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ST. DENIS.
JLj JcZjb SSI
§ ^
■ i!
UY
A^icTOR i-iuao.
To be published in Fivo Parts — Each Pai't a Completo Novel, ^
as follows : ■ I
FANTINE, MARIUS,
COSETTE, ST DENIS,
JEAN VALJEAN.
richmond:
West & johnston
1863.
4
LES MISERABLES.
, (
(THE WRETCHED.)
% Italifl.
BY
VICTOR Huao
A NEW TRANSLATION, REVISED.
IN FIVE PARTS:
I. lANTI^E. III. MARIUS
II. COBETTE. IV. ST. DKNIS.
V. JFAN VALJEAN.
PART IV.
S^IN^T DENIS
RICHMOND :
WEST & JOHNSTON
18G3.
.•♦'
Ik
\
CO]yTENTS
BOOK FIRST.
A Few Pages of History: ' PAaB.
I.— Well Cut ;. .. 9
II.— Badly Sewed 13
III. — Louis rhilippe 12
IV. — Crevices under tlia Foundntion ift
v. — Facts from which History Springs, and which History Ignores... 18
VI. — Enjolras and his Lieutenants 22
BOOK SECOND.
Bpoxine :
I.— The Field of the Lark '. 26
II. — Embryonic Formation of Crimes in the Incubation of Prisons.... 29
III. — An Apparition to Marius 891
BOOK THIRD.
The House in the Rub Plumet :
I. — The Secret I^ouse 34
II. — Jean Valjean a National Guard 37
III. — Foliis Ac Frondibus 39
IV. — Change of Grating 61
V. — The Rose di.«covers that she is an Engine of War 44
VI. — The Battle Commences 47
VII. ^To Sadness, Sadness and a Half 49
VIIL— The Chain .• 63
IX. — Wound Without, Cure Within 59
BOOK FOURTH.
The End of which is unlike the Beqinning :
I. — Silitude and the Barracks 61
II.— Fears of Cosette 62
HI. — Enriched by* he Commentaries 0^ Toussaint ..64
IV. — -A Heart under a Stone 66
V. — Cosette after the Letter 69
VI. — The Old are made to go out when convenient ^70
BOOK FIFTH.
Little Gatrochb:
I.— A Malevolent Trick of the Wind 72
II. — In which Little Gavroche takes advantage of Napoleon the Great. 76
III. — The Fortunes and Misfortunes of Escape 84
• BOOK SIXTH.
Enchantments and Desolations:
I. — Snnshinc. *. 98
II. — The Stupefaction of Complete Happiness M
III. — Shadow Commences 97
IV. — Marius becomes go Real as to give Cosette bis Address 9f
V. — The Old Heart and Young Heart in Presence IC
viii CONTENTS.
BOOK SEVENTH.
JvxB 6. 1882:
1— Ji-an Vuljcan 109
11 —MbHuo 110
III. A IJurinl : opportunity for ru-birtli 1*12
IV. Tl»i? Kt>ullitiotis of former times 115
v.— Uriginality of Paris 119
BOOK EIGHTH.
TuK Ati^'M Fuatekmzks with the Huuricake: ,
• I. — Some insight into the origin of Gavroche's Poetry. Influence of
an Acudi-miciitn upon that Poetry 121
if. — Gavrocbc on the March 1-2
111.— The Chilli wonders at the Old Man • 123
IV.— Recruits 123
BOOK NINTH.
CoBi.sTii:
I. — History of Corinth from its^oundiition 124
II. — Preliminiiry Gaiety , 127
III.— Ninhl b^'gins to gather over Grautnire K13
IV. — Attempt at coni<olatioo upon the Widow Uucheloup 185
V. — The Preparation 137
VI._While Wuiting ' *. ]:10
VII.— The Man Hccruitcd in ttiellue dca Billettes 139
Vlll. — Several Interrogation Points coucerniug one Le Cabuc, who perhaps
was not Le Cabuc 142
T300K TENTH.
Mabjus Enteus the Shadow: •
I. — From the Hue Plumet to the Quarticr Saint Penis 144
II — Paris — an Owl's Eye View 146
III.— The Extreme Limit f. -. 148
BOOK ELEVENTH.
The Gramieuus of Despaib:
I — Thp Flag: First Act 151
II.— The Flag: Seomd Act , 153
III, — Gavroche would have done better to accept Enjolras's Carbine.... 165
IV.— The Keg of Powder.... 1-56
V. — Knd of Jean Prouvuire's Rhymes 157
VI. —The Agony of Death after the Agony of Life 158
VII. — Gavruchc a Profound Calculotor of Distuuocs 161
BOOK TWELFTH.
The Rub de l'Homme Aume :
I.— Blotter, Blabber ^ IGl
II. — The (Gamin an Enemy of Light 103
III. — Wliilc Cosettc and Toussaiut Sleep 109
LES MISERABLES.
SAINT DENIS
AND
IDYL OF THE HUE FLUMET.
A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY.
WELL CUT.
The years 1881 and 1832, the two years immediately connected with
the Revolution of July, are one of the most peculiar and most strilving
periods in history. These two years, among those which precede and
those which follow them, are like two mountains. They have the revo-
lutionary grandeur. In them we discern precipices. In them the so-
cial masses', the very strata of civilization, the consolidated group of su-
perimposed and cohering interests, the venerable profile of the old
French formation, appear and disappear at every instant through the
stormy clouds of systeme, passions and theories. These appearances and
disappearances have been named resistance and movement. At inter-
vals wo see truth gleaming forth, that daylight of the human soul.
This remarkable period is short enough, and is beginning to be far
enough from us, so that it is henceforth possible to catch its princfpal
outlines. We will make the endeavor.
The Ilc.storation had been one of those intermediate phases, diflScult of
definition, in which there are fatigue, buzzings, murmurs, slumber, tu-
mult, and which are nothing more nor less than the arrival of a great
nation at a haUing-place. I'hese periods are peculiar, and deceive poli-
ticians who would take advantage of them. At first, the nation asks
only for repose; men have but one^hirrft, for peace; they have but one
ambition, to be little. That is a translation of being quiet. Great
10 LES MISERABLE3.
• ventures, great men, tliank God, they liave
I«:ive been ovcrlicacl iu them. Tliey would
c'H iir liiT l'iu.-ia8, and NiUpoIeou fur tho kinj; of Yvetot.
•« \\ i lidle King he was !'' They have walked since da} break,
it is the cvLoinp uf a long and rousrh day ; they made th • first relay with
Mirabeau, the hccnnd with liobcspiorre, the thijd witii IJimapartc, thty
arc thoro";;hly exhausted. Kvery one of them asks fur a bid.
TbcD, this is what appears to the political philosopher. At tho same
time that weary men doniand repose, accomplished facts deman^ guaran-
tees, (juaranteos to facts arc the .'^amc thing as repose to men
This is what England demanded of the Stuarts after the Protector-;
this is what France demanded of the JJonrbons after tho- Empire.
These guarantees are a Dece!-.«ity of the times. They must bs ac-
corded. The princes "grant" them, but in reality it is the force of
circumstances which gives them. A profound truth, and a piece of use-
ful knowledge, of which the Stuart.- had no suspicion in l(ii5"2, and of
wbioh the Bourbons had not even a glimpse in 1814.
When its hour seemed come, the Rcstoratioh, supposing itself victo-
rious over IJonaparte, and rooted in the country, that is to sny, thinking
itbi'lf strong and thinking it.self deep, took its resolution abruptly and
ri^'ked its throw. One morning it rose in the face of France, aiui, lift-
ing up its voice, it denied tho«collcctive title and the individual title,
pov'.reignty to the nation, liberty to the citizen. Ip other words, it de-
nied to the natioD what wade it a oation, and to the citizen what mudo
bim a citizen.
This is the essence of those famous acts which are called the ordi-
m.nees of July. The restoration fell. It fell justly. We must say,
ht wever, that it had not been absolutely hostile to all forms of progress.
Seme grand things were done in it.s presence.
Under tho restoration the nation became accustomed to'discu.ssion
wi'h calmness, which was wanting in the Kepublic; and to grandeur in
pfoee, which was wanting in the Empire. France, free antl strong, had
betu an encouraging 8j)cctaelo to the other peoples of Europe. Tho
Kevolution had had i's say under Robespierre; the cannon had had its
h»y under Hdnaparte; under Louis XVI II. and {'harles X iutclligence
in its turn found speech. The wind ceasod, tlic torch was reliiihtcd.
The pure liglit of mind was <5cen trembling upon the serene summits.
A rauguiOcent spectacle, full of us(j and charm. For lift«en years there
wore hoen at work, in complete peace, and openly in public places, these
gr»at principles, bo old to the thinker, so^ new to the statesman : equali-
ty before tho law, freedom of conscience, freedom of speech, fiee.doni of
tho pre>s, tho accessibility of every function to every aptitude. This
went on thus until 1.^80. 1'he IJourbnns were an instrument of civili-
zation, which broke in the hands of Providence;
yhe Revolution of July immediately found friends and enemies
througluMt the world. The former rushed towards it with enthusiasm
and joy, the latter turned away; each according to his own nature.
The princes of Europe, at the first moment, owls in this dawn, closed
tlicir eyes, shocked and stupefied, and opened them only to threaten. A
fright which e:in be understood, an ijnger which can be excused. • This
Btruoge revolution had hardly been a shock; it did not even do van-
SAINT DENIS. 11
quished rojalty the honor of treating it as an enemy and shedding its
Mc\cd. Ii/'the e^'es of the despotic governments, always interested that,
'ibferty should calumniate Iicrsclf, the llcvolution of July had the fault of
being formidable and yet being mild. Nothing, however, was attempt-
ed or plotted against it. The most dissatisfied, the most irritated, the
most horrified, bowed to it ; whatever may be dur selfishness and our
prejudices, a mysterious respect springs from events in which we fi?el
the intervention of a hand hiiiher than that of man.
The llevolution of July is the triumph of the Right prostrating the
Fact. A thing full of splendor. The right prostrating the fa\3t. Thence
the glory of the llevolution of 1830, thence its mildness al.so. The
right, when it triumphs, has no need to be violent. The right is the
just and the true.
The peculiarity of the right is that it is always beautiful and pure.
The fact, even that which is most necessary iu appearance, even that
most accepted by its contemporaries, if it exist only as fact, and if • it
contain too little of the right, or none at :^11, is destined infallibly to bo-
couic, in the lapse of time, deformed, unclean, perhaps even monstrous.
If you would ascertain at once what degree of ugliness the fact may
reach, seen in the distance Of the centuries, look at Blaehiavel. JMachi-
avel is not an evil ^nius, nor a demon, nor a Cowardly and miserable
veriter; he is nothing but the fact. And he is not merely the Italian
fact, he is the Europe-in fact, the fact of the Sixteenth century. Me
seems hideous, and he is so, in the presence of tho moral idea of the
Nineteenth '
This conflict o§ the right and the fact endures from .the origin of so-
ciety. To bring the duel to an end, to amalgamntc the pure idea with
the human reality, to make the right peacefully interpenetrate the fact,,
and the fact the right, this is the work'of the wise.
BADLY SEW£D.
But the work of the wise is one thing, the work of the able another.
The llevolution of 1830 soon grounded. As soon as a revolution strikes
the shore, the able carvo up the wreck.
According to these politicians, ingenious in putting a mask of necesgiJj
upon profitable fictions, the first need of a people after a revolution, if
this people forms part of a monarchical continent, is to procure a dyn:>«
ty. In this way^ say they, it can have peace after its revolution} that i?
to say, time to staunch its wounds and to repaii; its house. The dyu; •-
ty hides the scaffold, and covers the ambulance.
Now, it is not always easy to procure a dynasty.
But the first family you meet with does not j^ufhcc to make a dynasty.
There must be a certain amount of antiquity in a race, and the wrinkles
of centuries are not extemporized.
What arc the qualifies of a dynasty? It should bo national; that isi
to say, revolutionary at a distance, not by acts performed, but by idcaj
accepted. It should bo composed of the past and be historic, of the fu-
ture aod be sympathetic.
12 LKS MISl'iRABLES.
All this explains wliy the first revolutions content themselves with
fin-^ing a man, Cromwell or Napoleon ; and why the second absolutely
1'! -t on finding a family, the house of Brunswick or the house Of,i
(j.ans.
Koyal houses resemble those banyan trees of India, each branch of
vrhich, by bending to the ground, takes root there and becomes a ban-
yan. Kuch branch may become a dynasty. On the sole condition that
it b^d to the pcopJe. Such is the theory of the able.
The year of 1830 carried out this theory, already applied to England
Ij 1688. .
The year 1830 is a revolution arrested in mid career. Half progress,
quisi right. Now losic ignores the Almost, just as the sun ignores the
..'M-lIe.
Who stops revolutions halfway? The bourgeoisie. Why? Be-
cause the bourgeoisie is the interest* which has attained to satiBfaction.
Yesterday it was appetite, to day it is fulnc^ss, to-morrow it will be i?atie-
ly. The phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon, was re-produced in 1830
after Charles X.
The bourgeoisie, then, as well as the' statesmen, felt the need of a
man who shoOld express the y/ovd : Halt ! Au Although Because. A
composite individuality, signifying revolution and siguifying" stability;
in other words, assuring the present through the evident compatibility of
the past with the future. This man was "found at hand "' His name
■was Louis Philippe d'Orlcans. The 221 made Louis Philippe king.
Lnfuyette undertook the coronatir>n. ' He called it Uir }>es( nf npuUlig.
The Hotel de Ville of Paris replaced the Cathedral o^ Kheims. This
Bubstltution of a demi- throne for the complete throne was " the work
of 18."{0." When the able had finished their work, the immense vicious-
ncss of their solutimi became apparent. All this was done without
rct'erenc6 to absolute right. The absolute right cried "I protest!"
then, a fearful thing, it went buck into obscurity. ^
III.
LOUIS pniLiprE. •
llevdlutinns have a terrible arm and a fortunate 'hand ; they strike
h:;rd and choose well.. Even when incomplete, even dogenoiate and
abated, and reduced to thu cimditiou of revolution junior, like the llev-
oliJiion of I83(J, they almost alwiiys retain enough of the light of Provi-
d«Mic • to prev<tut a fatal fall Their eclipse is never aq nbJication. Still,
let u- not bivsst too loudly j revolutions, even, are deceived, and discJose
gr.ivi.'. iiiist:ike,'< . • •
Let us return to 1830. The year 1830 was fortunate in its deviation.
Ill the estahlisliiiicnt which called itself order after the Kevolution was
cur .short, the king was better than the royalty. Louis Philippe was a
rai' man. Son ^A' -d father to whom history will certainly allow extenu-
atnii; circumstancrs, < ut as worthy of esteem as that father had been
Wur iiy of blame; having all private virtues and many public virtues;
cnnful of his health, his fortune, his person, his business, knowing the
f
SAINT DENI?. 13
value of a micmte, though not always the' value of a year; sober, se-
rene, peaceful, patient; good man and good prince; knowing all tho
languages of Europe, and, what is rarer, all the languages of all inter-
ests, and speaking them ; admirable representative of-the " middle class,"
but surpassing it, and in every way greater than it; having the excel-
lent sense, even while appreciating the blood from which he sprang, to
estimate himself above all at his own intrinsic worth, and, about the
question of his race even, very particular, declaring himself Orleans
and not Bourbon; really first Prince of the Blood, while he had only
been Most Serene Highness, but a frank bourgeois' the day he was Majes-
ty ; diffuse in public, concise in private; a declared, but not proven,
miser; in reality one of those economicsil persons who are prodigal iu
matters of fancy or their duty; well read, but not very appreciative of
letters; a gentleman, but. not chivalrous; simple, calm, and strong;
worshipped by his family and by his house; a seductive talker, au
undeceived statesman, interiorly cold, ruled by the present interest,
governing always by tbe nearest convenience, incapable of "malice or of
gratitude, pitilessly wearing out superiorities upon mediocrities, able in
opposing through parliamentary majorities those mysterious unanimities
wliich mutter almost inaudib'y beneath thrones; expansive, sometimes
imprudent in his expansion, but with marvellous address in that impru-
dence : fertile in expedients, in faces, in masks ;" making France afraid
of Kurope and Europe of France; loving his country incontesta'bly, but
preferring his family ; prizing domination more than authority, and
authority more than dignity; a disposiiiou which is to this extent fatal,
that, turning everything towards success, it admits of ruse, and does
not absolutely repudiate baseness", but which is profitable to this extent,
that it preserves politics from violent shocks, "the State from fractures,
and society from catastrophes; minute, correct, vigilant, attentive,
sngacious, indefatigable; contradicting hifnself sometimes, and giving
himself the lie; bold against Austria at Ancona, obstinate against lllng-
Jand in Spain, booibarding Antwerp and paying Pritchard : singing the
Marseillaise with conviction; inaccessible to depression, to weariness, to
the taste for the beautiful and the ideal, to foolhardy generosity, to
Utopia, to chinifcras, to anger, to vanity, to fear; having every form of
personal bravery ; general at Valniy, soldier atJemappcs; his life at-
tempted eight times by regicides, yet always smiling; brave as a grena-
dier, courageous as a thinker; anxious merely before the chances of a
European disturbance, and unfit for great political Adventures ; always
ready to risk his life, never his work ; disguising his pleasure in the form
of influence, that he might be obeyed rather as an intelligence than as
a kiuLT ; endowed with ob'^ervation and not with divination, paying little
attention t) minds, but able to read the character of men, that is to say,
needing to see in order to judge; prompt and penetrating good sense, '
practical wisdom, ready speech, prodigious memory ; digging inressanlly
-into that memory, his only point of resemblance with CVsar, Alexiin-
der. and Napoleon ; knowing facts, details, dates, proper names, igno-
rant of tendencies, passions, the diverse powers of the multitude, interior
aspirations, the hidden and obscure uprisings of souls, in one word, all
that might be called the invisible currents of conscience ; accepted by
the surface, but little in acord with the under-France ; making his way
14 LES MISERABLES.
1 : too Tuuch and not rciguing onougb ; his own prime
1 it) iiiakiLg of the pcttiaess of realities an ob.stacle
( , I I i:. iiy of ideas; adding to a true creative faculty for civili-
;■ i.:;iid organixation, an indescribable "spirit of routine and
( : founder and attorney of a dynasty; possessing something of
^. _ne *nd souKtbing of a lawyer; to sum up, a lofty and origi-
nal li;:iiri', a prince who knew bow to gain power in spite of the rest-
|.'.-sui ■> of France, aud power in spite of the jealousy of Europe. Louis
]'hiIi|i}io will be classed among the eminent men of his century, and
Vould be ranked amsng the most illustrious rulers of history if he had
Lad a little love of glory, and had appreciated what is great to the same
extent that ho appreciated what is useful.
Louis Philippe had been handsome, and, when old, was still flnc look-
ing ; not always agreeable to the nation, he always was to the multitude ;
l,e pleased. lie had Llii5 gift, a charm. JIajesty he lacked; he neither
wore the crown, though king, nor white hair, though an old man. Ilia
manners were of the old regime, aiul his habits of the new, a mixture
o! the noble and the bourgeois which was befitting to 1830 ; Louis
Philippe was regnant trau.sitiou ; he had preserved the ancient pronun-
ciation and the ancient orfhography which he put into the service of
luodero opinions; he loved Poland and Hungary, but he wrote les po-
Jiuois and pronounced les hoiu/rais. He wore the dress of the National
Guard like Charles X., and the cordon of the Legion of Honor like Na-
poleon.
He went rarely to chapel, not at all to the chase, never to the opera.
Jncurruptible by priests, dog keepers, and danseu-es; this entered into
liis popularity with the bourgeoisie. ,He had no court. He went out
villi his umbrella under his arm, and this umbrella for a long time was
R portion of his glory. He was something of a mhsoij, something of a
gardener, and something of a doctor; he bled a postillion who fell from
liis hors.;; Louis Philippe no more went v/ithotit his lancet than Henry
III. without Ins poniard The royalists laughed at this ridiculous kiug^
the first who had spilled blood to save.
In the complaints of history against Louis Philippe, there is a deduc-
lion to be made, thepe is what is to be. charged to the royalty, what is to
\)C charj:ed to the reign, and what is to be charged to the king ; thi'ee.
columns, each of which gives a different total. The right of democracy
cmfi-scated, progress made the second intere>;t, the protests of the street
violently repressed, th*c military execution of insurrections, emeutes sup-
|:)re.ssed by arms, the Hue Transnonain, the councils of war, the absorp-
tion of the real country by the legal country, the theory of the govern-
liient but half carried out, with three hundred thousand privileged per-
sons, are the acts of the royalty; IJelgium refused, Algeria too harshly
conquered, and, like India by the I'wiglish, with more of barbarism than
civilizatj^in, the breach of faith with Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutz
purchased, Pritehard paid, are the acts of the reign; the policy
vhich looked rather to the family than to the nation, is the act of the
Ling.
As we see, when the deduction is made, the charge against the king
is dimini.'ihed. His gnat fault was this : He was imidcst in the name of
France. Whence comes this fault? We must tell.
SAINT DENIS. ' 15
Louis Philippe was a too fatherl)' Icinp; ; this incubation of a family
.which is to be hatched into a dynasty is afraid of everything, and can-
not bear disturbance ; hence excessive timidity, annoying to a people wlio
have the l-lth of July in their civil traditions, and Au»;terlitz in their
military traditions.
Moreover, if we throw aside public duties, which first demand to be
fulfilled, this d"ep tenderness of Louis Philippe for his family, the family
dcsfTved This domestic group was wonderful. Their virtues emjilattd
their talents. One of Louis Philippe's daughters, Maria d'Orleans, put
the name of her race among artists as Charles d'Orleans had put it
among poets. Out of her soul she made j st!ltue which she called
Jeanne d'Arc Two of Louis Philippe's sons drew from Metternicli
this eulogy of a demagogue : Theij are young men nuchas we rardy see,
and prinvpR such as we never see. "
This is, without keeping anything bnck,\)ut also without aggravating
anything, the truth about Louis Philippe.
Louis Philippe, like all historic men who have left the scene, is now
to be put upon his trial by the human conscience. He is as yet only
before the grand jury.
What is there against him? That throne. Take from Louis Phil-
ippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is good lie
is sometimes so good as to be admivable. Often, in the midst of the
gravest cares,' after a day of struggle against the whole diplomacy of the
continent, he retired at evening into his apartment, and there exhausted
with fatigue, bowed down with sleep, what did he do? He took a
bundle of documents, and passed the night in reviewing a criminal
prosecution,. feeling that it was something to make head against Europe,
but that it was a much grauder thing still to save a man from the execu-
tioner. He was obstinate against his keeper of the seals ; he disputed
inch by inch the ground of the guillotine with the attorney-generals,
iho^e habhiers of th" l<iw, as he called them. Sometimes the heaped up
documents covered his table; he examined them all; it was anguish to
•him to give up thoso%wretched condemned heads. One day he said to
the same witness whom we have just, now referred to : Last nijht I saved
s^mn. During the early years of his reign the death penalty was
abolished, arid the re-erected scaffold was a severe blow to the king.
La Greve having disappeartd with the elder branch, a bourgeois Gr^vo
wa.s instituted under the name of Uarrii^re Saint Jacquts ; " practical
men" felt the need of a quasi legitimate guillotine; and this was one
of the victories of Casimir Pericr, who represented the more conserva-
tive portions of the bourueoisie, over 'Louis Philippe, who repi evented its
more liberal portions. Luiis Philippe antiofated Beccaria with his own
hand. After the Fieschi machine, lie exclaimed : What a. jtiiy I teas
not wouiidfid ! Icou'd ha i)r pardoned him. At another time, alluding
to the resistance of his ministers, he wrote concerning a political convict
who is one of the noblest figures of our times : His pardon is (/runted,
it fjn/i/ remains for me to ohiain it.. Louis Philippe was as gentle as
Louis IX.« and as good as Henry IV.
Now, to us, in history whore goodness is the pearl of great price, he
who has been good stand.>J almost above him who has been great.
Louis Philippe having been estimated with severity by .lome, harshly,
16 LES MISKRABLES.
perhaps, by others, it is very natural that a raau, now himself a phan-
tom, who knew this king, shouM come forward to testify I'or him before
• >ry ; this tcstituony, whatever it may be, is evidently and above all
. • itercsted ; an epitaph written by a dead man is sincere ; one shade
may console another shade; sharing of thg darkness gives the rij:ht to
praise; and (here is little fear that it will ever be said of two tombs iu
eiile : Tbii« flattered the other.
fREVJCES UNDER THE FOUNDATION.
At the momctit the drama which WB are relating is about to ponetratc-
inter the depths of one of the tragic clouds which cover the first years of
the reign oi Ijouis Philippe, we could not be ambiguous, and ft was ne-
cessary that this book should be explicit in regard to this king.
Let us complete this exposition. The government of ISoO had from
the-lirst a hard life. Born yesterday, it was bound to fight to-day. It
was hardly installed wheik it began to feci on all sides vague moYcmonts
directed against the machinery of July, still so newly set up, and so fa^
from secure. Kesistanee was born on the morrow, perha]ts it was born
on the eve. From month to month the hostility iucrcasud, and from dumb
it became outspoken.
The revolution <»f July, tardily accepted, jis we have said, outside of
France by the kings, had been diversely interpreted .in France.
There are in revolutions some swimmers against the stream, these are
the old parties.
To the old parties, who are attached to hereditary right by the grace of
<rod, revolutions having aiHseu from the right of revolt, there is aright
of revolt against theui.
The old legitimist parties assailed the Revolution of I80O with all
the violence which springs from false reasoning.. Errors are excellent
projectiles. They struck it skillfully just where it wa-s vulnerable, at
the defect in its cuirass, its want of logic; they attacked this revolution
in its royalty. They cried to it : llevi)lution, why this king? Factions
are blind men who aim straight.
^ This, cry wa.s uttered also by the repuWicans. But, coming from
them, this. cry was logical. What was blindness with the legitimists,
was clear-sightedness with the democrats. The year ISiiO bad become
banlrrupt with the people. The democracy indignantly repvoach it with
its failure.
lietwoen the attack of the past and the attack of the future, the es-
tablishment of July was struggling. It represented the moment,. in con-
flict on the one hand with the monarchical centuries, on the other hand
with the eternal right.
Meanwhile, within the country, pauperism, proletariat, wages, educa-
tion, punishment, prostitution, the lot of woman, riches, misery, pro-
duction, consumption, distribution, exohange, money, credit, rights of
capital, rights of labor, all these questions multiplied over society; a
terrible steep.
SAINT DENIS. 17
Outside of the political parties properly speaking, another movement
manifested itself. To the demoenitic fermentation, the philosophic fer-
mentation responded. The elite telt disturbed as well as the multitude ;
othe;-wise, but as m.uoh.'
Thinkers were meditating, while the soil, that is to pay, the people,
traversed by the revolutionary currents, trerabl('d beneath them with
mysterious epileptic shocks. These thinkers, some isolated, others gath-
ered into fa:nilies and almost into communion, were turning over social
questions, pciicefuUy, but profoundly; impassible miner.s, who were
quietly pushin;j; their galleries into the depths of a volcano, scarcely
disturbed by the sullen commotions and the half-seen glow of the
lava.
This tranquillity was not the least bcautit^ul spectrscle of that agitated
period These men left to political parties the question of rights, they
busied themselves with the question of happiness. The well-being of
man was what they wished to extia^t from society^
They raised the material questions, (juestion.s of agriculture, of in-
dustry, uf commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. In civiliza-
tion, such as it is constituted to small extent by God, to great by n)ati,
interests are combined, aggregated, and amalgamated in such a manner
as to; forni actual hard rock, according to a dynamic law patiently stu-
died by the economists, those geologists of. politics.
These men, who grouped themselves under ditferent appellations, but
who may all be designated by the generic title of socialists, endeavored
to pierce this rock and to make the livijjg waters of human felicity gush
forth from it. Fron'i the question of the scafi'old to the question of war,
their labors embraced everything. To the rights of man, proclaimed
by the French Revolution, they added the rights of wi^nnan and the
rights of childhood.
No one will be astonished that, for various reasons, wo do not here
treat fundamentally, from the theoretic point of view, the questions
raided by sociiilisui. We limit ourselves to indicating them. •
Those doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unforeseen ne-
cessity for the statesman to consult with the philosophiM", confused evi-
dences half seen, a new politics to create, accordant with the old-world,
and yet not too discordant with the ideal of the revolutiort ; a state of af-
fairs in which Jjafayette must be used to oppose Polignac, the intuition of
progress transparent in the emeute, the ehaiubers, and the stft^et, compe-
titions to balance about him, his faith in the revolution, perhaps some
uncertain eventuaWesignation arising froiU the vague acceptance of a
definitive superior right, his desire to remain in his race, his family
pride, h\* sincere respect for the people, his own honesty, pre-
occupied Louis Philippe almost painfully, and at moments, strong and
courageous as he was, overwhelmed him under the diiHculties of being
He felt, beneath his feet a terrible disaggregation which was not,
liowever, a crumbling into dust — France being more France than '
ever.
I\xrk drifts covered the horizon. A strange shadow approarhing
nearer and nearer, was spreading little by little over men, over things, '
over ideas; a shadow which came from indignations and from systems.
18 LES .MISERABLE9.
All that hod been hurriedly stifl'Ml was stirring and fermentins:. Snnie-
tiiiJO< thi- r nsc-ifnce of the honest man cau<rht its breath, there was so
in.i m in that air in which sophisms were niintzk-d with truths.
Ml I'd in the social anxitty like leaves at the approach ^f the
storm. The electric tension was so great that at certain moments an}'
chance comer, though' unknown, ilashe<l out. Then the twilight obscu-
rity fell again. At intervals, deep and sullen mutterings enabled men
to judge of the amount of lightning in the cloud.
T*cnty months had hardly rolled away since the revolution of July,
the jx-ar IHIVI had opened with ao imminent and menacing aspect. The
distress of the people ; laborers without bread ; the last Prince de Conde
li>6t in the darkness; Brussels driving away the Na.-^saus, as Paris had
driven away the * liourbons ; Belgium offering herficlf to a French
prince, and given to an English* prince; the Russian hatred of
Nicholas; in our rear two demons of the South, Ferdinand in
h-'pain, Miguel in Portugal; the earth quaking in Italy; iMettcr-
uich extending his hand over Bologna ; France bluntly opposing Aus
tria at Aucoiia ; in the Nortb a mysterious ill-omened sound of a hatn-
niernailicg j'olaud again iutoMts cotho ; throughout J']urope angry looks
keepin'g watch over France ; England a suspicious ally, ready to push
over whoever might bend, and to throw herself upon whoever jnight
fall ; the peenige sheltering itself behind Beccaria, to refuse four heads
to the law; Jii-nr-ilc-li/x erased froiu the king's carriage; the cross torn
down IroUi the Notre Dame; Lafayette in decay; Lafitte ruined;,
Benjamin ('onslant dead in poverty ; Casimir I'erier dead from the loss
of power; the political disca.se and the social disease breaking out iu
the two capitals of the realm, one the city of thought, the other llie city
of labor; at J'ai is civil war, at Ijyons servile war; in- the two cities the
the sime furnace glare; the flush of the crater on the firthead of the
people; the South fanatical, the West disturbed; the Duchess of Berry
in La Vendue; plot.?, conspiracies, uprisings, the cholera, added to the
dismal tumult of ideas, the disuial uproar, of events.
FACTS ^■llOM WHICH HISTORY SPRIN.GS, A.ND ^VHICII HISTORY
IGNORES.
Towards the end of April everything was worsa. The fermentation
became a boiling.. Since 18.'J() there had been here and there some lit-
tle partial emeutes, quickly repressed, but again breaking out, signs of a
vastly underlying eonflagration. Something terrible was brooding.
'Glim{v.ses were caught of the lineaments, still indistinct and scarcely vis-
ible, of a possible revolution. France looked to Pari.s ; Paris looked to
the Faul»ourg Saint Antoino.
The l'\nib'iurg Saint Antoine sullenly warmed up, vros beginning to
boil. The wine shops of the Iv'ie de Charnnnc, although the jiinction
of the two epithets seems singular, applied to wine-shops, were serious
and stormy. In them the simple existence of the government was
brought in question. The men there publicly discussed whether it were
SAINT DENIS. 19
the thing to fight or to remain quiet. There were bask shops where an
oath Wiis administered to working men, that thoy would be in the streets
at the first cry of alarm, and " that ^ley would fight without counting
the number ot" the enemy " The engagement once taken, a man seated
in a corner of the wineshop "spoke in a sonorous voire," and said : " 1'^ u
nndvrstan'Ht ! You have, s'l'orn it!" Sometimes they went upstairs
into a closed room, and there scenes occurred which were almost masonic.
Oaths were administered to the initiated to render service to them ns
the// uouhl to their oxen fathers. That WaS the ibrmula. In the lower
rooms they read "subversive" pamphlets, lliey pelted the yovcrnmnit,
says a secret report of the times.
Such words as these were heard: ^' I don't know the names of the
ehiefs. As for us, ice shall ' n/y know the day two hours befojrhond."
"A workingman said : " There are three hundred of us, let ua put in
teti.sous each, that will make a hundrtd and fifti/ francs to manufar-
ture powder and hall. Another said : " 1 don't ask- six months, I,
don't a.^k two. la fes tlian a fortnight we .shall meet the go9ern'ment
face to face. With twenty five thousand men tee eaii make a stand."
Anoiher said : " I don't go to bed, because I am making cartridges all
iiig^t." From time' to time, men "like bourgeois, and in fine coats "
came, ." making a fu^^s," and having the air " of command," gave a
grip of the ha«d t> the most imporiant, and went away. They never
&taid more than ten minutes. Si,guifioant words were cxclianged in a
low voice: " The pi d is ripe, the thing is complete." " This was buzzed
. by all who were there," to borrow the very expression of one of the
participants. The exaltation was such, that one day, in a public wine-
shop, a worklQ.'man esclai.ned : Wc. have no arnu! One of his com-
rades answered : T'-e soldiers have ! thus parodying, without suspect-
ing it, Bonaparte's pro^l-niation to the army of Italy. "When they
have anything more secret," adds a. report, "they do not conlmunii^ite
it in those places " One can hardly comprehend what they could coUL-eal
after saying what they did.
The meetings were s mietimes periodical. At some, there were never
more than eight or ten, and always the same p^r.son^. In others, any-
body wlip chose entered, and the room was so full that they were forced
to stand. Some were there from, enthusiasm and passion ; others because
it was on the'r way to their work. As in the time of the Revolution,
there were in thefee wine-shops some female patriots, who embraced the
new-comers
The government deceived word one day tliat arms had just been dis-
tributed in the Faubourg and two hundred thousand cartridges. The
week afterwards thirty thousand cartridges were distributed. A re-
markable thing, the police could not seize one. An intcoceptcd letter
cont;iiue<l : " The day is not far di>tant when, in four hours by the clock,
eighty thousand patriots will be under armsu" - ' .
All this fennontatiou was public, we might almost say tranciuil. The
imminent insurrection gathered it.s storm caUuly in the face of- the gov-
ernment. No singularity was wanting in this crigi'*, still subterranean,
but already perceptible. IJourgi-ois talked quietly with wnrkingmen
about the preparation^?. They would say: " Hiw is the 6meute coming
on V in the same tone in which they would have said : " How isyour wife?"
20 LE3 MISERABLES.
A famituro ' i:' Moroau, a«ik(»«l : "Well, when do y^u at-
tack!''' Anntli ^pi»r siii<l : " You will attack very soon, I know.
A month sl'o there were fifteen l^ionsind of you, now tliere are twonfy-
firc thousand of you." Ho offered his gun, and a neighbor offered a lit-
tle |ii^i.»l which he wanted to sell for seven francs.
1 he revoluiinary fever, however, was increasing. No point of Paris
or of Kranco was exempt froru it. The artery pulsated> every where,
Ijike those uietflbrancs which are born of certain iofl;iii1inations and formed
iu the human body, the net-work of the secret societies begin to spread
over the country. From the association of the Friends of the People,
public and secret at the same time, sprang the society of the Rights of
Man, whiyh dated one of its order of the day thus, P/uvioar, year 40
of the. liajinh'ii'an hJii, which was to survive even the dccrc<'s of the
Court of As.size3 pronouncing its dissolution, and which had. no hesita-
tion in giving its sections such significant names as these : Th« IVfcrx,
7'orsiii, Afdrm Oun, Phri/(juin Cap, 2\xt J^mninri/, Tlie -Beijgartf' The
Vnfjrants, ForiCiird viurr/t, Jiobenpirrre, Lecif, Ca I'ra.
The Society of the Rights of Man produced the Society of Aclinu.
These were the more inrpatient who left it and ran forward. Other a.s-
KOciations sought to recruit from the larje. mother societies. The .section-
aries complained of being postered by this. Thus arose The GalUt Socie-
ti/ and the On/ain'ziii;/ Commiffre of the MnnivipaJilirs Thus the associa-
tions for the Freeilovi o/ the Press, for Iiufipi(/iinf Fncdum, foi; the In-
ffruction of the People, agnlnst Direct Taxes. Then the society (if the
Kqualifist Workingmen which divided into three fractions, the K(]ual-
itists, the Communists Jind the Ik'formcrs. Then the Army of the
liastilles, a sort. of cohort with a military organization, four men com-
manded by a corporal, ten by a sergeant, twenty by a second lieutenant,
forty by a lieutenant; there were never more tlmnfive hundred men who
knew each other. A creation in which precahtion was combined with
boldness, and which seems marked with tlic genius of Veniee. The cun-
trjl ciiinmittee, which was the head, had two arms, the Society of Ac-
tion an<l the army of the Bustilles. A legitimist assoeiation, the Cheva-
liers of Fidelity, moved among these republican affiliation.s. Hut it was
denounced and repudiated.
The I'arisian Societies ramified into the prineipjil cities. Lyons,
Nantes, Lisle, and Marseilles had their Society of the Rights of Man,
the Carbonari, the Free Men. h'w had a revolutionary society
whi'ih was called the Coutrourdc. We have already pronounced this
word.
At Paris the Faubourg Saint Marceau was hardly les.s noisy than the
Fuibdurg Saint Antoine, and the schools not less e.veitcd than the Fau:
bourgs. A caf(S in the Rue St. Ilyacinthe, and the drinking and smok-
ing room of the Seven Milliards, Rue des Matliurin St. Jacques, served
as rallying places for the students. The Society of the Frietada of the
AR C, athli.ited with the Mutiialists of Angers and with the Cougourdc
of Aix, met, as wo have seen, at the Caf«) Musain. These same young
people also gathered, in a restaurant wine-shop near the Rue MoodStour
which was called (^)rinthe. These meetings were secret, others were as
public as possible, du'l we may judgi of their boldness by this fragment of
an interrogatory during one of the subsequent trials ^ ** Where was this
SAINT DENIS. 21
meeting held ?" ''Rue de la Paix." " In whose house?" " In tlic
street." " What sections were there?" " ]5ut one." "Which one?"
'•The Manuel section." *" Who was the chief?" '*!." " You are too
young to have formed alone the grave resolution of attacking the gov-
ernment. Whence cauie your instructions?" "From the central com-
mittee " • , . •
The army was mined at the same time as the population, as was pTovcn
afterwards by the movements of Boford, Luneville, and Epinal. They
counted on (he fifty second regiment, the fifth, the eighth, the thirty-
seventh, and the twentieth light. In Burgundy and in the cities of the
South the tree of Liberty was planted.. That is to say, a pole surmounted
by a red cap.
Such was the situation.
This situation was, as we said in the beginning, rendered tangible and
emphatic by the F:i.ubourg Saint Antoine more than any other portion of
the population. There was the stitch in the side.
Tbis old Faubourg, populous as an ant-hill, industrious, courageous,
and choleric as a hive, was thrilling with the expectation and the desire
for a commotion. Everything was in agitation, and yet labor was not
interrupted on that account. Nothing can give an idea of that vivid
yet dark phase of affairs. There are in that Faubourg bitter drstressea
hidden under garret roofs; there arc there also ardont and rare
intelligences. And it is especially in reference to distress and intelli-
gence that it is dangerous for extremes to meet.
The Faubourg Saint Antoine had still other causes of excitement, for
it felt the rebound of the commercial crises, of the failures, the strikes
and stoppages, inherent in great political disturbances. In time of rev-
olution misery is at once c^use and enect. The blow which it strikes re-
turns upon itself. This population, full of proud virtue, filled with la-
tent .caloric to the highest point, always ready for an armed contest,
prompt to expltfde, irritated, deep, mined, seemed only waiting for the
fall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks are floating over t-hc horizon,
driven by the wind of events, we cannot but think of the Faubourg
Saint Antoine and the terrible chance which has placed that powder
uiill of -'"ufferings and ideas at the gates of Paris.
The "wineshops of the Faulnjun/ Antoine have a notoriety which is
historic. In times of trouble their words are more intoxicating than
their wine. A sort of prophetic spirit and an odor of the future circu-
lates in them, swelling hearts and enlarging souls. The wineshops of
the Faubourg Antoine resemble those taverns of Mount Aventine, over
the Sibyl's cave, and communicating with the deep and sacred afHatus;
taverns whn.sg tables were almost tripods, and where men dr^nk what
Ennius calls the HibyUinc wine.
The Faubourg Saint Antoine is a reservoir of people. Kevolutionary
agitation makes fissures in it through which flows popular sovereignty.
This sovereignty may harm ; it makes mistakes like everything else but,
even when led astray, it is still grand. Wo may say of it as of the
blind Cyclops, Inf/ms. *
In '9o, according as the idea which was afloat was good or bad, ac-
cording as it was the day of fanaticism or of enthusiasm, there camo
from the Faubourg Saint Antoiuc sometimes savage legions, sometimos
heroic bands.
22 LES MISKRABLE8.
Savage. Wc mus.t explain this word What was, the aim of those
brisking men vrho, in the demiurgic days of revolutionary chaos, ra<Tp;eJ,
bowling, wild, wJth tomahawk raised, and pike aloft, rushed over tlieold
overturned ParisV They desired the end'of oppressions, the end of ty-
rannies, the end of the sword, labor for nuui, instruction for children,
social gentleness for woman, liberty, ef|uality, frutcrui'y, bread for all,
ideas for all, the Kdeniztition of the worM, Progress ; and this holy, pood,
and gentle thing, progress, pushcl to the wall and beside theniselves,
they demanded, terrible, half naked, a club in their grasp, and
a rour in th'eir mouth. They were savages, yes; but the sflvagcs of
civiliziition.
They proclaimed the right furiously; they desired, were it through
fear and tieiiibliug, to force the human race into paradise. They seemed
barbarians, and they were saviors. With the mask of night they de-
manded the light.
In contrast with these men, wild, wc admit, and terrible, but wild and
torrible for the good, there are other men, smiling, eaibroidered, gilded,
beribboned, besiarred, in silk stockings, in white feathers, in yellow
gloves, in Varnisbed shoes, who, leaning upon a velvet table by the cor-
uer of a marble mantel, softly in.sist upon the maintenance and the
preservation of the past, the, middle ages, divine right, fauattcism, ig-
norance, slavery, the duath penalty, and war, glorifying politely and in
mildt^nes the sabre, the stake, and the scalFold. As lor us, if we were
compelled to choose between the barbarians of civilization, -and the civi-
lized of barbarism, we would' choose the barbarians.
J3ut, thanks to Heaven, other choice is possible. No abrupt fall is ne-
cessary, forward more than baeka'arck Neither despotism, nor terrorism.
We desire progress with gentle slope. God provides for this. The
smoothing of acclivities is the whofe policy of God.
VI.
ENJOLRAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS.
Not far from this period, Enjolras, in view of possible events, took a
sort of mysterious account of stock. All were in conventicle at the
X'af6 Musain. Enjolras said, mingling with his words a few semi-enig-
matic but significant metaphors :
" It is well to .know where we are and on whom we can rely. If we
desire fighting men, wc must make them. Have the wherewith to
strike. That can do no harm. Ti*avellers have a better chance of
catching a thrust of a horn when there are bulls in the road than when
there arc none. Let us then take a little account of the herd. How
many are there of us? We cannot put thi* work off till to-morrow,
ilevolutionists ought always to be ready ; progress has no time to lose.
L'jt us not trust to the moment. Let us not J»e taken unprepared. We
muit go over all the seams which we have m}ide, and see if they hold.
This^usiness should be probed to the bottom to-day. Courfeyrac, you
\rill see the Poiytcchnicians. It is their day out. To-day, Wednes-
day. Eeailly, will you not see the men of the Gla8i6re ? Combeferre
SAINT DENIS. 28
has promised uio to go to Picpiis. There is really an excellent swarm
there. Bahorcl will visit the Estrapade. Prouvaire, the niasoas are
growing lukewarm j you will bring us news from the lodge in the Rue
He Grenelle Saint Ilonore. Joly will go to Dupiiytren's cliniinie, and
feel the pulse of the Medical School. Ik'ssuet will make a little tour
in the Palace of Justice and chat with the young lawyers. I will take
charge of the Cougourde."
■ " Then all is arranged," said Courfeyrac. " No." What raoro is there
then?" " A very important thing." " What is it?" inq-jircd Conibe-
ferre. "The JJarriero du Maine," answered Eojolras."
Enjolras remained a moment, as it were, absorbed in his reflections,
then resumed : .
^'At the Earriere du Maine there arc marble cutters, painters, assist-
ants in sculptors' studios. It is an enthusiastic family, but subject to
chills. I do not know what has ailed theiu for some time. They are
thinking nf other things. They are fading out. They spend their time
in playing dominoes. Somebody must go and talk to them a little, and
firmly too. They meet at Hichefeu's. They can be found there be-
tween noon and one o'clock. We must blow up these embers. I had
counted on that absent-minded Marius for this, for on the whole he is
good, but he docs not come any more. I must have somebody for the
Barricre du Maine. I have nobody left."
"I," said Grantaire, "I am here." ''You?" "I" " You to in-
doctrinate republicans! you, to warm .up, in the name of prin-etples,
hearts that have grown oold !" " Why not-?" " Is it possible that you •
can be good for anything?" "Yes, I have a vague ambition for it."
said Grantaire. "You don't believe in anything." "I believe in
you." " Grantaire, do you want to do nie a service?" "Anything —
polish your boots." " VVell, don't meddle with our affairs. Sleep off
your bitters." "You are an ingrate, Kujolras." "You would bo a
tine man to go to the Barriere du iMaine ! you would be capable of it !"
" I am capable of going down the Rue des Grcs, of crossing the l^lace _ ^ ^,
Saint Michel, of striking off through the Rue Monsieur le Vxxn^jBA^^jf' €^
taking the Rue de Vaugirard, of passing the Carmes, of turning^ipt^^^'
the Rue d'Assas, of reaching the Rue du C|jerche Midi, of leaving W.-
hiiid me the Conseil de Guerre, of hurrying through the Ruejjfs "^^il- ** ^
les I'uileries, of stniding through the Boulevard, of following the tlSHs- ^ *§ 4».' ■
see du Maine, of cro.ssing over the Barricre, and of entering Richefeu's. '* *
I am capable of that. My shoes are capable of it "
"Do you know anything about these comrades at Richefeu's?"
" Not much. We are on good term.s, though." "What will you say
to them?" "I will talk to them about Robespierre, faith. About
Danton, . about principles " "You?" "1. But you dim't do me jus-
tice. When I am about it, I ^m terrible. I have read Prudhomme, I
know the Contract Social, I know my Constitution of the year. Two by
heart. 'The liberty of the citizen ends where the liberty of another
citizen begins.' Do you take me for a brute? I have an old assigiiat
in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people,
' sounds ! I am even a little of a ll(5bertist. I can repeat, for six hours,
at a time, watch in hand, superb things." "Be serious," said Enjolras-
"I am savage," answered Grantaire.
• •f
24 LES MISERABLES.
Enjolras thoupbt fi>r a few seconds, and made the gesture of a man
who lurms hi* rcsolulion. " Grantaire," siiid he gravely, " I consent to
try yua. You hhall go to the J^arriere du Elaine."
Granfaire lived in a furnished room quite near the Gafe Musain. He
went out, and came back" in live minutes. He had been home to put on
a Ilobcspicrrc waistcoat. *' Jied," said he as he came in, looking .straight
at Knjolras. Then, with the flat of his huge hand, he smoothed the
lwo..«carlct points of his waistcoat over his brea.st. And, approaching
Enjolras, he whispered in his ear: " Set your mind atca^e." He jam-
med down his hat, resolutely, and went out.
A quarter of an hour later, the back room of the Cafe Musain was
deserted. All the Friends of the A IJ (J had gone, each his own way,
to their business. Enjolras, who bad reserved the Cougourde for him-
helf, went out last. • .
Those of the Cougourde of j\i.v," who were at Paris, met at that time
on the Plain of I'^sy, in one of the abandoned quarries so numerous on
that .side of Paris.
Enjolras, on his way towards this place of rendezvous, passed the situ-
ation in review. The gravity of events was plainly visible. When
events, premonitory of some latent social malady, are moving heavily
along, the least complication stops them and shackles them. A phe-
nomenon whence come overthrows and new births. Enjolras caught
glimpses of a luminous uprising under the dark skirts, of the future.
WJjo knows? the moment was perliaps approaching. The people seiz-
ing their rights again, what a beautiful spectacle ! the llevolution ma-
jestically resuming possession of France, and saying to the world : to be
continued to-morrow ! Enjolras was content. The furnace was heating,
lie had, at that very instant, a powder-train of friends extended over
Paris. He was composing in his thought, with the philosophic and pen-
etrating eloquence of Combeforre, the cosnjopolif.an enthusiasm of Feu-
illy, Courfeyrac's animation, Eahorel's laughter, Jean Prouvaire's mel-
anchpjy, Joly's science, and Possuet's sarcasms, a sort af electric spark
^u^, lire in all directions at once. All in the work. Surely, the re-
^uld answer to the effort. This was well. This led him to think
of^r^tairc. ."Stop," sajl^ he to himself, "the Barriere du Maine
■ hard^" taKcs me out of my way. Suppose I go as far as llichefeu's ?
M./e^Bj ge*t a glimpse of what Granfaire is doing, and how he is getting
One o'clock sounded from the belfry of Vaugirard when Enjolras
reached the liichefcu smoking-room. He pushed open the door, went
in, folded his arms, letting the door swing to so that it hit his shoul-
dcis, and looked into the room full of tables, men and smoke.
A voice was ringing out in the mist, sharply answered by#nother
voice. It was Grantairc talking with an at|versary, whom he had found.
Grantaire was seated, oppo.site another figure, at a table of Saint Anne
marble strewed with bran, and dottfed with dominoes; he -was striking
the marble with his fist, and what Enjolras heard was this: "Double
six." "Four." "Beast! I can't phiy." "You are done for.
Two." "Six." "Three." "Ace." "It is my lay." " Four points."
"Hardly." "Yours." "I made ^n awful blunder," "You are do-
ing well." "Fifteen." "Seven more." ',' That- makes me twenty-
SAINT DENIS. 25
two. (Musing.) Twontj-two !'' " You didn't expect the double six.
If I bad lajii it in the beginning, it would have changed the vrhole
game." "Two again." "Ate." "Ace! Well, five." "I haven't
any." "You bid, I believer" "Yes." " Blank. " "Hasn't he
luck! Ah! you have a run of luck ! (Long reverie.) Two." "Ace."
" IS either a five nor an ace. That is bothering for jou." " Douiiuo."
"Hang it!" ift
EPONINE.
I- ■
THE FIELD OF THE LARK.
Marius had seen the unexpected denouement of the ambuscade upon
the track of which he had'put Javert; but hardly had Javert left the
old ruin, carrying away his piisoncrs in three coaches, when jMariusalso
slipped out of the hou.se. It was only nine o'clock in the evening..
Marius went to Courr(;yrae's. Courfeyrac was no longer the impertur-
bable inhabitant of the Latin Quarter; he had gone to live in the Hue
de la Verrerie " for political reasons;" this quarter was one of those
in which the insurrection was fond of installing itself in thoss days.
Mariussaid to Courfeyrac: "I have come to sleep with you." Cour-
feyrac drew a mattre.'*s from his bed, where there were two, laid it on
the floor, and said : " There you ate."
The next day, by seven o'clock in the morning, Jlarius went back to
the tenement, paid his rent, and what was due Ma'am liougoo, had his
books, bed, table, bureau, and his two chairs loaded upon a hand cart,
and went off without leaving his address, so that when Javert came
back in the forenoon to question Marius about the events of the even-
ing, he found only Ma'am liougon, who answered him, " moved !''
JIaam IJougon was convinced that Marius was souuhow an accom-
plice of the robbers seized the night before. " Who would have thought
so ?" she exclaimed among the portresses, of the quarter, "a young man
who had so much the appearance of a girl ! '
Marius had two reasons for this prompt removal. The first was, that
he now had a horror of that house, where he had seen, so near at hapd,
and in all its most repulsive and most ferocious development, a social de-
formity perhaps still more hideous than the evil rich man : the evil poor.
The second was, that ho did not wish to figure in the trial which would
probably follow, and be brought forward to testify against Th6uardier.
Javert thought that the young tuan, whose name he had not retained,
h.id been IViglitened and had escaped, or, pcrhap.^, had not even return-
ed home at tlie time of the ambuscade; still he made some eflfort to.find
him, but he did not succeed. ^ ./'.e t
A mqntli rolled away, then another. Marius was still with Couii^^yrac.
He knew from a young attorDcy, an habitual attendant in the anterooms
3
26 LES MIS^RABLES.
©f tbc conrt, that Th<?nardiei: was in solitary confinement. Every Mon-
day Marius sent tothe clerk of La Force five francs for Tl/lhardier.
Mariu-i, liavinp now no nionc}', borrowed the five francs from Cour-
feyrac. It was the first time in liis life that he had borrowed money.
This periodical five francs was a double enipnn, to Courfeyrac who fur-
nished them, and to Thetiardier wlio recei«j^them. "To whom can it
go?" ihouplit Courfeyrac. " Where cair^Pcomo from /" Th{!ifardier
asked himself
Mariu.s, moreover, was in sore nflliction.^ Everything had relapsed
into darkness. He no longer saw anything before him ; his life was
again plunged into that mystery in which he had been blindly groping*
He had f(tr a moment seen close at hand in that obscurity, the young
girl whom he loved, tli^ old man who seemed her father, these unknown
beings who were his only interest and his only hope in this world ; and,
at the moment ho had thought to hold them fast, a breath had swept all
those shadows away. Not a spark of certainty or truth had escaped
even from that most fearful shock. No conj.'cture was possible. He
knew not even the name which he had thought he knew. Certainly it
was no longer Ursula. And the Lark was a nickname. And what
should he think of the old man ? Was he really hiding from the police ?
The white-haired working-man whom Marius had met in the neighbcr-
hood of the Invalidcs, recurred to his mind. It now became probable
that that working-man and M. Leblanc were the same man. He dis-
guised himself then ? This man had heroic sides and equivocal sides.
Why had he not called for help ? why had he escaped ? was he, yes or
no, the father of the young girl? Finally, was he really the man
■whom Th6nardier thought he recognised ? Could Thc>nardier have been
mistaken? So many problems without issue. All this, it is true, de-
tracted nothing froui the angelic charms of the young girl of the Lux-
cfiibonr". Bitter wretchedness; Marius had a passion in his heart, and
night over his eyes. He was puslied, he was drawn, "and he could not
Btir. All had vanished except love. Even of luve, he had lost the in-
stincts and the sudden illuminations. Ordinarily, this flame ^liich con-
sumes iLS, illumines us also a little, and sheds some useful light without.
Those vagu(! promptings of passion, Marius no longer even heard.
Never did he say to hiujself: Suppose I go there? suppose I try this?
She whim he could no longer call Ursula was evidently somewhere ;
nothing indicated to Marius the direction in which he must seek for her.
His whole life was now resumed in two words : an absolute uncertainty
in an impenetrable mist. To see her again. Her; he aspired to this
continually ; he hoped for it no longer. '
To crown all, want returned. He felt close upon him, behind him,
that icy breath. During all these torments, and now for a long time,
he had discontinued his work, and nothing is more datigerous than dis-
continued labor; it is habit lost. A habit easy to abandon, difficult to
resume.
* A ecrt:iin amount of reverie is good, like a narcotic, in discreet doses.
It sodihes the fever, sometimes high, of the bruin at work, and produ-
ces iib['''C mind a soft and fresh vapor which corrects the too angular
contouVa of pure thought, fills up the gaps and intervals here and there,
biads them together, and blunts the sharp corners of ideas. But too
• SAINT i ENIS. , 27
much reverie submerges and drowns. Woe to ttc brain-worter who
allows himself to fall entirely from thought into reverie! He thiuka
that he shall rise again easily, and he says tbat, after all, it is the same
'thing. An error 1
. Thought is the labur of the intellect, reverie is its pleasure. To re-
place thought by reverie is to confound^ poison with nourishment.
Marius, we remember, had begun in this way. Passion supervened,
and had at last precipitated him into bottomless and aimless chimseras.
One no longer goes out of the house except to walk and dream. Slug-
gish birth, A tumultvToas and stagnant' gulf. And, as workdirainisheg,
necessities increase. This is a law. Man, in the dreamy state, is natu*-
rally prodigal and luxurious j the relaxed mind cannot lead a severe life.
• There is, in this way of living, some good mingled with the evil, for if
the softening be fatal, the generosity is whole^nrae and good. Kut the
poor man who is generous and noble, and who does*not work, is lost.
His resources dry up, his necessities mount up.
Fatal slope, down which the firmest and the noblest are drawn, as well
as the weakest and the most vicious, and which leads to one of these two
pits, suicide or crime. .
By continually going out for reverie, there comes a day when you go
out to throw yourself into the water.
Marius was descending this slope with slow steps, his eyes fixed upon
her whom he saw no more. What we have here written seems strange,
and still it is true.. The memory of an absent being grows bright in the
darkness of the heart; the more it has disappeared the more radiant it
*ii; the de^-pairing and gloomy soul sees that light in its horizon; star
of'the interior night. She, this was all the thought of Marius. He
dreamed of nothing else; he felt confusedly that his old coat was be-
coming an impossible coat, and that his new coat was becoming a» old
coat, that his shirts were wearing out, that his hat was wearing out, that
his boots were wearing out, that is to say, that his life was wearing out,
and he said to himself: " If I could ouly sec her again before 1 die."
A single sweet idea remained to him, that she had loved him, that her
eyes had told him so, that she did not know his name, but that she
knew his soul, and that, perhaps, where she was, whatever that myste-
rious place might be, she loved him still. Who knows but she waa
dreiming of him as he was dreaming of her ? Sometimes in the inex-
plicable hijurs, such as every heart ha=i which loves, having reasons for
sorrow only, ^et feeling nevertheless a vague thrill of joy, he- said to
himself: "It is her thoughts which come to me I" Then he added,
" My thoughts reach her ahso, perhaps I" .
This illu-ion, at which he shook bit* head the moment afterwards, suc-
ceeded notwithstanding in casting some rays into his soul, which occa-
sionally resembled hope. From time to time, especially at that evening
hour which saddens dreamers nuxst'of all, he dropped upon a quire of
paper, which he devoted to that purpose, the pure.?t, the mo«t imper-
sonal, the most ideal of the reveries with which love filled his brain.
He called that "writing to her."
We must not suppose that his reason was disordered. Quite the con-
■ trary. He had lost the capability of work, and of moving firmly
towards a definite end, but he was more clearsighted and correct thaa
28 LES MISfiRABLES.
ever. l^Iarius saw, in a calm and real light, altliouirh a singular one,
what was gninjr on under his e^'es, even the uiost indifferent facts or
men; he said the rij^ht word about everything with a sort of honest
languor and candid disinterestedness, llis. judgment, almost det^iohed
from hope, soared and floated aloft.
In this .--ituation of mind nothing escaped him, nothing deceived hini,
and he saw at every moment the bottom of life, humanity, and destiny.
Happy, evin in anguish, is he to whom God has given a soul worthy of
love and of grief! lie who has not seen the things of this world, and
the hearts of men by this double liszht, has seen nothing, and knows
nothing of truth. The soul which loves and which suffers is in the sub-
lime state.
The days passed, however, one after another, and there was nothing
new. It seemed to him, merely, that the dreary space whicli remained
for him to run through was contracting, with every instant. He thought
that he already saw distinctly the brink of the bottomless precipice.
" What I" he repeated to himself, " shall I never see her again before I
die!"
If you go up the Kue S;unt Jacques, leave the barriere at your side,
and follow the old interior boulevard to the left for somc'distancc, you
come to lhe-|Kue de la Sante, then La Glacicre, and, a little before
reaching the small stream of the Gobelins, you find a sort of lield, which
is, in the long and monotonous circuit of the boulevards of Paris, the
only j^pot where lluysdael would be tempted to sit down.
That indescribable something troiii which grace springs is tbore, a
green meadow crossed by tight drawn ropes, on which rags are drying in
the wind, an old market garden farm-house built in the time <:f Louis
XIII. , with its large roof grotesquely • pierced with dormer windows,
broken palisade fences, a small pond between the poplars, women, laugh-
ter, voices; in the horizon the Pantheon, the tree of the Deaf-mutes,
the Val de Grace, black, squat, fantastic, amusing, magnificent, and in
the back-ground the severe square suu)mits of the towers of Notre
Dame.
As the place is worth seeing, nobody goes there. Hardly a cart or a
wagon once in a quarter of an hour, it happened that one day that
Jlarius's solitary walks conducted him to this spot near this pond. That
day there was a rarity on the Boulevard, a passer. Marius, vaguely
struck with tlie almost sylvan charm of the spot, asked this traveller:
*' What is the name of tbis place i"' The traveller answered : "It is the
Field of the Lark." And he added : " It was here that Ulbach killed
the shepherdess of Ivry."
liut after that word, "the Lark," Marius had heard Dothing more.
There arc such sudden congelations in the dreamy state, which u word
is sufficient to produce. 'Tlie wiiole mind condenses abruptly about one
idea, and ceases to be capable of any other perception.
The Lark was the appellation which, in the d.pths of Marius's rael-
ancboly, had replaced Ursula. " Yes," said he, in the kind of unreason-
ing stupor peculiar to these mysterious asides, " this is her field, i shall
learn here where she lives " Tbis was absurd, but irresistible. A nd he
came every day day to this Field of the Lurk.
SAINT DENIS. 29
II.
EMBRYONIC FORMATION OF CRIMES IN THE INCUBATION OF
PRISONS.
Javei't's triumph in the Gorbcau tenement had seemed complete, but
it was ndt so. *
In the first place, aud this was his principal regret, Javert had not
made the prisoner prisoner. The victim who slips away is more suspi-
cious than the assassin ; and it was probable that this personafje, so pre-
cious a capture to the bandits, would be a not less valuable prize to the
authorities. And then, Montparnasse had escaped Javert.
lie must await anoJher occasion to lay his hand upon 'that devilish
dandy.' Moutparnasse, in fact, having met Eponinc, who was standing
sentry under the trees of the Boulevard, had led her away, liking rather
to be Neinorin with the daughter than to be Sc^hinderhannes with the
father. Well for him that he did so. He wa* free. As to Eponine,
Javert had ' nabbed ' her; trifling consolation. Eponine had rejoined
Azelmaat Les Madelonuettes.
Finally, on the trip from the Gorbenu tenement to La force, one of the
principal prisoners, Claquesous, had becq lost. Nobody knew how it
was done, the officers and sergeants 'didn't understand it,' he had
changed into vapor, he had glided out of the handcuffs, he had slipped
through the cracks of the carriage, the fiacre was leaky, and had fled ;
nothing could bo said, save that on reac-hing the prison there-%as no
Claquesons. There were either fairies or police in the matter. Had
Claquesous melted away into the darkness like a snow flake in the water i*
Was there some secret connivance of the officers ? Did this n)au belong
to the double enigma of disorder and of order? Was he eccentric with
infraction and with repression ? Had this sphinx fore paws in crime and
hind-paws in authority. Javert in no wise accepted these combinations,
aud hi-j hair rose on end in view of such an exposure; but his squad
contained other inspectors besidas himself, more deeply initiated, perhaps,
than himself, although his subordinates, in the secrets of the prefecture,
and Claquesous was so great a- scoundrel that he might be a very good
officer. To be on such intimate juggling relations with darkness is ex-
cellent for brigandage and admirable for the police. There are such two-
edged rascals.. However it might be, Claquesous was lost, and was not
found again. Javert appestred more irated than astonished at it.
2^.3 to Marius, * that dolt of a lawyer,' who was ' probably frightened,' and
whose name Javert had forgotten, Javert cared little for him. Besides he
was a lawyer, they are always found again. But was he a lawyer merely ?
The trial commenced.
The police Judge thought it desirable not to put one of the men of
the Patron Minctte ban<l into solitary confinement, hoping for some
babbling. This was Brujon, the long-haired man of the Rue du I'etit
•Banquier. He was left in the ('harlemague court, aud the watchmen
kept their eyes upon him.
This name, Brujon, is one of the traditions of La Force. In the
hideous court callc<l tlie Batimcnt Ncuf, which the administration named
Court Saint Bernard, and which the robbers named La Fosse aux Lions,
upon that wall, covered with filth aud with mould, which rises on the left
80 LES MISKRABLES.
to the height of the roofs, near an old ru«ty iron door which leads into
the former chapel of the ducal hotel of La Force, now become a dormi-
tory for brijianJs, a dozen years ago there could still be seen a i^ort*
of baslile coarsely cut in the stone with a nail, and below it this
signature : •
BKUJON, 1811.
The Brujon of 1811, was the father of the Brujon of 18^.2.
The last, of whom only a glimpse was caught in the Gurbeau ambus-
cade, was a sprightly young fellow, very cunning and very adroit, with
8 flurried and plaintive appearance. ; It was on account of this flurried
air that the judge had selected him, thinking that he would be of more
Uhe in the Charlemagne court tban in a solitary cell".
llobbers do not cease operations because they are in the hands of jus-
tice. They are not disconcerted so easily. Being in prison lor one
crime docs not prevent ihe commencement of another crime. They are
artists who have a picture in the parlor, and who labor none the less for
that on a new work in their studio.
Brujon seemed stupefied by the prison. He was sometimes seen wlifile
hours in the Charlemagne court, standing near the sutler's window, and
fctaring like an idiot at that dirty list of prices of supplies which began
with : f/arh'c, Q>'2, centimes, and ended with; ci(j(irs, ciiuj centimrtt. Or
instead, he would pass his time in trembling and n)aking his teeth chat-
ter, string that he had a fever, and inquiring if one of the twenty-eight
bods in the fever wards was not vacant.
Suddenly, about the second fortnight in February, lSo2, it was dis-
covered that Brujon, that sleepy fellcw, had sent out, through the agents
of the house, not in his own name, but in the name of three of his
comrade?, three different commissions, which had cost him in all fifty
sous, a tremendous expense, which had attracted the attention of the
prison brigadier. '
He inquired into it, and by ■consultiiig "the price list of commissions
Lung up in the convicts' waiting-ruom, he found that the filly sous were
made up thus : three commissions ; one to the Val de Pantheon, ten
Bous; one to the Val de Grace, fifteen sous; and one to the ]iariieie de
Grenelle, twenty-five sous. This was (he dearest of the whole list. Now
the I'antli^on, the Val de Grace, and tlie Barri6re de Grenelle happened
to b(5 the residences of three of the most dfoadcd prowlers of the bar-
tivv^, Kruiilcniers alias Bizarro, Glorieux, a liberated convict, and Barro
Carosse, upon whom this incident fixed the eyes of the police. They
thought they divined that these men were affiliated with Patron Miuette,
two of wliose chiefs, Babet and Guculcmer, were secured. It was sup-
posed that Brujun's messugos sent, not addressed to any houses, but to
persons who were waiting for them in the street, must have been notices
of some projected crime. Th<,re were still other indiealious; tiiey arrest-
ed the three prowlers, and thought they had foiled Brujun's machination,
whatever it was.
About a week after these measures were taken, one night, a wat(;h-
man, who was watching the dormitory in the lower part of the New
Building, at the ibstant of putting his chestnut into the chestnut-bos —
this is the means employed to make sure that the watchmen do their
SAINT DENIS. 31
duty with exactness; every hour a chestnut must fall into every boi
nailed on the doors of, the dormitories — a watchman then saw through
the peep-hole of the dormitory, Brujon sitting up in his bed and writing
somelhinii by the light of the reflector. The warden entered, IJrujou
was put iiito tlie dungeon for a month, but they could not find what he
had written. The police knew nothing more.
It is certain, however, that the next day *a po.stillion' was thrown
from the Charlemagne court into the Fo.sse aux Lions, over the five-story
building which separates the two courts.
Prisoners call a ball of broad artistically kneaded, which is sent into
Inland, that is to sa^y over the roof of a prison, from one court to the
other, a postillion. Etymology: over England; from one country to
the other; into Ireland. This ball falls in the court, lie who picks it
up opens it, and finds a letter in it addressed to some prisoner in the
court. If it be a convict who finds it, he hands the letter to its desti-
nation ; if it be a warden, or one of those se'cretly bribed prisoners
who are called sheep in the prisons and foxes in the ^Ueys, the letter is
carried to the office and delivered to the police.
This time the postillion reached its address, although he for whom the
message was destined was then in solitar//. Its recipient was none other
than Babet, one of the four heads of Patron I\Iinettc.
The postillion contained a paper ruUod up, on which there were only
these two lines : ' LJ^bet, there is an affair on hand in the Hue Plumet.-
A grating in a garden.'
This was the tiling that Brujon had written in the night. In spite of
spies, both male and female, Bj.bet fount! means to send the letter from
La Force to, La SaltpGtriore to a *a friend' of his who was shut up
there. This girl in her turn transmitted the letter to another whom she
knew, named JMagnon, who was closely watched by the police, but not
yet arrested. This Magnon, whose name the reader has already seen,
had some relations with the Theuardiers which will be related hereaf-
ter, and could, by going to see Eponine, serve 'as a brii^ge between
La Salpetriere and Les Madelonnettes. ^
It happened just at that very moment, the pr6ofs in the prosecution of
Thenardier failing in regard to his daughters, that lOponine and x\.zel-
ma were released.. When Eponine came out, Magnon, who v."as watch-
ing for her at the door of Les Madelonnetlfcs, Iianded her Brujon's
note to Babct, charojiucr her to find out about th*c affair.
Eponine went to the Hue Plumet, reconnoitered the grating and
the JJarden, looked iit the house, spied, watched, and, a few days after,
carried to Magnon, who lived in the Rue Clocheperce, a biscuit, which
Magnon transmitted to Babct's nii.stress at La Salpetriere. A biscuit,
in the dark symbolism of the piisons, signifies: nothint/ to do.
So that in less than a week after that, Babet and Brujon meeting on
the way from L:i Force, as one was going ' to examination,' and the other
was returning from it : ' Well,' asked. BrUJon, 'the Hue P.?' 'Bis-
cuit,' answered Babet. *
This wa.'j the cud of that foetus of crime, engendered by Brujon in La
Force. Thi-* abortion, hfwever, led to results' entirely foreign to Bru-
jon's programme. We shall see them.
Often,, when thinking to knot one thread, we tie another.
32 LES MIS^RABLES.
III.
AN APrARITION TO MARIIS.
A f<-w days affpr, one morninp; — it was Monday, the day on which
Murius iMirmwed the hundrcil sous piece of Courfeyrac for Theoardior —
MariiiH h:id put this hundred sous piece into his pocket, and before car-
rying it (o the prison othce, he had jrone ' to t<ikc a little walk,' hoping
that if wouhl enable liim to work pn hia return. It was eternally so.
As soon as he ro»e in the morning, he sat down before a book and a
fihcct of paper to work upon some translation ; the work he had on hand
at fh:it time, wa^ the translation into French, of a celebrated f|uarrel be-
tween two Germans, the controversy between Gans and k>avi<:ny ; he
took (Jans, read four lines, tried to write one of them, could not, saw a
star between his paper and his e3-e.s, and rose froii his chair, SJiying : •!
will go out. That will put mc in trim.'
And he. would go to the Field of the Lark. There he saw the star
more than ever, a?id Savigny and Gans less than ever. He returned,
tried to rosumu his work, and did not succeed; he found no means of
tying a single one of the broken threads in his brain; then he would
say : ' I will not go out to-morrow. It prevents my working.' -Yet he
went out every day. ^ ^
He lived in the Field of the Lark rather than in Conrfeyrae's room.
This was his real address : Boulevard de la Sant6, Seventh tree from
the Hue Croulebarbe.
That morning, he had left this seventh tree, and sat down on thebnnk
of the brook of the Gobelins. The bright sun was gloaming through
the new and glossy leaver, lie was thinking of ' Ilcr!' And his dreami-
ness, becoming reproachful; fell back iif>on Jiim.self ; ho thought sorrow-
fully of the idleness, the paralysis of the soul, wliieh was growing up
within him, and of that night which was thickening before him hour by
hour so ratiidly that ho had already ceased to see the sun.
Meanwhile, throngli this painful evolution of indistinct ideas which
were not even a soliloquyj^so much had action become enfeebled within
him, and ho no longer luid even the strength to develop his grief —
through this melancholy distraction, the .sensations of the world without
reached him. He hciird behiqd and below him, on both banks of the
stream, the washerwonierf of the Gobelins beating their linen ; and over
his he.id, the birds chattering and singing in the elms. On the one
hand the sound of liberty, of happy unconcern, of winged lti>ure; on
the other, the sound of labor. A thing which nmdo him muse pro-
foundly, and almost reflect, these two joyous sounds.
All at once, in the midst of his ecstasy of exhaustion, ho heard a
voice which was known to him, say: 'Ah ! there he is!'
He raised his eyes and recognised the unfortunate child who had come
to his room one morning, the elder of the Thenardier girls, Eponine ; he
now knew her name, lingular fact, the had become more wretched
and more beautiful, two steps which seemed impossible. She had ac-
complished a double progress towards the light, and towards distress.
She was barefooted and in rags, as on the day when he had so resolutely
entered his room, only her rags were two months older: the holes were
larger, the tatters dirtier. It was the same rough voice, the same fore-
SAINT DENIS. 33
head tanned and wrinkled by exposure; (lie same free, wild, and wan-
dering p;aze. She had, in additiou to her former expression, that mix-
ture of fear and sourow which the experience of a prison adds to
misery.
She had spears of straw and grass in her hair, not like Ophelia from
having gone mad throifs:h the contagion of Hamlet's madness, but bc-
canse she had slept iu some stable loft. And with all this, she was
beautiful.
What a star thou art, 0 youth !
Meantime, she had stopped before Marius, with an expression of
pleasure upon her livid ftice, and something which resembled a smile.
She stood for a few ^ecofids, as if she could not speak : " I have
found you, then ?" said she at last. " How I h:we looked for you? if
you only knew ? Do you know? I have been in the jug. A fort-
night! They have lot meout ! seeing that there wa's nything against
nie, and (hen I was not of the age of discernment. It lacked two
mouths Oh! how. I have looked for you ! it is six weeks now. You
don't live down there any longer?" " No," said i\lanus. ' " Oh ! I un-
dt^'stand. Oa . account of the affiiir. Such scares are disagreeable.
You have tboved. What! why do you wear such an old hut as that? a
young man like you ought to have line clothes. But tell irio, where do
you live now?" • J\]arius'did not answer. "Ah !" she continued, "3011
have a hole in your shirt. I must mend it for you." She resumed
with an expression which gradually grew darker:* "You don't seem to '
be glad to see me?" IMarius said nothing ; she herself was silent for a
moment, then exclaimed : " But if I woidd, I could easily make you
glad!" " How?" inquired Marius. " What does that mean ?" "Ah!"
you used to speak more kinlly.to me !" replied she. " W^ell, what is
it that you mean ?" She bit her lip; she seemed to hesitate, as if pass-
ing through a kind of interior struggle. At last, she appeared to dc-
eid^upon her course. " So much the worse, it makes no difference.
You look sad, I want you to be glad. But promise' mc that you will
laugh, I want to see you laugh and hear you say : Ah, well ! that is
goo'l. Poor Monsieur Marius ! you know you promised me that you
would give me whatever I should ask — " " Yes ! but tell me !" She
looked into Marius's eyes and said: "I have the address."
Marius turned palo All his blood flowed back to his heart. " What
address?" "The address you asked me for !" She added as if she
were making an effort : " The addrc'^s — j'ou know well enough !** " Ye.s !"
stinnmered Marius. "Of the young lady!" Having pronounced thia
word, she siglred deeply.
Marius s[)rang up from the bank on which he was sitting, and took
her wildly by the hand.
"Oh! come! show me the way, tell me! ask me for whatever you
will! Where i.s it?" " Come with me," fihe answered. "lam not
sure of (he street and the number; it is away on the other side from
here, but I knuw the house very well, I will show you."
She withdrew her hand and added, in atone which would have pierced
the heart of an observer, but which did not even touch the intoxicated
and tratisported Marius : " Oh 1" hoy.glad you are !" A cloud passed
over Marius's brow. He .seized Eponine by the arm : " Swear to me
U-4 iES MISLKABLES.
one tliinp I" *• Swear?" faid flie, " what does that mean ? Ah! yoa
want me to gvroar "/" And ^hc lauj^hcd. " Your father ! prouiifo me,
Kponinc! swear to me that 3011 will not pive this address to your
faih<'rl" She turned towards him with an !;stoundL'd appearance.
•• ^^fKininc I IIow do you know that my name is Kponinc ?" " Promise
what I ask you I" IJnt she did not seem to understand. " That i3
nice ! you called me Kponinc"
Marius caujrht her by Ijolh arms at once. .
" IJut answer me now, in heaviTi's name I pay attention to what Tain
saying, Kweur to me that you will not give the address you know to your
father I"
"My father?" said she. "Oh! yes, my father ! l^o not be con-
cerned on his account. He is in solitary. Besides, do I busy luy.self
about my father y" " ]Jut' you don't promise me !" exilaiined Muriu.s.
" Ijct mo po then!" said she, bunslinj^ into u lau^h, " how yon shake
me! Yes^. yes! I prouiisc you that! I sw(5ar to you that I What is it
to me? I won't give the address to my fjitlior. There! will that do?
is that it?'' *' Nor to anybody ?" said Mariu.s. *' Nor to anybody."'
" Now," added Marius, " show me the way.!' '< Right away ?" " Right
away," "Come. Oh! how glad he is !" said she. After a few steps,
.she stopped. " You follow too near me, Monsieur Marius. L»^t me go.
forward, and follow me like that, without scCTuing to. It won't do for
a fine young man, like you, to hd teen with u woman -like me."
No tongue could ti«ll all that there was in that word, woman, thus ut-
tered by this child.
She went on a few steps, and stopped again ; .Marius rejoined her.
She spoke to him aside and without turning : " Ry the way, you know
you have prouiiscd me soiuething?"
Marius'fumbled in his pocket. Fie had nothing in the world but the
five francs intended for Theiiardier. Me took it, and put it into Kpo-
nine's hand. She opened her tin^^ersanU let the piece fall on the gri^jud,
and, lookin;.' at Liju vi'ith a glooioy look: "I don't want your au^iey,"
said she.
THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET.
I.
T1!K ;:iKC;iKT H()USE.
Towards the middle of the last century, a velvet-capped president of
the I'arkiiient of Paris ha-ving a mistress and concealing it, for inthose
days the frreat lords jcxhibilcd their mistresses and the bourgeois con-
cealed theirs, had " une pclife mui'son" built in the Faubourg Saint
Germain, in the deserted Rue de RIomct, now called the Rue Plumet,
SAINT DENIS. 6b
not fir from (he spot ■wliich went by the name 'of the Combat dcs
Aiiimaux. '
This was a summer-house cf but two stories ; two rooms on tlio ground
floor, two chambers in the second storj, a kitchen behiw, a bouibnr above,
a garret next the roof, tlic whole fronted by a garden with a lar:ie iron-
irrated gate opening on the street. This garden contained about an acre.
This was all that passers-by Qoald see; but in thfi rear o^ the house
there Avas a small yard, at the further end of which- there was a low build-
ing, two rooms only and a cellar, a convcaionce intended to conceal a child
and a nurSc in ca^^e of need. This building communicated, from the
rear, by a masked door opening secretly, with a long narrow passage,
paved, winding, open to the sky, bordered by two high walls, and which,
concealt d with wonderful art, and as it were lost between the inclosures
of the gardens and fields, all the corners and turnings of which it
followed, came to an end at auotheu door, also concealed, which opened
a third of a mile away, alniost in another quartier, upon the ynbuilt end
of the Hue do Babylone.
The •president came in this way,, so that those even who might have
watched and followed him, and those who might have observed that the
president wont somewhere mysteriously every day, could not have sus-
pected that going to the Hue de liabylone was going fc the Hue IJinmot.
By skilful purchases of hmd, the ingenious magistrate was enabled to
have this secret route to his house made upon his own ground, anji conse-
quently without supervision. He had afterwards sold oflf the lots of
ground bordering on the passage in little parcels for flower and vegetable
gardens, and the proprietors of these lots of ground supposed on both
sides that what they saw was a partition wall, and did not. even suspeq^
the existence of that long ribbon of pavement winding between' two
walls among tluir beds \\\X'\ fruit trees. The birds alone saw this curi-
osity. It is probable that the larks and the sparrows of the last centu-
ry had a good deal of chattering about the president.
The house, built of stone in the Mansard style, waini?cotcd, and fur-
nished in the AVatteau style, roekwork within, peruke without, walled
about with a triple hedge of flowers, had a discreet, coquettish, and sol-
emn appearance about it, suitable to a caprice of love and of magistracy.
• This hoiise and this passage, which have since disappeared, were still
in existence fifteen 3ears ago. In 'Do, a copper-smith bought the house
to pull it down, but not being able to pay the pi ice for it, the nation
sent him into bankruptcy. So that it was the h'use that pulled down
the copper-smith. Tbcreafter the house remained empty, and fell slowly
into ruin, like all dwellings to which the presence of man no longer
communicates life. It remained, furnished with its 6ld furnitur«, and
always for sale or to let, and (he ten or twelve pcrson.s who passed
through the Kue Plumot in the course of a year, were notified of this
by a yellow and illegible piece of paper which had hung upon the rail-
ing of the garden fiince 1S1!».
Towards the end of the Restoration, these same passers might have
noticcd'that the paper had disappeared, and that, also, the shutters of
the upper story were open. The house was indeed occupied. The win-
dows had "little curtains," a sigji that there was a woman there.
In the»mouth of October, 1829, ajman of axjerlaiu^gc had appeared
3G LSS MIS^RABLES.
and hired the house as it stood, including, of course, the buildiuf: in the
rear,- and the p:iss:ige which ran out to the Kue de liabylone. lie had
the f!(HT».t openings of the two doors of this passui^o repaired. The
house, n* we have just said, was still nearly furnished with the presi-
dent's furniture The new tenant had ordered a fVw repairs, added hero
and till re wli.it was lackinj^, put a few flags in the yard, a few bricks in
the li:isen;»nt, a f«<w steps in the staircase, a few files in the floors, a few
panes in the windows, and finally came and installed himself with a
yotinir ;:irl ami an aged servant, without any noise, rather like somebody
sfealiug in than like a man who enters his own house. The neighbors
did not go.'sip about it, for the reason that there were no neighbors.
This tenant., to partial extent, was Jean Valjcan ; the young girl was
Co.sette. The servant was a spinster named Toussaint, whom Jean Vil-
jean had saved froni the hospital and misery, and who was old, stutter-
ing, and a native of a provyice, three qualities which had determined
Jean Valjean to take her with him. He htrcd the hous^e under the-
name of Momsiour Faucheleveut, gentleman. In what has been_ related
liitherto, the reader doubtless recogni.scd Joan A'aljcan even before The-
nardi' r did.
\Vliy had Jean Valjcau left the convent of the Petit Piepus ? What
had h.ippencd ?
Nothing had happened. As we remember, Jean Yaljean was happy
in (lie%onvent, so happy that his conscience at last began to bo troubled.
lie saw Cosette every day, he felt paternity springing up and developing
witliin him more and more, he brooded this child with his soul, he said
to himself that she was his, that nothing could take her from him, (hat
this would be so infinitely, that certainly she would become a nun, beinfj
every day gently led on towards it, that thus the convent was henceforth
the universe to her as well as to him, that he would grow old there and
she would grow up there, that she would grow old there and he would"
die there; that finally, ravishing hope, no separation was possible. la
reflection upon this, he at last begun to find diiliculties. lie (juestioned
hiui.self. lie asked himself if all this happiness were really his own, if
it Were not made up of the happiness of another, of the happiness of
this ihild whom he was a]ipropriating and plundering, he, au old man;
if this was not a robbery l* lie said that this child had a riirht to know
what life was before run )uncing it; that to cut her off, in advance, and,
in some sort, without consulting her, from all pleasure, under pretence
of saving her from all trial, to take advantage of her ignorance and iso-
lation to give her un artificial vocation, was to outrage a human creature
and to lie to God. And who knows but, thitiking over all this sonic
daj, dnd being a nun with regret', Cosette might ctmio to hate him ? a
final thougfit, whiidi was almost selfish and less heroic than the
oth.'rs, but which was insupportable to him. lie resolved to leave the
convent
ILc resolved it, he recognised with despair that it must be done. As to
objection^, there were none. Five years of sojourn between these four
wills, and of absence from among men, had necessarily destroyed or
disperseil the elnients of alarm. lie might return tranquilly among
men. lie had grown old, and all had changed. Who would re-
cognise him now^ And then, to look at the worst, there was no daa-
SAINT DENIS. • 37
gcr save for himself, and he had no right to condemn Cosette to the
cloist6r for the reason that he had been condeinncij to the galleys. What,
moreover, is dan<rer in- presefice of duty? Finally, nothing prevented
him from being prudent, and taking proper precautions.
As to Co.ietto's edueation, it wa^s almost finished and complete. His
determination once formed, he awaited an opportunity. It was not slow
to present itself. Old Fauchelevent died.
Jean Valjean asked an audience of the reverend prioress, and told
her that having received a small inheritance on the death of his brother,
which enabled him to live henceforth without labor, he would leave the
service of the convent, and take away his daughter; but that, as it was
not just that Cosette, not taking her vinvs, should hive been educated
gratuitously, he humbly begged the reverend prioress to allow him to'
offer the community, as tin indemnity for the five years which Cosette
had passed there, the sum of five thousand francs.
Thus Jean Valjean left the convent of Perpetiml Adoration. On
leaving the convent, he took in his own hands, and would not entrust to
any assistant, the little, box, the key of which he always had about him.
This box puzzled Cosette on account of the odor of embalming which
came from it.
Let us say at once, that henceforth this box never left him more. He
always had it in his room. It was the first, and sometimes the only thing
that he carried away in his changes of abode. Co.sette laughed
about it, and called this box the iji^rparahle, saying:" "I am jealous
of it."
Jean Yaljean nevertheless did not appear again in the open city with-
out deep anxiety. He discovered the houi-e in the Hue I'lumet, and
buried himself in it. He was henceforth in possession, of the name of
Ultimus Fauchelevent.
At the same time he hired two other lodgings in Paris, in order to at- '
tract less attention than if he always remained in the same quirtur, to
be able to change his abode on occasion, at tlie slightest anxiety which he
might feel, and finally, that he might not again find himself in .>-Uih a
strait as on the night when he had so niiraculou.'-ly escaped from Javert.
These two lodgings were two very humble dwellings, and of a puor ap-
pearance, in two quartiers widely di.>tant from each other, one in the
Rue de I'Ouest, the other in the Hue de I'llnmnie Arme.
He went from time to lime, now to the Hue de I'llomine Arnie, and
now to the Rue de I'Ouest, to spend a month or six weeks, with Cosette,
without taking Toussaint lie was waited upon by the porters, and
gAve him.-elf out for a man of some means in the suburbs, having a
foothold in the city. This lofty viitue had three' domiciles in Paris iu
order to escape from the police.
IT.
JEN VALJEAN A NATIONAL GUARD.
Still, properly speaking, he lived in the Rue Plumef, and be bad or-
dered his life there in the following manner:
88 LES MISERABLES.
Cosette, with the servant, occupied the bouse; she bad the Jnrge
bedroom with painted pier?, the bouJuir with guildcd luouldiofrs, the pres-
jilitit's parlor furnished with tapestry and huj:c arm chairs; she bad the
gurdi-n. Jean ^^»Ije.■^n had a bed put into Cosctte's^chainber with a can-
opy of anli^|ue damask in three colors, and an old and l/auiiful Persian
carpi f, loujilit at Mother (Jaucher's in the Kuo de Fi^'uier Saint Pan',
and, to s')fien tlie scvority of these magnificent, relics, he had added to
this curiosity shop all the little lively and graceful pi.^ces of fumituro
used bv yoang girls, an et:igcr6, a b>ok-casc and gilt books, a writing-
ca'c, a Llotting-case, a work table iidaid with pourl, a silver gilt dressing-
cnse, a ilressing tabic in Japan porcelain. Long damask curtains of
lhrc<5 colori-i, on a red ground, iMat>.'hing thoKC of the bed, hung at the
second btory windows. O.i the first floor, Uipestry curtains. All winter
Cosette's Petite JIaison was warmed from lop to bottoiu. For his part,
he lived in the sort of porter's lodge in the back )ard, with a mattress
on a cot bed.stcad.'a -white wood table, two straw chairs, an earthen
water-piteh(fr, a few books upon a bu:ird, his dear box in a corner, never
any fire. He dined with ('osotte, and there was a bla'-k loaf on- the ta-'
ble f.ir him. He .said to Toussaint, whei> she entered their service :
" iMademoiselleis themistre.-s of the house." " Aud you M-monsieur?"
replied Toussaint, astouuded. " Me, I am much better than the master,
I am the father."
Co.eett« bad bacn trained to housc-kc^ping in the convent, and she
regulated tTio expenses, which were very moderate. ICvcry day Jean
Vaijean took Co.sette'8 arm, and went to walk with her. Tliey went to
the least frequented walk of the LuxenibMurjr, aud every Sunday to
mass, always ut Saint Jacques du llaut Pus, because it was (juite distant. "
As that i.s a very poor qnarlier, he pave much alms thcro, and the unfor-
tunate surrounded him in the churcii, which had given him the title of
the superscription of tlie epistle of the Thenaruicrs: To the bcueiuhnt
tjniti'w.'in (tt thr. chiirvh (J iS'iiitt Jacijitc tlu Jlaul J'dx. He wa.s fond
of ♦akiu'' Ci>cttc to visit the needy and the tsiek. No stranger carao
into il*o liiiuso in tlio Kue du I'lumdt. Tou.ssaint brought the provi-
jiions, and Jean Valjuan himself went after the water to a watering
- trough which was near by on the IJoulevard. Tliey kept the W"od and
tin; wim- in a kind of scmi-*ubterrancan vault covered v\i*h rock work,
which was near the door on the Hue de Pabylone, and which had focm-
crly served the pre.-ident as agroft); for, in the time of tlie k'olies and
the Petite Mnisons, there was no love without a grotto.
There waa on the Kue de liabylono door a box ibr lettcr.8 and papers j
but the three oeeif^ant.s of the summerdjouse on the Hue Plumet re-
•eiviug neither piper uor letters, the entire u.sc of the box, formerly the
a"ent of amour.'t and the confidant of a legal spark, was now !in)itcd to
the notices of the receiver of taxe.s add the (luard warnings. Foe M.
Fauchclevent belonged to the National Guard; he had not been able to
escape th«! close msshes of the enrolment of 1831. The municipal in-
vosii<'aiion made at tint time had extended even to the convent of the
Petit Piepus, a .sort of impcne'rable aud holy cloud from which Jean
Vaijean had come forth veujrable in the eyes of the magistracy, and, in
con.scqlience, worthy of mounting guard.
Three or four limes a year, Jean Vaijean donned his uniform, and
ST. DENIS. 39
performed hi.s duties; very willingly moreover; it, was n good disguise
for him, which apsocijitod him with everybody else while leaving iiim
solitar^f. Je.in Valjean hud completed his sixtieth year, the age of legal
exemption; but he did not appear more than fifty; moretivcr, he had
no desire to escape from his sergeant-major and to cavil with the Count
dc Ltibau; he had no civil standing; Ire was concealing his name, he
was concealing his identity, he was concealing his age, he was conceal-
ing everything; and, we liave just said, he was very willingly a National
Guard. ♦ To resemble the crowd who pay their taxes, this was his whole
ambition. This man had for his ideal, within, the angel — without, the,
bourgeois.
We must note. one incident^ however: When Jean Yaljean went out
with Cosette, ho dressed as we have f^een, and had much the aii; of an
old olBcer. When he went out alone, and this was most utually iu the
evening, he was always clad in the waistcoat and trowscrs of a working-
mau^, and wore a cap which hid his face. Was this precaution, or hu-
mility ? Both at once. Cosette was accustomed to the enigmatic as-
pect of "her destiny, and hardly noticed her father's singularities. As
for Toussaint, she venerated Jean Valjcan, and thought everything good
that he did. One day, her butcher, who had caught sight of Jean Val-
jean, said to her: "That is a funny body." She answered : " He is a
s-saint!" . •
Neither Jean Valjean, nor Cosette, nor Toussaint, ever came in or
went out except by the gate of the Hue de Babylone. Unless one had
seen thena through the grated gate of the garden, it would have been
difficult to guess that they lived in the liue IMumet. This gate always
remained closed. Jeaji Valjcan had left the garden uncultivated, that
it might n(»t attract attention.
In this, he deceived himself,- perhap.s. •
FOLIIS AC FRONDIBUS.
This garden, thu'' abandoned to itself for more than half, a century,
had bi come very strange and very pleasant. The passers-by of forty
years ago, stopped in the street to look at it, witJiout suspeeting the
secrets which it concealed hehind i.ts fresh green thickets. More than
one dreamer of that day has man}' a time allowcil his eyes and hi^
thoughts indi.'!creetly ^ penetrate through the bars of the ancient gate
which was padlocked, twist^-d, tottering; secured by two green and
mossy pillars, and grotesquely crowned with a pediment of indeciphera-
ble arabesfjue.
There was a stone seat in the corner, one or two mnuMy statues, some
trellises loosened by time and rotting upon the wall ; no walks, Tiinre-
over, nor turf; do^^ grass cvcrywliore. Horticulture had departed, and
nature had returned. Weeds were abundant, a wonderful hap for a
poor bit of earth. The hcydiiy of the gilliflowersj was splendid. No-
thing in this'garden opposed the sacred effort of things towards life ;
venerable growth was at home there. The trees bent over towards the
40 LES MISERABL^S. •
briers, the briors mounted (owanls fbe trees, tbe sbrub bad cliiiibiil, tbo
branch bad b'uvod, that wbiib runs upon the frround bad attempted to
find (bnt which bloutns in the air, that wbieh floats in the wind bud
stooped towards that wbieh trails in tbe moss; trunks, branches, leaves,
twigs, tuft-<, tendrils, shoots, thorns, were nling!ed^ erossed, married,
confounded ; veget^ition, in a close and strong embrace, bud cclebj;ated
and aecomplished there under tbe satisfied vye of the Creator, in this
inclosure of three hundred feet square, tlic saered mystery of iis frater-
nity, syiibol of human fraternity. This garden was no longer a garden ;
it was a colossal bush, that is to sa}' something which is as impenetra-
*ble as a forest, populous as a city, tremulous as a nest, d?irk as a eathe-
dral, odorous as a boui|Uot, solitary as a tomb, full of life as a multiiuie.
In i^pril, this enormous shrub, free behind its prating and within
its four wal^s, warmed into the deep labor of universal germination,
thrilled at the rising sun almost like a stag.whieb inhales the air of
universal love and feels the April sip mounting and boiling in his veins,
and shaking its immense green antlers in the wind, scattered over tbe
moist ground, over the broken statues, over the sinking staireasd of the
sumuier-housc, and even over tbe pavement of tbe deserted street, llow-
ers in stars, dew in pedrls, fecundity, beauty, life, joy, perfume. At
noon, a thousand white butterOies took refuge in it, and it was a hea-
venly sight to sec this living snow of summer whirling about in flakes
in the shade. There, in this gray darkness of verdure, a multitude of
innocent voices spoke scjftl}' to the soul, and what the warbling had for-
gotten to say, tbe bumming completed. At night, a dreamy vapor
ai^se from the garden and wrapped it around; a shroud of liii^t, a ealni
and celestial sadnAs, covered it; tbe iut >xieatijig odor of huney-suc-
kles and bindweed rose on all sides like an exc|uiMte and subtile poison;
you heard the last appeals of tbe woodpecker, and ti)e wagtails drows-
ing under the branches; you felt the sacred intimacy of bird and tree;
by day tbe wings rejoiced the leaves; by night the leaves protected the
wings.
In winter, the bush was black, wet, bristling, shivering, and let tbo*
bouse be seen in part. You perceived, instead of«the flowers in tbe
branches and the dew in tbe flowers, the long silver ribbons of tbe
snails upon the thick and cold carpet of leaves; but in every way, un-
der every aspect, in every season, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this
little inclosure exhaled melancholy, contemplation, solitude, lil)( rty, tbo
absence of man, tlie presence of God ; and the old rusty grating ap-
pc'ared to say : "This gardi^n is mine I"
In vain was tbe pavement of Paris all about it, Jbe classic and splen-
■ did residences of the Hue de Varennos within a lew steps, the dome of
the Invali'ies quite near, the 'Jbamber of Deputies not far off; in vain
did the carriages of the Hue de Hourgogne and the Hue Saint Homi-
uiquc roll pompously in its neighborhood, in vain did the yellow, biown,
white and reil omnibusses pa>s each other in the adjoining square, the
Kue Plutnot was a .stditude; and the death of the old proprietors, the
pasaagcfof a revolution, the downfall of ancient fortunes, absence, ob-
livion forty years of abandonment and of widowhood, had sufliced to
call b:ick into this privileged place the ferns, the mulleins, tbe hem-
locks, the milfoils, the tall weeds, the great flaunting plants with largo
SAINT DENIS. 41
leaves of a pale greenish drab, the lizards, the beetles, the restless and
rapid insects ; to bring out of the depths of the earth, and display within
these four walls, an indescribably wilj and savage grandeur; and that
nature, who»disavow8 the moan arrangements of man, and who always
gives her whole self where she gives herself at all, as well in the ant as
in the eagle, should come to 4i?pbiy herself in a poor little Parisian gar-
den with as much severity and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New
World. '. . .
.VI.
CHANGE OF GRATING,
It seemed as if this garden, first made to conceal licentious mysterica,
had. been transformed and* rendered fit for the shelter of chaste myste-
ries. There were no longer in it either bowers, or lawns, or arbors,
or grottoes ; there was a magnificent dishevelled obscurity falling like a
veiJ upon all sides". Paphos hud become Eden again. Some secret re-
pentance had purified this retreat. This flower-girl now oA'cr^d its flow-
ers to the soul. This coquettish gaiden, once so very free, had returned
to virginity and modesty. A president assisted by a gardener, a good-
man who thought he was a second Lamoignon, and another goodman who
thouirht be was a second Ijenotre, had distorted it, pruned it, crumpled
it, bcdi/.ened it, fashioned it for gallantry; nature had taken it again,
had filled it with shade, and had arranged it for love.
There was also in .this solitude a heart which was all ready. Love
had only to show himself; there was a temple there composed of ver-
dure, of grass, of moss, of the sighs of birds, of soft shade, of agitated
branches, and a soul, made up of gentleness, of faith, of candor, of hope,
of aspiration, and of illusion.
Co.-ctte had left the convent, still almost a child; she was a lit- \
tie more than fourteen years old, and she was "at the ungrate-
ful age;" as we have said, apart from her eyes, she .seemed rather
homely than pretty ; she had, however, no ungraceful |fe;itupes, but
she was awkward, thin, timid and bold at the same time, a big child in
short.
Her education was finished ; that is to say, she had been taught reli-
gion, and also, above all, devotion; then "history," that is, the thing
which they call thus in the mnvcnt, g<;ography, grammar, the partici-
ples, the kings of France, a little mu.sic, to draw profiles, etc., but
further than this she was ignorant of everything, which is a charm and
imperil. The soul of a young girl ought not to be left in obscurity; in
after life there .spring up too sudden and too vivid mirages, as in a ca-
mera obscura. She should be gently and discreetly enlightened, rather
by the reflection ot realities than by the direct and stern light. A use-
ful and graciously severe half-light which dissipates puerile fear and pre-
vents ^ fall. Nothing but the maternal instinct, a wonderful intiiitioa
into which enter the memories of the maiden and the experience of the
woman, knows how this half-light should be applied, and of what
it should be formed. Nothing Eupplics this instinct. To form the
4
42 LKS MIsfiRABLES.
minrl of ajouii- girl, all the nuns in the world are riot equal to one
motnor.
Oosettc had had no mother. $hc had only had many mother?, in the
plural. As to .Icun Valjcan, there wa?' indeed within him :4l manner of
t«nderni>»' and all manner of policitiide ; but he was only an old man
who knew nolhi.n;: at all. Now, in this work of education, in this se-
rious matter of the preparation of a woman for life, how mueh know-
ledjre is needed to Ptriijr'^lo againsr that great ignorance which we call
innoceuee.
^'otliing prepares a yoiing girl fur passions like the eonvf nt. The
convent turns the thoughts in the direction of the unknown. Tiie heart,
thrown back upon itself, makes fnr it.self a channel, being unable to over-
flow, and deepens, being unable to expand. Krom thence vi.sions, sup-
positions, conjectures, romances sketched out, hmgings foj*hd venture?,
fantastic constructions, whole castles built in the interior obscurity of
the mind, dark and secret dwellings where tlie pa.ssions find an imme-
diate bulging af soon as the grating is crossed and they are permitted to
enter. The convent is a co'upressictu which, in order to triumph over
the human heart, must continue through the whole life.
On leaving the convent, (Rosette could have fouiil nothing more grate-
ful and more dangerous than the house on the lluo Plunict. It was the
continuation of golitude with the beginning of liberty ; an inclosed gar-
den, but a sharp, rich, voluptuous and odorous nature ; the same dreams
as in the convent, but with glimpses of young men ; a grating, but upon
the street.
Still, we repeat, when she came there she was but a child. Jean Val-
jean gave her this uncultivated parden. " l>o whatever you like with
it," said he to h(y. It delighted Cosette ; she ransacked every thicket
and turned over every stone, she sought for " animals ;" she played while
«he dreamed ; «he loved this garden for the insects which she found in
the grass under her feet, while she loved it for the stars which she saw
,3n the branches over her head.
And then she loved her faiher, that is to .say, Jean Valjcan, with all
ber heart, with a frank filiil passion which made thegond man a welcome
■«ud very pleasant companion for her. We remeiiibor that M. Madeleine
was a great reader; Jean Valjean had continued ; through this he bad
<!ome tt) talk very well ; he had the .secret wealth and the elufincuce of an
bumble and e;irnest intellect which has secured itit own culture, lie re-
tained just enough harshness to flavor his goodne-^s ; he had a rough
idhkI and a gentle heart. At the Lu.xembourg, in their conversa-
tions, h»! gave long explanations of everytliiug, drawing from what he
had read, drawing also from what he had suffered. As she listened, Co-
sctte's e3cs wandered dreamily.
This firiple man was suihcient; for Cosette's thought, even as this wild
ftrden was to her eyes. When she had had a good chase after the butter-
ies, she would come up to him breathless and Say, " Oh ! how I have
run !" He would kiss her forehead.
CoscMc adored the good num. She was always running after hi»n..
"Where J-ean Valjean was, was iiappine.ss. As Jean Valjean did not live
in the summer-hcKiseor the garden, she found more pleasure in the paved
back-jard then in the inclosure full of flowers, and in the little bedroom
SAINT DENIS. 43
furnished witli straw chaira than in the great pnrlor hung with tapestry,
where she could reclino on silkfn arm chairs. Jean Valjcan souietimea
said to her, smiling with the happiness of being teased : "Why don't '
you go home ? why don't you leave nie alone ?"
She woul.l give him those charming little scoldings which are so full
of grace conyng from the daughter to the father. " Father, T ai)) very
cold in your hnnse; why don't you put in a carpet and a sjtove here?"
"Dear ehi!(f,*there are many people who are better than I, who have
not even a roof over their heads." "Then why do I have a fire and all
things comfortable?" "Because you are a woman and a child."
"Pshaw! men then ought to be cold and uncomfortable?" "Sonic
men." "Well, I will come here so often that you will be obliged to
have a fire."
Ag'iin she said to hitn : " Father, why do you eat miserable bread
like that?" " Because, my daughter." "Well, if you eat it, I^shall
eat it " Thou, so that Cosette should not cat black bread, Jean Val-
jean ate white bread
Co.'^ette had but a vague remembrance of her childhood. She prayed
morning and eccning for her mother, whom she had never known. The
Thdnardiers had remained to her like two hideous faces of some dream.
She remembered that she had been "one day, at night," into a wood
after water. She thought that that was very fur from Paris. It seemed
to her that sh*^ had commenced life in an abyss, and that Jean Valjean
had drawn her out of it. Her childhood impressed her as a time when
there were only centipedes, spiders and snakes about her. W^hen she
was doring at night, before going to sleep, as'sbe had no very clear idea
of being Jean Valjean's daughter, and that he was her father, she
imagi-rifid that her mother's soul had passed into'this goodman and come
to live with her.
When he sat down, she would rest her- cheek on his white hair and
silently drop a tear, saying to herself: "This is perhaps my mother,
this mjn !"
Cosette, although this may be a strange statement, in her profound '
ignor.inc'^ as a girl brought up in a convent, had come to imagine that
she had had as little ofamotheras possible She did not even know her
name. Whenever she happened to a^k Jean Valjean what it was, Jean
Valjean was silent. If she repeated lipr question, he answered by a
smile. Once she insist^'d ; the smile ended with a tear.
This silence of Jeau Valjean's covered Faotine with night. Was ^
this prudence ? was it respect ? was it a fear to give up that name to
the chances of another memory than his own ?
While Cosette was a little girl, Jean Valjean had been fond of talk-
ing with her about her mother; when she was a young ' maiden, thia
was impossible for him. It seemed to him that he no longer darf.d.
Was this on account of jGosette ? was it on account of Fantinc? He
felt a sort of religious horror at introducing that shade into Cosette's
thoughts, and at bringing in the dead as a third sharer of their des'iny.
The more sncrcd that shade was to him, the more formidable it seemed
to him. He thought of Fantine and felt overwhelmed with silence.
' He .saw dituly in (he darkness something which resembled a fiogt r on a
mouth. Had all that modesty which had once been Fantine 8 and
44 LBS MIsiRABLES.
which, during her lif-*, had been forced out of her by violence, rettirned
after h(>r death to take it.'< place over h«r, to wati-h, iiKliirnant, over the
SC3C0 of the dead vroman, and to <:\i.nd Iht fiercely iu h-r tombi' I>il
can Va<j<-an, without knowing it, feel iin influence ? We who believe
in death arc not of tho>e wht) would reject this mysterious explanation.
Hence the impossibility of pronouncing, even at Cosette's desire, this
name: Fan tine.
One day Cosette said to him : " Father, I saw my moifcer in a dream
la*il night. She had two preat wings. My moihcr must have attained
to sanctity in her life." "Through martyrdom," answered Jean Val-
jcan.
Still, Jean Valjean was happy.
When Cosette went out wiili him, she leaned upon hi." arm, proud,
happy, in the fulness of her hcsirr. Jean Valjean, at all these marks
of tenderness eo exclusive and .'-o fully satisfied with him alone, lelt his
thou^fht melt into delight. Tiie jioor man .-huddered, uvi>rflowed with
an angelic joy ; he der-larcd in his tninsp irt that this would last through
life; he said to himself that he really had not suffLred enough to de-
^rve sufh radiant happiness, and he thanked God, in the depths of his
floul, fur having permitted that be, a miserable man, should be so loved
by this innocent being.
V.
THE ROSE DISCOVERS THAT 8HK IS /N KNOINE OF WAR.
One day Cosette happened tb look iu her mirror, and she said to her-
pelf: ''What'." It seemed to Ik r almost that she was pVetty. This
thrt'W hrr into strange anxiety. Up to this moment she had never
thought of her face. She had seen herself iu her glass, but she had not
looked at herself And then, she had often been told that she was
homely ; Jean Valjean alone would quietly say : " why no ! why ! no !"
However that might be, CoscJ;te had alway.s thought herself homely,
and had grown up in that idea with the pliriut resignation of childhood.
And now suddenly her mirror said like Jean Valjeun : " Why no!" 3he
bad no slei p that night. " If ^ were prelly !' thought she, " how fun-
ny it would be if I should be pretty!" And fhe culled to mind those
of her comnani ins whose beauty had niade an impres>ion in the conveut,
and said : " What ! T should be like Mademoiselle v**'ueh-a-oue !"
The next day she looked at herselfj hut not by chance, and she doubt-
ed : *' Where were my wits gone?" !«aid she, " no, I am homely." She
•had merely slept badly, her eyes were dark and she was pule. She had
not felt very hap[>y the evening before, in the thought that she was
beautiful, but she was sad at thinking so no longer. She did i»ot look
at herself agjiin, and f)r more than a fortnight she tried to dress Lcr
hair with her b;iek to the mirror.
In the evening after dinner, she regularly niaile tapestry or did some
convent work in the parlor, while Jean Valjean read by her .side. Once,
on raising her eyes froin her work, she was very much surpri.scd at the
anxious way in which her father was looking at her.
" SAINT DENIS. 45
At fiDOtber time, she was passing along the street, and it sceifted to
her that, somebody behind her, whom sho did not see, said : ' ]*retty
woman! but badly dressed-" "Pshaw!' thought she, 'that is not
lue. I am well dressed and homely." She had on at the tiine her
plush hat and mcriro dress.
At last, she was in the garden one day, and heard poor old Tousi?aint
saying : " Monsieur, do you notice !iow pretty Mademoiselle is grow-
ing ?" Colette did not hear what hor father answered, Toussaint's
words threw her into a sort of coiutootion. She ran out of the garden,
went up to her, r join, hurried to the glass, it was three months since
she had looked at herself, and uttered a cry. She was dazzled by
herself.
She was bcauti''ul and handftouio; she could not help being of Tous-
saint's and her miri'or's opinion. Her form was complete, her skin had
become white, her hair had grown lustj-ous, an unknown splendor was
lighted up in her blue eyes. The consciousness of her beauty came to
her entire, In a moment, like broad daylight when it bursts upon us j
others noticed it moreover, Toussaint said so, it w;».s of her evidently
that the passer had spoken, there was no more doubt; she went dowd
into the garden again, tliiiiking herself a queen, hearing the birds sing,
it was in winter, seeing th^> sky golden, the sunshine in the trees, llow-
ers among the shrubbery, wild, mad, in an inexpressible rapture.
For his part, Jean Valjeau felt a deep and uudefinable anguish in his
heart.
He had in fact, for some time past, been contemplating with ter-
ror that beauty which appeared every day'tuore radiant upon Cosctte'a
Bweet face. A dawn, charming to all others, dreary to him.
Co.sette h;id been beautiful for some time before slie perceived it. But,
from the first day, this unexpected light which slowly rose and by de-
grees enveloped the young girl's whole person, wounded Jean Valjean's
gloomy eyes. He felt that if was a ehaoge in a happy lif*^, so happy
that he durt:d not stir fur fear of disturbing something Tbis man who
hod passed through every distress, who was still all bleeding from
the lacerations of his destiny, who had been almoat evil, and who
had become almost holy, who, after having dragged the chain of the
galleys, now dragged the invisible but heavy chain of indefinite infa-
my, this man whom the law had not released, and who might be at
any instant retaken, and led back from the obscurity of his virtue
to the broad light of public shame, this man accepted all, excused
all, pardoned all, blessed all, wished well to all, ai]d only asked" of
I'rovidcnce, of men, of the laws, of society, of nature, of the world,
this one thing, that Cosette should love him !
That Co.«ettc should continue to love him ! That God would not
prevent the heart of this child from coining to him, and ren)aining
his! Loved by Cosette, be felt himself healed, refreshed, soothed, sat-
isfied, rewarded, crowned. Loved by Cosette, hn was content! he
nsked nothing more. Had anybody said to him : " Do you desire any-
thing better y" he would have answered : "No." Had God said to
him: ".Do you desire heaven?" he would have answered: "I should
be the loser."
Whatever might affect this condition, were it only on the surface,
46 LKS MISERABLE^.
vadi! him iliaJder as it it were the coaiincncciueut of another, ije hud
never known vi ry dearly what the bciuty of a woiuau was; but, by in-
gtiml. he liuler-tond, that it was terrible.
Thi!itb«Huty whu'li was blooming out iii( re and more triumphant and
eupc-rb beside him, under Lis eyes, upon tho ingenuous and fearful brow
of this child, he lodkcd upon it, from the depths of his ujilinc-s, his old
age, his uii.'rcry, bis reprobation, ur'd bis dejection, with dismay. He
nid to himself: "How beautiful she ib ! What will become of me?"
Here in fact <kas the difference between his tenderness aud the t<>uder-
Bcs" of a mother. What he saw with anguish, a mother would have
Been wiih delight.
The first symptoms were noi t-low to manifest themselves. From the
morrow of thj day on which she haJ said : " Really, I aui hands(»me I"
Cosette gavo Rttention to her dress. She recalled .the wonis of the
ipaseer: "Pretty, but badly dressed," breath of an oracle which hud
past^ed by her and vanished after depositing in her heart one of the two
pern;s whiuh must afterwarda fill the whole life of the womaji, cocjuctry.
Love is the olher.
With faith iu her beauty, the entire feminine soul blossomed within
her. She was horrified at the merino and ashamed of the plush. Her
father had never rcfu.'^ed her anything. She knew at once the whole
science of ihc hat, the dress, the cloak, the boot, the cuff, the stuff which
•its well, thf Color which is becoming, that science which makes the I'a-
rLsian woman sumetUng so charming, so detp, and so dau{;erous. The
phrase hanly xcnmnn was invented fur her.
In less than a month liitlrf Cosette was, in that Thebaid of the Rue
dc Habylone, not only one of the prettiest women, which is .•^onjcthing,
tut one of "best dres.sed" in Paris, which in inueh more. She would
have liked to meet '' her pa.s.ser" to hear whnt he would say, and "to
•li'iw him!^' The truth is that she was ravishing in every point, and
that she distinguished marveUously well between a (Jeraid hat and aa
Herbaut hat.
Jean Valj an behi Id those ravil^cs with anxiety. -lie, who felt that
he could never more than citep, or walk at the most, saw wings grow-
ing on Cosette.
Still, merely by simple inspection of Cosutte's toilette, a woman would
have recogui.sed that she had no mother. Certain little pr(>prietics, eer-
laio special convent ioujilities, were not observed by Co.sotte. A mother,
Ibr instanoo, Would have told her that a young girl does not wear
. dainisk.
The first diiy that Co.sette went out with her dress and mantle of black
damask and her white crape hat, she came to take Jean Vuljeau's arm,
gay, radiant, rosy, proud and brillrunt. "Father," said she, " how do
fou like this?" Jean Valjean an.-wcrcd inn voice which resembled the
itter voice of envy : "('harming!" lie seemed as usual during th«
walk. When they cUine back he a.-ked Cosette : "Are you not going
lo wear your dress and hat any more?"
This occurred in Cosette's room. Cosette turned towards the ward-
fobe whftrc her boarding-school dress was hanging. "That di.sguise !"
Baid .'•he. " Father, what weuld you have me do with it ? Oh ! to b©
sure, no, Isball never wear tho.'jc horrid things again. With that machine
on my head; I look like Madame Mad-dog."
SAINT DENIS. • 47
Jean Valjean sighed deeply. From that day, he noticed that Cosette,
who previously was nlways askint;; to stay in, saying: "Father, I enjoy
myself better here with you," was now always asking to go out. Indeed
what is the use of having a pretty face and a delightful dress, if you do
not show them ?
He also noticed that Cosette no longer had the same taste for the
backyard. She now preferred to stay in the garden, walking even with-
out displeasure before the grating. Ji.an Valjean, ferocious, did not set
his foot in the garden. He stayed in his back-yard, like a dog.
Cosette, by learning that she was beautiful, lost the grace of not
knowing it; an exquisite grace, for bea-uty heightened by artlessness is
ineffable,- and nothing is so adorab'le as dazzling innocence, going on her
way, and holding in her hand, all unconscious, the key of a paradise.
But what she lost in ingenuous grace, .she g.ained in pensive and serious
charm. Her whole person, pervaded by the joys of youth, innocence,
and beauty, brcathcfl ;i sphndid melancholy.
It was !it this period that Marius, after the lapse of sis months, saw
her attain at the Luxembourj?.
VI.
THE BATTLE. COMMENCES.
Cosette, in her seclusion, like Marius in his, was all ready to take fire.
Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, was slowly bringing these
two beings- near each other, fully charged and all languishing with the
stormy eh-elricities of passion, — lihese two souls which held love as two
clouds hold lightning, and which were to m^et and mingle in a glance
like clouds in a flash.
The power of a silance has been so much abused in love stories, that
it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two
beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet
it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only. The rest is only
the rest, and comes afterwards. Nothing is more real than these great
shocks which two souls give each other in exchanging this spark.
At that particular moment, when Cosette unconsciou.sly looked with
this glance which so affected Marius, IMarius had no suspicion that he
also had a glance which aflTccted Cosette. She received from him the
eamo harm and the same blessing. For a long timp now she had seen
and sorptinizcd him as young girls scrutinize and see, while looking ano-
ther way. Marius still thought Cosette ugly, while Cosette already
began to think Marius beautiful. But as he paid no attention to her,
this young man was quite indifferent to her.
Still she could not help saying to herself that he had beautiful bair,
beautiful teeth, a charming voice, whi-n she heard him talking with hia
comrades; that hewalked with an awkward gait, if you will, but with
a grace of his own ; that he did not appear altogether stupid ; that his
whole person was noble, gentle, natural, and proud, and finally that he
had a poor appeurance, but that ho had a good appearance..
On the day their eyes met and at last said abruptly to both those first
48 . LES MISKRABLES.
obscure and ineffable things which the glance stammers out, Cosette at
fir.-t 'lid not comnrtlund She went back thoughtfully to the house in
the Hue do rOiic-t, to which Jean Valjcan, acconiiug to hiscustpm, had
gone to pptDd six weeks. The next day, on waking, she tl)ought of this
unknown youn;: man, so long indiffeieut and icy, wlio now Hcemcd to
give some attention to her, and it did not seera to her that this attention
was in the least degree pleasant. She was rather a little angry at this
disdainful beau. An under current of war was excited in her. It
seemed to her, and she felt a plca.«ure in it still altogether childish, that
at last t-he t.houId be avenged.
Knowing that .'■he was beautiful, ?he felt thoroughly, alUiough in an
indistinct way, that she had a weapon. Women play with their beauty
ae children do with their knives, 'i hey wound themselves with it.
We remember Ma^iu^i's hcsitiitipns, lii.s palpitations, his terrors. He
remained at his scat and did not approach, which vexed Cosette. One
day she said to Jeap Valjcan : '* Father, let us walk a little this way."
Seeing that Marius was not coming to her, bhe went to him. In such
a case, every woman nsembles i^iahonict. And then, oddly enough,
the first symptom of. true love in a young man is 'timidity, in a young
woman, boldness. This is surprising, and yet nothing is more natural.
It is the two sexes tending to unite, and each acquiring the qualities of
the other. ^ ,
That day Cosettc's glance made Marius mad, Marius's glance made
Costte tremble. Marius went away confident, and Cosette anxious.
From that day onward, they adored each other.
The first thing that Cosette felt was a vague yet deep sadness. It
seemed to her th:>t since yesterday her soul had become black. She no
longer recognised herself. The whiteness of soul of youug girls, which
is composed of coldness an^ gaiety, is like snow. It melts before love,
which is its sun.
Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard the word
uttered in its earthly sense. Ih the books of profane music which came
into the convent, amour was replaced by tanihonr, or Pamlour. This
made puzzles which exercised rhe imagination of the great girls, such
as : Ok ! how tldl(jhtfal in the, tdvibour I or : Pifj/ is not a Pandour !
But Colette had left while yet too young to be much concerned about
the " tambour." She did not know, therefore, what name to give to
what phe now experienced. Is one less s'ck for not knowing the name
of the disease 1"
She loved with so much the more passion as she loved with ignorance ,-
She did not know whether it were good or evil, beneficent or dangerous,
necessary or accidental, eternal or transitory, permitted or prohibited :
she loved. She would have been vory much astonished if anybody had
said to her : •' You are sleepless ! that is forbidden ! You do not eat !
that is very wrong ! You have sinkings and pal[)itatious of the heart !
that is not right ! You blush and you turn pale when a certain being
dressed in black appears at the "end of a certain green walk ! that is
abominable !" She would not have understood it, and she would have
answered : " IIow can I be to blame in a thing in which I can do no-
thing, and of which I know nothing ?"
It proved that the- love which presented itself was precisely that
SAINT DENIS. 49'
which best suited the comiition of her soul. It was a sort of far off
worship, a mute contcraphition, a deification by nn unknown votary It
was the apprehension of adolescence by adolescence, the dreau)of.her
niglits become a romance and riunaining a dream, the wished-for phan-
tom realized ixt last, and made flesh, but still having neither ryime, nor
wronix, nor stain, nor need, nor defect} in a' word, a lover distant and
dwelling in the ideal, a chimtfcra having a form. Any closer and more
palpable en'ounfer would, at this first period, have terrified Cosette, still ,
half buried in the magnifying mirage of the cloister. She had all the
terrors of children and all the terrors of nuns commingled. The spirit
of the convent, with which she had been imbued for five years, was still
.slowly evaporating from her whole person, and ma(ic everything tremu-
lous about her. In this condition, it was not a lover that she needed,
it was not even an admirer, it was a vision. She began to adore. Marias
as something charming, luminous, and impo.ssible.
As extreme artlessnoss meets extreme coquetry, she smiled upon him
very frankly. 0
She awaited impatiently every day the 'hour for her walk; she found
Marius there; she felt herself inexpressibly happy, and sincerely be-
lieved that she uttered her whole thought when she said to Jean Val-
jean : " What a delightful garden the Lu.xembourg is !"
IMarius and Cosette were in the dark in regard to each other. Ttiey
did not speak, they did not bow, they were not acquainted; they saw
each other; and, like the stars in the sky separated by millions of
leagues, they lived by gazing upon each other.
Thus it was that Cosette gradually became a womag, and beautiful
.arid loving, grew with the couscioiisiie.ss of licr beauty, and in ignorance
of her love.. Coquetish withal, through innocence.
VII.
TO SADNESS, SADNESS AND A HALF.
• Every condition has its instinct. The old and eternal mother. Na-
ture, silently warned Jean Valjeau of the presence of Marius.. Jean
Valjean shuddertd in the darkness of his mind. Jean Valjean saw no-
thing, knew nothing, but still gazed with persistent fixedness at the
darkness .which surrounded him, as if he perceived on one«side some-
thing which was buildipg, and on the othta* something which wassailing
dowui Marius, also warned, and, according to the deep law of (lud, by
this same mother, Nature,^did all th it he could to hide himself from the
"father." It happened, however, that J^an A''aljean sometimes per-
ceived him. Mariuts'j? ways were no longer at all natural. He had an
equivocal prudence and an awkward boldness. He ceased to fcome near
them as formerly ; he sat down at a distance, and -remained there in an
ecstacy ; he had a book and pretended to be reading ; why did he pre-
tend ? Formerly he came with his old coat, now he had his new coat on
every day; it was not very certain that he did not curl his hair; he had
strange eyes, he wore gloves; in short, Jean Valjean cordially detested
this young man.
50 LKS MIS^RABLES.
Cosrtte gave no ground for suspicion. Wiiliout knowing exactly
what affected her, hhe had a very definite feeling that it was something,
and tbiit it iuu>t be concealod.
T!ie;e was between the taste for dress whieh had arisen in Tosette and
the li.'ibiJ <if wearing new coats which had grown upon thiji unknown
tnan, a paralleli>iu which made Jcau Valjian anxious It was au acci-
dent perhaps, doubtless, certainly, but a threatening accident.
He h:id never opened his mouth to (^i.'^rttc ab >ut tills unkuowu uian.
One day, however', he couM not contain hin).«ilf. and with \liat. uucer-
lain despair whifli hastily drbps the plummet into it.-* unhapjtines.^, he
said to her : *• Wliat a pedantic air that young man has !"
Coseite, a year before, au unconcerned little girl, would have answer-
ed : " Why no, he is charming." Ten years later, with the hvc of Ma-
rius in her heart, she would have an.>swcrcd : "Pedantic and iii>upporta-
Hc to the sight I you arc quite right I" At the period of life and of
heart in which she then wa8,'she merely answered with supreme calm-
ness: "That young nian^" as if she saw him for the first time in her
life.
"How stupid Iain!" thought Joan Valjean. "She had not, even
noticed him. 1 have shown him to her myself"
(), .simplicity of the old ! doplh of the young I
IMicrc is another law of tlcse young years of suffering and care, of
these sharp struggles of the first love against the fir.xt obstacles; the
young girl does nut allow h"rself to be caught in any toil, the young
man falls into all Jcau Valjean had eoiiiunnced a sujleO war against
Marius, which ^larius, with the sublime folly of his passion and his
age, did not guess. Jcau Valjean spread amund him a iuultifuiie of ,
snares; he changed his hours, he chang d his seat, he forgot his hantl-
kerchicf, -he went to the JiUxcmbourg aluuc ; Maihisfill headlong iuto
every trap; aijd to all those intorrcgatioa points plantod upon his path
by Jean Valjean, he answcT-cd ingenuously^ yes. Meanwhile, ('o.-ctte
was siilTwalled in in her apparent unconcern ancT her imperturbable
tran<juillity, so that Jean 'Valjean came to this conclusion T "Thi^ booby
is madly in love witfli Cc^etto, but Cosettc docs not even know of his
existence I" *
There was nevertheless a painful tremor in the heart The moment
when Co.-ette would fall in love might conic at any iustaul. Does not
everything begin by indiflcrcncc ?
One only (Jo.sclte made a mistake, whieh startled him. He ro.sc
frtim t)^> seat to go, after sitting there three houfs, and she said : " So
soou !"
Jean Valjean had not discontinued the promAades in theLoxembourg,
not wishing to do anything singular, and above all dreading to excite
any susjticinn in Coscttc; bat during tlio.se bourn so sweet »o the two
lovers, while Cosotto was sending her smile toihe intoxieatod Mariu.'j,
who perceived nothing but that, and now saw nothing in the world save
one rad:aut, adored lice, Jean Valjean fixed upim JNIarius glaring and
terrible eyes. Hi* who had eome to believe that he was no h'nger capa-
ble of a malevolent feeling, had moments in which, when Marius was
there, he thought that he was again becomini; savage and ferocious, and
. felt opening and uplieaviug against this young man those old depths of
SAINT DENIS.' 51
his soul tvlicic tlicre bad once been so much wrath. It seemed to him
almost as if the unknown craters were forminjx witliin him a<riiin.
What? he was there, that fcreaturc. What did he come fur ? lie
came to pr}-, to scent, to examine, to attempt: he came to say, "Kb,
why not V he came to prowl about his, Jean Yaljean's life ! — to prowl
a,bout his happiness, to clutch it and carry it? away !,
Jean Va^jean added: " Yes, tbat is it ! Wbat is he loolcinccfor? an
adventure? Wbat does he want? an amour! An amour! — and as for
me ! What! I, pftcr having been the most iniserable of men, shall be
the mo.st unfortuuiite; T shall bave spent sixty years of life upon my
knees; I shall have suffered all that a man can suffer; I shall have
grown old without having been young; I shall have lived with nn family,
no relatives, no friends, no children ! I sball bavo left my bKnid on
every stone, on every thorn, on every post, along every wall ; I sball
have been mild, altbough tbe world was barsh to nic, anci good, although
it was evil ; I shall have become an honest man in spite of all ; I shall
have r( pented of the wrong which I have done, and pardoned the wrongs
which bavo been done to me, and the moment tbat I am rewarde<l, tbe
moment that it is over, tbe moment that I reach the* end, the moment
tbat I have wbat I desire, rightfully and justly; I have paid for it, I
have earned it; it will all disappear, it will all vanish, and I sball lose
Cosetta, and I shall lose, my life, my joy, my snul. because a great booby
has-been plea«ed to come and lounge about tbe Luxembourg."
Then his eyes filled with a strange and dismal light. It was no longer
a man looking upon a man ; it was not an enemy looking upon an enemy.
It was a dog lo iking upon a rcbber.
Wo kmiw the rest. Tbe insanity of Marius continued. One day he
followed CoscttG to the Hue de I'Ouest. Another day be spoie to the
porter: the potter in his turn spoke, and said to Jean Valjean : "IMon-
sieur, who is that curious young man who has boon asking for you ?"
The next day, Jean A''aljean cast tbat glance at Mari\is which Marius
finally perceived. A week after, .Jean Valjean had moved. He re-
solved that he would never set bis foot again cither in the Luxem-
bourg, or in th'e liue dc I'Ouest. He returned to tlie Rue Plumet.
Co.<ette*did not complain, she said 'nothing, she asked no questions,
she did not seek to know any reason; she was already at that point at
which line fears discovery and sclf-betrayal. Jean Valjean had no ex-
perience of this mi.scry, the only misery which is charming, and, the
o:)ly niisory which be did not know; ior this reason, he did not under-
stand the deep significance of Cosette's silence. He noticed only that
she had becoine sad, and he became gloomy. There was on either side
an armc I inexperience.
Once he had maile a trial. He asked Cosette : "Would ynu like to
go to tbe Llixcmh'iurg ?'" A liglit illumined Cosette's pale face.
" Yes," said she. Tbey went. Three mwntbs had passed.. iMarius
w(nt tbeie no longer. Marius was not there. The next day, .lean
Valj. an asked Co.sette again : " Wnuld you like to go to the Luxem-
bourg?" She answered sadly and quietly: <'N<iI" Jean Valjean was
hurt, by thi.s sadness, and Jiarrowed by this gentleness.
What was taking place in this spirit so young, and already so im-
penetrable ? Whal was in course of accompli.^-hment in it? what was
t)Z ' LES MISERABLES.
happening to Cosottc's soul ? Somotimes, instead of going to bed, Jean
Valjcan sut by his bedsido with his head in his hands, and he spout
wh«il.- ni;.'hf< asking hiti'sclf: " What is there in Cosctte's nuiid?" and
thitikinc what things she could be thinking about.
Oh I in those hours,, what mournful lucks he turned towards the
cloister, that chaste sunmlit, that abode of angrls, that iuaeeossible
fl*ci^"r of virtue I Willi what despairing raptnre he crnteinplated tiiat
convent gardi-n, full of unknown Howcrs and sceluded niuidens, wiicro
all p'*rf»nics and all souls rose straight toward^ Heaven I How he wor-
shipped that Kdo!), now closed forever, from which he had voluntarily
dcpirted, and from which he had foolishly de.*ccn'ied I How he reszret-
U'd his srif-denial, his madness in having brought Cosette bark to the
world, poor hero'oC sacrifice, caught and thpown to the ground by his
vory d(>votednoss ! How lu; said to himself: " What have I done?"
Still nothing of this wa<» exhibited towards Cosettc: neither capri-
cionsness nor severity. Always the same serene and kind face. Jean
Valjean's mannor was more tender and more paternal than ever. If
anything could have raised a suspicion that there was less happiness, it
was ihit greater gentleness.
Kor her part, Cosette was languishing. She suffered from the absence
of Mnriu«j, a-; she had njoiecd in his presence, in a peculiar way. with-
out really knowing it. NVheu Jean Valje.m ccn.scd to ta*ke her on their
usumI walk, h< r woman's instinct murmured confusedly in the depth* of
her heart, that she mu>t not appear to cling to the Luxembourg; and
that if it were indifferent to her, her father would take her back tln-re.
Hut days, weeks and months pnssiti away. Jean Va'jeun liad tacitly
accepted ("!osctte'8 tacit consent. She regretted it. It was too late.
The day •ho returned to the liUxembourg, .Marius was no longer there.
M irius then had disappeared; it was all over; what copld t-he do?
Would she ever find him again J" She felt a constriction of her h^-art,
which nothing relaxed, and which was increasing everyday; she no
longer knew whether i'- was, winter or summer, sunshine or rain, whe-
ther the birds sang, whether it was the season for dal^lias or daisies,
whether the Luxemhourg was more charming than the Tuilories, whe-
ther the linen whieti the w.ishcrwoiiian brou^jht home was starched too
much, or not enough, whether 'J'oussaint did "her marketing" well or
ill; und she bce^im' dejected, nbsorhei], intent upon a single thought,
her ^ye wild and tixcd, as when one looks into the night at the deep
black place where an apparition has vanished.
She did not let Jean \'aljean see anything, except her paleness. She
kept her face sweet lor him
This paleness was more than suffii-ient to make Jean Valjean anxious.
Sometimes he a>.ked her : "What is the matter with you?" She an-
swered : " Nothing " And after a silence, as she felt thSt ho was sad
also, she eontinui'd : *♦ And you, father, is not something the matter
with you?" "Mc? nothing," paid he. These tWo beings, who had
loved each other so exclusively, and with so touching a love, ami who
had lived so long t'nr each other, were now suffering by c.ieh other, and
through each other, without speaking of it, without harsh feeling, and
smiling the while.
SAINT DENJS. 53
VIII.
THE CHAIN.
The raore unhappy, of tho two was Jean Valjean. Youth, even in
its sorrow, always has a brillinncy of its own.
ArVeitain moments, Juan Valjoftn suffered so much that he became
puerile. It i.s tlif peculiari<y of trrief to bring out the cbildish side of
mail. He felt irrtsi.stibly tliat Cosette was escaping bim. He would
have been glad to T^ut forth an effort, to hold her fust, to rouse her en-
thusiasm by something external and striking. These ideas, puerile, as
we have just said, and at the same time senile, gave him by tlieir very
childishness a just idea of the influence of gewgaws over the imagina-
tion of young girls. He chanced onc^ to see a general pass in the
street on hor-^^tback in full 'uniforu). Count Coufard, Commandant of
Paris. He envied this gilded man ; ho thought what hTippiuess it would
he to be able to put on that coat which was an incontestuble tiling, tliat
if Cosette saw.hiih t-hns it would dazzle her, that wdun he should give
his arm to Cosette and pass before the gate of the Tuilerics, they would
present arms to him, and that that would so satisfy Cosette that it
would destroy her inclination to look at the young men.
An unexpected shock came to him in the midst of tlieso sv\ thoughts.
In the isolated life which they were leading, and since they had come to
live in the Rue Plumct, they had formed, a habit. They sometimes
made a pleasure excursion to go and see the sun rise, a gentle joy suited
to those who arc entering upon life and those who are leaving it
A walk ar. early dawn, to him who loves solitude, is equivalent to a
walk at nijiht, with the gaiety of nature adiled. The streets are enipty
and the birds are singing. Co.sette, herself a bird, usually awoke early.
These morning excursions were arranged the evening before. IJe pro-
posed, she accepted. They were planned as a conspiracy, they went out
before day, and these were so many pleasant hours for Costtte. Such
innocent eccentricities have a charm for the young.
Jean Valjean's inclination was, we know, to go to unfrer|uented spot.^,
to solitary nooks, to neglected places. There were at tiiat time in the
neighborhood of the barri^res of Paris some poor fields, alm,i»st in the
city, where -there grew in summer a scanty crop of wheat, and whioh in
autumn, after this was gathered, appeared not to have been harvested,
but stripped. Jean Valjean had a predilection for these fields. Cosette
did not dislikfl theni; To him it was i-olitude, to her it was liberty. There
she became a little girl again, she could run and alino.>t play, she took off
her hat, laid it on Jean Vaijcan's knees, and gathered ilowcrs. She
looked at the butterflies opou the blossoms, but did not catch them ;
gentleness antl tenderness are born with Im'e, atfd the younc girl who
lias in her heart a trembling and fragile ideal, feels pity fur a butter-
fly's wing. She wove garlands of wild poppies which she put upon her
head, and which lit up and illuminated in the sunshine, and bla7,iug like
a flame, made a crown of fire for her fre.'*h and roiy face.
Even after their life had been saddened, they continued their habit of
morning walks, So one October morning, tempted by the dceji f^crcnity
54 LBS MISURABLES.
of the autuiuD of 1S31, ihcy had gone out, and found ihetnsolvcs at
da}'lircak n<ar the Barrifre du Maine. It was not day, it was daw ik;
a wild HUil ravishiDj: iilouient. A few consti>llatious here and there in
t4je deep pale heavens, the earth all black, the sky all white, a shivpr-
inp in iht; speurs of j^rass, ever} where the mysterious thrill nf the twi-
li;:ht A lark, which seemed among the stars,- was sinking at this
«ii. rinou-s h<rif:ht, and one would have said that this hymn from little-
!!• >s to the Inlinite wascalmiiiij the immensity. In the east the Val do
(irficc, carved out upon the clear horizon, arith the ffliarpnoes of steel,
its obscure mass; Venus was rising in splendor Vehind that dome like
a soul escaping from a dark odihce. All was peace atid siU-fice; nobody
upon the hijrhway ; .on thi; footpaths a few scattered workin-jmcn, hardly
visible, goin'^ to their work
.lean Valjcau was seated in the side- walk, upon some timbers lying
by the gate of a lumber-yard. He had his face turned towards the
road, and h;s back towards the light; he'had forgotten ihesun-whieh
was just rising;' he had fallen into one of those deep meditutious in
whi'-h the whole miud is absorbed, which even iuipre>8 the seuses, and
which are equivalent to four walls There are some 'meditations which
may be called vertical; whi-n cue is at the bottom it takes time to re-
turn to the surface of the earth. Jean ^"aljcan had descended into one
of these reveries. lie was thitikitig of Oosctte, of the happiness pos-
sible if notiiiug came between her and him, ol" that light with which
eho filled his life, a ligiit which was the atmosphcro of his soul. He
waj almot*t happy in this -reverie. Cosette, standing near him, was
watching the clouds as ihcy b"came ruddy.
Suddenly, Cosetto exclaimed: "Father, I should think somebodj
was coming (iown there." Jean \'aljean looked up. Coseite was right.
The highway which loads t<» the aucient liarriere du ♦lainc is u pro-
longation, as everybody knows, of the Rue do !?6vres, and is intersected
at a right angle ly the interior Boulevard. At the corner of the high-
way vud rhc JJyulevard, at) the point where they diverge, a sound wis
heard, diflicult of explanation at fiuch an hour, and a kind of moving
Confusion appeared Some shapeless thing which canio from the Boule-
vard was entering upon the highway.
It grew larger, it seemed to move in order, still it was bristling and
quivering; it lookc<l like a wagon, but they could not make out the
load. Tliere were horses, wheels, cries; whips were emcking. By de-
grees tjie features became deliuite, although envclopeil in darkness It
was iu fact a wagtm wJiich had just turned out of the Boulevard into
ihe roiid, uud which was making its way towards the Barriere, near
wt)ieh .Jean Valjean was; a second, of the same appearance, followed
it, then a tliird, tlien a fourth; seven vehicles turned in in succession,
the h<»rses' h(uds t^iuching the rear of the wagons. Dark forms were
moving a{»rin these Wagons, flashes were .seen in the twilight as if of
drawn swords, a clanking was heard which resembled the rattling of
chains, it advanced, the voices grew louder, and it was as terrible a
thing as c mies forth from- the cavern of dreams.
As itapproached.it took form, and outlinctl itself behind the trees
with the pallor of an apparition; the mass whitened; daylight, which
was rising little by little, spread a pallid gleam over this crawling thing.
SAINT DENIS. 55
which was at once sepulchral and alive, the heads of the shadows be-
came the faces of corpses', and it was this:
Seven wagons were movin;^ in file upon the road. Six of them were
of a peculiar sWucture. Tlioy resembled coopers' drajs; the}' were a.
sort of long ladder placed upon two wheels, formint!; thills at the for-
ward end. Kach dray, or better, each ladder, was drawn by four horses
tandem, tipon those ladders strange clusters of men were carried. In
the little Hiriit that there, was, these men were ncit seen, they were only
guessed. Twenty-four on each wagon, twelve od each side, back to
back, their faces towards the passers-by, their legs hanging down, these
men were travelling thusj and they had behind them something which
clanked and which was a chain, and at their necks souiethitig which
shone and which was an iron collar. Each had his. collar, but the chain
was for all ;. so that these twenty-four men, if they should chance to get
down from the dray and walk, would be made subject to a sort of inex-
orable unity, and have to wriggle over the ground with tjie chain fur a
back-bone, very much like centipedes. In front and rear of each wa-
gon, two men, armed with muskets, stocnl, each hf.ving an end of the
chain under his foot. The collars were square. The seventh wagon,
a huge cart with racks, but without a Qover, had four wheels and six
horses, 'and carried a vcsounding pile of fron kettles, melting pots, fur-
naces and chains, over whicli» were scattered a number r>f men, who
wore bound and lying at full length, and who appeared to be sick.
This cart, entirely exposed to view, was furnished witli' broken hurdles
which seemed to have served in the ancient punishments
These wagons kept the middle of the street. At either side marched
a row of guards of infamous appearance, wearing throe pronged hats
likf the soIdi<^rs of the Directory,. stained, torn, filthy, muffled up in
Invalides' uaiforms and hearse boy-s' trdwsers, half grey aurl half blue,
almost in tatters, with red epaulets, 3'ellow eros.s-belts, sheath-knives,
nju-kets and clubs : a species of servant-soldiets. The sbirri seeyied a
compound of the abjectness of the beggar and the authority of the ex-
ecutioner. The one who appeared to be their chief had a horsewhip in
bis hand. All theso details, blurred by the twilight, were becoming
clearer and o'earer iu the growing light. At the head and the rear of
the convoy, gendarmes mai-ched on horseback, solemn, and with drawn
swords.
This cortege was so long that when the first wagon reached the Bar-
ri^rc, the last had hardly turned out of the Boulevard.
A crowd, eome from nobody knows where, and gathered in a twink-
ling, as is frequently the case in Paris, were pus-hiog. along tl>c two
side^ of the highway and looking on. Itv the neighboring, lanes there
were heard p''0ple shouting an 1 calling each other, and the wooden shoes
of the market-gardeners who were running to see.
The men heaped upon the drays were silent as they were jolted along.
They were livid with the chill of the moraiog. They all had tow trow-
8ers, and their bare feet were in wooden shoes. The rest of their cos-
tume was according to the faney of misery. Their dress was hideously
variegated f notliitig is uior<' <lisinal than the liarlequin of rags. Felt
hats jammed out of shape, glazed caps, horrible cloth caps, and beside
the linen monkey -jacket, the black coat out at the elbows; several had
6G LES MISKRABLS8.
woiucn'8 bats ; others had baskets on their heads; hairy breasts could
b<» seeo, aud through the holes in their ch)rhii)i:, tattooinps could be
discerned ; li-uiples of love, burning hearts, cupid*, eruptions and rod
PorcH cuuld also be seen. Two or three bad a rope of ftraw fixed to the
Wr-* of tiic dray, and hung beneath them like a stirrup, which sustained
their f^et. Que of them held in his band and eariied to his mouth
something which locked like a black stone, which he seemed to be
gnawing; it was bread which he was eating. There were none but dry
ev'-s unjong them ; they were rayless, or lighted with an evil light.
Thi^ troop of escort was cursing, the chained did not whisper; from
time to lime there was heard the sound of the blow of a club upon
their shoulilers or their heads; some of these men were yawning; their
rags were terrible; tlijir feet hung down, thiir shoulders swung, their
heads struck toget-her, their imns rattled, their eyes glared fiercely, their
fist« were clenched or opened inertly like the hands of the dead ; be-
hitid the c(jnvi>y a troop of ehildren were bursting with .laughter.
This tile of wagons, whatever it was, was dismal. It was evident
that to-morrow, that in au hour, a shower might spring up, that it
would be followed by another, and another, and that the worn-out cloth-
ing would be soakt^d through, tjiat once wet, these men would never get
dry, that ouce chided, they would neter get warm again, that their tow
Irowstis Would be fastened to their skin by the rain, that water would
fill their Wooden shoes, that blows of the whip could not prevent the
chattering of theV jiws. that the chain would continue to hold them
by the ncek, that their feet would continue to swin;j ; and it was impos-
sible uot to shudder at seeing tiiese human creatures thus bottud aud
pus'ive under Jht; chilling clouds of autumn, and given up to the rain,
to the wind, to all the fury of the elein<nt><, like trees and stones. .
Th3 clubs did uot spue evcti the si'k, who lay tied with ropes and
motionless iu the scvenih wagon, and who seemed to have been tlirowa
there like Backs tilled wieh mi.-cry.
Suddenly, the suy appeared; the inimcnsc radiance of the Orient
bur.sl forth, and one would have .said that it set all these savage heads
ou Ore. Their tongues were loosed, a conflagration of sneers, of onths
uud songs burst forth. The broad horizontal light cut the whole file in
two, illuiuinaiing their heads and their bodies, leaving their feet and
the wlieel.>> ill the dark. Their thou::ht,s appeared upon their faces; the
nioun-nt was afipaliing; demons visible with theirmasks falleu off, fero-
cious >ouls laid bare. J^ightcd up, this group was still dark i:>ome,
who Were gay, hud tjuilis iu their mouths from wliieh they Irlcw vermin
nnmng the crowd, selecting the women; the dawn iutensitied these
mournful profiles by the bUekness of the shade; uot one of these be-
ing-who was uot deformed by misery; aud it was so monstrous that
one wciiild have ysxi] that it changed the sunbeams into the gleam of
the lightning's flash. The wagon load which Kd the cortege had struck
up and were snging at the top of their voices with a ghastly joviality
u medley of Desaugiers, then famous, Id Veslu/c ; the frees shivered
drearily on the side-walks, the brturgeois listened with faces of idiotic
bliss to these obscenities chanted by spectres. *
Every f<trm of distress was j)resent in this chaos of a cortege ; there
was the facial angle of every beast, old men, youths, bald heads, grey
SAINT DENIS. 57
beards, cynical mohsFVosities, dogged resignation, savage grimaces, in-
eane attitudes, siiout.s set off with caps, lieads like those of young girls
with corkscrews over their toniples, child fycofi horrifying on thar ac-
count, thin skeleton fiices which lacked nothing but death. The fearful
lovelier, disgrace, had passed over these brows; at this degree of abase-
ment t'.ie last transformation had taken -place in all to its utmost de-
gree; and ignorance, changed into stupidity, was the equal of int(51li-
gence changed into despair. No possible choice among these men who
seemed by their appearance the elite of the mire. It was clear that the
marshal, whoever he was, of this foul procession had not classified them.
'These beings had been bound and coupled pcll-uiell, probably in alpha-
betical disorder, and loaded haphazard upon these wai.;ons. Thfe aggre-
gation of horrors, however, always ends by evolving a resultant; every
addition of misfortune gives a total ; there came from each chain a com-
mon soul, and each cartload had its own physiognomy. l>e«ide the one
which was singing, there was one which was howling; a third was bag-
ging; one was seen gnashing its te<^th ; another was threatening the
bystanders, another blaspheming God; the last was silent as the tomb.
Pante would have thought he saw the seven circles of Hell on their
passage.
A passage from condemnation towards punishment, made drearily,
not upm the furmidable flashing car of the Apocalypric, but more dis-
mal still, upon a hangman's cart.
One of the guard, wlio had a hook on the end of his club, from time
to time made a semblance of stirring up this heap of human ordure.
An old woman in the crowd pointed them out with her finger to a little
boy five years old, and said : *' H7ie'^), that will teach you !"
As the son?:s and the blasphemy increased, he who seemed the cap-
tain of the escort cracked his whip, and upon (j|at signal, a fearful,
sullen and promisQUous cudgelling which sounded like hail, fell upon
the seven wagons; many roared and foamed; which redoubled the joy
of the gamins who had collected, a swaim of flies upoi> these wounds.
Jean Va jean's eye had become fiightful. It was no longer an eye;
it was that deep window, which takes the place of the look in certain
unfortunate beings, who seem unconscious of reality, iknd from whi<di
flashes out the reflection of horrors and catastrophes, lie was not look-
ing upon a sight; a vic^ion was appearing to him. He endeavored to
rise, to flee, to escape; he could not move a limb. Sometimes things
which you see, clutch you and hold you. lie was spell bound, stupe-
fied, petrified, ashing him.self, through a vague unutterable anguish,
what was the meaning of this sepulchral persecution, and whence came
this pandemonium which was pursuing him. All at once he raiised his
hand to his forehead, a comuinn gesture with those to whom memory
suddenly returns; he remembered that this was really the route, that
this detour was usual to avoid meeting the king, which was always pos-
pible on the Fontaintbleau road, and that, thirty-five years before, ho
bad passed through this Barrierc.
Cosette, though from another cause, was equally terrified. She did
not conaprehend ; her breath failed her; what she saw did not seem,
possible to her; at last she exclaimed: "Father, what can there be in
5
[>ii LES MI6KRABLES.
those wagons y" Jean Valjcan nnswered : " Copvicts." "And where
arc they fjoins;?" "To the galleys. "
At this moment the cudm-lling, mulMpltcd by a hundred hands,
reached its climax; blows with the flat of the sword jojiH'd in; it was
a fury of whips and clubs; the f^nllpy slaves croucbed down, a hideous
obedience was produced b}' tho puniphmont, and all were silent with the
looV of chained wolves. Oosette trembled in very limb; she continued:
"Father, arc they still raen '!"' "Sometimes," naid the wretched man.
It was in fact the chain which, .'setting out before d:iy from IJicOtre,
took the Mans road to avoid Fontain'-blean, whcr<» the kina then was.
This dcttur mndc the terrible journey la.st three or four <\i\ys lonsror ;
but to spare tlic royal person the sight of the punishment, it might well
be prolonged.
Joan Valjean returned homo ovcrwhelnu'd. Such encounters are
ehocks, and the memory which they leave resembles a convulsion.
J(.an Valjcan, however, on the way back to the Rue de IJabylone
with fnsettc, did not notice that she asked him oth^r questions regard-
ing what they had just seen ; perhaps he was himself too much ab-
sorbed in his own dejection to heed her words or to answer them. But
at night, as Cc^^ette was leaving him to go to bed, he heard her say in
an undertone, and as if tidking to herself: "It seems to me that if I
should meet one of ^ho.se men in my path, 0 my God, I should die
just from secine him near me !"
Forlun:itcly it happened ihat.on the morrow of this tragic day there
were in constiiuenec of Rome oflii-ial ceUbratiuii, fr-tes in Paris, a re-
Tipw in the (Miamp do Mars, riwiiig matches upon the Seine, theatri-
cals in the Champs Elys^-es, fireworks at I'Ktoile, illuminations every-
where. Jean Valjean, doing viidonce to his habits, took Cosette to
these festivities, for%he purjHise of diverting her mind from the niemo-
ries of the d:iy before, and of effacing under the laughing tumult of alt
Paris, the abominable thing which had passed before her. The review,
which enlivened the f/lte, made the display of uniforms quite natural;
Jean Valjean put on his National ttuard uniform with the vague inte-
rior t'eeling of a man who is taking nduge. Yet the objecr of this
walk seemed atAined. Cosette, whose law it was to please her father,
and fnr whom, moreover, every si^jht. was new, accepted the diversion *
with the easy and blithe grace of youth, and did not look too disdain-
fully upon that promiscuous bowl of joy which i.s called a public fete;
«o that Jean V'^ljc-m could believe that he had succeeded, and that no
trai^c remaiiK'(l of the hideous vision,
8omi' days juter, one morning, when the sun was bright, and they
were b'>lh upon the garden steps, another infraction of tho rules which
Jenn Valjean seemed to have imposed upnn hims(lf, and of the habit of
Ptaying in her room which sadness had imposeil upon Cosette, Cosette,
in her drt^ssing gown, was standing in that undress of the morning hour
which is charmingly becoming to young girls, and which has the ap-
pearance I'f a cloud upon a star; and, with her head in the light, rosy
from having slept well, under the tender gaze of the gentle goodman,
ehe was picking a daisy in pieces. Cosette wis ignorant of the trans-
porting legend, I l-ive titer a littb'^ pnsmmdtiti/, etc.; who should have
taught it to her? She was Angering this flower, by instinct, innocently,
SAINT DENIS. 59
without suspecting that to pick a daisy in pieces is to pluck a heart.
Were tJiere a fourth Grace named Melancholy, and were it smiling, she
would have seemed that Grace. Jean Valjcan was fascinated by tho
contemplation of her slender fingers upon that flower, forgetting every-
thing in the radiance of this' child. A red-breast was twittering in the
shrublx'ry beside them. White clouds were crossing the sky so giily
that one would have said they had just been set at liberty. Cosette
continurd pi(<king her flower attentively ; she seemed to be thinking of
sometiting ; but that must have been plea-'ant. Suddenly she turned
her head over hor shoulder with the delicate motion of the swan, and
said to Jean Valjean : " Father^ what are they, then, the galley slaves?"
IX.
WOUND WITHOUT, CURE WITHIN.
Thus their life gradually dnrkened.
There was left to them but one pastime, and this had formerly
been a pleasure : that was to carry bread to tho'^e who were hungry,
and clothing to those who were cold. In these visits to the poor, in
which Co.sette often acconipunied Jean Valjean, they found some rem-
nant of their former lightheartedness; and, sometimes, when they had
had a good day, when many sorrows had been relieved and many little
children revived and made warm, Cosette, in the evening, was a little
gay. It was at this period that they visited the Jondrette den.
Jhe day. after that visit, Jean Valjean appeared in the cottage in the
morning, with ^is orq^hiary calmness, but with a large wound on his left
arm, very much inflamed and very venomous, which resembled a burn,
and which he explained in some way or other. This wound confined
hiKH within doors more than a month with fever. He would see no
phy.sician. When Cosette urged it: "Call the d'og-doctor," said he.
Cosette dressed it night and morning with so divine a grace and so
angelic a pleasure in being useful to him, that Jean Valjcan felt all his
old happiness return, his fears and his anxieties dissipate, and he looked
upon Cosette saying: ''Oh! the good wound! Oh! the kind hurt !"
Cosette, as her father was sick, had deSertcd the summer-house, and
regaiiled her taste for the little lodge and the back yard. She spent
almost all her time with Jean Valjean, and read to him the books which
he liked. In general, books of travels. .Jean Valjean was born anew :
his happiness revived with inexpressible radiance; the Luxembourg,
the unknown joung prowler, Cosette's coldness, all these clouds of his
soul faded away. He now said to, himself: " I imagined all that. I
am an o'd fool."
His happines," was so great, that the frightful discovery of the Th6-
nardiers, made in the Jondrette den, and so unexpectedly, had in some
sort glided over him. He had succeeded in escaping ; his travc was
lost, what mattered the rest? he thought of it only to grieve over those
wretches. "They arc now in prison, and can do no harm in future,"
thought he; " but what a pitiful family in distress !" As to the hide-
60 LES MISERABLKS.
ous virion of the Ikrrit^re du Main, Coscttc bad never lucntioucd it
again
At the convent, Sister Sainte Mechthilde h:d taught Cosefte nui^ic.
Cosctfc InJ .the voice of a warbler with a soul, and soujotitncB in tlio
cvcniui;, in tiie humble loJjrinc of the wounded man, she sanj^ plaintivo
»on;;'i wliich rejoiced Jean Valj^an.
Sprint: came, the garden was so wonderful nt that season of the year,
that Jean Valjean said to Cosette : '* You never go there, 1 wish you
woold walk in it." " As you will, father," said Cosette.
An<l, out of obedience to her father, she re.-^uinod her walks in the
garden, o'tencst alone, for, as we h;ivc remarked, Jean Valjcau, who
probably dreaded bcinj: seen through the gate, hardly ever \Aent there.
• Joan'Valjcan's wound had been a diversion.
When Coscttc saw *.hat her father was suffering less, and that he was
petting well, and that he seemed happy, .she felt a contentment that she
did not even notice, .so gently and naturally did it come upon her It
v>as tlien the month of March, the days were growing longer,, winter
was departing, winter always carries with it something of our .sadnoss;
then April eaine, that diiybreak of t<uiunier, fresh like every dawn, gay
like every chihihood ; weeping a little sometimes like the infant that it
is. Nature in this month ha.-< charming gleams wliieh pass from the
i>ky, the clouds, the trees, the fields, and the flowers, into the heart of
man.
Cosettc was still too young for this April joy wliich resembled her
not to find its way to her heart. Insensibly, and without u suspicion on
ber purl, the darkn<8s pa.sscd away from her mind. Jn the spring it
becomes light in sad souls, ns at noon it becomes light in cellars. And
CoseVte was not now v.ory sad. So it was, however, but she did not^no-
ticc it. In the morning, about ten o'clock, afi^ breakfast, when she
bad succeeded in enticing her father into the garden for a quarter of an
bour, aud while she was walking in the sun in front of the steps, sup-
porting his wounded arm, she did not perceive that she was laughing
every moment, and th^t she was happy.
Jtan Valjean saw her, with intoxication, again become fresh and
rosy. " Oh ! the blessed wound !" repeated he in a whisper. Aud he
was gra'( ful to the Th^nardicrs.
As soon as his wound was cured, be resumed his solitary aud twilight
walkb.
SAINT DENIS. 61
Booit jfourtift.
THE END OF WHICH IS UALIKE THE BErilNNING.
SOLITUDE AND THE BARRACKS.
Cosette's p:rief, so poignant still, and so acute four or five months be-
fore, had, without her knowledge even, entered upon convalescence.
Nature, Sprinir, her youth, her love for her father, the gaiety of the
"birds and the flowers, were filtering little by little, day by day, drop by
drop, into this soul so pure and so young, something which almost re-
sembled oblivion. _ Was the fire dyiujj out entirely? or was it merely
becoming a bed of embers? The 'truth is, that she had scarcely dny-
thing left of that sorrowful and consuming feeling.
One day she suddenly thought of Marius. " What I" said she, "I
do not think of him now."
In the course of that very week she noticed, passing bef tre the grated
gate of the garden, a very handsome officer of lancers, waist like a wasp,
ravishing uniform, cheeks like a young girl's, sabre under his arm, waxed
monstachos, polished schapska. Moreover, fun hair, full blue eyes,
plump, vain, insolent and pretty face ; the very opposite of Marius. A
cigar in his mouth. Cosette thought that this officer doubtless belonged
to the regiment in barracks on the Hue de l3abylono.
The next day, fthe saw him pass again. She noticed the hour. Dat-
ing from this time, (was it chance ?) she saw him pass almost every day.
The officer's commdes perceived that thrre was, in this garden so
"baJly kept," behind that wretched old-fashioned grating, a pretty crea-
ture thai alwiyj happened to be visible on the passage of the handsome
lieutenant, who is not unknown to the reader, and whose name was Th(S-
odulc Gillenonrand.
"Stop!'' said they to him ; " here is a little girl who has her eye
upon you; why don't you look at her?"
*' Do you suppose I have the time," aniwered the lancer, " to look at
all the gills who look at me?"
This was the very time when Marius was descending gloomily iowarda
agony, and s-iying : " If I could only sec her again bef re I die !" Had
liis wish been realized, had he veen Cosette at that moment looking at a
lancer, he would not have been able to utter a word, and would hav6
expired of gritf.
Whose fa\i It was it? Nobody's. Marius was of that temperament
which f«inks into grief, and rem.iins there; Cosette was of that which
plunges in, and comes out again.
G2 LES MISERABLB8.
Co^rtjc indeed was passing that dangerous moment, the fatal phase of
feminine reverie abindmed to itself, when the hcirt of au isi)lated
youn;; f^irl resembles the tendrils of a vine which seize hold, as cJianco
dcieriiiiries, of the capital of a column or tlie sign-post of a t^ivcru. A
hurried and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, whether she be
pwr or whether she be rich, for riches do not defend nfjainst a bad
olioicc ; misalliances arc formed very high; the real misallialice is that
of souls; and, even as more than one unknown yduii;: man, without
name, or birth, or fcrtune, is a marble column which su.-tains a touiple
of grand sentiments and grand ideas, so you may find a satisfied and
opuknt man of the world, with polished boots and varni.-hcd spoech,
who, if you look, not at the exterior but the interior— that \* to s:vy, at
what is reserved for the wife, is n ithingbutii &tupid joist, darkly haunt-
ed b}' vi'ilenf, impure and«dc6auched passions; the signpost of a tavern.
What was fhtre in Cosettc's soul? A soothed or* (•It'epin;^ pas>i<in ;
luvc in a wavering state; something which was limpid, .shining, dis-
turbed to a certain depth, gloomy below. The image of the handsome
officer was rtflected from the surface. Was there a niemory at the bot-
tom ? deep at the bottom? Perhaps. Cosette did not know. A sin-
gular incident followed.
(
II.
FKAIIS OF COSETTE.
In the first fortnight iu April, Jean Valjean went on a journey. Th'S,
we know, happened with him from time to time, at very loug iutirvals.
Ho reuninid absent one or two days at the most. Where did he go?
nobody knew, not even Cosette. Once only, on one of these trips, she
fcid acconrpanied him in a fiacre as far as the corner of a little euldesac,
on which she read : Impasse dc la J'iajirlutf^. . There he got out, and
the fiacre took Cosctlc back to the Hue dc Babylono. It was gmt rally
when money was needed for the household expenses, that Jean Vuljcan
made these little journeys.
Jean Valjean then was absent. He had said : " I bhall bo back in
three days." In the evening, Cosette was ahme iu the partor. To
■tnu.se herself, hhe had opened her piano and b<gun to sing, playing an
accompaniiiictit, the chorus from Euryanthc : IIuiit>rs wuu</> liiii/ in (he
ww»h ! which is perhaps the finest piece in all music. AJLat once it
eecmed to her ihat she heard a step in the gardou.
It could not be her father, he was absent; it c^uM not be Toussaint,
8he was in brj. It was ten o'cloik at night. Sht; went to the wiudow-
ahuttcr which was closed and put her ear to it.
It appeared to her that it was a man's step, and that ho was treading
▼ery holtly.
She ran immediately up to the first story, in her room, opened a slide
in her blind, mid looked into the garden. Q'he moon was full. She
could see as plainly as in broad day. There was nobody th re.
She opened the window. The garden was absolutely silent, and all
that she could see of the street was as deserted as it always was. Co-
SAINT DENIS. . , 63
sette thought she had been mistaken. She had imagined she heard this
noise. It was a hallucination produced by Weber's sombre and niajestio
chorus, w.hich opens before the mind startling depths, which trembles
before the eye like a bewildering forest, and in which we hear the crack-
ling of the dead branches beneath the anxious step of the hunters dimly
seen in the twilight. She thought no more about it. Moreover, Co-
settc by nature was not easily startled. There was in her veins the
blood of the gipsy and of the adventuress who goes barefoot. It must
be remembered she was rather a lark than a dove. She was wild and
brave at heart.
Tliejiext day, not so late, at night fall, she was walking in the garden:
In the midst of the confused thoughts which filled her mind, she thought
she heard for a moment a sound like the sound of the evening before, as
if somebody wore walking in tho^ darkness under the trees, not very far
from her, but she said to herself that nothing is more like a step in the
grass than the rustling of two limbs agiinst each Other, and she paid no
attention to it. Moreover, she saw nothiug.
She left "the bush/' she had to cros.'< a little green grass-plot to
reach the steps. The moon, which had just risen behind her, projected,
as Cosette came out from the shrubbery, her shadow before her upon this
grass-plot. Cosctte stood still, terrified. By the side of her shadow,
the moon marked out distinctly upon the sward another shadow singu-
larly frightful and terrible, a shadow with a round hat.
It was like, the shadow of a man who might have been standing in the
edge of the shrubbery, a few steps behind Cosettc. For a moment she
was unable to speak, or cry, or call, or stir, or turn her head. At last
she summoned up all her courage and resolutely turned round. There
was nobody theie.
She looked upon the ground. The shadow had disappeared. She re-
turned into the Shrubbery, boldly hunted through the corners, went as
far as the gate, and found nothiug. She felt her blood run cold. Was
this also a halluoination '/ What ! two days in succession ? One hallu-
cination may pass, but two hallucinations ? What made her most anx-
ious was that the shadow was ccrtairily not a phaatom. Phantoms never
wear round hats.
The next day Jean Valjcan returned. Cosette narrated to him what
she thought «he had heard and seen. She expected to be re-a*sured,
and tliat her father would shrug his shoulders and say: "You area
fooli.'ih littlcgirl." Jean Valjean became anxious. " It may be nothing,"
said he to her.
He hft her under some pretext and went into the garden, and she saw
him cximiciing the gate very closely.
In the niglit she awoke ; now she was certain, and she distinctly heard
somebody walking very near the strps under her window. Sbe ran to
her .slide and opened it. There was in fact a man in the garden with a
big club in hivS hand. Just as she was about to cry out, the moon light-
ed up the man's face. It was her father.
She went back to bed, saying: "So he is really anxious !"' Jean
Valjean passed that night in the garden and the two nights following.
Cosettc saw him through the hole in her shutter. The third night the
moon was smaller and rose later — it might have been one o'clock in the
61 LES MISKRABLE8.
morning — sIk licird a loud burst of lauj^litor aud her father's voice call-
ing h< r : " Co-ottv !" She sprang out of bed, threw on her drcssing-
gosrn. and np<.nid her window.
H.r fiiJl'T w.iH below on the <ya«s-plot. "I wolic you up to show
you," said h?. " I»ok, here is }pur shadow .in a rouud hit." Anil he
pfiinled to a .shadow on the sward made by the moon, and which really
bore a cIofo resemblance to the a[>pearancc of a man in a rouud hat.
It was a ficurc produced by a sheet iron btwve-pipe with i c:ip, which
rose ab()Ve_ a neighboring roof.
Co.-tttc also began to lau>:h, all her gloojiiy .«uppi^?itioHs foil to the
ground, and the next day, while breakfasting with her father^ sbcaiadc
merry over the mysterious garden haunted by the ghcRts stove-pipo«.
.lean Valjean became entirely calm again; as to Cosettc, she did not
notice very carefully whether the Hfoyc-pipe was really in the direction
of the shadow which hhe had seen, or thou<:ht she saw, and whetlier the
moon was in the .same part of the sky. 8he made no qucsiion about
the oddity of a stove-pij)C which is afniid of being caught in the act,
and whieh retires when you look at its -hadow, for the shadow had dis-
appeared when Cosette turned round, and Cosette had really believctl
that she was certain of that Co.sotte was fully rc-aspured. The demon-
stration appeared to her complete', and the idea that there could have
been anybody walking in the garden that evening, or that night, no
longer entered her head. A'few da\s ;ifti rw ir.'s 1ii,a( ver. a new inci-
dent occurred.
■III.
KNRICIIED BY THE COMMENTARIES OP TOUSSAINT.
In the gnrdeu, near the grated gate, on the street, there was a stone
Bcat protected from the gazo of the curious by a hedge, but which n(!V-
crtheless, by aa tffivt, the arm of a passer could reach throjugh the
grating and the hedge.
One evening in this' same mouth of April, .Tcaji Valjean had gone
out; (\)sctie, after sunset, had sat down on this seat. The wind waa
freshening in tlie trees, <'os:tte was musing; a vague sadness was com-
ing over h'.r little by little — that invjncible sadness which cveuing gives,
and which cojiks perhaps, who knows? from the my.stery of the tomb
half-'fiened at that hour.
Fantine was perhaps in that shadow.. ^
Cos. tte rose,, hlowly ujade th'e round of the gurden, walliing in the
grass whieh wus wet with dew, and saving to herself through the kind
of melancholy sotiinaiiibulism in which she was envelope' : "One really
needs woo len shoes for the garden at this hour. I shall catch cold."
She returned to the seat. Juvt as she wns sitting down, she noticed
in the place she had left a stone of considerable size which evidently waa
not there the moment before.
Cosette refli ctod upon this stone, asking herself what it meant. Sud-
denly, the iii a that this stone did not c(»me upon the scat of itself, that
BOmebody had put it there, that an arm had passed through that grating,
SAINT DENIS. G5
this idea caiue to licr and made her afraid. It wag a pcnuine fear this
time; there was the stone. No doubt was possible ; she did not touch
it, fled without daring to look behind her, took refuge in the house, and
immediately shut the ghiss door of the stairs with shutter, bar, and bolt.
She ask"d Toussaint: ** Has nij father come in ?" "Not yet, Made-
nioiselip." ' ■ '
(We have noticed once for all Toussaint's stamraering. Let us be
permitted to indicate it no longer, Wc dislike the musical notation of
an infirmity )
Jean Valjoin, a man given to thought and a night-walker, frequently
did not return till quite late.
"Toussaint," resumed Cosette, "you are careful in the evening to
bar the shutters well, upon the garden at least, and to really but the
little irou thing.s into the little rings which fasten ?" " Oh ! ntvcr fear,
Mademoiselle/' Toussuint did n.t f;iii, and Cosette well knew it, but
she could not help adding : " Because it is so solitary about here !"
"For that matter," said Toussaint, "that is true. We would betissas-
sinated before we would have time to .-^ay Boo ! And then, Monsieur
doesn't sleep in the house. Rut don't be afraid, Mademoiselle, I fasten
the windows like Bastilcs. Lone women ! I am sure it is enough to
mike us shudder ! Just imagine it ! to see men come into the room 3t
liight and say to you : Hush ! and set themselves to cutting your throat.
It isn't so nm^'h the dying, peonle die, that is all right, we know very
w«ll that we mu^t die, but. it is the horror of having such people touch
you. And then their knives, they niust cut badly ! 0 God !" " Be
still," said Cosette. "Fasten everything well."
Cosette, dis layed by the melodrama inipri)viscd by Tou'^.saint, and
perhaps also by the memory of the apparitions of the previous week
which came back to her, did not even dare to say to her : " Go and look
at the stone which somebody has laid on the seat!" for fear of opening
the garden coor again, and lest "the men" would come in. She had
all the doors and windows carefully closed, made Toussaint iro over tho
whole hou.«e from cellar to garjjet, shut herself up in her room, drcv/
her bolts, looked under her bed, lay down, and slept badly. All night
she saw the stone big as a mountain and full of caves.
At sunrise — the peculiarity of .'•unrise is to make us Iiugh at all our
terrors of the night, and our laugh is alwoys proportioned to th*^ ft'ar wo
liave hid — at swirise '''osette,'on waking, looked npon herfrigTit as upon
a niglvnurc, and siid to herself: " What have 1 been dreaming' about?
Thi; is like those steps which I thought I heard at night last week in
the garden ! it is like the shadow of the stove-pipe ! And am I going
to be a coward now!"
The sun, which shone through the cracks of her shutters, and made
the damask curtains purple, re-assured her to such an extent, that it all
vanished from her Uiouglits, even the stone "There was no stone on
the bench, any more than, there was a man with a round hat in the gir-
den ; I dreamed the.sfcone as I did the rest." »
She dre.sscd herself, went down to the garden, ran to the bench, and
felt a cold sweat. The stone was there.
But this was only for a momoot. What is fright by night is curiosity
by day. " Pshaw ! ' said she, " now let me see." She raised the Stone,
GQ LES MISHRABLES.
which was prettj large. There was foiucthing underneath which rcjjcna-
bled a Utter. It was a white paper envelope. Cosettc seized it ; there
was no address on the one .side, no wafer on the other. Still the cuvel-
opo, al'h.iu^h open, wa.s not uiupty. I'apcrs could be .seen in it.
(.'oMtlc cxjuiincd it. There was no more fright, there was curi<"'.>;ity
no ui'irc; tlK're was a beginning of anxious intrrcst. Cos^ttc took out
of the tiivclopo what it contained, a quire of paper, each page of which
was numbered, and contained a few linos written in a rather prttty hand-
writing, thuu^it Co-ctie, and very fine.
Cos.'ltc looked for a name, there was none; a bignaturo, there was
none. To whom wa.s it addressed ? to her probably, since a band had
placed the packet upon her seat. From whom did it come? An irre-
fri.stih!e fas'iuation took posses-sion of her; she endeavored to turn her
eyes uwJy from 4hese leaves which trembled in her baud; she looked at
the sky, the street, the acacias all steeped in -light, some pigeons which'
were Hying nbout a ueighlaoring roof, then all at onee her eye eagerly
hougl^ the manu.script, and she said to her^elf that she must know what
there was in it. This is what she read:
IV.
A HEART UNDER A M<'.NK.
The redaction of the universe to a single being, the expansion of a
single being even to God, this i.s love.
Love is the salutation of the an^^els to the stars.
How sad is the soul when it is sad from love I
What a void is the absence of the being who alone fills the world !
Oh ! how true it is that the beloved being beeoaRS God I One would
conceive that God would be jealous it the Father of all had not evi-
dently mad<j creation fur the soul, and the soul for love !
A {iruiipsG of a smile uuder*a white crape bat with u lilac coronet is
enough fur the soul to enter into the palace of dreauis.
Separated lovers deceive absence by a thousand cliiiucrical things
which .still have their reality. They are prevented Irum seeing each
other, they cannot write to each other; they (ind a multitude of mys-
terious means of eorrespoudence. Th'oy conMnisrion the song of the
birds, the perfume of flirtrers, the laughter of childreu, the light of the
sun, the sighs of tiie wind, the beams of the stars, the whole creation.
And why not ? All the works of God were made to serve love.* Love
is powerful enough to charge all nature with its messages.
0 Spring! thou art a letter whijh I write to uer.
The future belongs still more to the heart tlian to the mind. To love
is the only thing wliieli can occupy and fill up eternity. The infinite re-
qiuires the inexhaustible.
SAINT DENIS. 67
Love partakes of the soul itself. It is of the same nature. Like it
it is a divine spark; like it it is iucnrruptible, indivisible, imperishable.
It is a point f>f fire which is A\ithiu us, which is immortal and ininite,
which uothinjj; can limit and which nothing can extinguish.' We feel it
burn even in the marrow of our bones, and we see it radiate even to the
depths of the sky.
0 love ! adurable light of two miitds which comprehend each other,
of two hearts which are interchanged, of two glances which interpene-
trate ! You will come to mo, will you not. happine-s? Walks together
in the solitudes ! days blessed and radiant I I have sometiiiics dreamed
that frim time to time hours dfetached themselves from the life of the
angels and came hero below to pass through the destiny of men.
You look at a star from two motives, because it is luminous and be-
cause t is imp'.uetrable. You have at your tide a softer radiance and a
greater mystery — ^.woman.
We all, whoever we may be, ha.\<i our respirable beings. If they fail
us, the air fails us, we stifle, then we die. To die for lack of love is
horrible. The asphyxia of the soul.
When love has melted and minglad two beings into an angelic and
sicred unity, the secret of life is fuuud for them ; they are thou but the
two terms of a single destiny; they are then but the two wings of a
single spirit. Love ; soar !
The day that a woman who is passing before you shod.* a light upon
you as she goes, you are lo.st, you love. You have then but one thing
to do : to thinK xjf her so earnestly that she will be compelled to think
of you.
What-l,ove begins can be fini.shcd only by God.
True love is in despair and in raptures over a glove lost or a hand-
kerchief found, and it requires eternity fi»r it.s demotion and its hopes.
It is composed at the same time of the infinitely great and the infinitely
small.
If you arc stone, be loadstone; if you are a plant, be sensitive; if you
are man, be love.
" Does she still come to the Luxembourg ?" " No, Mon•^^eur."
"She hears ma-^s in this church, does she not?" "She couies here no
more." "Does she sfill live in this bouse?" She hii.s moved away!"
" Whither has she gone to live ?" " She did not say."
What a. glojiny thing, not to know the address of one'? soul !
* «
Love has its childlikencssos, the other passions hav3 their littlenesses.
Shame on the passions which render man little ! Uonor to that which
makes him a chl.d ! .
68 LES MISERABLES.
Thoro is a strr.riL'o tliinp:, do you know it? I am in the night. There
is a hciii" which has gone away anJ carried the heavens with her.
Oh ! to be laid fide by side in the same touib, hand clasped in hand,
and fr«im fimo to time, in tlie dark ncBs, to caress a finger gently, that
would sufljcc for my eternity.
You who scffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is
to live by it.
Love. A«snmbre starry transfiguration is mingled with this crucifix-
ion. There is ecstacy in the agony.
O joy of the birds ! it is because they have their nest that the}' have
their sons.
LoVe is a celestial respiration of the air of Pa^ndise.
Deep hi\Art9, wise minds, tike life as God has made it; it is a long
trial, an unintelligible prppuation for the unknown destiny. This des-
tiny, the true one, brgiu.>- for man at the first step in the interior of the
tomb. Then somethinsf appears to him, and he begins to discern the
definite. The definite, think ^f this word. The living sec the infinite;
the definite reveals itself only to the dead. Meantime, love and suffer,
hope aud contemplate. Woe, alas ! to liiiii who shall have loved bodies,
foriiis, appearances only. Death will tnke all from him. Try to love
j-ouls, you shall find them again.
I met in the street a very poor young man who was in Jove. Ilis hat
was old, his coat was threadbare — there were holes at his elbows; tho
Water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul.
What a grand thing, to be loved ? What a grander thins;' still, to
love ? Tlie heart beoo;7ii,s heroic through pa-!.sion. It is no lon-^cr eam-
posed of anything but what is pure; it no longer rests upou anything
but what h elevated and great. An unworthy thought can no more
ppring up in it than a nettle upon a glacier. The soul lofty and serene,
inaccessible to conimoa pas.'^ions and common emotions, rising abovo
the clouds and the shadows of this world, its follies, its fnl.^choods, its
hat«s, iiH vanitif'S, its miseries, inhabits the blue of the skies, and only
feels more the deep and subterranean commotions of destiny, as the
Bumnnt of the mouutain feels the quaking of the earth.
Were there not Eome one who loved, the sun would be extinguished.
6AINT DENIS. 69
V.
COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER.
During the rcauing, Co.*e(te entered gniclually into reverie. At' the
moment .^lie raised lier eyes from tbe last Hue of the last page, the hand-
some officer, it was his hour, passed triumphant before the grating.
Cosette thought' him hideous.
She began anaiu to contemplate the letter. It was written in a rav-
ishing hand-wriling, thought Cosette; in the same hand, but with
different inks, sometimes pale, as ink is put into the ink-stand, and con-
sequently on ditloreiit days. It wis then a thought which had poured
itself out there, sigh by sigh, irrogul<irly, without ord^r, without choice,
with.out aim, at hazard. ■ (y0.sette had never rood anything Hkc it. This
mauu.*cript, in which she found still more clearness than ob.scurity, had
the cffi ct upon her of a half-opened sanctuary. Each of these myste-
rious lines was rcf^pkndeut to her eyes, and flooded her heart with a
strange light. The eduoation which she had received had always spo-
ken to her of the soul and never of love, almost like one who should
speak of the Igand and toot of the flame. This manuscript of fifteen
pages revealed to her suddenly and sweetly the whole of love, the sor-
row, the d-^stiny, the life, the etertffTy, the beginning, the end. It was
like a hand which had opened*Ad thrown suddenly upon her a handful
of sunboaajs. She felt in these i'cw lines a passionate, ardent, generous,
honest nature, a consecrated will, an immense sorrow and a boundless
hope, an ojppressed heart, a glad eestacy. What was this manuscript? a
letter. A letter with no address, no name, no date, no signature, intense
and di.sintere>>tcd, an enigma composed of truths, a message of love Blade
to be brought by an angel and read by a virgin, a rendezvous given be-
yond the earth, a love-letter from a phantom to a shade. Hewasacalm
yet exhausted absent one, who seemed ready to take refuge in death,
and who sent to the ab.sent Her the secret of destiny, the key of life,
love. It had been written with the foot, in the grave and-thc finger in
Heaven. These lines, fallen one by one upon the paper, were what
might he called drops of soid.
Now these pages, from whom could they come ? Who couW have
written them ? Cosette did not hesitate for a moment. One single
man. He ! •
I>ay had revived in her mind ; all had appeared again. She felt a
wond' rful joy and deep anguish. It w;is he I he who wrote to her ! he .
who Wiis there! he whose arm had pas.scd through thatgratiog! While
she was forgetting him, be had fuund her again I But had .-^he' forgot-
ten him ? No, never! She was mad to have thought so for a moment.
She had always loved him, always adored him. The fii^e had been
covered and had smouldered for a time, but she clearly saw it had only
sunk in tho deeper, and now it burst out anew and fired her whole be-
ing. This letter Was like a spark dropped from that other soul into
hers. She lelt the conflagration rekiridhng. She was penetrated by
every word of tho manuscript : " Uli yes I" said she, "how 1 recog-
nize all this! Tiiis is what 1 had already read in his eyes."
As she finished it for the third time, Lieutcnaut Thdodule returned
70 . LES MISBRABLB8.
before the grating, and railed his spurs^n tho pavement. Cosetto nie-
ohanirnllj raised her eyes. She thought him flat, stufiid, silly, us* h'ss,
conceited, odiou.'*, iiupertinenf, and very "irly- The cfficer thought it
his duty t/> smile. She turned away insulted an<l indignant. She would
have beon plad to have thrown something at hi.s head. She fled, wint
back to the hnu^e and bhut herself up in her room to read over 'he man-
uscript again, to learn it by heart, and to muse. When she had read it
well, she kissed it, and put if in her husoui.
Il was done. Copcttc had fallen back into the profound .seraphic love.
The abyss of Eien had reopened. All that day Cosefte was in a sort of
stupefaction. She could hardly tliink; her ideas were like a tangled skeia
in her brain. She could really conjecture nothing, .«ihe hoped wh.ileyct
trembling, what? vague things. She dared to promise her.'jelf nothing.
Pallor.s pu.«sed over her face and chills over her body. It .^^eemed to her
at moments that she was entering the chimerical; she said to herself:
"is it real ?" then she felt of the beloved paper under her dre.ss, she
pressed it against her heart, she felt its corners upon her flesh, and if
Jeuu Valjean hud seen her yt that moment, he would have shuddered
before that luminous and unknown joy which flashed from her eyes.
"Ob yes!" thought she, "It is indeed Ire! this comci from him for
me !" And she said to herself, th^l an intervention of angels, that a
celestial chance had restored hiin to ncr.
O tran.'-figurations of love! 0 dreams^ this celestial chance, this in-
tervention of angels, was that bullet of bread thrown by one robber to
another robber, from the Charlemagne court to La Fosse aux Lions,
over the roofs of La Force. **
VI.
THE OLD ARE MAPE TO GO OUT WHEN CONVENIENT.
When' evening came, Jean Valjean went out ; Cosette dressed herself.
She arranged her hair in the manner which best became her, and ^^he put
on a dre-H the neck of which, as it had received one cut.of the scissors
too mueh, and as, by this slope, it allowed the turn of the neck to be
seen, was, as young girls say "a little immodest," but it was prettier
than <iih«rwisc. She did all thfs without knowing why.
Did she imend to go out ? No. 1 lid she eypect a visit ? No. At
dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaijit was bu.sy in her kitchen,
which looked out upon the back yard. She began to walk umler the
branches, putting them aside with her hand from time to time, because
there were some that were very low. She thus reached the seat.
The Stone was j^till tljere.
She bill down, and laid her soft white hand upon that stone as if she
would eurcss it and thank it. All at once, she had that indefinable im-
pre8.si<'n which we feel, thou;^h we see nothing, when there is somebody
standing behind us. She turned her head and arose. It was he.
He wa« bareheaded. He appeared pale and thin. She hardly di.s-
cerued his black dress. The twilight dimmed his fine forehead, and
covered his eyes with darkness. He had, under a veil of incomparable
SAiNT DENIS. 71
sweetness, sometliing of death and of night. His face was lighted by
the light of a d}'ing day, and by the thought of a depart,iijg soul. It
seemed as if he was not yot a phantom, and was now.no longer a man.
His hat wa.s lying a few !4f<>ps distant in the shrubbery. •
Cosette, ready to faint, did not utter a cry. She drew back slowly,
for she felt herself attracted forward. He did not stir. Through the
sad and ineffable sonnMhing which enwrapped him, she felt the look of
his eyes, which she did not see. Cosette, in retreating, encountered a
tree, and leaned against it. But for this tree, she would have fallen.
Then she heard his voice, that voice which she had never really heard,
hardly rising above the rustling of the leaves, and murmuring : , ".Par-
don rae, I am here. My heart is bursting, 1 could not live as I was, I
have come. Have you read what I placed there, on this seat? do you
recogni.<e nie at all ? do not be afraid of' me. It is a long time now,
do you remember the day when you looked upon me ? it was at the
Luxen)bourg, near the Gladiator. And the day when you pnssed be-
fore me? it was the 10th of June and the 2d of July. It will soon <
be a year. For a very long time now, I have not seen you at all.
I asked the cliair- keeper, she told me that- she saw you no more.
You lived in the I'ue de I'Tjuest, on the third floor front, in a new
house, you .'•ee that I know! I followed you. What was I to do ?
And then you disappeared. I thought- I saw you pass once when I
was reading the papers under the arches of the Odeon. I ran. But
no. It was a person wh.o had a hat like yours. At night, I come here.
Do not be afraid, nobody sees me. I come for a near look at your win-
dows. I walk very softly that,you may not hear, for perhaps you would
be afraid. The other evening I was behind yori, you turned round, I
fled. Odce T heard you sing. I was happy. Does it disturb you that
I should hear yovr sing through the shutter? it can do you no harm It
cannot, can it? Sec, you are my angel, let me come sometimes; I be-
lieve 1 am going to die. If you but knew ! I adore you ! Pardon me,
I am talking to you, I do not know what I am saying to you, perhaps I
annoy you, do I annoy you ? '
"O mother!" said she. And she sank dovn upon herself as if she
•were dying. He caught her as she fell, he caught her in his arms, he
grasped her tightly, uncim«cious of what, he was doing. He supported
her even while tottering himself. He felt as if his -head were enveloped
in smoke ! fla.shes of light pa.sscd through his eyelids ; his ideas vanish-
ed ; it seemed to him that he was performing a religious act, and that he
■was commkting a profanation. Moreover, he did not feel one pas«ionat3
emotion for this ravishing womati, whose form he felt against his heart.
He^was lost in love.
She tuok his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the paper there,
and stammered : " You love me, then ?" She .answered in a voiffe so
low that it was no more than a breath which could scarcely be heard :
" Hush ! you know it !" And she hid her blu'shing head in the bosom
of the proud and intoxicated young man.
He fell upon the f^eat, she by his side. There were no more words.
The stars were beginning to shine. How was it that fhtir lips met?
How is it that the bird sings, that the anow molts, that the ro.-e opens,
that May blooms, that the dawn whitens behind the Hack trees on the
72 LES MIS^RABLBB.
fihivcrioR summit of the hills? One kiss, and that was all. }>oth trem-
bled, and ihey looked at each other in the darkness with brilliunl eyes.
They fell neither the fresh ui^hf, nor the enld stone, nor the damp
ground, Bor tbe wet griiss, they lookeiJ at ei^ch other, and thvir hearts
were full of thought. They had clasped hantls without kuowin^j; it.
Fhe di<l Dot a.'-k hiui, she did not even think of it, in wliat way and by
what uisans he had (succeeded in pcnctratiug into the garden. It^cciued
feu natural to her (hat he should be there?
• At intervals, Cosette faltered out a word. Her soul trcnib'.ed upon
her lip.N like a drop of dew "upon a flower. Gradually thty began to
talk. Oveiflow succeeded to silence, which is fulness. The night was
pcreue auD splendid above tluir heads. These two beings, pure as spir-
its, told each other all, their dreams, their phrcusics, their Oestucics, tluir
clfiinjuras, their despondencies, how they had atlored eaeli o'her frum
afar, how they had louged for each other, their despair wheu they had
cea.sed to si e each other. They confided to each other in an iiiiimaey of
the ideal, which even now nothing couM have increased, all that was
most hidden and most mysterious of themselves. They related to each
other, wjth a candid iaith in their illusions, all that love, youth, and that
remnant of childhood whi^-h was theirs, •suggested to their thought.
These two hearts poure<l th<'uiselves out into each oiher, so that at the
end of an hour, it was the young man who had the young girl's soul and
the young girl who had the soul of the .young man. Thoy interpene-
trated, they enchaiiti d, they dazzled each ether.
When they had Guished, when they had tuld each othei- everything,
she laid her head upon his .^-houlder, and a-«ked lum : " What i> your
name?" " My name is Mariu.*, said he. ^ "'And yours?'' •' My name
.id Cusette."
LITTLE GAVROCIIE.
I.
A MALKVOLENT TUlCIv Of THK WIND.
Since IS^J}, and while the Montferiieil chop-house was gradually
(pondering and being swallowed up, n<>t in theaby.ss of a b:inkni[itcy,
but in the sink of petty debt.^, the Tii6niirdier couple hvd. Iiad two
more ehildiijii ; both male. This made five; two girLs and three boys.
It ^1^ a fiinfl nniny.
The Thenardiess had disembarrassed herself of the two last, while yet
at au early i»ge and (juite small, with singular good fortune
DiseniharrasHtjd is the word. There was in this woman but a frng-
inent of nature. A phenomenon, moreover, of which there is more
than one example. Like Madame la Mar^chale de ]ja Mothe l,Iou(lan-
court, the Th(?nardiess was a mother only to her daughters. Her ma-
ternity ended there. Her hatred of the human race began with her
SAINT DENIS. ' 73
boys. Oa the side towards her sons, her malignity was precipitous, and
her heart had at that spot a fearful escarpment. As we we have seen,
she detested the eldest ; sl^ execrated tbe two others. Why'::' Be-
cause. The most terrible of motives and the most unanswerable of
responses : Because. " I have no use for a squalling pack of children,"
.said this mother.
We must explain how the Th<5nardiers had succeeded in disencumber-
ing themselves of their two youngest children, and even in deriving a
profit from them.
This Maguon girl, spoken of some pages back, was the s^e who
had su(iceeding iu getting her two children endowed by goodman Gil-
lenormand. She lived on the Quai des Celcstins, at the corner of
that ancient Rue du Petit Muse which has done whatv it could to
change its evil renown into good odor. jNIany will remember that
great epidemic of croup jvhich desolated, thirty-five years ago, the
quartiers bordering on the Seine at Paris, and of which science took
advantage to experiment on a large scale as to the efficacy of insuffla-
tions of alum, now so happily replaced by the tincture of iodine ex-
ternally applied. In that epidemic, Magnon lost her two boys, still
very young, on the same day, one in the morning, the other at night.
This was#a blow. These children were precious to their mother;
• they represented eighty francs a month. These eighty francs were paid
with great exactness, in the name of M. Gillenorraand, by his rmt-
agent, M. Barge, retired constable, Rue du Roi d^ Sicile. The chil-
dren dead, the income was buried. Magnon sousrht for an expedient.
In the dark masonry of evil of which she was a part, everything is
known, secrets are kept, and each aids the other. Magnon. needed
two children; the Thenardiess had two. Same sex, same age. Good
arrangement for one, good investment for the other. The little Th6-
nardiers became the little Magnons Magnon left the Quai des C^-
Icstins and went to live in the Rue Clocheperce. In Paris, the
identity which binds an individual to himself is broken from one
etreet to another.
The government, not being' notified, did not object, and the sub-
ptitufidu took place in the most natural way in the world. Only Th^-
nardicr demanded, for this loan of children, ten francs a month, which
Magnon pronii.scd, and even paid. It need not be said that Monsieur
Gillenormand cuntinued to pay. He came twice a year to see the little
ones. He did not perceive the chanj^'c. " Monsieur," said Magnon to
him, "how much they look like yiu.''
Thenirdier, to whom ayatars were easy, seized this opportunity to be-
coQie Jundrelte. His two girls and Gavroche had hahlly time to per-
ceive that they had two little brothers At a certain depth of misery,
men are pos.sei^sed by a sort of spectral indifference, and look upon their
fellow beings as upon goblins. Your nearost relatives arcofien but vague
forms of shadow tor you, hardly distinct from the nebulous background
. of life, and easily reblended with the invisible.
On the evening of the day she had delivtTed her two little onoa to
Magnon, expressing her willingness freely to renounce them for ever,
the I henardiess had, or feigned to have, a scruple. She said t" her hus-
band : " But this is abandoning one's childrea I' Tb^aardicr, magi**
6
74 LES MISfiRABLES.
tcrial anJ phlcpmntlc, cauterized the scruple with this phrase : *' Jean
Jacquos Kouf^fcau did more I" From scruple the mother passed to
anxitiy : " Hut suppose the police come to ttjrmont us 't What we h;ive
done here, Monsieur Theuardicr, say now, is it lawful?" Theuardicr
answcnd: " Kverythinc; is lawful. Nobody- will see it but the ||cy.
Moreover, with children who have not a sou, nobody has any interest to
look closely into it."
•Mufrnon hail a kind of ele<2pncc in crime. She mado a toilette. She
shared her rooms, furnished in a gaudy yet wrotehed.»tylf. with a .shrewd
Frenchified 4Cngli.<h thief. This naturalized l*ari^ian l-iiigH!»h woman,
reconnncndable by very rich conneetions, intimately acquainted with the
medals of the Iiiltlioth<!'fjue and the diamonds of MadeMLuiscllo Mar?,
afterwards became famous in the judicial record.". She was eallon Mam-
telle Miss.
The two little ones who had fallen to Magnon had nothing to com-
plain of Recomtncnded by the eighty francs, they were taken care of,
as everything is which is a matter of business; not badly clothed, not
badly fed, treated almost like "little gentlemen," better with the false
mother than with the true. Magnon acted the lady and did not talk
argot biefore them.-
They passed some years thua: Th^nardier augured well of«it. It oc-
curred to him onft day to say to Magnon who brought him his montblyi
ten francs, " The fathrr must give them an education."
Suddenly these two poor children, till then well cared for, even by
their ill fortune, were abruptly thrown out into life, and compelled to
begin it.
A numerous arrest of malefactors like that of the Jondrette garret te
necessarily complicated With ulterior searches and seizures, is really a
disastiCr for this hidijous occult eounter-sociefj^ which lives beneath pub-
lic society; an event like this involves every description of misfortune
in that gloomy world. The catastrophe of the Th^uardiers produced the
catastrophe of Magnon.
One day there was a sudden descent of the police in the Rue Cloche-
perce. >lagnon was arrested as well as Mamselle Miss, and the whole
nousehold, which was suspicous, was included in the haul. The two
little bo)s were playing at the time in a back yard, and .saw nothing
of the raid. When they wanted to go in, they found the door closed
and the house empty. A cobbler, whose shop was opposite, called them
and handed them a paper which " their mother" had left for them. On
the p;i|ier there was an address : ^I. liarge, rent-agent, Hue du lloi de
Sicile, No. 8. The man of the shop said to, them : " You don't live
here any more, do there — it is near by — the first street to the left.
Ask your way with this paper "
The children started, the elder leading the younger, and holding in
his hanil the paper which has to be their gui<le. lie was cold, and his
benumbed little fingers had but an awkward grasp, and held the paper
loosely. Ah they were turning out of the Hue Olocheperce, a gust of
wind snatched it from him, and, as night was coming on, the child could
not find it again. They began to wander, as chance led them, in the
streets.
SAINT DENIS. 75
II.
IN Wlircn LITTLE GAVROOHE TAKES ADVANTAGE OF NAPOLEON THE
GREAT. ' ■
Spritlg in Paris is often accompanied with keen and sharp north winds,
by which one is not. exactly frozen, but frost-bitten ; these winds, which
raar the most beautiful days, have precisely the effect of those currents
of cold air which enter a warm room through the cracks of an ill-closed
window or door. It seems as if the dreary door of winter were partly
open and the wind were coming in at it. In the spring of 183jJ, the
time when the first great epidemic of this century broke out in Eu-
rope, these winds were sharper and more piercing than ever. A door
still more icy than that of winter was ajar. The door of the sepulchre.
The breath of the cholera was felt in those winds.
In the meteorological point of view, these cold winds had this pecu-
liarity, that they did not exclude a strong electric tension. Storms
accompanied by thunder and lighting were frequent during this
time.
One evening when these winds were blowing harshly,, to that degree
that January seemed returned, and the bourgeois had* resumed their
cloaks, little Gavroche, always shivering cheerfully under his rags, Was
stanJing, as if in ecstacyf before a wig-maker's shop in the neighbor-
hood of the Orme Saint Gervais. He was adorned with a woman's
woollen shawl, picked up nobody knows where, of which he made a
muffler. Little Gavroche appeared to b*fe intensely admiring a wax bi ide,
with bare neck and a h ad-dress of orange flowers, which was revolving
behind the sash, exhibiting, betwegn two lamps, its smiles to the pass-
ers : but in reality he was watch'ng the shop to see if he could not
steal a cake of soap from the front, which he would afterwards .sell for
a sou to a hair-dres!<er in the banlieue. It often happened that he
breakfasted upon one of these cakes. He called this kind of work, for
which he had some talent, "shaving the barbers."
As he was contemplating the brido, and squii?ting at the cake of soap,
he muttered between his teeth: "Tuesday. It isn't Tuesday. Is it
Tuesday ? Perhaps it is Tuesday. Yes, i« is Tuesday."
Nobi>dy ever discovered to What this monologue related. If, per-
chance, this soliloquy referred lo the la-'t time he had dined, it was three
days before, for it was then Friday.
The barber in his shop, warmed by a good stove, was shaving a custo-
mer and casting from time to 'ime a look towards this enemy, this
frozen and brazen gamin, who had both hands in his pockets, but his
wits evidently out of their p/ieath
While Gavroche w.is examining the biido, the windows, and the
Windsor soap, two chiMrcn of unoMjual hi ight, rather neatly dressed,
and still smaller than, he, one appearing to be scrven years old. tho (iiIkt
five, timidly turned the knob of the door and entered the shop, asking,
for something, charity, perhaps, in a pl.tinfive manner which rather re-
sembled a grfian than a prayer. They both spoke at once, and »hfir
words were unintelligible because s^bs choked the voice of «he yontij:«T,
and the cold made the elder's teeth chatter. The barber turned wi-h a
T6 LES MISERAITLES.
furious face, and without leaving his razor, crowding back the elder with
his left han-l and tlio little one with his knee, pushed them into the
»treet and shut the door, sa^iing : ''Coming and freezing people for no-
thing 1"
Tlic fwo children went on, crying. Meanwhile a cloud had come up;
it hfpiin to rain. liittle (iravroche ran after them and accosted them :
" \yiiat is the matter with you, little brats ?" " We don't know where
to ?lecp," answered the elder. " Is that all ?" said Gavrochc. *'That is
oothing. Does anybody cry for that? Are they foolish?" And as-
suming, through his slightly bantering superiority, a tone of softenpd
authority and gentle protection : *' Minnwqnis, come with me." " Yes,
Hlonsieur," said the elder. And the two children followed him
as they would have followed an archbishop. They had stopped cry-
Gavroche led them up the Rue Saint Antoine in the direction of the
Bastille. Gavroche, as he travelled on, cast an indignant and retro-
spective glance at the barber's shop.
" lie has no heart, that mei-lau," he muttered. " He is an Anr/liche."
A moment afterwards, he added: "lam mistaken in the animal j he
isn't a wi'-r/r;H,= he is a snake. Wig-maker, I am going after a lock-
smith, and I will have a rattle made for your -tail."
Meanwhile continuing up the street, he saw, quite frozen under a
portecochfcrc, a beggar girl of thirteen or fourrt-on, whose clothes were so
short that hor knees could be seen. The little girl was beginning to be
too big a girl for that. Growth plays you such tricks. The skirt be-
comes short at the moment that nudity becomes ind cent. " Poor girl !"
said Garroche. "She hasn't even any breeches. IJnt here, take this."
And, taking off all that good woollen which he had about his neck, he
threw it upon the bony and purple shoulders of the beggar girl, where
the muffler agani became a shawl.
The little girl looked at him with an astonished appearance, and re-
ceived the shawl in bilence. At a certain depth of distress, the poor, in
their stup )r, groan no longer over evil, and are no longer thankful for
good. This done: " litrr !" said Gavroche, shivering worse than St."
•Martin, who, at least, kep* half his cloak. At this brrr I the storm,
jredoubling its fury, became vV^lent. These malignant skies punish good
actions.
The two children limped along behind him.
As they were passing by one of those thick grated li^ttices which in-
dicate a baker's shop, for bread like gold is kept behind iron gratings,
Gavroclte turned: " Ah, ha, jHont^.'?, li ive we dined?" "Monsieur,"
answered the the older, "we have not cat<;n since early this morning."
"You are then without father or motlur?" resumed Gavroche, majl'S-
tically. " Excuse us, Monsieur, we have a papa and nianima, but we duu't
•know wheri; they are " "Sometimes that's better than knowiijg," said
Gavroche, who was a thinker. " It is two hours now," continued the
«lder, " that we have bei n walking ; we have been looking for things in
•every corn-r, but we can (ind nothing." "I know," said Gavroche.
<''Jlu; dogs eat up everything. "
He resumed, -after a moment's silence : " Ah ! wc have lost our au-
J-th'orB. We don't know now what we have done with them. That won't
SAINT DENIS. 77
do, rjamins. It is stupid to get lo3t like that for poople of any age.
Ah, yes, we must llchcr for all that." Still he asked theiu no questions.
To be without a hoare, what coulti be more natural ?
The elder of the two viumrs, almost entirely restored to the quick un-
concern of childhood, made Ihig exclamation : " It is very quger for
all that. Mamma, who promised to take us to look for some blessed
box, on Palm Sunday." "Mamma," added the elder, ''is a lady who
lives with Mamselle Miss." Meanwhile Gavroche had stopped, and for
a few minutes he had been groping and fumbling in all sorts of recesses
which he had in his rags.
Finally he raised his head with an air which was only intended for
one of satisfaction, but which was in reality triumphant. " Let us com-
pose ourselves, momojnards. Here is enough for supper f)r three."
And he took a sou from one of. his pockets. Without giving the two
little boys time for amazement, he pushed them both before him into
the baker's shop, and laid his sou on the counter, crying : " Boy ! live
centimes worth of bread." The man, who was the master baker him-
self, took a loaf anJ a knife. " In three pieces, boy !" resumed Gav-
roche, and he added with dignity : " There are three of us."
The baker could not help KUiiliag, and while he was putting the white
bread, he looked at them in a compassionate man'ner which oifL-nded
Gavroche. "Come, paper cap!" said ho, "what are you fathoming usj
like that for?" All three placed end to end would hardly have made
a fathom.
When the bread was cut, the baker put the snu in his drawer, and
Gavroche said to the two children : " Myrjilr;:." The little boys looked
at hiiu confounded. Gavroche. began to laugh : " Ah ! stop, that is true,
they don't know yet, they are so small." And he added : " fiut." At
the same time he handed each of them a piece of bread.
And, thinking that the elder, who appeared to him more worthy of
his conversation, deserved some special encouragement and ought to be
relieved of all hesitation in regard to satisfying his appetite, he added,
giving him the largest piece : " Stick that in your gun." There was one
piece smaller than the other two; he took it forTiimself The poor
children were,starving, Gavroche included. While they were tearing the
bread with their fine teeth, tbey encumbered the shop of the baker, who,
now that he had received his pay, was regarding them ill-humoredly.
" (.^ome into the street," said Gavroche. They went on in the direction
of the Bastille.
Twenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the southeast corner
of the Place de la Hastille, near the canal basin dug in the ancient
ditch of a prison citadel, a grotesque monument which has now faded away
from the Uicmory of Parisians, and which is worthy to leave some trace,
for it was an idea of the "member of the Institute, General-in-Chief of
the Army of Egypt."
We say monument, although it was only a rough model. But this
rough model itself, a huge plan, a vast carcass of an idea of Napnleoo
which two or three succe.s.sive gusts of wind had carrid away apJ thr iwa
each time further from us, had become historical, and had acquired a de-
finiteness which contrasted with its provisional aspect. It was an ele-
phant forty feet high, constructed of frame-work and masonry, bearing
78 LBS MISfiRABLES.
OD its back its tower, which rcsciublerl a house, formerly paintcJ j»rcen
by some bnuM^-painlcr, now paiuted black by the sun, the rain, and the
wcathi r. In tliat open ami doserteJ torner of the .Sijuare, the broad
front of the colossus, his trunk, kis tusks, Jii.s size, his enormous rump,
his f lur foot like columns, produced at ni::ht, under the starry sky, a
startling and terrible outline. One know not what it meant. It was a
isort ol hymbol of the force of the people. It ;vas gloomy, cnipmatic,
sod immense. It was a mysterious and mighty phautom, visibly stand-
ing by the sidd of the invisible spectre of the Hastiilc. ^
Few fitrangers visited this cdilice, no passer-by looked at it. It was
falling into ruin ; every season, the mortar which was detached from its
eide.s made hideous wounds upon it. " The ;t'diles," as thoy say in
fashionable dialect, had forgotten it since 1814 It was there in its
corner, gloomy, disea-sed, crumbling, surrounded by a rotten railing, crev-
ices marked up the belly, a lath was stickiiii; oul from jhe tail, the, tall
grass came far up between its legs; and as the level of the sfjuare had
teen rising for thirty years all about it, by that slo\v and c;)ntinuou3
movement whitJi insensibly raises the soil of ^reat cities,^ it was in a hol-
low, and it seemed as if the earth .sank under it. It was huge, con-
temned, repulsive, and superb; ugly to the eye <?f the bourgeoi.s, melan-
choly to the eye of the thiuk'jr. It partook, to some extent, of u iiMi
K>on to be swept away, and, to fomo extent, of a uiajesty soon to be
decapitated.
As we have said, night changed its appearance. Night is the true
luedium for everything which is shadowy. As soon as twilight fell,
the old elphant became transfigured ; he assumed a tran(|uil and terrible
form in the fearful serenity of the darkness, lieiug of the past, he was
of the night; and this obsaurity was fitting to his greatness.
It was towards this corner of the stjuarc, dimly lighted b}' the reflec-
tion of a disfcint lamp, that the tjnmtn directed the two "njwm^s." As
they came near the colo.ssus, (Javrochc couiprehendcd the effect which
the intinitcly great may produce upon the infinitely small, anc said :
" Jurats! don't be frightened." Then he entered through a gap in the
fence into the inelosuro of the elephant, and helped the niomrs to crawl
through the breach. The two children, a little frighttMied, followed
Gavroche without saying a word, and trusted themselves to that little
I'rovideiice in rags who bad given them bread and promised them a
locging.
Lying by the side of the fence was a ladder, which, by day, was used
by the working men of the neighl;jj)ring wood-yufd. Gavrocho lifted it
with singular vigor, and set it up-against one of the elephant's fore legs.
Ab ut the point where the bidder ended, a sort of black hole could be
di8tingi»i>hed in the belly of the coUkssus.
(Javroche showed the ladder and the hole to his guests, and said to
them : " Mimnt and enter." The two little fellows looked at each <ither
in terror. " Vou arc afraid, niw/uf.';.'" exclaimed Gavroche. And he
added: "You shall see."
He clasped the elephant's wrinkled foot, and in a twinkling, without
deigning to make u.»e of the lad<ier, he reached the crevice. He en-
tered it 18 an adder glides into a hole, and disappeared, and a moment
afterwards the two children saw his pallid face dimly appearing like a
faded and wan form, at the edge of the hol^ full of darkness.
SAINT DENIS. 79
"Well," cried he, "why dot't you come up, monugnarJs? you'll
see how uice it is ! Comeiup," saic be, to* the elder, " I will cive ycu
a hand." The little ones urged each other forward. The i/nmin
made them afraid and reassured them at the same time, and then
it rained v£ry hard. The elder ventured. The younger, seeing his
brother go up, and hiaisolf left all alone between the paws of this huge
beast, had a gfeat desire to cry, but he did not dare.
The elder clambered up tho rounds of the ladder. He tottered badly.
Gavroche, while be was on his way, encouraged with the exclamations
of a fencing masJter to his scholars, or of a muleteer, to his mules':
'•Don't be afraid!" "That's it!' " Come on !" " Put your foot there !"
" Your hand here ! ' " Be brave !" And when he came within bis
reach, he caught him quickly and vigorou.sl3' by the^rm and drew him
up. " Gulped !" said he*.
The moine had pas.'^ed through the crevice. " Now," said Gavroche,
" wait, for me. Mousiutr, have the kinilness to sit down "
And, going out by the crevice as he had entered, he let limsclf glide
with the agility of a monkey, along the elephant's leg, he dropped upon
his feet in the grass, caught the little fiveyear-old by the waist and set
him half way up the ladder,, then he began to mount up^ behind him,
crying to the elder; *' I will push him ; you pull him." ' In an instant
the little fellow was lifted, pushed, dragged, pulled, stuffed, crammed
into the hole without having had time ti know what was going on. And
Gavroche, entering after him, pushing back the ladder with a kick so
that it fell upon the grass, began to clap his hands, and cried : " Here •
we a^e I Hurrah ibr General Lafayette I" This explosion over, he
added : " Brats, you are in my house." Gavroghe was in fact at
home.
O unexpected utility of the useless! charity of great things I good-
ness of giants ! This monstrous monument, which had contained a
thought of the Eimperor, had become the box of a (jainin. The vwme
had been accepted and shelteied by the colossus. The bourgeois in
their Sundii\ clothes, who passed by the elephant of the Bastille, fre-
quently said, eyeing it scornfully with their goggle eyes : "What's the
use of that ?" The us-c of it ^^as to save from the cold, the frost, the
hail, the rain to protect from the. wintry wind, to preserve from sleeping
in the mud, which breeds fever, and Imm sleeping in the snow, which
breeds death, a'little being with no father or mother, with no bread, no
clothing, no asylum The use of it was to receive the innocent whom
'■ociety repelled. The u'-e of it was to dinunish the public crime. It
was a den open for him to whom all doors were closed.* It seemed as if
the mi.serablc old mastodon, invaded by vermin and oblivion, covered
with warts, mould, abd uleei-s, tottering, worm eaten, abandonul, con-
demned, a sjrt of cobissjl begirar asking in vain the alms of a benevo-
lent look in the middle of the Square, bad taken pity itself o;i this other
beggar, the poor pigmy who w<nt with no shoes to his feet, no root over
his head, blowing bis fingers, clothed in rags, fed upon what is thrown
:iway. This was (he use of the elephant of the Bastille This
idea of Napoleon, disdained by men, had been taken up by Gofl. That
which had been illustrious only, had become august. The Emperor
must have had, to realize what he meditated, porphyry ,^brass, iron, gold,
80 LES MIS^RABLES.
■larblc; for God, the old assemblage of bmirds, joists, and piaster waa
enou^ih The Eniporor had h'ad a dream of {^-nius ; in this titanic ele-
pbtnt, armed, prodi^jious, brandisliiui; his trunk, bearing Ijii tower, an I
■taking che joyous and vivifying waters gn;>h outon all sides about him.
Tie desired to iucirnate the people. God had done a grander thing with
it, he lodged a child.
The tiole by which Gavroehe had entered was a break liardly visible
from the outside, concealed as it wa.s, and a.s we huvo said, under the
belly of the elephant, and so narrow that hardly anything but cats and
mwmrg could have passed through.
" Let us begio," said Gavroche, " by telling the porter that we are
not in. And plunging into the obscurity with certainty, lilce ope
who is familiar wit4i his room, he took a board and stopped the hole.
Gavroche plunged again into the obscurity. *T!ie children heard the
pputtering of the tJipcr plunged into the phosphoric bottle. A sudden
light made them wink ; Gavrochd had just lighted one of thosa bits of
string soaked rn re>iu which are called cellar rats. The cellar-rat, which
made more smoke than flame, rendered the inside of the elephant dimly
visible.
Gavroche's two guests looked about thejn, and felt something like
what one would feel who should be shut up in the great tun of lIcidLM-
berg, or better still, what Jonah must have felt iu the biblical belly of
tbe while. An entire and gigantic skeleton appeared to them, an! en-
veloped them. Above, a long dusky beam, from which projected at
•regular distances massive encircling timbers, represented the vertebral
column witU its ribs, stalactites of plaster hung down like the viscera,
and f oai one side to,the other huge spider-wob.s made dusty diaphragms.
Here and there in the corners great blackish spots were seen* which had
the appearance of being alive, and which changed their places rapidly
with a wild and startled motion.
Xlie debris fallen from the elephant's buck upon his belly had filled up
tbe concavity, so that they could walk upon it as upon a floor. The
Bmaller one hueged close to his brother, and sa^id in a low tone :
" It is durk."
** Goosy," said (javroche to him, according the insult.witli a caressing
tone, " it is outside that it is dark. Out it rains, here it doesn't rain ;
outside it is cold, here there isn't a speck of wind; outside there
are heaps of folks, hero there isn't anybody ; outside there isn't cvcu a
■lOon, here there is my candle, by jinks !"
The two children began to regard the apartment with less fear; but
Gavroche did nr* allow them much longer leisure for contemplation.
" Quick," said he. And he pushed them towards what wo are very hap-
py to be able to call the bottom of the chamber. His bed was there.
Gavroche's bed was complete That is to say, there was a mattress, a
oovering, and an alcove with curtains.
The maltress was a straw mat, the covering a largo blanket of cor.rsc
grey wool, very warm and almost new. The alcove was like this :- Three
rather long laths, sunk and lirmly settled into the rubbish of the floor,
that is to say of the belly of the elephant, two in front and one behind,
and tied together by a string at the top, so as to form a pyramidal frame.
This frame supported a fine trellis of brass wire which was simply hung
SAINT DENIS. 81
over it, but al-tistically applied ami kept in place by fastenings of iron
wire, in such a way that it entirely enveloped the three laths. A row
of large stones fixed upon the gmund all about this trellis so as to let
nothing pass This trellis was nothing more twr less than a- fragment of
those copper nettings which are u«ed to cover the bird-houses in mena-
geries. (Javroche's bed under this netting was as if in a cage. Alto-
gether it was like an Esquimaux tent.
It was this netting which took the place of curtains. Gavroche ro-
nioved the stones a little which kept down the netting in front, and the
two folds of the trellis which lay one over the other opened. " Momm,
on 3'our hands an<l knees !" said Gavroche. He made his guests enter
into the-cage carefujiy, then he went in after them, creeping,. pulled back
the stones, and hermetically closed the opening.
They were all- three stretched upin the straw. . Small as they were,
none of tbem could have stood up in the aTcove. Gavroche still held
the celler rat in his h!\,nd. *' Now," said he, ''pionccz ! I am going to
suppress the candelabra." " Monsieur," inquired the elder of the two
brothers, of Gavroche, pointing to the netting, " what is that ?" " That,"
said Gavroche gravely, "is for the mts, p^mmr/" However, he felt it
incumbent upon him to add a few words for the instruction of these
beings of a tender age, and he continued : "They are things from the
Jardiu des Plantes. ♦They aro used for ferocious animd-s."
While he was talking, he wrapped a fold of the coverlid about the
smaller one, who murmured: "Oh! that is good! it is warm!"
Gavroche looked with satisfaction upon the coverlid. " That is also
from the Jardin des Plantes," said he. " I took th it from the mon*
key.s." And, sbowing the elder the mat upon which he was lying, a
very thick mat and admirably made, he added: "That was tj\e gi-
raffe's " After a pause, he continued : " The beasts had all this. I
took it from tbem. They didn't care. I told them: It is for the ele-
phant." He was silent again and resumed : " We get over the walls and
we make fun of the government. Th:it'sall."
The two children looked, with a timid and stupefied respect upon this
intrepid and inventive being, a vagabond like them, isolated like them,
wretched like them, who was something wonderful and all-powerful,
who seemed to them supernatural, and whose countenance was made up
of all the grimaces of ahold mountebank mingled with the most natural
and most pleasant smile.
" ]\lonsieur," said the elder timidly, "you are not afraid then of the
serpents de ville ?" Gavroche merely answered : " Momp ! we don't say
sergonts de ville, we say roijnes." The smaller boy had his eyes open,
but he said nothing. As he wa'» on the edge of the mat, the elder
being in the middle, Gavroche tucked the coverlid under hira as a mother
would have done, and raised the mat under his head with some old rags
in such a way as to tnake a pillow for the mome. Then he turned to-
words the elder : " Eh ! we are pretty well off, here !" " Oh yes," an-
swered the eldest, looking at Gavroche with the expression of a rescued
angel.
The two poor little soaked children were beginning to get warm.
■"Ah now," continued Gavmche, " what in the world^were you crying
for ?" And pointing out the little one to his brother: " A youngster
82 LES MISfiRi*BLES.
like ihat, I don't say, but a big boy like you, to cry is silly ; it makes
you look like n caW." " Well," said the child, " wo had uo room, no
place to po" "IJratl" replied (lavrocho, *' we don't .«ay a room, we
say a jn'uf/c." ." And then we were afraid to be all alone like that in the
night." " We don't say night, we say sonjue." " Thank you, Mon-
eiiur," paid the child,
" Listen to me," continued Gavrochc, "you must never whine any more
for anything. I will take care ot' you. Vou will sec what fun wc have.
In .'•unimcr wc will go to the (jlaci^re with Nuvet, a comrade of mine,
we will po in swimming in the basin. We will go to see the skeleton
man. He is alive. And then 1 will take you to the theatre. I have
tickets, 1 know the actors, I even played once in a piece. We were
mCnvs so high, we ran ^bout under a cloth that made the sea. I will
have you engaged at my theatre. We will go and see the savages.
They're not real, those savages. . They had red tights which wrinkle,
and yi'U can see their elbows darn^il wiUi white tjiread. After fi)at we
will go to the Opera. We will go in with the cla(|ueurs. And then wo
will go to see the guillotining. 1 will show you the executioner. He
liviS in the Kue des Marais. 'Monsieur Sanson. There is a lottir-box
on his door Oh ! we will have famous fun !"
At this moment, a drop of wax fell upon Gavrochc's linger, and re«
called him to the realities of ITfe. " The deuce !". said he, *' there's the
match u-ed up.. Attention ! I can't spend more than a sou a month
for my illumination. When we go to bed, we must go to sleep. We
haven't time to read the romances of Monsieur Paul do Kock. IJesides
the light might show through the cracks of the porte-cochere, and the
co'fncs couldn't help seeing."
"And then," timidly observed the eldct whoalone dared to talk with
Gavroclie and reply to him, "a spark might fall into the straw, wetnust
take care not to burn the house up." " We don't say burn the house,"
said Gavrochc, "we say rljj'atuhr the hocard."
The Sturm redoubled. They heard, in the intervals of the thunder,
the t'mpest beating against the back of the colossus. " Pour away, old
rain!'' said Gavroijhe, "it duos amuse me to hear the decanter empfy-
iug along the house's legs. Winter is a tool ; he throws away his goods,
he loKr's his trouble, he can't wet us, and it makes him grumble, the old
water-porter I"
This allu>ion to the thunder, all the consequences of which Gavrochc
accepted as a philosopher of the nineteenth century, was followed by a
very vivid flash, so blinding that something of it entered by the crevice
into the belly of the elephant. AUu'ist at the same instant the thnnder
burst I'urth Very furious'y. The two little boys uttered a cry, and rose
80 quickly that the trellis was almo.st thrown out of place; but Gav-
ro'-'he turned his bold face towards them, and took advantage of the clap
of thunder to burst into a laugh.
The two children hygged close to each other. Gavrochc finished
arranging tlnin upon the mat, and pulled the coverlid up to their ears,
then repeated for the third time the injunction in hieratic language:
'^ J^ionriz .' " And he blew out the taper.
Hardly was iHc light extinguished when a singular tremor began to
agitate the trellis under wnich the three children were lying. It was a
SAINT DENIS. >>> 83
/
multitude of dullrubbings, which gave a metallic sound, as if claws and
teeth were grinding tlie copper wire. This was accompanied by all sorts'
of liftlo sharp cries.
Tlie Utile boy of jQve, hearing tins tumult ovtn- his head, and shivering
with I'ear, pushed the elder brother with his elbow, but the elder l)rother
had ufready '^jjionce," according to Gavroclre's order. Then the little
boy, no longer capable of fearing him, ventured to accost Gavroclie, but
very low, and holding his broatii : "Monsieur?" '"lley?" said Gar-
roche, who had just closed liis eyes. " What is that?" "It is the
vats," answered Gavroche. And he laid his head again upon the mat.
The rats, in fact, which swarmed by thousands in the carcass of the
elephant, and which- were thee living black spots of which, we have
spoken, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle so long as it
burned, but as soon as this cavern, which was, as it were, their city,
had been restored to night, smelling there what the good story-teller
Perrault calls "some fresh j/ieat," they had rushed in eh roas.'re upoQ
Gavroche's tent, climbed to the top, and were biting its meshes as if they
were seeking to get through this new fashioned uJosqiiito bar.
Still the little boy did not go to sloop. 'Olonsieur!" he said again.
" Iley ?" said Gavroche. " What are the rats?" " They are mice."
This explanation re-assured the chiM a little. He had sotn some
white mice in the course of his life, and he was not afraid -of them.
However, he raised his voice again: "Moiisieur?" " Iley ?" replied
Gavroche. " Why don't you have a cat?" "I had one," an.swcred
Gavroche. "I brought one here, but they ate her up for me."
This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little
fellow again began to tremble. The dialogue between him and Gav-
roche was resumed for thefourth time : " Mon.-^ieur ?" " Hey ?" " Who
was if tha't was eaten up?" "Tlie cat." "Who was it that ate the *
cat?" "The rats." "The mice?" " Ves, the rats." The child, dis-.
•luaycd by these mice who ate cats, continued : " Mon.sieur, would those
mice eat us ?" "Gully!" said Gavroche. The child's terror was com-
pictc. But Gavroche added : " Don't be afraid ! they can't get-io. And
tiu'u I am here. Here, take hold of my hanJ. Be still, and pimaz!"
Givrochfi aC the sjme time placed thi; little fellow's hand across his
brother. The child clasped Cis band against his body, and felt safe.
Courage and" strength have such mysterious com muiiical ions. It was'
once more silent about theui, the sound of voices had st<irtled and driven
away the rats; in a few njinutes they might have returned and done
their worst in vain, the three niCmrs, plunged in slumber, heard nothing
more.
The hours of the night passed awa}'. I'arkness cov'orcd the immense
Place de la Bastille; a wintry wind, which mingled with the rain, blew
in gusts, the patrolmen rau.'Jackcd the doors, alleys, yards, and dark
corners, and, looking for nocturnal vagabondp, passed silently by the
elephant; the monster, standing, njotionless, with open eyes in the dark-
ness, appeared to be in reverie and well satisfied with his good deeds,
and he sheltered from the heavens and from men the three poor sleep-
ing children. t ^
To understand what follows, wo must remember iw^ at that period
the guard-house of the Bastille was situated at the other extremity of
84 « LE3 MISERABLES.
\
tbe Square, and that what occurred near the elephant could neither be
•seeo nor htanl by tho sentinel.
Towards the end of the hour wliicli iuitrndiiitcly precedes daybreak, a
nan turned out of the Hue Saint Antoino, runninjr, crossed the 8i|uare,
tur:MMi tlif ^rreat inclosurc of the (Column of July, and glidi'd between
tiio pali-ad»'s under the bolly of the elephant. Had any light wlmtover
ahoue upon thi.s man, from Win thoroughly wet elothin^, one would have
puc.«-«d that he had pa.s.sed the nij^ht iu the rain. Wlien und-r the
elephant he raised a }rrote.«quc call, which belongs to no human language,
amJ which a parrot alone could reproduce. lie twice repeated this call,
of wlii(!h tho following orthography gives but a very imperfect idea :
" Kirikikiou !' At the pccoud call, a clear, cheerful young voice
answered from tho belly of the elephant : " Yes!" Aluio.st immediately
the board which closed the h(de moved away, and gave pa.«!sage to a child,
who dc^cftoded along the «'lephant'.s leg and dropped lightly near the
man. It wasGavrochc. The uina was Myntparna>-.se. As to this call,
kirlkUdnn, it was undoubtedly what the* chill meant by: Yon icill ask
fur M .11 sit 11 r (Jiivrnrht'.
Ou luaring it he had walTed with a spring, crawled out of his "alcove,"
separating the netting a little, which he afterward.? carefully closed again,
then he had opened the trap arid descended.
The man and the chihl rceogni.scd each other .silently in the dark;
Montparnasse merely said : " We need you. Come and give us a lift.**
The i/amin did not a^k any other explanation. " I am ou hand," said
he. And they both took the direction of the Hue Saint Antoino, whence
Montparnasse came, winding their way rapidly tliro\igh the long tile of
market wagons which go down at that hour towards the market.
The market gardeners, crouching among fhe .<?alads and vegetables,
* half asleep, buried up to tlie eyes in the boot.s of their wagons on
account of the driving rain, did not even notice these strange pa>'seDger8.
III.
TIIK FORTUNES AND MLSFORXUNES OF ESCAl'E,
What had taken place thjit same night at La Force wa.s this: An
«BCape had b'icn concerted between Babet, Brujon, Guculeiuer and Th6-
nardicr, alihongh Tlieuardior was in solitary. Babet had done the busi-
ness for iiimself during the day, as we have seen from the aecoirnt of
Montparna.sse to Gavrochc. -Montparnasse was to help them i'roni
without
lirujon, having spent a month in a chamber of punishment, had had
time, first to ts^ist a rope, secondly, to perfect a plan. Formerly these
stern cells in whi(di the discipline of the prison delivers the couiicmued
to himself, were composed of four Ftonc walls, a ceiling of .stone, a
pavement of tiles, a camp bed, a grated air hole, a double iron door,
and were called <liin</ponK ; but the dungeon ha:? been thougtit too hor-
rible; now it is oaniposed of an iron door, i^ grated air-hole, a camp bed,
a pavement of (pis, a ceiling of stone, four stone whIIs, and it is called
chamber of puiiishmcut. The inconvenience of these chambers, whi6h
SAINT DENIS. 85
as we sec, arc not dunp;eons. is that tlicy allow beings to reflect who
should be made to work.
Bruj'iu th«n bad reflected, and he had gfone out of the chaiTibor of
puDi.-hmeot with a rope. As he was reputed very dangerous in the
Charlemagne Court, he was put into the liatiment Neuf. The first
thing which he fuind ia tlie Butiment Neuf was (.jueulemer, the second
•was ii nail ; Gueulcmer, that is to say crime, a nail, that is to say
liberty. •
Biujon, ofiwhom it is time to give a complete i^lea, was, with an ap-
pearance; of^A' delicate complexion and a profoundly premeditated lan-
guor, a poli?tted, gallant, intelligent robber, with an enticing look and
an atrocious smile. His look was a result of his will, and his smile of
his nature. His ftrst studies in his art were directed towards roofs; he
had made a great improvoTiient in the business of the lead strippers who
despoil roofings and distrain oaves.
What rendered the niomont peculiarly favorable for an attempt at es-
cape, was that some workmen were taking off and relaying, at that very
tinitf, a part of the slating of the prison. The Cour ^aiiit jJcruard was
not cniirely isolated from the Charlemagne Court and the Cour Saint
Louis. There were scaffoldings and ladders up aloft ; in other words,
bridfres and stairways leading towards deliverance.
I^atiment NeuT, the most cracked and decrepit affair in the world, was
the weak point "of the prison. The walls were so much corroded by salt-
petre that they, had been obliged to put a facing of wood o- cr the arches of
the dormitories, because the stones detached themselves and fell upon
the bods of flie prisoners. Notwithstanding this decay, the blunder
was committed of shutting up in the iJatiment Neuf the uio.>t dangerous
of the a("ciised, of putting " the hard cases" in there, as they say ia
prison lanp;u:ige.
The Batiment Neuf contained four dormitories one above theother
and an attic, which w;i,s call(*d the liel Air. A large chimtify, proljubly
of some ancient kitcdien of th .» Dukes de La Force, start'd froili the
ground floor, passed through the four sto^s, c'lfting in two all the dor-
niituries in whicR it appeared .to be a kind of flattened pillar, and went
out through the ronf
Gueiileiner and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been
pift into the lower sfory by precaution. It happened that'the ht'ads of
their beds rested against the flu«» of the chiwmey. Tb6uardier was ex-
actly above tliera in the attic known as the Bel Air.
The passer who gtop.s in the R'le Culture Paiutc Catharine, beyond
the bai racks of the firemen, in front of the pftrte-cochC-re pf the bath-
bouse, sees a yar^.full of flowers and shrubs in boxes, at the furtl.er
end of which is a. litt'e white rofumla with two wings enlivened by
green blinds the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques. Not more than ten
years ago, above this rotunda, there arose a black wall, cnonnouw, hide-
ous and bare, against which it was built. Thi.s was the eneireliug wall
of La Furce I'his wall, behind this rotunda, was Milton seen I'chind
Berquin. Hijh as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker
roo'f which could be seen behind. Thi.s was the roof of the liatiuient
Neuf You noticed in it four dormer windows witl^;ratings ; these
were fhe windows of the Bel Air. A chimney picrcro the riK>f, the
chimney which passed through the dormitories.
86 LES MISERABLES.
The Bel Air, this attic of the Britimcnt Neuf, was a kind of large
garret hull, closed with triple gratings and double sheet iron doors stud-
dc'd with monstrous nails. Entering at the north end, you Jiad on your
left the f')ur wind(iws, and on your right, opposite the windows, four
lar.'o >(|U;irc cages, with spaces between, separated by narrow passages,
builf breast-high of masonry with bars of ironM;o the roof.
Tlx^tiardicr had been in solitary in one of these cages since the niirht
of the ;>ii of Ftbrnary. Nobody ha§ ever discovered how, or by wliat
contrivance, lie had succeeded in procuring and hidiflg a,b»ittle of that
wine invented, it is said, by Desrues, with which a iiareyHc is mixed,
and which the band of the Endormcnrs has rendered celebfated.
There arc in many prisons treacherous employees, half jailers and
half thieves, who aid in escapes, who sell a faithless^ service to the po-
lice, and who make much more than their salary. ; ••
On this same night, then, on whicii little Gavroche bad picknl up the
two wandering children, Brujon and Gueulemer, knowing that liabct,
who had escaped that very morning, was waiting for them in the street
as well as Montparnasse, got up softly and beiran to pierce the flue of
the chimney which touched their beds, with the nail vvhicdi Hrujou h:ul
found. The fragments fell upon Brujon's bed, so that nobody h( ard
thefu. The hail storm and the thunder shook the doors up.m their
hinges, and made a frightful and convenient uproar in the prison. Those
of the prisoners who awoke made a feint of going to sleep again,'and let
Gueulemer and Brujon alone. Brujon was adroit; Gueulemer was vig-
orous. l>efore any soun.d had reached the watchman who was lying in
the grated cell with a window Opening info the sleeping room, the wall
was pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron trellis which closed the upper
orifice fif the flue forced, and the two formidable bandits wire upon the
roof. The rain and the wind redoubled, the roof was slippery.
" What a good soiyue for a crampc,"* said Brujon.
A gulf of six feet wide and eighty feet deep separated them from
the encircling wall. At the bottom of this gulf they saw a gentinel's
musk't gleaming in the obscurity. They fastened one end of the rope
which Brujon had woven in his cell, to the stumps of the bars of the
chimney which they had just twisted off, threw the other end over the
encircling wall, cleared the gnlf at a buund, clung to the coping of the
wall, Itcstnide it, let themselves glide one after another duwn along the
rope upon a little roof which adjoined the bath-house, pulled down their
rope, leaped into the bath-house yard, crossed it, pushed open the por-
ter's slide, near which hung the cord, pulled the cord, opened the porte-
cochere, and were in the street
It w.s not three-quarters of an hour since they had risen to their
feet on their beds in the darkness, their nail in hand, the.ir project^ia
their heads.
A few moments afterwards they had rejoined Babet and Montpar-
nasse,who were prowling about the neighborhood.
In drawing down their rope, they had broken it, and there was a piece
remaining fastened to the chimney on the ro"f. They had received no
othe damage than having pretty thoroughly skinned their hands.
*What a good night for an escape. *
I
SAINT DENIS. 87
That night Thenardier had received a warning, it never could bo as-
certained in what manner^ and did not go to sleep.
About one o'clock in the morning, the night being very dark, he ?aw
two shadows pxssing on the roof, in the rain and in the raging wind,
before the window opposite his cage. One stopped at the window long
enough for a look. It was Brujon. Tlieiinrdirr recognised him, and
understood. That was enough for him. Thenardier, described as an assas-
sin, and detained under the charge of lying in wait by. night with force
and arms, was kept ci.tustantly in sight. A sentinel, who was relieved
every two hours, marched with loaded gun before his cage. The Hel
Air was lighted by a reflector. The prisoner had irons on his feet weigh-
ing fifty pounds. Every d:iy, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a warden,
escorted by two dogs- — this was customary at that period. — entered his
cage, laid down near his bed a two pound loaf of black bread, a jug of
water, and a dish full of very thin soup, in which a few beans were
swimming, examined his irons, and struck upon the bars. This man,
with his dogs, returned twice in the' night.
Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a Icind of an iron spike
which he used to nail his bread into a crack in the" wall, "in
order," said he, " to preserve it from the rats." As Thenardier was
constantly in sight, they iu)agined no danger from this spike. How-
ever, it was remembered afterwards that a warden had said : " It "would
be better to let him have nothing but a wooden spike."
At two o'clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an rtld soldier,
was relieved, and his place was taken by a conscript. A few moments
afterwards, the man with the dogs made his visit, and went away with-
out noticing anything, excep^t the extreme youth and the " peasant air"
of the "greenhorn." Two hours afterwards, at four o'clock, when they
came to relieve the conscript, they found him asleep, and l.ving on the
ground like a log near Thcnardier's cage. As to Thenardier, he was not
there. His broken irons were on the floor. There was a hole in the ceiling of
bis cage, and above, another hole in the roof. A board had bet'n torn
from his bed, and doubtless carried away, for it was not found again.
There was also seized ill the cell a half empty bottle, containing the rest
of the drugged wine with whieh the soldier had been put to sleep. The
soldier's bayonet had disappeared.
At the moment of this discovery, it was supposed that Thenardier
was out of all roach. The reality is, that he was no longer iu the Bati-
ment Neuf, but (hat he was still in great danger.
Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the Haliment Neuf, found tho
remnant of Brujon's cord hanging to the bars of the upper trap of the
chimney, but this broken end being much too short, he was unable to
escape over the sentry's path as Brnjou and Gueulemer had done.
On turning from the llue des Bullets into the Hue du Hoi de Sicile,
on the right you meet almost immediately with a dirty recess. There
was a house there in the last century, of which only the rear wall
remains, a genuine ruin wall, which rises to the height of the third
story among the neighboring buildings. This ruin can be recognized
by two large square windows which may still be seen; the one in the
middle, nearer the right gable, is crossed by a worm-eaten joist fitted
like a cap-piece for a shore. Through these windows could formerly be
SS LES MIS^RABLES.
discerned a high and dismal wall, which was a part of the encircling
wall of La Porce.
The void which the demolished house has loft upon the street is half
filled by a palisade fence of rotten boards, supported by iivc stone posts.
lliddfU in this incloswre is a little shanty, built again.-t that part of the
ruin which remains standing. The fence has a gate whijh a few years
a<To was fastened only by a latch.
Theuardier was upon the crest of this ruin a little after three o'clock
in the uiorning-
How had he got there? That is what nobody has ever been able to
expl "in or understand. The^ lightning must' have both confused and
helped him. Did he use the ladders and the scaffoldings of the slaters
to get from roof to roof, from inelosure to inclosurc, fmm compartment
to compartment, to the buildings of the Charlem.-igne court, then the
buildings of the Cour Saint Louis, the encircling wall, and from thonce
to the ruin on the Rue du lloi de Sicile ? JJut there were gap iu this
route which seemed to render it impossible. Did he lay down the plank
from his bed as a bridge from the roof of the Del Air to the encircling
wall, and did he e.rawl on his belly along the coping of the wall, all
round the prison .ns far as the ruin? But the encircling wall of La
Forc'^ followed an indented and uneven line, it rose and fell, it sank
down to the barracks of the firemen, it rose up to the bu,thing house, it
was cut by buildings, it was not of the same height on the Hotel
Lanloignon as on the Hue Pavoe, it had slopes and right angles every-
where; and then the sentinels would have seen the dark outline of the
fugitive; on this supposition again, the route taken by Thenardier is
still almost inexplicable. Dy either way, an impossible flii^ht. Had
Thenardier, illuiiiiuated by that fearful thirst for liberty which changes
precipices into ditches, iron gratings into osier screens, a cripple into
an athlete, an old gouty into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into
intelligence, and intelligence into genius, had Thenardier invented and
extemporised a third method ? It has never been known.
Oni; cannot always comprehend the marvels of escape. The man who
csf^apes, let us repeat, is inspired ; there is soinething of the star and
the lightning iri the mysterious gleam of flight.
However this may be, dripping with sweat, soaked through by the
rain, his clothes in strips, his hands s'\itined, his elbows bleeding, his
knees torn, Thenardier had reached what children, in their figurative
language, call the edge of the wall of the ruin, he had stretched himself
on it at. lull length, and there his strength failed him. A steep escarp-
ment, three stories high, separated him from the pavement of the street.
The rope wliich he had was too shorJ:. He was waiting there, pale,
exhau-tedfc having lost all the hope which he had had, still covered by
niiiht, but saying to himself that day was just ahoul to dawQ, dismayed
at the idea of hearing in a few moments the neighboring clock of Saint
I'aul's strike four, the hour when they would come to relieve the
sentinel and would find him asleep under the broken roof, gazing with
a kind of stupor through the fearful depth, by the glimmer of the lamps,
upon the wet and black pavement, that longed-for yet terrible pavement,
■which was death yet which was liberty.
He asked himself if his three a^ompUces in escape had succeeded, if
SAINT "DENIS. - 89
they had heard him, and if they would come to his aid. He listened.
Except a patrolman, nobody had passed through the street since he had
been there. Nearly all the travel of the gardeners of Montrcuil, Cha-
ronne, Vincennes, and Bercy to the Market, is through the Kue Saint
Antoine.
The clock struck four. Thenardier shuddered. A few moments
afterwards, that wild and confustnl noise which follows upon the dis-
covery of an escape, broke out in the prison. The sound of doors open-
ing and shutting, the grinding of gratings upon their hinges, the tumult
in the guardhouse^ the harsh calls of the gate-keepers, the sound of the
butts of muskets upon the pavement of thf? yards reached him. Lights
moved up and down in the grated windows of the dormitories, a torch
ran along the attic of the Batiiuent Neuf, the firemen of the barracka
alongside had been called. Their caps, which the torches lighted up Iq
the rain, were going to and fro along the roofs. At the satue time
Thenardier saw in the direction of the Bastille a whitish cloud throwing
a dismal pallor over the lower part of the sky.
lie was on the top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out beneatli
the storm, with two precipices, at the right and at the left, unable to
stir, giddy at the prospect of falling, and horror-stricken at the certainty
of arrest, and his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock, went from oae
of these ideas to the other: " Dead if I fall, taken if I stay."
In this anguish, he suddenly saw, the street being still wrnpped in
obscurity, a man who was gliding along the walls, and who came from
the direction of the Rue Pavee, stop in the recess above which Tb^uar-
dier was as it were suspended. This man was joined by a second, who
was walking with the same precaution, then by a third, then by a
fourth. When these men were together, one of them lifted Ihe latch of
the gate in the fence, and they all four entered the enclosure of the^
shanty. They were exactly under Th(5nardier. These men had
evidently selected this recess so as to be able to talk without being seen
by the passers or by the sentinel -who guards the gate of La Force a few
steps off It must also be siattd that the raiu kept this sentinel
blockaded in his sentry-box. Thenardier, not being able to distinguish
their faces, listened to their words with the desperate attention of a
wretch who feels that he is lost.
Something which resembled hope passed before Th^nardier's eyes;
th'eso men spoke argot. The first said, in a low voice, but distinctly:
" Decarrona. What is it we maqull lorn ia'(jo I" * The second answer-
ed : ^^ II hinsquiiie enough to put out the riffe of the rah"uin. And
then the coqueurs are going by, there is a (jrivier there who carries a
<jr<7/fe, shall we let them emballrr us u-icai//e ?" -f
These two words, irii/n and uicail/e, which both mean ici [here,^ and
which belong, the first to the argot of the Barriclires, the second to
the «rgot of the Temple, were revelations to Thenardier. By ui^/o he
recognised Brujon, who was a prowler of the Barri^res, and by icuallle
* Let us go, what (ire we doing here ?
f It rains enougli to put out the devil's firo. And then the police are going
by. There is a soldier there who is standing aeDtinel. Shall we let them arrest
us here ? ;
7
90 LKS mis£rables.
Babct, who, among all his other trades, had bflcn a 'second-hand dealer'
•t the Temple.
The anricnt arfjot, of the age of Louis XIV., is now spoken only at •
the Tcinpio, and Hibet was the onlyone who ppoko it quite punlv.
Wtthtiut irirallf'c, Thenanlier would not h:ivp reengnistiil him, for he hud
entirely difpuised his voice. Meanwhile, the tlPird h;id put in a word :
•• Ntithing is urgent jnt, let us wiiit a little. How do wo know that ho
doisn't need our help?" IJy fhi.'*, which was only French, Thcnaniicr
recognised Montpariiasse, whose elegance consisted in understanding all
argots and speaking none.
As to the fourth, ho was silent, but his huge shoulders betrayed hira.
Thenardior had no hesitiition. It was Gueulemer. Jirujon replied
almost impetuously, but still in a low voice : " What is it you hmtHtz U3
there? The /'yj/.<.svVr couldn't draw his rraTjj^js. He don't know the
true, indeed ! Boiih'nfr his liviace ami /ourher his impaffi-K, mnquiVer
a t'lrtousr, caler hotth'ni^ in the lojinl's^ li7-aser the ./"j^'S, mnquilltr ra-
roul/Ie.i, fauchcr \.\\c liards, balance \\'\s torlounc outside, pAi?i»y»/'7' hini-
gfelf, niniotijii'r himself, one must be a ntariol? The old man couldn.'t
do it, he don't know how to (/ouphier !" *
liabet added, still in that prudent, classic argot which was spokin by
Paulaiiler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, strongly-
colored, and hazardous argot which Brujon used, what the* languauo of
Racine is to the language of Andri' ('bonier : " Your onjae tajn'sxiir
must have been made marrou on the stairs. One must be arrasien.
lie is a ijnllftxrd. lie has been played the Imnmrhc by a rnussin, per-
haps even by a roussi, who has beaten him romfois. Lend your mhey
Montparnasse, do you hoar those crthhrmuts in the cuUt'ije? You have
Been all those camoujles. lie has tum/iS, come ! He must be left to
draw his twenty Joinjfu. I have no taf, I am no fojp'itr, that is volomhi^
but there is nothing more but to make the Iczanh, or otherwise they
will make us //a/n/^/Z/er for it. Don't rc/y/Mf/rr, come with nousiertjue.
Let u= go and pictt'r a rouUlarde riici^f'." f " Friends are not left in
difficulty," muttered Montparnasse. " I hotun'x you that he is maftufe,"
rcplic'l lirujon. "At the hour which (iqw, the fa/iixnier isn't worth a
hroqnc ! Wc can do nothing here. Dicnrrons. 1 expect every mo-
•mcnt that a rorjnr will cintrrr me \n jmt/ne I" |
Montparnasse resisted- now but feebly; the truth is, that these four
men, wiih that faithfulness which bandits exhibit in never abandoning
* What iM it you tell us there? The innkeeper couldn't escape. He don't
know the tnide, imlecl ! To tear up his shirt und cut up his bcilclothcs to mnke
a ropp, to nmkc hoK-.s in the doors, to forjic falsi' pnpcr.", to luiike ful.-io kt'vs, to
cut hi" iroii'., to hiiiiR his rope outside, to hide him.si-lf, to disyrui.-^c hiiiisi" f, one
jnuot tie a devil I Tiie old man c^ldu't do it, he don't know how to work.
■}• Your innkeeper must htive been caught in the act. One niu.«t be a devil.
Be is an apprentice He has been duped by a s^py, perhaps eren by a, ^heep,
ttLo uindc him biu gossip. Listen, Moiitparnii.«<e, do you hear those cries in the
privjon? Yiiu have seen all those lights. Me is retaken, come ! He must be
ieft to pet his twenty years. I have no fear, I am no coward, that is known,
Tsat <liTP is nothing more to be dfne, or otherwise they will make us dance.
Don't be angry, come with us. Let us go and drink a bottle of olil wine together.
J i tell you that he is retaken. At the present time, the innkee[)er isn't worth a
penny. We can do notliing here. Let us go. I expect every moment that a
£ergejQi4e-villc will havume in bis hand!
SAINT DENIS. 91 .
each other, had been prowling all niglit about La Force at whatever risk,
in hope of seeing Thenardior rise above sonig wall. But the pight
which was becoming really, too fine — it was storuiing enough to keep all
the street? empty — the cold which was growing upon tbera, their soaked
clothing, their wet shoes, the alarming uproar which had just broken
out in the prison, the passing hours, the patrolm;en they had met, hope
departing, fear returning, all this impelled them to retreat. Montpar-
nassc himself, who was, perhaps, to some slight extent a son-in law of The-
nardier, yielded. A moment more, they were gone. Thenardier gasped
upon his wall like the ship-wrecked sailors of the Miduae on their raft
•when they saw the ship which had appeared, vanish in the horizon.
He dared not call them, a cry overheard might destroy all ; he had an
idea, a final one, a flash of liiiht; he took from his pocket the end of
Brujon's rope, which he had detached from the chimney of the Bitiment
Neuf, and threw it into the inclosure.
This rope ftll' at their feet. "A widow !" * said Babet. " My /or-
^ow.se/"f said Brujon " There is the innkeeper," said Montparnasse.
They raised their eyes. Thenardier advanced his head a little. "Quick !"
said Montparnasse, "have you the other end of the rope, Brujon ?"
"Yes." "Tie the two ends together, we will throw hira the rope, he
will fasten it to the wall, he will have enough to get down."
Thenardier ventured to speak : " I am benumbed." " We will warm
you." " [ can't stir." "Let yourself slip down, we m\\ catch you."
"My hands Tire stiff." "Only tie the rope to the wall." "I can't."
"One of us must get up," said Montparnasse. "Three stories!" said
Brujon.
An old plaster flue, which had served for a stove which had formerly
been in use in the shanty, crept along the wall, rising almost to the spot
at which they saw Thenardier. This flue, then very much cracked and
full of seams, has since fallen, but its traces can still be seen. It waa
very small.
" We could get up by that," said Montparnasse. " By that flue !"
exclaimed Babct, "an onjup,'^ nev( r ! it would take a77i(V;7i."§ "It
would take a nifJfne," II added Brujon " Where can we fin'! a brat?"
said Guc-ulemer. " Wait," said Montparnasse. " I have the thing."
He opened the gate of the fence softly, made sure that nobody was pass-
ing in the street, went out canfully, shut the door after him, and started
on a run in the direction of the Bastille.
Seven or eight minutes el.ip'^ed, eight thou.sand centuries to Thenar-
dier; Babet, Brujon, and Gueulenier kept their teeth clenched; the
door rft, last opened again, and Montoarnasse appeared, out of brtath,
with Gavroche The rain still kept the street entirely empty.
Lit'le Gavrochc entered the inclosure and looked upon these bandit
forms witli a quiet air. The water was dripping from his hair Ginu-
lemer addressed him : " Brat, are you a man ?" Gavrofche shiupgel his
shouMer'^ and answered: "A momc like mizig \^ an or^up, and ort/ucs'
like voiisni/lrs are momes." ^\
* A rope (argot of the Temple.) f My rope (argot of the Barribres )
X \ man. j A child (argot of the Temple.) ,
ji A child (argot of the Barri(T''«. )
^ A chilli V-.Uo me is a man. iml men like jou are children.
92 LES Mlfe^RABLES.
" Ilow the mion plajs with the spittoon I" * exclaimed Babot. " The
mi'mo jyantin\)i»'\ml rn/njnilli oi fir title hinnquinie," '\ added lirujort.
" What is it yoa want ?" said Gavroche. M<»ntparnasseanswerfi>: "To
climb up b} this flue," " With this widow," J said Habet. "And /lyO'
trr the tortousr,^' ^ continued Hrujon. "To the monti of the inan-
f/rn/," IJ resumed liabet. "To the^)/V«of the vatitrnir,"^ added Uru-
jon. ''And then ?" said Gavroche. " That's all I" said (Jueuloiner.
The (fomin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows, and
made that inexpressible and di-duiuful sound with the lips which signi-
fies : *' What's that?'.' " There is a man up there whom }ou will save,"
replied Montparnasso. " Will you 'f" added Brujon. '* Goosy !" an-
swered the child, as if the qucistion appeared to him absurd ; and ho
tcdk off his shoes.
Gueulcmer caught up Gavroohe with one hand, put him on the roof
of the shanty, the worm-eaten boards of wliicli bent beneath the child's
weight, and handed him the rope which Brujon had tied together daring
the absence of Montparnasse. The (/rtm(*H,,went towards the flue, which
it was eatiy to enter, thanks to a large hole at the roof. Just as he was
about to start, Thcnardier, who saw safety and life approaching, bent
over the edge of the wall ; the first gleam of day lighted up his fore-
head reeking with sweat, his livid cheeks, his thin and savage nose, his
grey bristly beard, and Gavroche recognised him : " Hold on!" said ho,
"it is my father! Well, that don't hinder!" And taking the rope ia
his teeth, he resolutely commenced the ascent.
He reached tlie top of the ruin, bestrode the old wall like a horse,
and tied the rope firmly to the upper cross bar of the window. A mo-
ment afterwards Thenardicr was in the street. As soon as hp Imd
touched the pavement, as soon as he felt himself out of (knger, he was
no longer either fatigued, benumbeil, or trembling; the terrible things
through which he had passed vanished like a whiff of smoke, all that
Strange and ferocious intellect awoke, and found itself erect and free,
ready to march forward. The man's first words were these: "Now,
who are we going to eat?"
It is needless to explain the meaning of this frightfully transparent
word, which signifies all at once to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder.
Eat, roiil meaning : dtvour.
" Let UH hide first," said Brujon. " Finish in three words, and we
will separate immediately. There was an affair which had a good look
in the Hue IMuuiet, a deserted street, an isolated* house, an old rusty
pratiog upon a garden, some loue^women" " Well, why not ?' in-
quired Tin iiardier " Your/v, ** Kpotiine, has beeu tt) see the tiling,"
answered Habet. "And she brought a biscuit to Maguon,' added Gu-
eulemor, "nothing to ni<iijui//rr there." ff "The/*'r isn't /jTe," |;f
said Thenardicr. " Still we must see." " Yes, yes," said Brujon,
** we must see.' ' /
Meftutinie, none of these men appeared longer to sec Gavroche, who,
* How well the cbihl's tongue is hung! •
f The Parii-iun cliiid iwu't made of wet straw.
j This rope. J Fasten the r..p.-. || To the top of the wall.
ye To the cross-bar of the win^low
** Your daughter. ff Nothing to do there. J J Stupid.
SAINT DENIS. 9$
during this colloquy, had seated himself upon one of the stone supports
of the fence ; he waited a few minutes, perhaps for his father to turn
towards him, then he put on his shoes, and said : " It is over? you have
no more* use for me? men ! you are out of your trouble. I am going.
I must fio and get my niomcs up." And he went away.
The five men went out of the iuclosuro one after another. When
Gavroche had disappeared at thg turn of the Rue des Ballets, Babet
took Thenardier aside. "Did you notice that mi'on?" he asked him.
"What mion?" ' "The vi'on who climbed up the wall and brouglik
you the rope." "Not much." " VV<'U. I don't know, but it seems to
me that it is your son." " Pshaw ! said Thsnardier, " do you think so?"
ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS.
SUNSHINE.
' . . .•
The reader must know that Eponine, having recognised through the
grating the inhabitant of that Rue Plumet, to which Magnon had sent
her, had begun by (iiverfing the bandits from the Rue Plumet, had then
cotiductcd Marius thither, and that after several days .of ec.«tacy b<?fore
that grating, Marius, drawn by that force which pushes the iron towards
the magnet, and the 1 iver towards the stones of which the house of her
whom he loves is built, had finally entered Co,sette's garden as Romeo
did the garden of Juliet. It had even been- easier for him than for Ro-
meo ; Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, Marius had only to push a.side
a little one of the bars of the decrepit grating, which was loosed in its
rusty socket, like the teeth of old people. iMarius was slender, and
easily passed through.
As there was never an-ybndy in the street; and as, moreover, Mariu9
entoTcd the garden only at night, he ran no risk of being sepn.
From that ble.s.sed and hofy hour when a kiss afiianced these two soul.?,
Marius came every evening. If, at this period of her life< Cosctte had
fallen into the love of a man who was unscrupulous and a libertine, she
•Would have been ruined. Love, at that height at which it is absolute,
is associated with an inexpressibly cflcstial blindness of modesty. But
what risks do you run, 0 noble souls I Often, you give the heart, we
take the body. Your heart remains to you, and you look upon it in the
darkness, and shudder. Love has no middle term ; ci'her it destroys,
or it saves. * All huTian Itstiny is this dilemma. This dilemma, de-
struction or salvat on, no fatality propo.ees more inexorably than love.
Love is life, if it be not death. Cradle; coffin also The same Frnti-
uvrnt says yes and no in the hnraan heart. Of all the things which God
has ma^i'- the human heart is that which sheds, most litfht; and, alas I
most night «
God willed that the love which Cosctte met, should be one of those
loves which save. . *
94 LES MISKRABLES.
Through all the month of May of that yeur 1832, there were there,
every uipht, in that pour, wild garden, under that slirubbery each day
more (xlonms and wore den«e, two beings coiiipused of every chastity
and every innocence, overflowini; with all the felicities of lleav6n, more
nearly anliangels than men, pure, noble, intoxicated, radian', who were
reaplendcnt to each other in the darkne.-s. It seemed to Cosette that
Marius had a crown, and to Marius that Cosette had a halo. They
touched each other, they bcheM each other, they clasped each other's
li:itid'<, they pr.-sscd clo.'-ely to eac^ other; but thefe was a distance
which they did not pass. Not that they respected it; they were igno-
rant of it. Marians felt a btfriiur, the purity of Cosette, and Cosette felt
a support, the loy'alty of Marius. The fir.-t kiss wa.s the last also. " Ma-
rius, since, had not gone beyond touching Cosetto's hand, or her necker-
chief, or her ringlet-*, with his lips. Cosotte was to him a perfume, and
ni't a woman. Cosette was happy, and Marius was .satisfied. They lived
in that ravishing condition which might be called the dazzling of a soul
by a soul. It was that iuuffable lli>t embrace of two virginities in tho
ideal. Two swans meeting upon the Juugfrau.
What passed between these two beings J* N-)thiug. Th;y were adoring
each other. At night, when they were there, this garden seemed
a living and sacred place. All the flowers opened abmt them, and prof-
fered them their incense; they too opened their souls and poured them
forth to the flowers: the lusty and vigorous vegetation trembled full of
Bap and intoxication about these two innocent creatures, and they spoke
vords of love at which the trees thrilled.
What were these words? Whispers, u'tthing more. These whispers
were enough to arouse and excite all this nature. A magic power,
vrhich one can hardly understand by this prattl;-, which is made to bo
borne away and dissipated like whiffs of smoko by tho wind under the
leaves Take from these murmurs of two lovers that melody which
Bprings from the soul, and wliieh accompanies them like a lyre, what re-
Diuius is oidy a shade. You say: What! is that all? Yes, childish
thiiig>, repetitions, laii<;hs about noihing, inutilities, absurdities, all that
is deepest and most sublime in tho world ! tho only things which are
'worth being said and listened to.
These absurdities, these poverties, the man who has never heard them,
the man who has never uttered thein is an imbecile and a wicked man.
Cosette said to Marius : " Do you know my name is Euphrasie '(" " Eu-
phra.sie? Why no, your nam.e isCosette." "Oh ! Cos^-tle is.such an ugly
name that they gave me somehow when 1 was little. But my real name
is Euphrasie. Don't you like that name, Euphrasie ?" ''Yes — ^ut
Cosette is. not ugly." "Do you like it, better than Euphrasie?"
" Why— yes." "Then I like it better, too.' It is true it is pretty,
Cosette. Call me Co.sette."
And the smile which she added made of this dialogue an idyl worthy
of a eclestial grove
At another time she looked at him steadily and exclaimed : " Mon-
eieur, you are hand.'^ome, you are beautiful, you are witty, you are Bot
stupid in the least, you are .much wiser than I, but I defy you #ith this
word : I love you I ' And Marius in a cloudless sky, thought he heard
a strophe sung by a star. Or again, she gave him a little tap because
SAINT DENIS. 95
he couglied, and said to him : " Do not cough, Monsieur. I do Dot al-
low coughing here withoat permission. It is very naughty (* cough and
disturb me. I want you to be well, because, in the first place, if you
were not well, I should be very unhappy. What will you have me do
for you ?"
And that was all purely divine. Once Marius sftid to Cosette : " Just
thiuk, I thouijht at one time that your name was Ursula." This made
them laugh the whole evenintr. ' •
Marius imagined life with CoRctte like this, without anything else: to
come every evening to tlie Rue Plumet, to put aside the complaisant old
bar of the president's grating, to sit side by side upon this seat, to be-
hold through the trees the scintillation of the commencing night, to say
dearest to her, to inhale one after the other the odor of the same flower,
for ever, indefinitely. During this time the clouds were passing above
their heads. Every breath of wind bears away more dreams from man
than clouds from the sky.
Questions and answers fared as ttiey might in their dialogue, always
falling naturally at last upon love, like those loaded toys which always
fall upon their base.
Cosette's whole person was ar.tlessness, ingenuousness, transparency,
whiteness, candor, radiance. We might say t>f Cosette that she was
pellucid. She gave to him who saw her a sensation of April and of
dawn. There was dew in her eyes. Cosette was a condensation of
auroral light in womanly form.
It was quite natural that Marius, adoring her, should admire her.
But the truth is that this little school girl, fivsh from the convent mill,
talked with an exquisite penetration and said at times all manner of
true and delicate words. Her prattle was conversation. She made
no mistakes, and saw cV-arly. Womao feels and speaks with the te»der
instinct of the heart— that infallibility. Nobody knows like a woman
how to say things at tlic same time sWeet and profound. Sweetness and
depth, this is all of woman; this is all of Heaven.
In this fulness of felicity, at every instant tears came to their oyca.
An insect trodden upon, a feather falling from a nest, a twig of haw-
thorn brnken, moved their pity, and their ecstasy, sweeetly drowned ia
melancholy, seemed to ask nothing better than to weep. The most
sovereign symptom of love, is a tenderness sometimes almost insupport-
able.
• And by the side of this — all these contradictions are the light'
ning pi ly of love — they were fond of laughing, and laughed with a
charming freedom, and .so familiarly that they soni'^times seemed almost
"like two boys. Nevertheless, thiugh hearts intoxicated with chastity
may be all uoconsciius, nature, who can never be forgotten, is always
pn sent.' There she is, and whatever may be the innocence of souls, we
feel, in t'je most modtst intercourse the adorable and mysterious shade
whieli separates a couple of lovers from a pair of friends.
They worshipped each other.
The permanent and the lmn)utable continue. There is loving, there
is smiling and laughing, and little pouts with the lips, and interlacing of
the fingers, and fondling speech, yet that dues not hinder eternity.
Two lovers hide in the evcaing, in the twilight, ia the invisible, with
OG LES MI6ERABLES.
the birds, with the roses, they fascinate each other in the shadow with
tl»r ir lieart» which they (hrow into their pycs, they murmur, they
wlii-j'iT, utid duriug all this time iujnicn.'^o libralions of stars Oil iu-
fiaiiy.
II.
THE STUPEFACTION OF COMPLETK IIA I IM M sn.
Their cxisU'nc* was va,:;uc, bewildcrfd with happiness. TIjoy did not
perceive the ohohfra which decimated Paris that very month. They
had boon as confidential with each other as they could be, but this had
not gone very far beyond their Dames. Mariu.s had told Costttc that he
•was an orphan, that his name was Marius Poutmercy, that he was a law-
yer, that he lived by writing thiny;s for publishers, that his father was
a Colonel, that he was a hero, and that he, Marius, had quarrelled with
his craiidfather who was rich. lie hud also .said siraethiu^ about bein^
a baron ; but that had produced no effoct upon t 'oscttte. Marius baron !
She diJ not comprehend. She did not know what that word 'mennt
Marius was Marius. On her part she had confided to him that she had
been brought up at the Convent of the Petit Picpu.s, that hor mother
was dead as well as hi8, that her father's name v/a^ M. Fauchelevent,
that ho was very kind, that he gave much to the poor, but that he was
poor himself, and. that he deprived himself of everything while he de-
prived her of nc^thing.
Strange to say, in the kind of symphony in which Marius had been
living .'iince he had seen Cosette, the past, even the most recent, had' be-
come so confused and distant, to him that what ('osette told him fatisticd
hiiu fully. He did not even think to speak to her of the ni^ht adven-
ture at the Gorbeau tenement, thC Thi-nardiers, the burning, an<l the
stranLre attitude and the singular flight of her father. Marius had tem-
porarily forgotten all that; he did not even know at night what he had
doiu; in the morning, nor where he h:id breakfasted, nor who had spoken
to him ; he had songs in his ear which rruilered him deaf to every other
thouiiht; ht; existed only during the hours in which he saw ('oricttc.
Then, as he was in Heaven, it was quite natural that he shoiiM forget
the earth. They were both supporting with linguor the undtdnable bur-
den of the Immaterial pleasures. Thus live these son^nambulistd called-
loV( rs.
Alas! who has not experienced all these things? why comes th.ero an
hour when we leave this aziire, and why docs life continue afterwards?
Love almost replaces thought. Love is a burning I'orgetfulnc.ss of all
else. Ahk logic then of passion. There is no more an absolute logical
chain in the human heart than there is a perfect geometrical figure in
the cell stial mechanics. To (/Osctte and Marius there was nothing in
being beyond Marius and ('osette. The univerf^e about them had fallen
out o sight. They lived in a golden moment. There was n ithing be-
f ire nothing al'icr. It is doubtful if Marius thought whether ('osette
had a father. He was so dazzled tliat all was effaced from his bi-ain.
01* what then did they talk, these lovers ? We have seen, of the flow-
SAINT DENIS. 97
ers, the s:vallows, the setting sun, the rising of the moon, of all impor-
tant things. They had told all, except everything. The all of lovers is
nothing. But the flifhor, the realities, that garre*, those handits, that
adventure, what was the use? and was he quite certain that that night-
mare was real? They were two, they adored each other, there was
nothing but that. Everything else was ncit. It i.s probable that this
oblivion of the hell behind us is a pact of arrival at pnradise. Have
we seen demons? are there any? have we trembled? have we suf-
fered ? We know nothing now about that. A rosy cloud rests upon
it all.
Sometimes, beautiful as was Cosette, Marius closed his eyes before her.
With closed eyes is the best way of looking at the soul.
Marius and Co.sette did not a.sk where this would lead them. They
looked upon themselves as arrived.
III. •
SHADOW COMMENCES.
Jean Valjean suspected nothing. Cosette, a little loss dreamy than
Marius, was cheerful, and that was enough to make Jean Valjeau hirppy.
The thoughts of Cosette, her tender prd-occupations, the image of JMa-
rius which fillod her soul, detracted nothing from the incomparable purity
of her beautiful, chaste, and smiling forehead. She was at. the age when
the maiden bears licr love as the angel bears her lily. And then when
two lovers have an understanding they always g';t along well ; any third
person who might di.sturb their love, is kept in perfect blindness by a
very few precautions, always the same for all lnvers Thus never any ob-
jections Irom Cosette to Jean Valjean. Did he wish to tako a walk ? yes,,
my dear father. Did he wish to remain at home? very well. Would he
spend the evening with Co.sette ? she was in ' raptures. Ashe always
retired at ten o'clock, at such time Marius would not come to the garden
till after that hour, when from the street he would hear Cosette open
the glass-door leading out on the steps. We need not say that Marius
was never met by day. Jean Valjean no longer even thought that Ma-
rius was in existence.
Old Toui.^sant, who went to bed early, thought of nothing but going
to sleep, once her work was done, and was ignorant of all, like Jean Val-
jean.
Never did Marius set foot into the house. When he was with Co-
sette they hid themselves in a recess near the steps, so that they could
neither be seen nor heard from the street, and they sat there, contenting
themselves often, by way of C"nver,«at.ion, with pressing each other's
hands twenty times a minute while looking into the branches of the
trees. At such moments, a tiiunderbolt might have fallen within thirty
paces of them, and they would not have suspected it, .so deeply was the
reverie of the one absorbed and buried in the reverie of the other. ,
Limpid purities. Hours all white, almost all alike. Such loves as
those are a collection of lily leaves and dove-down.
The whole garden was between them and the street Whenever Marius
98 LES MISERABLES.
catnc III all 1 «<iii out, he carefully repl icod the bar of the gnitiug ia
such a way that no deranfreiiient was visible.
He went away commonly about uii-liiight, rcfurniDg fo Courfoyrac'fl.
Courftyrac saiil to l^ahorcl : '' WnuM yu bt-lii-vo it i* Marius comes
home ni'Vr a-ilays at one o'clock in the morninj; " Ij.tliorel answered:
** What Would you expect?, every young pcr.soii has hi.s wild oats " At
ti vcs Courfoyrac fulded his arm, assumed a serious air, and said to Ma-
rius : " You arc getting dissiptted, young man I"
Courfcyrac, a practical young man, was n(»t [tieasod at thi'* reflection
of invi.-ible paradise upon Marius; he had little ta-^'o fir unpublished
passions, he was impatient at tliein, and he occasiooally would serve Ma-
riu"- with a summons to return to the real.
One morning he threw out this adraouition : " My dear fellow, jou
Btrike me at present as heing hituatcd iu th^ iiv^oD, kingdom of dream,
province of allusion, capital Soap-Bubble. J!!ome, be a good boy, what
is her name 'i" v
But nothing could make Marius "confess." You might have torn his
nails out sooner than one of the two sacred syllables which composed
that iueffablti name, Coscltc. True love is luminous as the dawn, and
silent as the grave. Only there was, to Cuurfeyrac, this change in Ma-
rius, tiiat he had a radiant taciturnity.
DTiring this sweet month of May, Marius and Coscttc knew these tran-
scemieut joys: To fjuarrel and to say Monsieur and Mademoiselle,
merely to say Marius and (.'osette better afterward.
Ti» talk at length, untJ with most minute detail of people who did not
jntiMest them in the least ; a further proof that, ju thi-* ravi.-hing opera
which is called love, the libretto is almost nothing: Tor Marius, to lis-
ten to Cosette talking dress : For Cosette, , to listen to Marius talking
politics : To paze upon the same planet in space, or the fauic yioMu glow
in the grass : To keep silence together ; a pleasure still greater than to
ta'k: Etc., etc.
.Mciuwhilc various complications wore approaching.
IV.
MARIUS BECOMES 80 UEAL A.S TO GIVE COSETTE UIS ADDltESS.
Marius was with (^osette. NeVxir had the sky been more studded with
stars, or more diarming, the trees miro tremulous, thooiorof the shrubs
uion! penetrating; never had the birds gone to sleep in the leaves with
a softer Kdind ; never had" all the harmonics .of the universal serenity
bettor responded to the interior music of love; never had Marius been
more enamored, more, happy, more in ecstacy. Hut be had found Co-
sette sad. Cosette bad b-en weeping. Her eyes were red.
It was the first cloud in the wonderful dream. Marius's first word was :
" What i^ the matter'/"' And she answered : " See,"
Then slie sat down on the S'^at near the stairs, and as he took his place
all trembl'ng beside her, she continued : " My father told me this morn-
ing to hold niysell" in readiness, that he hal bu.sinesi*, and that perhaps
we should go away." Mariua shuddered from head to foot. When we
SAINT DENIS. 99
are at the eud of life, to die means to go away ; ^hcn we are at the be-
ginning, to go away means to die.
Maiius possessed Cosette, as miods possess; but he wrapped her in
his whole soul, and clasped her jealously with an incredible conviction.
He possessed her smile, her breath, her perfume, the -deep radiance of
her blue eyes, the softness of her skin when he touched her hand, the
charming mark tbat sho had on her n<^ck, all her thoughts. 'J hay had
agreed never to go to sleep without dreamiag of each other, and they
hail kept their word. He possessed all Cosette's dreams. He gazed upon
and adored the things whicli she wore, her knot, of ribbon, her gloves,
her cuffs, her slippers, as sacred objeets of which he was master. He
thought that he was lord of tho.<e pretty shell combs which .she had in
her h;tir, aud he said to himself even, dim and confused stainnn rings of
dawning desire, that there was not a thread of her dress which was not
his. At Cosette's sid'% he felt near his wealth, ueal- his property, near
his despot, and neat- his slaye. , It seemed as if they so mingled their
souls, that if they had desired to take them back again, it Would have
been impossible to identify them. ''This one is mine." " Nn, it is
niine." " I assure you that you are mistaken. This is really I."
** What you take for you, is I.' Marius was something wliich was a
part of Cosette, and Cosette was fiomethioo; which was a part of Marius.
Maiius felt Cosette living within him. To have Cosette, to possess Co-
sette, this to him was not separable from breathing. Into the midst of
this tjith, of this iatoxication,~of this virginal possession, marvellnus
and absolute, of this sovereignty, these wonis : " We are going away,"
fell all at oneo, and the sharp voice of reality cried to him : " Cosette
is not yours \" -
Miuius awoke. For sir weeks Marius had lived, as wc have said,
outsiie of life; this word, going away, brought him roughly back to it.
; He could not Cud a word. She said to him in her turn : " What is
1 the tiiat^er?" He answered so low that Cosette hardly heard him : " I
i' don't understand what you have said." She resumed : " This morning
; my father told me to arrange all my little affairs and to be ready, that
he would give me his clothes to pack, that he was obliged to take a
t journey, that we were going away, that wc must have a large trunk
' f • me and a small one for him, to get all that ready within a week
1 II now, and that we should go perhaps to England." *' 15ut it is
I monstrous!" exclaimed Marius.
It is certain that at that moment, in I^Iariue's liiind, no abuse of
power, no violence, no abomination of the most cruel (yrant<, no ac-
tion of Busiris, Tiberius, or Henry VIII. , was equal in ferocity to this:
Jl. Fauchelevent •kiut; his daughter to England because he has busi-
ne.-s. He asked in a feeble v.iice : " Ati<l when should you staVt V
"lie didn't say when." "And when should }ou return?" "He didn't
say when." Maiius arose, and said coldly: "Cosette, shall you gi!"'
Cosette turned upon him her beautiful eyes full of angui'>h and answer-
ed with a sort of bewilderment : "Where?" "To England? uliall
'\on iZoV "What would you have me do?" sliid she, clasping her
nan Is. " So, you will no?" Cosette took Marina's band and pressed it
Hith int an^wc^ing. "Very well," said Marius. "Then I shall go
elsewhere"
]00 LES MIS^RABLES.
Cosottc felt the mcaliing of this word still more than she understood
it. She turntd so pale that her fa^c kraniowhitc in the darkness. She
Btanioiered : " What <lo you mean ;"' Marios locked at her, then slowly
raided his eyes towards hiavcn and answered : " Nuthinp; "
When his eyes .were lowered, he saw Cosettc sniiliutr upon him. The
smile of the woman whom we love has a brilliancy which we can eee by
night. ^ _ ^ n 'c
" How stopid we are 1 Marius, I have an idea." " What ?" " Go if
we go ! I will tell you where I Come and join mo where I am !" Ma-
rias was now a man entirely awakened. He had liilltn back into reality.
He cried to Cosette : "Go with youj arc you mad? Hut it takes
money, and I have none ! Go to England? Why I owe now, I don't
kn'>w, more than ten louis to Courfoyrac, one of my friends whom you
do not know ! Why I have an old hat which is not worth three francs,
I have a coat from which some of the buttons are gone in front, my
shirt is all torn, my elbows are out, my boots let in the water; for six
wweks I have not thought of it, and I have not told you'about it. Co
sette! I ahi a miserable wretch You only see me at ni«:ht, and you
give me your love ;. if you should see me by day, you would give me i»
sou ! Go to England ? Ah \ 1 have not the mea^l3 to pay for a pass-
port!"
He threw himself against a tree whioh was near by, standing witii his
arms above his head, his forehead a-ainst the bark, feeling neither the
tree which was chufinj his skin, nor the fever which was hammer-
ing his temples, motionless, and ready to fall, like a statue of
Despair.
He was a lo^g time thus. One might remain through eternity in
such abys-es. At last he turned. He heard behind him a little sti-
fled sound, soft and sad. It was Cosette sobbing. She had been
weeping more than two hours while Marius had been thinking.
He cime to her, fell on his knees. She allowed it in silence.
There are moments when woman accepts, like a go.ldess Soiiibro and
resigned, the religion of love. "Do not weep," said hq. She mur-
mured : " Because I am perhaps going away and you cannot come .
Ue continued: • "Do you love me;'"'
She answered him by sobbing out that word of Paradi.se which is
never m'ore enrapturing than wHcn it com'es thnmgh tears: " I ailorc
•you I" He coni-inued in a Una of voice which wvis an inexpressible
caress: "Do not weep. Tell me, will you do this for me, n:)t to
weep?" "Do you love mo too?" said she. He caught her hand.
"Cosette, I have never given my word of honor to anybody, because
I stand in awe of my vyord of honor, I feel tl^t my father is at
my side. Now, I givj you my most sacred word of honor that, if you
go away, I shall die."
There wjis in the tone with which he pronqunced these words a
melancholy so solemn and so quiet, that (.'osette trembled. She felt
that chill which is given by a st<;rn and true fact pissing over us.
From the shock 8h<» cetised weeping. "Now listen," said hfc, "do
not expect mo tomorrow" "Why not?" "Do not expect me till
the day after to-morn.w." "Oh! why not?" "You will see." "A
day without seeing you! Why, that is impo.ssiblc." "Let us sacri-
SAINT DENIS. 101
fice one day to p:ain perhaps a whole Jife." And Marius added ia
an under tone, and aside : " He is a man who changes none of his habits,
and he has never received anybody till evening." " What man are
you speaking of?" inquired Cosetfe. ''Me? I said nothing." "What
is it you hope for, then V " Wait till day after tomorrow." " You
wish it?" " Yes, Cosette."
She took hi§ head in both her hands, rising on tiptoe to reach his
height, and striving to see his hope in his eyes. Marius continued :
" It occurs to nie, you must know my address, somethirrg may hap-
pen, we don't know; I live with that friend named Courfeyjac, Hue
de la Verrerie, number 16."
He put his hand in his pocket, took out a penknife, and wrote with
the blade upon the plastering of the wall : 1(5, R^u -de hi Verrerie.
Cosette, meanwliile, began to look into his eyes again.
"Tell me your idea. Marius, you have an idea. Tell me. Oh ! tell
rae, so that I ni'i»y pass a good night !" " My idea is this : that it is
impossible that God should wish to separate us. Expect me day after
to-morrow "
" What shall I do till then?" said Cosette. " You, you are out doors,
you go, you come ! How happy men are I have to stay alone. Oh !
how sad I shall be ! \Vhat is it you are going to do to-morrow evening,
tell me ?"
"I shall try a plan."
"Then 1 will pray God, and Twill think of you' from now till then,
that you may succeed. I will not ask you more questions, since you wi,sh
me not to. Y'^ou are my master. I shall spend my evening to- morrow
singing that rau.'-ic of Kuryanthe which you love, and which you came
to hear oue evening behind my shutter. But day after to morrow you
will come early ; 1 shall expect you at night, at nine o'qlock preei-eiy I
forewarn you. Oh dear ! how sad it is that the days are long ! Y<iu un-
derstand ; — when the clock strikes nine, I shall be in the garden." " And
I too." And withaut saying it, moved by the same thui^ht, drawn on
by tho.se electric currents which put two lovers in continual communi-
cation, both intoxicated with pleasure even in their grief, they fell into
each other's arms, while their uplifted eyes, overflowing with ecstasy and
full of tears, were fixed upon the 6^tars.
When Marius went out the street was empty. W^hile Marius was think-
ing with his head against the tree, an idea had passed through his mind ;
an idea, alas ! which he himself deemed senseless and impossible. He
had formed a desperate resolution. ,
V.
THE OLD HEART AND YOU NO HEART IN PRESENCE
*
Grandfather Gillenormand had, at this period, ffllly completed his
ninety-first year. He still lived with Mademoi.selle Gillenormand. Hue
dcs ]'"illes da Calvairc, No 6, in that old house which helongod t i liim.
He was, as we remember, one of those antique old meil who await d' ath
102 LES MISBRABLSS.
fctTl .-rect, whom age loads without malj^bg them stoop, and whom ?;rief
; docs not bond. * ,
,"iill, for some time, his daughter had said : " My father is failinp."
llo ito longer brat the 5ervants ; he ftruek his cane with less nnimntion
on the liin-ling iif the stairs, wlien l^i.-que was slnw in opening the door.
The Ilcvolulion of July had hiirdly exasperated him fi^r .>ii.x nicnlhs. He
had 8' «*n almost tranrniilly in the Mniiittur this coupling of words: M.
Iliiiiibjot Conte, peer "f Franec. The fact is, the old n»an was filled
with di jedi'Hi. He did not yiold ; that was no more a part of bis {-hys-
ical thiiii.of his moral n:iturc ; but he felt himself intorjorly fai ing.
l-'our yiars he had been waitiii'^ f jr Marias, with his foit dnwu, that is
ju"«t the word, ih the cf)nvi(tion that that naui:hiy little scape«!raco would
ring at his door some d^y or othur : now he had come, in crriaiti gloomy
hours, to say to himsdf that even if Marius should dil ly, but liulc
longer It was not death that was iii.supp'ortable to him ; it was the
idea that perhaps he sh luld never see Marius again. Never see .Marius
again, — that had not, even for an instant, entered his thoui;ht until this
diy ; now this idea began to appear to him, and it chilled him Ab-
sence, as always happens when feelings tife natural and true, had only
increased his grandfather's love for the ungratrful child who had gone
awuy like that. It is on December nights, with the thermometer at
/.(ifo, (hat we think most of th"fe sun. M. Gilleuormand was, or thought.
hiiij.«ill', in any event, incapable of taking a step, he the grandfitlier. to-
wards his grand.>on ; " I would die lirst," said Ik;. He aikn':wleilg''d no
fault on his part ; but he thought of Marius only with a deep tend' mess
uud the mute despair (d' an old gondman who is going aw.iy i'rto the
darlciioss. lie wa.s beginning to lose his teeth, which a idid to his sad-
ne.>«s. M. Gillenoruiand, without however acknowledging it to himself,
for he would have been furious and ashamed at it, had never loved as he
loved Marius.
He had had hung in his room, at the foot of liis bed, as the first
thing which he. wished to 'see on awaking, an old portrait of liis other
daughter, she who was dead, Madamo Pontmerey, a portrait taken
when she was eighteen years old. He looked at this portrait
incessantly. He happened one day to say, while looking at it;
"I think it looks like the child." "Like my sister?" replied Ma-
demi.i-il!i; Gillenprmand. ."Why yes," the old man added: "And
like him also." Ouce, us he was sitting, his knees pressed to-
getlor, and his eyes almost closed, in a posture of dejection, his daugh-
ter ventured to say to him : " Father, are you stil! so angry with him ?"
t?h»! stopped, not daring to go further " With whoui V asked ho.
" With that poor Marius?" He raised his old head, laid his thin and
w/uikled fist upon the table, and cried in his most irritated and (piiver-
ing tone : " J'onr Marius, you say ? That gentleman is a rascal, n worth-
loH knave, a little ungrateful vanity, with no heart, no soul, a proud, a
wick<;d muni" And he turned away that his daughter might not see
.the tear he had in his eyes.
Three days later, after a silence which had lasted for four hours, he
said to his daughter snappishly : " I have had the honor to beg Made-
moiselle (.lillenormand never to speak to me of him " Aunt Gillenor-
mand gave up allattcmprsaud came to this profound diagnosis: " My
SAINT DENIS. 103
father never loved ray sister very much after her folly. It is clear that
he detests Marius." " After her folly" meant after she married the Col-
onel. Still, as may have been conjectured, Mademoiselle Gillenormand
had failed in her attempt to substitutf her favorite, the uthcer of laiiccrs,
for Marius. The supplantcr Theodule had not succeeded. Monsieur
•Gillenormand had not accepted the quid-pro-quo. " The void in the heart
does not accommodate itself to a proxy. Theodulcj f6r his part, even
•while snuffing the inheritance, revolted at the drudtrery of phasing.
The goodmau wearied the lancer", and the lancer shocked the goodnian.
Lieutenant Theodule was lively doubtless, but a babbler; frivolous, but
vulgar; a good liver, but of bad company. All his qualities had a de-
fect. Monsieur (iillonoro)and was wearied out with him. And then
Lieutenant Theodule sometimes came in his uniform with the tricolor
cockade. This rendered him altogether insupportable. Grandfather
Gillenormand, at last, said to his daughter: I have had enough of him,
your Theodule. I have little taste for warriors in time of peace. En-
tertain him yourself, if you like. I am not sure, but Ilike the sabrera
even better than the trailers of the sabre. The clashing of blades in
battle is not so wretched, after all, as the 'rattling; of the sheaths on the
pavement And then, to harness himself like a bully, and to stra}) him-
self up like a flirt, toi wear a corset under a cuirass, is to be ridieulnus
twice over. A genuine man keeps himself at an equal distance from
swagger and roguery. Neither hector, nor heartless. Keep your The-
odule for yourself."
It was of no use for his daughter to f«ay : "Still he is your grand-
nephew," it turned out that Monsieur (jillenormand, who was grand-
father to the ends of his nails, was not grand-uncle at all.
In redlitj', as he had good judgment and made the comparison, The-
odule only served to increase his regret fur Marius.
One evening, it was the fourth of June, which did not prevent Mon-
sieur (iilKnormaud from having a blazing fire in his fireplace, he had .said
goodnight to his daughter who was sewing in the adjoining room. He
ti-as alne in his room with the rural scenery, his feet upon the audir<ms,
half enveloped in his vast coromandel screen with nine folds, leaning
upon ills fable on which two candles were burning under a gnen shade,
buried in his tapestried arm chair, a book in his hand, but not reading.
He was dressed, according to his custom, fn iuiroj/dljlc, and reseirbled
an antique portrait of Garat. This would have caused him to Le fol-
lowed in the streets, but his d:iui!liter always covered him when he went
out, with a huge Bishop's doul)lt;t., which hid his dress. At huuie, ex-
cept in getting up and g'ing to bed, he never wore a dressing gown, " It
giocK nn ohl hmk," said he.
Monsieur Gillenormand thought of Marius lovingly and bitterly ; and,
as usual, the bitterness preduminaicd. An increase of t(iid«rne.ss
always ended by boiling over. and turning into indignation. He was at
that point wh' re wc seek to adop; a course, and f(» accept what rends us.
He was ju«t explaining to himself that there was now no longer any
reason for Marius to return, that if he had been going to return, he
would have dono so already, that he must give him up. He endcMVored
to bring himself to the idea that it was over with, and that he w uld die
without seeing " that gentleman" again. iJut his whole nature revolted ;
104 LBS MISBRABLES.
lb old paleinitY could not coi)«cnt to it. "What?" *aid he, this was
lis horri'Wiul refrain, " he will not come back!" His bald head liud •
hi
hi
fallen up«m hi." brea<t, and hu was vapuely tixiug a lamentable and irri-
tated liMik up«>n the embers on his hearth.
Ip the decpi'."5t of his reverie, his old donic'tic, Basque, came in and
a»k«d : " (^an Monsieur receive Mcu.^ieur Marius ?"
The old man straightened up, pallid and like a corp.«e, which rises
under a galvanic shock. All his blood had flown baek to his heart He
faltered. "Monsieur Marius, what?"' *' I don't know," answered
liasijuc, intimidated and thrown out of countenance by his master's ap-
pearance, •* I have not Fetn him. Nicolette just told me: There is a
youiTg man here, say that it is Monsieur Marius." *
M. Gillenormund stamiicred out in a whisper: "Show hira in."
And he remained in the same attitude, his head shaking, his eyes fixed
on the door. It opened. A young man entered. It was Marius.
Marias stopped at the door, as if waiting to be ask» d to come in. His
almost wretched dress wag not perceived in the ob.«eurity produced by the
green shade. Only his face, calm and grave, but strangely sad, could be
distinguished.
M. Gilleuonnaud, as if congested with astouishracnt and joy, pat fop
some moments without seeiu<i anything but a liglit, as when one is in
presence of an apparition, lie was almcst fainting, he perceived .Marius
through a blinding haze. It was indeed he, it was indeed Marius!
At last ! alter four years I He seized him, so to speak, all over at a
glance. lie thought him beautiful, noble, striking, adult, n complete
man, with graceful attitude, and pleasing air He would gladly have
opened his arms, called him, rushed upon him, his heart melted into
rapture, affectionate words welled and overflowed in his breast; indeed,
all this teudorness started up and came to his lips, and, through that con-
trast which was the groundwork of his nature, th-TC c;ime forth a harsh
word. He said abruptly : " What is it you eomc here for V
Marius answered with embarrassment: " Monsieur" M. Gille-
normuud would have had Marius throv,' him.silf into his arms. He was
displeased with Marius and with hius.self. He felt that he was rough,
and that Maiiu>! was cold. It was to the good man an insupportable
and irritating anguish, to feel him.self so tender and so much in tears
within, while he could only be harsh without. The bitterness returned.
Ue interrupted Marius with a sharp tone : " Then what do you come
for ?" Tills tlu«n signiflcd : J/' you dont vomr lo cml/nire mr. Marius
looked at his graud-liuher, whose pallor had changed to marble.
" Monsieur" The old man continued, in u stern voice: "Do
you come to ask my pardon 'f have you seen your fault ;"'
Ue thought to put .Marius on the track, and that "the child" was
going to beud. Marius shuddered; it was the disavowal of his father
which was a.sked of him ; he cast down his eyes and answered : " No,
Monsieur." "And then," exclaimed thc'old man impetuou.^y, with a
grief which was bitter and full of anger, " what do you %ant with me i"'
Marius clasped his hands, took a step, and said in a feeble and trem-
bling voice : " Monsieur, have pity on me '
This word moved M. Gillenormand ; spoken sooner, it would have
softened him, but it camo too late. The grand-father arose j he sup-
• SAINT DENIS. 105
t
ported himself upon his cane with both hands, his lips were white, his
tonehead quivered, but his tall stature commanded the stooping Marius.
" Pitj on you, Monfsieur! The youth asks pity from the old man ef
ninety-one ! You are, entering life, I am leaving it ; you go to the thea-
tre, the ball, the cafe, the billiard-room ; you have wit, you please tho
women, you are a handsome fellov*, while I cannot leave my chimney
corner in midsummer; you are rich, with the only richos there are,
while I have all the poverties of old age — infirmity, isolation ! You
have ynur thirty-two teeth, a good stomach, a keen eye, strength, appe-
tite, hialtli, cheerfulness, a forest of black hair, while I have not even
white hair left; 1 have lost my teeth, I am losing my legs, I am losing
my memory, there are three names of streets which I ain always con-
founding, the Kue Chariot, the Hue du Chaume, and the Hue Saint
Claude, tht^e is where I am ; you have the whole future before you full
of sunshine, while I am beginning not to sec another drop of it, so deep
am I getting into the night; you are in love, of course, I am not loved
by anybody in the world; and you ask pity of nle. Zounds, MoH^rc
forgot this If that is the way you jest at the Palais, Messieurs Law-
yers, I oflFer you aay sincere complimcats. You are funny fellows."
And the octogenarian resumed in an angry and stern voice : " Come now,
what do you want of me?'' •* Monsieur," said Marius, ''I know that
my presence is displeasing to you, but I come only to ask one thing of
.you, and then I will go away immediately." ''You are a fool!" said
the rild man. " Who tells you to go away T''
This "Was the translation of thost loving words which he had deep in
his lieurt : Comr, axb iny pardon How ! Throv: jjoursdf on my nc^le!
31 (jrillenormand felt that Marius was going to leave him in a few mo-
ments, that his unkind reception repelled him, that his har.'.hne^7S was
driving him away; he said all this to himself, and his anguish increased;
and as his anguish immediately turned into anger, bis harshness aug-
mented, lie would have had Marius comprehend, and Marius did not
con'prehend, which rendered the goodman furious. He continued: "What!
you hare left me ! me, your griind-father, you have left my house to go
nobody knows where; you have afflicted your aunt, you have been, that
is clear, it is more pleasant, leading the 'life of a bachelor, playing the
elegant, going home at all hours, amusing yourself; you have not given
me a sign of life; you have contracted debts without even telling me to
pay them ; you have made yourself a breaker of windows and a rioter,
and, at. the end of four years, you come to my hou.sc and have nothing
to say but that I"
This vioh ut method of pushing the grand-son to tenderness, produced
only silence on th« part of Marius. M. Gillenormand folded his arms,
a posture which with him was particularly imperious, and apcstruphized
>Marius bitterly. "Let us make an end of it. You have come to ask
something of me, say you ? Well what ? what is it? speak!" "Mon-
sieur,' haid Marius, with the look of a man who feels that he is about
to fall into an abyss, "1 come to ask your permission to marry." M.
Gillenormand rang. Busqac half opened the door. " Send my daugh-
ter in."
A second later — the door opened again. Mademoiselle Gillenoinnnd
did not come in, but showed herself. Marius was standing, mule, his
8
IOC LBS UIS^RABLE?.
»
•rms hanpitif^ down, with the look of a criminal. M. Gillcnormand was ^
coining and koId* up and down the room. Ho turned triwards his
d.»ii_'litcr and said to her: "Nothing It i3 Monsieur Marias, liid
hiui pood cvenini:. Monsieur wi>hi'.s to marry. That is all Go."
The crii-p, han-^h tones of tli* old man'? voice announced a **tranpe
fulness of feeling. The aunt looked at Marius with a bewildered air,
appeurcl liuidly to rccogni.si- him, allowed neither a motion nor a sylla-
ble to esciipe her, and di.-*appe:ired at a breath from her father, quicker
than a dry leaf before a hurrieune.
Meanwhile, Grind father Gillenormand had returned and stood with
liis back (r> the fireplace. " You marry ! at twenty-one ! You have
arranged that ! You have nothing but apcrnifssion to ask I a formality.
Sit down, Monsieur. Well, you have had a revolution since I had the
honor to 5ce you. The Jacobins have had the upper hand. You ought
to be sat ii-fied. You are a Kepublioan, are you not, since you arc a banm ?
Tou arrange that. The republic is sauce to the barony. Arcyoudeco-
nted by July? — did you take a bit of the Louvre, Monsieur I' There is
close by here, in the Rue Saint Antoine, opposite the Rue des Nonaindift-
res, a bull incrusfed in the wall of the third story of a housft with this
inscription: July 28th, 1830. Go and see that. That produces a good
effect. Ah, pretty things those friends of -yours do. hy the wa), are
they not making a fountain in the square of the monument of M. the
Duke dc Uerry? So you want to marry? Whom? can the (juestion
be asked without indiscretion ?"
lie stopped, and, before iMarius had had time to answer, he added
violently : " Come now, you have a business ? y(mr fortune made ? how
much do you cawi at your lawyer's trade?" " Nolrliing," said Marius,
with a firmness and resolution which were almost savago. "Nothing?
you have nothing to live on but the twelve hundred livres which I send
jou ?" Marius made no answer. M. Gillenormand continued : " Then
I understand the girl is rieb ?" '»As Tarn." "What! no dowry?"
•« No." " Some expectations?" " I believe not." " With nothing to
Ber back ! and what is the father ?" " I do not know." " NVliat is her
name?" "Mademoiselle Fauchelcvent." " Katichewhat ? " " Fau-
ohelevent." " Pttt !" said the old num. " Monsieur !" exclaimed Ma-
rius. M. Gillcnormand interrupted him with the tone of a man who is
talking to- himself: "That is it, twenty-one, no bu.'^ine.«s, twelve hun-
dred livres a year, Madame the Ruroness Pontmorcy will go to market
to buy two souh' woltiIi of parsley."
" Monsieur," said Marius, in the desperation of the last vanishing
hope, " I supplicate you I I conjure you, in the name of IJeaven, with
cliisped hands, Monsieur, I throw myself at your feet, allow me to marry
her!"
The old man burst into a shrill, dreary laugh, through which he
coughed and spoke. "Ha, ha, ha! you said to yourself: 'The devil!
I will go and find that old wig, that silly dolt! What a pity that I am
not twenty-five ! how I would toss him a good respectful notice ! how I
would give him the go-by. Never mind, I will say to him : Old idiot,
you are too happy to see me, I desire to marry, I desire to espouse Mam-
Belle DQ matter whom, daughter of Monsieur no matter what, 1 have no
ehoes, she has nothing, all right; I deaire to throw to the dogs my ca-
SAINT DENIS. 107
rper, my future, my youth, my life ; T desire to make a plunge into mis-
ery with a wife at my neck, that is my idea, you must consent to it !
and the old fossil will consent.' Go, my boy, as you like, tie your stoae
to yourself, espouse your Pousselevent, your Coupelevent — never, Moo-
siour! never!" "Father!" "Never!"
At the tone in which this "never" was pronounced Marius loft all
- hope. He walked the room with slow steps, his head bowed down, tot-
terinji more like a man who is dying than like one who is going away.
M. Gillenormand followed him with his eyes, and, at the moment, the
door opened and Marius was going out, he took four steps with the senile
vivacity of itupetuous and self-willed old men, seized Marias by the col-
lar, drew him back f ircibly into the room, threw him into an arm chair,
and said to him : "Tell me about it!"
It was that single word, fathei-, dropped by Marius, which had caused
this revolution. *
Marius looked at him in bewilderment. The changing countenance
of M Gillenormand expressed nothing now but a rough and ineffable
' goovi-nature. The guardian had given place to the grand father.
" Come, let us see, speak, tell me about your love-serapcs, jabber, tell
me all! Lord! how foolish these young folks are!" "Father,"' re-
gumeti Marius The old man's whole face shone with an unspeak-
able r'idiaiice. " Yes ! that is it ! call me father, and you shall hte !"
Th'Tc was now something sd kind, so sweet, so open, so paternal, in
this iibruptness, that Marius, in this sudden passage from discourage-
ment to hope, was, as it were, intoxicated, stupcded. He wa« sitting
near the table, the light of the candles made the wretchedness of hia
dress apparent, and the grand-father gazed at it in astonishment;
" Well, faiher," said Marius "Come now," ihterrupted M. Gil-
lenormand, "then you nally haven't a sou? you arc dressed like a rob-
ber." He fumbled in a drawer and took out a purse, whirh he laid
upon the tiblo: " Here, there is i hundred louis, buy yourself a hat."
" Fa' her," pursued .Mariu-s, " my good father, if you knew. I love
her Y<iu don't realize it ; thr first time that I saw her was at the Lux-
embtiurg, she came there . in the beginning I did not pay much atten-
tion to her, and then I do not know how it carne about, 1 fell in love
with her.- Oh ! how wri'chi-d ii has made me! Now at last 1 sec her
every day, at her own hon.se, her fa'hcr does not know it, only think-
th».t they are t'oing aw;i\, «•« see each fither in the garden in the ev.»n-
ing, her father wants to lake \ut to England, then I said to myself: I
will go and .see my grjun'l tathcr and tell him about it. I should go
crazv in the first place, 1 -houl ) die, I should make myself sick, I should
throw myself into the m-r 1 must marry her because I hhould go
crazy Now, that is tin- wtmh- truth, T do not believe that I have for-
gotii; I an^thini/. She ii\ - in a garden where there is a railing, in the
Ku' IMuiuet. It 18 neai nv.ilides."
k G I Hod father Gileiroiu m. . . (iant with joy, had sat down by Ma-
Tiu> ' ""ide. While Ii>f' on,^ . ,tiii and enjoying the sound of hi- v.iiee,
be "jiyed at the saui* n > pinch of snuff At that woi '. Hue,
Pli I t, be ch»?i-k«d i> < tnd let the rest of his snuff ;ail on
hi" I e« •♦ ttiit I'l -ay Rue Plumet '{ — Iy^t u» m.T U"\s ! —
\r ere uot MHiie "• 'here? Why yes, that is ;• Your
108 LKS MISERABLES.
cousin Th^-odule has told me about her. The lancer, the officer. A
lavwie, uiy goofl friend, a lassie ! Lord yes, Rue Plumct. Tliat is whflt
us<ii to l>c caINd Hue BJbm«t. I have heard toll about this litilo girl
of th' grating in the Rue Plumet. In a' gatden, a I'aiuela Your taste
in n<i; bad. 'J'luy .«ay she is nice, liefwceu our.sclve.'', I believe that
oiiiiiv of a lancer has paid hi.s court (o her a little. I do not know how
far It went. After all that docs not amount to anything. And thou,
wo must not believe him. lie is a boaster.' Mariu.s, I think it is very
veil for a young njan like you to be in love. It belongs to your ajre. I
like you better in Kive than as a Jacobin. I like you better taken by a
petticoat. Lord I by twenty petticoats, than by Monsicyr de Ri<bes-
pierre. For my part, I do uiy.-^clf this justice, that in the matter of
tuiix-culo tcK, I have never liked anything but women, l^retty women
arc pretty wonu n, the devil ! there is no objection to that. As to the
little girl, ehc receives you unknown to papa. That is all right. I have
had adventures Tike that myself. Mure than one. Do you know how
we do? we don't take the thing ferociously ; we don't rush into the
tragic; we don't conclude with marriago and with Monsieur the Mayor
and hi* scarf. We are altogether a shrewd fellow. Wo have good sense.
Slip over it, mortals, don't marry. Wc come and find grandfather who
is a good man at heart, and who almost alway.s has a few rolls, of louis
in an old drawer; wc say to him: '(Irand-father, that's how it is.'
And granJ-father .says: 'That is all natural. Youth must^are and old
age must wear. I have been young, you will be old. (lo on, my boy,
you will repay this to your grand-son. There arc two hundred pi.stules.
Amuse yourself, roundly ! Nothing better! that is the way the thing
uliould be done. We dun't marry, but that doesn't hinder.' You un-
derstand me V i\]arius, petriliod and unable to artieulate a Word, shook
his head The good Oiaii burst into a laugh, winked his old eye, gave
him a tap on the knee, looked straight into his eyes with a ijignificant
and sparkling expression, and said to him with the most amorous shrug
of the i-honlders : "Stupid! make her your mistress"
Mariu' turned pale. He had understood nothing ©fall that his grand-
father had been saying. This rigmarole of Rue Hloniet, of I'ambla, of
barracks, ftf a lancer, had pas.sed before Marius like a phantasmagoria.
Nulliiug of all that could relate to Co.sctic, who was a lily. The good-
man was wandering. Rut this wandering had terminated in a word
whi.Ii Miiiius did understand, andwliich was a deadly insult tj Cosette.
Tliiit phrisf, mnlic her ijuur mi.i!nss, entered the heart of the chaste
young m;ui like a sword.
lie ruse, pieked up his hat which was on the floor, and walked toward*
the til 'or with a iiini and assured step There he turned, bowed pro-
foundly before his grandfather, raided his head again, and'said :
" I'ivo years ago you outraged my father; to day you have outraged
my wile I ask n<itliit)g more of you, Mon.'^ieur. Adieu."
Unmu father (iillenorinanil, astounded, opened his mouth, stretched
out hi.i amis, atte'npted to rise, but before he could utter a word, the
do(»r closed and Marius had disappeared. The old man was t.^r a few
moments motionless, and as it were thunder-stricken, unable to speak or
btiiithe, a.s if a li:ind were elutching his throat At last he tore himself
from his chair, ran to the door as fast as a man who is uineiy-ono can
SAINT DENIS. 109
run, opened it and cried : " Help ! help !" His daughter appeared, then
the servants. He continued with a pitiful rattle in his voice : " Rua
after hiui ! catch hiui I what have 1 done to him ! he is mad ! he is
going away ! Oh I my God ! oh I my God I — this time he will not come
back !"
• He went to the window which looked upon the street, opened it with
his tremulous old. hands, hung niore than half his body outside, while
Bas<^ue and Nicolettn jicld him from behind, and cried: "Murius! Ma-
rius ! 3Iarius I MariusI" But Marius was already out of bearing, and
was at that very moment (urninp; the corner of the Rue Saint Louis.
The octogenarian carried his hands to his temples two or three times^
with an expression of anguish, drew back, tottering, and sank into an
arm chair, pulseless, voiceless, tearless, shaking his head, and moving his
lips with q. stupid air, having nothing in his eyes or in his heart but
something deep and mournful, which resembled night.
Bo oft Scbcntfj.
JUNE 5, 18 3 2.
JEAN. valjea:(.
That very day, towards four o'clock in the afternoon, .Jean Valjcan was
sitting alone upon the reverse of one of the most solitary embaukojents
of the Champ de MarH. Whether from prudence, or from a desire for
medication, or simply as a result of one of those insensible charfges of
habits which creep little by little into all lives, he rinw rarely wetit out
with Cnsefte. He wore his workingman's waistcoat, brown ■ linen tiow-
scrs, and his cap with th« long vLsnr hid his face. He was now calm
and happy in regard to C<)8ette; what had for some time alarmed
and disturbed him was di'^sipated; but within a week or two anxie-
ties of a ditTerent nature had come up-m him. One day, when walk-
ing on the B lulevard, he had seen Thenirdier; t"hanks t > his disguise,
Tl'eiiardierhad not recognised him; but. i«ince then Jean Valj-aii had
seen him again several ^inies, and he Wiic now ceitnin that Theuar-
dier was prowling about the quarticr. This was sufiicicnt to malfe
him take a seriims step. Th6uardicr there! fhi.s ^as all dangers at
once. Moreover, Paris was not quiet: the political troubles had this
inconvenience for him who had anything in his life to cnnoeal, that
the police had become very active, and very hccret, and that ia
seeking to track out a man like I'epin or IVtorey, they wttuld be
very likely to discover a man like .Tian Valjtan Jean Valj.an had
decided to leave I*iiris,.and even France, and to puss over to Eng-
land He had told Cosetie. In le.»s than a week he wished to be
110 LES MISERABLES.
gone. Wt was sitting on tuc etubunkuiout in the Champ de Mars,
rerolvinp all manner of thoughts in his mind, Thenardier, the police,
the j>unioy, and the difficulty of procuring a passport. ^
On hII these points ho was anxious. •
Finally, an inexplicable circumstance which had just burst upon
bim. nnd with whicli he w;is still w;irm, had aided to his alarm.
On Oil? morninjT of that very day, btirig- the only one up in the'
h'-U'-c, and wklking in the eard»Mi before Co-sctte's slftittcrs were open,
be had suddenly come upon this line scratched upon the wall, pro^
babiy with a null :
1 1), Kuc (h la Vcrrcrii'. • '
Ir, was quite recent, the lines were white in the old black mortar,
a tuft of nettles at the foot of the wall was powdered with fre.»<h'finc
plaster. It had pnbably been written during the night. What was
it? an address? a signal for others? a warning for him? At all
events, it was evident that the garden had been violated, and that
some per-sons unknown had penetrated into it. He recalled the strange
incidents which hau already alunued the house. His wind worked
upon this canvass. He took good care u<it to spe;jk to Co.'iette of the
line wriiten on the wall, for I'car of fiighteuing her.
II.
M.\RIU.S.
Marias had left M. Gillcnorinand's desolate. He had entered with
& V( ry small hope; he cam« out with an itumense despair.
Siill, and those who have observed the beginnings of the human
heart will understand ir, the lancer, the officer, the ninny, tho cousin
TlK^'odule, had left no shadow in his mind. Not the slightest. The
drauiatie *poet might apparently hope for some complication.s from
this revelation, made in the very teeth of the grandson by the grand-
fathrr. IJut what the drama would gain, the truth would lose. Ma-
rias was at that age when we believe uo ill; later comes the age
when we believe all. Suspicion^ are onthiug more or less than wrin-
kles. Karly youth has none. Wh.it overwhelms Otli .U'*, glides over
Candide. Suspect Cosette ! There are a multitude of crimes which
Warins could have more easily committed.
H<' began to walk the streets, the resource of those who -suffer.
Dc thought of nothing which he could ever n member. At two o'clock
ib the morning he returned to Courfeyrae's, and threw himsidf, dressed
aihe was uiiuu hi.s mattress It was Iroad BunHghl when he fell asleep,
With tliat frightful, heavy' slumber in which the idea-i cnmo and go ia
the br:iin. When he awnke, he saw standing in the rootu, their hats
upon their heads, all reidy to go out, and very busy, Courfeyrac, Kiijol-
ras, Feuilly, and Combeferre.
Courfeyrac i*aid to him : "Are you going to the funeral of General
Lamarciuixy It .seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking: Chinese.
He went out 8'>me time after them. He put in'o his pocket the pi-tols
whiub Javert had couilicd to him at the time of the adveutur^ of the
SAINT DENK. Ill
3d of Februar)', and which had remaiued in his hands. These pistols
were still loaded. It would be difficult to say what obscure thought he
had in his miud in taking them with him.
Ho rambled about all day without knowing where; it rained at inter-
vals, he did not perceive it; for his dianer he bought a penny roll at a
baker's, put it in bin pocket, and fgrgut it. It would appear that he
took a bath iu the 8oiiie without boiuir conscious of it. There are mo-
ments when a man has a furnace in his bruin. Marius was in one of
lho.se nionicnts. IIo hoped notliin;! more, he feared nothing more; he
had reached this condition since the evenigg before. He waited for
night with feverij^h iinp;uiencc, he had but one cloar idea; that was,
that at nine o'clock he ^^llould see (^osette. This last happiness was now
his whole future; afterwards darkness. At intervals, whil« walking
along the most deserted bimlevards, he seemed to hear strartge sounds ia
Paris He rouscfd himself fmni his reverie, and said : " Are they
lighting?"
At nightfall, at precisely nine o'clock, as he had promised Cosette, he
was in tlie iluo Plumct. When he approached the grating he forgot
everything else. It was forty-eight hourii since he had seen Cosette, he
was going to see her again, every other thought faded away, and he felt
now only a deep and wonderful joy. Tho.se minutes in which we live
Centuries always have this sovereign and wonderful peculiarity, that for
the moment while they are parsing, they entirely fill the heart.
Marius displaced the grating, and sprang into the garden. Cosette
was not at the place where she usually waited for him. He crossed the
thicket and went to the recess near the steps. "She is waiting for me
there,' said he. Cosette was not there. He raised his eyes, arid saw
that the shutters of the houi-e were closed. He took a turn around the
garden, the garden was deserted Then he returned to the house, and,
mad with ]<ive, intoxicated, dismayed, exasperated with grief and anxie-
ty, like a master who returns home in an untoward hour, he rapped on
the shutters. He rapped, he rapped again, at the risk of seeing the
window open and the forbidding face of the father appear and ask him :
" What do you want?" This was nothing compared with what he now
bejian to sec. When he had rapped, be rai.s^d his voice and called Cosette.
" Cosette !" cried he. '' ("osett*!" repeated he imperiously. There waa
no answer. It was settled. Nobody in the garden; nobody in the
house * •
Marius fixed his despairing eyes upon that dismal house, as black, as
silent, and more empty than a tomb. lie looked at the stone seat where
he had passed so many adorable hours with Cosette. Then he sat down
upon th(! steps, his heart full of tenderness and resolution, he blessed his
luve in the depths of his thtught, and he said to himself that since Co-
sette was gone, there was nothing more for him but to die.
Suddenly he heard a voice which appeared to come from the street,
and which cried through tfe tree.«« : "Monsieur Murius!" He aro.«e.
" Hey ?" said he. " IVlonsieur Marius, i.s it you ?" "Yes" "Mon-
sieur .Marius," added the voice, " your frienda are expecting you at the
barricade, in the Rue de la Chanvrcriu."
This voice was mtt entirely unkuowo to him. It resembled the harsh
and roughened voice of Epouine. Marias ran to the grating, pushed
112 LES SIISGRABLES.
aside the moveable bar, passed bia bend lbrou_'h, and siw somebody
who appeared to Km to be a young man, rapidly disappearing iu the
twilicht.
III.
A burial; OPPORTINITV FOR IIE BIRTH.
In the spring of 183"2, although for three months the cholera had
chilled all hearts and thrown over their agitati(«n an inexpressibly nuiurn-
ful calm, Paris had for a lun_' time been rea<ly for a C'lmnintiwn. As we
have said* th;; preat city resciiiblcs a piece of artillery; when it is load-
ed the fulling of a spark is enough, the shot goes off. In June, 1S;)2,
the H park was the death of (Jcneral L;im:ir(|ue. *
Lamarque was a man of renown and of action. He bad had succes-
sively, under the "^Jmpire and under the Restoration, the two braveries
necessary to the two epochs, the bravery of the battle-tield and the brave-
ry of the to.strum. He was eK)queut as he had been vuli^int; men felt
a sword in his .speech. Like Foy, his predecessor, after having upheld
command, he upheld liberty. He sat between the left and the exircmo*
left, loved by the people because he accepted the chances of the future,
loved by the masses because he had served tlie Emperor vv-ell: He bated
Wellinjitou with a direct hatred which pleased the multitude; and for
seventeen years, hardly noticing intermediate events, he h id inajesrieally
preserved the sadness of Waterloo. In his death-agony, at his latest
hour, he had pressed against his breast a swnrd ^'hich was presented to
him by the ofticers of the Hundred Days. Nai)<>leou died pronouncing
the word anncr, Lamarque pronouncing the word pntrif.
His death, which bad been looked for, was dreaded by the people as a
loss, and by the government as an oppoYtunity. This death was a
mourning. Like everything which is bitter, mourning may turn into
revolt. This is what happened.
The eve and the morning of the ath of June„thc day fixed for the
funeral of Latuarque, the Faubourg* Saint Antoiue, through the edge of
which the procession was to pass, assuii^d a formidable aspect. That
tumultuous network of streets was full of rumor. Men armed them-
Bf'lves at fhey could. Some joiners carried their bench-claw " to srave
in the doors." One of them had made a dagger of a shoe-hook by
bri;iking off the hook and sharpening the stump. Another, in the .fever
'•to attack," had slept for three nights without undressing. A car[)en-
tor named Loinbier met a comrade, who asked him : " Where are you
going'/" " Well ! I have no armsJ' *' What thpn ?" " 1 am goiuL' to
my yard to look for my couipassts " " What for V " I don't know,"
said Lombier. A certain Jae(jiieline, a man of bnsine.'-s, h.iiled every
working man who passed by with : "Come, you I" He bought ten sons'
worth of wine, and said : " Have you any work '(" " N.) "■ '• Go (o J<'ils-
pierre's, belwc' n the lJarn6re Montreuil anJ the I'arri^TC Charonne,. you
will fini work." They found at. Filspierre's cartridge^ and arms. Cur-
tain known chiefs di(t the j)ost ; that is to siy, ran from one house to
another to assemble their people. At Barthelemy's, near the Barri6re
SAINT DENIS. 113
du Trono, and at Capet's, at the Petit Cliapeau, the drinkers accosted
each other seriously. Thoy were heard to say : " Where is your pistol ?"
" Under my blouse." " And yours ?" " Under "my shirt." On the Rue
TraversiC-re, in front of the lloland workshop, and in the Cour de la
Maison Bruleo, in front of Bernier's machine-shop, groups were whis-
peririg. Among the most anient, a certain JMavot was noticed, who
never worked more than a week in one shop, the masters sending him
away, " boeause they had to dispute with him every d ly." Mavot was
killed the nextday in the barrieaJc, in thcllul? 3Ienilmnntant. I'rotot, who
was also to die in the conflict, seconded Mavot, and to this question :
" What is your object ?" answered: "Insurrection." Some; working-
men, gathered at the corner of the Rue do Bercy, were waiting (or a
man nam.;d Lcmarin, revolutionary officer for the Faubourg Saint Mar-
eean Orders were passeii about almost public'y.
On'the 5th of June, then, a day of mingled rain and sunshinn, the
procession of General Lamarque passed through Paris with the othi-ial
military pomp, .somewhat increased by way of precaution. , Two battal-
ions, drums muffljed, muskets reversed, ten thousand National Guard?,
their .'*abres at their sides, the batteries of artillery of the National
Guards, escorted the coffin. The hearse was drawn by young men.
The officers of the Invalides followed immediately, benring branches of
laul^cl Then came a countless multitude, strange and agifrited,
the sectionaVies of the Friends of the People, the Law School, the
Medical School, refugees ,fVom all nations, Spani-h, Italian, German,
Poli«h flags, horizontal tri colored flags, every possible banner, childrea
waving green branches, stone-cutters and carpenters, who w'ere on
a strike at that very moment, printers recognisable by their paper
caps, walking two by two, three by three, uttering cries, almost' all
brandishing clubs, a few swords, without order, and yet with a single
soul, now a rout, now a cnluniu. Some platoons chose chiefs; a
man, armed with a pair "of pistols openly worn, seemed to bo passing
others in review as they filed off before him. On the cross al-
leys of the boulevards, ip the branches of the trees, on the balconies,
at the windows, on the roofs, were gwarms o£ heads, men, women, ohil-
dren ; I luir eyes were full of an.xicty. An armed multiiudc was pass-
ing by, a terrified multitude was looking'on.
The government aUo was observing. It was observing, with its hand
upon thi' hilt of the sword. One night have seen, aM ready to m irch,
with full cartriilgt-boxes, guns and n]us(|uefoons loaded, in the Place
Louis XV., four squadrons of cjrbiniers, in the saddle, trumpets at their
head, in th<' Latin Q'javtier and at the .Jardin des Planter, the Munici-
pal G'u ard, en Echelon from street to sTrcot, at tho Halle aux Vins a
squadron of dragoons, at Li (Ti-evc one hilf of the 12th Light, the
other h.df at thf Bastille, the 0th Dragoons at the (Ydcslins, thi' C 'Urfc
of the Louvre fidl of artillery. Th3 rest of tho troops were sta'ioni^d in
the barracks, without counting tho regiments in the environs of Piris.
Anxious authority held suspended over the thretiening m Ititule
twenty-four thousand soldiers in the city, tftd tliirty thou.s.ind in the
bnnlifue
Divers rumor-! circulated in the cortege. They talke(^ of lei'iMniist
intriguts; they talked of the Duke of R'ichstadt, whom <iol was
114 ' LES MISKRADLBS.
marking for death at that very moinont when I lie populace was desig-
nating him for cujpire. A personage 8till unknown announced that at
the appointed hour two.f(trenieu, who had been won over, would open
to the people the doors of a inutiufactury of arms. The dominant ex-
jiresMon on the uncovered forcLe.idh of iuo5t of tho.sc present, was one
of s.ubducd enlhut-ia^m. Here and then' io thi;* uiutiitude, a prey to so
luany violent, but ur^blc, euioficus, et'iild al<o be seen some genuine
faces of malefaeton? and ignoble uioutlvt", which sid : "pillage!" Tlwrc
are certain agitations which !?tir up lliu bi'ttoin of the ui:n>h. and whi'.li
make clouds of mud riie iu the water. A phcnomeuou to whieb " well
regulated" police are not strangers.
The cortc!ge made its way, with a feverish sluwuess, from the house
of death, along the boulevards as far as the iSastillc. it rained fnjm
time to lime ; the rain had no effect dpon that throng. Seicrai inci-
dents, the ci.'fiiu drawn arousid the Vundomo column, and st ncs thrown
at the Uuke uc Fitz James who was seen ou a balcony with hi.s hat on,
the Gallic cock torn from a popular flag and drag;i«d in thf jnud, a
•sergcnt de ville wounded by a s\yord-thru=.t at the Porte 8?lint Martin,
an officer of the l'2th Light saying aloud : " I am a republican," the
Polytechnic School coming unlookcd for, the cries : Vive i6i-u!c polt/-
tcihiilqur! Vive la r6j>ubliquc ! marked the progress of the procc^siim.
At the Bastille, long and formidable files of the curitms from the Fau-
bourg Saint Antoiue made their junction with the corlego, and a cer-
tain terrible ebuilition began to upheave the multitude.
One man was heard saying to another: " Do jmu see that man with
the red beard i' it is he whowill say when we mu>it draw." It would
appear that that same red beard was found afterwards with the snuie
office iu another (Jmeuto; the Queuisset afl'iir.
The hearse parsed the Hastille. followed the canal, crossed the little
bridge, and reached the esplaiiide of the Hridge of Au^teilitz. .Tliere
it sti)pped. At this moment a bird's-eye view of tiiis multitude would
have presented the appearance of a comet, the h^ad of which was at the
esplanade, while the tail, spreaiiog over the Quai Bourdon, covered the
IJistiile, and stretchL-d along the Boulevard as fur as the Porte Saint
Martin. A circle was formed about the hearse. The vast assemblage
became silent. Lafa}ette spoke and bade farewell to IjimiVnjue. It
was a toachin.r and august moaient, all heads were uncovered, all hearts
throbbed Suddenly a man on horse back, dressed in black, appeared
in th" n)id>t of the throng with a red flag, others say with a pike sur-
mounted by a red cap. Lafayette turned away his head Kxclmans
left the cortege.
This red flag rai.sed a storm and disappeared in it. From the IJoule-
vard, Bouplun to the Bridge of Austerlitz, one of tliose shoflts which
.resemble billows moved the multitmle. Two prodigious shouts arose :
JjavKirqui- to the I'linlhion ! Ijitfuyittc (o flic Ilolcldc Yillr ! Some
young men, amid the cheers of the throng, harn.ssed themselves, and
began to diaw I^amarque in the hear.se over the Bridge of Austerlitz,
and Lafayette in a 6acre ahmg thi; Quai Morlaiid
In the crowd which surrounded and cheered Lafayette, was noticed
and pointed out a German, named Ludwig Snyder, who afterwards died
a centenarian, who had alsoTaeen in the war of 1770, and who had fought
SAINT DENIS. 115
at Trenton under Wasliiuc?tnn, qnd under Lafayette at Urundywine.
Meanwhile, on the left, 'bank, tlx^ municipal cavalry was in motion,
arid had just barred the bridge, on the right bank th<' dragoons Kft the
Celestins and deployed id^ng the Quai .Morland. The men who wore
drawing Lafayette sud'hnly pcirccivrd them at the corner of thu Quai,
and crii'd : "the dragoons!" The dragoons were advancing at a walk,
in silence, their pistols in their holsters, their sabres in their sheaths,
their musketoons in ihoir rests, with an air of gloomy cxpectaiinu
At two hundred paces from the little bridge, ihey halted. The fiacre
in which Lafayette was, made its way up to them, ihey opened their
ranks, let it pass, and clo-cd again behind it. At that momoiit the dra-
goons and the multitude came tojiother. The women fled in terror
What took place in that fatal moment? nobody couU tell It was
the dark moment when two chiuds mingle. Some say that a trumpet-
fldurish sounding the charge, was heard from the direction of the Arse-
nal, others that a dagger-thrust was given by a child to a dragoon The
fact is, that three shots were suddenly fired, the first killed the chief of
the squadr<fh, Cholet, tl»e second killed an old deaf woman who was
closing her window in the Rue Contrescarpe, the third singed the epau-
let of an oflicer ; a woman cried : " Tln-y are beginning too soon !" and
all at once there was seen, from the side opposile the Quai Morland, a
squaJron of dragoons which had remained in barracks turning out on
the gallop with swords drawn, from the Rue Bassompicrre aud the
Boulevard Bourdon, and sweeping all before them.
There are no more words, the tvmpest bri^aks loose, stones Tdl like
bail, n)usketry bursts fortlj, muiy rush headlong down the bank aud
cro>s the little aim of th( Siitie now filled up, the yard.^of the He Lou-
viers, that vast ready-made citadel, bristle with combatants, they 'ear
up stakes, they fire pistcd shots, a bar^cade is planned --ut, the young
men crowded back, pass. the Bridge of Aust<rlitz with tha hiar.-e at a
lun, and charge on the Municipal Guard, the carbinci rs rus-h up, the
dragoons ply the sabre, the mass scatters in every direction, a ruuior of
war flits to the four corners of Paris, men cry: " To arniw !-" they run,
they tvimble, they fly, the> re.-i<it. Wrath bweeps along .the cuicute as
the wjnd sweeps along a fire.
IV.
TUK EIIULLITIONS OF FfiKSlER TIMES.-
Not'iing is more extraordinary than the fir.-<t swarming of an ^miute.
Everything bursti out eveiywiiere at r)nce. Was it ftlre^ccn ? yes.
Was it prepared!' no. Whiucc does it spriOir? fr<'iii the pav. ueuts.
Whence does it fall r' from the cbiuds Ilete the inhurrec iou haw tlic
character of a pl"t ; there of an improvisation. The first coun-r fakes
posseshiou of a current of the multitude and h-ads it whither lie will.
A beginning full (tf terror with which is mii'^Ied a sort of lii;:lnfi»l gai-
ety. At first there arc claiaors, the shops cl ise, the displ ly • of the
IIG LES MISERABLES.
mcrchan's «Jisippc:ir ; tbcn Mime ijso'a^C'l >hotsj people flee ; butts of
gims striKo a;.':iiii.st p'Tfr'-cocIitTcs ; you h^ar the st-rvant ^irls laujibiug
ID tin* ynrds of the hnusc.-' and .'»a3Mnp; : There is goiiuj to l>c a rair !
A fni:irtrr of no h'ur had not elapsed and here is what, iad tukcn
p'aro nt*;irly at the same time at twiniy different points in l*aris.
In I lie line S.iiufo Croix dc la Hreionuerie, some twctit}- }oung men,
with tioanis and lonp hair, ontcn.-d a Miiokinj; mom and caure out atiain
u mniDi nt afterwards, bearing a hnriz'jntal tricolor flag covered with
cr.ip<*, and liavini^ at tlieir h(;ad three men armed, one with a sword,
ano'ht r with a -^uu, the third with a pike
In the line dcs Nonaindicros, a well dressed bourgeois, who was
puviiy, had a sonorous voice, a bald head, a hii^h f<)r(d)ead,.a black beard,
and one of tho«c r<tuj:h moustaches w4iieh cannot be smoothed down,
offered cartridges publicly to the passers ^y.
In the Rue Sainte Pierre Mnntmartro, some men with bare arms pa-
raded ajalack flag on which these words could be read in white letters:
li< jiuhllr or thnth. In the Hue des Jeuncurs, the Rue du Cad ran, the
Kue Montorgueil, and the Rue Mandar, appoaVed groups waving flags
on which were visible in letters of gold, the word .vrc/zo/i with a num-
ber. /Jiie of thes-e fligs was red and blue with an imperceptible white
stripe between.
A nianutactorj of arms wis rifled, on the IJ.mlevard Saint JIartin,
aO'l three armorer's shops, tlie first in the Hue Ik'aubourg, the seeoad
in the Rue Michel le ( ointe, the third in the Rue du Temple. In a
few minutes the thousand hands of the multitude seized and carried off
two hundred and thirty njuskets, nearly all double-barreled, ^ixfy four
Bwoids, eighty-three pistols. To am) more people, one took the gun,
another the Iriyoner.
Opposite the Qilai de la Grev^, young men armed with muskets in-
stalled theni.selves with the vyomen to shoot. One of them had a- mus-
ket wi'li a niatirh-lock. They ran/, entered, and set to making car-
tri<lgc-. One of these women said : " / did not know' what caitriiJjes
tDf-re, mi/ hii.<h'i>i(i told me s'l."
A throng liroke into a curiosity .>hop in the Rue dgs Vicillcs Ilaudri-
ettex and took some yataghans and Turkish arms. ,
The enr-ftse of a mason, killed by a musket shot, was lying in the Rue
dc la I'erle.
And then, ri^lit bitik, left bank, on the rjiiais, on the boulevards, in
the Latin (piartjer, in the region of the market.*, breathless oien, work-
ing men, students, .seetionaries, read proelama.tions, cried : "To arms !"
bri>ke tiie «freet lamps, unharnes.<-ed wagons, tore up the pavement.''*,
brnlfc in the doors of the houses, uprooted the trees, ransacked the. cel-
lar-*, roII<'d hog- heads, heaped up paving stone's, pebbles, pieces of fur-
niture, board-i, made barricades.
They foreed the bourgeois to help them. Thoy wmt into the women's
houses, they made them give up the sword and »the guii of their absent
hutb:inds, ami wrotei)ver the door with chalk : " the armx are </■ Hrer' d."
kSome sigqed "with their na-tnes" receipts f'r th- gun and sword, .md
sail! : ** s''iid /or fhim t '-morroif to the miiiiie" They di.s;aiiied the
solitary petiiiiiels in the streets and the National Guards going to their
muni ijudity. They tore off the ofiicers* epaulets. In the Hue da
SAINT DENIS. 117
Ciniiti^re Saint Nicolas, an officer of the National Guard, pursued by a •
troop armed with club'' and foils, took refuge with fircat difficulty in a
house which he was able to leave only at night, and iu dis-guise.
In the Q lartier St. Jacques, the htudtnts came out of their hotels in
swarms, and went up the Rue Saint Hyaciniho to the cafe du Progrtis
or down to the cale Des Sept IJillards, on tlie Rue des INJathurins. .
There, befure the doors, some young men .standing upon the posts dis-
tribated arms. They pillaged the lumberyard on llie Rue Tran.suouain to
make barricades. At a s^iii^le point, the inhabitants resisted, at the cor-
ner of the Rues Sainte Avoyc and Simon le Franc where they destroyed
the barricade ttiemselves At a single point, the insurgents gave way;
they abandoned a barricade coninienced in the Rue du Touiple after-
having fired upon a detachment of the National Guard, and fU;d through
the Rue de la Corderie. I'he detachnitnt picked up in the barricade a
red flag, a package of cartridges, and three hundred pi>tol balls The
National Guards tare up the flag and cariied the shreds' at the point of
their biyonots.
All that we are here relating s'owly and successively took place at
once in all points of the city in the midst of a vast tumult, like a mul-
titude of flashes in a single pe&l of thunder.
In less than an hour twenty seven barricades rose from the ground in
the single quartier of the^ markets. At the centre was that famous
house. No. 50, which was the fortress of Jeannie and his hundred and
six companions, and which, flanked on one side by a barricade at Saint
Merry, and on the other by a barricade on the Rue 31aubuee, conimand-
ed three streets, the Rue des Arcis, the Rue Saint !\]ariin, and tlie'Rue
Aubry le B mcber on which it fronted Two barricades at right angles
ran back, ou'. from the Rue iNJ'ontorguoil to the Grand TruandeVie, the
Gthcr fr(tm the RuctTCoffroy Langtvinto the l»ue Sainte Avoye. VVith-
out couiiting innumerable barricades in twenty other quartiers of Pari.s,
in the Jlarais, at Mount Sainte Genevieve : one, on the *Rue M6uil-
inoijtant, wbere "could be .^eeu a porte cochere torn from its hinges;
another near the little bridge of the Hotel J)ieu made with an omni-
bus, unhitched and overturned, within thr(*c hundred yards of the pre-
fecture of police. ' ^
At the barricade on the Rue des Mcn(?tricr.g, a well dres.sed man dis-
tribu'cd money to the laborers. At tt e hariicaoc on the Rue Greactat
a Lor.-^eman appeared and handed to hiui who appeared to be the chief
of ihc barricade a roll which looked like a roll of money. ' Tliia,' said
he, ' <s 1 1 pay Oif exixnsfs, icinc, c.f cocfcra.' A young man of a light
com,tlcxion, without a cravat, went frimi otrc barricade to another carry-
ing orders Another, with drawn sword and a blue police cap on his
•head, was stationing sentinels. In the intcri^ir, within the barricades,
wineshops and porters' lodges were converted into guird hou.MS. More-
over, the^emeute was qonducted according to the t*lund^•^t military tac-
tics. The narrow, uneven, sinuous streets, full of turns and ^corners,,
were admirably chosen; the environs of the mark< t> in particular, a
network of streets more intricate than a forest Tiic Society of the
Friends of the people, it was said, h^d assumed ttie directinh <if the
insurrijction in tbe Qu'irficr Sainte Avoye A man, killed in 15ue du
I'oiiceau WHO was searched, had a plan of Paris upon him.
118 'LKS MISKRABLES.
What had rcnllj a«sunic(l the direct ittn of the cmcntp was a port of
nnkii'iwii itii|M-tU'i«iry wliirli was in the :»fiii> spliere. The in.«urreetioo,
:i*T')pMv, ha 1 bailt the 'harricades with one hand, and with the other
f^' i.'.c'l n(:irl3' all the posts of tlie parrisnti. In less tli:iu throe hoars,
like a train < f powder whieh takes fire, the insurjreufs had invaded and
occupi'd, on the right bank, the Arsr-nal, the >l:i3or'a olTu-e of the IMace
Rojale, ull the ^larais, the P"pincoiirt manufactory of arms, the (laliote,
the ('hfreau d'Huu. all the streets neir the markets.; on the 'eft bank,
the barraoks of the A'^eterans, Saiute I'elacie, the Place Mauberf, the
powder mill of the !>( us Moulins, all the liarrieies. At five oV-Iock in
the afternoon they were masters of the Ha«tille, the P/ingerie, the Hlancs
Manteaux ; their scouts touched the Placodes Victoires. and threflf'-ned
the Hank, the barracks of the Petifs P<ires, and the Hotel des Pcstes.
The third of Paris was in tha ctueute .
At al' points the struggle had commenced on a gijiantic scale; and
from the disurmings, from the duinieiliary visits, from the arniorirs'
shops ha-stily invaded, there was this result, that the combat which was
comiiunccd by throwing: stones, was continued by rhrowini: ball^.
Abou' six o'clock in the afternoon, the arcade Dn S.iumon bc(!ame a
field of ba tie Tl»e eiueute was at, one end, the troops at the end
oppo-iie. Tliey fired frt)m one prafiii'^ to the other An observer, a
dreamer, the author of this book, who had '{.'nne to get a near view
of the volcano, found himself caiij^ht in 'he an-atle between fhe two
fins lie had nothing but the projection of the pilasters which sep-
arate the phops i^ protect him fro'.n the balls; he was nearly 'half
an hour n this d'lieate situation
Me.inwhile the drums, beat the long roll, the National Guards dress-
ed, and armeii thenisflves in haste, the legion-* left the mairie*;. the
regioicnts left their barrack^ Opposite the arcade De I'Anere, a drum-
mer received a thrust from a dajrger. Another, oa-the Rue du Cyi:n^>,
was assailed by so iie thirty younir men, who destroved his drum and
took awiiy his sword. Another was hilled in the Rm Orenier Saint
Lazare. In the Rue Mi.diel le Cniiite, three nfficrs fell dead (mo after
anoth-r. Several \tunici'>ar Guards, wounded io the Rue des Lom-
bardes, turned back ,
In fnmt of the Cour Batave, a detachment of National Guards, found
aridfla^ hiaring. this inscription: Republican revolution, No* 127.
Was it a P'voluiion, in fact?
The insurrection h id made the centre of Paris a sort of inextricably,
tortuous, colossal citadel.
There was the focus, there was evidently the question. All the rest
were oidy skirmishes. What proved that there all would bo decided,
tras that they were not yt?t tightino; there.
In some regitji-nts, the soldiers were d lubtful, which a^Med to the
frightful obscurity of^tlie crisis. They rcmeiubcreci the ptpulafovatifto
whieh in July, 1><-1'), had greeted the neutrality of the b'-Ui of th.- Line.
Twi> intrepid men, who hail f)e>'n proved by the j^reat wars, Marsh il Lo-
bau and Qeneral Hu^eiul, commanded. Bugc.aud und-r L'lbau Eoor-
inous [)a rols, c'uupo.sed of tjaitalions of the liu(! surrounded by entire
<;omj..a'de3 of the National (Juard, and preceded by a commissary of
pyliee with his badjre, went out recounoitcring the inaurgent streef».
SAINT DENIS. 119
On their side, the insurtronts phiced pickets at the corners of the
streets and boldly sent patnf^s outside of the barricades. They kept
watch on both sides The governnient, with an army in its hand,
hoi-itati'd ; night w:is coniincj on, and the tocsin of Suiut Merry began
to be heard The >Iiui>=tcr of War of the titue, Marshal Soult, who
had seen Austerlitz, beheld this with glootny countenance.
These old sailors, accustomed to correct manoeuvring, and having
no resource or guide, save tactics, that compass of battles, are com-
pletely lost in presence of that immense foam Tjrhicb is called the
wrath' of the ptople. The wind of revolution is not tractable.
The National Guard of the biinlieue hurried together in disorder.
A battalion of the I'ith 1 ight ran down from Saint r>eni^, the 14th
of the Line arrived from Courbevoie, the batteries of the Military
School had taken posfti'O at the Carrousel; artillery came from Viu-
cennes.
Solitude reigned at the Tuilerics. Louis Phillippe was full of se-
renity.
V.
ORIGINALITY OF PARIS.
Within two years, as ive h;ive said, Paris had seen more than one
insurrection. Outside of the insu'g^nt quarticrs, nothing is usually
more strangely calm than the physiognomy of Paris during an emeute.
Paris accustoms it^lf ve-ry quii-kly to everythintr — it is only an tincute
—and Paris is so bifsy that it docs not trouble itself fr so slight a thing.
These .colossal cities aTone can contain at the same timo a civil war, and
an indescribably strange tiafii|iiillity. Usually, when the insurrection
begins, when the dium, the l"tig-roll, the geuerale, .rre heard, the shop-
keeper merely says " If secniM there is s»me .squabble in the Kue Saint
Martin " Or: ''Fmbourg Ssiinr, \ntoine " Often he adds with un-
concern: ''Somewhere down lUat. way " Afterwanis, when he distin-
guishes the dismal and ihrilliijH uprnar of musketry and the firing of
platoons, the shopkei per ^ays : " It i> getting warm, then ! H'lllo ! it is
getting warm I"
A uiouMiit afterwards, if the emente approaches and increases, -he prc-
' cipitately shuts his shop, and has'ily pur- i'D his uniform; that is to say,
places his go ids in sifety and risk> lii-> pi-rwin.
There i>< firing at the Htnef <■< rn>'ts. in an arcade, in a cul de-sac;
barricades are taken, lost, and re lakeii ; blood flows, the fronim of the
houses are riddled With gr;ipc, b.ill> kill |uop|riri their bids, corpses en-
cumber tlie pavement A t w '•iiKfs off, you hear the clickuie of bil-
liard balls in the cal'68
The theatres open their d. ■■• li\ euindiis; the en" ■>>' chat
and laugli •iwu st'ip-< from tn full if wir The ; 'g
along; parsers arr go-.u^ i ■'< > tty SniiKtinji' . ry
quartier where there i;* tii^iniu. 'HI a <n>ilade was 1 to
let a wedding party yHi-r* by. •
120' LES MISERABLES.
At tlic tiuu' of (he in.-urrcction of the 12th of May, 1830, in the Rue
Saint Martin, a little infi-in old man, drawius; a han«l-cart surm«ninted
by a iri mlorol ra;;, in which there were decanters tilled with some li(|uid,
went bark and forth IV.tm the barricade to tho troops and tt<>ni the
- 'to the banitaiie, impaitially offering glasses of cocoa — now to tho
:.ii)'-iit, now t(i anarcdjy.
Isothin^ is more strange; and this is the peculiar charactorisfio of the
cincuiL's nf Taris, which i.s not found in any other capital. Two things
are.rcfjuisite for it, the preatncss of I'aria and its gaiety. It rit|uircs
the city of Voltaire aud of Napoleon.
This tinip, however, in the armed contest of the 5th of June, 1S32,
the preat city felt something which was, perhaps, stronger than her.-elf.
She was afraid. You saw everywhere, in the most distant and tiie most.
" disiuterested" quarliers, doors, windows, and shutters clo.scd iu broad
day. The courageous armed, the poltroons hid. The careless and busy
wayfarer disappeared. Many streets wore as empty as at four o'eloek in
the morning Alarming stories were circulate I, Ominous rumors were
.'^p^ead. "That lh<i/ were masters of the Bank ;" ''that, merely at the
cloisiers of Saint Merry, there wer6 six. hundred, intrenclied juid fortified
in the church;" " that the Line was doubtfiil; ' "that Anuand Carrel
had been to see Mar.shal Clauscl, and that the Marshal hud said : llnrc
(., ' ri(/imru( in the Jirst plwr ;" "that Lafayuttc was sick, I ut that he
!. . ! .Slid to thorn notwithstanding: I ujn wi'l/i j/un, I n-W fallow yna
')/•'' irln rr thrrr is r-xnn fur a cJi'tir ;" •' that it was necessary to
in their guard; that in the night there would b\; people who would
• the iioUtod houses in the dcsjrted qunrtiersof Pari< (iu this tho
..., ._.uation of the police was recognised, that Anne Kudclifie mixed with
government);" "that a battery had been planted in ihc Rue Aubry le
i5oucher;" " that L"bau and IJugeaud wjre consulting; and thatat nud-
ui<'ht, or at daybreak at the latest, four columns would nlarelr at once
upon the centre ot" the emeuio, the first coming from the l>asti!le, the
.^eoond from the Porf^ Saint Martin, the third from La Grdve, the fourth
from th(! markets;" "that pe^-hups also the troops would evacuate Paris
aild retire to the Champ do Mars;" "that nobody kn.w what might
h:i;)[Mii, but that certainly, this time, it was serious." They wore cou-
.(iiird ubuu? Marshal Soult's hesitation. " Why doesn't he attack right
■AW.i'j T' It is certain that *he was deeply absorbed. The old lioa seem-
ed to scent in that darkness sou»e unKiiown monster.
Lvcuiug euniL', the theatres did not open; the patrols made "their
rounds spitefully ; passers were searched; the suspicious were arrested.
At nine o'cloek there were more than eight IiunThvd persons under ar-
rest; the prcfectut:e of police was crowded, the Ooneiergerie was crowd-
ed. La Force was cn;wded. At the Conciergcrie, iu jjiirticular, the
long vault which is called the Rue de Paris was strewn with bundles
of straw, on which lay a throng of prisoners, whom the man of Lyons,
La"iaiigc, liarangued . valiantly.i Tlie rustling of all this straw, stirred
by all these men, was like the sound of a shower Elsewhere the prison-
ers lay in th'.- open air in the prison yards, piled one upon another.
Anxiety -was cverj where, and a certain tremor, little known jo i'aris.
People barric.nli d themselves in their houses ; wives and mothers
weie terrified; you heard only th%j : Oh! my God I he has not come
SAINT DENIS. 121
bac^ ! In the distance there was heard vei-y rarely the rumbling of a
wagon. People listened, on th^nr door sills, to the rumors, the cries,
the tumults, the dull and indistinct sounds, things of- which they said :
21iat is the cavalry, or: Those arc thr, ammunition wa(/ons ijallopinff
down, the trumpets, the drums, the musketry, and above all, that mourn-
ful tocsin of Saint Merry. They expected fhe first cannon-shot. Men
rose up at the- corners of the streets and disappeared crying: "Go
home !'' And they hastened to bolt their doors They said : " IIow
will it end?" From moment to moment, as night fell, Paris seemed
colored more dismally with the fearful flame of the emeute.
. i3 0 0 ft 15 i g ij t ij .
THE ATOM FRATERNIZES WITH THE HURRICANE.
I. •
SOME INSIGHT INTO THE OBIOIN OF OAVROCHE's POETRY. INFLU-
ENCE OF AN ACADEMICIAN UPON TIlAT POETRY.
At the moment the insurrection, springing up at the shock of the
people with the troops in front of the Arsenal, determined a backward
movement, in the multitude which was fullowingt he hearse, and which,
for the whole length of the boulevards, weighed, so to say, upon the
head of the procession, there was a rrightful reflux. The mass wavered,
the ranks broke, all ran, darted, slipped away, some with cries of attack,
others with the pallor of flight. The great river which covered the bou-
levards divided in a twinkling, overflowed on the right and on the left,
and poured in torrents into two hundred streets at once with the ru-hing
of an opened mill-sluice. At this moment, a ragged child who was com-
ing down the Rue Monilranntant, ho'ding in his hjnd a branch of labur-
num in bloom, which he had just gathered on the heights of Helleville,
caught sight, before a secmd hnnd dealer's shop, of an old horse pi>tol.
He threw his flowering branch upon the pavement, and cried : " Mother
What's your- name, Pll borrow your machine." And he ran off with
the pistol.
Two minutes la*cr, a flood of terriGed bourgeois who wore fleeing
through the Rue Anielot and the Rue Basse, met the child who was
brandi^lling his pistol and singing.
It was little Gavroche going to war. Oii the boulevard he perceived
that the pi.-^tol had no hammer.
Gavroche had no suspicion that on that wretched rainy night wh^'o he
had offtired the hospitality of his elephant to two brats, it was fur his
own brothers that, he had acted the part of Providence. His brother*
in the evening, his father in the morning; such had beeo his nigbt.
On leaving the Iiue des Ballets at early dawn, be had returned in haste
to the elephant, artistically extracted the two momcsy shared with them
9
122 LKS MISKRABLES,
•acb breakfast as he couM invent, then went away, confiding tlicni to
that ^rfKiil mother, the street, who had almost brou;j;ht him up himself.
Oo Icavin-r them, he Iwd given them rendezvous for the evening at the
same place, and left them this discourse as a farewell : "I cu( slich, other-
tei*r Sj'okin^ I rsLijnr, r;r, as (h<j/ nay at th<; ciurt, Ihaul off; Brats, if
yon (hut' t find papa ami mamma, conn hach here to-niijht. I will strike
tfou up some supper ami put yon to bed." The two children, picked up
by sonic scrgeut de villo and put in the retreat, or stolon by some moun-
tebank, or simjily lost in the immense Cliinese Parisian turfnoil, had not
rcturacd. The lower strata of the existing social world are full of these
lost traces. Gavrochc had not seen thom since. Ten or twelve weeks
ha<l elapsed since th:vt Dij.'ht. More than once he had scratched the top
of his head and said : " Where the devil are my two children V
Meanwhile, he had reached, pistol in hand, the Rue du Pont aux
Choux. He noticed that there was now, in that street, but one shop
open, and, a matter worthy of .reflection, a pastry cook's shop. This waa
a providential opportunity to eat one more apple-puff before entcrinj^ the
unlcnown. Gavrochc stopped, fumbled in his trowscrs, felt in his fob,
turned out his pockets, fuuiid nothing in them, not a sou, and began to
cry : " Help !" It is hard to lack the iiual cake. Gavrochc none the
Ic£8 continued on bis way.
Two minutes later, he was in the Rue Saint Louis. While passing
through the Rue du I'arc Royal, he felt the need of some compeusatioa
for the inipos.sible apple puff, and he give himself the immense pleasure
of tearing down the theatre posters in broad day.
GAVROCnB ON IHK M.VRCII.
The brandishing a pistol without a hammer, holding it in one's hand
in the open street, is such a public function that Gavrochc felt his
spirits rise higher with every step. He cried, between the snatches of
the Marseillaise which he was singing:
"It's all well. 1 suffer a good deal in my left paw, I am broken with
my rheumatism, but I am content, eifizons. The bourgeois have nothing
to do but to behave themselves, I am going to sneeze subversive couplets
»t them. What are the detectives y tli(;y arc dogs._ By jinks ! don'tlet
us fail in respect for dogs. Now I wish I had one to my pistol. * I
come from the boulevard, my friends, it is getting hot, it is boiling over
a little, it is s-immering. It is time to skim the pot. Forward, men !
let their iiiij)ure blood water the furrows ! I give my days for my coun-
try. Rut it's all the same, let us be joyful I let us light, egad ! I have
had enough of despoti.-^ni."
At that moment, the horse of a lancer of the National Guard, who
was passing, having falleu down, Gavrochc laid his pistol on the pave-
ment, raised up the man, and then he helped to raise the horse. After
which he picked up his pistol, and resumed his way.
* Tb9 French call the hammer of a pistol, the dog of it.
SAINT DENIS. 123
III.
THE CHILD WONDERS AT THE OLD MAN.
Meanwhile, Gavrochc at the Saint Jean market, where the guard was
alroady disarmed, had just effected his junction with a band hd by Ea-
jolras, Courfoyrac, Combcferre and Fouilly. They were ahnost armed.
Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had joined them and enlarged the group.
Enjolras had a double-barrelled fowling-piece, Combefcrre a National
Guard's musket bearing the number of the legion^ and at bis waist two
pistols which could be seen, his coat being unbuttoned, Jean Prouvaire
an old cavalry musketoon, Bahorel a carbine j Courfeyrac was brandish-
ing an uHsheathcd sword-cane. Feuilly, a drawn sabre in his hand,
marched in the van, crying: "Poland for ever!"
They came from the Quai Morland, cravatless, hatless, breathless,
Eoaked by the rain, lightning in their eyes. Gavroche approached them
calmly : " Where are we going ?" " Come on," said Courfeyrac.
Behind Feuilly marched, or rather bounded,. Bahorel, a fish in the
water of the emeute. He had a crimson waistcoat, and those words
which crush everything. His waistcoat overcame a passer, who cried
out in desperation: "There are the reds!" "The red, the reds!" re-
plied Bahorel. "A comical fear, bourgeois. As for me, I don't trem-
ble before a red poppy, the little red hood inspires me with no dismay.
Bourgeois, believe me, leave the fear of red Id horned cattle "
This conquered Gavroche. From that moment, Gavroche began to
study Bahorel. _ • '
Here Bahorel recognised at a window a pale young man with a black
beard, who was looking at them as they were passing, probabl; a Friend
of the A B C. He cried to him : " Quick, cartridges ! jx'ra helium."
'' B'l hommr ! [Handsome man!] that is true," said vravroche, who
now understood Latin. ♦
A tumultuous cort^gcaccompanied them, students, artists, young men
affiliated to the Cougourde d'Aix, working-men, river-men, armed with
clubs and bayonets; a few, like Combeforre, with pistols thruf^t into
their waistbands. Ati old man, who app«»rcd very old, was marching
with this band. He was not armed, and ''ic was hurrying^ that he should
not be left bohind, although he had a (houghtful expression. Gavroche
perceived him : " Whos.sat?" said he to Courfeyrac. "That is an old
man." It was M. MabeuC
IV.
RECRUITS.
The band increased at every moment. Towards the Rue des Billettes,
a man of tall stature, who was turning prey, whose rough and bold mien
Courfeyrac, i'>njolras, and Combefcrre noticed, but whom none of (hem
knew, joined them. Gavroche, busy singing, whistling, humming, going
forward and rapping on the shutters of the shops with the butt of his
'hammerless pistol, paid no attention to this man.
124 LRS MI6§RADLES.
It happened that, in the Rue de la Verrcric, they passed Courfevrac'a
door. "That is lucky," said Cinirfeyrac, " I have forgotten my purse,
sod I hllV^ lost my hat " lie left the company and went up to his room,
four stairn at a time. He touk an ol<l liit and his purse. lie took also
■ larpo square box, of the size of a big vali.'je, wliich was hidden »mong
hiH dirty clothes. As he wa.s running down a^^ain, the portress hailed
him: "Monsieur dc CourHyrac?" " I'ortress, what is your name?"
r<?f>pond('d Courfeyrac The portress stood aghast. " Why, y^u know
it very well ; I am the portress, my name is Mother Vcuvain." " Well,
if yi'U call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac again, I shall call you Mother do
Vouvain. Now, speak, what is it ?• What do you want V " There is
somebody who wiebts to speak to you." "Who is it?" "I don't
know." "Where is he?" "In my lodge." "The devil!" said
Courfeyrac.
" But he has been waiting more than an hour for you to come home !'.'
replied the portress. At the same time, a sort of young workiuiz-man,
thin, pale, small, freckled, dressed in a torn blouse and patehed panta-
loons of ribbed velvet, and who had rather the appearance of a girl in
boy's clothL'S than of a man, came out of the lodge and said to Courfey-
rac in a voice which, to be sure, was not the least in the world a wo-
inan's voice : "Monsieur Marius, if you please?" ."F^c is not in."
*' Will he be in this evening?" " I don't know anything about it:"
And (\)urfeyrac added : "As for myself, I shall not be in." The young
■lan looked Gxedly at him, find a.-^ked him : " Why so?" " liecause."
*' Where arc you going then ?" "What is thnt to you?" " I'o you
want* uie to carry your box ?" " I am going to the barricades." " Do
jou warn me to go with you?" "If you like," answered Courfeyrac.
*' The road is free; the streets belong to everybody."
And he ran off to rejoin his friends. When he had rejoined them,
he gave the box ♦<> one of them to carry. It was not until a quarter of
an hnur afterwards that he perceived that the young man had in fact
followed them
A mob do?8 not go prt/^isrly where it wishes. We have cxjllaiucd
that a gust of wind carries I't alon<r. They went beyond Saint Merry
and fc.und themscJves, without, really knowing how, in the Ruo ^aiat
Dcni.-5.
13(rok Nintfj.
CORINTH.
I.
IIKSTORt OF CORINTH FROM ITS FOUiNDATION.
The Parisians who, to-dny, upon entering the Rue Rambutean from
the bide of the markets, notice on their right, opposite the Hue Mond6-
SAINT DENIS. 125
tour, a basket-maker's shop, with a basket for a sign, in the shape of
the Emperor Napoleon the Great, with this inseription i g^
NAPOLEON EST FAIT
TOUT EN OSIER, *
do not suspect the terrible scenes which this very place saw thirty
years ago.
Here were the Rue de la Char^vrerie, which the old signs spelled
Chanverrerie, and the celebrated wine-shop called Corinth.
The reader will remember all that has been said about the barricade
erected on this spot and eclipsed elsewhere by the barricade of S:iint
Merry. Upon this famous barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, now
fallen into deep obscurity, we are about to throw some little light.
Permit us to recur, for the sake of clearness, to the simple mcana
already employed by us for Waterloo. Those who would picture to
themselves with sutSeient exactness the confused blocks of houses which
stood at that period near the I'uinte Saint Eustache, at the northeast
corner of the markets of Paris, where is now the mouth of the Rue
Kambuteau, have only to figure to themselves, touching the Rue Saint
Denis at its sumfcit, and the markets at its base, an N, of which the
two vertical strokes would be the Rue de la Grande Truanderie and the
Rue de la Chanvrerie, and the Rue„de la Petite Truanderie would make
the transverse stroke. The old Rue Moodetour cut the three strokes at
the most awkward angles. So that the labyrinthine entanglement of
these four streets sufficed to make, in a space of four hundred square
yardsj between the markets and the Rue Saint Denis, in one direction,
and between the Rue du C>gne and the Rue des Precheurs in the other
direction, seven iglets of houses, oddly intersecting, of various sizes,
placed crosswise and as if by chance, and separated but slightly, like
blocks of stone in a stone yard, by narrow crevices.
\We say narrow crevices, and we cannot give a more just idea of those
obscure, contracted, angular lanes, bordered by rtiins eight stories high.
These houses were so dilapidated, that the Rues de la (^hanvrerii^ and
de la Petite Truanderife, the fronts were shored up with beams, reaching
from one house to another. The street was narrow and the gutter wide,
the passer walked along a pavement which was always wet, beside shops
that were like cellars, great stone blo;ks encircled with irjn, immtnse
garbage heaps, and alley-gates armeH with ennnnous and venerable grat-
ings. The Rue Rambuteau has devastated all ibis.
The name Mondctour pictures marvellously well the windings of all
this route. A little further along you found them still better. expressed
by the littc Firon-eitc, which ran into the Rue iMond^tour.
Tbe patiser who came fmra the Rue Saint Denis into the Rue de la
Chanvrerie, saw it gradually narrow away before him as if he bad entered
an elongated funnel. At the end of the street, which was very short,
he found the passage barred on the market side, and he would have
thought himself in a cul-de sac, if he had not perceived on the right
and 00 the left two black openings by which be could escape. These
* N^roI.KON IB M.*r»K
Al!> of willow buaid..
126 LBS MIS^RABLBS.
were Ihc Rue Mondotour, which commujiieatcd on the one side with the
Rue d^ I'nVhturs, on the other witli the Hues du Cyune and I'ctito
Tru:in<Tcric. At the end of tliis sort of cul-desac; at the corner of the
opening; on the right, might be seen a house lower' than the rest, and
forniin;: a kind of cape on the street. *
In tills house, only two stories high, had been festively installed for
thro<' hundred years an illustrious wine shop.
The location wa*i good. Tlic proprietorship dcFccnded from father to
eon.
In the times of i^Iathurin lU'gnier, this wine shop was" calle*! the Pot
avx Hours (the Pot of Roses,) and as rebu-'^es were in fashion, it hud for
a sign a post (^>o/rai/) painted rose color. In the last century, the wor-
thy Natoire, one of the fantastic masters now held in di.sdain by the
rigid schoi)l, hating got tipsy several times in this wine-shop at the same
table wiicre Rdgnicr had got drunk, out of gratitude painted a bunch of
Corinth pr.ipes upon the rose-colored post. The landlord, from joy,
changed his sign, and had gilded below the bunch these words : The
Grape "f Cnriuth. ' Hence the name Corinth. Nothing is more natu-
ral to drinkers th.An an ellipsis. The ellipsis is the zigzag of phnisc.
Corinth gradually dethroned the Pol aiix Post's, Wic last landlord of
the dyniisfy, Father Iluchcloup, not even knowing the, tradition, had the
post fiainted blue. ^ *
A basement room in which was the counter, a room on the first floor
in. which was the billiard table, a spiral wooden staircase piercing the
ceiling, wine on the tables, smok'e on the walls, candles in broad day,
Buch was the wine-shop. A stairway with a trap door in the basement-
room led to the cellar. On the second floor were the rooms of the
Iluchcloups. You ascended by a stairway, which was rather a ladder
than a stairway, the only (.ntrance to which was by a back door in the
large room on the lirst fl(5or. In tht> attic, two garret rooms, with dor-
mer windows, nests for servants. The kitchen divided the ground-floor
with the counting-rooih.
As we have said, Corinth was one of the meeting, if not rallying
places, of Cuurfeyrac and his friends. It was Grautaire who had <lis-
covercd ('oriuth. They drank tlvere, they ate there, they shouted there;
tliey paid little, they p;^id poorly, they did n^t pay at all, they were
always welcome. Father llucheloup was a goodman.
Iluchcloup, a goodman, we havt» just .said, was a couk with mous-
taches: an amusing variety. Ho had always an ill-humored face, seem-
ed to wish to intimidate his customers, grumbled at people who came to
bis house, aud appeared more dispo.scd to picic a (|uarrol with them than
to servo thf-ni their soup. Aud still, we maintain, they were always
welcome. This oddity had brought custom to his shop, and led young
men to him, saying to each other: "Come and hfar Father llucheloup
grumbh'." H(» had been a fencing-master. He would sudd.-nly burst
out laughing. Coarse voice, good devil. ]\\^ was a comic heart, with
a tragic face; he asked nothing better than to frighten you, much l\kc
those snuff-boxes which have the shape of a pistol. The discharge is a
gneezo.
His wife was Mother llucheloup, a bearded creature, and very ugly.
Towards LSoO, Father llucheloup died. Uis jvidow, gcurcely consola-
SAINT DENIS. 127
ble, continued tho wine-shop. But the cuisine degenerated and became
execrable, the wine, which had always been bad, became frightful. Cour-
fcyrac and his friends continued to go. to Corinth, however — " from pity,"
said Bossuet.
Widow Hucheloup was short-winded and deformed, with memories of
the country. She relieved their tircsoineness by her pronunciation. She
had a way of her own of saying things which spiced her village and
Fpring-time reminiscences.
The. room on the first floor, in which was "the restaurant," was a long
and wide room, encumbered with slools, crickets, chairs, benches and
tables, and a ricketty old billiard-table. It was reached by the spiral
staircase which terminated at the corner of the room in a s(iuare hole
like the hatchway of a ship.
This ro m, lighted by a single narrow window and by a lamp which
was always burninsr, had the appearance of a garret. All the pieces of
furniture on four legs, behaved as if they had but three. The white-
washed walls had no ornament except a quatrain in honor of Ma'am
Hucheloup, which was written in charcoal upon the wall.
Ma'am Hucheloup, the original, went back and forth from morning
till night. Two servants, called Chowder and Fricassee, and fur whom
nubo'ly had ever known any other names, helped Ma'am Hucheloup to
put upon the tables the pitchers of blue wine, and the various broths,
which were served to the hungry in earthen dishes. Chowder, fat, round,
red, and boisterous, was uglier tliai^ any mythological monster ; 'slill, as
it is fitting that the servant should always keep behind the mistress, she
was less ugly than Ma'am Hucheloup. Fricassee, long, delicate, white
with a lymphatic whiteness, rings around her eyes, eyelids drooping,
always exhausted and dejected, subject to what might bo called chronio
weariness, up first, in bed last, served everybody, even the other servant,
mildly and in silence, smiling through fatigue with a sort of vague
sleepy smile.
ir.
PRELIMINARY GAIETY.
Laigle dc ^Icaux, we know, lived more with Joly than elsewhere.
He had a lodging as a bird has a branch. The two friends lived to-
gether, ate together, slept tngether. Everything was iu common with
them ; they were what, among the Chapeau Broibera, are called bi'ni.
On the morning of t^e fjth of .June, they went (p breakfast at Corinth.
Joly, whose head was stopped up, had a bad cold, which Laigle was be-
ginning to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but Joly was well
dressed.
It was abnu^ cine o'clock in the morning when they opened the door
of Corinth. They went up to the first fl'»(»r. Chowder and Frieassie
received them : "Oysters, cheese and ham," said Luigle. And they sat
down at a table.
The wine-shop was empty ; they two only were there. Frica-se recog-
nising Joly and Laigle, put a bjltle of wine on the table. As they were
128 LBS MIsfiRABLES.
at their first oysters, a head appeared at the hatchway of the stairs, and
a voice f^iid : " I was passing. I smelt in the street a delicious odor of
Brie chc(.se. I have cotne in." It was Graiitaire.
GrantJiirc took a stool and sat down at the table. Fricassee, seeing
Grantaire, put two bottles of wine on the table. That made three.
"Are you going to drink th(xsc two bottles ?" ini|uircd Laigle of Gran-
taire. Grantaire answered : "All are ingenious, you alone are ingenu-
oas. Two bottles never astonished a man."
The othf'r.s had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drinking. A
half bottle was quickly swallowed.
" Have you a hole in your stomach ?" resumed Laigle. " You sure-
ly have one in your elbow,'.' said Grantaire. And after emptying his
glass, he added : "Ah now, Laigle of the funeral orations, your coat is
old." " I hope 80," replied Laigle "That cnakes us agree so well, my
eoat and I. It has got all my wrinkles, it doesn't bind me anywhere, it
his fitted itself to all my deformities, it is complaisant to all my mo-
tions j I feel it only because it keeps me warm. Old coats are the s^me
thing as old friends."
" Grautiare," asked Laigle, "do you come from the boulevard?"
"No." "Wo just saw the head of the procession puss, Joly and L"
"It is a barvellous spectacle," said Joly.
" How quiet this street is !" exclyiiued Laigle. " Who would sus-
pect that Paris is all top.sy-turvy ? You see this was formerly all nmnas-
tcries about here.' Du Breul and .S;iuval fjive the list of them, and the
Abb6 Lebouf. They were all around here, they swarmed, the shod, the
unshod, the shaven, the boarded, the greys, the blacks, the whites, the
Pranciscuns, the Minimi, the Capuchins, the Carmelites, the Lesser Au-
gustines, the Greater Augustines, the Old Augnstines. They littered.".
"Don't talk about monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it makes mo want
to scratch." Then he e.KcIaimed : " Peugh ! I have just swallowed a
bad oyster. Here's the hypochondria upon me again. The oysters are
spoiled, the servants are ugly. I hate human kind. I passed just now
in the Rue Richelieu before the great public library. This heap of
oyster shells, which they call a library, disgusts uio to think of How
much paper ! how much ink ! how much scribbling ! Somebody has
written all that! What a booby was it who said that man is a biped
without feathers? And then, I mot a pretty girl whom I know, beau-
tiful as Spring, worthy to be called Flor(5al, and delvghted, transported,
happy, wiUi the angels, the poor creature, because yesterday a horrid
banker, pitted with snull-pox, deigned to fancy her. Alas ! woman
watches the publiean no less than the fop; cats ehaiie mice as well as
bird.H. This (Jamsel, less than two months ago, was a good girl in a
garret, she fi.x.ed the little rings of copjier in the. eyelets of corsets, how
do you call it? She s-wed, she had a bed. she lived with a flower-pot,
she was contented Now she is a bmkere.ss. This transformation was
wrought last night. I met the victim this morning, full of joy. The
hideous part ol it is, that the wenth was quite as pretty to day as yester-
day. Her financier didn't appear on her face. Rdscs have this much
more or less than women, that the traces which worms leave on them are
■visible. ' Ah I there is no morality upon the earth; I call to witness
the myrtle, the symbol of love, the laurel, the symbol of war, the olive,
SAINT DENIS. 129
til at goose, the symbol of peace, the apple, which almost strangled Adam
with itsBeed, and the fig, the prand-tather of petticoats As to rights,
do you want to know what rights are? The Gauls covet Clusium,
lloiue protects Clusium, and asks theiu what Clusium has done to th( m.
Biennus answers: ' What Alba did to you, what Fidectv did to you,
what the ^]qui, the A''olci, and the Sabines did to you. They were your
neighbors. The Clusians are ours. We understand neighborhood as
you do. You stole Alba, we take Clusium.' Eouie says: 'You will
not take Clusium.' Brennus took Rome. Then he cried: ' Va; lirfis!'
That, is what rights are. Ah ! in this world, what beasts of prey! what
eagles ! it makes me crawl all over." -
He reached his glass to Joly, who filled it again, then he drank, and
proceeded, almost without having been interrupted by this glass of wine,
which nobody perceived, not even himself.
" Biennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; tbe banker, who takes the
grisette, is an eagle. No more shame here than there. Then let us
believe in nothing. There is 'but one reality: to drink. Whatever
may be your opinion, whether you are for the lean cock, like the Canton
of Uri, or f >r the fat cock, like the '^anton of Glaris, matters little. I^et
us drink ! You talk tome of the boulevard, of the procession, tt cjctcra.
Ah now, there is going to be a revolution again, is there? This pov-
erty of means on the part of God astonishes me. He has to keep greas-
ing the groovea of events continually. It hitches, it. doi'S not go.
Quick, a revolution. God has his hands black with this vilhiinous cart-
grease all the time. In his place, I would work more simply, I wouldn't
be winding up my machine every minute, I would lead the human race
smoothly, I would knit the facts stitch to stitch, without breaking the
thread, I would have no emergency, I would have no extraordinary re-
pertory. What you fellows call progress moves by two spring.s, men and
events. But, sad to say, from time to time the exceptional is necessary.
For events as well as for men, the stock company is not enough ; geni-
uses are needed among mon, and revolutions, among events Great ac-
cidents are the law; the order of things cannot get along without them ;
and, to see the apparitions of comets, one would be tempted to believe
that Hoaven itself is in need of star actors. At flic moment you lea.?t
expect ir, God placards a meteor oh the wall of the firmament. Some
strange star comes along, underlined by hh enormous tail. And that
makes Csc^ar die. Brutus strikes him with a knife and God with a
comet. Crack, there is an aurora borcalis, there is a revolution, there
is a great man ; '93 in big letters, Napoleon with a line to himself, the
comet of ISll at the top of the poster. Ah ! the beautiful •blue poster,
all stuilded with uucxpected flouri.-^hes ! Room ! boom I cxfruordinary
spectacle. Look up, loungers. All is dishevelled, the star as well as
the drama Good Good, it is too much, and it -is not enoii..h 'J'lu'se
resources, used in emergency, soeui luagnificence, and urc p iverfy My
friends, IVovidcnce is put to his truuips. A revolution, what docs that
prove? That God is hard up. He makes a ronj) (Ti^/nf, bic»use ilure
is a solution of continuity between the present and the. future, and be-
cause he, G<mJ, is unable to j"in the two ends In fiet, that confirms
nie in my conjectiirfs about the condition of Jchovah'.s fortune; and to
sec so much di.scumfort above and below, so much rascality and odious-
130 LKS MIS£'RABLES.
ncsa and stinginess and difftr-css in tlic heavens and on the earth, from
the bird wLicb has not a grain of millet to me who have not A hundred
thousand livrcs of income, to see human destiny, ■nhich is very mucli
worn out, and even royal destiny, which shows the warp, witness the
Prince of Cond6 hung, to sec winter, which is nothing but a rent in the
rcnith through which the wind blows, to see so many tatters even in the
bran new purple of the morning on the tops of the hills, to see the dew
drops, those false pearls, to see the frost, that paste, to see humanity
ripped, and events patched, and so many spots on the sun, and so many
holes in the moon, to see so much misury everywhere, I suspect that
God is not lich. He keeps up appearances, it is true, but I feel the
pinch. lie gives a revolution as a merchant whose credit is low, gives
a ball. We must not judge the gods from appearances. Heneath the
gilding of the sky I catch a glimpse of a poor universe. Creation is
bankrupt. That is wby'L am a malcontent See, it is the fifth of June,
it is very dark; since morning I have been. waiting for the da} break, it
has not come, and I will bet that it won't come all day. It is a negli-
gence of a badly paid clerk. Yes, cvorythiug is badly arranged, noth-
ing fits anything, this old world is all rickety, I range myself with the
opposition. Everything goes cross-grained ; the universe is a tease. It
is like children, those who want it haven't it, tlrose who don't want it
have it. Total: I scoff! 13e.';ides, Laigle de Meaux, that bald-head,
afflicts m}' sight. It humiliates me to think that I am the same age as
that knee. Still, I criticise, but I don't insult. The universe i,s what
it is. I speak here without malice, and to ease my Ct)nsciencc. Re-
ceive, Ij'ather Eternal, the assurance of my distinguished consideration.
Oh ! by all the saints of Olympus and by all the gods' of Paradise, I
was not iii.ide to be a Parisi:in, that is to say, to ricochet forever, like a
shuttlecock between two battlcdoors, from the company of loafers to the
company of rioters ! I was made to bo a Turk, looking all day long at
Oriental jades executing those exquisite dances of Egypt, as lascivious
as the dreams of a chaste man, or a Beauee peasant, or a Venetian gen-
tleman surrounded by gcntlc'lames, or a little German prince, furnish-
ing the h:ilf of "a foot soldier to the Gcrm;inic Confederation, ^nd occu-
pying his leisure in drying his socks upon his hedge, that is to say, upon
his frontier ! Such is the destiny for which I was born ! Yes, I said
Turk, and I don't unsay it. I d )n't understand why the Turks are'
commiinly held in bad repute; there is some good in Mahomet; respect
for the inventor of seraglios with houris, and paradises with odalisques!
Lot us not in.'^ult Mahouictanism, tlie only religion that is a.dorncd with
ajicn-roo.'^t ! On tlrat, I insist tlpou drinlung. The earth is a great
folly. And it iippears that they arc going to fight, all these idiots, to
get their heads broken, to massacre one another, in midsummer, in
the month of June, when they might go off with some creature under
their arm, to scent in the fields the huge cup of tea of the new mown
hay! llcally, they are too silly. An old broken lamp which I saw
just now at a second-hand shop suggests me a nflection. It is time to
enlighten the human race. Yes, here I am again sad. What a thing
it is to swallow an oyster or a revolution the wrong way ! I am getting
dismal. Oh ! the frightful old world ! They strive with one another,
they plunder one another, they kill one another, they get used to one
another !"
SAINT DENIS. 131
And Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a fit of coughing,
which he deserved.
'SSpeakig of revolutiod," said Joly, " it appears that Barius is de-
cidedly abourous." " Docs anybody know of whom ?" inquired Laigle.
"Do." "No?" "Do! I tell yon."
" Marius's amours !'' exclaimed -Grantaire, "I sec them now. Marius
is a«fog, and he must have found a vapor. Marius is of the race of
poets. Ho who says poet, says fool. TymhrQusi Apollo,. BJarius and
his Mary, or his Maria, or, his Marietta, or his Maritvn, they must make
droll lovers !"
Grantaire was entering ou his second bottle, and perhaps his second
harangue, when a new acitor emerged from the square hole of the stair-
way. It was a boy of less than ten years, ragged, very small, yillow,
a mug of a face, a keen eye, monstrous long hair, wet to the skin, a
complacent look. ' • '
Tbe child, choosing without hesitation among the three, although ho
evidently knew none of thorn, addressed himself to Laigle de Meaux.
•"Arc you Monsieur Bossuet?" asked he. "That i% my nickname,"
answered Laigle. "What do you want of me?"
"This is it. A big" light complexioned fellow on the boulevard said
tome: J)o you know Mother Ilucheloup? I said: Yes, Kuc Chan-
vrorie, the widow of the old man. He said to me: Go there. You
will find Monsieur Bossuet there, and you will tell him from me : A —
B — C. It is a joke that somebody is playing on you, isn't it^ He
gave me ten souSjL'
" Joly, lenl ffle teis sous," said Laigle, and turning towards Gran-
taire, : "Grant^iire, lend me ton sous." This made twenty sous which
Laigle gave the child. "Thank ynu, Jlousieur," said the little foFlow.
" What is your name ?" asked J^aiglo. " Navet, Gavroche's friend."
"Stop with us," said Laigle. " Breakfast with us," said Grantaire.
The child answered; "1 cant, I. am with the proces-sion, I am the one
to cry down with Polignac." And giving \\\a foot a long scrape behind
him, wbieh is the most respectful of all possible bows, he went away.
Meanwhile Laigle was meditating; he said in qn under tone: "A —
B — C, that is to say : Lamarque's funeral." " The big light complex-
ioned man," observed Grantaire, "is Enjolras, wlio sent to notify you."
"Shall we go?" said Bossuct. " It raids," said Joly. "I have sword
to go through fire, de^water. I dod't wadt to catch cold." " I stay
here," said Grantaire^ " I prefer ^^rcakfast to a hearse " "Conclu-
sion : we stay," resumed Laigle. '2^^]]^ ]ct us drink thep. L-esides
we can miss the funeral, ^g^nut mi-sing the emeute." "Ah! the
6bcute, I am id for thaf," exclaimed Joly. Laigle rubbed his hands:
"Now they are going to retouch the Jlvvolufioii of lS;jO. In fact, it
hinds the people in tin' armhok-." "It don't make much di/TfTcnce
with me, your revolution," said Gr.nntaire. " I don't execrate this gov-
ernment. It is the crown tempered with the nigijt-cnp. It is a sceptre
terminating in an umbrella-.' In fact, today, I should .think, in this
weather Louis rhilipfMj could make good use of hi-< royalty at both cuds,
extend the sceptre end against the people, and open the umbrella end
yi^st the sky."
e room was dark, great clouds were completing the suppression of
132 LES MISERABLES.
«
the daylipht. Them was nobody in the wine-shop, nor in tihe street,
cvcr^bidy having trone " to see the cvpnts."
" Is it noon -or midnight?" cried IJossuct. " Wc can't see a speck.
Fricassee, a light." Grantaire, melancholy, was drinking.
" Enjolra.s despises me," murmured he. " Enjnlras said: Joly is
sick. (.Jrautaire is drunk. It was to Bossuct that he sent Nuvet. If
he had come for mc, I would have followed him. So much the worse
for lOnjolras ! I won't go to his funeral "
This resolution taken, Bos.suet, Joly, and Grantaire did not stir from
the wine shop. About two o'clock in the afternoon, the table on whicli
they were leaning was covered with empty bottles. Two candles were
buinin^, ono in a perfectly green copper candlestick, the other in the
neck of a cracked decanter. Grantaire had drawn Joly an'd IJossuet to-
wards wine; Ho.«!suet and Joly had led Grantaire towards joy.
As for Grantaire, since i>oou, he had i:ot beyond wine, >tu indifferent
source of dreams. Wine, with serious drunkards, has only a quiet suc-
cess. There is, in point of inebriety, black magic and white magic;
wine is only white magic. Grantaire was a daring drinker of dreams.
The blackness of a fearful drunkenne-s yawniiii; before him, far from
checkintr him, drew him on. , lie had left the botfle behind and taken
to the }n<:. The jug is the abyss. Having at his hand neither opium
nor hashish, and wishing to fill hi's bruin with mist, he had had recourse
to that frightful mixture of brandy, stout, and absinth, which produces .
such terrible lethargy. It is from these three vapors, beer, brandy, and
absinth, ihat'the lead of the soul is formed. They ajg.throe darknesses ;
the celestial butterfly is drowned in thetu ; and the^Ririso, in a mem-
branous smoke vaguely condensed itUo bat wings, three dumb furies,
nightmare, night, death, flitting above the sleeping Psyche. •
Grantwire was not yet at this dreary phase; far from it. Tie was ex-^-
travagan!;'y gay, and Hossuet and Joly kept pace with him. Thej^*
touched glasses. Grantaire added to the cecentrw[faccentuation of hill*
words and ideas ineoherency of gesture; he restca his left wrist npoa
his knee with dignity, his arms a-kimbo, and his cravat uiitied, bcstri- ^
ding a .stool, his full glass in his right baud, he lhre\v out to the fat ser-
vant Chowder these solemn words :
" Let the palace doors be opened ! let everybody belong to the Acad-
6m\e FrauQaise, and have the right of embracing Madame llachdoup !
let us drink " And turning towards .Ma'am JIuchrloup, he added : _
" Anti(iue woman consecrated bgaUse. approacll'^hat 1 may gaze upon
thee ! And Joly exclaimed :• '^flwwder i ' '' ' •^s.o, dod't give Grad-
taire ady b.ire to drigk He spedds his !■ I'ly- He has already
devoured sidce this bordigg in desperite pi _' li'y two fragcs didety
five cedtibcB." And (irantaire replied: *' W ii > has been unhooking
the .stars without my permi■i^ioa to pub them < i ilio table in the shape
of candles y" IJossuet, very drunk, Ii.id prer i ved his calmuciss. He
sat in th<! opi'n wiudo/v, wctliiig his baek with the falling rain, and .
gazed at his iwo friends.
Suildenly lie heard i\ tumult behind him hurried steps, cries to arms! ^
He turned, and saw in the Rue Saint Denis, at. the end ttf the Rue de
la Chaijvrerie, Knj dras passing, carbine in baud, and Gavrocho with bis
pistol, Feuilly with his sabre, Oourfeyrac with his sword, Jean Prou-
SAINT DENIS. 133
vaire with his muskctoon, Combefcrre with his rausket, Bahorel with
his musket, and all the armed and stormy gathering which followed
them.
The Rue de la Chanvrcrie was hardly as long as the range of a car-
bine. Bossuet improvised a speaking trumpet' with his two hands, and
shouted: " Courfeyrac ! Courfeyrac ! ahoy!" Courfcyrac heard the
call, perceived Bos.'iuet, and* came a few steps into the Rue de la Chan-
vrcrie, crying a " what do you want?" which was met on the way by a
" where are you going?" "To make a barricade," answered Courfcy-
rac. "Well, here! this is a good place! make it here!" "That is
true. Eagle," said Courfeyrac. And at a sign from Courfeyrac, tho-
band rushed into the Rue de la Chanvrerie.
III.
NIGHT BEGINS TO GATHER OyER GBANTAIRE.
The place was indeed admirably chosen, the entrance of the street
wide, the further end contracted and like a cul-de-sac, Corinth throt-
tling it, Rue Mond^tour easy to bar at the right and left, no attack pos-
sible except from the Rue Saint Denis, that is from the front, and with-
out cover. Bo,ssust tipsy had the conp d'o il of Hannibal fasting. *
At. the irruption of the mob, dismay seized the whole street, not a
passer but had gone into eclipse. In a flash, at (he end, on the right,
on the left, shops, stalls, alley gates, windows, blind.-*, dormer-windows,
shutters of every size, Vere closed from the ground to the roofs. One
frightened old woman had fixed a mattress before her window on. two
clothes' poles, as a shield against the musketry. The wine shopVas the
only house which remained open; and that for a good reason, because '
the band had rushed into it. "Oh my God! Oh my God I" sighed
Ma'am Eluchtloup. ^f^
Bo.sstict had gone down^ meet Courfeyrac. Joly, who had cnme to
the window, cried: "Courfeyrac, you bust take ad umbrella. You will
catch cold." Meanwhile, in a fcv! minutes, twenty iron has liad been
wrested from the grated front of the wine shop, twenty yards of pave-
ment had been torn up;- Gavroche and Bahorel had seized on its pas-
sage and tipped over the dray of a lime merchant named Anccaii, this
dray contained three barrels full of litne, which they had placed under
the piles of paving-stones ; Knjolras had opened the trap-door of the
cellar and all the widow Hucheloup's empty casks had gone to flank the
lime barrels; hVuilly, with his fingers accustomed to color the dehVate
folds of fans, had buttressed the barrels and I he dray with two massive
heaps of stontjs. Stones improvised like the rest, and obtained nobody
knows where. Some shoring-timbor.i bad been pulled dfiwu fiom the
front of a neighboring house and laid upon the ca,-ks. When Hussuet
and Courfeyrac turned round, half the street was already barred by a
rampart higher than a man. There is nothing like the popular band to
build whatever can be built by demolishing.
i
134 LES MISEKABLBS.
Chowder and Frica«?ee bad joined the laborers. Fricaspee went l^ack
and forth loaded with rubbi.-h. Ucr weariness contributed to the barri-
cade. She eerved paving-stones as she would have served wine, with a
sleepy air. ■
Au omnibus with two white horses passed at the end of the street.
Bo!!."-uot sprang over the pavement, ran, .stopped the driver, made the
passengers get down, gave his baud "to the ladies," dismissed the con-
duetor, and rauie bai-k with the vehicle, leading the horses by the bridle.
"An omnibus," said he, "doesn't pass by Corinth. Nun Hat omnibus
adirc Cori'n hvm."
A moment after the horses were unhitched and going off at will
through the Rue Mon<!etour, and the omnibus lying on its side, com-
pleted the barring of the street.
Ma'am Ilucheloup, jpomplctcly upset, had taken refuge in the first
story. Ilcr eyes wore wandering, and she looked without seeing, cry-
ing in a whi^pe^. Her cries were di.>-maycd and dared not come out of
her throat. '• It is ihe end of the world,' she Tnuriniircd.
GraDtaire was attaining ihe highest regions of dilbyramb. Chowder
having come up to the first floor, Grantaire seized her by the waist and
pulled her towards the window with long bursts of laugiifcr.
"Chowder is ugly !" cried he; "Chowder is the dream of ugliness !
Chowder i.s a chiuucra. liisten to the secret of her birth; a Gothic
Pygmalion who was making cathedral watcj'spouts, fell in love wiih one
of them one fine morning, the most horrible of all. He implored Love
to animate her, and that made Chowder. Behold her, citizens! her
hair is the color of chroniate of lead, like that of Titian's mistress^ and
the is a good girL 1 warrant you that she will fight well. Every goDd
girl contains a hero* As <or iMother Hucheloup, she is an old brave.
Look at her moustaches! she inherited them from her husband. A
hus.sare^ indeed, she will fight too. They two by themselves will
frighteflthe banlieue. Couiradjjg, we will overturn the government, as
true a&'tiiere are fifteen acids intermediate between margaric acid and
formic' acid; which I don't care a fig about. Messieurs, my father
always detested j,iyc, because I could not. understand mathematics. Xi
only ULidersta<fa love and liberty. I am GriM^aire, a good boy. Neve'
having had au^ money, 1 iiave never got used to it, and by that niea
I have never felt the need of it; but if I had been rich, there woul
have been no more poor! you should have seen. Oh! if the good
hearts had the fat purses, how much better ever}-lhiDg would go I I
imagine Je.sus Christ with Rothschild's fortune! .How nuich good he
would have done! Chowder, embrace me! you arc voluptuous and
timid! you have cheeks which call for the kiss of a sister, and lips
which demand ilio kiss of a lover."
" Jio still, wine cask !"' saitl Courffiyrac. Grantaire answered: "I
amiCajiitouland Master of Floral Games!" Enjolras, who was stand-
ing on the crest of the barricade, musket in hand, raised hi.s fine austere
face. Enjolras, wo know, had something of the Spartan and of the
Puritan.. He would have died at Thermopyla) with Lconidas, and
wonld have burned Drogheda with Cromwell. " Grantaire," cried he,
" go sleep yourself sober away from here. This is the place for enthu-
siasm and not for drunkenness. Do not dishonor the barricade !"
SAINT DENIS. ^ 135
This angry speech produced upon Grantaire a singular effect. One
would have said that he ha^^d received a glass of cold water iu his face.
He appeared suddenly sohercd. He 8at down, leaned upon a table near
the window, looked at Enjolras with an inexpressible gentleness, and
said to him : " Let nic slcrp here." " Go sleep elsewhere," cried Kn-
jolras. . But Grantnire, kce[)ing his tender and troubled eyes fixed upon
him, answered : " Let me' sleep here — until I die here." Enjolras re-
garded him with a disdainful eye : '• G;anfairo, you are incapable of be-
lief, of thought, of will, of life, and of death." Grantaire replied
with a grave voice: "You will see." He stammered out a few more
unintelligible words, then his hcfd fell heavily upon the table, and, a
common effect of the second stage of inebriety into which Enjolras had
rudely and suddenly pushed hiui, a moment later he was asleep..
IV.
ATTEMPT AT CONSOLATION UPON THE "WIDOW IIUCIIELOUP.
Bahorel, in ecstacies with the barricade, cried : " There is the street
in a low neck ! how well it looks!" Courfeyrac, even while helping to
demolish the wine-shop, sought to console the widowed landlady.
" JMothcr Hucbcloup, were you not complaining the other day that
you had been summoned and fined because Fricassee had shaken a rug
.out of your window ?" " Yes, my good Monsieur Courfeyrac. Oh !
my God ! are you soing to put that table also into your horror? And
besides that, for the'rug, and also for a flower-pot which fell from the
attic into the street, the government fined mo a hundred francs. If
that isn't an abomination !" " Well, Mother Hucheloap, we arc aveng-
ing you." . • . .
Mothor Hucbcloup, in this reparation which they were ni; 1 ing her,
did not seem to very well understand her advantage. She w - sjuisfied
after the manner of that Arab woman who, having received a I lnw from
her husli;ii; 1, \<- ut to complain to her father, crying for vengeunOBoJlnd
saying : " 1 ,ifl^..r, you owp my husband affront for affront." The father
•asked: " Upon which cheek did you receive the blow?" "Upon the
left check." The father struck the right cheek, and said : " Now you
are satisfied. Go and tell your husband that he has struck my daugh-
ter, bufthat I have struck Lis wife."
The rain had ceased. Uc'cni^ts had arrived. Some workiogmcn had
brought under their blouses a keg of powder, a hamper containing bot-
tles of vitriol, two or threo caruival torches, and a bisket full of lamps,
"relics of the .King's fe"e," which fete was quite recent, having taken
place the 1st of May. It was said that these supplies came froui a gro-
cer of the Faubourg Saint Antoiue, named Tepin. They broke the
only lan)p in the Hue de la Chanvrcric, thfc lamp opposite the Rue Saint
Beuie, and all the lamps in the surroun'ling streets, Jlondetour, du
Cypie, do3 PrOcheurs, tuid dc la Grande and de la Petite Truanderie.
Hnjolras, Curabeferre, and Courfeyrac, directed everything Two
barricades were now bmlding at the same time, both resting on the
houMof Corinth and making a right. angle; the larger one closed the
136 LES MISERABLES.
• ■ •
Rue de la Chanvroritv tbe other clawed the Hue Mond<5tour in the direc-
tion bf thn Hue du ''ygoe. This last barricade, very harrow, was con-
structed uuly of casks and paviog stones. There were about fifty labor-
ers there, some thirty armed with muskets, for, on their way, they bad
effected a wholesale \vau from an armorer's shop.
Nofliinji could be more fantastic and more motley than this band.
One had a short jacket, a cavalry sabre, and two horse-pistols; another
was in shirt sleeves, with a round hat, and a powder-horn hung at his
side; a tiiird had a breast-plate of nine sheets nf brown paper, auci svaa
armed with a saddler's awl. There was one of them who cried : " Let
«.< c.ilrrmiua'e (o the hist man, and die on the point of our baymits !''
This man had no bayonet. Another displayed over his coat a cro.ss-belt
and eartiidge box of the National Guard, with the box cover adorned
with this inscription in red clotli : Puhllr Order. Many muskets bear-
ing the nun^bers of their legions, few hats, no cravats, many bare arms,
Bome pikes. Add to this all ages, all faces, small pale young men, bronzed
wharfmen. All were hurrying; and, while helping each other, they
tajked about the possible chances — that they would have help by three
o'elottl: in the morning — that they were sure of one regiment — that
Paris would rise. Terrible subjects, with which were mingled a sort of
cordial joviality. One would have said they were brothers, they did not
kn"\7 ca.h other's names Great perils have this beauty, that they
bring to light the fraternity of strangers.
A fire had been kindled in the kitchen, and they were melting pitch-
ers, dislies, forks, all the pewter ware of the wine-shop into bullets.
They drank through it all. ]*ercussion-cap3 and buck-shot rolled pell-
mell upon the tables with glasses of wine. In tho. billiard-room, Ma'am
liuebel'up. Chowder, and Fricassee, variously modified by terror, one
being stupefied, another breathless, tbe third alert, were tearing up old
iiuu and making lint; three insurgents assisted them, three longhaired,
bearded, ;ind Jidustnehed wags who tore up the cloth with the fingers of
u linen dr.iper, and who made thcni tremble.
'! ' III of tall .^tature whom Courfcyrac, Combcferrc,, and lilnjolras
d, at the moment he joined tho company at the corner of the
liuL I .> iJillette^, w;is working on tho little barricade, and making hitn-
6cir useful there, (jiavroche worked on the large one. As for the
young man wlio had waited for Courl'oyrac at his house, and had asked
him for Mou.sii'ur Marius, he had disappeared very nearly at the mo-
ment tlie omnibus was overturned. -J/
(Javroche, c"uipletely carried away and radiant, had charged him.self
with tiiuking all ready. He went, cin)C, mour^ted, descended, remount-
ed, bustled, sparkled. lie seemed to be there for the eneouragi ment of
all. Had he a spur? yes, certainly, his misery; bad he wings? yes,
certainly, his j"y. Gavroche was a whirlwind. They saw him inces-
santly, they beard him constantly. He filled the air, being everywhere
at once. He was a kind of stimulating ubiquity ; no stop possible with
him." The enormous barricade felt him on its back. He vexed the
lounger-i, he excited the idle, he reanimated the weary, ho provoked the
thouj:h ftil, kept some in ciieerfulness, others in breath, othtMs in anger,
all in motion, picjued a student, was biting to a working-man ; took po-
sition, stopped, started on, flitted abpye the tumult and the effort, leaped
SAINT DENIS. ■ 137
from these to those, niuruiurcd, hummed, and stirred up the whole
train; the fly on the revolutionary coach.
Perpetual motion was in his little arms, and perpetual clamor in hig
little lungs. " Cheerly ! more paving stones ! more barrels ! more ma-
chines ! where are there any ? A basket of plaster, to stop that hole.
It is too snnxll, your barricade. It must go higher. Pile on everything,
brace it with everything. Kr<^ak up the house. A barricade is Mother
Gibou's tea-party. Hold on, there is a glass-door." This wade the
laborers exclaim: "A glass-door I what do you want us to do with a
glass-door, tubercle ?". <
" Hercules yourselves I" retorted Gavroche. " A glass-door in a bar-
ricade is excellent. It doesn't prevent attacking it, but it bothers them
in taking it. Then you have never -hooked apples over a wall with bro-
ken bottles on it ? A glass-door, it will cut the corns of the National
Guards, when they ti-y to climb over the barricade. Golly! glass is the
devil. Ah, now, you haven't an unbridled imagination, my comrades."
Still, he was furious at his pistol without a hammer. He went from
one to another, demanding : "A musket! I want a musket! Why-
don't you give mc a musket?" "A musket for you?" said Combeferre.
"Well?" replied Gavroche, "why not? I had one in 18^)0, in the
dispute with Charles X." Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. "When
there are enough for the men, we will give them to the children." Gav-
roche turned fiercely, and answered him : " If you are killed before mc,
I will take yours." " Cawm /" said Enjolras. "Smooth-face!" said
Gavroche. A. stray dandy who was lounging at the end of the street
made a diversion. Gavroche cried to him : " Come with us, young
man ! Well, this poor old country, you won't do anything for her
then ?" The dandy fled.
THE PREPARATIONS.
The journal? of the time which said that the barricade of the Rue do
la Chanvrcrie, that almost inexpxujnnhJe cum^truclion, as they call it, at-
tained the level of a second story, were mistaken. The fact is, that it
did not exceed an average height of six or seven feet. It was built in
8uch a luanncr that the combatants' could, at will, cither disappear be-
hind thj wall, or look over it, and even scale the crest of it by meana
of a quadruple range of paving stones supcrfoscd and arranged like
steps on the inner side. The front of (lie barricade on the outside, com-
posed.of piles of panng-stones and of barrels bound together by tim-
bers and boards which were interlocked in the wheels of the Anccau
cart and the overturned omnibu.'j, had a bristling and inextricable as-
pect.
An opening suflScient for a man to pass through, had been left be-
tween the wall of the houses and the extremity of the barricade fur-
thest from the wine-sbt)p, so that a sortie was possible. The pole of the
10
138 LES MISERABLES.
omnibus wa^ turncrl directly up and held with ropes, and a red flag,
fixed to (hi.s f ole, floated over the barricade.
The little Mond(!'tour barricade, hidden behind the wine-shop, was
not vi«ibb. The two barricades united formed a staunch redoubt.
Enjolras and Courfcjrao had not thought proper to barricade the other
end of the Hue de Mondetour which opens a passage to the markets
throu'T'h the Hue des PrOchcurs, wishing doubt Jess to preserve a possi-
ble communication with the outside, and having little dread of being
attacked from the dangerous and difficult alley des I'rGchcurs.
Except this passage remaining free, which constituted what Folard,
in his strategic style, would have called a branch-trench, and bearing
in mind also the narrow openinp; arranged on the Hue de la Chanvrerie,
the interior of the barricade, whert? the wine shop made a salient angle,
presented an irregular quadrilateral closed on all sides. There was an
interval of about twenty yards between the great barricade and the tall
houses which formed the end of the street, so that we might say that
the barricade leaned against these houses, all inhabited, but closed
from top to bottom.
All this labor was accomplished without hindrance in less than an
hour, and without this handful of bold men seeing a bearskin-cap or a
bayonet arise. The few bourgeois who still ventured at that period of
the 6meute into the Rue Saint Denis cast a glance down the Hue de la
Chanvrerie, perceived the barricade, and redoubled their pace.
The two barricades finished, the flag run up, a table was dragged out
of the wine-shop; and Courfcyrac mounted upon the table. Enjolras
brouo'ht the square box and Courfcyrnc opened it. This box was filled
with cartridges. When thoy saw the cartridges, there was a shudder
among the bravest, and a moment of silence.
Courfcyrac distributed them with a smile. Each one received thirty
cartridges. Many had powder and set about making others with the
balls which they were moulding. As for the keg of powder, it was on
a table by itself near the door, aiid it was reserved.
The long-roll which was running through all Paris, was not discon-
tinued, but it had got to be only a monotonous sound to which they paid
no more attention. This sound sometimes rece'ded, sometimes approach-
ed, with taelancholy undulations.
They loaded their muskets and their carbines all together, without
jrecipitation, with a solemn gravity, Enjolras placed three sentinels
outside the barricades, one in the Hue de la Chanvrerie, the second in
the Pi-ue des Procheurs, the third at the corner of la Petite Truanderie.
Then, the barricades built, the posts assigned, the muskets loaded, the
Tidettes placed, alone in these fearful streets in which tl\ere were now
no passers, surrounded by these dumb, and as it were dead houses,
which throbbed with no human motion, enwrapped by the deepening
shadows of the twilight, which was beginning to fall, in the midst of
this obscurity and this silence, through which they felt the advance of
something inexpressibly tragical and terrifying, isolated, armed, deter-
jnined; tranquil, they waited.
^1
•
SAINT DENIS. 139
VI.
WHILE AVAITINQ.
In tliesc hours of waiticg what did they do ? This we must tell —
for thi^ is history.
While the nieu were making cartridges and the women lint, while a
large fr^-ing-piin, full of melted pewter and lead, destined for the bullet-,
mould, was smoking over a burning furnace, while the .vidcttes were
watching the barricades with arms in their hands, while Enjolras, whom
nothing could distract, was watching the videttes, Combeferre, Courfey-
rao, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, a few others be-
sides, sought each other and got together, as in the most peaceful daya
of their student-chats, and in a corner of the wineshop changed into a
casemate, within two steps of the redoubt which they had thrown up,
their carbines primed and loaded resting on tho backs of their chairg,
these gallant young men, so near their last hour, began to sing love-
rhymes.
The hour, the place, these memories of youth recalled, the few stars
which began to shine in the sky, the funeral repose of these deserted
streets, the imminence of the inexorable event, gave a pathetic charm to
these rhymes, murmured in a low tone in the twilight by Jean Prou-
vaire, who, as we have said, was a sweet poet.
Meanwhile they had lighted a lamp at the iittle barricade, and at the
large one, one of those wax torches which are seen on Mardi Gras in
front of the wagons loaded with masks, which are going to the Courtille.
These torches, we have seen, came from the Faubourg Saint An-
toine.
The torch had been placed in a kind of cage, closed in with paving-
etoncs on three sides, to shelter it from the wind, and disposed in such
a manner that all the light fell upon the flag. The street and the bar-
ricade remained plunged in obscurity, and nothing could be seen but
the red flag, fearfully lighted up, as if by an enormoue dark lantern.
This light gave to the scarlet of the flag an indescribably terrible purple.
VII.
\ THE MAN RECRUITED IN THE RUE DES BILLETTE8.
It was now quite night, nothing came.* There were only confused
sounds, and at intervals volleys of musketry; but rare, ill-sustained, and
distant. This respite, which was thus prolonged, was a sign that the
government was taking its time, and massing its forces. These fifty
men were awaiting sixty thousand.
Enjolras felt himself possessed by that imj)atiencc which seizes strong
souls on the threshold of formidable events. He went to find Gavroche,
140 LES MISERABLE8.
who had set himself to making cartridges in tho basement room by the
doflbtful light of two candles, placed upon the counter throujjk precau-
tion on account of the powder scattered over the tables. Tbcpc two
candles threw no rays outside. The insurgents moreover had taken
care not to have any lights in the upper .stories.
Gavnxjhe at this momeut was very much engaged, not exactly with
bis cartridges.
The man from the Kuc des Billette.s had just entered the basement
room and had taken a scat at the table which was least lighted. Aa
infantry musket of large model had fallen to his lot, and he held it be-
tween his knees. Gavrochc hitherto, distracted by a hundred "amus-
ing"things, had not even seen this man.
When he came in, Gavrochc mechanically followed him with his eyes,
admiring his musket, then, suddenly, when the man had sat down, the
gamin arose. Had any one watched this man up to this time, he would
have -seen him observe everything in the barricade and in the band of
insurgents with a singular attention ; -but since hchad come info the
room, he had fallen into a kind of meditation and appeared to see no^
thing more of what was going on. The ffamin approached this thought-
ful personage, and began to turn about him on the points of his toes as
one walks when near somebody whom h(i feaj-s to awakon. At the same
time, over his childish face, at once so saucy and so, serious, so flighty
and 60 profound, so cheerful and so touching, there passed all those
grimaces of the old which signify: "Oh bah! impossible! I am be-
fogged! I am dreaming! can it be? no, it isn't! why yes ! wliy no !
etc. Gavroche balanced himself upon his heels, clenched both fists in
his pockets, twisted his neck like a bird, expended in one moa.-^ureless
pout all the sagacity of his lower lip. lie was stupefied, uncertain,
• credulous, convinced, bewildered. He had the appearance of the chief
of the eunuchs in the slave market discovering a Venus among dumpies,
and the air of an amateur recognising a llaphael in a heap of daubs.
Everything in him was at work, the instinct which scents and the, intel-
lect which combines. It was evident that an event had occurred with
Gavrochc.
It was in the deepest of this meditation that Enjolras accosted him.
" You are small," said Enjolras, " nobody will see you. Go out of the
barricades^ glide along by the houses, look about the streets a little, and
come and tell me what is going on."
Gavrochc straightened himself up. "Little fqlks are good for some-
thing then! that is very lucky! I will go! meantime, trust the little
folks, distrust the big .'^ And Gavroche, raising his head and
lowering his voice, added, pointing to the man of the Hue des BiUettcs :.
« You sec that big fellow there ?" " Well ?" " He is a spy." . " You
are sure ?" " It isn't a fortnight since he pulled me by the ear off the
cornice of the Pont lloyal where I was taking the air."
Enjolras hastily left the gamin, and murmured a few words very low
to a workingman from the wine docks who was there. The working-
man went out of the room and returned almost immediately, accompa-
nied by three othei's. The four men, four broad-shouldered porters,
placed themselves, without doing anything which could attract his attea-
SAINT DENIS. 141
tion, behind the table on which the man of the Rue des Billettes -was
Jeaning. They were evidently ready to throw themselves upon him.
Tlion Etijolras approached the man and a:?ked him : .'' Who are you ?"
At thi.^ abrupt question, the man gave a start. He looked straight to
the bottom of Eujolras' frank eve and appeared to catch hi3 thought.
He smiled with a smile which, of all things in the world, was the most
disdainful, the most energetic, and th« most resolute, and answered with
a haughty gravity : "1 sec how it is Well, yes!" "You are a
spy?" "I am an officer of the government." "Tour name is?"
"javert."
Eujolras made a sign to the four men. In a twinkling, before Javert
had had time to turn around, he was collared, thrown down, bound,
seaj-chcd.
Tho}' found upon him a little round card framed between two glasse^
and bearing on ooe side the arms of France, engraved with this legend :
SnrveUlniue ct vitjUnnce, and op the other t-ide this endorsement :
Javi:rt, inspector of police, aged fifry-two, and the signature of the
prefect of police of the time, M. Gtsquct.
— He, ha.d besides his watch and his purse, which contained a few gold
pieces. Tbeyleft hiai his purse and his watch. Under the watch, at
the bottom of his fub," they felt and seized a paper in an envelope, which
Enjolnis opened, and on which he read these six lines, written by the
prefect's own hand : "As .soon as his politiciijl mission is fwiltilled,
Inspector Javert will ascertain, by a special examination, whether it be
true that malofaotors have resorts oa the slope of the right bank of tlfe
Seine, near the bridge of Jena."
The search finished, the}' raised Javert, tied his arms behind his back,
and fastened him in the middle of the basement- room to that celebrated
post which had formerly given its name to the wine-shop.
Guvrocbe, who had witnessed the whole Fcene, and approved the
w.hole by .silent nods of his head, approached Javert and said to him :
"The mouse has caught the cat." -' * .
All this was. executed so rapidly that it was finished as soon as it was
perceived about the yineshop. Javert had not uttered a cry. Seeing
Javert tied to the post, Courfeaiic, Bossuet, Joly, Combeferre, and the
men scattered about ihp barricades, ran in.
Javert, backed up against the post, and so surrounded with ropes that
he could make no movement, held up his head with the intrepid serenity
of the man who has never lied. " It is a spy," said Eujolras. And
turning towards Javert: " You will be shct ten minutesbefore the bar-
ricade is taken." Javert replied in his most iniperiou.s tone: "Why
not immediately ?" " We are economizing powder." "Then do it with
a knife " " '^py," said the handsome EijolraSj "we are judges, not
assassins." Thou he called to (lavroche : " You ! go about your busi-
ness ! Do what I told you," "I am going," cried Gavroche. And
stopping just as he was starting : " By the way, you will give me his
musket!" And he added : "I leave you the musician, but I want the
clarionet."
Tlio (jnmin made, a military salute, and sprang gaily through the
opening in\he large barricade.
142 LES MISERABLES.
VIII.
SEVEIIAL INTERROGATION POINTS CONCERNHCG ONE LE CABUC, WHO
I'ERUAPS WAS NOT LE CABUC.
The tragic picture which we have commenced would not be complete,
the reader would not see in their exact and real relief these grand
moments of eocial parturition and of revolutionary birth in which there
is convulsion mingled with effort, were we to omit, in the outline here
eketchc-d, an incident full of epic and savage horror which occurred
almost immediately after Gavroche's departure.
Mobs, as we know, are like snow-balls, and gather a heap of tumultu-
ous men as they roll. These men do not a.sk one another whence thej
come. Among the passers who had joined themselves to the company
led by Knjolras, Combcferre and Courfeyrac, there was a person wearing
a porter's waistcoat worn out at the shoulders, who gcstienlatcd and vocife-
rated and had the appearance of a sort of savage drunkurd. This man, who
was named, or nicknamed, Le Cabuc, and who was, moreover, entirela|
unknown to those who attempted to recognise him, very drunk, or fei^^-
ing to be, was seated with a few others at a table wliich they had
brought outside of the* wine-.'jhop. This Cabuc, while inciting those to
drink who were with him, seemed to gaze with an air of reflection upon
the large house at the back of the barricade, the five stories of which
overlooked the whole street and faced towards the Rue Saint Denis.
S&ddenly he exclaimed: "Comrades, do you know? it is froju that
Lou.se that wG must fire. If we are at the windows, devil a one can
come into the street." "Yes, but the house is shut up," said one of
the drinkers. " Knock !" " They won't open." " Slave the door iu !"
Le Cabuc runs to the door, which had a very urassive knocker, and raps.
The door does not open. He raps a second time. Nobody an.'iwers. A
third rap. The same silence. "Is there anybody here?" cries Le
Cabuc. Nothing stirs. '
Then he seizes a musket and begins to beat the door with the butt.
It was an old ajley door, arched, l6w, narrow, solid, entirely of oak,
lined on the inside with sheet-iron and ^th iron braces, a genuine pos-
tern of a bastile. The blows made the house tremble, but did not shake
the door.
Nevertheless, it is probable that the inhabitants were al.irnied, for
they finally saw a little .square window on the third story light up and
open, and there appeared at this window a candle, and the pious and
frightened face of a gray-haired goodman who was the porter.
The man who was knocking, stopped. " Messieurs," asked the
porter, " what do you wish ?" " Opeu I" said Le Cabuc. " Me.«sii ur.s,
that cannot be." " Open, I tell you !" " Impossible, Messieurs I" Le
Cabuc took his musket and aimed at the porter's head ; but as he was
below, and it was very dark, the porter did not see him. " Yes or no,
will you open ?" " Np, Messieurs!" " You say no ?" " I say no, ray
good — " The porter did not finish. The niu.sket went off; the ball
entered under his chin and passed out at the back .of the neck, passing
through the jugular. The old man sank down without a sigh. The
candle f<^l and was extinguished, and nothing could now*be seen but an
SAINT DENIS. 143
immovable head lying on the edge of the window, and a little v^itish
smoke floating towards the rooP. " That's it !" said Le Cabuc, letting
the butt of his musket drop on the pavement.
Hardly had he uttered these words, wher\ he felt a hand pounce upoa
his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talons, and heard a voicfe
which said to him : " On your knees."
The murderer turned and saw before him the white cold face of
Enjolras. Eiijolras had ajnstol in his hand.
At the explosion, he had come up. He had grasped with his left
hand Le Cabuc's collar, blouse, shirt, and suspenders. "On your
knees," repeated he. ' And with a majestic movement, the slender
young man of twenty bent the broad-shouldered and robust porter like
a reed and made him kneel in the mud. Le Cabuc tried to resist, but
he seemed to have been seized by a superhuman grasp.
Pale," his neck bare, his hair flying, Enjolras, with his woman's face,,
had at that moment an inexpre".ssible something of the ancient Themis.
His distended uo.strils, his downcast eyes, gave to his implacable Greek
profile that express^ion of wrath and that expression of chastity which,
from the poinUof view of the ancient world, belonged to justice.
The whole barricade ran up, then all ranged in a circle at a distance,
feeling that it was impossible to utter a word in presence of the act
which they were about to witness.
Le Cabuc, vanquished, no longer attcmptecf to defend him'sclf, but
trembled in every limb. Enjolras let go of him and took out his watch.
"Collect your thoughts," said he. " Pray or think. You have one
minute." " Pardon !" murmured the murderer, then he bowed his head
and mumbled some inarticulate oaths.
Enjolras did not take his eyes off his watch ; he let the minute pass,
then lie put his watch back into his fob. This done, he took Le Cabuc,
who was writhing against fiis knees and howliilg, by the hair, and placed
the muzzle of his pistol at his car. Many of those intrepid men, who
had so tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of enterprises, turned
away their heads.
They ^leard the explosion, the assassin fell face forward on the pave-
ment, and Enjolras straightened up and cast about him, his look deter-
mined and severe. Then he pushed the body away with his foot, and
said : " Throw that outside."
Three men lifted 'the body of the wretch, which was quivering with
the last mechanical convulsions of the life that had flown, and threw it
over the snjall barricade into the little Hue I^Iondetour.
Enjolras bad remained thoughtful.. Shadow, mysterious and grand,
was slowly spreading over his fearful serenity. He suddenly raised his
voice. There was a silence. " Citizens," said Enjolras, " what that
man did is horrible, and what I have done i^ terrible. He killed, that
is why I killed him. I was fureed to do it, for the insurrection must
have its discipline. Assassination is a still greater crime here than
elsewhere ; we arc under the eye of the revolution, we arc the priests of
the republic, we are the sacramental ho.st of duty, and none mu^t be
able to calumniate our combat. 1 therefore judged and condemned that
man to death. .As for myself^ compelled to do what I have- duuc, but
abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall sooa see to what
144 LES MISBRABLES.
I ha# sentenced myself." Those who heard shuddered. "We "wiil
share your fate," cried Combeferre. "So be it," added Enjolras. '^A
word more. In execufiug that man, I obeyed necessity; but necessity
is a monster of the old world, the name of necessity is Fatality. Now
the law of projjrcss is, that monsters di.sappear before anqol.«, and that
Fatality vanish before Fraternity. Citizens, there shall be in the future
neither darkness uor thunderbolts ; neither ferocious ignorance nor blood
for blood. As Satan shall be no more, so Michael shall be no more.
In the future no man shall slay his fellow, the earth .shall be radiant,
the human race shall love. It will come, citizens, that day when all
shall be concord, harmony, light, joy, and life; it will come, and it is
that it may come that we are going to die."
Enjolras was silent.^ His virgin lips closed' and he remained some
time standing on the spot whore he had .spilled blood, in marble immo-
bility. His fi.ved eye made all about him speak low.
Jean I'rouvaire and Combeferre silently grasped hands, and, leaning
upon one another in the corner of the barricade, considered, with an
admiration not unmingled with compassion, this severe young man,
executioner and priest, luminous like the crystal, and ro(^ also.
Let us say right here that later, after the action, when the corpses
were carried to the Morgue and searched, there was a police officer's
card found on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in his own
hands, in 1848, the special report made on that subject to the prefect of
police in 1832.
Let us add that, if we are to believe a police tradition, strange, but
well founded, Le Cabuc was Claquesous. The fact is, that after the
death of Lc Cabuc, nothing more was heard of Claquesous. Claquof^ous
left no trace on his disappearance, he would seem lo have been amalga-
mated with the invisible. His life had been darkness, his end was
The whole insurgent group were still under the emotion of this tragic
trial, so quickly instituted and so quickly terminatied, when Courfeyrac
again saw in the barricade the small young man' who in the njorning
had called at his house for Marius.
This boy, who had a bold and reckless air, had come at night to
rejoin the insurgents.
33 0 0 ft 51: e n t ij .
MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW.
I.
FROM TUK HUE PLUMET TO THE QUAKTIKR SAINT DENIS.
That voice which through the twilight had called Marius to the barri-
cade of the Hue de la Chanvrerie, soun'ded to him like the .voice of
destiny. He wished to die, the opportunity presented itself; be was
SAINT DENIS. 145
knocking at the door of the tomb, a hand in the shadow hold out the
key. These dreary clefts in the darkness before de-pair are tempting.
Marius pushed aside the bar which had let him pass so many times,
came out of the garden, and said : " Let us go !" *
Mad with* grief, feeling no longer anything fixed or solid in his brain,
incapable of accepting anything henceforth- froai fate, After the.'je two
months passed iu the intoxications of youth and of love^ whelmed at
once beneath all the reveries of despair, he had now but one desire : to
make an end of it very quick. Ho began to walk rajudly. It hap-
pened that he was armed, having JavLVt's pistols with him.
• The young man whom he thought he had seen, was lost from his eyes
in the streets. JIarius, who had left tho Hue Plumet bythe Boulevard,
crossed the Esplanade and the Bridge of the Invalidts, the Champs
Elys6-s, the Place Louis XV., and entered the Rue dc PtivoU. The
stwes wore open, the gas was burning under the arches, women were
buying in the shops, people were taking ices at the Cafe Lailer, they
were eating little cakes at the Patisserie Anglaise. However, a few
post-chair^es were setting off at a gallop from the Hotel des IJrinces and
the Hotel MeCrice. " •
Marius- entered through tire Delornie arcade into the Rue Saint
Honore. The shops here were closed, the merchants were chatting
before their half-open doors, people were moving about, the lamps were
burning, above the first stories all tl^e windows .were lighted a.s usual.
TBere was cavalry in the square ef the Palai.5 Royal.
Marius followed the Rue St. Honore. As he receded from the Palai.s
Royal, there were fewer lighted windows; the shops were entirely
closed, nobody was chatting in the.doors, the street grew gloomj-j.and
at the same time the throng grew'dense. For the ptisscrs now were a
throng. Nobody was seen to speak iu this throng, and still there came
from it a deep ajid dull hum. (|4
Towards the Fcmtaine de I'Arbre Sec, thorerrcre 'gatherings,' immo-
vable and sombre groups, which, among the comers and goeis, w^gre
like stones in the middle of a running stream.
At the entrance of the Rue des Prouvaires, the throng no'. longer
moved. It was a resisting, massive, solid, compact, almost impenetra-
ble block of people, heaped together and talking in whispers. Black
coats and round hats had almost disappeared Frocks, blou.ses, caps,
bristly and dirty faces. This multitude undulated confusedly in th3
misty night. .Its whispering had the harsh sound of»a roar. Although
nobody was walking, a trampling ^as heard in the mud. Beyond this
dense mass, in the Rue du Roule, in the Rue des Prouvaires, and in
the prolongation of the Rue Saint Honor^, there was not. a single win-
dow in which a candle was burning. In those streets the files of the
lamps were seen stretching away solitary and decreasing. Tlie lamps of .
that day resemHed great red stars hanging from ropes, and threw a
shadow on the pavement which had the form of a large ."-pider. These
streets were 'not empty. Mu.skcts could bo distinguished in stacks,
bayonets moving and troops bivouacking. The curious did not pass this ,
bound. There ciroulaWon ceased. There the multitude ended and tbo
army began.
Marius willed with the will of a man who no longer hopes. He had
140 LES MISERABLES.
bcpn called,- he must p^. IIo found means to pass through the multi-
tude, and to pass throufrh the bivouac of the troops, he avoided the
patrols, cvacbd the ^eQtincls. lie maJe u detour, resurhcd the Hue dc
Bethi.-y, ninl made his way towards ti)o markets. At the corner of the
Hue il'> Hiurdonnais the lamps, ended.
Afivr havin}^,cros6ed the belt of the multitude and passed tho fringe
of troops, he found himself in the midst of something terrible. Not a
passer more, not a soldier, not a light ;• nobody. Solitude, silence,
night; a mysterious chill which seized upon him. To enter a stroot
was to enter a cellar.
lie continued to advance. He took .a few steps. Somebody passad
near him, running. Was it a man? a woman? were there several?
lie could not have told. It had p^sed and hud vauii'hed.
Uy a circuitous route, lie came to a Hi tie street which he juflgod to be
the line de la Toteric ; about the middle of this .alley he ran agaiust
eoiue obstacle. He put out his hands. It was an overturned cart ; his
foot rccogoised /puddles of water, mud-holes', pavini; stones, scattered
and heape^ up. < A barricade had been planned there and abandoned.
He climbed over the stones and found himself on the other side of the
obstruetio^i. He walked very near tho ptists and guided himself hy the
walls of the houses. A little beyond the barricade, he seemed to catch
a glimp.-e of something white in front of him. He ap'proaehed, it took
form. It was two white horses ; the omnibus horses unharnessed by
Bossuet in the morning, which had w«ndercd at chanej from street lo
street all day long, and had liually stopped there, with the exhausted
patience of brikes, who no more comprehend the ways of man than maa
comprehends the ways of PrQvidencp.
Warius lel't the horses b.hind hfm. As he came to a street which
struck him as being tho Hue du Contrat Social, a shut from a musket
coming nobody knows wiMnce, passing at random through tlie obscu-
rity, whistled close by l^m, aul the ball pierced a copper .'<haviug-dish
suspended before u barber's shop. 'J'his shaving-dish with the bullet-
hole could still be seen, in IS 10, in the Hue du Contrat Social, at tho
corner oi' thp pillars of the markets.
This mu-ket-shot was life still. From that moment be met DOthing
more.
This whole route resembled a descent down dark stairs.
j\I alius nunc the less went forward.
II.
I'AUIS — AN owl's eye VIEW.
A being who could have soared above Paris at that moment witli the
wing of the but or the owl, would have had a gloomy spectacle beneath
bis eyes.
All that oM (|narticr of the markets, which is like a city within tho
city, which is traversed by the Hues Saiut Dt^jiis and ^Saiiit i^Iartin,
where a thousand little streets cross each other, and of which the insur-
gents had ma«le their stronghold and their lield, of arms, would have ap-
SAINT DENIS. 147
peared to liim like an cnoriuoUs black hole clu<>; out in the centre of
Paris. There the eye foil into an abyss. Thanks to the broken hunps,
thanks to the closed windows, there ceased all radiance, all life, all
sound, all motion. The invisible police of the einute watched everj'-
whcre, and lurtintained order, that is nipht. To drown the sniallness of
their number in a vast ob.icurity and to multiply each combatant by the
possibilities which that obscurity contains, are the necessary tactics of
insurrection. At uiglitfull, every window in which a candle was liirhted
bad received a ball. The light was extinguished, sometimes the inhabi-
tant killed. Thus nothing stirred. There was nothing there but fright,
mourning, stupor in the houses j in the^streets a sort of sacred horror.
Even the long ranges of windows and of stories were, not perceptible,
the notching of the chimneys and the roofs, the dim reflections which
gleam on the wet and muddy pavement. The eye which might have
looked from above into that mass of shade would have caught a glimpse
here and there perhaps, from point to point, of indistinct lights, bring-
ing out bi*oken and fantastic lines, outlines of ^singular constructions,
something like ghostly gleams, coming and going among ruins ; these
were the barricades. The rest was a lake of obscurity, misty, heavy,
funereal, above which rose, motionless and dismal silhonettes, the tower
Saint Jacques, the church Saint Merry, and two or three others of those
great buildings of which man niakes giants and of whicii night makes
phantoms.
All about this deserted and disquieting labyrinth, in the quartiers
where the' circulation of Paris was not stopped, and where a few rare
lamps shone out, the aerial observer might have distinguished the me-
tallic scintillation of sabres and bayonets, the sullen rumbling of artil-
lery, and tlie swarming of silent Imttalions augujenting froin moment to
moment; a furmidable girdle which was tightening and slowly closing
about the emeutc. ^^^
• The invested quartier was now only a iB^of monstrous cavern ;
everything in it appeared to bo sleeping or motionless, antl, as we have
just seen, none of tlie streets on which jou might have entered, offered
anything-but darkness.
A savage darkne.ss, full of snares, fuli of unknown and formidable
encounters, where it was fearful to penetrate and appalling to stay,
where tbose who entered bhuMcred before those who were awaiting
them, where those who waited trembled before those who were to
come. Invisible combatants intrenched At every street-corner; thq
grave hidden ip ambush in the thickness of the night. It was finished.
No other light to bo hoped for there henceforth save the flash of mus-
ketry, ho other meeting save the sudden and rajiid apparition of death.
Where? how? when? nobody Ijnow; but it was certain and inevitable.
There, in that place marked out for the cr.ntest, the government and the
in.surrection, the National Guard and the popular societies, the bour-
geoisie and the dmeute were to ixroj)? their way. For those as for these,
the ncccshsity was the same. To leave that place slain or victors, the
only possible i.'^sue heneeforth. A situation so extr oiiie. an ob.'-cuiity so
overpowering, that the most timid fell themselves iilleu with nsulutioa
and the boldest with terror. ^
Moreover, oa both sides, fury, rancor, c^pird dcterininalion. For
148 LES MIsfiRABLES.
tbose to a-lvance was to die, and nobody thought of retreat; for theso
to stay wjs to die, and noboly tliought of flight.
All must bo decided on the morrow, the triumph must be on this
side or on that, the insurrection must be a rovuiuiion or a blunder.
The covernmont understood it as wtll as the factions; the least bour-
geois felt it. Hence a feeling of annuish which mingled with the impene-
trable darkness of this quartier where all was to be decided ; hence a
redoublinjr of anxiety about this silence whence a catastrophe was to
issne. Hut one sound couM be heard, a sound heart rending^as a denth-
nUtle, menacint: as a luuK diction, the tocsin of Saint Merry. Nothing
was so blood-chilling as the clamor of this wild and desperate boll
wailing in the darkness.
As C'ftcn happen?, nature seemed to bave put herself in accord with
what men were about to do. Nothing disturbed the funereal harmonies
of that whole. The stars had disappeared ; heavy clouds filled the
wbole horizon with thiir melancholy folds. There was a blat-k sky over
those dead streets, as if an iinmensvi pall had unfolded itself over that
immen!to tomb.
While a battlo as yet entirely political was preparing in this same lo-
cality, whiv:h had already seen so many revolutionacy events, while the
youth, the secret associations, the schools, in the name of prinoiples, and
the middle class, in the name of interests, were approaching to dash
against •each other, to close with and to overthrow each other, while
each was hurrjing and calling the final and decisive hour of the crisis,
afar olf and outside of that fat<tl quartier, in the deepest of tiie unfath-
omable^ caverns of that old, miserable Paris, which is disappearing under
the splendor of the happy and opulent Paris, the gloomy voice of the
people was heard suUeul}' growling.
A fearful and sacred voice, which is composed of the roar of the brute
and the speech of* Godj^Bph- terrilii^s the feeble and which warns the
wise, which comee at twKiiu^ time from below like the voice of the
lion, and from* above like; the voice of the thunder.
III.
THE EXTREME LIMIT.
Marius had arrived at the'markets. There all was more calm, more
obscure, and more motionless still than in the neighboring streets. One
would have said that the icy peace of the grave had come forth from
the earih and spread over the sky.
A red glare, however, cut out upon this dark back-ground the high
roofs of the houses whicli barred the Hue do la Clianvrtrie on the side
towards Saijit Eustache. It was the reflec'ion of the torch which was
blazing in the barricade af Corinth. Marius directed his stops towards
this glare. It led him to the Beef Market, and he dinily saw the dark
mouth of the Hue des Precheurs. lie entered it. The vidctte of the
insurgents who was on guard at the other end did not perc^^ive him.
He felt that he was very near what he had come to seek, and he walked
upon tiptoe. Jle reached in this way the elbow of that short end'of
SAINT DENIS. 149
• • ■ ■■
the Euc l^Iondctour, which was, as we remember, the only communica-
tion preserved by Enjolras with the outside. Round the corner of the
last house on his left, cautiously advancing his head, he looked into this
end of the Rue Mondetour. •
A little beyond the black corner of the alley and tJie Run do la Chan-
vrerie, which threw a broad shadow, in which he was himself buried,
he perceived a h'ght upon the pavement, a portion of the wine-shop, and
behiftd, a lamp twinkling in a kind of shapeTess wall, and men crouch-
ing down with muskets on their knees. All this was in twenty yards
of him. It was the interior of the barricade.
The houses on the right of the alley hid from him the rest of the
wine shop, the great barricade, and the flag..
Maiius had but one step more to take.
Then the unhappy j'oung man sat down upon a stone, folded his arms,
and thought of his fathei;.
He thought of that heroic Culonel Pontmercy who had been so brave
a soldier, who had defended the frontier of France under the Republic,
and reached the frontier of Asia under the Emperor, who had seen Ge-
noa, Alessandi'ia, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, J)resdcn, Rerlin, Mos-
cow, who had left upon every field of victory in Europe drops of that
same blood which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown grey be-
fore hi.s time in discipline and in command, who had lived with his
sword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade black-
ened by powder, his forehead wrinkled by the cap, in the barracks, in
-the camp, in the bivouac, in the ambulance, and who after twenty years
had returned from the great wars with his cheek scarred, his face smil-
ing, simple, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done everything
for France and nothing against her.
lie said to himself that his day had come to him also, that his hour
had at last struck, that after his father, he ^i|^as to be brave, intrepid,
bold, to run amidst bullets, to bare his brl^^^ the bayonets, to pour
out his blood, to seek the enemy, to sock deat^^iat hS was to wage war
in his turn and to enter upon the field of battle, and that that field of
battle upon which ho was about to enter, was the street, and that war
which he was about to wage, was civil war.
He saw civil war yawqing like an abyss before him, and that in it he
was to fall. Then he shuddered, a
And then he began to weep bitterly.
It was horrible, liut whdl could he daf Live without Cosfitc, he
could not. Since she had gone away, he Wrist surely die. Had he not
given her his word of honor that he should die ? 8he had gone away
knowing that; therefore it pleased her that Marius should die. And
then it was clear that she no longer loved him, since she had gone away
thus, without notifying him, without a word, without^ letter, and she
knew his address ! What use in life, and why live longer? And then,
indeed, to have come so far, and to recoil ! to have approached the dan-
ger, and to flee 1 to have come and looked into the barricade, and to
slink away ! to slink away all trembling, saying: "infact, I have had enough
of this, have seen, that is sulficient, it is civil war, I am going away 1"
To abandon his friends who wore expecting him ! who perhaps had need
of him ! who were a handful against an army ! To fail in all things at
150 LES MISERABLES.
the same time, in Lis love, his fricrnl-hip, hh word I To civo his pol-
troonery the pretext of jiatriotisra ! liut this was impossible, and if his
father s gbost were there in the shadow and saw him recoil, he would
strike liiin with the flat df his sworrt and cry to him: "Advance,
coward I"
A pr<'y fo the swayinj; of his thouirhts, he bowed his head.
t^uddonly he straightened up. A .«ort of splendid rectilication was
wrouirht in his spirit. Tffere was an expansion of thought jittt d fti the
contiuitj'of the tomb ; to be near death makes us sec the truth. The
vision uf the act upon which he felt himself perhaps on the point of
entering, appeared to him uo longer lamentable, but superb. The war
of the street was suddenly transligured by some indescribable interior
throe of the soul, brfjre the eye of his mind. All the tumultuous in-
terrogation points of his reverie thronged upon him, but without troub-
ling l.im. lie left none without an answer.
Civil war? What does this mean? Is there any foreign war? Is
not cvory war between men, war between brothers ? ' War is njodified
only by its aim. There is neither foreign war, nor civil warj th^rc is
only UMJust war and just war. Until the day when the great human
concordat shall be concluded, war, that at least which is the struggle of
the hurrying future agaiust the lingering past, may be necessary. What
reproach can be brought against auch war? War becomes shame, the
fiword becomes a dagger, ouly when it assassinates right, pro:rre.~s, reason,
civilization, truth. Then, civil war or foreign war, it is iniijuitous; its
name is crime. Outside of that holy thing, justice, by what right does
one form of war despise another ? by what right does the sword of Wash-
ington disown the pike of Camille Desmouiios? Leonidas against the
foreigner, Timolcon against the tyrant, which is the greater? ouo is the
defender, the other is the liberator. Shall we brand, without troubling
ourselves with the object^Kery resort to arms in the interior of a city ?
then mark with infauij^^HRus, Marcel, Arnold of Hlankcnheim, Colig-
ny. War of the thicl^s? war of the streets? Why not? it was the
war of Ambiorix, of Artaveld, of Maruix, of Pelagius. But Auibiorix
fought against Rome, Artaveld against France, Maruix against Spain,
I'elagius against the Moors; all against the Ibreigucr. Well, monarchy
is the foreigner ; oppression is the foreigner; diyine right is the foreigner.
Despotism violates the moral froutMr, as iuva>ion violates the geographi-
cal frontier. To drive out the tyrant or to drive out the English, is, in
either case, to retake your territory. There comes an hour when pro-
test no longer sullices ; after philosophy there must be action ; the strong
hand finishes what the idea hiin planned ; Promrtlicns Buund begins,
Aristogeiton completes; the Euri/clopidlr, enlightens souls, the 10th of
Augu^xt elect ri ties them. After ^iSjhylus, Thrasybulus; after l)iderot,
Danton. The multitudes have a tendency to accept a master. Their
mass deposits apathy. A mob easily totalizes itself into obedience.
Men must be aroused, pushed, shocked by the very benefits of their de-
liverance, their eyes wounded with the truth, light thrown them in ter-
rible handfuls. They should bo blinded a little for their own safety;
this dazzling wakens them. Hence the necessity for tocsins and for wars.
Great warriors must arise, illuminate the nations by boldness, and shake
free this sad humanity which is covered with shadow by divine right.
SAINT DENIS. • 151
These wars construct peace. An enormous^ fortress of prejudices, of
privileges, of superstitions, of lies, of extractions, of abuses, of violence,
<ff iniquity, of darkness, is still standing upon the world with its towers
of hatred. It must bo" thrown down. This monstrous pile must be
made to fall. To conquer at Austcrlitz is grand; to take the Bastille is
immense.
There is nobody who has not remarked it. in himself, the soul, and
this is the marvel of its cotnplicate unity and ubiquity, has the wonder-
ful faculty of reasoning almost coolly iu the most desperate extremities;
and it oiten happeils that disconsolate passion and deep despair, in the
very agony of their darkest soliloquies, weigh subjects and discuss the-
ses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of syllogism
floats unbroken "in the dreary storm of thought. This was Marius's
state of mind.
Even while thinking thus, overwhelmed but resolute, hesitating, how-
ever, and, indeed, shuddering in view of what he was about to do, his
gaze wandered into the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were
chatting in undertone, without moving about; and that quasi-.^ilence was
felt which marks tlije last phase of delay. Above them, at a third story
window, Marius distinguished a sort of spectator or witness who seemed
to him singularly attentive. It was the porter killed by Le Cabuc.
From below, by the reflection of the torch hidden among the paving-
stones, this head was dimly perceptible. Nothing was more strange in
that gloom}' and uncertaiji liiiht, than that livid, motionless, astonished
face with its bristling hair, its staring eyes, and its gaping mouth, lean-
ing over the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said
that he who Vas dead was gazing at those who were ^bout to 'die. A
long trail of blood which had flowed from this head, descended in ruddy
streaks from the window to the height of the first story, where it stopped.
ISoolt 33lclicntfj.
THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR.
THE FLAG : FIRST ACT.
Nothing came yet. The clock of Saint Merry had struck ten. En-
jolras and Combeferre had sat down, carbine in hand, near the opening
of the great barricade. They were not talking, they wore listening;
seeking to catch even the faintept and most distant sound of a march.
Suddenly, in the midst of this dismal calm, a clear, young, cheerful
voice, which seemed to come from the Hue Saint J>enis, aro.se and began
to sing distinctly to the old popular air, Au dnir iJc la lune, some lines
which ended in a sort of cry similar to the crow of a cock.
They grasped each other by the hand: "It is GavTOche," said Enjol-
ras. "He is warning us," said Combeferre.
lo2 'LES ^ISERABLES.
A luadlong run startled the empty street; they saw a creature nim-
bler than a clown, climb over (be omnibus, and Gavrocbe bounded into
the barricade; all bn-atblcss, saying: '' My musket I litre they are."#
An electric thrill ran through the whole barricade, and a moving of
baodii was heard, feeling for their musket:;.
•' Do you want my carbine i"' said Enjolras to the i/nmni. "I want
' the big musket," answered Gavroche. And he took Javert's musket.
Two scDtioels had been driven back, and. bad couip in almost at the
Fame time as Gavroche. They were the sentinel from the end of the
street, and the vidutto from la Petite Truandcrie. • The videtto in the
little liue des Prechcurs remained at his post, which indicated that
nothing was coming from the direction of the bridges and the markets.
The Jluc do la Cliapvrerie, in which a few paving-stones were dimly
visible by tho reflection of the light which was thrown upon the Hag,
offered to the insurgents the nppearanoe of a great black porch opening
into a cloud of smoke.
Every man had t:ikcn his post for the combat FortZ-threc insur-
gents, among th<^m Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, IJossuet, Joly, Ba-
liorcl, and Gavroche, were on their knees in the great barricade, their
beads even with the crest of the wall, the barrels of their mu?>kcts ai^d
their carbines pointed over the paving-stones as through loopholes, watch-
ful, silent, rtiudy to fire. Six, commanded by Feuilly, were stationed
with their mu.-kcts at their shoulders, in the windows of the two upper
storie* of Corinth.
A few momenis more elapsed, then a sound of steps, measured, heavy,
numerous, was distinctl}* hoard from the direction of Saint Leu. This
so'uTi'l, at- firj.t faipt, then di.-tiuct, then heavy and soiioroU'*, approached
glowly, without halt, without interruption, with a tranquil and terrible
continuity. Nothing but this could be hoard. It was at onco the silence
and the sound of the statue* of the Coinm:ixider, but this stony tread was
ECf indescribably enorm(^« and so multiplex, that it called up at the
same time thQ idea of a throng and of a spectre. You would have
thought you hcai'd the stride of the fearful statue Legion. Tiiis tread
• ajjproadicd; it approached still nearer, and stopped. Thoy socmed to
bear at the end of (he street (he brea(hing of many men. They saw
nothiijg, however, only they discovered at the very end, in that dense
obscurity, a multitude of nietallio threads, as 6ue as needles and almost
imperci ptiljlc, which moved about like those indescribable phosphoric
networks which we perceive under our clo.«ed eyelids at the moment of
going to sleep, in the first mists of slumber. They were bayonets iand
mu>*ki't barrels dimly lighted up by the distant reflection of the torch.
There wan still a pause, as if on both sides they were awaiting. Sud-
denly, from the depth of that shadow, a voice, so much the more omi-
nous, because uobudy could be seen, and because it seemed as if it were
the obscurity itself which was speaking, cried : " Who is there i"' At
tho same time they heard the click of the levelled muskets.
Enjolras answered in a lofty and ringing tone : " French Revolutipn !"
. " Fire !" said the voice.
A flash empurpled all the f:i9ades on the street, as if the door of a ■
furnace were opened and sudden I3' closed.
A fcar(\il explosion burst over the barricade. Jhe red flag fell. The
SAINT DENIS. 153
volley had been so heavy and so dense that it had out tlie staflF,
that is to say, the very "point of the pole of the omnibus. Some balls,
which lioocheted from the cornices of the houses, entered the barricade
and wounded several men.
The impret^f^ion produce^ by this first charge was freezing. The
attack w.LS impetuous, and >such as to make the boldest ponder. It wa«
evidenf that they had to do with a whole regiment at least.
"Comrades," cried Gourfeyrac,' " don't waste the powder. Let ufl
wait to reply till' they come into the street." "Ami, first of all," 8aid
Enjolras, " let us hoist the flag again !" He picked up the Aug which
had fallen JDSt at his feet.
They heard from without the rattling of the ramrods in the muskets:
the troops were reloading.
lilnjolras continued: "Who is there here who has courage? whe
replants the flag on the barricade?"
Nobody answered. To mount the barricade at the mo"mcnf whea
without doubt it was aimed at anew, was simply death. The bravest
nesitates to sentence him.<elf, Eujulras himself felt a shudder. He
repeated : " Nobody volunteers !"
II.
THE FLAG : SECOND ACT.
'Since they had arrived at (yotinth and bad commenced building the
barricade, hardly any attention had been paid to Father MabcuC M.
Mabeuf, however, had not loft the company. He had entered the
ground floor of the. wine shop and sat down behind the counter. There
heJiad been, so to speak, annihilated in himself. He no longer seemed
to look or to think. Courfeyraf^ and others had accosted him two or
three times, warning him of the danger, entreating him to (^iMidraw,
but he had n it appeared to hear them. When nobody was sptai-ing
to him, his Iip8 moved as if he were answering somebody, and as soon
as anybody addres.«cd a word to him, his lips became stiil and his eyea
lost all appearance of life Some hours before the barricade was
attacked, he had taken a position wliieh he had not left since, his hands
upon his knees and his head bent forward as if he were looking into an
abyss. Nothing had been able to draw him out of this attitude; it
appeared as if his mind were not in the barricade. When ever\b'idj
had gone to take his jilucc for the comhaf, there remained in the base-
ment room only Javcrt tied to the post, an insurgent with drawn subre
watching Javert, and he, Mabeuf At the moment of the attack, at the
discharge, the physical shock reached him, and, as it were, awakened
him ; he ro«e suddenly, crossed the room, and at the instant when
Knjolras repeated his appeal : " Nobody volunteers?" they saw the old
man appear in the doorway of the wine phep.
His presence produced sotnc comniotion in the group. A crv arose:
" It is the Voter I it is the Conventionist ! it is the llcprc.^entaiivc of
the people !"
It is probable that he did not hear.
11
164 LES MISERADLBS.
lie walkrd straight to Eujilras, the in«urgfint,s foil back before him
nith a ri'li;:i'ius awe, he snatched the flng from Enjolras, who drew baok
petrified, and then, njbody dariii<i to stop him, or to aid him, tliis old
mail (if eicrhty, vrifli slinking head but firm foot, begau to climb slowly
«p tb^ pith way of paving 8tooes built into the barricade. It was so
gloom}' :ind so grand that all about him cried : " Huts olf I" At each
Biep ii wa.^' frightful ; his white hair, his decrejtit face, his large forehead
bald an'i wrinkled, his hollow eyes, his quivering and open mout'li, his
old arm'niising the rod b inner, surged up out of the shadow and grow
grantl in the bloody light of the torch, and they seemed to see the ghost
of "S.] ri>ing out of the oaith, the flag of terror in its hand.
When he was on the top of the last st^p, when this trembling and
terrilil • phantom, standing upnu that mound of rubbish before twelve
bundrod invisible muskots, ro.sc up, ia the face of death and as if he
were i^tnmger than it, the whole barricade had iu the darkness a super-
natural and colos.sal appearance.
There was one of those silences which occur only in presence of prodi-
gies. In the midst of thi.s silence the old man waved the red flag and"
cried : " Vive la ricofudon I vfvc la rejmUiijue I fraternity ! equality !
and death !"
Tbey heard from the barricade a low and rapid muttering like the
murmur of a hurried priest dispatching a prayer. It was probably the
coininissary of police who was making the legal summons at the other
end of the street. Tlien the same ringing voice which had cried :
♦' >\1i(i is there 'f" cried : •' Disperse !"
M. M.iatuf, pallid, haggard, his eyes jllnmined by the mournful fires
of insanity, raised the flag above his head and repeated : " IVrc la
ripuliliquc!" "Fire!" said the voice. A second discharge, like a
shower of grape, beat against the barricade.
The old man fell upon his knees, then ro.-e up, let the flag drop, :ujd
fell backwards upon the pavement within, like a log, at full length, with
his arms trossed. Streams of blood ran from beitcath him. . His old
face, pale and sad, Rocmed to beheld the sky.
■ One of tho.se emotions superior to man, which make us forget even to
defend ourselves, seized the insurgents, and they approached the corpse
vith a respe'jtful dismay. " What men these regicides are !" said
Enjolras Courfeyrac bent over to Eujolras' ear: "This is only lor
you, and I don'fwish to diminish the enthusiasm. But he was any-
thing but a regicide. I knew him. His name was Father .Mabeuf. I
^on't know what ailed him to-day. Hut he was a brave blockhead.
Just look at his head."
" Bloekhead and ]5rutus heart," answered Enjolras. Then he raised
his voice : " Citizens ! This is the example which the old give to the
young. Wo hesitated, he came! we ftdl back, he advanced! Behold
what those who trctnblc with old age, teach those who tremble with
fcar ! This patriarch is august in the sight of the country. He has
had a long life and a magnificent death ! Now let us protect his corpse,
let every one defend this old man dead as he would defend his father
living, and let his presence among us make the barricade impregnable I"
A murmur of gloomy and determined adhesion followed these words.
Enjolras stooped down, raised the old man's bead, and timidly kissed'
SAINT DENIS. 155
him on the forehead, then separating his arms, and handling the dead
mih a tender care, as if he feared to hurt him, he took off his coat,
showed the bleeding holes to all, and said : " There now is oiv flag."
HI-
GAVROCIIE WOULD flAVE DONK BETTER TO ACCEPT ENJOLRAS's
CARBINE.
They threw a long black shawl belonging to the widow Ilucheloup
over Father Mabeuf. Six men made a barrow of their muskets, they
laid the corpse upon it, and they bore it, bareheaded, with a solemn
slowness, to the large table in the basement room. These men, com-
pletely absorbed in the grave and sacred thing which they were doinor^
no longer thought of the perilous situation in which they were.
When the corpse passed near Javert, who was still impassible, Enjol-
ras said to the spy: "You! directly." During this time little
Gavroche, who alone had not left his post and had remained on the
■watch, thought he saw some men approaching the barricade with a
stealthy step. Suddenly he cried : "Take care !" Courfeyrac, Enjol-
ras, Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre, Joly, Bahorcl, Bossuct, all sprang* -
tumultuously from the wine shop. There was hardly a moment to spare.''
They perceived a* sparkling breadth of bayonets undulating above the
barricade. Municipal (juards of tall stature were penetrating, .<ome by
climbing over the ooinibus, others by the opening, puling before them
the (/ami n, who fell back, but did not fly.
The moment- was critical. It was that first fearful instant of the
inundation, when the stream rises to the level of the bank and when the
water begins to infiltrate through the fissures in the dyke. A second
more, and the barricade liad been taken.
Bahorel sprang upon the first Municipal Guard who entered, and
killed him at the muzzle of his carbine; the second killed Bahorel with
bis bayonet. Another had already prostrated CourAyrac, who was cry-
ing. " iTclp !" The largest cf all, a kind of colossus, marched upon
Gavroche with fixed bayonet. The gnmin took .Javert's enrtrmous mus-
ket in his little arm«, aimed it resolutely at tli^ giant, and pulled the
trigger. Nothing went off. Javert had not loaded hi.s musket The
Municipal Guard burst into a laugh and raised his bayonet over the
child.
Before the bayonet touched Gavroche the musket dropped from the
the soldier's hamls, a ball had struck the Municipal Guard in the middle
of the forehead, and he fell on his back. A second ball strtick the other
Guard, who had assailed Courfeyrac, full in the brea.st, and threw him
upon the pavement.
It was Marius, who had just entered the barricade.
j»
156 LKS MIsftRABLK?.
TnK KEO OF POWHKU. •
IVInriu", Ptill hiJilen in the corner "f tho Ru'e M^nJciour, lia-J watched
tho first phase of the combat, irrooluto uvd shuiMtrine. Iliuvi vor, ho
iras not able Innp to rt-sist lli;it ni}'!-tcriou8 and -sovereign iiifuiuation
which wc may call the appeal of the abvss. IJefore the inmiinence of
the danger, before the death of M. iSInbeuf, bifnre Huhorel shiin. Cour-
feyrac ciyinp " Help!'' t' at cliiM ^hii atened, his friends to succor or to
avenge, all hesitation bad vanii'heil, :iii(i hj; bad rushe 1 into the cimflict,
b^is two pistnls in bi-s hands. By the first shot ho had tavcd Gavroche,
ffnd by the second delivered Courfoyrao
At the t.hot«, at the cries of the wounded Guards, tiK' assailants had
eoalcd the intrenchment, upon the summit of which could now be seen
thnmiiing Municipal Guards, soldiers of the Line, National Guards of
the baulicue, musket in hand. They already covered more than two-
thirds of the wall, but they did not leap into'the incIo.>ure ; they seemed
to hesitate, fearin<T some snare. They looked into the obscure barricade
as one would look into u den of lions. The light of the tor^di only
lighted up their bayonets, their bear-skin cap.s, and the uppi.r part of
their anxious and angry faces.
Murius had now no arui.s, he had thrown away his discharged pistols,
but ha hud noticed the keg of powder iu the buseuicnt room near the
door. • '
As he turned half round, looking in that direction, a soldier aimed at
him. At the n\oment the soldier aimed at .^larius, a baud was laid
upon the mu/.zlc of the musket, and stopped it. It was somebody
who had sprung forward, the young workingman with velvet paufaloitna.
The shot went off, passed througW the hand, ami perlinps also through
the workingman, for he fell, but the ball did "not reach Marius. All
this in the smoke, rather guessed than seen Marius, who w^s entering
the basement roum, hardly noticed it. Still he had caught a dim
glicnpso of that musket directed at him, and that hand .which had
eioppi'd it, and he had hrard the shot. Hut in mouients like iha^fhe
tiling'^ which we see, waver and rush headhmg, and we stop for noiliing.
"NVe feel ourselves vagujjly pushed towards still deeper shadow, and all ia
cloud.
Thf! insurgents, surprised, but not dismayed, had rallied Kt jolraa
had cried : " Wait ! don't fire at random !" In the first confusitm, in
fact, they might hit one another. Mn.st of them had gone up to the
witidciw of the second story and to the dormer windo<\s, whence they
Conimanded the assailants. The most determincil, with Enjolras, Cour-
fcyrac, Jean I'rouvaire, and Cumbeferre, had haughtily placed their
backs to the houses in the rear, openly facing the ranks of soldiers and
guards which crowded tlie barricade.
All this was accomplished without precipitation, with that strange and
threatening gravity wliir-h precedes nicl6es. On both sides thty were
taking aim, the muzzles of the guns almost touching; they wore so near
that they could talk with each oilier in an ordinary tone. Ju.st as the
Bpark was abo\it to fly, an ofl^cer in a gorget and witli* huge epaulet^,
§AINT DENIS. 157
extended Ins sword and ssiid : "Take aim!" "Fire!" said Enjolrag.
The two cxplobious were siiuultaneous, and everything disappeared ia
the smoke.
A stinging and stifling smoke amid which writhed, with dull and
feeble groans, the wounded and the dying. When the smoke cleared
away, on both sides the combatants were seen, thinned out, but still in
the same places, and reloading their pieces in silence. Suddenly, a
thundeiing voice w^s heard, crying : " Hcgone, or I'll blow up the bar-
ricade !" All turned in the direction whence the voice came.
Marius had entered the basement room, and had taken the keg pf
powder, thcfl he had profited by the smoke and the kind of obscure fog
which filled the intrenched inclosuj-e, to glide along the barricade as far
as that cagc't)f paving stones in which the torch was fixed. To pull out
the torch, to put the keg of powder in its place, to push the pile of
paving-intones upon tho keg, which stove it in, with a sort of (errible
self control — all thi.s had been for Marius the work of stooping down and
rising up ; and now all, National Guards, Municipal Guards, (ifTicers, sol-
diers, grouped «t the other extreniity^ of the barricade, beheld" him with
horror, his foot upon the ."tones, the tJrch in his hand, his stern face
lighted by a deadly resolution, bending the flame of the torch towards
that. fffrmidabTe pile in which they discerned the broken barrel of powder,
and uttering that terrific tjry : " Begone, or .I'll blow up the barricade !"
Marius upon this barricade, after the octogenarian, was the vision of
the young revolution after the apparition o^he old.
"Blow up the barricade !" said a sergeant, "and yourself also!"
Marius answered : "!!lnd myself also." And he approached the torch
to the keg of powder.
But there was no lonpjor anybody on the wall. The assailants, leaving
their dead and wounded, fled .pellmill and in disorJer towards the
extremity of the street, and were again lost in the night. It was a rout.
The barricade was redeemed. • •
END OF.JEAft PROUVAIIIE 8 RHYMES.
All flocked round Marius. Courfeyrac cprang to his neck. " Yoo
here !" " How fortunate !" said Combeferre.
• "You came in good time!" said Bo.ssuet. "Without you I Hhould
have been dead !" continued Courfeyrac. " Without you I'd been gob-
bled I" added Gavroche.
Marius inquired: "Where is the chief ?' " You are tbe chief," said
Enjolras.
' Marius had all day had a furnace in his brain, now it was a whirl-
wind. This whirlwind which was within him, aflTcctcd him an if it wrre
without, and were Mweepinghim nlonp. It sreiueH •"< him tbit h" vcnn
already at an immense distance from life. His twi f
joy an4 of love, tiriuinating abnip'ly upon this fi;.
petfc lost to him, this barrica<lc, M Mabouf d\iiip f^r il ,
bin,<..!r n chief of insurgents, nil these (lilnii.- nipcared n .-"
158 LES MISfiRABLES.
niphtmarc. IIoi was obliged to make a mental effort to assure himself
that all this which surrouuded him, was real. Murius had lived too
little as yet to know that nothing is more imminent than the "impossible,
ahd that what we must always foresee is the unforeseen. lie wa^ a
f-pectator of his own drama, as of a Jjlaj which one docs not compre-
hend. .
In this mist in which his mind was struggling, ho did not recognise
Javert who, bound to his po>t, had not moved his head during the at-
tack upon the barricade, and who beheld the revolt goins on about him
with the resigiiotiin of a martyr and the mnjosty of a judge. Jlarius
diid not even pereeive him.
Meanwhile the ac-ailiMiie made no movement, they were heard march-
ing and swarming a^ the end of the street, but they did not venture
forward, cither that they were awaiting orders, or that befofe rushing
anew upon that impregnable redoubt, they were awaiting reinforcements.
The insurgents had posted .sentinels, and some who were students in
mcdieine had set about dresiitig the wounded.
They had thrown the tables out of the wine-shop, with the exception
of two reserved for lint and cattridges, and that on which lay Father
Wabeuf; they added thtm to the barricade, and had replaced them in
the ba.sement room by the mattresses from the beds ot the widow
Hueheloup, and the servants-. I'pon the mattrosses they had laid the
grounded ; as for the three poor creatures who lived in Corinth, nobody
knew what had becottio of iLeai. • They found them at last, however,
hidden in the cellar.
A bitter emotion came to darken their joy over the redeemed barri-
cade. ' • , .
They called the roll. One of the insurgents was mi.^sing. And who?
One of the dearest; one of the most Valiant, Jean Trouvaire. They
sought hiui among the wounded, he was not there. They soa^^ht him
among the dead, h« was not there. lie was evidently a pri.eoner".
Combeferre said to Enjolras : " They have our friend ; we have their
offuer. Have you set your heart on the death of this spy ?" "Yes,"
said Knjolras; " butless than on the life of Jeatk Prouvaire."^
This passed in the basement roorti near Javert's post.
" Well," replied Combeferre, "I am going to tie my handkerchief to.
nay cane, and go with a flag of truce to offer to give them their man for
ours." " hii-ten," said Kujoh*as, laying his hand on Combefetre's arm.
There was a significant clicking of arms at the end of the street. They
heard a manly voice cry: " yirr hi Frium- ! Vive rannir!" They
recoguis^ I'rouvaire's voice. There was a flash and an explosion. Si-
lence rei;.'ned again. "They have killed him," ex"elairtied Combeferre.
Enjolras looked at Javert and said to bim : " Vuur friends have just
shot you." ' .
•VI.
THE AGONY OF HEATH AFTER THE AOONY OF LIFE.
A peculiarity of this kind of war is that the attack on the barricades
is almost always made itj front, and that in general the assailants ab-
SAINT DEinS. 159
stain from turnino; the position?, whether it bo that they Jread ambus-
cades, or that they fear to become entangled iu the eronked hlreets.
^The whole attention of the insurgents therefore was directed to the great
barricade, which was eviJcutly the point still threatened, and where the
struggle must infallibly reconnueiiCe. Marius, however, thought of the
little barricade and went tu it. It was deserted, an'l was guarded, only
by the lamp which flickered between tlie stones. The little Rue Mou-
detour, moreover, and the branch streets de la Petite Truanderie and
du Cygnc, were perfectly quiet.
■i\s Jiarius, the inspection made, w;\s retiring, he heard his name
faintly pronounced in the obscurity : " Monweur Marius !"
He shuddered, for he recognised the voice which had called him two
hours' before, through the grating in the Rue Plumet. Only this voioe
n'ow seemed to be but a breath.
He looked about him and saw nobody. Marius thought he was de-
ceived, and that it was an illusion added by his mind to the extraordi-
nary realities which were thronging about him. He started to leave the
rotired recess in which the barricade was situated.
". Monsieur Mavius !" repeated the voice. This time he could not
doubt, he had heard distinctly j he looked, and saw nothing. •
" At ypur feet," said the voice. He stooped and saw a form in the
shadow, which was dragging itself towards hitii. It was crawling along
the pavement. It was this that had spolgsn to him.
The lamp enabled hiiu to distinguish a blouSe, a pair of torn panta-
loons of coarse velvet, bare feet, and something which resembled a pool
of blood. Marius caught a glimpse of a pale face which rose toward*
him and said to him : " You do not know me ?' "No." " Eponine."
Marius bent down qyiculy. It was indeed that unhappy child. She
was dressed aa a man. " IIow came j'ou heiei"' what are you doing
there ?" " I am dying," said she.
There are words and incidents which rouse beings who arc crushed.
Marius exclaimed, with a Ftart :
" You are wounded I Wait, I will carry you into the room ! They
will dress your wountfe ! Is it serious? how shall I take jou up so as
not to hurt you? Where are you hurt? Help I my God ! But, what
did you come lure for ?" And he tried to pass his arm under her to
lift her. In lifting her he touched her hand. She uttered a feeble cry.
" Have I hurt you?" asked Marius. "A little." " IJat I have only
touched yout hand." •
She raised her hand into Maiius's sight, and Marius saw in t'cc centre
of that hand a black hole.
•' What is the matter with your hand?" said he. "It in pierced."
" Pierce'd ?'* " Yes." ' " By what?" " Dy a ball." " How ?" " Did
you see a musket aimed at you ?" " Yes, and a hand which stopped
it." "That was mine " Marius shuddered.
"What madness ! Poor child ! But that is not Co bad, if that i.s all,
it is notbing, let me carry you to a bf-d. They will care for you, peo*
pie d'ln't die from a shot in the hand."
She murmured : " The ball passed thr<Aigh my hand, bat it wont oat
through my back. It i.- usel. >s to take I'ue from here. I will ifll ycm
how you can care for me, be-ltcr than a surgeon. Sit down by mc oa
that stone."
Itij LES MISKKABLES.
Hf «.lii'3\Jj sbfi liiid her heaJ on Mariuij's knees, and without look-
ing at liiji, she said :
•• Oa I how good it is ! How kiud he is I That is it ! 1 dou't suffer.
•ny more I"
8h«j remained a moinont in silence, then she turned her head with
effort and looked at Marius. .
•' D) you know, Mon>i(jiir Marius? It worried- me that you should go
into that garden, it wis silly, siuce it w;is I who had sLowii you the
h"U>c, j^nd then indeed I ought surely to have kuown that a young man
like y .u— "
F.'ie stopped, and, leaping over the gloomy transitions which wore
doubiI«-6S in hiT luind, she added with a boart-rcndjng smile: *' You
thought me ugly, didn't you?'^ She continued: " See, you are lost!
Nobody will get out of the barrieade, now. It was I who led you into
this, it was I ' You are going to die, I am sure.- And still when I saw
him aiming at you, I put my hand upon the muzzle of th^ musket-
How droll it is ! But it was because I wanted to die before you. AVhen
I got this ball, I dragged myself here, nobody saw me, nobody picked
me up. I waited for you. I said : He will uotcomejthen ? Oh ! if you
knew, I bit my blouse, I suffered so much? Now I am well. Do you
remt'Mibtr the day when J came info your room, and when I looked at
lny^L•U■ in your nii/ror, and the day when I met you on the boulevard
near sume work-women '( Ilnw the birds sang! It was not very long
ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to you : 1 don't waf!t
jour fiioney. Did you pick up your piece? You are not rich. I didn't
think to tell you to pick it up. The sun slioue bright, I was not cold.'
Do you remember, Monsieur Marius? Oh ! 1 am happy ! We aro all
going to die."
Slie had a wandering, grave, and touching air. Iler torn blouse,
Bhowed her bare throat. \V bile she was talking she rested her wounded
hand upon her breast where there was another hole, from which there
came with each pulsation a flow of blood like a jet of wine from an open
bung.
Jlariua gazed upon this unfortunate creature with profound compifB-
non.
"Oh !" she exclaimed suddenly, "it is coming back. I am stifling!".
She s. izod her Wouse and bit it, and her legs writhed upon the pave-
ment.
/it this raomsnt the chicVon voioc tf little (lavrocho resounded
through /the barricade. The child h:ul mounted upon a fable to load his
musket and was gaily singing the song then so popular :
En voynnt Lafnyettt*, '
Le geijJiinne i6pi5ic :
SauTons-'tMius! »auvuns-DOus! 8!iuvon.<;.nous!
Kponine raised herself up. and listened, then she munnurcd : "It is
he." And turning towards Marius: " iJy brother is here. lie must
not see me. He would scold mo."
"Y(tur brother ?" asked Marius, who thought in the bit-ferest and
most sorrowful depths of his heart, of the duties which his fatitcr had
bequeathed him towards the Th^nardiers, " who is your brother?"
SAINT DENIS. l6l
"That little boy." "The one who is pinjrinj;?" «'Ycs." Marius
starteil. " Oh ! don't go iiway !" said slie, *' it will not be lojig now !"
She wjis sitting almost upright, but lior voire was very low and bro-
ken by hiccoughs. At intervals the death-rattle interrupted her. She
appioached her face as near as she could to Marius's face. She added
with a strange expression :
"Listen, I d(!n't want to deceiva you. I have a letter in my- pocket
for you. Since yesterday. I was told to put it in the po.st. 1 kept it.
I -didn't want it to rcac'h you. But you would not like it.of me perhaps
when we meet again so soon. We do meet again, don't we ? Take
your letter !" .
She graspod Marius's hand convulsively with lier woumled baud, but
she seemed no longer to feel the pain. She put Marius's hand into the
pocket of her blou.se. Marias really fell a fjaper there.
"Take it," said she. -Marius took the letter. She raadc a sign of
satisfaction and of consent. "Now for my pains, promise me — " And
she hesitated. " What ?" asked Marius. " Promise nie !" " I promise
you." " Promise to kiss me on the forehead vrhen I am dead. I shall
feel it." . ,
She let her head fall back upon Marius'.? knee.s and her eyelids closed.
He thought that poor soul bad gone. Eponiue lay motionless ; but just
when .Marius ."supposed her forever asleep, she slowly opened her eyes in
which the gloomy deepness of death appeared, and said to him wfth an
accent the swe 'tnc^s of which seemed already to come from another
world : " And then,, do you know. Monsieur Marius, I bclij^ve I was a
little in love with you." She essayed to smile again, and expired.
VII.
GAVROCnE A PROFOUND CALCULATOR OF DISTANCES.
Marius kept his promisf^. He kissed that livid forehead from which
oozed an icy sweat. This was not an inOdclity to Cosettc; it was a
thouglitful and geLtle farewell to an unhappy soul.
He had not taken the leltor which lOpouiiic had given him without a
thrill. Ht had felt at once the presence of an event. He was impa-
tient to read it. The heart of man is thus made ; the unfortunate child
had hardly closed her eyes when Marius thought to unfdd this paper.
He lai'l h'-r gently upT)n the ground, and went away. Somclhiag told'
him that he cjuld not read that letter in sight of this corp.se.
He went to a candle in the basement-room. It was a little note, folded
and scaled with the elegant care of women. The address was in a wo-
man's hand, and ran : _
"To Monsieur, ."^lon-ieur Mariug-Pontraercy, at M. Courfeyrac's, Rue
de la ViTterie, No. IG."
Hfi bn.ke the seal and read : "My beloved, alas! my father ■iv: ' '
to ftart immediately. We shall be to-night in tUc l^ie.de I'lli ; i ••
^rni6, No. 7. *In a week we shall be in .England. Co.<<ETTE. June
4th."
I
162 LES MISKRABLES.
Socli was the innocence of this love, that Marius did not even know
Co.«oltc's haiidwritinj;.
Whit happened may be tuM in a Ccw words. Kpr.oino had done it
all. AfuT tiic evening of the od of June, she had had a double tliought,
•to tliwarl tilt.' prcjocts of h( r father and the bandits upon the hi)a.se in
the Kuc Plutuct, and to ?cpar.ae Marius from Cosettc. iShe had changed
rags with the firtt, joung roijuc wh») thought it anmsing to dress as a
woman while Kponine di.-puised her.'^j.-lf as a raan. It was'shtJ who, in
the Champ de I^Iari^, bad piven Jean Valjean tKc expressive warning:
licmrne. Jean Valjean returned home, and jjaid to Cosctte : tee Ktart
(o-7iti/hf, and we arc (joinrj io thfi Rue. de V Hum me Armi with Tons-
saint, ^rxt week ice shaff he in London: Cosette, prostrated by this
unexpected blow, had hiustily written two linos to Mariys. liiit how
should she pot the letter teethe* post? .She did not go out :ilouc, and
Tou'.'^iut, surprised at such an errand, would f-uroly sliow tho letter to
M. FaucheL vent. lu this anxiety, Cosettc .'=aw, through the gruting,
Kponine in men's clothes, who was uow prowling continually about the
garden. Cosettc called "this young workiiiirnmn," and handed him
five francs and the > letter, saying to him: "carr3'lhis letter to its ad-
dress right away." Plponine put the letter in her pocket. ' The next
day, Juno 5th, she went to Courfeyrac's to ask for Marius, not to give
him the letter, byt, a thing which every jeahius and loving soul will un-
derstand, "to see" There she waited for Marius, or, at least, for Coilr-
feyrac — ^till to see. When Courfcyrac said to her: we are gninsj to'th'ei
barricades, , an idea' flashed across her mind. * To throw herself into that
death as she would have thrown herself into any other, and to pui-h Ma-
rius into it. She followed Courfeyrac, made sure of the spot whore they
were btiilding the barricade ; and very sure, since Marius hud received
no notice, and she had intercepted the letter, that he would at uight fall
be at his usual evening rerdczvous, she went to the Kue IMuinet, waited
there for Marius, and sent him. in the name of his friends, that, appeal
which must, she thought, lead him to the barricade. She counted upon
Marius's despair wlien he should not find Cosettc; she was not mista-
ken. Shiyrutorned herself to th-c Rue de la Chauvreric. We have
seen what she did there. Sae died with t^at tngie joy of jealous luarts
whi;!i drag the being they love into death with them, saying: nobody
shall have him !
M iui us covered Cosetlre's letter with kisses. She loved him, then?
Ho hud fur a moment the idea that now he need not die.. Then he said
to himself: " she is gi/ing.away. Her father takes her to England, and
my firandfather refuses to con.^ent to the marriage. Nothing is ehingcd
in the fatality." Dreamers, like Marius, have the?e supreme depres-
sions, and paths hence arc chosen iu despair. The fatigue of life is in-
supportable ; death is sooner over. Then he thouijht that there were
two duties remaining for him to fulfil: to inform Cof-ette of his death
and to send her a last fare\Vell, and to save from the immineiit catastro-
phe whieh was approaching, this poor child, Epouine's brother and
Th^nardicr's son.
I lie had a .p'lclcet-b.ioTi with him; the same that had contained the
page.> upon which ho had written so many thoughts of love for Cosette.
lie tore out a leaf and wrote with a pencil these few lines :
SAINT DENIS. -163
"Our marriage was impossible. I have asked my grand fallior, be
has refused; I ara without fortuno, and you also. I ran to your liouse,
I did not find'you, you kuow the promise that I gave you ? I keep it,
I die, I love you. Wlien you read this, my soul will be near you, and
will smile upou you."
Having uothing to seal this kttev with, he ^lercly folded the paper,
and wrote upon it this address.: "Tb Madrmoincl/e t'onctte Fandie'lcventj
at M Fauchcle vent's, Rue ih l' Ilmnme Arm6, No. 7 "
The letter folded, he remained a moment in thought, took his pocket-
book again, opened it, and wrote these four lines on the 6rst page with
the same pencil : " IVly name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my cnrpse to
my graud-fathtr's, M. Giilenormand, Kue aes Filles du Calvaire, No. 6,
in the Marais."
. He put the book into his coat-pocket, then he called Gavroche. The
gamin, at the sound of Marius's voice, rati up with hi** joyous and devoted
face. " Will you do something for me?" "Anything," said (.Javroehe.
Without you, I should have been cooked, sure." " Vousee this letter?"
"Yes." "Take it. Go out of the barricade iiumcdiately (Gavroche,
disturbed, began to scratch his ear,) and to-fnorrow morning 3'on will
carry it to its address, to Mademoiselle Cosette, at M. Fauchelevent s,
Kue'dc I'Horame Arm6, No.' 7." .
The heroia boy auswered : "Ah, well, but in that time they'll take
the barricade, and I shan't be here."
" The barricade will not be attacked again before daybr(^k, according
lo all appearance, and will not be taken before to-morruw noon." ■
The new respite which the assailants allowed the barricade was, ia
fact, prolonged. It was one of tho,;c intermis-inis, frequent in night
combats, which are always followed by a redoubled" fury.
"Well," said Gavroche, "suppose I go acd carry yonr letter in the
morning?" " It will be too late. The barricade will probably be block-
aded ; all the streets will be guarded, and you cannot get out. Go,
right away !"
Gavroche had nothing more to say ; he stood thcrf, undecided, and
sadly scratching his ear. Suddenly, with one of his birdlikc motion.s,
he took .the letter : "All right," haid he.
And he started off on a run by the little Hue Mond^tour.
Givroclie had an idea which decided him, but which he did not tell,
for fear Marius would make some objection lo it. That idea wa^' this:
"It ia hardly midnight, the Hue de T Homme Arnie is not far, I will
carry the letter right away, and I shall get back in time."
1C4 LES HIS^RABLBS.
13 0 0 It ^Ttoclfti^.
THE HUE DE L'HOMME ARME.
I.
BLOTTER, BLABBKR.
What are the convulsions of a city foinparcd with the. imputes of the
soul ? Man is a still deeper deplh than the people. Jean Valjeat^ at
that very moment, was a-prey to a friglitful nprisinjr. All the gulfs
were re-npened within him. lie al.so^ like Paris, was i^lnult^ciiDg ou the
threshold of a formidable and obscure rovolutioa. A few hours had
BuflBcL'd.' Ills defitiny and bis con.scieuce w,ere suddonly covered with
shadow. Of him also, as of Paris, we mi-:;ht say : the two principles
are face to face. The. angel of light and the angel of darknpss arc to
wrestle o/i the bridge of the abys.s. Which- of the two shall hurl down
the other ? which .shall sweep him away ?
On the eve of the same day, June 5th, Jem Valjcan, accompanied by
Cositte and Toussaint, had installed him.self in the Rue de I'lloiume
Arnie. A sudden turn of fortune awaited him there.
Co.=*ette had not left the Kue Plumet without an iittompt at resistance.
For the Gr.-^t lime ^ince they had lived together, Cosette s will aud Jean
Valjeau's will Lad .^hown themselves distinct, and had been, if not con-
fliclinp, at Ie:i.<<t contradictory. There wa^ objection on one side and in-
flexibility on the other. The abrupt advice, remoue, thrown to Jean
Valjean by an unknown hand, had so far alarmed him as to render hira
absolute, lie believed ]iim.sclf traT:ked out aud pursued. Cosetto had
to yield. ' *
They both arrived in the line dc I'llomrae Arn;6 without opening
their uinuths or saying a word, absorbed in their personal meditntions;
Jean Valjiiin so anxious that he did not perceive Cosette's sadness, Co-
sette'so sad that she did uot perceive Jean Valjean's anxiety.
Jean Valjean had brought Toussaint, which he had never done in his
preceding absences. He saw that possibly be should not return to the
Hue riumet, and he could neither leave Tous.*aint behiud, nor toll her
his secret. B-sides he filt that she was devoted and safe. Between
domestic and master, treason begins with curiosity. But, Toussaiut, as
if she had bc-en predestined to be the servant of Jean Valjean, whs not
curious.
In this depart.ure from the Rue Plumet, which was ulmost a flight,
Jean Valjean carried notliinir but the liltle embaltued valise christened
by Cosette the insfj^irttUe. Full trunks would have required portdra,
and portt rs are t^ritucsses. They bad a coach come to the door ou ,the
•Rue Babylone, and they went away.
It wa'< wirli great diffi.Milty that Toussaint obtained permission to pack
up a little linen and clothing and a few toilet articles. Cosctte herself
carried only her writing-desk and her blotter.
SAINT DENIS. 165
Jean Valjcaa, to increase the solitude and mystery of this disappear-
ance, had arranged sons not to leaVe the cottage on the Hue Pluinct till the
close of the da}', wl ich left Cosette time to write her note to Marius.
The}' arrived in the Rue de rilomme Arme afcer ni<iht-fall.
They went siloi^tly to bed. The lodging in the Hue de rriommo
Arme was situated in a rear court, on the second story, and consisted of
two bed rooms, a dining rooili, and a kifrhen adjoining the dining room,
with a loft where there was a cot-bed which fell to Touss^aint. The din-
ing-room was at the same time the ante chamber, and tcparated the two
bed-rooms. The apartments contained all necessary furniture.
^ We arc reassured almost as foolishly as we are alarmed; human na-
ture is so con.^titutcd. Hardly was Jean Valjean in the Rue de I'ilora-
n)e Anne, before his anxiety grew less, and by degrees was dissipated.
There are quieting spots which act in some sort mechanically upon the
Aiiud. Obscure street, peaceful inhabitants. Jean V.aljcan felt some
strange contagion of tranquility in tbat lane of the ancient I'aris, so nar-
row tliat it was barred to carriages by a transverse joist laid upon two
posts,, dunih and deaf iYi the midst of the noisy city, twilight in broad
day, and, so to speak, incapable of emotions between its two rows of
lo'ty, century-old houses which are sileaf like the patriarchs that they
are. There is stagnant oblivion in this street. Jean Valjcan^breathed
there. By what means could anybody find him there?
Ills first care wa*" to place the iiisepurnhle by his side. '
He slept* well. Night counsels; we may add, night cUms. Next
morning he woke almost cheerful. He thought the dining rooni charm-
ing, although it was hideous, furnished with an eld round table, a low
sidebo.ird surmounted by a banging, mirror, a Worm-eaten arm chair, and
a few other chairs loaded down with Toussaint's bundles. Tlirough an
opening in one of these bundles, Jean Valjeau's National Guard uniform
could be seen.
As for Cosctte, she had Toussaint bring a bowl of soup to her room,
and did not make her appearance till evening
About five o'clock, Toussaint, who was coming and going, very busy
with this liflle removal, set a cold fowl on the diuingroum t.iblc, which
Cosetfe, out of deference to her father, consented to look at.
1 his done, Cosetto, upon pretext of a severe headache, said good-
night to Jean Valjean, and shut herself up in her bed room. Jean Val-
jean ate a chicken's wing with a. good appetite, and, leaning on the
tables, clearing Lis brow little by little, was regaining his sense of
security.
While he was making his frugal dinner, be became confusedly aware,
on two br three occasions, of the stammering.of Toussaint, wht said to
him : " Monsicut", there is a row; they are fighting in Paris." Rut, ab-
sorbed in a multitude of interior combination's, he paid no attention to
it.. To tell the truth, he had not heard.
He arose, and began to walk ftom the window to the door, and from
the door to the window, growing calmer and calmer.
With .calmness, Cosctte, liis single engrossing care, returned to \n»
thoughts. Not that he Was troubled about this headache, a petty de-
rangement of the nerves, a young girl's p^utirjg, the chiud ol a moment,
ia a day or two it would be gone; but he thought of the future, and, as
166 LES MISERABLKS.
usual, he thou;_'lit of it pleasantly. After all, he saw no obstacle to their
happy lif-* rcsuminp; its cnur«c. At certain hours, everjthing'secins im-
possible ; ut other hours, everything appoars easy ; Jeau Valjoan was iu
one of those happy hours. They conic ordinarily after the evil ones,
like (lay after night, by that law of {succession and contrast which lies
at the very foundation of nature, and which suporficial minds call an-
tithesis. In this peaceful street, in which he had taken refuge, Jean
Valjean was relieved from all that had troubled him for some time past.
From the very fact that he had seen a good deal of darkness, he bi'ga"n
to perceive a little blue sky. To have left the Kue Plumet without com-
plication and without accident, was alread}' a piece of good fortune^
Pcrhap.s it would bo prudent to leave the country, were it ouly for a few
months, and go to London. Well, they would go. To be in France, to
be in En^dand, what did that uiatter, if he had Ocsette-with hi mi? Co-
sette was his nation. Cosette sufficed for his happiness; the idea that
perhaps he did not Buffice for Cosette's happiness, this iden, once his fever
and his bane^ did not even present itself to his n'ind. All his past
griefs had disappeared, and he wa.s in the full ""tide of optimlira. Co-
sette being near him, seemed to belong tj him ; an optical effect which
everybody has experienced. He arranged in his own mind, and wilh
every pu^'iiible facility, the departure for England with Cosette, and he
saw his happiness rc-construotcd, no matter where, in the perspective of
his reveri?.
\A'hile yet walking up and down with slow steps, his (^e sudden]y
met something strange.
lie perceived facing him, in the inclined mirror which hung above the
sideboard, and he distinctly read the three lines which follow:
" My belovtd, alas ! my father wishes to start immediately. We shall
be to-night in the Kue dc I'llomme ArmtS No. 7. In a week we shall
be in London. Co.sette. June 4th.
Jean Valjean stood aghast.
Co.sette,.on arrivinsr, had laid her blotter on the sideboard before the
mirror, and wholly absorbed in her sorrowful anguish, had forgotten it
there, without even noticing thart. she had left it wide open, and open ex-
actly at the page upon which she had dried the three lines written by her,
and which she had given in charge of the youug workman passing
through the Hue Plumet. The writing was imprinted upon the blotter.
The mirror reflected the writing.
There resulted what is called in geometry the symmetrical image; so
that the wriliug reversed on the blotter was corrected by the mirror, and
presented it^ oriL'inal lorra ; and Jean Valjean had beneath his eyes the
letter written in the evening by Cosette to Marius.
It was simple and withering.
Jean Valjean went to the mirror. lie read the three lines again, but
he did not bdicve it. They produced upon him the effect of an appari-
tion in a flash of lightning. It was a hallucination. It was impossible.
It was not.
Little by little his perception became more precise ; he looked at Co-
sette's blotter, and the cotisciousncsss of the real fact returned to him.
He took the blotter and .^nid : *' It comes from that." He feverishly
examined the three lines imprinted on the blotter, the reversal of the
SAINT DENIS. 167
letters made a ftintastie scrawl of them, and he saw no sense in them.
Then he said to himself :'" But that does not mean anything:, there is
nothing written there." And hcdrowa Inni; breath, with an inexpressi-
ble sense of relief. Who has not'felfc these silly joys in moments of
horror? The soul does not give up to despair until it has exhausted all
illusions.
He held the blotter in his hand and gazed at it, stupidly happy,
almost laughing at the hallucination, of wliich ho had been the dupe.
All at once his eyes fell upon the mirror, and he saw the vi.'^ion again.
This time if was not a mirage. The second sight of a vision is a reali-
ty; it was palpable it was the writing restored by the mirror. He
understood.
Jean Valjean tottered, let the blotter fall, and sank down into the old
ariu-ohair by the sideboard, his head drooping, his eye glassy, bewil-
dered. He said to himself that it was clear, and that the light »f the
world was for ever eclipsed, and that Co«ette had written that to some-
body. Then he heard his soul, again become terrible, give a sullen roar
in {he darkness. Go, then, and take from the lion the dog which he
has in his cage.
A circumstance strange and sad, Marins at that moment had not yet
Cosette's letter; chance had brought it, like a traitor, to Jtan Viiljean
before delivering it to Marius.
Jeaa Valjean till this day had never been vanquished when put to
the proof He had been subjected to foarl'ul trials; no violence of ill
fortune had been spared him ; the ferocity of fate, armed with every
vengeance and with every scorn of s^ooioty, had tflken him for a subject.
and had greedily pursued him. He had neither recoiled nor flinched
before anything. He had accepted, whqn he must, every extreigity;
be had sacrificed his reconquered inviolability of wianhood, given up his
liberty, risked his head, lost all, suffered all, and he had remained so
dLsintorr sted and stoical that at times one might have believed him
translated, like a martyr. His conscience, inured to all possible assaults
of adversity, might seem forever impregnable. Well, he who could
have seen his inward monitor would have been compelled to admit that
at this hour it was growing feeble.
For, of all the tortures which he had undergone in that inquisitfbn of
destiny, this was the most fearful. Never had such pincers seized him.
He felt the mysterious quiver of every latent sensioility. He felt the
laceration of tlic unknown fibre. Ala.s, the .'upromc ordeal, let us say
rather, the only ordeal, is the loss of the beloved being.
Poor old Jean Valjean did not, certainly, love Cosettc otberwise than
as a father; but, as we have already mentioned, into this paternity the
very bereavement of his life had introduced every love ; he loved Co-
sette as his daughter, and he loved iier as his mother, and he loved her
as his sister; and, as he had never had either sweetheart or wife, as na-
ture is a creditor who accepts no protest, that sentiment, also, the most
indestructible of all, was mingled wiih the others, vague, ignorant, pure
with the purity of blindne8.s, unconscious, celestial, angelic, divine; lc(?8
like a sentiment than like an instinct, less like an instinct than like an
attraction, imperceptible and invisible, but real ; and love, prrtperly
speaking, existed in his enormous tenderne.'-s for Coscttc as does tke vein
of gold in the mountain, dark and virgin.
168 LES MI6ERABLES.
t
Remember that condiiinn of heart wlich we have already pointed
out. No iniirrla<re was popNible between them ; not even that of souls;
and still it. was certain that their destinies were espoused. Kxeept Co-
settc. that, is to saj, except a childhood, Jean Valjean, in all his long
life, had known nothing of those objects which man can love. The
pjisf-ions and the loves which succeed one another, had not left on him
tho.HC successive griens,'a lijiht green over a dark green, which we notice
upon leaves that pass the winter, and upon- men who pass their fifty
years. In short, and we have more than once insisted upon it, all that
interior fusion, all that whole, the resultnnt of which was a Ibfry virtue,
ended in making Jean Valjean a father for Cosettc*. A htmnge father
forged out of (he grandfiither, the son. the brother, and the husband,
which there was in Jean Valjean; a father in whom there was cve-n a
mother; a iatlKcr who loved Cosettc, and who adore3 iier, and to whom
that child was light, was home, was family, was country, was jiarudise.
So, when "he saw that it was positively ended, that she escaped him,
that she glided from his hands, that she eluded him, ih.it it was cloud,
that it was water, when he had before his eyes this crushing evidence;
another is the aim of her heart, auother is the desire of her life; there
is a beloved ; 1 am only the father; I no longer exist; when he could *
no mure doubt when he said to himself: "She is going away out of
nie !" the grief which he felt, surpassed the possible. To have done all
that he had done to come to this! and, what! to be neithing! -Then,
as we have.jii>t said, he ft It from head to foot a shudder of revolt. He
felt even to (he roots of hi.s hair the imuKjnse awakeuing of sel(ishnes8,
and the Me howled in theab^issof his soul.
There are interior subsoiliug.e. The penetration of a forfuiiog cer-
tainty into njan does not occur without breaking up and pulvirizii;g cer-
tain deep elements which are sometimes the man himself prU'^", when
it reache.s thi.s stJge, iiTa panic of all the forces of the soul. These are
fatal crises. Few among us come through them without change, and
firm in duty. When the limit of "suffering is overpassed, the um.st im-
pcrlurable virtue is disconcerted. Jean Valjean took up the blotter,
and couviiieed himself anew; he bentas if petrilicd over the three-unde-
niable lines, with eye fixed; aiid such a cloud formed within him that
Oil'i i»ight have belieVvd the whole interior of that soul was cruuibling.
Ho cxamiuel this revelation, through the magnifying powi-r.s of reverie,
with an apparent ana frightful calmnes.s, for it is a terrible thing when
th^ calmms.s of man reaches the rigidity of the statue.
Ho measured the appalling. step which his destiny had taken withT)ut
a suspieion on Ids part ; he recalled his fears of the previous summer, so
foolishly di>sip;ited; he reco^jnised the precipice; it was still the .same;
only Jean Valjean was no longer on the brink, he wa? at the bottom.
A bitter and nioustruus thing, he had fallen without perceiving it.
All the light of his life had gone out, he believing that he constantly
saw the sun.
His instinct did not hesitate. * He put together certain circumstances,
certain dates, certain blushes, and certain pallors of Co.sette, and he said
to himself: " It is he." The divinatipn of despair is a sort of myste-
riou-S bow which never uii.^ses its aim. With his first conjecture, he
hit rdarius. . He did not kuyw the name, but he found the may at once.
SAINT DENIS. 1G9
He perceived distiactlj, at ihc bottom of the* implacable, evocation of
memory, the unknown prowler of the Luxembourj;, that Vretcbcd seeker
of amours, that romiintic idler, tJiat imbecile, that coward, for it is cow-
ardice to come and make sweet e}cs at girls who are besido their father
■who loves thim.
After he had fully determined that that younr^ maa was at the bot-
tom of this state (f ufl'airs, and that it 9II came from him, he, Jean
Valjean, the regenerated man, the man who had lahorod so much upon
•his soul, the man who had ma(Je so many efforts to resolve all life, all
niinery, and all misforluoc into lovej ho looked within himself, and
there he saw a spectre, Hatred.
Great griefs cmita n dejection They discourage existence. Tiie man
into whom^they enter feels S()mething go out of him. In yotith, their
visit is dismal; in later years it is ominous. Alas! whtn the blood is
hot, when the hair is black, when the head is erect upon the b"dy like
the flame upon the torch, when the sheaf of destiny is still full, when
the heart, filled with a fortunate love, still has "pulsations wiiich can be
responded to, when we have before us the time to retrieve, when ail wo-
men are oefore us, and all smiles, and all the future, and all the horizon,
when the strength of life is complete, if despair is ji fearful thing, what
^ is it then in old age, when ti»e years rush along, growing bleaker and
bleaker, at the twilight hour, when we begin to see the stars of the
tomb !
While he was thinking, Tous^aint entered. Jean- Valjean arose, and
asked her :
" In what direction is it? Do you know?"
Toussaint, astonished, could only answer: "If you please?"
Jean Valjean resumed : " Didn't you tell me just now that they were
fighting ? '
"Oh! yes, monsieur," answered Toussaint. "It is over by Saint
♦ Merry."
There are some mechanical impulses which Come to us, without our
knowledge even, from our deepest thoughts. It was doubtlo«s under
the influence of an impulse of this kind, and of which he was hardly
conscious, that Jean Valjean five minutes afterwards found himself in
the street.
lie was bareheaded, seated upon the stone block by the door of his
house. He scorned to be listenio''. The ni^iht had come. •
II.
THE GAMIN AN ENEMY OF LiaOT.
Ho TV much time did he pass thus? What were the ebbs and the
flows of that tragic meditation? did" he straighten up? did he remain
bowed ? had he btcn bent so far as to break? could he yet strai^'htcn
himself, and regain a foothold in his cnscience upon something solid?
He himsdf probably could not,have told.
The street was empty. A few anxious bourgeois, who were rapidly
12
170 * LES MISERABLES.
returnins: liotuc, hardly perceived him. Every man for himself in times
of peril.. The lamplighter came as usual to light the lamp which hung
exactly oppn.^ite the door of No. 7, and went avray. Jean ^'aljeau, to
one who had examined him i.a that shadow, would not have seemed 'a
living man. There he was, .seated upon the block by his door, immov-
able as a goViin of ice. There is congelation in despair. The tocsin
was heard, and vague stormy sounds were hoard. In the midst of all
this convulsive clamor of the bell mingled with the emoute, the clock of
St. Pifurs struck eleven, gravely and without haste, for the tocsin i*
man; the hour is God. The passing of the hour had had no effect
upon JeanValjean; Jean Valjean did not stir. However, almost at
that very moment, there was a sharp explosion in the direction of the
markets J a second followed, more violent still; it was prob/H)ly that at-
tack on the barricade of the Hue de k Ohanvrerie which we have just
seen repulsed by Marius. At this double discharge, the fury of which
seemed increased by the stupor of the night, Jean Valjean was startled ;
he looked up iu the direction whence the sound came; then he ."ank
down upon the- block, folded his arms, and »kis bead dropped slowly
upon his breast.
lie resumed his Jjirk dialogue with himself.
Suddenly he raised his eyes, aomebo'l^was walking in the street, he
heard steps near him, he looked, and, by the light of the lamp, in the
direction of the Archives, he perceived a livid face, young and radiant.
Gavroche had just arrived in the Hue de 1" Homme Arme.
Gavroche was looking in the air, ai>d appeared to be searching for
Fomethin^ He saw Jean Valjean perfectly, but he took no notice of
him.
Gavroche, after looking into the air, looked on the ground ; he raised,
himself on tiptoe and felt of the doors and windows of the ground floors ;
they were all closed, bolted, and chained. After having found live or
six houses barricaded in this way, the yamin shrugged his shoulders, 4
and took counsel with himself. Then he began to look into the air
again.
Jean Valjean, who, the instant before, in the state of mind in which
he was, would not have spoken nor even replied to anybody, felt i/re-
sistibly impelled to address a word to this child.
" Little boy," said he, <' what is the matter with you ?"
" The matter is that I am hungry," answered Gavroche tartly. And
he added : " Little yourself."
' Jean Valjean felt in his pocket and took out a five franc piece.
But Gavroche, who was of the wag-tail species, and who passed
quickly from one action to another, had picked up a stone. He had
noticed a lamp.
"•Hold on," said he, "you have your lamps here still. You are not
regular, my friends. It. is disorderly. Break me that."
And he threw the stone into the lamp, the glass from whifih fell with
such a clatter that some bourgeois, hid behind their curtaips in the op-
posite house, cried : "There is 'Ninety-three !"
The lamp swung violently and went out. The street became suddenly
dark.
" That's it, old street," said Gavroche, " put on your nightcap."
SAINT' DENIS. J^J
Aftd turning towards Jean Valjean, '.'What do you call that jrirran-
tic monument that you have got there at the end of the street? That's
the Archives, isn't it? They ought to chip off these big fools of col-
umns shchtly, and make a genteel barricade of them,"
Jean A^aljean approached Gavroche. "Poor creature," said he in an
under-tone, and speaking to himself, "he is hungry." And he put the
hundred sous piece into his hand.
Gavroche cocked up his nose, astonished at the size of this bic sou •
he looked at it in (he dark, and the whiteness of the bi^ sou dazzled
him. lie knew five franc pieces by hearsay ; their reputation was arrroe-
able to him; he was delighted to see one &o near, lie said: "let us
contcmphite the tiger."'
He gazed at it for a few minutes in ecstasy; then, turning towards
Jean Valjean, he hauded him the piece, and said majesticallyl "Bour-
geois, I prefer to break lamps. Take. bark your wild beast. You don't
corrupt me. It has five claws ; but it don't scratch me." " Have you
a mother r" inquired Jean Valjean. "Gavroche answered: '^Perhaps
more than you have." "Well," replied Jean Valjean, "keep tins
i^oney for your mother."
Gavroche felt softened. Besides he had just noticed that the man
who was talking to him had no hat, and that inspired him wiih confi-
dence.
"Really," said he, "it isn't to prevent ray breaking the lamps?"
" Break all you like." " You are a fine fellow," said. Gavroche. . And
he |)ut the five franc piece into one of his pockets. His confidence in-
creasing, he added. "Do you belong in the street? "Yes; why?"
" Could you show me number seven ?" " What do you want with num-
ber seven ?" •
Here the boy stopped ; he feared that he had said too much ; he
plunged his nails vigorously into his Bair, and merely anewc'red : " Ah !
that's it."
An idea flashed across Jean Valjean's mind. " Anguish h&s ^ch lucid-
ities. He said to the child :
"Have you brought the letter I am waiting for?" "You?" said
Gavroche. "You are. not a woman." The letter is for Madcmoi.sclle
Cosette ; isn't it ?" " Cosette ?" muttered Gavroche. " Yes, I bclievo
it is that funny name." "Well," resumed Jean Valjean, "I am to
deliver the letter to her. Give it to me." "In that'casc you must
kt>ow that I am sent from the barricade?" " Of course," "Said Jean
Valjean. Gavroche thrust his hand into another of his ppckeK, and
drew out a folded paper. Then he gave a military salute.T^*' Bcspoot
for tho dispatch," said he " It comes from the provisional govern-
ment." "Give it to rac," said Jean Valjean. Gavroche held the pa-
per raised above his head. "Don't imagine t' at this is a love-letter.
It is for a woman, but it is for the people. We men, we arc fighting,
and we respeot the .sex. We dou't do as they do in hi^h life." "Give
it to me." "The fact is," continued Gavroche, "you look to tnc like a
fine fellow." " Give it to me, quick." " Take it." And he handed
the paper to Jean Valjean. "And hurry yourself, Mons^icur What's-
yout-nahie, for ^lamsellc What's-I^r-name.«s in waiting." Gavroche
was proud of having produced this word. Jean Valjean asked : " la it
to Saint Merry that th»-Qnswer is to be sent ?"
172 LES MISERABLES.
"ia that ca?c," exclaimed Gavroch'^, "you would make one of ih^se
calces vulgarly called blunders. Tlie letti-r cotuea from the barricude in
the Rue de la Chanvrerie, and 1 am goinj^ back there, Good uight,
citizen "
This said, Gavrnehc went aw;Ly, or rather, resumed his flight like an
eFcapr.l bird towards the spot whence he «ame. He re|'luugf*d into the
obscuiiry as if he had nuido a hole in it. with tlie rapidity and precision
of a pri'jeetile ; the little Rue do L'llorn'iie Arme aj^iin be<anie silent
and solitary ; in a twinkling, this strange child, who had within him
shad'iw and. dream, was buii«.'d iu tlie du-k of those rows of black
houset-, and was lo.^t therein like Findl^^' in the darknt*^; and one might,
Lave thought him dissipated and vaiii.<hed, if, a few niinutcs alter his
disappi-arance, a loud crashing of glass and the splendid p.itairas of a.
lamp falling upon the pavement had not abmpily re-awakened the in-
dignant bourgeois. It was Gavroche passing along the Rue du Chaume.
III.
WIIILE COSETTE AND TOUSSAINT SLEEP.
Jean Valjcan wont in with Marius' letter. ITo groped his \ ny up
stairs,, pleased with the darkness lila-an owl which hoKis his prey, • juned
and soitly closed the door, listened to see if he he:ird any sound, (decided
that, acciirdiDg to all appearances, (Rosette and Tons!<aint were a.slecp,
plunged three or four matc^ies into the buttle of the Funiade tinder-
box before he qould raise a spark, his hand trembled soujuch; there
•was theft in what, he was about to do. At last, his candle was lighted,
hcleaned his elbows on the table, ninfoldcd tho paper, and read.
In violent emotions, we do not read, we prostrate the piipcr wh'ch wo
hold, so to speak, we strangle it like a victim, we cru>h the paper, we
bury the nails of our wrath or of our delight in it; we run to the ehd,
we leyp to the beginning; the attention has a fever; it comprehends by
wh(deaa!c, almost, the essential; it seizes a p'linr, and ail the re.it disap-
pears. In Marius's note to Cosette, Jean Valjoan saw only these words :
" Idie. When you read this, my soul will be near you."
Before these two lines, be was horribly dazzled; he s:it a moment as
if cru^hcd% by the change of emotion which was wrought, within him,
ho hjoked at Marius's note with a sort of drunken astonishment; he
had before his eves that splendor, the death of the hated h< iug.
He uttered a hideous cry of inw.ard joy. So, it was finished The
end c:ime sooner than he bad dared to hope. The being who encum-
bered his destiny was disappearing. lie was going; tiway r)f himself,
freely, of his own accord. Without. any interveutiou on his, Jeali Val-
jean's, part, without any fault of his, "that man" was {ibout to die.
Perhaps even he was aln.ady 5cud. Here his fever began to calculate.
No. He was not dead yet. The letttrwas eviilently Written to be read
by Cosette in the morning; since th"se two di.seharges which. were he«rd
between eleven oelock and midnigl*, there has been nothing; the bar-
ricade will not be seriously attacked till duybreak; but it, is all the
SAINT DENIS. 173
same, from the moment " that man" meddled with this war, he was
lost; he is caught in the net'. Jcau Valjean felt tha^ he was delivered.
He would then find himself oitce more alone with Oosettc. llivalry
ceased ; the future recommenced. He had only to keep the note in his
pocket. Coaette would never know what had become of "that man."
" I have only to let things take the^- course. That man cannot escape.
If he is not dcjad yet, it is certain that he will die. What happiness !"
All this said within hira.self, lie became gloomy. Then he went down
,iud waked the porter. • _ .
About an hour afterward.!; Jean Valjean went out in the full dress
of a National (ruard, a?id armed. The porter had easily found in the
neighborhood what was necessary to complete his equipment. He had
a loaded musket and a cartridge-box full of cartridges. He went in
the direction of the markets.
Till: li.NU OF ST. DENIS.
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