📚 Les Misérables – Tome IV : L’idylle rue Plumet et l’épopée rue Saint-Denis 🌟
In this fourth volume of Les Misérables, Victor Hugo takes us to the heart of a double fresco where the intimate and the historical intertwine. On one side, the tender and discreet idyll that unites Marius and Cosette, in the apparent calm of the rue Plumet; on the other, the rise of a popular storm that will erupt on the barricades of the rue Saint-Denis. Between secret love and revolutionary epic, this story explores the forces that make men’s hearts beat and shake societies. Prepare to dive into a world where passions and ideals clash brilliantly. Chapter 1. Well cut. 1831 and 1832, the two years immediately linked to the July Revolution, are one of the most particular and striking moments in history. These two years, in the midst of those that precede and follow them, are like two mountains. They have revolutionary grandeur. Precipices can be seen in them. The social masses , the very foundations of civilization, the solid group of overlapping and adherent interests, the secular profiles of the ancient French formation, appear and disappear there at every moment through the stormy clouds of systems, passions and theories. These appearances and disappearances have been called resistance and movement. At intervals one sees the truth shining through, this day of the human soul. This remarkable epoch is quite circumscribed and is beginning to move far enough away from us for us to be able to grasp its main lines from now on . We will try. The Restoration had been one of those intermediate phases that are difficult to define, where there is fatigue, buzzing, murmurs, sleep, tumult, and which are nothing other than the arrival of a great nation at a stage. These epochs are singular and deceive the politicians who want to exploit them. At the beginning, the nation asks only for rest; there is only one thirst, peace; we have only one ambition, to be small. Which is the translation of remaining calm. Great events, great chances, great adventures, great men, thank God, we have seen enough, we are fed up. We would give Caesar for Prusias and Napoleon for the King of Yvetot. “What a good little king he was!” We have marched since daybreak, it is the evening of a long and hard day; we have made the first relay with Mirabeau, the second with Robespierre, the third with Bonaparte, we are exhausted. Everyone asks for a bed. Weary devotions, aged heroisms, sated ambitions, fortunes made seek, demand, implore, solicit, what? A shelter. They have it. They take possession of peace, tranquility, leisure; they are content. However, at the same time certain facts arise, make themselves recognized and knock at the door on their side. These facts emerged from revolutions and wars, they exist, they live, they have the right to settle in society and they settle there; and most of the time the facts are quartermasters and quartermasters who only prepare the lodging for the principles. So here is what appears to political philosophers. At the same time as tired men ask for rest, accomplished facts demand guarantees. Guarantees for facts are the same thing as rest for men. This is what England asked of the Stuarts after the Protector; this is what France asked of the Bourbons after the Empire. These guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must be granted. Princes “grant” them, but in reality it is the force of circumstances that gives them. A profound and useful truth to know, which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1660, which the Bourbons did not even glimpse in 1814. The predestined family which returned to France when Napoleon collapsed had the fatal simplicity to believe that it was they who gave, and that what they had given they could take back; that the house of Bourbon possessed divine right, that France possessed nothing; and that the The political right granted in the charter of Louis XVIII was nothing other than a branch of divine right, detached by the House of Bourbon and graciously given to the people until the day when it pleased the king to take it up again. However, from the displeasure that the gift caused it, the House of Bourbon should have felt that it did not come from it. It was spiteful in the nineteenth century. It made a bad impression at each flowering of the nation. To use the trivial word, that is to say, popular and true, it balked. The people saw it. It believed that it had strength because the Empire had been carried before it like a theatrical frame. It did not realize that it had been brought itself in the same way. It did not see that it too was in that hand which had removed Napoleon from there. It believed that it had roots because it was the past. It was mistaken; It was part of the past, but the whole past was France. The roots of French society were not in the Bourbons, but in the nation. These obscure and perennial roots did not constitute the right of a family, but the history of a people. They were everywhere, except under the throne. The House of Bourbon was for France the illustrious and bloody knot of its history, but was no longer the principal element of its destiny and the necessary basis of its policy. One could do without the Bourbons; one had done without them for twenty-two years; there had been a break in continuity; they did not suspect it. And how could they have suspected it, they who imagined that Louis XVII reigned on the 9th of Thermidor and that Louis XVIII reigned on the day of Marengo? Never, since the beginning of history, had princes been so blind in the presence of facts and of the portion of divine authority that facts contain and promulgate. Never had this pretension from below, which is called the right of kings, denied to such an extent the right from above. A capital error which led this family to take back the guarantees “granted” in 1814, the concessions, as it called them. Sad thing! What it called its concessions were our conquests; what it called our encroachments were our rights. When the time seemed to have come, the Restoration, believing itself victorious over Bonaparte and rooted in the country, that is to say, believing itself strong and believing itself profound, abruptly took its side and risked its blow. One morning she stood up in front of France, and, raising her voice, she contested the collective title and the individual title, the nation’s sovereignty, the citizen’s liberty. In other words, she denied the nation what made it a nation and the citizen what made him a citizen. This is the basis of those famous acts called the July Ordinances. The Restoration fell. It fell justly. However, let us say it, it had not been absolutely hostile to all forms of progress. Great things had been done, she being on the sidelines. Under the Restoration the nation had become accustomed to discussion in calm, which the Republic had lacked, and to grandeur in peace, which the Empire had lacked. France, free and strong, had been an encouraging spectacle for the other peoples of Europe. The
revolution had had its say under Robespierre; the cannon had its say under Bonaparte; It was under Louis XVIII and Charles X that intelligence’s turn to speak came. The wind stopped, the torch was rekindled. The pure light of spirits was seen trembling on the serene peaks. A magnificent, useful and charming spectacle. For fifteen years, in complete peace, in the open public square, we saw these great principles, so old for the thinker, so new for the statesman, working: equality before the law, freedom of conscience, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, accessibility of all aptitudes to all functions. This continued until 1830. The Bourbons were an instrument of civilization that broke in the hands of providence. The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, not on their part, but on the side of the nation. They left the throne with gravity, but without authority; their descent into the night was not one of those solemn disappearances that leave a somber emotion in history; it was neither the spectral calm of Charles I, nor the eagle cry of Napoleon. They left , that’s all. They laid down the crown and kept no halo. They were dignified, but they were not august. They lacked to a certain extent the majesty of their misfortune. Charles X, during the voyage to Cherbourg, having a round table cut into a square, seemed more concerned with the etiquette in peril than with the crumbling monarchy. This diminution saddened the devoted men who loved their persons and the serious men who honored their race. The people, for their part, were admirable. The nation, attacked one morning with armed force by a sort of royal insurrection, felt so strong that it had no anger. It defended itself, restrained itself, put things back in their place, the government in the law, the Bourbons in exile, alas! and stopped. It took the old King Charles X under the canopy which had sheltered Louis XIV, and laid him gently on the ground. It touched the royal persons only with sadness and caution. It was not one man, it was not a few men, it was France, all of France, victorious France, intoxicated by its victory, which seemed to remember and practice in the eyes of the whole world these grave words of Guillaume du Vair after the day of the barricades: “It is easy for those who are accustomed to brushing against the favors of the great and leaping, like a bird from branch to branch, from an afflicted fortune to a flourishing one, to show themselves bold against their prince in his adversity; but for me the fortune of my kings will always be venerable to me, and principally of the afflicted.” The Bourbons won respect, but not regret. As we have just said, their misfortune was greater than they were. They faded into the horizon. The July Revolution immediately had friends and enemies throughout the world. Some rushed towards it with enthusiasm and joy, others turned away, each according to their nature. The princes of Europe, at the first moment, owls of this dawn, closed their eyes, wounded and stupefied, and only opened them again to threaten. Fear that is understandable, anger that excuses itself. This strange revolution had barely been a shock; it had not even done the vanquished royalty the honor of treating it as an enemy and shedding its blood. In the eyes of despotic governments always interested in liberty slandering itself, the July Revolution had the fault of being formidable and remaining gentle. Nothing, moreover, was attempted or plotted against it. The most discontented, the most irritated, the most trembling, greeted it; Whatever our egotisms and our grudges, a mysterious respect emerges from events in which we feel the collaboration of someone who works higher than man. The July Revolution is the triumph of law overcoming fact. A thing full of splendor. Law overcoming fact. Hence the brilliance of the revolution of 1830, hence its gentleness too. Law that triumphs has no need to be violent. Law is just and true. The characteristic of law is to remain eternally beautiful and pure. The fact, even the most necessary in appearance, even the best accepted by contemporaries, if it exists only as fact and if it contains too little law or no law at all, is infallibly destined to become, with the passage of time, deformed, filthy, perhaps even monstrous. If we want to see at once to what degree of ugliness the fact can reach, seen from the distance of centuries, let us look at Machiavelli. Machiavelli is not an evil genius, nor a demon, nor a cowardly and miserable writer; it is nothing but the fact. And it is not only the Italian fact, it is the European fact, the fact of the sixteenth century. It seems hideous, and it is, in the presence of the moral idea of the nineteenth. This struggle between law and fact has lasted since the origin of societies. To end the duel, to amalgamate the pure idea with human reality, to make law penetrate peacefully into fact and fact into law, that is the work of the wise. Chapter 2. Poorly Sewn. But the work of the wise is different, the work of the clever is different. The revolution of 1830 had quickly stopped. As soon as a revolution has made a run, the clever tear apart the wreck. The clever, in our century, have awarded themselves the title of statesmen; so much so that this word, statesman, has ended up being a bit of a slang word. Let us not forget, in fact, that where there is only skill, there is necessarily pettiness. To say: the skillful, is to say: the mediocre. Just as to say: the statesmen, is sometimes equivalent to saying: the traitors. According to the skillful, then, revolutions like the July Revolution are cut arteries; a prompt ligature is necessary. Law , too grandly proclaimed, shakes. Also, once law is affirmed, the State must be strengthened. Liberty assured, one must think of power. Here the wise do not yet separate themselves from the skillful, but they begin to distrust each other. Power, so be it. But, first, what is power? Second, where does it come from? The skillful seem not to hear the murmured objection, and they continue their maneuver. According to these politicians, ingenious at putting a mask of necessity on profitable fictions, the first need of a people after a revolution, when this people is part of a monarchical continent, is to procure a dynasty. In this way, they say, it can have peace after its revolution, that is to say, time to heal its wounds and repair its house. The dynasty hides the scaffolding and covers the ambulance. Now, it is not always easy to procure a dynasty. Strictly speaking, the first man of genius or even the first man of fortune who comes along is enough to make a king. In the first case you have Bonaparte and in the second Iturbide. But the first family who comes along is not enough to make a dynasty. There is necessarily a certain amount of antiquity in a race, and the wrinkle of the centuries cannot be improvised. If we place ourselves from the point of view of “statesmen,” with all reservations, of course, after a revolution, what are the qualities of the king who emerges from it? It can be and it is useful that he be revolutionary, that is to say, participating in this revolution in his own person, that he has put his hand in it, that he has compromised himself or distinguished himself, that he has touched the axe or wielded the sword. What are the qualities of a dynasty? It must be national, that is to say, revolutionary from a distance, not by acts committed, but by accepted ideas. It must be composed of the past and be historical, composed of the future and be sympathetic. All this explains why the first revolutions are content to find a man, Cromwell or Napoleon; and why the second absolutely want to find a family, the House of Brunswick or the House of Orléans. Royal houses resemble those fig trees of India where each branch, bending to the ground, takes root there and becomes a fig tree. Each branch can become a dynasty. On the sole condition of bending to the people. Such is the theory of the clever. Here then is the great art: to make a success sound a little like a catastrophe so that those who profit from it also tremble, to season a step taken with fear, to increase the curve of the transition until progress slows down, to dull this dawn, to denounce and to cut off the harshness of enthusiasm, to cut the angles and the nails, to cotton the triumph, to muffle the law, to wrap the giant people in flannel and put it to bed quickly, to impose a diet on this excess of health, to put Hercules on convalescence treatment, to dilute the event in the expedient, to offer to minds thirsty for ideals this nectar diluted with herbal tea, to take precautions against too much success, to garnish the revolution with a lampshade. 1830 practiced this theory, already applied to England by 1688. 1830 is a revolution stopped halfway. Halfway progress; quasi-law. Now logic ignores the approximate; absolutely as the sun ignores the candle. Who stops revolutions halfway? The bourgeoisie. Why? Because the bourgeoisie is interest arrived at satisfaction. Yesterday it was appetite, today it is plenitude, tomorrow it will be satiety. The phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon was reproduced in 1830 after Charles Chapter 3. We have wrongly wanted to make the bourgeoisie a class. The bourgeoisie is quite 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, by wanting to sit down too soon, we can stop the very progress of the human race. This has often been the fault of the bourgeoisie. We are not a class because we make a mistake. Selfishness is not one of the divisions of the social order. Moreover, one must be fair even to egoism, the state to which , after the shock of 1830, that part of the nation called the bourgeoisie aspired was not inertia, which is complicated by indifference and laziness and which contains a little shame, it was not sleep, which supposes a momentary forgetfulness accessible to dreams; it was the halt. Halt is a word formed from a singular and almost contradictory double meaning: troops on the march, that is to say movement; station, that is to say rest. The halt is the repair of forces; it is armed and awake rest ; it is the accomplished fact which sets sentinels and stands on its guard. The halt supposes the fight yesterday and the fight tomorrow. It is the in-between of 1830 and 1848. What we call here fight can also be called progress. The bourgeoisie, as well as statesmen, therefore needed a man who could express this word: halt. A Although Because. A composite individuality, signifying revolution and signifying stability, in other words, strengthening the present by the evident compatibility of the past with the future. This man was “all found.” His name was Louis-Philippe d’Orléans. The 221 made Louis-Philippe king. Lafayette took charge of the coronation. He named it _the best of republics_. The Paris City Hall replaced the cathedral of Reims. This substitution of a half-throne for the full throne was “the work of 1830.” When the clever ones had finished, the immense flaw in their solution became apparent. All this was done outside absolute right. Absolute right cried: I protest! then, fearfully, it withdrew into the shadows. Chapter 4. Louis-Philippe. Revolutions have a terrible arm and a fortunate hand; they strike hard and choose well. Even incomplete, even bastardized and crossbred, and reduced to the state of cadet revolution, like the revolution of 1830, they almost always retain enough providential lucidity so that they cannot fall badly. Their eclipse is never an abdication. However, let us not boast too loudly, revolutions, too, make mistakes, and serious misunderstandings have been seen. Let us return to 1830. 1830, in its deviation, had some happiness. In the establishment which was called the order after the revolution was cut short, the king was worth more than royalty. Louis-Philippe was a rare man. Son of a father to whom history will certainly grant the extenuating circumstances, but as worthy of esteem as this father had been worthy of blame; having all the private virtues and several of the public virtues; careful of his health, his fortune, his person, his affairs; knowing the price of a minute and not always the price of a year; sober, serene, peaceful, patient; good man and good prince; sleeping with his wife, and having in his palace footmen charged with showing the marital bed to the bourgeois, a regular ostentation of alcove which had become useful after the former illegitimate displays of the elder branch; knowing all the languages of Europe, and, what is rarer, all the languages of all interests, and speaking them; admirable representative of “the middle class”, but surpassing it, and in every way greater than it; having the excellent mind, while appreciating the blood from which he came, to count himself above all for his intrinsic value, and, on the very question of his race, very particular, declaring himself Orléans and not Bourbon; very first prince of the blood as long as he had only been Serene Highness, but frank bourgeois on the day he was majesty; diffuse in public, concise in private; miserly noted, but not proven; at bottom, one of those easily prodigal thrifty for their whim or their duty; learned, and not very sensitive to letters; gentleman, but not knight; simple, calm and strong; adored by his family and his house; seductive conversationalist; disillusioned statesman, inwardly cold, dominated by immediate interest, always governing closely, incapable of rancor and gratitude, mercilessly using superiority over mediocrity, skilled at making parliamentary majorities prove wrong those mysterious unanimities which rumble dully under thrones; expansive, sometimes imprudent in his expansion, but marvelously skillful in this imprudence; fertile in expedients, in faces, in masks; frightening the France of Europe and Europe of France; unquestionably loving his country, but preferring his family; valuing domination more than authority and authority more than dignity, a disposition which has the fatal aspect that, turning everything to success, it admits cunning and does not absolutely repudiate baseness, but which has the beneficial aspect that it preserves politics from violent shocks, the State from fractures and society from catastrophes; meticulous, correct, vigilant, attentive, sagacious, tireless, sometimes contradicting himself, and denying himself; bold against Austria at Ancona, stubborn against England in Spain, bombarding Antwerp and paying Pritchard; singing the Marseillaise with conviction ; inaccessible to dejection, to weariness, to the taste for beauty and the ideal, to reckless generosity, to utopia, to chimera, to anger, to vanity, to fear; having all the forms of personal intrepidity; general at Valmy, soldier at Jemmapes; tested eight times by regicide, and always smiling; brave as a grenadier, courageous as a thinker; worried only by the chances of a European upheaval, and unfit for great political adventures; always ready to risk his life, never his work; disguising his will as influence in order to be obeyed as an intelligence rather than as a king; gifted with observation and not with divination; little attentive to spirits, but knowing men, that is to say, needing to see in order to judge; prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wisdom, easy speech, prodigious memory; constantly drawing from this memory, his only point of resemblance with Caesar, Alexander and Napoleon; knowing the facts, the details, the dates, the proper names, ignoring the tendencies, the passions, the various geniuses of the crowd, the inner aspirations, the hidden and obscure uprisings of souls, in a word, all that one could call the invisible currents of consciences; accepted by the surface, but little in agreement with the France below; getting by by finesse; governing too much and not reigning enough; his first minister to himself; excellent at making the smallness of realities an obstacle to the immensity of ideas; mixing with a true creative faculty of civilization, order and organization one knows not what spirit of procedure and chicanery; founder and attorney of a dynasty; having something of Charlemagne and something of a lawyer; in short, a tall and original figure, a prince who knew how to make power despite the anxiety of France, and power despite the jealousy of Europe, Louis-Philippe will be classified among the eminent men of his century, and would be ranked among the most illustrious rulers in history, if he had loved glory a little and if he had had the feeling of what is great to the same degree as the feeling of what is useful. Louis-Philippe had been handsome, and, aged, had remained graceful; not always approved by the nation, he was always so by the crowd; he pleased. He had this gift, charm. Majesty was lacking; he wore neither the crown, although he was a king, nor white hair, although he was an old man. His manners were of the old regime and his habits of the new, a mixture of the noble and the bourgeois that suited 1830; Louis-Philippe was the reigning transition; he had preserved the old pronunciation and the old spelling that he put at the service of modern opinions; he loved Poland and Hungary, but he wrote _les polonaises_ and pronounced _les hongrais_. He wore the uniform of the National Guard like Charles X, and the cord of the Legion of Honor like Napoleon. He rarely went to chapel, never to hunt, never to the Opera. Incorruptible to sacristans, dog handlers, and dancers; this was part of his bourgeois popularity. He had no court. He went out with his umbrella under his arm, and this umbrella was for a long time part of his halo. He was a bit of a mason, a bit of a gardener, and a bit of a doctor; he bled a postilion who had fallen from his horse; Louis-Philippe was no more without his lancet than Henry III was without his dagger. The royalists mocked this ridiculous king, the first who shed blood to heal. In the grievances of history against Louis-Philippe, there is a deduction to be made; there is what accuses royalty, what accuses the reign, and what accuses the king; three columns each giving a different total. Democratic rights confiscated, progress made the second interest, street protests violently repressed, the military execution of insurrections, the riot put down by force of arms, the rue Transnonain, the courts-martial, the absorption of the real country by the legal country, the government of half-account with three hundred thousand privileged people, are the work of royalty; Belgium refused, Algeria conquered too harshly, and, like India by the English, with more barbarism than civilization, the lack of faith in Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutz bought, Pritchard paid, are the fact of the reign; the policy more familial than national is the fact of the king. As we see, the count made, the charge of the king diminishes. His great fault is this: he was modest in the name of France. Where does this fault come from? Let us say it. Louis-Philippe was too much of a father king; this incubation of a family that one wants to hatch into a dynasty is afraid of everything and does not intend to be disturbed; hence excessive timidity, unwelcome to the people who have July 14 in their civil tradition and Austerlitz in their military tradition. Besides, if we disregard public duties, which must be fulfilled first, this deep tenderness of Louis-Philippe for his family, the family deserved it. This domestic group was admirable. Virtues rubbed shoulders with talents. One of Louis-Philippe’s daughters, Marie d’Orléans, placed the name of her race among the artists as Charles d’Orléans had placed it among the poets. She had made of her soul a marble which she had named Joan of Arc. Two of the sons of Louis-Philippe had wrested this demagogic eulogy from Metternich. _These are young people like one rarely sees and princes like one never sees_. This, without hiding anything, but also without aggravating anything, is the truth about Louis-Philippe. To be the Prince of Equality, to carry within oneself the contradiction of the Restoration and the Revolution, to have this disturbing side of the revolutionary which becomes reassuring in the ruler, this was the fortune of Louis-Philippe in 1830; never was there a more complete adaptation of a man to an event; one entered into the other, and the incarnation was made. Louis-Philippe is 1830 made man. Moreover, he had on his side that great designation to the throne, exile. He had been proscribed, wandering, poor. He had lived by his work. In Switzerland, this owner of the richest princely estates in France had sold an old horse to eat. At Reichenau, he had given mathematics lessons while his sister Adélaïde did embroidery and sewing. These memories, mingled with a king, excited the bourgeoisie. He had demolished with his own hands the last iron cage of Mont Saint-Michel, built by Louis XI and used by Louis XV. He was Dumouriez’s companion, he was Lafayette’s friend; he had been in the Jacobin club; Mirabeau had tapped him on the shoulder; Danton had said to him: Young man! At twenty-four, in 93, as M. de Chartres, from the depths of an obscure lodge of the Convention, he had attended the trial of Louis XVI, so aptly named _this poor tyrant_. The blind foresight of the Revolution, breaking royalty in the king and the king with royalty, almost without noticing the man in the fierce crushing of the idea, the vast storm of the tribunal assembly, the public anger questioning, Capet not knowing what to answer, the frightening stupefied vacillation of this royal head under this dark breath, the relative innocence of all in this catastrophe, of those who condemned as of the one who was condemned, he had watched these things, he had contemplated these vertigoes; he had seen the centuries appear at the bar of the Convention; he had seen, behind Louis XVI, this unfortunate responsible passer-by, rising in the darkness the formidable accused, the monarchy; and there remained in his soul the respectful terror of these immense justices of the people almost as impersonal as the justice of God. The trace that the Revolution had left in him was prodigious. His memory was like a living imprint of these great years minute by minute. One day, before a witness whose authority we cannot doubt, he corrected from memory the entire letter A in the alphabetical list of the Constituent Assembly. Louis-Philippe was a king in the daylight. When he reigned, the press was free, the platform was free, conscience and speech were free. The laws of September are open-ended. Although he knew the corrosive power of light on privileges, he left his throne exposed to the light. History will take this loyalty into account. Louis-Philippe, like all historical men who have left the stage, is today put on trial by human conscience. His trial is still only in the first instance. The hour when history speaks with its venerable and free accent has not yet struck for him; the moment has not come to pronounce the final judgment on this king; the austere and illustrious historian Louis Blanc himself recently softened his first verdict; Louis-Philippe was the elected representative of these two approximations that we call 221 and 1830; that is to say of a half-parliament and a half-revolution; and in any case, from the higher point of view where philosophy must place itself, we could only judge him here, as we could glimpse above, with certain reservations in the name of the absolute democratic principle; in the eyes of the absolute, outside of these two rights, the right of man first, the right of the people next, everything is usurpation; but what we can To say from now on, these reservations made, is that, all in all and in whatever way one considers him, Louis-Philippe, taken in himself and from the point of view of human goodness, will remain, to use the old language of ancient history, one of the best princes who have passed on a throne. What does he have against him? This throne. Take away from Louis-Philippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is good. He is good sometimes to the point of being admirable. Often, in the midst of the most serious worries, after a day of struggle against all the diplomacy of the continent, he returned in the evening to his apartment, and there, exhausted with fatigue, overcome with sleep, what did he do? He took a file, and he spent his night revising a criminal trial, finding that it was something to stand up to Europe, but that it was an even greater affair to rescue a man from the executioner. He was obstinate against his Keeper of the Seals; he disputed the ground of the guillotine with the attorneys general, _those chatterers of the law_, as he called them. Sometimes the piled-up files covered his table; he examined them all; it was an agony for him to abandon these miserable condemned heads. One day he said to the same witness we mentioned just now: _Last night, I won seven_. During the first years of his reign, the death penalty was as it were abolished, and the erection of the scaffold was an act of violence against the king. The Grève having disappeared with the elder branch, a bourgeois Grève was instituted under the name of Barrière Saint-Jacques; the “practical men” felt the need for a quasi-legitimate guillotine ; and this was one of the victories of Casimir Perier, who represented the narrow sides of the bourgeoisie, over Louis-Philippe, who represented the liberal sides. Louis-Philippe had annotated Beccaria in his own hand. After the Fieschi machine, he exclaimed: _What a pity I was not wounded! I could have pardoned_. Another time, alluding to the resistance of his ministers, he wrote about a political condemned man who is one of the most generous figures of our time: _His pardon is granted, all that remains is for me to obtain it_. Louis-Philippe was gentle like Louis IX and good like Henry IV. Now, for us, in history where kindness is the rare pearl, who has been good almost comes before who has been great. Louis-Philippe having been severely appreciated by some, harshly perhaps by others, it is quite simple that a man, himself a ghost today, who knew this king, should come and testify for him before history; this deposition, whatever it may be, is obviously and above all disinterested; an epitaph written by a dead man is sincere; one shadow can console another shadow; the sharing of the same darkness gives the right to praise; and there is little to fear that one will ever say of two tombs in exile: This one flattered the other. Chapter 5. Cracks under the foundation. At the moment when the drama we are recounting is about to penetrate the thickness of one of the tragic clouds that cover the beginnings of the reign of Louis-Philippe, there must be no ambiguity, and it was necessary that this book explain this king. Louis-Philippe had entered into royal authority without violence, without direct action on his part, by the fact of a revolutionary shift, obviously very distinct from the real goal of the revolution, but in which he, Duke of Orleans, had no personal initiative. He was born a prince and believed himself elected king. He had not given himself this mandate; he had not taken it; it had been offered to him and he had accepted it; convinced, wrongly certainly, but convinced that the offer was according to the law and that the acceptance was according to duty. Hence a possession in good faith. Now, we say this in all conscience, Louis-Philippe being in good faith in his possession, and democracy being in good faith in its attack, the amount of terror which is emerges from social struggles does not charge either the king or democracy. A clash of principles resembles a clash of elements. The ocean defends the water, the hurricane defends the air; the king defends royalty, democracy defends the people; the relative, which is the monarchy, resists the absolute, which is the republic; society bleeds under this conflict, but what is its suffering today will later be its salvation; and, in any case, there is no blame here for those who fight; one of the two parties is obviously mistaken; the law is not, like the colossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once, one foot in the republic, one foot in royalty; it is indivisible, and all on one side; but those who are mistaken are sincerely mistaken; a blind man is no more guilty than a Vendéen is a brigand. Let us therefore attribute these formidable collisions only to the fatality of things. Whatever these storms, human irresponsibility is mixed up in them. Let us finish this exposition. The government of 1830 had a hard life from the start. It had to fight today, born yesterday. Barely installed, it already felt everywhere vague movements of traction on the apparatus of July still so freshly laid and so flimsy. Resistance was born the next day; perhaps it had even been born the day before. From month to month, hostility grew, and from muted became patent. The July Revolution, little accepted outside France by kings, as we have said, had been interpreted in France in various ways. God delivers to men his will visible in events, an obscure text written in a mysterious language. Men immediately make translations of it; hasty, incorrect translations, full of mistakes, gaps and misinterpretations. Very few minds understand the divine language. The most sagacious, the calmest, the most profound, decipher slowly, and when they arrive with their text, the work has been done for a long time; there are already twenty translations in the public square. From each translation a party is born, and from each misinterpretation a faction; and each party believes it has the only true text, and each faction believes it possesses the light. Often power itself is a faction. In revolutions there are swimmers against the current; these are the old parties. For the old parties which are linked to heredity by the grace of God, revolutions having emerged from the right of revolt, one has the right to revolt against them. Error. For in revolutions the rebel is not the people, it is the king. Revolution is precisely the opposite of revolt. Every revolution, being a normal accomplishment, contains within itself its legitimacy, which false revolutionaries sometimes dishonor, but which persists, even soiled, which survives, even bloodied. Revolutions arise, not from an accident, but from necessity. A revolution is a return from the artificial to the real. It is because it must be. The old legitimist parties nonetheless assailed the revolution of 1830 with all the violence that springs from false reasoning. Errors are excellent missiles. They skillfully struck it where it was vulnerable, at the flaw in its armor, at its lack of logic; they attacked this revolution in its royalty. They cried out to it: Revolution, why this king? Factions are blind men who aim correctly. This cry was also uttered by the republicans. But, coming from them, this cry was logical. What was blindness in the legitimists was clear-sightedness in the democrats. 1830 had bankrupted the people. Indignant democracy reproached it for it. Between the attack of the past and the attack of the future, the July establishment struggled. It represented the moment, grappling on the one hand with the monarchical centuries, on the other with eternal law. Moreover, externally, no longer being the revolution and becoming the monarchy, 1830 was obliged to take the pace of Europe. Keeping the peace, an increase in complication. Harmony desired in the opposite direction is often more costly than war. From this dull conflict, always muzzled, but always rumbling, was born armed peace, that ruinous expedient of civilization suspicious of itself. The July royalty reared up, despite itself, in the harness of European cabinets. Metternich would have gladly put it on the rope. Driven in France by progress, it pushed the monarchies, those tardigrades, into Europe. Towed, it towed. However, internally, pauperism, proletariat, wages, education, penalty, prostitution, the fate of women, wealth, misery, production, consumption, distribution, exchange, currency, credit, the right of capital, the right of labor, all these questions multiplied above society; a terrible overhang. Outside of the political parties properly speaking, another movement was manifesting itself. The democratic ferment was answered by the philosophical ferment. The elite felt troubled like the crowd; differently, but just as much. Thinkers meditated, while the soil, that is to say, the people, traversed by revolutionary currents, trembled beneath them with I know not what vague epileptic shocks. These dreamers, some isolated, others gathered in families and almost in communions, stirred social questions, peacefully, but profoundly; impassive miners, who quietly pushed their galleries into the depths of a volcano, barely disturbed by the dull commotions and the furnaces they glimpsed. This tranquility was not the least beautiful spectacle of this agitated era. These men left the question of rights to the political parties; they occupied themselves with the question of happiness. The well-being of man, that is what they wanted to extract from society. They elevated material questions, questions of agriculture, industry, commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. In civilization as it is made, a little by God, a lot by man, interests combine, aggregate and amalgamate in such a way as to form a veritable hard rock, according to a dynamic law patiently studied by economists, those geologists of politics. These men, who grouped themselves under different names, but who can all be designated by the generic title of socialists, tried to pierce this rock and to make the living waters of human happiness spring forth from it. From the question of the scaffold to the question of war, their work embraced everything. To the rights of man, proclaimed by the French Revolution, they added the rights of women and the rights of children. It will not be surprising that, for various reasons, we do not treat here in depth, from a theoretical point of view, the questions raised by socialism. We limit ourselves to indicating them. All the problems that the socialists set themselves, cosmogonic visions , reverie, and mysticism aside, can be reduced to two main problems: First problem: Producing wealth. Second problem: Distributing it. The first problem contains the question of work. The second contains the question of wages. In the first problem, it is a question of the use of forces. In the second, of the distribution of enjoyments. From the proper use of forces results public power. From the proper distribution of enjoyments results individual happiness. By proper distribution, we must understand not equal distribution, but equitable distribution. The first equality is equity. From these two things combined, public power abroad, individual happiness at home, results social prosperity. Social prosperity means the happy man, the free citizen, the great nation. England resolves the first of these two problems. She creates wealth admirably; she distributes it badly. This A solution that is complete only on one side inevitably leads to these two extremes: monstrous opulence, monstrous misery. All enjoyments for a few, all deprivations for others, that is to say, for the people; privilege, exception, monopoly, feudalism, are born of work itself. A false and dangerous situation that bases public power on private misery, and that roots the greatness of the State in the suffering of the individual. A poorly composed greatness in which all material elements are combined and in which no moral element enters. Communism and agrarian law believe they resolve the second problem. They are mistaken. Their distribution kills production. Equal sharing abolishes emulation. And consequently work. It is a distribution made by the butcher, who kills what he shares. It is therefore impossible to stop at these so-called solutions. Killing wealth is not distributing it. The two problems must be solved together in order to be solved well. The two solutions must be combined and become one. Solve only the first of the two problems, and you will be Venice, you will be England. You will have, like Venice, an artificial power, or, like England, a material power; you will be the wicked rich man. You will perish by an act of violence, as Venice died, or by bankruptcy, as England will fall. And the world will let you die and fall, because the world lets fall and die everything that is only selfishness, everything that does not represent a virtue or an idea for the human race. It is clearly understood here that by these words, Venice, England, we designate not peoples, but social constructs, the oligarchies superimposed on nations, and not the nations themselves. Nations always have our respect and our sympathy. Venice, the people, will be reborn; England, the aristocracy, will fall, but England, the nation, is immortal. That said, we continue. Solve the two problems, encourage the rich and protect the poor, eliminate poverty, put an end to the unjust exploitation of the weak by the strong, put a brake on the unjust jealousy of those on the way against those who have arrived, adjust wages mathematically and fraternally to work, combine free and compulsory education with the growth of childhood and make science the basis of virility, develop intelligence while keeping the arms busy, be at the same time a powerful people and a family of happy men, democratize property, not by abolishing it, but by universalizing it, so that every citizen without exception is a property owner, something easier than one thinks, in two words know how to produce wealth and know how to distribute it; and you will have both material greatness and moral greatness; and you will be worthy of calling yourselves France. This, outside and above a few sects that had gone astray, is what socialism said; this is what it sought in facts, this is what it sketched out in minds. Admirable efforts! Sacred attempts! These doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unexpected necessity for the statesman to reckon with the philosophers, confused glimpses of evidence, a new policy to create, in agreement with the old world without too much disagreement with the revolutionary ideal, a situation in which Lafayette had to be worn down to defend Polignac, the intuition of transparent progress under the riot, the chambers and the street, the competitions to balance around him, his faith in the revolution, perhaps we do not know what possible resignation born of the vague acceptance of a definitive and superior right, his will to remain of his race, his family spirit, his sincere respect for the people, his own honesty, preoccupied Louis-Philippe almost painfully, and at times, however strong and courageous he was, overwhelmed him with the difficulty of being king. He felt beneath his feet a formidable disintegration, which was not, however, a turning to dust, France being more France than ever. Dark heaps covered the horizon. A strange shadow , gaining ground from near to near, gradually spread over men, things, and ideas; a shadow that came from anger and systems. Everything that had been hastily stifled stirred and fermented. Sometimes the conscience of the honest man caught its breath, so much unease was there in this air where sophisms mingled with truths. Minds trembled in social anxiety like leaves at the approach of a storm. The electrical tension was such that at certain moments the first person to come, a stranger, would light up. Then the twilight darkness would fall again. At intervals, deep, muffled rumblings could give an idea of the quantity of lightning there was in the cloud. Barely twenty months had passed since the July Revolution, and the year 1832 had opened with an air of imminence and distress. The distress of the people, the workers without bread, the last Prince of Condé disappeared into the darkness, Brussels chasing the Nassaus like Paris the Bourbons, Belgium offering itself to a French prince and given to an English prince, the Russian hatred of Nicholas, behind us two demons of the south, Ferdinand in Spain, Miguel in Portugal, the earth trembling in Italy, Metternich extending his hand over Bologna, France rushing Austria to Ancona, to the north one knows not what sinister sound of a hammer nailing Poland back into its coffin, throughout Europe irritated glances watching France, England, a suspect ally, ready to push what would lean and to throw itself on what would fall, the peerage sheltering behind Beccaria to refuse four heads to the law, the fleurs-de-lis scratched out of the king’s carriage, the cross torn from Notre-Dame, Lafayette diminished, Laffitte ruined, Benjamin Constant dead in poverty, Casimir Perier dead in the exhaustion of power; political illness and social illness declaring themselves at once in the two capitals of the kingdom, one the city of thought, the other the city of work; in Paris civil war, in Lyon servile war; in both cities the same furnace-like glow; a crater-like purple on the people’s brow; the fanaticized south, the troubled west, the Duchess of Berry in the Vendée, plots, conspiracies, uprisings, cholera, added to the dark rumor of ideas the dark tumult of events. Chapter 6. Facts from which history emerges and which history ignores. Towards the end of April, everything had worsened. The fermentation was becoming boiling. Since 1830, there had been small partial riots here and there, quickly suppressed, but resurgent, a sign of a vast underlying conflagration. Something terrible was brewing. The still indistinct and poorly lit outlines of a possible revolution were being glimpsed. France looked at Paris; Paris looked at the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, dully heated, was beginning to boil. The cabarets of the Rue de Charonne were, although the junction of these two epithets seems singular when applied to cabarets, grave and stormy. The government was purely and simply called into question. The matter was publicly discussed – whether to fight or to remain quiet. There were back shops where workers were made to swear that they would be in the street at the first cry of alarm, and “that they would fight without counting the number of the enemy.” Once the commitment was made, a man sitting in a corner of the cabaret “made a sonorous voice” and said: “You hear it! You swore it!” Sometimes we went up to the first floor into a closed room, and there almost Masonic scenes took place . The initiate was made to take oaths _to render service to him as well as to the fathers of the family_. It was the formula. In the lower rooms, “subversive” pamphlets were being read. “They were attacking the government,” says a secret report of the time. One could hear words like these: “I don’t know the names of the leaders. We won’t know the day until two hours in advance.” A worker would say: “There are three hundred of us, let’s each put in ten sous, that will make one hundred and fifty francs to make bullets and powder.” Another would say: “I’m not asking for six months, I’m not asking for two. Within a fortnight, we’ll be in parallel with the government. With twenty-five thousand men, we can face each other .” Another would say: “I don’t go to bed because I make cartridges at night.” From time to time, men “in bourgeois clothes and fine clothes” would come, “making a fuss,” and, looking “like they’re in charge,” would shake hands with the most important people, and leave. They never stayed more than ten minutes. Meaningful remarks were exchanged in low voices. – The plot is ripe, the thing is complete. – “It was buzzing with excitement among all those who were there,” to borrow the very expression of one of the assistants. The excitement was such that one day, in the middle of the cabaret, a worker cried out: We have no weapons! – One of his comrades replied: The soldiers have some! – thus parodying, without suspecting it, Bonaparte’s proclamation to the Army of Italy. – “When they had something more secret,” adds a report, “they did not communicate it there.” It is difficult to understand what they could hide after having said what they said. The meetings were sometimes periodic. At some, there were never more than eight or ten of us, and always the same people. In others, anyone could enter, and the room was so full that one was forced to stand. Some were there out of enthusiasm and passion; others because it was their way to work. As during the revolution, there were patriotic women in these cabarets who embraced the newcomers. Other expressive facts came to light. A man entered a cabaret, drank, and left saying: Wine merchant, what is due, the revolution will pay. At a tavern keeper opposite the Rue de Charonne, revolutionary agents were appointed . The ballot was held in caps. Workers met at the house of a fencing master who gave assaults on the Rue de Cotte. There was a trophy of arms made up of wooden swords, canes, sticks, and foils. One day the foils were unhooked. A worker said:–_There are twenty-five of us, but they don’t count on me, because they look at me like a machine_.–This machine was later Quénisset. The random things that were premeditated gradually acquired some strange notoriety. A woman sweeping her door said to another woman:–_For a long time we have been working hard to make cartridges_.–They were reading proclamations addressed to the national guards of the departments in the street. One of these proclamations was signed: _Burtot, wine merchant_. One day, at the door of a liquor store in the Lenoir market, a man with a beard and an Italian accent climbed onto a post and read aloud a singular writing that seemed to emanate from an occult power. Groups had formed around him and were applauding. The passages that most stirred the crowd were collected and noted.–“…Our doctrines are hindered, our proclamations are torn up, our posters are watched and thrown in prison…”.”The debacle that has just taken place in the cottons has converted several of us to the middle ground.”–“…The future of the people is being worked out in our obscure ranks.”–“…Here are the terms laid down: action or reaction, revolution or counter-revolution. For, in our time, we no longer believe in inertia or immobility. For the people or against the people, that is the question. There is no other.”–“…The day when we no longer will agree more, break us, but until then help us to march.” All this in broad daylight. Other facts, even more audacious, were suspect to the people because of their very audacity. On April 4, 1832, a passerby climbed onto the boundary stone at the corner of Rue Sainte-Marguerite and shouted: _I am a Babouvist_! But under Babeuf the people smelled Gisquet. Among other things, this passerby said: –“Down with property! The left-wing opposition is cowardly and treacherous. When it wants to be right, it preaches revolution. It is democratic so as not to be beaten, and royalist so as not to fight. Republicans are feathered beasts. Beware of republicans, working citizens.” –Silence, citizen informer! shouted a worker. This cry ended the speech. Mysterious incidents were occurring. At nightfall, a worker met a well- dressed man near the canal who said to him: “Where are you going, citizen?” “Sir, ” the worker would reply, “I don’t have the honor of knowing you.” “I know you well.” And the man would add: “Don’t be afraid. I am the committee’s agent. You are suspected of not being sure. You know that if you revealed anything , we have our eye on you.” Then he would shake the worker’s hand and go away, saying: “We will see each other again soon.” The police, listening, were picking up, not only in the taverns, but in the street, strange conversations: “Get yourself received quickly,” a weaver would say to a cabinetmaker. “Why? ” “There will be a shot to be fired.” Two passers-by in rags exchanged these remarkable remarks, full of apparent peasant revolt: “Who governs us? ” “It’s Monsieur Philippe. ” “No, it’s the bourgeoisie.” It would be a mistake to think we take the word peasant revolt in a bad way. The peasants were the poor. Now, those who are hungry have rights. Another time, two men were heard passing, one of whom was saying to the other: “We have a good plan of attack.” From an intimate conversation between four men squatting in a ditch at the roundabout of the Barrière du Trône, one could only make out this: “We will do everything possible to ensure that he no longer walks around Paris. ” Who, “he?” Menacing darkness. “The principal leaders,” as they said in the suburb, were keeping to themselves. It was believed that they were meeting to consult in a cabaret near Pointe Saint-Eustache. A man named Aug., head of the Tailors’ Relief Society, rue Mondétour, was said to serve as a central intermediary between the leaders and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Nevertheless, there was always a great deal of shadow over these leaders, and no certain fact could invalidate the singular pride of this response made later by an accused before the Court of Peers: “Who was your leader? ” “I didn’t know any, and I didn’t recognize any.” These were still barely more than words, transparent, but vague; sometimes idle talk, hearsay, gossip. Other clues appeared. A carpenter, busy on Rue de Reuilly nailing the planks of a fence around a plot of land where a house was being built, found in the land a fragment of a torn letter on which the following lines were still legible: –“…The committee must take measures to prevent recruitment in the sections for the different societies…” And in postscript: “We have learned that there are rifles at Rue du Faubourg-Poissonnière, No. 5 (bis), numbering five or six thousand, at a gunsmith’s, in a courtyard. The section does not have any weapons. ”
What made the carpenter get upset and show the thing to his neighbors was that a few steps further on he picked up another paper, also torn and even more significant, the configuration of which we reproduce because of the historical interest of these strange documents: _Q CD E_ _u og a1 fe_ _Learn this list by heart. Afterwards, you will tear it up. The men admitted will do the same when you have given them orders._ _Greetings and fraternity._ _L._ The people who were then in the secret of this discovery only later learned the meaning of these four capital letters: _quinturions, centurions, decurions, scouts_, and the meaning of these letters: _u og a1 fe_ which was a date and which meant _this __April 15, 18__32_. Under each capital letter were inscribed names followed by very characteristic indications. Thus:–Q. _Bannerel_. 8 rifles. 83 cartridges. Reliable man.–C. _Boubière_. 1 pistol. 40 cartridges.–D. _Rollet_. 1 foil. 1 pistol. 1 pound of powder.–E. _Teissier_. 1 sabre. 1 cartridge pouch. Exact.–_Terreur_ 8 rifles, Brave, etc. Finally this carpenter found, still in the same enclosure, a third piece of paper on which was written in pencil, but very legibly, this sort of enigmatic list: Unity. Blanchard. Arbre-sec. 6. Barra. Soize. Salle-au-Comte. Kosciusko. Aubry the butcher? JJR Caius Gracchus. Right of revision. Dufond. Four. Fall of the Girondins. Derbac. Maubuée. Washington. Pinson. 1 pist. 86 cart. Marseillaise. Souver. of the people. Michel. Quincampoix. Sabre. Hoche. Marceau. Plato. Arbre-sec. Varsovie. Tilly, crier of the _Populaire_. The honest bourgeois in whose hands this list had remained knew its meaning. It seems that this list was the complete nomenclature of the sections of the fourth arrondissement of the Society of the Rights of Man, with the names and residences of the section heads. Now that all these facts, which had remained in the shadows, are nothing more than history, they can be published. It must be added that the foundation of the Society of the Rights of Man seems to have been subsequent to the date when this paper was found. Perhaps it was only a draft. However, after the remarks and the words, after the written clues, material facts began to emerge. On Rue Popincourt, at a bric-a-brac dealer’s, seven sheets of gray paper, all equally folded lengthwise and in quarters, were seized from the drawer of a chest of drawers ; these sheets covered twenty-six squares of this same gray paper folded in the shape of a cartridge, and a card on which one read the following: Saltpeter 12 ounces. Sulfur 2 ounces. Coal 2 and a half ounces. Water 2 ounces. The seizure report noted that the drawer gave off a strong smell of gunpowder. A mason returning from his day’s work left a small package on a bench near the Pont d’Austerlitz. This package was taken to the guardhouse. It was opened and found inside were two printed dialogues, signed Lahautière, a song entitled: Workers, Join Forces, and a tin box full of cartridges. A worker drinking with a comrade made him feel how hot he was, the other felt a pistol under his jacket. In a ditch on the boulevard, between Père-Lachaise and the Barrière du Trône, in the most deserted place, some children, while playing, discovered under a pile of shavings and peelings a bag containing a bullet mold, a wooden mandrel for making cartridges, a begging bowl containing grains of hunting powder, and a small cast iron pot whose interior showed obvious traces of molten lead. Police officers, entering unexpectedly at five o’clock in the morning at the home of a man named Pardon, who was later a sectionnaire of the Barricade-Merry section and was killed in the insurrection of April 1834, found him standing by his bed, holding in his hand some cartridges that he was making. Around the time when the workers are resting, two men were seen meeting between the Picpus barrier and the Charenton barrier in a small patrol path between two walls near a tavern owner who has a game of Siam in front of his door. One took a pistol from under his blouse and handed it to the other. As he was about to hand it over, he noticed that the perspiration on his chest had imparted some moisture to the powder. He primed the pistol and added powder to that already in the basin. Then the two men parted. A man named Gallais, later killed on rue Beaubourg in the April affair, boasted of having at home seven hundred cartridges and twenty-four gunflints . The government received one day notice that weapons and two hundred thousand cartridges had just been distributed in the suburb. The following week, thirty thousand cartridges were distributed. Remarkably, the police were unable to seize any of them. An intercepted letter read: “The day is not far off when in four hours eighty thousand patriots will be under arms. All this ferment was public, one might almost say quiet. The imminent insurrection was calmly preparing its storm in front of the government. No singularity was missing from this still subterranean, but already perceptible crisis. The bourgeois spoke peacefully to the workers about what was being prepared. They said: “How is the riot going?” in a tone that one would have said: “How is your wife?” A furniture dealer on Rue Moreau asked: “Well, when are you attacking? ” Another shopkeeper said: “Will they attack soon? I know it. A month ago there were fifteen thousand of you, now there are twenty-five thousand of you.” He offered his rifle, and a neighbor offered a small pistol that he wanted to sell for seven francs. Besides, the revolutionary fever was gaining ground. No point in Paris or in France was exempt from it. The artery was beating everywhere. Like those membranes that arise from certain inflammations and form in the human body, the network of secret societies was beginning to spread over the country. From the association of the Friends of the People, both public and secret , was born the Society of Human Rights, which thus dated one of its agendas: _Pluviôse, year 40 of the Republican era_, which was to survive even court of assizes rulings pronouncing its dissolution, and which did not hesitate to give its sections significant names such as these: _Of the pikes._ _Tocsin._ _Alarm cannon._ _Phrygian cap._ _January 21._ _Of the Beggars._ _Of the Crooks._ _Forward march._ _Robespierre._ _Level._ _It will be fine._ The Society of Human Rights engendered the Society of Action. It was the impatient who broke away and ran ahead. Other associations sought to recruit themselves from the large parent societies. The sectionaries complained of being torn. Thus the _Gaulish Society_ and the _Organizing Committee of Municipalities_. Thus the associations for _freedom of the press_, for _individual liberty_ , for _the education of the people, against indirect taxes_ . Then the Society of Egalitarian Workers, which was divided into three fractions, the Egalitarians, the Communists, the Reformists. Then the Army of the Bastilles, a kind of cohort organized militarily, four men commanded by a corporal, ten by a sergeant, twenty by a second lieutenant, forty by a lieutenant; there were never more than five men who knew each other. A creation where precaution is combined with audacity and which seems imbued with the genius of Venice. The central committee, which was the head, had two arms, the Society of Action and the Army of the Bastilles. A legitimist association, the Knights of Fidelity, stirred among these republican affiliations. It was denounced and repudiated there . The Parisian societies branched out into the main cities. Lyon, Nantes, Lille and Marseille had their Human Rights Society , the Charbonnière, the Free Men. Aix had a society revolutionary that was called the Cougourde. We have already mentioned this word.
In Paris, the Faubourg Saint-Marceau was hardly less buzzing than the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and the schools no less agitated than the suburbs. A café on the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe and the Estaminet des Sept-Billards, Rue des Mathurins-Saint-Jacques, served as rallying points for the students. The Society of Friends of the ABC, affiliated with the Mutualists of Angers and the Cougourde of Aix, met, as we have seen, at the Café Musain. These same young people also met, as we have said, in a cabaret restaurant near the Rue Mondétour that was called Corinthe. These meetings were secret. Others were as public as possible, and one can judge of these boldness by this fragment of an interrogation undergone in one of the later trials:–Where was this meeting held?–Rue de la Paix.–At whose house?–In the street.–Which sections were there?–Only one.–Which one?–The Manuel section.–Who was the leader?–Me.–You are too young to have taken this serious step of attacking the government on your own. Where did you get your instructions from?–From the central committee. The army was undermined at the same time as the population, as the movements of Belfort, Lunéville and Épinal later proved . They were counting on the fifty-second regiment, the fifth, the eighth, the thirty-seventh, and the twentieth light. In Burgundy, and in the towns of the south, the _Tree of Liberty_ was planted, that is to say, a mast surmounted by a red cap. Such was the situation. This situation, the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, more than any other group of population, as we said at the beginning, made it perceptible and accentuated it. This is where the point lay. This old suburb, populated like an anthill, hardworking, courageous and angry like a hive, quivered in the expectation and desire of a commotion. Everything was in turmoil there without the work being interrupted for that reason. Nothing could give an idea of this lively and somber physiognomy. There are in this suburb poignant distresses hidden under the roofs of the attics; there are also ardent and rare intelligences. It is especially in matters of distress and intelligence that it is dangerous for the extremes to touch. The Faubourg Saint-Antoine had other causes for trembling; for it received the backlash of commercial crises, bankruptcies, strikes, unemployment, inherent in great political upheavals. In times of revolution, poverty is both cause and effect. The blow it strikes returns to it. This population, full of proud virtue, capable to the highest degree of latent heat, always ready to take up arms, quick to explode, irritated, profound, undermined, seemed to be waiting only for the fall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks float on the horizon, chased by the wind of events, one cannot help but think of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and the formidable chance that placed at the gates of Paris this powder keg of suffering and ideas. The cabarets of the Faubourg Antoine, which have more than once appeared in the sketch just read, have a historical notoriety. In times of trouble, people get drunk on words more than on wine. A sort of prophetic spirit and an emanation of the future circulate there, swelling hearts and enlarging souls. The cabarets of the Faubourg Antoine resemble those taverns on the Aventine Hill built on the lair of the Sibyl and communicating with the deep sacred breaths; taverns whose tables were almost tripods, and where people drank what Ennius calls _the Sibylline wine_. The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is a reservoir of people. The revolutionary upheaval makes cracks there through which popular sovereignty flows . This sovereignty can do wrong, it makes mistakes like any other; but, even misguided, it remains great. We can say of it like the blind Cyclops, _Ingens_. In 93, depending on whether the idea that was floating was good or bad, depending on whether it was the day of fanaticism or enthusiasm, there left the Faubourg Saint-Antoine sometimes savage legions, sometimes heroic bands. Savages. Let us explain this word. These bristling men who, in the genesisal days of revolutionary chaos, ragged, howling, fierce, with raised headgear, raised pike, rushed upon the old, shaken Paris, what did they want? They wanted the end of oppression, the end of tyrannies, the end of the sword, work for men, education for children, social harmony for women, liberty, equality, fraternity, bread for all, ideas for all, the Edenization of the world, progress; and this holy, good , and sweet thing, progress, pushed to the limit, beside themselves, they demanded it, terrible, half-naked, clubs in their fists, roars on their lips. They were savages, yes; but the savages of civilization. They proclaimed the right with fury; they wanted, even by trembling and terror, to force the human race into paradise. They seemed barbarians and they were saviors. They demanded light with the mask of night. In comparison with these men, fierce, we agree, and frightening, but fierce and frightening for the good, there are other men, smiling, embroidered, gilded, ribboned, studded, in silk stockings, white feathers, yellow gloves, polished shoes, who, leaning on a velvet table in the corner of a marble fireplace, gently insist on the maintenance and preservation of the past, of the Middle Ages, divine right, fanaticism, ignorance, slavery, the death penalty, war, glorifying in a low voice and politely the saber, the stake and the scaffold. As for us, if we were forced to choose between the barbarians of civilization and the civilized of barbarism, we would choose the barbarians. But, thank heavens, another choice is possible. No sheer fall is necessary, neither forward nor backward. Neither despotism nor terrorism. We want progress on a gentle slope. God provides for it. The softening of slopes, that is God’s whole policy. Chapter 7. Enjolras and his lieutenants. Around this time, Enjolras, in view of the possible event, made a sort of mysterious census. Everyone was in secret at the Café Musain. Enjolras said, mixing his words with a few semi-enigmatic but significant metaphors: “It is advisable to know where we stand and on whom we can count. If we want fighters, we must make some. Have something with which to strike. That can’t hurt. Those who pass always have a better chance of being gored when there are oxen on the road than when there are none. So let’s count the herd. How many of us are there? There is no question of putting this work off until tomorrow. Revolutionaries must always be in a hurry; progress has no time to lose.” Let’s be wary of the unexpected. Let’s not be caught off guard. We have to go over all the seams we’ve made and see if they hold. This matter must be completely settled today. Courfeyrac, you’ll see the polytechnicians. It’s their day off. Today is Wednesday. Feuilly, isn’t it? You’ll see those from the Glacière. Combeferre promised me he’d go to Picpus. There’s a whole excellent swarm there. Bahorel will visit the Estrapade. Prouvaire, the masons are cooling off; you’ll bring us news from the lodge on the rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honoré. Joly will go to Dupuytren’s clinic and take the pulse at the medical school. Bossuet will make a quick visit to the palace and chat with the interns. I’ll take care of the Cougourde. “That’s all settled,” said Courfeyrac. “No.
” “What else is there? ” “Something very important. ” “What is it?” asked Combeferre. “The Barrière du Maine,” replied Enjolras. Enjolras remained for a moment as if absorbed in his thoughts, then continued: “At the Barrière du Maine, there are marble workers, painters, practitioners from the sculpture workshops. It’s an enthusiastic family, but subject to cooling off. I don’t know what’s the matter with them lately. They’re thinking of other things. They’re fading away. They spend their time playing dominoes. It would be urgent to go and talk to them a little and firmly. It’s at Richefeu’s that they meet. They’ll be found there between noon and one o’clock. We’ll have to blow on those ashes. I had counted on that absent-minded Marius for that, who is, after all, good, but he doesn’t come anymore.” I need someone for the Maine barrier. I have no one left. “And I,” said Grantaire, “I’m here. ” “You? “Me.
” “You, indoctrinating Republicans! You, warming, in the name of principles, cold hearts! ” “Why not? ” “Can you be good for something? ” “But I have a vague ambition,” said Grantaire. “You don’t believe in anything. ” “I believe in you.” “Grantaire, will you do me a favor?” “All of you. Polish your boots. ” “Well, don’t meddle in our affairs. Sleep off your absinthe. ” “You’re an ingrate, Enjolras.” “You’d be a man to go to the Maine barrier! You’d be capable of it!” –I am capable of going down Rue des Grès, crossing Place Saint-Michel, turning off into Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, taking Rue de Vaugirard, passing Les Carmes, turning onto Rue d’Assas, arriving at Rue du Cherche-Midi, leaving the Council of War behind me, pacing along Rue des Vieilles-Tuileries, crossing the boulevard, following Chaussée du Maine, crossing the barrier, and entering Richefeu’s. I am capable of that. My shoes are capable of it. –Do you know these comrades from Richefeu’s at all? –Not much. We only address each other informally. –What will you say to them? –I will talk to them about Robespierre, of course. About Danton. About principles. –You! –Me. But they don’t do me justice. When I get going, I am terrible. I’ve read Prud’homme, I know the Social Contract, I know my Constitution of the Year Two by heart. “The liberty of a citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.” Do you take me for a brute? I have an old assignat in my drawer. The rights of man, the sovereignty of the people, damn it! I’m even a bit of a Hébertist. I can harp on, for six hours, watch in hand, about superb things. “Be serious,” said Enjolras. “I’m fierce,” replied Grantaire. Enjolras thought for a few seconds, and made the gesture of a man who has made up his mind. “Grantaire,” he said gravely, “I agree to try you. You will go to the Barrière du Maine. ” Grantaire was staying in a furnished apartment right next to the Café Musain. He went out, and came back five minutes later. He had gone home to put on a Robespierre-style waistcoat. “Red,” he said, entering, and looking fixedly at Enjolras. Then, with an energetic palm, he pressed the two scarlet points of the waistcoat to his chest. And, approaching Enjolras, he said in his ear: “Be calm.” He resolutely pushed down his hat and left. A quarter of an hour later, the back room of the Café Musain was deserted. All the friends of the ABC had gone, each in their own way, to their work. Enjolras, who had reserved the Cougourde for himself, left last. Those from the Cougourde d’Aix who were in Paris were then meeting on the Plaine d’Issy, in one of the abandoned quarries so numerous on this side of Paris. Enjolras, while walking towards this meeting place, passed in himself the review of the situation. The gravity of events was visible. When facts, prodromes of a kind of latent social illness, move heavily, the slightest complication stops them and entangles them. Phenomenon from which emerge collapses and rebirths. Enjolras glimpsed a luminous uprising under the dark panes of the future. Who knows? Perhaps the moment was approaching. The people seizing the right, what a beautiful spectacle! the revolution majestically taking possession of France, and saying to the world: The rest tomorrow! Enjolras was happy. The furnace was heating up. He had, at that very moment, a trail of friends scattered over Paris. He composed, in his thoughts, with the philosophical and penetrating eloquence of Combeferre, the cosmopolitan enthusiasm of Feuilly, the verve of Courfeyrac, the laughter of Bahorel, the melancholy of Jean Prouvaire, the science of Joly, the sarcasm of Bossuet, a sort of electric sparkle catching fire at once almost everywhere. All at work. The result would surely respond to the effort. It was good. This made him think of Grantaire. “Well,” he said to himself, “the barrier of Maine hardly diverts me from my path. What if I push on to Richefeu’s? Let’s see what Grantaire is doing, and where he is.” One o’clock was striking from the Vaugirard bell tower when Enjolras arrived at Richefeu’s tobacco shop. He pushed the door open, entered, crossed his arms, letting the door fall back and hit his shoulders, and looked into the room full of tables, men, and smoke. A voice burst out in the mist, sharply interrupted by another voice. It was Grantaire conversing with an adversary he had. Grantaire was sitting opposite another figure, at a Sainte-Anne marble table strewn with bran grains and studded with dominoes. He was striking the marble with his fist, and this is what Enjolras heard: –Double-six. –Four. –The pig! I’ve run out. –You’re dead. –Two. –Six. –Three. –Ace. –Mine to play. –Four points. –Painfully. –Yours. –I’ve made a terrible mistake. –You’re all right. –Fifteen. –Seven more. –That makes twenty-two. (Dreaming.) Twenty-two! –You weren’t expecting the double six. If I had put it down at the beginning, it would have changed the whole game. –Two even. –Ace. –Ace! Well, five. –I don’t have one. –You were the one who put it down, I think? –Yes.
–White. –Is he lucky! Ah! You have a chance! (Long reverie.) Two. –Ace. –Neither five, nor ace. It’s annoying for you. –Domino. –Bloody hell! Book Two–Éponine Chapter 8. The Lark’s Field. Marius had witnessed the unexpected outcome of the ambush on whose trail he had put Javert; but scarcely had Javert left the hovel, taking his prisoners in three cabs, than Marius for his part slipped out of the house. It was still only nine o’clock in the evening. Marius went to Courfeyrac’s house. Courfeyrac was no longer the imperturbable inhabitant of the Latin Quarter; he had gone to live on Rue de la Verrerie “for political reasons”; this was one of the neighborhoods where insurrection at that time readily took hold. Marius said to Courfeyrac: I’m coming to sleep at your place. Courfeyrac took a mattress from his bed, which had two mattresses, spread it on the ground, and said: There. The next day, at seven o’clock in the morning, Marius returned to the hovel, paid the rent and what he owed to Mame Bougon, had his books, his bed, his table, his chest of drawers, and his two chairs loaded onto a handcart, and left without leaving his address, so that when Javert returned in the morning to question Marius about the events of the previous day, he found only Mame Bougon, who replied: Moved! Mame Bougon was convinced that Marius was in some way an accomplice of the thieves seized during the night. “Who would have said that?” she cried to the doorkeepers in the neighborhood. “A young man, how much he looked like a girl to you!” Marius had two reasons for this sudden move. The first was that he now loathed this house where he had seen, so close up and in all its most repulsive and ferocious development, a social ugliness perhaps even more hideous than the wicked rich man, the wicked poor man. The second was that he did not want to figure in whatever trial would probably follow, and be led to testify against Thénardier. Javert believed that the young man, whose name he had not remembered, had been frightened and had run away or perhaps had not even returned home at the time of the ambush; he nevertheless made some efforts to find him, but he did not succeed. A month passed, then another. Marius was still at Courfeyrac’s. He had learned from a trainee lawyer, a regular visitor to the Salle des Pas Perdus, that Thénardier was in solitary confinement. Every Monday, Marius had five francs handed over to the clerk of the Force for Thénardier. Marius, having no more money, borrowed the five francs from Courfeyrac. It was the first time in his life that he had borrowed money. These
five periodic francs were a double enigma for Courfeyrac, who gave them, and for Thénardier, who received them. “Who can this be going to?” thought Courfeyrac. “Where can this be coming from?” asked Thénardier. Marius, moreover, was heartbroken. Everything had once again fallen into a trapdoor. He could no longer see anything before him; his life was plunged back into this mystery through which he wandered gropingly. For a moment he had seen again very closely in that darkness the young girl he loved, the old man who seemed his father, those unknown beings who were his only interest and his only hope in this world; and at the moment when he had thought he had grasped them, a breath had swept away all these shadows. Not a spark of certainty or truth had sprung forth even from the most frightening shock. No conjecture possible. He no longer even knew the name he had thought he knew. Certainly it was no longer Ursule. And the Lark was a nickname. And what was to be thought of the old man? Was he in fact hiding from the police? The white-haired workman whom Marius had met near the Invalides had come back to his mind. It was becoming probable now that this workman and M. Leblanc were the same man. Was he disguising himself, then? This man had heroic sides and equivocal sides. Why had he not called for help? Why had he run away? Was he, yes or no, the young girl’s father? Finally, was he really the man Thénardier had thought he recognized? Could Thénardier have been mistaken? So many problems without a solution. All this, it is true, took nothing away from the angelic charm of the young girl from the Luxembourg. Poignant distress; Marius had a passion in his heart, and night on his eyes. He was driven, he was attracted, and he could not move. Everything had vanished, except love. Of love itself, he had lost the instincts and the sudden illuminations. Ordinarily, this flame which burns us also enlightens us a little, and throws some useful glimmer on us outside. Marius no longer even heard these dull counsels of passion . He never said to himself: What if I went there? What if I tried this? The one he could no longer call Ursula was evidently somewhere; nothing warned Marius where he should look. His whole life could now be summed up in two words: absolute uncertainty in an impenetrable fog. To see her again; he still yearned for it, he no longer hoped for it. To cap it all, the misery returned. He felt very close to him, behind him, that icy breath. In all these turmoil, and for a long time already, he had stopped his work, and nothing is more dangerous than discontinued work; it is a habit that goes away. A habit easy to quit, difficult to resume. A certain amount of reverie is good, like a narcotic in discreet doses. It lulls the sometimes severe fevers of the working intelligence, and gives birth in the mind to a soft, fresh vapor that corrects the too harsh contours of pure thought, fills in gaps and intervals here and there, binds together the wholes and blurs the angles of ideas. But too much reverie submerges and drowns. Woe to the worker by the mind that lets itself fall entirely from thought into reverie! He thinks he will easily rise again, and he tells himself that after all it is the same thing. Error! Thought is the labor of the intelligence, reverie is its voluptuousness. To replace thought with reverie is to confuse poison with food. Marius, we remember, had started with this. Passion had arisen and had finally plunged him into aimless and bottomless chimeras. One no longer leaves home except to dream. Lazy childbirth. A tumultuous and stagnant abyss. And, as work diminished, needs increased. This is a law. Man, in a dreamy state, is naturally prodigal and soft; the relaxed mind cannot hold life tightly. There is, in this way of living, good mixed with evil, for if softening is fatal, generosity is healthy and good. But the poor, generous and noble man, who does not work, is lost. Resources dry up, necessities arise. A fatal slope where the most honest and the most steadfast are dragged as well as the weakest and the most vicious, and which ends in one of these two holes, suicide or crime. By dint of going out to dream, there comes a day when one goes out to throw oneself into the water. Excessive dreaming creates the Escousse and the Lebras. Marius descended this slope with slow steps, his eyes fixed on the one he no longer saw. What we have just written there seems strange and yet is true. The memory of an absent being lights up in the darkness of the heart; the more he has disappeared, the more he shines; the desperate and obscure soul sees this light on its horizon; star of the inner night. This, this was all Marius’s thought. He did not think of anything else; he felt confusedly that his old clothes were becoming an impossible clothes and that his new clothes were becoming an old clothes, that his shirts were wearing out, that his hat was wearing out, that his boots were wearing out, that is to say that his life was wearing out, and he said to himself: If only I could see her again before I die! Only one sweet idea remained to him, that She had loved him, that her gaze had told him so, that she did not know his name, but that she knew his soul, and that perhaps wherever she was, whatever that mysterious place, she still loved him. Who knows if she did not think of him as he thought of her? Sometimes, in inexplicable hours such as every loving heart has, having only reasons for pain and yet feeling an obscure thrill of joy, he said to himself: It is her thoughts that come to me! Then he added: My thoughts perhaps come to her too. This illusion, at which he shook his head the next moment, nevertheless succeeded in casting rays into his soul that sometimes resembled hope. From time to time, especially at that hour of the evening which saddens dreamers the most, he would drop into a notebook a piece of paper containing nothing but that, the purest, most impersonal, most ideal of the reveries with which love filled his brain. He called this “writing to her.” It must not be believed that his reason was in disorder. On the contrary. He had lost the faculty of working and of moving steadily toward a determined goal, but he had more than ever clear-sightedness and rectitude. Marius saw in a calm and real, though singular, day what that was happening before his eyes, even the most indifferent facts or men ; he spoke of everything in the right words with a sort of honest despondency and candid disinterestedness. His judgment, almost detached from hope, stood high and soared. In this state of mind nothing escaped him, nothing deceived him, and he discovered at every moment the depths of life, of humanity and of destiny. Happy, even in anguish, is he to whom God has given a soul worthy of love and unhappiness! Whoever has not seen the things of this world and the hearts of men in this double light has seen nothing true and knows nothing. The soul that loves and suffers is in a sublime state. Besides, the days followed one another and nothing new presented itself. It only seemed to him that the dark space that remained for him to travel was shortening with each moment. He already thought he could distinctly glimpse the edge of the bottomless escarpment. –What! he kept repeating to himself, won’t I see her again before? When you have gone up the Rue Saint-Jacques, left the barrier aside and followed the old inner boulevard to the left for a while, you reach the Rue de la Santé, then the Glacière, and, a little before arriving at the little river of the Gobelins, you come across a kind of field, which is, in the whole long and monotonous belt of the boulevards of Paris, the only place where Ruisdael would be tempted to sit down. That something from which grace emanates is there, a green meadow crossed by stretched ropes where rags dry in the wind, an old market gardener’s farm built in the time of Louis XIII with its large roof strangely pierced with garrets, dilapidated palisades, a little water between the poplars, women, laughter, voices; On the horizon, the Pantheon, the Tree of the Deaf and Dumb, the Val-de-Grâce, black, squat, whimsical, amusing, magnificent, and in the background the severe square peak of the towers of Notre-Dame. As the place is worth seeing, no one comes there. Barely a cart or a truck driver every quarter of an hour. It happened once that Marius’s solitary walks led him to this piece of land near this water. That day, there was a rarity on this boulevard, a passer-by. Marius, vaguely struck by the almost wild charm of the place, asked this passer-by: “What is this place called ? ” The passer-by replied: “It is the field of the Lark.” And he added: “It is here that Ulbach killed the shepherdess of Ivry.” But after this word: the Lark, Marius had heard no more. There are sudden congealments in the dreamy state that a word is enough to produce. All thought abruptly condenses around one idea, and is no longer capable of any other perception. The Lark was the appellation which, in the depths of Marius’s melancholy, had replaced Ursula. “Well,” he said, in the kind of irrational stupor peculiar to these mysterious asides, “this is her field. I shall know here where she lives. ” It was absurd, but irresistible. And he came every day to this field of the Lark. Chapter 9. Embryonic Formation of Crimes in the Incubation of Prisons. Javert’s triumph in the Gorbeau hovel had seemed complete, but had not been. First, and this was his principal concern, Javert had not taken the prisoner prisoner. The murdered person who escapes is more suspect than the murderer; and it is likely that this character, such a valuable capture for the bandits, was no less a prize for the authorities. Then, Montparnasse had escaped Javert. It was necessary to wait for another opportunity to get hold of this “devil’s muscadin.” Montparnasse in fact, having met Éponine who was keeping watch under the trees of the boulevard, had taken her away, preferring to be Némorin with the daughter than Schinderhannes with the father. He had done well
. He was free. As for Éponine, Javert had done “pincher.” Poor consolation. Éponine had joined Azelma at the Madelonnettes. Finally, on the way from the Gorbeau hovel to La Force, one of the main arrestees, Claquesous, had gotten lost. No one knew how it had happened; the officers and sergeants “didn’t understand a thing,” he had turned to vapor, he had slipped between the thumbscrews, he had sunk between the cracks in the carriage, the cab had cracks, and had fled; no one knew what to say, except that when he arrived at the prison, Claquesous was no more. There was something magical about it, or something police-like. Had Claquesous melted into the darkness like a snowflake into water? Had there been unacknowledged connivance on the part of the officers? Did this man belong to the double enigma of disorder and order? Was he concentric with the offense and the repression? Did this sphinx have its front paws in crime and its hind paws in authority? Javert did not accept such combinations, and would have bristled at such compromises; but his squad included other inspectors than himself, perhaps more initiated than himself, although his subordinates, in the secrets of the prefecture, and Claquesous was such a scoundrel that he could be a very good agent. To be in such intimate relations of sleight of hand with the night is excellent for brigandage and admirable for the police. There are some rogues with two edges. Whatever the case, Claquesous, lost, did not find himself. Javert seemed more irritated than astonished. As for Marius, “that idiot lawyer who had probably been afraid,” and whose name Javert had forgotten, Javert cared little for him. Besides, a lawyer is always found. But was he only a lawyer? The investigation had begun. The investigating judge had found it useful not to place one of the men from the Patron-Minette gang in solitary confinement, hoping for some gossip. This man was Brujon, the long-haired man from the rue du Petit-Banquier. He had been let loose in the Cour Charlemagne, and the guards’ eyes were open to him. This name, Brujon, is one of the memories of the Force. In the hideous courtyard known as the Bâtiment-Neuf, which the administration called Cour Saint-Bernard and which the thieves called the lion’s den, on this wall covered with scales and leprosy which rose to the left to the height of the roofs, near an old rusty iron gate which led to the old chapel of the Hôtel ducal de la Force which had become a dormitory for brigands, one could still see twelve years ago a kind of bastille crudely carved with nails in the stone, and below this signature: BRUJON, 1811. The Brujon of 1811 was the father of the Brujon of 1832. The latter, whom one could only glimpse in the Gorbeau ambush, was a young fellow, very cunning and very skillful, with a dazed and plaintive air . It was with this bewildered air that the examining magistrate had let him go, believing him to be more useful in the Cour Charlemagne than in the cell of secrecy. Thieves do not stop because they are in the hands of justice. One does not hesitate over such a small thing. Being in prison for a crime does not prevent one from starting another crime. These are artists who have a painting in the Salon and who are nonetheless working on a new work in their studio. Brujon seemed stupefied by prison. He was sometimes seen for hours on end in the Cour Charlemagne, standing near the canteen window, and gazing like an idiot at this sordid placard of the canteen prices which began with: _garlic, 62 centimes_, and ended with: _cigar, five centimes_. Or he spent his time trembling, his teeth chattering, saying he had a fever, and asking if one of the twenty-eight beds in the fever ward was vacant. Suddenly, around the second half of February 1832, it was learned that Brujon, that sleepyhead, had had made, by the house’s agents , not under his name, but under the names of three of his comrades, three different errands, which had cost him a total of fifty sous, an exorbitant expense that attracted the attention of the prison brigadier. They made inquiries, and by consulting the errand tariff posted in the prisoners’ visiting room, they learned that the fifty sous were broken down as follows: three errands; one to the Panthéon, ten sous; one to the Val-de-Grâce, fifteen sous; and one to the Grenelle barrier, twenty-five sous. This was the most expensive of the entire tariff. Now, at the Panthéon, at the Val-de-Grâce, at the Grenelle barrier, were precisely the homes of three much-feared barrier prowlers, Kruideniers, known as Bizarro, Glorieux, a freed convict, and Barre-Carrosse, to whom this incident brought the attention of the police. It was believed that these men were affiliated with Patron-Minette, two of whose leaders, Babet and Gueulemer, had been arrested. It was supposed that in Brujon’s dispatches , delivered not to house addresses, but to people waiting in the street, there must have been notices of some plotted misdeed. There were still other clues; the three prowlers were caught , and it was believed that Brujon’s plot had been uncovered. About a week after these measures had been taken, one night, a patrol supervisor, who was inspecting the dormitory below the Bâtiment-Neuf, at the moment of putting his chestnuts in the chestnut box, – this was the means used to ensure that the supervisors were doing their duty accurately; every hour a chestnut must have fallen into all the boxes nailed to the dormitory doors; so a guard saw through the dormitory peephole Brujon sitting up and writing something in his bed by the light of the wall lamp. The guard entered, Brujon was put in the dungeon for a month, but no one could catch what he had written. The police learned nothing more. What is certain is that the next day “a postilion” was thrown from the Charlemagne courtyard into the lion’s den over the five-story building that separated the two courtyards. The prisoners call a postilion an artistically kneaded ball of bread that is sent _in Ireland_, that is to say over the roofs of a prison, from one courtyard to another. Etymology: over England; from one land to another; _in Ireland_. This ball falls into the courtyard. The person who picks it up opens it and finds a note addressed to some prisoner in the courtyard. If it is a prisoner who makes the discovery, he delivers the note to its destination; if it is a guard, or one of those prisoners secretly sold who are called sheep in prisons and foxes in galleys, the note is taken to the registry and delivered to the police. This time, the postilion reached its address, although the one for whom the message was intended was at that moment _at the separate_. This addressee was none other than Babet, one of the four heads of Patron-Minette. The postilion contained a rolled-up piece of paper on which there were only these two lines: “Babet. There is an affair in Rue Plumet. A gate on a garden.” This was the thing that Brujon had written during the night. In spite of the searchers, both men and women, Babet found a way to get the note from La Force to the Salpêtrière to a “good friend” he had there, and who was locked up there. This girl in turn passed the note to another girl she knew, a girl named Magnon, who was being closely watched by the police, but had not yet been arrested. This Magnon, whose name the reader has already seen, had connections with the Thénardiers that will be clarified later and could, by going to see Éponine, serve as a bridge between the Salpêtrière and the Madelonnettes. It so happened that at that very moment, the missing evidence in the investigation against Thénardier concerning his daughters, Éponine and Azelma, was released. When Éponine went out, Magnon, who was watching for her at the door of the Madelonnettes, gave her Brujon’s note to Babet, charging her with shedding light on the matter. Éponine went to Rue Plumet, recognized the gate and the garden, observed the house, spied, watched, and, a few days later, brought Magnon, who lived on Rue Clocheperce, a biscuit that Magnon passed on to Babet’s mistress at the Salpêtrière. A biscuit, in the dark symbolism of prisons, means: _nothing to do_. So much so that in less than a week from then, Babet and Brujon crossed paths on the rampart walk of La Force, as one was going “to the investigation” and the other was returning: “Well,” asked Brujon, “Rue P?” “Biscuit,” replied Babet. Thus aborted this fetus of crime, born by Brujon at La Force. This abortion, however, had consequences, completely foreign to Brujon’s program. We shall see them. Often, while thinking to tie one thread, we tie another. Chapter 10. Apparition to Father Mabeuf. Marius no longer went to anyone’s house, only occasionally he happened to meet Father Mabeuf. While Marius slowly descended those gloomy steps that one might call the cellar staircase and which lead to the lightless places where one hears the happy ones walking above one, M. Mabeuf went down on his own. The _Flore de Cauteretz_ was absolutely no longer selling. The experiments on indigo had not succeeded in the small garden at Austerlitz, which was badly exposed. M. Mabeuf could only cultivate a few rare plants that liked humidity and shade. He was not discouraged , however. He had obtained a plot of land in the Jardin des Plantes, in a good exposure, to carry out, “at his own expense,” his indigo experiments. For this he had pawned the copper plates of his _Flore_. He had reduced his breakfast to two eggs, and he left one for his old servant whose wages he had not paid for fifteen months. And often his lunch was his only meal. He no longer laughed his childish laugh, he had become morose, and no longer received visitors. Marius did well not to think of coming. Sometimes, at the time when M. Mabeuf was going to the Jardin des Plantes, the old man and the young man would pass each other on the Boulevard de l’Hôpital. They did not speak and nodded sadly to each other. A poignant thing, that there should be a moment when misery unravels! We were two friends, we are two passers-by. The bookseller Royol was dead. M. Mabeuf knew nothing now but his books, his garden, and his indigo; these were the three forms that happiness, pleasure, and hope had taken for him. That was enough for him to live on. He said to himself: “When I have made my blue balls I will be rich, I will withdraw my coppers from the pawnshop, I will bring my Flora back into vogue with charlatanism, big drums and advertisements in the newspapers, and I will buy, I know very well where, a copy of the Art of Navigating by Pierre de Médine, with wood, edition of 1559.” In the meantime, he worked all day on his indigo square, and in the evening he returned home to water his garden and read his books. M. Mabeuf was at that time nearly eighty years old. One evening he had a singular apparition. He had come home while it was still broad daylight. Mother Plutarch, whose health was failing, was ill and in bed. He had dined on a bone with a little meat left over and a piece of bread he had found on the kitchen table, and had sat down on an overturned stone marker that served as a bench in his garden. Near this bench stood, in the fashion of old orchard gardens, a sort of large, very dilapidated chest of joists and planks, a rabbit hutch on the ground floor, a fruit store on the first floor. There were no rabbits in the hutch, but there were a few apples in the fruit store. Remains of the winter store. M. Mabeuf had begun to leaf through and read, with the help of his glasses, two books that fascinated him, and even, more seriously at his age, preoccupied him. His natural shyness made him suitable for a certain acceptance of superstitions. The first of these books was President Delancre’s famous treatise, _On the Inconstancy of Demons_, the other was Mutor de la Rubaudière’s quarto _On the Devils of Vauvert and the Goblins of the Bièvre_. This last book interested him all the more because his garden had been one of the grounds formerly haunted by goblins. Twilight was beginning to whiten what was above and blacken what was below. While reading, and over the book he held in his hand, Father Mabeuf considered his plants and among others a magnificent rhododendron which was one of his consolations; four days of tan, wind and sun, without a drop of rain, had just passed; the stems were bending, the buds were leaning, the leaves were falling, all of it needed to be watered; the rhododendron especially was sad. Father Mabeuf was one of those for whom plants have souls. The old man had worked all day on his indigo patch, he was exhausted with fatigue, yet he got up, put his books on the bench, and walked bent over and with unsteady steps to the well, but when he had grasped the chain, he could not even pull it far enough to unhook it. Then he turned and looked up with anguish at the sky, which was filling with stars. The evening had that serenity which overwhelms the sorrows of man under some unspeakable gloomy and eternal joy. The night promised to be as arid as the day had been. “Stars everywhere!” thought the old man; “not the smallest cloud! not a tear of water!” And his head, which had been raised for a moment, fell back on his chest. He raised it and looked again at the sky, murmuring: “A tear of dew! A little pity!” He tried once more to unhook the chain from the well, and could not. At that moment he heard a voice saying: “Father Mabeuf, would you like me to water your garden?” At the same time there was a sound like a wild beast passing in the hedge, and he saw a sort of tall, thin girl emerge from the undergrowth and stand up before him, looking at him boldly. It looked less like a human being than like a form that had just hatched at dusk. Before Father Mabeuf, who was easily frightened and, as we have said, easily frightened, could reply a syllable, this being, whose movements had a sort of strange abruptness in the darkness, had unhooked the chain, plunged in and removed the bucket, and filled the watering can, and the good man saw this apparition, with bare feet and a ragged skirt, running through the flowerbeds, distributing life around her. The sound of the watering can on the leaves filled Father Mabeuf’s soul with rapture. It seemed to him that now the rhododendron was happy. The first bucket emptied, the girl took out a second, then a third. She watered the whole garden. Seeing her walking like that along the paths where her silhouette appeared all black, waving her ragged kerchief on her long angular arms , she had something of the appearance of a bat. When she had finished, Father Mabeuf approached with tears in his eyes and laid his hand on her forehead. “God will bless you,” he said, “you are an angel since you take care of the flowers. ” “No,” she replied, “I am the devil, but it doesn’t matter to me.” The old man cried out, without waiting for or hearing her reply: “What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and that I can do nothing for you! ” “You can do something,” she said. “What?” “Tell me where Monsieur Marius lives.” The old man didn’t understand. “What Monsieur Marius?” He raised his glassy gaze and seemed to be searching for something that had vanished. “A young man who came here in good time.” Meanwhile, Monsieur Mabeuf had searched his memory. “Ah! yes,” he cried, “I know what you mean. Wait.” So! Monsieur Marius… Baron Marius Pontmercy, of course! He lives… or rather he no longer lives… Ah well, I don’t know. While speaking, he bent down to secure a branch of the rhododendron, and he continued: “Look, I remember now. He passes very often on the boulevard and goes towards the Glacière. Rue Croulebarbe. The Alouette Field. Go that way. He’s not difficult to meet.” When Monsieur Mabeuf got up, there was no one there, the girl had disappeared. He was definitely a little scared. “True,” he thought, “if my garden wasn’t watered, I’d think it was a spirit.” An hour later, when he was in bed, it came back to him, and, as he fell asleep, at that troubled moment when thought, like that fabulous bird which changes into a fish to cross the sea, gradually takes the form of a dream to cross sleep, he said to himself confusedly: “Actually, this is very similar to what La Rubaudière says about goblins. Could it be a goblin?” Chapter 11. Apparition to Marius. A few days after this visit of a “spirit” to Father Mabeuf, one morning—it was a Monday, the day of the hundred-sou piece which Marius borrowed from Courfeyrac for Thénardier—Marius had put this hundred-sou piece in his pocket, and, before taking it to the clerk’s office, he had gone “for a little walk,” hoping that on his return it would give him something to work on. It was eternally like this, moreover. As soon as he got up, he sat down before a book and a sheet of paper to rush off some translation; At that time he had as his task the translation into French of a famous German quarrel, the controversy of Gans and Savigny; he took Savigny, he took Gans, read four lines, tried to write one, could not, saw a star between his paper and himself, and got up from his chair saying: “I am going out. That will get me going.” And he went to the Lark’s Field. There he saw the star more than ever, and Savigny and Gans less than ever. He returned, tried to resume his work, and did not succeed; there was no way to reconnect a single one of the broken threads in his brain; then he said: “I will not go out tomorrow. It prevents me from working.” And he went out every day. He lived in the Lark’s Field more than in the house at Courfeyrac. His real address was this: Boulevard de la Santé, at the seventh tree after Rue Croulebarbe. That morning, he had left this seventh tree and sat down on the parapet of the Rivière des Gobelins. A cheerful sun penetrated the fresh, open and luminous leaves. He thought of “Her.” And his reverie, becoming reproach, fell back upon him; he thought painfully of the laziness, paralysis of the soul, which was overcoming him, and of this night which was thickening from moment to moment before him to the point that he no longer even saw the sun. However, through this painful release of indistinct ideas which were not even a monologue, so much did the action weaken in him, and he no longer even had the strength to want to be distressed, through this melancholy absorption, the sensations from outside reached him. He heard behind him, below him, on both banks of the river, the washerwomen of the Gobelins beating their linen, and, above his head, the birds chattering and singing in the elms. On one side the sound of liberty, of happy carelessness, of leisure that has wings; on the other the sound of work. Something that made him dream deeply, and almost reflect, these were two joyful sounds. Suddenly, in the midst of his overwhelmed ecstasy, he heard a familiar voice saying: “Look! there it is!” He raised his eyes, and recognized this unfortunate child who had come to his house one morning, the eldest of the Thénardier daughters, Éponine; he knew now her name. Strange to say, she was impoverished. and beautified, two steps that it seemed she could not take. She had accomplished a double progress, toward the light and toward distress. She was barefoot and in rags as the day she had entered her room so resolutely, only her rags were two months older; the holes were larger, the rags more sordid. It was the same hoarse voice, the same forehead dulled and wrinkled by the tan, the same free, bewildered, and vacillating gaze. She had more than before in her physiognomy that something frightened and lamentable that the prison she had passed through adds to the misery. She had bits of straw and hay in her hair, not like Ophelia because she had gone mad from the contagion of Hamlet’s madness, but because she had slept in some stable loft. And with all that she was beautiful. What a star you are, O youth! Meanwhile, she was standing in front of Marius with a little joy on her livid face and something that resembled a smile. For a few moments she was as if she could not speak. “So I meet you!” she said at last. “Father Mabeuf was right, it was on this boulevard! How I looked for you! If you only knew! Do you know that? I was in the operating room. Two weeks! They let me go! Seeing as there was nothing on me and, besides, I was not old enough for discernment. It was two months away. Oh! How I looked for you! It’s been six weeks. So you no longer live there? ” “No,” said Marius. “Oh! I understand. Because of the thing. These bluffs are unpleasant. You’ve moved. Why! Why do you wear old hats like that? A young man like you must have fine clothes. Do you know, Monsieur Marius?” Father Mabeuf calls you Baron Marius, I don’t know what. Isn’t it true that you’re not a baron? Barons are old people, they go to the Luxembourg in front of the castle, where there’s the most sun, they read the Daily for a penny. I once went to deliver a letter to a baron who was like that. He was over a hundred years old. Say, where do you live now ? Marius didn’t reply. “Ah!” she continued, “you’ve got a hole in your shirt. I’ll have to sew it up for you.” She continued with an expression that gradually darkened: ” Don’t you seem pleased to see me?” Marius was silent; she herself remained silent for a moment, then cried: “If I wanted to, I could force you to look pleased! ” “What?” asked Marius. “What do you mean? ” “Ah! you told me you were silent!” she continued. “Well, what do you mean?” She bit her lip; she seemed to hesitate as if in the grip of some sort of internal struggle. Finally, she went to make up her mind. “So much the worse, it doesn’t matter. You look sad, I want you to be happy. Just promise me that you’ll laugh. I want to see you laugh and see you say: “Oh, well! That’s all right.” Poor M. Marius! You know! You promised me that you would give me everything I wanted… ” “Yes! But speak!” She looked Marius straight in the eye and said: “I have the address. ” Marius turned pale. All his blood rushed back to his heart. “What address? ” “The address you asked me for! ” She added as if she were making an effort: “The address… you know? ” “Yes!” Marius stammered. “Of the young lady! ” Having said this, she sighed deeply. Marius jumped down from the parapet where he was sitting and took her hand desperately. “Oh! well! lead me! Tell me! Ask me anything you like! Where is it? ” “Come with me,” she replied. “I don’t know the street or the number very well; it’s all on the other side of here, but I know the house well, I’ll show you there.” She withdrew her hand and continued, in a tone that would have distressed an observer, but which did not even touch Marius, drunk and transported: “Oh! How happy you are!” A cloud passed over Marius’s brow. He seized Éponine by the arm. “Swear to me one thing! ” “Swear?” she said, “what does that mean? Look! You want me to swear?”
And she laughed. “Your father! Promise me, Éponine! Swear to me that you will not tell your father this address!” She turned to him with a stupefied air. “Éponine! How do you know my name is Éponine? ” “Promise me what I tell you!” But she seemed not to hear him. “That’s nice! You called me Éponine!” Marius took both her arms at once. “But answer me, in heaven’s name! Pay attention to what I say to you, swear to me that you will not tell your father the address you know!” “My father?” she said. “Oh, yes, my father! Don’t worry. He’s in solitary confinement. Besides, do I take care of my father? ” “But you don’t promise me!” cried Marius. “But let me go!” she said, bursting into laughter, “how you’re shaking me! Yes! Yes! I promise you that! I swear to you that! What does it matter to me? I won’t tell my father the address. There! Are you all right? Is that it ? ” “Nor to anyone?” said Marius. “Nor to anyone. ” “Now,” continued Marius, “lead me. ” “At once? ” “At once. ” “Come on.” “Oh! how pleased he is!” she said. After a few steps, she stopped. “You’re following me too closely, Monsieur Marius. Let me go in front, and follow me like that, without pretending.” A fine young man like you must not be seen with a woman like me. No language could express all that was in that word, woman, thus pronounced by that child. She took about ten steps, and stopped again; Marius joined her. She spoke to him sideways and without turning towards him: “By the way, do you know that you promised me something?” Marius searched in his pocket. He possessed nothing in the world but the five francs intended for Father Thénardier. He took them, and put them in Éponine’s hand . She opened her fingers and let the coin fall to the ground, and looking at him with a gloomy expression: “I don’t want your money,” she said. Book Three–The House on Rue Plumet Chapter 12. The Secret House. Around the middle of the last century, a president of the Paris parliament who had a mistress and was hiding it, because at that time the great lords showed their mistresses and the bourgeoisie hid them, had “a small house” built in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in the deserted rue de Blomet, which is today called rue Plumet, not far from the place then called the _Combat des Animaux_. This house consisted of a single-story pavilion, two rooms on the ground floor, two bedrooms on the first, downstairs a kitchen, upstairs a boudoir, under the roof an attic, all preceded by a garden with a wide gate opening onto the street. This garden was about an acre. This was all that passers-by could glimpse; but behind the pavilion there was a narrow courtyard and at the end of the courtyard a low dwelling with two rooms over a cellar, a sort of shelter intended to hide a child and a nurse if necessary. This dwelling communicated, from behind, by a hidden door opening secretly, with a long, narrow , paved, winding corridor, open to the sky, bordered by two high walls, which, hidden with prodigious art and as if lost between the fences of the gardens and the crops whose every angle and every bend it followed, would end at another door also secret which opened half a quarter of a league from there, almost in another district, at the solitary end of the rue de Babylone. The president would enter through there, so that even those who would have spied on him and followed him and who would have observed that the president mysteriously went somewhere every day, could not have suspected that going to rue de Babylone was going to rue Blomet. Thanks to clever land purchases, the ingenious magistrate had been able to have this secret roadwork done at his home, on his own land, and therefore without supervision. Later he had resold the plots of land bordering the corridor in small plots for gardens and crops, and the owners of these plots of land on both sides believed they had a party wall before their eyes, and did not even suspect the existence of this long ribbon of paving snaking between two walls among their flowerbeds and orchards. Only the birds saw this curiosity. It is likely that the warblers and tits of the last century had chattered a lot about Mr. President. The pavilion, built of stone in the Mansart style, paneled and furnished in the Watteau style, rockery inside, wig outside, walled with a triple hedge of flowers, had something discreet, coquettish and solemn about it, as befits a whim of love and the magistracy. This house and this corridor, which have disappeared today, still existed about fifteen years ago. In 93, a coppersmith had bought the house to demolish it, but having been unable to pay the price, the nation bankrupted him. So it was the house that demolished the coppersmith. Since then the house remained uninhabited, and slowly fell into ruin, like any dwelling to which the presence of man no longer gives life. It had remained furnished with its old furniture and was always for sale or rent, and the ten or twelve people who passed through Rue Plumet each year were warned of this by a yellow, illegible sign that had been hanging on the garden gate since 1810. Towards the end of the Restoration, these same passers-by were able to notice that the sign had disappeared, and that even the shutters on the first floor were open. The house was indeed occupied. The windows had “little curtains,” a sign that there was a woman living there. In October 1829, a man of a certain age had come forward and rented the house as it was, including, of course, the rear of the building and the corridor that led to Rue de Babylone. He had the secret openings of the two doors in this passage restored. The house, as we have just said, was still more or less furnished with the president’s old furniture. The new tenant had ordered some repairs, added here and there what was missing, put new paving stones in the courtyard, bricks in the flooring, steps in the staircase, leaves in the parquet flooring, and glass in the windows. Finally, he had moved in with a young girl and an elderly servant, without making a noise, more like someone who slips in than someone who enters one’s house. The neighbors did not gossip about it, for the reason that there were no neighbors. This ineffectual tenant was Jean Valjean; the young girl was Cosette. The servant was a girl named Toussaint, whom Jean Valjean had saved from the hospital and from poverty, and who was old, provincial, and a stammerer, three qualities which had determined Jean Valjean to take her with him. He had rented the house under the name of M. Fauchelevent, a man of means. In all that has been recounted above, the reader has doubtless been even less slow than Thénardier in recognizing Jean Valjean.
Why had Jean Valjean left the convent of Petit-Picpus? What had happened? Nothing had happened. We remember that. Jean Valjean was happy in the convent, so happy that his conscience ended up becoming uneasy. He saw Cosette every day, he felt paternity being born and developing within him more and more, he brooded over this child with his soul, he told himself that she was his, that nothing could take her away from him, that it would be like this indefinitely, that she would certainly become a nun, being gently provoked to it every day, that thus the convent was henceforth the universe for her as for him, that he would grow old there and she would grow up there, that she would grow old there and he would die there, that finally, ravishing hope, no separation was possible. Reflecting on this, he came to fall into perplexities. He questioned himself. He wondered if all this happiness was really his own, if it was not composed of the happiness of another, of the happiness of this child whom he, an old man, was confiscating and stealing; if this was not a theft? He told himself that this child had the right to know life before renouncing it, that to take away from her, in advance and in some way without consulting her, all the joys under the pretext of saving her from all the trials, to take advantage of her ignorance and her isolation to make an artificial vocation germinate in her, was to denature a human creature and to lie to God. And who knows if, realizing all this one day and becoming a nun with regret, Cosette would not come to hate him? A final thought, almost selfish and less heroic than the others, but unbearable to him. He resolved to leave the convent. He resolved to do so, he recognized with desolation that it was necessary. As for objections, there were none. Five years of living within these four walls and disappearing had necessarily destroyed or dispersed the elements of fear. He could return to the world in peace. He had grown old, and everything had changed. Who would recognize him now? And then, seeing the worst, there was no danger but for himself, and he had no right to condemn Cosette to the cloister just because he had been condemned to hard labor. Besides, what is danger in the face of duty? Finally, nothing prevented him from being prudent and taking precautions. As for Cosette’s education, it was almost finished and complete. Once his determination was made, he waited for the opportunity. It did not take long to present itself. Old Fauchelevent died. Jean Valjean requested an audience with the reverend prioress and told her that, having received a small inheritance upon his brother’s death which enabled him to live henceforth without working, he was leaving the service of the convent and taking his daughter with him; but that, as it was not just that Cosette, not pronouncing her vows, should have been brought up gratuitously, he humbly begged the reverend prioress to see fit to offer the community, as compensation for the five years Cosette had spent there, a sum of five thousand francs. Thus it was that Jean Valjean left the convent of Perpetual Adoration . On leaving the convent, he himself took in his arms and refused to entrust to any messenger the little suitcase whose key he always had with him. This suitcase intrigued Cosette because of the smell of embalming that came from it. Let us say at once that from then on this trunk never left him. He always had it in his room. It was the first and sometimes the only thing he took with him when he moved. Cosette laughed at it, and called this suitcase _the inseparable_, saying: I am jealous of it. Jean Valjean, moreover, did not reappear in the open air without profound anxiety. He discovered the house on the Rue Plumet and huddled inside. He was henceforth in possession of the name of Ultime Fauchelevent. At the same time he rented two other apartments in Paris, in order to attract less attention than if he had always remained in the same district, to be able to make absences if necessary at the slightest anxiety that would seize him, and finally to no longer find himself unprepared as on the night when he had so miraculously escaped Javert. These two apartments were two very poor and poor-looking dwellings, in two districts very far from each other, one on the Rue de l’Ouest, the other on the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. He went from time to time, sometimes to the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, sometimes to the Rue de the West, to spend a month or six weeks with Cosette without taking Toussaint with him. He was served there by the porters and passed himself off as a rentier from the suburbs with a pied-à-terre in the city. This high virtue had three domiciles in Paris to escape the police. Chapter 13. Jean Valjean, National Guard. Besides, strictly speaking, he lived on Rue Plumet and he had arranged his life there in the following way: Cosette with the servant occupied the pavilion; she had the large bedroom with the painted overmantels, the boudoir with the gilded baguettes, the president’s drawing room furnished with tapestries and large armchairs; she had the garden. Jean Valjean had had a four-poster bed of old three-colored damask placed in Cosette’s room , and a beautiful old Persian carpet bought in the Rue du Figuier-Saint-Paul at Mère Gaucher’s, and, to correct the severity of these magnificent old things, he had amalgamated with this bric-a-brac all the young girls’ gay and graceful little pieces of furniture, the shelf, the bookcase and the gilded books, the stationery, the blotting paper, the work-table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the silver-gilt dressing-table, the Japanese porcelain dressing-table. Long curtains of three-colored red damask, like the bed, hung from the windows of the first floor. On the ground floor, tapestry curtains. All winter long, Cosette’s little house was heated from top to bottom. He lived in a sort of porter’s lodge in the back courtyard with a mattress on a bed of webbing, a white wooden table, two straw chairs, an earthenware water jug, a few books on a shelf, his beloved valise in a corner, never a fire. He dined with Cosette, and there was a loaf of brown bread for him on the table. He had said to Toussaint when she came in: “Mademoiselle is the mistress of the house.” “And you, sir?” Toussaint had replied, astonished. “I am much better than the master, I am the father.”
Cosette had been trained in housekeeping at the convent and paid the expenses, which were very modest. Every day Jean Valjean took Cosette’s arm and led her out for a walk. He took her to the Luxembourg, along the least frequented alley, and every Sunday to mass, always at Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas, because it was very far away. As it was a very poor district, he gave a lot of alms there, and the unfortunate surrounded him in the church, which earned him the Thénardier epistle: _To the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du-Haut-Pas_. He gladly took Cosette to visit the poor and the sick. No stranger entered the house on the Rue Plumet. Toussaint brought the provisions, and Jean Valjean himself went to fetch water from a nearby tap on the boulevard. The wood and wine were stored in a sort of semi-subterranean recess lined with rocks which was near the door of the Rue de Babylone and which had formerly served as a grotto for Mr. President; for in the days of the Folies and the Petites-Maisons, there was no love without a grotto. There was in the bastard door of the Rue de Babylone one of those money boxes intended for letters and newspapers; only, the three inhabitants of the pavilion of the Rue Plumet receiving neither newspapers nor letters, all the usefulness of the box, formerly the arranger of love affairs and confidant of a robin dameret, was now limited to the notices of the tax collector and guard notes. For Mr. Fauchelevent, a pensioner, was in the National Guard; he had not been able to escape the narrow meshes of the 1831 census. The municipal information gathered at that time had been traced back to the convent of Petit-Picpus, a sort of impenetrable and holy cloud from which Jean Valjean had emerged venerable in the eyes of his mayor, and, consequently, worthy of mounting its guard. Three or four times a year, Jean Valjean donned his uniform and kept watch; very willingly, moreover; it was for him a a correct disguise that mixed him up with everyone else and left him alone. Jean Valjean had just reached sixty, the age of legal exemption; but he did not look more than fifty; besides, he had no desire to escape from his sergeant-major and to quarrel with the Count of Lobau; he had no civil status; he hid his name, he hid his identity, he hid his age, he hid everything; and, as we have just said, he was a National Guardsman of good will. To resemble the first comer who pays his contributions, that was his whole ambition. This man had for his ideal, inside, the angel, outside, the bourgeois. Let us note one detail, however. When Jean Valjean went out with Cosette, he dressed as we have seen and had quite the air of an old officer. When he went out alone, and this was most usually in the evening, he was always dressed in a workman’s jacket and trousers, and wore a cap that hid his face. Was this precaution, or humility? Both at once. Cosette was accustomed to the enigmatic side of her destiny and hardly noticed her father’s peculiarities. As for Toussaint, she venerated Jean Valjean, and found everything he did good. One day, her butcher, who had caught a glimpse of Jean Valjean, said to her: He’s a strange body. She replied: He’s a saint. Neither Jean Valjean, nor Cosette, nor Toussaint ever entered or left except by the door on the Rue de Babylone. Unless one saw them through the garden gate, it was difficult to guess that they lived on the Rue Plumet. This gate always remained closed. Jean Valjean had left the garden uncultivated so that it would not attract attention. In this he was perhaps mistaken. Chapter 14. _Foliis ac frondibus_. This garden, thus left to itself for more than half a century, had become extraordinary and charming. The passers-by of forty years ago would stop in this street to contemplate it, without suspecting the secrets it concealed behind its fresh, green foliage. More than one dreamer at that time had often allowed his eyes and his thoughts to penetrate indiscreetly through the bars of the ancient , padlocked gate, twisted, shaky, sealed to two green and mossy pillars, strangely crowned with a pediment of indecipherable arabesques. There was a stone bench in a corner, one or two moldy statues, some trellises, unpinned by time, rotting on the wall; moreover , no more paths or lawns; couch grass everywhere. The gardening was gone, and nature had returned. Weeds abounded, an admirable adventure for a poor corner of land. The wallflower festival was splendid there. Nothing in this garden thwarted the sacred effort of things towards life; venerable growth was at home there .
The trees had bent down towards the brambles, the brambles had climbed towards the trees, the plant had climbed, the branch had bent, what creeps on the earth had gone to find what blossoms in the air, what floats in the wind had bent down towards what drags itself in the moss; trunks, branches, leaves, fibers, tufts, tendrils, vine shoots, thorns, had mingled, crossed, married, merged; the vegetation, in a close and deep embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there, under the satisfied eye of the creator, in this enclosure of three hundred square feet, the holy mystery of its brotherhood, symbol of human brotherhood. This garden was no longer a garden, it was a colossal thicket; that is to say, something which is impenetrable like a forest, populated like a city, quivering like a nest, dark like a cathedral, fragrant like a bouquet, solitary like a tomb, alive like a crowd. In floréal, this enormous bush, free behind its gate and within its four walls, entered into rut in the silent work of germination universal, shuddered at the rising sun almost like a beast that inhales the effluvia of cosmic love and feels the sap of April rising and bubbling in its veins, and, shaking its prodigious green hair in the wind, sowed on the damp earth, on the crude statues, on the crumbling steps of the pavilion and even on the pavement of the deserted street, the flowers in stars, the dew in pearls, fertility, beauty, life, joy, perfumes. At midday a thousand white butterflies took refuge there, and it was a divine spectacle to see there swirling in flakes in the shadows this living snow of summer. There, in these gay darknesses of the verdure, a crowd of innocent voices spoke softly to the soul, and what the chirping had forgotten to say, the buzzing completed it. In the evening a vapor of reverie emerged from the garden and enveloped it; a shroud of mist, a heavenly and calm sadness, covered it; the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle and bindweed rose from all sides like an exquisite and subtle poison; one could hear the last calls of the treecreepers and wagtails dozing under the branches; one could feel there that sacred intimacy of the bird and the tree; by day the wings gladden the leaves, by night the leaves protect the wings. In winter, the undergrowth was black, wet, bristling, shivering, and allowed a little of the house to be seen. One could see, instead of flowers in the branches and dew in the blossoms, the long silver ribbons of slugs on the cold and thick carpet of yellow leaves; but in any case, in every aspect, in every season, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this little enclosure breathed melancholy, contemplation, solitude, freedom, the absence of man, the presence of God; and the old rusty gate seemed to say: this garden is mine. The pavement of Paris might be there all around, the classical and splendid hotels of the Rue de Varenne a stone’s throw away, the dome of the Invalides very close, the Chamber of Deputies not far off; the coaches of the Rue de Bourgogne and the Rue Saint-Dominique might roll sumptuously in the neighborhood, the yellow, brown, white, red omnibuses might cross each other at the next crossroads, the Rue Plumet was deserted; and the death of the former owners, a revolution that had passed, the collapse of ancient fortunes, absence, oblivion, forty years of abandonment and emptiness, had been enough to bring back to this privileged place the ferns, the white-bellied hemlocks, the yarrows , the foxgloves, the tall grasses, the large crinkled plants with broad leaves of pale green cloth, the lizards, the beetles, the restless and swift insects; to bring forth from the depths of the earth and reappear between these four walls an indescribable wild and fierce grandeur; and for nature, which disconcerts the petty arrangements of man and which always spreads itself entirely wherever it spreads, as much in the ant as in the eagle, to come to flourish in a mean little Parisian garden with as much roughness and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New World. Nothing is small indeed; Anyone who is subject to the deep penetrations of nature knows this. Although no absolute satisfaction is given to philosophy, no more to circumscribe the cause than to limit the effect, the contemplator falls into bottomless ecstasies because of all these decompositions of forces leading to unity. Everything works for everything. Algebra applies to clouds; the irradiation of the star benefits the rose; no thinker would dare say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who can calculate the path of a molecule? What do we know if the creations of worlds are not determined by falling grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebbs and flows of the infinitely large and the infinitely small, the resonance of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches of creation? A mite matters; the small is large, the large is small; everything is balanced in necessity; a frightening vision for the mind. There are prodigious relationships between beings and things ; in this inexhaustible whole, from sun to aphid, we do not despise each other; we need each other. Light does not carry earthly perfumes into the azure without knowing what it does with them; the night distributes stellar essence to sleeping flowers. All the birds that fly have the thread of infinity on their feet. Germination is complicated by the hatching of a meteor and the peck of the swallow breaking the egg, and it leads simultaneously to the birth of an earthworm and the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the microscope begins. Which of the two has the greater vision? Choose. A mold is a pleiad of flowers; a nebula is an anthill of stars. The same promiscuity, and even more unheard of, of things of intelligence and facts of substance. The elements and principles mingle, combine, marry, multiply one by the other, to the point of making the material world and the moral world reach the same clarity. The phenomenon is in perpetual withdrawal into itself. In the vast cosmic exchanges, universal life comes and goes in unknown quantities, rolling everything in the invisible mystery of effluvia, employing everything, not losing a dream of not a sleep, sowing an animalcule here, crumbling a star there, oscillating and meandering, making light a force and thought an element, disseminated and indivisible, dissolving everything, except this geometric point, the self; bringing everything back to the atom soul; blossoming all in God; entwining, from the highest to the lowest, all activities in the darkness of a dizzying mechanism, linking the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, subordinating, who knows? if 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. Machine made of spirit. Enormous gear whose first motor is the gnat and whose last wheel is the zodiac. Chapter 15. Change of gate. It seemed that this garden, once created to hide libertine mysteries , had been transformed and had become fit to shelter chaste mysteries . It no longer had cradles, bowling greens, arbors, or caves; it had a magnificent, disheveled darkness falling like a veil on all sides. Paphos had remade itself Eden. We know not what repentant had cleansed this retreat. This flower girl now offered her flowers to the soul. This pretty garden, once so compromised, had returned to virginity and modesty. A president assisted by a gardener, a fellow who believed he was continuing Lamoignon and another fellow who believed he was continuing Le Nôtre, had contoured it, pruned it, crumpled it, dressed it up, fashioned it for gallantry; nature had recaptured it, filled it with shade, and arranged it for love. There was also in this solitude a heart that was quite ready. Love had only to show itself; it had there a temple composed of verdure, grass, moss, the sighs of birds, soft darkness, agitated branches, and a soul made of gentleness, faith, candor, hope, aspiration, and illusion. Cosette had left the convent still almost a child; she was a little over fourteen, and she was “in the awkward age”; we have said, apart from the eyes, she seemed rather ugly than pretty; she had, however, no unsightly features, but she was awkward, thin, timid and bold at the same time, a big little girl in short. Her education was finished; that is to say, she had been taught religion, and even, and above all, devotion; then “history”, that is to say, the thing that is called so in the convent, geography, grammar, participles, the kings of France, a little music, how to make a nose, etc., but of the rest she was ignorant of everything, which is a charm and a peril. The soul of a young girl must not be left dark; later on, mirages are made there that are too abrupt and too vivid, as in a dark room. It must be gently and discreetly illuminated, rather with the reflection of realities than with their direct and harsh light. A useful and gracefully austere half-light that dissipates childish fears and prevents falls. Only maternal instinct, an admirable intuition into which enter the memories of the virgin and the experience of the woman, knows how and of what this half-light must be made. Nothing can replace this instinct. To form the soul of a young girl, all the nuns in the world are not worth a mother. Cosette had not had a mother. She had only had many mothers in the plural. As for Jean Valjean, there was indeed in him all tenderness at once, and all solicitude; but he was only an old man who knew nothing at all. Now, in this work of education, in this grave affair of preparing a woman for life, how much science is needed to combat that great ignorance which is called innocence! Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the convent. The convent turns thought toward the unknown. The heart, withdrawn into itself, hollows out, unable to pour out its heart, and deepens, unable to blossom. Hence visions, suppositions, conjectures, sketched novels, wishful adventures, fantastic constructions, entire edifices built in the inner darkness of the mind, dark and secret dwellings where passions immediately find a home as soon as they pass through the gate that allows them to enter. The convent is a compression which, to triumph over the human heart, must last a lifetime. On leaving the convent, Cosette could find nothing sweeter and more dangerous than the house on the Rue Plumet. It was the continuation of solitude with the beginning of freedom; a closed garden, but a nature acrid, rich, voluptuous and fragrant; the same dreams as in the convent, but of glimpses of young men; a gate, but on the street. However, we repeat, when she arrived there, she was still only a child. Jean Valjean delivered this uncultivated garden to her. “Do whatever you like in it,” he said. This amused Cosette; she moved all the tufts and all the stones, she looked for “animals” there; she played there, waiting for her to dream; she loved this garden for the insects she found there under her feet through the grass, waiting for her to love it for the stars she would see in the branches above her head. And then, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, with all her soul, with a naive filial passion which made the good man a desired and charming companion. We remember that M. Madeleine read a lot, Jean Valjean had continued; he had come to talk well; he had the secret richness and eloquence of a humble and true intelligence which spontaneously cultivated itself. He had just enough harshness left to season his kindness; he had a rough mind and a gentle heart. At the Luxembourg, in their tête-à-tête, he gave long explanations of everything, drawing on what he had read, drawing also on what he had suffered. While listening to him, Cosette’s eyes wandered vaguely. This simple man was enough for Cosette’s thoughts, as was this wild garden for her eyes. When she had chased the butterflies well, she would arrive near him breathless and say: Ah! how I ran! He would kiss her forehead. Cosette adored the good man. She was always at his heels. Where was Jean Valjean was well-being. As Jean Valjean lived neither in the pavilion nor the garden, she was more happy in the paved backyard than in the flower-filled enclosure, and in the little lodge furnished with straw chairs than in the large drawing room hung with tapestries against which padded armchairs leaned. Jean Valjean sometimes said to her, smiling at the joy of being bothered: “But go home ! Leave me alone for a while!” She gave him those charming, tender scoldings which have so much grace, coming from a daughter to a father: “Father, I am very cold at your house; why don’t you put a rug and a stove here? ” “Dear child, there are so many people who are worth more than I and who don’t even have a roof over their heads. ” “Then why is there a fire at my house and everything else I need?” “Because you are a woman and a child. ” “Well! So men must be cold and unwell? ” “Some men. ” “Very well, I shall come here so often that you will be obliged to make a fire. ” She said to him again: “Father, why do you eat such ugly bread? ” “Because…, my daughter. ” “Well, if you eat it, I will eat it.” So, so that Cosette would not eat black bread, Jean Valjean ate white bread. Cosette remembered her childhood only vaguely. She prayed morning and evening for her mother, whom she had never known. The Thénardiers remained with her like two hideous figures in a dream state. She remembered that she had gone “one day, at night” to fetch water in a wood. She believed it was 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 pulled her out of it. Her childhood seemed to her to be a time when there were nothing around her but centipedes, spiders, and serpents. When she reflected at night before going to sleep, as she had no very clear idea of being the daughter of Jean Valjean and that he was her father, she imagined that her mother’s soul had passed into this good man and had come to live near her. When he was sitting, she would rest her cheek on his white hair and silently drop a tear, saying to herself: Perhaps that man is my mother! Cosette, although this was strange to say, in her profound ignorance as a girl brought up in a convent, motherhood being absolutely unintelligible to virginity, had ended by imagining that she had had as little mother as possible. This mother, she did not even know her name. Whenever she happened to ask Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained silent. If she repeated her question, he answered with a smile. Once she persisted; the smile ended in a tear. This silence of Jean Valjean covered Fantine with darkness. Was it prudence? Was it respect? Was it fear of delivering this name to the hazards of a memory other than her own? As long as Cosette had been little, Jean Valjean had willingly spoken to her of her mother; when she was a young girl, this was impossible for him. It seemed to him that he no longer dared. Was it because of Cosette? Was it because of Fantine? He felt a sort of religious horror at letting this shadow enter Cosette’s thoughts, and at placing the dead woman as a third party in their destiny. The more sacred this shadow was to him, the more formidable it seemed to him. He thought of Fantine and felt overwhelmed by silence. He vaguely saw in the darkness something that resembled a finger on a mouth. All that modesty that had been in Fantine and that, during her life, had violently left her, had it returned after her death to rest upon her, to watch indignantly over the peace of this dead woman, and, fiercely, to guard her in her tomb? Was Jean Valjean, without knowing it, under pressure from it? We who believe in the dead, we are not among those who would reject this mysterious explanation. Hence the impossibility of pronouncing, even for Cosette, this name: Fantine. One day Cosette said to him: “Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night. She had two large wings. My mother in her life must have attained holiness. ” “Through martyrdom,” replied Jean Valjean. Besides, Jean Valjean was happy. When Cosette went out with him, she leaned on his arm, proud, happy, in the fullness of her heart. Jean Valjean, at all these marks of a tenderness so exclusive and so satisfied with him alone, felt his thoughts melt into delight. The poor man trembled, flooded with angelic joy; he declared to himself with transport that this would last all his life; He said to himself that he had really not suffered enough to deserve such radiant happiness, and he thanked God, in the depths of his soul, for having permitted that he, a wretch, should be loved thus by this innocent being. Chapter 16. The rose perceives that she is a war machine. One day Cosette happened to look at herself in her mirror and said to herself: Why! It almost seemed to her that she was pretty. This threw her into a singular confusion. Until that moment she had not thought of her face. She saw herself in her mirror, but she did not look at herself there. And then, she had often been told that she was ugly; Jean Valjean alone said gently: But no! But no! However that may be, Cosette had always believed herself ugly, and had grown up in this idea with the easy resignation of childhood. Now all of a sudden her mirror said to her like Jean Valjean: But no! She did not sleep all night. “If I were pretty?” she thought, “how funny it would be if I were pretty!” And she remembered those of her companions whose beauty had made an impression in the convent, and she said to herself: “What! I should be like Miss So-and-so! ” The next day she looked at herself, but not by chance, and she doubted: “Where was my mind?” she said, “no, I am ugly.” She had simply slept badly, her eyes were swollen, and she was pale. She had not felt very happy the day before to believe in her beauty, but she was sad to believe in it no longer. She did not look at herself again, and for more than a fortnight she tried to fix her hair with her back to the mirror. In the evening, after dinner, she quite habitually did tapestry in the drawing-room, or some convent work, and Jean Valjean read beside her. Once she looked up from her work and was quite surprised at the anxious way her father looked at her. Another time, she was passing in the street, and it seemed to her that someone she did not see was saying behind her: Pretty woman! but badly dressed.—Bah! she thought, it is not me. I am well dressed and ugly.—She then had her plush hat and her merino dress on. One day at last, she was in the garden, and she heard poor old Toussaint saying: Sir, do you notice how pretty mademoiselle is becoming? Cosette did not hear what her father replied; Toussaint’s words were a sort of commotion for her. She escaped from the garden, went up to her room, ran to the mirror, it was three months since she had looked at herself, and gave a scream. She had just dazzled herself. She was beautiful and pretty; She could not help but agree with Toussaint and his mirror. Her figure had grown, her skin had whitened, her hair had grown lustrous, an unknown splendor had lit up in her blue eyes. The awareness of her beauty came to her completely, in a minute, like a great day breaking; the others noticed her, moreover, Toussaint said so, it was obviously about her that the passer-by had spoken, there was no longer any doubt; she went back down to the garden, believing herself to be queen, hearing the birds sing, It was winter, seeing the golden sky, the sun in the trees, flowers in the bushes, distraught, mad, in an inexpressible rapture. For his part, Jean Valjean felt a deep and indefinable pang of heart. It was because, in fact, for some time, he had been contemplating with terror this beauty which appeared each day more radiant on the sweet face of Cosette. A laughing dawn for all, gloomy for him. Cosette had been beautiful for a long time before he noticed it. But, from the first day, this unexpected light which rose slowly and enveloped by degrees the whole person of the young girl wounded the dark eyelid of Jean Valjean. He felt that it was a change in a happy life, so happy that he did not dare to stir it for fear of disturbing something. This man who had passed through all the distresses, who was still bleeding from the wounds of his destiny, who had been almost wicked and who had become almost a saint, who, after having dragged the chain of the galleys, now dragged the invisible, but heavy, chain of indefinite infamy, this man whom the law had not let go and who could be seized at any moment and brought back from the obscurity of his virtue to the great day of public opprobrium, this man accepted everything, excused everything, pardoned everything, blessed everything, wanted everything, and asked of providence, of men, of the laws, of society, of nature, of the world, only one thing, that Cosette love him! That Cosette continue to love him! That God would not prevent the heart of this child from coming to him, and from remaining his! Loved by Cosette, he found himself healed, rested, appeased, fulfilled, rewarded, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, he was well! He asked for nothing more. Had someone said to him: Do you want to be better? He would have answered: No. Had God said to him: Do you want heaven? He would have replied: I would lose by it. Everything that could touch this situation, even if only on the surface, made him shudder like the beginning of something else. He had never really known what a woman’s beauty was; but, by instinct, he understood that it was terrible. This beauty that blossomed more and more triumphant and superb beside him, before his eyes, on the child’s ingenuous and formidable brow, from the depths of her ugliness, her old age, her misery, her reprobation, her despondency, he looked at her in terror. He said to himself: How beautiful she is! What will become of me? Therein lay the difference between his tenderness and a mother’s tenderness. What he saw with anguish, a mother would have seen with joy. The first symptoms were not long in manifesting themselves. The day after she had said to herself: Decidedly, I am beautiful! Cosette paid attention to her dress. She remembered the words of the passerby: “Pretty, but badly dressed,” the breath of an oracle who had passed by her and vanished after having planted in her heart one of the two seeds which must later fill the whole life of a woman, coquetry. Love is the other. With faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soul blossomed within her. She was horrified by merino wool and ashamed of plush. Her father had never refused her anything. She immediately learned all the science of the hat, the dress, the mantelet, the brodequin, the cuff, the right fabric , the right color, this science which makes the Parisian woman something so charming, so profound and so dangerous. The word _femme capiteuse_ was invented for the Parisienne. In less than a month, little Cosette was in this Thebaid of the Rue de Babylone one of the women, not only the prettiest, which is something, but “the best dressed” in Paris, which is much more. She would have liked to meet “her passer-by” to see what he would say, and “to teach him!” The fact is that she was ravishing in every way, and that she could perfectly distinguish a hat by Gérard from a Herbaut’s hat. Jean Valjean looked at these ravages with anxiety. He, who felt that he would never be able to do anything but crawl, or at most walk, saw wings coming to Cosette. Moreover, just by simply inspecting Cosette’s dress, a woman would have recognized that she had no mother. Certain small decorums, certain special conventions, were not observed by Cosette. A mother, for example, would have told her that a young girl does not dress in damask. The first day that Cosette went out in her dress and her black damask cape and her white crepe hat, she came to take Jean Valjean’s arm , gay, radiant, rosy, proud, radiant. “Father,” she said, ” how do you find me like this?” Jean Valjean replied in a voice that resembled the bitter voice of an envious man: “Charming!” He continued his walk as usual. On returning, he asked Cosette: “Will you never wear your dress and hat again, you know?” This was happening in Cosette’s room. Cosette turned toward the coat rack in the wardrobe where her boarding school clothes hung. “This disguise!” she said. “Father, what do you want me to do with it? Oh! for example, no, I’ll never wear those horrors again. With that thing on my head, I look like Madame Chien-fou.” Jean Valjean sighed deeply. From that moment on, he noticed that Cosette, who formerly always asked to stay, saying: “Father, I enjoy myself better here with you,” was now always asking to go out. Indeed, what good is it to have a pretty face and a delicious dress if one doesn’t show them off ? He also noticed that Cosette no longer had the same taste for the backyard. Now she was more willing to stay in the garden, strolling without displeasure in front of the gate. Jean Valjean, fierce, did not set foot in the garden. He remained in his backyard, like the dog. Cosette, knowing herself beautiful, lost the grace to ignore it; exquisite grace, for beauty enhanced by naiveté is ineffable, and nothing is more adorable than a dazzling innocent who walks holding in her hand, without knowing it, the key to a paradise. But what she lost in ingenuous grace, she regained in pensive and serious charm. Her whole person, imbued with the joys of youth, innocence, and beauty, breathed a splendid melancholy. It was at this time that Marius, after six months had passed, saw her again at the Luxembourg. Chapter 17. The Battle Begins. Cosette was in his shadow, as Marius in his, all disposed for the conflagration. Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, slowly brought these two beings, charged and languishing with the stormy electricity of passion, closer together, these two souls who carried love as two clouds carry lightning, and who were to approach and mingle in a glance like clouds in a flash of lightning. The glance has been so abused in romance novels that it has ended up being discredited. We hardly dare say now that two beings loved each other because they looked at each other. Yet that is how we love each other and only like that. The rest is only the rest, and comes afterward. Nothing is more real than these great shocks that two souls give each other by exchanging this spark. At that certain hour when Cosette unknowingly had that look that troubled Marius, Marius did not suspect that he too had a look that troubled Cosette. He did her the same harm and the same good. For a long time already she had seen him and she examined him as girls examine and see, looking elsewhere. Marius still found Cosette ugly while Cosette already found Marius handsome. But as he took no notice of her, this young man was quite equal to her. However, she could not help saying to herself that he had beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, beautiful teeth, a charming sound of voice when she heard him talking with his friends, that he walked with a bad bearing , if you will, but with a grace all his own, that he did not seem stupid at all, that his whole person was noble, gentle, simple and proud, and that finally he looked poor, but he had a good air. The day when their eyes met and finally said suddenly those first obscure and ineffable things that the gaze stammers, Cosette did not understand at first. She returned pensively to the house in the Rue de l’Ouest where Jean Valjean, as was his custom, had come to spend six weeks. The next day, when she awoke, she thought of this unknown young man, so long indifferent and cold, who now seemed to be paying attention to her, and it did not seem to her in the least that this attention was agreeable to her. She was rather a little angry with this handsome disdainful man. A warlike feeling stirred within her. It seemed to her, and she felt a still childish joy, that she was finally going to take her revenge. Knowing she was beautiful, she felt well, though indistinctly, that she had a weapon. Women play with their beauty like children with their knives. They hurt themselves. We remember Marius’s hesitations, his palpitations, his terrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach. This vexed Cosette. One day she said to Jean Valjean: “Father, let us walk a little in that direction.” Seeing that Marius did not come to her, she went to him. In such a case, every woman resembles Mahomet. And then, strangely enough, the first symptom of true love in a young man is timidity; in a young girl, it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet nothing is simpler. It is the two sexes that tend to come together and take on each other’s qualities. That day, Cosette’s gaze drove Marius mad, Marius’s gaze made Cosette tremble. Marius left confident, and Cosette worried. From that day on, they adored each other. The first thing Cosette felt was a confused and profound sadness. It seemed to her that, overnight, her soul had turned black. She no longer recognized it. The whiteness of the souls of young girls, which is composed of coldness and gaiety, resembles snow. It melts with love, which is its sun. Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word pronounced in its earthly sense. In the books of secular music that entered the convent, _love_ was replaced by _drum_ or _pandour_. This made for riddles that exercised the imagination of the grown-ups, such as: Ah! How pleasant the drum is! or: Pity is not a pandour! But Cosette had left the house too young to have given much thought to the “drum.” She would not have known what name to give to what she was experiencing now. Is one less ill for not knowing the name of one’s illness? She loved with all the more passion because she loved with ignorance. She did not know whether it was good or bad, useful or dangerous, necessary or mortal, eternal or transient, permitted or prohibited; she loved. She would have been greatly astonished if someone had said to her: You are not sleeping? But it is forbidden! You are not eating? But that is very bad! You have oppressions and palpitations of the heart? But that is not done! You blush and turn pale when a certain being dressed in black appears at the end of a certain green path? but it is abominable! She would not have understood, and she would have replied: How can there be any fault of mine in a thing where I can do nothing and know nothing? It so happened that the love which presented itself was precisely that which best suited the state of her soul. It was a sort of distant adoration , a mute contemplation, the deification of a stranger. It was the apparition of adolescence to adolescence, the dream of the nights become novel and remained a dream, the desired phantom finally realized and made flesh, but not yet having a name, nor a fault, nor a stain, nor a demand, nor a defect; in a word, the distant lover who remained in the ideal, a chimera having a form. Any more palpable and closer encounter would have frightened Cosette at that early period, still half immersed in the thickening mist of the cloister. She had all the fears of children and all the fears of nuns, mingled together. The spirit of the convent, which she had penetrated for five years, was still slowly evaporating from her whole person and making everything tremble around her. In this situation, it was not a lover she needed, it was not even a lover, it was a vision. She began to adore Marius as something charming, luminous and impossible. As extreme naivety borders on extreme coquetry, she smiled at him, quite frankly. She waited impatiently for the hour of the walk every day, she found Marius there, felt inexpressibly happy, and sincerely believed she was expressing all her thoughts when she said to Jean Valjean: “What a delightful garden this Luxembourg is!” Marius and Cosette were in the night for each other. They did not speak to each other, they did not greet each other, they did not know each other; they saw each other; and like the stars in the sky separated by millions of leagues , they lived by looking at each other. Thus it was that Cosette gradually became a woman and developed, beautiful and in love, with the consciousness of her beauty and the ignorance of her love. Coquettish into the bargain, through innocence. Chapter 18. To sadness, sadness and a half. All situations have their instincts. The old and eternal Mother Nature silently warned Jean Valjean of Marius’s presence. Jean Valjean trembled in the darkest depths of his thoughts. Jean Valjean saw nothing, knew nothing, and yet he gazed with obstinate attention at the darkness in which he was, as if he felt on one side something being constructed, and on the other something crumbling. Marius, warned also, and, as is the profound law of God , by this same mother nature, did all he could to elude the “father.” It happened, however, that Jean Valjean sometimes caught sight of him. Marius’s manner was no longer at all natural. He had suspicious prudences and awkward temerities. He no longer came very close as formerly; he sat down far away and remained in ecstasy; he had a book and pretended to read; why did he pretend? Formerly he came in his old coat, now he wore his new coat every day. He was not quite sure that he did not have his hair curled, he had very funny eyes, he wore gloves; in short, Jean Valjean cordially detested this young man. Cosette gave no hint. Without knowing exactly what was wrong with her, she had the feeling that it was something and that it must be hidden. There was between the taste for dressing which had come over Cosette and the habit of new clothes which had been pushed upon this stranger an unwelcome parallel to Jean Valjean. It was a coincidence perhaps, doubtless , certainly, but a threatening coincidence. He never opened his mouth to Cosette about this stranger. One day, however, he could not restrain himself, and with that vague despair which suddenly throws the probe into his misfortune, he said to her: “What a pedantic young man he is!” Cosette, the year before, an indifferent little girl, would have replied: “But no, he is charming.” Ten years later, with the love of Marius in her heart, she would have replied: “Pedantic and unbearable to see! You are quite right!” At the moment of life and heart in which she was, she limited herself to replying with supreme calm: “That young man!” As if she were looking at him for the first time in her life. “How stupid I am!” thought Jean Valjean. “She hadn’t noticed it yet. I’m the one who shows it to her. Oh, the simplicity of old people! The depth of children! It is another law of these fresh years of suffering and worry, of these lively struggles of first love against the first obstacles: the young girl lets herself be taken by no trap, the young man falls into all. Jean Valjean had begun a secret war against Marius, which Marius, with the sublime stupidity of his passion and his age, did not guess. Jean Valjean laid a host of ambushes for him; he changed the hours, he changed the bench, he forgot his handkerchief, he came alone to the Luxembourg; Marius fell headlong into every sign; and to all those question marks planted in his path by Jean Valjean, he answered ingenuously yes. However, Cosette remained walled up in her apparent insouciance and in her imperturbable tranquility, so that Jean Valjean arrived at this conclusion: This oaf is madly in love with Cosette, but Cosette does not even know that he exists. He nevertheless had a painful trembling in his heart. The moment when Cosette would love could strike at any moment. Does not everything begin with indifference? Only once did Cosette make a mistake and frighten him. He was getting up from the bench to leave after three hours of standing, she said: “Already!” Jean Valjean had not stopped his walks in the Luxembourg, not wanting to do anything unusual and above all fearing to arouse Cosette; But during these hours so sweet for the two lovers, while Cosette sent her smile to the intoxicated Marius, who only noticed that and now saw nothing in this world but a radiant, adored face, Jean Valjean fixed his sparkling and terrible eyes on Marius . He who had ended by no longer believing himself capable of a malevolent feeling, there were moments when, when Marius was there, he believed he was becoming wild and ferocious again, and he felt those old depths of his soul where there had once been so much anger reopening and rising up against this young man. It seemed to him almost that unknown craters were reforming within him. What! He was there, this being! What had he come to do? He came to turn, to sniff, to examine, to try! He came to say: eh? why not? He came to prowl around his life, his Jean Valjean! to prowl around his happiness, to take it and carry it off! Jean Valjean added: “Yes, that’s it! What is he looking for? An adventure! What does he want? A love affair! A love affair! And me! What!” I will have been first the most miserable of men, and then the most unhappy, I will have spent sixty years of life on my knees, I will have suffered all that one can suffer, I will have grown old without having been young, I will have lived without family, without parents, without friends, without wife, without children, I will have left my blood on all the stones, on all the brambles, at all the boundaries, along all the walls, I will have been gentle even though people were hard on me and good even though people were mean, I will have become an honest man again despite everything, I will have repented of the evil that I have done and I will have forgiven the evil that was done to me, and at the moment when I am rewarded, at the moment when it is over, at the moment when I reach the goal, at the moment when I have what I want, it is good, it is fine, I have paid for it, I have earned it, all that will go away, all that will vanish, and I I will lose Cosette, and I will lose my life, my joy, my soul, because it pleased a great fool to come and stroll in the Luxembourg! Then his eyes were filled with a lugubrious and extraordinary clarity. It was no longer a man looking at a man; it was not an enemy looking at an enemy. It was a mastiff looking at a thief. We know the rest. Marius continued to be insane. One day he followed Cosette to the Rue de l’Ouest, another day he spoke to the porter. The porter, for his part, spoke and said to Jean Valjean: “Sir, what is it that a curious young man has asked for you?” The next day Jean Valjean cast Marius that glance which Marius at last perceived. Eight days later, Jean Valjean had moved. He swore to himself that he would never set foot again in the Luxembourg, nor in the Rue de l’Ouest. He returned to the Rue Plumet. Cosette did not complain, she said nothing, she did not ask questions, she did not seek to know why; she was already at the period when one fears being penetrated and betraying oneself. Jean Valjean had no experience of these miseries, the only ones that are charming and the only ones he did not know; this caused him not to understand the grave significance of Cosette’s silence. Only he noticed that she had become sad, and he became gloomy. It was a struggle between inexperience and self-doubt. Once he made a trial. He asked Cosette: “Do you want to come to the Luxembourg?” A ray of light illuminated Cosette’s pale face. “Yes,” she said. They went. Three months had passed. Marius no longer went there. Marius was not there. The next day Jean Valjean asked Cosette again: “Do you want to come to the Luxembourg?” She answered sadly and gently: “No.” Jean Valjean was hurt by this sadness and heartbroken by this gentleness. What was passing in this mind so young and already so impenetrable? What was being accomplished there? What was happening to Cosette’s soul? Sometimes, instead of going to bed, Jean Valjean would sit by his pallet with his head in his hands, and he would spend whole nights asking himself: “What is there in Cosette’s thoughts?” and to think of the things she could think of. Oh! in those moments, what painful glances he turned towards the cloister, that chaste summit, that place of angels, that inaccessible glacier of virtue! How he contemplated with desperate rapture that garden of the convent, full of unknown flowers and enclosed virgins, where all perfumes and all souls rise straight to heaven! How he adored this Eden closed forever, from which he had voluntarily and madly descended! How he regretted his self-denial and his madness in having brought Cosette back into the world, poor hero of sacrifice, seized and overcome by his very devotion! How he said to himself: What have I done? Besides, none of this pierced Cosette. Neither humor nor rudeness. Always the same serene and good face. Jean Valjean’s manners were more tender and more paternal than ever. If anything could have suggested less joy, it was more gentleness. For her part, Cosette languished. She suffered from Marius’s absence as she had enjoyed his presence, singularly, without knowing exactly. When Jean Valjean had ceased to take her on her usual walks, a woman’s instinct had murmured confusedly in the depths of her heart that she must not appear attached to the Luxembourg, and that if it was indifferent to her, her father would take her back there. But days, weeks, and months followed one another. Jean Valjean had tacitly accepted Cosette’s tacit consent. She regretted it. It was too late. The day she returned to the Luxembourg, Marius was no longer there.
Marius had disappeared then; it was over, what could she do? Would she ever find him again? She felt a pang in her heart that nothing could dilate and that increased every day; she no longer knew if it was winter or summer, sun or rain, if the birds were singing, if it was dahlias or daisies, if the Luxembourg was more charming than the Tuileries, if the linen the laundress brought back was too starchy or not starchy enough, if Toussaint had done his “market” well or badly, and she remained overwhelmed, absorbed, attentive to a single thought, her eyes vague and fixed, as when one looks in the night at the dark and deep square where an apparition has appeared. fainted. Besides, she too let Jean Valjean see nothing but her pallor. She continued her sweet face. This pallor was only too much to occupy Jean Valjean. Sometimes he asked her: “What is the matter with you?” She answered: “I have nothing.” And after a silence, as she guessed he was sad too, she continued: “And you, father, is there anything wrong with you? ” “Me? Nothing,” he said. These two beings who had loved each other so exclusively, and with such a touching love , and who had lived for a long time for each other, were now suffering beside each other, one because of the other, without saying so , without blaming each other, and smiling. Chapter 19. The Chainplate. The more unhappy of the two was Jean Valjean. Youth, even in its sorrows, always has a brightness of its own. At times, Jean Valjean suffered so much that he became childish. It is the nature of pain to bring out the childlike side of man. He felt invincibly that Cosette was slipping away from him. He would have liked to fight, to hold her back, to excite her with something external and dazzling. These ideas, childish, as we have just said, and at the same time senile, gave him, by their very childishness, a fairly accurate notion of the influence of braid on the imagination of young girls. He once happened to see a general on horseback in full uniform, Count Coutard, commandant of Paris, pass in the street. He envied this gilded man; He said to himself what a joy it would be to be able to wear that outfit, which was an incontestable thing, that if Cosette saw him like that, it would dazzle him, that when he gave his arm to Cosette and passed in front of the gates of the Tuileries, they would present arms to him, and that would be enough for Cosette and would take away from her the idea of looking at the young people. An unexpected shock came to mingle with these sad thoughts. In the isolated life they led, and ever since they had come to live in the Rue Plumet, they had a habit. They sometimes took the pleasure of going to see the sunrise, a kind of sweet joy that suits those who are entering life and those who are leaving it. To walk early in the morning, for one who loves solitude, is equivalent to walking at night, with the added gaiety of nature. The streets are deserted, and the birds are singing. Cosette, a bird herself, was happy to wake up early. These morning excursions were prepared the day before. He proposed, she accepted. It was arranged like a plot, they went out before daybreak, and it was so many little joys for Cosette. These innocent eccentricities please youth. Jean Valjean’s inclination was, as we know, to go to little- frequented places, to solitary nooks, to places of forgetfulness. There were then, around the barriers of Paris, a kind of poor fields, almost mingled with the city, where, in the summer, a meager wheat grew, and which, in the autumn, after the harvest, did not look harvested, but peeled. Jean Valjean haunted them with predilection. Cosette was not bored there. It was solitude for him, freedom for her. There she became a little girl again, she could run and almost play, she took off her hat, placed it on Jean Valjean’s knees, and picked bouquets. She watched the butterflies on the flowers, but did not take them; gentleness and tenderness are born with love, and the young girl, who has within her a trembling and fragile ideal, pities the butterfly’s wing. She wove poppies into garlands which she placed on her head, and which, pierced and penetrated by the sun, reddened to the point of blazing, made for that fresh pink face a crown of embers. Even after their life had been saddened, they had preserved their habit of morning walks. So one October morning, tempted by the perfect serenity of the autumn of 1831, they went out, and found themselves at daybreak near the Barrière du Maine. It was not dawn, it was daybreak; a ravishing and fierce moment. A few constellations here and there in the pale and deep azure, the earth all black, the sky all white, a shiver in the blades of grass, everywhere the mysterious amazement of twilight. A lark, which seemed mingled with the stars, sang at a prodigious height, and one would have said that this hymn of smallness to infinity calmed the immensity. To the east, the Val-de-Grâce cut out, on the horizon clear with a clarity of steel, its dark mass; Dazzling Venus rose behind this dome and had the air of a soul escaping from a gloomy edifice. All was peace and silence; no one on the road; in the verges , a few rare workmen, barely glimpsed, going to their work. Jean Valjean had seated himself in the side-alley on some timbers placed at the gate of a building site. His face was turned toward the road, and his back to the day; he forgot the sun which was about to rise; he had fallen into one of those profound absorptions in which the whole mind is concentrated, which imprison even the gaze and which are equivalent to four walls. There are meditations which one might call vertical; when one is at the bottom, it takes time to return to earth. Jean Valjean had sunk into one of these reveries. He thought of Cosette, of the happiness possible if nothing came between her and him, of that light with which she filled his life, a light which was the breath of his soul. He was almost happy in this reverie. Cosette, standing near him, watched the clouds turn pink. Suddenly, Cosette cried out: Father, it seems as if someone were coming there. Jean Valjean raised his eyes. Cosette was right. The roadway which leads to the old Barrière du Maine extends, as we know, the Rue de Sèvres, and is cut at right angles by the inner boulevard. At the bend of the roadway and the boulevard, at the point where the junction occurs, a noise could be heard which was difficult to explain at such an hour, and a sort of confused obstruction appeared. Something shapeless, something coming from the boulevard, was entering the roadway. It was growing, it seemed to move with order, yet it was bristling and quivering; it seemed a carriage, but its load could not be distinguished. There were horses, wheels, shouts; whips were cracking. By degrees the outlines became fixed, though drowned in darkness. It was a carriage, in fact, which had just turned from the boulevard onto the road and was heading towards the barrier near which Jean Valjean was standing; a second, of the same appearance, followed it, then a third, then a fourth; seven carriages emerged in succession, the heads of the horses touching the rear of the carriages. Silhouettes moved about on these carriages, sparks were seen in the twilight as if there were naked sabers, a rattling was heard which resembled chains being stirred, it advanced, the voices grew louder, and it was a formidable thing, such as emerges from the cavern of dreams. As it approached, it took shape, and was outlined behind the trees with the paling of the apparition; the mass whitened; The day that was gradually breaking cast a pale glow over this swarming, both sepulchral and alive, the heads of the silhouettes became the faces of corpses, and this is what it was: Seven carriages were moving in a row on the road. The first six had a singular structure. They resembled coopers’ carts ; they were a kind of long ladders placed on two wheels and forming a shaft at their front end. Each cart, or rather, each ladder, was harnessed by four horses end to end. On these ladders were dragged strange clusters of men. In the little light that was there, one could not see these men; one could only guess at them. Twenty-four on each carriage, twelve on each side, leaning against each other, facing the passers-by, their legs dangling, these men walked like this; and they had behind their backs something that jingled and was a chain and around their necks something that shone and was a yoke. Each had his yoke, but the chain was for all; so that these twenty-four men, if they happened to get off the cart and walk, were seized by a sort of inexorable unity and had to snake along the ground with the chain as a vertebra much like the centipede. At the front and rear of each carriage, two men, armed with rifles, stood, each having one end of the chain under his foot. The yokes were square. The seventh carriage, a vast van with sides, but without a hood, had four wheels and six horses, and carried a noisy heap of iron boilers, cast-iron pots, stoves, and chains, in which were mingled a few garroted men lying full length, who appeared to be ill. This van, entirely openwork, was lined with dilapidated hurdles that seemed to have been used for old tortures. These carriages held the center of the pavement. On both sides marched in a double line of guards of an infamous aspect, wearing three-cornered hats like the soldiers of the Directory, stained, torn, sordid, decked out in invalid uniforms and undertaker’s trousers, half gray and half blue, almost in tatters, with red epaulettes, yellow bandoliers, straight razors, rifles, and sticks; a kind of caddish soldier. These henchmen seemed to be composed of the abjection of a beggar and the authority of an executioner. The one who appeared to be their leader held a post whip in his hand. All these details, blurred by the twilight, became more and more apparent in the growing daylight. At the head and tail of the convoy marched mounted gendarmes, grave, sabers in hand. This procession was so long that by the time the first carriage reached the barrier, the last had barely emerged from the boulevard. A crowd, emerging from who knows where and formed in the blink of an eye, as is common in Paris, pressed on both sides of the roadway and watched. In the neighboring alleys, one could hear the shouts of people calling to each other and the hooves of market gardeners running to see. The men crowded onto the carts let themselves be jolted along in silence. They were livid with the morning chill. They all wore canvas trousers and bare feet in clogs. The rest of their costume was the fantasy of poverty. Their accoutrements were hideously disparate; nothing is more funereal than the harlequin of rags. Torn felt hats, tarred caps, hideous woolen caps, and, near the burgomaster, the black coat torn at the elbows; several had women’s hats; others wore a basket-top; hairy chests could be seen, and through the tears in their clothes one could distinguish tattoos, temples of love, inflamed hearts, Cupids. One could also see scabs and unhealthy redness. Two or three had a straw rope fixed to the crosspieces of the dray, and suspended below them like a stirrup, which supported their feet. One of them was holding in his hand and putting to his mouth something that looked like a black stone and that he seemed to be biting; it was bread that he was eating. There were only dry eyes, dull, or luminous from a bad light. The escort troop grumbled, the chained men did not breathe; from time to time one heard the sound of a blow from a stick on the shoulder blades or on the heads; some of these men yawned; the rags were terrible; the feet hung, the shoulders swayed; the heads clashed, the irons clinked, the pupils blazed ferociously, the fists clenched or opened inertly like the hands of the dead; behind the convoy, a troop of children burst out laughing. This line of carriages, whatever it was, was gloomy. It was obvious that tomorrow, that in an hour, a downpour could break out, that it would be followed by another, and another, and that the dilapidated clothes would be soaked through, that once wet, these men would no longer dry themselves, that once frozen, they would no longer warm themselves, that their canvas trousers would be stuck to their bones by the downpour, that the water would fill their hooves, that the whiplashes would not be able to prevent the snapping of their jaws, that the chain would continue to hold them by the neck, that their feet would continue to hang; and it was impossible not to shudder at the sight of these human creatures bound thus and passive under the cold autumn clouds, and delivered to the rain, to the north wind, to all the furies of the air, like trees and like stones. The blows of the stick did not spare even the sick, who lay tied with ropes and motionless on the seventh carriage and who seemed to have been thrown there like sacks full of misery. Suddenly, the sun appeared; the immense ray of the east burst forth, and one would have said that it set fire to all these fierce heads. Tongues were loosened; a blaze of sneers, oaths and songs exploded. The broad horizontal light cut the whole line in two, illuminating heads and torsos, leaving feet and wheels in darkness. Thoughts appeared on faces; this moment was dreadful; visible demons, their masks fallen, ferocious souls stark naked. Illuminated, this throng remained gloomy. Some, cheerful, had quill pipes in their mouths from which they blew vermin on the crowd, choosing the women; the dawn accentuated these lamentable profiles with the blackness of the shadows; not one of these beings was not deformed by misery; and it was so monstrous that one would have said that it changed the brightness of the sun into a flash of lightning. The carriage which opened the procession had intoned and chanted at the top of its voice with a haggard joviality a potpourri by Désaugiers, then famous, _La Vestale_, the trees trembled lugubriously; in the side-alleys, the faces of bourgeois listened with an idiotic beatitude to these bawdries sung by ghosts. All the distresses were in this procession like a chaos; there was there the facial angle of all the beasts, old men, adolescents, bare skulls, gray beards, cynical monstrosities, snarling resignations, savage grins, insane attitudes, snouts wearing caps, a kind of young girls’ heads with corkscrews on their temples, childish faces and, because of that, horrible, thin skeleton faces lacking only death. On the first carriage was seen a Negro, who, perhaps, had been a slave and who could compare the chains. The frightening level from below, shame, had passed over these foreheads; at this degree of abasement, the last transformations were undergone by all in the lowest depths; and ignorance changed into stupor was the equal of intelligence, changed into despair. No choice possible between these men who appeared to the eyes as the elite of the mud. It was clear that whoever organized this filthy procession had not classified them. These beings had been tied and coupled pell-mell, probably in alphabetical disorder, and loaded at random onto these carts. However, grouped horrors always end up releasing a resultant; every addition of unfortunates gives a total; from each chain emerged a common soul, and each cartload had its physiognomy. Beside the one who sang, there was one who howled; a third begged; one saw one who ground his teeth; another threatened passers-by, another blasphemed God; the last was silent like the grave. Dante would have thought he saw the seven circles of hell on the march. The march of damnation towards torture, made sinisterly, not on the formidable, dazzling chariot of the Apocalypse but, something darker, on the cart of the grievances. One of the guards, who had a hook at the end of his staff, pretended from time to time to stir these heaps of human filth. An old woman in the crowd pointed them out to a little boy of five, and said to him: _Rogue, that will teach you_! As the chants and blasphemies grew louder, the one who seemed to be the captain of the escort cracked his whip, and, at this signal, a frightful, dull and blind beating that sounded like hail fell on the seven wagons; many roared and foamed at the mouth; which redoubled the joy of the children who had run up, a cloud of flies on these wounds. Jean Valjean’s eye had become frightening. It was no longer a pupil; it was that deep glass which replaces the gaze in certain unfortunate people, which seems unconscious of reality, and where blazes the reverberation of terrors and catastrophes. He was not watching a spectacle; he was undergoing a vision. He wanted to get up, to flee, to escape; he could not move a foot. Sometimes the things you see seize you and hold you. He remained rooted, petrified, stupid, asking himself, through a confused inexpressible anguish, what this sepulchral persecution meant, and whence came this pandemonium which pursued him. Suddenly he raised his hand to his forehead, the usual gesture of those whose memory suddenly returns; He remembered that this was indeed the route, that this detour was customary to avoid the royal encounters always possible on the road to Fontainebleau, and that, thirty-five years before, he had passed through that barrier. Cosette, otherwise terrified, was no less so. She did not understand ; she was out of breath; what she saw did not seem possible to her; finally she cried out: “Father! What is there in those carriages?” Jean Valjean replied: “Convicts. ” “Where are they going? ” “To the galleys.” At that moment the beating, multiplied by a hundred hands, became zealous, the blows of the flat of sabres were mingled with it, it was like a rage of whips and sticks; the galley slaves bowed, a hideous obedience was released from the torture, and all fell silent with the looks of chained wolves . Cosette trembled in every limb; she continued: “Father, are they still men?” “Sometimes,” said the wretch. ” It was indeed the Chain, which, having left Bicêtre before the day, took the road to Le Mans to avoid Fontainebleau, where the king was then. This detour made the dreadful journey last three or four days longer; but, to spare the royal person the sight of torture, one can certainly prolong it. Jean Valjean returned overwhelmed. Such encounters are shocks, and the memory they leave behind resembles a shock. Yet Jean Valjean, on returning with Cosette to the Rue de Babylone, did not notice that she asked him further questions about what they had just seen; perhaps he himself was too absorbed in his own despondency to perceive her words and to answer her. Only in the evening, as Cosette was leaving him to go to bed, he heard her saying in a low voice, as if speaking to herself: “It seems to me that if I were to meet one of those men on my way, O my God, I would die just from seeing him up close! ” Fortunately, chance would have it that the day after that tragic day there were, in connection with some official solemnity or other, festivities in Paris: a parade on the Champ de Mars, jousts on the Seine, theaters on the Champs-Élysées, fireworks at the Étoile, illuminations everywhere. Jean
Valjean, doing violence to his habits, took Cosette to these revelry, in order to distract her from the memory of the day before and to erase beneath the laughing tumult of all Paris the abominable thing that had passed before her. The review, which seasoned the festivities, made the circulation of uniforms quite natural; Jean Valjean put on his National Guard uniform with the vague inner feeling of a man taking refuge. Besides, the purpose of this promenade seemed to have been achieved. Cosette, who made it a law to please her father and for whom, moreover, every spectacle was new, accepted the distraction with the easy and light good grace of adolescence, and did not make a too disdainful pout before this bowl of joy which is called a public festival; so well that Jean Valjean could believe that he had succeeded, and that no trace of the hideous vision remained. A few days later, one morning, as the sun was shining brightly and they were both on the garden steps, another violation of the rules that Jean Valjean seemed to have imposed on himself, and of the habit of remaining in her room that sadness had made Cosette adopt, Cosette, in her dressing-gown, was standing in that early negligee that adorably envelops young girls and looks like a cloud on the star; and, her head in the light, rosy from having slept well, looked at gently by the tender old man, she was plucking the petals from a daisy. Cosette was ignorant of the ravishing legend _I love you, a little, passionately_, etc.; who would have taught it to her? She handled this flower, instinctively, innocently, without suspecting that to pluck the petals from a daisy is to peel a heart. If there were a fourth Grace called Melancholy, and smiling, she would have had the air of that Grace. Jean
Valjean was fascinated by the contemplation of these little fingers on this flower, forgetting everything in the radiance that this child had. A robin whispered in the bushes nearby. White clouds crossed the sky so gaily that one would have said they had just been set free. Cosette continued to pluck the petals of her flower attentively; she seemed to be thinking of something; but it must have been charming; suddenly she turned her head on her shoulder with the delicate slowness of the swan, and said to Jean Valjean: Father, what are these galleys? Book Four–Help from Below Can Be Help from Above Chapter 20. Wound Without, Healing Within. Their life thus darkened by degrees. There remained to them only one distraction which had formerly been a joy, that of going to bring bread to the hungry and clothing to those who were cold. In these visits to the poor, with which Cosette often accompanied Jean Valjean, they found some remnant of their former effusion; and sometimes, when the day had been good, when many distresses had been relieved and many little children revived and warmed, Cosette, in the evening, was a little cheerful. It was at this time that they paid a visit to the Jondrette hovel. The very day after this visit, Jean Valjean appeared in the pavilion in the morning, calm as usual, but with a large wound on his left arm, very inflamed, very venomous, which resembled a burn and which he explained in some way. This wound caused him to be more than a month with a fever without going out. He would not see any doctor. When Cosette urged him, “Call the dog doctor,” he would say. Cosette dressed him morning and evening with such a divine air and such angelic happiness at being useful to him, that Jean Valjean felt all his old joy return to him, his fears and anxieties dissipate, and contemplated Cosette, saying, “Oh! the good wound! Oh! the good pain!” Cosette, seeing her father ill, had deserted the pavilion, and had regained a taste for the little lodge and the backyard. She spent almost all her days near Jean Valjean, and read to him the books he wanted. Generally, travel books. Jean Valjean was reborn; his happiness revived with ineffable rays; the Luxembourg, the young unknown prowler, Cosette’s chill, all these clouds of his soul were fading away. He came to say to himself: I imagined all this. I am an old fool. His happiness was such that the dreadful discovery of the Thénardiers, made at the Jondrette hovel, and so unexpected, had somehow slipped past him. He had succeeded in escaping, his trail was lost, what did the rest matter to him! He thought of it only to pity these wretches. Here they were in prison, and henceforth out of harm’s way, he thought, but what a pitiful family in distress! As for the hideous vision of the Maine barrier, Cosette had not spoken of it again. At the convent, Sister Sainte-Mechtilde had taught Cosette music. Cosette had the voice of a warbler with a soul, and sometimes in the evening, in the humble lodgings of the wounded man, she sang sad songs that delighted Jean Valjean. Spring arrived, the garden was so admirable at that time of year, that Jean Valjean said to Cosette: “You never go there, I want you to walk there.” “As you wish, father,” said Cosette. And, to obey her father, she resumed her walks in her garden, mostly alone, for, as we have indicated, Jean Valjean, who probably feared being seen through the gate, hardly ever came there. Jean Valjean’s wound had been a diversion. When Cosette saw that her father was suffering less, that he was getting better, and that he seemed happy, she felt a contentment that she did not even notice, so gently and naturally did it come. Then came the month of March, the days were getting longer, winter was leaving, winter always carries with it something of our sadness; then came April, that summer daybreak, fresh as all dawns, gay as all childhoods; a little tearful sometimes like the newborn that he is. Nature in that month has charming gleams which pass from the sky, the clouds, the trees, the meadows and the flowers, to the heart of man. Cosette was still too young for this April joy which resembled her not to penetrate her. Imperceptibly, and without her suspecting it , the darkness departed from her mind. In spring it is light in sad souls as at noon it is light in cellars. Cosette herself was already no longer very sad. Besides, that was how it was, but she did not realize it. In the morning, around ten o’clock, after breakfast, when she had succeeded in dragging her father into the garden for a quarter of an hour , and was walking him in the sunshine before the steps, supporting his sore arm, she did not notice that she was laughing every moment and that she was happy. Jean Valjean, intoxicated, saw her become rosy and fresh again. “Oh! the good wound!” he repeated in a low voice. And he was grateful to the Thénardiers. Once his wound was healed, he had resumed his solitary and twilight walks. It would be a mistake to believe that one can walk like this alone in the uninhabited regions of Paris without encountering some adventure. Chapter 21. Mother Plutarch is not at a loss to explain. One evening little Gavroche had not eaten; he remembered that he had not had dinner the day before either; it was becoming tiring. He resolved to try to have supper. He went to prowl beyond the Salpêtrière, in deserted places; that’s where the bargains are; where there is no one, something is found. He came to a settlement which seemed to him to be the village of Austerlitz. In one of his previous strolls, he had noticed there an old garden haunted by an old man and an old woman, and in this garden a passable apple tree. Beside this apple tree, there was a kind of a poorly enclosed fruit tree where one could win an apple. An apple is a supper; an apple is life. What lost Adam could have saved Gavroche. The garden ran alongside a solitary unpaved alleyway lined with brushwood waiting for the houses; a hedge separated it from it. Gavroche headed towards the garden; he found the alleyway again, he recognized the apple tree, he noted the fruit tree, he examined the hedge; a hedge is a stride. The day was fading, not a soul in the alleyway, the hour was right. Gavroche began the climb, then suddenly stopped. There was talk in the garden. Gavroche looked through one of the skylights in the hedge.
Two steps from him, at the foot of the hedge and on the other side, precisely at the point where the gap he was contemplating would have led him, there was a recumbent stone that made a sort of bench, and on this bench sat the old man from the garden, with the old woman standing before him. The old woman grumbled. Gavroche, not being discreet, listened. “Monsieur Mabeuf!” said the old woman. “Mabeuf!” thought Gavroche, “that name is a joke. ” The old man, when he was called upon, did not move. The old woman repeated: “Monsieur Mabeuf!” The old man, without taking his eyes off the ground, decided to reply: “What, Mother Plutarch? ” “Mother Plutarch!” thought Gavroche, “another joke. ” Mother Plutarch continued, and the old man was forced to accept the conversation. “The landowner is not happy. ” “Why? ” “We owe him three installments. ” “In three months we will owe him four.” –He says he’ll send you out to sleep. –I’ll go. –The greengrocer wants us to pay her. She won’t let go of her falourdes. What will you use to heat yourselves this winter? We won’t have any wood. –The sun is shining. –The butcher refuses credit, he doesn’t want to give any more meat. –That’s fine. I can’t digest meat well. It’s too heavy. –What will we have for dinner? –Bread. –The baker demands a deposit, and says no money, no bread. –That’s fine. –What will you eat? –We have the apples from the apple tree. –But, sir, one can’t live like this without money. –I haven’t got any. The old woman went away, the old man remained alone. He began to think. Gavroche was thinking on his side. It was almost dark. The first result of Gavroche’s reverie was that instead of climbing the hedge, he crouched beneath it. The branches parted a little at the bottom of the brushwood. “Look,” Gavroche cried inwardly, “an alcove!” and he huddled in it. He was almost leaning against Father Mabeuf’s bench. He could hear the octogenarian breathing. So, for dinner, he tried to sleep. Sleep like a cat, sleep with one eye open. Even as he dozed off, Gavroche watched.
The whiteness of the twilight sky bleached the earth, and the lane formed a livid line between two rows of dark bushes. Suddenly, on this whitish strip, two silhouettes appeared. One came in front, the other, at some distance, behind. “There are two beings,” Gavroche grumbled. The first figure seemed to be some old, bent, pensive bourgeois , dressed more than simply, walking slowly because of his age, and strolling in the evening under the stars. The second was straight, firm, slim. It adjusted its step to the step of the first; but in the deliberate slowness of the gait, one felt suppleness and agility. This figure had, with something fierce and disturbing, all the bearing of what was then called an elegant man; the hat was of a good shape, the frock coat was black, well cut, probably of fine cloth, and tight at the waist. The head stood up with a sort of robust grace, and, under the hat, one glimpsed in the twilight a pale profile of an adolescent. This profile had a rose on its lips. This second figure was well known Gavroche’s was Montparnasse. As for the other, he could not have said anything, except that he was an old fellow. Gavroche immediately went in to observe. One of these two passers-by evidently had designs on the other. Gavroche was well situated to see what would happen next. The alcove had conveniently become a hiding place. Montparnasse hunting, at such an hour, in such a place, it was threatening. Gavroche felt his boyish entrails stir with pity for the old man. What to do? Intervene? One weakness helping another! It was enough to make Montparnasse laugh. Gavroche did not hide from himself that, for this formidable eighteen-year-old bandit, the old man first, then the child, were two bites. While Gavroche deliberated, the attack took place, sudden and hideous. A tiger attack on the onager, a spider attack on the fly. Montparnasse, unexpectedly, threw the rose, sprang upon the old man, collared him, seized him, and clung to him, and Gavroche could scarcely suppress a cry. A moment later, one of these men was beneath the other, crushed, groaning, struggling, with a marble knee on his chest. Only this was not quite what Gavroche had expected. The one on the ground was Montparnasse; the one on top was the old man. All this was happening a few paces from Gavroche. The old man had received the shock, and had returned it, and returned it so terribly that in the twinkling of an eye the assailant and the assailed had changed roles. “There’s a proud invalid!” thought Gavroche. And he could not help clapping his hands. But it was a wasted clap of hands. It did not reach the two combatants, absorbed and deafened by each other and mingling their breaths in the struggle. Silence fell. Montparnasse stopped struggling. Gavroche made this aside: Is he dead? The fellow had not uttered a word nor uttered a cry. He straightened up, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse: “Get up.” Montparnasse got up, but the fellow held him. Montparnasse had the humiliated and furious attitude of a wolf that had been snatched by a sheep. Gavroche watched and listened, making an effort to double his eyes with his ears. He was enjoying himself enormously. He was rewarded for his conscientious anxiety as a spectator. He was able to catch on the fly this dialogue which borrowed from the darkness some indescribable tragic accent. The fellow questioned. Montparnasse answered. “How old are you?” “Nineteen. ” “You’re strong and healthy. Why don’t you work? ” “It bothers me. ” “What is your condition? ” “Lazy. ” “Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What do you want to be? ” “Thief. ” There was a silence. The old man seemed deeply thoughtful. He was motionless and did not let go of Montparnasse. From moment to moment, the young bandit, vigorous and nimble, had the twitches of a beast caught in a trap. He gave a jerk, tried a trip, twisted his limbs frantically, tried to escape. The old man did not seem to notice this, and held both arms with one hand with the sovereign indifference of absolute strength . The old man’s reverie lasted some time, then, looking fixedly at Montparnasse, he gently raised his voice and addressed to him, in the shadows where they were, a sort of solemn address, of which Gavroche did not miss a syllable: “My child, you are entering through laziness into the most laborious of existences. Ah! you declare yourself lazy! Prepare to work. Have you seen a machine that is formidable? It’s called the rolling mill. You must be careful of it, it’s a sly and ferocious thing; if it catches the hem of your coat, you’ll go completely under it. This machine is Idleness… Stop, while there is still time, and save yourself! Otherwise, it’s over; before long you’ll be caught in the cogs. Once caught, hope for nothing more. To fatigue, lazybones! No more rest. The iron hand of relentless work has seized you. To earn your living, to have a task, to fulfill a duty, you don’t want! To be like the others, that bores you! Well, you will be different. Work is the law; whoever rejects it is boredom, will have it torture. You don’t want to be a worker, you will be a slave. Work only lets you go on one side to seize you on the other; you don’t want to be its friend, you will be its negro.
Ah! you didn’t want the honest weariness of men, you will have the sweat of the damned. Where others sing, you will grumble. You will see from afar, from below, other men working; It will seem to you that they are resting. The plowman, the harvester, the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in the light like the blessed of a paradise. What radiance in the anvil! To drive the plow, to bind the sheaf, that is joy. The boat free in the wind, what a celebration! You, lazybones, dig, drag, roll, walk! Pull on your halter, there you are, a beast of burden in the harness of hell! Ah! to do nothing, that was your goal. Well ! Not a week, not a day, not an hour without being overwhelmed. You will be able to lift nothing without anguish. Every minute that passes will make your muscles crack. What will be a feather for others will be a rock for you. The simplest things will become steep. Life will become a monster around you. Coming, going, breathing, so many terrible tasks . Your lungs will feel like a hundred pounds. Walking here rather than there will be a problem to be solved. The first person who wants to go out pushes their door, it’s done, there they are outside. You, if you want to go out, you’ll have to break through your wall. To go to the street, what does everyone do? Everyone goes down the stairs; you will tear your bed sheets, you will make a rope strand by strand, then you will go through your window, and you will hang from this thread over an abyss, and it will be at night, in the storm, in the rain, in the hurricane, and, if the rope is too short, you will have only one way to go down, fall. Fall at random, into the abyss, from any height onto, what? Onto what is below, onto the unknown. Or you will climb up a chimney , at the risk of burning yourself; or you will crawl through a latrine flue , at the risk of drowning. I’m not talking about the holes that have to be covered, the stones that have to be removed and replaced twenty times a day, the plasterwork that has to be hidden in one’s mattress. A lock presents itself; the bourgeois has in his pocket his key made by a locksmith. You, if you want to go beyond it, you are condemned to create a terrifying masterpiece. You will take a large penny, you will cut it into two strips with what tools? You will invent them. That’s up to you. Then you will hollow out the inside of these two strips, carefully taking care of the outside, and you will make a screw thread all around the edge, so that they fit tightly together like a bottom and a lid. With the bottom and top thus screwed together, nothing will be guessed. For the guards, because you will be watched, it will be a large penny; for you, it will be a box. What will you put in this box? A small piece of steel. A watch spring in which you will have made teeth and which will be a saw. With this saw, as long as a pin and hidden in a penny, you will have to cut the bolt of the lock, the bit of the bolt, the handle of the padlock, and the bar that you will have on your window, and the shackle that you will have on your leg. This masterpiece makes this accomplished prodigy, all these miracles of art, skill, ability, patience, executed, if it comes to be known that you are the author, what will be your reward? The dungeon. That is the future. Laziness, pleasure, what precipices! Doing nothing is a dismal choice, do you know? Living idle on social substance! Being useless, that is to say, harmful! That leads straight to the depths of misery. Woe to anyone who wants to be a parasite! He will be vermin. Ah! Don’t you like working? Ah! You have only 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 board with a piece of iron riveted to your limbs and whose cold you will feel on your flesh at night ? You will break this piece of iron, you will run away. That’s good. You will drag yourself on your stomach in the undergrowth and you will eat grass like the brutes of the woods. And you will be recaptured. And then you will spend years in a dungeon, sealed to a wall, groping to drink from your pitcher, biting into a horrible bread of darkness that dogs would not want, eating beans that worms will have eaten before you. You will be a woodlouse in a cellar. Ah! Have pity on yourself, miserable child, very young, who suckled your nurse not twenty years ago, and who doubtless still has your mother! I implore you, listen to me. You want fine black cloth, patent leather pumps, to curl your hair, to put sweet-smelling oil in your curls, to please creatures, to be pretty. You will be shaved close with a red jacket and clogs. You want a ring on your finger, you will have a pillory around your neck. And if you look at a woman, a blow from a stick. And you will enter there at twenty, and you will leave at fifty! You will enter young, rosy, fresh, with your shining eyes and all your white teeth, and your adolescent hair, you will leave broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white hair! Ah! my poor child, you are on the wrong track, laziness advises you badly; the hardest of jobs is theft. Believe me, do not undertake this painful task of being lazy. Becoming a scoundrel is not easy. It is less difficult to be an honest man. Go now, and think about what I told you. By the way, what did you want from me? My purse. Here it is. And the old man, letting go of Montparnasse, put his purse in his hand, which Montparnasse weighed for a moment; after which, with the same mechanical precaution as if he had stolen it, Montparnasse let it slip gently into the back pocket of his frock coat. All this said and done, the old man turned his back and calmly resumed his walk. “Ganache!” murmured Montparnasse. “Who was this old man?” the reader has doubtless guessed. Montparnasse, stupefied, watched him disappear into the twilight. This contemplation was fatal to him. While the old man was moving away, Gavroche approached. Gavroche, with a sideways glance, had assured himself that Father Mabeuf, perhaps asleep, was still sitting on the bench. Then the boy had come out of his thicket and begun to crawl in the shadows behind the motionless Montparnasse. He thus reached Montparnasse without being seen or heard, gently slipped his hand into the back pocket of the fine black cloth frock coat, seized the purse, withdrew his hand, and, beginning to crawl again, made a snake-like escape into the darkness. Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard and who was thinking for the first time in his life, noticed nothing. Gavroche, when he returned to the point where Father Mabeuf was, threw the purse over the hedge and ran away as fast as he could. The purse fell on Father Mabeuf’s foot. This commotion woke him up. He bent down and picked up the purse. He didn’t understand anything and opened it. It was a purse with two compartments; in one, there was some money; in the other, there were six napoleons. M. Mabeuf, very frightened, took the thing to his housekeeper. “It falls from the sky,” said Mother Plutarch. Book Five–Whose End Does Not Resemble the Beginning Chapter 22. Solitude and the Barracks Combined. Cosette’s Sorrow, Still So Poignant and So Vivid Four or Five months before, had, without her even knowing it, entered into convalescence. Nature, spring, youth, love for her father, the gaiety of birds and flowers were filtering little by little, day by day, drop by drop, into this soul so virgin and so young, something unknown that almost resembled oblivion. Was the fire going out completely? Or were layers of ashes only forming? The fact is that she felt almost no more painful or burning point. One day she suddenly thought of Marius: “Well!” she said, “I don’t think about him anymore.” In that same week she noticed, passing in front of the garden gate , a very handsome officer of lancers, wasp waist, ravishing uniform, cheeks of a young girl, saber under his arm, waxed mustache, varnished schapska. Besides, blond hair, blue eyes at the top of his head, round face, vain, insolent and pretty; the complete opposite of Marius. A cigar in his mouth. Cosette thought that this officer was doubtless from the regiment stationed on the Rue de Babylone. The next day, she saw him pass by again. She noted the time. From that moment on, was it chance? She saw him pass by almost every day. The officer’s comrades noticed that there, in that “badly kept” garden, behind that nasty rococo gate, was a rather pretty creature who was almost always there when the handsome lieutenant, who is not unknown to the reader and was called Théodule Gillenormand, passed by . “Look!” they said to him. “There’s a little girl who’s winking at you, look. ” “Do I have time,” the lancer replied, “to look at all the girls who are looking at me?” It was precisely the moment when Marius was gravely descending towards his death throes and saying: “If I could only see her again before I die!” If his wish had been granted, if he had seen Cosette at that moment looking at a lancer, he would not have been able to utter a word and would have expired from grief. Whose fault was it? No one’s. Marius was one of those temperaments who sink into grief and remain there; Cosette was one of those who plunge into it and emerge from it. Cosette, moreover, was passing through that dangerous moment, that fatal phase of feminine reverie abandoned to itself, when the heart of an isolated young girl resembles those tendrils of the vine which cling, according to chance, to the capital of a marble column or to the post of a tavern. A swift and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, whether poor or rich, for wealth does not protect against bad choices; one becomes very highly misallied; the true misalliance is that of souls; and, just as more than one unknown young man, without name, without birth, without fortune, is a marble capital supporting a temple of great feelings and great ideas, so too such a man of the world, satisfied and opulent, who has polished boots and varnished words, if one looks, not at the outside, but at the inside, that is to say at what is reserved for woman, is nothing other than a stupid beam obscurely haunted by violent, filthy and drunken passions; the post of a tavern. What was there in Cosette’s soul? Passion calmed or asleep; love in a floating state; something that was limpid, brilliant, troubled at a certain depth, dark below. The image of the handsome officer was reflected on the surface. Was there a memory deep down?–right down there?–Perhaps. Cosette didn’t know. A singular incident occurred. Chapter 23. Cosette’s Fears. In the first half of April, Jean Valjean took a journey. This, as we know, happened to him from time to time, at very long intervals. He remained absent for one or two days, three days at the most. Where was he going? No one knew, not even Cosette. Only once, on one of these departures, had she accompanied him in a cab to the corner of a small dead end on the corner of which she had read: _Impasse de la Planchette_. There he had gotten out, and the cab had taken Cosette back to the Rue de Babylone. It was generally when money was short at home that Jean Valjean made these little trips. Jean Valjean was therefore absent. He had said: I will return in three days. That evening, Cosette was alone in the drawing-room. To relieve her boredom, she had opened her piano-organ and had begun to sing, accompanying herself, the chorus from Euryanthe: _Hunters Lost in the Woods_! which is perhaps the most beautiful thing in all music. When she had finished, she remained pensive. Suddenly it seemed to her that she heard walking in the garden. It could not be her father, he was away; it could not be Toussaint, she was in bed. It was ten o’clock in the evening. She went near the closed drawing-room shutter and pressed her ear to it. It seemed to her that it was a man’s footsteps, and that they were walking very quietly. She quickly went up to the first floor, to her bedroom, opened a skylight pierced in her shutter, and looked into the garden. It was the time of the full moon. One could see as if it had been day. There was no one there. She opened the window. The garden was absolutely calm, and everything that could be seen from the street was deserted as always. Cosette thought she had been mistaken. She had thought she heard that noise. It was a hallucination produced by Weber’s dark and prodigious chorus , which opens before the mind frightened depths, which trembles before the eye like a dizzying forest, and where one hears the cracking of dead branches under the anxious footsteps of hunters glimpsed in the twilight. She thought no more of it. Besides, Cosette by nature was not very frightened. There was in her veins the blood of a gypsy and an adventurer who goes barefoot. As you will remember, she was more of a lark than a dove. She had a fierce and brave nature. The next day, not so late, at nightfall, she was walking in the garden. In the midst of the confused thoughts that occupied her, she thought she could hear at times a noise similar to the noise of the day before, as if someone were walking in the darkness under the trees not far from her, but she told herself that nothing resembles a footstep walking in the grass like the rustling of two branches moving of their own accord, and she paid no attention to it. She saw nothing, in fact. She came out of “the undergrowth”; she still had to cross a small green lawn to reach the steps. The moon, which had just risen behind her, threw her shadow before her on the lawn as Cosette came out of the clump. Cosette stopped, terrified. Beside her shadow, the moon clearly outlined on the lawn another shadow, singularly frightening and terrible, a shadow that wore a round hat. It was like the shadow of a man who had been standing on the edge of the clump a few steps behind Cosette. She was for a minute unable to speak, cry out, call out, move, or turn her head. Finally, she summoned all her courage and turned resolutely. There was no one there. She looked down. The shadow had disappeared. She went back into the bush, ferreted boldly in the corners, went as far as the gate, and found nothing. She felt truly frozen. Was this another hallucination? What! Two days in a row? One hallucination, fine, but two hallucinations? What was disturbing was that the shadow was definitely not a ghost. Ghosts hardly ever wear round hats. The next day Jean Valjean returned. Cosette told him what she thought she had heard and seen. She expected to be reassured and for her father to shrug his shoulders and say, “You are a crazy little girl.” Jean Valjean became anxious. “It can’t be anything,” he told her. He left her under some pretext and went into the garden, and she saw him examining the gate very carefully. During the night she awoke; this time she was sure; she distinctly heard people walking very close to the steps below her window. She ran to her skylight and opened it. There was indeed a man in the garden holding a large stick in his hand. Just as she was about to cry out, the moon lit up the man’s profile. It was her father. She went back to bed, saying to herself: “He’s very worried, then!” Jean Valjean passed through the garden that night and the two nights that followed. Cosette saw him through the hole in her shutter. On the third night, the moon was waning and beginning to rise later ; it might have been one o’clock in the morning. She heard a loud burst of laughter and her father’s voice calling her. “Cosette! ” She threw herself out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and opened her window. Her father was down on the lawn. “I’m waking you to reassure you,” he said. “Look. Here’s your shadow in a round hat.” And he showed her a shadow cast on the lawn by the moon , which did indeed resemble the spectre of a man wearing a round hat. It was a silhouette produced by a tin chimney flue with a capital, rising above a neighboring roof. Cosette, too, began to laugh; all her gloomy suppositions fell away, and the next day, while breakfasting with her father, she amused herself with the sinister garden haunted by the shadows of stovepipes. Jean Valjean became quite calm again; As for Cosette, she did not notice much whether the stovepipe was indeed in the direction of the shadow she had seen or thought she had seen, and whether the moon was at the same point in the sky. She did not question this singularity of a stovepipe which fears being caught in the act and which withdraws when one looks at its shadow, for the shadow had disappeared when Cosette had turned around and Cosette had thought she was sure of it. Cosette was completely reassured. The demonstration seemed complete to her, and that there could be someone walking in the garden in the evening or at night, this slipped from her mind. A few days later, however, a new incident occurred. Chapter 24. Enriched with Toussaint’s comments. In the garden, near the gate on the street, there was a stone bench protected by a hedge from the gaze of curious onlookers, but which , however, at a pinch, the arm of a passer-by could reach through the fence and the hedge. One evening in that same month of April, Jean Valjean had gone out; Cosette, after sunset, had sat down on this bench. The wind was freshening in the trees; Cosette was thinking; an objectless sadness was gradually overcoming her, that invincible sadness which evening brings and which perhaps, who knows?, comes from the mystery of the tomb half-open at that hour. Fantine was perhaps in that shadow. Cosette got up, walked slowly around the garden, walking in the grass bathed in dew and saying to herself through the sort of melancholy somnambulism in which she was plunged: “We really need clogs for the garden at this hour. One catches cold.” She returned to the bench. As she was about to sit down again, she noticed that she had left a rather large stone in the place she had chosen , which had obviously not been there a moment before. Cosette looked at this stone, wondering what it meant. Suddenly the idea that this stone had not come onto this bench all by itself, that someone had put it there, that an arm had passed through this grating, this idea appeared to her and frightened her. This time it was a real fear; the stone was there. No doubt about it; she did not touch it, ran away without daring to look behind her, took refuge into the house, and immediately closed the French window on the porch with the shutter, the bar, and the bolt. She asked Toussaint: “Has my father come home?” “Not yet, mademoiselle.” (We have indicated Toussaint’s stammering once and for all. Please allow us not to emphasize it any further. We are averse to the musical notation of an infirmity.) Jean Valjean, a thoughtful man and a night walker, often did not come home until quite late at night. “Toussaint,” Cosette continued, “do you take care to barricade the shutters on the garden at least at night, with the bars, and to put the little iron things in the little rings that close them? ” “Oh! don’t worry, mademoiselle. ” Toussaint did not fail to do so, and Cosette knew it well, but she could not help adding: “It’s just that it’s so deserted around here!” “As for that,” said Toussaint, “it’s true. We’d be murdered before we could say ‘ooh!’ And with that, monsieur shouldn’t sleep in the house. But don’t worry, mademoiselle, I lock the windows like bastilles. Women alone! I think it makes one shudder! Can you imagine? Seeing men come into the room at night, say to you: ‘Be quiet!’ and start cutting your neck. It’s not so much dying, one dies, that’s all right, one knows very well that one must die, but it’s an abomination to feel those people touching you. And then their knives, they must cut badly! Oh God! “Be quiet,” said Cosette. Close everything up tight.” Cosette, terrified by the melodrama improvised by Toussaint and perhaps also by the memory of the apparitions of the other week which came back to her, did not even dare to say to him: “Go and see the stone that has been placed on the bench!” for fear of reopening the garden gate, and “the men” entering. She had the doors and windows carefully closed everywhere, had Toussaint visit the whole house from cellar to attic, shut herself in her room, bolted it, looked under her bed, lay down, and slept badly. All night she saw the stone as big as a mountain and full of caverns. At sunrise,—the characteristic of sunrise is to make us laugh at all our terrors of the night, and the laughter we have is always proportionate to the fear we have had,—at sunrise Cosette, on waking, saw her fright as a nightmare, and said to herself:—What was I dreaming about? It’s like those footsteps I thought I heard the other week in the garden at night! It’s like the shadow of the stovepipe! Am I going to become a coward now?—The sun, which glittered in the cracks of her shutters and made the damask curtains purple, reassured her so much that everything vanished from her thoughts, even the stone. —There was no more stone on the bench than there was a man in a round hat in the garden; I dreamed of the stone like everything else. She dressed, went down to the garden, ran to the bench, and felt a cold sweat break out. The stone was there. But it was only for a moment. What is fright at night is curiosity by day. “Bah!” she said, “come on.” She lifted the stone, which was rather large. Underneath was something that looked like a letter. It was a white paper envelope. Cosette seized it. There was no address on one side, no seal on the other. However, the envelope, although open, was not empty. Papers could be glimpsed inside. Cosette rummaged through it. It was no longer fright, it was no longer curiosity; it was the beginning of anxiety. Cosette took from the envelope what it contained, a small notebook of paper, each page of which was numbered and bore a few lines written in handwriting that was rather pretty, Cosette thought, and very delicate. Cosette looked for a name, there was none; a signature, there was none. To whom was it addressed? Probably to her, since a hand had placed the package on her bench. Who had it come from? An irresistible fascination seized her, she tried to tear her eyes away from the leaves that trembled in her hand, she looked at the sky, the street, the acacias all drenched in light, the pigeons flying on a neighboring roof, then suddenly her gaze fell sharply on the manuscript, and she said to herself that she had to know what was in there. Here is what she read: Chapter 25. A heart under a stone. The reduction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a single being to God, that is love. Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars. How sad the soul is when it is sad because of love! What an emptiness the absence of the being who alone fills the world! Oh! how true it is that the loved one becomes God. One would understand that God would be jealous if the Father of all had not obviously created for the soul, and the soul for love. A smile glimpsed there under a white crepe hat with a lilac bib is enough for the soul to enter the palace of dreams. God is behind everything, but everything hides God. Things are black, creatures are opaque. To love a being is to make them transparent. Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees. Separated lovers deceive absence with a thousand chimerical things that nevertheless have their reality. They are prevented from seeing each other, they cannot write to each other; they find a host of mysterious ways to correspond. They send each other the song of birds, the scent of flowers, the laughter of children, the light of the sun, the sighs of the wind, the rays of the stars, all of creation. And why not? All of God’s works are made to serve love. Love is powerful enough to charge all of nature with its messages. O spring, you are a letter that I write to him. The future belongs even more to hearts than to minds. To love is the only thing that can occupy and fill eternity. To infinity, the inexhaustible is necessary. Love participates in the soul itself. It is of the same nature as it. Like it, it is a divine spark, like it, it is incorruptible, indivisible, imperishable. It is a point of fire that is within us, which is immortal and infinite, which nothing can limit and nothing can extinguish. We feel it burning to the very marrow of our bones and we see it radiating to the depths of heaven. O love! adorations! voluptuousness of two minds that understand each other, of two hearts that exchange, of two glances that penetrate each other? You will come to me, won’t you, happiness! Walks together in solitudes! Blessed and radiant days! I have sometimes dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves from the lives of angels and came here below to cross the destiny of men. God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love each other except to give them endless duration. After a life of love, an eternity of love, it is indeed an increase; but to increase in its very intensity the ineffable bliss that love gives to the soul from this world, it is impossible, even for God. God is the fullness of heaven; love is the fullness of man. You look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous and because it is impenetrable. You have near you a sweeter radiance and a greater mystery, woman. All of us, who are not ourselves, have our breathing beings. If we lack them, we lack air, we suffocate. Then we die. To die from lack of love is dreadful! The asphyxiation of the soul! When love has melted and mingled two beings in an angelic and sacred unity, the secret of life is found for them; they are nothing more than the two terms of the same destiny; they are no longer anything but the two wings of the same spirit. Love, soar! The day a woman passing in front of you gives off light as she walks, you are lost, you love. You have only one thing left to do, to think of her so fixedly that she is forced to think of you. What love begins can only be completed by God. True love is saddened and enchanted by a lost glove or a found handkerchief, and it needs eternity for its devotion and its hopes. It is composed at once of the infinitely large and the infinitely small. If you are a stone, be loving; if you are a plant, be sensitive; if you are a man, be love. Nothing is enough for love. One has happiness, one wants paradise; one has paradise, one wants heaven. O you who love one another, all this is in love. Know how to find it there. Love has as much contemplation as heaven, and more than heaven, voluptuousness. –Does she still come to the Luxembourg?–No, sir.–It is in this church that she hears mass, is it not?–She does not come there any more.–Does she still live in this house?–She has moved.–Where has she gone to live?–She has not said. What a dark thing not to know the address of one’s soul! Love has childishness, other passions have pettiness. Shame on the passions that make man small! Honor to the one who makes him a child! It is a strange thing, do you know that? I am in the night. There is a being who in leaving has taken heaven with him. Oh! to be lying side by side in the same tomb, hand in hand, and from time to time, in the darkness, gently caressing a finger, that would be enough for my eternity. You who suffer because you love, love even more. To die of love is to live by it. Love. A dark, starry transfiguration is mixed with this torture. There is ecstasy in the agony. O joy of the birds! it is because they have the nest that they have the song. Love is a celestial breath of the air of paradise. Deep hearts, wise minds, take life as God made it; it is a long ordeal, an unintelligible preparation for the unknown destiny. This destiny, the true one, begins for man at the first step inside the tomb. Then something appears to him, and he begins to distinguish the definitive. The definitive, think of this word. The living see the infinite; the definitive only lets itself be seen by the dead. In the meantime, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe, alas! to him who has loved only bodies, forms, appearances! Death will take everything away from him. Try to love souls, you will find them again. I met in the street a very poor young man who loved. His hat was old, his coat was worn; his elbows had holes; water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul. What a great thing, to be loved! What a greater thing still, to love! The heart becomes heroic through passion. It is no longer composed of anything but the pure; it is no longer based on anything but the lofty and the great. An unworthy thought can no more germinate there than a nettle on a glacier. The lofty and serene soul, inaccessible to passions and vulgar emotions , dominating the clouds and shadows of this world, the follies, the lies, the hatreds, the vanities, the miseries, inhabits the blue of the sky, and feels only the deep and subterranean tremors of destiny, as the tops of the mountains feel earthquakes. If there were not someone who loves, the sun would go out. Chapter 26. Cosette after the letter. During this reading, Cosette gradually entered into reverie. At the moment when she raised her eyes from the last line of the notebook, the handsome officer, it was his hour, passed triumphant in front of the gate. Cosette found him hideous. She went back to contemplating the notebook. It was written in a ravishing handwriting, thought Cosette; in the same hand, but with different inks, sometimes very black, sometimes whitish, like when one puts water in the inkwell, and consequently on different days. So it was a thought that had poured out there, sigh by sigh, irregularly, without order, without choice, without purpose, at random. Cosette had never read anything like it. This manuscript, in which she saw even more clarity than darkness, had the effect of a half-open sanctuary. Each of these mysterious lines shone before her eyes and flooded her heart with a strange light. The education she had received had always spoken to her of the soul and never of love, almost as one would speak of the ember and never of the flame. This fifteen-page manuscript suddenly and gently revealed to her all love, pain, destiny, life, eternity, beginnings, and ends. It was like a hand that had opened and suddenly thrown a handful of rays at her. She felt in these few lines a passionate, ardent, generous, honest nature, a sacred will, immense pain and immense hope, a tight heart, a blossoming ecstasy. What was this manuscript? A letter. A letter without an address, without a name, without a date, without a signature, urgent and disinterested, an enigma composed of truths, a message of love made to be brought by an angel and read by a virgin, a rendezvous arranged beyond the earth, a love letter from a ghost to a shadow. It was a quiet and overwhelmed absent man who seemed ready to take refuge in death and who sent to the absent woman the secret of destiny, the key to life, love. It had been written with her foot in the tomb and her finger in the sky. These lines, fallen one by one onto the paper, were what one might call drops of the soul.
Now, these pages, from whom could they come? Who could have written them? Cosette did not hesitate for a minute. A single man. Him! Day had returned to her mind. Everything had reappeared. She felt an incredible joy and a profound anguish. It was him! He who was writing to her! He who was there! He whose arm had passed through that grating! While she was forgetting him, he had found her again! But had she forgotten him? No! Never! She was mad to have believed that for a moment. She had always loved him, always adored him. The fire had covered itself and smoldered for a while, but, she saw clearly, it had only dug deeper, and now it burst forth again and engulfed her entirely. This notebook was like a spark fallen from that other soul into hers. She felt the fire starting again. She was filled with every word of the manuscript. “Oh yes! ” she said, “how I recognize it all! It is all that I had already read in her eyes.” As she finished it for the third time, Lieutenant Théodule returned to the gate and clanged his spurs on the pavement. Cosette was forced to look up. She found him insipid, silly, stupid, useless, conceited, unpleasant, impertinent, and very ugly. The officer thought she should smile at her. She turned away, ashamed and indignant. She would have gladly thrown something at his head. She fled, went back into the house, and locked herself in her room to reread the manuscript, to learn it by heart, and to think. When she had read it thoroughly, she kissed it and put it in her corset. It was over, Cosette had fallen back into the deep seraphic love. The abyss of Eden had just opened again. All day long, Cosette was in a sort of daze. She hardly thought, her ideas were in a state of a confused skein in her brain, she could not conjecture anything, she hoped through a trembling, what? vague things. She dared not promise herself anything, and would not deny herself anything. A paleness passed over her face and shivers ran through her body. It seemed to her at times that she was entering into the chimerical; she said to herself: is it real? Then she felt the beloved paper under her dress, she pressed it to her heart, she felt its angles on her flesh, and if Jean Valjean had seen her at that moment, he would have shuddered at the luminous and unknown joy which overflowed her eyelids. Oh yes! she thought. It is indeed him! This comes from him for me! And she said to herself that an intervention of the angels, a celestial chance, had restored it to her. O transfigurations of love! O dreams! this celestial chance, this intervention of the angels, was this ball of bread thrown by a thief to another thief, from the court of Charlemagne to the lion’s den, over the roofs of La Force. Chapter 27. Old people are made to go out at the right time. When evening came, Jean Valjean went out, and Cosette dressed. She arranged her hair in the way that suited her best, and she put on a dress whose bodice, which had received one too many scissors cuts, and which, by its cutout, revealed the base of the neck, was, as young girls say, “a little indecent.” It was not in the least indecent , but it was prettier than not. She went through all this toilet without knowing why. Did she want to go out? No. Was she expecting a visitor? No. At dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy in her kitchen, which looked out onto the backyard. She began to walk under the branches, moving them aside from time to time with her hand, because some were very low. She reached the bench. The stone had remained there. She sat down and placed her soft white hand on the stone as if she wanted to caress it and thank it. Suddenly, she had that indefinable feeling one experiences, even without seeing, when someone is standing behind one. She turned her head and stood up. It was him. He was bareheaded. He looked pale and emaciated. His black garment was barely visible . The twilight paled his handsome brow and covered his eyes with darkness. He had, beneath a veil of incomparable sweetness, something of death and night. His face was lit by the brightness of the dying day and by the thought of a departing soul. It seemed that it was not yet the ghost and that it was already no longer the man. His hat was thrown a few steps away in the undergrowth. Cosette, ready to faint, did not utter a cry. She retreated slowly, for she felt herself drawn. He did not move. By
some ineffable and sad thing that enveloped her, she felt the gaze of his eyes that she did not see. Cosette, backing away, encountered a tree and leaned against it. Without that tree, she would have fallen. Then she heard his voice, that voice she had never really heard, which barely rose above the rustling of the leaves, and which murmured: “Forgive me, I am here. My heart is swollen, I could not live as I was, I came. Have you read what I put there, on that bench? Do you recognize me at all? Do not be afraid of me. It has been some time now, do you remember the day you looked at me? It was in the Luxembourg, near the Gladiator. And the day you passed in front of me? Those were June 16 and July 2. It will be a year ago.” I haven’t seen you for a long time. I asked the chair-renter, and she told me she didn’t see you anymore. You lived on Rue de l’Ouest, on the third floor at the front, in a new house, you see, I know. I was following you. What did I have to do? And then you disappeared. I thought I saw you go by once when I was reading the newspapers under the arcades of the Odéon. I ran. But no. It was a person who had a hat like yours. At night, I come here. Don’t be afraid, no one sees me. I come to look at your windows closely. I walk very quietly so that you don’t hear, because you might be afraid. The other evening I was behind you, you turned around, I ran away. Once I heard you singing. I was happy. Does it affect you that I hear you singing through the shutter? It can’t affect you. No, can it? You see, you are my angel, let me come for a little. I think I’m going to die. If you only knew! I adore you! Forgive me, I’m talking to you, I don’t know what I’m saying to you, perhaps I’m making you angry; am I making you angry? “Oh my mother!” she said. And she collapsed on herself as if she were dying. He took her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he held her tightly without being aware of what he was doing. He supported her while tottering. It was as if his head were full of smoke; lightning flashed between his eyelashes; his ideas vanished; it seemed to him that he was performing a religious act and committing a profanation. Besides, he had not the slightest desire for this ravishing woman whose form he felt against his chest. He was desperately in love. She took one of his hands and placed it on her heart. He felt the paper there . He stammered: “So you love me?” She answered in a voice so low that it was no more than a breath that could hardly be heard: “Be quiet! You know it!” And she hid her red head in the bosom of the proud and intoxicated young man. He fell onto the bench, she beside him. They had no more words. The stars were beginning to shine. How was it that their lips met? How is it that the bird sings, that the snow melts, that the rose opens, that May blossoms, that the dawn whitens behind the black trees on the shivering hilltops? A kiss, and that was all. They both started, and they looked at each other in the darkness with bright eyes. They felt neither the cool night, nor the cold stone, nor the damp earth, nor the wet grass, they looked at each other and their hearts were full of thoughts. They had taken each other’s hands, without knowing. She did not ask him, she did not even think about it, where he had entered and how he had gotten into the garden. It seemed so simple to her that he was there. From time to time Marius’s knee touched Cosette’s knee, and they both shuddered. At intervals, Cosette stammered a word. Her soul trembled at her lips like a drop of dew on a flower. Little by little they spoke to each other. The outpouring succeeded the silence that is fullness. The night was serene and splendid above their heads. These two beings, pure as spirits, told each other everything, their dreams, their intoxications, their ecstasies, their chimeras, their failures, how they had adored each other from afar, how they had wished for each other, their despair, when they had ceased to notice each other. They confided in each other in an ideal intimacy, which nothing could already increase, what they had most hidden and most mysterious. They told each other, with a candid faith in their illusions, everything that love, youth and the remnant of childhood they had put into their thoughts. These two hearts poured into each other, so that at the end of an hour, it was the young man who had the soul of the young girl and the young girl who had the soul of the young man. They penetrated each other, they enchanted each other, they dazzled each other. When they had finished, when they had told each other everything, she laid her head on his shoulder and asked him: “What is your name? ” “My name is Marius,” he said. “And you?” –My name is Cosette. Book Six–Little Gavroche Chapter 28. Wicked mischief of the wind. Since 1823, while the Montfermeil tavern was sinking and gradually being swallowed up, not in the abyss of bankruptcy, but in the cesspool of petty debts, the Thénardier couple had had two more children, both male. That made five; two girls and three boys. It was a lot. The Thénardier woman had gotten rid of the last two, still infants and very small, with singular happiness. Got rid of them is the word. There was in this woman only a fragment of nature. A phenomenon of which there is, moreover, more than one example. Like the Maréchale de La Mothe-Houdancourt, the Thénardier woman was a mother only until her daughters. Her motherhood ended there. Her hatred of the human race began with her boys. On the side of her sons her wickedness was at its peak, and her heart had a gloomy escarpment in this area. As we have seen , she hated the eldest; she loathed the other two. Why? Because. The most terrible of motives and the most indisputable of answers: Because.–I don’t need a bunch of children, said this mother. Let us explain how the Thénardiers had managed to exonerate themselves from their last two children, and even to profit from them. This Magnon girl, mentioned a few pages earlier, was the same one who had succeeded in getting the good man Gillenormand to take in the two children she had. She lived on the Quai des Célestins, at the corner of that ancient Rue du Petit-Musc which did what it could to change its bad reputation into a good smell. We remember the great epidemic of croup which devastated, thirty-five years ago , the districts along the Seine in Paris, and which science took advantage of to experiment on a large scale with the effectiveness of alum insufflations, so usefully replaced today by external iodine tincture. In this epidemic, Magnon lost, on the same day, one in the morning, the other in the evening, her two boys, still very young. It was a blow. These children were precious to their mother; they represented eighty francs per month. These eighty francs were very accurately paid, in the name of M. Gillenormand, by his receiver of income, M. Barge, retired bailiff, rue du Roi-de-Sicile. With the children dead, the income was buried. Magnon looked for an expedient. In this dark masonry of evil of which she was a part, everyone knows everything, they keep it secret, and they help each other. Magnon needed two children; Thénardier had two. Same sex, same age. A good arrangement for one, a good placement for the other. The little Thénardiers became the little Magnons. Magnon left the Quai des Célestins and went to live on Rue Clocheperce. In Paris, the identity that binds an individual to himself is broken from one street to another. The civil registry, not being informed of anything, made no claim, and the substitution was made in the simplest way possible. Only Thénardier demanded, for this loan of children, ten francs a month, which Magnon promised, and even paid. It goes without saying that M. Gillenormand continued to comply. He came every six months to see the little ones. He did not notice the change. “Sir,” Magnon said to him, “how much they resemble you!” Thénardier, who had easy avatars, seized this opportunity to become Jondrette. His two daughters and Gavroche had barely had time to notice that they had two little brothers. At a certain degree of poverty, one is overcome by a sort of spectral indifference, and one sees people as larvae. Your closest relatives are often for you only vague forms of shadow, barely distinguishable from the nebulous background of life and easily mixed up with the invisible. The evening of the day when she had delivered her two little ones to Magnon, with the express will to renounce them forever, Thénardier had had, or pretended to have, a scruple. She had said to her husband: “But that’s abandoning one’s children!” Thénardier, masterful and phlegmatic, cauterized the scruple with these words: Jean-Jacques Rousseau did better! From scruple, the mother had passed to anxiety: “But what if the police were going to torment us? What we have done there, Monsieur Thénardier, tell me, is it permitted?” Thénardier replied: “Everything is permitted. No one will see anything but azure. Besides, in children who are penniless, no one has any interest in looking closely. ” Magnon was a sort of elegant criminal. She was a dresser. She shared her lodgings, furnished in a mannered and miserable manner , with a learned English thief who had become Frenchified. This Englishwoman , naturalized Parisian, recommended by very wealthy connections, intimately connected with the medals in the library and the diamonds of Miss Mars, was later famous in the legal registers. She was called _mamselle_ Miss. The two little ones who fell to Magnon had no reason to complain. Recommended by the eighty francs, they were looked after, like everything that is exploited; not badly dressed, not badly fed, treated almost like “little gentlemen,” better with the false mother than with the real one. Magnon played the lady and did not speak slang in front of them. They spent a few years like this. Thénardier augured well. One day he said to Magnon who gave him his ten francs a month: “The father” will have to give them an education. Suddenly, these two poor children, until then quite protected, even by their bad luck, were abruptly thrown into life, and forced to begin it. A mass arrest of criminals like that of the Jondrette garret, necessarily complicated by searches and subsequent incarcerations, is a real disaster for this hideous occult counter-society which lives beneath public society; an adventure of this kind leads to all sorts of collapses in this dark world. The catastrophe of the Thénardiers produced the catastrophe of the Magnon. One day, shortly after the Magnon had given Éponine the note relating to the Rue Plumet, there was a sudden police raid on the Rue Clocheperce; the Magnon was seized, as was Mademoiselle Miss, and the whole household, which was suspected, was caught in the dragnet. The two little boys were playing during this time in a back yard and saw nothing of the raid. When they wanted to go back in, they found the door closed and the house empty. A cobbler from a shop opposite called them and gave them a piece of paper that “their mother” had left for them. On the paper was an address: M. Barge, tax collector, rue du Roi-de-Sicile, no. 8. The man from the shop said to them: “You no longer live here. Go there. It’s very close. The first street on the left. Ask for directions with this paper.” The children set off, the eldest leading the youngest, and holding in his hand the paper that was to guide them. He was cold, and his small, numb fingers held the paper loose and poorly. At the turn of rue Clocheperce, a gust of wind snatched it away, and, as night fell, the child could not find it. They began to wander at random through the streets. Chapter 29. In Which Little Gavroche Takes Advantage of Napoleon the Great. Spring in Paris is quite often crossed by harsh, bitter winds that make one feel, not exactly chilled, but frozen; these winds, which sadden the most beautiful days, have exactly the effect of those gusts of cold air that enter a warm room through the cracks of a window or a badly closed door. It seems as if the dark door of winter had remained ajar and that wind was coming through there. In the spring of 1832, the time when the first great epidemic of this century broke out in Europe, these winds were harsher and more poignant than never. It was a door even more icy than the winter one that was half-open. It was the door of the sepulchre. One could feel in these north winds the breath of cholera. From a meteorological point of view, these cold winds had this peculiarity that they did not exclude a strong electric tension. Frequent storms, accompanied by lightning and thunder, broke out at this time. One evening when these north winds were blowing harshly, to the point that January seemed to have returned and the bourgeois had taken up their coats again, little Gavroche, still shivering gaily under his rags, stood as if in ecstasy in front of a wigmaker’s shop near Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was adorned with a woman’s woolen shawl , picked up who knows where, from which he had made a muffler. Little Gavroche seemed to be deeply admiring a wax bride, with a low-cut neckline and a headdress of orange blossoms, who was turning behind the window, showing, between two lamps, her smile to passers-by; but in reality he was observing the shop to see if he could not “pin” a bar of soap from the front, which he would then sell for a penny to a “hairdresser” in the suburbs. He often had lunch on one of these bars. He called this kind of work, for which he had talent, “shaving barbers’ beards.” While contemplating the bride and eyeing the bar of soap, he muttered between his teeth this: “Tuesday.” “It’s not Tuesday.” “Is it Tuesday?” “Perhaps it is Tuesday.” “Yes, it is Tuesday.” No one ever knew what this monologue was about. If, by chance, this monologue referred to the last time he had dined, it was three days ago, for it was Friday. The barber, in his shop heated by a good stove, was shaving a practice and from time to time threw a sideways glance at this enemy, this frozen and impudent boy who had both hands in his pockets, but his mind evidently out of its sheath. While Gavroche was examining the bride, the windowpane and the Windsor soaps, two children of unequal height, fairly neatly dressed, and even smaller than he, one looking seven, the other five, timidly turned the cane-lever and entered the shop asking for who knows what, charity perhaps, in a plaintive murmur that sounded more like a moan than a prayer. They both spoke at once, and their words were unintelligible because sobs cut off the younger one’s voice and the cold made the elder one’s teeth chatter. The barber turned with a furious face, and without taking off his razor, pushing the elder one back with his left hand and the younger one with his knee, pushed them both into the street and closed his door, saying: “Coming to cool the world for nothing!” The two children set off again, weeping. Meanwhile a cloud had come; it was beginning to rain. Little Gavroche ran after them and accosted them: “What’s the matter with you, kids?” “We don’t know where to sleep,” replied the elder. “Is that it?” said Gavroche. “That’s a big deal. Is that why we cry ? How canaries they are!” And, taking on, through his somewhat mocking superiority, an accent of softened authority and gentle protection: “Momacques, come with me. ” “Yes, sir,” said the eldest. 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. Gavroche, as he walked, cast an indignant and retrospective glance at the barber’s shop. “That whiting has no heart,” he grumbled. “He’s an Englishman.” A girl, seeing the three of them walking in a row, Gavroche at the head, burst into a loud laugh. This laughter was disrespectful to the group. “Good morning, Miss Omnibus,” Gavroche said to her. A moment later, the wigmaker returned to him and added: “I’ve got the wrong animal; it’s not a whiting, it’s a snake. Wigmaker, I’ll go and get a locksmith, and I’ll have a bell put on your tail.” That wigmaker had made him aggressive. He addressed, as he stepped over a stream, a bearded porteress, worthy of meeting Faust on the Brocken, who had her broom in her hand. “Madame,” he said to her, “are you going out with your horse?” And with that, he splashed the patent leather boots of a passerby. “Funny!” shouted the passerby furiously. Gavroche raised his nose above his shawl. “Is the gentleman complaining? ” “About you!” said the passerby. “The office is closed,” said Gavroche, “I’m not receiving any more complaints.” However, as he continued up the street, he noticed, frozen solid under a carriage entrance, a beggar girl of thirteen or fourteen, so scantily clad that her knees were visible. The little girl was beginning to be too big for that. Growth plays tricks on you. The skirt becomes short at the moment when nudity becomes indecent. “Poor girl!” said Gavroche. “It doesn’t even have breeches. Here, always take these.” And, undoing all the good wool he had around his neck, he threw it over the beggar’s thin, purple shoulders, where the muffler became a shawl again. The little girl looked at him with an astonished air and received the shawl in silence. At a certain point of distress, the poor man, in his stupor, no longer moaned for the evil and no longer gave thanks for the good. That said: “Brrr!” said Gavroche, more shivering than Saint Martin, who, at least, had kept half his cloak. On that brrr! the downpour, redoubling in temper, raged. These bad skies punish good deeds. “Oh, what!” cried Gavroche, “what does that mean? It’s raining again! Good God, if it continues, I’ll unsubscribe. ” And he set off again. “It doesn’t matter,” he continued, glancing at the beggar woman who was curled up under the shawl, “that’s one with a nasty skin.” And, looking at the cloud, he shouted: “Caught! ” The two children fell in behind him. As they passed one of those thick grilled trellises that indicate a baker’s shop, for bread is put like gold behind iron gratings, Gavroche turned: “Oh, kids, have we had dinner?” “Sir,” replied the eldest, “we haven’t eaten since earlier this morning.” “So you are without father or mother?” Gavroche continued majestically. “Excuse me, sir, we have papa and mama, but we don’t know where they are. ” “Sometimes it’s better than knowing,” said Gavroche, who was a thinker. “There,” continued the elder, “we’ve been walking for two hours, we’ve been looking for things at the corners of the boundary markers, but we can’t find anything.” “I know,” said Gavroche. “It’s the dogs that eat everything.” He continued after a silence: “Ah! we’ve lost our authors. We don’t know what we ‘ve done with them. It shouldn’t be, kids. It’s stupid to mislead older people like that. Oh, you must! You have to lick them, though. ” Besides, he didn’t ask them any questions. Being homeless, what could be simpler? The elder of the two children, almost entirely returned to the prompt carefreeness of childhood, exclaimed: “It’s funny all the same. Mama said she would take us to get blessed boxwood on Palm Sunday. ” “Neurs,” replied Gavroche. “Mama,” continued the elder, “is a lady who lives with Miss. ” “Tanflûte,” rejoined Gavroche. Meanwhile, he had stopped, and for several minutes he had been feeling and searching all sorts of nooks and crannies in his rags. Finally, he raised his head with an air that only wanted to be satisfied, but which was in reality triumphant. “Let’s calm down, you little fools. Here’s enough supper for three.” And he took a sou from one of his pockets. Without giving the two little ones time to be amazed, he pushed them both before him into the baker’s shop, and put his sou on the counter, shouting: “Waiter! Five centimes worth of bread.” The baker, who was the master himself, took a loaf and a knife. “In three pieces, waiter!” Gavroche resumed, and added with dignity: “There are three of us.” And seeing that the baker, after examining the three suppers, had taken a brown loaf, he plunged his finger deep into his nose with an aspiration as imperious as if he had had on the end of his thumb the great Frederick’s snuff plug, and threw this indignant apostrophe right in the baker’s face : “What’s that?” Those of our readers who might be tempted to see in Gavroche’s address to the baker a Russian or Polish word, or one of those wild cries that the Yoways and the Botocudos throw at each other from the banks of one river to another across the solitudes, are warned that it is a word that they (our readers) say every day and which replaces this sentence: what is that? The baker understood perfectly and replied: “Well, it’s bread, very good second-rate bread.” “You mean raw bread,” Gavroche continued, calm and coldly disdainful. “White bread, waiter! Soaped bread! I’m treating you. ” The baker could not help smiling, and while cutting the white bread, he regarded them in a compassionate way that shocked Gavroche. “Oh, now, baker!” he said, “what are you doing looking us up and down like that? All three of them put end to end, they would have barely made a fathom.” When the bread was cut, the baker took the penny, and Gavroche said to the two children: “Hang on.” The little boys looked at him, speechless. Gavroche began to laugh: “Ah! Well, that’s true, it doesn’t know yet, it’s so small.” And he continued: “Eat.” At the same time, he handed each of them a piece of bread. And, thinking that the eldest, who seemed more worthy of his conversation, deserved some special encouragement and should be freed from any hesitation in satisfying his appetite, he added, giving him the largest piece: “Stick this in your rifle.” There was one piece smaller than the other two; he took it for himself.
The poor children were starving, including Gavroche. While tearing off their bread with gusto, they cluttered the baker’s shop, who, now that he was paid, looked at them crossly. “Let’s go back into the street,” said Gavroche. They headed back towards the Bastille. From time to time, as they passed the fronts of lighted shops, the youngest would stop to check the time on a lead watch hanging from his neck by a string. “That’s definitely a strong canary,” said Gavroche. Then, thoughtfully, he grumbled between his teeth: “It doesn’t matter, if I had kids, I’d keep them better than that.” As they finished their piece of bread and reached the corner of that gloomy Rue des Ballets, at the end of which you can see the low, hostile ticket office of La Force: “Well, is that you, Gavroche?” someone said. “Well, is that you, Montparnasse?” Gavroche said. It was a man who had just approached the boy, and this man was none other than Montparnasse in disguise, with blue spectacles, but recognizable to Gavroche. “Small fellow,” Gavroche continued, “your skin is the color of flaxseed poultice and blue spectacles like a doctor’s. You have style, I promise you! ” “Hush,” said Montparnasse, “not so high!” And he quickly led Gavroche out of the light of the shops. The two little ones followed mechanically, holding hands. When they were under the black archivolt of a carriage entrance, sheltered looks and rain: “Do you know where I’m going?” asked Montparnasse. “To the Abbey of Monte-à-Regret,” said Gavroche. “Fool!” And Montparnasse continued: “I’m going to find Babet. ” “Ah!” said Gavroche, “her name is Babet. ” Montparnasse lowered his voice. “Not her, him. ” “Ah! Babet! ” “Yes, Babet. ” “I thought he was buckled. ” “He’s undone the buckle,” replied Montparnasse. And he quickly told the boy that, on the morning of the very day they were, Babet, having been transferred to the Conciergerie, had escaped by turning left instead of right into “the corridor of instruction.” Gavroche admired the skill. “What a dentist!” he said. Montparnasse added a few details about Babet’s escape, and ended with: “Oh! that’s not all.” Gavroche, while listening, had seized a cane that Montparnasse was holding in his hand; he had mechanically pulled out the upper part, and the blade of a dagger had appeared. “Ah!” he said, quickly pushing the dagger away, “you’ve brought your gendarme disguised as a bourgeois. ” Montparnasse winked. “Blimey!” Gavroche continued, “are you going to grapple with the cops? ” “We don’t know,” replied Montparnasse with an indifferent air. “It’s always good to have a pin on you. ” Gavroche persisted: “What are you going to do tonight?” Montparnasse took the low string again and said, mumbling the syllables: “Things.” And, abruptly changing the conversation: “By the way! What? ” “A story from the other day. Imagine that. I meet a bourgeois. He gives me a sermon and his purse as a present. I put that in my pocket. A minute later, I rummaged in my pocket. There was nothing left. “Only the sermon,” Gavroche said. “But you,” Montparnasse continued, “where are you going now?” Gavroche pointed to his two charges and said: “I’m going to put these children to sleep. ” “Where? ” “At my place. ” “Where? ” “At yours. ” “At my place.” ” So you’re staying? ” “Yes, I’m staying. ” “And where are you staying? ” “In the elephant,” Gavroche said. Montparnasse, although by nature not very surprised, could not restrain an exclamation: “In the elephant! ” “Well, yes, in the elephant!” Gavroche replied. “Kekçaa? ” This is another word in the language that no one writes and everyone speaks. Kekçaa means: what’s the matter with it? ” The boy’s profound observation brought Montparnasse back to calm and common sense. He seemed to return to better feelings about Gavroche’s lodgings . “By the way!” he said, “yes, the elephant. Is it comfortable there? ” “Very comfortable,” said Gavroche. “There, really, snugly. There are no winds running like under bridges. ” “How do you get in? ” “I’m going in. ” “So there’s a hole?” asked Montparnasse. “Of course! But you mustn’t say so. It’s between the front legs. The cockers didn’t see it. ” “And you climb up? Yes, I understand. ” “A quick turn of the hand, jack, crack, it’s done, no one left. ” After a silence, Gavroche added: “For these little ones I’ll have a ladder.” Montparnasse began to laugh. “Where the devil did you get these kids?” Gavroche replied simply: “They’re some mummicards that a wigmaker gave me.” Meanwhile, Montparnasse had become thoughtful. “You recognized me quite easily,” he murmured. He took from his pocket two small objects which were nothing other than two quill pens wrapped in cotton and inserted one into each nostril. This gave him a different nose. “That’s a change for you,” said Gavroche, “you’re less ugly, you should always keep that. ” Montparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gavroche was a mocker. “No kidding,” asked Montparnasse, “what do you think of me?” It was also another sound of voice. In the twinkling of an eye, Montparnasse had become unrecognizable. “Oh! make us Porrichinelle!” cried Gavroche. The two little ones, who had not listened to anything until then, busy as they themselves were sticking their fingers in their noses, approached at the sound of this name and looked at Montparnasse with a beginning of joy and admiration. Unfortunately, Montparnasse was worried. He placed his hand on Gavroche’s shoulder and said to him, emphasizing the words: “Listen to what I’m telling you, boy, if I were in the square, with my mastiff, my dagger, and my dike, and if you lavished ten sous on me, I wouldn’t refuse to play there, but it’s not Shrove Tuesday.” This strange phrase had a singular effect on the boy. He turned quickly, looked his bright little eyes around him with profound attention , and saw, a few steps away, a policeman with his back to them. Gavroche let out an “Ah, good!” which he immediately suppressed, and, shaking Montparnasse’s hand: “Well, good evening,” he said, “I’m going to my elephant with my kids. Supposing you needed me one night, you could come and find me there. I’m staying on the mezzanine. There’s no porter. You could ask for Monsieur Gavroche. ” “All right,” said Montparnasse. And they separated, Montparnasse walking towards the Grève and Gavroche towards the Bastille. The five-year-old, dragged along by his brother, whom Gavroche was dragging along, turned his head back several times to see “Porrichinelle” go away. The amphigory with which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche of the presence of the policeman contained no other talisman than the assonance _dig_ repeated five or six times in various forms. This syllable _dig_, not pronounced in isolation, but artistically mixed with the words of a sentence, means:–_Let us be careful, we cannot speak freely_. –There was, moreover, in Montparnasse’s sentence a literary beauty which escaped Gavroche, _it is my dog, my dagger and, my dike_, an expression from the slang of the Temple which means, _my dog, my knife and my wife,_ much in use among the clowns and the red-tails of the great century when Molière wrote and Callot drew. Twenty years ago, one could still see in the southeast corner of the Place de la Bastille near the canal station dug in the old ditch of the prison-citadel, a bizarre monument which has already faded from the memory of Parisians, and which deserved to leave some trace there, for it was a thought of the “member of the Institute, general-in-chief of the army of Egypt.” We say monument, although it was only a model. But this model itself, a prodigious sketch, the grandiose corpse of an idea of Napoleon’s which two or three successive gusts of wind had carried away and thrown each time further from us, had become historical, and had taken on I know not what definitive quality which contrasted with its provisional aspect. It was an elephant forty feet high, built of timber and masonry, carrying on its back its tower which resembled a house, formerly painted green by some whitewasher, now painted black by the sky, the rain and time. In this deserted and open corner of the square, the broad forehead of the colossus, its trunk, its tusks, its tower, its enormous rump, its four feet like columns made, at night, against the starry sky, a surprising and terrible silhouette. No one knew what it meant . It was a sort of symbol of popular strength. It was dark, enigmatic and immense. It was some powerful ghost , visible and standing beside the invisible spectre of the Bastille. Few foreigners visited this building, no passerby looked at it. It was falling into ruin; every season, plaster detached from its sides, leaving hideous wounds. The “ediles,” as they say, in elegant patois, had forgotten him since 1814. He was there in his corner, gloomy, sick, crumbling, surrounded by a rotten fence, soiled every moment by drunken coachmen; cracks were ripping through his stomach, a slat was sticking out of his tail, tall grass was growing between his legs; and as the level of the square had been rising for thirty years all around by that slow and continuous movement which imperceptibly raises the ground in large cities, he was in a hollow and it seemed that the earth was sinking beneath him. He was filthy, despised, repulsive and superb, ugly in the eyes of the bourgeois, melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. He had something of a piece of filth that is about to be swept away and something of a majesty that is about to be decapitated. As we have said, at night his appearance changed. Night is the true center of all that is shadow. As soon as dusk fell, the old elephant was transfigured; it took on a tranquil and formidable figure in the formidable serenity of the darkness. Being of the past, it was of the night; and this darkness suited its grandeur. This monument, rough, squat, heavy, harsh, austere, almost deformed, but certainly majestic and imbued with a sort of magnificent and savage gravity, disappeared to leave reigning in peace the kind of gigantic stove, adorned with its pipe, which replaced the somber fortress with nine towers, much as the bourgeoisie replaces feudalism. It is quite simple that a stove is the symbol of an era whose power is contained in a pot. This era will pass, it is already passing; we are beginning to understand that, if there can be force in a boiler, there can be power only in a brain; in other words, that what leads and drives the world are not locomotives, but ideas. Harnessing locomotives to ideas is fine; but don’t mistake the horse for the rider. In any case, to return to the Place de la Bastille, the architect of the elephant with plaster had succeeded in making something grand; the architect of the stovepipe succeeded in making something small with bronze. This stovepipe, which was baptized with a sonorous name and named the July Column, this failed monument to an aborted revolution, was still wrapped in 1832 by an immense wooden jacket that we for our part regret, and by a vast enclosure of planks, which completed the isolation of the elephant. It was toward this corner of the square, barely lit by the reflection of a distant street lamp, that the boy directed the two “kids.” Let us interrupt ourselves here and recall that we are in simple reality, and that twenty years ago the criminal courts had to judge, on charges of vagrancy and breaking a public monument, a child who had been caught lying inside the very interior of the elephant of the Bastille. This fact having been established, we continue. Arriving near the colossus, Gavroche understood the effect that the infinitely large can produce on the infinitely small, and said: “Kids! Don’t be afraid.” Then he entered through a gap in the palisade into the enclosure of the elephant and helped the kids to leap over the breach. The two children, a little frightened, followed Gavroche without saying a word and confided in this little providence in rags who had given them bread and promised them shelter. There, lying along the palisade, was a ladder which was used during the day by the workmen on the neighboring construction site. Gavroche lifted it with singular vigor, and applied it against one of the elephant’s front legs . Toward the point where the ladder was about to end, a sort of black hole could be seen in the belly of the colossus. Gavroche showed the ladder and the hole to his guests and said to them: “Come up and go in. ” The two little boys looked at each other, terrified. “You’re scared, kids!” cried Gavroche. And he added: “You’ll see.” He clasped the elephant’s rough foot, and in the twinkling of an eye, without deigning to use the ladder, he arrived at the crevice. He entered it like a snake slipping into a crack, he sank down, and a moment later the two children vaguely saw his pale head appear, like a whitish and pale form, at the edge of the hole full of darkness. “Well,” he shouted, “come up, you little fools! You’ll see how comfortable we are!” “Come up, you!” he said to the eldest, “I’ll hold out my hand to you.” The little ones pushed each other with their shoulders; the boy frightened them and reassured them at the same time, and besides, it was raining very hard. The eldest took a risk. The youngest, seeing his brother come up and himself left all alone between the legs of this big beast, felt like crying, but he didn’t dare. The eldest was climbing the rungs of the ladder, staggering as he went; Gavroche, on the way, encouraged him with exclamations like a fencing master to his pupils or a muleteer to his mules: “Don’t be afraid! ” “That’s it! ” “Keep going! ” “Put your foot there! ” “Your hand here. ” “Bold!” And when he was within reach, he suddenly and vigorously seized him by the arm and pulled him towards him. “Gobbled!” he said. The kid had crossed the crevasse. “Now,” Gavroche said, “wait for me. Sir, take the trouble to sit down.” And, coming out of the crevasse as he had entered, he let himself slide with the agility of a marmoset down the elephant’s leg, he fell upright on his feet in the grass, seized the five-year-old boy by the body and planted him right in the middle of the ladder, then he began to climb up after him, shouting to the elder: “I’ll push him, you’ll pull him.” In an instant the little one was mounted, pushed, dragged, pulled, stuffed, stuffed into the hole without having had time to recognize himself, and Gavroche, coming in after him, kicking back the ladder which fell onto the grass, began to clap his hands and shout: “Here we are! Long live General Lafayette!” This outburst having passed, he added: “Kids, you are in my house.” Gavroche was indeed at home. O unexpected usefulness of the useless! Charity of great things! Kindness of giants! This enormous monument, which had contained a thought of the Emperor, had become a child’s box. The kid had been accepted and sheltered by the colossus. The bourgeois in their Sunday best who passed before the elephant of the Bastille readily said, looking at it with a contemptuous air and their bulging eyes: “What is it for?” “It served to save from the cold, from the frost, from the hail, from the rain, to protect from the winter wind, to preserve from the sleep in the mud that gives fever and from the sleep in the snow that gives death, a little being without father or mother, without bread, without clothes, without shelter. It served to take in the innocent whom society rejected. It served to diminish public guilt. It was a den open to the one to whom all doors were closed. It seemed that the miserable old mastodon, invaded by vermin and oblivion, covered with warts, mold, and ulcers, tottering, worm-eaten, abandoned, condemned, a sort of colossal beggar asking in vain for alms with a kindly look in the middle of the crossroads, had taken pity on this other beggar, the poor pygmy who went about without shoes on his feet, without a ceiling over his head, blowing into his fingers, dressed in rags, fed on what was thrown away. That was the purpose of the elephant of the Bastille. This idea of Napoleon’s, disdained by men, had been taken up by God. What would have been merely illustrious had become august. To realize what he meditated, the Emperor would have needed porphyry, bronze, iron, gold, marble; to God the old assembly of planks, joists and plaster was enough. The Emperor had had a dream of genius; in this titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, raising its trunk, carrying its tower, and making joyful and life-giving waters gush forth from all sides around it , he wanted to incarnate the people; God had made something greater of it, he lodged a child there. The hole through which Gavroche had entered was a breach barely visible from the outside, hidden as it was, as we have said, under the belly of the elephant, and so narrow that hardly anyone but cats and children could pass through. “Let us begin,” said Gavroche, “by telling the porter that we are not there.” And plunging into the darkness with the certainty of someone who knows his apartment, he took a plank and plugged the hole. Gavroche plunged back into the darkness. The children heard the sniff of the match stuck in the phosphoric bottle. The chemical match did not yet exist; the Fumade lighter represented progress at that time. A sudden brightness made them blink; Gavroche had just lit one of those pieces of string dipped in resin that are called cellar rats . The cellar rat, which smoked more than it lit, made the inside of the elephant dimly visible. Gavroche’s two guests looked around them and felt something similar to what someone would feel if they were shut up in the big barrel of Heidelberg, or better still to what Jonah must have felt in the biblical belly of the whale. A whole gigantic skeleton appeared before them and enveloped them. At the top, a long brown beam from which massive arched members extended at intervals represented the spinal column with the ribs. Plaster stalactites hung from it like viscera, and from one side to the other vast cobwebs made powdery diaphragms. Here and there in the corners one could see large blackish spots which looked alive and which moved rapidly with a sudden and frightened movement. The debris which had fallen from the elephant’s back onto its belly had filled the concavity, so that one could walk on it as if on a floor. The smallest shrank against his brother and said in a low voice: “It’s black.” This word made Gavroche exclaim. The petrified looks of the two kids made a jolt necessary. “What are you doing to me?” he cried. “Are we joking? Are we acting disgusted?” Don’t you need the Tuileries? Are you brutes? Say so. I warn you that I’m not in the regiment of idiots. Oh, are you the Pope’s mustard-maker’s brats? A little roughness is good in times of terror. It’s reassuring. The two children approached Gavroche. Gavroche, paternally moved by this confidence, passed “from grave to gentle” and, addressing the younger one: “Bêta,” he said to him, accentuating the insult with a caressing nuance, “it’s outside that it’s dark. Outside it’s raining, here it’s not raining; outside it’s cold, here there isn’t a breath of wind; outside there are heaps of people, here there’s no one; outside there isn’t even the moon, here there’s my candle, damn it!” The two children were beginning to look at the apartment with less terror; but Gavroche did not give them any longer the leisure for contemplation. “Quickly,” he said. And he pushed them toward what we are very happy to be able to call the back of the room. There was his bed. Gavroche’s bed was complete. That is to say, there was a mattress, a blanket, and an alcove with curtains. The mattress was a straw mat, the blanket a rather large loincloth of coarse gray wool, very warm and almost new. This is what the alcove was: Three fairly long stakes driven and consolidated into the gravel of the ground, that is to say, of the elephant’s belly, two in front, one behind, and joined by a rope at their summit, so as to form a pyramidal bundle. This bundle supported a trellis of brass wire which was simply placed on top, but artistically applied and held in place by iron wire ties, so that it completely enveloped the three stakes. A cord of large stones fixed all around this trellis to the ground, so as to let nothing through. This trellis was nothing other than a piece of the copper wire netting with which aviaries are covered in menageries. Gavroche’s bed was under this netting as in a cage. The whole thing resembled an Eskimo tent. It was this netting which served as curtains. Gavroche slightly disturbed the stones which held the netting in place in front; the two sides of the netting which fell back on each other moved apart. “Kids, on all fours!” said Gavroche. He carefully led his guests into the cage, then he crept in after them, brought the stones together, and tightly closed the opening. All three of them lay down on the mat. Small as they were, none of them could have stood upright in the alcove. Gavroche still had the cellar rat in his hand. “Now,” he said, “go to sleep! I’m going to remove the candelabra. ” “Sir,” the elder of the two brothers asked Gavroche, pointing to the wire netting, “what is this? ” “This,” said Gavroche gravely, “is for rats.” “Go to sleep! ” However, he felt obliged to add a few words for the instruction of these young creatures, and he continued: “These are things from the Botanical Gardens. They’re used for wild animals. There’s a store full of them.” _Gnia_ (all you have to do is climb over a wall, through a window, and under a door. You can have as many as you want.) While speaking, he wrapped a piece of the blanket around the little one , who murmured: “Oh! That’s good! That’s warm!” Gavroche fixed a satisfied eye on the blanket. “It’s from the Jardin des Plantes again,” he said. “I took that from the monkeys.” And showing the elder the mat on which he was lying, a very thick and admirably worked mat, he added: “That was from the giraffe.” After a pause, he continued: “The animals had all that. I took it from them. It didn’t upset them. I told them: It’s for the elephant.” He fell silent again and continued: “We can climb over walls and we don’t care about the government. There you go.” The two children looked with fearful and stupefied respect at this intrepid and inventive being, a vagabond like themselves, isolated like themselves, puny like themselves, who had something admirable and all-powerful about him, who seemed supernatural to them, and whose physiognomy was composed of all the grimaces of an old acrobat mingled with the most naive and charming smile. “Sir,” said the elder timidly, “are you not afraid of the police officers? ” Gavroche merely replied: “Kid! We don’t say the police officers, we say the cops.” The little one had his eyes open, but he said nothing. As he was at the edge of the mat, the elder being in the middle, Gavroche tucked the blanket under his head as a mother would have done and raised the mat under his head with old rags so as to make a pillow for the kid. Then he turned towards the elder. “Huh? We’re pretty comfortable here! ” “Oh, yes!” replied the elder, looking at Gavroche with the expression of a saved angel. The two poor little children, all wet, were beginning to warm up. “Oh, come on,” continued Gavroche, “why were you crying?” And pointing at the little one to his brother: “A kid like that, I don’t say anything; but a big one like you, crying is stupid; you look like a calf. ” “Lady,” said the child, “we had no lodgings to go to at all.” “Moutard!” Gavroche continued, “we don’t say un logement, we say une piolle. ” “And then we were afraid of being all alone like that at night. ” “We don’t say la nuit, we say la sorgue. ” “Thank you, sir,” said the child. “Listen,” Gavroche replied, “you must never complain about anything again. I’ll take care of you. You’ll see how much fun we have. In the summer, we’ll go to the Glacière with Navet, a friend of mine, we’ll bathe at the Gare, we’ll run naked on the trains in front of the Pont d’Austerlitz, it makes the laundresses furious. They scream, they snort, if you only knew how funny they are! We’ll go see the skeleton man. He ‘s alive. On the Champs-Élysées. He’s as thin as anything, that parishioner. And then I’ll take you to the show. I’ll take you to Frédérick-Lemaître.” I have tickets, I know actors, I even acted in a play once. We were kids like that, we ran around under a canvas, it sounded like the sea. I’ll get you hired at my theater. We’ll go see the savages. It’s not true, those savages. They have pink jerseys that make pleats, and you can see patches of white thread at their elbows. After that, we’ll go to the Opera. We’ll go in with the claqueurs. The claque at the Opera is very well composed. I wouldn’t go with the claque on the boulevards. At the Opera, imagine, there are some who pay twenty sous, but they’re idiots. We call them wimps.–And then we’ll go see the guillotine. I’ll show you the executioner. He lives on the Rue des Marais, Monsieur Sanson. There’s a mailbox at the door. Ah! We’re having a wonderful time! At that moment, a drop of wax fell on Gavroche’s finger and reminded him of the realities of life. “Good heavens!” he said, “the wick’s wearing out. Look out! I can’t spend more than a penny a month on my lighting. When you go to bed, you have to sleep. We don’t have time to read novels by Monsieur Paul de Kock. With that, the light could pass through the cracks in the carriage entrance, and the thugs would only have to see. ” “And then,” timidly observed the elder, who alone dared to talk to Gavroche and give him the answer, “a smokestack might fall into the straw; we must be careful not to burn the house down. ” “They don’t say burn the house down,” said Gavroche, they say riffauder le bocard (the spit of smoke). The storm was intensifying. Through the rolling thunder, they could hear the downpour beating against the colossus’s back. “Sunken, the rain!” said Gavroche. It amuses me to hear the carafe trickle down the legs of the house. Winter is a beast; he loses his merchandise, he loses his effort, he can’t get us wet, and that makes him grumble, that old water carrier. This allusion to thunder, of which Gavroche, as a nineteenth-century philosopher, accepted all the consequences, was followed by a broad flash of lightning, so dazzling that something entered through the crevice in the elephant’s belly. Almost at the same time the lightning rumbled, and very furiously. The two little ones gave a cry, and rose up so quickly that the trellis was almost pushed aside; but Gavroche turned his bold face towards them and took advantage of the thunderclap to burst out laughing. “Calm down, children. Let’s not upset the building. That’s some fine thunder, all right! That’s not just a trifle of lightning. Bravo, God!” Oh, my God! It’s almost as good as the Ambigu. That said, he tidied up the trelliswork, gently pushed the two children onto the headboard, pressed their knees to stretch them out fully, and cried: “Since the good Lord is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine. Children, you must sleep, my young humans. It’s very bad not to sleep. It would make you stink from the corridor, or, as they say in high society, stink from the mouth. Wrap yourselves in some skin! I’m going to put it out. Are you there?” “Yes,” murmured the eldest, “I’m fine. It feels like a feather under my head. ” “You don’t say ‘the head,'” cried Gavroche, “you say ‘the face.’ ” The two children huddled together. Gavroche finished arranging them on the mat and pulled the blanket up to their ears, then repeated for the third time the injunction in the hieratic language: “Sleep!” And he blew out the candle. Hardly had the light gone out than a singular tremor began to shake the trellis under which the three children were lying. It was a multitude of dull rubbings that made a metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were grinding on the copper wire. This was accompanied by all sorts of shrill little cries. The little five-year-old boy, hearing this uproar above his head and frozen with terror, nudged his older brother with his elbow, but the older brother was already “dozing,” as Gavroche had ordered him. Then the little boy, no longer able to bear it with fear, dared to call out to Gavroche, but in a low voice, holding his breath: “Sir? ” “Huh?” asked Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes. “What is that? ” “It’s the rats,” replied Gavroche. And he put his head back on the mat. The rats, in fact, which swarmed by the thousands in the elephant ‘s carcass and which were those living black spots of which we have spoken, had been kept in check by the candle flame as long as it had burned, but as soon as this cavern, which was like their city, had been restored to night, smelling there what the good storyteller Perrault calls “fresh flesh,” they had rushed in a crowd on Gavroche’s tent, climbed to the top, and bit the mesh as if they were trying to pierce this new kind of tinker’s tent. However, the little one did not fall asleep. “Sir!” he continued. “Huh?” said Gavroche. “What are rats then? ” “They’re mice.” This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white mice in his life and he had not been afraid of them. However, he raised his voice again: “Sir?” “Huh?” Gavroche repeated. “Why don’t you have a cat? ” “I had one,” Gavroche replied. “I brought one, but they ate it for me. ” This second explanation undid the first, and the little one began to tremble again. The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time. “Sir! ” “Huh?
” “Who was eaten? ” “The cat. ” “Who ate the cat? ” “The rats. ” “The mice? ” “Yes, the rats.” The child, dismayed by these mice eating cats, continued: “Sir, would they eat us, those mice?” “Of course!” Gavroche said. The child’s terror was at its height. But Gavroche added: “Don’t be afraid! They can’t get in. And besides, I’m here! Here, take my hand. Be quiet and sleep!” Gavroche at the same time took the little one’s hand over his brother’s. The child pressed this hand against him and felt reassured. Courage and strength have these mysterious communications. Silence had returned around them, the sound of voices had frightened and driven away the rats; after a few minutes they came back and raged, the three kids, deep in sleep, heard nothing more. The hours of the night passed. Shadow covered the immense Place de la Bastille, a winter wind that mingled with the rain blew in gusts, the patrols ferreted out the doors, the alleys, the enclosures, the dark corners, and, looking for nocturnal vagabonds, passed silently in front of the elephant; the monster, standing motionless, its eyes open in the darkness, seemed to be dreaming as if satisfied with his good deed, and sheltered the three poor sleeping children from the sky and from men . To understand what follows, it must be remembered that at that time the guardhouse of the Bastille was located at the other end of the square, and that what was happening near the elephant could neither be seen nor heard by the sentry. Towards the end of this hour which immediately precedes daybreak, a man came running out of the rue Saint-Antoine, crossed the square, turned the large enclosure of the July Column, and slipped between the palisades to under the belly of the elephant. If any light had illuminated this man, from the deep way in which he was wet, one would have guessed that he had spent the night in the rain. Arriving under the elephant, he uttered a strange cry which belongs to no human language and which only a parakeet could reproduce. He repeated twice this cry, the spelling of which is as follows, barely giving any idea: –Kirikikiou! At the second cry, a clear, cheerful, and young voice answered from the elephant’s belly: “Yes.” Almost immediately, the board closing the hole moved and gave way to a child who climbed down the elephant’s foot and nimbly fell near the man. It was Gavroche. The man was Montparnasse. As for that cry, “kirikikiou,” that was no doubt what the child meant by: “You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche.” Hearing it, he woke with a start, crawled out of his “alcove,” parting the wire mesh a little, then carefully closing it, then opened the trapdoor and climbed down. The man and the child recognized each other silently in the night; Montparnasse merely said: “We need you. Come and give us a hand.” The boy did not ask for any further explanation. “Here I am,” he said. And both of them headed towards Rue Saint-Antoine, from which Montparnasse emerged, winding quickly through the long line of market gardeners’ carts that descend at that hour towards the market hall. The market gardeners squatting in their carts among the salads and vegetables, half asleep, buried up to their eyes in their roulières because of the pouring rain, did not even look at these strange passers-by. Chapter 30. The Adventures of the Escape. This is what had taken place that same night at La Force: An escape had been arranged between Babet, Brujon, Gueulemer and Thénardier, although Thénardier was in solitary confinement. Babet had arranged the escape on his own behalf, that very day, as we have seen from Montparnasse’s account to Gavroche. Montparnasse was to help them from outside. Brujon, having spent a month in a punishment chamber, had had time, firstly, to braid a rope there, secondly, to mature a plan.
Formerly these severe places where prison discipline leaves the condemned to himself, were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a flagstone pavement, a camp bed, a grilled skylight, a door lined with iron, and were called dungeons; but the dungeon was judged too horrible; now it is composed of an iron door, a grilled skylight, a camp bed, a flagstone pavement, a stone ceiling, four stone walls, and it is called a punishment chamber. It is a little light there around noon. The disadvantage of these rooms which, as we see, are not dungeons, is that they allow people to think who should be put to work. Brujon had thought, and he had left the punishment chamber with a rope. As he was considered very dangerous in the Charlemagne court, he was put in the New Building. The first thing he found in the New Building was Gueulemer, the second was a nail; Gueulemer, that is to say the crime, a nail, that is to say the freedom. Brujon, of whom it is time to form a complete idea, was, with an appearance of delicate complexion and a deeply premeditated languor, a polite, intelligent, and thief-like fellow who had a caressing look and a terrible smile. His look resulted from his will and his smile resulted from his nature. His first studies in his art had been directed towards roofs; he had made great progress in the industry of lead strippers who strip roofs and skin gutters by the process called _au gras-double_. What completed the favorable moment for an escape attempt was that the roofers were, at that very moment, reworking and repointing part of the slates of the prison. The Saint-Bernard courtyard was no longer absolutely isolated from the Charlemagne courtyard and the Saint-Louis courtyard. There were scaffolding and ladders up there ; in other words, bridges and stairs on the side of deliverance. The New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit building in the world, was the weak point of the prison. The walls were so eaten away by saltpeter that they had been obliged to cover the vaults of the dormitories with wood, because stones were falling off them and falling on the prisoners in their beds. Despite this dilapidation, they made the mistake of locking up the most disturbing accused in the New Building, of putting “the strong cases” there, as they say in prison language. The New Building contained four dormitories one on top of the other and an attic which was called the Bel-Air. A large chimney flue, probably from some old kitchen of the Dukes of La Force, started from the ground floor, crossed the four floors, cut in two all the dormitories where it represented a kind of flattened pillar, and was going to pierce the roof. Gueulemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been put as a precaution on the lower floor. As luck would have it, the heads of their beds rested on the chimney flue. Thénardier was precisely above their heads in this attic called the Bel-Air. The passerby who stops on rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, after the fire station, in front of the carriage entrance of the Maison des Bains, sees a courtyard full of flowers and shrubs in boxes, at the end of which develops, with two wings, a small white rotunda brightened by green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean-Jacques. The Saint-Bernard courtyard
was no longer completely isolated from the Charlemagne courtyard and the Saint-Louis courtyard. There were scaffolding and ladders up there ; in other words, bridges and staircases on the side of the deliverance. The New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit thing in the world , was the weak point of the prison. The walls were so eaten away by saltpeter that they had been obliged to cover the vaults of the dormitories with a wooden facing, because stones were falling off them and falling on the prisoners in their beds. Despite this dilapidation, they made the mistake of locking up the most disturbing accused in the New Building, of putting “the strong cases” there, as they say in prison language. The New Building contained four dormitories one on top of the other and an attic called the Bel-Air. A large chimney flue, probably from some old kitchen of the Dukes of La Force, started from the ground floor, crossed the four floors, cut in two all the dormitories where it represented a kind of flattened pillar, and was going to pierce the roof. Gueulemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been put on the lower floor as a precaution. As luck would have it, the heads of their beds rested on the chimney flue. Thénardier was precisely above their heads in this attic called the Bel-Air. The passerby who stops on rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine, after the barracks firemen, in front of the carriage entrance of the Maison des Bains, sees a courtyard full of flowers and shrubs in boxes, at the end of which develops, with two wings, a small white rotunda brightened by green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean-Jacques. Not more than ten years ago, above this rotunda rose a black wall, enormous, hideous, bare, against which it was backed. It was the wall of the patrol path of La Force. This wall behind this rotunda was Milton glimpsed behind Berquin. However high it was, this wall was exceeded by an even blacker roof that could be seen beyond. It was the roof of the Bâtiment-Neuf. There were four dormer-mansard windows armed with bars, they were the windows of the Bel-Air. A chimney pierced this roof; it was the chimney that crossed the dormitories. The Bel-Air, this attic of the Bâtiment-Neuf, was a kind of large attic hall, closed by triple grilles and doors lined with sheet metal studded with oversized nails. When one entered it from the north end, one had to one’s left the four skylights, and to one’s right, facing the skylights, four fairly large square cages, spaced apart, separated by narrow corridors, built up to the height of the sill in masonry and the rest up to the roof in iron bars. Thénardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages since the night of February 3. It was never discovered how, and by what connivance, he had managed to obtain and hide there a bottle of this wine invented, it is said, by Desrues, mixed with a narcotic and which the gang of _Endormeurs_ made famous. In many prisons there are traitorous employees, half jailers and half thieves, who help escapes, who sell unfaithful servants to the police, and who make the handle of the salad basket dance. On that same night, therefore, when little Gavroche had taken in the two wandering children, Brujon and Gueulemer, who knew that Babet, who had escaped that very morning, was waiting for them in the street, as well as Montparnasse, got up quietly and began to pierce with the nail that Brujon had found the chimney flue where their beds adjoined. The rubble fell on Brujon’s bed, so that they could not be heard. The showers mixed with thunder shook the doors on their hinges and made a dreadful and useful din in the prison. Those prisoners who awoke pretended to go back to sleep and let Gueulemer and Brujon do their thing. Brujon was clever; Gueulemer was vigorous. Before any noise had reached the overseer lying in the barred cell which opened onto the dormitory, the wall was pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron latticework which closed the upper opening of the pipe forced, and the two formidable bandits were on the roof. The rain and the wind redoubled, the roof was slipping. “What a good sorgue for a cramp!” said Brujon. An abyss six feet wide and eighty feet deep separated them from the patrol wall. At the bottom of this abyss they saw a sentry’s rifle gleaming in the darkness. They attached one end to the sections of the chimney bars they had just twisted the rope that Brujon had spun in his dungeon, threw the other end over the patrol wall, leaped across the abyss, clung to the rafter of the wall, straddled it, let themselves slide one after the other along the rope onto a small roof adjoining the house of the Baths, brought their rope back to them, jumped into the courtyard of the Baths, crossed it, pushed open the porter’s window, near which hung his cord, pulled the cord, opened the carriage entrance, and found themselves in the street. It was not three-quarters of an hour since they had risen upright from their beds in the darkness, their nail in their hands, their plan in their heads. A few moments later, they had joined Babet and Montparnasse who were prowling in the vicinity. While pulling their rope, they had broken it, and a piece remained attached to the chimney on the roof. Their only damage was that they had almost completely removed the skin from their hands. That night, Thénardier was warned, without anyone being able to clarify how, and did not sleep. Around one o’clock in the morning, the night being very dark, he saw two shadows pass over the roof, in the rain and the squall, in front of the skylight opposite his cage. One stopped at the skylight for a moment to look. It was Brujon. Thénardier recognized him, and understood. That was enough for him. Thénardier, reported as a scarp and held on suspicion of armed nighttime ambush, was under surveillance. A sentry, who was being relieved every two hours, was walking with a loaded rifle in front of his cage. The Bel-Air was lit by a wall lamp. The prisoner wore a pair of irons weighing fifty pounds on his feet.
Every day at four o’clock in the afternoon, a guard escorted by two mastiffs—this was still done at that time—would enter his cage, place near his bed a two-pound loaf of black bread, a jug of water, and a bowl full of a rather thin broth in which a few beans were swimming, inspect his irons, and knock on the bars. This man with his mastiffs returned twice during the night. Thénardier had obtained permission to keep a kind of iron peg which he used to nail his bread into a crack in the wall, “in order,” he said, “to protect it from rats.” Since Thénardier was kept under surveillance, no one found any harm in this peg. However, it was later remembered that a guard had said: “It would be better to leave him with only a wooden peg.” At two o’clock in the morning, the sentry, who was an old soldier, was replaced by a conscript. A few moments later, the man with the dogs made his visit and left without having noticed anything, except the excessive youth and the “peasant air” of the “tourlourou.” Two hours later, at four o’clock, when they came to relieve the conscript, they found him asleep and fallen to the ground like a block near Thénardier’s cage. As for Thénardier, he was no longer there. His broken irons were on the floor. There was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and above it, another hole in the roof. A plank of his bed had been torn off and doubtless carried away, for it was never found. They also seized in the cell a half-emptied bottle containing the remains of the stupefying wine with which the soldier had been put to sleep. The soldier’s bayonet had disappeared. At the moment this was discovered, Thénardier was believed to be beyond all reach. The reality is that he was no longer in the New Building, but he was still in great danger. His escape was not complete. Thénardier, upon arriving on the roof of the New Building, had found the rest of Brujon’s rope hanging from the bars of the upper trapdoor of the chimney, but this broken end being much too short, he had not been able to escape over the patrol path as Brujon and Gueulemer had done. When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, one comes across almost immediately on the right a sordid hollow. There was a house there in the last century of which only the back wall remains, a veritable hovel wall which rises to the height of a third story between the neighboring buildings. This ruin is recognizable by two large square windows which can still be seen there; the middle one, closest to the right gable, is barred with a worm-eaten beam fitted into a stay rafter. Through these windows one could once see a high, gloomy wall which was a piece of the enclosure of the Force patrol path. The void left on the street by the demolished house is half filled by a palisade of rotten planks buttressed with five boundary stones stone. Hidden within this fence is a small hut leaning against the ruin that still remains standing. The palisade has a door that, a few years ago, was closed only with a latch. It was on the crest of this ruin that Thénardier had arrived a little after three o’clock in the morning. How had he arrived there? This has never been explained or understood. The lightning must have both hindered and helped him. Had he used the roofers’ ladders and scaffolding to reach from roof to roof, from fence to fence, from compartment to compartment, the buildings of the Cour Charlemagne, then the buildings of the Cour Saint-Louis, the patrol wall, and from there the hovel on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But there were breaks in continuity in this journey that seemed to make it impossible. Had he laid the plank of his bed like a bridge from the roof of the Bel-Air to the wall of the patrol walk, and had he begun to crawl flat on his stomach on the rafter of the patrol wall all around the prison to the hovel? But the wall of the patrol walk of the Force drew a crenellated and uneven line, it rose and fell, it lowered at the fire station, it rose again at the Maison des Bains, it was cut by buildings, it was not the same height on the Hôtel Lamoignon as on the Rue Pavée, it had drops and right angles everywhere; and then the sentries should have seen the dark silhouette of the fugitive; in this way again the path taken by Thénardier remains almost inexplicable. In both cases, escape was impossible. Thénardier, illuminated by that frightening thirst for freedom which transforms precipices into ditches, iron railings into wicker hurdles, a legless man into an athlete, a gout patient into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intelligence and intelligence into genius, had Thénardier invented and improvised a third way? We have never known. We cannot always realize the wonders of escape. The man who escapes, let us repeat, is inspired; there is something of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious glow of flight; the effort towards deliverance is no less surprising than the flapping of the wings towards the sublime; and we say of an escaped thief: How did he manage to climb that roof? just as they say of Corneille: Where did he find _That he might die?_ However that may be, dripping with sweat, soaked by the rain, his clothes in tatters, his hands grazed, his elbows bleeding, his knees torn, Thénardier had arrived at what children, in their figurative language, call _the cutting edge_ of the wall of the ruin, he had lain down there at full length, and there his strength had failed him. A sheer escarpment the height of a third story separated him from the pavement of the street. The rope he had was too short. He waited there, pale, exhausted, despairing of all the hope he had had, still covered by night, but telling himself that day was coming, terrified by the idea of hearing before a few moments the neighboring clock of Saint-Paul strike four o’clock, the hour when they would come to relieve the sentry and find him asleep under the leaky roof, gazing in stupor, at a terrible depth, by the light of the street lamps, at the wet and black pavement, that desired and dreadful pavement which was death and which was freedom. He wondered if his three accomplices in escape had succeeded, if they had been waiting for him, and if they would come to his aid. He listened. Except for a patrol, no one had passed in the street since he had been there. Almost the entire descent of the market gardeners from Montreuil, Charonne, Vincennes and Bercy to the market hall is made by the rue Saint-Antoine. Four o’clock struck. Thénardier shuddered, a few moments later, that frightened and confused rumor which follows a discovered escape broke out in the prison. The noise of doors being opened and closed, the The creaking of the gates on their hinges, the tumult of the guardhouse, the hoarse calls of the turnkeys, the clash of rifle butts on the pavement of the courtyards, reached him. Lights rose and fell from the barred windows of the dormitories, a torch ran across the roof of the New Building, the firemen from the barracks next door had been called. Their helmets, lit by the torch in the rain, went back and forth along the roofs. At the same time, Thénardier saw, from the direction of the Bastille, a pale shade mournfully whitening the lower sky. He was on top of a ten-inch-wide wall, lying in the downpour, with two chasms on the right and left, unable to move, prey to the dizziness of a possible fall and the horror of certain arrest, and his thoughts, like the clapper of a bell, went from one of these ideas to the other: “Dead if I fall, caught if I stay.” In this anguish, he suddenly saw, the street still being completely dark, a man who was slipping along the walls and who was coming from the side of the Rue Pavée stop in the recess above which Thénardier was as if suspended. This man was joined by a second who was walking with the same caution, then by a third, then by a fourth. When these men were reunited, one of them lifted the latch of the gate of the stockade, and all four entered the enclosure where the hut is. They were precisely below Thénardier. These men had evidently chosen this recess so that they could talk without being seen by passers-by or the sentry guarding the Force wicket a few steps away. It must also be said that the rain kept this sentry stuck in his sentry box. Thénardier, unable to distinguish their faces, listened to their words with the desperate attention of a wretch who feels lost. Thénardier saw something resembling hope pass before his eyes; these men were speaking slang. The first said, low but distinctly: “Let’s get out of here. What are we making up here?” The second replied: “Let’s go. What are we doing here? ” “He’s busy putting out the rabouin’s riffe. And then the cockers will pass by, there’s a rogue there who’s keeping a lookout, we’ll get caught here. These two words, _icigo_ and _icicaille_, which both mean here, and which belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the second to the slang of the Temple, were rays of light for Thénardier. In icigo he recognized Brujon, who was a prowler at the barriers, and in icicaille Babet, who, among all his trades, had been a dealer at the Temple. The ancient slang of the grand century is now spoken only at the Temple, and Babet was the only one who spoke it quite purely. Without _icicaille_, Thénardier would not have recognized him, for he had completely distorted his voice. Meanwhile the third had intervened: “Nothing is urgent yet, let us wait a little. What tells us that he has no need of us?” By this, which was only French, Thénardier recognized Montparnasse, who made it his elegance to understand all the slangs and to speak none. As for the fourth, he was silent, but his broad shoulders gave him away. Thénardier didn’t hesitate. It was Gueulemer. Brujon replied almost impetuously, but still in a low voice: “What are you doing here? The upholsterer couldn’t have gotten his cramp. He doesn’t know the trick, you know! To roll his slug and mow down his empaffes to disguise a tortoise, to wedge bolins to the heavy ones, to braze faffes, to disguise caroubles, to mow down the tough ones, to throw his tortoise outside, to hide, to camouflage himself, you have to be a smart guy! The old man couldn’t have, he doesn’t know how to use a dope! ” Babet added, still in that wise classic slang that Poulailler and Cartouche spoke , and which is in bold, new, colorful and risky one that Brujon used what Racine’s language is to André Chénier’s language: –Your upholsterer’s organ will have been made brown in the staircase. You must be Arcasian. He’s a galifard. He will have let himself be harnessed by a roussin, perhaps even by a roussi, who will have beaten him to Comtois. Lend the oche, Montparnasse, do you hear those siftings in the college? You saw all those camouflages. He’s fallen, go! He’ll get off with pulling his twenty ropes. I don’t have work, I’m not a worker, it’s dove, but there’s nothing left to do but play the lizards, or otherwise we ‘ll have her gamboling. Don’t renaud, come with nousiergue, let’s go peck at a target rusty girl. –We don’t leave friends in the lurch, grumbled Montparnasse. “I’m glad he’s sick,” Brujon continued. “At this hour, the upholsterer isn’t worth a broque! We can’t do anything about it. Let’s get out of here. I
think at any moment someone will have me in their grip!” Montparnasse was now only weakly resisting; the fact is that these four men, with that loyalty that bandits have of never abandoning each other, had prowled all night around La Force, whatever the danger, in the hope of seeing Thénardier appear on top of some wall. But the night was becoming truly too beautiful, it was a downpour enough to make all the streets deserted, the cold that was getting to them, their clothes soaked, their shoes punctured, the disturbing noise that had just broken out in the prison, the hours that had passed, the patrols they had encountered, the hope that was fading, the fear that was returning, all this was driving them to retreat. Montparnasse himself, who was perhaps something of Thénardier’s son-in-law, gave in. A moment more, and they were gone. Thénardier panted on his wall like the shipwrecked sailors of the Medusa on their raft as they saw the ship appear and vanish on the horizon. He dared not call them; a heard cry could destroy everything. He had an idea, a last, a glimmer of light; he took from his pocket the end of Brujon’s rope , which he had detached from the chimney of the Bâtiment-Neuf, and threw it into the enclosure of the palisade. This rope fell at their feet. “A widow,” said Babet. “My tortoise!” said Brujon. “The innkeeper is here,” said Montparnasse. They looked up. Thénardier put his head forward a little. “Quick!” said Montparnasse, “have you got the other end of the rope, Brujon? ” “Yes.” “Tie the two ends together, we’ll throw him the rope, he ‘ll fix it to the wall, he’ll have enough to get down.” Thénardier ventured to raise his voice. “I’m freezing.” “We’ll warm you up.” “I can’t move. ” “You’ll let yourself slide, we’ll take you in. ” “My hands are numb. ” “Just tie the rope to the wall. ” “I can’t. ” “One of us must go up,” said Montparnasse. “Three floors!” said Brujon. An old plaster flue, which had served for a stove that was once lit in the hut, crept along the wall and rose almost to the spot where Thénardier could be seen. This pipe, then badly cracked and crevassed, has since fallen, but the traces of it are still visible. It was very narrow. “We could go up that way,” said Montparnasse. “Through that pipe?” cried Babet, “an organ!” Never! We would need a kid. “We would need a kid,” Brujon continued. “Where can we find a gnat?” said Gueulemer. “Wait,” said Montparnasse. “I’ve got the job.” He gently half-opened the door of the fence, made sure that no passer-by was crossing the street, went out cautiously, closed the door behind him, and ran off in the direction of the Bastille. Seven or eight minutes passed, eight thousand centuries for Thénardier; Babet, Brujon, and Gueulemer did not open their mouths; the door finally opened again, and Montparnasse appeared, out of breath, and bringing Gavroche. The rain continued to make the street completely deserted. Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and looked at these bandit figures with a calm air. Water dripped from his hair. Gueulemer addressed him: “Mioche, are you a man?” Gavroche shrugged his shoulders and replied: “A kid like Mézig is an organ, and organs like Vousailles are kids. ” “Like the kid plays the spittoon!” cried Babet. “The Pantinois kid is not made up with Lansquinted fertil, ” added Brujon. “What do you need?” said Gavroche. Montparnasse replied: “Climb up this pipe. ” “With this widow,” said Babet. “And tie up the tortoise,” continued Brujon. “Up the stile,” continued Babet. “At the stake of the vantern,” added Brujon. “And then?” said Gavroche. “There!” said Gueulemer. The boy examined the rope, the pipe, the wall, the windows, and made that inexpressible and disdainful noise with his lips which means: “Just that! ” “There is a man up there whom you will save,” continued Montparnasse. “Will you?” continued Brujon. “Serin!” replied the child as if the question seemed unheard of to him; and he took off his shoes. Gueulemer seized Gavroche with one arm, placed him on the roof of the hut, whose worm-eaten planks bent under the child’s weight, and gave him the rope that Brujon had retied during Montparnasse’s absence . The boy went towards the pipe, which was easy to enter thanks to a large crevice that touched the roof. At the moment when he was about to go up, Thénardier, who saw safety and life approaching, leaned over the edge of the wall; The first light of day whitened his sweat-drenched forehead, his livid cheekbones, his sharp, wild nose, his bristling gray beard, and Gavroche recognized him. “Look!” he said, “it’s my father! Oh! That doesn’t stop him.” And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the climb. He reached the top of the hovel, mounted the old wall like a horse, and firmly tied the rope to the upper crosspiece of the window. A moment later, Thénardier was in the street. As soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he felt out of danger, he was no longer tired, nor chilled, nor trembling; the terrible things from which he emerged vanished like smoke, all that strange and ferocious intelligence awoke, and found himself standing and free, ready to march before it. Here were the first words of this man: “Now, who are we going to eat?” It is useless to explain the meaning of this horribly transparent word which means at once to kill, to murder, and to rob. _Eat_, true meaning: _to devour_. “Let’s get to know each other well,” said Brujon. “Let’s finish in three words, and we ‘ll separate at once. There was a case which seemed good in the Rue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house, an old rotten gate overlooking a garden, some women alone. ” “Well! why not?” asked Thénardier. “Your fairy, Éponine, went to see about it,” replied Babet. “And she brought Magnon a biscuit,” added Gueulemer. “Nothing to disguise there. ” “The fairy is not a loffe,” said Thénardier. “However, we’ll have to see. ” “Yes, yes,” said Brujon, “we’ll have to see.” However, none of these men seemed to see Gavroche anymore, who, during this conversation, had sat down on one of the posts of the palisade; He waited a few moments, perhaps until his father would turn to him, then he put his shoes back on and said: “Is it over? You don’t need me anymore, men? You’re out of the woods. I’m going. I have to go and get my kids up.” And he went away. The five men came out of the fence one after the other. When Gavroche had disappeared around the corner of the Rue des Ballets, Babet took Thénardier aside: “Have you looked at that kid?” he asked him. “Which kid? ” “The kid who climbed the wall and brought you the rope.” –Not too much. –Well, I don’t know, but it seems to me that he’s your son. –Bah! said Thénardier, do you think so? And he left. Book Seven–Slang Chapter 31. Origin. _Pigritia_ is a terrible word. It engenders a world, _the underworld_, read: _theft_, and a hell, _the pegre_, read: _hunger_. Thus laziness is a mother. She has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger. Where are we at this moment? In slang. What is slang? It is both the nation and the idiom; it is theft in its two forms, people and language. When, thirty-four years ago, the narrator of this grave and somber story introduced a thief speaking slang into the middle of a work written for the same purpose as this one, there was astonishment and an outcry. – What! How! Slang? But slang is dreadful! But it is the language of galleys, penal colonies, prisons, of all that is most abominable in society! etc., etc., etc. We have never understood this kind of objection. Since then, two powerful novelists, one of whom is a profound observer of the human heart, the other an intrepid friend of the people, Balzac and Eugène Sue, having made bandits speak in their natural language as the author of _The Last Day of a Condemned Man_ had done in 1828, the same complaints have been raised. It has been repeated: – What do writers want with this revolting patois? Slang is odious! Slang makes one shudder! Who denies it? Without a doubt. When it comes to probing a wound, a chasm, or a society, since when has it been wrong to go too far down, to go to the bottom? We had always thought that it was sometimes an act of courage, and at the very least a simple and useful action, worthy of the sympathetic attention that duty accepted and accomplished deserves. Not to explore everything, not to study everything, to stop along the way, why? Stopping is the work of the probe and not of the sounder. Certainly, to go searching in the depths of the social order, where the earth ends and the mud begins, to dig through these thick waves, to pursue, seize, and throw, still throbbing, onto the pavement this abject idiom that drips with mire thus brought to light, this pustular vocabulary whose every word seems like a filthy ring of a monster of mud and darkness, is neither an attractive nor an easy task. Nothing is more lugubrious than to contemplate thus naked, in the light of thought, the frightful swarming of slang. It seems in fact that it is a sort of horrible beast made for the night that has just been torn from its cloaca. One thinks one sees a frightful living and bristling undergrowth that quivers, moves, agitates, demands shade, threatens and looks. This word resembles a claw, that other a dull and bloody eye; that phrase seems to move like a crab’s claw. All this lives from this hideous vitality of things that have organized themselves in disorganization. Now, since when does horror exclude study? Since when does illness chase away the doctor? Can one imagine a naturalist who would refuse to study the viper, the bat, the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula, and who would cast them back into their darkness, saying: Oh! How ugly it is! The thinker who would turn away from slang would be like a surgeon who would turn away from an ulcer or a wart. He would be a philologist hesitating to examine a fact of language , a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact of humanity. For, it must be said to those who are ignorant, slang is at once a literary phenomenon and a social result. What is slang properly speaking? Slang is the language of misery. Here we can be stopped; we can generalize the fact, which is sometimes a way of attenuating it, we can be told that all trades, all professions, we could almost add all the accidents of social hierarchy and all forms of intelligence, have their slang. The merchant who says: _Montpellier available; Marseille fine quality_, the stockbroker who says: _report, premium, end current_, the player who says: _thirds and all, remade of spades_, the bailiff of the Normandy islands who says: _the affieffeur stopping at his fund cannot claim the fruits of this fund during the hereditary seizure of the real estate of the renouncer_, the vaudevillian who says: _the bear has been amused_, the actor who says: _I made a four_, the philosopher who says: _phenomenal triplicity_, the hunter who says: _here I was going, here I am fleeing_, the phrenologist who says: _amativity, combativeness, secretiveness_, the infantryman who says: _my clarinet_, the rider who says: _my guinea fowl_, the fencing master who says: _third , fourth, break_, the printer who says: _let’s talk batio_, all, printer, fencing master, horseman, infantryman, phrenologist, hunter, philosopher, actor, vaudevillian, bailiff, gambler, stockbroker, merchant, speak slang. The painter who says: _my rapin_, the notary who says: _my brook jumper_, the wigmaker who says:_ my clerk_, the cobbler who says: _my gniaf_, speak slang. Strictly speaking, and if one absolutely must, all these different ways of saying right and left, the sailor _port_ and _starboard_, the machinist, _courtyard side_ and _garden side_, the verger, _epistle side_ and _gospel side_, are slang. There is the slang of the mijaurées as there was the slang of the précieuses. The Hôtel de Rambouillet was somewhat close to the Cour des Miracles. There is the slang of duchesses, witness this sentence written in a love letter by a very great lady and very pretty woman of the Restoration: “You will find in these gossips a multitude of reasons for me to become libertarian. ” Diplomatic numbers are slang; the papal chancellery, in saying 26 for _Rome, grkztntgzyal_ for _envoi_ and _abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI_ for _Duke of Modena_, speaks slang. The doctors of the Middle Ages who, to say carrot, radish and turnip, said: _opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus, dracatholicum angelorum, postmegorum_, spoke slang. The sugar manufacturer who says: _vergeoise, tête, claircé, tape, lumps, mélis, bâtarde, commun, brûlé, plaque_, this honest manufacturer speaks slang. A certain school of criticism of twenty years ago which said:–_Half of Shakespeare is wordplay and puns_,–spoke slang. The poet and the artist who, with profound sense, will call M. de Montmorency “a bourgeois,” if he is not conversant in verse and statues, speak slang. The classical academician who calls flowers _Flora_, fruits _Pomona_, the sea _Neptune_, love _fires_, beauty _charms_, a horse _a steed_, the white or tricolor cockade _the rose of Bellona_, the three-cornered hat _the triangle of Mars_, the classical academician speaks slang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have their slang. The language used on board, this admirable language of the sea, so complete and so picturesque, spoken by Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren and Duperré, which mixes with the whistling of the rigging, the noise of the megaphones, the clash of the boarding axes, the rolling, the wind, the gust, the cannon, is all a heroic and brilliant slang which is to the fierce slang of the underworld what the lion is to the jackal. Without doubt. But, whatever one may say, this way of understanding the word slang is an extension, which not everyone will admit. As for us, we preserve for this word its old precise, circumscribed and determined meaning, and we restrict slang to slang. True slang, slang par excellence, If these two words can be coupled, the immemorial slang which was a kingdom, is nothing other, we repeat, than the ugly, restless, sly, treacherous, venomous, cruel, shady, vile, profound, fatal language of misery. There is , at the end of all humiliation and all misfortunes, a final misery that revolts and decides to enter into a struggle against the whole of happy facts and reigning rights; a dreadful struggle in which, sometimes cunning, sometimes violent, at once unhealthy and ferocious, it attacks the social order with pinpricks through vice and with club blows through crime. For the needs of this struggle, misery has invented a combat language which is slang. To float and sustain above oblivion, above the abyss, even if only a fragment of any language that man has spoken and which would be lost, that is to say one of the elements, good or bad, of which civilization is composed or complicated, is to extend the data of social observation, it is to serve civilization itself. This service, Plautus rendered it, willing it or not, by making two Carthaginian soldiers speak Phoenician; Molière rendered this service by having so many of his characters speak Levantine and all sorts of patois . Here the objections are revived. Phoenician, wonderful! Levantine, good! Even patois, pass! These are languages that belonged to nations or provinces; but slang? What is the point of preserving slang? What is the point of “letting slang float”? To that we will only respond in one word. Certainly, if the language spoken by a nation or a province is worthy of interest, there is something even more worthy of attention and study, it is the language spoken by a misery. It is the language spoken in France, for example, for more than four centuries, not only by a misery, but by misery, all possible human misery. And then, we insist, studying social deformities and infirmities and pointing them out in order to cure them, is not a task where choice is permitted. The historian of morals and ideas has no less austere a mission than the historian of events. The latter has the surface of civilization, the struggles of crowns, the births of princes, the marriages of kings, the battles, the assemblies, the great public men, the revolutions in the sun, everything outside; the other historian has the interior, the depths, the people who work, who suffer and who wait, the overwhelmed woman, the dying child, the silent wars between man and man, the obscure ferocities, the prejudices, the agreed iniquities, the subterranean repercussions of the law, the secret evolutions of souls, the indistinct tremors of the multitudes, the starving, the barefoot, the bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans, the unfortunate and the infamous, all the larvae who wander in the darkness. He must descend, his heart full of charity and severity at once, like a brother and a judge, to those impenetrable casemates where crawl pell-mell those who bleed and those who strike, those who weep and those who curse, those who fast and those who devour, those who endure evil and those who do it. Do these historians of hearts and souls have lesser duties than the historians of external facts? Do we believe that Alighieri has less to say than Machiavelli? Is the underside of civilization, though deeper and darker, less important than the top? Do we know the mountain well when we do not know the cave? Let us say it in passing, moreover, that from a few words of the preceding one could infer between the two classes of historians a clear separation which does not exist in our minds. No one is a good historian of the patent, visible, brilliant and public life of peoples if he is not at the same time, to a certain extent, a historian of their deep and hidden life; and no one is a good historian of the interior if he does not know how to be, whenever necessary, a historian of the exterior. The history of morals and ideas penetrates the history of events, and vice versa. These are two different orders of facts which respond to each other, which are linked together. always and often generate each other. All the lineaments that providence traces on the surface of a nation have their dark, but distinct, parallels in the background, and all the convulsions of the background produce upheavals on the surface. True history being mixed up in everything, the true historian mixes up in everything. Man is not a circle with a single center; he is an ellipse with two foci. Facts are one, ideas are the other. Slang is nothing other than a cloakroom in which language, having some evil deed to do, disguises itself. It clothes itself in mask words and ragged metaphors. In this way it becomes horrible. It is difficult to recognize it. Is this really the French language, the great human language? Here it is, ready to enter the scene and give the crime its reply, and suitable for all the uses in the repertoire of evil. It no longer walks, it hobbles; she limps on the crutch of the Court of Miracles, a crutch that can be transformed into a club; she calls herself truanderie; all the specters, her dressers, have made her up; she drags herself and stands up, the double allure of the reptile. She is now fit for all roles , made shifty by the forger, verdigris by the poisoner, charred with the soot of the arsonist; and the murderer puts his rouge on her. When one listens, on the side of honest people, at the door of society, one overhears the dialogue of those who are outside. One distinguishes questions and answers. One perceives, without understanding it, a hideous murmur, sounding almost like a human accent, but closer to a howl than to speech. It is slang. The words are deformed, and imbued with some unknown fantastic bestiality. One thinks one hears hydras speaking. It is the unintelligible in the dark. It creaks and it whispers, completing the twilight with the enigma. It is dark in misfortune, it is even darker in crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated make up slang. Obscurity in the atmosphere, darkness in actions, darkness in voices. Dreadful toad-like language that comes and goes, jumps, crawls, drools, and moves monstrously in this immense gray mist made of rain, night, hunger, vice, lies, injustice, nudity, asphyxiation and winter, high noon of the wretched. Let us have compassion for the punished. Alas! who are we ourselves? who am I, I who speak to you? who are you, you who listen to me? where do we come from? and is it really certain that we have done nothing before being born? The earth is not unlike a prison. Who knows if man is not a repeat offender of divine justice? Look closely at life. It is so made that one feels punishment everywhere . Are you what is called happy? Well, you are sad every day. Each day has its great sorrow or its small worry. Yesterday, you trembled for a health that is dear to you, today you fear for yours, tomorrow it will be a financial worry, the day after tomorrow the diatribe of a slanderer, the day after tomorrow the misfortune of a friend; then the weather, then something broken or lost, then a pleasure for which conscience and spine reproach you; another time, the progress of public affairs. Not to mention the sorrows of the heart. And so on. One cloud dissipates, another reforms. Barely one day in a hundred of full joy and full sunshine. And you are among that small number who have happiness! As for other men, stagnant night is upon them. Thoughtful minds rarely use this expression: the happy and the unhappy. In this world, evidently the vestibule of another, there are no happy. The true human division is this: the luminous and the tenebrous. To diminish the number of the tenebrous, to increase the number of the luminous, that is the goal. That is why we cry: teaching! science! Learning to read is like lighting a fire; every spelled syllable sparkles. Besides, whoever says light does not necessarily say joy. One suffers in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy of the wing. To burn without ceasing to fly, that is the prodigy of genius. When you know and when you love, you will still suffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep, if only over the dark. Slang is the language of the dark. Chapter 32. Roots. Thought is moved to its darkest depths, social philosophy is called to its most poignant meditations, in the presence of this enigmatic dialect at once withered and revolted. It is there that there is visible punishment. Each syllable seems marked. The words of the vulgar tongue appear as if crumpled and shriveled under the executioner’s red-hot iron. Some seem to still be smoking. Such a sentence gives you the impression of the fleur-de-lis shoulder of a thief suddenly exposed. The idea almost refuses to be expressed by these repeat offender nouns. The metaphor is sometimes so brazen that one feels it has been in a straitjacket. Moreover, despite all this and because of all this, this strange dialect has by right its compartment in this large impartial pigeonhole where there is room for the oxidized farthing as for the gold medal, and which is called literature. Slang, whether one consents to it or not, has its syntax and its poetry. It is a language. If, from the deformity of certain words, one recognizes that it was chewed by Mandrin, from the splendor of certain metonymies, one feels that Villon spoke it. This exquisite and famous verse: _But where are the snows of yesteryear?_ is a slang verse. Antan–_ante annum_–is a word from the slang of Thunes which meant _last year_ and by extension _formerly_. Thirty-five years ago, at the time of the departure of the great chain of 1827, one could still read in one of the dungeons of Bicêtre, this maxim nailed to the wall by a king of Thunes condemned to the galleys: _The dabs of yesteryear labored siempre for the stone of Coësre_. Which means: _The kings of old always went to be crowned_. In the mind of that king, the coronation was the penal colony. The word _decarade_, which expresses the departure of a heavy carriage at a gallop, is attributed to Villon, and he is worthy of it. This word, which fires with all four feet, sums up in a masterly onomatopoeia all the admirable verse of La Fontaine: _Six strong horses pulled a coach. _ From a purely literary point of view, few studies would be more curious and more fruitful than that of slang. It is a whole language within the language, a sort of sickly excrescence, an unhealthy graft which has produced a vegetation, a parasite which has its roots in the old Gallic trunk and whose sinister foliage creeps over one side of the language. This is what one could call the first aspect, the vulgar aspect of slang. But, for those who study the language as it should be studied, that is to say as geologists study the earth, slang appears as a veritable alluvium. Depending on how deeply one digs, one finds in slang, beneath old popular French, Provençal, Spanish, Italian, Levantine, that language of the Mediterranean ports, English and German, Romance in its three varieties, French Romance, Italian Romance, Romance Romance, Latin, and finally Basque and Celtic. A profound and bizarre formation. A subterranean edifice built in common by all the wretched. Each accursed race has laid down its layer, each suffering has dropped its stone, each heart has given its pebble. A host of bad, base, or irritated souls, who have crossed life and gone to vanish into eternity, are there almost whole and in some way still visible in the form of a monstrous word. Do you want Spanish? The old Gothic slang is teeming with it. Here _boffette_, bellows, which comes from _bofeton; vantane_, window (later vanterne), which comes from _vantana; gat_, cat, which comes from _gato; acite_, oil, which comes from _aceyte_. Do you want Italian? Here is _spade_, sword, which comes from _spada; carvel_, boat, which comes from _caravella_. Do you want English? Here is _bichot_, the bishop, which comes from _bishop; raille_, spy, which comes from _rascal, rascalion_, rascal; _pilcker_, case, which comes from _pilcher_, scabbard. Do you want German? Here is _caleur_, the boy, _kellner;_ the _hers_, the master, _herzog_ (duke). Do you want Latin? Here is _frangir_, to break, _frangere; to affurer_, to steal, _fur; cadene_, chain, _catena_. There is a word that reappears in all the languages of the continent with a sort of mysterious power and authority, it is the word _magnus_; Scotland makes it its _mac_, which designates the chief of the clan, Mac-Farlane, Mac-Callummore, the great Farlane, the great Callummore; slang makes it _meck_, and later, _meg_, that is to say God. Do we want Basque? Here is _gahisto_, the devil, which comes from _gaïztoa_, bad; _sorgabon_, good night, which comes from _gabon_, good evening. Do we want Celtic? Here is _blavin_, handkerchief, which comes from _blavet_, gushing water; _ménesse_, woman (in a bad way), which comes from _meinec_, full of stones; _barant_, stream, from _baranton_, fountain; _goffeur_, locksmith, from _goff_, blacksmith; la _guédouze_, death, which comes from _guenn-du_, white-black. Do we want history at last? Slang calls the écus _maltèses_, a memory of the currency that was current on the galleys of Malta. Besides the philological origins that have just been indicated, slang has other roots that are even more natural and that come, so to speak, from the very mind of man: First, the direct creation of words. Therein lies the mystery of languages. To paint with words that have, one knows not how or why, figures. This is the primitive basis of all human language, what one could call its granite. Slang is full of words of this kind, immediate words, created from scratch who knows where or by whom, without etymologies, without analogies, without derivatives, solitary, barbaric, sometimes hideous words, which have a singular power of expression and which live.–The executioner, _the jailer;_–the forest, _the sabri;_ fear, flight, _taf;_–the lackey, _the flunky;_–the general, the prefect, the minister , _pharos;_–the devil, _the rabouin_. Nothing is stranger than these words which mask and which reveal. Some of them, _the rabouin_, for example, are at the same time grotesque and terrible, and give you the effect of a cyclopean grimace. Secondly, metaphor. The characteristic of a language which wants to say everything and hide everything is to abound in figures. Metaphor is an enigma in which the thief plotting a coup, the prisoner planning an escape, takes refuge. No idiom is more metaphorical than slang.–_To unscrew the coconut_, to wring the neck,–_to twist_, to eat;–_to be thrown up_, to be judged;–_a rat_, a bread thief;–_it’s raining_, it’s raining, a striking old figure, which in a way carries its date with it, which assimilates the long oblique lines of rain to the thick, sloping pikes of the lansquenets, and which fits into a single word the popular metonymy: _it’s raining halberds_. Sometimes, as slang moves from the first period to the second, words pass from the wild and primitive state to the metaphorical sense. The devil ceases to be _the rabouin_ and becomes _the baker_, the one who bakes. It is more witty, but less grand; something like Racine after Corneille, like Euripides after Aeschylus. Certain slang phrases, which belong to both periods and have both the barbaric and the metaphorical character, resemble phantasmagoria. –_Les sorgueurs vont solicer des gails à la lune_ (the prowlers will steal horses at night).–It passes before the mind like a group of specters. One does not knows what one sees. Thirdly, the expedient. Slang lives on the language. He uses it at will, he draws from it at random, and he often limits himself, when the need arises, to distorting it summarily and crudely. Sometimes, with the usual words thus deformed, and complicated with words of pure slang, he composes picturesque expressions where one feels the mixture of the two preceding elements, direct creation and metaphor:–_The cab jaspine, I marronne that the caravan of Pantin trime dans le sabri_; the dog barks, I suspect that the diligence of Paris passes in the woods.–_The dab is sinve, the dabuge is merloussière, the fairy is bative_; the bourgeois is stupid, the bourgeoisie is cunning, the girl is pretty.–Most often, in order to confuse listeners, slang limits itself to adding indiscriminately to all the words of the language a sort of ignoble tail, an ending in aille, en orgue, en iergue, or en uche. Thus _Vousiergue trouve bonorgue ce gigotmuche_? Do you find this gigot good? Sentence addressed by Cartouche to a teller, in order to know if the sum offered for the escape suited him.–The ending in _mar_ was added quite recently. Slang, being the idiom of corruption, corrupts quickly. Moreover, as it always seeks to elude, as soon as it feels understood, it transforms itself. Unlike all other vegetation, every ray of daylight kills what it touches. Thus slang is constantly decomposing and recomposing itself; obscure and rapid work that never stops. It makes more progress in ten years than language does in ten centuries. Thus the larton becomes the lartif; the gail becomes the gaye; the fertanche, the fertille; the momignard, the momacque; the siques, the frusques; the chique, the égrugeoir; the colabre, the colas. The devil is first gahisto, then the rabouin, then the baker; the priest is the ratichon, then the boar; the dagger is the vingt-deux, then the surin, then the lingre; the policemen are railles, then roussins, then rousses, then shoelace merchants, then coqueurs, then cognes; the executioner is the taule, then Charlot, then the atigeur, then the becquillard. In the seventeenth century, to fight was to give oneself tobacco; in the nineteenth, it was to chew one’s mouth. Twenty different expressions passed between these two extremes. Cartouche would speak Hebrew for Lacenaire. All the words of this language are perpetually in flight, like the men who pronounce them. However, from time to time, and because of this very movement, the old slang reappears and becomes new again. It has its chief towns where it maintains itself. The Temple retained the slang of the seventeenth century; Bicêtre, when it was a prison, retained the slang of Thunes. One heard there the ending in anche of the old thuneurs. Boyanches-tu (do you drink?)? Il croyanche (he believes). But perpetual movement nonetheless remains the law. If the philosopher manages to fix a moment, to observe this language which constantly evaporates, he falls into painful and useful meditations. No study is more effective and more fruitful in teachings. Not a metaphor, not an etymology of slang which does not contain a lesson.–Among these men, _battre_ means _feigning;_ one _beats_ an illness; cunning is their strength. For them the idea of man is not separate from the idea of the shadow. Night is called _sorgue_; man, _l’orgue_. Man is a derivative of night. They have become accustomed to considering society as an atmosphere which kills them, as a fatal force, and they speak of their freedom as one would speak of one’s health. An arrested man is _sick;_ a condemned man is _dead_. The most terrible thing for the prisoner in the four stone walls that bury him is a sort of icy chastity; he calls the dungeon the _castus_.–In this funereal place, it is always in its most cheerful aspect that external life appears. The prisoner has irons on his feet; do you perhaps think that he thinks that it is with the feet that one walks? No, he thinks that it is with the feet that one dances; also, if he manages to saw off his irons, his first idea is that now he can dance, and he calls the saw a _bastringue_.–A _name_ is a _center;_ deep assimilation.–The bandit has two heads, one which reasons his actions and leads him throughout his life, the other which he has on his shoulders, the day of his death; he calls the head that advises him to commit crime, the _sorbonne_, and the head that expiates it, the _trunche_.–When a man has nothing left but rags on his body and vices in his heart, when he has reached that double material and moral degradation that the word _beggar_ characterizes in its two meanings, he is ready for crime, he is like a well-sharpened knife; he has two edges, his distress and his wickedness; so slang does not say “a beggar”; it says a _reguisé_.–What is the penal colony? a brazier of damnation, a hell. The convict is called a _fagot_.–Finally, what name do criminals give to prison? _the college_. A whole penitentiary system can come from this word. The thief also has his cannon fodder, the stealable material, you, me, whoever passes by; the _pantre_. (_Pan_, everyone.) Do you want to know where most of the prison songs, those refrains called in the special vocabulary the _lirlonfa_, were hatched? Let us listen to this: There was at the Châtelet in Paris a large, long cellar. This cellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had neither windows nor air vents, the only opening was the door; men could enter it, but not the air. This cellar had a stone vault for a ceiling and a floor ten inches of mud. It had been paved; but under the seepage of the waters, the paving had rotted and cracked. Eight feet above the ground, a long, massive beam crossed this underground passage from one side to the other; from this beam fell, at intervals, chains three feet long, and at the end of these chains there were iron collars. In this cellar were put the men condemned to the galleys until the day of departure for Toulon. They were pushed under this beam where each one had his grip, swaying in the darkness that awaited him. The chains, these dangling arms, and the iron collars, these open hands, took these wretches by the neck. They were riveted and left there. The chain being too short, they could not lie down. They remained motionless in this cellar, in this night, under this beam, almost hanging, forced to make incredible efforts to reach the bread or the jug, the arch over their heads, mud up to mid-legs, their excrement running down their hocks, stretched out with fatigue, bending at the hips and knees, clinging by the hands to the chain to rest, able to sleep only standing up, and awakened every moment by the strangulation of the iron collar; some did not wake up. To eat, they raised their bread with their heels up their shins to their hands, and then they threw it into the mud. How long did they stay like that? A month, two months, sometimes six months; one stayed a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys. One was put there for a hare stolen from the king. In this hellish sepulchre, what did they do? What one can do in a sepulchre, they agonized, and what one can do in hell, they sang. For where there is no longer hope, song remains. In the waters of Malta, when a galley approached, one heard the song before hearing the oars. The poor poacher Survincent, who had crossed the prison-cellar of the Châtelet, said: _It was the rhymes that sustained me_. Uselessness of poetry. What good is rhyme? It was in this cellar that almost all slang songs were born. This is what dungeon of the Grand-Châtelet in Paris that the melancholic refrain of Montgomery’s galley comes: _Timaloumisaine_, _timoulamison_. Most of these songs are gloomy; some are cheerful; one is tender: _Icicaille est le théâtre_ _Du petit dartant._ No matter what you do, you will not destroy this eternal remnant of the heart of man, love. In this world of dark actions, we keep the secret. The secret is everyone’s business. The secret, for these wretches, is the unity that serves as the basis of union. To break the secret is to tear something of themselves from each member of this fierce community. To denounce, in the energetic slang language, is said: _mander le pièce_. As if the informer drew a little of everyone’s substance to himself and nourished himself with a piece of each one’s flesh. What does it mean to receive a slap? The banal metaphor replies: _It’s like seeing thirty-six candles_. Here slang intervenes, and continues: _Candle, camouflage_. On this, everyday language gives the synonym snub to the slap. Thus, by a sort of penetration from the bottom up, the metaphor, this incalculable trajectory, helping, slang rises from the cave to the academy, and Poulailler saying: _I light my camouflage_, makes Voltaire write: _Langleviel La Beaumelle deserves a hundred snubs_. A search in slang is discovery at every step. The study and deepening of this strange idiom leads to the mysterious point of intersection of regular society with accursed society. Slang is the verb become a convict. That the thinking principle of man can be driven so low, that it can be dragged and bound there by the dark tyrannies of fate, that it can be bound to who knows what ties in this precipice, is appalling. O poor thought of the wretched! Alas! will no one come to the aid of the human soul in this shadow? Is its destiny to wait there forever for the spirit, the liberator, the immense rider of Pegasi and Hippogriffs, the dawn-colored fighter who descends from the azure between two wings, the radiant knight of the future? Will it always call in vain for its aid the lance of light of the ideal? Is she condemned to hear Evil coming terribly from the depths of the abyss, and to glimpse, ever closer to her, beneath the hideous water, that draconian head, that mouth chewing the foam, and that serpentine undulation of claws, swellings, and rings? Must she remain there, without a glimmer of light, without hope, given over to this formidable approach, vaguely scented by the monster, shivering, disheveled, wringing her arms, forever chained to the rock of night, a dark, white, naked Andromeda in the darkness! Chapter 33. Slang that weeps and slang that laughs. As we see, all slang, the slang of four hundred years ago as well as the slang of today, is imbued with that dark symbolic spirit which gives all words sometimes a mournful air, sometimes a threatening air. One senses the old fierce sadness of those crooks of the Court of Miracles who played cards with their own decks, some of which have been preserved for us. The eight of clubs, for example, represented a large tree bearing eight enormous clover leaves, a sort of fantastic personification of the forest. At the foot of this tree one saw a lit fire where three hares were roasting a hunter on a spit, and behind it, on another fire, a smoking pot from which emerged the dog’s head. Nothing could be more lugubrious than these reprisals in painting, on a deck of cards, in the presence of the pyres for roasting the smugglers and the cauldron for boiling the counterfeiters. The various forms that thought took in the kingdom of slang, even song, even mockery, even threats, all had this character powerless and overwhelmed. All the songs, of which some melodies have been collected, were humble and pitiful enough to make one weep. The underworld is called _the poor underworld_, and he is always the hare that hides, the mouse that runs away, the bird that flees. Hardly does he complain, he limits himself to sighing; one of his laments has come down to us:–_I only hinder the day, how meck, the organ dad, can atiger his kids and his momignards and locher riddling without being atiger himself_.–The wretch, whenever he has time to think, makes himself small before the law and puny before society; he lies flat on his stomach, he begs, he turns to the side of pity; we feel that he knows he is in the wrong. Towards the middle of the last century, a change took place. Prison songs and thieves’ refrains took on, so to speak, an insolent and jovial gesture. The plaintive _maluré_ was replaced by _larifla_. In the eighteenth century, in almost all the songs of the galleys, penal colonies, and galley slaves, we find a diabolical and enigmatic gaiety. We hear this strident and leaping refrain that seems to be lit by a phosphorescent glow and that seems to be thrown into the forest by a will-o’-the-wisp playing the fife: _Mirlababi, surlababo,_ _Mirliton ribon ribette,_ _Surlababi, mirlababo,_ _Mirliton ribon ribo._ This was sung while cutting a man’s throat in a cellar or in the corner of a wood. A serious symptom. In the eighteenth century, the ancient melancholy of these gloomy classes dissipated. They began to laugh. They mocked the great meg and the great dab. Given Louis XV, they call the King of France “the Marquis of Pantin.” They are almost cheerful. A sort of light emanates from these wretches as if their conscience no longer weighed on them. These lamentable tribes of the shadows no longer have only the desperate audacity of actions, they have the carefree audacity of mind. An indication that they are losing the sense of their criminality, and that they feel even among thinkers and dreamers I know not what supports who are unaware of themselves. An indication that theft and pillage are beginning to infiltrate even doctrines and sophisms, in such a way as to lose a little of their ugliness while giving much to sophisms and doctrines. An indication finally, if no diversion arises, of some prodigious and imminent outbreak. Let us pause for a moment. Who are we accusing here? Is it the eighteenth century? Is it its philosophy? Certainly not. The work of the eighteenth century is healthy and good. The Encyclopedists, led by Diderot, the Physiocrats, led by Turgot, the Philosophers, led by Voltaire, the Utopians, led by Rousseau, these are four sacred legions. The immense advance of humanity towards the light is due to them. They are the four vanguards of the human race going to the four cardinal points of progress, Diderot towards the beautiful, Turgot towards the useful, Voltaire towards the true, Rousseau towards the just. But, beside and below the Philosophers, there were the Sophists, poisonous vegetation mixed with healthy growth, hemlock in the virgin forest. While the executioner burned the great liberating books of the century on the main staircase of the courthouse , writers today forgotten published, with the king’s privilege, who knows what strangely disorganizing writings, eagerly read by the wretched. Some of these publications, a strange detail, sponsored by a prince, are found in the _Secret Library_. These facts, profound but ignored, were unnoticed on the surface. Sometimes it is the very obscurity of a fact that is its danger. It is obscure because it is underground. Of all these writers, perhaps the one who dug the most unhealthy gallery among the masses was Restif de la Bretonne. This work, specific to all of Europe, caused more havoc in Germany than anywhere else. In Germany, during a certain period, summarized by Schiller in his famous drama of the Robbers, theft and pillage were set up as a protest against property and work, were assimilated with certain elementary, specious and false ideas, just in appearance, absurd in reality, were enveloped in these ideas, disappeared in them in a way, took on an abstract name and passed into the state of theory, and in this way circulated among the hard-working, suffering and honest crowds, without the knowledge even of the imprudent chemists who had prepared the mixture, without the knowledge even of the masses who accepted it. Whenever an event of this kind occurs, it is serious. Suffering engenders anger; and while the prosperous classes blind themselves, or fall asleep, which is always closing their eyes, the hatred of the unfortunate classes lights its torch to some unhappy or ill-formed spirit who is dreaming in a corner, and it begins to examine society. The examination of hatred, a terrible thing! From there, if the misfortune of the times wills it, those frightening commotions that were formerly called _jacqueries_, compared to which purely political agitations are child’s play, which are no longer the struggle of the oppressed against the oppressor, but the revolt of malaise against well-being. Everything then collapses. The jacqueries are tremors of the people. It is to this peril, perhaps imminent in Europe towards the end of the eighteenth century, that the French Revolution came to cut short, this immense act of probity. The French Revolution, which is nothing other than the ideal armed with the sword, arose and, with the same sudden movement, closed the door of evil and opened the door of good. It cleared the question, promulgated the truth, expelled the miasma, cleansed the century, crowned the people. We can say that it created man a second time, by giving him a second soul, the right. The nineteenth century inherits and profits from its work, and today the social catastrophe we indicated earlier is simply impossible. Blind man who denounces it! But foolish man who fears it! The revolution is the vaccine of the peasant revolt. Thanks to the revolution, social conditions have changed. Feudal and monarchical diseases are no longer in our blood. There is no longer a Middle Ages in our constitution. We are no longer in the times when terrible internal tinglings erupted, when one heard beneath one’s feet the obscure course of a dull noise, when on the surface of civilization appeared who knows what uprisings of mole galleries, when the ground cracked, when the tops of caverns opened, and when one suddenly saw monstrous heads emerging from the earth. The revolutionary sense is a moral sense. The sense of right, developed, develops the sense of duty. The law of all is liberty, which ends where the liberty of others begins, according to Robespierre’s admirable definition. Since 89, the entire people has expanded into the sublimated individual; there is no poor person who, having his right, does not have his ray; the starving person feels within himself the honesty of France; the dignity of the citizen is an inner armor; he who is free is scrupulous; he who votes reigns. Hence incorruptibility; hence the abortion of unhealthy desires; hence the heroically lowered eyes before temptations. The revolutionary cleansing is such that on a day of deliverance, a July 14th, an August 10th, there is no more populace. The first cry of the enlightened and growing crowds is: death to thieves! Progress is honest man; the ideal and the absolute do not make the handkerchief. By whom were the vans containing the riches of the Tuileries escorted in 1848? By the rag-pickers of the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. Rags stood guard before the treasure. Virtue made these ragged men resplendent. There were there, in these vans, in barely closed boxes, some even Half-open, among a hundred dazzling cases, this old crown of France all in diamonds, surmounted by the carbuncle of royalty, of the regent, which was worth thirty million. They guarded, barefoot, this crown . So no more peasant revolt. I am sorry for the clever ones. This is old fear which has had its last effect and which could no longer be used in politics. The great spring of the red spectre is broken. Everyone knows it now. The scarecrow no longer frightens. The birds become familiar with the mannequin, the stercoraria perch on it, the bourgeois laugh at it. Chapter 34. The two duties: to watch and to hope. That being so, is all social danger dissipated? No, certainly not. No peasant revolt . Society can reassure itself on this side, blood will no longer go to its head; but let her worry about how she breathes. Apoplexy is no longer to be feared, but consumption is there. Social consumption is called poverty. One dies undermined as well as struck by lightning. Let us not tire of repeating it, to think, above all, of the disinherited and suffering crowds, to relieve them, to air them, to enlighten them , to love them, to broaden their horizons magnificently, to lavish them with education in all forms, to offer them the example of labor, never the example of idleness, to lessen the weight of the individual burden by increasing the notion of the universal goal, to limit poverty without limiting wealth, to create vast fields of public and popular activity, to have like Briarée a hundred hands to extend from all sides to the oppressed and the weak, to employ collective power in this great duty of opening workshops to all arms, schools to all aptitudes and laboratories to all intelligences, to increase wages, to reduce hardship, to balance what is owed and what is possessed, that is to say to proportion enjoyment to effort and satisfaction to need, in a word, to free up the social apparatus, for the benefit of those who suffer and those who are ignorant, more clarity and more well-being, it is there, that sympathetic souls do not forget, the first of fraternal obligations, is, that selfish hearts know it, the first of political necessities. And, let us say it, all this is still only a beginning. The real question is this: work cannot be a law without being a right. We do not insist, this is not the place. If nature is called providence, society must be called foresight. Intellectual and moral growth is no less indispensable than material improvement. Knowledge is a viaticum; thinking is a first necessity; truth is food like wheat. A reason, fasting from science and wisdom, grows thin. Let us pity, like stomachs, the minds that do not eat. If there is anything more poignant than a body dying for lack of bread, it is a soul dying of hunger for light. All progress tends toward the solution. One day we will be astounded. As the human race rises, the lower classes will quite naturally emerge from the zone of distress. The erasure of misery will be achieved by a simple elevation of level. This blessed solution, we would be wrong to doubt. The past, it is true, is very strong at the present time. It is resuming. This rejuvenation of a corpse is surprising. Here it is, walking and coming. It seems victorious; this dead man is a conqueror. It arrives with its legion, superstitions, with its sword, despotism, with its flag, ignorance; for some time now it has won ten battles. It advances, it threatens, it laughs, it is at our gates. As for us, let us not despair. Let us sell the field where Hannibal is camping. We who believe, what can we fear? There are no more retreats of ideas than there are retreats of rivers. But let those who do not want the future reflect on it. By saying No to progress, it is not the future that they condemn, it is themselves. They give themselves a dark disease; they inoculate themselves with the past. There is only one way to refuse Tomorrow, and that is to die. Now, no death, that of the body as late as possible, that of the soul never, that is what we want. Yes, the enigma will have its say, the sphinx will speak, the problem will be resolved. Yes, the People, sketched out by the eighteenth century, will be completed by the nineteenth. Idiot who would doubt it! The future blossoming, the imminent blossoming of universal well-being, is a divinely fatal phenomenon. Immense overall thrusts govern human facts and bring them all in a given time to a logical state, that is to say, to equilibrium, that is to say, to equity. A force composed of earth and sky results from humanity and governs it; this force is a miracle worker; marvelous outcomes are no more difficult for it than extraordinary events. Aided by the science that comes from man and the event that comes from another, it is little terrified by these contradictions in the posing of problems, which seem to the common man to be impossibilities. It is no less adept at bringing forth a solution from the rapprochement of ideas than a teaching from the rapprochement of facts, and one can expect anything from this mysterious power of progress which, one fine day, confronts the East and the West in the depths of a sepulchre and makes the imams converse with Bonaparte in the interior of the great pyramid. In the meantime, there is no halt, no hesitation, no time to pause in the grandiose forward march of minds. Social philosophy is essentially the science of peace. Its aim and must result in dissolving anger through the study of antagonisms. It examines, it scrutinizes, it analyzes; then it recomposes. It proceeds by way of reduction, removing hatred from everything. That a society is destroyed by the wind that rages upon men has been seen more than once; history is full of shipwrecks of peoples and empires; customs, laws, religions, one fine day this unknown, the hurricane, passes and carries all of this away. The civilizations of India, Chaldea, Persia, Assyria, Egypt, have disappeared one after the other. Why? We do not know. What are the causes of these disasters? We do not know. Could these societies have been saved? Is it their fault? Did they persist in some fatal vice that lost them? How much suicide is there in these terrible deaths of a nation and a race? Unanswered questions. Shadow covers these doomed civilizations. They were leaking water since they are sinking; we have nothing more to say; and it is with a sort of dismay that we watch, at the bottom of this sea called the past, behind these colossal waves, the centuries, sinking these immense ships, Babylon, Nineveh, Tarsus, Thebes, Rome, under the frightening breath that issues from all the mouths of darkness. But darkness there, light here. We are ignorant of the illnesses of ancient civilizations, we know the infirmities of our own. We have the right to light everywhere on it; we contemplate its beauties and we lay bare its deformities. Where the evil is, we probe; and, once the suffering is noted, the study of the cause leads to the discovery of the remedy. Our civilization, the work of twenty centuries, is both its monster and its prodigy; it is worth saving . It will be saved. To relieve it is already a lot; to enlighten it is something else. All the work of modern social philosophy must converge towards this goal. The thinker today has a great duty, to examine civilization. We repeat, this examination encourages; and it is by this insistence in the encouragement that we want to finish these few pages, austere interlude of a painful drama. Beneath social mortality one feels human imperishability. To have here and there these wounds, the craters, and these scabs, the solfataras, for a volcano that ends and throws its pus, the globe does not die. Diseases of the people do not kill man. And nevertheless, whoever follows the social clinic nods his head at times. The strongest, the most tender, the most logical have their hours of weakness. Will the future arrive? it seems that one can almost ask oneself this question when one sees so much terrible shadow. Dark face-to-face of the egoists and the miserable. Among the egoists, prejudices, the darkness of rich education, appetite growing through intoxication, a deafening dizziness of prosperity, the fear of suffering which, in some, goes as far as aversion to sufferers, an implacable satisfaction, the self so inflated that it closes the soul; among the miserable, covetousness, envy, hatred of seeing others enjoy, the profound tremors of the human beast towards satisfactions, hearts full of mist, sadness, need, fatality, impure and simple ignorance. Should we continue to raise our eyes to the sky? Is the luminous point that we distinguish there one of those that are extinguished? The ideal is frightening to see, thus lost in the depths, small, isolated, imperceptible, brilliant, but surrounded by all these great black threats monstrously piled up around it; yet no more in danger than a star in the jaws of the clouds. Book Eight–The Enchantments and the Desolations Chapter 35. Full Light. The reader has understood that Éponine, having recognized through the gate the inhabitant of this Rue Plumet where Magnon had sent her, had begun by driving away the bandits of the Rue Plumet, then had led Marius there, and that after several days of ecstasy before this gate, Marius, drawn by that force which pushes iron towards the magnet and the lover towards the stones of which the house of the one he loves is made, had ended up entering Cosette’s garden like Romeo into Juliet’s garden. Even this had been easier for him than for Romeo; Romeo was obliged to climb a wall, Marius had only to force a little one of the bars of the decrepit gate which wobbled in its rusty socket, like the teeth of old people. Marius was thin and passed easily. As there was never anyone in the street and, moreover, Marius only entered the garden at night, he was not likely to be seen. From that blessed and holy hour when a kiss betrothed these two souls, Marius came there every evening. If, at that moment in her life, Cosette had fallen into the love of an unscrupulous and libertine man, she was lost; for there are generous natures that give themselves up, and Cosette was one of them. One of the magnanimities of woman is to yield. Love, at this height where it is absolute, is complicated by some celestial blindness of modesty. But what dangers you run, oh noble souls! Often, you give the heart, we take the body. Your heart remains with you, and you watch it in the shadows, trembling. Love has no middle ground; either he loses, or he saves. All human destiny is this dilemma. This dilemma, loss or salvation, no fatality poses it more inexorably than love. Love is life, if it is not death. Cradle; coffin too. The same feeling says yes and no in the human heart. Of all the things God has made, the human heart is the one that gives off the most light, alas! and the most night. God willed that the love that Cosette encountered should be one of those loves that saves. As long as the month of May of that year 1832 lasted, there were there, all At night, in this poor, wild garden, beneath this undergrowth that grew more fragrant and thicker every day, two beings composed of all the chastities and all the innocence, overflowing with all the felicity of heaven, closer to archangels than to men, pure, honest, intoxicated, radiant, who shone for each other in the darkness. It seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crown and to Marius that Cosette had a halo. They touched, they looked at each other, they took each other’s hands, they pressed against each other; but there was a distance that they did not cross. Not that they respected it; they ignored it. Marius felt a barrier, Cosette’s purity, and Cosette felt a support, Marius’s loyalty. The first kiss had also been the last. Since then, Marius had not gone beyond brushing his lips against Cosette’s hand, or her kerchief, or a lock of hair. Cosette was for him a perfume and not a woman. He breathed her in. She refused nothing and he asked for nothing. Cosette was happy, and Marius was satisfied. They lived in that ravishing state which one might call the dazzling of a soul by a soul. It was that ineffable first embrace of two virginities in the ideal. Two swans meeting on the Jungfrau. At that hour of love, the hour when voluptuousness is absolutely silent beneath the omnipotence of ecstasy, Marius, the pure and seraphic Marius, would have been more capable of going up to a prostitute’s house than of lifting Cosette’s dress to ankle height. Once, in the moonlight , Cosette bent down to pick something up from the ground, her bodice opened and revealed the beginning of her throat, Marius looked away . What was happening between these two beings? Nothing. They adored each other. At night, when they were there, this garden seemed a living and sacred place. All the flowers opened around them and sent incense to them; they opened their souls and poured them into the flowers. The lascivious and vigorous vegetation quivered full of sap and intoxication around these two innocents, and they spoke words of love that made the trees tremble. What were these words? Breaths. Nothing more. These breaths were enough to disturb and move all this nature. A magical power that one would have difficulty understanding if one were to read in a book these conversations made to be carried away and dissipated like smoke by the wind under the leaves. Take away from these murmurs of two lovers this melody which comes from the soul and which accompanies them like a lyre, what remains is no more than a shadow; you say: What! it is only that! Yes , childishness, repetitions, laughter for nothing, uselessness, nonsense, all that there is in the world most sublime and most profound! the only things worth saying and listening to! Such nonsense, such poverty, the man who has never heard them, the man who has never uttered them, is an imbecile and a wicked man. Cosette said to Marius: “Do you know?…” (In all this, and through this celestial virginity, and without it being possible for either of them to say how, the use of the familiar form had come about.) “Do you know? My name is Euphrasie. ” “Euphrasie? But no, your name is Cosette. ” “Oh! Cosette is a rather ugly name that they gave me like that when I was little. But my real name is Euphrasie. Don’t you like that name, Euphrasie? ” “Yes…” “But Cosette isn’t ugly. ” “Do you like it better than Euphrasie? ” “But…” “Yes. ” “Then I like it better too. It’s true, it’s pretty, Cosette. Call me Cosette.” And the smile she added made this dialogue an idyll worthy of a wood in the sky. Another time she looked at him fixedly and cried out: “Sir, you are handsome, you are pretty, you have wit, you are not stupid at all, you are much more learned than I, but I defy you at that word: I love you!” And Marius, in full azure, thought he heard a verse sung by a star. Or else, she would give him a little slap because he was coughing, and she would say to him: “Don’t cough, sir. I don’t want anyone coughing in my house without my permission. It’s very ugly to cough and worry myself. I want you to be well, because first of all, if you weren’t well, I would be very unhappy. What do you want me to do?” And it was simply divine. Once Marius said to Cosette: “Just imagine, I thought for a while that your name was Ursule.” This made them laugh all evening. In the middle of another conversation, he happened to exclaim: “Oh! one day, at the Luxembourg, I felt like finishing off breaking an invalid!” But he stopped short and went no further. He would have had to talk to Cosette about her garter, and that was impossible for him. There was an unknown connection there , the flesh, before which that immense, innocent love recoiled with a sort of sacred terror. Marius pictured life with Cosette like that, nothing else; coming every evening to the Rue Plumet, disturbing the old, complacent bar of the President’s gate, sitting elbow to elbow on that bench, watching through the trees the scintillation of the dawning night, making the crease of the knee of his trousers coexist with the fullness of Cosette’s dress , caressing her thumbnail, saying “tu” to her, breathing one after the other the same flower, forever, indefinitely. Meanwhile, the clouds passed over their heads. Every time the wind blows, it carries away more of man’s dreams than clouds from the sky. That this chaste, almost fierce love was absolutely without gallantry, no. “Paying compliments” to the one one loves is the first way of offering caresses, a half-daring that is attempted. The compliment is something like the kiss through the veil. Voluptuousness puts its sweet point there, while hiding itself. Before voluptuousness the heart recoils, the better to love. Marius’s cajoling, all saturated with chimera, was, so to speak, azure. The birds, when they fly up there on the side of the angels, must hear these words. Yet there was mingled in them life, humanity, all the quantity of positive of which Marius was capable. This was what was said in the grotto, a prelude to what would be said in the alcove; a lyrical effusion, the mingled stanza and sonnet , the gentle hyperboles of cooing, all the refinements of adoration arranged in a bouquet and exhaling a subtle celestial perfume, an ineffable twittering from heart to heart. –Oh! murmured Marius, how beautiful you are! I dare not look at you. That is what makes me contemplate you. You are a grace. I do not know what is wrong with me. The hem of your dress, when the tip of your shoe passes, overwhelms me. And then what an enchanted glow when your thought half-opens! You speak reason astonishingly. It seems to me at times that you are a dream. Speak, I listen to you, I admire you. O Cosette! how strange and charming it is! I am truly mad. You are adorable, mademoiselle. I study your feet under the microscope and your soul under the telescope. And Cosette replied: “I love you a little more for all the time that has passed since this morning. ” Questions and answers went as best they could in this dialogue, always agreeing on love, like elderflower figurines on a nail. Cosette’s whole person was naiveté, ingenuousness, transparency, whiteness, candor, radiance. One might have said of Cosette that she was clear. She gave to whoever saw her a sensation of April and daybreak . There was dew in her eyes. Cosette was a condensation of auroral light in the form of a woman. It was quite simple for Marius, adoring her, to admire her. But the truth is that this little boarder, fresh out of the convent, conversed with exquisite insight and at times said all sorts of true and delicate words. Her babble was conversational. She was mistaken about nothing, and saw clearly. A woman feels and speaks with the tender instinct of the heart, that infallibility. No one knows like a woman how to say things at once sweet and profound. Sweetness and depth, that is all woman; that is all heaven. In this complete bliss, tears came to their eyes at every moment. A crushed beast, a feather fallen from a nest, a broken hawthorn branch, moved them to pity, and their ecstasy, gently drowned in melancholy, seemed to ask for nothing better than to weep. The most sovereign symptom of love is a tenderness that is sometimes almost unbearable. And, besides that,—all these contradictions are the play of lightning of love,—they laughed willingly, and with a ravishing freedom, and so familiarly that they sometimes almost looked like two boys. However, unbeknownst even to hearts drunk with chastity, unforgettable nature is always there. It is there, with its brutal and sublime purpose, and, whatever the innocence of souls, one feels, in the most modest tête-à-tête, the adorable and mysterious nuance that separates a couple of lovers from a pair of friends. They idolized each other. The permanent and the immutable subsist. They love each other, they smile at each other, they laugh, they make little pouts with the tips of their lips, they intertwine their fingers, they address each other informally, and that does not prevent eternity. Two lovers hide in the evening, in the twilight, in the invisible, with the birds, with the roses, they fascinate each other in the shadows with their hearts that they put in their eyes, they murmur, they whisper, and during this time immense swayings of stars fill infinity. Chapter 36. The dizziness of complete happiness. They existed vaguely, terrified with happiness. They did not notice the cholera that was decimating Paris precisely in that month. They had confided in each other as much as they could, but it had not gone far beyond their names. Marius had told Cosette that he was an orphan, that his name was Marius Pontmercy, that he was a lawyer, that he lived by writing things for booksellers, that his father was a colonel, that he was a hero, and that he, Marius, had quarreled with his grandfather, who was rich. He had also told her a little that he was a baron; but that had had no effect on Cosette. Marius baron? she hadn’t understood. She didn’t know what that word meant. Marius was Marius. For her part, she had confided in him that she had been brought up in the convent of Petit-Picpus, that her mother had died like him, that her father was called M. Fauchelevent, that he was very good, that he gave a great deal to the poor, but that he was poor himself, and that he deprived himself of everything while depriving her of nothing. Strangely enough, in the sort of symphony in which Marius had been living since he had seen Cosette, the past, even the most recent, had become so confused and distant for him that what Cosette told him satisfied him completely. He did not even think of telling her about the nocturnal adventure at the hovel, the Thénardiers, the burning, and the strange attitude and singular flight of his father. Marius had momentarily forgotten all that; he did not even know in the evening what he had done in the morning, nor where he had breakfasted, nor who had spoken to him; he had songs in his ears which made him deaf to all other thoughts, he existed only at the hours when he saw Cosette. Then, as he was in heaven, it was quite simple for him to forget the earth. Both carried with languor the indefinable weight of immaterial pleasures. Thus live these sleepwalkers who are called lovers. Alas! who has not experienced all these things? Why does there come a time when one emerges from this azure, and why does life continue afterward? To love almost replaces thinking. Love is an ardent forgetting of everything else. Ask passion for logic. There is no more absolute logical sequence in the human heart than there is a perfect geometric figure in celestial mechanics. For Cosette and Marius nothing existed any more than Marius and Cosette. The universe around them had fallen into a hole. They lived in a golden minute. There was nothing in front, nothing behind. Marius barely dreamed that Cosette had a father. There was in his brain the fading of dazzle. What were they talking about, these lovers? We saw it, flowers, swallows, the setting sun, the rising of the moon, all the important things. They had said everything to each other, except everything. The everything of lovers is nothing. But the father, the realities, this dive, these bandits, this adventure, what was the point? And was it really certain that this nightmare had existed? There were two of us, we adored each other, that was all there was . Everything else was not. It is likely that this vanishing of hell behind us is inherent in the arrival in paradise. Did we see demons? Are there any? Did we tremble? Did we suffer? We no longer know anything. A pink cloud is over it. So these two beings lived like this, very high up, with all the improbability that is in nature; neither at the nadir nor at the zenith, between man and seraph, above the mire, below the ether, in the cloud; barely bone and flesh, soul and ecstasy from head to toe; already too sublime to walk on earth, still too charged with humanity to disappear into the blue, suspended like atoms awaiting the precipitate; seemingly beyond destiny; ignorant of this rut, yesterday, today, tomorrow; amazed, swooning, floating, at times, lightened enough for flight into infinity; almost ready for eternal flight. They slept awake in this rocking. O splendid lethargy of reality overwhelmed by the ideal! Sometimes, beautiful as Cosette was, Marius closed his eyes before her. Closed eyes are the best way to look at the soul. Marius and Cosette did not wonder where this would lead them. They looked at each other as if they had arrived. It is a strange pretension of men to want love to lead somewhere. Chapter 37. Beginning of a Shadow. Jean Valjean, for his part, suspected nothing. Cosette, a little less dreamy than Marius, was gay, and that was enough for Jean Valjean to be happy. The thoughts that Cosette had, her tender preoccupations, the image of Marius that filled her soul, took nothing away from the incomparable purity of her beautiful, chaste, and smiling brow. She was at the age when a virgin carries her love as an angel carries his lily. Jean Valjean was therefore at peace. And then, when two lovers get along, things always go very well; any third party who might disturb their love is kept in perfect blindness by a small number of precautions, always the same for all lovers. Thus, Cosette never raised any objections to Jean Valjean. Did he want to go for a walk? Yes, my dear father. Did he want to stay? Very well. Did he want to spend the evening near Cosette? She was delighted. As he always retired at ten o’clock in the evening, these times Marius only came into the garden after that hour, when he heard Cosette open the French window on the steps from the street . It goes without saying that during the day one never met Marius. Jean Valjean no longer even dreamed that Marius existed. Only once, one morning, did he happen to say to Cosette: “Look, what a white face you have behind your back!” The day before That evening, Marius, in a transport, had pressed Cosette against the wall. Old Toussaint, who went to bed early, thought only of sleeping once her work was done, and was ignorant of everything like Jean Valjean. Marius never set foot in the house. When he was with Cosette, they hid in a hollow near the steps so as not to be seen or heard from the street, and sat there, often contenting themselves, for all conversation, with pressing hands twenty times a minute while looking at the branches of the trees. At such moments, thunder could have fallen thirty paces from them without them having suspected it, so deeply was the reverie of one absorbed and plunged into the reverie of the other. Limpid purities. Hours all white; almost all alike. This kind of love is a collection of lily leaves and dove feathers. The whole garden was between them and the street. Each time Marius entered or left, he carefully readjusted the bar of the gate so that no disturbance was visible. He usually left around midnight, and returned to Courfeyrac’s. Courfeyrac would say to Bahorel: “Would you believe it? Marius now comes home at one o’clock in the morning!” Bahorel would reply: “What do you expect? There’s always a firecracker in a seminarian’s house.” At times Courfeyrac would cross his arms, assume a serious air, and say to Marius: “You’re disturbing yourself, young man!” Courfeyrac, a practical man, did not take kindly to this reflection of an invisible paradise on Marius; he was little used to new passions , he grew impatient with them, and he would occasionally summon Marius to return to reality. One morning, he threw this admonition at him: “My dear fellow, you seem to me at the moment to be situated in the moon, kingdom of dreams, province of illusion, capital Soap Bubble. Come now, be good-natured, what is her name?” But nothing could “make” Marius speak. One would have torn out his nails rather than one of the three sacred syllables of which this ineffable name, _Cosette_, was composed. True love is luminous as the dawn and silent as the grave. Only, for Courfeyrac, there was this change in Marius, that he had a radiant taciturnity. During this sweet month of May, Marius and Cosette knew these immense joys: To quarrel and call each other “vous”, only to better call each other “tu” afterwards; To speak at length, and in the most minute details, about people who did not interest them in the least; further proof that, in this ravishing opera called love, the libretto is almost nothing; For Marius, to listen to Cosette talking rags; For Cosette, to listen to Marius talking politics; To hear, knee to knee, the carriages rolling along the Rue de Babylone; To contemplate the same planet in space or the same glow-worm in the grass; To be silent together; a sweetness even greater than talking; Etc., etc. Meanwhile, various complications were approaching. One evening, Marius was walking to the rendezvous along the Boulevard des Invalides; he usually walked with his brow bowed; as he was about to turn the corner of the Rue Plumet, he heard someone say very close to him: “Good evening, Monsieur Marius.” He raised his head and recognized Éponine. This had a singular effect on him. He had not thought once of this girl since the day she had brought him to the Rue Plumet, he had not seen her again, and she had completely left his mind. He had only reasons for gratitude for her, he owed his present happiness to her, and yet it was embarrassing for him to meet her. It is a mistake to believe that passion, when it is happy and pure, leads man to a state of perfection; it simply leads him, as we have seen, to a state of oblivion. In this situation, the man forgets to be bad, but he also forgets to be good.
Gratitude, duty, essential and unwelcome memories, vanish. At any other time Marius would have been very different for Éponine. Absorbed by Cosette, he had not even clearly realized that this Éponine was called Éponine Thénardier, and that she bore a name written in her father’s will, this name to which he would have, a few months before, so ardently devoted himself. We show Marius as he was. His father himself disappeared a little in his soul under the splendor of his love. He replied with some embarrassment: “Ah! Is it you, Éponine? ” “Why do you say you? Have I done something to you? ” “No,” he replied. Certainly, he had nothing against her. Far from it. Only, he felt that he could not do otherwise, now that he was saying “tu” to Cosette, than to say “vous” to Éponine. As he fell silent, she cried: “I say…” Then she stopped. It seemed that words failed this creature, once so carefree and so bold. She tried to smile and could not. She continued: “Well!…” Then she fell silent again and remained with her eyes lowered. “Good evening, Monsieur Marius,” she said suddenly abruptly, and she went away. Chapter 38. Cab rolls in English and barks in slang. The next day, it was June 3, June 3, 1832, a date that must be indicated because of the serious events that were at that time hanging over the horizon of Paris in the state of heavy clouds, Marius at nightfall was following the same path as the day before with the same thoughts of rapture in his heart, when he saw, between the trees of the boulevard, Éponine coming towards him. Two days in a row was too much. He turned quickly, left the boulevard, changed route, and went to Rue Plumet by Rue Monsieur. This caused Éponine to follow him to Rue Plumet, something she had not done before. Until then she had been content to catch sight of him as he passed along the boulevard without even trying to meet him. Only the day before had she tried to speak to him. So Éponine followed him, without his suspecting it. She saw him disturb the bar of the gate and slip into the garden. “Look!” she said, “he’s coming into the house!” She approached the gate, felt the bars one after the other, and easily recognized the one Marius had disturbed. She murmured in a low voice, with a lugubrious accent: “None of that, Lisette!” She sat down on the base of the gate, right next to the bar, as if she were guarding it. This was precisely the point where the gate touched the neighboring wall. There was a dark corner where Éponine disappeared entirely. She remained thus for more than an hour without moving or breathing, prey to her thoughts. Around ten o’clock in the evening, one of the two or three passers-by in the Rue Plumet, a belated old bourgeois who was hurrying through this deserted and disreputable place, skirting the garden gate, and having arrived at the angle that the gate made with the wall, heard a dull and threatening voice saying: “I am no longer surprised if he comes every evening!” The passer-by looked around him, saw no one, did not dare look in this dark corner and was very afraid. He doubled his pace. This passer-by was right to hurry, for, very few moments later, six men who were walking separately and at some distance from each other, along the walls, and who could have been taken for a gray patrol, entered the Rue Plumet. The first who arrived at the garden gate stopped and waited for the others; a second later, all six were together. These men began to speak in low voices. “This is quail,” said one of them. “Is there a cab in the garden?” asked another. “I don’t know. In any case, I’ve raised a ball that we’ll give him a good time. ” “Have you any putty to seal the vantern? ” “Yes. ” “The gate is old,” continued a fifth, who had a ventriloquist’s voice. “So much the better,” said the second who had spoken. “It won’t be so riddled under the scuttle and won’t be so hard to mow down.” The sixth, who had not yet opened his mouth, began to inspect the gate as Éponine had done an hour before, grasping each bar in turn and shaking them cautiously. He thus arrived at the bar that Marius had unsealed. As he was about to seize this bar, a hand suddenly emerging from the shadows fell on his arm; he felt himself forcefully pushed back by the middle of his chest, and a hoarse voice said to him without crying out: “There’s a cab.” At the same time, he saw a pale girl standing before him. The man had that shock which the unexpected always causes. He bristled hideously; nothing is as formidable to behold as wild beasts when worried; their frightened air is terrifying. He drew back and stammered: “Who is this rogue? ” “Your daughter.” It was indeed Éponine who was speaking to Thénardier. At Éponine’s appearance, the other five, that is to say, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet, Montparnasse, and Brujon, had approached without noise, without haste, without saying a word, with the sinister slowness peculiar to these men of the night. I could see some hideous tools in their hands. Gueulemer held one of those curved pincers that prowlers call fanchons. “Ah, what are you doing here? What do you want from us? Are you mad?” cried Thénardier, as much as one can cry out in a low voice. What are you doing stopping us from working? Éponine began to laugh and threw her arms around his neck. “I’m here, my dear father, because I’m here. Isn’t it permissible to sit on the stones now? You shouldn’t be here. What are you doing here, since it’s a biscuit? I told Magnon so. There’s nothing to do here. But kiss me, my good father! How long it’s been since I’ve seen you! Are you outside, then?” Thénardier tried to free himself from Éponine’s arms and grumbled: “All right. You kissed me. Yes, I’m outside. I’m not inside. Now go away.” But Éponine didn’t let go and redoubled her caresses. “My dear father, how did you manage? You must have a lot of wit to have gotten out of that. Tell me about it! And my mother? Where is my mother? Give me news of Mama. ” Thénardier replied: “She’s fine, I don’t know, leave me, I’m telling you, go away. ” “I don’t want to go,” said Éponine with the simpering of a spoiled child, “you’re telling me that it’s been four months since I’ve seen you and I’ve barely had time to kiss you. ” And she took her father by the neck. “Oh, that’s stupid!” said Babet. “Let’s hurry!” said Gueulemer, “the coquettish can come through. ” The ventriloquist’s voice chanted this couplet: “It’s not New Year’s Day,” ” To kiss Papa and Mama. ” Éponine turned towards the five bandits. “Well, it’s Monsieur Brujon.” “Hello, Monsieur Babet. Hello, Monsieur Claquesous.” “Don’t you recognize me, Monsieur Gueulemer?” “How are you, Montparnasse? ” “Yes, we recognize you!” said Thénardier. “But hello, good evening, go away! Leave us alone. ” “It’s the time for foxes, not for hens,” said Montparnasse. “You see we have to dope here,” added Babet. Eponine took Montparnasse’s hand. “Be careful!” he said. “You’ll cut yourself, I have an open wound. ” “My little Montparnasse,” replied Eponine very gently, “you must have confidence in people. I am my father’s daughter, perhaps.” Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Gueulemer, I am the one who has been charged with shedding light on the matter. It is remarkable that Éponine did not speak slang. Since she had known Marius, this dreadful language had become impossible for her. She pressed Gueulemer’s large, rough fingers in her small, bony hand, as weak as a skeleton’s, and continued: “You know very well that I am not stupid. Usually people believe me. I have done you a service on occasion. Well, I have made some inquiries; you would be exposing yourself to no purpose, you see. I swear to you that there is nothing to be done in this house. ” “There are women alone,” said Gueulemer. “No. The people have moved. ” “The candles are not, always!” said Babet. And he showed Éponine, through the tops of the trees, a light that was moving in the attic of the pavilion. It was Toussaint who had stayed up to hang out some washing to dry. Éponine made a last effort. “Well,” she said, “they’re very poor people, and a shack where they haven’t a penny. ” “Go to hell!” shouted Thénardier. “When we’ve turned the house upside down, and put the cellar upstairs and the attic downstairs, we’ll tell you what’s in it, and whether it’s balls, rounds , or broques.” And he pushed her aside to get on with it. “My good friend, Monsieur Montparnasse,” said Éponine, “I beg you, you who are a good fellow, don’t come in! ” “Be careful, you’ll cut yourself!” replied Montparnasse. Thénardier continued with the decisive accent he had: “Get out of here, fairy, and let the men do their business.” Éponine let go of Montparnasse’s hand, which she had seized, and said: “So you want to go into this house? ” “A little!” said the ventriloquist, sneering. Then she leaned against the gate, faced the six bandits armed to the teeth, whom the night gave the faces of demons, and said in a firm, low voice: “Well, I don’t want to.” They stopped, stupefied. The ventriloquist, however, finished his sneer. She continued: “Friends! Listen carefully. That’s not it. Now I’m talking. First of all, if you enter this garden, if you touch this gate, I’ll shout, I’ll bang on the doors, I’ll wake everyone up, I’ll have all six of you seized, I’ll call the police. ” “She would do it,” said Thénardier in a low voice to Brujon and the ventriloquist. She shook her head and added: “Beginning with my father.” Thénardier approached. “Not so close, man!” she said. He stepped back, grumbling under his breath: “But what’s the matter with her?” And he added: “Bitch! ” She began to laugh terribly. “As you wish, you won’t come in. I’m not the girl with the dog, since I’m the girl with the wolf. There are six of you, what does that matter to me? You’re men. Well, I’m a woman. You don’t frighten me, go on. I tell you you won’t come into this house, because I don’t like it. If you come any closer, I’ll bark. I told you, I’m the cab. I don’t give a damn about you. Go on your way, you’re annoying me! Go where you like, but don’t come here, I forbid you! You with a knife, me with a kick, it’s all the same to me, just go ahead!” She took a step towards the bandits, she was terrifying, she started laughing again. –Pardine! I’m not afraid. This summer, I’ll be hungry, this winter, I’ll be cold. Are they jokes, these stupid men to think they’re frightening a girl! Of what! Afraid? Oh yes, nicely! Because you have little mistresses who hide under the bed when you raise your voice, that’s it. I’m not afraid of anything! She fixed her gaze on Thénardier, and said: –Not even of you, father! Then she continued, casting her bloody eyes over the bandits specter’s eyes: “What do I care if they pick me up tomorrow on the pavement on Rue Plumet, killed with a shiv by my father, or if they find me in a year’s time in the nets of Saint-Cloud or on the Isle of Swans among the old rotten corks and drowned dogs!” She was forced to stop; a dry cough seized her, her breath coming out like a rattle from her narrow, weak chest. She continued: “I only have to shout, they’ll come, bang. There are six of you; I’m everyone. ” Thénardier made a move toward her. “Don’t come any closer,” she shouted. He stopped and said gently: “Well, no. I won’t come any closer, but don’t speak so loudly. My daughter, do you want to stop us from working? We have to earn our living. Do you no longer have any friendship for your father?” “You’re bothering me,” said Éponine. “We have to live, we have to eat… “Die. ” Having said that, she sat down on the base of the gate, humming: “My plump arm, My well-shaped leg, And lost time.” She had her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, and she was swinging her foot with an air of indifference. Her ripped dress revealed her thin collarbones. The nearby street lamp lit up her profile and her attitude. Nothing could be seen more resolute and more surprising. The six escarpes, forbidden and gloomy at being held in check by a girl, went under the shadow cast by the lantern and held council with humiliated and furious shrugs of the shoulders. She, however, looked at them with a peaceful and fierce air. “She has something,” said Babet. “A reason. Is she in love with the cab?” It’s a shame to miss this. Two women, an old man who lives in a back yard; there are some pretty good curtains at the windows. The old man must be a guinal. I think it’s a good deal. “Well, come in, you others,” cried Montparnasse. “Do the deal. I’ll stay here with the girl, and if she flinches…” He shone the knife he held open in his sleeve in the streetlight. Thénardier said nothing and seemed ready for whatever was asked. Brujon, who was something of an oracle and who had, as we know, “given the deal,” had not yet spoken. He seemed thoughtful. He was said to stop at nothing, and it was known that he had once robbed, purely out of bravado, a police station. Besides, he wrote verses and songs, which gave him great authority. Babet questioned him. “You’re not saying anything, Brujon?” Brujon remained silent for a moment, then he nodded his head in several different ways, and finally decided to raise his voice. “Here it is: this morning I met two sparrows fighting; this evening, I bump into a woman who is quarreling. All this is bad. Let’s go.” They left. As they left, Montparnasse murmured: “It doesn’t matter, if we had wanted to, I would have given a helping hand. ” Babet replied: “Not me. I don’t hit a lady.” At the corner of the street, they stopped and exchanged in muffled voices this enigmatic dialogue: “Where shall we sleep tonight?” “Under Pantin. ” “Have you got the key to the gate, Thénardier? ” “Of course.” Éponine, who had not taken her eyes off them, saw them take the path they had come by. She got up and began to crawl behind them along the walls and houses. She followed them to the boulevard. There they separated, and she saw these six men disappear into the darkness where they seemed to melt. Chapter 39. Things of the Night. After the bandits had left, Plumet Street resumed its tranquil nocturnal appearance. What had just happened in this street would not have surprised a forest. The high forests, the coppices, the heather, the harshly intertwined branches, the tall grass, exist in a dark way; the wild swarming glimpses there the sudden apparitions of the invisible; that which is below man distinguishes through the mist that which is beyond man; and things unknown to us living confront each other there in the night. Bristling and wild nature is frightened by certain approaches where it believes it senses the supernatural. The forces of shadow know each other, and have mysterious balances between them. Teeth and claws fear the elusive. Blood-drinking bestiality , voracious appetites starving for prey, instincts armed with nails and jaws whose source and goal are only the belly, watch and sniff with anxiety the impassive spectral lineament prowling under a shroud, standing in its vague, quivering robe, and which seems to them to live a dead and terrible life. These brutalities, which are only matter, are confusedly afraid of having to deal with the immense darkness condensed in an unknown being. A black figure blocking the passage stops the wild beast in its tracks. What comes out of the cemetery intimidates and disconcerts what comes out of the lair; the ferocious is afraid of the sinister; wolves recoil before a ghoul they encounter. Chapter 40. Marius becomes real again to the point of giving his address to Cosette. While this sort of human-faced dog stood guard against the gate and the six bandits gave way before a girl, Marius was near Cosette. Never had the sky been more starry and more charming, the trees more trembling, the scent of the grass more penetrating; never had the birds fallen asleep among the leaves with a sweeter sound; never had all the harmonies of universal serenity responded better to the interior music of love; never had Marius been more enamored, more happy, more ecstatic. But he had found Cosette sad. Cosette had wept. Her eyes were red. It was the first cloud in this admirable dream. Marius’s first word had been: “What’s the matter?” And she had replied: “There.” Then she sat down on the bench near the steps, and while he sat down beside her, trembling all over, she continued: “My father told me this morning to be ready, that he had some business, and that we might perhaps be leaving.” Marius shuddered from head to foot. When one is at the end of life, to die means to leave; when one is at the beginning, to leave means to die. For six weeks, Marius, little by little, slowly, by degrees, had been taking possession of Cosette every day. A possession entirely ideal, but profound. As we have already explained, in first love, one takes the soul well before the body; later, one takes the body well before the soul, sometimes one does not take the soul at all; the Faublas and the Prudhommes add: because there is none; but this sarcasm is fortunately blasphemy. Marius, then, possessed Cosette, as spirits possess; but he enveloped her with his whole soul and seized her jealously with incredible conviction. He possessed her smile, her breath, her perfume, the deep radiance of her blue eyes, the softness of her skin when he touched her hand, the charming sign she had around her neck, all her thoughts. They had agreed never to sleep without dreaming of each other, and they had kept their word. He therefore possessed all of Cosette’s dreams. He gazed incessantly and sometimes brushed his breath against the little hairs on the nape of her neck, and he declared to himself that there was not one of those little hairs that did not belong to him, Marius. He contemplated and adored the things she wore, her ribbon bow, her gloves, her cuffs, her boots, like sacred objects of which he was the master. He thought that he was the lord of those pretty tortoiseshell combs she had in her hair, and he even said to himself, in the dull and confused stammerings of the voluptuousness that was dawning, that there was not a cord of her dress, not a stitch of her stockings, not a fold of her corset, that was not his. Beside Cosette, he felt close to his property, close to his thing, close to his despot and his slave. It seemed that they had so mingled their souls that, if they had wanted to take them back, it would have been impossible for them to recognize them.–This one is mine.–No, it is mine.–I assure you that you are mistaken. This is me.– What you take for yourself is me.–Marius was something that was part of Cosette and Cosette was something that was part of Marius. Marius felt Cosette living within him. To have Cosette, to possess Cosette, for him this was indistinguishable from breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, this intoxication, this virginal possession, unheard of and absolute, this sovereignty, that the words: “We are going to leave,” suddenly fell, and the abrupt voice of reality cried out to him: Cosette is not yours! Marius awoke. For six weeks, Marius had been living, as we have said, outside of life; this word, “leave!” made him return to it harshly. He could not find a word. Cosette only felt that his hand was very cold. She said to him in her turn: “What is the matter?” He answered, so quietly that Cosette could hardly hear him: “I don’t understand what you said.” She continued: “This morning my father told me to prepare all my little things and to be ready, that he would give me his linen to put in a trunk, that he was obliged to make a journey, that we were going to leave, that we would need a large trunk for me and a small one for him, to prepare all this within a week, and that we would perhaps go to England. ” “But this is monstrous!” cried Marius. It is certain that at that moment, in Marius’s mind, no abuse of power, no violence, no abomination of the most prodigious tyrants, no action of Busiris, Tiberius, or Henry VIII, equaled in ferocity this: M. Fauchelevent taking his daughter to England because he has business. He asked in a weak voice: “And when would you leave?” “He did not say when. ” “And when would you return? ” “He did not say when.” Marius rose and said coldly: “Cosette, will you go?” Cosette turned her beautiful eyes full of anguish toward him and replied with a sort of bewilderment: “Where? ” “To England? Will you go? ” “Why do you say you? ” “I ask you if you will go? ” “How do you want me to do it?” she said, clasping her hands. “So you will go? ” “If my father goes? ” “So you will go?” Cosette took Marius’s hand and clasped it without replying. “Very well,” said Marius. “Then I will go elsewhere.” Cosette felt the meaning of this word even more than she understood it. She turned so pale that her face became white in the darkness. She stammered: “What do you mean?” Marius looked at her, then slowly raised his eyes to the sky and replied: “Nothing.” When his eyelid lowered, he saw Cosette smiling at him. The smile of a woman you love has a clarity you see at night. “How stupid we are! Marius, I have an idea. ” “What? ” “Leave if we leave! I’ll tell you where. Come and join me where I am!” Marius was now a man who was completely awake. He had fallen back into reality. He shouted to Cosette: “Leave with you! Are you crazy? But I must have money, and I haven’t any ! Go to England? But I now owe, I don’t know, more than ten louis to Courfeyrac, a friend of mine whom you don’t know!” But I have an old hat that isn’t worth three francs, I have a coat with buttons missing in front, my shirt is all torn; my elbows are pierced, my boots are leaking; for six weeks I haven’t thought about it, and I haven’t told you. Cosette! I’m a wretch. You
only see me at night, and you give me your love; if you saw me during the day, you’d give me a penny! Go to England! Hey! I haven’t got enough to pay for the passport! He threw himself against a tree that was there, standing there, both arms above his head, his forehead against the bark, feeling neither the wood that was flaying his skin nor the fever that was hammering his temples, motionless, and ready to fall, like the statue of despair. He remained like that for a long time. One could remain for eternity in those abysses. Finally he turned around. He heard behind him a small, muffled noise, sweet and sad. It was Cosette sobbing. She had been weeping for more than two hours beside Marius, who was thinking. He came to her, fell to his knees, and, prostrating himself slowly, he took the tip of her foot which passed under her dress and kissed it. She let him do it in silence. There are moments when a woman accepts, like a somber and resigned goddess, the religion of love. “Don’t cry,” he said. She murmured: “Since I am perhaps going away, and you cannot come!” He continued: “Do you love me?” She answered him, sobbing, with those words from paradise, which are never more charming than through tears: “I adore you!” He continued with a tone of voice that was an inexpressible caress: “Don’t cry. Say, will you do this for me, not to cry? ” “Do you love me?” she said. He took her hand. “Cosette, I have never given my word of honor to anyone, because my word of honor frightens me. I feel that my father is near. Well, I give you my most sacred word of honor that, if you go , I will die. ” There was in the tone with which he spoke these words a melancholy so solemn and so tranquil that Cosette trembled. She felt that coldness which comes from a dark and true thing passing away. She stopped crying with shock. “Now listen,” he said. “Don’t expect me tomorrow. ” “Why? ” “Don’t expect me until the day after tomorrow. ” “Oh! why? ” “You’ll see. ” “A day without seeing you! But that’s impossible. ” “Let’s sacrifice a day to have perhaps all of life.” And Marius added in a low voice and aside: “He’s a man who changes nothing in his habits, and he has never received anyone except in the evening.” “What man are you talking about?” asked Cosette. “Me? I didn’t say anything. ” “What are you hoping for?” “Wait until the day after tomorrow. ” “Do you want it? ” “Yes, Cosette.” She took his head in both hands, raising herself on tiptoe to be at his height, and trying to see his hope in his eyes. Marius continued: “I’m thinking about it . You must know my address. Things can happen , you never know. I live with this friend named Courfeyrac, at 16 Rue de la Verrerie. ” He reached into his pocket, took out a penknife, and with the blade wrote on the plaster of the wall: “16 Rue de la Verrerie.” Cosette, meanwhile, had started looking him in the eyes again. “Tell me what you think. Marius, you have a thought. Tell it to me. Oh! tell it to me so that I may have a good night!” “My thought is this: it is impossible for God to want to separate us. Wait for me the day after tomorrow. ” “What shall I do until then?” said Cosette. “You are outside, you come and go. How fortunate men are! I am going to stay all alone. Oh! How sad I shall be! What will you do tomorrow evening, then? ” “I will try one thing.” –Then I will pray to God and think of you until then so that you succeed. I will not question you any more, since you do not want to. You are my master. I will spend my evening tomorrow singing this music from _Euryanthe_ that you love and that you came to hear one evening behind my shutter. But the day after tomorrow you will come early. I will wait for you at night, at nine o’clock sharp, I warn you. My God! How sad it is that the days are long! You hear, at nine o’clock striking I will be in the garden. –And me too. And without having said it to each other, moved by the same thought, carried along by those electric currents which put two lovers in continual communication, both intoxicated with voluptuousness even in their pain, they fell into each other’s arms, without noticing that their lips had joined while their raised gazes, overflowing with ecstasy and full of tears, contemplated the stars. When Marius went out, the street was deserted. It was the moment when Éponine followed the bandits to the boulevard. While Marius was dreaming, his head leaning against the tree, an idea had crossed his mind; an idea, alas! which he himself judged insane and impossible. He had taken a violent decision. Chapter 41. The Old Heart and the Young Heart in Confrontation. Father Gillenormand was at this time well into his ninety-first year . He still lived with Mademoiselle Gillenormand at 6 Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, in that old house of his. He was, as you will remember, one of those ancient old men who wait for death straight ahead, whom age burdens without bending, and whom even grief does not bend. However, for some time now, his daughter had been saying: “My father is going downhill.” He no longer slapped the maids; he no longer rapped his cane with such verve on the landing of the staircase when Basque was late in opening the door. The July Revolution had barely exasperated him for six months. He had seen almost calmly in the _Moniteur_ this coupling of words: M. Humblot-Conté, peer of France. The fact is that the old man was filled with despondency. He did not bend, he did not surrender, it was no more in his physical nature than in his moral nature; but he felt himself fainting inside. For four years he had been waiting for Marius, firmly, that’s the right word, with the conviction that this naughty little rascal would ring at the door one day or another; now he came, in certain gloomy hours, to say to himself that if Marius kept him waiting any longer… It was not death that was unbearable to him, it was the idea that perhaps he would never see Marius again. Not to see Marius again, this had not entered his mind for a single instant until today; now this idea began to appear to him, and chilled him. Absence, as always happens in natural and true feelings, had only increased his grandfatherly love for the ungrateful child who had gone away like that. It is on December nights, when the temperature is ten degrees cold, that one thinks most of the sun. M. Gillenormand was, or believed himself to be, above all incapable of taking a step, he, the grandfather, towards his grandson;—I would sooner die, he said. He found no fault in himself, but he thought of Marius only with a profound tenderness and the mute despair of an old man who is passing into the darkness. He was beginning to lose his teeth, which added to his sadness. M. Gillenormand, without admitting it to himself, for he would have been furious and ashamed, had never loved a mistress as he loved Marius. He had placed in his room, in front of his bedside, as the first thing he wanted to see on waking, an old portrait of his other daughter, the one who had died, Madame Pontmercy, a portrait done when she was eighteen. He looked constantly at this portrait. One day, while looking at it, he happened to say: “I think it resembles her. ” “My sister?” continued Mademoiselle Gillenormand. “Yes, indeed.” The old man added: “And him too.” Once, as he sat with his knees together and his eyes almost closed, in a posture of dejection, his daughter ventured to say to him: “Father, do you still want it so much?” She stopped, not daring to go any further. “Who?” he asked. “Poor Marius?” He raised his old head, placed his thin and wrinkled fist on the table, and cried in his most irritated and vibrant tone: “Poor Marius, you say! This gentleman is a rascal, a bad beggar, a vain, ungrateful little fellow, heartless, soulless, a proud, wicked man!” And he turned away so that his daughter would not see a tear in his eyes. Three days later, he emerged from a silence that had lasted four hours to say to his daughter point-blank: “I had the honor of asking Mademoiselle Gillenormand never to speak to me about it. ” Aunt Gillenormand gave up all attempts and made this profound diagnosis: “My father has never loved my sister much since her foolishness. It is clear that he hates Marius. ” “Since her foolishness” meant: since she married the colonel. Besides, as has been conjectured, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had failed in her attempt to substitute her favorite, the lancer officer, for Marius. The replacement, Théodule, had not succeeded. Monsieur Gillenormand had not accepted the misunderstanding. The emptiness of the heart does not accommodate a stopgap. Théodule, for his part, while smelling the inheritance, was averse to the chore of pleasing. The old fellow bored the lancer, and the lancer shocked the old fellow. Lieutenant Théodule was gay, no doubt, but talkative; frivolous, but vulgar; a bon vivant, but bad company; he had mistresses, it’s true, and he talked about them a lot, it’s also true; but he talked about them badly. All his qualities had a fault. M. Gillenormand was exasperated to hear him recount the good fortune he had around his barracks, rue de Babylone. And then Lieutenant Gillenormand sometimes came in uniform with the tricolor cockade. This made him quite simply impossible. Father Gillenormand had finally said to his daughter: “I’ve had enough of Théodule. I have little taste for soldiers in peacetime. Receive them if you like.” I don’t know if I don’t like swordsmen even better than sword-drawers. The clatter of blades in battle is less miserable, after all, than the clanging of scabbards on the pavement. And then, to arch one’s back like a braggart and strap oneself in like a sissy, to have a corset under a breastplate, is to be doubly ridiculous. When one is a real man, one keeps an equal distance from boasting and sentimentality . Neither swashbuckler nor pretty-boy. Keep your Théodule to yourself. His daughter had no trouble saying to him: “He’s your great-nephew, though,” it turned out that M. Gillenormand, who was a grandfather to his fingertips , was not a great-uncle at all. In reality, as he had wit and made comparisons, Théodule had only served to make him miss Marius more. One evening, it was June 4th, which did not prevent Father Gillenormand from having a very good fire in his fireplace, he had dismissed his daughter who was sewing in the next room. He was alone in his bergerades room, his feet on his andirons, half wrapped in his vast nine-leaf Coromandel screen, leaning on his table where two candles burned under a green lampshade, sunk in his tapestry armchair, a book in his hand, but not reading. He was dressed, according to his fashion, in _incroyable_, and resembled an antique portrait of Garat. This would have had him followed in the streets, but his daughter always covered him, when he went out, with a large bishop’s blanket, which hid his clothes. At home, except for getting up and going to bed, he never wore a dressing gown. – It makes you look old, he said. Father Gillenormand thought of Marius lovingly and bitterly, and, as usual, bitterness dominated. His soured tenderness always ended by boiling over and turning into indignation. He had reached the point where one tries to make up one’s mind and accept what is heartbreaking. He was explaining to himself that there was now no longer any reason for Marius to return, that if he had had to return, he would have already done so, that it was necessary to give it up. He tried to get used to the idea that it was over, and that he would die without seeing “this gentleman” again. But his whole nature rebelled; his old fatherhood could not consent to it. “What!” he said, it was his painful refrain, “he will not return!” His bald head had fallen on his chest, and he fixed vaguely on the ashes of his hearth a lamentable and irritated gaze. In the depths of this reverie, his old servant, Basque, entered and asked: “Can Monsieur receive Monsieur Marius?” The old man sat up, pale and like a corpse rising under a galvanic shock. All his blood had flowed back to his heart. He stammered: “Monsieur Marius what? ” “I don’t know,” replied Basque, intimidated and disconcerted by the master’s expression , “I haven’t seen him. It was Nicolette who just told me: There is a young man here, say it is Monsieur Marius.” Father Gillenormand stammered in a low voice: “Show him in.” And he remained in the same attitude, his head shaking, his eyes fixed on the door. It opened again. A young man entered. It was Marius. Marius stopped at the door as if waiting to be told to enter. His almost wretched clothing was not visible in the darkness created by the lampshade. All that could be seen was his face, calm and grave, but strangely sad. Father Gillenormand, dazed with stupor and joy, remained for a few moments without seeing anything other than a brightness as when one is before an apparition. He was ready to faint; he perceived Marius through a dazzling glare. It was really him, it was really Marius! At last! After four years! He took him in, so to speak, entirely at a glance. He found him handsome, noble, distinguished, grown up, a grown man, with a suitable attitude, a charming air. He felt like opening his arms, calling him, rushing forward, his insides melted in rapture, the affectionate words swelled and overflowed from his chest; finally all this tenderness came to light and reached his lips, and by the contrast which was the basis of his nature, a hardness emerged from it . He said abruptly: “What are you doing here?” Marius replied with embarrassment: “Monsieur…” M. Gillenormand would have liked Marius to throw himself into his arms. He was displeased with Marius and with himself. He felt that he was abrupt and that Marius was cold. It was an unbearable and irritating anxiety for the good man to feel so tender and so tearful inside and to be able to be only hard outside. Bitterness returned to him. He interrupted Marius with a gruff accent: “Then why have you come?” This “then” meant: _if you do not come and embrace me_. Marius looked at his grandfather, whose pale face was like marble. “Sir… ” The old man continued in a stern voice: “Have you come to ask my forgiveness? Have you acknowledged your wrongs?” He thought he had put Marius on the right track and that “the child” would give in. Marius shuddered; it was the disavowal of his father that was being asked of him; he lowered his eyes and replied: “No, sir. ” “And then,” the old man cried impetuously with a pain poignant and full of anger, what do you want from me? Marius clasped his hands, took a step, and said in a weak, trembling voice: “Sir, have pity on me.” This word moved M. Gillenormand; had it been said earlier, it would have softened him, but it came too late. The grandfather stood up; he leaned on his cane with both hands, his lips were white, his forehead wavered, but his tall stature dominated the bent Marius. “Pity you, sir! It is the adolescent who asks pity from the old man of ninety-one! You enter life, I leave it; you go to the theater, to the ball, to the cafe, to the billiards table, you have wit, you please women, you are a handsome fellow; I spit on my embers in the middle of summer; you are rich in the only riches there are, I have all the poverty of old age, infirmity, isolation! You have your thirty-two teeth, a good stomach, a lively eye, strength, appetite, health, gaiety, a forest of black hair; I don’t even have any white hair anymore, I’ve lost my teeth, I’m losing my legs, I’m losing my memory, there are three street names that I constantly confuse, rue Charlot, rue du Chaume and rue Saint-Claude, I’m there; you have before you the whole future full of sunshine, I’m beginning to see nothing, so far am I advancing into the night; you are in love, it goes without saying, I am loved by no one in the world, and you ask me for pity! Parbleu, Molière has forgotten this. If that’s how you joke in the court, gentlemen lawyers, I offer you my sincere compliments. You are funny. And the octogenarian resumed in an angry and grave voice: “Ah, what do you want from me? ” “Sir,” said Marius, “I know that my presence displeases you, but I only came to ask you one thing, and then I will leave at once. You are a fool!” said the old man. “Who told you to go away?”
This was the translation of those tender words that he had in the depths of his heart: “But ask my forgiveness! Throw yourself on my neck!” M. Gillenormand felt that Marius would leave him in a few moments, that his bad reception repelled him, that his harshness drove him away, he said all this to himself, and his grief increased, and as his grief immediately turned to anger, his harshness increased. He would have liked Marius to understand, and Marius did not understand; which made the good man furious. He resumed: “What! I missed you, your grandfather, you left my house to go who knows where, you made your aunt sorry, you were, you can guess, it’s more convenient, leading a bachelor’s life, acting like a dandy, coming home at all hours, enjoying yourself, you didn’t give me any sign of life, you got into debts without even telling me to pay them, you became a window-breaker and a rowdy, and after four years, you come to my house, and you have nothing else to say to me but that! This violent way of pushing the grandson to tenderness only produced silence from Marius. M. Gillenormand crossed his arms, a gesture which, with him, was particularly imperious, and addressed Marius bitterly: “Let’s finish. You came to ask me something, you say? Well, what? What is it? Speak.” “Sir,” said Marius with the look of a man who feels he is about to fall into a precipice, “I have come to ask your permission to marry.” M. Gillenormand rang. Basque half-opened the door. “Bring in my daughter.” A second later, the door opened again. Mademoiselle Gillenormand did not enter, but showed herself; Marius was standing there, mute, his arms hanging down, with the face of a criminal; M. Gillenormand paced up and down the room. He turned to his daughter and said: “Nothing. It’s M. Marius. Say good morning to him. Monsieur wants to to marry. There. Go away. The old man’s short, hoarse voice announced a strange fullness of passion. The aunt looked at Marius with a frightened air, seemed hardly to recognize him, did not let out a gesture or a syllable, and disappeared at her father’s breath faster than a straw before a hurricane. Meanwhile, Father Gillenormand had returned to lean against the fireplace. “To marry! At twenty-one! You’ve arranged that! You only have one more permission to ask! A formality. Sit down, sir. Well, you’ve had a revolution since I had the honor of seeing you. The Jacobins had the upper hand. You must have been pleased. Haven’t you been a republican since you became a baron? You accommodate that. The republic makes a sauce for the barony. Are you decorated with the July medal? Have you taken a little of the Louvre, sir?” There is here , very close by, on Rue Saint-Antoine, opposite Rue des Nonaindières, a ball and chain embedded in the wall on the third floor of a house with this inscription: July 28, 1830. Go and see it. It makes a good impression. Ah! They do pretty things, your friends! By the way, aren’t they building a fountain in place of the monument to the Duke of Berry? So you want to marry? To whom? Can one ask without indiscretion who? He stopped, and before Marius had time to reply, he added violently: “Oh, you have a profession? A fortune made? How much do you earn as a lawyer? ” “Nothing,” said Marius with a sort of firmness and almost fierce resolution . “Nothing? You have nothing to live on but the twelve hundred livres I give you?” Marius did not reply. M. Gillenormand continued: “Then I understand, the girl is rich? ” “Like me. ” “What! No dowry? ” “No. ” “Hopes? ” “I don’t think so. ” “Naked! And what is the father? ” “I don’t know. ” “And what is her name? ” “Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. ” “Fauchewhat? ” “Fauchelevent. ” “Pttt!” said the old man. “Sir!” cried Marius. M. Gillenormand interrupted him in the tone of a man talking to himself. “That’s it, twenty-one years old, no position, twelve hundred livres a year, Madame la Baronne Pontmercy will go and buy two sous’ worth of parsley from the greengrocer. ” “Sir,” continued Marius, in the confusion of the last hope that is vanishing, “I beg you!” I beg you, in the name of heaven, with clasped hands, sir, I place myself at your feet, allow me to marry him. The old man gave a shrill and lugubrious burst of laughter through which he coughed and spoke. –Ah! ah! ah! you said to yourself: Pardine! I’m going to find that old wig, that absurd fool! What a pity I’m not twenty-five! How I would give him a good respectful warning! How I could do without him! It doesn’t matter, I’ll say to him: Old fool, you’re too happy to see me, I want to get married, I want to marry Miss Anybody, daughter of Mr. Anything , I don’t have any shoes, she doesn’t have a shirt, that’s fine, I want to throw away my career, my future, my youth, my life, I want to take a plunge into poverty with a woman around my neck, it’s my idea, you must consent! and the old fossil will consent. Go, my boy, as you wish, tie up your paving stone, marry your Pousselevent, your Coupelevent…–Never, sir! never! –My father! –Never! At the accent with which this “never” was pronounced, Marius lost all hope. He crossed the room with slow steps, his head bent, staggering, more like someone who was dying than someone who was leaving. M. Gillenormand followed him with his eyes, and at the moment when the door opened and Marius was about to leave, he took four steps with that senile vivacity imperious and spoiled old men, seized Marius by the collar, brought him back energetically into the room, threw him into an armchair, and said to him: “Tell me about it!” It was this single word, “my father,” which had escaped Marius, which had caused this revolution. Marius looked at him, bewildered. The mobile face of M. Gillenormand expressed nothing more than a rough and ineffable good nature. The grandfather had given way to the grandfather. “Come now, talk, tell me about your love affairs, chatter, tell me everything! Gosh! how stupid young people are! ” “My father!” Marius continued. The old man’s whole face lit up with an indescribable radiance. “Yes, that’s it! Call me your father, and you’ll see!” There was now something so good, so gentle, so open, so paternal in this abruptness, that Marius, in this sudden passage from discouragement to hope, was as if stunned and intoxicated. He was sitting near the table, the candlelight making the dilapidation of his costume stand out, which Father Gillenormand regarded with astonishment. “Well, father,” said Marius. “Oh, well,” interrupted M. Gillenormand, “so you really have no money? You are dressed like a thief.” He rummaged in a drawer, and took out a purse which he placed on the table: “Here, here is a hundred louis, buy yourself a hat. ” “Father,” continued Marius, “my good father, if you only knew! I love her. You can’t imagine, the first time I saw her was at the Luxembourg, she used to come there; At first I didn’t pay much attention to it, and then I don’t know how it happened, I fell in love with her. Oh! How unhappy it made me! Anyway, I see her now, every day, at her house, her father doesn’t know, imagine they’re going to leave, it’s in the garden that we see each other, in the evening, her father wants to take her to England, so I said to myself: I’m going to see my grandfather and tell him about it. I would go mad first, I would die, I would get sick, I would throw myself into the water. I absolutely must marry her, since I would go mad. Anyway, that’s the whole truth, I don’t think I’ve forgotten anything. She lives in a garden where there is a gate, rue Plumet. It’s near the Invalides. Father Gillenormand sat beaming near Marius. While listening to her and savoring the sound of her voice, he was at the same time savoring a long puff of tobacco. At the word, Rue Plumet, he stopped inhaling and dropped the rest of his tobacco onto his knees. –Rue Plumet! You say Rue Plumet? –Come now! –Isn’t there a barracks over there? –Why, yes, that’s it. Your cousin Théodule told me about it. The lancer, the officer. –A little girl, my good friend, a little girl! –By Jove, yes, Rue Plumet. That’s what they used to call Rue Blomet. –Now it comes back to me. I heard about that little girl at the gate of Rue Plumet. In a garden. A Paméla. You don’t have bad taste. They say she’s clean. Between you and me, I think that oaf of a lancer courted her a little. I don’t know how far it went. Well, it doesn’t matter. Besides, you shouldn’t believe him. He’s bragging. Marius! I think it’s very good that a young man like you is in love. It’s your age. I like you better in love than a Jacobin. I like you better in love with a petticoat, damn it! with twenty petticoats than with Monsieur de Robespierre. For my part, I do myself the justice that, as far as sans-culottes are concerned, I’ve only ever loved women. Pretty girls are pretty girls, damn it! There’s no objection to that. As for the little one, she’s secretly seeing you from her father. That’s in order. I’ve had stories like that, too. More than one. Do you know what we do? We don’t take things with ferocity; we don’t rush into tragedy; we don’t conclude with marriage and the mayor with his scarf. We’re simply a boy of mind. We have common sense. Slide, mortals, don’t marry. We come to find the grandfather who is a good man deep down, and who always has a few rolls of louis in an old drawer; we say to him: Grandfather, here. And the grandfather says: It’s quite simple. Youth must pass and old age must end. I was young, you will be old. Go, my boy, you will give this back to your grandson. Here are two hundred pistoles. Have fun, mordi! Nothing better! That’s how things should be . We don’t marry, but that doesn’t stop us. Do you understand me? Marius, petrified and unable to articulate a word, shook his head no. The old man burst out laughing, blinked his old eyelid, slapped him on the knee, looked him between two eyes with a mysterious and radiant air, and said to him with the most tender shrug of the shoulders: “Bêta! Make her your mistress.” Marius turned pale. He had understood nothing of what his grandfather had just said. This harping about Rue Blomet, Pamela, barracks, lancers , had passed before Marius like a phantasmagoria. None of this could relate to Cosette, who was a lily. The old man was rambling. But this rambling had ended in a word that Marius had understood and which was a mortal insult to Cosette. This word, “make her your mistress,” entered the heart of the stern young man like a sword. He got up, picked up his hat which was on the ground, and walked towards the door with a firm and assured step. There he turned, bowed deeply before his grandfather, raised his head, and said: “Five years ago, you insulted my father; today you insult my wife. I ask nothing more of you, sir. Farewell.” Father Gillenormand, stupefied, opened his mouth, stretched out his arms, tried to get up, and before he could utter a word, the door had closed and Marius had disappeared. The old man remained motionless for a few moments, as if struck by lightning, unable to speak or breathe, as if a closed fist were squeezing his throat. Finally, he tore himself from his armchair, ran to the door as fast as one can run at ninety-one, opened it, and shouted: “Help! Help!” His daughter appeared, then the servants. He continued with a piteous death rattle: “Run after him! Catch him!” What have I done to him? He’s mad! He’s leaving! Ah! My God! Ah! My God! This time he won’t come back ! He went to the window that looked out onto the street, opened it with his old, trembling hands, leaned out more than halfway while Basque and Nicolette held him from behind, and cried: “Marius! Marius! Marius! Marius!” But Marius could already hear no more, and at that very moment was turning the corner of the Rue Saint-Louis. The octogenarian put both hands to his temples two or three times with an expression of anguish, staggered back, and collapsed into an armchair, pulseless, voiceless, tearless, shaking his head and moving his lips with a stupid air, having nothing left in his eyes or in his heart but something gloomy and profound that resembled night. Book Nine–Where Are They Going? Chapter 42. Jean Valjean. That same day, around four o’clock in the afternoon, Jean Valjean was sitting alone on the back of one of the most solitary embankments of the Champ de Mars. Whether out of prudence, or a desire to meditate, or simply as a result of one of those imperceptible changes of habit which gradually creep into all lives, he now went out very rarely with Cosette. He had on his workman’s jacket and gray linen trousers, and his cap with a long peak hid his face. He was now calm and happy around Cosette; what had somewhat frightened and troubled him had dissipated; but for the past week or two, anxieties of a different nature had come over him. One day, while walking along the boulevard, he had seen Thénardier; Thanks to his disguise, Thénardier had not recognized him; but since then Jean Valjean had seen him several times, and he was now certain that Thénardier was prowling the neighborhood. This had been enough to make him take a decisive step. Thénardier there represented all the dangers at once. Besides, Paris was not quiet; the political troubles offered this disadvantage for anyone who had something to hide in his life: the police had become very anxious and very suspicious, and that in seeking to track down a man like Pépin or Morey, they might very well discover a man like Jean Valjean. Jean Valjean had decided to leave Paris, and even France, and go to England. He had warned Cosette. He wanted to be gone before a week. He had sat down on the Champ de Mars, turning over in his mind all sorts of thoughts: Thénardier, the police, the journey, and the difficulty of obtaining a passport. From all these points of view, he was anxious. Finally, an inexplicable fact which had just struck him, and from which he was still fresh, had added to his awakening. On the morning of that same day, alone up in the house, and walking in the garden before Cosette’s shutters were open, he had suddenly noticed this line engraved on the wall, probably with a nail. 16, rue de la Verrerie. It was quite recent, the notches were white in the old black mortar, a tuft of nettles at the foot of the wall was powdered with fine fresh plaster. It had probably been written there in the night. What was it? An address? A signal to others? A warning to him? In any case, it was obvious that the garden was being violated, and that unknown persons were entering it. He remembered the strange incidents which had already alarmed the house. His mind worked on this canvas. He took care not to speak to Cosette of the line written with a nail on the wall, for fear of frightening her. In the midst of these preoccupations, he perceived, by a shadow cast by the sun, that someone had just stopped on the crest of the embankment immediately behind him. He was about to turn around when a piece of paper, folded in four, fell onto his knees, as if a hand had dropped it above his head. He took the paper, unfolded it, and read on it these words written in large letters in pencil: MOVE OUT. Jean Valjean rose quickly; there was no longer anyone on the embankment; he looked around him and perceived a sort of being, taller than a child, smaller than a man, dressed in a gray blouse and trousers of dust-colored cotton velvet, who was climbing over the parapet and sliding into the ditch of the Champ de Mars. Jean Valjean returned home at once, very thoughtful. Chapter 43. Marius. Marius had left M. Gillenormand’s house in a sorry mood. He had entered with very little hope; he left with immense despair. Besides, and those who have observed the beginnings of the human heart will understand, the lancer, the officer, the oaf, the cousin Théodule, had left no shadow in his mind. Not the slightest. The dramatic poet could apparently hope for some complications from this revelation made point-blank to the grandson by the grandfather. But what the drama would gain, the truth would lose. Marius was at the age when, in matters of evil, one believes nothing; later comes the age when one believes everything. Suspicions are nothing but wrinkles. Early youth has none. What upsets Othello slides off Candide. To suspect Cosette! There are a host of crimes that Marius would have committed more easily. He began to walk the streets, the resource of those who suffer. He thought of nothing that he could remember. At two o’clock in the morning he returned to Courfeyrac’s and threw himself fully clothed onto his mattress. It was a bright sunny day when he fell asleep in that awful, heavy sleep which lets ideas come and go in the brain. When he When he woke up, he saw Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Combeferre standing in the room, hats on their heads, all ready to go out and very busy. 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 that Javert had entrusted to him during the adventure of February 3 and which had remained in his hands. These pistols were still loaded. It would be difficult to say what obscure thought he had in mind when he took them away. All day he wandered around without knowing where; it rained at times, he did not notice it; he bought a one-penny flute for his dinner from a baker, put it in his pocket, and forgot about it. It seems that he took a bath in the Seine without realizing it. There are moments when one has a furnace under one’s head. Marius was in one of those moments. He no longer hoped for anything; he no longer feared anything; he had taken this step since the day before. He awaited evening with feverish impatience; he had only one clear idea now, that at nine o’clock he would see Cosette. This last happiness was now his whole future; afterward, darkness. At intervals, while walking along the most deserted boulevards, it seemed to him that he heard strange noises in Paris. He would raise his head from his reverie and say: “Are they fighting?” At nightfall, at nine o’clock precisely, as he had promised Cosette, he was in the Rue Plumet. When he approached the gate, he forgot everything. It had been forty-eight hours since he had seen Cosette, he was going to see her again; All other thoughts vanished and he felt nothing but an incredible and profound joy. These minutes in which one lives centuries always have this sovereign and admirable quality that at the moment they pass they fill the heart entirely. Marius unscrewed the gate and rushed into the garden. Cosette was not in the place where she usually waited for him. He crossed the thicket and went to the hollow near the steps. “She’s waiting for me there, ” he said. “Cosette wasn’t there.” He raised his eyes and saw that the shutters of the house were closed. He walked around the garden; the garden was deserted. Then he returned to the house, and, mad with love, drunk, terrified, exasperated with grief and anxiety, like a master who comes home at an unhappy hour, he knocked on the shutters. He knocked, he knocked again, at the risk of seeing the window open and the dark face of his father appear and ask him: What do you want? This was nothing compared to what he glimpsed. When he had knocked, he raised his voice and called Cosette. “Cosette!” he cried. “Cosette!” he repeated imperiously. There was no answer. It was all over. No one in the garden; no one in the house. Marius fixed his despairing eyes on this gloomy house, as black, as silent, and emptier than a tomb. He looked at the stone bench where he had spent so many adorable hours near Cosette. Then he sat down on the steps, his heart full of sweetness and resolution, he blessed his love in the depths of his thoughts, and he said to himself that, since Cosette was gone, he had nothing left but to die. Suddenly he heard a voice that seemed to come from the street and was shouting through the trees: “Monsieur Marius!” He stood up. “Huh?” he said. “Monsieur Marius, are you there? ” “Yes.” “Monsieur Marius,” the voice continued, “your friends are waiting for you at the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie.” This voice was not entirely unknown to him. It resembled the hoarse and harsh voice of Éponine. Marius ran to the gate, pushed aside the movable bar, put his head through, and saw someone, who seemed to him to be a young man, running off into the twilight. Chapter 44. M. Mabeuf. Jean Valjean’s purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf, in his venerable childish austerity, had not accepted the gift of the stars; he had not admitted that a star could be exchanged for gold louis. He had not guessed that what fell from the sky came from Gavroche. He had taken the purse to the police commissioner of the district, as a lost object placed by the finder at the disposal of claimants. The purse was indeed lost. It goes without saying that no one claimed it, and it did not help M. Mabeuf. Besides, M. Mabeuf had continued to descend. The experiments on indigo had not succeeded any better at the Jardin des Plantes than in his garden at Austerlitz. The year before, he owed his housekeeper’s wages; now, as we have seen, he owed the terms of his rent. The pawnshop, at the end of the thirteen months, had sold the coppers of his _Flore_. Some coppersmith had made saucepans from them . His copperplates gone, no longer able to complete even the mismatched copies of his Flora that he still possessed, he had sold the plates and text, as defects, to a bookseller-second-hand dealer at a low price. Nothing remained of his life’s work . He began to eat the money from these copies. When he saw that this meager resource was running out, he gave up his garden and left it fallow. Before, and long before, he had given up the two eggs and the piece of beef that he ate from time to time. He dined on bread and potatoes. He had sold his last pieces of furniture, then all the duplicates he had in the way of bedding, clothing and blankets, then his herbariums and his prints; but he still had his most precious books, among which several were extremely rare, among others _the Historical Quadrains of the Bible_, 1560 edition, _the Concordance of the Bibles_ by Pierre de Besse, _the Marguerites of the Marguerite_ by Jean de La Haye with a dedication to the Queen of Navarre, the book _of the Charge and dignity of the ambassador_ by the lord of Villiers-Hotman, a _Florilegium rabbinicum_ of 1644, a Tibullus of 1567 with this splendid inscription: _Venetiis, in oedibus Manutianis;_ finally a Diogenes Laërtius, printed in Lyon in 1644, and where were found the famous variants of manuscript 411, thirteenth century, of the Vatican, and those of the two manuscripts of Venice, 393 and 394, so fruitfully consulted by Henri Estienne, and all the passages in Doric dialect that are found only in the famous twelfth-century manuscript in the library of Naples. M. Mabeuf never made a fire in his room and went to bed with daylight so as not to burn a candle. It seemed that he no longer had any neighbors; people avoided him when he went out, he noticed it. The misery of a child interests a mother, the misery of a young man interests a young girl, the misery of an old man interests no one. It is the coldest of all distresses. However, Father Mabeuf had not entirely lost his childish serenity. His eyes took on a certain liveliness when they fixed on his books, and he smiled when he considered the Diogenes Laertius, which was a unique copy. His glass-fronted wardrobe was the only piece of furniture he had kept apart from the essentials. One day Mother Plutarch said to him: “I have nothing to buy dinner.” What she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five potatoes . “On credit?” said M. Mabeuf. “You know very well that I am refused.” M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase, looked at all his books for a long time, one after the other, as a father obliged to decimate his children would look at them before choosing, then quickly took one, put it under his arm, and went out. He came home two hours later with nothing under his arm, put thirty sous on the table, and said: “You will make dinner.” From that moment, Mother Plutarch saw a dark veil descend over the old man’s candid face, which never rose again. The next day, the day after, every day, he had to start all over again. M. Mabeuf went out with a book and came back with a piece of silver. As the second-hand booksellers saw he was forced to sell, they bought back from him for twenty sous what he had paid twenty francs, sometimes from the same booksellers. Volume by volume, the entire library was sold. He said at times: “I am eighty years old,” as if he had some ulterior hope of reaching the end of his days before reaching the end of his books. His sadness increased. Once, however, he had a joy. He went out with a Robert Estienne, which he sold for thirty-five sous on the Quai Malaquais, and came back with an Alde, which he had bought for forty sous on the Rue des Grès. “I owe five sous,” he said, beaming, to Mother Plutarch. That day he did not dine. He belonged to the Horticultural Society. His destitution was known. The president of this society came to see him, promised to speak about him to the Minister of Agriculture and Commerce, and did so. “But how!” cried the minister. ” I think so! An old scholar! A botanist! A harmless fellow! Something must be done for him!” The next day, M. Mabeuf received an invitation to dine at the minister’s. Trembling with joy, he showed the letter to Mother Plutarch. “We are saved!” he said. On the appointed day, he went to the minister’s house. He noticed that his crumpled cravat, his large old square coat, and his egg-polished shoes astonished the ushers. No one spoke to him, not even the minister. Around ten o’clock in the evening, as he was still waiting for a word, he heard the minister’s wife, a beautiful low-cut lady whom he had not dared to approach, asking: “Who is this old gentleman?” He returned home on foot at midnight, in the pouring rain. He had sold an Elzevir to pay for his cab on the way. Every night before going to bed, he had gotten into the habit of reading a few pages of his Diogenes Laertius. He knew enough Greek to enjoy the peculiarities of the text he possessed. Now he had no other joy. A few weeks passed. Suddenly, Mother Plutarch fell ill. There is one thing sadder than not having enough to buy bread from the baker, and that is not having enough to buy drugs from the apothecary. One evening, the doctor had ordered a very expensive potion. And then, the illness worsened, a nurse was needed. M. Mabeuf opened his library, there was nothing left. The last volume was gone. All he had left was Diogenes Laertius. He put the single copy under his arm and left; it was June 4, 1832; he went to the Porte Saint-Jacques to see Royol’s successor, and returned with a hundred francs. He placed the pile of five-franc pieces on the old servant’s bedside table and went back into his room without saying a word. The next day, at dawn, he sat down on the overturned boundary stone in his garden, and over the hedge he could be seen all morning motionless, his brow lowered, his eyes vaguely fixed on his withered flowerbeds. It rained at times, but the old man didn’t seem to notice. In the afternoon, extraordinary noises broke out in Paris. They sounded like gunshots and the shouts of a multitude. Father Mabeuf raised his head. He saw a gardener passing by and asked: “What is it?” The gardener answered, his spade on his back, and in the most peaceful tone: “These are riots.” “What! Riots? ” “Yes. They are fighting. ” “Why are they fighting? ” “Ah! lady!” said the gardener. “On which side?” continued M. Mabeuf. “On the side of the Arsenal. ” Old Mabeuf went home, took his hat, mechanically looked for a book to put under his arm, found none, said: “Ah, that’s true,” and went off with a bewildered air. Book Ten–June 5, 1832 Chapter 45. The Surface of the Question. What is a riot composed of? Of nothing and everything. Of an electricity released little by little, of a flame suddenly bursting forth, of a force that wanders, of a breath that passes. This breath encounters heads that speak, brains that dream, souls that suffer, passions that burn, miseries that howl, and carries them away. Where? At random. Across the State, across laws, across the prosperity and insolence of others. Irritated convictions, embittered enthusiasms, moved indignations, suppressed war instincts, exalted young courage, generous blindness; curiosity, the taste for change, the thirst for the unexpected, the feeling that makes one delight in reading the poster of a new show and loves the sound of the stagehand ‘s whistle at the theater ; Vague hatreds, grudges, disappointments, all vanity that believes destiny has failed it; malaise, hollow dreams, ambitions surrounded by precipices; anyone who hopes for a way out of a collapse; finally, at the lowest, the peat, that mud that catches fire, such are the elements of the riot. The greatest and the tiniest; the beings who prowl outside everything, waiting for an opportunity, bohemians, people without confession, vagabonds at crossroads, those who sleep at night in a desert of houses with no other roof than the cold clouds of the sky, those who ask for their bread every day at random and not at work, the unknowns of misery and nothingness, bare-armed, bare-footed, belong to the riot. Anyone who has in his soul a secret revolt against any fact of the State, of life or of fate, borders on rioting, and, as soon as it appears, begins to shudder and feel himself lifted up by the whirlwind. Rioting is a sort of whirlwind of the social atmosphere which forms suddenly in certain temperature conditions, and which, in its whirling, rises, runs, thunders, tears up, razes, crushes, demolishes, uproots, dragging with it the great natures and the puny, the strong man and the weak mind, the tree trunk and the blade of straw. Woe to him whom it carries away as to him whom it comes to strike! It breaks them against each other. It communicates to those whom it seizes some unknown extraordinary power. It fills the first comer with the force of events; it makes missiles of everything. It makes a stone into a ball and a porter into a general. If we believe certain oracles of underhand politics, from the point of view of power, a little riot is desirable. System: riot strengthens governments that it does not overthrow. It tests the army; it concentrates the bourgeoisie; it stretches the muscles of the police; it establishes the strength of the social framework. It is gymnastics; it is almost hygiene. Power is better off after a riot as man is after a friction. Riot, thirty years ago, was considered from still other points of view. There is for everything a theory that proclaims itself “common sense”; Philinte against Alceste; mediation offered between true and false; explanation, admonition, somewhat haughty attenuation which, because it is mixed with blame and excuse, believes itself to be wisdom and is often only pedantry. A whole political school, called the golden mean, has sprung from this. Between cold water and hot water, it is the party of lukewarm water. This school, with its false depth, all superficial, which dissects the effects without going back to the causes, greedy, from the height of a half-science, the agitations of the public square. To hear this school: “The riots which complicated the fact of 1830 took away from this great event some of its purity. The July Revolution had been a fine popular gust of wind, abruptly followed by the blue sky. They made the cloudy sky reappear. They caused this revolution, at first so remarkable for its unanimity, to degenerate into a quarrel. In the July Revolution, as in all progress by fits and starts, there had been secret fractures; the riot made them palpable. One could say: Ah! this is broken. After the July Revolution , one felt only deliverance; after the riots, one felt catastrophe. “Every riot closes shops, depresses funds, dismays the stock market, suspends trade, hinders business, precipitates bankruptcies; no more money; private fortunes are worried, public credit is shaken, industry is disconcerted, capital is retreating, labor is at a discount, fear everywhere; backlashes in all the cities. Hence, chasms. It has been calculated that the first day of riots cost France twenty million, the second forty, the third sixty. A three-day riot costs one hundred and twenty million, that is to say, if we look only at the financial result, it is equivalent to a disaster, a shipwreck or a lost battle, which would annihilate a fleet of sixty ships of the line. “Without doubt, historically, riots had their beauty; the war of the cobblestones is no less grandiose and no less pathetic than the war of the bushes; in one there is the soul of the forests, in the other the heart of the cities; one has Jean Chouan, the other has Jeanne. The riots illuminated in red, but splendidly, all the most original sallies of the Parisian character, the generosity, the devotion, the stormy gaiety, the students proving that bravery is part of intelligence, the unshakeable National Guard, the bivouacs of shopkeepers, the fortresses of children, the contempt for death of passers-by. Schools and legions clashed. After all, between the combatants, there was only a difference of age; it is the same race; these are the same stoic men who die at twenty for their ideas, at forty for their families. The army, always sad in civil wars, opposed prudence to audacity. The riots, at the same time as they manifested popular intrepidity, educated bourgeois courage. “That is good. But is all this worth the bloodshed? And to the bloodshed add the darkened future, the compromised progress, the anxiety among the best, the honest liberals despairing, the foreign absolutism happy with these wounds inflicted on the revolution by itself, the vanquished of 1830 triumphing, and saying: We told you so! Add Paris perhaps enlarged, but certainly France diminished. Add, for everything must be said, the massacres which too often dishonored the victory of order grown ferocious over liberty grown mad. All in all, the riots were disastrous.” Thus speaks this near-wiseness with which the bourgeoisie, this near -people, is so willingly content. As for us, we reject this overly broad and therefore too convenient word: riots. We distinguish between a popular movement and a popular movement. We do not ask ourselves if a riot costs as much as a battle. First, why a battle? Here the question of war arises. Is war less of a scourge than a riot is a calamity? And then, are all riots calamities? And when the 14th of July cost 120 million? The establishment of Philip V in Spain cost France two billion. Even at the same price, we would prefer the 14th of July. Besides, we reject these figures, which seem like reasons and are only words. A riot being given, we examine it in itself. In all that the doctrinal objection set out above says, it is only a question of the effect, we are looking for the cause. We are specifying. Chapter 46. The heart of the matter. There is the riot, and there is the insurrection; these are two angers; one has wrong, the other has the right. In democratic states, the only ones founded on justice, it sometimes happens that the fraction usurps; then the whole rises up, and the necessary claim to its right can go as far as taking up arms. In all questions that fall under collective sovereignty, the war of the whole against the fraction is insurrection, the attack of the fraction against the whole is a riot; depending on whether the Tuileries contains the king or contains the Convention, they are justly or unjustly attacked. The same cannon pointed at the crowd is wrong on August 10 and right on Vendémiaire 14. Similar appearance, different substance; the Swiss defend the false, Bonaparte defends the true. What universal suffrage has done in its freedom and in its sovereignty cannot be undone by the street. Likewise in matters of pure civilization; the instinct of the masses, yesterday clear-sighted, can tomorrow be troubled. The same fury is legitimate against Terray and absurd against Turgot. Machinery breakdowns, warehouse looting, rail breakages, dock demolitions, the multitudes taking the wrong path, the people denying progress justice, Ramus assassinated by schoolchildren, Rousseau driven out of Switzerland with stones, this is a riot. Israel against Moses, Athens against Phocion, Rome against Scipio, this is a riot; Paris against the Bastille, this is an insurrection. Soldiers against Alexander, sailors against Christopher Columbus, this is the same revolt; impious revolt; why? It is because Alexander does for Asia with the sword what Christopher Columbus does for America with the compass; Alexander, like Columbus, finds a world. These gifts of a world to civilization are such increases of light that any resistance there is culpable. Sometimes the people falsely show loyalty to themselves. The crowd is a traitor to the people. Is there, for example, anything stranger than this long and bloody protest of the false salt merchants, a legitimate chronic revolt, which, at the decisive moment, on the day of salvation, at the hour of popular victory, embraces the throne, turns into Chouannerie, and from insurrection against becomes a riot for! Dark masterpieces of ignorance! The false salt merchant escapes the royal gallows, and, with a remnant of rope around his neck, sports the white cockade. Death to the salt tax gives birth to Long Live the King. Killers of Saint-Barthélemy, throat-cutters of September, massacrers of Avignon, assassins of Coligny, assassins of Madame de Lamballe, assassins of Brune, miquelets, verdets, cadenettes, companions of Jehu, knights of the armband, that is the riot. The Vendée is a great Catholic riot. The noise of the law in motion is recognizable, it does not always emerge from the trembling of the upset masses; There are mad rages, there are cracked bells; not all tocsins ring the sound of bronze. The stirring of passions and ignorance is other than the shock of progress. Rise up, fine, but to grow. Show me which way you are going. There is no insurrection except forward. Any other rise is bad. Any violent step backward is a riot; to retreat is an act of violence against the human race. Insurrection is the access of fury of truth; the paving stones that insurrection moves throw the spark of right. These paving stones leave nothing to the riot but their mud. Danton against Louis XVI is insurrection; Hébert against Danton is riot. From this it follows that, if insurrection, in given cases, can be, as Lafayette said, the holiest of duties, riot can be the most fatal of attacks. There is also some difference in the intensity of heat; insurrection is often a volcano, riot is often a flash in the pan. Revolt, as we have said, is sometimes in power. Polignac is a rioter; Camille Desmoulins is a ruler. Sometimes insurrection is resurrection. The solution of everything by universal suffrage being an absolute fact modern, and all history prior to this fact being, for four thousand years, filled with the violated right and the suffering of peoples, each epoch of history brings with it the protest that is possible for it. Under the Caesars, there was no insurrection, but there was Juvenal. The _facit indignatio_ replaces the Gracchi. Under the Caesars there is the exile of Syene; there is also the man of the _Annals_. We are not speaking of the immense exile of Patmos who, he too, overwhelms the real world with a protest in the name of the ideal world, makes of the vision an enormous satire, and throws on Rome-Nineveh, on Rome-Babylon, on Rome-Sodom, the blazing reverberation of the Apocalypse. John on his rock is the sphinx on its pedestal; one may not understand him; he is a Jew, and it is Hebrew; but the man who writes the _Annales_ is a Latin; let us say better, he is a Roman. As the Neros reign in the mezzotint, they must be painted in the same way. Burin work alone would be pale; one must pour into the notch a concentrated prose that bites. Despots have something to do with thinkers. Chained speech is terrible speech. The writer doubles and triples his style when silence is imposed by a master on the people. From this silence emerges a certain mysterious fullness that filters and freezes in bronze in thought. Compression in history produces concision in the historian. The granite solidity of such famous prose is nothing other than a compaction made by the tyrant. Tyranny forces the writer to narrowings of diameter that are increases of force. The Ciceronian period, barely sufficient for Verres, would become blunted for Caligula. Less scope in the sentence, more intensity in the stroke. Tacitus thinks with a shortened arm. The honesty of a great heart, condensed into justice and truth, strikes with lightning. Incidentally, it should be noted that Tacitus is not historically superimposed on Caesar. The Tiberiuses are reserved for him. Caesar and Tacitus are two successive phenomena whose encounter seems mysteriously avoided by the one who, in the staging of the centuries, regulates the entrances and exits. Caesar is great, Tacitus is great; God spares these two greatnesses by not clashing them against each other. The avenger, striking Caesar, could strike too hard, and be unjust. God does not want this. The great wars of Africa and Spain, the pirates of Cilicia destroyed, civilization introduced into Gaul, Britain, Germany, all this glory covers the Rubicon. There is here a kind of delicacy of divine justice, hesitating to unleash the formidable historian upon the illustrious usurper, pardoning Caesar for Tacitus, and granting mitigating circumstances to genius. Certainly, despotism remains despotism, even under the despot of genius. There is corruption under illustrious tyrants, but the moral plague is even more hideous under infamous tyrants. In those reigns nothing veils the shame; and the makers of examples, Tacitus like Juvenal, more usefully slap, in the face of the human race, this irrefutable ignominy. Rome smells worse under Vitellius than under Sylla. Under Claudius and under Domitian, there is a deformity of baseness corresponding to the ugliness of the tyrant. The vileness of the slaves is a direct product of the despot; a miasma exhales from these stagnant consciences where the master is reflected ; the public powers are filthy; Hearts are small, consciences are flat, souls are bedbugs; this is so under Caracalla, this is so under Commodus, this is so under Heliogabalus, while nothing comes out of the Roman Senate under Caesar but the smell of droppings proper to eagle eyries. Hence the arrival, apparently late, of Tacitus and Juvenal; it is at the hour of evidence that the demonstrator appears. But Juvenal and Tacitus, like Isaiah in biblical times, like Dante in the Middle Ages, are man; riot and insurrection are the multitude, which is sometimes wrong, sometimes right. In the most general cases, riot arises from a material fact; insurrection is always a moral phenomenon. Riot is Masaniello; insurrection is Spartacus. Insurrection borders on the mind, riot on the stomach. Gaster becomes irritated; but Gaster, certainly, is not always wrong. In questions of famine, riot, Buzançais, for example, has a true, pathetic, and just starting point. Yet it remains riot. Why? It is because, being right in substance, it was wrong in form. Fierce, although entitled, violent, although strong, it struck at random; it marched like the blind elephant, crushing; She left behind the corpses of old people, women, and children; she shed, without knowing why, the blood of the harmless and the innocent. Feeding the people is a good goal, massacring them is a bad means. All armed protests, even the most legitimate, even on August 10, even on July 14, begin with the same disorder. Before the law emerges, there is tumult and foam. At the beginning, the insurrection is a riot, just as the river is a torrent. Ordinarily, it ends in this ocean: revolution. Sometimes, however, coming from these high mountains which dominate the moral horizon, justice, wisdom, reason, law, made of the purest snow of the ideal, after a long fall from rock to rock, after having reflected the sky in its transparency and having swelled with a hundred tributaries in the majestic allure of triumph, the insurrection suddenly loses itself in some bourgeois quagmire, like the Rhine in a marsh. All this is in the past, the future is different. Universal suffrage has this admirable quality that it dissolves the riot in its principle, and that by giving the vote to the insurrection, it takes away its weapon. The vanishing of wars, of the war of the streets as well as of the war of the borders, such is the inevitable progress. Whatever today may be, peace is Tomorrow. Besides, insurrection, riot, how the first differs from the second, the bourgeois, strictly speaking, knows little of these nuances. For him everything is sedition, pure and simple rebellion, revolt of the mastiff against the master, attempt at biting which must be punished with the chain and the kennel, barking, yelping; until the day when the head of the dog, suddenly enlarged , is vaguely outlined in the shadows in the face of a lion. Then the bourgeois cries: Long live the people! This explanation given, what is the movement of June 1832 for history? Is it a riot? Is it an insurrection? It is an insurrection. It may happen to us, in this staging of a formidable event, to sometimes say riot, but only to qualify the surface facts, and always maintaining the distinction between the riot in form and the insurrection in substance. This movement of 1832 had, in its rapid explosion and in its lugubrious extinction, so much grandeur that even those who see it only as a riot do not speak of it without respect. For them, it is like a remnant of 1830. Moved imaginations, they say, do not calm down in a day. A revolution does not cut off abruptly. It always necessarily has some undulations before returning to a state of peace like a mountain descending towards the plain. There is no Alps without the Jura, nor the Pyrenees without Asturias. This pathetic crisis of contemporary history that the memory of Parisians calls _the era of riots_, is certainly a characteristic hour among the stormy hours of this century. A last word before entering into the story. The facts which are going to be recounted belong to this reality dramatic and vivid that history sometimes neglects, for lack of time and space. Yet here, we insist, there is life, palpitation, human trembling. The small details, we believe we have said, are, so to speak, the foliage of great events and are lost in the distances of history. The so-called _period of the riots_ abounds in details of this kind. The judicial investigations, for reasons other than history, have not revealed everything, nor perhaps explored everything in depth. We will therefore highlight, among the known and published particulars, things that were not known, facts about which some have been forgotten, others have died. Most of the actors in these gigantic scenes have disappeared; the next day they were silent; but what we will tell, we can say: we saw it. We will change some names, because history tells and does not denounce, but we will paint true things. In the conditions of the book we are writing, we will show only one side and one episode, and certainly the least known, of the days of June 5 and 6, 1832; but we will ensure that the reader glimpses, under the dark veil that we are going to lift, the real face of this frightening public adventure. Chapter 47. A funeral: an opportunity to be reborn. In the spring of 1832, although for three months cholera had frozen minds and cast some kind of gloomy calm over their agitation, Paris had long been ready for a commotion. As we have said, the great city resembles a cannon; when it is loaded, a spark is enough to fall, and the shot goes off. In June 1832, the spark was the death of General Lamarque. Lamarque was a man of renown and action. He had successively, under the Empire and under the Restoration, the two braveries necessary to both eras, the bravery of the battlefield and the bravery of the tribune. He was eloquent as he had been valiant; one felt a sword in his words. Like Foy, his predecessor, after having held high the command, he held high liberty. He sat between the left and the extreme left, loved by the people because he accepted the chances of the future, loved by the crowd because he had served the Emperor well. He was, with Counts Gérard and Drouet, one of Napoleon’s marshals _in petto_. The treaties of 1815 raised him like a personal offense. He lowered Wellington with a direct hatred which pleased the multitude; and for seventeen years, barely attentive to intervening events, he had majestically retained the sadness of Waterloo. In his agony, in his last hour, he had clutched to his chest a sword awarded to him by the officers of the Hundred Days. Napoleon had died pronouncing the word _army_, Lamarque pronouncing the word _fatherland_. His death, foreseen, was feared by the people as a loss and by the government as an opportunity. This death was a mourning. Like everything bitter, mourning can turn into revolt. This is what happened. The day before and the morning of June 5, the day fixed for Lamarque’s burial , the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which the convoy was to reach, took on a formidable aspect. This tumultuous network of streets filled with rumors. People armed themselves as best they could. Carpenters carried the valet from their workbench “to break down the doors.” One of them had made a dagger from a shoemaker’s hook by breaking the hook and sharpening the stub. Another, in a fever of “attacking,” had been sleeping for three days fully clothed. A carpenter named Lombier met a comrade who asked him: Where are you going? – Well! I have no weapons. – And then? I’m going to my worksite to get my compass. – What for? – I don’t know, said Lombier. A man named Jacqueline, a dispatch man, accosted random workers who passed by: – Come, you!–He paid ten sous for wine, and said:–Do you have any work?–No.–Go to Filspierre’s, between the Montreuil barrier and the Charonne barrier, you will find work. Cartridges and weapons were found at Filspierre’s. Certain well-known leaders _were doing the post_, that is to say, they ran to one and the other to gather their people. At Barthélemy’s, near the Trône barrier, at Capel’s, at Petit-Chapeau, the drinkers accosted each other with a grave air. They could be heard saying to each other:–_Where have you got your pistol?–Under my blouse. And you?–Under my shirt_, Rue Traversière, in front of Roland’s workshop, and in the courtyard of Maison-Brûlée in front of the toolmaker Bernier’s workshop, groups were whispering. There, one noticed, as the most ardent, a certain Mavot, who never spent more than a week in a workshop, the masters sending him away “because it was necessary to argue with him every day .” Mavot was killed the next day in the barricade of the rue Ménilmontant. Pretot, who was also to die in the struggle, seconded Mavot, and to this question: What is your aim? replied: “The insurrection.” Workers gathered at the corner of the rue de Bercy were waiting for a man named Lemarin, a revolutionary agent for the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Words of command were exchanged almost publicly. On June 5, then, on a day mixed with rain and sun, General Lamarque’s convoy crossed Paris with official military pomp, somewhat increased by precautions. Two battalions, drummers draped, rifles reversed, ten thousand national guardsmen, sabers at their sides, the batteries of the artillery of the national guard, escorted the coffin. The hearse was drawn by young people. The officers of the Invalides followed immediately, carrying laurel branches . Then came an innumerable, agitated, strange multitude: the section members of the Friends of the People, the Law School, the Medical School, refugees of all nations, Spanish, Italian, German, Polish flags, horizontal tricolors, all possible banners, children waving green branches, stonemasons and carpenters who were on strike at that very moment, printers recognizable by their paper caps, marching two by two, three by three, shouting, almost all waving sticks, some sabers, without order and yet with a single soul, sometimes a mob, sometimes a column. Platoons were choosing leaders; a man, armed with a perfectly visible pair of pistols, seemed to be reviewing others whose files parted before him. On the side streets of the boulevards, in the branches of the trees, on the balconies, at the windows, on the roofs, heads swarmed, men, women, children; eyes were full of anxiety. An armed crowd passed, a frightened crowd watched. For its part, the government watched. It watched, its hand on the hilt of its sword. One could see, all ready to march, cartridge pouches full, rifles and muskets loaded, in the Place Louis XV, four squadrons of carabiniers, in the saddle and bugles at the head, in the Latin country and at the Jardin des Plantes, the municipal guard, echeloned from street to street, at the Halle-aux-Vins a squadron of dragoons, at the Grève half of the 12th Light, the other half at the Bastille, the 6th Dragoons at the Célestins, artillery full in the courtyard of the Louvre. The rest of the troops were confined to the barracks, not counting the regiments from the outskirts of Paris.
The anxious power held twenty-four thousand soldiers in the city and thirty thousand in the suburbs suspended over the threatening multitude. Various rumors circulated in the procession. There was talk of Legitimist intrigues; there was talk of the Duke of Reichstadt, whom God was marking for death at the very moment when the crowd was designating him for the empire. A personage who remained unknown announced that at the appointed hour two foremen who had been won over would open the doors of an arms factory to the people. What dominated the uncovered brows of most of the spectators, it was an enthusiasm mixed with despondency. One also saw here and there, in this multitude prey to so many violent but noble emotions, real faces of criminals and ignoble mouths which said: let’s pillage! There are certain agitations which stir the bottom of the marshes and which make clouds of mud rise in the water. A phenomenon to which the “well-made” police are not foreign. The procession made its way, with feverish slowness, from the house of death by the boulevards to the Bastille. It rained from time to time; the rain did nothing to this crowd. Several incidents, the coffin being paraded around the Vendôme Column, stones being thrown at the Duke of Fitz-James seen on a balcony with his hat on his head, the Gallic rooster being torn from a popular flag and dragged through the mud, a police sergeant wounded by a sword blow at the Porte Saint-Martin, an officer of the 12th Light Infantry saying aloud: “I am a Republican,” the École Polytechnique arriving after its forced order, the cries: “Long live the École Polytechnique! Long live the Republic!” marked the route of the convoy. At the Bastille, the long lines of formidable onlookers who were coming down from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine joined the procession and a certain terrible ferment began to stir the crowd. A man was heard saying to another: “You see that one with the red goatee, he’s the one who will say when it’s time to shoot.” It seems that this same red goatee was later found with the same function in another riot, the Quénisset affair. The hearse passed the Bastille, followed the canal, crossed the small bridge and reached the esplanade of the Pont d’Austerlitz. There it stopped. At that moment, this crowd, seen from a bird’s eye view, would have offered the appearance of a comet whose head was at the esplanade and whose tail, developed on the Quai Bourdon, covered the Bastille and extended along the boulevard to the Porte Saint-Martin. A circle was drawn around the hearse. The vast crowd fell silent. Lafayette spoke and said farewell to Lamarque. It was a touching and august moment; all heads were uncovered, all hearts were beating. Suddenly a man on horseback, dressed in black, appeared in the middle of the group with a red flag, others say with a pike topped with a red cap. Lafayette turned his head away. Excelmans left the procession. This red flag raised a storm and disappeared into it. From the Boulevard Bourdon to the Pont d’Austerlitz one of those clamors that resemble waves stirred the multitude. Two prodigious cries arose: – Lamarque to the Pantheon! – Lafayette to the Hôtel de Ville! – Young people, to the acclamations of the crowd, harnessed themselves and began to drag Lamarque into the hearse across the Pont d’Austerlitz and Lafayette into a cab along the Quai Morland. In the crowd surrounding and cheering Lafayette, a German named Ludwig Snyder, who had since died a hundred years old, was noticed and pointed out , and who had also fought in the war of 1776, and who had fought at Trenton under Washington, and under Lafayette at Brandywine. Meanwhile, on the left bank, the municipal cavalry was moving and coming to block the bridge; on the right bank, the dragoons were leaving the Célestins and were deployed along the Morland Quay. The people who were dragging Lafayette suddenly saw them at the bend of the quay and shouted: Dragoons! Dragoons! The dragoons were advancing in step, in silence, pistols in their saddlebags, sabers in their scabbards, muskets on their butts, with an air of somber expectation. Two hundred paces from the little bridge, they halted. The cab in which Lafayette was riding came up to them, they opened ranks, let him pass, and closed behind him. At that moment the dragoons and the crowd were touching. The women were fleeing in terror. What happened in that fatal moment? No one can say. It is the dark moment when two clouds mingle. Some tell that a fanfare sounding the charge was heard from the Arsenal side, the others that a child stabbed a dragoon. The fact is that three shots were suddenly fired, the first killed squadron leader Cholet, the second killed a deaf old woman who was closing her window on rue Contrescarpe, the third burned an officer’s epaulette; a woman shouted: _We’re starting too soon!_ and suddenly a squadron of dragoons, which had remained in the barracks, was seen on the opposite side of Quai Morland, emerging at a gallop, sabres drawn, by rue Bassompierre and boulevard Bourdon, and sweeping everything before it. Then everything was said, the storm raged, stones rained down, the fusillade broke out, many rushed to the bottom of the bank and crossed the small arm of the Seine, now filled; The construction sites of the Île Louviers, this vast, ready-made citadel, bristle with combatants; stakes are pulled up, pistols are fired, a barricade is taking shape, the young people who have been driven back cross the Austerlitz bridge with the hearse at a run and charge the municipal guard, the carabinieri rush up, the dragoons saber, the crowd disperses in all directions, a rumor of war flies to the four corners of Paris, people cry: to arms! they run, they tumble, they flee, they resist. Anger carries the riot away like the wind carries away fire. Chapter 48. The ferments of former times. Nothing is more extraordinary than the first stirrings of a riot. Everything bursts forth everywhere at once. Was it planned? Yes. Was it prepared? No. Where does it come from? From the paving stones. Where does it fall? From the clouds. Here the insurrection has the character of a plot; there of an improvisation. The first comer seizes a current of the crowd and leads it where he wants. The beginning is full of terror mingled with a sort of formidable gaiety. First there are clamors, the shops close, the stalls of the merchants disappear; then isolated shots; people flee; blows of rifle butts strike the carriage doors; one hears the servants laughing in the courtyards of the houses and saying: _There will be a train!_ A quarter of an hour had not passed, this is what was happening almost simultaneously in twenty different parts of Paris. On Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, about twenty young men with beards and long hair entered a tavern and left a moment later, carrying a horizontal tricolor flag covered with crepe and led by three armed men, one with a saber , another with a rifle, and the third with a pike. On Rue des Nonaindières, a well-dressed bourgeois, with a belly, a sonorous voice, a bald head, a high forehead, a black beard, and one of those coarse mustaches that cannot be folded back, publicly offered cartridges to passers-by. On Rue Saint-Pierre-Montmartre, men with bare arms carried a black flag on which one could read these words in white letters: _Republic or death_. On Rue des Jeûneurs, Rue du Cadran, Rue Montorgueil, Rue Mandar, groups appeared waving flags on which one could distinguish gold letters, the word _section_ with a number. One of these flags was red and blue with an imperceptible white in between. They were looting an arms factory on Boulevard Saint-Martin, and three gunsmiths’ shops, the first on Rue Beaubourg, the second on Rue Michel-le-Comte, the other on Rue du Temple. In a few minutes the thousand hands of the crowd seized and carried off two hundred and thirty rifles, almost all double-barrelled, sixty-four sabers, and eighty-three pistols. In order to arm more people, one took the rifle, another the bayonet. Opposite the Quai de la Grève, young men armed with muskets were sitting in women’s houses to shoot. One of them had a wheel-lock musket. They rang the bell, entered, and began to make cartridges. One of these women recounted: “I didn’t know what It was only cartridges, my husband told me. A group broke into a curiosity shop on Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes and took yatagans and Turkish weapons. The body of a mason killed by a gunshot lay on Rue de la Perle. And then, on the right bank, on the quays, on the boulevards, in the Latin country, in the market district, panting men, workers, students, sectionnaires, read proclamations, shouted: To arms! They broke street lamps, unhitched carriages, tore up the paving stones, broke down the doors of houses, uprooted trees, searched cellars, rolled barrels, piled up paving stones, rubble, furniture, planks, and built barricades. The bourgeoisie were forced to help. The women were entered into their homes, made to give them the saber and rifle of their absent husbands, and written in Spanish white on the door: _the weapons are delivered_. Some signed “with their names” receipts for the rifle and saber, and said: _send them to the town hall tomorrow_. Isolated sentries and National Guardsmen going to their municipalities were disarmed in the streets. The officers’ epaulettes were torn off. On Rue du Cimetière-Saint-Nicolas, an officer of the National Guard, pursued by a troop armed with sticks and foils, took refuge with great difficulty in a house from which he could only leave at night, and in disguise. In the Saint-Jacques district, students were leaving their hotels in swarms, and going up Rue Saint-Hyacinthe to the Café du Progrès or going down to the Café des Sept-Billards, Rue des Mathurins. There, in front of the gates, young people standing on bollards were distributing weapons. The construction site on Rue Transnonain was being pillaged to build barricades. At one point only did the inhabitants resist, at the corner of Rue Sainte-Avoye and Rue Simon-le-Franc, where they destroyed the barricade themselves . At one point only did the insurgents give in; they abandoned a barricade begun on Rue du Temple after firing on a detachment of the National Guard, and fled through Rue de la Corderie. The detachment picked up a red flag, a bundle of cartridges, and three hundred pistol bullets from the barricade . The National Guards tore the flag down and carried off the shreds at the points of their bayonets. Everything we are recounting here, slowly and successively, was happening simultaneously at all points of the city amidst a vast tumult, like a crowd of lightning flashes in a single roll of thunder. In less than an hour, twenty-seven barricades sprang up in the market district alone. In the center was that famous house number 50, which was the fortress of Joan and her one hundred and six companions, and which, flanked on one side by a barricade at Saint-Merry and on the other by a barricade at Rue Maubuée, commanded three streets, Rue des Arcis, Rue Saint-Martin, and Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, which it took from the front. Two barricades at right angles retreated, one from Rue Montorgueil to Grande-Truanderie, the other from Rue Geoffroy-Langevin to Rue Sainte-Avoye. Not to mention countless barricades in twenty other districts of Paris, in the Marais, on the Montagne Sainte-Geneviève; one, Rue Ménilmontant, where one could see a carriage door torn from its hinges; another near the little bridge of the Hôtel-Dieu made with an unharnessed and overturned Scottish horse, three hundred paces from the police headquarters. At the barricade on the Rue des Ménétriers, a well-dressed man was distributing money to the workers. At the barricade on the Rue Greneta, a horseman appeared and handed to the one who appeared to be the leader of the barricade a roll that looked like a roll of money.–_Here_, he said, _to pay for expenses, wine, and so on_. A blond young man, without a tie, was going from one barricade to the other carrying watchwords. Another, with a drawn saber and a blue police cap on his head, was laying sentries. In the interior, beyond the barricades, the taverns and porters’ lodges were converted into guardhouses. Moreover, the riot behaved according to the most learned military tactics. The narrow, uneven, winding streets, full of angles and turns, were admirably chosen; the area around the market halls in particular, a network of streets more tangled than a forest. The Society of the Friends of the People had, it was said, taken the lead of the insurrection in the Sainte-Avoye district. A man killed on Rue du Ponceau who was searched was carrying a map of Paris. What had really taken the lead of the riot was a sort of unknown impetuosity that was in the air. The insurrection, suddenly, had built the barricades with one hand and with the other seized almost all the garrison posts. In less than three hours, like a trail of powder igniting, the insurgents had invaded and occupied, on the right bank, the Arsenal, the town hall of the Place Royale, the whole of the Marais, the Popincourt arms factory, the Galiote, the Château-d’Eau, all the streets near the market halls; on the left bank, the Veterans’ barracks, Sainte-Pélagie, the Place Maubert, the powder magazine of the Deux-Moulins, all the barriers. At five o’clock in the evening they were masters of the Bastille, the Lingerie, the Blancs-Manteaux; their scouts reached the Place des Victoires, and threatened the Bank, the Petits-Pères barracks, the Hôtel des Postes. A third of Paris was in riot. On all points the struggle was gigantically engaged; and, from the disarmaments, the house searches, the gunsmiths’ shops being quickly invaded, the result was that the fight that had begun with stones continued with rifle shots. Around six o’clock in the evening, the Salmon Passage became a battlefield . The riot was at one end, the troops at the opposite end. They were shooting each other from one gate to the other. An observer, a dreamer, the author of this book, who had gone to see the volcano up close, found himself in the passage caught between the two fires. He had nothing to protect himself from bullets but the bulge of the half-columns that separate the shops; he was in this delicate situation for nearly half an hour. Meanwhile, the call was being made, the National Guards dressed and armed themselves in haste, the legions left the town halls, the regiments left the barracks. Opposite the Ancre Passage, a drummer received a stab wound. Another, on Rue du Cygne, was attacked by about thirty young men who punctured his car and took his saber. Another was killed on Rue Grenier-Saint-Lazare. On Rue Michel-le-Comte, three officers fell dead one after the other. Several municipal guards, wounded on Rue des Lombards, were falling back. In front of the Cour-Batave, a detachment of national guards found a red flag bearing this inscription: _Republican Revolution_, No. 127. Was it really a revolution? The insurrection had made the center of Paris a sort of inextricable, tortuous, colossal citadel. There was the focus, there was obviously the question. All the rest was just skirmishes. What proved that everything would be decided there was that the fighting was not yet taking place there. In some regiments, the soldiers were uncertain, which added to the frightening darkness of the crisis. They remembered the popular ovation that had greeted the neutrality of the 53rd Line Regiment in July 1830. Two intrepid men, tested by the great wars, Marshal de Lobau and General Bugeaud, commanded, Bugeaud under Lobau. Huge patrols, composed of battalions of the line enclosed in entire companies of the National Guard, and preceded by a police commissioner in a sash, went to reconnoiter the insurgent streets. For their part, the insurgents placed patrol boats at the corners of crossroads and boldly sent patrols outside the barricades. Both sides watched each other. The government, with a army in hand, hesitated; night was coming and the tocsin of Saint-Merry was beginning to be heard. The Minister of War at the time, Marshal Soult, who had seen Austerlitz, looked at this with a somber air. These old sailors, accustomed to correct maneuvering and having for resource and guide only tactics, this compass of battles, are completely disoriented in the presence of this immense foam that we call public anger. The wind of revolutions is not manageable. The national guards of the suburbs were rushing in haste and in disorder. A battalion of the 12th Light Regiment was coming at a run from Saint-Denis, the 14th Line Regiment was arriving from Courbevoie, the batteries of the military school had taken up position at the Carrousel; cannons were coming down from Vincennes.
Solitude was falling at the Tuileries, Louis-Philippe was full of serenity.
Chapter 49. Originality of Paris. For two years, as we have said, Paris has seen more than one insurrection. Outside of the insurgent districts, nothing is usually more strangely calm than the physiognomy of Paris during a riot. Paris gets used to everything very quickly—it’s only a riot—and Paris has so much on its plate that it doesn’t bother itself over so little. Only these colossal cities can provide such spectacles. Only these immense enclosures can contain at the same time civil war and who knows what bizarre tranquility. Usually, when the insurrection begins, when the drums, the call, the general call are heard, the shopkeeper simply says: “It seems there’s trouble on the Rue Saint-Martin.” Or: “Faubourg Saint-Antoine.” Often he adds carelessly: “Somewhere over there.” Later, when the heart-rending and mournful din of musketry and firing squads can be heard, the shopkeeper says: “Is it getting hot? Hey, is it getting hot?” A moment later, if the riot approaches and gains ground, he hurriedly closes his shop and quickly puts on his uniform, that is to say, puts his goods in a safe place and risks his person. People shoot each other at a crossroads, in a passage, in a dead end; barricades are taken, lost, and retaken; blood flows, grapeshot riddles the facades of houses, bullets kill people in their alcoves, corpses litter the pavement. A few streets away, the clash of billiard balls can be heard in the cafes. The curious talk and laugh a stone’s throw from these streets full of war; the theaters open their doors and play vaudevilles. The cabs move along; passersby go to dinner in town. Sometimes in the very neighborhood where the fighting is taking place. In 1831, a shootout stopped to let a wedding party pass. During the insurrection of May 12, 1839, on rue Saint-Martin, a little old crippled man dragging a handcart topped with a tricolored rag containing carafes filled with some liquid , went back and forth from the barricade to the troops and from the troops to the barricade, impartially offering glasses of coco—sometimes to the government, sometimes to anarchy. Nothing could be stranger; and this is the peculiar character of the riots in Paris, which is found in no other capital. Two things are needed for this: the grandeur of Paris and its gaiety. The city of Voltaire and Napoleon is needed. This time, however, in the uprising of June 5, 1832, the great city felt something that was perhaps stronger than itself. It was afraid. Everywhere, in the most distant and “disinterested” districts, doors, windows, and shutters were seen closed in broad daylight. The brave armed themselves, the cowards hid. The carefree and busy passerby disappeared. Many of these streets were empty as at four o’clock in the morning. Alarming details were peddled , fatal news was spread.–That _they_ were masters of the Bank;–that, in the cloister of Saint-Merry alone, there were six of them hundred, entrenched and crenellated in the church;–that the line was not secure;–that Armand Carrel had gone to see Marshal Clausel, and that the marshal had said: _First have a regiment;_–that Lafayette was ill, but that he had nevertheless said to them: _I am with you. I will follow you wherever there is room for a chair;_–that they had to be on their guard; that at night there would be people who would pillage the isolated houses in the deserted corners of Paris (here one recognized the imagination of the police, this Anne Radcliffe mixed up with the government);–that a battery had been established on the rue Aubry-le-Boucher;–that Lobau and Bugeaud were consulting together and that at midnight, or at daybreak at the latest, four columns would march at once on the center of the riot, the first coming from the Bastille, the second from the Porte Saint-Martin, the third from the Grève, the fourth from the market halls;–that perhaps also the troops would evacuate Paris and withdraw to the Champ de Mars;–that one did not know what would happen, but that this time it was certain to be serious.–People were concerned about Marshal Soult’s hesitations.–Why did he not attack immediately?–It is certain that he was deeply absorbed. The old lion seemed to scent an unknown monster in this shadow. Evening came, the theaters did not open; the patrols circulated with an irritated air; passersby were searched; suspects were arrested. At nine o’clock there were more than eight hundred people arrested; the police headquarters was crowded, the Conciergerie crowded, the Force crowded. At the Conciergerie, in particular, the long underground passage called the Rue de Paris was strewn with bales of straw on which lay a pile of prisoners, whom the man from Lyon, Lagrange, harangued valiantly. All this straw, stirred by all these men, made the noise of a downpour. Elsewhere the prisoners slept in the open air in the courtyards, one on top of the other. Anxiety was everywhere, and a certain trembling, unusual in Paris.
People barricaded themselves in the houses; the wives and mothers were worried; All one could hear was this: _Oh my God! He hasn’t come home!_ There were barely a few rare rumbles of carriages in the distance. On the doorsteps, one listened to the rumors, the shouts, the tumults, the dull and indistinct noises, things about which one said: _It’s the cavalry_, or: _Those are the caissons galloping_, the bugles, the drums, the firing, and above all that lamentable tocsin of Saint-Merry. One waited for the first cannon shot. Armed men appeared at the street corners and disappeared, shouting: “Go home !” And one hastened to lock the doors. One said: “How will this end?” From moment to moment, as night fell, Paris seemed to take on a more lugubrious color from the formidable blaze of the riot. Book Eleven–The Atom Fraternizes with the Hurricane Chapter 50. Some Clarifications on the Origins of Gavroche’s Poetry.. Some Clarifications on the Origins of Gavroche’s Poetry. Influence of an Academician on this Poetry At the moment when the insurrection, arising from the shock of the people and the troops in front of the Arsenal, determined a movement back and forth in the multitude which followed the hearse and which, from the whole length of the boulevards, weighed, so to speak, on the head of the convoy, there was a frightful reflux. The crowd moved, the ranks broke, everyone ran, left, escaped, some with the cries of attack, others with the pallor of flight. The great river that covered the boulevards divided in the blink of an eye, overflowed to the right and left and spread in torrents through two hundred streets at once with the rush of a released lock. At that moment a ragged child who was coming down the rue Ménilmontant, holding in his hand a branch of A false ebony tree in bloom that he had just picked on the heights of Belleville, noticed in the shop window of a bric-a-brac seller an old saddle pistol. He threw its flowering branch on the pavement, and shouted: “Mother thing, I’ll borrow your thing.” And he ran off with the pistol. Two minutes later, a stream of terrified bourgeois fleeing along the Rue Amelot and the Rue Basse, met the child brandishing his pistol and singing: “At night we see nothing,” ” By day we see very well,” ” From an apocryphal writing, ” “The bourgeois ruffles his hair,” ” Practice virtue,” “Tutu pointed hat!”” It was little Gavroche who was going to war. On the boulevard he noticed that the pistol had no hammer. Whose verse was this, which he used to punctuate his walk, and all the other songs which, on occasion, he sang willingly? We don’t know. Who knows? Perhaps his own. Gavroche, moreover, was aware of all the popular humming in circulation, and he mixed it with his own warbling. A farfadet and a urchin, he made a potpourri of the voices of nature and the voices of Paris. He combined the repertoire of birds with the repertoire of workshops. He knew some rapins, a tribe contiguous to his own. He had, it seems, been an apprentice printer for three months. He had once done an errand for Monsieur Baour-Lormian, one of the forty. Gavroche was a literary boy. Gavroche, for the rest, had no idea that on that nasty rainy night when he had offered two kids the hospitality of his elephant, it was for his own brothers that he had acted as providence. His brothers in the evening, his father in the morning; that had been his night. Leaving the Rue des Ballets at dawn, he had hurried back to the elephant, artfully extracted the two kids, shared with them the nondescript breakfast he had invented, and then gone away, entrusting them to that good mother of the street who had more or less raised him himself. On leaving them, he had arranged to meet them that evening at the same place, and had left them this farewell speech: “I’m breaking a cane, in other words, I’m running away, or, as they say at court, I’m off. Kids, if you don’t find Papa and Mama, come back here tonight. I’ll give you supper and put you to bed.” The two children, picked up by some policeman and put in the depot, or stolen by some mountebank, or simply lost in the immense Parisian Chinese puzzle, had not returned. The slums of today’s social world are full of such lost traces. Gavroche had not seen them again. Ten or twelve weeks had passed since that night. More than once he had scratched the top of his head and said: Where the devil are my two children? However, he had arrived, pistol in hand, at Rue du Pont-aux-Choux. He noticed that there was only one shop open in that street, and, something worthy of reflection, a pastry shop . It was a providential opportunity to eat one more apple turnover before entering the unknown. Gavroche stopped, felt his sides, searched his fob, turned his pockets over, found nothing, not a penny, and began to shout: Help! It’s hard to miss the supreme cake. Gavroche nevertheless continued on his way. Two minutes later, he was on Rue Saint-Louis. Crossing Rue du Parc-Royal he felt the need to compensate himself for the impossible apple turnover , and he gave himself the immense pleasure of tearing up the playbills in broad daylight . A little further on, seeing a group of healthy people go by who seemed to him to be property owners, he shrugged his shoulders and spat out at random this mouthful of philosophical bile in front of him: –These rentiers, how fat they are! They gorge themselves. They flounder among the good dinners. Ask them what they do with their money. They don’t know . They eat it, you know! Gone with the belly. Chapter 51. Gavroche on the march. Waving a hammerless pistol in the street is such a public function that Gavroche felt his verve grow with every step. He shouted, among snatches of the Marseillaise he was singing: –Everything’s fine. I’m suffering a lot from my left leg, I’ve broken my rheumatism, but I’m happy, citizens. The bourgeoisie had better watch out, I’m going to sneeze out some subversive verses for them. What are snitches? They’re dogs. Damn it! Let’s not disrespect dogs. With that, I’d like to have one for my pistol. I’m coming from the boulevard, my friends, it’s heating up, it’s boiling , it’s simmering. It’s time to skim the pot. Forward, men! Let impure blood flood the furrows! I give my days for the fatherland, I will never see my concubine again, ni-ni, finished, yes, Nini! But it doesn’t matter, long live joy! Let’s fight, crebleu! I’ve had enough of despotism. At that moment, the horse of a passing National Guard lancer having fallen, Gavroche laid his pistol on the pavement, and lifted the man, then he helped to lift the horse. After which he picked up his pistol and continued on his way. On Rue de Thorigny, all was peace and silence. This apathy, peculiar to the Marais, contrasted with the vast surrounding noise. Four gossips were chatting on a doorstep. Scotland has trios of witches, but Paris has quartets of gossips; and the “you will be king” would be just as lugubriously thrown at Bonaparte in the Baudoyer crossroads as at Macbeth in the Armuyr heath. It would be almost the same croak. The gossips of the rue de Thorigny only minded their own business. There were three doorwomen and a rag-picker with her basket and hook. They all seemed to be standing at the four corners of old age which are caducity, decrepitude, ruin and sadness. The rag-picker was humble. In this open-air world, the rag-picker greets, the doorwoman protects. This is due to the corner of the boundary stone which is what the concierges want, fat or thin, according to the whim of the one who makes the pile. There may be kindness in the broom. This rag-picker was a grateful basket, and she smiled, what a smile! at the three doorwomen. Things like this were said to one another: “Oh, so your cat is always mean?” –My God, cats, as you know, are naturally the enemy of dogs. It’s the dogs who complain. –And people too. –Yet cat fleas don’t go after people. –It’s not the embarrassment, dogs, they’re dangerous. I remember one year when there were so many dogs that they were obliged to put it in the newspapers. It was at the time when there were large sheep at the Tuileries pulling the little carriage of the King of Rome. Do you remember the King of Rome? –I liked the Duke of Bordeaux. –I knew Louis XVII. I like Louis XVII better. –It’s the meat that’s expensive, Mame Patagon! –Ah! Don’t talk to me about it, the butcher’s shop is a horror. A horrible horror . All we have left is rejoicing. Here the rag-and-bone man intervened: –Ladies, business is not good. The piles of garbage are pathetic. We don’t throw anything away anymore. We eat everything. –There are poorer people than you, Vargoulême. –Ah, that’s true, replied the rag-and-bone man deferentially, I have a job. There was a pause, and the rag-and-bone man, giving in to that need for display that is so fundamental to man, added: –In the morning when I get home, I go through the basket, I do my trellising (probably sorting). It makes piles in my room. I put the rags in a basket, cores in a tub, linens in my closet, woolens in my chest of drawers, old papers in the corner of the window, things good to eat in my bowl, pieces of glass in the fireplace, slippers behind the door, and bones under my bed. Gavroche, stopped behind, listened: “Old women,” he said, “what are you talking about politics for?” A volley assailed him, consisting of a quadruple boo. “There’s another scoundrel! ” “What’s he got on his stump? A pistol? ” “I’m asking you, that scoundrel of a kid! ” “It’s not quiet if it doesn’t overthrow authority.” Gavroche, disdainful, limited himself, as a reprisal, to lifting the tip of his nose with his thumb while opening his hand wide. The rag-picker shouted: “You wicked, bare-legged fellow!” The one who answered to the name of Mame Patagon clapped her two hands together in scandal: “There’s going to be misfortunes, that’s for sure. The urchin next door with the goatee, I used to see him go by every morning with a young man in a pink cap under his arm, today I saw him go by, he was giving his arm to a rifle. Mame Bacheux says that last week there was a revolution in… in… in… – where’s the calf! – in Pontoise. And then, do you see him there with a pistol, that horrible rascal! It seems there are cannons all over the Célestins.” How do you expect the government to deal with rascals who only know how to invent things to disturb the world, when we were beginning to have a little peace after all the misfortunes that have occurred, good Lord, that poor queen I saw passing by in the cart! And all that is going to make tobacco even more expensive. It is an infamy! And certainly, I will go and see you guillotined, you evildoer! “You sniff, my old lady,” said Gavroche. “Blow your nose.” And he went on. When he reached Rue Pavée, the rag-picker came back to him, and he had this soliloquy: “You are wrong to insult the revolutionaries, Mother Coin-de-la-Borne. That pistol is in your interest. It is so that you have more good things to eat in your basket.” Suddenly he heard a noise behind him; It was the Patagon porter who had followed him, and who, from a distance, shook her fist at him, shouting: “You’re nothing but a bastard! ” “That,” said Gavroche, “I don’t give a damn about it in the slightest. ” Shortly after, he passed in front of the Hôtel Lamoignon. There he uttered this call: “Off to battle!” And he was seized by a fit of melancholy. He looked at his pistol with a reproachful air that seemed to try to soften him. “I’m leaving,” he said to him, “but you’re not leaving. One dog can distract from another.” A very thin poodle happened to pass by. Gavroche felt sorry for him. “My poor doggie,” he said to him, “so you’ve swallowed a barrel that we can see all the hoops.” Then he headed towards the Orme-Saint-Gervais. Chapter 52. Just Indignation of a Wigmaker. The worthy wigmaker who had chased away the two cubs whose paternal elephant intestines Gavroche had cut open was at that moment in his shop busy shaving an old legionary soldier who had served under the Empire. They were talking. The wigmaker had naturally spoken to the veteran of the riot, then of General Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had come to the Emperor. From there a conversation between barber and soldier, which Prudhomme, if he had been present, would have enriched with arabesques, and which he would have entitled: _Dialogue of the Razor and the Sabre_. “Sir,” said the wigmaker, “how did the Emperor ride a horse? ” “Badly. He didn’t know how to fall. So he never fell. ” “Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses? The day he gave me the cross, I noticed his beast. It was a racing mare, all white.” Her ears were set very far apart, the deep saddle, a fine head marked with a black star, a very long neck, strongly articulated knees, prominent ribs, sloping shoulders, powerful hindquarters. A little over fifteen palms high. “Nice horse,” said the wigmaker. “It was His Majesty’s beast.” The wigmaker felt that after this word, a little silence was appropriate, he complied, then continued: “The Emperor was only wounded once, was he not, sir?” The old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign accent of the man who had been there. “At the heel. At Regensburg. I have never seen him so well dressed as that day. He was as clean as a whistle. ” “And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been wounded often?” “Me?” said the soldier, “ah! not much.” At Marengo I received two saber wounds on the back of the neck, a bullet in the right arm at Austerlitz, another in the left hip at Jena, at Friedland a bayonet wound there, – at Moskowa seven or eight lance wounds anywhere, at Lutzen a shell fragment which crushed one of my fingers… – Ah! and then at Waterloo a biscaian in the thigh. That’s all. – How fine it is, cried the wigmaker in a Pindaric accent, to die on the battlefield! Me! Word of honor, rather than die on the pallet, of illness, slowly, a little every day, with drugs, poultices, the syringe and the doctor, I would rather receive a cannonball in the belly! – You are not disgusted, said the soldier. He had hardly finished when a frightful crash shook the shop. A window in the shop window had suddenly become starry. The wigmaker turned pale. “Oh God!” he cried, “it’s one! ” “What? ” “A cannonball. ” “Here it is,” said the soldier. And he picked up something that was rolling on the ground. It was a pebble. The wigmaker ran to the broken window and saw Gavroche running away as fast as he could towards the Saint-Jean market. Passing in front of the wigmaker’s shop, Gavroche, who had the two kids on his heart, could not resist the desire to say hello to him, and had thrown a stone at his windowpanes. “You see!” shouted the wigmaker, who had gone from white to blue, “that’s evil for evil. What did they do to that kid?” Chapter 53. The child is surprised by the old man. Meanwhile, Gavroche, at the Saint-Jean market, whose post was already disarmed, had just made his junction with a band led by Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Feuilly. They were more or less armed. Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had found them and were swelling the group.
Enjolras had a double-barreled hunting rifle, Combeferre a National Guard rifle bearing a legion number, and in his belt two pistols that his unbuttoned frock coat revealed, Jean Prouvaire an old cavalry musketoon, Bahorel a carbine; Courfeyrac was waving a cane with an unsheathed sword. Feuilly, a naked saber in his hand, was marching ahead shouting: “Long live Poland!” They were coming from the Quai Morland, without ties, without hats, out of breath, wet with rain, with a flash in their eyes. Gavroche approached them calmly. “Where are we going?” “Come on,” said Courfeyrac. Behind Feuilly walked, or rather leaped Bahorel, a fish in the water of riot. He wore a crimson vest and spoke words that break everything. His vest upset a passerby who cried out in a panic: “Here come the Reds! ” “Red, red!” replied Bahorel. “Funny fear, bourgeois. As for me, I don’t tremble before a poppy, Little Red Riding Hood doesn’t inspire me with any terror. Bourgeois, believe me, let’s leave the fear of red to the horned beasts. ” He noticed a corner of the wall where was posted the most peaceful sheet of paper in the world, a permission to eat eggs, a Lenten mandate addressed by the Archbishop of Paris to his “flock.” Bahorel cried out: “Sheep; a polite way of saying geese.” And he tore the mandate from the wall. This won Gavroche over. From that moment on, Gavroche began to study Bahorel. “Bahorel,” observed Enjolras, “you are wrong. You should have left this mandate alone; it is not with him we are dealing, you are wasting your anger uselessly. Keep your provisions. One does not fire outside the ranks, no more with the soul than with the rifle. ” “Each to his own, Enjolras,” retorted Bahorel. “This bishop’s prose shocks me; I want to eat eggs without being allowed. You are the burning cold type; I am having fun. Besides, I am not exerting myself, I am gaining momentum; and if I tore up this mandate, Hercle! it is to whet my appetite.” This word, _Hercle_, struck Gavroche. He sought every opportunity to educate himself, and this poster-tearer had his respect. He asked him: “What does it mean, _Hercle_?” Bahorel replied: “It means sacred name of a dog in Latin.” Here Bahorel recognized at a window a pale young man with a black beard who was watching them pass, probably a friend of the A B C. He shouted to him: “Quick, cartridges! _para bellum_. ” “Fine man! That’s true,” said Gavroche, who now understood Latin. A tumultuous procession accompanied them: students, artists, young people affiliated with the Cougourde d’Aix, workers, people from the port, armed with sticks and bayonets, some, like Combeferre, with pistols tucked into their trousers. An old man, who looked very old, walked in this group. He had no weapon, and was hurrying so as not to be left behind, although he looked thoughtful. Gavroche saw him: “What’s that?” he said to Courfeyrac. “He’s an old man. It was Monsieur Mabeuf. ” Chapter 54. The Old Man. Let’s tell you what had happened: Enjolras and his friends were on the Boulevard Bourdon near the Granaries of Abundance at the moment when the dragoons charged. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre were among those who had taken the Rue Bassompierre, shouting, “To the barricades!” On the Rue Lesdiguières they had met an old man walking. What had caught their attention was that this fellow was walking in a zigzag pattern as if he were drunk. Moreover, he had his hat in his hand, although it had been raining all morning and was raining quite hard at that very moment. Courfeyrac had recognized Father Mabeuf. He knew him from having accompanied Marius many times to his door. Knowing the peaceful and more than timid habits of the old book-selling churchwarden, and astonished to see him in the midst of this tumult, two steps from the cavalry charges, almost in the middle of a shootout, disheveled in the rain and walking among the bullets, he had accosted him, and the twenty-five-year-old rioter and the octogenarian had exchanged this dialogue: –Monsieur Mabeuf, go home. –Why? –There’s going to be a commotion. –All right. –Saber blows, rifle shots, Monsieur Mabeuf. –All right. –Cannon shots. –All right. Where are you going, you others? –We’re going to knock the government to the ground. –All right. And he had started to follow them. Since that moment, he had not uttered a word. His step had suddenly become firm, some workmen had offered him their arm, he had refused with a nod. He advanced almost to the front of the column, having at once the movement of a man walking and the face of a man sleeping. “What a madman!” murmured the students. The rumor was circulating among the crowd that he was a former member of the Convention, an old regicide. The assembly had taken the Rue de la Verrerie. Little Gavroche marched in front, singing at the top of his voice which made him a kind of of bugle. He sang: _Here comes the moon,_ _When will we go into the forest?_ _Charlot asked Charlotte._ _Tou tou tou_ _For Chatou._ _I have only one God, one king, one farthing and one boot._ _For having drunk early in the morning_ _The dew straight from the thyme,_ _Two sparrows were having a spree._ _Zi zi zi_ _For Passy. _ _I have only one God, one king, one farthing, and one boot._ _And these two poor little wolves_ _As two thrushes were drunk;_ _A tiger laughed at them in his cave._ _Give, give, give_ _For Meudon._ _I have only one God, one king, one farthing, and one boot._ _One swore and the other cursed._ _When shall we go into the forest?_ _Charlot asked Charlotte._ _Tin tin tin_ _For Pantin._ _I have only one God, one king, one farthing, and one boot._ They were heading towards Saint-Merry. Chapter 55. Recruits. The band was growing every moment. Towards the Rue des Billettes, a tall, grizzled man, whose rough and bold appearance Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Combeferre noticed, but whom none of them knew, joined them. Gavroche, busy singing, whistling, buzzing, going ahead, and knocking on the shop shutters with the butt of his hammerless pistol, paid no attention to this man. It so happened that, on the Rue de la Verrerie, they passed in front of Courfeyrac ‘s door . “That’s just as well,” said Courfeyrac, “I forgot my purse, and I lost my hat.” He left the crowd and went up to his room four at a time. He took an old hat and his purse. He also took a large square chest the size of a large suitcase which was hidden in his dirty linen. As he was running back downstairs, the doorkeeper called out to him. “Monsieur de Courfeyrac! ” “Doorkeeper, what is your name?” Courfeyrac retorted. The porteress remained astonished. “But you know very well, I am the concierge, my name is Mother Veuvain. ” “Well, if you still call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac, I call you Mother de Veuvain. Now, speak, what is it? What is it? ” “There is someone here who wants to speak to you. ” “Who? ” “I don’t know. ” “Where? ” “In my dressing room. ” “To hell with it!” Courfeyrac said. “But they’ve been waiting for you to come in for over an hour!” the porteress continued. At the same time, a sort of young workman, thin, pale, small, marked with freckles, dressed in a ripped blouse and patched corduroy trousers, and who looked more like a girl dressed as a boy than a man, came out of the lodge and said to Courfeyrac in a voice which, for example, was not at all a woman’s voice: “Monsieur Marius, please?” ” He is not there.” ” Will he come back this evening? ” “I don’t know. ” And Courfeyrac added: “As for me, I shall not come back.” The young man looked at him fixedly and asked: “Why is that?” “Because. ” “Where are you going? ” “What does that matter to you?” ” Do you want me to carry your chest to you?” “I am going to the barricades.” “Do you want me to go with you? ” “If you like!” replied Courfeyrac. The street is clear, the cobblestones are for everyone. And he ran off to join his friends. When he reached them, he gave the chest to one of them to carry. It was only a good quarter of an hour later that he realized that the young man had indeed followed them. A crowd doesn’t go exactly where it wants. We explained that it’s a gust of wind that carries it away. They passed Saint-Merry and found themselves, without really knowing how, on Rue Saint-Denis. Book Twelfth–Corinth Chapter 56. History of Corinth since its foundation. Parisians who, today, upon entering Rue Rambuteau from the market halls, notice on their right, opposite Rue Mondétour, a basket-maker’s shop with a sign in the shape of the Emperor Napoleon the Great with this inscription: NAPOLEON IS MADE ALL OF OSIER, have little idea of the terrible scenes that this same location witnessed barely thirty years ago. This is where the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which the old titles write Chanverrerie, and the famous cabaret called Corinthe, were located. We remember all that has been said about the barricade erected on this spot and eclipsed by the Saint-Merry barricade. It is on this famous barricade on Rue de la Chanvrerie, now fallen into deep night, that we will shed a little light. Let us resort, for the sake of clarity, to the simple method already employed by us for Waterloo. Those who wish to represent in a fairly accurate manner the blocks of houses which stood at that time near the Pointe Saint-Eustache, at the northeast corner of the Paris market halls, where the mouth of Rue Rambuteau is today, need only imagine, touching Rue Saint-Denis at the top and the market halls at the base, an N whose two vertical jambs would be Rue de la Grande-Truanderie and Rue de la Chanvrerie and whose transverse jamb would be Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The old Rue Mondétour cut the three jambs at the most tortuous angles. So much so that the maze-like tangle of these four streets was enough to make, in a space of one hundred square fathoms, between the market halls and the rue Saint-Denis on the one hand, between the rue du Cygne and the rue des Prêcheurs on the other, seven blocks of houses, oddly cut, of various sizes, laid crooked and as if at random, and barely separated, like the blocks of stone in the building site, by narrow cracks. We say narrow cracks, and we cannot give a more accurate idea of these dark, narrow, angular alleys, lined with eight-story hovels. These hovels were so decrepit that, in the streets of Chanvrerie and Petite-Truanderie, the facades were supported by beams going from one house to another. The street was narrow and the stream wide, the passer-by walked on the always wet pavement, passing shops like cellars, large iron-rimmed bollards, excessive piles of garbage, alleyways armed with enormous, age-old gates. Rue Rambuteau devastated all that. The name Mondétour perfectly depicts the windings of this entire roadway. A little further on, they were even better expressed by the _rue Pirouette_ which flowed into Rue Mondétour. The passer-by who entered Rue Saint-Denis into Rue de la Chanvrerie saw it gradually narrow before him, as if he had entered an elongated funnel. At the end of the street, which was very short, he found the passage blocked on the side of the market halls by a tall row of houses, and he would have thought he was in a dead end, if he had not seen on the right and left two black trenches through which he could escape. This was the rue Mondétour, which joined on one side the rue des Prêcheurs, on the other the rue du Cygne and the Petite-Truanderie. At the end of this kind of dead end, at the corner of the right-hand trench, one could see a house lower than the others and forming a sort of cape over the street. It was in this house, only two stories high, that a famous tavern had been happily installed for three hundred years. This tavern made a noise of joy at the very spot that old Théophile mentioned in these two verses: _There shakes the horrible skeleton_ _Of a poor lover who hanged himself._ The place being good, the innkeepers succeeded one another from father to son. In the time of Mathurin Régnier, this inn was called the _Pot-aux-Roses_, and since rebuses were fashionable, its sign was a post painted pink. In the last century, the worthy Natoire, one of the whimsical masters now disdained by the rigid school, having gotten drunk several times in this inn at the very table where Régnier had gotten drunk, had painted a bunch of Corinthian grapes on the pink post out of gratitude. The innkeeper, overjoyed, had changed his sign and had gilded below the bunch these words: _au Raisin de Corinthe_. Hence the name, _Corinthe_. Nothing is more natural to drunkards than ellipses. The ellipse is the zigzag of the sentence. Corinth had gradually dethroned the Pot-aux-Roses. The last innkeeper of the dynasty, Father Hucheloup, no longer even knowing the tradition, had had the post painted blue. A room downstairs where the bar was, a room on the first floor where the billiards table was, a spiral wooden staircase piercing the ceiling, wine on the tables, smoke on the walls, candles in broad daylight, that was the inn. A staircase with a trapdoor in the downstairs room led to the cellar. On the second floor was the Hucheloup’s home. One climbed there by a staircase, a ladder rather than a staircase, with no entrance other than a secret door in the large room on the first floor. Under the roof, two attics, nests for maids. The kitchen shared the ground floor with the bar room. Father Hucheloup may have been born a chemist, the fact is that he was a cook; People didn’t just drink in his tavern, they ate there. Hucheloup had invented an excellent thing that was only eaten at his house: stuffed carp that he called _carpes au gras_. They ate this by the light of a tallow candle or a quinquet from the time of Louis XVI on tables to which an oilcloth was nailed as a tablecloth. People came from far and wide. One fine morning, Hucheloup had thought it appropriate to warn passers-by of his “specialty”; he had dipped a brush in a pot of black, and since he had his own spelling , as well as his own kitchen, he had improvised this remarkable inscription on his wall: CARPES HO GRAS One winter, the showers and squalls had taken the fancy to erase the S that ended the first word and the G that began the third; and this remained: CARPE HO RAS With the help of time and rain, a humble gastronomic announcement had become profound advice. Thus it turned out that, not knowing French, Father Hucheloup had known Latin, that he had brought philosophy out of the kitchen, and that, simply wanting to erase Lent, he had equaled Horace. And what was striking was that this also meant: come into my cabaret. None of this exists today. The Mondétour maze was gutted and wide open as early as 1847, and probably no longer exists today. Rue de la Chanvrerie and Corinthe have disappeared under the paving stones of Rue Rambuteau. As we have said, Corinthe was one of the meeting places, if not the rallying places, of Courfeyrac and his friends. It was Grantaire who had discovered Corinthe. He had entered because of _Carpe Horas_ and had returned because of _Carpes au Gras_. People drank there, ate there, shouted there; they paid little, they paid badly, they didn’t pay, they were always welcome. Father Hucheloup was a good man. Hucheloup, a good man, as we have just said, was a mustachioed tavern-keeper; an amusing variety. He always had a bad mood, seemed to want to intimidate his customers, grumbled at people who came into his house, and seemed more inclined to pick a quarrel with them than to serve them soup. And yet, we maintain the word, people were always welcome. This oddity had stocked his shop, and brought young people to him saying to each other: Come and see Father Hucheloup. He had been a fencing master. Suddenly he would burst out laughing. Loud voice, good devil. He had a comic background with a tragic appearance; he asked nothing better than to frighten you ; a bit like those snuff boxes that are shaped like a pistol. The detonation makes you sneeze. His wife was Mother Hucheloup, a bearded, very ugly creature. Around 1830, Father Hucheloup died. With him disappeared the secret of carp in fat. His widow, inconsolable, continued the tavern. But the cooking degenerated and became execrable, the wine, which had always been bad, was dreadful. Courfeyrac and his friends nevertheless continued to go to Corinth,–out of piety, said Bossuet. The widow Hucheloup was out of breath and deformed with rural memories . She took away their blandness with pronunciation. She had a way of saying things that seasoned her village and springtime reminiscences. It had once been her joy, she said, to hear “the wolves-of-the-throat singing in the ogrepines.” The upstairs room, where the “restaurant” was, was a large, long room cluttered with stools, stepladders, chairs, benches, and tables, and a rickety old billiard table. It was reached by the spiral staircase that ended in the corner of the room at a square hole like a ship’s hatch. This room, lit by a single narrow window and a lamp that was always lit, had the air of an attic. All the furniture with four legs behaved as if it had three. The whitewashed walls had for no other ornament than this quatrain in honor of Mame Hucheloup: _She astonishes at ten paces, she frightens at two._ _A wart lives in her hazardous nose;_ _One trembles every moment lest she blow your nose,_ _And that one fine day her nose falls into her mouth._ This was charred on the wall. Mame Hucheloup, a likeness, walked back and forth from morning to night in front of this quatrain, with perfect tranquility. Two servants, called Matelote and Gibelotte, and who have never been known by any other name, helped Mame Hucheloup to place on the tables the jugs of blue wine and the various broths that were served to the hungry in pottery bowls . Matelote, fat, round, red-haired and garish, former favorite sultana of the deceased Hucheloup, was ugly, more than any mythological monster; yet, as is fitting for the maid to always stand behind the mistress, she was less ugly than Mame Hucheloup. Gibelotte, tall, delicate, white with a lymphatic whiteness , with dark circles under her eyes, drooping eyelids, always exhausted and overwhelmed, afflicted with what one might call chronic lassitude , rising first, going to bed last, served everyone , even the other maid, silently and gently, smiling beneath the fatigue with a sort of vague sleepy smile. There was a mirror above the counter. Before entering the dining room, one read on the door this verse written in chalk by Courfeyrac: _Feast if you can and eat if you dare._ Chapter 57. Preliminary Gaîtés. The eagle of Meaux, as we know, lived more at Joly’s than anywhere else. He had a home like a bird has a branch. The two friends lived together, ate together, slept together. They had everything in common, even a little Musichetta. They were what, among the hat brothers, is called _bini_. On the morning of June 5, they went to lunch at Corinth. Joly, swollen, had a bad cold that Laigle was beginning to share. Laigle’s suit was threadbare, but Joly was well dressed. It was about nine o’clock in the morning when they pushed open the door of Corinth. They went up to the first floor. Matelote and Gibelotte received them. “Oysters, cheese, and ham,” said Laigle. And they sat down. The tavern was empty; there were only the two of them. Gibelotte, recognizing Joly and Laigle, put a bottle of wine on the table. As they were at the first oysters, a head appeared at the stairway hatch, and a voice said: “I was passing by. I smelled, from the street, a delicious smell of Brie cheese. I’m going in. ” It was Grantaire. Grantaire took a stool and sat down. Gibelotte, seeing Grantaire, put two bottles of wine on the table. That made three. “Are you going to drink these two bottles?” Laigle asked Grantaire. Grantaire replied: “All are ingenious, you alone are ingenuous. Two bottles never surprised a man.” The others had started by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. Half a bottle was quickly swallowed. “So you have a hole in your stomach?” Laigle continued. “You do have one on your elbow,” said Grantaire. And, after emptying his glass, he added: “Ah, Laigle of funeral orations, your coat is old. ” “I hope so,” replied Laigle. “That makes us get along well, my coat and I. It has taken on all my folds, it doesn’t bother me at all, it has molded itself to my deformities, it is accommodating to all my movements; I only feel it because it keeps me warm. Old clothes are the same as old friends. ” “It’s true,” cried Joly, entering into the conversation, “an old coat is an old coat. ” “Especially,” said Grantaire, “in the mouth of a man in his smocks. ” “Grantaire,” asked Laigle, “are you coming from the boulevard? ” “No.” “Joly and I have just seen the head of the procession pass by. ” “It’s a marvelous sight,” said Joly. “How quiet this street is!” cried Laigle. Who would suspect that Paris is upside down? As you can see, it used to be all convents around here! Du Breul and Sauval give a list, and Abbé Lebeuf. There were all around, it was teeming, the shod, the bare, the shorn, the bearded, the gray, the black, the white, the Franciscans, the Minims, the Capuchins, the Carmelites, the Little Augustinians, the Grand Augustinians, the Old Augustinians…–It was teeming. “Don’t talk about monks,” interrupted Grantaire, “it makes you want to scratch yourself.
” Then he exclaimed: “Boo! I’ve just swallowed a bad oyster. Here comes the hypochondria coming back to me. The oysters are spoiled, the servants are ugly. I hate the human race.” I just passed the big public bookstore on Rue Richelieu. That pile of oyster shells they call a library disgusts me to think about. So much paper! So much ink! So much scribbling! They wrote all that! What scribbler said that man was a biped without a pen? And then I met a pretty girl I know, as beautiful as spring, worthy of being called Floréal, and delighted, transported, happy, in heaven, the wretch, because yesterday a dreadful banker, striped with smallpox, deigned to want her! Alas! Women watch for the dealer no less than thrush; cats hunt mice as they do birds. This young lady, not two months ago she was good in an attic, she was adjusting little copper rings to corset eyelets, what do you call that? she sewed, she had a bed of straps; she lived near a flowerpot , she was happy. Now she is a banker. This transformation took place last night. I met this victim this morning, very joyful. What is hideous is that the rogue was just as pretty today as yesterday. Her financier did not appear on her face. Roses have this more or less than women, that the traces left on them by caterpillars are visible. Ah! there is no morality on earth, I attest to the myrtle, symbol of love, the laurel, symbol of war, the olive tree, this beta, symbol of peace, the apple tree, which nearly strangled Adam with its seed, and the fig tree, grandfather of petticoats. As for law, do you want to know what law is? The Gauls covet Clusa, Rome protects Clusa, and asks them what wrong Clusa has done them. Brennus replies: “The wrong Alba did you, the wrong Fideria did you, the wrong the Aequi, the Volscians, and the Sabines did you. They were your neighbors. The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborliness as you do. You stole Alba, we take Clusa. Rome says: You will not take Clusa. Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: Voe victis! That is what law is. Ah! in this world, how many beasts of prey! How many eagles! It makes my flesh crawl.” He handed his glass to Joly, who refilled it, then drank, and continued, almost uninterrupted by this glass of wine that no one noticed, not even himself: “Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker, who takes the grisette, is an eagle. No more modesty here than there. So let’s believe in nothing. There is only one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion, be for the rooster as thin as the canton of Uri or for the rooster as fat as the canton of Glarus, it doesn’t matter, drink. You talk to me about the boulevard, the procession, and so on. Oh, so there’s going to be another revolution? This poverty of means astonishes me on the part of the good Lord. He must at every moment start to suck up the groove of events again. It catches on, it doesn’t work. Quick, a revolution. The good Lord always has black hands from that nasty grease.” In his place, I would be simpler, I would not wind up my mechanism every moment, I would lead the human race smoothly, I would knit the facts stitch by stitch without breaking the thread, I would have no snacks, I would not have an extraordinary repertoire. What you call progress works by two engines, men and events. But, sadly, from time to time , the exceptional is necessary. For events as for men, the ordinary troupe is not enough; geniuses are needed among men , and revolutions among events. Great accidents are the law; the order of things cannot do without them; and, seeing the appearances of comets, one would be tempted to believe that the sky itself needs actors in representation. At the moment when one least expects it, God plasters a meteor on the wall of the firmament. Some strange star appears, highlighted by an enormous tail. And that kills Caesar. Brutus stabs him, and God stabs him with a comet. Crack, here’s an aurora borealis, here’s a revolution, here’s a great man; 93 in large letters, Napoleon in the spotlight, the comet of 1811 at the top of the bill. Ah! the beautiful blue poster, all studded with unexpected blazes! Boom! boom! extraordinary spectacle. Look up , onlookers. Everything is disheveled, the star as well as the drama. Good God, it’s too much, and it’s not enough. These resources, taken in the exception, seem magnificence and are poverty. My friends, providence is at expedients. A revolution, what does that prove? That God is short. He carries out a coup d’état, because there is a break in continuity between the present and the future, and because he, God, has not been able to make ends meet. In fact, this confirms my conjectures about Jehovah’s financial situation; and to see so much unease above and below, so much pettiness and stinginess and niggardliness and distress in heaven and on earth, from the bird that has not a grain of millet to me who does not have a hundred thousand pounds income, to see human destiny, which is very worn out, and even royal destiny, which shows the rope, witness the Prince of Condé hanged, to see winter, which is nothing other than a rent at the zenith through which the wind blows, to see so many rags in the brand new purple of the morning on the tops of the hills, to see the drops of dew, these pearls false, seeing the frost, this rhinestone, seeing humanity disjointed and events patched together, and so many spots in the sun, and so many holes in the moon, seeing so much misery everywhere, I suspect that God is not rich. He has appearances, it’s true, but I feel embarrassment. He gives a revolution, like a merchant whose cash register is empty gives a ball. One must not judge the gods by appearances. Under the gilding of the sky I glimpse a poor universe. In creation there is bankruptcy. That is why I am discontented. See, it is the fifth of June, it is almost dark; since this morning I have been waiting for the day to come. It has not come, and I bet it will not come all day. It is the inexactitude of a poorly paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits anything, this old world is all out of whack, I side with the opposition. Everything is askew; the universe is teasing. It’s like children, those who want them don’t have them, those who don’t want them have them. Total: I’m upset. Besides, Laigle de Meaux, that bald man, distresses me to see. It humiliates me to think that I’m the same age as this knee. Besides, I criticize, but I don’t insult. The universe is what it is. I speak here without malicious intent and for the sake of 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 made to be a Parisian, that is to say, to bounce forever, like a shuttlecock between two rackets, from the group of strollers to the group of rowdy people! I was made to be a Turk, watching all day long oriental scamps perform those exquisite Egyptian dances, lewd like the dreams of a chaste man, or a Beauceron peasant, or a Venetian gentleman surrounded by gentlewomen, or a little German prince providing half an infantryman to the Germanic confederation, and occupying his leisure time drying his socks on his hedge, that is to say on his frontier! That is to what destinies I was born! Yes, I said Turk, and I do not go back on it. I do not understand why people usually take Turks in bad part; Mahom has some good; Respect to the inventor of houri seraglios and odalisque paradises! Let us not insult Mohammedanism, the only religion adorned with a henhouse! On that note, I insist on drinking. The earth is a big stupidity. And it seems that they are going to fight, all these imbeciles, have their profiles broken, massacre each other, in the middle of summer, in the month of June, when they could go away, with a creature under their arm, to breathe in the fields the immense cup of tea from the cut hay! Really, we do too much nonsense. An old broken lantern that I saw just now at a bric-a-brac dealer’s suggests a thought to me: It is time to enlighten the human race. Yes, here I am sad again! What it is to swallow an oyster and a revolution the wrong way! I am becoming gloomy again. Oh! the dreadful old world! We strive for it, we destitute ourselves, we prostitute ourselves, we kill ourselves, we get used to it! And Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a deserved coughing fit . “Speaking of revolution,” said Joly, “it seems that Barius is decidedly a drunkard. ” “Do we know who?” asked Laigle. “Don. ” “No? ” “Don! I tell you! ” “The loves of Marius!” cried Grantaire. “I can see that from here. Marius is a fog, and he will have found a vapor. Marius is of the poet race. Who says poet says madman. Tymbroeus Apollo. Marius and his Marie, or his Maria, or his Mariette, or his Marion, that must make strange lovers. I realize what that is. Ecstasies where one forgets the kiss. Chaste on earth, but mating in infinity. They are souls with senses. They sleep together in the stars. Grantaire began his second bottle, and perhaps his second harangue when a new being emerged from the square hole in the staircase. It was a boy of less than ten years old, ragged, very small, yellow, with a muzzle-like face, lively eyes, enormous hair, wet with rain, and a happy air. The child, choosing without hesitation from among the three, although he obviously did not know any of them, addressed himself to Laigle of Meaux. “Are you Monsieur Bossuet?” he asked. “That’s my nickname,” replied Laigle. “What do you want from me? ” “There. A tall blond man on the boulevard said to me: Do you know Mother Hucheloup? I said: Yes, rue Chanvrerie, the widow with the old man. He said to me: Go there. You will find Monsieur Bossuet there, and you will tell him for me: ABC. This is a joke they’re playing on you, isn’t it? He gave me ten sous.” “Joly, lend me ten sous,” said Laigle; and turning to Grantaire: “Grantaire, lend me ten sous.” That made twenty sous that Laigle gave to the child. “Thank you, sir,” said the little boy. “What is your name?” asked Laigle. “Navet, Gavroche’s friend. ” “Stay with us,” said Laigle. “Eat lunch with us,” said Grantaire. The child replied: “I can’t, I’m in the procession, it’s me who’s shouting ‘down with Polignac.'” And dragging his foot behind him for a long time, which is the most respectful of greetings possible, he went away. The child gone, Grantaire spoke: “This is the pure gamin. There are many varieties in the gamin genre.” The notary’s boy is called Saute-Ruisseau, the cook’s boy is called Marmiton, the baker ‘s boy is called Mitron, the footman’s boy is called Groom, the sailor’s boy is called Cabin Boy , the soldier’s boy is called Tapin, the painter’s boy is called Rapin, the merchant’s boy is called Trottin, the courtier’s boy is called Menin, the king’s boy is called Dauphin, and the god’s boy is called Bambino. Meanwhile, Laigle was meditating; he said in a low voice: “ABC, that is to say: Lamarque’s Burial. ” “The tall blond fellow,” observed Grantaire, “it’s Enjolras who sent word to you. ” “Shall we go?” said Bossuet. “It’s raining,” said Joly. “I swore I’d go into the fire, not the water. I do n’t want to catch a cold. ” “I’ll stay here,” said Grantaire. I prefer lunch to a hearse. “Conclusion: we’re staying,” Laigle continued. “Well, then, let’s drink. Besides, we can miss the funeral without missing the riot. ” “Ah! I’m one of the rioters,” Joly cried. Laigle rubbed his hands: “So we’re going to touch up the revolution of 1830 again. In fact, it’s annoying the people. ” “I don’t really care about your revolution,” Grantaire said. “I don’t loathe this government. It’s the crown tempered by the cotton cap. It’s a scepter ending in an umbrella. In fact, today, I’m thinking, with the weather we’re having, Louis-Philippe will be able to use his royalty for two purposes: to extend the scepter end against the people and open the umbrella end against the sky.” The room was dark, large clouds were finally obscuring the day. There was no one in the tavern, nor in the street, everyone having gone to “see the events.” “Is it noon or midnight?” shouted Bossuet. “One can’t see a thing. Gibelotte, light ! Grantaire, sad, was drinking. ” “Enjolras disdains me,” he murmured. “Enjolras said: Joly is ill, Grantaire is drunk. It was to Bossuet that he sent Navet. If he had come to fetch me, I would have followed him. Too bad for Enjolras! I will not go to his funeral.” This resolution taken, Bossuet, Joly, and Grantaire did not move from the tavern. Around two o’clock in the afternoon, the table on which they were leaning was covered with empty bottles. Two candles burned there, one in a perfectly green copper candlestick, the other in the neck of a cracked carafe. Grantaire had dragged Joly and Bossuet towards the wine; Bossuet and Joly had brought Grantaire back to joy. As for Grantaire, since noon, he had surpassed wine, a mediocre source of dreams. Wine, with serious drunkards, has only a success of esteem. There is, in fact, black magic and white magic; wine is only white magic. Grantaire was an adventurous drinker of dreams. The blackness of a formidable intoxication half-opened before him, far from stopping him, attracted him. He had left the bottles there and taken the tankard. The tankard is the abyss. Having neither opium nor hashish at hand , and wanting to fill his brain with twilight, he had resorted to that frightening mixture of brandy, stout and absinthe, which produces such terrible lethargy. It is from these three vapors, beer, brandy, absinthe, that the lead of the soul is made. These are three darknesses; the celestial butterfly drowns in them; and there are formed, in a membranous smoke vaguely condensed into a bat’s wing, three mute furies, Nightmare, Night, Death, fluttering above sleeping Psyche. Grantaire was not yet at this lugubrious phase; far from it. He was prodigiously gay, and Bossuet and Joly gave him the cue. They clinked glasses. Grantaire added to the eccentric accentuation of words and ideas the rambling of gestures, he rested with dignity his left fist on his knee, his arm forming a square, and, his cravat undone, astride a stool, his full glass in his right hand, he threw these solemn words to the fat servant Matelote: “Open the gates of the palace!” that everyone belongs to the French Academy, and has the right to kiss Madame Hucheloup! Let’s drink. And turning to Madame Hucheloup, he added: “Antique woman, consecrated by custom , come closer so I can contemplate you!” And Joly cried: “Batelote and Gibelotte, give Grantaire no more to drink. He’s spending crazy amounts of money. He has already devoured two francs and ninety-five cents since this bath in wild prodigalities.” And Grantaire continued: “Who took down the stars without my permission to put them on the table instead of candles? ” Bossuet, very drunk, had remained calm. He sat on the sill of the open window, wetting his back in the falling rain, and he contemplated his two friends. Suddenly he heard behind him a tumult, hurried footsteps, cries to arms! He turned around and saw, on the Rue Saint-Denis, at the end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Enjolras passing by, rifle in hand, and Gavroche with his pistol, Feuilly with his sabre, Courfeyrac with his sword, Jean Prouvaire with his musket, Combeferre with his rifle, Bahorel with his rifle, and the whole armed and stormy gathering following them. The Rue de la Chanvrerie was hardly more than a rifle’s length. Bossuet improvised a megaphone around his mouth with both hands and shouted: “Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac! Hohee!” Courfeyrac heard the call, saw Bossuet, and took a few steps into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, shouting a “what do you want?” which was intersected with a “where are you going? ” “Make a barricade,” replied Courfeyrac. “Well, here! The place is good!” do it here! “That’s right, Aigle,” said Courfeyrac. And at a sign from Courfeyrac, the crowd rushed to the Rue de la Chanvrerie. Chapter 58. Night begins to fall on Grantaire. The square was in fact admirably marked, the entrance to the street wide, the end narrowed and dead-end, Corinthe making a chokehold there, the Rue Mondétour easy to block on the right and left, no attack possible except from the Rue Saint-Denis, that is to say, frontally and in the open. Bossuet gris had had the look of Hannibal on a sober stomach.
At the irruption of the gathering, terror had taken hold of the whole street. Not a passer-by who had not slipped away. In the time of a flash, at the end, at Right, left, shops, workbenches, alleyways, windows, shutters, garrets, shutters of every size, had closed from the ground floors up to the rooftops. A frightened old woman had fixed a mattress in front of her window to two poles for drying clothes, in order to muffle the musketry. The tavern house alone remained open; and that for a good reason, namely that the crowd had rushed there. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” sighed Mame Hucheloup.
Bossuet had gone down to meet Courfeyrac. Joly, who had gone to the window, shouted: “Courfeyrac, you should have taken an umbrella. You’ll catch a cold.” However, in a few minutes, twenty iron bars had been torn from the grilled front of the tavern, ten fathoms of street had been unpaved; Gavroche and Bahorel had seized and overturned the shack of a lime manufacturer named Anceau, this shack containing three barrels full of lime which they had placed under piles of paving stones; Enjolras had lifted the trapdoor of the cellar, and all the empty casks of the widow Hucheloup had gone to flank the barrels of lime; Feuilly, with his fingers accustomed to illuminating the delicate blades of fans, had buttressed the barrels and the shack with two massive piles of rubble. Rubble improvised like the rest, and taken from who knows where. Prop beams had been torn from the facade of a neighboring house and laid on the casks. When Bossuet and Courfeyrac turned around, half the street was already blocked by a rampart higher than a man. Nothing is like the common hand to build anything that is built by demolishing. Matelote and Gibelotte had mingled with the workers. Gibelotte came and went laden with rubble. Her weariness helped with the barricade. She served paving stones as she would have served wine, looking sleepy. An omnibus with two white horses passed at the end of the street. Bossuet stepped over the paving stones, ran, stopped the coachman, made the passengers get out, shook hands with the ladies, dismissed the driver, and returned, bringing back the carriage and horses by the bridle. “Omnibuses,” he said, “do not pass in front of Corinth. Non licet omnibus adire Corinthum.” A moment later, the unharnessed horses were going off at random along Rue Mondétour, and the omnibus, lying on its side, completed the blockade of the street. Mame Hucheloup, distraught, had taken refuge on the first floor. Her eyes were unfocused and she looked without seeing, crying out quietly. Her terrified cries dared not escape her throat. “It’s the end of the world,” she murmured. Joly placed a kiss on Mame Hucheloup’s large, red, wrinkled neck and said to Grantaire: “My dear fellow, I have always considered a woman’s neck to be an infinitely delicate thing.” But Grantaire reached the highest regions of dithyramb. Matelote having gone back upstairs, Grantaire had seized her by the waist and was giving long bursts of laughter at the window. “Matelote is ugly!” he cried. “Matelote is the ugliness of a dream! Matelote is a chimera. Here is the secret of her birth: a Gothic Pygmalion who made gargoyles for cathedrals fell one fine morning in love with one of them, the most horrible. He begged love to animate him, and that made Matelote. Look at her, citizens! She has hair the color of lead chromate like Titian’s mistress, and she’s a good girl. I tell you she’ll fight well. Every good girl has a hero in her. As for Mother Hucheloup, she’s a brave old woman. Look at the mustaches she has! She inherited them from her husband. A hussar, in fact! She’ll fight too. Between them they’ll frighten the suburbs. Comrades, we’ll overthrow the government, true as it is true that there are fifteen intermediate acids between margaric acid and formic acid. Besides, that’s perfectly all the same to me. Gentlemen, my father always hated me because I couldn’t understand mathematics. I only understand love and freedom. I am Grantaire the good boy! Having never had money, I have not made a habit of it, which means that I have never lacked it; but if I had been rich, there would no longer have been poor! We would have seen! Oh! if good hearts had big purses! How much better everything would be! I imagine Jesus Christ with the Rothschild fortune! How much good he would do! Matelote, kiss me! You are voluptuous and timid! You have cheeks that call for a sister’s kiss, and lips that demand a lover’s kiss! “Be quiet, cask!” said Courfeyrac. Grantaire replied: “I am a capitoul and master of floral games!” Enjolras, who was standing on the crest of the dam, rifle in hand, raised his handsome, austere face. Enjolras, as we know, was part Spartan and part Puritan. He would have died at Thermopylae with Leonidas and would have burned Drogheda with Cromwell. “Grantaire!” he cried, “go and sleep off your wine out of here. This is the place for drunkenness, not for drunkenness. Do not dishonor the barricade! ” This irritated word had a singular effect on Grantaire. It was as if a glass of cold water had been thrown across his face. He suddenly seemed sobered. He sat down, leaned his elbows on a table near the window, looked at Enjolras with inexpressible gentleness, and said to him: “You know I believe in you.” “Go away. ” “Let me sleep here. ” “Go sleep somewhere else,” cried Enjolras. But Grantaire, still fixing his tender and troubled eyes on him, replied: “Let me sleep there—until I die. ” Enjolras looked at him with a disdainful eye: “Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of wanting, of living, and of dying. ” Grantaire replied in a grave voice: “You will see.” He stammered a few more unintelligible words, then his head fell heavily on the table, and, which is a fairly usual effect of the second period of drunkenness into which Enjolras had roughly and abruptly pushed him, a moment later he was asleep. Chapter 59. Attempt at consolation on the widow Hucheloup. Bahorel, ecstatic about the barricade, cried: ” There’s the street with its neckline cut out! How nice it looks!” Courfeyrac, while demolishing the tavern a little, tried to console the widowed tavern owner. “Mother Hucheloup, weren’t you complaining the other day that you had been served with a report and a penalty notice because Gibelotte had thrown a bed rug out of your window? ” “Yes, my good Mr. Courfeyrac. Ah! My God, are you going to put that table on me too in your horror? And even that, for the rug, and also for a flowerpot that had fallen from the attic into the street, the government fined me a hundred francs. If that is n’t an abomination! ” “Well then! Mother Hucheloup, we avenge you.” Mother Hucheloup, in this reparation that was being made to her, did not seem to understand much of what she was gaining. She was satisfied in the manner of that Arab woman who, having received a slap from her husband, went to complain to her father, crying out for vengeance and saying: “Father, you owe my husband insult for insult. ” The father asked: “On which cheek did you receive the blow? On the left cheek.” The father slapped the right cheek and said: “Now you’re happy. Go tell your husband that he slapped my daughter, but that I slapped his wife.” The rain had stopped. Recruits had arrived. Some workers had brought under their smocks a barrel of powder, a basket containing bottles of vitriol, two or three carnival torches, and a hamper full of lanterns “left over from the king’s festival.” This festival was very recent, having taken place on May 1st. It was said that these munitions came from a grocer in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine named Pépin. The only street lamp on the Rue de la Chanvrerie was being broken, the corresponding lantern of the rue Saint-Denis, and all the lanterns of the surrounding streets, Mondétour, du Cygne, des Prêcheurs, and de la Grande and de la Petite-Truanderie. Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac directed everything. Now two barricades were being built at the same time, both leaning against the house of Corinthe and forming a right angle; the larger one closed the rue de la Chanvrerie, the other closed the rue Mondétour on the side of the rue du Cygne. This last barricade, very narrow, was built only of barrels and paving stones. There were about fifty workers there; about thirty armed with rifles; for, on the way, they had borrowed a block from a gunsmith’s shop. Nothing could be more bizarre and more motley than this troop. One had a coat-vest, a cavalry saber and two saddle pistols, another was in shirt sleeves with a round hat and a powder flask hanging from his side, a third had a breastplate made of nine sheets of gray paper and armed with a saddler’s awl. There was one who shouted: _Let us exterminate to the last man and die at the point of our bayonet!_ He had no bayonet. Another displayed over his frock coat a buffalory and a National Guard cartridge pouch with the cartridge cover adorned with this inscription in red wool: _Public Order_. Many rifles bearing legion numbers, few hats, no ties, many bare arms, a few pikes. Add to that all ages, all faces, small pale young people, tanned dock workers . Everyone hurried, and while helping each other, they talked about the possible chances—that help would arrive around three o’clock in the morning—that they were sure of a regiment—that Paris would rise up. Terrible talk mingled with a sort of cordial joviality. They seemed like brothers; they didn’t know each other’s names. Great perils have the beauty of bringing to light the brotherhood of strangers. A fire had been lit in the kitchen, and in a bullet mold, jugs, spoons, forks, and all the pewter silverware from the tavern were being melted. People drank through it all. The capsules and buckshot were lying pell-mell on the tables with the glasses of wine. In the billiard room, Mame Hucheloup, Matelote, and Gibelotte, variously altered by terror, one of whom was stupefied, another out of breath, another awake, were tearing up old rags and making lint ; three insurgents were assisting them, three long-haired, bearded, and mustachioed fellows, who were peeling the cloth with the fingers of a seamstress and making them tremble. The tall man whom Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras had noticed the moment he approached the crowd at the corner of Rue des Billettes, was working at the small barricade and making himself useful there. Gavroche was working at the large one. As for the young man who had waited for Courfeyrac at his house and asked for Monsieur Marius, he had disappeared around the time the omnibus had been overturned. Gavroche, completely soaring and radiant, had taken charge of getting things going . He went, came, went up, came down, came up again, rustled, sparkled. He seemed to be there for everyone’s encouragement. Did he have a sting? Yes, certainly, his misery; did he have wings? Yes, certainly, his joy. Gavroche was a whirlwind. He was constantly seen, always heard. He filled the air, being everywhere at once. It was a kind of almost irritating ubiquity; no stopping possible with him. The enormous barricade felt him on its rump. He bothered the loiterers, he excited the lazy, he revived the tired, he made the pensive impatient, put some in a state of gaiety, others in a state of breath, others in a state of anger, all in motion, stung a student, bit a worker; landed, stopped, took off again, flew above of the tumult and the effort, jumped from one to another, murmured, buzzed, and harassed the whole team; fly of the immense revolutionary Coach. Perpetual motion was in its little arms and perpetual clamour in its little lungs: –Bold! More paving stones! More barrels! More things! Where are there any? A basketful of plaster to plug that hole. Your barricade is very small. It must go up. Put everything in it, throw everything in it, bury everything in it. Break the house down. A barricade is Mother Gibou’s tea . Look, here’s a glass door. This made the workers exclaim. –A glass door! What do you want us to do with a glass door, you tuber? –Hercules yourselves! retorted Gavroche. A glass door in a barricade is excellent. It doesn’t prevent you from attacking it, but it makes it difficult to take it. Have you never stolen apples over a wall where there were bottle bottoms? A glass door cuts the horns off the feet of the National Guard when they want to climb the barricade. Of course! Glass is treacherous. Oh, you don’t have a wild imagination, my comrades! Besides, he was furious about his hammerless pistol. He went from one to the other, demanding: “A gun! I want a gun! Why don’t they give me a gun? ” “A gun for you!” said Combeferre. “Here!” replied Gavroche, “why not? I did have one in 1830 when we had a fight with Charles X! ” Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. “When there are some for the men, we’ll give some to the children.” Gavroche turned proudly and replied: “If you’re killed before me, I’ll take yours. ” “Kid!” said Enjolras. “Greenhorn!” said Gavroche. A handsome, misguided fellow who was loitering at the end of the street created a diversion. Gavroche shouted to him: “Come with us, young man! Well, this old country, are we doing nothing for it?” The handsome fellow fled. Chapter 60. The Preparations. The newspapers of the time, which said that the barricade on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, this “almost impregnable construction,” as they call it, reached the level of a first floor, were mistaken. The fact is that it did not exceed an average height of six or seven feet. It was built in such a way that the combatants could, at will, either disappear behind it, or dominate the barrier and even climb its crest by means of a quadruple row of paving stones superimposed and arranged in tiers inside. Outside, the front of the barricade, composed of piles of paving stones and barrels connected by beams and planks which became entangled in the wheels of the Anceau cart and the overturned omnibus, had a bristling and inextricable appearance. A gap large enough for a man to pass through had been made between the wall of the houses and the end of the barricade furthest from the inn, so that an exit was possible. The boom of the omnibus was raised straight and held with ropes, and a red flag, attached to this boom, flew over the barricade. The small Mondétour barricade, hidden behind the inn, was not visible. The two barricades together formed a veritable redoubt. Enjolras and Courfeyrac had not thought it appropriate to barricade the other section of Rue Mondétour which opens onto the market halls via Rue des Prêcheurs, no doubt wanting to maintain a possible connection with the outside world and having little fear of being attacked via the dangerous and difficult Ruelle des Prêcheurs. Apart from this exit remaining free, which constituted what Folard, in his strategic style, would have called a trench, and taking into account also the narrow cut made on Rue de la Chanvrerie, the interior of the barricade, where the cabaret formed a salient angle, presented an irregular quadrilateral closed on all sides. There were about twenty paces between the large barrier and the tall houses which formed the end of the street, so that one could say that the barricade was backed up against these houses, all inhabited, but closed from top to bottom. All this work was done without hindrance in less than an hour and without this handful of bold men seeing a bearskin or a bayonet appear. The rare bourgeois who still ventured at this moment of the riot into the rue Saint-Denis took a look at the rue de la Chanvrerie, saw the barricade, and doubled their pace. The two barricades completed, the flag raised, a table was dragged out of the cabaret and Courfeyrac climbed onto the table. Enjolras brought the square chest and Courfeyrac opened it. This chest was filled with cartridges. When the cartridges were seen, there was a shudder among the bravest and a moment of silence. Courfeyrac distributed them with a smile. Each received thirty cartridges. Many had powder and began to make others with the balls that were being melted down. As for the powder keg, it was on a separate table near the door, and was reserved. The call, which ran throughout Paris, did not cease, but it had ended up being nothing more than a monotonous noise to which they no longer paid attention. This noise sometimes receded, sometimes approached, with mournful undulations. The rifles and carbines were loaded, all together, without haste, with solemn gravity. Enjolras went to place three sentries outside the barricades, one on Rue de la Chanvrerie, the second on Rue des Prêcheurs, the third at the corner of Petite-Truanderie. Then, the barricades built, the posts assigned, the rifles loaded, the patrol boats positioned, alone in these formidable streets where no one passed anymore, surrounded by these silent and as if dead houses where no human movement palpitated, enveloped in the growing shadows of the beginning twilight, in the midst of this darkness and this silence where one felt something advancing and which had I know not what of the tragic and the terrifying, isolated, armed, determined, calm, they waited. Chapter 61. Waiting. In these hours of waiting, what did they do? We must say it, since this is history. While the men were making cartridges and the women were making lint , while a large pan, full of molten tin and lead for the bullet mold, was smoking on a blazing stove, while the vedettes were keeping watch, weapons in hand, on the barricade, while Enjolras , impossible to distract, was watching over the vedettes, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and a few others, sought each other out and gathered together, as in the most peaceful days of their schoolboy chats, and in a corner of this tavern transformed into a casemate, a stone’s throw from the redoubt they had erected, their primed and loaded rifles leaning against the backs of their chairs, these handsome young people, so close to a supreme hour, began to recite love verses. What verses? Here they are: Do you remember our sweet life, When we were both so young, And when we had no other desire in our hearts Than to be well dressed and to be in love! When adding your age to mine, We did not count forty years together, And when, in our humble and small household, Everything, even winter, was spring to us! Beautiful days! Manuel was proud and wise, Paris sat at holy banquets, Foy hurled lightning, and your bodice Had a pin where I pricked myself. Everything was looking at you. Lawyer without causes, When I took you to the Prado to dine, _You were so pretty that the roses_ _Gave me the impression of turning around;_ _I heard them say: Is she beautiful!_ _How good she smells! What flowing hair!_ _Under her mantle she hides a wing;_ _Her charming bonnet has barely blossomed._ _I wandered with you, pressing your supple arm._ _Passersby believed that charmed love_ _Had married, in our happy couple,_ _The sweet month of April to the beautiful month of May._ _We lived hidden, content, with the door closed,_ _Devouring love, good forbidden fruit;_ _My mouth had not said a thing_ _That already your heart had answered._ _Sorbonne was the bucolic place_ _Where I adored you from evening to morning._ _It is thus that a soul in love applies_ _The map of Tenderness to the Latin country._ _O Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine_ _When, in the cool, spring-like hovel,_ _You pulled your stocking over your slender leg,_ _I saw a star at the bottom of the attic._ _I read a lot of Plato, but nothing remains;_ _Better than Malebranche and Lamennais,_ _You demonstrated celestial goodness to me_ _With a flower that you gave me._ _I obeyed you, you were submissive to me._ _O
golden attic! Lace you up! to see you_ _Coming and going at dawn in your chemise,_ _Mirroring your young brow in your old mirror!_ _And who could lose the memory_ _Of those times of dawn and firmament,_ _Of ribbons, flowers, gauze and moire,_ _Where love stammers a charming slang?_ _Our gardens were a tulip pot;_ _You masked the window with a petticoat;_ _I took the bowl of pipe clay,_ _And I gave you the cup in Japanese._ _And those great misfortunes that made us laugh!_ _Your burnt muff, your lost boa!_ _And that dear portrait of the divine Shakespeare_ _That one evening for supper we sold!_ _I was a beggar, and you charitable._ _I kissed your fresh, round arms on the fly._ _Dante in-folio served as our table_ _To eat cheerfully a cent of chestnuts._ _The first time that in my joyful den_ _I took a kiss on your burning lip,_ _When you left disheveled and red,_ _I remained quite pale and I believed in God_ _Do you remember our countless happiness,_ _And all those kerchiefs changed into rags?_ _Oh! how many sighs, from our hearts full of shadow,_ _Flew away into the deep heavens!_ The time, the place, these memories of youth recalled, a few stars which were beginning to shine in the sky, the funereal rest of these deserted streets , the imminence of the inexorable adventure which was preparing, gave a pathetic charm to these verses murmured in a low voice in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire who, as we have said, was a gentle poet. Meanwhile, a lantern had been lit in the small barricade, and in the large one, one of those wax torches such as one encounters on Shrove Tuesday in front of the carriages laden with masks going to the Courtille. These torches, as we have seen, came from the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. The torch had been placed in a sort of cobblestone cage closed on three sides to shelter it from the wind, and arranged in such a way that all the light fell on the flag. The street and the barricade remained plunged in darkness, and nothing could be seen except the red flag, formidably lit as by an enormous, dull lantern. This light added to the scarlet of the flag an indescribable purple. Chapter 62. The man recruited on the Rue des Billettes. Night had completely fallen, nothing came. Only confused rumors could be heard, and at times gunfire, but rare, sparse, and distant. This prolonged respite was a sign that the government was taking its time and gathering its strength. These fifty men were expecting sixty thousand. Enjolras felt seized by that impatience which seizes strong souls on the threshold of formidable events. He went to find Gavroche who had begun to make cartridges in the lower room by the dubious light of two candles, placed on the counter as a precaution because of the powder spread on the tables. These two candles did not cast any radiation outside. The insurgents, moreover, had taken care not to turn on any lights in the upper floors. Gavroche at this moment was very preoccupied, not exactly with his cartridges. The man from the rue des Billettes had just entered the lower room and had gone to sit at the least lit table. He had been given a large-model rifle, which he held between his legs. Gavroche
until this moment, distracted by a hundred “amusing” things, had not even seen this man. When he entered, Gavroche mechanically followed him with his eyes, admiring his rifle, then, suddenly, when the man was seated, the boy stood up. Those who had been spying on the man until that moment would have seen him observing everything in the barricade and in the band of insurgents with singular attention; but since he had entered the room, he had been seized by a sort of meditation and seemed no longer to see anything of what was happening. The boy approached this pensive personage and began to turn around him on tiptoe as one walks beside someone one fears to wake. At the same time, on his childish face, at once so brazen and so serious, so evaporated and so profound, so gay and so heartbreaking, passed all those old-fashioned grimaces which signify: –Ah, well! –not possible! –I’m seeing things! –I’m dreaming! –could it be?… –no, it’s not! –but yes! –but no! etc. Gavroche rocked on his heels, clenched his two fists in his pockets, moved his neck like a bird, and expended in an excessive lip all the sagacity of his lower lip. He was stupefied, uncertain, incredulous, convinced, dazzled. He had the look of the chief eunuch at the slave market discovering a Venus among the dondons, and the air of an amateur recognizing a Raphael in a pile of crusts. Everything about him was at work, his instincts sniffing out things and his intelligence plotting. It was obvious that something was happening to Gavroche. It was at the height of this preoccupation that Enjolras approached him. “You’re small,” said Enjolras, “we won’t see you. Get out of the barricades, slip along the houses, go everywhere along the streets, and come back and tell me what’s going on. ” Gavroche raised himself on his haunches. “So the small ones are good for something! That’s a good thing! I’m going. In the meantime, trust the small ones, beware of the big ones…” And Gavroche, raising his head and lowering his voice, added, pointing to the man from the Rue des Billettes: “Can you see that big one? ” “Well? ” “He’s a spy. ” “Are you sure?” “It wasn’t two weeks ago that he dragged me by the ear from the ledge of the Pont Royal where I was getting some fresh air.” Enjolras quickly left the boy and murmured a few words very quietly to a worker from the wine port who was there. The worker left the room and returned almost immediately accompanied by three others. These four men, four broad-shouldered porters, went to stand, without doing anything that could attract his attention, behind the table where the man from the Rue des Billettes was leaning. They were visibly ready to throw themselves on him. Then Enjolras approached the man and asked him: “Who are you?” At this abrupt question, the man gave a start. He looked deep into Enjolras’s candid eyes and seemed to catch his thought there. He smiled a smile that was all that can be seen at the world more disdainful, more energetic and more resolute, and replied with haughty gravity: “I see what it is…. Well, yes! “You are an informer? ” “I am an agent of the authority. ” “Your name is? ” “Javert.” Enjolras signaled to the four men. In the blink of an eye, before Javert had time to turn around, he was collared, knocked down, garroted, searched. They found on him a small round card stuck between two glasses and bearing on one side the arms of France, engraved, with this legend: “Surveillance and vigilance,” and on the other this note: “JAVERT, police inspector, aged fifty-two;” and the signature of the then prefect of police, M. Gisquet. He also had his watch and his purse, which contained a few gold coins. They left him the purse and the watch. Behind the watch, at the bottom of the pocket, they felt around and seized a piece of paper in an envelope, which Enjolras unfolded and on which he read these five lines written in the very hand of the police prefect: “As soon as his political mission is fulfilled, Inspector Javert will ascertain, by special surveillance, whether it is true that criminals are lurking on the right bank of the Seine, near the Pont d’Iéna.” The search completed, Javert was straightened up, his arms were tied behind his back, and he was tied in the middle of the lower room to the famous post that had once given its name to the cabaret. Gavroche, who had witnessed the whole scene and approved everything with a silent nod, approached Javert and said to him: “It’s the mouse that took the cat.” All this had happened so quickly that it was over when it was noticed around the cabaret. Javert had not uttered a cry. Seeing Javert tied to the post, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Combeferre, and the men scattered among the two barricades, ran up. Javert, leaning against the post, and so surrounded by ropes that he could not move, raised his head with the intrepid serenity of the man who has never lied. “He’s an informer,” said Enjolras. And turning to Javert: “You will be shot two minutes before the barricade is taken.” Javert replied in his most imperious tone: “Why not at once? ” “We are saving the powder. ” “Then finish it off with a knife. ” “Insider,” said the handsome Enjolras, “we are judges and not assassins. ” Then he called Gavroche. “You! Go about your business! Do as I told you. ” “I’ll go,” shouted Gavroche. And stopping as he was about to leave: “By the way, you’ll give me his rifle!” And he added: “I’ll leave you the musician, but I want the clarinet.” The boy gave the military salute and gaily crossed the gap in the great barricade. Chapter 63. Several question marks about a man named Le Cabuc who perhaps wasn’t named Le Cabuc The tragic picture we have undertaken would not be complete, the reader would not see in their exact and real relief these great minutes of social gestation and revolutionary birth where there is convulsion mixed with effort, if we omitted, in the sketch outlined here, an incident full of epic and fierce horror which occurred almost immediately after Gavroche’s departure. The crowds, as we know, snowball and agglomerate, rolling, a heap of tumultuous men. These men do not ask each other where they come from. Among the passers-by who had gathered at the gathering led by Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, there was a person wearing a porter’s jacket worn to the shoulders, who was gesticulating and shouting and had the air of a kind of wild drunkard. This man, a man named or nicknamed Le Cabuc, and moreover completely unknown to Those who claimed to know him, very drunk, or pretending to, had sat down with a few others at a table they had pulled outside the tavern. This Cabuc, while making those who opposed him drink , seemed to be considering with a thoughtful air the large house at the end of the barricade whose five floors dominated the entire street and faced the rue Saint-Denis. Suddenly he cried out: “Comrades, do you know? It’s from that house over there that we should be shooting. When we’re there at the windows, damn it if anyone comes along the street! ” “Yes, but the house is closed,” said one of the drinkers. “Let’s knock! ” “We won’t open it. ” “Let’s break down the door! ” Cabuc ran to the door, which had a very heavy knocker, and knocked. The door didn’t open. He knocked a second time. No one answered. A third time. Same silence. “Is there anyone here?” shouts Le Cabuc. Nothing moves. Then he grabs a rifle and begins to beat on the door with the butt of its rifle. It was an old alley door, arched, low, narrow, solid, all oak, lined on the inside with a sheet of metal and an iron frame, a real postern gate from a Bastille. The blows from the rifle butts made the house tremble, but did not shake the door. However, it is likely that the inhabitants were moved, for at last a small square skylight on the third floor was seen to light up and open, and in this skylight appeared a candle and the beatific, frightened head of a gray-haired man who was the porter. The man who was knocking stopped. “Gentlemen,” asked the porter, “what do you want? ” “Open!” said Le Cabuc. “Gentlemen, this cannot be. “Keep opening! ” “Impossible, gentlemen!” Le Cabuc took his rifle and aimed at the porter; but as he was downstairs, and it was very dark, the porter did not see him. “Yes or no, will you open the door? ” “No, gentlemen! ” “You say no? ” “I say no, my good ones…” The porter did not finish. The shot had been fired; the bullet had entered under his chin and exited through the nape of the neck after passing through the jugular. The old man collapsed without heaving a sigh.
The candle fell and went out, and nothing was seen but a motionless head perched on the edge of the skylight and a little whitish smoke drifting towards the roof. “There!” said Le Cabuc, letting the butt of his rifle fall back onto the pavement . He had barely uttered this word when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle’s claw, and he heard a voice saying to him: “On your knees. ” The murderer turned and saw before him the cold, white face of Enjolras. Enjolras had a pistol in his hand. At the shot, he had arrived. He had seized with his left hand Cabuc’s collar, blouse, shirt, and suspender. “On your knees,” he repeated. And with a sovereign movement, the frail young man of twenty bent the stocky, robust lockpicker like a reed and brought him to his knees in the mud. Cabuc tried to resist, but it seemed as if he had been seized by a superhuman fist. Pale, with a bare neck, and disheveled hair, Enjolras, with his woman’s face, had at that moment something of the ancient Themis. His swollen nostrils and downcast eyes gave his implacable Greek profile that expression of anger and that expression of chastity which, from the point of view of the ancient world, are appropriate to justice. The entire barricade had rushed forward, then all had formed a circle at a distance, feeling that it was impossible to utter a word before the thing they were about to see. Cabuc, defeated, no longer tried to struggle and trembled in every limb. Enjolras let go of him and took out his watch. “Collect yourself,” he said. “Pray or think. You have one minute. ” “Pardon,” murmured the murderer; then he lowered his head and stammered a few inarticulate oaths. Enjolras did not take his eyes off the watch; he let the minute pass, then he put the watch back in his pocket. This done, he took Le Cabuc by the hair, who was curled up against his knees, howling, and pressed the barrel of his pistol to his ear. Many of these intrepid men, who had so calmly entered into the most terrifying of adventures, turned their heads away. The explosion was heard, the assassin fell to the pavement with his forehead, and Enjolras straightened up and looked around him with a convinced and stern look. Then he nudged the corpse with his foot and said: “Throw it out.” Three men lifted the body of the wretch, shaken by the last mechanical convulsions of expired life, and threw him over the little barricade into Mondétour Alley. Enjolras remained pensive. One does not know what grandiose darkness was slowly spreading over his formidable serenity. Suddenly he raised his voice. There was silence. “Citizens,” said Enjolras, “what this man has done is appalling and what I have done is horrible. He killed, that is why I killed him. I had to do it, because the insurrection must have its discipline. Assassination is even more of a crime here than elsewhere; we are under the gaze of the revolution, we are the priests of the republic, we are the hosts of duty, and our fight must not be slandered. I have therefore judged and condemned this man to death.” As for me, forced to do what I did, but abhorring it, I judged myself too, and you will see presently to what I have condemned myself. Those who were listening shuddered. “We will share your fate,” cried Combeferre. “Very well,” resumed Enjolras. “One more word. In executing this man, I obeyed necessity; but necessity is a monster of the old world; necessity is called Fatality. Now, the law of progress is that monsters disappear before angels, and that fatality vanishes before fraternity. This is a bad time to pronounce the word love. No matter, I pronounce it, and I glorify it. Love, you have the future. Dead, I use you, but I hate you. Citizens, there will be in the future neither darkness, nor thunderbolts, nor ferocious ignorance, nor bloody retaliation. As there will be no more Satan, there will be no more Michael. In the future no one will kill anyone, the earth will shine, the human race will love. The day will come, citizens, when all will be concord, harmony, light, joy and life, it will come. And it is so that it may come that we will die. Enjolras fell silent. His virginal lips closed; and he remained standing for some time at the place where he had shed the blood, in a marble immobility. His fixed gaze caused people to speak quietly around him.
Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre shook hands silently, and, leaning on each other at the corner of the barricade, gazed with admiration that contained compassion at this grave young man, executioner and priest, of light like crystal, and of rock too. Let us say at once that later, after the action, when the bodies were taken to the morgue and searched, a police officer’s card was found on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his hands, in 1848, the special report made on this subject to the police prefect of 1832. Let us add that, if we are to believe a strange, but probably well-founded, police tradition, Le Cabuc was Claquesous. The fact is that from the time of Le Cabuc’s death, there was no more question of Claquesous. Claquesous left no trace of his disappearance; he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the invisible. His life had been darkness; his end was night. The entire insurgent group was still reeling from the shock of this tragic trial, so quickly conducted and so quickly ended, when Courfeyrac saw again in the barricade the young man who had asked Marius at his house in the morning. This boy, who had a bold and carefree air, had come at night to join the insurgents. Book Thirteen–Marius Enters the Shadows Chapter 64. From Rue Plumet to the Saint-Denis district. This voice which through the twilight had called Marius to the barricade of Rue de la Chanvrerie had seemed to him like the voice of destiny. He wanted to die, the opportunity presented itself; he knocked at the door of the tomb, a hand in the shadows held out the key to him. These lugubrious openings which are made in the darkness in the face of despair are tempting, Marius pushed aside the gate which had so often let him pass, left the garden and said: come! Mad with grief, feeling nothing fixed or solid in his brain, incapable of accepting anything from fate after these two months spent in the intoxication of youth and love, overwhelmed at once by all the reveries of despair, he had only one desire , to get it all over quickly. He began to walk quickly. He happened to be armed, carrying Javert’s pistols. The young man he had thought he had seen had disappeared from his sight in the streets.
Marius, who had left the Rue Plumet by the boulevard, crossed the esplanade and the Pont des Invalides, the Champs-Élysées, the Place Louis XV, and reached the Rue de Rivoli. The shops were open there, the gas was burning under the arcades, women were buying in the boutiques, people were getting ice creams at the Café Laiter, and eating little cakes at the English pastry shop. Only a few post-chaises were galloping away from the Hôtel des Princes and the Hôtel Meurice. Marius entered the Rue Saint-Honoré by the Passage Delorme. The shops were closed, the merchants were chatting in front of their half-open doors, the passers-by were walking about, the street lamps were lit, from the first floor onwards all the windows were lit as usual. There was cavalry on the Place du Palais-Royal. Marius followed the Rue Saint-Honoré. As he moved away from the Palais-Royal, there were fewer lighted windows; the shops were completely closed, no one was talking on the thresholds, the street grew darker, and at the same time the crowd thickened. For the passers-by were now a crowd. No one was seen speaking in this crowd, and yet a deep, dull hum came from it . Near the fountain of Arbre-Sec, there were “gatherings,” a kind of motionless and somber group that stood among the comings and goings like stones in the middle of running water. At the entrance to the Rue des Prouvaires, the crowd no longer walked. It was a resistant, massive, solid, compact, almost impenetrable block of people huddled together, talking to each other in low voices. There were almost no more black coats or round hats. There were smocks, blouses, caps, heads bristling and earthy. This multitude undulated confusedly in the night mist. Its whispering had the hoarse accent of a trembling. Although not one walked, one could hear a stamping in the mud. Beyond this thick crowd, in the Rue du Roule, in the Rue des Prouvaires, and in the extension of the Rue Saint-Honoré, there was not a single window in which a candle shone. One could see the solitary and diminishing lines of lanterns penetrating these streets . The lanterns of that time resembled large red stars hanging from ropes and threw a shadow on the pavement which had the shape of a large spider. These streets were not deserted. One could distinguish bundles of rifles, bayonets commotions and troops bivouacking. No curious person crossed this line. There traffic stopped. There the crowd ended and the army began. Marius willed with the will of a man who no longer hopes. He had been called, he had to go. He found a way to cross the crowd and cross the troops’ bivouac, he eluded the patrols, he avoided the sentries. He made a detour, reached Rue de Béthisy, and headed towards the market halls. At the corner of Rue des Bourdonnais there were no more lanterns. After crossing the crowd zone, he had passed the edge of the troops; he found himself in something frightening. Not a single passerby, not a single soldier, not a single light; no one. Solitude, silence, night ; I don’t know what cold that gripped him. To enter a street was to enter a cellar. He continued to advance. He took a few steps. Someone ran past him. Was it a man? A woman? Were there several of them? He couldn’t have said. It had passed and vanished. From circuit to circuit, he arrived in an alleyway which he judged to be the Rue de la Poterie; towards the middle of this alleyway he came up against an obstacle. He stretched out his hands. It was an overturned cart; his foot recognized puddles of water, quagmires, scattered and piled-up paving stones. There was a rough and abandoned barricade there. He climbed over the paving stones and found himself on the other side of the barrier. He walked very close to the boundary stones and guided himself on the walls of the houses. A little beyond the barricade, he thought he glimpsed something white in front of him. He approached, it took shape. They were two white horses; the horses of the omnibus unharnessed that morning by Bossuet, which had wandered at random from street to street all day and had finally stopped there, with the crushed patience of brutes who understand the actions of man no more than man understands the actions of providence. Marius left the horses behind him. As he approached a street which seemed to him to be the Rue du Contrat-Social, a gunshot, coming from who knows where and crossing the darkness at random, whistled very close to him, and the bullet pierced above his head a copper shaving dish hanging from a barber’s shop. One could still see, in 1846, on the Rue du Contrat-Social, at the corner of the pillars of the market hall, this perforated shaving dish. This gunshot was still life. From that moment on, he encountered nothing more. This whole itinerary resembled a descent of black steps. Marius nonetheless went ahead. Chapter 65. Paris as the crow flies. A being who had hovered over Paris at that moment on the wing of a bat or an owl would have had before his eyes a gloomy spectacle. The whole old quarter of Les Halles, which is like a city within a city, crossed by the streets Saint-Denis and Saint-Martin, where a thousand alleys intersect and which the insurgents had made their redoubt and their parade ground, would have appeared to him like an enormous dark hole dug in the center of Paris. There the gaze fell into an abyss. Thanks to the broken street lamps, thanks to the closed windows, there ceased all radiance, all life, all rumor, all movement. The invisible riot police watched everywhere, and maintained order, that is to say, the night. To drown the small number in a vast darkness, to multiply each combatant by the possibilities that this darkness contains, is the necessary tactic of the insurrection. At the fall of the day, every window where a candle was lit had been shot. The light was extinguished, sometimes the inhabitant killed. So nothing moved. There was nothing there but terror, mourning, stupor in the houses; in the streets a sort of sacred horror. One could not even see the long rows of windows and floors, the indentations of chimneys and roofs, the vague reflections that gleam on the muddy and wet pavement. The eye that had looked down from above into this mass of shadow would perhaps have glimpsed here and there, from distance to distance, indistinct luminaries making broken and bizarre lines stand out, profiles of singular constructions, something like lights coming and going in ruins; it was there that the barricades were. The rest was a lake of darkness, misty, heavy, funereal, above which rose, motionless and lugubrious silhouettes, the Saint-Jacques tower, the Saint-Merry church, and two or three other of those great edifices of which man makes giants and of which the night makes ghosts. All around this deserted and disturbing labyrinth, in the districts where Parisian traffic had not been annihilated and where a few rare street lamps shone, the aerial observer could have distinguished the metallic scintillation of sabers and bayonets, the dull rumble of artillery, and the swarm of silent battalions growing by the minute; a formidable belt which tightened and closed slowly around the riot. The invested district was nothing more than a sort of monstrous cavern; everything there seemed asleep or motionless, and, as we have just seen, each of the streets one could reach offered nothing but shadow. A fierce shadow, full of traps, full of unknown and formidable shocks , where it was frightening to penetrate and dreadful to remain, where those who entered shuddered before those who awaited them, where those who waited trembled before those who were about to come. Invisible combatants entrenched at every street corner; the ambushes of the sepulchre hidden in the depths of the night. It was over. No other light to hope for there now than the flash of rifles, no other encounter than the sudden and rapid appearance of death. Where? How? When? No one knew, but it was certain and inevitable. There, in this place marked for struggle, the government and the insurrection, the National Guard and the popular societies, the bourgeoisie and the riot, were going to grope each other. For both , the necessity was the same. To emerge from there killed or victorious, the only possible outcome from now on. The situation was so extreme, the darkness so powerful, that the most timid felt seized by resolution and the boldest by terror. Moreover, on both sides, fury, relentlessness, determination were equal. For some, to advance was to die, and no one thought of retreating; For the others, to stay was to die, and no one thought of fleeing. It was necessary that everything be over by the next day, that the triumph be here or there, that the insurrection be a revolution or a skirmish. The government understood this as did the parties; every bourgeois felt it. Hence a thought of anguish which mingled with the impenetrable shadow of this quarter where everything was going to be decided; hence a redoubling of anxiety around this silence from which a catastrophe was going to emerge. One could hear only one sound, a sound as heart-rending as a death rattle, threatening as a curse, the tocsin of Saint-Merry. Nothing was as chilling as the clamor of this bewildered and desperate bell lamenting in the darkness. As often happens, nature seemed to have come to an agreement with what men were going to do. Nothing disturbed the fatal harmonies of this ensemble. The stars had disappeared; heavy clouds filled the entire horizon with their melancholic folds. There was a black sky over these dead streets, as if an immense shroud were being spread over this immense tomb. While a still entirely political battle was being prepared in this same location which had already seen so many revolutionary events, while that youth, secret associations, schools, in the name of principles, and the middle class, in the name of interests, were approaching to collide, embrace, and overwhelm each other, while everyone hastened and called for the final and decisive hour of the crisis, far away and outside this fatal district, deep in the unfathomable cavities of this old miserable Paris which disappears under the splendor of happy and opulent Paris , one could hear the dulcet rumbling of the dark voice of the people. A frightening and sacred voice which is composed of the roar of the brute and the word of God, which terrifies the weak and warns the wise, which comes at once from below like the voice of the lion and from above like the voice of thunder. Chapter 66. The Farthest Edge. Marius had arrived at the market halls. There everything was calmer, darker, and even more motionless than in the neighboring streets. It was as if the icy peace of the sepulchre had risen from the earth and spread beneath the sky. Yet a redness stood out against this black background the high roofs of the houses that blocked the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the Saint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch burning in the Corinth barricade. Marius had headed towards this redness. It had brought him to the Marché-aux-Poirées, and he glimpsed the dark mouth of the Rue des Prêcheurs. He entered. The insurgents’ vedette that was watching at the other end did not see him. He felt very close to what he had come to seek, and he walked on tiptoe. He thus arrived at the bend of that short section of the Allée Mondétour which was, it will be remembered, the only communication maintained by Enjolras with the outside world. At the corner of the last house, on his left, he put his head forward and looked down the Mondétour section. A little beyond the dark angle of the alley and the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which cast a wide sheet of shadow in which he himself was buried, he saw some light on the paving stones, a little of the tavern, and, behind it, a lantern flashing in a kind of shapeless wall, and crouching men with rifles on their knees. All this was ten fathoms from him. It was the inside of the barricade. The houses that lined the alley on the right hid from him the rest of the tavern, the large barricade, and the flag. Marius had only one more step to take. Then the unfortunate young man sat down on a boundary stone, crossed his arms, and thought of his father. He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy who had been such a proud soldier, who had guarded the French frontier under the Republic and touched the Asian frontier under the Emperor, who had seen Genoa, Alexandria, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who had left on all the fields of victory in Europe drops of the same blood that Marius had in his veins, who had grown white before his time in discipline and command, who had lived with his belt buckled, his epaulettes falling on his chest, his cockade blackened by powder, his brow furrowed by his helmet, in the barracks, in the camp, in the bivouac, in the ambulances, and who after twenty years had returned from the great wars with a scarred cheek, a smiling face, simple, calm, admirable, pure as a child, having done everything for France and nothing against her. He said to himself that his day had come too, that his hour had finally come, that after his father he too would be brave, intrepid, bold, run to meet the bullets, offer his breast to the bayonets, shed his blood, seek out the enemy, seek death, that he would make war in his turn and descend upon the battlefield, and that this battlefield upon which he would descend was the street, and that this war he would wage was civil war! He saw civil war open like an abyss before him and that it was there that he would fall. Then he shuddered. He thought of his father’s sword, which his grandfather had sold to a second-hand dealer, and which he himself had so sorely regretted. He told himself that it had done well, that valiant and chaste sword, to escape him and go away, angry, into the darkness; that if it had fled like that, it was because it was intelligent and foresaw the future; it was because it foresaw the riot, the war of the streams, the war of the cobblestones, the shootings through the cellar vents, the blows given and received from behind; it was because, coming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not want to go to the Rue de la Chanvrerie, it was because after what it had done with the father, it did not want to do that with the son! He said to himself that if that sword were there, if, having picked it up at his dead father’s bedside, he had dared to take it and carry it off to that night-time battle between the French at a crossroads, it would surely burn his hands and begin to blaze before him like the angel’s sword! He said to himself that he was glad it wasn’t there and that it had disappeared, that it was good, that it was just, that his grandfather had been the true guardian of his father’s glory, and that it had been better that the colonel’s sword had been auctioned off, sold to the second-hand dealer, thrown into the scrapyard, than to make the side of his country bleed today. And then he began to weep bitterly. It was horrible. But what could he do? He couldn’t live without Cosette . Since she was gone, he had to die. Had he not given her his word of honor that he would die? She had left knowing that; it was because she was pleased that Marius should die. And then it was clear that she no longer loved him, since she had gone like that, without warning him, without a word, without a letter, and she knew his address! What was the use of living and why live now? And then, what! to have come so far and retreated! to have approached the danger, and fled! to have come to look into the barricade, and slipped away! to slip away all trembling, saying: in fact, I’ve had enough as it is, I’ve seen, that’s enough, it’s civil war, I’m going! To abandon his friends who were waiting for him! who perhaps needed him! who were a handful against an army! To fail in everything at once, in love, in friendship, in his word! To give his cowardice the pretext of patriotism! But that was impossible, and if the ghost of his father were there in the shadows and saw him retreat, he would whip his loins with the flat of his sword and shout: “Go on, coward!” Prey to the comings and goings of his thoughts, he lowered his head. Suddenly he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just taken place in his mind. There is a dilation of thought peculiar to the proximity of the grave; to be near death makes one see the truth. The vision of the action into which he perhaps felt himself about to enter appeared to him, no longer lamentable, but superb. The war in the street was suddenly transfigured, by some unknown inner work of the soul, before the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous question marks of reverie came back to him in a crowd, but without troubling him. He left none of them unanswered. Come now, why should his father be indignant? Are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What would there be, then, that would be diminishing for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat that is beginning? It is no longer Montmirail or Champaubert; it is something else. It
is no longer a question of sacred territory, but of a holy idea. The fatherland complains, so be it; but humanity applauds. Is it true, moreover, that the fatherland complains? France bleeds, but liberty smiles; and before the smile of liberty, France forgets its wound. And then, To see things from even higher up, why would one speak of civil war? Civil war? What does that mean? Is there a foreign war? Is not every war between men a war between brothers? War is only qualified by its goal. There is neither foreign war nor civil war; there is only unjust war and just war. Until the day when the great human concordat is concluded, war, at least that which is the effort of the future which hastens against the past which lingers, may be necessary. What is there to reproach this war for? War only becomes shameful, the sword only becomes a dagger when it assassinates law, progress, reason, civilization, truth. Then, civil war or foreign war, it is iniquitous; it is called crime. Apart from this holy thing, justice, by what right should one form of war despise another ? By what right would Washington’s sword deny Camille Desmoulins’ pike ? Leonidas against the foreigner, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greatest? One is the defender, the other the liberator. Will we brand, without worrying about the goal, every taking up of arms within the city? Then mark with infamy Brutus, Marcel, Arnould de Blankenheim, Coligny. Bush war? Street war? Why not? It was the war of Ambiorix, Arteveldes, Marnix, Pelagius . But Ambiorix fought against Rome, Arteveldes against France, Marnix against Spain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner. Well, monarchy is the foreigner; oppression is the foreigner; divine right is the foreigner. Despotism violates the moral boundary, just as invasion violates the geographical boundary. To drive out the tyrant or to drive out the English is, in both cases, to retake one’s territory. There comes a time when protest is no longer enough; after philosophy, action is needed; living force completes what the idea has sketched; Prometheus Bound begins, Aristotle ends; the Encyclopedia enlightens souls, August 10 electrifies them. After Aeschylus, Thrasybulus; after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept the master. Their mass deposits apathy. A crowd easily totalizes into obedience. They must be stirred, pushed, men bullied by the very benefit of their deliverance, wound their eyes with the truth, throw light at them in terrible handfuls. They themselves must be a little struck by their own salvation; this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity of tocsins and wars. Great fighters must arise, enlighten nations with audacity, and shake up this sad humanity that is overshadowed by divine right, Caesarian glory, force, fanaticism, irresponsible power and absolute majesties; a rabble stupidly occupied in contemplating, in their twilight splendor, these somber triumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant! But what? Who are you talking about? Do you call Louis-Philippe a tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. They are both what history is accustomed to calling good kings; but principles are not fragmented, the logic of truth is rectilinear, the characteristic of truth is to lack complacency; therefore, no concession; all encroachment on man must be repressed; there is divine right in Louis XVI, there is _parce que Bourbon_ in Louis-Philippe; both represent to a certain extent the confiscation of the right, and to clear away universal usurpation, they must be fought; it must be, France always being that which begins. When the master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, to reestablish social truth, to give liberty its throne, to give the people back to the people, to give man sovereignty, to replace the purple on the head of France, to restore reason and equity in their fullness, to suppress all germ of antagonism by restoring each to himself, annihilating the obstacle that royalty creates to the immense universal harmony, putting humankind back on a level with the law, what cause more just, and, consequently, what war greater? These wars build peace. An enormous fortress of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses, violence, iniquities, darkness, is still standing on the world with its towers of hatred. It must be thrown down. This monstrous mass must collapse . To win at Austerlitz is great, to take the Bastille is immense. There is no one who has not noticed it about himself: the soul, and this is the marvel of its complicated unity of ubiquity, has this strange aptitude to reason almost coldly in the most violent extremities, and it often happens that desolate passion and profound despair, in the very agony of their blackest monologues, treat of subjects and discuss theses. Logic mingles with convulsion, and the thread of the syllogism floats without breaking in the lugubrious storm of thought. This was the state of mind of Marius. While thinking thus, overwhelmed, but resolute, hesitating yet, and, in short, trembling before what he was about to do, his gaze wandered inside the barricade. The insurgents were talking there in low voices, without moving, and one felt there that quasi-silence which marks the last phase of waiting. Above them, at a skylight on a third floor, Marius could make out a kind of spectator or witness who seemed to him singularly attentive. It was the porter killed by Le Cabuc. From below, by the reverberation of the torch buried in the paving stones, this head could be vaguely seen. Nothing was stranger, in this dark and uncertain light, than this livid face, motionless, astonished, with its bristling hair, its open and fixed eyes and its gaping mouth, leaning over the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that the one who was dead was contemplating those who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed from this head descended in reddish threads from the skylight to the height of the first floor where it stopped. Book Fourteen–The Greatness of Despair Chapter 67. The Flag–First Act. Nothing came yet. Ten o’clock had struck at Saint-Merry, Enjolras and Combeferre had gone to sit down, rifle in hand, near the break in the great barricade. They did not speak to each other; they listened, trying to catch even the dullest and most distant sound of marching. Suddenly, in the midst of this gloomy calm, a clear, young, cheerful voice, which seemed to come from the rue Saint-Denis, rose up and began to sing distinctly to the old popular air _Au clair de la lune_, this poem ending with a sort of cry like the crowing of a cock: _My nose is in tears._ _My friend Bugeaud,_ _Lend me your gendarmes_ _To say a word to them._ _In a blue greatcoat,_ _The hen with the shako,_ _Here is the suburbs!_ _Cock-a-doodle-doo!_ They shook hands. “It’s Gavroche,” said Enjolras. “He’s warning us,” said Combeferre. A hurried run disturbed the deserted street, a being more agile than a clown was seen climbing over the omnibus, and Gavroche leaped into the barricade, all out of breath, saying: “My rifle! Here they are. ” An electric shudder ran through the whole barricade, and the movement of hands searching for rifles was heard . “Do you want my carbine?” said Enjolras to the boy. “I want the big rifle,” replied Gavroche. And he took Javert’s rifle. Two sentries had fallen back and returned almost at the same time as Gavroche. It was the sentry at the end of the street and the vedette from the Petite-Truanderie. The vedette from the Ruelle des Prêcheurs remained at his post, which indicated that nothing was coming from the direction of the bridges and the market halls. The rue de la Chanvrerie, of which barely a few cobblestones were visible in the reflection of the light projected on the flag, offered the insurgents the appearance of a large black porch vaguely open in a smoke. Each had taken up his combat post. Forty-three insurgents, among them Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche, were kneeling in the large barricade, their heads flush with the crest of the barrier, the barrels of their rifles and carbines pointed at the cobblestones as if at loopholes , attentive, silent, ready to fire. Six, commanded by Feuilly, had installed themselves, rifles at the ready, at the windows of the two floors of Corinthe. A few moments passed, then a sound of footsteps, measured, heavy, numerous, was distinctly heard from the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, at first faint, then precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without halt, without interruption, with a tranquil and terrible continuity . Nothing but that could be heard. It was at once the silence and the noise of the statue of the commander, but this stone step had something enormous and multiple about it that aroused the idea of a crowd at the same time as the idea of a spectre. One thought one could hear the terrifying statue Legion walking. This step approached; it approached again, and stopped. It seemed that one could hear at the end of the street the breathing of many men. Yet nothing could be seen, only a multitude of metallic threads , fine as needles and almost imperceptible, could be distinguished , moving at the very bottom of this thick darkness, like those indescribable phosphoric networks which, at the moment of falling asleep, one perceives, under one’s closed eyelids, in the first mists of sleep. These were the bayonets and the barrels of rifles, dimly lit by the distant reverberation of the torch. There was another pause, as if on both sides they were waiting. Suddenly , from the depths of this shadow, a voice, all the more sinister because no one could be seen, and it seemed that it was the darkness itself speaking, cried: “Who lives?” At the same time the clicking of rifles falling was heard. Enjolras replied in a vibrant and haughty accent: “French Revolution. ” “Fire!” said the voice. A flash of lightning reddened all the facades of the street as if the door of a furnace were suddenly opening and closing. A terrible detonation erupted on the barricade. The red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so dense that it had cut off its pole; that is to say, the very point of the pole of the omnibus. Bullets , which had ricocheted off the cornices of the houses, penetrated the barricade and wounded several men. The impression of this first discharge was chilling. The attack was fierce, and of a nature to make even the boldest think. It was evident that we were dealing with at least an entire regiment. “Comrades,” cried Courfeyrac, “let’s not waste our powder. Let’s wait to retaliate until they are engaged in the street. ” “And, above all,” said Enjolras, “let’s raise the flag!” He picked up the flag which had fallen precisely at his feet. Outside, the clash of drumsticks in rifles could be heard; the troops were reloading their weapons. Enjolras continued: “Who has any heart here? Who is replanting the flag on the barricade?” Not one replied. To mount the barricade at the moment when it was doubtless being aimed at again was simply death. The bravest hesitate to condemn themselves. Enjolras himself shuddered. He
repeated: “No one comes forward?” Chapter 68. The Flag–Second Act. Since they had arrived in Corinth and begun to build the barricade, they had hardly paid any attention to Father Mabeuf. However, M. Mabeuf had not left the crowd. He had entered the ground floor of the cabaret and sat down behind the counter. There, he had, so to speak, annihilated himself. He seemed to no longer look or think. Courfeyrac and others had accosted him two or three times, warning him of the danger, urging him to withdraw, without him appearing to hear them. When no one spoke to him, his mouth moved as if he were responding to someone, and as soon as someone spoke to him, his lips became motionless and his eyes no longer seemed alive. A few hours before the barricade was attacked, he had assumed a posture he had never abandoned, his two fists on his two knees and his head bent forward as if he were looking into a precipice. Nothing had been able to draw him from this attitude; it did not appear that his mind was in the barricade. When everyone had gone to take their fighting positions, only Javert, tied to the post, an insurgent with a drawn saber, watching over Javert, and Mabeuf, remained in the lower room. At the moment of the attack, at the detonation, the physical shock had reached him and, as if awakened, he had risen abruptly, crossed the room, and at the instant when Enjolras repeated his call: “No one comes forward?” the old man was seen to appear on the threshold of the tavern. His presence caused a sort of commotion in the groups. A cry arose: “It’s the voter! It’s the member of the Convention!” He is the representative of the people! It is likely that he did not hear. He marched straight to Enjolras, the insurgents parted before him with religious fear, he snatched the flag from Enjolras who was retreating petrified, and then, without anyone daring to stop him or help him, this old man of eighty, his head shaking, his foot firm, began to slowly climb the cobblestone staircase made in the barricade. It was so dark and so grand that everyone around him shouted: Hats off! With each step he climbed, it was frightening, his white hair, his decrepit face, his large bald and wrinkled forehead, his hollow eyes, his astonished and open mouth, his old arm raising the red banner, emerged from the shadows and grew in the bloody light of the torch, and one thought one saw the spectre of 93 rising from the earth, the flag of terror in his hand. When he was at the top of the last step, when this trembling and terrible phantom, standing on this heap of rubble in the presence of twelve hundred invisible rifles, rose up, facing death and as if he were stronger than it, the whole barricade had in the darkness a supernatural and colossal figure. There was one of those silences which only occur around prodigies. In the midst of this silence the old man waved the red flag and cried: “Long live the Revolution! Long live the Republic! Fraternity! Equality! and death!” A low, rapid whisper was heard from the barricade, like the murmur of a priest in a hurry who is sending out a prayer. It was probably the police commissioner who was issuing the legal summons at the other end of the street. Then the same resounding voice which had cried: “Who lives?” cried: “Withdraw!” M. Mabeuf, pale, haggard, his eyes lit up by the gloomy flames of delusion, raised the flag above his forehead and repeated: “Long live the Republic! ” “Fire!” said the voice. A second discharge, like grapeshot, rained down on the barricade. The old man bent to his knees, then straightened up, let the flag fall, and fell backward onto the pavement, like a plank, full length with his arms outstretched. Streams of blood flowed from beneath him. His old head, pale and sad, seemed to be looking at the sky. One of those emotions superior to man which make one forget even to defend oneself, seized the insurgents, and they approached the corpse with respectful terror. “What men these regicides were!” said Enjolras. Courfeyrac leaned into Enjolras’s ear: “This is only for you, and I do not want to diminish the enthusiasm. But he was nothing less than a regicide. I knew him. His name was Father Mabeuf. I do not know what was wrong with him today. But he was a brave fool. Look at his face. ” “Face of a fool and heart of Brutus,” replied Enjolras. Then he raised his voice: “Citizens! This is the example that the old give to the young. We hesitated, he came! We retreated, he advanced!” This is what those who tremble with old age teach those who tremble with fear! This ancestor is august before the fatherland. He had a long life and a magnificent death! Now let us shelter the corpse, let each of us defend this dead old man as he would defend his living father, and let his presence in our midst make the barricade impregnable! A murmur of mournful and energetic support followed these words. Enjolras bent down, lifted the old man’s head, and, fierce, kissed his forehead, then, spreading his arms, and handling this dead man with tender caution, as if he feared to harm him, he took off his coat, showed all the bloody holes, and said: “Now here is our flag.” Chapter 69. Gavroche would have done better to accept Enjolras’s rifle. A long black shawl from the widow Hucheloup was thrown over Father Mabeuf. Six men made a stretcher of their rifles, placed the corpse on it, and carried it, bareheaded, with solemn slowness, to the large table in the lower room. These men, entirely absorbed in the grave and sacred thing they were doing, no longer thought of the perilous situation in which they found themselves. When the corpse passed near Javert, still impassive, Enjolras said to the spy: “You! In a moment.” Meanwhile, little Gavroche, who alone had not left his post and had remained under observation, thought he saw men approaching the barricade on tiptoe. Suddenly he shouted: “Watch out!” Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre, Joly, Bahorel, Bossuet, all left the tavern in a tumult. It was almost too late. A glittering thickness of bayonets could be seen undulating above the barricade. Tall municipal guards were entering, some by stepping over the omnibus, others through the gap, pushing the boy before them, who was retreating but not fleeing. The moment was critical. It was that first formidable minute of the flood, when the river rises at the level of the embankment and the water begins to seep through the cracks in the dike. One second more, and the barricade was taken. Bahorel rushed at the first municipal guard who entered and killed him at point-blank range with a carbine shot; the second killed Bahorel with a bayonet thrust. Another had already knocked down Courfeyrac, who was shouting: “Help me!” The tallest of them all, a sort of colossus, was marching towards Gavroche, bayonet first. The boy took Javert’s enormous rifle in his little arms , resolutely aimed at the giant, and let loose. Nothing went off. Javert had not loaded his rifle. The municipal guard burst out laughing and raised his bayonet at the child. Before the bayonet had touched Gavroche, the rifle slipped from the soldier’s hands, a bullet struck the municipal guard in the middle of the forehead, and he fell on his back. A second bullet struck the other guard who had assaulted Courfeyrac full in the chest, throwing him to the pavement. It was Marius who had just entered the barricade. Chapter 70. The Powder Keg. Marius, still hidden in the bend of the Rue Mondétour, had witnessed the first phase of the combat, irresolute and shivering. However, he had not been able to resist for long that mysterious and sovereign vertigo which one might call the call of the abyss. Faced with the imminence of the peril, with the death of M. Mabeuf, that funereal enigma, with Bahorel killed, with Courfeyrac crying: “To me!” with this child threatened, with his friends to be rescued or avenged , all hesitation had vanished, and he had rushed into the fray, his two pistols in hand. With the first shot he had saved Gavroche and with the second delivered Courfeyrac. At the sound of gunfire and the cries of the stricken guards, the assailants had climbed the entrenchment, on the summit of which one could now see standing more than half-length, and in a crowd, municipal guards, soldiers of the line, national guards from the suburbs, rifles in hand. They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, but they did not jump into the enclosure, as if they were hesitating, fearing some trap. They peered into the dark barricade as one might peer into a lion’s den. The torchlight illuminated only the bayonets, the bearskin caps, and the tops of the worried and irritated faces. Marius no longer had any weapons; he had thrown down his unloaded pistols, but he had noticed the powder keg in the lower room near the door. As he half turned, looking in that direction, a soldier aimed at him. Just as the soldier was aiming at Marius, a hand rested on the end of the rifle barrel and blocked it. It was someone who had rushed forward, the young worker in the velvet trousers. The shot went off, went through the hand, and perhaps the worker too, for he fell, but the bullet did not hit Marius. All this in the smoke, more glimpsed than seen. Marius, who was entering the lower room, barely noticed it. However, he had dimly seen the rifle barrel pointed at him and the hand that had blocked it, and he had heard the shot. But in moments like that, the things you see flicker and rush forward, and you stop at nothing. You feel yourself obscurely pushed towards even more darkness, and everything is cloud. The insurgents, surprised but not frightened, had rallied. Enjolras had shouted: Wait! Don’t fire at random! In the initial confusion , they could indeed have injured each other. Most had climbed to the first-floor window and the attic, from where they overlooked the assailants. The most determined, with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, and Combeferre, had proudly leaned against the houses at the back, in the open, facing the rows of soldiers and guards that crowned the barricade. All this was accomplished without haste, with that strange and menacing gravity that precedes a mêlée. On both sides, they aimed at each other at point-blank range; they were so close that they could speak within earshot .
When they reached the point where the spark was about to fly, an officer in a gorget and large epaulettes extended his sword and said: “Lay down your arms! ” “Fire!” said Enjolras. The two shots went off simultaneously, and everything disappeared in the smoke. Acrid and suffocating smoke through which the dying and wounded dragged themselves with weak and muffled groans . When the smoke dissipated, the combatants on both sides were seen, thinned out, but still in the same places, reloading their weapons in silence. Suddenly, a thunderous voice was heard shouting: “Go away, or I’ll blow up the barricade!” Everyone turned in the direction from which the voice came. Marius had entered the lower room, taken the barrel of powder, then he had taken advantage of the smoke and the kind of dark fog that filled the fortified enclosure, to slip along the barricade to this cage of paving stones where the torch was fixed. To tear out the torch, to put the barrel of powder in it, to push the pile of paving stones under the barrel, which had immediately broken open, with a sort of terrible obedience, all this had been for Marius the time to bend down and to rise again; and now all, national guards, municipal guards , officers, soldiers, huddled at the other end of the barricade, looked at him with stupor, his foot on the paving stones, torch in hand, his proud face lit by a fatal resolution, bending the flame of the torch towards this formidable heap where the broken barrel of powder could be seen, and uttering this terrifying cry: “Go away, or I will blow up the barricade!” Marius on this barricade after the octogenarian, was the vision of the young revolution after the appearance of the old one. “Blow up the barricade!” said a sergeant, and you too! Marius replied: “And me too.” And he brought the torch close to the powder keg. But there was already no one left on the barrier. The assailants, leaving their dead and wounded, flowed back pell-mell and in disorder towards the end of the street and lost themselves there again in the night. It was a life for themselves. The barricade was cleared. Chapter 71. End of the verses of Jean Prouvaire. Everyone surrounded Marius. Courfeyrac threw himself on his neck. “There you are! ” “What luck!” said Combeferre. “You came at the right time!” said Bossuet. “Without you I would have died!” continued Courfeyrac. “Without you I would have been swallowed up!” added Gavroche. Marius asked: “Where is the leader? ” “It’s you,” said Enjolras. Marius had had a furnace in his brain all day, now it was a whirlwind. This whirlwind within him had the effect of being outside himself and carrying him away. It seemed to him that he was already at an immense distance from life. His two luminous months of joy and love ending abruptly at this frightful precipice, Cosette lost to him, this barricade, M. Mabeuf getting himself killed for the Republic, himself a leader of insurgents, all these things seemed to him a monstrous nightmare. He was obliged to make an effort of mind to remember that everything around him was real. Marius had lived too little to know that nothing is more imminent than the impossible, and that what one must always foresee is the unforeseen. He was watching his own drama as if it were a play one does not understand. In the haze of his thoughts, he did not recognize Javert, who, tied to his post, had not made a movement of his head during the attack on the barricade and who watched the revolt stirring around him with the resignation of a martyr and the majesty of a judge. Marius did not even see him.
Meanwhile, the assailants no longer moved; they could be heard marching and swarming at the end of the street, but they did not venture there, either because they were waiting for orders, or because before rushing again on this impregnable redoubt, they were waiting for reinforcements. The insurgents had posted sentries, and some of them who were medical students had begun to dress the wounded. The tables had been thrown out of the tavern, except for two tables reserved for lint and cartridges, and the table where Father Mabeuf lay; They had been added to the barricade, and replaced in the lower room by the mattresses from the beds of the widow Hucheloup and the servants. On these mattresses the wounded had been laid. As for the three poor creatures who lived in Corinth, no one knew what had become of them. However, they were finally found hidden in the cellar. A poignant emotion came to darken the joy of the cleared barricade. The roll call was taken. One of the insurgents was missing. And who? One of the dearest, a of the most valiant. Jean Prouvaire. They looked for him among the wounded, he wasn’t there. They looked for him among the dead, he wasn’t there. He was obviously a prisoner. Combeferre said to Enjolras: “They have our friend; but we have their agent. Do you value the death of this informer? ” “Yes,” replied Enjolras, “but less than the life of Jean Prouvaire.” This was taking place in the lower room near Javert’s post. “Well,” continued Combeferre, “I’m going to tie my handkerchief to my cane and go as a parliamentarian and offer to give them their man for ours. ” “Listen,” said Enjolras, placing his hand on Combeferre’s arm. At the end of the street there was a significant clash of weapons. A male voice was heard shouting: “Long live France! Long live the future!” They recognized Prouvaire’s voice. A flash passed and a detonation rang out. Silence fell again. “They killed him,” cried Combeferre. Enjolras looked at Javert and said, “Your friends have just shot you.” Chapter 72. The Agony of Death After the Agony of Life. A peculiarity of this kind of war is that the attack on the barricades is almost always made from the front, and that in general the assailants refrain from turning their positions, either because they fear ambushes or because they are afraid of entering winding streets. All the attention of the insurgents was therefore directed towards the large barricade, which was obviously the point always threatened and where the struggle would inevitably begin again. Marius, however, thought of the small barricade and went there. It was deserted and was guarded only by the lantern that trembled between the paving stones. Besides, the Mondétour alley and the Petite-Truanderie and Cygne junctions were profoundly calm. As Marius, having made the inspection, withdrew, he heard his name pronounced faintly in the darkness: “Monsieur Marius!” He started, for he recognized the voice that had called him two hours before through the gate of the Rue Plumet. Only this voice now seemed to be nothing more than a whisper. He looked around him and saw no one. Marius believed he had been mistaken, and that it was an illusion added by his mind to the extraordinary realities that clashed around him. He took a step to leave the remote recess where the barricade was. “Monsieur Marius!” repeated the voice. This time he could not doubt, he had heard distinctly; he looked, and saw nothing. “At your feet,” said the voice. He bent down and saw in the shadows a form dragging itself towards him. It was crawling on the pavement. That was what spoke to him. The lantern allowed him to distinguish a blouse, trousers of coarse torn velvet, bare feet, and something that looked like a pool of blood. Marius glimpsed a pale head rising up towards him and saying: “Don’t you recognize me? ” “No.” “Éponine.” Marius bent down quickly. It was indeed that unfortunate child. She was dressed as a man. “How did you get here? What are you doing here? ” “I’m dying,” she said to him. ” There are words and incidents that awaken overwhelmed beings.” Marius cried out as if with a start: “You’re wounded! Wait, I’ll carry you into the room. They’ll dress you. Is it serious? How should we hold you so as not to hurt yourself? Where are you suffering? Help! My God! But what have you come here to do?” And he tried to put his arm under her to lift her up. As he lifted her up, he met her hand. She gave a weak cry. “Did I hurt you?” Marius asked. “A little. ” “But I only touched your hand.” She raised her hand toward Marius’s gaze, and Marius saw a black hole in the middle of it. “What’s the matter with your hand?” he said. “It’s pierced.” “Pierced! ” “Yes.
” “By what? ” “By a bullet. ” “How? ” “Did you see a gun aimed at you? ” “Yes, and a hand that blocked it. ” “It was mine. ” Marius shuddered. “What madness! Poor child! But so much the better, if that’s it, it’s nothing. Let me carry you to a bed. They’ll bandage you; one doesn’t die from a pierced hand. ” She murmured, “The bullet went through the hand, but it came out through the back. It’s no use taking me away from here. I’ll tell you how you can bandage me, better than a surgeon. Sit down beside me on this stone. ” He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius’s knees, and, without looking at him, she said, “Oh! how good it is! How comfortable we are! There!” I’m not suffering anymore. She remained silent for a moment, then she turned her face with an effort and looked at Marius. “Do you know, Monsieur Marius? It teased me that you came into this garden, it was stupid, since it was I who had shown you the house, and then, finally, I had to tell myself that a young man like you…” She broke off, and, crossing the dark transitions which were undoubtedly in her mind, she continued with a heartbreaking smile: “You thought I was ugly, didn’t you?” She continued: “You see, you’re lost! Now no one will leave the barricade. It was I who brought you here, really! You’re going to die. I’m counting on it. And yet, when I saw that they were aiming at you, I put my hand over the muzzle of the gun. How funny! But 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: He won’t come then? Oh! if you only knew, I was biting my blouse, I was suffering so much! Now I am well. Do you remember the day I came into your room and admired myself in your mirror, and the day I met you on the boulevard near the women’s section during the day? How the birds sang! It wasn’t long ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you: I don’t want your money. Did you at least pick up your coin? You are not rich. I didn’t think to tell you to pick it up. It was a beautiful sunny day, we weren’t cold. Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh! I am happy! Everyone is going to die. She had a senseless, grave, and heartbreaking expression. Her torn blouse showed her bare throat. As she spoke, she pressed her pierced hand against her breast, where there was another hole, from which a stream of blood occasionally flowed like wine from an open bunghole. Marius regarded this unfortunate creature with profound compassion. “Oh!” she suddenly continued, “it’s coming back. I’m suffocating!” She took her blouse and bit it, and her legs stiffened on the pavement. At that moment, the young rooster’s voice of little Gavroche resounded through the barricade. The child had climbed onto a table to load his gun and was gaily singing the song then so popular: “Seeing Lafayette,” “The gendarme repeats: ” Let’s save ourselves! Let’s save ourselves! Let’s save ourselves!” Eponine rose and listened, then she murmured: “It’s him.” And turning to Marius: “My brother is here. He mustn’t see me. He would scold me. ” “Your brother?” asked Marius, who was thinking in the bitterest and most painful part of his heart about the duties his father had bequeathed to him towards the Thénardiers, who is your brother? “This little one. ” “The one who sings? ” “Yes.” Marius made a movement. “Oh! don’t go away!” she said, “it won’t be long now.” She was almost sitting up, but her voice was very low and interrupted by hiccups. At intervals, the rattle interrupted her. She brought her face as close as she could to Marius’s. She added with a strange expression: “Listen, I don’t want to play a trick on you. I have a letter for you in my pocket. Since yesterday. I was told to post it. I kept it. I didn’t want it to reach you. But perhaps you would be angry with me when we see each other again later. We will see each other again, won’t we? Take your letter. ” She convulsively seized Marius’s hand with her pierced one, but she seemed no longer to feel the pain. She put Marius’s hand in the pocket of her blouse. Marius did indeed feel a piece of paper there. “Take it,” she said. Marius took the letter. She made a sign of satisfaction and consent. “Now for my trouble, promise me…” And she stopped. “What?” asked Marius. “Promise me! I promise you. ” Promise me you’ll give me a kiss on the forehead when I’m dead. I’ll feel it. She let her head fall back onto Marius’s knees and her eyelids closed. He thought the poor soul had gone. Éponine remained motionless; suddenly, at the moment when Marius thought she was asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyes, revealing the dark depths of death, and said to him in an accent whose sweetness already seemed to come from another world: “And then, look, Monsieur Marius, I think I was a little in love with you. ” She tried to smile again and expired. Chapter 73. Gavroche, Profound Calculator of Distances. Marius kept his promise. He placed a kiss on that livid forehead where an icy sweat was beading. It was not an infidelity to Cosette; it was a thoughtful and sweet farewell to an unhappy soul. He had not taken the letter that Éponine had given him without a shudder. He had immediately felt it to be an event. He was impatient to read it. The human heart is made like that; the unfortunate child had scarcely closed her eyes when Marius thought of unfolding this paper. He gently placed it back on the ground and went away. Something told him that he could not read this letter in front of this corpse. He approached a candle in the lower room. It was a small note, folded and sealed with that elegant care of women. The address was in a woman’s handwriting and read: “To Monsieur, Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfeyrac’s, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16.” He unsealed the seal and read: “My beloved, alas! My father wants us to leave at once. We will be at 7 Rue de l’Homme-Armé this evening. In a week we will be in London. COSETTE, June 4.” Such was the innocence of these loves that Marius did not even know Cosette’s handwriting. What had happened can be said in a few words. Éponine had done everything. After the evening of June 3, she had had a double thought: to thwart the plans of her father and the bandits on the house in the Rue Plumet, and to separate Marius from Cosette. She had changed rags with the first young rascal who came along who had thought it amusing to dress as a woman while Éponine disguised herself as a man. It was she who, at the Champ de Mars, had given Jean Valjean the expressive warning: _Move out_. Jean Valjean had indeed returned and said to Cosette: _We are leaving this evening and we are going to the Rue de l’Homme-Armé with Toussaint. Next week we shall be in London. Cosette, terrified by this unexpected blow, had hurriedly written two lines to Marius. But how could she get the letter posted? She did not go out alone, and Toussaint, surprised by such an errand, would certainly have shown the letter to M. Fauchelevent. In this anxiety, Cosette had noticed through the gate Éponine in men’s clothes, who was now constantly prowling around the garden. Cosette had called “this young worker” and given him five francs and the letter, saying: Take this letter immediately to its address. Éponine had put the letter in her pocket. The next day, June 5, she had gone to Courfeyrac’s to ask for Marius, not to give him the letter, but, something that every jealous and loving soul will understand, “to see.” There she had waited for Marius, or at least for Courfeyrac,–always to see.–When Courfeyrac had said to her: we are going to the barricades, an idea had crossed her mind. To throw herself into that death as she would have thrown herself into any other, and to push Marius into it. She had followed Courfeyrac, had made sure of the place where the barricade was being built; and of course, since Marius had received no notice and she had intercepted the letter, that he would be at nightfall at the rendezvous every evening, she had gone to the Rue Plumet, waited there for Marius, and sent him, in the name of her friends, this appeal which would, she thought, bring him to the barricade. She counted on Marius’s despair when he did not find Cosette; she was not mistaken. She had returned to her side of the Rue de la Chanvrerie. We have just seen what she had done there. She had died with that tragic joy of jealous hearts which drag the loved one into their death, and which say: no one will have her! Marius covered Cosette’s letter with kisses. So she loved him! He had for a moment the idea that he must not die again. Then he said to himself: She is leaving. Her father is taking her to England and my grandfather refuses the marriage. Nothing is changed in fate. Dreamers like Marius have these supreme despondencies, and they give rise to desperate decisions. The fatigue of living is unbearable; death is sooner done. Then he reflected that he had two duties left to fulfill: to inform Cosette of her death and send her a final farewell, and to save from the imminent catastrophe that was preparing this poor child, brother of Éponine and son of Thénardier. He had on him a wallet; the same one that had contained the notebook in which he had written so many thoughts of love for Cosette. He tore out a sheet and wrote these few lines in pencil: “Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, he refused; I am penniless, and so are you. I ran to your house, I could not find you again, you know the word I gave you, I keep it. I am dying. I love you. When you read this, my soul will be near you, and will smile upon you.” Having nothing to seal this letter with, he simply folded the paper in four and wrote this address on it: _To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, at M. Fauchelevent’s, rue de l’Homme-Armé, No. 7._ The letter folded, he remained thoughtful for a moment, took out his wallet, opened it, and wrote with the same pencil on the first page these four lines:
“My name is Marius Pontmercy. Take my body to my grandfather, M. Gillenormand, rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6, in the Marais.” He put the wallet back in his coat pocket, then called Gavroche. The boy, at the sound of Marius’s voice, ran up with his joyful and devoted expression. “Will you do something for me?” “Everything,” said Gavroche. “Good Lord! Without you, I’d really be done for. ” “Do you see this letter? ” “Yes.
” “Take it.” Leave the barricade at once (Gavroche, worried, began to scratch his ear), and tomorrow morning you will deliver it to her address, to Mademoiselle Cosette at M. Fauchelevent’s, rue de l’Homme-Armé, No. 7. The heroic child replied: “Ah well, but during that time, the barricade will be taken, and I will not be there. ” “The barricade will not be attacked again until daybreak, according to all appearances, and will not be taken before noon tomorrow.” The new respite the assailants were giving at the barricade was indeed prolonged. It was one of those intermissions, frequent in nighttime fighting, which are always followed by a redoubled fury. “Well,” said Gavroche, “shall I go and deliver your letter tomorrow morning? ” “It will be too late. The barricade will probably be blocked, all the streets will be guarded, and you won’t be able to get out. Go at once. ” Gavroche found nothing to reply; he remained there, undecided, and scratching his ear sadly. Suddenly, with one of those birdlike movements he had, he took the letter. “All right,” he said. And he left running along the Mondétour alley. Gavroche had had an idea which had determined him, but which he had not spoken of, for fear that Marius might raise some objection. This idea is this: –It is barely midnight, the street of the Armed Man is not far, I will deliver the letter immediately, and I will be back in time. Book Fifteen — The Street of the Armed Man Chapter 74. Blotter, talker. What are the convulsions of a city compared to the riots of the soul? Man is a depth even greater than the people. Jean Valjean, at that very moment, was in the grip of a frightful uprising. All the gulfs had reopened within him. He too was shivering, like Paris, on the threshold of a formidable and obscure revolution . A few hours had sufficed. His destiny and his conscience had suddenly been covered with shadow. Of him too, as of Paris, one could say: the two principles are in presence. The white angel and the black angel are about to seize each other hand to hand on the bridge of the abyss. Which of the two will precipitate the other? Who will prevail? On the eve of that same day, June 5, Jean Valjean, accompanied by Cosette and Toussaint, had settled in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. An adventure awaited him there.
Cosette had not left the Rue Plumet without an attempt at resistance. For the first time since they had existed side by side, the will of Cosette and the will of Jean Valjean had shown themselves distinct, and had, if not clashed, at least contradicted each other. There had been objection on one side and inflexibility on the other. The abrupt advice: “Move out,” thrown by a stranger to Jean Valjean, had alarmed him to the point of making him absolute. He believed himself tracked and pursued. Cosette had had to give in. Both had arrived in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé without opening their teeth and without saying a word to each other, each absorbed in his personal preoccupation ; Jean Valjean was so worried that he did not see Cosette’s sadness , Cosette so sad that she did not see Jean Valjean’s worry. Jean Valjean had taken Toussaint with him, something he had never done in his previous absences. He foresaw that he might not return to the rue Plumet, and he could neither leave Toussaint behind nor tell him his secret. Besides, he felt she was devoted and trustworthy. From servant to master, betrayal begins with curiosity. Now, Toussaint, as if she had been predestined to be Jean Valjean’s servant , was not curious. She said through her stammer, in her Barneville peasant’s speech: I am the same; I do what I do; the rest is not my work. (I am like that; I do my work; the rest is none of my business.) In this departure from the Rue Plumet, which had been almost an escape, Jean Valjean had taken nothing with him except the small, fragrant valise christened by Cosette _the inseparable_. Full trunks would have required messengers, and messengers are witnesses. A cab had been called to the door of the Rue de Babylone, and they had left. It was with great difficulty that Toussaint had obtained permission to pack up a little linen and clothing and a few objects of toilet. Cosette, for her part, had taken only her stationery and blotting paper. Jean Valjean, to increase the solitude and the shadow of this disappearance, had arranged so as not to leave the pavilion on the Rue Plumet until nightfall, which had given Cosette time to write her note to Marius. They had arrived on the Rue de l’Homme-Armé at nightfall. They had gone to bed silently. The lodgings on the Rue de l’Homme-Armé were located in a back courtyard, on a second floor, and consisted of two bedrooms, a dining room and a kitchen adjoining the dining room, with a mezzanine where there was a cot that fell to Toussaint. The dining room was at the same time the antechamber and separated the two bedrooms . The apartment was provided with the necessary utensils. We reassure ourselves almost as madly as we worry; human nature is like that. Hardly had Jean Valjean reached the Rue de l’Homme-Armé than his anxiety cleared, and, by degrees, dissipated. There are calming places which act in a sort of mechanical way on the mind. Dark street, peaceful inhabitants. Jean Valjean felt some contagious tranquility in this alley of old Paris, so narrow that it is barred to carriages by a transverse beam placed on two posts, mute and deaf in the midst of the bustling city, twilight in broad daylight, and, so to speak, incapable of emotion between its two rows of tall, hundred-year-old houses which are silent like the old men they are. There is stagnant oblivion in this street . Jean Valjean breathed there. The means by which he could be found there? His first care was to place _the inseparable_ beside him. He slept well. Night counsels, one might add: night soothes. The next morning he awoke almost cheerful. He found the dining room charming, which was hideous, furnished with an old round table, a low sideboard surmounted by a slanted mirror, a worm-eaten armchair, and a few chairs piled high with Toussaint’s parcels. In one of these parcels, one could see through a gap Jean Valjean ‘s National Guard uniform . As for Cosette, she had had some broth brought to her room by Toussaint, and did not appear until evening. Around five o’clock, Toussaint, who was coming and going, very busy with this little move, had placed on the dining-room table a cold fowl which Cosette, out of deference to her father, had consented to look at. This done, Cosette, pretending to have a persistent migraine, had said goodnight to Jean Valjean and locked herself in her bedroom. Jean Valjean had eaten a chicken wing with gusto, and leaning on the table, gradually reassured, was regaining possession of his security. While he was preparing this sober dinner, he had confusedly perceived, two or three times, the stammering of Toussaint, who was saying to him: “Monsieur, there is a train, there is fighting in Paris.” But, absorbed in a multitude of internal arrangements, he had not noticed it. In truth, he had not heard. He rose and began to walk from the window to the door and from the door to the window, more and more at peace. With the calm, Cosette, his sole preoccupation, returned to his thoughts. Not that he was moved by this migraine, a little nervous attack, a young girl’s sulking, a momentary cloud, it would not appear in a day or two; but he was thinking of the future, and, as usual, he was thinking of it with gentleness. After all, he saw no obstacle to the happy life resuming its course. At certain hours, everything seems impossible; at other hours, everything seems easy; Jean Valjean was in one of these good hours. They usually come after the bad, like day after night, by that law of succession and contrast which is the very basis of nature and which minds superficialities call for antithesis. In this peaceful street where he took refuge, Jean Valjean freed himself from everything that had troubled him for some time. By the very fact that he had seen a great deal of darkness, he began to see a little azure. To have left the Rue Plumet without complication or incident was already a good step forward. Perhaps it would be wise to get away from it all, even if only for a few months, and go to London. Well, one would go. Being in France, being in England, what did it matter, provided he had Cosette near him? Cosette was his nation. Cosette was enough for his happiness; the idea that he was perhaps not enough for Cosette’s happiness, this idea, which had formerly been his fever and his insomnia, did not even present itself to his mind. He was in the collapse of all his past sorrows, and in full optimism. Cosette, being near him, seemed to belong to him; an optical effect that everyone has experienced. He arranged within himself, and with all sorts of ease, the departure for England with Cosette, and he saw his happiness reconstructed anywhere in the perspectives of his reverie. While walking slowly up and down, his gaze suddenly encountered something strange. He saw opposite him, in the inclined mirror which surmounted the sideboard, and he distinctly read the following four lines: “My beloved, alas! my father wishes us to leave at once. We shall be this evening at No. 7 Rue de l’Homme-Armé. In eight days we shall be in London. COSETTE. June 4.” Jean Valjean stopped, haggard. Cosette, on arriving, had placed her blotting-paper on the sideboard in front of the mirror, and, lost in her painful anguish, had forgotten it there, without even noticing that she had left it completely open, and open precisely at the page on which she had pressed, to dry them, the four lines she had written and with which she had entrusted the young workman passing along the Rue Plumet. The writing was imprinted on the blotting-paper. The mirror reflected the writing. The result was what in geometry is called a symmetrical image; so that the writing, reversed on the blotting-paper, appeared upright in the mirror and presented its natural meaning; and Jean Valjean had before his eyes the letter written the day before by Cosette to Marius. It was simple and stunning. Jean Valjean went to the mirror. He reread the four lines, but he did not believe them. They gave him the effect of appearing in a flash of lightning. It was a hallucination. It was impossible. It was not .
Little by little his perception became more precise; he looked at Cosette’s blotting paper, and the feeling of the real fact returned to him. He took the blotting paper and said: That’s where it comes from. He feverishly examined the four lines printed on the blotting paper; the reversal of the letters made it look like a strange scribble, and he saw no meaning in it. Then he said to himself: But that means nothing, there’s nothing written there. And he breathed deeply with inexpressible relief. Who hasn’t had these stupid joys in horrible moments? The soul does not surrender to despair without having exhausted all illusions. He held the blotting paper in his hand and contemplated it, stupidly happy, almost ready to laugh at the hallucination by which he had been duped. Suddenly his eyes fell back on the mirror, and he saw the vision again. The four lines were outlined there with inexorable clarity. This time it was not a mirage. The recurrence of a vision is a reality, it was palpable, it was the writing straightened in the mirror. He understood. Jean Valjean staggered, dropped the blotting paper, and sank into the old armchair beside the sideboard, his head drooping, his eyes glazed, lost. He told himself that it was obvious, and that the light of the world was forever eclipsed, and that Cosette had written this to someone. Then he heard his soul, once more terrible, utter a dull roar in the darkness. Go and take away from the lion the dog he has in his cage! Strange and sad thing, at that moment, Marius did not yet have Cosette’s letter; chance had carried it treacherously to Jean Valjean before delivering it to Marius. Jean Valjean until that day had not been overcome by the test. He had been subjected to dreadful trials; not a single blow of ill fortune had been spared him; the ferocity of fate, armed with every vindictiveness and every social contempt, had taken him as its subject and had been relentless against him. He had recoiled and bent before nothing. He had accepted, when necessary, all extremes; He had sacrificed his regained inviolability as a man, given up his freedom, risked his life, lost everything, suffered everything, and he had remained disinterested and stoic, to the point that at times one might have believed him absent from himself like a martyr. His conscience, hardened to all the possible assaults of adversity, could have seemed forever impregnable. Well, anyone who had seen his innermost being would have been forced to note that at this hour it was weakening. It was because of all the tortures he had undergone in this long question that destiny had given him, this one was the most formidable. Never had such a pincer grasped him. He felt the mysterious stirring of all latent sensibilities. He felt the pinch of the unknown fiber. Alas, the supreme test, or rather, the unique test, is the loss of the loved one. Poor old Jean Valjean certainly did not love Cosette otherwise than as a father; but, as we have noted above, in this paternity the very widowhood of his life had introduced all loves; he loved Cosette as his daughter, and he loved her as his mother, and he loved her as his sister; and, as he had never had either lover or wife, as nature is a creditor who accepts no protest, this sentiment also, the most unlosable of all, was mixed with the others, vague, ignorant, pure with the purity of blindness, unconscious, celestial, angelic, divine; less like a sentiment than an instinct, less like an instinct than an attraction, imperceptible and invisible, but real; and love properly speaking was in his enormous tenderness for Cosette as the vein of gold is in the mountain, dark and virgin. Let us remember this situation of the heart that we have already indicated. No marriage was possible between them, not even that of souls; and yet it is certain that their destinies had intertwined. Except for Cosette, that is to say, except for a childhood, Jean Valjean had, in all his long life, known nothing of what one can love. The passions and loves that followed one another had not made in him those successive greens, tender green on dark green, that one notices on foliage that passes the winter and on men who pass the age of fifty. In short, and we have insisted on this more than once, all this interior fusion, all this whole, the result of which was a high virtue, ended in making of Jean Valjean a father for Cosette. A strange father forged from the grandfather, the son, the brother and the husband that there was in Jean Valjean; a father in whom there was even a mother; a father who loved Cosette and who adored her, and who had this child for his light, for his home, for his family, for his fatherland, for his paradise. So, when he saw that it was definitely over, that she was slipping from his hands, that she was slipping away, that it was cloud, that it was water, when he had before his eyes this overwhelming evidence: another is the goal of his heart, another is the wish of his life; there is the beloved, I am only the father; I no longer exist; when he could no longer doubt, when he said to himself: She is going out of me! The pain he experienced exceeded the possible. To have done all that he had done to come to this! And, what then! To be nothing! Then, as we have just said, he had from head to toe a shudder of revolt. He felt down to the roots of his hair the immense awakening of egoism, and the self howled in the abyss of this man. There are interior collapses. The penetration of a despairing certainty in man does not occur without pushing aside and breaking away from certain profound elements which are sometimes man himself. Pain, when it reaches this degree, is a sauve-qui-peut of all the forces of conscience. These are fatal crises. Few among us emerge from them like ourselves and firm in duty. When the limit of suffering is exceeded, the most imperturbable virtue is disconcerted. Jean Valjean took up the blotting-paper again and was convinced of it once more; he remained bent over, as if petrified, the four irrefutable lines, his eyes fixed; and such a cloud formed within him that one might have believed that the whole interior of this soul was crumbling away. He examined this revelation, through the magnifications of reverie, with an apparent and frightening calm, for it is a formidable thing when the calm of man reaches the coldness of a statue. He measured the frightful step his destiny had taken without his suspecting it; he remembered his fears of the previous summer, so madly dissipated; he recognized the precipice; it was still the same; only Jean Valjean was no longer at the threshold, he was at the bottom. An unheard-of and poignant thing, he had fallen into it without realizing it. All the light of his life had gone, believing he still saw the sun. His instinct did not hesitate. He connected certain circumstances, certain dates, certain blushes and certain pallors of Cosette, and he said to himself: It is he. The divination of despair is a sort of mysterious bow that never misses its mark. From his first conjecture, he reached Marius. He did not know the name, but he found the man at once . He distinctly perceived, in the depths of the implacable evocation of memory, the unknown prowler of the Luxembourg, this miserable seeker of love affairs, this idler of romance, this imbecile, this coward, for it is cowardly to come and make eyes at girls who have at their side their father who loves them. After he had clearly seen that at the bottom of this situation there was this young man, and that everything came from there, he, Jean Valjean, the regenerated man, the man who had worked so hard on his soul, the man who had made so many efforts to resolve all of life, all of misery and all of unhappiness into love, he looked within himself and there he saw a spectre, Hatred . Great sorrows contain despondency. They discourage one from being. The man into whom they enter feels something withdrawing from him. In youth, their visit is lugubrious; later, it is sinister. Alas, when the blood is hot, when the hair is black, when the head is erect on the body like the flame on the torch, when the scroll of destiny has still almost all its thickness, when the heart, full of a desirable love, still has beats that can be restored to it, when one has before oneself the time to make amends, when all the women are there, and all the smiles, and the whole future, and the whole horizon, when the strength of life is complete, if despair is a frightful thing, what is it then in old age, when the years rush more and more pale, at that twilight hour when one begins to see the stars of the tomb! While he was thinking, Toussaint entered, Jean Valjean rose, and asked him: “Which way is it? Do you know?” Toussaint, stupefied, could only answer him: “Is it so?” Jean Valjean continued: “Didn’t you tell me just now that there was fighting? ” “Ah! yes, sir,” replied Toussaint. “It’s in the direction of Saint-Merry. There is such a mechanical movement which comes to us, without our even knowing it, from our deepest thoughts. It was doubtless under the impulse of a movement of this kind, and of which he was hardly conscious, that Jean Valjean found himself five minutes later in the street. He was bareheaded, sitting on the post of the gate of his house. He seemed to be listening. Night had fallen. Chapter 75. The Boy, Enemy of Enlightenment. How long did he pass thus? What were the ebbs and flows of this tragic meditation? Did he straighten up? Did he remain bent? Had he been bent until he was broken? Could he straighten up again and regain his footing in his consciousness on something solid? He probably could not have said it himself. The street was deserted. A few anxious citizens who were returning quickly to their homes barely noticed him. Every man for himself in times of peril. The night lamplighter came as usual to light the street lamp, which was placed precisely opposite the door of No. 7, and went away. Jean Valjean, to anyone who had examined him in that shadow, would not have seemed a living man. He was there, seated on the post of his door, motionless as an ice larva. There is something frozen in despair. The tocsin and vague stormy rumors could be heard. In the midst of all these convulsions of the bell mingled with the riot, the clock of Saint-Paul struck eleven, gravely and without haste; for the tocsin is man; the hour is God. The passing of the hour affected nothing to Jean Valjean; Jean Valjean did not stir. However, at about this moment, a sudden detonation burst from the direction of the market halls, followed by a second, even more violent; it was probably that attack on the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie which we have just seen repelled by Marius. At this double discharge, the fury of which seemed increased by the stupor of the night, Jean Valjean started; he stood up on the side from which the noise came; then he fell back on the boundary stone, crossed his arms, and his head slowly returned to rest on his breast. He resumed his gloomy dialogue with himself. Suddenly, he raised his eyes; people were walking in the street, he heard footsteps near him, he looked, and, by the light of the street lamp, on the side of the street which ends at the Archives, he perceived a livid face, young and radiant. Gavroche had just arrived in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. Gavroche looked up into the air and seemed to be searching. He saw Jean Valjean perfectly well, but he did not notice it. Gavroche, after looking up, looked down; he stood on tiptoe and felt the doors and windows of the ground floors; they were all closed, bolted, and padlocked. After having noticed five or six fronts of houses barricaded in this way, the boy shrugged his shoulders and began to talk to himself in these terms: “Pardi!” Then he began to look up again. Jean Valjean, who, a moment before, in the state of mind in which he was, would not have spoken or even answered anyone, felt himself irresistibly impelled to address the child. “Little one,” he said, “what is the matter with you? ” “I am hungry,” replied Gavroche clearly. And he added: Little yourself. Jean Valjean rummaged in his pocket and took out a five- franc piece. But Gavroche, who was of the wagtail type and who quickly moved from one gesture to another, had just picked up a stone. He had noticed the street lamp. “Look,” he said, “you still have your lanterns here. You’re not in order, my friends. It’s disorderly. Break them.” And he threw the stone into the street lamp, the glass of which fell with such a Such a crash that some bourgeois, huddled under their curtains in the house opposite , cried: “There goes Ninety-three!” The street lamp swayed violently and went out. The street suddenly became dark. “That’s the old street,” said Gavroche, “put on your nightcap.” And turning to Jean Valjean: “What do you call that gigantic monument you have there at the end of the street? It’s the Archives, isn’t it? You ought to crumple up those big stupid columns a bit, and make a barricade of them.” Jean Valjean approached Gavroche. “Poor creature,” he said in a low voice, talking to himself, “he’s hungry.” And he put the hundred-sou piece in his hand. Gavroche raised his nose, astonished at the size of that large sou; he looked at it in the darkness, and the whiteness of the large sou dazzled him. He knew the five-franc pieces by hearsay; their reputation was agreeable to him; he was delighted to see one up close. He said: Let us contemplate the tiger. He considered it for a few moments with ecstasy; then, turning towards Jean Valjean, he held out the coin and said majestically: “Bourgeois, I prefer to break lanterns. Take back your ferocious beast. I am not corrupted. It has five claws; but it does not scratch me. ” “Have you a mother?” asked Jean Valjean. Gavroche replied: “Perhaps more than you. ” “Well,” continued Jean Valjean, “keep this money for your mother.” Gavroche felt himself stirred. Besides, he had just noticed that the man who was speaking to him did not have a hat, and that inspired confidence in him. “True,” he said, “it is not to prevent me from breaking street lamps?” “Break whatever you like. ” “You’re a good man,” said Gavroche. And he put the five-franc piece in one of his pockets. His confidence growing, he added: “Are you from the street? ” “Yes, why? ” “Could you tell me the number 7? ” “Why the number 7?” Here the child stopped; he feared he had said too much, he dug his nails vigorously into his hair, and merely replied: “Ah! There you are.” An idea crossed Jean Valjean’s mind. Anxiety has its lucidities. He said to the child: “Are you the one who brought me the letter I’m waiting for? ” “You?” said Gavroche. “You’re not a woman. ” “The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, isn’t it? ” “Cosette?” grumbled Gavroche. “Yes, I think that’s that funny name.” “Well,” continued Jean Valjean, “it is I who must give him the letter. Give it. ” “In that case, you must know that I have been sent from the barricade? ” “No doubt,” said Jean Valjean. Gavroche thrust his fist into another of his pockets and drew out a piece of paper folded in four. Then he gave the military salute. “Respect to the dispatch,” he said. “It comes from the provisional government. ” “Give it,” said Jean Valjean. Gavroche held the paper high above his head. “Don’t imagine that this is a love letter. It’s for a woman, but it’s for the people. We fight, and we respect the sex. We are not like in high society where there are lions who send chickens to camels. ” “Give it. ” “By the way,” continued Gavroche, “you seem like a good man to me. ” “Give it quickly.” “Here.” And he handed the paper to Jean Valjean. “And hurry, Monsieur Chose, since Miss Chosette is waiting.” Gavroche was satisfied to have produced this note. Jean Valjean continued: “Is it to Saint-Merry that the answer must be taken?” “You would make there,” cried Gavroche, “one of those pastries commonly called brioches. This letter comes from the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie and I am returning there. Good evening, citizen.” Having said this, Gavroche went away, or, to put it better, resumed his escaped flight towards the place from which he had come. He plunged back into the darkness as if he were making a hole in it, with the rigid rapidity of a missile; the alley of the Armed Man became silent and solitary again; in the twinkling of an eye, this strange child, who had shadow and dream in him, had plunged into the mist of these rows of black houses, and had lost himself there like smoke in darkness; and one might have believed him dissipated and vanished, if, a few minutes after his disappearance, a dazzling breaking of a window and the splendid crash of a street lamp crashing on the pavement had not suddenly awakened the indignant bourgeois once more . It was Gavroche passing along the Rue du Chaume. Chapter 76. While Cosette and Toussaint are asleep. Jean Valjean returned with Marius’s letter. He groped his way up the stairs, satisfied with the darkness like an owl that holds its prey, gently opened and closed his door, listened to see if he heard any noise, noted that, to all appearances, Cosette and Toussaint were asleep, plunged three or four matches into the bottle of the Fumade lighter before he could strike a spark, his hand trembled so much; there was something of theft in what he had just done. At last, his candle was lit, he leaned his elbows on the table, unfolded the paper, and read. In violent emotions, one does not read, one flattens, so to speak, the paper one holds, one clasps it like a victim, one crumples it, one digs into it the nails of one’s anger or one’s joy; one runs to the end, one leaps to the beginning; attention is feverish; it comprehends roughly, more or less, the essential; She seizes a point, and all the rest disappears. In Marius’s note to Cosette, Jean Valjean saw only these words: “…I am dying. When you read this, my soul will be near you.” In the presence of these two lines, he was horribly dazzled; he remained for a moment as if crushed by the change of emotion which was taking place within him, he looked at Marius’s note with a sort of drunken astonishment; he had before his eyes this splendor, the death of the hated being. He uttered a dreadful cry of inner joy.–So, it was over. The denouement was coming faster than anyone would have dared to hope. The being who encumbered his destiny was disappearing. He was going away of his own accord, freely, of good will. Without him, Jean Valjean, having done anything for it, without there being any fault of his, “this man” was going to die. Perhaps he was even already dead.–Here his fever made calculations.–No. He is not yet dead. The letter was evidently written to be read by Cosette the next morning; since those two discharges heard between eleven o’clock and midnight, nothing has happened; the barricade will not be seriously attacked until daybreak; but it is all the same, from the moment that “this man” is mixed up in this war, he is lost; he is caught in the machinery.–Jean Valjean felt himself delivered. He was then going to find himself alone with Cosette. The competition ceased; the future began anew. He had only to keep this note in his pocket. Cosette would never know what “this man” had become. “We must only let things take their course. This man cannot escape. If he is not dead yet, he is sure to die. What happiness!” Having said all this to himself, he became gloomy. Then he went downstairs and woke the porter. About an hour later, Jean Valjean came out in full National Guard uniform and armed. The porter had easily found him in the neighborhood what he needed to complete his equipment. He had a loaded rifle and a cartridge pouch full of cartridges. He headed toward the market halls. Chapter 77. Gavroche’s Excessive Zeal. Meanwhile, an adventure had just happened to Gavroche. Gavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the street lamp on the Rue du Chaume, approached the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, and not seeing “a soul” there, found the opportunity to sing all the song he was capable of. His walk, far from slowing down with the singing, accelerated. He began to sow these incendiary couplets along the sleeping or terrified houses: _The bird meditates in the bowers_ _And claims that yesterday Atala_ _With a Russian went away._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ _My friend Pierrot, you babble,_ _Because the other day Mila_ _Knocked her window, and called me._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ _The hussy girls are very nice;_ _Their poison which bewitched me_ _Would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ _I love love and its quarrels,_ _I love Agnes, I love Pamela,_ _Lise, lighting me up, burned herself._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ _Formerly, when I saw the mantillas_ _Of Suzette and Zéïla,_ _My soul mingled with their folds._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ _Love, when, in the shadow where you shine,_ _You dress Lola in roses,_ _I would damn myself for that._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la . _
_Jeanne, you dress yourself in your mirror!_ _My heart flew away one fine day;_ _I think it’s Jeanne who has it._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ _In the evening, coming out of the quadrilles,_ _I show Stella to the stars_ _And I say to them: look at her._ _Where do the beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ Gavroche, while singing, lavished pantomime. The gesture is the fulcrum of the refrain. His face, an inexhaustible repertoire of masks, made grimaces more convulsive and fanciful than the mouths of a ripped cloth in a strong wind. Unfortunately, as he was alone and in the night, this was neither seen nor visible. There are such riches lost. Suddenly he stopped short. “Let’s interrupt the romance,” he said. His feline pupil had just distinguished in the recess of a carriage door what is called in painting a set; that is to say, a being and a thing; the thing was a handcart, the being was an Auvergnat sleeping inside. The arms of the cart rested on the pavement and the head of the Auvergnat rested on the apron of the cart. His body curled up on this inclined plane and his feet touched the ground. Gavroche, with his experience of the things of this world, recognized a drunkard.
It was some local messenger who had drunk too much and was asleep. “That,” thought Gavroche, “is what summer nights are for. The Auvergnat falls asleep in his cart. We take the cart for the Republic and leave the Auvergnat to the monarchy.” His mind had just been illuminated by the following light: “This cart would look very good on our barricade.” The Auvergnat was snoring. Gavroche gently pulled the cart from the back and the Auvergnat from the front, that is to say, by the feet, and, after a minute, the Auvergnat, imperturbable, was lying flat on the pavement. The cart was free. Gavroche, accustomed to facing the unexpected on all sides, always had everything on him. He rummaged in one of his pockets and took out a scrap of paper and the end of a red pencil he had pinched from some carpenter. He wrote: _French Republic._ “Received your cart.” And he signed: “Gavroche.” This done, he put the paper in the pocket of the velvet waistcoat of the still snoring Auvergnat, seized the stretcher in his two fists, and set off in the direction of the market halls, pushing the cart ahead of him at full gallop with a glorious triumphant uproar. This was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing Office. Gavroche did not think about it. This post was occupied by National Guardsmen from the suburbs. A certain awakening was beginning to stir the squad, and heads were being lifted on their camp beds. Two street lamps broken in quick succession, this song sung at the top of one’s lungs, this was a lot for such cowardly streets, which want to sleep at sunset, and which put their extinguishers on their candles so early in the morning. For an hour the boy had been making the racket in this peaceful district like a gnat in a bottle. The sergeant from the suburbs listened. He waited. He was a prudent man. The frenzied rolling of the cart filled the measure of possible waiting , and determined the sergeant to attempt a reconnaissance. “There’s a whole gang here!” he said, “let’s go slowly.” It was clear that the Hydra of Anarchy had come out of its box and was making a run for it in the neighborhood. And the sergeant ventured out of the post with muffled steps. Suddenly, Gavroche, pushing his cart, just as he was about to emerge from the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes, found himself face to face with a uniform, a shako, a plume, and a rifle. For the second time, he stopped dead. “Look,” he said, “it’s him. Good morning, public order. ” Gavroche’s astonishment was brief and quickly thawed. “Where are you going, thug?” shouted the sergeant. “Citizen,” said Gavroche, “I haven’t called you bourgeois yet. Why are you insulting me? ” “Where are you going, rascal?” “Sir,” Gavroche continued, “you may have been a man of wit yesterday, but you were dismissed this morning. ” “I ask you where you are going, you scoundrel? ” Gavroche replied: “You speak kindly. True, no one would give you your age. You should sell all your hair for a hundred francs apiece. That would make you five hundred francs. ” “Where are you going? Where are you going? Where are you going, bandit? ” Gavroche replied: “Those are ugly words. The first time you are given to suckle, they must wipe your mouth better. ” The sergeant crossed his bayonet. “Will you tell me where you are going, in the end, you wretch? ” “General,” said Gavroche, “I am going to get the doctor for my wife who is in labor. ” “To arms!” shouted the sergeant. ” To save yourself by what has ruined you is the masterpiece of strong men; Gavroche took in the whole situation at a glance. It was the cart that had compromised him; it was up to the cart to protect him. At the moment when the sergeant was about to fall upon Gavroche, the cart, having become a projectile and being hurled at full speed, rolled furiously over him, and the sergeant, hit full in the stomach, fell backward into the gutter while his rifle flew into the air. At the sergeant’s shout, the men from the post came out pell-mell; the shot caused a general discharge at random, after which the weapons were reloaded and started again. This blind-man’s-buff musketry lasted a good quarter of an hour, and destroyed several panes of glass. Meanwhile, Gavroche, who had frantically turned back, stopped five or six streets away and sat panting on the marker that marks the corner of the Enfants-Rouges. He listened. After breathing for a few moments, he turned to the side where the shooting was raging, raised his left hand to the height of his nose, and threw it forward three times while striking the back of his head with his right hand; a sovereign gesture in which Parisian childishness has condensed French irony, and which is evidently effective, since it has already lasted half a century. This gaiety was troubled by a bitter reflection. “Yes,” he said, “I giggle, I writhe, I overflow with joy, but I lose my route, I’ll have to make a detour. Provided I arrive in time at the barricade! With that, he resumed his run. And while running: “Ah, where was I?” he said. He began to sing his song again as he quickly plunged into the streets, and this faded into the darkness: “But there are still bastilles,_ _And I’m going to put a stop to_ _this public order._ _Where do the pretty girls go,_ _Lon la._ _Does anyone want to play skittles?_ _The whole old world collapsed_ _When the big ball rolled._ _Where do the pretty girls go,_ _Lon la._ _Old good people, with crutches_ _Let’s break this Louvre where was displayed_ _The monarchy in a frilly state._ _Where do the pretty girls go,_ _Lon la. _ _We forced the gates;_ _King Charles Dix that day_ _He was holding on badly and came unstuck._ _Where do beautiful girls go,_ _Lon la._ The taking of arms at the post was not without result. The cart was captured, the drunkard was taken prisoner. One was impounded; the other was later prosecuted before the courts martial as an accomplice. The public prosecutor of the time demonstrated in this circumstance his tireless zeal for the defense of society. The Gavroche adventure, which has remained in the tradition of the Temple district, is one of the most terrible memories of the old bourgeois of the Marais, and is entitled in their memoirs: Night attack on the post of the Royal Printing House. Thus ends this section where Victor Hugo takes us from the hushed shadows of the secret gardens to the fury of the barricades. Marius and Cosette, carried by the purity of their love, find themselves swept away in the torrent of History, where destinies are forged in din and blood. Idyll and epic come together, revealing the complexity of the human soul, capable of both reaching out and brandishing a rifle. This volume leaves us on the edge of a changing world, with the vibrant echo of the voices raised for justice.
Plongez au cœur du **Tome IV de *Les Misérables*** de Victor Hugo : *L’idylle rue Plumet et l’épopée rue Saint-Denis*. Ce volume marie l’intimité d’un amour pur à l’intensité d’événements historiques marquants, offrant un contraste saisissant entre douceur et révolution. 💖⚔️
Dans cette partie, **Marius et Cosette** vivent une idylle tendre et secrète, tandis que l’ombre des bouleversements politiques se profile. Les passions privées se mêlent aux échos de l’histoire, et chaque page nous entraîne dans un tourbillon d’émotions : la délicatesse des sentiments, la force de l’amitié, et le souffle de la lutte pour la justice. 🌹🔥
Vous découvrirez :
– 🌿 La romance touchante entre Marius et Cosette, portée par l’innocence et l’espoir.
– 🛡️ Les idéaux et sacrifices des amis de l’ABC, prêts à mourir pour la liberté.
– 🏛️ Le contexte vibrant de Paris à l’aube des révoltes.
– ⚖️ Les dilemmes moraux, entre amour, devoir et engagement.
Ce chef-d’œuvre illustre la puissance de la littérature à unir la poésie des cœurs et la grandeur des idéaux. Hugo dépeint magistralement la condition humaine, entre fragilité et héroïsme. ✨
📌 Abonnez-vous pour ne manquer aucune œuvre littéraire intemporelle : https://bit.ly/LivresAudioLaMagieDesMots
-📖 Les Misérables Tome I : Fantine – Victor Hugo ✨ [https://youtu.be/tYTtwllcF14]
-📖 Les Misérables – Tome II: Cosette ✨ Victor Hugo [https://youtu.be/TXKQ8iRTpsM]
-📖 Les Misérables – Tome III : Marius | Victor Hugo 🌟 [https://youtu.be/boYFIB43VxU]
📚 Les Misérables – Tome IV : L’idylle rue Plumet et l’épopée rue Saint-Denis 🌟 [https://youtu.be/-_oeGibDDuE]
-Notre-Dame de Paris – Tome 2 🏰📚 [https://youtu.be/Td8C3UNJ26o]
-🌊📚 Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers — Partie 1 | Jules Verne 🚢🐙[https://youtu.be/fpH1IsazeOA]
–📜 Micah Clarke – Tome I | Arthur Conan Doyle ✨ [https://youtu.be/255ZBJMXVrU]
-Micah Clarke – Tome II 📜⚔️ Par Arthur Conan Doyle [https://youtu.be/FqAoGRUqDbE]
#LesMiserables #VictorHugo #LitteratureFrançaise
🎯 **Hashtags SEO optimisés :**
#LesMisérables #VictorHugo #LivreAudio #RomanHistorique #ClassiqueFrançais #Cosette #Marius #RuePlumet #RévolutionParisienne #LittératureClassique #ChefDoeuvre #RomanFrançais #AmourEtRévolution #VictorHugoLivreAudio #LivresAudioGratuits #LectureFrançaise #RomanDu19eSiècle #Barricades #HistoireDeFrance #AudioLivre
**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:15:38 Chapter 3.
4件のコメント
👍 N'oubliez pas de liker, partager, commenter et vous abonner ! 🔔📲
j'adore histoire de les miserables
#1 ❤
Mencionaste encontrar propósito en los pequeños momentos de la vida, y eso realmente ha cambiado cómo veo mis días. He estado tan obsesionado con alcanzar grandes logros que he pasado por alto la belleza de las experiencias cotidianas. Esto se siente como una invitación a desacelerar y vivir de verdad.
Kanal sahibi türk ise instagramdab bana ulaşşsın :d