
can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit down near me on
this stone.


He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius' kneesandwithout looking
at himshe said:--


Oh! How good this is! How comfortable this is! There; I no
longer suffer.


She remained silent for a momentthen she turned her face with
an effortand looked at Marius.


Do you know what, Monsieur Marius? It puzzled me because you
entered that garden; it was stupid, because it was I who showed you
that house; and then, I ought to have said to myself that a young
man like you--


She pausedand overstepping the sombre transitions that undoubtedly
existed in her mindshe resumed with a heartrending smile:--


You thought me ugly, didn't you?


She continued:--


You see, you are lost! Now, no one can get out of the barricade.
It was I who led you here, by the way! You are going to die,
I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them taking aim at you,
I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun. How queer it is! But it
was because I wanted to die before you. When I received that bullet,
I dragged myself here, no one saw me, no one picked me up,
I was waiting for you, I said: `So he is not coming!' Oh, if you
only knew. I bit my blouse, I suffered so! Now I am well.
Do you remember the day I entered your chamber and when I looked
at myself in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the
boulevard near the washerwomen? How the birds sang! That was
a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you:
`I don't want your money.' I hope you picked up your coin?
You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it up.
The sun was shining bright, and it was not cold. Do you remember,
Monsieur Marius? Oh! How happy I am! Every one is going
to die.


She had a madgraveand heart-breaking air. Her torn blouse
disclosed her bare throat.



As she talkedshe pressed her pierced hand to her breastwhere there
was another holeand whence there spurted from moment to moment
a stream of bloodlike a jet of wine from an open bung-hole.

Marius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound compassion.

Oh!she resumedit is coming again, I am stifling!

She caught up her blouse and bit itand her limbs stiffened
on the pavement.

At that moment the young cock's crow executed by little Gavroche
resounded through the barricade.

The child had mounted a table to load his gunand was singing
gayly the song then so popular:-


En voyant Lafayette, On beholding Lafayette
Le gendarme repete:--The gendarme repeats:-Sauvons
nous! sauvons nous! Let us flee! let us flee!

sauvons nous!" let us flee!

Eponine raised herself and listened; then she murmured:-


It is he.

And turning to Marius:-


My brother is here. He must not see me. He would scold me.

Your brother?inquired Mariuswho was meditating in the most bitter
and sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties to the Thenardiers
which his father had bequeathed to him; "who is your brother?"

That little fellow.

The one who is singing?

Yes.

Marius made a movement.

Oh! don't go away,said sheit will not be long now.

She was sitting almost uprightbut her voice was very low
and broken by hiccoughs.

At intervalsthe death rattle interrupted her. She put her face
as near that of Marius as possible. She added with a strange expression:-


Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter in my
pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept it.
I did not want to have it reach you. But perhaps you will be angry
with me for it when we meet again presently? Take your letter.

She grasped Marius' hand convulsively with her pierced hand
but she no longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She put Marius'
hand in the pocket of her blouse. Therein factMarius felt
a paper.

Take it,said she.


Marius took the letter.

She made a sign of satisfaction and contentment.

Now, for my trouble, promise me--

And she stopped.

What?asked Marius.

Promise me!

I promise.

Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead.--I shall
feel it.


She dropped her head again on Marius' kneesand her eyelids closed.
He thought the poor soul had departed. Eponine remained motionless.
All at onceat the very moment when Marius fancied her asleep forever
she slowly opened her eyes in which appeared the sombre profundity
of deathand said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already
to proceed from another world:--


And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a little
bit in love with you.


She tried to smile once more and expired.


CHAPTER VII


GAVROCHE AS A PROFOUND CALCULATOR OF DISTANCES


Marius kept his promise. He dropped a kiss on that livid brow
where the icy perspiration stood in beads.


This was no infidelity to Cosette; it was a gentle and pensive
farewell to an unhappy soul.


It was not without a tremor that he had taken the letter
which Eponine had given him. He had immediately felt that
it was an event of weight. He was impatient to read it.
The heart of man is so constituted that the unhappy child had
hardly closed her eyes when Marius began to think of unfolding this paper.


He laid her gently on the groundand went away. Something told him
that he could not peruse that letter in the presence of that body.


He drew near to a candle in the tap-room. It was a small note
folded and sealed with a woman's elegant care. The address was
in a woman's hand and ran:--


To Monsieur, Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfeyrac's, Rue
de la Verrerie, No. 16.


He broke the seal and read:--


My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately.
We shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.
In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th.



Such was the innocence of their love that Marius was not even
acquainted with Cosette's handwriting.

What had taken place may be related in a few words. Eponine had
been the cause of everything. After the evening of the 3d
of June she had cherished a double ideato defeat the projects
of her father and the ruffians on the house of the Rue Plumet
and to separate Marius and Cosette. She had exchanged rags with
the first young scamp she came across who had thought it amusing
to dress like a womanwhile Eponine disguised herself like a man.
It was she who had conveyed to Jean Valjean in the Champ de Mars
the expressive warning: "Leave your house." Jean Valjean had
in factreturned homeand had said to Cosette: "We set out this
evening and we go to the Rue de l'Homme Arme with Toussaint.
Next weekwe shall be in London." Cosetteutterly overwhelmed
by this unexpected blowhad hastily penned a couple of lines
to Marius. But how was she to get the letter to the post?
She never went out aloneand Toussaintsurprised at such
a commissionwould certainly show the letter to M. Fauchelevent.
In this dilemmaCosette had caught sight through the fence of Eponine
in man's clotheswho now prowled incessantly around the garden.
Cosette had called to "this young workman" and had handed him five
francs and the lettersaying: "Carry this letter immediately to
its address." Eponine had put the letter in her pocket. The next day
on the 5th of Juneshe went to Courfeyrac's quarters to inquire
for Mariusnot for the purpose of delivering the letterbut--a thing
which every jealous and loving soul will comprehend--"to see."
There she had waited for Mariusor at least for Courfeyrac
still for the purpose of seeing. When Courfeyrac had told her:
We are going to the barricades,an idea flashed through her mind
to fling herself into that deathas she would have done into any other
and to thrust Marius into it also. She had followed Courfeyrac
had made sure of the locality where the barricade was in process
of construction; andquite certainsince Marius had received
no warningand since she had intercepted the letterthat he
would go at dusk to his trysting place for every eveningshe had
betaken herself to the Rue Plumethad there awaited Marius
and had sent himin the name of his friendsthe appeal which would
she thoughtlead him to the barricade. She reckoned on Marius'
despair when he should fail to find Cosette; she was not mistaken.
She had returned to the Rue de la Chanvrerie herself. What she did
there the reader has just seen. She died with the tragic joy of jealous
hearts who drag the beloved being into their own deathand who say:
No one shall have him!

Marius covered Cosette's letter with kisses. So she loved him!
For one moment the idea occurred to him that he ought not to die now.
Then he said to himself: "She is going away. Her father is taking
her to Englandand my grandfather refuses his consent to the marriage.
Nothing is changed in our fates." Dreamers like Marius are subject
to supreme attacks of dejectionand desperate resolves are the result.
The fatigue of living is insupportable; death is sooner over with.
Then he reflected that he had still two duties to fulfil: to inform
Cosette of his death and send her a final farewelland to save from
the impending catastrophe which was in preparationthat poor child
Eponine's brother and Thenardier's son.

He had a pocket-book about him; the same one which had contained
the note-book in which he had inscribed so many thoughts of love
for Cosette. He tore out a leaf and wrote on it a few lines
in pencil:-


Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, he refused;
I have no fortune, neither hast thou. I hastened to thee, thou wert


no longer there. Thou knowest the promise that I gave thee,
I shall keep it. I die. I love thee. When thou readest this,
my soul will be near thee, and thou wilt smile.

Having nothing wherewith to seal this letterhe contented himself
with folding the paper in fourand added the address:-


To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, at M. Fauchelevent's, Rue
de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.

Having folded the letterhe stood in thought for a momentdrew out
his pocket-book againopened itand wrotewith the same pencil
these four lines on the first page:-


My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather,

M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais.
He put his pocketbook back in his pocketthen he called Gavroche.

The gaminat the sound of Marius' voiceran up to him with his
merry and devoted air.

Will you do something for me?

Anything,said Gavroche. "Good God! if it had not been for you
I should have been done for."

Do you see this letter?

Yes.

Take it. Leave the barricade instantly(Gavroche began to scratch
his ear uneasily) "and to-morrow morningyou will deliver it
at its address to Mademoiselle Cosetteat M. Fauchelevent's
Rue de l'Homme ArmeNo. 7."

The heroic child replied

Well, but! in the meanwhile the barricade will be taken, and I
shall not be there.

The barricade will not be attacked until daybreak, according to
all appearances, and will not be taken before to-morrow noon.

The fresh respite which the assailants were granting to the
barricade hadin factbeen prolonged. It was one of those
intermissions which frequently occur in nocturnal combats
which are always followed by an increase of rage.

Well,said Gavrochewhat if I were to go and carry your
letter to-morrow?

It will be too late. The barricade will probably be blockaded,
all the streets will be guarded, and you will not be able to get out.
Go at once.

Gavroche could think of no reply to thisand stood there in indecision
scratching his ear sadly.

All at oncehe took the letter with one of those birdlike movements
which were common with him.

All right,said he.


And he started off at a run through Mondetour lane.

An idea had occurred to Gavroche which had brought him to a decision
but he had not mentioned it for fear that Marius might offer some
objection to it.

This was the idea:-


It is barely midnight, the Rue de l'Homme Arme is not far off;
I will go and deliver the letter at once, and I shall get back
in time.

BOOK FIFTEENTH.--THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME

CHAPTER I

A DRINKER IS A BABBLER

What are the convulsions of a city in comparison with the insurrections
of the soul? Man is a depth still greater than the people.
Jean Valjean at that very moment was the prey of a terrible upheaval.
Every sort of gulf had opened again within him. He also was trembling
like Parison the brink of an obscure and formidable revolution.
A few hours had sufficed to bring this about. His destiny and his
conscience had suddenly been covered with gloom. Of him also
as well as of Parisit might have been said: "Two principles are
face to face. The white angel and the black angel are about to seize
each other on the bridge of the abyss. Which of the two will hurl
the other over? Who will carry the day?"

On the evening preceding this same 5th of JuneJean Valjean
accompanied by Cosette and Toussaint had installed himself in the Rue
de l'Homme Arme. A change awaited him there.

Cosette had not quitted the Rue Plumet without making an effort
at resistance. For the first time since they had lived side by side
Cosette's will and the will of Jean Valjean had proved to be distinct
and had been in oppositionat leastif they had not clashed.
There had been objections on one side and inflexibility on the other.
The abrupt advice: "Leave your house hurled at Jean Valjean by
a stranger, had alarmed him to the extent of rendering him peremptory.
He thought that he had been traced and followed. Cosette had been
obliged to give way.

Both had arrived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme without opening their lips,
and without uttering a word, each being absorbed in his own personal
preoccupation; Jean Valjean so uneasy that he did not notice Cosette's
sadness, Cosette so sad that she did not notice Jean Valjean's uneasiness.

Jean Valjean had taken Toussaint with him, a thing which he had
never done in his previous absences. He perceived the possibility
of not returning to the Rue Plumet, and he could neither leave
Toussaint behind nor confide his secret to her. Besides, he felt
that she was devoted and trustworthy. Treachery between master
and servant begins in curiosity. Now Toussaint, as though she
had been destined to be Jean Valjean's servant, was not curious.
She stammered in her peasant dialect of Barneville: I am made so;
I do my work; the rest is no affair of mine."


In this departure from the Rue Plumetwhich had been almost
a flightJean Valjean had carried away nothing but the little
embalmed valisebaptized by Cosette "the inseparable."
Full trunks would have required portersand porters are witnesses.
A fiacre had been summoned to the door on the Rue de Babylone
and they had taken their departure.


It was with difficulty that Toussaint had obtained permission
to pack up a little linen and clothes and a few toilet articles.
Cosette had taken only her portfolio and her blotting-book.


Jean Valjeanwith a view to augmenting the solitude and the mystery
of this departurehad arranged to quit the pavilion of the Rue Plumet
only at duskwhich had allowed Cosette time to write her note to Marius.
They had arrived in the Rue de l'Homme Arme after night had fully fallen.


They had gone to bed in silence.


The lodgings in the Rue de l'Homme Arme were situated on a back court
on the second floorand were composed of two sleeping-roomsa
dining-room and a kitchen adjoining the dining-roomwith a garret
where there was a folding-bedand which fell to Toussaint's share.
The dining-room was an antechamber as welland separated the
two bedrooms. The apartment was provided with all necessary utensils.


People re-acquire confidence as foolishly as they lose it; human nature
is so constituted. Hardly had Jean Valjean reached the Rue de l'Homme
Arme when his anxiety was lightened and by degrees dissipated.
There are soothing spots which act in some sort mechanically on
the mind. An obscure streetpeaceable inhabitants. Jean Valjean
experienced an indescribable contagion of tranquillity in that alley
of ancient Pariswhich is so narrow that it is barred against carriages
by a transverse beam placed on two postswhich is deaf and dumb
in the midst of the clamorous citydimly lighted at mid-dayand is
so to speakincapable of emotions between two rows of lofty houses
centuries oldwhich hold their peace like ancients as they are.
There was a touch of stagnant oblivion in that street. Jean Valjean
drew his breath once more there. How could he be found there?


His first care was to place the inseparable beside him.


He slept well. Night brings wisdom; we may addnight soothes.
On the following morning he awoke in a mood that was almost gay.
He thought the dining-room charmingthough it was hideous
furnished with an old round tablea long sideboard surmounted
by a slanting mirrora dilapidated arm-chairand several plain
chairs which were encumbered with Toussaint's packages. In one of
these packages Jean Valjean's uniform of a National Guard was visible
through a rent.


As for Cosetteshe had had Toussaint take some broth to her room
and did not make her appearance until evening.


About five o'clockToussaintwho was going and coming and busying
herself with the tiny establishmentset on the table a cold chicken
which Cosetteout of deference to her fatherconsented to glance at.


That doneCosetteunder the pretext of an obstinate sick headache
had bade Jean Valjean good night and had shut herself up in her chamber.
Jean Valjean had eaten a wing of the chicken with a good appetite
and with his elbows on the tablehaving gradually recovered
his serenityhad regained possession of his sense of security.


While he was discussing this modest dinnerhe hadtwice or thrice



noticed in a confused wayToussaint's stammering words as she said
to him: "Monsieurthere is something going onthey are fighting
in Paris." But absorbed in a throng of inward calculations
he had paid no heed to it. To tell the truthhe had not heard her.
He rose and began to pace from the door to the window and from the
window to the doorgrowing ever more serene.


With this calmCosettehis sole anxietyrecurred to his thoughts.
Not that he was troubled by this headachea little nervous crisis
a young girl's fit of sulksthe cloud of a momentthere would be
nothing left of it in a day or two; but he meditated on the future
andas was his habithe thought of it with pleasure. After all
he saw no obstacle to their happy life resuming its course.
At certain hourseverything seems impossibleat others everything
appears easy; Jean Valjean was in the midst of one of these good hours.
They generally succeed the bad onesas day follows nightby virtue
of that law of succession and of contrast which lies at the very
foundation of natureand which superficial minds call antithesis.
In this peaceful street where he had taken refugeJean Valjean
got rid of all that had been troubling him for some time past.
This very factthat he had seen many shadowsmade him begin
to perceive a little azure. To have quitted the Rue Plumet without
complications or incidents was one good step already accomplished.
Perhaps it would be wise to go abroadif only for a few months
and to set out for London. Wellthey would go. What difference did
it make to him whether he was in France or in Englandprovided he
had Cosette beside him? Cosette was his nation. Cosette sufficed
for his happiness; the idea that heperhapsdid not suffice for
Cosette's happinessthat idea which had formerly been the cause of his
fever and sleeplessnessdid not even present itself to his mind.
He was in a state of collapse from all his past sufferingsand he
was fully entered on optimism. Cosette was by his sideshe seemed
to be his; an optical illusion which every one has experienced.
He arranged in his own mindwith all sorts of felicitous devices
his departure for England with Cosetteand he beheld his felicity
reconstituted wherever he pleasedin the perspective of his revery.


As he paced to and fro with long strideshis glance suddenly
encountered something strange.


In the inclined mirror facing him which surmounted the sideboard
he saw the four lines which follow:--


My dearest, alas! my father insists on our setting out immediately.
We shall be this evening in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.
In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. June 4th.


Jean Valjean haltedperfectly haggard.


Cosette on her arrival had placed her blotting-book on the sideboard
in front of the mirrorandutterly absorbed in her agony of grief
had forgotten it and left it therewithout even observing that she
had left it wide openand open at precisely the page on which she
had laid to dry the four lines which she had pennedand which she
had given in charge of the young workman in the Rue Plumet.
The writing had been printed off on the blotter.


The mirror reflected the writing.


The result waswhat is called in geometrythe symmetrical image;
so that the writingreversed on the blotterwas righted in the
mirror and presented its natural appearance; and Jean Valjean
had beneath his eyes the letter written by Cosette to Marius
on the preceding evening.



It was simple and withering.


Jean Valjean stepped up to the mirror. He read the four lines again
but he did not believe them. They produced on him the effect
of appearing in a flash of lightning. It was a hallucination
it was impossible. It was not so.


Little by littlehis perceptions became more precise; he looked
at Cosette's blotting-bookand the consciousness of the reality
returned to him. He caught up the blotter and said: "It comes
from there." He feverishly examined the four lines imprinted
on the blotterthe reversal of the letters converted into an
odd scrawland he saw no sense in it. Then he said to himself:
But this signifies nothing; there is nothing written here.
And he drew a long breath with inexpressible relief. Who has not
experienced those foolish joys in horrible instants? The soul does
not surrender to despair until it has exhausted all illusions.


He held the blotter in his hand and contemplated it in stupid delight
almost ready to laugh at the hallucination of which he had been
the dupe. All at once his eyes fell upon the mirror again
and again he beheld the vision. There were the four lines
outlined with inexorable clearness. This time it was no mirage.
The recurrence of a vision is a reality; it was palpableit was
the writing restored in the mirror. He understood.


Jean Valjean tottereddropped the blotterand fell into the old
arm-chair beside the buffetwith drooping headand glassy eyes
in utter bewilderment. He told himself that it was plainthat the
light of the world had been eclipsed foreverand that Cosette
had written that to some one. Then he heard his soulwhich had
become terrible once moregive vent to a dull roar in the gloom.
Try then the effect of taking from the lion the dog which he has
in his cage!


Strange and sad to sayat that very momentMarius had not yet
received Cosette's letter; chance had treacherously carried it
to Jean Valjean before delivering it to Marius. Up to that day
Jean Valjean had not been vanquished by trial. He had been subjected
to fearful proofs; no violence of bad fortune had been spared him;
the ferocity of fatearmed with all vindictiveness and all
social scornhad taken him for her prey and had raged against him.
He had accepted every extremity when it had been necessary;
he had sacrificed his inviolability as a reformed manhad yielded up
his libertyrisked his headlost everythingsuffered everything
and he had remained disinterested and stoical to such a point that he
might have been thought to be absent from himself like a martyr.
His conscience inured to every assault of destinymight have
appeared to be forever impregnable. Wellany one who had beheld
his spiritual self would have been obliged to concede that it weakened
at that moment. It was becauseof all the tortures which he had
undergone in the course of this long inquisition to which destiny
had doomed himthis was the most terrible. Never had such pincers
seized him hitherto. He felt the mysterious stirring of all his
latent sensibilities. He felt the plucking at the strange chord.
Alas! the supreme triallet us say ratherthe only trial
is the loss of the beloved being.


Poor old Jean Valjean certainly did not love Cosette otherwise than as
a father; but we have already remarkedabovethat into this paternity
the widowhood of his life had introduced all the shades of love;
he loved Cosette as his daughterand he loved her as his mother
and he loved her as his sister; andas he had never had either



a woman to love or a wifeas nature is a creditor who accepts
no protestthat sentiment alsothe most impossible to lose
was mingled with the restvagueignorantpure with the purity
of blindnessunconsciouscelestialangelicdivine; less like
a sentiment than like an instinctless like an instinct than
like an imperceptible and invisible but real attraction; and love
properly speakingwasin his immense tenderness for Cosette
like the thread of gold in the mountainconcealed and virgin.


Let the reader recall the situation of heart which we have
already indicated. No marriage was possible between them;
not even that of souls; and yetit is certain that their destinies
were wedded. With the exception of Cosettethat is to say
with the exception of a childhoodJean Valjean had neverin the
whole of his long lifeknown anything of that which may be loved.
The passions and loves which succeed each other had not produced
in him those successive green growthstender green or dark green
which can be seen in foliage which passes through the winter and in men
who pass fifty. In shortand we have insisted on it more than once
all this interior fusionall this wholeof which the sum total was
a lofty virtueended in rendering Jean Valjean a father to Cosette.
A strange fatherforged from the grandfatherthe sonthe brother
and the husbandthat existed in Jean Valjean; a father in whom
there was included even a mother; a father who loved Cosette
and adored herand who held that child as his lighthis home
his familyhis countryhis paradise.


Thus when he saw that the end had absolutely comethat she was
escaping from himthat she was slipping from his handsthat she
was gliding from himlike a cloudlike waterwhen he had before
his eyes this crushing proof: "another is the goal of her heart
another is the wish of her life; there is a dearest oneI am no
longer anything but her fatherI no longer exist"; when he could no
longer doubtwhen he said to himself: "She is going away from me!"
the grief which he felt surpassed the bounds of possibility.
To have done all that he had done for the purpose of ending like this!
And the very idea of being nothing! Thenas we have just said
a quiver of revolt ran through him from head to foot. He felt
even in the very roots of his hairthe immense reawakening of egotism
and the _I_ in this man's abyss howled.


There is such a thing as the sudden giving way of the inward subsoil.
A despairing certainty does not make its way into a man without
thrusting aside and breaking certain profound elements which
in some casesare the very man himself. Griefwhen it attains
this shapeis a headlong flight of all the forces of the conscience.
These are fatal crises. Few among us emerge from them still
like ourselves and firm in duty. When the limit of endurance
is oversteppedthe most imperturbable virtue is disconcerted.
Jean Valjean took the blotter againand convinced himself afresh;
he remained bowed and as though petrified and with staring eyes
over those four unobjectionable lines; and there arose within him such
a cloud that one might have thought that everything in this soul was
crumbling away.


He examined this revelationathwart the exaggerations of revery
with an apparent and terrifying calmnessfor it is a fearful thing
when a man's calmness reaches the coldness of the statue.


He measured the terrible step which his destiny had taken without
his having a suspicion of the fact; he recalled his fears of the
preceding summerso foolishly dissipated; he recognized the precipice
it was still the same; onlyJean Valjean was no longer on the brink
he was at the bottom of it.



The unprecedented and heart-rending thing about it was that he had
fallen without perceiving it. All the light of his life had departed
while he still fancied that he beheld the sun.


His instinct did not hesitate. He put together certain circumstances
certain datescertain blushes and certain pallors on Cosette's part
and he said to himself: "It is he."


The divination of despair is a sort of mysterious bow which never
misses its aim. He struck Marius with his first conjecture.
He did not know the namebut he found the man instantly.
He distinctly perceivedin the background of the implacable
conjuration of his memoriesthe unknown prowler of the Luxembourg
that wretched seeker of love adventuresthat idler of romance
that idiotthat cowardfor it is cowardly to come and make eyes at
young girls who have beside them a father who loves them.


After he had thoroughly verified the fact that this young man
was at the bottom of this situationand that everything proceeded
from that quarterheJean Valjeanthe regenerated manthe man
who had so labored over his soulthe man who had made so many efforts
to resolve all lifeall miseryand all unhappiness into love
looked into his own breast and there beheld a spectreHate.


Great griefs contain something of dejection. They discourage one
with existence. The man into whom they enter feels something within
him withdraw from him. In his youththeir visits are lugubrious;
later on they are sinister. Alasif despair is a fearful thing
when the blood is hotwhen the hair is blackwhen the head is erect
on the body like the flame on the torchwhen the roll of destiny still
retains its full thicknesswhen the heartfull of desirable love
still possesses beats which can be returned to itwhen one has time
for redresswhen all women and all smiles and all the future and
all the horizon are before onewhen the force of life is complete
what is it in old agewhen the years hasten ongrowing ever paler
to that twilight hour when one begins to behold the stars of the tomb?


While he was meditatingToussaint entered. Jean Valjean rose
and asked her:--


In what quarter is it? Do you know?


Toussaint was struck dumband could only answer him:--


What is it, sir?


Jean Valjean began again: "Did you not tell me that just now
that there is fighting going on?"


Ah! yes, sir,replied Toussaint. "It is in the direction
of Saint-Merry."


There is a mechanical movement which comes to usunconsciously
from the most profound depths of our thought. It wasno doubt
under the impulse of a movement of this sortand of which he
was hardly consciousthat Jean Valjeanfive minutes later
found himself in the street.


Bareheadedhe sat upon the stone post at the door of his house.
He seemed to be listening.


Night had come.



CHAPTER II

THE STREET URCHIN AN ENEMY OF LIGHT

How long did he remain thus? What was the ebb and flow of this
tragic meditation? Did he straighten up? Did he remain bowed?
Had he been bent to breaking? Could he still rise and regain his
footing in his conscience upon something solid? He probably would
not have been able to tell himself.

The street was deserted. A few uneasy bourgeoiswho were rapidly
returning homehardly saw him. Each one for himself in times
of peril. The lamp-lighter came as usual to light the lantern
which was situated precisely opposite the door of No. 7
and then went away. Jean Valjean would not have appeared like
a living man to any one who had examined him in that shadow.
He sat there on the post of his doormotionless as a form of ice.
There is congealment in despair. The alarm bells and a vague and
stormy uproar were audible. In the midst of all these convulsions
of the bell mingled with the revoltthe clock of Saint-Paul
struck elevengravely and without haste; for the tocsin is man;
the hour is God. The passage of the hour produced no effect on
Jean Valjean; Jean Valjean did not stir. Stillat about that moment
a brusque report burst forth in the direction of the Halles
a second yet more violent followed; it was probably that attack
on the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie which we have just
seen repulsed by Marius. At this double dischargewhose fury
seemed augmented by the stupor of the nightJean Valjean started;
he roseturning towards the quarter whence the noise proceeded;
then he fell back upon the post againfolded his armsand his head
slowly sank on his bosom again.

He resumed his gloomy dialogue with himself.

All at oncehe raised his eyes; some one was walking in the street
he heard steps near him. He lookedand by the light of the lanterns
in the direction of the street which ran into the Rue-aux-Archives
he perceived a younglividand beaming face.

Gavroche had just arrived in the Rue l'Homme Arme.

Gavroche was staring into the airapparently in search of something.
He saw Jean Valjean perfectly well but he took no notice of him.

Gavroche after staring into the airstared below; he raised himself
on tiptoeand felt of the doors and windows of the ground floor;
they were all shutboltedand padlocked. After having authenticated
the fronts of five or six barricaded houses in this mannerthe urchin
shrugged his shouldersand took himself to task in these terms:-


Pardi!

Then he began to stare into the air again.

Jean Valjeanwhoan instant previouslyin his then state of mind
would not have spoken to or even answered any onefelt irresistibly
impelled to accost that child.

What is the matter with you, my little fellow?he said.

The matter with me is that I am hungry,replied Gavroche frankly.


And he added: "Little fellow yourself."

Jean Valjean fumbled in his fob and pulled out a five-franc piece.

But Gavrochewho was of the wagtail speciesand who skipped
vivaciously from one gesture to anotherhad just picked up a stone.
He had caught sight of the lantern.


See here,said heyou still have your lanterns here.
You are disobeying the regulations, my friend. This is disorderly.
Smash that for me.


And he flung the stone at the lanternwhose broken glass fell with
such a clatter that the bourgeois in hiding behind their curtains
in the opposite house cried: "There is `Ninety-three' come again."


The lantern oscillated violentlyand went out. The street had
suddenly become black.


That's right, old street,ejaculated Gavrocheput on your night-cap.


And turning to Jean Valjean:--


What do you call that gigantic monument that you have there at the
end of the street? It's the Archives, isn't it? I must crumble up
those big stupids of pillars a bit and make a nice barricade out of them.


Jean Valjean stepped up to Gavroche.


Poor creature,he said in a low toneand speaking to himself
he is hungry.


And he laid the hundred-sou piece in his hand.


Gavroche raised his faceastonished at the size of this sou;
he stared at it in the darknessand the whiteness of the big sou
dazzled him. He knew five-franc pieces by hearsay; their reputation
was agreeable to him; he was delighted to see one close to.
He said:--


Let us contemplate the tiger.


He gazed at it for several minutes in ecstasy; thenturning to
Jean Valjeanhe held out the coin to himand said majestically
to him:--


Bourgeois, I prefer to smash lanterns. Take back your ferocious beast.
You can't bribe me. That has got five claws; but it doesn't scratch me.


Have you a mother?asked Jean Valjean.


Gavroche replied:--


More than you have, perhaps.


Well,returned Jean Valjeankeep the money for your mother!


Gavroche was touched. Moreoverhe had just noticed that the man
who was addressing him had no hatand this inspired him with confidence.


Truly,said heso it wasn't to keep me from breaking the lanterns?


Break whatever you please.



You're a fine man,said Gavroche.
And he put the five-franc piece into one of his pockets.


His confidence having increasedhe added:--
Do you belong in this street?


Yes, why?
Can you tell me where No. 7 is?


What do you want with No. 7?


Here the child pausedhe feared that he had said too much;
he thrust his nails energetically into his hair and contented
himself with replying:-


Ah! Here it is.

An idea flashed through Jean Valjean's mind. Anguish does have
these gleams. He said to the lad:-


Are you the person who is bringing a letter that I am expecting?

You?said Gavroche. "You are not a woman."
The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not?


Cosette,muttered Gavroche. "YesI believe that is the queer name."


Well,resumed Jean ValjeanI am the person to whom you are
to deliver the letter. Give it here.
In that case, you must know that I was sent from the barricade.


Of course,said Jean Valjean.


Gavroche engulfed his hand in another of his pockets and drew
out a paper folded in four.

Then he made the military salute.

Respect
for despatches,said he. "It comes from the Provisional Government."
Give it to me,said Jean Valjean.


Gavroche held the paper elevated above his head.


Don't go and fancy it's a love letter. It is for a woman,
but it's for the people. We men fight and we respect the fair sex.
We are not as they are in fine society, where there are lions who send
chickens[55] to camels.


[55] Love letters.
Give it to me.

After all,continued Gavrocheyou have the air of an honest man.
Give it to me quick.


Catch hold of it.

And he handed the paper to Jean Valjean.

And make haste, Monsieur What's-your-name, for Mamselle Cosette
is waiting.

Gavroche was satisfied with himself for having produced this remark.

Jean Valjean began again:-


Is it to Saint-Merry that the answer is to be sent?

There you are making some of those bits of pastry vulgarly called
brioches [blunders]. This letter comes from the barricade of the Rue
de la Chanvrerie, and I'm going back there. Good evening, citizen.

That saidGavroche took himself offorto describe it more exactly
fluttered away in the direction whence he had come with a flight
like that of an escaped bird. He plunged back into the gloom as
though he made a hole in itwith the rigid rapidity of a projectile;
the alley of l'Homme Arme became silent and solitary once more;
in a twinklingthat strange childwho had about him something
of the shadow and of the dreamhad buried himself in the mists of
the rows of black housesand was lost therelike smoke in the dark;
and one might have thought that he had dissipated and vanished
had there not taken placea few minutes after his disappearance
a startling shiver of glassand had not the magnificent crash of a
lantern rattling down on the pavement once more abruptly awakened
the indignant bourgeois. It was Gavroche upon his way through the Rue
du Chaume.

CHAPTER III

WHILE COSETTE AND TOUSSAINT ARE ASLEEP

Jean Valjean went into the house with Marius' letter.

He groped his way up the stairsas pleased with the darkness
as an owl who grips his preyopened and shut his door softly
listened to see whether he could hear any noise--made sure that
to all appearancesCosette and Toussaint were asleepand plunged
three or four matches into the bottle of the Fumade lighter
before he could evoke a sparkso greatly did his hand tremble.
What he had just done smacked of theft. At last the candle
was lighted; he leaned his elbows on the tableunfolded the paper
and read.

In violent emotionsone does not readone flings to the earth
so to speakthe paper which one holdsone clutches it like a victim
one crushes itone digs into it the nails of one's wrath
or of one's joy; one hastens to the endone leaps to the beginning;
attention is at fever heat; it takes up in the grossas it were
the essential points; it seizes on one pointand the rest disappears.
In Marius' note to CosetteJean Valjean saw only these words:-


I die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near thee.

In the presence of these two lineshe was horribly dazzled;
he remained for a momentcrushedas it wereby the change


of emotion which was taking place within himhe stared at Marius'
note with a sort of intoxicated amazementhe had before his eyes
that splendorthe death of a hated individual.


He uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all over.
The catastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared to hope.
The being who obstructed his destiny was disappearing. That man
had taken himself off of his own accordfreelywillingly. This man
was going to his deathand heJean Valjeanhad had no hand
in the matterand it was through no fault of his. Perhapseven
he is already dead. Here his fever entered into calculations.
Nohe is not dead yet. The letter had evidently been intended
for Cosette to read on the following morning; after the two
discharges that were heard between eleven o'clock and midnight
nothing more has taken place; the barricade will not be attacked
seriously until daybreak; but that makes no differencefrom the
moment when "that man" is concerned in this warhe is lost;
he is caught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself delivered.
So he was about to find himself alone with Cosette once more.
The rivalry would cease; the future was beginning again. He had
but to keep this note in his pocket. Cosette would never know
what had become of that man. All that there requires to be done
is to let things take their own course. This man cannot escape.
If he is not already deadit is certain that he is about to die.
What good fortune!


Having said all this to himselfhe became gloomy.


Then he went down stairs and woke up the porter.


About an hour laterJean Valjean went out in the complete costume
of a National Guardand with his arms. The porter had easily found
in the neighborhood the wherewithal to complete his equipment.
He had a loaded gun and a cartridge-box filled with cartridges.


He strode off in the direction of the markets.


CHAPTER IV


GAVROCHE'S EXCESS OF ZEAL


In the meantimeGavroche had had an adventure.


Gavrocheafter having conscientiously stoned the lantern in the Rue
du Chaumeentered the Rue des Vielles-Haudriettesand not seeing
even a cattherehe thought the opportunity a good one to strike
up all the song of which he was capable. His marchfar from being
retarded by his singingwas accelerated by it. He began to sow
along the sleeping or terrified houses these incendiary couplets:--


L'oiseau medit dans les charmilles,
Et pretend qu'hier Atala
Avec un Russe s'en alla.


Ou vont les belles filles,
Lon la.

Mon ami Pierrottu babilles
Parce que l'autre jour Mila
Cogna sa vitre et m'appela

Ou vont les belles filles
Lon la.


Les drolesses sont fort gentilles,
Leur poison qui m'ensorcela
Griserait Monsieur Orfila.

Ou vont les belles filles,
Lon la.

J'aime l'amour et les bisbilles
J'aime Agnesj'aime Pamela
Lisa en m'allumant se brula.

Ou vont les belles filles
Lon la.

Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles
De Suzette et de Zeila,
Mon ame aleurs plis se mela,


Ou vont les belles filles,
Lon la.

Amourquand dans l'ombre ou tu brilles
Tu coiffes de roses Lola
Je me damnerais pour cela.
Ou vont les belles filles
Lon la.

Jeanne a ton miroir tu t'habilles!
Mon coeur un beau jour s'envola.
Je crois que c'est Jeanne qui l'a.

Ou vont les belles filles,
Lon la.

Le soiren sortant des quadrilles
Je montre aux etoiles Stella
Et je leur dis: 'Regardez-la.'


Ou vont les belles filles
Lon la."[56]

[56]"The bird slanders in the elms
And pretends that yesterdayAtala
Went off with a Russian

Where fair maids go.
Lon la.

My friend Pierrotthou pratestbecause Mila knocked at her
pane the other day and called me. The jades are very charming
their poison which bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila.
I'm fond of love and its bickeringsI love AgnesI love Pamela
Lise burned herself in setting me aflame. In former days when I
saw the mantillas of Suzette and of Zeilamy soul mingled with
their folds. Lovewhen thou gleamest in the dark thou crownest
Lola with rosesI would lose my soul for that. Jeanneat thy
mirror thou deckest thyself! One fine daymy heart flew forth.
I think that it is Jeanne who has it. At nightwhen I come from
the quadrillesI show Stella to the starsand I say to them:
Behold her.Where fair maids golon la.

Gavrocheas he sangwas lavish of his pantomime. Gesture is the strong
point of the refrain. His facean inexhaustible repertory of masks
produced grimaces more convulsing and more fantastic than the rents
of a cloth torn in a high gale. Unfortunatelyas he was alone
and as it was nightthis was neither seen nor even visible.


Such wastes of riches do occur.

All at oncehe stopped short.

Let us interrupt the romance,said he.

His feline eye had just descriedin the recess of a carriage door
what is called in paintingan ensemblethat is to saya person
and a thing; the thing was a hand-cartthe person was a man from
Auvergene who was sleeping therein.

The shafts of the cart rested on the pavementand the Auvergnat's
head was supported against the front of the cart. His body was
coiled up on this inclined plane and his feet touched the ground.

Gavrochewith his experience of the things of this world
recognized a drunken man. He was some corner errand-man who had
drunk too much and was sleeping too much.

There now,thought Gavrochethat's what the summer nights
are good for. We'll take the cart for the Republic, and leave
the Auvergnat for the Monarchy.

His mind had just been illuminated by this flash of light:-


How bully that cart would look on our barricade!

The Auvergnat was snoring.

Gavroche gently tugged at the cart from behindand at the Auvergnat
from the frontthat is to sayby the feetand at the expiration
of another minute the imperturbable Auvergnat was reposing flat
on the pavement.

The cart was free.

Gavrochehabituated to facing the unexpected in all quarters
had everything about him. He fumbled in one of his pockets
and pulled from it a scrap of paper and a bit of red pencil filched
from some carpenter.

He wrote:-


French Republic.

Received thy cart.

And he signed it: "GAVROCHE."

That donehe put the paper in the pocket of the still snoring
Auvergnat's velvet vestseized the cart shafts in both hands
and set off in the direction of the Hallespushing the cart before
him at a hard gallop with a glorious and triumphant uproar.

This was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing Establishment.
Gavroche did not think of this. This post was occupied by the
National Guards of the suburbs. The squad began to wake up
and heads were raised from camp beds. Two street lanterns
broken in successionthat ditty sung at the top of the lungs.
This was a great deal for those cowardly streetswhich desire
to go to sleep at sunsetand which put the extinguisher on their
candles at such an early hour. For the last hourthat boy had been
creating an uproar in that peaceable arrondissementthe uproar


of a fly in a bottle. The sergeant of the banlieue lent an ear.
He waited. He was a prudent man.

The mad rattle of the cartfilled to overflowing the possible
measure of waitingand decided the sergeant to make a reconnaisance.

There's a whole band of them there!said helet us proceed gently.

It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from its box
and that it was stalking abroad through the quarter.

And the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious tread.

All at onceGavrochepushing his cart in front of him
and at the very moment when he was about to turn into the Rue des
Vielles-Haudriettesfound himself face to face with a uniform
a shakoa plumeand a gun.

For the second timehe stopped short.

Hullo,said heit's him. Good day, public order.

Gavroche's amazement was always brief and speedily thawed.

Where are you going, you rascal?shouted the sergeant.

Citizen,retorted GavrocheI haven't called you `bourgeois' yet.
Why do you insult me?

Where are you going, you rogue?

Monsieur,retorted Gavrocheperhaps you were a man of wit yesterday,
but you have degenerated this morning.

I ask you where are you going, you villain?

Gavroche replied:-


You speak prettily. Really, no one would suppose you as old as
you are. You ought to sell all your hair at a hundred francs apiece.
That would yield you five hundred francs.

Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going, bandit?

Gavroche retorted again:-


What villainous words! You must wipe your mouth better the first
time that they give you suck.

The sergeant lowered his bayonet.

Will you tell me where you are going, you wretch?

General,said Gavroche "I'm on my way to look for a doctor
for my wife who is in labor."

To arms!shouted the sergeant.

The master-stroke of strong men consists in saving themselves
by the very means that have ruined them; Gavroche took in the whole
situation at a glance. It was the cart which had told against him
it was the cart's place to protect him.

At the moment when the sergeant was on the point of making his descent


on Gavrochethe cartconverted into a projectile and launched
with all the latter's mightrolled down upon him furiously
and the sergeantstruck full in the stomachtumbled over backwards
into the gutter while his gun went off in the air.

The men of the post had rushed out pell-mell at the sergeant's shout;
the shot brought on a general random dischargeafter which they
reloaded their weapons and began again.

This blind-man's-buff musketry lasted for a quarter of an hour
and killed several panes of glass.

In the meanwhileGavrochewho had retraced his steps at full speed
halted five or six streets distant and seated himselfpanting
on the stone post which forms the corner of the Enfants-Rouges.

He listened.

After panting for a few minuteshe turned in the direction
where the fusillade was raginglifted his left hand to a level
with his nose and thrust it forward three timesas he slapped
the back of his head with his right hand; an imperious gesture
in which Parisian street-urchindom has condensed French irony
and which is evidently efficacioussince it has already lasted
half a century.

This gayety was troubled by one bitter reflection.

Yes,said heI'm splitting with laughter, I'm twisting
with delight, I abound in joy, but I'm losing my way, I shall have
to take a roundabout way. If I only reach the barricade in season!

Thereupon he set out again on a run.

And as he ran:-


Ah, by the way, where was I?said he.

And he resumed his dittyas he plunged rapidly through the streets
and this is what died away in the gloom:-


Mais il reste encore des bastilles,
Et je vais mettre le hola
Dans l'orde public que voila.


Ou vont les belles filles,
Lon la.

Quelqu'un veut-il jouer aux quilles?
Tout l'ancien monde s'ecroula
Quand la grosse boule roula.


Ou vont les belles filles
Lon la.

Vieux bon peuple, a coups de bequilles,
Cassons ce Louvre ou s'etala
La monarchie en falbala.


Ou vont les belles filles,
Lon la.

Nous en avons force les grilles
Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour la
Tenait mal et se decolla.

Ou vont les belles filles
Lon la."[57]


[57] But some prisons still remainand I am going to put a stop
to this sort of public order. Does any one wish to play at skittles?
The whole ancient world fell in ruinwhen the big ball rolled.
Good old folkslet us smash with our crutches that Louvre where the
monarchy displayed itself in furbelows. We have forced its gates.
On that dayKing Charles X. did not stick well and came unglued.
The post's recourse to arms was not without result. The cart
was conqueredthe drunken man was taken prisoner. The first
was put in the poundthe second was later on somewhat harassed
before the councils of war as an accomplice. The public ministry
of the day proved its indefatigable zeal in the defence of society
in this instance.


Gavroche's adventurewhich has lingered as a tradition in the quarters
of the Templeis one of the most terrible souvenirs of the elderly
bourgeois of the Maraisand is entitled in their memories:
The nocturnal attack by the post of the Royal Printing Establishment.


[The end of Volume IV. "Saint Denis"]


VOLUME IV


JEAN VALJEAN


BOOK FIRST.--THE WAR BETWEEN FOUR WALLS


CHAPTER I


THE CHARYBDIS OF THE FAUBOURG SAINT ANTOINE AND THE SCYLLA OF THE
FAUBOURG DU TEMPLE


The two most memorable barricades which the observer of social
maladies can name do not belong to the period in which the action
of this work is laid. These two barricadesboth of them symbols
under two different aspectsof a redoubtable situationsprang from
the earth at the time of the fatal insurrection of June1848
the greatest war of the streets that history has ever beheld.


It sometimes happens thateven contrary to principleseven contrary
to libertyequalityand fraternityeven contrary to the universal vote
even contrary to the governmentby all for allfrom the depths
of its anguishof its discouragements and its destitutions
of its feversof its distressesof its miasmasof its ignorances
of its darknessthat great and despairing bodythe rabble
protests againstand that the populace wages battle against
the people.


Beggars attack the common right; the ochlocracy rises against demos.


These are melancholy days; for there is always a certain
amount of night even in this madnessthere is suicide in
this dueland those words which are intended to be insults--
beggarscanailleochlocracypopulace--exhibitalas! rather
the fault of those who reign than the fault of those who suffer;



rather the fault of the privileged than the fault of the disinherited.

For our own partwe never pronounce those words without pain
and without respectfor when philosophy fathoms the facts to which
they correspondit often finds many a grandeur beside these miseries.
Athens was an ochlocracy; the beggars were the making of Holland;
the populace saved Rome more than once; and the rabble followed
Jesus Christ.

There is no thinker who has not at times contemplated the magnificences
of the lower classes.

It was of this rabble that Saint Jerome was thinkingno doubt
and of all these poor people and all these vagabonds and all
these miserable people whence sprang the apostles and the martyrs
when he uttered this mysterious saying: "Fex urbislex orbis-the
dregs of the city, the law of the earth.

The exasperations of this crowd which suffers and bleeds,
its violences contrary to all sense, directed against the principles
which are its life, its masterful deeds against the right, are its
popular coups d'etat and should be repressed. The man of probity
sacrifices himself, and out of his very love for this crowd,
he combats it. But how excusable he feels it even while holding
out against it! How he venerates it even while resisting it!
This is one of those rare moments when, while doing that which it
is one's duty to do, one feels something which disconcerts one,
and which would dissuade one from proceeding further; one persists,
it is necessary, but conscience, though satisfied, is sad, and the
accomplishment of duty is complicated with a pain at the heart.

June, 1848, let us hasten to say, was an exceptional fact, and almost
impossible of classification, in the philosophy of history.
All the words which we have just uttered, must be discarded, when it
becomes a question of this extraordinary revolt, in which one feels
the holy anxiety of toil claiming its rights. It was necessary
to combat it, and this was a duty, for it attacked the republic.
But what was June, 1848, at bottom? A revolt of the people
against itself.

Where the subject is not lost sight of, there is no digression;
may we, then, be permitted to arrest the reader's attention for a
moment on the two absolutely unique barricades of which we have
just spoken and which characterized this insurrection.

One blocked the entrance to the Faubourg Saint Antoine; the other
defended the approach to the Faubourg du Temple; those before whom
these two fearful masterpieces of civil war reared themselves
beneath the brilliant blue sky of June, will never forget them.

The Saint-Antoine barricade was tremendous; it was three stories high,
and seven hundred feet wide. It barred the vast opening of
the faubourg, that is to say, three streets, from angle to angle;
ravined, jagged, cut up, divided, crenelated, with an immense rent,
buttressed with piles that were bastions in themselves throwing out
capes here and there, powerfully backed up by two great promontories
of houses of the faubourg, it reared itself like a cyclopean dike
at the end of the formidable place which had seen the 14th of July.
Nineteen barricades were ranged, one behind the other, in the depths
of the streets behind this principal barricade. At the very sight
of it, one felt the agonizing suffering in the immense faubourg,
which had reached that point of extremity when a distress may
become a catastrophe. Of what was that barricade made? Of the
ruins of three six-story houses demolished expressly, said some.


Of the prodigy of all wraths, said others. It wore the lamentable
aspect of all constructions of hatred, ruin. It might be asked:
Who built this? It might also be said: Who destroyed this?
It was the improvisation of the ebullition. Hold! take this
door! this grating! this penthouse! this chimney-piece! this
broken brazier! this cracked pot! Give all! cast away all!
Push this roll, dig, dismantle, overturn, ruin everything!
It was the collaboration of the pavement, the block of stone,
the beam, the bar of iron, the rag, the scrap, the broken pane,
the unseated chair, the cabbage-stalk, the tatter, the rag,
and the malediction. It was grand and it was petty. It was the abyss
parodied on the public place by hubbub. The mass beside the atom;
the strip of ruined wall and the broken bowl,--threatening fraternization
of every sort of rubbish. Sisyphus had thrown his rock there
and Job his potsherd. Terrible, in short. It was the acropolis
of the barefooted. Overturned carts broke the uniformity of
the slope; an immense dray was spread out there crossways, its axle
pointing heavenward, and seemed a scar on that tumultuous facade;
an omnibus hoisted gayly, by main force, to the very summit
of the heap, as though the architects of this bit of savagery had
wished to add a touch of the street urchin humor to their terror,
presented its horseless, unharnessed pole to no one knows what
horses of the air. This gigantic heap, the alluvium of the revolt,
figured to the mind an Ossa on Pelion of all revolutions; '93 on '89,
the 9th of Thermidor on the 10th of August, the 18th of Brumaire
on the 11th of January, Vendemiaire on Prairial, 1848 on 1830.
The situation deserved the trouble and this barricade was worthy
to figure on the very spot whence the Bastille had disappeared.
If the ocean made dikes, it is thus that it would build.
The fury of the flood was stamped upon this shapeless mass.
What flood? The crowd. One thought one beheld hubbub petrified.
One thought one heard humming above this barricade as though there
had been over their hive, enormous, dark bees of violent progress.
Was it a thicket? Was it a bacchanalia? Was it a fortress?
Vertigo seemed to have constructed it with blows of its wings.
There was something of the cess-pool in that redoubt and something
Olympian in that confusion. One there beheld in a pell-mell
full of despair, the rafters of roofs, bits of garret windows
with their figured paper, window sashes with their glass planted
there in the ruins awaiting the cannon, wrecks of chimneys,
cupboards, tables, benches, howling topsyturveydom, and those
thousand poverty-stricken things, the very refuse of the mendicant,
which contain at the same time fury and nothingness. One would have
said that it was the tatters of a people, rags of wood, of iron,
of bronze, of stone, and that the Faubourg Saint Antoine had thrust
it there at its door, with a colossal flourish of the broom making
of its misery its barricade. Blocks resembling headsman's blocks,
dislocated chains, pieces of woodwork with brackets having the
form of gibbets, horizontal wheels projecting from the rubbish,
amalgamated with this edifice of anarchy the sombre figure of the
old tortures endured by the people. The barricade Saint Antoine
converted everything into a weapon; everything that civil war could
throw at the head of society proceeded thence; it was not combat,
it was a paroxysm; the carbines which defended this redoubt,
among which there were some blunderbusses, sent bits of earthenware
bones, coat-buttons, even the casters from night-stands, dangerous
projectiles on account of the brass. This barricade was furious;
it hurled to the clouds an inexpressible clamor; at certain moments,
when provoking the army, it was covered with throngs and tempest;
a tumultuous crowd of flaming heads crowned it; a swarm filled it;
it had a thorny crest of guns, of sabres, of cudgels, of axes,
of pikes and of bayonets; a vast red flag flapped in the wind;
shouts of command, songs of attack, the roll of drums, the sobs
of women and bursts of gloomy laughter from the starving were to



be heard there. It was huge and living, and, like the back of an
electric beast, there proceeded from it little flashes of lightning.
The spirit of revolution covered with its cloud this summit where
rumbled that voice of the people which resembles the voice of God;
a strange majesty was emitted by this titanic basket of rubbish.
It was a heap of filth and it was Sinai.


As we have said previously, it attacked in the name of
the revolution--what? The revolution. It--that barricade,
chance, hazard, disorder, terror, misunderstanding, the unknown--
had facing it the Constituent Assembly, the sovereignty
of the people, universal suffrage, the nation, the republic;
and it was the Carmagnole bidding defiance to the Marseillaise.


Immense but heroic defiance, for the old faubourg is a hero.


The faubourg and its redoubt lent each other assistance. The faubourg
shouldered the redoubt, the redoubt took its stand under cover
of the faubourg. The vast barricade spread out like a cliff against
which the strategy of the African generals dashed itself. Its caverns,
its excrescences, its warts, its gibbosities, grimaced, so to speak,
and grinned beneath the smoke. The mitraille vanished in shapelessness;
the bombs plunged into it; bullets only succeeded in making holes
in it; what was the use of cannonading chaos? and the regiments,
accustomed to the fiercest visions of war, gazed with uneasy eyes
on that species of redoubt, a wild beast in its boar-like bristling
and a mountain by its enormous size.


A quarter of a league away, from the corner of the Rue du Temple
which debouches on the boulevard near the Chateaud'Eau, if one
thrust one's head bodily beyond the point formed by the front of the
Dallemagne shop, one perceived in the distance, beyond the canal,
in the street which mounts the slopes of Belleville at the culminating
point of the rise, a strange wall reaching to the second story of
the house fronts, a sort of hyphen between the houses on the right
and the houses on the left, as though the street had folded back
on itself its loftiest wall in order to close itself abruptly.
This wall was built of paving-stones. It was straight, correct, cold,
perpendicular, levelled with the square, laid out by rule and line.
Cement was lacking, of course, but, as in the case of certain
Roman walls, without interfering with its rigid architecture.
The entablature was mathematically parallel with the base.
From distance to distance, one could distinguish on the gray surface,
almost invisible loopholes which resembled black threads.
These loopholes were separated from each other by equal spaces.
The street was deserted as far as the eye could reach. All windows
and doors were closed. In the background rose this barrier, which made
a blind thoroughfare of the street, a motionless and tranquil wall;
no one was visible, nothing was audible; not a cry, not a sound,
not a breath. A sepulchre.


The dazzling sun of June inundated this terrible thing with light.


It was the barricade of the Faubourg of the Temple.


As soon as one arrived on the spot, and caught sight of it,
it was impossible, even for the boldest, not to become thoughtful
before this mysterious apparition. It was adjusted, jointed,
imbricated, rectilinear, symmetrical and funereal. Science and
gloom met there. One felt that the chief of this barricade
was a geometrician or a spectre. One looked at it and spoke low.


From time to time, if some soldier, an officer or representative
of the people, chanced to traverse the deserted highway, a faint,



sharp whistle was heard, and the passer-by fell dead or wounded, or,
if he escaped the bullet, sometimes a biscaien was seen to ensconce
itself in some closed shutter, in the interstice between two blocks
of stone, or in the plaster of a wall. For the men in the barricade
had made themselves two small cannons out of two cast-iron lengths
of gas-pipe, plugged up at one end with tow and fire-clay.
There was no waste of useless powder. Nearly every shot told.
There were corpses here and there, and pools of blood on the pavement.
I remember a white butterfly which went and came in the street.
Summer does not abdicate.


In the neighborhood, the spaces beneath the portes cocheres were
encumbered with wounded.


One felt oneself aimed at by some person whom one did not see,
and one understood that guns were levelled at the whole length
of the street.


Massed behind the sort of sloping ridge which the vaulted canal
forms at the entrance to the Faubourg du Temple, the soldiers
of the attacking column, gravely and thoughtfully, watched this
dismal redoubt, this immobility, this passivity, whence sprang death.
Some crawled flat on their faces as far as the crest of the curve
of the bridge, taking care that their shakos did not project beyond it.


The valiant Colonel Monteynard admired this barricade with a
shudder.--How that is built!" he said to a Representative.
Not one paving-stone projects beyond its neighbor. It is made
of porcelain.--At that momenta bullet broke the cross on his breast
and he fell.


The cowards!people said. "Let them show themselves. Let us
see them! They dare not! They are hiding!"


The barricade of the Faubourg du Templedefended by eighty men
attacked by ten thousandheld out for three days. On the fourth
they did as at Zaatchaas at Constantinethey pierced the houses
they came over the roofsthe barricade was taken. Not one
of the eighty cowards thought of flightall were killed there
with the exception of the leaderBarthelemyof whom we shall
speak presently.


The Saint-Antoine barricade was the tumult of thunders; the barricade
of the Temple was silence. The difference between these two redoubts
was the difference between the formidable and the sinister.
One seemed a maw; the other a mask.


Admitting that the gigantic and gloomy insurrection of June was
composed of a wrath and of an enigmaone divined in the first
barricade the dragonand behind the second the sphinx.


These two fortresses had been erected by two men named
the oneCournetthe otherBarthelemy. Cournet made the
Saint-Antoine barricade; Barthelemy the barricade of the Temple.
Each was the image of the man who had built it.


Cournet was a man of lofty stature; he had broad shouldersa red face
a crushing fista bold hearta loyal soula sincere and terrible eye.
Intrepidenergeticirasciblestormy; the most cordial of men
the most formidable of combatants. Warstrifeconflictwere the
very air he breathed and put him in a good humor. He had been an
officer in the navyandfrom his gestures and his voiceone divined
that he sprang from the oceanand that he came from the tempest;
he carried the hurricane on into battle. With the exception



of the geniusthere was in Cournet something of Dantonaswith
the exception of the divinitythere was in Danton something of Hercules.


Barthelemythinfeeblepaletaciturnwas a sort of tragic
street urchinwhohaving had his ears boxed by a policeman
lay in wait for himand killed himand at seventeen was sent
to the galleys. He came out and made this barricade.


Later onfatal circumstancein Londonproscribed by all
Barthelemy slew Cournet. It was a funereal duel. Some time afterwards
caught in the gearing of one of those mysterious adventures in
which passion plays a parta catastrophe in which French justice
sees extenuating circumstancesand in which English justice sees
only deathBarthelemy was hanged. The sombre social construction
is so made thatthanks to material destitutionthanks to
moral obscuritythat unhappy being who possessed an intelligence
certainly firmpossibly greatbegan in France with the galleys
and ended in England with the gallows. Barthelemyon occasion
flew but one flagthe black flag.


CHAPTER II


WHAT IS TO BE DONE IN THE ABYSS IF ONE DOES NOT CONVERSE


Sixteen years count in the subterranean education of insurrection
and June1848knew a great deal more about it than June1832.
So the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie was only an outline
and an embryo compared to the two colossal barricades which we have
just sketched; but it was formidable for that epoch.


The insurgents under the eye of Enjolrasfor Marius no longer looked
after anythinghad made good use of the night. The barricade had
been not only repairedbut augmented. They had raised it two feet.
Bars of iron planted in the pavement resembled lances in rest.
All sorts of rubbish brought and added from all directions complicated
the external confusion. The redoubt had been cleverly made over
into a wall on the inside and a thicket on the outside.


The staircase of paving-stones which permitted one to mount it
like the wall of a citadel had been reconstructed.


The barricade had been put in orderthe tap-room disencumbered
the kitchen appropriated for the ambulancethe dressing of the
wounded completedthe powder scattered on the ground and on the
tables had been gathered upbullets runcartridges manufactured
lint scrapedthe fallen weapons re-distributedthe interior
of the redoubt cleanedthe rubbish swept upcorpses removed.


They laid the dead in a heap in the Mondetour laneof which they were
still the masters. The pavement was red for a long time at that spot.
Among the dead there were four National Guardsmen of the suburbs.
Enjolras had their uniforms laid aside.


Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras
was a command. Stillonly three or four took advantage of it.


Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription
on the wall which faced the tavern:--


LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!


These four wordshollowed out in the rough stone with a nail
could be still read on the wall in 1848.


The three women had profited by the respite of the night to
vanish definitely; which allowed the insurgents to breathe more freely.


They had found means of taking refuge in some neighboring house.


The greater part of the wounded were ableand wishedto fight still.
On a litter of mattresses and trusses of straw in the kitchen
which had been converted into an ambulancethere were five men
gravely woundedtwo of whom were municipal guardsmen. The municipal
guardsmen were attended to first.


In the tap-room there remained only Mabeuf under his black cloth
and Javert bound to his post.


This is the hall of the dead,said Enjolras.


In the interior of this hallbarely lighted by a candle at one end
the mortuary table being behind the post like a horizontal bar
a sort of vastvague cross resulted from Javert erect and Mabeuf
lying prone.


The pole of the omnibusalthough snapped off by the fusillade
was still sufficiently upright to admit of their fastening the flag
to it.


Enjolraswho possessed that quality of a leaderof always doing
what he saidattached to this staff the bullet-ridden and bloody
coat of the old man's.


No repast had been possible. There was neither bread nor meat.
The fifty men in the barricade had speedily exhausted the scanty
provisions of the wine-shop during the sixteen hours which they had
passed there. At a given momentevery barricade inevitably becomes
the raft of la Meduse. They were obliged to resign themselves to hunger.
They had then reached the first hours of that Spartan day of the 6th
of June whenin the barricade Saint-MerryJeannesurrounded by the
insurgents who demanded breadreplied to all combatants crying:
Something to eat!with: "Why? It is three o'clock; at four we
shall be dead."


As they could no longer eatEnjolras forbade them to drink.
He interdicted wineand portioned out the brandy.


They had found in the cellar fifteen full bottles hermetically sealed.
Enjolras and Combeferre examined them. Combeferre when he
came up again said:--"It's the old stock of Father Hucheloup
who began business as a grocer."--"It must be real wine
observed Bossuet. It's lucky that Grantaire is asleep. If he
were on footthere would be a good deal of difficulty in saving
those bottles."--Enjolrasin spite of all murmursplaced his veto
on the fifteen bottlesandin order that no one might touch them
he had them placed under the table on which Father Mabeuf was lying.


About two o'clock in the morningthey reckoned up their strength.
There were still thirty-seven of them.


The day began to dawn. The torchwhich had been replaced in its
cavity in the pavementhad just been extinguished. The interior
of the barricadethat species of tiny courtyard appropriated from
the streetwas bathed in shadowsand resembledathwart the vague
twilight horrorthe deck of a disabled ship. The combatants



as they went and camemoved about there like black forms.
Above that terrible nesting-place of gloom the stories of the mute
houses were lividly outlined; at the very topthe chimneys
stood palely out. The sky was of that charmingundecided hue
which may be white and may be blue. Birds flew about in it with cries
of joy. The lofty house which formed the back of the barricade
being turned to the Easthad upon its roof a rosy reflection.
The morning breeze ruffled the gray hair on the head of the dead man
at the third-story window.


I am delighted that the torch has been extinguished,said Courfeyrac
to Feuilly. "That torch flickering in the wind annoyed me.
It had the appearance of being afraid. The light of torches resembles
the wisdom of cowards; it gives a bad light because it trembles."


Dawn awakens minds as it does the birds; all began to talk.


Jolyperceiving a cat prowling on a gutterextracted philosophy
from it.


What is the cat?he exclaimed. "It is a corrective. The good God
having made the mousesaid: `Hullo! I have committed a blunder.'
And so he made the cat. The cat is the erratum of the mouse.
The mouseplus the catis the proof of creation revised
and corrected."


Combeferresurrounded by students and artisanswas speaking
of the deadof Jean Prouvaireof Bahorelof Mabeufand even
of Cabucand of Enjolras' sad severity. He said:--


Harmodius and Aristogiton, Brutus, Chereas, Stephanus, Cromwell,
Charlotte Corday, Sand, have all had their moment of agony when it
was too late. Our hearts quiver so, and human life is such a
mystery that, even in the case of a civic murder, even in a murder
for liberation, if there be such a thing, the remorse for having
struck a man surpasses the joy of having served the human race.


Andsuch are the windings of the exchange of speechthata moment
laterby a transition brought about through Jean Prouvaire's verses
Combeferre was comparing the translators of the Georgics
Raux with CournandCournand with Delillepointing out the passages
translated by Malfilatreparticularly the prodigies of Caesar's death;
and at that wordCaesarthe conversation reverted to Brutus.


Caesar,said Combeferrefell justly. Cicero was severe towards
Caesar, and he was right. That severity is not diatribe. When Zoilus
insults Homer, when Maevius insults Virgil, when Vise insults Moliere,
when Pope insults Shakspeare, when Frederic insults Voltaire,
it is an old law of envy and hatred which is being carried out;
genius attracts insult, great men are always more or less barked at.
But Zoilus and Cicero are two different persons. Cicero is an arbiter
in thought, just as Brutus is an arbiter by the sword. For my own part,
I blame that last justice, the blade; but, antiquity admitted it.
Caesar, the violator of the Rubicon, conferring, as though they
came from him, the dignities which emanated from the people,
not rising at the entrance of the senate, committed the acts
of a king and almost of a tyrant, regia ac pene tyrannica.
He was a great man; so much the worse, or so much the better;
the lesson is but the more exalted. His twenty-three wounds
touch me less than the spitting in the face of Jesus Christ.
Caesar is stabbed by the senators; Christ is cuffed by lackeys.
One feels the God through the greater outrage.


Bossuetwho towered above the interlocutors from the summit



of a heap of paving-stonesexclaimedrifle in hand:-


Oh Cydathenaeum, Oh Myrrhinus, Oh Probalinthus, Oh graces of
the AEantides! Oh! Who will grant me to pronounce the verses
of Homer like a Greek of Laurium or of Edapteon?

CHAPTER III

LIGHT AND SHADOW

Enjolras had been to make a reconnaissance. He had made his way
out through Mondetour lanegliding along close to the houses.

The insurgentswe will remarkwere full of hope. The manner in which
they had repulsed the attack of the preceding night had caused them
to almost disdain in advance the attack at dawn. They waited for it
with a smile. They had no more doubt as to their success than as to
their cause. Moreoversuccor wasevidentlyon the way to them.
They reckoned on it. With that facility of triumphant prophecy
which is one of the sources of strength in the French combatant
they divided the day which was at hand into three distinct phases.
At six o'clock in the morning a regiment "which had been
labored with would turn; at noon, the insurrection of all Paris;
at sunset, revolution.

They heard the alarm bell of Saint-Merry, which had not been silent
for an instant since the night before; a proof that the other barricade,
the great one, Jeanne's, still held out.

All these hopes were exchanged between the different groups in a
sort of gay and formidable whisper which resembled the warlike
hum of a hive of bees.

Enjolras reappeared. He returned from his sombre eagle flight
into outer darkness. He listened for a moment to all this joy
with folded arms, and one hand on his mouth. Then, fresh and rosy
in the growing whiteness of the dawn, he said:

The whole army of Paris is to strike. A third of the army is bearing
down upon the barricades in which you now are. There is the National
Guard in addition. I have picked out the shakos of the fifth of the line
and the standard-bearers of the sixth legion. In one hour you will
be attacked. As for the populaceit was seething yesterdayto-day it
is not stirring. There is nothing to expect; nothing to hope for.
Neither from a faubourg nor from a regiment. You are abandoned."

These words fell upon the buzzing of the groupsand produced on them
the effect caused on a swarm of bees by the first drops of a storm.
A moment of indescribable silence ensuedin which death might have
been heard flitting by.

This moment was brief.

A voice from the obscurest depths of the groups shouted to Enjolras:

So be it. Let us raise the barricade to a height of twenty feet,
and let us all remain in it. Citizens, let us offer the protests
of corpses. Let us show that, if the people abandon the republicans,
the republicans do not abandon the people.

These words freed the thought of all from the painful cloud of


individual anxieties. It was hailed with an enthusiastic acclamation.

No one ever has known the name of the man who spoke thus; he was some
unknown blouse-wearera strangera man forgottena passing hero
that great anonymousalways mingled in human crises and in social
geneses whoat a given momentutters in a supreme fashion
the decisive wordand who vanishes into the shadows after having
represented for a minutein a lightning flashthe people and God.

This inexorable resolution so thoroughly impregnated the air
of the 6th of June1832thatalmost at the very same hour
on the barricade Saint-Merrythe insurgents were raising that clamor
which has become a matter of history and which has been consigned
to the documents in the case:--"What matters it whether they come
to our assistance or not? Let us get ourselves killed here
to the very last man."

As the reader seesthe two barricadesthough materially isolated
were in communication with each other.

CHAPTER IV

MINUS FIVEPLUS ONE

After the man who decreed the "protest of corpses" had spoken
and had given this formula of their common soulthere issued from
all mouths a strangely satisfied and terrible cryfunereal in sense
and triumphant in tone:

Long live death! Let us all remain here!

Why all?said Enjolras.

All! All!

Enjolras resumed:

The position is good; the barricade is fine. Thirty men are enough.
Why sacrifice forty?

They replied:

Because not one will go away.

Citizens,cried Enjolrasand there was an almost irritated
vibration in his voicethis republic is not rich enough in men
to indulge in useless expenditure of them. Vain-glory is waste.
If the duty of some is to depart, that duty should be fulfilled
like any other.

Enjolrasthe man-principlehad over his co-religionists that sort
of omnipotent power which emanates from the absolute. Stillgreat as
was this omnipotencea murmur arose. A leader to the very finger-tips
Enjolrasseeing that they murmuredinsisted. He resumed haughtily:

Let those who are afraid of not numbering more than thirty say so.

The murmurs redoubled.

Besides,observed a voice in one groupit is easy enough to talk
about leaving. The barricade is hemmed in.


Not on the side of the Halles,said Enjolras. "The Rue Mondetour
is freeand through the Rue des Precheurs one can reach the Marche
des Innocents."


And there,went on another voiceyou would be captured.
You would fall in with some grand guard of the line or the suburbs;
they will spy a man passing in blouse and cap. `Whence come you?'
`Don't you belong to the barricade?' And they will look at your hands.
You smell of powder. Shot.


Enjolraswithout making any replytouched Combeferre's shoulder
and the two entered the tap-room.


They emerged thence a moment later. Enjolras held in his
outstretched hands the four uniforms which he had laid aside.
Combeferre followedcarrying the shoulder-belts and the shakos.


With this uniform,said Enjolrasyou can mingle with the ranks
and escape; here is enough for four.And he flung on the ground
deprived of its pavementthe four uniforms.


No wavering took place in his stoical audience. Combeferre took
the word.


Come, said he, you must have a little pity. Do you know what the
question is here? It is a question of women. See here. Are there
women or are there not? Are there children or are there not?
Are there mothersyes or nowho rock cradles with their foot
and who have a lot of little ones around them? Let that man of you
who has never beheld a nurse's breast raise his hand. Ah! you
want to get yourselves killedso do I--Iwho am speaking to you;
but I do not want to feel the phantoms of women wreathing their
arms around me. Dieif you willbut don't make others die.
Suicides like that which is on the brink of accomplishment here
are sublime; but suicide is narrowand does not admit of extension;
and as soon as it touches your neighborssuicide is murder.
Think of the little blond heads; think of the white locks.
ListenEnjolras has just told me that he saw at the corner of
the Rue du Cygne a lighted casementa candle in a poor window
on the fifth floorand on the pane the quivering shadow of the head
of an old womanwho had the air of having spent the night in watching.
Perhaps she is the mother of some one of you. Welllet that man go
and make hasteto say to his mother: `Here I ammother!' Let him
feel at easethe task here will be performed all the same.
When one supports one's relatives by one's toilone has not the
right to sacrifice one's self. That is deserting one's family.
And those who have daughters! what are you thinking of? You get
yourselves killedyou are deadthat is well. And tomorrow? Young girls
without bread--that is a terrible thing. Man begswoman sells.
Ah! those charming and gracious beingsso gracious and so sweet
who have bonnets of flowerswho fill the house with puritywho sing
and prattlewho are like a living perfumewho prove the existence
of angels in heaven by the purity of virgins on earththat Jeanne
that Lisethat Mimithose adorable and honest creatures who are your
blessings and your prideah! good Godthey will suffer hunger!
What do you want me to say to you? There is a market for human flesh;
and it is not with your shadowy handsshuddering around them
that you will prevent them from entering it! Think of the street
think of the pavement covered with passers-bythink of the shops past
which women go and come with necks all bareand through the mire.
These womentoowere pure once. Think of your sistersthose of
you who have them. Miseryprostitutionthe policeSaint-Lazare--
that is what those beautifuldelicate girlsthose fragile marvels



of modestygentleness and lovelinessfresher than lilacs in the
month of Maywill come to. Ah! you have got yourselves killed!
You are no longer on hand! That is well; you have wished to release
the people from Royaltyand you deliver over your daughters to
the police. Friendshave a carehave mercy. Womenunhappy women
we are not in the habit of bestowing much thought on them.
We trust to the women not having received a man's education
we prevent their readingwe prevent their thinkingwe prevent
their occupying themselves with politics; will you prevent them from
going to the dead-house this eveningand recognizing your bodies?
Let us seethose who have families must be tractableand shake hands
with us and take themselves offand leave us here alone to attend
to this affair. I know well that courage is required to leave
that it is hard; but the harder it isthe more meritorious.
You say: `I have a gunI am at the barricade; so much the worse
I shall remain there.' So much the worse is easily said. My friends
there is a morrow; you will not be here to-morrowbut your families will;
and what sufferings! Seehere is a prettyhealthy child
with cheeks like an applewho babblesprattleschatterswho laughs
who smells sweet beneath your kiss--and do you know what becomes
of him when he is abandoned? I have seen onea very small creature
no taller than that. His father was dead. Poor people had taken
him in out of charitybut they had bread only for themselves.
The child was always hungry. It was winter. He did not cry.
You could see him approach the stovein which there was never
any fireand whose pipeyou knowwas of mastic and yellow clay.
His breathing was hoarsehis face lividhis limbs flaccid
his belly prominent. He said nothing. If you spoke to him
he did not answer. He is dead. He was taken to the Necker Hospital
where I saw him. I was house-surgeon in that hospital. Nowif there
are any fathers among youfathers whose happiness it is to stroll
on Sundays holding their child's tiny hand in their robust hand
let each one of those fathers imagine that this child is his own.
That poor bratI rememberand I seem to see him nowwhen he lay
nude on the dissecting tablehow his ribs stood out on his skin
like the graves beneath the grass in a cemetery. A sort of mud was
found in his stomach. There were ashes in his teeth. Comelet us
examine ourselves conscientiously and take counsel with our heart.
Statistics show that the mortality among abandoned children is fifty-five
per cent. I repeatit is a question of womenit concerns mothers
it concerns young girlsit concerns little children. Who is talking
to you of yourselves? We know well what you are; we know well that
you are all braveparbleu! we know well that you all have in your
souls the joy and the glory of giving your life for the great cause;
we know well that you feel yourselves elected to die usefully
and magnificentlyand that each one of you clings to his share
in the triumph. Very well. But you are not alone in this world.
There are other beings of whom you must think. You must not be
egoists."


All dropped their heads with a gloomy air.


Strange contradictions of the human heart at its most
sublime moments. Combeferrewho spoke thuswas not an orphan.
He recalled the mothers of other menand forgot his own.
He was about to get himself killed. He was "an egoist."


Mariusfastingfeveredhaving emerged in succession from all hope
and having been stranded in griefthe most sombre of shipwrecks
and saturated with violent emotions and conscious that the end
was nearhad plunged deeper and deeper into that visionary stupor
which always precedes the fatal hour voluntarily accepted.


A physiologist might have studied in him the growing symptoms



of that febrile absorption known toand classified byscience
and which is to suffering what voluptuousness is to pleasure.
Despairalsohas its ecstasy. Marius had reached this point.
He looked on at everything as from without; as we have said
things which passed before him seemed far away; he made out the whole
but did not perceive the details. He beheld men going and coming
as through a flame. He heard voices speaking as at the bottom
of an abyss.


But this moved him. There was in this scene a point which
pierced and roused even him. He had but one idea nowto die;
and he did not wish to be turned aside from itbut he reflected
in his gloomy somnambulismthat while destroying himself
he was not prohibited from saving some one else.


He raised his voice.


Enjolras and Combeferre are right,said he; "no unnecessary sacrifice.
I join themand you must make haste. Combeferre has said convincing
things to you. There are some among you who have families
motherssisterswiveschildren. Let such leave the ranks."


No one stirred.


Married men and the supporters of families, step out of the ranks!
repeated Marius.


His authority was great. Enjolras was certainly the head
of the barricadebut Marius was its savior.


I order it,cried Enjolras.


I entreat you,said Marius.


Thentouched by Combeferre's wordsshaken by Enjolras' order
touched by Marius' entreatythese heroic men began to denounce
each other.--"It is true said one young man to a full grown man,
you are the father of a family. Go."--"It is your duty rather
retorted the man, you have two sisters whom you maintain."--
And an unprecedented controversy broke forth. Each struggled to
determine which should not allow himself to be placed at the door
of the tomb.


Make haste,said Courfeyracin another quarter of an hour it
will be too late.


Citizens,pursued Enjolrasthis is the Republic, and universal
suffrage reigns. Do you yourselves designate those who are to go.


They obeyed. After the expiration of a few minutesfive were
unanimously selected and stepped out of the ranks.


There are five of them!exclaimed Marius.


There were only four uniforms.


Well,began the fiveone must stay behind.


And then a struggle arose as to who should remainand who should
find reasons for the others not remaining. The generous quarrel
began afresh.


You have a wife who loves you.--"You have your aged mother."--"
You have neither father nor motherand what is to become of your



three little brothers?"--"You are the father of five children."--"You
have a right to liveyou are only seventeenit is too early
for you to die."

These great revolutionary barricades were assembling points for heroism.
The improbable was simple there. These men did not astonish each other.

Be quick,repeated Courfeyrac.

Men shouted to Marius from the groups:

Do you designate who is to remain.

Yes,said the fivechoose. We will obey you.

Marius did not believe that he was capable of another emotion.
Stillat this ideathat of choosing a man for deathhis blood
rushed back to his heart. He would have turned palehad it been
possible for him to become any paler.

He advanced towards the fivewho smiled upon himand each
with his eyes full of that grand flame which one beholds in the
depths of history hovering over Thermopylaecried to him:

Me! me! me!

And Marius stupidly counted them; there were still five of them!
Then his glance dropped to the four uniforms.

At that momenta fifth uniform fellas if from heavenupon the
other four.

The fifth man was saved.

Marius raised his eyes and recognized M. Fauchelevent.

Jean Valjean had just entered the barricade.

He had arrived by way of Mondetour lanewhither by dint of
inquiries madeor by instinctor chance. Thanks to his dress
of a National Guardsmanhe had made his way without difficulty.

The sentinel stationed by the insurgents in the Rue Mondetour
had no occasion to give the alarm for a single National Guardsman
and he had allowed the latter to entangle himself in the street
saying to himself: "Probably it is a reinforcementin any case it
is a prisoner." The moment was too grave to admit of the sentinel
abandoning his duty and his post of observation.

At the moment when Jean Valjean entered the redoubtno one had
noticed himall eyes being fixed on the five chosen men and the
four uniforms. Jean Valjean also had seen and heardand he
had silently removed his coat and flung it on the pile with the rest.

The emotion aroused was indescribable.

Who is this man?demanded Bossuet.

He is a man who saves others,replied Combeferre.

Marius added in a grave voice:

I know him.


This guarantee satisfied every one.

Enjolras turned to Jean Valjean.

Welcome, citizen.

And he added:

You know that we are about to die.

Jean Valjeanwithout replyinghelped the insurgent whom he was
saving to don his uniform.

CHAPTER V

THE HORIZON WHICH ONE BEHOLDS FROM THE SUMMIT OF A BARRICADE

The situation of all in that fatal hour and that pitiless place
had as result and culminating point Enjolras' supreme melancholy.

Enjolras bore within him the plenitude of the revolution;
he was incompletehoweverso far as the absolute can be so;
he had too much of Saint-Just about himand not enough of
Anacharsis Cloots; stillhis mindin the society of the Friends
of the A B Chad ended by undergoing a certain polarization from
Combeferre's ideas; for some time pasthe had been gradually emerging
from the narrow form of dogmaand had allowed himself to incline
to the broadening influence of progressand he had come to accept
as a definitive and magnificent evolutionthe transformation
of the great French Republicinto the immense human republic.
As far as the immediate means were concerneda violent situation
being givenhe wished to be violent; on that pointhe never varied;
and he remained of that epic and redoubtable school which is
summed up in the words: "Eighty-three." Enjolras was standing
erect on the staircase of paving-stonesone elbow resting on
the stock of his gun. He was engaged in thought; he quivered
as at the passage of prophetic breaths; places where death is
have these effects of tripods. A sort of stifled fire darted
from his eyeswhich were filled with an inward look. All at once
he threw back his headhis blond locks fell back like those of
an angel on the sombre quadriga made of starsthey were like
the mane of a startled lion in the flaming of an haloand Enjolras cried:

Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? The streets
of cities inundated with light, green branches on the thresholds,
nations sisters, men just, old men blessing children, the past
loving the present, thinkers entirely at liberty, believers on
terms of full equality, for religion heaven, God the direct priest,
human conscience become an altar, no more hatreds, the fraternity
of the workshop and the school, for sole penalty and recompense fame,
work for all, right for all, peace over all, no more bloodshed,
no more wars, happy mothers! To conquer matter is the first step;
to realize the ideal is the second. Reflect on what progress has
already accomplished. Formerly, the first human races beheld
with terror the hydra pass before their eyes, breathing on
the waters, the dragon which vomited flame, the griffin who was
the monster of the air, and who flew with the wings of an eagle
and the talons of a tiger; fearful beasts which were above man.
Man, nevertheless, spread his snares, consecrated by intelligence,
and finally conquered these monsters. We have vanquished the hydra,
and it is called the locomotive; we are on the point of vanquishing


the griffin, we already grasp it, and it is called the balloon.
On the day when this Promethean task shall be accomplished,
and when man shall have definitely harnessed to his will the triple
Chimaera of antiquity, the hydra, the dragon and the griffin,
he will be the master of water, fire, and of air, and he will be
for the rest of animated creation that which the ancient gods
formerly were to him. Courage, and onward! Citizens, whither are
we going? To science made government, to the force of things
become the sole public force, to the natural law, having in itself
its sanction and its penalty and promulgating itself by evidence,
to a dawn of truth corresponding to a dawn of day. We are advancing
to the union of peoples; we are advancing to the unity of man.
No more fictions; no more parasites. The real governed by the true,
that is the goal. Civilization will hold its assizes at the
summit of Europe, and, later on, at the centre of continents,
in a grand parliament of the intelligence. Something similar
has already been seen. The amphictyons had two sittings a year,
one at Delphos the seat of the gods, the other at Thermopylae,
the place of heroes. Europe will have her amphictyons; the globe
will have its amphictyons. France bears this sublime future
in her breast. This is the gestation of the nineteenth century.
That which Greece sketched out is worthy of being finished by France.
Listen to me, you, Feuilly, valiant artisan, man of the people.
I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right.
You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity
for your mother and right for your father. You are about to die,
that is to say to triumph, here. Citizens, whatever happens
to-day, through our defeat as well as through our victory, it is
a revolution that we are about to create. As conflagrations light
up a whole city, so revolutions illuminate the whole human race.
And what is the revolution that we shall cause? I have just told you,
the Revolution of the True. From a political point of view,
there is but a single principle; the sovereignty of man over himself.
This sovereignty of myself over myself is called Liberty. Where two
or three of these sovereignties are combined, the state begins.
But in that association there is no abdication. Each sovereignty
concedes a certain quantity of itself, for the purpose of forming
the common right. This quantity is the same for all of us.
This identity of concession which each makes to all, is called Equality.
Common right is nothing else than the protection of all beaming
on the right of each. This protection of all over each is
called Fraternity. The point of intersection of all these assembled
sovereignties is called society. This intersection being a junction,
this point is a knot. Hence what is called the social bond.
Some say social contract; which is the same thing, the word
contract being etymologically formed with the idea of a bond.
Let us come to an understanding about equality; for, if liberty is
the summit, equality is the base. Equality, citizens, is not wholly
a surface vegetation, a society of great blades of grass and tiny oaks;
a proximity of jealousies which render each other null and void;
legally speaking, it is all aptitudes possessed of the same opportunity;
politically, it is all votes possessed of the same weight;
religiously, it is all consciences possessed of the same right.
Equality has an organ: gratuitous and obligatory instruction.
The right to the alphabet, that is where the beginning must
be made. The primary school imposed on all, the secondary school
offered to all, that is the law. From an identical school,
an identical society will spring. Yes, instruction! light! light!
everything comes from light, and to it everything returns.
Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century
will be happy. Then, there will be nothing more like the history
of old, we shall no longer, as to-day, have to fear a conquest,
an invasion, a usurpation, a rivalry of nations, arms in hand,
an interruption of civilization depending on a marriage of kings,



on a birth in hereditary tyrannies, a partition of peoples by
a congress, a dismemberment because of the failure of a dynasty,
a combat of two religions meeting face to face, like two bucks
in the dark, on the bridge of the infinite; we shall no longer have
to fear famine, farming out, prostitution arising from distress,
misery from the failure of work and the scaffold and the sword,
and battles and the ruffianism of chance in the forest of events.
One might almost say: There will be no more events. We shall
be happy. The human race will accomplish its law, as the terrestrial
globe accomplishes its law; harmony will be re-established between
the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate around the truth,
as the planet around the light. Friends, the present hour in which I
am addressing you, is a gloomy hour; but these are terrible purchases
of the future. A revolution is a toll. Oh! the human race will
be delivered, raised up, consoled! We affirm it on this barrier.
Whence should proceed that cry of love, if not from the heights
of sacrifice? Oh my brothers, this is the point of junction,
of those who think and of those who suffer; this barricade is
not made of paving-stones, nor of joists, nor of bits of iron;
it is made of two heaps, a heap of ideas, and a heap of woes.
Here misery meets the ideal. The day embraces the night,
and says to it: `I am about to die, and thou shalt be born again
with me.' From the embrace of all desolations faith leaps forth.
Sufferings bring hither their agony and ideas their immortality.
This agony and this immortality are about to join and constitute
our death. Brothers, he who dies here dies in the radiance
of the future, and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the
dawn.

Enjolras paused rather than became silent; his lips continued to
move silentlyas though he were talking to himselfwhich caused
them all to gaze attentively at himin the endeavor to hear more.
There was no applause; but they whispered together for a long time.
Speech being a breaththe rustling of intelligences resembles the
rustling of leaves.

CHAPTER VI

MARIUS HAGGARDJAVERT LACONIC

Let us narrate what was passing in Marius' thoughts.

Let the reader recall the state of his soul. We have just recalled it
everything was a vision to him now. His judgment was disturbed.
Mariuslet us insist on this pointwas under the shadow of the great
dark wings which are spread over those in the death agony.
He felt that he had entered the tombit seemed to him that he
was already on the other side of the walland he no longer beheld
the faces of the living except with the eyes of one dead.

How did M. Fauchelevent come there? Why was he there? What had
he come there to do? Marius did not address all these questions
to himself. Besidessince our despair has this peculiarity
that it envelops others as well as ourselvesit seemed logical
to him that all the world should come thither to die.

Onlyhe thought of Cosette with a pang at his heart.

HoweverM. Fauchelevent did not speak to himdid not look at him
and had not even the air of hearing himwhen Marius raised his voice
to say: "I know him."


As far as Marius was concernedthis attitude of M. Fauchelevent
was comfortingandif such a word can be used for such impressions
we should say that it pleased him. He had always felt the absolute
impossibility of addressing that enigmatical manwho was
in his eyesboth equivocal and imposing. Moreoverit had been
a long time since he had seen him; and this still further augmented
the impossibility for Marius' timid and reserved nature.


The five chosen men left the barricade by way of Mondetour lane;
they bore a perfect resemblance to members of the National Guard.
One of them wept as he took his leave. Before setting out
they embraced those who remained.


When the five men sent back to life had taken their departure
Enjolras thought of the man who had been condemned to death.


He entered the tap-room. Javertstill bound to the postwas engaged
in meditation.


Do you want anything?Enjolras asked him.


Javert replied: When are you going to kill me?"


Wait. We need all our cartridges just at present.


Then give me a drink,said Javert.


Enjolras himself offered him a glass of waterandas Javert
was pinionedhe helped him to drink.


Is that all?inquired Enjolras.


I am uncomfortable against this post,replied Javert.
You are not tender to have left me to pass the night here.
Bind me as you please, but you surely might lay me out on a table
like that other man.


And with a motion of the headhe indicated the body of M. Mabeuf.


There wasas the reader will remembera longbroad table
at the end of the roomon which they had been running bullets
and making cartridges. All the cartridges having been made
and all the powder usedthis table was free.


At Enjolras' commandfour insurgents unbound Javert from the post.
While they were loosing hima fifth held a bayonet against his breast.


Leaving his arms tied behind his backthey placed about his feet a
slender but stout whip-cordas is done to men on the point of mounting
the scaffoldwhich allowed him to take steps about fifteen inches
in lengthand made him walk to the table at the end of the room
where they laid him downclosely bound about the middle of the body.


By way of further securityand by means of a rope fastened to his neck
they added to the system of ligatures which rendered every attempt
at escape impossiblethat sort of bond which is called in prisons
a martingalewhichstarting at the neckforks on the stomach
and meets the handsafter passing between the legs.


While they were binding Javerta man standing on the threshold
was surveying him with singular attention. The shadow cast by this
man made Javert turn his head. He raised his eyesand recognized
Jean Valjean. He did not even startbut dropped his lids proudly



and confined himself to the remark: "It is perfectly simple."

CHAPTER VII

THE SITUATION BECOMES AGGRAVATED

The daylight was increasing rapidly. Not a window was opened
not a door stood ajar; it was the dawn but not the awaking.
The end of the Rue de la Chanvrerieopposite the barricadehad been
evacuated by the troopsas we have stated it seemed to be free
and presented itself to passers-by with a sinister tranquillity.
The Rue Saint-Denis was as dumb as the avenue of Sphinxes at Thebes.
Not a living being in the cross-roadswhich gleamed white in the light
of the sun. Nothing is so mournful as this light in deserted streets.
Nothing was to be seenbut there was something to be heard.
A mysterious movement was going on at a certain distance.
It was evident that the critical moment was approaching. As on
the previous eveningthe sentinels had come in; but this time all
had come.


The barricade was stronger than on the occasion of the first attack.
Since the departure of the fivethey had increased its height
still further.


On the advice of the sentinel who had examined the region of
the HallesEnjolrasfor fear of a surprise in the rearcame to
a serious decision. He had the small gut of the Mondetour lane
which had been left open up to that timebarricaded. For this purpose
they tore up the pavement for the length of several houses more.
In this mannerthe barricadewalled on three streetsin front
on the Rue de la Chanvrerieto the left on the Rues du Cygne and de
la Petite Truanderieto the right on the Rue Mondetourwas really
almost impregnable; it is true that they were fatally hemmed in there.
It had three frontsbut no exit.--"A fortress but a rat hole too
said Courfeyrac with a laugh.


Enjolras had about thirty paving-stones torn up in excess
said Bossuet, piled up near the door of the wine-shop.


The silence was now so profound in the quarter whence the attack must
needs come, that Enjolras had each man resume his post of battle.


An allowance of brandy was doled out to each.


Nothing is more curious than a barricade preparing for an assault.
Each man selects his place as though at the theatre. They jostle,
and elbow and crowd each other. There are some who make stalls
of paving-stones. Here is a corner of the wall which is in the way,
it is removed; here is a redan which may afford protection,
they take shelter behind it. Left-handed men are precious;
they take the places that are inconvenient to the rest. Many arrange
to fight in a sitting posture. They wish to be at ease to kill,
and to die comfortably. In the sad war of June, 1848, an insurgent
who was a formidable marksman, and who was firing from the top of a
terrace upon a roof, had a reclining-chair brought there for his use;
a charge of grape-shot found him out there.


As soon as the leader has given the order to clear the decks for action,
all disorderly movements cease; there is no more pulling from
one another; there are no more coteries; no more asides, there is
no more holding aloof; everything in their spirits converges in,



and changes into, a waiting for the assailants. A barricade before
the arrival of danger is chaos; in danger, it is discipline itself.
Peril produces order.

As soon as Enjolras had seized his double-barrelled rifle,
and had placed himself in a sort of embrasure which he had reserved
for himself, all the rest held their peace. A series of faint,
sharp noises resounded confusedly along the wall of paving-stones.
It was the men cocking their guns.

Moreover, their attitudes were prouder, more confident than ever;
the excess of sacrifice strengthens; they no longer cherished any hope,
but they had despair, despair,--the last weapon, which sometimes
gives victory; Virgil has said so. Supreme resources spring from
extreme resolutions. To embark in death is sometimes the means
of escaping a shipwreck; and the lid of the coffin becomes a plank
of safety.

As on the preceding evening, the attention of all was directed,
we might almost say leaned upon, the end of the street, now lighted
up and visible.

They had not long to wait. A stir began distinctly in the Saint-Leu
quarter, but it did not resemble the movement of the first attack.
A clashing of chains, the uneasy jolting of a mass, the click
of brass skipping along the pavement, a sort of solemn uproar,
announced that some sinister construction of iron was approaching.
There arose a tremor in the bosoms of these peaceful old streets,
pierced and built for the fertile circulation of interests and ideas,
and which are not made for the horrible rumble of the wheels
of war.

The fixity of eye in all the combatants upon the extremity
of the street became ferocious.

A cannon made its appearance.

Artillery-men were pushing the piece; it was in firing trim;
the fore-carriage had been detached; two upheld the gun-carriage,
four were at the wheels; others followed with the caisson.
They could see the smoke of the burning lint-stock.

Fire!" shouted Enjolras.

The whole barricade firedthe report was terrible; an avalanche
of smoke covered and effaced both cannon and men; after a few seconds
the cloud dispersedand the cannon and men re-appeared; the gun-crew
had just finished rolling it slowlycorrectlywithout haste
into position facing the barricade. Not one of them had been struck.
Then the captain of the piecebearing down upon the breech in order
to raise the muzzlebegan to point the cannon with the gravity
of an astronomer levelling a telescope.

Bravo for the cannoneers!cried Bossuet.

And the whole barricade clapped their hands.

A moment latersquarely planted in the very middle of the street
astride of the gutterthe piece was ready for action. A formidable
pair of jaws yawned on the barricade.

Come, merrily now!ejaculated Courfeyrac. "That's the brutal
part of it. After the fillip on the nosethe blow from the fist.
The army is reaching out its big paw to us. The barricade is going


to be severely shaken up. The fusillade triesthe cannon takes."

It is a piece of eight, new model, brass,added Combeferre.
Those pieces are liable to burst as soon as the proportion of ten
parts of tin to one hundred of brass is exceeded. The excess
of tin renders them too tender. Then it comes to pass that they
have caves and chambers when looked at from the vent hole. In order
to obviate this danger, and to render it possible to force the charge,
it may become necessary to return to the process of the fourteenth
century, hooping, and to encircle the piece on the outside with a
series of unwelded steel bands, from the breech to the trunnions.
In the meantime, they remedy this defect as best they may;
they manage to discover where the holes are located in the vent
of a cannon, by means of a searcher. But there is a better method,
with Gribeauval's movable star.

In the sixteenth century,remarked Bossuetthey used to rifle cannon.

Yes,replied Combeferrethat augments the projectile force,
but diminishes the accuracy of the firing. In firing at short range,
the trajectory is not as rigid as could be desired, the parabola
is exaggerated, the line of the projectile is no longer sufficiently
rectilinear to allow of its striking intervening objects, which is,
nevertheless, a necessity of battle, the importance of which increases
with the proximity of the enemy and the precipitation of the discharge.
This defect of the tension of the curve of the projectile in the
rifled cannon of the sixteenth century arose from the smallness
of the charge; small charges for that sort of engine are imposed
by the ballistic necessities, such, for instance, as the preservation
of the gun-carriage. In short, that despot, the cannon, cannot do
all that it desires; force is a great weakness. A cannon-ball only
travels six hundred leagues an hour; light travels seventy thousand
leagues a second. Such is the superiority of Jesus Christ over Napoleon.

Reload your guns,said Enjolras.

How was the casing of the barricade going to behave under the
cannon-balls? Would they effect a breach? That was the question.
While the insurgents were reloading their gunsthe artillery-men
were loading the cannon.

The anxiety in the redoubt was profound.

The shot sped the report burst forth.

Present!shouted a joyous voice.

And Gavroche flung himself into the barricade just as the ball
dashed against it.

He came from the direction of the Rue du Cygneand he had nimbly
climbed over the auxiliary barricade which fronted on the labyrinth
of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie.

Gavroche produced a greater sensation in the barricade than
the cannon-ball.

The ball buried itself in the mass of rubbish. At the most there
was an omnibus wheel brokenand the old Anceau cart was demolished.
On seeing thisthe barricade burst into a laugh.

Go on!shouted Bossuet to the artillerists.


CHAPTER VIII

THE ARTILLERY-MEN COMPEL PEOPLE TO TAKE THEM SERIOUSLY

Thet flocked round Gavroche. But he had no time to tell anything.
Marius drew him aside with a shudder.

What are you doing here?

Hullo!said the childwhat are you doing here yourself?

And he stared at Marius intently with his epic effrontery.
His eyes grew larger with the proud light within them.

It was with an accent of severity that Marius continued:

Who told you to come back? Did you deliver my letter at the address?

Gavroche was not without some compunctions in the matter of
that letter. In his haste to return to the barricadehe had got
rid of it rather than delivered it. He was forced to acknowledge
to himself that he had confided it rather lightly to that stranger
whose face he had not been able to make out. It is true that
the man was bareheadedbut that was not sufficient. In short
he had been administering to himself little inward remonstrances
and he feared Marius' reproaches. In order to extricate himself
from the predicamenthe took the simplest course; he lied abominably.

Citizen, I delivered the letter to the porter. The lady was asleep.
She will have the letter when she wakes up.

Marius had had two objects in sending that letter: to bid farewell
to Cosette and to save Gavroche. He was obliged to content himself
with the half of his desire.

The despatch of his letter and the presence of M. Fauchelevent
in the barricade, was a coincidence which occurred to him.
He pointed out M. Fauchelevent to Gavroche.

Do you know that man?"

No,said Gavroche.

Gavroche hadin factas we have just mentionedseen Jean Valjean
only at night.

The troubled and unhealthy conjectures which had outlined themselves
in Marius' mind were dissipated. Did he know M. Fauchelevent's opinions?
Perhaps M. Fauchelevent was a republican. Hence his very natural
presence in this combat.

In the meanwhileGavroche was shoutingat the other end
of the barricade: "My gun!"

Courfeyrac had it returned to him.

Gavroche warned "his comrades" as he called themthat the barricade
was blocked. He had had great difficulty in reaching it.
A battalion of the line whose arms were piled in the Rue de la Petite
Truanderie was on the watch on the side of the Rue du Cygne; on the
opposite sidethe municipal guard occupied the Rue des Precheurs.
The bulk of the army was facing them in front.


This information givenGavroche added:

I authorize you to hit 'em a tremendous whack.

MeanwhileEnjolras was straining his ears and watching at his embrasure.

The assailantsdissatisfiedno doubtwith their shothad not
repeated it.

A company of infantry of the line had come up and occupied the end
of the street behind the piece of ordnance. The soldiers were
tearing up the pavement and constructing with the stones a small
low walla sort of side-work not more than eighteen inches high
and facing the barricade. In the angle at the left of this epaulement
there was visible the head of the column of a battalion from the
suburbs massed in the Rue Saint-Denis.

Enjolrason the watchthought he distinguished the peculiar
sound which is produced when the shells of grape-shot are drawn
from the caissonsand he saw the commander of the piece change the
elevation and incline the mouth of the cannon slightly to the left.
Then the cannoneers began to load the piece. The chief seized
the lint-stock himself and lowered it to the vent.

Down with your heads, hug the wall!shouted Enjolrasand all
on your knees along the barricade!

The insurgents who were straggling in front of the wine-shop
and who had quitted their posts of combat on Gavroche's arrival
rushed pell-mell towards the barricade; but before Enjolras'
order could be executedthe discharge took place with the terrifying
rattle of a round of grape-shot. This is what it wasin fact.

The charge had been aimed at the cut in the redoubtand had there
rebounded from the wall; and this terrible rebound had produced
two dead and three wounded.

If this were continuedthe barricade was no longer tenable.
The grape-shot made its way in.

A murmur of consternation arose.

Let us prevent the second discharge,said Enjolras.

Andlowering his riflehe took aim at the captain of the gun
whoat that momentwas bearing down on the breach of his gun
and rectifying and definitely fixing its pointing.

The captain of the piece was a handsome sergeant of artillery
very youngblondwith a very gentle faceand the intelligent
air peculiar to that predestined and redoubtable weapon which
by dint of perfecting itself in horrormust end in killing war.

Combeferrewho was standing beside Enjolrasscrutinized this
young man.

What a pity!said Combeferre. "What hideous things these
butcheries are! Comewhen there are no more kingsthere will
be no more war. Enjolrasyou are taking aim at that sergeant
you are not looking at him. Fancyhe is a charming young man;
he is intrepid; it is evident that he is thoughtful; those young
artillery-men are very well educated; he has a fathera mother
a family; he is probably in love; he is not more than five and twenty


at the most; he might be your brother."

He is,said Enjolras.

Yes,replied Combeferrehe is mine too. Well, let us not
kill him.

Let me alone. It must be done.

And a tear trickled slowly down Enjolras' marble cheek.

At the same momenthe pressed the trigger of his rifle. The flame
leaped forth. The artillery-man turned round twicehis arms
extended in front of himhis head upliftedas though for breath
then he fell with his side on the gunand lay there motionless.
They could see his backfrom the centre of which there flowed
directly a stream of blood. The ball had traversed his breast
from side to side. He was dead.

He had to be carried away and replaced by another. Several minutes
were thus gainedin fact.

CHAPTER IX

EMPLOYMENT OF THE OLD TALENTS OF A POACHER AND THAT INFALLIBLE
MARKSMANSHIP WHICH INFLUENCED THE CONDEMNATION OF 1796

Opinions were exchanged in the barricade. The firing from the gun
was about to begin again. Against that grape-shotthey could not
hold out a quarter of an hour longer. It was absolutely necessary
to deaden the blows.

Enjolras issued this command:

We must place a mattress there.

We have none,said Combeferrethe wounded are lying on them.

Jean Valjeanwho was seated apart on a stone postat the corner
of the tavernwith his gun between his kneeshadup to that moment
taken no part in anything that was going on. He did not appear
to hear the combatants saying around him: "Here is a gun that is
doing nothing."

At the order issued by Enjolrashe rose.

It will be remembered thaton the arrival of the rabble in the Rue
de la Chanvreriean old womanforeseeing the bulletshad placed
her mattress in front of her window. This windowan attic window
was on the roof of a six-story house situated a little beyond
the barricade. The mattressplaced cross-wisesupported at
the bottom on two poles for drying linenwas upheld at the top
by two ropeswhichat that distancelooked like two threads
and which were attached to two nails planted in the window frames.
These ropes were distinctly visiblelike hairsagainst the sky.

Can some one lend me a double-barrelled rifle?said Jean Valjean.

Enjolraswho had just re-loaded hishanded it to him.

Jean Valjean took aim at the attic window and fired.


One of the mattress ropes was cut.

The mattress now hung by one thread only.

Jean Valjean fired the second charge. The second rope lashed
the panes of the attic window. The mattress slipped between
the two poles and fell into the street.


The barricade applauded.


All voices cried:


Here is a mattress!


Yes,said Combeferrebut who will go and fetch it?


The mattress hadin factfallen outside the barricade
between besiegers and besieged. Nowthe death of the sergeant
of artillery having exasperated the troopthe soldiers had
for several minutesbeen lying flat on their stomachs behind
the line of paving-stones which they had erectedandin order
to supply the forced silence of the piecewhich was quiet while
its service was in course of reorganizationthey had opened fire
on the barricade. The insurgents did not reply to this musketry
in order to spare their ammunition The fusillade broke against
the barricade; but the streetwhich it filledwas terrible.


Jean Valjean stepped out of the cutentered the street
traversed the storm of bulletswalked up to the mattress
hoisted it upon his backand returned to the barricade.


He placed the mattress in the cut with his own hands. He fixed
it there against the wall in such a manner that the artillery-men
should not see it.


That donethey awaited the next discharge of grape-shot.


It was not long in coming.


The cannon vomited forth its package of buck-shot with a roar.
But there was no rebound. The effect which they had foreseen had
been attained. The barricade was saved.


Citizen,said Enjolras to Jean Valjeanthe Republic thanks you.


Bossuet admired and laughed. He exclaimed:


It is immoral that a mattress should have so much power.
Triumph of that which yields over that which strikes with lightning.
But never mind, glory to the mattress which annuls a cannon!


CHAPTER X


DAWN


At that momentCosette awoke.


Her chamber was narrowneatunobtrusivewith a long sash-window
facing the East on the back court-yard of the house.



Cosette knew nothing of what was going on in Paris. She had not
been there on the preceding eveningand she had already retired
to her chamber when Toussaint had said:

It appears that there is a row.

Cosette had slept only a few hoursbut soundly. She had had
sweet dreamswhich possibly arose from the fact that her little
bed was very white. Some onewho was Mariushad appeared to her
in the light. She awoke with the sun in her eyeswhichat first
produced on her the effect of being a continuation of her dream.
Her first thought on emerging from this dream was a smiling one.
Cosette felt herself thoroughly reassured. Like Jean Valjean
she hada few hours previouslypassed through that reaction
of the soul which absolutely will not hear of unhappiness.
She began to cherish hopewith all her mightwithout knowing why.
Then she felt a pang at her heart. It was three days since she
had seen Marius. But she said to herself that he must have received
her letterthat he knew where she wasand that he was so clever
that he would find means of reaching her.--And that certainly
to-dayand perhaps that very morning.--It was broad daylight
but the rays of light were very horizontal; she thought that it
was very earlybut that she must riseneverthelessin order to
receive Marius.

She felt that she could not live without Mariusand that
consequentlythat was sufficient and that Marius would come.
No objection was valid. All this was certain. It was monstrous enough
already to have suffered for three days. Marius absent three days
this was horrible on the part of the good God. Nowthis cruel
teasing from on high had been gone through with. Marius was about
to arriveand he would bring good news. Youth is made thus;
it quickly dries its eyes; it finds sorrow useless and does not
accept it. Youth is the smile of the future in the presence of an
unknown quantitywhich is itself. It is natural to it to be happy.
It seems as though its respiration were made of hope.

MoreoverCosette could not remember what Marius had said to her
on the subject of this absence which was to last only one day
and what explanation of it he had given her. Every one has noticed
with what nimbleness a coin which one has dropped on the ground rolls
away and hidesand with what art it renders itself undiscoverable.
There are thoughts which play us the same trick; they nestle away
in a corner of our brain; that is the end of them; they are lost;
it is impossible to lay the memory on them. Cosette was somewhat vexed
at the useless little effort made by her memory. She told herself
that it was very naughty and very wicked of herto have forgotten
the words uttered by Marius.

She sprang out of bed and accomplished the two ablutions of soul
and bodyher prayers and her toilet.

One mayin a case of exigencyintroduce the reader into
a nuptial chambernot into a virginal chamber. Verse would
hardly venture itprose must not.

It is the interior of a flower that is not yet unfoldedit is
whiteness in the darkit is the private cell of a closed lily
which must not be gazed upon by man so long as the sun has not
gazed upon it. Woman in the bud is sacred. That innocent bud
which opensthat adorable half-nudity which is afraid of itself
that white foot which takes refuge in a slipperthat throat
which veils itself before a mirror as though a mirror were an eye
that chemise which makes haste to rise up and conceal the shoulder


for a creaking bit of furniture or a passing vehiclethose cords tied
those clasps fastenedthose laces drawnthose tremorsthose shivers
of cold and modestythat exquisite affright in every movement
that almost winged uneasiness where there is no cause for alarm
the successive phases of dressingas charming as the clouds of dawn--
it is not fitting that all this should be narratedand it is too much
to have even called attention to it.


The eye of man must be more religious in the presence of the rising
of a young girl than in the presence of the rising of a star.
The possibility of hurting should inspire an augmentation of respect.
The down on the peachthe bloom on the plumthe radiated crystal of
the snowthe wing of the butterfly powdered with feathersare coarse
compared to that chastity which does not even know that it is chaste.
The young girl is only the flash of a dreamand is not yet a statue.
Her bed-chamber is hidden in the sombre part of the ideal.
The indiscreet touch of a glance brutalizes this vague penumbra.
Herecontemplation is profanation.


We shallthereforeshow nothing of that sweet little flutter
of Cosette's rising.


An oriental tale relates how the rose was made white by God
but that Adam looked upon her when she was unfoldingand she
was ashamed and turned crimson. We are of the number who fall
speechless in the presence of young girls and flowerssince we
think them worthy of veneration.


Cosette dressed herself very hastilycombed and dressed her hair
which was a very simple matter in those dayswhen women did not
swell out their curls and bands with cushions and puffsand did
not put crinoline in their locks. Then she opened the window
and cast her eyes around her in every directionhoping to descry
some bit of the streetan angle of the housean edge of pavement
so that she might be able to watch for Marius there. But no view
of the outside was to be had. The back court was surrounded by
tolerably high wallsand the outlook was only on several gardens.
Cosette pronounced these gardens hideous: for the first time
in her lifeshe found flowers ugly. The smallest scrap of the
gutter of the street would have met her wishes better. She decided
to gaze at the skyas though she thought that Marius might come
from that quarter.


All at onceshe burst into tears. Not that this was fickleness
of soul; but hopes cut in twain by dejection--that was her case.
She had a confused consciousness of something horrible. Thoughts were
rife in the airin fact. She told herself that she was not sure
of anythingthat to withdraw herself from sight was to be lost;
and the idea that Marius could return to her from heaven appeared
to her no longer charming but mournful.


Thenas is the nature of these cloudscalm returned to her
and hope and a sort of unconscious smilewhich yet indicated trust
in God.


Every one in the house was still asleep. A country-like silence reigned.
Not a shutter had been opened. The porter's lodge was closed.
Toussaint had not risenand Cosettenaturallythought that her
father was asleep. She must have suffered muchand she must have
still been suffering greatlyfor she said to herselfthat her
father had been unkind; but she counted on Marius. The eclipse
of such a light was decidedly impossible. Now and thenshe heard
sharp shocks in the distanceand she said: "It is odd that people
should be opening and shutting their carriage gates so early."



They were the reports of the cannon battering the barricade.

A few feet below Cosette's windowin the ancient and perfectly
black cornice of the wallthere was a martin's nest; the curve
of this nest formed a little projection beyond the cornice
so that from above it was possible to look into this little paradise.
The mother was therespreading her wings like a fan over her brood;
the father fluttered aboutflew awaythen came backbearing in
his beak food and kisses. The dawning day gilded this happy thing
the great lawMultiply,lay there smiling and augustand that sweet
mystery unfolded in the glory of the morning. Cosettewith her hair
in the sunlighther soul absorbed in chimerasilluminated by love
within and by the dawn withoutbent over mechanicallyand almost
without daring to avow to herself that she was thinking at the same
time of Mariusbegan to gaze at these birdsat this family
at that male and femalethat mother and her little ones
with the profound trouble which a nest produces on a virgin.

CHAPTER XI

THE SHOT WHICH MISSES NOTHING AND KILLS NO ONE

The assailants' fire continued. Musketry and grape-shot alternated
but without committing great ravagesto tell the truth. The top
alone of the Corinthe facade suffered; the window on the first floor
and the attic window in the roofriddled with buck-shot and biscaiens
were slowly losing their shape. The combatants who had been posted
there had been obliged to withdraw. Howeverthis is according
to the tactics of barricades; to fire for a long whilein order
to exhaust the insurgents' ammunitionif they commit the mistake
of replying. When it is perceivedfrom the slackening of their fire
that they have no more powder and ballthe assault is made.
Enjolras had not fallen into this trap; the barricade did not reply.

At every discharge by platoonsGavroche puffed out his cheek
with his tonguea sign of supreme disdain.

Good for you,said herip up the cloth. We want some lint.

Courfeyrac called the grape-shot to order for the little effect
which it producedand said to the cannon:

You are growing diffuse, my good fellow.

One gets puzzled in battleas at a ball. It is probable that this
silence on the part of the redoubt began to render the besiegers uneasy
and to make them fear some unexpected incidentand that they felt
the necessity of getting a clear view behind that heap of paving-stones
and of knowing what was going on behind that impassable wall
which received blows without retorting. The insurgents suddenly
perceived a helmet glittering in the sun on a neighboring roof.
A fireman had placed his back against a tall chimneyand seemed to
be acting as sentinel. His glance fell directly down into the barricade.

There's an embarrassing watcher,said Enjolras.

Jean Valjean had returned Enjolras' riflebut he had his own gun.

Without saying a wordhe took aim at the firemananda second later
the helmetsmashed by a bulletrattled noisily into the street.
The terrified soldier made haste to disappear. A second observer


took his place. This one was an officer. Jean Valjeanwho had
re-loaded his guntook aim at the newcomer and sent the officer's
casque to join the soldier's. The officer did not persist
and retired speedily. This time the warning was understood.
No one made his appearance thereafter on that roof; and the idea
of spying on the barricade was abandoned.

Why did you not kill the man?Bossuet asked Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean made no reply.

CHAPTER XII

DISORDER A PARTISAN OF ORDER

Bossuet muttered in Combeferre's ear:

He did not answer my question.

He is a man who does good by gun-shots,said Combeferre.

Those who have preserved some memory of this already distant
epoch know that the National Guard from the suburbs was valiant
against insurrections. It was particularly zealous and intrepid
in the days of June1832. A certain good dram-shop keeper of
Pantin des Vertus or la Cunettewhose "establishment" had been
closed by the riotsbecame leonine at the sight of his deserted
dance-halland got himself killed to preserve the order represented
by a tea-garden. In that bourgeois and heroic timein the presence
of ideas which had their knightsinterests had their paladins.
The prosiness of the originators detracted nothing from the
bravery of the movement. The diminution of a pile of crowns made
bankers sing the Marseillaise. They shed their blood lyrically
for the counting-house; and they defended the shopthat immense
diminutive of the fatherlandwith Lacedaemonian enthusiasm.

At bottomwe will observethere was nothing in all this that was
not extremely serious. It was social elements entering into strife
while awaiting the day when they should enter into equilibrium.

Another sign of the times was the anarchy mingled with governmentalism
[the barbarous name of the correct party]. People were for order
in combination with lack of discipline.

The drum suddenly beat capricious callsat the command of such or such
a Colonel of the National Guard; such and such a captain went into
action through inspiration; such and such National Guardsmen fought
for an idea,and on their own account. At critical momentson "days"
they took counsel less of their leaders than of their instincts.
There existed in the army of orderveritable guerillerossome of
the swordlike Fannicotothers of the penlike Henri Fonfrede.

Civilizationunfortunatelyrepresented at this epoch rather
by an aggregation of interests than by a group of principles
was or thought itselfin peril; it set up the cry of alarm;
eachconstituting himself a centredefended itsuccored it
and protected it with his own head; and the first comer took
it upon himself to save society.

Zeal sometimes proceeded to extermination. A platoon of the National
Guard would constitute itself on its own authority a private council


of warand judge and execute a captured insurgent in five minutes.
It was an improvisation of this sort that had slain Jean Prouvaire.
Fierce Lynch lawwith which no one party had any right to reproach
the restfor it has been applied by the Republic in America
as well as by the monarchy in Europe. This Lynch law was complicated
with mistakes. On one day of riotinga young poetnamed Paul
Aime Garnierwas pursued in the Place Royalewith a bayonet at
his loinsand only escaped by taking refuge under the porte-cochere
of No. 6. They shouted:--"There's another of those Saint-Simonians!"
and they wanted to kill him. Nowhe had under his arm a volume
of the memoirs of the Duc de Saint-Simon. A National Guard had read
the words Saint-Simon on the bookand had shouted: "Death!"


On the 6th of June1832a company of the National Guards from
the suburbscommanded by the Captain Fannicotabove mentioned
had itself decimated in the Rue de la Chanvrerie out of caprice
and its own good pleasure. This factsingular though it may seem
was proved at the judicial investigation opened in consequence
of the insurrection of 1832. Captain Fannicota bold and impatient
bourgeoisa sort of condottiere of the order of those whom we have
just characterizeda fanatical and intractable governmentalist
could not resist the temptation to fire prematurelyand the ambition
of capturing the barricade alone and unaidedthat is to say
with his company. Exasperated by the successive apparition of
the red flag and the old coat which he took for the black flag
he loudly blamed the generals and chiefs of the corpswho were
holding council and did not think that the moment for the decisive
assault had arrivedand who were allowing "the insurrection to fry
in its own fat to use the celebrated expression of one of them.
For his part, he thought the barricade ripe, and as that which is
ripe ought to fall, he made the attempt.


He commanded men as resolute as himself, raging fellows as a witness
said. His company, the same which had shot Jean Prouvaire the poet,
was the first of the battalion posted at the angle of the street.
At the moment when they were least expecting it, the captain launched
his men against the barricade. This movement, executed with
more good will than strategy, cost the Fannicot company dear.
Before it had traversed two thirds of the street it was received
by a general discharge from the barricade. Four, the most audacious,
who were running on in front, were mown down point-blank at the very
foot of the redoubt, and this courageous throng of National Guards,
very brave men but lacking in military tenacity, were forced to fall back,
after some hesitation, leaving fifteen corpses on the pavement.
This momentary hesitation gave the insurgents time to re-load
their weapons, and a second and very destructive discharge struck
the company before it could regain the corner of the street,
its shelter. A moment more, and it was caught between two fires,
and it received the volley from the battery piece which,
not having received the order, had not discontinued its firing.


The intrepid and imprudent Fannicot was one of the dead from this
grape-shot. He was killed by the cannon, that is to say, by order.


This attack, which was more furious than serious,
irritated Enjolras.--The fools!" said he. "They are getting
their own men killed and they are using up our ammunition for nothing."


Enjolras spoke like the real general of insurrection which he was.
Insurrection and repression do not fight with equal weapons.
Insurrectionwhich is speedily exhaustedhas only a certain number
of shots to fire and a certain number of combatants to expend.
An empty cartridge-boxa man killedcannot be replaced. As repression
has the armyit does not count its menandas it has Vincennes



it does not count its shots. Repression has as many regiments
as the barricade has menand as many arsenals as the barricade has
cartridge-boxes. Thus they are struggles of one against a hundred
which always end in crushing the barricade; unless the revolution
uprising suddenlyflings into the balance its flaming archangel's sword.
This does happen sometimes. Then everything risesthe pavements
begin to seethepopular redoubts abound. Paris quivers supremely
the quid divinum is given fortha 10th of August is in the air
a 29th of July is in the aira wonderful light appearsthe yawning
maw of force draws backand the armythat lionsees before it
erect and tranquilthat prophetFrance.


CHAPTER XIII


PASSING GLEAMS


In the chaos of sentiments and passions which defend a barricade
there is a little of everything; there is braverythere is youth
honorenthusiasmthe idealconvictionthe rage of the gambler
andabove allintermittences of hope.


One of these intermittencesone of these vague quivers of hope
suddenly traversed the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie
at the moment when it was least expected.


Listen,suddenly cried Enjolraswho was still on the watch
it seems to me that Paris is waking up.


It is certain thaton the morning of the 6th of Junethe insurrection
broke out afresh for an hour or twoto a certain extent.
The obstinacy of the alarm peal of Saint-Merry reanimated
some fancies. Barricades were begun in the Rue du Poirier and the Rue
des Gravilliers. In front of the Porte Saint-Martina young man
armed with a rifleattacked alone a squadron of cavalry.
In plain sighton the open boulevardhe placed one knee on the ground
shouldered his weaponfiredkilled the commander of the squadron
and turned awaysaying: "There's another who will do us no more harm."


He was put to the sword. In the Rue Saint-Denisa woman fired
on the National Guard from behind a lowered blind. The slats
of the blind could be seen to tremble at every shot. A child
fourteen years of age was arrested in the Rue de la Cossonerie
with his pockets full of cartridges. Many posts were attacked.
At the entrance to the Rue Bertin-Poireea very lively and
utterly unexpected fusillade welcomed a regiment of cuirrassiers
at whose head marched Marshal General Cavaignac de Barague.
In the Rue Planche-Mibraythey threw old pieces of pottery and
household utensils down on the soldiers from the roofs; a bad sign;
and when this matter was reported to Marshal SoultNapoleon's old
lieutenant grew thoughtfulas he recalled Suchet's saying at Saragossa:
We are lost when the old women empty their pots de chambre on
our heads.


These general symptoms which presented themselves at the moment
when it was thought that the uprising had been rendered local
this fever of wraththese sparks which flew hither and thither above
those deep masses of combustibles which are called the faubourgs
of Paris--all thistaken togetherdisturbed the military chiefs.
They made haste to stamp out these beginnings of conflagration.


They delayed the attack on the barricades Maubueede la Chanvrerie



and Saint-Merry until these sparks had been extinguishedin order
that they might have to deal with the barricades only and be able
to finish them at one blow. Columns were thrown into the streets
where there was fermentationsweeping the largesounding the small
right and leftnow slowly and cautiouslynow at full charge.
The troops broke in the doors of houses whence shots had been fired;
at the same timemanoeuvres by the cavalry dispersed the groups
on the boulevards. This repression was not effected without
some commotionand without that tumultuous uproar peculiar to
collisions between the army and the people. This was what Enjolras
had caught in the intervals of the cannonade and the musketry.
Moreoverhe had seen wounded men passing the end of the street
in littersand he said to Courfeyrac:--"Those wounded do not come
from us."


Their hope did not last long; the gleam was quickly eclipsed.
In less than half an hourwhat was in the air vanishedit was
a flash of lightning unaccompanied by thunderand the insurgents
felt that sort of leaden copewhich the indifference of the people
casts over obstinate and deserted menfall over them once more.


The general movementwhich seemed to have assumed a vague outline
had miscarried; and the attention of the minister of war and the
strategy of the generals could now be concentrated on the three
or four barricades which still remained standing.


The sun was mounting above the horizon.


An insurgent hailed Enjolras.


We are hungry here. Are we really going to die like this,
without anything to eat?


Enjolraswho was still leaning on his elbows at his embrasure
made an affirmative sign with his headbut without taking his eyes
from the end of the street.


CHAPTER XIV


WHEREIN WILL APPEAR THE NAME OF ENJOLRAS' MISTRESS


Courfeyracseated on a paving-stone beside Enjolras
continued to insult the cannonand each time that that gloomy
cloud of projectiles which is called grape-shot passed overhead
with its terrible sound he assailed it with a burst of irony.


You are wearing out your lungs, poor, brutal, old fellow, you pain me,
you are wasting your row. That's not thunder, it's a cough.


And the bystanders laughed.


Courfeyrac and Bossuetwhose brave good humor increased with
the perillike Madame Scarronreplaced nourishment with pleasantry
andas wine was lackingthey poured out gayety to all.


I admire Enjolras,said Bossuet. "His impassive temerity
astounds me. He lives alonewhich renders him a little sadperhaps;
Enjolras complains of his greatnesswhich binds him to widowhood.
The rest of us have mistressesmore or lesswho make us crazy
that is to saybrave. When a man is as much in love as a tiger
the least that he can do is to fight like a lion. That is one way



of taking our revenge for the capers that mesdames our grisettes play
on us. Roland gets himself killed for Angelique; all our heroism
comes from our women. A man without a woman is a pistol without
a trigger; it is the woman that sets the man off. WellEnjolras has
no woman. He is not in loveand yet he manages to be intrepid.
It is a thing unheard of that a man should be as cold as ice and as
bold as fire."

Enjolras did not appear to be listeningbut had any one been near him
that person would have heard him mutter in a low voice: "Patria."

Bossuet was still laughing when Courfeyrac exclaimed:

News!

And assuming the tone of an usher making an announcementhe added:

My name is Eight-Pounder.

In facta new personage had entered on the scene. This was
a second piece of ordnance.

The artillery-men rapidly performed their manoeuvres in force
and placed this second piece in line with the first.

This outlined the catastrophe.

A few minutes laterthe two piecesrapidly servedwere firing
point-blank at the redoubt; the platoon firing of the line
and of the soldiers from the suburbs sustained the artillery.

Another cannonade was audible at some distance. At the same time
that the two guns were furiously attacking the redoubt from the Rue
de la Chanvrerietwo other cannonstrained one from the Rue
Saint-Denisthe other from the Rue Aubry-le-Boucherwere riddling
the Saint-Merry barricade. The four cannons echoed each other mournfully.

The barking of these sombre dogs of war replied to each other.

One of the two pieces which was now battering the barricade on
the Rue de la Chanvrerie was firing grape-shotthe other balls.

The piece which was firing balls was pointed a little high
and the aim was calculated so that the ball struck the extreme
edge of the upper crest of the barricadeand crumbled the stone
down upon the insurgentsmingled with bursts of grape-shot.

The object of this mode of firing was to drive the insurgents
from the summit of the redoubtand to compel them to gather close
in the interiorthat is to saythis announced the assault.

The combatants once driven from the crest of the barricade by balls
and from the windows of the cabaret by grape-shotthe attacking columns
could venture into the street without being picked offperhapseven
without being seencould briskly and suddenly scale the redoubt
as on the preceding eveningandwho knows? take it by surprise.

It is absolutely necessary that the inconvenience of those guns
should be diminished,said Enjolrasand he shouted: "Fire on
the artillery-men!"

All were ready. The barricadewhich had long been silent
poured forth a desperate fire; seven or eight discharges followed
with a sort of rage and joy; the street was filled with blinding smoke


andat the end of a few minutesathwart this mist all streaked
with flametwo thirds of the gunners could be distinguished
lying beneath the wheels of the cannons. Those who were left
standing continued to serve the pieces with severe tranquillity
but the fire had slackened.

Things are going well now,said Bossuet to Enjolras. "Success."

Enjolras shook his head and replied:

Another quarter of an hour of this success, and there will not
be any cartridges left in the barricade.

It appears that Gavroche overheard this remark.

CHAPTER XV

GAVROCHE OUTSIDE

Courfeyrac suddenly caught sight of some one at the base
of the barricadeoutside in the streetamid the bullets.

Gavroche had taken a bottle basket from the wine-shophad made
his way out through the cutand was quietly engaged in emptying
the full cartridge-boxes of the National Guardsmen who had been
killed on the slope of the redoubtinto his basket.

What are you doing there?asked Courfeyrac.

Gavroche raised his face:-


I'm filling my basket, citizen.

Don't you see the grape-shot?

Gavroche replied:

Well, it is raining. What then?

Courfeyrac shouted:--"Come in!"

Instanter,said Gavroche.

And with a single bound he plunged into the street.

It will be remembered that Fannicot's company had left behind
it a trail of bodies. Twenty corpses lay scattered here and
there on the pavementthrough the whole length of the street.
Twenty cartouches for Gavroche meant a provision of cartridges
for the barricade.

The smoke in the street was like a fog. Whoever has beheld a cloud
which has fallen into a mountain gorge between two peaked escarpments
can imagine this smoke rendered denser and thicker by two gloomy rows
of lofty houses. It rose gradually and was incessantly renewed;
hence a twilight which made even the broad daylight turn pale.
The combatants could hardly see each other from one end of the street
to the othershort as it was.

This obscuritywhich had probably been desired and calculated on
by the commanders who were to direct the assault on the barricade


was useful to Gavroche.

Beneath the folds of this veil of smokeand thanks to his small size
he could advance tolerably far into the street without being seen.
He rifled the first seven or eight cartridge-boxes without
much danger.

He crawled flat on his bellygalloped on all fourstook his basket
in his teethtwistedglidedundulatedwound from one dead body
to anotherand emptied the cartridge-box or cartouche as a monkey
opens a nut.

They did not dare to shout to him to return from the barricade
which was quite nearfor fear of attracting attention to him.

On one bodythat of a corporalhe found a powder-flask.

For thirst,said heputting it in his pocket.

By dint of advancinghe reached a point where the fog of the
fusillade became transparent. So that the sharpshooters of the
line ranged on the outlook behind their paving-stone dike and the
sharpshooters of the banlieue massed at the corner of the street
suddenly pointed out to each other something moving through the smoke.

At the moment when Gavroche was relieving a sergeantwho was lying
near a stone door-postof his cartridgesa bullet struck the body.

Fichtre!ejaculated Gavroche. "They are killing my dead men
for me."

A second bullet struck a spark from the pavement beside him.-A
third overturned his basket.

Gavroche looked and saw that this came from the men of the banlieue.

He sprang to his feetstood erectwith his hair flying in the wind
his hands on his hipshis eyes fixed on the National Guardsmen

who were firingand sang:
On est laid a Nanterre, Men are ugly at Nanterre
C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire;
Et bete a PalaiseauAnd dull at Palaiseau
C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."

Then he picked up his basketreplaced the cartridges which had
fallen from itwithout missing a single oneandadvancing towards
the fusilladeset about plundering another cartridge-box. There
a fourth bullet missed himagain. Gavroche sang:

Je ne suis pas notaire, I am not a notary
C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire;
Je suis un petit oiseauI'm a little bird
C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."

A fifth bullet only succeeded in drawing from him a third couplet.

Joie est mon caractere, Joy is my character
C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire;
Misere est mon trousseauMisery is my trousseau
C'est la faute a Rousseau." 'Tis the fault of Rousseau."


Thus it went on for some time.


It was a charming and terrible sight. Gavrochethough shot at
was teasing the fusillade. He had the air of being greatly diverted.
It was the sparrow pecking at the sportsmen. To each discharge
he retorted with a couplet. They aimed at him constantly
and always missed him. The National Guardsmen and the soldiers
laughed as they took aim at him. He lay downsprang to his feet
hid in the corner of a doorwaythen made a bounddisappeared
re-appearedscampered awayreturnedreplied to the grape-shot
with his thumb at his noseandall the whilewent on pillaging
the cartouchesemptying the cartridge-boxesand filling his basket.
The insurgentspanting with anxietyfollowed him with their eyes.
The barricade trembled; he sang. He was not a childhe was not a man;
he was a strange gamin-fairy. He might have been called the invulnerable
dwarf of the fray. The bullets flew after himhe was more nimble
than they. He played a fearful game of hide and seek with death;
every time that the flat-nosed face of the spectre approached
the urchin administered to it a fillip.


One bullethoweverbetter aimed or more treacherous than the rest
finally struck the will-o'-the-wisp of a child. Gavroche was seen
to staggerthen he sank to the earth. The whole barricade gave
vent to a cry; but there was something of Antaeus in that pygmy;
for the gamin to touch the pavement is the same as for the giant
to touch the earth; Gavroche had fallen only to rise again;
he remained in a sitting posturea long thread of blood streaked
his facehe raised both arms in the airglanced in the direction
whence the shot had comeand began to sing:


Je suis tombe par terre, I have fallen to the earth
C'est la faute a Voltaire; 'Tis the fault of Voltaire;
Le nez dans le ruisseauWith my nose in the gutter
C'est la faute a . . . " 'Tis the fault of . . . "

He did not finish. A second bullet from the same marksman stopped
him short. This time he fell face downward on the pavement
and moved no more. This grand little soul had taken its flight.

CHAPTER XVI

HOW FROM A BROTHER ONE BECOMES A FATHER

At that same momentin the garden of the Luxembourg--for the gaze
of the drama must be everywhere present--two children were holding
each other by the hand. One might have been seven years old
the other five. The rain having soaked themthey were walking along
the paths on the sunny side; the elder was leading the younger;
they were pale and ragged; they had the air of wild birds.
The smaller of them said: "I am very hungry."

The elderwho was already somewhat of a protectorwas leading his
brother with his left hand and in his right he carried a small stick.

They were alone in the garden. The garden was desertedthe gates had
been closed by order of the policeon account of the insurrection.
The troops who had been bivouacking there had departed for the
exigencies of combat.


How did those children come there? Perhaps they had escaped from
some guard-house which stood ajar; perhaps there was in the vicinity
at the Barriere d'Enfer; or on the Esplanade de l'Observatoire
or in the neighboring carrefourdominated by the pediment
on which could be read: Invenerunt parvulum pannis involutum
some mountebank's booth from which they had fled; perhaps they had
on the preceding eveningescaped the eye of the inspectors
of the garden at the hour of closingand had passed the night
in some one of those sentry-boxes where people read the papers?
The fact isthey were stray lambs and they seemed free. To be astray
and to seem free is to be lost. These poor little creatures were
in factlost.


These two children were the same over whom Gavroche had been put to
some troubleas the reader will recollect. Children of the Thenardiers
leased out to Magnonattributed to M. Gillenormandand now leaves
fallen from all these rootless branchesand swept over the ground
by the wind. Their clothingwhich had been clean in Magnon's day
and which had served her as a prospectus with M. Gillenormand
had been converted into rags.


Henceforth these beings belonged to the statistics
as "Abandoned children whom the police
take note of, collect, mislay and find again on the pavements of Paris.


It required the disturbance of a day like that to account for these
miserable little creatures being in that garden. If the superintendents
had caught sight of them, they would have driven such rags forth.
Poor little things do not enter public gardens; still, people should
reflect that, as children, they have a right to flowers.


These children were there, thanks to the locked gates. They were
there contrary to the regulations. They had slipped into the garden
and there they remained. Closed gates do not dismiss the inspectors,
oversight is supposed to continue, but it grows slack and reposes;
and the inspectors, moved by the public anxiety and more occupied
with the outside than the inside, no longer glanced into the garden,
and had not seen the two delinquents.


It had rained the night before, and even a little in the morning.
But in June, showers do not count for much. An hour after a storm,
it can hardly be seen that the beautiful blonde day has wept.
The earth, in summer, is as quickly dried as the cheek of a child.
At that period of the solstice, the light of full noonday is,
so to speak, poignant. It takes everything. It applies itself to
the earth, and superposes itself with a sort of suction. One would
say that the sun was thirsty. A shower is but a glass of water;
a rainstorm is instantly drunk up. In the morning everything
was dripping, in the afternoon everything is powdered over.


Nothing is so worthy of admiration as foliage washed by the rain
and wiped by the rays of sunlight; it is warm freshness. The gardens
and meadows, having water at their roots, and sun in their flowers,
become perfuming-pans of incense, and smoke with all their odors
at once. Everything smiles, sings and offers itself. One feels
gently intoxicated. The springtime is a provisional paradise,
the sun helps man to have patience.


There are beings who demand nothing further; mortals, who, having
the azure of heaven, say: It is enough!" dreamers absorbed in
the wonderfuldipping into the idolatry of natureindifferent to
good and evilcontemplators of cosmos and radiantly forgetful
of manwho do not understand how people can occupy themselves
with the hunger of theseand the thirst of thosewith the nudity



of the poor in winterwith the lymphatic curvature of the little
spinal columnwith the palletthe atticthe dungeonand the rags
of shivering young girlswhen they can dream beneath the trees;
peaceful and terrible spirits theyand pitilessly satisfied.
Strange to saythe infinite suffices them. That great need of man
the finitewhich admits of embracethey ignore. The finite
which admits of progress and sublime toilthey do not think about.
The indefinitewhich is born from the human and divine combination
of the infinite and the finiteescapes them. Provided that they are
face to face with immensitythey smile. Joy neverecstasy forever.
Their life lies in surrendering their personality in contemplation.
The history of humanity is for them only a detailed plan. All is
not there; the true All remains without; what is the use of busying
oneself over that detailman? Man suffersthat is quite possible;
but look at Aldebaran rising! The mother has no more milk
the new-born babe is dying. I know nothing about thatbut just
look at this wonderful rosette which a slice of wood-cells of the
pine presents under the microscope! Compare the most beautiful
Mechlin lace to that if you can! These thinkers forget to love.
The zodiac thrives with them to such a point that it prevents
their seeing the weeping child. God eclipses their souls.
This is a family of minds which areat oncegreat and petty.
Horace was one of them; so was Goethe. La Fontaine perhaps;
magnificent egoists of the infinitetranquil spectators of sorrow
who do not behold Nero if the weather be fairfor whom the sun
conceals the funeral pilewho would look on at an execution by the
guillotine in the search for an effect of lightwho hear neither
the cry nor the sobnor the death rattlenor the alarm peal
for whom everything is wellsince there is a month of Maywho
so long as there are clouds of purple and gold above their heads
declare themselves contentand who are determined to be happy
until the radiance of the stars and the songs of the birds
are exhausted.

These are dark radiances. They have no suspicion that they
are to be pitied. Certainly they are so. He who does not weep
does not see. They are to be admired and pitiedas one would
both pity and admire a being at once night and daywithout eyes
beneath his lashes but with a star on his brow.

The indifference of these thinkersisaccording to some
a superior philosophy. That may be; but in this superiority
there is some infirmity. One may be immortal and yet limp:
witness Vulcan. One may be more than man and less than man.
There is incomplete immensity in nature. Who knows whether the sun
is not a blind man?

But thenwhat? In whom can we trust? Solem quis dicere falsum audeat?
Who shall dare to say that the sun is false? Thus certain geniuses
themselvescertain Very-Lofty mortalsman-starsmay be mistaken?
That which is on high at the summitat the crestat the zenith
that which sends down so much light on the earthsees but little
sees badlysees not at all? Is not this a desperate state of things?
No. But what is therethenabove the sun? The god.

On the 6th of June1832about eleven o'clock in the morning
the Luxembourgsolitary and depopulatedwas charming.
The quincunxes and flower-beds shed forth balm and dazzling beauty
into the sunlight. The brancheswild with the brilliant glow
of middayseemed endeavoring to embrace. In the sycamores there
was an uproar of linnetssparrows triumphedwoodpeckers climbed
along the chestnut treesadministering little pecks on the bark.
The flower-beds accepted the legitimate royalty of the lilies;
the most august of perfumes is that which emanates from whiteness.


The peppery odor of the carnations was perceptible. The old crows
of Marie de Medici were amorous in the tall trees. The sun gilded
empurpledset fire to and lighted up the tulipswhich are nothing
but all the varieties of flame made into flowers. All around the
banks of tulips the beesthe sparks of these flame-flowershummed.
All was grace and gayetyeven the impending rain; this relapse
by which the lilies of the valley and the honeysuckles were destined
to profithad nothing disturbing about it; the swallows indulged
in the charming threat of flying low. He who was there aspired
to happiness; life smelled good; all nature exhaled candor
helpassistancepaternitycaressdawn. The thoughts which fell
from heaven were as sweet as the tiny hand of a baby when one
kisses it.

The statues under the treeswhite and nudehad robes of shadow
pierced with light; these goddesses were all tattered with sunlight;
rays hung from them on all sides. Around the great fountain
the earth was already dried up to the point of being burnt.
There was sufficient breeze to raise little insurrections of dust
here and there. A few yellow leavesleft over from the autumn
chased each other merrilyand seemed to be playing tricks on
each other.

This abundance of light had something indescribably reassuring
about it. Lifesapheatodors overflowed; one was conscious
beneath creationof the enormous size of the source; in all these
breaths permeated with lovein this interchange of reverberations
and reflectionsin this marvellous expenditure of raysin this
infinite outpouring of liquid goldone felt the prodigality of
the inexhaustible; andbehind this splendor as behind a curtain
of flameone caught a glimpse of Godthat millionaire of stars.

Thanks to the sandthere was not a speck of mud; thanks to the rain
there was not a grain of ashes. The clumps of blossoms had just
been bathed; every sort of velvetsatingold and varnish
which springs from the earth in the form of flowerswas irreproachable.
This magnificence was cleanly. The grand silence of happy nature
filled the garden. A celestial silence that is compatible with a
thousand sorts of musicthe cooing of neststhe buzzing of swarms
the flutterings of the breeze. All the harmony of the season was
complete in one gracious whole; the entrances and exits of spring
took place in proper order; the lilacs ended; the jasmines began;
some flowers were tardysome insects in advance of their time;
the van-guard of the red June butterflies fraternized with the
rear-guard of the white butterflies of May. The plantain trees
were getting their new skins. The breeze hollowed out undulations
in the magnificent enormity of the chestnut-trees. It was splendid.
A veteran from the neighboring barrackswho was gazing through
the fencesaid: "Here is the Spring presenting arms and in
full uniform."

All nature was breakfasting; creation was at table; this was its hour;
the great blue cloth was spread in the skyand the great green cloth
on earth; the sun lighted it all up brilliantly. God was serving
the universal repast. Each creature had his pasture or his mess.
The ring-dove found his hemp-seedthe chaffinch found his millet
the goldfinch found chickweedthe red-breast found wormsthe green
finch found fliesthe fly found infusoriaethe bee found flowers.
They ate each other somewhatit is truewhich is the misery of evil
mixed with good; but not a beast of them all had an empty stomach.

The two little abandoned creatures had arrived in the vicinity
of the grand fountainandrather bewildered by all this light
they tried to hide themselvesthe instinct of the poor and the weak


in the presence of even impersonal magnificence; and they kept
behind the swans' hutch.


Here and thereat intervalswhen the wind blewshoutsclamora sort
of tumultuous death rattlewhich was the firingand dull blows
which were discharges of cannonstruck the ear confusedly.
Smoke hung over the roofs in the direction of the Halles. A bell
which had the air of an appealwas ringing in the distance.


These children did not appear to notice these noises. The little
one repeated from time to time: "I am hungry."


Almost at the same instant with the childrenanother couple approached
the great basin. They consisted of a goodmanabout fifty years
of agewho was leading by the hand a little fellow of six. No doubt
a father and his son. The little man of six had a big brioche.


At that epochcertain houses abutting on the riverin the
Rues Madame and d'Enferhad keys to the Luxembourg garden
of which the lodgers enjoyed the use when the gates were shut
a privilege which was suppressed later on. This father and son
came from one of these housesno doubt.


The two poor little creatures watched "that gentleman" approaching
and hid themselves a little more thoroughly.


He was a bourgeois. The same personperhapswhom Marius had
one day heardthrough his love fevernear the same grand basin
counselling his son "to avoid excesses." He had an affable and haughty
airand a mouth which was always smilingsince it did not shut.
This mechanical smileproduced by too much jaw and too little skin
shows the teeth rather than the soul. The childwith his brioche
which he had bitten into but had not finished eatingseemed satiated.
The child was dressed as a National Guardsmanowing to the insurrection
and the father had remained clad as a bourgeois out of prudence.


Father and son halted near the fountain where two swans were sporting.
This bourgeois appeared to cherish a special admiration for the swans.
He resembled them in this sensethat he walked like them.


For the momentthe swans were swimmingwhich is their
principal talentand they were superb.


If the two poor little beings had listened and if they had been
of an age to understandthey might have gathered the words of this
grave man. The father was saying to his son:


The sage lives content with little. Look at me, my son. I do
not love pomp. I am never seen in clothes decked with gold lace
and stones; I leave that false splendor to badly organized souls.


Here the deep shouts which proceeded from the direction of the
Halles burst out with fresh force of bell and uproar.


What is that?inquired the child.


The father replied:


It is the Saturnalia.


All at oncehe caught sight of the two little ragged boys behind
the green swan-hutch.


There is the beginning,said he.



Andafter a pausehe added:

Anarchy is entering this garden.

In the meanwhilehis son took a bite of his briochespit it out
andsuddenly burst out crying.

What are you crying about?demanded his father.

I am not hungry any more,said the child.

The father's smile became more accentuated.

One does not need to be hungry in order to eat a cake.

My cake tires me. It is stale.

Don't you want any more of it?

No.

The father pointed to the swans.

Throw it to those palmipeds.

The child hesitated. A person may not want any more of his cake;
but that is no reason for giving it away.

The father went on:

Be humane. You must have compassion on animals.

Andtaking the cake from his sonhe flung it into the basin.

The cake fell very near the edge.

The swans were far awayin the centre of the basinand busy
with some prey. They had seen neither the bourgeois nor the brioche.

The bourgeoisfeeling that the cake was in danger of being wasted
and moved by this useless shipwreckentered upon a telegraphic
agitationwhich finally attracted the attention of the swans.

They perceived something floatingsteered for the edge like ships
as they areand slowly directed their course toward the brioche
with the stupid majesty which befits white creatures.

The swans [cygnes] understand signs [signes],said the bourgeois
delighted to make a jest.

At that momentthe distant tumult of the city underwent another
sudden increase. This time it was sinister. There are some gusts
of wind which speak more distinctly than others. The one which was
blowing at that moment brought clearly defined drum-beatsclamors
platoon firingand the dismal replies of the tocsin and the cannon.
This coincided with a black cloud which suddenly veiled the sun.

The swans had not yet reached the brioche.

Let us return home,said the fatherthey are attacking
the Tuileries.

He grasped his son's hand again. Then he continued:


From the Tuileries to the Luxembourg, there is but the distance
which separates Royalty from the peerage; that is not far.
Shots will soon rain down.


He glanced at the cloud.


Perhaps it is rain itself that is about to shower down; the sky
is joining in; the younger branch is condemned. Let us return
home quickly.


I should like to see the swans eat the brioche,said the child.


The father replied:


That would be imprudent.


And he led his little bourgeois away.


The sonregretting the swansturned his head back toward the basin
until a corner of the quincunxes concealed it from him.


In the meanwhilethe two little waifs had approached the brioche
at the same time as the swans. It was floating on the water.
The smaller of them stared at the cakethe elder gazed after the
retreating bourgeois.


Father and son entered the labyrinth of walks which leads to the grand
flight of steps near the clump of trees on the side of the Rue Madame.


As soon as they had disappeared from viewthe elder child hastily
flung himself flat on his stomach on the rounding curb of the basin
and clinging to it with his left handand leaning over the water
on the verge of falling inhe stretched out his right hand with his
stick towards the cake. The swansperceiving the enemymade haste
and in so doingthey produced an effect of their breasts which was of
service to the little fisher; the water flowed back before the swans
and one of these gentle concentric undulations softly floated
the brioche towards the child's wand. Just as the swans came up
the stick touched the cake. The child gave it a brisk rapdrew in
the briochefrightened away the swansseized the cakeand sprang
to his feet. The cake was wet; but they were hungry and thirsty.
The elder broke the cake into two portionsa large one and a small one
took the small one for himselfgave the large one to his brother
and said to him:


Ram that into your muzzle.


CHAPTER XVII


MORTUUS PATER FILIUM MORITURUM EXPECTAT


Marius dashed out of the barricadeCombeferre followed him.
But he was too late. Gavroche was dead. Combeferre brought back
the basket of cartridges; Marius bore the child.


Alas!he thoughtthat which the father had done for his father,
he was requiting to the son; only, Thenardier had brought back his
father alive; he was bringing back the child dead.


When Marius re-entered the redoubt with Gavroche in his arms



his facelike the childwas inundated with blood.

At the moment when he had stooped to lift Gavrochea bullet had
grazed his head; he had not noticed it.

Courfeyrac untied his cravat and with it bandaged Marius' brow.

They laid Gavroche on the same table with Mabeufand spread over
the two corpses the black shawl. There was enough of it for both
the old man and the child.

Combeferre distributed the cartridges from the basket which he
had brought in.

This gave each man fifteen rounds to fire.

Jean Valjean was still in the same placemotionless on his
stone post. When Combeferre offered him his fifteen cartridges
he shook his head.

Here's a rare eccentric,said Combeferre in a low voice to Enjolras.
He finds a way of not fighting in this barricade.

Which does not prevent him from defending it,responded Enjolras.

Heroism has its originals,resumed Combeferre.

And Courfeyracwho had overheardadded:

He is another sort from Father Mabeuf.

One thing which must be noted isthat the fire which was battering
the barricade hardly disturbed the interior. Those who have never
traversed the whirlwind of this sort of war can form no idea of the
singular moments of tranquillity mingled with these convulsions.
Men go and comethey talkthey jestthey lounge. Some one whom
we know heard a combatant say to him in the midst of the grape-shot:
We are here as at a bachelor breakfast.The redoubt of the Rue de
la Chanvreriewe repeatseemed very calm within. All mutations
and all phases had beenor were about to beexhausted. The position
from criticalhad become menacingandfrom menacingwas probably
about to become desperate. In proportion as the situation grew gloomy
the glow of heroism empurpled the barricade more and more.
Enjolraswho was gravedominated itin the attitude of a young
Spartan sacrificing his naked sword to the sombre geniusEpidotas.

Combeferrewearing an apronwas dressing the wounds:
Bossuet and Feuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask
picked up by Gavroche on the dead corporaland Bossuet said
to Feuilly: "We are soon to take the diligence for another planet";
Courfeyrac was disposing and arranging on some paving-stones which
he had reserved for himself near Enjolrasa complete arsenal
his sword-canehis guntwo holster pistolsand a cudgel
with the care of a young girl setting a small dunkerque in order.
Jean Valjean stared silently at the wall opposite him. An artisan
was fastening Mother Hucheloup's big straw hat on his head with
a stringfor fear of sun-stroke,as he said. The young men
from the Cougourde d'Aix were chatting merrily among themselves
as though eager to speak patois for the last time. Jolywho had
taken Widow Hucheloup's mirror from the wallwas examining his
tongue in it. Some combatantshaving discovered a few crusts
of rather mouldy breadin a drawerwere eagerly devouring them.
Marius was disturbed with regard to what his father was about to say
to him.


CHAPTER XVIII

THE VULTURE BECOME PREY

We must insist upon one psychological fact peculiar to barricades.
Nothing which is characteristic of that surprising war of the streets
should be omitted.


Whatever may have been the singular inward tranquillity which we
have just mentionedthe barricadefor those who are inside it
remainsnone the lessa vision.


There is something of the apocalypse in civil war
all the mists of the unknown are commingled with
fierce flashesrevolutions are sphinxesand any
one who has passed through a barricade thinks he has traversed a dream.


The feelings to which one is subject in these places we have pointed
out in the case of Mariusand we shall see the consequences;
they are both more and less than life. On emerging from a barricade
one no longer knows what one has seen there. One has been terrible
but one knows it not. One has been surrounded with conflicting ideas
which had human faces; one's head has been in the light of the future.
There were corpses lying prone thereand phantoms standing erect.
The hours were colossal and seemed hours of eternity. One has lived
in death. Shadows have passed by. What were they?


One has beheld hands on which there was blood; there was a
deafening horror; there was also a frightful silence; there were open
mouths which shoutedand other open mouths which held their peace;
one was in the midst of smokeof nightperhaps. One fancied
that one had touched the sinister ooze of unknown depths; one stares
at something red on one's finger nails. One no longer remembers anything.


Let us return to the Rue de la Chanvrerie.


All at oncebetween two dischargesthe distant sound of a clock
striking the hour became audible.


It is midday,said Combeferre.


The twelve strokes had not finished striking when Enjolras sprang
to his feetand from the summit of the barricade hurled this
thundering shout:


Carry stones up into the houses; line the windowsills and the
roofs with them. Half the men to their guns, the other half
to the paving-stones. There is not a minute to be lost.


A squad of sappers and minersaxe on shoulderhad just made
their appearance in battle array at the end of the street.


This could only be the head of a column; and of what column?
The attacking columnevidently; the sappers charged with the demolition
of the barricade must always precede the soldiers who are to scale it.


They wereevidentlyon the brink of that moment which


M. Clermont-Tonnerrein 1822called "the tug of war."
Enjolras' order was executed with the correct haste which is peculiar


to ships and barricadesthe only two scenes of combat where escape
is impossible. In less than a minutetwo thirds of the stones
which Enjolras had had piled up at the door of Corinthe had been
carried up to the first floor and the atticand before a second
minute had elapsedthese stonesartistically set one upon the other
walled up the sash-window on the first floor and the windows
in the roof to half their height. A few loop-holes carefully
planned by Feuillythe principal architectallowed of the passage
of the gun-barrels. This armament of the windows could be effected
all the more easily since the firing of grape-shot had ceased.
The two cannons were now discharging ball against the centre
of the barrier in order to make a hole thereandif possible
a breach for the assault.

When the stones destined to the final defence were in place
Enjolras had the bottles which he had set under the table where
Mabeuf laycarried to the first floor.

Who is to drink that?Bossuet asked him.

They,replied Enjolras.

Then they barricaded the window belowand held in readiness the iron
cross-bars which served to secure the door of the wine-shop at night.

The fortress was complete. The barricade was the rampart
the wine-shop was the dungeon. With the stones which remained
they stopped up the outlet.

As the defenders of a barricade are always obliged to be sparing
of their ammunitionand as the assailants know thisthe assailants
combine their arrangements with a sort of irritating leisure
expose themselves to fire prematurelythough in appearance more
than in realityand take their ease. The preparations for attack
are always made with a certain methodical deliberation; after which
the lightning strikes.

This deliberation permitted Enjolras to take a review of everything
and to perfect everything. He felt thatsince such men were to die
their death ought to be a masterpiece.

He said to Marius: "We are the two leaders. I will give the last
orders inside. Do you remain outside and observe."

Marius posted himself on the lookout upon the crest of the barricade.

Enjolras had the door of the kitchenwhich was the ambulance
as the reader will remembernailed up.

No splashing of the wounded,he said.

He issued his final orders in the tap-room in a curtbut profoundly
tranquil tone; Feuilly listened and replied in the name of all.

On the first floor, hold your axes in readiness to cut the staircase.
Have you them?

Yes,said Feuilly.

How many?

Two axes and a pole-axe.

That is good. There are now twenty-six combatants of us on foot.


How many guns are there?

Thirty-four.

Eight too many. Keep those eight guns loaded like the rest and at hand.
Swords and pistols in your belts. Twenty men to the barricade.
Six ambushed in the attic windows, and at the window on the first
floor to fire on the assailants through the loop-holes in the stones.
Let not a single worker remain inactive here. Presently, when the drum
beats the assault, let the twenty below stairs rush to the barricade.
The first to arrive will have the best places.


These arrangements madehe turned to Javert and said:


I am not forgetting you.


Andlaying a pistol on the tablehe added:


The last man to leave this room will smash the skull of this spy.


Here?inquired a voice.


No, let us not mix their corpses with our own. The little barricade
of the Mondetour lane can be scaled. It is only four feet high.
The man is well pinioned. He shall be taken thither and put
to death.


There was some one who was more impassive at that moment than Enjolras
it was Javert. Here Jean Valjean made his appearance.


He had been lost among the group of insurgents. He stepped forth
and said to Enjolras:


You are the commander?


Yes.


You thanked me a while ago.


In the name of the Republic. The barricade has two saviors,
Marius Pontmercy and yourself.


Do you think that I deserve a recompense?


Certainly.


Well, I request one.


What is it?


That I may blow that man's brains out.


Javert raised his headsaw Jean Valjeanmade an almost
imperceptible movementand said:


That is just.


As for Enjolrashe had begun to re-load his rifle; he cut his eyes
about him:


No objections.


And he turned to Jean Valjean:



Take the spy.

Jean Valjean didin facttake possession of Javertby seating
himself on the end of the table. He seized the pistoland a faint
click announced that he had cocked it.

Almost at the same momenta blast of trumpets became audible.

Take care!shouted Marius from the top of the barricade.

Javert began to laugh with that noiseless laugh which was peculiar
to himand gazing intently at the insurgentshe said to them:

You are in no better case than I am.

All out!shouted Enjolras.

The insurgents poured out tumultuouslyandas they went
received in the back--may we be permitted the expression-this
sally of Javert's:

We shall meet again shortly!

CHAPTER XIX

JEAN VALJEAN TAKES HIS REVENGE

When Jean Valjean was left alone with Javerthe untied the rope
which fastened the prisoner across the middle of the body
and the knot of which was under the table. After this he made
him a sign to rise.

Javert obeyed with that indefinable smile in which the supremacy
of enchained authority is condensed.

Jean Valjean took Javert by the martingaleas one would take
a beast of burden by the breast-bandanddragging the latter
after himemerged from the wine-shop slowlybecause Javert
with his impeded limbscould take only very short steps.

Jean Valjean had the pistol in his hand.

In this manner they crossed the inner trapezium of the barricade.
The insurgentsall intent on the attackwhich was imminent
had their backs turned to these two.

Marius alonestationed on one sideat the extreme left of
the barricadesaw them pass. This group of victim and executioner
was illuminated by the sepulchral light which he bore in his own soul.

Jean Valjean with some difficultybut without relaxing his hold
for a single instantmade Javertpinioned as he wasscale the
little entrenchment in the Mondetour lane.

When they had crossed this barrierthey found themselves alone
in the lane. No one saw them. Among the heap they could
distinguish a livid facestreaming haira pierced hand and
the half nude breast of a woman. It was Eponine. The corner
of the houses hid them from the insurgents. The corpses carried
away from the barricade formed a terrible pile a few paces distant.


Javert gazed askance at this bodyandprofoundly calmsaid in
a low tone:

It strikes me that I know that girl.

Then he turned to Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean thrust the pistol under his arm and fixed on Javert
a look which it required no words to interpret: "Javertit is I."
Javert replied:

Take your revenge.
Jean Valjean drew from his pocket a knifeand opened it.


A clasp-knife!exclaimed Javertyou are right. That suits
you better.

Jean Valjean cut the martingale which Javert had about his neck
then he cut the cords on his wriststhenstooping downhe cut
the cord on his feet; andstraightening himself uphe said to him:

You are free.

Javert was not easily astonished. Stillmaster of himself though
he washe could not repress a start. He remained open-mouthed
and motionless.

Jean Valjean continued:

I do not think that I shall escape from this place. But if,
by chance, I do, I live, under the name of Fauchelevent, in the Rue
de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.

Javert snarled like a tigerwhich made him half open one corner
of his mouthand he muttered between his teeth:

Have a care.

Go,said Jean Valjean.
Javert began again:

Thou saidst Fauchelevent, Rue de l'Homme Arme?
Number 7.

Javert repeated in a low voice:--"Number 7."

He buttoned up his coat once moreresumed the military stiffness
between his shouldersmade a half turnfolded his arms and
supporting his chin on one of his handshe set out in the direction
of the Halles. Jean Valjean followed him with his eyes:

A few minutes laterJavert turned round and shouted to Jean Valjean:

You annoy me. Kill me, rather.

Javert himself did not notice that he no longer addressed Jean
Valjean as "thou."
Be off with you,said Jean Valjean.



Javert retreated slowly. A moment later he turned the corner
of the Rue des Precheurs.

When Javert had disappearedJean Valjean fired his pistol in the air.

Then he returned to the barricade and said:
It is done.

In the meanwhilethis is what had taken place.

Mariusmore intent on the outside than on the interiorhad not
up to that timetaken a good look at the pinioned spy in the dark
background of the tap-room.


When he beheld him in broad daylightstriding over the
barricade in order to proceed to his deathhe recognized him.
Something suddenly recurred to his mind. He recalled the inspector
of the Rue de Pontoiseand the two pistols which the latter had
handed to him and which heMariushad used in this very barricade
and not only did he recall his facebut his name as well.


This recollection was misty and troubledhoweverlike all his ideas.


It was not an affirmation that he madebut a question which he
put to himself:


Is not that the inspector of police who told me that his name
was Javert?


Perhaps there was still time to intervene in behalf of that man.
Butin the first placehe must know whether this was Javert.


Marius called to Enjolraswho had just stationed himself
at the other extremity of the barricade:


Enjolras!
What?


What is the name of yonder man?
What man?


The police agent. Do you know his name?
Of course. He told us.


What is it?
Javert.


Marius sprang to his feet.
At that momentthey heard the report of the pistol.


Jean Valjean re-appeared and cried: "It is done."
A gloomy chill traversed Marius' heart.


CHAPTER XX



THE DEAD ARE IN THE RIGHT AND THE LIVING ARE NOT IN THE WRONG

The death agony of the barricade was about to begin.

Everything contributed to its tragic majesty at that supreme moment;
a thousand mysterious crashes in the airthe breath of armed
masses set in movement in the streets which were not visible
the intermittent gallop of cavalrythe heavy shock of artillery
on the marchthe firing by squadsand the cannonades crossing
each other in the labyrinth of Paristhe smokes of battle mounting
all gilded above the roofsindescribable and vaguely terrible cries
lightnings of menace everywherethe tocsin of Saint-Merrywhich now
had the accents of a sobthe mildness of the weatherthe splendor
of the sky filled with sun and cloudsthe beauty of the day
and the alarming silence of the houses.


Forsince the preceding eveningthe two rows of houses in the Rue
de la Chanvrerie had become two walls; ferocious wallsdoors closed
windows closedshutters closed.


In those daysso different from those in which we livewhen the
hour was comewhen the people wished to put an end to a situation
which had lasted too longwith a charter granted or with a
legal countrywhen universal wrath was diffused in the atmosphere
when the city consented to the tearing up of the pavements
when insurrection made the bourgeoisie smile by whispering its
password in its earthen the inhabitantthoroughly penetrated
with the revoltso to speakwas the auxiliary of the combatant
and the house fraternized with the improvised fortress which rested
on it. When the situation was not ripewhen the insurrection
was not decidedly admittedwhen the masses disowned the movement
all was over with the combatantsthe city was changed into a desert
around the revoltsouls grew chilledrefuges were nailed up
and the street turned into a defile to help the army to take
the barricade.


A people cannot be forcedthrough surpriseto walk more quickly
than it chooses. Woe to whomsoever tries to force its hand! A people
does not let itself go at random. Then it abandons the insurrection
to itself. The insurgents become noxiousinfected with the plague.
A house is an escarpmenta door is a refusala facade is a wall.
This wall hearssees and will not. It might open and save you.
No. This wall is a judge. It gazes at you and condemns you.
What dismal things are closed houses. They seem deadthey are living.
Life which isas it weresuspended therepersists there.
No one has gone out of them for four and twenty hoursbut no one
is missing from them. In the interior of that rockpeople go
and comego to bed and rise again; they are a family party there;
there they eat and drink; they are afraida terrible thing!
Fear excuses this fearful lack of hospitality; terror is mixed
with itan extenuating circumstance. Sometimesevenand this
has been actually seenfear turns to passion; fright may change
into furyas prudence does into rage; hence this wise saying:
The enraged moderates.There are outbursts of supreme terror
whence springs wrath like a mournful smoke.--"What do these people want?
What have they come there to do? Let them get out of the scrape.
So much the worse for them. It is their fault. They are only getting
what they deserve. It does not concern us. Here is our poor street
all riddled with balls. They are a pack of rascals. Above all things
don't open the door."--And the house assumes the air of a tomb.
The insurgent is in the death-throes in front of that house; he sees
the grape-shot and naked swords drawing near; if he crieshe knows
that they are listening to himand that no one will come; there stand



walls which might protect himthere are men who might save him;
and these walls have ears of fleshand these men have bowels of
stone.

Whom shall he reproach?

No one and every one.

The incomplete times in which we live.

It is always at its own risk and peril that Utopia is converted
into revolutionand from philosophical protest becomes
an armed protestand from Minerva turns to Pallas.

The Utopia which grows impatient and becomes revolt knows what awaits it;
it almost always comes too soon. Then it becomes resignedand stoically
accepts catastrophe in lieu of triumph. It serves those who deny it
without complainteven excusing themand even disculpates them
and its magnanimity consists in consenting to abandonment.
It is indomitable in the face of obstacles and gentle towards ingratitude.

Is this ingratitudehowever?

Yesfrom the point of view of the human race.

Nofrom the point of view of the individual.

Progress is man's mode of existence. The general life of the human
race is called Progressthe collective stride of the human race
is called Progress. Progress advances; it makes the great human
and terrestrial journey towards the celestial and the divine; it has
its halting places where it rallies the laggard troopit has its
stations where it meditatesin the presence of some splendid Canaan
suddenly unveiled on its horizonit has its nights when it sleeps;
and it is one of the poignant anxieties of the thinker that he sees
the shadow resting on the human souland that he gropes in darkness
without being able to awaken that slumbering Progress.

God is dead, perhaps,said Gerard de Nerval one day to the
writer of these linesconfounding progress with Godand taking
the interruption of movement for the death of Being.

He who despairs is in the wrong. Progress infallibly awakesand
in shortwe may say that it marches oneven when it is asleep
for it has increased in size. When we behold it erect once more
we find it taller. To be always peaceful does not depend on
progress any more than it does on the stream; erect no barriers
cast in no boulders; obstacles make water froth and humanity boil.
Hence arise troubles; but after these troubleswe recognize the fact
that ground has been gained. Until orderwhich is nothing else than
universal peacehas been establisheduntil harmony and unity reign
progress will have revolutions as its halting-places.

Whatthenis progress? We have just enunciated it; the permanent
life of the peoples.

Nowit sometimes happensthat the momentary life of individuals
offers resistance to the eternal life of the human race.

Let us admit without bitternessthat the individual has his distinct
interestsand canwithout forfeiturestipulate for his interest
and defend it; the present has its pardonable dose of egotism;
momentary life has its rightsand is not bound to sacrifice itself
constantly to the future. The generation which is passing in its


turn over the earthis not forced to abridge it for the sake
of the generationsits equalafter allwho will have their turn
later on.--"I exist murmurs that some one whose name is All.
I am young and in loveI am old and I wish to reposeI am the
father of a familyI toilI prosperI am successful in business
I have houses to leaseI have money in the government funds
I am happyI have a wife and childrenI have all thisI desire
to liveleave me in peace."--Henceat certain hoursa profound
cold broods over the magnanimous vanguard of the human race.


Utopiamoreoverwe must admitquits its radiant sphere when
it makes war. Itthe truth of to-morrowborrows its mode
of procedurebattlefrom the lie of yesterday. Itthe future
behaves like the past. Itpure ideabecomes a deed of violence.
It complicates its heroism with a violence for which it is just that
it should be held to answer; a violence of occasion and expedient
contrary to principleand for which it is fatally punished.
The Utopiainsurrectionfights with the old military code in its fist;
it shoots spiesit executes traitors; it suppresses living beings
and flings them into unknown darkness. It makes use of death
a serious matter. It seems as though Utopia had no longer any faith
in radianceits irresistible and incorruptible force. It strikes
with the sword. Nowno sword is simple. Every blade has two edges;
he who wounds with the one is wounded with the other.


Having made this reservationand made it with all severity
it is impossible for us not to admirewhether they succeed or not
those the glorious combatants of the futurethe confessors
of Utopia. Even when they miscarrythey are worthy of veneration;
and it isperhapsin failurethat they possess the most majesty.
Victorywhen it is in accord with progressmerits the applause
of the people; but a heroic defeat merits their tender compassion.
The one is magnificentthe other sublime. For our own part
we prefer martyrdom to success. John Brown is greater than Washington
and Pisacane is greater than Garibaldi.


It certainly is necessary that some one should take the part
of the vanquished.


We are unjust towards these great men who attempt the future
when they fail.


Revolutionists are accused of sowing fear abroad. Every barricade
seems a crime. Their theories are incriminatedtheir aim suspected
their ulterior motive is fearedtheir conscience denounced.
They are reproached with raisingerectingand heaping upagainst the
reigning social statea mass of miseriesof griefsof iniquities
of wrongsof despairsand of tearing from the lowest depths blocks
of shadow in order therein to embattle themselves and to combat.
People shout to them: "You are tearing up the pavements of hell!"
They might reply: "That is because our barricade is made of
good intentions."


The best thingassuredlyis the pacific solution. In short
let us agree that when we behold the pavementwe think of the bear
and it is a good will which renders society uneasy. But it depends
on society to save itselfit is to its own good will that we make
our appeal. No violent remedy is necessary. To study evil amiably
to prove its existencethen to cure it. It is to this that we
invite it.


However that may beeven when fallenabove all when fallenthese men
who at every point of the universewith their eyes fixed on France
are striving for the grand work with the inflexible logic of the ideal



are august; they give their life a free offering to progress;
they accomplish the will of providence; they perform a religious act.
At the appointed hourwith as much disinterestedness as an actor
who answers to his cuein obedience to the divine stage-manager
they enter the tomb. And this hopeless combatthis stoical
disappearance they accept in order to bring about the supreme
and universal consequencesthe magnificent and irresistibly human
movement begun on the 14th of July1789; these soldiers are priests.
The French revolution is an act of God.


Moreoverthere areand it is proper to add this distinction to
the distinctions already pointed out in another chapter--there are
accepted revolutionsrevolutions which are called revolutions;
there are refused revolutionswhich are called riots.


An insurrection which breaks outis an idea which is passing its
examination before the people. If the people lets fall a black ball
the idea is dried fruit; the insurrection is a mere skirmish.


Waging war at every summons and every time that Utopia desires it
is not the thing for the peoples. Nations have not always and at
every hour the temperament of heroes and martyrs.


They are positive. A prioriinsurrection is repugnant to them
in the first placebecause it often results in a catastrophe
in the second placebecause it always has an abstraction as its point
of departure.


Becauseand this is a noble thingit is always for the ideal
and for the ideal alonethat those who sacrifice themselves do thus
sacrifice themselves. An insurrection is an enthusiasm. Enthusiasm may
wax wroth; hence the appeal to arms. But every insurrection
which aims at a government or a regimeaims higher. Thusfor instance
and we insist upon itwhat the chiefs of the insurrection
of 1832andin particularthe young enthusiasts of the Rue de
la Chanvrerie were combatingwas not precisely Louis Philippe.
The majority of themwhen talking freelydid justice to this king
who stood midway between monarchy and revolution; no one hated him.
But they attacked the younger branch of the divine right in Louis
Philippe as they had attacked its elder branch in Charles X.;
and that which they wished to overturn in overturning royalty
in Francewasas we have explainedthe usurpation of man
over manand of privilege over right in the entire universe.
Paris without a king has as result the world without despots.
This is the manner in which they reasoned. Their aim was distant
no doubtvague perhapsand it retreated in the face of their efforts;
but it was great.


Thus it is. And we sacrifice ourselves for these visions
which are almost always illusions for the sacrificedbut illusions
with whichafter allthe whole of human certainty is mingled.
We throw ourselves into these tragic affairs and become intoxicated
with that which we are about to do. Who knows? We may succeed.
We are few in numberwe have a whole army arrayed against us;
but we are defending rightthe natural lawthe sovereignty
of each one over himself from which no abdication is possible
justice and truthand in case of needwe die like the three
hundred Spartans. We do not think of Don Quixote but of Leonidas.
And we march straight before usand once pledgedwe do not draw back
and we rush onwards with head held lowcherishing as our hope an
unprecedented victoryrevolution completedprogress set free again
the aggrandizement of the human raceuniversal deliverance;
and in the event of the worstThermopylae.



These passages of arms for the sake of progress often suffer shipwreck
and we have just explained why. The crowd is restive in the
presence of the impulses of paladins. Heavy massesthe multitudes
which are fragile because of their very weightfear adventures;
and there is a touch of adventure in the ideal.


Moreoverand we must not forget thisinterests which are not
very friendly to the ideal and the sentimental are in the way.
Sometimes the stomach paralyzes the heart.


The grandeur and beauty of France lies in thisthat she takes
less from the stomach than other nations: she more easily knots
the rope about her loins. She is the first awakethe last asleep.
She marches forwards. She is a seeker.


This arises from the fact that she is an artist.


The ideal is nothing but the culminating point of logic
the same as the beautiful is nothing but the summit of the true.
Artistic peoples are also consistent peoples. To love beauty is
to see the light. That is why the torch of Europethat is to say
of civilizationwas first borne by Greecewho passed it on to Italy
who handed it on to France. Divineilluminating nations of scouts!
Vitaelampada tradunt.


It is an admirable thing that the poetry of a people is the element
of its progress. The amount of civilization is measured by the
quantity of imagination. Onlya civilizing people should remain
a manly people. Corinthyes; Sybarisno. Whoever becomes effeminate
makes himself a bastard. He must be neither a dilettante nor
a virtuoso: but he must be artistic. In the matter of civilization
he must not refinebut he must sublime. On this condition
one gives to the human race the pattern of the ideal.


The modern ideal has its type in artand its means is science.
It is through science that it will realize that august vision
of the poetsthe socially beautiful. Eden will be reconstructed
by A+B. At the point which civilization has now reachedthe exact
is a necessary element of the splendidand the artistic sentiment
is not only servedbut completed by the scientific organ;
dreams must be calculated. Artwhich is the conqueror
should have for support sciencewhich is the walker; the solidity
of the creature which is ridden is of importance. The modern spirit
is the genius of Greece with the genius of India as its vehicle;
Alexander on the elephant.


Races which are petrified in dogma or demoralized by lucre are unfit
to guide civilization. Genuflection before the idol or before money
wastes away the muscles which walk and the will which advances.
Hieratic or mercantile absorption lessens a people's power of radiance
lowers its horizon by lowering its leveland deprives it of that
intelligenceat once both human and divine of the universal goal
which makes missionaries of nations. Babylon has no ideal;
Carthage has no ideal. Athens and Rome have and keepthroughout
all the nocturnal darkness of the centurieshalos of civilization.


France is in the same quality of race as Greece and Italy.
She is Athenian in the matter of beautyand Roman in her greatness.
Moreovershe is good. She gives herself. Oftener than is the case
with other racesis she in the humor for self-devotion and sacrifice.
Onlythis humor seizes upon herand again abandons her.
And therein lies the great peril for those who run when she
desires only to walkor who walk on when she desires to halt.
France has her relapses into materialismandat certain instants



the ideas which obstruct that sublime brain have no longer anything
which recalls French greatness and are of the dimensions of a
Missouri or a South Carolina. What is to be done in such a case?
The giantess plays at being a dwarf; immense France has her freaks
of pettiness. That is all.


To this there is nothing to say. Peopleslike planetspossess the
right to an eclipse. And all is wellprovided that the light
returns and that the eclipse does not degenerate into night.
Dawn and resurrection are synonymous. The reappearance of the light
is identical with the persistence of the _I_.


Let us state these facts calmly. Death on the barricade
or the tomb in exileis an acceptable occasion for devotion.
The real name of devotion is disinterestedness. Let the abandoned
allow themselves to be abandonedlet the exiled allow themselves
to be exiledand let us confine ourselves to entreating great
nations not to retreat too farwhen they do retreat. One must
not push too far in descent under pretext of a return to reason.


Matter existsthe minute existsinterest existsthe stomach exists;
but the stomach must not be the sole wisdom. The life of the moment
has its rightswe admitbut permanent life has its rights also.
Alas! the fact that one is mounted does not preclude a fall.
This can be seen in history more frequently than is desirable:
A nation is greatit tastes the idealthen it bites the mire
and finds it good; and if it be asked how it happens that it
has abandoned Socrates for Falstaffit replies: "Because I
love statesmen."


One word more before returning to our subjectthe conflict.


A battle like the one which we are engaged in describing is nothing
else than a convulsion towards the ideal. Progress trammelled
is sicklyand is subject to these tragic epilepsies. With that malady
of progresscivil warwe have been obliged to come in contact
in our passage. This is one of the fatal phasesat once act
and entr'acte of that drama whose pivot is a social condemnation
and whose veritable title is Progress.


Progress!


The cry to which we frequently give utterance is our whole thought;
andat the point of this drama which we have now reachedthe idea
which it contains having still more than one trial to undergo
it isperhapspermitted to usif not to lift the veil from it
to at least allow its light to shine through.


The book which the reader has under his eye at this moment is
from one end to the otheras a whole and in detailwhatever may
be its intermittencesexceptions and faultsthe march from evil
to goodfrom the unjust to the justfrom night to dayfrom appetite
to consciencefrom rottenness to lifefrom hell to heaven
from nothingness to God. Point of departure: matter; point of arrival:
the soul. The hydra at the beginningthe angel at the end.


CHAPTER XXI


THE HEROES


All at oncethe drum beat the charge.



The attack was a hurricane. On the evening beforein the darkness
the barricade had been approached silentlyas by a boa. Nowin broad
daylightin that widening streetsurprise was decidedly impossible
rude force hadmoreoverbeen unmaskedthe cannon had begun the roar
the army hurled itself on the barricade. Fury now became skill.
A powerful detachment of infantry of the linebroken at regular
intervalsby the National Guard and the Municipal Guard on foot
and supported by serried masses which could be heard though
not seendebauched into the street at a runwith drums beating
trumpets brayingbayonets levelledthe sappers at their head
andimperturbable under the projectilescharged straight
for the barricade with the weight of a brazen beam against a wall.


The wall held firm.


The insurgents fired impetuously. The barricade once scaled
had a mane of lightning flashes. The assault was so furious
that for one momentit was inundated with assailants; but it
shook off the soldiers as the lion shakes off the dogsand it
was only covered with besiegers as the cliff is covered with foam
to re-appeara moment laterbeetlingblack and formidable.


The columnforced to retreatremained massed in the street
unprotected but terribleand replied to the redoubt with a terrible
discharge of musketry. Any one who has seen fireworks will recall
the sheaf formed of interlacing lightnings which is called a bouquet.
Let the reader picture to himself this bouquetno longer vertical
but horizontalbearing a bulletbuck-shot or a biscaien at the
tip of each one of its jets of flameand picking off dead men
one after another from its clusters of lightning. The barricade
was underneath it.


On both sidesthe resolution was equal. The bravery exhibited
there was almost barbarous and was complicated with a sort of heroic
ferocity which began by the sacrifice of self.


This was the epoch when a National Guardsman fought like a Zouave.
The troop wished to make an end of itinsurrection was desirous
of fighting. The acceptance of the death agony in the flower
of youth and in the flush of health turns intrepidity into frenzy.
In this frayeach one underwent the broadening growth of the death hour.
The street was strewn with corpses.


The barricade had Enjolras at one of its extremities and Marius at
the other. Enjolraswho carried the whole barricade in his head
reserved and sheltered himself; three soldiers fellone after
the otherunder his embrasurewithout having even seen him;
Marius fought unprotected. He made himself a target. He stood
with more than half his body above the breastworks. There is no
more violent prodigal than the avaricious man who takes the bit in
his teeth; there is no man more terrible in action than a dreamer.
Marius was formidable and pensive. In battle he was as in a dream.
One would have pronounced him a phantom engaged in firing a gun.


The insurgents' cartridges were giving out; but not their sarcasms.
In this whirlwind of the sepulchre in which they stoodthey laughed.


Courfeyrac was bare-headed.


What have you done with your hat?Bossuet asked him.


Courfeyrac replied:



They have finally taken it away from me with cannon-balls.

Or they uttered haughty comments.

Can any one understand,exclaimed Feuilly bitterlythose
men,--[and he cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names,
some belonging to the old army]--who had promised to join us,
and taken an oath to aid us, and who had pledged their honor to it,
and who are our generals, and who abandon us!


And Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile.


There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes
the stars, from a great distance.


The interior of the barricade was so strewn with torn cartridges
that one would have said that there had been a snowstorm.


The assailants had numbers in their favor; the insurgents had position.
They were at the top of a walland they thundered point-blank
upon the soldiers tripping over the dead and wounded and entangled
in the escarpment. This barricadeconstructed as it was and
admirably buttressedwas really one of those situations where a handful
of men hold a legion in check. Neverthelessthe attacking column
constantly recruited and enlarged under the shower of bullets
drew inexorably nearerand nowlittle by littlestep by step
but surelythe army closed in around the barricade as the vice
grasps the wine-press.


One assault followed another. The horror of the situation
kept increasing.


Then there burst forth on that heap of paving-stonesin that
Rue de la Chanvreriea battle worthy of a wall of Troy.
These haggardraggedexhausted menwho had had nothing to eat
for four and twenty hourswho had not sleptwho had but a few
more rounds to firewho were fumbling in their pockets which had
been emptied of cartridgesnearly all of whom were wounded
with head or arm bandaged with black and blood-stained linen
with holes in their clothes from which the blood trickledand who
were hardly armed with poor guns and notched swordsbecame Titans.
The barricade was ten times attackedapproachedassailedscaled
and never captured.


In order to form an idea of this struggleit is necessary to
imagine fire set to a throng of terrible couragesand then to gaze
at the conflagration. It was not a combatit was the interior
of a furnace; there mouths breathed the flame; there countenances
were extraordinary. The human form seemed impossible there
the combatants flamed forth thereand it was formidable to behold
the going and coming in that red glow of those salamanders of the fray.


The successive and simultaneous scenes of this grand slaughter we
renounce all attempts at depicting. The epic alone has the right
to fill twelve thousand verses with a battle.


One would have pronounced this that hell of Brahmanism
the most redoubtable of the seventeen abysses
which the Veda calls the Forest of Swords.


They fought hand to handfoot to footwith pistol shotswith blows
of the swordwith their fistsat a distanceclose at hand
from abovefrom belowfrom everywherefrom the roofs of the houses
from the windows of the wine-shopfrom the cellar windows



whither some had crawled. They were one against sixty.


The facade of Corinthehalf demolishedwas hideous. The window
tattooed with grape-shothad lost glass and frame and was nothing
now but a shapeless holetumultuously blocked with paving-stones.


Bossuet was killed; Feuilly was killed; Courfeyrac was killed;
Combeferretransfixed by three blows from a bayonet in the
breast at the moment when he was lifting up a wounded soldier
had only time to cast a glance to heaven when he expired.


Mariusstill fightingwas so riddled with woundsparticularly in
the headthat his countenance disappeared beneath the blood
and one would have said that his face was covered with a red kerchief.


Enjolras alone was not struck. When he had no longer any weapon
he reached out his hands to right and left and an insurgent thrust
some arm or other into his fist. All he had left was the stumps
of four swords; one more than Francois I. at Marignan. Homer says:
Diomedes cuts the throat of Axylus, son of Teuthranis, who dwelt
in happy Arisba; Euryalus, son of Mecistaeus, exterminates Dresos
and Opheltios, Esepius, and that Pedasus whom the naiad Abarbarea bore
to the blameless Bucolion; Ulysses overthrows Pidytes of Percosius;
Antilochus, Ablerus; Polypaetes, Astyalus; Polydamas, Otos, of Cyllene;
and Teucer, Aretaon. Meganthios dies under the blows of Euripylus'
pike. Agamemnon, king of the heroes, flings to earth Elatos,
born in the rocky city which is laved by the sounding river Satnois.
In our old poems of exploitsEsplandian attacks the giant marquis
Swantibore with a cobbler's shoulder-stick of fireand the latter
defends himself by stoning the hero with towers which he plucks up
by the roots. Our ancient mural frescoes show us the two Dukes of
Bretagne and Bourbonarmedemblazoned and crested in war-like guise
on horseback and approaching each othertheir battle-axes in hand
masked with irongloved with ironbooted with ironthe one
caparisoned in erminethe other draped in azure: Bretagne with
his lion between the two horns of his crownBourbon helmeted with
a monster fleur de lys on his visor. Butin order to be superb
it is not necessary to wearlike Yvonthe ducal morionto have
in the fistlike Esplandiana living flameorlike Phyles
father of Polydamasto have brought back from Ephyra a good suit of mail
a present from the king of menEuphetes; it suffices to give one's
life for a conviction or a loyalty. This ingenuous little soldier
yesterday a peasant of Bauce or Limousinwho prowls with his clasp-knife
by his sidearound the children's nurses in the Luxembourg garden
this pale young student bent over a piece of anatomy or a book
a blond youth who shaves his beard with scissors--take both of them
breathe upon them with a breath of dutyplace them face to face
in the Carrefour Boucherat or in the blind alley Planche-Mibray
and let the one fight for his flagand the other for his ideal
and let both of them imagine that they are fighting for their country;
the struggle will be colossal; and the shadow which this raw recruit
and this sawbones in conflict will produce in that grand epic field
where humanity is strivingwill equal the shadow cast by Megaryon
King of Lyciatiger-filledcrushing in his embrace the immense
body of Ajaxequal to the gods.


CHAPTER XXII


FOOT TO FOOT


When there were no longer any of the leaders left alive



except Enjolras and Marius at the two extremities of the barricade
the centrewhich had so long sustained CourfeyracJolyBossuet
Feuilly and Combeferregave way. The cannonthough it had not
effected a practicable breachhad made a rather large hollow
in the middle of the redoubt; therethe summit of the wall had
disappeared before the ballsand had crumbled away; and the rubbish
which had fallennow insidenow outsidehadas it accumulated
formed two piles in the nature of slopes on the two sides
of the barrierone on the insidethe other on the outside.
The exterior slope presented an inclined plane to the attack.


A final assault was there attemptedand this assault succeeded.
The mass bristling with bayonets and hurled forward at a run
came up with irresistible forceand the serried front of battle
of the attacking column made its appearance through the smoke
on the crest of the battlements. This timeit was decisive.
The group of insurgents who were defending the centre retreated
in confusion.


Then the gloomy love of life awoke once more in some of them.
Manyfinding themselves under the muzzles of this forest of guns
did not wish to die. This is a moment when the instinct of
self-preservation emits howlswhen the beast re-appears in men.
They were hemmed in by the loftysix-story house which formed the
background of their redoubt. This house might prove their salvation.
The building was barricadedand walledas it werefrom top to bottom.
Before the troops of the line had reached the interior of the redoubt
there was time for a door to open and shutthe space of a flash
of lightning was sufficient for thatand the door of that house
suddenly opened a crack and closed again instantlywas life
for these despairing men. Behind this housethere were streets
possible flightspace. They set to knocking at that door with the
butts of their gunsand with kicksshoutingcallingentreating
wringing their hands. No one opened. From the little window
on the third floorthe head of the dead man gazed down upon them.


But Enjolras and Mariusand the seven or eight rallied about them
sprang forward and protected them. Enjolras had shouted to
the soldiers: "Don't advance!" and as an officer had not obeyed
Enjolras had killed the officer. He was now in the little inner court
of the redoubtwith his back planted against the Corinthe building
a sword in one handa rifle in the otherholding open the door
of the wine-shop which he barred against assailants. He shouted
to the desperate men:--"There is but one door open; this one."--
And shielding them with his bodyand facing an entire battalion alone
he made them pass in behind him. All precipitated themselves thither.
Enjolrasexecuting with his riflewhich he now used like a cane
what single-stick players call a "covered rose" round his head
levelled the bayonets around and in front of himand was the last
to enter; and then ensued a horrible momentwhen the soldiers tried
to make their way inand the insurgents strove to bar them out.
The door was slammed with such violencethatas it fell back into
its frameit showed the five fingers of a soldier who had been
clinging to itcut off and glued to the post.


Marius remained outside. A shot had just broken his collar bone
he felt that he was fainting and falling. At that momentwith eyes
already shuthe felt the shock of a vigorous hand seizing him
and the swoon in which his senses vanishedhardly allowed him time
for the thoughtmingled with a last memory of Cosette:--"I am
taken prisoner. I shall be shot."


Enjolrasnot seeing Marius among those who had taken refuge in
the wine-shophad the same idea. But they had reached a moment



when each man has not the time to meditate on his own death.
Enjolras fixed the bar across the doorand bolted itand double-locked
it with key and chainwhile those outside were battering furiously
at itthe soldiers with the butts of their musketsthe sappers
with their axes. The assailants were grouped about that door.
The siege of the wine-shop was now beginning.


The soldierswe will observewere full of wrath.


The death of the artillery-sergeant had enraged themand then
a still more melancholy circumstance. during the few hours which had
preceded the attackit had been reported among them that the insurgents
were mutilating their prisonersand that there was the headless body
of a soldier in the wine-shop. This sort of fatal rumor is the usual
accompaniment of civil warsand it was a false report of this
kind whichlater onproduced the catastrophe of the Rue Transnonain.


When the door was barricadedEnjolras said to the others:


Let us sell our lives dearly.


Then he approached the table on which lay Mabeuf and Gavroche.
Beneath the black cloth two straight and rigid forms were visible
one largethe other smalland the two faces were vaguely outlined
beneath the cold folds of the shroud. A hand projected from beneath
the winding sheet and hung near the floor. It was that of the
old man.


Enjolras bent down and kissed that venerable handjust as he
had kissed his brow on the preceding evening.


These were the only two kisses which he had bestowed in the course
of his life.


Let us abridge the tale. The barricade had fought like a gate
of Thebes; the wine-shop fought like a house of Saragossa.
These resistances are dogged. No quarter. No flag of truce possible.
Men are willing to dieprovided their opponent will kill them.


When Suchet says:--"Capitulate--Palafox replies: After the war
with cannonthe war with knives." Nothing was lacking in the capture
by assault of the Hucheloup wine-shop; neither paving-stones raining
from the windows and the roof on the besiegers and exasperating
the soldiers by crushing them horriblynor shots fired from the
attic-windows and the cellarnor the fury of attacknorfinally
when the door yieldedthe frenzied madness of extermination.
The assailantsrushing into the wine-shoptheir feet entangled
in the panels of the door which had been beaten in and flung on
the groundfound not a single combatant there. The spiral staircase
hewn asunder with the axelay in the middle of the tap-rooma few
wounded men were just breathing their lastevery one who was not
killed was on the first floorand from therethrough the hole
in the ceilingwhich had formed the entrance of the stairs
a terrific fire burst forth. It was the last of their cartridges.
When they were exhaustedwhen these formidable men on the point
of death had no longer either powder or balleach grasped
in his hands two of the bottles which Enjolras had reserved
and of which we have spokenand held the scaling party in check
with these frightfully fragile clubs. They were bottles of aquafortis.


We relate these gloomy incidents of carnage as they occurred.
The besieged manalas! converts everything into a weapon. Greek fire
did not disgrace Archimedesboiling pitch did not disgrace Bayard.
All war is a thing of terrorand there is no choice in it.



The musketry of the besiegersthough confined and embarrassed by
being directed from below upwardswas deadly. The rim of the hole
in the ceiling was speedily surrounded by heads of the slainwhence
dripped longred and smoking streamsthe uproar was indescribable;
a close and burning smoke almost produced night over this combat.
Words are lacking to express horror when it has reached this pitch.
There were no longer men in this conflictwhich was now infernal.
They were no longer giants matched with colossi. It resembled Milton
and Dante rather than Homer. Demons attackedspectres resisted.

It was heroism become monstrous.

CHAPTER XXIII

ORESTES FASTING AND PYLADES DRUNK

At lengthby dint of mounting on each other's backs
aiding themselves with the skeleton of the staircaseclimbing up
the wallsclinging to the ceilingslashing away at the very brink
of the trap-doorthe last one who offered resistancea score
of assailantssoldiersNational Guardsmenmunicipal guardsmen
in utter confusionthe majority disfigured by wounds in the face during
that redoubtable ascentblinded by bloodfuriousrendered savage
made an irruption into the apartment on the first floor. There they
found only one man still on his feetEnjolras. Without cartridges
without swordhe had nothing in his hand now but the barrel of his gun
whose stock he had broken over the head of those who were entering.
He had placed the billiard table between his assailants and himself;
he had retreated into the corner of the roomand therewith haughty eye
and head borne highwith this stump of a weapon in his handhe was still
so alarming as to speedily create an empty space around him. A cry arose:

He is the leader! It was he who slew the artillery-man. It is
well that he has placed himself there. Let him remain there.
Let us shoot him down on the spot.

Shoot me,said Enjolras.

And flinging away his bit of gun-barreland folding his arms
he offered his breast.

The audacity of a fine death always affects men. As soon as
Enjolras folded his arms and accepted his endthe din of strife
ceased in the roomand this chaos suddenly stilled into a sort
of sepulchral solemnity. The menacing majesty of Enjolras
disarmed and motionlessappeared to oppress this tumultand this
young manhaughtybloodyand charmingwho alone had not a wound
who was as indifferent as an invulnerable beingseemedby the
authority of his tranquil glanceto constrain this sinister
rabble to kill him respectfully. His beautyat that moment
augmented by his pridewas resplendentand he was fresh and rosy
after the fearful four and twenty hours which had just elapsed
as though he could no more be fatigued than wounded. It was
of himpossiblythat a witness spoke afterwardsbefore the council
of war: "There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo."
A National Guardsman who had taken aim at Enjolraslowered
his gunsaying: "It seems to me that I am about to shoot a flower."

Twelve men formed into a squad in the corner opposite Enjolras
and silently made ready their guns.


Then a sergeant shouted:

Take aim!

An officer intervened.

Wait.

And addressing Enjolras:

Do you wish to have your eyes bandaged?

No.

Was it you who killed the artillery sergeant?

Yes.

Grantaire had waked up a few moments before.

Grantaireit will be rememberedhad been asleep ever since the
preceding evening in the upper room of the wine-shopseated
on a chair and leaning on the table.


He realized in its fullest sense the old metaphor of "dead drunk."
The hideous potion of absinthe-porter and alcohol had thrown
him into a lethargy. His table being smalland not suitable
for the barricadehe had been left in possession of it.
He was still in the same posturewith his breast bent over
the tablehis head lying flat on his armssurrounded by glasses
beer-jugs and bottles. His was the overwhelming slumber of the torpid
bear and the satiated leech. Nothing had had any effect upon it
neither the fusilladenor the cannon-ballsnor the grape-shot
which had made its way through the window into the room where he was.
Nor the tremendous uproar of the assault. He merely replied to
the cannonadenow and thenby a snore. He seemed to be waiting
there for a bullet which should spare him the trouble of waking.
Many corpses were strewn around him; andat the first glance
there was nothing to distinguish him from those profound sleepers
of death.


Noise does not rouse a drunken man; silence awakens him. The fall
of everything around him only augmented Grantaire's prostration;
the crumbling of all things was his lullaby. The sort of halt which
the tumult underwent in the presence of Enjolras was a shock to this
heavy slumber. It had the effect of a carriage going at full speed
which suddenly comes to a dead stop. The persons dozing within it
wake up. Grantaire rose to his feet with a startstretched out
his armsrubbed his eyesstaredyawnedand understood.


A fit of drunkenness reaching its end resembles a curtain which
is torn away. One beholdsat a single glance and as a whole
all that it has concealed. All suddenly presents itself to the memory;
and the drunkard who has known nothing of what has been taking place
during the last twenty-four hourshas no sooner opened his eyes than
he is perfectly informed. Ideas recur to him with abrupt lucidity;
the obliteration of intoxicationa sort of steam which has obscured
the brainis dissipatedand makes way for the clear and sharply
outlined importunity of realities.


Relegatedas he wasto one cornerand sheltered behind the
billiard-tablethe soldiers whose eyes were fixed on Enjolras
had not even noticed Grantaireand the sergeant was preparing
to repeat his order: "Take aim!" when all at oncethey heard



a strong voice shout beside them:

Long live the Republic! I'm one of them.

Grantaire had risen. The immense gleam of the whole combat
which he had missedand in which he had had no part
appeared in the brilliant glance of the transfigured drunken man.


He repeated: "Long live the Republic!" crossed the room with a firm
stride and placed himself in front of the guns beside Enjolras.


Finish both of us at one blow,said he.


And turning gently to Enjolrashe said to him:


Do you permit it?


Enjolras pressed his hand with a smile.


This smile was not ended when the report resounded.


Enjolraspierced by eight bulletsremained leaning against the wall
as though the balls had nailed him there. Onlyhis head was bowed.


Grantaire fell at his feetas though struck by a thunderbolt.


A few moments laterthe soldiers dislodged the last remaining insurgents
who had taken refuge at the top of the house. They fired into the
attic through a wooden lattice. They fought under the very roof.
They flung bodiessome of them still aliveout through the windows.
Two light-infantrymenwho tried to lift the shattered omnibus
were slain by two shots fired from the attic. A man in a blouse was
flung down from itwith a bayonet wound in the abdomenand breathed
his last on the ground. A soldier and an insurgent slipped together
on the sloping slates of the roofandas they would not release
each otherthey fellclasped in a ferocious embrace. A similar
conflict went on in the cellar. Shoutsshotsa fierce trampling.
Then silence. The barricade was captured.


The soldiers began to search the houses round aboutand to pursue
the fugitives.


CHAPTER XXIV


PRISONER


Marius wasin facta prisoner.


The hand which had seized him from behind and whose grasp he
had felt at the moment of his fall and his loss of consciousness
was that of Jean Valjean.


Jean Valjean had taken no other part in the combat than to expose
himself in it. Had it not been for himno onein that supreme
phase of agonywould have thought of the wounded. Thanks to him
everywhere present in the carnagelike a providencethose who
fell were picked uptransported to the tap-roomand cared for.
In the intervalshe reappeared on the barricade. But nothing
which could resemble a blowan attack or even personal defence
proceeded from his hands. He held his peace and lent succor.
Moreover he had received only a few scratches. The bullets would



have none of him. If suicide formed part of what he had meditated
on coming to this sepulchreto that spothe had not succeeded.
But we doubt whether he had thought of suicidean irreligious act.


Jean Valjeanin the thick cloud of the combatdid not appear to
see Marius; the truth isthat he never took his eyes from the latter.
When a shot laid Marius lowJean Valjean leaped forward with the
agility of a tigerfell upon him as on his preyand bore him off.


The whirlwind of the attack wasat that momentso violently
concentrated upon Enjolras and upon the door of the wine-shopthat
no one saw Jean Valjean sustaining the fainting Marius in his arms
traverse the unpaved field of the barricade and disappear behind
the angle of the Corinthe building.


The reader will recall this angle which formed a sort of cape on
the street; it afforded shelter from the bulletsthe grape-shot
and all eyesand a few square feet of space. There is sometimes
a chamber which does not burn in the midst of a conflagration
and in the midst of raging seasbeyond a promontory or at the
extremity of a blind alley of shoalsa tranquil nook. It was
in this sort of fold in the interior trapezium of the barricade
that Eponine had breathed her last.


There Jean Valjean haltedlet Marius slide to the ground
placed his back against the walland cast his eyes about him.


The situation was alarming.


For an instantfor two or three perhapsthis bit of wall was
a shelterbut how was he to escape from this massacre? He recalled
the anguish which he had suffered in the Rue Polonceau eight
years beforeand in what manner he had contrived to make his escape;
it was difficult thento-day it was impossible. He had before him
that deaf and implacable housesix stories in heightwhich appeared
to be inhabited only by a dead man leaning out of his window;
he had on his right the rather low barricadewhich shut off the
Rue de la Petite Truanderie; to pass this obstacle seemed easy
but beyond the crest of the barrier a line of bayonets was visible.
The troops of the line were posted on the watch behind that barricade.
It was evidentthat to pass the barricade was to go in quest of the
fire of the platoonand that any head which should run the risk
of lifting itself above the top of that wall of stones would serve
as a target for sixty shots. On his left he had the field of battle.
Death lurked round the corner of that wall.


What was to be done?


Only a bird could have extricated itself from this predicament.


And it was necessary to decide on the instantto devise some
expedientto come to some decision. Fighting was going on a few
paces away; fortunatelyall were raging around a single point
the door of the wine-shop; but if it should occur to one soldier
to one single soldierto turn the corner of the house
or to attack him on the flankall was over.


Jean Valjean gazed at the house facing himhe gazed at the
barricade at one side of himthen he looked at the ground
with the violence of the last extremitybewildered
and as though he would have liked to pierce a hole there with his eyes.


By dint of staringsomething vaguely striking in such an agony
began to assume form and outline at his feetas though it had



been a power of glance which made the thing desired unfold.
A few paces distant he perceivedat the base of the small barrier
so pitilessly guarded and watched on the exteriorbeneath a disordered
mass of paving-stones which partly concealed itan iron grating
placed flat and on a level with the soil. This grating
made of stouttransverse barswas about two feet square.
The frame of paving-stones which supported it had been torn up
and it wasas it wereunfastened.


Through the bars a view could be had of a dark aperture
something like the flue of a chimneyor the pipe of a cistern.
Jean Valjean darted forward. His old art of escape rose to his
brain like an illumination. To thrust aside the stonesto raise
the gratingto lift Mariuswho was as inert as a dead body
upon his shouldersto descendwith this burden on his loins
and with the aid of his elbows and knees into that sort of well
fortunately not very deepto let the heavy trapupon which the
loosened stones rolled down afreshfall into its place behind him
to gain his footing on a flagged surface three metres below
the surface--all this was executed like that which one does
in dreamswith the strength of a giant and the rapidity of an eagle;
this took only a few minutes.


Jean Valjean found himself with Mariuswho was still unconscious
in a sort of longsubterranean corridor.


There reigned profound peaceabsolute silencenight.


The impression which he had formerly experienced when falling
from the wall into the convent recurred to him. Onlywhat he was
carrying to-day was not Cosette; it was Marius. He could barely
hear the formidable tumult in the wine-shoptaken by assault
like a vague murmur overhead.


BOOK SECOND.--THE INTESTINE OF THE LEVIATHAN


CHAPTER I


THE LAND IMPOVERISHED BY THE SEA


Paris casts twenty-five millions yearly into the water. And this
without metaphor. Howand in what manner? Day and night.
With what object? With no object. With what intention?
With no intention. Why? For no reason. By means of what organ?
By means of its intestine. What is its intestine? The sewer.


Twenty-five millions is the most moderate approximative figure
which the valuations of special science have set upon it.


Scienceafter having long groped aboutnow knows that the most
fecundating and the most efficacious of fertilizers is human manure.
The Chineselet us confess it to our shameknew it before us.
Not a Chinese peasant--it is Eckberg who says this--goes to town without
bringing back with himat the two extremities of his bamboo pole
two full buckets of what we designate as filth. Thanks to human dung
the earth in China is still as young as in the days of Abraham.
Chinese wheat yields a hundred fold of the seed. There is no
guano comparable in fertility with the detritus of a capital.
A great city is the most mighty of dung-makers. Certain success



would attend the experiment of employing the city to manure
the plain. If our gold is manureour manureon the other hand
is gold.

What is done with this golden manure? It is swept into the abyss.

Fleets of vessels are despatchedat great expenseto collect the
dung of petrels and penguins at the South Poleand the incalculable
element of opulence which we have on handwe send to the sea.
All the human and animal manure which the world wastesrestored to
the land instead of being cast into the waterwould suffice
to nourish the world.

Those heaps of filth at the gate-poststhose tumbrils of mud
which jolt through the street by nightthose terrible casks of
the street departmentthose fetid drippings of subterranean mire
which the pavements hide from you--do you know what they are?
They are the meadow in flowerthe green grasswild thyme
thyme and sagethey are gamethey are cattlethey are the satisfied
bellows of great oxen in the eveningthey are perfumed haythey are
golden wheatthey are the bread on your tablethey are the warm
blood in your veinsthey are healththey are joythey are life.
This is the will of that mysterious creation which is transformation
on earth and transfiguration in heaven.

Restore this to the great crucible; your abundance will flow forth
from it. The nutrition of the plains furnishes the nourishment
of men.

You have it in your power to lose this wealthand to consider me
ridiculous to boot. This will form the master-piece of your ignorance.

Statisticians have calculated that France alone makes a deposit
of half a milliard every yearin the Atlanticthrough the mouths
of her rivers. Note this: with five hundred millions we could
pay one quarter of the expenses of our budget. The cleverness
of man is such that he prefers to get rid of these five hundred
millions in the gutter. It is the very substance of the people
that is carried offhere drop by dropthere wave after wave
the wretched outpour of our sewers into the riversand the gigantic
collection of our rivers into the ocean. Every hiccough of our
sewers costs us a thousand francs. From this spring two results
the land impoverishedand the water tainted. Hunger arising
from the furrowand disease from the stream.

It is notoriousfor examplethat at the present hourthe Thames
is poisoning London.

So far as Paris is concernedit has become indispensable of late
to transport the mouths of the sewers down streambelow the
last bridge.

A double tubular apparatusprovided with valves and sluices
sucking up and driving backa system of elementary drainage
simple as the lungs of a manand which is already in full working
order in many communities in Englandwould suffice to conduct
the pure water of the fields into our citiesand to send back
to the fields the rich water of the citiesand this easy exchange
the simplest in the worldwould retain among us the five hundred
millions now thrown away. People are thinking of other things.

The process actually in use does evilwith the intention of doing good.
The intention is goodthe result is melancholy. Thinking to purge
the citythe population is blanched like plants raised in cellars.


A sewer is a mistake. When drainageeverywherewith its double
functionrestoring what it takesshall have replaced the sewer
which is a simple impoverishing washingthenthis being combined
with the data of a now social economythe product of the earth will
be increased tenfoldand the problem of misery will be singularly
lightened. Add the suppression of parasitismand it will be solved.


In the meanwhilethe public wealth flows away to the river
and leakage takes place. Leakage is the word. Europe is being
ruined in this manner by exhaustion.


As for Francewe have just cited its figures. NowParis contains
one twenty-fifth of the total population of Franceand Parisian
guano being the richest of allwe understate the truth when we value
the loss on the part of Paris at twenty-five millions in the half
milliard which France annually rejects. These twenty-five millions
employed in assistance and enjoymentwould double the splendor
of Paris. The city spends them in sewers. So that we may say that
Paris's great prodigalityits wonderful festivalits Beaujon folly
its orgyits stream of gold from full handsits pompits luxury
its magnificenceis its sewer system.


It is in this manner thatin the blindness of a poor
political economywe drown and allow to float down
stream and to be lost in the gulfs the well-being
of all. There should be nets at Saint-Cloud for the public fortune.


Economically consideredthe matter can be summed up thus:
Paris is a spendthrift. Paristhat model citythat patron of
well-arranged capitalsof which every nation strives to possess a copy
that metropolis of the idealthat august country of the initiative
of impulse and of effortthat centre and that dwelling of minds
that nation-citythat hive of the futurethat marvellous combination
of Babylon and Corinthwould make a peasant of the Fo-Kian shrug
his shouldersfrom the point of view which we have just indicated.


Imitate Paris and you will ruin yourselves.


Moreoverand particularly in this immemorial and senseless waste
Paris is itself an imitator.


These surprising exhibitions of stupidity are not novel;
this is no young folly. The ancients did like the moderns.
The sewers of Rome,says Liebighave absorbed all the well-being
of the Roman peasant.When the Campagna of Rome was ruined by
the Roman sewerRome exhausted Italyand when she had put Italy
in her sewershe poured in Sicilythen Sardiniathen Africa.
The sewer of Rome has engulfed the world. This cess-pool offered
its engulfment to the city and the universe. Urbi et orbi.
Eternal cityunfathomable sewer.


Rome sets the example for these things as well as for others.


Paris follows this example with all the stupidity peculiar
to intelligent towns.


For the requirements of the operation upon the subject of which we
have just explained our viewsParis has beneath it another Paris;
a Paris of sewers; which has its streetsits cross-roadsits squares
its blind-alleysits arteriesand its circulationwhich is of mire
and minus the human form.


For nothing must be flatterednot even a great people; where there
is everything there is also ignominy by the side of sublimity;



andif Paris contains Athensthe city of lightTyrethe city
of mightSpartathe city of virtueNinevehthe city of marvels
it also contains Lutetiathe city of mud.


Howeverthe stamp of its power is there alsoand the Titanic sink
of Paris realizesamong monumentsthat strange ideal realized
in humanity by some men like MacchiavelliBacon and Mirabeau
grandiose vileness.


The sub-soil of Parisif the eye could penetrate its surface
would present the aspect of a colossal madrepore. A sponge has no
more partitions and ducts than the mound of earth for a circuit of six
leagues round abouton which rests the great and ancient city.
Not to mention its catacombswhich are a separate cellar
not to mention the inextricable trellis-work of gas pipes
without reckoning the vast tubular system for the distribution
of fresh water which ends in the pillar fountainsthe sewers
alone form a tremendousshadowy net-work under the two banks;
a labyrinth which has its slope for its guiding thread.


There appearsin the humid mistthe rat which seems the product
to which Paris has given birth.


CHAPTER II


ANCIENT HISTORY OF THE SEWER


Let the reader imagine Paris lifted off like a coverthe subterranean
net-work of sewersfrom a bird's eye viewwill outline on the banks
a species of large branch grafted on the river. On the right bank
the belt sewer will form the trunk of this branchthe secondary
ducts will form the branchesand those without exit the twigs.


This figure is but a summary one and half exactthe right angle
which is the customary angle of this species of subterranean
ramificationsbeing very rare in vegetation.


A more accurate image of this strange geometrical plan can be formed
by supposing that one is viewing some eccentric oriental alphabet
as intricate as a thicketagainst a background of shadows
and the misshapen letters should be welded one to another in
apparent confusionand as at haphazardnow by their angles
again by their extremities.


Sinks and sewers played a great part in the Middle Ages
in the Lower Empire and in the Orient of old. The masses regarded
these beds of decompositionthese monstrous cradles of death
with a fear that was almost religious. The vermin ditch of Benares
is no less conducive to giddiness than the lions' ditch of Babylon.
Teglath-Phalasaraccording to the rabbinical booksswore by the sink
of Nineveh. It was from the sewer of Munster that John of Leyden
produced his false moonand it was from the cess-pool of Kekscheb
that oriental menalchmeMokannathe veiled prophet of Khorassan
caused his false sun to emerge.


The history of men is reflected in the history of sewers.
The Germoniae[58] narrated Rome. The sewer of Paris has been
an ancient and formidable thing. It has been a sepulchre
it has served as an asylum. Crimeintelligencesocial protest
liberty of consciencethoughttheftall that human laws persecute
or have persecutedis hidden in that hole; the maillotins in the



fourteenth centurythe tire-laine of the fifteenththe Huguenots
in the sixteenthMorin's illuminated in the seventeenth
the chauffeurs [brigands] in the eighteenth. A hundred years ago
the nocturnal blow of the dagger emerged thencethe pickpocket in
danger slipped thither; the forest had its caveParis had its sewer.
Vagrancythat Gallic picareriaaccepted the sewer as the adjunct
of the Cour des Miraclesand at eveningit returned thither
fierce and slythrough the Maubuee outletas into a bed-chamber.

[58] Steps on the Aventine Hillleading to the Tiberto which the
bodies of executed criminals were dragged by hooks to be thrown
into the Tiber.
It was quite naturalthat those who had the blind-alley Vide-Gousset
[Empty-Pocket] or the Rue Coupe-Gorge [Cut-Throat]for the scene
of their daily laborshould have for their domicile by night
the culvert of the Chemin-Vertor the catch basin of Hurepoix.
Hence a throng of souvenirs. All sorts of phantoms haunt these long
solitary corridors; everywhere is putrescence and miasma;
here and there are breathing-holeswhere Villon within converses
with Rabelais without.


The sewer in ancient Paris is the rendezvous of all exhaustions
and of all attempts. Political economy therein spies a detritus
social philosophy there beholds a residuum.


The sewer is the conscience of the city. Everything there
converges and confronts everything else. In that livid spot
there are shadesbut there are no longer any secrets.
Each thing bears its true formor at leastits definitive form.
The mass of filth has this in its favorthat it is not a liar.
Ingenuousness has taken refuge there. The mask of Basil is to be
found therebut one beholds its cardboard and its strings and the
inside as well as the outsideand it is accentuated by honest mud.
Scapin's false nose is its next-door neighbor. All the uncleannesses
of civilizationonce past their usefall into this trench of truth
where the immense social sliding ends. They are there engulfed
but they display themselves there. This mixture is a confession.
Thereno more false appearancesno plastering over is possible
filth removes its shirtabsolute denudation puts to the rout all
illusions and miragesthere is nothing more except what really exists
presenting the sinister form of that which is coming to an end.
Therethe bottom of a bottle indicates drunkennessa basket-handle
tells a tale of domesticity; there the core of an apple which has
entertained literary opinions becomes an apple-core once more;
the effigy on the big sou becomes frankly covered with verdigris
Caiphas' spittle meets Falstaff's pukingthe louis-d'or which comes
from the gaming-house jostles the nail whence hangs the rope's end
of the suicide. a livid foetus rolls alongenveloped in the spangles
which danced at the Opera last Shrove-Tuesdaya cap which has
pronounced judgment on men wallows beside a mass of rottenness which
was formerly Margoton's petticoat; it is more than fraternization
it is equivalent to addressing each other as thou. All which was
formerly rougedis washed free. The last veil is torn away.
A sewer is a cynic. It tells everything.


The sincerity of foulness pleases usand rests the soul. When one
has passed one's time in enduring upon earth the spectacle of the
great airs which reasons of statethe oathpolitical sagacity
human justiceprofessional probitythe austerities of situation
incorruptible robes all assumeit solaces one to enter a sewer
and to behold the mire which befits it.



This is instructive at the same time. We have just said that history
passes through the sewer. The Saint-Barthelemys filter through there
drop by dropbetween the paving-stones. Great public assassinations
political and religious butcheriestraverse this underground
passage of civilizationand thrust their corpses there. For the
eye of the thinkerall historic murderers are to be found there
in that hideous penumbraon their kneeswith a scrap of their
winding-sheet for an aprondismally sponging out their work.
Louis XI. is there with TristanFrancois I. with DupratCharles IX.
is there with his motherRichelieu is there with Louis XIII.
Louvois is thereLetellier is thereHebert and Maillard are there
scratching the stonesand trying to make the traces of their actions
disappear. Beneath these vaults one hears the brooms of spectres.
One there breathes the enormous fetidness of social catastrophes.
One beholds reddish reflections in the corners. There flows
a terrible streamin which bloody hands have been washed.


The social observer should enter these shadows. They form a part
of his laboratory. Philosophy is the microscope of the thought.
Everything desires to flee from itbut nothing escapes it.
Tergiversation is useless. What side of oneself does one display
in evasions? the shameful side. Philosophy pursues with its glance
probes the eviland does not permit it to escape into nothingness.
In the obliteration of things which disappearin the watching
of things which vanishit recognizes all. It reconstructs the
purple from the ragand the woman from the scrap of her dress.
From the cess-poolit re-constitutes the city; from mud
it reconstructs manners; from the potsherd it infers the amphora
or the jug. By the imprint of a finger-nail on a piece of parchment
it recognizes the difference which separates the Jewry of the Judengasse
from the Jewry of the Ghetto. It re-discovers in what remains that
which has beengoodevilthe truethe blood-stain of the palace
the ink-blot of the cavernthe drop of sweat from the brothel
trials undergonetemptations welcomedorgies cast forth
the turn which characters have taken as they became abased
the trace of prostitution in souls of which their grossness rendered
them capableand on the vesture of the porters of Rome the mark of
Messalina's elbowing.


CHAPTER III


BRUNESEAU


The sewer of Paris in the Middle Ages was legendary. In the
sixteenth centuryHenri II. attempted a borewhich failed.
Not a hundred years agothe cess-poolMercier attests the fact
was abandoned to itselfand fared as best it might.


Such was this ancient Parisdelivered over to quarrelsto indecision
and to gropings. It was tolerably stupid for a long time.
Later on'89 showed how understanding comes to cities. But in
the goodold timesthe capital had not much head. It did not
know how to manage its own affairs either morally or materially
and could not sweep out filth any better than it could abuses.
Everything presented an obstacleeverything raised a question.
The sewerfor examplewas refractory to every itinerary.
One could no more find one's bearings in the sewer than one could
understand one's position in the city; above the unintelligible
below the inextricable; beneath the confusion of tongues there reigned
the confusion of caverns; Daedalus backed up Babel.



Sometimes the Paris sewer took a notion to overflowas though
this misunderstood Nile were suddenly seized with a fit of rage.
There occurredinfamous to relateinundations of the sewer.
At timesthat stomach of civilization digested badlythe cess-pool
flowed back into the throat of the cityand Paris got an after-taste
of her own filth. These resemblances of the sewer to remorse had
their good points; they were warnings; very badly acceptedhowever;
the city waxed indignant at the audacity of its mireand did not
admit that the filth should return. Drive it out better.

The inundation of 1802 is one of the actual memories of Parisians
of the age of eighty. The mud spread in cross-form over the Place
des Victoireswhere stands the statue of Louis XIV.; it entered the Rue
Saint-Honore by the two mouths to the sewer in the Champs-Elysees
the Rue Saint-Florentin through the Saint-Florentin sewer
the Rue Pierre-a-Poisson through the sewer de la Sonnerie
the Rue Popincourtthrough the sewer of the Chemin-Vert
the Rue de la Roquettethrough the sewer of the Rue de Lappe;
it covered the drain of the Rue des Champs-Elysees to the height
of thirty-five centimetres; andto the Souththrough the vent of
the Seineperforming its functions in inverse senseit penetrated
the Rue Mazarinethe Rue de l'Echaudeand the Rue des Marais
where it stopped at a distance of one hundred and nine metres
a few paces distant from the house in which Racine had lived
respectingin the seventeenth centurythe poet more than the King.
It attained its maximum depth in the Rue Saint-Pierrewhere it
rose to the height of three feet above the flag-stones of the
water-spoutand its maximum length in the Rue Saint-Sabinwhere it
spread out over a stretch two hundred and thirty-eight metres in length.

At the beginning of this centurythe sewer of Paris was still
a mysterious place. Mud can never enjoy a good fame; but in this
case its evil renown reached the verge of the terrible. Paris knew
in a confused waythat she had under her a terrible cavern.
People talked of it as of that monstrous bed of Thebes in which
swarmed centipedes fifteen long feet in lengthand which might have
served Behemoth for a bathtub. The great boots of the sewermen
never ventured further than certain well-known points. We were then
very near the epoch when the scavenger's cartsfrom the summit
of which Sainte-Foix fraternized with the Marquis de Crequi
discharged their loads directly into the sewer. As for cleaning out-that
function was entrusted to the pouring rains which encumbered
rather than swept away. Rome left some poetry to her sewer
and called it the Gemoniae; Paris insulted hersand entitled it
the Polypus-Hole. Science and superstition were in accordin horror.
The Polypus hole was no less repugnant to hygiene than to legend.
The goblin was developed under the fetid covering of the Mouffetard sewer;
the corpses of the Marmousets had been cast into the sewer de
la Barillerie; Fagon attributed the redoubtable malignant fever of 1685
to the great hiatus of the sewer of the Maraiswhich remained yawning
until 1833 in the Rue Saint-Louisalmost opposite the sign of the
Gallant Messenger. The mouth of the sewer of the Rue de la Mortellerie
was celebrated for the pestilences which had their source there;
with its grating of ironwith points simulating a row of teeth
it was like a dragon's maw in that fatal streetbreathing forth
hell upon men. The popular imagination seasoned the sombre Parisian
sink with some indescribably hideous intermixture of the infinite.
The sewer had no bottom. The sewer was the lower world. The idea
of exploring these leprous regions did not even occur to the police.
To try that unknown thingto cast the plummet into that shadow
to set out on a voyage of discovery in that abyss--who would have dared?
It was alarming. Neverthelesssome one did present himself.
The cess-pool had its Christopher Columbus.


One dayin 1805during one of the rare apparitions which the
Emperor made in Paristhe Minister of the Interiorsome Decres
or Cretet or othercame to the master's intimate levee.
In the Carrousel there was audible the clanking of swords of all
those extraordinary soldiers of the great Republicand of the
great Empire; then Napoleon's door was blocked with heroes;
men from the Rhinefrom the Escautfrom the Adigeand from
the Nile; companions of Joubertof Desaixof Marceauof Hoche
of Kleber; the aerostiers of Fleurusthe grenadiers of Mayence
the pontoon-builders of Genoahussars whom the Pyramids had looked
down uponartillerists whom Junot's cannon-ball had spattered
with mudcuirassiers who had taken by assault the fleet lying at
anchor in the Zuyderzee; some had followed Bonaparte upon the bridge
of Lodiothers had accompanied Murat in the trenches of Mantua
others had preceded Lannes in the hollow road of Montebello.
The whole army of that day was present therein the court-yard of
the Tuileriesrepresented by a squadron or a platoonand guarding
Napoleon in repose; and that was the splendid epoch when the grand
army had Marengo behind it and Austerlitz before it.--"Sire
said the Minister of the Interior to Napoleon, yesterday I saw
the most intrepid man in your Empire."--"What man is that?"
said the Emperor brusquelyand what has he done?--"He wants
to do somethingSire."--"What is it?"--"To visit the sewers of Paris."

This man existed and his name was Bruneseau.

CHAPTER IV

The visit took place. It was a formidable campaign; a nocturnal
battle against pestilence and suffocation. It wasat the same time
a voyage of discovery. One of the survivors of this expedition
an intelligent workingmanwho was very young at the timerelated curious
details with regard to itseveral years agowhich Bruneseau thought
himself obliged to omit in his report to the prefect of police
as unworthy of official style. The processes of disinfection were
at that epochextremely rudimentary. Hardly had Bruneseau crossed
the first articulations of that subterranean networkwhen eight
laborers out of the twenty refused to go any further. The operation
was complicated; the visit entailed the necessity of cleaning;
hence it was necessary to cleanse and at the same timeto proceed;
to note the entrances of waterto count the gratings and the vents
to lay out in detail the branchesto indicate the currents at
the point where they partedto define the respective bounds of the
divers basinsto sound the small sewers grafted on the principal
sewerto measure the height under the key-stone of each drain
and the widthat the spring of the vaults as well as at the bottom
in order to determine the arrangements with regard to the level
of each water-entranceeither of the bottom of the archor on
the soil of the street. They advanced with toil. The lanterns
pined away in the foul atmosphere. From time to timea fainting
sewerman was carried out. At certain pointsthere were precipices.
The soil had given awaythe pavement had crumbledthe sewer
had changed into a bottomless well; they found nothing solid;
a man disappeared suddenly; they had great difficulty in getting
him out again. On the advice of Fourcroythey lighted large cages
filled with tow steeped in resinfrom time to timein spots
which had been sufficiently disinfected. In some placesthe wall
was covered with misshapen fungi--one would have said tumors;
the very stone seemed diseased within this unbreathable atmosphere.


Bruneseauin his explorationproceeded down hill. At the point
of separation of the two water-conduits of the Grand-Hurleurhe
deciphered upon a projecting stone the date of 1550; this stone
indicated the limits where Philibert Delormecharged by Henri II.
with visiting the subterranean drains of Parishad halted.
This stone was the mark of the sixteenth century on the sewer;
Bruneseau found the handiwork of the seventeenth century once more
in the Ponceau drain of the old Rue Vielle-du-Templevaulted between
1600 and 1650; and the handiwork of the eighteenth in the western
section of the collecting canalwalled and vaulted in 1740.
These two vaultsespecially the less ancientthat of 1740
were more cracked and decrepit than the masonry of the belt sewer
which dated from 1412an epoch when the brook of fresh water of
Menilmontant was elevated to the dignity of the Grand Sewer of Paris
an advancement analogous to that of a peasant who should become first
valet de chambre to the King; something like Gros-Jean transformed
into Lebel.

Here and thereparticularly beneath the Court-Housethey thought
they recognized the hollows of ancient dungeonsexcavated in the
very sewer itself. Hideous in-pace. An iron neck-collar was hanging
in one of these cells. They walled them all up. Some of their finds
were singular; among othersthe skeleton of an ourang-outanwho had
disappeared from the Jardin des Plantes in 1800a disappearance
probably connected with the famous and indisputable apparition of the
devil in the Rue des Bernardinsin the last year of the eighteenth
century. The poor devil had ended by drowning himself in the sewer.

Beneath this longarched drain which terminated at the Arche-Marion
a perfectly preserved rag-picker's basket excited the admiration
of all connoisseurs. Everywherethe mirewhich the sewermen came
to handle with intrepidityabounded in precious objectsjewels of
gold and silverprecious stonescoins. If a giant had filtered
this cesspoolhe would have had the riches of centuries in his lair.
At the point where the two branches of the Rue du Temple and of the
Rue Sainte-Avoye separatethey picked up a singular Huguenot medal
in copperbearing on one side the pig hooded with a cardinal's hat
and on the othera wolf with a tiara on his head.

The most surprising rencounter was at the entrance to the Grand Sewer.
This entrance had formerly been closed by a grating of which nothing
but the hinges remained. From one of these hinges hung a dirty
and shapeless rag whicharrested there in its passageno doubt
had floated there in the darkness and finished its process of being
torn apart. Bruneseau held his lantern close to this rag and
examined it. It was of very fine batisteand in one of the corners
less frayed than the restthey made out a heraldic coronet and
embroidered above these seven letters: LAVBESP. The crown was the
coronet of a Marquisand the seven letters signified Laubespine.
They recognized the factthat what they had before their eyes
was a morsel of the shroud of Marat. Marat in his youth had had
amorous intrigues. This was when he was a member of the household
of the Comte d'Artoisin the capacity of physician to the Stables.
From these love affairshistorically provedwith a great lady
he had retained this sheet. As a waif or a souvenir. At his death
as this was the only linen of any fineness which he had in his house
they buried him in it. Some old women had shrouded him for the tomb
in that swaddling-band in which the tragic Friend of the people
had enjoyed voluptuousness. Bruneseau passed on. They left that
rag where it hung; they did not put the finishing touch to it.
Did this arise from scorn or from respect? Marat deserved both.
And thendestiny was there sufficiently stamped to make them
hesitate to touch it. Besidesthe things of the sepulchre must
be left in the spot which they select. In shortthe relic was


a strange one. A Marquise had slept in it; Marat had rotted in it;
it had traversed the Pantheon to end with the rats of the sewer.
This chamber ragof which Watteau would formerly have joyfully
sketched every foldhad ended in becoming worthy of the fixed gaze
of Dante.


The whole visit to the subterranean stream of filth of Paris
lasted seven yearsfrom 1805 to 1812. As he proceeded
Bruneseau drewdirectedand completed considerable works;
in 1808 he lowered the arch of the Ponceauandeverywhere creating
new lineshe pushed the sewerin 1809under the Rue Saint-Denis
as far as the fountain of the Innocents; in 1810under the Rue
Froidmanteau and under the Salpetriere; in 1811 under the Rue
Neuve-des-Petits-Peresunder the Rue du Mailunder the Rue de
l'Echarpeunder the Place Royale; in 1812under the Rue de la Paix
and under the Chaussee d'Antin. At the same timehe had the whole
net-work disinfected and rendered healthful. In the second year
of his workBruneseau engaged the assistance of his son-in-law Nargaud.


It was thus thatat the beginning of the centuryancient society
cleansed its double bottomand performed the toilet of its sewer.
There was that much cleanat all events.


Tortuouscrackedunpavedfull of fissuresintersected by gullies
jolted by eccentric elbowsmounting and descending illogically
fetidwildfiercesubmerged in obscuritywith cicatrices
on its pavements and scars on its wallsterrible--such was
retrospectively viewedthe antique sewer of Paris. Ramifications in
every directioncrossingsof trenchesbranchesgoose-feetstars
as in military minescoecumblind alleysvaults lined with saltpetre
pestiferous poolsscabby sweatson the wallsdrops dripping
from the ceilingsdarkness; nothing could equal the horror
of this oldwaste cryptthe digestive apparatus of Babylon
a cavernditchgulf pierced with streetsa titanic mole-burrow
where the mind seems to behold that enormous blind molethe past
prowling through the shadowsin the filth which has been splendor.


Thiswe repeatwas the sewer of the past.


CHAPTER V


PRESENT PROGRESS


To-day the sewer is cleancoldstraightcorrect. It almost
realizes the ideal of what is understood in England by the
word "respectable." It is proper and grayish; laid out by rule
and line; one might almost say as though it came out of a bandbox.
It resembles a tradesman who has become a councillor of state.
One can almost see distinctly there. The mire there comports
itself with decency. At firstone might readily mistake it
for one of those subterranean corridorswhich were so common
in former daysand so useful in flights of monarchs and princes
in those good old timeswhen the people loved their kings.
The present sewer is a beautiful sewer; the pure style reigns there;
the classical rectilinear alexandrine whichdriven out of poetry
appears to have taken refuge in architectureseems mingled
with all the stones of that longdark and whitish vault;
each outlet is an arcade; the Rue de Rivoli serves as pattern even
in the sewer. Howeverif the geometrical line is in place anywhere
it is certainly in the drainage trench of a great city.
Thereeverything should be subordinated to the shortest road.



The sewer hasnowadaysassumed a certain official aspect.
The very police reportsof which it sometimes forms the subject
no longer are wanting in respect towards it. The words which
characterize it in administrative language are sonorous and dignified.
What used to be called a gut is now called a gallery; what used
to be called a hole is now called a surveying orifice. Villon would
no longer meet with his ancient temporary provisional lodging.
This net-work of cellars has its immemorial population of prowlers
rodentsswarming in greater numbers than ever; from time to time
an aged and veteran rat risks his head at the window of the sewer
and surveys the Parisians; but even these vermin grow tame
so satisfied are they with their subterranean palace. The cesspool
no longer retains anything of its primitive ferocity. The rain
which in former days soiled the sewernow washes it. Nevertheless
do not trust yourself too much to it. Miasmas still inhabit it.
It is more hypocritical than irreproachable. The prefecture
of police and the commission of health have done their best.
Butin spite of all the processes of disinfectionit exhales
a vaguesuspicious odor like Tartuffe after confession.

Let us confessthattaking it all in allthis sweeping is a homage
which the sewer pays to civilizationand asfrom this point of view
Tartuffe's conscience is a progress over the Augean stables
it is certain that the sewers of Paris have been improved.

It is more than progress; it is transmutation. Between the ancient
and the present sewer there is a revolution. What has effected
this revolution?

The man whom all the world forgetsand whom we have mentionedBruneseau.

CHAPTER VI

FUTURE PROGRESS

The excavation of the sewer of Paris has been no slight task.
The last ten centuries have toiled at it without being able to
bring it to a terminationany more than they have been able to
finish Paris. The sewerin factreceives all the counter-shocks
of the growth of Paris. Within the bosom of the earthit is a sort
of mysterious polyp with a thousand antennaewhich expands below
as the city expands above. Every time that the city cuts a street
the sewer stretches out an arm. The old monarchy had constructed
only twenty-three thousand three hundred metres of sewers; that was
where Paris stood in this respect on the first of January1806.
Beginning with this epochof which we shall shortly speak
the work was usefully and energetically resumed and prosecuted;
Napoleon built--the figures are curious--four thousand eight
hundred and four metres; Louis XVIII.five thousand seven hundred
and nine; Charles X.ten thousand eight hundred and thirty-six;
Louis-Philippeeighty-nine thousand and twenty; the Republic
of 1848twenty-three thousand three hundred and eighty-one;
the present governmentseventy thousand five hundred; in all
at the present timetwo hundred and twenty-six thousand six hundred
and ten metres; sixty leagues of sewers; the enormous entrails
of Paris. An obscure ramification ever at work; a construction
which is immense and ignored.

As the reader seesthe subterranean labyrinth of Paris is to-day
more than ten times what it was at the beginning of the century.
It is difficult to form any idea of all the perseverance and the efforts


which have been required to bring this cess-pool to the point of
relative perfection in which it now is. It was with great difficulty
that the ancient monarchical provostship andduring the last ten
years of the eighteenth centurythe revolutionary mayoralty
had succeeded in perforating the five leagues of sewer which existed
previous to 1806. All sorts of obstacles hindered this operation
some peculiar to the soilothers inherent in the very prejudices
of the laborious population of Paris. Paris is built upon a soil
which is singularly rebellious to the pickthe hoethe bore
and to human manipulation. There is nothing more difficult to
pierce and to penetrate than the geological formation upon which
is superposed the marvellous historical formation called Paris;
as soon as work in any form whatsoever is begun and adventures
upon this stretch of alluviumsubterranean resistances abound.
There are liquid claysspringshard rocksand those soft
and deep quagmires which special science calls moutardes.[59]
The pick advances laboriously through the calcareous layers
alternating with very slender threads of clayand schistose beds
in plates incrusted with oyster-shellsthe contemporaries of the
pre-Adamite oceans. Sometimes a rivulet suddenly bursts through
a vault that has been begunand inundates the laborers; or a layer
of marl is laid bareand rolls down with the fury of a cataract
breaking the stoutest supporting beams like glass. Quite recently
at Villettewhen it became necessary to pass the collecting sewer
under the Saint-Martin canal without interrupting navigation or
emptying the canala fissure appeared in the basin of the canal
water suddenly became abundant in the subterranean tunnelwhich was
beyond the power of the pumping engines; it was necessary to send
a diver to explore the fissure which had been made in the narrow
entrance of the grand basinand it was not without great difficulty
that it was stopped up. Elsewhere near the Seineand even at a
considerable distance from the riveras for instanceat Belleville
Grand-Rue and Lumiere Passagequicksands are encountered in which
one sticks fastand in which a man sinks visibly. Add suffocation
by miasmasburial by slidesand sudden crumbling of the earth.
Add the typhuswith which the workmen become slowly impregnated.
In our own dayafter having excavated the gallery of Clichy
with a banquette to receive the principal water-conduit of Ourcq
a piece of work which was executed in a trench ten metres deep;
after havingin the midst of land-slidesand with the aid of
excavations often putridand of shoring upvaulted the Bievre
from the Boulevard de l'Hopitalas far as the Seine; after having
in order to deliver Paris from the floods of Montmartre and in order
to provide an outlet for that river-like pool nine hectares in extent
which crouched near the Barriere des Martyrsafter having
let us stateconstructed the line of sewers from the Barriere Blanche
to the road of Aubervilliersin four monthsworking day and night
at a depth of eleven metres; after having--a thing heretofore unseen-made
a subterranean sewer in the Rue Barre-du-Becwithout a trench
six metres below the surfacethe superintendentMonnotdied.
After having vaulted three thousand metres of sewer in all quarters
of the cityfrom the Rue Traversiere-Saint-Antoine to the Rue de
l'Ourcineafter having freed the Carrefour Censier-Mouffetard
from inundations of rain by means of the branch of the Arbalete
after having built the Saint-Georges seweron rock and concrete
in the fluid sandsafter having directed the formidable lowering of
the flooring of the vault timber in the Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth branch
Duleau the engineer died. There are no bulletins for such acts of
bravery as thesewhich are more usefulneverthelessthan the brutal
slaughter of the field of battle.

[59] Mustards.

The sewers of Paris in 1832 were far from being what they are
to-day. Bruneseau had given the impulsebut the cholera was
required to bring about the vast reconstruction which took place
later on. It is surprising to sayfor examplethat in 1821
a part of the belt sewercalled the Grand Canalas in Venice
still stood stagnating uncovered to the skyin the Rue des Gourdes.
It was only in 1821 that the city of Paris found in its pocket
the two hundred and sixty-thousand eighty francs and six centimes
required for covering this mass of filth. The three absorbing
wellsof the Combatthe Cunetteand Saint-Mandewith their
discharging mouthstheir apparatustheir cesspoolsand their
depuratory branchesonly date from 1836. The intestinal sewer
of Paris has been made over anewandas we have saidit has
been extended more than tenfold within the last quarter of a century.

Thirty years agoat the epoch of the insurrection of the 5th and 6th
of Juneit was stillin many localitiesnearly the same ancient sewer.
A very great number of streets which are now convex were then
sunken causeways. At the end of a slopewhere the tributaries
of a street or cross-roads endedthere were often to be seen large
square gratings with heavy barswhose ironpolished by the footsteps
of the thronggleamed dangerous and slippery for vehicles
and caused horses to fall. The official language of the Roads
and Bridges gave to these gratings the expressive name of Cassis.[60]

[60] From casserto break: break-necks.
In 1832in a number of streetsin the Rue de l'Etoilethe Rue
Saint-Louisthe Rue du Templethe Rue Vielle-duTemplethe Rue
Notre-Dame de Nazareththe Rue Folie-Mericourtthe Quai aux Fleurs
the Rue du Petit-Musethe Rue du Normandiethe Rue Pont-Aux-Biches
the Rue des Maraisthe Faubourg Saint-Martinthe Rue Notre Dame
des-Victoiresthe Faubourg Montmartrethe Rue Grange-Bateliere
in the Champs-Elyseesthe Rue Jacobthe Rue de Tournon
the ancient gothic sewer still cynically displayed its maw.
It consisted of enormous voids of stone catch-basins sometimes
surrounded by stone postswith monumental effrontery.

Paris in 1806 still had nearly the same sewers numerically as stated
in 1663; five thousand three hundred fathoms. After Bruneseau
on the 1st of January1832it had forty thousand three hundred metres.
Between 1806 and 1831there had been builton an average
seven hundred and fifty metres annuallyafterwards eight and even
ten thousand metres of galleries were constructed every year
in masonryof small stoneswith hydraulic mortar which hardens
under wateron a cement foundation. At two hundred francs the metre
the sixty leagues of Paris' sewers of the present day represent
forty-eight millions.

In addition to the economic progress which we have indicated
at the beginninggrave problems of public hygiene are connected
with that immense question: the sewers of Paris.

Paris is the centre of two sheetsa sheet of water and a sheet of air.
The sheet of waterlying at a tolerably great depth underground
but already sounded by two boresis furnished by the layer of green
clay situated between the chalk and the Jurassic lime-stone; this layer
may be represented by a disk five and twenty leagues in circumference;
a multitude of rivers and brooks ooze there; one drinks the Seine
the Marnethe Yonnethe Oisethe Aisnethe Cherthe Vienne
and the Loire in a glass of water from the well of Grenelle.


The sheet of water is healthyit comes from heaven in the first
place and next from the earth; the sheet of air is unhealthy
it comes from the sewer. All the miasms of the cess-pool are mingled
with the breath of the city; hence this bad breath. The air taken
from above a dung-heapas has been scientifically provedis purer
than the air taken from above Paris. In a given timewith the aid
of progressmechanisms become perfectedand as light increases
the sheet of water will be employed to purify the sheet of air;
that is to sayto wash the sewer. The reader knowsthat by "washing
the sewer" we mean: the restitution of the filth to the earth;
the return to the soil of dung and of manure to the fields.
Through this simple actthe entire social community will
experience a diminution of misery and an augmentation of health.
At the present hourthe radiation of diseases from Paris extends
to fifty leagues around the Louvretaken as the hub of this
pestilential wheel.


We might say thatfor ten centuriesthe cess-pool has been the disease
of Paris. The sewer is the blemish which Paris has in her blood.
The popular instinct has never been deceived in it. The occupation
of sewermen was formerly almost as perilousand almost as repugnant
to the peopleas the occupation of knackerwhich was so long
held in horror and handed over to the executioner. High wages
were necessary to induce a mason to disappear in that fetid mine;
the ladder of the cess-pool cleaner hesitated to plunge into it;
it was saidin proverbial form: "to descend into the sewer is to
enter the grave;" and all sorts of hideous legendsas we have said
covered this colossal sink with terror; a dread sink-hole which bears
the traces of the revolutions of the globe as of the revolutions
of manand where are to be found vestiges of all cataclysms from
the shells of the Deluge to the rag of Marat.


BOOK THIRD.--MUD BUT THE SOUL


CHAPTER I


THE SEWER AND ITS SURPRISES


It was in the sewers of Paris that Jean Valjean found himself.


Still another resemblance between Paris and the sea. As in the ocean
the diver may disappear there.


The transition was an unheard-of one. In the very heart of the city
Jean Valjean had escaped from the cityandin the twinkling of
an eyein the time required to lift the cover and to replace it
he had passed from broad daylight to complete obscurity
from midday to midnightfrom tumult to silencefrom the whirlwind
of thunders to the stagnation of the tombandby a vicissitude
far more tremendous even than that of the Rue Polonceau
from the most extreme peril to the most absolute obscurity.


An abrupt fall into a cavern; a disappearance into the secret
trap-door of Paris; to quit that street where death was on
every sidefor that sort of sepulchre where there was life
was a strange instant. He remained for several seconds as
though bewildered; listeningstupefied. The waste-trap of safety
had suddenly yawned beneath him. Celestial goodness hadin
a mannercaptured him by treachery. Adorable ambuscades of providence!



Onlythe wounded man did not stirand Jean Valjean did not know
whether that which he was carrying in that grave was a living being
or a dead corpse.


His first sensation was one of blindness. All of a sudden
he could see nothing. It seemed to him toothatin one instant
he had become deaf. He no longer heard anything. The frantic
storm of murder which had been let loose a few feet above his
head did not reach himthanks to the thickness of the earth
which separated him from itas we have saidotherwise than
faintly and indistinctlyand like a rumblingin the depths.
He felt that the ground was solid under his feet; that was all;
but that was enough. He extended one arm and then the other
touched the walls on both sidesand perceived that the passage
was narrow; he slippedand thus perceived that the pavement was wet.
He cautiously put forward one footfearing a holea sinksome gulf;
he discovered that the paving continued. A gust of fetidness informed
him of the place in which he stood.


After the lapse of a few minuteshe was no longer blind. A little light
fell through the man-hole through which he had descendedand his eyes
became accustomed to this cavern. He began to distinguish something.
The passage in which he had burrowed--no other word can better
express the situation--was walled in behind him. It was one
of those blind alleyswhich the special jargon terms branches.
In front of him there was another walla wall like night.
The light of the air-hole died out ten or twelve paces from the point
where Jean Valjean stoodand barely cast a wan pallor on a few metres
of the damp walls of the sewer. Beyondthe opaqueness was massive;
to penetrate thither seemed horriblean entrance into it appeared
like an engulfment. A man couldhoweverplunge into that wall
of fog and it was necessary so to do. Haste was even requisite.
It occurred to Jean Valjean that the grating which he had caught sight
of under the flag-stones might also catch the eye of the soldiery
and that everything hung upon this chance. They also might descend
into that well and search it. There was not a minute to be lost.
He had deposited Marius on the groundhe picked him up again--
that is the real word for it--placed him on his shoulders once more
and set out. He plunged resolutely into the gloom.


The truth isthat they were less safe than Jean Valjean fancied.
Perils of another sort and no less serious were awaiting them
perchance. After the lightning-charged whirlwind of the combat
the cavern of miasmas and traps; after chaosthe sewer.
Jean Valjean had fallen from one circle of hell into another.


When he had advanced fifty paceshe was obliged to halt. A problem
presented itself. The passage terminated in another gut which he
encountered across his path. There two ways presented themselves.
Which should he take? Ought he to turn to the left or to the right?
How was he to find his bearings in that black labyrinth?
This labyrinthto which we have already called the reader's attention
has a cluewhich is its slope. To follow to the slope is to arrive
at the river.


This Jean Valjean instantly comprehended.


He said to himself that he was probably in the sewer des Halles;
that if he were to choose the path to the left and follow the slope
he would arrivein less than a quarter of an hourat some mouth on
the Seine between the Pont au Change and the Pont-Neufthat is to say
he would make his appearance in broad daylight on the most densely
peopled spot in Paris. Perhaps he would come out on some man-hole



at the intersection of streets. Amazement of the passers-by at
beholding two bleeding men emerge from the earth at their feet.
Arrival of the policea call to arms of the neighboring post
of guards. Thus they would be seized before they had even got out.
It would be better to plunge into that labyrinthto confide
themselves to that black gloomand to trust to Providence for
the outcome.

He ascended the inclineand turned to the right.

When he had turned the angle of the gallerythe distant glimmer
of an air-hole disappearedthe curtain of obscurity fell upon him
once moreand he became blind again. Neverthelesshe advanced
as rapidly as possible. Marius' two arms were passed round
his neckand the former's feet dragged behind him. He held
both these arms with one handand groped along the wall with
the other. Marius' cheek touched hisand clung therebleeding.
He felt a warm stream which came from Marius trickling down upon
him and making its way under his clothes. But a humid warmth
near his earwhich the mouth of the wounded man touched
indicated respirationand consequentlylife. The passage along
which Jean Valjean was now proceeding was not so narrow as the first.
Jean Valjean walked through it with considerable difficulty.
The rain of the preceding day had notas yetentirely run off
and it created a little torrent in the centre of the bottomand he
was forced to hug the wall in order not to have his feet in the water.

Thus he proceeded in the gloom. He resembled the beings of the
night groping in the invisible and lost beneath the earth in veins
of shadow.

Stilllittle by littlewhether it was that the distant air-holes
emitted a little wavering light in this opaque gloomor whether
his eyes had become accustomed to the obscuritysome vague vision
returned to himand he began once more to gain a confused idea
now of the wall which he touchednow of the vault beneath which he
was passing. The pupil dilates in the darkand the soul dilates
in misfortune and ends by finding God there.

It was not easy to direct his course.

The line of the sewer re-echoesso to speakthe line of the
streets which lie above it. There were then in Paris two thousand
two hundred streets. Let the reader imagine himself beneath
that forest of gloomy branches which is called the sewer.
The system of sewers existing at that epochplaced end to end
would have given a length of eleven leagues. We have said above
that the actual net-workthanks to the special activity of the
last thirty yearswas no less than sixty leagues in extent.

Jean Valjean began by committing a blunder. He thought that he was
beneath the Rue Saint-Denisand it was a pity that it was not so.
Under the Rue Saint-Denis there is an old stone sewer which dates
from Louis XIII. and which runs straight to the collecting sewer
called the Grand Sewerwith but a single elbowon the right
on the elevation of the ancient Cour des Miraclesand a single branch
the Saint-Martin sewerwhose four arms describe a cross. But the gut
of the Petite-Truanderie the entrance to which was in the vicinity
of the Corinthe wine-shop has never communicated with the sewer
of the Rue Saint-Denis; it ended at the Montmartre sewerand it
was in this that Jean Valjean was entangled. There opportunities
of losing oneself abound. The Montmartre sewer is one of the most
labyrinthine of the ancient network. FortunatelyJean Valjean
had left behind him the sewer of the markets whose geometrical plan


presents the appearance of a multitude of parrots' roosts piled on
top of each other; but he had before him more than one embarrassing
encounter and more than one street corner--for they are streets--
presenting itself in the gloom like an interrogation point;
firston his leftthe vast sewer of the Platrierea sort of
Chinese puzzlethrusting out and entangling its chaos of Ts and Zs
under the Post-Office and under the rotunda of the Wheat Market
as far as the Seinewhere it terminates in a Y; secondly
on his rightthe curving corridor of the Rue du Cadran with its
three teethwhich are also blind courts; thirdlyon his left
the branch of the Mailcomplicatedalmost at its inception
with a sort of forkand proceeding from zig-zag to zig-zag
until it ends in the grand crypt of the outlet of the Louvre
truncated and ramified in every direction; and lastlythe blind
alley of a passage of the Rue des Jeuneurswithout counting little
ducts here and therebefore reaching the belt sewerwhich alone
could conduct him to some issue sufficiently distant to be safe.


Had Jean Valjean had any idea of all that we have here pointed out
he would speedily have perceivedmerely by feeling the wall
that he was not in the subterranean gallery of the Rue Saint-Denis.
Instead of the ancient stoneinstead of the antique architecture
haughty and royal even in the sewerwith pavement and string courses
of granite and mortar costing eight hundred livres the fathom
he would have felt under his hand contemporary cheapness
economical expedientsporous stone filled with mortar on a
concrete foundationwhich costs two hundred francs the metre
and the bourgeoise masonry known as a petits materiaux--small stuff;
but of all this he knew nothing.


He advanced with anxietybut with calmnessseeing nothing
knowing nothingburied in chancethat is to sayengulfed in providence.


By degreeswe will admita certain horror seized upon him.
The gloom which enveloped him penetrated his spirit. He walked
in an enigma. This aqueduct of the sewer is formidable;
it interlaces in a dizzy fashion. It is a melancholy thing to be
caught in this Paris of shadows. Jean Valjean was obliged to find
and even to invent his route without seeing it. In this unknown
every step that he risked might be his last. How was he to get
out? should he find an issue? should he find it in time? would
that colossal subterranean sponge with its stone cavities
allow itself to be penetrated and pierced? should he there encounter
some unexpected knot in the darkness? should he arrive at the
inextricable and the impassable? would Marius die there of hemorrhage
and he of hunger? should they end by both getting lostand by
furnishing two skeletons in a nook of that night? He did not know.
He put all these questions to himself without replying to them.
The intestines of Paris form a precipice. Like the prophet
he was in the belly of the monster.


All at oncehe had a surprise. At the most unforeseen moment
and without having ceased to walk in a straight linehe perceived
that he was no longer ascending; the water of the rivulet was
beating against his heelsinstead of meeting him at his toes.
The sewer was now descending. Why? Was he about to arrive
suddenly at the Seine? This danger was a great onebut the peril
of retreating was still greater. He continued to advance.


It was not towards the Seine that he was proceeding. The ridge
which the soil of Paris forms on its right bank empties one of its
water-sheds into the Seine and the other into the Grand Sewer.
The crest of this ridge which determines the division of the waters
describes a very capricious line. The culminating pointwhich is



the point of separation of the currentsis in the Sainte-Avoye sewer
beyond the Rue Michelle-Comtein the sewer of the Louvre
near the boulevardsand in the Montmartre sewernear the Halles.
It was this culminating point that Jean Valjean had reached. He was
directing his course towards the belt sewer; he was on the right path.
But he did not know it.


Every time that he encountered a branchhe felt of its angles
and if he found that the opening which presented itself was smaller
than the passage in which he washe did not enter but continued
his routerightly judging that every narrower way must needs terminate
in a blind alleyand could only lead him further from his goal
that is to saythe outlet. Thus he avoided the quadruple trap
which was set for him in the darkness by the four labyrinths
which we have just enumerated.


At a certain momenthe perceived that he was emerging from beneath
the Paris which was petrified by the uprisingwhere the barricades
had suppressed circulationand that he was entering beneath the living
and normal Paris. Overhead he suddenly heard a noise as of thunder
distant but continuous. It was the rumbling of vehicles.


He had been walking for about half an hourat least according
to the calculation which he made in his own mindand he had not
yet thought of rest; he had merely changed the hand with which he
was holding Marius. The darkness was more profound than ever
but its very depth reassured him.


All at oncehe saw his shadow in front of him. It was outlined
on a faintalmost indistinct reddish glowwhich vaguely empurpled
the flooring vault underfootand the vault overheadand gilded
to his right and to his left the two viscous walls of the passage.
Stupefiedhe turned round.


Behind himin the portion of the passage which he had just
passed throughat a distance which appeared to him immense
piercing the dense obscurityflamed a sort of horrible star
which had the air of surveying him.


It was the gloomy star of the police which was rising in the sewer.


In the rear of that star eight or ten forms were moving about
in a confused wayblackuprightindistincthorrible.


CHAPTER II


EXPLANATION


On the day of the sixth of Junea battue of the sewers had been ordered.
It was feared that the vanquished might have taken to them for refuge
and Prefect Gisquet was to search occult Paris while General
Bugeaud swept public Paris; a double and connected operation
which exacted a double strategy on the part of the public force
represented above by the army and below by the police. Three squads
of agents and sewermen explored the subterranean drain of Paris
the first on the right bankthe second on the left bankthe third
in the city. The agents of police were armed with carabines
with bludgeonsswords and poignards.


That which was directed at Jean Valjean at that momentwas the
lantern of the patrol of the right bank.



This patrol had just visited the curving gallery and the three
blind alleys which lie beneath the Rue du Cadran. While they were
passing their lantern through the depths of these blind alleys
Jean Valjean had encountered on his path the entrance to the gallery
had perceived that it was narrower than the principal passage
and had not penetrated thither. He had passed on. The police
on emerging from the gallery du Cadranhad fancied that they
heard the sound of footsteps in the direction of the belt sewer.
They werein factthe steps of Jean Valjean. The sergeant in
command of the patrol had raised his lanternand the squad had begun
to gaze into the mist in the direction whence the sound proceeded.


This was an indescribable moment for Jean Valjean.


Happilyif he saw the lantern wellthe lantern saw him but ill.
It was light and he was shadow. He was very far offand mingled
with the darkness of the place. He hugged the wall and halted.
Moreoverhe did not understand what it was that was moving behind him.
The lack of sleep and foodand his emotions had caused him also to
pass into the state of a visionary. He beheld a gleamand around
that gleamforms. What was it? He did not comprehend.


Jean Valjean having pausedthe sound ceased.


The men of the patrol listenedand heard nothingthey looked
and saw nothing. They held a consultation.


There existed at that epoch at this point of the Montmartre
sewer a sort of cross-roads called de servicewhich was
afterwards suppressedon account of the little interior lake which
formed thereswallowing up the torrent of rain in heavy storms.
The patrol could form a cluster in this open space. Jean Valjean
saw these spectres form a sort of circle. These bull-dogs'
heads approached each other closely and whispered together.


The result of this council held by the watch dogs wasthat they
had been mistakenthat there had been no noisethat it was useless
to get entangled in the belt sewerthat it would only be a waste
of timebut that they ought to hasten towards Saint-Merry;
that if there was anything to doand any "bousingot" to track out
it was in that quarter.


From time to timeparties re-sole their old insults. In 1832
the word bousingot formed the interim between the word jacobin
which had become obsoleteand the word demagogue which has since
rendered such excellent service.


The sergeant gave orders to turn to the lefttowards the watershed
of the Seine.


If it had occurred to them to separate into two squadsand to go
in both directionsJean Valjean would have been captured.
All hung on that thread. It is probable that the instructions
of the prefectureforeseeing a possibility of combat and
insurgents in forcehad forbidden the patrol to part company.
The patrol resumed its marchleaving Jean Valjean behind it.
Of all this movementJean Valjean perceived nothingexcept the
eclipse of the lantern which suddenly wheeled round.


Before taking his departurethe Sergeantin order to acquit
his policeman's consciencedischarged his gun in the direction of
Jean Valjean. The detonation rolled from echo to echo in the crypt
like the rumbling of that titanic entrail. A bit of plaster which



fell into the stream and splashed up the water a few paces away from
Jean Valjeanwarned him that the ball had struck the arch over his head.

Slow and measured steps resounded for some time on the timber work
gradually dying away as they retreated to a greater distance;
the group of black forms vanisheda glimmer of light oscillated
and floatedcommunicating to the vault a reddish glow which grew
fainterthen disappeared; the silence became profound once more
the obscurity became completeblindness and deafness resumed
possession of the shadows; and Jean Valjeannot daring to stir as yet
remained for a long time leaning with his back against the wall
with straining earsand dilated pupilswatching the disappearance
of that phantom patrol.

CHAPTER III

THE "SPUN" MAN

This justice must be rendered to the police of that period
that even in the most serious public juncturesit imperturbably
fulfilled its duties connected with the sewers and surveillance.
A revolt wasin its eyesno pretext for allowing malefactors
to take the bit in their own mouthsand for neglecting society
for the reason that the government was in peril. The ordinary
service was performed correctly in company with the extraordinary
serviceand was not troubled by the latter. In the midst of an
incalculable political event already begununder the pressure
of a possible revolutiona police agentspuna thief without
allowing himself to be distracted by insurrection and barricades.

It was something precisely parallel which took place on the
afternoon of the 6th of June on the banks of the Seineon the
slope of the right shorea little beyond the Pont des Invalides.

There is no longer any bank there now. The aspect of the locality
has changed.

On that banktwo menseparated by a certain distance
seemed to be watching each other while mutually avoiding
each other. The one who was in advance was trying to get away
the one in the rear was trying to overtake the other.

It was like a game of checkers played at a distance and in silence.
Neither seemed to be in any hurryand both walked slowlyas though
each of them feared by too much haste to make his partner redouble
his pace.

One would have said that it was an appetite following its prey
and purposely without wearing the air of doing so. The prey was
crafty and on its guard.

The proper relations between the hunted pole-cat and the hunting dog
were observed. The one who was seeking to escape had an insignificant
mien and not an impressive appearance; the one who was seeking
to seize him was rude of aspectand must have been rude to encounter.

The firstconscious that he was the more feebleavoided the second;
but he avoided him in a manner which was deeply furious; any one
who could have observed him would have discerned in his eyes the
sombre hostility of flightand all the menace that fear contains.


The shore was deserted; there were no passers-by; not even a boatman
nor a lighter-man was in the skiffs which were moored here and there.

It was not easy to see these two menexcept from the quay opposite
and to any person who had scrutinized them at that distance
the man who was in advance would have appeared like a bristling
tatteredand equivocal beingwho was uneasy and trembling beneath
a ragged blouseand the other like a classic and official personage
wearing the frock-coat of authority buttoned to the chin.

Perchance the reader might recognize these two menif he were
to see them closer at hand.

What was the object of the second man?

Probably to succeed in clothing the first more warmly.

When a man clothed by the state pursues a man in ragsit is in order
to make of him a man who is also clothed by the state. Onlythe whole
question lies in the color. To be dressed in blue is glorious;
to be dressed in red is disagreeable.

There is a purple from below.

It is probably some unpleasantness and some purple of this sort
which the first man is desirous of shirking.

If the other allowed him to walk onand had not seized him as yet
it wasjudging from all appearancesin the hope of seeing him lead up
to some significant meeting-place and to some group worth catching.
This delicate operation is called "spinning."

What renders this conjecture entirely probable is that the
buttoned-up manon catching sight from the shore of a hackney-coach
on the quay as it was passing along emptymade a sign to the driver;
the driver understoodevidently recognized the person with whom
he had to dealturned about and began to follow the two men
at the top of the quayat a foot-pace. This was not observed
by the slouching and tattered personage who was in advance.

The hackney-coach rolled along the trees of the Champs-Elysees.
The bust of the driverwhip in handcould be seen moving along
above the parapet.

One of the secret instructions of the police authorities to their
agents contains this article: "Always have on hand a hackney-coach
in case of emergency."

While these two men were manoeuvringeach on his own side
with irreproachable strategythey approached an inclined plane on
the quay which descended to the shoreand which permitted cab-drivers
arriving from Passy to come to the river and water their horses.
This inclined plane was suppressed later onfor the sake of symmetry;
horses may die of thirstbut the eye is gratified.

It is probable that the man in the blouse had intended to ascend
this inclined planewith a view to making his escape into the
Champs-Elyseesa place ornamented with treesbutin return
much infested with policemenand where the other could easily
exercise violence.

This point on the quay is not very far distant from the house brought
to Paris from Moret in 1824by Colonel Brackand designated
as "the house of Francois I." A guard house is situated close at hand.


To the great surprise of his watcherthe man who was being tracked
did not mount by the inclined plane for watering. He continued
to advance along the quay on the shore.


His position was visibly becoming critical.


What was he intending to doif not to throw himself into the Seine?


Henceforththere existed no means of ascending to the quay;
there was no other inclined planeno staircase; and they were near
the spotmarked by the bend in the Seine towards the Pont de Jena
where the bankgrowing constantly narrowerended in a slender tongue
and was lost in the water. There he would inevitably find himself
blocked between the perpendicular wall on his rightthe river on
his left and in front of himand the authorities on his heels.


It is true that this termination of the shore was hidden from sight
by a heap of rubbish six or seven feet in heightproduced by some
demolition or other. But did this man hope to conceal himself
effectually behind that heap of rubbishwhich one need but skirt?
The expedient would have been puerile. He certainly was not
dreaming of such a thing. The innocence of thieves does not extend
to that point.


The pile of rubbish formed a sort of projection at the water's edge
which was prolonged in a promontory as far as the wall of the quay.


The man who was being followed arrived at this little mound and went
round itso that he ceased to be seen by the other.


The latteras he did not seecould not be seen; he took advantage
of this fact to abandon all dissimulation and to walk very rapidly.
In a few momentshe had reached the rubbish heap and passed round it.
There he halted in sheer amazement. The man whom he had been pursuing
was no longer there.


Total eclipse of the man in the blouse.


The shorebeginning with the rubbish heapwas only about thirty
paces longthen it plunged into the water which beat against the
wall of the quay. The fugitive could not have thrown himself into
the Seine without being seen by the man who was following him.
What had become of him?


The man in the buttoned-up coat walked to the extremity of the shore
and remained there in thought for a momenthis fists clenched
his eyes searching. All at once he smote his brow. He had
just perceivedat the point where the land came to an end and the
water begana large iron gratinglowarchedgarnished with a
heavy lock and with three massive hinges. This gratinga sort
of door pierced at the base of the quayopened on the river
as well as on the shore. A blackish stream passed under it.
This stream discharged into the Seine.


Beyond the heavyrusty iron barsa sort of dark and vaulted
corridor could be descried. The man folded his arms and stared
at the grating with an air of reproach.


As this gaze did not sufficehe tried to thrust it aside; he shook it
it resisted solidly. It is probable that it had just been opened
although no sound had been hearda singular circumstance in so
rusty a grating; but it is certain that it had been closed again.
This indicated that the man before whom that door had just opened



had not a hook but a key.

This evidence suddenly burst upon the mind of the man who was trying
to move the gratingand evoked from him this indignant ejaculation:

That is too much! A government key!

Thenimmediately regaining his composurehe expressed a whole
world of interior ideas by this outburst of monosyllables accented
almost ironically: "Come! Come! Come! Come!"

That saidand in the hope of something or othereither that he
should see the man emerge or other men enterhe posted himself on
the watch behind a heap of rubbishwith the patient rage of a pointer.

The hackney-coachwhich regulated all its movements on hishad
in its turnhalted on the quay above himclose to the parapet.
The coachmanforeseeing a prolonged waitencased his horses'
muzzles in the bag of oats which is damp at the bottomand which
is so familiar to Parisiansto whombe it said in parenthesis
the Government sometimes applies it. The rare passers-by on the Pont
de Jena turned their headsbefore they pursued their wayto take
a momentary glance at these two motionless items in the landscape
the man on the shorethe carriage on the quay.

CHAPTER IV

HE ALSO BEARS HIS CROSS

Jean Valjean had resumed his march and had not again paused.

This march became more and more laborious. The level of
these vaults varies; the average height is about five feet
six inchesand has been calculated for the stature of a man;
Jean Valjean was forced to bend overin order not to strike Marius
against the vault; at every step he had to bendthen to rise
and to feel incessantly of the wall. The moisture of the stones
and the viscous nature of the timber framework furnished but poor
supports to which to clingeither for hand or foot. He stumbled
along in the hideous dung-heap of the city. The intermittent gleams
from the air-holes only appeared at very long intervalsand were
so wan that the full sunlight seemed like the light of the moon;
all the rest was mistmiasmaopaquenessblackness. Jean Valjean
was both hungry and thirsty; especially thirsty; and thislike the sea
was a place full of water where a man cannot drink. His strength
which was prodigiousas the reader knowsand which had been
but little decreased by agethanks to his chaste and sober life
began to give waynevertheless. Fatigue began to gain on him;
and as his strength decreasedit made the weight of his burden
increase. Mariuswho wasperhapsdeadweighed him down as inert
bodies weigh. Jean Valjean held him in such a manner that his chest
was not oppressedand so that respiration could proceed as well
as possible. Between his legs he felt the rapid gliding of the rats.
One of them was frightened to such a degree that he bit him.
From time to timea breath of fresh air reached him through
the vent-holes of the mouths of the sewerand re-animated him.

It might have been three hours past midday when he reached the belt-sewer.

He wasat firstastonished at this sudden widening. He found himself
all at oncein a gallery where his outstretched hands could not reach


the two wallsand beneath a vault which his head did not touch.
The Grand Sewer isin facteight feet wide and seven feet high.


At the point where the Montmartre sewer joins the Grand Sewer
two other subterranean galleriesthat of the Rue de Provence
and that of the Abattoirform a square. Between these four ways
a less sagacious man would have remained undecided. Jean Valjean
selected the broadestthat is to saythe belt-sewer. But
here the question again came up--should he descend or ascend?
He thought that the situation required hasteand that he must
now gain the Seine at any risk. In other termshe must descend.
He turned to the left.


It was well that he did sofor it is an error to suppose that the
belt-sewer has two outletsthe one in the direction of Bercy
the other towards Passyand that it isas its name indicates
the subterranean girdle of the Paris on the right bank. The Grand Sewer
which isit must be rememberednothing else than the old brook
of Menilmontantterminatesif one ascends itin a blind sack
that is to sayat its ancient point of departure which was its source
at the foot of the knoll of Menilmontant. There is no direct
communication with the branch which collects the waters of Paris
beginning with the Quartier Popincourtand which falls into the
Seine through the Amelot sewer above the ancient Isle Louviers.
This branchwhich completes the collecting seweris separated
from itunder the Rue Menilmontant itselfby a pile which marks
the dividing point of the watersbetween upstream and downstream.
If Jean Valjean had ascended the gallery he would have arrived
after a thousand effortsand broken down with fatigueand in
an expiring conditionin the gloomat a wall. He would have
been lost.


In case of necessityby retracing his steps a little wayand entering
the passage of the Filles-du-Calvaireon condition that he did not
hesitate at the subterranean crossing of the Carrefour Boucheratand by
taking the corridor Saint-Louisthen the Saint-Gilles gut on the left
then turning to the right and avoiding the Saint-Sebastian gallery
he might have reached the Amelot sewerand thenceprovided that he
did not go astray in the sort of F which lies under the Bastille
he might have attained the outlet on the Seine near the Arsenal.
But in order to do thishe must have been thoroughly familiar
with the enormous madrepore of the sewer in all its ramifications
and in all its openings. Nowwe must again insist that he
knew nothing of that frightful drain which he was traversing;
and had any one asked him in what he washe would have answered:
In the night.


His instinct served him well. To descend wasin factpossible safety.


He left on his right the two narrow passages which branch out in
the form of a claw under the Rue Laffitte and the Rue Saint-Georges
and the longbifurcated corridor of the Chaussee d'Antin.


A little beyond an affluentwhich wasprobablythe Madeleine branch
he halted. He was extremely weary. A passably large air-holeprobably
the man-hole in the Rue d'Anjoufurnished a light that was almost vivid.
Jean Valjeanwith the gentleness of movement which a brother would
exercise towards his wounded brotherdeposited Marius on the banquette
of the sewer. Marius' blood-stained face appeared under the wan
light of the air-hole like the ashes at the bottom of a tomb.
His eyes were closedhis hair was plastered down on his temples
like a painter's brushes dried in red wash; his hands hung limp
and dead. A clot of blood had collected in the knot of his cravat;
his limbs were coldand blood was clotted at the corners of



his mouth; his shirt had thrust itself into his woundsthe cloth
of his coat was chafing the yawning gashes in the living flesh.
Jean Valjeanpushing aside the garments with the tips of his fingers
laid his hand upon Marius' breast; his heart was still beating.
Jean Valjean tore up his shirtbandaged the young man's wounds
as well as he was able and stopped the flowing blood; then bending
over Mariuswho still lay unconscious and almost without breathing
in that half lighthe gazed at him with inexpressible hatred.


On disarranging Marius' garmentshe had found two things in his pockets
the roll which had been forgotten there on the preceding evening
and Marius' pocketbook. He ate the roll and opened the pocketbook.
On the first page he found the four lines written by Marius.
The reader will recall them:


My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my grandfather,


M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais.
Jean Valjean read these four lines by the light of the air-hole
and remained for a moment as though absorbed in thought
repeating in a low tone: "Rue des Filles-du-Calvairenumber 6
Monsieur Gillenormand." He replaced the pocketbook in Marius'
pocket. He had eatenhis strength had returned to him; he took
Marius up once more upon his backplaced the latter's head
carefully on his right shoulderand resumed his descent of the sewer.


The Grand Sewerdirected according to the course of the valley
of Menilmontantis about two leagues long. It is paved throughout
a notable portion of its extent.


This torch of the names of the streets of Pariswith which we
are illuminating for the reader Jean Valjean's subterranean march
Jean Valjean himself did not possess. Nothing told him what
zone of the city he was traversingnor what way he had made.
Only the growing pallor of the pools of light which he encountered
from time to time indicated to him that the sun was withdrawing from
the pavementand that the day would soon be over; and the rolling
of vehicles overheadhaving become intermittent instead of continuous
then having almost ceasedhe concluded that he was no longer under
central Parisand that he was approaching some solitary region
in the vicinity of the outer boulevardsor the extreme outer quays.
Where there are fewer houses and streetsthe sewer has fewer air-holes.
The gloom deepened around Jean Valjean. Neverthelesshe continued
to advancegroping his way in the dark.


Suddenly this darkness became terrible.


CHAPTER V


IN THE CASE OF SAND AS IN THAT OF WOMANTHERE IS A FINENESS WHICH
IS TREACHEROUS


He felt that he was entering the waterand that he no longer
had a pavement under his feetbut only mud.


It sometimes happensthat on certain shores of Bretagne or Scotland
a maneither a traveller or a fishermanwhile walking at low
tide on the beach far from shoresuddenly notices that for
several minutes pasthe has been walking with some difficulty.
The beach under foot is like pitch; his soles stick fast to it;
it is no longer sandit is bird-lime. The strand is perfectly dry



but at every step that he takesas soon as the foot is raised
the print is filled with water. The eyehoweverhas perceived
no change; the immense beach is smooth and tranquilall the sand
has the same aspectnothing distinguishes the soil that is solid
from that which is not solid; the joyous little cloud of sand-lice
continues to leap tumultuously under the feet of the passer-by.


The man pursues his wayhe walks onturns towards the land
endeavors to approach the shore. He is not uneasy. Uneasy about what?
Only he is conscious that the heaviness of his feet seems to be
increasing at every step that he takes. All at once he sinks in.
He sinks in two or three inches. Decidedlyhe is not on the right road;
he halts to get his bearings. Suddenly he glances at his feet;
his feet have disappeared. The sand has covered them. He draws his
feet out of the sandhe tries to retrace his stepshe turns back
he sinks in more deeply than before. The sand is up to his ankles
he tears himself free from it and flings himself to the left
the sand reaches to mid-leghe flings himself to the right
the sand comes up to his knees. Thenwith indescribable terror
he recognizes the fact that he is caught in a quicksandand that he
has beneath him that frightful medium in which neither man can walk
nor fish can swim. He flings away his burdenif he have one
he lightens himselflike a ship in distress; it is too late
the sand is above his knees.


He shoutshe waves his hator his handkerchiefthe sand
continually gains on him; if the beach is desertedif the land is
too far awayif the bank of sand is too ill-famedthere is no hero
in the neighborhoodall is overhe is condemned to be engulfed.
He is condemned to that terrible intermentlonginfallibleimplacable
which it is impossible to either retard or hastenwhich lasts
for hourswhich will not come to an endwhich seizes you erect
freein the flush of healthwhich drags you down by the feetwhich
at every effort that you attemptat every shout that you utter
draws you a little lowerwhich has the air of punishing you for your
resistance by a redoubled graspwhich forces a man to return slowly
to earthwhile leaving him time to survey the horizonthe trees
the verdant countrythe smoke of the villages on the plain
the sails of the ships on the seathe birds which fly and sing
the sun and the sky. This engulfment is the sepulchre which assumes
a tideand which mounts from the depths of the earth towards
a living man. Each minute is an inexorable layer-out of the dead.
The wretched man tries to sit downto lie downto climb;
every movement that he makes buries him deeper; he straightens
himself uphe sinks; he feels that he is being swallowed up;
he shrieksimplorescries to the cloudswrings his hands
grows desperate. Behold him in the sand up to his bellythe sand
reaches to his breasthe is only a bust now. He uplifts his hands
utters furious groansclenches his nails on the beachtries to
cling fast to that ashessupports himself on his elbows in order
to raise himself from that soft sheathand sobs frantically;
the sand mounts higher. The sand has reached his shouldersthe sand
reaches to his throat; only his face is visible now. His mouth
cries aloudthe sand fills it; silence. His eyes still gaze forth
the sand closes themnight. Then his brow decreasesa little
hair quivers above the sand; a hand projectspierces the surface
of the beachwaves and disappears. Sinister obliteration of a man.


Sometimes a rider is engulfed with his horse; sometimes the carter
is swallowed up with his cart; all founders in that strand.
It is shipwreck elsewhere than in the water. It is the earth drowning
a man. The earthpermeated with the oceanbecomes a pitfall.
It presents itself in the guise of a plainand it yawns like a wave.
The abyss is subject to these treacheries.



This melancholy fatealways possible on certain sea beaches
was also possiblethirty years agoin the sewers of Paris.


Before the important worksundertaken in 1833the subterranean
drain of Paris was subject to these sudden slides.


The water filtered into certain subjacent stratawhich were
particularly friable; the foot-waywhich was of flag-stones
as in the ancient sewersor of cement on concreteas in the
new gallerieshaving no longer an underpinninggave way.
A fold in a flooring of this sort means a crackmeans crumbling.
The framework crumbled away for a certain length. This crevice
the hiatus of a gulf of mirewas called a fontisin the special tongue.
What is a fontis? It is the quicksands of the seashore suddenly
encountered under the surface of the earth; it is the beach of Mont
Saint-Michel in a sewer. The soaked soil is in a state of fusion
as it were; all its molecules are in suspension in soft medium;
it is not earth and it is not water. The depth is sometimes
very great. Nothing can be more formidable than such an encounter.
If the water predominatesdeath is promptthe man is swallowed up;
if earth predominatesdeath is slow.


Can any one picture to himself such a death? If being swallowed
by the earth is terrible on the seashorewhat is it in a cess-pool?
Instead of the open airthe broad daylightthe clear horizon
those vast soundsthose free clouds whence rains lifeinstead of
those barks descried in the distanceof that hope under all sorts
of formsof probable passers-byof succor possible up to the very
last moment--instead of all thisdeafnessblindnessa black vault
the inside of a tomb already prepareddeath in the mire beneath
a cover! slow suffocation by filtha stone box where asphyxia
opens its claw in the mire and clutches you by the throat;
fetidness mingled with the death-rattle; slime instead of the strand
sulfuretted hydrogen in place of the hurricanedung in place
of the ocean! And to shoutto gnash one's teethand to writhe
and to struggleand to agonizewith that enormous city which
knows nothing of it allover one's head!


Inexpressible is the horror of dying thus! Death sometimes redeems
his atrocity by a certain terrible dignity. On the funeral pile
in shipwreckone can be great; in the flames as in the foama superb
attitude is possible; one there becomes transfigured as one perishes.
But not here. Death is filthy. It is humiliating to expire.
The supreme floating visions are abject. Mud is synonymous with shame.
It is pettyuglyinfamous. To die in a butt of Malvoisie
like Clarenceis permissible; in the ditch of a scavenger
like Escoubleauis horrible. To struggle therein is hideous;
at the same time that one is going through the death agony
one is floundering about. There are shadows enough for hell
and mire enough to render it nothing but a sloughand the dying
man knows not whether he is on the point of becoming a spectre or
a frog.


Everywhere else the sepulchre is sinister; here it is deformed.


The depth of the fontis variedas well as their length and their density
according to the more or less bad quality of the sub-soil. Sometimes
a fontis was three or four feet deepsometimes eight or ten;
sometimes the bottom was unfathomable. Here the mire was almost solid
there almost liquid. In the Luniere fontisit would have taken
a man a day to disappearwhile he would have been devoured in five
minutes by the Philippeaux slough. The mire bears up more or less
according to its density. A child can escape where a man will perish.



The first law of safety is to get rid of every sort of load.
Every sewerman who felt the ground giving way beneath him began
by flinging away his sack of toolsor his back-basketor his hod.


The fontis were due to different causes: the friability of the soil;
some landslip at a depth beyond the reach of man; the violent
summer rains; the incessant flooding of winter; longdrizzling showers.
Sometimes the weight of the surrounding houses on a marly or sandy
soil forced out the vaults of the subterranean galleries and caused
them to bend asideor it chanced that a flooring vault burst
and split under this crushing thrust. In this mannerthe heaping
up of the Parthenonobliterateda century agoa portion of the
vaults of Saint-Genevieve hill. When a sewer was broken in under
the pressure of the housesthe mischief was sometimes betrayed
in the street above by a sort of spacelike the teeth of a saw
between the paving-stones; this crevice was developed in an undulating
line throughout the entire length of the cracked vaultand then
the evil being visiblethe remedy could be promptly applied.
It also frequently happenedthat the interior ravages were not
revealed by any external scarand in that casewoe to the sewermen.
When they entered without precaution into the sewerthey were liable
to be lost. Ancient registers make mention of several scavengers
who were buried in fontis in this manner. They give many names;
among othersthat of the sewerman who was swallowed up in a quagmire
under the man-hole of the Rue Careme-Prenanta certain Blaise Poutrain;
this Blaise Poutrain was the brother of Nicholas Poutrain
who was the last grave-digger of the cemetery called the Charnier
des Innocentsin 1785the epoch when that cemetery expired.


There was also that young and charming Vicomte d'Escoubleauof whom we
have just spokenone of the heroes of the siege of Leridawhere they
delivered the assault in silk stockingswith violins at their head.
D'Escoubleausurprised one night at his cousin'sthe Duchess de
Sourdis'was drowned in a quagmire of the Beautreillis sewer
in which he had taken refuge in order to escape from the Duke.
Madame de Sourdiswhen informed of his deathdemanded her
smelling-bottleand forgot to weepthrough sniffling at her salts.
In such casesthere is no love which holds fast; the sewer
extinguishes it. Hero refuses to wash the body of Leander.
Thisbe stops her nose in the presence of Pyramus and says: "Phew!"


CHAPTER VI


THE FONTIS


Jean Valjean found himself in the presence of a fontis.


This sort of quagmire was common at that period in the subsoil
of the Champs-Elyseesdifficult to handle in the hydraulic
works and a bad preservative of the subterranean constructions
on account of its excessive fluidity. This fluidity exceeds even
the inconsistency of the sands of the Quartier Saint-Georges
which could only be conquered by a stone construction on a
concrete foundationand the clayey stratainfected with gas
of the Quartier des Martyrswhich are so liquid that the only way
in which a passage was effected under the gallery des Martyrs was
by means of a cast-iron pipe. Whenin 1836the old stone sewer
beneath the Faubourg Saint-Honorein which we now see Jean Valjean
was demolished for the purpose of reconstructing itthe quicksand
which forms the subsoil of the Champs-Elysees as far as the Seine
presented such an obstaclethat the operation lasted nearly



six monthsto the great clamor of the dwellers on the riverside
particularly those who had hotels and carriages. The work was
more than unhealthy; it was dangerous. It is true that they
had four months and a half of rainand three floods of the Seine.


The fontis which Jean Valjean had encountered was caused by the
downpour of the preceding day. The pavementbadly sustained
by the subjacent sandhad given way and had produced a stoppage
of the water. Infiltration had taken placea slip had followed.
The dislocated bottom had sunk into the ooze. To what extent?
Impossible to say. The obscurity was more dense there than elsewhere.
It was a pit of mire in a cavern of night.


Jean Valjean felt the pavement vanishing beneath his feet.
He entered this slime. There was water on the surfaceslime at
the bottom. He must pass it. To retrace his steps was impossible.
Marius was dyingand Jean Valjean exhausted. Besideswhere was
he to go? Jean Valjean advanced. Moreoverthe pit seemed
for the first few stepsnot to be very deep. But in proportion
as he advancedhis feet plunged deeper. Soon he had the slime
up to his calves and water above his knees. He walked on
raising Marius in his armsas far above the water as he could.
The mire now reached to his kneesand the water to his waist.
He could no longer retreat. This muddense enough for one man
could notobviouslyuphold two. Marius and Jean Valjean would
have stood a chance of extricating themselves singly. Jean Valjean
continued to advancesupporting the dying manwho wasperhaps
a corpse.


The water came up to his arm-pits; he felt that he was sinking;
it was only with difficulty that he could move in the depth of ooze
which he had now reached. The densitywhich was his support
was also an obstacle. He still held Marius on highand with an
unheard-of expenditure of forcehe advanced still; but he was sinking.
He had only his head above the water now and his two arms holding
up Marius. In the old paintings of the deluge there is a mother
holding her child thus.


He sank still deeperhe turned his face to the rearto escape
the waterand in order that he might be able to breathe;
anyone who had seen him in that gloom would have thought that what
he beheld was a mask floating on the shadows; he caught a faint
glimpse above him of the drooping head and livid face of Marius;
he made a desperate effort and launched his foot forward; his foot
struck something solid; a point of support. It was high time.


He straightened himself upand rooted himself upon that point
of support with a sort of fury. This produced upon him the effect
of the first step in a staircase leading back to life.


The point of supportthus encountered in the mire at the supreme
momentwas the beginning of the other water-shed of the pavement
which had bent but had not given wayand which had curved under
the water like a plank and in a single piece. Well built pavements
form a vault and possess this sort of firmness. This fragment
of the vaultingpartly submergedbut solidwas a veritable
inclined planeandonce on this planehe was safe. Jean Valjean
mounted this inclined plane and reached the other side of the quagmire.


As he emerged from the waterhe came in contact with a stone
and fell upon his knees. He reflected that this was but just
and he remained there for some timewith his soul absorbed in words
addressed to God.



He rose to his feetshiveringchilledfoul-smellingbowed
beneath the dying man whom he was dragging after himall dripping
with slimeand his soul filled with a strange light.


CHAPTER VII


ONE SOMETIMES RUNS AGROUND WHEN ONE FANCIES THAT ONE IS DISEMBARKING


He set out on his way once more.


Howeveralthough he had not left his life in the fontishe seemed
to have left his strength behind him there. That supreme effort
had exhausted him. His lassitude was now such that he was obliged
to pause for breath every three or four stepsand lean against
the wall. Once he was forced to seat himself on the banquette in
order to alter Marius' positionand he thought that he should have
to remain there. But if his vigor was deadhis energy was not.
He rose again.


He walked on desperatelyalmost fastproceeded thus for a
hundred pacesalmost without drawing breathand suddenly came
in contact with the wall. He had reached an elbow of the sewerand
arriving at the turn with head bent downhe had struck the wall.
He raised his eyesand at the extremity of the vaultfarvery far
away in front of himhe perceived a light. This time it was not
that terrible light; it was goodwhite light. It was daylight.
Jean Valjean saw the outlet.


A damned soulwhoin the midst of the furnaceshould suddenly perceive
the outlet of Gehennawould experience what Jean Valjean felt.
It would fly wildly with the stumps of its burned wings towards that
radiant portal. Jean Valjean was no longer conscious of fatigue
he no longer felt Marius' weighthe found his legs once more
of steelhe ran rather than walked. As he approachedthe outlet
became more and more distinctly defined. It was a pointed arch
lower than the vaultwhich gradually narrowedand narrower
than the gallerywhich closed in as the vault grew lower.
The tunnel ended like the interior of a funnel; a faulty construction
imitated from the wickets of penitentiarieslogical in a prison
illogical in a sewerand which has since been corrected.


Jean Valjean reached the outlet.


There he halted.


It certainly was the outletbut he could not get out.


The arch was closed by a heavy gratingand the gratingwhich
to all appearancerarely swung on its rusty hingeswas clamped
to its stone jamb by a thick lockwhichred with rustseemed like
an enormous brick. The keyhole could be seenand the robust latch
deeply sunk in the iron staple. The door was plainly double-locked.
It was one of those prison locks which old Paris was so fond of lavishing.


Beyond the grating was the open airthe riverthe daylight
the shorevery narrow but sufficient for escape. The distant
quaysParisthat gulf in which one so easily hides oneself
the broad horizonliberty. On the rightdown streamthe bridge
of Jena was discernibleon the leftupstreamthe bridge
of the Invalides; the place would have been a propitious one in
which to await the night and to escape. It was one of the most



solitary points in Paris; the shore which faces the Grand-Caillou.
Flies were entering and emerging through the bars of the grating.


It might have been half-past eight o'clock in the evening.
The day was declining.


Jean Valjean laid Marius down along the wallon the dry portion
of the vaultingthen he went to the grating and clenched both
fists round the bars; the shock which he gave it was frenzied
but it did not move. The grating did not stir. Jean Valjean seized
the bars one after the otherin the hope that he might be able
to tear away the least solidand to make of it a lever wherewith
to raise the door or to break the lock. Not a bar stirred.
The teeth of a tiger are not more firmly fixed in their sockets.
No lever; no prying possible. The obstacle was invincible.
There was no means of opening the gate.


Must he then stop there? What was he to do? What was to become
of him? He had not the strength to retrace his stepsto recommence
the journey which he had already taken. Besideshow was he
to again traverse that quagmire whence he had only extricated
himself as by a miracle? And after the quagmirewas there not
the police patrolwhich assuredly could not be twice avoided?
And thenwhither was he to go? What direction should he pursue?
To follow the incline would not conduct him to his goal. If he
were to reach another outlethe would find it obstructed by a plug
or a grating. Every outlet wasundoubtedlyclosed in that manner.
Chance had unsealed the grating through which he had entered
but it was evident that all the other sewer mouths were barred.
He had only succeeded in escaping into a prison.


All was over. Everything that Jean Valjean had done was useless.
Exhaustion had ended in failure.


They were both caught in the immense and gloomy web of deathand Jean
Valjean felt the terrible spider running along those black strands
and quivering in the shadows. He turned his back to the grating
and fell upon the pavementhurled to earth rather than seated
close to Mariuswho still made no movementand with his head bent
between his knees. This was the last drop of anguish.


Of what was he thinking during this profound depression?
Neither of himself nor of Marius. He was thinking of Cosette.


CHAPTER VIII


THE TORN COAT-TAIL


In the midst of this prostrationa hand was laid on his shoulder
and a low voice said to him:


Half shares.


Some person in that gloom? Nothing so closely resembles a
dream as despair. Jean Valjean thought that he was dreaming.
He had heard no footsteps. Was it possible? He raised his eyes.


A man stood before him.


This man was clad in a blouse; his feet were bare; he held his shoes
in his left hand; he had evidently removed them in order to reach



Jean Valjeanwithout allowing his steps to be heard.


Jean Valjean did not hesitate for an instant. Unexpected as was
this encounterthis man was known to him. The man was Thenardier.


Although awakenedso to speakwith a startJean Valjean
accustomed to alarmsand steeled to unforeseen shocks that must
be promptly parriedinstantly regained possession of his presence
of mind. Moreoverthe situation could not be made worse
a certain degree of distress is no longer capable of a crescendo
and Thenardier himself could add nothing to this blackness of this night.


A momentary pause ensued.


Thenardierraising his right hand to a level with his forehead
formed with it a shadethen he brought his eyelashes together
by screwing up his eyesa motion whichin connection with a slight
contraction of the mouthcharacterizes the sagacious attention of a man
who is endeavoring to recognize another man. He did not succeed.
Jean Valjeanas we have just statedhad his back turned to the light
and he wasmoreoverso disfiguredso bemiredso bleeding that he
would have been unrecognizable in full noonday. On the contrary
illuminated by the light from the gratinga cellar light
it is truelividyet precise in its lividnessThenardieras the
energetic popular metaphor expresses itimmediately "leaped into"
Jean Valjean's eyes. This inequality of conditions sufficed
to assure some advantage to Jean Valjean in that mysterious duel
which was on the point of beginning between the two situations and
the two men. The encounter took place between Jean Valjean veiled
and Thenardier unmasked.


Jean Valjean immediately perceived that Thenardier did not recognize him.


They surveyed each other for a moment in that half-gloomas though
taking each other's measure. Thenardier was the first to break
the silence.


How are you going to manage to get out?


Jean Valjean made no reply. Thenardier continued:


It's impossible to pick the lock of that gate. But still you must
get out of this.


That is true,said Jean Valjean.


Well, half shares then.


What do you mean by that?


You have killed that man; that's all right. I have the key.


Thenardier pointed to Marius. He went on:


I don't know you, but I want to help you. You must be a friend.


Jean Valjean began to comprehend. Thenardier took him for an assassin.


Thenardier resumed:


Listen, comrade. You didn't kill that man without looking to see
what he had in his pockets. Give me my half. I'll open the door
for you.



And half drawing from beneath his tattered blouse a huge key
he added:


Do you want to see how a key to liberty is made? Look here.


Jean Valjean "remained stupid"--the expression belongs to the
elder Corneille--to such a degree that he doubted whether what he
beheld was real. It was providence appearing in horrible guise
and his good angel springing from the earth in the form of Thenardier.


Thenardier thrust his fist into a large pocket concealed under
his blousedrew out a rope and offered it to Jean Valjean.


Hold on,said heI'll give you the rope to boot.


What is the rope for?


You will need a stone also, but you can find one outside.
There's a heap of rubbish.


What am I to do with a stone?


Idiot, you'll want to sling that stiff into the river, you'll need
a stone and a rope, otherwise it would float on the water.


Jean Valjean took the rope. There is no one who does not occasionally
accept in this mechanical way.


Thenardier snapped his fingers as though an idea had suddenly
occurred to him.


Ah, see here, comrade, how did you contrive to get out of that
slough yonder? I haven't dared to risk myself in it. Phew! you
don't smell good.


After a pause he added:


I'm asking you questions, but you're perfectly right not to answer.
It's an apprenticeship against that cursed quarter of an hour before
the examining magistrate. And then, when you don't talk at all,
you run no risk of talking too loud. That's no matter, as I can't
see your face and as I don't know your name, you are wrong in
supposing that I don't know who you are and what you want. I twig.
You've broken up that gentleman a bit; now you want to tuck him
away somewhere. The river, that great hider of folly, is what you want.
I'll get you out of your scrape. Helping a good fellow in a pinch
is what suits me to a hair.


While expressing his approval of Jean Valjean's silencehe endeavored to
force him to talk. He jostled his shoulder in an attempt to catch a sight
of his profileand he exclaimedwithouthoweverraising his tone:


Apropos of that quagmire, you're a hearty animal. Why didn't you
toss the man in there?


Jean Valjean preserved silence.


Thenardier resumedpushing the rag which served him as a cravat
to the level of his Adam's applea gesture which completes
the capable air of a serious man:


After all, you acted wisely. The workmen, when they come to-morrow to
stop up that hole, would certainly have found the stiff abandoned there,
and it might have been possible, thread by thread, straw by straw,



to pick up the scent and reach you. Some one has passed through
the sewer. Who? Where did he get out? Was he seen to come out?
The police are full of cleverness. The sewer is treacherous and
tells tales of you. Such a find is a rarity, it attracts attention,
very few people make use of the sewers for their affairs,
while the river belongs to everybody. The river is the true grave.
At the end of a month they fish up your man in the nets at
Saint-Cloud. Well, what does one care for that? It's carrion!
Who killed that man? Paris. And justice makes no inquiries.
You have done well.


The more loquacious Thenardier becamethe more mute was Jean Valjean.


Again Thenardier shook him by the shoulder.


Now let's settle this business. Let's go shares. You have seen
my key, show me your money.


Thenardier was haggardfiercesuspiciousrather menacing
yet amicable.


There was one singular circumstance; Thenardier's manners were
not simple; he had not the air of being wholly at his ease;
while affecting an air of mysteryhe spoke low; from time to time
he laid his finger on his mouthand mutteredhush!It was
difficult to divine why. There was no one there except themselves.
Jean Valjean thought that other ruffians might possibly be concealed
in some nooknot very far offand that Thenardier did not care
to share with them.


Thenardier resumed:


Let's settle up. How much did the stiff have in his bags?


Jean Valjean searched his pockets.


It was his habitas the reader will rememberto always have some
money about him. The mournful life of expedients to which he had
been condemned imposed this as a law upon him. On this occasion
howeverhe had been caught unprepared. When donning his uniform
of a National Guardsman on the preceding eveninghe had forgotten
dolefully absorbed as he wasto take his pocket-book. He had
only some small change in his fob. He turned out his pocket
all soaked with oozeand spread out on the banquette of the vault
one louis d'ortwo five-franc piecesand five or six large sous.


Thenardier thrust out his lower lip with a significant twist
of the neck.


You knocked him over cheap,said he.


He set to feeling the pockets of Jean Valjean and Marius
with the greatest familiarity. Jean Valjeanwho was chiefly
concerned in keeping his back to the lightlet him have his way.


While handling Marius' coatThenardierwith the skill of a pickpocket
and without being noticed by Jean Valjeantore off a strip which he
concealed under his blouseprobably thinking that this morsel
of stuff might servelater onto identify the assassinated man
and the assassin. Howeverhe found no more than the thirty francs.


That's true,said heboth of you together have no more than that.


Andforgetting his motto: "half shares he took all.



He hesitated a little over the large sous. After due reflection,
he took them also, muttering:

Never mind! You cut folks' throats too cheap altogether."

That donehe once more drew the big key from under his blouse.

Now, my friend, you must leave. It's like the fair here, you pay
when you go out. You have paid, now clear out.

And he began to laugh.

Had hein lending to this stranger the aid of his keyand in
making some other man than himself emerge from that portal
the pure and disinterested intention of rescuing an assassin?
We may be permitted to doubt this.

Thenardier helped Jean Valjean to replace Marius on his shoulders
then he betook himself to the grating on tiptoeand barefooted
making Jean Valjean a sign to follow himlooked outlaid his finger
on his mouthand remained for several secondsas though in suspense;
his inspection finishedhe placed the key in the lock. The bolt
slipped back and the gate swung open. It neither grated nor squeaked.
It moved very softly.

It was obvious that this gate and those hingescarefully oiled
were in the habit of opening more frequently than was supposed.
This softness was suspicious; it hinted at furtive goings and comings
silent entrances and exits of nocturnal menand the wolf-like tread
of crime.

The sewer was evidently an accomplice of some mysterious band.
This taciturn grating was a receiver of stolen goods.

Thenardier opened the gate a little wayallowing just sufficient
space for Jean Valjean to pass outclosed the grating again
gave the key a double turn in the lock and plunged back into
the darknesswithout making any more noise than a breath.
He seemed to walk with the velvet paws of a tiger.

A moment laterthat hideous providence had retreated into
the invisibility.

Jean Valjean found himself in the open air.

CHAPTER IX

MARIUS PRODUCES ON SOME ONE WHO IS A JUDGE OF THE MATTERTHE EFFECT
OF BEING DEAD

He allowed Marius to slide down upon the shore.

They were in the open air!

The miasmasdarknesshorror lay behind him. The purehealthful
livingjoyous air that was easy to breathe inundated him.
Everywhere around him reigned silencebut that charming silence when
the sun has set in an unclouded azure sky. Twilight had descended;
night was drawing onthe great delivererthe friend of all those
who need a mantle of darkness that they may escape from an anguish.


The sky presented itself in all directions like an enormous calm.
The river flowed to his feet with the sound of a kiss. The aerial
dialogue of the nests bidding each other good night in the elms
of the Champs-Elysees was audible. A few starsdaintily piercing
the pale blue of the zenithand visible to revery alone
formed imperceptible little splendors amid the immensity. Evening was
unfolding over the head of Jean Valjean all the sweetness of the infinite.

It was that exquisite and undecided hour which says neither yes nor no.
Night was already sufficiently advanced to render it possible
to lose oneself at a little distance and yet there was sufficient
daylight to permit of recognition at close quarters.

For several secondsJean Valjean was irresistibly overcome by that
august and caressing serenity; such moments of oblivion do come
to men; suffering refrains from harassing the unhappy wretch;
everything is eclipsed in the thoughts; peace broods over the dreamer
like night; andbeneath the twilight which beams and in imitation
of the sky which is illuminatedthe soul becomes studded with stars.
Jean Valjean could not refrain from contemplating that vast
clear shadow which rested over him; thoughtfully he bathed in the sea
of ecstasy and prayer in the majestic silence of the eternal heavens.
Then he bent down swiftly to Mariusas though the sentiment
of duty had returned to himanddipping up water in the hollow
of his handhe gently sprinkled a few drops on the latter's face.
Marius' eyelids did not open; but his half-open mouth still breathed.

Jean Valjean was on the point of dipping his hand in the river once more
whenall at oncehe experienced an indescribable embarrassmentsuch
as a person feels when there is some one behind him whom he does not see.

We have already alluded to this impressionwith which everyone
is familiar.

He turned round.

Some one wasin factbehind himas there had been a short
while before.

A man of lofty statureenveloped in a long coatwith folded arms
and bearing in his right fist a bludgeon of which the leaden head
was visiblestood a few paces in the rear of the spot where Jean
Valjean was crouching over Marius.

With the aid of the darknessit seemed a sort of apparition.
An ordinary man would have been alarmed because of the twilight
a thoughtful man on account of the bludgeon. Jean Valjean
recognized Javert.

The reader has divinedno doubtthat Thenardier's pursuer was
no other than Javert. Javertafter his unlooked-for escape from
the barricadehad betaken himself to the prefecture of police
had rendered a verbal account to the Prefect in person in a brief
audiencehad then immediately gone on duty againwhich implied-the
notethe reader will recollectwhich had been captured on
his person--a certain surveillance of the shore on the right bank
of the Seine near the Champs-Elyseeswhich hadfor some time past
aroused the attention of the police. There he had caught sight
of Thenardier and had followed him. The reader knows the rest.

Thus it will be easily understood that that gratingso obligingly
opened to Jean Valjeanwas a bit of cleverness on Thenardier's part.
Thenardier intuitively felt that Javert was still there;
the man spied upon has a scent which never deceives him; it was


necessary to fling a bone to that sleuth-hound. An assassin
what a godsend! Such an opportunity must never be allowed
to slip. Thenardierby putting Jean Valjean outside in his stead
provided a prey for the policeforced them to relinquish his scent
made them forget him in a bigger adventurerepaid Javert for
his waitingwhich always flatters a spyearned thirty francs
and counted with certaintyso far as he himself was concerned
on escaping with the aid of this diversion.


Jean Valjean had fallen from one danger upon another.


These two encountersthis falling one after the other
from Thenardier upon Javertwas a rude shock.


Javert did not recognize Jean Valjeanwhoas we have stated
no longer looked like himself. He did not unfold his armshe made
sure of his bludgeon in his fistby an imperceptible movement
and said in a curtcalm voice:


Who are you?


I.


Who is `I'?


Jean Valjean.


Javert thrust his bludgeon between his teethbent his knees
inclined his bodylaid his two powerful hands on the shoulders of
Jean Valjeanwhich were clamped within them as in a couple of vices
scrutinized himand recognized him. Their faces almost touched.
Javert's look was terrible.


Jean Valjean remained inert beneath Javert's grasplike a lion
submitting to the claws of a lynx.


Inspector Javert,said heyou have me in your power. Moreover,
I have regarded myself as your prisoner ever since this morning.
I did not give you my address with any intention of escaping from you.
Take me. Only grant me one favor.


Javert did not appear to hear him. He kept his eyes riveted on
Jean Valjean. His chin being contractedthrust his lips upwards
towards his nosea sign of savage revery. At length he released
Jean Valjeanstraightened himself stiffly up without bending
grasped his bludgeon again firmlyandas though in a dream
he murmured rather than uttered this question:


What are you doing here? And who is this man?


He still abstained from addressing Jean Valjean as thou.


Jean Valjean repliedand the sound of his voice appeared to rouse Javert:


It is with regard to him that I desire to speak to you.
Dispose of me as you see fit; but first help me to carry him home.
That is all that I ask of you.


Javert's face contracted as was always the case when any one seemed
to think him capable of making a concession. Neverthelesshe did
not say "no."


Again he bent overdrew from his pocket a handkerchief which he
moistened in the water and with which he then wiped Marius'



blood-stained brow.


This man was at the barricade,said he in a low voice and as
though speaking to himself. "He is the one they called Marius."


A spy of the first qualitywho had observed everything
listened to everythingand taken in everythingeven when he thought
that he was to die; who had played the spy even in his agony
and whowith his elbows leaning on the first step of the sepulchre
had taken notes.


He seized Marius' hand and felt his pulse.


He is wounded,said Jean Valjean.


He is a dead man,said Javert.


Jean Valjean replied:


No. Not yet.


So you have brought him thither from the barricade?remarked Javert.


His preoccupation must indeed have been very profound for him not
to insist on this alarming rescue through the sewerand for him
not to even notice Jean Valjean's silence after his question.


Jean Valjeanon his sideseemed to have but one thought.
He resumed:


He lives in the Marais, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, with
his grandfather. I do not recollect his name.


Jean Valjean fumbled in Marius' coatpulled out his pocket-book
opened it at the page which Marius had pencilledand held it
out to Javert.


There was still sufficient light to admit of reading. Besides this
Javert possessed in his eye the feline phosphorescence of night birds.
He deciphered the few lines written by Mariusand muttered:
Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-duCalvaire, No. 6.


Then he exclaimed: "Coachman!"


The reader will remember that the hackney-coach was waiting in case
of need.


Javert kept Marius' pocket-book.


A moment laterthe carriagewhich had descended by the inclined
plane of the watering-placewas on the shore. Marius was laid
upon the back seatand Javert seated himself on the front seat
beside Jean Valjean.


The door slammedand the carriage drove rapidly awayascending the
quays in the direction of the Bastille.


They quitted the quays and entered the streets. The coachman
a black form on his boxwhipped up his thin horses. A glacial
silence reigned in the carriage. Mariusmotionlesswith his
body resting in the cornerand his head drooping on his breast
his arms hanginghis legs stiffseemed to be awaiting only a coffin;
Jean Valjean seemed made of shadowand Javert of stoneand in that
vehicle full of nightwhose interiorevery time that it passed



in front of a street lanternappeared to be turned lividly wan
as by an intermittent flash of lightningchance had united and seemed
to be bringing face to face the three forms of tragic immobility
the corpsethe spectreand the statue.

CHAPTER X

RETURN OF THE SON WHO WAS PRODIGAL OF HIS LIFE

At every jolt over the pavementa drop of blood trickled
from Marius' hair.

Night had fully closed in when the carriage arrived at No. 6
Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.

Javert was the first to alight; he made sure with one glance
of the number on the carriage gateandraising the heavy knocker
of beaten ironembellished in the old stylewith a male goat
and a satyr confronting each otherhe gave a violent peal.
The gate opened a little way and Javert gave it a push. The porter
half made his appearance yawningvaguely awakeand with a candle
in his hand.

Everyone in the house was asleep. People go to bed betimes in
the Maraisespecially on days when there is a revolt. This good
old quarterterrified at the Revolutiontakes refuge in slumber
as childrenwhen they hear the Bugaboo cominghide their heads
hastily under their coverlet.

In the meantime Jean Valjean and the coachman had taken Marius
out of the carriageJean Valjean supporting him under the armpits
and the coachman under the knees.

As they thus bore MariusJean Valjean slipped his hand under
the latter's clotheswhich were broadly rentfelt his breast
and assured himself that his heart was still beating. It was even
beating a little less feeblyas though the movement of the carriage
had brought about a certain fresh access of life.

Javert addressed the porter in a tone befitting the government
and the presence of the porter of a factious person.

Some person whose name is Gillenormand?

Here. What do you want with him?

His son is brought back.

His son?said the porter stupidly.

He is dead.

Jean Valjeanwhosoiled and tatteredstood behind Javert
and whom the porter was surveying with some horrormade a sign
to him with his head that this was not so.

The porter did not appear to understand either Javert's words
or Jean Valjean's sign.

Javert continued:


He went to the barricade, and here he is.

To the barricade?ejaculated the porter.

He has got himself killed. Go waken his father.

The porter did not stir.

Go along with you!repeated Javert.

And he added:

There will be a funeral here to-morrow.

For Javertthe usual incidents of the public highway were categorically
classedwhich is the beginning of foresight and surveillance
and each contingency had its own compartment; all possible facts were
arranged in drawersas it werewhence they emerged on occasionin
variable quantities; in the streetuproarrevoltcarnivaland funeral.

The porter contented himself with waking Basque. Basque woke Nicolette;
Nicolette roused great-aunt Gillenormand.

As for the grandfatherthey let him sleep onthinking that he
would hear about the matter early enough in any case.

Marius was carried up to the first floorwithout any one in the
other parts of the house being aware of the factand deposited
on an old sofa in M. Gillenormand's antechamber; and while Basque
went in search of a physicianand while Nicolette opened the
linen-pressesJean Valjean felt Javert touch him on the shoulder.
He understood and descended the stairshaving behind him the step
of Javert who was following him.

The porter watched them take their departure as he had watched
their arrivalin terrified somnolence.

They entered the carriage once moreand the coachman mounted
his box.

Inspector Javert,said Jeangrant me yet another favor.

What is it?demanded Javert roughly.

Let me go home for one instant. Then you shall do whatever you
like with me.

Javert remained silent for a few momentswith his chin drawn
back into the collar of his great-coatthen he lowered the glass
and front:

Driver,said heRue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7.

CHAPTER XI

CONCUSSION IN THE ABSOLUTE

They did not open their lips again during the whole space of their ride.

What did Jean Valjean want? To finish what he had begun; to warn Cosette
to tell her where Marius wasto give herpossiblysome other


useful informationto takeif he couldcertain final measures.
As for himselfso far as he was personally concernedall was over;
he had been seized by Javert and had not resisted; any other man
than himself in like situation wouldperhapshave had some vague
thoughts connected with the rope which Thenardier had given him
and of the bars of the first cell that he should enter; butlet us
impress it upon the readerafter the Bishopthere had existed in
Jean Valjean a profound hesitation in the presence of any violence
even when directed against himself.


Suicidethat mysterious act of violence against the unknown which
may containin a measurethe death of the soulwas impossible
to Jean Valjean.


At the entrance to the Rue de l'Homme Armethe carriage halted
the way being too narrow to admit of the entrance of vehicles.
Javert and Jean Valjean alighted.


The coachman humbly represented to "monsieur l'Inspecteur
that the Utrecht velvet of his carriage was all spotted with the blood
of the assassinated man, and with mire from the assassin. That is
the way he understood it. He added that an indemnity was due him.
At the same time, drawing his certificate book from his pocket,
he begged the inspector to have the goodness to write him a bit
of an attestation."


Javert thrust aside the book which the coachman held out to him
and said:


How much do you want, including your time of waiting and the drive?


It comes to seven hours and a quarter,replied the manand my
velvet was perfectly new. Eighty francs, Mr. Inspector.


Javert drew four napoleons from his pocket and dismissed the carriage.


Jean Valjean fancied that it was Javert's intention to conduct
him on foot to the post of the Blancs-Manteaux or to the post
of the Archivesboth of which are close at hand.


They entered the street. It was deserted as usual. Javert followed
Jean Valjean. They reached No. 7. Jean Valjean knocked.
The door opened.


It is well,said Javert. "Go up stairs."


He added with a strange expressionand as though he were exerting
an effort in speaking in this manner:


I will wait for you here.


Jean Valjean looked at Javert. This mode of procedure was but
little in accord with Javert's habits. Howeverhe could not be
greatly surprised that Javert should now have a sort of haughty
confidence in himthe confidence of the cat which grants the mouse
liberty to the length of its clawsseeing that Jean Valjean had
made up his mind to surrender himself and to make an end of it.
He pushed open the doorentered the housecalled to the porter
who was in bed and who had pulled the cord from his couch: "It is I!"
and ascended the stairs.


On arriving at the first floorhe paused. All sorrowful roads
have their stations. The window on the landing-placewhich was
a sash-windowwas open. As in many ancient housesthe staircase



got its light from without and had a view on the street.
The street-lanternsituated directly oppositecast some light
on the stairsand thus effected some economy in illumination.


Jean Valjeaneither for the sake of getting the airor mechanically
thrust his head out of this window. He leaned out over the street.
It is shortand the lantern lighted it from end to end.
Jean Valjean was overwhelmed with amazement; there was no longer
any one there.


Javert had taken his departure.


CHAPTER XII


THE GRANDFATHER


Basque and the porter had carried Marius into the drawing-room
as he still lay stretched outmotionlesson the sofa upon
which he had been placed on his arrival. The doctor who had
been sent for had hastened thither. Aunt Gillenormand had risen.


Aunt Gillenormand went and camein affrightwringing her hands and
incapable of doing anything but saying: "Heavens! is it possible?"
At times she added: "Everything will be covered with blood."
When her first horror had passed offa certain philosophy of the
situation penetrated her mindand took form in the exclamation:
It was bound to end in this way!She did not go so far as:
I told you so!which is customary on this sort of occasion.
At the physician's ordersa camp bed had been prepared beside the sofa.
The doctor examined Mariusand after having found that his pulse
was still beatingthat the wounded man had no very deep wound on
his breastand that the blood on the corners of his lips proceeded
from his nostrilshe had him placed flat on the bedwithout a pillow
with his head on the same level as his bodyand even a trifle lower
and with his bust bare in order to facilitate respiration.
Mademoiselle Gillenormandon perceiving that they were undressing
Mariuswithdrew. She set herself to telling her beads in her
own chamber.


The trunk had not suffered any internal injury; a bullet
deadened by the pocket-bookhad turned aside and made the tour
of his ribs with a hideous lacerationwhich was of no great depth
and consequentlynot dangerous. The longunderground journey had
completed the dislocation of the broken collar-boneand the disorder
there was serious. The arms had been slashed with sabre cuts.
Not a single scar disfigured his face; but his head was fairly covered
with cuts; what would be the result of these wounds on the head?
Would they stop short at the hairy cuticleor would they attack
the brain? As yetthis could not be decided. A grave symptom was
that they had caused a swoonand that people do not always recover
from such swoons. Moreoverthe wounded man had been exhausted
by hemorrhage. From the waist downthe barricade had protected
the lower part of the body from injury.


Basque and Nicolette tore up linen and prepared bandages; Nicolette
sewed themBasque rolled them. As lint was lackingthe doctor
for the time beingarrested the bleeding with layers of wadding.
Beside the bedthree candles burned on a table where the case
of surgical instruments lay spread out. The doctor bathed Marius'
face and hair with cold water. A full pail was reddened in an instant.
The portercandle in handlighted them.



The doctor seemed to be pondering sadly. From time to time
he made a negative sign with his headas though replying to some
question which he had inwardly addressed to himself.

A bad sign for the sick man are these mysterious dialogues
of the doctor with himself.

At the moment when the doctor was wiping Marius' faceand lightly
touching his still closed eyes with his fingera door opened
at the end of the drawing-roomand a longpallid figure made
its appearance.

This was the grandfather.

The revolt hadfor the past two daysdeeply agitatedenraged and
engrossed the mind of M. Gillenormand. He had not been able to sleep
on the previous nightand he had been in a fever all day long.
In the eveninghe had gone to bed very earlyrecommending that
everything in the house should be well barredand he had fallen
into a doze through sheer fatigue.

Old men sleep lightly; M. Gillenormand's chamber adjoined
the drawing-roomand in spite of all the precautions that had
been takenthe noise had awakened him. Surprised at the rift
of light which he saw under his doorhe had risen from his bed
and had groped his way thither.

He stood astonished on the thresholdone hand on the handle of the
half-open doorwith his head bent a little forward and quivering
his body wrapped in a white dressing-gownwhich was straight
and as destitute of folds as a winding-sheet; and he had the air
of a phantom who is gazing into a tomb.

He saw the bedand on the mattress that young manbleeding
white with a waxen whitenesswith closed eyes and gaping mouth
and pallid lipsstripped to the waistslashed all over with
crimson woundsmotionless and brilliantly lighted up.

The grandfather trembled from head to foot as powerfully as ossified
limbs can tremblehis eyeswhose corneae were yellow on account
of his great agewere veiled in a sort of vitreous glitter
his whole face assumed in an instant the earthy angles of a skull
his arms fell pendentas though a spring had brokenand his
amazement was betrayed by the outspreading of the fingers of his
two aged handswhich quivered all overhis knees formed an angle
in frontallowingthrough the opening in his dressing-gown
a view of his poor bare legsall bristling with white hairs
and he murmured:

Marius!

Sir,said BasqueMonsieur has just been brought back.
He went to the barricade, and . . .

He is dead!cried the old man in a terrible voice. "Ah! The rascal!"

Then a sort of sepulchral transformation straightened up this
centenarian as erect as a young man.

Sir,said heyou are the doctor. Begin by telling me one thing.
He is dead, is he not?

The doctorwho was at the highest pitch of anxietyremained silent.


M. Gillenormand wrung his hands with an outburst of terrible laughter.
He is dead! He is dead! He is dead! He has got himself
killed on the barricades! Out of hatred to me! He did that to
spite me! Ah! You blood-drinker! This is the way he returns to me!
Misery of my life, he is dead!


He went to the windowthrew it wide open as though he were stifling
anderect before the darknesshe began to talk into the street
to the night:


Pierced, sabred, exterminated, slashed, hacked in pieces! Just look
at that, the villain! He knew well that I was waiting for him,
and that I had had his room arranged, and that I had placed at
the head of my bed his portrait taken when he was a little child!
He knew well that he had only to come back, and that I had been
recalling him for years, and that I remained by my fireside,
with my hands on my knees, not knowing what to do, and that I was mad
over it! You knew well, that you had but to return and to say:
`It is I,' and you would have been the master of the house, and that I
should have obeyed you, and that you could have done whatever you
pleased with your old numskull of a grandfather! you knew that well,
and you said:


Nohe is a RoyalistI will not go! And you went to the barricades
and you got yourself killed out of malice! To revenge yourself
for what I said to you about Monsieur le Duc de Berry.
It is infamous! Go to bed then and sleep tranquilly! he is dead
and this is my awakening."


The doctorwho was beginning to be uneasy in both quarters
quitted Marius for a momentwent to M. Gillenormandand took his arm.
The grandfather turned roundgazed at him with eyes which seemed
exaggerated in size and bloodshotand said to him calmly:


I thank you, sir. I am composed, I am a man, I witnessed the death
of Louis XVI., I know how to bear events. One thing is terrible and
that is to think that it is your newspapers which do all the mischief.
You will have scribblers, chatterers, lawyers, orators, tribunes,
discussions, progress, enlightenment, the rights of man, the liberty
of the press, and this is the way that your children will be brought
home to you. Ah! Marius! It is abominable! Killed! Dead before me!
A barricade! Ah, the scamp! Doctor, you live in this quarter,
I believe? Oh! I know you well. I see your cabriolet pass
my window. I am going to tell you. You are wrong to think that I
am angry. One does not fly into a rage against a dead man.
That would be stupid. This is a child whom I have reared.
I was already old while he was very young. He played in the
Tuileries garden with his little shovel and his little chair,
and in order that the inspectors might not grumble, I stopped up
the holes that he made in the earth with his shovel, with my cane.
One day he exclaimed: Down with Louis XVIII.! and off he went.
It was no fault of mine. He was all rosy and blond. His mother
is dead. Have you ever noticed that all little children are blond?
Why is it so? He is the son of one of those brigands of the Loire,
but children are innocent of their fathers' crimes. I remember when he
was no higher than that. He could not manage to pronounce his Ds.
He had a way of talking that was so sweet and indistinct that you
would have thought it was a bird chirping. I remember that once,
in front of the Hercules Farnese, people formed a circle to admire
him and marvel at him, he was so handsome, was that child!
He had a head such as you see in pictures. I talked in a deep voice,
and I frightened him with my cane, but he knew very well that it



was only to make him laugh. In the morning, when he entered my room,
I grumbled, but he was like the sunlight to me, all the same.
One cannot defend oneself against those brats. They take hold of you,
they hold you fast, they never let you go again. The truth is,
that there never was a cupid like that child. Now, what can you say
for your Lafayettes, your Benjamin Constants, and your Tirecuir de
Corcelles who have killed him? This cannot be allowed to pass in
this fashion.


He approached Mariuswho still lay livid and motionlessand to
whom the physician had returnedand began once more to wring
his hands. The old man's pallid lips moved as though mechanically
and permitted the passage of words that were barely audible
like breaths in the death agony:


Ah! heartless lad! Ah! clubbist! Ah! wretch! Ah! Septembrist!


Reproaches in the low voice of an agonizing manaddressed to a corpse.


Little by littleas it is always indispensable that internal
eruptions should come to the lightthe sequence of words returned
but the grandfather appeared no longer to have the strength
to utter themhis voice was so weakand extinctthat it seemed
to come from the other side of an abyss:


It is all the same to me, I am going to die too, that I am.
And to think that there is not a hussy in Paris who would not have
been delighted to make this wretch happy! A scamp who, instead of
amusing himself and enjoying life, went off to fight and get himself
shot down like a brute! And for whom? Why? For the Republic!
Instead of going to dance at the Chaumiere, as it is the duty of young
folks to do! What's the use of being twenty years old? The Republic,
a cursed pretty folly! Poor mothers, beget fine boys, do! Come, he
is dead. That will make two funerals under the same carriage gate.
So you have got yourself arranged like this for the sake of General
Lamarque's handsome eyes! What had that General Lamarque done to you?
A slasher! A chatter-box! To get oneself killed for a dead man!
If that isn't enough to drive any one mad! Just think of it!
At twenty! And without so much as turning his head to see whether
he was not leaving something behind him! That's the way poor,
good old fellows are forced to die alone, now-adays. Perish in
your corner, owl! Well, after all, so much the better, that is
what I was hoping for, this will kill me on the spot. I am too old,
I am a hundred years old, I am a hundred thousand years old, I ought,
by rights, to have been dead long ago. This blow puts an end to it.
So all is over, what happiness! What is the good of making him
inhale ammonia and all that parcel of drugs? You are wasting
your trouble, you fool of a doctor! Come, he's dead, completely dead.
I know all about it, I am dead myself too. He hasn't done things
by half. Yes, this age is infamous, infamous and that's what I
think of you, of your ideas, of your systems, of your masters,
of your oracles, of your doctors, of your scape-graces of writers,
of your rascally philosophers, and of all the revolutions which,
for the last sixty years, have been frightening the flocks of crows
in the Tuileries! But you were pitiless in getting yourself killed
like this, I shall not even grieve over your death, do you understand,
you assassin?


At that momentMarius slowly opened his eyesand his glance
still dimmed by lethargic wonderrested on M. Gillenormand.


Marius!cried the old man. "Marius! My little Marius! my
child! my well-beloved son! You open your eyesyou gaze upon me
you are alivethanks!"



And he fell fainting.

BOOK FOURTH.--JAVERT DERAILED

CHAPTER I

Javert passed slowly down the Rue de l'Homme Arme.

He walked with drooping head for the first time in his life
and likewisefor the first time in his lifewith his hands behind
his back.


Up to that dayJavert had borrowed from Napoleon's attitudes
only that which is expressive of resolutionwith arms folded across
the chest; that which is expressive of uncertainty--with the hands behind
the back--had been unknown to him. Nowa change had taken place;
his whole personslow and sombrewas stamped with anxiety.


He plunged into the silent streets.


Neverthelesshe followed one given direction.


He took the shortest cut to the Seinereached the Quai des Ormes
skirted the quaypassed the Greveand halted at some distance
from the post of the Place du Chateletat the angle of the Pont
Notre-Dame. Therebetween the Notre-Dame and the Pont au Change
on the one handand the Quai de la Megisserie and the Quai aux
Fleurs on the otherthe Seine forms a sort of square lake
traversed by a rapid.


This point of the Seine is dreaded by mariners. Nothing is more
dangerous than this rapidhemmed inat that epochand irritated
by the piles of the mill on the bridgenow demolished.
The two bridgessituated thus close togetheraugment the peril;
the water hurries in formidable wise through the arches. It rolls
in vast and terrible waves; it accumulates and piles up there;
the flood attacks the piles of the bridges as though in an effort
to pluck them up with great liquid ropes. Men who fall in there
never re-appear; the best of swimmers are drowned there.


Javert leaned both elbows on the parapethis chin resting
in both handsandwhile his nails were mechanically twined
in the abundance of his whiskershe meditated.


A noveltya revolutiona catastrophe had just taken place in the
depths of his being; and he had something upon which to examine himself.


Javert was undergoing horrible suffering.


For several hoursJavert had ceased to be simple. He was troubled;
that brainso limpid in its blindnesshad lost its transparency;
that crystal was clouded. Javert felt duty divided within his conscience
and he could not conceal the fact from himself. When he had so
unexpectedly encountered Jean Valjean on the banks of the Seine
there had been in him something of the wolf which regains his grip
on his preyand of the dog who finds his master again.


He beheld before him two pathsboth equally straightbut he
beheld two; and that terrified him; himwho had never in all his



life known more than one straight line. Andthe poignant anguish
lay in thisthat the two paths were contrary to each other.
One of these straight lines excluded the other. Which of the two
was the true one?


His situation was indescribable.


To owe his life to a malefactorto accept that debt and to repay it;
to bein spite of himselfon a level with a fugitive from justice
and to repay his service with another service; to allow it to be said
to himGo,and to say to the latter in his turn: "Be free";
to sacrifice to personal motives dutythat general obligation
and to be consciousin those personal motivesof something that
was also generalandperchancesuperiorto betray society in
order to remain true to his conscience; that all these absurdities
should be realized and should accumulate upon him--this was what
overwhelmed him.


One thing had amazed him--this was that Jean Valjean
should have done him a favorand one thing petrified him--
that heJavertshould have done Jean Valjean a favor.


Where did he stand? He sought to comprehend his positionand could
no longer find his bearings.


What was he to do now? To deliver up Jean Valjean was bad;
to leave Jean Valjean at liberty was bad. In the first case
the man of authority fell lower than the man of the galleys
in the seconda convict rose above the lawand set his foot
upon it. In both casesdishonor for himJavert. There was
disgrace in any resolution at which he might arrive. Destiny has
some extremities which rise perpendicularly from the impossible
and beyond which life is no longer anything but a precipice.
Javert had reached one of those extremities.


One of his anxieties consisted in being constrained to think.
The very violence of all these conflicting emotions forced him to it.
Thought was something to which he was unusedand which was
peculiarly painful.


In thought there always exists a certain amount of internal rebellion;
and it irritated him to have that within him.


Thought on any subject whateveroutside of the restricted circle of
his functionswould have been for him in any case useless and a fatigue;
thought on the day which had just passed was a torture. Nevertheless
it was indispensable that he should take a look into his conscience
after such shocksand render to himself an account of himself.


What he had just done made him shudder. HeJaverthad seen fit
to decidecontrary to all the regulations of the policecontrary to
the whole social and judicial organizationcontrary to the entire code
upon a release; this had suited him; he had substituted his own
affairs for the affairs of the public; was not this unjustifiable?
Every time that he brought himself face to face with this deed without
a name which he had committedhe trembled from head to foot.
Upon what should he decide? One sole resource remained to him;
to return in all haste to the Rue de l'Homme Armeand commit Jean
Valjean to prison. It was clear that that was what he ought to do.
He could not.


Something barred his way in that direction.


Something? What? Is there in the worldanything outside of



the tribunalsexecutory sentencesthe police and the authorities?
Javert was overwhelmed.

A galley-slave sacred! A convict who could not be touched by the law!
And that the deed of Javert!

Was it not a fearful thing that Javert and Jean Valjeanthe man made
to proceed with vigorthe man made to submit--that these two men
who were both the things of the lawshould have come to such a pass
that both of them had set themselves above the law? What then! such
enormities were to happen and no one was to be punished! Jean Valjean
stronger than the whole social orderwas to remain at liberty
and heJavertwas to go on eating the government's bread!

His revery gradually became terrible.

He mightathwart this reveryhave also reproached himself
on the subject of that insurgent who had been taken to the Rue
des Filles-du-Calvaire; but he never even thought of that.
The lesser fault was lost in the greater. Besidesthat insurgent
wasobviouslya dead manandlegallydeath puts an end to pursuit.

Jean Valjean was the load which weighed upon his spirit.

Jean Valjean disconcerted him. All the axioms which had served
him as points of support all his life longhad crumbled away
in the presence of this man. Jean Valjean's generosity towards
himJavertcrushed him. Other facts which he now recalled
and which he had formerly treated as lies and follynow recurred
to him as realities. M. Madeleine re-appeared behind Jean Valjean
and the two figures were superposed in such fashion that they now
formed but onewhich was venerable. Javert felt that something
terrible was penetrating his soul--admiration for a convict.
Respect for a galley-slave--is that a possible thing? He shuddered
at ityet could not escape from it. In vain did he struggle
he was reduced to confessin his inmost heartthe sublimity
of that wretch. This was odious.

A benevolent malefactormercifulgentlehelpfulclement
a convictreturning good for evilgiving back pardon for hatred
preferring pity to vengeancepreferring to ruin himself rather
than to ruin his enemysaving him who had smitten himkneeling on
the heights of virtuemore nearly akin to an angel than to a man.
Javert was constrained to admit to himself that this monster existed.

Things could not go on in this manner.

Certainlyand we insist upon this pointhe had not yielded
without resistance to that monsterto that infamous angel
to that hideous herowho enraged almost as much as he amazed him.
Twenty timesas he sat in that carriage face to face with Jean Valjean
the legal tiger had roared within him. A score of times he had
been tempted to fling himself upon Jean Valjeanto seize him
and devour himthat is to sayto arrest him. What more simple
in fact? To cry out at the first post that they passed:--"Here
is a fugitive from justicewho has broken his ban!" to summon
the gendarmes and say to them: "This man is yours!" then to go off
leaving that condemned man thereto ignore the rest and not to meddle
further in the matter. This man is forever a prisoner of the law;
the law may do with him what it will. What could be more just?
Javert had said all this to himself; he had wished to pass beyond
to actto apprehend the manand thenas at presenthe had not been
able to do it; and every time that his arm had been raised convulsively
towards Jean Valjean's collarhis hand had fallen back again


as beneath an enormous weightand in the depths of his thought he
had heard a voicea strange voice crying to him:--"It is well.
Deliver up your savior. Then have the basin of Pontius Pilate
brought and wash your claws."


Then his reflections reverted to himself and beside Jean Valjean
glorified he beheld himselfJavertdegraded.


A convict was his benefactor!


But thenwhy had he permitted that man to leave him alive?
He had the right to be killed in that barricade. He should have
asserted that right. It would have been better to summon the other
insurgents to his succor against Jean Valjeanto get himself shot
by force.


His supreme anguish was the loss of certainty. He felt that he had
been uprooted. The code was no longer anything more than a stump
in his hand. He had to deal with scruples of an unknown species.
There had taken place within him a sentimental revelation entirely
distinct from legal affirmationhis only standard of measurement
hitherto. To remain in his former uprightness did not suffice.
A whole order of unexpected facts had cropped up and subjugated him.
A whole new world was dawning on his soul: kindness accepted
and repaiddevotionmercyindulgenceviolences committed by pity
on austerityrespect for personsno more definitive condemnation
no more convictionthe possibility of a tear in the eye of the law
no one knows what justice according to Godrunning in inverse sense
to justice according to men. He perceived amid the shadows the terrible
rising of an unknown moral sun; it horrified and dazzled him.
An owl forced to the gaze of an eagle.


He said to himself that it was true that there were exceptional
casesthat authority might be put out of countenance
that the rule might be inadequate in the presence of a fact
that everything could not be framed within the text of the code
that the unforeseen compelled obediencethat the virtue of a
convict might set a snare for the virtue of the functionary
that destiny did indulge in such ambushesand he reflected with
despair that he himself had not even been fortified against a surprise.


He was forced to acknowledge that goodness did exist. This convict
had been good. And he himselfunprecedented circumstance
had just been good also. So he was becoming depraved.


He found that he was a coward. He conceived a horror of himself.


Javert's idealwas not to be humanto be grandto be sublime;
it was to be irreproachable.


Nowhe had just failed in this.


How had he come to such a pass? How had all this happened?
He could not have told himself. He clasped his head in both hands
but in spite of all that he could dohe could not contrive to explain
it to himself.


He had certainly always entertained the intention of restoring
Jean Valjean to the law of which Jean Valjean was the captive
and of which heJavertwas the slave. Not for a single instant
while he held him in his grasp had he confessed to himself that he
entertained the idea of releasing him. It wasin some sort
without his consciousnessthat his hand had relaxed and had let him
go free.



All sorts of interrogation points flashed before his eyes. He put
questions to himselfand made replies to himselfand his replies
frightened him. He asked himself: "What has that convict done
that desperate fellowwhom I have pursued even to persecution
and who has had me under his footand who could have avenged himself
and who owed it both to his rancor and to his safetyin leaving me
my lifein showing mercy upon me? His duty? No. Something more.
And I in showing mercy upon him in my turn--what have I done?
My duty? No. Something more. So there is something beyond duty?"
Here he took fright; his balance became disjointed; one of the scales
fell into the abyssthe other rose heavenwardand Javert was no
less terrified by the one which was on high than by the one which
was below. Without being in the least in the world what is called
Voltairian or a philosopheror incredulousbeingon the contrary
respectful by instincttowards the established churchhe knew it
only as an august fragment of the social whole; order was his dogma
and sufficed for him; ever since he had attained to man's estate
and the rank of a functionaryhe had centred nearly all his religion
in the police. Being--and here we employ words without the least
irony and in their most serious acceptationbeingas we have said
a spy as other men are priests. He had a superiorM. Gisquet;
up to that day he had never dreamed of that other superior
God.


This new chiefGodhe became unexpectedly conscious ofand he felt
embarrassed by him. This unforeseen presence threw him off his bearings;
he did not know what to do with this superiorhewho was not
ignorant of the fact that the subordinate is bound always to bow
that he must not disobeynor find faultnor discussand that
in the presence of a superior who amazes him too greatlythe inferior
has no other resource than that of handing in his resignation.


But how was he to set about handing in his resignation to God?


However things might stand--and it was to this point that he
reverted constantly--one fact dominated everything else for him
and that wasthat he had just committed a terrible infraction
of the law. He had just shut his eyes on an escaped convict
who had broken his ban. He had just set a galley-slave at large.
He had just robbed the laws of a man who belonged to them.
That was what he had done. He no longer understood himself.
The very reasons for his action escaped him; only their vertigo
was left with him. Up to that moment he had lived with that blind
faith which gloomy probity engenders. This faith had quitted him
this probity had deserted him. All that he had believed in
melted away. Truths which he did not wish to recognize were
besieging himinexorably. Henceforthhe must be a different man.
He was suffering from the strange pains of a conscience abruptly
operated on for the cataract. He saw that which it was repugnant
to him to behold. He felt himself emptieduselessput out of joint
with his past lifeturned outdissolved. Authority was dead
within him. He had no longer any reason for existing.


A terrible situation! to be touched.


To be granite and to doubt! to be the statue of Chastisement cast
in one piece in the mould of the lawand suddenly to become aware
of the fact that one cherishes beneath one's breast of bronze
something absurd and disobedient which almost resembles a heart!
To come to the pass of returning good for goodalthough one has
said to oneself up to that day that that good is evil! to be the
watch-dogand to lick the intruder's hand! to be ice and melt!
to be the pincers and to turn into a hand! to suddenly feel one's



fingers opening! to relax one's grip--what a terrible thing!

The man-projectile no longer acquainted with his route and retreating!

To be obliged to confess this to oneself: infallibility is
not infalliblethere may exist error in the dogmaall has not
been said when a code speakssociety is not perfectauthority is
complicated with vacillationa crack is possible in the immutable
judges are but menthe law may errtribunals may make a mistake!
to behold a rift in the immense blue pane of the firmament!


That which was passing in Javert was the Fampoux of a rectilinear
consciencethe derailment of a soulthe crushing of a probity
which had been irresistibly launched in a straight line and was
breaking against God. It certainly was singular that the stoker
of orderthat the engineer of authoritymounted on the blind iron
horse with its rigid roadcould be unseated by a flash of light!
that the immovablethe directthe correctthe geometrical
the passivethe perfectcould bend! that there should exist
for the locomotive a road to Damascus!


Godalways within manand refractoryHethe true conscience
to the false; a prohibition to the spark to die out; an order to
the ray to remember the sun; an injunction to the soul to recognize
the veritable absolute when confronted with the fictitious absolute
humanity which cannot be lost; the human heart indestructible;
that splendid phenomenonthe finestperhapsof all our interior
marvelsdid Javert understand this? Did Javert penetrate it?
Did Javert account for it to himself? Evidently he did not.
But beneath the pressure of that incontestable incomprehensibility he
felt his brain bursting.


He was less the man transfigured than the victim of this prodigy.
In all this he perceived only the tremendous difficulty of existence.
It seemed to him thathenceforthhis respiration was repressed forever.
He was not accustomed to having something unknown hanging over
his head.


Up to this pointeverything above him had beento his gaze
merely a smoothlimpid and simple surface; there was nothing
incomprehensiblenothing obscure; nothing that was not defined
regularly disposedlinkedprecisecircumscribedexactlimited
closedfully provided for; authority was a plane surface; there was
no fall in itno dizziness in its presence. Javert had never beheld
the unknown except from below. The irregularthe unforeseen
the disordered opening of chaosthe possible slip over a precipice--
this was the work of the lower regionsof rebelsof the wicked
of wretches. Now Javert threw himself backand he was suddenly
terrified by this unprecedented apparition: a gulf on high.


What! one was dismantled from top to bottom! one was disconcerted
absolutely! In what could one trust! That which had been agreed
upon was giving way! What! the defect in society's armor could
be discovered by a magnanimous wretch! What! an honest servitor
of the law could suddenly find himself caught between two crimes--
the crime of allowing a man to escape and the crime of arresting
him! everything was not settled in the orders given by the State
to the functionary! There might be blind alleys in duty! What--
all this was real! was it true that an ex-ruffianweighed down
with convictionscould rise erect and end by being in the right?
Was this credible? were there cases in which the law should retire
before transfigured crimeand stammer its excuses?--Yesthat was
the state of the case! and Javert saw it! and Javert had touched it!
and not only could he not deny itbut he had taken part in it.



These were realities. It was abominable that actual facts could
reach such deformity. If facts did their dutythey would confine
themselves to being proofs of the law; facts--it is God who sends them.
Was anarchythenon the point of now descending from on high?

Thus--and in the exaggeration of anguishand the optical illusion
of consternationall that might have corrected and restrained
this impression was effacedand societyand the human race
and the universe werehenceforthsummed up in his eyesin one
simple and terrible feature--thus the penal lawsthe thing judged
the force due to legislationthe decrees of the sovereign courts
the magistracythe governmentpreventionrepression
official crueltywisdomlegal infallibilitythe principle
of authorityall the dogmas on which rest political and civil
securitysovereigntyjusticepublic truthall this was rubbish
a shapeless masschaos; he himselfJavertthe spy of order
incorruptibility in the service of the policethe bull-dog providence
of societyvanquished and hurled to earth; anderectat the
summit of all that ruina man with a green cap on his head and a
halo round his brow; this was the astounding confusion to which
he had come; this was the fearful vision which he bore within his soul.

Was this to be endured? No.

A violent stateif ever such existed. There were only two ways
of escaping from it. One was to go resolutely to Jean Valjean
and restore to his cell the convict from the galleys. The other . .
.

Javert quitted the parapetandwith head erect this time
betook himselfwith a firm treadtowards the station-house indicated
by a lantern at one of the corners of the Place du Chatelet.

On arriving therehe saw through the window a sergeant of police
and he entered. Policemen recognize each other by the very way
in which they open the door of a station-house. Javert mentioned
his nameshowed his card to the sergeantand seated himself at
the table of the post on which a candle was burning. On a table
lay a pena leaden inkstand and paperprovided in the event of
possible reports and the orders of the night patrols. This table
still completed by its straw-seated chairis an institution;
it exists in all police stations; it is invariably ornamented with a
box-wood saucer filled with sawdust and a wafer box of cardboard filled
with red wafersand it forms the lowest stage of official style.
It is there that the literature of the State has its beginning.

Javert took a pen and a sheet of paperand began to write.
This is what he wrote:

A FEW OBSERVATIONS FOR THE GOOD OF THE SERVICE.

In the first place: I beg Monsieur le Prefet to cast his eyes
on this.

Secondly: prisonerson arriving after examinationtake off
their shoes and stand barefoot on the flagstones while they are
being searched. Many of them cough on their return to prison.
This entails hospital expenses.

Thirdly: the mode of keeping track of a man with relays of police
agents from distance to distance, is good, but, on important occasions,
it is requisite that at least two agents should never lose sight
of each other, so that, in case one agent should, for any cause,


grow weak in his service, the other may supervise him and take
his place.

Fourthly: it is inexplicable why the special regulation of the prison
of the Madelonettes interdicts the prisoner from having a chair
even by paying for it.

Fifthly: in the Madelonettes there are only two bars to the canteen,
so that the canteen woman can touch the prisoners with her hand.

Sixthly: the prisoners called barkerswho summon the other
prisoners to the parlorforce the prisoner to pay them two sous
to call his name distinctly. This is a theft.

Seventhly: for a broken thread ten sous are withheld in the
weaving shop; this is an abuse of the contractor, since the cloth
is none the worse for it.

Eighthly: it is annoying for visitors to La Force to be
obliged to traverse the boys' court in order to reach the parlor
of Sainte-Marie-l'Egyptienne.

Ninthly: it is a fact that any day gendarmes can be overheard
relating in the court-yard of the prefecture the interrogations put
by the magistrates to prisoners. For a gendarme, who should be
sworn to secrecy, to repeat what he has heard in the examination
room is a grave disorder.

Tenthly: Mme. Henry is an honest woman; her canteen is very neat;
but it is bad to have a woman keep the wicket to the mouse-trap
of the secret cells. This is unworthy of the Conciergerie of a
great civilization."

Javert wrote these lines in his calmest and most correct chirography
not omitting a single commaand making the paper screech under his pen.
Below the last line he signed:

JAVERT,
Inspector of the 1st class.
The Post of the Place du Chatelet.
June 7th1832about one o'clock in the morning."

Javert dried the fresh ink on the paperfolded it like a letter
sealed itwrote on the back: Note for the administrationleft it
on the tableand quitted the post. The glazed and grated door fell
to behind him.

Again he traversed the Place du Chatelet diagonallyregained the quay
and returned with automatic precision to the very point which he
had abandoned a quarter of an hour previouslyleaned on his elbows
and found himself again in the same attitude on the same paving-stone
of the parapet. He did not appear to have stirred.

The darkness was complete. It was the sepulchral moment which
follows midnight. A ceiling of clouds concealed the stars. Not a
single light burned in the houses of the city; no one was passing;
all of the streets and quays which could be seen were deserted;
Notre-Dame and the towers of the Court-House seemed features
of the night. A street lantern reddened the margin of the quay.
The outlines of the bridges lay shapeless in the mist one behind
the other. Recent rains had swollen the river.

The spot where Javert was leaning wasit will be remembered


situated precisely over the rapids of the Seineperpendicularly above
that formidable spiral of whirlpools which loose and knot themselves
again like an endless screw.


Javert bent his head and gazed. All was black. Nothing was to
be distinguished. A sound of foam was audible; but the river could not
be seen. At momentsin that dizzy deptha gleam of light appeared
and undulated vaguelywater possessing the power of taking light
no one knows whenceand converting it into a snake. The light
vanishedand all became indistinct once more. Immensity seemed
thrown open there. What lay below was not waterit was a gulf.
The wall of the quayabruptconfusedmingled with the vapors
instantly concealed from sightproduced the effect of an escarpment
of the infinite. Nothing was to be seenbut the hostile chill
of the water and the stale odor of the wet stones could be felt.
A fierce breath rose from this abyss. The flood in the river
divined rather than perceivedthe tragic whispering of the waves
the melancholy vastness of the arches of the bridgethe imaginable
fall into that gloomy voidinto all that shadow was full of horror.


Javert remained motionless for several minutesgazing at this
opening of shadow; he considered the invisible with a fixity that
resembled attention. The water roared. All at once he took off
his hat and placed it on the edge of the quay. A moment later
a tall black figurewhich a belated passer-by in the distance
might have taken for a phantomappeared erect upon the parapet
of the quaybent over towards the Seinethen drew itself up again
and fell straight down into the shadows; a dull splash followed;
and the shadow alone was in the secret of the convulsions of that
obscure form which had disappeared beneath the water.


BOOK FIFTH.--GRANDSON AND GRANDFATHER


CHAPTER I


IN WHICH THE TREE WITH THE ZINC PLASTER APPEARS AGAIN


Some time after the events which we have just recorded
Sieur Boulatruelle experienced a lively emotion.


Sieur Boulatruelle was that road-mender of Montfermeil whom
the reader has already seen in the gloomy parts of this book.


Boulatruelleas the reader mayperchancerecallwas a man
who was occupied with divers and troublesome matters. He broke
stones and damaged travellers on the highway.


Road-mender and thief as he washe cherished one dream; he believed
in the treasures buried in the forest of Montfermeil. He hoped
some day to find the money in the earth at the foot of a tree;
in the meanwhilehe lived to search the pockets of passers-by.


Neverthelessfor an instanthe was prudent. He had just
escaped neatly. He had beenas the reader is awarepicked up
in Jondrette's garret in company with the other ruffians.
Utility of a vice: his drunkenness had been his salvation.
The authorities had never been able to make out whether he had been
there in the quality of a robber or a man who had been robbed.
An order of nolle prosequifounded on his well authenticated state
of intoxication on the evening of the ambushhad set him at liberty.



He had taken to his heels. He had returned to his road from Gagny
to Lagnyto makeunder administrative supervisionbroken stone
for the good of the statewith downcast mienin a very pensive mood
his ardor for theft somewhat cooled; but he was addicted none
the less tenderly to the wine which had recently saved him.


As for the lively emotion which he had experienced a short time
after his return to his road-mender's turf-thatched cothere it is:


One morningBoulatruellewhile on his way as was his wont
to his workand possibly also to his ambusha little before
daybreak caught sightthrough the branches of the treesof a man
whose back alone he sawbut the shape of whose shouldersas it
seemed to him at that distance and in the early duskwas not
entirely unfamiliar to him. Boulatruellealthough intoxicated
had a correct and lucid memorya defensive arm that is indispensable
to any one who is at all in conflict with legal order.


Where the deuce have I seen something like that man yonder?
he said to himself. But he could make himself no answer
except that the man resembled some one of whom his memory preserved
a confused trace.


Howeverapart from the identity which he could not manage to catch
Boulatruelle put things together and made calculations. This man
did not belong in the country-side. He had just arrived there.
On footevidently. No public conveyance passes through Montfermeil
at that hour. He had walked all night. Whence came he? Not from
a very great distance; for he had neither haversacknor bundle.
From Parisno doubt. Why was he in these woods? why was he there at
such an hour? what had he come there for?


Boulatruelle thought of the treasure. By dint of ransacking his memory
he recalled in a vague way that he had alreadymany years before
had a similar alarm in connection with a man who produced on him
the effect that he might well be this very individual.


By the deuce,said BoulatruelleI'll find him again.
I'll discover the parish of that parishioner. This prowler
of Patron-Minette has a reason, and I'll know it. People can't
have secrets in my forest if I don't have a finger in the pie.


He took his pick-axe which was very sharply pointed.


There now,he grumbledis something that will search the earth
and a man.


Andas one knots one thread to another threadhe took up the line
of march at his best pace in the direction which the man must follow
and set out across the thickets.


When he had compassed a hundred stridesthe daywhich was already
beginning to breakcame to his assistance. Footprints stamped
in the sandweeds trodden down here and thereheather crushed
young branches in the brushwood bent and in the act of straightening
themselves up again with the graceful deliberation of the arms of a
pretty woman who stretches herself when she wakespointed out to him
a sort of track. He followed itthen lost it. Time was flying.
He plunged deeper into the woods and came to a sort of eminence.
An early huntsman who was passing in the distance along a path
whistling the air of Guillerysuggested to him the idea of climbing
a tree. Old as he washe was agile. There stood close at hand
a beech-tree of great sizeworthy of Tityrus and of Boulatruelle.
Boulatruelle ascended the beech as high as he was able.



The idea was a good one. On scrutinizing the solitary waste
on the side where the forest is thoroughly entangled and wild
Boulatruelle suddenly caught sight of his man.


Hardly had he got his eye upon him when he lost sight of him.


The man enteredor ratherglided intoan open gladeat a
considerable distancemasked by large treesbut with which
Boulatruelle was perfectly familiaron account of having noticed
near a large pile of porous stonesan ailing chestnut-tree
bandaged with a sheet of zinc nailed directly upon the bark.
This glade was the one which was formerly called the Blaru-bottom.
The heap of stonesdestined for no one knows what employment
which was visible there thirty years agois doubtless still there.
Nothing equals a heap of stones in longevityunless it is a board fence.
They are temporary expedients. What a reason for lasting!


Boulatruellewith the rapidity of joydropped rather than descended
from the tree. The lair was unearthedthe question now was to seize
the beast. That famous treasure of his dreams was probably there.


It was no small matter to reach that glade. By the beaten paths
which indulge in a thousand teasing zigzagsit required a good
quarter of an hour. In a bee-linethrough the underbrushwhich is
peculiarly densevery thornyand very aggressive in that locality
a full half hour was necessary. Boulatruelle committed the error
of not comprehending this. He believed in the straight line;
a respectable optical illusion which ruins many a man. The thicket
bristling as it wasstruck him as the best road.


Let's take to the wolves' Rue de Rivoli,said he.


Boulatruelleaccustomed to taking crooked courseswas on this
occasion guilty of the fault of going straight.


He flung himself resolutely into the tangle of undergrowth.


He had to deal with holly bushesnettleshawthornseglantines
thistlesand very irascible brambles. He was much lacerated.


At the bottom of the ravine he found water which he was obliged
to traverse.


At last he reached the Blaru-bottomafter the lapse of forty
minutessweatingsoakedbreathlessscratchedand ferocious.


There was no one in the glade. Boulatruelle rushed to the heap
of stones. It was in its place. It had not been carried off.


As for the manhe had vanished in the forest. He had made his escape.
Where? in what direction? into what thicket? Impossible to guess.


Andheartrending to saytherebehind the pile of stonesin front
of the tree with the sheet of zincwas freshly turned earth
a pick-axeabandoned or forgottenand a hole.


The hole was empty.


Thief!shrieked Boulatruelleshaking his fist at the horizon.


CHAPTER II



MARIUSEMERGING FROM CIVIL WARMAKES READY FOR DOMESTIC WAR

For a long timeMarius was neither dead nor alive. For many
weeks he lay in a fever accompanied by deliriumand by tolerably
grave cerebral symptomscaused more by the shocks of the wounds
on the head than by the wounds themselves.

He repeated Cosette's name for whole nights in the melancholy loquacity
of feverand with the sombre obstinacy of agony. The extent of some
of the lesions presented a serious dangerthe suppuration of large
wounds being always liable to become re-absorbedand consequently
to kill the sick manunder certain atmospheric conditions; at every
change of weatherat the slightest stormthe physician was uneasy.

Above all things,he repeatedlet the wounded man be subjected
to no emotion.The dressing of the wounds was complicated
and difficultthe fixation of apparatus and bandages by
cerecloths not having been invented as yetat that epoch.
Nicolette used up a sheet "as big as the ceiling as she put it,
for lint. It was not without difficulty that the chloruretted
lotions and the nitrate of silver overcame the gangrene.
As long as there was any danger, M. Gillenormand, seated in despair
at his grandson's pillow, was, like Marius, neither alive nor dead.

Every day, sometimes twice a day, a very well dressed gentleman
with white hair,--such was the description given by the porter,-came
to inquire about the wounded man, and left a large package
of lint for the dressings.

Finally, on the 7th of September, four months to a day, after the
sorrowful night when he had been brought back to his grandfather
in a dying condition, the doctor declared that he would answer
for Marius. Convalescence began. But Marius was forced to remain
for two months more stretched out on a long chair, on account of the
results called up by the fracture of his collar-bone. There always
is a last wound like that which will not close, and which prolongs
the dressings indefinitely, to the great annoyance of the sick person.

However, this long illness and this long convalescence saved him
from all pursuit. In France, there is no wrath, not even of a
public character, which six months will not extinguish. Revolts,
in the present state of society, are so much the fault of every one,
that they are followed by a certain necessity of shutting the eyes.

Let us add, that the inexcusable Gisquet order, which enjoined
doctors to lodge information against the wounded, having outraged
public opinion, and not opinion alone, but the King first of all,
the wounded were covered and protected by this indignation; and,
with the exception of those who had been made prisoners in the very
act of combat, the councils of war did not dare to trouble any one.
So Marius was left in peace.

M. Gillenormand first passed through all manner of anguish, and then
through every form of ecstasy. It was found difficult to prevent
his passing every night beside the wounded man; he had his big
arm-chair carried to Marius' bedside; he required his daughter
to take the finest linen in the house for compresses and bandages.
Mademoiselle Gillenormand, like a sage and elderly person,
contrived to spare the fine linen, while allowing the grandfather
to think that he was obeyed. M. Gillenormand would not permit
any one to explain to him, that for the preparation of lint
batiste is not nearly so good as coarse linen, nor new linen

as old linen. He was present at all the dressings of the wounds
from which Mademoiselle Gillenormand modestly absented herself.
When the dead flesh was cut away with scissors, he said: Aie! aie!"
Nothing was more touching than to see him with his gentle
senile palsyoffer the wounded man a cup of his cooling-draught.
He overwhelmed the doctor with questions. He did not observe
that he asked the same ones over and over again.

On the day when the doctor announced to him that Marius was out
of dangerthe good man was in a delirium. He made his porter a present
of three louis. That eveningon his return to his own chamber
he danced a gavotteusing his thumb and forefinger as castanets

and he sang the following song:
Jeanne est nee a Fougere Amourtu vis en elle;
Vrai nid d'une bergere; Car c'est dans sa prunelle
J'adore son juponQue tu mets ton carquois.
Fripon. Narquois!

Moi, je la chante, et j'aime,
Plus que Diane meme,
Jeanne et ses durs tetons

Bretons.[61]

[61] "Jeanne was born at Fougerea true shepherd's nest; I adore
her petticoatthe rogue.
Love, thou dwellest in her; For 'tis in her eyes that thou placest
thy quiver, sly scamp!

As for meI sing herand I lovemore than Diana herself
Jeanne and her firm Breton breasts."

Then he knelt upon a chairand Basquewho was watching him
through the half-open doormade sure that he was praying.

Up to that timehe had not believed in God.

At each succeeding phase of improvementwhich became more and
more pronouncedthe grandfather raved. He executed a multitude of
mechanical actions full of joy; he ascended and descended the stairs
without knowing why. A pretty female neighbor was amazed one morning
at receiving a big bouquet; it was M. Gillenormand who had sent it
to her. The husband made a jealous scene. M. Gillenormand tried
to draw Nicolette upon his knees. He called MariusM. le Baron.
He shouted: "Long live the Republic!"

Every momenthe kept asking the doctor: "Is he no longer in danger?"
He gazed upon Marius with the eyes of a grandmother. He brooded
over him while he ate. He no longer knew himselfhe no longer
rendered himself an account of himself. Marius was the master
of the housethere was abdication in his joyhe was the grandson
of his grandson.

In the state of joy in which he then washe was the most venerable
of children. In his fear lest he might fatigue or annoy the convalescent
he stepped behind him to smile. He was contentjoyousdelighted
charmingyoung. His white locks added a gentle majesty to the gay
radiance of his visage. When grace is mingled with wrinkles
it is adorable. There is an indescribable aurora in beaming old age.


As for Mariusas he allowed them to dress his wounds and care
for himhe had but one fixed idea: Cosette.

After the fever and delirium had left himhe did not again pronounce
her nameand it might have been supposed that he no longer thought
of her. He held his peaceprecisely because his soul was there.

He did not know what had become of Cosette; the whole affair of the Rue
de la Chanvrerie was like a cloud in his memory; shadows that were
almost indistinctfloated through his mindEponineGavrocheMabeuf
the Thenardiersall his friends gloomily intermingled with the smoke
of the barricade; the strange passage of M. Fauchelevent through
that adventure produced on him the effect of a puzzle in a tempest;
he understood nothing connected with his own lifehe did not know
how nor by whom he had been savedand no one of those around him
knew this; all that they had been able to tell him wasthat he
had been brought home at night in a hackney-coachto the Rue
des Filles-du-Calvaire; pastpresentfuture were nothing more
to him than the mist of a vague idea; but in that fog there was
one immovable pointone clear and precise outlinesomething made
of granitea resolutiona will; to find Cosette once more.
For himthe idea of life was not distinct from the idea of Cosette.
He had decreed in his heart that he would not accept the one without
the otherand he was immovably resolved to exact of any person whatever
who should desire to force him to live--from his grandfather
from fatefrom hell--the restitution of his vanished Eden.

He did not conceal from himself the fact that obstacles existed.

Let us here emphasize one detailhe was not won over and was but little
softened by all the solicitude and tenderness of his grandfather.
In the first placehe was not in the secret; thenin his reveries
of an invalidwhich were still feverishpossiblyhe distrusted
this tenderness as a strange and novel thingwhich had for its
object his conquest. He remained cold. The grandfather absolutely
wasted his poor old smile. Marius said to himself that it was
all right so long as heMariusdid not speakand let things
take their course; but that when it became a question of Cosette
he would find another faceand that his grandfather's true attitude
would be unmasked. Then there would be an unpleasant scene;
a recrudescence of family questionsa confrontation of positions
every sort of sarcasm and all manner of objections at one and the
same timeFaucheleventCoupeleventfortunepovertya stone about
his neckthe future. Violent resistance; conclusion: a refusal.
Marius stiffened himself in advance.

And thenin proportion as he regained lifethe old ulcers
of his memory opened once morehe reflected again on the past
Colonel Pontmercy placed himself once more between M. Gillenormand
and himMariushe told himself that he had no true kindness to expect
from a person who had been so unjust and so hard to his father.
And with healththere returned to him a sort of harshness
towards his grandfather. The old man was gently pained by this.

M. Gillenormandwithout however allowing it to appearobserved
that Mariusever since the latter had been brought back to him
and had regained consciousnesshad not once called him father.
It is true that he did not say "monsieur" to him; but he contrived
not to say either the one or the otherby means of a certain way
of turning his phrases. Obviouslya crisis was approaching.
As almost always happens in such casesMarius skirmished before
giving battleby way of proving himself. This is called "feeling
the ground." One morning it came to pass that M. Gillenormand spoke
slightingly of the Conventionapropos of a newspaper which had fallen


into his handsand gave vent to a Royalist harangue on Danton
Saint-Juste and Robespierre.--"The men of '93 were giants
said Marius with severity. The old man held his peace, and uttered
not a sound during the remainder of that day.


Marius, who had always present to his mind the inflexible grandfather
of his early years, interpreted this silence as a profound
concentration of wrath, augured from it a hot conflict, and augmented
his preparations for the fray in the inmost recesses of his mind.


He decided that, in case of a refusal, he would tear off his bandages,
dislocate his collar-bone, that he would lay bare all the wounds
which he had left, and would reject all food. His wounds were his
munitions of war. He would have Cosette or die.


He awaited the propitious moment with the crafty patience of the sick.


That moment arrived.


CHAPTER III


MARIUS ATTACKED


One day, M. Gillenormand, while his daughter was putting in order
the phials and cups on the marble of the commode, bent over Marius
and said to him in his tenderest accents: Look heremy little Marius
if I were in your placeI would eat meat now in preference to fish.
A fried sole is excellent to begin a convalescence withbut a good
cutlet is needed to put a sick man on his feet."


Mariuswho had almost entirely recovered his strength
collected the whole of itdrew himself up into a sitting posture
laid his two clenched fists on the sheets of his bedlooked his
grandfather in the faceassumed a terrible airand said:


This leads me to say something to you.


What is it?


That I wish to marry.


Agreed,said his grandfather.--And he burst out laughing.


How agreed?


Yes, agreed. You shall have your little girl.


Mariusstunned and overwhelmed with the dazzling shock
trembled in every limb.


M. Gillenormand went on:
Yes, you shall have her, that pretty little girl of yours.
She comes every day in the shape of an old gentleman to inquire
after you. Ever since you were wounded, she has passed her time
in weeping and making lint. I have made inquiries. She lives
in the Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7. Ah! There we have it!
Ah! so you want her! Well, you shall have her. You're caught.
You had arranged your little plot, you had said to yourself:--`I'm
going to signify this squarely to my grandfather, to that mummy
of the Regency and of the Directory, to that ancient beau, to that


Dorante turned Geronte; he has indulged in his frivolities also,
that he has, and he has had his love affairs, and his grisettes
and his Cosettes; he has made his rustle, he has had his wings,
he has eaten of the bread of spring; he certainly must remember it.'
Ah! you take the cockchafer by the horns. That's good. I offer
you a cutlet and you answer me: `By the way, I want to marry.'
There's a transition for you! Ah! you reckoned on a bickering!
You do not know that I am an old coward. What do you say to that?
You are vexed? You did not expect to find your grandfather still
more foolish than yourself, you are wasting the discourse which
you meant to bestow upon me, Mr. Lawyer, and that's vexatious.
Well, so much the worse, rage away. I'll do whatever you wish,
and that cuts you short, imbecile! Listen. I have made my inquiries,
I'm cunning too; she is charming, she is discreet, it is not true
about the lancer, she has made heaps of lint, she's a jewel,
she adores you, if you had died, there would have been three of us,
her coffin would have accompanied mine. I have had an idea,
ever since you have been better, of simply planting her at your bedside,
but it is only in romances that young girls are brought to the bedsides
of handsome young wounded men who interest them. It is not done.
What would your aunt have said to it? You were nude three quarters
of the time, my good fellow. Ask Nicolette, who has not left you
for a moment, if there was any possibility of having a woman here.
And then, what would the doctor have said? A pretty girl does
not cure a man of fever. In short, it's all right, let us say no
more about it, all's said, all's done, it's all settled, take her.
Such is my ferocity. You see, I perceived that you did not love me.
I said to myself: `Here now, I have my little Cosette right under
my hand, I'm going to give her to him, he will be obliged to love
me a little then, or he must tell the reason why.' Ah! so you
thought that the old man was going to storm, to put on a big voice,
to shout no, and to lift his cane at all that aurora. Not a bit
of it. Cosette, so be it; love, so be it; I ask nothing better.
Pray take the trouble of getting married, sir. Be happy, my well-beloved
child.


That saidthe old man burst forth into sobs.


And he seized Marius' headand pressed it with both arms against
his breastand both fell to weeping. This is one of the forms
of supreme happiness.


Father!cried Marius.


Ah, so you love me!said the old man.


An ineffable moment ensued. They were choking and could not speak.


At length the old man stammered:


Come! his mouth is unstopped at last. He has said: `Father' to me.


Marius disengaged his head from his grandfather's armsand said gently:


But, father, now that I am quite well, it seems to me that I
might see her.


Agreed again, you shall see her to-morrow.


Father!


What?


Why not to-day?



Well, to-day then. Let it be to-day. You have called me `father'
three times, and it is worth it. I will attend to it. She shall
be brought hither. Agreed, I tell you. It has already been put
into verse. This is the ending of the elegy of the `Jeune Malade'
by Andre Chenier, by Andre Chenier whose throat was cut by the ras .
. . by the giants of '93.

M. Gillenormand fancied that he detected a faint frown on the part
of Mariuswhoin truthas we must admitwas no longer listening
to himand who was thinking far more of Cosette than of 1793.
The grandfathertrembling at having so inopportunely introduced
Andre Chenierresumed precipitately:

Cut his throat is not the word. The fact is that the great
revolutionary geniuses, who were not malicious, that is incontestable,
who were heroes, pardi! found that Andre Chenier embarrassed
them somewhat, and they had him guillot . . . that is to say,
those great men on the 7th of Thermidor, besought Andre Chenier,
in the interests of public safety, to be so good as to go . . .

M. Gillenormandclutched by the throat by his own phrase
could not proceed. Being able neither to finish it nor to retract it
while his daughter arranged the pillow behind Mariuswho was
overwhelmed with so many emotionsthe old man rushed headlong
with as much rapidity as his age permittedfrom the bed-chambershut
the door behind himandpurplechoking and foaming at the mouth
his eyes starting from his headhe found himself nose to nose
with honest Basquewho was blacking boots in the anteroom.
He seized Basque by the collarand shouted full in his face
in fury:--"By the hundred thousand Javottes of the devil
those ruffians did assassinate him!"
Who, sir?

Andre Chenier!

Yes, sir,said Basque in alarm.

CHAPTER IV

MADEMOISELLE GILLENORMAND ENDS BY NO LONGER THINKING IT A BAD THING
THAT M. FAUCHELEVENT SHOULD HAVE ENTERED WITH SOMETHING UNDER HIS
ARM

Cosette and Marius beheld each other once more.

What that interview was like we decline to say. There are things
which one must not attempt to depict; the sun is one of them.

The entire familyincluding Basque and Nicolettewere assembled
in Marius' chamber at the moment when Cosette entered it.

Precisely at that momentthe grandfather was on the point of blowing
his nose; he stopped shortholding his nose in his handkerchief
and gazing over it at Cosette.

She appeared on the threshold; it seemed to him that she was
surrounded by a glory.


Adorable!he exclaimed.

Then he blew his nose noisily.

Cosette was intoxicateddelightedfrightenedin heaven.
She was as thoroughly alarmed as any one can be by happiness.
She stammered all paleyet flushedshe wanted to fling herself
into Marius' armsand dared not. Ashamed of loving in the presence
of all these people. People are pitiless towards happy lovers;
they remain when the latter most desire to be left alone. Lovers have
no need of any people whatever.


With Cosetteand behind herthere had entered a man with white hair
who was grave yet smilingthough with a vague and heartrending smile.
It was "Monsieur Fauchelevent"; it was Jean Valjean.


He was very well dressedas the porter had saidentirely in black
in perfectly new garmentsand with a white cravat.


The porter was a thousand leagues from recognizing in this
correct bourgeoisin this probable notarythe fear-inspiring
bearer of the corpsewho had sprung up at his door on the night
of the 7th of Junetatteredmuddyhideoushaggardhis face
masked in blood and miresupporting in his arms the fainting Marius;
stillhis porter's scent was aroused. When M. Fauchelevent
arrived with Cosettethe porter had not been able to refrain
from communicating to his wife this aside: "I don't know
why it isbut I can't help fancying that I've seen that face before."


M. Fauchelevent in Marius' chamberremained apart near the door.
He had under his arma package which bore considerable resemblance
to an octavo volume enveloped in paper. The enveloping paper was
of a greenish hueand appeared to be mouldy.
Does the gentleman always have books like that under his arm?
Mademoiselle Gillenormandwho did not like booksdemanded in a low
tone of Nicolette.

Well,retorted M. Gillenormandwho had overheard herin the
same tonehe's a learned man. What then? Is that his fault?
Monsieur Boulard, one of my acquaintances, never walked out without
a book under his arm either, and he always had some old volume
hugged to his heart like that.

Andwith a bowhe said aloud:

Monsieur Tranchelevent . . .

Father Gillenormand did not do it intentionallybut inattention
to proper names was an aristocratic habit of his.

Monsieur Tranchelevent, I have the honor of asking you, on behalf
of my grandson, Baron Marius Pontmercy, for the hand of Mademoiselle.

Monsieur Tranchelevent bowed.

That's settled,said the grandfather.

Andturning to Marius and Cosettewith both arms extended
in blessinghe cried:

Permission to adore each other!

They did not require him to repeat it twice. So much the worse!


the chirping began. They talked low. Mariusresting on his elbow
on his reclining chairCosette standing beside him. "Ohheavens!"
murmured CosetteI see you once again! it is thou! it is you!
The idea of going and fighting like that! But why? It is horrible.
I have been dead for four months. Oh! how wicked it was of you
to go to that battle! What had I done to you? I pardon you,
but you will never do it again. A little while ago, when they
came to tell us to come to you, I still thought that I was about
to die, but it was from joy. I was so sad! I have not taken
the time to dress myself, I must frighten people with my looks!
What will your relatives say to see me in a crumpled collar?
Do speak! You let me do all the talking. We are still in the Rue
de l'Homme Arme. It seems that your shoulder was terrible.
They told me that you could put your fist in it. And then, it seems
that they cut your flesh with the scissors. That is frightful.
I have cried till I have no eyes left. It is queer that a person
can suffer like that. Your grandfather has a very kindly air.
Don't disturb yourself, don't rise on your elbow, you will
injure yourself. Oh! how happy I am! So our unhappiness is over!
I am quite foolish. I had things to say to you, and I no longer
know in the least what they were. Do you still love me? We live
in the Rue de l'Homme Arme. There is no garden. I made lint all
the time; stay, sir, look, it is your fault, I have a callous on my
fingers.

Angel!said Marius.

Angel is the only word in the language which cannot be worn out.
No other word could resist the merciless use which lovers make
of it.

Then as there were spectatorsthey paused and said not a word more
contenting themselves with softly touching each other's hands.

M. Gillenormand turned towards those who were in the room and cried:
Talk loud, the rest of you. Make a noise, you people behind
the scenes. Come, a little uproar, the deuce! so that the children
can chatter at their ease.


Andapproaching Marius and Cosettehe said to them in a very
low voice:


Call each other thou. Don't stand on ceremony.


Aunt Gillenormand looked on in amazement at this irruption
of light in her elderly household. There was nothing aggressive
about this amazement; it was not the least in the world like the
scandalized and envious glance of an owl at two turtle-dovesit
was the stupid eye of a poor innocent seven and fifty years of age;
it was a life which had been a failure gazing at that triumphlove.


Mademoiselle Gillenormand senior,said her father to her
I told you that this is what would happen to you.


He remained silent for a momentand then added:


Look at the happiness of others.


Then he turned to Cosette.


How pretty she is! how pretty she is! She's a Greuze.
So you are going to have that all to yourself, you scamp!
Ah! my rogue, you are getting off nicely with me, you are happy;



if I were not fifteen years too old, we would fight with swords
to see which of us should have her. Come now! I am in love
with you, mademoiselle. It's perfectly simple. It is your right.
You are in the right. Ah! what a sweet, charming little wedding
this will make! Our parish is Saint-Denis du Saint Sacrament,
but I will get a dispensation so that you can be married at
Saint-Paul. The church is better. It was built by the Jesuits.
It is more coquettish. It is opposite the fountain of Cardinal
de Birague. The masterpiece of Jesuit architecture is at Namur.
It is called Saint-Loup. You must go there after you are married.
It is worth the journey. Mademoiselle, I am quite of your mind,
I think girls ought to marry; that is what they are made for.
There is a certain Sainte-Catherine whom I should always like
to see uncoiffed.[62] It's a fine thing to remain a spinster,
but it is chilly. The Bible says: Multiply. In order to save
the people, Jeanne d'Arc is needed; but in order to make people,
what is needed is Mother Goose. So, marry, my beauties. I really
do not see the use in remaining a spinster! I know that they
have their chapel apart in the church, and that they fall back
on the Society of the Virgin; but, sapristi, a handsome husband,
a fine fellow, and at the expiration of a year, a big, blond brat
who nurses lustily, and who has fine rolls of fat on his thighs,
and who musses up your breast in handfuls with his little rosy paws,
laughing the while like the dawn,--that's better than holding a candle
at vespers, and chanting Turris eburnea!


[62] In allusion to the expressioncoiffer Sainte-Catherineto
remain unmarried.
The grandfather executed a pirouette on his eighty-year-old heels
and began to talk again like a spring that has broken loose once more:

Ainsi, bornant les cours de tes revasseries,
Alcippe, il est donc vrai, dans peu tu te maries.[63]

[63] "Thushemming in the course of thy musingsAlcippusit is
true that thou wilt wed ere long."
By the way!

What is it, father?

Have not you an intimate friend?

Yes, Courfeyrac.

What has become of him?

He is dead.

That is good.

He seated himself near themmade Cosette sit downand took their
four hands in his aged and wrinkled hands:

She is exquisite, this darling. She's a masterpiece, this Cosette!
She is a very little girl and a very great lady. She will only be
a Baroness, which is a come down for her; she was born a Marquise.
What eyelashes she has! Get it well fixed in your noddles,
my children, that you are in the true road. Love each other.
Be foolish about it. Love is the folly of men and the wit of God.
Adore each other. Only,he addedsuddenly becoming gloomy


what a misfortune! It has just occurred to me! More than half
of what I possess is swallowed up in an annuity; so long as I live,
it will not matter, but after my death, a score of years hence, ah! my
poor children, you will not have a sou! Your beautiful white hands,
Madame la Baronne, will do the devil the honor of pulling him by the
tail.[64]

[64] Tirer le diable par la queueto live from hand to mouth.
At this point they heard a grave and tranquil voice say:

Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent possesses six hundred
thousand francs.

It was the voice of Jean Valjean.

So far he had not uttered a single wordno one seemed to be aware
that he was thereand he had remained standing erect and motionless
behind all these happy people.

What has Mademoiselle Euphrasie to do with the question?
inquired the startled grandfather.

I am she,replied Cosette.

Six hundred thousand francs?resumed M. Gillenormand.

Minus fourteen or fifteen thousand francs, possibly,said Jean Valjean.

And he laid on the table the package which Mademoiselle Gillenormand
had mistaken for a book.

Jean Valjean himself opened the package; it was a bundle of bank-notes.
They were turned over and counted. There were five hundred notes
for a thousand francs eachand one hundred and sixty-eight
of five hundred. In allfive hundred and eighty-four thousand francs.

This is a fine book,said M. Gillenormand.

Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!murmured the aunt.

This arranges things well, does it not, Mademoiselle Gillenormand
senior?said the grandfather. "That devil of a Marius has ferreted
out the nest of a millionaire grisette in his tree of dreams!
Just trust to the love affairs of young folks nowwill you!
Students find studentesses with six hundred thousand francs.
Cherubino works better than Rothschild."

Five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs!repeated Mademoiselle
Gillenormandin a low tone. "Five hundred and eighty-four!
one might as well say six hundred thousand!"

As for Marius and Cosettethey were gazing at each other while this
was going on; they hardly heeded this detail.

CHAPTER V

DEPOSIT YOUR MONEY IN A FOREST RATHER THAN WITH A NOTARY


The reader hasno doubtunderstoodwithout necessitating a
lengthy explanationthat Jean Valjeanafter the Champmathieu affair
had been ablethanks to his first escape of a few days' durationto come
to Paris and to withdraw in seasonfrom the hands of Laffitte
the sum earned by himunder the name of Monsieur Madeleine
at Montreuil-sur-Mer; and that fearing that he might be recaptured--
which eventually happened--he had buried and hidden that sum in the
forest of Montfermeilin the locality known as the Blaru-bottom.
The sumsix hundred and thirty thousand francsall in bank-bills
was not very bulkyand was contained in a box; onlyin order
to preserve the box from dampnesshe had placed it in a coffer
filled with chestnut shavings. In the same coffer he had placed his
other treasuresthe Bishop's candlesticks. It will be remembered
that he had carried off the candlesticks when he made his escape
from Montreuil-sur-Mer. The man seen one evening for the first time
by Boulatruellewas Jean Valjean. Later onevery time that Jean
Valjean needed moneyhe went to get it in the Blaru-bottom. Hence
the absences which we have mentioned. He had a pickaxe somewhere
in the heatherin a hiding-place known to himself alone. When he
beheld Marius convalescentfeeling that the hour was at handwhen that
money might prove of servicehe had gone to get it; it was he again
whom Boulatruelle had seen in the woodsbut on this occasionin the
morning instead of in the evening. Boulatreulle inherited his pickaxe.


The actual sum was five hundred and eighty-four thousand
five hundred francs. Jean Valjean withdrew the five hundred
francs for himself.--"We shall see hereafter he thought.


The difference between that sum and the six hundred and thirty
thousand francs withdrawn from Laffitte represented his expenditure
in ten years, from 1823 to 1833. The five years of his stay
in the convent had cost only five thousand francs.


Jean Valjean set the two candlesticks on the chimney-piece,
where they glittered to the great admiration of Toussaint.


Moreover, Jean Valjean knew that he was delivered from Javert.
The story had been told in his presence, and he had verified the fact
in the Moniteur, how a police inspector named Javert had been found
drowned under a boat belonging to some laundresses, between the Pont
au Change and the Pont-Neuf, and that a writing left by this man,
otherwise irreproachable and highly esteemed by his superiors,
pointed to a fit of mental aberration and a suicide.--In fact
thought Jean Valjean, since he left me at libertyonce having got me
in his powerhe must have been already mad."


CHAPTER VI


THE TWO OLD MEN DO EVERYTHINGEACH ONE AFTER HIS OWN FASHION
TO RENDER COSETTE HAPPY


Everything was made ready for the wedding. The doctor
on being consulteddeclared that it might take place in February.
It was then December. A few ravishing weeks of perfect happiness passed.


The grandfather was not the least happy of them all. He remained
for a quarter of an hour at a time gazing at Cosette.


The wonderful, beautiful girl!he exclaimed. "And she has so sweet
and good an air! she iswithout exceptionthe most charming girl
that I have ever seen in my life. Later onshe'll have virtues



with an odor of violets. How graceful! one cannot live otherwise
than nobly with such a creature. Mariusmy boyyou are a Baron
you are richdon't go to pettifoggingI beg of you."


Cosette and Marius had passed abruptly from the sepulchre to paradise.
The transition had not been softenedand they would have been stunned
had they not been dazzled by it.


Do you understand anything about it?said Marius to Cosette.


No,replied Cosettebut it seems to me that the good God
is caring for us.


Jean Valjean did everythingsmoothed away every difficulty
arranged everythingmade everything easy. He hastened towards
Cosette's happiness with as much ardorandapparently with
as much joyas Cosette herself.


As he had been a mayorhe understood how to solve that delicate
problemwith the secret of which he alone was acquainted
Cosette's civil status. If he were to announce her origin bluntly
it might prevent the marriagewho knows? He extricated
Cosette from all difficulties. He concocted for her a family
of dead peoplea sure means of not encountering any objections.
Cosette was the only scion of an extinct family; Cosette was not
his own daughterbut the daughter of the other Fauchelevent.
Two brothers Fauchelevent had been gardeners to the convent of
the Petit-Picpus. Inquiry was made at that convent; the very best
information and the most respectable references abounded; the good nuns
not very apt and but little inclined to fathom questions of paternity
and not attaching any importance to the matterhad never understood
exactly of which of the two Fauchelevents Cosette was the daughter.
They said what was wanted and they said it with zeal. An acte de
notoriete was drawn up. Cosette became in the eyes of the law
Mademoiselle Euphrasie Fauchelevent. She was declared an orphan
both father and mother being dead. Jean Valjean so arranged it
that he was appointedunder the name of Faucheleventas Cosette's
guardianwith M. Gillenormand as supervising guardian over him.


As for the five hundred and eighty thousand francsthey constituted
a legacy bequeathed to Cosette by a dead personwho desired
to remain unknown. The original legacy had consisted of five
hundred and ninety-four thousand francs; but ten thousand francs
had been expended on the education of Mademoiselle Euphrasie
five thousand francs of that amount having been paid to the convent.
This legacydeposited in the hands of a third partywas to be turned
over to Cosette at her majorityor at the date of her marriage.
Thistaken as a wholewas very acceptableas the reader will perceive
especially when the sum due was half a million. There were some
peculiarities here and thereit is truebut they were not noticed;
one of the interested parties had his eyes blindfolded by love
the others by the six hundred thousand francs.


Cosette learned that she was not the daughter of that old man
whom she had so long called father. He was merely a kinsman;
another Fauchelevent was her real father. At any other time this
would have broken her heart. But at the ineffable moment which she
was then passing throughit cast but a slight shadowa faint cloud
and she was so full of joy that the cloud did not last long.
She had Marius. The young man arrivedthe old man was effaced;
such is life.


And thenCosette hadfor long yearsbeen habituated to seeing
enigmas around her; every being who has had a mysterious childhood



is always prepared for certain renunciations.

Neverthelessshe continued to call Jean Valjean: Father.

Cosettehappy as the angelswas enthusiastic over Father Gillenormand.
It is true that he overwhelmed her with gallant compliments
and presents. While Jean Valjean was building up for Cosette a normal
situation in society and an unassailable statusM. Gillenormand
was superintending the basket of wedding gifts. Nothing so
amused him as being magnificent. He had given to Cosette a robe
of Binche guipure which had descended to him from his own grandmother.

These fashions come up again,said heancient things are
the rage, and the young women of my old age dress like the old
women of my childhood.

He rifled his respectable chests of drawers in Coromandel lacquer
with swelling frontswhich had not been opened for years.--"Let us
hear the confession of these dowagers he said, let us see what they
have in their paunches." He noisily violated the pot-bellied drawers
of all his wivesof all his mistresses and of all his grandmothers.
Pekinsdamaskslampaspainted moiresrobes of shot gros
de ToursIndia kerchiefs embroidered in gold that could be washed
dauphines without a right or wrong sidein the pieceGenoa and
Alencon point laceparures in antique goldsmith's workivory bon-bon
boxes ornamented with microscopic battlesgewgaws and ribbons-he
lavished everything on Cosette. Cosetteamazeddesperately in
love with Mariusand wild with gratitude towards M. Gillenormand
dreamed of a happiness without limit clothed in satin and velvet.
Her wedding basket seemed to her to be upheld by seraphim.
Her soul flew out into the azure depthswith wings of Mechlin lace.

The intoxication of the lovers was only equalledas we have
already saidby the ecstasy of the grandfather. A sort of flourish
of trumpets went on in the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire.

Every morninga fresh offering of bric-a-brac from the grandfather
to Cosette. All possible knickknacks glittered around her.

One day Mariuswho was fond of talking gravely in the midst
of his blisssaidapropos of I know not what incident:

The men of the revolution are so great, that they have the prestige
of the ages, like Cato and like Phocion, and each one of them
seems to me an antique memory.

Moire antique!exclaimed the old gentleman. "ThanksMarius.
That is precisely the idea of which I was in search."

And on the following daya magnificent dress of tea-rose colored
moire antique was added to Cosette's wedding presents.

From these fripperiesthe grandfather extracted a bit of wisdom.

Love is all very well; but there must be something else to go
with it. The useless must be mingled with happiness. Happiness is
only the necessary. Season that enormously with the superfluous
for me. A palace and her heart. Her heart and the Louvre.
Her heart and the grand waterworks of Versailles. Give me my
shepherdess and try to make her a duchess. Fetch me Phyllis crowned
with corn-flowers, and add a hundred thousand francs income.
Open for me a bucolic perspective as far as you can see, beneath a
marble colonnade. I consent to the bucolic and also to the fairy
spectacle of marble and gold. Dry happiness resembles dry bread.


One eats, but one does not dine. I want the superfluous,
the useless, the extravagant, excess, that which serves no purpose.
I remember to have seen, in the Cathedral of Strasburg, a clock,
as tall as a three-story house which marked the hours, which had
the kindness to indicate the hour, but which had not the air of being
made for that; and which, after having struck midday, or midnight,-midday,
the hour of the sun, or midnight, the hour of love,-or
any other hour that you like, gave you the moon and the stars,
the earth and the sea, birds and fishes, Phoebus and Phoebe, and a
host of things which emerged from a niche, and the twelve apostles,
and the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and Eponine, and Sabinus,
and a throng of little gilded goodmen, who played on the trumpet
to boot. Without reckoning delicious chimes which it sprinkled
through the air, on every occasion, without any one's knowing why.
Is a petty bald clock-face which merely tells the hour equal to that?
For my part, I am of the opinion of the big clock of Strasburg,
and I prefer it to the cuckoo clock from the Black Forest.

M. Gillenormand talked nonsense in connection with the wedding
and all the fripperies of the eighteenth century passed pell-mell
through his dithyrambs.
You are ignorant of the art of festivals. You do not know
how to organize a day of enjoyment in this age,he exclaimed.
Your nineteenth century is weak. It lacks excess. It ignores
the rich, it ignores the noble. In everything it is clean-shaven.
Your third estate is insipid, colorless, odorless, and shapeless.
The dreams of your bourgeois who set up, as they express it:
a pretty boudoir freshly decorated, violet, ebony and calico.
Make way! Make way! the Sieur Curmudgeon is marrying Mademoiselle
Clutch-penny. Sumptuousness and splendor. A louis d'or has been
stuck to a candle. There's the epoch for you. My demand is that I
may flee from it beyond the Sarmatians. Ah! in 1787, I predict
that all was lost, from the day when I beheld the Duc de Rohan,
Prince de Leon, Duc de Chabot, Duc de Montbazon, Marquis de Sonbise,
Vicomte de Thouars, peer of France, go to Longchamps in a tapecu!
That has borne its fruits. In this century, men attend to business,
they gamble on 'Change, they win money, they are stingy. People take
care of their surfaces and varnish them; every one is dressed as though
just out of a band-box, washed, soaped, scraped, shaved, combed, waked,
smoothed, rubbed, brushed, cleaned on the outside, irreproachable,
polished as a pebble, discreet, neat, and at the same time,
death of my life, in the depths of their consciences they have
dung-heaps and cesspools that are enough to make a cow-herd who blows
his nose in his fingers, recoil. I grant to this age the device:
`Dirty Cleanliness.' Don't be vexed, Marius, give me permission
to speak; I say no evil of the people as you see, I am always
harping on your people, but do look favorably on my dealing a bit
of a slap to the bourgeoisie. I belong to it. He who loves well
lashes well. Thereupon, I say plainly, that now-a-days people marry,
but that they no longer know how to marry. Ah! it is true, I regret
the grace of the ancient manners. I regret everything about them,
their elegance, their chivalry, those courteous and delicate ways,
that joyous luxury which every one possessed, music forming part of
the wedding, a symphony above stairs, a beating of drums below stairs,
the dances, the joyous faces round the table, the fine-spun
gallant compliments, the songs, the fireworks, the frank laughter,
the devil's own row, the huge knots of ribbon. I regret the
bride's garter. The bride's garter is cousin to the girdle of Venus.
On what does the war of Troy turn? On Helen's garter, parbleu!
Why did they fight, why did Diomed the divine break over the head
of Meriones that great brazen helmet of ten points? why did Achilles
and Hector hew each other up with vast blows of their lances?
Because Helen allowed Paris to take her garter. With Cosette's garter,



Homer would construct the Iliad. He would put in his poem,
a loquacious old fellow, like me, and he would call him Nestor.
My friends, in bygone days, in those amiable days of yore,
people married wisely; they had a good contract, and then they
had a good carouse. As soon as Cujas had taken his departure,
Gamacho entered. But, in sooth! the stomach is an agreeable beast
which demands its due, and which wants to have its wedding also.
People supped well, and had at table a beautiful neighbor without
a guimpe so that her throat was only moderately concealed.
Oh! the large laughing mouths, and how gay we were in those days!
youth was a bouquet; every young man terminated in a branch of
lilacs or a tuft of roses; whether he was a shepherd or a warrior;
and if, by chance, one was a captain of dragoons, one found means
to call oneself Florian. People thought much of looking well.
They embroidered and tinted themselves. A bourgeois had the air
of a flower, a Marquis had the air of a precious stone. People had
no straps to their boots, they had no boots. They were spruce,
shining, waved, lustrous, fluttering, dainty, coquettish, which did not
at all prevent their wearing swords by their sides. The humming-bird
has beak and claws. That was the day of the Galland Indies. One of
the sides of that century was delicate, the other was magnificent;
and by the green cabbages! people amused themselves. To-day, people
are serious. The bourgeois is avaricious, the bourgeoise is a prude;
your century is unfortunate. People would drive away the Graces
as being too low in the neck. Alas! beauty is concealed as though
it were ugliness. Since the revolution, everything, including the
ballet-dancers, has had its trousers; a mountebank dancer must be grave;
your rigadoons are doctrinarian. It is necessary to be majestic.
People would be greatly annoyed if they did not carry their chins
in their cravats. The ideal of an urchin of twenty when he marries,
is to resemble M. Royer-Collard. And do you know what one
arrives at with that majesty? at being petty. Learn this:
joy is not only joyous; it is great. But be in love gayly then,
what the deuce! marry, when you marry, with fever and giddiness,
and tumult, and the uproar of happiness! Be grave in church,
well and good. But, as soon as the mass is finished, sarpejou! you
must make a dream whirl around the bride. A marriage should be
royal and chimerical; it should promenade its ceremony from the
cathedral of Rheims to the pagoda of Chanteloup. I have a horror
of a paltry wedding. Ventregoulette! be in Olympus for that one day,
at least. Be one of the gods. Ah! people might be sylphs.
Games and Laughter, argiraspides; they are stupids. My friends,
every recently made bridegroom ought to be Prince Aldobrandini.
Profit by that unique minute in life to soar away to the empyrean
with the swans and the eagles, even if you do have to fall back
on the morrow into the bourgeoisie of the frogs. Don't economize
on the nuptials, do not prune them of their splendors; don't scrimp
on the day when you beam. The wedding is not the housekeeping.
Oh! if I were to carry out my fancy, it would be gallant, violins would
be heard under the trees. Here is my programme: sky-blue and silver.
I would mingle with the festival the rural divinities, I would
convoke the Dryads and the Nereids. The nuptials of Amphitrite,
a rosy cloud, nymphs with well dressed locks and entirely naked,
an Academician offering quatrains to the goddess, a chariot drawn by
marine monsters.

Triton trottait devantet tirait de sa conque
Des sons si ravissants qu'il ravissait quiconque!"[65]

--there's a festive programmethere's a good oneor else I know
nothing of such mattersdeuce take it!"

[65] "Triton trotted on beforeand drew from his conch-shell

sounds so ravishing that he delighted everyone!"


While the grandfatherin full lyrical effusionwas listening
to himselfCosette and Marius grew intoxicated as they gazed
freely at each other.


Aunt Gillenormand surveyed all this with her imperturbable placidity.
Within the last five or six months she had experienced a certain
amount of emotions. Marius returnedMarius brought back bleeding
Marius brought back from a barricadeMarius deadthen living
Marius reconciledMarius betrothedMarius wedding a poor girl
Marius wedding a millionairess. The six hundred thousand francs
had been her last surprise. Thenher indifference of a girl taking
her first communion returned to her. She went regularly to service
told her beadsread her euchologymumbled Aves in one corner
of the housewhile I love you was being whispered in the other
and she beheld Marius and Cosette in a vague waylike two shadows.
The shadow was herself.


There is a certain state of inert asceticism in which the soul
neutralized by torpora stranger to that which may be designated as the
business of livingreceives no impressionseither humanor pleasant
or painfulwith the exception of earthquakes and catastrophes.
This devotionas Father Gillenormand said to his daughter
corresponds to a cold in the head. You smell nothing of life.
Neither any badnor any good odor.


Moreoverthe six hundred thousand francs had settled the elderly
spinster's indecision. Her father had acquired the habit of taking
her so little into accountthat he had not consulted her in the
matter of consent to Marius' marriage. He had acted impetuously
according to his wonthavinga despot-turned slavebut a
single thought--to satisfy Marius. As for the aunt--it had not
even occurred to him that the aunt existedand that she could have
an opinion of her ownandsheep as she wasthis had vexed her.
Somewhat resentful in her inmost soulbut impassible externally
she had said to herself: "My father has settled the question of
the marriage without reference to me; I shall settle the question
of the inheritance without consulting him." She was richin fact
and her father was not. She had reserved her decision on this point.
It is probable thathad the match been a poor oneshe would have
left him poor. "So much the worse for my nephew! he is wedding
a beggarlet him be a beggar himself!" But Cosette's half-million
pleased the auntand altered her inward situation so far as this
pair of lovers were concerned. One owes some consideration to six
hundred thousand francsand it was evident that she could not do
otherwise than leave her fortune to these young peoplesince they
did not need it.


It was arranged that the couple should live with the grandfather--


M. Gillenormand insisted on resigning to them his chamber
the finest in the house. "That will make me young again he said.
It's an old plan of mine. I have always entertained the idea of
having a wedding in my chamber."
He furnished this chamber with a multitude of elegant trifles.
He had the ceiling and walls hung with an extraordinary stuff
which he had by him in the pieceand which he believed to have
emanated from Utrecht with a buttercup-colored satin groundcovered
with velvet auricula blossoms.--"It was with that stuff said he,
that the bed of the Duchesse d'Anville at la Roche-Guyon was draped."--
On the chimney-piecehe set a little figure in Saxe porcelain
carrying a muff against her nude stomach.



M. Gillenormand's library became the lawyer's studywhich Marius needed;
a studyit will be rememberedbeing required by the council
of the order.
CHAPTER VII

THE EFFECTS OF DREAMS MINGLED WITH HAPPINESS

The lovers saw each other every day. Cosette came with

M. Fauchelevent.--"This is reversing things said Mademoiselle
Gillenormand, to have the bride come to the house to do the
courting like this." But Marius' convalescence had caused the
habit to become establishedand the arm-chairs of the Rue des
Filles-du-Calvairebetter adapted to interviews than the straw
chairs of the Rue de l'Homme Armehad rooted it. Marius and
M. Fauchelevent saw each otherbut did not address each other.
It seemed as though this had been agreed upon. Every girl needs
a chaperon. Cosette could not have come without M. Fauchelevent.
In Marius' eyesM. Fauchelevent was the condition attached to Cosette.
He accepted it. By dint of discussing political mattersvaguely and
without precisionfrom the point of view of the general amelioration
of the fate of all menthey came to say a little more than "yes"
and "no." Onceon the subject of educationwhich Marius wished
to have free and obligatorymultiplied under all forms lavished
on every onelike the air and the sun in a wordrespirable for the
entire populationthey were in unisonand they almost conversed.
M. Fauchelevent talked welland even with a certain loftiness
of language--still he lacked something indescribable. M. Fauchelevent
possessed something less and also something morethan a man of the world.
Mariusinwardlyand in the depths of his thoughtsurrounded with all
sorts of mute questions this M. Faucheleventwho was to him simply
benevolent and cold. There were moments when doubts as to his own
recollections occurred to him. There was a void in his memory
a black spotan abyss excavated by four months of agony.--Many things
had been lost therein. He had come to the point of asking himself
whether it were really a fact that he had seen M. Fauchelevent
so serious and so calm a manin the barricade.

This was nothoweverthe only stupor which the apparitions
and the disappearances of the past had left in his mind. It must
not be supposed that he was delivered from all those obsessions
of the memory which force useven when happyeven when satisfied
to glance sadly behind us. The head which does not turn backwards
towards horizons that have vanished contains neither thought
nor love. At timesMarius clasped his face between his hands
and the vague and tumultuous past traversed the twilight which
reigned in his brain. Again he beheld Mabeuf fallhe heard
Gavroche singing amid the grape-shothe felt beneath his lips
the cold brow of Eponine; EnjolrasCourfeyracJean Prouvaire
CombeferreBossuetGrantaireall his friends rose erect
before himthen dispersed into thin air. Were all those dear
sorrowfulvaliantcharming or tragic beings merely dreams? had they
actually existed? The revolt had enveloped everything in its smoke.
These great fevers create great dreams. He questioned himself;
he felt himself; all these vanished realities made him dizzy.
Where were they all then? was it really true that all were dead?
A fall into the shadows had carried off all except himself.
It all seemed to him to have disappeared as though behind the curtain
of a theatre. There are curtains like this which drop in life.


God passes on to the following act.

And he himself--was he actually the same man? Hethe poor man
was rich; hethe abandonedhad a family; hethe despairing
was to marry Cosette. It seemed to him that he had traversed a tomb
and that he had entered into it black and had emerged from it white
and in that tomb the others had remained. At certain moments
all these beings of the pastreturned and presentformed a circle
around himand overshadowed him; then he thought of Cosette
and recovered his serenity; but nothing less than this felicity could
have sufficed to efface that catastrophe.

M. Fauchelevent almost occupied a place among these vanished beings.
Marius hesitated to believe that the Fauchelevent of the barricade
was the same as this Fauchelevent in flesh and bloodsitting so
gravely beside Cosette. The first wasprobablyone of those
nightmares occasioned and brought back by his hours of delirium.
Howeverthe natures of both men were rigidno question from Marius
to M. Fauchelevent was possible. Such an idea had not even occurred
to him. We have already indicated this characteristic detail.
Two men who have a secret in commonand whoby a sort of
tacit agreementexchange not a word on the subjectare less
rare than is commonly supposed.

Once onlydid Marius make the attempt. He introduced into the
conversation the Rue de la Chanvrerieandturning to M. Fauchelevent
he said to him:

Of course, you are acquainted with that street?

What street?

The Rue de la Chanvrerie.

I have no idea of the name of that street,replied M. Fauchelevent
in the most natural manner in the world.

The response which bore upon the name of the street and not upon
the street itselfappeared to Marius to be more conclusive than it
really was.

Decidedly,thought heI have been dreaming. I have been
subject to a hallucination. It was some one who resembled him.

M. Fauchelevent was not there.'
CHAPTER VIII


TWO MEN IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND


Marius' enchantmentgreat as it wascould not efface from his
mind other pre-occupations.


While the wedding was in preparationand while awaiting the date
fixed uponhe caused difficult and scrupulous retrospective
researches to be made.


He owed gratitude in various quarters;
he owed it on his father's accounthe owed it on his own.


There was Thenardier; there



was the unknown man who had brought himMariusback to M. Gillenormand.

Marius endeavored to find these two mennot intending to marry
to be happyand to forget themand fearing thatwere these debts
of gratitude not dischargedthey would leave a shadow on his life
which promised so brightly for the future.

It was impossible for him to leave all these arrears of suffering
behind himand he wishedbefore entering joyously into the future
to obtain a quittance from the past.

That Thenardier was a villain detracted nothing from the fact
that he had saved Colonel Pontmercy. Thenardier was a ruffian
in the eyes of all the world except Marius.

And Mariusignorant of the real scene in the battle field
of Waterloowas not aware of the peculiar detailthat his father
so far as Thenardier was concerned was in the strange position
of being indebted to the latter for his lifewithout being
indebted to him for any gratitude.

None of the various agents whom Marius employed succeeded in
discovering any trace of Thenardier. Obliteration appeared to be
complete in that quarter. Madame Thenardier had died in prison
pending the trial. Thenardier and his daughter Azelmathe only two
remaining of that lamentable grouphad plunged back into the gloom.
The gulf of the social unknown had silently closed above those beings.
On the surface there was not visible so much as that quiver
that tremblingthose obscure concentric circles which announce
that something has fallen inand that the plummet may be dropped.

Madame Thenardier being deadBoulatruelle being eliminated
from the caseClaquesous having disappearedthe principal
persons accused having escaped from prisonthe trial connected
with the ambush in the Gorbeau house had come to nothing.

That affair had remained rather obscure. The bench of Assizes had
been obliged to content themselves with two subordinates. Panchaud
alias Printanieralias Bigrenailleand Demi-Liardalias Deux-Milliards
who had been inconsistently condemnedafter a hearing of both sides
of the caseto ten years in the galleys. Hard labor for life had been
the sentence pronounced against the escaped and contumacious accomplices.

Thenardierthe head and leaderhad beenthrough contumacy
likewise condemned to death.

This sentence was the only information remaining about Thenardier
casting upon that buried name its sinister light like a candle beside
a bier.

Moreoverby thrusting Thenardier back into the very remotest depths
through a fear of being re-capturedthis sentence added to the
density of the shadows which enveloped this man.

As for the other personas for the unknown man who had saved Marius
the researches were at first to some extent successfulthen came
to an abrupt conclusion. They succeeded in finding the carriage
which had brought Marius to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire on
the evening of the 6th of June.

The coachman declared thaton the 6th of Junein obedience
to the commands of a police-agenthe had stood from three o'clock
in the afternoon until nightfall on the Quai des Champs-Elysees
above the outlet of the Grand Sewer; thattowards nine o'clock


in the eveningthe grating of the sewerwhich abuts on the bank
of the riverhad opened; that a man had emerged therefrombearing on
his shoulders another manwho seemed to be dead; that the agent
who was on the watch at that pointhad arrested the living man and
had seized the dead man; thatat the order of the police-agenthe
the coachmanhad taken "all those folks" into his carriage;
that they had first driven to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire;
that they had there deposited the dead man; that the dead man was
Monsieur Mariusand that hethe coachmanrecognized him perfectly
although he was alive "this time"; that afterwardsthey had
entered the vehicle againthat he had whipped up his horses;
a few paces from the gate of the Archivesthey had called to him
to halt; that therein the streetthey had paid him and left him
and that the police-agent had led the other man away; that he knew
nothing more; that the night had been very dark.

Mariusas we have saidrecalled nothing. He only remembered
that he had been seized from behind by an energetic hand at
the moment when he was falling backwards into the barricade;
theneverything vanished so far as he was concerned.

He had only regained consciousness at M. Gillenormand's.

He was lost in conjectures.

He could not doubt his own identity. Stillhow had it come
to pass thathaving fallen in the Rue de la Chanvreriehe had
been picked up by the police-agent on the banks of the Seine
near the Pont des Invalides?

Some one had carried him from the Quartier des Halles to the
Champs-Elysees. And how? Through the sewer. Unheard-of devotion!

Some one? Who?

This was the man for whom Marius was searching.

Of this manwho was his saviornothing; not a trace; not the
faintest indication.

Mariusalthough forced to preserve great reservein that direction
pushed his inquiries as far as the prefecture of police. Thereno more
than elsewheredid the information obtained lead to any enlightenment.

The prefecture knew less about the matter than did the
hackney-coachman. They had no knowledge of any arrest
having been made on the 6th of June at the mouth of the Grand Sewer.

No report of any agent had been received there upon this matter
which was regarded at the prefecture as a fable. The invention
of this fable was attributed to the coachman.

A coachman who wants a gratuity is capable of anythingeven
of imagination. The fact was assuredneverthelessand Marius could
not doubt itunless he doubted his own identityas we have just said.

Everything about this singular enigma was inexplicable.

What had become of that manthat mysterious manwhom the coachman
had seen emerge from the grating of the Grand Sewer bearing upon
his back the unconscious Mariusand whom the police-agent on
the watch had arrested in the very act of rescuing an insurgent?
What had become of the agent himself?


Why had this agent preserved silence? Had the man succeeded
in making his escape? Had he bribed the agent? Why did this
man give no sign of life to Mariuswho owed everything to him?
His disinterestedness was no less tremendous than his devotion.
Why had not that man appeared again? Perhaps he was above compensation
but no one is above gratitude. Was he dead? Who was the man?
What sort of a face had he? No one could tell him this.


The coachman answered: "The night was very dark." Basque and Nicolette
all in a flutterhad looked only at their young master all covered
with blood.


The porterwhose candle had lighted the tragic arrival of Marius
had been the only one to take note of the man in questionand this
is the description that he gave:


That man was terrible.


Marius had the blood-stained clothing which he had worn when he
had been brought back to his grandfather preservedin the hope
that it would prove of service in his researches.


On examining the coatit was found that one skirt had been torn
in a singular way. A piece was missing.


One eveningMarius was speaking in the presence of Cosette and Jean
Valjean of the whole of that singular adventureof the innumerable
inquiries which he had madeand of the fruitlessness of his efforts.
The cold countenance of "Monsieur Fauchelevent" angered him.


He exclaimedwith a vivacity which had something of wrath in it:


Yes, that man, whoever he may have been, was sublime.
Do you know what he did, sir? He intervened like an archangel.
He must have flung himself into the midst of the battle, have stolen
me away, have opened the sewer, have dragged me into it and have
carried me through it! He must have traversed more than a league
and a half in those frightful subterranean galleries, bent over,
weighed down, in the dark, in the cess-pool,--more than a league
and a half, sir, with a corpse upon his back! And with what object?
With the sole object of saving the corpse. And that corpse I was.
He said to himself: `There may still be a glimpse of life there,
perchance; I will risk my own existence for that miserable spark!'
And his existence he risked not once but twenty times! And every step
was a danger. The proof of it is, that on emerging from the sewer,
he was arrested. Do you know, sir, that that man did all this?
And he had no recompense to expect. What was I? An insurgent.
What was I? One of the conquered. Oh! if Cosette's six hundred
thousand francs were mine . . .


They are yours,interrupted Jean Valjean.


Well,resumed MariusI would give them all to find that man
once more.


Jean Valjean remained silent.


BOOK SIXTH.--THE SLEEPLESS NIGHT


CHAPTER I



THE 16TH OF FEBRUARY1833


The night of the 16th to the 17th of February1833was a blessed night.
Above its shadows heaven stood open. It was the wedding night
of Marius and Cosette.


The day had been adorable.


It had not been the grand festival dreamed by the grandfather
a fairy spectaclewith a confusion of cherubim and Cupids over
the heads of the bridal paira marriage worthy to form the subject
of a painting to be placed over a door; but it had been sweet
and smiling.


The manner of marriage in 1833 was not the same as it is to-day.
France had not yet borrowed from England that supreme delicacy
of carrying off one's wifeof fleeingon coming out of church
of hiding oneself with shame from one's happinessand of combining
the ways of a bankrupt with the delights of the Song of Songs.
People had not yet grasped to the full the chastityexquisiteness
and decency of jolting their paradise in a posting-chaiseof breaking
up their mystery with clic-clacsof taking for a nuptial bed the bed
of an innand of leaving behind themin a commonplace chamber
at so much a nightthe most sacred of the souvenirs of life mingled
pell-mell with the tete-a-tete of the conductor of the diligence
and the maid-servant of the inn.


In this second half of the nineteenth century in which we are now living
the mayor and his scarfthe priest and his chasublethe law and God
no longer suffice; they must be eked out by the Postilion de Lonjumeau;
a blue waistcoat turned up with redand with bell buttons
a plaque like a vantbraceknee-breeches of green leatheroaths to
the Norman horses with their tails knotted upfalse galloons
varnished hatlong powdered locksan enormous whip and tall boots.
France does not yet carry elegance to the length of doing like
the English nobilityand raining down on the post-chaise of the
bridal pair a hail storm of slippers trodden down at heel and of
worn-out shoesin memory of Churchillafterwards Marlborough
or Malbrouckwho was assailed on his wedding-day by the wrath of an
aunt which brought him good luck. Old shoes and slippers do not
as yetform a part of our nuptial celebrations; but patience
as good taste continues to spreadwe shall come to that.


In 1833a hundred years agomarriage was not conducted at a full trot.


Strange to sayat that epochpeople still imagined that a wedding
was a private and social festivalthat a patriarchal banquet
does not spoil a domestic solemnitythat gayetyeven in excess
provided it be honestand decentdoes happiness no harmand that
in shortit is a good and a venerable thing that the fusion
of these two destinies whence a family is destined to spring
should begin at homeand that the household should thenceforth
have its nuptial chamber as its witness.


And people were so immodest as to marry in their own homes.


The marriage took placethereforein accordance with this now
superannuated fashionat M. Gillenormand's house.


Natural and commonplace as this matter of marrying isthe banns to
publishthe papers to be drawn upthe mayoraltyand the church produce
some complication. They could not get ready before the 16th of February.



Nowwe note this detailfor the pure satisfaction of being exact
it chanced that the 16th fell on Shrove Tuesday. Hesitationsscruples
particularly on the part of Aunt Gillenormand.

Shrove Tuesday!exclaimed the grandfatherso much the better.
There is a proverb:

`Mariage un Mardi gras
N'aura point enfants ingrats.'[66]

[66] "A Shrove-Tuesday marriage will have no ungrateful children."
Let us proceed. Here goes for the 16th! Do you want to delayMarius?"

No, certainly not!replied the lover.

Let us marry, then,cried the grandfather.

Accordinglythe marriage took place on the 16thnotwithstanding the
public merrymaking. It rained that daybut there is always in the sky
a tiny scrap of blue at the service of happinesswhich lovers see
even when the rest of creation is under an umbrella.

On the preceding eveningJean Valjean handed to Mariusin the presence
of M. Gillenormandthe five hundred and eighty-four thousand francs.

As the marriage was taking place under the regime of community
of propertythe papers had been simple.

HenceforthToussaint was of no use to Jean Valjean; Cosette inherited
her and promoted her to the rank of lady's maid.

As for Jean Valjeana beautiful chamber in the Gillenormand
house had been furnished expressly for himand Cosette had said
to him in such an irresistible manner: "FatherI entreat you
that she had almost persuaded him to promise that he would come
and occupy it.

A few days before that fixed on for the marriage, an accident
happened to Jean Valjean; he crushed the thumb of his right hand.
This was not a serious matter; and he had not allowed any one to
trouble himself about it, nor to dress it, nor even to see his hurt,
not even Cosette. Nevertheless, this had forced him to swathe
his hand in a linen bandage, and to carry his arm in a sling,
and had prevented his signing. M. Gillenormand, in his capacity
of Cosette's supervising-guardian, had supplied his place.

We will not conduct the reader either to the mayor's office or to
the church. One does not follow a pair of lovers to that extent,
and one is accustomed to turn one's back on the drama as soon as it
puts a wedding nosegay in its buttonhole. We will confine ourselves
to noting an incident which, though unnoticed by the wedding party,
marked the transit from the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire to the church
of Saint-Paul.

At that epoch, the northern extremity of the Rue Saint-Louis was in
process of repaving. It was barred off, beginning with the Rue du
Pare-Royal. It was impossible for the wedding carriages to go directly
to Saint-Paul. They were obliged to alter their course, and the simplest
way was to turn through the boulevard. One of the invited guests
observed that it was Shrove Tuesday, and that there would be a jam
of vehicles.--Why?" asked M. Gillenormand--"Because of the maskers."-



Capital,said the grandfatherlet us go that way. These young
folks are on the way to be married; they are about to enter the serious
part of life. This will prepare them for seeing a bit of the masquerade.


They went by way of the boulevard. The first wedding coach held
Cosette and Aunt GillenormandM. Gillenormand and Jean Valjean.
Mariusstill separated from his betrothed according to usage
did not come until the second. The nuptial trainon emerging
from the Rue des Filles-du-Calvairebecame entangled in a long
procession of vehicles which formed an endless chain from the
Madeleine to the Bastilleand from the Bastille to the Madeleine.
Maskers abounded on the boulevard. In spite of the fact that it was
raining at intervalsMerry-AndrewPantaloon and Clown persisted.
In the good humor of that winter of 1833Paris had disguised
itself as Venice. Such Shrove Tuesdays are no longer to be seen
now-a-days. Everything which exists being a scattered Carnival
there is no longer any Carnival.


The sidewalks were overflowing with pedestrians and the windows with
curious spectators. The terraces which crown the peristyles of the
theatres were bordered with spectators. Besides the maskersthey stared
at that procession--peculiar to Shrove Tuesday as to Longchamps--
of vehicles of every descriptioncitadinestapissierescarioles
cabriolets marching in orderrigorously riveted to each other
by the police regulationsand locked into railsas it were.
Any one in these vehicles is at once a spectator and a spectacle.
Police-sergeants maintainedon the sides of the boulevard
these two interminable parallel filesmoving in contrary directions
and saw to it that nothing interfered with that double current
those two brooks of carriagesflowingthe one down stream
the other up streamthe one towards the Chaussee d'Antinthe other
towards the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The carriages of the peers
of France and of the Ambassadorsemblazoned with coats of arms
held the middle of the waygoing and coming freely. Certain joyous
and magnificent trainsnotably that of the Boeuf Grashad the
same privilege. In this gayety of ParisEngland cracked her whip;
Lord Seymour's post-chaiseharassed by a nickname from the populace
passed with great noise.


In the double filealong which the municipal guards galloped like
sheep-dogshonest family coachesloaded down with great-aunts
and grandmothersdisplayed at their doors fresh groups of children
in disguiseClowns of seven years of ageColumbines of six
ravishing little creatureswho felt that they formed an official
part of the public mirthwho were imbued with the dignity
of their harlequinadeand who possessed the gravity of functionaries.


From time to timea hitch arose somewhere in the procession
of vehicles; one or other of the two lateral files halted until
the knot was disentangled; one carriage delayed sufficed to paralyze
the whole line. Then they set out again on the march.


The wedding carriages were in the file proceeding towards the Bastille
and skirting the right side of the Boulevard. At the top of the
Pont-aux-Chouxthere was a stoppage. Nearly at the same moment
the other filewhich was proceeding towards the Madeleine
halted also. At that point of the file there was a carriage-load
of maskers.


These carriagesor to speak more correctlythese wagon-loads
of maskers are very familiar to Parisians. If they were missing on
a Shrove Tuesdayor at the Mid-Lentit would be taken in bad part
and people would say: "There's something behind that. Probably the
ministry is about to undergo a change." A pile of Cassandras



Harlequins and Columbinesjolted along high above the passers-by
all possible grotesquenessesfrom the Turk to the savage
Hercules supporting Marquisesfishwives who would have made Rabelais
stop up his ears just as the Maenads made Aristophanes drop his eyes
tow wigspink tightsdandified hatsspectacles of a grimacer
three-cornered hats of Janot tormented with a butterflyshouts directed
at pedestriansfists on hipsbold attitudesbare shoulders
immodesty unchained; a chaos of shamelessness driven by a coachman
crowned with flowers; this is what that institution was like.


Greece stood in need of the chariot of ThespisFrance stands
in need of the hackney-coach of Vade.


Everything can be parodiedeven parody. The Saturnaliathat grimace
of antique beautyendsthrough exaggeration after exaggeration
in Shrove Tuesday; and the Bacchanalformerly crowned with sprays
of vine leaves and grapesinundated with sunshinedisplaying her
marble breast in a divine semi-nudityhaving at the present day
lost her shape under the soaked rags of the Northhas finally
come to be called the Jack-pudding.


The tradition of carriage-loads of maskers runs back to the
most ancient days of the monarchy. The accounts of Louis XI.
allot to the bailiff of the palace "twenty sousTournoisfor three
coaches of mascarades in the cross-roads." In our daythese noisy
heaps of creatures are accustomed to have themselves driven
in some ancient cuckoo carriagewhose imperial they load down
or they overwhelm a hired landauwith its top thrown back
with their tumultuous groups. Twenty of them ride in a carriage
intended for six. They cling to the seatsto the rumble
on the cheeks of the hoodon the shafts. They even bestride the
carriage lamps. They standsitliewith their knees drawn up
in a knotand their legs hanging. The women sit on the men's laps.
Far awayabove the throng of headstheir wild pyramid is visible.
These carriage-loads form mountains of mirth in the midst of
the rout. CollePanard and Piron flow from itenriched with slang.
This carriage which has become colossal through its freight
has an air of conquest. Uproar reigns in fronttumult behind.
People vociferateshouthowlthere they break forth and writhe
with enjoyment; gayety roars; sarcasm flames forthjoviality is
flaunted like a red flag; two jades there drag farce blossomed
forth into an apotheosis; it is the triumphal car of laughter.


A laughter that is too cynical to be frank. In truth
this laughter is suspicious. This laughter has a mission.
It is charged with proving the Carnival to the Parisians.


These fishwife vehiclesin which one feels one knows not what shadows
set the philosopher to thinking. There is government therein.
There one lays one's finger on a mysterious affinity between public
men and public women.


It certainly is sad that turpitude heaped up should give a sum total
of gayetythat by piling ignominy upon opprobrium the people should
be enticedthat the system of spyingand serving as caryatids
to prostitution should amuse the rabble when it confronts them
that the crowd loves to behold that monstrous living pile of tinsel rags
half dunghalf lightroll by on four wheels howling and laughing
that they should clap their hands at this glory composed of all shames
that there would be no festival for the populacedid not the police
promenade in their midst these sorts of twenty-headed hydras of joy.
But what can be done about it? These be-ribboned and be-flowered tumbrils
of mire are insulted and pardoned by the laughter of the public.
The laughter of all is the accomplice of universal degradation.



Certain unhealthy festivals disaggregate the people and convert them
into the populace. And populaceslike tyrantsrequire buffoons.
The King has Roquelaurethe populace has the Merry-Andrew. Paris is
a greatmad city on every occasion that it is a great sublime city.
There the Carnival forms part of politics. Paris--let us
confess it--willingly allows infamy to furnish it with comedy.
She only demands of her masters--when she has masters--one thing:
Paint me the mud.Rome was of the same mind. She loved Nero.
Nero was a titanic lighterman.

Chance ordainedas we have just saidthat one of these shapeless
clusters of masked men and womendragged about on a vast calash
should halt on the left of the boulevardwhile the wedding train
halted on the right. The carriage-load of masks caught sight
of the wedding carriage containing the bridal party opposite them
on the other side of the boulevard.

Hullo!said a maskerhere's a wedding.

A sham wedding,retorted another. "We are the genuine article."

Andbeing too far off to accost the wedding partyand fearing also
the rebuke of the policethe two maskers turned their eyes elsewhere.

At the end of another minutethe carriage-load of maskers had their
hands fullthe multitude set to yellingwhich is the crowd's
caress to masquerades; and the two maskers who had just spoken had
to face the throng with their comradesand did not find the entire
repertory of projectiles of the fishmarkets too extensive to retort
to the enormous verbal attacks of the populace. A frightful
exchange of metaphors took place between the maskers and the crowd.

In the meanwhiletwo other maskers in the same carriagea Spaniard
with an enormous nosean elderly airand huge black moustache
and a gaunt fishwifewho was quite a young girlmasked with a
loup[67] had also noticed the weddingand while their companions
and the passers-by were exchanging insultsthey had held a dialogue
in a low voice.

[67] A short mask.
Their aside was covered by the tumult and was lost in it.
The gusts of rain had drenched the front of the vehiclewhich was
wide open; the breezes of February are not warm; as the fishwife
clad in a low-necked gownreplied to the Spaniardshe shivered
laughed and coughed.


Here is their dialogue:


Say, now.


What, daddy?


Do you see that old cove?


What old cove?


Yonder, in the first wedding-cart, on our side.


The one with his arm hung up in a black cravat?


Yes.



Well?
I'm sure that I know him.


Ah!


I'm willing that they should cut my throat, and I'm ready to swear
that I never said either you, thou, or I, in my life, if I don't
know that Parisian.[pantinois.]

Paris in Pantin to-day.

Can you see the bride if you stoop down?
No.


And the bridegroom?
There's no bridegroom in that trap.


Bah!
Unless it's the old fellow.


Try to get a sight of the bride by stooping very low.
I can't.


Never mind, that old cove who has something the matter with his
paw I know, and that I'm positive.

And what good does it do to know him?
No one can tell. Sometimes it does!


I don't care a hang for old fellows, that I don't!
I know him.


Know him, if you want to.
How the devil does he come to be one of the wedding party?


We are in it, too.
Where does that wedding come from?


How should I know?
Listen.


Well, what?
There's one thing you ought to do.


What's that?
Get off of our trap and spin that wedding.


What for?


To find out where it goes, and what it is. Hurry up
and jump down, trot, my girl, your legs are young.


I can't quit the vehicle.
Why not?
I'm hired.
Ah, the devil!
I owe my fishwife day to the prefecture.
That's true.
If I leave the cart, the first inspector who gets his eye on me


will arrest me. You know that well enough.
Yes, I do.
I'm bought by the government for to-day.
All the same, that old fellow bothers me.
Do the old fellows bother you? But you're not a young girl.
He's in the first carriage.
Well?
In the bride's trap.
What then?
So he is the father.
What concern is that of mine?
I tell you that he's the father.
As if he were the only father.
Listen.
What?
I can't go out otherwise than masked. Here I'm concealed, no one


knows that I'm here. But to-morrow, there will be no more maskers.


It's Ash Wednesday. I run the risk of being nabbed. I must sneak


back into my hole. But you are free.

Not particularly.

More than I am, at any rate.

Well, what of that?

You must try to find out where that wedding-party went to.

Where it went?

Yes.

I know.

Where is it going then?


To the Cadran-Bleu.

In the first place, it's not in that direction.

Well! to la Rapee.

Or elsewhere.

It's free. Wedding-parties are at liberty.

That's not the point at all. I tell you that you must try to
learn for me what that wedding is, who that old cove belongs to,
and where that wedding pair lives.

I like that! that would be queer. It's so easy to find out a
wedding-party that passed through the street on a Shrove Tuesday,
a week afterwards. A pin in a hay-mow! It ain't possible!

That don't matter. You must try. You understand me, Azelma.

The two files resumed their movement on both sides of the boulevard
in opposite directionsand the carriage of the maskers lost sight
of the "trap" of the bride.

CHAPTER II

JEAN VALJEAN STILL WEARS HIS ARM IN A SLING

To realize one's dream. To whom is this accorded? There must
be elections for this in heaven; we are all candidatesunknown
to ourselves; the angels vote. Cosette and Marius had been elected.

Cosetteboth at the mayor's office and at churchwas dazzling
and touching. Toussaintassisted by Nicolettehad dressed her.

Cosette wore over a petticoat of white taffetaher robe of
Binche guipurea veil of English pointa necklace of fine pearls
a wreath of orange flowers; all this was whiteandfrom the midst
of that whiteness she beamed forth. It was an exquisite candor
expanding and becoming transfigured in the light. One would
have pronounced her a virgin on the point of turning into a goddess.

Marius' handsome hair was lustrous and perfumed; here and there
beneath the thick curlspale lines--the scars of the barricade-were
visible.

The grandfatherhaughtywith head held highamalgamating more
than ever in his toilet and his manners all the elegances
of the epoch of Barrasescorted Cosette. He took the place of
Jean Valjeanwhoon account of his arm being still in a sling
could not give his hand to the bride.

Jean Valjeandressed in blackfollowed them with a smile.

Monsieur Fauchelevent,said the grandfather to himthis is
a fine day. I vote for the end of afflictions and sorrows.
Henceforth, there must be no sadness anywhere. Pardieu, I decree joy!
Evil has no right to exist. That there should be any unhappy men is,
in sooth, a disgrace to the azure of the sky. Evil does not come
from man, who is good at bottom. All human miseries have for


their capital and central government hell, otherwise, known as the
Devil's Tuileries. Good, here I am uttering demagogical words!
As far as I am concerned, I have no longer any political opinions;
let all me be rich, that is to say, mirthful, and I confine myself
to that.

Whenat the conclusion of all the ceremoniesafter having pronounced
before the mayor and before the priest all possible "yesses after
having signed the registers at the municipality and at the sacristy,
after having exchanged their rings, after having knelt side by side
under the pall of white moire in the smoke of the censer, they arrived,
hand in hand, admired and envied by all, Marius in black, she in white,
preceded by the suisse, with the epaulets of a colonel, tapping the
pavement with his halberd, between two rows of astonished spectators,
at the portals of the church, both leaves of which were thrown
wide open, ready to enter their carriage again, and all being finished,
Cosette still could not believe that it was real. She looked at Marius,
she looked at the crowd, she looked at the sky: it seemed as though
she feared that she should wake up from her dream. Her amazed and
uneasy air added something indescribably enchanting to her beauty.
They entered the same carriage to return home, Marius beside Cosette;

M. Gillenormand and Jean Valjean sat opposite them; Aunt Gillenormand
had withdrawn one degree, and was in the second vehicle.
My children said the grandfather, here you areMonsieur le Baron
and Madame la Baronnewith an income of thirty thousand livres."


And Cosettenestling close to Mariuscaressed his ear with an
angelic whisper: "So it is true. My name is Marius. I am Madame Thou."


These two creatures were resplendent. They had reached that
irrevocable and irrecoverable momentat the dazzling intersection
of all youth and all joy. They realized the verses of Jean Prouvaire;
they were forty years old taken together. It was marriage sublimated;
these two children were two lilies. They did not see each other
they did not contemplate each other. Cosette perceived Marius
in the midst of a glory; Marius perceived Cosette on an altar.
And on that altarand in that glorythe two apotheoses mingling
in the backgroundone knows not howbehind a cloud for Cosette
in a flash for Mariusthere was the ideal thingthe real thing
the meeting of the kiss and the dreamthe nuptial pillow.
All the torments through which they had passed came back to them
in intoxication. It seemed to them that their sorrowstheir sleepless
nightstheir tearstheir anguishtheir terrorstheir despair
converted into caresses and rays of lightrendered still more charming
the charming hour which was approaching; and that their griefs
were but so many handmaidens who were preparing the toilet of joy.
How good it is to have suffered! Their unhappiness formed a halo
round their happiness. The long agony of their love was terminating
in an ascension.


It was the same enchantment in two soulstinged with voluptuousness
in Mariusand with modesty in Cosette. They said to each other
in low tones: "We will go back to take a look at our little garden
in the Rue Plumet." The folds of Cosette's gown lay across Marius.


Such a day is an ineffable mixture of dream and of reality.
One possesses and one supposes. One still has time before one to divine.
The emotion on that dayof being at mid-day and of dreaming
of midnight is indescribable. The delights of these two hearts
overflowed upon the crowdand inspired the passers-by with cheerfulness.


People halted in the Rue Saint-Antoinein front of Saint-Paul
to gaze through the windows of the carriage at the orange-flowers



quivering on Cosette's head.


Then they returned home to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. Marius
triumphant and radiantmounted side by side with Cosette the staircase
up which he had been borne in a dying condition. The poorwho had
trooped to the doorand who shared their pursesblessed them.
There were flowers everywhere. The house was no less fragrant
than the church; after the incenseroses. They thought they heard
voices carolling in the infinite; they had God in their hearts;
destiny appeared to them like a ceiling of stars; above their heads
they beheld the light of a rising sun. All at oncethe clock struck.
Marius glanced at Cosette's charming bare armand at the rosy
things which were vaguely visible through the lace of her bodice
and Cosetteintercepting Marius' glanceblushed to her very hair.


Quite a number of old family friends of the Gillenormand family
had been invited; they pressed about Cosette. Each one vied
with the rest in saluting her as Madame la Baronne.


The officerTheodule Gillenormandnow a captainhad come
from Chartreswhere he was stationed in garrisonto be present
at the wedding of his cousin Pontmercy. Cosette did not recognize him.


Heon his sidehabituated as he was to have women consider him handsome
retained no more recollection of Cosette than of any other woman.


How right I was not to believe in that story about the lancer!
said Father Gillenormandto himself.


Cosette had never been more tender with Jean Valjean.
She was in unison with Father Gillenormand; while he erected joy
into aphorisms and maximsshe exhaled goodness like a perfume.
Happiness desires that all the world should be happy.


She regainedfor the purpose of addressing Jean Valjean
inflections of voice belonging to the time when she was a little girl.
She caressed him with her smile.


A banquet had been spread in the dining-room.


Illumination as brilliant as the daylight is the necessary seasoning
of a great joy. Mist and obscurity are not accepted by the happy.
They do not consent to be black. The nightyes; the shadowsno.
If there is no sunone must be made.


The dining-room was full of gay things. In the centreabove the white
and glittering tablewas a Venetian lustre with flat plateswith all
sorts of colored birdsbluevioletredand greenperched amid
the candles; around the chandeliergirandoleson the wallssconces with
triple and quintuple branches; mirrorssilverwareglasswareplate
porcelainfaiencepotterygold and silversmith's workall was
sparkling and gay. The empty spaces between the candelabra were filled
in with bouquetsso that where there was not a lightthere was a flower.


In the antechamberthree violins and a flute softly played
quartettes by Haydn.


Jean Valjean had seated himself on a chair in the drawing-room
behind the doorthe leaf of which folded back upon him in such
a manner as to nearly conceal him. A few moments before they sat
down to tableCosette cameas though inspired by a sudden whim
and made him a deep courtesyspreading out her bridal toilet
with both handsand with a tenderly roguish glanceshe asked him:



Father, are you satisfied?

Yes,said Jean ValjeanI am content!

Well, then, laugh.

Jean Valjean began to laugh.

A few moments laterBasque announced that dinner was served.

The guestspreceded by M. Gillenormand with Cosette on his arm
entered the dining-roomand arranged themselves in the proper order
around the table.

Two large arm-chairs figured on the right and left of the bride
the first for M. Gillenormandthe other for Jean Valjean.

M. Gillenormand took his seat. The other arm-chair remained empty.
They looked about for M. Fauchelevent.

He was no longer there.

M. Gillenormand questioned Basque.
Do you know where M. Fauchelevent is?

Sir,replied BasqueI do, precisely. M. Fauchelevent told
me to say to you, sir, that he was suffering, his injured hand
was paining him somewhat, and that he could not dine with Monsieur
le Baron and Madame la Baronne. That he begged to be excused,
that he would come to-morrow. He has just taken his departure.

That empty arm-chair chilled the effusion of the wedding
feast for a moment. Butif M. Fauchelevent was absent

M. Gillenormand was presentand the grandfather beamed for two.
He affirmed that M. Fauchelevent had done well to retire early
if he were sufferingbut that it was only a slight ailment.
This declaration sufficed. Moreoverwhat is an obscure corner
in such a submersion of joy? Cosette and Marius were passing
through one of those egotistical and blessed moments when no other
faculty is left to a person than that of receiving happiness.
And thenan idea occurred to M. Gillenormand.--"Pardieuthis
armchair is empty. Come hitherMarius. Your aunt will permit it
although she has a right to you. This armchair is for you.
That is legal and delightful. Fortunatus beside Fortunata."--
Applause from the whole table. Marius took Jean Valjean's place
beside Cosetteand things fell out so that Cosettewho had
at firstbeen saddened by Jean Valjean's absenceended by being
satisfied with it. From the moment when Marius took his place
and was the substituteCosette would not have regretted God himself.
She set her sweet little footshod in white satinon Marius' foot.
The arm-chair being occupiedM. Fauchelevent was obliterated;
and nothing was lacking.

Andfive minutes afterwardthe whole table from one end to the other
was laughing with all the animation of forgetfulness.

At dessertM. Gillenormandrising to his feetwith a glass
of champagne in his hand--only half full so that the palsy of his
eighty years might not cause an overflow--proposed the health
of the married pair.

You shall not escape two sermons,he exclaimed. "This morning


you had one from the curethis evening you shall have one from
your grandfather. Listen to me; I will give you a bit of advice:
Adore each other. I do not make a pack of gyrationsI go straight
to the markbe happy. In all creationonly the turtle-doves are wise.
Philosophers say: `Moderate your joys.' I say: `Give rein
to your joys.' Be as much smitten with each other as fiends.
Be in a rage about it. The philosophers talk stuff and nonsense.
I should like to stuff their philosophy down their gullets again.
Can there be too many perfumestoo many open rose-budstoo many
nightingales singingtoo many green leavestoo much aurora
in life? can people love each other too much? can people please
each other too much? Take careEstellethou art too pretty!
Have a careNemorinthou art too handsome! Fine stupidityin sooth!
Can people enchant each other too muchcajole each other too much
charm each other too much? Can one be too much alivetoo happy?
Moderate your joys. Ahindeed! Down with the philosophers!
Wisdom consists in jubilation. Make merrylet us make merry.
Are we happy because we are goodor are we good because we are happy?
Is the Sancy diamond called the Sancy because it belonged
to Harley de Sancyor because it weighs six hundred carats?
I know nothing about itlife is full of such problems; the important
point is to possess the Sancy and happiness. Let us be happy
without quibbling and quirking. Let us obey the sun blindly.
What is the sun? It is love. He who says lovesays woman.
Ah! ah! behold omnipotence--women. Ask that demagogue of a Marius
if he is not the slave of that little tyrant of a Cosette. And of
his own free willtoothe coward! Woman! There is no Robespierre
who keeps his place but woman reigns. I am no longer Royalist
except towards that royalty. What is Adam? The kingdom of Eve.
No '89 for Eve. There has been the royal sceptre surmounted by a
fleur-de-lysthere has been the imperial sceptre surmounted by a globe
there has been the sceptre of Charlemagnewhich was of iron
there has been the sceptre of Louis the Greatwhich was of gold--
the revolution twisted them between its thumb and forefinger
ha'penny straws; it is done withit is brokenit lies on the earth
there is no longer any sceptrebut make me a revolution against
that little embroidered handkerchiefwhich smells of patchouli!
I should like to see you do it. Try. Why is it so solid? Because it
is a gewgaw. Ah! you are the nineteenth century? Wellwhat then?
And we have been as foolish as you. Do not imagine that you have
effected much change in the universebecause your trip-gallant is called
the cholera-morbusand because your pourree is called the cachuca.
In factthe women must always be loved. I defy you to escape from that.
These friends are our angels. Yeslovewomanthe kiss forms
a circle from which I defy you to escape; andfor my own part
I should be only too happy to re-enter it. Which of you has
seen the planet Venusthe coquette of the abyssthe Celimene
of the oceanrise in the infinitecalming all here below?
The ocean is a rough Alcestis. Wellgrumble as he willwhen Venus
appears he is forced to smile. That brute beast submits. We are all
made so. Wrathtempestclaps of thunderfoam to the very ceiling.
A woman enters on the scenea planet rises; flat on your face!
Marius was fighting six months ago; to-day he is married.
That is well. YesMariusyesCosetteyou are in the right.
Exist boldly for each othermake us burst with rage that we cannot
do the sameidealize each othercatch in your beaks all the tiny
blades of felicity that exist on earthand arrange yourselves a nest
for life. Pardito loveto be lovedwhat a fine miracle when one
is young! Don't imagine that you have invented that. Itoohave had
my dreamItoohave meditatedItoohave sighed; Itoo
have had a moonlight soul. Love is a child six thousand years old.
Love has the right to a long white beard. Methusalem is a street
arab beside Cupid. For sixty centuries men and women have got
out of their scrape by loving. The devilwho is cunningtook to



hating man; manwho is still more cunningtook to loving woman.
In this way he does more good than the devil does him harm.
This craft was discovered in the days of the terrestrial paradise.
The invention is oldmy friendsbut it is perfectly new. Profit by it.
Be Daphnis and Chloewhile waiting to become Philemon and Baucis.
Manage so thatwhen you are with each othernothing shall
be lacking to youand that Cosette may be the sun for Marius
and that Marius may be the universe to Cosette. Cosettelet your
fine weather be the smile of your husband; Mariuslet your rain
be your wife's tears. And let it never rain in your household.
You have filched the winning number in the lottery; you have
gained the great prizeguard it wellkeep it under lock and key
do not squander itadore each other and snap your fingers at
all the rest. Believe what I say to you. It is good sense.
And good sense cannot lie. Be a religion to each other.
Each man has his own fashion of adoring God. Saperlotte! the best
way to adore God is to love one's wife. I love thee! that's
my catechism. He who loves is orthodox. The oath of Henri IV.
places sanctity somewhere between feasting and drunkenness.
Ventre-saint-gris! I don't belong to the religion of that oath.
Woman is forgotten in it. This astonishes me on the part
of Henri IV. My friendslong live women! I am oldthey say;
it's astonishing how much I feel in the mood to be young. I should
like to go and listen to the bagpipes in the woods. Children who
contrive to be beautiful and contented--that intoxicates me.
I would like greatly to get marriedif any one would have me.
It is impossible to imagine that God could have made us for anything
but this: to idolizeto cooto preen ourselvesto be dove-like
to be daintyto bill and coo our loves from morn to nightto gaze
at one's image in one's little wifeto be proudto be triumphant
to plume oneself; that is the aim of life. Therelet not that displease
you which we used to think in our daywhen we were young folks.
Ah! vertu-bamboche! what charming women there were in those days
and what pretty little faces and what lovely lasses! I committed
my ravages among them. Then love each other. If people did
not love each otherI really do not see what use there would
be in having any springtime; and for my own partI should pray
the good God to shut up all the beautiful things that he shows us
and to take away from us and put back in his boxthe flowers
the birdsand the pretty maidens. My childrenreceive an old man's
blessing.


The evening was gaylively and agreeable. The grandfather's
sovereign good humor gave the key-note to the whole feastand each
person regulated his conduct on that almost centenarian cordiality.
They danced a littlethey laughed a great deal; it was an
amiable wedding. Goodman Days of Yore might have been invited
to it. Howeverhe was present in the person of Father Gillenormand.


There was a tumultthen silence.


The married pair disappeared.


A little after midnightthe Gillenormand house became a temple.


Here we pause. On the threshold of wedding nights stands a smiling
angel with his finger on his lips.


The soul enters into contemplation before that sanctuary where
the celebration of love takes place.


There should be flashes of light athwart such houses. The joy
which they contain ought to make its escape through the stones
of the walls in brilliancyand vaguely illuminate the gloom.



It is impossible that this sacred and fatal festival should not give
off a celestial radiance to the infinite. Love is the sublime
crucible wherein the fusion of the man and the woman takes place;
the being onethe being triplethe being finalthe human trinity
proceeds from it. This birth of two souls into oneought to be
an emotion for the gloom. The lover is the priest; the ravished
virgin is terrified. Something of that joy ascends to God.
Where true marriage isthat is to saywhere there is lovethe ideal
enters in. A nuptial bed makes a nook of dawn amid the shadows.
If it were given to the eye of the flesh to scan the formidable
and charming visions of the upper lifeit is probable that we
should behold the forms of nightthe winged unknownsthe blue
passers of the invisiblebend downa throng of sombre heads
around the luminous housesatisfiedshowering benedictions
pointing out to each other the virgin wife gently alarmed
sweetly terrifiedand bearing the reflection of human bliss upon
their divine countenances. If at that supreme hourthe wedded pair
dazzled with voluptuousness and believing themselves alone
were to listenthey would hear in their chamber a confused rustling
of wings. Perfect happiness implies a mutual understanding with
the angels. That dark little chamber has all heaven for its ceiling.
When two mouthsrendered sacred by loveapproach to create
it is impossible that there should not beabove that ineffable kiss
a quivering throughout the immense mystery of stars.


These felicities are the true ones. There is no joy outside
of these joys. Love is the only ecstasy. All the rest weeps.


To loveor to have loved--this suffices. Demand nothing more.
There is no other pearl to be found in the shadowy folds of life.
To love is a fulfilment.


CHAPTER III


THE INSEPARABLE


What had become of Jean Valjean?


Immediately after having laughedat Cosette's graceful command
when no one was paying any heed to himJean Valjean had risen
and had gained the antechamber unperceived. This was the very
room whicheight months beforehe had entered black with mud
with blood and powderbringing back the grandson to the grandfather.
The old wainscoting was garlanded with foliage and flowers;
the musicians were seated on the sofa on which they had laid
Marius down. Basquein a black coatknee-breecheswhite stockings
and white gloveswas arranging roses round all of the dishes that
were to be served. Jean Valjean pointed to his arm in its sling
charged Basque to explain his absenceand went away.


The long windows of the dining-room opened on the street.
Jean Valjean stood for several minuteserect and motionless
in the darknessbeneath those radiant windows. He listened.
The confused sounds of the banquet reached his ear. He heard the loud
commanding tones of the grandfatherthe violinsthe clatter of
the platesthe bursts of laughterand through all that merry uproar
he distinguished Cosette's sweet and joyous voice.


He quitted the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaireand returned to the Rue
de l'Homme Arme.



In order to return thitherhe took the Rue Saint-Louisthe Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherineand the Blancs-Manteaux; it was a little longer
but it was the road through whichfor the last three months
he had become accustomed to pass every day on his way from the
Rue de l'Homme Arme to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvairein order
to avoid the obstructions and the mud in the Rue Vielle-du-Temple.


This roadthrough which Cosette had passedexcluded for him
all possibility of any other itinerary.


Jean Valjean entered his lodgings. He lighted his candle and
mounted the stairs. The apartment was empty. Even Toussaint
was no longer there. Jean Valjean's step made more noise
than usual in the chambers. All the cupboards stood open.
He penetrated to Cosette's bedroom. There were no sheets on the bed.
The pillowcovered with tickingand without a case or lace
was laid on the blankets folded up on the foot of the mattress
whose covering was visibleand on which no one was ever to sleep again.
All the little feminine objects which Cosette was attached to had
been carried away; nothing remained except the heavy furniture
and the four walls. Toussaint's bed was despoiled in like manner.
One bed only was made upand seemed to be waiting some one
and this was Jean Valjean's bed.


Jean Valjean looked at the wallsclosed some of the cupboard doors
and went and came from one room to another.


Then he sought his own chamber once moreand set his candle
on a table.


He had disengaged his arm from the slingand he used his right
hand as though it did not hurt him.


He approached his bedand his eyes restedwas it by chance?
was it intentionally? on the inseparable of which Cosette had
been jealouson the little portmanteau which never left him.
On his arrival in the Rue de l'Homme Armeon the 4th of June
he had deposited it on a round table near the head of his bed.
He went to this table with a sort of vivacitytook a key from
his pocketand opened the valise.


From it he slowly drew forth the garments in whichten years before
Cosette had quitted Montfermeil; first the little gownthen the
black fichuthen the stoutcoarse child's shoes which Cosette
might almost have worn stillso tiny were her feetthen the
fustian bodicewhich was very thickthen the knitted petticoat
next the apron with pocketsthen the woollen stockings.
These stockingswhich still preserved the graceful form of a tiny leg
were no longer than Jean Valjean's hand. All this was black of hue.
It was he who had brought those garments to Montfermeil for her.
As he removed them from the valisehe laid them on the bed.
He fell to thinking. He called up memories. It was in winter
in a very cold month of Decembershe was shiveringhalf-naked
in ragsher poor little feet were all red in their wooden shoes.
HeJean Valjeanhad made her abandon those rags to clothe herself
in these mourning habiliments. The mother must have felt pleased in
her graveto see her daughter wearing mourning for herandabove all
to see that she was properly clothedand that she was warm.
He thought of that forest of Montfermeil; they had traversed
it togetherCosette and he; he thought of what the weather had been
of the leafless treesof the wood destitute of birdsof the
sunless sky; it mattered notit was charming. He arranged the tiny
garments on the bedthe fichu next to the petticoatthe stockings
beside the shoesand he looked at themone after the other.



She was no taller than thatshe had her big doll in her arms
she had put her louis d'or in the pocket of that apronshe had laughed
they walked hand in handshe had no one in the world but him.

Then his venerablewhite head fell forward on the bed
that stoical old heart brokehis face was engulfedso to speak
in Cosette's garmentsand if any one had passed up the stairs
at that momenthe would have heard frightful sobs.

CHAPTER IV

THE IMMORTAL LIVER[68]

[68] In allusion to the story of Prometheus.
The old and formidable struggleof which we have already witnessed
so many phasesbegan once more.

Jacob struggled with the angel but one night. Alas! how many
times have we beheld Jean Valjean seized bodily by his conscience
in the darknessand struggling desperately against it!

Unheard-of conflict! At certain moments the foot slips; at other
moments the ground crumbles away underfoot. How many times had
that consciencemad for the goodclasped and overthrown him!
How many times had the truth set her knee inexorably upon his breast!
How many timeshurled to earth by the lighthad he begged for mercy!
How many times had that implacable sparklighted within him
and upon him by the Bishopdazzled him by force when he had
wished to be blind! How many times had he risen to his feet
in the combatheld fast to the rockleaning against sophism
dragged in the dustnow getting the upper hand of his conscience
again overthrown by it! How many timesafter an equivoque
after the specious and treacherous reasoning of egotismhad he heard
his irritated conscience cry in his ear: "A trip! you wretch!"
How many times had his refractory thoughts rattled convulsively
in his throatunder the evidence of duty! Resistance to God.
Funereal sweats. What secret wounds which he alone felt bleed!
What excoriations in his lamentable existence! How many times
he had risen bleedingbruisedbrokenenlighteneddespair in
his heartserenity in his soul! andvanquishedhe had felt
himself the conqueror. Andafter having dislocatedbroken
and rent his conscience with red-hot pincersit had said to him
as it stood over himformidableluminousand tranquil: "Nowgo
in peace!"

But on emerging from so melancholy a conflictwhat a lugubrious
peacealas!

Neverthelessthat night Jean Valjean felt that he was passing
through his final combat.

A heart-rending question presented itself.

Predestinations are not all direct; they do not open out in a
straight avenue before the predestined man; they have blind courts
impassable alleysobscure turnsdisturbing crossroads offering
the choice of many ways. Jean Valjean had halted at that moment
at the most perilous of these crossroads.

He had come to the supreme crossing of good and evil. He had that


gloomy intersection beneath his eyes. On this occasion once more
as had happened to him already in other sad vicissitudestwo roads
opened out before himthe one temptingthe other alarming.


Which was he to take?


He was counselled to the one which alarmed him by that mysterious
index finger which we all perceive whenever we fix our eyes
on the darkness.


Once moreJean Valjean had the choice between the terrible port
and the smiling ambush.


Is it then true? the soul may recover; but not fate. Frightful thing!
an incurable destiny!


This is the problem which presented itself to him:


In what manner was Jean Valjean to behave in relation to the happiness
of Cosette and Marius? It was he who had willed that happiness
it was he who had brought it about; he hadhimselfburied it
in his entrailsand at that momentwhen he reflected on it
he was able to enjoy the sort of satisfaction which an armorer
would experience on recognizing his factory mark on a knife
on withdrawing itall smokingfrom his own breast.


Cosette had MariusMarius possessed Cosette. They had everything
even riches. And this was his doing.


But what was heJean Valjeanto do with this happiness
now that it existednow that it was there? Should he force himself
on this happiness? Should he treat it as belonging to him?
No doubtCosette did belong to another; but should heJean Valjean
retain of Cosette all that he could retain? Should he remain the sort
of fatherhalf seen but respectedwhich he had hitherto been?
Should hewithout saying a wordbring his past to that future?
Should he present himself thereas though he had a right
and should he seat himselfveiledat that luminous fireside?
Should he take those innocent hands into his tragic hands
with a smile? Should he place upon the peaceful fender of the
Gillenormand drawing-room those feet of hiswhich dragged
behind them the disgraceful shadow of the law? Should he enter
into participation in the fair fortunes of Cosette and Marius?
Should he render the obscurity on his brow and the cloud upon theirs
still more dense? Should he place his catastrophe as a third
associate in their felicity? Should he continue to hold his peace?
In a wordshould he be the sinister mute of destiny beside these two
happy beings?


We must have become habituated to fatality and to encounters with it
in order to have the daring to raise our eyes when certain questions
appear to us in all their horrible nakedness. Good or evil stands
behind this severe interrogation point. What are you going to do?
demands the sphinx.


This habit of trial Jean Valjean possessed. He gazed intently
at the sphinx.


He examined the pitiless problem under all its aspects.


Cosettethat charming existencewas the raft of this shipwreck.
What was he to do? To cling fast to itor to let go his hold?


If he clung to ithe should emerge from disasterhe should ascend



again into the sunlighthe should let the bitter water drip from
his garments and his hairhe was savedhe should live.


And if he let go his hold?


Then the abyss.


Thus he took sad council with his thoughts. Orto speak more correctly
he fought; he kicked furiously internallynow against his will
now against his conviction.


Happily for Jean Valjean that he had been able to weep.
That relieved himpossibly. But the beginning was savage.
A tempestmore furious than the one which had formerly driven him
to Arrasbroke loose within him. The past surged up before him
facing the present; he compared them and sobbed. The silence
of tears once openedthe despairing man writhed.


He felt that he had been stopped short.


Alas! in this fight to the death between our egotism and our duty
when we thus retreat step by step before our immutable ideal
bewilderedfuriousexasperated at having to yielddisputing the ground
hoping for a possible flightseeking an escapewhat an abrupt
and sinister resistance does the foot of the wall offer in our rear!


To feel the sacred shadow which forms an obstacle!


The invisible inexorablewhat an obsession!


Thenone is never done with conscience. Make your choiceBrutus;
make your choiceCato. It is fathomlesssince it is God.
One flings into that well the labor of one's whole lifeone flings in
one's fortuneone flings in one's richesone flings in one's success
one flings in one's liberty or fatherlandone flings in one's
well-beingone flings in one's reposeone flings in one's joy!
More! more! more! Empty the vase! tip the urn! One must finish
by flinging in one's heart.


Somewhere in the fog of the ancient hellsthere is a tun like that.


Is not one pardonableif one at last refuses! Can the inexhaustible
have any right? Are not chains which are endless above human strength?
Who would blame Sisyphus and Jean Valjean for saying: "It is enough!"


The obedience of matter is limited by friction; is there no limit
to the obedience of the soul? If perpetual motion is impossible
can perpetual self-sacrifice be exacted?


The first step is nothingit is the last which is difficult.
What was the Champmathieu affair in comparison with Cosette's marriage
and of that which it entailed? What is a re-entrance into the galleys
compared to entrance into the void?


Ohfirst step that must be descendedhow sombre art thou!
Ohsecond stephow black art thou!


How could he refrain from turning aside his head this time?


Martyrdom is sublimationcorrosive sublimation. It is a torture
which consecrates. One can consent to it for the first hour;
one seats oneself on the throne of glowing ironone places on one's
head the crown of hot ironone accepts the globe of red hot iron
one takes the sceptre of red hot ironbut the mantle of flame still



remains to be donnedand comes there not a moment when the miserable
flesh revolts and when one abdicates from suffering?


At lengthJean Valjean entered into the peace of exhaustion.


He weighedhe reflectedhe considered the alternatives
the mysterious balance of light and darkness.


Should he impose his galleys on those two dazzling children
or should he consummate his irremediable engulfment by himself?
On one side lay the sacrifice of Cosetteon the other that of himself.


At what solution should he arrive? What decision did he come to?


What resolution did he take? What was his own inward definitive
response to the unbribable interrogatory of fatality? What door
did he decide to open? Which side of his life did he resolve upon
closing and condemning? Among all the unfathomable precipices which
surrounded himwhich was his choice? What extremity did he accept?
To which of the gulfs did he nod his head?


His dizzy revery lasted all night long.


He remained there until daylightin the same attitude
bent double over that bedprostrate beneath the enormity
of fatecrushedperchancealas! with clenched fistswith arms
outspread at right angleslike a man crucified who has been
un-nailedand flung face down on the earth. There he remained
for twelve hoursthe twelve long hours of a long winter's night
ice-coldwithout once raising his headand without uttering a word.
He was as motionless as a corpsewhile his thoughts wallowed
on the earth and soarednow like the hydranow like the eagle.
Any one to behold him thus motionless would have pronounced him dead;
all at once he shuddered convulsivelyand his mouthglued to
Cosette's garmentskissed them; then it could be seen that he was alive.


Who could see? Since Jean Valjean was aloneand there was no
one there.


The One who is in the shadows.


BOOK SEVENTH.--THE LAST DRAUGHT FROM THE CUP


CHAPTER I


THE SEVENTH CIRCLE AND THE EIGHTH HEAVEN


The days that follow weddings are solitary. People respect the
meditations of the happy pair. And alsotheir tardy slumbers
to some degree. The tumult of visits and congratulations only begins
later on. On the morning of the 17th of Februaryit was a little
past midday when Basquewith napkin and feather-duster under his arm
busy in setting his antechamber to rightsheard a light tap at
the door. There had been no ringwhich was discreet on such a day.
Basque opened the doorand beheld M. Fauchelevent. He introduced him
into the drawing-roomstill encumbered and topsy-turvyand which bore
the air of a field of battle after the joys of the preceding evening.


Dame, sir,remarked Basquewe all woke up late.



Is your master up?asked Jean Valjean.

How is Monsieur's arm?replied Basque.

Better. Is your master up?

Which one? the old one or the new one?

Monsieur Pontmercy.

Monsieur le Baron,said Basquedrawing himself up.

A man is a Baron most of all to his servants. He counts for something
with them; they are what a philosopher would callbespattered with
the titleand that flatters them. Mariusbe it said in passing
a militant republican as he had provedwas now a Baron in spite
of himself. A small revolution had taken place in the family
in connection with this title. It was now M. Gillenormand
who clung to itand Marius who detached himself from it.
But Colonel Pontmercy had written: "My son will bear my title."
Marius obeyed. And thenCosettein whom the woman was beginning
to dawnwas delighted to be a Baroness.

Monsieur le Baron?repeated Basque. "I will go and see.
I will tell him that M. Fauchelevent is here."

No. Do not tell him that it is I. Tell him that some one wishes
to speak to him in private, and mention no name.

Ah!ejaculated Basque.

I wish to surprise him.

Ah!ejaculated Basque once moreemitting his second "ah!"
as an explanation of the first.

And he left the room.

Jean Valjean remained alone.

The drawing-roomas we have just saidwas in great disorder.
It seemed as thoughby lending an airone might still hear the vague
noise of the wedding. On the polished floor lay all sorts of flowers
which had fallen from garlands and head-dresses. The wax candles
burned to stumpsadded stalactites of wax to the crystal drops of
the chandeliers. Not a single piece of furniture was in its place.
In the cornersthree or four arm-chairsdrawn close together
in a circlehad the appearance of continuing a conversation.
The whole effect was cheerful. A certain grace still lingers
round a dead feast. It has been a happy thing. On the chairs
in disarrayamong those fading flowersbeneath those extinct lights
people have thought of joy. The sun had succeeded to the chandelier
and made its way gayly into the drawing-room.

Several minutes elapsed. Jean Valjean stood motionless on the spot
where Basque had left him. He was very pale. His eyes were hollow
and so sunken in his head by sleeplessness that they nearly
disappeared in their orbits. His black coat bore the weary folds
of a garment that has been up all night. The elbows were whitened
with the down which the friction of cloth against linen leaves behind it.

Jean Valjean stared at the window outlined on the polished floor
at his feet by the sun.


There came a sound at the doorand he raised his eyes.


Marius enteredhis head well uphis mouth smilingan indescribable
light on his countenancehis brow expandedhis eyes triumphant.
He had not slept either.


It is you, father!he exclaimedon catching sight of Jean Valjean;
that idiot of a Basque had such a mysterious air! But you have come
too early. It is only half past twelve. Cosette is asleep.


That word: "Father said to M. Fauchelevent by Marius, signified:
supreme felicity. There had always existed, as the reader knows,
a lofty wall, a coldness and a constraint between them;
ice which must be broken or melted. Marius had reached that point
of intoxication when the wall was lowered, when the ice dissolved,
and when M. Fauchelevent was to him, as to Cosette, a father.


He continued: his words poured forth, as is the peculiarity
of divine paroxysms of joy.


How glad I am to see you! If you only knew how we missed you yesterday!
Good morningfather. How is your hand? Betteris it not?"


Andsatisfied with the favorable reply which he had made to himself
he pursued:


We have both been talking about you. Cosette loves you so dearly!
You must not forget that you have a chamber here, We want nothing more
to do with the Rue de l'Homme Arme. We will have no more of it at all.
How could you go to live in a street like that, which is sickly,
which is disagreeable, which is ugly, which has a barrier at one end,
where one is cold, and into which one cannot enter? You are to come
and install yourself here. And this very day. Or you will have to deal
with Cosette. She means to lead us all by the nose, I warn you.
You have your own chamber here, it is close to ours, it opens on
the garden; the trouble with the clock has been attended to, the bed
is made, it is all ready, you have only to take possession of it.
Near your bed Cosette has placed a huge, old, easy-chair covered
with Utrecht velvet and she has said to it: `Stretch out your arms
to him.' A nightingale comes to the clump of acacias opposite
your windows, every spring. In two months more you will have it.
You will have its nest on your left and ours on your right. By night
it will sing, and by day Cosette will prattle. Your chamber faces
due South. Cosette will arrange your books for you, your Voyages
of Captain Cook and the other,--Vancouver's and all your affairs.
I believe that there is a little valise to which you are attached,
I have fixed upon a corner of honor for that. You have conquered
my grandfather, you suit him. We will live together. Do you
play whist? you will overwhelm my grandfather with delight if you
play whist. It is you who shall take Cosette to walk on the days
when I am at the courts, you shall give her your arm, you know,
as you used to, in the Luxembourg. We are absolutely resolved
to be happy. And you shall be included in it, in our happiness,
do you hear, father? Come, will you breakfast with us to-day?


Sir,said Jean ValjeanI have something to say to you.
I am an ex-convict.


The limit of shrill sounds perceptible can be overleapedas well
in the case of the mind as in that of the ear. These words:
I am an ex-convict,proceeding from the mouth of M. Fauchelevent
and entering the ear of Marius overshot the possible. It seemed to him
that something had just been said to him; but he did not know what.



He stood with his mouth wide open.


Then he perceived that the man who was addressing him was frightful.
Wholly absorbed in his own dazzled statehe had notup to that moment
observed the other man's terrible pallor.


Jean Valjean untied the black cravat which supported his right arm
unrolled the linen from around his handbared his thumb and showed
it to Marius.


There is nothing the matter with my hand,said he.


Marius looked at the thumb.


There has not been anything the matter with it,went on Jean Valjean.


There wasin factno trace of any injury.


Jean Valjean continued:


It was fitting that I should be absent from your marriage.
I absented myself as much as was in my power. So I invented this
injury in order that I might not commit a forgery, that I might
not introduce a flaw into the marriage documents, in order that I
might escape from signing.


Marius stammered.


What is the meaning of this?


The meaning of it is,replied Jean Valjeanthat I have been
in the galleys.


You are driving me mad!exclaimed Marius in terror.


Monsieur Pontmercy,said Jean ValjeanI was nineteen years in
the galleys. For theft. Then, I was condemned for life for theft,
for a second offence. At the present moment, I have broken my ban.


In vain did Marius recoil before the realityrefuse the fact
resist the evidencehe was forced to give way. He began to understand
andas always happens in such caseshe understood too much.
An inward shudder of hideous enlightenment flashed through him;
an idea which made him quiver traversed his mind. He caught
a glimpse of a wretched destiny for himself in the future.


Say all, say all!he cried. "You are Cosette's father!"


And he retreated a couple of paces with a movement
of indescribable horror.


Jean Valjean elevated his head with so much majesty of attitude
that he seemed to grow even to the ceiling.


It is necessary that you should believe me here, sir; although our
oath to others may not be received in law . . .


Here he pausedthenwith a sort of sovereign and sepulchral authority
he addedarticulating slowlyand emphasizing the syllables:


. . . You will believe me. I the father of Cosette! before God, no.
Monsieur le Baron Pontmercy, I am a peasant of Faverolles.
I earned my living by pruning trees. My name is not Fauchelevent,
but Jean Valjean. I am not related to Cosette. Reassure yourself.



Marius stammered:

Who will prove that to me?

I. Since I tell you so.

Marius looked at the man. He was melancholy yet tranquil. No lie
could proceed from such a calm. That which is icy is sincere.
The truth could be felt in that chill of the tomb.

I believe you,said Marius.

Jean Valjean bent his headas though taking note of this
and continued:

What am I to Cosette? A passer-by. Ten years ago, I did not know
that she was in existence. I love her, it is true. One loves a child
whom one has seen when very young, being old oneself. When one is old,
one feels oneself a grandfather towards all little children.
You may, it seems to me, suppose that I have something which resembles
a heart. She was an orphan. Without either father or mother.
She needed me. That is why I began to love her. Children are
so weak that the first comer, even a man like me, can become
their protector. I have fulfilled this duty towards Cosette.
I do not think that so slight a thing can be called a good action;
but if it be a good action, well, say that I have done it.
Register this attenuating circumstance. To-day, Cosette passes
out of my life; our two roads part. Henceforth, I can do nothing
for her. She is Madame Pontmercy. Her providence has changed.
And Cosette gains by the change. All is well. As for the six
hundred thousand francs, you do not mention them to me, but I
forestall your thought, they are a deposit. How did that deposit
come into my hands? What does that matter? I restore the deposit.
Nothing more can be demanded of me. I complete the restitution
by announcing my true name. That concerns me. I have a reason
for desiring that you should know who I am.

And Jean Valjean looked Marius full in the face.

All that Marius experienced was tumultuous and incoherent.
Certain gusts of destiny produce these billows in our souls.

We have all undergone moments of trouble in which everything
within us is dispersed; we say the first things that occur to us
which are not always precisely those which should be said.
There are sudden revelations which one cannot bearand which
intoxicate like baleful wine. Marius was stupefied by the novel
situation which presented itself to himto the point of addressing
that man almost like a person who was angry with him for this avowal.

But why,he exclaimeddo you tell me all this? Who forces
you to do so? You could have kept your secret to yourself.
You are neither denounced, nor tracked nor pursued. You have a
reason for wantonly making such a revelation. Conclude. There is
something more. In what connection do you make this confession?
What is your motive?

My motive?replied Jean Valjean in a voice so low and dull that one
would have said that he was talking to himself rather than to Marius.
From what motive, in fact, has this convict just said `I am a
convict'? Well, yes! the motive is strange. It is out of honesty.
Stay, the unfortunate point is that I have a thread in my heart,
which keeps me fast. It is when one is old that that sort of


thread is particularly solid. All life falls in ruin around one;
one resists. Had I been able to tear out that thread, to break it,
to undo the knot or to cut it, to go far away, I should have been safe.
I had only to go away; there are diligences in the Rue Bouloy;
you are happy; I am going. I have tried to break that thread,
I have jerked at it, it would not break, I tore my heart with it.
Then I said: `I cannot live anywhere else than here.' I must stay.
Well, yes, you are right, I am a fool, why not simply remain here?
You offer me a chamber in this house, Madame Pontmercy is sincerely
attached to me, she said to the arm-chair: `Stretch out your arms
to him,' your grandfather demands nothing better than to have me,
I suit him, we shall live together, and take our meals in common,
I shall give Cosette my arm . . . Madame Pontmercy, excuse me, it is
a habit, we shall have but one roof, one table, one fire, the same
chimney-corner in winter, the same promenade in summer, that is joy,
that is happiness, that is everything. We shall live as one family.
One family!


At that wordJean Valjean became wild. He folded his arms
glared at the floor beneath his feet as though he would have excavated
an abyss thereinand his voice suddenly rose in thundering tones:


As one family! No. I belong to no family. I do not belong to yours.
I do not belong to any family of men. In houses where people
are among themselves, I am superfluous. There are families,
but there is nothing of the sort for me. I am an unlucky wretch;
I am left outside. Did I have a father and mother? I almost doubt it.
On the day when I gave that child in marriage, all came to an end.
I have seen her happy, and that she is with a man whom she loves,
and that there exists here a kind old man, a household of two angels,
and all joys in that house, and that it was well, I said to myself:
`Enter thou not.' I could have lied, it is true, have deceived you all,
and remained Monsieur Fauchelevent. So long as it was for her,
I could lie; but now it would be for myself, and I must not. It was
sufficient for me to hold my peace, it is true, and all would go on.
You ask me what has forced me to speak? a very odd thing; my conscience.
To hold my peace was very easy, however. I passed the night in trying
to persuade myself to it; you questioned me, and what I have just
said to you is so extraordinary that you have the right to do it;
well, yes, I have passed the night in alleging reasons to myself,
and I gave myself very good reasons, I have done what I could.
But there are two things in which I have not succeeded; in breaking
the thread that holds me fixed, riveted and sealed here by the heart,
or in silencing some one who speaks softly to me when I am alone.
That is why I have come hither to tell you everything this morning.
Everything or nearly everything. It is useless to tell you
that which concerns only myself; I keep that to myself. You know
the essential points. So I have taken my mystery and have brought
it to you. And I have disembowelled my secret before your eyes.
It was not a resolution that was easy to take. I struggled all
night long. Ah! you think that I did not tell myself that this
was no Champmathieu affair, that by concealing my name I was doing
no one any injury, that the name of Fauchelevent had been given
to me by Fauchelevent himself, out of gratitude for a service
rendered to him, and that I might assuredly keep it, and that I
should be happy in that chamber which you offer me, that I should
not be in any one's way, that I should be in my own little corner,
and that, while you would have Cosette, I should have the idea that I
was in the same house with her. Each one of us would have had his
share of happiness. If I continued to be Monsieur Fauchelevent,
that would arrange everything. Yes, with the exception of my soul.
There was joy everywhere upon my surface, but the bottom of my soul
remained black. It is not enough to be happy, one must be content.
Thus I should have remained Monsieur Fauchelevent, thus I should have



concealed my true visage, thus, in the presence of your expansion,
I should have had an enigma, thus, in the midst of your full noonday,
I should have had shadows, thus, without crying `'ware,' I should
have simply introduced the galleys to your fireside, I should have
taken my seat at your table with the thought that if you knew
who I was, you would drive me from it, I should have allowed myself
to be served by domestics who, had they known, would have said:
`How horrible!' I should have touched you with my elbow,
which you have a right to dislike, I should have filched your clasps
of the hand! There would have existed in your house a division
of respect between venerable white locks and tainted white locks;
at your most intimate hours, when all hearts thought themselves open
to the very bottom to all the rest, when we four were together,
your grandfather, you two and myself, a stranger would have been present!
I should have been side by side with you in your existence,
having for my only care not to disarrange the cover of my dreadful pit.
Thus, I, a dead man, should have thrust myself upon you who are
living beings. I should have condemned her to myself forever.
You and Cosette and I would have had all three of our heads in
the green cap! Does it not make you shudder? I am only the most
crushed of men; I should have been the most monstrous of men.
And I should have committed that crime every day! And I should
have had that face of night upon my visage every day! every day!
And I should have communicated to you a share in my taint every
day! every day! to you, my dearly beloved, my children, to you,
my innocent creatures! Is it nothing to hold one's peace? is it
a simple matter to keep silence? No, it is not simple. There is
a silence which lies. And my lie, and my fraud and my indignity,
and my cowardice and my treason and my crime, I should have drained
drop by drop, I should have spit it out, then swallowed it again,
I should have finished at midnight and have begun again at midday,
and my `good morning' would have lied, and my `good night'
would have lied, and I should have slept on it, I should have eaten it,
with my bread, and I should have looked Cosette in the face,
and I should have responded to the smile of the angel by the smile
of the damned soul, and I should have been an abominable villain!
Why should I do it? in order to be happy. In order to be happy.
Have I the right to be happy? I stand outside of life,
Sir.


Jean Valjean paused. Marius listened. Such chains of ideas and of
anguishes cannot be interrupted. Jean Valjean lowered his voice
once morebut it was no longer a dull voice--it was a sinister voice.


You ask why I speak? I am neither denounced, nor pursued, nor tracked,
you say. Yes! I am denounced! yes! I am tracked! By whom?
By myself. It is I who bar the passage to myself, and I drag myself,
and I push myself, and I arrest myself, and I execute myself,
and when one holds oneself, one is firmly held.


Andseizing a handful of his own coat by the nape of the neck
and extending it towards Marius:


Do you see that fist?he continued. "Don't you think that
it holds that collar in such a wise as not to release it?
Well! conscience is another grasp! If one desires to be happy
sirone must never understand duty; foras soon as one has
comprehended itit is implacable. One would say that it
punished you for comprehending it; but noit rewards you; for it
places you in a hellwhere you feel God beside you. One has
no sooner lacerated his own entrails than he is at peace with himself."


Andwith a poignant accenthe added:



Monsieur Pontmercy, this is not common sense, I am an honest man.
It is by degrading myself in your eyes that I elevate myself in my own.
This has happened to me once before, but it was less painful then;
it was a mere nothing. Yes, an honest man. I should not be so if,
through my fault, you had continued to esteem me; now that you
despise me, I am so. I have that fatality hanging over me that,
not being able to ever have anything but stolen consideration,
that consideration humiliates me, and crushes me inwardly, and,
in order that I may respect myself, it is necessary that I should
be despised. Then I straighten up again. I am a galley-slave who
obeys his conscience. I know well that that is most improbable.
But what would you have me do about it? it is the fact. I have entered
into engagements with myself; I keep them. There are encounters
which bind us, there are chances which involve us in duties.
You see, Monsieur Pontmercy, various things have happened to me in
the course of my life.


Again Jean Valjean pausedswallowing his saliva with an effort
as though his words had a bitter after-tasteand then he went on:


When one has such a horror hanging over one, one has not the right
to make others share it without their knowledge, one has not the right
to make them slip over one's own precipice without their perceiving it,
one has not the right to let one's red blouse drag upon them,
one has no right to slyly encumber with one's misery the happiness
of others. It is hideous to approach those who are healthy,
and to touch them in the dark with one's ulcer. In spite of the fact
that Fauchelevent lent me his name, I have no right to use it;
he could give it to me, but I could not take it. A name is an _I_.
You see, sir, that I have thought somewhat, I have read a little,
although I am a peasant; and you see that I express myself properly.
I understand things. I have procured myself an education. Well, yes,
to abstract a name and to place oneself under it is dishonest.
Letters of the alphabet can be filched, like a purse or a watch.
To be a false signature in flesh and blood, to be a living false key,
to enter the house of honest people by picking their lock,
never more to look straightforward, to forever eye askance,
to be infamous within the _I_, no! no! no! no! no! It is better
to suffer, to bleed, to weep, to tear one's skin from the flesh
with one's nails, to pass nights writhing in anguish, to devour
oneself body and soul. That is why I have just told you all this.
Wantonly, as you say.


He drew a painful breathand hurled this final word:


In days gone by, I stole a loaf of bread in order to live;
to-day, in order to live, I will not steal a name.


To live!interrupted Marius. "You do not need that name in order
to live?"


Ah! I understand the matter,said Jean Valjeanraising and
lowering his head several times in succession.


A silence ensued. Both held their peaceeach plunged in a gulf
of thoughts. Marius was sitting near a table and resting the
corner of his mouth on one of his fingerswhich was folded back.
Jean Valjean was pacing to and fro. He paused before a mirror
and remained motionless. Thenas though replying to some inward
course of reasoninghe saidas he gazed at the mirrorwhich he did
not see:


While, at present, I am relieved.



He took up his march againand walked to the other end of the
drawing-room. At the moment when he turned roundhe perceived that Marius
was watching his walk. Then he saidwith an inexpressible intonation:


I drag my leg a little. Now you understand why!


Then he turned fully round towards Marius:


And now, sir, imagine this: I have said nothing, I have remained
Monsieur Fauchelevent, I have taken my place in your house,
I am one of you, I am in my chamber, I come to breakfast in the
morning in slippers, in the evening all three of us go to the play,
I accompany Madame Pontmercy to the Tuileries, and to the Place Royale,
we are together, you think me your equal; one fine day you are there,
and I am there, we are conversing, we are laughing; all at once,
you hear a voice shouting this name: `Jean Valjean!' and behold,
that terrible hand, the police, darts from the darkness, and abruptly
tears off my mask!


Again he paused; Marius had sprung to his feet with a shudder.
Jean Valjean resumed:


What do you say to that?


Marius' silence answered for him.


Jean Valjean continued:


You see that I am right in not holding my peace. Be happy, be in heaven,
be the angel of an angel, exist in the sun, be content therewith,
and do not trouble yourself about the means which a poor damned
wretch takes to open his breast and force his duty to come forth;
you have before you, sir, a wretched man.


Marius slowly crossed the roomandwhen he was quite close
to Jean Valjeanhe offered the latter his hand.


But Marius was obliged to step up and take that hand which was
not offeredJean Valjean let him have his own wayand it seemed
to Marius that he pressed a hand of marble.


My grandfather has friends,said Marius; "I will procure your pardon."


It is useless,replied Jean Valjean. "I am believed to be dead
and that suffices. The dead are not subjected to surveillance.
They are supposed to rot in peace. Death is the same thing
as pardon."


Anddisengaging the hand which Marius heldhe addedwith a sort
of inexorable dignity:


Moreover, the friend to whom I have recourse is the doing of my duty;
and I need but one pardon, that of my conscience.


At that momenta door at the other end of the drawing-room opened
gently half wayand in the opening Cosette's head appeared.
They saw only her sweet faceher hair was in charming disorder
her eyelids were still swollen with sleep. She made the movement
of a birdwhich thrusts its head out of its nestglanced first at
her husbandthen at Jean Valjeanand cried to them with a smile
so that they seemed to behold a smile at the heart of a rose:


I will wager that you are talking politics. How stupid that is,
instead of being with me!



Jean Valjean shuddered.

Cosette! . . .stammered Marius.

And he paused. One would have said that they were two criminals.

Cosettewho was radiantcontinued to gaze at both of them.
There was something in her eyes like gleams of paradise.


I have caught you in the very act,said Cosette. "Just now
I heard my father Fauchelevent through the door saying: `Conscience .
. . doing my duty . . .' That is politicsindeed it is. I will
not have it. People should not talk politics the very next day.
It is not right."


You are mistaken. Cosette,said Mariuswe are talking business.
We are discussing the best investment of your six hundred thousand
francs . . .


That is not it at all interrupted Cosette. "I am coming.
Does any body want me here?"


Andpassing resolutely through the doorshe entered the drawing-room.
She was dressed in a voluminous white dressing-gownwith a thousand
folds and large sleeves whichstarting from the neckfell to
her feet. In the golden heavens of some ancient gothic pictures
there are these charming sacks fit to clothe the angels.


She contemplated herself from head to foot in a long mirror
then exclaimedin an outburst of ineffable ecstasy:


There was once a King and a Queen. Oh! how happy I am!


That saidshe made a curtsey to Marius and to Jean Valjean.


There,said sheI am going to install myself near you in an
easy-chair, we breakfast in half an hour, you shall say anything
you like, I know well that men must talk, and I will be very good.


Marius took her by the arm and said lovingly to her:


We are talking business.


By the way,said CosetteI have opened my window, a flock
of pierrots has arrived in the garden,--Birds, not maskers.
To-day is Ash-Wednesday; but not for the birds.


I tell you that we are talking business, go, my little Cosette,
leave us alone for a moment. We are talking figures. That will
bore you.


You have a charming cravat on this morning, Marius. You are
very dandified, monseigneur. No, it will not bore me.


I assure you that it will bore you.


No. Since it is you. I shall not understand you, but I shall
listen to you. When one hears the voices of those whom one loves,
one does not need to understand the words that they utter.
That we should be here together--that is all that I desire.
I shall remain with you, bah!


You are my beloved Cosette! Impossible.



Impossible!
Yes.

Very good,said Cosette. "I was going to tell you some news.
I could have told you that your grandfather is still asleep
that your aunt is at massthat the chimney in my father Fauchelevent's
room smokesthat Nicolette has sent for the chimney-sweepthat
Toussaint and Nicolette have already quarrelledthat Nicolette
makes sport of Toussaint's stammer. Wellyou shall know nothing.
Ah! it is impossible? you shall seegentlementhat Iin my turn
can say: It is impossible. Then who will be caught? I beseech you
my little Mariuslet me stay here with you two."


I swear to you, that it is indispensable that we should be alone.


Well, am I anybody?
Jean Valjean had not uttered a single word. Cosette turned to him:


In the first place, father, I want you to come and embrace me.
What do you mean by not saying anything instead of taking my part? who
gave me such a father as that? You must perceive that my family life
is very unhappy. My husband beats me. Come, embrace me instantly.


Jean Valjean approached.


Cosette turned toward Marius.
As for you, I shall make a face at you.


Then she presented her brow to Jean Valjean.
Jean Valjean advanced a step toward her.


Cosette recoiled.
Father, you are pale. Does your arm hurt you?


It is well,said Jean Valjean.
Did you sleep badly?


No.
Are you sad?


No.


Embrace me if you are well, if you sleep well, if you are content,
I will not scold you.

And again she offered him her brow.

Jean Valjean dropped a kiss upon that brow whereon rested
a celestial gleam.
Smile.


Jean Valjean obeyed. It was the smile of a spectre.
Now, defend me against my husband.


Cosette! . . .ejaculated Marius.


Get angry, father. Say that I must stay. You can certainly
talk before me. So you think me very silly. What you say is
astonishing! business, placing money in a bank a great matter truly.
Men make mysteries out of nothing. I am very pretty this morning.
Look at me, Marius.


And with an adorable shrug of the shouldersand an indescribably
exquisite poutshe glanced at Marius.


I love you!said Marius.


I adore you!said Cosette.


And they fell irresistibly into each other's arms.


Now,said Cosetteadjusting a fold of her dressing-gown
with a triumphant little grimaceI shall stay.


No, not that,said Mariusin a supplicating tone. "We have
to finish something."


Still no?


Marius assumed a grave tone:


I assure you, Cosette, that it is impossible.


Ah! you put on your man's voice, sir. That is well, I go.
You, father, have not upheld me. Monsieur my father, monsieur
my husband, you are tyrants. I shall go and tell grandpapa.
If you think that I am going to return and talk platitudes to you,
you are mistaken. I am proud. I shall wait for you now.
You shall see, that it is you who are going to be bored without me.
I am going, it is well.


And she left the room.


Two seconds laterthe door opened once moreher fresh and rosy
head was again thrust between the two leavesand she cried to them:


I am very angry indeed.


The door closed againand the shadows descended once more.


It was as though a ray of sunlight should have suddenly traversed
the nightwithout itself being conscious of it.


Marius made sure that the door was securely closed.


Poor Cosette!he murmuredwhen she finds out . . .


At that word Jean Valjean trembled in every limb. He fixed
on Marius a bewildered eye.


Cosette! oh yes, it is true, you are going to tell Cosette about this.
That is right. Stay, I had not thought of that. One has the
strength for one thing, but not for another. Sir, I conjure you,
I entreat now, sir, give me your most sacred word of honor, that you
will not tell her. Is it not enough that you should know it?
I have been able to say it myself without being forced to it,
I could have told it to the universe, to the whole world,--it was
all one to me. But she, she does not know what it is, it would



terrify her. What, a convict! we should be obliged to explain matters
to her, to say to her: `He is a man who has been in the galleys.'
She saw the chain-gang pass by one day. Oh! My God!. . . He
dropped into an arm-chair and hid his face in his hands.


His grief was not audiblebut from the quivering of his shoulders
it was evident that he was weeping. Silent tearsterrible tears.


There is something of suffocation in the sob. He was seized with a
sort of convulsionhe threw himself against the back of the chair
as though to gain breathletting his arms falland allowing Marius
to see his face inundated with tearsand Marius heard him murmur
so low that his voice seemed to issue from fathomless depths:


Oh! would that I could die!


Be at your ease,said MariusI will keep your secret for
myself alone.x Andless touchedperhapsthan he ought to
have beenbut forcedfor the last hourto familiarize himself
with something as unexpected as it was dreadfulgradually beholding
the convict superposed before his very eyesupon M. Fauchelevent
overcomelittle by littleby that lugubrious realityand led
by the natural inclination of the situationto recognize the space
which had just been placed between that man and himselfMarius added:


It is impossible that I should not speak a word to you with regard
to the deposit which you have so faithfully and honestly remitted.
That is an act of probity. It is just that some recompense should be
bestowed on you. Fix the sum yourself, it shall be counted out to you.
Do not fear to set it very high.


I thank you, sir,replied Jean Valjeangently.


He remained in thought for a momentmechanically passing the tip
of his fore-finger across his thumb-nailthen he lifted up his voice:


All is nearly over. But one last thing remains for me . . .


What is it?


Jean Valjean struggled with what seemed a last hesitationand
without voicewithout breathhe stammered rather than said:


Now that you know, do you think, sir, you, who are the master,
that I ought not to see Cosette any more?


I think that would be better,replied Marius coldly.


I shall never see her more,murmured Jean Valjean. And he
directed his steps towards the door.


He laid his hand on the knobthe latch yieldedthe door opened.
Jean Valjean pushed it open far enough to pass throughstood motionless
for a secondthen closed the door again and turned to Marius.


He was no longer palehe was livid. There were no longer any
tears in his eyesbut only a sort of tragic flame. His voice
had regained a strange composure.


Stay, sir,he said. "If you will allow itI will come to see her.
I assure you that I desire it greatly. If I had not cared to
see CosetteI should not have made to you the confession that I
have madeI should have gone away; butas I desired to remain
in the place where Cosette isand to continue to see her



I had to tell you about it honestly. You follow my reasoning
do you not? it is a matter easily understood. You seeI have had
her with me for more than nine years. We lived first in that hut
on the boulevardthen in the conventthen near the Luxembourg.
That was where you saw her for the first time. You remember
her blue plush hat. Then we went to the Quartier des Invalides
where there was a railing on a gardenthe Rue Plumet. I lived
in a little back court-yardwhence I could hear her piano.
That was my life. We never left each other. That lasted for nine
years and some months. I was like her own fatherand she was
my child. I do not know whether you understandMonsieur Pontmercy
but to go away nownever to see her againnever to speak to
her againto no longer have anythingwould be hard. If you do not
disapprove of itI will come to see Cosette from time to time.
I will not come often. I will not remain long. You shall give
orders that I am to be received in the little waiting-room. On
the ground floor. I could enter perfectly well by the back door
but that might create surprise perhapsand it would be better
I thinkfor me to enter by the usual door. TrulysirI should
like to see a little more of Cosette. As rarely as you please.
Put yourself in my placeI have nothing left but that. And then
we must be cautious. If I no longer come at allit would produce
a bad effectit would be considered singular. What I can do
by the wayis to come in the afternoonwhen night is beginning
to fall."

You shall come every evening,said Mariusand Cosette will
be waiting for you.

You are kind, sir,said Jean Valjean.

Marius saluted Jean Valjeanhappiness escorted despair to the door
and these two men parted.

CHAPTER II

THE OBSCURITIES WHICH A REVELATION CAN CONTAIN

Marius was quite upset.

The sort of estrangement which he had always felt towards the man
beside whom he had seen Cosettewas now explained to him.
There was something enigmatic about that personof which his
instinct had warned him.

This enigma was the most hideous of disgracesthe galleys.
This M. Fauchelevent was the convict Jean Valjean.

To abruptly find such a secret in the midst of one's happiness
resembles the discovery of a scorpion in a nest of turtledoves.

Was the happiness of Marius and Cosette thenceforth condemned
to such a neighborhood? Was this an accomplished fact? Did the
acceptance of that man form a part of the marriage now consummated?
Was there nothing to be done?

Had Marius wedded the convict as well?

In vain may one be crowned with light and joyin vain may one taste
the grand purple hour of lifehappy lovesuch shocks would force
even the archangel in his ecstasyeven the demigod in his glory


to shudder.


As is always the case in changes of view of this natureMarius asked
himself whether he had nothing with which to reproach himself.
Had he been wanting in divination? Had he been wanting in prudence?
Had he involuntarily dulled his wits? A littleperhaps. Had he
entered upon this love affairwhich had ended in his marriage
to Cosettewithout taking sufficient precautions to throw light
upon the surroundings? He admitted--it is thusby a series
of successive admissions of ourselves in regard to ourselves
that life amends uslittle by little--he admitted the chimerical
and visionary side of his naturea sort of internal cloud peculiar
to many organizationsand whichin paroxysms of passion and sorrow
dilates as the temperature of the soul changesand invades the
entire manto such a degree as to render him nothing more than a
conscience bathed in a mist. We have more than once indicated this
characteristic element of Marius' individuality.


He recalled thatin the intoxication of his lovein the Rue Plumet
during those six or seven ecstatic weekshe had not even spoke
to Cosette of that drama in the Gorbeau hovelwhere the victim
had taken up such a singular line of silence during the struggle
and the ensuing flight. How had it happened that he had not
mentioned this to Cosette? Yet it was so near and so terrible!
How had it come to pass that he had not even named the Thenardiers
andparticularlyon the day when he had encountered Eponine?
He now found it almost difficult to explain his silence of that time.
Neverthelesshe could account for it. He recalled his benumbed
statehis intoxication with Cosettelove absorbing everything
that catching away of each other into the idealand perhaps also
like the imperceptible quantity of reason mingled with this violent
and charming state of the soula vaguedull instinct impelling him
to conceal and abolish in his memory that redoubtable adventure
contact with which he dreadedin which he did not wish to play
any parthis agency in which he had kept secretand in which he
could be neither narrator nor witness without being an accuser.


Moreoverthese few weeks had been a flash of lightning; there had
been no time for anything except love.


In shorthaving weighed everythingturned everything over in his mind
examined everythingwhatever might have been the consequences if he
had told Cosette about the Gorbeau ambusheven if he had discovered
that Jean Valjean was a convictwould that have changed himMarius?
Would that have changed herCosette? Would he have drawn back?
Would he have adored her any the less? Would he have refrained
from marrying her? No. Then there was nothing to regret
nothing with which he need reproach himself. All was well.
There is a deity for those drunken men who are called lovers.
Marius blindhad followed the path which he would have chosen had he
been in full possession of his sight. Love had bandaged his eyes
in order to lead him whither? To paradise.


But this paradise was henceforth complicated
with an infernal accompaniment.


Marius' ancient estrangement towards this mantowards this Fauchelevent
who had turned into Jean Valjeanwas at present mingled with horror.


In this horrorlet us statethere was some pityand even
a certain surprise.


This thiefthis thief guilty of a second offencehad restored
that deposit. And what a deposit! Six hundred thousand francs.



He alone was in the secret of that deposit. He might have kept
it allhe had restored it all.


Moreoverhe had himself revealed his situation. Nothing forced him
to this. If any one learned who he wasit was through himself.
In this avowal there was something more than acceptance of humiliation
there was acceptance of peril. For a condemned mana mask is not
a maskit is a shelter. A false name is securityand he had rejected
that false name. Hethe galley-slavemight have hidden himself
forever in an honest family; he had withstood this temptation.
And with what motive? Through a conscientious scruple.
He himself explained this with the irresistible accents of truth.
In shortwhatever this Jean Valjean might behe wasundoubtedly
a conscience which was awakening. There existed some mysterious
re-habilitation which had begun; andto all appearances
scruples had for a long time already controlled this man. Such fits
of justice and goodness are not characteristic of vulgar natures.
An awakening of conscience is grandeur of soul.


Jean Valjean was sincere. This sincerityvisiblepalpable
irrefragableevident from the very grief that it caused himrendered
inquiries uselessand conferred authority on all that that man had said.


Herefor Mariusthere was a strange reversal of situations.
What breathed from M. Fauchelevent? distrust. What did Jean Valjean
inspire? confidence.


In the mysterious balance of this Jean Valjean which the pensive
Marius struckhe admitted the active principlehe admitted
the passive principleand he tried to reach a balance.


But all this went on as in a storm. Mariuswhile endeavoring
to form a clear idea of this manand while pursuing Jean Valjean
so to speakin the depths of his thoughtlost him and found him
again in a fatal mist.


The deposit honestly restoredthe probity of the confession--
these were good. This produced a lightening of the cloud
then the cloud became black once more.


Troubled as were Marius' memoriesa shadow of them returned to him.


After allwhat was that adventure in the Jondrette attic?
Why had that man taken to flight on the arrival of the police
instead of entering a complaint?


Here Marius found the answer. Because that man was a fugitive
from justicewho had broken his ban.


Another question: Why had that man come to the barricade?


For Marius now once more distinctly beheld that recollection
which had re-appeared in his emotions like sympathetic ink at
the application of heat. This man had been in the barricade.
He had not fought there. What had he come there for? In the presence
of this question a spectre sprang up and replied: "Javert."


Marius recalled perfectly now that funereal sight of Jean Valjean
dragging the pinioned Javert out of the barricadeand he still
heard behind the corner of the little Rue Mondetour that frightful
pistol shot. Obviouslythere was hatred between that police spy
and the galley-slave. The one was in the other's way. Jean Valjean
had gone to the barricade for the purpose of revenging himself.



He had arrived late. He probably knew that Javert was a prisoner there.
The Corsican vendetta has penetrated to certain lower strata and has
become the law there; it is so simple that it does not astonish
souls which are but half turned towards good; and those hearts are
so constituted that a criminalwho is in the path of repentance
may be scrupulous in the matter of theft and unscrupulous in the
matter of vengeance. Jean Valjean had killed Javert. At least
that seemed to be evident.


This was the final questionto be sure; but to this there was
no reply. This question Marius felt like pincers. How had it come
to pass that Jean Valjean's existence had elbowed that of Cosette
for so long a period?


What melancholy sport of Providence was that which had placed
that child in contact with that man? Are there then chains
for two which are forged on high? and does God take pleasure
in coupling the angel with the demon? So a crime and an innocence
can be room-mates in the mysterious galleys of wretchedness?
In that defiling of condemned persons which is called human destiny
can two brows pass side by sidethe one ingenuousthe other
formidablethe one all bathed in the divine whiteness of dawn
the other forever blemished by the flash of an eternal lightning?
Who could have arranged that inexplicable pairing off? In what manner
in consequence of what prodigyhad any community of life been
established between this celestial little creature and that old criminal?


Who could have bound the lamb to the wolfandwhat was still
more incomprehensiblehave attached the wolf to the lamb?
For the wolf loved the lambfor the fierce creature adored
the feeble oneforduring the space of nine yearsthe angel
had had the monster as her point of support. Cosette's childhood
and girlhoodher advent in the daylighther virginal growth towards
life and lighthad been sheltered by that hideous devotion.
Here questions exfoliatedso to speakinto innumerable enigmas
abysses yawned at the bottoms of abyssesand Marius could no longer bend
over Jean Valjean without becoming dizzy. What was this man-precipice?


The old symbols of Genesis are eternal; in human societysuch as it
now existsand until a broader day shall effect a change in it
there will always be two menthe one superiorthe other subterranean;
the one which is according to good is Abel; the other which is
according to evil is Cain. What was this tender Cain? What was
this ruffian religiously absorbed in the adoration of a virgin
watching over herrearing herguarding herdignifying her
and enveloping herimpure as he was himselfwith purity?


What was that cess-pool which had venerated that innocence to such
a point as not to leave upon it a single spot? What was this Jean
Valjean educating Cosette? What was this figure of the shadows
which had for its only object the preservation of the rising
of a star from every shadow and from every cloud?


That was Jean Valjean's secret; that was also God's secret.


In the presence of this double secretMarius recoiled. The one
in some sortreassured him as to the other. God was as visible
in this affair as was Jean Valjean. God has his instruments.
He makes use of the tool which he wills. He is not responsible
to men. Do we know how God sets about the work? Jean Valjean
had labored over Cosette. He hadto some extentmade that soul.
That was incontestable. Wellwhat then? The workman was horrible;
but the work was admirable. God produces his miracles as seems
good to him. He had constructed that charming Cosetteand he had



employed Jean Valjean. It had pleased him to choose this strange
collaborator for himself. What account have we to demand of him?
Is this the first time that the dung-heap has aided the spring to create
the rose?


Marius made himself these repliesand declared to himself that they
were good. He had not dared to press Jean Valjean on all the points
which we have just indicatedbut he did not confess to himself that
he did not dare to do it. He adored Cosettehe possessed Cosette
Cosette was splendidly pure. That was sufficient for him.
What enlightenment did he need? Cosette was a light. Does light require
enlightenment? He had everything; what more could he desire? All--
is not that enough? Jean Valjean's personal affairs did not concern him.


And bending over the fatal shadow of that manhe clung fast
convulsivelyto the solemn declaration of that unhappy wretch:
I am nothing to Cosette. Ten years ago I did not know that she
was in existence.


Jean Valjean was a passer-by. He had said so himself.
Wellhe had passed. Whatever he washis part was finished.


Henceforththere remained Marius to fulfil the part of Providence
to Cosette. Cosette had sought the azure in a person like herself
in her loverher husbandher celestial male. Cosetteas she took
her flightwinged and transfiguredleft behind her on the earth
her hideous and empty chrysalisJean Valjean.


In whatever circle of ideas Marius revolvedhe always returned
to a certain horror for Jean Valjean. A sacred horrorperhapsfor
as we have just pointed outhe felt a quid divinum in that man.
But do what he wouldand seek what extenuation he wouldhe was
certainly forced to fall back upon this: the man was a convict;
that is to saya being who has not even a place in the social ladder
since he is lower than the very lowest rung. After the very last
of men comes the convict. The convict is no longerso to speak
in the semblance of the living. The law has deprived him of the entire
quantity of humanity of which it can deprive a man.


Mariuson penal questionsstill held to the inexorable system
though he was a democrat and he entertained all the ideas of the
law on the subject of those whom the law strikes. He had not yet
accomplished all progresswe admit. He had not yet come to distinguish
between that which is written by man and that which is written by God
between law and right. He had not examined and weighed the right
which man takes to dispose of the irrevocable and the irreparable.
He was not shocked by the word vindicte. He found it quite simple
that certain breaches of the written law should be followed by
eternal sufferingand he acceptedas the process of civilization
social damnation. He still stood at this pointthough safe to advance
infallibly later onsince his nature was goodandat bottom
wholly formed of latent progress.


In this stage of his ideasJean Valjean appeared to him hideous
and repulsive. He was a man reprovedhe was the convict.
That word was for him like the sound of the trump on the Day
of Judgment; andafter having reflected upon Jean Valjean for
a long timehis final gesture had been to turn away his head.
Vade retro.


Mariusif we must recognize and even insist upon the fact
while interrogating Jean Valjean to such a point that Jean Valjean
had said: "You are confessing me had not, nevertheless, put to
him two or three decisive questions.



It was not that they had not presented themselves to his mind,
but that he had been afraid of them. The Jondrette attic?
The barricade? Javert? Who knows where these revelations would
have stopped? Jean Valjean did not seem like a man who would
draw back, and who knows whether Marius, after having urged him on,
would not have himself desired to hold him back?


Has it not happened to all of us, in certain supreme conjunctures,
to stop our ears in order that we may not hear the reply, after we have
asked a question? It is especially when one loves that one gives way
to these exhibitions of cowardice. It is not wise to question sinister
situations to the last point, particularly when the indissoluble side
of our life is fatally intermingled with them. What a terrible light
might have proceeded from the despairing explanations of Jean Valjean,
and who knows whether that hideous glare would not have darted
forth as far as Cosette? Who knows whether a sort of infernal
glow would not have lingered behind it on the brow of that angel?
The spattering of a lightning-flash is of the thunder also.
Fatality has points of juncture where innocence itself is stamped
with crime by the gloomy law of the reflections which give color.
The purest figures may forever preserve the reflection of a
horrible association. Rightly or wrongly, Marius had been afraid.
He already knew too much. He sought to dull his senses rather
than to gain further light.


In dismay he bore off Cosette in his arms and shut his eyes
to Jean Valjean.


That man was the night, the living and horrible night.
How should he dare to seek the bottom of it? It is a terrible thing
to interrogate the shadow. Who knows what its reply will be?
The dawn may be blackened forever by it.


In this state of mind the thought that that man would, henceforth,
come into any contact whatever with Cosette was a heartrending
perplexity to Marius.


He now almost reproached himself for not having put those
formidable questions, before which he had recoiled, and from
which an implacable and definitive decision might have sprung.
He felt that he was too good, too gentle, too weak, if we must say
the word. This weakness had led him to an imprudent concession.
He had allowed himself to be touched. He had been in the wrong.
He ought to have simply and purely rejected Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean
played the part of fire, and that is what he should have done,
and have freed his house from that man.


He was vexed with himself, he was angry with that whirlwind
of emotions which had deafened, blinded, and carried him away.
He was displeased with himself.


What was he to do now? Jean Valjean's visits were profoundly repugnant
to him. What was the use in having that man in his house? What did
the man want? Here, he became dismayed, he did not wish to dig down,
he did not wish to penetrate deeply; he did not wish to sound himself.
He had promised, he had allowed himself to be drawn into a promise;
Jean Valjean held his promise; one must keep one's word even to a convict,
above all to a convict. Still, his first duty was to Cosette.
In short, he was carried away by the repugnance which dominated him.


Marius turned over all this confusion of ideas in his mind,
passing from one to the other, and moved by all of them.
Hence arose a profound trouble.



It was not easy for him to hide this trouble from Cosette, but love
is a talent, and Marius succeeded in doing it.


However, without any apparent object, he questioned Cosette,
who was as candid as a dove is white and who suspected nothing;
he talked of her childhood and her youth, and he became more
and more convinced that that convict had been everything good,
paternal and respectable that a man can be towards Cosette.
All that Marius had caught a glimpse of and had surmised was real.
That sinister nettle had loved and protected that lily.


BOOK EIGHTH.--FADING AWAY OF THE TWILIGHT


CHAPTER I


THE LOWER CHAMBER


On the following day, at nightfall, Jean Valjean knocked at the carriage
gate of the Gillenormand house. It was Basque who received him.
Basque was in the courtyard at the appointed hour, as though he had
received his orders. It sometimes happens that one says to a servant:
You will watch for Mr. So and Sowhen he arrives."


Basque addressed Jean Valjean without waiting for the latter
to approach him:


Monsieur le Baron has charged me to inquire whether monsieur
desires to go upstairs or to remain below?


I will remain below,replied Jean Valjean.


Basquewho was perfectly respectfulopened the door of the
waiting-room and said:


I will go and inform Madame.


The room which Jean Valjean entered was a dampvaulted room on the ground
floorwhich served as a cellar on occasionwhich opened on the street
was paved with red squares and was badly lighted by a grated window.


This chamber was not one of those which are harassed by
the feather-dusterthe pope's head brushand the broom.
The dust rested tranquilly there. Persecution of the spiders
was not organized there. A fine webwhich spread far and wide
and was very black and ornamented with dead fliesformed a wheel
on one of the window-panes. The roomwhich was small and low-ceiled
was furnished with a heap of empty bottles piled up in one corner.


The wallwhich was daubed with an ochre yellow washwas scaling
off in large flakes. At one end there was a chimney-piece
painted in black with a narrow shelf. A fire was burning there;
which indicated that Jean Valjean's reply: "I will remain below
had been foreseen.


Two arm-chairs were placed at the two corners of the fireplace.
Between the chairs an old bedside rug, which displayed more foundation
thread than wool, had been spread by way of a carpet.



The chamber was lighted by the fire on the hearth and the twilight
falling through the window.


Jean Valjean was fatigued. For days he had neither eaten nor slept.
He threw himself into one of the arm-chairs.


Basque returned, set a lighted candle on the chimney-piece and retired.
Jean Valjean, his head drooping and his chin resting on his breast,
perceived neither Basque nor the candle.


All at once, he drew himself up with a start. Cosette was standing
beside him.


He had not seen her enter, but he had felt that she was there.


He turned round. He gazed at her. She was adorably lovely.
But what he was contemplating with that profound gaze was not her
beauty but her soul.


Well exclaimed Cosette, fatherI knew that you were peculiar
but I never should have expected this. What an idea! Marius told
me that you wish me to receive you here."


Yes, it is my wish.


I expected that reply. Good. I warn you that I am going to make
a scene for you. Let us begin at the beginning. Embrace me, father.


And she offered him her cheek.


Jean Valjean remained motionless.


You do not stir. I take note of it. Attitude of guilt.
But never mind, I pardon you. Jesus Christ said: Offer the
other cheek. Here it is.


And she presented her other cheek.


Jean Valjean did not move. It seemed as though his feet were nailed
to the pavement.


This is becoming serious,said Cosette. "What have I done to you?
I declare that I am perplexed. You owe me reparation. You will dine
with us."


I have dined.


That is not true. I will get M. Gillenormand to scold you.
Grandfathers are made to reprimand fathers. Come. Go upstairs
with me to the drawing-room. Immediately.


Impossible.


Here Cosette lost ground a little. She ceased to command and passed
to questioning.


But why? and you choose the ugliest chamber in the house in which
to see me. It's horrible here.


Thou knowest . . .


Jean Valjean caught himself up.


You know, madame, that I am peculiar, I have my freaks.



Cosette struck her tiny hands together.


Madame! . . . You know! . . . more novelties! What is the meaning
of this?


Jean Valjean directed upon her that heartrending smile to which he
occasionally had recourse:


You wished to be Madame. You are so.


Not for you, father.


Do not call me father.


What?


Call me `Monsieur Jean.' `Jean,' if you like.


You are no longer my father? I am no longer Cosette?
`Monsieur Jean'? What does this mean? why, these are revolutions,
aren't they? what has taken place? come, look me in the face.
And you won't live with us! And you won't have my chamber!
What have I done to you? Has anything happened?


Nothing.


Well then?


Everything is as usual.


Why do you change your name?


You have changed yours, surely.


He smiled again with the same smile as before and added:


Since you are Madame Pontmercy, I certainly can be Monsieur Jean.


I don't understand anything about it. All this is idiotic.
I shall ask permission of my husband for you to be `Monsieur Jean.'
I hope that he will not consent to it. You cause me a great deal
of pain. One does have freaks, but one does not cause one's little
Cosette grief. That is wrong. You have no right to be wicked,
you who are so good.


He made no reply.


She seized his hands with vivacityand raising them to her face
with an irresistible movementshe pressed them against her neck
beneath her chinwhich is a gesture of profound tenderness.


Oh!she said to himbe good!


And she went on:


This is what I call being good: being nice and coming and living here,--
there are birds here as there are in the Rue Plumet,--living with us,
quitting that hole of a Rue de l'Homme Arme, not giving us riddles
to guess, being like all the rest of the world, dining with us,
breakfasting with us, being my father.


He loosed her hands.



You no longer need a father, you have a husband.

Cosette became angry.

I no longer need a father! One really does not know what to say
to things like that, which are not common sense!


If Toussaint were here,resumed Jean Valjeanlike a person who
is driven to seek authoritiesand who clutches at every branch
she would be the first to agree that it is true that I have always
had ways of my own. There is nothing new in this. I always have
loved my black corner.


But it is cold here. One cannot see distinctly. It is abominable,
that it is, to wish to be Monsieur Jean! I will not have you say
`you' to me.


Just nowas I was coming hither replied Jean Valjean,
I saw a piece of furniture in the Rue Saint Louis. It was
at a cabinet-maker's. If I were a pretty womanI would treat
myself to that bit of furniture. A very neat toilet table in the
reigning style. What you call rosewoodI think. It is inlaid.
The mirror is quite large. There are drawers. It is pretty."


Hou! the villainous bear!replied Cosette.


And with supreme gracesetting her teeth and drawing back her lips
she blew at Jean Valjean. She was a Grace copying a cat.


I am furious,she resumed. "Ever since yesterdayyou have made
me rageall of you. I am greatly vexed. I don't understand. You do
not defend me against Marius. Marius will not uphold me against you.
I am all alone. I arrange a chamber prettily. If I could have put the
good God there I would have done it. My chamber is left on my hands.
My lodger sends me into bankruptcy. I order a nice little dinner
of Nicolette. We will have nothing to do with your dinnerMadame.
And my father Fauchelevent wants me to call him `Monsieur Jean'
and to receive him in a frightfuloldugly cellarwhere the walls
have beardsand where the crystal consists of empty bottles
and the curtains are of spiders' webs! You are singularI admit
that is your stylebut people who get married are granted a truce.
You ought not to have begun being singular again instantly.
So you are going to be perfectly contented in your abominable Rue
de l'Homme Arme. I was very desperate indeed therethat I was.
What have you against me? You cause me a great deal of grief.
Fi!"


Andbecoming suddenly seriousshe gazed intently at Jean Valjean
and added:


Are you angry with me because I am happy?


Ingenuousness sometimes unconsciously penetrates deep. This question
which was simple for Cosettewas profound for Jean Valjean.
Cosette had meant to scratchand she lacerated.


Jean Valjean turned pale.


He remained for a moment without replyingthenwith an
inexpressible intonationand speaking to himselfhe murmured:


Her happiness was the object of my life. Now God may sign
my dismissal. Cosette, thou art happy; my day is over.



Ah, you have said thou to me!exclaimed Cosette.

And she sprang to his neck.

Jean Valjeanin bewildermentstrained her wildly to his breast.
It almost seemed to him as though he were taking her back.


Thanks, father!said Cosette.


This enthusiastic impulse was on the point of becoming poignant
for Jean Valjean. He gently removed Cosette's armsand took his hat.


Well?said Cosette.


I leave you, Madame, they are waiting for you.


Andfrom the thresholdhe added:


I have said thou to you. Tell your husband that this shall not
happen again. Pardon me.


Jean Valjean quitted the roomleaving Cosette stupefied at this
enigmatical farewell.


CHAPTER II


ANOTHER STEP BACKWARDS


On the following dayat the same hourJean Valjean came.


Cosette asked him no questionswas no longer astonishedno longer
exclaimed that she was coldno longer spoke of the drawing-room
she avoided saying either "father" or "Monsieur Jean." She allowed
herself to be addressed as you. She allowed herself to be
called Madame. Onlyher joy had undergone a certain diminution.
She would have been sadif sadness had been possible to her.


It is probable that she had had with Marius one of those conversations
in which the beloved man says what he pleasesexplains nothing
and satisfies the beloved woman. The curiosity of lovers does
not extend very far beyond their own love.


The lower room had made a little toilet. Basque had suppressed
the bottlesand Nicolette the spiders.


All the days which followed brought Jean Valjean at the same hour.
He came every daybecause he had not the strength to take Marius'
words otherwise than literally. Marius arranged matters so as to
be absent at the hours when Jean Valjean came. The house grew
accustomed to the novel ways of M. Fauchelevent. Toussaint helped
in this direction: "Monsieur has always been like that she repeated.
The grandfather issued this decree:--He's an original." And all
was said. Moreoverat the age of ninety-sixno bond is any longer
possibleall is merely juxtaposition; a newcomer is in the way.
There is no longer any room; all habits are acquired. M. Fauchelevent


M. TrancheleventFather Gillenormand asked nothing better than
to be relieved from "that gentleman." He added:--"Nothing is more
common than those originals. They do all sorts of queer things.
They have no reason. The Marquis de Canaples was still worse.
He bought a palace that he might lodge in the garret. These are
fantastic appearances that people affect."

No one caught a glimpse of the sinister foundation. And moreover
who could have guessed such a thing? There are marshes of this
description in India. The water seems extraordinaryinexplicable
rippling though there is no windand agitated where it should
be calm. One gazes at the surface of these causeless ebullitions;
one does not perceive the hydra which crawls on the bottom.


Many men have a secret monster in this same mannera dragon
which gnaws thema despair which inhabits their night. Such a man
resembles other menhe goes and comes. No one knows that he
bears within him a frightful parasitic pain with a thousand teeth
which lives within the unhappy manand of which he is dying.
No one knows that this man is a gulf. He is stagnant but deep.
From time to timea trouble of which the onlooker understands
nothing appears on his surface. A mysterious wrinkle is formed
then vanishesthen re-appears; an air-bubble rises and bursts.
It is the breathing of the unknown beast.


Certain strange habits: arriving at the hour when other people
are taking their leavekeeping in the background when other people
are displaying themselvespreserving on all occasions what may be
designated as the wall-colored mantleseeking the solitary walk
preferring the deserted streetavoiding any share in conversation
avoiding crowds and festivalsseeming at one's ease and living
poorlyhaving one's key in one's pocketand one's candle at the
porter's lodgehowever rich one may beentering by the side door
ascending the private staircase--all these insignificant singularities
fugitive folds on the surfaceoften proceed from a formidable foundation.


Many weeks passed in this manner. A new life gradually took possession
of Cosette: the relations which marriage createsvisitsthe care
of the housepleasuresgreat matters. Cosette's pleasures were
not costlythey consisted in one thing: being with Marius. The great
occupation of her life was to go out with himto remain with him.
It was for them a joy that was always freshto go out arm in arm
in the face of the sunin the open streetwithout hiding themselves
before the whole worldboth of them completely alone.


Cosette had one vexation. Toussaint could not get on with Nicolette
the soldering of two elderly maids being impossibleand she went away.
The grandfather was well; Marius argued a case here and there;
Aunt Gillenormand peacefully led that life aside which sufficed for her
beside the new household. Jean Valjean came every day.


The address as thou disappearedthe youthe "Madame the
Monsieur Jean rendered him another person to Cosette. The care
which he had himself taken to detach her from him was succeeding.
She became more and more gay and less and less tender. Yet she
still loved him sincerely, and he felt it.


One day she said to him suddenly: You used to be my fatheryou are
no longer my fatheryou were my uncleyou are no longer my uncle
you were Monsieur Faucheleventyou are Jean. Who are you then?
I don't like all this. If I did not know how good you areI should
be afraid of you."


He still lived in the Rue de l'Homme Armebecause he could not make
up his mind to remove to a distance from the quarter where Cosette dwelt.


At firsthe only remained a few minutes with Cosetteand then
went away.


Little by little he acquired the habit of making his visits less brief.



One would have said that he was taking advantage of the authorization
of the days which were lengtheninghe arrived earlier and departed later.

One day Cosette chanced to say "father" to him. A flash
of joy illuminated Jean Valjean's melancholy old countenance.
He caught her up: "Say Jean."--"Ah! truly she replied with a
burst of laughter, Monsieur Jean."--"That is right said he.
And he turned aside so that she might not see him wipe his eyes.

CHAPTER III

THEY RECALL THE GARDEN OF THE RUE PLUMET

This was the last time. After that last flash of light, complete
extinction ensued. No more familiarity, no more good-morning with
a kiss, never more that word so profoundly sweet: My father!"
He was at his own request and through his own complicity driven out
of all his happinesses one after the other; and he had this sorrow
that after having lost Cosette wholly in one dayhe was afterwards
obliged to lose her again in detail.

The eye eventually becomes accustomed to the light of a cellar.
In shortit sufficed for him to have an apparition of Cosette
every day. His whole life was concentrated in that one hour.

He seated himself close to herhe gazed at her in silenceor he
talked to her of years gone byof her childhoodof the convent
of her little friends of those bygone days.

One afternoon--it was on one of those early days in April
already warm and freshthe moment of the sun's great gayety
the gardens which surrounded the windows of Marius and Cosette felt
the emotion of wakingthe hawthorn was on the point of budding
a jewelled garniture of gillyflowers spread over the ancient walls
snapdragons yawned through the crevices of the stonesamid the
grass there was a charming beginning of daisiesand buttercups
the white butterflies of the year were making their first appearance
the windthat minstrel of the eternal weddingwas trying in the trees
the first notes of that grandauroral symphony which the old poets
called the springtide--Marius said to Cosette:--"We said that we
would go back to take a look at our garden in the Rue Plumet.
Let us go thither. We must not be ungrateful."--And away they flitted
like two swallows towards the spring. This garden of the Rue
Plumet produced on them the effect of the dawn. They already
had behind them in life something which was like the springtime
of their love. The house in the Rue Plumet being held on a lease
still belonged to Cosette. They went to that garden and that house.
There they found themselves againthere they forgot themselves.
That eveningat the usual hourJean Valjean came to the Rue des
Filles-du-Calvaire.--"Madame went out with Monsieur and has not
yet returned Basque said to him. He seated himself in silence,
and waited an hour. Cosette did not return. He departed with
drooping head.

Cosette was so intoxicated with her walk to their garden
and so joyous at having lived a whole day in her past that she
talked of nothing else on the morrow. She did not notice that she
had not seen Jean Valjean.

In what way did you go thither?" Jean Valjean asked her."


On foot.

And how did you return?

In a hackney carriage.

For some timeJean Valjean had noticed the economical life led
by the young people. He was troubled by it. Marius' economy was
severeand that word had its absolute meaning for Jean Valjean.
He hazarded a query:


Why do you not have a carriage of your own? A pretty coupe would
only cost you five hundred francs a month. You are rich.


I don't know,replied Cosette.


It is like Toussaint,resumed Jean Valjean. "She is gone.
You have not replaced her. Why?"


Nicolette suffices.


But you ought to have a maid.


Have I not Marius?


You ought to have a house of your own, your own servants, a carriage,
a box at the theatre. There is nothing too fine for you.
Why not profit by your riches? Wealth adds to happiness.


Cosette made no reply.


Jean Valjean's visits were not abridged. Far from it. When it is
the heart which is slippingone does not halt on the downward slope.


When Jean Valjean wished to prolong his visit and to induce forgetfulness
of the hourhe sang the praises of Marius; he pronounced him handsome
noblecourageouswittyeloquentgood. Cosette outdid him.
Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary. Marius--that word
was inexhaustible; those six letters contained volumes.
In this mannerJean Valjean contrived to remain a long time.


It was so sweet to see Cosetteto forget by her side! It alleviated
his wounds. It frequently happened that Basque came twice to announce:
M. Gillenormand sends me to remind Madame la Baronne that dinner
is served.


On those daysJean Valjean was very thoughtful on his return home.


Was therethenany truth in that comparison of the chrysalis
which had presented itself to the mind of Marius? Was Jean Valjean
really a chrysalis who would persistand who would come to visit
his butterfly?


One day he remained still longer than usual. On the following day he
observed that there was no fire on the hearth.--"Hello!" he thought.
No fire.--And he furnished the explanation for himself.--"It is
perfectly simple. It is April. The cold weather has ceased."


Heavens! how cold it is here!exclaimed Cosette when she entered.


Why, no,said Jean Valjean.


Was it you who told Basque not to make a fire then?



Yes, since we are now in the month of May.


But we have a fire until June. One is needed all the year
in this cellar.


I thought that a fire was unnecessary.


That is exactly like one of your ideas!retorted Cosette.


On the following day there was a fire. But the two arm-chairs
were arranged at the other end of the room near the door.
--What is the meaning of this?thought Jean Valjean.


He went for the arm-chairs and restored them to their ordinary
place near the hearth.


This fire lighted once more encouraged himhowever. He prolonged
the conversation even beyond its customary limits. As he rose
to take his leaveCosette said to him:


My husband said a queer thing to me yesterday.


What was it?


He said to me: `Cosette, we have an income of thirty thousand livres.
Twenty-seven that you own, and three that my grandfather
gives me.' I replied: `That makes thirty.' He went on:
`Would you have the courage to live on the three thousand?'
I answered: `Yes, on nothing. Provided that it was with you.'
And then I asked: `Why do you say that to me?' He replied:
`I wanted to know.'


Jean Valjean found not a word to answer. Cosette probably expected
some explanation from him; he listened in gloomy silence.
He went back to the Rue de l'Homme Arme; he was so deeply absorbed
that he mistook the door and instead of entering his own house
he entered the adjoining dwelling. It was only after having ascended
nearly two stories that he perceived his error and went down again.


His mind was swarming with conjectures. It was evident that Marius
had his doubts as to the origin of the six hundred thousand francs
that he feared some source that was not purewho knows? that he
had evenperhapsdiscovered that the money came from him
Jean Valjeanthat he hesitated before this suspicious fortune
and was disinclined to take it as his own--preferring that both he
and Cosette should remain poorrather than that they should be rich
with wealth that was not clean.


MoreoverJean Valjean began vaguely to surmise that he was being
shown the door.


On the following dayhe underwent something like a shock on
entering the ground-floor room. The arm-chairs had disappeared.
There was not a single chair of any sort.


Ah, what's this!exclaimed Cosette as she enteredno chairs!
Where are the arm-chairs?


They are no longer here,replied Jean Valjean.


This is too much!


Jean Valjean stammered:



It was I who told Basque to remove them.

And your reason?

I have only a few minutes to stay to-day.

A brief stay is no reason for remaining standing.

I think that Basque needed the chairs for the drawing-room.

Why?"

You have company this evening, no doubt.

We expect no one.

Jean Valjean had not another word to say.

Cosette shrugged her shoulders.

To have the chairs carried off! The other day you had the fire
put out. How odd you are!

Adieu!murmured Jean Valjean.

He did not say: "AdieuCosette." But he had not the strength to say:
Adieu, Madame.

He went away utterly overwhelmed.

This time he had understood.

On the following day he did not come. Cosette only observed
the fact in the evening.

Why,said sheMonsieur Jean has not been here today.

And she felt a slight twinge at her heartbut she hardly perceived it
being immediately diverted by a kiss from Marius.

On the following day he did not come.

Cosette paid no heed to thispassed her evening and slept well
that nightas usualand thought of it only when she woke.
She was so happy! She speedily despatched Nicolette to M. Jean's
house to inquire whether he were illand why he had not come
on the previous evening. Nicolette brought back the reply of

M. Jean that he was not ill. He was busy. He would come soon.
As soon as he was able. Moreoverhe was on the point of taking
a little journey. Madame must remember that it was his custom
to take trips from time to time. They were not to worry about him.
They were not to think of him.
Nicolette on entering M. Jean's had repeated to him her mistress'
very words. That Madame had sent her to inquire why M. Jean bad
not come on the preceding evening."--It is two days since I have
been there said Jean Valjean gently.

But the remark passed unnoticed by Nicolette, who did not report
it to Cosette.

CHAPTER IV


ATTRACTION AND EXTINCTION


During the last months of spring and the first months of summer
in 1833, the rare passersby in the Marais, the petty shopkeepers,
the loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black,
who emerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall,
from the Rue de l'Homme Arme, on the side of the Rue
Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, passed in front of the Blancs Manteaux,
gained the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and, on arriving at
the Rue de l'Echarpe, turned to the left, and entered the Rue Saint-Louis.


There he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward,
seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point
which seemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no
other than the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The nearer
he approached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up;
a sort of joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora,
he had a fascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in
obscure movements, as though he were talking to some one whom he
did not see, he smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible.
One would have said that, while desirous of reaching his destination,
he feared the moment when he should be close at hand. When only
a few houses remained between him and that street which appeared
to attract him his pace slackened, to such a degree that, at times,
one might have thought that he was no longer advancing at all.
The vacillation of his head and the fixity of his eyeballs
suggested the thought of the magnetic needle seeking the pole.
Whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to arrive at last;
he reached the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; then he halted,
he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy timidity
round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that street,
and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the
dazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise
that was closed to him. Then a tear, which had slowly gathered
in the corner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall,
trickled down his cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth.
The old man tasted its bitter flavor. Thus he remained for several
minutes as though made of stone, then he returned by the same road
and with the same step, and, in proportion as he retreated, his glance
died out.


Little by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the
Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; he halted half way in the Rue Saint-Louis;
sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer.


One day he stopped at the corner of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine
and looked at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance.
Then he shook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing
himself something, and retraced his steps.


Soon he no longer came as far as the Rue Saint-Louis. He got as far
as the Rue Pavee, shook his head and turned back; then he went no
further than the Rue des Trois-Pavillons; then he did not overstep
the Blancs-Manteaux. One would have said that he was a pendulum
which was no longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing
shorter before ceasing altogether.


Every day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook
the same trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without
himself being aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it.
His whole countenance expressed this single idea: What is the use?--
His eye was dim; no more radiance. His tears were also exhausted;



they no longer collected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful
eye was dry. The old man's head was still craned forward; his chin
moved at times; the folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold.
Sometimes, when the weather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm,
but he never opened it.


The good women of the quarter said: He is an innocent."
The children followed him and laughed.


BOOK NINTH.--SUPREME SHADOWSUPREME DAWN


CHAPTER I


PITY FOR THE UNHAPPYBUT INDULGENCE FOR THE HAPPY


It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is!
How all-sufficient one finds it! Howbeing in possession of the
false object of lifehappinessone forgets the true objectduty!


Let us sayhoweverthat the reader would do wrong were he
to blame Marius.


Mariusas we have explainedbefore his marriagehad put no questions
to M. Faucheleventandsince that timehe had feared to put any to
Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed
himself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done
wrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself
to gradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him
as much as possiblefrom Cosette's mind. He hadin a manner
always placed himself between Cosette and Jean Valjeansure that
in this wayshe would not perceive nor think of the latter.
It was more than effacementit was an eclipse.


Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought
that he had serious reasons which the reader has already seen
and others which will be seen later onfor getting rid of Jean
Valjean without harshnessbut without weakness.


Chance having ordained that he should encounterin a case which he
had argueda former employee of the Laffitte establishmenthe had
acquired mysterious informationwithout seeking itwhich he had
not been ableit is trueto probeout of respect for the secret
which he had promised to guardand out of consideration for Jean
Valjean's perilous position. He believed at that moment that he had
a grave duty to perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand
francs to some one whom he sought with all possible discretion.
In the meanwhilehe abstained from touching that money.


As for Cosetteshe had not been initiated into any of these secrets;
but it would be harsh to condemn her also.


There existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism
which caused her to doinstinctively and almost mechanically
what Marius wished. She was conscious of Marius' will in the direction
of "Monsieur Jean she conformed to it. Her husband had not been
obliged to say anything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear
pressure of his tacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience
in this instance consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot.
She was not obliged to make any effort to accomplish this.
Without her knowing why herself, and without his having any cause



to accuse her of it, her soul had become so wholly her husband's
that that which was shrouded in gloom in Marius' mind became overcast
in hers.

Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean,
this forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial.
She was rather heedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely
attached to the man whom she had so long called her father;
but she loved her husband still more dearly. This was what had
somewhat disturbed the balance of her heart, which leaned to one
side only.

It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed
her surprise. Then Marius calmed her: He is absentI think.
Did not he say that he was setting out on a journey?"--"That is true
thought Cosette. He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion.
But not for so long." Two or three times she despatched Nicolette
to inquire in the Rue de l'Homme Arme whether M. Jean had returned from
his journey. Jean Valjean caused the answer "no" to be given.

Cosette asked nothing moresince she had but one need on earthMarius.

Let us also say thaton their sideCosette and Marius had also
been absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette
to his father's grave.

Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed it.

Moreover that which is calledfar too harshly in certain cases
the ingratitude of childrenis not always a thing so deserving
of reproach as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature.
Natureas we have elsewhere saidlooks before her.Nature divides
living beings into those who are arriving and those who are departing.
Those who are departing are turned towards the shadowsthose who
are arriving towards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on
the part of the oldand involuntary on the part of the young.
This breachat first insensibleincreases slowlylike all separations
of branches. The boughswithout becoming detached from the trunk
grow away from it. It is no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there
is joyfestivalsvivid lightslove. Old age goes towards the end.
They do not lose sight of each otherbut there is no longer
a close connection. Young people feel the cooling off of life;
old peoplethat of the tomb. Let us not blame these poor children.

CHAPTER II

LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL

One dayJean Valjean descended his staircasetook three steps
in the streetseated himself on a poston that same stone post
where Gavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th
and the 6th of June; he remained there a few momentsthen went
up stairs again. This was the last oscillation of the pendulum.
On the following day he did not leave his apartment. On the day
after thathe did not leave his bed.

His portresswho prepared his scanty repastsa few cabbages
or potatoes with baconglanced at the brown earthenware plate
and exclaimed:

But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!


Certainly I did,replied Jean Valjean.

The plate is quite full.

Look at the water jug. It is empty.

That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you
have eaten.


Well,said Jean Valjeanwhat if I felt hungry only for water?


That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time,
it is called fever.


I will eat to-morrow.


Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is it the thing to say:
`I will eat to-morrow'? The idea of leaving my platter without even
touching it! My ladyfinger potatoes were so good!


Jean Valjean took the old woman's hand:


I promise you that I will eat them,he saidin his benevolent voice.


I am not pleased with you,replied the portress.


Jean Valjean saw no other human creature than this good woman.
There are streets in Paris through which no one ever passes
and houses to which no one ever comes. He was in one of those streets
and one of those houses.


While he still went outhe had purchased of a coppersmith
for a few sousa little copper crucifix which he had hung up
on a nail opposite his bed. That gibbet is always good to look at.


A week passedand Jean Valjean had not taken a step in his room.
He still remained in bed. The portress said to her husband:--"The
good man upstairs yonder does not get uphe no longer eats
he will not last long. That man has his sorrowsthat he has.
You won't get it out of my head that his daughter has made a
bad marriage."


The porter repliedwith the tone of marital sovereignty:


If he's rich, let him have a doctor. If he is not rich, let him
go without. If he has no doctor he will die.


And if he has one?


He will die,said the porter.


The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called
her pavementwith an old knifeandas she tore out the blades
she grumbled:


It's a shame. Such a neat old man! He's as white as a chicken.


She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end
of the street; she took it upon herself to request him to come
up stairs.


It's on the second floor,said she. "You have only to enter.
As the good man no longer stirs from his bedthe door is



always unlocked."

The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.

When he came down again the portress interrogated him:

Well, doctor?

Your sick man is very ill indeed.

What is the matter with him?

Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appearances,
has lost some person who is dear to him. People die of that.


What did he say to you?


He told me that he was in good health.


Shall you come again, doctor?


Yes,replied the doctor. "But some one else besides must come."


CHAPTER III


A PEN IS HEAVY TO THE MAN WHO LIFTED THE FAUCHELEVENT'S CART


One evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself
on his elbow; he felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse;
his breath was short and halted at times; he recognized the fact
that he was weaker than he had ever been before. Thenno doubt
under the pressure of some supreme preoccupationhe made an effort
drew himself up into a sitting posture and dressed himself.
He put on his old workingman's clothes. As he no longer went out
he had returned to them and preferred them. He was obliged to pause
many times while dressing himself; merely putting his arms through his
waistcoat made the perspiration trickle from his forehead.


Since he had been alonehe had placed his bed in the antechamber
in order to inhabit that deserted apartment as little as possible.


He opened the valise and drew from it Cosette's outfit.


He spread it out on his bed.


The Bishop's candlesticks were in their place on the chimney-piece. He
took from a drawer two wax candles and put them in the candlesticks.
Thenalthough it was still broad daylight--it was summer--
he lighted them. In the same way candles are to be seen lighted
in broad daylight in chambers where there is a corpse.


Every step that he took in going from one piece of furniture
to another exhausted himand he was obliged to sit down. It was
not ordinary fatigue which expends the strength only to renew it;
it was the remnant of all movement possible to himit was life
drained which flows away drop by drop in overwhelming efforts
and which will never be renewed.


The chair into which he allowed himself to fall was placed in front
of that mirrorso fatal for himso providential for Marius
in which he had read Cosette's reversed writing on the blotting book.



He caught sight of himself in this mirrorand did not recognize himself.
He was eighty years old; before Marius' marriagehe would have hardly
been taken for fifty; that year had counted for thirty. What he bore
on his brow was no longer the wrinkles of ageit was the mysterious mark
of death. The hollowing of that pitiless nail could be felt there.
His cheeks were pendulous; the skin of his face had the color
which would lead one to think that it already had earth upon it;
the corners of his mouth drooped as in the mask which the ancients
sculptured on tombs. He gazed into space with an air of reproach;
one would have said that he was one of those grand tragic beings
who have cause to complain of some one.


He was in that conditionthe last phase of dejection
in which sorrow no longer flows; it is coagulatedso to speak;
there is something on the soul like a clot of despair.


Night had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the old
arm-chair to the firesideand placed upon the table a pen
some ink and some paper.


That donehe had a fainting fit. When he recovered consciousness
he was thirsty. As he could not lift the jughe tipped it over
painfully towards his mouthand swallowed a draught.


As neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long time
the point of the pen had curled upthe ink had dried awayhe was
forced to rise and put a few drops of water in the inkwhich he did
not accomplish without pausing and sitting down two or three times
and he was compelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped
his brow from time to time.


Then he turned towards the bedandstill seatedfor he could not stand
he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.


These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.


All at once he shiveredhe felt that a child was taking possession
of him; he rested his elbows on the tablewhich was illuminated
by the Bishop's candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled.
He wrote slowly the few following lines:


Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband
was right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away;
but there is a little error in what he believed, though he was in
the right. He is excellent. Love him well even after I am dead.
Monsieur Pontmercy, love my darling child well. Cosette, this paper
will be found; this is what I wish to say to thee, thou wilt see
the figures, if I have the strength to recall them, listen well,
this money is really thine. Here is the whole matter: White jet
comes from Norway, black jet comes from England, black glass jewellery
comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest, the most precious,
the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as well as in Germany.
What is needed is a little anvil two inches square, and a lamp
burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was formerly
made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.
I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine.
It does not cost more than thirty sous, and is much better.
Buckles are made with a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means
of this wax, to a little framework of black iron. The glass must
be violet for iron jewellery, and black for gold jewellery.
Spain buys a great deal of it. It is the country of jet . .
.


Here he pausedthe pen fell from his fingershe was seized by one of



those sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;
the poor man clasped his head in both handsand meditated.


Oh!he exclaimed within himself [lamentable criesheard by God
alone]all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile
which passed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without
even seeing her again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice,
to touch her dress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then
to die! It is nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without
seeing her. She would smile on me, she would say a word to me,
would that do any harm to any one? No, all is over, and forever.
Here I am all alone. My God! My God! I shall never see her again!
At that moment there came a knock at the door.


CHAPTER IV


A BOTTLE OF INK WHICH ONLY SUCCEEDED IN WHITENING


That same dayor to speak more accuratelythat same eveningas Marius
left the tableand was on the point of withdrawing to his study
having a case to look overBasque handed him a letter saying:
The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber.


Cosette had taken the grandfather's arm and was strolling in the garden.


A letterlike a manmay have an unprepossessing exterior.
Coarse papercoarsely folded--the very sight of certain missives
is displeasing.


The letter which Basque had brought was of this sort.


Marius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory
like an odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at
the superscription: "To MonsieurMonsieur le Baron Pommerci.
At his hotel." The recognition of the tobacco caused him to
recognize the writing as well. It may be said that amazement
has its lightning flashes.


Marius wasas it wereilluminated by one of these flashes.


The sense of smellthat mysterious aid to memoryhad just
revived a whole world within him. This was certainly the paper
the fashion of foldingthe dull tint of ink; it was certainly
the well-known handwritingespecially was it the same tobacco.


The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.


Thusstrange freak of chance! one of the two scents which he had
so diligently soughtthe one in connection with which he had lately
again exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost
had come and presented itself to him of its own accord.


He eagerly broke the sealand read:


Monsieur le Baron:--If the Supreme Being had given me the talents,
I might have been baron Thenard, member of the Institute [academy
of ciences], but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if
this memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses.
The benefit with which you will honor me will be reciprocle.
I am in possession of a secret concerning an individual.



This individual concerns you. I hold the secret at your disposal
desiring to have the honor to be huseful to you. I will furnish
you with the simple means of driving from your honorabel family
that individual who has no right there, madame la baronne being
of lofty birth. The sanctuary of virtue cannot cohabit longer
with crime without abdicating.

I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron.
With respect."

The letter was signed "Thenard."


This signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.


Moreoverthe rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation.
The certificate of origin was complete.


Marius' emotion was profound. After a start of surprise
he underwent a feeling of happiness. If he could now
but find that other man of whom he was in searchthe man
who had saved himMariusthere would be nothing left for him to desire.


He opened the drawer of his secretarytook out several bank-notesput
them in his pocketclosed the secretary againand rang the bell.
Basque half opened the door.


Show the man in,said Marius.


Basque announced:


Monsieur Thenard.


A man entered.


A fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter
stranger to him.


This manwho was oldmoreoverhad a thick nosehis chin swathed
in a cravatgreen spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta
over his eyesand his hair was plastered and flattened down on his
brow on a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen
in "high life." His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from
head to footin garments that were very threadbare but clean;
a bunch of seals depending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch.
He held in his hand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude
and the curve in his spine augmented the profundity of his bow.


The first thing that struck the observer wasthat this
personage's coatwhich was too ample although carefully buttoned
had not been made for him.


Here a short digression becomes necessary.


There was in Paris at that epochin a low-lived old lodging
in the Rue Beautreillisnear the Arsenalan ingenious Jew whose
profession was to change villains into honest men. Not for too long
which might have proved embarrassing for the villain. The change
was on sightfor a day or twoat the rate of thirty sous a day
by means of a costume which resembled the honesty of the world
in general as nearly as possible. This costumer was called
the Changer; the pickpockets of Paris had given him this name
and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably complete wardrobe.
The rags with which he tricked out people were almost probable.



He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his shop hung
a social statusthreadbare and worn; here the suit of a magistrate
there the outfit of a Curebeyond the outfit of a bankerin one
corner the costume of a retired military manelsewhere the habiliments
of a man of lettersand further on the dress of a statesman.


This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery
plays in Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged
and into which roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this
dressing-roomdeposited his thirty sous and selectedaccording to
the part which he wished to playthe costume which suited him
and on descending the stairs once morethe knave was a somebody.
On the following daythe clothes were faithfully returned
and the Changerwho trusted the thieves with everything
was never robbed. There was one inconvenience about these clothes
they "did not fit"; not having been made for those who wore them
they were too tight for onetoo loose for another and did not adjust
themselves to any one. Every pickpocket who exceeded or fell short
of the human average was ill at his ease in the Changer's costumes.
It was necessary that one should not be either too fat or too lean.
The changer had foreseen only ordinary men. He had taken the measure
of the species from the first rascal who came to handwho is
neither stout nor thinneither tall nor short. Hence adaptations
which were sometimes difficult and from which the Changer's clients
extricated themselves as best they might. So much the worse
for the exceptions! The suit of the statesmanfor instance
black from head to footand consequently properwould have been
too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume
of a statesman was designated as follows in the Changer's catalogue;
we copy:


A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk
waistcoat, boots and linen.On the margin there stood:
ex-ambassadorand a note which we also copy: "In a separate box
a neatly frizzed perukegreen glassessealsand two small
quills an inch longwrapped in cotton." All this belonged
to the statesmanthe ex-ambassador. This whole costume was
if we may so express ourselvesdebilitated; the seams were white
a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreoverone of the
coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only detail;
as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his coat
and laid upon his heartits function was to conceal the absent button.


If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris
he would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor
whom Basque had just shown inthe statesman's suit borrowed from
the pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.


Marius' disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom
he expected to see turned to the newcomer's disadvantage.


He surveyed him from head to footwhile that personage made
exaggerated bowsand demanded in a curt tone:


What do you want?


The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile
of a crocodile will furnish some idea:


It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had
the honor of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I
actually did meet monsieur personally, several years ago, at the
house of Madame la Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms
of his Lordship the Vicomte Dambray, peer of France.



It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize
some one whom one does not know.


Marius paid attention to the manner of this man's speech.
He spied on his accent and gesturebut his disappointment increased;
the pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry
shrill tone which he had expected.


He was utterly routed.


I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray,said he.
I have never set foot in the house of either of them in my life.


The reply was ungracious. The personagedetermined to be gracious
at any costinsisted.


Then it must have been at Chateaubriand's that I have seen Monsieur!
I know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes
says to me: `Thenard, my friend . . . won't you drink a glass
of wine with me?'


Marius' brow grew more and more severe:


I have never had the honor of being received by M. de Chateaubriand.
Let us cut it short. What do you want?


The man bowed lower at that harsh voice.


Monsieur le Baron, deign to listen to me. There is in America,
in a district near Panama, a village called la Joya. That village
is composed of a single house, a large, square house of three stories,
built of bricks dried in the sun, each side of the square five
hundred feet in length, each story retreating twelve feet back
of the story below, in such a manner as to leave in front a terrace
which makes the circuit of the edifice, in the centre an inner court
where the provisions and munitions are kept; no windows, loopholes,
no doors, ladders, ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace,
and from the first to the second, and from the second to the third,
ladders to descend into the inner court, no doors to the chambers,
trap-doors, no staircases to the chambers, ladders; in the evening
the traps are closed, the ladders are withdrawn carbines and
blunderbusses trained from the loopholes; no means of entering,
a house by day, a citadel by night, eight hundred inhabitants,--
that is the village. Why so many precautions? because the country
is dangerous; it is full of cannibals. Then why do people go there?
because the country is marvellous; gold is found there.


What are you driving at?interrupted Mariuswho had passed
from disappointment to impatience.


At this, Monsieur le Baron. I am an old and weary diplomat.
Ancient civilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to
try savages.


Well?


Monsieur le Baron, egotism is the law of the world. The proletarian
peasant woman, who toils by the day, turns round when the diligence
passes by, the peasant proprietress, who toils in her field,
does not turn round. The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man,
the dog of the rich man barks at the poor man. Each one for himself.
Self-interest--that's the object of men. Gold, that's the loadstone.



What then? Finish.

I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya. There are three
of us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl.
The journey is long and costly. I need a little money.

What concern is that of mine?demanded Marius.

The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravata gesture
characteristic of the vultureand replied with an augmented smile.

Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter?

There was some truth in this. The fact isthat the contents of the
epistle had slipped Marius' mind. He had seen the writing rather
than read the letter. He could hardly recall it. But a moment
ago a fresh start had been given him. He had noted that detail:
my spouse and my young lady.

He fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger. An examining judge
could not have done the look better. He almost lay in wait for him.

He confined himself to replying:

State the case precisely.

The stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobsdrew himself
up without straightening his dorsal columnbut scrutinizing Marius
in his turnwith the green gaze of his spectacles.

So be it, Monsieur le Baron. I will be precise. I have a secret
to sell to you.

A secret?

A secret.

Which concerns me?

Somewhat.

What is the secret?

Marius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to him.

I commence gratis,said the stranger. "You will see that I
am interesting."

Speak.

Monsieur le Baron, you have in your house a thief and an assassin.

Marius shuddered.

In my house? no,said he.

The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on:

An assassin and a thief. Remark, Monsieur le Baron, that I do not
here speak of ancient deeds, deeds of the past which have lapsed,
which can be effaced by limitation before the law and by repentance
before God. I speak of recent deeds, of actual facts as still
unknown to justice at this hour. I continue. This man has
insinuated himself into your confidence, and almost into your


family under a false name. I am about to tell you his real name.
And to tell it to you for nothing.

I am listening.

His name is Jean Valjean.

I know it.

I am going to tell you, equally for nothing, who he is.

Say on.

He is an ex-convict.

I know it.

You know it since I have had the honor of telling you.

No. I knew it before.

Marius' cold tonethat double reply of "I know it his laconicism,
which was not favorable to dialogue, stirred up some smouldering
wrath in the stranger. He launched a furious glance on the sly
at Marius, which was instantly extinguished. Rapid as it was,
this glance was of the kind which a man recognizes when he has once
beheld it; it did not escape Marius. Certain flashes can only
proceed from certain souls; the eye, that vent-hole of the thought,
glows with it; spectacles hide nothing; try putting a pane of glass
over hell!

The stranger resumed with a smile:

I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron. In any case
you ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now what I have
to tell you is known to myself alone. This concerns the fortune
of Madame la Baronne. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for sale-I
make you the first offer of it. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs."

I know that secret as well as the others,said Marius.

The personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.

Monsieur le Baron, say ten thousand francs and I will speak.

I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can tell me.
I know what you wish to say to me.

A fresh flash gleamed in the man's eye. He exclaimed:

But I must dine to-day, nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret,
I tell you. Monsieur le Baron, I will speak. I speak. Give me
twenty francs.

Marius gazed intently at him:

I know your extraordinary secret, just as I knew Jean Valjean's name,
just as I know your name.

My name?

Yes.

That is not difficult, Monsieur le Baron. I had the honor to write


to you and to tell it to you. Thenard.

--Dier.

Hey?

Thenardier.

Who's that?

In danger the porcupine bristles upthe beetle feigns death
the old guard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter.

Then he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat
with a fillip.

Marius continued:

You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian,
Genflot the poet, Don Alvares the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard.

Mistress what?

And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil.

A pot-house! Never.

And I tell you that your name is Thenardier.

I deny it.

And that you are a rascal. Here.

And Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in his face.

Thanks! Pardon me! five hundred francs! Monsieur le Baron!

And the manovercomebowedseized the note and examined it.

Five hundred francs!he began againtaken aback. And he stammered
in a low voice: "An honest rustler."[69]

[69] Un fafiot serieux. Fafiot is the slang term for a bank-bill
derived from its rustling noise.
Then brusquely:

Well, so be it!he exclaimed. "Let us put ourselves at our ease."

And with the agility of a monkeyflinging back his hair
tearing off his spectaclesand withdrawing from his nose by
sleight of hand the two quills of which mention was recently made
and which the reader has also met with on another page of this book
he took off his face as the man takes off his hat.

His eye lighted up; his uneven browwith hollows in some places
and bumps in othershideously wrinkled at the topwas laid bare
his nose had become as sharp as a beak; the fierce and sagacious
profile of the man of prey reappeared.

Monsieur le Baron is infallible,he said in a clear voice whence
all nasal twang had disappearedI am Thenardier.


And he straightened up his crooked back.


Thenardierfor it was really hewas strangely surprised;
he would have been troubledhad he been capable of such a thing.
He had come to bring astonishmentand it was he who had received it.
This humiliation had been worth five hundred francs to himandtaking it
all in allhe accepted it; but he was none the less bewildered.


He beheld this Baron Pontmercy for the first timeandin spite
of his disguisethis Baron Pontmercy recognized himand recognized
him thoroughly. And not only was this Baron perfectly informed
as to Thenardierbut he seemed well posted as to Jean Valjean.
Who was this almost beardless young manwho was so glacial and
so generouswho knew people's nameswho knew all their names
and who opened his purse to themwho bullied rascals like a judge
and who paid them like a dupe?


Thenardierthe reader will rememberalthough he had been Marius'
neighborhad never seen himwhich is not unusual in Paris;
he had formerlyin a vague wayheard his daughters talk of a very poor
young man named Marius who lived in the house. He had written to him
without knowing himthe letter with which the reader is acquainted.


No connection between that Marius and M. le Baron Pontmercy was
possible in his mind.


As for the name Pontmercyit will be recalled thaton the
battlefield of Waterloohe had only heard the last two syllables
for which he always entertained the legitimate scorn which one
owes to what is merely an expression of thanks.


Howeverthrough his daughter Azelmawho had started on the scent
of the married pair on the 16th of Februaryand through his own
personal researcheshe had succeeded in learning many thingsand
from the depths of his own gloomhe had contrived to grasp more
than one mysterious clew. He had discoveredby dint of industry
orat leastby dint of inductionhe had guessed who the man
was whom he had encountered on a certain day in the Grand Sewer.
From the man he had easily reached the name. He knew that Madame
la Baronne Pontmercy was Cosette. But he meant to be discreet
in that quarter.


Who was Cosette? He did not know exactly himself. He did
indeedcatch an inkling of illegitimacythe history of Fantine
had always seemed to him equivocal; but what was the use of talking
about that? in order to cause himself to be paid for his silence?
He hador thought he hadbetter wares than that for sale.
Andaccording to all appearancesif he were to come and make
to the Baron Pontmercy this revelation--and without proof:
Your wife is a bastard,the only result would be to attract
the boot of the husband towards the loins of the revealer.


From Thenardier's point of viewthe conversation with Marius
had not yet begun. He ought to have drawn backto have modified
his strategyto have abandoned his positionto have changed
his front; but nothing essential had been compromised as yet
and he had five hundred francs in his pocket. Moreoverhe had
something decisive to sayandeven against this very well-informed
and well-armed Baron Pontmercyhe felt himself strong.
For men of Thenardier's natureevery dialogue is a combat.
In the one in which he was about to engagewhat was his situation?
He did not know to whom he was speakingbut he did know of what
he was speakinghe made this rapid review of his inner forces



and after having said: "I am Thenardier he waited.


Marius had become thoughtful. So he had hold of Thenardier at last.
That man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him.
He could honor Colonel Pontmercy's recommendation.


He felt humiliated that that hero should have owned anything to
this villain, and that the letter of change drawn from the depths
of the tomb by his father upon him, Marius, had been protested up
to that day. It also seemed to him, in the complex state of his
mind towards Thenardier, that there was occasion to avenge the
Colonel for the misfortune of having been saved by such a rascal.
In any case, he was content. He was about to deliver the Colonel's
shade from this unworthy creditor at last, and it seemed to him
that he was on the point of rescuing his father's memory from
the debtors' prison. By the side of this duty there was another--
to elucidate, if possible, the source of Cosette's fortune.
The opportunity appeared to present itself. Perhaps Thenardier
knew something. It might prove useful to see the bottom of this man.


He commenced with this.


Thenardier had caused the honest rustler" to disappear in his fob
and was gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender.


Marius broke the silence.


Thenardier, I have told you your name. Now, would you like to have
me tell you your secret--the one that you came here to reveal to me?
I have information of my own, also. You shall see that I know more
about it than you do. Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin
and a thief. A thief, because he robbed a wealthy manufacturer,
whose ruin he brought about. An assassin, because he assassinated
police-agent Javert.


I don't understand, sir,ejaculated Thenardier.


I will make myself intelligible. In a certain arrondissement
of the Pas de Calais, there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out
with justice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine, had regained
his status and rehabilitated himself. This man had become a just
man in the full force of the term. In a trade, the manufacture
of black glass goods, he made the fortune of an entire city.
As far as his personal fortune was concerned he made that also,
but as a secondary matter, and in some sort, by accident.
He was the foster-father of the poor. He founded hospitals,
opened schools, visited the sick, dowered young girls, supported widows,
and adopted orphans; he was like the guardian angel of the country.
He refused the cross, he was appointed Mayor. A liberated convict
knew the secret of a penalty incurred by this man in former days;
he denounced him, and had him arrested, and profited by the arrest
to come to Paris and cause the banker Laffitte,--I have the fact
from the cashier himself,--by means of a false signature, to hand
over to him the sum of over half a million which belonged to


M. Madeleine. This convict who robbed M. Madeleine was Jean Valjean.
As for the other fact, you have nothing to tell me about it either.
Jean Valjean killed the agent Javert; he shot him with a pistol.
I, the person who is speaking to you, was present.
Thenardier cast upon Marius the sovereign glance of a conquered
man who lays his hand once more upon the victoryand who has
just regainedin one instantall the ground which he has lost.
But the smile returned instantly. The inferior's triumph in the
presence of his superior must be wheedling.


Thenardier contented himself with saying to Marius:

Monsieur le Baron, we are on the wrong track.

And he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute
an expressive whirl.

What!broke forth Mariusdo you dispute that? These are facts.

They are chimeras. The confidence with which Monsieur le Baron
honors me renders it my duty to tell him so. Truth and justice
before all things. I do not like to see folks accused unjustly.
Monsieur le Baron, Jean Valjean did not rob M. Madeleine and Jean
Valjean did not kill Javert.

This is too much! How is this?

For two reasons.

What are they? Speak.

This is the first: he did not rob M. Madeleine, because it
is Jean Valjean himself who was M. Madeleine.

What tale are you telling me?

And this is the second: he did not assassinate Javert,
because the person who killed Javert was Javert.

What do you mean to say?

That Javert committed suicide.

Prove it! prove it!cried Marius beside himself.

Thenardier resumedscanning his phrase after the manner of the
ancient Alexandrine measure:

Police-agent-Ja-vert-was-found-drowned-un-der-a-boat-of-the-Pont-au-Change.

But prove it!

Thenardier drew from his pocket a large envelope of gray paper
which seemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes.

I have my papers,he said calmly.

And he added:

Monsieur le Baron, in your interests I desired to know Jean
Valjean thoroughly. I say that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine are one and
the same man, and I say that Javert had no other assassin than Javert.
If I speak, it is because I have proofs. Not manuscript proofs-writing
is suspicious, handwriting is complaisant,--but printed proofs.

As he spokeThenardier extracted from the envelope two copies
of newspapersyellowfadedand strongly saturated with tobacco.
One of these two newspapersbroken at every fold and falling into rags
seemed much older than the other.

Two facts, two proofs,remarked Thenardier. And he offered
the two newspapersunfoldedto Marius


The reader is acquainted with these two papers. Onethe most ancient
a number of the Drapeau Blanc of the 25th of July1823the text
of which can be seen in the first volumeestablished the identity
of M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean.

The othera Moniteur of the 15th of June1832announced the
suicide of Javertadding that it appeared from a verbal report
of Javert to the prefect thathaving been taken prisoner in the
barricade of the Rue de la Chanvreriehe had owed his life to the
magnanimity of an insurgent whoholding him under his pistol
had fired into the airinstead of blowing out his brains.

Marius read. He had evidencea certain dateirrefragable proof
these two newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose
of backing up Thenardier's statements; the note printed in the Moniteur
had been an administrative communication from the Prefecture of Police.
Marius could not doubt.

The information of the cashier-clerk had been falseand he himself
had been deceived.

Jean Valjeanwho had suddenly grown grandemerged from his cloud.
Marius could not repress a cry of joy.

Well, then this unhappy wretch is an admirable man! the whole
of that fortune really belonged to him! he is Madeleine,
the providence of a whole countryside! he is Jean Valjean,
Javert's savior! he is a hero! he is a saint!

He's not a saint, and he's not a hero!said Thenardier.
He's an assassin and a robber.

And he addedin the tone of a man who begins to feel that he
possesses some authority:

Let us be calm.

Robberassassin--those words which Marius thought had disappeared
and which returnedfell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bath.

Again!said he.

Always,ejaculated Thenardier. "Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine
but he is a thief. He did not kill Javertbut he is a murderer."

Will you speak,retorted Mariusof that miserable theft,
committed forty years ago, and expiated, as your own newspapers prove,
by a whole life of repentance, of self-abnegation and of virtue?

I say assassination and theft, Monsieur le Baron, and I repeat
that I am speaking of actual facts. What I have to reveal to
you is absolutely unknown. It belongs to unpublished matter.
And perhaps you will find in it the source of the fortune
so skilfully presented to Madame la Baronne by Jean Valjean.
I say skilfully, because, by a gift of that nature it would not be so
very unskilful to slip into an honorable house whose comforts one would
then share, and, at the same stroke, to conceal one's crime, and to
enjoy one's theft, to bury one's name and to create for oneself a family.

I might interrupt you at this point,said Mariusbut go on.

Monsieur le Baron, I will tell you all, leaving the recompense to
your generosity. This secret is worth massive gold. You will say to me:


`Why do not you apply to Jean Valjean?' For a very simple reason;
I know that he has stripped himself, and stripped himself in your favor,
and I consider the combination ingenious; but he has no longer a son,
he would show me his empty hands, and, since I am in need of some
money for my trip to la Joya, I prefer you, you who have it all,
to him who has nothing. I am a little fatigued, permit me to take
a chair.


Marius seated himself and motioned to him to do the same.


Thenardier installed himself on a tufted chairpicked up
his two newspapersthrust them back into their envelope
and murmured as he pecked at the Drapeau Blanc with his nail:
It cost me a good deal of trouble to get this one.


That done he crossed his legs and stretched himself out on the back
of the chairan attitude characteristic of people who are sure
of what they are sayingthen he entered upon his subject gravely
emphasizing his words:


Monsieur le Baron, on the 6th of June, 1832, about a year ago,
on the day of the insurrection, a man was in the Grand Sewer of Paris,
at the point where the sewer enters the Seine, between the Pont des
Invalides and the Pont de Jena.


Marius abruptly drew his chair closer to that of Thenardier.
Thenardier noticed this movement and continued with the deliberation
of an orator who holds his interlocutor and who feels his adversary
palpitating under his words:


This man, forced to conceal himself, and for reasons, moreover,
which are foreign to politics, had adopted the sewer as his
domicile and had a key to it. It was, I repeat, on the 6th
of June; it might have been eight o'clock in the evening.
The man hears a noise in the sewer. Greatly surprised, he hides
himself and lies in wait. It was the sound of footsteps,
some one was walking in the dark, and coming in his direction.
Strange to say, there was another man in the sewer besides himself.
The grating of the outlet from the sewer was not far off. A little
light which fell through it permitted him to recognize the newcomer,
and to see that the man was carrying something on his back.
He was walking in a bent attitude. The man who was walking in a
bent attitude was an ex-convict, and what he was dragging on his
shoulders was a corpse. Assassination caught in the very act,
if ever there was such a thing. As for the theft, that is understood;
one does not kill a man gratis. This convict was on his way
to fling the body into the river. One fact is to be noticed,
that before reaching the exit grating, this convict, who had come
a long distance in the sewer, must, necessarily, have encountered
a frightful quagmire where it seems as though he might have left
the body, but the sewermen would have found the assassinated man
the very next day, while at work on the quagmire, and that did
not suit the assassin's plans. He had preferred to traverse that
quagmire with his burden, and his exertions must have been terrible,
for it is impossible to risk one's life more completely; I don't
understand how he could have come out of that alive.


Marius' chair approached still nearer. Thenardier took advantage
of this to draw a long breath. He went on:


Monsieur le Baron, a sewer is not the Champ de Mars. One lacks
everything there, even room. When two men are there, they must meet.
That is what happened. The man domiciled there and the passer-by
were forced to bid each other good-day, greatly to the regret



of both. The passer-by said to the inhabitant:--You see what I
have on my backI must get outyou have the keygive it to me."
That convict was a man of terrible strength. There was no way
of refusing. Neverthelessthe man who had the key parleyed
simply to gain time. He examined the dead manbut he could
see nothingexcept that the latter was youngwell dressed
with the air of being richand all disfigured with blood.
While talkingthe man contrived to tear and pull off behind
without the assassin perceiving ita bit of the assassinated
man's coat. A document for convictionyou understand; a means
of recovering the trace of things and of bringing home the crime
to the criminal. He put this document for conviction in his pocket.
After which he opened the gratingmade the man go out with his
embarrassment on his backclosed the grating againand ran off
not caring to be mixed up with the remainder of the adventure
and above allnot wishing to be present when the assassin threw
the assassinated man into the river. Now you comprehend. The man
who was carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; the one who had the key
is speaking to you at this moment; and the piece of the coat . .
."


Thenardier completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket
and holdingon a level with his eyesnipped between his two
thumbs and his two forefingersa strip of torn black cloth
all covered with dark spots.


Marius had sprung to his feetpalehardly able to draw his breath
with his eyes riveted on the fragment of black clothandwithout
uttering a wordwithout taking his eyes from that fragment
he retreated to the wall and fumbled with his right hand along
the wall for a key which was in the lock of a cupboard near the chimney.


He found the keyopened the cupboardplunged his arm into it
without lookingand without his frightened gaze quitting the rag
which Thenardier still held outspread.


But Thenardier continued:


Monsieur le Baron, I have the strongest of reasons for believing
that the assassinated young man was an opulent stranger lured into
a trap by Jean Valjean, and the bearer of an enormous sum of money.


The young man was myself, and here is the coat!cried Marius
and he flung upon the floor an old black coat all covered with blood.


Thensnatching the fragment from the hands of Thenardierhe crouched
down over the coatand laid the torn morsel against the tattered skirt.
The rent fitted exactlyand the strip completed the coat.


Thenardier was petrified.


This is what he thought: "I'm struck all of a heap."


Marius rose to his feet tremblingdespairingradiant.


He fumbled in his pocket and stalked furiously to Thenardier
presenting to him and almost thrusting in his face his fist filled
with bank-notes for five hundred and a thousand francs.


You are an infamous wretch! you are a liar, a calumniator,
a villain. You came to accuse that man, you have only justified him;
you wanted to ruin him, you have only succeeded in glorifying him.
And it is you who are the thief! And it is you who are the assassin!
I saw you, Thenardier Jondrette, in that lair on the Rue de l'Hopital.



I know enough about you to send you to the galleys and even further
if I choose. Here are a thousand francs, bully that you are!

And he flung a thousand franc note at Thenardier.

Ah! Jondrette Thenardier, vile rascal! Let this serve you as
a lesson, you dealer in second-hand secrets, merchant of mysteries,
rummager of the shadows, wretch! Take these five hundred francs
and get out of here! Waterloo protects you.

Waterloo!growled Thenardierpocketing the five hundred francs
along with the thousand.

Yes, assassin! You there saved the life of a Colonel. . .

Of a General,said Thenardierelevating his head.

Of a Colonel!repeated Marius in a rage. "I wouldn't give a ha'penny
for a general. And you come here to commit infamies! I tell you
that you have committed all crimes. Go! disappear! Only be happy
that is all that I desire. Ah! monster! here are three thousand
francs more. Take them. You will depart to-morrowfor America
with your daughter; for your wife is deadyou abominable liar.
I shall watch over your departureyou ruffianand at that moment
I will count out to you twenty thousand francs. Go get yourself
hung elsewhere!"

Monsieur le Baron!replied Thenardierbowing to the very earth
eternal gratitude.And Thenardier left the roomunderstanding nothing
stupefied and delighted with this sweet crushing beneath sacks of gold
and with that thunder which had burst forth over his head in bank-bills.

Struck by lightning he wasbut he was also content; and he would
have been greatly angered had he had a lightning rod to ward off
such lightning as that.

Let us finish with this man at once.

Two days after the events which we are at this moment narrating
he set outthanks to Marius' carefor America under a false name
with his daughter Azelmafurnished with a draft on New York for twenty
thousand francs.

The moral wretchedness of Thenardierthe bourgeois who had missed
his vocationwas irremediable. He was in America what he had
been in Europe. Contact with an evil man sometimes suffices to
corrupt a good action and to cause evil things to spring from it.
With Marius' moneyThenardier set up as a slave-dealer.

As soon as Thenardier had left the houseMarius rushed to the garden
where Cosette was still walking.

Cosette! Cosette!he cried. "Come! come quick! Let us go.
Basquea carriage! Cosettecome. Ah! My God! It was he
who saved my life! Let us not lose a minute! Put on your shawl."

Cosette thought him mad and obeyed.

He could not breathehe laid his hand on his heart to restrain
its throbbing. He paced back and forth with huge strides
he embraced Cosette:

Ah! Cosette! I am an unhappy wretch!said he.


Marius was bewildered. He began to catch a glimpse in Jean
Valjean of some indescribably lofty and melancholy figure.
An unheard-of virtuesupreme and sweethumble in its immensity
appeared to him. The convict was transfigured into Christ.


Marius was dazzled by this prodigy. He did not know precisely
what he beheldbut it was grand.


In an instanta hackney-carriage stood in front of the door.


Marius helped Cosette in and darted in himself.


Driver,said heRue de l'Homme Arme, Number 7.


The carriage drove off.


Ah! what happiness!ejaculated Cosette. "Rue de l'Homme Arme
I did not dare to speak to you of that. We are going to see


M. Jean."
Thy father! Cosette, thy father more than ever. Cosette, I
guess it. You told me that you had never received the letter
that I sent you by Gavroche. It must have fallen into his hands.
Cosette, he went to the barricade to save me. As it is a necessity
with him to be an angel, he saved others also; he saved Javert.
He rescued me from that gulf to give me to you. He carried me
on his back through that frightful sewer. Ah! I am a monster
of ingratitude. Cosette, after having been your providence,
he became mine. Just imagine, there was a terrible quagmire
enough to drown one a hundred times over, to drown one in mire.
Cosette! he made me traverse it. I was unconscious; I saw nothing,
I heard nothing, I could know nothing of my own adventure.
We are going to bring him back, to take him with us, whether he
is willing or not, he shall never leave us again. If only he is
at home! Provided only that we can find him, I will pass the rest
of my life in venerating him. Yes, that is how it should be,
do you see, Cosette? Gavroche must have delivered my letter to him.
All is explained. You understand.

Cosette did not understand a word.

You are right,she said to him.

Meanwhile the carriage rolled on.

CHAPTER V

A NIGHT BEHIND WHICH THERE IS DAY

Jean Valjean turned round at the knock which he heard on his door.

Come in,he said feebly.

The door opened.

Cosette and Marius made their appearance.

Cosette rushed into the room.

Marius remained on the thresholdleaning against the jamb of the door.


Cosette!said Jean Valjean.


And he sat erect in his chairhis arms outstretched and trembling
haggardlividgloomyan immense joy in his eyes.


Cosettestifling with emotionfell upon Jean Valjean's breast.


Father!said she.


Jean Valjeanovercomestammered:


Cosette! she! you! Madame! it is thou! Ah! my God!


Andpressed close in Cosette's armshe exclaimed:


It is thou! thou art here! Thou dost pardon me then!


Mariuslowering his eyelidsin order to keep his tears from flowing
took a step forward and murmured between lips convulsively contracted
to repress his sobs:


My father!


And you also, you pardon me!Jean Valjean said to him.


Marius could find no wordsand Jean Valjean added:


Thanks.


Cosette tore off her shawl and tossed her hat on the bed.


It embarrasses me,said she.


Andseating herself on the old man's kneesshe put aside his white
locks with an adorable movementand kissed his brow.


Jean Valjeanbewilderedlet her have her own way.


Cosettewho only understood in a very confused manner
redoubled her caressesas though she desired to pay Marius' debt.


Jean Valjean stammered:


How stupid people are! I thought that I should never see her again.
Imagine, Monsieur Pontmercy, at the very moment when you entered,
I was saying to myself: `All is over. Here is her little gown,
I am a miserable man, I shall never see Cosette again,' and I was
saying that at the very moment when you were mounting the stairs.
Was not I an idiot? Just see how idiotic one can be! One reckons
without the good God. The good God says:


`You fancy that you are about to be abandonedstupid! No. No
things will not go so. Comethere is a good man yonder who is in
need of an angel.' And the angel comesand one sees one's Cosette
again! and one sees one's little Cosette once more! Ah! I was
very unhappy."


For a moment he could not speakthen he went on:


I really needed to see Cosette a little bit now and then. A heart needs
a bone to gnaw. But I was perfectly conscious that I was in the way.
I gave myself reasons: `They do not want you, keep in your own course,
one has not the right to cling eternally.' Ah! God be praised, I see
her once more! Dost thou know, Cosette, thy husband is very handsome?



Ah! what a pretty embroidered collar thou hast on, luckily. I am
fond of that pattern. It was thy husband who chose it, was it not?
And then, thou shouldst have some cashmere shawls. Let me call
her thou, Monsieur Pontmercy. It will not be for long.


And Cosette began again:


How wicked of you to have left us like that! Where did you go?
Why have you stayed away so long? Formerly your journeys only lasted
three or four days. I sent Nicolette, the answer always was:
`He is absent.' How long have you been back? Why did you
not let us know? Do you know that you are very much changed?
Ah! what a naughty father! he has been ill, and we have not known it!
Stay, Marius, feel how cold his hand is!


So you are here! Monsieur Pontmercy, you pardon me!
repeated Jean Valjean.


At that word which Jean Valjean had just uttered once more
all that was swelling Marius' heart found vent.


He burst forth:


Cosette, do you hear? he has come to that! he asks my forgiveness!
And do you know what he has done for me, Cosette? He has saved
my life. He has done more--he has given you to me. And after having
saved me, and after having given you to me, Cosette, what has he
done with himself? He has sacrificed himself. Behold the man.
And he says to me the ingrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless,
to me the guilty one: Thanks! Cosette, my whole life passed
at the feet of this man would be too little. That barricade,
that sewer, that furnace, that cesspool,--all that he traversed
for me, for thee, Cosette! He carried me away through all the
deaths which he put aside before me, and accepted for himself.
Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every sanctity
he possesses! Cosette, that man is an angel!


Hush! hush!said Jean Valjean in a low voice. "Why tell all that?"


But you!cried Marius with a wrath in which there was veneration
why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault, too.
You save people's lives, and you conceal it from them! You do more,
under the pretext of unmasking yourself, you calumniate yourself.
It is frightful.


I told the truth,replied Jean Valjean.


No,retorted Mariusthe truth is the whole truth; and that you
did not tell. You were Monsieur Madeleine, why not have said so?
You saved Javert, why not have said so? I owed my life to you,
why not have said so?


Because I thought as you do. I thought that you were in the right.
It was necessary that I should go away. If you had known about
that affair, of the sewer, you would have made me remain near you.
I was therefore forced to hold my peace. If I had spoken, it would
have caused embarrassment in every way.


It would have embarrassed what? embarrassed whom?retorted Marius.
Do you think that you are going to stay here? We shall carry you off.
Ah! good heavens! when I reflect that it was by an accident that I have
learned all this. You form a part of ourselves. You are her father,
and mine. You shall not pass another day in this dreadful house.
Do not imagine that you will be here to-morrow.



To-morrow,said Jean ValjeanI shall not be here, but I shall
not be with you.


What do you mean?replied Marius. "Ah! come nowwe are not going
to permit any more journeys. You shall never leave us again.
You belong to us. We shall not loose our hold of you."


This time it is for good,added Cosette. "We have a carriage
at the door. I shall run away with you. If necessaryI shall
employ force."


And she laughingly made a movement to lift the old man in her arms.


Your chamber still stands ready in our house,she went on.
If you only knew how pretty the garden is now! The azaleas
are doing very well there. The walks are sanded with river sand;
there are tiny violet shells. You shall eat my strawberries.
I water them myself. And no more `madame,' no more `Monsieur Jean,'
we are living under a Republic, everybody says thou, don't they, Marius?
The programme is changed. If you only knew, father, I have had a sorrow,
there was a robin redbreast which had made her nest in a hole in
the wall, and a horrible cat ate her. My poor, pretty, little robin
red-breast which used to put her head out of her window and look
at me! I cried over it. I should have liked to kill the cat.
But now nobody cries any more. Everybody laughs, everybody is happy.
You are going to come with us. How delighted grandfather will be!
You shall have your plot in the garden, you shall cultivate it,
and we shall see whether your strawberries are as fine as mine.
And, then, I shall do everything that you wish, and then, you will obey
me prettily.


Jean Valjean listened to her without hearing her. He heard
the music of her voice rather than the sense of her words;
one of those large tears which are the sombre pearls of the soul
welled up slowly in his eyes.


He murmured:


The proof that God is good is that she is here.


Father!said Cosette.


Jean Valjean continued:


It is quite true that it would be charming for us to live together.
Their trees are full of birds. I would walk with Cosette.
It is sweet to be among living people who bid each other `good-day,'
who call to each other in the garden. People see each other from
early morning. We should each cultivate our own little corner.
She would make me eat her strawberries. I would make her gather
my roses. That would be charming. Only . . .


He paused and said gently:


It is a pity.


The tear did not fallit retreatedand Jean Valjean replaced it
with a smile.


Cosette took both the old man's hands in hers.


My God!said sheyour hands are still colder than before.
Are you ill? Do you suffer?



I? No,replied Jean Valjean. "I am very well. Only . . ."

He paused.

Only what?

I am going to die presently.

Cosette and Marius shuddered.

To die!exclaimed Marius.

Yes, but that is nothing,said Jean Valjean.

He took breathsmiled and resumed:

Cosette, thou wert talking to me, go on, so thy little robin
red-breast is dead? Speak, so that I may hear thy voice.

Marius gazed at the old man in amazement.

Cosette uttered a heartrending cry.

Father! my father! you will live. You are going to live.
I insist upon your living, do you hear?

Jean Valjean raised his head towards her with adoration.

Oh! yes, forbid me to die. Who knows? Perhaps I shall obey.
I was on the verge of dying when you came. That stopped me,
it seemed to me that I was born again.

You are full of strength and life,cried Marius. "Do you imagine
that a person can die like this? You have had sorrowyou shall
have no more. It is I who ask your forgivenessand on my knees!
You are going to liveand to live with usand to live a long time.
We take possession of you once more. There are two of us here who
will henceforth have no other thought than your happiness."

You see,resumed Cosetteall bathed in tearsthat Marius says
that you shall not die.

Jean Valjean continued to smile.

Even if you were to take possession of me, Monsieur Pontmercy,
would that make me other than I am? No, God has thought like you
and myself, and he does not change his mind; it is useful for me
to go. Death is a good arrangement. God knows better than we what
we need. May you be happy, may Monsieur Pontmercy have Cosette,
may youth wed the morning, may there be around you, my children,
lilacs and nightingales; may your life be a beautiful, sunny lawn,
may all the enchantments of heaven fill your souls, and now let me,
who am good for nothing, die; it is certain that all this is right.
Come, be reasonable, nothing is possible now, I am fully conscious that
all is over. And then, last night, I drank that whole jug of water.
How good thy husband is, Cosette! Thou art much better off with him
than with me.

A noise became audible at the door.

It was the doctor entering.

Good-day, and farewell, doctor,said Jean Valjean. "Here are


my poor children."

Marius stepped up to the doctor. He addressed to him only this
single word: "Monsieur? . . ." But his manner of pronouncing it
contained a complete question.

The doctor replied to the question by an expressive glance.

Because things are not agreeable,said Jean Valjeanthat is
no reason for being unjust towards God.

A silence ensued.

All breasts were oppressed.

Jean Valjean turned to Cosette. He began to gaze at her as though
he wished to retain her features for eternity.

In the depths of the shadow into which he had already descended
ecstasy was still possible to him when gazing at Cosette.
The reflection of that sweet face lighted up his pale visage.

The doctor felt of his pulse.

Ah! it was you that he wanted!he murmuredlooking at Cosette
and Marius.

And bending down to Marius' earhe added in a very low voice:

Too late.

Jean Valjean surveyed the doctor and Marius serenelyalmost without
ceasing to gaze at Cosette.

These barely articulate words were heard to issue from his mouth:

It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live.

All at once he rose to his feet. These accesses of strength
are sometimes the sign of the death agony. He walked with a firm
step to the wallthrusting aside Marius and the doctor who tried
to help himdetached from the wall a little copper crucifix
which was suspended thereand returned to his seat with all the
freedom of movement of perfect healthand said in a loud voice
as he laid the crucifix on the table:

Behold the great martyr.

Then his chest sank inhis head waveredas though the intoxication
of the tomb were seizing hold upon him.

His handswhich rested on his kneesbegan to press their nails
into the stuff of his trousers.

Cosette supported his shouldersand sobbedand tried to speak
to himbut could not.

Among the words mingled with that mournful saliva which
accompanies tearsthey distinguished words like the following:

Father, do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you
only to lose you again?

It might be said that agony writhes. It goescomes


advances towards the sepulchreand returns towards life.
There is groping in the action of dying.


Jean Valjean rallied after this semi-swoonshook his brow as though
to make the shadows fall away from it and became almost perfectly
lucid once more.


He took a fold of Cosette's sleeve and kissed it.


He is coming back! doctor, he is coming back,cried Marius.


You are good, both of you,said Jean Valjean. "I am going to tell
you what has caused me pain. What has pained meMonsieur Pontmercy
is that you have not been willing to touch that money.
That money really belongs to your wife. I will explain to you
my childrenand for that reasonalsoI am glad to see you.
Black jet comes from Englandwhite jet comes from Norway.
All this is in this paperwhich you will read. For bracelets
I invented a way of substituting for slides of soldered sheet iron
slides of iron laid together. It is prettierbetter and less costly.
You will understand how much money can be made in that way.
So Cosette's fortune is really hers. I give you these details
in order that your mind may be set at rest."


The portress had come upstairs and was gazing in at the half-open door.
The doctor dismissed her.


But he could not prevent this zealous woman from exclaiming
to the dying man before she disappeared: "Would you like a priest?"


I have had one,replied Jean Valjean.


And with his finger he seemed to indicate a point above his head
where one would have said that he saw some one.


It is probablein factthat the Bishop was present at this
death agony.


Cosette gently slipped a pillow under his loins.


Jean Valjean resumed:


Have no fear, Monsieur Pontmercy, I adjure you. The six hundred
thousand francs really belong to Cosette. My life will have been
wasted if you do not enjoy them! We managed to do very well with
those glass goods. We rivalled what is called Berlin jewellery.
However, we could not equal the black glass of England. A gross,
which contains twelve hundred very well cut grains, only costs
three francs.


When a being who is dear to us is on the point of deathwe gaze
upon him with a look which clings convulsively to him and which
would fain hold him back.


Cosette gave her hand to Mariusand bothmute with anguish
not knowing what to say to the dying manstood trembling and
despairing before him.


Jean Valjean sank moment by moment. He was failing; he was drawing
near to the gloomy horizon.


His breath had become intermittent; a little rattling interrupted it.
He found some difficulty in moving his forearmhis feet had lost
all movementand in proportion as the wretchedness of limb



and feebleness of body increasedall the majesty of his soul
was displayed and spread over his brow. The light of the unknown
world was already visible in his eyes.


His face paled and smiled. Life was no longer thereit was
something else.


His breath sankhis glance grew grander. He was a corpse
on which the wings could be felt.


He made a sign to Cosette to draw nearthen to Marius; the last
minute of the last hour hadevidentlyarrived.


He began to speak to them in a voice so feeble that it seemed
to come from a distanceand one would have said that a wall
now rose between them and him.


Draw near, draw near, both of you. I love you dearly. Oh! how
good it is to die like this! And thou lovest me also, my Cosette.
I knew well that thou still felt friendly towards thy poor old man.
How kind it was of thee to place that pillow under my loins!
Thou wilt weep for me a little, wilt thou not? Not too much.
I do not wish thee to have any real griefs. You must enjoy yourselves
a great deal, my children. I forgot to tell you that the profit was
greater still on the buckles without tongues than on all the rest.
A gross of a dozen dozens cost ten francs and sold for sixty.
It really was a good business. So there is no occasion for
surprise at the six hundred thousand francs, Monsieur Pontmercy.
It is honest money. You may be rich with a tranquil mind.
Thou must have a carriage, a box at the theatres now and then,
and handsome ball dresses, my Cosette, and then, thou must give good
dinners to thy friends, and be very happy. I was writing to Cosette
a while ago. She will find my letter. I bequeath to her the two
candlesticks which stand on the chimney-piece. They are of silver,
but to me they are gold, they are diamonds; they change candles
which are placed in them into wax-tapers. I do not know whether
the person who gave them to me is pleased with me yonder on high.
I have done what I could. My children, you will not forget that I
am a poor man, you will have me buried in the first plot of earth
that you find, under a stone to mark the spot. This is my wish.
No name on the stone. If Cosette cares to come for a little
while now and then, it will give me pleasure. And you too,
Monsieur Pontmercy. I must admit that I have not always loved you.
I ask your pardon for that. Now she and you form but one for me.
I feel very grateful to you. I am sure that you make Cosette happy.
If you only knew, Monsieur Pontmercy, her pretty rosy cheeks
were my delight; when I saw her in the least pale, I was sad.
In the chest of drawers, there is a bank-bill for five hundred francs.
I have not touched it. It is for the poor. Cosette, dost thou see
thy little gown yonder on the bed? dost thou recognize it? That was
ten years ago, however. How time flies! We have been very happy.
All is over. Do not weep, my children, I am not going very far,
I shall see you from there, you will only have to look at night,
and you will see me smile. Cosette, dost thou remember Montfermeil?
Thou wert in the forest, thou wert greatly terrified; dost thou
remember how I took hold of the handle of the water-bucket? That was
the first time that I touched thy poor, little hand. It was so cold!
Ah! your hands were red then, mademoiselle, they are very white now.
And the big doll! dost thou remember? Thou didst call her Catherine.
Thou regrettedest not having taken her to the convent!
How thou didst make me laugh sometimes, my sweet angel! When it
had been raining, thou didst float bits of straw on the gutters,
and watch them pass away. One day I gave thee a willow battledore
and a shuttlecock with yellow, blue and green feathers. Thou hast



forgotten it. Thou wert roguish so young! Thou didst play.
Thou didst put cherries in thy ears. Those are things of the past.
The forests through which one has passed with one's child,
the trees under which one has strolled, the convents where one has
concealed oneself, the games, the hearty laughs of childhood,
are shadows. I imagined that all that belonged to me. In that lay
my stupidity. Those Thenardiers were wicked. Thou must forgive them.
Cosette, the moment has come to tell thee the name of thy mother.
She was called Fantine. Remember that name--Fantine. Kneel whenever
thou utterest it. She suffered much. She loved thee dearly.
She had as much unhappiness as thou hast had happiness. That is
the way God apportions things. He is there on high, he sees us all,
and he knows what he does in the midst of his great stars.
I am on the verge of departure, my children. Love each other
well and always. There is nothing else but that in the world:
love for each other. You will think sometimes of the poor old
man who died here. Oh my Cosette, it is not my fault, indeed,
that I have not seen thee all this time, it cut me to the heart;
I went as far as the corner of the street, I must have produced
a queer effect on the people who saw me pass, I was like a madman,
I once went out without my hat. I no longer see clearly,
my children, I had still other things to say, but never mind.
Think a little of me. Come still nearer. I die happy. Give me
your dear and well-beloved heads, so that I may lay my hands upon
them.


Cosette and Marius fell on their kneesin despair
suffocating with tearseach beneath one of Jean Valjean's hands.
Those august hands no longer moved.


He had fallen backwardsthe light of the candles illuminated him.


His white face looked up to heavenhe allowed Cosette and Marius
to cover his hands with kisses.


He was dead.


The night was starless and extremely dark. No doubtin the gloom
some immense angel stood erect with wings outspreadawaiting that soul.


CHAPTER VI


THE GRASS COVERS AND THE RAIN EFFACES


In the cemetery of Pere-Lachaisein the vicinity of the common
gravefar from the elegant quarter of that city of sepulchres
far from all the tombs of fancy which display in the presence of
eternity all the hideous fashions of deathin a deserted corner
beside an old wallbeneath a great yew tree over which climbs the
wild convolvulusamid dandelions and mossesthere lies a stone.
That stone is no more exempt than others from the leprosy of time
of dampnessof the lichens and from the defilement of the birds.
The water turns it greenthe air blackens it. It is not near
any pathand people are not fond of walking in that direction
because the grass is high and their feet are immediately wet.
When there is a little sunshinethe lizards come thither. All around
there is a quivering of weeds. In the springlinnets warble in
the trees.


This stone is perfectly plain. In cutting it the only thought
was the requirements of the tomband no other care was taken than



to make the stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man.

No name is to be read there.

Onlymany years agoa hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines
which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust
and which areto-dayprobably effaced:

Il dort. Quoique le sort fut pour lui bien etrange
Il vivait. Il mourut quand il n'eut plus son ange.
La chose simplement d'elle-meme arriva
Comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s'en va.[70]


[70] He sleeps. Although his fate was very strangehe lived.
He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply
of itselfas the night comes when day is gone.
LETTER TO M. DAELLI

Publisher of the Italian translation of Les Miserables in Milan.

HAUTEVILLE-HOUSEOctober 181862.

You are rightsirwhen you tell me that Les Miserables is written
for all nations. I do not know whether it will be read by allbut I
wrote it for all. It is addressed to England as well as to Spain
to Italy as well as to Franceto Germany as well as to Ireland
to Republics which have slaves as well as to Empires which have serfs.
Social problems overstep frontiers. The sores of the human race
those great sores which cover the globedo not halt at the red
or blue lines traced upon the map. In every place where man is
ignorant and despairingin every place where woman is sold for bread
wherever the child suffers for lack of the book which should
instruct him and of the hearth which should warm himthe book
of Les Miserables knocks at the door and says: "Open to meI come
for you."


At the hour of civilization through which we are now passing
and which is still so sombrethe miserable's name is Man; he is
agonizing in all climesand he is groaning in all languages.


Your Italy is no more exempt from the evil than is our France.
Your admirable Italy has all miseries on the face of it. Does not
banditismthat raging form of pauperisminhabit your mountains?
Few nations are more deeply eaten by that ulcer of convents which I
have endeavored to fathom. In spite of your possessing Rome
MilanNaplesPalermoTurinFlorenceSiennaPisaMantua
BolognaFerraraGenoaVenicea heroic historysublime ruins
magnificent ruinsand superb citiesyou arelike ourselvespoor.
You are covered with marvels and vermin. Assuredlythe sun of Italy
is splendidbutalasazure in the sky does not prevent rags on man.


Like usyou have prejudicessuperstitionstyranniesfanaticisms
blind laws lending assistance to ignorant customs. You taste nothing
of the present nor of the future without a flavor of the past being
mingled with it. You have a barbarianthe monkand a savage
the lazzarone. The social question is the same for you as for us.
There are a few less deaths from hunger with youand a few more
from fever; your social hygiene is not much better than ours;
shadowswhich are Protestant in Englandare Catholic in Italy;
butunder different namesthe vescovo is identical with the bishop



and it always means nightand of pretty nearly the same quality.
To explain the Bible badly amounts to the same thing as to understand
the Gospel badly.


Is it necessary to emphasize this? Must this melancholy parallelism
be yet more completely verified? Have you not indigent persons?
Glance below. Have you not parasites? Glance up. Does not
that hideous balancewhose two scalespauperism and parasitism
so mournfully preserve their mutual equilibriumoscillate before
you as it does before us? Where is your army of schoolmasters
the only army which civilization acknowledges?


Where are your free and compulsory schools? Does every one
know how to read in the land of Dante and of Michael Angelo?
Have you made public schools of your barracks? Have you not
like ourselvesan opulent war-budget and a paltry budget of education?
Have not you also that passive obedience which is so easily converted
into soldierly obedience? military establishment which pushes the
regulations to the extreme of firing upon Garibaldi; that is to say
upon the living honor of Italy? Let us subject your social order
to examinationlet us take it where it stands and as it stands
let us view its flagrant offencesshow me the woman and the child.
It is by the amount of protection with which these two feeble creatures
are surrounded that the degree of civilization is to be measured.
Is prostitution less heartrending in Naples than in Paris?
What is the amount of truth that springs from your lawsand what
amount of justice springs from your tribunals? Do you chance to be
so fortunate as to be ignorant of the meaning of those gloomy words:
public prosecutionlegal infamyprisonthe scaffoldthe executioner
the death penalty? Italianswith you as with usBeccaria is dead
and Farinace is alive. And thenlet us scrutinize your state reasons.
Have you a government which comprehends the identity of morality
and politics? You have reached the point where you grant amnesty
to heroes! Something very similar has been done in France.
Staylet us pass miseries in reviewlet each one contribute
his pileyou are as rich as we. Have you notlike ourselves
two condemnationsreligious condemnation pronounced by the priest
and social condemnation decreed by the judge? Ohgreat nation of Italy
thou resemblest the great nation of France! Alas! our brothers
you arelike ourselvesMiserables.


From the depths of the gloom wherein you dwellyou do not see
much more distinctly than we the radiant and distant portals
of Eden. Onlythe priests are mistaken. These holy portals
are before and not behind us.


I resume. This bookLes Miserablesis no less your mirror than ours.
Certain mencertain castesrise in revolt against this book--
I understand that. Mirrorsthose revealers of the truthare hated;
that does not prevent them from being of use.


As for myselfI have written for allwith a profound love
for my own countrybut without being engrossed by France more
than by any other nation. In proportion as I advance in life
I grow more simpleand I become more and more patriotic for humanity.


This ismoreoverthe tendency of our ageand the law of radiance
of the French Revolution; books must cease to be exclusively French
ItalianGermanSpanishor Englishand become EuropeanI say
morehumanif they are to correspond to the enlargement of civilization.


Hence a new logic of artand of certain requirements of composition
which modify everythingeven the conditionsformerly narrow
of taste and languagewhich must grow broader like all the rest.



In Francecertain critics have reproached meto my great delight
with having transgressed the bounds of what they call "French taste";
I should be glad if this eulogium were merited.


In shortI am doing what I canI suffer with the same
universal sufferingand I try to assuage itI possess
only the puny forces of a manand I cry to all: "Help me!"


Thissiris what your letter prompts me to say; I say it
for you and for your country. If I have insisted so strongly
it is because of one phrase in your letter. You write:--


There are Italians, and they are numerous, who say: `This book,
Les Miserables, is a French book. It does not concern us. Let the French
read it as a history, we read it as a romance.'--Alas! I repeat
whether we be Italians or Frenchmenmisery concerns us all.
Ever since history has been writtenever since philosophy has meditated
misery has been the garment of the human race; the moment has
at length arrived for tearing off that ragand for replacing
upon the naked limbs of the Man-Peoplethe sinister fragment
of the past with the grand purple robe of the dawn.


If this letter seems to you of service in enlightening some
minds and in dissipating some prejudicesyou are at liberty
to publish itsir. AcceptI pray youa renewed assurance
of my very distinguished sentiments.


VICTOR HUGO.