Skip to main content

Full text of "Les misérables"

See other formats 


JBequeatbeD 

to 

TLbc  mniversltip  of  Toronto  Xibrarp 

bs 

Ube  late  /IDaudce  Ibutton, 

/IB.B.»  TLX.D. 

Iprfncipal  of  Tnnfvcreltg  Collège 

1901*1928 


7    C{^«.v-cC'<'«^-^   '  ^^ 


LES    MISÉRABLES. 


Part   Fifth. 

JEAN     VALJEAN. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2010  with  funding  from 

University  of  Ottawa 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/lesmisrablesimg05liugo 


DE  AT  H     OF     VALtJEAN. 


LES 


SERABLES. 


By  VICTOR  HUGO. 


Part  Fifth. 


JEAN    VALJEAK 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND   COMPANY. 

1892. 


»w«rm"W^ajiMi*i 


Copyright,  1SS7, 
By  Little,  Beown,  and  Compant. 


University  Press: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


JEAN  VALJEAN. 


iSoofe  f. 

THE  WAll   WITHIN   FOUR  WALLS. 

Chapter  Page 

I.     The  Charybdis  of  the  Faubourg  St.  An- 
toine  AND   THE    SCYLLA   OF  THE    FaUBOURG 

DU  Temple 1 

II.       XOTHING   TO    Do   IN    THE    AbYSS    BUT    TaLK      .       12 

III.  Clearing  and  Clouding 18 

IV.  FivE  Less  and  One  More 21 

V.     The   Horizon   one   sees   from    the    Barri- 

cade's  Summit 31 

VI.     Marius  haggard,  Javert  laconic      ...  37 

VII.     The  Situation  becomes  Aggravated     .     .  40 

VIII.     The  Artillery  sets  to  work  in  Earnest  46 

IX.     Employment  of  THE   Poacher's  Old  Skill 

and  his  Unerring   Shot,  which  had  an 

Influence  on  the  Condemnation  in  1796  50 

X.     Dawn 53 

XI.     The  Shot  which  does  not  Miss  and  which 

KiLLS    NOBODY 59 

XII.     DisoRDER  the  Partisan  of  Order      ...     61 
XIII.     Gleams  which  Fade 66 


VI 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


Chaptee  I^age 
XIV.     In   which   we   read   the   Name    of   tue 

MiSTREss  OF  Enjolkas     ......  G9 

XV.     Gavroche  Outside 72 

XVI.     How  a  Brother  becomes  a  Father  .     .  77 
XVII.     MoRTuus  Pater  Filium  Moriturûm  ex- 

PECTAT 89 

XVIII.     The  Vulture  becomes  Frey      ....  92 

XIX.     Jean  Val.jean  Revenges  Himself      .     .  98 
XX.     The   De  ad  are    Right  and  the   Living 

are  not  Wrong 102 

XXI.     The  Heroes 115 

XXII.     Step  by  Step 121 

XXIII.  Orestes  sober  and  Pylades  drunk  .     .  126 

XXIV.  Prisoner!       131 


BoOft     IL 

THE   INTESTINE   OF   LEVIATHAN. 

I.     The  Earth  impoverished  by  the  Sea  .  135 

II.     The  Old  History  of  the  Sewer  .     .     .  141 

III.  Bruneseau 146 

IV.  Concealed  Détails         151 

V.     Présent  Progress 157 

VI.     Future  Progress 159 


23oofe   III. 

MUD,   BUT   SOUL. 


I.  The  Cloaca  and  its  Surprises      .     .     .  166 

IL       EXPLANATION 175 

IIL     The  Tracked  Man 178 

IV.     He  toc  bears  his  Cross 184 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS.  vii 

Chapter  Page 

V.     Sand,  lire  Woman,  has  a  Fineness  that 

•                is  Perfidious 189 

VI.     The  Fontis 196 

VII.       SOMETIMES     ONE     IS     StRANDED     WHERE     HE 

THINKS    TO    LaND 199 

VIII.     The  Torn  Coat-Skirt 203 

IX.     Marius   appears  Dead  to  a  Connoisseur  210 

X.     Return  of  THE  Son  prodigal  of  his  Life  216 

XI.     A  ShAKING  in  THE  Absolute 219 

XIL     The  Grandfather 222 


Booit    IV. 
JAVERT  DERAILED 230 

Booft   V. 

GRANDSON    AND    GRANDFATHER. 

I.     Where  we   again   meet  THE   Tree   with 

THE  Zinc  Patch 247 

II.     Marius,  leaving  Civil  War,  prépares  for 

a  Domestic  War 252 

III.  Marius  Attacks 259 

IV.  Mlle.   Gillenormand   has   no   Objections 

TO  THE  Match 264 

V.     Deposit  your  Money  in  a  Forest  rather 

THAN   WITH   A    NoTARY 272 

VI.     The  Two  Old  Men,  each  in  his  Fashion, 

DO  Everything  for  Cosette's  Happiness     274 
VII.     The  Effects  of  Dreaming  blended  with 

Happiness 2S6 

Vni.     Two  Men  impossible  to  Find 290 


viii  TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


Boofe   VI. 

THE   SLEEPLESS  NIGHT.   " 

Chapter  Page 

I.     February  16,  1833 296 

II.     Jean   Valjean    still    has    his    Akm    in    a 

Sling 309 

III.  The  Inséparable 322 

IV.  Immortale  Jecur 326 


ÎSOOÏÎ    VII. 

THE   LAST   DROP  IN   THE  BITTER  CUP. 

I.     The     Seventh    Circle    and    the    Eighth 

Heaven 332 

II.     TrfE  Obscurity  which   a   Révélation  may 

CONTAIN 357 


Boolt    VIII. 


TWILIGHT   DECLINES. 

I.     The  Ground-floor  Room 369 

II.     Other  Backward  Steps 376 

III.  They  remember  the  Garden  in  the  Rue 

Plumet 380 

IV.  Attraction  and  Extinction 387 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 


33ooit   IX. 

SUPREME  DARKNESS,  SUPREME  DAWN. 

Chaptee  Pauk 

I.       PlTY    THE    UnHAPPY,     BUT    BE     InDULGEXT    TO 

THE   IIappy 390 

IL     The  Last  Flutterings  of  the  Lamp  with- 

ouT  OïL 394 

III.  A   Pen   is   too   Heavy   for   the    Man  who 

LiFTED  Fauchelevent's  Cart       ....     397 

IV.  A  Bottle  of  Ink  which  only  Whitexs      .     401 

V.       A    NiGHT    BEHIND   WHICH    IS    DaY         ....       427 

VI.     The  Grass  hides,  and  the  Rain  effaces  .     441 


JEAN    YALJEAK 


BOOK  I. 
THE  WAR  WITHIX  FOUR  WALLS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  CHARYBDIS  OF  THE  FAUBOURG  ST.  ANTOINE 
AND  THE  SCYLLA  OF  THE  FAUBOURG  DU 
TEMPLE. 

The  two  most  mémorable  barricades  wliich  the 
observer  of  social  diseases  eau  mention  do  not  be- 
long  to  the  period  in  which  the  action  of  this  book 
is  laid.  Thèse  two  barricades,  both  symbols  under 
différent  aspects  of  a  formidable  situation,  emerged 
from  the  earth  during  the  fatal  insurrectiou  of  June, 
1848,  the  greatest  street-war  which  historj  has  seen. 
It  happeus  sometimes  that  the  canaille,  that  great 
despairing  crowd,  contrary  to  principles,  eveu  cou- 
trary  to  liberty,  equality,  and  fraternity,  eveu  con- 
trary to  the  universal  vote,  the  goverument  of  ail  by 
ail,  protests,  in  the  depths  of  its  agony,  its  discour- 
agement,  its  destitution,  its  fevers,  its  distresses,  its 
miasmas,  its  ignorance,  and  its  darkness,  and  the 
populace  ofFers  battle  to  the  people.  The  beggars 
attack   the   common   right,  the   ochlocracy  rises  in 


2  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

insurrection  against  thc  démos.  Those  are  mournful 
days  ;  for  tliere  is  always  a  certain  ainouut  of  right 
even  in  this  mania,  there  is  suicide  in  this  duel,  and 
thèse  words,  intended  to  be  insults,  such  as  beggars, 
canaille,  ochlocracy,  and  populace,  prove,  alas  !  rather 
the  fault  of  those  who  reign  than  the  fanlt  of  those 
who  suffer  ;  rather  the  fault  of  the  privileged  than 
the  fault  of  the  disinherited.  For  our  part,  we 
never  pronounce  thèse  words  without  grief  and  re- 
spect, for  when  philosophy  probes  the  facts  with 
which  they  correspond  it  often  finds  much  grandeur 
by  the  side  of  misery.  Athens  was  an  ochlocracy  ; 
the  beggars  produced  Holland  ;  the  populace  more 
than  once  saved  Rome  ;  and  the  canaille  followed 
the  Saviour.  There  is  no  thinker  who  has  not  at 
times  contemplated  the  magnificence  below.  Saint 
Jérôme  doubtless  thought  of  this  canaille,  of  ail 
thèse  poor  people,  ail  thèse  vagabonds,  and  ail  the 
wretches  whence  the  apostles  and  martyrs  issued, 
when  he  uttered  the  mysterious  words,  —  "  Fex 
urbis,  lux  orbis." 

The  exaspérations  of  this  mob,  which  sufFers  and 
which  bleeds,  its  unwilling  violence  against  the  prin- 
ciples  which  are  its  life,  its  assaults  upon  the  right, 
are  popular  coups  d'état,  and  nuist  be  repressed. 
Thc  just  man  dévotes  himself,  and  through  love  for 
this  very  mob,  combats  it.  But  how  excusable  he 
finds  it  while  resisting  it  ;  how  he  vénérâtes  it,  even 
while  opposing  it  !  It  is  one  of  those  rare  moments 
in  which  a  man  while  doing  his  duty  feels  something 
that  disconcerts  him,  and  almost  dissuades  him  from 
going  further  ;  he  persists,  and  nmst  do  so,  but  the 


CHARYBDIS   AND   SCYLLA.  3 

satisfied  conscience  is  sad,  and  the  accomplishment 
of  the  duty  is  complicated  by  a  contraction  of  the 
heart.  June,  1848,  was,  lot  us  hasten  to  say,  a 
separate  fact,  and  ahnost  impossible  to  classify  in 
the  philosophy  of  histoiy.  AU  the  words  we  hâve 
uttered  must  be  laid  aside  when  we  hâve  to  deal 
with  tins  extraordinary  riot,  in  which  the  holy  anxiety 
of  labor  claiming  its  right  was  felt.  It  must  be  com- 
bated,  and  it  was  a  duty  to  do  so,  for  it  attackcd  the 
Republic  ;  but,  in  reality,  what  was  June,  1848  ? 
A  revolt  of  the  people  against  itself.  When  the 
subject  is  not  left  ont  of  sight  there  is  no  digression, 
and  hence  we  may  be  permitted  to  concentrate  the 
reader's  attention  momentarily  upon  the  two  abso- 
lutely  ur  iquo  barricades  to  which  we  hâve  alluded, 
and  which  charactcrized  this  insurrection.  The  one 
blocked  up  the  entrance  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine, 
the  other  defended  the  approachcs  to  the  Faubourg 
du  Temple  ;  those  bcfore  whoni  thèse  two  frightful 
masterpieces  of  civil  war  were  raised  in  the  dazzling 
June  sun  will  never  forget  thera. 

The  St.  Antoine  barricade  was  monstrous  ;  it  was 
three  stories  high  and  seven  hundred  feet  in  width. 
It  barred  from  one  corner  to  the  other  the  vast 
mouth  of  the  faubourg,  that  is  to  say,  three  streets  ; 
ravined,  slashed,  serrated,  surmounted  by  an  immense 
jagged  line,  supported  by  masses  which  were  them- 
selves  bastions,  pushing  ont  capes  hère  and  there, 
and  powerfully  reinforced  by  the  two  great  promon- 
tories  of  the  houses  of  the  faubourg,  it  rose  like 
a  Cyclopean  wall  at  the  back  of  the  formidable 
square  which  had  seen  July  14.     There  were  nine- 


4  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

teen  barricades  erected  in  the  streets  behind  the 
mother  barricade  ;  but,  on  seeing  it,  you  felt  in  the 
faubourg  the  immense  agonizing  sufFering  which  had 
reached  that  extrême  stage  in  wliich  misery  desires 
to  come  to  a  catastrophe.  Of  what  vvas  this  barri- 
cade made  ?  Of  the  tumbling  in  of  three  six-storied 
houses  demolished  on  purpose,  say  some  ;  of  the 
prodigy  of  ail  the  passions,  say  others.  It  possessed 
the  lamentable  aspect  of  ail  the  buildings  of  hatred, 
ruin.  You  might  ask  who  built  this,  and  you 
might  also  ask  who  destroyed  this.  It  was  the 
improvisation  of  the  ebullition.  Hère  with  that  door, 
that  grating,  that  awning,  that  chimney,  that  broken 
stove,  that  cracked  stewpan  !  Give  us  anything  ! 
Throw  éverything  in  !  Push,  roll,  pick,  d'smantle, 
overthrow,  and  pull  down  éverything  !  It  was  a 
collaboration  of  the  pavement-stones,  beams,  iron 
bars,  planks,  broken  Windows,  unseated  chairs,  cab- 
bage-stalks,  rags,  tatters,  and  curses.  It  was  great 
and  it  was  little  ;  it  was  the  abyss  parodied  on  the 
square  by  tlie  hurly-burly.  It  was  the  mass  side  by 
side  with  the  atom,  a  pulled-down  wall  and  a  broken 
pipkin,  a  mcnacing  fraternization  of  ail  fragments, 
into  which  Sisyphus  had  cast  his  rock  and  Job  his 
potsherds.  Altogether  it  was  terrible,  —  it  was  the 
acropolis  of  the  barefootcd.  Overturned  carts  studded 
the  slope  ;  an  immense  wagon  sprcad  out  across  it, 
with  its  wheels  to  the  sky,  and  looked  like  a  scar 
on  this  tumultuous  façade  ;  an  omnibus  gayly  hoisted 
by  strength  of  arm  to  the  very  top  of  the  pile,  as 
if  the  architects  of  this  savage  édifice  had  wished 
to  add  mockery  to  the  horror,  offered  its  bare  pôle 


CHARYBDIS   AND   SCYLLA.  5 

to  the  horses  of  the  air.  Tins  gigantic  mound,  the 
alluvium  of  the  riot,  represented  to  the  mind  an 
Ossa  upon  Pelion  of  ail  révolutions,  —  '93  upon  '89, 
the  9th  Thermidor  upon  the  lOth  August,  the  18th 
Brumaire  upon  January  21  st,  Vendémiaire  upon 
Prairial,  1848  upon  1830.  The  place  was  worth 
the  trouble,  and  this  barricade  was  worthy  of  appear- 
ing  upon  the  very  spot  whence  the  Bastille  had  dis- 
appeared.  If  the  océan  made  dykes  it  would  build 
them  in  this  way,  and  the  fury  of  the  tide  was 
stamped  on  this  shapeless  encumbrance.  What  tide  ? 
The  multitude.  You  fancied  that  you  saw  a  petrified 
riot,  and  heard  the  enormous  dark  bées  of  violent 
progress  humming  about  this  barricade  as  if  they 
had  their  hive  there.  Was  it  a  thicket  ?  Was  it  a 
Bacchanalian  feast  ?  Was  it  a  fortress  ?  Vcrtigo 
seemed  to  hâve  built  it  with  the  flapping  of  its 
wings.  There  was  a  sewer  in  this  redoubt,  and 
something  Olympian  in  this  mass.  You  saw  there 
in  a  confused  heap,  full  of  desperation,  gables  of 
roofs,  pièces  of  garrets  with  their  painted  paper, 
window-frames  with  ail  their  panes  planted  in  the 
rubbish  and  awaiting  the  cannon,  pulled-down  mantel- 
pieces,  chests  of  drawers,  tables,  benches,  a  howling 
topsy-turvy,  and  those  thousand  wretched  things  cast 
away  even  by  a  beggar  which  contain  at  once  fury 
and  uothingness.  It  may  be  said  that  it  was  the 
rags  of  a  people,  rags  of  wood,  of  iron,  of  bronze, 
of  stone  ;  that  the  Faubourg  St.  Antoine  had  swept 
them  to  their  door  with  a  gigantic  broom,  and  made 
a  barricade  of  their  misery.  Logs  resembling  exe- 
cutiouers'  blocks,  disjointed  chains,  anvil-frames  of 


6  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

the  shape  of  gallows,  horizontal  wheels  emerging 
from  the  heap,  produced  on  this  édifice  of  anarchy 
the  représentation  of  the  okl  punislnnent  suflered 
by  the  people.  The  St.  Antoine  barricade  made  a 
wéapon  of  everything.  Ail  that  civil  war  can  throw 
at  the  head  of  society  came  from  it  ;  it  was  uot  a 
fight  but  a  paroxysm  :  the  muskets  which  defended 
this  redoubt,  among  which  were  several  blmider- 
busses,  discharged  stones,  bones,  coat-buttons,  and 
even  the  casters  of  niglit-commodes,  very  dangerous 
owing  to  the  copper.  This  barricade  was  furious  ; 
it  hurled  an  indescribable  clamor  into  the  clouds  ; 
at  certain  moments  when  challenging  the  army  it 
was  covered  witli  a.crowd  and  a  tempest  ;  it  had  a 
prickly  crest  of  guns,  sabres,  sticks,  axes,  pikes,  and 
bayonets  ;  a  mighty  red  flag  fluttered  upon  it  in  the 
breeze,  and  the  cries  of  command,  the  songs  of  attack, 
the  rolling  of  the  drum,  the  sobs  of  women,  and  the 
sardonic  laughter  of  men  dying  of  starvation  could 
be  heard  there.  It  was  immeasurable  and  living, 
and  a  flash  of  lightning  issued  from  it  as  from  the 
back  of  an  electric  animal.  The  spirit  of  révolution 
covered  with  its  cloud  this  suramit,  where  that  voice 
of  the  people  which  resembles  the  voice  of  God  was 
growling,  and  a  strange  majesty  was  disengaged  from 
tliis  Titanic  mass  of  stones.  It  was  a  dungheap,  and 
it  was  Sinai. 

As  we  said  above,  it  attacked  in  the  name  of  the 
révolution — what?  The  révolution.  It,  this  barri- 
cade, an  accident,  a  disorder,  a  misunderstanding,  an 
unknown  thing,  had,  facing  it,  the  constituent  assem- 
bly,  the  sovereignty  of  the  people,  universal  suffrage. 


CHARYBDIS  AND   SCYLLA.  7 

tlie  nation,  the  republic  :  and  it  was  the  Carmagnole 
defying  the  Marseillaise.  A  mad  défiance,  but  heroic, 
for  tins  old  faubourg  is  a  hero.  The  faubourg  and 
its  redoubt  supported  eacli  other  ;  the  faubourg  rested 
on  the  redoubt,  and  the  redoubt  backed  against  the 
faubourg.  The  vast  barricade  was  like  a  cliff  against 
which  the  strategy  of  the  African  gênerais  was 
broken.  Its  caverns,  its  excrescences,  its  warts,  its 
humps,  made  grimaces,  if  we  niaj  employ  the  ex- 
pression, and  grinned  behind  the  smoke.  The  grape- 
shot  vanished  in  the  shapeless  heap  ;  shells  buried 
themselves  in  it  and  were  swallowed  up  ;  cannon- 
balls  only  succeeded  in  forming  holes,  for  of  what 
use  is  it  bonibarding  chaos  ?  And  the  régiments,  ac- 
customed  to  the  sternest  visions  of  war,  gazed  witli 
anxious  eye  at  this  species  of  wild-beast  redoubt, 
which  was  a  boar  through  its  bristling  and  a  moun- 
tain  through  its  enormity. 

A  quarter  of  a  league  farther  on,  at  the  corner 
of  the  Rue  du  Temple,  which  débouches  on  the 
boulevard  near  the  Château  d'Eau,  if  y  ou  boldly  ad- 
vanced  your  head  beyond  the  point  formed  by  the 
projection  of  the  magazine  Dallemagne,  y  ou  could 
see  in  the  distance  across  the  canal,  and  at  the  high- 
est  point  of  the  ascent  to  Belleville,  a  strange  wall 
rising  to  the  second  floor  and  forming  a  sort  of  Con- 
necting link  between  the  houses  on  the  right  and 
those  on  the  left,  as  if  the  street  had  folded  back  its 
highest  wall  in  order  to  close  itself  up.  This  was 
built  of  paving-stones  ;  it  was  tall,  straight,  correct, 
cold,  perpeudicular,  and  levelled  with  the  plumb-line 
and  the  square  ;  of  course  there  was  no  cément,  but, 


8  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

as  in  some  Roman  walls,  this  in  no  way  disturbed  its 
rigid  architecture.  From  its  height,  its  thickness 
couîd  be  guessed,  for  the  entablature  was  mathemati- 
cally  parallel  to  the  basement.  At  regidar  distances 
almost  invisible  loopholes,  resembling  black  threads, 
could  be  distinguished  in  the  gray  wall,  separated 
from  each  other  by  equal  intervais.  This  street  was 
deserted  throaghout  its  length,  and  ail  the  Windows 
and  doors  were  closed.  In  the  background  rose  this 
bar,  which  converted  the  street  into  a  blind  alley  ;  it 
was  a  motionless  and  tranquil  wall  ;  no  one  was  seen, 
nothing  was  heard,  not  a  cry,  nor  a  sound,  nor  a 
breath.  It  was  a  sepulchre.  The  dazzling  June  sun 
innndated  this  terrible  thing  with  light,  —  it  was  the 
barricade  of  the  Faubourg  du  Temple.  So  soon  as 
you  reached  the  ground  and  perceived  it,  it  was  im- 
possible even  for  the  boldest  not  to  become  pensive 
in  the  présence  of  this  mysterious  apparition.  It 
was  adjusted,  clamped,  imbricated,  rectilinear,  sym- 
mctrical,  and  funereal  ;  science  and  darkness  were 
there.  You  felt  that  the  chief  of  this  barricade  was 
a  geometrician  or  a  spectre,  and  as  you  gazed  you 
spoke  in  a  whisper.  From  time  to  time  if  any  one  — 
private,  officer,  or  représentative  of  the  people  —  ven- 
tured  to  cross  the  solitary  road,  a  shrill  faint  whist- 
ling  was  heard,  and  the  passer-by  fell  wounded  or 
dead  ;  or,  if  he  escaped,  a  bullet  could  be  seen  to 
bury  itself  in  some  shuttcr,  or  the  stucco  of  the  wall. 
Sometimes  it  was  a  grape-shot,  for  the  man  of  the 
barricade  liad  made  ont  of  gas-pipes,  stoppcd  up 
at  one  end  with  tow  and  clay,  two  small  cannon.. 
There  was  no  useleas  expenditure  of  gunpowder,  smà 


CHARYBDIS   AND   SCYLLA.  9 

nearly  every  shot  told.  There  were  a  few  corpses 
hère  and  there,  and  patches  of  blood  ou  the  pave- 
ment. I  reniember  a  white  butterfly  that  fluttered 
up  and  down  the  street  ;  summer  does  not  abdieate. 
Ail  the  gateways  in  the  vicinity  were  crowded  with 
corpses,  and  you  felt  in  tliis  street  that  you  were 
covered  by  some  one  you  could  not  see,  and  that 
the  whole  street  w^as  under  tlie  marksman's  aim. 

The  soldiers  of  the  attaeking  colunni,  massed  be- 
hind  the  species  of  ridge  which  the  canal  bridge 
forms  at  the  entrance  of  the  Faubourg  du  Temple, 
watched  gravely  and  thoughtfully  tliis  mournful  re- 
doubt,  this  immobility,  tliis  impassiveness,  from  which 
death  issued.  Some  crawled  on  tlieir  stomachs  to 
the  top  of  the  pitch  of  the  bridge,  while  careful  not 
to  let  their  shakos  pass  beyond  it.  Brave  Colonel 
Monteynard  admired  this  barricade  with  a  tremor. 
*'  How  it  is  built,"  he  said  to  a  représentative  ;  "  not 
a  single  paving-stone  projects  beyond  the  other.  It 
is  raade  of  porcelain."  At  this  moment  a  bullet 
smashcd  the  cross  on  his  chest  and  he  fell.  "  The 
cowards  !  "  the  troops  shouted,  "  Why  do  they  not 
show  themselves  ?  They  dare  not  !  They  hide  !  " 
The  barricade  of  the  Faubourg  du  Temple,  defended 
by  eighty  men  and  attacked  by  ten  thousand,  held 
out  for  three  days,  and  on  the  fourth  day  the  troops 
ftcted  as  they  had  doue  at  Zaatcha  and  Constantine, 
--they  broke  through  houses,  passed  along  roofs, 
and  the  barricade  was  takeu.  Not  one  of  the  eighty 
cowards  dreamed  of  flying  ;  ail  were  killed  with  the 
exception  of  Barthélémy,  the  chief,  to  whom  we  shall 
allude  directly.     The  barricade  of  St.  Antoine  was 


10  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

the  tumult  of  the  thunder  ;  tlie  barricade  of  the 
Temple  was  the  silence.  ïhere  was  between  the 
two  barricades  the  saine  différence  as  exists  between 
the  formidable  and  the  sinister.  The  one  seemed  a 
throat,  the  other  a  mask.  Adniitting  that  the  gigan- 
tic  and  dark  insurrection  of  June  was  composed  of 
a  fury  and  an  enigma,  the  dragon  was  seen  in  the 
first  barricade  and  the  sphinx  behind  the  second. 

Thèse  two  fortresses  were  built  hj  two  men, 
Cournet  and  Barthélémy  :  Cournct  made  the  St. 
Antoine  barricade,  Barthélémy  the  Temple  barricade, 
and  each  of  them  was  the  image  of  the  man  who 
built  it.  Cournet  was  a  man  of  tall  stature  ;  he  had 
wide  shoulders,  a  red  face,  a  smashing  fist,  a  brave 
heart,  a  loyal  soûl,  a  sincère  and  terrible  eye.  He 
was  intrepid,  energetic,  irascible,  and  stormy  ;  the 
most  cordial  of  men,  and  the  most  formidable  of 
combatants.  War,  contest,  medley  were  the  air  he 
breathed,  and  put  him  in  good  temper.  He  had 
been  an  officer  in  the  navy,  and  from  his  gestures 
and  his  voice  it  could  be  divined  that  he  issued  from 
the  océan  and  came  from  the  tempest  ;  he  contin- 
ued  the  hurricane  in  battle.  Omitting  the  genius, 
there  was  in  Cournet  something  of  Danton,  as, 
omitting  the  divinity,  there  was  in  Danton  something 
of  Hercules.  Barthélémy,  thin,  weak,  pale,  and 
taciturn,  was  a  species  of  tragical  gamin,  who,  having 
been  struck  by  a  policeman,  watched  for  him,  waited 
for  him,  and  killed  him,  and  at  the  âge  of  seventeen 
was  sent  to  the  galleys.  He  came  out  and  built  this 
barricade.  At  a  later  date,  when  both  were  exiles 
in  London,  Barthélémy   killed   Cournet  :    it  was   a 


CHARYBDIS  AND    SCYLLA.  11 

melancholy  duel.  Some  time  after  that,  Barthélémy^ 
caught  iu  tbe  cog-wheels  of  oiie  of  those  niysterious 
aclventures  in  whieli  passion  is  mingled,  catastrophes 
in  which  French  justice  sees  extenuating  circura- 
stances  and  English  justice  only  sees  death,  was 
hanged.  The  gloomy  social  édifice  is  so  built  that, 
owing  to  maternai  denudation  and  moral  darkness, 
this  wretched  being,  who  had  had  an  intellect,  cer- 
tainly  firm  and  possibly  great,  began  with  the  galleys 
in  France  and  ended  with  the  gibbet  in  England. 
Barthélémy  only  hoisted  one  flag,  —  it  was  the  black 
one. 


CHAPTER  II. 

NOTHING  TO  DO  IX  THE  ABYSS  BUT  TALK. 

SiXTEEN  years  count  in  the  subterranean  éduca- 
tion of  revolt,  and  June,  1848,  knew  a  great  deal 
more  than  June,  1832.  Hence  the  barricade  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie  was  onlj  a  sketch  and  an 
embryo  when  compared  with  the  two  colossal  bar- 
ricades which  we  bave  just  described  ;  but  for  the 
period  it  was  formidable.  The  insurgents,  under  the 
eye  of  Enjolras, — for  Marins  no  longer  looked  at  any- 
thing,  —  had  turned  the  night  to  good  account  :  tlie 
barricade  had  not  only  been  repaired  but  increased. 
It  had  been  raised  two  feet,  and  iron  bars  planted 
in  the  paving-stones  rcsembled  lances  in  rest.  AU 
sorts  of  rubbish,  added  and  brought  from  ail  sides, 
complicated  the  external  confusion,  and  the  redoubt 
had  been  cleverly  converted  into  a  wall  inside  and  a 
thicket  outside.  The  staircase  of  paving-stones,  which 
allowed  the  top  of  the  barricade  to  be  reached,  wns 
rcstored,  the  ground-floor  of  the  room  of  the  inn  was 
cleared  ont,  the  kitchen  converted  into  an  infirmary, 
the  wounds  were  dressed,  the  powder  scattered  aboiit 
the  tables  and  floor  was  collected,  bullcts  were  cast, 
cartridges  manufactured,  lint  plucked,  the  fallen  arms 
distributed  ;  the  dead  were  carried  off  and  laid  in  a 


NOTHING  TO  DO  IN  THE  ABYSS  BUT  TALK.   13 

heap  in  the  Mondétour  Lane,  of  which  they  were 
still  masters.  The  paA^emeiit  remained  for  a  long 
time  red  at  that  s))ot.  Amoiig  the  dcad  were  four 
suburban  National  Guards,  and  Enjolras  ordered  their 
uniforms  to  be  laid  on  one  side.  Enjolras  had  ad- 
vised  two  hours'  sleep,  and  his  advice  was  an  order  ; 
still,  only  three  or  four  took  advantage  of  it,  and 
Feuillj  emplojed  the  two  hours  in  engraving  this 
inscription  on  the  wall  facing  the  wine-shop,  — 

"long    LIVE    THE    PEUPLES." 

Thèse  four  words,  carved  in  the  stone  with  a  nail, 
could  still  be  read  on  this  wall  in  1848.  The  three 
woinen  took  advantage  of  the  respite  to  disappear 
entirely,  which  allowed  the  insurgents  to  breathe 
more  at  their  case  ;  and  thej  contrived  to  find  refuge 
in  some  neighboring  house.  Most  of  the  wounded 
could  and  would  still  fight.  There  were,  on  a  pile 
of  mattresses  and  trusses  of  straw  laid  in  the  kitchen 
converted  into  an  infirniary,  five  men  seriously 
wounded,  of  whom  two  were  Municipal  Guards  ;  the 
wounds  of  the  latter  were  dressed  first.  No  one  re- 
mained in  the  ground-floor  room  save  ISIabœuf  under 
his  black  cere-cloth,  and  Javert  fastened  to  the  post. 

"This  is  the  charnel-house,"  said  Enjolras. 

In  the  interior  of  tins  room,  which  was  scarce 
lighted  by  a  solitary  candie,  the  mortuary  table  at 
the  end  being  behind  the  post  like  a  horizontal  bar,  a 
sort  of  large  vague  cross  resulted  from  Javert  stand- 
ing and  Mabœuf  lying  down.  Although  the  pôle  of 
the  omnibus  was  mutilated  by  the  bullets,  sufïicient 
remained  for  a  flag  to  be  attached  to  it.     Enjolras, 


14  JEAN    VALJEAN, 

who  possessed  that  qualitj  of  a  cliief  of  always  doing 
wliat  lie  said,  fastened  to  it  the  bullet-pierced  and 
blood-stained  coat  of  the  killed  old  man.     No  meal 
was  possible,  for  there  was  neither  bread  nor  méat. 
The  fifty  men   during   the  sixteen  hours  they  had 
stood  at  the  barricade  speedily  exhausted  the  scanty 
provisions  of  the  inn.     At  a  given  moment  every  bar- 
ricade that  holds  ont  becomes  the  raft  of  the  Méduse, 
and  the  combatants  niust  resign  themselves  to  hun- 
ger.     They  had  reached  the  early  hours  of  that  Spar- 
tan  day,  June  6,  when  at  the  barricade  of  St.  JNIerry, 
Jeanne,    surrounded    by   insurgents    who    cried   for 
bread,  answered,  "  What  for  ?    It  is  three  o'clock  ;  at 
four  we  shall  be  dead."    As  theycould  no  longer  eat, 
Enjolras  prohibited  drinking  ;  he  put  the  wine  under 
an  interdict,  and  served  out  the  spirits.    Sonie  fifteen 
full  bottles,  hernietically  sealed,  were  found  in  the 
cellar,    which   Enjolras   and    Combefcrre   examined. 
Combeferre  on  coming  up  again  said,  "  It  belongs  to 
Father  Huchcloup's  stock  at  the  tinie  when  he  was  a 
grocer."     "  It  raust  be  real  wine,"  Bossuet  observed  ; 
"  it  is  lucky  that  Grantaire  is  asleep,  for  if  he  were 
up,  we  should  bave  a  difficulty  in  saving  those  bot- 
tles."   Enjolras,  in  spite  of  the  murmurs,  put  his  veto 
on  the  fifteen  bottles,  and  in  order  that  no  one  might 
touch  them,  and  that  they  should  be  to  some  extent 
sacred,  he  had  placed  them  under  the  table  on  which 
Father  Mabœuf  lay. 

At  about  two  in  the  morning  they  counted  their 
strength  ;  there  were  still  thirty-seven.  Day  was 
beginning  to  appear,  and  the  torch,  which  had  been 
returned  to  its  stone  lantern,  was  extinguished.    The 


NOTHING  TO  DO  IN  THE  ABYSS  BUT  TALK.       15 

interior  of  the  barricade,  that  species  of  small  yard 
taken  from  tlie  street,  was  batbed  in  darkness,  and 
resembled,  through  the  vague  twiligbt  horror,  the 
deck  of  a  dismasted  ship.  The  combatants  moved 
about  like  black  forms.  Above  this  frightful  nest  of 
gloom  the  floovs  of  the  silent  houses  stood  ont  lividlv, 
and  above  them  again  the  chimney-pots  were  assum- 
ing  a  roseate  hue.  Tlie  sky  had  that  charming  tint 
which  may  be  white  and  niay  be  blue,  and  the  birds 
flew  about  in  it  with  twitterings  of  joy.  The  tall 
house  which  formed  the  background  of  the  barricade 
looked  to  the  east,  and  had  a  pink  reflection  on  its 
roof.  At  the  third-floor  window  the  morning  breeze 
blew  about  the  gray  hair  on  the  head  of  the  dead  man. 

"  I  am  delighted  that  tlie  torch  is  put  out,"  Cour- 
feyrac  said  to  Feuilly,  "  That  flame  flickering  in  the 
breeze  annoyed  me,  for  it  seemed  to  be  frightened. 
The  light  of  torches  resembles  the  wisdom  of  cow- 
ards  ;  it  illumines  badly  because  it  trembles." 

The  dawn  arouses  minds  like  birds,  and  ail  were 
talking.  Joly,  seeing  a  cat  stalking  along  a  gutter, 
extracted  this  philosophy  from  the  fact. 

"  What  is  the  cat? "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  is  a  correc- 
tion. Le  bon  Dieu  ha\dng  niade  a  mouse,  said  to 
himself,  '  Hilloh  !  I  hâve  donc  a  foolish  trick,'  and  he 
made  the  cat,  whicb  is  the  erratum  of  the  mouse. 
The  mouse  plus  the  cat  is  the  revised  and  corrected 
proof  of  création." 

Combeferre,  surrounded  by  students  and  workmen, 
was  talking  of  the  dead,  of  Jean  Prouvaire,  of  Baho- 
rel,  of  Mabœuf,  and  even  of  Cabuc,  and  the  stern 
Borrow  of  Enjolras.     He  said,  — 


16  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,  Brutus,  Chereas, 
Stephanus,  Crorawell,  Charlotte  Corday,  Sand,  ail 
Lad  ttieir  moment  of  agony  after  the  blow  was  struck. 
Our  heart  is  so  quivering,  and  Imman  life  such  a 
mystery,  that  even  in  a  ci  vie  murder,  even  in  a  liber- 
ating  mm-der,  if  there  be  such  a  thing,  the  remorse  at 
having  struck  a  man  exceeds  the  joy  of  having  beue- 
fited  the  human  race." 

And,  such  are  the  meanderings  of  interchanged 
words,  a  moment  later,  by  a  transition  which  came 
from  Jean  Prouvaire's  verses,  Combeferre  was  com- 
paring  together  the  translators  of  the  Georgics,  Raux 
with  Cournand,  Cournand  with  Delille,  and  pointing 
out  the  few  passages  translated  by  ]\Ialfilâtre,  espe- 
cially  the  wonders  of  the  deatli  of  Csesar,  and  at  that 
name  the  conversation  reverted  to  Brutus. 

"  Cœsar,"  said  Combeferre,  "  fell  justly.  Cicero 
was  severe  to  Csesar,  and  was  in  the  right,  for  such 
severity  is  not  a  diatribe.  When  Zoïlus  insults 
Homer,  when  JNIsevius  insults  Virgil,  when  Visé  in- 
sults Molière,  when  Pope  insults  Shakspeare,  when 
Fréron  insults  Voltaire,  it  is  an  old  law  of  envy  and 
hatred  being  carried  out  ;  for  genius  attracts  insuit, 
and  great  men  are  ail  barked  at  more  or  less.  But 
Zoïlus  and  Cicero  are  différent.  Cicero  is  a  justiciary 
with  thought  in  the  same  way  as  Brutus  is  a  justi- 
ciary with  the  sword.  For  my  part,  I  blâme  that  last 
justice,  the  glaive  ;  antiquity  allowed  it.  Caesar,  the 
violator  of  the  Rubicon,  conferring,  as  if  coming  from 
him,  dignities  that  came  from  the  people,  and  not 
rising  on  the  entrance  of  the  senate,  behaved,  as 
Eutropius  said,  like  a  king,  and  almost  like  a  tyrant, 


NOTHING  TO  DO  IN  THE  ABYSS  BUT  TALK.   IJ 

regiâ  ac  pcne  tyrannica.  He  was  a  great  maii  ;  ail 
the  worse  or  ail  tlie  better,  the  lessoii  is  the  more 
elevated.  His  three-and-twenty  wounds  affect  me 
less  thau  the  spitting  on  the  brow  of  Christ.  Ceesar 
is  stabbed  by  the  seiiators,  Christ  is  bufFeted  by  sol- 
diers.     God  is  felt  in  the  greater  outrage.' 

Bossuct,  standing  on  a.  pile  of  stones,  and  com- 
manding  the  speaker,  exclaimed,  gun  in  hand,  — 

"  0  Cydathenseum  !  O  ^Nlyrrhinus  !  O  Probalyn- 
thus  !  O  grâces  of  xEanthus  !  Oh,  who  will  inspire 
me  to  pronounce  the  verses  of  Homer  like  a  Greek 
of  Laureum  or  Edapteon  !  " 


VOL.   V. 


CHAPTER  III. 

CLEARING   AND    CLOUDING. 

Enjolras  had  gone  ont  to  reconnoitre,  and  had 
left  by  the  Mondétour  Lane,  keeping  in  the  shadow 
of  the  houscs.  The  insurgents,  we  must  state,  were 
full  of  hope  :  the  way  in  which  they  had  repulsed 
the  uight  attack  almost  made  them  disdain  before- 
hand  the  attack  at  daybreak.  They  waited  for  it 
and  smiled  at  it,  and  no  more  doubted  of  their  suc- 
cess  than  of  tlieir  cause  ;  moreover,  help  was  evi- 
dently  going  to  reach  them,  and  they  reckoned  on 
it.  With  that  facility  of  triumphant  prophccy  which 
is  a  part  of  the  strength  of  the  French  fighter,  they 
divided  into  three  certain  phases  the  opening  day,  — 
at  six  in  the  morning  a  régiment,  which  had  been 
worked  upon,  would  turn  ;  at  mid-day  insurrection 
ail  over  Paris  ;  at  sunset  the  révolution.  The  tocsin 
of  St.  Merry,  which  had  not  ceased  once  since  the 
previoua  evening,  could  be  heard,  and  this  was 
a  proof  that  the  other  barricade,  the  great  one, 
Jeanne's,  still  held  out.  AH  thèse  hopes  were  in- 
terchanged  by  the  groups  with  a  species  of  gay  and 
formidable  buzzing  which  resemble  the  war-hum  of 
a  swarm  of  bées.  Enjolras  reappeared  returning 
from  his  gloomy  walk  in  the  external  darkncss.     He 


CLEARING   AND   CLOUDING.  19 

listened  for  a  moment  to  ail  this  joy  with  his  arms 
folded,  and  then  said,  frcsh  and  rosy  in  the  growing 
light  of  dawn,  — 

"  The  wliole  army  of  Paris  is  ont,  and  one  tliird  of 
that  army  is  preparing  to  attack  the  barrièade  behind 
which  you  now  are.  There  is,  too,  the  National 
Guard.  I  distinguished  the  shakos  of  the  fifth  line 
régiment  and  the  colors  of  the  sixth  légion.  You 
will  be  attacked  in  an  hour  ;  as  for  the  people,  they 
were  in  a  state  of  ferment  yesterday,  but  this  moni- 
ing  do  not  stir.  There  is  nothing  to  wait  for,  noth- 
ing  to  hope  ;  no'  more  a  faubourg  than  a  régiment. 
You  are  abandoned." 

Thèse  words  fell  on  the  buzzing  groups,  and  pro- 
duced  the  same  effect  as  the  first  drops  of  a  storm 
do  on  a  swarm.  Ail  remaincd  dumb,  and  there  was 
a  moment  of  inexpressible  silence,  in  which  death 
might  hâve  been  heard  flying  past.  This  moment 
was  short,  and  a  voice  shouted  to  Enjolras  from  the 
thickest  of  the  crowd,  — 

"  Be  it  so.  Let  us  raise  the  barricade  to  a  height 
of  twenty  feet,  and  ail  fall  upon  it.  Citizens,  let  us 
offer  the  protest  of  corpses,  and  show  that  if  the 
people  abandon  the  republicans,  the  republicans  do 
not  abandon  the  people." 

Thèse  words  disengaged  the  thoughts  of  ail  from 
the  painful  cloud  of  individual  anxieties,  and  an 
enthusiastic  shout  greeted  them.  The  name  of  the 
man  who  spoke  thus  was  never  known  ;  he  was 
some  unknown  blouse-wearer,  an  unknown  man, 
a  forgotten  man,  a  passing  hero,  that  great  anony- 
mous  always  mixed  up  in  humau  crises  and  social 


20  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

Genèses,  who  at  the  given  moment  utters  the  déci- 
sive Word  in  a  suprême  fashion,  and  who  fades  away 
into  darkness  after  having  represented  for  a  minute, 
in  the  light  of  a  flash,  the  people  and.God.  This 
inexorable  ^"esolution  was  so  strongly  in  the  air  of 
June  6,  1832,  that  almost  at  the  same  hour  the  in- 
surgents  of  the  St.  Merry  barricade  uttered  this  cr}^ 
which  became  liistorical,  —  "  Whether  they  corne  to 
our  help,  or  whether  they  do  not,  what  matter  ! 
Let  us  ail  fall  hère,  to  the  last  man  !  "  As  we  see, 
the  two  barricades,  thougli  materially  isolated,  com- 
municated. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FIVE   LESS   AND   ONE   MORE. 

After  the  man,  whoever  he  iiiight  be,  who  de- 
creed  the  "  protest  of  corpses,"  had  spoken,  and 
given  the  formula  of  tlie  common  soûl,  a  strangely 
satisfied  aud  terrible  cry  issued  from  every  mouth, 
funereal  in  its  meaning  and  triumphal  in  its 
accent. 

"  Long  live  death  !     Let  us  ail  remain  hère." 

"  Why  ail  ?  "  Enjolras  asked. 

"  Ail,  ail  !  " 

Enjolras  continued, — 

"  The  position  is  good  and  the  barricade  fine. 
Thirty  men  are  sufficient,  then  why  sacrifice  forty  ?  " 

They  replied,  — 

"  Because  not  one  of  us  will  go  away." 

"  Citizens,"  Enjolras  cried,  and  there  was  in  his 
voice  an  almost  irritated  \ibration,  "the  repubiic 
is  not  rich  enough  in  men  to  make  an  unnecessary 
outlay.  If  it  be  the  duty  of  sonie  to  go  away,  that 
duty  must  be  performed  like  any  other." 

Enjolras,  the  man-principle,  had  over  his  co-religion- 
ists  that  kind  of  omnipotence  which  is  evolved  from 
the  absolute.  Still,  however  great  that  omnipotence 
might  be,  they  murmured.     A  chief  to  the  tips  of 


22  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

his  fingers,  Enjolras,  on  seeing  that  they  murmured, 
insisted.     He  continued  haughtily,  — 

"  Let    those   who    are   afraid   to   be    only  thirty 
say  so." 
,  The  murmurs  were  redoubled. 

"  Bcsides,"  a  voice  in  the  throng  remarked,  "  it 
is  easy  to  say,  '  Go  away/  but  the  barricade  is 
surrounded." 

''  Not  on  the  side  of  the  markets,"  said  Enjoh'as. 
"  The  Rue  Mondétour  is  free,  and  the  Marché  des 
Innocents  can  be  reached  by  the  Rue  des  Prêcheurs." 

"  And  then,"  another  voice  in  the  group  remarked, 
"  we  should  be  caught  by  falling  in  with  some  grand 
rounds  of  the  line  or  the  National  Guard.  They  will 
see  a  man  passing  in  blouse  and  cap  :  '  Where  do  you 
corne  from  ?  Don't  you  bclong  to  the  barricade  ?  ' 
and  they  will  look  at  your  hands  ;  you  smell  of 
powder,  and  will  be  shot." 

Enjolras,  without  answering,  touched  Combeferre's 
shoulder,  and  both  entered  the  ground-floor  room. 
They  came  out  again  a  moment  after,  Enjolras  hold- 
ing in  his  outstretched  hands  the  four  uniforms  which 
he  had  laid  on  one  side,  and  Combeferre  foUowed 
him  carrying  the  cross-belts  and  shakos. 

*'  In  this  uniform,"  Enjolras  said,  "  it  is  easy  to 
enter  the  ranks  and  escape.     Hère  are  four  at  any^ 
rate." 

And  he  threw  the  four  uniforms  on  the  unpaved 
ground  ;  but  as  no  one  moved  in  the  stoical  audience, 
Combeferre  resolved  to  make  an  appeal. 

"  Corne,"  he  said,  "  you  must  show  a  little  pity. 
Do  you  know  what  the   question   is   hère  ?     It  is 


riVE   LESS   AND   ONE   MORE.  23 

about  women.     Look  you,  are  tliere  wives,  —  yes  or 
no?     Are  there  cliildren, — yes  or  no?     Are  thèse 
nothing,  who  rock  a  cradle  with  their  foot,  and  liave 
a  heap  of  children  around  tliem  ?     Let  him  among 
you  wlio  has  never  seen  a  nurse's  breast  hold  up  his 
hand.     Ah  !  you  wish  to  be  killed.     I  wish  it  too, 
I  who  am  addressing  you  ;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  feel 
the  ghosts  of  women  twining  their  arms  around  me. 
Die,  —  very  good  ;  but  do  not  cause  people  to  die. 
Suicides  like  the  one  which  is  about  to  take  place 
hère  are  sublime  ;  but  suicide  is  restricted,  and  does 
not  allow  of  extension,  and  so  soon  as  it  affects  your 
relations,  suicide   is   called  murder.     Think  of  the 
little  fair  heads,  and  think  too  of  the  white  hair. 
Listen  to  me  !     Enjolras  tells  me  that  just  now  he 
saw  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du  Cygne  a  candie 
at  a  poor  window  on  the  fifth  floor,  and  on  the  panes 
the  shaking  shadow  of  an  old  woman  who  appeared 
to  hâve  spent  the  night  in  watchiug  at  the  window  ; 
she  is  perhaps  the  mother  of  one  of  you.     Well, 
let  that  man  go,  and  hasten  to  say  to  his  mother, 
*  Mother,  hère  I  am  !  '     Let  him  be  easy  in  his  mind, 
for  the  work  will  be  donc  hère  ail  the  same.     When 
a  man  supports  his  relatives  by  his  toil,  he  has  no 
longer  any  right  to  sacrifice  himself,  for  that  is  de- 
serting  his  family.     And  then,  too,  those  who  hâve 
daughters,  and  those  who  hâve  sisters  !     Only  think 
of  them.     You  let  yourselves  be  killed,  you  are  dead, 
very  good  ;   and   to-morrow  ?     It  is   terrible   when 
girls  hâve  no  bread,  for  man  begs,  but  woman  sells. 
Oh,  those  charming,  graceful,  and  gentle  créatures 
with  flowers  in  their  caps,  who  fill  the  house  with 


24  JEAN   VAL  JE  AN. 

chastity,  who  sing,  who  prattle,  who  are  like  a  living 
jxîrfunie,  who  pvove  tlie  existence  of  angels  in  lieaven 
by  the  purity  of  virgins  on  earth  ;  tliat  Jeanne,  tliat 
Lise,  that  Mimi,  those  adorable  and  honest  créatures, 
who  are  your  bles.sing  and  your  pride,  -^  ah,  niy  God  ! 
they  will  starve.  What  would  you  hâve  me  say  to 
you  ?  There  is  a  human  flesli-uiarket,  and  you  will 
not  prevcnt  them  entcring  it  with  your  shadowy 
hands  trembling  around  them.  Think  of  the  strect  ; 
think  of  the  pavement  covered  with  strollers  ;  think 
of  the  shops  beforo  which  women  in  low-necked 
dresses  come  and  go  in  the  mud.  Those  women, 
too,  were  pure.  Think  of  your  sisters,  you  who 
hâve  any  ;  misery,  prostitution,  the  police.  St. 
Lazare,  that  is  what  thèse  délicate  maidens,  thèse 
fragile  marvels  of  chastity,  modesty,  and  beauty, 
fresher  than  the  lilies  in  May,  will  fall  to.  Ah,  you 
hâve  let  yourselves  bc  killcd  !  Ah,  you  are  no  longer 
there!  That  is,  —  very  good,  —  yoU  hâve  wished  to 
withdraw  the  people  from  royalty,  and  you  give  your 
daughters  to  the  police.  My  friends,  take  care  and 
hâve  compassion  ;  we  are  not  wont  to  think  nuich 
about  women,  hapless  women  ;  we  trust  to  the  fact 
that  women  hâve  not  received  the  éducation  of  men. 
They  are  prevented  reading,  thinking,  or  occupying 
themselves  with  politics  ;  but  will  you  prevent  them 
going  to-night  to  the  Morgue  and  recognizing  your 
corpses  ?  Come,  those  who  hâve  familles  must  be 
good  fellows,  and  shake  our  hand  and  go  away, 
leaving  us  to  do  the  job  hère  ail  alonc.  I  am  well 
aware  that  courage  is  needed  to  go  away,  and  that 
it  is  difficult  ;  but  the  more  difficult  the  more  mcri- 


FIVE   LESS   AND   ONE   MORE.  25 

torious  it  is.  You  say,  '  I  hâve  a  giin  and  am  at 
tlie  barricade  ;  ail  the  worse,  I  remaiu.'  '  Ail  the 
worse  '  is  easily  said.  IVIy  friends,  there  is  a  morrow, 
and  that  morrow  you  wili  not  see  ;  but  your  familles 
will  see  it.  And  what  sufFerings  !  Stay  ;  do  you 
know  what  becomes  of  a  healthy  child  with  cheeks 
like  an  apple,  who  ehatters,  prattles,  laughs,  and 
smilcs  as  fresh  as  a  kiss,  when  he  is  abandoned  ? 
I  saw  one,  quite  little,  about  so  high  ;  his  father 
was  dead,  and  poor  people  had  taken  him  in  through 
charity  ;  but  tliey  had  not  bread  for  themsclves.  The 
child  was  always  hungry  ;  it  was  winter-time,  but 
though  he  was  always  hungry  he  did  not  cry.  He 
was  seen  to  go  close  to  the  stove,  whose  pipe  was 
covcred  with  yellow  earth.  The  boy  detached  with 
his  fingers  a  pièce  of  this  earth  and  ate  it  ;  his 
breathing  was  hoarse,  his  face  livid,  his  legs  soft, 
and  his  stomach  swollen.  He  said  nothing,  and 
when  spoken  to  made  no  answer.  He  is  dead,  and 
was  brought  to  die  at  the  Xecker  Hospital,  where 
I  saw  him,  for  I  was  a  student  there.  Xow,  if  there 
be  any  fathers  among  you,  fathers  who  delight  in 
taking  a  walk  on  Sunday,  holding  in  their  power- 
ful  hand  a  child's  small  fingers,  let  each  of  thèse 
fathers  fancy  this  lad  his  own.  The  poor  brat  I  can 
remember  perfectly  ;  I  fancy  I  see  him  now,  and 
when  he  lay  on  the  dissecting  table,  his  bones  stood 
ont  under  his  skin  like  the  tombs  under  the  grass 
of  a  cemetery.  We  found  a  sort  of  mud  in  his 
stomach,  and  he  had  ashes  between  his  teeth.  Come, 
let  us  examine  our  conscience  and  take  the  advice 
of  our   heart  ;    statistics   prove   that   the   mortality 


26  JEAN   VALOEAN. 

among  deserted  chiîdren  is  fifty-five  per  cent.  I 
repeat,  it  is  a  question  of  wives,  of  motliers,  of 
daughters,  and  babes.  Am  I  saying  anything  about 
you  ?  I  know  very  well  what  you  are.  I  know  tliat 
you  are  ail  brave.  I  know  that  you  bave  ail  in  your 
hearts  tbe  joy  and  glory  of  laying  down  your  lives 
for  the  great  cause.  I  know  very  wcll  that  you  feel 
yourselves  cbosen  to  die  usefully  and  magnificently, 
and  that  each  of  you  clings  to  bis  share  of  the 
triumph.  Very  good.  But  you  are  not  alone  in 
this  world,  and  there  are  other  beings  of  whom  you 
must  think  ;  you  should  not  be  selfish." 

Ail  hung  their  heads  with  a  gloomy  air.  Strange 
contradictions  of  the  hunian  heart  in  the  sublimest 
moments  !  Combeferre,  who  spoke  thus,  was  not  an 
orphan  ;  he  remembered  the  mothers  of  others  and 
forgot  bis  own  ;  he  was  going  to  let  himself  be  killed, 
and  was  "selfish."  Marins,  fasting  and  feverish,  who 
had  successively  given  up  ail  hope,  cast  ashore  on 
grief,  the  most  mournful  of  shipwrecks,  saturated 
with  violent  émotions,  and  feeling  the  end  coming, 
had  buried  himself  deeper  and  deeper  in  that  vis- 
ionary  stupor  which  ever  précèdes  the  fatal  and  vol- 
untarily  accepted  hour.  A  physiologist  might  hâve 
studied  in  liim  the  growing  syniptoms  of  that  fébrile 
absorption  which  is  known  and  classificd  by  science, 
and  which  is  to  suffering  what  voluptuousness  is  to 
pleasure,  for  despair  also  bas  its  ecstasy.  Marius 
had  attained  that  stage  ;  as  we  hâve  said,  things 
which  occurrcd  beforc  him  appcared  to  him  remote, 
he  distinguished  the  ensemble,  but.  did  not  pcrceive 
the  détails.     He  saw  people  coming  and  going  before 


FIVE   LESS   AND   ONE   MORE.  27 

him  in  a  flash,  and  he  heard  voices  speaking  as  if 
from  tlie  bottom  of  an  abjss.  Still  this  afFected 
him,  for  there  was  in  this  scène  a  point  which 
pierced  to  him  and  aroused  him.  He  had  but 
one  idea,  to  die,  and  he  did  not  wish  to  avevt  his 
attention  from  it  ;  but  he  thought  in  his  gloomy 
somnambulism  that  in  destroying  himself  he  was 
not  prohibited  from  saving  somebody.  He  raised 
his  voice,  — 

"Enjoh-as  and  Combeferre  are  right,"  he  said  ;  "  let 
us  hâve  no  useless  sacrifice.  I  join  them,  and  we 
must  make  haste.  Combeferre  has  told  you  décisive 
things  :  there  are  men  among  you  who  hâve  families, 
mothers,  sisters,  wives,  and  children.  Such  must 
leave  the  ranks." 

Not  a  soûl  stirred. 

"  Married  men  and  supporters  of  families  will 
leave  the  ranks,"  Marius  repeated. 

His  authority  Avas  great,  for  thougli  Enjolras  was 
really  the  chief  of  the  barricade,  Marius  was  its 
savior. 

"  I  order  it,"  Enjolras  cried. 

"  I  implore  it,"  JNlarius  said. 

Then  thèse  heroic  men,  stirred  up  by  Combeferre's 
speech,  shaken  by  Enjolras's  order,  and  moved  by 
Marius's  entreaty,  began  denouncing  one  another. 
"  It  is  true,"  a  young  man  said  to  a  groA\Ti-up  man, 
"  you  are  a  father  of  a  family  ;  begone  !  "  "  No  ! 
you  ought  to  do  so  rather,"  the  man  replied,  "  for 
you  hâve  tv/o  sisters  to  support  ;  "  and  an  extraor- 
dinary  contest  broke  out,  in  which  each  struggled  not 
to  be  thrust  out  of  the  tomb. 


28  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Make  haste,"  said  Combeferre  ;  "  iii  a  quarter  ol- 
an  hour  there  will  no  longer  be  tinie." 

"  Citizens,"  Enjolras  addcd,  "  we  hâve  a  republic 
hère,  and  universal  suffrage  reigns.  Point  out  your- 
selves  the  men  who  are  to  leave  us."' 

Thej  obeyed,  and  at  the  end  of  a  fcw  minutes 
five  were  unanimously  pointed  out  and  left  the 
ranks. 

"  There  are  five  of  them  !  "  jNIarius  exelaimed. 

There  were  only  four  uniforms. 

"  Well,  "  the  five  replied,  "  one  will  hâve  to  remain 
behind." 

And  then  came  who  should  remain,  and  -who 
should  find  reasons  for  others  not  to  remain.  The 
generf)us  quarrél  began  again. 

"  You  hâve  a  wife  who  loves  you.  —  You  hâve 
your  old  mother.  —  You  hâve  neither  father  nor 
mother  ;  what  will  bccome  of  your  three  little  broth- 
ers  ?  —  You  are  the  father  of  five  children.  —  You 
hâve  a  right  to  live,  for  you  are  only  seventeen,  and 
it  is  too  early  to  die." 

Thèse  great  revolutionary  barricades  were  meeting- 
places  of  heroisms.  The  improbable  was  simple 
there,  and  thèse  men  did  not  astonish  one  another. 

"  Make  haste,"  Courfeyrac  repeated. 

Cries  to  Marins  came  from  the  groups. 

"  You  must  point  out  the  one  who  is  to  remain." 

"Yes,"  the  five  said;  ''do  you  choose,  and  we 
will  obey  you." 

Marins  did  not  believe  himself  capable  of  any  émo- 
tion ;  still,  at  this  idca  of  choosing  a  man  for  death 
ail  the  blood  flowed  back  to  his  heart,  and  he  would 


FIVE   LESS   AND   ONE   MORE.  29 

have  turned  pale  coukl  lie  liave  growu  paler.  He 
walkcd  iip  to  tlie  fivc,  who  smiled  ui^on  him,  and 
each,  with  liis  eye  full  of  that  great  flame  whicli 
gleams  through  history  ou  Thermopylse,  cried  to 
him,  — 

"I!  I!  I!" 

Aiid  ]\Iarius  stupidly  coinited  them.  There  were 
stiU  five  !  Theii  his  eyes  settled  on  tlie  four  uniforms. 
AU  at  once  a  fifth  uniform  fell,  as  if  froni  lieaven,  on 
the  other  four  ;  the  fifth  man  was  saved.  Marias 
raised  his  eyes,  and  rccognized  M.  Fauclielevent. 

Jean  Valjean  had  just  entered  the  barricade  ; 
either  througli  information  lie  had  obtained,  through 
instinct,  or  through  accident,  he  arrived  by  the 
Mondétour  Lane,  and,  thanks  to  his  National  Guard 
uniform,  passed  without  difficulty.  The  vedette 
stationed  by  the  insurgents  in  the  Rue  Mondétour 
had  no  cause  to  give  the  alarm-signal  for  a  single 
National  Guard,  and  had  let  him  enter  the  street, 
saying  to  himself,  "  He  is  probably  a  reinforcemeiit, 
or  at  the  worst  a  prisoner."  The  moment  was  too 
serious  for  a  sentry  to  turn  avvay  from  his  duty  or  his 
post  of  observation.  At  the  moment  when  Jean 
Valjean  entered  the  redoubt,  no  one  noticed  him, 
for  ail  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  five  chosen  men  and 
the  four  uniforms.  Jean  Valjean,  however,  had  seen 
and  heard,  and  silently  took  off  his  coat  and  threw  it 
on  the  pile  formed  by  the  other  coats.  The  émotion 
was  indëscribable. 

"  Who  is  this  man  ?  "  Bossuet  asked. 

"  He  is  a  man,"  Combeferre  replied,  "  who  saves 
his  fellow-man." 


30  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

Marins  added  in  a  grave  voice,  — 

"  I  know  liim." 

This  bail  was  sufficient  for  ail,  and  Enjolras  tnrned 
to  Jean  Valjean. 

"  Citizen,  y  ou  are  welcome." 

And  lie  added,  — 

"  You  are  aware  tliat  you  will  die." 

Jean  Valjean,  without  answering,  helped  the  man 
he  was  saving  to  put  on  his  uniform. 


CHAPTER   Y. 

THE    HORIZON    ONE    SEES    FROM   THE    BARRICADE's 
SUMMIT. 

The  situation  of  the  whole  partj  in  this  fatal  hour, 
and  at  this  inexorable  spot,  had  as  resuit  and  pin- 
nacle  the  suprême  melancholy  of  Enjoiras.  Enjolras 
had  within  him  the  plénitude  of  the  révolution  ;  he 
was  imperfcct,  however,  so  far  as  the  absolute  can  be 
so,  —  he  had  too  much  of  St.  Just  and  not  enough 
of  Anacharsis  Clootz  ;  still  his  mind  in  the  societj  of 
the  Friends  of  the  A.  B.  C.  had  eventually  received  a 
certain  magnetism  of  Combefcrre's  ideas.  For  some 
time  i^ast  he  had  been  gradually  emerging  from  the 
narrow  form  of  dogmatism  and  yielding  to  the  expan- 
sion of  progress,  and  in  the  end  he  had  accepted,  as 
the  définitive  and  magiiificent  évolution,  the  trans- 
formation of  the  great  French  republic  into  the  im- 
mense human  republic.  As  for  the  immédiate  means, 
a  violent  situation  being  given,  he  was  williiig  to  be 
violent  ;  in  that  he  did  not  vary,  and  he  still  belonged 
to  that  epic  and  formidable  school  which  is  resumed 
in  the  words  "  '93."  Enjolras  was  standing  on  the 
paving-stone  steps,  with  one  of  his  elbows  on  the 
muzzle  of  his  gun.  He  was  thinking  ;  he  trembled, 
as  men  do  when  a  blast  passes,  for  spots  where  death 
lurks  produce  this  tripod  efFect.     A  sort  of  stifled  fire 


32  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

issued  from  beneath  lus  cyelashes,  which  were  fiill  of 
tlie  internai  glance.  Ail  at  once  he  raised  liis  head, 
his  light  liair  fell  back  like  that  of  tlie  angel  on  the 
dark  quadriga  composed  of  stars,  and  he  cried  :  — 
'  "Citizens,  do  y  ou  represent  the  future  to  yourselves? 
The  streets  of  towns  inundated  with  light,  green 
branches  on  the  thresholds,  nations  sisters,  men  just, 
old  men  blessing  children,  the  past  loving  the  prés- 
ent, men  thinking  at  perfect  liberty,  believers  enjoy- 
ing  perfect  equality,  for  religion  the  heaven,  God, 
the  direct  priest,  the  human  conscience  converted 
into  an  altar,  no  more  hatrcd,  the  fraternity  of  the 
workshop  and  the  school,  notoriety  the  sole  punish- 
ment  and  reward,  work  for  ail,  right  for  ail,  peace 
for  ail,  no  more  bloodshed,  no  more  wars,  and  happy 
mothers  !  To  subdue  the  matter  is  the  first  step,  to 
realize  the  idéal  is  the  second.  Reflect  on  what  pro- 
gress  has  already  donc  ;  formerly  the  first  human 
races  saw  with  terror  the  hydra  that  breathed  upon 
the  waters,  the  dragon  that  vomited  fire,  the  griffin 
which  was  the  monster  of  the  air,  and  which  flew 
with  the  wings  of  an  eagle  and  the  claws  of  a  tiger, 
pass  before  their  eyes,  —  frightful  beasts  which  were 
below  man.  ]\Ian,  however,  set  his  snares,  the 
sacred  snares  of  intellect,  and  ended  by  catching  the 
monsters  in  them.  We  hâve  subdued  the  hydra,  and 
it  is  called  the  steamer  ;  we  hâve  tamed  the  dragon, 
and  it  is  called  the  locomotive  ;  we  are  on  the  point 
of  taming  the  griffin,  we  hold  it  already,  and  it  is 
called  the  balloou.  The  day  on  which  that  Prome- 
thean  task  is  terminated  and  man  has  definitively 
attached  to  his  will  the  triple  antique  chimera,  the 


THE   HORIZON   FKOM   THE   BARRICADE.  33 

dragon,  the  hydra,  and  the  grifïin,  lie  will  be  master  of 
water,  fire,  and  air,  and  he  will  be  to  the  rest  of  ani- 
mated  création  what  the  ancient  gods  were  forraerly 
to  hini.  Courage,  and  forward!  Citizens,  whither 
are  we  going  ?  To  science  niade  government,  to  the 
strengtli  of  things  converted  into  the  sole  public 
strength,  to  tlie  natural  law  having  its  sanction  and 
penalty  in  itself  and  pronuilgating  itself  by  évi- 
dence, and  to  a  dawn  of  truth  corresponding  with 
the  dawn  of  day.  We  are  proceeding  to  a  union 
of  the  peoples";  we  are  proceeding  to  a  unity  of 
man.  No  more  fictions,  no  more  parasites,  The 
real  governcd  by  the  true  is  our  object.  Civilization 
will  hold  its  assize  on  the  suniniit  of  Europe,  and 
eventually  in  the  centre  of  the  continent,  in  a  great 
Parlianient  of  intellect.  Sometliing  like  this  has 
becii  seen  already  ;  the  Amphictyons  held  two  ses- 
sions a  year,  one  at  Delphi,  the  place  of  the  gods, 
the  other  at  Theraiopylse,  the  place  of  heroes. 
Europe  will  hâve  her  Amphictyons,  the  globe  will 
hâve  its  Amphictyons,  France  bears  the  sublime 
future  witliin  her,  and  this  is  the  gestation  of 
the  19th  century.  What  Greece  sketched  ont  is 
worthy  of__being  finished  by  France.  'Hearken  to 
me,  Feuilly,  val ià!nt~  worlïmàn,  man  of  the  people, 
man  of  the  people.  I  venerate  thee  ;  yes,  thou  seest 
clcarly  future  times  ;  yes,  thou  art  right.  Thou  hast 
neither  fathcr  nor  mother,  Feuilly,  and  thou  hast 
adopted  humanity  as  thy  mother  and  right  as  thy 
father.  Thou  art  about  to  die  hère,  that  is  to  say, 
to  triumph.  Citizens,  whatever  may  happen  to-day, 
we  are  about  to  make  a  révolution,  by  our  defeat  as 

VOL.   V.  3 


34  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

well  as  by  our  victory.  In  the  same  way  as  fires 
light  up  a  whole  city,  révolutions  light  up  the  whole 
human  race.  And  what  a  révolution  shall  we  make  ? 
I  hâve  just  told  you,  the  révolution  of  the  True. 
Froni  the  political  point  of  view,  there  is  but  one 
principle,  the  sovereignty  of  man  over  himself.  This 
sovereignty  of  me  over  me  is  called  liberty,  and 
where  two  or  three  of  thèse  liberties  are  associated 
the  State  bcgins.  But  in  this  association  there  is 
no  abdication,  and  each  sovereignty  concèdes  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  itself  to  form  the  common  right.  This 
quality  is  the  same  for  ail,  and  this  identity  of  con- 
cession which  each  makes  to  ail  is  called  Equality. 
The  common  right  is  nought  but  the  protection  of 
ail  radiating  over  the  right  of  each.  This  protection 
of  ail  over  each  is  termed  Fraternity.  The  point 
of  intersection  of  ail  aggregated  societies  is  called 
Society,  and  this  intersection  being  a  junction.  the 
point  is  a  knot.  Hence  cornes  what  is  called  the 
social  tie  ;  some  say  the  social  contract,  which  is 
the  same  thing,  as  the  word  contract  is  etymologi- 
cally  fornied  with  the  idea  of  a  tie.  Let  us  come 
to  an  understanding  about  equality  ;  for  if  liberty  be 
the  summit,  equality  is  the  base.  Equality,  citizens, 
is  not  ail  végétation  on  a  level,  a  society  of  tall 
blades  of  grass  and  small  oaks,  or  a  neighbor- 
hood  of  entangled  jealousies  ;  it  is,  civilly,  every 
aptitude  having  the  same  opening,  politically,  ail 
votes  having  the  same  weight,  and  religiously,  ail 
consciences  having  the  same  right.  Equality  has  an 
organ  in  gratuitous  and  compulsory  éducation,  and 
it  should  begin  with  the  right  to  the  alphabet.     The 


THE   HORIZON   FROM   THE   BARRICADE.  35 

prinmry  school  imposée!  on  ail,  tlie  secondary  school 
offered  to  ail,  such  is  the  law,  and  from  the  identical 
school  issues  equal  instruction.  Yes,  instruction  ! 
Light,  light  !  Everything  cornes  from  light  and  every- 
thing  returns  to  it.  Citizens,  the  19th  century  is 
great,  but  the  20th  century  will  be  happy.  Then 
there  will  be  nothing  left  resembling  ancient  history, 
there  will  be  no  cause  to  fear,  as  at  the  présent  day 
a  conquest,  an  invasion,  usurpation,  an  armed  rivalry 
of  nations,  an  interruption  of  civilization  depending 
on  a  marriage  of  kings,  a  birth  in  hereditary  tyran- 
nies, a  division  of  peoplcs  by  Congress,  a  dismember- 
ment  by  the  collapse  of  dynasties,  a  combat  of  two 
religions,  clashing,  like  two  goats  of  the  darkness,  on 
the  bridge  of  infinity  ;  there  will  be  no  cause  longer 
to  fear  famine,  exhaustion,  prostitution  through  des- 
tiny,  misery  through  stoppage  of  work,  and  the 
scaffold,  and  the  sword,  and  battles,  and  ail  the  brig- 
andage of  accident  in  the  forest  of  events  ;  we 
niight  almost  say  there  will  be  no  more  events,  we 
shall  be  happy  ;  the  human  race  will  accomplish  its 
law  as  the  terrestrial  globe  does  its  law  ;  harmony 
will  be  restored  bctween  the  soûl  and  the  planet, 
and  the  soûl  will  gravitate  round  the  truth  as  the 
planet  does  round  light.  Friends,  the  hour  we  are 
now  standing  in  is  a  gloomy  hour,  but  there  are  such 
terrible  purchases  of  the  future.  Oh,  the  human 
race  will  be  delivered,  relieved,  and  consoled  !  We 
affirm  it  on  this  barricade,  and  where  should  the  cry 
of  love  be  raised  if  not  on  the  sumniit  of  the  sacri- 
fice ?  Oh,  my  brothers,  this  is  the  point  of  junctiou 
between  those  who  think  and  those  who  sufFer.    This 


3G  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

barricade  is  not  made  of  paving-stones,  beams,  and 
iron  bars  ;  it  is  made  of  two  masses,  —  a  mass  of 
ideas  and  a  mass  of  sorrows.  Misery  meets  then  the 
idéal  ;  day  embraces  the  night  there,  and  says  to  it, 
'  I  am  about  to  die  with  thee,  and  thou  wilt  be  born 
a'^ain  with  me.'  Faitli  springs  from  the  embrace 
of  ail  the  désolations  ;  sufferings  bring  hither  their 
agony,  and  ideas  their  immortality.  This  agony  and 
this  immortality  are  about  to  be  mingled  and  com- 
pose one  death.  Brothers,  the  man  who  dies  hère 
dics  in  the  radiance  of  the  future,  and  we  shall  enter 
a  tomb  ail  filled  with  dawn." 

Enjolras  interrupted  himself  rather  than  was  si- 
lent  ;  his  lips  moved  silently  as  if  he  were  talking  to 
himself,  which  attracted  attention,  and  in  order  still 
to  try  to  hear  him  théy  held  their  tongues.  There 
was  no  applause,  but  they  whispered  together  for  a 
long  time.  Language  beiiig  brcath,  the  rustling  of 
intellects  resembles  the  rustling  of  leaves. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MARIUS   HAGGARD,   JAVERT    LACOXIC. 

Let  us  describe  wliat  was  going  on  in  jNlarius's 
thoughts.  Our  readers  will  remember  his  state  of 
niind,  for,  as  we  just  now  said,  everything  was  only 
a  \âsion  to  him.  His  appréciation  was  troubled,  for 
he  was  (we  urge  the  fact)  beneath  the  shadow  of 
the  great  gloomy  wings  opened  above  the  dying. 
He  felt  that  he  had  entered  the  tomb,  he  fancied 
that  he  was  already  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall, 
and  he  only  saw  the  faces  of  the  living  with  the  eyes 
of  a  dead  nian.  How  was  M.  Fauchelevent  présent  ? 
Why  was  he  hère,  and  what  did  lie  corne  to  do  ?  Ma- 
rins did  not  ask  himself  ail  thèse  questions.  More- 
over,  as  our  despair  has  the  peculiar  thing  about  it 
that  it  envelops  others  as  it  does  ourselves,  it  ap- 
peared  to  him  logical  that  everybody  should  die. 
Still  he  thought  of  Cosette  with  a  contraction  of  the 
heart.  However,  M.  Fauchelevent  did  not  speak  to 
him,  did  not  look  at  him,  and  did  not  even  seem 
to  hear  ]\Iarius  when  he  raised  his  voice,  saying, 
"  I  know  him."  As  for  ISIarius,  this  attitude  of 
M.  Fauchelevent  relieved  him,  and  if  such  a  word 
were  permissible  for  such  impressions,  we  might  say 
that  it  pleased  him.     He  had  ever  felt  au  absolute 


38  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

impossibility  in  addrcssing  this  ciiigmatical  nian,  wlio 
was  at  once  equivocal  and  iinposing  to  him.  It  was 
a  very  long  time  too  since  he  had  seen  him  ;  and 
this  augumented  the  impossibility  for  a  timid  and 
reserved  nature  like  Marius's. 

The  five  men  selected  left  the  barricade  by  the  Mon- 
détour  Lane,  perfectly  resembling  National  Guards. 
One  of  them  wept  as  he  went  away,  and  before  doing 
so  they  embraced  those  who  remained.  When  the 
five  men  sent  back  to  life  had  left,  Enjolras  thought 
of  the  one  condemned  to  death.  He  went  to  the 
ground-floor  room,  where  Javert,  tied  to  the  post, 
was  reflecting. 

"  Do  you  want  anything  ?  "  Enjolras  asked  him. 

Javert  answered,  — 

"  When  will  you  kill  me  ?  " 

"  Wait.  We  require  ail  our  cartridges  at  this 
moment." 

"  In  that  case,  give  me  some  drink,"  Javert  said. 

Enjolras  himself  held  ont  to  him  a  glass  of  water, 
and,  as  Javert  was  bound,  helped  him  to  drink. 

"  Is  that  ail  ?  "  Enjolras  resumed. 

"  I  feel  uncomfor table  at  this  post,"  Javert  replied  ; 
"  you  did  not  act  kindly  in  leaving  me  fastened  to  it 
the  whole  night.  Bind  me  as  you  please,  but  you 
might  surely  lay  me  on  a  table,  like  the  other  man." 

And  with  a  nod  of  the  head  he  pointed  to  M. 
Mabœuf 's  corpse.  It  will  be  remembered  that  there 
was  at  the  end  of  the  room  a  long,  wide  table  on 
which  bullets  had  been  run  and  cartridges  made. 
AU  the  cartridges  being  made,  and  ail  the  powder 
expended,  this  table  was  free.     By  Enjolras's  order, 


MARIUS   HAGGARD,   JAYERT  LACOXIC  39 

four  insurgents  unfostened  Javert  from  the  post,  and 
wliile  they  did  so  a  fiftli  lield  a  bayonet  to  liis  chest. 
His  hands  remained  fastened  behind  his  back,  a  tliin 
strong  cord  was  attached  to  his  feet,  which  enabled 
him  to  step  fifteen  inches,  like  tliose  wlio  are  going 
to  asceud  tbe  scafFold,  and  he  was  forced  to  walk  to 
the  table  at  the  end  of  the  room,  on  which  they  hiid 
him,  securely  fastened  round  the  waist.  For  greater 
security,  a  System  of  knotting  was  employed  by  means 
of  a  cord  fastened  to  the  neck,  which  rendered  any 
escape  impossible  ;  it  was  the  sort  of  fastening  called 
in  prisons  a  martingale,  which  starts  from  the  nape 
of  the  neck,  is  crossed  on  the  stomach,  and  is  turned 
round  the  hands  after  passing  between  the  legs. 
While  Javert  was  being  bound,  a  man  standing  in 
the  doorway  regarded  him  with  singular  attention, 
and  the  shadow  this  man  cast  caused  Javert  to  turn 
his  head.  He  raised  his  eyes  and  recognized  Jean 
Valjean,  but  lie  did  not  even  start  ;  he  merely  looked 
down  haughtily,  and  restricted  himself  to  saying, 
"  It  is  ail  plain." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    SITUATION   BECOMES   AGGRAVATED. 

Day  grew  rapidlj,  but  not  a  wiiidow  opened,  not 
a  door  was  ajar  ;  it  was  the  dawn,  not  an  awaking. 
The  end  of  tlie  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie  opposed  to  the 
barricade  had  been  evacuated  by  the  troops,  as  we 
stated  ;  it  appeared  to  be  free  and  open  for  passers- 
by  with  sinister  tranquillity.  The  Rue  St.  Denis  was 
dunib  as  the  Avenue  of  the  Sphinxes  at  Thebes  ; 
there  was  not  a  living  being  on  tlie  square,  which  a 
sunbeam  whitened.  Nothing  is  so  mehincholy  as  this 
brightness  of  descrted  streets  ;  nothing  could  be  seen, 
but  something  could  be  heard,  and  there  was  a  mys- 
terious  movement  at  a  certain  distance  ofF.  It  was 
évident  that  the  critical  moment  was  arriving,  and,  as 
on  the  previous  evcning,  the  vedettes  fell  back,  but 
this  time  ail  of  them  did  so.  The  barricade  was 
strongcr  than  at  the  prior  attack,  for  since  the  depar- 
ture  of  the  five  it  had  been  heightened.  By  the  ad- 
vice  of  the  vedette  who  had  been  watching  the  région 
of  the  Halles,  Enjolras,  through  fcar  of  a  surprise  in 
the  rear,  formed  a  serions  resolution.  Pie  barricaded 
the  small  passage  of  the  Mondétour  Lane,  which  had 
hithcrto  rcmaincd  frcc,  and  for  this  purpose  a  further 
portion  of  the  street  was  unpaved.     lu  this  way  the 


THE   SITUATION    BECOMES   AGGRAVATED.       41 

barricade,  walled  in  on  three  sides,  —  in  front  by  the 
Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie,  on  the  left  by  the  Rue  du 
Cygne,  and  on  the  right  by  the  Rue  Mondétour,  — 
was  truly  ahnost  impregnuble,  but  it  is  true  that  tliey 
were  fatally  enclosed  within  it.  It  had  three  fronts 
but  no  issue,  it  was  a  fortress  but  a  mouse-trap,  as 
Courfeyrac  said  with  a  smilc.  Enjoh-as  had  sonie 
tliirty  paviug-stoncs  pilcd  up  by  the  door  of  the 
inn.  "  They  dug  up  more  than  enough,"  said 
Bossuet.  The  silence  was  now  so  profound  in  the 
direction  whence  the  attack  must  corne,  that  Enjolras 
ordered  ail  his  nien  to  return  to  tlieir  fighting-posts, 
and  a  ration  of  brandy  was  distributed  to  each 
man. 

Nothing  is  more  curions  than  a  barricade  prepar- 
ing  for  an  assault  ;  overy  man  chooses  his  place,  as  at 
the  théâtre.  They  crowd,  elbow,  and  shoulder  one 
another,  and  some  make  stalls  of  paving-stones. 
Hcre  an  angle  of  the  wall  is  in  the  way,  and  it  is 
avoided  ;  there  is  a  redan  which  may  offer  protection, 
and  they  seek  shelter  in  it.  Left-handed  men  are 
precious,  for  they  take  places  inconvénient  for  others. 
Many  arrange  so  as  to  fight  seated,  for  they  wish  to 
be  at  their  ease  to  kill,  and  comfortable  in  dying. 
In  the  fatal  war  of  June,  1848,  an  insurgent,  who 
was  a  wonderful  marksman,  and  who  fought  from  a 
terraced  roof,  had  a  Voltaire  easy-chair  carried  there, 
and  was  knocked  over  in  it  by  a  volley  of  grape-shot. 
So  soon  as  the  chief  has  given  the  signal  for  action 
ail  disorderly  movements  cease  ;  there  is  no  longer 
any  sharp-shooting,  any  conversations  or  asidcs  :  ail 
that  minds  contaiu  converges,  and  is  changed  into 


42  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

the  expectation  of  tlie  assailant.  A  barricade  before 
danger  is  a  chaos,  in  danger  discipline,  for  péril  pro- 
duces order.  So  soon  as  Enjolras  bad  taken  bis 
double-barrelled  gun,  and  placed  himself  at  a  species 
of  parapet  wbich  be  reserved  for  bimself,  ail  were 
siîent  ;  a  quick,  sbarp  crackling  ran  confusedly  along 
the  wall  of  paving-stones  ;  it  was  the  niuskets  being 
cocked.  However,  the  attitudes  were  baughtier  and 
more  confident  than  cver,  for  an  excess  of  sacrifice  is 
a  consolidation,  and  though  they  no  longer  bad  hope, 
they  bad  despair,  —  despair,  that  last  weapon,  wbich 
at  times  gives  victory,  as  Virgil  tells  us.  Suprême 
resources  issue  from  extrême  resolutions.  To  embark 
on  death  is  at  times  the  means  of  escaping  the  ship- 
wreck,  and  the  cover  of  the  coffin  becomes  a  plank 
of  salvation.  As  on  the  previous  evening,  ail  their 
attention  was  turned  upon  the  end  of  the  street, 
wliicb  was  now  lighted  up  and  visible.  They  bad 
not  long  to  wait  ère  the  movement  began  again,  dis- 
tinctly  in  the  direction  of  St.  Leu,  but  it  did  not  re- 
semble the  Sound  of  the  first  attack.  A  rattling  of 
chains,  the  alarming  rolling  of  a  heavy  weight,  a  clang 
of  bronze  leaping  on  the  pavement,  and  a  species  of 
solemn  noise,  announced  that  a  sinister  engine  was 
approaching  ;  there  was  a  trenior  in  the  entrails  of 
thèse  old  peaceful  streets,  pierced  and  built  for  the 
fruitful  circulation  of  interests  and  ideas,  and  wbich 
are  not  made  for  the  monstrous  rolling  of  the  wheels 
of  war.  The  fixity  of  the  eyes  turned  toward  the  end 
of  the  street  became  stern,  as  a  cannon  appcared. 
The  gunners  pushed  the  gun  on  ;  the  limber  was  de- 
tached,  and  two  men  supported  the  carriage,  wliile 


THE   SITUATION   BECOMES   AGGRAVATED.       43 

four  were  at  the  wheels;  others  followed  with  the 
tunibril,  and  the  liglited  match  could  be  seeii  smoking. 

"  Fire  !  "  shouted  Enjoh-as.  . 

The  whole  barricade  burst  into  a  flame,  and  the 
détonation  was  friglitful  ;  an  avahmclie  of  smoke 
covered  and  concealed  the  gun  and  the  men.  A  few 
seconds  after  the  cloud  was  dispersed,  and  the  gun 
and  the  men  reappeared  ;  the  gunners  were  bringing 
it  up  to  the  front  of  the  barricade,  slowlj,  correctly, 
and  without  hurry  ;  not  one  had  been  wounded. 
Then  the  captain  of  the  gun,  hanging  with  his  Avhole 
weight  on  the  breech  to  elevate  the  muzzle,  began 
pointing  the  gun  M'ith  the  gra%âty  of  an  astronomer 
setting  a  télescope. 

"  Bravo  for  the  artillery  !  "  cried  Bossuet. 

And  ail  the  men  at  the  barricade  clapped  their 
hands.  A  moment  after  the  gun,  standing  in  the 
very  centre  of  the  street  across  the  gutter,  was  in 
position,  and  a  formidable  mouth  yawned  at  the 
barricade. 

"  Corne,  we  are  going  to  be  gay,"  said  Courfeyrac. 
"  Hère  is  the  brutality  ;  after  the  fillip  the  blow  with 
the  fist.  The  army  is  extending  its  heavy  paw  to- 
ward  us,  and  the  barricade  is  going  to  be  ^eriously 
sliaken.  The  musketry-fire  feels,  and  the  cannon 
takes." 

"  It  is  an  erght-pounder  of  the  new  pattern  in 
bronze,"  Combeferre  added.  "  Those  guns,  if  the 
proportion  of  ten  parts  of  tin  to  one  hundred  of 
copper  is  exceeded,  are  liable  to  burst,  for  the  excess 
of  tin  renders  them  too  soft.  It  thus  happens  that 
they  hâve  holes  and  ca\aties  in  the  vent,  and  in  order 


44  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

to  obviate  tliis  danger  and  be  able  to  îoad,  ît  would 
perhaps  be  advisable  to  revert  te.  the  process  of  the 
14th  century,  circling  and  reinforcing  the  giin  witli 
a  séries  of  steel  rings,  without  any  welding  from 
the  breech  to  the  trunnions.  In  the  mean  while 
they  rcmedy  the  defect  as  well  as  they  can,  and  they 
nmnage  to  discover  where  the  iioles  are  in  the  vent 
of  the  gun  by  means  of  a  scarcher;  but  there  is  a 
better  method  in  Gribeaiivals  raovable  star." 

"  In  the  16th  century,"  Bossuet  observed,  "  guns 
were  rifled." 

"  Yes,"  Conibeferre  replied  ;  "  that  augments  the 
ballistic  force,  but  lessens  the  correctness  of  aini. 
At  short  distances  the  trajectory  has  not  ail  the  dé- 
sirable rigidness,  the  parabola  is  exaggerated,  the 
path  of  tlie  pi'ojectile  is  not  sufficiently  rectilinear 
for  it  to  hit  intermediate  objects,  though  that  is  a 
condition  of  fighting  whose  importance  grows  with 
the  proximity  of  the  eneniy  and  the  précipitation 
of  the  firing.  Tins  defective  tension  of  the  curve  of 
the  projectile  in  rifled  cannon  of  the  16th  century 
emanated  from  the  weakness  of  the  charge  ;  wcak 
charges  for  such  engines  are  imposed  by  the  ballistic 
necessities,  such,  for  instance,  as  the  préservation  of 
the  carriage.  After  ail,  the  cannon,  that  despot, 
cannot  do  ail  that  it  wishes,  and  strength  is  a  great 
weakness.  A  cannon-ball  goes  only  six  hundred 
leagues  an  hour,  while  light  covers  seventy  thousand 
leagues  per  second.  This  is  the  superiority  of  Jésus 
Christ  over  Napoléon." 

"  Reload  your  guns,"  said  Enjoiras. 
I     In  what  manner  would  the  revetment  of  the  bar- 


THE    SITUATION   BECOMES   AGGEAVATED.       45 

ricacle  behavc  against  a  cannon-ball  ?  Would  a  breach 
be  fonned  ?  Tliat  was  the  tjucstion.  While  the  iu- 
surgents  were  reloading  their  gmis  the  artillerymen 
loaded  the  cannoii.  The  anxiety  within  the  redoubt 
was  profound  ;  the  shot  was  fired,  and  the  détona- 
tion burst  forth. 

"  Présent  !  "  a  jojous  voice  cried. 

And  at  the  sanie  time  as  the  cannon-ball  struck 
the  barricade,  Gavroche  bounded  inside  it.  He 
came  from  the  direction  of  the  Rue  du  Cygne, 
and  actively  clambered  over  the  accessory  barricade 
which  fronted  the  labyrinth  of  the  Little  Truanderie. 
Gavroche  produced  greater  effect  at  the  barricade 
than  the  cannon-ball  did  ;  for  the  latter  was  lost  in 
the  heap  of  rubbish.  It  had  broken  a  wheel  of  the 
omnibus,  and  finished  the  old  truck,  on  seeing  which 
the  insurgents  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  Persévère  !  "  cried  Bossuet  to  the  gunners. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   ARTILLERY   SETS   TO    WORK   IN   EARNEST. 

Gavroche  was  surrouiided,  but  he  had  no  time 
to  report  aiiything,  as  JMarius,  shuddering,  drew  hini 
on  one  side. 

"■  What  hâve  you  come  to  do  hère  ?  " 

"  What  a  question  ?  "  the  boy  said  ;  "  and  you, 
pray  ?  " 

And  he  gazed  fixedly  at  Marius  with  his  epic 
effrontery  :  his  eyes  were  dilated  by  the  proud  bright- 
ness  which  they  contained.  It  was  with  a  stcrn 
accent  that  jNIarius  continued, — 

"  Who  told  you  to  return  ?  I  only  trust  that  you 
hâve  delivered  niy  letter  at  its  address." 

Gavroche  felt  soine  degree  of  reniorse  in  the  matter 
of  the  letter  ;  for,  in  his  hurry  to  return  to  the  barri- 
cade, he  had  got  rid  of  it  rath^r  than  delivered  it. 
He  was  forced  to  confess  to  himself  that  he  had  con- 
fided  somewhat  too  lightly  in  this  stranger,  whose 
face  he  had  not  even  been  ablc  to  distinguish.  It  is 
true  that  this  man  was  bareheaded,  but  that  was  not 
enough.  In  short,  he  reproached  himself  quietly  for 
his  conduct,  and  feared  IMarius's  reproaches.  He 
took  the  siinplest  process  to  get  out  of  the  scrape, 
—  he  told  an  abominable  falsehood. 


THE   ARTILLERY  SETS  TO  WORK  IM   EARNEST.      4/ 

"  Citizen,  I  delivered  the  letter  to  the  porter.  The 
lady  was  aslcep,  and  she  will  liavc  the  letter  wheu 
she  wakes." 

INIarius  h  ad  two  objects  in  sending  the  letter,  — 
to  bid  Cosette  farewell  and  save  Gavroche.  He  was 
obliged  to  satisfy  himself  with  one  half  of  what  he 
wanted.  The  connection  betwecn  the  sending  of 
the  letter  and  M.  Fauchelevent's  présence  at  the 
barricade  occurred  to  his  miud,  and  he  pointed  him 
eut  to  Gavroche. 

"  Do  you  know  that  man  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Gavroche. 

Gavroche,  in  truth,  as  we  know,  had  only  seen 
Jean  Valjean  by  night.  The  troubled  and  sickly 
conjectures  formed  in  jNIarius's  mind  were  dissipated. 
Did  he  know  M.  Fauchelevent's  opinions  ?  Ferhaps 
he  was  a  republican  ;  hence  his  présence  in  the 
action  would  be  perfectly  simple.  In  the  mean  while 
Gavroche  had  run  to  the  other  end  of  the  barricade, 
crying,  "  My  gun  !  "  and  Courfeyrac  ordered  it  to  be 
given  to  him.  Gavroche  warned  "  his  comrades,"  as 
he  called  them,  that  the  barricade  was  invested,  and 
he  had  found  gréât  difBculty  in  reaching  it.  A  bat- 
talion  of  the  line,  with  their  arms  piled  in  the  Little 
Truanderie,  Avas  observing  on  the  side  of  the  Rue  du 
Petit  Cygne  ;  on  the  opposite  side  the  Municipal 
Guard  occupicd  the  Rue  des  Prêcheurs  ;  while  in  front 
of  them  they  had  the  main  body  of  the  army.  This 
information  given,  GaATOche  added,  — 

"  I  authorize  you  to  give  them  a  famous  pill." 

Enjolras  was  in  the  mean  while  watching  at  his 
loop-hole  with  open  ears  ;  for  the  assailauts,  doubt- 


48  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

lesslittle  satisfied  witli  tlie  gun-shot,  liad  not  repeated 
it.  A  Company  of  linc  inûmtiy  liad  come  up  to 
occiipy  the  extremity  of  tlie  strcet  behind  the  gun. 
The  soldiers  uiipaved  tlie  street,  and  erected  with  the 
stones  a  sniall  low  wall,  a  species  of  epaulement,  only 
eighteen  iiichcs  high,  and  facing  the  barricade.  At 
the  left-liand  angle  of  this  work  could  be  seen  the 
liead  of  a  suburban  column,  massed  in  the  Rue  St. 
Denis.  Enjolras,  from  his  post,  fancied  he  could 
hear  the  peculiar  sound  produced  by  canister  when 
taken  out  of  its  box,  and  he  saw  the  captain  of  the 
gun  change  his  aim  and  turn  the  gun's  muzzle  slightly 
to  the  left.  Then  the  gunncrs  began  loading,  and 
the  captain  of  the  gun  himself  took  the  port-fire  and 
walked  up  to  the  vent. 

"  Fall  on  your  knees  ail  along  the  barricade," 
Enjolras  shouted. 

The  insurgent»,  scattered  in  front  of  the  wine-shop, 
and  who  had  left  their  posts  on  Gavroches  arrivai, 
rushed  pell-mell  toward  the  barricade  ;  but  ère  En- 
jolras's  ordcr  was  executcd,  the  discharge  took  place 
with  the  frightful  rattle  of  a  round  of  grapc-shot  ;  it 
was  one,  in  fact.  The  shot  was  ainicd  at  the  open- 
ing  in  the  redoubt,  and  ricochetted  against  the  wall, 
killing  two  men  and  wounding  three.  If  this  con- 
tinued,  the  barricade  would  be  no  longer  tenable,  for 
the  grape-shot  entered  it.  There  was  a  murmur  of 
consternation. 

"Let  us  stop  a  second  round,"  Enjolras  said:  and 
levelling  his  carbinc  lie  aimed  at  the  captain  of  the 
gun,  who  was  leaning  ovcr  the  breech  and  rectifying 
the  aim.     He  was  a  handsome  young   sergeant   of 


THE  AKTILLERY   SETS  TO  WORK  IN  EARNEST.       49 

artillery,  fair,  gentle-faced,  and  having  tlie  intelligent 
look  peculiar  to  that  predestined  and  formidable  arm 
which,  owing  to  its  constant  iiiiprovement,  must  end 
by  killing  war.  Combcferre,  wlio  was  standing  bj 
Enjolras's  side,  gazed  at  this  young  man. 

"  What  a  pity  !  "  said  Conibeferre.  "  What  a  hid- 
eous  thing  such  butchery  is  !  Well,  when  tliere  are  no 
kings  left  tliere  will  be  no  war.  Enjolras,  you  aini  at 
that  sergeant,  but  do  not  notice  him.  Just  reflect 
that  he  is  a  handsonie  young  man  ;  he  is  intrepid. 
You  can  see  that  he  is  a  thinker,  and  thèse  young 
artillerymen  are  well  educated  ;  lie  lias  a  father, 
mother,  and  faniily  ;  he  is  probably  in  love  ;  he  is  but 
twenty-five  years  of  âge  at  the  most,  and  uiight  be 
your  brother." 

"  He  is  so,"  said  Enjolras. 

"  Yes,"  Conibeferre  added,  "  and  mine  too.  Do 
not  kill  him." 

"  Let  me  alone.     It  must  be." 

And  a  tear  slowly  coursed  down  Enjolras's  marble 
cheek.  At  the  same  time  he  pulled  the  trigger  and 
the  fire  flashed  forth.  The  artillerynian  turned  twice 
on  his  heel,  with  his  arms  stretched  ont  before  him, 
and  his  head  raised  as  if  to  breathe  the  air,  and  then 
fell  across  the  cannon  motion less.  His  back  could 
be  seen,  from  the  middle  of  which  a  jet  of  blood 
gushed  forth  ;  the  bullet  had  gone  right  through  his 
chest,  and  he  was  dead.  It  was  necessary  to  bear 
him  away  and  fill  up  his  place,  and  tlius  a  few  min- 
utes were  gaiued. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

EMPLOYAIENT  OF  THE  POACHER  S  OLD  SKILL  AND 
HIS  UNERRING  SHOT,  WHICH  HAD  AN  INFLU. 
ENCE    ON   THE    CONDEMNATION   IN    1796. 

Opinions  varied  in  the  barricade,  for  the  firing  of 
the  pièce  was  going  to  begin  again,  and  the  barricade 
could  iiot  hold  out  for  a  quarter  of  an  liour  under  the 
grape-shot  ;  it  was  absolutely  necessary  to  abate  the 
firing.     Enjoh^as  gave  the  command. 

"  We  must  hâve  a  mattress  hère." 

"  We  hâve  none,"  said  Combeferre  ;  "  the  wounded 
are  lying  on  them." 

Jean  Valjean,  seated  apart  on  a  bench,  near  the 
corner  of  the  wine-shop,  with  his  gun  between  his 
legs,  had  not  up  to  the  présent  taken  any  part  in 
what  was  going  on.  He  did  not  sceni  to  hear  the 
coin  bâtants  saying  around  hini,  "  Thcre  is  a  gun  that 
docs  nothing."  On  hcaring  tlie  order  given  by  En- 
jolras,  he  rose.  It  will  be  reniembered  that  on  the 
arrivai  of  the  insurgents  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie, 
an  old  wonian,  in  lier  terror  of  the  bullets,  placed  her 
mattress  in  front  of  lier  window.  This  window,  a 
garret  window,  was  on  tlic  roof  of  a  six-storied  house, 
a  little  beyond  the  barricade.  The  mattress,  placed 
across  it,  Icaning  at  the  bottom  upon  two  clothcs- 


THE   UNERRING   SHOT.  51 

props,  was  held  above  by  two  ropes,  which,  at  a  dis- 
tance, sepmed  two  pièces  of  pack-thread,  and  were 
fastened  to  nails  driven  into  the  frames  of  the  roof. 
Thèse  cords  could  be  distinctly  seen  on  the  sky,  like 
Jjairs. 

"  Can  any  one  lend  me  a  double-barrelled  gun  ?  " 
Jean  Valjean  asked. 

Enjoh'as,  who  had  just  reloaded  his,  handed  it  to 
him.  Jean  Valjean  aimed  at  the  garret  window  and 
fircd  ;  one  of  the  two  cords  of  the  mattress  was  eut 
asunder,  and  it  hung  by  only  one  thread.  Jean  Val- 
jean fired  the  second  shot,  and  the  second  cord  lashed 
the  garret  Avindow  ;  the  mattress  glided  between  the 
two  pôles  and  fell  into  the  street.  The  insurgents 
applauded,  and  every  voice  cried,  — 

"  There  is  a  mattress." 

"Yes,"  said  Combeferre,  "but  who  will  go  and 
fetchit?" 

The  mattress,  in  truth,  had  fallen  outside  the  barri- 
cade, between  the  besiegers  and  besieged.  Now,  as 
the  death  of  the  sergeant  of  artillery  had  exasperated 
the  troops,  for  some  time  past  they  had  been  lying 
flat  behind  the  pile  of  paving-stones  which  they  had 
raised  ;  and  in  order  to  make  up  for  the  enforced 
silence  of  the  gun,  they  had  opened  fire  on  the  barri- 
cade. The  insurgents,  wishing  to  save  their  ammu- 
nition,  did  not  return  this  musketry  :  the  fusillade 
broke  against  the  barricade,  but  the  street  which  it 
filled  with  buUets  was  terrible.  Jean  Valjean  stepped 
out  of  the  gap,  entered  the  street,  traversed  the  bail 
of  bullets,  went  to  the  mattress,  picked  it  up,  placed 
it  on  his  back,  and  re-entering  the  barricade,  himself 


52  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

placed  the  mattress  in  the  gap,  and  fixed  it  against 
the  wall,  so  that  the  gunners  should  not  see  it.  This 
done,  they  waited  for  tlie  next  round,  which  was  soon 
fired.  The  gun  belchcd  f'orth  its  canister  with  a 
hoarse  roar,  but  there  was  no  ricochet,  and  the  grape^, 
sliot  was  checked  by  the  mattress.  The  expected 
resuit  was  obtained,  and  the  barricade  saved. 

"  Citizen,"  Enjolras   said  to  Jean  Valjean,  "  the 
republic  thanks  y  ou." 

Bossuct  admired,  and  laughingly  said,  — 
"  It  is  immoral  for  a  mattress  to  hâve  so  much 
power  :  it  is  the  triumph  of  that  whicli  yields  over 
that  which  thuntlors.     But  no  matter,  glory  to  the 
mattress  that  annuls  a  caunon  I  " 


CHAPTER  X. 

DAWN. 

At  this  moment  Cosette  awoke  :  her  becl-room  was 
narrow,  clean,  circumspect,  with  a  long  window  on 
tlie  east  side  looking  ont  into  the  court-jard  of  the 
house.  Cosette  knew  nothing  of  what  was  going  on 
in  Paris,  for  she  had  returned  to  her  bed-room  at  the 
time  when  Toussaint  said,  "  Tiiere  is  a  row."  Cosette 
had  slept  but  a  few  hours,  though  well.  She  had 
had  sweet  dreanis,  which  resulted  perliaps  from  the 
fact  that  her  small  bed  was  very  white.  Somebody, 
who  was  Marins,  appeared  to  her  in  light  ;  and  she  rose 
with  the  sun  in  her  eyes,  which  at  first  produced  the 
effect  of  a  continuation  of  her  dream  upon  her.  Her 
first  thought  on  coniing  ont  of  the  dream  was  of  a 
smiling  nature,  and  she  felt  quite  reassured.  Like 
Jean  Valjean  a  few  hours  before,  she  was  passing 
through  that  reaction  of  the  soûl  which  absolutely 
desires  no  misfortune.  She  began  hoping  with  ail 
her  strength,  without  knowing  why,  and  then  suf- 
fered  from  a  contraction  of  the  heart.  She  had 
not  seen  Marins  for  three  days  ;  but  she  said  to 
herself  that  he  must  hâve  received  her  letter,  that 
he  knew  where  she  was,  tliat  he  was  clever  and 
vrould  find  means  to  get  to  her,  —  certainly  to-day, 


54  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

and  perhaps  that  very  morniiig.  It  was  bright  day, 
but  the  suiibeam  was  iiearly  horizontal,  and  so  she 
tiiought  that  it  must  be  early,  but  that  she  ought  to 
rise  in  order  to  receive  Marius.  She  felt  that  she 
could  not  live  without  Marius,  and  that  consequently 
was  sufficient,  and  JNIarius  would  corne.  No  objec- 
tion was  admissible  ;  ail  this  was  certain.  It  was 
monstrous  enough  to  hâve  suffered  for  three  days  : 
Marius  absent  for  three  days,  that  was  horrible  on 
the  part  of  le  bon  Dieu.  Now  this  cruel  suspense 
sent  from  on  high  was  a  trial  passed  through  ;  Marius 
was  about  to  conie  and  briilg  good  news.  Thus  is 
youth  constituted  :  it  wipes  away  its  tears  quickly, 
and  finding  sorrow  useless,  does  not  accept  it. 
Youth  is  the  smile  of  the  future  of  an  unknown 
thing,  which  is  itself  :  it  is  natural  for  it  to  be 
happy,  and  it  seems  as  if  its  breath  were  made  of 
hope. 

However,  Cosette  could  not  succeed  in  recalling  to 
mind  what  jNIarius  had  said  to  her  on  the  subject  of 
this  absence,  which  was  only  to  last  one  day,  and 
what  exjîlanation  he  had  given  her  about  it.  Every 
one  will  hâve  noticed  with  what  skill  a  coin  let  fall 
on  the  ground  runs  to  hide  itself,  and  what  art  it  has 
in  rendering  itself  invisible.  There  are  thoughts 
which  play  us  the  same  trick  ;  they  conceal  them- 
selves  in  a  corner  of  our  brain  :  it  is  ail  over,  they 
are  lost,  and  it  is  impossible  to  recall  them  to  mem- 
ory.  Cosette  felt  somewhat  vexed  at  the  little  uso- 
less  effort  her  memory  made,  and  said  to  hcrself  that 
it  was  very  wrong  and  culpable  of  her  to  forget 
words  pronounced  by  Marius.     She  left  her  bcd,  and 


DAWN.  55 

performed  the  two  ablutions   of  the   soûl   and  the 
body,  lier  prajers  and  her  toilette. 

We  may,  if  absolutely  requjred,  introduce  a  reader 
into  a  nuptial  cliamber,  but  not  iuto  a  \'irgin's  room. 
Verse  could  liardly  venture  it,  prose  ought  not. 
It  is  the  interior  of  a  still  elosed  flower,  a  ^Yllite- 
ness  in  the  gloaming,  the  inner  cell  of  a  elosed  lily, 
which  must  not  be  guzod  at  by  nian  till  it  has  been 
gazed  at  by  the  suu.  Woman  in  the  bud  is  sacred  : 
this  innocent  bud  which  discovers  itself,  this  adora- 
ble senii-nudity  which  is  afraid  of  itself,  this  white 
foot  which  takes  refuge  in  a  slipper,  this  throat  which 
veils  itself  bcfore  a  niirror  as  if  the  mirror  were  an 
eye,  this  chemise  which  hurricdly  rises  and  covers 
the  shoulder  at  the  sound  of  a  pièce  of  furniture 
creaking  or  a  passing  vehicle,  thèse  knotted  strings, 
this  stay-lace,  this  tremor,  this  shudder  of  cold  and 
shame,  this  exquisite  shyncss  in  every  moveraent,  this 
almost  winged  anxiety  when  there  is  nothing  to  fear, 
the  successive  phases  of  the  apparel,  wdiich  are  as 
charraing  as  the  clouds  of  dawn,  —  it  is  not  befitting 
that  ail  this  should  be  described,  and  it  is  too  much 
to  hâve  merely  indicated  it.  The  eye  of  nian  nmst 
be  even  more  religions  before  the  rising  of  a  maiden 
than  before  the  rising  of  a  star.  The  possibility  of 
attaining  ought  to  be  turned  into  augmented  respect. 
The  down  of  the  peach,  the  first  bloom  of  the  plum, 
the  crystal  radiate  of  the  snow,  the  butterfly's  wing 
powdered  with  feathers,  ave  but  coarse  things  by  the 
side  of  this  chastity,  which  does  not  know  itself  that 
it  is  chaste.  The  maiden  is  only  the  flash  of  the 
dream,  and  is  not  yet  a  statue  ;  her  alcôve  is  cou- 


56  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

cealecl  in  the  dim  part  of  the  idéal,  and  the  indiscrect 
touch  of  the  eye  brutalizes  this  vague  twilight.  Li 
this  case  contemplation  is  profanation.  We  will 
tberefore  say  nothing  about  the  sweet  awaking  and 
rising  of  Cosette.  An  Eastern  fable  tells  us  that 
the  rose  Avas  made  white  by  God,  but  that  Adam 
having  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  when  it  opened, 
it  felt  ashamed,  and  turned  pink.  We  are  of  those 
who  feel  themselves  abashed  in  the  présence  of 
maidens  and  flowers,  for  we  find  them  worthy  of 
vénération. 

Cosette  dressed  herself  very  rapidly,  and  combcd 
and  dressed  her  hair,  which  was  very  simple  at  that 
day,  when  women  did  not  swcll  their  ringlets  and 
plaits  with  cushions  and  pads,  and  placed  no  crino- 
line in  their  hair.  Then  she  opened  the  window  and 
looked  ail  around,  hoping  to  discern  a  little  of  the 
street,  an  angle  of  the  house,  or  a  corner  of  the  pave- 
ment, to  watch  for  INIarius.  But  nothing  could  be 
seen  of  the  outside  :  the  court-yard  was  surrounded 
by  rather  lofty  walls,  and  was  bounded  by  other  gar- 
dons. Cosette  declared  thèse  gardons  hideous,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  considered  flowers  ugly. 
The  paltriest  street  gutter  would  hâve  suited  her  pur- 
pose  better  ;  and  she  resolved  to  look  up  to  heaven, 
as  if  she  thought  that  Marins  might  possibly  corne 
thence.  Snddenly  she  burst  into  tears,  not  through 
any  fickleness  of  tempérament,  but  her  situation  con- 
sisted  of  hopes  dashed  with  despondency.  She  con- 
fusedly  felt  somcthing  horrible  ;  that  it  was  really  in 
the  air.  She  said  to  herself  that  she  was  sure  of 
nothing,  that  letting  herself  out  of  sight  was  losing 


DAWN.  57 

herself;  and  the  idea  that  Marins  might  return  to 
her  froni  heaven  appeared  to  lier  no  longer  charm- 
ing  but  lugubrious.  Then  —  for  such  thèse  clouds 
are  —  calnniess  returned,  and  hope,  and  a  species 
of  smile,  unconscious,  but  trusting  in  God. 

Everybody  was  still  asleep  in  the  house,  and  a 
provincial  silence  prevailed.  No  shutter  was  opened, 
and  the  porter's  lodge  was  still  closcd.  Toussaint 
was  not  up,  and  Cosette  naturally  tliought  that  her 
father  was  asleep.  She  must  hâve  sufFered  greatly, 
and  must  still  be  sufFering,  for  she  said  to  herself 
that  her  father  had  been  nnkind,  but  she  reckoned 
on  INIarius.  The  éclipse  of  such  a  light  was  decidedly 
impossible.  At  moments  she  heard  some  distance 
off  a  sort  of  heavy  shock,  and  thought  how  singular 
it  was  that  gâtes  were  opened  and  shut  at  so  early 
an  hour  ;  it  was  the  sound  of  the  cannon-balls  batter- 
ing  the  barricade.  There  was  a  martin's  nest  a  few 
feet  below  Cosette's  window  in  the  old  smoke- 
blackened  cornice,  and  the  mouth  of  the  nest  pro- 
jected  a  little  beyond  the  cornice,  so  that  the  interior 
of  this  little  Paradise  could  be  seen  from  above.  The 
mother  was  there  expandiiig  her  wings  like  a  fan 
over  her  brood  ;  the  maie  bird  fluttered  round,  went 
away,  and  then  returned,  briiiging  in  his  bill  food 
and  kisses.  The  risiiig  day  gildcd  this  happy  thing  ; 
the  great  law,  increase  and  multiply,  was  there  smil- 
ing  and  august  ;  and  the  sweet  mystery  was  uiifolded 
in  the  glory  of  the  morn.  Cosette,  with  her  hair  in 
the  sunshine,  her  soûl  in  fiâmes,  enlightened  by  love 
within  and  the  dawn  without,  bent  forward  as  if 
mechanically,  and,  almost  without  dariiig  to  confess 


58  JEAN   VAL  JE  AN. 

to  lierself  tliat  she  was  thiiiking  at  the  same  tinie  of 
Marius,  she  began  looking  at  thèse  birds,  this  familj, 
this  maie  and  female,  this  mothcr  and  her  little  ones, 
with  ail  the  profound  agitation  which  the  sight  of  a 
nest  occasions  a  virgin. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE   SHOT  WHICH   DOES   NOT   MISS   AND  WHICH 
KILLS    NOBODY. 

The  fire  of  tlie  assailants  continued,  and  the 
musketry  and  grape-shot  alternated,  though  without 
13roducing  niucli  miscliief.  The  upper  part  of  Corinth 
alone  sufFered,  and  the  first-floor  and  garrot  Windows, 
pierced  by  slugs  and  bullets,  gradually  lost  their 
shape.  The  conibatants  posted  there  w^ere  compelled 
to  w^ithdraw  ;  but,  in  fact,  such  are  the  tactics  of  an 
attack  on  a  barricade,  —  to  skirniish  for  a  long  tinie 
and  exhaust  the  aniniunition  of  the  insurgents,  if 
they  commit  the  error  of  returning  the  fire.  When 
it  is  discovered  by  the  slackening  of  their  fire  that 
they  bave  no  powder  or  bail  left,  the  assault  is  made. 
Enjolras  had  not  fallen  into  this  trap,  and  the  barri- 
cade did  not  reply.  At  each  platoon  fire  Gavroche 
thrust  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  a  sign  of  suprême 
disdain. 

"  That  's  good,"  he  said  ;  "  tear  up  the  linen,  for 
we  require  lint." 

Courfeyrac  addressed  the  grape-shot  on  its  want 
of  eff'ect,  and  said  to  the  cannon, — 

"  You  are  becoming  diffuse,  my  good  fellow." 

In  battle,  intrigues  take  place  as  at  a  bail  ;  and 
it  is  probable  that  the  silence  of  the  redoubt  was 


60  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

beginning  to  render  tlie  assailants  anxious,  and  make 
them  fear  lest  some  unexpected  incident  had  occuvred. 
They  feit  a  need  of  seeing  clearly  tlirough  this  pile  of 
paving-stones,  and  what  was  going  on  beliind  tliis 
impassive  wall,  which  received  shots  without  an- 
swering  them.  The  insurgcnts  suddenly  perccived 
a  hehiiet  glistening  in  the  sun  upon  an  adjoining 
roof:  a  sapper  was  leaning  against  a  tall  chimney- 
pot  and  apparcntly  a  sentry  there.  He  looked  down 
into  the  barricade. 

"  That  's  a  troublesome  spy,"  said  Enjolras. 

Jean  had  retnrned  Enjoh'as  his  fowling-piece,  but 
still  had  his  own  musket.  Without  saying  a  word 
he  aime.d  at  the  sapper,  and  a  second  later  the  hel- 
met,  struck  by  a  bulkt,  fcll  noisily  into  the  street. 
The  soldier  disappeared  with  ail  possible  haste.  A 
second  watchman  took  his  place,  and  it  was  an 
officer.  Jean  Valjean,  who  had  rcloadcd  his  musket, 
aimed  at  the  new-comer,  and  sent  the  officer's  helmet 
to  join  the  private's.  The  ofRcer  was  not  obstinate, 
but  withdrew  very  quickly.  This  time  the  hint  was 
understood,  and  no  one  again  appeared  on  the  roof. 

"  Why  did  you  not  kill  the  nian  ?  "  Bossuet  asked 
Jean  Valjean,  who,  however,  made  no  reply. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

DISORDER   THE   PARTISAN   OF   ORDER. 

BossuET  muttered  in  Corabeferre's  ear,  — 

"  He  lias  not  answered  my  question." 

"  He  is  a  man  who  does  kind  actions  with  musket- 
shots,"  said  Combeferre. 

Those  who  hâve  any  recollection  of  this  now  dis- 
tant epoch  know  that  the  suburban  National  Guards 
were  valiant  against  the  insurrection,  and  they  were 
peculiarly  brave  and  obstinate  in  the  days  of  June, 
1832.  Any  worthy  landlord,  whose  establishment 
the  insurrection  injured,  became  léonine  on  seeing 
his  dancing-room  deserted,  and  let  himself  be  killed 
in  order  to  save  order  represented  by  the  suburban 
public-house.  At  this  tinie,  which  was  at  once 
heroic  and  bourgeois,  in  the  présence  of  ideas  which 
had  tlieir  knights,  interests  had  their  Paladins,  and 
the  prosaic  nature  of  the  motive  took  away  none 
of  the  bravery  of  the  movement.  The  decrease  of 
a  pile  of  crowns  made  bankers  sing  the  INIarseillaise, 
men  lyrically  shed  their  blood  for  the  till,  and  de- 
fended  with  Lacedsemonian  enthusiasm  the  shop, 
that  immense  diminutive  of  the  country.  Altogether 
there  was  a  good  deal  that  was  very  serions  in  ail 
this  ;  social  interests  were  entering  into  a  contest, 


62  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

while  awaiting  the  day  when  they  would  enter  a 
state  of  equilibrium.  Another  sign  of  this  time  was 
the  aiiai'chy  miiigled  witli  the  governiiientalism  (a 
barbarous  name  of  the  correct  party),  and  men  were 
for  order  withoiit  discipline.  The  drùms  played 
unexpectedly  fancy  calls,  at  the  conimand  of  sonie 
colonel  of  the  National  Guard  :  one  captain  went 
under  fire  through  inspiration,  while  some  National 
Guards  fought  "  for  the  idea,"  and  on  thcir  own 
account.  In  critical  moments  during  the  riots  men 
followed  the  advice  of  their  chiefs  less  than  their 
own  instincts,  and  there  were  in  the  army  of  order 
real  Guérilleros,  some  of  the  SAvord  like  Fannicot, 
and  others  of  the  pen  like  Henry  Fonfrède.  Civili- 
zation,  unhappily  represented  at  this  period  more  by 
an  aggregation  of  intercsts  than  by  a  group  of  prin- 
ciples,  was,  or  believed  itself  to  be,  in  danger  ;  it 
uttcred  the  alarm  cry,  and  every  man,  constituting 
himself  a  centre,  defended,  succored,  and  protected 
it  in  his  own  way,  and  the  first  corner  took  on  him- 
self to  save  Society. 

Zeal  sometimes  went  as  far  as  extermination  ; 
a  platoon  of  National  Guards  constituted  themselves 
of  their  own  authority  a  council  of  war,  and  tried 
and  executed  in  five  minutes  an  insurgent  prisoner. 
It  was  an  improvisation  of  this  nature  which  killed 
Jean  Prouvaire.  It  is  that  fcrocious  Lynch  law  with 
which  no  party  has  the  right  to  reproach  another, 
for  it  is  applied  by  the  Republic  in  America  as  by 
monarchy  in  Europe.  Tins  Lynch  law  was  compli- 
catcd  by  mistakes.  On  a  day  of  riot  a  young  poet 
of  the  name  of  Paul  Aimé  Garnier  was  pursued  on 


DISORDER   THE   PARTISAN   OF   ORDER.  63 

the  Place  Royale  at  thc  bayonet's  point,  and  only 
escaped  by  taking  shelter  under  the  gateway  at  Xo.  G. 
"  There  's  another  of  those  Saint  Simonians,"  they 
shouted,  and  wishcd  to  kill  him.  Now,  he  had 
under  his  arni  a  volume  of  the  Memoirs  of  the 
Duc  de  Saint  Simon  ;  a  Natienal  Guard  read  on 
the  back  the  words  "  Saint  Simon,"  and  shouted, 
"  Death  to  him!"  On  June  6,  1832,  a  company 
of  suburban  National  Guards,  commanded  by  Cap- 
tain  Fannicot,  to  whom  we  bave  already  referred, 
decimated  the  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie  for  his  own 
good  pleasure,  and  on  his  own  authority.  This  fact, 
singular  though  it  is,  was  proved  by  the  judicial 
report  drawn  up  in  conséquence  of  the  insurrection 
of  1832.  Captain  Fannicot,  an  impatient  and  bold 
bourgeois,  a  species  of  condottiere  of  order,  and  a 
fanatical  and  insubmissive  governmentalist,  could  not 
resist  the  attraction  of  firing  prematurely,  and  taking 
the  barricade  ail  by  himself,  that  is  to  say,  with  his 
company.  Exasperated  at  the  successive  apparition 
of  the  red  flag  and  the  old  coat,  which  lie  took  for 
the  black  flag,  he  loudly  blamed  the  gênerais  and 
commanders  of  corps,  who  were  holding  councils, 
as  they  did  not  think  the  décisive  moment  for  assault 
had  arrived,  but  wcre  "  letting  the  insurrection  stew 
in  its  own  gravy,"  according  to  a  celebrated  expres- 
sion of  one  of  them.  As  for  him,  he  thought  the 
barricade  ripe,  and  as  everything  that  is  ripe  is  bouud 
to  fall,  he  made  the  attempt. 

He  commanded  men  as  resolute  as  himself.  "  Mad- 
ïnen,"  a  witness  called  them.  His  company,  the  same 
which  had  shot  Jean  Prouvaire,  was  the  first  of  the 


64  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

battalioii  posted  at  the  strcet  corner.  At  the 
iiionient  wheu  it  was  least  expected  the  captain 
daslied  his  men  at  the  barricade  ;  but  this  move- 
ment,  executed  with  more  good-will  tliau  strategy, 
cost  Fannicot's  company  dearly.  Before  it  had 
covered  two  thirds  of  the  strcet  a  gênerai  discharge 
from  the  barricade  greeted  it  ;  four,  the  boldest  men 
of  ail,  running  at  the  head,  were  shot  down  in  point- 
blank  range  at  the  very  foot  of  the  barricade,  and 
this  courageous  mob  of  National  Guards,  very  brave 
men,  but  not  possessing  the  military  tenacity,  Avas 
compelled  to  fall  back  after  a  few  moments,  leaving 
fifteen  corpses  in  the  street.  The  momcntary  hésita- 
tion gave  the  insurgents  time  to  reload,  and  a  second 
and  most  deadly  discharge  assailed  the  company 
before  the  men  were  able  to  regain  tlieir  shelter  at 
the  corner  of  the  street.  In  a  moment  they  were 
caught  between  two  fires,  and  received  the  voUey 
from  the  cannon,  which,  having  no  orders  to  the  con- 
trary,  did  not  cease  firing.  The  intrepid  and  impru- 
dent Fannicot  was  one  of  those  killed  by  this  round 
of  grape-shot  ;  he  was  laid  low  by  the  cannon.  This 
attack,  which  was  more  furious  thau  serions,  irritated 
Enjolras. 

"  The   asses  !  "   he   said,    "  they   hâve   their   men 
killed  and  expend  our  ammunition  for  nothing." 

.  Enjolras  spoke  like  the  true  gênerai  of  the  riot 
that  he  was  :  insurrection  and  repression  do  not  fight 
with  equal  arms  ;  for  the  insurrection,  which  can  be 
soon  exhaustcd,  has  only  a  certain  number  of  rounds 
to  fire  and  of  combatants  to  expend.  An  expended 
cartouche-box  and  a  killed  man  cannot  hâve  their 


DISORDEll   THE   PARTISAN   OF   ORDER.         65 

place  filled  up.  Repression,  on  the  other  hand, 
having  the  army,  does  not  count  men,  and  having 
Vincennes,  does  not  count  rounds.  Repression  has 
as  many  régiments  as  the  barricade  has  men,  and  as 
many  arsenals  as  the  barricade  has  cartouche-boxes. 
Hence  thèse  are  always  contests  of  one  man  against 
a  hundred,  which  ever  end  by  the  destruction  of  the 
barricade,  unless  révolution,  suddenly  dashing  up, 
casts  into  the  balance  its  flashing  archangels  glaive. 
Such  things  happen,  and  then  everything  rises, 
paving-stones  get  into  a  state  of  ebullition,  and 
popular  redoubts  swarm.  Paris  has  a  sovereign 
tremor,  the  quid  cUvinum  is  evolved;  there  is  an 
August  10  or  a  July  29  in  the  air,  a  prodigious  light 
appears,  the  yawning  throat  of  force  recoils,  and  the 
army,  that  lion,  sees  before  it,  standing  erect  and 
tranquil,  that  prophet,  France. 


VOL.   V. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

GLEAMS   WHICH   FADE. 

In  tlie  chaos  of  feelings  and  passions  which  défend 
a  barricade  there  is  everything,  —  bravery,  youth,  the 
point  of  honor,  enthusiasm,  the  idéal,  conviction,  the 
obstinacy  of  the  gambler,  and  above  ail  intermitting 
gleams  of  hope,  One  of  thèse  intermittences,  one 
of  thèse  vague  quiverings  of  hope,  suddenly  ran 
along  the  Chanvrerie  barricade  at  the  most  unex- 
pected  moment. 

"  Listen,"  Enjolras,  who  was  ever  on  the  watch, 
exclaimed.     "  I  fancy  that  Paris  is  waking  up." 

It  is  certain  that  on  the  morning  of  June  6  the 
insurrection  had  for  an  hour  or  two  a  certain  re- 
animation. The  obstinacy  of  the  tocsin  of  St.  Merry 
arouscd  a  few  slight  desires,  and  barricades  were 
begun  in  the  Rue  du  Poirier  and  in  the  Rue  des 
Gravilliers.  In  front  of  the  Porte  St.  ]\Iartin,  a 
young  man  armed  with  a  gun  attacked  a  squadron 
of  cavalry  alone,  unprotcctcd,  and  on  the  opcn  bou- 
levard he  knelt  down,  raiscd  his  gun,  fired  and  killed 
the  INIajor,  and  then  turncd  away,  saying,  "  There  's 
another  who  will  do  us  no  more  misciiief."  He  was 
eut  down.  In  the  Rue  St.  Denis  a  woman  fired  at 
the  National  Guard  from  behind  a  Venetiau  shutter, 


GLEAMS   WHICH   FADE.  67 

and  the  wooclen  laths  could  be  seen  to  tremble  every 
moment.  A  boy  of  fourteen  was  arrested  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Cossonnerie  witli  his  pockets  full  of  car- 
tridges,  and  several  guard-houses  were  attacked.  At 
the  entrance  of  the  Rue  Bertin  Poirée  a  very  sharp 
and  quite  unexpected  fusillade  greeted  a  régiment 
of  cuirassiers,  at  the  head  of  which  rode  General 
Cavaignac  de  Barague.  In  the  Rue  Planche  ]\libray 
old  crockery  and  household  utensils  were  thro\yn 
from  the  roofs  down  on  the  troops  ;  this  was  a  bad 
sign,  and  when  ]\Iarshal  Soult  was  iuformed  of  the 
fact,  Napoleon's  old  lieutenant  became  pensive,  for 
he  remembered  Suchet's  reniark  at  Saragossa  :  "  We 
are  lost  when  old  women  empty  their  pots  de  cham- 
bre on  our  heads."  Thèse  gênerai  symptoms  mani- 
fested  at  a  moment  when  the  riots  were  supposed  to 
be  localized,  this  fever  of  anger  which  regained  the 
upper  hand,  thèse  will-o'-the-wisps  flying  hère  and 
there  over  the  profound  masses  of  combustible  mat- 
ter  which  are  called  the  faubourgs  of  Paris,  and  ail 
the  accompanying  fjicts,  rendered  the  chiefs  anxious, 
and  they  hastened  to  extinguish  the  beginnings  of 
the  conflagration.  Until  thèse  sparks  were  quenched, 
the  attacks  on  the  barricades  Maubuée,  de  la  Chan- 
vrerie,  and  St.  Merry  were  deferred,  so  that  ail  might 
be  finished  at  one  blow.  Columns  of  troops  were 
sent  through  the  streets  in  a  state  of  fermentation, 
clearing  the  large  streets  and  searching  the  smaller 
ones,  on  the  right  and  on  the  left,  at  one  moment 
slowly  and  cautiously,  at  another  at  quick  march. 
The  troops  broke  open  the  doors  of  the  houses 
whence   firing  was   heard,   and   at   the   same   time 


68  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

cavalry  manœuvres  dispersed  the  groups  on  the  bou- 
levards. This  repression  was  not  efFected  without 
turmoil,  and  that  tumultuous  noise  peculiar  to  col- 
lisions between  the  arniy  and  the  people,  and  it  was 
this  that  had  attracted  Enjolras's  attention  in  tlie 
intervais  between  the  cannonading  and  the  platoon 
fire.  Moreover,  he  had  seen  wounded  men  carried 
along  the  end  of  the  street  on  litters,  and  said  to 
Courfeyrac,  "  Those  wounded  are  not  our  handi- 
work." 

The  hope  lasted  but  a  short  time,  and  the  gleam 
was  quickly  eclipsed.  In  less  than  half  an  hour 
what  there  was  in  the  air  vanished  ;  it  was  like  a 
flash  of  lightning  without  thunder,  and  the  insur- 
gents  felt  that  leaden  pall,  whicli  the  indifférence  of 
the  people  casts  upon  abandoned  obstinate  men,  fall 
upon  them  again.  The  gênerai  movement,  wliich 
seemed  to  hâve  been  obscurely  designed,  failed,  and 
the  attention  of  the  INIinister  of  War  and  the  strategy 
of  the  gênerais  could  now  be  concentrated  on  the 
three  or  four  barricades  tliat  remained  standing.  The 
sun  rose  on  the  horizon,  and  an  insurgent  addressed 
Enjolras,  — 

"  We  are  hungry  hère.  Are  we  really  going  to 
die  like  this,  without  eating  ?  " 

Enjolras,  still  leaning  at  his  parapet,  made  a  nod 
of  affirmation,  wùthout  taking  his  eyes  off"  the  end 
of  the  street. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

IN  WHICH   WE    READ    THE    NAME    OF    THE   MIS- 
TRESS    OF    EXJOLRAS. 

CouRFEYRAC,  seated  on  a  stone  by  the  side  of 
Enjolras,  continued  to  insiilt  the  cannon,  and  each 
time  that  the  gloomy  shower  of  projectiles  which  is 
called  a  grape-shot  passed  with  its  monstrous  noise 
he  greeted  it  with  an  ironical  reniark. 

"  You  are  wasting  your  breath,  my  poor  old  brute, 
and  I  feel  sorry  for  you,  as  your  row  is  thrown  away. 
That  is  not  thunder,  but  a  eough." 

And  those  around  him  laughed.  Courfeyrac  and 
Bossuet,  whose  valiant  good-humor  increased  with 
danger,  made  up  for  the  want  of  food,  like  Madame 
Scarron,  by  jests,  and  as  wine  was  short,  poured  out 
gayety  for  ail. 

"I  admire  Enjolras,"  said  Bossuet.  "His  temerity 
astonishes  me.  He  lives  alone,  which,  perhaps,  ren- 
ders  him  a  little  sad  ;  and  Enjolras  is  to  be  pitied 
for  his  greatness,  which  attaches  him  to  widowhood. 
We  fellows  hâve  ail,  more  or  less,  mistresses,  who 
make  us  niad,  that  is  to  say  brave,  and  when  a  man 
is  as  full  of  love  as  a  tiger  the  least  he  can  do  is  to 
fight  like  a  lion.  That  is  a  way  of  avenging  our- 
selves  for  the  tricks  which  our  grisettes  play  us. 
Roland  lets  himself  be  killed  to  vex  Angélique,  and 


70  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

ail  our  heroism  cornes  from  our  women.  A  man 
without  a  woman  is  like  a  pistol  witliout  a  hammer, 
and  it  is  the  woman  who  makes  the  man  go  oiF. 
Well,  Enjolras  lias  no  woman,  lie  is  not  in  love,  and 
finds  means  to  be  intrepid.  It  is  extraordinary  that 
a  man  can  be  cold  as  ice  and  daring  as  fire." 

Enjolras  did  not  appear  to  liston  ;  but  anj  one  who 
had  been  near  liim  might  hâve  heard  him  murmur, 
in  a  low  voice,  Patria.  Bossuet  laughed  again,  when 
Courfeyrac  shouted,  "  Hère  's  something  fresh." 

And  assuming  the  voice  of  a  groom  of  the  cham- 
bers  who  announces  a  visitor,  he  added,  —  "  JNlr. 
Eight-Pounder." 

In  fact,  a  new  character  had  come  on  the  stage  ; 
it  was  a  second  pièce  of  artilleiy.  The  gunners 
rapidlj  got  it  into  position  by  the  side  of  the  first 
one,  and  this  was  the  beginning  of  the  end.  A  few 
minutes  later  both  guns,  being  actively  served,  were 
at  work  against  the  barricade,  and  the  platoon  fire  of 
the  line  and  the  suburban  National  Guards  supported 
the  artillery.  Another  cannonade  was  audible  some 
distance  oft".  At  the  same  time  that  the  two  guns 
were  furiously  assaulting  the  redoubt  in  the  Hue  de  la 
Chanvrerie,  two  other  pièces  placed  in  position,  one 
in  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  the  other  in  the  Rue  Aubry 
le  Boucher,  were  pounding  the  St.  Merry  barricade. 
The  four  guns  formed  a  lugubrious  écho  to  one 
another,  the  barks  of  the  grim  dogs  of  war  an- 
swered  one  another.  Of  the  two  guns  now  opened 
on  the  barricade  of  the  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie,  one 
fired  shell,  the  other  solid  shot.  The  gun  vvliich  fired 
the  latter  was  pointed  at  a  slight  élévation,  and  the 


TIIE   MISTRESS   OF   ENJOLRAS.  71 

fii'iiig  was  so  calculated  that  thc  bail  struck  tlie  ex- 
trême edge  of  the  crest  of  the  barricades,  and  hurled 
tlie  broken  paving-stones  ou  the  heads  of  the  iiisur- 
gcnts.  This  mode  of  fire  was  intended  to  drive  the 
combatants  from  the  top  of  the  redoubt,  and  compel 
thcm  to  close  up  in  the  interior  ;  that  is  to  say,  it 
announced  the  assault.  Once  the  combatants  were 
driven  from  the  top  of  the  barricade  by  the  cannon, 
and  from  the  Windows  of  the  public-house  by  the 
canister,  the  columns  of  attack  could  venture  into 
the  street  withoiit  being  ainied  at,  perhaps  without 
evên  being  seen,  suddenly  escalade  the  barricade,  as 
on  the  previous  evening,  and  take  it  by  sur])rise. 

"  The  annoyance  of  thèse  guns  must  be  reduced," 
said  Enjolras;  and  he  shouted,  "Fire  at  the  artillery- 
men  !  " 

Ail  were  ready  :  the  barricade,  which  had  so  long 
been  silent,  was  belted  with  flame  ;  seven  or  eight 
rounds  succceded  one  another  with  a  sort  of  rage  and 
joy  ;  the  street  was  filled  with  a  blinding  smoke,  and 
at  the  expiration  of  a  few  minutes  there  might  be  con- 
fusedly  seen  through  the  mist,  ail  striped  with  flame, 
two  thirds  of  the  artillerymen  lying  under  the  gun- 
whecls.  Those  who  remained  standing  continued  to 
serve  the  guns  with  a  stem  tranquillity,  but  the  fire 
was  reduced. 

"  Things  are  going  well,"  said  Bossuet  to  Enjolras  ; 
"  that  is  a  success." 

Enjolras  shook  his  head,  and  replied,  — 

"  Another  quarter  of  an  hour  of  that  success,  and 
there  will  uot  be  ten  cartridges  left  in  the  barricade." 

It  appears  that  Gavroche  heard  the  remark. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

GAVROCHE   OUTSIDE. 

CouRFEYRAC  ail  at  once  perceived  somebody  in 
the  street,  at  tlie  foot  of  tbe  barricade,  aniid  the 
shower  of  bullets.  Gavroche  had  fetched  a  ham^jer 
from  the  pot-house,  passed  through  the  gap,  and  was 
quickly  eîigaged  in  emptying  into  it  the  full  cartouche- 
boxes  of  the  National  Ouards  killed  on  the  slope  of 
the  barricade. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  "  Courfeyrac  said. 

Gavroche  looked  up. 

"  Citizen,  I  am  filling  my  hamper." 

"  Do  you  not  see  the  grape-shot  ?  " 

Gavroche  replied,  — 

"  Wcll,  it  is  raining  ;  what  then  ?  " 

Courfeyrac  cried,  "  Come  in." 

"  Directly,"  said  Gavroche. 

And  with  one  bound  he  reached  the  street.  It 
will  be  borne  in  mind  that  Fannicot's  company,  in 
retiring,  left  behind  it  a  number  of  corpses  ;  some 
twenty  dead  lay  hère  and  there  ail  along  the  pave- 
ment of  the  street.  That  made  twenty  cartouche- 
boxes  for  Gavroche,  and  a  stock  of  cartridgcs  for  the 
barricade.  The  smoke  lay  in  the  street  like  a  fog  ; 
any  one  who  lias  seen  a  cloud  in  a  mountain  gorge. 


GAVROCHE   OUTSIDE.  73 

between  two  précipitons  escarpments,  can  form  an 
idea  of  this  smoke,  contractée!,  and  as  it  were  ren- 
dered  denser,  by  tlie  two  dark  lines  of  tall  houses. 
It  rose  slowly,  and  was  incessantly  renewed  ;  whence 
came  a  graduai  obscurity,  which  dulled  even  the 
bright  daylight.  The  combatants  could  scarce  see  one 
another  froni  either  end  of  the  street,  Avhich  was,  how- 
ever,  very  short.  This  darkness,  probably  desired 
and  calculated  on  by  the  chiefs  who  were  about  to 
direct  the  assault  on  the  barricade,  w'as  useful  for 
Gavroche.  Under  the  cloak  of  this  smoke,  and 
thanks  to  his  shortness,  he  was  enabled  to  advance 
a  considérable  distance  along  the  street  unnoticed, 
and  he  plundered  the  first  seven  or  eight  cartouche- 
boxes  without  any  great  danger.  He  crawled  on  his 
stomach,  galloped  on  ail  fours,  took  his  hamper  in 
his  teeth,  w^rithed,  glided,  undulated,  w^ound  from 
one  corpse  to  another,  and  emptied  the  cartouche- 
box  as  a  monkey  opens  a  nut.  They  did  not  cry  to 
him  from  the  barricade,  to  which  he  was  still  rather 
close,  to  return,  for  fear  of  attracting  attention  to 
him.  On  one  corpse,  which  was  a  corporal's,  he 
found  a  powder-flask. 

"  For  thirst,"  he  said,  as  he  put  it  in  his 
pocket. 

While  moving  forward,  he  at  length  reached  the 
point  where  the  fog  of  the  fire  became  transparent, 
so  that  the  sharp-shooters  of  the  line,  drawn  up  be- 
hind  their  parapet  of  paving-stones,  and  the  National 
Guard  at  the  corner  of  the  street,  ail  at  once  pointed 
out  to  one  another  something  stirring  in  the  street. 
At  the  moment  when  Gavroche  was  taking  the  car- 


74  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

tridgcs  from  a  sergeant  lying  near  a  post,  a  bullet 
struck  the  corpse. 

"  Oli,  for  shame  !  "  said  Gavroche  ;  ''  they  are  kill- 
iiig  m  Y  dead  for  me." 

A  second  bullet  caused  the  stones  to  strike  fire 
close  to  him,  while  a  third  upset  liis  hamper.  Ga- 
vroche looked  and  saw  that  it  came  from  the  National 
Guards.  He  stood  upright,  with  liis  hair  floating  in 
the  breeze,  his  hands  on  his  bips,  and  bis  eyes  fixed 
on  the  National  Guards  who  were  firiug,  and  be 
sang,  — 

"  On  est  laid  à  Nanterre, 
C'est  la  faute  à  Voltaire, 
Et  bête  à  Palaiseau, 
C'est  1-a  faute  à  Rousseau." 

Then  he  picked  up  his  hamper,  put  into  it  the  car- 
tridges  scattered  around  without  missing  one,  and 
walked  toward  the  firing  party,  to  despoil  another 
cartouche-box.  Then  a  fourth  bullet  missed  him. 
Gavroche  sang, — 

"  Je  ne  suis  pas  notaire, 
C'est  la  faute  à  Voltaire  ; 
Je  suis  petit  oiseau. 
C'est  la  faute  à  Eousseau." 

A  fifth  bullet  only  succeeded  so  far  as  to  draw  a 
third  couplet  from  him,  — 

**  Joie  est  mon  caractère. 
C'est  la  faute  à  Voltaire  ; 
Misère  est  mon  trousseau. 
C'est  la  faute  à  Rousseau." 


GAVROCHE    OUTSIDE.  75 

They  went  on  for  some  time  longer,  and  the  sight 
vras  at  once  terrifie  and  charming  ;  Ga^Toche,  wliile 
fired  at,  ridiculed  the  firing,  -  and  appeared  to  be 
greatly  amused.  He  was  like  a  sparrow  deriding  tlie 
sportsnien,  and  answered  each  discharge  bj  a  verse. 
The  troops  aimed  at  him  incessantly,  and  constantly 
missed  him,  and  the  Xational  Guards  and  the  sokliers 
laughed  while  covering  him.  He  lay  down,  then 
rose  again,  hid  himself  in  a  doorway,  then  bounded, 
disappeared,  reappeared,  ran  off,  came  back,  replied 
to  the  grape-shot  by  putting  liis  fingers  to  his  nose, 
and  ail  the  while  plundered  cartridges,  emptied 
boxes,  and  filled  his  hamper.  The  insurgents  watclied 
him,  as  they  panted  with  anxiety,  but  while  the  bar- 
ricade trembled  he  sang.  He  was  not  a  child,  he 
was  not  a  nian,  he  was  a  strange  goblin  gamin,  and 
he  resembled  the  invulnérable  dwarf  of  the  combat. 
The  bullets  ran  after  him,  but  he  was  more  active 
than  they  ;  he  played  a  frightful  game  of  hide-and- 
seek  with  death  :  and  each  time  that  the  snub-nosed 
face  of  the  spectre  approached  the  gamin  gave  it  a 
fillip.  One  bullet,  however,  better  aimed  or  more 
treacherous  than  the  rest,  at  length  struck  the  will- 
o'-the-wisp  lad  ;  Gavroche  was  seen  to  totter  and 
then  sink.  The  wiioïe  barricade  uttered  a  cry,  but 
there  was  an  x\ntceus  in  this  pygmy  :  for  a  gamin  to 
tonch  the  pavement  is  like  the  giant  touching  the 
earth  ;  and  Gavroche  had  only  fallen  to  rise  again. 
He  remained  in  a  sitting  posture,  a  long  jet  of  blood 
ran  down  his  face,  he  raised  both  arms  in  the  air, 
looked  in  the  direction  whence  the  shot  had  corne, 
and  began  singing,  — 


76  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

"  Je  suis  tombé  par  terre, 
C'est  la  faute  à  Voltaire  ; 
Le  uez  dans  le  ruisseau, 
C'est  la  ftiute  à  —  " 

He  did  iiot  finish,  for  a  second  shot  from  the  same 
marksnian  stopped  him  short.  This  time  he  lay  with 
his  face  on  the  pavement,  and  did  not  stir  again. 
This  little  great  soûl  had  flown  away. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

HOW  A  BROTHER  BECOMES  A  FATHER. 

There  were  at  this  very  moment  in  tlie  Luxem- 
bourg garden  —  for  the  eye  of  the  drama  must  be 
everyvvhere  présent  —  two  lads  holding  each  other's 
hand.  One  miglit  be  seven,  the  other  five,  years.  of 
âge.  As  they  were  wet  through  with  the  rain  they 
walked  along  sunshiny  paths  ;  the  elder  led  the 
younger,  both  were  in  rags  and  pale,  and  they  looked 
like  wild  birds.  The  younger  said,  "  I  am  very  hun- 
gry."  The  elder,  who  had  already  a  protecting  air, 
led  his  brother  with  the  Icft  hand,  and  had  a  switch 
in  his  right.  They  were  alone  in  the  garden,  which 
was  deserted,  as  the  gâtes  were  closed  by  police  order 
on  account  of  the  insurrection.  The  troops  who  had 
bivouacked  there  had  issued  forth  for  the  exigences 
of  the  combat.  How  were  thèse  children  hère  ? 
Perhaps  they  had  escaped  from  some  guard-roora 
where  the  door  was  left  ajar  ;  perhaps  in  the  \'icinity, 
at  the  Barrière  d'Enfer,  on  the  esplanade  of  the  Ob- 
servatory,  or  in  the  neighboring  square  overshad- 
Qwed  by  the  cornice,  on  which  may  be  read,  Invene- 
runt  parvulum  pannis  involutum,  there  was  some 
mountebank's  booth  from  which  they  had  fled  :  per- 
haps they  had  on  the  previous  evening  kept  eut  of 


78  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

sight  of  the  garclen  inspectors  at  the  liour  of  closîng, 
and  liad  sj^ent  the  niglit  in  one  of  those  suminer- 
houses  in  which  people  read  the  papers  :  the  fact  is, 
that  they  were  wandering  about,  and  seenied  to  be 
free.  To  be  a  wanderer,  and  to  appear  free,  is  to  be 
lost,  and  thèse  poor  little  créatures  were  really  lost. 
The  two  lads  were  the  sanie  about  whom  Gavroche 
had  been  in  trouble,  and  wdioni  the  reader  will 
remember,  sons  of  Thénardier,  let  out  to  JNIagnon, 
attributed  to  M.  Gillenormand,  and  now  leaves  fallen 
from  ail  thèse  rootless  branches,  and  rolled  along  the 
ground  by  the  wind. 

.Their  clothes,  clean  in  the  time  of  Magnon,  and 
which  served  hcr  as  a  prospectus  to  M.  Gillenor- 
mand, had  become  rags  ;  and  thèse  beings  henceforth 
belonged  to  the  statistics  of  "  deserted  children," 
whom  the  police  pick  up,  lose,  and  find  again  on  the 
pavement  of  Paris.  It  nceded  the  confusion  of  such 
a  day  as  this  for  thèse  two  poor  little  wretches  to  be 
in  this  garden.  If  the  inspectors  had  noticed  thèse 
rags  they  would  hâve  cxpellcd  them,  for  poor  little 
lads  do  not  enter  public  gardens,  and  yet  it  ought  to 
be  remembered  that  as  children  they  hâve  a  right  to 
flowers.  They  were  hère,  thanks  to  the  locked  gâtes, 
and  were  committiiig  an  offcnce  ;  they  had  stepped 
into  the  garden  and  remained  there.  Thougli  locked 
gâtes  do  not  give  a  holiday  to  the  keepcrs,  and  their 
surveillance  is  supposed  to  continue,  it  grows  weaker 
and  rests  ;  and  the  inspectors,  aiso  aflfected  by  the 
public  afïairs,  and  more  busied  about  the  outside  than 
the  inside,  did  not  look  at  the  garden,  and  had  not 
seen  the  two  delinquents.     It  had  rained  on  the  pre- 


nOW  A  BROTHER   BECOMES   A   FATHER.        79 

vious  evening,  and  even  slightly  on  this  morning,  but 
in  June,  showers  are  of  no  great  conséquence.  People 
hardly  perceive,  an  hour  after  a  storm,  tliat  this  fair 
beauteous  day  bas  wept,  for  the  earth  dries  up  as 
rapidly  as  a  child's  cheek.  At  this  moment  of  the 
solstice  the  midday  light  is,  so  to  speak,  poignant, 
and  it  seizes  everything.  It  clings  to  and  spreads 
itself  over  the  earth  with  a  sort  of  suction,  and  we 
might  say  that  the  sun  is  tliirsty.  A  shower  is  a 
giass  of  water,  and  rain  is  at  once  drunk  up.  In  the 
morning  everything  glistens,  in  the  afternoon  every- 
thing is  dusty.  Xothing  is  so  admirable  as  verdure 
cleansed  by  the  rain  and  dried  by  the  sun  ;  it  is 
wartn  freshness.  Gardens  and  fields,  ha\dng  water 
in  tlieir  roots  and  sunshine  in  their  flowers,  become 
censcrs  of  incense,  and  smoke  with  ail  their  per- 
fumes  at  once.  Everything  laughs,  sings,  and  offers 
itself,  and  we  feel  softly  intoxicated  :  summcr  is  a 
temporary  Paradise,  and  the  sun  helps  man  to  be 
patient. 

There  are  beings  who  ask  no  more, — living  créatures 
wlio,  hay-ing  the  azuré  of  heaven,  say  it  is  enough  ; 
dreamers  absorbed  in  the  prodigy,  drawing  from  the 
idolatry  of  nature  indifférence  to  good  and  evil  ;  con- 
te mplators  of  the  Cosmos,  radiantly  distracted  from 
man,  who  do  not  understand  how  people  can  trouble 
themselves  ^bout  the  hunger  of  one  person,  the  thirst 
of  another,  *the  nudity  of  the  poor  man  in  wiuter, 
the  lymphalic  curvature  of  a  small  backbone,  the 
truck-bed,"  the  garret,  the  cell,  and  the  rags  of  young 
shivering  girh,  when  they  can  dream  under  the  trees  : 
they  are  peaceful  and  terrible  minds,  pitilessly  satis- 


80  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

fied,  and,  strange  to  say,  infinitude   sufRces   them. 
Tliey  ignore  that  great  want  of  man,  the  finite  which 
adniits  of  an  embrace,  and  do  not  dream  of  the  finite 
which  admits  of  progress,  that  sublime  toil.     The 
indefinite,  which  springs  from  the  divine  and  human 
combination  of  the  infinité  and  the  finite,  escapes 
them,  and  provided  that  they  can  be  face  to  face 
with  immensity,  they  smile.     They  never  feel  joy, 
but  always  ecstasy,  and  tlicir  life  is  one  of  abstrac- 
tion.    The  history  of  liumanity  is  to  them  but  a  grand 
détail  :  the  Ail  is  not  in  it,  the  Ail  remains  outside  of 
it.     Of  what  use  is  it  to  trouble  one's  self  about  that 
item,  man?     Man  suifers,  it  is  possible,  but  just  look 
at  Aldebaran  rising  !     The  mother  has  no  milk  left, 
the  new-born  babe  is  dying.     I  know  nothing  of  ail 
that,  but  just  look  at  the  marvellous  rose  made  by  a 
sprig  of  hawthorn  when  looked  at  through  a  micro- 
scope ;  just  compare  the  finest  Mechlin  lace  with  that  ! 
Thèse  thinkers  forget  to  love,  and  the  zodiac  has 
r3uch  an  attraction  over  them  that  it  prevents  them 
seeing  the  weeping  cliild.     God  éclipses  their  soûl, 
and   they  are  a  family  of  minds  at  once  great  and 
little.     Homer  belonged  to  it  ;    so  did  Goethe,  and 
possibly  Lafontaine,  magnificent  egotists  of  the  infi- 
nité, calm  spectators  of  sorrow,  who  do  not  see  Nero 
if  the  weather  be  fine  ;  from  whom  the  suii  hides  the 
pyre;  who  would  look  at  a  guillotininf,   to  seek  a 
light  effbct  in  it  ;    who  hear  neither  cri^s  nor  sobs, 
nor  the  death-rattle  nor  the  tocsin  ;  for  whom  every- 
thing  is  good,  since  there  is  the  month  of  May  ;  who 
so  long  as  they  hâve  clouds  of  purple  and  gold  above 
their  heads  déclare  themselves  satisfied  ;  and  who  are 


HOW  A  BROTHER  BECOMES  A  FATHER.    81 

determined  to  bc  happy  until  the  radiance  of  the 
stars  and  the  song  of  birds  are  exhausted. 

Thèse  are  darkly  radiant,  and  they  do  not  suspect 
that  they  are  to  be  pitied.  But  they  are  certainly  so, 
for  the  man  who  does  not  weep  does  not  see.  We 
must  admire  and  pity  them,  as  we  would  pity  and 
admire  a  being  at  once  night  and  day,  who  had  no 
eyes  under  his  brows,  but  a  star  in  the  centre  of  his 
forehead.  The  indifférence  of  thèse  thinkers  is,  ac- 
cording  to  some,  a  grand  philosophy.  Be  it  so  ;  but 
in  this  superiority  there  is  infirmity.  A  man  may  be 
immortal  and  limp,  as  witness  Vulcan,  and  he  may 
be  more  than  man  and  less  than  man  ;  there  is  im- 
mense incompleteness  in  nature,  and  who  knows 
whether  the  sun  be  not  blind  ?  But  in  that  case,  whom 
to  trust?  Solem  quis  clicere  falsum  aucleat?  Hence, 
certain  geniuses,  certain  human  deities,  star-men, 
might  be  mistaken  ?  What  is  above  at  the  summit, 
at  the  zénith,  which  pours  so  much  light  on  the 
earth,  might  see  little,  see  badly,  not  see  at  ail  ?  Is 
not  that  desperate  ?  No  :  but  what  is  there  above 
the  sun?     God. 

On  June  6,  1832,  at  about  eleven  in  the  forenoon, 
the  Luxembourg,  solitary  and  depopulated,  was  deli- 
cious.  The  quincunxes  and  flower-beds  sent  balm 
and  dazzlement  into  the  light,  and  the  branches,  wild 
in  the  brilliancy  of  midday,  seemed  trying  to  embrace 
one  another.  There  was  in  the  sycamores  a  twittering 
of  linnets,  the  sparrows  were  triumphal,  and  the 
woodpeckers  crept  along  the  chestnut,  gently  tap- 
ping  holes  in  the  bark.  The  beds  accepted  the 
legitimate  royalty  of  the  lilies,  for  the  most  august  of 

VOL.   V.  6 


82  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

perfiimes  is  that  which  issues  froin  whiteness.  The 
sharp  odor  of  the  carnations  vvas  inhaled,  and  the  old 
rooks  of  Marie  de  Medicis  made  Jove  on  the  lofty 
trees.  The  sun  gilded,  purpled,  and  illumined  the 
tulips,  which  are  nothing  but  ail  the  varieties  of 
iiame  niade  into  flowers.  Ail  around  the  tulip-beds 
hunimed  the  bées,  the  flashes  of  thèse  fire-flowers. 
AU  was  grâce  and  gayety,  even  the  coming  shower, 
for  that  relapse  by  which  the  lilies  of  the  valley  and 
honeysuckles  would  profit  had  nothing  alarming  about 
it,  and  the  swallows  made  the  delicious  menace  of 
flying  low.  What  was  there  inhaled  happiness  :  life» 
smelt  pleasantly,  and  ail  this  nature  exhaled  candor, 
help,  assistance,  paternity,  caresses,  and  dawn.  The 
thoughts  that  fell  from  heaven  were  as  soft  as  a  babe's 
little  hand  that  we  kiss.  The  statues  under  the  trees, 
nude  and  white,  were  robed  in  dresses  of  shadow 
shot  with  light  ;  thèse  goddesses  were  ail  ragged 
with  sunshine,  and  beams  hung  from  theni  on  ail 
sides.  Around  the  grcat  basin  the  earth  was  alrcady 
so  dry  as  to  be  parched,  and  there  was  a  breeze  suffi- 
ciently  strong  to  create  hère  and  there  small  riots  of 
dust.  A  few  yellow  leaves  remaining  from  the  last 
autumn  joyously  pursued  one  another,  and  scemed  to 
be  sporting. 

The  abundance  of  light  had  somcthing  strangely 
reassuring  about  it  ;  life,  sap,.  beat,  and  exhalations 
overflowed,  and  the  greatness  of  the  source  could  be 
felt  beneath  création.  In  ail  thèse  blasts  penetrated 
with  love,  in  this  movement  of  reflections  and  gleams, 
in  this  prodigious  expenditure  of  beams,  and  in  this 
indefinite  outpouring  of  fluid  gold,  the  prodigality  of 


HOW  A  BROTHER  BECOMES  A  FATHER.    83 

the  inexhaustible  could  be  felt  ;  and  beliind  tins  splen- 
dor,  as  behind  a  ciirtain  of  flanies,  glimpses  of  God,that 
millionnaire  of  the  stars,  could  be  caught.  Thanks 
to  the  sand,  there  was  not  a  speck  of  mud  ;  and, 
thanks  to  the  rain,  there  was  not  a  grain  of  dust. 
The  bouquets  had  just  perfornied  their  ablutions,  and 
ail  the  velvets,  ail  the  satins,  ail  the  varnish,  and  ail 
the  gold  which  issue  from  the  earth  in  the  shape  of 
flowers,  were  irreproachable.  Tliis  magnificence  was 
clean,  and  the  grand  silence  of  happy  nature  filled 
the  garden,  —  a  heavenly  silence,  compatible  with  a 
thousand  strains  of  music,  the  fondling  tones  from 
the  nests,  the  buzzing  of  the  swarms,  and  the  pal- 
pitation§  of  the  wind.  Ail  the  harniony  of  the 
season  was  blended  into  a  graceful  whole,  the  en- 
trances  and  exits  of  spring  took  place  in  the  desired 
order,  the  lilacs  were  finishing,  and  the  jessamine 
begiifning,  a  few  flowers  were  behindhand,  a  few 
insects  before  their  time,  and  the  vanguard  of  the 
red  butterflies  of  June  fraternized  with  the  rearguard 
of  the  white  butterflies  of  May.  The  plane-trees 
were  putting  on  a  fresh  skin,  and  the  breeze  formed 
undulations  in  the  magnificent  enormity  of  the  chest- 
nut-trees.  It  was  splendid.  A  vétéran  from  the 
adjoining  barra cks  who  was  looking  through  the 
railings  said,  "  Spring  présents  arms  in  full  dress." 

AU  nature  was  breakfasting  ;  the  création  was  at 
table  ;  it  was  the  hour  :  the  great  blue  cloth  was  laid 
in  heaveu,  and  the  great  green  one  on  earth,  while 
the  sun  gave  an  à  giorno  illumination.  God  was 
ser\'ing  His  universal  meal,  and  each  being  had  its 
pasture  or  its  pasty.     The  wood-pigeon  found  hemp- 


84  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

seed,  tlie  cbaffinch  found  millet,  the  goldfinch  found 
chickweed,  the  redbreast  found  worms,  tbe  bee  found 
flowers,  the  fly  found  infusoria,  and  the  greenfinch 
found  Aies.  They  certainly  devoured  one  another  to 
some  extent,  which  is  the  mystery  of  evil  mingled 
with  good,  but  net  a  single  animal  had  an  empty 
stomach.  The  two  poor  abandoned  boys  had  got 
near  the  great  basin,  and  somewhat  confused  by  ail 
this  light,  tried  to  hide  themselves,  which  is  the 
instinct  of  the  poor  and  the  weak  in  the  présence  of 
magnificence,  even  when  it  is  impersonal,  and  they 
kept  behind  the  swan's  house.  Now  and  then,  at 
intervais  when  the  .wind  blew,  confused  shouts,  a 
rumbling,  a  sort  of  tumultuous  death-rattle  which 
was  musketry,  and  dull  blows  which  were  cannon- 
shots,  could  be  heard.  There  was  smoke  above  the 
roofs  in  the  direction  of  the  markets,  and  a  bell  which 
seemed  to  be  summoning  sounded  in  the  distance. 
The  children  did  not  seem  to  notice  the  noises,  and 
the  youngcr  lad  repeated  every  now  and  then  in  a 
iow  voice,  "  I  ani  hungry," 

Almost  simultaneously  with  the  two  boys  another 
couple  approached  the  basin,  consisting  of  a  man  of 
about  fifty,  leading  by  the  hand  a  boy  of  six  years  of 
âge.  It  was  doubtless  a  father  with  his  son.  The 
younger  of  the  two  had  a  cake  in  his  hand.  At  this 
period  certain  contiguous  houses  in  the  Rue  Madame 
and  the  Rue  d'Enfer  had  keys  to  the  Luxembourg, 
by  which  the  lodgers  could  Ict  themselves  in  when 
the  gâtes  were  locked  ;  but  this  permission  has  since 
been  withdrawn.  This  father  and  son  evidently 
came  from  one  of  thèse  houses.     The  two  poor  little 


HOW   A   BROTHKR    BECOMES   A   FATHER.        85 

créatures  saw  "  tbi^  gentleman  "  coming,  and  hid 
theniselves  a  little  more.  He  was  a  citizen,  and  per- 
haps  tlie  same  whoni  Marins  during  his  love-fever 
liad  one  day  heard  near  the  >ame  great  basin  conn- 
selling  his  son  "  to  avoid  excesses."  He  had  an 
affable  and  hauglity  look,  and  a  mouth  which,  as  it 
did  not  close,  alwajs  smiled.  Tins  mechanical  smile, 
produced  by  too  much  jaw  and  too  little  skin,  shows 
the  teeth  rather  than  the  soûl.  The  boy  with  the 
bitten  cake  which  he  had  not  tinislied,  seemed  glutted  ; 
the  boy  was  dressed  in  a  National  Guard's  unilbrni, 
on  account  of  the  riots,  and  the  father  remained  in 
civilian  garb  for  the  sake  of  prudence.  Father  and 
son  had  halted  near  the  great  basin,  in  which  the  two 
swans  were  disporting.  Tins  bourgeois  appeared  to 
hâve  a  spécial  admiration  for  the  swans,  and  resem- 
bled  them  in  the  sensé  that  he  walked  like  them. 
At  this  moment  the  swans  were  swinmiing,  which  is 
their  principal  talent,  and  were  superb.  Had  the  two 
little  fellows  listened,  and  been  of  an  âge  to  compre- 
hend,  they  might  hâve  overheard  the  remarks  of  a 
serions  man  ;  the  father  was  saying  to  his  son,  — 

"  The  sage  lives  contented  with  little  ;  look  at  me, 
my  son,  I  do  not  care  for  luxury.  You  never  see  me 
in  a  coat  glistening  with  gold  and  precious  stones  ; 
I  leave  that  false  lustre  to  badly-organized  minds." 

Hère  the  deep  shouts  which  came  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Halles  broke  ont,  with  a  redoublement  of 
bells  and  noise. 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  the  lad  asked. 

The  father  replied,  — 

"  That  is  the  saturnalia." 


80  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Ail  at  once  he  perceived  the  tvvo  little  ragged 
boys  standing  raotionless  beliind  the  swan's  greeii 
ho  use. 

"  Hère  is  the  beginning,"  he  said. 

And  after  a  silence  he  added,  — 

"  Anarchy  enters  this  garden." 

In  the  niean  wliile  the  boy  bit  the  cake,  spat  it 
ont  again,  and  suddenly  began  crying. 

"  Why  are  you  crying  ?  "  the  father  asked. 

"  I  am  no  longer  huugry,"  said  the  boy. 

The  father's  sinile  became  more  niarked  than 
ever. 

"  You  need  not  be  hungry  to  eat  a  cake." 

"I  am  tired  of  cake;  it  is  so  tilling." 

"  Don't  you  want  any  more  ?  " 

"  No." 

The  father  showed  him  the  swans. 

"  Throw  it  to  those  palmipeds." 

The  boy  hesitated,  for  if  he  did  not  want  any  more 
cake  that  was  no  reason  to  give  it  away. 

The  father  continued,  — 

"Be  humane  :  you  ouglit  to  hâve  pity  on  animais." 

And,  taking  the  cake  from  his  son,  he  threw  it 
into  the  basin,  where  it  fcll  rather  near  the  bank. 
The  swans  were  some  distance  off,  near  the  centre  of 
the  basin,  and  engaged  with  some  prey  :  they  had 
seen  ncither  the  citizen  nor  the  cake.  The  citizen, 
feeling  that  the  cake  ran  a  risk  of  bcing  lost,  and  af- 
fected  by  this  useless  shipwreck,  began  a  télégraphie 
agitation  which  eventually  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  swans.  They  noticed  sometliing  floating  on 
the  surface,  tacked,  like  the  vessels  they  arc,  and 


HOW  A  BROTHER   BECOMES   A  FATHER.        87 

came  towards  the  cake  slowly,  with  the  majcsty  that 
befits  white  beasts. 

"  Swans  uiiderstaiid  signs,"  said  the  bourgeois, 
pleased  at  liis  own  cleverness. 

At  tliis  moment  the  distant  tumult  of  the  city  was 
suddenly  swoUen.  This  time  it  was  siuister,  and 
there  are  some  pufFs  of  wind  which  speak  more  dis- 
tinctly  than  others.  The  one  which  blew  at  this 
moment  distinctly  brought  up  the  rolling  of  drnms, 
shonts,  platoon  fires,  and  tlie  mournful  re])lies  of  the 
tocsin,  and  the  cannon.  This  coincided  with  a  black 
clond  which  suddenly  veiled  the  sky.  The  swans 
had  not  yet  reached  the  cake. 

"  Let  us  go  home,"  the  fatlier  said  ;  "  they  are 
attacking  the  Tuileries." 

He  seized  his  son's  h  and  again,  and  then  con- 
tinued,  — 

"  From  the  Tuileries  to  the  Luxembourg  there  is 
only  the  distance  which  séparâtes  the  royalty  froni 
the  peerage  ;  and  that  is  not  far.  It  is  going  to  rain 
musketry." 

He  looked  at  the  cloud,  — 

"And  perhaps  we  shall  hâve  rain  of  the  other 
sort  too  ;  heaven  is  interfering  :  the  younger  branch 
is  condemned.     Let  us  make  haste  home." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  swans  eat  the  cake," 
said  the  boy. 

"  It  would  be  imprudent,"  the  father  answered  ; 
and  he  led  away  his  little  bourgeois.  The  son,  re- 
grctting  the  swans,  turncd  his  head  toward  the  basin, 
until  a  bend  in  the  quincunxes  concealed  it  from 
him.     The  two  little  vagabonds  had  in   the   mean 


88  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

wliile  approached  the  cake  siraultaneously  with  the 
swans.  It  was  floating  on  the  water;  the  sraaller 
boj  looked  at  the  cake  ;  the  other  looked  at  tlie 
citizen,  who  was  going  ofF.  Father  and  sou  entered 
the  labyrinth  of  trees  that  runs  to  the  grand  stair- 
case  of  the  clump  of  trees  in  the  direction  of  the 
Rue  Madame.  When  they  were  no  longer  in  sight, 
the  elder  hurriedly  lay  down  full  length  on  the 
rounded  bank  of  the  basin,  and  hokling  by  his  left 
hand,  while  beuding  over  the  water,  till  he  ail  but 
fell  in,  he  stretclied  out  his  switch  toward  the  cake 
with  the  other.  The  swans,  seeing  the  eneniy,  hast- 
ened  up,  and  in  hastening  tlieir  breasts  produced  an 
eftect  useful  to  the  little  fisher  :  the  water  flowed 
back  in  front  of  the  swans,  and  one  of  the  gcntle, 
concentric  undulations  slightly  irapelled  the  cake 
toward  the  boy's  switch.  AVhen  the  swans  came  up, 
the  stick  was  touching  the  cake  ;  the  lad  gave  a 
quick  blow,  startled  the  swans,  seized  the  cake,  and 
arose.  The  cake  was  soaking,  but  they  were  hungry 
and  thirsty.  The  elder  boy  divided  the  cake  into 
two  parts,  a  large  one  and  a  small  one,  kept  the 
small  one  for  himself,  and  gave  the  larger  pièce  to 
his  brother,  saying,  — 

"  Shove  that  into  your  gun." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

MORTUUS   PATER   FILIUM   MORITURUM   EXPECTAT. 

Marius  rushed  ont  of  the  barricade,  and  Combe- 
ferre  followed  him  ;  but  it  was  too  late,  and  Ga- 
vroche was  dead.  Combeferre  brought  in  the  hamper 
of  cartridges,  and  Marins  the  boy.  Alas  !  he  thought 
he  was  requiting  the  son  for  what  the  father  had 
done  for  bis  father  ;  bnt  Thénardier  had  brought  in 
his  father  alive,  while  he  brought  in  the  hid  dead. 
When  ^larius  re-entered  the  barricade  with  Gavroche 
in  his  arms,  his  face  was  deluged  with  blood,  like 
the  boy's  ;  for  at  the  very  instant  when  he  stooped 
to  pick  up  Gavroche,  a  buUet  had  grazed  his  skull, 
but  he  had  not  noticed  it.  Courfeyrac  took  ofiF  his 
neckcloth  and  bound  Marius's  forehead  ;  Gavroche 
was  deposited  on  the  same  table  with  Mabœuf,  and 
the  black  shawl  was  spread  over  both  bodies  ;  it  was 
large  enough  for  the  old  man  and  the  child.  Combe- 
ferre distributed  the  cartridges  which  he  had  brought 
in,  and  they  gave  each  man  fifteen  rounds  to  fire. 
Jean  Valjean  was  still  at  the  same  spot,  motionless 
on  his  bench.  ^yhen  Combeferre  offered  him  his 
fifteen  cartridges  he  shook  his  head. 

"  That  is  a  strange  eccentric,"  Combeferre  said  in 
a  whisper  to  Enjolras.  "  He  manages  not  to  fight 
inside  this  barricade." 


90  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Which  does  not  prevent  him  from  defending  it," 
Eiijolras  answered. 

"  Heroism  lias  its  original  cliaractcrs,"  Combeferre 
resumed. 

And  Courfeyrac,  who  overlieard  him,  said,  — 
"  He  is  a  différent  sort  from  Father  Mabœuf." 
It  is  a  thing  worth  mentioning,  that  the  fire  which 
struck  the  barricade  scarce  disturbed  the  interior. 
Those  who  hâve  never  passed  the  tornado  of  a  warfare 
of  this  nature  cannot  form  any  idea  of  the  singular 
moments  of  calmness  mingled  with  thèse  convulsions. 
Men  come  and  go,  they  talk,  they  jest,  they  idle.  A 
friend  of  ours  heard  a  combatant  say  to  him,  in  the 
midst  of  the  grape-shot,  "  It  is  like  being  at  a  bache- 
lor's  breakfast  hère."  The  redoubt  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Chanvrerie,  we  repeat,  appeared  intcrnally  most  calm  ; 
and  ail  the  incidents  and  phases  were,  or  would 
shortly  be,  exhausted.  The  position  had  become 
from  critical  menacing,  and  from  menacing  was 
probably  about  to  become  desperate.  In  proportion 
as  the  situation  grew  darker  an  heroic  gleam  more 
and  more  purpled  the  barricade.  Enjolras  com- 
manded  it  in  the  attitude  of  a  young  Spartan,  devot- 
ing  his  bare  sword  to  the  gloomy  gcnius,  Epidotas. 
Combeferre,  with  an  apron  tied  round  him,  was  dress- 
ing  the  wounded.  Bossuct  and  Feuilly  were  making 
cartridges  with  the  powdcr-flask  found  by  Gavroche 
on  the  dead  corporal,  and  Bossuet  was  saying  to 
Feuilly,  "  We  are  soon  going  to  take  the  diligence 
for  another  planet."  Courfeyrac,  seatcd  on  the  few 
paving-stones  which  he  had  set  aside  near  Enjolras, 
w  as  preparing  and  arranging  an  entire  arsenal  —  his 


MORTUUS   PATER   FILIUM   EXPECTAT.  91 

sword-caue,  his  giin,  two  hostler-pistols,  and  a  club  — 
Avitli  the  ease  of  a  girl  settiug  a  small  what-not  iii 
order.  Jean  Yaljean  was  silently  looking  at  the  wall 
facing  him,  and  a  workman  was  fasteniug  on  his 
head,  with  a  pièce  of  string,  a  broad-brimmed  straw 
bonnet  of  Mother  Hucheloup's,  '^  for  fear  of  sun- 
strokes,"  as  he  said.  The  young  men  of  the  Aix 
Cougourde  were  gayly  chatting  together,  as  if  désir- 
ons to  talk  patois  for  the  hist  tinie.  Joly,  who  had 
taken  down  WidoNV  Hucheloup's  niirror,  was  examin- 
ing  his  tongue  in  it  ;  while  a  few  combatants,  who 
had  discovered  some  nearly  mouldering  crusts  of 
bread  in  a  drawer,  were  eating  theni  greedily. 
Marius  was  anxious  about  what  his  father  would 
sav  to  hini. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

THE    VULTURE    BECOMES   PREY. 

We  miist  lay  a  stress  upon  a  psychological  fact 
peculiar  to  barricades,  for  nothing  wliich  characterizes 
this  surprising  war  of  streets  ought  to  be  omitted. 
Whatever  the  internai  tranquillity  to  which  we  hâve 
just  rcferred  niay  be,  the  barricade  does  not  tlie  less 
remain  a  vision  for  those  who  are  inside  it.  There 
is  an  apocalypse  in  a  civil  war,  ail  the  darkness  of 
the  unknown  world  is  niingled  with  thèse  stern 
flashes,  révolutions  are  sphinxes,  and  any  one  who 
has  stood  behind  a  barricade  belieyes  that  he  has 
gone  through  a  dreani.  What  is  felt  at  thèse  spots, 
as  we  hâve  shown  in  the  matter  of  Marins,  and  whose 
conséquences  we  shall  see,  is  more  and  less  than  life. 
On  leaving  a  barricade,  a  nian  no  loniier  knows  what 
he  has  seen  ;  he  may  hâve  been  terrible,  but  he  is 
ignorant  of  the  fact.  He  has  been  surroundcd  there 
by  combating  ideas  which  possessed  human  faces, 
and  had  his  head  in  the  light  of  futurity.  There 
were  corpscs  laid  low  and  phantoms  standing  up- 
right  ;  and  the  hours  were  colossal,  and  seemcd  liours 
of  eternity.  A  man  has  lived  in  death,  and  shadows 
hâve  passed.  AVliat  was  it  ?  He  has  seen  liands  on 
which  was  blood  ;  it  was  a  deafening  din,  but  at  the 


THE   VULTURE   BECOMES   PRET.  93 

sanie  time  a  startling  silence  :  there  were  open  moutlis 
that  cried,  and  other  open  mouths  which  were  silent, 
and  men  were  in  snioke,  perhaps  in  night.  A  nian 
fancies  lie  lias  touchcd  tlie  sinister  dripping  of  un- 
known  depths,  and  he  looks  at  something  red  which 
he  has  in  his  nails,  but  he  no  longer  recollects 
anything. 

Let  us  return  to  the  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie.  Sud- 
denly,  between  two  discharges,  the  distant  sound  of 
a  clock  striking  was  heard. 

"  It  is  midday,"  said  Conibeferre. 

The  twelve  strokes  had  not  died  ont  ère  Enjolras 
drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  hurled  the 
loud  cry  from  the  top  of  the  barricade, — 

"  Take  up  the  paving-stones  into  the  house,  and 
line  the  Windows  with  theni.  One  half  of  you  to 
the  stones,  the  other  half  to  the  muskets.  There 
is  not  a  moment  to  lose." 

A  party  of  sappers,  with  their  axes  on  their 
shoulders,  had  just  appeared  in  battle-array  at  the 
end  of  the  street.  This  could  only  be  the  head 
of  a  column  ;  and  of  what  column  ?  Evidently  the 
column  of  attack  ;  for  the  sappers  ordered  to  de- 
molish  the  barricade  always  précède  the  troops  ap- 
pointed  to  escalade  it.  It  was  plain  that  the 
moment  was  at  hand  which  M.  Clermont  Tonnerre 
called  in  1822  "a  strong  pull." 

Enjolras's  order  was  carried  ont  with  that  correct 
speed  peculiar  to  ships  and  barricades,  the  only  two 
battle-fields  whence  escape  is  impossible.  In  less 
than  a  minute  two  thirds  of  the  paving-stones  which 
Enjolras  had  ordered  to  be  piled  up  against  the  door 


94  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

of  Corinth  were  carrieJ  to  tlie  first-floor  and  attic, 
and  before  a  second  minute  had  passed  thèse  pavmg- 
stones,  artistically  laid  on  one  another,  walled  up 
one  half  of  tlie  window.  A  few  spaces  carefullj 
arranged  by  Feiiilly,  the  chief  constructor,  allowed  the 
gun-barrels  to  pass  through.  This  armament  of 
the  Windows  was  the  more  easily  effected  because 
the  grape-shot  had  ceased.  The  two  cannon  were 
now  tirjng  solid  shot  at  the  centre  of  the  barricade, 
in  order  to  make  a  hole,  and  if  possible  a  breach, 
for  the  assault.  When  the  stones  intended  for  the 
final  assault  were  in  their  places,  Enjolras  carried 
to  the  first-floor  the  bottles  he  had  placed  under 
the  table,  on  which  Mabœuf  lay. 

"  Who  will  drink  that  ?  "  Bossuet  asked  him. 

"  They  will,"  Enjolras  answered. 

Then  the  ground-floor  window  was  also  barricaded, 
and  the  iron  bars  which  closcd  the  door  at  night 
were  held  in  readiness.  The  fortress  was  complète  ; 
the  barricade  was  the  rampart,  and  the  wine-shop 
the  keep.  With  the  paving-stones  left  over  the  gap 
w^as  stopped  up.  As  the  defendcrs  of  a  barricade 
are  always  obliged  to  save  their  ammunition,  and 
the  bcsiegers  are  aware  of  the  fact,  the  latter  com- 
bine their  arrangements  with  a  sort  of  irritating 
leisure,  expose  themselves  before  the  time  to  the 
fire,  though  more  apparently  than  in  reality,  and 
take  their  ease.  The  préparations  for  the  attack 
are  always  raade  with  a  certain  methodical  slowness, 
and  after  that  comes  the  thunder.  This  slowness 
enablcd  Enjolras  to  revise  and  rciidcr  evcrything 
perfect.     He  felt  that  sincc  such  nicn  were  about 


THE   VULTURE   BECOMES   PREY.  95 

to  die,  their  death  must  be  a  masterpiece.  He  said 
to  Marins,  — 

"  We  are  the  two  chiefs.  -  I  am  going  to  give 
the  final  orders  iuside,  while  vou  remain  outside 
and  watch." 

IMarius  posted  himself  in  observation  on  the  crest 
of  the  barricade,  while  Enjolras  had  the  door  of 
the  kitchen,  which  it  will  be  remenibered  served 
as  ambulance,  nailed  up. 

"  Xo  splashing  on  the  wounded,"  he  said. 

He  gave  his  final  instructions  in  the  ground- 
floor  room  in  a  sharp  but  wonderfully  calm  voice, 
and  Feuilly  listened  and  answered  in  the  name  of 
ail. 

"  At  the  first-floor  hold  axes  ready  to  eut  down 
the  stairs.     Hâve  you  them  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Feuilly  answered. 

"  How  many  ?  " 

"  Two  axes  and  a  crowbar." 

"  Very  good.  In  ail,  twenty-six  fighting  men  left. 
How  many  guns  are  there  ?  " 

"  Thirty-four." 

"Eight  too  many.  Keep  those  guns  loaded  likc 
the  others,  and  within  reach.  Place  your  sabres  and 
pistols  in  your  belts.  Twenty  men  to  the  barricade. 
Six  will  ambush  themselves  in  the  garret  and  at  the 
first-floor  window,  to  fire  on  the  assailants  through 
the  loop-holes  in  the  paving-stones.  There  must  not 
be  an  idle  workman  hère.  Presently,  when  the 
drummer  sounds  the  charge,  the  twenty  men  below 
will  rush  to  the  barricade,  and  the  firet  to  arrive  will 
be  the  best  placed." 


96  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Thèse  arrangements  niade,  lie  turnecl  to  Javcrt, 
and  said  to  him, — 

"  I  hâve  not  forgotten  you." 

And  laying  a  pistol  on  the  table  he  added,  — 

"  The  last  man  to  îeave  hère  will  blow  out  this 
spy's  brains." 

"  Hère  ?"  a  voice  ansvvered. 

"  No,  let  us  not  hâve  this  corpse  near  ours.  It  is 
easy  to  stride  over  the  sniall  barricade  in  Alondctour 
Lanc,  as  it  is  only  four  fcet  high.  This  luan  is  se- 
curely  bound,  so  lead  Iiim  thcre  and  exécute  him." 

Some  one  was  at  this  moment  even  more  stoical 
than  Enjoh'as  ;  it  was  Javert.  Hère  Jeau  Valjcan 
appeared  ;  he  ^vas  mixed  up  with  the  group  of  insur- 
gents,  but  stepped  forward  and  said  to  Enjoh'as,  — 

"  Are  you  the  commander  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  thanked  me  just  now." 

*'  In  the  name  of  the  Republic.  The  barricade  has 
two  saviors,  —  jNIarius  Pontmercy  and  yourself." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  deserve  a  reward  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Wcll,  then,  I  ask  one." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  To  let  me  blow  out  that  man's  brains  myself." 

Javert  raiscd  his  head,  saw  Jean  Valjean,  gave  an 
imperceptible  start,  and  said,  "  It  is  fair." 

As  for  Enjolras,  he  was  reloading  his  gun.  He 
looked  around  him. 

"  Is  there  no  objection  ?  " 

And  he  turned  to  Jean  Valjean. 

"  Take  the  spy." 


THE  VULTURE  BECOMES  PREY.       97 

Jean  Valjean  took  possession  of  Javert  by  seatiug 
himself  on  the  end  of  tlie  table.  He  seized  tlie  pis- 
tol,  and  a  faint  clink  sliowcd  that  he  had  cocked  it. 
Almost  at  the  sanie  moment  the  bugle-call  was 
heard. 

"  Mind  yourselves  !  "  Marins  shouted  from  the  top 
of  the  barricade. 

Javert  began  laughing  that  noiseless  laugh  peculiar 
to  him,  and,  looking  intently  at  tlie  insurgents,  said 
to  them, — 

"  You  are  no  healthier  than  T  am." 

"  Ail  outside,"  Enjolras  cried. 

The  insurgents  rushed  tunmltuously  forth,  and  as 
they  passed,  Javert  smote  them  on  the  baek,  so  to 
speak,  with  the  expression,  "  We  shall  meet  again 
soon." 


VOL.   T. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

JEAN   VALJEAN   EEVENGES   HIMSELP. 

So  soon  as  Jean  Valjean  was  alone  with  Javert 
he  undid  the  rope  which  fastened  the  prisoner  round 
the  waist,  the  knot  of  wliich  was  under  the  table. 
After  tliis,  he  made  him  a  signal  to  rise.  Javert 
obeyed  with  that  indefinable  smile  in  which  the  su- 
premacy  of  enchained  authority  is  condensed.  Jean 
Valjean  seized  Javert  by  the  martingale,  as  he  would 
hâve  taken  an  ox  by  its  halter,  and  dragging  him 
after  him,  quitted  the  wine-shop  slowly,  for  Javert, 
having  his  fect  hobbled,  could  only  take  very  short 
steps.  Jean  Valjean  held  the  pistol  in  his  hand,  and 
they  thus  crossed  the  inner  trapèze  of  the  barricade  ; 
the  insurgcnts,  preparcd  for  the  imminent  attack, 
turned  their  backs. 

JNIarius  alone,  placed  at  the  left  extreniity  of  the 
barricade,  saw  them  pass.  This  group  of  the  victim 
and  the  cxecutioner  was  illumined  by  the  sepulchral 
gleams  which  he  had  in  his  soûl.  Jean  Valjean 
forced  Javert  to  climb  over  the  barricade  with  some 
difficulty,  but  did  not  loosen  the  cord.  When  they 
had  crossed  the  bar,  they  found  thcmselves  alone  in 
the  lane,  and  no  one  could  now  sec  them,  for  the 
clbow   formcd   by  the   liouses  hid   them   from    the 


JEAN   VALJEAN   REVENGES   HIMSELF.  99 

iusiirgents.  The  corpses  removed  from  the  barricade 
formed  a  horrible  pile  a  few  paces  from  them. 
Among  the  dead  could  be  distinguished  a  livid  face, 
dishevelled  hair,  a  pierced  haiid,  and  a  half-naked 
feniale  bosom  ;  it  was  Eponine.  Javert  looked 
askance  at  this  dead  girl,  and  said  with  profound 
calniness,  — 

"  It  seems  to  me  I  know  that  girl." 

Then  he  turned  to  Jean  Yaljean,  who  placed  the 
pistol  nnder  his  arm,  and  fixed  on  Javert  a  glance 
whicli  had  no  need  of  words  to  say,  "  Javert,  it  is  I." 

Javert  answered,  "  Take  your  revenge." 

Jean  Yaljean  took  a  knife  from  his  pocket  and 
opened  it. 

"  A  clasp-knife,"  Javert  exclaimed.  "  You  are 
right,  that  suits  you  better." 

Jean  Yaljean  eut  the  martingale  which  Javert  had 
round  his  neck,  then  he  eut  the  ropes  on  his  wrists, 
and  stooping  down,  those  on  his  feet  ;  then  rising 
again,  he  said,  "  You  are  free." 

It  was  not  easy  to  astonish  Javert,  still,  master 
though  he  was  of  himself,  he  could  not  suppress  his 
émotion  ;  he  stood  gaping  and  motionless,  while 
Jean  Yaljean  continued,  — 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  I  shall  Icave  this  place. 
Still,  if  by  accident  I  do,  I  live  under  the  name  of 
Fauchelevent,  at  Xo.  7,  Rue  de  l'Homme  x\rmé." 

Javert  gave  a  tigerish  frown,  which  opened  a  cor- 
ner of  his  mouth,  and  rauttered  between  his  teeth, — 

"  Take  care  !  " 

"  Begone  !  "  said  Jean  Yaljean. 

Javert  added,  — 


100  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

*'  You  said  Fauchelevent,  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé  ?  " 

"No.  7." 

Javert  repeated  in  a  low  voice,  —  "  No.  7." 

He  rcbuttoned  bis  frock-coat,  restored  liis  military 
stifFness  between  his  slioulders,  made  a  half  turn, 
crossed  his  arms  while  supporting  his  chin  with 
one  of  his  hands,  and  walkcd  ofF  in  the  direction  of 
the  markcts.  Jean  Valjean  looked  after  liim.  After 
going  a  few  yards  Javert  turned  and  said,  — 

"  You  annoy  me.  I  would  sooner  be  killed  by 
you." 

Javert  did  not  even  notice  that  he  no  longer 
addressed  Jean  Valjean  with  familiarity. 

"  Begone  !  "  said  Jean  Yaljcan. 

Javert  retired  slowly,  and  a  moment  after  turned 
the  corner  of  the  Rue  des  Prêcheurs.  When  Javert 
had  disappeared,  Jean  Valjean  discharged  the  pis- 
tol  in  the  air,  and  then  rcturned  to  the  barricade, 
saying,  — 

"  It  is  ail  over." 

This  is  what  had  taken  place  in  the  mcan  while. 
Marins,  more  occupied  with  tlie  outside  than  the  in- 
side,  had  not  hitherto  attcntively  regarded  the  spy 
fastened  up  at  the  darkened  end  of  the  ground-floor 
room.  When  he  saw  him  in  the  opcn  daylight 
bestriding  the  barricade,  he  recognized  him,  and  a 
sudden  hopc  entercd  his  mind.  He  remembered  the 
inspector  of  the  Rue  de  Pontoise,  and  the  tvvo  pis- 
tols  he  had  given  him,  which  he,  Marins,  had  em- 
ployed  at  this  vcry  barricade,  and  he  not  only  remem- 
bered his  face  but  his  namc. 

This    recollection,    however,  was  foggy  and    dis- 


JEAN    VALJEAN  RE  VENGES   HIMSELF.  101 

turbed,  like  ail  his  ideas.  It  was  not  an  affirmation 
he  made  so  much  as  a  question  which  lie  asked  him- 
self.  "  Is  that  not  tlie  Police  Inspector,  who  told 
me  that  his  name  was  Javert  ?  "  Marins  shouted  to 
Enjolras,  who  had  just  statioued  himself  at  the  other 
end  of  the  bamcade,  — 

"  Enjolras  ?  " 

"Well?" 

"  What  is  that  nian's  name  ?  " 

"  Which  man  ?  " 

"  The  police  agent.     Do  you  know  his  name  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do,  for  he  told  it  to  us." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Javert." 

Marius  started,  but  at  this  moment  a  pistol-shot 
was  heard,  and  Jean  Valjean  reappeared,  saying, 
"  It  is  ail  over."  A  dark  chill  crossed  Marius's 
heart. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE   DEAD   ARE    RIGHT   AND   THE    LIVING   ARE 
NOT   WRONG. 

The  death-struggles  of  the  bariicade  were  aboiit 
to  begin,  and  everytliing  added  to  the  tragical  maj- 
esty  of  this  suprême  moment,  —  a  thousand  mjs- 
terious  sounds  in  the  air,  the  breathing  of  armed 
masses  set  in  motion  in  streets  wliich  could  not  be 
seen,  the  intermittent  gallop  of  cavahy,  the  heavy 
rumor  of  artillery,  the  platoon  firing  and  the  cannon- 
ade  Crossing  each  other  in  the  labyrinth  of  Paris, 
the  smoke  of  the  battle  rising  ail  golden  above  the 
roofs,  distant  and  vaguely  terrible  cries,  flashes  of 
menace  everywhere,  the  tocsin  of  St.  Merry,  which 
now  had  the  sound  of  a  sob,  the  mildness  of  the 
season,  the  splendor  of  the  sky  full  of  sunshine  and 
clouds,  the  beauty  of  the  day,  and  the  fearful  silence 
of  the  houses.  For  since  the  previous  evening  the 
two  rows  of  houses  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie  had 
become  two  walls,  —  ferocious  walls  with  closed 
doors,  closed  Windows,  and  closed  shutters. 

At  that  day,  so  dificrent  from  the  présent  time, 
wlien  the  hour  arrived  in  which  the  people  wislied 
to  be  donc  with  a  situation  which  had  lastcd  too 
long,  with  a  conccded  charter  or  a  rcstrictcd  suffrage, 
when  the  universal  wrath  was  diffused  in  the  atmos- 


THE   DEAD   RIGHT,   THE   LIVING   NOT   WIIONG.      103 

pliere,  wlieii  the  city  conscnted  to  an  upheaviiig  of 
paving-stoues,  wheii  the  insurrection  made  the  bour- 
geoisie smile  by  whispering  -its  watchword  in  their 
car,  then  the  inhabitant,  impregnated  with  riot,  so  to 
speak,  was  the  auxiliary  of  the  combatant,  and  the 
house  fraternized  with  the  improvised  fortress  which 
it  supported.  When  the  situation  was  not  ripe, 
when  the  insurrection  was  not  decidedly  accepted, 
wlien  the  masses  disavowed  the  movement,  it  was 
ail  over  with  the  coinbatants,  the  town  was  changed 
into  a  désert  round  the  revolt,  minds  were  chilled, 
the  asylums  were  walled  up,  and  the  street  became 
converted  into  a  défile  to  help  the  arniy  in  taking 
the  barricade.  A  people  cannot  be  forced  to  move 
faster  than  it  wishes  by  a  surprise,  and  woe  to  the 
man  who  tries  to  compel  it  ;  a  people  will  not  put 
up  with  it,  and  then  it  abandons  the  insuri'ection  to 
itself.  The  insurgents  become  lepers  ;  a  house  is  an 
escarpment,  a  door  is  a  refusai,  and  a  façade  is  a 
wall.  This  wall  sees,  hears,  and  will  not  ;  it  miglit 
open  and  save  you,  but  no,  the  wall  is  a  judge,  and 
it  looks  at  you  and  condemns  you.  What  gloomy 
things  are  thèse  closed  houses  !  They  seem  dead 
though  they  are  alive,  and  life,  which  is,  as  it  were, 
suspended,  clings  to  theni.  No  one  has  corne  out 
for  the  last  four-and-twenty  hours,  but  no  one  is 
absent.  In  the  interior  of  this  rock  people  corne 
and  go,  retire  to  bed  and  rise  again  ;  they  are  in  the 
bosom  of  their  fomily,  they  eat  and  drink,  and  are 
afraid,  terrible  to  say.  Fear  excuses  this  formidable 
inhospitality,  and  the  alarm  offers  extenuating  cir- 
cumstauces;     At  times  eveu,  and  this  has  been  wit- 


104  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

nessed,  the  fear  becomes  a  passion,  and  terror  may 
be  chaiigcd  iiito  furj,  and  prudence  into  rage  ;  lience 
the  profound  remark,  "  Tlie  enraged  modérâtes." 
There  are  flashes  of  suprême  terror,  from  wliich 
passion  issues  like  a  mournful  smoke.  "  Wliat  do 
thèse  people  want  ?  They  are  never  satisfied  ;  they 
compromise  peaceable  men.  As  if  \ve  had  not  had 
révolutions  of  that  nature  !  What  hâve  they  corne  to 
do  herc  ?  Let  them  get  out  of  it  as  they  can.  AU 
the  worse  for  them,  it  is  their  fault,  and  they  hâve 
only  what  they  deserve.  That  does  not  concern  us. 
Look  at  our  poor  street  torn  to  pièces  by  cannon  : 
they  are  a  heap  of  scamps  ;  above  ail  do  not  open 
the  door."  And  the  house  assumes  the  aspect  of  a 
tomb  :  the  insurgent  dies  a  lingering  death  before 
their  door  ;  he  sees  the  grape-shot  and  naked  sabres 
arrive  ;  if  he  cries  out,  he  knows  tlicre  are  people 
who  hear  him  but  will  not  help  him  ;  there  are 
walls  which  might  protect  him,  and  men  who  might 
save  him,  and  thèse  walls  hâve  ears  of  flesh,  and 
thèse  men  hâve  entrails  of  stone. 

Whom  should  we  accuse?  Nobody  and  every- 
body, — the  imperfect  times  in  which  we  live.  It 
is  always  at  its  own  risk  and  péril  that  the  Utopia 
couverts  itself  into  an  insurrection,  and  becomes  an 
armed  protest  instead  of  a  philosophie  protest,  —  a 
Pallas  and  no  longer  a  Minerva.  The  Utopia  which 
grows  impatient  and  becomes  a  riot  knows  what 
awaits  it,  and  it  nearly  always  arrives  too  soon.  In 
that  case  it  resigns  itself,  and  stoically  accepts  the 
catastrophe  in  lieu  of  a  triumph.  It  serves,  without 
complaiuing,  and  almost  exculpating  them,  those  who 


THE   DEAD   RIGHT,   THE   LIVING   NOT   WRONG.      105 

deny  it,  and  its  magiiaiiimity  is  to  consent  to  aban- 
donment.  It  is  indomitable  against  obstacles,  and 
gentle  toward  ingratitude.  ïs  it  ingratitude  after 
ail  ?  Yes,  from  the  hunian  point  of  view  ;  no,  froni 
the  individual  point  of  view.  Progress  is  the  fashion 
of  nian  ;  the  gênerai  life  of  the  human  race  is  called 
progress  ;  and  the  collective  step  of  the  human  race 
is  also  called  progress.  Progress  marches  ;  it  makes 
the  great  human  and  earthly  jouniey  toward  the 
celestial  and  divine  ;  it  has  its  halts  where  it  rallies 
the  straying  flock  ;  it  has  its  stations  where  it  médi- 
tâtes, in  the  présence  of  some  splendid  Canaan  sud- 
denly  unveiling  its  horizon  ;  it  has  its  nights  when 
it  sleeps  ;  and  it  is  one  of  the  poignant  auxieties 
of  the  thinker  to  see  the  shadow  on  the  human 
soûl,  and  to  feel  in  the  darkness  sieeping  progress, 
without  being  able  to  awaken  it. 

"  God  is  perhaps  dead,  '  Gérard  de  Xerval  said 
one  day  to  the  writer  of  thèse  lines,  confounding 
progress  with  God,  and  taking  the  interruption  of 
the  movement  for  the  death  of  the  Being.  The  man 
who  despairs  is  wrong  :  progress  infallibly  reawakens, 
and  we  might  say  that  it  moves  even  when  sieeping, 
for  it  has  grown.  When  we  see  it  upright  again 
we  find  that  it  is  taller.  To  be  ever  peaceful  dé- 
pends no  more  on  progress  than  on  the  river  ;  do 
not  raise  a  bar,  or  throw  in  a  rock,  for  the  obstacle 
makes  the  water  foam,  and  humanity  boil.  Ilence 
çome  troubles  ;  but  after  thèse  troubles  we  notice 
that  way  has  been  made.  Until  order,  which  is 
nought  else  than  univcrsal  peace,  is  established,  until 
harniouy  and  unity  reign,  progress  will  hâve  revo- 


106  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

lutions  for  its  halting-places.  What,  then,  is  pro- 
gress  ?  We  bave  just  said,  tlie  permanent  life  of 
the  peoples.  Now,  it  happens  at  tinies  that  the 
niomentary  life  of  individuals  offers  a  résistance  to 
the  eternal  life  of  the  hunian  race. 

Let  us  avow  without  bitterness  that  the  individual 
has  his  distinct  interest,  and  can  without  felony 
stipulate  for  that  interest  and  défend  it  ;  the  présent 
has  its  excusable  amount  of  egotisni,  momentary 
right  has  its  clainis,  and  cannot  be  expected  to 
sacrifice  itself  incessantly  to  the  future.  The  génér- 
ation which  at  the  présent  moment  is  passing  over 
the  earth  is  not  forced  to  abridge  it  for  the  génér- 
ations, its  equals,  after  ail,  whose  turn  will  corne 
at  a  later  date.  "  I  exist,"  murmurs  that  some  one, 
who  is  everybody.  "  I  am  young  and  in  love,  I  am 
old  and  wish  to  rest,  I  am  father  of  a  family,  I  work, 
I  prosper,  I  do  a  good  business,  I  hâve  houses  to 
let,  I  hâve  money  in  the  funds,  I  am  happy,  I  bave 
wife  and  children,  I  like  ail  that,  I  wish  to  live,  and 
so  leave  us  at  peace."  Hence  at  certain  hours  a 
profound  coldness  falls  on  the  magnanimous  van- 
guard  of  the  human  race.  Utopia,  moreover,  we 
confess  it,  émerges  from  its  radiant  sphère  in  waging 
war.  It,  the  truth  of  to-morrow,  borrows  its  process, 
battle,  from  the  falsehood  of  yestcrday.  It,  the 
future,  acts  like  the  past  ;  it,  the  pure  idea,  bccomes 
an  assault.  It  complicates  its  heroism  witli  a  violence 
for  which  it  is  but  fair  that  it  should  answer,  —  a 
violence  of  opportunity  and  ex])cdiency,  contrary  to 
principles,  and  for  which  it  is  fatally  punished.  The 
Utopia,  when  in  a  state  of  insurrection,  combats  with 


THE   DEAD   RIGHT,   THE   LIVING   NOT   WEONG.     107 

tlie  old  military  code  in  its  hand  ;  it  shoots  spies, 
exécutes  traitors,  suppresses  liviiig  beings  and  liurls 
theni  iiito  unknown  darkness.  It  makes  use  of  death, 
a  serious  thing.  It  seems  that  tbe  Utopia  no  longer 
puts  faith  in  the  radiance,  which  is  its  irrésistible 
and  incorruptible  strength.  It  strikes  witli  tlie  sword, 
but  no  sword  is  simple  ;  every  sword  bas  two  edges, 
and  the  nian  who  wounds  with  one  wounds  himself 
with  tbe  other. 

This  réservation  made,  and  made  with  ail  severity, 
it  is  impossible  for  us  not  to  admire,  whether  they 
succeed  or  no,  the  glorious  combatants  of  tbe  future, 
the  confessors  of  the  Utopia.  Even  wben  they  fiiil 
they  are  vénérable,  and  it  is  perhaps  in  ill-success 
that  they  possess  most  majesty.  Victory,  wben  in 
accordance  with  progress,  deserves  the  applause  of 
the  peoples,  but  an  beroic  defeat  merits  their  tender- 
ness.  The  one  is  magnificent,  the  other  sublime, 
With  us  who  prefer  martyrdom  to  success,  John 
Brown  is  greater  than  Washington,  and  Pisacane 
greater  than  Garibaldi.  There  should  be  somebody 
to  take  the  part  of  the  conquered,  and  people  are 
unjust  to  thèse  great  assayers  of  the  future  wben  they 
fail.  Revolutionists  are  accused  of  sowing  terror 
and  every  barricade  appears  an  attack.  Their  theory 
is  incriminated,  their  object  is  suspected,  their  after- 
thouglît  is  apprehended,  and  their  conscience  is  de- 
nounced.  They  are  reproached  with  elevating  and 
erecting  against  the  reigning  social  fact  a  pile  of  mis- 
eries,  griefs,  iiiiquities,  and  despair,  and  with  pulling 
down  in  order  to  barricade  themselves  behind  the 
ruina  and  combat.     People  shout  to  theni,  "  You  are 


108  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

unpaving  hell  !  "  Antl  tliey  might  answer,  "'  That  is 
the  reason  wliy  our  barricade  is  made  of  good  inten- 
tions." The  best  thing  is  certainly  the  pacifie  solu- 
tion ;  after  ail,  let  us  allow,  when  people  see  the 
paA'enicnt,  they  think  of  the  bear,  and  it  is  a  good 
will  by  which  society  is  alarnied.  But  it  dépends  ou 
Society  to  save  itsclf,  and  we  appeal  to  its  own  good- 
will.  No  violent  remedy  is  necessary  :  study  the  evil 
amicably,  and  then  cure  it,  —  that  is  ail  we  désire. 

However  this  may  be,  those  men,  eveu  when  they 
hâve  fallen,  and  especially  then,  are  august,  who  at 
ail  points  of  the  universe,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on 
France,  are  struggling  for  the  great  work  with  the 
inflexible  logic  of  the  idéal  ;  they  give  their  life  as  a 
pure  gift  for  progress,  they  accomplish  the  will  of 
Providence,  and  perform  a  religions  act.  At  the  ap- 
pointed  hour,  with  as  much  disinterestedness  as  an 
actor  who  takes  up  his  eue,  they  enter  the  tomb  in 
obédience  to  the  divine  scénario,  and  they  accept  this 
hopeless  combat  and  this  stoical  disappearance  in 
order  to  lead  to  its  splendid  and  superior  universal 
conséquences.  The  magnificent  human  niovement 
irresistibly  began  on  July  14.  Thèse  soldiers  are 
priests,  and  the  French  révolution  is  a  gesture  of  God. 
Moreover,  there  are  —  and  it  is  proper  to  add  this 
distinction  to  the  distinctions  already  indicated  in 
another  ch.apter,  —  there  are  accepted  insurrections 
which  are  called  révolutions  ;  and  there  are  rejected 
révolutions  which  are  called  riots.  An  insurrection 
which  breaks  out  is  an  idea  which  passes  its  exami- 
nation  in  the  présence  of  the  people.  If  the  peo- 
ple drops  its  blackball,  the  idea  is  dry  fruit,  and  the 


THE   DEAD   EIGHT,    THE  LIVING  NOT   WRONG.     109 

insurrection  is  a  street-riot.  Waging  war  at  every  ap- 
peal  and  each  time  that  the  Utopia  désires  it  is  not 
the  fact  of  the  peoples  ;  for  nations  hâve  not  always, 
and  at  ail  hours,  the  tempérament  of  heroes  and 
martyrs.  They  are  positive  ;  a  priori  insurrection  is 
répulsive  to  them,  in  the  first  place,  because  it  fre- 
quently  has  a  catastrophe  for  resuit,  and,  secondly, 
because  it  ahvays  lias  an  abstraction  as  its  starting- 
point. 

For,  and  tins  is  a  grand  fact,  thosc  who  dévote 
themselves  do  so  for  the  idéal,  and  the  idéal  alone. 
An  insurrection  is  an  enthusiasm,  and  enthusiasm 
may  become  a  fury,  whence  cornes  an  upraising  of 
muskets.  But  every  insurrection  which  aims  at  a 
government  or  a  régime  aims  higher.  Hence,  for  in- 
stance, we  will  dwell  on  the  fact  that  what  the  chiefs 
of  the  insurrection  of  1832,  and  especially  the  young 
enthusiasts  of  the  liue  de  la  Chanvrerie,  combated 
was  not  precisely  Louis  Philippe.  The  majority, 
spcaking  candidly,  did  justice  to  the  qualities  of  this 
king  who  stood  between  monarchy  and  révolution,  and 
not  one  of  them  hated  him.  But  they  attacked  the 
younger  branch  of  the  right  divine  in  Louis  Philippe, 
as  they  had  attacked  the  elder  branch  in  Charles  X., 
and  what  they  wished  to  overthrow  in  overthrowing 
the  Monarchy  in  France  was,  as  we  hâve  explained, 
the  usurpation  of  man  over  man,  and  the  privilège 
opposing  right  throughout  the  universe.  Paris  with- 
out  a  king  has  as  its  counterstroke  the  world  without 
despots.  They  reasoned  in  this  way.  Their  object 
was  far  ofF  without  doubt,  vague  perhaps,  and  re- 
treating  before  the  effort,  but  grand. 


110  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

So  it  is.  And  men  sacrifice  themselves  for  thèse 
visions,  which  are  for  the  sacrificed  nearly  alwajs 
illusions,  but  illusions  with  which  the  whole  of 
liuman  certainty  is  mingled.  The  insurgent  poet- 
izes  and  gilds  the  insurrection,  and  men  hurl  them- 
selves into  thèse  tragical  things,  intoxicating  them- 
selves upon  what  they  are  about  to  do.  Who 
knows  ?  Perhaps  they  will  succeed  ;  they  are  the 
minority  ;  they  hâve  against  them  an  entire  army  ; 
but  they  are  defending  the  right,  natural  law,  the 
sovereignty  of  each  over  hiniself,  which  allows  of 
no  possible  abdication,  justice,  and  truth,  and,  if 
necessary,  they  die  like  the  three  hundred  Spartans. 
They  da  not  think  of  Don  Quixote,  but  of  Leonidas, 
and  they  go  onward,  and  once  the  battlc  has  bcgun 
they  do  not  recoil,  but  dasii  forward  head  down- 
wards,  having  for  hope  an  cxtraordinary  victory,  the 
révolution  completed,  progress  rcstored  to  liberty, 
the  aggrandizement  of  the  human  race,  universal 
deliverance,  and  at  the  worst  a  Thcrraopylse.  Thèse 
combats  for  progress  frequently  ïn'û,  and  we  hâve 
explained  the  cause.  The  mob  is  rcstive  against 
the  impulse  of  the  Paladins  ;  the  hcavy  masses, 
the  multitudes,  fragile  on  account  of  thcir  vcry 
heavincss,  fear  adventurcs,  and  tlicrc  is  adventure 
in  the  idéal.  Moreover,  it  must  not  be  forgotten 
that  thèse  are  interests  which  arc  no  great  fricnds 
of  the  idéal  and  the  sentimental,  Sometimcs  the 
stomach  paralyzes  the  heart.  The  grcatness  and 
beauty  of  France  are,  that  shc  docs  not  grow  so 
stout  as  othcr  nations,  and  knots  the  ropc  round 
her  bips  with  greater  facility.     She  is  the  first  to 


THE   DEAD   RIGHT,   THE   LIVING   NOT   WRONG.     111 

wake  and  the  last  to  fall  asleep  ;  shc  goes  onward. 
Slie  is  seeking. 

The  rcason  of  tliis  is  becaiise  she  is  artistic.  The 
idéal  is  nought  else  thau  the  culminating  point  of 
logic,  in  the  same  way  as  the  beautiful  is  only  the 
summit  of  the  true.  Artistic  peoples  are  also  con- 
sistent peoples  ;  lo\ing  beauty  is  to  see  light.  The 
resuit  of  this  is,  that  the  torch  of  Europe,  that  is  to 
say  of  civilization,  was  first  borne  by  Greece,  who 
passed  it  to  Italy,  who  passed  it  to  France.  Divine 
enlightening  nations  !  Vitœ  lamjKtda  tradunt.  It  is 
an  admirable  tliing  that  the  poetry  of  a  people  is 
the  élément  of  its  progress,  and  the  amount  of  civili- 
zation is  raeasured  by  the  amount  of  imagination. 
Still,  a  civilizing  people  must  remain  masculine  ; 
Corinth  yes,  but  Sybaris  no,  for  the  man  who  grows 
effeminate  is  bastardized.  A  man  must  be  neither 
dilettante  nor  virtuoso,  but  he  should  be  artistic.  In 
the  matter  of  civilization,  there  must  not  be  refine- 
ment,  but  sublimation,  and  on  that  condition  the 
pattern  of  the  idéal  is  given  to  the  human  race. 
The  modem  idcal  has  its  type  in  art  and  its  means 
in  science.  It  is  by  science  that  the  august  \dsion 
of  the  poet,  the  social  beauty,  will  be  realized,  and 
Eden  will  be  remade  by  A  +  B.  At  the  point 
which  civilization  has  reached  exactitude  is  a  neces- 
sary  élément  of  the  splendid,  and  the  artistic  feeliiig 
is  not  only  served  but  completed  by  the  scientific 
organ  ;  the  dream  must  calculate.  Art,  which  is  the 
conqueror,  ought  to  havc  science,  which  is  the  mover, 
as  its  base.  The  strength  of  the  steed  is  an  impor- 
tant factor,  and  the  modem  mind  is  the  genius  of 


112  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Greece,  having  for  veliicîe  the  genius  of  India, — 
Alexander  mounted  on  an  éléphant.  Races  petrified 
in  dogma  or  demoralized  by  tinie  are  unsuited  to 
act  as  guides  to  civilization.  Genuflection  before 
tlie  idol  or  the  crown-piece  ruins  the  muscle  whicli 
moves  and  the  will  that  goes.  Hieratic  or  mercan- 
tile absorption  reduces  the  radiance  of  a  people, 
lowers  its  horizon  by  lowering  its  level,  and  with- 
draws  from  it  that  both  human  and  divine  intel- 
ligence of  the  universal  object  which  renders 
nations  missionaries.  Babylon  has  no  idéal,  nor 
has  Carthage  wliile  Athens  and  Rome  hâve,  and 
retain,  even  through  ail  the  nocturnal  density  of 
âges,  a  halo  of  civilization. 

France  is  of  the  same  quality,  as  a  people,  as 
Greece  and  Rome  ;  she  is  Athenian  through  the 
beautiful,  and  Roman  through  her  grandeur.  Ré- 
sides, she  is  good,  and  is  more  often  than  other 
nations  in  the  humor  for  dévotion  and  sacrifice. 
Still,  this  humor  takes  lier  and  leaves  her  ;  and  this  is 
the  great  danger  for  those  who  run  when  she  merely 
wishes  to  walk,  or  who  walk  when  she  wishes  to 
hait.  France  has  her  relapses  into  materialism,  and 
at  seasons  the  ideas  which  obstruct  this  sublime 
brain  hâve  nothing  that  recalls  French  grandeur,  and 
are  of  the  dimensions  of  a  Missouri  or  a  South 
Carolina.  What  is  to  be  donc  ?  The  giantess  plays 
the  dwarf,  and  inmiense  France  feels  a  fancy  for 
littleness.  That  is  ail.  To  this  nothing  can  be  said, 
for  peoples  likc  planets  hâve  the  right  to  be  eclipsed. 
And  that  is  well,  providcd  that  light  return  and  the 
éclipse  does  not  degencratc  into  night.     Dawn  and 


THE   DEAD   RIGHT,    THE   LIVING   NOT   WROXG.     113 

résurrection  are  sjnonymous,  and  tlie  reappearance 
of  liglît  is  synonynious  with  the  existence  ûf  the 
Ego.  Let  us  state  tliese  facts  calnily.  Death  on  a 
barricade,  or  a  tomb  in  exile,  is  an  acceptable  occa- 
sion for  dévotion,  for  the  real  nanie  of  dévotion  is 
disinterestedness.  Let  the  abandoned  be  abandoned, 
let  the  exiles  be  exiled,  and  let  us  confine  ourselves 
to  imploring  great  nations  not  to  recoil  too  far  when 
they  do  recoil.  Under  the  pretcxt  of  returning  to 
reason,  it  is  not  necessary  to  go  too  far  down  the 
incline.  IMatter  exists,  the  moment  exists,  interests 
exist,  the  stomach  exists,  but  the  stomach  must  not 
be  the  sole  wisdom.  Momentary  life  has  its  rights, 
we  admit,  but  permanent  life  has  theni  also.  Alas  ! 
To  hâve  mounted  does  not  prevent  falling,  and  we 
see  this  in  history  more  frequently  than  we  wish  ; 
a  nation  is  illustrions,  it  tastes  of  the  idéal,  then  it 
bites  into  the  mud  and  finds  it  good,  and  when  we 
ask  it  why  it  abandons  Socrates  for  Falstaif,  it  re- 
plies, "  Because  I  like  statesmen." 

One  Word  before  returning  to  the  barricade.  A 
battle  like  the  one  which  we  are  describing  at  this 
moment  is  only  a  convulsion  toward  the  idéal.  Im- 
peded  progress  is  sickly,  and  has  sueh  tragic  attacks 
of  epilepsy.  This  malady  of  progress,  civil  war,  we 
bave  met  as  we  passed  along,  and  it  is  one  of  the 
social  phases,  at  once  an  act  and  an  interlude  of 
that  drama  whose  pivot  is  a  social  condenniation, 
and  whose  véritable  title  is  "  Progress."  Progress  ! 
This  cry,  which  we  raise  so  frequently,  is  our  entire 
thought,  and  at  the  point  of  our  drama  which  we 
bave  reached,  as  the  idea  which  it  contains  has  still 


114  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

more  than  oiie  trial  to  undergo,  we  niay  be  permitted, 
even  iF  we  do  not  raise  the  veil,  to  let  its  gleams 
pierce  through  clearly.  The  book  wliich  the  reader 
lias  before  liim  at  this  moment  is,  from  one  end  to 
the  other,  in  its  entirety  and  its  détails,  whatever 
the  intermittences,  exceptions,  and  short-comings  may 
be,  the  progress  from  evil  to  good,  from  injustice  to 
justice,  from  falsehood  to  truth,  from  night  to  day, 
from  appetite  to  conscience,  from  corruption  to  life, 
from  bestiality  to  duty,  from  hell  to  heaven,  and  from 
nothingness  to  God.  The  starting-point  is  matter,  the 
terminus  the  soûl  ;  the  hydra  at  the  commencement, 
the  angel  at  the  eud. 


CHx^PTER   XXI. 

THE   HEROES. 

SuDDENXY  the  drum  beat  the  charge,  and  the 
attack  was  a  hurricane.  On  the  previous  evening 
the  barricade  had  been  silently  approached  in  the 
darkness  as  by  a  boa  ;  but  at  présent,  in  broad  day- 
light,  within  this  gutted  street,  surprise  was  impos- 
sible ;  besides,  the  armed  force  was  unmasked,  the 
cannon  had  begun  the  roaring,  and  the  troops  rushed 
upon  the  barricade.  Fury  was  now  skill.  A  power- 
ful  column  of  line  infontry,  intersected  at  regular 
intervais  by  Xatioiial  Guards  and  dismounted  Mu- 
nicipal Guards,  and  supported  by  lieavy  masses  that 
could  be  heard  if  not  seen,  debouched  into  the  street 
at  a  running  step,  with  drums  beating,  bugles  bray- 
ing,  bayonets  levelled,  and  sappers  in  front,  and  im- 
perturbable under  the  shower  of  projectiles  dashed 
straight  at  the  barricade  with  ail  the  weight  of  a 
bronze  battering-ram.  But  the  wall  held  out  firmly, 
and  the  insurgents  fired  impetuously  ;  the  escaladed 
barricade  displayed  a  flashing  mane.  The  attack  was 
so  violent  that  it  was  in  a  moment  inundated  by 
assailants  ;  but  it  shook  off  the  soldiers  as  the  lion 
does  the  dogs,  and  it  was  only  covered  with  besiegers 
as  the  cliff  is  with  foam,  to  reappear  a  minute  later 
scarped,  black,  and  formidable. 


IIG  JEAN    VALJEzVN. 

Tlie  columns,  conipeiled  to  fall  back,  remained 
massed  in  the  strcet,  cxposed  but  terrible,  and  an- 
swered  tlie  redoubt  by  a  tremendous  nmsketry-fire. 
Any  one  who  bas  seen  firevvorks  Avill  rcmember  the 
pièce  composed  of  a  cross-fire  of  lightnings,  which 
is  called  a  bouquet.  Imagine  this  bouquet,  no  longer 
vertical  but  horizontal,  and  bearing  at  the  end  of 
each  jet  a  bullet,  slugs,  or  iron  balls,  and  scattering 
death.  The  barricade  was  beneath  it.  .  On  either 
side  was  cqual  resolution.  The  bravery  was  almost 
barbarous,  and  was  complicated  by  a  species  of 
heroic  ferocity  which  began  with  self-sacrifice.  It 
was  the  ei)och  when  a  National  Guard  fought  like 
a  Zouave.  The  troops  desired  an  end,  and  the  insur- 
rection wished  to  wrestle.  The  acceptance  of  death 
in  the  height  of  youth  and  health  couverts  intrepidity 
into  a  frenzy,  and  each  man  in  this  action  had  the 
grandeur  of  the  last  hour.  The  street  was  covered 
with  corpses.  The  barricade  had  JNIarius  at  one  of 
its  ends  and  Enjolras  at  the  other.  Enjolras,  who 
carried  the  whole  barricade  in  his  head,  reservcd  and 
concealed  himself.  Three  soldiers  fell  under  his  loop- 
hole  without  even  seeing  him,  while  Marins  displayed 
himself  opcnly,  and  made  himself  a  mark.  More 
than  once  half  his  body  rose  above  the  barricade. 
There  is  no  more  violent  prodigal  than  a  miser  who 
takes  the  bit  between  his  teeth,  and  no  man  more 
startling  in  action  than  a  dreamer.  Marins  was 
formidable  and  pensive,  and  in  the  battle  was  like 
a  dream.  He  looked  like  a  ghost  firing.  The  car- 
tridgcs  of  the  besiegcd  were  cxhausted,  but  not 
their  sarcasms  ;  and  they  laughcd  in  the  tornado  of 


THE   HEROES.  117 

tlie  tomb  in  which  tliey  stood.  Courfeyrac  was 
bareheaded. 

"  What  hâve  you  done  with  your  hat  ?  "  Bossuet 
asked  him  ;  and  Courfeyrac  answered,  — 

"  Tbey  carried  it  away  at  last  with  eannon-balls." 

Or  else  thcy  macle  haughty  reniarks. 

"  Can  you  understand,"  Feuilly  exclaimed  bitterly, 
"those  men,"  —  and  he  nientioned  names,  well-known 
and  even  celebrated  names  that  beloiiged  to  the  old 
army,  —  "wlio  promiscd  to  joiu  us  and  pledged  their 
honor  to  aid  us,  and  who  are  gênerais,  and  aban- 
don us  ?  " 

And  Combeferre  restricted  himself  to  replying  with 
a  grave  smile,  — 

"  They  are  people  who  observe  the  rules  of  honor 
as  they  do  the  stars,  —  a  long  distance  oiF." 

The  interior  of  the  bamcade  was  so  sown  ^vith 
torn  cartridges  that  it  seemed  as  if  there  had  been  a 
snow-storm.  The  assailants  had  the  numbcrs  and 
the  insurgents  the  position.  They  were  behind  a  wall, 
and  crushed  at  point-blank  range  the  soldiers  who 
were  stumbling  over  the  dead  and  wounded.  This 
barricade,  built  as  it  was,  and  adniirably  streugthened, 
was  really  one  of  those  situations  in  which  a  handful 
of  men  holds  a  légion  in  check.  Still,  constantly 
recruited  and  growing  beneath  the  shower  of  buUets, 
the  column  of  attack  inexorably  approached,  and 
little  by  little,  step  by  step,  but  with  certainty,  the 
army  squeezed  the  barricade  as  the  screw  does  the 
press. 

The  assaults  succeeded  each  other,  and  the  horror 
becanie  constantly  greater.      Then  there  broke  eut  on 


118  JEAN   VA.LJEAN. 

this  pile  of  paving-stoiies,  in  tliis  Rue  de  la  Chan- 
vrerie,  a  struggle  worthy  of  the  wall  of  Troy.  Thèse 
sallow,  ragged,  and  exhausted  meii,  who  had  not 
eaten  for  four-and-twenty  hoiirs,  who  had  not  slept^ 
who  had  only  a  few  rounds  more  to  fire,  who  felt 
their  empty  pockets  for  cartridges,  —  thèse  men,  nearly 
ail  wounded,  with  head  or  arm  bound  round  with  a 
blood-stained  blackish  rag,  having  holes  in  their  coat 
from  whicii  the  blood  flowed,  scarce  arnied  with  bad 
guns  and  old  rusty  sabres,  became  Titans.  The  bar- 
ricade was  ten  times  approached,  assaulted,  escaladed, 
and  never  captured.  To  forni  an  idea  of  the  contest 
it  vvould  be  necessary  to  imagine  a  heap  of  terrible 
courages  set  on  fire,  and  that  you  are  watching  the 
fiâmes.  It  was  not  a  combat,  but  the  interior  of  a 
furnace  ;  mouths  breathed  fiâmes  there,  and  the  faces 
were  extraordinary.  The  human  form  seemed  im- 
possible there,  the  combatants  fiashed,  and  it  was  a 
formidable  sight  to  see  thèse  salamanders  of  the 
mêlée  flitting  about  in  this  red  smoke.  The  succes- 
sive and  simultaneous  scènes  of  this  butchery  are  be- 
yond  our  povver  to  depict,  for  the  epic  alone  has  the 
right  to  fin  twelve  thousand  verses  with  a  battle. 
It  might  hâve  been  called  that  Inferno  of  Brahmin- 
ism,  the  most  formidable  of  the  seventeen  abysses, 
which  the  Veda  calls  the  Forest  of  Swords.  They 
fought  foot  to  foot,  body  to  body,  with  pistol-shots, 
sabre-cuts,  and  fists,  close  by,  at  a  distance,  above, 
below,  on  ail  sides,  from  the  roof  of  the  house,  from 
the  wine-shop,  and  even  from  the  traps  of  the  cellars 
into  which  some  had  slipped.  The  odds  were  sixty 
to  one,  and  the  frontage  of  Corinth  half  demolished 


THE   HEROES.  119 

was  liideous.  Tlic  window,  pock-marked  with  grape- 
sliot,  liad  lost  glass  and  frame,  and  was  only  a  shape- 
less  hole  tuniultuously  stopped  up  with  paving-stones. 
Bossuet  was  killed,  Feuilly  was  killed,  Courfcyrac 
was  killed,  Joly  was  killed.  Coinbeferre,  traversed 
by  three  bayonet  stabs  in  the  brcast  at  the  moment 
wheii  he  was  raising  a  woundcd  soldier,  had  only 
time  to  look  up  to  heaven,  and  expired.  Marins, 
still  fighting,  had  received  so  many  wounds,  especially 
in  the  head,  that  bis  face  disappcared  in  blood  and 
looked  as  if  it  werc  covered  by  a  red  liandkerchief. 
Enjolras  alone  was  not  Avoiinded  ;  when  he  had  no 
weapon  he  held  ont  his  arni  to  the  right  or  left,  and 
an  insurgent  placed  some  instrument  in  his  hand. 
He  had  only  four  broken  sword-blades  left,  —  one 
more  thau  Francis  I.  had  at  Marignano. 

Homer  says  :  "  Diomed  slew  Axylus,  the  son  of 
Teuthras,  who  dwelt  in  well-built  Arisba  ;  Euryalus, 
son  of  INIecisteus,  slew  Dresus  and  Opheltius,  iEsepus 
and  Pedasus,  whom  the  Naiad  Abarbarea  brought 
forth  to  blamcless  Bucolion  ;  Ulysses  killed  Percosian 
Pidytes  ;  Antilochus,  Ablerus  ;  Polypœtes,  Astyalus  ; 
Polydamas,  Otus  of  Cyllene  ;  and  Teucer,  Aretaus. 
Meganthius  fell  by  the  spear  of  Euripilus  ;  Agamem- 
non,  king  of  heroes,  struck  down  Elatus,  born  in  the 
lofty  walled  town  which  the  g^unding  river  Satniois 
washes." 

In  our  old  poems  of  the  Gesta,  Esplandian  attacks 
with  a  flaming  falchion  Swantibore,  the  giant  mar- 
quis, who  défends  hirasclf  by  storming  the  kniglit 
with  towers  which  he  uproots.  Our  old  mural  fres- 
cos  show  us  the  two  Dukes  of  Brittany  and  Bour- 


120  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

bon  armed  for  war  and  monnted,  and  approaching 
each  other,  axe  in  Imnd,  niasked  with  steel,  sliod 
with  steel,  gloved  with  steel,  one  caparisoned  with 
ennine  and  the  other  draped  in  azuré  ;  Brittany  with 
his  lion  between  the  two  horns  of  his  crown,  and 
Bourbon  with  an  enormous  fleur-de-lys  at  liis  visor. 
But  in  order  to  be  superb  it  is  not  necessary  to  wear, 
like  Yvon,  the  ducal  morion,  or  to  hâve  in  one  hand 
a  li\ing  flame  like  Esplandian  ;  it  is  sufficient  to  lay 
down  one's  life  for  a  conviction  or  a  loyal  deed.  This 
little  simple  soldier,  yesterday  a  peasant  of  Bearne 
or  the  Limousin,  who  prowls  about,  cabbage-cutter 
by  his  side,  round  the  nursemaids  in  the  Luxembourg, 
this  young,  pale  student  bowed  over  an  anatomical 
study  or  book,  a  fair-haired  boy  who  shaves  himself 
with  a  pair  of  scissors,  —  take  them  both,  breathe 
duty  into  them,  put  them  face  to  foce  in  the  Carre- 
four Boucherat  or  the  Planche  Mibray  blind  alley, 
and  let  one  fight  for  his  flag  and  the  other  combat 
for  his  idéal,  and  let  them  both  imagine  that  they 
are  contending  for  their  country,  and  the  struggle 
will  be  colossal  ;  and  the  shadow^  cast  by  thèse  two 
contending  lads  on  the  great  epic  field  w^here  hu- 
manity  is  struggling  will  be  eqnal  to  that  thrown 
by  jNIegarion,  King  of  Lycia,  abounding  in  tigers, 
as  he  wrestles  with  the  iumiense  Ajax,  the  equal  of 
the  gods. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

STEP    BY    STEP. 

When  there  were  no  chiefs  left  but  Enjolras  and 
Marins  at  the  two  ends  of  the  barricade,  the  centre, 
which  had  so  long  been  snpported  by  Courfejrac, 
Bossuet,  Joly,  Feuilly,  and  Combeferre,  yielded. 
The  cannon,  without  making  a  practicable  breach, 
had  severely  injured  the  centre  of  the  redoubt,  then 
the  crest  of  the  wall  had  disappeared  under  the  balls 
and  fallen  down,  and  the  fragments  wliich  had  col- 
lected  both  inside  and  ont  had  in  the  end  formed  two 
slopes,  the  outer  one  of  which  offered  an  inclined 
plane  by  which  to  attack.  A  final  assault  was  at- 
temptcd  tlius,  and  tins  assault  was  successful  ;  the 
bristling  mass  of  bayonets,  hurled  forward  at  a  run, 
came  up  irresistibly,  and  the  dense  line  of  the  attack- 
ing  column  appeared  in  the  smoke  on  the  top  of  the 
scarp.  Tliis  time  it  was  ail  over,  and  the  band  of 
insurgents  defending  the  centre  recoiled  pell-mell. 

Then  the  gloomy  love  of  life  was  rekindled  in 
some  ;  covered  by  this  forest  of  muskets,  several  did 
not  wish  to  die.  It  is  the  moment  when  the  spirit  of 
self-preservation  utters  yells,  and  wiien  the  beast 
reappears  in  man.  They  were  drawn  up  against  the 
six-storied  house  at  the  back  of  the  barricade,  and 


122  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

this  lioiise  miglit  be  tîieir  salvation.  This  house  was 
barricadccl,  as  it  were  walled  up  froni  top  to  Lottoni, 
but  before  the  troops  reached  the  interior  of  the 
redoubt,  a  door  would  hâve  tinie  to  open  and  sliut, 
and  it  would  be  life  for  thèse  desperate  men  ;  for  at 
the  back  of  this  house  were  streets,  possible  flight,  and 
space.  ïhey  began  kicking  and  knocking  at  the  door, 
while  calling,  crying,  imploring,  and  clasping  their 
hands.  But  no  one  opened.  The  dead  head  looked 
down  on  them  from  the  third-floor  window.  But 
INIarius  and  Enjolras,  and  seven  or  eight  men  who 
rallied  round  them,  had  rushed  forward  to  protect 
them.  Enjolras  shouted  to  the  soldiers,  "  Donot  ad- 
vance,"  and  as  an  officer  declined  to  obey  he  killed 
the  officer.  He  was  in  the  inner  yard  of  the  redoubt, 
close  to  Corinth,  w4th  his  sword  in  one  liand  and 
carbine  in  the  other,  holding  open  the  door  of  the 
wine-shop,  which  he  barred  against  the  assailants. 
He  shouted  to  the  desperate  men,  "  There  is  only  one 
door  open,  and  it  is  this  one  ;  "  and  covering  them 
with  his  person,  and  alone  facing  a  battalion,  he 
made  them  pass  behind  him.  AU  rushed  in,  and 
Enjolras,  whirling  his  musket  round  his  head,  drove 
back  the  bayonets  and  entered  the  last,  and  there  was 
a  frightful  moment,  during  which  the  troops  tried  to 
enter  and  the  insurgents  to  bar  the  door.  The  latter 
"was  closcd  with  such  violence  that  the  five  fingers  of 
a  soldier  who  had  caught  hold  of  a  doorpost  were 
eut  ofF  clean,  and  remained  in  the  crevice.  Marins 
remainod  outside  ;  a  bullet  broke  his  collar-bone,  aud 
he  felt  himself  fainting  and  falling.  At  this  moment, 
when  his  eyes  were  already  closed,  he  felt  the  shock 


STEP   BY   STEP.  123 

of  a  powerful  liancl  seizing  him,  and  Iiis  faiiiting-fit 
scarce  left  hini  tinie  for  tins  thought,  blended  with 
the  suprême  reeollection  of.  Cosette,  "  I  am  made 
prisoner  and  shall  be  sliot." 

Enjolras,  iiot  seeing  jNIarius  among  those  who  had 
sought  shelter  in  the  house,  had  the  same  idea,  but 
they  had  reached  that  moment  when  each  could  only 
tliink  of  his  own  death.  Enjoh*a.s  put  the  bar  on  the 
door,  bolted  and  locked  it,  while  the  soldiers  beat  it 
with  niusket-butts,  and  the  sappers  attacked  it  with 
their  axes  outside.  The  assailants  were  grouped 
round  this  door,  and  the  siège  of  the  wine-shop  now 
began.  The  soldiers,  let  us  add,  were  full  of  fury  ; 
the  death  of  the  sergeant  of  artillery  had  irritated 
them,  and  then,  more  mournful  still,  during  the  few 
hours  that  preceded  the  attack  a  whisper  ran  along 
the  ranks  that  the  insurgents  were  mutilatiug  their 
prisoners,  and  that  there  was  the  headless  body  of  a 
soldier  in  the  cellar.  This  species  of  fatal  rumor  is 
the  gênerai  accompaniment  of  civil  wars,  and  it  was 
a  false  report  of  the  same  nature  whieh  at  a  later 
date  produced  the  catastrophe  of  the  Rue  Trans- 
nonain.  When  the  door  was  secured,  Enjolras  said 
to  the  others,  — 

"  Let  us  sell  our  lires  dearly.' 

Then  he  went  up  to  the  table  on  which  Mabœuf 
and  Gavroche  were  lying  ;  uhder  the  black  cloth  two 
forms  could  be  seen  straight  and  livid,  one  tall,  the 
other  short,  and  the  two  faces  were  vaguely  designed 
under  the  cold  folds  of  the  winding-sheet.  A  hand 
emerged  from  under  it,  and  hung  toward  the  ground  ; 
it  was  that  of  the  old  man.     Enjolras  bent  down  and 


124  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

kissed  tliis  vénérable  hanci,  in  the  same  A^ay  as  lie 
had  done  the  forehead  on  tlie  previous  evening. 
They  were  the  only  two  kisses  he  had  ever  given  in 
his  life. 

Let  us  abridge.  The  barricade  had  resisted  like  a 
gâte  of  Thebes,  and  the  wine-shop  resisted  like  a 
house  of  Saragossa.  Such  résistances  are  violent, 
and  there  is  no  quarter,  and  a  flag  of  truce  is  impos- 
sible ;  people  are  willing  to  die  provided  that  they 
can  kill.  When  Suchet  says  "  capitulate,"  Palafox 
answers,  "  After  the  war  with  cannon,  the  war  with 
the  knife."  Nothing  was  wanting  in  the  attack  on 
the  Hucheloup  wine-shop  :  neither  paving-stone 
showering  froni  the  window  and  roof  on  the  assail- 
ants,  and  exasperating  the  troops  by  the  frightful 
damage  they  committed,  nor  shots  from  the  attics 
and  cellar,  nor  the  fnry  of  the  attack,  nor  the  rage  of 
the  defence,  nor,  finally,  when  the  door  gave  way,  the 
frenzied  mania  of  extermination.  When  the  assail- 
ants  rushed  into  the  wine-shop,  their  feet  entangled 
in  the  panels  of  the  broken  door  which  lay  on  the 
ground,  they  did  not  find  a  single  combatant.  The 
winding  staircase,  eut  away  with  axes,  lay  in  the 
middle  of  the  ground-floor  room,  a  fcw  woundcd  men 
were  on  the  point  of  dying,  ail  who  were  not  killed 
were  on  the  first-floor,  and  a  terrifie  fire  was  dis- 
cllargcd  thence  through  the  holc  in  the  ceiling  which 
had  been  the  entrance  to  the  restaurant.  Thèse  were 
the  last  cartridgcs,  and  when  they  were  expended 
and  nobody  had  any  powdcr  or  balls  left,  each  man 
took  up  tvvo  of  the  bottles  rcserved  by  Enjolras, 
and  defendcd  the  stairs  with  thèse  frightfully  fragile 


STEP   BY   STEP.  125 

weapons.  Tliey  were  bottics  of  aquafortis.  We 
describe  the  glooniy  tliings  of  carnage  exactly  as 
tliey  are  :  the  besieged,  alas  1  makes  a  weapon  of 
evei-ytliing.  Greek  fire  did  not  dishonor  Archimedes, 
builing  pitch  did  not  dishonor  Bayard  ;  every  war  is 
a  horror,  and  there  is  no  choice.  Tlie  musketry-fire 
of  the  assailants,  though  impeded  and  discharged 
from  balow,  was  nuirderous  ;  and  the  brink  of  the 
hole  was  soon  lined  witli  dead  heads,  whence  dripped 
long  red  and  steaming  jets.  The  noise  was  inde- 
scribable,  and  a  compressed  burning  smoke  almost 
threw  night  over  the  combat.  Words  fail  to  describe 
liorror  wlien  it  has  reached  this  stage.  There  were 
110  longer  meii  in  this  now  infernal  struggle,  no 
longer  giants  contending  against  Titans.  It  resem- 
bled  Miltoii  and  Dante  more  than  Homer,  for  démons 
attacked  and  spectres  resisted.  It  was  a  monster 
lieroism. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ORESTES    SOBER  AXI)    PYLADES   DRUNK. 

At  lengtli,  by  employing  the  skeleton  of  tlie  stair- 
case,  by  cliinbing  iip  tlie  walls,  clinging  tô  the  ceiling, 
and  killing  on  the  very  edge  of  the  trap  the  hist  who 
resisted,  some  twenty  assailants,  soldiers,  National 
and  jSIunicipal  Guards,  niostly  disfigurcd  by  Avounds 
in  the  face  rcceived  in  tliis  formidable  ascent,  blinded 
by  blood,  furious  and  savage,  burst  into  the  first-floor 
room.  There  was  only  one  man  standing  there,  — 
Enjolras  ;  without  cartridges  or  sword,  he  only  held 
in  his  hand  the  barrel  of  hi.s  carbine,  whose  butt  he 
had  brokcn  on  the  heads  of  those  who  entered.  He 
had  placed  the  bilJiard-table  between  himself  and  his 
assailants,  he  had  fallcn  back  to  the  end  of  the  rooni, 
and  there,  with  flashing  eye  and  head  erect,  holding 
the  pièce  of  a  weapon  in  his  hand,  he  was  still  sufïi- 
ciently  alarniing  for  a  space  to  be  fornied  round  hini. 
A  cry  was  raised,  — 

"  It  is  the  chief  ;  it  was  he  who  killcd  the  artillery- 
man  ;  as  he  has  i)laced  himself  there,  we  will  let  him 
remain  there.     Shoot  him  on  the  spot  !  " 

"  Shoot  me  !  "  Enjolras  said. 

And  throwing  away  his  weapon  and  folding  his 
arms,  he  olfered  his  chest.     The  boldness  of  dying 


ORESTES    SOBER   ANU   PYLADES   DlîUNK.      l'27 

bravely  always  moves  raen.  So  soon  as  Eiijolras 
folcled  his  arins,  accepting  the  end,  the  din  of  thc 
struggle  ceased  in  the  rooui,  and  tlie  chaos  was  sud- 
denly  appeased  in  a  species  of  sepulchral  solemnity. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  menacing  majesty  of  Enjolras, 
disarmed  and  motionless,  produced  an  effcct  on  the 
tumult,  and  that  merely  by  the  aiithority  of  his 
tranquil  glanée,  this  young  man,  who  alone  was  un- 
wounded,  superb,  blood-stained,  charming,  and  indif- 
fèrent like  one  invuhiei'able,  constrained  this  sinister 
mob  to  kill  hini  rcspectfully.  His  beauty,  heightened 
at  this  moment  by  his  haughtiness,  was  dazzling,  and 
as  if  he  coukl  be  no  more  fatigued  than  wounded 
after  tlie  frightful  four-and-tAventy  hours  which  liad 
elapsed,  he  was  fresh  and  rosy.  It  was  to  him  that 
the  witness  referred  when  lie  said  at  a  later  date 
befoi'e  the  com't-martial,  "  Tliere  was  an  insurgent 
whom  I  heard  called  Apollo."  A  National  Guard 
who  aimed  at  Enjolras  lowered  his  musket,  saying, 
"  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  to  kill  a  flower."  Twelve 
men  fornied  into  a  platoon  in  the  corner  opposite  to 
the  one  in  which  Enjolras  stood,  and  got  their  mus- 
kets  ready  in  silence.  Then  a  sergeant  shouted, 
"  Présent  !  " 

An  officer  interposed. 

"  Wait  a  minute." 

And,  addressing  Enjolras,  — 

"  Do  you  wish  to  hâve  your  eves  bandaged  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  It  was  really  you  who  killed  the  sergeant  of 
artillery  ?  " 

"  Yes." 


128  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Grantaire  liad  beeii  awake  for  some  minutes  past. 
Grantaire,  it  will  be  remembered,  had  beeii  sleeping 
siuce  thc  past  evening  in  the  uppcr  rooni,  with  his 
head  lying  on  a  table.  Ile  realized  in  ail  its  energy 
the  old  nietaphor,  dead  drunk.  The  hidieous  philter 
of  absintlie,  stout,  and  aleohol,  bad  tlirown  him  into 
a  léthargie  state,  and,  as  his  table  was  small,  and 
of  no  use  at  the  barricade,  they  had  left  it  him.  Ile 
was  still  in  the  same  posture,  with  his  chest  upou 
the  table,  his  head  reeling  on  his  arms,  and  sur- 
rounded  by  glasses  and  bottles.  He  was  sleeping 
the  dcadly  sleep  of  the  hibernating  bear  or  the 
filled  leecli.  Nothhig  had  ronsed  him,  —  neither  the 
platoon  fire,  nor  the  cannon-balls,  nor  the  canister 
which  penetrated  through  the  window  into  the  room 
where  he  was,  nor  the  prodigious  noise  of  the  assault. 
Still,  he  at  times  responded  to  the  cannon  by  a  snore. 
He  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  a  bullet  to  save  him 
the  trouble  of  waking  ;  several  corpses  lay  around 
him,  and  at  the  first  glance  nothing  distinguished 
him  from  thèse  deep  sleepers  of  death. 

Noise  does  not  wake  a  drunkard,  but  silence 
arouses  him,  and  this  j^eculiarity  has  bcen  more  than 
once  observed.  The  fall  of  anything  ncar  him  in- 
creased  Grantaire's  lethargy,  and  noise  Inlled  him. 
The  species  of  hait  which  the  tuniult  niade  before 
Enjolras  was  a  shock  for  this  heavy  sleep.  It  is 
the  effect  of  a  galloping  coach  which  stoj)s  short. 
Grantaire  started  up,  stretched  out  his  arms,  rubbed 
his  eyes,  looked,  yawned,  and  understood.  Intoxi- 
cation wearing  off  resembles  a  curtain  that  is  rent, 
and  a  man  sees  at  once,  and  at  a  single  glance,  ail 


ORESTES   SOBER  AND   PYLADES   DRUNK.      129 

that  it  coiicealed.  Evervtliing  présents  itself  sud- 
denly  to  the  memorv,  and  the  drunkard,  who  knows 
nothing  of  ^vhat  has  liappened.during  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours,  has  scarce  opened  his  evcs  ère  he  under- 
stands  it  ail.  Ideas  return  with  a  sudden  lucidity  ; 
the  species  of  siids  that  blinded  the  brain  is  dis- 
persed,  and  makes  way  for  a  clear  aud  distinctive 
appréhension  of  the  reality. 

Concealed,  as  he  was,  in  a  corner,  and  sheltered, 
so  to  speak,  by  the  billiard-table,  the  soldiers,  who 
had  their  eyes  fixed  on  Enjolras,  had  not  eveu  per- 
ceived  Grantaire,  and  the  sergeant  Avas  preparing  to 
repeat  the  order  to  fire,  when  ail  at  once  they  heard 
a  powerful  voice  crying  at  their  side,  — 

"  Long  live  the  Republic  !     I  belong  to  it." 

Grantaire  had  risen  ;  and  the  immense  gleam  of 
ail  the  combat  which  he  had  missed  appeared  in 
the  flashing  glance  of  the  transfigured  drunkard. 
Ile  repeated,  "  Long  live  the  Republic  !  "  crossed 
the  room  with  a  firm  step,  and  placed  himself  before 
the  muskets  by  Enjolras's  side. 

"  Kill  us  both  at  once,"  he  said. 

And  turning  gently  to  Enjolras,  he  asked  him,  — 

"  Do  y  ou  permit  it  ?  " 

Enjolras  pressed  his  hand  with  a  smile,  and  this 
smile  had  not  passed  away  ère  the  détonation  took 
place.  Enjolras,  pierced  by  eight  bullets,  remained 
leaning  against  the  wall  as  if  nailed  to  it  ;  he  merely 
hung  his  head.  Grantaire  was  lying  stark  dead  at 
his  feet.  A  fcw  minutes  later  the  soldicrs  dislodgcd 
the  last  insurgents  who  had  takeu  refuge  at  the  top 
of  the  house,  and  were  firing  through  a  partition 

VOL.    V.  9 


130  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

in  the  garret.  They  fought  desperately,  and  threw 
bodies  ont  of  Windows,  some  still  alive.  Two  vol- 
tigeurs, who  were  trying  to  raise  the  smashed  om- 
nibus, were  killed  by  two  shots  froni  the  attics  ;  a 
man  in  a  blouse  rushed  out  of  them,  with  a  bayonet 
thrust  in  his  stomach,  and  lay  on  the  ground  expiring. 
A  private  and  insurgent  slipped  together  down  the 
tiles  of  the  roof,  and  as  they  would  not  loosen  their 
hold  fell  into  the  street,  holding  each  other  in  a 
ferocious  embrace.  There  was  a  similar  struggle  in 
the  cellar,  —  cries,  shots,  and  a  fierce  clashing,  —  then 
a  silence.  The  barricade  was  captured,  and  the 
soldiers  began  searching  the  adjacent  houses  and 
pursuing  the  fugitives. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

PRISONER  ! 

Marius  was  really  a  prisoner;  —  prisoner  to  Jean 
Valjean. 

The  hancl  which  had  clutched  him  behind  at  the 
moment  when  he  was  falling,  and  of  which  he  felt 
the  pressure  as  he  lost  his  sensés,  was  that  of  Jean 
Valjean. 

Jean  Valjean  had  taken  no  other  part  in  the 
struggle  than  that  of  exposing  himself.  Had  it  not 
been  for  him,  in  the  suprême  moment  of  agony  no 
one  would  hâve  thought  of  the  wounded.  Thanks 
to  him,  who  was  everywhere  présent  in  the  carnage 
like  a  Providence,  those  who  fell  were  picked  up, 
carried  to  the  ground-floor  room,  and  had  their 
wounds  dressed,  and  in  the  intervais  he  repaired 
the  barricade.  But  nothing  that  could  resemble  a 
blow,  an  attack,  or  even  personal  defence,  could  be 
seen  with  him,  and  he  kept  quiet  and  succored. 
However,  he  had  only  a  few  scratches,  and  the 
bullets  had  no  billet  for  him.  If  suicide  formed 
part  of  what  he  dreamed  of  when  he  came  to  tins 
sepulchre,  he  had  not  been  successful  ;  but  we  doubt 
whether  he  thought  of  suicide,  which  is  an  irréligions 
act.     Jean  Valjean  did  not  appear  to  see  Marins  in 


132  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

the  thick  of  the  coiiibat  ;  but  in  trutli  lie  did  not 
take  his  eyes  off  him.  When  a  bullet  laid  Marins 
low,  Jean  Valjean  leapcd  npon  liim  with  the  agility 
of  a  tiger,  dashed  npon  him  as  on  a  prev,  and 
cavried  him  ofF. 

The  Avlîirlwind  of  the  attack  was  at  this  moment 
80  violently  concentrated  on  Enjolras  and  the  door  of 
the  wine-shop,  that  no  one  saw  Jean  Valjean,  sup- 
porting  the  fainting  Marins  in  his  arms,  cross  the 
unpavcd  gronnd  of  the  barricade  and  disappear  round 
the  corner  of  Corinth.  Our  readers  will  remember 
this  corner,  which  formed  a  sort  of  cape  in  the  street, 
and  protected  a  few  square  feet  of  gronnd  from  bul- 
lets  and,  grape-shot,  and  from  glances  as  well.  There 
is  thus  at  times  in  fires  a  room  which  does  not  burn, 
and  in  the  most  raging  seas,  bcyond  a  promontory, 
or  at  the  end  of  a  reef,  a  little  quiet  nook.  It  was  in 
this  corner  of  the  inner  trapèze  of  the  barricade  that 
Eponine  drew  her  last  breath.  Hère  Jean  Valjean 
stopped,  let  Marins  slip  to  the  gronnd,  leaned  against 
a  wall,  and  looked  around  him. 

The  situation  was  frightful  ;  for  the  instant,  for 
two  or  three  minutes  perhaps,  this  ])iece  of  wall  was 
a  shelter,  but  how  to  gct  ont  of  this  massacre  ?  He 
recalled  the  agony  he  had  felt  in  the  Rue  Polonceau, 
eight  years  previously,  and  in  Avhat  way  he  had  suc- 
ceeded  in  escaping  ;  it  was  difficult  thcn,  but  now  it 
was  impossible.  Ile  had  in  front  of  him  that  impla- 
cable and  silent  six-storied  house,  which  only  seemed 
inhabited  by  the  dead  man  leaning  ont  of  his  windoAV  ; 
he  had  on  his  right  the  low  barricade  which  closed 
the  Petite  Truandcrie  ;  to  climb  ovcr  this  obstacle 


PRISONER  !  133 

appeared  easy,  but  a  row  of  bayonet-points  could  be 
seeii  over  the  crest  of  tlie  barricade  ;  they  were  Une 
troops  posted  beyoud  the  barricade  aud  on  the  watch. 
It  was  évident  tliat  crossing  the  barricade  was  seeking 
a  platoon  fire,  and  that  any  head  which  appeared 
above  the  vvall  of  paving-stones  would  serve  as  a 
mark  for  sixty  muskets.  He  had  on  his  left  the 
battle-field,  and  death  was  behind  the  corner  of  the 
wall. 

What  was  he  to  do  ?  A  bird  alone  could  hâve  es- 
cajDed  from  this  place.  And  he  must  décide  at  once, 
find  an  expédient,  and  make  up  his  mind.  They 
were  fighting  a  few  paces  froni  hini,  but  fortunately 
ail  were  obstinately  engaged  at  one  point,  the  wine- 
shop  door;  but  if  a  single  soldier  had  the  idea  of 
turning  the  house  or  attacking  it  on  the  flank  ail 
would  be  over.  Jean  Valjean  looked  at  the  house 
opposite  to  hini,  he  looked  at  the  barricade  by  his 
side,  and  then  looked  on  the  ground,  with  the  vio- 
lence of  suprême  extremity,  wildly,  and  as  if  he  would 
bave  liked  to  dig  a  hole  with  his  eyes.  By  much 
looking,  something  vaguely  discernible  in  such  an 
agony  became  perceptible,  and  assumed  a  shaj)e  at 
his  feet,  as  if  the  eyes  had  the  power  to  produce  the 
thing  demanded.  He  perceived  a  few  paces  from 
him,  at  the  foot  of  the  small  barricade  so  pitilessly 
guarded  and  watched  from  without,  and  beneath  a 
pile  of  paving-stones  which  almost  concealed  it,  an 
iron  grating,  laid  flat  and  flush  with  the  ground. 
This  grating  made  of  strong  cross-bars  was  about 
two  feet  square,  and  the  framework  of  pa\nng-stones 
which  supported  it  had  been  torn  out,  and  it  was  as 


134  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

it  were  dismounted.  Through  the  bars  a  glimpse 
could  be  caught  of  an  obscure  opening,  soraething 
liko  a  chimney-pot  or  tlie  cylinder  of  a  cistern.  Jean 
Valjean  dashed  up,  and  his  old  skill  in  escapes  rose 
to  his  brain  like  a  beani  of  light,  To  remove  tlie 
Ijaving-stoues,  tear  up  the  grating,  take  Marins,  who 
was  inert  as  a  dead  body,  on  his  shoulders,  descend 
with  this  burden  on  his  loins,  helping  himself  with 
his  elbows  and  knees,  into  this  sort  of  well  which 
was  fortunately  of  no  great  depth,  to  let  the  grating 
fall  again  over  his  head,  to  set  foot  on  a  paved  sur- 
face, about  ten  feet  below  the  earth,  —  ail  this  was  exe- 
cuted  like  something  doue  in  delirium,  with  a  giant's 
strcngth  and  the  rapidity  of  an  eagle  :  this  occupied 
but  a  few  minutes.  Jean  Valjean  found  himself  with 
the  still  fainting  Marins  in  a  sort  of  long  subterranean 
corridor,  where  there  was  profound  peace,  absolute 
silence,  and  night.  The  impression  which  he  had 
formerly  felt  in  falling  out  of  the  street  into  the  cou- 
vent recurred  to  him  ;  still,  what  he  now  carried  was 
net  Cosette,  but  Marins. 

He  had  scarce  heard  above  his  head  like  a  vague 
murmur  the  formidable  tumult  of  the  wine-shop  being 
taken  by  assault. 


BOOK     IL 
THE  INTESTINE  OF  LEVIATHAN. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   EARTH   IMPOVERISHED    BY   THE    SEA. 

Paris  casts  twenty-five  millions  of  francs  annually 
into  the  sea  ;  and  we  assert  this  without  any  nieta- 
phor.  How  so,  and  in  wliat  way?  By  day  and  night. 
For  what  object  ?  For  no  object.  With  what 
thonght  ?  Without  thinking.  What  to  do  ?  Nothing. 
By  nieans  of  what  organ  ?  Its  intestines.  What  are 
its  intestines  ?  Its  sewers.  Twenty-five  millions  are 
the  most  moderate  of  the  approximative  amounts 
given  by  the  estimâtes  of  modem  science.  Science, 
after  groping  for  a  long  time,  knows  now  that  the 
most  fertilizing  and  effective  of  manures  is  human 
manure.  The  Chinese,  let  us  say  it  to  our  shame, 
knew  this  before  we  did  ;  not  a  Chinese  peasant  — 
it  is  Eckeberg  who  states  the  fact  —  who  goes  to  the 
city,  but  brings  at  either  end  of  his  bamboo  a  bucket 
full  of  what  we  call  filth.  Thanks  to  the  human 
manure,  the  soil  in  China  is  still  as  youthful  as  in  the 
days  of  Abraham,  and  Chinese  wheat  yields  just  one 
hundred  and  twenty  fold  the  sowing.     There  is  no 


136  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

guano  comparable  in  fertility  to  tlie  détritus  of  a  cap- 
ital, and  a  large  city  is  the  strongest  of  stercoraries. 
To  employ  the  towu  in  manuring  the  plain  would  be 
certain  success  ;  for  if  gold  be  dung,  on  the  other 
liand  our  dung  is  gold. 

What  is  donc  with  tins  golden  dung?  It  is  swept 
into  the  gulf.  We  send  at  a  great  expense  flects  of 
ships  to  collect  at  the  southern  pôle  the  guano  of 
pétrels  and  penguins,  and  cast  into  the  sea  the  incal- 
culable clément  of  wealth  which  we  hâve  under  our 
hand.  Ail  the  human  and  animal  manure  which  the 
world  loses,  if  returned  to  the  land  instead  of  bcing 
thrown  into  the  sea,  would  sufRce  to  nourish  the 
world.  Do  you  know  what  those  piles  of  ordure 
are,  collected  at  the  corners  of  streets,  those  carts  of 
mud  carried  off  at  night  from  the  streets,  the  friglit- 
ful  barrels  of  the  night-man,  and  the  fetid  streams 
of  subterranean  inud  which  the  pavement  conceals 
from  you  ?  Ail  this  is  a  flowering  field,  it  is  green 
grass,  it  is  mint  and  thyme  and  sage,  it  is  game,  it  is 
cattle,  it  is  the  satisfied  lowing  of  heavy  kine  at 
night,  it  is  perfumed  hay,  it  is  gilded  wheat,  it  is 
brcad  on  your  table,  it  is  warm  blood  in  your  veins, 
it  is  health,  it  is  joy,  it  is  life.  So  desires  that  mys- 
terious  création,  wliich  is  transformation  on  earth 
and  transfiguration  in  heaven  ;  restoro  tliis  to  tlie 
great  crucible,  and  your  abundançe  will  issue  from  it, 
for  the  ni\tritîon  of  the  plains  produces  the  nourish^ 
ment  of  men.  You  arc  at  liberty  to  |ose  this  wealth 
and  çonsider  me  ridiculous  into  tlie  bargain  ;  it 
would  be  the  mastei-piece  of  your  ignorance.  Sta- 
tistiçs  hâve  calculatcd  that  France  alone  pours  every 


THE   EAETII   IMPOVERTSHED   BY   THE    SEA.     137 

year  into  the  Atlantic  a  sum  of  half  a  milliard. 
Note  tliis  ;  witli  thèse  five  hundred  niillious  one 
quarter  of  the  expenses  of  the  budget  would  be 
paid.  The  cleverness  of  man  is  so  great  that  he 
prefers  to  get  rid  of  thèse  five  hundred  millions  in  the 
gutter.  The  very  substance  of  the  people  is  borne 
away,  hère  drop  by  drop,  and  there  in  streams,  by 
the  wretched  vomiting  of  our  sewers  into  the  rivers, 
and  the  gigantic  vomiting  of  our  rivers  into  the  océan. 
Each  éructation  of  our  cloacas  costs  us  one  thousand 
francs,  and  this  has  two  results,  —  the  earth  impover- 
ished  and  the  water  poisoned  ;  hunger  issuing  from 
the  furrow  and  illness  from  the  river.  It  is  notorious 
that  at  this  very  hour  the  Thames  poisons  London  ; 
and  as  regards  Paris,  it  has  been  found  necessary  to 
remove  most  of  the  mouths  of  the  sewers  dowu  the 
river  below  the  last  bridge. 

A  double  tubular  apparatus  supplied  with  valves 
and  flood-gates,  a  System  of  elementary  drainage  as 
simple  as  the  human  lungs,  and  which  is  already  in 
full  work  in  several  English  parishes,  would  suffice 
to  bring  into  our  towns  the  pure  water  of  the  fields 
and  send  to  the  fields  the  rich  water  of  the  towns; 
and  this  easy  ebb  and  flow,  the  most  simple  in  the 
world,  would  retain  among  us  the  five  hundred  mil- 
lions thrown  away.  But  people  are  thinking  of 
other  things,  The  présent  process  does  mischief 
while  mcaning  well.  The  intention  is  good,  but  the 
resuit  is  sorrowful  ;  they  believe  they  are  draining 
the  city,  while  they  are  destroying  the  population. 
A  sewer  is  a  misunderstanding  ;  and  when  drainage, 
with  its  double  functions,  restoring  what  it  takes,  is 


138  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

everywhere  substituted  for  the  sewer,  that  simple 
and  impoverishing  washing,  and  is  also  combined 
with  the  data  of  a  new  social  economy,  the  produce 
of  the  soil  will  be  increased  tenfold,  and  the  prob- 
lem  of  misery  will  be  singularly  attenuated.  Add 
the  suppression  of  parasitisms,  and  it  will  be  solved. 
In  the  mean  while  the  public  wealth  goes  to  the 
river,  and  a  sinking  takes  place,  —  sinking  is  the 
right  Word,  for  Europe  is  being  ruined  in  this  way 
by  exhaustion.  As  for  France,  we  hâve  mentioned 
the  figures.  Now,  as  Paris  contains  one  twenty- 
fifth  of  the  whole  French  population,  and  the  Paris- 
ian  guano  is  the  richest  of  ail,  we  are  beneath  the 
truth  wben  we  estimate  at  twenty-five  millions  the 
share  of  Paris  in  the  half-milliard  which  France 
annually  refuses.  Thèse  twenty-five  millions,  em- 
l^loyed  in  assistance  and  enjoynient,  would  double 
the  splendor  of  Paris,  and  the  city  expends  them  in 
sewers.  So  that  we  may  say,  the  grcat  prodigality 
of  Paris,  its  marvellous  fête,  its  Folie  Beaujon,  its 
orgie,  its  lavishing  of  gold,  its  luxury,  splendor,  and 
magnificence,  is  its  sewerage.  It  is  in  this  way  that 
in  the  blindness  of  a  bad  political  economy  people 
allow  the  comfort  of  ail  to  be  drowned  and  wasted 
in  the  water  ;  there  ought  to  be  St.  Cloud  nets  to 
catch  the  public  fortunes. 

Economically  rcgarded,  the  fact  may  be  thus  sum- 
marizcd  :  Paris  is  a  regular  spendthrilt.  Paris,  that 
model  city,  that  pattern  of  well-conducted  capitals, 
of  which  every  people  strives  to  hâve  a  copy,  that 
metropolis  of  the  idéal,  that  august  home  of  initia- 
tive, impulse,  and  experiment,  that  centre  and  gath- 


THE   EARTH   IMPOVERISHED   BY   THE   SEA.     139 

ering-place  of  minds,  that  nation  city,  that  beehive 
of  the  future,  that  niarvellous  composite  of  Babylon 
and  Corinth,  would  make .  a  peasaut  of  Fo-Kian 
shrug  his  shoulders,  froni  our  présent  point  of  view. 
Imitate  Paris,  and  you  will  ruin  yourself  ;  moreover, 
Paris  imitâtes  itself  particularly  in  this  immémorial 
and  insensate  squandering.  Tliese  surprising  follies 
are  not  new  ;  it  is  no  youthful  uonsense.  The 
aneients  acted  like  the  modems.  "  The  cloacas  of 
Rome,"  says  Liebig,  "  absorbed  the  entire  welfare  of 
the  Roman  peasant."  ^Yheu  the  Campagna  of  Rome 
was  ruined  by  the  Roman  sewer,  Rome  exhausted 
Italy  ;  and  when  it  had  placed  Italy  in  its  cloaca,  it 
poured  into  it  Sicily,  and  then  Sardinia,  and  then 
Africa.  The  sewer  of  Rome  swallowed  up  the 
world.  This  cloaca  offered  its  tunnels  to  the  city 
and  to  the  world.  Urbi  et  orbi.  Eternal  city  and 
unfathomable  drain. 

For  thèse  things,  as  for  others,  Rome  gives  tlie 
example,  and  this  example  Paris  follows  with  ail  the 
folly  peculiar  to  witty  cities.  For  the  requirements 
of  the  opération  which  we  hâve  been  explaining, 
Paris  bas  beneath  it  another  Paris,  a  Paris  of  sewers, 
which  has  its  streets,  squares,  lanes,  arteries,  and  cir- 
culation, which  is  mud,  with  the  human  forces  at 
Icast.  For  nothing  must  be  flaftered,  not  eveu  a 
great  people.  Where  there  is  everything,  there  is  ig- 
nominy  by  the  side  of  sublimity  ;  and  if  Paris  contain 
Athens  the  city  of  light,  Tyre  the  city  of  power, 
Sparta  the  city  of  virtue,  Xineveh  the  city  of  prodi- 
gies,  it  also  contains  Lutetia  the  city  of  mud. 
Moreover,  the  starap  of  its  power  is  there  too,  and 


140  JEAN   VALJKAN. 

the  Titanic  sewer  of  Paris  realizes  amoiig  monuments 
the  strange  idéal  realized  in  humanity  by  a  few  men 
like  Machiavelli,  Bacon,  and  jNlirabeau,  —  the  grand 
abject.  The  subsoil  of  Paris,  if  the  eye  could  pierce 
the  surface,  would  offer  the  aspect  of  a  gigantic 
madrépore  ;  a  sponge  has  not  more  passages  and 
holes  than  the  pièce  of  ground,  six  leagues  in  circum- 
ference,  upon  which  the  old  great  city  rests.  With- 
out  alluding  to  the  catacombs,  which  are  a  separate 
cellar,  without  speaking  of  the  inextricable  net  of 
gas-pipes,  without  referring  to  the  vast  tubular  Sys- 
tem for  the  distribution  of  running  water,  the  drains 
alone  form  on  either  bank  of  the  river  a  prodigious 
dark  ramification,  a  labyrinth  which  has  its  incline 
for  its  clew.  In  the  damp  mist  of  this  labyrinth  is 
seen  the  rat,  which  seems  the  produce  of  the 
accouchement  of  Paris. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE    OLD    HISTORY   OF    THE    SEWER. 

If  \ve  imagine  Paris  removed  like  a  cover,  the 
siibterranean  network  of  sewers,  regarded  from  a 
birds'-eye  view,  would  represent  on  eitlier  bank  a  sort 
of  large  brandi  grafted  npon  the  river.  On  the  right 
bank  the  encircling  sewer  will  be  the  trunk  of  this 
branclî,  the  secondary  tubes  the  branches,  and  the 
blind  allejs  the  twigs.  This  figure  is  only  sunimary 
and  half  correct,  as  the  right  angle,  which  is  the  usual 
angle  in  subterranean  ramifications  of  this  nature,  is 
very  rare  in  végétation.  Our  readers  will  form  a 
better  likeness  of  this  strange  géométrie  plan  by  sup- 
posing  that  they  see  lying  on  a  bed  of  darkness  some 
strange  Oriental  alphabet  as  confused  as  a  thicket, 
and  whose  shapeless  letters  are  welded  to  each  other 
in  an  apparent  confusion,  and  as  if  accidentally,  hère 
by  their  angles  and  there  by  their  ends.  The  sewers 
and  drains  played  a  great  part  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
under  the  Lower  Empire  and  in  the  old  East.  Plague 
sprang  from  them  and  despots  died  of  it.  The  multi- 
tudes regarded  almost  \\àth  a  religions  awe  thèse  beds 
of  corruption,  thèse  monstrous  cradlcs  of  death.  The 
vermin-ditch  at  Benares  is  not  more  fearful  tlian  the 
Lion's  den  at  Babylon.     Tiglath-Pileser,  according  to 


142  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

the  rabbinical  books,  swore  by  the  sink  of  Nineveh. 
It  was  frora  the  drain  of  Munster  that  John  of  Ley- 
den  produced  his  false  moon,  and  it  was  from  the 
cesspool-well  of  Kekhseheb  that  his  Oriental  mensech- 
mus,  Mokanna,  the  veiled  prophet  of  Khorassau, 
brought  his  false  sun. 

The  history  of  nien  is  reflected  in  the  history  of  the 
sewers,  and  the  Gemonise  narrated  the  story  of  Rome. 
The  sevver  of  Paris  is  an  old  formidable  thiiig,  it  lias 
been  a  sepulchre,  and  it  has  been  an  asylum.  Crime, 
intellect,  the  social  protest,  liberty  of  conscience, 
thought,  robbery,  ail  that  human  laws  pursue  or  hâve 
pursued,  hâve  concealed  themsclves  in  this  den,  —  the 
Maillotins  in  the  fourteenth  century,  the  cloak-stealers 
in  the  tiftcenth,  the  Huguenots  in  the  sixtecnth,  the 
illuminés  of  ^Nlorin  in  the  seventeenth,  and  the  Chauf- 
feurs in  the  eighteenth.  One  hundred  years  ago  the 
nocturnal  dagger  issued  from  it,  and  the  rogue  in 
danger  glided  into  it  ;  the  wood  had  the  cave  and 
Paris  had  the  drain.  The  Truanderie,  that  Gallic 
picareria,  accepted  the  drain  as  an  annex  of  the 
Court  of  Miracles,  and  at  night,  cunning  and  fero- 
cious,  entered  beneath  the  INIaubuée  vomitory  as  into 
an  alcôve.  It  was  very  simple  that  those  who  had 
for  thcir  place  of  daily  toil  the  Yide-Gousset  lane,  or 
the  Rue  Coupe-Gorge,  shoiild  hâve  for  their  nightly 
abode  the  ponccau  of  the  Chemin-Vert  or  the  Hure- 
poix  cagnard.  Hence  cornes  a  swarm  of  recollcctions, 
ail  sorts  of  phantoms  haunt  thèse  long  solitary  corri- 
dors, on  ail  sides  are  putridity  and  miasma,  and  hère 
and  there  is  a  trap  through  which  Villon  insidc  con- 
verses with  Rabelais  outside. 


THE   OLD   HISTORY   OF   THE   SEWER.  143 

The  sewer  in  old  Paris  is  the  meetinfr.place  of  ail 
exhaustions  and  of  ail  experiments  ;  political  econ- 
omy  sees  there  a  détritus,  and  social  philosophy  a 
residuum.  The  sewer  is  the  conscience  of  the  city, 
and  everything  converges  and  is  confronted  there. 
In  this  livid  spot  there  is  darkness,  but  there  are  no 
secrets.  Each  thing  bas  its  true  form,  or  at  least  its 
définitive  form.  The  pile  of  ordure  has  this  in  its 
favor,  that  it  tells  no  falsehood,  and  simplicity  has 
taken  refuge  there.  Basile's  mask  is  found  there, 
but  you  see  the  pasteboard,  the  threads,  the  inside 
and  out,  and  it  is  niarked  with  honest  filth.  Scapin's 
false  nose  is  lying  close  by.  Ail  the  uncleanlinesses 
of  civilization,  where  no  longer  of  service,  fall  iiito 
this  pit  of  truth  ;  they  are  swallowed  up,  but  dis- 
play  themselves  in  it.  This  pell-mell  is  a  confession  : 
there  no  false  appearance  nor  any  plastering  is  pos- 
sible, order  takes  off  its  shirt,  there  is  an  absolute 
nudity,  a  rout  of  illusions  and  mirage,  and  there 
nothing  but  what  is  assuming  the  gloomy  face  of 
what  is  finishing.  Reality  and  disappearance.  There 
a  bottle-heel  confesses  intoxication,  and  a  basket- 
handle  talks  about  domesticity  ;  there,  the  apple-core 
which  has  had  literary  opinions  becomes  once  again 
the  apple-core,  the  effigy  on  the  double  sou  grows 
frankly  vert-de-grised,  the  saliva  of  Caiaphas  meets 
the  vomit  of  Falstaff,  the  louis-d'or  which  comes  from 
the  gambling-hell  dashes  against  the  nail  whence 
hangs  the  end  of  the  suicides  rope,  a  livid  fœtus 
rolls  along  wrapped  in  spangles,  which  danced  last 
Shrove  Tuesday  at  the  opéra,  a  wig  which  has  judgcd 
men  wallows  by  the  side  of  a  rottenness  which  was 


144  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Margotton's  petticoat  :  it  is  more  tlian  fraternity,  it 
is  the  extremest  faniiliarity.  Ail  tliat  paintcd  itself 
is  bedaubed,  and  the  last  veil  is  torii  away.  The 
sevver  is  a  cynic  and  says  everything.  This  sincerity 
of  uncleanliness  pleases  us  and  reposes"  the  niind. 
Wheri  a  man  has  spent  his  time  upon  the  earth  in 
enduring  the  great  airs  assumed  by  state  reasons,  the 
oath,  political  wisdom,  human  justice,  professional 
probity,  the  austerities  of  the  situation,  and  incor- 
ruptible robes,  it  relieves  him  to  enter  a  sewer  and 
see  there  the  mire  which  suits  it. 

It  is  instructive  at  the  same  time,  for,  as  we  said 
just  now,  history  passes  through  the  sewer.  St. 
Bartholoniew  filters  there  drop.by  drop  through  the 
paving-stoncs,  and  great  public  assassinations,  political 
and  religions  butcherics,  traverse  this  subterranean 
way  of  civilization,  and  thrust  their  corpses  into  it. 
For  the  eye  of  the  dreamer  ail  historical  murderers 
are  there,  in  the  hideous  gloom,  on  their  knees,  with 
a  bit  of  their  winding-sheet  for  an  apron,  and  mourn- 
fully  sponging  their  task.  Louis  XI.  is  there  with 
Tristan,  Francis  I.  is  tliere  with  Duprat,  Charles  IX. 
is  there  with  his  mother,  Richelieu  is  there  with 
Louis  XIII.,  L(mvois  is  there,  Letellier  is  there, 
Hébert  and  Maillard  are  there,  scratching  the  stones, 
and  trying  to  cfllace  the  trace  of  their  deeds.  The 
brooms  of  thèse  spectres  can  be  heai'd  undcr  thèse 
vaults,  and  the  enormous  fetidness  of  social  catas- 
trophes is  breathed  there.  You  sce  in  corners  red 
flashcs,  and  a  terrible  watcr  flows  there  in  wliich 
blood-stained  hands  hâve  been  washcd. 

The  social  observer  should  enter  thèse  shadows, 


THE  OLD  mSTORY  OF  THE  SEWEK.    1^.3 

for  tliey  forin  part  of  liis  laboratorv,  Philosopliy  is 
tlie  microscope  of  tliouglit  ;  evervtliir.g  strives  to  fly 
froni  it,  but  nothing  escapes  it.  Tergiversation  is 
useless,  for  wliat  sidc  of  liiniself  does  a  mau  show 
in  tergiversatiiig  ?  His  ashamcd  side.  Philosophy 
pursues  evil  with  its  upriglit  glauce,  and  does  iiot 
allow  it  to  escape  into  nothingness.  It  recognizes 
everything  in  tlie  effacement  of  disappearing  things, 
and  in  the  diminution  of  vanishing  things.  It  re- 
constructs  the  purple  after  the  rags,  and  the  woman 
after  the  tattcrs.  With  the  sewer  it  re-makes  the 
town  ;  with  the  mud  it  re-makes  manners.  It  judges 
from  the  potsherds  whether  it  v,'ere  an  amphora  or 
an  earthenware  jar.  It  recognizes  by  a  nail-mark 
on  a  parchment  the  différence  which  séparâtes  the 
Jewry  of  the  Juden-gasse  from  the  Jewry  of  the 
Ghetto.  It  finds  again  in  wliat  is  left  what  has  been, 
—  the  good,  the  bad,  the  false,  the  true,  the  patch  of 
blood  in  the  palace,  the  ink-stain  of  the  cavern,  the 
tallow-drop  of  the  brothel,  trials  undergone,  tempta- 
tions  welconie,  orgies  vomited  up,  the  wrinkle  which 
characters  hâve  formed  in  abasing  themselves,  the 
traces  of  prostitution  in  the  soûls  whose  coarseness 
rendered  them  capable  of  it,  and  on  the  jacket  of 
the  street-porters  of  Rome  the  mark  of  the  nudge 
of  Messalina. 


VOL.   V.  10 


CHAPTER    III. 

BRUNESEAU. 

The  sewer  of  Paris  in  the  Middle  Ages  was  legen- 
clarv.  In  the  sixteenth  century  Henry  II.  attempted 
soundings  wliicli  failed,  and  not  a  liundred  years  ago, 
as  Mercier  testifies,  the  ckiaca  was  abandoned  to  it- 
self,  and  became  what  it  could.  Snch  was  that  an- 
cient  Paris,  handed  over  to  quarrels,  indécisions,  and 
groping.  It  was  for  a  long  time  thus  stupid,  and  a 
hiter  period,  '89,  showed  how  cities  acquire  sensé. 
But  in  the  good  old  tinies  the  capital  had  but  little 
head  ;  it  did  not  know  how  to  transact  its  business 
either  morally  or  materially,  and  could  no  more 
sweep  avvay  its  ordure  than  its  abuses.  Everything 
was  an  obstacle,  everything  raised  a  question.  The 
sewer,  for  instance,  was  refractory  to  any  itinerary, 
and  people  could  no  more  gct  on  under  the  city  than 
they  did  in  it  ;  above,  everything  was  unintelligible  ; 
below,  inextricable  ;  beneath  the  confusion  of  tongues 
Avas  the  confusion  of  cellars,  and  Dœdalus  duplicatcd 
Babel.  At  times  the  sewer  of  Paris  thought  proper 
to  overflow,  as  if  this  misunderstood  Nile  had  sud- 
dcnly  fallen  into  a  passion.  There  Avere,  iufamous 
to  relate,  inundations  of  the  sewer.  At  moments 
this  stomach  of  civiliziition  digcsted  badly,  the  sewer 


BRUNESEAU.  14/ 

flowecl  back  into  the  tliroat  of  the  city,  and  Paris 
had  the  after-taste  of  its  ordure.  Thèse  resem- 
blances  of  the  drain  to  remorse  had  some  good 
about  them,  for  they  were  warnings,  very  badly 
taken  however  ;  for  the  city  was  indignant  that 
its  mud  should  hâve  so  much  boldness,  and  did  not 
admit  that  the  ordure  should  return.  Discharge 
it  better.  . 

The  inundafion  of  1802  is  in  the  memory  of 
Parisians  of  eiglity  years  of  âge.  The  mud  spread 
across  the  Place  des  Victoires,  on  which  is  the  statue 
of  Louis  XIV.  ;  it  entered  Rue  St.  Honoré  by  the 
two  mouths  of  the  sewer  of  the  Champs  Elysées, 
Rue  St.  Florentin  by  the  St.  Florentin  sewer,  Rue 
Pierre  à  Poisson  by  the  sewer  of  the  Sonnerie,  Rue 
Popincourt  by  the  Chemin-Vert  sewer,  and  Rue  de 
la  Roquette  by  the  Rue  de  Lappe  sewer  ;  it  covered 
the  level  of  the  Rue  des  Champs  Elysées  to  a  height 
of  fourteen  inches,  and  in  the  south,  owing  to  the 
vomitory  of  the  Seine  performing  its  duties  contrari- 
wise,  it  entered  Rue  Mazarine,  Rue  de  l'Echaudé, 
and  Rue  des  Marais,  where  it  stopped  affcer  running 
on  a  hundred  and  twenty  yards,  just  a  few  yards 
from  the  house  which  Racine  had  inhabited,  respect- 
ing,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  the  poet  more  than 
tlie  king.  It  reached  its  maximum  depth  in  the 
Rue  St.  Pierre,  where  it  rose  three  feet  above  the 
gutter,  and  its  maximum  extent  in  the  Rue  St.  Sabin, 
where  it  extended  over  a  length  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  yards. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  présent  century  the  sewer 
of  Paris  was  still  a  mysterious  spot.     Mud  can  ne  ver 


148  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

be  well  famecl,  but  hère  the  ill  réputation  extended 
ahnost  to  terror.  Paris  knew  confusedly  tliat  it  had 
beneath  it  a  grewsome  cave  ;  people  talked  about  it 
as  of  tluit  monstrous  niud-bed  of  Thebes,  in  whicli 
centipedes  fifteen  feet  in  length  swarmed,  and  wliich 
could  hâve  served  as  a  bathing-place  for  Behemoth. 
The  great  boots  of  the  sewers-men  never  ventured 
beyond  certain  known  points.  It  was  still  very  close 
to  the  time  when  the  scavengcrs'  car^s,  from  the  top 
of  whicli  St.  Foix  fi'aternized  with  the  INIarquis  de 
Créqui,  were  siniply  unloaded  into  the  sewer.  As 
for  the  cleansing,  the  duty  was  intrusted  to  the 
showers,  which  clioked  up  rather  than  swept  away. 
Rome  allowed  sonie  jîoetry  to  hcr  cloaca,  and  called 
it  the  Gemoniœ,  but  Paris  insulted  its  own,  and 
called  it  the  stench-hole.  Science  and  superstition 
were  agreed  as  to  the  horror,  and  the  stench-hole 
was  quite  as  répugnant  to  hygiène  as  to  the 
legend.  The  goblin  was  hatched  under  the  fetid 
arches  of  the  Mouffetard  sewer  :  the  corpses  of 
the  Marmousets  were  thrown  into  the  Barillcrie 
sewer  :  Fagot  attributed  the  malignant  fever  of 
1685  to  the  great  opening  of  the  INIarais  sewer, 
v.hich  remained  yawning  until  1833  in  the  Rue 
St.  Louis,  nearly  opposite  the  sign  of  the  ^Messager 
Galant.  The  mouth  of  the  sewer  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Mortel lerie  was  celebrated  for  the  pestilences 
which  issued  from  it  ;  with  its  iron-pointed  grating 
that  resembled  a  row  of  teeth  it  yawned  in  tins 
fatal  strect  like  the  throat  of  a  dragon  breathing 
hell  on  niankind.  The  popular  imagination  sea- 
soned  the  gloomy  Parisian  sewer  with  some  hideous 


BKUNKSEAU.  149 

mixture  of  infiiiitude  :  the  sewer  was  bottomless,  the 
sewer  was  a  Baratliruni,  and  the  idea  of  exploi'ing 
thèse  leprous  régions  never .  even  occurred  to  the 
police.  Who  would  hâve  dared  to  cast  a  sound 
into  this  darkness,  and  go  on  a  journey  of  discov- 
ery  in  this  abyss  ?  It  was  frightful,  and  yet  some 
one  presented  himself  at  last.  The  cloaca  had  its 
Christopher  Colunibus. 

One  day  in  1805,  during  one  of  the  rare  appari- 
tions which  the  Eniperor  niade  in  Paris,  the  Minister 
of  the  Interior  attended  at  his  master's  J^ef^ï  lever. 
In  the  court-yard  could  be  heard  the  clanging  sabres 
of  ail  the  extraordinary  soldiers  of  the  great  Repub- 
lic and  the  great  Empire  ;  there  was  a  swarm  of 
heroes  at  Napoleon's  gâtes  ;  men  of  the  Rhine,  the 
Schelde,  the  Adage,  and  the  Xile  ;  conu'ades  of  Jou- 
bcrt,  of  Desaix,  of  Marceau,  Hoche,  and  Kléber, 
aeronauts  of  Fleurus,  grenadiers  of  Mayence,  pon- 
tooners  of  Genoa,  hussars  whom  the  Pyramids  had 
gazed  at,  artillerymen  who  had  bespattered  Junot's 
cannon-balls,  cuirassiers  who  had  taken  by  assault 
the  fleet  anchored  in  the  Zuyderzee  ;  some  had  fol- 
lowed  Bonaparte  upon  the  bridge  of  Lodi,  others 
had  accompanied  Murât  to  the  trenches  of  Mantua, 
while  others  had  outstripped  Lannes  in  the  hollow 
way  of  ]Montebello.  The  whole  army  of  that  day 
was  in  the  court  of  the  Tuileries,  represented  by  a 
squadron  or  a  company,  and  guarding  Napoléon, 
then  resting  ;  and  it  was  the  splendid  pcriod 
when  the  great  army  had  Marengo  bchind  it  and 
Austerlitz  before  it.  "  Sire,"  said  the  Minister  of 
the  Interior  to  Napoléon,  "  I  hâve  seen  to-day  the 


150  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

most  intrepid  man  of  jour  Empire."  "Who  is 
the  man  ?  "  the  Emperor  asked  sharply,  "  and  what 
lias  lie  done  ?  "  "  He  wislies  to  do  sometliing, 
Sire."  "What  is  it?"  "  To  visit  the  sewers  of 
Paris."  Tliis  man  existed,  and  his  naine  was 
Bruueseau. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

CONCEALED   DETAILS. 

The  visit  took  place,  and  was  a  formidable  cam- 
paigiî,  —  a  nocturnal  battle  against  asphyxia  and 
plague.  It  was  at  the  same  time  a  voyage  of  dis- 
covery,  and  one  of  the  survivors  of  the  exploration, 
an  intelligent  workman,  very  young  at  that  time,  used 
to  recount  a  few  years  ago  the  curious  détails  whieh 
Bruneseau  thought  it  right  to  omit  in  his  report  to 
the  Prefect  of  Police,  as  iinworthy  of  the  adminis- 
trative style.  Disinfecting  processes  were  very  rudi- 
mentary  at  that  day,  and  Bruneseau  had  scarce 
passed  the  first  articulations  of  the  subterranean  net- 
work ère  eight  workmen  out  of  twenty  refused  to  go 
farther.  The  opération  was  com])licated,  for  the 
visit  entailed  cleansing  :  it  was,  therefore,  requisitc  to 
cleanse  and  at  the  same  time  take  measurements  ; 
note  the  water  entrances,  count  the  traps  and  mouths, 
détail  the  branches,  indicate  the  currents,  recognize 
the  respective  dimensions  of  the  différent  basins, 
Sound  the  small  sewers  grafted  on  the  main,  measure 
the  height  undcr  the  key-stone  of  each  passage,  and 
the  width  both  at  the  bottom  and  the  top,  in  order 
to  détermine  the  ordinates  for  levelling  at  the  right 
of  each  entrance  of  water.     They  advanced  with  diffi- 


152  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

culty,  and  it  was  not  rare  for  the  ladders  to  sink  into 
three  feet  of  niud.  The  lanterns  would  scarce  burn 
in  the  mephitic  atmosphère,  and  from  timc  to  time  a 
sewer-man  was  carried  away  in  a  fainting  state.  At 
certain  spots  there  was  a  précipice  ;  the  soil  had 
given  way,  the  stones  were  swallowed  np,  and  the 
drain  was  converted  into  a  lost  well  ;  notliing  solid 
could  be  found,  and  they  had  great  difficulty  in 
dragging  out  a  man  who  suddenly  disa]:)peared.  By 
the  advice  of  Fourcroy  large  cages  filled  with  tow 
saturated  with  resin  were  set  fire  to  at  regular  dis- 
tances. The  wall  was  covered  in  spots  with  shape- 
Icss  fnngi,  which  might  hâve  been  called  tumors,  and 
the  stoiie  itself  seemed  diseased  in  this  unbreathable 
médium. 

Bruneseau,  in  liis  exploration,  proceeded  down-hill. 
At  the  point  where  the  two  water-pipes  of  the  Grand 
Hurleur  separate  he  deciphered  on  a  projecting  stone 
the  date  1550  ;  this  stone  indicated  the  limit  where 
Philibert  Delorme,  instructed  by  Henri  H.  to  inspect 
the  subways  of  Paris,  stopped.  This  stone  was  the 
mark  of  the  sixteenth  century  in  the  drain,  and 
Bruneseau  found  the  handiwork  of  the  seventcenth  in 
the  Ponceau  conduit  and  that  of  the  Rue  Vieille  du 
Temple,  wiiich  were  arched  bctween  1000  and  1650, 
and  the  mark  of  the  eightecnth  in  the  west  section 
of  the  collecting  canal,  enclosed  and  arched  in  1740. 
Thèse  two  arches,  cspecialiy  the  youngcr  onc,  that 
of  1740,  were  more  décrépit  and  cracked  than  the 
masonry  of  the  begirding  drain,  wliich  dated  from 
1412,  the  period  when  the  INIcnihnontant  strcam 
of  running  water  was  raiscd  to  the  digiiity  of  the 


CONCEALED   DETAILS.  153 

Great  Sewer  of  Paris,  a  promotion  aualogous  to 
that  of  a  peasant  who  became  first  valet  to  the 
king  ;  something  like  Gros  Jean  trausformed  into 
Lébel. 

They  fancied  tliey  recognized  hère  and  there, 
especially  under  the  Palais  du  Justice,  the  form  of  old 
dungeons  formed  in  the  sevvcr  itself,  hideous  in  pace. 
An  iron  collar  hung  in  one  of  thèse  cells,  and  they 
were  ail  bricked  up.  A  few  of  the  things  found  were 
peculiar  ;  aniong  others  the  skeleton  of  an  ourang- 
outang,  which  disappeared  froni  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes  in  1800,  a  disappearance  probably  connected 
Avith  the  fanions  and  incontestable  apparition  of  the 
dovil  in  the  Rue  des  Bernardins  in  the  last  year  of 
the  eighteeuth  century.  The  poor  animal  eventually 
drowned  itself  in  the  sewer.  Under  the  long  vaulted 
passage  leading  to  the  Arche  Clarion  a  rag-picker's 
hotte  in  a  perfect  state  of  préservation  caused  the 
admiration  of  connoisseurs.  Everywhere  the  mud, 
which  the  sewer-men  had  corne  to  handle  intrepidly, 
abounded  in  precious  objects  ;  gold  and  silver,  jew- 
eh"y,  precious  stones,  and  coin.  A  giant  who  had 
filtered  tins  cloaca  would  hâve  found  in  his  sieve  the 
wealth  of  centuries.  At  the  point  where  the  two 
branches  of  the  Rue  du  Temple  and  the  Rue  Sainte 
Avoye  divide,  a  singular  copper  Huguenot  medal 
was  pickcd  up,  bearing  on  one  side  a  pig  wearing  a 
cardinals  hat,  and  on  the  other  a  wolf  with  the  tiara 
on  its  head. 

The  most  surprising  discovery  was  at  the  entrance 
of  the  Great  Sewer.  This  entrance  had  been  for- 
merly  closed  by  a  gâte,  of  which  only  the  hingcs  now 


154  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

remained.  From  ono  of  thèse  hinges  liung  a  filthy 
shapeless  rag,  wliich  doubtless  caugnt  there  as  it 
passed,  floated  in  tlie  shadow,  and  was  gradually 
mouldering  away.  Bruneseau  raised  his  lantern 
and  examined  tins  fragment;  it  was  of  very  fine 
linen,  and  at  one  of  the  corners  less  gnawcd 
than  tiie  rest  could  be  distinguished  an  lieraldic 
crown  embroidered  above  thèse  seven  letters, 
Lavbesp.  The  crown  was  a  Marquis's  crown, 
and  the  seven  letters  signified  Laubespine.  What 
they  had  under  their  eyes  was  no  less  than  a 
pièce  of  ]\larat's  winding-slieet.  JNIarat,  in  his 
youth,  had  had  amours,  at  the  time  when  he  was 
attached  to  the  household  of  tlie  Comte  d'Artois 
in  the  capacity  of  physician  to  the  stables.  Of 
thèse  amours  with  a  great  lady,  which  are  histori- 
cally  notorious,  this  sheet  had  remained  to  him  as 
a  waif  or  a  souvenir  ;  on  his  death,  as  it  was  the 
only  fine  linen  at  his  lodgings,  he  was  buried  in  it; 
Old  women  wrapped  up  the  tragic  friend  of  the  peo- 
ple  for  the  tomb  in  this  sheet  which  had  known 
voluptuousness.  Bruneseau  passed  on  ;  the  strip 
was  left  where  it  was.  Was  it  througli  contempt  or 
respect?  ]\Iarat  deserved  both.  And  then  destiny 
was  so  impressed  on  it  that  a  hésitation  was  felt 
about  touching  it.  Moreover,  tliings  of  the  sepul- 
chre  should  be  left  at  the  place  which  they  sélect. 
Altogethcr  the  relie  was  a  strange  one  :  a  INIarquise 
liad  slei)t  in  it,  Marat  had  rotted  in  it  ;  and  it  had 
passed  through  the  Panthéon  to  reach  the  sewer- 
rats.  This  rag  from  an  alcôve,  every  crease  in 
which  Watteau  in  former  days  would  joyously  hâve 


CONCEALED   DETAILS.  155 

painted,  ended  by  bcconiiiig  worthy  of  the   intent 
glanée  of  Dante. 

The  visit  to  the  subwajs  of  Paris  lasted  for  seven 
years,  —  from  1805  to  1812.  While  goiug  along, 
Bruneseau  designed,  directed,  and  carried  out  con- 
sidérable opérations.  In  1808  he  lowered  the  Ponceau 
sewcr,  and  everywhere  pushing  out  new  lines,  carried 
the  sewer  in  1809  under  the  Rue  St.  Denis  to  the 
Fountain  of  the  Innocents;  in  1810  under  the  Rue 
Froidmanteau  and  the  Salpêtrière  ;  in  1811  under 
the  Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Pères,  under  the  Rue  du 
INIail,  the  Rue  de  l'Echarpe  and  the  Place  Royal  ; 
in  1812  under  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  and  the  Chaussée 
d  Antin.  At  the  samc  time  he  disinfected  and 
cleansed  the  entire  network,  and  in  the  second  year 
called  his  son-in-law  Nargaud  to  his  assistance.  It 
is  thus  that  at  the  beginning  of  this  century  the  old 
Society  flushed  its  subway  and  performed  the  toilette 
of  its  sewer.  It  was  so  uiuch  cleaned  at  any  rate. 
Winding,  cracked,  unpaved,  full  of  pits,  broken  by 
strange  elbows,  ascending  and  dcscending  illogically, 
fetid,  Savage,  ferocious,  submerged  in  darkness,  with 
cicatrices  on  its  stones  and  scars  on  its  walls,  and 
grewsonie,  —  such  was  the  old  sewer  of  Paris,  retro- 
spectively  regarded.  Ramifications  in  ail  directions, 
crossings  of  trenches,  branches,  dials  and  stars  as 
in  saps,  blind  guts  and  alleys,  arches  covered  with 
saltpctre,  infected  pits,  scabby  cxudations  on  the 
walls,  drops  falling  from  the  roof,  and  darkness, 
nothing  equalled  tlie  liorror  of  this  old  excremental 
crypt, — the  digestive  apparatus  of  Babylon,  a  den, 
a   trench,   a  gulf    pierced   with    streets,   a   Titanic 


lôG  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

mole-hill,  in  which  the  inind  fancics  that  it  sees 
crawliiig  through  the  sliadow,  amid  the  ordure 
which  had  beeii  splendor,  that  euormous  bhnd 
mole,  the  Past. 

Sucli,   we   repeat,  was   the   sewer   of  the   oldeu 
time. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

PRESENT    PROGRESS. 

At  the  présent  day  the  sewer  is  clean,  eold, 
straight,  and  correct,  and  almost  realizes  the  idéal 
of  what  is  understood  in  England  by  the  word 
"  respectable."  It  is  neat  and  gray,  built  ^^^th  the 
plunib-line,  —  we  might  almost  say  coquettishly. 
It  resenibles  a  contractor  who  bas  become  a  Coun- 
cillor  of  State.  You  almost  see  clearly  in  it,  and 
the  mud  behaves  itself  decently.  At  the  first  glance 
you  might  be  inclined  to  take  it  for  one  of  those 
subterranean  passages  so  common  formerly,  and  so 
useful  for  the  flights  of  monarchs  and  princes  in 
the  good  old  times  "  when  the  people  loved  its 
kings."  The  présent  sewer  is  a  handsome  séwer  ; 
the  pure  style  prevails  there,  —  the  classic  rectilinear 
Alexandrine,  which,  expelled  from  poetry,  appears 
to  hâve  taken  refuge  in  architecture,  seems  blended 
with  ail  the  stones  of  this  long,  dark,  and  white 
vault  ;  each  vomitory  is  an  arcade,  and  the  Rue  de 
Riv^oli  sets  the  fashion  even  in  the  cloaca.  How- 
ever,  if  the  géométrie  line  be  anywhere  in  its  place, 
it  is  assuredly  so  in  the  stercoraceous  trench  of  a 
great  city,  where  everything  rnust  be  subordinated 
to  the  shortest  road.     The  sewer  has  at  the  présent 


lôH  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

day  assuuicd  a  certain  officiai  aspect,  and  the  police 
reports  of  Avhich  it  is  sometimes  the  object  are  no 
longer  déficient  in  respect  to  it.  The  words  which 
characterize  it  in  the  administrative  language  are 
lofty  and  dignified  ;  what  used  to  be  called  a  gut 
is  now  called  a  gallery,  and  what  used  to  be  a  hole 
is  now  a  "  look."  Villon  would  no  longer  recognize 
the  ancient  lodgings  he  used  for  emergencies.  This 
network  of  cellars  stiil  bas  its  population  of  rodents, 
puUuIating  more  than  ever  ;  froni  time  to  time  a  rat, 
an  old  vétéran,  ventures  bis  head  at  the  window 
of  the  drain  and  examines  the  Parisians  :  but  even 
thèse  vermin  are  growing  tame,  as  they  are  satisfied 
with  their  subterranean  palace.  The  cloaca  no  longer 
retains  its  primitive  ferocity,  and  the  rain  which  sul- 
lied  the  sewer  of  olden  times,  washes  that  of  the 
présent  day.  Still,  do  not  trust  to  it  too  entirely, 
for  miasmas  yet  inhabit  it,  and  it  is  rather  hjpo- 
critical  than  irreproachable.  In  spite  of  ail  the  pré- 
fecture of  police  and  the  Board  of  Health  bave  done, 
it  exhales  a  vague  suspicions  odor,  like  Tartuffe  after 
confession.  Still,  wc  nmst  allow  that,  take  it  ail  to- 
gcther,  sweeping  is  an  homage  which  the  sewer  pays 
to  civilization,  and  as  from  this  point  of  view  Tartuffe's 
conscience  is  a  progress  upon  the  Augean  stable, 
it  is  certain  that  the  sewer  of  Paris  has  becn  im- 
proved.  It  is  more  than  a  progress,  it  is  a  transmu- 
tation ;  bctwecn  tlie  old  and  the  présent  sewer  there 
is  a  révolution.  WIïo  cffectcd  this  révolution  ?  The 
man  whom  every  one  forgets,  and  whom  we  bave 
nanied,  —  Bruneseau. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

FUTURE   PROGRESS. 

DiGGiNG  the  sewerage  of  Paris  was  no  small  task. 
Tlie  last  ten  centuries  hâve  toiled  at  it  without  being 
able  to  finish,  any  more  than  they  could  finish  Paris. 
The  sewer,  in  fact,  receives  ail  the  counterstrokes  of 
the  growth  of  Paris.  It  is  in  the  ground  a  species  of 
dark  polypus  with  a  thonsand  antenna3,  which  grows 
below,  equally  with  the  city  above.  Each  time  that 
the  city  forms  a  street,  the  sewer  stretches  ont  an 
arm.  The  old  monarchy  only  constructed  twenty- 
three  thousand  three  hundred  mètres  of  sewers, 
and  Paris  had  reached  that  point  on  Jan.  1,  180G. 
From  this  period,  to  which  we  shall  presently  revert, 
the  work  has  been  usefully  and  energetica'ly  taken 
up  and  continued.  Xapoleon  built  —  and  the  figures 
are  curions  —  four  thousand  eight  hundred  and  four 
mètres  ;  Charles  X.,  ten  thousand  eight  hundred  and 
thirty-six  ;  Louis  Philippe,  eighty-nine  thousand  and 
twenty  ;  the  Republic  of  1848,  twenty-three  thousand 
three  hundred  and  eighty-one  ;  the  présent  govern- 
ment,seventy  thousand  five  hundred  :  ail  together  two 
hundred  and  twenty-six  thousand  six  hundred  mètres, 
or  sixty  leagues,  of  sewer,  —  the  enormous  entrails  of 
Paris,  —  an  obscure  ramification  constantly  at  wo.'k, 


160  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

an  unkiiown  and  immense  construction.  As  we  see, 
the  subterranean  labvriiith  of  Paris  is,  at  tlie  présent 
day,  more  than  tenfoid  wliat  it  was  at  the  beginning 
of  the  centurj.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  ail 
the  persévérance  and  efforts  required  to  raise  this 
cloaca  to  the  point  of  relative  perfection  at  wliich  it 
now  is.  It  was  witli  great  trouble  that  the  old  mon- 
archical  Provostry,  and  in  the  last  ten  years  of  the 
eighteenth  century  the  revolutionary  Mayoralty,  suc- 
ceeded  in  boring  the  five  leagues  of  sewers  which 
existcd  prior  to  180G.  Ail  sorts  of  obstacles  impcdcd 
this  opération  ;  some  peculiar  to  tlie  nature  of  tiie 
soil,  othcrs  inhérent  in  the  préjudices  of  the  working 
population  of  Paris.  Paris  is  built  on  a  stratum 
strangely  rebellions  to  the  pick,  the  spade,  the  borer, 
and  human  manipulation.  Nothing  is  more  difficult 
to  pierce  and  penetrate  than  this  geological  formation 
on  which  the  marvellous  historical  formation  callcd 
Paris  is  superposed.  So  soon  as  labor  in  any  shape 
ventures  into  this  layer  of  alluvium,  subterranean 
résistances  abound.  They  are  liquid  clay,  running 
springs,  hard  rocks,  and  that  soft  and  deep  nuid 
which  the  spécial  science  calls  "mustard."  The  pick 
advanccs  laboriously  in  the  calcareous  layers  altcrnat- 
ing  with  very  thin  veins  of  clay  and  schistose  strata 
incrusted  with  oyster-shells,  which  are  contemporaries 
of  the  Pre-Adamite  océans.  At  times  a  stream  sud- 
denly  bursts  into  a  tunnel  just  commenced,  and  inun- 
dates  the  workmen,  or  a  slip  of  chalk  takes  place  and 
rushes  forward  with  the  fury  of  a  cataract,  brcaking 
like  glass  the  hirgest  supporting  shores.  Very  recently 
at  La  Villettc,  wlien  it  was  found  necessary  to  carry 


FUTURE   PROGRESS.  161 

tlie  collecting  sewer  uiider  the  St.  jMartiii  canal  witli- 
out  stopi3ing  the  navigation  or  letting  oft'  the  water, 
a  tissure  formée!  in  the  bed  of  the  canal,  and  the  water 
poured  into  the  tunnel  deriding  the  efforts  of  the 
draining-pumps.  It  was  found  necessary  to  eniploy  a 
diver  to  seek  for  the  fissure  which  was  in  the  mouth 
of  the  great  basin,  and  it  was  only  stopped  up  witli 
great  diiiiculty,  Elsewhere,  near  the  Seine,  and  even 
at  some  distance  from  the  river,  as,  for  instance,  at 
Belleville,  Grande  Rue,  and  Passage  Lunière,  bottoni- 
less  sands  are  found,  in  which  mcn  liave  been  swal- 
lowed  up.  Add  asphyxia  by  miasmas,  interment  by 
slips  and  suddcn  breaking  in  of  the  soil  ;  add  typhus, 
too,  with  which  the  workmen  are  slowly  impregnated. 
In  our  days,  after  having  hollowed  the  gallgry  of 
Clichy  with  a  banquette  to  convey  the  mainwater 
conduit  of  the  Ourque,  a  work  perfornied  by  trenches 
ten  mètres  in  depth  ;  after  having  arched  the  Bièvre 
from  the  Boulevard  de  l'Hôpital  to  the  Seine,  in  the 
midst  of  earth-slips  and  by  the  help  of  trenching  often 
through  putrid  mattcr,  and  of  shores  ;  after  having 
in  order  to  deliver  Paris  from  the  torrent-like  waters 
of  the  Montmartre,  and  give  an  outlet  to  the  fluvi- 
atic  pond  of  twenty-three  acres  which  stagnated  near 
the  Barrière  des  ]Martyrs  ;  after  having,  we  say,  con- 
structed  the  line  of  sewers  from  the  Barrière  Blanche 
to  the  Aubervilliers  road,  in  four  raonths,  by  working 
day  and  night  at  a  depth  of  eleven  mètres  ;  after 
having  —  a  thing  unknown  before — executed  subter- 
raneously  a  sewer  in  the  Rue  Barre  du  Bec,  without- 
trench,  at  a  depth  of  six  mètres,  the  surveyor 
Monnot  died.     After  arching  three  thousaud  mètres 

VOL.    V.  11 


162  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

of  sewer  in  ail  parts  of  tlie  city,  froni  tlie  Rue  Traver- 
sière  St.  Antoine  to  the  Rue  de  rOurcine  ;  altcr 
having,  by  tlie  Arbalète  branch,  freed  the  Censier- 
Moufîetard  square  from  pluvial  inundations  ;  after 
luiviug  constructed  the  St.  George  sewer  through 
liquid  sand  upon  rubble  and  béton,  and  after  having 
lowered  the  formidable  pitch  of  the  Nôtre  Dame  de 
Nazareth  branch,  the  enginecr  Duleau  died.  Thcre 
are  no  bulletins  for  such  acts  of  bravery,  which  are 
more  useful,  however,  than  the  brutal  butchery  of 
battle-fields. 

The  sewers  of  Paris  were  in  1832  far  from  being 
what  they  are  now.  Brunescau  gave  the  impulse, 
but  it  required  the  choiera  to  détermine  the  vast 
reconstruction  which  has  taken  place  since.  It  is 
surprising  to  say,  for  instance,  that  in  1821  a  portion 
of  the  begirding  sewer,  called  the  Grand  Canal,  as 
at  Yenice,  still  stagnated  in  the  open  air,  in  the  Rue 
des  Gourdes.  It  was  not  till  1823  that  the  city  of 
Paris  found  in  its  pocket  the  twenty-six  thousand 
six  hundred  and  eighty  francs,  six  centimes,  needed 
for  covering  tins  turpitude.  The  three  absorbing 
wclls  of  the  Combat,  la  Cunette,  and  St.  iNIandè, 
with  their  disgorging  apparatus,  draining-wells,  and 
deodorizing  branches,  merely  date  from  1836.  The 
intestine  canal  of  Paris  lias  been  re-made,  and,  as 
we  said,  augniented  more  than  tenfold  during  the 
last  quarter  of  a  ccntury.  Thirty  years  ago,  at  the 
period  of  the  insurrection  of  June  5  and  6,  it  was 
still  in  many  parts  almost  the  old  sewer.  A  grcat 
numbcr  of  streets,  now  convex,  Averc  at  that  time 
broken  causcways.     Thcre  could  bc  frequently  secn 


•  FUTURE  PROGRESS.  163 

at  the  bottom  of  thc  water-sheds  of  streets  and 
squares,  large  square  gratings,  whose  iron  glistened 
from  the  constant  passage  of  the  crowd,  dangerous 
and  slippery  for  vehicles,  and  throwing  horses  down. 
The  officiai  language  of  the  department  of  the  roads 
and  bridges  gave  thèse  gratings  the  expressive  nanie 
of  Cassis.  In  1832  in  a  number  of  streets,  —  Rue 
de  l'Etoile,  Rue  St.  Louis,  Rue  du  Temple,  Rue 
Vieille  du  Temple,  Rue  Nôtre  Dame  de  Nazareth, 
Rue  Folie  ^Icricourt,  Quai  aux  Fleurs,  Rue  du  Petit 
Musc,  Rue  de  Normandie,  Rue  Pont  aux  Biches, 
Rue  des  Marais,  Faubourg  St.  Martin,  Rue  Nôtre 
Dame  des  Victoires,  Faubourg  jSIontmartre,  Rue 
Grange  Batelière,  at  the  Champs  Elysées,  the  Rue 
Jacob,  and  the  Rue  de  Tournon,  the  old  Gothic 
cloaca  still  cjnically  displayed  its  throats.  They 
were  euormous  stone  orifices,  sometimes  surrounded 
with  posts,  with  a  monumental  effrontery.  Paris  in 
1806  was  much  in  the  same  state  as  regards  sewers 
as  in  May,  1663,  —  five  thousand  three  hundred 
and  twenty-eight  toises.  After  Bruneseau,  on  Jan. 
1,  1832,  there  were  forty  thousand  three  hundred 
mètres.  From  1806  to  1831  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  mètres  were  on  the  average  constructed  annu- 
ally  ;  since  then  eight  and  even  ten  thousand  mètres 
hâve  been  made  every  year  in  brick-work,  with  a 
coating  of  concrète  on  a  foundation  of  béton.  At 
two  hundred  francs  the  mètre,  the  sixty  leagues  of 
drainage  in  the  Paris  of  to-day  represent  forty-eight 
million  francs. 

In  addition  to  the  économie  progress  to  which  we 
alluded  at  the  outset,  serions  considérations  as  to  the 


164  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

public  licalth  are  attaclied  to  this  immense  question, 
—  tlie  drainage  of  Paris.  Paris  is  situated  betvveen 
two  shects,  —  a  sbeet  of  water  and  a  sbeet  of  air. 
Tbe  sbeet  of  water,  lying  at  a  very  great  deptb,  but 
already  tapped  by  two  borings,  is  supplied  by  the 
stratum  of  green  sandstone  situated  between  the 
chalk  and  the  Jurassic  liniestone  ;  this  stratum  may 
be  represcnted  by  a  dise  with  a  radius  of  twcnty-tive 
leagues  ;  a  multitude  of  rivers  and  strearas  drip 
into  it,  and  the  Seine,  the  Marne,  the  Yonne,  the 
Oisin,  the  Aisne,  the  Cher,  the  Vienne,  and  the 
Loire  are  drunk  in  a  glass  of  water  from  the  Gre- 
nelle well.  The  sbeet  of  water  is  salubrious,  for  it 
cornes  from  the  sky  first,  and  then  from  the  earth  ; 
but  the  sbeet  of  air  is  unhealthy,  for  it  comes  from 
the  sewer.  Ail  the  miasmas  of  the  cloaca  are  min- 
gled  with  the  breathing  of  the  city  ;  hence  this  bad 
breath.  The  atmosphère  taken  from  above  a  dung- 
heap,  it  has  been  proved  scientifically,  is  purer  tiian 
the  atmosphère  taken  from  over  Paris.  Within  a 
given  time,  by  the  aid  of  progress,  improvements  in 
machinery,  and  enlightenment,  the  sheet  of  water 
will  be  employed  to  purify  the  sheet  of  air,  that  is 
to  say,  io  wash  the  sewer.  It  is  known  that  by 
washing  the  sewer  we  mean  restoring  the  ordure  to 
the  earth  by  sending  dung  to  the  arable  lands  and 
manure  to  the  grass  lands.  Through  this  simple 
fact  there  will  be  for  the  whole  social  conmiunity  a 
diminution  of  wretchedness  and  an  augmentati(m  of 
health.  At  the  présent  hour  the  radiation  of  the 
diseases  of  Paris  extends  for  fifty  leagues  round  the 
Louvre,  taken  as  the  axle  of  this  pestilential  wheel. 


FUTURE   PROGRESS.  1G5 

We  might  say  tliat  for  tlie  last  ten  centuries  the 
cloaca  lias  been  tlie  luisery  of  Paris,  and  the  sewer 
is  the  viciousness  which  the.  city  has  in  its  blood. 
The  popular  instinct  has  never  been  deceived,  and 
the  trade  of  the  sewer-man  was  formerly  almost  as 
dangerous  and  ahnost  as  répulsive  to  the  people  as 
tliat  of  the  horse-slaughtcrer,  which  so  long  was  re- 
garded  with  horror  and  left  to  the  hangman.  Great 
wages  were  required  to  induce  a  bricklayer  to  dis- 
appear  in  tins  fctid  sap  ;  the  ladder  of  the  well- 
digger  hesitated  to  plunge  into  it.  It  was  said 
proverbially,  "  Going  into  the  sewcr  is  entering  the 
tonib  ;  "  and  ail  sorts  of  hideous  legends,  as  we  said, 
covered  this  colossal  cesspool  with  terrors.  It  is  a 
formidable  fosse  which  bears  traces  of  the  révolutions 
of  the  globe  as  well  as  the  révolutions  of  men  ;  and 
vestiges  may  be  found  there  of  evcry  cataclysm  from 
the  shells  of  the  Déluge  to  the  ragged  sheet  of 
Marat. 


BOOK   III. 
MUD,    BUT   SOUL. 


CHAPTER    I. 

TIIE    CLOACA   AND    ITS    SURPRISES. 

It  was  in  the  sewer  of  Paris  that  Jean  Valjcan 
found  himsclf.  This  is  a  further  reseniblance  of 
Paris  with  the  sea,  as  in  the  océan  the  diver  can 
disappear  there.  It  Avas  an  extraordinary  transition, 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  city.  Jean  Valjean  had  Icft 
the  city,  and  in  a  twinkling,  the  time  required  to 
lift  a  trap  and  let  it  fall  again,  lie  had  passed  from 
broad  daylight  to  complète  darkness,  from  midday 
to  midnight,  from  noise  to  silence,  from  the  uproar 
of  thunder  to  the  stagnation  of  the  tomb,  and,  by 
an  incident  far  more  prodigious  even  than  that  of 
the  Rue  Polonceau,  from  tlie  extremest  péril  to  the 
most  absolute  security.  A  suddcMi  fall  into  a  cellar, 
disappearance  in  the  oubliette  of  Paris,  leaving  this 
Street  where  death  was  ail  around  for  this  species  of 
sepulchre  in  which  was  life,  —  it  was  a  strange  mo- 
ment. He  stood  for  some  minutes  as  if  stunned, 
listening  and  amazed.  The  trap-door  of  safcty  had 
suddenly  opened  beneath  him,  and  tlie  Celestial  Good- 


THE   CLOACA   AND   ITS    SURPRISES.  167 

ness  liad  to  some  extent  taken  liim  by  treachery. 
Admirable  ambuscades  of  Providence  !  Still,  the 
wounded  man  did  not  stir,  and  Jean  Valjean  did  iiot 
know  whetlier  wliat  he  was  carrying  in  this  pit  were 
alive  or  dead. 

Ilis  tîrst  sensation  was  blindncss,  for  he  ail  at  once 
could  see  uothing.  He  felt  too  that  in  a  moment  he 
had  become  deaf,  for  he  could  hear  nothing  more. 
The  frenzied  storm  of  murder  maintained  a  few  yards 
above  him  only  reached  him  confusedly  and  indis- 
tinctly,  and  like  a  noise  from  a  depth.  He  felt  that 
he  had  something  solid  under  his  feet,  but  that  was 
ail  ;  still,  it  was  sufficicnt.  He  strctched  ont  one 
arm,  then  the  other  ;  he  touched  the  wall  on  both 
sides  and  understood  that  the  passage  was  uarrow  ; 
his  foot  slipped,  and  he  understood  that  the  pave- 
ment was  damp.  He  advanced  one  foot  cautiously, 
fearing  a  hole,  a  cesspool,  or  some  gulf,  and  satisfied 
himself  that  tlie  pavement  went  onwards.  A  fetid 
gust  warned  him  of  the  spot  where  he  was.  At  the 
expiration  of  a  few  minutes  he  was  no  longer  blind, 
a  little  light  fell  through  the  trap  by  which  he  de- 
scended,  and  his  eye  grew  used  to  this  vault.  He 
began  to  distinguish  something.  The  passage  in 
which  he  had  run  to  earth  —  no  other  word  expresses 
the  situation  better  —  was  walled  up  behind  him  ; 
it  was  one  of  those  blind  alleys  called  in  the  pro- 
fcssional  language  branches.  Before  him  hc  had 
another  wall,  —  a  wall  of  niglit.  The  light  of  the  trap 
expired  ten  or  twelve  feet  from  the  spot  where  Jean 
Valjean  was,  and  scarce  produced  a  livid  whiteness 
on  a  few  yards  of  the  damp  wall  of  the  sewer.     Be- 


168  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

yond  tliat  tlie  opaqucness  was  massive  ;  to  pierce  it 
appeared  horrible,  and  to  enter  it  seenied  like  being 
swallowcd  iip.  Yet  it  was  possible  to  bury  one's  self 
in  tliis  wall  of  fog,  and  it  niust  be  done  ;  and  nuist 
even  be  done  quickly.  Jean  Valjean  thought  that 
the  grating  which  hc  liad  noticed  in  the  strcet  niight 
also  be  notieed  by  the  troops,  and  that  ail  depended 
on  chance.  They  niight  also  conie  down  into  the 
well  and  search,  so  lie  had  not  a  minute  to  lose.  He 
had  laid  Marins  on  the  ground  and  now  picked  him 
iip,  —  that  is  again  the  ïight  expression,  —  took  him 
on  his  shoulders,  and  set  ont.  He  resolutely  entered 
the  darkucss. 

The  truth  is,  that  thcy  were  less  saved  than 
Jean  Valjean  believed  ;  périls  of  another  nature,  but 
equally  great,  avvaited  tliem.  After  the  flashing 
whirlwind  of  the  combat  came  the  cavern  of  miasmas 
and  snares  ;  after  the  chaos,  the  cloaca.  Jean  Val- 
jean had  passcd  from  one  circle  of  the  Inferno  into 
another.  Whcn  he  had  gone  fifty  yards  lie  was 
obliged  to  stop,  for  a  question  occurred  to  him  ;  the 
passage  ran  into  another,  which  it  intersectcd,  and 
two  roads  offered  themselves.  Which  sliould  he 
take  ?  Ought  he  to  turn  to  the  left,  or  right  ?  ITow 
was  he  to  find  his  way  in  this  black  labyrinth  ?  This 
labyrinth,  we  hâve  said,  has  a  clew  in  its  slope,  and 
following  the  slope  Icads  to  the  river.  Jean  Val- 
jean understood  this  inimediately  :  he  said  to  himself 
that  he  was  probably  in  the  scwer  of  the  markets  ; 
that  if  hc  tnrned  to  the  left  and  followed  the  incline 
he  wonld  arrive  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  sonie 
opening  on  the  Seine  betwecn  the  Pont  au  Change 


THE    CLOACA   AND   ITS    SURPRISES.  IGO 

and  the  Pont  Xeuf,  that  is  to  say,  appear  in  broad 
dayliglit  in  the  busiest  part  of  Paris.  Perhaps  lie 
might  corne  ont  at  some  street  opening,  and  passers- 
by  would  be  stupefied  at  seeing  two  blood-stained 
nien  émerge  froni  the  groiind  at  their  feet.  The 
police  would  conie  up  and  they  would  be  carried 
off  to  the  nearest  guard-rooni  ;  they  would  be  pris- 
oners  before  they  had  come  out.  It  would  be 
better,  therefore,  to  bury  himself  in  the  labyrinth, 
confide  in  the  darkness,  and  leave  the  issue  to 
Providence. 

He  went  up  the  incline  and  turned  to  the  right  ; 
when  he  had  gone  round  the  corner  of  the  gallery 
tiie  distant  light  from  the  trap  disappeared,  the 
curtain  of  darkness  fell  on  him  again,  and  he  be- 
canie  biind  once  more.  For  ail  that  he  advanced  as 
rapidly  as  he  could  ;  ]Marius's  arms  were  passed 
round  his  neck,  and  his  feet  hung  down  behind. 
He  held  the  two  arms  with  one  hand  and  felt  the 
wall  with  the  other.  Marius's  cheek  touched  his 
and  was  glued  to  it,  as  it  was  bloody,  and  he  felt 
a  warni  stream  which  came  from  Marins  drif)  on 
him  and  penetrate  his  clothing.  Still,  a  warm  breath 
in  his  ear,  which  touched  the  wounded  man's  mouth, 
indicated  respiration,  and  consequently  life.  The 
passage  in  which  Jean  Valjean  was  now  walking 
was  not  so  narrow  as  the  former,  and  he  advanced 
\nt\\  some  difficulty.  The  rain  of  the  prcAious  night 
had  not  yet  passed  off,  and  formed  a  small  torrent 
in  the  centre,  and  he  was  forced  to  hug  the  wall 
in  order  not  to  lave  his  feet  in  the  water.  He  went 
on  tlius  darkly,  like  a  créature  of  the  night  groping 


170  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

in  tlie  invisible,  and  subterraneouslj  lost  in  the 
vcins  of  glooni.  Still,  by  degrees,  either  that  a  dis- 
tant grating  sent  a  littie  floating  liglit  into  this 
oj)aque  niist,  or  that  liis  eyes  grew  accustomed  to 
the  obscurity,  he  regained  some  vague  vision,  and 
began  to  notice  confusedly,  at  one  moment  the  wali 
he  was  touching,  at  another  the  vault  under  which 
he  was  passing,  The  pupil  is  dilated  at  niglit  and 
eventually  finds  daylight  in  it,  in  the  same  way  as 
the  soûl  is  dilated  in  misfortunc  and  eventually  linds 
God  in  it. 

To  direct  hiniself  was  difficult,  for  the  sewers 
represent,  so  to  speak,  the  outline  of  the  streets 
standing  over  theni.  There  were  in  the  Paris  of 
that  day  two  thousand  two  hundred  streets,  and 
imagine  beneath  them  that  forest  of  dark  branches 
called  the  sewer.  The  System  of  sewers  existing 
at  that  day,  if  placed  end  on  end,  would  hâve  given 
a  length  of  eleven  leagues.  We  hâve  already  said 
that  the  présent  network,  owing  to  the  spécial  activity 
of  the  last  thirty  years,  is  no  less  than  sixty  leagues. 
Jean  Valjean  began  by  deceiving  himself  ;  he  fancied 
that  he  was  under  the  Rue  St.  Denis,  and  it  was 
unlucky  that  he  was  not  so.  There  is  under  that 
street  an  old  stone  drain,  dating  from  Louis  XIll,, 
which  runs  straight  to  the  collecting  sewer,  called 
the  Great  Sewer,  with  only  one  turn  on  the  right, 
by  the  old  Cour  des  Miracles,  and  a  single  brandi, 
the  St.  Martin  sewer,  whose  four  arms  eut  each 
other  at  right  angles.  But  the  passage  of  the  Littie 
Truanderie,  whose  entrance  was  ncar  the  Corinth 
wine-shop,  never  communicated  with  the  sewer  of 


THE   CLOACA   AND   ITS    SURPRISES.  1/1 

the  Rue  St.  Denis  ;  it  falls  iiito  the  Montmartre 
scwer,  and  tliat  is  where  Jean  Valjean  now  was. 
Thcre  oj^portunities  for  losing  himself  vvere  abundant, 
for  the  ^lontmartre  drain  is  one  of  the  most  labyrin- 
thian  of  the  old  network.  Luckily  Jean  Valjean 
had  Icft  bchind  him  the  sewer  of  the  markets,  whose 
gcometrical  pkin  represents  a  number  of  eutangled 
top-galhint-masts  ;  but  he  had  before  hini  more  than 
one  embarrassing  encounter,  and  more  than  one  street 
corner  —  for  they  are  streets  —  oftering  itself  in  the 
obseurity  as  a  note  of  interrogation.  In  the  first 
phice  on  his  left,  the  vast  Phitrière  sewer,  a  sort  of 
Chinese  puzzle,  thrusting  forth  and  iutermingling  its 
chaos  of  T  and  Z  under  the  Post  Office,  and  the 
rotunda  of  the  grain-markets,  as  far  as  the  Seine, 
where  it  terminâtes  in  Y  ;  secondlv,  on  his  riglit 
the  curved  passage  of  the  Rue  du  Cadran,  with  its 
tliree  teeth,  Avhich  are  so  niany  blind  allcys  ;  thirdly, 
on  his  left  the  ^Nlail  branch,  complicated  almost  at 
the  entrance  by  a  species  of  fork,  and  running  with 
repeated  zigzags  to  the  great  cesspool  of  the  Louvre, 
which  ramifies  in  cvery  direction  ;  and  lastly,  on  his 
right  the  blind  alley  of  the  Rue  des  Jeûneurs,  without 
counting  other  pitfalls,  ère  he  reached  the  engirdling 
sewer,  which  alone  could  lead  him  to  some  issue 
sufficiently  distant  to  be  safe. 

Had  Jean  VaPean  had  any  notion  of  ail  we  hâve 
just  stated  he  would  hâve  quickly  perceived,  mercly 
by  feeling  the  wall,  that  he  was  not  in  the  sub- 
terranean  gallery  of  the  Rue  St.  Denis.  Instead  of 
the  old  freestone,  instead  of  the  old  architecture, 
haughty  and  royal  even  in  the  sewer,  with  its  arches 


17:2  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

and  continuous  courses  of  granité,  wliicli  cost  eight 
hundred  livres  the  fathoni,  lie  would  feel  under  his 
hand  modem  cheapness,  the  économie  expédient, 
brick-work  supported  on  a  layer  of  béton,  whicli 
costs  two  hundred  francs  the  mètre,  —  that  bourgeois 
masonry  known  as  à  lietits  matériaux  ;  but  he  kncw 
nothing  of  ail  this.  He  advanced  anxiously  but 
calmly,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  nothing,  plunged  into 
chance,  that  is  to  say,  swallowed  up  in  Providence. 
By  degrees,  however,  we  are  bound  to  state  that 
a  certain  amount  of  horror  beset  him,  and  the  shadow 
whicli  enveloped  him  entered  his  mind.  He  was 
walking  in  an  enigma.  This  aqueduct  of  the  cloaca 
is  formidable,  for  it  intersects  itself  in  a  vertiginous 
manner,  and  it  is  a  mournful  thing  to  be  caught  in 
this  Paris  of  darkness.  Jean  Valjean  was  obliged 
to  find,  and  almost  invent,  his  road  without  seeing 
it.  In  this  unknown  région  each  step  that  he  ven- 
tured  might  be  his  last.  How  was  he  to  get  out 
of  it  ?  Would  he  find  an  issue  ?  Would  he  find 
it  in  time  ?  Could  he  picrce  and  penetrate  this 
colossal  subterranean  sponge  with  its  passages  of 
stone  ?  Would  he  meet  there  some  unexpected 
knot  of  darkness  ?  Would  he  arrive  at  something 
inextricable  and  impassable  ?  Would  jNIarius  die 
of  hemorrhage,  and  himself  of  hunger  ?  Would 
they  both  end  by  being  lost  there,  and  forin  two 
skcletons  in  a  corner  of  this  night  ?  He  did  not 
know  ;  he  asked  himself  ail  this  and  could  not  find 
an  answer.  The  intestines  of  Paris  are  a  préci- 
pice, and  like  the  prophet  he  was  in  the  monster's 
bellv. 


THE   CLOACA   AND   IIS   SURPRISES.  1/3 

He  suddenly  had  a  surprise  ;  at  tlie  most  unex- 
pected  moment,  and  withuut  ceasing  to  walk  in  a 
straight  Une,  he  perceived  that  he  was  no  longer  as- 
cending  ;  the  water  of  the  gutter  phished  against  his 
heels  instead  of  coming  to  his  toes.  The  sewer  was 
now  descending  ;  wliy  ?  Was  he  about  to  reach  the 
Seine  suddenly  ?  That  danger  was  great,  but  the 
péril  of  tm-ning  back  was  greater  still,  and  he  con- 
tinned  to  advance.  He  was  not  proceeding  toward 
the  Seine  ;  the  shelving  ridge  which  the  soil  of  Paris 
makes  on  the  right  bank  empties  one  of  its  water- 
sheds  into  the  Seine  and  the  other  into  the  Great 
Sewer.  The  crest  of  tliis  ridge,  which  détermines 
the  division  of  the  waters,  designs  a  most  capricious 
line  ;  the  highest  point  is  in  the  Sainte  Avoye  sewer, 
beyond  the  Rue  Michel-le-comte,  in  the  Louvre  sewer, 
near  the  boulevards,  and  in  the  Montmartre  drain, 
near  the  markets.  Tins  highest  point  Jean  Valjean 
had  reached,  and  he  was  proceeding  toward  the  en- 
girdling  sewer,  or  in  the  right  direction,  but  he  knew 
it  not.  Each  time  that  he  reached  a  brandi  he  fclt 
the  corners,  and  if  he  found  the  opening  narrower 
than  the  passage  in  which  he  was  he  did  not  enter, 
but  continued  his  mardi,  correctly  judging  tliat  any 
narrower  way  must  end  in  a  blind  alley,  and  could 
only  take  him  from  his  object,  that  is  to  say,  an  out- 
let.  He  thus  avoided  the  fourfold  snare  laid  for  him 
in  the  darkness  by  the  four  labyrinths  which  we  hâve 
enumerated.  At  a  certain  moment  he  recognized  that 
he  was  gctting  from  under  that  part  of  Paris  petriHed 
by  the  riot,  where  the  barricades  had  suppresscd  cir- 
culation,  and    returning    under   living   and   normal 


1/4  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

Paris.  He  suddeuly  heard  above  his  Iiead  a  soir.id 
like  thunder,  distant  but  coutinuous  ;  it  was  the 
rolling  of  vehicles. 

He  had  been  walking  about  half  an  hour,  at  least 
tliat  was  the  calculation  he  made,  and  had  not 
thought  of  resting  ;  he  had  merely  changed  the  hand 
which  held  Marins  up.  The  darkness  was  more  pro- 
found  than  ever,  but  this  darkness  reassured  him. 
A\\  at  once  he  saw  his  shadow  before  him  ;  it  sto:d 
ont  upon  a  faint  and  ahnost  indistinct  redness,  which 
vaguely  impurpled  the  roadway  at  his  feet  and  the 
vault  above  his  head,  and  glided  aloHg  tlie  greasy 
walls  of  the  passage.     Stupefied,  he  turned  around. 

Behind  him,  in  the  part  of  the  passage  he  had 
corne  from,  at  a  distance  which  appeared  immense, 
shone  a  sort  of  horrible  star,  obliterating  the  dark 
density,  which  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him.  It  was 
the  gloomy  police  star  rising  in  the  sewer.  Behind 
this  star  there  moved  confusedly  nine  or  ten  black, 
upright,  indistinct,  and  terrible  forms. 


CHAPTER   II. 

EXPLANATION. 

Ox  tbe  day  of  Jiine  6  a  battue  of  the  sewers 
was  ordered,  for  it  was  feared  lest  the  conquered 
should  fiy  to  them  as  a  refuge,  and  Prefect  Gisquet 
ordered  occult  Paris  to  be  searched,  while  General 
Bugeaud  swept  public  Paris,  —  a  double  connected 
opération,  which  required  a  double  strategy  of  the 
public  force,  represented  above  by  the  arniy  and  be- 
neath  by  the  police.  Three  squads  of  agents  and 
sewer-nien  explored  the  subway  of  Paris,  —  the  first 
the  right  bank,  the  second  the  left  bank,  and  the  third 
the  Cité.  The  agents  were  arnied  with  carbines, 
bludgeons,  swords,  and  daggers,  and  what  was  at 
this  moment  pointed  at  Jean  Valjean  was  the  lantern 
of  the  round  of  the  right  bank.  This  round  had  just 
inspected  the  winding  gallery  and  three  blind  alleys 
which  are  under  the  Rue  du  Cadran.  \Yhile  the 
lantern  was  moved  about  at  the  bottom  of  thèse 
blind  alleys,  Jean  Valjean  in  his  progress  came  to  the 
entrance  of  the  gallery,  found  it  narrower  than  the 
main  gallery,  and  had  not  entered  it.  The  police,  on 
coming  out  of  the  Cadran  gallery,  fancied  that  they 
could  hear  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  direction  of 
the  engirdling  sewer,  and  they  were  really  Jean  Val- 
jean's  footsteps.     The  head  sergeant  of  the  round 


176  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

raised  bis  lantern,  and  the  squad  began  pecring  iiito 
the  mist  in  the  direction  whence  the  noise  had  corne. 
It  was  an  indescribable  moment  for  Jean  Yaljean  ; 
luckily,  if  he  saw  tlie  lantern  well  the  lantern  saw 
him  badly,  for  it  was  the  light  and  he  was  the  dai'k- 
ness.  He  was  too  far  ofF,  and  blended  with  the 
blackness  of  the  spot,  so  he  drew  himself  u])  agaiiist 
the  Avall  and  stopped.  However,  he  did  not  explain 
to  himself  what  was  moving  behind  him,  want  of 
sleep  and  food  and  émotion  having  madc  him  pass  into 
a  visionary  state.  He  saw  a  flash,  and  round  tliis  flasli, 
spectres.  What  was  it?  He  did  not  understand. 
When  Jean  Valjcan  stopped  the  noise  ceased  ;  the 
police  listened  and  heard  nothing,  they  looked  and  saw 
nothing,  and  hence  consulted  togcther.  There  was 
at  that  period  at  that  point  in  the  INIontmartre  scwer 
a  sort  of  square  callcd  de  service,  which  has  since 
been  doue  away  with,  owing  to  the  small  internai 
lake  which  the  torrents  of  rain  formed  there,  and  the 
squad  assembled  on  this  square.  Jean  Valjean  saw 
them  make  a  sort  of  circlc,  and  thcn  bull-dog  heads 
came  together  and  whispered.  The  rcsult  of  this 
council  held  by  the  watch-dogs  was  that  they  werc 
mistaken,  that  there  had  been  no  noise,  that  there 
was  nobody  there,  that  it  was  useless  to  enter  the 
surrounding  sewer,  that  it  would  be  time  wasted,  but 
that  they  must  hasten  to  tlie  St.  Merry  drain  ;  for  if 
there  were  anything  to  be  done  and  any  "  boussingot  " 
to  track,  it  would  be  there.  From  time  to  time 
parties  new-sole  their  old  insults.  In  1832  the 
Word  "boussingot"  formed  the  transition  betwcen  the 
Word  "jacobin,"  no  longer  current,   and   the   word 


EXPLANATION.  1/7 

"  démagogue,"  at  tliat  time  almost  iinusetl,  and  wliich 
has  silice  doue  such  excellent  service.  The  sergeant 
gave  orders  to  left-wheel  toward  the  watershed  of 
tlie  Seine.  Had  tlicy  thouglit  of  dividing  into  two 
squads  and  going  in  botli  directions,  Jean  Yaljcan 
would  hâve  been  caught.  It  is  probable  that  the 
instructions  of  the  Préfecture,  fcaring  the  chance  of  a 
fight  with  a  large  bodj  of  insurgents,  forbade  the 
round  from  dividing.  The  squad  set  out  again,  leav- 
ing  Jean  Valjean  behind  ;  and  in  ail  this  movement 
he  perceived  nothing  except  the  éclipse  of  the  lantern, 
which  was  suddenly  turned  away. 

Before  starting,  the  sergeant,  to  satisfy  his  police 
conscience,  discharged  his  carbine  in  the  direction 
where  Jean  Valjean  was.  The  détonation  rolled  echo- 
ing  along  the  crypt,  like  the  ruinbling  of  thèse  Titanic 
bowcls.  A  pièce  of  plastcr  wliich  fell  into  the  gutter 
and  plashed  up  the  water  a  few  yards  from  Jean 
Valjean  warned  him  that  the  bullet  had  struck  the 
vault  above  his  head.  Measured  and  slow  steps 
echoed  for  some  time  along  the  wooden  causeway, 
growing  more  and  more  deadcned  by  the  growing 
distance  ;  the  group  of  black  forms  disappeared  ;  a 
light  oscillated  and  floated,  forniing  on  the  vault  a 
ruddy  circle,  which  decreased  and  disappeared  ;  the 
silence  again  became  2)rofound,  the  obscurity  again 
became  complète,  and  blindness  and  deafness  again 
took  possession  of  the  gloom  ;  Jean  Valjean,  not 
daring  yet  to  stir,  remained  Icaning  for  a  long  time 
against  the  wall,  with  outstrctched  car  and  dilatcd 
eyeballs,  watching  the  vanishing  of  this  patrol  of 
phantoms. 

VOL.   V.  12 


\ 


CHAPTER   m. 

THE    TRACKED   MAN. 

We  must  do  the  police  of  that  day  the  justice  of 
saying  that  even  in  the  gravest  public  conjunctures 
they  impertuvbably  accomplished  thcir  duties  of 
watching  the  highways  and  of  inspectorship.  A  riot 
was  not  in  their  eyes  a  pretext  to  leave  the  bridle  to 
malefactors,  and  to  neglect  society  for  the  reason  tliat 
the  Government  was  in  danger.  The  ordinary  duties 
were  performed  correctly  in  addition  to  the  extraor- 
dinary  duties,  and  were  in  no  way  disturbed.  In  the 
midst  of  an  incalculable  political  event,  under  the 
pressure  of  a  possible  révolution,  an  agent,  not  allow- 
ing  himself  to  be  affected  by  the  insurrection  and  the 
barricade,  would  track  a  robber.  Something  very 
like  this  occurred  on  the  afternoon  of  June  6,  on  the 
right  bank  of  tlie  Seine,  a  little  beyond  the  Pont  des 
Invalides.  There  is  no  bank  there  at  the  présent  day, 
and  the  appearance  of  the  spot  has  been  altered.  On 
this  slope  two  men,  a  certain  distance  apart,  were 
observing  each  other  ;  the  one  in  front  seemed  to  be 
trying  to  get  away,  while  the  one  behind  wanted  to 
catch  hini  up.  It  was  like  a  game  of  chcss  played  at 
a  distance  and  silently  ;  neither  of  them  seemed  to 
be  in  a  hurry,  and  both  walked  slowly,  as  if  tliey 


THE   TRACKED   MAN.  179 

werc  afraid  that  increased  speed  on  the  part  of  one 
would  be  imitated  by  the  other.  It  might  bave  been 
called  an  appetite  following  a  prey,  without  appear- 
ing  to  do  so  purposely  ;  the  prey  was  crafty,  and 
kept  on  giiard. 

The  proportions  required  between  the  tracked  mar- 
ten  and  the  tracking  dog  were  observed.  The  one 
trying  to  escape  was  thin  and  mean  looking  ;  the  one 
trying  to  capture  was  a  tall  determined  fellow,  of  rug- 
ged  aspect,  and  a  rough  one  to  nieet.  The  fii'st,  feel- 
ing  himself  the  weaker,  avoided  the  second,  but  did 
so  in  a  deeply  furious  way  ;  any  one  who  could  hâve 
observed  him  would  hâve  scen  in  liis  eyes  tlic  gloomy 
hostihty  of  flight,  and  ail  the  threat  which  therc  is  in 
fear  ;  the  slope  was  deserted,  there  were  no  passers- 
by,  not  even  a  boatman  or  raftsman  in  the  boats 
moored  hère  and  there.  They  could  only  be  noticed 
easily  from  the  opposite  quay,  and  any  one  wdio  had 
w^atched  them  at  that  distance  would  hâve  seen  that 
the  man  in  front  appeared  a  bristling,  ragged,  and 
shambling  fellow,  anxious  and  shivering  undcr  a  torn 
blouse,  while  the  other  was  a  classic  and  officiai  per- 
sonage,  wearing  the  frock-coat  of  authority  buttoned 
up  to  the  chin.  The  reader  would  probably  recognize 
thèse  two  men,  were  lie  to  see  them  more  closely. 
What  was  the  object  of  the  last  one  ?  Probably  he 
wished  to  clothc  the  other  man  more  warmly.  Wlien 
a  man  dressed  by  the  State  pursues  a  man  in  rags,  it 
is  in  order  to  make  him  also  a  man  dressed  by  the 
State.  The  différence  of  color  is  the  sole  question  ; 
to  be  dressed  in  blue  is  glorious,  to  be  dressed  in  red 
is  disagreeable,  for  there  is  a  purple  of  the  lower 


180  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

classes.  It  was  probably  some  disagreeable  thing, 
and  some  purple  of  this  sort,  which  the  first  man 
desired  to  avoid. 

If  the  other  allowcd  hira  to  go  on  aliead,  and  did 
not  yet  arrest  hini,  it  was,  in  ail  appearance,  in  the 
hope  of  seeing  hini  arrive  at  some  significative  ren- 
dezvous  and  some  group  wortli  capturing.  This  déli- 
cate opération  is  called  tracking.  What  renders  this 
conjecture  higlily  probable,  is  the  fact  that  the  but- 
toned-up  man,  perceiving  from  the  slope  an  empty 
fiacre  passing,  made  a  sign  to  the  driver  ;  the  driver 
understood,  evidently  perceived  with  wliom  he  had  to 
deal,  turned  round,  and  bcgan  following  the  two  men 
along  the  quay.  This  was  not  perceived  by  the  rag- 
ged,  shambling  fellow  in  front.  The  hackney  coach 
rolled  along  under  the  trees  of  the  Champs  Elysées, 
and  over  the  parapet  could  be  seen  the  bust  of  the 
driver,  whip  in  hand.  One  of  the  secret  instructions 
of  the  police  to  the  agents  is,  "  Always  hâve  a  hackney 
coach  at  hand  in  case  of  need."  While  each  of  thèse 
men  manœuvred  with  irrcproachablc  strategy,  they 
approached  an  incline  in  the  quay,  which  allowed 
drivers  coming  from  Passy  to  water  their  horses  in  the 
river.  This  incline  has  since  been  suppressed  for  tlie 
sake  of  symmetry,  —  horses  die  of  thirst,  but  the  eye 
is  gratified.  It  was  probable  that  the  man  in  the 
blouse  would  ascend  by  this  incline  in  ordcr  to  try 
to  escape  in  the  Champs  Elysées,  a  place  adorned 
with  trees,  but,  in  rcturn,  much  frequented  by  police 
agents,  where  the  other  couhl  casily  procure  assist- 
tancc.  This  point  of  the  quay  is  a  very  little  distance 
from  the  house  brought  from  Moret  to  Paris  in  1824 


THE   TRACKED   MAX.  IHl 

by  Colonel  Brack,  and  callcd  tlie  house  of  Francis  I. 
A  guard  is  at  haiid  there.  To  the  great  surprise  of 
his  wateher,  the  tracked  mau  did  not  tum  up  the 
road  to  the  wateriiig-plaee,  but  continued  to  advance 
along  the  bank  parallel  with  the  quaj.  His  position 
was  evidently  becoming  critical,  for  unless  he  threw 
himself  into  the  Seine,  what  coukl  he  do  ? 

There  were  no  means  now  left  hiiu  of  returning  to 
the  quay,  no  incline  and  no  steps,  and  they  were  close 
to  the  spot  marked  by  the  turn  in  the  Seine,  near  the 
Pont  de  Jena,  where  the  bank,  gradually  contracting, 
ended  in  a  narrow  strip,  and  was  lost  in  the  water. 
There  he  must  inevitably  find  himself  blockaded  be- 
tween  the  tall  wall  on  his  right,  the  river  on  his  left 
and  facing  him,  and  authority  at  his  heels.  It  is 
true  that  this  teriuination  of  the  bank  was  masked 
from  sight  by  a  pile  of  rubbish  seven  feet  high,  the 
resuit  of  some  démolition.  But  did  this  man  hope 
to  conceal  himself  profitably  behind  this  heap  ?  The 
expédient  would  hâve  been  puérile.  He  evidently 
did  not  dream  of  that,  for  the  innocence  of  robbers 
does  not  go  so  far.  The  pile  of  rubbish  formed  on 
the  water-side  a  sort  of  eminence  extending  in  a  pro- 
montory  to  the  quay  wall  ;  the  pursued  man  reached 
this  small  mouud  and  went  round  it,  so  that  he  was 
no  longer  seen  by  the  other.  The  latter,  not  seeing, 
was  not  seen,  and  he  took  advautage  of  this  to  give 
up  ail  dissimulation  and  walk  very  fast.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  reached  the  heap  and  turned  it,  but  there 
stood  stupefied.  The  man  he  was  pursuing  was  not 
there  ;  it  was  a  total  éclipse  of  the  man  in  the  blouse. 
The  bank  did  not  run  more  than  thirty  yards  beyond 


182  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

the  beap,  and  tlien  pliiiiged  under  the  water  which 
washed  the  quay  wall.  The  fugitive  couid  not  hâve 
thrown  himself  into  tlie  Seine,  or  hâve  clinibed  up 
the  quay  wall,  without  being  seen  by  bis  pursuer. 
What  had  beconie  of  him  ? 

The  man  in  the  buttoned-up  coat  walked  to  the  end 
of  the  bank  and  stood  there  for  a  moment,  thought- 
fully,  with  clenched  tists  and  seowling  eye.  Ali  at 
once  he  smote  his  forehead  ;  he  had  just  perceived, 
at  the  point  where  the  ground  ended  and  the  water 
began,  a  wide,  low,  arched  iron  grating,  provided 
with  a  heavy  lock  and  three  massive  hinges.  This 
grating,  a  sort  of  gâte  pierced  at  the  bottom  of  the 
quay,  opened  on  the  river  as  much  as  on  the  bank, 
and  a  black  stream  poured  from  under  it  into  the 
Seine.  Beyond  the  heavy  rusty  bars  could  be  dis- 
tinguished  a  sort  of  arched  and  dark  passage.  The 
man  folded  his  arms  and  looked  at  the  grating  re- 
proachfully,  and  this  look  not  being  sufficient,  he 
tried  to  push  it  open,  he  shook  it,  but  it  offered  a 
sturdy  résistance.  It  was  probable  that  it  had  just 
been  opened,  although  no  sound  had  been  heard, — 
a  singular  thing  with  so  rusty  a  gâte,  —  but  it  was 
certain  that  it  had  been  closed  again.  This  indi- 
cated  that  the  man  who  had  opened  the  gâte  had 
not  a  pick-lock  but  a  key.  This  évidence  at  once 
burst  on  the  mind  of  the  man  who  was  trying  to 
open  the  grating,  and  drew  from  him  this  indignant 
apostrophe,  — 

"  That  is  strong  !   A  government  key  !  " 
Then  calming  himself  immediatcly,  he  expressed 
a  whole   internai  world  of  ideas   by  this  outburst 


THE   TRACKED   MAN.  183 

of  monosyllables,  markcd  by  an  almost  ironical 
accent,  — 

"Well!   Well!   Well  !    Well  !  " 

This  said,  hoping  we  know  not  what,  either  to  see 
the  man  corne  out  or  others  enter,  he  posted  himself 
on  the  Avatcli  beîiind  the  heap  of  rubbish,  with  the 
patient  rage  of  a  yard-mastiff.  On  its  side,  the  hack- 
ney  coach,  which  regulated  itself  by  ail  his  move- 
ments,  stopped  above  him  near  the  parapet.  The 
driver,  foreseeing  a  long  hait,  put  on  his  liorses  the 
nose-bag  full  of  damp  oats  so  well  known  to  the  Pa- 
risians,  upon  whom  the  Government,  we  may  remark 
parenthetically,  sometimes  puts  it.  The  few  passers 
over  the  Pont  de  Jeua,  before  going  on,  turned  their 
heads  to  look  for  a  moment  at  thèse  motionless  ob- 
jects,  —  the  man  on  the  bank  and  the  hackney  coach 
on  the  quay. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

HE    TOO    BEARS   HIS    CROSS. 

jEAiST  Valjean  liad  resumed  his  march,  and  had 
not  stopped  again.  This  mardi  grew  more  and  more 
laborious,  for  the  level  of  thèse  passages  varies  ; 
the  average  height  is  about  five  feet  six  inclies,  and 
was  calcnlated  for  a  man's  stature.  Jean  Valjean 
was  compelled  to  stoop  so  as  not  to  dasli  Marins 
against  tlie  roof,  and  was  forced  at  each  moment 
to  bend  down,  then  draw  liimself  up  and  incessantly 
feel  the  wall.  The  dampness  of  the  stones  and  of 
the  flooring  rendered  them  bad  supports,  eithcr  for 
the  hand  or  the  foot,  and  he  tottered  in  the  hideous 
dungheap  of  the  city.  The  intermittent  flashcs  of 
the  street  gratings  only  appeared  at  lengthened  in- 
tervais, and  were  so  faint  that  the  bright  sunshine 
seemed  to  be  nioonlight  ;  ail  the  rest  was  fog,  miasma, 
opaqueness,  and  blackness.  Jean  Valjean  was  hungry 
and  thirsty,  the  latter  most,  and  it  was  like  the 
sea  ;  there  was  "  water,  water  everywhere,  but  not  a 
drop  to  drink."  Ilis  strength,  which,  as  we  know, 
was  prodigious,  and  but  slightly  diminished  by  âge, 
owing  to  his  chaste  and  sober  life,  was,  however, 
bcginning  to  give  way  ;  ^fatigue  assailed  him,  and 
his  decreasing  strength  increased  the  weiiïht  of  his 


HE   TOO   BEARS   HIS    CROSS.  185 

burden.  ]Marius,  who  was  peHiaps  ckad,  was  hea\^, 
like  ail  iuert  bodies  ;  but  Jean  Valjean  lield  liiin  so 
that  his  chest  was  not  afïected,  and  he  could  breathe 
as  easily  as  possible.  He  felt  bctween  his  legs  the 
rapid  gliding  of  rats,  and  one  was  so  startled  as  to 
bite  liim.  From  time  to  time  a  gush  of  fresli  air 
came  throfigh  tlie  gratings,  wliicli  revived  him. 

It  might  be  about  3  p.  m.  when  lie  reached  the 
engirdling  sewer,  and  he  was  at  first  amazed  by  the 
sudden  widening.  He  unexpectedly  found  hiniself 
in  a  gallery  whose  two  walls  his  outstretched  arnis 
did  not  reach,  and  nnder  an  arcli  which  his  head 
did  not  touch.  The  Great  Sewer,  in  fact,  is  eight 
feet  in  width  by  seven  high.  At  the  point  where 
the  ^Montmartre  drain  joins  the  Great  Sewer  two 
other  subterranean  galleries,  that  of  the  Rue  de 
Provence  and  that  of  the  Abattoir,  form  cross-roads. 
Between  thèse  four  ways  a  less  sagacious  man  would 
bave  been  undecided  ;  but  Jean  Valjean  selected  the 
widest,  that  is  to  say,  the  engirdling  sewer.  But 
hère  the  question  came  back  again,  "  Should  he 
ascend  or  descend  ?  "  He  thought  that  the  situation 
was  pressing,  and  that  he  must  at  ail  risks  now  reach 
the  Seine,  in  other  words,  descend,  so  he  turned 
to  the  left.  It  was  fortunate  that  he  did  so,  for 
it  would  be  an  error  to  suppose  that  the  engirdling 
sewer  lias  two  issues,  one  toward  Bercy,  the  other 
toward  Passy,  and  that  it  is,  as  its  naine  indicates, 
the  subterranean  belt  of  Paris  on  the  right  bank. 
The  Great  Sewer,  which  is  nought  else,  it  must 
be  borne  in  niind,  than  the  old  Menilmontant  stream, 
leads,  if  you  ascend  it,  to  a  blind  alley,  that  is  to  say, 


.186  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

to  its  old  starting-point,  a  spriug  at  the  foot  of  the 
Menilmontant  mound.  It  lias  no  direct  comnmni- 
cation  witli  the  brandi  Avliicli  collects  the  waters 
of  Paris  after  lea\ing  the  Popincourt  quarter,  and 
which  falls  into  the  Seine  by  the  Amelot  sewer  above 
the  old  isle  of  Louviers.  Tins  brandi,  which  com- 
plètes the  collecting  sewer,  is  separated  frotn  it  under 
the  Rue  Menilmontant  by  masonry-work,  which  marks 
the  point  of  the  division  of  the  waters  into  up-stream 
and  down-stream.  If  Jean  Valjean  had  remounted 
the  gallery  he  w^ould  hâve  arrived,  exhausted  by 
fatigue  and  dying,  at  a  wall  ;  he  would  hâve  been 
lost. 

Strictly  speaking,  by  going  back  a  little  way, 
entering  the  passage  of  the  Filles  du  Calvaire,  on 
condition  that  he  did  not  hesitate  at  the  subterranean 
point  of  junction  of  the  Boucherat  cross-roads,  by 
taking  the  St.  Louis  passage,  then  on  the  left  the 
St.  Gilles  trench,  then  by  turning  to  the  right  and 
avoiding  the  St.  Sébastian  gallery,  Jean  Valjean 
might  hâve  reached  the  Amelot  sewer  ;  and  then  if 
he  did  not  lose  his  way  in  the  species  of  F  which  is 
under  the  Bastille,  he  would  hâve  reached  the  outlet 
on  the  Seine  near  the  Arsenal.  But  for  that  he  must 
hâve  thoroughly  known,  in  ail  its  ramifications  and 
piercings,  the  enormous  madrépore  of  the  sewer. 
Now,  we  dwell  on  the  fact  that  he  knew  nothing 
of  this  frightful  labyrinth  in  which  he  was  niarching, 
and  had  he  been  asked  where  he  was  he  would  hâve 
replicd,  "  In  night."  His  instinct  served  him  well  ; 
going  down,  in  fact,  was  the  only  salvation  possible. 
Ile  left  on  his  right  the  two  passages  which  ramify 


HE   TOO   BEARS   HIS   CROSS.  18/ 

in  the  shape  of  a  claw  under  the  Rues  Laffitte  and 
St.  Georges,  and  the  long  bifuvcate  comdor  of  the 
Chaussée  d'Antin.  A  little  beyond  an  affluent,  which 
was  likely  the  Madeleine  branch,  he  stopped,  for  he 
was  very  weary.  A  large  gratiiig,  probably  the  one 
in  Ihe  Rue  d'Anjou,  produced  an  almost  bright  light. 
Jean  Valjean,  with  the  gentle  movements  which  a 
brother  would  bestow  on  a  wounded  brother,  laid 
Marins  on  the  banquette  of  the  sewer,  and  his  white 
face  gleamed  under  the  white  light  of  the  air-hole 
as  from  the  bottom  of  a  tonib.  His  eyes  were  closed, 
his  hair  stuck  to  his  forehead  like  paint-brushes  on 
which  the  red  paint  had  dried,  his  hands  were  hang- 
ing  and  dead,  his  limbs  cold,  and  blood  was  clotted 
at  the  corner  of  his  lips.  Coagulated  blood  had 
collected  in  his  cravat  knot,  his  shirt  entered  the 
wounds,  and  the  cloth  of  his  coat  rubbed  the  gaping 
edgcs  of  the  quivering  flesh.  Jean  Valjean,  remov- 
ing  the  clothes  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  laid 
his  hand  on  his  chest  ;  the  heart  still  beat.  Jean 
Valjean  tore  up  his  shirt,  bandaged  the  wounds  as 
well  as  he  could,  and  stopped  the  blood  that  was 
flowing  ;  then,  stooping  down  in  this  half  daylight 
over  Marius,  who  was  still  unconscious  and  almost 
breathless,  he  looked  at  him  with  iudescribable 
hatred. 

In  moving  Marius's  clothes  he  had  found  in  his 
pockets  two  things,  —  the  loaf,  which  he  had  forgotten 
the  previous  evening,  and  his  pocket-book.  He  ate 
the  bread  and  opened  the  pocket-book.  On  the  first 
page  he  read  the  Unes  written  by  Marius,  as  will 
be  remembered, — 


188  JEAN    VALJKAN. 

"  My  name  is  Marius  Pontmcrcy.  Carry  my  body 
to  my  grandfather,  M.  Gillenormand,  No.  6,  Rue  des 
Filles  du  Calvaire,  in  the  Marais.  " 

Jean  Valjean  read  by  the  light  of  the  grating  thèse 
lines,  and  remained  for  a  tinie  as  it  were  absorbed  in 
hiniself,  and  repeating  in  a  low  voice,  M.  Gillenor- 
mand, No.  6,  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire.  He  returned 
the  portfolio  to  Marius's  pocket  ;  he  had  eaten,  and 
his  strength  had  come  back  to  hini.  He  raised  Marius 
again,  carefully  laid  his  head  on  his  right  shoulder, 
and  began  descending  the  sewer.  The  Great  Sewer, 
running  along  the  roadway  of  the  valley  of  Menilmon- 
tant,  is  nearly  two  leagues  in  length,  and  is  paved  for 
a  considérable  portion  of  the  distance.  This  torch  of 
names  of  Paris  streeta,  with  which  we  enlighten  for 
the  rcader  Jean  Yaljean's  subterranean  march,  he  did 
not  possess.  Nothing  informed  him  what  zone  of 
the  city  he  was  traversing,  nor  what  distance  he  had 
gone  ;  still,  the  growing  paleness  of  the  flakes  of  light 
which  he  met  from  time  to  time  indicated  to  him  that 
the  Sun  was  retiring  from  the  pavement,  and  that  day 
would  be  soon  ended,  and  the  rolling  of  vehicles  over 
his  head,  which  had  become  intermittent  instead  of 
continuons,  and  then  almost  ceased,  proved  to  him 
that  he  was  no  longer  under  central  Paris,  and  was 
approaching  some  solitary  région,  near  the  external 
boulevards  or  most  distant  quays,  where  there  are 
fewer  houses  and  streets,  and  the  drain  has  fewer 
gratings.  The  obscurity  thickened  around  Jean  Val- 
jean ;  still  he  continued  to  advance,  groping  his  way 
in  the  shadow. 

This  shadow  suddenly  became  terrible. 


CHAPTER  V. 

SAND,    LIKE    WOMAÎs',    HAS    A    FINEXESS    THAT    IS 
PERFIDIOUS. 

He  feit  that  lie  was  entering  water,  and  that  he 
had  under  his  feet  no  longer  stone  but  mud.  It  often 
happens  on  certain  coasts  of  Brittany  or  Scotland  that 
a  nian,  vvhetlier  traveller  or  fishernian,  walking  at  low 
tide  on  the  sand,  some  distance  froni  the  shore,  sudden- 
ly  perçoives  tliat  during  the  last  few  minutes  he  has 
found  some  difficulty  in  walking.  The  shore  beneath 
his  feet  is  like  pitch,  his  heels  are  attached  to  it,  it  is 
no  longer  sand  but  bird-lime  ;  the  sand  is  perfectly  dry, 
but  at  every  step  taken,  so  soon  as  the  foot  is  raised 
the  imprint  it  leaves  fills  with  water.  The  eye,  how- 
ever,  has  perceived  no  change,  the  immense  expanse 
is  smooth  and  calm,  ail  the  sand  seems  alike,  nothing 
distinguishes  the  soil  which  is  solid  from  that  wdiich 
is  no  longer  so,  and  tlie  little  merry  swarm  of  water- 
fleas  continue  to  leap  tuniultuously  round  the  feet  of 
the  wayfarer.  The  man  follows  his  road,  turns  toward 
the  land,  and  tries  to  approach  the  coast,  not  that  he 
is  alarmed  ;  alarmed  at  what  ?  Still,  he  feels  as  if  the 
heaviness  of  his  feet  increased  at  every  step  that  he 
takes  ;  ail  at  once  he  sinks  in,  sinks  in  two  or  three 
inches.  Pie  is  decidedly  not  on  the  right  road,  and 
stops  to  look  about  him.     Suddenly  he  looks  at  his 


190  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

feet,  but  they  hâve  disappeared,  the  sand  covers  them. 
Hc  draws  his  feet  out  of  the  sand  and  tries  to  turn 
back,  but  he  sinks  in  deeper  still.  The  sand  cornes 
up  to  liis  ankle  ;  he  pulls  it  out  and  turns  to  his  left, 
when  the  sand  cornes  to  his  knee  ;  he  turns  to  the 
right,  and  the  sand  cornes  up  to  his  thigh  ;  then  he 
recognizes  with  indescribable  terror  that  he  is  caught 
in  a  quicksand,  and  has  under  him  the  frightful  mé- 
dium in  which  a  man  can  no  more  walk  than  a  fish 
can  swim.  He  throws  away  his  load,  if  he  hâve  one, 
and  lightens  himself  like  a  ship  in  distress  ;  but  it  is 
too  late,  for  the  sand  is  already  above  his  knees.  He 
calls  out,  waves  his  hat  or  handkerchicf,  but  the  sand 
gains  on  him  more  and  more.  If  the  shore  is  deserted, 
if  land  is  tôo  distant,  if  the  sand-bank  is  too  ill- 
famed,  if  thsre  is  no  hero  in  the  vicinity,  it  is  ail  over 
with  him,  and  he  is  condemned  to  be  swallowed  by 
the  quicksands.  He  is  doomed  to  that  long,  awful, 
inii)lacable  interment,  impossible  to  delay  or  hasten, 
wiiich  lasts  hours  ;  which  never  ends;  which  seizes  you 
whcn  erect,  frce,  and  in  perfect  health  ;  which  drags 
you  by  the  feet  ;  which,  at  every  effort  you  attempt, 
every  cry  you  utter,  drags  you  a  little  deeper  ;  which 
seems  to  punish  you  for  your  résistance  by  a  redou- 
bled  clutch  ;  which  makcs  a  man  slowly  enter  the 
ground  whilc  allowing  him  ample  time  to  regard  the 
houses,  the  trccs,  the  green  fields,  tlie  smoke  from 
the  villages  on  the  plain,  the  sails  of  the  vcssels  on 
the  sea,  the  birds  that  fly  and  sing,  the  sun,  and  the 
sky.  A  quicksand  is  a  sepulchre  that  couverts  itself 
into  a  tide,  and  ascends  from  the  bottom  of  the  eartli 
toward  a  living  man.    Each  moment  inexorably  wraps 


SAND,   LIKE    WOMAN,   IS   PERFIDIOUS.         191 

grave-clothes  about  him.  The  wretch  tries  to  sit,  to 
lie  down,  to  walk,  to  crawl  ;  ail  tlie  movemeiits  that 
he  makes  bury  him  ;  he  draws  himself  iip,  and  only 
sinks  deeper  ;  he  feels  liimself  being  swallowed  up  ; 
he  yells,  implores,  cries  to  the  clouds,  writhes  his 
arras,  and  grows  desperate.  ïhen  he  is  in  the  sand 
up  to  his  waist  ;  the  sand  reaches  his  chest.  he  is  but 
a  bust.  He  raises  his  hands,  utters  furious  groans, 
digs  his  nails  into  the  sand,  tries  to  hold  by  this  dust, 
raises  himself  on  his  elbows  to  tear  himself  from  this 
soft  sheath,  and  sobs  frenziedly.  The  sand  mounts, 
the  sand  reaches  his  shoulders,  the  sand  reaches  his 
neck,  the  face  alone  is  \isible  now.  The  mouth  cries, 
the  sand  fills  it  ;  silence.  The  eyes  still  look,  the 
sand  closes  them  ;  night.  Then  the  forehead  sinks, 
and  a  little  hair  waves  above  the  sand  ;  a  hand 
émerges,  digs  up  the  sand,  is  waved,  and  disappears, 
—  a  sinister  effacement  of  a  man. 

At  times  the  rider  is  swallowed  up  with  his  horse, 
at  times  the  carter  with  his  cart.  It  is  a  shipwreck 
otherwhere  than  in  the  water  ;  it  is  the  laud  droAming 
man.  The  land  penetrated  by  the  océan  becomes  a 
snare  ;  it  offers  itself  as  a  plain,  and  opens  like  a 
wave.     The  abyss  has  its  acts  of  treacheiy. 

Such  a  mournful  adventure,  always  possible  on 
some  seashore,  was  also  possible  some  thirty  years 
ago  in  the  sewer  of  Paris.  Before  the  important 
Works  began  in  1833  the  subway  of  Paris  was  sub- 
ject  to  sudden  breakings-in.  The  water  filtered 
through  a  subjacent  and  peculiarly  friable  soil  ;  and 
the  roadway,  if  made  of  paving-stones,  as  in  tiie  old 
drains,  or  of  concrète   upon    béton,  as  in  the  new 


192  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

galleries,  having  no  support,  bcnt.  A  bend  in  a 
planking  of  tins  nature  is  a  crevice,  and  a  crevice  is  a 
bursting-in.  The  roadwaj  broke  away  for  a  certain 
lengtli,  and  such  a  gap,  a  gulf  of  nmd,  was  called  in 
professional  language  fontis.  Wliat  is  â  fontis  ?  It 
is  tlie  quicksand  of  the  seashore  suddenly  met  witli 
underground  ;  it  is  the  strand  of  IMont  St.  Michel  in 
a  sewer.  The  moistened  soil  is  in  a  state  of  fusion, 
ail  its  particles  are  held  in  suspense  in  a  shifting 
médium  ;  it  is  not  land  and  it  is  not  water.  The 
depth  is  at  times  very  great.  Nothing  can  be  more 
formidable  than  meeting  with  such  a  thing  ;  if  water 
predominatc  death  is  quick,  for  a  man  is  drowned  ; 
if  earth  predominate  death  is  slow,  for  lie  is  sucked 
down. 

Can  our  readers  imagine  such  a  death  ?  If  it  be 
frightful  to  sink  in  the  sea-strand,  what  is  it  in  a 
cloaca  ?  Tnstcad  of  fresh  air.  daylight,  a  clear  horizon, 
vast  sounds,  the  free  clouds  froni  which  life  rains, 
the  barque  perceived  in  the  distance,  that  hope  under 
every  forni,  of  possible  passers-by,  of  possible  helj)  up 
to  the  last  minute, —  instead  of  ail  tliis,  deafness,  blind- 
ness,  a  black  archway,  the  interior  of  a  tomb  already 
made,  death  in  the  mud  under  a  tombstone  !  Slow 
asphyxia  by  unclcanlincss,  a  sarcophagus  where  as- 
phyxia opens  its  claws  in  the  filth  and  clutches  you 
by  the  throat  ;  fctidness  minoled  with  the  death- 
rattle,  mud  instead  of  tlie  sand,  sulphurcttcd  hydro- 
gen  in  lieu  of  the  hurricane,  ordure  instead  of  the 
océan  !  And  to  call  and  gnash  the  tceth,  and  writhe 
and  struggle  and  expire,  with  this  enormous  city 
which  knows  nothing  of  it  above  one's  hcad. 


SAND,   LIKE    WOMAN,   IS   TERFIDIOUS.         193 

Iiiexpressible  the  horror  of  dying  thus  !  Deatli 
sonietimes  expiâtes  its  atrocity  by  a  certain  terrible 
dignity.  On  the  pyre,  in  sliipwreck,  a  man  may  be 
great  ;  in  the  fiâmes,  as  in  the  foani,  asuperb  attitude 
is  possible,  and  a  man  transfigures  himself.  But  in 
this  case  it  is  not  so,  for  the  death  is  unclean.  It  is 
humiliating  to  expire  in  such  a  way,  and  the  last 
floating  visions  are  abject.  Mud  is  the  synonyni  of 
sliamc,  and  is  little,  ugly,  and  infamous.  To  die  in  a 
butt  of  Malmsey  like  Clarence,  —  very  well  ;  but  in 
a  sewer  like  d'Escoubleau  is  horrible.  To  struggle  in 
it  is  hideous,  for  at  the  samc  time  as  a  man  is  dying, 
he  is  dabbling.  There  is  enough  darkness  for  it  to 
bc  Hell,  and  enough  mud  for  it  to  be  merely  a  slough, 
and  the  dying  man  does  not  know  whether  he  is 
about  to  become  a  spectre  or  a  frog.  Everywhere  else 
the  sepulchre  is  sinister,  but  hère  it  is  deformed. 

The  depth  of  the  fontis  varicd,  as  did  the  lengtli 
and  dcnsity,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  subsoil. 
At  times  a  fontis  was  three  or  four  feet  deep,  at 
times  eight  or  ten,  and  sometimes  it  was  bottomless. 
In  one  the  mud  was  almost  solid,  in  another  nearly 
liquid.  In  the  Lunière  fontis,  a  man  would  hâve 
taken  a  day  in  disappcaring,  while  he  would  hâve 
been  devoured  in  five  minutes  by  the  Phélippeaux 
slough.  The  mud  bears  more  or  less  well  according 
to  its  dcgree  of  density,  and  a  lad  escapes  where  a 
man  is  lost.  The  first  law  of  safety  is  to  throw  a  way 
every  sort  of  loadiug,  and  every  sewer-man  who  felt 
the  ground  giving  way  under  liim  began  by  gcttiiig 
rid  of  his  basket  of  tools.  The  fontis  had  varions 
causes, —  friability  of  soil,  some  convulsion  at  a  dcpth 

VOL.    V.  13 


194  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

beyond  a  man's  reach,  violent  summer  showers,  tlic 
incessant  winter  rain,  and  long  drizzling  rains.  At 
times  the  weiglit  of  the  surrounding  houses  upon  a 
nmrshy  or  sandy  soil  broke  the  roofs  of  tlie  subter- 
ranean  galleries  and  made  them  shrink,  or  else  it 
happened  that  the  roadway  broke  and  slit  iip  under 
the  terrifie  pressure.  The  pile  of  the  Panthéon  de- 
stroyed  in  tins  way  about  a  century  ago  a  portion 
of  the  cellars  in  jNIont  Sainte  Geneviève.  When  a 
sewer  gave  way  under  the  weight  of  the  houses,  the 
disorder  was  expressed  above  in  the  street  by  a  sort 
of  saw-toothed  parting  between  the  paving-stones. 
This  rent  was  developed  in  a  serpentine  line,  along 
the  whole  length  of  tlie  cracked  vault,  and  in  such  a 
case,  the  evil  being .  visible,  the  remedy  might  be 
prompt.  It  often  happened  also  that  the  internai 
ravage  was  not  revealed  by  any  scar  outside,  and  in 
that  case,  woe  to  the  sewer-men.  Entering  the  in- 
jured  drain  incautiously,  thcy  might  be  lost  in  it. 
The  old  registers  mention  several  night-men  buried  in 
this  manner  in  the  fontis.  They  mention  several 
names,  among  others  that  of  the  sewer-man  swallowed 
up  in  a  slough  under  the  opcning  on  the  Rue  Carême 
Prenant,  of  the  name  of  Biaise  Poutrain  ;  this  Biaise 
was  brother  of  Xicliolas  Poutrain,  who  Avas  the  last 
scxton  of  the  cemetery  called  the  Charnier  des  Inno- 
cents in  1785,  when  that  cemetery  cxpired.  There 
was  also  the  young  and.  charming  Vicomte  d'Escou- 
bleau,  to  whom  we  hâve  alluded,  one  of  the  heroes 
of  the  siège  of  Lerida,  where  the  assault  was  made 
in  silk  stockings  and  with  violins  at  their  head. 
D'Escoubleau,  surprised  one  night  with  his  cousin, 


SAND,   LIKE   WOMAN,   IS   PERFIDIOUS.         195 

the  Duchesse  de  Sourdis,  drowned  himself  in  a  cess- 
pool  of  the  Beautreillis  sewer,  wliere  he  had  taken 
refuge  to  escape  the  Duc.  .  Madame  de  Sourdis, 
when  told  the  story  of  this  death,  asked  for  her 
snielling-bottle,  and  forgot  to  weep  through  inhal- 
ing  her  salts.  In  such  a  case  there  is  no  love  that 
holds  out  ;  the  cloaca  extinguishes  it.  Hero  refuses 
to  wash  the  corpse  of  Leander.  Thisbe  holds  her 
nose  in  the  présence  of  Pjramus,  and  says,  Pah  ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    FONTIS. 

Jean  Valjean  found  himself  in  presencô  of  a 
fontis  :  this  sort  of  breakiiig-in  was  fréquent  at  that 
day  in  the  subsoil  of  the  Champs  Élysées,  which  was 
difficult  to  nianage  in  liydraulic  works,  and  not  pre- 
servative  of  subterranean  construetions,  owing  to  its 
extrême  fluidity.  This  fluidity  exceeds  even  the  in- 
consistency  of  the  sands  of  the  Quartier  St.  Georges, 
which  could  only  be  overcome  by  hiying  rubble  on 
béton,  and  of  the  gas-infected  clay  strata  in  the 
Quartier  des  Martyrs,  which  are  so  liquid  that  a  pas- 
sage coukl  be  effected  under  the  gallery  only  by 
means  of  an  iron  tube.  When  in  1836  the  authori- 
ties  demolished  and  rebuilt  under  the  Faubourg  St. 
Honore  the  okl  stone  sewer  in  which  Jean  Valjean 
is  now  engaged,  the  sliifting  sand  which  is  the  sub- 
soil of  the  Champs  Élysées  as  far  as  the  Seine  offcred 
such  an  obstacle  that  the  opération  lastcd  six  montlis, 
to  the  great  aimoyancc  of  those  living  on  the  water- 
side,  espeeially  such  as  had  mansions  and  coaches. 
The  Works  wcre  more  than  diflicult,  thcy  were  dan- 
gerous  ;  but  we  must  allow  that  it  rained  for  four 
and  a  half  months,  and  the  Seine  overflowed  thrice. 
The   fontis  which   Jean  Valjean   came   across  was 


THE   FONTIS.  197 

oc'casioned  by  tlic  sliower  of  the  previous  evening. 
A  giviiîg  way  of  the  pavement,  whicli  was  badly  sup- 
ported  by  tlic  subjaceiit  sand,  had  produced  a  deposit 
of  raiii-wator,  and  wlien  tlie  filtering  had  taken  place 
the  ground  broke  in,  and  the  roadway,  being  dislo- 
cated,  fell  into  the  mud.  How  far  ?  It  was  impos- 
sible to  say,  for  the  darkness  was  denser  there  than 
any  where  else  ;  it  was  a  slough  of  mud  in  a  cavern 
of  niglit.  Jean  Valjean  felt  the  pavement  départ 
from  undcr  him  as  he  entered  the  slough  ;  there  was 
water  at  top  and  mud  underncath,  He  must  pass 
it,  fur  it  was  impossible  to  turn  back  ;  Marins  was 
dying,  and  Jean  Valjean  worn  out.  Where  else 
could  he  go  ?  Jean  Valjean  advanced  ;  the  slough 
appcared  but  of  slight  depth  at  the  first  few  steps, 
but  as  lie  advanced  his  legs  sank  in.  He  soon  had 
mud  up  to  the  middle  of  the  kg,  and  water  up  to 
the  middle  of  the  knee.  He  walkcd  along,  raising 
Marins  with  both  arms  as  high  as  he  could  above 
the  surface  of  the  water  ;  the  mud  now  came  up  to 
his  knees  and  the  water  to  his  waist.  He  could  no 
longer  draAV  back,  and  he  sank  in  deeper  and  deeper. 
This  mud,  dense  enough  for  the  weight  of  one  man, 
could  not  evidently  bear  two  ;  Marius  and  Jean  Val- 
jean might  hâve  had  a  chance  of  getting  out  sepa- 
rately  ;  but,  for  ail  that,  Jean  Valjean  continued  to 
advance,  bearing  the  dying  man,  who  was  perhaps  a 
corpse.  The  water  came  up  to  his  armpits,  and  he 
felt  himself  drowning  ;  he  could  scarce  move  in  the 
depth  of  mud  in  which  he  was  standing,  for  the  den- 
sity  which  was  the  support  was  also  the  obstacle. 
He  still  kcpt  Marins  up,  and  advanced  with  an  ex- 


198  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

traordinaiy  expenditure  of  strength,  but  he  was  sink- 
ing.  He  had  only  bis  bead  out  of  water  and  bis  two 
arms  sustaining  jMarius.  In  tbe  old  paintings  of  tbe 
Déluge  tbere  is  a  motber  bolding  ber  cbild  in  tbe 
same  way.  As  be  still  sank  be  tbrcw  back  bis  face 
to  eseape  tbe  water  and  be  able  to  breatlic  ;  any  one 
wbo  saw  bim  in  tbis  darkness  would  bave  fancied 
he  saw  a  mask  floating  on  tbe  gloomy  waters  ;  be 
vaguely  perceived  above  bim  Marius's  banging  bead 
and  Uvid  face  ;  be  made  a  dcsperate  eftbrt  and  ad- 
vanced  bis  foot,  wbicb  struck  against  sometbing 
soHd,  —  a  resting-place.     It  was  bigb  time. 

He  drew  bimself  up,  and  writbed  and  rooted  bim- 
self  witb  a  species  of  fury  upon  tbis  support.  It  pro- 
duced  on  bim  tbe  effcct  of  tbe  first  step  of  a  staircase 
reascending  to  bfe.  Tbis  support,  met  witb  in  tbe 
mud  at  tbe  suprême  moment,  was  tbe  beginning  of 
tbe  otber  side  of  tbe  roadway,  wbicb  bad  fallen  in 
witbout  breaking,  and  bent  under  tbe  water  bke  a 
plank  in  a  single  pièce.  A  well-constructed  pave- 
ment forms  a  curve,  and  possesses  sucb  firmness. 
Tbis  fragment  of  roadway,  partly  submerged,  but 
solid,  was  a  real  incline,  and  once  upon  it  tbey  were 
saved.  Jean  Valjean  ascended  it,  and  attained  tbe 
otber  side  of  tbe  slough.  On  Icaving  tbe  water  bis 
foot  caugbt  against  a  stone  and  he  fell  on  bis  knees. 
He  found  tbat  tbis  was  just,  and  rcmained  on  tbcm 
for  some  time,  witb  bis  souI  absorbcd  in  words 
addressed  to  God. 

He  rose,  sbivering,  cbillcd,  polluted,  bent  beneath 
tbe  dying  man  be  carricd,  ail  dripping  witb  filtb,  but 
witb  bis  soûl  fiill  of  a  strange  brigbtness. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

SOMETIMES  ONE   IS   STRANDED  WHERE   HE    THINKS 
TO    LAND. 

He  set  out  once  again  ;  still,  if  he  had  not  left  his 
life  in  the  fontis,  lie  seemed  to  hâve  left  his  strength 
there.  This  suprême  effort  had  exhausted  him,  and 
his  fatigue  was  now  so  great  that  he  was  obliged  to 
rest  every  three  or  four  paces  to  take  breath,  and 
Icaned  against  the  wall.  Once  he  was  obliged  to  sit 
down  on  the  banquette  in  order  to  alter  ISIarius's 
position,  and  believed  that  he  should  remain  there. 
But  if  his  vigor  were  dead  his  energy  was  not  so, 
and  he  rose  again.  He  walkcd  desperately,  almost 
quickly,  went  thus  one  hundred  yards  without  rais- 
ing  his  head,  almost  without  breathing,  and  ail  at 
once  ran  against  the  wall.  He  had  reached  an  elbow 
of  the  drain,  and  on  arriving  head  down  at  the  turn- 
ing,  came  against  the  wall.  He  raised  his  eyes,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  passage  down  there,  far,  very  far 
away,  perceived  a  light.  But  this  time  it  was  no 
terrible  light,  but  white,  fair  light.  It  was  daylight. 
Jean  Valjean  saw  the  outlct.  A  condemned  soûl 
that  suddenly  saw  from  the  middle  of  the  furnace 
the  issue  from  Gehenna  would  feel  what  Jean  Val- 
jean felt.  It  would  fly  wildly  with  the  stumps  of  its 
burnt  wings  toward  the  radiant  gâte.     Jean  Valjean 


200  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

110  longer  felt  fatigue,  lie  no  longer  fclt  Marius's 
weight,  lie  found  again  his  muscles  of  steel,  and  ran 
ratlier  tlian  walked.  As  lie  drew  ncarer,  the  outlet 
became  more  distinctly  designed  ;  it  was  an  arcli, 
not  so  tall  as  the  roof,  wliich  gradually  contracted, 
and  not  so  wide  as  the  gallery,  whicli  grew  narrower 
at  the  sanie  time  as  the  roof  became  lowered.  The 
tunnel  finished  inside  in  the  sliape  of  a  funnel,  —  a 
faulty  réduction,  imitatcd  from  the  wickcts  of  houses 
of  correction,  logical  in  a  prison,  but  illogical  in  a 
drain,  and  which  lias  since  been  corrected. 

Jean  Valjean  reached  the  issue  and  thcn  stopped  ; 
it  was  certainly  the  outlet,  but  they  could  not  get 
ont.  The  arcli  was  closed  by  a  strong  grating,  and 
this  grating,  which  apparently  rarcly  turned  on  its 
oxidized  hingcs,  was  fastened  to  the  stone  wall  by  a 
heavy  lock,  which,  red  with  rust,  seemcd  an  enor- 
nious  brick.  The  kcy-hole  was  visible,  as  well  as 
the  boit  deeply  plunged  into  its  iron  box.  It  was 
one  of  those  Bastille  locks  of  which  ancient  Paris 
was  so  prodigal.  Beyond  the  grating  were  the  open 
air,  the  river,  daylight,  the  bank,  —  very  narrow  but 
sufficient  to  départ, —  the  distant  quays,  Paris,  —  that 
gulf  in  Avhich  a  man  hides  himself  so  easily,  —  the 
wide  horizon,  and  liberty.  On  the  right  could  be 
distinguished,  down  the  river,  the  Pont  de  Jéna,  and 
at  the  left,  up  stream,  th.e  Pont  des  Invalides  ;  the 
spot  would  hâve  bccn  a  favorable  one  to  await  night 
and  escape.  It  was  one  of  the  most  solitary  points 
in  Paris,  the  bank  facing  the  Gros-C^iillou.  The  flics 
went  in  and  ont  through  the  grating  bars.  It  might 
be  about  half-past  cight  in  the  evening,  and  day  was 


STUANDED  WHERE   HE   THINKS   TO   LAND.     201 

drawiiig  in  :  Jean  Valjean  laid  Marins  along  the  wall 
on  the  dry  part  of  the  way,  then  walked  np  to  the 
grating  and  seized  the  bars  with  both  hands  ;  the 
shock  was  frenzicd,  but  the  efFect  nil.  The  grating 
did  not  stir.  Jean  Valjean  seized  the  bars  one  after 
the  other,  hoping  he  might  be  able  to  bre^k  ont  the 
least  snbstantial  one  and  eniploy  it  as  a  lever  to  lift 
the  gâte  ofF  the  hinges  or  break  tlie  lock,  but  not  a 
bar  stirred.  A  tiger's  teeth  are  not  more  solidly  set 
in  their  sockcts.  Without  a  lever  it  was  impossible 
to  open  the  grating,  and  the  obstacle  was  invincible. 

Must  he  finish,  then,  there?  What  should  he 
do  ?  What  would  become  of  him  ?  He  had  not  the 
strength  to  turn  back  and  reconnnence  the  frightful 
journey  which  he  had  already  niade.  JNIoreover,  how 
was  he  to  cross  again  that  slough  from  which  he  had 
only  escapcd  by  a  miracle  ?  And  after  the  slough, 
was  there  not  the  police  squad,  which  he  assuredly 
would  not  escape  twice  ;  and  then  where  should  he 
go,  and  what  direction  take  ?  Following  the  slope 
would  not  lead  to  his  object,  for  if  he  reached 
another  outlet  he  would  find  it  obstructed  by  an 
iron  plate  or  a  grating.  Ail  the  issues  were  indu- 
bitably  closed  in  that  way  ;  accident  had  left  the 
grating  by  which  they  entercd  open,  but  it  was  plain 
that  ail  the  other  mouths  of  the  sewer  were  closed. 
They  had  only  succeeded  in  escaping  into  a  prison. 

It  was  ail  over,  and  ail  that  Jean  Valjean  had 
done  was  useless  :  God  opposed  it.  They  were  both 
caught  in  the  dark  and  immense  web  of  death,  and 
Jean  Valjean  felt  the  fearful  spider  already  running 
along  the  black  threads  in  the  darkness.     He  turned 


202  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

liis  back  to  the  grating  and  fell  on  the  pavement  near 
Marins,  who  was  still  motionless,  and  whose  liead 
had  fallen  between  his  knees.  There  was  no  outlet  ; 
that  was  the  last  drop  of  agony.  Of  whom  did  lie 
think  in  tins  profound  despondency  ?  Ncither  of 
himself  nor  of  Marins  !     He  thought  of  Cosette. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

THE   TORX   COAT-SKIRT. 

In  the  midst  of  his  annihilation  a  hand  was  laid 
on  his  shoulder,  and  a  low  voice  said,  — 

"Halfshares." 

Some  one  in  this  shadow  ?  As  nothing  so  resem- 
bles  a  dream  as  despair,  Jean  Valjean  fancied  that  he 
was  dreaming.  He  had  not  heard  a  footstep.  Was 
it  possible  ?  He  raised  his  eyes,  and  a  man  was 
standing  before  him.  This  man  was  dressed  in  a 
blouse,  his  feet  were  naked,  and  he  held  his  shoes  in 
his  hand  ;  he  had  evidently  taken  them  ofF  in  order 
to  be  able  to  reach  Jean  Valjean  mthout  letting  his 
footsteps  be  heard.  Jean  Valjean  had  not  a  mo- 
ment's  hésitation  :  however  unexpected  the  meeting 
might  be,  the  man  was  known  to  him  :  it  was  Thé- 
nardier.  Although,  so  to  speak,  aroused  with  a  start, 
Jean  Valjean,  accustomed  to  alarnis  and  to  unex- 
pected blows  which  it  is  necessarj  to  parry  quickly, 
at  once  regained  possession  of  ail  his  présence  of 
mind.  Besides,  the  situation  could  not  be  worse  ; 
a  certain  degree  of  distress  is  not  capable  of  any 
crescendo,  and  Thénardier  himself  could  not  add  any 
blackness  to   this   night.      There   was   a   moments 


204  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

expectation.  Thénardier,  raising  liis  riglit  hand  to 
the  level  of  liis  forehead,  made  a  screen  of  it  ;  then 
he  drcw  his  cvebrows  together  vvith  a  wink,  which, 
witli  a  slight  piiiching  of  the  lips,  characterizes  the 
sagacious  attention  of  a  man  who  is  striving  to  rec- 
ognize  another.  He  did  not  siicceed.  Jean  Valjean, 
as  we  said,  was  turning  his  back  to  the  light,  and 
was  besides  so  disfigured,  so  filthy,  and  blood-stained 
that  he  could  not  hâve  been  recognizcd  in  broad  day- 
light.  On  the  other  hand,  Tliénardier,  with  his  face 
lit  up  by  the  light  from  the  grating,  —  a  cellar  bright- 
ness,  it  is  true,  —  li\id  but  précise  in  his  lividness, 
leaped  at  once  into  Jean  Yaljean's  eyes,  to  employ 
the  energetic  popular  metaphor.  This  inequahty  of 
conditions  sufficed  to  iiLsure  sonie  advantage  to  Jean 
Valjean  in  the  niystcrious  duel  which  was  about  to 
begin  between  the  two  situations  and  the  two  men. 
The  meeting  took  place  between  Jean  Valjean 
masked  and  Thénardier  unmasked.  Jean  Valjean  at 
once  perceived  that  Thénardier  did  not  recognize  him  ; 
and  they  looked  at  each  other  silently  in  this  gloom, 
as  if  taking  each  otlier's  measure.  Thénardier  was 
the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  How  do  you  mean  to  get  out  ?  " 

Jean  Valjean  not  replying,  Thénardier  continued  : 

"  It  is  impossible  to  pick  the  lock  :  and  yet  you 
must  get  out  of  herc." 

''  That  is  truc,"  said  Jean  Valjean. 

"Well,  then,  halfshares." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  You  hâve  killed  the  man  ;  very  good,  and  I 
luiA'e  the  kev." 


THE   TORN   COAT-SKIRT.  205 

Thénardier  pointed  to  ISIarius,  and  contiimed,  — 

"  I  do  not  know  jou,  but  you  must  be  a  friend, 
and  I  wish  to  lielp  you." 

Jean  Valjcan  began  to  understand.  Thénardier 
took  him  for  an  assassin.     The  latter  continued,  — 

"  Listen,  mate  ;  you  did  not  kill  this  nian  without 
looking  to  see  what  he  had  in  his  pockets.  Givc  nie 
ray  half  and  I  open  the  gâte." 

And  half  drawing  a  heavy  key  fi'om  under  his 
ragged  blouse,  he  added, — 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  how  the  key  to  liberty  is 
made  ?     Look  hère." 

Jean  Valjean  was  so  dazed  that  he  doubted 
whether  what  he  saw  was  real.  It  was  Pro\idence 
appearing  in  a  horrible  form,  and  the  good  angel 
issuing  from  the  ground  in  the  shape  of  Thénardier. 
The  latter  thrust  his  hand  into  a  wide  pocket  hidden 
under  his  blouse,  drew  ont  a  roj)e,  and  handed  it  to 
Jean  Valjean. 

*'  There,"  he  said,  "  I  give  you  the  rope  into  the 
bargain." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  the  rope  ?  " 

"  You  also  want  a  stone,  but  you  will  find  that 
outside,  as  there  is  a  heap  of  theni." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  with  a  stone  ?  " 

"Why,  you  ass,  as  you  are  going  to  throw  the  stiff 
into  the  river,  you  want  a  rope  and  a  stone,  or  else 
the  body  will  float  on  the  water." 

Jean  Valjean  took  the  rope  mechanically,  and 
Thénardier  snappcd  his  fingers  as  if  a  sudden  idea 
had  occurred  to  him. 

"Hilloh,   mate!    how    did    you    manage    to   gct 


206  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

through  tliat  slough  ?  I  did  not  dare  venture  into  it. 
Peulî  !  y  ou  do  not  smell  pleasant." 

After  a  pause  he  added,  — 

"  I  ask  you  questions,  but  you  are  right  not  to 
answer  :  it  is  an  apprenticesliip  for  the  examining 
magistrate's.  ugly  quarter  of  an  hour.  And  thcn,  by 
not  speaking  at  ail  a  man  runs  no  risk  of  spcaking 
too  loud.  No  matter,  thougli  I  cannot  see  your  face 
and  do  not  know  your  name,  you  would  do  wrong  iu 
supposing  that  I  do  not  know  wlio  you  are  and  wliat 
you  want.  I  know  ail  about  it  :  you  hâve  rather 
split  tins  gentleman,  and  now  want  to  get  rid  of 
liim  somewhere.  You  prefer  the  river,  that  great 
nonsense-hider,  and  I  will  help  you  out  of  the  hob- 
bîe.  It  is  my  delight  to  aid  a  good  fellow  whcu 
in  trouble." 

While  conimending  Jean  Valjean  for  his  silence 
it  was  plain  that  he  was  trying  to  make  him  speak. 
He  pushed  his  shoulder,  so  as  to  be  able  to  see  his 
profile,  and  exclaimed,  though  without  raising  the 
pitch  of  his  voice,  — 

"  Talking  of  the  slough,  you  are  a  precious  ass. 
Why  did  you  not  throw  the  nian  into  it  ?  " 

Jean  Yaljean  prcserved  silence.  Thénardier  con- 
tinucd,  raising  his  rag  of  a  cravat  to  the  Adani's 
applc,  —  a  gcsture  which  complètes  the  capable  air 
of  a  serions  man. 

"  Really,  you  may  hâve  acted  sensibly,  for  the 
workmen  who  Avill  come  to-morrow  to  stop  up  the 
hole  would  ccrtainly  hâve  found  the  swcll,  and  your 
trail  would  be  followed  up.  Some  one  has  passed 
through  the  sewer.     Who  ?     How  did  he  get  out  ? 


THE   TORN   COAT-SKIRT.  207 

Was  he  seen  to  do  so  ?  The  police  are  full  of  sensé  ; 
the  drain  is  a  traitor,  and  denounces  you.  Such  a 
find  is  a  rarity  ;  it  attracts  attention  ;  for  few  people 
employ  the  sewer  for  their  little  business,  while  the 
river  belongs  to  everybody,  and  is  the  real  grave. 
At  the  end  of  a  month  your  nian  is  fished  up  at 
the  nets  of  St.  Cloud.  Well,  who  troubles  himself 
about  that  ?  It  's  carrion,  that  's  ail.  Who  killed 
the  man  ?  Paris.  And  justice  makes  no  inquiries. 
You  acted  wisely." 

The  more  loquacious  Thénardier  became,  the  more 
silent  Jean  Yaljean  was.  Thénardier  shook  his 
shoulder  again. 

"  And  now,  let  s  settle  our  business.  You  ha^•e 
seen  niy  key,  so  show  me  your  money." 

Thénardier  was  haggard,  firm,  slightly  menacing, 
but  remarkably  friendly.  There  was  one  strange 
fact  :  Thénardier's  manner  was  not  simple  ;  he  did 
not  appear  entirely  at  his  ease.  While  not  afFecting 
any  mysterious  air,  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice.  Frora 
time  to  time  he  laid  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  mut- 
tered  "  Chut  !  "  It  was  difficult  to  guess  why,  for 
there  were  only  themselves  présent.  Jean  Yaljean 
thought  that  other  bandits  were  probably  hidden  in 
some  corner  no  great  distance  off,  and  that  Thénardier 
was  not  anxious  to  share  with  thcm.  The  latter 
continued,  — 

"Now  for  a  finish.  How  much  had  the  swell 
about  him  ?  " 

Jean  Yaljean  fclt  in  his  pockets.  It  was,  as  will 
be  remembered,  always  his  rule  to  hâve  money  about 
him,  for  the  gloomy  life  of  expédients  to  which  he 


208  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

was  conclemned  rendcred  it  a  \aw  for  liini.  Tliîs 
time,  however,  he  was  unprovided.  In  putting  on 
upon  the  previous  evening  liis  National  Giiard  uni- 
form,  he  forgot,  niouvnfully  absorbed  as  he  was,  to 
take  eut  bis  pocket-book,  and  he  had  only  sonie 
change  in  bis  waistcoat-pocket.  He  turned  out  bis 
pocket,  which  was  saturated  with  sHme,  and  laid 
on  the  banquette  a  louis  d'or,  two  five-franc  pièces, 
and  five  or  six  double  sous.  Thénardier  thrust 
out  bis  lower  lip  with  a  significant  twist  of  the 
neck. 

"  You  did  not  kill  him  for  niuch,"  he  said. 

He  began  most  familiarly  feeling  in  Jean  Valjean 
and  Marius's  pockets,  and  Jean  Valjean,  who  was 
most  anxious  to  keep  bis  back  to  the  light,  allowcd 
him  to  do  so.  While  feeling  in  Marius's  coat,  Thd- 
nardier,  with  the  dexterity  of  a  conjurer,  managed  to 
tear  ofF,  without  Jean  Valjean  perceiving  the  fact, 
a  strip,  which  he  concealed  undcr  bis  blouse  ;  prob- 
ably  thinking  that  this  pièce  of  cloth  might  help 
him  to  recognize  bereafter  the  assassinatcd  man  and 
the  assassin.  However,  he  found  no  more  than  the 
thirty  francs. 

"  It  is  true,"  lie  said  ;  "  one  with  the  otlier,  you 
bave  no  more  than  that." 

And  forgettiug  bis  phrase,  half-shares,  bc  took 
ail.  He  hesitatcd  a  littlc  at  the  double  sous,  but 
on  reflection  he  took  them  too,  while  grunibling, 
"  I  don't  care,  it  is  killing  pcople  too  cheaply." 

This  donc,  he  again  took  tlie  key  from  undcr  bis 
blouse. 

"  Now,  my  friend,  you  must  be  off.     It  is  hère 


THE    TORN   COAT-SKIRT.  209 

as  at  the  fairs  ;  y  ou  pay  when  vou  go  ont.     You 
Il  ave  paid,  so  you  can  go." 

And  he  began  laugliing.  We  may  be  permitted 
to  doubt  whetlier  he  had  the  pure  and  disinterested 
intention  of  sa\ang  an  assassin,  when  he  gave  a 
strangcr  the  help  of  this  key,  and  allowed  any  one 
but  himself  to  pass  through  this  gâte.  Thénardier 
helped  Jean  Valjean  to  replace  INIarius  on  his  back, 
and  then  proceeded  to  the  grating  on  the  tips  of 
his  naked  feet.  After  niaking  Jean  Valjean  a  sigu 
to  follow  him,  he  placed  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and 
remained  for  some  seconds  as  if  in  suspense  ;  but 
when  the  inspection  was  over  he  put  the  key  in 
the  lock.  The  boit  slid,  and  the  gâte  turned  on 
its  hinges  without  either  grinding  or  creaking.  It 
was  plain  that  this  grating  and  thèse  hinges,  care- 
fully  oiled,  opened  more  frequently  than  might  be 
supposed.  This  smoothness  was  ill-omened  ;  it  spoke 
of  furtive  comings  and  goings,  of  the  mysterious  en- 
trances  and  exits  of  night-men,  and  the  crafty  foot- 
fall  of  crime.  The  sewer  was  evidently  an  accomplice 
of  some  dark  band,  and  this  taciturn  grating  was  a 
receiver.  Thénardier  held  the  door  ajar,  left  just 
room  for  Jean  Valjean  to  pass,  relocked  the  gâte, 
and  plunged  back  into  the  darkness,  maki ng  no  more 
noise  than  a  breath  ;  he  seemed  to  walk  with  the 
velvety  pads  of  a  tiger.  A  moment  later  this  hideous 
providence  had  disappeared,  and  Jean  Valjean  was 
outside. 


14 


CHAPTER   IX. 

MARIUS   APPEARS   DEAD    TO   A   CONNOISSEUR. 

He  let  Marins  slip  down  on  to  the  bank.  They 
were  oiitside  :  the  iniasmas,  the  clarkness,  the  horror, 
were  behind  him  ;  the  healthj,  pure,  living,  joyous, 
freeiy  respirable  air  inundated  him.  Ail  around  him 
was  silence,  but  it  was  the  charming  silence  of  the 
suii  setting  in  the  f'ull  azuré.  Twilight  was  passing, 
and  night,  the  great  liberator,  the  friend  of  ail  those 
who  need  a  cloak  of  darkness  to  escape  from  an 
agony,  was  at  hand.  The  sky  prcsented  itself  on  ail 
sides  like  an  enormous  calm,  and  the  river  rippled 
up  to  his  feet  with  the  sound  of  a  kiss.  The  aerial 
dialogue  of  the  nests  bidding  each  other  good-night  in 
the  elms  of  the  Champs  Elysées  was  audible.  A  few 
stars,  faintly  studding  the  pale  blue  of  the  zénith, 
formed  in  the  innnciisity  little  imperceptible  flashes. 
Night  unfolded  over  Jean  Valjean's  head  ail  the 
sweetness  of  infinitude.  It  was  the  undecided  and 
exquisite  hour  which  says  neither  yes  nor  no.  There 
was  already  sufficient  night  for  a  man  to  losc  himself 
in  it  a  short  distance  off,  and  yet  sufficient  daylight 
to  recogiiize  any  oiie  close  by.  Jean  Valjcun  was  for 
a  few  seconds  irresistibly  overcome  by  ail  this  august 
and  caressing  screnity.     Thcre  are  minutes  of  obliv- 


MARIUS  APPEARS  DEAD  TO  A  CONNOISSEUR.     211 

ion  in  wliich  suiFering  gives  up  harassing  the  wretcli  ; 
ail  is  eclipsed  in  the  thought  ;  peace  covers  the 
dreamer  like  night,  and  under  the  gleaming  twilight 
the  soûl  is  lit  with  stars  in  imitation  of  the  sky  which 
is  beconiing  illumined.  Jean  Valjean  could  not  re- 
frain fi'om  conteniplating  tlie  vast  clear  night  above 
him,  and  pensively  took  a  bath  of  ecstasj  and  prayer 
in  the  majestic  silence  of  the  eternal  heavens.  Then, 
us  if  the  feeling  of  duty  returned  to  hini,  he  eagerly 
bent  down  over  jMarius,  and  lifting  some  water  in 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  softly  threw  a  few  drops  into 
his  face.  jNIarius's  eyelids  did  not  move,  but  he  still 
breathed  through  his  parted  lips.  Jean  Valjean  was 
again  about  to  plunge  his  hand  into  the  river,  when 
he  suddenly  felt  an  indescribable  nneasiness,  as  when 
we  feel  therc  is  some  one  behind  us  without  seeing 
him.  He  turned  round,  and  there  was  really  some 
one  behind  him,  as  there  had  been  just  before. 

A  man  of  tall  stature,  dressed  in  a  long  coat,  with 
folded  arms,  and  carrying  in  his  right  hand  a  "  life- 
preservcr,"  whose  leaden  knob  could  be  seen,  was 
standing  a  few  paces  behind  Jean  Valjean,  who  was 
leaning  over  Marius.  It  was  with  the  help  of  the 
darkness  a  species  of  apparition  ;  a  simple  man  would 
hâve  been  frightened  at  it  owing  to  the  twilight,  and 
a  thoughtful  one  on  account  of  the  bludgeon.  Jean 
Valjean  recognized  Javert.  The  reader  has  doubtless 
guessed  that  the  tracker  of  Thénardier  was  no  other 
than  Javert.  Javert,  after  his  unhoped-for  escape 
from  the  barricade,  went  to  the  Préfecture  of  Police, 
made  a  verbal  report  to  the  prefcct  in  person  in  a 
short   audience,  and  then  immediately  returned  to 


212  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

duty,  which  implied  —  the  note  fouiul  on  him  will 
be  remembered  —  a  certain  surveillance  of  the  right 
bank  of  the  river  at  the  Champs  Elysées,  which  had 
for  some  time  past  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
police.  There  he  perceived  Thénardier  and  followed 
him.     The  rest  is  known. 

It  will  be  also  understood  that  the  grating  so  oblig- 
ingly  opened  for  Jean  Valjean  was  a  clever  trick  on 
the  part  of  Thénardier.  He  feit  that  Javert  was  still 
there,  —  the  watched  man  has  a  scent  which  never 
deceives  him,  —  and  it  was  necessary  to  throw  a  bone 
to  this  greyhound.  An  asssasin,  — what  a  chance  !  he 
could  not  let  it  slip.  Thénardier,  on  jîutting  Jean 
Valjean.  outside  in  his  place,  offered  a  prey  to  the 
policeman,  made  him.loose  his  hold,  caused  himself 
to  be  forgotten  in  a  greater  adventure,  recompensed 
Javert  for  his  loss  of  time,  —  which  always  flattcrs 
a  spy,  —  gained  thirty  francs,  and  fully  intendcd 
for  his  own  part  to  escape  by  the  help  of  this 
diversion. 

Jean  Valjean  had  passed  from  one  rcef  to  another. 

Thèse  two  meetings  one  upon  the  other,  falling 
from  Thénardier  on  Javert,  were  rude.  Javert  did 
not  recognize  Jean  Valjean,  who,  as  wx  hâve  said,  no 
longer  resembled  himself.  lie  did  not  unfold  his 
arms,  but  made  sure  his  "  life-preserver  "  by  an  im- 
perceptible movement,  and  said,  in  a  sharp,  calm 
voice,  — 

"  Who  are  you  ?  " 

"  Myself." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  am  Jean  Valjean." 


MARIUS  APPEARS   DE  AD  TO  A  CONNOISSEUR.     213 

Javert  placed  his  life-preserver  between  his  teeth, 
bent  his  kuees,  bowed  his  back,  laid  his  two  povver- 
fiil  hands  on  Jean  Valjean's  shoulders,  which  they 
lield  as  in  two  vises,  exaniined  and  recognized  him. 
Their  faces  ahiiost  touched,  and  Javert's  glanée  was 
terrifie.  Jean  Valjean  remained  inert  under  Javert  s 
gripe,  like  a  lion  enduring  the  elaw  of  a  lynx. 

"  Inspecter  Javert,"  he  said,  "  you  hâve  me.  Be- 
sides,  since  this  morning  I  bave  considered  myself 
your  prisoner.  I  did  not  give  you  my  address  in 
order  to  try  to  escape  you.  Take  me,  but  grant 
me  one  thing." 

Javert  did  not  seem  to  hear,  but  kept  his  eye- 
balls  fixed  on  Jean  Valjean.  His  wrinkled  chin 
thrust  up  his  lips  toward  his  nose,  a  sign  of  stern 
rêverie.  At  length  he  loosed  his  hold  of  Jean  Valjean, 
drew  himself  up,  clutched  his  cudgel,  and,  as  if  in  a 
dreani,  muttered  rather  than  asked  this  question,  — 

"  What  are  you  doing  hère,  and  who  is  that 
man  ?  " 

Jean  Valjean  replied,  and  the  sound  of  his  voice 
seemed  to  awaken  Javert,  — 

"  It  is  of  him  that  I  wislied  to  speak.  Do  witli 
me  as  you  please,  but  help  me  first  to  carry  him 
home.     I  only  ask  this  of  you." 

Javert's  face  was  contraeted  in  the  same  way  as 
it  always  was  when  any  one  believed  him  capable 
of  a  concession  ;  still  he  did  not  say  no.  He 
stopped  again,  took  from  his  pocket  a  handkerchief, 
which  he  dipped  in  the  water,  and  wiped  Marius's 
ensanguined  forehcad. 

"  This  man  was  at  the  barricade,"  he  said  in  a 


214  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

low  Toice,  and  as  if  speaking  to  himself  ;  "  lie  was 
the  one  whom  they  called  Marius.  " 

He  was  a  first-class  spy,  wlio  had  observed  everj- 
thiug,  listened  to  everything,  lieard  everytliing,  and 
picked  up  everything,  when  he  believed  himself  a 
dead  man  ;  who  spied  even  in  his  death  agony,  and, 
standing  on  tlie  first  step  of  the  sepnlchre,  took 
notes.     He  seized  Marius's  hand,  and  felt  his  puise. 

"  He  is  wounded,"  said  Jean  Valjean. 

*'  He  is  a  dead  man,"  said  Javert. 

Jean  Valjean  replied,  — 

"  No  ;  not  yet." 

"  Then  you  brought  him  from  the  barricade  hère  ?  " 
Javert  observed. 

His  préoccupation  must  hâve  been  great  for  him 
not  to  dvvell  on  this  alarming  escape  through  the 
sewers,  and  not  even  remark  Jean  Valjean's  silence 
after  his  question.  Jean  Valjean,  on  his  side,  seemed 
to  hâve  a  sole  thought  ;  lie  continued,  — 

"  He  lives  in  the  Marais,  in  the  Rue  des  Filles 
du  Calvaire,  with  his  grandfather.  I  do  not  know 
his  name." 

Jean  Valjean  felt  in  INIarius's  pocket,  took  ont 
tlie  portfolio,  opened  it  at  the  page  on  which  INIarius 
liad  written  in  pencil,  and  offered  it  to  Javert.  There 
was  still  sufficient  floating  light  in  the  air  to  be 
able  to  read,  and  Javert,  besides,  liad  in  his  eyes 
the  féline  pliosphoresccnce  of  night-birds.  He  de- 
ci[)hered  the  few  Unes  written  by  Marius,  and  growled, 
"  Gillcnormand,  No.  G,  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire." 
Tlicn  he  cricd,  "  Driver  !  " 

Onr  readcrs  will  remember  the  coachman  waiting 


MARIUS  APPEARS  DiEAD  TO  A  CONXOISSEUR.     215 

above  in  case  of  ueecl.  A  moment  after  the  haekney, 
which  came  down  the  incline  leading  to  the  watering- 
place,  was  on  the  bank.  ]\larius  was  deposited  on 
the  back  seat,  and  Javert  sat  down  bj  Jean  Valjean's 
side  on  the  front  one.  When  the  door  was  closed 
the  fiacre  started  ofF  rapidly  along  the  quavs  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bastille.  Thej  quitted  the  quay 
and  turned  into  the  streets  ;  and  the  driver,  a  black 
outline  on  his  seat,  lashed  his  lean  horses.  There 
w^as  an  icy  silence  in  the  haekney  coach  ;  ^Marins 
motionless,  with  his  body  reclining  in  one  corner^ 
his  head  on  his  chest,  his  arms  pendent,  and  his  legs 
stifï,  appeared  to  be  only  waiting  for  a  coffin.  Jean 
Yaljean  seemed  made  of  gloom,  and  Javert  of  stone  ; 
and  in  this  fiacre  full  of  night,  whose  interior,  eacli 
tinie  that  it  passed  a  lamp,  seemed  to  be  lividly  lit 
up  as  if  by  an  intermittent  flash,  accident  united  and 
appeared  to  confront  the  three  immobilities  of  tragedy, 
—  the  corpse,  the  spectre,  and  the  statue. 


CHAPTER  X. 

RETURN  OF   THE    SON  PRODIGAL    OF    HIS  LIFE. 

At  eacli  jolt  c'er  tlie  pavement  a  drop  of  blood 
fell  from  jSIarius's  hair.  It  was  quite  uight  when 
the  hackney  coacli  reacbed  No.  6,  Rue  des  Filles  du 
Calvaire.  Javert  got  eut  first,  exaniined  at  a  glance 
the  number  over  tbe  gateway,  and  raising  the  heavy 
knocker  of  hamniered  steel,  enibellished  in  the  old 
style  with  a  goat  and  a  satyr  contending,  gave  a 
violent  knock.  The  folding-door  opencd  slightiy,  and 
Javert  pushed  it  open.  The  jDorter  half  sliowed  him- 
self,  yawning,  and  scarce  awake,  candie  in  haiid. 
AU  were  asleep  in  the  house,  for  people  go  to  bed 
early  at  the  JMarais,  especially  on  days  of  rioting. 
This  good  old  district,  territied  by  the  révolution, 
takes  refuge  in  sleep,  like  children  who,  when  they 
hcar  "  old  Bogcy  coniing,"  quickly  hidc  thcir  heads 
under  the  counterpane.  In  the  mean  while  Jean 
Valjean  and  the  driver  rcnioved  Marins  from  the 
hackney  coach,  Valjean  holding  him  under  the  arni- 
pits  and  the  coachman  under  the  knces.  While 
carrying  Marins  in  this  way  Jean  Valjean  passcd  his 
hands  under  his  clothes,  which  wcre  tcrribly  torn, 
fclt  his  chcst,  and  assured  himself  that  his  heart 
still  beat.     It  cven  beat  a  little  less  feebly,  as  if  the 


RETURX  OF  THE  SON  l'RODIGAL  OF  HIS  LIFE.     217 

motion  of  the  veliicle  liad  produced  a  certain  renewal 
of  vitalitj.  Javert  addressed  the  porter  in  the  toiie 
which  becomes  the  goverument  in  the  présence  of 
the  porter  of  a  factionist. 

"  Any  one  live  hère  of  the  nanie  of  Gillenormand?  " 

"  It  is  hère.     AVhat  do  you  want  with  hioi  ?  " 

"  We  bring  him  his  son." 

"  His  son  ?  "  the  porter  asked  in  amazement. 

"  He  is  dead." 

Jean  Valjcan,  wlio  came  up  ragged  and  filthy 
behind  Javert,  and  whom  the  porter  regarded  with 
some  horror,  made  him  a  sign  tliat  it  was  not  so. 
The  porter  seemed  neither  to  understaud  Javert's  re- 
mark nor  Jean  Yaljean's  sign.     Javert  continued, — 

"  He  has  been  to  the  barricade,  and  hère  he  is." 

"  To  the  barricade  !  "  the  porter  exclaimed. 

"  He  has  been  killed.     Go  and  wake  his  father." 

The  porter  did  not  stir. 

"Be  off!"  Javert  continued;  and  added,  *' There 
will  be  a  fanerai  hère  to-morrow." 

For  Javert,  the  ordinary  incidents  of  the  streets 
were  classified  categorically,  which  is  the  commence- 
ment of  foresight  and  surveillance,  and  each  eventu- 
ality  had  its  compartment  ;  the  possible  facts  were 
to  some  extent  kept  in  draAvers,  whence  they  issued 
on  occasions,  in  variable  quantities  ;  there  were  in  the 
streets.  disturbance,  riot,  carnival,  and  interments. 

The  porter  limited  himself  to  awaking  Basque  ; 
Basque  awoke  Nicolette  ;  Nicolette  awoke  Aunt 
Gillenormand.  x\s  for  the  grandfather,  he  was  left 
to  sleep,  as  it  was  thought  that  he  would  know  the 
affair   (j[uite   soon    enough   as  it  was.     Marins   was 


218  JEAN    VALJEAN 

carried  to  the  first-floor,  no  one  beiug  acquainted  with 
the  fact  in  the  rest  of  the  house,  and  he  was  laid  on 
an  old  sofa  in  M.  Gillenorniand's  ante-room,  and 
while  Basque  went  to  fetch  a  physician  and  Nicolette 
opened  the  linen-presses,  Jean  Valjean  felt  Javert 
touch  liis  shoulder.  He  understood,  and  went  down, 
Javert  following  close  at  his  lieels.  The  porter  saw 
them  départ,  as  he  h  ad  seen  them  arrive,  with  a  star- 
tled  sleepiness.  They  got  iuto  the  hackney  coach, 
and  the  driver  on  his  box. 

"  Inspecter  Javert,"  Jean  Valjean  said,  "  grant  me 
one  thing  more." 

"  Wliat  is  it  ?  "  Javert  answered  roughlj. 

"  Let  me  go  home  for  a  moment,  and  you  can  then 
do  with  me  what  you  please." 

Javert  remained  silent  for  a  few  moments  with  his 
chin  thrust  into  the  collar  of  his  great-coat,  and  then 
let  down  the  front  window. 

"Driver,"  he  said,  "No.  7,  Rue  de  l'Homme 
Armé." 


CHAPTER   XI. 

A   SHAKIXG  IN   THE   ABSOLUTE. 

They  did  not  speak  during  the  eiitire  ride.  What 
did  Jean  Valjean  vvant  ?  To  finish  wliat  he  had 
begun  ;  to  warn  Cosette,  tell  lier  where  Marins  was, 
give  lier  perhaps  some  other  useful  information,  and 
niake,  if  he  conld,  certain  final  arrangements.  For 
his  own  part,  as  regarded  wliat  concerned  him  per- 
sonally,  it  was  ail  over  ;  he  had  been  arrested  bj 
Javert,  and  did  not  resist.  Any  other  than  he,  in 
snch  a  situation,  would  perhaps  hâve  thought  vaguely 
of  the  rope  which  Thénardier  had  given'him,  and  the 
bars  of  the  first  cell  he  entered  ;  but  since  his  meet- 
ing with  the  Bishop,  Jean  Yaljean  had  within  him  a 
profound  religious  hésitation  against  every  assault, 
even  on  himself.  Suicide,  that  mysterious  attack 
on  the  unknown,  which  may  contain  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent  the  death  of  the  soûl,  was  impossible  to  Jean 
Valjean. 

On  entering  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé  the  coach 
stopped,  as  the  street  was  too  narrow  for  vehicles  to 
pass  along  it.  Jean  Yaljean  and  Javert  got  out. 
The  driver  humbly  represented  to  "  INIr.  Inspecter  " 
that  the  Utrecht  velvet  of  his  coach  was  quite  spoiled 
by  tlie  blood  of  tlie  assassinated  man  and  tlie  filth  of 


220  JKAN    VALJEAN. 

the  assassin, — that  is  how  lie  undcrstood  tlie  afFair, 
—  and  lie  added  that  an  indemnity  Avas  due  to  him. 
At  the  same  time  taking  his  license-book  from  his 
pocket,  he  begged  INIr.  Inspector  to  hâve  the  kind- 
ness  to  Avrite  liim  a  little  bit  of  a  certificate.  Javert 
thrust  back  the  book  which  the  driver  ofFered  him 
and  said,  — 

"  How  much  do  you  want,  including  the  time  yoii 
waited  and  the  journey  ?  " 

"  It  's  seven  hours  and  a  quarter,"  the  driver 
answered,  "  and  my  velvet  was  brand  new.  Eighty 
francs,  Mr.  Inspector." 

Javert  took  from  his  pocket  four  Napoléons,  and 
dismissed  the  hackney  coach.  Jean  Valjean  thought 
that  it  Avas  Javert's  intention  to  take  him  on  foot  to 
the  Blancs  Manteaux  ])Ost,  or  that  of  the  Archives, 
which  Avere  close  by.  They  entered  the  street,  Avhich 
Avas  as  usual  deserted.  Javert  followed  Jean  Valjean, 
and,  on  reaching  No.  7,  the  latter  rapped,  and  the 
gâte  opened. 

"  Very  good,"  said  JaA^ert  ;  "  go  up." 

He  added,  Avith  a  strange  exj)ression,  and  as  if 
making  an  effort  to  speak  in  tins  Avay,  — 

"  I  Avill  Avait  for  you  hère." 

Jean  Valjean  looked  at  Javert,  for  this  style  of 
conduct  Avas  not  at  ail  a  habit  of  Javert's.  Still,  it 
could  not  surprise  him  grcatly  that  Javert  should 
noAv  place  in  him  a  sort  of  haughty  confidence,  —  the 
confidence  of  the  cat  Avhich  grants  the  mouse  liberty 
to  the  Icngth  of  its  chiAv,  dotermined  as  Jean  Valjean 
Avas  to  give  himself  up  and  make  an  end  of  it.  He 
tln'ust  open  the  gâte,  entered  the  housc,  shoutcd  to 


A   SHAKING    IN   THE   ABSOLUTE.  221 

the  porter,  who  was  lying  clown  and  had  puUed  the 
string  from  his  bed,  "  It  is  I,"  and  mounted  the  stair- 
case.  On  reacliing  the  first  story  he  paused,  for  every 
Via  Dolorosa  has  -its  stations.  The  window  at  the 
head  of  the  stairs,  a  sash-window,  was  open.  As  is  the 
case  in  many  old  houses,  the  staircase  obtained  light 
from,  and  looked  out  on,  the  street.  The  street  km- 
tern,  situated  precisely  opposite,  threw  some  little  hght 
on  the  stairs,  which  caused  a  saving  of  a  lamp.  Jean 
Valjean,  either  to  breathe  or  mechanically,  thrust  his 
head  out  of  this  window  and  looked  down  into  the 
street.  It  is  short,  and  the  lamp  lit  it  from  one  end 
to  the  other.  Jean  Valjean  had  a  bedazzlement  of 
stupor  :  there  was  no  one  in  it. 
Javert  had  gone  away. 


CHaPTER  XII. 

THE    GRANDFATHER. 

Basque  and  the  porter  had  carried  ]\Iarius,  who 
was  still  lying  motionless  on  the  sofa  on  wliich  he 
had  been  laid  on  arriving,  into  the  drawing-room. 
ïhe  physician,  who  liad  been  sent  for,  hurried  in,  and 
Aunt  Gillenorniand  had  risen.  Aunt  Gillenormand 
came  and  went,  horritied,  clasping  her  hands,  and 
incapable  of  doing  anything  but  saying,  "  Can  it  be 
possible  ?  "  She  added  at  intervais,  "  Evcrything 
will  be  stained  with  blood."  When  the  first  horror 
had  passed  away  a  certain  pliilosophy  of  the  situation 
appeared  even  in  her  mind,  and  was  translated  by 
the  exclamation,  "  It  must  end  in  that  way."  She 
did  not  go  so  far,  though,  as  "  Did  I  not  say  so  ?  " 
which  is  usual  on  occasions  of  tins  nature. 

By  the  surgeon's  orders  a  folding-bed  was  put  up 
near  tlie  sofa.  He  examined  Marius,  and  after  satis- 
fying  himsclf  that  the  puise  still  beat,  that  the  patient 
had  no  penetrating  wound  in  the  chest,  and  that  the 
blood  at  the  corners  of  the  lipscame  from  the  nostrils, 
he  had  hiin  laid  flat  on  the  bed,  without  a  ])illow, 
the  head  level  with  the  body,  and  even  a  little  lowir, 
the  chest  bare,  in  order  to  facilitate  the  breathing. 
Mademoiselle  Gillenormand,  seeing  that  Marius  was 


THE   GRANDFATHER.  223 

being  undressed,  withdrew,  and  told  her  beads  in  her 
bed-room.  The  body  had  received  no  internai  injury  ; 
a  bail,  deadened  by  the  pocket-book,  had  deviated, 
and  passed  round  the  ribs  with  a  frightful  gash,  but 
as  it  was  not  deep,  it  was  therefore  not  dangerous. 
The  long  subterranean  march  had  completed  the  dis- 
location of  the  collar-bone,  and  there  were  serious 
injuries  there.  The  amis  were  covered  with  sabre- 
cuts  ;  no  scar  disfigured  the  face,  but  the  head  was 
eut  ail  over  with  gashes.  What  would  be  the  state 
of  thèse  wounds  on  the  head,  —  did  they  stop  at  the 
scalp,  or  did  they  reach  the  brain  ?  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  say  yet.  It  was  a  serious  syniptoni  that  they 
had  caused  the  faintness.  And  men  do  not  always 
awake  from  such  fainting-fits  ;  the  hemorrhage,  more- 
over,  had  exhausted  the  wounded  man.  From  the 
waist  downward  the  lower  part  of  the  body  had  been 
protected  by  the  barricade. 

Basque  and  Nicolette  tore  up  linen  and  prepared 
bandages  :  Nicolette  sewed  them  and  Basque  rolled 
them.  As  they  had  no  lint,  the  physician  had  tem- 
porarily  checked  the  effusion  of  blood  with  cakes  of 
wadding.  By  the  side  of  the  bed  three  candies  burned 
on  the  table  on  which  the  surgeon's  pocket-book  lay 
open.  He  washed  Marius's  face  and  hair  with  cold 
water,  and  a  bucketful  was  red  in  an  instant.  The 
porter,  candie  in  hand,  lighted  him.  The  surgeon 
seemed  to  be  thinking  sadly  :  from  time  to  time  he 
gave  a  négative  shake  of  the  head,  as  if  answering 
some  (]ucstion  which  he  mentally  addressed  to  himself. 
Such  mysterious  dialogues  of  the  physician  with  him- 
self are  a  bad  sign  for  the  patient.     At  the  moment 


224  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

when  the  surgeon  was  wiping  thc  face  and  gcntly 
touching  with  his  fingcr  the  still  closecl  eyelids,  a  door 
opened  at  the  end  of  the  rooni,  and  a  tîdl,  pale  figure 
appearcd  :  it  was  the  grandfather.  The  riot  during  the 
hist  two  days  had  greatly  agitatcd,  ofFended,  and  occu- 
pied  M.  Gillenormand  ;  he  had  not  been  able  to  sleep 
on  the  previous  night,  and  he  had  been  feverish  ail  day. 
At  night  he  went  to  bed  at  a  very  early  hour,  bidding 
his  people  bar  up  the  house,  and  had  fallen  asleep 
through  weariness. 

Old  men  hâve  a  fragile  slecp.  M.  Gîllenormand's 
bed-room  joined  the  drawing-room,  and  whatever 
précautions  had  been  takcn,  thc  noise  awoke  him. 
Surprised  by  the  crack  of  îight  which  he  saw  in  his 
door,  lie  had  got  out  of  bed  and  groped  his  way  to 
the  door.  He  was  standing  on  the  threshold,  with 
one  hand  on  the  door-handle,  his  head  slightly  bent 
forward  and  shaking,  his  body  enfolded  in  a  white 
dressing-gown  as  straight  and  creaseless  as  a  winding- 
sheet  :  he  was  surprised,  and  looked  like  a  ghost 
peering  into  a  tondj.  He  noticcd  the  bed,  and 
on  the  mattress  this  young  bleeding  nian,  of  the 
whiteness  of  wax,  with  closed  eyes,  opcn  mouth, 
livid  cheeks,  naked  to  the  waist,  niarked  ail  ovcr 
with  verniilion,  wounded,  niotionless,  and  brightly 
illumined. 

The  grandfather  had  from  head  to  foot  that  shud- 
der  which  ossified  limbs  can  hâve.  His  eyes,  whose 
cornea  was  yellow  owing  to  their  great  âge,  were 
vciled  by  a  sort  of  glassy  stare  ;  his  entire  face  as- 
sumed  in  an  instant  the  carthly  angles  of  a  skelcton's 
head  ;  his  anus  fell  pendent  as  if  a  spring  had  been 


THE   GKANDFATHER.  225 

broken  in  them,  and  his  stupor  was  displajed  by  the 
ontspreadiiig  of  ail  the  fingers  of  his  two  old  trem- 
bling  hands.  His  knees  formed  a  salient  angle,  dis- 
playing  throiigh  the  opening  of  his  dressing-govvn 
his  poor  naked  legs  bristling  with  white  hairs,  and 
he  murniured,  — 

"  Marins  !" 

"  He  has  just  been  brought  hère,  sir,"  said  Basque  ; 
"  he  went  to  the  barricade,  and  —  " 

"  He  is  dead,"  the  old  gentleman  exclaimed  in  a 
te  rible  voice.     "  Oh,  the  brigand  !  " 

Then  a  sort  of  sepulchral  transfiguration  drew  up 
tins  centenarian  as  straight  as  a  young  man. 

"  You  are  the  surgeon,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "  begin  by 
telling  me  one  thing.     He  is  dead,  is  he  not  ?  " 

The  surgeon,  who  was  frightfully  anxious,  niain- 
tained  silence,  and  M.  Gillenormand  wrung  his  hands 
with  a  burst  of  terrifying  laughter. 

"  He  is  dead,  he  is  dead  !  He  has  let  himself  be 
killcd  at  the  barricade  throngh  liatred  of  me  ;  it  was 
against  me  that  he  did  it  !  Ah,  the  blood-drinker, 
that  is  the  way  in  which  he  returns  to  me  !  Woe  of 
my  life,  he  is  dead  !  ' 

He  went  to  a  window,  opened  it  quite  wide,  as  if 
he  were  stifling,  and  standing  there  began  speaking 
to  the  night  in  the  street. 

"Stabbed,  sabred,  massacred,  cxterminated,  slashed, 
eut  to  pièces  !  Do  you  sce  that,  the  beggar  !  He 
knew  very  well  that  I  expectcd  him,  and  that  I  had  his 
rooni  ready,  and  that  I  had  placcd  at  my  bed-head 
his  portrait  when  he  was  a  child  !  He  knew  very 
well  that  he  need  only  return,  and  that  for  years  I 

VOL.    V.  15 


226  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

luid  beeii  recalling  him,  and  that  I  sat  at  night  by 
niy  fire-side  with  niy  hands  on  my  knees,  iiot  know- 
ing  wliat  to  do,  and  that  I  was  crazy  about  hini  ! 
You  knew  that  very  well  ;  you  had  only  to  return 
and  say,  '  It  is  I,'  and  you  would  be  tlie  master  of 
the  house,  and  I  would  obey  you,  and  you  could  do 
anything  you  liked  with  your  oid  ass  of  a  grand- 
father  !  You  knew  it  very  well,  and  said,  *  No,  he 
is  a  royalist,  I  will  not  go  !  '  and  you  went  to  the 
barricades,  and  hâve  let  yourself  be  killed  out  of 
spite,  in  order  to  revenge  yourself  for  what  I  said 
on  the  subject  of  JVIonsieur  le  Duc  de  Berry  !  Is  not 
that  infamous  !  Go  to  bed  and  sleep  quietly,  for  he 
is  dead,    This  is  my  awaking." 

The  surgeon,  who  was  beginning  to  be  anxious  for 
both,  left  Marins,  and  going  up  to  M.  Gillenornmnd, 
took  his  arm.  The  grandfather  tu'rned,  looked  at 
him  with  eyes  that  seemed  dilated  and  bloodshot, 
and  said  calmly,  — 

**  I  thank  you  sir,  I  am  calm.  I  am  a  man.  I 
saw  the  death  of  Louis  XVI.,  and  can  endure  cvents. 
Tliere  is  one  tliing  that  is  terrible,  —  it  is  the  thought 
that  it  is  your  nevvspapers  which  do  ail  the  mischief. 
You  hâve  scribblers,  speakers,  lawyers,  orators,  tri- 
Dunes,  discussions,  progress,  lights,  rights  of  man, 
liberty  of  the  press,  and  that  is  the  way  in  which 
your  children  are  brought  back  to  your  houses.  Oh, 
Marius,  it  is  abominable  !  Killed  !  dcad  before  me  ! 
a  barricade  !  Oh,  the  bandit  !  Doctor,  you  live  in 
the  quarter,  I  belicve  ?  Oh  yes,  I  know  you  well. 
I  hâve  seen  your  cab  pass  from  my  window.  Well, 
I  will  tell  you.     You  are  wrong  if  you  tliink  that  I 


THE   GRANDFATHER.  227 

am  in  a  passion,  for  people  do  not  get  in  a  passion 
with  a  dead  man,  it  would  be  stupid.  That  is  a  boy 
I  brought  up  ;  I  was  old  when  he  was  still  quite 
little.  He  played  in  the  Tuileries  with  his  little 
spade  and  his  httle  chair,  and,  in  order  that  the  in- 
spectors  shonkl  not  scold,  I  used  to  fill  up  with  my 
cane  the  holes  which  he  made  with  his  spade.  One 
day  he  cried,  '  Down  with  Louis  XVIII.  !  '  and  went 
ofF.  It  is  not  niy  fault.  He  was  ail  pink  and  white, 
and  his  mother  is  dead  :  hâve  you  noticed  that  ail 
little  children  are  light-haired  ?  He  is  a  son  of  one 
of  those  brigands  of  the  Loire,  but  children  are  inno- 
cent of  their  fathers'  crimes.  I  remeniber  him  when 
he  was  so  high,  and  he  could  never  manage  to  pro- 
nounce  a  d.  He  spoke  so  sweetly  and  inconipre- 
hensibly  that  you  might  hâve  fancied  him  a  bird. 
I  remember  one  day  that  a  circle  was  formed  in  front 
of  the  Farnese  Hercules  to  admire  that  child,  he 
was  so  lovely.  He  had  a  head  such  as  you  see  in 
pictures.  I  used  to  speak  loud  to  him,  and  threaten 
him  with  my  cane  ;  but  he  knew  very  well  that  it  was 
a  joke.     In  the  morning,  when  he  entered  my  room, 

I  scolded;  but  it  produced  the  effect  of  sunshine 
upon  me.  It  is  not  possible  to  défend  yourself  against 
thèse  brats,  for  they  take  you,  and  hold  you,  and  do 
not  let  you  go  again.  It  is  the  fact  that  there  never 
was  a  Cupid  like  that  child.  And  now  what  do  you 
say  of  your  Lafayette,  your  Benjamin  Constant,  and 
your  Tirecuir  de  Corcelles,  who  kill  him  for  me  ?  Oh, 
it  cannot  pass  away  like  that  !  " 

He  went  up  to  ]Marius,  who  was  still  livid  and  mo- 
tionless,  and  began  wringing  his  hands  again.    The  old 


228  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

gentleman's  white  lips  moved  as  it  were  mechanically, 
and  allowed  indistinct  sentences  to  pass,  which  were 
scarce  audible.  "  Ah,  lieartless  !  ah,  clubbist  !  ah, 
scoundrel  !  ah,  Septembrizer  !  "  —  reproaches  uttered 
in  a  ]ow  voice  by  a  dying  man  to  a  corpse.  By  degrees, 
as  siich  internai  éruptions  niust  always  burst  forth, 
the  flood  of  vvords  returncd  ;  but  tlie  grandfather 
seemed  no  longer  to  hâve  the  strength  to  utter  tliem  ; 
his  voice  was  so  hollow  and  choked  that  it  seemed 
to  conie  from  the  other  brink  of  an  abyss. 

"  I  do  not  care  a  bit  ;  I  will  die  too.  And  then 
to  think  there  is  not  a  wench  in  Paris  who  would 
not  be  happy  to  produce  the  happiness  of  that 
scoundrel,  —  a  scamp,  who,  instead  of  amusing  him- 
self  and  enjoying  life,  went  to  fight,  and  let  himself 
be  shot  like  a  brute  !  And  for  whom,  and  for  what  ? 
For  the  republic,  instead  of  going  to  dance  at  the 
Chaumière,  as  is  the  duty  of  young  men  !  It  is  really 
worth  whilc  being  twenty  years  of  âge.  The  re- 
public,— a  fine  absurdity  !  Poor  mothers  bring  pretty 
boys  into  the  world  for  that  !  Well,  he  is  dcad  ;  that 
will  make  two  hearscs  undcr  the  gateway.  So  you 
hâve  got  yourself  served  in  that  way  for  love  of 
General  Lainarquc  !  What  did  General  Lamarque 
do  for  you  ?  A  sabrer  !  a  chattcrer  !  to  get  one's  self 
killed  for  a  dead  man  !  Is  it  not  enougli  to  drive 
one  mad  ?  Can  you  understand  that?  At  twenty  ! 
and  without  turning  his  head  to  see  whether  he  left 
anything  behind  him  !  Xow,  see  the  poor  old  fellows 
who  are  obligcd  to  die  ail  alone.  Rot  in  your 
corner,  owl  !  Well,  aftcr  ail,  that  is  what  I  hoped 
for,  and  is  for  the  best,  as  it  will  kill  me  right  ofF. 


THE  GRANDFATHER.  229 

I  am  too  old  ;  I  am  one  hundred  ;  I  am  a  hundred 
thousand,  and  I  had  a  right  to  be  dead  long  ago, 
Well,  tliis  blow  settles  it.  It  Is  ail  over.  What  liap- 
piness  !  What  is  the  use  of  making  him  inhale  am- 
monia  and  ail  that  pile  of  drugs  ?  You  ass  of  a 
doctor,  you  are  wasting  your  tirae.  There,  he  's 
dead,  quite  dead  !  I  know  it,  for  I  am  dead  too. 
He  did  not  do  the  thing  by  halves.  Yes,  the  présent 
âge  is  infamous,  infamous,  infamous  !  And  that  is 
what  I  think  of  you,  your  ideas,  your  Systems,  your 
masters,  your  oracles,  your  doctors,  your  scamps  of 
writcrs,  your  rognes  of  philosophers,  and  ail  the 
révolutions  which  hâve  startled  the  Tuileries  ravens 
during  the  last  sixty  years.  And  since  you  were 
pitiless  in  letting  yourself  be  killed  so,  I  will  not  even 
feel  sorry  at  your  death.     Do  your  hear,  assassin  ?  " 

At  this  moment  Marins  slowly  opened  his  eyes, 
and  his  glanée,  still  veiled  by  léthargie  surprise,  settled 
on  M.  Gillenormand. 

"  Marins  !  "  the  old  man  eried  ;  "  Marins,  my  little 
Marins  !  My  child  !  My  beloved  son  !  You  open 
your  eyes  !  You  look  at  me  !  You  are  alive  ! 
ThanksV' 

And  he  fell  down  in  a  fainting  fit. 


BOOK    IV. 
JAVERT  DERAILED. 


Javert  retirée!  slowlj  from  the  Rue  de  l'Homme 
Armé.  He  walked  with  drooping  head  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  and  equally  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  with  his  hands  behind  his  back.  Up  to  that  day 
Javert  had  only  assumed,  of  Napoleon's  two  attitudes, 
the  one  which  expresses  resolution,  the  arms  folded 
on  the  chest  ;  the  one  indicating  uncertainty,  the 
arms  behind  the  back,  was  unknovvn  to  him.  Now 
a  change  had  taken  place,  and  his  whole  person, 
slow  and  sombre,  was  stamped  with  anxiety.  He 
buried  himself  in  the  silent  streets,  but  followed 
a  certain  direction.  He  wcnt  by  the  shortest  road 
to  the  Seine,  reached  the  Quai  des  Ormes,  walked 
along  it,  passed  the  Grève,  and  stopped,  a  little  dis- 
tance from  the  Place  du  Châtelct,  at  the  corner  of 
the  Pont  Nôtre  Dame.  The  Seine  makes  there, 
between  that  bridge  and  the  Pont  au  Change  on 
one  side,  and  the  Quai  de  la  Mégisserie  and  the 
Quai  aux  Fleurs  on  the  otlier,  a  species  of  square 
lake  traversed  by  a  rapid.  This  point  of  the  Seine 
is  feared  by  sailors  ;  nothing  can  be  more  dangerous 


JAVERT   DERAILED.  :?31 

than  this  rapid,  at  tliat  period  contracted  and  irri- 
tated  by  the  piles  of  tlie  mill  bridge,  since  de- 
molished.  The  two  bridges,  so  close  to  each  other, 
heighten  the  danger,  for  the  water  hurries  formidably 
through  the  arches.  It  rolls  in  broad,  terrible  waves, 
it  increases,  and  is  heaped  up  ;  the  flood  strives  to 
root  ont  the  piles  of  the  bridge  with  thick  liquid 
cords.  ISIen  who  fall  in  there  do  not  reappear,  and 
the  best  swimmers  are  drowned. 

Javert  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  parapet,  his  chin 
op  his  hand,  and  while  his  hands  mechanically  closed 
on  his  thick  whiskers,  he  reflected.  A  novelty,  a 
révolution,  a  catastrophe  liad  just  taken  place  within 
hini,  and  he  nuist  examine  into  it.  Javert  was  suf- 
fering  horribly,  and  for  some  hours  past  Javert  had 
ceased  to  be  simple.  He  was  troubled  ;  this  brain, 
so  linipid  in  its  blindness,  had  lost  its  transparency, 
and  there  was  a  cloud  in  this  crvstal.  Javert  felt  in 
his  conscience  duty  doubled,  and  he  could  not  hide 
the  fact  from  himself.  When  he  met  Jean  Valjean 
80  unexpectedly  on  the  Seine  bank,  he  had  some- 
thing  within  him  of  the  wolf  that  recaptures  its  prey 
and  the  dog  that  finds  its  master  again.  He  saw 
bcfore  him  two  roads,  both  equally  straight  ;  but  he 
saw  two  of  them,  and  this  terrified  him,  as  he  had 
never  known  in  his  life  but  one  straight  line.  And, 
poignant  agony  !  thèse  two  roads  were  contrary,  and 
one  of  thèse  right  lines  excluded  the  other.  Which 
of  the  two  was  the  true  one  ?  His  situation  was  inde- 
scribable  :  to  owe  his  life  to  a  malefactor,  to  accept 
this  debt  and  repay  hira  ;  to  be,  in  s^iite  of  himself,  on 
the  same  footing  ^vith  an  escaped  convict,  and  requite 


232  JEAN   VALJEAN 

oiie  service  witli  aiiother  service  ;  to  let  it  be  said 
to  liim,  "  Be  ofF!  "  and  to  say  in  his  turn,  "  Be  free  !  " 
to  sacrifice  to  personal  motives  diity,  that  gênerai 
obligation,  and  to  feel  in  thèse  personal  motives  some- 
thing  gênerai  too,  and  perhaps  superior  ;  to  betray 
Society  in  order  to  remain  faithful  to  his  conscience, 
—  that  ail  thèse  absurdities  should  be  realized,  and 
accumnlated  npon  liira,  was  what  startled  him.  One 
thing  had  astonished  him,  —  that  Jean  Valjean  had 
shown  him  mercy  ;  and  one  thing  had  petrified  liini,  — 
that  he,  Javert,  had  shown  mercy  to  Jean  Valjean. 

Where  was  he  ?  He  sought  and  no  longer  found 
himself.  What  was  he  to  do  now  ?  To  give  up 
Jean  Valjean  was  bad,  to  leave  Jean  Valjean  at  lib- 
erty  was  bad.  In  the  former  case,  the  man  of  au- 
thority  fell  lower  than  the  man  of  the  galleys  ;  in  the 
second,  a  convict  rose  higher  than  the  law,  and  set 
his  foot  npon  it.  In  either  case,  dishonor  for  him, 
Javert.  Whatever  resolution  he  might  form,  thcre 
was  a  fall,  for  destiny  has  certain  extremities  projcct- 
ing  over  the  impossible,  beyond  which  life  is  only  a 
précipice.  Javert  had  rcached  one  of  thèse  extrem- 
ities :  one  of  his  anxietics  was  to  be  constraincd  to 
tiiink,  and  the  very  violence  of  ail  thèse  contradictory 
émotions  compelled  him  to  do  so.  Now,  thought  was 
an  unnsual  tliing  for  liim,  and  singularly  painful. 
There  is  always  in  thought  a  certain  amount  of  inter- 
nai rébellion,  and  he  was  irritated  at  having  that 
witliin  him.  Thought,  no  mattcr  on  what  subjcct 
beyond  the  narrow  circle  of  his  destiny,  would  hâve 
been  to  him  in  any  case  usele«s  and  wearisome  ;  but 
thinking  about  the  day  which  had  just  passed  was  a 


JAVERT  DERAILED.  233 

torture.  And  yet  he  must  after  such  shocks  look  into 
his  conscience,  and  give  liimself  an  account  of  liim- 
self.  What  he  had  donc  caused  him  to  shudder  ;  lie, 
Javert,  had  thought  lit  to  décide  —  against  ail  police 
régulations,  against  ail  social  and  judicial  organiza- 
tion,  and  against  the  entire  codes  —  a  discliarge  :  that 
had  suited  hini.  He  had  substituted  his  own  afFairs 
for  public  afFairs  ;  was  not  that  unjustifiable  ?  Each 
time  that  he  stood  facing  the  nameless  action  which 
he  had  committed,  he  trembled  froni  head  to  foot. 
What  should  he  résolve  on  ?  Only  one  resource  was 
left  him,  —  to  return  at  full  speed  to  the  Rue  de 
l'Homme  Armé  and  lock  up  Jean  Valjean.  It  was 
clear  that  tins  was  what  he  ought  to  do,  but  he  could 
not  do  it.  Sometliing  barred  the  way  on  that  side. 
What  !  is  there  anything  in  the  world  besides  sen- 
tences, the  police,  and  the  authorities  ?  Javert  was 
overwhelmed. 

A  saci'ed  galley-slave  !  a  convict  impregnable  by 
justice,  and  that  through  the  deed  of  Javert  !  Was 
it  not  friglitful  that  Javert  and  Jean  Yaljean,  the 
man  made  to  punish  and  the  nian  made  to  endure,  — 
that  thèse  two  men,  wlio  were  both  the  property  of 
the  law,  should  hâve  reached  the  point  of  placing 
themselves  both  above  the  law  ?  What  !  such  enor- 
mities  could  happen  and  no  one  be  punished  ?  Jean 
Valjean,  stronger  than  the  whole  social  order,  would 
be  free,  and  he,  Javert,  would  continue  to  eat  the 
bread  of  the  Government  !  His  rêverie  gradually 
became  terrible  :  he  mi^ht  through  tins  rêverie  hâve 
reproached  himsclf  slightly  on  the  subject  of  the  in- 
surgent carried  home  to  tlie  Rue  des  Filles  du  Cal- 


234  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

vaire,  but  he  did  iiot  think  of  it.  The  slighter  fault 
was  lost  in  the  greater  ;  and  besides,  tins  insurgent 
was  evidently  a  dead  man,  and,  legally,  death  cliccks 
persécution.  Jean  Valjean,  —  that  was  the  weight 
which  he-had  on  his  mind.  Jean  Valjean  disconcertcd 
him.  Ail  the  axionis  which  had  becn  the  support  of 
his  whole  life  crunibled  away  before  this  man,  and 
the  generosity  of  Jean  Valjean  to  liim,  Javert,  over- 
whelmed  him.  Other  facts  which  he  remembered,  and 
which  he  had  formerly  treated  as  fiUsehoods  and  folly, 
now  returned  to  his  mind  as  realities.  M.  Madeleine 
reappeared  behind  Jean  Valjean,  and  the  two  figures 
were  blended  into  one,  which  was  vénérable.  Javert 
felt  that  something  horrible,  admiration  for  a  convict, 
w^as  entcring  his  soûl.  Respect  for  a  galley-slave, 
is  it  possible  ?  He  shuddered  at  it,  and  could  not  es- 
•cape  from  it,  although  he  struggled.  He  was  reduced 
to  confess  in  his  soûl  the  sublimity  of  this  villain,  and 
this  was  odious.  A  benevolent  malefactor,  a  com- 
passionate,  gentlc,  helping,  and  mercifui  convict, — 
repaying  good  for  evil,  pardon  for  hatred,  preferring 
pity  to  vengeance,  ready  to  destroy  himself  sooner 
than  his  enemy,  saving  the  man  who  had  struck  him, 
kneeling  on  the  pinnacle  of  virtue,  and  nearer  to  the 
angels  than  to  man.  Javert  was  constrained  to  con- 
fess to  himself  that  such  a  monster  existed. 

This  could  not  last.  Assuredly  —  and  we  lay 
stress  on  the  fact  —  he  liad  not  yielded  without  ré- 
sistance to  this  monster,  to  this  infamous  angel,  to 
this  hideous  hero,  at  whom  he  felt  almost  as  indig- 
nant as  stupefied.  Twenty  tinies  while  in  that  hack- 
ney  coach  face  to  face  with  Jean  Valjean  the  légal 


JAVERT  DERAILED.  235 

tiger  had  roareci  withiii  hini.  Twenty  times  he  liad 
feit  tempted  to  hurl  himself  on  Jean  Valjean,  to 
seize  and  devour  hini,  —  thai  is  to  say,  arrest  liim. 
What  more  simple,  in  fact,  —  shout  to  the  nearest 
post  before  which  he  passed,  ''  Hère  is  a  convict 
who  lias  broken  liis  ban  !  "  and  then  go  away,  leave 
the  condemned  man  there,  be  ignorant  of  the  rest. 
and  interfère  no  further  ?  This  man  is  eternally  the 
prisoner  of  the  law,  and  the  law  will  do  what  it 
pleases  with  him.  What  was  fairer  ?  Javert  had  said 
ail  this  to  himself  ;  he  had  wislied  to  go  further,  —  to 
act,  apprehend  the  man,  —  and  then,  as  now,  had  been 
unable  ;  and  each  time  that  his  hand  was  convulsively 
raised  to  Jean  Valjean's  collar,  it  fell  back  as  if  un- 
der  an  enormous  weight,  and  he  heard  in  the  bottora 
of  his  heart  a  voice,  a  strange  voice,  crying  to  him, 
*'  That  is  well.  Give  up  your  saviour,  then  send  for 
Pontius  Pilate's  basin,  and  wash  your  hands  in  it  !  " 

Then  his  thoughts  reverted  to  himself,  and  by  the 
side  of  Jean  Valjean  aggrandized  he  saw  himself  de- 
graded.  A  convict  was  his  benefactor,  but  why  had 
he  allowed  that  man  to  let  him  live  ?  He  had  the 
right  of  being  killed  at  that  barricade,  and  should 
hâve  employed  that  right.  It  would  hâve  been  better 
to  call  the  other  insurgents  to  his  aid  against  Jean 
Valjean,  and  hâve  himself  shot  by  force.  His  su- 
prême agony  was  the  disappearance  of  certainty,  and 
he  felt  himself  uprootcd.  The  code  was  now  only  a 
stump  in  his  hand,  and  he  had  to  deal  with  scruples 
of  an  unknown  species.  There  was  within  him  a 
sentimental  révélation  entirely  distinct  from  the  légal 
affirmation,  his  sole  measure  hitherto,  and  it  was  not 


23G  JEAN    VALJEAS. 

sufficient  to  remaiii  in  his  old  honesty.  A  whole 
ordei-  of  unexpected  facts  arose  and  subjugated  him, 
an  eutire  new  wovld  appeared  to  his  soûl  ;  bencfits 
accepted  and  returncd,  dévotion,  mercy,  indulgence, 
violence  done  by  pity  to  austerity,  no  more  définitive 
condenination,  no  more  damnation,  the  possibility  of 
a  tear  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  and  perhaps  some  justice 
according  to  God  acting  in  an  inverse  ratio  to  justice 
according  to  man.  He  })erceived  in  the  darkness  the 
rising  of  an  unknown  moral  sun,  and  he  was  horrified 
and  dazzled.  He  was  an  owl  forced  to  look  like  the 
eagle. 

He  said  to  hiraself  that  it  was  true,  then,  that 
there  wcre  exceptions,  that  authority  might  be  dis- 
concertcd,  that  the  rule  might  fall  short  in  the  prés- 
ence of  a  fact,  that  everything  was  not  contained  in 
the  text  of  a  code,  that  the  unforeseen  made  itself 
obeyed,  that  the  virtue  of  a  convict  might  set  a  snare 
for  the  virtue  of  a  functionary,  that  the  monstrous 
might  be  divine,  that  destiny  had  such  ambuscades  ; 
and  he  thought  with  despair  that  he  had  himself  not 
been  protected  from  a  surprise.  He  was  compellcd 
to  recognize  that  goodncss  existed  ;  this  galley-slave 
had  been  good,  and  he,  extraordinary  to  say,  had 
been  good  also.  Hence  he  was  bccoming  dcpravcd. 
He  felt  that  he  was  a  coward,  and  it  horrified  him. 
The  idéal  ibr  Javert  was  not  to  be  human,  grand,  or 
sublime  ;  it  was  to  be  irreproachable,  —  and  now  he 
had  broken  down.  How  had  he  reached  this  stage  ? 
How  had  ail  this  happened?  He  could  not  hâve 
told  himself.  He  took  his  hcad  betwecn  his  hands  ; 
but  whatever  he  might  do,  he  could  not  succeed  in 


JAVERT  DERAILED.  237 

explailling  it.  He  certainly  liad  hacl  the  intention  of 
delivering  Jean  Yaljean  ovcr  to  the  law,  of  which 
Jean  Valjean  was  the  captive  and  of  which  he  was 
the  slave.  He  had  not  confessed  to  hiniself  for  a 
single  instant,  while  he  lield  him,  that  he  had  a 
thought  of  letting  him  go  ;  it  was  to  some  cxtent 
unconsciously  that  his  hand  had  opened  and  allowed 
him  to  escape. 

Ail  soi'ts  of  enigmatic  novelties  passed  before  his 
eyes.  He  asked  himself  questions  and  gave  himself 
answers,  and  his  answers  terrified  him.  He  asked 
himself,  "  What  has  tins  convict,  tliis  desperate  man, 
whom  I  followed  to  persécution,  and  who  had  me 
under  his  heel,  and  could  hâve  avenged  hiniself,  and 
ought  to  hâve  acted  so,  both  for  his  rancor  and 
his  security,  donc  in  leaving  me  my  life  and  showing 
me  mercy,  —  his  duty  ?  No,  something  more.  And 
what  hâve  I  done  in  showing  him  mercy  in  my  turn, 
—  my  duty  ?  Nq,  something  more.  Is  there,  then, 
something  more  than  duty  ?  "  Hère  he  was  terrified, 
he  was  thrown  oiF  his  balance,  —  one  of  the  scales  fell 
into  the  abyss,  the  other  ascended  to  heaven  ;  and 
Javert  felt  no  less  horror  at  the  one  above  than  at  the 
one  bclow.  Without  being  the  least  in  the  world 
what  is  termed  a  Voltairian,  or  philosopher,  or  in- 
credulous  man,  respectful,  on  the  contrary,  instinc- 
tive ly  to  the  Established  Church,  he  only  knew  it  as 
an  august  fragment  of  the  social  ensemble;  order 
was  his  dogma,  and  sufficient  for  him.  Since  he 
had  attained  man's  âge  and  office,  he  had  set  nearly 
ail  his  religion  in  the  police,  being,  —  and  we  employ 
the  words  without  the  slightest  irony,  and  in  their 


238  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

most  serions  acceptation,  —  being,  as  we  hâve  said, 
a  spy,  as  another  maii  is  a  priest.  He  had  a  superior, 
M.  Gisquet  ;  but  he  had  never  thought  iip  to  this 
day  of  that  other  superior,  God.  He  felt  the  prés- 
ence of  this  nevv  Chief  unexpectedly,  and  was  trou- 
bled  by  Him.  He  was  thrown  ont  of  gear  by  this 
person  ;  he  knevv  not  what  to  do  with  this  Superior, 
for  he  was  not  ignorant  tiiat  the  subordinate  is  bound 
always  to  bow  the  head,  that  he  must  neither  dis- 
obey,  nor  blâme,  nor  discuss,  and  that  when  facing  a 
superior  who  astonishes  him  too  much,  the  infcrior 
has  no  other  resource  but  liis  résignation.  But  how 
could  he  manage  to  give  in  liis  résignation  to 
God? 

Howevcr  this  might  be,  one  fact  to  which  he  con- 
stantly  returned,  and  which  ruled  everything  else, 
was  that  he  had  just  committed  a  frightful  infraction 
of  the  law.  He  had  closed  his  eyes  to  a  relapscd 
convict  who  had  broken  his  ban  ;  he  had  set  a  galley- 
slave  at  liberty.  He  had  stolen  from  the  laws  a  man 
who  belonged  to  them.  He  had  donc  this,  and  no 
longer  understood  himself.  He  was  not  certain  of 
being  himself.  The  very  reasons  of  his  deed  escaped 
him,  and  he  only  felt  the  dizziness  it  produccd.  He 
had  lived  up  to  this  moment  in  that  blind  faith  which 
engenders  a  dark  probity  ;  and  this  faith  was  leaving 
him,  this  probity  had  failcd  him.  Ail  that  he  had 
believed  was  dissipated,  and  truths  which  he  did  not 
désire  inexorably  besieged  him.  He  must  hence- 
forth  be  another  man,  and  he  suffcred  the  strange 
pain  of  a  conscience  suddcnly  operated  on  for  cata- 
ract.     He  saw  what  it  was  répulsive  to  him  to  see. 


JAVERT   DERAILED.  239 

and  felt  himsclf  spent,  useless,  dislocated  from  his 
past  life,  discharged  and  dissolved.  Authority  was 
dead  within  him,  and  lie  no  longer  had  a  reason  for 
living.  Terrible  situation  !  to  be  moved.  To  be 
made  of  granité,  and  doubt  !  To  be  the  statue  of 
punishment  cast  ail  of  one  pièce  in  the  niould  of  the 
law,  and  suddenly  to  perceive  that  you  hâve  under 
your  bronze  bosom  something  absurd  and  disobe- 
dient,  which  almost  resembles  a  heart  !  To  hâve 
requited  good  for  good,  though  you  hâve  said  to 
yourself  up  to  this  day  that  such  good  is  evil  !  To 
be  the  watch-dog,  and  fawn  !  To  be  ice,  and  melt  ! 
To  be  a  pair  of  pincers,  and  become  a  hand  !  sud- 
denly to  feel  your  fingers  opening  !  To  lose  your 
hold.  Oh,  what  a  frightful  thing  !  The  man  pro- 
jectile, no  longer  knowing  his  road,  and  recoiling  ! 
To  be  obliged  to  confess  this  :  infallibility  is  not  in- 
fallible  ;  there  may  be  an  error  in  the  dognia  ;  ail  is 
not  said  when  a  code  has  spoken,  society  is  not  per- 
fect,  authority  is  coniplicated  with  vacillation,  a  crack 
in  the  imniutable  is  possible,  judges  are  men,  the  law 
may  be  deceived,  the  courts  may  make  a  mistake  ! 
To  see  a  flaw  in  the  immense  blue  window-glass  o^ 
the  firmament. 

What  was  taking  place  in  Javert  was  the  Fam- 
poux  of  a  rectilinear  conscience,  the  overthrow  of  a 
mind,  the  crushing  of  a  probity  irresistibly  hurled  in 
a  straight  line  and  breaking  itself  against  God.  It 
was  certainly  strange  that  the  fireman  of  order,  the 
engineer  of  authority,  mountcd  on  the  blind  iron 
horsc,  could  be  unsaddled  by  a  beam  of  light  !  That 
the  incommutable,  the  direct,  the  correct,  the  geo- 


240  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

metrical,  tlie  passive,  the  perfect,  could  beiid  ;  that 
there  sliould  be  for  the  locomotive  a  road  to  Uamas- 
cus  !  God,  ever  within  man,  and  Himself  the  true 
conscience,  refractorj  to  the  false  conscience  ;  the 
spai'k  forbidden  to  expire,  the  ray  ordered  to  re- 
membcr  the  sun,  the  mind  enjoined  to  recognize  the 
true  absolute  when  it  confronts  itself  with  the  ficti- 
tious  absolute,  a  humanity  that  cainiot  be  lost  ;  the 
human  heart  inadmissible,  —  did  Javert  comprehend 
this  splendid  phenomcnon,  the  most  glorious,  per- 
haps,  of  our  internai  prodigies?  Did  he  penetrate 
It  ?  Did  he  explain  it  to  himself  ?  Evidently  no. 
But  undcr  the  pressure  of  this  incompréhensible  in- 
contestability  he  felt  his  brain  cracking.  He  was 
less  transfigured  than  the  victim  of  this  prodigy  :  he 
endured  it  with  exaspération,  and  only  saw  in  ail 
this  an  immense  difïiculty  of  living.  It  seemed  to 
him  as  if  henceforth  his  breathing  was  eternally  im- 
peded.  He  was  not  accustomed  to  hâve  anything 
unknown  over  his  head  ;  hitherto  every thing  he  had 
above  him  had  bcen  to  his  eye  a  clear,  simple,  limpid 
surface  ;  there  was  nothing  unknown  or  obscure, 
—  nothing  but  what  was  definite,  co-ordinated,  en- 
chaincd,  précise,  exact,  circumscribed,  limited,  and 
closed.  Everything  foresccn,  authority  was  a  flat  sur- 
face ;  there  was  no  fall  in  it  or  dizziness  before  it. 
Javert  had  never  seen  anything  unknown  except  be- 
low  him.  Irregularity,  unexpcctcd  things,  the  dis- 
orderly  opening  of  the  chaos,  and  a  possible  fall  over 
a  précipice,  —  ail  this  was  the  doing  of  the  lower 
régions,  of  the  rebels,  the  wicked  and  the  wretched. 
How  Javert  threw  himself  back,  and  was  suddcnly 


JAVERT   DERAILED.  241 

startled   by  tliis  extraordinarj  apparition,  —  a  gulf 
above  him  ! 

What  then  !  tlie  world  was  disiiiantled  from  top 
to  bottom  and  absolutely  disconcerted  !  In  what 
could  men  trust,  when  what  they  felt  convinced  of 
was  crumbling  away  !  What  !  the  flaw  in  the  cuirass 
of  Society  could  be  formed  by  a  magnanimous  scoun- 
drel  !  What  !  an  honest  servant  of  the  hiw  could 
find  hiniself  caught  between  two  crimes,  —  the  crime 
of  letting  a  man  escape  and  the  crime  of  arresting 
him  !  Ail  was  not  certain,  then,  in  the  orders  given 
by  the  State  to  the  officiai  !  There  could  be  blind 
alleys  in  duty  !  What  then  ?  ail  this  was  real  !  Was 
it  true  that  an  ex-bandit,  bowed  under  condemna- 
tions,  could  draw  himself  up,  and  end  by  being  in  the 
right  ?  Was  this  crédible  ?  Were  there,  then,  cases 
in  which  the  law  niust  retire  bcfore  transfigured 
crime,  and  stammer  its  apologies  ?  Yes,  it  was  so  ! 
and  Javert  saw  it,  and  Javert  touched  it  !  And  not 
only  could  he  not  deny  it,  but  he  had  a  share  in  it. 
Thèse  were  rcalities,  and  it  was  abominable  that  real 
facts  could  attain  such  a  deformity.  If  facts  did 
their  duty  they  would  restrict  themselves  to  bring 
proofs  of  the  law,  for  facts  are  sent  by  God.  Was, 
then,  anarchy  about  to  descend  from  on  high  ?  Thus, 
both  in  the  exaggeration  of  agony  and  the  optical 
illusion  of  consternation,  everything  which  might 
hâve  restricted  and  corrected  his  impression  faded 
away,  and  society,  the  human  race,  and  the  universe 
henceforth  were  contained  for  his  eyes  in  a  simple 
and  hideous  outline.  Punishnient,  the  thing  tried, 
the  strength  due  to  the  législature,  the  decrees  of 

VOL.    V.  16 


242  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

sovereign  courts,  tlie  magistracy,  tlie  govcrninent, 
prévention  and  repression,  officiai  v/isdom,  légal  in- 
fallibility,  thc  principle  of  authority,  ail  tlie  dognias 
on  wliich  political  and  civil  security,  tlie  sovereignty, 
justice,  logic  flowing  from  tlie  code  and  public  trutli, 
were  a  lieap  of  ruins,  chaos.  Ile  hiipself,  Javert,  tlie 
watclier  of  order,  incorruptibility  in  tlie  service  of 
tlie  police,  tlie  trusty  inastiff  of  society,  conquercd 
and  liuiled  to  tlie  ground  ;  and  on  thc  sumniit  of  ail 
tliis  ruin  stood  a  man  in  a  greeii  cap,  and  with  a 
glory  round  liis  brow,  —  sucli  was  tlie  state  of  over- 
tlirow  lie  liad  reaclied,  such  the  friglitful  vision  wliicli 
lie  liad  in  liis  mind.  Was  this  endurable  ?  No,  it 
was  a  violent  state,  were  there  ever  one,  and  there 
were  only  UVo  ways  of  escaping  from  it  :  one  was  to 
go  resolutely  to  Jean  Valjean  and  restore  to  tlie 
dungeon  the  man  of  the  galleys  ;  the  other  — 

Javert  Icft  the  parapet,  and  with  liead  crect  this 
time  walked  firndy  toward  the  guard-room  indicated 
by  a  lantern  at  one  of  the  corners  of  the  Place  du 
Chatclet.  On  reaching  it  lie  saw  through  the  window 
a  policeman,  and  went  in.  The  police  recognize  each 
other  merely  by  the  way  in  which  they  push  open 
the  door  of  a  guard-room.  Javert  nientioncd  his 
nanic,  showed  his  card  to  the  sergeant,  and  sat  down 
at  the  table  on  which  a  candie  was  burning.  There 
were  also  on  thc  table  a  pen,  a  leaden  inkstand,  and 
paper,  rcady  for  contingent  reports  and  the  records 
of  the  night  patrols.  This  table,  al  ways  completed 
by  a  straw  chair,  is  an  institution  ;  it  exists  in  ail 
police  offices  ;  it  is  always  adorned  with  a  boxwood 
saucer  fuU  of  sawdust,  and  a  box  of  rcd  walers,  and 


JAVERT   DERAILED.  243 

it  is  the  lower  stage  of  the  officiai  style.  It  is  hère 
that  the  State  literature  commences.  Javert  took 
the  pen  and  a  slieet  of  paper  and  began  writing. 
This  is  what  he  wrote  :  — 


*  A  FEW  REMARKS  FOR  THE  GOOD  OF  THE  SERVICE. 

"  1.  I  beg  M.  le  Préfet  to  cast  his  eyes  on  this. 

"  2.  Prisoners  when  they  return  from  examination 
at  the  magistrate's  office  take  off  their  shoes  and 
remain  barefoot  on  the  slabs  while  they  are  being 
searched.  Some  cough  on  re-entering  prison.  This 
entails  infirmary  expenses. 

"  3.  Tracking  is  good,  with  relays  of  agents  at  reg- 
ular  distances  ;  bnt  on  important  occasions  two  agents 
at  the  least  should  not  let  each  other  out  of  sight,  be- 
cause  if  for  any  reason  one  agent  were  to  fail  in  his 
duty,  the  other  would  watch  him  and  take  his  place. 

"  4.  There  is  no  explanation  why  the  spécial  rules 
of  the  prison  of  the  ^ladelonnettes  prohibit  a  prisoner 
from  having  a  chair,  even  if  he  pay  for  it. 

"  5.  At  the  jNladelonnettes  there  are  only  two 
gratings  to  the  canteen,  which  allows  the  canteen 
woman  to  let  the  prisoners  touch  her  hand. 

"6.  The  prisoners  called  'barkers,'  who  call  the 
other  prisoners  to  the  visitors'  room,  demand  two 
sous  from  each  prisoner  for  crying  his  name  distinctly. 
This  is  a  robbery. 

"  7.  Ten  sous  are  kept  back  from  the  pay  of  a 
prisoner  working  in  the  weaving  room  for  a  running 
thread  ;  this  is  an  abuse  on  the  part  of  the  manager, 
as  the  cloth  is  not  the  less  îrood. 


244  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  8.  It  is  aiinoying  that  visitors  to  La  Force  are 
obliged  to  pass  through  the  boys'  court  in  proceeding 
to  the  speaking-room  of  Sainte  Marie  rÉgyptienne. 

"  9.  It  is  certain  that  gendarmes  are  daily  heard 
repeating,  in  the  court-yard  of  the  Préfecture,  the 
examination  of  prisoners  by  the  magistrates.  For  a 
gendarme,  who  ought  to  be  consecratcd,  to  repeat 
what  he  has  heard  in  the  examination  room  is  a 
serious  breach  of  duty. 

"  10.  Madame  Henry  is  an  honest  woman,  her 
canteen  is  very  clean  ;  but  it  is  wrong  for  a  woman  to 
hold  the  key  of  the  secret  cells.  This  is  not  worthy 
of  the  Conciergerie  of  a  great  civilization." 

Javcrt  wrote  thèse,  lines  in  bis  calmest  and  most 
correct  handwriting,  not  omitting  to  cross  a  t,  and 
making  the  paper  creak  firmly  beneath  his  pen. 
Under  the  last  line  he  signed, — 

'' Javert,  Inspector  of  the  first  cîass. 
"  At  the  pnst  of  the  Phice  du  Chatclet, 

ahout  oue  in  the  nioruiug,  June  7,  1832." 

Javert  dried  the  ink  on  the  paper,  folded  it  like 
a  letter,  sealed  it,  wrote  on  the  back,  "  Note  for  the 
Administration,"  left  it  on  the  table,  and  quitted 
the  guard-room.  The  glass  door  fell  back  after  him. 
He  again  diagonally  crosscd  the  Place  du  Chatclet, 
reachcd  the  quay  again,  and  went  back  witli  auto- 
matic  précision  to  the  same  spot  which  he  had  left 
a  quarter  of  an  hour  previously  ;  he  bent  down  and 
found  himsclf  again  in  the  same  attitude  on  the  same 
parapet  slab  ;  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  not  stirred.     The 


JAVEKT   DERAILED.  245 

darkness  was  complète,  for  it  was  tlie  sepulchral 
moment  which  follows  midnight  ;  a  ceiliiig  of  clouds 
hid  the  stars  ;  the  houses  in.the  Cité  did  not  display 
a  single  liglit,  no  one  passed,  ail  the  streets  and  quays 
that  could  be  seen  were  deserted,  and  Nôtre  Dame 
and  the  towers  of  the  Palace  of  Justice  appeared 
linéaments  of  the  night.  A  lamp  reddened  the  edge 
of  the  quay,  and  the  shadows  of  the  bridges  looked 
ghostly  one  behind  the  other.  Rains  had  swelled  the 
river.  The  spot  where  Javcrt  was  leaning  was,  it 
will  be  remembcred,  precisely  above  the  rapids  of  the 
Seine  and  that  formidable  whirlpool  which  unrolls 
itself  and  l'olls  itself  up  again  like  an  endless  screw. 
Javert  stooped  down  and  looked  ;  ail  was  dark,  and 
nothing  could  be  distinguished.  A  sound  of  spray 
was  audible,  but  the  river  was  invisible.  At  moments 
in  this  dizzy  depth  a  flash  appeared  and  undulated, 
for  water  has  the  power,  even  on  the  darkest  night, 
of  obtaining  light,  no  one  knows  whence,  and  chang. 
ing  itself  into  a  lizard.  The  glimmer  vanished  and 
ail  became  indistinct  again.  Immensity  seemed  open 
there,  and  what  was  beneath  was  not  water,  but  the 
gulf.  The  quay-wall,  abrupt,  confused,  mingled  with 
the  vapor,  hidden  immediately,  produced  the  effect 
of  a  précipice  of  infinitude. 

Nothing  could  be  seen  but  the  hostile  coldness 
of  the  water,  and  the  sickly  smell  of  the  damp  stones 
could  be  felt.  A  ferocious  breath  rose  from  this 
abyss  ;  and  the  swelling  of  the  river,  divined  rather 
thau  perceived,  the  tragic  muttcring  of  the  water, 
the  mournful  immensity  of  the  bridge  arches,  a  pos- 
sible fall  into  this  gloomy  vacuum,  —  ail  this  sliadow 


246  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

Avas  full  of  liorror.  Javert  remained  for  some  mo- 
ments motionless,  gazing  at  tins  opeiiing  of  tlie  dark- 
ness,  and  considered  the  invisible  with  an  intentness 
which  resemblcd  attention.  Ail  at  once  he  took  off 
his  bat  and  placed  it  on  tbe  brink  of  the  quay.  A 
moment  after  a  tall  black  figure,  which  any  belated 
passer-by  might  hâve  taken  at  a  distance  for  a  ghost, 
appeared  standing  on  the  parapet,  stooped  toward 
the  Seine,  then  drew  itself  up,  and  fell  straight  into 
the  darkness.  There  was  a  dull  plash,  and  the 
shadows  alone  were  in  the  secret  of  tins  obscure 
form  which  had  disappeared  beneath  the  waters. 


BOOK  Y. 
GRAXDSOX    AXD    GRAXDFATHER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"WHERE   TVE   AGAIX   MEET   THE    TREE   TTITH    THE 
ZI^'C    PATCH. 

SoME  time  aftev  tlie  events  wliich  we  hâve  jiist 
recorded,  the  Sieur  Boulatriielle  liad  a  lively  émotion. 
The  Sieur  Bouhitnielle  is  the  road-niender  of  Mont- 
fermeil  of  whom  Ave  hâve  ah'eady  cauî^ht  a  glinipse 
in  the  dark  portions  of  this  book.  Bouhitruelle,  it 
will  possibly  be  remembered,  was  a  nian  occupied 
with  troubled  and  various  things.  He  broke  stoncs 
and  phmdered  travellers  on  the  high^vay.  Road- 
mender  and  robber,  he  had  a  dream  :  he  believed 
in  the  treasures  buried  in  the  forest  of  ]\Iontfermeil. 
He  hoped  some  day  to  find  nioney  in  the  ground 
at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  and  in  the  mean  while  wilHngly 
fished  for  it  in  the  pockets  of  passers-by.  Still,  for 
the  présent  he  was  prudent,  for  he  had  just  had 
a  narrow  escape.  He  was,  as  we  know,  picked  up 
with  the  other  ruffians  in  Jondrette's  garret.  There 
is  some  usefulness  in  a  vice,  for  his  drunkenness 
^aved  him,  and  it  never  could  be  cleared  up  whether 
he  werc  there  as  a  robber  or  as  a  robbed  man.     He 


248  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

was  set  at  liberty  on  account  of  liis  proved  intoxi- 
cation on  the  night  of  tlie  attack,  and  returned  to 
tlie  woods.  He  went  back  to  his  road  from  Gagny 
to  Lagny,  to  break  stoncs  for  the  State,  under  sur- 
veillance, with  hanging  hcad  and  very-  thoughtlul, 
slightly  chillcd  by  the  robbcry  which  had  alniost 
ruined  hini,  but  turning  with  ail  tlie  more  tendernesa 
to  the  wiue  which  had  saved  him. 

As  for  the  lively  émotion  which  he  had  a  short 
time  after  his  return  bencath  the  turf-roof  of  liis 
road-mender's  cabin,  it  was  this  :  One  morning 
Boulatruelle,  while  going  as  usual  to  w^ork  and  to 
his  lurkinu-place,  possibly  a  little  before  daybreak, 
perceived  among  the  branches  a  man  whose  back 
he  could  alone  see,  but  ^Yhose  shape,  so  he  fancied, 
through  the  mist  and  darkness,  was  not  entirely  un- 
known  to  him.  Boulatruelle,  though  a  drunkard, 
had  a  correct  and  lucid  memory,  an  indispensable 
défensive  weapon  for  any  man  who  is  at  ail  on  bad 
terms  with  légal  order. 

"  Where  tlie  dcvil  hâve  I  seen  some  one  likc  tliat 
man  ?  "  he  askcd. 

But  he  could  give  himself  no  reply,  save  that  he 
resembled  somebody  of  wliom  lie  had  a  confused 
rccollection.  Boulatruelle,  however,  made  his  com- 
parisons  and  calculations,  though  lie  was  unable  to 
scttle  the  idcntity.  ïhis  man  did  not  belong  to 
tliose  parts,  and  had  come  thcre  evidently  afoot, 
as  no  public  vehiclo  passed  tln-ough  Montfermeil  at 
that  liour.  Ile  must  hâve  becn  walking  ail  night. 
Whcre  did  hc  come  from  ?  Xo  groat  distance,  for 
he   had   iieither   haversack  nor  bundle.     Doubtless 


THE   TREE    WITH   THE   ZINC   PATCIi.  249 

from  Paris.  Wliy  was  he  in  tliis  wood  ?  Why  was 
lie  there  at  such  an  hour  ?  Wliat  did  he  want  there  ? 
Boulatruelle  thought  of  the.  treasure.  By  dint  of 
racking  his  memory  he  vaguely  rcniembcred  having 
had,  several  years  previously,  a  simihir  alarm  on  the 
subject  of  a  man  who  niight  very  well  be  this  nian. 
While  meditating  he  had,  under  the  very  weight 
of  his  méditation,  hung  his  head,  a  natural  but  not 
élever  thing.  When  he  raised  it  again  the  man  had 
disappeared  in  the  forest  and  the  mist. 

"By  the  deuce  !  '  said  Boulatruelle,  "I  will  find 
liim  again,  and  discover  to  what  parisli  that  parish- 
ioner  bclongs.  This  walker  of  Patron-lNliuette  has  a 
motive,  and  I  will  know  it.  No  one  must  hâve 
a  seeret  in  my  forest  without  my  being  niixed  up 
in  it." 

He  took  up  his  pick,  which  was  very  sharp. 
'^  Hère  's  something,"  he  growled,  "  to  searcli  the 
ground  and  a  man," 

And  as  one  thread  is  attached  to  another  thread, 
covering  the  steps  as  well  as  he  could  in  the  direction 
which  the  man  must  hâve  pursued,  he  began  march- 
ing  through  the  coppice.  When  he  had  gone  about 
a  hundrcd  yards,  day,  which  was  beginning  to  break, 
aided  hini.  Footsteps  on  the  sand  hère  and  there, 
trampled  grass,  broken  heather,  young  branches  bent 
into  the  shrubs  and  rising  with  a  graceful  slowness, 
like  the  arms  of  a  pretty  wonian  who  stretches  her- 
self  on  waking,  gave  hiin  a  spccies  of  trail.  He  fol- 
lowed  it  and  then  lost  it,  and  time  slipped  away  ;  he 
got  decper  into  the  wood  and  reached  a  species  of 
eminence.     An  early  sportsman  passing  at  a  distance 


250  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

along  a  patli,  and  wliistling  tlie  air  of  Guillery,  gavo 
him  the  idea  of  clinibing  iip  a  tree,  and  thougli  old, 
he  was  active.  There  was  on  the  mound  a  very  largo 
beecli,  worthy  of  ïityrus  and  Boulatruelle,  and  lie 
climbed  up  the  tree  as  high  as  he  could.  The  idea 
was  a  good  one  ;  for  while  exploring  the  solitude  on 
the  side  where  the  wood  is  niost  entangled,  Boula- 
truelle  suddenly  perceived  the  man,  but  had  no 
sooner  seen  him  than  he  lost  him  out  of  sight  again. 
The  man  entered,  or  rather  glided,  into  a  rather 
distant  clearing,  masked  by  large  trees,  but  which 
Boulatruelle  knew  very  well,  because  he  had  noticed 
near  a  large  heap  of  stones  a  sick  chestnut-tree  ban- 
daged  with  a  zinc  plate  nailed  upon  it.  This  clear- 
ing is  what  was  formerly  called  the  Blaru-bottom, 
and  the  pile  of  stones,  intended  no  one  knows  for 
what  purpose,  which  could  be  seen  there  tliirty  years 
ago,  is  doubtless  there  still.  Nothing  equals  the 
longevity  of  a  heap  of  stones,  except  that  of  a  plank 
paling.  It  is  there  temporarily;  what  a  reason  for 
lasting  ! 

Boulatruelle,  with  the  rapidity  of  joy,  tumbled  ofF 
the  tree  rather  than  came  down  it.  The  lair  was 
found,  and  now  he  had  only  to  seize  the  animal. 
The  famous  treasure  he  had  dreamed  of  was  probably 
there.  It  was  no  small  undertaking  to  reach  the 
clearing  by  bcaten  paths  which  make  a  thousand 
annoying  windings  ;  it  would  take  a  good  quarter  of 
an  hour.  In  a  straight  line  through  the  wood,  which 
is  at  that  spot  singularly  dense,  very  thorny,  and 
most  aggressive,  it  would  take  half  an  hour  at  least. 
This  is  what  Boulatruelle  was  wrong  in  not  under- 


THE   TREE   WITII   THE   ZINC   PATCH.  251 

standing  ;  he  believcd  in  the  straight  line,  —  a  re- 
spectable optical  illusion  whicli  bas  ruined  many 
men.  The  wood,  bristling  thpugli  it  was,  appeared 
to  him  the  right  road. 

"  Let  us  go  hy  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  of  the  wolves," 
he  said. 

Boulatruelle,  accustomed  to  crooked  paths,  this 
time  committed  the  error  of  going  straight,  and  reso- 
lutely  cast  himself  among  the  shrubs.  He  had  to 
coiitend  with  holly,  ncttles,  hawthorns,  eglantines, 
thistles,  and  most  irascible  roots,  and  was  fearfully 
scratchcd.  At  the  bottom  of  the  ravine  he  came  to 
a  stream  which  he  was  obliged  to  cross,  and  at  last 
reached  the  Blaru  clearing  after  forty  minutes,  per- 
spiring,  wet  through,  blowing,  and  fcrocious.  There 
was  no  one  in  the  clearing.  Boulatruelle  hurried  to 
the  heap  of  stones  ;  it  was  still  in  its  place,  and  had 
not  been  carried  off.  As  for  the  man,  he  had  van- 
ished  in  the  forest.  He  had  escaped.  Where  ?  In 
which  direction?  Into  which  clump  of  trees?  It 
were  impossible  to  guess.  And,  most  crushing  thing 
of  ail,  there  was  behind  the  heap  of  stones  and  in 
front  of  the  zinc-banded  tree  a  pick,  forgotten  or 
abandoned,  and  a  hole  ;  but  the  hole  was  empty. 

"  Robber  !  "  Boulatruelle  cried,  shaking  his  fists 
at  heaven. 


CHAPTER   II. 

MARIUS     LEAVING    CIVIL     WAR    PREPARES    FOR    A 
DOMESTIC    WAR. 

Marius  was  for  a  long  time  neitlier  dead  iior 
alive.  He  bad  for  several  weeks  a  fever  accompanicd 
by  deliriuni,  and  very  serions  brain  syniptoms  caused 
by  tlie  sliocks  of  the  wounds  in  the  hcad  rather  tlian 
tlie  wounds  themselvcs.  He  repeated  Cosette's  name 
for  whole  nights  witli  the  lugubrious  loquacity  of 
fever  and  the  glooniy  obstinacy  of  agony.  The  width 
of  certain  wounds  was  a  serious  danger,  for  the  sup- 
puration of  wide  wounds  may  always  be  absorbed 
into  the  System,  and  consequcntly  kill  the  patient 
under  certain  atniospheric  influences  ;  and  at  eacli 
change  in  the  weather,  at  the  slightest  storni,  the 
physician  became  anxious.  "Mind  that  the  patient 
suffers  froni  no  émotion,"  he  repeated.  The  dressings 
were  complicated  and  difficult,  for  the  fixing  of  ban- 
dages and  lint  by  the  sparadrap  had  not  been  imag- 
ined  at  that  period.  Nicolette  expendcd  in  lint  a 
sheet  "  as  large  as  a  cciling,"  she  said  ;  and  it  was 
not  without  difhculty  that  the  chloruretted  lotions 
and  nitrate  of  silvcr  reachcd  the  end  of  the  gangrené. 
So  long  as  there  was  danger,  M.  Gillenorniand, 
broken-hearted  by  the  bedside  of  his  grandson,  was 
like  Marius,  neither  dead  nor  alive. 


MAEIUS   PREPARES   FOR  A  DOMESTIC  WAR.     253 

Eveiy  day,  and  sometimes  twice  a  day,  a  wliite- 
haircd  and  well-dressed  gentleman,  —  such  was  the  de- 
scription given  by  the  porter,  : —  came  to  inqnire  after 
the  woundcd  nian,  and  left  a  hirge  parcel  of  lint  for 
the  dressiugs.  At  length,  on  September  7th,  four 
months,  day  by  day,  from  the  painful  night  on  which 
lie  had  been  brought  home  dying  to  his  grandfather, 
the  physician  dcclarcd  that  he  could  answer  for  him, 
and  that  convalescence  was  setting  in.  JMarius,  how- 
evcr,  would  be  obliged  to  lie  for  two  months  longer 
on  a  couch,  owing  to  the  accidents  produced  by  the 
fracture  of  the  collar-bone.  There  is  always  a  last 
wound  like  that  which  will  not  close,  and  eternizes 
the  dressings,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  the  patient. 
This  long  illness  and  lengthened  convalescence,  how- 
ever,  saved  him  from  prosecution  :  in  France  there 
is  no  anger,  even  public,  which  six  months  do  not 
extinguish.  Riots,  in  the  présent  state  of  society, 
are  so  much  everybody's  fault,  that  they  are  followed 
by  a  certain  necessity  of  closing  the  eyes.  Let  us 
add  that  Gisquet's  unjusti fiable  decree  which  ordered 
physicians  to  denounce  their  patients  having  out- 
raged  opinion,  and  not  merely  opinion,  but  the  king 
first  of  ail,  the  wounded  were  covered  and  protected 
by  this  indignation,  and,  with  the  exception  of  those 
taken  prisoners  in  the  act  of  fighting,  the  courts- 
martial  did  not  dare  to  molest  any  oue.  Hence 
Marins  was  left  undisturbed. 

M.  Gillenonnand  first  passed  through  every  form 
of  agony,  and  then  through  every  form  of  ecstasy. 
Much  difRculty  was  found  in  keeping  him  from  pass- 
ing  the  whole  night  by  Marius's  side  ;  he  had  his 


254  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

large  easy-chair  brought  to  the  bed,  and  he  insisted 
on  his  daughter  taking  the  liiiest  linen  in  tlie  house 
to  make  compresses  and  bandages.  Mademoiselle 
Gillenormand,  as  a  sensible  and  elderly  lady,  nian- 
aged  to  save  the  fine  linen,  while  making  her  father 
believe  that  he  was  obeyed.  M.  Gillenormand  would 
not  listen  to  any  explanation,  that  for  the  purpose  of 
making  lint  fine  linen  is  not  so  good  as  coarse,  or 
new  so  good  as  worn.  Hc  was  présent  at  ail  the 
dressings,  from  which  ISIademoiselle  Gillenormand 
modestly  absented  herself.  When  the  dead  flesh 
was  eut  away  with  scissors  he  said,  "  Aïe,  aïe  !  " 
Nothing  was  so  touching  as  to  see  him  hand  the 
womidcd  man  a  cup  of  broth  with  his  gentle  senile 
trembling.  He  over\yhehiied  the  surgeon  with  ques- 
tions, and  did  not  pereeive  that  he  constantly  re- 
peated  the  same.  On  the  day  when  the  physician 
informed  him  that  Marins  was  ont  of  danger  he 
was  bcside  himself.  He  gave  his  porter  three 
louis  d'or,  and  at  night,  when  he  went  to  his  bed- 
room,  danced  a  gavotte,  making  castagnettes  of  his 
thumb  and  forefingcr,  and  sang  a  song  somethiug 
like  this  :  — 

"  Jeanne  est  née  à  Fougère, 
Vrai  nid  d'une  bergère  ; 
J'adore  son  jupon 
Fripon. 

"  Anionr,  tn  vis  en  elle  ; 
Car  c'est  dans  sa  prunelle 
Que  tu  mets  ton  carquois, 
Narquois  1 


MARIUS   PREPARES   FOR   A   DOMESTIC   WAR.     255 

"  Moi,  je  la  chante,  et  j'aime, 
Plus  que  Diane  même, 
Jeanne  et  ses  durs  tetous 
Bretons." 

Thcn  lie  knclt  on  a  chair,  and  Basque,  who  was 
watching  hini  through  the  crack  of  the  cloor,  felt  cer- 
tain that  lie  was  praying.  Up  to  tliat  day  lie  had 
never  bclieved  in  God.  At  eacli  new  phase  in  the 
improvenient  of  the  patient,  which  went  on  steadily, 
the  grandfather  was  extravagant.  He  performcd  a 
multitude  of  mechanical  actions  full  of  delight  :  he 
went  up  and  down  stairs  without  knowing  why.  A 
neighbor's  wife,  who  was  very  pretty,  by  the  way, 
was  stupefied  at  recciving  one  morning  a  large  bou- 
quet :  it  was  M.  Gillenormand  who  sent  it  to  lier, 
and  her  husband  got  up  a  jealous  scène.  M.  Gille- 
normand tried  to  draw  Nicolette  on  his  knees  :  he 
called  Marins  Monsieur  le  Baron,  and  shouted,  ''Long 
live  the  Republic  !  "  Every  moment  he  asked  the 
médical  man,  "  There  is  no  danger  now,  is  there  ?  " 
He  looked  at  Marins  with  a  grandmother's  eyes,  and 
gloated  over  him  when  he  slept.  He  no  longer 
knew  himself,  no  longer  took  himself  into  account. 
JMarius  was  the  master  of  the  house  ;  there  was  abdi- 
cation in  his  joy,  and  he  was  the  grandson  of  his 
grandson.  In  his  présent  state  of  merriment  he  was 
the  most  vénérable  of  children  :  through  fear  of 
wearying  or  annoying  the  convalescent  he  would 
place  himself  behind  him  in  order  to  smile  upon  him. 
He  was  satisfied,  joyous,  ravished,  charming  and 
young,  and  his  white  hair  added  a  gentle  majesty 
to  the  gay  light  which  he  had  on  his  face.     When 


256  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

grâce  is  mingled  with  wrinklcs  it  is  adorable  ;  and 
there  is  a  pcculiar  dawii  in  expansive  old  âge. 

As  for  Marins,  while  letting  himsclf  be  nnrsed  and 
petted,  he  had  onc  fixed  idea,  —  Cosette.  Since  the 
lever  and  deliriuni  had  left  liim  he  nô  h)nger  pro- 
nounced  this  name,  and  it  raight  be  supposcd  tljat  he 
had  forgottcn  it  ;  but  he  was  silent  precisely  because 
his  soûl  was  there.  He  knew  not  what  had  become 
of  Cosette  :  the  whole  afFair  of  the  Rue  de  la  Chan- 
vrerie  was  like  a  cloud  in  his  memory  ;  shadows 
almost  indistinct  tioatcd  through  his  spirit.  Epoiiine, 
Gavroche,  Mabœuf,  the  Thénardiers,  and  ail  his 
friends  niournfully  mingled  with  the  smoke  of  the 
barricade  ;  the  strange  passage  of  M.  Fauchelevent 
through  that  blood-stained  adventurc  produced  upon 
him  the  eftcct  of  an  enigma  in  a  tcmpest  :  he  under- 
stood  nothing  of  his  own  life,  he  knew  not  how  or 
by  whom  he  had  been  saved,  and  no  one  about 
knew  it  either  :  ail  they  were  able  to  tell  him  was 
that  he  had  been  brought  there  at  night  in  a  hackney 
coach.  Past,  présent,  future, —  ail  this  was  to  him  like 
the  mist  of  a  vague  idea  ;  but  there  was  in  this  niist 
one  immovable  point,  a  clear  and  précise  linéament, 
sometliing  made  of  granité,  a  resolution,  a  will,  —  to 
find  Cosette  again.  For  him  the  idea  of  life  was  not 
distinct  from  the  idea  of  Cosette  :  he  had  decrecd  in 
his  heart  that  he  Avould  not  reçoive  one  without  the 
other,  and  he  unalterably  determined  to  demand  of 
his  grandfather,  of  dcstiny,  of  fate,  of  Hades  itself, 
the  restitution  of  liis  lost  Kden. 

Ile  did  not  conceal  the  obstacles  from  himself. 
Hère  let  us  underline  one  fact  :  he  was  not  won  or 


MARIUS   PREPARES   FOR   A   DOMESTIC  WAR.     257 

greatly  affected  by  ail  tlie  anxiety  and  ail  the  tender- 
ness  of  bis  grandfatber.  In  tbe  first  place  lie  was 
not  in  tbe  secret  of  tbem  ail,  and  next,  in  bis  sick 
man's  rêveries,  whicb  were  perbaps  still  feverisb,  be 
distrusted  tbis  gentleness  as  a  strange  and  new  tbing 
intended  to  subdue  bim.  He  remained  cold  to  it, 
and  tbe  poor  grandfatber  lavisbed  bis  smiles  in  pure 
loss.  Marins  said  to  bimself  tbat  it  was  ail  very  well 
so  long  as  lie  did  not  speak  and  let  matters  rest  ;  but 
wben  be  came  to  Cosette,  be  sbould  find  anotber 
face,  and  bis  grandfatber's  rcal  attitude  would  be 
unmasked.  Tben  lie  would  be  rougli  ;  a  warming  up 
of  faniily  questions,  a  comparison  of  positions,  every 
possible  sarcasm  and  objection  at  once.  Faucbelevent, 
Coupelevent,  fortune,  poverty,  wretcbeduess,  tbe  stone 
on  tbe  neck,  tbe  future  a  violent  résistance,  and  tbe 
conclusion  —  a  refusai.  Marins  stifFened  bimself 
against  it  beforeband.  And  tben,  in  proportion  as 
be  regained  life,  bis  old  wrongs  reappeared,  tbe  old 
ulcers  of  bis  memory  reopened,  be  tbougbt  again  of 
tbe  past.  Colonel  Pontmercy  placed  bimself  once 
more  between  M.  Gillenormand  and  bim,  Marins,  and 
he  said  to  bimself  tbat  be  bad  no  real  kindness  to 
hope  for  from  a  man  wbo  bad  been  so  unjust  and 
barsb  to  bis  fatber.  And  witb  bealtb  came  back  a 
sort  of  bitterness  against  bis  grandfatber,  from  wbicb 
tbe  old  man  gently  suffered.  M.  Gillenormand,  witb- 
out  letting  it  be  seen,  noticed  tbat  Marins,  since  be 
bad  been  brougbt  bome  and  regained  consciousness, 
bad  never  once  called  bim  fatber.  He  did  not  say 
Sir,  it  is  true,  but  be  managed  to  say  neitber  one  nor 
the  otber,  by  a  certain  w\iy  of  turning  bis  sentences. 

17 


258  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

A  crisis  was  evideiitly  approacliing,  and,  as  nearlj 
always  happens  in  sucli  cases,  Marins,  in  order  to 
try  himself,  skirmished  before  oftering  battle  ;  tins  is 
called  feeling  the  ground.  One  morning  it  happened 
that  M.  Gilleuormand,  alluding  to  a  newspaper  which 
lie  had  come  aeross,  spoke  lightly  of  the  Convention, 
and  darted  a  Royalist  epigram  at  Danton,  St.  Just, 
and  Robespierre.  "  The  nien  of  '93  were  giants," 
Marins  said  sternly  ;  the  old  man  was  silent,  and  did 
not  utter  another  syllable  ail  the  day.  JMarius,  who 
had  the  inflexible  grandfather  of  his  early  years  ever 
preseiît  to  his  mind,  saw  in  this  silence  a  profonnd 
concentration  of  anger,  augured  from  it  an  obstinate 
struggle,  and  augmentcd  his  préparations  for  the  con- 
test  in  the  most  hidden  corners  of  his  inind.  He 
determined  that  in  case  of  refusai  he  would  tcar  off 
his  bandages,  dislocate  his  collar-bone,  expose  ail  the 
wounds  still  unhealed,  and  refuse  ail  food.  His 
wounds  were  his  ammunition  ;  he  niust  hâve  Cosette 
or  die.  He  awaited  the  favorable  moment  with  the 
crafty  patience  of  sick  persons,  and  the  moment 
arrived. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MARIUS   ATTACKS. 

One  day  J\I.  Gillenonnand,  while  his  daugliter 
was  arranging  the  phials  and  cups  on  the  marble 
slab  of  the  sideboard,  leaned  over  Marias,  and  said 
in  his  most  tender  accent,  — 

"  Look  you,  my  little  Marins,  in  your  place  I  would 
rather  cat  méat  than  fish  ;  a  fried  sole  is  excellent  at 
the  beginning  of  a  convalescence  ;  but  a  good  cutlet 
is  necessary  to  put  the  patient  on  his  legs." 

Marins,  whose  strength  had  nearly  quite  returned, 
sat  up,  rested  his  two  clenched  fists  on  his  sheet, 
looked  his  grandfather  in  the  face,  assumed  a  terrible 
air,  and  said,  — 

"  That  induces  me  to  say  one  thing  to  you." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

"  That  I  wish  to  marry." 

"  Foreseen,"  said  the  grandfather,  bursting  into 
a  laugh. 

"  How  foreseen  ?  " 

"  Yes,  foreseen.  You  shall  hâve  your  little  maid." 

Marins,  stupefied  and  dazzled,  trembled  in  ail  his 
limbs,  and  M.  Gillenormand  continued,  — 

"  Yes,  you  shall  hâve  the  pretty  little  dear.  She 
cornes  every  day  in  the  form  of  an  old  gentleman 


2G0  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

to  ask  after  you.  Ever  since  you  liave  been  wounded 
shc  bas  spent  her  time  in  crying  and  niaking  lint. 
I  madc  inquiries  ;  she  lives  at  No.  7,  Rue  de  l'Homme 
Armé.  Ah,  there  we  are  !  Ah,  you  want  her,  do 
you  ?  Well,  you  shall  hâve  her.  You  're  tricked 
this  time  ;  you  had  made  your  little  plot,  and  had 
said  to  yourself,  '  I  will  tell  it  point-blank  to  that 
grandfather,  that  munmiy  of  the  Regeney  and  the 
Directory,  that  old  beau,  that  Dorante  who  has 
become  Géronte  ;  he  has  had  bis  frolics  too,  and  bis 
amourettes,  and  bis  grisettes,  and  bis  Cosettes  ;  he 
bas  had  bis  fling,  he  has  had  bis  wings,  and  he  has 
eaten  the  bread  of  spring  :  he  must  surely  remember 
it,  we  shall  see.  Battle  !  '  Ah,  you  take  the  cock- 
chafer  by  the  horns  ;  very  good.  I  offer  you  a  cutlct, 
and  you  answer  me,  '  By  the  bye,  I  wish  to  marry.' 
By  Jupiter!  Hère 's  a  transition!  Ah,  you  made 
up  your  mind  for  a  quarrel,  but  you  did  not  know 
that  I  was  an  old  coward.  What  do  you  say  to 
that  ?  You  are  done  ;  you  did  not  expect  to  find 
your  grandfather  more  stupid  than  yourself.  You 
\m\e  lost  the  speech  you  intended  to  make  me, 
master  lawyer,  and  that  is  annoying.  Well,  ail  the 
worse,  rage  away  ;  I  do  what  you  waiit,  and  that 
stops  you,  stupid  !  Listen  !  I  bave  made  my  in- 
quiries, for  I  too  am  cunning  ;  she  is  charming,  she 
is  virtuous  ;  the  Lancer  does  not  spcak  the  truth, 
she  made  hcaps  of  lint.  She  is  a  jewel  ;  shc  adores 
you  ;  if  you  had  died  there  would  hâve  been  thicc 
of  us,  and  her  coffin  would  bave  accompanicd  mine. 
I  had  the  idea  as  soon  as  you  wcre  botter  of  planting 
her  there  by  your  bedside  ;  but  it  is  only  in  romances 


MAEIUS   AÏTACKS.  261 

that  girls  are  introduced  to  the  beds  of  handsome 
young  wounded  meii  in  whom  they  take  an  interest. 
That  would  not  do,  for  wliat  would  jour  aunt  say  ? 
You  were  quite  nakcd  three  parts  of  tlie  time,  sir  ; 
ask  Nicolette,  wlio  never  left  you  for  a  moment, 
whether  it  were  possible  for  a  female  to  be  hère  ? 
And  then,  what  would  the  doctor  hâve  said  ?  for 
a  pretty  girl  does  not  cure  a  fever.  Well,  say  no 
more  about  it  ;  it  is  settled  and  done  ;  take  her.  Such 
is  my  fury.  Look  you,  I  saw  that  you  did  not  love 
me,  and  I  said,  '  What  eau  I  do  to  niake  that  animal 
love  me  ?  '  I  said,  '  Stay,  I  hâve  my  little  Cosette 
ready  to  hand.  I  will  give  hcr  to  him,  and  then 
lie  must  love  me  a  little,  or  tell  me  the  reason  why.' 
Ah  I  you  believed  that  the  old  man  would  storm, 
talk  big,  cry  no,  and  lift  his  cane  against  ail  tins 
dawn.  Not  at  ail.  Cosette,  very  good  ;  love,  veiy 
good.  I  ask  for  nothing  botter  ;  take  the  trouble, 
sir,  to  marry  ;  be  happy,  my  beloved  child  !  " 

After  saying  this  the  old  man  burst  into  sobs. 
He  took  Marius's  head  and  pressed  it  to  his  old 
bosom,  and  both  began  weeping.  That  is  one  of 
the  forms  of  suprême  happiness. 

"  Aly  fatlier  !  "  Marins  exclaimed. 

"  Ah,  you  love  me,  then  !  "  the  old  man  said. 

There  was  an  ineffable  moment  ;  they  were  chok- 
ing  and  could  not  speak.  At  length  the  old  man 
stammered,  — 

"  Come  !  the  atopper  is  taken  ont  of  him  ;  he 
called  me  father." 

INlarius  disengaged  his  head  from  his  grandfather's 
arms,  and  said  gcntly,  — 


262  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Now  that  I  am  better,  father,  I  fancy  1  could 
see  lier." 

"  Foreseen,  too  ;  you  will  see  her  to-morrow." 

"  Father  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  ?  " 

"  Why  not  to-day  ?  " 

"  Well,  to-day  ;  done  for  to-day.  You  hâve  called 
me  father  thrice,  and  it  s  wortli  that.  I  will  see 
about  it,  and  she  shall  be  brought  hère.  Foreseen, 
I  tell  you.  That  has  already  been  put  in  verse,  and 
it  is  the  dénouement  of  André  Chénier's  elegy,  the 
'Jeune  Malade,' — André  Chénier,  who  was  butchered 
by  the  scound —  by  the  giants  of  '93." 

M.  Gillenormand  fancied  he  could  see  a  slight 
frown  on  Marius's  face,  though,  truth  to  tell,  he 
was  not  listening,  as  he  had  flown  away  into  ecstasy, 
and  was  thinking  much  more  of  Cosette  than  of 
1/93.  The  grandfather,  trembling  at  having  intro- 
duced  André  Chénier  so  inopportunely,  hurriedly 
continued,  — 

"  Butchered  is  not  the  word.  The  fact  is  that  the 
great  rcvolutionary  geniuses  who  were  not  wicked, 
that  is  incontestable,  who  were  hcroes,  Pardi,  fuund 
that  André  Chénier  was  slightly  in  tlieir  way,  and 
they  had  him  gnillo —  that  is  to  say,  thèse  great  men 
on  the  7th  Thermidor,  in  the  intercst  of  the  public 
safety,  begged  André  Chénier  to  be  kind  enougli 
to  go  —  " 

M.  Gillenormand,  garroted  by  his  own  sentence, 
could  not  continue.  Unablc  to  termiiiate  it  or  retract 
it,  the  old  man  rushed,  with  ail  the  speed  which  his 
âge  allowed,  out  of  the  bed-rooni,  shut  the  door  after 


MAIUUS   ATTACKS.  263 

him,  and  purple,  choking,  and  foaming,  with  his  eyes 
out  of  his  liead,  found  himself  nose  to  nose  with 
honest  Basque,  who  was  cleaning  boots  in  the  ante- 
room.  He  seized  Basque  by  the  collar  and  furiously 
shouted  into  his  face,  "  By  the  hnndred  thousand 
Javottes  of  the  devil,  those  brigands  assassinated 
him  !  " 

"  Whom,  sir  ?  " 

"André  Chénier." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  horrified  Basque» 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MLLE.    GILLENORMAND    HAS    NO   OBJECTIONS   TO 
THE    MATCH. 

CosETTE  aud  Marius  saw  each  other  again.  We 
will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  interview,  for  there 
are  things  which  we  must  not  attempt  to  paint  :  the 
sun  is  of  the  number.  ïhe  whole  faniily,  Basque 
and  Nicolette  included,  were  assembled  in  Marius's 
chamber  at  the  moment  when  Cosette  entered.  She 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  and  seemed  to  be  sur- 
rounded  by  a  halo  :  precisely  at  this  moment  the 
grandfather  was  going  to  blow  his  nose,  but  he 
stopped  short,  holding  his  nose  in  his  handkerchief 
and  looking  over  it. 

"  Adorable  !  "  he  cried. 

And  then  he  blew  a  sonorous  blast.  Cosette  was 
intoxicated,  ravished,  startled,  in  heaven.  She  was 
as  tiniid  as  a  person  can  be  through  hap|)iness  ;  she 
stanimcred,  turned  pale  and  then  pink,  and  wished 
to  throw  herself  into  Marius's  arms,  but  dared  not. 
She  was  ashamed  of  loving  before  so  many  people  ; 
for  the  world  is  merciless  to  happy  lovers,  and  always 
remains  at  the  very  moment  when  they  most  long  to 
be  alone.  And  yet  they  do  not  want  thèse  people  at 
ail.  With  Cosette,  and  bchind  lier,  had  entered  a 
whitc-haired  man,  serious,  but  still  smiling,  though 


NO   OBJECTIONS   TO   THE   iMATCH.  265 

the  smile  was  wandering  and  poignant.  It  was 
"Monsieur  Fauchelevent,  "  —  it  was  Jean  Valjean. 
He  was  well-dressed,  as  the  porter  had  said,  in  a  new 
black  suit  and  a  whitc  cravat.  The  porter  was  a 
thousand  leagues  from  recognizing  in  this  correct 
citizen,  this  probable  notary,  the  frightful  corpse- 
bearer  who  had  arrived  at  the  gâte  on  the  night  of 
June  7,  ragged,  filthy,  hideous,  and  haggard,  with  a 
mask  of  blood  and  mud  on  his  face,  supporting  in 
liis  arnis  the  unconscious  Marius  ;  still  his  porter's 
instincts  were  aroused.  When  M.  Fauchelevent  ar- 
rived with  Cosette,  the  porter  could  not  refrain  fi'om 
confiding  this  aside  to  his  wife,  "  I  don't  know  why, 
but  I  fancy  that  I  hâve  seen  that  face  before." 
M.  Fauchelevent  remained  standing  by  the  door 
of  Marius's  room,  as  if  afraid  ;  he  held  under  his 
ami  a  packet  rather  like  an  octavo  volume  wrapped 
in  paper.  The  paper  was  green,  apparently  from 
niildew. 

"  Has  this  gentleman  always  got  books  under  his 
arm  like  that  ?  "  Mademoiselle  Gillenormand,  who  was 
not  fond  of  books,  asked  Nicolette  in  a  whisper. 

"Well,"  M.  Gillenormand,  who  had  heard  her, 
answered  in  the  same  key,  "  he  is  a  savant;  is  that 
his  fault  ?  Monsieur  Boulard,  whoni  I  knew,  never 
went  ont  without  a  book  either,  and  like  him  had 
always  had  an  old  book  near  his  heart." 

Then  bowing,  he  said  in  a  loud  voice,  — 

"  M.  Tranchelevent." 

Father  Gillenormand  did  not  do  it  purposely,  but 
an  inattention  to  proper  names  was  an  aristocratie 
way  of  his. 


266  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

"  Monsieur  Tranchulevcnt,  I  hâve  the  honor  of  re- 
questing  this  ladj's  hand  for  mj  grandson,  M.  le 
Baron  IVIarius  Pontmercy." 

Monsieur  "  Tranclielevent  "  bowed. 

"  Ail  riglit,"  the  grandfather  said. 

And  turning  to  Alarius  and  Cosette,  Avith  both 
arms  extended  in  bénédiction,  he  cried,  — 

"  You  hâve  leave  to  adore  each  other." 

They  did  not  let  it  be  said  twice,  and  the  prattling 
began.  They  talked  in  a  whisper,  Marins  reclining 
on  his  couch  and  Cosette  standing  by  his  side»  "  Oh, 
Heaven  !  "  Cosette  niurmured,  "  I  see  you  again  :  it 
is  you.  To  go  and  tight  like  that  !  But  why  ?  It 
is  horrible.  For  four  months  I  hâve  been  dead.  Oh, 
how  wicked  it  was  of  you  to  hâve  been  at  that  bat- 
tle  !  What  had  I  done  to  you  ?  I  forgive  you,  but 
you  will  not  do  it  again.  Just  now,  when  they  came 
to  tell  me  to  come  to  you,  I  thought  again  that  I  was 
going  to  die,  but  it  was  of  joy.  I  was  so  sad  !  I  did 
not  take  the  time  to  dress  myself,  and  I  must  look 
frightful  ;  what  will  your  relation  say  at  seeing  me  in 
a  tuniblcd  collar  ?  But  speak  !  you  let  me  speak  ail 
alone.  We  are  still  in  tlic  Rue  de  ITIomme  Armé. 
It  seenis  that  your  shouldcr  was  terrible,  and  I  was 
told  that  I  could  hâve  put  my  hand  in  it,  and  that 
your  flcsh  was  as  if  it  had  been  eut  with  scissors. 
How  frightful  that  is  !  I  wept  so  that  I  hâve  no  eyes 
left.  It  is  strange  that  a  person  can  sufter  like  that. 
Your  gi-andfather  has  a  very  kind  look.  Do  not  dis- 
turb  yourself,  do  not  rcst  on  your  clbow  like  that,  or 
you  will  hurt  yourself.  Oh,  how  happy  I  am  !  So 
our  misfortunes  arc  ail  endcd  !     I  am  quite  foolish. 


NO   OBJECTIONS   TO   THE   MATCH.  267 

There  were  things  I  wantcci  to  say  to  you  wliicli  I 
hâve  quite  forgotten.  Do  you  love  me  still?  We 
live  in  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé.  There  is  no  gar- 
den  there.  I  made  lint  the  whole  time  ;  look  hère, 
sir,  it  is  your  fault,  my  fingers  are  quite  rough." 

"  Angel  !  "  said  Marins. 

Angel  is  the  only  word  in  the  language  which  can- 
not  be  worn  out  ;  no  other  word  would  resist  the 
pitiless  use  which  lovers  raake  of  it.  Then,  as  there 
was  Company  présent,  they  broke  ofF,  and  did  not  say 
a  word  more,  contenting  themselves  with  softly  clasp- 
ing  hands.  M.  Gillenormand  turned  to  ail  the  rest 
in  the  room,  and  cried,  — 

"  Speak  loudly,  good  people  ;  make  a  noise,  will 
you  ?  Come,  a  little  row,  hang  it  ail  !  so  that  thèse 
children  may  prattle  at  their  ease." 

And  going  up  to  Marins  and  Cosette,  he  whispered 
to  them,  — 

"  Go  on  ;  d'on't  put  yourselves  out  of  the  way." 

Aunt  Gillenormand  witnessed  with  stupor  this 
irruption  of  light  into  her  antiquated  house.  This 
stupor  had  nothing  aggressive  about  it  ;  it  was 
not  at  ail  the  scandalized  and  envious  glance  cast 
by  an  owl  at  two  ring-doves  :  it  was  the  stupid 
eye  of  a  poor  innocent  of  the  âge  of  fifty-seven  ; 
it  was  a  spoiled  life  looking  at  that  triumph, 
love. 

"  Mademoiselle  Gillenormand  the  elder,"  her  father 
said  to  her,  "  I  told  you  that  this  would  happen." 

He  remained  silent  for  a  moment,  and  added^  — 

"  Look  at  the  happiness  of  others." 

Then  he  turned  to  Cosette. 


268  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  IIow  pretty  sbe  is  !  how  pretty  slie  is  '  she  is  a 
Greuze  !  So  you  are  going  to  hâve  ail  that  for  your- 
iself,  scamp  ?  Ah,  my  boy,  you  hâve  had  a  lucky 
escape  from  me  ;  for  if  I  were  not  tifteen  years  too 
old  we  would  fight  with  svvords  and  see  who  should 
hâve  lier.  There,  I  ain  in  love  with  you,  INIadeinoi- 
selle  ;  but  it  is  very  natural,  it  is  your  right.  What 
a  famous,  charming  little  wedding  we  will  bave  ! 
St.  Denis  du  Saint-Sacranient  is  our  parish  ;  but  I 
will  procure  a  dispensation,  so  that  you  may  be  niar- 
ried  at  St.  Paul,  for  the  church  is  better.  It  was 
built  for  the  Jesuits,  and  more  coquettish.  It  is  op- 
posite Cardinal  Birague's  fountain.  The  mastcrpiece 
of  Jesuit-  architecture  is  at  Namur,  and  is  called  St. 
Loup;  you  should  go  and  see  that  whcn  you  are 
married,  for  it  is  worth  the  journey.  jMadcmoisclle, 
I  am  cntirely  of  your  opinion  ;  I  wish  girls  to  marry, 
for  tlicy  are  made  for  it.  There  is  a  certain  Sainte 
Catlmrine  whom  I  would  always  like  to  see  with 
hair  disordered.  To  remain  a  maid  is  fine,  but  it  is 
cold.  jNlultiply,  says  the  Bible.  To  save  the  people 
a  Joan  of  Arc  is  Avanted  ;  but  to  make  a  people 
we  want  Mother  Gigogne.  So  marry,  my  darlings  ; 
I  really  do  not  see  tlie  use  of  remaining  a  maid.  I 
know  vei-y  well  that  they  bave  a  separate  chapel  in 
church,  and  join  the  confraternity  of  the  Virgin  ;  but, 
sapristi  !  a  good-looking  young  husband,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  ycar  a  plnmp  bantling,  who  sucks  at  you 
bravely,  and  who  lias  roUs  of  fat  on  his  thighs,  and 
who  clutches  yonr  l)osoni  with  his  piiik  little  paws, 
are  a  good  deal  better  than  holding  a  candie  at  ves- 
pers  and  singing  Turris  Eburnea." 


NO   OBJECTIONS   TO   THE   MATCH.  269 

Tlie  graiidfather  piroiietted  on  his  nonagenarian 
heels,  and  began  speaking  again,  like  a  spring  which 
had  been  wound  iip  :  — 

"Ainsi,  bornant  le  cours  de  tes  rêvasseries, 
Alcippe,  il  est  donc  vrai,  dans  peu  tu  te  maries." 

"  By  the  bye  ?  " 

"What,  father?" 

"  Had  vou  not  an  intimate  friend  ?  '' 

"  Yes,  Courfeyrac." 

"  What  has  become  of  liim  ?  " 

"  He  is  dead." 

"  That  is  well." 

He  sat  down  by  their  side,  made  Cosette  take  a 
chair,  and  took  their  four  hands  in  his  old  wriukled 
hands. 

"  This  darling  is  exquisite  !  This  Cosette  is  a 
masterpiece  !  She  is  a  very  little  girl  and  a  very 
great  lady.  She  M'ill  be  only  a  baroness,  and  that  is 
a  dérogation,  for  she  is  born  to  be  a  marchioness. 
What  eyehashes  she  has  !  oNIy  children,  drive  it  well 
into  your  pâtes  that  you  are  on  the  right  road.  Love 
one  another  ;  be  foolish  over  it,  for  love  is  the  stu- 
pidity  of  men  and  the  cleverness  of  God.  So  adore 
one  another.  Still,"  he  added,  suddenly  growing 
sad,  "  what  a  misfortune  !  More  than  half  I  possess 
is  sunk  in  annuities  ;  so  long  as  I  live  it  will  be 
ail  right,  but  when  I  am  dead,  twenty  years  hence, 
ah  !  my  poor  children,  you  will  not  hâve  a  farthing  ! 
Your  pretty  white  hands,  ^Madame  la  Baronne,  will 
be  wrinkled  by  work." 

Hère  a  serious  and  calm  voice  was  heard  saying  : 


270  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

"  INIademoiselle  Euphrasie  Fauchelcvent  lias  six 
hundrcd  thousand  francs." 

It  was  Jean  Valjean's  voice.  He  liad  not  yet 
uttered  a  syllable  ;  no  one  seemed  to  remember  that 
he  was  présent,  and  lie  stood  motionless  bchind  ail 
thèse  happy  people. 

"  Who  is  the  ^Mademoiselle  Euphrasie  in  ques- 
tion? "  the  startled  grandfather  asked. 

"Myself,"  said  Cosette. 

"  Six  hundred  thousand  francs  !  "  M.  Gillenormand 
repeated. 

"  Less  fourteen  or  fifteen  thousand,  perhaps,"  Jean 
Valjean  said. 

And  he  laid  on  the  table  the  parcel  wliich  Aunt 
Gillenormand  had  taken  for  a  book.  Jean  Valjean 
hiniself  opened  the  packet  ;  it  was  a  bundle  of  bank- 
notes.  They  were  turned  over  and  counted  ;  there 
were  six  hundred  bank-notcs  for  a  thousand  francs, 
and  one  hundred  and  sixty-eight  for  five  hundred, 
forniing  a  total  of  five  hundred  and  eighty-four 
thousand  francs. 

"  That  's  a  fanions  book,"  said  M.  Gillenormand. 

"  Five  hundred  and  eighty-four  thousand  francs  !  " 
the  aunt  murmurcd. 

"ïhat  arranges  a  good  inany  things,  does  it  not, 
Mademoiselle  Gillenormand  the  elder  ?  "  the  grand- 
father continucd.  "  That  dcvil  of  a  ]Marius  lias  found 
a  miiliomiaire  grisette  upon  the  tree  of  dreams  !  Now 
trust  to  the  amourettes  of  young  people  !  Students 
find  studcntesses  with  six  hundred  thousand  francs. 
Chérubin  works  better  than  Rothschild." 

*'  Five  hundred  and  eighty-four  thousand  francs  !  " 


NO   OBJECTIONS   TO    THE   MATCH.  271 

Mademoiselle  Gillenormand  repeated  ;  "  five  huiidred 
and  eighty-four  thousand  francs  !  We  niaj  as  well 
say  six  hundred  thousand." 

As  for  Marins  and  Cosette,  tliey  were  looking  at 
each  other  during  this  period,  and  hardly  paid  any 
attention  to  this  détail. 


CHAPTER  V. 

DEPOSIT   YOUR   MONEY  IN  A  FOREST    RATHER  THAN 
WITH    A   NOTARY. 

Of  course  our  readers  hâve  understood,  and  no 
lengthened  explanation  will  be  required,  tliat  Jean 
Valjean  after  the  Cliampmathieu  afFair  was  enabled 
by  his  escape  for  a  few  dajs  to  come  to  Paris,  and 
withdraw  in  time  from  Laffitte's  the  sum  he  had 
gained  under  the  name  of  M.  Madeleine  at  INI.-sur-M.  ; 
and  that,  afraid  of  being  recaptured,  which  in  fact 
happened  to  liim  shortly  after,  he  buried  this  sum 
in  the  forest  of  Montfermeil,  at  the  spot  called  the 
Blaru  bottom.  This  sum,  six  hundrcd  and  thirty 
thousand  francs,  ail  in  bank-notes,  occupied  but  little 
space,  and  was  contaiiied  in  a  box  ;  but  in  order  to 
protect  the  box  from  damp  he  placcd  it  in  an  oak 
cofFer  filled  with  chips  of  chestnut-wood.  In  the 
same  coifer  he  placcd  his  other  treasurc,  the  Bish- 
op's  candlesticks.  It  will  be  rcmembcred  that  he 
carried  ofF  thèse  candlesticks  in  his  escape  from 
M.-sur-]M.  The  man  seen  on  one  prcvious  evening 
by  Boulatruelle  was  Jean  Valjeaii,  and  aftei'wards, 
whenever  Jean  Valjean  required  money,  he  fetched 
it  from  the  Blaru  clearing,  and  hence  his  absences  to 
which  wc  hâve  rcferred.  He  liad  a  pick  concealed 
soraewhere  in  the  shrubs,  in  a  hiding-place  known  to 


DEPOSIT  YOUR  MONEY  IN  A  FOREST.   273 

liimself  alone.  Wlien  he  found  Marius  to  be  conva- 
lescent, feeling  that  tlie  liour  was  at  hand  wlien  tliis 
moncy  niight  be  useful,  lie  went  to  fetch  it  ;  and  it 
was  also  he  whom  Boulatruelle  saw  in  the  wood,  but 
this  time  in  the  niorning,  and  not  at  night.  Boula- 
truelle  inherited  the  pick. 

The  real  sum  was  five  hundred  and  eighty-four 
thousand  five  hundred  francs,  but  Jean  Valjean  kept 
back  the  five  hundred  francs  for  himself.  "  We  will 
see  afterwarcls,"  he  thought.  The  différence  between 
this  sum  and  the  six  hundred  and  thirty  thousand 
francs  withdrawn  from  Laflfttte's  represented  the  ex- 
penditure  of  ten  years  from  1823  to  1833.  The  five 
years'  résidence  iu  the  couvent  had  cost  only  five 
thousand  francs.  Jean  Yaljean  placed  the  two 
silver  candlesticks  on  the  mantel-piece,  where  they 
glistened,  to  the  great  admiration  of  Toussaint. 
Moreover,  Jean  Valjean  kncw  himself  freed  from 
Javert  ;  it  had  been  stated  in  his  présence,  and  he 
verified  the  fact  in  the  Moniteur  which  had  pub- 
lished  it,  that  an  Inspector  of  Police  of  the  nanie  of 
Javert  had  been  found  drowned  under  a  waslier- 
woman's  boat  between  the  Pont-au-change  and  the 
Pont-Xeuf,  and  that  a  letter  left  by  this  man,  hitherto 
irreproachable  and  highly  esteemed  by  his  chiefs,  led 
to  the  belief  in  an  attack  of  dementia  and  suicide. 
"  In  truth,"  thought  Jean  Yaljean,  "  since  he  let  me 
go  wlien  he  had  hold  of  me,  he  must  bave  been  mad 
at  that  time." 

VOL.   V.  18 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    TWO   OLD    MEN,    EACH   IN   HIS   FASHION,    DO 
EVERYTHING  FOR   COSETTE's   HAPPINESS. 

All  préparations  were  made  for  the  marriage, 
and  the  physician,  on  being  consulted,  declared  tliat 
it  miglit  take  place  in  Februarj.  It  was  now  De- 
ccniber,  and  a  few  ravishing  weeks  of  perfect  liap- 
piness  slipped  away.  The  least  happy  nian  was  not 
the  grandfather  :  he  sat  for  a  whole  qiiarter  of  an 
hour  conteraphiting  Cosette. 

"  The  admirably  pretty  girl  !  "  he  wouhl  exclaim, 
"  and  she  has  so  soft  and  kind  an  air  !  She  is  the 
most  cliarming  créature  I  hâve  ever  seen  in  my  life. 
Preseiitly  she  will  hâve  virtues  with  a  violet  scent. 
She  is  one  of  the  Grâces,  on  niy  faith  !  A  man  can 
only  live  nobly  with  such  a  créature.  ]\larius,  my 
lad,  you  are  a  baron,  you  are  rich  ;  so  do  not  be 
a  pettifogger,  I  implore  you." 

Cosette  and  Marins  had  suddenly  passed  from  the 
sepulchre  into  paradisc  :  the  transition  had  not  been 
p.re[)arc(l,  and  they  would  havc  been  stunned  if  they 
had  not  been  dazzled. 

"  Do  you  understand  anything  of  all  this  ?  "  JNIarius 
would  say  to  Cosette. 

"  No,"  Cosette  answcrcd  ;  "  but  it  seems  to  nie 
as  if  the  good  God  were  looking  at  us." 


THE   OLD   MEN   RENDE  II   COSETTE   HAPPY.     275 

Jean  Yaljean  did  everything,  smoothed  everything, 
conciliated  everything,  and  rendered  everything  easy. 
He  hurried  toward  Cosette's  happiness  with  as  much 
eagerness  and  apparently  with  as  much  joy  as  Cosette 
herself.  As  he  had  been  Mayor,  he  was  called  to 
solve  a  délicate  problem,  the  secret  of  which  he  alone 
possessed,  —  the  civil  status  of  Cosette.  To  tell  her 
origin  openly  might  hâve  prevented  the  marriage  ; 
but  he  got  Cosette  out  of  ail  the  difficulties.  He 
arranged  for  her  a  family  of  dead  people,  a  sure 
method  of  not  incurring  any  inquiry.  Cosette  was 
the  only  one  left  of  an  extinct  family.  Cosette 
was  not  his  daughter,  but  the  daughter  ôf  another 
Fauchelevent.  Two  brothers  Fauchelevent  had  been 
gardcners  at  the  couvent  of  the  Little  Picpus.  They 
proceeded  to  tins  couvent  ;  the  best  testimonials  and 
most  satisfactory  character  were  given  ;  for  the  good 
nuns,  little  suited  and  but  little  inclined  to  solve 
questions  of  paternity,  had  never  known  exactly  of 
which  of  the  two  Fauchelevents  Cosette  was  the 
daughter.  They  said  what  was  wanted,  and  said 
it  zealously.  An  instrument  was  drawn  up  by  a 
notary  and  Cosette  became  by  law  Mademoiselle 
Euphrasie  Fauchelevent,  and  was  declared  an  orphan 
both  on  the  father's  and  mother's  side.  Jean  Yaljean 
raanaged  so  as  to  be  designated,  under  the  name 
of  Fauchelevent,  as  guardian  of  Cosette,  with  M. 
Gillenormand  as  supcrvising  guardian.  As  for  the 
five  hundred  and  eighty-four  thousand  francs,  they 
were  a  legacy  left  to  Cosette  by  a  dead  person  who 
wished  to  remain  unknown.  The  original  legacy  had 
been  five  hundred  and  ninety-four  thousaud  francs, 


276  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

but  ten  tliousand  had  been  speiit  in  the  éducation 
of  ]\Iademoiselle  Euplirasie,  five  thousand  of  which 
had  been  paid  to  the  couvent.  This  legacy,  deposited 
in  the  hands  of  a  third  partj,  was  to  be  handed  over 
to  Cosette  upon  her  majority,  or  at  the  period  of 
her  marriage.  Ail  this  was  highly  acceptable,  as 
we  see,  especiallj  when  backed  up  by  more  than 
half  a  million  francs.  There  were  certainly  a  few 
singular  points  hère  and  there,  but  they  were  not 
seen,  for  onc  of  the  persons  interested  had  his  eyes 
bandaged  by  love,  and  the  others  by  the  six  Imndred 
thousand  francs. 

Cosette  learned  that  she  was  not  the  daughter 
of  the  old  man  whom  she  had  so  long  called  father  ; 
he  was  only  a  relation,  and  another  Fauchelevent 
was  her  real  father.  At  another  moment  this  would 
hâve  grieved  her,  but  in  the  ineffable  hour  she  had 
now  reached  it  was  only  a  slight  shadow,  a  passing 
cloud  ;  and  she  had  so  much  joy  that  tins  cloud 
lasted  but  a  short  time.  She  had  Marins.  The  young 
man  came  ;  the  old  man  disappeared  :  life  is  so. 
And  tlien,  Cosette  had  been  accustomcd  for  many 
long  years  to  see  enigmas  around  her  ;  every  being 
who  has  had  a  mysterious  childhood  is  ever  ready 
for  certain  rcnunciations.  Still  she  continued  to  call 
Jean  Valjean  "  father."  Cosette,  who  was  among  the 
angels,  was  enthusiastic  about  Father  Gillenormand  ; 
it  is  true  that  he  overwlielmed  her  with  madrigals 
and  présents.  While  Jean  Valjean  was  constructing 
for  Cosette  an  unassailable  position  in  socicty,  M. 
Gillenormand  attended  to  the  wcdding  trousseau. 
Nothing  amuscd  him  so  nmch  as  to  be  magnificent  ; 


THE   OLD   MEN   RENDER   COSETTE   HAPPY.     277 

and  lie  liad  given  Cosette  a  gown  of  Binche  guipure, 
which  he  iuherited  froni  his  own  grandmother. 
"  Thèse  fashions  spriug  up  again,"  he  said  ;  "  an- 
tiquities  are  the  great  demand,  and  the  young  ladies 
of  my  old  days  dress  themselves  like  the  old  ladies 
of  my  youth."  He  plundered  his  respectable  round- 
bellied  commodes  of  Coromandel  lacquer,  which  had 
not  been  opened  for  years.  "  Let  us  shrive  thèse 
dowagers,"  he  said,  "  and  see  what  they  hâve  in 
their  paunch."  He  noisily  violated  drawers  full  of 
the  dresses  of  ail  his  wives,  ail  his  mistresses,  and 
ail  his  female  ancestry.  He  lavished  on  Cosette 
Chinese  satins,  damasks,  lampas,  painted  moires, 
gros  de  Naples  dresses,  Indian  handkerchiefs  cm- 
broidered  with  gold  that  can  be  washed,  Genoa  and 
Alençon  point  lace,  sets  of  old  jewelry,  ivory  bonbon 
boxes  adorned  with  microscopic  battles,  laces,  and 
ribbons.  Cosette,  astounded,  wild  with  love  for 
Marins  and  with  gratitude  to  M.  Gillenormand, 
dreamed  of  an  unbounded  happiness,  dressed  in  satin 
and  velvet.  Her  wedding-basket  seemed  to  lier  sup- 
ported  by  seraphim,  and  her  soûl  floated  in  cther 
with  wings  of  Mechlin  lace.  The  intoxication  of 
the  lovers  was  only  equalled,  as  we  stated,  by  the 
ecstasy  of  the  grandfather,  and  there  was  something 
like  a  flourish  of  trumpets  in  the  Rue  des  Filles  du 
Calvaire.  Each  morning  there  was  a  new  ofFcring 
of  bric-à-brac  from  the  grandfather  to  Cosette,  and 
ail  sorts  of  ornamcnts  were  spread  ont  splcndidly 
around  her.  One  day  Marins,  who  not  unfrequcntly 
talked  gravely  through  his  happiness,  said,  with  réf- 
érence to  some  incident  which  I  hâve  forgotten,  — 


278  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  The  men  of  the  révolution  are  so  great  that  they 
already  possess  the  prestige  of  centuries,  like  Cato 
and  like  Phocion,  and  each  of  them  seems  a  mémoire 
antique." 

"  JNIoire  antique  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman  ; 
"  thank  you,  Marins,  that  is  the  verj  idea  which  I 
was  seeking  for." 

And  on  the  morrow  a  splendid  tea-colored  moire  an- 
tique dress  was  added  to  Cosette's  outfit.  The  grand- 
father  cxtracted  a  wisdom  from  tins  frippery  :  — 

"  Love  is  ail  very  well,  but  this  is  requircd  with  it. 
Something  useless  is  required  in  happiness  ;  happi- 
ness  is  only  what  is  absolutely  necessary,  but  season 
it,  say  I,  witli  an  enormous  amount  of  superfluity. 
A  palace  and  her  heart  ;  lier  heart  and  the  Louvre. 
Give  me  my  shepherdess,  and  try  that  she  be  a 
duchess.  Bring  me  Phillis  crowned  with  corn- 
flowers,  and  add  to  lier  onc  thousand  francs  a,  year. 
Open  for  me  an  endless  Bucolic  under  a  marble 
colonnade.  I  consent  to  the  Bucolic  and  also  to  the 
fairy  scène  in  marble  and  gold.  Dry  happiness  re- 
sembles  dry  bread  ;  you  cat  it,  but  you  do  not  dinc. 
I  wish  for  superfluity,  for  the  useless,  for  extrava- 
gance, for  that  which  is  of  no  use.  I  remember  to 
to  hâve  scen  in  Strasburg  Cathcdral  a  dock  as  tall 
as  a  three-storied  house,  which  marked  the  hour, 
which  had  the  kindness  to  mark  the  hour,  but  did 
not  look  as  if  it  was  madc  for  the  purpose  ;  and 
which,  after  striking  midday  or  midnight,  —  midday, 
the  hour  of  the  sun,  and  midnight,  the  hour  of  love 
or  any  othcr  hour  you  please,  —  gave  you  the  moon 
and  the  stars,  carth  and  sea,  birds  and  fislics,  Phœbus 


THE   OLD   MEN   RENDER   COSETTE   HAPPY.      279 

and  Phœbe,  and  a  heap  of  things  tliat  came  ont  of  a 
corner,  and  the  twelve  apostles,  and  the  Emperor 
Charles  Y.,  and  Eponine  and  Sabinus,  and  a  number 
of  little  gilt  men  who  played  the  trumpet  into  the 
bargain,  without  counting  the  ravishing  chiraes  which 
it  scattered  in  the  air  on  every  possible  occasion, 
without  jour  knowing  why.  Is  a  wretched,  naked 
clock,  which  only  marks  the  hours,  worth  that  ?  I 
am  of  the  opinion  of  the  great  clock  of  Strasburg, 
and  prefer  it  to  the  Black  Forest  cuckoo  clock." 

M.  Gillenormand  talked  ail  sorts  of  nonsense  about 
the  marriage,  and  ail  the  ideas  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury  passed  pell-mell  into  his  dithyrambs. 

"  You  are  ignorant  of  the  art  of  festivals,  and  do 
not  know  how  to  get  up  a  day's  pleasure  in  thèse 
times,"  lie  exclaimed.  "  Your  nineteenth  century  is 
soft,  and  is  déficient  in  excess  :  it  is  ignorant  of  what 
is  rich  and  noble.  In  everything  it  is  clqèse-shorn. 
Your  third  estate  is  insipid  and  has  no  color,  smell, 
or  shape.  The  dream  of  your  bourgeoises,  who  es- 
tablish  themselves,  as  they  call  it,  is  a  pretty  bou- 
doir fi'eshly  decorated  with  mahogany  and  calico. 
Make  way,  there  !  The  Sieur  Grigou  marries  the 
Demoiselle  Grippesou.  Sumptuousness  and  splen- 
dor.  A  louis  d'or  has  been  stuck  to  a  wax  candie. 
Such  is  the  âge.  I  insist  on  flying  beyond  the  Sarma- 
tians.  Ah,  so  far  back  as  1787  I  predicted  that  ail 
was  lost  on  the  day  when  I  saw  the  Duc  de  Rohan, 
Prince  de  Léon,  Duc  dj  Chabot,  Duc  de  iSIontbazon, 
Marquis  de  Soubise,  Yicomte  de  Thouars,  Peer  of 
France,  go  to  Longchanips  in  a  tapecul:  that  bore 
its  fruits.      In   this  centurv  men   hâve  a   business, 


280  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

gamble  on  the  Stock  Exchange,  win  nioney,  and  are 
nican.  Tliey  take  care  of  and  varnish  their  surface  : 
they  are  carefully  dressed,  washcd,  soapcd,  shaved, 
combed,  rubbed,  brushed,  and  cleaned  externally, 
irreproachable,  as  polished  as  a  pebble,  discreet,  trini, 
and  at  tlie  same  tinie,  —  virtue  of  niy  soûl  !  —  they 
hâve  at  the  bottom  of  their  conscience  dungheaps  and 
cess-pools,  at  which  a  milkniaid  who  blows  her  nose 
with  her  fingers  would  rccoil.  I  grant  the  présent 
âge  tliis  motto,  —  dirty  cleanliness.  JNIarius,  do  not 
be  annoyed  ;  grant  me  the  permission  to  speak,  for  I 
hâve  bcen  saying  no  harm  of  the  people,  you  see. 
I  hâve  my  mouth  full  of  your  people,  but  do  let 
me  give  thé  bourgeoisie  a  pill.  I  tell  you  point- 
blank  that  at  the  présent  day  people  niarry,  but  no 
longer  know  how  to  marry.  Ah,  it  is  true,  I  regret 
the  gentility  of  the  old  manners  ;  I  regret  it  ail,  — 
that  élégance,  that  chivalry,  that  courteous  and  dainty 
manner,  that  rcjoicing  luxury  which  evcry  one  pos- 
sesscd,  the  music  forming  part  of  the  wedding,  sym- 
phony  above  and  drunis  beating  below  stairs,  the 
joyous  faces  seated  at  table,  the  spicy  madrigals,  the 
songs,  the  fireworks,  the  hearty  laugh,  the  de\âl  and 
his  train,  and  the  large  ribbon  bows.  I  regret  the 
brides  garter,  for  it  is  first  cousin  of  the  girdle  of 
Venus.  On  what  does  the  siège  of  Troy  turn  ?  Par- 
bleu !  on  Hclen's  garter.  Why  do  men  fight  ?  Why 
does  the  divine  Diomcdes  smash  on  the  head  of 
Merioneus  that  grand  brass  helmet  with  the  ten 
points?  Wliy  do  Achilles  and  Hector  tickle  each 
other  with  lances?  Becanse  llelen  Ict  Paris  take  her 
garter.     With  Cosette's  garter  Homer  would  write 


THE   OLD   MEN   RENDER   COSETTE   HAPPY.      281 

the  Iliad  ;  lie  would  place  in  his  poem  an  old  chat- 
terer  like  myself,  and  call  liim  Nestor.  My  friends, 
in  former  times,  in  those  amiable  former  times,  people 
married  Icarnedly  :  they  made  a  good  contract  and 
then  a  good  merry-making.  So  soou  as  Cujas  had 
gone  ont,  Ganiacho  came  in.  Hang  it  ail  !  the 
stomach  is  an  agreeable  beast,  that  demands  its  due, 
and  wishes  to  hold  its  wedding  too.  We  supped 
well,  and  had  at  table  a  pretty  neighbor  without  a 
neckcrchief,  who  only  concealed  her  throat  moder- 
ately.  Oh,  the  wide  laughing  mouths,  and  how  gay 
people  were  in  those  days  !  Youth  was  a  bouquet, 
every  young  man  finished  with  a  branch  of  lilac  or  a 
posy  of  roses  ;  if  he  were  a  warrior,  he  was  a  shep- 
herd,  and  if  by  chance  he  were  a  captain  of  dra- 
goons,  he  managed  to  call  himself  Florian.  Ail  were 
anxious  to  be  pretty  fellows,  and  they  wore  enibroi- 
dery  and  rouge.  A  bourgeois  looked  like  a  flower, 
and  a  marquis  like  a  precious  stone.  They  did  not 
wear  straps,  tliey  did  not  wear  boots  ;  they  were 
flashing,  lustrous,  gilt,  light,  dainty,  and  coquettish, 
but  it  did  not  prevent  them  wearing  a  sword  by  their 
side  ;  they  were  humming-birds  with  beak  and  nails. 
It  was  the  tinie  of  the  Indes  galantes.  One  of  the 
sides  of  that  âge  was  délicate,  the  other  magnificent  ; 
and,  by  the  vertu-choux  !  people  amused  themselves. 
At  the  présent  day  they  are  serions  ;  the  bourgeois 
is  miserly,  the  bourgeoise  prudish,  —  your  âge  is  out 
of  shape.  The  Grâces  would  be  expelled  because 
their  dresses  were  eut  too  low  in  the  neck.  A  las  ! 
beauty  is  concealed  as  an  ugliness.  Since  the  révo- 
lution ail  wear  trousers,  even  the  ballet  girls  ;  a  ballet 


282  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

girl  iDust  be  serious,  and  your  rigadoons  are  doctri- 
naire. A  mail  iiiust  be  inajestic,  and  would  fcel  very 
mucli  annoyed  at  not  having  his  cliin  in  liis  cravat. 
The  idea  of  a  scamp  of  tweiity,  who  is  about  to  marry, 
is  to  reseinblc  Monsieur  Royer-Collard.  And  do  you 
know  what  people  reach  by  this  majesty  ?  Tiiey  are 
little.  Learn  tliis  fact  :  joy  is  not  nierely  joyous,  it 
is  grand.  Be  gayly  in  love  ;  tliough,  hang  it  ail  ! 
niarry,  wlien  you  do  marry,  with  fever  and  amaze- 
ment  and  tumult,  and  a  hurly-burly  of  happiness. 
Gravity  at  cliurch,  if  you  will  ;  but  so  soon  as  tlie 
mass  is  ended,  sarpejeu  !  you  ouglit  to  make  a  dream 
whirl  round  your  wife.  A  marriage  ouglit  to  be 
royal  and  cliimerical,  and  parade  its  ceremony  from 
the  Cathedra!  of  Rheinis  to  the  Pagoda  of  Chante- 
loup.  I  hâve  a  horror  of  a  scrubby  marriage.  Yentre- 
goulette  !  Be  in  Olympus  at  least  upon  that  day. 
Be  gods.  Ah,  people  might  be  sylphs,  jests  and 
smilcs,  Argyi-aspides,  but  they  are  scrubs!  My 
fricnds,  every  newly-married  man  ought  to  be  Prince 
Aldobrandini.  Take  advaiitage  of  this  unique  mo- 
ment of  lifc  to  fly  into  the  Empyrean  with  the  swans 
and  the  cagles,  even  if  you  fall  back  to-morrow  into 
the  bourgeoisie  of  frogs.  Do  not  save  upon  the 
hymencal  rites  ;  do  not  nibble  at  tins  splcndor,  nor 
split  farthings  on  the  day  when  you  are  radiant.  A 
\v€dding  is  not  housckeeping.  Oh,  if  I  had  my  way 
it  should  be  a  gallant  aftair,  and  violins  should  be 
heard  in  the  trees.  Hère  is  my  programme  :  sky- 
blue  and  silver.  I  wonld  mincie  in  the  fête  the 
rustic  divin iti(;s,  and  convene  the  Dryads  and  tlio 
Xereids.     The  wedding  of  Amphitrite,  a  pink  cloud, 


THE   OLD   MEN   RENDER   COSETTE   HAPPY.     283 

nymphs  with  their  liair  carefully  dressed  and  quite 
nudc,  an  academician  oftering  quatrains  to  tlie  Deess, 
a  car  drawn  by  marine  monsters. 

*  Triton  trottait  devant,  et  tirait  de  sa  conque, 
Des  sons  si  ravissants  qu'il  ravissait  quiconque  !  ' 

Tliere  is  a  programme  for  a  fête,  or  l 'm  no  judge,  sac 


papier 


While  tlie  grandfather,  in  the  heat  of  his  lyric  effu- 
sion, was  listening  to  liiniself,  Cosette  and  IVIarius 
werc  intoxicating  themselves  by  looking  freely  at  each 
otlier.  Aunt  Gillenormand  regarded  ail  tins  with  her 
imperturbable  placidity  ;  she  had,  during  the  last  five 
or  six  months,  a  certain  amount  of  émotions  ;  jNlarius 
returned,  Marius  brought  back  bleeding,  Marius 
brought  from  a  barricade,  JNlarius  dead,  then  living, 
Marius  reconciled,  Marius  affianced,  Marius  marrying 
a  poor  girl,  Marius  marrying  a  millionnaire.  The  six 
hundred  thousand  francs  had  been  her  last  surprise, 
and  then  the  indifférence  of  a  leading  communicant 
returned  to  her.  She  went  regularlv  to  her  mass 
told  her  beads,  read  her  cuchology,  whispered  in  one 
corner  of  the  house  her  Aves,  while  "  I  love  you  "  was 
being  whispered  in  another,  and  saw^  ^Marius  and 
Cosette  vaguely  like  two  shadows.  The  shadow  was 
herself.  Tliere  is  a  certain  state  of  inert  asceticism 
in  which  the  niind,neutralized  by  torpor,  and  a  stran- 
ger  to  what  might  be  callcd  the  business  of  living, 
does  not  perceive,  with  the  exception  of  earthquakes 
and  catastrophes,  any  hunian  impressions,  eithcr 
pleasant  or  painful.  "  This  dévotion,"  Father  Gille- 
normand would  say  to  his  daughter,  "  resembles  a 


284  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

cold  in  the  head  ;  you  smell  nothing  of  life,  iieither  a 
good  odor  nor  a  bad  oiie."  However,  the  six  hun- 
dred  tliousaiid  francs  had  settled  the  old  maid's  in- 
décision. Her  father  vvas  accustomed  to  take  her  so 
little  into  account  that  he  had  not  consulted  her  as 
to  the  consent  to  IVIarius's  marriage.  He  had  acted 
impetuously,  according  to  his  wont,  having,  as  a  des- 
pot  who  liad  become  a  slave,  but  one  thought,  that 
of  satisfying  Marins.  As  for  the  aunt,  he  had  scarce 
remembered  that  the  aunt  existed,  and  that  she 
might  hâve  an  opinion  of  her  own,  and,  sheep  though 
she  was,  this  had  ofFended  her.  Soniewhat  roused 
internally,  but  externally  impassive,  she  said  to 
herself,  '■  My  father  settles  the  marriage  question 
without  me,  and  I  will  settle  the  question  of  the  in- 
heritance  without  him."  She  was  rich,  in  fact,  and 
her  father  was  not  so,  and  it  is  probable  that  if  the 
marriage  had  been  poor  she  would  hâve  left  it  poor. 
"  Ail  the  worse  for  my  nephew  !  If  he  chose  to 
marry  a  beggar,  he  may  be  a  beggar  too."  But  Co- 
sette's  half  a  million  of  francs  pleased  the  aunt  and 
changed  her  feelings  with  respect  to  the  loving  cou- 
ple ;  considération  is  due  to  six  hundred  thousand 
francs,  and  it  was  évident  that  she  could  not  do 
othcrwise  than  leave  her  fortune  to  thèse  young  peo- 
plc,  because  they  no  longer  required  it. 

It  w\as  arranged  that  the  cou])le  should  réside  at 
M.  Gillenormand's,  and  the  grandfîither  insisted  on 
giving  them  his  bed-room,  the  finest  room  in  the 
house.  "  It  will  make  me  younger,"  he  declared. 
"Tt  is  an  old  place.  I  always  had  the  idca  that  the 
wcdding  should  take  place  in  my  room."     He  fur- 


THE   OLD   MION   RENDER   COSETTE   HAPPY.     285 

nished  tins  room  witli  a  beap  of  old  articles  of  gal- 
Jautry  ;  lie  bad  it  bung  witli  au  extraordinary  fabric 
wbicb  lie  had  in  the  pièce,  and  believed  to  be  Utrecbt, 
a  gold  satin  gronnd  witb  velvet  auriculas.  "  It 
was  witb  tbat  stuft',"  be  said,  "  tbat  tbe  bed  of  the 
Ducbess  d'An  ville  à  la  Kocbeguyon  was  bung."  He 
placed  on  tbe  mautel-piece  a  ligure  in  Saxon  porce- 
lain  carrying  a  niuft'  on  its  naked  stomacb.  M.  Gille- 
norniand's  library  becanie  tbe  office  wbicb  Marins 
required  ;  for  an  office,  it  will  be  borne  in  niiud,  is 
insisted  upon  by  tbe  couucil  of  tbe  order. 


CIIAPTER  VII. 

THE    EFFECTS    OF    DEEA3IIXG    BLENDED   WITH 
HAPPIXESS. 

The  lovers  saw  each  other  daily,  and  Cosette 
came  with  M.  Fauchelevent.  "  It  is  turning  tliiugs 
topsy-turvy,"  said  Mademoiselle  Gilleuormand,  "  tliat 
the  lady  shoiild  come  to  the  gentleman's  liouse  to 
hâve  court  paid  to  her  in  that  way."  But  Marius's 
convalescence  liad  caused  tlie  adoption  of  the  habit, 
and  the  casy-chairs  of  thejiue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire, 
more  convenient  for  a  téfe-à-tête  than  the  straw- 
bottomed  chairs  of  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé,  had 
decided  it.  INIarius  and  INI.  Fauchelevent  saw  each 
other,  but  did  not  speak,  and  this  seemed  to  be  agreed 
on.  Every  girl  needs  a  chaperon,  and  Cosette  could 
not  havc  come  without  JM.  Fauchelevent  ;  and  for 
]\Iarius,  M.  Fauchelevent  was  the  condition  of  Co- 
sette, and  hc  accepted  him.  In  discussing  vaguely, 
and  without  any  précision,  political  matters  as  con- 
nected  with  the  improvement  of  ail,  they  managed 
to  say  a  little  more  than  Yes  and  No.  Once,  on  the 
subject  of  instruction,  wliich  Marins  wished  to  be 
gratuitous  and  obligatory,  multiplied  in  every  form, 
lavished  upon  ail  like  light  and  air,  and,  in  a  word, 
rcspirable  by  the  entire  peoplc,  they  were  agreed,  and 
almost  talkcd.     Marins  remarked   on  this  occasion 


DREAMING   BLENDED    WITII    HAPPINESS.      287 

tliat  M.  Fauchelevent  spoke  well,  and  even  with  a 
certain  élévation  of  language,  though  somcthing  was 
wanting.  M.  Fauchelevent  had  something  less  than 
a  man  of  the  world,  and  something  more.  INfarius, 
in  his  innermost  tlioughts,  surrounded  with  ail  sort? 
of  questions  this  M.  Fauchelevent,  vi^ho  was  to  him 
simple,  well-wishing,  and  cold.  At  times  doubts  oc- 
curred  to  him  as  to  his  own  recollections  ;  he  had  a 
hole  in  his  memory,  a  black  spot,  an  abyss  dug  by 
four  months  of  agony.  Many  things  were  lost  in  it, 
and  he  was  beginning  to  ask  himself  whether  it  was 
the  fact  that  he  had  seen  jM.  Fauchelevent,  a  man  so 
serious  and  so  calm,  at  the  barricade. 

This  was,  however,  not  the  sole  stupor  which  the 
appearances  and  disappearances  of  the  past  had  Icft 
in  his  mind.  We  must  not  believe  that  he  was 
delivered  from  ail  those  promptings  of  memory 
which  compel  us,  even  when  happy  and  satisfied, 
to  take  a  melancholy  backward  glance.  The  head 
which  does  not  turn  to  effaced  horizons  contains 
neither  thought  nor  love.  At  moments  Marins 
buricd  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  the  tumultuous 
and  vague  past  traversed  the  fog  which  he  had  in 
his  brain.  He  saw  Mabœuf  fall  again,  he  heard 
Gavroche  singing  under  the  grape-shot,  and  he  felt 
on  his  lips  the  coldness  of  Éponine's  forehead  ; 
Enjolras,  Courfeyrac,  Jean  Prouvaire,  Combeferre, 
Bossuet,  Grantairc,  ail  his  friends  rose  before  him, 
and  then  disappeared.  Were  they  ail  dreams,  thèse 
dear,  sorrowful,  valiant,  charming,  and  tragic  bcings? 
Had  they  really  existed  ?  The  riot  had  robed  every- 
thing  in  its  smoke,  and  thèse  great  fevers  hâve  great 


288  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

dreanis.  He  questioned  himself,  he  felt  himself,  and 
had  a  dizziness  from  ail  tliese  vanished  realities. 
Where  were  thej  ail,  tlien  ?  Was  it  really  true  that 
everything  was  dead  ?  A  fall  into  tlie  darkness  had 
carried  away  everything  except  himself;  ail  this 
had  disappcared  as  it  were  behind  the  curtain  of 
a  théâtre.  There  are  sueh  curtains  which  drop  on 
life,  and  God  passes  on  to  the  next  act.  In  him- 
self was  he  really  the  same  man?  He,  poor,  was 
rich  ;  he,  the  abandoned  man,  had  a  family  ;  he, 
the  desperate  man,  was  going  to  marry  Cosette. 
He  seemed  to  hâve  passcd  through  a  tomb,  and  to 
hâve  gone  in  black  and  corne  ont  white.  And  in 
this  tomb  the  others  had  remained.  At  certain  times 
ail  thèse  beings  of  the  past,  returning  and  présent, 
formed  a  circle  round  him,  and  rendered  him  gloomy. 
Then  he  thonght  of  Cosette,  and  became  serene 
again,  but  it  required  no  less  than  this  fclicity  to 
efface  this  catastrophe.  INI.  Fauchelevent  had  almost 
a  place  among  thèse  vanished  beings.  Marius  hesi- 
tated  to  believe  that  the  Fauchelevent  of  the  bar- 
ricade was  the  same  as  that  Fauchelevent  in  flcsh 
and  bone  so  gravely  seated  by  the  side  of  Cosette. 
The  first  was  probably  one  of  those  nightmarcs 
brought  to  him  and  carried  away  by  his  hours  of 
delirium.  However,  as  thcir  two  natures  were  so 
far  apart,  it  was  impossible  for  Marius  to  ask  any 
question  of  M.  Fauchelevent.  Tlie  idea  had  not 
even  occurred  to  him  ;  we  bave  already  indicated  this 
characteristic  détail.  Two  men  who  havc  a  common 
secret,  and  who,  by  a  sort  of  tacit  agreement,  do 
not  exchange  a  syllable  on  the  subject,  are  not  so 


DREAMING   BLEXDED   WITH   HAPPINESS.       289 

rare  as  may  be  supposed.  Once,  liowcver,  ]Marius 
made  an  effort  ;  he  turued  the  conversation  on  the 
Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie,  and  turniug  to  M.  Fauche- 
levent,  he  said  to  him,  — 

"  Do  you  know  that  street  well  ?  " 

"  What  Street  ?  " 

"  The  Rue  de  la  Chanvrerie." 

"  I  hâve  never  heard  the  name  of  that  street,"  M. 
Fauchelevent  said,  iu  the  most  uatural  tone  in  the 
world. 

The  answer,  wliich  related  to  the  name  of  the 
street,  and  not  to  the  street  itself,  seemed  to  Marius 
more  conclusive  than  it  really  was. 

"Decidedly,"  he  thought,  "I  must  hâve  been 
dreaming.  I  had  an  hallucination.  It  was  some 
one  that  resembled  him,  and  M.  Fauchelevent  was 
not  there." 


19 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

TWO   MEIST   IMPOSSIBLE    TO   FIXD. 

The  encliantment,  great  though  it  was,  did  not 
efface  other  thouglits  from  Marius's  mind.  While 
the  marriage  arrangements  were  being  made,  and 
thc  fixed  period  was  waited  for,  he  inade  some 
troublesome  and  scrupuloiis  rétrospective  researches. 
He  owed  gratitude  in  several  quarters  ;  lie  owed  it 
for  his  fathcr,  and  lie  owed  it  for  liiniself.  Tliere 
was  Théiiardier,  and  tliere  was  the  stranger  who  liad 
brouglit  liim  back  to  M.  Gillenorniand's.  Marins 
w^as  anxious  to  find  thèse  two  men  again,  as  he  did 
not  wish  to  marry,  be  happy,  and  forget  theni,  and 
fearcd  lest  thèse  unpaid  debts  of  honor  inight  cast  a 
shadow  over  liis  life,  which  would  henccforth  be  so 
luminous.  It  was  impossible  for  him  to  leave  ail 
thèse  arrears  siiffering  bchind  him,  and  he  wished, 
ère  he  entcrcd  joyously  into  the  future,  to  obtain  a 
receipt  from  the  past.  That  Thénardier  was  a  villain 
took  nothing  from  the  fact  that  he  had  saved  Colonel 
Pontmercy.  Thénardier  was  a  bandit  for  ail  the 
world  excepting  for  Marius.  And  Marius,  ignorant 
of  the  real  scène  on  the  battle-licld  of  Waterloo, 
did  not  kiiow  tliis  pcculiarity,  that  his  father  stood 
to  Thénardier  in  the  straiige  situation  of  owing 
him    life  without  owing  him    gratitude.     Not    one 


TWO   MEN   IMPOSSIBLE   TO   FIND.  291 

of  tlie  agents  whom  INIarius  eniployecl  coiilcl  find 
Thénardier's  trail,  and  the  disappearance  seemed 
complète  on  that  side.  Mother  Thénardier  had  died 
in  prison  before  trial,  and  Thénardier  and  his  daugli- 
ter  Azelnia,  the  only  two  left  of  this  lamentable 
group,  had  plunged  again  into  the  shadow.  The 
gulf  of  the  social  nnknown  had  silently  closed  again 
upon  thèse  beings.  No  longer  could  be  seen  on  the 
surface  that  quivering,  that  tremor,  and  those  ob- 
scure concentric  circles  which  announce  that  some- 
thing  has  fallen  tliere,  and  that  a  grappling-iron  may 
be  thrown  in. 

Mother  Thénardier  being  dead,  Boulatruelle  being 
ont  of  the  question,  Claquesous  having  disappeared, 
and  the  principal  accused  having  escaped  from  prison, 
the  trial  for  the  trap  in  the  Gorbeau  attic  had  pretty 
nearly  failcd.  The  afFair  had  remained  rather  dark, 
and  the  assize  court  had  been  compelled  to  sat- 
isfy  itself  with  two  subalterns,  Panchaud,  alias 
Printanier,  alias  Bigrcnaille,  and  Demi-Liard,  alias 
Deux  Milliards,  who  had  been  condemned,  after 
hearing  both  parties,  to  ten  years  at  the  galleys. 
Pénal  servitude  for  life  was  passed  against  their 
accomplices  who  had  escaped  ;  Thénardier,  as  chief 
and  promoter,  was  condemned  to  death,  also  in  de- 
fault.  This  condemnation  was  the  only  thing  that 
remained  of  Thénardier,  casting  on  this  buried  name 
its  sinister  gleam,  like  a  candie  by  the  side  of  a  coffin. 
However,  this  condemnation,  by  thrusting  Thénardier 
back  into  the  lowest  depths  through  the  fear  of  being 
recaptured,  added  to  the  dense  gloom  which  covered 
this  man. 


292  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

As  for  the  other,  the  unknown  man  who  had  saved 

Marins,  the  researches  had  at  first  sonie  resuit,  and 

■  "T  stopped  short.     They  succeedcd  in  finding  again 

hackney  coach  which  had  brought  Mai'ius  to  the 

ue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  on  the  night  bf  Junc  6. 
The  driver  declared  that  on  the  6th  of  June,  by  the 
order  of  a  police  agent,  he  had  stopped  from  three 
P.  M.  till  nightfall  on  the  quay  of  the  Champs  Elysées, 
above  the  opening  of  the  Great  Sewer  ;  that  at  about 
nine  in  the  evening  the  gâte  of  the  sewer  which  looks 
upon  the  river-bank  opened  ;  that  a  man  came  out, 
bearing  on  his  shoulders  another  man,  who  appeared 
to  be  dead  ;  that  the  agent,  who  was  watching  at 
this  point,  had  arrested  the  living  man  and  seized 
the  dead  man  ;  that  he,  the  coachman,  had  takcn 
"  ail  thèse  people  "  into  his  hackney  coacli  ;  that  they 
drove  first  to  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  and 
deposited  the  dead  man  there  ;  that  the  dead  man 
was  M.  Marins,  and  that  he,  the  coachman,  recog- 
nized  him  thoroughly,  though  he  was  alive  this  time  ; 
that  afterwards  tliey  got  into  his  coach  again,  and 
a  few  yards  from  the  gâte  of  the  Archives  he  was 
ordered  to  stop  ;  that  he  was  paid  in  the  street  and 
discharged,  and  the  agent  took  aA\'ay  the  other  man  ; 
that  he  knew  nothing  more,  and  that  the  nigiit  was 
very  dark.  Marins,  as  we  said,  remembered  nothing. 
He  merely  remembered  tliat  he  had  becn  seized  from 
behind  by  a  powerful  hand  at  the  moment  when  he 
fell  backwards  from  the  barricade,  and  then  ail  was 
effaced  for  him.  He  had  only  regained  his  sensés 
when  he  was  at  M.  Gillenormand's. 

He  lost  himself  in  conjectures  ;  he  could  not  doubt 


TWO   MEX   IMPOSSIBLE    TO   FIND.  293 

as  to  his  own  identity,  but  how  was  it  that  lie,  who 
had  falleu  in  the  Rue  de  la  Chau\Terie,  had  been 
picked  up  by  the  police  agent  on  the  bauk  of  the 
Seine,  near  the  bridge  of  the  Invalides  ?  Some  one 
had  brought  hini  from  the  market  district  to  the 
Champs  Elysées,  and  how,  —  by  the  sevver  ?  Extraor- 
dinary  dévotion  !  Some  one  ?  Who  ?  It  was  the 
man  whom  Marins  was  seeking.  Of  this  nian,  who 
was  his  saviour,  he  could  find  nothing,  not  a  trace, 
not  the  slightest  sign.  Marins,  thougli  compelled  on 
this  side  to  exercise  a  great  reserve,  pushed  on  his 
inquiries  as  far  as  the  Préfecture  of  Police,  but  there 
the  information  which  he  obtained  led  to  no  better 
resuit  than  elsewhere.  The  Préfecture  knew  less 
about  the  matter  than  the  driver  of  the  hackney 
coach  ;  they  had  no  knowledge  of  any  arrest  having 
taken  place  at  the  outlet  of  the  great  drain  on  June  6  ; 
they  had  received  no  report  from  the  agent  about 
this  fact  which,  at  the  Préfecture,  was  regarded  as  a 
fable.  The  invention  of  this  fable  was  attributed  to 
the  driver  ;  for  a  driver  anxious  for  driuk-money  is 
capable  of  anything,  even  imagination.  The  fact, 
however,  was  certain,  and  Marins  could  not  doubt  it, 
unless  he  doubted  his  own  identity,  as  we  hâve  just 
said.  Everything  in  this  strange  enigma  was  inex- 
plicable ;  this  man,  this  mysterious  man,  whom  the 
driver  had  seen  come  out  of  the  grating  of  the  great 
drain,  bearing  the  fainting  Marius  on  his  back,  and 
whom  the  police  agent  caught  in  the  act  of  sa\ang  an 
insurgent,  —  what  had  become  of  him  ?  ^Yhat  had 
become  of  the  agent  himself  ?  Why  had  this  agent 
kept  silence  ?     Had  the  man  succeeded  in  escaping  ? 


294  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Had  lie  corrupted  the  agent?  Why  did  this  man 
give  no  sign  of  lifc  to  Marias,  who  owed  everything  to 
him  ?  The  disinterestedness  was  no  less  prodigious 
than  the  dévotion.  Why  did  this  man  not  reappear? 
Perhaps  he  was  above  reward,  but  no  man  is  above 
gratitude.  Was  he  dead  ?  Who  was  the  man  ?  What 
was  he  like  ?  No  one  was  able  to  say  :  the  driver 
replied,  "  The  night  was  very  dark."  Basque  and 
Nicollette  in  their  start  had  only  looked  at  tlieir 
young  master,  who  was  ail  bloody.  The  porter, 
whose  candie  had  lit  up  Marius's  tragic  arrivai,  had 
alone  remarkcd  the  man  in  question,  and  this  was 
the  description  he  gave  of  him  :  "  The  man  was 
frightful." 

In  the  hope  of  deriving  some  advantage  from  them 
for  his  researches.  Marins  kept  his  blood-stained 
clothcs  which  he  wore  when  he  was  brought  to  his 
grandfather's.  On  exaniining  the  coat  it  was  noticed 
that  the  skirt  was  strangely  torn,  and  a  pièce  was 
missing.  One  evening  Marins  was  speaking  in  the 
présence  of  Cosctte  and  Jean  Valjean  about  ail  this 
singular  adventure,  the  countless  inquiries  he  had 
madc,  and  the  inutility  of  his  efforts;  Monsieur 
Fauchclevent's  cold  face  offended  him,  and  hc  ex- 
clainied  with  a  vivacity  which  had  almost  the  vibra- 
tion of  anger,  — 

"  Yes,  that  man,  whoever  he  may  be,  was  sub- 
lime. Do  you  know  what  he  did,  sir?  He  inter- 
vened  like  an  archangel.  He  was  obliged  to  throw 
himsclf  into  the  midst  of  the  contcst,  carry  me  away, 
open  the  sewer,  drag  me  ofï",  and  carry  me.  He  must 
liave  gone  more  than  a  league  and  a  half  through 


TWO   MEN   IMPOSSIBLE   TO   FIXD.  295 

frightful  subterranean  galleries,  beiit  and  bowed  in 
the  darkness,  in  tlie  sewer,  for  more  than  lialf  a 
league,  sir,  with  a  corpse  on  his  back  !  And  for 
what  objcct?  For  the  sole  object  of  saving  tliat 
corpse  ;  and  tbat  corpse  was  myself.  He  said  to 
himself,  '  There  is,  perliaps,  a  gleam  of  life  left 
hère,  and  I  will  risk  my  existence  for  this  wretched 
spark  !  '  and  he  did  not  risk  his  existence  once,  but 
twenty  tiiues  !  And  each  step  was  a  danger,  and  the 
proof  is,  that  on  leaving  the  sewer  he  was  arrested. 
Do  you  know,  sir,  that  this  man  did  ail  that  ?  And 
he  had  no  reward  to  expect.  What  was  I  ?  An  in- 
surgent. What  was  I  ?  A  conquered  man.  Oh  !  if 
Cosette's  six  hundred  thousand  francs  were  mine  — " 

"  They  are  yours,"  Jean  Valjean  interrupted. 

"  Well,  then,"  ISIarius  continued,  "  I  would  give 
them  to  find  that  man  again." 

Jean  Valjean  was  silent. 


BOOK    VI. 
THE  SLEEPLESS  NIGHT. 


CHAPTER   I. 

FEBRUARY   16,    1833. 

The  night  of  February  16  was  a  blessed  iiiglit, 
for  it  had  above  its  sliadow  tlie  open  sky.  It  was 
the  wedding-iiight  of  Marins  and  Cosette. 

The  daj  had  been  adorable  ;  it  was  not  the  blue 
festival  dreanied  of  by  the  grandfather,  a  fairy  scène, 
with  a  confusion  of  cherubini  and  cnpids  above  the 
head  of  the  married  couple,  a  marriage  worthy  of 
being  rcprcsentcd  over  a  door,  but  it  had  been  swect 
and  sniiling.  The  fashion  of  marrying  in  181^3  was 
not  at  ail  as  it  is  now.  France  liad  not  yet  borrowed 
froni  Eiigland  that  suprême  delicacy  of  carrying 
oft'  a  wife,  of  flying  on  leaving  the  church,  hiding 
one's  self  as  if  ashamcd  of  one's  happiness,  and 
combining  the  manœuvres  of  a  bankru])t  with  the 
ravishment  of  the  Song  of  Songs.  We  had  not  yct 
understood  how  chaste,  exquisite,  and  décent  it  is 
to  jolt  one's  paradise  in  a  postchaise  ;  to  vary  the 
mystery  with  click-clacks  of  the  whip  ;  to  sclcct  an 
inn  bed  as  the  nuptial  couch,  and  to  leave  behind 


FEBRUARY   16,   1833.  297 

one,  at  tlie  conventional  alcôve  at  so  mucli  per  uiglit, 
tlie  most  sacrcd  recollectiou  of  life,  juin  bled  witli 
the  tête-à-têtes  of  the  guard  of  tlie  diligence  and  the 
chamber-maid.  In  the  second  half  of  the  nineteenth 
centiirv,  in  which  we  now  are,  the  niayor  and  his 
scarf,  the  priest  and  his  chasuble,  the  law  and  God, 
are  no  longer  sufficient  ;  they  must  be  complemcntcd 
bv  the  postillon  of  Lonjumcau  ;  bine  jacket  with  red 
facings  and  bell  buttons,  a  leather-bound  plate,  grceu 
leather  breeches,  oaths  to  the  Norman  horses  with 
their  knotted  tails,  imitation  gold  lace,  oil-skin  liât, 
heavy,  dusty  horses,  an  enormous  whip,  and  strong 
boots.  France  does  not  carry  the  élégance  to  such 
an  extcnt  as  to  shower  on  the  postchaise,  as  the 
English  nobility  do,  old  shoes  and  battered  slippers, 
in  memory  of  Churchill,  afterwards  Marlborough  or 
Malbrouck,  who  was  assailed  on  his  wedding-day 
by  the  anger  of  an  aunt  which  brought  him  good 
luck.  Shoes  and  slippers  do  not  y  et  form  part  of 
our  nuptial  célébrations  ;  but,  patience,  with  the 
spread  of  good  taste  we  shall  yet  corne  to  it. 

In  1833,  —  it  is  a  century  since  thcn,  —  marriage 
was  not  performed  at  a  smart  trot  ;  people  still  sup- 
posed  at  that  epoch,  whimsically  cnough,  that  a 
marriage  is  a  private  and  social  festival,  that  a  patri- 
archal  banquet  does  not  spoil  a  domestic  solemnity  ; 
that  gayety,  even  if  it  be  excessive,  so  long  as  it 
is  décent,  does  no  harm  to  happiness  ;  and  finally, 
that  it  is  vénérable  and  good  for  the  fusion  of  thèse 
two  destinies  from  which  a  faniily  will  issue,  to 
begin  in  the  house,  and  that  the  household  may 
liave  in  future  the  nuptial  chamber  as  a  witness  ; 


298  JEAN   V  AT  JEAN. 

and  people  were  so  iinmodest  as  to  marry  at  home. 
The  weddiiig  took  plaee,  then,  according  to  this  fashioii 
which  is  novv  antiquated,  at  M.  Gilleuorniand's  ;  aiid 
though  this  afFair  of  marrying  is  so  simple  and  natural, 
the  publication  of  the  banns,  drawing  iip  the  deeds, 
the  mayoraltj,  and  the  church  ahvays  cause  some 
complication,  and  they  could  not  be  ready  before 
February  16.  Now  —  we  note  tliis  détail  for  the 
pure  satisfaction  of  bcing  exact  —  it  happened  that 
the  16th  was  Mardi  Gras.  There  were  hésita- 
tions and  scruples,  especially  on  the  part  of  Aunt 
Gillenormand. 

"A  INIardi  Gras!"  the  grandfather  exclaimed  ; 
*'  ail  the  better.     There  is  a  proverb  that,  — 

*  Mariage  un  Mardi  gras 
N'aura  poiut  d'eiifauts  ingrats.' 

Ail  right.  Donc  for  the  ICth.  Do  you  wish  to 
put  it  off,   ]Marius  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  the  amorous  youth. 

*'  We'll  marry  thcn,"  said  the  grandfather. 

The  niarriagc,  therefore,  took  place  on  the  16th, 
in  spite  of  the  public  gayety.  It  rained  on  that 
day,  but  there  is  always  in  the  sky  a  little  blue 
patch  at  the  service  of  happincss,  which  lovers  sce, 
cven  when  the  rest  of  création  are  under  their  um- 
brellas.  On  the  previous  day  Jean  Valjcan  had 
lianded  to  jNIarius,  in  the  présence  of  M.  Gillenormand, 
the  five  hundred  and  eighty-four  thousand  francs.  As 
the  marriage  took  place  in  the  ordinary  way,  the 
deeds  were  vcry  simple.  Toussaint  was  hencci'orth 
useless  to  Jean  Valjean,  so  Cosette  inherited  lier, 


FEBRUAllY   ]6,    1833.  299 

and  promoted  her  to  tlie  raiik  of  lady's-maid.  As 
for  Jean  Valjcan,  a  nice  room  was  furnished  ex- 
pressly  for  him  at  M.  Gillenormand's,  and  Cosette 
had  said  to  him  so  irresistiblv,  "  Fatlier,  I  implore 
you,"  that  she  had  ahiiost  made  him  promise  that 
he  would  come  and  occupy  it.  A  few  days  before 
that  fixed  for  the  marriage  an  accident  happened 
to  Jean  Valjean  ;  he  slightly  injured  the  thnmb  of 
his  right  hand.  It  was  not  serions,  and  he  had  not 
allowed  any  one  to  poultice  it,  or  even  see  it,  not 
eveu  Cosette.  Still,  it  compclled  him  to  wrap  up 
his  hand  in  a  bandage  and  wear  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
and  this,  of  course,  prevented  him  from  signing  any- 
thing.  M.  Gillenorniand,  as  supervising  guardian  to 
Cosette,  took  his  place.  We  will  not  take  the  reader 
either  to  the  mayoralty  or  to  church.  Two  lovers 
are  not  usually  folio wed  so  far,  and  we  are  wont 
to  turn  our  back  on  the  drama  so  soon  as  it  puts 
a  bridegroom's  bouquet  in  its  button-hole.  We  will 
restrict  ourselves  to  noting  an  incident  which,  thougli 
unnoticed  by  the  bridai  party,  marked  the  drive  from 
the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  to  St.  Paul's  Church. 

The  Rue  St.  Louis  was  being  repaired  at  the  time, 
and  it  was  blocked  from  the  Rue  du  Parc  Royal, 
hence  it  was  impossible  for  the  carriage  to  go  direct 
to  St.  Paul's.  As  they  were  obliged  to  change  their 
course,  the  most  simple  plan  was  to  turn  into  the 
boulevard.  One  of  the  guests  drew  attention  to  the 
fact  that,  as  it  was  ^Mardi  Gras,  there  would  be  a 
block  of  vehicles.  "  Why  so  ?  "  M.  Gillenorniand 
asked.  "On  account  of  the  masks."  "Famous," 
said  the  grandfather  ;  "  we  will  go  that  way.     Thèse 


300  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

young  people  are  going  to  marry  and  see  tlie  scrious 
side  of  life,  and  seeing  tlie  masqueradc  will  be  a  slight 
préparation  for  it."  They  turned  into  the  boulevard  : 
the  first  of  the  wedding  carriages  contained  Cosette 
and  Aunt  Gillenormand,  M.  Gillenormand,  and  Jean 
Valjean.  Marins,  still  separated  from  his  bride,  ac- 
cording  to  custom,  was  in  the  second.  The  nuptial 
procession,  on  turning  out  of  the  Rue  des  Filles  du 
Calvaire,  joined  the  long  file  of  vehicles  making  an 
endless  chain  from  the  Madeleine  to  the  Bastille,  and 
from  the  Bastille  to  the  Madeleine.  JNIasks  were 
abundant  on  the  boulevard  :  and  though  it  rained 
every  now  and  then.  Paillasse,  Pantalon,  and  Gille 
were  obstinate.  In  the  good  humor  of  that  winter 
of  1833  Paris  had  disguised  itself  as  Venus.  We  do 
not  see  a  Mardi  Gras  like  tins  now-a-days,  for  as 
everything  existing  is  a  wide-spread  carnival,  there  is 
no  carnival  left.  The  sidewalks  were  thronged  with 
pedestrians,  and  the  Windows  with  gazers  ;  and  the 
terraces  crowning  the  péristyles  of  the  théâtres  were 
covered  with  spectators.  In  addition  to  the  masks, 
they  look  at  the  file  —  peculiar  to  ]Mardi  Gras  as  to 
Longchamp  —  of  vehicles  of  every  description,  cita- 
dines, carts,  curricles,  and  cabs,  marching  in  order 
rigorously  riveted  to  each  other  by  police  régulations, 
and,  as  it  were,  running  on  rails.  Any  one  who  hap- 
pens  to  be  in  one  of  thèse  vehicles  is  at  once  specta- 
tor  and  spectacle.  Policemen  standing  by  the  side 
of  the  boulevard  kept  in  place  thèse  two  interminable 
files  moving  in  a  contniry  direction,  and  watched  that 
nothing  should  inipede  the  double  currcnt  of  thèse 
two  streams,  one  running  up,  the  other  down,  one 


FEBRUARY   16,   1833.  301 

towards  the  Chaussée  d'Antin,  tlie  other  towards  the 
Faubourg  St.  Antoine.  The  escutcheoned  carriages 
of  the  Peers  of  France  and  Anibassadors  held  the 
crown  of  the  causeway,  coming  and  going  freely  ;  and 
certain  magniticent  and  gorgeous  processions,  notably 
the  Bœuf  Gras,  had  the  same  privilège.  In  this 
Parisian  gajety  England  clacked  his  whip,  for  the 
post-chaise  of  Lord  Seymour,  at  which  a  popuhxr 
sobriquet  was  hurled,  passed  with  a  great  noise. 

In  the  double  tile,  along  which  INlunicipal  Guards 
galloped  like  watch-dogs,  honest  family  arks,  crowded 
with  great-aunts  and  grandmothers,  displayed  at  Win- 
dows healthy  groups  of  disguised  children.  Pierrots 
of  seven  and  Pierrettes  of  six,  ravishing  little  crea^ 
tures,  feeling  that  they  officially  formed  part  of  the 
public  merrinient,  penetrated  with  the  dig'nity  of  their 
Harlequinade,  and  displaying  the  gravity  of  function- 
aries.  From  time  to  time  a  block  occurred  some- 
where  in  the  procession  of  vehicles  ;  one  or  other  of 
the  two  side  files  stopped  until  the  knot  was  untied, 
one  impeded  vehicle  sufficing  to  block  the  whole 
Une.  Then  they  started  again.  The  wedding  car- 
riages were  in  the  file,  going  towards  the  Bastille  on 
the  right-hand  side  of  the  boulevard.  Opposite  the 
Rue  du  Pont-aux-Choux  there  was  a  stoppage,  and 
alraost  at  the  same  moment  the  file  on  the  other  side 
proceeding  towards  the  Madeleine  stopped  too.  At 
this  point  of  the  procession  there  was  a  carriage  of 
masks.  Thèse  carriages,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly, 
thèse  cartloads  of  masks,  are  wcll  known  to  the 
Parisians  ;  if  they  failed  on  INIardi  Gras  or  at  mid- 
Lent,  people  would  say,  "  There  's  something  behind 


302  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

it.  Probably  we  are  going  to  hâve  a  change  of 
Ministry."  A  heap  of  Harlequius,  Coluinbiiie.s,  and 
Pantaloons  jolted  above  the  heads  of  the  passers-by, 
—  ail  possible  grotesques,  froni  the  Turk  to  the 
Savage.  Hercules  supporting  Marquises,  fish-fogs 
who  would  niake  Rabelais  stop  his  ears,  as  well  as 
Msenads  who  would  make  Aristophanes  look  down, 
tow  perukes,  pink  fleshings,  three-cornered  hats,  pan- 
taloons, spectacles,  cries  given  to  the  pedestrians, 
hands  on  bips,  bold  postures,  naked  shouldcrs, 
masked  faces,  and  unmuzzlcd  imniodesty  ;  a  chaos  of 
effronteries  driven  by  a  coachman  in  a  head-dress  of 
flowers,  —  such  is  this  institution.  Greece  felt  the 
want  of  Thespis'  cart,  and  France  needs  Vadé's  fiacre. 
Ail  may  be  parodied,  even  parody.  The  Saturnalia, 
that  grimace  of  antique  beauty,  by  swelling  and 
swclling  becomes  the  jNlardi  Gras  :  and  the  Bacclia- 
nal,  formerly  crowned  with  vine-leaves,  inundated  by 
sunshine,  and  displaying  nuirble  breasts  in  a  divine 
semi-nudity,  is  novv  flabby  under  the  drenched  rags  of 
the  Xorth,  has  ended  by  being  called  a  chie-en-lit. 

The  tradition  of  the  coaches  of  masks  dates  back 
to  the  oldest  times  of  the  INIonarchy.  The  accounts 
of  Louis  XI.  alhjw  the  Palace  steward  "  twenty  sous 
tournois  for  three  coaches  of  masquerades."  In  our 
tinie  thèse  noisy  piles  of  créatures  gcncrally  ride  in 
somc  old  coucou  the  roof  of  which  they  encuniber, 
or  cover  with  thcir  tunudtuous  group  a  landau  the 
hood  of  which  is  thrown  back.  There  arc  twenty 
in  a  carriage  intended  for  six.  You  sec  theni  on 
the  seat,  on  the  front  stool,  on  the  springs  of  the 
hood,  and  on  the  pôle,  and  tiiey  even  straddle  across 


FEBRUARY   10,    1833.  303 

the  lamps.  They  are  standing,  Ijing  clown,  or  seated, 
cross-legged,  or  Avith  pendent  legs.  The  women 
occupy  the  knees  of  the  mcn,  and  this  wild  pyramid 
is  seen  for  a  long  distance  over  the  heads  of  the 
crowd.  Thèse  vehicles  forni  mountains  of  merriment 
in  the  midst  of  the  niob,  and  Collé,  Panard,  and  Piron 
flow  from  them  enriched  with  slang,  and  the  fish-fag's 
catechism  is  expectorated  from  above  upon  the  people. 
This  fiacre,  which  has  grown  enornious  through  its 
burden,  has  an  air  of  conquest  ;  Hubbub  is  in  front 
and  Hurly-burly  behind.  People  shout  in  it,  sing  in 
it,  yell  in  it,  and  writhe  with  happiness  in  it  ;  gayety 
roars  there,  sarcasni  flashes,  and  joviality  is  displayed 
like  a  purple  robe  ;  two  jades  drag  in  it  farce  ex- 
panded  into  an  apothcosis,  and  it  is  the  triumphal 
car  of  laughtcr,  —  a  laughter,  thongh,  too  cynical  to 
be  franlc,  and  in  truth  this  langhter  is  suspicious. 
It  has  a  mission,  —  that  of  verifying  the  carnival  to 
the  Parisians.  Thèse  fish-fag  vehicles,  in  which  some 
strange  darkness  is  perceptible,  cause  the  philosoplïer 
to  reflect  ;  there  is  something  of  the  government  in 
them,  and  you  lay  your  finger  there  on  a  curions 
afRnity  between  public  men  and  public  women.  It 
is  certainly  a  sorry  tliought,  that  heaped-up  turpi- 
tudes give  a  sum-total  of  gayety  ;  tliat  a  people  can 
be  amused  by  building  up  ignominy  on  opprobrium  ; 
that  spying,  acting  as  a  caryatid  to  prostitution, 
amuses  the  mob  wliile  affronting  it  ;  that  the  crowd 
is  pleased  to  see  pass  on  four  wheels  this  monstrons 
living  pile  of  beings,  spanglcd  rags,  one  half  ordure, 
one  half  light,  who  bark  and  sing  ;  that  they  should 
clap  their  hands  at  ail  this  shame,  and  that  no  festival 


304  JEAN   VALJEAN 

is  possible  for  the  multitude  unless  the  police  prome- 
nade in  its  midst  thèse  twenty-headed  liydras  of  joy. 
JNIost  sad  this  certainly  is,  but  what  is  to  be  doue  ? 
Thèse  tumbrels  of  bcribboned  and  flowered  filth  are 
insulted  and  pardoned  by  the  public  laughter,  and 
the  laughter  of  ail  is  the  accomplice  of  the  universal 
dégradation.  Certain  unhealthy  festivals  disintegrate 
the  people  and  couvert  them  into  populace  ;  but  a 
populace,  like  tyrants,  requires  bufFoons.  The  king 
has  Roquelaure,  and  the  people  has  Paillasse.  Paris 
is  the  great  mad  city  wherever  it  is  not  the  great 
sublime  city,  and  the  carnival  there  is  political.  Paris, 
let  us  confess  it,  willingly  allows  infaniy  to  play  a 
farce  for  its  amusement,  and  only  asks  of  its  masters 
—  when  it  has  masters  —  one  thing,  "  paint  the  mud 
for  me."  Rome  was  of  the  same  hunior  ;  she  lovcd 
Nero,  and  Nero  was  a  Titanic  débardeur. 

Accident  willed  it,  as  we  hâve  just  said,  that  one 
of  the  shapeless  groups  of  masked  men  and  women 
collectcd  in  a  vast  barouche  stopped  on  the  left  of 
the  boulevard  while  the  wedding  party  stopped  on 
the  right.  The  carriage  in  which  the  masks  were, 
noticed  opposite  to  it  the  carriage  in  which  was 
the  bride. 

"  Ililloh  !  "  said  a  mask,  "  a  wedding." 

"  A  false  wedding,"  another  rctorted,  "  we  are  the 
true  one." 

And,  as  they  were  too  far  off  to  address  the  wed- 
ding party,  and  as  they  also  feared  tiie  interférence 
of  the  police,  the  two  masks  looked  clscwhere.  The 
whole  vehicle-load  of  masquers  had  plenty  of  work 
a  moment  after,  for  the  mob  began  hissing  it,  which 


FEBRUARY   16,   1833.  305 

is  tlie  caress  given  by  the  mob  to  masquerades,  and 
the  two  masks  who  liad  just  spoken  were  obliged 
to  face  the  crowd  witli  tlieir.  comvades,  and  found 
ail  the  missiles  of  the  market  repertory  scarce  suf- 
ficient  to  reply  to  the  atrocious  jaw-lashing  from 
the  people,  A  frightful  exchange  of  metaphors  took 
place  between  the  masks  and  the  crowd.  In  the 
mean  while  two  other  masks  in  the  same  carriage, 
a  Spaniard  with  an  exaggerated  nose,  an  oldish  look, 
and  enormous  black  moustaches,  and  a  thin  and  very 
youthful  fish-girl,  wearing  a  half-mask,  had  noticed 
the  wedding  also,  and  while  tlieir  companions  and 
the  spectators  were  insulting  eacli  other,  held  a  con- 
ver.^ation  in  a  low  voice.  Tlieir  aside  was  covered 
by  the  tnmult  and  was  lost  in  it.  The  showers  had 
drenched  the  open  carriage  ;  the  February  wind  is 
not  warm,  and  so  the  fish-girl  while  answering  the 
Spaniard  shivered,  laughed,  and  coughed.  This  was 
the  dialogue,  which  we  translate  from  the  original 
slang  ;  — 

"  Look  hère." 

"  What  is  it,  pa  ?  " 

"  Do  you  see  that  old  man  ?  " 

"  What  old  man  ?  " 

"There,  in  the  wedding  coach,  with  his  arm  in 
a  sling." 

"Yes.    Well?" 

"  I  feel  sure  that  I  know  him." 

"  Ah  !  " 

"  May  my  neck  be  eut,  and  I  ne  ver  said  you,  thou, 
or  I,  in  my  life,  if  I  do  not  know  that  Parisian." 

"  To-day  Paris  is  Pantin." 

VOL.    V.  20 


306  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Can  you  see  the  bride  by  stooping  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  And  the  bridegroom  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  bridegroom  in  that  coach." 

"Nonsense." 

"  Unless  it  be  the  other  old  man."     - 

"  Corne,  trj  and  get  a  look  at  the  bride  bj 
stooping." 

"  I  can't." 

"  No  matter,  that  old  fellow  who  has  something 
the  matter  with  his  paw,  I  feel  certain  I  know 
him." 

"  And  wliat  good  will  it  do  you,  yom*  knowing 
him  ?  "  . 

"  I  don't  know.     Sometimes  !  " 

"  I  don't  care  a  curse  for  old  fellows." 

"  I  know  him." 

"  Know  him  as  much  as  you  like." 

"  How  the  deuce  is  he  at  the  wedding  ?  " 

"  Why,  we  are  there  too." 

"  Where  does  the  wedding  corne  from  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  ?  " 

"  Listen." 

"  AVcll,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  You  must  do  something." 

"Whatisit?" 

"  Get  out  of  our  trap  and  follow  that  wedding." 

"  What  to  do  ?  " 

"  To  know  where  it  goes  and  what  it  is.  JNIake 
haste  and  get  down  ;  run,  niy  daughtcr,  for  you  are 
young." 

"  I  can't  leave  the  carriage." 


FEBRUARY   16,   1833.  307 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  am  hired." 

"  Oh,  the  devil  !  " 

"  I  owe  the  Préfecture  my  day's  work." 

"  That  's  true." 

"  If  I  leave  the  carriage,  the  first  inspecter  who 
sees  me  will  arrest  me.     You  know  that." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it." 

"  To-day  I  am  bought  by  Pharos"  (the  government). 

"  No  matter,  that  old  fellow  bothers  me." 

"  Ail  old  men  bother  you,  and  yet  you  ain't  a 
chicken  yourself." 

"  He  is  in  the  first  carriage." 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  " 

"  In  the  bride's  carriage." 

"  What  next  ?  " 

"  So  he  is  the  father." 

"  How  does  that  concern  me  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  he  is  the  father." 

"  You  do  nothing  but  talk  about  that  father." 

"  Listen." 

"  Well,  what  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  go  away  masked,  for  I  am  hidden  hère, 
and  no  one  knows  I  am  hère.  But  to-morrow 
there  will  be  no  masks,  for  it  is  Ash  Wednesday, 
and  I  run  a  risk  of  being  nailed.  I  shall  be  obligcd 
\o  go  back  to  my  hole,  but  you  are  free." 

"  Not  quite." 

"  Well,  more  so  than  I  am." 

"  Well,  wliat  then  ?  " 

"  You  must  try  to  find  out  where  that  wedding 
party  is  going  to." 


308  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Going  to  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  I  know." 

"  Where  to,  then  ?  " 

"  To  tlie  Cadran  Bleu." 

"  But  that  is  not  the  direction." 

"  Well,  tlien  !  to  La  Râpée.'* 

"  Or  elsewhere." 

"  They  eau  do  as  they  like,  for  weddings  are 
free." 

"  That  is  not  the  thing.  I  tell  you  that  you  must 
try  to  find  out  for  me  what  that  wedding  is,  and 
where  it  cornes  from." 

"Of  course!  that  would  be  funny.  It'ssojolly 
easy  to  find  out  a  week  after  where  a  wedding  party 
has  gone  to  that  passed  during  the  Mardi  Gras.  A 
pin  in  a  bundle  of  hay.     Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  No  matter,  you  must  try.  Do  you  hear, 
Azelma  ?  " 

The  two  files  recommenced  their  opposite  move- 
ment  on  the  boulevard,  and  the  cari'iage  of  niasks 
lost  out  of  sight  that  which  contained  the  bride. 


CHAPTER  II. 

JEAN  VALJEAN   STILL   HAS   HIS   ARM   IN   A   SLING. 

To  realize  one's  dream  —  to  whom  is  this  granted? 
There  must  be  élections  for  tins  iu  heaven  ;  we 
are  the  unconscious  candidates,  and  the  angels 
vote.  Cosette  and  Marins  had  been  elccted.  Cosette, 
both  at  the  mayoralty  and  at  church,  was  brilliant 
and  touching.  Toussaint,  helped  bj  Nicolette,  had 
dressed  her.  Cosette  wore  over  a  skirt  of  white 
taffetas  her  dress  of  Binche  lace,  a  veil  of  English 
point,  a  necklace  of  fine  pearls,  and  a  crown  of 
orange-flowers  ;  ail  this  was  white,  and  in  this  white- 
ness  she  was  radiant.  It  was  an  exquisite  candor 
expanding  and  becoming  transfigured  in  light  ;  she 
looked  like  a  virgin  on  the  point  of  becoming  a 
goddess.  Marius's  fine  hair  was  shining  and  per- 
fumed,  and  hère  and  there  a  glimpse  could  be  cauglTt, 
under  the  thick  curls,  of  pale  lines,  which  were  the 
scars  of  the  barricade.  The  grandfather,  superb, 
with  head  erect,  amalgamating  in  his  toilette  and 
manners  ail  the  élégances  of  the  time  of  Barras,  gave 
his  arm  to  Cosette.  He  took  the  place  of  Jean  Val- 
jean,  who,  owing  to  his  wound,  could  not  give  his 
hand  to  the  bride.  Jean  Valjean,  dressed  ail  in 
black,  followed  and  smiled. 


310  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"■  ^Monsieur  Fauchelevent,"  the  grandfather  said  to 
him,  "  this  is  a  glorious  day,  and  I  vote  the  end  of 
afflictions  and  cares.  Henceforth  there  must  be  no 
sorrow  anywhere.  By  Pleaven  !  I  decree  joy  !  mis- 
fortune  has  no  right  to  exist,  and  it  is  "a  disgrâce  for 
the  azuré  of  lieaven  that  there  are  unfortunate  mon. 
Evil  does  not  conie  from  nian,  who,  at  the  bottom,  is 
good  ;  but  ail  liuman  miseries  hâve  their  capital  and 
central  governnient  in  hell,  otherwise  called  the 
Tuileries  of  the  devil.  There,  I  am  making  déma- 
gogie remarks  at  présent  !  For  my  part  I  hâve  no 
politieal  opinions  left  ;  and  ail  I  stick  to  is  that  men 
should  be  rich,  that  is  to  say,  joyous." 

When,  at  the  end  of  ail  the  cérémonies,  —  after 
pronouncing  before  the  mayor  and  before  the  priest 
every  yes  that  is  possible,  after  signing  the  register 
at  the  municipality  and  in  the  sacristy,  after  exchang- 
ing  rings,  after  knecling  side  by  side  under  the  canopy 
of  white  moire  in  the  smoke  of  the  censer,  —  they 
arrived  holding  each  other  by  the  hand,  admired  and 
envicd  by  ail.  Marins  in  black,  she  in  white,  pre- 
ceded  by  the  bcadle  in  the  colonels  epaulcttes,  strik- 
iug  the  flag-stones  with  his  halbcrt,  bctwcen  two 
rows  of  dazzled  spectators,  at  the  church  doors  which 
were  thrown  wide  opcn,  ready  to  get  into  their  car- 
riage,  —  and  then  ail  was  over.  Cosette  could  not 
yet  believe  it.  She  looked  at  Marins,  she  lookcd  at 
the  crowd,  she  lookcd  at  heavcn  ;  it  seemed  as  if  she 
were  afraid  of  awaking.  Her  astonished  and  anxious 
air  iniparted  something  strangely  enchanting  to  her. 
In  returning  they  both  rode  in  the  same  carriage, 
Marius   seated   by  Cosette's  side,  and  M.  Gillenor- 


JEAN  VALJEAN   HAS   HIS  ARM   IN  A   SLING.     311 

maud  and  Jean  Valjean  forming  their  vis-à-vis. 
Aunt  Gillenormand  had  fallcn  back  a  step  and  was 
in  the  second  carriage.  "  My  children,"  the  grand- 
father  said,  "  yoii  are  now  M.  le  Baron  and  Madame 
la  Baronne  with  tliirty  thousand  francs  a  year."  And 
Cosette,  nuzzling  against  Marins,  caressed  his  ear 
with  the  angelic  whisper,  "  It  is  true,  then,  my  name  is 
Marins  and  I  am  Madame  Thou."  Thèse  two  beings 
were  resplendent  ;  they  had  reached  the  irrévocable 
and  irrecoverable  moment,  the  dazzling  point  of  in- 
tersection of  ail  youth  and  ail  joy.  They  realized 
Jean  Prouvaire's  line  ;  together  they  did  not  nnm- 
ber  forty  years.  It  was  marriage  sublimated,  and 
thèse  two  children  were  two  lilies.  They  did  not 
see  each  other,  but  contemplated  each  other.  Cosette 
perceived  INIarius  in  a  glory,  and  Marins  perceived 
Cosette  upon  an  altar.  And  upon  this  altar,  and  in 
this  glory,  the  two  apothéoses  blending  behind  a  cloud 
for  Cosette  and  a  flashing  for  Marins,  there  was  the 
idéal  thing,  the  real  thing,  the  meeting-place  of  kisses 
and  of  sleep,  the  nnptial  pillow. 

Ail  the  torments  they  had  gone  throngh  returned 
to  them  in  intoxication  ;  it  appeared  to  them  as  if 
the  griefs,  the  sleeplessness,  the  tears,  the  angnish, 
the  terrors,  and  the  despair,  by  being  converted  into 
caresses  and  sunbeams,  rendered  more  charming  still 
the  chaniiing  hour  which  was  approaching  ;  and  that 
their  sorrows  were  so  many  handmaidens  who  per- 
formed  the  toilette  of  joy.  How  good  it  is  to  hâve 
snfFered  !  Their  misfortunes  made  a  halo  for  their 
happiness,  and  the  long  agony  of  their  love  ended  in 
an  ascension.      There   was  in  thèse  two  sonls  t'ie 


312  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

same  enchantnient,  tingcd  witli  voluptuousness  in 
INIarius  and  with  niodesty  in  Cosette.  They  said  to 
each  other  in  a  whisper,  "  AVe  will  go  and  see  again 
OUI*  little  garden  in  the  Rue  Plumet."  The  folds  of 
Cosette's  dress  were  upon  ]\Iarius.  Such  a  day  is  an 
ineffable  blending  of  dreani  and  ccrtainty  :  you  possess 
and  you  suppose,  and  you  still  hâve  time  before  you 
to  divine.  It  is  an  indeseribable  émotion  on  that 
day  to  be  at  midday  and  think  of  midnight.  The 
delight  of  thèse  two  hearts  overflowed  upon  the 
crowd,  and  imparted  merriment  to  the  passers-by. 
People  stopped  in  the  Rue  St.  Antoine,  in  front  of 
St.  Paul's,  to  look  through  the  carriage-window,  — 
the  orange  flowers  trembling  on  Cosette's  head. 
Thcn  they  returned  to  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire, 
—  home.  Marins,  side  by  side  with  Cosette,  as- 
cended,  triumphantly  and  radiantly,  that  staircase  up 
which  he  had  been  dragged  in  a  dying  state.  The 
beggars,  collected  before  the  gâte  and  dividing  the 
contents  of  their  purses,  blessed  them.  There  were 
flowers  everywhcrc,  and  the  house  was  no  less  fra- 
grant  than  the  church  :  after  the  inccnse  the  rose. 
They  fancied  they  could  hear  voices  singing  in  infini- 
tude;  they  had  God  in  their  hearts  ;  destiny  appeared 
to  them  like  a  ceiling  of  stars  ;  they  saw  abovc  their 
heads  the  flashing  of  the  rising  sun.  INIarius  gazcd 
at  Cosette's  charmiiig  bare  arm  and  the  pink  things 
which  could  be  vaguely  seen  through  the  lace  of  the 
stomacher,  and  Cosette,  catching  Marius's  glance, 
blushed  to  the  white  of  lier  eyes.  A  good  many  old 
friends  of  the  Gillenormand  family  had  been  invited, 
and    they  throng(;d    round    Cosette,   outvying    oiie 


JEAN  VALJEAN   HAS   HIS  ARM  IN   A  SLING.     313 

another  in  calling  lier  Madame  la  Baronne.  The 
ofRcer,  Théodule  Gillenorniand,  now  captain,  liad 
corne  from  Chartres,  wherc  .hé  was  stationed,  to  be 
présent  at  his  cousin 's  niarriage  :  Cosctte  did  not 
recognize  hini.  He,  ou  his  side,  accustomed  to  be 
thought  a  pretty  fellow  by  the  women,  reniembered 
Cosette  no  more  than  any  other. 

"  How  right  I  was  in  not  believiug  that  story  of 
the  lancer  !  "  Father  Gillenormand  said  to  himseif 
aside. 

Cosette  had  never  been  more  affectionate  to  Jean 
Valjean,  and  she  was  in  unison  with  Father  Gille- 
normand ;  while  he  built  up  joy  in  aphorisms  and 
maxims,  she  exhaled  love  and  beauty  like  a  perfume. 
Happiness  wishes  everybody  to  be  liappy.  She  found 
again  in  speakiug  to  Jean  Valjean  inflections  of  lier 
voice  of  the  time  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  and 
caressed  him  with  a  smile.  A  banquet  had  been 
prepared  in  the  dining-room  ;  an  illumination  «  giorno 
is  the  necessary  seasoning  of  a  great  joy,  and  niist 
and  darkness  are  not  accepted  by  the  happy.  They 
do  not  consent  to  be  black  :  night,  yes  ;  darkness, 
no  ;  and  if  there  be  no  sun,  one  niust  be  made.  The 
dining-room  was  a  furnacc  of  gay  tliings  ;  in  the  cen- 
tre, above  the  wliite  glistening  tables,  hung  a  Vene- 
tian  chandelier,  with  ail  sorts  of  colored  birds,  blue, 
violet,  red,  and  green,  perched  among  the  candies  ; 
round  the  chandelier  were  girandoles,  and  on  th.e 
walls  wcre  mirrors  with  three  and  four  branches  ; 
glasses,  crystal,  plate,  china,  crockery,  gold,  and  silver, 
ail  flashed  and  rejoiced.  The  spaces  between  the 
candelfibra  were  filled  up  with  bouquets,  se  that  where 


314  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

tliere  was  not  a  liglit  there  was  a  fiower.  In  the  ante- 
roomthree  violins  and  a  flûte  played  some  of  Haydn  s 
quartettes.  Jean  Valjean  had  seated  himself  on  a 
chair  in  the  drawing-room,  behind  the  door,  which, 
being  thrown  back,  ahnost  concealed  him.  A  few 
minutes  before  they  sat  down  to  table  Cosette  gave 
him  a  deep  eourtesy,  while  spreading  out  her 
wedding-dress  with  both  hands,  and  with  a  tenderly 
mocking  look  asked  him,  — 

"  Fathcr,  are  you  satisfied  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jean  Valjean,  "  I  am  satisfied." 

"  Well,  then,  laugh." 

Jean  Valjean  began  laughing.  A  few  minutes 
later  Basque  came  in  to  announce  that  dinner  was 
on  the  table.  The  guests,  preceded  by  M.  Gillcnor- 
mand,  who  gave  his  arm  to  Cosette,  entered  the 
dining-room,  and  collected  round  the  table  in  the 
prescribcd  order.  There  was  a  large  easy-chair  on 
either  side  of  the  bride,  one  for  M.  Gillenormand,  the 
other  for  Jean  Valjean.  M.  Gillenormand  seated 
himself,  but  the  other  chair  remained  empty.  AU 
looked  round  for  M(msicur  Fauchelevent,  but  he  was 
no  longer  there,  and  M.  Gillenormand  hailed  Basque  : 

"  })o  you  know  where  M.  Fauchelevent  is  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  do,"  Basque  replicd.  "  Monsieur 
Fauchelevent  requested  me  to  tell  you,  sir,  that  his 
hand  pained  him,  and  that  he  could  not  dinc  with 
M.  le  ]3aron  and  Madame  la  Baronne.  Ile  thcrefore 
begged  to  be  excused,  but  would  call  to-morrow. 
He  lias  just  left." 

This  emj)ty  chair  momentarily  chillcd  tlic  effusion 
of  the  wedding  feast  ;  but  tliough  M.  Fauchelevent 


JEAN   VALJEAN   H  AS   LUS  ARM   IN  A  SLING.     315 

was  absent  M.  Gilleuormand  was  there,  and  tlie 
grandfather  shone  for  two.  He  declared  that  M. 
Fauchelevent  acted  rightly.in  going  to  bed  early  if 
he  were  in  pain,  but  that  it  was  only  a  small  hurt. 
Tliis  déclaration  was  sufficient  ;  besides,  what  is  a 
dark  corner  in  such  a  submersion  of  joy?  Cosette 
and  ^larius  were  in  one  of  those  cgotistic  and  blessed 
moments  wlien  people  possess  no  other  faculty  than 
that  of  perceiving  joy  ;  and  then  M.  Gillenormand 
had  an  idea,  "  By  Jupiter  !  this  chair  is  empty  ;  come 
hither,  iNIarius  ;  your  aunt,  though  she  has  a  right  to 
)t,  will  permit  you  ;  this  chair  is  for  you  ;  it  is  légal, 
and  it  is  pretty,  —  Fortunatus  by  the  side  of  Fortu- 
nata."  The  wliole  of  the  guests  applauded.  Marius 
took  Jean  Valjean's  place  by  Cosette's  side,  and  tliings 
were  so  arranged  that  Cosette,  who  had  at  first  been 
saddened  by  the  absence  of  Jean  Valjean,  ended  by 
being  pleased  at  it.  Froni  the  moment  when  INIarius 
was  the  substitute,  Cosette  would  not  hâve  regretted 
God.  She  placed  her  little  white-satin-slippered  foot 
upon  jNIarius's  foot.  When  the  easy-chair  was  occup- 
pied,  jNI.  Fauchelevent  was  effaced,  and  nothing  was 
wanting.  Five  minutes  later  ail  the  guests  were 
laughing  from  one  end  of  the  table  to  the  othcr,  with 
ail  the  forgetfulness  of  humor.  At  dessert  M.  Gille- 
normand rose,  with  a  glass  of  Champagne  in  his  hand, 
only  half  full,  so  that  the  trcmbling  of  ninety-two 
years  might  not  upset  it,  and  proposed  the  healtli  of 
the  new-married  couple. 

"  You  will  not  escapc  from  two  sermons,"  he  ex- 
claimed  :  "  this  morning  you  had  the  curé's,  and  tins 
evening  you  will  hâve  grandpapa's.    Listen  to  me,  for 


316  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

I  am  going  to  give  you  some  advice  :  Adore  each 
othcr.  I  do  not  beat  round  the  bush,  but  go  straight 
to  the  point  ;  be  liappy.  Tliere  are  no  other  sages 
in  création  but  the  turtle-doves.  Philosophers  say, 
jModerate  your  joys  ;  but  1  say,  Throw  tlic  bridle  on 
the  neck  of  your  joys.  Love  like  fiends,  be  furious. 
The  philosophers  babble,  and  I  should  like  to  thrust 
their  philosophy  down  their  throats  for  theni.  Can 
we  hâve  too  many  perfunies,  too  many  opcn  rose- 
buds,  too  many  singing  nightingales,  too  many  green 
leaves,  and  too  much  dawn  in  lif e  ?  Can  we  love  too 
much  ?  Can  we  plcase  one  another  too  much  ?  Take 
care,  Estelle,  you  are  too  pretty  !  Take  care,  Némorin, 
you  are  too  handsome  !  What  jolly  nonsense  !  Can 
people  enchant  each  other,  tease  each  othcr,  and 
charni  each  other  too  much  ?  Can  they  be  too  lov- 
ing?  Can  they  be  too  happy?  Moderate  your  joys, 
—  oh,  stufF  !  Down  witli  the  philosophers,  for  wis- 
dom  is  jubilation.  Do  you  jubilate?  Let  us  jubilate  ; 
are  we  happy  because  we  are  good,  or  are  we  good 
because  we  are  happy  ?  Is  tlie  Sancy  diamond  called 
the  Sancy  because  it  belonged  to  Hariay  de  Sancy, 
or  because  it  weighs  one  hundred  and  six  carats  ?  I 
do  not  know  ;  and  life  is  full  of  such  problcms  :  the 
important  thing  is  to  hâve  the  Sancy  and  happincss. 
Let  us  be  happy  without  quibbling.  Let  us  blindly 
obey  the  sun.  What  is  the  sun  ?  It  is  love  ;  and 
when  I  say  Icrvc,  I  mean  woman.  Ah,  ah  !  woman 
is  an  omnipotence.  Ask  that  démagogue,  Marius, 
if  he  is  not  the  slave  of  that  little  shc-tyrant, 
Cosette,  and  uillingly  so,  the  coward  ?  Woman  ! 
There   is   not   a   Robespierre  who   can   stand  ;   but 


JEAN   VALJEAX   II AS   HIS  AKM   IN  A  SLING.     317 

woman  reigns.  I  ara  now  only  a  royalist  of  that 
royalty.  "What  is  Adara?  The  royalty  of  Eve.  There 
is  no  '89  for  Eve.  There  .was  the  royal  sceptre 
surmounted  by  the  fleur-de-lys,  there  was  the  im- 
périal sceptre  surmounted  by  a  globe,  there  was 
Cliarlemagne's  sceptre  of  iron,  and  the  sceptre  of 
Louis  the  Great,  which  was  of  gold.  The  Révolu- 
tion twisted  thera  between  its  thuaib  and  forefinger 
like  straws.  It  is  finished,  it  is  broken,  it  lies  on 
the  ground, — there  is  no  sceptre  left.  But  just 
make  a  révolution  against  that  little  embroidered 
handkerchief  wliich  smells  of  patchouli!  I  should  like 
to  see  you  at  it.  Try  it.  Why  is  it  solid  ?  Because 
it  is  a  rag.  Ah  !  you  are  the  uineteenth  ceutury. 
Well,  what  then?  We  were  the  eighteenth,  and  were 
as  foolish  as  you.  Do  not  suppose  that  you  hâve 
made  any  tremendous  change  in  the  world  because 
your  gallant-trusser  is  called  cholera-morbus,  and 
yonr  bourrée  the  cachucha.  After  ail,  woman  must 
always  be  loved,  and  I  defy  you  to  get  ont  of  that. 
Thèse  she-devils  are  our  angels.  Yes,  love,  woman, 
and  a  kiss  form  a  circle  from  which  I  defy  you  to 
issue,  and  for  my  own  part  I  should  be  very  glad  to 
enter  it  again.  Who  among  you  has  seen  the  star 
Venus,  the  great  coquette  of  the  abyss,  the  Celimène 
of  océan,  rise  in  infinité  space,  appeasing  everything 
below  her,  and  looking  at  the  waves  like  a  woman  ? 
The  océan  is  a  rude  Alcestis  ;  and  yet,  however  much 
he  may  growl,  when  Venus  appears  lie  is  forced  to 
smile.  That  brute-beast  submits,  and  we  are  ail 
thus.  Anger,  tempest,  thunder-bolts,  foam  up  to 
the  ceiling.     A  woman  comes  upon  the  stage,  a  star 


318  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

rises,  and  you  crawl  iu  the  dust.  Marius  was  fight- 
ing  six  montlis  ago,  and  is  marrying  to-day,  and  that 
is  well  done.  Yes,  Marius,  y  es,  Cosette,  you  are 
riglit.  Exist  bravely  one  for  the  other,  niake  us 
burst  with  rage  because  we  cannot  do  tlïe  same,  and 
idolize  each  other.  Take  in  both  your  beaks  the 
little  straws  of  felicity  which  lie  on  the  ground,  and 
niake  of  them  a  nest  for  life.  By  Jove  !  to  love,  to  be 
loved,  : — wliat  a  great  miracle  when  a  man  is  young! 
Do  not  suppose  that  you  invented  it.  I  too  hâve 
dreamed,  and  thought,  and  sighed.  I  too  hâve  had 
a  moonlit  soûl.  Love  is  a  child  six  thousand  years 
of  âge,  and  has  a  right  to  a  long  white  beard. 
Methuselah  is  a  baby  by  the  side  of  Cupid.  Sixty 
centuries  back  man  and  woman  got  out  of  the  scrape 
by  loving.  The  de  vil,  who  is  cunning,  took  to  hating 
man  ;  but  man,  who  is  more  cunning  still,  took  to 
loving  woman.  In  this  way  he  did  hiniself  more 
good  than  the  devil  did  him  harm.  That  trick  was 
discovered  simultaneously  with  the  terrestrial  para- 
dise.  My  friends,  the  invention  is  old,  but  it  is  brand 
new.  Take  advantage  of  it  ;  bc  Daphnis  and  Chloe 
while  waiting  till  you  are  Baucis  and  Philemon. 
]\Ianage  so  that  when  you  are  together  you  may 
want  for  nothing,  and  that  Cosette  may  be  the  sun 
for  ]\Iarius,  and  Marius  the  universe  for  Cosette. 
Cosette,  let  your  fine  wcather  be  your  husband's 
smiles.  Marius,  let  your  wife's  tears  be  the  rain^ 
and  mind  that  it  nevcr  does  rain  in  your  household. 
You  hâve  drawn  the  good  nunibcr  in  the  lottcry, 
love  in  the  sacrament.  You  hâve  the  prize  numbcr, 
80  keep  it  carcfuUy  under  lock  and  key.     Do  not 


JEAN  VALJEAN  HAS   HIS  ARM  IN  A  SLING.     319 

squander  it.  Adore  each  other,  and  a  fig  for  the 
rest.  Believe  what  I  tell  you,  theu,  for  it  is  good 
sensé,  and  good  sensé  cannot  deceive.  Be  to  one 
anotlier  a  religion,  for  each  man  has  his  own  way  of 
adoring  God.  Saperlotte  !  the  best  way  of  adoring 
God  is  to  love  one's  wife.  I  love  you  !  that  is  my 
catechism  ;  and  whoever  loves  is  orthodox.  The 
oath  of  Henri  IV.  places  sanctity  between  guttling 
and  intoxication.  Ventre  Saint  Gris  !  I  do  not 
belong  to  the  religion  of  that  oath,  for  woman  is 
forgotten  in  it,  and  that  surprises  me  on  the  part  of 
Henri  IV.'s  oath.  My  friends,  long  live  woman  !  I 
am  old,  so  people  say  ;  but  it  is  amazing  how  dis- 
posed  I  feel  to  be  young.  I  should  like  to  go  and 
listen  to  the  bagpipes  in  the  woods.  Thèse  children, 
who  succeed  in  being  beautiful  and  satisfied,  intoxi- 
cate  me.  I  am  quite  willing  to  marry  if  anybody 
will  hâve  me.  It  is  impossible  to  imagine  that  God 
has  made  us  for  anything  else  than  this,  —  to  idolize, 
to  purr,  to  strut,  to  be  a  pigeon,  to  be  a  cock,  to 
caress  our  lovers  from  morning  till  night,  to  admire 
ourselves  in  our  little  wife,  to  be  proud,  to  be  trium- 
phant,  and  to  svvell.  Such  is  the  object  of  life. 
That,  without  ofFence,  is  what  we  thought  in  our 
time,  when  we  were  young  men.  Ah  !  vertu-bam- 
boche  !  what  charming  women  tliere  were  in  those 
days  !  what  ducks  !  I  made  my  ravages  among  them. 
Then  love  each  other.  If  men  and  women  did  not 
love,  I  really  do  not  see  what  use  there  would  be  in 
having  a  spring.  And  for  my  part,  I  would  pray  the 
good  God  to  lock  up  ail  the  fine  things  he  shows 
us  and  take  them  back  from  us,  and  to  return  to  his 


320  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

box  tlie  flowers,  the  birds,  and  the  pretty  girls.     Mj 
children,  reçoive  an  old  nian's  blessing." 

The  evening  was  lively,  gay,  and  pleasant  ;  the 
sovereign  good-humor  of  the  grandfather  gave  the 
tone  to  the  whole  festivity,  and  each  was  regulated 
by  this  almost  centenary  lieartiness.  There  was  a 
little  dancing  and  a  good  deal  of  laughter  ;  it  was 
a  mcrry  wedding,  to  which  that  worthy  old  fellow 
"  Once  on  a  time  "  might  hâve  been  invited  ;  how- 
ever,  lie  was  présent  in  the  person  of  Father  Gille- 
normand.  There  was  a  turault  and  then  a  silence  ; 
tlic  niarried  couple  disappeared.  A  little  after  mid- 
night  the  Gillenormand  mansion  became  a  temple. 
Hère  we  stop,  for  an  angel  stands  on  the  threshold 
of  wedding-nights,  smiling,  and  with  finger  on  lip  ; 
the  mind  becomes  contemplative  before  this  sanc- 
tuary  in  which  the  célébration  of  love  is  held.  There 
must  be  rays  of  light  above  such  houses,  and  the 
joy  which  they  contain  must  pass  through  the  walls 
in  brilliancy,  and  vaguely  irradiate  the  darkness.  It 
is  impossible  for  this  sacred  and  fatal  festival  not  to 
send  a  celestial  radiancc  to  infinitude.  Love  is  the 
sublime  crucible  in  which  the  fusion  of  man  and 
woman  takes  place  ;  the  one  bcing,  the  triple  bcing, 
the  final  bcing,  the  human  trinity  issue  from  it. 
This  birth  of  two  soûls  in  one  must  hâve  émotion 
for  the  shadows.  The  lover  is  the  priest,  and  the 
transportée!  virgin  feels  an  awe.  A  portion  of  this 
joy  ascends  to  God.  When  there  is  really  marriage, 
that  is  to  say,  when  there  is  love,  the  idéal  is  minglcd 
with  it,  and  a  nuptial  couch  forms  in  the  darkness  a 
corner  of  the  dawn.     If  it  was  givcn  to  the  mental 


JEAN  VALJEAN   HAS   HIS  ARM  IN  A  SLING.     321 

eye  to  perceive  tlie  formidable  and  charmiiig  %'isions 
of  higher  life,  it  is  probable  that  it  would  see  the 
forms  of  night,  the  uDknown  winged  beings,  tbe  blue 
wayfarers  of  the  invisible,  bending  down  round  the 
luminous  house,  satisficd  and  blessing,  poiuting  out 
to  each  other  the  virgin  bride,  who  is  gently  startled, 
and  having  the  reflection  of  hunian  felicity  on  their 
divine  countenances.  If,  at  tins  suprême  hour,  the 
pair,  dazzled  with  pleasure,  and  who  believe  them- 
selves  alone,  were  to  listen,  they  would  liear  in  their 
chamber  a  confused  rustling  of  wings,  for  perfect 
happiness  implies  the  guarantee  of  angels.  Tins 
little  obscure  alcôve  has  an  entire  heaven  for  its  ceil- 
ing.  AVhen  two  mouths,  which  hâve  become  sacred 
by  love,  approach  each  other  in  order  to  create,  it  is 
impossible  but  that  there  is  a  tremor  in  the  immense 
mystery  of  the  stars  above  this  ineftable  kiss.  Thèse 
felicities  are  the  real  ones,  there  is  no  joy  beyond 
their  joy  s  ;  love  is  the  sole  ecstasy,  and  ail  the  rest 
weeps.  To  love  or  to  hâve  loved  is  sufficient  ;  ask 
lîothing  more  after  that.  There  is  no  other  pearl  to 
be  found  in  the  dark  folds  of  life,  for  love  is  a 
consummation. 


21 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    INSEPARABLE. 

What  had  become  of  Jean  Valjean  ?  Directly 
after  he  had  laughed  in  accordance  with  Cosette's 
request,  as  no  one  was  paying  any  attention  to  hini, 
Jean  Valjean  rose,  and  unnoticed  reached  the  ante- 
room.  It  was  the  same  room  which  he  had  entered 
eight  months  previoûsly,  black  with  nmd  and  blood 
and  gnnpowder,  bringing  back  the  grandson  to  the 
grandfatlier.  The  old  panelling  was  garlanded  with 
flowers  and  leaves,  the  musieians  were  seated  on  the 
sofa  upon  which  Marins  liad  bccn  deposited.  Basque, 
in  black  coat,  knee-breeches,  white  cravat,  and  wliite 
gloves,  was  placing  wreaths  of  roses  round  cach  of 
the  dishes  which  was  goiiig  to  be  servcd  up.  Jean 
Valjean  showxd  him  his  arni  in  the  sling,  requested 
hini  to  explain  his  absence,  and  quitted  the  house. 
The  Windows  of  the  dining-rooni  looked  out  ou  the 
Street,  and  Valjean  stood  for  some  minutes  motion- 
less  in  the  obscurity  of  those  radiant  windoAvs.  He 
listened,  and  the  confused  sound  of  the  banquet 
reached  his  ears  ;  he  heard  the  grandfathcr's  loud 
and  dictatorial  voice,  the  violins,  the  rattling  of  plates 
and  glasses,  the  bursts  of  laughtcr,  and  aniid  ail  thèse 
gay  sounds  he  distinguishcd  Cosette's  soft,  happy 


THE   INSEPARABLE.  323 

voice.  He  left  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  and 
returned  to  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé.  In  ffoinff 
home  he  went  along  the  Rue  St.  Louis,  the  Rue 
Culture-Sainte-Catherine,  and  the  Blancs  ]\Ianteaux  ; 
it  was  a  little  longer,  but  it  was  the  road  by  which 
he  had  been  accustomed  to  corne  with  Cosette  dur- 
ing  the  last  three  months,  in  ordcr  to  avoid  the  crovvd 
and  mud  of  the  Rue  Vieille  du  Temple.  This  road, 
which  Cosette  had  passed  along,  excluded  the  idea 
of  any  other  itinerary  for  him.  Jean  Valjean  re- 
turned home,  lit  his  candie,  and  went  upstairs.  The 
apartments  were  empty  ;  not  even  Toussaint  was 
in  there  now.  Jean  Valjean's  footsteps  made  more 
noise  in  the  rooms  than  usual.  Ail  the  wardrobes 
were  open  ;  he  entered  Cosette's  room,  and  there 
were  no  sheets  on  the  bed.  The  pillow,  without  a 
case  or  lace,  was  laid  on  the  blankets  folded  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  in  which  no  one  was  going  to  sleep 
again.  Ail  the  small  féminine  articles  to  which  Co- 
sette clung  had  been  removed  ;  only  the  heavy  furni- 
ture  and  the  four  walls  remained.  Toussaint's  bed 
was  also  unmade,  and  the  only  one  made  which 
seemed  to  be  expecting  somebody  was  Jean  Val- 
jean's. Jean  Valjean  looked  at  the  walls,  closed 
some  of  the  wardrobe  drawers,  and  walked  in  and 
ont  of  the  rooms.  Then  he  returned  to  his  own 
room  and  placed  his  candie  on  the  table  ;  he  had 
taken  his  arm  out  of  the  sling,  and  used  it  as  if  he 
were  sufFering  no  pain  in  it.  He  went  up  to  his  bed 
and  his  eyes  fell  —  was  it  by  accident  or  was  it  pur- 
poscly  ?  —  on  the  inséparable  of  which  Cosette  had 
been  jealous,  the  little  valise  which  never  left  him. 


324  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

On  Jiine  4,  when  he  arrivée!  at  the  Rue  de  l'Homme 
Armé,  he  laid  it  on  a  table  ;  he  now  walked  up  to 
this  table  with  some  eagerness,  took  thc  key  out  of 
his  pocket,  and  opened  the  portmantcau.  He  slowly 
drew  out  the  clothes  in  which,  ten  years  previously, 
Cosette  had  left  Montfermeil  ;  first,  the  littlc  black 
dress,  then  the  black  handkerchief,  then  the  stout 
shoes,  which  Cosette  could  almost  hâve  worn  still, 
so  small  was  her  foot  ;  ncxt  the  petticoat,  then  the 
apron,  and  lastly,  the  woollen  stockings.  Thèse 
stockings,  in  which  the  shape  of  a  little  leg  was 
gracefully  marked,  were  no  longer  than  Jean  Val- 
jean's  hand.  AU  thèse  articles  were  black,  and  it 
was  he  who  took  them  for  her  to  ]\Iontfermeil.  He 
laid  each  article  on  the  bed  as  he  took  it  out,  and  he 
tliought  and  remembered.  It  was  in  wintcr,  a  very 
cold  Deceniber  ;  she  was  shivcring  under  her  rags, 
and  her  poor  feet  were  quite  red  in  her  wooden  shoes. 
He,  Jean  Yaljean,  had  made  her  take  ofF  thèse  rags 
and  put  on  this  mourning  garb  ;  the  mother  must 
hâve  been  pleased  in  her  tomb  to  see  her  daughter 
wearing  mourning  for  her,  and  abovc  ail,  to  see  that 
she  was  well  clothed  and  was  warm.  He  thought 
of  that  forest  of  ]\Iontfermcil,  he  thought  w^hat 
the  weather  was,  of  thc  trees  without  leavcs,  of  the 
wood  without  birds  and  the  sky  without  sun  ;  but 
no  matter,  it  was  charming.  He  arranged  the  littlc 
clothes  on  thc  bed,  the  handkerchief  near  the  petti- 
coat, the  stockings  along  with  thc  shoes,  thc  apron 
by  the  side  of  the  dress,  and  he  lookcd  at  them  one 
after  the  othcr.  She  was  not  much  taller  than  that, 
she  had  her  large  doll  in  her  arms,  she  had  put  her 


THE   INSEPARABLE.  325 

louis  d'or  in  the  pocket  of  this  apron,  she  laughed, 
they  walked  along  holding  eacli  other's  haud,  and 
she  had  no  one  but  him  in  the  world. 

Then  his  vénérable  white  hèad  fell  on  the  bed,  his 
old  stoical  heart  broke,  his  face  was  buried  in  Co- 
sette's  clothes,  and  had  any  one  passed  upstairs  at 
that  moment  he  would  hâve  heard  frightful  sobs. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

IMMORTALE   JECUR. 

The  old  formidable  struggle,  of  which  we  hâve 
already  seen  several  phases,  began  again.  Jacob 
only  wrestled  with  the  angel  for  one  night.  Alas  ! 
how  many  times  hâve  we  seen  Jean  Valjean  caught 
round  the  waist  in  the  darkness  by  his  conscience, 
and  struggling  frantically  against  it.  An  extraordi- 
nary  struggle  !  At  certain  moments  the  foot  slips,  at 
others  the  ground  gives  way.  How  many  times  had 
that  conscience,  clinging  to  the  right,  strangled  and 
crushed  him  !  How  many  times  had  inexorable  trutli 
set  its  foot  on  his  chest  !  How  many  times  had  he, 
felled  by  the  light,  cried  for  mercy  !  How  many 
times  had  that  implacable  light,  illumined  within  and 
over  him  by  the  Bishop,  dazzlcd  him  when  he  wishcd 
to  be  blinded  !  How  many  times  had  he  riseu  again 
in  the  contcst,  clung  to  the  rock,  supported  himself 
by  sophistry,  and  been  dragged  through  the  dust,  at 
one  moment  throwing  his  conscience  under  liim,  at 
anothcr  thrown  by  it  !  How  many  times,  after  an 
equivocation,  after  the  treachcrous  and  spccious  rea- 
soning  of  egotism,  had  he  heard  his  irritated  con- 
science cry  in  his  cars,  "  Trickster  !  wretch  !  "  How 
many  times  had  his  refractory  thoughts  groancd  con- 


IMMORTALE   JECUR.  327 

vulsively  iinder  tlie  évidence  of  duty  !  What  aecret 
wounds  he  had,  whicli  lie  aione  felt  bleeding  !  Wliat 
excoriations  there  were  in  his  lamentable  existence  ! 
How  niany  times  had  he  risen,  bleeding,  mutilated, 
crushed,  enlightened,  with  despair  in  his  heart  and 
serenitj  in  his  soûl  !  And  though  vanquished,  he  felt 
hiniself  the  victor,  and  after  having  dislocated,  tor- 
tured,  and  broken  him,  his  conscience,  erect  before 
hini,  luminous  and  tranquil,  would  say  to  him, — 
"  Xow  go  in  peace  !  "  What  a  mournful  peace,  alas  ! 
after  issuing  from  such  a  contest. 

This  night,  however,  Jean  Valjean  felt  that  he  was 
fighting  his  last  battle.  A  crushing  question  pre- 
sented  itself;  prédestinations  are  not  ail  straight  ; 
they  do  not  develop  themselves  in  a  rectilinear  ave- 
nue before  the  predestined  man  ;  they  hâve  blind 
alleys,  zigzags,  awkward  corners,  and  perplexing 
cross-roads.  Jean  Yaljean  was  halting  at  this  mo- 
ment at  the  most  dangerous  of  thèse  cross-roads.  He 
had  reached  the  suprême  crossing  of  good  and  evil, 
and  had  that  gloomy  intersection  before  his  eyes. 
This  time  again,  as  had  already  happened  in  other 
painful  interludes,  two  roads  presented  themselves 
before  him,  one  tempting,  the  other  terrifying  ;  which 
should  he  take  ?  The  one  which  frightened  him  was 
counsellcd  by  the  mysterious  pointing  hand  which 
we  ail  perceive  every  time  that  we  fix  our  eyes  upon 
the  darkness.  Jean  Yaljean  had  once  again  a  choice 
between  the  terrible  haven  and  the  smiling  snare. 
Is  it  true,  then  ?  The  soûl  may  be  cured,  but  not 
destiny.  What  a  frightful  thing,  —  an  incurable  des- 
tiny  !     The  question  which  presented  itself  was  this  : 


328  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

In  what  way  was  Jean  Valjcan  going  to  bchave 
to  tlie  happiness  of  Cosette  and  Marins  ?  That  hap- 
piness  lie  had  willcd,  lie  had  niadc  ;  and  at  tliis  honr, 
in  gazing  upon  it,  he  could  hâve  tlie  species  of  satis- 
faction which  a  entier  would  hâve  who  recognized 
his  trade-mark  npon  a  knife  when  he  drew  it  ail 
smoking  from  his  chest.  Cosette  had  Marins,  INIarius 
possessed  Cosette  ;  they  possessed  everything,  evcn 
wcalth,  and  it  was  his  doiiig.  Bnt  now  that  this 
happiness  existed  and  _  was  therc,  how  was  he,  Jean 
Valjean,  to  treat  it?  Should  he  force  himself  upon 
it  and  trcat  it  as  if  belonging  to  himself  ?  Doubtless 
Cosette  was  another  mans  ;  bnt  should  he,  Jean 
Valjean,  retain  of  Cosette  ail  that  he  could  retain  ? 
Should  he  remain  the  sort  of  father,  scarce  seen 
bnt  respected,  which  he  had  hitherto  been  ?  Should 
he  introduce  himself  quietly  into  Cosette's  house  ? 
Should  he  carry  his  past  to  this  future  without  say- 
ing  a  Word  ?  Should  he  présent  himself  there  as  one 
having  a  right,  and  should  he  sit  down,  veiled,  at 
this  luminous  hearth  ?  Should  he  smilingly  take  the 
hands  of  thèse  two  innocent  créatures  in  his  tragic 
hands?  Should  he  place  on  the  andirons  of  the 
Gillenormand  drawing-room  his  fcet,  which  draggcd 
after  thcm  the  degrading  shadow  of  the  law?  Should 
he  render  the  obscurity  on  his  brow  and  the  cloud 
on  theirs  denser?  Should  he  join  his  catastrophe  to 
their  two  felicitics  ?  Should  he  continue  to  be  silent  ? 
In  a  Word,  should  he  be  the  sinister  dumb  man  of 
dcstiny  by  the  side  of  thèse  two  happy  beings  ?  We 
must  be  accustomed  to  fatality  and  to  meeting  it,  to 
raise  our  cyes  when  certain  questions  appear  to  us  in 


IMMORTALE   JECUR.  329 

their  terrible  nudity.  Good  and  evil  are  behind  this 
sterii  note  of  interrogation.  What  are  you  going  to 
do  ?  the  Sphinx  asks.  This  habit  of  trial  Jean  Val- 
jean  had,  and  he  looked  at  the  Sphinx  fixedly,  and 
examincd  the  pitiless  problem  from  ail  sides.  Co- 
sette,  that  channing  existence,  was  the  raft  of  this 
shipwrecked  man  ;  what  should  hc  do,  cling  to  it,  or 
let  it  go  ?  If  he  clung  to  it,  he  issued  froni  disaster, 
he  rcmpuntcd  to  the  sunshine,  he  let  the  bitter  water 
drip  off  his  clothes  and  hair,  he  was  saved  and  lived. 
Suppose  he  let  it  go  ?  Then  there  was  an  abyss.  He 
thus  dolorously  held  counsel  with  his  thoughts,  or,  to 
speak  more  correctly,  he  combated  ;  he  rushed  furi- 
ously  within  himself,  at  one  moment  against  his  will, 
at  another  against  his  convictions.  It  was  fortunate 
for  Jean  Valjean  that  he  had  been  able  to  weep,  for 
that  enlightened  liim,  perhaps.  Still,  the  beginning 
was  stern  ;  a  tempest,  more  furious  than  that  which 
had  formerly  forced  him  to  Arras,  was  let  loose  with- 
in him.  The  past  returned  to  him  in  the  face  of  the 
présent  ;  he  compared  and  sobbcd.  Once  the  sluice 
of  tears  was  opened,  the  dcspairing  man  writhed. 
He  felt  himself  arrested,  alas  !  in  the  deadly  fight 
between  one  egotism  and  one  duty.  When  we  thus 
recoil  incli  by  inch  before  our  idéal,  wildly,  obsti- 
nately,  exasperated  at  yielding,  disputing  the  grouud, 
hoping  for  a  possible  flight,  and  seeking  an  issue, 
what  a  sudden  and  sinistcr  résistance  behind  us  is  the 
foot  of  the  wall  !  To  feel  the  holy  shadow  stand- 
ing in  the  way  !  The  inexorable,  invisible,  —  what  a 
pressure  ! 

Hence  we  hâve  never  finished  with  our  conscience. 


330  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

Make  up  your  iiiind,  Brutus  ;  make  up  your  mind, 
Cato.  It  is  bottomless,  for  it  is  God.  You  cast  iiito 
tliis  pit  tlie  labor  of  your  whole  life,  — your  fortmie, 
your  wealth,  your  success,  your  liberty,  or  your  couu- 
try,  your  conitbrt,  your  repose,  your  joy.  -More,  more, 
luoré  !  Empty  tlie  vase,  tread  over  the  uni,  you  nuist 
end  by  throwing  iu  your  heart.  Tliere  is  a  barrcl 
like  tlîis  somewhere  in  the  Hades  of  old.  Is  it  uot 
pardouable  to  refuse  at  last  ?  Can  tliat  wliich  is  iu- 
exliaustible  hâve  any  claiui  ?  Are  not  endless  chaius 
beyond  human  strength  ?  Who  then  would  bhime 
JSisyphus  and  Jean  Yaljean  for  saying,  It  is  enougli  ! 
The  obédience  of  niatter  is  hniited  by  friction  :  is 
there  not  a  limit  to  the  obédience  of  the  soûl  ?  If 
perpétuai  motion  be  impossible,  why  is  perpétuai  dé- 
votion demanded  ?  ïhe  first  step  is  nothiiig,  it  is  the 
last  that  is  difficult.  What  was  the  Champmathieu 
affair  by  the  side  of  Cosette's  marriage  ?  What  did 
it  bring  with  it  ?  What  is  rcturniiig  to  the  hulks  by 
the  side  of  entering  nothingness  ?  Oh,  first  step  to 
descend,  how  gloomy  thon  art  !  oh,  second  step,  how 
black  thou  art  !  How  could  lie  help  turning  his  head 
away  this  tinie  ?  JMartyrdom  is  a  sublimation,  a  cor- 
rosive  sublimation,  it  is  a  torture  which  consecrates. 
A  man  may  consent  to  it  for  the  first  hour  ;  he  sits 
on  the  throne  of  red-hot  iron,  the  crown  of  red-hot 
iron  is  placed  on  his  head,  —  hc  accepts  the  red-hot 
globe,  he  takes  the  red-hot  sceptre,  but  he  still  lias 
to  don  the  mantle  of  (lame,  and  is  there  not  a  moment 
when  the  misérable  flesh  revolts  and  lie  Aies  from  the 
punishment  ?  At  length  Jean  Valjean  cntered  the 
calmness  pf  prostration  ;  he  wishcd,  thought  over,  and 


IMMORTALE   JECUR.  331 

nonsidered  the  alternations,  the  mysterious  balance  of 
light  and  shadow.  Sliould  he  force  his  galleys  on 
thèse  two  dazzling  cliildren,  or  consiimmate  his  own 
irrémédiable  destruction  ?  On  one  side  was  the  sac- 
rifice of  Cosette,  on  the  other  his  own. 

On  which  solution  did  he  décide  ?  What  déter- 
mination did  he  form  ?  What  was  in  his  inner  self 
the  définitive  reply  to  the  incorruptible  interrogatory 
of  fatality  ?  What  door  did  he  résolve  on  opening  ? 
Which  side  of  his  life  did  he  make  up  his  mind 
to  close  and  condemn  ?  Amid  ail  those  unfathom- 
able  précipices  that  surrounded  him,  which  was  his 
choice  ?  What  extremity  did  he  accept  ?  To  which 
of  thèse  gulfs  did  he  nod  his  head  ?  His  confusing 
rêverie  lasted  ail  night  ;  he  remained  till  daybreak 
in  the  same  position,  leaning  over  the  bed,  prostrate 
beneath  the  enorniity  of  fate,  perhaps  crushed,  alas  ! 
with  hands  convulsed,  and  arms  extended  at  a  right 
angle  like  an  unnailed  crucified  man  thrown  with 
his  face  on  the  ground.  He  remained  thus  for 
twelve  hours,  —  the  tvvelve  hours  of  a  long  winter's 
night,  frozen,  without  raising  his  head  or  uttering  a 
syllable.  He  was  motionless  as  a  corpse,  while  his 
thoughts  rolled  on  the  ground  or  fled  away  ;  some- 
times  like  a  hydra,  sometinies  like  the  eagle.  To  see 
him  thus  you  would  havc  thought  him  a  dead  man  ; 
but  ail  at  once  he  started  convulsivcly,  and  his  mouth 
pressed  to  Cosette's  clothes,  kissed  them  ;  then  one 
saw  that  he  was  alive. 

What  One,  since  Jean  Valjean  was  alone  and 
nobody  was  there? 

The  One  who  is  in  the  darkness. 


BOOK    VIL 
THE  LAST  DROP  IN  THE  BITTER  CUP. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE    SEVENTH   CIRCLE   AND    THE   EIGHTH  HEAVEN. 

The  day  after  a  wedding  is  solitary,  for  people 
respect  tlie  retirement  of  tlie  happy,  and  to  some 
extent  their  lengthened  slumbers.  The  confusion  of 
visits  and  congratulations  does  not  begin  again  till 
a  later  date.  On  the  raorning  of  Feb.  17  it  was  a 
little  past  midday  wlicn  Basque,  with  napkin  and 
feather-brush  under  liis  arni,  dusting  the  anteroom, 
heard  a  low  tap  at  the  door.  There  had  not  been 
a  ring,  which  is  discreet  on  such  a  day.  Basque 
opcned  and  saw  IM.  Fauchelevent  ;  he  conducted 
him  to  the  drawing-room,  which  was  still  topsy- 
turvy,  and  looked  like  the  battle-ficld  of  the  préviens 
«lay's  joys. 

"  Rcally,  sir,"  obscrvcd  Basque,  "  we  woke  late." 

"  Is  your  master  up  ?  "  Jean  Valjean  asked. 

"  How  is  your  liand,  sir?  "  Basque  replied. 

"  Better.     Is  your  master  up  ?  " 

"  Wliich  one,  the  old  or  the  new  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Pontmercy." 


THE   SEVENTH  CIRCLE  AND  EIGHTH   HEAVEN.     333 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  !  "  said  Basque,  drawing  liim- 
self  up. 

A  baron  is  before  ail  a  baron  to  his  servants  ;  a 
portion  of  it  cornes  to  them,  and  they  hâve  what  a 
philosopher  would  call  the  spray  of  the  title,  und 
that  flatters  them.  INIarius,  we  may  mention  in  pass- 
ing,  a  militant  reisublican  as  he  had  proved,  was  now 
a  baron  in  spite  of  himself.  A  little  révolution  had 
taken  place  in  the  faniily  with  référence  to  this  title 
it  was  M.  Gillenormand  who  was  attached  to  it,  and 
Marius  who  had  fallen  away  from  it.  But  Colonel 
Poutmercy  had  written,  "  INIy  son  will  bear  my  title," 
and  Marius  obeyed.  And  then  Cosette,  in  whom 
the  woman  was  beginning  to  germinate,  was  de- 
lighted  at  being  a  baroness. 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  ?  "  repeated  Basque;  "  I  will 
go  and  see.  I  will  tell  him  that  Monsieur  Fauche- 
Icvent  is  hère." 

"  No,  do  not  tell  him  it  is  I.  Tell  him  that  some 
one  \\dshes  to  speak  to  him  privately,  and  do  not 
mention  my  name." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Basque. 

"  I  wisli  to  surprise  him." 

"  Ah  !  "  Basque  repeated,  giving  himself  his  second 
"  Ah  !  "  as  an  explanation  of  the  first. 

And  he  left  the  room,  and  Jean  Valjean  nemained 
alone.  The  drawing-room,  as  we  said,  was  ail  in 
disorder,  and  it  secmed  as  if  you  could  still  hear 
the  vague  sounds  of  the  wcdding.  On  the  floor 
were  ail  sorts  of  flowers,  which  had  fallen  from 
garlands  and  head-dresses,  and  the  candies  burned 
down  to  the   socket  added  wax  stalactites  to  the 


334  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

crystal  of  the  lustres.  Not  an  article  of  furniture 
was  in  its  place  ;  in  the  corner  three  or  four  easy- 
chairs,  drawn  close  togetlier,  and  forming  a  circle, 
looked  as  if  tliey  were  continuing  a  conversation. 
The  ensemble  was  laughing,  for  there  is  a  certain 
grâce  left  in  a  dead  festival,  for  it  bas  been  bappy. 
Upon  those  disarrangcd  chairs,  amid  those  fading 
flowers  and  under  those  extinguished  lamps,  persons 
bave  tbought  of  joy.  The  sun  succeeded  the  chan- 
delier, and  gayly  entercd  the  drawing-room.  A  few 
moments  passed,  during  which  Jean  Valjean  remained 
motionless  at  the  spot  where  Basque  left  him.  His 
eyes  were  bollow,  and  so  sunk  in  tlieir  sockcts  by 
sleeplessness  that  thcy  ahnost  disappeared.  His  black 
coat  displayed  the  fatigued  creases  of  a  coat  which 
bas  been  up  ail  night,  and  the  elbows  were  white 
with  that  down  which  friction  with  linen  leaves  on 
cloth.  Jean  Valjean  looked  at  the  window  designed 
on  the  floor  at  his  feet  by  the  sun.  There  was  a 
noise  at  the  door,  and  lie  raiscd  his  eyes.  Marins 
came  in  with  head  erect,  laughing  moutb,  a  peculiar 
light  over  his  face,  a  smooth  forchcad,  and  a  flashing 
eye.     He,  too,  liad  not  slcpt. 

"  It  is  you,  father  !  "  hc  exclaimed,  on  perceiving 
Jean  Valjean  ;  "  why,  that  ass  Basque  affccted  the 
mystcriotis.  But  you  bave  conic  too  early  ;  it  is 
only  half-past  twelve,  and  Cosette  is  aslcep." 

That  Word,  father,  addressed  to  INI.  Fauchelcvcnt 
by  jMarius,  signified  suprême  felicity.  There  had 
always  been,  as  we  know,  a  clilf,  a  coldness  and 
constraint  bctwecn  tliem  ;  ice  to  nielt  or  break. 
jVIarius  was  so  intoxicated  that  the  clifF  sank,  the 


THE   SEVENTH  CIRCLE  AND  EIGHTH   HEAVEN.     335 

ice  clissolved,  and  M.  Fauchelevent  was  for  him, 
as  for  Cosette,  a  fathcr.  He  continued,  the  words 
overflowed  with  him,  which  is  peculiar  to  thèse 
divine  paroxysnis  of  joy,  — 

"  How  delighted  I  am  to  see  yoii  !  If  you  only 
knew  how  we  raissed  you  yesterday  !  Good-day, 
fatlier.     How  is  your  hand  ?     Better,  is  it  not  ?  " 

And,  satisfied  with  the  favorable  answer  which 
he  gave  himself,  he  went  on,  — 

"  We  both  spoke  about  you,  for  Cosette  loves 
you  so  dearly.  You  will  not  forget  that  you  hâve 
a  room  hère,  for  we  will  not  hear  a  word  about  the 
Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé.  I  do  not  know  how  you 
were  able  to  live  in  that  street,  which  is  sick,  and 
mean,  and  poor,  which  has  a  barrier  at  one  end, 
whcre  you  feel  cold,  and  which  no  one  can  enter  ! 
You  will  corne  and  install  yourself  hère,  and  from 
to-day,  or  else  you  will  hâve  to  settle  with  Cosette. 
She  intends  to  lead  us  both  by  the  nose,  I  warn 
you.  You  hâve  seen  your  room  ;  it  is  close  to  ours, 
and  looks  out  on  the  gardens.  We  hâve  had  the 
lock  mended  ;  the  bed  is  made  ;  it  is  ail  ready,  and 
you  hâve  only  to  move  in.  Cosette  has  placed  close 
to  your  bed  a  large  old  easy-chair,  of  Utrecht  velvet, 
to  which  she  said,  '  Hold  out  your  arms  to  him  !  ' 
Every  spring  a  nightingale  cornes  to  the  clump  of 
acacias  which  faces  your  Windows,  and  you  will  hâve 
it  in  two  months.  You  will  hâve  its  nest  on  your 
left,  and  ours  on  your  right  ;  at  night  it  will  sing, 
and  by  day  Cosette  ^\^ll  talk.  Your  room  faces  due 
south  ;  Cosette  v.ill  arrange  your  books  in  it  ;  the 
Travels  of  Captain  Cook,  and  the  other,  Vaucouver's 


336  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Travels,  and  ail  your  matters.  There  is,  I  believe, 
a  valise  to  whicli  you  are  attaclied,  and  I  hâve 
arranged  a  corner  of  honor  for  it.  You  hâve  won 
niy  grandfather,  for  you  suit  him.  We  will  live 
together.  Do  you  know  whist  ?  You  will  over- 
whelm  my  grandfather  if  you  are  acquainted  with 
whist.  You  will  take  Cosette  for  a  walk  on  tlie 
day  when  I  go  to  the  Courts  ;  you  will  give  her 
your  arm,  as  you  used  to  do,  you  remember,  fornicrly 
at  the  Luxembourg.  We  are  absolutely  determined 
to  be  very  happy,  and  you  will  share  in  our  happiness, 
do  you  hear,  father  ?  By  the  bye,  you  will  breakfast 
with  us  this  morning  ?  " 

"  Sir  !"  said  Jean  Valjean,  "  I  hâve  one  thing  to 
say  to  you.     I  am  an  ex-convict." 

The  limit  of  the  perceptible  acute  sounds  may 
be  as  well  exceeded  for  the  mind  as  for  the  ear. 
Thèse  words,  "  I  am  an  ex-convict,"  coming  from 
M.  Fauchelevent's  mouth  and  entering  Marius's  ear 
went  bcyond  possibility.  INIarius  did  not  hear.  Tt 
seemed  to  him  as  if  something  had  been  just  said 
to  him,  but  he  knew  not  what.  He  stood  with 
gaping  mouth.  Jean  Valjean  unfastened  the  black 
liandkcrchief  that  supportcd  his  right  arm,  undid 
the  linen  rollcd  round  his  hand,  bared  his  thumb, 
and  showed  it  to  INIarius. 

"  I  hâve  nothing  tlic  mattcr  with  my  hand,"  he  said. 

Marins  looked  at  the  thumb. 

*'  There  was  never  anything  the  matter  with  it," 
Jean  Valjean  added. 

There  was,  in  fact,  no  sign  of  a  wound.  Jean 
Valjean  continucd, — 


THE   SEVENTII  CIKCLE  AND  EIGHTII  HEAVEX.     337 

"  It  was  proper  tliat  I  should  be  absent  froni  your 
marriage,  aiicl  I  was  so  as  far  as  I  could  be.  I 
feigned  this  wouiid  in  order  not  to  commit  a  forgerj, 
and  render  the  marriage-(Jeeds  uull  and  void." 

Marins  stammered,  — 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  " 

"  It  means,"  Jean  Yaljean  replied,  "  that  I  hâve 
been  to  the  galleys." 

"  You  are  dri\ing  me  mad  !  "  said  the  horrified 
Marins. 

"  Monsienr  Pontmercy,"  said  Jean  Yaljean,  "  I 
was  nineteen  years  at  the  galleys  for  robbery.  Then 
I  was  seutenced  to  them  for  life,  for  robbery  and  a 
second  oftence.  At  the  présent  moment  I  am  an 
escaped  con^^ct." 

Although  Marins  recoiled  before  the  reality,  re- 
fused  the  facts,  and  resisted  the  évidence,  he  was 
obliged  to  yield  to  it.  He  was  beginning  to  under- 
stand,  and  as  always  hapi^ens  in  snch  a  case,  he  un- 
derstood  too  much.  He  had  the  shudder  of  a  hideous 
internai  flash,  and  an  idea  that  made  him  shudder 
crossed  his  mind.  He  foresaw  a  frightful  destiuy  for 
himself  in  the  future. 

"Say  ail,  say  ail,"  he  exclaimed  ;  "  you  are  Cosette's 
father  !  " 

And  he  fell  back  two  steps,  with  a  movement  of 
indescribable  horror.  Jean  Yaljean  threw  up  his 
head  with  such  a  majestic  attitude  that  he  seemed 
to  rise  to  the  ceiling. 

"  It  is  necessary  that  you  should  believe  me  hère, 
sir,  although  the  oath  of  raeu  like  us  is  not  takeu  in 
a  court  of  justice  —  " 

VOL.  V,  22 


338  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Hère  tlierc  was  a  silence,  aiul  then  with  a  sort  of 
sovereign  and  sepulchral  authority  lie  added,  speak- 
ing  slowly  and  laying  a  stress  on  the  syllables,  — 

"  You  will  believe  me.  •  I,  Cosette's  fatlier  !  Be- 
fore  Heavcn,  no,  Monsieur  le  Baron  Pontmercy.  I 
am  a  peasant  of  Faverolles,  and  earned  my  livelihood 
by  pruning  trees.  My  name  is  not  Fauchelcvent, 
but  Jean  Valjean.  I  am  notliing  to  Cosette,  so 
reassure  yourself." 

Marins  stammered,  — 

"  Who  proves  it  to  me  ?  " 

"  I  do,  since  I  say  it." 

Marins  lookcd  at  this  raan  :  lie  was  mournful  and 
calm,  and  no  falseliood  could  issue  from  sucli  calm- 
ness.  Wliat  is  frozen  is  sincère,  and  the  truth  could 
be  felt  in  tliis  coldness  of  the  tonib. 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  said  Marins. 

Jeau  Valjean  bowed  his  hcad,  as  if  to  note  the 
fact,  and  coiitinued,  — 

"  What  am  I  to  Cosette  ?  A  passer-by.  Ten  years 
ago  I  did  not  know  that  she  existed.  I  love  lier,  it 
is  true,  for  men  love  a  child  which  they  hâve  seen 
little  when  old  themselves  ;  when  a  man  is  old  lie 
feels  like  a  grandfather  to  ail  little  children.  You 
can,  I  suppose,  imagine  that  I  hâve  something  which 
resemblcs  a  heart.  She  was  an  orphan,  without 
father  or  mother,  and  nceded  me,  and  that  is  why  I 
came  to  love  her.  Children  arc  so  wcak  that  the 
first  corner,  even  a  man  like  myself,  may  bc  their 
protector.  I  performed  this  duty  to  Cosette.  I  can- 
not  suppose  that  so  small  a  thing  can  be  called  a 
good  action  :  but  if  it  be  one,  wcll,  assume  that  I 


TPIE   SEVENTK  CIRCLE  AND  EIGHTH   HEAVEN.    339 

dit!  it.  Record  that  extenuatiiig  fact.  To-day 
Cosette  leaves  niy  life,  and  our  two  roads  separate. 
Henceforth  I  caii  do  no  more  for  lier  ;  she  is  JVIadame 
Pontmercy  ;  her  providence  lias  changed,  and  she 
has  gained  by  tlie  change,  so  ail  is  well.  As  for  the 
six  hundrcd  thousand  francs,  you  say  nothing  of  theni, 
but  I  will  mcet  your  thought  half-way  :  they  are  a 
deposit.  How  was  it  placed  in  my  hands  ?  No 
matter.  I  give  up  the  deposit,  and  there  is  nothing 
more  to  ask  of  me.  I  complète  the  restitution  by 
stating  my  real  name,  and  this  too  concerns  myself, 
for  I  am  anxious  that  you  should  know  who  I  am." 

And  Jean  Valjean  looked  Marins  in  the  face.  Ail 
that  jNIarius  experienced  was  tumultuous  and  inco- 
hérent, for  certain  blasts  of  the'wind  of  destiny  pro- 
duce such  waves  in  our  soûl.  We  hâve  ail  had 
such  moments  of  trouble  in  which  everything  is  dis- 
persed  within  us  :  we  say  the  first  things  that  occur 
to  us,  which  are  not  always  precisely  those  which  we 
ought  to  say.  There  are  sudden  révélations  which 
we  cannot  bear,  and  which  intoxicate  like  a  potent 
wine.  Marins  was  stupefied  by  the  new  situation 
which  appeared  to  him,  and  spoke  to  this  man  almost 
as  if  he  were  angry  at  the  avowal. 

"But  why,"  he  exclaimed,  "do  you  tell  me  ail 
this  ?  Who  forces  you  to  do  so  ?  You  might  hâve 
kept  your  secret  to  yourself.  You  are  neither  de- 
nounced,  nor  pursued,  nor  tracked.  You  hâve  a 
motive  for  making  the  révélation  so  voluntarily. 
Continue  ;  there  is  something  else  :  for  what  purpose 
do  you  make  this  confession  ?     For  what  motive  ?  " 

"  For  what  motive  ?  "  Jean  Valjean  answered  in  a 


340  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

voice  so  low  and  dull  that  it  seemed  as  if  he  were 
speaking  to  liimself  ratlier  thaii  Marius.  "  For  what 
motive,  in  truth,  does  tins  convict  conic  hère  to  say, 
'  I  am  a  convict  '  ?  Well,  yes,  the  motive  is  a  strange 
one  :  it  is  through  honesty.  The  misfdrtnne  is  that 
I  hâve  a  thread  in  my  heart  which  hokls  me  fast, 
and  it  is  especially  when  a  man  is  okl  that  thèse 
threads  are  most  soHd.  The  whole  of  life  is  undone 
around,  but  they  resist.  Had  I  been  enabled  to  tear 
away  that  thread,  break  it,  unfasten  or  eut  the  knot, 
and  go  a  long  way  ofF,  I  would  be  saved  and  needed 
only  to  start.  There  are  diligences  in  the  Rue  du 
Bouloy  ;  you  are  happy,  and  I  am  off.  I  tried  to 
break  that  thread.  I  pulled  at  it,  it  held  out,  it  did 
not  break,  and  I  pulPed  ont  my  heart  with  it.  Thcn 
I  said,  I  cannot  live  anywhere  else,  and  must  reniain. 
Well,  yes,  but  you  are  right.  I  am  a  fool  ;  why  not 
remain  simply  ?  You  offer  me  a  bed-room  in  the 
house.  Madame  Pontmercy  loves  me  dearly,  she 
said  to  that  fauteuil,  '  Hold  out  your  arnis  to  him  ;  ' 
your  grandfather  asks  nothing  better  than  to  hâve  me. 
I  suit  hira,  we  will  live  ail  togcther,  hâve  our  meals  in 
common,  I  will  give  my  arm  to  Cosctte, —  to  jNIadame 
Pontmercy,  forgive  me,  but  it  is  habit, —  we  will  hâve 
only  one  roof,  one  table,  one  fire,  the  same  chimney- 
corner  in  winter,  the  same  walk  in  summer  :  that  is 
joy,  that  is  happiness,  that  is  everything.  We  will 
live  in  one  family." 

At  this  Word  Jean  Valjean   became   fierce.     He . 
folded  his  arms,  looked  at  the  board  at  his  fcet,  as  if 
he  wished  to  dig  a  pit  in  it,  and  his  voice  suddenly 
became  loud. 


THE   SEVENTII   CIRCLE  AND   EIGiriH   IlEAVEN.     341 

"  In  one  family  ?  No.  I  beloiig  to  no  family  ;  I  do 
not  belong  to  yours,  I  do  not  even  belong  to  the 
huuian  family.  In  hoiises  where  people  are  together 
I  am  in  the  way.  There  are  families,  but  none  for 
me  ;  I  am  the  unhappy  man,  I  am  outside.  Had  I 
a  father  and  niother  ?  I  almost  doubt  it.  On  the 
day  when  I  gave  you  that  child  in  marriage,  it  vvas 
ail  ended  ;  I  saw  her  happy,  and  that  she  was  with 
the  man  she  loved,  that  there  is  a  kind  old  gentle- 
man hère,  a  household  of  two  angels,  and  every  joy 
in  this  house,  and  I  said  to  myself,  Do  not  enter.  I 
could  lie,  it  is  true,  deceive  you  ail,  and  remain  Mon- 
sieur Fauchelevent  ;  so  long  as  it  was  for  her,  I  was 
able  to  lie,  but  now  that  it  would  be  for  myself  I 
ought  not  to  do  so.  I  only  required  to  be  silent,  it 
is  true,  and  ail  would  hâve  gone  on.  You  ask  me 
what  compels  me  to  speak?  A  strange  sort  of  thing, 
my  conscience.  It  would  hâve  been  very  easy,  how- 
ever,  to  hold  my  tongue  ;  I  spent  the  night  in  trying 
to  persuade  myself  into  it.  You  are  shriving  me, 
and  what  I  hâve  just  told  you  is  so  extraordinary 
that  you  hâve  the  right  to  do  so.  Well,  yes,  I  spent 
the  night  in  giving  myself  reasons.  I  gave  myself 
excellent  reasons,  I  did  what  I  could.  But  there 
are  two  things  in  which  I  could  not  succeed  ;  I  could 
neither  break  the  string  which  holds  me  by  the  hcart, 
fixed,  sealed,  and  riveted  hère,  nor  silence  some  one 
Avho  speaks  to  me  in  a  low  voice  when  I  am  alone. 
That  is  why  I  hâve  come  to  confess  ail  to  you  this 
morning,  —  ail,  or  nearly  ail,  for  it  is  useless  to  tell 
what  only  concerns  myself,  and  that  I  keep  to  myself. 
You  know  the  essential  thing.     I  took  my  mystery, 


342  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

then,  and  brought  it  to  you,  and  ripped  it  up  bcfore 
jour  eyes.  It  was  not  au  easy  resolution  to  form, 
and  I  debated  the  point  the  whole  night.  Ah  !  you 
niay  fancy  tliat  I  did  not  say  to  niyself  that  tliis  Avas 
not  the  Champmathieu  atfair,  that  in  hiding  niy 
name  I  did  no  one  any  harm,  that  the  nanie  of 
Fauchelevent  was  given  lue  by  Fauchelevent  hiniself 
in  gratitude  for  a  service  rendered,  and  that  I  niight 
fairly  keep  it,  and  that  I  should  be  happy  in  this 
room  which  you  ofFer  me,  that  I  should  net  be  at  ail 
in  the  way,  tliat  I  should  be  in  my  little  corner,  and 
that  while  you  had  Cosette  I  should  hâve  the  idea  of 
being  in  the  sanie  house  with  her  ;  each  would  hâve 
his  proportioned  happiness.  Continuing  to  be  Mon- 
sieur Fauchelevent  airanged  everything.  Yes,  ex- 
cept  my  soûl  ;  there  would  be  joy  ail  over  me,  but 
the  bottom  of  my  soûl  would  remain  black.  Thus 
I  should  hâve  remained  Monsieur  Fauchelevent.  I 
should  hâve  hidden  my  rcal  face  in  the  présence  of 
your  happiness  ;  I  should  hâve  had  an  enigma,  and 
in  the  midst  of  your  broad  sunshine  I  should  hâve 
had  darkness  ;  thus,  without  crying  '  Look  eut,'  I 
should  hâve  introduced  the  hulks  to  your  hearth, 
I  should  hâve  sat  down  at  your  table  with  the  thought 
that  if  you  knew  who  I  was  you  would  cxpel  me, 
and  let  myself  be  served  by  the  servants  who,  had 
tliey  known,  would  havc  said,  '  What  a  horror  !  '  I 
should  hâve  touched  you  Avith  my  elbow,  which  you 
hâve  a  right  to  feel  ofTcnded  at,  and  swindlcd  you 
out  of  shakes  of  the  hand.  There  would  hâve  been 
in  your  house  a  divided  respect  between  vénérable 
gray  hairs   and  bmnded  gray  hairs;    in  your  niost 


THE   SEVENTH  CIRCLE  AND  EIGIITII   HEAVEN.     343 

intimatc  hours,  whcn  ail  heurts  formecl  tlicniselvcs 
to  cacli  otlicr,  wlieii  we  were  ail  four  together,  the 
grandfatber,  you  two,  and  I,  there  would  hâve  beeii 
a  straiiger  there.  Hence  I,  a  dead  man,  would  hâve 
imposed  niyself  on  you  who  are  living,  and  I  should 
hâve  sentenced  her  for  life.  You,  Cosette,  and  I 
would  hâve  been  three  heads  in  the  green  cap  î  Do 
you  not  shudder  ?  I  am  only  the  niost  crushed  of 
men,  but  I  should  hâve  been  the  most  monstrous. 
And  this  crime  I  should  hâve  committed  every  day, 
and  this  falsehood  I  should  havc  told  every  day,  and 
this  face  of  night  I  should  hâve  worn  every  day, 
and  to  you  I  should  hâve  given  a  portion  of  my  stain 
every  day, — to  you,  niy  beloved,  to  you,  my  cliildren, 
to  you,  my  innocents  !  Holding  one's  tongue  is  notli- 
ing  ?  Keeping  silence  is  simple  ?  No,  it  is  not 
simple,  for  there  is  a  silence  whicli  lies  ;  and  my 
falsehood,  and  my  fraud,  and  my  indignity,  and 
my  cowardice,  and  my  treachery,  and  my  crime  I 
should  hâve  drunk  drop  by  drop  ;  I  should  hâve 
spat  it  ont,  and  then  drunk  it  again  ;  I  should  hâve 
ended  at  midnight  and  begun  again  at  midday, 
and  my  good  day  would  hâve  lied,  and  my  good 
night  would  hâve  lied,  and  I  should  hâve  slept  upon 
it,  and  eaten  it  Avith  my  bread  :  and  I  should  hâve 
looked  at  Cosette,  and  responded  to  the  smile  of  the 
angcl  with  the  smile  of  the  condemncd  man  ;  and  I 
should  hâve  been  an  abominable  scoundrel,  and  for 
what  purposc  ?  To  be  happy.  I,  happy  !  Hâve  I  the 
right  to  be  happy  ?    I  am  ont  of  life,  sir." 

Jean  Valjean   stopped,  and   Marius   listened,  for 
such  enchainments  of  ideas  and  agonies  cannot  be 


344  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

inteiTupted.  Jean  Yaljean  lowcred  his  voice  ao^aiii, 
yct  it  was  no  longer  the  dull  voice,  but  the  sinister 
voice. 

"  You  ask  why  I  speak  ?  I  am  neither  denounced, 
nor  pursued,  nor  tracked,  you  say.  Yes,  I  ani  de- 
nounced !  Yes,  I  am  pursued  !  Yes,  I  am  tracked  ! 
By  whom?  By  myself.  It  is  I  who  bar  my  own 
passage,  and  I  drag  myself  along,  and  I  push  myself, 
and  I  arrest  myself,  and  exécute  myself,  and  wlien  a 
nian  holds  himself  he  is  securely  held." 

And,  seizing  his  own  collar,  and  dragging  it  to- 
ward  Marins,  he  continued,  — 

"Look  at  this  fist.  Do  you  not  think  that  it 
holds  this  collar  so  as  not  to  let  it  go  ?  Well,  con- 
science is  a  very  différent  hand  !  If  you  wish  to  be 
happy,  sir,  you  nuist  never  understand  duty  ;  for  so 
soon  as  you  hâve  understood  it,  it  is  imphicable. 
People  may  say  that  it  punishes  you  for  understand- 
ing  it  ;  but  no,  it  rewards  you  for  it,  for  it  places  you 
in  a  hell  wherc  you  feel  God  by  your  side.  A  man 
has  no  sooncr  torn  his  entrails  than  he  is  at  peace 
with  himself." 

And  with  an  indescribable  accent  he  added, — 

"  Monsieur  Pontmercy,  that  has  no  connnon-sense. 
I  am  an  honest  man.  It  is  by  dcgrading  myself  in 
your  eyes  that  I  raise  myself  in  my  own.  This  has 
happened  to  me  once  before,  but  it  was  less  painful  ; 
it  was  nothing.  Yes,  an  honest  man.  I  should  not 
be  one  if  you  had,  through  my  fault,  continued  to 
esteem  me  ;  but  now  that  you  dcspise  me  I  am  so. 
I  hâve  this  fatality  upon  me,  that  as  I  am  never 
able  to  hâve  any  but  stolen  considération,  this  cou- 


THE   SEVENTH  CIliCLE  AND  ElGllTH   HEAVEN.     345 

sideration  humiliâtes  and  crushes  me  internally,  and 
111  order  that  I  may  respect  myself  people  must  de- 
spise  me.  Then  I  draw  myself  up.  I  am  a  galley- 
slave  wlio  obeys  his  conscience.  I  know  very  well 
that  this  is  not  likely  ;  but  what  would  you  hâve 
me  do  ?  It  is  so.  I  hâve  made  engagements  Avith 
myself  and  keep  theni.  There  are  meetings  which 
bind  us  ;  there  are  accidents  which  drag  us  into 
duty.  Look  you,  Monsieur  Pontmercy,  things  hâve 
happened  to  me  in  niy  life." 

Jean  Valjean  made  anotlier  pause,  swallowing  his 
saliva  with  an  effort,  as  if  his  words  had  a  bitter 
after-taste,  and  he  continued,  — 

"  When  a  man  lias  sucli  a  horror  upoii  him  ;  he  has 
110  right  to  make  others  share  it  unconsciously  ;  he 
has  no  right  to  communicate  his  plague  to  tliem  ;  lie 
has  no  right  to  make  them  slip  over  his  précipice 
without  their  perceiving  it  ;  he  has  no  right  to  drag 
his  red  cap  over  them,  and  no  right  craftily  to  eii- 
cuinber  tlie  happiness  of  another  man  with  his  misery. 
To  approach  tliose  who  are  healthy  and  touch  them 
in  the  darkness  with  his  invisible  ulcer  is-hideous. 
Fauchelevent  may  hâve  lent  me  his  name,  but  I 
hâve  no  right  to  use  it  :  he  may  hâve  given  it  to  me, 
but  I  was  unable  to  take  it.  A  name  is  a  self. 
Look  you,  sir,  I  hâve  thought  a  little  and  read  a 
little,  though  I  am  a  peasant,  and  you  see  that  I 
express  myself  properly.  I  explain  things  to  myself, 
and  hâve  carried  out  my  own  éducation.  Well,  yes  ; 
to  abstract  a  name  and  place  one's  self  under  it  is  dis- 
honest.  The  letters  of  the  alphabet  may  be  filched 
like  a  purse  or  a  watch.     To  be  a  false  signature  in 


346  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

flesh  and  bloocl,  to  bc  a  living  falsc  key,  to  enter 
among  honest  folk  by  picking  their  lock,  uever  to 
look,  but  always  to  squint,  to  be  internally  infamous,  — 
no  !  no  !  no  !  no  !  It  is  better  to  sufï'er,  bleed,  weep, 
tear  one's  flesh  with  one's  nails,  pass  the  niglits 
writhing  in  agony,  and  gnaw  one's  stoniacli  and  soûl. 
That  is  why  I  hâve  corne  to  tell  you  ail  this,  —  volun- 
tarily,  as  you  remarked." 

He  breathed  paiufully,  and  uttered  this  last 
remai'k,  — 

"  Formerly  I  stole  a  loaf  in  order  to  live  ;  to-day  I 
will  not  steal  a  name  in  order  to  live." 

"  To  live  !  "  jMarius  interrupted  ;  "  you  do  not  re- 
quire  that  name  to  live." 

"  Ah  !  I  understand  niysclf,"  Jean  Valjean  replied, 
raising  and  drooping  his  head  several  times  in  suc- 
cession, ïhere  was  a  stillness  ;  botl)  remained  silent, 
sunk  as  they  were  in  a  gulf  of  thought.  IVIarius  was 
sitting  near  a  table,  and  supporting  the  corner  of  his 
mouth  on  one  of  his  fingers.  Jean  Valjean  walked 
backwards  and  forwards  ;  he  stopped  bcfore  a  glass 
and  remained  motioidess.  ïlien,  as  if  answering 
some  internai  reasoning,  he  said,  as  he  looked  in  this 
glass,  in  whicli  he  did  not  see  himself,  — 

"  While  at  présent  1  am  relieved." 

He  began  walking  again,  iind  went  to  the  othcr 
end  of  the  room.  At  the  moment  when  he  turned 
he  perceived  that  ^larius  was  watching  his  walk,  and 
he  said  to  him,  with  an  indescribable  accent,  — 

"  I  drag  my  leg  a  little.  You  understand  why, 
now." 

Then  liQ  turned  round  full  to  Marias. 


THE   SEVENTH  CIRCLE  AND  EIGIITH   HEAVEN.     34/ 

"  And  now,  sir,  imagine  tliis.  I  hâve  said  notliing. 
I  hâve  remained  iNlonsienr  Fauchelevent.  I  hâve 
taken  mv  place  in  your  house.  I  am  one  of  yonr 
faniily.  I  am  in  my  room.  I  come  down  to  break- 
fast  in  my  slippers  ;  at  night  we  go  to  the  play,  ail 
thrce.  I  accompany  ^Madame  Pontmercy  to  the 
Tuileries  and  to  the  Place  Royale  ;  we  are  together, 
and  you  believe  me  yonr  equal.  One  fine  day  I  am 
hère,  you  are  there.  We  are  talking  and  laughing, 
and  you  hear  a  voice  cry  this  name,  —  Jean  Valjeau  ! 
and  theu  that  fearful  hand,  the  police,  issues  from  the 
shadow  and  suddenly  tears  ofF  my  mask  !  " 

He  \vas  silent  again.  Marins  had  risen  with  a 
shudder  and  Jean  Valjean  continued,  — 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

Mariuss  silence  replied,  and  Jean  Valjean  con- 
tinued :  — 

"  You  see  very  well  that  I  did  right  in  not  hold- 
ing my  tongue.  Be  happy,  be  in  heaven,  be  the 
angel  of  an  angel,  be  in  the  sunshine  and  content 
yourself  with  it,  and  do  not  trouble  yourself  as  to 
the  way  in  which  a  poor  condemned  man  opens  his 
heart  and  does  his  duty  ;  you  hâve  a  wretched  man 
before  you,  sir." 

Marins  slowly  crossed  the  room,  and  when  he  was 
by  Jean  Valjean's  side  ofFered  him  his  hand.  But 
Marius  was  compelled  to  take  this  hand  which  did 
not  otFer  itself.  Jean  Valjean  let  him  do  so,  and  it 
seemed  to  jNIarius  that  he  was  pressing  a  hand  of 
marble. 

"  ^ly  grandfather  has  friends  "  said  Marius.  "  I 
will  obtain  your  pardon." 


348  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  it  is  useless,"  Jean  Valjcan  replied  ;  "I  am 
supposée!  to  be  dead,  and  that  is  sufficient.  The 
dead  are  not  subjected  to  surveillance,  and  are  sup- 
posed  to  rot  quietly.  Death  is  the  same  tliing  as 
pardon." 

And  liberating  the  hand  which  Marius  held,  he 
added  with  a  sort  of  inexorable  dignity,  — 

"  INIoreover,  duty,  my  duty,  is  the  friend  to  whom 
I  hâve  recourse  ;  and  I  only  need  one  pardon,  that  of 
my  conscience." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  gently  at  the 
other  end  of  the  drawing-room,  and  Cosette's  head 
appeared  in  the  crevice.  Only  her  sweet  face  was 
visible.  Her  hair  was  in  admirable  confusion,  and 
her  eyelids  were  still  swollen  with  slcep.  She  made 
the  movement  of  a  bird  thrusting  its  head  out  of  the 
ncst,  looked  first  at  her  husband,  then  at  Jean  Val- 
jcan, and  cried  to  them  laughingly,  —  it  looked  like  a 
smile  issuing  from  a  rose,  — 

"  I  will  bet  that  you  are  talking  politics.  How 
stupid  that  is,  instead  of  being  with  me  !  " 

Jean  Valjcan  started. 

"  Cosette,"  Marius  stammered,  and  he  stopped. 
They  looked  like  two  culprits  ;  Cosette,  radiant,  con- 
tinued  to  look  at  them  both,  and  tliere  were  in  her 
eyes  gleams  of  Paradise. 

"  I  havc  caught  you  in  tlie  act,"  Cosette  said  ;  "  I 
just  heard  through  this,  Fatlier  Fauchelevent  saying, 
'  Conscience,  doing  one's  duty.'  That  is  politics,  and 
I  will  hâve  noue  of  it.  Pe()])le  must  not  talk  politics 
on  the  very  next  day  ;  it  is  not  right." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Cosette  ;  "  Marius  replied,  "  we 


THE   SEVENTH   CIRCLE  AND   EIGHTH  HEAVEN.     349 

are  talking  of  business.  We  are  talking  aboiit  the 
best  way  of  investing  your  six  hundred  thousand 
francs." 

"  I  am  coming,"  Cosette  iuterrupted.  "  Do  you 
want  me  hère  ?  " 

And  resolutely  passing  tlirough  the  door,  she  en- 
tered  tlie  drawing-room.  She  was  dressed  in  a  large 
combing  gown  with  a  thousand  folds  and  large 
sieeves,  which  descended  from  her  neck  to  her  feet. 
Thcre  are  in  the  golden  skies  of  old  Gothic  paiutings, 
thèse  charming  bags  to  place  an  angel  in.  She 
contemplated  herself  from  head  to  foot  in  a  large 
mirror,  and  then  exclaimed  with  an  ineffable  outburst 
of  ecstasy, — 

"  ïhere  was  once  upon  a  time  a  king  and  queen. 
Oh,  how  delighted  I  am  !  " 

This  said,  she  courtesied  to  Marius  and  Jean 
Valjean. 

"  Then,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  install  myself 
near  you  in  an  easy-chair  ;  we  shall  breakfast  in  half  an 
hour.  You  will  say  ail  you  like,  for  I  know  very  well 
that  gentlemen  must  talk,  and  I  will  be  very  good.  ' 

Marins  took  her  by  the  arm  and  said  to  her 
lovingly,  — 

"  We  are  talking  about  business." 

"  By  the  way,"  Cosette  answered,  "  I  hâve  opened 
my  window,  and  a  number  of  sparrows  [pierrots]  hâve 
just  entered  the  garden.  Birds,  not  masks.  To-day 
is  Ash  Wednesday,  but  not  for  the  birds." 

"  I  tell  you  that  we  are  talking  of  business,  so  go, 
my  little  Cosette  ;  leave  us  fov  a  moment.  We  are 
talking  figures,  and  they  would  only  annoy  you." 


350  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Yoli  hâve  put  ou  a  charming  cravat  this  niorn- 
ing,  INIarius.  You  are  very  coquettish,  Monseigneur. 
No,  they  will  not  annoy  me." 

"  I  assure  you  tliat  they  will." 

"  No,  since  it  is  you,  I  shall  not  understand  you, 
but  I  shall  hear  you.  When  a  woman  hears  voices 
she  loves,  she  docs  not  require  to  understand  the 
words  they  say.  To  be  together  is  ail  I  vvant,  and  I 
shall  stay  with  you,  —  thcre  !  " 

"  You  are  my  beloved  Cosette  !     Impossible." 

"  Impossible  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Very  good,"  Gosette  remarked  ;  "  I  should  hâve 
told  you  some  news.  I  should  hâve  told  you  that 
grandpapa  is  still  askep,  that  your  aunt  is  at  Mass, 
that  the  chimney  of  my  papa  Fauchelevent's  room 
smokes,  that  Nicolette  has  sent  for  the  chimney- 
swcep,  that  Nicolette  and  Toussaint  hâve  already 
quarrelled,  and  that  Nicolette  ridicules  Toussaiut's 
stammering.  Well,  you  shall  know  nothing.  Ah, 
it  is  impossible  ?  You  shall  see,  sir,  that  in  my  turn 
I  shall  say,  *  It  is  impossible.'  Who  will  be  caught 
then  ?  I  implore  you,  my  little  Marins,  to  let  me 
stay  with  you  two." 

"  I  assure  you  that  wc  must  be  alone." 

"  Well,  am  I  anybody  ?  " 

Jean  Valjean  did  not  uttcr  a  word,  and  Cosette 
turncd  to  him. 

"  In  the  first  place,  fathcr,  I  insist  on  your  coming 
and  kissing  me.  What  do  you  mcan  by  saying  noth- 
ing, instead  of  taking  my  part  ?  Did  one  cver  see 
a  father  like  that?     That  will  show  you  how  un- 


THE   SEVENTH  CIRCLE  AXD  EIGIITH   HEAVEN.     351 

happy  my  marriage  is,  for  my  husband  beats  me. 
Corne  aud  kiss  me  at  once." 

Jean  Valjeau  approached  lier,  and  Cosette  turned 
to  Marius. 

"  I  make  a  face  at  you.' 

Then  she  offered  lier  forehead  to  Jean  Yaljean, 
wlio  nioved  a  step  towards  lier.  Ail  at  once  Cosette 
recoiled. 

"  Fatlier,  yoii  are  pale  ;  does  your  arm  pain  you  ?  ' 

"  It  is  cured/'  said  Jean  Yaljean. 

"  Hâve  you  slept  badly  ?  " 

"  Xo." 

"  Are  you  sad  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Kiss  me.  If  you  are  well,  if  you  sleep  soundly, 
if  you  are  happy,  I  Avill  not  scold  you." 

And  she  again  offered  liim  her  forehead,  and  Jean 
Yaljean  set  a  kiss  on  this  forehead,  upon  which 
there  was  à  heavenlv  reflection. 

"  Sniile." 

Jean  Yaljean  obeyed,  but  it  was  the  smile  of 
a  ghost. 

"  Xow,  défend  me  against  my  husband." 

"  Cosette  —  "  said  Marius. 

"  Be  angiT,  father,  and  tell  him  I  am  to  remain. 
You  can  talk  before  me.  You  must  think  me  very 
foolish.  What  you  are  saying  is  very  astonishing, 
then  !  Business,  —  placing  money  in  a  bank,  —  that 
is  a  great  tliing.  jNIen  make  mysteries  of  nothing. 
I  mean  to  say  I  am  very  pretty  tliis  morning.  Marius, 
look  at  me." 

And  with  an  adorable  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and 


352  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

an  exquisite  pout  she  looked  at  IMarius.  Soniething 
like  a  flasli  passed  between  thèse  two  bcings,  and 
they  cared  little  about  a  third  party  bcing  présent. 

"  I  love  you,"  said  IMarius. 

*'  I  adore  you,"  said  Cosette. 

And  tlicy  irresistibly  fell  into  each  other's  arms. 

"  And  now,"  Cosette  continued,  as  she  snioothed 
a  crease  in  her  dressing-gown,  with  a  little  triuniphant 
pout,  "  I  remain." 

"  No,"  Marins  replied  imploriiigly, ."  wc  hâve  some- 
thing  to  finish." 

"  Again,  no  ?  " 

Marins  assunied  a  serious  tone. 

"  I  assure  you,  Cosette,  that  it  is  impossible." 

"  Ah,  you  are  putting  on  your  man's  voice,  sir  ; 
very  good,  I  will  go.  You  did  not  support  me, 
father  ;  and  so  you,  my  hard  husband,  and  you,  my 
dear  papa,  are  tyrants.  I  sliall  go  and  tell  grandpapa. 
If  you  bclieve  that  I  intend  to  return  and  talk  plati- 
tudes to  you,  you  are  mistaken.  I  am  proud,  and 
I  intend  to  wait  for  you  at  présent.  You  will  see 
how  wearisome  it  will  bc  witliout  me.  I  am  going, 
very  good." 

And  she  left  thc  room,  but  two  seconds  after  the 
door  opened  again,  her  fresli,  rosy  face  passed  once 
again  between  the  two  folding-doors,  and  she  cried 
to  them, — 

"  I  am  very  angry." 

The  door  closed  again,  and  darkness  returned.  It 
was  likc  a  straggling  sunbeam,  wliich,  witliout  sus- 
specting  it,  had  suddenly  travcrsed  thc  niglit.  jNlarius 
assured  himself  that  the  door  was  really  closed. 


THE    SEVENTtl  CIRCLE  AXD  EIGHTH   HEAVEN.     353 

"  Poor  Cosette  !  "  lie  muttered,  "  when  slie  learns  —  " 

At  thèse  words  Jean  Yaljean  trcnibled  ail  over,  and 
he  fixed  liis  haggard  eyes  ou  Marius. 

"  Cosette  !  Oh,  y  es,  it  is  true.  You  will  tell 
Cosette  about  it.  It  is  fair.  —  Stay,  I  did  not  think 
of  that.  A  man  has  strength  for  one  thing,  but  not 
for  another.  I  implore  you,  sir,  I  conjure  you,  sir, 
give  me  your  most  sacred  word,  —  do  not  tell  her.  Is 
it  not  sufficient  for  you  to  know  it  ?  I  was  able 
to  tell  it  of  my  own  accord,  without  being  com- 
pclled.  I  would  liave  told  it  to  the  universe,  to 
the  whole  world,  and  I  should  not  hâve  cared  ;  but 
she,  —  she  does  not  know  what  it  is,  and  it  would 
hprrify  her,  A  convict.  What  !  You  w^ould  be 
obliged  to  explain  to  her,  tell  her  it  is  a  man  who 
has  been  to  the  galleys.  She  saw  the  chain-gang 
once.     Oh,  my  God  !  " 

He  sank  into  a  chair  and  buried  his  face  in  bis 
hands  ;  it  could  not  be  heard,  but  from  the  heaving 
of  his  shoulders  it  could  be  seen  that  he  was  weep- 
ing.  They  were  silent  tears,  terrible  tears.  There 
is  a  choking  in  a  sob  ;  a  species  of  con\'ulsion  seized 
on  him,  he  threw  himself  back  in  the  chair,  letting 
his  arms  hang,  and  displaying  to  INIarius  his  face 
bathed  in  tears,  and  Marius  heard  him  mutter  so  low 
that  his  voice  seemed  to  come  from  a  bottomless 
abyss,  "  Oh  !    I  would  like  to  die  !  " 

"Be  at  your  ease,"  Marius  said;  "I  will  keep  your 
secret  to  myself." 

And,  Icss  affected  than  perhaps  he  ought  to  hâve 
been,  but  compelled  for  more  than  an  hour  to  listen 
to   unexpected   horrors,  gradually  seeing  a  convict 

VOL.    V.  23 


354  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

taking  M.  Fauchelevent's  place,  gradually  overcome 
by  this  mournful  reality,  and  led  by  the  natural  state 
of  the  situation  to  notice  the  gap  which  had  formed 
between  hiniself  and  this  man,  JMarius  added,  — 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me  not  to  say -a  word  about 
the  trust  money  which  you  hâve  so  faithfully  and 
honestly  given  up.  That  is  an  act  of  probity,  and 
it  is  but  fair  that  a  reward  should  be  given  you  ;  fix 
the  sum  yourself,  and  it  shall  be  paid  you.  Do  not 
fear  to  fix  it  vcry  high." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir,"  Jean  Valjean  replied  gently. 

He  remained  pensive  for  a  moment,  mechanically 
passing  the  end  of  his  forefinger  over  his  thumb-nail, 
and  then  raised  his  voice,  — 

"  Ail  is  nearly  finislied  ;  there  is  only  one  thing 
left  me." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

Jean  Valjean  had  a  species  of  suprême  agitation, 
and  voicelessly,  almost  breathlessly,  hc  stammered, 
rather  than  said,  — 

"  Now  that  you  know,  do  you,  sir,  who  are  the 

master,   believe   that   I   ought   not   to   see   Cosctte 

again  ?  " 

"  I  bclicvc  that  it  would  be  bettcr,"  Marius  replied 

coldly. 

"  1  will  not  see  her  again,"  Jean  Valjean  mur- 
mured.  Ile  walkcd  toward  the  door  ;  he  placed 
his  hand  upon  the  handle,  the  door  opened,  Jean 
Valjean  was  going  to  pass  out,  when  he  suddcnly 
closed  it  again,  then  opened  the  door  again  and 
returned  to  Marins.  Ile  was  no  longer  pale,  but 
livid,  and  in  his  cyes  was  a  sort   of  tragic  llamc 


THE    SEVENTH  CIRCLE  AND  EIGHTH   HEAVEN.    355 

instead  of  tears.      His  voice  hacl  grown  strangelj 
calm  again. 

"  Stay,  sir,"  he  said  ;  "  if  you  are  willing,  I  will 
corne  to  see  lier,  for  I  assure  you  tbat  I  désire  it 
greatly.  If  I  had  not  longed  to  see  Cosette  I  should 
not  hâve  made  you  tlie  confession  I  hâve  donc,  but 
hâve  gone  away  ;  but  wishing  to  remain  at  the  spot 
where  Cosette  is,  and  continue  to  see  her,  I  was  obliged 
to  tell  you  everything  honestly.  You  follow  niy  rea- 
soning,  do  you  not  ?  It  is  a  thing  easy  to  understand. 
Look  you,  I  hâve  had  her  with  me  for  nine  years  : 
we  lived  at  first  in  that  hovel  on  the  boulevard,  then 
in  the  couvent,  and  then  near  the  Luxembourg.  It 
was  there  that  you  saw  her  for  the  first  time,  and 
you  remember  her  blue  plush  bonnet.  Next  we 
went  to  the  district  of  the  Invalides,  Avhere  there 
were  a  railway  and  a  garden,  the  Rue  Plumet.  I 
lived  in  a  little  back  yard  where  I  could  hear  her 
pianoforte.  Such  was  my  life,  and  we  never  sepa- 
rated.  That  lasted  nine  years  and  seven  months  ;  I 
was  like  her  father,  and  she  was  my  child.  I  do  not 
know  whether  you  understand  me,  M.  Pontmercy, 
but  it  would  be  difficult  to  go  away  now,  see  her  no 
more,  speak  to  her  rio  more,  and  hâve  nothing  left. 
If  you  hâve  no  objection,  I  will  corne  and  see  Cosette 
every  now  and  then,  but  not  too  often,  and  I  will 
not  remain  long.  You  can  tell  them  to  show  me 
into  the  little  room  on  the  ground-floor  ;  I  would 
certainly  come  in  by  the  back  door,  which  is  used  by 
the  servants,  but  that  might  cause  surprise,  so  it  is 
better,  I  think,  for  me  to  come  by  the  front  door. 
Really,  sir,  I  should  like  to  see  Cosette  a  little,  but 


356  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

as  rarely  as  you  please.  Put  youvsclf  in  my  place.  I 
hâve  only  that  left.  And  tlien,  again,  we  ràust  be 
careful,  and  if  I  did  not  conie  at  ail  it  would  havc  a 
bad  eftcct,  and  appear  singular.  For  instance,  what 
I  can  do  is  to  corne  in  the  evening,  when  it  is  begin- 
ning  to  grow  dark." 

"You  can  corne  every  evening,"  said  Marius,  "and 
Cosette  will  expect  you." 

"  You  are  kind,  sir,"  said  Jean  Valjean. 

]\Iarius  bowed  to  Jean  Valjean,  liappiness  accom- 
panied  despair  to  the  door,  and  thèse  two  nien 
parted. 


CHAPTER    II. 

THE   OBSCURITY    WHICH   A   REVELATION  MAY 
COXTAIN. 

Marius  was  overwhelmed  ;  the  sort  of  estrange- 
ment  wbicli  lie  had  ever  felt  for  the  man  Avitb  whom 
he  saw  Cosette  was  henceforth  explained.  There 
was  in  this  person  something  enigmatic,  against 
which  his  instinct  warned  him.  This  enigma  was 
the  most  hideous  of  shames,  the  galleys.  This  M. 
Fauchelevent  was  Jean  Valjean  the  convict.  To 
find  suddenlj  such  a  secret  in  the  midst  of  his  happi- 
ness  is  like  discovering  a  scorpion  in  a  turtle-dove's 
nest.  Was  the  happiness  of  Marius  and  Cosette  in 
future  condensed  to  this  proximity?  Was  it  an 
acconiplished  fact  ?  Did  the  acceptance  of  this  man 
form  part  of  the  consummated  marriage  ?  Could 
nothing  else  be  donc  ?  Had  ]Marius  also  niarried  the 
convict?  Although  a  man  may  be  crowned  with 
light  and  joy,  though  he  be  enjoying  the  grand  hour 
of  life's  purple,  bappy  love,  such  shocks  would  com- 
pel  even  the  archangel  in  his  ecstasy,  even  the  demi- 
god  in  his  gloiy,  to  shudder. 

As  ever  happens  in  sudden  transformation-scènes 
of  this  nature,  Marius  askcd  himself  Avhether  he 
ought  not  to  reproach  himself?  Had  he  failed  in 
divination  ?      Had  he  been   déficient  in  prudence  ? 


358  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Ilad  lie  voluntarily  becn  headstrong  ?  Sliglitly  so, 
peihaps.  Had  he  entered  upoii  this  love-adveiiture, 
which  resulted  in  liis  marriage  with  Cosette,  without 
takiiig  sufficient  précaution  to  tlirovv  liglit  upon  tlie 
suiToundings  ?  He  verified,  —  it  is  thus,  by  a  séries 
of  vérifications  of  ourselves  on  ourselves,  that  life  is 
gradually  corrected,  —  he  verified,  we  say,  tlie  vision- 
ary  and  chimerical  side  of  liis  nature,  a  sort  of  internai 
cloud.  peculiar  to  many  organizations,  and  which  in 
the  paroxysms  of  passion  and  grief  expands,  as  the 
température  of  the  souI  changes,  and  invades  the 
entire  man  to  such  an  extent  that  he  merely  becomes 
a  conscience  enveloped  in  a  fog.  We  hâve  more 
than  once  indicated  this  characteristic  élément  in 
Marius's  individuality.  He  remembered  that  during 
the  intoxication  of  his  love  in  the  Rue  Plumet,  dur- 
ing those  six  or  seven  ecstatic  weeks,  he  had  not 
even  spoken  to  Cosette  about  the  drama  in  the  Gor- 
beau  hovel,  during  which  the  victim  was  so  strangely 
silent  both  in  the  struggle  and  eventual  escape.  How 
was  it  that  he  had  not  spoken  to  Cosette  about  it, 
and  yet  it  was  so  close  and  so  frightful  ?  How  was 
it  that  he  had  not  even  mcntioncd  the  Thénardiers, 
and  especially  on  the  day  when  he  met  Eponine  ? 
He  found  almost  a  difficulty  in  explaining  to  himself 
uow  his  silence  at  that  period,  but  he  was  able  to 
account  for  it.  He  remembered  his  confusion,  his 
intoxication  for  Cosette,  his  love  absorbing  every- 
thing,  the  carrying  ott"  of  onc  by  the  otlicr  into  the 
idéal  world,  and  pcrhaps,  too,  as  the  imperceptible 
amount  of  rcason  minglcd  with  that  violent  and 
charming  state  of  the  mind,  a  vague  and  dull  instinct 


A   IIEVELATION   MAY   CONTAIN   OBSCURITY.     3ô9 

to  hidc  and  efface  from  his  meniory  that  formidable 
adventure  with  whicîi  he  fcared  contact,  in  which  lie 
wished  to  play  no  part,  from. which  he  stood  aloof, 
and  of  which  he  could  not  be  narrator  or  watness 
without  being  an  accuser.  Moreover,  thèse  few 
weeks  had  been  a  lightning  flash  ;  he  had  not  had 
time  for  anything  except  to  love.  In  short,  when  ail 
was  revolved,  and  everything  examined,  supposing  that 
he  had  described  the  Gorbeau  trap  to  Cosette,  had 
mentioned  the  Thénardiers  to  her,  what  would  hâve 
been  the  conséquence,  even  if  he  had  discovered  that 
Jean  Valjean  was  a  convict  ;  would  that  hâve  changed 
him,  Marins,  or  his  Cosette  ?  Would  he  hâve  drawn 
back  ?  Would  he  hâve  loved  her  less  ?  Would  he 
hâve  refused  to  marry  her?  No.  Woidd  it  hâve 
made  any  change  in  what  had  happened  ?  No. 
Tliere  was  nothing,  therefore,  to  regret,  nothing  to 
reproach,  and  ail  was  well.  There  is  a  God  for  those 
drunkards  who  are  called  lovers,  and  Marius  had 
blindly  followed  the  road  which  he  had  selected  with 
his  eyes  open.  Love  had  bandaged  his  eyes  to  lead 
him  whither  ?     To  paradise. 

But  this  paradise  was  henceforth  complicated  by 
an  infernal  proximity,  and  the  old  estrangement  of 
Marius  for  this  man,  for  this  Fauchelevent  who  had 
become  Jean  Valjean,  was  at  présent  mingled  with 
horror  ;  but  in  this  horror,  let  us  say  it,  there  was 
some  pity,  and  even  a  certain  degree  of  surprise. 
This  robber,  this  relapsed  robber,  had  given  up  a 
deposit,  and  what  dcposit  ?  Six  hundred  thousand 
francs.  He  alone  held  the  secret  of  that  deposit,  he 
could  hâve  kept  it  ail,  but  he  gave  it  ail  up.    Moreover, 


360  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

hc  had  revealed  his  situation ofhisownuccord,notliiiig 
compelled  him  to  do  so  ;  and  if  he,  Marins,  knew 
who  he  was  it  was  through  liimself.  Thcre  was  in 
this  confession  more  than  the  acceptance  of  humilia- 
tion ;  there  was  the  acceptance  of  perih  For  a  con- 
demned  man  a  mask  is  not  a  mask  but  a  shelter,  and 
he  had  renounced  that  shelter.  A  false  uame  is  a 
security,  and  he  had  thrown  away  that  false  name. 
He,  the  galley-slave,  could  conceal  himself  forever  in 
an  honest  family,  and  he  had  resisted  that  temp- 
tation,  and  for  what  motive  ?  Through  scruples  of 
conscience.  He  had  explained  himself  with  the  irré- 
sistible accent  of  truth.  In  short,  whoever  this  Jean 
Valjean  might  be,  his  was  incontestably  an  awakened 
conscience.  Some  mysterious  rehabilitation  had  been 
begun,  and  according  to  ail  appearances  scruples  had 
been  master  of  this  man  for  a  long  time  past.  Such 
attacks  of  justice  and  honcsty  are  not  peculiar  to 
vulgar  natures,  and  an  awakening  of  the  conscience 
is  greatncss  of  soûl.  Jean  Valjean  was  sincère  ;  and 
this  sincerity,  visible,  palpable,  irréfragable,  and  évi- 
dent in  the  grief  which  it  caused  him,  rendered  his 
statements  valuable,  and  gave  authority  to  ail  that 
this  man  said.  Hère,  for  Marins,  was  a  strange  in- 
version of  situations.  What  issued  from  M.  Fauche- 
levent  ?  Distrust.  What  was  disengaged  from  Jean 
Valjean?  Confidence.  In  the  mysterious  balance- 
sheet  of  this  Jean  Valjean  which  Marins  mentally 
drew  up,  he  verified  the  crédit,  he  verified  the  débit, 
and  tricd  to  arrive  at  a  balance.  But  ail  this  was  as 
in  a  storm,  Marins  striving  to  form  a  distinct  idea  of 
this  man,  and  pursuing  Jean  Valjean,  so  to  speak,  to 


A   REVELATION   MAY    COXTAIN   0I3SCUEITY.     3G1 

the  bottom  of  liis  thouglits,  lost  liim,  and  found  him 
agaiu  iu  a  fatal  mist. 

The  honest  restoratiou  of  the  trust-money  and  tbe 
probity  of  the  confession  were  good,  and  fornied  as 
it  were  a  break  in  the  cloiid  ;  but  then  the  cloud 
became  black  again.  However  confused  Marius's 
réminiscences  niight  be,  sonie  shadows  still  returned 
to  him.  What,  after  ail,  was  that  adventure  in  the 
Jondrette  garret  ?  Why,  on  the  arrivai  of  the  police, 
did  that  man,  instead  of  coniplaining,  escape?  Hère 
Marins  found  the  answer,  —  because  this  man  was  a 
convict  who  had  broken  his  ban.  Another  question. 
Why  did  this  man  come  to  the  barricade  ?  For  at 
présent  Marins  distinctly  saw  again  that  recollection, 
which  reappeared  iu  his  émotions  like  sympathetic 
ink  before  the  fire.  This  man  was  at  the  barricade 
and  did  not  fight  ;  what  did  he  want  there  ?  Before 
this  question  a  spectre  rose  and  gave  the  answer,  — 
Javert.  Marins  perfectly  remembered  now  the  moum- 
ful  vision  of  Jean  Valjcan  dragging  the  bound  Javert 
ont  of  the  barricade,  and  heard  again  behind  the 
angle  of  the  little  Mondétour  Lane  the  frightful  pistol- 
shot.  There  was  probably  a  hatred  between  this 
spy  and  this  galley-slave,  and  one  annoyed  the  other. 
Jean  Valjean  went  to  the  barricade  to  revenge  him- 
self  ;  he  arrived  late,  and  was  probably  aware  that 
Javert  was  a  prisoner  there.  Corsican  Vendetta  has 
penetrated  certain  lower  strata  of  society,  and  is  the 
law  with  them  ;  it  is  so  simple  that  it  does  not  as- 
tonish  minds  which  hâve  half  returned  to  virtue,  and 
their  hearts  are  so  constituted  that  a  criminal,  when 
on  the  path  of  repentance,  may  be  scrupulous  as  to 


362  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

a  robbery  and  not  so  as  to  a  vengeance.  Jean  Val- 
jcan  had  killed  Javert,  or  at  Icast  that  seemed  évi- 
dent. The  last  question  of  ail  admitted  of  no  reply, 
and  tins  question  Marius  felt  like  a  pair  of  pinccrs. 
How  was  it  that  the  existence  of  Jean  Yaljeau  had 
so  long  bi'ushed  against  that  of  Cosette  ?  What  was 
tins  gîooniy  sport  of  Providence  which  had  brought 
tliis  man  and  tins  child  in  contact  ?  Are  there  chains 
for  two  forged  in  heaven,  and  does  God  take  pleasure 
in  coupling  the  angel  with  the  denion  ?  A  crime  and 
an  innocence  can,  then,  be  chaniber  companions  in 
the  mysterious  hulks  of  misery?  In  that  défile  of 
condemned  men  which  is  called  human  destiny,  two 
foreheads  niay  pass  along  side  by  side,  one  simple, 
the  other  formidable,  —  oiie  ail  bathed  in  the  divine 
whiteness  of  dawn,  the  other  eternally  brandcd  ? 
W  ho  can  hâve  determined  tins  inexplicable  approxi- 
mation ?  In  what  way,  in  conséquence  of  what  pro- 
digy,  could  a  community  of  life  hâve  been  established 
between  this  celestial  child  and  this  condemned  old 
man  ?  Who  could  hâve  attached  the  lamb  to  the 
wolf,  and  even  more  incompréhensible  still,  the  wolf 
to  the  lamb  ?  For  the  wolf  loved  the  lamb,  the  fcro- 
cious  being  adored  the  weak  being,  and  for  nine 
years  the  angel  had  leaned  on  the  monster  for  support. 
The  childhood  and  maidenhood  of  Cosette  and  lier 
Virgin  growth  toward  life  and  light  had  been  pro- 
tected  by  this  deformed  dévotion.  Hère  questions 
cxfoliated  themselves,  if  we  may  employ  the  expres- 
sion, into  countless  enigmas  ;  abysses  opcned  at  the 
bottom  of  abysses,  and  Marius  could  no  longer  bcnd 
over  Jean  Valjean  without  feeling  a  dizzincss  :  what 


A   REVELATION   MAY   CONTAIN  OBSCURITY.     363 

coiild  this  man-precipice  be?  The  old  gencsiacal 
syuibols  are  ctenial  :  in  liuman  society,  sucli  as  it 
iiow  exists  uiitil  a  greater  light  shall  change  it,  there 
are  ever  two  men,  —  one  superior,  the  other  subterra- 
nean  :  the  one  who  holds  to  good  is  xVbel,  the  one 
who  holds  to  bad  is  Gain.  What  was  this  tender 
Cain  ?  What  was  this  bandit  rcligiously  absoi-bed  in 
the  adoration  of  a  virgin,  watching  over  her,  bringing 
her  up,  guarding  her,  dignifying  her,  and  though 
hiniself  impure,  surrounding  her  with  piiritj?  What 
was  this  cloaca  which  had  venerated  this  innocence 
so  greatly  as  not  to  Icave  a  spot  upou  it  ?  What 
was  this  Valjean  carrying  on  the  éducation  of  Co- 
sette  ?  What  was  this  figure  of  darkness,  whose  sole 
carc  it  was  to  préserve  froni  every  shadow  and  every 
cloud  the  rising  of  a  star  ? 

That  was  Jean  Valjean's  secret  ;  that  was  also 
God's  secret,  and  ^larius  recoiled  before  this  double 
secret.  The  one,  to  some  extent,  reassured  him  about 
the  other,  for  God  was  as  visible  in  this  adventure 
as  was  Jean  Yaljean.  God  has  his  instruments,  and 
employs  whom  lie  likes  as  tool,  and  is  not  responsi- 
ble  to  him.  Do  we  know  how  God  sets  to  work  ? 
Jean  Yaljean  had  labored  on  Cosette,  and  had  to 
some  extent  formed  her  niind  ;  that  Avas  incontesta- 
ble. Well,  what  then  ?  The  workman  was  horrible, 
but  the  work  was  admirable,  and  God  produces  his 
miracles  as  ho  thinks  proper.  He  had  constructed 
that  charming  Cosette,  and  employed  Jean  Valjean 
on  the  job,  and  it  had  pleased  him  to  choose  this 
strange  assistant.  What  explanation  hâve  we  to  ask 
of  him  ?    Is  it  the  first  time  that  manure  has  helped 


3G4  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

spring  to  produce  the  rose?  jNIarius  gave  himself 
thèse  answers,  and  declared  to  himself  that  they  were 
good.  On  ail  the  points  whieh  we  hâve  indicatcd 
he  had  not  darcd  to  prcss  Jean  Valjean,  though  lie 
did  not  confess  to  himself  that  he  dared  not.  He 
adored  Cosette,  he  possessed  Cosette  ;  Coscttc  was 
splendidly  pure,  and  that  was  sufïicient  for  him. 
What  enlightenment  did  he  require  when  Cosette 
was  a  light  ?  Does  light  need  illumination  ?  He  had 
everything  ;  what  more  could  he  désire  ?  Is  not 
everything  enough  ?  Jean  Valjean's  personal  affairs 
in  no  way  concerncd  him,  and  in  bending  down  over 
the  fatal  shadow  of  this  wretched  man  he  clung  to 
his  solemn  déclaration,  "  I  am  nothing  to  Cosette  ; 
ten  years  ago  I  did  not  know  that  she  existed."  Jean 
Valjean  was  a  passer-by  ;  he  had  said  so  himself. 
Well,  then,  he  passed,  and  whoever  he  might  be,  his 
part  was  played  out.  Henceforth  Marins  would 
hâve  to  pcrform  the  functions  of  Providence  toward 
Cosette;  she  had  found  again  in  ether  her  equal, 
her  lover,  her  husband,  her  celestial  maie.  In  flying 
away,  Cosette,  winged  and  transfigurcd,  left  behind 
her  on  earth  her  empty  and  hideous  chrysalis,  Jean 
Valjean.  In  whatever  circle  of  ideas  Marins  might 
turn,  he  always  came  back  to  a  certain  liorror  of 
Jean  Valjean  ;  a  sacred  horror,  perhaps,  for,  as  we 
hâve  stated,  he  felt  a  qidd  divinum  in  this  man. 
But  though  it  was  so,  and  whatever  cxtenuating 
circumstances  he  might  seck,  he  was  always  com- 
pelled  to  fall  back  on  this  :  he  was  a  convict,  that 
is  to  say,  a  being  who  lias  not  even  a  place  on  the 
social  laddcr,  being  beneath  the  lowest  rung.     After 


A   REVELATION   MAY   CONTAIN   OBSCURITY.     365 

the  last  of  m  en  cornes  tlie  couvict,  who  is  no  longer, 
so  to  speak,  iu  the  likeness  of  liis  fellow-men.  The 
law  has  depiived  him  of  the  entire  amount  of  hu- 
manity  which  it  can  strip  ofl'  a  man.  Marins,  in 
pénal  matters,  democrat  though  he  was,  was  still  of 
the  inexorable  system,  and  he  entertained  ail  the 
ideas  of  the  law  about  those  whom  tlie  law  strikes. 
He  liad  not  yet  made  everj  progress,  we  are  forced 
to  say  ;  he  had  not  yet  learned  to  distinguish  be- 
tween  what  is  written  by  man  and  what  is  written 
by  God,  —  between  the  law  and  the  right.  He  had 
examined  and  weighed  the  claim  whicli  man  sets  up 
to  dispose  of  the  irrévocable,  the  irréparable,  and  the 
Word  vindicta  was  not  répulsive  to  him.  He  cou- 
sidered  it  simple  that  certain  breaches  of  the  written 
law  should  be  followed  by  etcrnal  penalties,  and  he 
accepted  social  condemnation  as  a  ci\'ilizing  process. 
He  was  still  at  this  point,  though  infallibly  certain 
to  advance  at  a  later  date,  for  his  nature  was  good, 
and  entirely  composed  of  latent  progress. 

In  this  médium  of  ideas  Jean  Valjean  appeared 
to  him  deformed  and  repelling,  for  he  was  the  pun- 
ished  man,  the  conWct.  This  word  was  to  him 
like  the  sound  of  the  trumpet  of  the  last  Judgment, 
and  after  regarding  Jean  Valjean  for  a  long  time 
his  last  gesture  was  to  turn  away  his  head  —  vade 
rétro.  Marins,  —  we  must  recognize  the  fact  and  lay 
a  stress  ou  it,  —  while  questioning  Jean  Valjean  to 
such  an  extent  that  Jean  Valjean  himself  said,  "  You 
are  shriving  me,"  had  not,  however,  asked  him  two 
or  three  important  questions.  It  was  not  that  they 
had  not  presented  themselves  to  his  mind,  but  he 


366  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

had  been  afraid  of  them.  The  Joiidrette  garret  ? 
The  barricade  ?  Javert  ?  Who  knew  where  the  reve- 
latious  might  hâve  stopped  ?  Jean  Valjcau  did  not 
seem  the  maii  to  recoil,  and  who  knows  whether 
Marins,  after  urging  him  on,  might  not  hâve  wished 
to  check  him  ?  In  certain  suprême  conjunctures  has 
it  not  happened  to  ail  of  us  that  after  asking  a 
question  we  hâve  stopped  our  ears  in  order  not  to 
hear  the  answer  ?  A  mau  is  specially  guilty  of  such 
an  act  of  cowardice  when  he  is  in  love.  It  is  not 
wise  to  drive  sinister  situations  into  a  corner,  especially 
when  the  indissoluble  side  of  our  own  life  is  fatally 
mixed  up  with  them.  What  a  frightful  light  might 
issue  from  Jean  Valjean's  desperate  explanations, 
and  who  knows  whether  that  hidcous  brightness 
mitrht  not  hâve  been  reflccted  on  Cosette  ?  Who 
knows  whether  a  sort  of  infernal  gleam  might  not 
hâve  remained  on  that  angcl's  brow?  Fatality  knows 
such  complications,  in  which  innocence  itself  is  branded 
with  crime  by  the  fatal  law  of  coloring  reflections, 
and  the  purest  faces  may  retain  forever  the  im- 
pression of  a  horrible  vicinity.  Whether  rightly  or 
wrongly.  Marins  was  terrified,  for  he  already  knew 
too  much,  and  he  tried  rather  to  deafen  than  to  en- 
lighten  hiinself.  He  wildly  bore  off  Cosette  in  his 
arms,  closing  his  eyes  upon  Jean  Valjcan.  This  man 
bclonged  to  the  night,  the  living  and  terrible  night  ; 
how  could  he  dare  to  scck  its  foundation  ?  It  is 
a  horrible  thing  to  question  the  shadow,  for  who 
knows  what  it  will  answer  ?  The  dawn  miglit  bc 
eternally  blackened  by  it.  In  this  state  of  mind 
it  was  a  cnishing  perplcxity  for  Marins  to  think  that 


A   REVELATION   MAY   CONTAIN   OBSCURITY.     367 

hencefortli  this  man  would  hâve  any  contact  with 
Cosette  ;  and  he  now  almost  reproached  himsclf  for 
not  having  asked  thèse  formidable  questions  before 
Avhich  he  had  recoiled,  and  from  which  an  implacable 
and  définitive  décision  niight  hâve  issued.  He  con- 
sidered  himself  too  kind,  too  gentle,  and,  let  us 
say  it,  too  weak  ;  and  the  weakness  had  led  him  to 
make  a  fatal  concession.  He  had  allowed  himself 
to  be  aÔected,  and  had  done  wrong.  He  ought 
simplj  and  purely  to  hâve  rejected  Jean  Valjean. 
Jean  Valjean  was  an  iucendiary,  and  he  ought  to 
hâve  fi-eed  his  house  from  the  présence  of  this  man. 
He  was  angry  with  himself  ;  he  was  angry  with  that 
whirlwind  of  émotions  which  had  deafened,  blinded, 
and  carried  him  away.  He  was  dissatisfied  with 
himself. 

What  was  he  to  do  now  ?  The  visits  of  Jean 
Valjean  were  most  decply  répulsive  to  him.  Of 
what  use  was  it  that  this  man  should  come  to  liis 
house  ?  What  did  he  want  hère  ?  Hère  he  refused 
to  investigate  the  matter  ;  he  refused  to  study,  and 
he  was  unwilliiig  to  probe  his  own  heart.  He  had 
promised  ;  he  had  allowed  himself  to  bc  drawn  into 
a  promise.  Jean  Valjean  held  that  promise,  and 
he  must  keep  his  word  even  with  a  convict,  —  above 
ail  with  a  convict.  Still,  his  first  duty  was  to\vard 
Cosette.  On  the  whole,  a  repulsion,  which  over- 
came  everything  else,  caused  him  a  loathing.  ^Nlarius 
confusedly  revolved  ail  thèse  ideas  in  his  mind, 
passing  from  one  to  the  other,  and  shakcn  by  ail. 
Hence  arose  a  deep  trouble  which  it  was  not  easy 
to  conceal  from  Cosette  ;  but  love  is  a  talent,  and 


368  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Marins  succeeded  in  doing  it.  However,  lie  asked, 
without  any  apparent  motive,  some  questions  of 
Cosette,  wbo  was  as  candid  as  a  dove  is  wliite, 
and  suspected  nothing.  He  spoke  to  lier  of  lier 
childhood  and  lier  youth,  and  he  conviriced  himself 
more  and  more  tliat  tliis  convict  had  been  to  Cosette 
as  good,  paternal,  and  respectful  as  a  nian  can  be. 
Everything  which  INIarius  had  imagined  and  sup- 
posed,  he  found  to  be  real  :  this  sinister  nettle  had 
loved  and  protected  this  lily. 


BOOK    VIII. 
TWILIGHT    DECLINES. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    GROUND-FLOOR   ROOM. 

On  the  morrow,  at  nightfall,  Jean  Valjean  tapped 
at  the  gateway  of  the  Gilleuormand  mansion,  and 
it  was  Basque  who  received  him.  Basque  was  in 
the  yard  at  the  appointed  time,  as  if  lie  had  had 
his  orders.  It  sometimes  happens  that  people  say 
to  a  servant,  "  You  will  watch  for  Mr.  So-and-so's 
arrivai,"  Basque,  without  waiting  for  Jean  Valjean 
to  corne  up  to  him,  said,  — 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  has  instructed  me  to  ask  you, 
sir,  whether  you  wish  to  go  upstairs  or  stay  down 
hère  ?  " 

"  Stay  down  hère,"  Jean  Valjean  replied. 

Basque,  who,  however,  was  perfectly  respectful  in 
his  manner,  opened  the  door  of  the  ground-floor  room, 
and  said,  "  I  will  go  and  inform  her  ladyship."  The 
room  which  Jean  Valjean  entered  was  a  damp, 
arched,  basement  room,  employed  as  a  cellar  at  times, 
looking  ont  on  the  street,  with  a  flooring  of  red  tiles, 
and  badly  lighted  by  an  iron-barred  window.  Tins 
room  was  not  one  of  those  which  are  harassed  by  the 

A'OL.    V.  24 


3/0  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

broom  and  mop,  and  the  dust  was  quiet  tliere.  No 
persécution  of  the  spiders  had  been  organizcd  ;  and  a 
fine  web,  extensively  drawn  out,  quite  black,  and 
adorned  witli  dead  flics,  formed  a  wheel  on  one 
of  the  window-panes.  The  room,  which  was  small 
and  k)w-ceilcd,  was  furnishcd  with  a  pile  of  enipty 
bottlcs  collected  in  a  corner.  The  wall,  covered  with 
a  ycllow-ochre  wash,  crumbled  off  in  large  patches  ; 
at  the  end  was  a  niantel-piecc  of  panelled  black  wood, 
with  a  narrow  shelf,  and  a  fire  was  lighted  in  it, 
which  indicated  that  Jean  Valjean's  reply,  "  Stay 
down  hère,"  had  been  calculated  on.  Two  chairs 
were  placed,  one  in  each  chimney-corner,  and  betwecn 
the  chairs  was  spread,  in  guise  of  carpet,  an  old  bed- 
room  rug,  which  displayed  more  cord  tlian  wool. 
The  room  was  illumined  by  the  flickering  of  the  fire, 
and  the  twilight  through  the  window.  Jean  Valjean 
was  fatigued  ;  for  scveral  days  he  had  not  eaten  or 
slept,  and  hc  fell  into  one  of  the  arm-chairs.  Basque 
returned,  placed  a  lighted  candie  on  the  mantel-piece, 
and  Avithdrcw.  Jean  Valjean,  who  was  sitting  with 
hanging  head,  did  not  notice  cither  Basque  or  the 
candie,  till  ail  at  once  he  started  up,  for  Cosette  was 
bcliind  him  :  he  had  not  seen  lier  corne  in,  but  hc  felt 
that  she  Avas  doing  so.  He  turned  round  and  con- 
templated  her  ;  she  was  adorably  lovcly.  But  what 
he  gazed  at  with  this  profound  glance  was  not  the 
beauty,  but  the  soûl. 

"  Well,  father,"  Cosette  exclaimed,  "  I  knew  that 
you  were  singular,  but  I  could  never  hâve  expected 
this.  What  an  idea  !  Marius  told  me  that  it  was 
your  wish  to  sce  me  hcre." 


THE   GROUND-FLOOR   rvOOM.  371 

"  Yes,  it  is." 

"  I  expected  tliat  answer,  and  I  vvarn  y  ou  that  I 
am  going  to  hâve  a  scène  with  you.  Let  us  begin 
with  the  begînning  :  kiss  nie,  fatlier." 

And  she  offered  her  clieek,  but  Jean  Valjean 
remained  motionless. 

*'  You  do  not  stir  :  I  mark  tlie  fact  !  It  is  the  atti- 
tude of  a  culprit.  But  I  do  not  care,  I  forgive  you. 
Christ  said,  '  OfFer  the  other  cheek  ;  '  hère  it  is." 

And  she  ofFercd  the  other  check,  but  Jean  Valjean 
did  not  stir  ;  it  seenied  as  if  his  feet  were  riveted  to 
the  floor. 

"  Things  are  growing  serions,"  said  Cosette. 
"  What  hâve  I  done  to  you  ?  I  am  ofFended,  and 
you  must  make  it  up  with  me  ;  you  will  diue  with 
us?" 

"  I  hâve  dined." 

"  That  is  not  true,  and  I  will  hâve  you  scolded  by 
M.  Gillenormand.  Grandfathers  are  made  to  lay 
down  the  law  to  fathers.  Corne,  go  with  me  to  the 
drawing-room.     At  once."  ' 

"  Impossible  !  " 

Cosette  hère  lost  a  little  ground  ;  she  ceased  to 
ordcr  and  began  questioning. 

"  But  why  ?  And  you  choose  the  ugliest  room  in 
the  house  to  see  me  in.     It  is  horrible  hère." 

"Youknow— " 

Jean  Valjean  broke  off — 

"  You  know,  Madame,  that  I  am  peculiar,  and 
hâve  my  fancies." 

"  Madame  —  you  know  —  more  novelties  ;  what 
does  this  ail  mean  ?  " 


372  JEAN   VAL  JE  AN. 

Jean  Yaljean  gave  lier  that  heart-broken  smile  to 
whicli  he  sometimes  had  recourse. 

"  You  wislied  to  be  Madame.     You  are." 

"  Not  for  you,  father." 

"  Do  not  call  me  father." 

"What?" 

"  Call  me  Monsieur  Jean,  or  Jean,  if  you  like." 

*'You  are  no  longer  father?  I  am  no  longer 
Cosette  ?  Monsieur  Jean  ?  Why,  what  does  it 
mean  ?  Thèse  are  révolutions.  What  has  hap- 
pened  ?  Look  me  in  the  face,  if  you  can.  And 
you  will  not  live  with  us  !  And  you  will  not  accept 
our  bed-room  !  What  hâve  I  donc  to  offend  you  ? 
Oh,  what  hâve  I  done  ?  There  must  be  something." 

"  Nothing." 

"  In  that  case,  then  ?  " 

"  Ail  is  as  usual." 

"  Why  do  you  change  your  name  ?  " 

"You  havc  changed  yours." 

He  smiled  the  same  smile  again,  and  added,  — 

"  Since  you  are  Madame  Pontmercy,  I  may  fairly 
be  Monsieur  Jean." 

"  I  do  not  understand  anything,  and  ail  this  is 
idiotie.  I  will  ask  my  husband's  leave  for  you  to  be 
^Monsieur  Jean,  and  I  hope  that  he  will  not  consent. 
You  cause  me  great  sorrow  ;  and  though  you  may 
hâve  whims,  you  hâve  no  right  to  make  your  little 
Cosette  grieve.  That  is  wrong,  and  you  hâve  no 
right  to  be  naughty,  for  you  are  so  good." 

As  he  made  no  reply,  shc  scized  both  his  hands 
eagerly,  and  with  an  irrésistible  movcment  raising 
them   to    lier   face   slie   pressed    them   against    lier 


THE   GROUND-FLOOR   KOOM.  373 

neck  under  lier  chin,  whicli  is  a  profound  sign  of 
affection. 

''Oh,"  she  said,  "  be  kind  to  me!"  And  she 
continued  :  "  Tins  is  what  I  call  being  kind,  —  to 
behave  yourself,  corne  and  live  hère,  for  there  are 
birds  hère  as  in  the  Rue  Plumet  ;  to  live  with  us, 
leave  that  hole  in  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé,  give 
us  no  more  riddles  to  guess  ;  to  be  like  everybody 
else,  dine  with  us,  breakfast  with  us,  and  be  mj 
father." 

He  removed  her  hands,  — 

"  You  no  longer  want  a  father,  as  you  hâve  a 
husband." 

Cosette  broke  out,  — 

"  I  no  longer  want  a  father  !  Things  like  that 
hâve  no  common  sensé,  and  I  really  do  not  know 
what  to  say." 

"  If  Toussaint  were  hère,"  Jean  Valjean  continued, 
like  a  man  seeking  authorities  and  who  clings  to 
every  branch,  "  she  would  be  the  first  to  allow  that 
I  hâve  always  had  strange  ways  of  my  own.  There 
is  nothing  ncAV  in  it,  for  I  always  loved  my  dark 
corner." 

"But  it  is  cold  hère,  and  we  cannot  see  distinctiy; 
and  it  is  abominable  to  wish  to  be  Monsieur  Jean; 
and  I  shall  not  allow  you  to  call  me  Madame." 

"  As  I  was  coming  along  just  now,"  Jean  Valjean 
replied,  "  I  saw  a  very  pretty  pièce  of  furniture  at 
a  cabinet-maker's  in  the  Rue  St.  Louis.  If  I  were 
a  pretty  woman,  I  should  treat  myself  to  it.  It  is  a 
very  nice  toilette  table  in  the  présent  fashion,  made 
of  rosewood,  I  think  you  call  it,  and  inlaid.     There 


374  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

is  a  ratlier  large  glass  with  drawers,  and  it  is  very 
iiice." 

"  IIoii  !  tlie  ugly  bcar  !  "  Cosette  replied.  And 
clenching  lier  teeth,  and  parting  her  lips  in  the  most 
graceful  way  possible,  slie  blew  at  Jean  Valjean  ;  it 
was  a  grâce  iniitating  a  cat. 

"  I  am  furious,"  she  went  on,  ''  and  since  yester- 
day  you  hâve  ail  put  me  in  a  passion.  I  do  not 
understand  it  at  ail  ;  you  do  not  défend  me  against 
Marius,  jSIarius  does  not  take  niy  part  against  you, 
and  I  am  ail  alone.  I  bave  a  nice  room  prepared, 
and  if  I  could  bave  put  my  dear  fatbcr  in  it,  I 
would  liave  doue  so  ;  but  my  room  is  left  on  my 
hands  and  my  lodger  fails  me.  I  order  Nicolette 
to  prépare  a  nice  little  dinncr,  and  —  tbey  will 
not  toucb  your  dinncr.  Madame.  And  my  father 
Faucheleveut  wishes  me  to  call  him  Monsieur  Jean, 
and  tbat  I  sbould  receive  him  in  a  friglitful  old,  ugly, 
mildewed  cellar,  in  which  the  walls  wear  a  beard, 
and  empty  bottles  represent  the  looking-glasses,  and 
spiders'  webs  the  curtains.  I  allow  that  you  are  a 
singular  man,  it  is  your  way  ;  but  a  truce  is  accordcd 
to  newly-married  folk,  and  you  ought  not  to  hâve 
begun  to  be  singular  again  so  soon.  You  arc  goiiig 
to  be  very  satisfied,  thcn,  in  your  Rue  de  l'IIonnne 
Armé  ;  well,  I  was  very  wretchcd  there.  What 
hâve  I  donc  to  offcnd  you?  You  cause  me  grcat 
sorrow.     Fie  !  " 

And  suddcnly  growing  serions,  she  looked  intcntly 
at  Jean  Valjean  and  addcd,  — 

"  You  arc  angry  with  me  for  being  happy  ;  is 
that  it?" 


THE   GROUND-FLOOR   ROOM.  375 

Simplicity  sometimes  pénétrâtes  unconsciously  very 
deep,  and  this  question,  simple  for  Cosette,  was  pro- 
found  for  Jean  Yaljean.  Cosette  Tvished  to  scratch, 
but  she  tore.  Jean  Valjean  tUrned  pale,  lie  remained 
for  a  moment  without  answering,  and  then  raur- 
mured  "svith  an  indescribable  accent,  and  speaking  to 
liimself,  — 

"  Her  happiness  was  the  object  of  my  life,  and  at 
présent  God  may  order  my  departure.  Cosette,  thou 
art  happy,  and  my  course  is  run." 

"  Ah  !  you  said  thou  to  me,"  Cosette  exclaimed, 
and  leaped  on  liis  neck. 

Jean  Valjean  wildly  strained  lier  to  his  heart,  for 
lie  felt  as  if  lie  were  almost  taking  lier  back  again. 

"  Tliank  you,  father,"  Cosette  said  to  liim. 

The  excitement  was  getting  too  painful  for  Jean 
Valjean  ;  lie  gently  witlidrew  himself  from  Cosette  s 
arnis,  and  took  up  his  liât. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Cosette. 

Jean  Valjean  replied,  — 

"  I  ani  going  to  leave  you,  INIadame,  as  you  will  be 
missed." 

And  on  the  threshold  he  added,  — 

"  I  said  thou  to  you  ;  tell  your  husband  that  it 
shall  not  happen  again.     Forgive  me." 

Jean  Valjean  left  Cosette  stupefied  by  this  enig- 
niatical  leave-taking. 


CHAPTER    II. 

OTHER   BACKM^ARD    STEPS. 

The  next  day  Jean  Valjean  came  at  the  same 
hour,  and  Cosette  asked  him  no  questions,  was  no 
longer  astonished,  no  longer  exclaimed  tliat  it  was 
cold,  no  longer  alluded  to  the  drawing-room  ;  she 
avoided  saying  either  fatlier  or  Monsieur  Jean.  She 
allowed .  herself  to  be  called  Madame  ;  there  was 
only  a  diminution  of  her  deliglit  perceptible,  and  she 
would  bave  been  sad,  had  sorrow  been  possible.  It 
is  probable  that  she  had  held  with  JMarius  one  of 
those  conversations  in  which  the  beloved  man  says 
what  he  wishes,  explains  nothing,  and  satisfies  the 
beloved  woman  ;  for  the  curiosity  of  lovers  does  not 
extend  far  bcyond  their  love.  The  basemcnt  room 
had  been  furbished  up  a  little  ;  Basque  had  sup-- 
pressed  the  bottles,  and  Nicolette  the  spiders.  Every 
following  day  brought  Jean  Valjean  back  at  the  same 
hour;  he  came  daily,  as  he  had  not  the  strength  to 
take  Marius's  permission  otherwise  than  literally. 
Marins  arranged  so  as  to  be  absent  at  the  hour  Avhcn 
Jean  Valjean  came,  and  the  house  grew  accustomcd 
to  M.  Fauchelevent's  new  mode  of  bchaving.  Tous- 
saint helped  in  it  ;  "  ^Nly  master  was  always  so,"  she 
repeated.     The  grandfather  issucd  this  decree,  "  He 


OTHER   BACKWAKD   STEPS.  377 

is  an  origiual,"  and  everything  was  said.  Moreover, 
at  the  âge  of  ninety  no  connection  is  possible  ;  every- 
thing is  juxtaposition,  and  a  new-comer  is  in  the 
way  ;  there  is  no  place  for  him,  for  habits  are  unalter- 
ably  formed.  jNI.  Fauchelevent,  M.  Tranchelevent,  — 
Father  Gillenormand  desired  nothing  better  than  to 
get  rid  of  "  that  gentleman,"  and  added,  "  Xothing  is 
more  common  than  sucli  originals.  They  do  ail  sorts 
of  strange  things  without  any  motive.  The  ^Marquis 
de  Canoples  did  worse,  for  he  bought  a  palace  in 
order  to  live  in  the  garret." 

No  one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  siuister  reality, 
and  in  fact  who  could  hâve  divined  such  a  thing  ? 
There  are  marshes  like  this  in  India  :  the  water  seenis 
extraordinary,  inexplicable,  rippling  when  there  is 
no  brecze,  and  agitated  when  it  ought  to  be  calm. 
People  look  at  the  surface  of  this  ebullition  which 
bas  no  cause,  and  do  not  suspect  the  hydra  dragging 
itself  along  at  the  bottom.  ]\Iany  nien  hâve  in  this 
way  a  secret  monster,  an  evil  which  they  nourish,  a 
dragon  that  gnaws  them,  a  despair  that  dwells  in 
their  night.  Such  a  mau  resembles  others,  cornes 
and  goes,  and  no  one  knows  that  he  has  within  him 
a  frightful  parasitic  pain  with  a  thousand  teeth,  which 
dwells  in  the  wretch  and  kills  him.  They  do  not 
know  that  this  mau  is  a  gulf;  he  is  stagnant  but 
deep.  From  time  to  time  a  trouble  which  no  one 
undcrstands  is  produced  on  his  surface  ;  a  mysterious 
ripple  forms,  then  fades  away,  then  reappears  ;  a 
bubble  rises  and  bursts.  It  is  a  slight  thing,  but  it 
is  terrible,  for  it  is  the  respiration  of  the  unknown 
beast.      Certain  strange  habits,  such  as  arriving  at 


3/8  JEAN   VALJEAN.  ■ 

the  liour  wlien  otliers  go  away,  liiding  oiie's  self  when 
otliers  show  themselves,  wearing  ou  ail  occasions 
what  may  be  called  tlie  wall-colored  cloak,  seeking 
tlie  solitaiy  walk,  preferring  the  deserted  street,  not 
mixing  in  conversation,  avoiding  crowds  and  festivi- 
ties,  appearing  to  be  comfortably  ofF  and  living  poorly, 
having,  rich  though  one  is,  one's  key  in  one's  pocket 
and  one's  candie  in  the  porter's  lodge,  entering  by  the 
small  door  and  going  np  the  back  stairs,  —  ail  thèse 
insigniticant  singulaiities,  ripples,  air-bubblcs,  and 
fugitive  marks  on  the  surface,  frequently  corne  froni  a 
formidable  depth. 

Several  weeks  passed  thus  ;  a  new  life  gradually 
seized  on  Cosette,  —  the  relations  which  marriage 
créâtes,  visits,  the  management  of  the  houshold,  and 
pleasures,  that  great  business.  The  pleasures  of 
Cosette  were  not  costly  ;  they  consisted  in  only  one, 
being  with  INlarius.  To  go  out  witli  him,  remain  at 
home  with  him,  was  the  great  occupation  of  her  life. 
It  was  for  theni  an  ever  novcl  joy  to  go  out  arm  in 
arm,  in  the  sunshine,  in  the  open  strccts,  without  hid- 
ing  themselves,  in  the  face  of  everybody,  botli  alone. 
Cosette  had  one  vexation  :  Toussaint  could  not  agrée 
with  Nicolettc  (for  the  wclding  of  the  two  old  maids 
was  impossible),  and  Icft.  The  grandfather  was 
quite  well  ;  Marins  had  a  few  briefs  now  and  then  ; 
Aunt  Gillcnormand  pcacefuUy  lived  with  the  married 
pair  that  latéral  life  which  sulïiccd  her,  and  Jean  Val- 
jean  came  daily.  The  jNladame  and  the  Monsieur 
Jean,  howcver,  niade  him  différent  to  Cosette,  and  the 
care  he  had  himself  taken  to  dctach  himself  from  her 
succeeded.     She  was  more  and  more  gay,  and  Icss 


OTHEll   BACKWARD    STEPS.  379 

and  less  afFcctionatc  ;  and  yet  she  loved  him  dearly 
still,  and  lie  iclt  it.  One  day  she  suddenly  said  to 
him,  "  You  were  my  father,  you  are  uo  longer  ray 
father  ;  you  were  my  uncle,  you  are  no  longer  my 
uncle  ;  you  were  Monsieur  Fauchelevent,  and  are 
now  Jean.  Who  are  you,  then  ?  I  do  not  like  ail 
this.  If  I  did  not  kuow  you  to  be  so  good,  I  should 
be  afraid  of  you."  He  still  lived  in  the  Rue  de 
l'Homme  Arme,  as  he  could  not  résolve  to  remove 
from  the  quarter  in  which  Cosette  lived.  At  first  he 
stayed  only  a  few  minutes  with  Cosette,  and  then 
went  away  ;  but  by  degrees  he  grew  into  the  habit 
of  making  his  visits  longer,  It  might  be  said  that 
he  took  advantage  of  the  lengthening  days  ;  he  arrived 
sooner  and  went  away  later.  One  day  the  word 
"father'  slipped  over  Cosettc's  lips,  and  a  gleam  of 
joy  lit  up  Jean  Valjean's  old  solemn  face,  but  he 
chided  her  :  "  Say  Jean." 

"  Ah,  that  is  true,"  she  replied,  with  a  burst  of 
laughter,  "  Monsieur  Jean." 

"  That  is  right,"  he  said  ;  and  he  turned  away  that 
she  might  not  see  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THEY  REMEMBER  THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  RUE 
PLUMET. 

This  was  the  last  occasion,  and  after  this  last 
flare  total  extinction  took  place.  There  was  no 
more  familiarity,  no  more  good-day  witli  a  kiss,  and 
never  again  that  so  deeply  tender  word  "  fether  ;  " 
lie  had  been,  at  his  own  rcqnest  and  with  Iiis  own 
complicity,  expelled  from  ail  those  joys  in  succession, 
and  lie  underwent  this  niisery,  —  that,  after  losing 
Cosette  entirely  on  one  day,  he  was  then  obliged  to 
lose  her  again  bit  by  bit.  The  eye  eventually  grows 
accustonied  to  cellar  light,  and  he  found  it  enough  to 
hâve  an  apparition  of  C'osctte  daily.  His  Avhole  life 
was  concentrated  in  that  liour  ;  lie  sat  down  by  her 
side,  looked  at  her  in  silence,  or  else  talked  to 
her  about  former  years,  her  childhood,  the  convent, 
and  her  little  friends  of  those  days.  One  aftcrnoon 
—  it  was  an  early  day  in  iVpril,  already  warni  but 
still  fresh,  the  moment  of  the  sun's  grcat  gayety  ; 
the  gardens  that  surrounded  -Nlarius's  and  Cosette's 
Windows  were  rousing  from  their  sluniber,  the  haw- 
thorn  was  about  to  bourgeon,  a  jewelry  of  wall- 
flowers  was  displayed  on  tlie  old  wall,  there  was  on 
the  grass  a  fairy  carpet  of  daisies  and  buttercups,  the 
white  butterflics  were  springing  forth,  and  the  wind, 


THE   GARDEN   IN   THE   RUE   PLUMET.         381 

that  niiiistrel  of  the  eternal  weddiiig,  was  trying  in 
the  trees  the  first  notes  of  that  great  auroral  syni- 
phony  which  the  old  poets.  called  the  renewal  — 
Marias  said  to  Cosette,  "  AVe  said  that  we  would  go 
and  see  our  garden  in  the  Rue  Plumet  again.  Co.ne, 
we  must  not  be  ungrateful."  And  they  flevv  ofF  like 
two  swallows  toward  the  spring.  This  garden  in  the 
Rue  Plumet  produced  on  them  the  efFect  of  a  dawn, 
for  they  already  had  behind  them  in  life  something 
that  resemblcd  the  springtime  of  their  love.  The 
house  in  the  Rue  Plumet,  being  taken  on  lease,  still 
belonged  to  Cosette  ;  they  went  to  this  garden  and 
house,  found  themselves  again,  and  forgot  themselves 
there.  In  the  evening  Jean  Valjean  went  to  the 
Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  at  the  usual  h  our.  "  My 
lady  went  out  with  the  Baron,"  said  Basque,  "  and 
lias  not  returned  yet."  He  sat  down  silently  and 
waited  an  hour,  but  Cosette  did  not  come  in  ;  he 
hung  his  head  and  went  away.  Cosette  was  so  in- 
toxicated  by  the  walk  in  "their  garden,"  and  so 
pleased  at  ha\'ing  "  lived  a  whole  day  in  her  past," 
that  she  spoke  of  nothing  else  the  next  day.  She  did 
not  remark  that  she  had  not  seen  Jean  Valjean. 

"  How  did  you  go  there?  "  Jean  Valjean  asked  her. 

"  On  foot." 

"  And  how  did  you  return  ?  " 

"  On  foot  too." 

For  some  time  Jean  Valjean  had  noticed  the  close 
life  which  the  young  couple  led,  and  was  annoyed  at 
it.  Marius's  economy  Avas  severe,  and  that  word  had 
its  full  meaning  for  Jean  Valjean  ;  he  hazarded  a 
question. 


382  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Why  do  yoii  iiot  keep  a  carnage  ?  A  little 
coupé  would  not  cost  you  more  thau  five  Imndred 
francs  a  month,  and  you  are  rich." 

"  I  do  not  know,"  Cosette  ansvvered. 

"  It  is  tlie  same  with  Toussaint,"  Jean  Valjean 
continued  ;  "  slie  has  left,  and  you  hâve  engaged  no 
one  in  lier  place.     Why  not  ?  " 

"  Nicolette  is  sufficient." 

"  But  you  nmst  want  a  lady's  maid  ?  " 

"  Hav-e  I  not  Marius  ?  " 

"  You  ought  to  hâve  a  liouse  of  your  oAvn,  ser- 
vants of  your  own,  a  carriage,  and  a  box  at  the 
opéra.  Nothing  is  too  good  for  you.  Then  why 
not  take  advantage  of  the  fact  of  your  being  rich  ? 
Wealth  adds   to  happiness." 

Cosette  made  no  reply.  Jean  Valjean's  visits  did 
not  grow  shorter,  but  the  contrary  ;  for  when  it  is  the 
heart  that  is  slipping,  a  man  does  not  stop  on  the 
incline.  When  Jean  Valjean  wished  to  prolong  his 
visit  and  make  the  hour  be  forgotten,  he  sung  the 
praises  of  Marius;  he  found  him  handsome,  noble, 
brave,  witty,  éloquent,  and  good.  Cosette  added  to 
the  praise,  and  Jean  Valjean  began  again^  It  was 
an  inexhaustible  subject,  and  there  were  volumes  in 
the  six  letters  composing  Marius's  name.  In  tins 
way  Jean  Valjean  managed  to  stop  for  a  long  time, 
for  it  was  so  sweet  to  see  Cosette  and  forget  by  lier 
side.  It  was  a  dressing  for  his  wound.  It  frc- 
quently  happened  that  Basque  would  come  and  say 
twicc,  "  M.  Gillenorniand  has  sent  me  to  reniind 
Madame  la  Baronne  that  dinner  is  waiting."  On 
those  days  Jean  Valjean  would  return  home  very 


THE  GARDEN  IN  THE  RUE  PLUMET.    383 

thouglitful.  Was  tliere  any  truth  in  tliat  comparison 
of  the  chrysalis  whicli  had  occurred  to  Marius's 
mind  ?  Was  Jean  Valjean  really  an  obstinate  chry- 
salis, constantly  paying  \isits  to  his  butterfly  ?  One 
day  he  remained  longer  tlian  usual,  and  the  next 
noticed  there  was  no  lire  in  the  grate.  "  Stay,"  he 
though,  "  no  lire  ?  "  And  he  gave  himself  this  ex- 
planation  :  "  It  is  very  simple  ;  we  are  in  April,  and 
the  cold  weather  has  passed." 

"  Good  gracions  !  How  cold  it  is  hère  !  "  Cosette 
exclaimed  as  she  came  in. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Jean  Valjean. 

"  Then  it  was  you  who  told  Basque  not  to  light  a 
fire?" 

"  Yes  ;  we  shall  hâve  ]May  hère  directly." 

"  But  lires  keep  on  till  June  ;  in  this  cellar  there 
ought  to  be  one  ail  the  year  round." 

*'  I  thought  it  was  unnecessary." 

"That  is  just  like  one  of  your  ideas,"  Cosette 
remarked. 

The  next  day  there  was  a  fire,  but  the  two  chairs 
were  placed  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  near  the 
door.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  that  ?  "  Jean 
Valjean  thought  ;  he  fetched  the  chairs  and  placed 
them  in  their  usual  place  near  the  chimney.  This 
rekindled  fire,  however,  encouraged  him,  and  he 
made  the  conversation  last  even  longer  than  usual. 
As  he  rose  to  leave,  Cosette  remarked  to  him,  — 

"  My  husband  said  a  funny  thing  to  me  yesterday." 

"  What  was  it  ?  " 

"  He  said  to  me,  '  Cosette,  we  hâve  thirty  thou- 
sand  francs  a  year,  —  twenty-seven  of  yours,   and 


384  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

tliree  that  my  grandfathcr  allows  me.'  I  replicd, 
'  That  niakes  thirty  ;  '  and  he  continued,  '  Would  you 
hâve  the  courage  to  live  on  thc  three  thousand  ?  '  I 
answered,  '  Yes,  on  nothing,  providcd  that  it  be  with 
you  ;  '  and  then  I  asked  him,  '  Why  did  you  say  that 
to  me  ?  '  He  replied,  '  I  mercly  wished  to  know.'  " 

Jean  Valjeaii  had  not  a  word  to  say.  Cosette 
probably  expected  some  cxphmation  from  him,  but 
he  listened  to  her  in  a  sullen  silence.  He  went  back 
to  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  Armé,  and  was  so  pro- 
foundly  abstracted  that,  instead  of  entering  his  own 
house,  he  went  into  the  next  one.  It  was  not  till 
he  had  gone  up  ilearly  two  flights  of  stairs  that  he 
noticed  his  mistake,  and  came  down  again.  His 
mind  was  cràmmed  with  conjectures  :  it  was  évident 
that  INIarius  entcrtained  doubts  as  to  the  origin  of 
the  six  hundred  thousand  francs,  that  he  feared  some 
impure  source;  he  might  even — who  knew? — hâve 
discovered  that  this  money  came  from  him,  Jean 
Valjcan  ;  that  he  hesitated  to  touch  this  suspicions 
fortune,  and  was  répugnant  to  use  it  as  his  own, 
prcfcrring  that  Cosette  and  he  should  remain  poor 
rather  than  be  rich  with  dubious  wealth.  JMorcover, 
Jean  Valjean  was  beginning  to  feel  himself  shown 
to  the  door.  On  thc  following  day  he  had  a  spc- 
cies  of  shock  on  entering  the  bascment  room  ;  thc 
fauteuils  had  disappcared,  and  there  was  not  cvcn 
a  seat  of  any  sort. 

"  Dcar  me,  no  chairs  !  "  Cosette  exclaimed  on  enter- 
ing ;  "  whcre  are  thcy  ?  " 

"  Thcy  are  no  longer  hero,"  Jean  Valjcan  replicd. 

"  That  is  rather  too  much." 


THE  GARDEN  IN   THE   RUE   PLUMET.         385 

Jean  Valjean  stammered,  — 

"  I  told  Basque  to  remove  theni." 

"  For  what  reasoii  ?" 

"  I  shall  only  remain  a  few  minutes  to-day." 

"  Few  or  many,  that  is  no  reason  for  standing." 

"  I  believe  that  Basque  required  tlie  chairs  for  the 
drawing-room." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  You  hâve  probably  company  this  evening." 

"  Not  a  soûl." 

Jean  Valjean  had  not  another  word  to  say,  and 
Cosette  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Hâve  the  chairs  removed  !  The  other  day  you 
ordered  tlie  fire  to  be  left  ofF!  How  siugular  you 
are  !  " 

"  Good-by,"  Jean  Valjean  murmured. 

He  did  not  say  "  Good-by,  Cosette,"  and  he  had 
not  the  strength  to  say  "  Good-by,  Madame." 

He  went  away  crushed,  for  this  time  he  had  com- 
prehended.  The  next  day  he  did  not  come,  and 
Cosette  did  not  remark  this  till  the  evening. 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  "  Monsieur  Jean  did  not 
come  to-day." 

She  felt  a  slight  pang  at  the  heart,  but  she  scarce 
noticed  it,  as  she  was  at  once  distracted  by  a  kiss 
from  Marins.  The  next  day  he  did  not  come  either. 
Cosette  paid  no  attention  to  this,  spent  the  evening, 
and  slept  at  night  as  usual,  and  only  thought  of  it 
when  she  woke  ;  she  was  so  happy  !  She  very  soon 
sent  Nicolette  to  Monsieur  Jean's  to  sce  whetlier  lie 
were  ill,  and  why  he  had  not  come  to  see  her  on  the 
previous  day,  and  Nicolette  brought  back  Monsieur 

VOL.    V.  25 


386  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

Jean's  aiiswer.  "He  was  not  ill,  but  was  busy, 
and  would  corne  soon,  —  as  soon  as  he  could.  But 
lie  was  going  to  make  a  little  journey,  and  INladame 
would  reniember  that  he  was  accustomed  to  do  so 
every  now  and  then.  She  need  not  feel  at  ail  alarmed 
or  trouble  herself  about  him."  Nicolette,  on  entering 
Monsieur  Jean's  room,  liad  repeated  to  him  her  niis- 
tress's  exact  words,  —  "  That  Madame  sent  to  know 
'  why  Monsieur  Jean  had  not  called  on  the  previous 
day  ?  '" 

"  I  hâve  not  called  for  two  days,"  Jean  Valjean 
said  quietly  ;  but  the  observation  escaped  Nicolette's 
notice,  and  she  did  not  repeat  it  to  Cosette. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

ATTRACTION   AXD   EXTINCTION. 

DuRiNG  tlie  last  months  of  spring  and  tlie  early 
months  of  summer,  1833,  the  scanty  passers-by  in  the 
Marais,  the  shop-keepers,  and  the  idlers  in  the  door- 
ways,  noticed  an  old  gentleman,  decently  dressed  in 
black,  who  every  day,  at  nearly  the  same  hour  in  the 
evening,  left  the  Rue  de  l'Homme  iVrmé,  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Rue  Sainte  Croix  de  la  Bretonnerie, 
passed  in  front  of  the  Blancs  Manteaux,  reached  the. 
Rue  Culture  Sainte  Catharine,  and  on  coming  to  the 
Rue  de  l'Echarpe,  turned  to  his  left  and  entered 
the  Rue  St.  Louis.  There  he  walked  slowly,  with 
head  stretched  forward,  seeing  nothing,  hearing  noth- 
ing,  with  his  eye  incessantly  fixed  on  a  spot  which 
always  seemed  his  magnet,  and  which  was  nought 
else  than  the  corner  of  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Cal- 
vaire. The  nearer  he  came  to  this  corner  the  more 
brightly  his  eye  flashed  ;  a  sort  of  joy  illumined  his 
eycballs,  like  an  internai  dawn  ;  he  had  a  fascinated 
and  affcctionate  air,  his  lips  made  obscure  movements 
as  if  speaking  to  some  one  whom  he  could  not  see, 
he  smilcd  vaguely,  and  he  advanced  as  slowly  as  he 
could.  It  seemed  as  if,  while  wisliing  to  arrive,  he 
was  afraid  of  the  moment  when  he  came  quite  close. 


388  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

When  he  had  oiily  a  fuw  hoiises  between  himsclf  aiul 
the  street  which  appeared  to  attract  him,  his  step 
became  so  slow  tliat  at  moments  he  seemed  iiot  to  be 
moving  at  ail.  The  vacillation  of  his  head  and  the 
fixedness  of  his  eye  suggested  the  needle  seeking 
the  pôle.  However  he  miglit  delay  his  arrivai,  he 
must  arrive  in  the  end  ;  when  he  reached  the  cor- 
ner of  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire,  he  trembled, 
thrust  his  head  with  a  specics  of  gloomy  timidity  be- 
yond  the  corner  of  the  last  house,  and  looked  into 
this  street,  and  there  was  in  this  glance  something 
that  resembled  the  bedazzlcment  of  the  impossible 
and  the  reflcction  of  a  closed  paradise.  Thcn  a  tcar, 
which  had  been  gradually  collecting  in  the  corner 
of  his  eyelashes,  having  grown  large  enough  to  fall, 
glided  down  his  cheeks,  and  sometimes  stopped  at 
his  mouth.  The  old  man  tasted  its  bitter  flavor.  He 
stood  thus  for  some  minutes  as  if  he  were  of  stone  ; 
then  returned  by  the  same  road,  at  the  same  pace, 
and  the  farther  he  got  away  the  more  lustreless  his 
eye  became. 

By  degrecs  this  old  man  ceased  going  as  far  as  the 
corner  of  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  ;  he  stopped 
half-way  in  the  Rue  St.  Louis  :  at  timcs  a  little  far- 
ther ofF,  at  timcs  a  little  nearer.  One  day  he  stopped 
at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Culture  Sainte  Catharine 
and  gazed  at  the  Rue  des  Filles  du  Calvaire  from  a 
distance  ;  then  he  silently  shook  his  head  from  right 
to  left,  as  if  refusing  himself  something,  and  turned 
back.  Ere  long  he  did  not  reach  even  the  Rue  St. 
Louis  ;  he  arrived  at  the  Rue  Pavie,  shook  iiis  head, 
and  turned  back;  then  he  did  not  go  beyond  the 


ATTRACTION   AND   EXTINCTION.  389 

Rue  des  Trois  Pavillons  ;  and  then  lie  did  not  pass 
tlie  Blancs  Manteaux.  He  seenicd  like  a  clock  whieli 
was  not  wound  up,  and  whose  oscillations  groAV 
shoi-ter  and  shorter  till  they  stop.  Every  day  he 
left  his  house  at  tlie  same  liour,  undertook  tlie  same 
walk  but  did  not  finish  it,  and  incessantly  shortened 
it,  though  probably  unconscious  of  the  fact.  His 
whole  countenance  exj)ressed  this  sole  idea,  Of  what 
good  is  it  ?  His  eyes  were  lustreless,  and  there  was 
no  radiance  in  them.  The  tears  were  also  dried  up  ; 
they  no  longer  collected  in  the  corner  of  his  eye- 
lashes,  and  this  pensive  eye  was  dry.  The  old  man's 
head  was  still  thrust  forward  ;  the  chin  moved  at 
times,  and  the  creases  in  his  thin  neck  were  painful 
to  look  on.  At  times,  when  the  weather  was  bad, 
he  had  an  umbrella  under  his  arm,  which  he  never 
opened.  The  good  women  of  the  district  said,  "  He 
is  an  innocent,"  and  the  children  followed  him  with 
shouts  of  laughter. 


BOOK    IX. 
SUPRE3IE  DARKNESS,  SUPREME  DAWK 


CHAPTER   I. 

PITY   THE   UNHAPPY,    BUT   BE    INDULGENT   TO 
THE   HAPPY. 

It  is  a  terrible  tliing  to  be  liappy  !  How  satisfied 
people  are  !  How  sufficient  tliey  fmd  it  !  How,  Avheii 
possessed  of  the  false  objcct  of  life,  happiness,  tliey 
forget  the  true  one,  duty  !  We  are  bound  to  say, 
liowever,  tliat  it  would  be  unjust  to  accuse  Marius. 
Marius,  as  we  liave  explained,  before  his  marriage 
asked  no  questions  of  JM.  Fauchelevent,  and  since 
had  been  afraid  to  ask  any  of  Jean  Valjean.  He 
had  regretted  the  promise  which  he  had  allowed  to 
be  drawn  from  him,  and  had  repeatedly  said  to  him- 
self  that  he  had  donc  wrong  in  making  this  con- 
cession to  despair.  He  had  rcstricted  hiniself  to 
gradually  turning  Jean  Valjean  out  of  his  house, 
and  cfïacing  him  as  far  as  possible  in  Cosctte's  niind. 
Ile  had  to  some  extent  constantly  stationed  himsclf 
between  Cosette  and  Jean  Valjean,  feeling  certain 
that  in  this  way  she  would  not  perçoive  it  or  think 
of  it.  It  was  more  than  an  effacement,  —  it  was  an 
éclipse.     Marius  did  what  he  considered  necessary 


BE  INDULGENT  TO  THE  HAPPY.      391 

and  just  ;  he  believed  tliat  lie  had  serious  reasons, 
some  of  wliich  we  luive  seen,  and  some  we  hâve  yet 
to  see,  for  getting  lid  of  JeanValjean,  without  harsh- 
ness,  but  without  weakness.  Chance  havmg  made 
hiin  acquainted,  in  a  trial  in  which  he  was  retained, 
witli  an  ex-clcrk  of  Laffitte's  bank,  he  had  obtained, 
without  seeking  it,  mysterious  information,  which, 
in  truth,  he  had  not  been  able  to  examine,  through 
respect  for  the  secret  he  had  promised  to  keep,  and 
through  regard  for  Jean  Valjean's  perilous  situation. 
He  believed,  at  this  very  moment,  that  he  liad  a 
serious  duty  to  perform,  —  the  restitution  of  the  six 
hundred  thousand  francs  to  some  one  whom  he  was 
seeking  as  discreetly  as  he  could.  In  the  mean  while 
he  abstained  from  touching  that  money. 

As  for  Cosette,  she  was  not  acquainted  with  any 
of  thèse  secrets,  but  it  would  be  harsh  to  coudemn 
her  either.  Between  Marins  and  lier  was  an  om- 
nipotent magnetism,  whicli  made  her  do  instinctively 
and  almost  mechanically  whatever  Marins  wished. 
She  felt  a  wish  of  Marins  in  the  matter  of  jNIonsieur 
Jean,  and  she  conformed  to  it.  Her  husband  had 
said  nothing  to  her,  but  she  suffered  the  vague  but 
clear  pressure  of  his  tacit  intentions,  and  blindly 
obeyed.  Her  obédience  in  this  case  consisted  in 
not  remembering  what  Marius  forgot  ;  and  she  had 
no  effort  to  make  in  doing  so.  Without  knowing 
why  herself,  and  without  there  being  anything  to 
blame  her  for,  her  raind  had  so  thoroughly  become 
that  of  her  husband,  that  whatever  covered  itself 
with  a  shadow  in  Marius's  thoughts  was  obscured  in 
hers.     Let  us  not  sro  too  far,  however  ;  as  regards 


392  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

Jean  Valjean,  tliis  effacement  and  tliis  Ibrgetfulness 
were  onlv  superfiçial,  and  she  was  thoughtless  rather 
than  forgetful.  In  her  heart  slie  truly  loved  thc  ma« 
whom  she  liad  so  long  called  fatlier  ;  but  slie  lovcd 
her  husband  more,  and  this  had  slightly  falsified  the 
balance  of  this  heart,  which  weighed  down  on  one 
side  only.  It  happened  at  times  that  Cosette  would 
speak  of  Jean  Valjean  and  express  her  surprise,  and 
theu  Marins  would  calm  her.  "  He  is  away,  I  be- 
lieve  ;  did  he  not  say  that  he  was  going  on  a  journey  ?  " 
"  That  is  true,"  Cosette  thought,  "  he  used  to  dis- 
appear  like  that,  but  not  for  so  long  a  time."  Twice 
or  thrice  she  sent  Nicolette  to  inquire  in  the  Rue  de 
l'Homme  Armé  whether  Monsieur  Jean  had  returned 
from  his  tour,  and  Jean  Valjean  sent  answer  in  the 
négative.  Cosette  asked  no  more,  as  she  had  on 
earth  but  one  want,  —  Marins.  Let  us  also  say  that 
Marins  and  Cosette  had  been  absent  too.  They  went 
to  Vernon,  and  Marins  took  Cosette  to  his  father's 
tomb.  Marins  had  gradually  abstracted  Cosette  from 
Jean  Valjean,  and  Cosette  had  allowed  it.  IIow- 
ever,  what  is  called  much  too  harshly  in  certain  cases 
the  ingratitude  of  children  is  not  always  so  repre- 
hensible  a  tliing  as  may  bc  believcd.  It  is  the  in- 
gratitude of  nature  ;  for  nature,  as  we  hâve  said 
elscwhere,  "  looks  before  her,"  and  di vides  living 
beings  into  arrivais  and  departures.  The  departures 
are  turned  to  the  darkness,  and  the  arrivais  toward 
liglit.  Ilence  a  divergence,  which  on  the  part  of  the 
old  is  ftital,  on  the  part  of  the  young  is  involuntary  ; 
and  this  divergence,  at  first  insensible,  increases 
slowly,  like  every  séparation  of  branches,  and  the 


BE   INDULGENT   TO   THE   HAPrY.  393 

twîgs  separate  witliout  dctacliing  themselves  froni 
the  parent  stem.  It  is  iiot  tlieir  faiilt,  for  youth  goes 
where  there  is  joy,  to  festivals,  to  bright  light,  and 
to  love,  wliile  old  âge  proceeds  toward  tiie  end. 
Thej  do  not  lose  each  otlier  out  of  siglit,  but  there 
is  no  longer  a  Connecting  link  :  the  young  people  feel 
the  chill  of  life,  and  the  old  that  of  the  tomb.  Let 
us  not  accuse  thèse  poor  children. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  LAST  FLUTTERINGS  OP  THE  LAMP  WITHOUT 
OIL. 

One  day  Jean  Valjean  went  down  his  staircase, 
took  three  steps  in  tlie  street,  sat  down  upon  a  post, 
the  same  one  on  which  Gavroche  had  found  him  sitting 
in  thought  on  the  niglit  of  June  5;  he  stayed  thcre 
a  few  minutes,  and  then  went  up  again.  This  was 
the  last  oscillation  of  the  pendulum  ;  the  next  day 
lie  did  not  leave  his  room  ;  the  next  to  that  he  did 
not  leave  his  bed.  The  porter'»  wife,  who  prepared 
his  poor  mcals  for  hiui,  some  cabbage  or  a  few  pota- 
toes  and  a  little  bacon,  looked  at  the  brown  earthen- 
ware  plate  and  exclaimed,  — 

"  VVliy,  poor  dear  man,  you  ate  nothing  yesterday  !  " 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  Jean  Yaljcan  answercd. 

"  The  plate  is  quite  full." 

"  Look  at  the  water-jug  :  it  is  empty." 

"  Tliat  proves  you  hâve  drunk,  but  does  not  prove 
that  you  hâve  eaten." 

,    "  Well,"  said  Jean  Valjean,  "  suppose  that  I  only 
felt  hungry  for  water  ?  " 

"  Tliat  is  called  thirst,  and  if  a  mau  docs  not  cat 
at  the  sanie  tiine  it  is  called  fcver." 

"  I  will  eat  to-morrow." 

"  Or  on  Trinity  Sunday.     Why  not  to-day  ?  AVho- 


THE   LAST   FLUTTERINGS   OF   THE   LAMP.     395 

ever  thought  of  sayîng,  I  will  eat  to-morrow  ?  To 
leave  my  plate  without  touching  it  ;  iny  rasliers  were 
so  good." 

Jean  Valjeau  took  the  olJ  woman's  liand. 

"  I  promise  jou  to  eat  them,"  he  said,  in  his  gentle 
voice. 

''  I  am  not  pleased  wiih  jow"  the  woman  replied. 

Jean  Valjean  never  saw  any  other  human  créature 
but  tliis  good  woman  :  tliere  are  in  Paris  streets 
througli  which  people  never  pass,  and  houses  wliieh 
people  never  enter,  and  he  lived  in  one  of  those 
streets  and  one  of  those  houses.  During  the  time 
when  he  still  weut  ont  he  had  bought  at  a  brazier's 
for  a  few  sous  a  small  copper  crucifix,  which  he 
suspended  from  a  nail  opposite  his  bed  ;  that  gibbet 
is  ever  good  to  look  on.  A  week  passed  thus,  and 
Jean  Valjean  still  remained  in  bed.  The  porter's 
wife  said  to  lier  husband,  "  The  old  gentleman  ui> 
stairs  does  not  get  up  ;  he  does  not  eat,  and  he  will 
not  last  long.  He  has  a  sorrow,  and  no  one  will 
get  it  ont  of  ray  head  but  that  his  daughter  has 
made  a  bad  match." 

The  porter  replied,  with  the  accent  of  marital 
sovereignty,  — 

"  If  he  is  rich,  he  can  havc  a  doctor  ;  if  he  is 
not  rich,  he  can't.  If  he  has  no  doctor,  he  will 
die." 

"  And  if  he  has  one  ?  " 

"  He  will  die,"  said  the  porter. 

The  porter's  wife  began  digging  up  with  an  old 
knife  the  grass  between  what  she  called  her  pave- 
ment, and  while  doing  so  grumbled,  — 


396  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  It  's  a  pity  —  an  old  maii  wlio  is  so  tidy.  Ile  is 
as  white  as  a  pullet." 

Shc  saw  a  doctor  belonging  to  the  quarter  passing 
along  the  bottom  of  the  street,  and  took  upon  her- 
self  to  ask  him  to  go  iip. 

"  It  's  on  the  second  floor,"  she  said  ;  "  vou  will 
only  hâve  to  go  in,  for,  as  the  old  gentleman  no 
longer  leaves  his  bed,  the  key  is  always  in  the  door." 

The  physician  saw  Jean  Valjean  and  spoke  to 
him  :  when  he  came  down  again  the  portera  wife 
was  waiting  for  him. 

"Well,  doctor?" 

*'  He  is  very  ill." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  him  ?  " 

"  Everything  and  nothing.  He  is  a  man  who, 
from  ail  appearances,  has  lost  a  beloved  person. 
People  die  of  that." 

"  Wliat  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  He  told  me  that  he  was  quite  well." 

"  Will  you  call  again,  doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  the  physician  rcplied,  "  but  some  one 
beside  me  ought  to  come  too." 


CHAPTER   m. 

a  pex  is  too  hea^^  for  the  max  who  lifted 
fauchelevent's  CART. 

OxE  evening  Jean  Valjean  had  a  difficultj  in 
rising  on  hia  elbow  ;  he  took  hold  of  his  WTist  and 
could  not  find  his  puise  ;  his  breathing  was  short, 
and  stopped  every  uow  aud  then,  and  he  perceived 
that  he  was  weaker  than  he  had  ever  yet  been. 
Then,  doubtless,  under  the  pressure  of  some  suprême 
préoccupation,  he  made  an  efFort,  sat  up,  and  dressed 
himself.  He  put  on  his  old  workman's  clothes  ;  for, 
as  he  no  longer  went  out,  he  had  returned  to  them 
and  preferred  them.  He  was  compelled  to  pause 
several  times  while  dressing  himself;  and  the  per- 
spiration  poured  off  his  forehead,  merelj  through 
the  effort  of  putting  on  his  jacket.  Ever  since  he 
had  been  alone  he  had  placed  his  bed  in  the  ante- 
room,  so  as  to  occupy  as  little  as  possible  of  the 
deserted  apartments.  He  opeued  the  valise  and 
took  out  Cosette's  clothing,  which  he  spread  on  his 
bed.  The  Bishop's  candlesticks  were  at  their  place 
on  the  mantel-piece  ;  he  took  two  wax  candies  out 
of  a  drawer  and  put  them  up,  and  then,  thougli  it 
was  broad  summer  daylight,  he  lit  them.  We  some- 
times  see  candies  lighted  thus  in  open  day  in  rooms 
where  dead  men  are  lying.     Each  step  he  took  in 


398  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

goiiig  from  one  article  of  fiirnituve  to  another  ex- 
hausted  him,  aud  lie  was  obliged  to  sit  dowii.  It 
was  not  ordinary  fatigue,  which  expends  the  strength 
in  order  to  renew  it  ;  it  was  the  reinnant  of  possible 
motion  ;  it  was  exliaiisted  life  falling  drop  by  drop 
in  crushing  efforts  which  will  not  be  made  again. 

One  of  the  chairs  on  which  he  sank  was  placed 
near  the  niirror,  so  fatal  for  hini,  so  providential  for 
Marins,  in  which  he  had  read  Cosette's  reversed 
writing  on  the  blotting-book.  He  saw  himself  in 
this  mirror,  and  could  not  recognize  himself.  He 
was  eighty  years  of  âge  ;  before  Marius's  marriage 
he  had  looked  scarce  fifty,  but  the  last  year  had 
reckoned  as  thirty.  What  he  had  on  his  forehead 
was  no  longer  the  wrinklc  of  âge,  but  the  raysterious 
mark  of  death,  and  the  lacération  of  the  pitiless  nail 
couid  be  traced  on  it.  His  chèeks  were  flaccid  ;  the 
skin  of  his  face  had  that  color  which  makes  one 
think  that  the  earth  is  alrcady  ovcr  it  ;  the  two 
corners  of  his  mouth  drooped  as  in  that  niask  which 
the  ancicnts  sculptured  on  the  tomb.  He  looked 
at  space  reproachfuUy,  and  he  rcsemblcd  one  of  those 
tragic  beings  who  hâve  cause  to  coniplain  of  sonie 
one.  He  had  reached  that  stage,  the  last  phase  of 
déjection,  in  which  grief  no  longer  flows  ;  it  is,  so 
to  speak,  coagulated,  and  there  is  on  the  soûl  some- 
thing  like  a  clôt  of  despair.  Night  had  set  in,  and 
he  witli  dilïiculty  dragged  a  table  and  the  old  easy- 
chair  to  the  chinniey,  and  laid  on  the  table,  pcn, 
ink,  and  paper.  This  donc  he  fainted  away,  and 
when  he  regained  his  sensés  he  was  thirsty.  As  he 
could  not  lift  the  water-jar,  he  bcnt  down  with  an 


A   PEN   IS   TOO   HEAVY.  399 

effort  and  drank  a  moutliful.  Then  he  turned  to 
the  bed,  and,  still  seated,  for  he  was  unable  to  stand, 
he  gazed  at  the  little  black  dress  and  ail  those  dear 
objects.  Such  contemplations  last  hours  which  ap- 
pear  minutes.  AU  at  once  he  shuddered,  and  felt 
that  the  cold  had  struck  him.  He  leaned  his  elbows 
on  the  table  which  the  Bishop's  candlesticks  illuniined, 
and  took  up  the  pen.  As  neither  the  pen  nor  the 
iuk  had  been  used  for  a  long  time,  the  nibs  of  the 
pen  were  bent,  the  ink  was  dried  up,  and  he  was 
therefore  obliged  to  put  a  few  drops  of  water  in 
the  ink,  which  he  could  not  do  without  stopping 
and  sitting  down  twice  or  thrice,  and  was  forced 
to  Write  witli  the  back  of  the  pen,  He  wiped  his 
forehead  from  time  to  time,  and  his  hand  trembled 
as  he  wrote  the  few  folio wing  lines  :  — 

"  CosETTE,  —  I  bless  you.  I  am  about  to  explain 
to  you.  Your  husband  did  right  in  making  me 
understand  that  I  ought  to  go  away  ;  still,  he  was 
slightly  in  error  as  to  what  he  believed,  but  he 
acted  rightly.  He  is  a  worthy  man,  and  love  him 
dearly  wlien  I  am  gone  from  you.  iNIonsieur  Pont- 
mercy,  always  love  my  beloved  child.  Cosette,  tins 
paper  will  be  found  :  tins  is  what  I  wish  to  say 
to  you  ;  you  shall  see  the  figures  if  I  hâve  the 
strength  to  remember  them  ;  but  listen  to  me,  the 
money  is  really  yours.  This  is  the  whole  affair. 
"NYhite  jet  cornes  from  Xorway,  black  jet  cornes  from 
England,  and  black  beads  comc  from  Germany.  Jet 
is  lighter,  more  valuable,  and  dearer  ;  but  imitations 
can  be  made  in  France  as  well  as  in  Germany.     You 


400  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

must  hâve  a  small  anvil  two  inclies  square,  and  a 
spirit  lamp  to  soften  tlie  wax.  The  wax  used  to 
be  made  with  resin  and  smoke-black,  and  costs  four 
francs  the  pound  ;  but  I  hit  on  the  idea  of  making 
it  of  gum-lac  and  turpentine.  It  onlj  costs  thirty 
sous,  and  is  much  better.  The  rings  are  made  of 
violet  glass,  fastened  by  means  of  the  wax  on  a 
small  black  iron  wire.  The  glass  must  be  violet 
for  iron  ornaments,  and  black  for  gilt  ornaments. 
Spain  buys  large  quantities  ;  it  is  the  country  of 
jet  —  " 

Hère  he  stopped,  the  pen  slipped  from  his  fingers, 
he  burst  into  one  of  those  despairing  sobs  which 
rose  at  timcs  from  the  depths  of  his  being.  The 
poor  man  took  his  head  between  his  hands  and 
thought. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  exclaimed  internally  (lamentable  cries 
heard  by  God  alone),  "  it  is  ail  ovcr.  I  shall  never 
sce  her  again  ;  it  is  a  smile  which  flash ed  across  me, 
and  I  am  going  to  enter  night  without  even  seeing 
lier.  Oh  !  for  one  moment,  for  one  instant  to  hear 
her  voice,  to  touch  her,  to  look  at  her,  —  her,  the 
angel,  and  thcn  die  !  Deatli  is  nothing,  but  the 
frightful  thing  is  to  die  without  seeing  her  !  She 
would  smile  on  me,  say  a  word  to  me,  and  would 
that  do  any  one  harm?  No,  it  is  ail  over  forever. 
I  am  now  ail  alone.  My  God  !  my  God  !  I  shall 
see  her  no  more." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  knock  at  his  door. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

A   BOTTLE   OF   INK   WHICH   ONLT   WHITENS. 

That  same  daj,  or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  that 
same  evening,  as  Marins  was  leaving  the  dinner-table 
to  witlidraw  to  his  study,  as  he  had  a  brief  to  get  up, 
Basque  lianded  him  a  letter,  saying,  "  The  persoii  wlio 
wrote  the  letter  is  in  the  anteroom."  Cosette  had 
seized  her  grandfather's  arm,  aud  was  taking  a  turn 
round  the  garden.  A  letter  may  hâve  au  ugly  ap- 
pearance,  like  a  man,  aud  the  mère  sight  of  coarse 
paper  and  clumsy  foldiug  is  displeasiug.  The  letter 
"vvhich  Basque  brought  was  of  that  description. 
]\Iarius  took  it,  and  it  smelt  of  tobacco.  Xothing 
arouses  a  recollectiou  so  much  as  a  smell,  apd  Marins 
rccognized  the  tobacco.  He  looked  at  the  address, 
"  To  Monsieur  le  Baron  Pommerci,  At  his  house.'* 
The  rccognized  tobacco  made  him  recognize  the  hand- 
writing.  It  miglit  be  said  that  astonishment  lias  its 
flashes  of  lightning,  and  ^larius  was,  as  it  were,  illu- 
mined  by  one  of  thèse  flashes.  The  odor,  that  mys- 
terious  aid  to  memory,  had  recalled  to  him  a  world  : 
it  was  really  the  paper,  the  mode  of  folding,  the  pale 
ink  ;  it  was  really  the  well-known  handwriting  ;  and, 
above  ail,  it  was  the  tobacco.  The  Joudrette  garret 
rose   again   before   him.     Hence  —  strangc  blow  of 

VOL.    V.  26 


402  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

accident  !  —  oiie  of  ilie  two  trails  whicli  lie  had  so 
long  sought,  the  one  for  whicli  lie  had  latterly  niade 
so  many  efforts  and  believed  lost  Ibrever,  came  to 
oiFer  itself  voluntarily  to  liim.  He  eagerly  opened 
the  letter  and  read  :  — 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  —  If  the  Suprême  Being 
had  endowed  me  with  talents,  I  might  hâve  becn 
Baron  Thénard,  member  of  the  Institute  (academy  of 
ciences),  but  I  am  not  so,  1  nierely  bear  the  same 
name  with  him,  and  shall  be  happy  if  this  reminisence 
recommcnds  me  to  the  excellense  of  your  kindncss. 
The  benetits  with  w^hich  you  niay  honor  me  will  bc 
reciprocal,  for  I  am  in  possession  of  a  secret  consern- 
ing  an  individuah  This  individual  conserns  you.  I 
hold  the  secret  at  your  disposai,  as  I  désire  to  hâve 
the  honor  of  being  uceful  to  you.  I  will  give  you 
the  simple  means  for  expeling  from  your  honorable 
family  this  individual  who  lias  no  right  in  it,  Madam 
hi  Barronne  being  of  high  birth.  The  sanctuary  of 
virtue  co«ld  no  longer  coabit  with  crime  wàthout 
abdicating. 

*'  ï  await  in  the  anteroom  the  ordcr  of  Monsieur 

^^  ^^"■^"-  "Respectfully." 

The  letter  was  signcd  "Thénard."  This  signa- 
ture w^as  not  false,  but  oïdy  slightly  abridged.  How- 
cver,  the  bombast  and  the  orthography  completed 
the  révélation,  the  ccrtifîcate  of  origin  was  perfcct, 
and  no  doubt  was  j)ossible.  Marius's  émotion  was 
la-ofound  ;  and  after  the  movement  of  surprise  he  had 
a  movement  of  happiness.     Let  him  now  tind  the 


A  BOTTLE   OF   IXK   WIIICII   OXLY   WIIITENS.     403 

other  man  lie  souglit,  tlie  man  who  had  saved  Iiim, 
Marius,  and  he  would  hâve  notliing  more  to  désire. 
He  opened  a  drawer  in  his  bureau,  took  out  several 
bank-notes,  which  he  put  in  his  pocket,  closed  the 
drawer  again,  and  rang.  Basque  opened  the  door 
partly. 

"  Show  the  man  in,"  said  Marius. 

Basque  announced, — 

"  M.  Thénard." 

A  man  came  in,  and  it  was  a  fresli  surprise  for 
Marius,  as  the  man  he  now  saw  was  a  perfect  stran- 
ger  to  him.  This  man,  who  was  old,  bj  the  way,  had 
a  large  nose,  his  chin  in  his  cravat,  green  spectacles, 
with  a  double  shade  of  green  silk  over  his  eyes,  and 
his  hair  smoothed  down  and  flattened  on  his  forehead 
over  his  eyebrows,  like  the  wig  of  English  coachmen 
of  high  life.  His  hair  was  gray.  He  was  dressed 
in  black  from  head  to  foot,  —  a  very  seedy  but  clean 
black,  —  and  a  bunch  of  seals,  emerging  from  his  fob, 
led  to  the  supposition  that  he  had  a  watch.  He  held 
an  old  hat  in  his  hand,  and  walked  bent,  and  the 
curve  in  his  back  augmentcd  the  depth  of  his  bow. 
The  tliing  which  struck  most  at  the  first  glanée  \\?'\ 
that  this  person's  coat,  too  large,  though  carefully 
buttoned,  had  not  been  made  for  him.  A  short 
digression  is  necessary  hère. 

There  was  at  that  period  in  Paris,  in  an  old  house 
situated  in  the  Rue  Beautreillis  near  the  arsenal,  an 
old  Jew  whose  trade  it  was  to  couvert  a  rogne  into 
an  honest  man,  though  not  for  too  long  a  period,  as 
it  might  hâve  been  troublesome  to  the  rogue.  The 
change  was  eifected  at  sight,  for  one  day  or  two,  at 


404:  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

the  rate  of  tliirty  sous  a  day,  by  mcans  of  a  costume 
resembling  as  closely  as  possible  every-day  honcsty. 
This  letter-out  of  suits  was  called  the  "  excli ange- 
broker."  Parisian  thieves  had  given  him  that  iianic, 
and  knew  him  by  no  other.  lie  had  a  Very  complète 
wardrobe,  and  the  clothes  in  which  he  invested  people 
suited  almost  every  condition.  He  had  specialties 
and  catégories  :  from  each  nail  of  his  store  liung  a 
social  station,  worn  and  thrcadbare  ;  hère  the  niagis- 
trate's  coat,  therc  the  curés  coat,  and  the  banker's 
coat  ;  in  one  corner  the  coat  of  an  ofFicer  on  half 
pay,  elsewhere  the  coat  of  a  nian  of  letters,  and 
further  on  the  statesman's  coat.  This  créature  was 
the  costumer  of  the  immense  drama  which  roguery 
plays  in  Paris,  and  his  den  was  the  side-scene  from 
which  robbery  went  out  or  swindling  re-entered.  A 
ragged  rogue  arrived  at  this  wardrobe,  deposited 
thirty  sous,  and  selected,  according  to  the  part  which 
he  wished  to  play  on  that  day,  the  clothes  which 
suited  him  ;  and,  on  going  down  the  stairs  again, 
the  rogue  was  somcbody.  The  next  day  the  clothes 
were  faithfully  brought  back,  and  the  ''exchange- 
broker,"  who  entirely  trustcd  to  the  thieves,  was 
never  robbed.  Thèse  garments  had  one  inconvcn- 
ience,  —  they  did  not  fit  ;  not  being  made  for  the 
man  who  wore  tliem,  they  were  tight  on  one,  loose 
on  another,  and  fitted  nobody.  Any  swindler  who 
exceeded  the  avcrage  mean  in  height  or  shortness 
was  uncomfortable  in  tlie  "  exchange-broker's  "  suits. 
A  man  nuist  be  neithcr  too  stout  nor  too  thin,  for 
the  broker  had  only  provided  for  ordinary  mortals, 
and  had  taken  the  measure  of   the  species  in  the 


A  BOTÏLE   OF   INK    WIJICH   ONLY   WHITENS.     405 

pcrson  of  tlie  first  tliicf  who  turued  up,  and  is 
iieither  stout  nor  thiii,  iior  tall  iior  short.  Hence 
arose  at  times  diliicult  adaptations,  which  tlie  brokers 
customers  got  over  as  best  they  could.  Ail  the 
worse  for  the  exceptions  !  The  statesman's  garmeuts, 
for  instance,  black  from  head  to  foot,  would  hâve 
been  too  loose  for  Pitt  and  too  tight  for  Castelcicala. 
The  statesman's  suit  was  thus  described  in  the  bro- 
ker's  catalogue,  from  which  we  copied  it  :  "A  black 
cloth  coat,  black  moleskin  trousers,  a  silk  waistcoat, 
boots,  and  white  sliirt."  There  was  ou  the  niargin 
"  Ex-Ambassador,"  and  a  note  which  we  also  tran- 
scribe  :  "  In  a  separate  box  a  carefully-dressed  per- 
uke,  green  spectacles,  bunch  of  seals,  and  two  little 
quills  an  incli  in  length,  wrapped  in  cotton."  AU 
tliis  belonged  to  the  statesman  or  ex-ambassador. 
The  whole  of  this  costume  was,  if  we  may  say  so, 
extenuated.  The  seams  were  white,  and  a  small 
button-hole  gaped  at  one  of  the  elbows  ;  moreover, 
a  button  was  missing  off  the  front,  but  that  is  only  a 
détail,  for  as  the  hand  of  the  statesman  nmst  always 
be  thrust  into  the  coat,  and  upon  the  heart,  it  liad 
the  duty  of  hiding  the  absence  of  the  button. 

Had  INIarius  been  familiar  with  the  occult  institu- 
tions of  Paris,  he  Avould  at  once  hâve  recognized  in 
the  back  of  the  visitor  whom  Basque  had  just  showu 
in,  the  coat  of  the  statesman  borrowed  from  the 
Unhook-me-that  of  the  "  exchange-broker."  INIarius's 
disappointmcnt  on  seeing  a  différent  man  from  the 
one  whom  he  expected  to  enter,  turned  into  disgust 
with  the  new-comer.  He  examined  him  from  head 
to  foot,  while  the  personage  was  gi^^ng  him  an  ex- 


406  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

aggerated  bow,  and  askcd  liiiu  curtly,  "  Wliat  do 
}'ou  waut  ?  " 

The  nian  replied  with  an  amiable  rictus,  of  whicli 
the  caressing  smile  of  a  crocodile  would  supply  sonic 
idea  :  — 

"  It  appears  to  me  impossible  that  I  hâve  not 
alreadj  liad  the  honor  of  seeing  Monsieur  le  Baron  in 
Society.  I  hâve  a  peculiar  impression  of  having  met 
him  a  few  years  back  at  the  Princess  Bagration's, 
and  in  the  salons  of  his  Excellency  Vicomte  Dambray, 
Peer  of  France." 

It  is  always  good  tactics  in  swindling  to  prétend 
to  recognize  a  person  whom  the  swindler  does  not 
know.  -Marins  paid  attention  to  the  man's  words, 
lie  watchcd  the  action  and  movement,  but  his  disap- 
pointment  increased  ;  it  was  a  nasal  pronunciation, 
absolutely  différent  from  the  sharp  dry  voice  he  ex- 
pected.     He  was  utterly  routed. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "  either  IMadame 
Bagration  or  Monsieur  Dambray.  I  never  set  foot 
in  the  house  of  either  of  them." 

The  answer  was  rough,  but  the  personage  con- 
tinued  with  undiminishcd  affability,  — 

"  Thcu  it  must  hâve  bcen  at  Chateaubriand's  that 
I  saw  jNIonsieur  !  I  know  Chateaubriand  intimatcly, 
and  he  is  a  most  affable  man.  Ile  says  to  me  somc- 
times,  Thénard,  my  good  friend,  will  you  not  drink  a 
glass  with  me  ?  " 

Marius's  brow  became  stcrner  and  sterner.  "  I 
ncvcr  had  the  honor  of  bcing  rcccived  at  M.  de 
Chateaubriand's  house.  Come  to  the  point;  what  do 
you  want  with  me  ?  " 


A  BOTTLE   OF   INK  WHICH   ONLY  WHITENS.     407 

The  nian  bowcd  lower  still  before  tliis  harsh  voice. 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  deign  to  listen  to  me.  There 
is  in  x4.nîenca,  in  a  country  near  Panama,  a  village 
called  La  Joya,  and  this  village  is  composed  of  a 
single  house.  A  large  square  house  three  stories 
higli,  built  of  bricks  dried  in  the  sun,  each  side  of 
tlie  square  being  five  luindred  feet  long,  and  each 
storj"  retiring  from  the  one  under  it  for  a  distance  of 
twelve  feet,  so  as  to  leave  in  front  of  it  a  terrace 
which  runs  ail  round  the  house.  In  the  centre  is  an 
inner  court,  in  which  provisions  and  amnmnition  are 
stored  ;  there  are  no  windows,  only  loop-holes,  no 
door,  only  ladders,  - —  ladders  to  mount  from  the 
ground  to  the  first  terrace,  and  from  the  first  to  the 
second,  and  from  the  second  to  the  third  ;  ladders  to 
descend  into  the  inner  court  ;  no  doors  to  the  rooms, 
only  traps  ;  no  staircases  to  the  apartments,  only  lad- 
ders. At  night  the  trap-doors  are  closed,  the  ladders 
are  drawn  up,  and  blunderbusses  and  carbines  are 
placcd  in  the  loop-holes;  there  is  no  way  of  entering; 
it  is  a  house  by  day,  a  citadcl  by  night.  Eight  hun- 
dred  inhabitants,  —  such  is  this  village.  Why  such 
précautions  ?  Because  the  country  is  dangerous,  and 
full  of  man-eaters.  Then,  why  do  people  go  there  ? 
Bt^cause  it  is  a  marvellous  country,  and  gold  is  found 
there." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ?  "  ]\Iarius,  who  had 
passed  from  disappointment  to  impatience,  inter- 
rupted. 

"  To  this,  ]M.  le  Baron,  I  am  a  worn-out  ex-diplo- 
matist.  I  am  sick  of  our  old  civilization,  and  wish  to 
try  the  savages." 


408  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  What  next  ?  " 

"Monsieur  le  Baron,  egotism  is  the  law  of  tlie 
world,  The  proletarian  peasant-wench  who  works 
by  the  day  turns  round  when  the  diligence  passes, 
but  the  peasant-woman  who  is  laboring^on  lier  own 
field  docs  not  turn.  The  poor  man's  dog  barks  after 
the  rich,  the  rich  man's  dog  barks  after  the  poor  ; 
each  for  himself,  and  self-interest  is  the  object  of 
mankind.     Gold  is  the  magnct." 

"  What  next  ?     Conclude." 

"  I  should  like  to  go  and  settle  at  La  Joya.  There 
are  three  of  us.  I  hâve  my  wife  and  niy  daughtcr,  a 
very  lovely  girl.  The  voyage  is  long  and  expensive, 
and  I  am  short  of  funds." 

"  How  does  that  conccrn  me  ?  "  jMarius  asked. 

The  stranger  thrust  his  ncck  out  of  his  cravat,  with 
a  gesture  peculiar  to  the  vulture,  and  said,  with  a 
more  affable  smile  than  before,  — 

"  JNIonsieur  le  Baron  cannot  hâve  read  my  letter  ?  " 

That  was  alraost  truc,  and  the  fact  is  that  the  con- 
tents of  the  cpistle  had  escaped  Marins  ;  lie  had  seen 
the  writing  rathcr  than  read  the  letter,  and  he  scarce 
remembered  it.  A  new  hint  had  just  been  giveu 
him,  and  he  noticcd  tlie  détail,  "  My  wife  and  daugh- 
tcr." He  fixed  a  pcnetrating  glance  on  the  stranger, 
—  a  magistrate  could  not  hâve  doue  it  better,  —  but 
he  confincd  himself  to  saying, — 

"  Be  more  précise." 

The  stranger  thrust  his  hands  in  his  trousers' 
pockets,  raised  his  head  without  straightening  liis 
backbone,  but  on  his  side  scrutinizing  jNIarius  through 
his  grcen  spectacles. 


A  BUTTLE   OF   INK  \Y1I1CH   ONLY    WHITENS.     409 

"  Veiy  good,  ]M.  le  Barou.    I  will  be  précise.    I  hâve 
a  secret  to  sell  y  ou." 
^"  Does  it  couceru  me  ?  " 

"  Sliî?htly." 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

jNIarius  more  and  more  examiued  the  man  wliile 
listening. 

"  I  will  begin  gratis,"  the  stranger  said  ;  "  you  will 
soon  see  that  it  is  interesting." 

"  Speak." 

"  ^Monsieur  le  Baron,  you  hâve  in  your  house  a 
robber  and  an  assassin." 

Marius  gave  a  start. 

"  In  niy  house  ?     No,"  he  said. 

The  stranger  imperturbably  brushed  his  hat  witli 
liis  arm,  and  went  on. 

"  An  assassin  and  a  robber.  Remark,  M.  le  Baron, 
that  I  am  not  speaking  hère  of  old-forgotten  facts, 
which  might  be  efFaced  by  prescription  before  the 
law  —  by  repeutance  before  God.  I  am  speaking  of 
récent  facts,  présent  facts,  of  facts  still  unknown  to 
justice.  I  continue.  This  man  has  crept  into  your 
confidence,  and  almost  into  your  family,  under  a  false 
namc.  I  am  going  to  tell  you  his  real  name,  and 
tell  it  you  for  nothiug." 

"  I  am  listening." 

"  His  name  is  Jean  Yaljean." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  I  will  tell,  equally  for  nothing,  who  he  is." 

"  Speak." 

"  He  is  an  ex-convict." 

"  I  know  it." 


410  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

"  You  have  known  it  since  I  hacl  the  honor  of  teli- 
ing  you." 

"  No,  I  was  aware  of  it  before." 

Marius's  cold  tone,  this  double  reply,  "  I  know  it," 
and  his  stubborn  shortness  in  the  conversation  aroused 
sonie  latent  anger  in  the  stranger,  audhe  gave  Marins 
a  furious  side-glance,  which  was  inimediately  extin- 
guished.  Rapid  though  it  was,  the  glanée  was  one 
of  those  which  are  recognized  if  they  have  once  been 
seen,  and  it  did  not  escape  Marins.  Certain  flashes 
can  only  corne  froni  certain  soûls  ;  the  eyeball,  that 
cellar-door  of  the  soûl,  is  lit  up  by  them,  and  green 
spectacles  conceal  nothing  ;  you  might  as  well  put 
up  a  glass  window  to  hell.  The  strauger  continued, 
smiling,  — 

''  I  will  not  venture  to  contradict  M.  le  Baron, 
but  in  any  case  you  will  see  that  I  am  well  informed. 
Now,  what  I  have  to  tell  you  is  knowu  to  myself 
alonc,  and  it  affects  the  fortune  of  Madame  la  Baronne. 
It  is  an  extraordinary  secret,  and  is  for  sale.  I  offer 
it  you  first.     Cheap  !  twenty  thousand  francs." 

"  I  know  that  secret  as  I  know  the  other,"  said 
Marins. 

The  personage  felt  the  necessity  of  lowering  his 
j)rice  a  little. 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  let  us  say  ten  thousand  francs, 
and  I  will  speak." 

"  I  repeat  to  you  that  you  have  nothing  to  tell 
me.     I  know  what  you  want  to  say  to  me." 

There  was  a  fresh  flash  in  the  niau's  eye,  as  lie 
continued,  — 

"  Still,  I  must  dine  to-day.     It  is  an  extraordinary 


A  BOTTLE   OF   INK   WHICH  ONLY   WHITENS.     411 

secret,  I  tell  you.     Monsieur,  I  am  goiiig  to  speak. 
I  am  speaking.     Give  me  tweiity  francs." 
«vjMarius  looked  at  him  fixedlj. 

"  I  know  your  extraordinary  secret,  just  as  I  kuew 
Jean  Valjcan's  name,  and  as  I  know  yours." 

"  My  name  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"That  is  not  difficult,  M.  le  Baron,  for  I  had 
the  lîonor  of  writing  it  and  mentioning  it  to  you. 
Thénard—  " 

"  — dicr." 

"  What  ?  " 

"  Thénardier." 

"  What  does  tliis  mean  ?  " 

In  danger  the  porcupine  bristles,  the  beetle  feigns 
death,  the  old  guard  forms  a  square.  This  man 
began  laughing.  Then  he  flipped  a  grain  of  dust 
off  lus  coat-sleeve.     Marius  continued,  — 

"  You  are  also  the  workman  Jondrette,  the  actor 
Fabantou,  the  poet  Genflot,  the  Spanish  Don  Alvares, 
and  Madame  Balizard." 

"  Madame  who  ?  " 

"  And  you  once  kept  a  pot-house  at  Montfermeil." 

"  A  pot-housc  !     Xever." 

"  And  I  tell  you  that  you  are  Thénardier." 

"  I  deny  it." 

"  And  that  you  are  a  scoundrel.     Take  that." 

And  INIarius,  taking  a  bank-note  from  his  j)ocket, 
tlirew  it  in  his  face. 

"  Five  hundred  francs  !    Monsieiu'  le  Baron  !  " 

And  the  man,  overwhehiied  and  bowing,  clutched 
the  note  and  examined  it. 


412  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

"  Five  hundrcd  francs  !  "  lie  continuedj  quite  dr.z- 
zled.  And  lie  stammcred  half  aloud,  "  No  countcr- 
feit  ;  "  tlien  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Wcll,  be  it  so. 
Let  us  be  a,t  oiir  ease." 

And  with  monkey-likc  dexterity,  tln-'owing  back 
liis  liair,  tearing  ofF  liis  spectacles,  and  rcmoving  the 
tvvo  quiîls  to  wliich  we  alluded  just  now,  and  Avliich 
we  hâve  seen  before  in  another  part  of  tliis  book, 
lie  took  off  his  face  as  you  or  I  take  off  our  liât. 
His  eye  grew  briglit,  the  forehead  —  uneven,  gullied, 
scarred,  hidcously  wrinkled  at  top  —  became  clear, 
the  iiose  sharp  as  a  beak,  and  the  ferocious  and 
shrewd  profile  of  the  man  of  prey  reappeared. 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron  is  infallible,"  he  said  in  a 
sharp  voice,  ffoni  whieh  the  nasal  twang  had  entirely 
disappeared  ;  "  I  am  Thénardier." 

And  he  stràightened  his  curved  back. 

Thénardier  —  for  it  was  really  he  —  was  sti-angcly 
surprised,  and  would  hâve  been  troubled  could  he 
hâve  been  so.  He  had  come  to  bring  astonishnient, 
and  it  was  hiniself  who  was  astonished,  This  humil- 
iation was  paid  for  with  five  hundred  francs,  and 
he  accepted  it  ;  but  he  was  not  the  less  stunned. 
He  saw  for  the  first  tinie  this  Baron  Pontniercy, 
and  in  spite  of  his  disguise  this  Baron  Pontniercy 
rccognized  him,  and  recognized  hira  thoroughly  ;  and 
not  alone  was  this  Baron  acquainted  with  Thénardier, 
but  he  also  seemed  acquainted  with  Jean  A^aljean. 
Who  was  this  almost  beardless  young  nian,  so  cold 
and  so  generous  ;  who  knew  people's  names,  knew 
ail  tlieir  names,  and  opencd  his  purse  to  thcm  ;  who 
bullied  rogues  like  a  judgc,  and  paid  theni  likc  a 


A  BOTTLE   OF   INK   WHICII   OXLY   WHITENS.     413 

dupe  ?  Thénardicr,  it  will  be  reniembcred,  tliougli 
lie  liad  been  jNIarius's  neighbor,  had  iicver  seen  hiiii, 
which  is  frequently  the  case  in  Paris.  He  bad  for- 
merly  vaguely  beard  liis  daughter  speak  of  a  very 
poor  young  man  of  tbe  name  of  Marius,  who  lived 
in  the  bouse,  and  be  bad  written  bim,  witbout 
knowing  bim,  tbe  letter  we  fornierly  read.  No  ap- 
proximation between  tnis  INlarius  and  M.  le  Baron 
Pontmercy  was  possible  in  bis  mind.  With  regard 
to  tbe  nanie  of  Pontmercy,  we  must  rccoUect  tbat  on 
tbe  battle-ficld  of  Waterloo  be  bad  beard  only  the 
last  two  syllables,  for  wbicb  be  bad  always  bad  the 
justifiable  disdain  wbicb  oue  is  likely  to  bave  for 
wbat  is  merely  thanks. 

However,  he  bad  mauaged  tbrough  his  daughter 
Azelma,  wbom  be  put  on  the  track  of  tbe  married 
couple  on  February  IG,  and  by  bis  own  researches, 
to  Icarn  a  good  many  things,  and  in  his  dark  den 
had  succeeded  in  seizing  more  tban  one  mysterious 
tbread.  He  bad  by  sheer  industry  discovered,  or 
at  least  by  the  inductive  process  bad  divined,  who 
the  man  was  whoni  he  had  met  on  a  certain  day 
in  tbe  Great  Sewer.  From  the  man  he  had  easily 
arrived  at  the  name,  and  he  knew  tbat  Madame  la 
Baronne  Pontmercy  was  Cosette.  But  on  tbat  point 
be  intended  to  be  discreet.  Who  Cosette  was  he 
did  not  know  exactly  himself.  He  certainly  got  a 
glimpse  of  some  bastardism,  and  Fantine's  story  bad 
always  appeared  to  bim  doubtful.  But  wbat  was 
tlie  good  of  speaking,  —  to  bave  his  silence  paid  ? 
He  bad,  or  fancicd  he  had,  something  bettLT  to  sell 
tban  tbat  ;  and  according  to  ail  expectation,  to  go 


414  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

and  mate  to  Baron  Pontmercy,  witliout  further  proof, 
the  révélation,  "  Your  wife  is  only  a  bastard,"  would 
only  hâve  succeeded  in  attracting  the  husband's  boot 
to  the  broadest  part  of  his  person. 

In  Thénardier's  thoughts  the  conversation  with 
Marins  h  ad  not  y  et  begun  ;  he  h  ad  been  obliged  to 
fall  back,  niodify  his  strategy,  leave  a  position,  and 
make  a  change  of  front  ;  but  nothing  essential  was 
as  yet  compromised,  and  he  had  five  hundred  francs 
in  his  pocket.  Moreover,  he  had  something  décisive 
to  tell,  and  he  felt  himself  strong  even  against  this 
Baron  Pontmercy,  who  was  so  well-informed  and  so 
wcll-arnied.  For  nîen  of  Thénardier's  nature  every 
dialogue  is  a  combat,  and  what  was  his  situation  in 
the  one  which  was  about  to  begin  ?  He  did  not 
know  to  whom  he  was  speaking,  but  he  knew  of 
what  he  was  speaking.  He  rapidly  made  this  mental 
review  of  his  forces,  and  after  saying,  "  I  am  Thé- 
nardier,"  waitcd.  Marins  was  in  deep  thought  ;  he 
at  length  held  Thénardier,  and  the  man  whom  he 
had  so  eagerly  desired  to  find  again  was  before  him. 
Ile  would  be  able  .at  last  to  honor  Colonel  Pont- 
mercy's  recommendation.  It  humiliated  him  that 
tiiis  hero  owed  anything  to  this  bandit,  and  that  the 
bill  of  exchange  drawn  by  his  fathcr  from  the  tomb 
upcm  him,  jNIarius,  had  remained  up  to  this  day  pro- 
tested.  It  scemed  to  him,  too,  in  the  complex  state 
of  his  mind  as  regarded  Thénardier,  that  lie  was 
bound  to  avenge  the  Colonel  for  the  misfortune  of 
having  been  saved  by  such  a  villain.  But,  howevcr 
this  might  be,  he  was  satisfied  ;  he  was  at  length 
going  to  free  the  Colonel's  shadow  from  this  un- 


A   BOTTLE   OF  INK   WHICH  ONLY  WHITENS.     415 

worthy  creditor,  and  felt  as  if  he  were  releasiiig  his 
father's  memory  froni  a  debtor's  prison.  By  ttie  sidc 
of  this  duty  he  had  anothei",  clearing  up  if  possible 
the  source  of  Cosette's  fortune.  The  opportunity 
appeared  to  présent  itself,  for  Thénardier  probably 
knew  something,  and  it  might  be  useful  to  see  to  the 
bottom  of  this  man  ;  so  he  began  with  that.  Thé' 
nardier  put  away  the  "  no  counterfeit  "  carcfully 
in  his  pocket,  and  looked  at  Marins  with  almost 
tender  gentleness.  Marius  was  the  first  to  break 
the  silence. 

"  Thénardier,  I  hâve  told  you  your  name,  and 
now  do  you  wish  me  to  tell  you  the  secret  whicli 
you  hâve  corne  to  impart  to  me  ?  I  hâve  my  infor- 
mation also,  and  you  shall  see  that  I  know  more 
than  you  do.  Jean  Valjean,  as  you  said,  is  an  assas- 
sin and  a  robber.  A  robber,  because  he  plundered 
a  rich  manufacturer,  M.  Madeleine,  whose  ruin  he 
caused  :  an  assassin,  because  he  murdered  Inspecter 
Javert." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,  M.  le  Baron,"  said 
Thénardier. 

"  I  will  make  you  understand  ;  listen.  Thcre  was 
in  the  Pas  de  Calais  district,  abont  the  year  1822,  a 
man  who  had  been  in  some  trouble  with  the  authori- 
ties,  and  who  had  rehabilitated  and  restored  himself 
under  the  name  of  Monsieur  ^Madeleine.  This  man 
had  bccome,  in  the  fullest  extent  of  the  term,  a  just 
man,  and  he  made  the  fortune  of  an  entire  town  by  a 
trade,  the  manufacture  of  black  beads.  As  for  his  pri- 
vate  fortune,  he  had  made  that  too,  but  secondarily, 
and  to  some  extent  as  occasion  offered.     He  was  tlie 


416  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

foster-father  of  the  poor,  hc  founded  liospitals,  opcned 
schools,  visited  the  sick,  dowered  girls,  supported 
widows,  adopted  orphaus,  and  was,  as  it  were,  guar- 
dian  of  the  town.  He  had  refused  the  cross,  and 
was.appointcd  niayor.  A  liberatcd  convict  kncw  the 
secret  of  a  penalty  formerly  incurred  by  this  man  ; 
he  denounced  and  had  him  arrested,  and  toolc  advan- 
tage  of  the  arrest  to  corne  to  Paris  and  draw  ont  of 
Laffitte's  —  I  hâve  the  facts  from  the  cashier  him- 
self  —  by  means  of  a  false  signatnre,  a  suni  of  half  a 
million  and  more,  which  belonged  to  JNl.  Madeleine. 
The  convict  who  robbed  M.  Madeleine  was  Jean 
Valjean  ;  as  for  the  other  fact,  you  can  tell  me  no 
more  than  I  know  either.  Jean  Yaljean  kiîled  In- 
spector  Javert  with  a  pistol-shot,  and  I,  who  am 
speaking  to  yon,  was  présent." 

Thénardier  gave  Marins  the  sovereigu  glance  of  a 
beaten  man  who  sets  his  hand  again  on  the  victory, 
and  has  regained  in  a  minute  ail  the  ground  he  had 
lost.  But  the  smilc  at  once  returned,  for  the  in- 
fcrior,  when  in  présence  of  h^  superior,  must  keep 
his  triumph  to  himself,  and  Thénardier  confined  him- 
sclf  to  saying  to  Marins,  — 

"  ]\Ionsieur  le  Baron,  we  are  on  the  wrong  track." 

And  he  undcrlined  tliis  sentence  by  giving  his 
bunch  of  seals  an  expressive  twirl. 

"  What  !  "  Marius  replied,  "  do  you  dispute  it  ? 
They  are  facts." 

"  They  are  chinieras.  The  confidence  with  which 
Monsieur  le  Baron  honors  me  makes  it  niy  duty  to 
tell  him  so.  Before  ail,  truth  and  justice,  and  I  do 
not  like  to  sec  people  accuscd  wrongfuUy.     Monsieur 


A   BOTTLE   or   INK  WHICH  ONLY  WHITENS.     417 

le  Baron,  Jean  Valjean  did  not  rob  M.  Madeleine, 
and  Jean  Valjean  did  not  kill  Javert." 

"  That  is  rather  strong.     Wliy  not  ?  " 

"  For  two  reasons." 

"  What  are  they  ?     Speak." 

"  The  first  is  tliis  :  he  did  not  rob  ]M.  ^Madeleine, 
becanse  Jean  Valjean  hiniself  is  M.  ^Madeleine." 

"  What  nonsense  are  you  talking  ?  " 

"  And  this  is  the  second  :  he  did  not  assassinate  Ja- 
vert, becanse  the  man  who  killed  Javert  was  Javert." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  That  Javert  committed  suicide." 

"  Prove  it,  prove  it  !  "  jNIarius  cried  wildly. 

Thénardier  repeated  slowly,  scanning  his  sentence 
after  the  fashion  of  an  ancient  Alexandrian,  — 

"  Police- Agent- Javert-was-found-drowned-uu-der-a 
boat-at-Pont-au-Change." 

"  But  prove  it,  then." 

Thénardier  drew  frora  his  side-pocket  a  large  gray 
paper  parcel  which  seemcd  to  contain  folded  papers 
of  various  sizes. 

"  I  hâve  my  proofs,"  he  said  calmly,  and  he  added  : 
"Monsieur  le  Baron,  I  wished  to  know  Jean  Val- 
jean thoroughly  on  your  behalf.  I  say  that  Jean 
Valjean  and  ^Madeleine  are  the  sanie,  and  I  say  that 
Javert  had  no  other  assassin  but  Javert  ;  and  when  I 
say  this,  I  hâve  the  proofs,  not  manuscript  proofs,  for 
writing  is  suspicions  and  complaisant,  but  printed 
proofs." 

Whilc  spcaking,  Thénardier  extractcd  from  the 
parcel  two  newspapcrs,  yellow,  faded,  and  tremen- 
dously  saturated  wiih  tobacco.     One  of  thèse  two 

VOL.  v.  27 


418  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

papers,  broken  in  ail  the  folds,  and  falling  in  square 
rags,  seemed  much  oldcr  than  the  other. 

"Two  facts,  two  proofs,"  said  ïliénardier,  as  lie 
handed  Marins  the  two  open  newspapers. 

Thèse  two  papers  the  reader  knows  ;  one,  the 
older,  a  number  of  the  Dnvpeaii  Blanc,  for  July  25, 
1823,  of  which  the  exact  text  was  given  in  the  sec- 
ond volume  of  this  work,  established  the  identity  of 
M.  Madeleine  and  Jean  Valjean.  The  other,  a  Mon- 
iteur, of  June  15,  1832,  announced  the  suicide  of 
Javert,  adding  that  it  was  found,  from  a  verbal  report 
niade  by  Javert  to  the  Préfet,  that  he  had  becn 
made  prisoncr  at  the  barricade  of  the  Rue  de  la 
Chanvi-erie,  and  owed  his  life  to  the  magnanimity  of 
an  insurgent,  who,  when  holding  him  under  his  pis- 
tol,  instead  of  blowing  ont  his  brains,  fired  in  the  air. 
Marius  read  ;  there  was  évidence,  a  certain  date,  irré- 
fragable proof,  for  thèse  two  papers  had  not  been 
printed  expressly  to  support  Thënardier's  statement, 
and  the  note  published  in  the  Moniteur  was  officially 
communicated  by  the  Préfecture  of  Police.  INIarius 
could  no  longer  doubt  ;  the  cashicr's  information  was 
false,  and  he  was  himself  mistaken.  Jean  Valjean, 
suddenly  growing  great,  issued  from  the  cloud,  and 
JNlarius  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  joy. 

"  What,  then,  this  poor  fellow  is  an  admirable 
man  !  Ail  this  fortune  is  really  his  !  He  is  Made- 
leine, the  providence  of  an  entire  town  !  He  is  Jean 
Valjean,  the  savior  of  Javert  !  Ile  is  a  liero  !  He 
is  a  saint  !  " 

"lie  is  not  a  saint,  and  he  is  not  a  hcro,"  said 
Thénadier  ;  "  he  is  an  assassin  and  a  robber."     And 


A  BOTTLE   OF   INK  WHICH   ONLY  WHITEXS.     419 

he  adcled  witb  the  accent  of  a  man  beginning  to  feel 
himself  possessed  of  some  autlioiity,  "  Lefc  us  calin 
ourselves." 

Robber,  assassin,  —  those  words  wbich  Marius  be- 
lieved  bad  disappeared,  and  whicb  bad  returned,  fell 
upon  him  like  a  cold  sbower-bath.    "  Still  —  "  he  said. 

"  Still,"  said  Tbénardier,  "  Jean  Valjean  did  not 
rob  M.  jNIadeleine,  but  he  is  a  robber  ;  he  did  not 
assassinate  Javert,  but  he  is  an  assassin." 

"  Are  you  alluding,"  jNIarius  continued,  "  to  that 
wretched  theft  committed  forty  years  back,  and  ex- 
piated,  as  is  proved  from  those  very  papers,  by  a 
whole  life  of  repentance,  self-denial,  and  virtue  ?  " 

"  I  say  assassination  and  robbery,  M.  le  Baron,  and 
repcat  that  I  am  alluding  to  récent  facts.  What  I 
hâve  to  reveal  to  you  is  perfectly  unknown  and  uu- 
published,  and  you  may  perhaps  find  in  it  the  source 
of  the  fortune  cleverly  offered  by  Jean  Yaljean  to 
Madame  la  Baronne.  I  say  cleverly,  for  it  would  not 
be  a  stupid  act,  by  a  donation  of  that  nature,  to  step 
into  an  honorable  house,  whose  comforts  he  would 
share,  and  at  the  same  tinie  hide  the  crime,  enjoy 
his  robbery,  bury  his  name,  and  create  a  family." 

"  I  could  interrupt  you  hère,"  Marins  observed, 
"but  go  on." 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  I  will  tell  you  ail,  leaving 
the  reward  to  your  gcnerosity,  for  the  secret  is  worth 
its  weight  in  gold.  You  will  say  to  me,  '  Why  not 
apply  to  Jean  Valjean  ?  '  For  a  veiy  simple  reason. 
I  know  that  he  bas  given  up  ail  his  property  in  your 
favor,  and  I  consider  the  combination  ingénions  ;  but 
he  bas  not  a  halfpenny  left  ;  he  would  show  me  his 


420  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

cmpty  liands,  and  as  I  want  money  for  my  voyage  to 
La  Joya,  I  prefer  you,  who  hâve  everything,  to  him, 
who  lias  nothing.  As  I  am  rather  fatigued,  permit 
me  to  take  a  chair." 

Marius  sat  down,  and  made  him  a  sign  to  do  the 
same.  Thénardier  installcd  himself  in  an  easy-chair, 
took  up  the  newspapers,  put  them  back  in  the  parce!, 
and  muttered  as  he  dug  his  nail  into  the  Drajjeau 
Blanc,  "  It  cost  me  a  deal  of  trouble  to  procure  this." 
This  done,  he  crossed  his  legs,  threw  himself  in  the 
chair  in  the  attitude  of  men  who  are  certain  of  what 
thcy  are  stating,  and  then  began  his  narrative  gravely, 
and  laying  a  stress  on  his  words  :  — 

"  ]\Ionsieur  le  Baron,  on  June  6,  1832,  about  a 
year  ago,  and  on  the  day  of  the  riots,  a  man  was  in 
the  Great  Sewer  of  Paris,  at  the  point  where  the 
sewer  falls  into  the  Seine  between  the  Pont  des  In- 
valides and  the  Pont  de  Jéna." 

]\Iarius  hurriedly  drew  his  chair  doser  to  Thënar- 
dier's.  Thénardier  noticed  this  movement,  and  con- 
tinued  with  the  slowness  of  an  orator  who  holds  his 
hearer,  and  feels  his  adversary  quivering  under  his 
words  :  — 

"  This  man,  forced  to  hide  himself,  for  reasons, 
however,  unconnected  with  politics,  liad  selected  the 
sewer  as  his  domicile,  and  had  the  key  of  it.  It  was, 
I  repeat,  June  G,  and  about  eight  in  the  cvcning  the 
man  heard  a  noise  in  the  sewer  ;  feeling  grcatly  sur- 
prised,  hc  concealed  himself  and  watched.  It  was  a 
Sound  of  footstcps  ;  somc  one  was  walking  in  the 
darkness,  and  coming  in  his  direction  ;  strange  to  say, 
there  was  another  man  beside  himself  in  the  sewer. 


A   BOTTLE   OF   INK   WHICH   ONLY  WHITENS.     421 

As  tlie  outlet  of  tlie  sewer  was  no  great  distance  off, 
a  iittle  liglit  wliicli  passed  through  enabled  hini  to 
see  the  new-comer,  and  that-  he  was  carrying  sonie- 
thing  on  his  back.  Hc  walked  in  a  stooping  posture  ; 
lie  was  an  ex-convict,  and  wliat  he  liad  on  his  shoul- 
ders  was  a  corpse.  A  flagrant  case  of  assassination, 
if  there  ever  Avas  onc  ;  as  for  tlie  robbery,  that  is  a 
matter  of  course,  for  no  one  kills  a  man  gratis.  This 
convict  was  going  to  t'arow  the  body  into  the  river, 
and  a  fact  worth  notice  is,  that,  before  reaching  the 
outlet,  the  convict,  wlio  had  corne  a  long  way  through 
the  sewer,  was  obliged  to  pass  a  frightful  hole,  in 
which  it  seenis  as  if  he  might  hâve  left  the  corpse  ;  but 
the  sewer-nieu  who  came  to  eftect  the  repairs  next 
day  would  hâve  found  the  murdered  man  there,  and 
that  did  not  suit  the  assassin.  Heuce  he  preferred 
carrying  the  corpse  across  the  slough,  and  his  efforts 
must  hâve  been  frightful  ;  it  was  impossible  to  risk 
one's  life  more  perfectly,  and  I  do  not  understand 
liow  he  got  out  of  it  alive." 

Marius's  chair  came  nearer,  and  Thénardier  took 
advantage  of  it  to  draw  a  long  breath  ;  then  he  con- 
tinued  :  — 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  a  sewer  is  not  the  Champ 
de  Mars  ;  everything  is  wanting  there,  even  space, 
and  when  two  men  are  in  it  together  they  must  meet. 
This  happened,  and  the  domiciled  man  and  the  passer- 
by  were  compelled  to  bid  each  other  good-evening, 
to  their  mutual  regret.  The  passer-by  said  to  the 
domiciled  man,  '  You  see  what  I  hâve  on  my  back. 
I  nmst  go  out  ;  you  hâve  the  key,  so  give  it  to  me.' 
This  convict  was  a  man  of  terrible  strengtli,  and  there 


422  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"was  110  chance  of  refusiiig  him  ;  still,  the  man  wlio 
lield  the  key  parleyed,  solely  to  gain  time.  He  ex- 
amined  the  dead  man,  but  could  see  nothing,  except 
tliat  he  was  young,  well  dressed,  had  a  rich  look,  and 
was  quite  disfigured  with  blood.  Wliiîe  talking,  lie 
managed  to  tear  off,  without  the  nmrderer  pcrceiving 
it,  a  pièce  of  tlie  skirt  of  the  victim's  coat,  as  a  con- 
vincing  proof,  yoii  understand,  a  nieans  of  getting  on 
the  track  of  the  affair,  and  bringing  the  crime  home 
to  the  criminal.  He  placed  the  pièce  of  cloth  in  his 
pocket  ;  after  which  he  opened  the  grating,  allowed 
tlie  man  with  the  load  on  his  back  to  go  ont,  locked 
the  grating  again,  and  ran  away,  not  feeling  at  ail 
désirons  to  be  niixed  iip  any  further  in  the  adventure, 
or  to  be  présent  when  the  assassin  threw  the  corpse 
into  the  river.  You  now  understand  :  the  man  who 
carricd  the  corpse  was  Jean  Valjean  ;  the  one  Avho 
had  the  key  is  speaking  to  you  at  this  moment,  and 
the  pièce  of  coat-skirt  —  " 

Thénardier  completed  the  sentence  by  drawing 
from  his  pocket  and  holding  level  with  his  eyes  a 
ragged  pièce  of  black  cloth  ail  covered  with  dark 
spots.  Marins  had  risen,  pale,  scarce  breathing,  with 
his  cye  fixed  on  the  black  patch,  and,  without  uttering 
a  syllable,  or  without  taking  his  eycs  off  the  rag,  he 
fell  back,  and,  with  his  riglit  hand  extended  behind 
him,  felt  for  the  key  of  a  wall-cupboard  near  the 
mantel-picce.  He  found  this  key,  opened  the  cup- 
board,  and  thrust  in  his  hand  without  looking  or  once 
taking  his  eyes  off  the  rag  which  Thënardier  dis- 
played.     In  the  mcan  while  Thënardier  continued, — 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,  I  hâve  the  strongcîst  grounds 


A  BOTTLE   OF   INK   WHICH   ONLY  WHITENS.     423 

for  belie\ing  tluit  tlie  assassinated  young  man  was  a 
wealthy  foreigner,  drawn  by  Jean  Yaljean  into  a  trap, 
and  cavryiug  an  euormous  sum  about  him." 

"  I  was  the  young  man,  and,  hère  is  the  coat  !  " 
cried  ]Marius,  as  he  threw  on  the  floor  an  old  black 
coat  ail  covered  ^^^th  blood.  Then,  taking  the  patch 
from  Thénardier's  hands,  he  bent  over  the  coat  and 
put  it  in  its  place  in  the  skirt  ;  the  rent  fitted  exactly, 
and  the  fragment  completed  the  coat.  Thénardier 
was  petrified,  and  tliought,  "  l 'm  sold."  Marius 
drew  himself  up,  shuddering,  desperate,  and  radiant  ; 
he  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  walking  furiously  towards 
Thénardier,  thrusting  almost  into  his  face  his  hand 
full  of  five  hundred  and  thousand  franc  notes,  — 

"  You  are  an  infamous  wretch  !  You  are  a  liar, 
a  calumniator,  and  a  villain'!  You  came  to  accuse 
that  man,  and  you  hâve  justified  him  ;  you  came  to 
ruin  him,  and  hâve  only  succeeded  in  glorifying  him. 
And  it  is  you  who  are  the  robber  I  It  is  you  who  are 
an  assassin  !  ï  saw  you,  Thénardier  —  Jondrette,  at 
that  den  on  the  Boulevard  de  l'Hôpital.  I  know 
enough  about  you  to  send  you  to  the  galleys,  and 
even  farther  if  I  liked.  There  are  a  thousand  fi-ancs, 
ruiïian  that  you  are  !  " 

And  he  threw  a  thousand-franc  note  at  Thénardier, 

"  Ah  !  Jondrette  —  Thénardier,  ^^le  scoundrel,  let 
this  serve  you  as  a  lesson,  you  hawker  of  secrets, 
you  dealer  in  mysteries,  you  searcher  in  the  darkness, 
you  villain,  take  thèse  five  hundred  francs,  and  be 
off.     Waterloo  protects  you.' 

"  Waterloo  !  "  Thénardier  growled,  as  he  pocketed 
the  five  hundred  francs. 


424  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

"  Yes,  assassin  !  Yoii  saved  there  the  life  of  a 
colonel." 

"  A  gênerai  !  "  Thénardier  said,  raising  his  head. 

"  A  colonel  !  "  Mai^us  repeated  furiously.  "  I  would 
not  give  a  farthing  for  a  gênerai.  And  you  come 
hère  to  commit  an  infamy  !  I  tell  you  that  you  hâve 
committed  every  crime  !  Begone  !  Disappear  !  Be 
happy,  tliat  is  ail  I  désire.  Ah,  monster  !  Hère  are 
three  thousand  francs  more  :  take  them.  You  will 
start  to-morrow  for  America  with  your  daughter,  for 
your  wife  is  dead,  you  abominable  liar  !  I  will 
watch  over  your  departure,  bandit,  and  at  the  mo- 
ment when  you  set  sail,  pay  you  twenty  thousand 
francs.     Go  and  get  hanged  elscAvhere." 

"  Monsieur  le  Baron,"  Thërnardier  answered,  bow- 
ing  to  the  ground,  "  accèpt  my  eternal  gratitude." 

And  Thénardier  left  the  room,  understandiiig  iioth- 
ing  of  ail  this,  but  stupefied  and  ravished  by  this 
sweet  crushing  under  bags  of  gold,  and  this  light- 
ning  flashing  over  his  head  in  the  shape  of  bank- 
notes.  Let  us  finish  at  once  with  this  man  :  two 
days  after  the  events  we  hâve  just  recorded  he 
started  for  America,  under  a  false  name,  with  his 
daughter  Azelma,  and  provided  with  an  order  on 
a  New  York  banker  for  tweuty  thousand  francs. 
The  moral  destitution  of  Thénardier,  the  spoiled 
bourgeois,  w^as  irrémédiable,  and  he  was  in  Amer- 
ica w^liat  he  had  been  in  Euroj^c,  Tlie  contact  with 
a  wacked  man  is  sometimes  sufficicnt  to  rot  a  good 
action,  and  to  make  somcthing  bad  issue  from 
it  :  with  Marius's  raoney  Thénardier  turncd  slave 
dealer. 


A  BOTTLE   OF   INK   WHICH   ONLY  WHITENS.     425 

So  soon  as  TLénardier  had  departed,  Marius  raii 
into  the  gardcii  where  Cosette  was  still  walking. 

"Cosette,  Cosette  !  '  he  cried,  "coiue,  corne  quickly, 
let  us  be  ofF  !  Basque,  a  backney  coach  !  Cosette, 
come  !  Oh,  lieavens  !  It  was  he  who  saved  my  life  ! 
Let  us  uot  lose  a  minute  !     Put  on  your  sliawl." 

Cosette  thought  him  mad,  and  obeyed.  He  could 
not  breathe,  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart  to  check 
its  beating.  He  walked  up  and  dowu  with  long 
strides,  and  embraced  Cosette.  "  Oh,  Cosette  !  "  he 
said,  "I  am  a  wretch."  ^Nlarius  was  amazed,  for  he 
was  beginning  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  strange, 
lofty,  and  sombre  figure  in  this  Jean  Yaljean.  An 
extraordinaiT  virtue  appeared  to  him,  suprême  and 
gentle,  and  humble  in  its  immensity,  and  the  con\-ict 
was  transfigured  into  Christ.  ]Marius  was  dazzled 
by  this  prodigy,  and  though  he  knew  not  exactly 
what  he  saw,  it  was  grand.  In  an  instant  the  back- 
ney coach  was  at  the  gâte.  Marius  helped  Cosette 
in,  and  followed  her. 

"  Driver,"  he  cried,  "  Xo.  7,  Rue  de  l'Homme 
Armé.' 

"  Oh,  how  glad  I  am  !  "  said  Cosette.  "  Rue  de 
l'Honnne  Armé  ;  I  did  not  dare  speak  to  you  about 
Monsieur  Jean,  but  we  are  going  to  see  him." 

"  Your  father,  Cosette  !  your  father  more  than 
ever.  Cosette,  I  see  it  ail.  You  told  me  that  you 
never  received  the  letter  I  sent  you  by  Gavroche.  It 
must  hâve  fallen  into  his  hands,  Cosette,  and  he 
came  to  the  barricade  to  save  me.  As  it  is  his  sole 
duty  to  be  an  angel,  in  passing  he  saved  others  : 
he  saved  Javert.     He  drew  me  out  of  that  gulf  to 


426  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

give  me  to  you  ;  lie  carried  me  on  lus  back  through 
that  frightful  sewer.  Ah  !  I  am  a  monstrous  in- 
grate !  Cosette,  after  having  been  your  providence, 
he  was  mine.  Just  imagine  that  there.was  a  hor- 
rible pit,  in  which  a  man  could  be  drowned  a  hun- 
dred  times,  drowned  in  mud,  Cosette;  and  he  carried 
me  through  it.  I  had  fainted;  I  saw  nothing,  I 
heard  nothing,  I  could  not  know  anything  about  my 
own  adventures.  We  are  going  to  bring  him  back 
with  us,  and  whether  he  is  willing.  or  not  he  shall 
never  leave  us  again.  I  only  hope  he  is  at  home  ! 
I  only  hope  we  shall  find  him  !  I  will  spend  the 
rest  of  my  life  in  revering  him.  Yes,  it  nmst  hâve 
been  so,  Cosette,  and  Gavroche  must  hâve  given 
him  ray  letter.  That  explains  everything.  You 
understand," 

Cosette  did  not  understand  a  word. 

"  You  are  right,"  she  said  to  him. 

In  the  mean  while  the  hackney  coach  rolled  along. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   NIGHT   BEHIND   WHICH   IS   DAY. 

At  the  knock  he  heard  at  his  door  Jean  Valjean 
turned  round. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said  feebly. 

The  door  opened,  and  Cosette  and  Marins  ap- 
peared.  Cosette  rushed  into  the  room.  Marins 
remained  on  the  threshold,  leaning  against  the 
doorpost. 

"  Cosette  !  "  said  Jean  Valjean,  and  he  sat  up  in 
his  chair,  with  his  arms  outstretched  and  opened, 
haggard,  livid,  and  sinister,  but  with  an  immense  joy 
in  his  eyes.  Cosette,  sufFocated  with  émotion,  fell 
on  Jean  Valjean's  breast. 

"  Father  !  "  she  said. 

Jean  Valjean,  utterly  overcome,  stammered,  "  Co- 
sette !  She  —  you  —  Madame  !  It  is  thou  !  Oh, 
my  God  !  " 

And  clasped  in  Cosette's  arms,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  It  is  you  !  You  are  hère  ;  you  forgive  me, 
then  !  " 

Marins,  drooping  his  eyelids  to  keep  his  tears  from 
flowing,  advanced  a  step,  and  muttered  between  his 
lips,  which  were  convulsively  clenched  to  stop  his 
sobs,  — 


428  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

"  Father  !  " 

"  And  you  too,  you  forgive  me  !  "  said  Jean  Valjcan. 

Marins  could  not  find  a  woid  to  say,  and  Jean 
Valjean  added,  "  Thank  you."  Cosette  took  oiF  lier 
shawl,  and  threw  her  bonnet  on  tlie  bed. 

"  It  is  in  niy  vvay,"  she  said. 

And  sitting  down  on  the  old  man's  knees,  she 
parted  his  gray  liair  with  an  adorable  movement, 
and  kissed  his  forehead.  Jean  Valjean,  who  was 
wandering,  let  her  do  so.  Cosette,  who  only  com- 
prehended  very  vaguely,  redoubled  her  caresses,  as 
if  she  wished  to  pay  Marius's  debt,  and  Jean  Valjean 
stammered,  — 

"  How  foolish  a  nian  can  be  !  I  fancied  that  I 
should  not  see  her  again.  Just  imagine,  Monsieur 
Pontmercy,  that  at  the  very  moment  when  you  came 
in  I  was  saying,  '  It  is  ail  over.'  There  is  her  little 
dress.  '  I  am  a  wretched  man,  I  shall  not  see  Co- 
sette again,'  I  was  saying  at  the  very  moment  when 
you  were  coming  up  the  stairs.  What  an  idiot  I 
was  !  A  man  can  be  as  idiotie  as  that  î  But  people 
count  without  the  good  God,  who  says,  '  You 
imagine  that  you  are  going  to  be  abandoned  ;  no, 
things  will  not  happen  like  that.  Down  below  there 
is  a  poor  old  fellow  who  has  need  of  an  angel.'  And 
the  angel  cornes,  and  he  sees  Cosette  again,  and 
he  sees  his  little  Cosette  again.  Oh,  I  was  very 
imhappy  !  " 

For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  speak  ;  then  he 
went  on, — 

"  I  really  wantcd  to  see  Cosette  for  a  little  while 
every  now  iind  then,  for  a  heart  rcquires  a  bonc  to 


A  NIGHT   BEHIND   WHICH   IS   DAY.  429 

gnaw.  Still,  I  knew  well  that  I  was  in  the  way. 
I  said  to  mvself,  '  They  do  iiot  Avant  you,  so  stop  in 
vour  corner  ;  a  man  has  no  right  to  pay  everlasting 
visits.'  Ah,  blessed  be  God  !  I  see  lier  again.  Do 
you  know,  Cosette,  iJiat  your  husband  is  very  hand- 
some?  What  a  pretty  enibroidered  collar  you  are 
wearing  ;  I  like  that  pattern.  Your  husband  chose  it, 
did  he  not  ?  And  then,  you  will  need  cashmere 
shawls.  Monsieur  Pontmercy,  let  me  call  her  Co- 
sette, it  will  not  be  for  long." 

And  Cosette  replied,  — 

"  How  unkind  to  hâve  left  us  like  that  !  "Wliere 
hâve  you  been  to  ?  Why  were  you  away  so  long  ? 
Formerly  your  absences  did  not  last  over  three  or 
four  days.  I  sent  Xicolette,  and  the  answer  al\^'ays 
was,  '  He  has  not  returned.'  When  did  you  get 
back?  Why  did  you  not  let  us  know?  Are  you 
aware  that  you  are  greatly  changed  ?  Oh,  naughty 
papa,  he  has  been  ill,  and  we  did  not  know  it.  Hère, 
Marins,  feel  how  cold  his  hand  is  !  " 

"  So  you  are  hère  !  So  you  forgive  me,  Monsieur 
Pontmercy?  "  Jean  Valjean  repeated. 

At  this  remark,  ail  that  was  swelling  iu  Marius's 
heart  found  a  vent,  and  he  burst  forth,  — 

"  Do  you  hear,  Cosette  ?  He  asks  my  pardon. 
And  do  you  know  what  he  did  for  me,  Cosette  ?  He 
saved  my  life  ;  he  did  more,  he  gave  you  to  me,  and, 
after  saving  me,  and  after  giving  you  to  me,  Cosette, 
what  did  he  do  for  himself  ?  He  sacrificed  himself. 
That  is  the  man.  And  to  me,  who  am  so  ungrateful, 
so  pitiless,  so  forgetful,  and  so  guilty,  he  says,  '  Thank 
you  !  '     Cosette,  my  whole  life  spent  at  this  man's 


430  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

feet  woiild  be  too  little.  That  barricade,  that  sewer, 
that  furnace,  that  pit,  —  lie  went  through  thein  ail  for 
me  and  for  you,  Cosette  !  He  carried  me  throus'h 
every  form  of  death,  which  he  held  at  bay  from  me 
and  acccptcd  for  himself.  This  man  possesses  every 
courage,  every  virtue,  every  heroism,  and  every  holi- 
ness,  and  he  is  an  angel,  Cosette  !  " 

"  Stop,  stop  !  "  Jean  Valjean  said  in  a  whisper  ; 
"  why  talk  in  that  way  ?  " 

"  But  why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  it  ?  "  exclaimed 
INIarius,  with  a  passion  in  whicli  was  vénération  ;  "  it 
is  your  fault  also.  You  save  people's  lives,  and  con- 
ceal  the  fact  from  them  !  You  do  more  ;  under  the 
prctext  of  unmasking  yourself,  you  calumuiate  your- 
self.     It  is  frightful  !  " 

"  I  told  the  truth,"  Jean  Valjean  replied. 

"  No  !  "  Marius  retortcd,  "  the  truth  is  the  whole 
truth,  and  you  did  not  tell  that.  You  were  Mon- 
sieur ]Madcleine  ;  why  not  tell  me  so  ?  You  saved 
Javert  ;  why  not  tell  me  so  ?  I  owed  you  my  life  ; 
why  not  tell  me  so  ?  " 

"  Because  I  thought  like  you,  and  found  that  you 
were  right.  It  was  necessary  that  I  should  leavc 
you.  Had  you  known  of  the  sewer,  you  would  hâve 
compelled  me  to  remain  with  you,  and  hence  I  held 
my  tongue.  Had  I  spoken,  I  should  hâve  been  in 
tlie  way." 

"  Been  in  the  way  of  whom,  —  of  what  ?  "  Marius 
broke  out.  "  Do  you  fancy  that  you  are  going  to 
remain  hère  ?  Wc  mean  to  takc  you  back  with  us. 
Oh,  good  heaven  !  when  I  think  that  I  only  learned 
ail  this  by  accident  !     We  shall  take  you  away  with 


A  NIGHT  BEHIND  WHICH  IS  DAY.  431 

US,  for  jou  forni  a  part  of  ourselves.  You  are  her 
father  and  mine.  You  shall  not  spend  anotlier  day 
in  this  frightful  house,  so  do  not  fancy  you  will  be 
hère  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow,"  said  Jean  Yaljean,  "  I  sliall  be  no 
longer  hère  ;  but  I  shall  not  be  at  your  housc." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Marins  asked.  "  Oh, 
no  !  we  shall  not  let  you  travel  any  more.  You 
shall  not  leave  us  again,  for  you  beloug  to  us,  and 
we  will  not  let  you  go." 

"  This  time  it  is  for  good,"  Cosette  added.  "  We 
hâve  a  carriage  below,  and  I  mean  to  carry  you  ofF  ; 
if  necessary,  I  shall  employ  force." 

And  laughing,  she  feigned  to  raise  the  old  man 
in  her  arms. 

"  Your  room  is  still  ail  ready  in  onr  house,"  she 
weut  on.  "  If  you  only  knew  how  pretty  the  garden 
is  just  at  présent  !  The  azaleas  are  getting  on  splen- 
didly  ;  the  walks  are  covered  with  river  sand,  and 
there  are  little  violet  shells.  You  shall  eat  my  straw- 
berries,  for  it  is  I  who  water  them.  And  no  more 
Madame  and  no  more  Monsieur  Jean,  for  we  live 
in  a  republic,  do  we  not,  iNIarius  ?  The  programme 
is  changed.  If  you  only  knew,  father,  what  a  sorrow 
I  had  ;  a  redbreast  had  made  its  nest  in  a  hole  in 
the  wall,  and  a  horrible  cat  killed  it  for  me.  My 
poor,  pretty  little  redbreast,  that  used  to  thrust  its 
head  out  of  its  window  and  look  at  me  !  I  cried 
at  it,  and  could  hâve  killed  the  cat  !  But  now, 
nobody  weeps,  everybody  laughs,  everybody  is  happy. 
You  will  corne  with  us  ;  how  pleased  grandfather 
will  be  !     You  will  hâve  your  bed  in  the  garden, 


432  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

you  will  cultivate  it,  and  we  will  see  whetlier  jour 
strawberries  are  as  fine  as  mine.  And  theu,  I  will 
do  ail  you  wish,  and  you  will  obey  me." 

Jean  Valjean  listened  without  hearing  ;  he  heard 
the  music  of  her  voice  ratlier  than  tlie  meaning  of 
her  words,  and  one  of  those  heavy  tears,  whicli  are 
the  black  pearls  of  the  soûl,  slowly  collected  in  his 
eye.     He  murmured,  — 

"  The  proof  that  God  is  good  is  that  she  is  hère." 

"  My  father  !  "  said  Cosette. 

Jean  Valjean  continued,  — 

"  It  is  true  it  would  be  charming  to  live  together. 
They  hâve  their  trees  fuU  of  birds,  and  I  shoukl  walk 
about  with  Cosette.  It  is  sweet  to  be  with  persons 
who  live,  who  say  to  each  other  good-morning,  and 
call  each  other  in  the  garden.  We  should  each  cul- 
tivate a  little  bed;  she  would  give  me  her  straw- 
berries to  eat,  and  I  would  let  her  pick  my  roses. 
It  would  be  delicious,  but  —  " 

He  broke  off,  and  said  gently,  "  It  is  a  pity  !  " 

The  tear  did  not  fall,  it  was  recalled,  and  Jean 
Valjean  substituted  a  smile  for  it.  Cosette  took 
both  the  old  man's  hands  in  hers. 

"  Good  Heaven  !  "  she  said,  "  your  hands  hâve 
grown  colder.    Can  you  be  ill  ?    Are  you  suffering  ?  " 

"  I  — no,"  Jean  Valjean  replied,  "  I  am  quite  well. 
It  is  only  —  "     He  stopped. 

"Onlywhat?" 

"  I  am  going  to  die  directly." 

Marins  and  Cosette  shuddcrcd. 

"  Die  !  "  Marins  exclaimed. 

"  Yes  ;  but  that  is  nothing,"  said  Jean  Valjean. 


A   NIGHT   BEHIND  WHICH   IS   DAY.  433 

He  breathed,  smiled,  and  added,  — 

"  Cosette,  you  were  talking  to  me  ;  go  on,  speak 
again.  Your  redbreast  is  dead,  then  ?  Speak,  that  I 
may  hear  your  voice." 

Marins,  wlîo  was  petrified,  looked  at  the  old  man, 
and  Cosette  uttered  a  piercing  shriek. 

"  Father,  father,  you  will  live  !  You  are  going 
to  live.     I  insist  on  yoiu*  living,  do  you  hear  ?  " 

Jean  Valjean  raised  his  head  to  her  with  adoration. 

"  Oh,  yes,  forbid  me  dying.  Who  knows  ?  Per- 
haps  I  sliall  obey.  I  was  on  the  road  to  death 
when  you  arrived,  but  that  stopped  me.  I  fancied 
I  was  coming  to  life  again." 

"  You  are  full  of  strength  and  life,"  Marins  ex- 
claimed  ;  "  can  you  suppose  that  a  man  dies  like 
that  ?  You  hâve  known  grief,  but  you  shall  know 
no  more.  It  is  I  who  ask  pardon  of  you,  and  on 
my  knees  !  You  are  going  to  live,  and  live  with 
us,  and  live  a  long  time.  We  will  take  you  with 
us,  and  shall  hâve  henceforth  but  one  thought,  your 
happiness  !  " 

"You  hear,"  said  Cosette,  who  was  ail  in  tears. 
"Marins  says  that  you  will  not  die." 

Jean  Valjean  continued  to  smile. 

"  Even  if  you  were  to  take  me  home  with  you, 
Monsieur  Pontmercy,  would  that  prevent  me  being 
what  I  am  ?  Xo.  God  has  thought  the  same  as  you 
and  I,  and  he  does  not  alter  his  opinion.  It  is  bet- 
ter  for  me  to  be  gone.  Death  is  an  excellent  arrange- 
ment, and  God  knows  better  than  we  do  what  we 
want.  I  am  certain  that  it  is  right,  that  you  should 
be   happy,   that   Monsieur   Pontmercy   shoidd   hâve 

VOL.   v.  28 


434  JEAN   VAL  JE  AN. 

Cosette,  that  youth  should  espouse  the  dawn,  that 
there  should  be  around  you,  niy  childrcn,  lilacs  and 
uightiugales,  that  your  life  should  be  a  lawn  bathed 
in  sunlight,  that  ail  the  enchantments  of  Heaveii 
should  fill  your  soûls,  and  that  I  who  am  good  for 
nothing  should  now  die.  Corne,  be  reasônable  ;  notli- 
ing  is  possible  now,  and  I  fully  feel  that  ail  is  over. 
An  hour  ago  I  had  a  fainting-fit,  and  last  night  I 
drank  the  whole  of  that  jug  of  water.  How  kind 
your  husband  is,  Cosette  !  You  are  much  better 
with  him  than  with  me  !  " 

There  was  a  noise  at  the  door  ;  it  was  the  physi- 
cian  corne  to  pay  his  visit. 

"  Good-day,  and  good-by,  doctor,"  said  Jean  Val- 
jean  ;  "  hère  are  my  poor  children." 

Marius  wènt  up  to  the  physician,  and  addressed 
but  one  word  to  him,  "Sir?" — but  in  the  manner 
of  pronouncing  it  there  was  a  whole  question.  The 
physician  answered  the  question  by  an  expressive 
glance. 

"Because  thîngs  are  unpleasant,"  said  Jean  Val- 
jean,  "that  is  no  reason  to  be  unjust  to  God." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  every  breast  was  oppressed. 
Jean  Valjean  turned  to  Cosette,  and  began  contem- 
plating  her,  as  if  he  wished  to  take  the  glance  with 
him  into  eternity.  In  the  deep  shadow  into  which 
he  had  already  sunk  ecstasy  was  still  possible  for  him 
in  gazing  at  Cosette.  The  reflection  of  her  sweet 
countenance  illumincd  his  pale  face,  for  the  sepulchre 
may  hâve  its  brilliancy.     The  physician  felt  his  puise. 

"  Ah,  it  was  you  that  he  wanted,"  he  said,  looking 
at  Marius  and  Cosette. 


A  NIGIIT   BEHIND  WHICH   IS   DAY.  435 

And  bending  down  to  Marius's  ear,  lie  wliispered, 
"Too  late!" 

Jean  Valjean,  almost  without  ceasing  to  regard 
Cosette,  looked  at  Marins  and  the  physician  with 
serenit}^  and  the  scarcely  articulated  words  could  be 
heard  passing  liis  lips. 

"  Itis  nothing  to  die,  but  it  is  frightful  not  to  live." 

Ail  at  once  he  rose  ;  such  return  of  strength  is  at 
times  a  sequel  of  the  death-agony,  He  walked  with 
a  firm  step  to  the  wall,  thrust  aside  Marins  and  the 
doctor,  who  wished  to  help  him,  detached  from  the 
wall  the  sinall  copper  crucifix  hanging  on  it,  retnrned 
to  his  seat  with  ail  the  vigor  of  full  health,  and  said, 
as  he  laid  the  crucifix  on  the  table,  — 

"  There  is  the  great  Martyr." 

Then  his  chest  sank  in,  his  head  vacillated,  as  if 
the  intoxication  of  the  tomb  were  seizing  on  him,  and 
his  hands,  lying  on  his  knees,  began  pulling  at  the 
cloth  of  hi^  trousers.  Cosette  supported  his  shoul- 
ders,  and  sobbed,  and  tried  to  speak  to  him,  but  was 
unable  to  do  so.  Through  the  words  mingled  with 
that  lugubrious  saliva  which  accompanies  tears,  such 
sentences  as  this  could  be  distinguished  :  "  Father, 
do  not  leave  us.  Is  it  possible  that  we  hâve  only 
found  you  again  to  lose  you  ?  "  It  might  be  said 
that  the  death-agony  moves  like  a  serpent  ;  it  cornes, 
goes,  advances  toward  the  grave,  and  then  turns  back 
toward  life  ;  there  is  groping  in  the  action  of  death. 
Jean  Valjean,  after  this  partial  syncope,  rallied, 
shook  his  forehead  as  if  to  make  the  darkness  fall 
ofF  it,  and  became  again  almost  lucid.  He  caught 
hold  of  Cosette's  sleeve  and  kissed  it. 


436  JEAN  VALJEAN. 

"  He  is  recovering,  doctor,  he  is  recoveriiig," 
Marins  cried. 

"  You  are  both  good,"  said  Jean  Valjean,  "  and  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  wliat  causes  me  sorrow.  It 
causes  me  sorrow,  Monsieur  Pontmercy,  that  you 
liave  rcfused  to  touch  tliat  money  ;  but  it  is  really 
your  wife's.  I  will  explain  to  you,  my  childrcn,  and 
that  is  why  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Black  jet 
cornes  from  England,  and  white  jet  from  Norway  ;  it 
is  ail  in  that  paper  there,  which  you  will  read.  I 
invented  the  substitution  of  rolled-up  snaps  for 
wclded  snaps  in  bracelets  ;  they  are  prettier,  better, 
and  not  so  dear.  You  can  understand  what  money 
can  be.earned  by  it;  so  Cosette's  fortune  is  really 
hers.  I  give  you  thèse  détails  that  your  mind  may 
be  at  rest  !  " 

The  porter's  wife  h  ad  come  up,  and  was  peep- 
ing  through  the  open  door  ;  the  physician  sent  lier 
off,  but  could  not  prevent  the  zealous  .old  woman 
shouting  to  the  dying  man  before  she  weut, — 

"  Will  you  hâve  a  priest  ?  " 

'*'  I  hâve  one,"  Jean  Valjean  answered. 

And  he  seemed  to  point  with  his  finger  to  a  spot 
ovcr  his  head,  where  it  seemed  as  if  he  saw  some  one  ; 
it  is  probable,  in  truth,  that  the  Bisliop  was  présent 
at  this  death-scene.  Cosette  gently  placed  a  pillow 
behind  Jean  Valjean's  loins,  and  he  continued, — 

"  jNIonsieur  Pontmercy,  hâve  no  fears,  I  conjure 
you.  The  six  hundred  thousand  francs  are  really 
Cosette's  !  I  should  hâve  thrown  away  my  life  if  you 
did  not  eiijoy  them  !  Wc  had  succeeded  in  making 
those  bcads  famously,  and  we  competed  with  what 


A  NIGHT   BEHIND  WHICH   IS   DAY.  437 

is  called  Berlin  jewelry.  For  instance,  the  black 
beads  of  Germany  cannot  be  equalled  ;  for  a  gross, 
which  contains  twelve  hundred  well-cut  beads,  only 
costs  three  francs." 

When  a  being  who  is  dear  to  us  is  about  to  die, 
we  regard  hini  witli  a  gaze  which  grapples  him,  and 
would  like  to  retain  him.  Cosette  and  Marins  stood 
before  him  hand  in  hand,  dumb  through  agony,  not 
knowing  what  to  say  to  death,  despairing  and  trem- 
bling.  With  each  moment  Jean  Valjean  declined 
and  approached  nearer  to  the  dark  horizon.  His 
breathing  had  become  intermittent,  and  a  slight  rat- 
tle  impeded  it.  He  had  a  difficulty  in  moving  his 
fore-arm,  his  feet  had  lost  ail  movement,  and  at  the 
same  tinie,  as  the  helplessness  of  the  limbs  and  the 
exhaustion  of  the  body  increased,  ail  the  majesty  of 
the  soûl  ascended  and  was  displayed  on  his  forehead. 
The  light  of  the  unknown  world  was  already  visible 
in  his  eyeballs.  His  face  grew  livid  and  at  the  same 
time  smiling  ;  life  was  no  longer  there,  but  there  was 
something  else.  His  breath  stopped,  but  his  glance 
expanded  ;  he  was  a  corpse  on  whom  wings  could 
be  seen.  He  made  Cosette  a  sign  to  approach,  and 
then  Marins  ;  it  was  evidently  the  last  minute  of  the 
last  hour,  and  he  began  speaking  to  them  in  so  faint 
a  voice  that  it  seemed  to  come  from  a  distance,  and  it 
was  as  if  there  were  a  wall  between  them  and  him. 

"  Come  hither,  both  of  you  ;  I  love  you  dearly. 
Oh,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  die  like  this  !  You  too 
love  me,  my  Cosette  ;  I  felt  certain  that  you  had 
always  a  fondness  for  the  poor  old  man.     How  kind 


438  JEAN    VALJEAN. 

it  was  of  you  to  place  that  pillow  under  iiiy  loins  ! 
You  will  weep  for  me  a  little,  will  you  uot  ?  But  not 
too  mucli,  for  I  do  not  wish  you  to  feel  real  sorrow. 
You  nuist  amuse  yoursclves  a  great  deal,  my  chil- 
drcn.  I  forgot  to  tell  you  that  more  profit  was 
made  on  the  buckles  without  tongues  than  on  ail 
the  rest  ;  the  gross  cost  two  francs  to  produce,  and 
sold  for  sixty.  It  was  really  a  good  trade,  so  you 
must  not  feel  surprised  at  the  six  hundred  thousand 
francs,  Monsieur  Pontmercy.  It  is  honest  money. 
You  can  be  rich  without  any  fear.  You  must  hâve 
a  carriage,  now  and  then  a  box  at  the  opéra,  hand- 
some  ball-dresses,  my  Cosette,  and  give  good  dinners 
to  your  friends,  and  be  very  happy.  I  was  writing 
just  now  to  Cosette.  She  will  find  my  letter.  To 
her  I  leave  the  two  candlesticks  on  the  mantel-piece. 
Thcy  are  silver,  but  to  me  they  are  made  of  gold,  of 
diamonds  ;  they  change  the  candies  placed  in  them 
into  consecrated  tapers.  I  know  not  whether  the 
man  who  gave  them  to  me  is  satisfied  with  me  above, 
but  I  hâve  donc  what  I  could.  My  children,  you 
will  not  forget  that  I  am  a  poor  man,  you  will  hâve 
me  buried  in  some  corner  with  a  stone  to  mark  the 
spot.  That  is  my  wish.  No  name  on  the  stone.  If 
Cosette  comes  to  sce  it  now  and  then,  it  will  cause 
me  pleasurc.  And  you,  too.  Monsieur  Pontmercy. 
I  must  confess  to  you  that  I  did  not  always  like  you, 
and  I  ask  your  forgiveness.  Now,  she  and  you  are . 
only  one  for  me.  I  am  very  gratcful  to  you,  for  I 
feel  that  you  render  Cosette  happy.  If  you  only 
kncw.  Monsieur  Pontmercy;  her  pretty  pink  checks 
were  my  j()y,  and  when  I  saw  her  at  ail  pale,  I  was 


A  NIGHT   BEUIND   WHICH   IS   DAY.  439 

misérable.  There  is  in  the  chest  of  drawers  a  five- 
hundred-franc  note.  I  hâve  not  touched  it  ;  it  is  for 
the  poor,  Cosette.  Do  you  see  your  little  dress  there 
on  the  bed  ?  Do  you  recognize  it  ?  And  y  et  it  was 
only  ten  years  ago  !  How  time  passes  !  We  hâve 
been  very  happy,  and  it  is  ail  over.  Do  not  weep, 
my  children  ;  I  am  not  going  very  far,  and  I  shall  see 
you  from  there.  You  will  only  hâve  to  look  wheu 
it  is  dark,  and  you  will  see  me  smile.  Cosette,  do 
you  remember  INIontfermeil  ?  You  were  in  the  wood 
and  very  frightened  :  do  you  remember  when  I  took 
the  bucket-handle  ?  It  was  the  first  time  I  touched 
your  pretty  little  hand.  It  was  so  cold.  Ah,  you 
had  red  hands  in  those  days.  Miss,  but  now  they  are 
very  white.  And  the  large  doll?  Do  you  remember? 
You  christened  it  Catherine,  and  were  sorry  that  you 
did  not  take  it  witl>  you  to  the  couvent.  How  many 
times  you  hâve  made  me  laugh,  my  sweet  angel  ! 
When  it  had  rained,  you  used  to  set  straws  floating 
in  the  gutter,  and  watched  them  go.  One  day  I 
gave  you  a  Avicker  battledore  and  a  shuttlecock  vvith 
yellow,  blue,  and  green  feathers.  You  hâve  forgotten 
it.  You  were  so  merry  when  a  little  girl.  You 
used  to  play.  You  would  put  cherries  in  your  ears. 
Ail  thèse  are  things  of  the  past.  The  forests  through 
which  one  has  passed  with  one's  child,  the  trees 
under  which  we  hâve  walked,  the  couvent  in  which  we 
hid,  the  sports,  the  hearty  laughter  of  childhood,  are 
shadows.  I  imagined  that  ail  this  belonged  to  me, 
and  that  was  my  stupidity.  Those  Thénardiers  were 
very  wicked,  but  we  raust  forgive  them.  Cosette, 
the  moment  has  arrived  to  tell  you  your  mother's 


440  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

name.  It  was  Fantiiie.  Remember  this  name,  — 
Fautine.  Fall  on  your  knces  every  time  that  yoii 
prouounce  it.  She  sufFered  terribly.  She  loved  you 
dearly.  She  knew  as  much  misery  as .  you  hâve 
knowii  happiness.  Such  are  the  distributions  of 
God.  He  is  above.  He  sees  us  ail,  and  he  knows 
ail  that  he  does,  amid  bis  great  stars.  I  am  going 
away,  my  children.  Love  each  other  dearly  and 
always.  There  is  no  other  thing  in  the  world  but 
that  :  love  one  another.  You  will  sometimes  think 
of  the  poor  old  man  who  died  hère.  Ah,  niy  Cosette, 
it  is  not  my  fault  that  I  did  not  see  you  every  day, 
for  it  broke  my  heart.  I  went  as  far  as  the  corner 
of  the  street,  and  must  hâve  produced  a  funny  effcct 
on  the  people  who  saw  me  pass,  for  I  was  like  a  mad- 
man,  and  even  went  out  without  my  hat.  My  children, 
I  can  no  longer  see  very  clcarly.  I  h  ad  several  things 
to  say  to  you,  but  no  mattcr.  Think  of  me  a  little. 
You  are  blessed  beings.  I  know  not  what  is  the  mat- 
ter  with  me,  but  I  see  light.  Corne  hither.  I  die 
happy.    Let  me  lay  my  hands  on  your  beloved  heads." 

Cosette  and  Marins  fell  on  their  knees,  heart- 
broken  and  choked  with  sobs,  each  under  one  of 
Jean  Valjean's  hands.  Thèse  august  hands  did  not 
move  again.  He  had  fallen  back,  and  the  light  from 
the  two  candies  illumined  him  :  his  white  face  looked 
up  to  heaven,  and  he  let  Cosette  and  Marins  cover 
his  hands  with  kisses. 

He  was  dead. 

The  night  was  starless  and  intensely  dark  ;  doubt- 
less  somc  immense  angel  was  standing  in  the  gloom, 
with  outstretched  wings,  waiting  for  the  soûl. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

THE   GRABS   HIDES,    AND   THE    RAIN   EFFACES. 

The  RE  is  at  the  cemetery  of  Père-Lachaise,  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  poor  side,  far  from  the  élégant  quarter 
of  this  city  of  sepulchres,  far  from  those  fantastic 
tombs  which  display  in  the  présence  of  eteruity  the 
hideous  fashions  of  death,  in  a  deserted  corner  near 
an  old  wall,  under  a  yew  up  which  biud-weed 
climbs,  and  amid  couch-grass  and  moss,  a  tombstone. 
This  stone  is  no  more  exempt  than  the  others  from 
the  results  of  time,  irom  mildew,  lichen,  and  the 
deposits  of  birds.  Water  turns  it  green  and  the 
atmosphère  blackens  it.  It  is  not  in  the  vicinity  of 
any  path,  and  people  do  not  care  to  visit  that  part 
becausc  the  grass  is  tall  and  they  get  their  feet  wet. 
When  there  is  a  little  sunshine  the  lizards  disport 
on  it  ;  there  is  ail  around  a  rustling  of  wild  oats,  and 
in  spring  liunets  sing  on  the  trees. 

This  tombstone  is  quite  bare.  In  cutting  it,  only 
the  necessities  of  the  tomb  were  taken  into  considér- 
ation ;  no  further  care  was  taken  than  to  make  the 
stone  long  enough  and  narrow  enough  to  cover  a 
man. 

No  name  can  be  read  on  it. 

INIany,  many  ycars  ago,  however.  a  hand  wrote  on 


442  JEAN   VALJEAN. 

it  in  pencil  thèse  Unes,  whicli  became  almost  illegible 
through  rain  and  clust,  and  whicli  are  probably 
effaced  at  the  présent  day  :  — 

"  Il  dort.     Quoique  le  sort  fût  pour  lui  bien  étrange, 
Il  vivait.     Il  mourut  quand  il  n'eut  pas  son  ange  ; 
La  chose  simplement  d'elle-même  arriva, 
Comme  la  nuit  se  fait  lorsque  le  jour  s'en  va." 


THE    END, 


University  Press  :  John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


D  i    ^  t/ 


PQ       Hugo,  Victor  Marie 
2286       Les  misérables 

1892 
pt.5 


\ 


PLEASE  DO  NOT  REMOVE 
CARDS  OR  SLIPS  FROM  THIS  POCKET 

UNIVERSITY  OF  TORONTO  LIBRARY 


NOT^ 


'•«bÉ