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:.\\[ 


:U; 


•ff'  ' 


George  Washington  Flowers 
Memorial  Collection 

DUKE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 


ESTABLISHED  BY  THE 
FAMILY  OF 

COLONEL  FLOWERS 


Two  Dollars. 


■navaatti 


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. 


I' 


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.'  '  'IH  !>!