The Works of 
 
 Victor Hugo 
 
 Copyrighted Translati >!i- h 
 
 Isabel F. HapL'uud, 
 
 Huntingfon Smith 
 
 and Helen B. Dole 
 
 Les Misenibles 
 Volume II 
 
 T H K K ! I. M S C O T
 
 HILLENORMAND NEVFR An 
 
 f'HiLD FXrFPT iw A 
 
 'N A ShVHRh
 
 a-- 
 
 The Works of 
 
 Victor Hug 
 
 o 
 
 
 Copyrighted Translations by 
 
 Isabel F. Hapgood, 
 Huntington Smith 
 and Helen B. Dole 
 
 
 Les Miserables 
 Volume II 
 
 
 THE KELMSCOTT SOCIETY 
 PUBLISHERS : NEW YORK
 
 MARIUS.
 
 COPYBIQHT, 1887, 
 
 Br THOMAS Y. CBOWELL & Co.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK FIRST. PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Parvulus 1 
 
 II. Some of his Particular Characteristics 2 
 
 III. He is Agreeable 3 
 
 IV. He may be of Use 4 
 
 V. His Frontiers 6 
 
 VI. A Bit of History 8 
 
 VII. The Gamin should have his Place in the Classifications 
 
 of India 10 
 
 VIII. In which the Reader will find a Charming Saying of the 
 
 Last King 12 
 
 IX. The Old Soul of Gaul 14 
 
 X. Ecce Paris, ecce Homo 15 
 
 XI. To Scoff, to Reign 18 
 
 XII. The Future Latent in the People 20 
 
 XIII. Little Gavroche 21 
 
 BOOK SECOND. THE GREAT BOURGEOIS 
 
 I. Ninety Years and Thirty-two Teeth 25 
 
 II. Like Master, Like House 27 
 
 III. Luc-Esprit 28 
 
 IV. A Centenarian Aspirant 29 
 
 V. Ba.^ue and Nioolette 30 
 
 VI. In which Magnon and her Two Children are seen . . 31 
 
 VII. Rule: Receive No One except in the Evening .... 33 
 
 VIII. Two do not make a Pair 84
 
 iv CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK THIRD. THE GRANDFATHER AND 
 CHAPTEB THE GRANDSON PAOB 
 
 I. An Ancient Salon 37 
 
 II. One of the Red Spectres of that Epoch 41 
 
 III. Rcquiescant 48 
 
 IV. End of the Brigand 50 
 
 V. The Utility of going to Mass, in order to become a 
 
 Revolutionist CO 
 
 VI. The Consequences of having met a Warden .... 62 
 
 VII. Some Petticoat 69 
 
 VIII. Marble against Granite 75 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 
 
 I. A Group which barely missed becoming Historic ... 81 
 
 II. Blondeau's Funeral Oration by Bossuet 96 
 
 III. Marius' Astonishments 100 
 
 IV. The Back Room of the Cafe Musain 102 
 
 V. Enlargement of Horizon 110 
 
 VI. Res Angusta 114 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 I. Marius Indigent 118 
 
 II. Marius Poor 120 
 
 III. Marius Grown Up 124 
 
 IV. M. Mabeuf 129 
 
 V. Poverty a Good Neighbor for Misery 134 
 
 VI. The Substitute 136 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS 
 
 I. The Sobriquet; Mode of Formation of Family Names . 142 
 
 II. Lux Facta Est 145 
 
 III. Effect of the Spring 148 
 
 IV. Beginning of a Great Malady 149 
 
 V. Divers Claps of Thunder fall on Ma'am Bougon . . . 152 
 
 VI. Taken Prisoner 153 
 
 VII. Adventures of the Letter U delivered over to Conjectures 156
 
 CONTENTS V 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 VIII. The Veterans themselves can be Happy 158 
 
 IX. Eclipse 160 
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. PATRON MINETTE 
 
 I, Mines and Miners 164 
 
 II. The Lowest Depths 167 
 
 III. Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Montparnasse . . 168 
 
 IV. Composition of the Troupe 171 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. THE WICKED POOR MAN 
 
 I. Marius, while seeking a Girl in a Bonnet encounters a 
 
 Man in a Cap 175 
 
 II. Treasure Trove 177 
 
 III. Quadrifrons 179 
 
 IV. A Rose in Misery 183 
 
 V. A Providential Peep-Hole 191 
 
 VI. The Wild Man in his Lair 194 
 
 VIT. Strategy and Tactics 198 
 
 VIII. The Ray of Light in the Hovel 203 
 
 IX. Jondrette comes near Weeping 205 
 
 X. Tariff of Licensed Cabs, Two Francs an Hour . . . 209 
 
 XI. Offers of Service from Misery to Wretchedness . . . 213 
 
 XII. The Use made of M. Leblanc's Five-Franc Piece. . . 216 
 
 XIII. Solus cum Solo, in Loco Remoto, non cogitabuntur 
 
 orare Pater Noster 222 
 
 XIV. In which a Police Agent bestows Two Fistfuls on a 
 
 Lawyer 225 
 
 XV. Jondrette makes his Purchases 229 
 
 XVI. In which will be found the Word? to an English Air 
 
 which was in Fashion in 1832 232 
 
 XVII. The Use made of Marius' Five- Franc Piece .... 236 
 
 XVIII. Marius' Two Chairs form a Vis-a-Vis 241 
 
 XIX. Occupying One's Self with Obscure Depths .... 243 
 
 XX. The Trap 247 
 
 XXI. One should always begin by arrest ing the Victims . . 275 
 
 XXII. The Little One who was crving in Volume Two . 279
 
 MARIUS 
 
 BOOK FIRST. PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 PARVULUS 
 
 PARIS has a child, and the forest has a bird; the bird is 
 called the sparrow ; the child is called the gamin. 
 
 Couple these two ideas which contain, the one all the fur- 
 nace, the other all the dawn ; strike these two sparks together, 
 Paris, childhood; there leaps out from them a little being. 
 Homuncio, Plautus would say. 
 
 This little being is joyous. He has not food every day, and 
 he goes to the play every evening, if he sees good. He has no 
 shirt on his body, no shoes on his feet, no roof over his head; 
 he is like the flies of heaven, who have none of these things. 
 He is from seven to thirteen years of age, he lives in bands, 
 roams the streets, lodges in the open air, wears an old pair of 
 trousers of his father's, which descend below his heels, an old 
 hat of some other father, which descends below his ears, a sin- 
 gle suspender of yellow listing; he runs, lies in wait, rummages 
 about, wastes time, blackens pipes, swears like a convict, 
 haunts the wine-shop, knows thieves, calls gay women tliou, 
 talks slang, sings obscene songs, and has no evil in his heart. 
 This is because he has in his heart a pearl, innocence; and 
 pearls are not to be dissolved in mud. So long as man is in 
 his childhood, God wills that he shall be innocent. 
 
 If one were to ask that enormous city: "What is this?" she 
 would reply : "It is my little one."
 
 2 MAKIU8 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 SOME OF HIS PARTICULAR CHARACTERISTICS 
 
 THE gamin the street Arab of Paris is the dwarf of the 
 giant. 
 
 Let us not exaggerate, this cherub of the gutter sometimes 
 has a shirt, but, in that case, he owns but one; he sometimes 
 has shoes, but then they have no soles; he sometimes has a 
 lodging, and he loves it, for he finds his mother there ; but he 
 prefers the street, because there he finds liberty. He has his 
 own games, his own bits of mischief, whose foundation con- 
 sists of hatred for the bourgeois ; his peculiar metaphors : to be 
 dead is to eat dandelions by the root; his own occupations, call- 
 ing hackney-coaches, letting down carriage-steps, establishing 
 means of transit between the two sides of a street in heavy 
 rains, which he calls making the bridge of arts, crying dis- 
 courses pronounced by the authorities in favor of the French 
 people, cleaning out the cracks in the pavement; he has his 
 own coinage, which is composed of all the little morsels of 
 worked copper which are found on the public streets. This 
 curious money, which receives the name of loqucs rags has 
 an invariable and well-regulated currency in this little Bo- 
 hemia of children. 
 
 Lastly, he has his own fauna, which he observes attentively 
 in the corners ; the lady-bird, the death's-head plant-louse, the 
 daddy-long-legs, "the devil," a black insect, which menaces by 
 twisting about its tail armed with two horns. He has his 
 fabulous monster, which has scales under its belly, but is not 
 a lizard, which has pustules on its back, but is not a toad, 
 which inhabits the nooks of old lime-kilns and wells that have 
 run dry, which is black, hairy, sticky, which crawls sometimes 
 slowly, sometimes rapidly, which has no cry, but which has a 
 look, and is so terrible that no one has ever beheld it; he calls 
 this monster "the deaf thing." The search, for these "deaf 
 things" among the stones is a joy of formidable nature. 
 Another pleasure consists in suddenly prying up a paving-
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 3 
 
 stone, and taking a look at the wood-lice. Each region of 
 Paris is celebrated for the interesting treasures which are to be 
 found there. There are ear-wigs in the timber-yards of the 
 Ursulines, there are millepeds in the Pantheon, there are tad- 
 poles in the ditches of the Champs-de-Mars. 
 
 As far as sayings are concerned, this child has as many of 
 them as Talleyrand. He is no less cynical, but he is more hon- 
 est. He is endowed with a certain indescribable, unexpected 
 joviality: he upsets the composure of the shopkeeper with his 
 wild Janghter. He ranges boldly from high comedy to farce. 
 
 A funeral passes by. Among those who accompany the 
 dead there is a doctor. "Hey there !'"' shouts some street 
 Arab, "how long has it been customary for doctors to carry 
 home their own work?" 
 
 Another is in a crowd. A grave man, adorned with spec- 
 tacles and trinkets, turns round indignantly : "You good- 
 for-nothing, you have seized my wife's waist !" "I, sir ? 
 Search me!" 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 HE IS AGREEABLE 
 
 IN the evening, thanks to a few sous, which he always finds 
 means to procure, the liomuncio enters a theatre. On crossing 
 that magic threshold, he becomes transfigured; he was the 
 street Arab, he becomes the titi. 1 Theatres are a sort of ship 
 turned upside down with the keel in the air. It is in that keel 
 that the titi huddle together. The titi is to the gamin what the 
 moth is to the larva ; the same being endowed with wings and 
 soaring. It suffices for him to be there, with his radiance of 
 happiness, with his power of enthusiasm and joy, with his 
 hand-clapping, which resembles a clapping of wings, to confer 
 on that narrow, dark, fetid, sordid, unhealthy, hideous, abom- 
 inable keel, the name of Paradise. 
 
 Bestow on an individual the useless and deprive him of the 
 necessary, and you have the gamin. 
 
 1 Chickcn: slang allusion to the noise made in calling poultry.
 
 4 MARIU8 
 
 The gamin is not devoid of literary intuition. His tendency, 
 and we say it with the proper amount of regret, would not 
 constitute classic taste. He is not very academic by nature. 
 Thus, to give an example, the popularity of Mademoiselle Mars 
 among that little audience of stormy children was seasoned 
 with a touch of irony. The gamin called her Mademoiselle 
 Much? "hide yourself." 
 
 This being bawls and scoffs and ridicules and fights, has 
 rags like a baby and tatters like a philosopher, fishes in the 
 sewer, hunts in the cesspool, extracts mirth from foulness, 
 whips up the squares with his wit, grins and bites, whistles and 
 sings, shouts and shrieks, tempers Alleluia with Matantur- 
 lurette, chants every rhythm from the De Profundis to the 
 Jack-pudding, finds without seeking, knows what he is ig- 
 norant of, is a Spartan to the point of thieving, is mad to wis- 
 dom, is lyrical to filth, would crouch down on Olympus, wal- 
 lows in the dunghill and emerges from it covered with stars. 
 The gamin of Paris is Rabelais in this youth. 
 
 He is not content with his trousers unless they have a watch- 
 pocket. 
 
 He is not easily astonished, he is still less easily terrified, he 
 makes songs on superstitions, he takes the wind out of exag- 
 gerations, he twits mysteries, he thrusts out his tongue at 
 ghosts, he takes the poetry out of stilted things, he introduces 
 caricature into epic extravaganzas. It is not that he is pro- 
 saic; far from that; but he replaces the solemn vision by the 
 farcical phantasmagoria. If Adamastor were to appear to 
 him, the street Arab would say : "Hi there ! The bugaboo !" 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 HE MAY BE OF USE 
 
 PARIS begins with the lounger and ends with the street Arab, 
 two beings of which no other city is capable; the passive 
 acceptance, which contents itself with gazing, and the inex- 
 haustible initiative; Prudhomme and Fouillou. Paris alone
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 5 
 
 has this in its natural history. The whole of the monarchy is 
 contained in the lounger; the whole of anarchy in the gamin. 
 
 This pale child of the Parisian faubourgs lives and develops, 
 makes connections, "grows supple" in suffering, in the pres- 
 ence of social realities and of human things, a thoughtful wit- 
 ness. He thinks himself heedless; and he is not. He looks 
 and is on the verge of laughter ; he is on the verge of something 
 else also. Whoever you may he, if your name is Prejudice, 
 Abuse, Ignorance, Oppression, Iniquity, Despotism, Injustice, 
 Fanaticism, Tyranny, beware of the gaping gamin. 
 
 The little fellow will grow up. 
 
 Of what clay is he made? Of the first mud that comes to 
 hand. A handful of dirt, a breath, and behold Adam. It suf- 
 fices for a God to pass by. A God has always passed over 
 the street Arab. Fortune labors at this tiny being. By the 
 word "fortune" we mean chance, to some extent. That pig- 
 my kneaded out of common earth, ignorant, unlettered, giddy, 
 vulgar, low. Will that become an Ionian or a Boeotian ? Wait, 
 currit rota, the spirit of Paris, that demon which creates the 
 children of chance and the men of destiny, reversing the 
 process of the Latin potter, makes of a jug an amphora. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 HIS FRONTIERS 
 
 THE gamin loves the city, he also loves solitude, since he has 
 something of the sage in him. Urbis amator, like Fuscus; ru- 
 n's amator, like Flaccus. 
 
 To roam thoughtfully about, that is to say, to lounge, is a 
 fine employment of time in the eyes of the philosopher; partic- 
 ularly in that rather illegitimate species of campaign, which is 
 tolerably ugly but odd and composed of two natures, which sur- 
 rounds certain great -cities, notably Paris. To study the sub- 
 urbs is to study the amphibious animal. End of the trees, 
 beginning of the roofs; end of the grass, beginning of the
 
 6 MARW8 
 
 pavements; end of the furrows, beginning of the shops; end 
 of the wheel-ruts, beginning of the passions ; end of the divine 
 murmur, beginning of the human uproar; hence an extraordi- 
 nary interest. 
 
 Hence, in these not very attractive places, indelibly stamped 
 by the passing stroller with the epithet: melancholy, the appar- 
 ently objectless promenades of the dreamer. 
 
 He who writes these lines has long been a prowler about the 
 barriers of Paris, and it is for him a source of profound souve- 
 nirs. That close-shaven turf, those pebbly paths, that chalk, 
 those pools, those harsh monotonies of waste and fallow lands, 
 the plants of early market-garden suddenly springing into 
 sight in a bottom, that mixture of the savage and the citizen, 
 those vast desert nooks where the garrison drums practise nois- 
 ily, and produce a sort of lisping of battle, those hermits by 
 day and cut-throats by night, that clumsy mill which turns in 
 the wind, the hoisting-wheels of the quarries, the tea-gardens 
 at the corners of the cemeteries ; the mysterious charm of great, 
 sombre walls squarely intersecting immense, vague stretches of 
 land inundated with sunshine and full of butterflies, all this 
 attracted him. 
 
 There is hardly any one on earth who is not acquainted with 
 those singular spots, the Glaciere, the Cunette, the hideous wall 
 of Grenelle all speckled with balls, Mont-Parnasse, the Fosse- 
 aux-Loups, Aubiers on the bank of the Marne, Mont-Souris, 
 the Tombe-Issoire, the Pierre-Plate de Chatillon, where there 
 is an old, exhausted quarry which no longer serves any purpose 
 except to raise mushrooms, and which is closed, on a level with 
 the ground, by a trap-door of rotten planks. The campagna 
 of Rome is one idea, the banlieue of Paris is another; to behold 
 nothing but fields, houses, or trees in what a stretch of country 
 offers us, is to remain on the surface; all aspects of things are 
 thoughts of God. The spot where a plain effects its junction 
 with a city is always stamped with a certain piercing melan- 
 choly. Nature and humanity both appeal to you at the same 
 time there. Local originalities there make their appear- 
 ance.
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 7 
 
 Any one who, like ourselves, has wandered about in these sol- 
 itudes contiguous to our faubourgs, which may be designated 
 as the limbos of Paris, has seen here and there, in the most 
 desert spot, at the most unexpected moment, behind a meagre 
 hedge, or in the corner of a lugubrious wall, children grouped 
 tumultuously, fetid, muddy, dusty, ragged, dishevelled, play- 
 ing hide-and-seek, and crowned with corn-flowers. All of 
 them are little ones who have made their escape from poor 
 families. The outer boulevard is their breathing space; the 
 suburbs belong to them. There they are eternally playing tru- 
 ant. There they innocently sing their repertory of dirty songs. 
 There they are, or rather, there they exist, far from every eye, 
 in the sweet light of May or June, kneeling round a hole in 
 the ground, snapping marbles with their thumbs, quarrelling 
 over half -farthings, irresponsible, volatile, free and happy; 
 and, no sooner do they catch sight of you than they recollect 
 that they have an industry, and that they must earn their liv- 
 ing, and they offer to sell you an old woollen stocking filled 
 with cockchafers, or a bunch of lilacs. These encounters with 
 strange children are one of the charming and at the same time 
 poignant graces of the environs of Paris. 
 
 Sometimes there are little girls among the throng of boys, 
 are they their sisters? who are almost young maidens, thin, 
 feverish, with sunburnt hands, covered with freckles, crowned 
 with poppies and ears of rye, gay, haggard, barefooted. They 
 can be seen devouring cherries among the wheat. In the even- 
 ing they can be heard laughing. These groups, warmly illumi- 
 nated by the full glow of midday, or indistinctly seen in the 
 twilight, occupy the thoughtful man for a very long time, and 
 these visions mingle with his dreams. 
 
 Paris, centre, banlieue, circumference; this constitutes all 
 the earth to those children. They never venture beyond this. 
 They can no more escape from the Parisian atmosphere than 
 fish can escape from the water. For them, nothing exists two 
 leagues beyond the barriers : Ivry, Gentilly, Arcueil, Belleville, 
 Aubervilliers, Menilrnontant, Choisy-le-Hoi, Billancourt, Meu- 
 don, Issy, Vanvre, Sevres, Puteaux, Neuilly, Gennevilliers,
 
 g MA.R1U8 
 
 Colombes, Romainville, Chatou, Asnieres, Bougival, Nanterre, 
 Enghicn, Noisy-le-Sec, Nogcnt, Gournay, Drancy, Gonesse; 
 the universe ends there. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A BIT OF HISTORY 
 
 AT the epoch, nearly contemporary by the way, when the 
 action of this book takes place, there was not, as there is to-day, 
 a policeman at the corner of every street (a benefit which there 
 is no time to discuss here) ; stray children abounded in Paris. 
 The statistics give an average of two hundred and sixty home- 
 less children picked up annually at that period, by the police 
 patrols, in unenclosed lands, in houses in process of construc- 
 tion, and under the arches of the bridges. One of these nests, 
 which has become famous, produced "the swallows of the 
 bridge of Arcola." This is, moreover, the most disastrous of 
 social symptoms. All crimes of the man begin in the vaga- 
 bondage of the child. 
 
 Let us make an exception in favor of Paris, nevertheless. 
 In a relative measure, and in spite of the souvenir which we 
 have just recalled, the exception is just. While in any other 
 great city the vagabond child is a lost man, while nearly every- 
 where the child left to itself is, in some sort, sacrificed and 
 abandoned to a kind of fatal immersion in the public vices 
 which devour in him honesty and conscience, the street boy 
 of Paris, we insist on this point, however defaced and injured 
 on the surface, is almost intact on the interior. It is a mag- 
 nificent thing to put on record, and one which shines forth 
 in the splendid probity of our popular revolutions, that a 
 certain incorruptibility results from the idea which exists in 
 the air of Paris, as salt exists in the water of the ocean. To 
 breathe Paris preserves the soul. 
 
 What we have just said takes away nothing of the anguish 
 of heart which one experiences every time that one meets one
 
 PA I! IK HTLDIED IN ITS ATOM 9 
 
 of these children around whom one fancies that he heholds 
 floating the threads of a hroken family. In the civilization of 
 the present day, incomplete as it still is, it is not a very 
 ahnormal thing to behold these fractured families pouring 
 themselves out into the darkness, not knowing clearly what 
 has become of their children, and allowing their own entrails 
 to fall on the public highway. Hence these obscure destinies. 
 This is called, for this sad thing has given rise to an expres- 
 sion, "to be cast on the pavements of Paris." 
 
 Let it be said by the way, that this abandonment of children 
 was not discouraged by the ancient monarchy. A little of 
 Egypt and Bohemia in the lower regions suited the upper 
 spheres, and compassed the aims of the powerful. The hatred 
 of instruction for the children of the people was a dogma. 
 What is the use of "half-lights" ? Such was the countersign. 
 Now, the erring child is the corollary of the ignorant child. 
 
 Besides this, the monarchy sometimes was in need of chil- 
 dren, and in that case it skimmed the streets. 
 
 Under Louis XIV., not to go any further back, the king 
 rightly desired to create a fleet. The idea was a good one. 
 But let us consider the means. There can be no fleet, if, 
 beside the sailing ship, that plaything of the winds, and for 
 the purpose of towing it, in case of necessity, there is not the 
 vessel which goes where it pleases, either by means of oars or 
 of steam ; the galleys were then to the marine what steamers 
 are to-day. Therefore, galleys were necessary ; but the galley 
 is moved only by the galley-slave; hence, galley-slaves were 
 required. Colbert had the commissioners of provinces and the 
 parliaments make as many convicts as possible. The magis- 
 tracy showed a great deal of complaisance in the matter. A 
 man kept his hat on in the presence of a procession it was a 
 Huguenot attitude; he was sent to the galley?. A child was 
 encountered in the streets; provided that he was fifteen years 
 of age and did not know where he was to sleep, he was sent to 
 the galleys. Grand reign ; grand century. 
 
 Under Louis XV. children disappeared in Paris ; the police 
 carried them off, for what mysterious purpose no one knew.
 
 10 MARIU8 
 
 People whispered with terror monstrous conjectures as to the 
 king's baths of purple. BarMer speaks ingenuously of these 
 things. It sometimes happened that the exempts rf the guard, 
 when they ran short of children, took those who had fathers. 
 The fathers, in despair, attacked the exempts. In that case, 
 the parliament intervened and had some one hung. Who? 
 The exempts ? No, the fathers. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE GAMIN SHOULD HAVE HIS PLACE IN THE CLASSIFICATIONS 
 
 OF INDIA 
 
 THE body of street Arabs in Paris almost constitutes a 
 caste. One might almost say: Not every one who wishes to 
 belong to it can do so. 
 
 This word gamin was printed for the first time, and reached 
 popular speech through the literary tongue, in 1834. It is in 
 a little work entitled Claude Gueux that this word made its 
 appearance. The horror was lively. The word passed into 
 circulation. 
 
 The elements which constitute the consideration of the 
 gamins for each other are very various. We have known and 
 associated with one who was greatly respected and vastly 
 admired because he had seen a man fall from the top of the 
 tower of Notre-Dame; another, because he had succeeded in 
 making his way into the rear courtyard where the statues of 
 the dome of the Invalides had been temporarily deposited, and 
 had "prigged" some lead from them; a third, because he 
 had seen a diligence tip over; still another, because he 
 "knew*' a soldier who came near putting out the eye of a 
 citizen. 
 
 This explains that famous exclamation of a Parisian gamin, 
 a profound epiphonema, which the vulgar herd laughs at with- 
 out comprehending, Dieu de Dieu! What ill-hick J do have I 
 to think that I have never yet seen anybody tumble from a
 
 PARIK STUDIED IN ITS ATOM H 
 
 fifth-story window! (I have pronounced I'ave and fifth pro- 
 nounced fift'.) 
 
 Surely, this saying of a peasant is a fine one : "Father So- 
 and-So. your wife has died of her malady ; why did you not 
 send for the doctor?" "What would you have, sir, we poor 
 folks die of ourselves." But if the peasant's whole passivity 
 lies in this saying, the whole of the free-thinking anarchy of 
 the brat of the faubourgs is, assuredly, contained in this other 
 saying. A man condemned to death is listening to his con- 
 fessor in the tumbrel. The child of Paris exclaims: "He is 
 talking to his black cap ! Oh, the sneak !" 
 
 A certain audacity on matters of religion sets off the gamin. 
 To be strong-minded is an important item. 
 
 To be present at executions constitutes a duty. He shows 
 himself at the guillotine, and he laughs. He calls it by all 
 sorts of pet names : The End of the Soup, The Growler, The 
 Mother in the Blue (the sky), The Last Mouthful, etc., etc. 
 In order not to lose anything of the affair, he scales the walls, 
 he hoists himself to balconies, he ascends trees, he suspends 
 himself to gratings, he clings fast to chimneys. The gamin is 
 born a tiler as he is born a mariner. A roof inspires him with 
 no more fear than a mast. There is no festival which comes 
 up to an execution on the Place de Greve. Samson and the 
 Abbe Montes are the truly popular names. They hoot at the 
 victim in order to encourage him. They sometimes admire 
 him. Lacenaire, when a gamin, on seeing the hideous Dautin 
 die bravely, uttered these words which contain a future: "I 
 was jealous of him." In the brotherhood of gamins Voltaire 
 is not known, but Papavoine is. "Politicians" are confused 
 with assassins in the same legend. They have a tradition as 
 to everybody's last garment. It is known that Tolleron had 
 a fireman's cap, Avril an otter cap, Losvel a round hat, that 
 old Delaporte was bald and bare-headed, that Castaing was 
 all ruddy and very handsome, that Bories had a romantic 
 small beard, that Jean Martin kept on his suspenders, that 
 Lecouffe and his mother quarrelled. "Don't reproach each 
 other for your basket," shouted a gamin to thorn. Another, in
 
 12 MARIUB 
 
 order to get a look at Debacker as he passed, and being too 
 small in the crowd, caught sight of the lantern on the quay 
 and climbed it. A gendarme stationed opposite frowned. 
 "Let me climb up, m'sieu le gendarme," said the gamin. And, 
 to soften the heart of the authorities, he added: "I will 
 not fall." "I don't care if you do," retorted the gen- 
 darme. 
 
 In the brotherhood of gamins, a memorable accident counts 
 for a great deal. One reaches the height of consideration if 
 one chances to cut one's self very deeply, "to the very 
 bone." 
 
 The fist is no mediocre element of respect. One of the 
 things that the gamin is fondest of saying is : "I am fine and 
 strong, come now !" To be left-handed renders you very 
 enviable. A squint is highly esteemed. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN WHICH THE READER WILL FIND A CHARMING SAYING OP 
 THE LAST KING 
 
 IN summer, he metamorphoses himself into a frog ; and in 
 the evening, when night is falling, in front of the bridges of 
 Austerlitz and Jena, from the tops of coal wagons, and the 
 washerwomen's boats, he hurls himself headlong into the 
 Seine, and into all possible infractions of the laws of modesty 
 and of the police. Nevertheless the police keep an eye on 
 him. and the result is a highly dramatic situation which once 
 gave rise to a fraternal and memorable cry ; that cry which 
 was celebrated about 1830, is a strategic warning from gamin 
 to gamin ; it scans like a verse from Homer, with a notation 
 as inexpressible as the eleusiac chant of the Panathenaea, and 
 in it one encounters again the ancient Evohe. Here it is: 
 "Ohe, Titi, oheee! Here comes the bobby, here comes the 
 p'lice, pick up your duds and be off, through the sewer with 
 you !"
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 13 
 
 Sometimes this gnat that is what he calls himself knows 
 how to read; sometimes he knows how to write; he always 
 knows how to daub. He does not hesitate to acquire, by no 
 one knows what mysterious mutual instruction, all the talents 
 which can be of use to the public; from 1815 to 1830, he 
 imitated the cry of the turkey ; from 1830 to 1848, he scrawled 
 pears on the walls. One summer evening, when Louis Phil- 
 ippe was returning home on foot, he saw a little fellow, no 
 higher than his knee, perspiring and climbing up to draw a 
 gigantic pear in charcoal on one of the pillars of the gate of 
 Neuilly ; the King, with that good-nature which came to him 
 from Henry IV., helped the gamin, finished the pear, and 
 gave the child a louis, saying: "The pear is on that also." 1 
 The gamin loves uproar. A certain state of violence pleases 
 him. He execrates "the cures." One day, in the Rue de 
 1'Universite, one of these scamps was putting his thumb to 
 his nose at the carriage gate of No. 69. "Why are you doing 
 that at the gate ?" a passer-by asked. The boy replied : "There 
 is a cure there." It was there, in fact, that the Papal Nuncio 
 lived. 
 
 Nevertheless, whatever may be the Voltairianism of the 
 small gamin, if the occasion to become a chorister presents 
 itself, it is quite possible that he will accept, and in that case 
 he serves the mass civilly. There are two things to which he 
 plays Tantalus, and which he always desires without ever 
 attaining them : to overthrow the government, and to get his 
 trousers sewed up again. 
 
 The gamin in his perfect state possesses all the policemen of 
 Paris, and can always put the name to the face of any one 
 which he chances to meet. He can tell them off on the tips of 
 his fingers. He studies their habits, and he has special notes 
 on each one of them. He reads the souls of the police like an 
 open book. He will tell you fluently and without flinching: 
 "Such an one is a traitor; such another is very malicious; 
 such another is great; such another is ridiculous." (All these 
 
 XVI 1 1. is represented in comic pictures of that day as hav- 
 ing a pear-shaped head.
 
 14 MARIU8 
 
 words : traitor, malicious, great, ridiculous, have a particular 
 meaning in his mouth.) That one imagines that he owns the 
 Pont-Xeuf, and he prevents people from walking on the 
 cornice outside the parapet ; that other has a mania for pull- 
 ing person's ears; etc., etc. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 THE OLD SOUL OF GAUL 
 
 THERE was something of that boy in Poquelin, the son of 
 the fish-market; Beaumarchais had something of it. Gamin- 
 ^rie is a shade of the Gallic spirit. Mingled with good sense, 
 it sometimes adds force to the latter, as alcohol does to wine. 
 Sometimes it is a defect. Homer repeats himself eternally, 
 granted ; one may say that Voltaire plays the gamin. Camille 
 Desmoulins was a native of the faubourgs. Championnet, 
 who treated miracles brutally, rose from the pavements of 
 Paris; he had, when a small lad, inundated the porticos of 
 Saint-Jean de Beauvais, and of Saint-fitienne du Mont ; he 
 had addressed the shrine of Sainte-Genevieve familiarly to 
 give orders to the phial of Saint Januarius. 
 
 The gamin of Paris is respectful, ironical, and insolent. 
 He has villainous teeth, because he is badly fed and his 
 stomach suffers, and handsome eyes because he has wit. If 
 Jehovah himself were present, he would go hopping up the 
 steps of paradise on one foot. He is strong on boxing. All 
 beliefs are possible to him. He plays in the gutter, and 
 straightens himself up with a revolt; his effrontery persists 
 even in the presence of grape-shot ; he was a scapegrace, he 
 is a hero ; like the little Theban, he shakes the skin from the 
 lion; Barra the drummer-boy was a gamin of Paris; he 
 shouts : "Forward !" as the horse of Scripture says "Vah !" 
 and in a moment he has passed from the small brat to the 
 giant. 
 
 This child of the puddle is also the child of the ideal.
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 15 
 
 Measure that spread of wings which reaches from Moliere to 
 Barra. 
 
 To sum up the whole, and in one word, the gamin is a being 
 who amuses himself, because he is unhappy. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ECCE PARIS, ECCE HOMO 
 
 To sum it all up once more, the Paris gamin of to-day, like 
 the grcBculus of Rome in days gone by, is the infant populace 
 with the wrinkle of the old world on his brow. 
 
 The gamin is a grace to the nation, and at the same time 
 a disease ; a disease which must be cured, how ? By light. 
 
 Light renders healthy. 
 
 Light kindles. 
 
 All generous social irradiations spring from science, letters, 
 arts, education. Make men, make men. Give them light 
 that they may warm you. Sooner or later the splendid ques- 
 tion of universal education will present itself with the irre- 
 sistible authority of the absolute truth ; and then, those who 
 govern under the superintendence of the French idea will 
 have to make this choice ; the children of France or the gamins 
 of Paris; flames in the light or will-o'-the-wisps in the gloom. 
 
 The gamin expresses Paris, and Paris expresses the 
 world. 
 
 For Paris is a total. Paris is the ceiling of the human race. 
 The whole of this prodigious city is a foreshortening of dead 
 manners and living manners. He who sees Paris thinks he 
 sees the bottom of all history with heaven and constellations 
 in the intervals. Paris has a capital, the Town-Hall, a 
 Parthenon, Notre-Dame, a Mount Avcntine, the Faubourg 
 Saint-Antoine, an Asinarium, the Sorbonne, a Pantheon, the 
 Pantheon, a Via Sacra, the Boulevard des Ttaliens, a temple 
 of the winds, opinion; and it replaces the Gemoniae by ridi- 
 cule. Its majo is called "faraud," its Transteverin is the
 
 16 MARIU8 
 
 man of the faubourgs, its hammal is the market-porter, its 
 lazzarone is the pegre, its cockney is the native of Ghent. 
 Everything that exists elsewhere exists at Paris. The fish- 
 woman of Dumarsais can retort on the herb-seller of Euripi- 
 des, the discobols Vejanus lives again in the Forioso, the 
 tight-rope dancer. Therapontigonus Miles could walk arm in 
 arm with Vadeboncoeur the grenadier, Damasippus the second- 
 hand dealer would be happy among bric-a-brac merchants, 
 Vincennes could grasp Socrates in its fist as just as Agora 
 could imprison Diderot, Grimod de la Reyniere discovered 
 larded roast beef, as Curtillus invented roast hedgehog, we 
 see the trapeze which figures in Plautus reappear under the 
 vault of the Arc of 1'Etoile, the sword-eater of Poecilus 
 encountered by Apuleius is a sword-swallower on the Pont- 
 Neuf, the nephew of Rameau and Curculio the parasite make 
 a pair. Ergasilus could get himself presented to Cambaceres by 
 d'Aigrefeuille ; the four dandies of Rome: Alcesimarchus, 
 Phcedromus, Diabolus, and Argyrippus, descend from Cour- 
 tille in Labatut's posting-chaise ; Aulus Gellius would halt no 
 longer in front of Congrio than would Charles Nodier in front 
 of Punchinello ; Marto is not a tigress, but Pardalisca was not 
 a dragon; Pantolabus the Wag jeers in the Cafe Anglais at 
 Nomentanus the fast liver, Hermogenus is a tenor in the 
 Champs-Elysees, and round him, Thracius the beggar, clad 
 like Bobeche, takes up a collection; the bore who stops you 
 by the button of your coat in the Tuileries makes you repeat 
 after a lapse of two thousand years Thesprion's apostrophe : 
 Quis properantem me prehendit pallio? The winaon Surene 
 is a parody of the wine of Alba, the red border of Desaugiers 
 forms a balance to the great cutting of Balatro, Pere Lachaise 
 exhales beneath nocturnal rains same gleams as the Esquiliae, 
 and the grave of the poor bought for five years, is certainly 
 the equivalent of the slave's hived coffin. 
 
 Seek something that Paris has not. The vat of Trophonius 
 contains nothing that is not in Mesmer's tub; Ergaphilas 
 lives again in Cagliostro; the Brahmin Vasaphanta become 
 incarnate in the Comte de Saint-Germain; the cemetery of
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 17 
 
 Saint-Medard works quite as good miracles as the Mosque of 
 Oumoumie at Damascus. 
 
 Paris has an yEsop-Mayeux, and a Canidia, Mademoiselle 
 Lenormand. It is terrified, like Delphos at the fulgurating 
 realities of the vision; it makes tables turn as Dodona did 
 tripods. It places the grisette on the throne, as Rome placed 
 the courtesan there; and, taking it altogether, if Louis XV. 
 is worse than Claudian, Madame Dubarry is better than Mes- 
 salina. Paris combines in an unprecedented type, which has 
 existed and which we have elbowed, Grecian nudity, the 
 Hebraic ulcer, and the Gascon pun. It mingles Diogenes, 
 Job, and Jack-pudding, dresses up a spectre in old numbers of 
 the Constitutional, and makes Chodruc Duclos. 
 
 Although Plutarch says : the tyrant never grows old, Rome, 
 under Sylla as under Domitian, resigned itself and willingly 
 put water in its wine. The Tiber was a Lethe, if the rather 
 doctrinary eulogium made of it by Varus Vibiscus is to be 
 credited: Contra Oracchos Tiberim habcmus, Bibere Tibcrim, 
 id est seditionem oblivisci. Paris drinks a million litres of 
 water a day, but that does not prevent it from occasionally 
 beating the general alarm and ringing the tocsin. 
 
 With that exception, Paris is amiable. It accepts every- 
 thing royally ; it is not too particular about its Venus ; its 
 Callipyge is Hottentot; provided that it is made to laugh, it 
 condones ; ugliness cheers it, deformity provokes it to laughter, 
 vice diverts it; be eccentric and you may be an eccentric; even 
 hypocrisy, that supreme cynicism, does not disgust it ; it is so 
 literary that it does not hold its nose before Basilo, and is no 
 more scandalized by the prayer of Tartuffe than Horace was 
 repelled by the "hiccup" of Priapus. No trait of the uni- 
 versal face is lacking in the profile of Paris. The bal Mabile 
 is not the polymnia dance of the Janiculum, but the dealer in 
 ladies' wearing apparel there devours the lorette with her eyes, 
 exactly as the procuress Staphyla lay in wait for the virgin 
 Planesium. The Barriere du Combat is not the Coliseum, but 
 people are as ferocious there as though Ca>sar were looking on. 
 The Syrian hostess has more grace than Mother Saguet, but,
 
 jg MARIU8 
 
 if Virgil haunted the Roman wine-shop, David d' Angers, 
 Balzac and Charlet have sat at the tables of Parisian taverns. 
 Paris reigns. Geniuses flash forth there, the red tails prosper 
 there. Adona'i passes on his chariot with its twelve wheels of 
 thunder and lightning; Silenus makes his entry there on his 
 ass. For Silenus read Ramponneau. 
 
 Paris is the synonym of Cosmos, Paris is Athens, Sybaris, 
 Jerusalem. Pantin. All civilizations are there in an abridged 
 form, all barbarisms also. Paris would greatly regret it if it 
 had not a guillotine. 
 
 A little of the Place de Greve is a good thing. What would 
 all that eternal festival be without this seasoning? Our laws 
 are wisely provided, and thanks to them, this blade drips on 
 this Shrove Tuesday. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 TO SCOFF, TO REIGN 
 
 THERE is no limit to Paris. No city has had that domina- 
 tion which sometimes derides those whom it subjugates. To 
 please you, Athenians ! exclaimed Alexander. Paris makes 
 more than the law, it makes the fashion ; Paris sets more than 
 the fashion, it sets the routine. Paris may be stupid, if it sees 
 fit; it sometimes allows itself this luxury; then the universe is 
 stupid in company with it; then Paris awakes, rubs its eyes, 
 says : "How stupid I am !" and bursts out laughing in the 
 face of the human race. What a marvel is such a city ! it is 
 a strange thing that this grandioseness and this burlesque 
 should be amicable neighbors, that all this majesty should not 
 be thrown into disorder by all this parody, and that the same 
 mouth can to-day blow into the trump of the Judgment Day, 
 and to-morrow into the reed-flute ! Paris has a sovereign 
 joviality. Its gayety is of the thunder and its farce holds a 
 sceptre. 
 
 Its tempest sometimes proceeds from a grimace. Its ex- 
 plosions, its days, its masterpieces, its prodigies, its epics, go
 
 PA If IK STUDIED IN ITK ATOM 19 
 
 forth to the bounds of the universe, and so also do its cock-and- 
 bull stories. Its laugh is the mouth of a volcano which spatters 
 the whole earth. Its jests are sparks. It imposes its carica- 
 tures as well as its ideal on people; the highest monuments of 
 human civilization accept its ironies and lend their eternity to 
 its mischievous pranks. It is superb; it has a prodigious 14th 
 of July, which delivers the globe; it forces all nations to take 
 the oath of tennis ; its night of the 4th of August dissolves in 
 three hours a thousand years of feudalism ; it makes of its logic 
 the muscle of unanimous will ; it multiplies itself under all 
 sorts of forms of the sublime; it fills with its light Washington, 
 Kosciusko, Bolivar, Bozzaris, Riego, Bern, Manin, Lopez, John 
 Brown, Garibaldi; it is everywhere where the future is being 
 lighted up, at Boston in 1779, at the Isle de Leon in 1820, at 
 Pesth in 1848, at Palermo in 1860, it whispers the mighty 
 countersign : Liberty, in the ear of the American abolitionists 
 grouped about the boat at Harper's Ferry, and in the ear of 
 the patriots of Ancona assembled in the shadow, to the Archi 
 before the Gozzi inn on the seashore; it creates Canaris; it 
 creates Quiroga; it creates Pisacane; it irradiates the great 
 on earth ; it was while proceeding whither its breath urge them, 
 that Byron perished at Missolonghi, and that Mazet died at 
 Barcelona; it is the tribune under the feet of Mirabeau, and a 
 crater under the feet of Robespierre; its books, its theatre, its 
 art, its science, its literature, its philosophy, are the manuals 
 of the human race; it has Pascal, Regnier, Corneille, Descartes, 
 Jean- Jacques: Voltaire for all moments, Moliere for all cen- 
 turies; it makes its language to be talked by the universal 
 mouth, and that language becomes the word; it constructs in 
 all minds the idea of progress, the liberating dogmas which it 
 forges are for the generations trusty friends, and it is with 
 the soul of its thinkers and its poets that all heroes of all 
 nations have been made since 1 789 ; this does not prevent vaga- 
 bondism, and that enormous genius which is called Paris, 
 while transfiguring the world by its light, sketches in charcoal 
 Bouginier's nose on the wall of the temple of Theseus and 
 writes Crcdcvillc the thief on the Pyramids.
 
 20 MARIVB 
 
 Paris is always showing its teeth ; when it is not scolding it 
 is laughing. 
 
 Such is Paris. The smoke of its roofs forms the ideas of the 
 universe. A heap of mud and stone, if you will, but, above all, 
 a moral being. It is more than great, it is immense. Why? 
 Because it is daring. 
 
 To dare ; that is the price of progress. 
 
 All sublime conquests are, more or less, the prizes of daring. 
 In order that the Revolution should take place, it does not suf- 
 fice that Montesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should 
 preach it, that Beaumarchais should announce it, that Con- 
 dorcet should calculate it, that Arouet should prepare it, that 
 Rousseau should premeditate it; it is necessary that Danton 
 should dare it. 
 
 The cry: Audacity! is a Fiat lux. It is necessary, for the 
 sake of the forward march of the human race, that there 
 should be proud lessons of courage permanently on the heights. 
 Daring deeds dazzle history and are one of man's great sources 
 of light. The dawn dares when it rises. To attempt, to brave, 
 to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to one's self, to grasp 
 fate bodily, to astound catastrophe by the small amount of fear 
 that it occasions us, now to affront unjust power, again to 
 insult drunken victory, to hold one's position, to stand one's 
 ground; that is the example which nations need, that is the 
 light which electrifies them. The same formidable lightning 
 proceeds from the torch of Prometheus to Cambronne's short 
 pipe. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE FUTURE LATENT IN THE PEOPLE 
 
 As for the Parisian populace, even when a man grown, it is 
 always the street Arab; to paint the child is to paint the city; 
 and it is for that reason that we have studied this eagle in this 
 arrant sparrow. It is in the faubourgs, above all, we maintain, 
 that the Parisian race appears; there is the pure blood; there 
 is the true physiognomy; there this people toils and suffers,
 
 PARIS STUDIED IN ITS ATOM 21 
 
 and suffering and toil are the two faces of man. There exist 
 there immense numbers of unknown beings, among whom 
 swarm types of the strangest, from the porter of la Rapee to 
 the knacker of Montfaucon. Fex urbis, exclaims Cicero: mob, 
 adds Burke, indignantly; rabble, multitude, populace. These 
 are words and quickly uttered. But so be it. What does it 
 matter? What is it to me if they do go barefoot ! They do not 
 know how to read ; so much the worse. Would you abandon 
 them for that? Would you turn their distress into a maledic- 
 tion ? Cannot the light penetrate these masses ? Let us return 
 to that cry : Light ! and let us obstinately persist therein ! 
 Light! Light! Who knows whether these opacities will not 
 become transparent? Are not revolutions transfigurations? 
 Come, philosophers, teach, enlighten, light up, think aloud, 
 speak aloud, hasten joyously to the great sun, fraternize with 
 the public place, announce the good news, spend your alpha- 
 bets lavishly, proclaim rights, sing the Marseillaises, sow 
 enthusiasms, tear green boughs from the oaks. Make a whirl- 
 wind of the idea. This crowd may be rendered sublime. Let 
 us learn how to make use of that vast conflagration of princi- 
 ples and virtues, which sparkles, bursts forth and quivers at 
 certain hours. These bare feet, these bare arms, these rags, 
 these ignorances, these abjectnesses, these darknesses, may be 
 employed in the conquest of the ideal. Gaze past the people, 
 and you will perceive truth. Let that vile sand which you 
 trample under foot be cast into the furnace, let it melt and 
 seethe there, it will become a splendid crystal, and it is thanks 
 to it that Galileo and Newton will discover stars. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LITTLE GAVROCHE 
 
 EIGHT or nine years after the events narrated in the second 
 part of this story, people noticed on the Boulevard du Temple, 
 and in the regions of the Chatcau-d'Eau, a little boy eleven or 
 twelve years of age, who would have realized with tolerable
 
 22 MARIUS 
 
 accuracy that ideal of the gamin sketched out above, if, with 
 the laugh of his age on his lips, he had not had a heart abso- 
 lutely sombre and empty. This child was well muffled up in a 
 pair of man's trousers, but he did not get them from his father, 
 and a woman's chemise, but he did not get it from his mother. 
 Some people or other had clothed him in rags out of charity. 
 Still, he had a father and a mother. But his father did not 
 think of him, and his mother did not love him. 
 
 He was one of those children most deserving of pity, among 
 all, one of those who have father and mother, and who are 
 orphans nevertheless. 
 
 This child never felt so well as when he was in the street. 
 The pavements were less hard to him than his mother's heart. 
 
 His parents had despatched him into life with a kick. 
 
 He simply took flight. 
 
 He was a boisterous, pallid, nimble, wide-awake, jeering, 
 lad, with a vivacious but sickly air. He went and came, sang, 
 played at hopscotch, scraped the gutters, stole a little, but, like 
 cats and sparrows, gayly laughed when he was called a rogue, 
 and got angry when called a thief. He had no shelter, no 
 bread, no fire, no love; but he was merry because he was free. 
 
 When these poor creatures grow to be men, the millstones of 
 the social order meet them and crush them, but so long as they 
 are children, they escape because of their smallness. The 
 tiniest hole saves them. 
 
 Nevertheless, abandoned as this child was, it sometimes hap- 
 pened, every two or three months, that he said, "Come, I'll go 
 and see mamma !" Then he quitted the boulevard, the Cirque, 
 the Porte Saint-Martin, descended to the quays, crossed the 
 bridges, reached the suburbs, arrived at the Salpotriere, and 
 came to a halt, where? Precisely at that double number 50-52 
 with which the reader is acquainted at the Gorbeau hovel. 
 
 At that epoch, the hovel 50-52 generally deserted and eter- 
 nally decorated with the placard : "Chambers to let," chanced 
 to be, a rare thing, inhabited by numerous individuals who, 
 however, as is always the case in Paris, had no connection with 
 each other. All belonged to that indigent class which begins to
 
 PAItIS STUDIED IN ITR ATOM 23 
 
 separate from the lowest of petty bourgeoisie in straitened cir- 
 cumstances, and which extends from misery to misery into the 
 lowest depths of society down to those two beings in whom all 
 the material things of civilization end, the sewer-man who 
 sweeps up the mud, and the ragpicker who collects scraps. 
 
 The "principal lodger" of Jean Valjean's day was dead and 
 had been replaced by another exactly like her. I know not 
 what philosopher has said : "Old women are never lacking." 
 
 This new old woman was named Madame Bourgon, and had 
 nothing remarkable about her life except a dynasty of three 
 paroquets, who had reigned in succession over her soul. 
 
 The most miserable of those who inhabited the hovel were a 
 family of four persons, consisting of father, mother, and two 
 daughters, already well grown, all four of whom were lodged in 
 the same attic, one of the cells which we have already men- 
 tioned. 
 
 At first sight, this family presented no very special feature 
 except its extreme destitution; the father, when he hired the 
 chamber, had stated that his name was Jondrette. Some time 
 after his moving in, which had borne a singular resemblance to 
 the entrance of nothing at all, to borrow the memorable expres- 
 sion of the principal tenant, this Jondrette had said to the 
 woman, who, like her predecessor, was at the same time por- 
 tress and stair-sweeper : "Mother So-and-So, if any one should 
 chance to come and inquire for a Pole or an Italian, or even 
 a Spaniard, perchance, it is I." 
 
 This family was that of the merry barefoot boy. He arrived 
 there and found distress, and, what is still sadder, no smile ; a 
 cold hearth and cold hearts. When he entered, he was asked : 
 "Whence come you?" He replied: "From the street." When 
 he went away, they asked him: "Whither are you going?" 
 He replied: "Into the streets." His mother said to him: 
 "What did you come here for?'' 
 
 This child lived, in this absence of affection, like the pale 
 plants which spring up in cellars. It did not cause him suffer- 
 ing, and he blamed no one. He did not know exactly how a 
 father and mother should be.
 
 24 MARIU8 
 
 Nevertheless, his mother loved his sisters. 
 
 We have forgotten to mention, that on the Boulevard du 
 Temple this child was called Little Gavroche. Why was he 
 called Little Gavroche? 
 
 Probably because his father's name was Jondrette. 
 
 It seems to be the instinct of certain wretched families to 
 break the thread. 
 
 The chamber which the Jondrettes inhabited in the Gorbeau 
 hovel was the last at the end of the corridor. The cell next to 
 it was occupied by a very poor young man who was called M. 
 Marius. 
 
 Let us explain who this M. Marius was.
 
 BOOK SECOND. THE GREAT BOURGEOIS 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 NINETY YEARS AND THIRTY-TWO TEETH 
 
 IN the Rue Boucherat, Rue de Normandie, and the Rue de 
 Saintonge there still exist a few ancient inhabitants who have 
 preserved the memory of a worthy man named M. Gillenor- 
 mand, and who mention him with complaisance. This good 
 man was old when they were young. This silhouette has not 
 yet entirely disappeared for those who regard with melan- 
 choly that vague swarm of shadows which is called the past 
 from the labyrinth of streets in the vicinity of the Temple to 
 which, under Louis XIV., the names of all the provinces of 
 France were appended exactly as in our day, the streets of the 
 new Tivoli quarter have received the names of all the capitals 
 of Europe; a progression, by the way, in which progress is 
 visible. 
 
 M. Gillenormand, who was as much alive as possible in 1831, 
 was one of those men who had become curiosities to be viewed, 
 simply because they have lived a long time, and who are 
 strange because they formerly resembled everybody, and now 
 resemble nobody. He was a peculiar old man, and in very 
 truth, a man of another age, the real, complete and rather 
 haughty bourgeois of the eighteenth century, who wore his 
 good, old bourgeoisie with the air with which marquises wear 
 their marquisates. He was over ninety years of age, his walk 
 was erect, he talked loudly, saw clearly, drank neat, ate, slept, 
 and snored. He had all thirty-two of his teeth. He only wore 
 spectacles when he read. He was of an amorous disposition, 
 but declared that, for the last ten years, he had wholly and de-
 
 26 MAPIU8 
 
 cidedly renounced women. He could no longer please, he said ; 
 he did not add : "I am too old," but : "I am too poor." He said : 
 "If I were not ruined Heec!"' All he had left, in fact, was 
 an income of about fifteen thousand francs. His dream was to 
 come into an inheritance and to have a hundred thousand livres 
 income for mistresses. He did not belong, as the reader will 
 perceive, to that puny variety of octogenaries who, like M. do 
 Voltaire, have been dying all their life; his was no longevity of 
 a cracked pot; this jovial old man had always had good health. 
 He was superficial, rapid, easily angered. He flew into a pas- 
 sion at everything, generally quite contrary to all reason. 
 When contradicted, he raised his cane; he beat people as he 
 had done in the great century. He had a daughter over fifty 
 years of age, and unmarried, whom he chastised severely with 
 his tongue, when in a rage, and whom he would have liked to 
 whip. She seemed to him to be eight years old. He boxed his 
 servants' ears soundly, and said : "Ah ! carogne !" One of his 
 oaths was : "By the pantoufloche of the pantouflochade !" He 
 had singular freaks of tranquillity; he had himself shaved 
 every day by a barber who had been mad and who detested 
 him, being jealous of M. Gillenormand on account of his wife, 
 a pretty and coquettish barberess. M. Gillenormand admired 
 his own discernment in all things, and declared that he was 
 extremely sagacious; here is one of his sayings: "I have, in 
 truth, some penetration; I am able to say when a flea bites 
 me, from what woman it came." 
 
 The words which he uttered the most frequently were : the 
 sensible man, and nature. He did not give to this last word 
 the grand acceptation which our epoch has accorded to it, but 
 he made it enter, after his own fashion, into his little chimney- 
 corner satires: "Nature," he said, "in order that civilization 
 may have a little of everything, gives it even specimens of its 
 amusing barbarism. Europe possesses specimens of Asia and 
 Africa on a small scale. The cat is a drawing-room tiger, the 
 lizard is a pocket crocodile. The dancers at the opera arc pink 
 female savages. They do not eat men, they crunch them ; or, 
 magicians that they are, they transform them into oysters and
 
 THE GREAT BOL'KUEOIS 27 
 
 swallow them. The Caribbcans leave only the bones, they 
 leave only the shell. Such are our morals. We do not devour, 
 we gnaw; we do not exterminate, we claw." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 LIKE MASTER, LIKE HOUSE 
 
 HE lived in the Marais, Hue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6. 
 He owned the house. This house has since been demolished 
 and rebuilt, and the number has probably been changed in 
 those revolutions of numeration which the streets of Paris 
 undergo. He occupied an ancient and vast apartment on the 
 first floor, between street and gardens, furnished to the very 
 ceilings with great Gobelins and Beauvais tapestries represent- 
 ing pastoral scenes ; the subjects of the ceilings and the panels 
 were repeated in miniature on the arm-chairs. He enveloped 
 his bed in a vast, nine-leaved screen of Coromandel lacquer. 
 Long, full curtains hung from the windows, and formed great, 
 broken folds that were very magnificent. The garden situ- 
 ated immediately under his windows was attached to that one 
 of them which formed the angle, by means of a staircase 
 twelve or fifteen steps long, which the old gentleman 
 ascended and descended with great agility. In addition to a 
 library adjoining his chamber, he had a boudoir of which he 
 thought a great deal, a gallant and elegant retreat, with 
 magnificent hangings of straw, with a pattern of flowers and 
 fleurs-de-lys made on the galleys of Louis XIV. and ordered 
 of his convicts by M. do Vivonne for his mistress. M. Gille- 
 normand had inherited it from a grim maternal great-aunt, 
 who had died a centenarian. He had had two wives. His 
 manners were something between those of the courtier, which 
 he had never been, and the lawyer, which he might have been. 
 He was gay, and caressing when he had a mind. In his youth 
 he had been one of those men who are always deceived by their 
 wives and never by their mistresses, because they are, at the 
 same time, the most sullen of husbands and the most charming
 
 28 MARIVS 
 
 of lovers in existence. He was a connoisseur of painting. He 
 had in his chamber a marvellous portrait of no one knows 
 whom, painted by Jordacns, executed with groat dashes of the 
 brush, with millions of details, in a confused and hap-hazard 
 manner. M. Gillenormand's attire was not the habit of Louis 
 XIV. nor yet that of Louis XVI. ; it was that of the Incroy- 
 ables of the Directory. He had thought himself young up to 
 that period and had followed the fashions. His coat was of 
 light-weight cloth with voluminous n-vers, a long swallow-tail 
 and large steel buttons. With this he wore knee-breeches and 
 buckle shoes. He always thrust his hands into his fobs, lie 
 said authoritatively: "The French Revolution is a heap of 
 blackguards." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 LUC-ESPRIT 
 
 AT the age of sixteen, one evening at the opera, he had had 
 the honor to be stared at through opera-glasses by two beauties 
 at the same time ripe and celebrated beauties then, and sung 
 by Voltaire, the Camargo and the ->alle. Caught between two 
 fires, he had beaten a heroic retreat towards a little dancer, a 
 young girl named Xahenry, who was sixteen like himself, 
 obscure as a cat, and with whom he was in love. He abounded 
 in memories. He was accustomed to exclaim: "How pretty 
 she was that Guimard-Guimardini-Guimardinette, the last 
 time I saw her at Longchamps. her hair curled in sustained 
 sentiments, with her come-and-see of turquoises, her gown of 
 the color of persons newly arrived, and her little agitation 
 muff!" He had worn in his young manhood a waistcoat of 
 Nain-Londrin, which he was fond of talking about effusively. 
 "I was dressed like a Turk of the Levant Levantin," said he. 
 Madame de Boufflers, having seen him by chance when he was 
 twenty, had described him as "a charming fool." lie was 
 horrified by all the names which he saw in politics and in 
 power, regarding them as vulgar and bourgeois. lie read the 
 journals, the newspapers, the gazettes as he said, stifling out-
 
 THK (IRK AT BOURGKOI8 20 
 
 bursts of laughter the while. "Oh !" he said, "what people 
 these are ! Corbiere ! Ilumann ! Casimir Perier ! There's a 
 minister for you! I can imagine this in a journal : 'M. Gille- 
 norman, minister !' that would be a farce. Well ! They are so 
 stupid that it would pass"; he merrily called everything by its 
 name, whether decent or indecent, and did not restrain him- 
 self in the least before ladies. He uttered coarse speeches, 
 obscenities, and filth with a certain tranquillity and lack of 
 astonishment which was elegant. It was in keeping with the 
 unceremoniousness of his century. It is to be noted that the 
 age of periphrase in verse was the age of crudities in prose. 
 His god-father had predicted that he would turn out a man 
 of genius, and had bestowed on him these two significant 
 names: Luc-Esprit. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A CENTENARIAN ASPIRANT 
 
 HE had taken prizes in his boyhood at the College of Mou- 
 lins, where he was born, and he had been crowned by the hand 
 of the Due de Nivernais, whom he called the Due de Nevers. 
 Neither the Convention, nor the death of Louis XVI., nor the 
 Napoleon, nor the return of the Bourbons, nor anything else 
 had been able to efface the memory of this crowning. The 
 Due de Nevers was, in his eyes, the great figure of the century. 
 "What a charming grand seigneur," he said, "and what a fine 
 air lie had with his blue ribbon !" 
 
 In the eyes of M. Gillenormand, Catherine the Second had 
 made reparation for the crime of the partition of Poland by 
 purchasing, for three thousand roubles, the secret of the elixir 
 of gold, from Bestucheff. He grew animated on this subject : 
 "The elixir of gold," ho exclaimed, "the yellow dye of Bestu- 
 cheff, General Lamotte's drops, in the eighteenth century, 
 this was tho great remedy for the catastrophes of love, the pan- 
 acea against Venus, at one louis the half-ounce phial. Louis 
 XV. sent two hundred phials of it to the Pope." He would 
 have been greatly irritated and thrown off his balance, had
 
 30 MARIU8 
 
 any one told him that the elixir of gold is nothing but the 
 perchloride of iron. M. Gillenormand adored the Bourbons, 
 and had a horror of 1789; he was forever narrating in what 
 manner he had saved himself during the Terror, and how he 
 had been obliged to display a vast deal of gayety and clever- 
 ness in order to escape having his head cut off. If any young 
 man ventured to pronounce an eulogium on the Republic in 
 his presence, he turned purple and grew so angry that he 
 was on the point of swooning. He sometimes alluded to his 
 ninety years, and said, "I hope that I shall not see ninety- 
 three twice." On these occasions, he hinted to people that he 
 meant to live to be a hundred. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 BASQUE AND NICOLETTE 
 
 HE had theories. Here is one of them: "When a man is 
 passionately fond of women, and when he has himself a wife 
 for whom he cares but little, who is homely, cross, legitimate, 
 with plenty of rights, perched on the code, and jealous at need, 
 there is but one way of extricating himself from the quandry 
 and of procuring peace, and that is to let his wife control the 
 purse-strings. This abdication sets him free. Then his wife 
 busies herself, grows passionately fond of handling coin, gets 
 her fingers covered with verdigris in the process, undertakes 
 the education of half-share tenants and the training of farm- 
 ers, convokes lawyers, presides over notaries, harangues 
 scriveners, visits limbs of the law, follows lawsuits, draws up 
 leases, dictates contracts, feels herself the sovereign, sells, 
 buys, regulates, promises and compromises, binds fast and 
 annuls, yields, concedes and retrocedes, arranges, disarranges, 
 hoards, lavishes; she commits follies, a supreme and personal 
 delight, and that consoles her. While her husband disdains 
 her, she has the satisfaction of ruining her husband." This 
 theory M. Gillenormand had himself applied, and it had 
 become his history. His wife the second one had admin-
 
 THE ORE AT BOURGEOIS 31 
 
 istered his fortune in such a manner that, one fine day, when 
 M. Gillenormand found himself a widower, there remained to 
 him just sufficient to live on. by sinking nearly the whole of 
 i'. in an annuity of fifteen thousand francs, three-quarters of 
 which would expire with him. He had not hesitated on this 
 point, not being anxious to leave a property behind him. 
 Besides, he had noticed that patrimonies are subject to 
 adventures, and, for instance, become national property; he 
 had been present at the avatars of consolidated three per cents, 
 and he had no great faith in the Great Book of the Public 
 Debt. "All that's the Rue Quincampois !" he said. His 
 house in the Rue Filles-du-Clavaire belonged to him, as we 
 have already stated. He had two servants, "a male and a 
 female." When a servant entered his establishment, M. Gille- 
 normand re-baptized him. He bestowed on the men the name 
 of their province: Nimois, Comtois, Poitevin, Picard. His 
 last valet was a big. foundered, short-winded fellow of fifty- 
 five, who was incapable of running twenty paces; but, as he 
 had been born at Bayonne, M. Gillenormand called him 
 Basque. All the female servants in his house were called 
 Nicolettc (even the Magnon, of whom we shall hear more 
 farther on). One day, a haughty cook, a cordon bleu, of the 
 lofty race of porters, presented herself. "How much wages 
 do you want a month?" asked M. Gillenormand. "Thirty 
 francs." "What is your name?" "Olympic." "You shall 
 have fifty francs, and you shall be called Nicolette." 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 IN WHICH MAQNON AND HER TWO CHILDREN" ARE SEEN 
 
 WITH M. Gillenormand, sorrow was converted into wrath ; 
 he was furious at being in despair. He had all sorts of preju- 
 dices and took all sorts of liberties. One of the facts of which 
 his exterior relief and his internal satisfaction was composed, 
 was, as we have just hinted, that he had remained a brisk 
 spark, and that he passed energetically for such. This he
 
 32 MARIU8 
 
 called having "royal renown." This royal renown sometimes 
 drew down upon him singular windfalls. One day, there 
 was brought to him in a basket, as though it had been a 
 basket of oysters, a stout, newly born boy, who was yelling 
 like the deuce, and duly wrapped in swaddling-clothes, which 
 a servant-maid, dismissed six months previously, attributed to 
 him. M. Gillenormand had, at that time, fully completed his 
 eighty-fourth year. Indignation and uproar in the establish- 
 ment. And whom did that bold hussy think she could per- 
 suade to believe that ? What audacity ! What an abominable 
 calumny ! M. Gillenormand himself was not at all enraged. 
 He gazed at the brat with the amiable smile of a good man 
 who is flattered by the calumny, and said in an aside: "Well, 
 what now ? What's the matter ? You are finely taken aback, 
 and really, you are excessively ignorant. M. le Due d'Angou- 
 leme, the bastard of his Majesty Charles IX., married a silly 
 jade of fifteen when he was eighty-five; M. Virginal, Marquis 
 d'Alluye, brother to the Cardinal de Sourdis, Archbishop of 
 Bordeaux, had, at the age of eighty-three, by the maid of 
 Madame la Presidente Jacquin, a son, a real child of love, 
 who became a Chevalier of Malta and a counsellor of state; 
 one of the great men of this century, the Abbe Tabaraud. is 
 the son of a man of eighty-seven. There is nothing out of the 
 ordinary in these things. And then, the Bible ! Upon that 
 I declare that this little gentleman is none of mine. Let him 
 be taken care of. It is not his fault." This manner of pro- 
 cedure was good-tempered. The woman, whose name was 
 Magnon, sent him another parcel in the following year. It 
 was a boy again. Thereupon, M. Gillenormand capitulated. 
 He sent the two brats back to their mother, promising to pay 
 eighty francs a month for their maintenance, on the condition 
 that the said mother would not do so any more. He added : 
 "I insist upon it that the mother shall treat them well. I 
 shall go to see them from time to time." And this he did. He 
 had had a brother who was a priest, and who had been rector 
 of the Academy of Poitiers for three and thirty years, and had 
 died at seventy-nine. "I lost him young," said he. This
 
 THK GREAT BOURGEOIS 33 
 
 brother, of whom hut little memory remains, was a peaceable 
 miser, who. being a priest, thought himself bound to bestow 
 alms on the poor whom he met, but he never gave them 
 anything except bad or demonetized sous, thereby discover- 
 ing a means of going to hell hy way of paradise. As for M. 
 Oillenormand the elder, he never haggled over his alms- 
 giving, but gave gladly and nobly. He was kindly, abrupt, 
 charitable, and if he had been rich, his turn of mind would 
 have been magnificent. He desired that all which concerned 
 him should be done in a grand manner, even his rogueries. 
 One day, having been cheated by a business man in a matter 
 of inheritance, in a gross and apparent manner, he uttered 
 this solemn exclamation : "That was indecently done ! I am 
 really ashamed of this pilfering. Everything has degenerated 
 in this century, even the rascals. Morbleu ! this is not the way 
 to rob a man of my standing. I am robbed as though in a 
 forest, but badly robbed. Silvcp sint consule dignce!" He had 
 had two wives, as we have already mentioned ; by the first he 
 had had a daughter, who had remained unmarried, and by the 
 second another daughter, who had died at about the age of 
 thirty, who had wedded, through love, or chance, or otherwise, 
 a soldier of fortune who had served in the armies of the 
 Republic and of the Empire, who had won the cross at Auster- 
 litz and had been made colonel at Waterloo. "He is the dis- 
 grace of my family," said the old bourgeois. He took an 
 immense amount of snutf, and had a particularly graceful 
 manner of plucking at his lace ruflle with the back of one 
 hand. He believed verv little in God. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 RULE: RECEIVE NO ONE EXCEPT IN THE EVENING 
 
 SUCH was M. Luc-Esprit Gillenormand, who had not lost 
 his hair, which was gray rather than white, and which was 
 always dressed in "dog's ears." To sum up, he was venerable 
 in spite of all this.
 
 34 MARIUB 
 
 He had something of the eighteenth century about him; 
 frivolous and great. 
 
 In 1814 and during the early years of the Restoration, M. 
 Gillenormand, who was still young, he was only seventy-four, 
 lived in the Faubourg Saint Germain, Rue Servandoni, near 
 Saint-Sulpice. He had only retired to the Marais when he 
 quitted society, long after attaining the age of eighty. 
 
 And, on abandoning society, he had immured himself in his 
 habits. The principal one, and that which was invariable, was 
 to keep his door absolutely closed during the day, and never to 
 receive any one whatever except in the evening. He dined at 
 five o'clock, and after that his door was open. That had been 
 the fashion of his century, and he would not swerve from it. 
 "The day is vulgar," said he, "and deserves only a closed 
 shutter. Fashionable people only light up their minds when 
 the zenith lights up its stars." And he barricaded himself 
 against every one, even had it been the king himself. This was 
 the antiquated elegance of his day. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 TWO DO NOT MAKE A PAIR 
 
 WE have just spoken of M. Gillenormand's two daughters. 
 They had come into the world ten years apart. In their youth 
 they had borne very little resemblance to each other, either in 
 character or countenance, and had also been as little like sisters 
 to each other as possible. The youngest had a charming soul, 
 which turned towards all that belongs to the light, was occu- 
 pied with flowers, with verses, with music, which fluttered 
 away into glorious space, enthusiastic, ethereal, and was 
 wedded from her very youth, in ideal, to a vague and heroic 
 figure. The elder had also her chimera ; she espied in the a/.ure 
 some very wealthy purveyor, a contractor, a splendidly stupid 
 husband, a million made man, or even a prefect ; the receptions 
 of the Prefecture, an usher in the antechamber with a chain on 
 his neck, oHicial balls, the harangues of the town-hall, to be
 
 THE GREAT BOURGEOIS 35 
 
 "Madame la Prefete," all this had created a whirlwind in 
 her imagination. Thus the two sisters strayed, each in her own 
 dream, at the epoch when they were young girls. Both had 
 wings, the one like an angel, the other like a goose. 
 
 No ambition is ever fully realized, here below at least. No 
 paradise becomes terrestrial in our day. The younger wedded 
 the man of her dreams, but she died. The elder did not marry 
 at all. 
 
 At the moment when she makes her entrance into this his- 
 tory which we are relating, she was an antique virtue, an in- 
 combustible prude, with one of the sharpest noses, and one of 
 the most obtuse minds that it is possible to see. A character- 
 istic detail ; outside of her immediate family, no one had ever 
 known her first name. She was called Mademoiselle Gillenor- 
 mand, the elder. 
 
 In the matter of cant, Mademoiselle Gillenormand could 
 have given points to a miss. Her modesty was carried to the 
 other extreme of blackness. She cherished a frightful memory 
 of her life; one day, a man had beheld ber garter. 
 
 Age had only served to accentuate this pitiless modesty. 
 Her guimpe was never sufficiently opaque, and never ascended 
 sufTiciently high. She multiplied clasps and pins where no one 
 would have dreamed of looking. The peculiarity of prudery is 
 to place all the more sentinels in proportion as the fortress is 
 the less menaced. 
 
 Nevertheless, let him who can explain these antique mys- 
 teries of innocence, she allowed an officer of the Lancers, her 
 grand nephew, named Theodule, to embrace her without dis- 
 pleasure. 
 
 In spite of this favored Lancer, the label: Prude, under 
 which we have classed her, suited her to absolute perfection. 
 Mademoiselle Gillenormand was a sort of twilight soul. Pru- 
 dery is a demi-virtue and a demi-vice. 
 
 To prudery she added bigotry, a well-assorted lining. She 
 belonged to the society of the Virgin, wore a white veil on 
 certain festivals, mumbled special orisons, revered "the holy 
 blood," venerated "the sacred heart," remained for hours in
 
 36 MARIU8 
 
 contemplation before a rococo-Jesuit altar in a chapel which 
 was inaccessible to the rank and file of the faithful, and there 
 allowed her soul to soar among little clouds of marble, and 
 through great rays of gilded wood. 
 
 She had a chapel friend, an ancient virgin like herself, 
 named Mademoiselle Vaubois, who was a positive blockhead, 
 and beside whom Mademoiselle Gillenormand had the pleasure 
 of being an eagle. Beyond the Agnus Dei and Ave Maria, 
 Mademoiselle Vaubois had no knowledge of anything except of 
 the different ways of making preserves. Mademoiselle Vau- 
 bois, perfect in her style, was the ermine of stupidity without 
 a single spot of intelligence. 
 
 Let us say it plainly, Mademoiselle Gillenormand had 
 gained rather than lost as she grew older. This is the case with 
 passive natures. She had never been malicious, which is rela- 
 tive kindness ; and then, years wear away the angles, and the 
 softening which comes with time had come to her. She was 
 melancholy with an obscure sadness of which she did not her- 
 self know the secret. There breathed from her whole person 
 the stupor of a life that was finished, and which had never had 
 a beginning. 
 
 She kept house for her father. M. Gillenormand had his 
 daughter near him, as we have seen that Monseigneur Bien- 
 venu had his sister with him. These households comprised of 
 an old man and an old spinster are not rare, and always have 
 the touching aspect of two weaknesses leaning on each other 
 for support. 
 
 There was also in this house, between this elderly spinster 
 and this old man, a child, a little boy, who was always trem- 
 bling and mute in the presence of M. Gillenormand. M. Gille- 
 normand never addressed this child except in a severe voice, 
 and sometimes, with uplifted cane: "Here, sir! rascal, 
 scoundrel, come here ! Answer me, you scamp ! Just let 
 me see you, you good-for-nothing!" etc., etc. He idolized 
 him. 
 
 This was his grandson. We shall meet with this child again 
 later on.
 
 BOOK THIRD. THE GRANDFATHER AND THE 
 GRANDSON 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AN ANCIENT SALON 
 
 WHEN M. Gillenormand lived in the Rue Servandoni, he 
 had frequented many very good and very aristocratic salons. 
 Although a bourgeois, M. Gillenormand was received in so- 
 ciety. As he had a double measure of wit, in the first place, 
 that which was born with him, and secondly, that which was 
 attributed to him, he was even sought out and made much of. 
 He never went anywhere except on condition of being the chief 
 person there. There are people who will have influence at any 
 price, and who will have other people busy themselves over 
 them ; when they cannot be oracles, they turn wags. M. Gille- 
 normand was not of this nature ; his domination in the Royal- 
 ist salons which he frequented cost his self-respect nothing. 
 He was an oracle everywhere. It had happened to him to hold 
 his own against M. de Bonald, and even against M. Bengy- 
 Puy-Vallee. 
 
 About 1817, he invariably passed two afternoons a week in 
 a house in his own neighborhood, in the Rue Ferou, with 
 Madame la Baronne de T., a worthy and respectable person, 
 whose husband had been Ambassador of France to Berlin 
 under Louis XVI. Baron de T., who, during his lifetime, had 
 gone very passionately into ecstasies and magnetic visions, had 
 died bankrupt, during the emigration, leaving, as his entire 
 fortune, some very curious Memoirs about Mesmer and his tub, 
 in ten manuscript volumes, bound in red morocco and gilded 
 on the edges. Madame de T. had not published the memoirs,
 
 38 MAItlUB 
 
 out of pride, aud maintained herself on a meagre income which 
 had survived no one knew how. 
 
 Madame de T. lived far from the Court; "a very mixed 
 society," as she said, in a noble isolation, proud and poor. A 
 few friends assembled twice a week about her widowed hearth, 
 and these constituted a purely Royalist salon. They sipped 
 tea there, and uttered groans or cries of horror at the century, 
 the charter, the Bonapartisto, the prostitution of the blue rib- 
 bon, or the Jacobinism of Louis XVIII., according as the wind 
 veered towards elegy or dithyrambs; and they spoke in low 
 tones of the hopes which were presented by Monsieur, after- 
 wards Charles X. 
 
 The songs of the fishwomen, in which Napoleon was called 
 Nicolas, were received there with transports of joy. Duchesses, 
 the most delicate and charming women in the world, went into 
 ecstasies over couplets like the following, addressed to "the 
 
 federates" : 
 
 Refoncez dans vos culottes 1 
 Le bout d' chemis' qui vous pend. 
 Qu'on n' dis' pas qu' les patriotes 
 Ont arbor 1' drapeau blanc? 
 
 There they amused themselves with puns which were consid- 
 ered terrible, with innocent plays upon words which they sup- 
 posed to be venomous, with quatrains, with distiches even; 
 thus, upon the Dessolles ministry, a moderate cabinet, of 
 which MM. Decazes and Deserre were members: 
 
 Pour raffermir le trone branl sur sa base, 1 
 II faut changer de sol, et de serre et de case. 
 
 Or they drew up a list of the chamber of peers, "an abomi- 
 nably Jacobin chamber," and from this list they combined 
 alliances of names, in such a manner as to form, for example, 
 phrases like the following: Damas. Sabran. Gouvion-Saint- 
 
 'Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that is hanging out. Let it 
 not be said that patriots have hoisted the white flag. 
 
 'In order to re-establish the shaken throne firmly on its base, soil 
 (Des aollea), greenhouse and house (Decazes) nni.-t be changed.
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON 39 
 
 Cyr. All this was done merrily. In that society, they 
 parodied the Revolution. They used I know not what desires 
 to give point to the same wrath in inverse sense. They sang 
 their little Qa ira: 
 
 Ah ! ca ira ga ira <ja ira ! 
 
 Les Bonapartistea a la lanterne! 
 
 Songs are like the guillotine; they chop away indiffer- 
 ently, to-day this head, to-morrow that. It is only a vari- 
 ation. 
 
 In the Fualdes affair, which belongs to this epoch, 1816, they 
 took part for Bastide and Jausion, because Fualdes was "a 
 Buonapartist." They designated the liberals as friends and 
 brothers; this constituted the most deadly insult. 
 
 Like certain church towers, Madame de T.'s salon had two 
 cocks. One of them was M. Gillenormand, the other was 
 Comte de Lamothe-Valois, of whom it was whispered about, 
 with a sort of respect : "Do you know ? That is the Lamothe 
 of the affair of the necklace." These singular amnesties do 
 occur in parties. 
 
 Let us add the following : in the bourgeoisie, honored situ- 
 ations decay through too easy relations; one must beware 
 whom one admits; in the same way that there is a loss of 
 caloric in the vicinity of those who are cold, there is a diminu- 
 tion of consideration in the approach of despised persons. The 
 ancient society of the upper classes held themselves above this 
 law, as above every other. Marigny, the brother of the Pom- 
 padour, had his entry with M. le Prince de Soubise. In 
 spite of? No, because. Du Barry, the god-father of the 
 Vaubernier, was very welcome at the house of M. le Marechal 
 de Richelieu. This society is Olympus. Mercury and the 
 Prince de Guemenee are at home there. A thief is admitted 
 there, provided he be a god. 
 
 The Comte de Lamothe, who, in 1815, was an old man 
 seventy-five years of age, had nothing remarkable about him 
 except his silent and sententious air, his cold and angular face, 
 his perfectly polished manners, his coat buttoned up to his
 
 40 MARIU8 
 
 cravat, and his long legs always crossed in long, flabby trousers 
 of the hue of burnt sienna. His face was the same color as his 
 trousers. 
 
 This M. de Lamothe was "held in consideration" in this 
 salon on account of his "celebrity" and, strange to say, though 
 true, because of his name of Valois. 
 
 As for M. Gillenormand, his consideration was of absolutely 
 first-rate quality. He had, in spite of his levity, and without 
 its interfering in any way with his dignity, a certain manner 
 about him which was imposing, dignified, honest, and lofty, in 
 1 bourgeois fashion ; and his great age added to it. One is not 
 i century with impunity. The years finally produce around a 
 head a venerable dishevelment. 
 
 In addition to this, he said things which had the genuine 
 sparkle of the old rock. Thus, when the King of Prussia, after 
 having restored Louis XVIII., came to pay the latter a visit 
 under the name of the Count de Ruppin, he was received by 
 the descendant of Louis XIV. somewhat as though he had been 
 the Marquis de Brandebourg, and with the most delicate im- 
 pertinence. M. Gillenormand approved : "All kings who are 
 not the King of France," said he, "are provincial kings." One 
 day, the following question was put and the following answer 
 returned in his presence : "To what was the editor of the Cour- 
 rier Franqais condemned?" "To be suspended." "Sus is 
 superfluous," observed M. Gillenormand. 1 Remarks of this 
 nature found a situation. 
 
 At the Te Deum on the anniversary of the return of the 
 Bourbons, he said, on seeing M. de Talleyrand pass by : "There 
 goes his Excellency the Evil One." 
 
 M. GJllenormand was always accompanied by his daughter, 
 that tall mademoiselle, who was over forty and looked fifty, 
 and by a handsome little boy of seven years, white, rosy, fresh, 
 with happy and trusting eyes, who never appeared in that 
 salon without hearing voices murmur around him : "How 
 handsome he is ! What a pity ! Poor child !" This child was 
 the one of whom we dropped a word a while ago. He was 
 l k!u!tpendu, suspended; pendu, hung.
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE (JRAXDfiOX 41 
 
 called "poor child," because he had for a father "a brigand of 
 the Loire." 
 
 This brigand of the Loire was M. Gillenormand's son-in- 
 law, who has already been mentioned, and whom M. Gillenor- 
 mand called "the disgrace of his family." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ONE OF THE RED SPECTRES OF THAT EPOCH 
 
 ANY one who had chanced to pass through the little town of 
 Vernon at this epoch, and who had happened to walk across 
 that fine monumental bridge, which will soon be succeeded, 
 let us hope, by some hideous iron cable bridge, might have 
 observed, had he dropped his eyes over the parapet, a man 
 about fifty years of age wearing a leather cap, and trousers 
 and a waistcoat of coarse gray cloth, to which something 
 yellow which had been a red ribbon, was sewn, shod with 
 wooden sabots, tanned by the sun, his face nearly black and 
 his hair nearly white, a large scar on his forehead which ran 
 down upon his cheek, bowed, bent, prematurely aged, who 
 walked nearly every day, hoc and sickle in hand, in one of 
 those compartments surrounded by walls which abut on the 
 bridge, and border the left bank of the Seine like a chain of 
 terraces, charming enclosures full of flowers of which one 
 could say, were they much larger: "these are gardens," and 
 were they a little smaller: "these are bouquets." All these 
 enclosures abut upon the river at one end, and on a house at 
 the other. The man in the waistcoat and the wooden shoes of 
 whom we have just spoken, inhabited the smallest of these 
 enclosures and the most humble of these houses about 1817. 
 He lived there alone and solitary, silently and poorly, with a 
 woman who was neither young nor old, neither homely nor 
 pretty, neither a peasant nor a bourgeoise, who served him. 
 The plot of earth which he called his garden was celebrated in 
 the town for the beauty of the flowers which he cultivated 
 there. These flowers were his occupation.
 
 42 MARIV8 
 
 By dint of labor, of perseverance, of attention, and of 
 buckets of water, he had succeeded in creating after the 
 Creator, and he had invented certain tulips and certain 
 dahlias which seemed to have been forgotten by nature. He 
 was ingenious ; he had forestalled Soulange Bodin in the for- 
 mation of little clumps of earth of heath mould, for the 
 cultivation of rare and precious shrubs from America and 
 China. He was in his alleys from the break of day, in 
 summer, planting, cutting, hoeing, watering, walking amid 
 his flowers with an air of kindness, sadness, and sweetness, 
 sometimes standing motionless and thoughtful for hours, 
 listening to the song of a bird in the trees, the babble of a 
 child in a house, or with his eyes fixed on a drop of dew at 
 the tip of a spear of grass, of which the sun made a carbuncle. 
 His table was very plain, and he drank more milk than wine. 
 A child could make him give way, and his servant scolded him. 
 He was so timid that he seemed shy. he rarely went out, and 
 he saw no one but the poor people who tapped at his pane and 
 his cure, the Abbe Mabeuf, a good old man. Nevertheless, 
 if the inhabitants of the town, or strangers, or any chance 
 comers, curious to see his tulips, rang at his little cottage, he 
 opened his door with a smile. He was the "brigand of the 
 Loire." 
 
 Any one who had, at the same time, read military memoirs, 
 biographies, the Moniteur, and the bulletins of the grand 
 army, would have been struck by a name which occurs there 
 with tolerable frequency, the name of Georges Pontmercy. 
 When very young, this Georges Pontmercy had been a soldier 
 in Saintonge's regiment. The revolution broke out. Saint- 
 onge's regiment formed a part of the army of the Rhine; 
 for the old regiments of the monarchy preserved their names 
 of provinces even after the fall of the monarchy, and were 
 only divided into brigades in 1794. Pontmercy fought at 
 Spire, at Worms, at Neustadt, at Turkheim, at Alzey, at 
 Mayence, where he was one of the two hundred who formed 
 Houchard's rearguard. It was the twelfth to hold its ground 
 against the corps of the Prince of Hesse, behind the old
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON 43 
 
 rampart of Andcrnach, and only rejoined the main body of 
 the army when the enemy's cannon had opened a breach from 
 the cord of the parapet to the foot of the glacis. He was 
 under Kleber at Marchiennes and at the battle of Mont- 
 Palissel, where a ball from a biscaien broke his arm. Then 
 he passed to the frontier of Italy, and was one of the thirty 
 grenadiers who defended the Col de Tende with Joubert. 
 Joubert was appointed its adjutant-general, and Pontmercy 
 sub-lieutenant. Pontmercy was by Berthier's side in the 
 midst of the grape-shot of that day at Lodi which caused 
 Bonaparte to say : "Berthier has been cannoneer, cavalier, and 
 grenadier." He beheld his old general, Joubert, fall at Novi, 
 at the moment when, with uplifted sabre, he was shouting: 
 "Forward !" Having been embarked with his company in the 
 exigencies of the campaign, on board a pinnace which was pro- 
 ceeding from Genoa to some obscure port on the coast, he 
 fell into a wasps'-nest of seven or eight English vessels. The 
 Genoese commander wanted to throw his cannon into the 
 sea, to hide the soldiers between decks, and to slip along in the 
 dark as a merchant vessel. Pontmercy had the colors hoisted 
 to the peak, and sailed proudly past under the guns of the 
 British frigates. Twenty leagues further on, his audacity hav- 
 ing increased, he attacked v/ith his pinnace, and captured a 
 large English transport which was carrying troops to Sicily, 
 and which was so loaded down with men and horses that the 
 vessel was sunk to the level of the sea. In 1805 he was in that 
 Malher division which took Giinzberg from the Archduke 
 Ferdinand. At Weltingen he received into his arms, beneath 
 a storm of bullets, Colonel Maupetit, mortally wounded at the 
 head of the 9th Dragoons. He distinguished himself at 
 Austerlitz in that admirable march in echelons effected under 
 the enemy's fire. When the cavalry of the Imperial Russian 
 Guard crushed a battalion of the 4th of the line, Pontmercy 
 was one of those who took their revenge and overthrew the 
 Guard. The Emperor gave him the cross. Pontmercy saw 
 Wurmser at Mantua, Melas, and Alexandria, Mack at Ulm, 
 made prisoners in succession. He formed a part of the eighth
 
 44 MARIU8 
 
 corps of the grand army which Mortier commanded, and 
 which captured Hamburg. Then he was transferred to the 
 55th of the line, which was the old regiment of Flanders. At 
 Eylau he was in the cemetery where, for the space of two 
 hours, the heroic Captain Louis Hugo, the uncle of the author 
 of this book, sustained alone with his company of eighty-three 
 men every effort of the hostile army. Pontmercy was one of 
 the three who emerged alive from that cemetery. He was at 
 Friedland. Then he saw Moscow. Then La Beresina, then 
 Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden, Wachau, Leipzig, and the defiles 
 of Gelenhausen ; then Montmirail, Chateau-Thierry, Craon, 
 the banks of the Marne, the banks of the Aisne, and the 
 redoubtable position of Laon. At Arnay-Le-Duc. being then 
 a captain, he put ten Cossacks to the sword, and saved, not 
 his general, but his corporal. He was well slashed up on this 
 occasion, and twenty-seven splinters were extracted from his 
 left arm alone. Eight days before the capitulation of Paris 
 he had just exchanged with a comrade and entered the cavalry. 
 He had what was called under the old regime, the double 
 hand, that is to say, an equal aptitude for handling the sabre 
 or the musket as a soldier, or a squadron or a battalion as an 
 officer. It is from this aptitude, perfected by a military 
 education, which certain special branches of the service arise, 
 the dragoons, for example, who are both cavalry-men and 
 infantry' at one and the same time. He accompanied Xapoleon 
 to the Island of Elba. At Waterloo, he was chief of a squad- 
 ron of cuirassiers, in Dubois' brigade. It was he who cap- 
 tured the standard of the Lunenburg battalion. He came and 
 cast the flag at the Emperor's feet. He was covered with 
 blood. While tearing down the banner he had received a 
 sword-cut across his face. The Emperor, greatly pleased, 
 shouted to him : "You are a colonel, you are a baron, you are 
 an officer of the Legion of Honor!" Pontmercy replied: 
 "Sire, I thank you for my widow." An hour later, he fell 
 in the ravine of Ohain. Now, who was this Georges Pont- 
 mercy? He was this same "brigand of the Loire." 
 
 We have already seen something of his historv. After
 
 THE GRANDFATHER .IX D THE GRANDSON 45 
 
 Waterloo, Pontmercy, who had been pulled out of the hollow 
 road of Ohain, as it will be remembered, had succeeded in 
 joining the army, and had dragged himself from ambulance 
 to ambulance as far as the cantonments of the Loire. 
 
 The Restoration had placed him on half-pay, then had sent 
 him into residence, that is to say, under .surveillance, at Ver- 
 non. King Louis XVIII., regarding all that which had taken 
 place during the Hundred Days as not having occurred at all, 
 did not recognize his quality as an officer of the Legion of 
 Honor, nor his grade of colonel, nor his title of baron. He, on 
 his side, neglected no occasion of signing himself "Colonel 
 Baron Pontmercy." He had only an old blue coat, and he 
 never went out without fastening to it his rosette as an officer 
 of the Legion of Honor. The Attorney for the Crown had 
 him warned that the authorities would prosecute him for 
 "illegal" wearing of this decoration. When this notice was 
 conveyed to him through an officious intermediary, Pontmercy 
 retorted with a bitter smile: "I do not know whether I no 
 longer understand French, or whether you no longer speak 
 it; but the fact is that I do not understand." Then he went 
 out for eight successive days with his rosette. They dared not 
 interfere with him. Two or three times the Minister of War 
 and the general in command of the department wrote to him 
 with the following address: A Monsieur le Commandant 
 Pontmercy." He sent back the letters with the seals un- 
 broken. At the same moment, Napoleon at Saint Helena was 
 treating in the same fashion the missives of Sir Hudson Lowe 
 addressed to General Bonaparte. Pontmercy had ended, may 
 we be pardoned the expression, by having in his mouth the 
 same saliva as his Emperor. 
 
 In the same way, there were at Rome Carthaginian prison- 
 ers who refused to salute Flaminius, and who had a little of 
 Hannibal's spirit. 
 
 One day he encountered the district-attorney in one of the 
 streets of Vernon, stepped up to him, and said : "Mr. Crown 
 Attorney, am I permitted to wear my scar?" 
 
 He had nothing save his meagre half-pay as chief of squad-
 
 46 MARIUS 
 
 ron. He had hired the smallest house which he could find at 
 Vernon. He lived there alone, we have just seen how. Under 
 the Empire, between two wars, he had found time to marry 
 Mademoiselle Gillenormand. The old bourgeois, thoroughly 
 indignant at bottom, had given his consent with a sigh, say- 
 ing: "The greatest families are forced into it." In 1815, 
 Madame Pontmercy, an admirable woman in every sense, by 
 the way, lofty in sentiment and rare, and worthy of her 
 husband, died, leaving a child. This child had been the 
 colonel's joy in his solitude ; but the grandfather had impera- 
 tively claimed his grandson, declaring that if the child were 
 not given to him he would disinherit him. The father had 
 yielded in the little one's interest, and had transferred his 
 love to flowers. 
 
 Moreover, he had renounced everything, and neither stirred 
 up mischief nor conspired. He shared his thoughts between 
 the innocent things which he was then doing and the great 
 things which he had done. He passed his time in expecting a 
 pink or in recalling Austerlitz. 
 
 M. Gillenormand kept up no relations with his son-in-law. 
 The colonel was "a bandit" to him. M. Gillenormand never 
 mentioned the colonel, except when he occasionally made 
 mocking allusions to "his Baronship." It had been expressly 
 agreed that Pontmercy should never attempt to see his son nor 
 to speak to him, under penalty of having the latter handed 
 over to him disowned and disinherited. For the Gillenor- 
 mands, Pontmercy was a man afflicted with the plague. They 
 intended to bring up the child in their own way. Perhaps 
 the colonel was wrong to accept these conditions, but he sub- 
 mitted to them, thinking that he was doing right and sacri- 
 ficing no one but himself. 
 
 The inheritance of Father Gillenormand did not amount to 
 much; but the inheritance of Mademoiselle Gillenormand the 
 elder was considerable. This aunt, who had remained un- 
 married, was very rich on the maternal side, and her sifter's 
 son was her natural heir. The boy, whose name was Marius, 
 knew that he had a father, but nothing more. Xo one opened
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GKA \DKON 47 
 
 his mouth to him about it. Nevertheless, in the society into 
 which his grandfather took him, whispers, innuendoes, and 
 winks, had eventually enlightened the little hoy's mind ; he had 
 finally understood something of the case, and as he naturally 
 took in the ideas and opinions which were, so to speak, the air 
 he breathed, by a sort of infiltration and slow penetration, he 
 gradually came to think of his father only with shame and 
 with a pain at his heart. 
 
 While he was growing up in this fashion, the colonel slipped 
 away every two or three months, came to Paris on the sly. like 
 a criminal breaking his ban, and went and posted himself at 
 Saint-Sulpice, at the hour when Aunt Gillenormand led 
 Marius to the mass. There, trembling lest the aunt should 
 turn round, concealed behind a pillar, motionless, not daring 
 to breathe, he gazed at his child. The scarred veteran was 
 afraid of that old spinster. 
 
 From this had arisen his connection with the cure of 
 Vernon, M. 1'Abbe Mabcuf. 
 
 That worthy priest was the brother of a warden of Saint- 
 Sulpice, who had often observed this man gazing at his child, 
 and the scar on his cheek, and the large tears in his eyes. 
 That man. who had so manly an air, yet who was weeping like 
 a woman, had struck the warden. That face had clung to his 
 mind. One day, having gone to Yernon to see his brother, he 
 had encountered Colonel Pontmercy on the bridge, and had 
 recognized the man of Saint-Sulpice. The warden had men- 
 tioned the circumstance to the cure, and both had paid the 
 colonel a visit, on some pretext or other. This visit led to 
 others. The colonel, who had been extremely reserved at first, 
 ended by opening his heart, and the cure and the warden 
 finally came to know the whole history, and how Pontmercy 
 was sacrificing his happiness to his child's future. This 
 caused the cure to regard him with veneration and tenderness, 
 and the colonel, on his side, became fond of the cure. And 
 moreover, when both are sincere and good, no men so pene- 
 trate each other, and so amalgamate with each other, as an 
 old priest and an old soldier. At bottom, the man is the same.
 
 48 MARIUS 
 
 The one has devoted his life to his country here below, the 
 other to his country on high ; that is the only difference. 
 
 Twice a year, on the first of January and on St. George's 
 day, Marius wrote duty letters to his father, which were dic- 
 tated by his aunt, and which one would have pronounced to be 
 copied from some formula ; this was all that M. Gillenormand 
 tolerated; and the father answered them with very tender 
 letters which the grandfather thrust into his pocket unread. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 REQUIESCANT 
 
 MADAME DE T.'s salon was all that Marius Pontmercy knew 
 of the world. It was the only opening through which he could 
 get a glimpse of life. This opening was sombre, and more 
 cold than warmth, more night than day, came to him through 
 this skylight. This child, who had been all joy and light on 
 entering this strange world, soon became melancholy, and, 
 what is still more contrary to his age, grave. Surrounded by 
 all those singular and imposing personages, he gazed about 
 him with serious amazement. Everything conspired to in- 
 crease this astonishment in him. There were in Madame de 
 T.'s salon some very noble ladies named Mathan, Noe, Levis, 
 which was pronounced Levi, Cambis, pronounced Cam- 
 byse. These antique visages and these Biblical names mingled 
 in the child's mind with the Old Testament which he was 
 learning by heart, and when they were all there, seated in 
 a circle around a dying fire, sparely lighted by a lamp shaded 
 with green, with their severe profiles, their gray or white hair, 
 their long gowns of another age, whose lugubrious colors could 
 not be distinguished, dropping, at rare intervals, words which 
 were both majestic and severe, little Marius stared at them 
 with frightened eyes, in the conviction that he beheld not 
 women, but patriarchs and magi, not real beings, but 
 phantoms.
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND TUE GRANDSON 49 
 
 With these phantoms, priests were sometimes mingled, fre- 
 quenters of this ancient salon, and some gentlemen; the 
 Marquis de Sass****, private secretary to Madame de Berry, 
 the Vicomte de Val***, who published, under the pseudo- 
 nyme of Charles- Antoine, monorhymed odes, the Prince de 
 Beauff* ****** } who, though very young, had a gray head and 
 a pretty and witty wife, whose very low-necked toilettes of 
 scarlet velvet with gold torsades alarmed these shadows, the 
 Marquis de c*****d'E******, the man in all France who best 
 understood "proportioned politeness," the Comte d'Am*****, 
 the kindly man with the amiable chin, and the Chevalier de 
 Port-de-Guy, a pillar of the library of the Louvre, called the 
 King's cabinet, M. de Port-de-Guy, bald, and rather aged than 
 old, was wont to relate that in 1793, at the age of sixteen, he 
 had been put in the galleys as refractory and chained with an 
 octogenarian, the Bishop of Mirepoix, also refractory, but as 
 a priest, while he was so in the capacity of a soldier. This was 
 at Toulon. Their business was to go at night and gather up 
 on the scaffold the heads and bodies of the persons who had 
 been guillotined during the day; they bore away on their backs 
 these dripping corpses, and their red galley-slave blouses had a 
 clot of blood at the back of the neck, which was dry in the 
 morning and wet at night. These tragic tales abounded in 
 Madame de T.'s salon, and by dint of cursing Marat, they ap- 
 plauded Trestaillon. Some deputies of the undiscoverable 
 variety played their whist there; M. Thibord du Chalard, M. 
 Lemarchant de Gomicourt, and the celebrated scoffer of the 
 right, M. Cornet-Dincourt. The bailiff de Ferrette, with his 
 short breeches and his thin legs, sometimes traversed this 
 salon on his way to M. de Talleyrand. He had been M. le 
 Comte d'Artois' companion in pleasures and unlike Aristotle 
 crouching under Campaspe, he had made the Guimard crawl 
 on all fours, and in that way he had exhibited to the ages a 
 philosopher avenged by a bailiff. As for the priests, there 
 was the Abbe Halma, the same to whom M. Larose, his collab- 
 orator on la Foudrc, said : "Bah ! Who is there who is not 
 fifty years old? a few greenhorns perhaps?" The Abbe
 
 50 MARIUS 
 
 Letourneur, preacher to the King, the Abbe Frayssinous, who 
 was not, as yet, either count, or bishop, or minister, or peer, and 
 who wore an old cassock whose buttons were missing, and the 
 Abbe Keravenant, Cure" of Saint-Germain-des-Pres ; also the 
 Pope's Nuncio, then Monsignor Macchi, Archbishop of Nisibi, 
 later on Cardinal, remarkable for his long, pensive nose, and 
 another Monsignor, entitled thus: Abbate Palmieri, domes- 
 tic prelate, one of the seven participant prothonotaries of the 
 Holy See, Canon of the illustrious Liberian basilica, Advocate 
 of the saints, Postulatorc del Santi, which refers to matters of 
 canonization, and signifies very nearly : Master of Requests of 
 the section of Paradise. Lastly, two cardinals, M. de la Lu- 
 zerne, and M. de Cl****** T*******. The Cardinal of 
 Luzerne was a writer and was destined to have, a few years 
 later, the honor of signing in the Conscrvatcur articles side by 
 side with Chateaubriand; M. de Cl****** T******* was 
 Archbishop of Toul****, and often made trips to Paris, to his 
 nephew, the Marquis de T*******, who was Minister of 
 Marine and War. The Cardinal of Cl****** T******* wns a 
 merry little man, who displayed his red stockings beneath his 
 tucked-up cassock ; his specialty was a hatred of the Encyclo- 
 paedia, and his desperate play at billiards, and persons who, 
 at that epoch, passed through the Rue M***** on summer 
 evenings, where the hotel de Cl****** T******* then stood, 
 halted to listen to the shock of the balls and the piercing voice 
 of the Cardinal shouting to his conclavist, Monseigneur Co- 
 tiret, Bishop in partibus of Carvste: "Mark, Abbe, I make a 
 cannon." The Cardinal de Cl****** T******* had been 
 brought to Madame de T.'s by his most intimate friend, M. de 
 Roquelaure, former Bishop of Senlis, and one of the Forty. 
 M. de Roquelaure was notable for his lofty figure and his 
 assiduity at the Academy; through the glass door of the 
 neighboring hall of the library where the French Academy 
 then held its meetings, the curious could, on every Tuesday, 
 contemplate the Ex-Bishop of Senlis, usually standing erect, 
 freshly powdered, in violet hose, with his back turned to the 
 door, apparently for the purpose of allowing a better view of
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON tft 
 
 his little collar. All these ecclesiastics, though for the most 
 part as much courtiers as churchmen, added to the gravity of 
 the T. salon, whose seigniorial aspect was accentuated by five 
 peers of France, the Marquis de Vib****, the Marquis de 
 Tal***, the Marquis de Herb*******, the Vicomte Damb***, 
 and the Due de Val********. This Due de Val********, 
 although Prince de Mon***, that is to say, a reigning prince 
 abroad, had so high an idea of France and its peerage, that he 
 viewed everything through their medium. It was he who said : 
 "The Cardinals are the peers of France of Rome; the lords 
 are the peers of France of England." Moreover, as it is indis- 
 pensable that the Revolution should be everywhere in this 
 century, this feudal salon was, as we have said, dominated by 
 a bourgeois. M. Gillenormand reigned there. 
 
 There lay the essence and quintessence of the Parisian white 
 society. There reputations, even Royalist reputations, were 
 held in quarantine. There is always a trace of anarchy in 
 renown. Chateaubriand, had he entered there, would have 
 produced the effect of Pere Duchene. Some of the scoffed-at 
 did, nevertheless, penetrate thither on sufferance. Comte 
 Beug*** was received there, subject to correction. 
 
 The "noble" salons of the present day no longer resemble 
 those salons. The Faubourg Saint-Germain reeks of the fagot 
 even now. The Royalists of to-day are demagogues, let us 
 record it to their credit. 
 
 At Madame de T.'s the society was superior, taste was exquis- 
 ite and haughty, under the cover of a great show of politeness. 
 Manners there admitted of all sorts of involuntary refinements 
 which were the old regime itself, buried but still alive. Some 
 of these habits, especially in the matter of language, seem 
 eccentric. Persons but superficially acquainted with them 
 would have taken for provincial tbnt which was only antique. 
 A woman was called Madame la Generate. Madame la Colon- 
 die was not entirely disused. The charming Madame de Leon, 
 in memory, no doubt, of the Duchesses de Longueville and de 
 Chevreuse, preferred this appellation to her title of Princess. 
 The Marquise de Crequy was also called Madame la Colonelle.
 
 52 MARWB 
 
 It was this little high society which invented at the Tuileries 
 the refinement of speaking to the King in private as the King, 
 in the third person, and never as Your Majesty, the designa- 
 tion of Your Majesty having been "soiled by the usurper." 
 
 Men and deeds were brought to judgment there. They 
 jeered at the age, which released them from the necessity of 
 understanding it. They abetted each other in amazement. 
 They communicated to each other that modicum of light which 
 they possessed. Methuselah bestowed information on Epi- 
 menides. The deaf man made the blind man acquainted with 
 the course of things. They declared that the time which had 
 elasped since Coblentz had not existed. In the same manner 
 that Louis XVIII. was by the grace of God, in the five and 
 twentieth year of his reign, the emigrants were, by rights, in 
 the five and twentieth year of their adolescence. 
 
 All was harmonious; nothing was too much alive; speech 
 hardly amounted to a breath; the newspapers, agreeing with 
 the salons, seemed a papyrus. There were some young people, 
 but they were rather dead. The liveries in the antechamber 
 were antiquated. These utterly obsolete personages were 
 served by domestics of the same stamp. 
 
 They all had the air of having lived a long time ago, and of 
 obstinately resisting the sepulchre. Nearly the whole diction- 
 ary consisted of Conserver, Conservation, Conservateur; to be 
 in good odor, that was the point. There are, in fact, aro- 
 matics in the opinions of these venerable groups, and their 
 ideas smelled of it. It was a mummified society. The mas- 
 ters were embalmed, the servants were stuffed with straw. 
 
 A worthy old marquise, an emigree and ruined, who had but 
 a solitary maid, continued to say: "My people." 
 
 What did they do in Madame de T/s salon? They were 
 ultra. 
 
 To be ultra ; this word, although what it represents may not 
 have disappeared, has no longer any meaning at the present 
 day. Let us explain it. 
 
 To be ultra is to go beyond. It is to attack the sceptre in 
 the name of the throne, and the mitre in the name of the altar;
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AXD THE GRAXDKOV 53 
 
 it is to ill-treat the thing which one is dragging, it is to kick 
 over the traces; it is to cavil at the fagot on the score of the 
 amount of cooking received by heretics; it is to reproach the 
 idol with its small amount of idolatry; it is to insult through 
 excess of respect; it is to discover that the Pope is not suffi- 
 ciently papish, that the King is not sufficiently royal, and that 
 the night has too much light; it is to be discontented with ala- 
 baster, with snow, with the swan and the lily in the name of 
 whiteness; it is to he a partisan of things to the point of 
 becoming their enemy; it is to be so strongly for, as to be 
 against. 
 
 The ultra spirit especially characterizes the first phase of 
 the Restoration. 
 
 Nothing in history resembles that quarter of an hour which 
 begins in 1814 and terminates about 1820, with the advent of 
 M. de Villele, the practical man of the Right. These six years 
 were an extraordinary moment; at one and the same time 
 brilliant and gloomy, smiling and sombre, illuminated as by 
 the radiance of dawn and entirely covered, at the same time, 
 with the shadows of the great catastrophes which still filled the 
 horizon and were slowly sinking into the past. There existed 
 in that light and that shadow, a complete little new and old 
 world, comic and sad, juvenile and senile, which was rubbing 
 its eyes; nothing resembles an awakening like a return; a 
 group which regarded France with ill-temper, and which 
 France regarded with irony ; good old owls of marquises by the 
 strcetful, who had returned, and of ghosts, the "former" sub- 
 jects of amazement at everything, brave and noble gentlemen 
 who smiled at being in France but wept also, delighted to be- 
 hold their country once more, in despair at not finding their 
 monarchy; the nobility of the Crusades treating the nobility of 
 the Empire, that is to say, the nobility of the sword, with 
 scorn ; historic races who had lost the sense of history ; the sons 
 of the companions of Charlemagne disdaining the companions 
 of Napoleon. The swords, as we have just remarked, returned 
 the insult; the sword of Fontenoy was laughable and nothing 
 but a scrap of rusty iron; the sword of Mareugo was odious
 
 54 MARIU8 
 
 and was only a sabre. Former days did not recognize Yester- 
 day. People no longer had the feeling for what was grand. 
 There was some one who called Bonaparte Scapin. This So- 
 ciety no longer exists. Nothing of it, we repeat, exists to-day. 
 Wlien we select from it some one figure at random, and 
 attempt to make it live again in thought, it seems as strange 
 to us as the world before the Deluge. It is because it, too, 
 as a matter of fact, has been engulfed in a deluge. It has 
 disappeared beneath two Revolutions. What billows are ideas! 
 How quickly they cover all that it is their mission to destroy 
 and to bury, and how promptly they create frightful gulfs! 
 
 Such was the physiognomy of the salons of those distant 
 and candid times when M. Martainville had more wit than 
 Voltaire. 
 
 These salons had a literature and politics of their own. 
 They believed in Fievee. M. Agier laid down the law in them. 
 They commentated M. Colnet, the old bookseller and publicist 
 of the Quay Malaquais. Napoleon was to them thoroughly the 
 Corsican Ogre. Later on the introduction into history of M. le 
 Marquis de Bonaparte, Lieutenant-General of the King's 
 armies, was a concession to the spirit of the age. 
 
 These salons did not long preserve their purity. Beginning 
 with 1818, doctrinarians began to spring up in them, a dis- 
 turbing shade. Their way was to be Royalists and to excuse 
 themselves for being so. Where the ultras were very proud, 
 the doctrinarians were rather ashamed. They had wit; they 
 had silence; their political dogma was suitably impregnated 
 with arrogance; they should have succeeded. They indulged, 
 and usefully too, in excesses in the matter of white neckties 
 and tightly buttoned coats. The mistake or the misfortune of 
 the doctrinarian party was to create aged youth. They as- 
 sumed the poses of wise men. They dreamed of engrafting a 
 temperate power on the absolute and excessive principle. They 
 opposed, and sometimes with rare intelligence, conservative 
 liberalism to the liberalism which demolishes. They were 
 heard to say: "Thanks for Royalism ! It has rendered more 
 than one service. It has brought back tradition, worship, re-
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON 55 
 
 ligion, respect. It is faithful, brave, chivalric, loving, devoted. 
 It has mingled, though with regret, the secular grandeurs of 
 the monarchy with the new grandeurs of the nation. Its mis- 
 take is not to understand the Revolution, the Empire, glory, 
 liberty, young ideas, young generations, the age. But this 
 mistake which it makes with regard to us, have we not some- 
 times been guilty of it towards them? The Revolution, whose 
 heirs we are, ought to be intelligent on all points. To attack 
 Royalism is a misconstruction of liberalism. What an error ! 
 And what blindness ! Revolutionary France is wanting in 
 respect towards historic France, that is to say, towards its 
 mother, that is to say, towards itself. After the 5th of Sep- 
 tember, the nobility of the monarchy is treated as the nobility 
 of the Empire was treated after the 8th of July. They were 
 unjust to the eagle, we are unjust to the fleur-de-lys. It seems 
 that we must always have something to proscribe ! Does it 
 serve any purpose to ungild the crown of Louis XIV., to scrape 
 the coat of arms of Henry IV.? We scoff at M. de Vaublanc 
 for erasing the N's from the bridge of Jena ! What was it that 
 he did? What are we doing? Bouvines belongs to us as well 
 as Marengo. The fleurs-de-lys are ours as well as the X's. 
 That is our patrimony. To what purpose shall we diminish 
 it ? We must not deny our country in the past any more than 
 in the present. Why not accept the whole of history? Why 
 not love the whole of France ? 
 
 It is thus that doctrinarians criticised and protected 
 Royalism, which was displeased at criticism and furious at 
 protection. 
 
 The ultras marked the first epoch of Royalism, congregation 
 characterized the second. Skill follows ardor. Let us confine 
 ourselves here to this sketch. 
 
 In the course of this narrative, the author of this book has 
 encountered in his path this curious moment of contemporary 
 history ; he has been forced to cast a passing glance upon it, 
 and to trace once more some of the singular features of this 
 society which is unknown to-day. But he does it rapidly and 
 without any bitter or derisive idea. Souvenirs both respectful
 
 56 MARIUS 
 
 and affectionate, for they touch his mother, attach him to this 
 past. Moreover, let us remark, this same petty world had a 
 grandeur of its own. One may smile at it, but one can neither 
 despise nor hate it. It was the France of former days. 
 
 Marius Pontmercy pursued some studies, as all children do. 
 When he emerged from the hands of Aunt Gillenormand, his 
 grandfather confided him to a worthy professor of the most 
 purely classic innocence. This young soul which was expand- 
 ing passed from a prude to a vulgar pedant. 
 
 Marius went through his years of college, then he entered 
 the law school. He was a Royalist, fanatical and severe. He 
 did not love his grandfather much, as the latter's gayety and 
 cynicism repelled him, and his feelings towards his father 
 were gloomy. 
 
 He was, on the whole, a cold and ardent, noble, generous, 
 proud, religious, enthusiastic lad; Dignified to harshness, pure 
 to shyness. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 END OF THE BRIGAND 
 
 THE conclusion of Marius' classical studies coincided with 
 M. Gillenormand's departure from society. The old man bade 
 farewell to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and to Madame de 
 T.'s salon, and established himself in the Marais, in his house 
 of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. There he had for servants, 
 in addition to the porter, that chambermaid, Nicolette, who 
 had succeeded to Magnon, and that short-breathed and pursy 
 Basque, who have been mentioned above. 
 
 In 1827, Marius had just attained his seventeenth year. 
 One evening, on his return home, he saw his grandfather hold- 
 ing a letter in his hand. 
 
 "Marius," said M. Gillenormand, "you will set out for Ver- 
 non to-morrow. " 
 
 "Why ?" said Marius. 
 
 "To see your father."
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON 57 
 
 Marius was seized with a trembling fit. He had thought of 
 everything except this that he should one day be called upon 
 to see his father. Nothing could be more unexpected, more 
 surprising, and, let us admit it, more disagreeable to him. It 
 was forcing estrangement into reconciliation. It was not an 
 affliction, but it was an unpleasant duty. 
 
 Marius, in addition to his motives of political antipathy, was 
 convinced that his father, the slasher, as M. Gillenormand 
 called him on his amiable days, did not love him; this was 
 evident, since he had abandoned him to others. Feeling that 
 he was not beloved, he did not love. "Nothing is more simple," 
 he said to himself. 
 
 He was so astounded that he did not question M. Gillenor- 
 mand. The grandfather resumed : 
 
 "It appears that he is ill. He demands your presence." 
 
 And after a pause, he added : 
 
 "Set out to-morrow morning. I think there is a coach which 
 leaves the Cour des Fontaines at six o'clock, and which arrives 
 in the evening. Take it. He says that here is haste/' 
 
 Then he crushed the letter in his hand and thrust it into his 
 pocket. Marius might have set out that very evening and have 
 been with his father on the following morning. A diligence 
 from the Rue du Bouloi took the trip to Rouen by night at 
 that date, and passed through Vernon. Neither Marius nor 
 M. Gillenormand thought of making inquiries about it. 
 
 The next day, at twilight, Marius reached Vernon. People 
 were just beginning to light their candles. He asked the first 
 person whom he met for "M. Pontmercy's house." For in his 
 own mind, he agreed with the Restoration, and like it, did not 
 recognize his father's claim to the title of either colonel or 
 baron. 
 
 The house was pointed out to him. He rang; a woman with 
 a little lamp in her hand opened the door. 
 
 "M. Pontmercy?" said Marius. 
 
 The woman remained motionless. 
 
 "Is this his house?" demanded Marius. 
 
 The woman nodded affirmatively.
 
 58 MARIV8 
 
 "Can I speak with him ?" 
 
 The woman shook her head. 
 
 "But I am his son!" persisted Marius. "He is expecting 
 me." 
 
 "He no longer expects you," said the woman. 
 
 Then he perceived that she was weeping. 
 
 She pointed to the door of a room on the ground-floor; he 
 entered. 
 
 In that room, which was lighted by a tallow candle standing 
 on the chimney-piece, there were three men, one standing 
 erect, another kneeling, and one lying at full length, on the 
 floor in his shirt. The one on the floor was the colonel. 
 
 The other two were the doctor, and the priest, who was 
 engaged in prayer. 
 
 The colonel had been attacked by brain fever three days 
 previously. As he had a foreboding of evil at the very begin- 
 ning of his illness, he had written to M. Gillenormand to 
 demand his son. The malady had grown worse. On the very 
 evening of Marius' arrival at Vernon, the colonel had had 
 an attack of delirium; he had risen from his bed, in spite of 
 the servant's efforts to prevent him, crying: "My son is not 
 coming ! I shall go to meet him !" Then he ran out of his 
 room and fell prostrate on the floor of the antechamber. He 
 had just expired. 
 
 The doctor had been summoned, and the cure. The doctor 
 had arrived too late. The son had also arrived too late. 
 
 By the dim light of the candle, a large tear could be distin- 
 guished on the pale and prostrate colonel's cheek, where it had 
 trickled from his dead eye. The eye was extinguished, but the 
 tear was not yet dry. That tear was his son's delay. 
 
 Marius gazed upon that man whom he beheld for the first 
 time, on that venerable and manly face, on those open eyes 
 which saw not, on those white locks, those robust limbs, on 
 which, here and there, brown lines, marking sword-thrusts, 
 and a sort of red stars, which indicated bullet-holes, were 
 visible. He contemplated that gigantic scar which stamped 
 heroism on that countenance upon which God had imprinted
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON 59 
 
 goodness. He reflected that this man was his father, and that 
 this man was dead, and a chill ran over him. 
 
 The sorrow which he felt was the sorrow which he would 
 have felt in the presence of any other man whom he had 
 chanced to behold stretched out in death. 
 
 Anguish, poignant anguish, was in that chamber. The 
 servant-woman was lamenting in a corner, the cure was pray- 
 ing, and his sobs were audible, the doctor was wiping his eyes; 
 the corpse itself was weeping. 
 
 The doctor, the priest, and the woman gazed at Marius in 
 the midst of their affliction without uttering a word; he was 
 the stranger there. Marius, who was far too little affected, 
 felt ashamed and embarrassed at his own attitude; he held 
 his hat in his hand; and he dropped it on the floor, in order 
 to produce the impression that grief had deprived him of the 
 strength to hold it. 
 
 At the same time, he experienced remorse, and he despised 
 himself for behaving in this manner. But was it his fault? 
 He did not love his father ? Why should he ! 
 
 The colonel had left nothing. The sale of his furniture 
 barely paid the expenses of his burial. 
 
 The servant found a scrap of paper, which she handed to 
 Marius. It contained the following, in the colonel's hand- 
 writing : 
 
 "For my son. The Emperor made me a Baron on the 
 battle-field of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my 
 right to this title which I purchased with my blood, my son 
 shall take it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a 
 matter of course." Below, the colonel had added : "At that 
 same battle of Waterloo, a sergeant saved my life. The man's 
 name was Thenardier. I think that he has recently been keep- 
 ing a little inn, in a village in the neighborhood of Paris, at 
 Chelles or Montfermeil. If my son meets him, he will do all 
 the good he can to Thenardier." 
 
 Marius took this paper and preserved it, not out of duty to 
 his father, but because of that vague respect for death which 
 is always imperious in the heart of man.
 
 GO MARIU8 
 
 Nothing remained of the colonel. M. Gillenormand had his 
 sword and uniform sold to an old-clothes dealer. The neigh- 
 bors devastated the garden and pillaged the rare flowers. The 
 other plants turned to nettles and weeds, and died. 
 
 Marius remained only forty-eight hours at Vernon. After 
 the interment he returned to Paris, and applied himself again 
 to his law studies, with no more thought of his father than if 
 the latter had never lived. In two days the colonel was buried, 
 and in three forgotten. 
 
 Marius wore crape on his hat. That was alL 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE UTILITY OF GOING TO MASS, IN ORDER TO BECOME A 
 REVOLUTIONIST 
 
 MARIUS had preserved the religious habits of his childhood. 
 One Sunday, when he went to hear mass at Saint-Sulpice, at 
 that same chapel of the Virgin whither his aunt had led him 
 when a small lad. he placed himself behind a pillar, being 
 more absent-minded and thoughtful than usual on that occa- 
 sion, and knelt down, without paying any special heed, upon 
 a chair of Utrecht velvet, on the back of which was inscribed 
 this name: Monsieur Mabeuf, warden. Mass had hardly 
 begun when an old man presented himself and said to 
 Marius: 
 
 "This is my place, sir." 
 
 Marius stepped aside promptly, and the old man took 
 possession of his chair. 
 
 The mass concluded, Marius still stood thoughtfully a few 
 paces distant; the old man approached him again and said: 
 
 "I beg your pardon, sir, for having disturbed you a while 
 ago, and for again disturbing you at this moment ; you must 
 have thought me intrusive, and I will explain myself." 
 
 "There is no need of that, sir." said Marius. 
 
 "Yes !" went on the old man, "I do not wish you to have a 
 bad opinion of me. You see, I am attached to this place. It
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRAXDHON gj 
 
 seems to me that the mass is better from here. Why ? I will 
 tell you. It is from this place, that I have watched a poor, 
 brave father come regularly, every two or three months, for 
 the last ten years, since he had no other opportunity and no 
 other way of seeing his child, because he was prevented by 
 family arrangements. He came at the hour when he knew 
 that his son would be brought to mass. The little one never 
 suspected that his father was there. Perhaps he did not even 
 know that he had a father, poor innocent ! The father kept 
 behind a pillar, so that he might not be seen, lie gazed at 
 his child and he wept. He adored that little fellow, poor 
 man ! I could see that. This spot has become sanctified in 
 my sight, and I have contracted a habit of coming hither to 
 listen to the mass. I prefer it to the stall to which I have a 
 right, in my capacity of warden. I knew that unhappy gentle- 
 man a little, too. He had a father-in-law, a wealthy aunt, 
 relatives, I don't know exactly what all, who threatened to 
 disinherit the child if he, the father, saw him. He sacrificed 
 himself in order that his son might be rich and happy some 
 day. He was separated from him because of political opin- 
 ions. Certainly, I approve of political opinions, but there are 
 people who do not know where to stop. Mon Dicu ! a man 
 is not a monster because he was at Waterloo ; a father is not 
 separated from his child for such a reason as that. lie was 
 one of Bonaparte's colonels. He is dead, I believe. He lived 
 at Vernon, where I have a brother who is a cure, and his 
 name was something like Pontmarie or Montpercy. He had 
 a fine sword-cut, on my honor." 
 
 "Pontmercy." suggested Marius, turning pale. 
 "Precisely, Pontmercy. Did you know him?" 
 "Sir," said Marius, "he was my father." 
 The old warden clasped his hands and exclaimed: 
 "Ah ! you are the child ! Yes, that's true, he must be a man 
 by this time. Well ! poor child, you may say that you had a 
 father who loved you dearly !" 
 
 Marius offered his arm to the old man and conducted him 
 to his lodgings.
 
 62 MARIU8 
 
 On the following day, he said to M. Gillenormand : 
 
 "I have arranged a hunting-party with some friends. Will 
 you permit me to be absent for three days?" 
 
 "Four!" replied his grandfather. "Go and amuse your- 
 self." 
 
 And he said to his daughter in a low tone, and with a wink, 
 "Some love affair!" 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE CONSEQUENCES OF HAVING MET A WARDEN 
 
 WHERE it was that Marius went will be disclosed a little 
 further on. 
 
 Marius was absent for three days, then he returned to Paris, 
 went straight to the library of the law-school and asked for the 
 files of the Moniteur. 
 
 He read the Moniteur, he read all the histories of the Re- 
 public and the Empire, the Memorial de Sainte-Helene, all 
 the memoirs, all the newspapers, the bulletins, the proclama- 
 tions ; he devoured everything. The first time that he came 
 across his father's name in the bulletins of the grand army, 
 he had a fever for a week. He went to see the generals under 
 whom Georges Pontmercy had served, among others, Comte 
 H. Church-warden Mabeuf, whom he went to see again, told 
 him about the life at Vernon, the colonel's retreat, his flowers, 
 his solitude. Marius came to a full knowledge of that rare, 
 sweet, and sublime man, that species of lion-lamb who had 
 been his father. 
 
 In the meanwhile, occupied as he was with this study which 
 absorbed all his moments as well as his thoughts, he hardly 
 saw the Gillenormands at all. He made his appearance at 
 meals ; then they searched for him, and he was not to be 
 found. Father Gillenormand smiled. "Bah! bah! He is 
 just of the age for the girls !" Sometimes the old man added : 
 "The deuce ! I thought it was only an affair of gallantry. 
 It seems that it is an affair of passion!"
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE ORA\DSON 63 
 
 It was a passion, in fact. Marius was on the high road to 
 adoring his father. 
 
 At the same time, his ideas underwent an extraordinary 
 change. The phases of this change were numerous and suc- 
 cessive. As this is the history of many minds of our day, we 
 think it will prove useful to follow these phases step by step 
 and to indicate them all. 
 
 That history upon which he had just cast his eyes appalled 
 him. 
 
 The first effect was to dazzle him. 
 
 Up to that time, the Republic, the Empire, had been to him 
 only monstrous words. The Republic, a guillotine in the twi- 
 light ; the Empire, a sword in the night. He had just taken a 
 look at it, and where he had expected to find only a chaos of 
 shadows, he had beheld, with a sort of unprecedented surprise, 
 mingled with fear and joy, stars sparkling, Mirabeau, Yerg- 
 niaud, Saint-Just, Robespierre, Camille, Desmoulins, Danton, 
 and a sun arise, Napoleon. He did not know where he stood. 
 He recoiled, blinded by the brilliant lights. Little by little, 
 when his antonishment had passed off. he grew accustomed to 
 this radiance, he contemplated these deeds without dizziness, 
 he examined these personages without terror; the Revolution 
 and the Empire presented themselves luminously, in perspec- 
 tive, before his mind's eye; he beheld each of these groups of 
 events and of men summed up in two tremendous facts : the 
 Republic in the sovereignty of civil right restored to the 
 masses, the Empire in the sovereignty of the French idea 
 imposed on Europe; he beheld the grand figure of the people 
 emerge from the Revolution, and the grand figure of France 
 spring forth from the Empire. He asserted in his conscience, 
 that all this had been good. What his dazzled state neglected 
 in this, his first far too synthetic estimation, we do not think 
 it necessary to point out here. It is the state of a mind on the 
 march that we are recording. Progress is not accomplished 
 in one stage. That stated, once for all, in connection with 
 what precedes as well as with what is to follow, we con- 
 tinue.
 
 (J4 MARIU8 
 
 He then perceived that, up to that moment, he had compre- 
 hended his country no more than he had comprehended his 
 father. He had not known either the one or the other, and a 
 sort of voluntary night had obscured his eyes. Now he saw, 
 and on the one hand he admired, while on the other he 
 adored. 
 
 He was filled with regret and remorse, and he reflected in 
 despair that all he had in his soul could now he said only to the 
 tomb. Oh ! if his father had still been in existence, if he had 
 still had him, if God, in his compassion and his goodness, had 
 permitted his father to be still among the living, how he would 
 have run, how he would have precipitated himself, how he 
 would have cried to his father : "Father ! Here I am ! It is I ! 
 I have the same heart as thou ! I am thy son !" How he 
 would have embraced that white head, bathed his hair in tears, 
 gazed upon his scar, pressed his hands, adored his garment, 
 kissed his feet ! Oh ! Why had his father died so early, 
 before his time, before the justice, the love of his son had 
 come to him? Marius had a continual sob in his heart, which 
 said to him every moment : "Alas !" At the same time, he 
 became more truly serious, more truly grave, more sure of 
 his thought and his faith. At each instant, gleams of the 
 true came to complete his reason. An inward growth seemed 
 to be in progress within him. He was conscious of a sort of 
 natural enlargement, which gave him two things that were 
 new to him his father and his country. 
 
 As everything opens when one has a key, so he explained to 
 himself that which he had hated, he penetrated that which he 
 had abhorred ; henceforth he plainly perceived the provi- 
 dential, divine and human sense of the great things which 
 he had been taught to detest, and of the great men whom he 
 had been instructed to curse. When he reflected on his former 
 opinions, which were but those of yesterday, and which, never- 
 theless, seemed to him already so very ancient, he grew indig- 
 nant, yet he smiled. 
 
 From the rehabilitation of his father, he naturally passed to 
 the rehabilitation of Napoleon.
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE (JKAND80N (-5 
 
 But the latter, we will confess, was not effected without 
 labor. 
 
 From his infancy, he had been imbued with the judgments 
 of the party of 1814. on Bonaparte. Now, all the prejudices of 
 the Restoration, all its interests, all its instincts tended to dis- 
 figure Napoleon. It execrated him even more than it did 
 Robespierre. It had very cleverly turned to sufficiently good 
 account the fatigue of the nation, and the hatred of mothers. 
 Bonaparte had become an almost fabulous monster, and in 
 order to paint him to the imagination of the people, which, 
 as we lately pointed out, resembles the imagination of chil- 
 dren, the party of 1814 made him appear under all sorts of 
 terrifying masks in succession, from that which is terrible 
 though it remains grandiose to that which is terrible and 
 becomes grotesque, from Tiberius to the bugaboo. Thus, in 
 speaking of Bonaparte, one was free to sob or to puff up with 
 laughter, provided that hatred lay at the bottom. Marius had 
 never entertained about that man, as he was called any 
 other ideas in his mind. They had combined with the tenacity 
 which existed in his nature. There was in him a headstrong 
 little man who hated Napoleon. 
 
 On reading history, on studying him, especially in the docu- 
 ments and materials for history, the veil which concealed 
 Napoleon from the eyes of Marius was gradually rent. He 
 caught a glimpse of something immense, and he suspected 
 that he had been deceived up to that moment, on the score 
 of Bonaparte as about all the rest ; each day he saw more 
 distinctly; and he set about mounting, slowly, step by step, 
 almost regretfully in the beginning, then with intoxication 
 and as though attracted by an irresistible fascination, first the 
 sombre steps, then the vaguely illuminated steps, at last the 
 luminous and splendid steps of enthusiasm. 
 
 One night, he was alone in his little chamber near the roof. 
 His candle was biirning; he was reading, with his elbows rest- 
 ing on his table close to the open window. All sorts of reveries 
 reached him from space, and mingled with his thoughts. 
 What a spectacle is the night ! One hears dull sounds, without
 
 66 MARIU8 
 
 knowing whence they proceed ; one beholds Jupiter, which is 
 twelve hundred times larger than the earth, glowing like a 
 firebrand, the azure is black, the stars shine ; it is formidable. 
 
 He was perusing the bulletins of the grand army, those 
 heroic strophes penned on the field of battle ; there, at inter- 
 vals, he beheld his father's name, always the name of the 
 Emperor; the whole of that great Empire presented itself to 
 him ; he felt a flood swelling and rising within him; it seemed 
 to him at moments that his father passed close to him like a 
 breath, and whispered in his ear; he gradually got into a 
 singular state; he thought that he heard drums, cannon, 
 trumpets, the measured tread of battalions, the dull and 
 distant gallop of the cavalry ; from time to time, his eyes 
 were raised heavenward, and gazed upon the colossal constella- 
 tions as they gleamed in the measureless depths of space, then 
 they fell upon his book once more, and there they beheld other 
 colossal things moving confusedly. His heart contracted 
 within him. He was in a transport, trembling, panting. All 
 at once, without himself knowing what was in him, and what 
 impulse he was obeying, he sprang to his feet, stretched both 
 arms out of the window, gazed intently into the gloom, the 
 silence, the infinite darkness, the eternal immensity, and ex- 
 claimed : "Long live the Emperor !" 
 
 From that moment forth, all was over ; the Ogre of Corsica, 
 the usurper, the tyrant, the monster who was the lover 
 of his own sisters, the actor who took lessons of Talma, 
 the poisoner of Jaffa, the tiger, Buonaparte, all this van- 
 ished, and gave place in his mind to a vague and brilliant radi- 
 ance in which shone, at an inaccessible height, the pale marble 
 phantom of Ca?sar. The Emperor had been for his father only 
 the well-beloved captain whom one admires, for whom one sac- 
 rifices one's self; he was something more to Marius. He was 
 the predestined constructor of the French group, succeeding 
 the Koman group in the domination of the universe. He was 
 a prodigious architect, of a destruction, the continuer of 
 Charlemagne, of Louis XL, of Henry IV., of Richelieu, of 
 Louis XIV., and of the Committee of Public Safety, having
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE VRANDHON 67 
 
 his spots, no doubt, his faults, his crimes even, being a man, 
 that is to say; but august in his faults, brilliant in his spots, 
 powerful in his crime. 
 
 He was the predestined man, who had forced all nations to 
 say : "The great nation !" He was better than that, he was 
 the very incarnation of France, conquering Europe by the 
 sword which he grasped, and the world by the light which he 
 shed. Marius saw in Bonaparte the dazzling spectre which 
 will always rise upon the frontier, and which will guard the 
 future. Despot but dictator ; a despot resulting from a repub- 
 lic and summing up a revolution. Napoleon became for him 
 the man-people as Jesus Christ is the man-God. 
 
 It will be perceived, that like all new converts to a religion, 
 his conversion intoxicated him, he hurled himself headlong 
 into adhesion and he went too far. His nature was so con- 
 structed; once on the downward slope, it was almost impos- 
 sible for him to put on the drag. Fanaticism for the sword 
 took possession of him, and complicated in his mind his 
 enthusiasm for the idea. He did not perceive that, along with 
 genius, and pell-mell, he was admitting force, that is to say, 
 that he was installing in two compartments of his idolatry, 
 on the one hand that which is divine, on the other that which 
 is brutal. In many respects, he had set about deceiving 
 himself otherwise. He admitted everything. There is a way 
 of encountering error while on one's way to the truth. He 
 had a violent sort of good faith which took everything in the 
 lump. In the new path which he had entered on, in judging 
 the mistakes of the old regime, as in measuring the glory of 
 Napoleon, he neglected the attenuating circumstances. 
 
 At all events, a tremendous step had been taken. Where he 
 had formerly beheld the fall of the monarchy, he now saw the 
 advent of France. His orientation had changed. What had 
 been his East became the West. He had turned squarely 
 round. 
 
 All these revolutions were accomplished within him, with- 
 out his family obtaining an inkling of the case. 
 
 When, during this mysterious labor, he had entirely shed
 
 68 MARIU8 
 
 his old Bourbon and ultra skin, when he had cast off the 
 aristocrat, the Jacobite and the Royalist, when he had become 
 thoroughly a revolutionist, profoundly democratic and repub- 
 lican, he went to an engraver on the Quai des Orfevres and 
 ordered a hundred cards bearing this name : Le Baron Marius 
 Pontmcrcy. 
 
 This was only the strictly logical consequence of the change 
 which had taken place in him, a change in which everything 
 gravitated round his father. 
 
 Only, as he did not know any one and could not sow his 
 cards with any porter, he put them in his pocket. 
 
 By another natural consequence, in proportion as he drew 
 nearer to his father, to the latter's memory, and to the things 
 for which the colonel had fought five and twenty years before, 
 he receded from his grandfather. We have long ago said, that 
 M. Gillenormand's temper did not please him. There already 
 existed between them all the dissonances of the grave young 
 man and the frivolous old man. The gayety of Geronte shocks 
 and exasperates the melancholy of Werther. So long as the 
 same political opinions and the same ideas had been common 
 to them both, Marius had met M. Gillenormand there as on a 
 bridge. When the bridge fell, an abyss was formed. And 
 then, over and above all, Marius experienced unutterable im- 
 pulses to revolt, when he reflected that it was M. Gillenormand 
 who had, from stupid motives, torn him ruthlessly from the 
 colonel, thus depriving the father of the child, and the child 
 of the father. 
 
 By dint of pity for his father, Marius had nearly arrived at 
 aversion for his grandfather. 
 
 Nothing of this sort, however, was betrayed on the exterior, 
 as we have already said. Only he grew colder and colder; 
 laconic at meals, and rare in the house. When his aunt 
 scolded him for it, he was very gentle and alleged his studies, 
 his lectures, the examinations, etc., as a pretext. His grand- 
 father never departed from his infallible diagnosis: "In love! 
 I know all about it." 
 
 From time to time Marius absented himself.
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON (59 
 
 "Where is it that he goes off like this?" said his aunt. 
 
 On one of these trips, which were always very brief, he 
 went to Montfermeil, in order to obey the injunction which 
 his father had left him. and he sought the old sergeant to 
 Waterloo, the inn-keeper Thenardier. Thenardier had failed, 
 the inn was closed, and no one knew what had become of him. 
 Marius was away from the house for four days on this quest. 
 
 "He is getting decidedly wild," said his grandfather. 
 
 They thought they had noticed that he wore something on 
 his breast, under his shirt, which was attached to his neck by 
 a black ribbon. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 SOME PETTICOAT 
 
 WE have mentioned a lancer. 
 
 He was a great-grand-nephew of M. Gillenormand, on the 
 paternal side, who led a garrison life, outside the family and 
 far from the domestic hearth. Lieutenant Theodule Gille- 
 normand fulfilled all the conditions required to make what is 
 called a fine officer. He had "a lady's waist," a victorious 
 manner of trailing his sword and of twirling his mustache 
 in a hook. He visited Paris very rarely, and so rarely that 
 Marius had never seen him. The cousins knew each other 
 only by name. We think we have 1 said that Theodule was the 
 favorite of Aunt Gillenormand, who preferred him because 
 she did not see him. Not seeing people permits one to attribute 
 to them all possible perfections. 
 
 One morning. Mademoiselle Gillenormand the elder re- 
 turned to her apartment as much disturbed as her placidity 
 was capable of allowing. Marius had just asked his grand- 
 father's permission to take a little trip, adding that he meant 
 to set out that very evening. "Go !" had been his grand- 
 father's reply, and M. Gillenormand had added in an aside, 
 as he raised his eyebrows to the top of his forehead : "Here 
 he is passing the night out again." Mademoiselle Gillenor-
 
 70 MAR1U8 
 
 mand had ascended to her chamber greatly puzzled, and on 
 the staircase had dropped this exclamation : "This is too 
 much!" and this interrogation: "But where is it that he 
 goes ?" She espied some adventure of the heart, more or less 
 illicit, a woman in the shadow, a rendezvous, a mystery, and 
 she would not have been sorry to thrust her spectacles into 
 the affair. Tasting a mystery resembles getting the first flavor 
 of a scandal: sainted souls do not detest this. There is some 
 curiosity about scandal in the secret compartments of bigotry. 
 
 So she was the prey of a vague appetite for learning a 
 history. 
 
 In order to get rid of this curiosity which agitated her a 
 little beyond her wont, she took refuge in her talents, and set 
 about scalloping, with one layer of cotton after another, one 
 of those embroideries of the Empire and the Restoration, in 
 which there are numerous cart-wheels. The work was clumsy, 
 the worker cross. She had been seated at this for several 
 hours when the door opened. Mademoiselle Gillenormand 
 raised her nose. Lieutenant Theodule stood before her, 
 making the regulation salute. She uttered a cry of delight. 
 One may be old, one may be a prude, one may be pious, one 
 may be an aunt, but it is always agreeable to see a lancer enter 
 one's chamber. 
 
 "You here, Theodule !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "On my way through town, aunt." 
 
 "Embrace me." 
 
 "Here goes !" said Theodule. 
 
 And he kissed her. Aunt Gillenormand went to her 
 writing-desk and opened it. 
 
 "You will remain with us a week at least?" 
 
 "I leave this very evening, aunt." 
 
 "It is not possible !" 
 
 "Mathematically !" 
 
 "Remain, my little Theodule, I beseech you." 
 
 "My heart says 'yes,' but my orders say 'no.' The matter 
 is simple. They are changing our garrison; we have been at 
 Melun. we are being transferred to Gaillon. It is necessary
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE (JRAXDUON ^\ 
 
 to pass through Paris in order to get from the old post to 
 the new one. I said: 'I am going to see my aunt." : 
 
 "Here is something for your trouble." 
 
 And she put ten louis into his hand. 
 
 "For my pleasure, you mean to say, my dear aunt." 
 
 Theodule kissed her again, and she experienced the joy of 
 having some of the skin scratched from her neck by the braid- 
 ings on his uniform. 
 
 "Are you making the journey on horseback, with your 
 regiment ?" she asked him. 
 
 "Xo, aunt. I wanted to see you. I have special permis- 
 sion. My servant is taking my horse; I am travelling by 
 diligence. And, by the way, I want to ask you something." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Is my cousin Marius Pontmercy travelling so, too?" 
 
 "How do you know that ?" said his aunt, suddenly pricked 
 to the quick with a lively curiosity. 
 
 "On my arrival, I went to the diligence to engage my seat 
 in the coupe." 
 
 "Well ?" 
 
 "A traveller had already come to engage a seat in the im- 
 perial. I saw his name on the card." 
 
 "What name ?" 
 
 "Marius Pontmercy." 
 
 "The wicked fellow !" exclaimed his aunt. "Ah ! your 
 cousin is not a steady lad like yourself. To think that he is 
 to pass the night in a diligence !" 
 
 "Just as I am going to do." 
 
 "But you it is your duty ; in his case, it is wildness." 
 
 "Bosh !" said Theodule. 
 
 Here an event occurred to Mademoiselle Gillenormand the 
 elder, an idea struck her. If she had been a man. she would 
 have slapped her brow. She apostrophized Theodule : 
 
 "Are you aware whether your cousin knows you?'' 
 
 "Xo. 1 have seen him; but he has never deigned to notice 
 me." 
 
 "So you are going to travel together?"
 
 72 M ARIL'S 
 
 "He in the imperial. I in the coupe." 
 
 "Where does this diligence run?" 
 
 "To Andelys." 
 
 "Then that is where Marius is going?" 
 
 "Unless, like myself, he should stop on the way. T get down 
 at Vernon, in order to take the branch coach for Gaillon. I 
 know nothing of Marius' plan of travel." 
 
 "Marius ! what an ugly name ! what possessed them to name 
 him Marius? While you, at least, are called Theodule." 
 
 "I would rather be called Alfred," said the officer. 
 
 "Listen, Theodule." 
 
 "I am listening, aunt." 
 
 "Pay attention." 
 
 "I am paying attention." 
 
 "You understand?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, Marius absents himself." 
 
 "Eh ! eh !" 
 
 "He travels." 
 
 "Ah ! ah !" 
 
 "He spends the night out." 
 
 "Oh ! oh !" 
 
 "We should like to know what there is behind all this." 
 
 Theodule replied with the composure of a man of bronze : 
 
 "Some petticoat or other." 
 
 And with that inward laugh which denotes certainty, he 
 added : 
 
 "A lass." 
 
 "That is evident," exclaimed his aunt, who thought she 
 heard M. Gillenormand speaking, and who felt her conviction 
 become irresistible at that word fillette, accentuated in almost 
 the very same fashion by the grand-uncle and the grand- 
 nephew. She resumed : 
 
 "Do us a favor. Follow Marius a little. He does not know 
 you, it will be easy. Since a lass there is, try to get a sight of 
 her. You must write us the tale. It will amuse his grand- 
 father."
 
 THE GR A \DFATHER AND TllK GRAXDttOX 73 
 
 Theodule had no excessive taste for this sort of spying ; hut 
 he was much touched by the ten louis, and he thought he saw 
 a chance for a possible sequel. He accepted the commission 
 and said : "As you please, aunt." 
 
 And he added in an aside, to himself: "Here I am a 
 duenna." 
 
 Mademoiselle Gillenormand embraced him. 
 
 "You are not the man to play such pranks, Theodule. You 
 obey discipline, you are the slave of orders, you are a man of 
 scruples and duty, and you would not quit your family to go 
 and see a creature." 
 
 The lancer made the pleased grimace of Cartouche when 
 praised for his probity. 
 
 Marius, on the evening following this dialogue, mounted the 
 diligence without suspecting that he was watched. As for the 
 watcher, the first thing he did was to fall asleep. His slumber 
 was complete and conscientious. Argus snored all night long. 
 
 At daybreak, the conductor of the diligence shouted: "Ver- 
 non ! relay of Vernon ! Travellers for Vernon !" And Lieu- 
 tenant Theodule woke. 
 
 "Good," he growled, still half asleep, "this is where I get 
 out." 
 
 Then, as his memory cleared by degrees, the effect of wak- 
 ing, he recalled his aunt, the ten louis, and the account which 
 he had undertaken to render of the deeds and proceedings of 
 Marius. This set him to laughing. 
 
 "Perhaps he is no longer in the coach," he thought, as he 
 rebuttoned the waistcoat of his undress uniform. "He may 
 have stopped at Poissy; he may have stopped at Triel ; if he 
 did not get out at Meulan, he may have got out at Mantes, un- 
 less he got out at Kolleboise, or if he did not go on as far as 
 Pacy, with the choice of turning to the left at fivreus, or to 
 the right at Laroche-Guyon. Run after him, aunty. What the 
 devil am 1 to write to that good old soul ?" 
 
 At that moment a pair of black trousers descending from 
 the imperial, made its appearance at the window of the 
 coupe.
 
 74 MAKIUS 
 
 "Can that be Marius ?" said the lieutenant. 
 
 It was Marius. 
 
 A little peasant girl, all entangled with the horses and the 
 postilions at the end of the vehicle, was offering flowers to the 
 travellers. "Give your ladies flowers !" she cried. 
 
 Marius approached her and purchased the finest flowers in 
 her flat basket. 
 
 "Come now," said Theodule, leaping down from the coupe, 
 "this piques my curiosity. Who the deuce is he going to 
 carry those flowers to? She must be a splendidly handsome 
 woman for so fine a bouquet. I want to see her." 
 
 And no longer in pursuance of orders, but from personal 
 curiosity, like dogs who hunt on their own account, he set out 
 to follow Marius. 
 
 Marius paid no attention to Theodule. Elegant women de- 
 scended from the diligence; he did not glance at them. He 
 seemed to see nothing around him. 
 
 "He is pretty deeply in love !'' thought Theodule. 
 
 Marius directed his steps towards the church. 
 
 "Capital," said Theodule to himself. "Rendezvous sea- 
 soned with a bit of mass are the best sort. Nothing is so 
 exquisite as an ogle which passes over the good Cod's head." 
 
 On arriving at the church, Marius did not enter it, but 
 skirted the apse. He disappeared behind one of the angles of 
 the apse. 
 
 "The rendezvous is appointed outside," said Theodule. 
 "Let's have a look at the lass." 
 
 And he advanced on the tips of his boots towards the comer 
 which Marius had turned. 
 
 On arriving there, he halted in amazement. 
 
 Marius, with his forehead clasped in his hands, was kneeling 
 upon the grass on a grave. He had strewn his bouquet there. 
 At the extremity of the grave, on a little swelling which 
 marked the head, there stood a cross of black wood with this 
 name in white letters: COLONEL BARON PONTMERCY. Marius' 
 sobs were audible. 
 
 The "lass" was a grave.
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE URAND80N 75 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MARBLE AGAINST GRANITE 
 
 IT was hither that Marius had come on the first occasion of 
 his absenting himself from Paris. It was hither that lie had 
 come every time that M. Gillenormand had said : "He is sleep- 
 ing out." 
 
 Lieutenant Theodule was absolutely put out of countenance 
 by this unexpected encounter with a sepulchre; he experienced 
 a singular and disagreeable sensation which he was incapable 
 of analyzing, and which was composed of respect for the tomb, 
 mingled with respect for the colonel. He retreated, leaving 
 Marius alone in the cemetery, and there was discipline in this 
 retreat. Death appeared to him with large epaulets, and he 
 almost made the military salute to him. Not knowing what 
 to write to his aunt, he decided not to write at all ; and it is 
 probable that nothing would have resulted from the discovery 
 made by Theodule as to the love affairs of Marius, if, by one of 
 those mysterious arrangements which are so frequent in 
 chance, the scene at Vernon had not had an almost immediate 
 counter-shock at Paris. 
 
 Marius returned from Vernon on the third day, in the mid- 
 dle of the morning, descended at his grandfather's door, and, 
 wearied by the two nights spent in the diligence, and feeling 
 the need of repairing his loss of sleep by an hour at the swim- 
 ming-school, he mounted rapidly to his chamber, took merely 
 time enough to throw off his travelling-coat, and the black 
 ribbon which he wore round his neck, and went off to the 
 bath. 
 
 M. Gillenormand, who had risen betimes like all old men in 
 good health, had heard his entrance, and had made haste to 
 climb, as quickly as his old legs permitted, the stairs to the 
 upper story where Marius lived, in order to embrace him, and 
 to question him while so doing, and to find out where he had 
 been.
 
 76 MARIUB 
 
 But the youth had taken less time to descend than the old 
 man had to ascend, and when Father Gillenorraand entered the 
 attic, Marius was no longer there. 
 
 The bed had not been disturbed, and on the bed lay, out- 
 spread, but not defiantly, the great-coat and the black ribbon. 
 
 "I like this better," said M. Gillenormand. 
 
 And a moment later, he made his entrance into the salon, 
 where Mademoiselle Gillenormand was already seated, busily 
 embroidering her cart-wheels. 
 
 The entrance was a triumphant one. 
 
 M. Gillenormand held in one hand the great-coat, and in the 
 other the neck-ribbon, and exclaimed: 
 
 "Victory ! We are about to penetrate the mystery ! We are 
 going to learn the most minute details ; we are going to lay our 
 finger on the debaucheries of our sly friend ! Here we have the 
 romance itself. I have the portrait !" 
 
 In fact, a case of black shagreen, resembling a medallion 
 portrait, was suspended from the ribbon. 
 
 The old man took this case and gazed at it for some time 
 without opening it, with that air of enjoyment, rapture, and 
 wrath, with which a poor hungry fellow beholds an admirable 
 dinner which is not for him, pass under his very nose. 
 
 "For this evidently is a portrait. I know all about such 
 things. That is worn tenderly on the heart. How stupid they 
 are ! Some abominable fright that will make us shudder, prob- 
 ably ! Young men have such bad taste nowadays !" 
 
 "Let us see, father," said the old spinster. 
 
 The case opened by the pressure of a spring. They found 
 in it nothing but a carefully folded paper. 
 
 "From the same to the same," said M. Gillenormand, burst- 
 ing with laughter. "I know what it is. A billet-doux." 
 
 "Ah ! let us read it !" said the aunt. 
 
 And she put on her spectacles. They unfolded the paper 
 and read as follows : 
 
 "For my son. The Emperor made me a Baron on the battle- 
 field of Waterloo. Since the Restoration disputes my right to 
 this title which I purchased with my blood, my son shall take
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRASD80N 77 
 
 it and bear it. That he will be worthy of it is a matter of 
 course." 
 
 The feelings of father and daughter cannot be described. 
 They felt chilled as by the breath of a death's-head. They did 
 not exchange a word. 
 
 Only, M. Gillenormand said in a low voice and as though 
 speaking to himself : 
 
 "It is the slasher's handwriting." 
 
 The aunt examined the paper, turned it about in all direc- 
 tions, then put it back in its case. 
 
 At the same moment a little oblong packet, enveloped in 
 blue paper, fell from one of the pockets of the great-coat. 
 Mademoiselle Gillenormand picked it up and unfolded the 
 blue paper. 
 
 It contained Marius' hundred cards. She handed one of 
 them to M. Gillenormand, who read: Le Baron Marius Pont- 
 mercy. 
 
 The old man rang the bell. Nicolette came. M. Gillenor- 
 mand took the ribbon, the case, and the coat, flung them all 
 on the floor in the middle of the room, and said : 
 
 "Carry those duds away." 
 
 A full hour passed in the most profound silence. The old 
 man and the old spinster had seated themselves with their 
 backs to each other, and were thinking, each on his own ac- 
 count, the same things, in all probability. 
 
 At the expiration of this hour, Aunt Gillenormand said : 
 
 "A pretty state of things !" 
 
 A few moments later, Marius made his appearance. He 
 entered. Even before he had crossed the threshold, he saw his 
 grandfather holding one of his own cards in his hand, and on 
 catching sight of him, the latter exclaimed with bis air of bour- 
 geois and grinning superiority which was something crush- 
 ing: 
 
 "Well ! well ! well ! well ! well ! so you are a baron now. I 
 present you my compliments. What is the meaning of 
 this ?" 
 
 Marius reddened slightly and replied :
 
 78 31AKIUS 
 
 "It means that I am the son of my father." 
 
 M. Gillenormand ceased to laugh, and said harshly: 
 
 "I am your father." 
 
 "My father/' retorted Marius, with downcast eyes and a 
 severe air, "was a humble and heroic man, who served the 
 Republic and France gloriously, who was great in the greatest 
 history that men have ever made, who lived in the bivouac for 
 a quarter of a century, beneath grape-shot and bullets, in snow 
 and mud by day, beneath rain at night, who captured two flags, 
 who received twenty wounds, who died forgotten and aban- 
 doned, and who never committed but one mistake, which was 
 to love too fondly two ingrates, his country and myself." 
 
 This was more than M. Gillenormand could bear to hear. 
 At the word republic, he rose, or, to speak more correctly, he 
 sprang to his feet. Every word that Marius had just uttered 
 produced on the visage of the old Royalist the effect of the 
 puffs of air from a forge upon a blazing brand. From a dull 
 hue he had turned red, from red, purple, and from purple, 
 flame-colored. 
 
 "Marius !" he cried. "Abominable child ! I do not know 
 what your father was ! I do not wish to know ! I know noth- 
 ing about that, and I do not know him ! But what I do know 
 is, that there never was anything but scoundrels among those 
 men ! They were all rascals, assassins, red-caps, thieves ! I 
 say all ! I say all ! I know not one ! I say all ! Do you hear 
 me, Marius ! Sec here, you are no more a baron than my slip- 
 per is ! They were all bandits in the service of Robespierre ! 
 All who served B-u-o-naparte were brigands ! They were all 
 traitors who betrayed, betrayed, betrayed their legitimate king! 
 All cowards who fled before the Prussians and the English at 
 Waterloo ! That is what I do know ! Whether Monsieur your 
 father comes in that category, I do not know ! I am sorry for 
 it, so much the worse, your humble servant !" 
 
 In his turn, it was Marius who was the firebrand and M. 
 Gillenormand who was the bellows. Marius quivered in every 
 limb, he did not know what would happen next, his brain was 
 on fire. He was the priest who beholds all his sacred wafers
 
 THE GRANDFATHER AND THE GRANDSON 79 
 
 cast to the winds, the fakir who beholds a passer-by spit upon 
 his idol. It could not be that such things had been uttered in 
 his presence. What was he to do? His father had just been 
 trampled under foot and stamped upon in his presence, but by 
 whom? By his grandfather. How was he to avenge the one 
 without outraging the other? It was impossible for him to in- 
 sult his grandfather and it was equally impossible for him to 
 leave his father unavenged. On the one hand was a sacred 
 grave, on the other hoary locks. 
 
 He stood there for several moments, staggering as though 
 intoxicated, with all this whirlwind dashing through his head; 
 then he raised his eyes, gazed fixedly at his grandfather, and 
 cried in a voice of thunder : 
 
 "Down with the Bourbons, and that great hog of a Louis 
 XVIII.!" 
 
 Louis XVIII. had been dead for four years; but it was all 
 the same to him. 
 
 The old man, who had been crimson, turned whiter than his 
 hair. He wheeled round towards a bust of M. le Due do Berry, 
 which stood on the chimney-piece, and made a profound bow, 
 with a sort of peculiar majesty. Then he paced twice, slowly 
 and in silence, from the fireplace to the window and from the 
 window to the fireplace, traversing the whole length of the 
 room, and making the polished floor creak as though he had 
 been a stone statue walking. 
 
 On his second turn, he bent over his daughter, who was 
 watching this encounter with the stupefied air of an antiquated 
 lamb, and said to her with a smile that was almost calm: "A 
 baron like this gentleman, and a bourgeois like myself cannot 
 remain under the same roof." 
 
 And drawing himself up, all at once, pallid, trembling, ter- 
 rible, with his brow rendered more lofty by the terrible radi- 
 ance of wrath, he extended his arm towards Marius and 
 shouted to him : 
 
 "Be off !" 
 
 Marius left the house. 
 
 On the following day, M. Gillenormand said to his daughter :
 
 80 MARIU8 
 
 "You will send sixty pistoles every six months to that blood- 
 drinker, and yon will never mention his name to me." 
 
 Having an immense reserve fund of wrath to get rid of, and 
 not knowing what to do with it, he continued to address his 
 daughter as you instead of thou for the next three months. 
 
 Marius, on his side, had gone forth in indignation. There 
 was one circumstance which, it must he admitted, aggravated 
 his exasperation. There are always petty fatalities of the sort 
 which complicate domestic dramas. They augment the griev- 
 ances in such cases, although, in reality, the wrongs are not 
 increased by them. While carrying Marius' "duds" precipi- 
 tately to his chamber, at his grandfather's command, Nicolette 
 had, inadvertently, let fall, probably, on the attic staircase, 
 which was dark, that medallion of black shagreen which con- 
 tained the paper penned by the colonel. Neither paper nor 
 case could afterwards be found. Marius was convinced that 
 "Monsieur Gillenormand" from that day forth he never 
 alluded to him otherwise had flung "his father's testament" 
 in the fire. He knew by heart the few lines which the colonel 
 had written, and, consequently, nothing was lost. But the 
 paper, the writing, that sacred relic, all that was his very 
 heart. What had been done with it ? 
 
 Marius had taken his departure without saying whither he 
 was going, and without knowing where, with thirty francs, his 
 watch, and a few clothes in a hand-bag. He had entered a 
 hackney-coach, had engaged it by the hour, and had directed 
 his course at hap-hazard towards the Latin quarter. 
 
 What was to become of Marius?
 
 BOOK FOURTH. THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A GROUP WHICH BARELY MISSED BECOMING HISTORIC 
 
 AT that epoch, which was, to all appearances indifferent, a 
 certain revolutionary quiver was vaguely current. Breaths 
 which had started forth from the depths of '89 and '93 were in 
 the air. Youth was on the point, may the reader pardon us the 
 word, of moulting. People were undergoing a transformation, 
 almost without being conscious of it, through the movement of 
 the age. The needle which moves round the compass also 
 moves in souls. p]ach person was taking that step in advance 
 which he was bound to take. The Royalists were becoming 
 liberals, liberals were turning democrats. It was a flood tide 
 complicated with a thousand ebb movements; the peculiarity 
 of ebbs is to create intermixtures; hence the combination of 
 very singular ideas; people adored both Napoleon and liberty. 
 We are making history here. These were the mirages of that 
 period. Opinions traverse phases. Voltairian royalism, a 
 quaint variety, had a no less singular sequel, Bonapartist lib- 
 eralism. 
 
 Other groups of minds were more serious. In that direction, 
 they sounded principles, they attached themselves to the right. 
 They grew enthusiastic for the absolute, they caught glimpses 
 of infinite realizations; the absolute, by its very rigidity, urges 
 spirits towards the sky and causes them to float in illimitable 
 space. There is nothing like dogma for bringing forth dreams. 
 And there is nothing like dreams for engendering the future, 
 t'topia to-day, flesh and blood to-morrow. 
 
 These advanced opinions had a double foundation. A begin-
 
 82 MARIUS 
 
 ning of mystery menaced "the established order of things," 
 which was suspicious and underhand. A sign which was revo- 
 lutionary to the highest degree. The second thoughts of power 
 meet the second thoughts of the populace in the mine. The in- 
 cubation of insurrections gives the retort to the premeditation 
 of coups d'etat. 
 
 There did not, as yet, exist in France any of those vast 
 underlying organizations, like the German tugendbund and 
 Italian Carbonarism; but here and there there were dark un- 
 derminings, which were in process of throwing off shoots. The 
 Cougourde was being outlined at Aix ; there existed at Paris, 
 among other affiliations of that nature, the society of the 
 Friends of the A B C. 
 
 What were these Friends of the ABC? A society which 
 had for its object apparently the education of children, in real- 
 ity the elevation of man. 
 
 They declared themselves the Friends of the A B C, the 
 Abaisse, the debased, that is to say, the people. They 
 wished to elevate the people. It was a pun which we should 
 do wrong to smile at. Puns are sometimes serious factors in 
 politics; witness the Castratus ad castra, which made a general 
 of the army of Narses; witness: Barbari et Barberini; witness: 
 Tu es Petrus et super hanc petram, etc., etc. 
 
 The Friends of the ABC were not numerous, it was a secret 
 society in the state of embryo, we might almost say a coterie, 
 if coteries ended in heroes. They assembled in Paris in two 
 localities, near the fish-market, in a wine-shop called Corintke, 
 of which more will be heard later on, and near the Pantheon in 
 in a little cafe in the Rue Saint-Michel called the Cafe Musain, 
 now torn down; the first of these meeting-places was close to 
 the workingman, the second to the students. 
 
 The assemblies of the Friends of the ABC were usually 
 held in a back room of the Cafe Musain. 
 
 This hall, which was tolerably remote from the cafe, with 
 which it was connected by an extremely long corridor, had two 
 windows and an exit with a private stairway on the little Rue 
 des Gres. There they smoked and drank, and gambled and
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 83 
 
 laughed. There they conversed in very loud tones about every- 
 thing, and in whispers of other things. An old map of France 
 under the Republic was nailed to the wall, a sign quite suffi- 
 cient to excite the suspicion of a police agent. 
 
 The greater part of the Friends of the ABC were students, 
 who were on cordial terms with the working classes. Here are 
 the names of the principal ones. They belong, in a certain 
 measure, to history: Enjolras, Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, 
 Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Lesgle or Laigle, Joly, 
 Grantaire. 
 
 These young men formed a sort of family, through the bond 
 of friendship. All, with the exception of Laigle, were from 
 the South. 
 
 This was a remarkable group. It vanished in the invisible 
 depths which lie behind us. At the point of this drama which 
 we have now reached, it will not perhaps be superfluous to 
 throw a ray of light upon these youthful heads, before the 
 reader beholds them plunging into the shadow of a tragic 
 adventure. 
 
 Enjolras, whose name we have mentioned first of all, 
 the reader shall see why later on, was an only son and 
 wealthy. 
 
 Enjolras was a charming young man, who was capable of 
 being terrible. He was angelically handsome. He was a sav- 
 age Antinous. One would have said, to see the pensive 
 thoughtfulness of his glance, that he had already, in some pre- 
 vious state of existence, traversed the revolutionary apocalypse. 
 He possessed the tradition of it as though he had been a wit- 
 ness. He was acquainted with all the minute details of the 
 great affair. A pontifical and warlike nature, a singular 
 thing in a youth. He was an officiating priest and a man of 
 war; from the immediate point of view, a soldier of the 
 democracy; above the contemporary movement, the priest of 
 the ideal. His eyes were deep, his lids a little red. his lower 
 lip was thick and easily became disdainful, his brow was 
 lofty. A great deal of brow in a face i> like a great deal of 
 horizon in a view. Like certain young men at the beginning
 
 84 MAKIUS 
 
 of this century and the end of the last, who became illustrious 
 at an early age, he was endowed with excessive youth, and 
 was as rosy as a young girl, although subject to hours of 
 pallor. Already a man, he still seemed a child. His two and 
 twenty years appeared to be but seventeen ; he was serious, 
 it did not seem as though he were aware there was on earth 
 a thing called woman. He had but one passion the right ; 
 but one thought to overthrow the obstacle. On Mount Aven- 
 tine, he would have been Gracchus; in the Convention, lie 
 would have been Saint-Just. He hardly saw the roses, he 
 ignored spring, he did not hear the carolling of the birds; the 
 bare throat of Evadne would have moved him no more than it 
 would have moved Aristogeiton ; he. like Harmodius, thought 
 flowers good for nothing except to conceal the sword. Ho 
 was severe in his enjoyments. He chastely dropped his eyes 
 before everything which was not the Republic. He was the 
 marble lover of liberty. His speech was harshly inspired, and 
 had the thrill of a hymn. He was subject to unexpected 
 outbursts of soul. Woe to the love-affair which should have 
 risked itself beside him ! If any grisette of the Place Cambrai 
 or the Rue Saint-Jean-dc-Beauvais, seeing that face of a 
 youth escaped from college, that page's mien, those long, 
 golden lashes, those blue eyes, that hair billowing in the wind, 
 those rosy cheek?, those fresli lips, those exquisite teeth, had 
 conceived an appetite for that complete aurora, and had tried 
 her beauty on Knjolras. an astounding and terrible glance 
 would have promptly shown her the abyss, and would have 
 taught her not to confound the mighty cherub of Ezekiel with 
 the gallant Cherubino of Beaumarchais. 
 
 By the side of Knjolras, who represented the logic of the 
 Revolution, Combeferre represented its philosophy. Between 
 the logic of the Revolution and its philosophy there exists this 
 difference that its logic may end in war, whereas its philoso- 
 phy can end only in peace. Combeferre complemented and 
 rect i fled Enjolras. He was less lofty, but broader. He 
 desired to pour into all minds the extensive principles of 
 general ideas: he said: "Revolution, but civilization"; and
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC g!^ 
 
 around the mountain peak he opened out a vast view of the 
 blue sky. The Revolution was more adapted for breathing 
 with Combeferre than with Enjolras. Enjolras expressed its 
 divine right, and Combeferre its natural right. The first 
 attached himself to Eobespierre; the second confined himself 
 to Condorcet. Combeferre lived the life of all the rest of the 
 world more than did Enjolras. If it had been granted to 
 these two young men to attain to history, the one would have 
 been the just, the other the wise man. Enjolras was the more 
 virile, Combeferre the more humane. Homo and vir, that was 
 the exact effect of their different shades. Combeferre was as 
 gentle as Enjolras was severe, through natural whiteness. 
 He loved the word citizen, but he preferred the word man. 
 He would gladly have said: Hombre, like the Spanish. He 
 read everything, went to the theatres, attended the courses 
 of public lecturers, learned the polarization of light from 
 Arago, grew enthusiastic over a lesson in which Geoffrey 
 Sainte-Hilaire explained the double function of the external 
 carotid artery, and the internal, the one which makes the face, 
 and the one which makes the brain ; he kept up with what was 
 going on, followed science step by step, compared Saint-Simon 
 with Fourier, deciphered hieroglyphics, broke the pebble which 
 he found and reasoned on geology, drew from memory a silk- 
 worm moth, pointed out the faulty French in the Dictionary 
 of the Academy, studied Puysegur and Deleuze, affirmed noth- 
 ing, not even miracles; denied nothing, not even ghosts; 
 turned over the files of the Moniteur, reflected. He declared 
 that the future lies in the hand of the schoolmaster, and 
 busied himself with educational questions. He desired that 
 society should labor without relaxation at the elevation of the 
 moral and intellectual level, at coining science, at putting 
 ideas into circulation, at increasing the mind in youthful 
 persons, and he feared lest the present poverty of method, the 
 paltriness from a literary point of view confined to two or 
 three centuries called classic, the tyrannical dogmatism of 
 official pedants, scholastic prejudices and routines should end 
 by converting our colleges into artificial oyster beds. He was
 
 8G MARTVB 
 
 learned, a purist, exact, a graduate of the Polytechnic, a close 
 student, and at the same time, thoughtful "even to chimeras," 
 so his friends said. He believed in all dreams, railroads, the 
 suppression of suffering in chirurgical operations, the fixing 
 of images in the dark chamber, the electric telegraph, the 
 steering of balloons. Moreover, he was not much alarmed 
 by the citadels erected against the human mind in every 
 direction, by superstition, despotism, and prejudice. He was 
 one of those who think that science will eventually turn the 
 position. Enjolras was a chief, Combeferre was a guide. 
 One would have liked to fight under the one and to march 
 behind the other. It is not that Combeferre was not capable 
 of fighting, he did not refuse a hand-to-hand combat with the 
 obstacle, and to attack it by main force and explosively ; but 
 it suited him better to bring the human race into accord with 
 its destiny gradually, by means of education, the inculcation 
 of axioms, the promulgation of positive laws ; and, between 
 two lights, his preference was rather for illumination than for 
 conflagration. A conflagration can create an aurora, no 
 doubt, hut why not await the dawn? A volcano illumi- 
 nates, but daybreak furnishes a still better illumination. 
 Possibly, Combeferre preferred the whiteness of the beautiful 
 to the blaze of the sublime. A light troubled by smoke, 
 progress purchased at the expense of violence, only half satis- 
 fied this tender and serious spirit. The headlong precipita- 
 tion of a people into the truth, a '93, terrified him; neverthe- 
 less, stagnation was still more repulsive to him, in it he 
 detected putrefaction and death ; on the whole, he preferred 
 scum to miasma, and he preferred the torrent to the cesspool, 
 and the falls of Niagara to the lake of Montfaucon. In short, 
 he desired neither halt nor haste. While his tumultuous 
 friends, captivated by the absolute, adored and invoked 
 splendid revolutionary adventures, Combeferre was inclined 
 to let progress, good progress, take its own course ; he may 
 have been cold, but he was pure; methodical, but irreproach- 
 able ; phlegmatic, but imperturbable. Combeferre would have 
 knelt and clasped his hands to enable the future to arrive in
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC g7 
 
 all its candor, and that nothing might disturb the immense 
 and virtuous evolution of the races. The good must be inno- 
 cent, he repeated incessantly. And in fact, if the grandeur 
 of the Revolution consists in keeping the dazzling ideal fixedly 
 in view, and of soaring thither athwart the lightnings, with 
 fire and blood in its talons, the beauty of progress lies in being 
 spotless ; and there exists between Washington, who repre- 
 sents the one, and Danton, who incarnates the other, that 
 difference which separates the swan from the angel with the 
 wings of an eagle. 
 
 Jean Prouvaire was a still softer shade than Combeferre. 
 His name was Jehan, owing to that petty momentary freak 
 which mingled with the powerful and profound movement 
 whence sprang the very essential study of the Middle Ages. 
 Jean Prouvaire was in love; he cultivated a pot of flowers, 
 played on the flute, made verses, loved the people, pitied 
 woman, wept over the child, confounded God and the future 
 in the same confidence, and blamed the Revolution for having 
 caused the fall of a royal head, that of Andre Chenier. His 
 voice was ordinarily delicate, but suddenly grew manly. He 
 was learned even to erudition, and almost an Orientalist. 
 Above all, he was good ; and, a very simple thing to those who 
 know how nearly goodness borders on grandeur, in the matter 
 of poetry, he preferred the immense. He knew Italian, Latin, 
 Greek, and Hebrew; and these served him only for the perusal 
 of four poets: Dante, Juvenal, yEschylus, and Isaiah. In 
 French, he preferred Corncille to Racine, and Agrippa d'Au- 
 bigne to Corneille. He loved to saunter through fields of wild 
 oats and corn-flowers, and busied himself with clouds nearly as 
 much as with events. His mind had two attitudes, one on the 
 side towards man, the other on that towards God; he studied 
 or he contemplated. All day long, he buried himself in social 
 questions, salary, capital, credit, marriage, religion, liberty of 
 thought, education, penal servitude, poverty, association, prop- 
 erty, production and sharing, the enigma of this lower world 
 which covers the human ant-hill with darkness; and at nighi, 
 he gazed upon the planets, those enormous beings. Like
 
 88 M ARIL'S 
 
 Enjolras. he was wealthy and an only son. He spoke softly, 
 bowed his head, lowered his eyes, smiled with embarrassment, 
 dressed badly, had an awkward air, blushed at a mere nothing, 
 and was very timid. Yet he was intrepid. 
 
 Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of 
 father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a 
 day, and had but one thought, to deliver the world. lie had 
 one other preoccupation, to educate himself ; he called this 
 also, delivering himself. Pie had taught himself to read and 
 write; everything that he knew, he had learned by himself. 
 Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was 
 immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples. As his 
 mother had failed him, he meditated on his country. He 
 brooded with the profound divination of the man of the 
 people, over what we now call the idea of the nationality, had 
 learned history with the express object of raging with full 
 knowledge of the case. In this club of young Utopians, occu- 
 pied chiefly with France, he represented the outside world. 
 He had for his specialty Greece, Poland, Hungary, Roumania, 
 Italy. He uttered these names incessantly, appropriately and 
 inappropriately, with the tenacity of right. The violations of 
 Turkey on Greece and Thessaly. of Russia on Warsaw, of 
 Austria on Venice, enraged him. Above all things, the great 
 violence of 1772 aroused him. There is no more sovereign 
 eloquence than the true in indignation; he was eloquent with 
 that eloquence. He was inexhaustible on that infamous date 
 of 1772, on the subject of that noble and valiant race sup- 
 pressed by treason, and that three-sided crime, on that mon- 
 strous ambush, the prototype and pattern of all those horrible 
 suppressions of states, which, since that time, have struck 
 many a noble nation, and have annulled their certificate of 
 birth, so to speak. All contemporary sojial crimes have their 
 origin in the partition of Poland. The partition of Poland 
 is a theorem of which all present political outrages are the 
 corollaries. There has not been a despot, nor a traitor for 
 nearly a century back, who has not signed, approved, counter- 
 signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of Poland.
 
 THE FKIENDR OF THE ABC 89 
 
 When the record of modern treasons was examined, that was 
 the first thing which made its appearance. The congress of 
 Vienna consulted that crime before consummating its own. 
 1772 sounded the onset; 1815 was the death of the game. 
 Such was Feuilly's habitual text. This poor workingmun 
 had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she recom- 
 pensed him by rendering him great. The fact is, that there 
 is eternity in right. Warsaw can no more be Tartar than 
 Venice can be Teuton. Kings lose their pains and their honor 
 in the attempt to make them so. Sooner or later, the sub- 
 merged part floats to the surface and reappears. Greece 
 becomes Greece again, Italy is once more Italy. The protest 
 of right against the deed persists forever. The theft of a 
 nation cannot be allowed by prescription. These lofty deeds 
 of rascality have no future. A nation cannot have its mark 
 extracted like a pocket handkerchief. 
 
 Courfeyrac had a father who was called M. de Courfeyrac. 
 One of the false ideas of the bourgeoisie under the Restoration 
 as regards aristocracy and the nobility was to believe in the 
 particle. The particle, as every one knows, possesses no sig- 
 nificance. But the bourgeois of the epoch of la Minerve esti- 
 mated so highly that poor de, that they thought themselves 
 bound to abdicate it. M. dc Chauvelin had himself called M. 
 Chauveiin; M. de Caumartin, M. Caumartin; M. de Constant 
 de Eobecque, Benjamin Constant; M. de Lafayette. M. 
 Lafayette. Courfeyrac had not wished to remain behind the 
 rest, and called himself plain Courfeyrac. 
 
 We might almost, so far as Courfeyrac is concerned, stop 
 here, and confine ourselves to saying with regard to what 
 remains: "For Courfeyrac, see Tholomyes." 
 
 Courfeyrac had, in fact, that animation of youth which may 
 be called the Itcante du diable of the mind. Later on, this 
 disappears like the playfulness of the kitten, and all this grace 
 ends, with the bourgeois, on two legs, and with the tomcat, on 
 four paws. 
 
 This sort of wit is transmitted from generation to genera- 
 tion of the successive levies of youth who traverse the schools.
 
 90 MAKIUS 
 
 who pass it from hand to hand, quasi cursores, and is almost 
 always exactly the same; so that, as we have just pointed out, 
 any one who had listened to Courfeyrac in 1828 would have 
 thought he heard Tholomyes in 1817. Only, Courfeyrac was 
 an honorable fellow. Beneath the apparent similarities of the 
 exterior mind, the difference between him and Tholomycs was 
 very great. The latent man which existed in the two was 
 totally different in the first from what it was in the second. 
 There was in Tholomyes a district attorney, and in Courfeyrac 
 a paladin. 
 
 Enjolras was the chief, Combeferre was the guide, Courfey- 
 rac was the centre. The others gave more light, he shed more 
 warmth; the truth is, that he possessed all the qualities of a 
 centre, roundness and radiance. 
 
 Bahorel had figured in the bloody tumult of June, 1822, on 
 the occasion of the burial of young Lallemand. 
 
 Bahorel was a good-natured mortal, who kept bad company, 
 brave, a spendthrift, prodigal, and to the verge of generosity, 
 talkative, and at times eloquent, bold to the verge of effron- 
 tery ; the best fellow possible ; he had daring waistcoats, and 
 scarlet opinions; a wholesale blusterer, that is to say, loving 
 nothing so much as a quarrel, unless it were an uprising; and 
 nothing so much as an uprising, unless it were a revolution ; 
 always ready to smash a window-pane, then to tear up the 
 pavement, then to demolish a government, just to see the effect 
 of it; a student in his eleventh year. He had nosed about the 
 law, but did not practise it. He had taken for his device: 
 "Never a lawyer," and for his armorial bearings a nightstand 
 in which was visible a square cap. Every time that he passed 
 the law-school, which rarely happened, he buttoned up his 
 frock-coat, the paletot had not yet been invented, and took 
 hygienic precautions. Of the school porter he said : "What a 
 fine old man !" and of the dean, M. Delvincourt : "What a 
 monument !" In his lectures he espied subjects for ballads, 
 and in his professors occasions for caricature. He wasted a 
 tolerably large allowance, something like three thousand francs 
 a year, in doing nothing.
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 91 
 
 He had peasant parents whom he had contrived to imbue 
 with respect for their son. 
 
 He said of them : "They are peasants and not bourgeois ; 
 that is the reason they are intelligent." 
 
 Bahorel, a man of caprice, was scattered over numerous 
 cafes; the others had habits, he had none. He sauntered. To 
 stray is human. To saunter is Parisian. In reality, he had a 
 penetrating mind and was more of a thinker than appeared to 
 view. 
 
 He served as a connecting link between the Friends of -the 
 ABC and other still unorganized groups, which were destined 
 to take form_ later on. 
 
 In this conclave of young heads, there was one bald member. 
 
 The Marquis d'Avaray, whom Louis XVIII. made a duke 
 for having assisted him to enter a hackney-coach on the day 
 when he emigrated, was wont to relate, that in 1814, on his 
 return to France, as the King was disembarking at Calais, a 
 man handed him a petition. 
 
 "What is your request ?" said the King. 
 
 "Sire, a post-office." 
 
 "What is your name?" 
 
 "L'Aigle." 
 
 The King frowned, glanced at the signature of the petition 
 and beheld the name written thus: LESOLE. This non-Bono- 
 parte orthography touched the King and he began to smile. 
 "Sire," resumed the man with the petition, "I had for an- 
 cestor a keeper of the hounds surnamed Lesgueules. This 
 surname furnished my name. I am called Lesgueules, by con- 
 traction Lesgle, and by corruption 1'Aigle." This caused the 
 King to smile broadly. Later on he gave the man the posting 
 office of Meaux, either intentionally or accidentally. 
 
 The bald member of the group was the son of this Lesgle, 
 or Legle, and he signed himself, Legle [de Meaux]. As an 
 abbreviation, his companions called him Bossuet. 
 
 Bossuet was a gay but unlucy fellow. His specialty was not 
 to succeed in anything. As an offset, he laughed at every- 
 thing. At five and twenty he was bald. His father had ended
 
 f)2 MARIU8 
 
 by owning a house and a field ; but he, the son, had made haste 
 to lose that house and field in a bad speculation. He had 
 nothing left. He possessed knowledge and wit, but all he did 
 miscarried. Everything failed him and everybody deceived 
 him; what he was building tumbled down on top of him. If 
 he were splitting wood, he cut off a finger. If he had a mis- 
 tress, he speedily discovered that he had a friend also. Some 
 misfortune happened to him every moment, hence his joviality. 
 He said : "I live under falling tiles." He was not easily aston- 
 ished, because, for him, an accident was what he had foreseen, 
 he took his bad luck serenely, and smiled at the teasing of fate, 
 like a person who is listening to pleasantries. He was poor, 
 but his fund of good humor was inexhaustible. He soon 
 reached his last sou, never his last burst of laughter. When 
 adversity entered his doors, he saluted this old acquaintance 
 cordially, he tapped all catastrophes on the stomach ; he was 
 familiar with fatality to the point of calling it by its nick- 
 name : "Good day, Guignon," he said to it. 
 
 These persecutions of fate had rendered him inventive. He 
 was full of resources. He had no money, but he found means, 
 when it seemed good to him, to indulge in "unbridled extrav- 
 agance." One night, he went so far as to eat a "hundred 
 francs" in a supper with a wench, which inspired him to 
 make this memorable remark in the midst of the orgy: ''Pull 
 off my boots, you five-louis jade." 
 
 Bossuet was slowly directing his steps towards the profession 
 of a lawyer; he was pursuing his law studies after the manner 
 of Baborel. Bossuet had not much domicile, sometimes none 
 at all. He lodged now with one, now with another, most often 
 with Joly. Joly was studying medicine. He was two years 
 younger than Bossuet. 
 
 Joly was the "malade imaginaire" junior. What he had 
 won in medicine was to be more of an invalid than a doctor. 
 At three and twenty he thought himself a valetudinarian, and 
 passed his life in inspecting his tongue in the mirror. He 
 affirmed that man becomes magnetic like a needle, and in his 
 chamber he placed his bed with its head to the south, and
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 93 
 
 the foot to the north, so that, at night, the circulation of his 
 blood might not be interfered with by the great electric cur- 
 rent of the globe. During thunder storms, he felt his pulse. 
 Otherwise, he was the gayest of them all. All these young, 
 maniacal, puny, merry incoherences lived in harmony together, 
 and the result was an eccentric and agreeable being whom his 
 comrades, who were prodigal of winged consonants, called 
 Jolllly. "You may fly away on the four Us," Jean Prouvaire 
 said to him. 1 
 
 Joly had a trick of touching his nose with the tip of his cane, 
 which is an indication of a sagacious mind. 
 
 All these young men who differed so greatly, and who, on 
 the whole, can only be discussed seriously, held the same re- 
 ligion : Progress. 
 
 All were the direct sons of the French Revolution. The 
 most giddy of them became solemn when they pronounced that 
 date: '89. Their fathers in the flesh had been, either royalists, 
 doctrinaires, it matters not what; this confusion anterior to 
 themselves, who were young, did not concern them at all ; the 
 pure blood of principle ran in their veins. They attached 
 themselves, without intermediate shades, to incorruptible right 
 and absolute duty. 
 
 Affiliated and initiated, they sketched out the ideal under- 
 ground. 
 
 Among all these glowing hearts and thoroughly convinced 
 minds, there was one sceptic. How came he there? By juxta- 
 position. This sceptic's name was Grantaire, and he was in the 
 habit of signing himself with this rebus: R. Grantaire was a 
 man who took good care not to believe in anything. Moreover, 
 he was one of the students who had learned the most during 
 their course at Paris; he knew that the best coffee was to be 
 had at the Cafe Lemblin, and the best billiards at the Cafe 
 A 7 oltaire, that good cakes and lasses were to be found at the 
 Krmitage, on the Boulevard du Maine, spatchcocked chickens 
 at Mother Sauget's, excellent matelotes at tin* Barricre do la 
 Cunette, and a certain thin white wine at the Barriere du Com- 
 1 L'Ailc, wing.
 
 94 MARIU8 
 
 pat. He knew the best place for everything ; in addition, box- 
 ing and foot-fencing and some dances ; and he was a thorough 
 single-stick player. He was a tremendous drinker to boot. 
 He was inordinately homely : the prettiest boot-stitcher of that 
 day, Irma Boissy, enraged with his homeliness, pronounced 
 sentence on him as follows: "Grantaire is impossible"; but 
 Grantaire's fatuity was not to be disconcerted. He stared 
 tenderly and fixedly at all women, with the air of saying to 
 them all : "If I only chose !" and of trying to make his com- 
 rades believe that he was in general demand. 
 
 All those words: rights of the people, rights of man, the 
 social contract, the French Revolution, the Republic, democ- 
 racy, humanity, civilization, religion, progress, came very near 
 to signifying nothing whatever to Grantaire. He smiled at 
 them. Scepticism, that caries of the intelligence, had not left 
 him a single whole idea. He lived with irony. This was his 
 axiom : "There is but one certainty, my full glass." He 
 sneered at all devotion in all parties, the father as well as the 
 brother, Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles. "They are 
 greatly in advance to be dead," he exclaimed. He said of the 
 crucifix : "There is a gibbet which has been a success." A 
 rover, a gambler, a libertine, often drunk, he displeased these 
 young dreamers by humming incessantly: "J'aimons les filles, 
 et j'aimons le bon vin." Air: Vive Henri IV. 
 
 However, this sceptic had one fanaticism. This fanaticism 
 was neither a dogma, nor an idea, nor an art, nor a science ; it 
 was a man: Enjolras. Grantaire admired, loved, and vene- 
 rated Enjolras. To whom did this anarchical scoffer unite 
 himself in this phalanx of absolute minds? To the most 
 absolute. In what manner had Enjolras subjugated him ? By 
 his ideas? No. By his character. A phenomenon which is 
 often observable. A sceptic who adheres to a believer is as 
 simple as the law of complementary colors. That which we 
 lack attracts us. No one loves the light like the blind man. 
 The dwarf adores the drum-major. The toad always has his 
 eyes fixed on heaven. Why ? In order to watch the bird in its 
 flight. Grantaire, in whom writhed doubt, loved to watch
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 95 
 
 faith soar in Enjolras. He had need of Enjolras. That 
 chaste, healthy, firm, upright, hard, candid nature charmed 
 him, without his being clearly aware of it, and without the 
 idea of explaining it to himself having occurred to him. He 
 admired his opposite by instinct. His soft, yielding, dislo- 
 cated, sickly, shapeless ideas attached themselves to Enjolras 
 as to a spinal column. His moral backbone leaned on that 
 firmness. Grantaire in the presence of Enjolras became some 
 one once more. He was, himself, moreover, composed of 
 two elements, which were, to all appearance, incompatible. 
 He was ironical and cordial. His indifference loved. His 
 mind could get along without belief, but his heart could not 
 get along without friendship. A profound contradiction ; for 
 an affection is a conviction. His nature was thus constituted. 
 There are men who seem to be born to be the reverse, the 
 obverse, the wrong side. They are Pollux, Patrocles, Nisus, 
 Eudamidas, Ephestion, Pechmeja. They only exist on con- 
 dition that they are backed up with another man ; their name 
 is a sequel, and is only written preceded by the conjunction 
 and; and their existence is not their own ; it is the other side 
 of an existence which is not theirs. Grantaire was one of these 
 men. He was the obverse of Enjolras. 
 
 One might almost say that affinities begin with the letters of 
 the alphabet. In the series and P are inseparable. You 
 can, at will, pronounce and P or Orestes and Pylades. 
 
 Grantaire, Enjolras' true satellite, inhabited this circle of 
 young men; he lived there, he took no pleasure anywhere but 
 there; he followed them everywhere. His joy was to see these 
 forms go and come through the fumes of wine. They tol- 
 erated him on account of his good humor. 
 
 Enjolras, the believer, disdained this sceptic ; and, a sober 
 man himself, scorned this drunkard. He accorded him a little 
 lofty pity. Grantaire was an unaccepted Pylades. Always 
 harshly treated by Enjolras, roughly repulsed, rejected yet ever 
 returning to the charge, he said of Enjolras : "What fine mar- 
 ble!"
 
 96 MARWS 
 
 BLONDEAU'S FUNERAL ORATION BY BOSSUET 
 
 ON a certain afternoon, which had, as will he seen hereafter, 
 some coincidence with the events heretofore related, Laigle de 
 Meaux was to be seen leaning in a sensual manner against the 
 doorpost of the Cafe Musain. He had the air of a caryatid on 
 a vacation; he carried nothing hut his revery, however, lie 
 was staring at the Place Saint-Michel. To lean one's back 
 against a thing is equivalent to lying down while standing 
 erect, which attitude is not hated by thinkers. Laigle de 
 Meaux was pondering, without melancholy, over a little mis- 
 adventure which had befallen him two days previously at 
 the law-school, and which had modified his personal plans 
 for the future, plans which were rather indistinct in any 
 case. 
 
 Revery does not prevent a cab from passing by, nor the 
 dreamer from taking note of that cab. Laigle de Meaux, 
 whose eyes were straying about in a sort of diffuse lounging, 
 perceived, athwart his somnambulism, a two-wheeled vehicle 
 proceeding through the place, at a foot pace and apparently in 
 indecision. For whom was this cabriolet ? Why was it driving 
 at a walk? Laigle took a survey. In it, beside the coachman, 
 sat a young man, and in front of the young man lay a rather 
 bulky hand-bag. The bag displayed to passers-by the follow- 
 ing name inscribed in large black letters on a card which was 
 sewn to the stuff: MARIUS PONTMERCY. 
 
 This name caused Laigle to change his attitude. He drew 
 himself up and hurled this apostrophe at the young man in the 
 cabriolet: 
 
 "Monsieur Marius Pontmercy !" 
 
 The cabriolet thus addressed came to a halt. 
 
 The young man, who also seemed deeply buried in thought, 
 raised his eyes: 
 
 "II ev?'' said he.
 
 THE FRIENDH OF THE ABC 97 
 
 "You are M. Marius Pontmercy ?" 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 "I was looking for you," resumed Laigle de Meaux. 
 
 "How so?" demanded Marius; for it was he: in fact, he 
 had just quitted his grandfather's, and had before him a face 
 which he now beheld for the first time. "I do not know 
 you." 
 
 "Neither do I know you," responded Laigle. 
 
 Marius thought he had encountered a wag, the beginning of 
 a mystification in the open street. He was not in a very good 
 humor at the moment. He frowned. Laigle de Meaux went 
 on imperturbably : 
 
 "You were not at the school day before yesterday." 
 
 "That is possible." 
 
 "That is certain." 
 
 "You are a student?" demanded Marius. 
 
 "Yes, sir. Like yourself. Day before yesterday, I entered 
 the school, by chance. You know, one does have such freaks 
 sometimes. The professor was just calling the roll. You are 
 not unaware that they are very ridiculous on such occasions. 
 At the third call, unanswered, your name is erased from the 
 list. Sixty francs in the gulf." 
 
 Marius began to listen. 
 
 "It was Blondeau who was making the call. You know 
 Blondeau, he has a very pointed and very malicious nose, and 
 he delights to scent out the absent. He slyly began with the 
 letter P. I was not listening, not being compromised by that 
 letter. The call was not going badly. No erasures; the uni- 
 verse was present. Blondeau was grieved. I said to myself: 
 'Blondeau, my love, you will not get the very smallest sort of 
 an execution to-day.' All at once Blondeau calls, 'Marius 
 Pontmercy!' No one answers. Blondeau, filled with hope, 
 repeats more loudly: 'Marius Pontmercy!' And he takes his 
 pen. Monsieur, I have bowels of compassion. I said to myself 
 hastily: 'Here's a brave fellow who is going to get scratched 
 out. Attention. Here is a veritable mortal who is not exact. 
 He's not a good student. Here is none of your heavy-sides,
 
 98 MARIUB 
 
 a student who studies, a greenhorn pedant, strong on letters, 
 theology, science, and sapience, one of those dull wits cut by 
 the square ; a pin by profession. He is an honorable idler who 
 lounges, who practises country jaunts, who cultivates the gri- 
 sette, who pays court to the fair sex, who is at this very mo- 
 ment, perhaps, with my mistress. Let us save him. Death to 
 Blondeau !' At that moment, Blondeau dipped his pen in, 
 all black with erasures in the ink, cast his yellow eyes round 
 the audience room, and repeated for the third time: 'Marius 
 Pontmercy !' I replied : 'Present !' This is why you were 
 not crossed off." 
 
 ''Monsieur ! " said Marius. 
 
 "And why I was," added Laigle de Meaux. 
 
 "I do not understand you," said Marius. 
 
 Laigle resumed : 
 
 "Nothing is more simple. I was close to the desk to reply, 
 and close to the door for the purpose of flight. The professor 
 gazed at me with a certain intensity. All of a sudden, Blon- 
 deau, who must be the malicious nose alluded to by Boileau, 
 skipped to the letter L. L is my letter. I cm from Meaux, 
 and my name is Lesgle." 
 
 "L'Aigle!" interrupted Marius, "what a fine name!" 
 
 "Monsieur, Blondeau came to this fine name, and called: 
 'Laigle !' I reply : 'Present !' Then Blondeau gazes at me, 
 with the gentleness of a tiger, and says to me: 'If you are 
 Pontmercy, you are not Laigle.' A phrase which has a dis- 
 obliging air for you, but which was lugubrious only for me. 
 That said, he crossed me off." 
 
 Marius exclaimed : 
 
 "I am mortified, sir " 
 
 "First of all," interposed Laigle, "I demand permission to 
 embalm Bloudeau in a few phrases of deeply felt eulogium. I 
 will assume that he is dead. There will be no great change 
 required in his gauntness, in his pallor, in his coldness, and 
 in his smell. And I say: 'Erudimini qui judicatis tcrram. 
 Here lies Blondeau, Blondeau the Nose, Blondeau Nasica, the 
 ox of discipline, bus disciplina-, the bloodhound of the pass-
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 99 
 
 word, the angel of the roll-call, who was upright, square exact, 
 rigid, honest, and hideous. God crossed him off as he crossed 
 me off.' " 
 
 Marius resumed : 
 
 "I am very sorry 
 
 "Young man," said Laigle de Meaux, "let this serve you 
 as a lesson. In future, be exact." 
 
 "I really beg you a thousand pardons." 
 
 "Do not expose your neighbor to the danger of having his 
 name erased again." 
 
 "I am extremely sorry " 
 
 Laigle burst out laughing. 
 
 "And I am delighted. I was on the brink of becoming a 
 lawyer. This erasure saves me. I renounce the triumphs of 
 the bar. I shall not defend the widow, and I shall not attack 
 the orphan. No more toga, no more stage. Here is my erasure 
 all ready for me. It is to you that I am indebted for it, Mon- 
 sieur Pontmercy. I intend to pay a solemn call of thanks' 
 upon you. Where do you live?" 
 
 "In this cab," said Marius. 
 
 "A sign of opulence," retorted Laigle calmly. "I congratu- 
 late you. You have there a rent of nine thousand francs per 
 annum." 
 
 At that moment, Courfeyrac emerged from the cafe. 
 
 Marius smiled sadly. 
 
 "I have paid this rent for the last two hours, and I aspire to 
 get rid of it ; but there is a sort of history attached to it, and I 
 don't know where to go." 
 
 "Come to my place, sir," said Courfeyrac. 
 
 "I have the priority," observed Laigle, "but I have no 
 home." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Bossuet," said Courfeyrac. 
 
 "Bossuet," said Marius, "but I thought that your name 
 was Laigle." 
 
 "'De Meaux," replied Laigle; "by metaphor, Bossuet." 
 
 Courfeyrac entered the cab. 
 
 "Coachman," said he, "hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques."
 
 MARIUS 
 
 And that very evening, Marius found himself installed in a 
 chamber of the hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques side by side 
 with Courfeyrac. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MARIUS' ASTONISHMENTS 
 
 IN a few days, Marius had become Courfeyrac's friend. 
 Youth is the season for prompt welding and the rapid healing 
 of scars. Marius breathed freely in Courfeyrac's society, a 
 decidedly new thing for him. Courfeyrac put no questions to 
 him. He did not even think of such a thing. At that age, 
 faces disclose everything on the spot. Words are superfluous. 
 There are young men of whom it can be said that their 
 countenances chatter. One looks at them and one knows them. 
 
 One morning, however, Courfeyrac abruptly addressed this 
 interrogation to him : 
 
 "By the way, have you any political opinions?" 
 
 "The idea !" said Marius, almost affronted by the question. 
 
 "What are you?" 
 
 "A dcmocrat-Bonapartist." 
 
 "The gray hue of a reassured rat," said Courfeyrac. 
 
 On the following day, Courfeyrac introduced Marius at the 
 Cafe Musain. Then he whispered in his ear, with a smile: "I 
 must give you your entry to the revolution." And he led him 
 to the hall of the Friends of the ABC. He presented him to 
 the other comrades, saying this simple word which Marius did 
 not understand : "A pupil." 
 
 Marius had fallen into a wasps'-nest of wits. However, 
 although he was silent and grave, he was, none the less, both 
 winged and armed. 
 
 Marius. up to that time solitary and inclined to soliloquy, 
 and to asides, both by habit and by taste, was a little fluttered 
 by this covey of young men around him. All these various 
 initiatives solicited his attention at once, and pulled him 
 about. The tumultuous movements of these minds at liberty
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 101 
 
 and at work set his ideas in a whirl. Sometimes, in his 
 trouble, they fled so far from him, that he had difficulty in 
 recovering them. He heard them talk of philosophy, of liter- 
 ature, of art, of history, of religion, in unexpected fashion. 
 He caught glimpses of strange aspects ; and, as he did not 
 place them in proper perspective, he was not altogether sure 
 that it was not chaos that he grasped. On abandoning his 
 grandfather's opinions for the opinions of his father, he had 
 supposed himself fixed ; he now suspected, with uneasiness, 
 and without daring to avow it to himself, that he was not. 
 The angle at which he saw everything began to be displaced 
 anew. A certain oscillation set all the horizons of his brains 
 in motion. An odd internal upsetting. He almost suffered 
 from it. 
 
 It seemed as though there were 110 "consecrated things" 
 for those young men. Marius heard singular propositions 
 on every sort of subject, which embarrassed his still timid 
 mind. 
 
 A theatre poster presented itself, adorned with the title of 
 a tragedy from the ancient repertory called classic : "Down 
 with tragedy dear to the bourgeois !" cried Bahorel. And 
 Marius heard Combeferre reply: 
 
 "You are wrong, Bahorel. The bourgeoisie loves tragedy, 
 and the bourgeoisie must be left at peace on that score. 
 Bewigged tragedy has a reason for its existence, and I am not 
 one of those who, by order of ^Eschylus, contest its right to 
 existence. There are rough outlines in nature; there are, in 
 creation, ready-made parodies ; a beak which is not a beak, 
 wings which are not wings, gills which are not gills, paws 
 which are not paws, a cry of pain which arouse? a desire to 
 laugh, there is the duck. Now, since poultry exists by the 
 side of the bird, I do not see why classic tragedy should not 
 exist in the face of antique tragedy." 
 
 Or chance decreed that Marius should traverse Rue Jean- 
 Jacques Rousseau between Enjolras and Courfeyrac. 
 
 Courfeyrac took his arm : 
 
 "Pay attention. This is the Rue Platriere, now called Rue
 
 102 MARIUS 
 
 Jean-Jacques Rousseau, on account of a singular household 
 which lived in it sixty years ago. This consisted of Jean- 
 Jacques and Therese. From time to time, little brings were 
 born there. Therese gave birth to them, Jean- Jacques repre- 
 sented them as foundlings." 
 
 And Enjolras addressed Courfeyrac roughly: 
 
 "Silence in the presence of Jean-Jacques! I admire that 
 man. He denied his own children, that may be; but ho 
 adopted the people." 
 
 Not one of these young men articulated the word : The Em- 
 peror. Jean Prouvaire alone sometimes said Xapoleon ; all 
 the others said "Bonaparte." Enjolras pronounced it 
 "Buonaparte." 
 
 Marius was vaguely surprised. Initium sapientice. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BACK ROOM OF THE CAFE MUSAIN 
 
 OXE of the conversations among the young men, at which 
 Marius was present and in which he sometimes joined, was a 
 veritable shock to his mind. 
 
 This took place in the back room of the Cafe Musain. 
 Xearly all the Friends of the ABC had convened that even- 
 ing. The argand lamp was solemnly lighted. They talked 
 of one thing and another, without passion and with noise. 
 With the exception of Enjolras and Marius, who held their 
 peace, all were haranguing rather at hap-hazard. Conver- 
 sations between comrades sometimes are subject to these peace- 
 able tumults. It was a game and an uproar as much as a 
 conversation. They tossed words to each other and caught 
 them up in turn. They were chattering in all quarters. 
 
 Xo woman was admitted to this back room, except Louison, 
 the dish-washer of the cafe, who passed through it from time 
 to time, to go to her washing in the "lavatory.'' 
 
 Grantaire, thoroughly drunk, was deafening the corner of
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 103 
 
 which he had taken possession, reasoning and contradicting 
 at the top of his lungs, and shouting: 
 
 "I am thirsty. Mortals, I am dreaming: that the tun of 
 Heidelberg has an attack of apoplexy, and that I am one of the 
 dozen leeches which will be applied to it. I want a drink. I 
 desire to forget life. Life is a hideous invention of I know not 
 whom. It lasts no time at all, and is worth nothing. One 
 breaks one's neck in living. Life is a theatre set in which there 
 are but few practicable entrances. Happiness is an antique 
 reliquary painted on one side only. Ecclesiastes says : 'All is 
 vanity.' I agree with that good man, who never existed, 
 perhaps. Zero not wishing to go stark naked, clothed himself 
 in vanity. vanity ! The patching up of everything with big 
 words ! a kitchen is a laboratory, a dancer is a professor, an 
 acrobat is a gymnast, a boxer is a pugilist, an apothecary is 
 a chemist, a wigmaker is an artist, a hodman is an architect, a 
 jockey is a sportsman, a wood-louse is a pterigybranche. Van- 
 ity has a right and a wrong side ; the right side is stupid, it is 
 the negro with his glass beads ; the wrong side is foolish, it is 
 the philosopher with his rags. I weep over the one and I 
 laugh over the other. What are called honors and dignities, 
 and even dignity and honor, are generally of pinchbeck. 
 Kings make playthings of human pride. Caligula made a 
 horse a consul ; Charles II. made a knight of a sirloin. Wrap 
 yourself up now, then, between Consul Incitatus and Baronet 
 Roastbeef. As for the intrinsic value of people, it is no longer 
 respectable in the least. Listen to the panegyric which neigh- 
 bor makes of neighbor. White on white is ferocious; if the 
 lily could speak, what a Betting down it would give the dove ! 
 A bigoted woman prating of a devout woman is more venom- 
 ous than the asp and the cobra. It is a shame that I am 
 ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things; 
 but I know nothing. For instance, I have always been witty; 
 when I was a pupil of Gros, instead of daubing wretched 
 little pictures, I passed my time in pilfering apples; rapin 1 
 is the masculine of rapine. So much for myself; as for the 
 lf T.he slang term for a painter's assistant.
 
 104 MARIU8 
 
 rest of you, you are worth no more than I am. I scoff at 
 your perfections, excellencies, and qualities. Every good 
 quality tends towards a defect ; economy borders on avarice, 
 the generous man is next door to the prodigal, the brave man 
 rubs elbows with the braggart ; he who says very pious says 
 a trifle bigoted ; there are just as many vices in virtue as there 
 are holes in Diogenes' cloak. Whom do you admire, the 
 slain or the slayer, Cassar or Brutus? Generally men are in 
 favor of the slayer. Long live Brutus, he has slain ! There 
 lies the virtue. Virtue, granted, but madness also. There 
 are queer spots on those great men. The Brutus who killed 
 Csesar was in love with the statue of a little boy. This statue 
 was from the hand of the Greek sculptor Strongylion, who 
 also carved that figure of an Amazon known as the Beautiful 
 Leg, Eucnernos, which Nero carried with him in his travels. 
 This Strongylion left but two statues which placed Nero and 
 Brutus in accord. Brutus was in love with the one, Nero with 
 the other. All history is nothing but wearisome repetition. 
 One century is the plagiarist of the other. The battle of 
 Marengo copies the battle of Pydna; the Tolbiac of Clovis 
 and the Austerlitz of Napoleon are as like each other as two 
 drops of water. 1 don't attach much importance to victory. 
 Nothing is so stupid as to conquer ; true glory lies in convinc- 
 ing. But try to prove something ! If you are content with 
 success, what mediocrity, and with conquering, what wretch- 
 edness ! Alas, vanity and cowardice everywhere. Everything 
 obeys success, even grammar. Si volet usus, says Horace. 
 Therefore I disdain the human race. Shall we descend to 
 the party at all? Do you wish me to begin admiring the 
 peoples? What people, if you please? Shall it be Greece? 
 The Athenians, those Parisians of days gone by, slew Phocion, 
 as we might say Coligny, and fawned upon tyrants to such an 
 extent that Anacephorus said of Pisistratus: "His urine 
 attracts the bees." The most prominent man in Greece for 
 fifty years was that grammarian Philetas, who was so small 
 and so thin that he was obliged to load his shoes with lead in 
 order not to be blown away by the wind. There stood on the
 
 THE FRIEKD8 OF THE ABC 105 
 
 groat square in Corinth a statue carved by Silanion and cata- 
 logued by Pliny; this statue represented Episthates. What 
 did Episthates do? He invented a trip. That sums up Greece 
 and glory. Let us pass on to others. Shall I admire Eng- 
 land? Shall I admire France? France? Why? Because 
 of Paris? I have just told you my opinion of Athens. Eng- 
 land ? Why ? Because of London ? I hate Carthage. And 
 then, London, the metropolis of luxury, is the headquarters 
 of wretchedness. There are a hundred deaths a year of 
 hunger in the parish of Charing-Cross alone. Such is Albion. 
 I add, as the climax, that I have seen an Englishwoman danc- 
 ing in a wreath of roses and blue spectacles. A fig then for 
 England ! If I do not admire John Bull, shall I admire 
 Brother Jonathan? I have but little taste for that slave- 
 holding brother. Take away Time is money, what remains 
 of England? Take away Cotton is king, what remains of 
 America? Germany is the lymph, Italy is the bile. Shall 
 we go into ecstasies over Russia? Voltaire admired it. He 
 also admired China. I admit that Russia has its beauties, 
 among others, a stout despotism ; but I pity the despots. Their 
 health is delicate. A decapitated Alexis, a poignarded Peter, 
 a strangled Paul, another Paul crushed flat with kicks, divers 
 Ivans strangled, with their throats cut, numerous Nicholases 
 and Basils poisoned, all this indicates that the palace of the 
 Emperors of Russia is in a condition of flagrant insalubrity. 
 All civilized peoples offer this detail to the admiration of the 
 thinker; war; now, war, civilized war, exhausts and sums up 
 all the forms of ruffianism, from the brigandage of the Tra- 
 buceros in the gorges of Mont Jaxa to the marauding of the 
 Comanche Indians in the Doubtful Pass. 'Bah !' you will say 
 to me, 'but Europe is certainly better than Asia ?' I admit 
 that Asia is a farce ; but I do not precisely see what you find to 
 laugh at in the Grand Lama, you peoples of the west, who have 
 mingled with your fashions and your elegances all the compli- 
 cated filth of majesty, from the dirty chemise of Queen Isa- 
 bella to the chamber-chair of the Dauphin. Gentlemen of the 
 human race, I tell you, not a bit of it 1 It is at Brussels that
 
 106 MARIU8 
 
 the most beer is consumed, at Stockholm the most brandy, at 
 Madrid the most chocolate, at Amsterdam the most gin, at 
 London the most wine, at Constantinople the most coffee, at 
 Paris the most absinthe; there are all the useful notions. 
 Paris carries the day, in short. In Paris, even the rag-pickers 
 are sybarites; Diogenes would have loved to be a rag-picker 
 of the Place Maubert better than to be a philosopher at the 
 Piraeus. Learn this in addition; the wineshops of the rag- 
 pickers are called bibines; the most celebrated are the Sauce- 
 pan and The, Slaughter-House. Hence, tea-gardens, go- 
 guettes, caboulots, bouibuis, mastroquets, bastringues, manez- 
 ingues, bibines of the rag-pickers, caravanseries of the caliphs. 
 I certify to you, I am a voluptuary, I eat at Richard's at forty 
 sous a head, I must have Persian carpets to roll naked Cleo- 
 patra in! Where is Cleopatra? Ah! So it is you, Louison. 
 Good day." 
 
 Thus did Grantaire, more than intoxicated, launch into 
 speech, catching at the dish-washer in her passage, from his 
 corner in the back room of the Cafe Musain. 
 
 Bossuet, extending his hand towards him, tried to impose 
 silence on him, and Grantaire began again worse than ever: 
 
 "Aigle de Meaux. down with your paws. You produce on 
 me no effect with your gesture of Hippocrates refusing Ar- 
 taxerxes' bric-a-brac. I excuse you from the task of soothing 
 me. Moreover, I am sad. What do you wish me to say to 
 you ? Man is evil, man is deformed ; the butterfly is a success, 
 man is a failure. God made a mistake with that animal. A 
 crowd offers a choice of ugliness. The first comer is a wretch. 
 Femme woman rhymes with infame, infamous. Yes, I 
 have the spleen, complicated with melancholy, with homesick- 
 ness, plus hypochondria, and I am vexed and I rage, and I 
 yawn, and I am bored, and I am tired to death, and I am 
 stupid ! Let God go to the devil !" 
 
 "Silence then, capital R !" resumed Bossuet, who was dis- 
 cussing a point of law behind the scenes, and who was plunged 
 more than waist high in a phrase of judicial slang, of which 
 this is the conclusion:
 
 THE FRIEXD8 OF THE A It C 107 
 
 " And as for me, although T am hardly a legist, and at 
 the most, an amateur attorney, I maintain this: that, in 
 accordance with the terms of the customs of Normandy, at 
 Saint-Michel, and for each year, an equivalent must be paid 
 to the profit of the lord of the manor, saving the rights of 
 others, and by all and several, the proprietors as well as those 
 seized with inheritance, and that, for all cmphyteuses, leases, 
 freeholds, contracts of domain, mortgages 
 
 "Echo, plaintive nymph," hummed Grantaire. 
 
 Near Grantaire, an almost silent table, a sheet of paper, an 
 inkstand and a pen between two glasses of brandy, announced 
 that a vaudeville was being sketched out. 
 
 This great affair was being discussed in a low voice, and the 
 two heads at work touched each other : "Let us begin by find- 
 ing names. When one has the names, one finds the subject." 
 
 "That is true. Dictate. I will write." 
 
 "Monsieur Dorimon." 
 
 "An independent gentleman?" 
 
 "Of course." 
 
 "His daughter, Celestine." 
 
 "tine. What next?" 
 
 "Colonel Sainval." 
 
 "Sainval is stale. I should say Valsin." 
 
 Beside the vaudeville aspirants, another group, which was 
 also taking advantage of the uproar to talk low, was discuss- 
 ing a duel. An old fellow of thirty was counselling a young 
 one of eighteen, and explaining to him what sort of an adver- 
 sary he had to deal with. 
 
 "The deuce ! Look out for yourself. He is a fine swords- 
 man. His play is neat. He has the attack, no wasted feints, 
 wrist, dash, lightning, a just parade, mathematical parries, 
 bigre! and he is left-handed." 
 
 In the angle opposite Grantaire, Joly and Bahorel were 
 playing dominoes, and talking of love. 
 
 "You are in luck, that you are," Joly was saying. "You 
 have a mistress who is always laughing." 
 
 "That is a fault of hers," returned Bahorel. "One's mis-
 
 1 08 MAR1US 
 
 tress does wrong to laugh. That encourages one to deceive 
 her. To see her gay removes your remorse; if you see her 
 sad, your conscience pricks you." 
 
 "Ingrate ! a woman who laughs is such a good thing ! And 
 you never quarrel !" 
 
 "That is because of the treaty which we have made. On 
 forming our little Holy Alliance we assigned ourselves each 
 our frontier, which we never cross. What is situated on the 
 side of winter belongs to Vaud, on the side of the wind to Gex. 
 Hence the peace." 
 
 "Peace is happiness digesting." 
 
 "And you, Jolllly, where do you stand in your entanglement 
 with Mamselle you know whom I mean?" 
 
 "She sulks at me with cruel patience." 
 
 "Yet you are a lover to soften the heart with gauntness." 
 
 "Alas'!" 
 
 "In your place, I would let her alone." 
 
 "That is easy enough to say." 
 
 "And to do. Is not her name Musichetta?" 
 
 "Yes. Ah ! my poor Bahorel, she is a superb girl, very 
 literary, with tiny feet, little hands, she dresses well, and is 
 white and dimpled, with the eyes of a fortune-teller. I am 
 wild over her." 
 
 "My dear fellow, then in order to please her, you must be 
 elegant, and produce effects with your knees. Buy a good pair 
 of trousers of double-milled cloth at Staub's. That will 
 assist." 
 
 "At what price?" shouted Grantaire. 
 
 The third corner was delivered up to a poetical discussion. 
 Pagan mythology was giving battle to Christian mythology. 
 The question was about Olympus, whose part was taken by 
 Jean Prouvairc, out of pure romanticism. 
 
 Jean Prouvaire was timid only in repose. Once excited, he 
 burst forth, a sort of mirth accentuated his enthusiasm, and 
 he was at once both laughing and lyric. 
 
 "Let us not insult the gods," said he. "The gods may not 
 have taken their departure. Jupiter does not impress me as
 
 THE FRIENDH Ol<' THE ABC 109 
 
 dead. The gods are dreams, you say. Well, even in nature, 
 such as it is to-day, after the flight of these dreams, we still 
 find all the grand old pagan myths. Such and such a 
 mountain with the profile of a citadel, like the Vigncmale, 
 for example, is still to me the headdress of Cyhele ; it has not 
 been proved to me that Pan does not come at night to breathe 
 into the hollow trunks of the willows, stopping up the holes 
 in turn with his fingers, and 1 have always believed that lo had 
 something to do with the cascade of Pissevache." 
 
 In the last corner, they were talking politics. The Charter 
 which had been granted was getting roughly handled. Combe- 
 ferre was upholding it weakly. Courfeyruc was energetically 
 making a breach in it. On the table lay an unfortunate copy 
 of the famous Touquet Charter. Courfeyrac had seized it, 
 and was brandishing it, mingling with his arguments the 
 rattling of this sheet of paper. 
 
 "In the first place, I won't have any kings ; if it were only 
 from an economical point of view, I don't want any ; a king is 
 a parasite. One does not have kings gratis. Listen to this : 
 the dearness of kings. At the death of Francois I., the 
 national debt of France amounted to an income of thirty 
 thousand livres; at the death of Louis XIV. it was two mil- 
 liards, six hundred millions, at twenty-eight livres the mark, 
 which was equivalent in 17(50, according to Desmarets, to four 
 milliards, five hundred millions, which would to-day be equiv- 
 alent to twelve milliards. In the second place, and no offence 
 to Combeferre, a charter granted is but a poor expedient of 
 civilization. To save the transition, to soften the passage, to 
 deaden the shock, to cause the nation to pass insensibly from 
 the monarchy to democracy by the practice of constitutional 
 fictions, what detestable reasons all those are ! Xo ! no ! let 
 us never enlighten the people with false daylight. Principles 
 dwindle and pale in your constitutional cellar. Xo illegiti- 
 macy, no compromise, no grant from the king to the people. 
 In all such grants there is an Article 14. By the side of the 
 hand which gives there is the claw which snatches back. I 
 refuse your charter point-blank. A charter is a mask; the lie
 
 MARIUS 
 
 lurks beneath it. A people which accepts a charter abdicates. 
 The law is only the law when entire. No ! no charter !" 
 
 It was winter; a couple of fagots were crackling in the fire- 
 place. This was tempting, and Courfeyrac could not resist. 
 He crumpled the poor Touquet Charter in his fist, and flung 
 it in the fire. The paper flashed up. Combeferre watched the 
 masterpiece of Louis XVIII. burn philosophically, and con- 
 tented himself with saying: 
 
 "The charter metamorphosed into flame." 
 
 And sarcasms, sallies, jests, that French thing which is 
 called entrain, and that English thing which is called humor, 
 good and bad taste, good and bad reasons, all the wild pyro- 
 technics of dialogue, mounting together and crossing from 
 all points of the room, produced a sort of merry bombardment 
 over their heads. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ENLARGEMENT OF HORIZON 
 
 THE shocks of youthful minds among themselves have this 
 admirable property, that one can never foresee the spark, nor 
 divine the lightning flash. What will dart out presently? No 
 one knows. The burst of laughter starts from a tender 
 feeling. 
 
 At the moment of jest, the serious makes its entry. Im- 
 pulses depend on the first chance word. The spirit of each is 
 sovereign, jest suffices to open the field to the unexpected. 
 These are conversations with abrupt turns, in which the per- 
 spective changes suddenly. Chance is the stage-manager of 
 such conversations. 
 
 A severe thought, starting oddly from a clash of words, 
 suddenly traversed the conflict of quips in which Grantaire, 
 Bahorel, Prouvaire. Bossuet, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac 
 were confusedly fencing. 
 
 How does a phrase crop up in a dialogue? Whence comes 
 it that it suddenly impresses itself on the attention of those
 
 THE FKIEXD8 OF THE ABC 
 
 who hoar it? We have just said, that no one knows anything 
 about it. In the midst of the uproar, Bossuet all at once 
 terminated some apostrophe to Combeferre, with this date: 
 
 "June 18th, 1815, Waterloo." 
 
 At this name of Waterloo, Marius, who was leaning his 
 elbows on a table, beside a glass of water, removed his wrist 
 from beneath his chin, and began to gaze fixedly at the 
 audience. 
 
 "Pardieu!" exclaimed Courfeyrac ("Parbleu" was falling 
 into disuse at this period), "that number 18 is strange and 
 strikes me. It is Bonaparte's fatal number. Place Louis in 
 front and Brumaire behind, you have the whole destiny of the 
 man. with this significant peculiarity, that ^he end treads close 
 on the heels of the commencement." 
 
 Enjolras, who had remained mute up to that point, broke 
 the silence and addressed this remark to Combeferre: 
 
 "You mean to say, the crime and the expiation." 
 
 This word crime overpassed the measure of what Marius, 
 who was already greatly agitated by the abrupt evocation of 
 Waterloo, could accept. 
 
 He rose, walked slowly to the map of France spread out on 
 the wall, and at whose base an island was visible in a separate 
 compartment, laid his finger on this compartment and said : 
 
 "Corsica, a little island which has rendered France very 
 great." 
 
 This was like a breath of icy air. All ceased talking. They 
 felt that something was on the point of occurring. 
 
 Bahorel, replying to Bossuet, was just assuming an attitude 
 of the torso to which he was addicted. He gave it up to listen. 
 
 Enjolras, whose blue eye was not fixed on any one, and who 
 seemed to be gazing at space, replied, without glancing at 
 Marius: 
 
 "France needs no Corsica to be great. France is great 
 because she is France. Quia nomina leo." 
 
 Marius felt no desire to retreat; he turned towards En- 
 jolras, and his voice burst forth with a vibration which came 
 from a quiver of his very being:
 
 H2 MARIU8 
 
 "God forbid that I should diminish France! But amalga- 
 mating Napoleon with her is not diminishing her. Come ! let 
 us argue the question. I am a new comer among you, but I 
 will confess that you amaze me. Where do we stand? Who 
 are we ? Who are you ? Who am I ? Let us come to an 
 explanation about the Emperor. I hear you say Buonaparte, 
 accenting the u like the Royalists. I warn you that my grand- 
 father does better still ; he says Buonaparte. I thought you 
 were young men. Where, then, is your enthusiasm? And 
 what are you doing with it? Whom do you admire, if you do 
 not admire the Emperor? And what more do you want? If 
 you will have none of that great man, what great men would 
 you like? He had everything. He was complete. He had 
 in his brain the sum of human faculties. He made codes like 
 Justinian, he dictated like Caesar, his conversation was 
 mingled with the lightning-flash of Pascal, with the thunder- 
 clap of Tacitus, he made history and he wrote it, his bulletins 
 are Iliads, he combined the cipher of Newton with the meta- 
 phor of Mahomet, he left behind him in the East words as 
 great as the pyramids, at Tilsit he taught Emperors majesty, 
 at the Academy of Sciences he replied to Laplace, in the 
 Council of State he held his own against Merlin, he gave a 
 soul to the geometry of the first, and to the chicanery of the 
 last, he was a legist with the attorneys and sidereal with the 
 astronomers; like Cromwell blowing out one of two candles, 
 he went to the Temple to bargain for a curtain tassel ; he saw 
 everything; he knew everything; which did not prevent him 
 from laughing good-naturedly beside the cradle of his little 
 child ; and all at once, frightened Europe lent an ear, armies 
 put themselves in motion, parks of artillery rumbled, pon- 
 toons stretched over the rivers, clouds of cavalry galloped in 
 the storm, cries, trumpets, a trembling of thrones in every 
 direction, the frontiers of kingdoms oscillated on the map, the 
 sound of a superhuman sword was heard, as it was drawn from 
 its sheath ; they beheld him, him, rise erect on the horizon 
 with a blazing brand in his hand, and a glow in his eyes, 
 unfolding amid the thunder, his two wings, the grand
 
 THE FRIENDS OF TEE ABC 
 
 army and the old guard, and he was the archangel of 
 war !" 
 
 All held their peace, and Enjolras bowed his head. Silence 
 always produces somewhat the effect of acquiescence, of the 
 enemy being driven to the wall. Marius continued with 
 increased enthusiasm, and almost without pausing for 
 breath : 
 
 "Let us be just, my friends ! What a splendid destiny for 
 a nation to be the Empire of such an Emperor, when that 
 nation is France and when it adds its own genius to the genius 
 of that man ! To appear and to reign, to march and to 
 triumph, to have for halting-places all capitals, to take his 
 grenadiers and to make kings of them, to decree the falls of 
 dynasties, and to transfigure Europe at the pace of a charge ; 
 to make you feel that when you threaten you lay your hand 
 on the hilt of the sword of God; to follow in a single man, 
 Hannibal, Csesar, Charlemagne ; to be the people of some one 
 who mingles with your dawns the startling announcement of 
 a battle won, to have the cannon of the Invalidcs to rouse you 
 in the morning, to hurl into abysses of light prodigious words 
 which flame forever, Marengo, Arcola, Austerlitz, Jena, 
 Wagram ! To cause constellations of victories to flash forth 
 at each instant from the zenith of the centuries, to make the 
 French Empire a pendant to the Roman Empire, to be the 
 great nation and to give birth to the grand army, to make its 
 legions fly forth over all the earth, as a mountain sends out 
 its eagles on all sides to conquer, to dominate, to strike with 
 lightning, to be in Europe a sort of nation gilded through 
 glory, to sound athwart the centuries a trumpet-blast of 
 Titans, to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by 
 dazzling, that is sublime; and what greater thing is there?" 
 
 "To be free," said Combeferre. 
 
 Marius lowered his head in his turn ; that cold and simple 
 word had traversed his epic effusion like a blade of steel, and 
 he felt it vanishing within him. When he raised his eyes, 
 Combeferre was no longer there. Probably satisfied witli his 
 reply to the apotheosis, he had just taken his departure, and
 
 MAR1V8 
 
 all, with the exception of Enjolras, had followed him. The 
 room had been emptied. Enjolras, left alone with Marius, 
 was gazing gravely at him. Marius, however, having rallied 
 his ideas to some extent, did not consider himself beaten; 
 there lingered in him a trace of inward fermentation which 
 was on the point, no doubt, of translating itself into syllogisms 
 arrayed against Enjolras, when all of a sudden, they heard 
 some one singing on the stairs as he went. It was Combeferre, 
 and this is what he was singing: 
 
 "Si Cfsar m'avait donne" 1 
 
 La gloire et la guerre, 
 Et qu'il me fallait quitter 
 
 L'amour de ma mere, 
 Je dirais au grand CCsar: 
 
 Reprends ton sceptre et ton char, 
 J'aime mieux ma mere, o gue" ! 
 
 J'aime mieux ma mere!" 
 
 The wild and tender accents with which Combeferre sang 
 communicated to this couplet a sort of strange grandeur. 
 Marius, thoughtfully, and with his eyes diked on the ceiling, 
 repeated almost mechanically: "My mother? " 
 
 At that moment, he felt Enjolras' hand on his shoulder. 
 
 "Citizen," said Enjolras to him, "my mother is the 
 Kepublic." 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RES ANOUSTA 
 
 THAT evening left Marius profoundly shaken, and with a 
 melancholy shadow in his soul, lie felt what the earth may 
 possibly feel, at the moment when it is torn open with the 
 iron, in order that grain may be deposited within it; it feels 
 only the wound ; the quiver of the germ and the joy of the 
 fruit only arrive later. 
 
 'If C.-rsar had given me glory and war, and I wore obliged to quit 
 my mother's love, I would say to great Cirpar, "Take back thy sceptre 
 and thy chariot; 1 prefer the love of my mother."
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ABC 
 
 Marius was gloomy. He had but just acquired a faith; 
 must he then reject it already? He affirmed to himself that 
 he would not. Tie declared to himself that he would not 
 doubt, and he began to doubt in spite of himself. To stand 
 between two religions, from one of which you have not as yet 
 emerged, and another into which you have not yet entered, 
 is intolerable; and twilight is pleasing only to bat-like souls. 
 Marius was clear-eyed, and he required the true light. The 
 half-lights of doubt pained him. Whatever may have been 
 his desire to remain where he was, he could not halt there, 
 he was irresistibly constrained to continue, to advance, to 
 examine, to think, to march further. Whither would this 
 lead him ? He feared, after having taken so many steps which 
 had brought him nearer to his father, to now take a step which 
 should estrange him from that father. His discomfort was 
 augmented by all the reflections which occurred to him. An 
 escarpment rose around him. He was in accord neither with 
 his grandfather nor with his friends; daring in the eyes of 
 the one, he was behind the times in the eyes of the others; 
 and he recognized the fact that he was doubly isolated, on the 
 side of age and on the side of youth. He ceased to go to the 
 Cafe Musain. 
 
 In the troubled state of his conscience, he no longer thought 
 of certain serious sides of existence. The realities of life do 
 not allow themselves to be forgotten. They soon elbowed him 
 abruptly. 
 
 One morning, the proprietor of the hotel entered Marius' 
 room and said to him : 
 
 "Monsieur Courfeyrac answered for you." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "But I must have my money." 
 
 "Request Courfeyrac to come and talk with me," said 
 Marius. 
 
 Courfeyrac having made his appearance, the host left them. 
 Marius then told him what it had not before occurred to him 
 to relate, that he was the same as alone in the world, and had 
 no relatives.
 
 M ARIL'S 
 
 "What is to become of you ?" said Courfeyrac. 
 
 "I do not know in the least," replied Marius. 
 
 "What are you going to do?" 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Have you any money?" 
 
 "Fifteen francs." 
 
 "Do you want me to lend you some?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 "Have you clothes?" 
 
 "Here is what I have." 
 
 "Have you trinkets?" 
 
 "A watch." 
 
 "Silver?" 
 
 "Gold; here it is." 
 
 "I know a clothes-dealer who will take your frock-coat and 
 a pair of trousers." 
 
 "That is good." 
 
 "You will then have only a pair of trousers, a waistcoat, a 
 hat and a coat." 
 
 "And my boots." 
 
 "What ! you will not go barefoot ? What opulence !" 
 
 "That will be enough." 
 
 "I know a watchmaker who will buy your watch." 
 
 "That is good." 
 
 "No; it is not good. What will you do after that?" 
 
 "Whatever is necessary. Anything honest, that is to say." 
 
 "Do you know English?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Do you know German?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "So much the worse." 
 
 "Why ?" 
 
 "Because one of my friends, a publisher, is getting up a 
 sort of an encyclopaedia, for which you might have translated 
 Knglish or German articles. It is badly paid work, but one 
 can live by it." 
 
 "I will learn English and German."
 
 THE FRIENDS OF THE ARC 
 
 117 
 
 "And in the meanwhile?" 
 
 "In the meanwhile I will live on my clothes and my watch." 
 
 The clothes-dealer was sent for. He paid twenty francs for 
 the cast-off garments. They went to the watchmaker's. He 
 bought the watch for forty-five francs. 
 
 "That is not bad," said Marius to Courfeyrac, on their rc.- 
 turn to the hotel, "with my fifteen francs, that makes eighty." 
 
 "And the hotel bill ?" observed Conrfeyrac. 
 
 "Hello, I had forgotten that," said Marius. 
 
 The landlord presented his bill, which had to be paid on the 
 spot. It amounted to seventy francs. 
 
 "I have ten francs left," said Marius. 
 
 "The deuce," exclaimed Courfeyrac, "you will eat up five 
 francs while you are learning English, and five while learning 
 German. That will be swallowing a tongue very fast, or a 
 hundred sous very slowly." 
 
 In the meantime Aunt Gillenormand, a rather good-hearted 
 person at bottom in difficulties, had finally hunted up Marius' 
 abode. 
 
 One morning, on his return from the law-school, Marius 
 found a letter from his aunt, and the sixty pistoles, that is to 
 say, six hundred francs in gold, in a sealed box. 
 
 Marius sent back the thirty louis to his aunt, with a respect- 
 ful letter, in which he stated that he had sufficient means of 
 subsistence and that he should be able thenceforth to supply all 
 his needs. At that moment, he had three francs left. 
 
 His aunt did not inform his grandfather of this refusil. for 
 fear of exasperating him. Besides, had he not said: "Let me 
 never hear the name of that blood-drinker again !" 
 
 Marius left the hotel do la Porte Saint- Jacques, as he did 
 not wish to run in debt there.
 
 BOOK FIFTH. THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFOR- 
 TUNE 
 
 MARIOS INDIGENT 
 
 LIFE became hard for Marius. It was nothing to eat his 
 clothes and his watch. He ate of that terrible, inexpressible 
 thing that is called de la vache enrage; that is to say, he 
 endured great hardships and privations. A terrible thing it is, 
 containing days without bread, nights without sleep, evenings 
 without a candle, a hearth without a fire, weeks without work, 
 a future without hope, a coat out at the elbows, an old hat 
 which evokes the laughter of young girls, a door which one 
 finds locked on one at night because one's rent is not paid, the 
 insolence of the porter and the cook-shop man, the sneers of 
 neighbors, humiliations, dignity trampled on, work of what- 
 ever nature accepted, disgusts, bitterness, despondency. Ma- 
 rius learned how all this is eaten, and how such are often the 
 only things which one has to devour. At that moment of his 
 existence when a man needs his pride, because he needs love, he 
 felt that he was jeered at because he was badly dressed, and 
 ridiculous because he was poor. At the age when youth swells 
 tlie heart with imperial pride, he dropped his eyes more than 
 once on his dilapidated boots, and he knew the unjust shame 
 and the poignant blushes of wretchedness. Admirable and 
 terrible trial from which the feeble emerge base, from which 
 the strong emerge sublime. A crucible into which destiny 
 casts a man, whenever it desires a scoundrel or a demi-god. 
 
 For many great deeds are performed in petty combats. 
 There are instances of bravery ignored and obstinate, which
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 defend themselves step by step in that fatal onslaught of ne- 
 cessities and turpitudes. Noble and mysterious triumphs 
 which no eye beholds, which are requited with no renown, 
 which are saluted with no trumpet blast. Life, misfortune, 
 isolation, abandonment, poverty, are the fields of battle which 
 have their heroes; obscure heroes, who are, sometimes, grander 
 than the heroes who win renown. 
 
 Firm and rare natures are thus created; misery, almost 
 always a step-mother, is sometimes a mother ; destitution gives 
 birth to might of soul and spirit; distress is the nurse of pride; 
 unhappmess is a good milk for the magnanimous. 
 
 There came a moment in Marius' life, when he swept his 
 own landing, when he bought his sou's worth of Brie cheese at 
 the fruiterer's, when he waited until twilight had fallen to slip 
 into the baker's and purchase a loaf, which he carried oft* fur- 
 tively to his attic as though he had stolen it. Sometimes there 
 could be seen gliding into the butcher's shop on the corner, in 
 the midst of the bantering cooks who elbowed him, an awkward 
 young man, carrying his books under his arm, who had a timid 
 yet angry air, who, on entering, removed his hat from a brow 
 whereon stood drops of perspiration, made a profound bow to 
 the butcher's astonished wife, asked for a mutton cutlet, paid 
 six or seven sous for it, wrapped it up in a paper, put it under 
 his arm, between two books, and went away. It was Marius. 
 On this cutlet, which he cooked for himself, he lived for three 
 days. 
 
 On the first day he ate the meat, on the second he ate the 
 fat, on the third he gnawed the bone. Aunt Gillenormand 
 made repeated attempts, and sent him the sixty pistoles several 
 times. Marius returned them on every occasion, saying that 
 he needed nothing. 
 
 He was still in mourning for his father when the revolution 
 which we have just described was effected within him. From 
 that time forth, he had not put off his black garments. But 
 his garments were quitting him. The day came when he had 
 no longer a coat. The trousers would go next. What was to 
 be done? Courfeyrac, to whom he had, on his side, done some
 
 120 MARIUS 
 
 good turns, gave him an old coat. For thirty sous, Marius got 
 it turned by some porter or other, and it was a new coat. But 
 this coat was green. Then Marius ceased to go out until after 
 nightfall. This made his coat black. As he wished always to 
 appear in mourning, he clothed himself with the night. 
 
 In spite of all this, he got admitted to practice as a lawyer. 
 He was supposed to live in Courfeyrac's room, which was de- 
 cent, and where a certain number of law-books backed up and 
 completed by several dilapidated volumes of romance, passed 
 as the library required by the regulations. He had his letters 
 addressed to Courfeyrac's quarters. 
 
 When Marius became a lawyer, he informed his grandfather 
 of the fact in a letter which was cold but full of submission and 
 respect. M. Gillenormand trembled as he took the letter, read 
 it, tore it in four pieces, and threw it into the waste-basket. 
 Two or three days later, Mademoiselle Gillenormand heard her 
 father, who was alone in his room, talking aloud to himself. 
 He always did this whenever he was greatly agitated. She 
 listened, and the old man was saying: "If you were not a 
 fool, you would know that one cannot be a baron and a lawyer 
 at the same time." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MARIUS POOR 
 
 IT is the same with wretchedness as with everything else. It 
 ends by becoming bearable. It finally assumes a form, and 
 adjusts itself. One vegetates, that is to say, one develops in a 
 certain meagre fashion, which is, however, sufiicient for life. 
 This is the mode in which the existence of Marius Pontmercy 
 was arranged: 
 
 He had passed the worst straits ; the narrow pass was open- 
 ing out a little in front of him. By dint of toil, perseverance, 
 courage, and will, he had managed to draw from his work 
 about seven hundred francs a year. He had learned German
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 and English; thanks to Courfeyrac, who had put him in com- 
 munication with his friend the publisher, Marius filled the 
 modest post of utility man in the literature of the publishing 
 house. He drew up prospectuses, translated newspapers, an- 
 notated editions, compiled biographies, etc. ; net product, year 
 in and year out, seven hundred francs. He lived on it. How ? 
 Not so badly. We will explain. 
 
 Marius occupied in the Gorbeau house, for an annual sum of 
 thirty francs, a den minus a fireplace, called a cabinet, which 
 contained only the most indispensable articles of furniture. 
 This furniture belonged to him. He gave three francs a month 
 to the old principal tenant to come and sweep his hole, and to 
 bring him a little hot water every morning, a fresh egg, and a 
 penny roll. He breakfasted on this egg and roll. His break- 
 fast varied in cost from two to four sous, according as eggs 
 were dear or cheap. At six o'clock in the evening he descended 
 the Rue Saint-Jacques to dine at Rousseau's, opposite Basset's, 
 the stamp-dealer's, on the corner of the Rue des Mathurins. 
 He ate no soup. He took a six-sou plate of meat, a half-por- 
 tion of vegetables for three sous, and a three-sou dessert. For 
 three sous he got as much bread as he wished. As for wine, 
 he drank water. When he paid at the desk where Madam 
 Rousseau, at that period still plump and rosy, majestically 
 presided, he gave a sou to the waiter, and Madam Rousseau 
 gave him a smile. Then he went away. For sixteen sous he 
 had a smile and a dinner. 
 
 This Restaurant Rousseau, where so few bottles and so many 
 water carafes were emptied, was a calming potion rather than 
 a restaurant. It no longer exists. The proprietor had a fine 
 nickname: he was called Rousseau the Aquatic. 
 
 Thus, breakfast four sous, dinner sixteen sous; his food cost 
 him twenty sous a day ; which made three hundred and sixty- 
 five francs a year. Add the thirty francs for rent, and the 
 thirty-six francs to the old woman, plus a few trifling ex- 
 penses; for four hundred and fifty francs, Marius was fed, 
 lodged, and waited on. His clothing cost him a hundred 
 francs, his linen fifty francs, his washing fifty francs ; the
 
 122 M ARIL'S 
 
 whole did not exceed six hundred and fifty francs. He was 
 rich. He sometimes lent ten francs to a friend. Courfeyrac 
 had once been able to borrow sixty francs of him. As far as 
 fire was concerned, as Marius had no fireplace, he had "simpli- 
 fied matters." 
 
 Marius always had two complete suits of clothes, the one 
 old, '"for every day"; the other, brand new for special occa- 
 sions. Both were black. He had but three shirts, one on his 
 person, the second in the commode, and the third in the wash- 
 erwoman's hands. He renewed them as they wore out. They 
 were always ragged, which caused him to button his coat to the 
 chin. 
 
 It had required years for Marius to attain to this flourishing 
 condition. Hard years ; difficult, some of them, to traverse, 
 others to climb. Marius had not failed for a single day. He 
 had endured everything in the way of destitution ; he had done 
 everything except contract debts. He did himself the justice 
 to say that he had never owed any one a sou. A debt was, to 
 him, the beginning of slavery. He even said to himself, that a 
 creditor is worse than a master; for the master possesses only 
 your person, a creditor possesses your dignity and can admin- 
 ister to it a box on the ear. Rather than borrow, he went 
 without food. He had passed many a day fasting. Feeling 
 that all extremes meet, and that, if one is not on one's guard, 
 lowered fortunes may lead to baseness of soul, he kept a jealous 
 watch on his pride. Such and such a formality or action, 
 which, in any other situation would have appeared merely a 
 deference to him, now seemed insipidity, and he nerved himself 
 against it. His face wore a sort of severe flush. He was timid 
 even to rudeness. 
 
 During all these trials he had felt himself encouraged and 
 even uplifted, at times, by a secret force that he possessed with- 
 in himself. The soul aids the body, and at certain moments, 
 raises it. It is the only bird which bears up its own cage. 
 
 Besides his father's name, another name was graven in Ma- 
 rius' heart, the name of Thenardier. Marius, with his grave 
 and enthusiastic nature, surrounded with a sort of aureole the
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 man to whom, in his thoughts, he owed his father's life, that 
 intrepid sergeant who had saved the colonel amid the bullets 
 and the cannon-halls of Waterloo. He never separated the 
 memory of this man from the memory of his father, and he 
 associated them in his veneration. It was a sort of worship in 
 two steps, with the grand altar for the colonel and the lesser 
 one for Thenardier. What redoubled the tenderness of his 
 gratitude towards Thenardier, was the idea of the distress into 
 which he knew that Thenardier had fallen, and which had en- 
 gulfed the latter. Marius had learned at Montfermeil of the 
 ruin and bankruptcy of the unfortunate inn-keeper. Since 
 that time, he had made unheard-of efforts to find traces of him 
 and to reach him in that dark abyss of misery in which Thenar- 
 dier had disappeared. Marius had beaten the whole country; 
 he had gone to Chelles, to Bondy, to Gourney, to Nogent, to 
 Lagny. He had persisted for three years, expending in these 
 explorations the little money which he had laid by. Xo one 
 had been able to give him any news of Thenardier: he was 
 supposed to have gone abroad. His creditors had also sought 
 him, with less love than Marius, but with as much assiduity, 
 and had not been able to lay their hands on him. Marius 
 blamed himself, and was almost angry with himself for his 
 lack of success in his researches. It was the only debt left 
 him by the colonel, and Marius made it a matter of honor to 
 pay it. "What," he thought, "when my father lay dying on 
 the field of battle, did Thenardier contrive to find him amid 
 the smoke and the grape-shot, and bear him off on his shoul- 
 ders, and yet he owed him nothing, and I, who owe so much to 
 Thenardier, cannot join him in this shadow where he is lying 
 in the pangs of death, and in my turn bring him back from 
 death to life! Oh ! I will find him !" To find Thenardier, in 
 fact, Marius would have given one of his arms, to rescue him 
 from his misery, he would have sacrificed all his blood. To 
 see Thenardier, to render Thenardier some service, to say to 
 him : "You do not know me ; well, I do know you ! Here I am. 
 Dispose of me!" This was Marius' sweetest and most mag- 
 nificent dream.
 
 UARIV8 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 MARIUS GROWN UP 
 
 AT this epoch, Marius was twenty years of age. It was 
 three years since he had left his grandfather. Both parties 
 had remained on the same terms, without attempting to ap- 
 proach each other, and without seeking to see each other. 
 Besides, what was the use of seeing each other? Marius was 
 the brass vase, while Father Gillenormand was the iron pot. 
 
 We admit that Marius was mistaken as to his grandfather's 
 heart. He had imagined that M. Gillenormand had never 
 loved him, and that that crusty, harsh, and smiling old fellow 
 who cursed, shouted, and stormed and brandished his cane, 
 cherished for him, at the most, only that affection, which is 
 at once slight and severe, of the dotards of comedy. Marius 
 was in error. There are fathers who do not love their chil- 
 dren; there exists no grandfather who does not adore his 
 grandson. At bottom, as we have said, M. Gillenormand idol- 
 ized Marius. He idolized him after his own fashion, with an 
 accompaniment of snappishness and boxes on the ear; but, this 
 child once gone, he felt a black void in his heart ; he would 
 allow no one to mention the child to him, and all the while 
 secretly regretted that he was so well obeyed. At first, he 
 hoped that this Buonapartist, this Jacobin, this terrorist, this 
 Scptembrist, would return. But the weeks passed by, years 
 passed ; to M. Gillenormand's great despair, the "blood- 
 drinker" did not make his appearance. "I could not do other- 
 wise than turn him out," said the grandfather to himself, and 
 he asked himself: "If the thing were to do over again, would 
 I do it?" His pride instantly answered "yes," but his aged 
 head, which he shook in silence, replied sadly "no." He had 
 his hours of depression. He missed Marius. Old men need 
 affection as they need the sun. It is warmth. Strong as his 
 nature was, the absence of Marius had wrought some change 
 in him. Nothing in the world could have induced him to take
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MI8FOKTUNE 
 
 a step towards "that rogue"; but he suffered. He never in- 
 quired about him, but he thought of him incessantly. He lived 
 in the Marais in a more and more retired manner; he was still 
 merry and violent as of old, but his merriment had a convul- 
 sive harshness, and his violences always terminated in a sort 
 of gentle and gloomy dejection. He sometimes said : "Oh ! if 
 he only would return, what a good box on the ear I would give 
 him !" 
 
 As for his aunt, she thought too little to love much ; Marius 
 was no longer for her much more than a vague black form; 
 and she eventually came to occupy herself with him much less 
 than with the cat or the paroquet which she probably had. 
 What augmented Father Gillenormand's secret suffering was, 
 that he locked it all up within his breast, and did not allow its 
 existence to be divined. His sorrow was like those recently 
 invented furnaces which consume their own smoke. It some- 
 times happened that officious busybodies spoke to him of 
 Marius, and asked him: "What is your grandson doing?" 
 "What has become of him?" The old bourgeois replied with 
 a sigh, that he was a sad case, and giving a fillip to his cuff, 
 if he wished to appear gay : "Monsieur le Baron do Pontmercy 
 is practising pettifogging in some corner or other." 
 
 While the old man regretted, Marius applauded himself. 
 As is the case with all good-hearted people, misfortune had 
 eradicated his bitterness. He only thought of M. Gillenor- 
 mand in an amiable light, but he had set his mind on not 
 receiving anything more from the man who had been unkind 
 to his father. This was the mitigated translation of his first 
 indignation. Moreover, he was happy at having suffered, and 
 at suffering still. It was for his father's sake. The hardness 
 of his life satisfied and pleased him. He said to himself with 
 a sort of joy that it iras certainly the least he could do; that 
 it was an expiation ; that, had it not been for that, he would 
 have been punished in some other way and later on for his im- 
 pious indifference towards his father, and such a father ! that it 
 would not have been just that his father should have all the 
 suffering, and he none of it ; and that, in any case, what were
 
 126 MARIU8 
 
 his toils and his destitution compared with the colonel's heroic 
 life? that, in short, the only way for him to approach his 
 father and resemble him. was to be brave in the face of indi- 
 gence, as the other had been valiant before the enemy; and 
 that that was, no doubt, what the colonel had meant to imply 
 by the words : "He will be worthy of it." Words which Marina 
 continued to wear, not on his breast, since the colonel's writing 
 had disappeared, but in his heart. 
 
 And then, on the day when his grandfather had turned him 
 out of doors, he had been only a child, now he was a man. 
 He felt it. Misery, we repeat, had been good for him. Pov- 
 erty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent property 
 about it. that it turns the whole will towards effort, and the 
 whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty instantly lays material 
 life bare and renders it hideous ; hence inexpressible bounds 
 towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has a hundred 
 coarse and brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting, dogs, 
 tobacco, gaming, good repasts, and all the rest of it ; occupa- 
 tions for the baser side of the soul, at the expense of the loftier 
 and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread 
 with difficulty; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing 
 more but meditation. He goes to the spectacles which God 
 furnishes gratis ; he gazes at the sky, space, the stars, flowers, 
 children, the humanity among which he is suffering, the crea- 
 tion amid which he beams. He gazes so much on humanity 
 that he perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation to such an 
 extent that he beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself 
 great; he dreams on, and feels himself tender. From the 
 egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the compassion 
 of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment breaks 
 forth in him, forgetfulness of self and pity for all. As lie 
 thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers, 
 gives, and lavishes to souls which stand open, and refuses to 
 souls that are closed, he comes to pity, he the millionnaire of 
 the mind, the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from 
 his heart, in proportion as light penetrates his spirit. And 
 is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 127 
 
 miserable. The first young lad who comes to hand, however 
 poor he may be, with his strength, his health, his rapid walk, 
 his brilliant eyes, his warmly circulating blood, his black hair, 
 his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always arouse 
 the envy of an aged emperor. And then, every morning, he 
 sets himself afresh to the task of earning his bread ; and 
 while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, 
 his brain gathers ideas. His task finished, he returns to 
 ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joys; he beholds his 
 feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the pavement, in the 
 nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is 
 firm, serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with 
 little, kindly ; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him 
 those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks : work, 
 which makes him free; and thought, which makes him 
 dignified. 
 
 This is what had happened with Marius. To tell the truth, 
 he inclined a little too much to the side of contemplation. 
 From the day when he had succeeded in earning his living 
 with some approach to certainty, he had stopped, thinking it 
 good to be poor, and retrenching time from his work to give to 
 thought; that is to say, he sometimes passed entire days in 
 meditation, absorbed, engulfed, like a visionary, in the mute 
 voluptuousness of ecstasy and inward radiance. He had thus 
 propounded the problem of his life : to toil as little as possible 
 at material labor, in order to toil as much as possible at the 
 labor which is impalpable; in other words, to bestow a few 
 hours on real life, and to cast the rest to the infinite. As he 
 believed that he lacked nothing, he did not perceive that con- 
 templation, thus understood, ends by becoming one of the 
 forms of idleness; that he was contenting himself with con- 
 quering the first necessities of life, and that he was resting 
 from his labors too soon. 
 
 It was evident that, for this energetic and enthusiastic 
 nature, this could only be a transitory state, and that, at the 
 first shock against the inevitable complications of destiny, 
 Marius would awaken.
 
 128 MARW8 
 
 In the meantime, although he was a lawyer, and whatever 
 Father Gillenormand thought about the matter, he was not 
 practising, he was not even pettifogging. Meditation had 
 turned him aside from pleading. To haunt attorneys, to 
 follow the court, to hunt up cases what a bore ! Why should 
 he do it? He saw no reason for changing the manner of 
 gaining his livelihood ! The obscure and ill-paid publishing 
 establishment had come to mean for him a sure source of 
 work which did not involve too much labor, as we have ex- 
 plained, and which sufficed for his wants. 
 
 One of the publishers for whom he worked, M. Magimel, I 
 think, offered to take him into his own house, to lodge him 
 well, to furnish him with regular occupation, and to give him 
 fifteen hundred francs a year. To be well lodged ! Fifteen 
 hundred francs ! No doubt. But renounce his liberty ! Be 
 on fixed wages ! A sort of hired man of letters ! According 
 to Marius' opinion, if he accepted, his position would become 
 both better and worse at the same time, he acquired comfort, 
 and lost his dignity; it was a fine and complete unhappiness 
 converted into a repulsive and ridiculous state of torture: 
 something like the case of a blind man who should recover the 
 sight of one eye. He refused. 
 
 Marius dwelt in solitude. Owing to his taste for remaining 
 outside of everything, and through having been too much 
 alarmed, he had not entered decidedly into the group presided 
 over by Enjolras. They had remained good friends ; they were 
 ready to assist each other on occasion in every possible way ; 
 but nothing more. Marius had two friends: one young. Cour- 
 feyrac; and one old, M. Mabeuf. He inclined more to the old 
 man. In the first place, he owed to him the revolution which 
 had taken place within him ; to him he was indebted for 
 having known and loved his father. "He operated on me for 
 a cataract," he said. 
 
 Thf churchwarden had certainly played a decisive part. 
 
 It wa? not, however, that M. Mabeuf had been anything but 
 the calm and impassive agent of Providence in this connec- 
 tion. He had enlightened Marius by chance and without
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 being aware of the fact, as does a candle which some one 
 brings; he had been the candle and not the some one. 
 
 As for Marius' inward political revolution, M. Mabeuf was 
 totally incapable of comprehending it, of willing or of direct- 
 ing it. 
 
 As we shall see M. Mabeuf again, later on, a few words will 
 not be superfluous. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 M. MABEUF 
 
 ON the day when M. Mabeuf said to Marius : "Certainly I 
 approve of political opinions," he expressed the real state of 
 his mind. All political opinions were matters of indifference 
 to him, and he approved them all, without distinction, pro- 
 vided they left him in peace, as the Greeks called the Furies 
 "the beautiful, the good, the charming," the Eumenides. M. 
 Mabeuf's political opinion consisted in a passionate love for 
 plants, and, above all, for books. Like all the rest of the 
 world, he possessed the termination in ist, without which no 
 one could exist at that time, but he was neither a Royalist, a 
 Bonapartist, a Chartist, an Orleanist, nor an Anarchist ; he 
 was a bouquinist, a collector of old books. He did not under- 
 stand how men could busy themselves with hating each other 
 because of silly stuff like the charter, democracy, legitimacy, 
 monarchy, the republic, etc., when there were in the world all 
 sorts of mosses, grasses, and shrubs which they might be look- 
 ing at. and heaps of folios, and even of 32mos, which they 
 might turn over. lie took good care not to become useless; 
 having books did not prevent his reading, being a botanist did 
 not prevent his being a gardener. When he made Pontmercy's 
 acquaintance, this sympathy had existed between the colonel 
 and himself that what the colonel did for (lowers, he did 
 for fruits. M. Mabeuf had succeeded in producing seedling 
 pears as savory as the pears of St. Germain; it is from one
 
 130 MARIU8 
 
 of his combinations, apparently, that the October Mirabelle, 
 now celebrated and no less perfumed than the summer Mira- 
 belle, owes its origin. lie went to mass rather from gentle- 
 ness than from piety, and because, as he loved the faces of 
 men, but hated their noise, he found them assembled and 
 silent only in church. Feeling that he must be something in 
 the State, he had chosen the career of warden. However, he 
 had never succeeded in loving any woman as much as a tulip 
 bulb, nor any man as much as an Elzevir. He had long passed 
 sixty, when, one day, some one asked him: "Have you never 
 been married?" "I have forgotten," said he. When it some- 
 times happened to him and to whom does it not happon ? 
 to say : "Oh ! if I were only rich !" it was not when ogling a 
 pretty girl, as was the case with Father Gillenormand, but 
 when contemplating an old book. He lived alone with an old 
 housekeeper. He was somewhat gouty, and when he was 
 asleep, his aged fingers, stiffened with rheumatism, lay crooked 
 up in the folds of his sheets. He had composed and published 
 a Flora of the Environs of Cauteretz, with colored plates, a 
 work which enjoyed a tolerable measure of esteem and which 
 sold well. People rang his bell, in the Rue Mesieres, two or 
 three times a day, to ask for it. He drew as much as two 
 thousand francs a year from it; this constituted nearly the 
 whole of his fortune. Although poor, he had had the talent 
 to form for himself, by dint of patience, privations, and time, 
 a precious collection of rare copies of every sort. He never 
 went out without a book under his arm, and he often returned 
 with two. The sole decoration of the four rooms on the 
 ground floor, which composed his lodgings, consisted of 
 framed herbariums, and engravings of the old masters. The 
 sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood. He had never 
 approached a cannon in his life, even at the Invalides. He 
 had a passable stomach, a brother who was a cure, perfectly 
 white hair, no teeth, either in his mouth or his mind, a 
 trembling in every limb, a Picard accent, an infantile laugh, 
 the air of an old sheep, and he was easily frightened. Add to 
 this, that he had no other friendship, no other acquaintance
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 among the living, than an old bookseller of the Porte-Saint- 
 Jacques, named Royal. His dream was to naturalize indigo 
 in France. 
 
 His servant was also a sort of innocent. The poor good old 
 woman was a spinster. Sultan, her cat, which might have 
 mewed Allegri's miserere in the Sixtine Chapel, had filled her 
 heart and sufficed for the quantity of passion which existed in 
 her. None of her dreams had ever proceeded as far as man. 
 She had never been able to get further than her cat. Like 
 him, she had a mustache. Her glory consisted in her caps, 
 which were always white. She passed her time, on Sundays, 
 after mass, in counting over the linen in her chest, and in 
 spreading out on her bed the dresses in the piece which she 
 bought and never had made up. She knew how to read. M. 
 Mabeuf had nicknamed her Mother Plutarque. 
 
 M. Mabeuf had taken a fancy to Marius, because Marius, 
 being young and gentle, warmed his age without startling his 
 timidity. Youth combined with gentleness produces on old 
 people the effect of the sun without wind. When Marius was 
 saturated with military glory, with gunpowder, with marches 
 and countermarches, and with all those prodigious battles in 
 which his father had given and received such tremendous 
 blows of the sword, he went to see M. Mabeuf, and M. 
 Mabeuf talked to him of his hero from the point of view of 
 flowers. 
 
 His brother the cure died about 1830, and almost immedi- 
 ately, as when the night is drawing on, the whole horizon grew 
 dark for M. Mabeuf. A notary's failure deprived him of the 
 sum of ten thousand francs, which was all that he possessed 
 in his brother's right and his own. The Revolution of July 
 brought a crisis to publishing. In a period of embarrassment, 
 the first thing which does not sell is a Flora. The Flora of the 
 Environs of Cauteretz stopped short. Weeks passed by with- 
 out a single purchaser. Sometimes M. Mabeuf started at the 
 sound of the bell. "Monsieur," said Mother Plutarque sadly, 
 "it is the water-carrier." In short, one day, M. Mabeuf 
 quitted the Rue Mesieres, abdicated the functions of warden,
 
 132 MARID8 
 
 gave up Saint-Sulpice, sold not a part of his books, but of 
 his prints. that to which he was the least attached, and 
 installed himself in a little house on the Rue Montparnasse, 
 where, however, he remained but one quarter for two reasons: 
 in the first place, the ground floor and the garden cost three 
 hundred francs, and he dared not spend more than two hun- 
 dred francs on his rent ; in the second, being near Fatou's 
 shooting-gallery, he could hear the pistol-shots; which was 
 intolerable to him. 
 
 He carried off his Flora, his copper-plates, his herbariums, 
 his portfolios, and his books, and established himself near the 
 Salpetriere, in a sort of thatched cottage of the village of Aus- 
 terlitz, where, for fifty crowns a year, he got three rooms and a 
 garden enclosed by a hedge, and containing a well. He took 
 advantage of this removal to sell off nearly all his furniture. 
 On the day of his entrance into his new quarters, he was very 
 gay, and drove the nails on which his engravings and herbari- 
 ums were to hang, with his own hands, dug in his garden the 
 rest of the day, and at night, perceiving that Mother Plutarque 
 had a melancholy air, and was very thoughtful, he tapped her 
 on the shoulder and said to her with a smile: "We have the 
 indigo !" 
 
 Only two visitors, the bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques 
 and Marius, were admitted to view the thatched cottage at 
 Austerlitz, a brawling name which was, to tell the truth, ex- 
 tremely disagreeable to him. 
 
 However, as we have just pointed out, brains which are ab- 
 sorbed in some bit of wisdom, or folly, or, as it often happens, 
 in both at once, are but slowly accessible to the things of actual 
 life. Their own destiny is a far-off thing to them. There 
 results from such concentration a passivity, which, if it were 
 the outcome of reasoning, would resemble philosophy. One 
 declines, descends, trickles away, even crumbles away, and yet 
 is hardly conscious of it one's self. It always ends, it is true, 
 in an awakening, but the awakening is tardy. In the mean- 
 time, it seems as though we held ourselves neutral in the game 
 which is going on between our happiness and our unhappiness.
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 133 
 
 "We are the stake, and we look on at the game with indiffer- 
 ence. 
 
 It is thus that, athwart the cloud which formed about him, 
 when all his hopes were extinguished one after the other, M. 
 Mabeuf remained rather puerilely, but profoundly serene. 
 His habits of mind had the regular swing of a pendulum. 
 Once mounted on an illusion, he went for a very long time, 
 even after the illusion had disappeared. A clock does not stop 
 short at the precise moment when the key is lost. 
 
 M. Mabeuf had his innocent pleasures. These pleasures 
 were inexpensive and unexpected ; the merest chance furnished 
 them. One day, Mother Plutarque was reading a romance in 
 one corner of the room. She was reading aloud, finding that 
 she understood better thus. To read aloud is to assure one's 
 self of what one is reading. There are people who read very 
 loud, and who have the appearance of giving themselves their 
 word of honor as to what they are perusing. 
 
 It was with this sort of energy that Mother Plutarque was 
 reading the romance which she had in hand. M. Mabeuf 
 heard her without listening to her. 
 
 In the course of her reading, Mother Plutarque came to this 
 phrase. It was a question of an officer of dragoons and a 
 beauty : 
 
 " The beauty pouted, and the dragoon 
 
 Here she interrupted herself to wipe her glasses. 
 
 "Bouddha and the Dragon," struck in M. Mabeuf in a low 
 voice. "Yes, it is true that there was a dragon, which, from 
 the depths of its cave, spouted flame through his maw and set 
 the heavens on fire. Many stars had already been consumed 
 by this monster, which, besides, had the claws of a tiger. 
 Bouddha went into its den and succeeded in converting the 
 dragon. That is a good book that you are reading, Mother 
 Plutarque. There is no more beautiful legend in exist- 
 ence." 
 
 And M. Mabeuf fell into a delicious revery.
 
 134 MARIU8 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 POVERTY A GOOD NEIGHBOR FOR MISERY 
 
 MARIUS liked this candid old man who saw himself gradu- 
 ally falling into the clutches of indigence, and who came to 
 feel astonishment, little by little, without, however, being 
 made melancholy by it. Marius met Courfeyrac and sought 
 out M. Mabeuf. Very rarely, however; twice a month at 
 most. 
 
 Marius' pleasure consisted in taking long walks alone on the 
 outer boulevards, or in the Champs-de-Mars, or in the least 
 frequented alleys of the Luxembourg. He often spent half a 
 day in gazing at a market garden, the beds of lettuce, the 
 chickens on the dung-heap, the horse turning the water-wheel. 
 The passers-by stared at him in surprise, and some of them 
 thought his attire suspicious and his mien sinister. He 
 was only a poor young man dreaming in an objectless 
 way. 
 
 It was during one of his strolls that he had hit upon the 
 Gorbeau house, and, tempted by its isolation and its cheapness, 
 had taken up his abode there. He was known there only under 
 the name of M. Marius. 
 
 Some of his father's old generals or old comrades had in- 
 vited him to go and see them, when they learned about 
 him. Marius had not refused their invitations. They af- 
 forded opportunities of talking about his father. Thus he 
 went from time to time, to Comte Pajol, to General Bella- 
 vesne, to General Fririon, to the Invalides. There was music 
 and dancing there. On such evenings, Marius put on his 
 new coat. But he never went to these evening parties or balls 
 except on days when it was freezing cold, because he could not 
 afford a carriage, and he did not wish to arrive with boots 
 otherwise than like mirrors. 
 
 He said sometimes, but without bitterness: "Men are so 
 made that in a drawing-room you may be soiled everywhere
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 135 
 
 except on your shoes. In order to insure a good reception 
 there, only one irreproachable thing is asked of you; your 
 conscience? No, your boots." 
 
 All passions except those of the heart are dissipated by 
 revery. Marius' political fevers vanished thus. The Revolu- 
 tion of 1830 assisted in the process, by satisfying and calming 
 him. He remained the same, setting aside his fits of wrath. 
 He still held the same opinions. Only, they had been tem- 
 pered. To speak accurately, he had no longer any opinions, he 
 had sympathies. To what party did he belong? To the party 
 of humanity. Out of humanity he chose France; out of the 
 Nation he chose the people; out of the people he chose the 
 woman. It was to that point above all, that his pity was di- 
 rected. Now he preferred an idea to a deed, a poet to a hero, 
 and he admired a book like Job more than an event like 
 Marengo. And then, when, after a day spent in meditation, he 
 returned in the evening through the boulevards, and caught 
 a glimpse through the branches of the trees of the fathomless 
 space beyond, the nameless gleams, the abyss, the shadow, the 
 mystery, all that which is only human seemed very pretty in- 
 deed to him. 
 
 He thought that he had, and he really had, in fact, arrived 
 at the truth of life and of human philosophy, and he had ended 
 by gazing at nothing but heaven, the only thing which Truth 
 can perceive from the bottom of her well. 
 
 This did not prevent him from multiplying his plans, his 
 combinations, his scaffoldings, his projects for the future. In 
 this state of revery, an eye which could have cast a glance into 
 Marius' interior would have been dazzled with the purity of 
 that soul. In fact, had it been given to our eyes of the flesh 
 to gaze into the consciences of others, we should be able to 
 judge a man much more surely according to what he dreams, 
 than according to what he thinks. There is will in thought, 
 there is none in dreams. Revery, which is utterly spontaneous, 
 takes and keeps, even in the gigantic and the ideal, the form 
 of our spirit. Nothing proceeds more directly and more sin- 
 cerely from the very depth of our soul, than our unpremedi-
 
 136 MARIU8 
 
 tated and boundless aspirations towards the splendors of des- 
 tiny. In these aspirations, much more than in deliberate, 
 rational co-ordinated ideas, is the real character of a man to be 
 found. Our chimeras are the things which the most resemble 
 us. Each one of us dreams of the unknown and the impossible 
 in accordance with his nature. 
 
 Towards the middle of this year 1831, the old woman who 
 waited on Marius told him that his neighbors, the wretched 
 Jondrette family, had been turned out of doors. Marius, who 
 passed nearly the whole of his days out of the house, hardly 
 knew that he had any neighbors. 
 
 "Why are they turned out?" he asked. 
 
 "Because they do not pay their rent ; they owe for two quar- 
 ters." 
 
 "How much is it?" 
 
 "Twenty francs," said the old woman. 
 
 Marius had thirty francs saved up in a drawer. 
 
 "Here," he said to the old woman, "take these twenty-five 
 francs. Pay for the poor people and give them five francs, and 
 do not tell them that it was I." 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE SUBSTITUTE 
 
 IT chanced that the regiment to which Lieutenant Theodule 
 belonged came to perform garrison duty in Paris. This in- 
 spired Aunt Gillenormand with a second idea. She had, on 
 the first occasion, hit upon the plan of having Marius spied 
 upon by Theodule; now she plotted to have Theodule take 
 Marius' place. 
 
 At all events and in case the grandfather should feel the 
 vague need of a young face in the house, these rays of dawn 
 are sometimes sweet to ruin, it was expedient to find another 
 Marius. "Take it as a simple erratum," she thought, "such as 
 one sees in books. For Marius, read Theodule."
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 137 
 
 A grandnephew is almost the same as a grandson ; in default 
 jf a lawyer one takes a lancer. 
 
 One morning, when M. Gillenormand was ahout to read 
 something in the Quotidienne, his daughter entered and said to 
 him in her sweetest voice; for the question concerned her 
 favorite : 
 
 "Father, Theodule is coming to present his respects to you 
 this morning." 
 
 "Who's Theodule?" 
 
 "Your grandnephew." 
 
 "Ah !" said the grandfather. 
 
 Then he went back to his reading, thought no more of his 
 grandnephew, who was merely some Theodule or other, and 
 soon flew into a rage, which almost always happened when he 
 read. The "sheet" which he held, although Royalist, of 
 course, announced for the following day, without any soften- 
 ing phrases, one of these little events which were of daily 
 occurrence at that date in Paris : "That the students of the 
 schools of law and medicine were to assemble on the Place du 
 Pantheon, at midday, to deliberate." The discussion con- 
 cerned one of the questions of the moment, the artillery of the 
 National Guard, and a conflict between the Minister of War 
 and "the citizen's militia," on the subject of the cannon parked 
 in the courtyard of the Louvre. The students were to "delib- 
 erate" over this. It did not take much more than this to 
 swell M. Gillenormand's rage. 
 
 He thought of Marius, who was a student, and who would 
 probably go with the rest, to "deliberate, at midday, on the 
 Place du Pantheon." 
 
 As he was indulging in this painful dream, Lieutenant 
 Theodule entered clad in plain clothes as a bourgeois, which 
 was clever of him, and was discreetly introduced by Mademoi- 
 selle Gillenormand. The lancer had reasoned as follows: 
 "The old druid has not sunk all his money in a life pension. 
 It is well to disguise one's self as a civilian from time to time." 
 
 Mademoiselle Gillenormand said aloud to her father: 
 
 "Theodule, your grandnephew."
 
 138 MARIU8 
 
 And in a low voice to the lieutenant: 
 
 "Approve of everything." 
 
 And she withdrew. 
 
 The lieutenant, who was but little accustomed to such ven- 
 erable encounters, stammered with some timidity : "Good day, 
 uncle," and made a salute composed of the involuntary and 
 mechanical outline of the military salute finished off as a 
 bourgeois salute. 
 
 "Ah ! so it's you ; that is well, sit down," said the old gen- 
 tleman. 
 
 That said, he totally forgot the lancer. 
 
 Theodule seated himself, and M. Gillenormand rose. 
 
 M. Gillenormand began to pace back and forth, his hands in 
 his pockets, talking aloud, and twitching, with his irritated old 
 fingers, at the two watches which he wore in his two fobs. 
 
 "That pack of brats ! they convene on the Place du Pan- 
 theon ! by my life ! urchins who were with their nurses but 
 yesterday ! If one were to squeeze their noses, milk would 
 burst out. And they deliberate to-morrow, at midday. What 
 are we coming to? What are we coming to? It is clear that 
 we are making for the abyss. That is what the descamisados 
 have brought us to ! To deliberate on the citizen artillery ! 
 To go and jabber in the open air over the jibes of the National 
 Guard! And with whom are they to meet there? Just see 
 whither Jacobinism leads. I will bet anything you like, a 
 million against a counter, that there will be no one there but 
 returned convicts and released galley-slaves. The Republicans 
 and the galley-slaves, they form but one nose and one hand- 
 kerchief. Carnot used to say: 'Where would you have me go, 
 traitor?' Fouche replied: 'Wherever you please, imbecile!' 
 That's what the Republicans are like." 
 
 "That is true," said Theodule. 
 
 M. Gillenormand half turned his head, saw Theodule, and 
 went on : 
 
 "When one reflects that that scoundrel was so vile as to turn 
 carbonaro ! Why did you leave my house? To go and become 
 a Republican ! Pssst ! In the first place, the people want none
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 of your republic, they have common sense, they know well that 
 there always have been kings, and that there always will be; 
 they know well that the people are only the people, after all, 
 they make sport of it, of your republic do you understand, 
 idiot? Is it not a horrible caprice? To fall in love with Fere 
 Duchesne, to make sheep's-eyes at the guillotine, to sing ro- 
 mances, and play on the guitar under the balcony of '93 it's 
 enough to make one spit on all these young fellows, such fools 
 are they ! They are all alike. Not one escapes. It suffices for 
 them to breathe the air which blows through the street to lose 
 their senses. The nineteenth century is poison. The first 
 scamp that happens along lets his beard grow like a goat's, 
 thinks himself a real scoundrel, and abandons his old relatives. 
 He's a Republican, he's a romantic. What does that mean, ro- 
 mantic? Do me the favor to tell me what it is. All possible 
 follies. A year ago, they ran to Hernani. Now, I just ask you, 
 Hcrnani! antitheses! abominations which are not even written 
 in French ! And then, they have cannons in the courtyard of 
 the Louvre. Such are the rascalities of this age !" 
 
 "You are right, uncle," said Theodule. 
 
 M. Gillenormand resumed : 
 
 "Cannons in the courtyard of the Museum ! For what pur- 
 pose ? Do you want to fire grape-shot at the Apollo Belvedere ? 
 What have those cartridges to do with the Venus de Medici? 
 Oh ! the young men of the present day are all blackguards ! 
 What a pretty creature is their Benjamin Constant! And 
 those who are not rascals are simpletons ! They do all they 
 can to make themselves ugly, they are badly dressed, they are 
 afraid of women, in the presence of petticoats they have a men- 
 dicant air which sets the girls into fits of laughter ; on my word 
 of honor, one would say the poor creatures were ashamed of 
 love. They are deformed, and they complete themselves by 
 being stupid; they repeat the puns of Tiercelin and Potier, 
 they have sack coats, stablemen's waistcoats, shirts of coarse 
 linen, trousers of coarse cloth, boots of coarse leather, and 
 their rigmarole resembles their plumage. One might make use 
 of their jargon to put new soles on their old shoes. And all
 
 140 MARIU8 
 
 this awkward batch of brats has political opinions, if you 
 please. Political opinions should be strictly forbidden. They 
 fabricate systems, they recast society, they demolish the mon- 
 archy, they fling all laws to the earth, they put the attic in the 
 cellar's place and my porter in the place of the King, they turn 
 Europe topsy-turvy, they reconstruct the world, and all their 
 love affairs consist in staring slily at the ankles of the laun- 
 dresses as these women climb into their carts. Ah ! Marius ! 
 Ah ! you blackguard ! to go and vociferate on the public place ! 
 to discuss, to debate, to take measures ! They call that meas- 
 ures, just God ! Disorder humbles itself and becomes silly. I 
 have seen chaos, I now see a mess. Students deliberating on 
 the National Guard, such a thing could not be seen among 
 the Ogibewas nor the Cadodaches! Savages who go naked, 
 with their noddles dressed like a shuttlecock, with a club in 
 their paws, are less of brutes than those bachelors of arts ! The 
 four-penny monkeys! And they set up for judges! Those 
 creatures deliberate and ratiocinate ! The end of the world is 
 come ! This is plainly the end of this miserable terraqueous 
 globe ! A final hiccough was required, and France has emitted 
 it. Deliberate, my rascals ! Such things will happen so long 
 as they go and read the newspapers under the arcades of the 
 Odeon. That costs them a sou, and their good sense, and their 
 intelligence, and their heart and their soul, and their wits. 
 They emerge thence, and decamp from their families. All 
 newspapers are pests; all, even the Drapeau Blanc! At bot- 
 tom, Martainville was a Jacobin. Ah ! just Heaven ! you may 
 boast of having driven your grandfather to despair, that you 
 may !" 
 
 "That is evident," said Theodule. 
 
 And profiting by the fact that M. Gillenormand was taking 
 breath, the lancer added in a magisterial manner: 
 
 "There should be no other newspaper than the Moniteur, 
 and no other book than the Annnaire Militairc." 
 
 M. Gillenormand continued : 
 
 "It is like their Sieyes! A regicide ending in a senator; for 
 that is the way they always end. They give themselves a scar
 
 THE EXCELLENCE OF MISFORTUNE 
 
 with the address of tliou as citizens, in order to get themselves 
 called, eventually, Monsieur le Comtc. Monsieur le Comte as 
 big as my arm, assassins of September. The philosopher 
 Sieyes ! I will do myself the justice to say, that I have never 
 had any better opinion of the philosophies of all those philoso- 
 phers, than of the spectacles of the grirnacer of Tivoli ! One 
 day I saw the Senators cross the Quai Malplaquet in mantles 
 of violet velvet sown with bees, with hats a la Henri IV. They 
 were hideous. One would have pronounced them monkeys 
 from the tiger's court. Citizens, I declare to you, that your 
 progress is madness, that your humanity is a dream, that your 
 revolution is a crime, that your republic is a monster, that your 
 young and virgin France comes from the brothel, and I main- 
 tain it against all, whoever you may be, whether journalists, 
 economists, legists, or even were you better judges of liberty, of 
 equality, and fraternity than the knife of the guillotine ! And 
 that I announce to you, my fine fellows !" 
 
 "Parblcu !" cried the lieutenant, "that is wonderfully true." 
 M. Gillenormand paused in a gesture which he had begun, 
 wheeled round, stared Lancer Theodule intently in the eyes, 
 and said to him : 
 "You are a fool."
 
 BOOK SIXTH. THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO 
 STARS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SOBRIQUET : MODE OF FORMATION OF FAMILY NAMES 
 
 MARIOS was, at this epoch, a handsome young man, of 
 medium stature, with thick and intensely black hair, a lofty 
 and intelligent brow, well-opened and passionate nostrils, an 
 air of calmness and sincerity, and with something indescrib- 
 ably proud, thoughtful, and innocent over his whole counte- 
 nance. His profile, all of whose lines were rounded, without 
 thereby losing their firmness, had a certain Germanic sweet- 
 ness, which has made its way into the French physiognomy 
 by way of Alsace and Lorraine, and that complete absence of 
 angles which rendered the Sicambres so easily recognizable 
 among the Eomans, and which distinguishes the leonine from 
 the aquiline race. He was at that period of life when the mind 
 of men who think is composed, in nearly equal parts, of depth 
 and ingenuousness. A grave situation being given, he had 
 all that is required to be stupid : one more turn of the key, 
 and he might be sublime. His manners were reserved, cold, 
 polished, not very genial. As his mouth was charming, his 
 lips the reddest, and his teeth the whitest in the world, his 
 smile corrected the severity of his face, as a whole. At certain 
 moments, that pure brow and that voluptuous smile presented 
 a singular contrast. His eyes were small, but his glance was 
 large. 
 
 At the period of his most abject misery, he had observed 
 that young girls turned round when he passed by, and he fled 
 or hid, with death in his soul. He thought that they were
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO HTARB 143 
 
 staring at him because of his old clothes, and that they were 
 laughing at them ; the fact is, that they stared at him because 
 of his grace, and that they dreamed of him. 
 
 This mute misunderstanding between him and the pretty 
 passers-by had made him shy. He chose none of them for 
 the excellent reason that he fled from all of them. He lived 
 thus indefinitely, stupidly, as Courfeyrac said. 
 
 Courfeyrac also said to him : "Do not aspire to be vener- 
 able" [they called each other thou; it is the tendency of youth 
 ful friendships to slip into this mode of address]. "Let me 
 give you a piece of advice, my dear fellow. Don't read so 
 many books, and look a little more at the lasses. The jades 
 have some good points about them, Marius! By dint of 
 fleeing and blushing, you will become brutalized." 
 
 On other occasions, Courfeyrac encountered him and 
 said: "Good morning, Monsieur 1'Abbe!" 
 
 When Courfeyrac had addressed to him some remark of this 
 nature, Marius avoided women, both young and old, more than 
 ever for a week to come, and he avoided Courfeyrac to boot. 
 
 Nevertheless, there existed in all the immensity of creation, 
 two women whom Marius did not flee, and to whom he paid no 
 attention whatever. In truth, he would have been very much 
 amazed if he had been informed that they were women. One 
 was the bearded old woman who swept out his chamber, and 
 caused Courfeyrac to say : "Seeing that his servant woman 
 wears his beard, Marius does not wear his own beard.'' The 
 other was a sort of little girl whom he saw very often, and 
 whom he never looked at. 
 
 For more than a year, Marius had noticed in one of the 
 walks of the Luxembourg, the one which skirts the parapet 
 of the Pepiniere, a man and a very young girl, who were 
 almost always seated side by side on the same bench, at the 
 most solitary end of the alley, on the Rue de 1'Ouest side. 
 Every time that that chance which meddles with the strolls 
 of persons whose gaze is turned inwards, led Marius to that 
 walk, and it was nearly every day, he found this couple 
 there. The man appeared to be about sixty years of age; h
 
 144 MARIUS 
 
 seemed sad and serious ; his whole person presented the robust 
 and weary aspect peculiar to military men who have retired 
 from the service. If he had worn a decoration, Marius would 
 have said : "He is an ex-officer." He had a kindly but unap- 
 proachable air, and he never let his glance linger on the eyes 
 of any one. He wore blue trousers, a blue frock coat and a 
 broad-brimmed hat, which always appeared to be new, a black 
 cravat, a quaker shirt, that is to say, it was dazzlingly white, 
 but of coarse linen. A grisette who passed near him one day. 
 said : "Here's a very tidy widower." His hair was very white. 
 
 The first time that the young girl who accompanied him 
 came and seated herself on the bench which they seemed to 
 have adopted, she was a sort of child thirteen or fourteen years 
 of age, so thin as to be almost homely, awkward, insignificant, 
 and with a possible promise of handsome eyes. Only, they 
 were always raised with a sort of displeasing assurance. Her 
 dress was both aged and childish, like the dress of the scholars 
 in a convent ; it consisted of a badly cut gown of black merino. 
 They had the air of being father and daughter. 
 
 Marius scanned this old man, who was not yet aged, and 
 this little girl, who was not yet a person, for a few days, and 
 thereafter paid no attention to them. They, on their side, did 
 not appear even to see him. They conversed together with a 
 peaceful and indifferent air. The girl chatttered incessantly 
 and merrily. The old man talked but little, and, at times, 
 he fixed on her eyes overflowing with an ineffable paternity. 
 
 Marius had acquired the mechanical habit of strolling in 
 that walk. He invariably found them there. 
 
 This is the way things went : 
 
 Marius liked to arrive by the end of the alley which was 
 furthest from their bench ; he walked the whole length of the 
 alley, passed in front of them, then returned to the extremity 
 whence he had come, and began again. This he did five or 
 six times in the course of his promenade, and the promenade 
 was taken five or six times a week, without its having occurred 
 to him or to these people to exchange a greeting. That per- 
 sonage, and that young girl, although they appeared, and
 
 THK CONJUNCTION OF TWO STAK8 
 
 perhaps because they appeared, to shun all glances, had, 
 naturally, caused some attention on the part of the five or 
 six students who strolled along the Pepiniere from time to 
 time; the studious after their lectures, the others after their 
 game of billiards. Courfeyrac, who was among the last, had 
 observed them several times, but, finding the girl homely, he 
 had speedily and carefully kept out of the way. He had fled, 
 discharging at them a sobriquet, like a Parthian dart. Im- 
 pressed solely with the child's gown and the old man's hair, 
 he had dubbed the daughter Mademoiselle Lanoire, and the 
 father, Monsieur Leblanc. so that, as no one knew them under 
 any other title, this nickname became a law in the default 
 of any other name. The students said : "Ah ! Monsieur 
 Leblanc is on his bench." And Marius, like the rest, had 
 found it convenient to call this unknown gentleman Monsieur 
 Leblanc. 
 
 We shall follow their example, and we shall say M. Leblanc, 
 in order to facilitate this tale. 
 
 So Marius saw them nearly every day, at the same hour, 
 during the first year. He found the man to his taste, but the 
 girl insipid. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 LUX FACTA EST 
 
 DURING the second year, precisely at the point in this 
 history which the reader has now reached, it chanced that this 
 habit of the Luxembourg was interrupted, without Marius 
 himself being quite aware why, and nearly six months elapsed, 
 during which he did not set foot in the alley. One day, at 
 last, he returned thither once more; it was a serene summer 
 morning, and Marius was in joyous mood, as one is when 
 the weather is fine. It seemed to him that he had in his heart 
 all the songs of the birds that he was listening to, and all 
 the bits of blue sky of which he caught glimpses through the 
 leaves of the trees. 
 
 He went straight to "his alley," and when he reached the
 
 146 MAKIU8 
 
 end of it he perceived, still on the same bench, that well-known 
 couple. Only, when he approached, it certainly was the same 
 man ; but it seemed to him that it was no longer the same girl. 
 The person whom he now beheld was a tall and beautiful 
 creature, possessed of all the most charming lines of a woman 
 at the precise moment when they are still combined with all 
 the most ingenuous graces of the child; a pure and fugitive 
 moment, which can be expressed only by these two words, 
 "fifteen years." She had wonderful brown hair, shaded with 
 threads of gold, a brow that seemed made of marble, cheeks 
 that seemed made of rose-leaf, a pale flush, an agitated white- 
 ness, an exquisite mouth, whence smiles darted like sunbeams, 
 and words like music, a head such as Raphael would have 
 given to Mary, set upon a neck that Jean Goujon would have 
 attributed to a Venus. And, in order that nothing might be 
 lacking to this bewitching face, her nose was not handsome 
 it was pretty; neither straight nor curved, neither Italian nor 
 Greek ; it was the Parisian nose, that is to say, spiritual, 
 delicate, irregular, pure, which drives painters to despair, 
 and charms poets. 
 
 When Marius passed near her, he could not see her eyes, 
 which were constantly lowered. He saw only her long chest- 
 nut lashes, permeated with shadow and modesty. 
 
 This did not prevent the beautiful child from smiling as she 
 listened to what the white-haired old man was saying to her, 
 and nothing could be more fascinating than that fresh smile, 
 combined with those drooping eyes. 
 
 For a moment, Marius thought that she was another 
 daughter of the same man. a sister of the former, no doubt. 
 But when the invariable habit of his stroll brought him, for 
 the second time, near the bench, and he had examined her 
 attentively, he recognized her as the same. In six months the 
 little girl had become a young maiden ; that was all. Nothing 
 is more frequent than this phenomenon. There is a moment 
 when girls blossom out in the twinkling of an eye, and become 
 roses all at once. One left them children but yesterday; to- 
 day, one finds them disquieting to the feelings.
 
 TEE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS 147 
 
 This child had not only grown, she had become idealized. 
 As three days in April suffice to cover certain trees with 
 flowers, six months had sufficed to clothe her with beauty. 
 Her April had arrived. 
 
 One sometimes sees people, who, poor and mean, seem to 
 wake up, pass suddenly from indigence to luxury, indulge in 
 expenditures of all sorts, and become dazzling, prodigal, mag- 
 nificent, all of a sudden. That is the result of having pocketed 
 an income; a note fell due yesterday. The young girl had 
 received her quarterly income. 
 
 And then, she was no longer the school-girl with her felt 
 hat, her merino gown, her scholar's shoes, and red hands; 
 taste had come to her with beauty; she was a well-dressed 
 person, clad with a sort of rich and simple elegance, and with- 
 out affectation. She wore a dress of black damask, a cape of 
 the same material, and a bonnet of white crape. Her white 
 gloves displayed the delicacy of the hand which toyed with the 
 carved, Chinese ivory handle of a parasol, and her silken shoe 
 outlined the smallness of her foot. When one passed near her, 
 her whole toilette exhaled a youthful and penetrating perfume. 
 
 As for the man, he was the same as usual. 
 
 The second time that Marius approached her. the young 
 girl raised her eyelids; her eyes were of a deep, celestial blue, 
 but in that veiled azure, there was, as yet, nothing but the 
 glance of a child. She looked at Marius indifferently, as she 
 would have stared at the brat running beneath the sycamores, 
 or the marble vase which cast a shadow on the bench, and 
 Marius, on his side, continued his promenade, and thought 
 about something else. 
 
 He passed near the bench where the young girl sat, five or 
 six times, but without even turning his eyes in her direction. 
 
 On the following days, he returned, as was his wont, to the 
 Luxembourg: as usual, he found there "the father and daugh- 
 ter;" but he paid no further attention to them. He thought 
 no more about the girl now that she was beautiful than he had 
 when she was homely. He passed very near the bench where 
 she sat, because such was his habit.
 
 148 MAKIU8 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 EFFECT OF THE SPRING 
 
 ONE day, the air was warm, the Luxembourg was inundated 
 with light and shade, the sky was as pure as though the angels 
 had washed it that morning, the sparrows were giving vent to 
 little twitters in the depths of the chestnut-trees. Marius had 
 thrown open his whole soul to nature, he was not thinking of 
 anything, he simply lived and breathed, he passed near the 
 bench, the young girl raised her eyes to him, the two glances 
 met. 
 
 What was there in the young girl's glance on this occasion ? 
 Marius could not have told. There was nothing and there 
 was everything. It was a strange flash. 
 
 She dropped her eyes, and he pursued his way. 
 
 What he had just seen was no longer the ingenuous and 
 simple eye of a child ; it was a mysterious gulf which had half 
 opened, then abruptly closed again. 
 
 There comes a day when the young girl glances in this 
 manner. Woe to him who chances to be there ! 
 
 That first gaze of a soul which does not, as yet, know itself, 
 is like the dawn in the sky. It is the awakening of something 
 radiant and strange. Nothing can give any idea of the 
 dangerous charm of that unexpected gleam, which flashes 
 suddenly and vaguely forth from adorable shadows, and which 
 is composed of all the innocence of the present, and of all the 
 passion of the future. It is a sort of undecided tenderness 
 which reveals itself by chance, and which waits. It is a snare 
 which the innocent maiden sets unknown to herself, and in 
 which she captures hearts without either wishing or knowing 
 it. It is a virgin looking like a woman. 
 
 It is rare that a profound revery does not spring from that 
 glance, where it falls. All purities and all candors meet in 
 that celestial and fatal gleam which, more than all the best- 
 planned tender glances of coquettes, possesses the magic power
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS 140 
 
 of causing the sudden blossoming, in the depths of the soul, of 
 that sombre 'flower, impregnated with perfume and with 
 poison, which is called love. 
 
 That evening, on his return to his garret, Marius cast his 
 eyes over his garments, and perceived, for the first time, that 
 he had been so slovenly, indecorous, and inconceivably stupid 
 as to go for his walk in the Luxembourg with his "every-day 
 clothes," that is to say, with a hat battered near the band, 
 coarse carter's boots, black trousers which showed white at 
 the knees, and a black coat which was pale at the elbows. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 BEGINNING OF A GREAT MALADY 
 
 ON the following day, at the accustomed hour, Marius drew 
 from his wardrobe his new coat, his new trousers, his new hat, 
 and his new boots; he clothed himself in this complete 
 panoply, put on his gloves, a tremendous luxury, and set off 
 for the Luxembourg. 
 
 On the way thither, he encountered Courfeyrac, and pre- 
 tended not to see him. Courfeyrac, on his return home, said 
 to his friends : 
 
 "I have just met Marius' new hat and new coat, with 
 Marius inside them. He was going to pass an examination, 
 no doubt. He looked utterly stupid." 
 
 On arriving at the Luxembourg, Marius made the tour of 
 the fountain basin, and stared at the swans; then he remained 
 for a long time in contemplation before a statue whose head 
 was perfectly black with mould, and one of whose hips was 
 missing. Xear the basin there was a bourgeois forty years of 
 age, with a prominent stomach, who was holding by the hand 
 a little urchin of five, and saying to him: "Shun excess, my 
 son, keep at an equal distance from despotism and from an- 
 archy." Marius listened to this bourgeois. Then he made the 
 circuit of the basin once more. At last he directed his course
 
 150 MARIUB 
 
 towards "his alley," slowly, and as if with regret. One would 
 have said that he was both forced to go there and withheld 
 from doing so. He did not perceive it himself, and thought 
 that he was doing as he always did. 
 
 On turning into the walk, he saw M. Leblanc and the young 
 girl at the other end, "on their bench." He buttoned his coat 
 up to the very top, pulled it down on his body so that there 
 might be no wrinkles, examined, with a certain complaisance, 
 the lustrous gleams of his trousers, and marched on the bench. 
 This march savored of an attack, and certainly of a desire 
 for conquest. So I say that he marched on the bench, as I 
 should say : "Hannibal marched on Rome." 
 
 However, all his movements were purely mechanical, and 
 he had interrupted none of the habitual preoccupations of his 
 mind and labors. At that moment, he was thinking that the 
 Manuel du Baccalaureat was a stupid book, and that it must 
 have been drawn up by rare idiots, to allow of three tragedies 
 of Racine and only one comedy of Moliere being analyzed 
 therein as masterpieces of the human mind. There was a 
 piercing whistling going on in his ears. As he approached the 
 bench, he held fast to the folds in his coat, and fixed his eyes 
 on the young girl. It seemed to him that she filled the entire 
 extremity of the alley with a vague blue light. 
 
 In proportion as he drew near, his pace slackened more and 
 more. On arriving at some little distance from the bench, and 
 long before he had reached the end of the walk, he halted, and 
 could not explain to himself why he retraced his steps. He did 
 not even say to himself that he would not go as far as the end. 
 It was only with difficulty that the young girl could have per- 
 ceived him in the distance and noted his fine appearance in his 
 new clothes. Nevertheless, he held himself very erect, in case 
 any one should be looking at him from behind. 
 
 He attained the opposite end, then came back, and this time 
 he approached a little nearer to the bench. He even got to 
 within three intervals of trees, but there he felt an indescriba- 
 ble impossibility of proceeding further, and he hesitated. He 
 thought he saw the young girl's face bending towards him.
 
 HE HEARD AN INEFFABLE VOICE WHICH MUST HAVE BEEN 
 " HER VOICE."
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO KTARS ]51 
 
 But he exerted a manly and violent effort, subdued his hesita- 
 tion, and walked straight ahead. A few seconds later, he 
 rushed in front of the hench, erect and firm, reddening to the 
 very ears, without daring to cast a glance either to the right or 
 to the left, with his hand thrust into his coat like a statesman. 
 At the moment when he passed, under the cannon of the 
 place, he felt his heart beat wildly. As on the preceding day, 
 she wore her damask gown and her crape bonnet. He heard 
 an ineffable voice, which must have been "her voice." She was 
 talking tranquilly. She was very pretty. He felt it, although 
 he made no attempt to see her. "She could not, however," he 
 thought, "help feeling esteem and consideration for me, if she 
 only knew that I am the veritable author of the dissertation on 
 Marcos Obregon de la Ronde, which M. Francois de Neuf- 
 chateau put, as though it were his own, at the head of his 
 edition of Gil Bias." He went beyond the bench as far as the 
 extremity of the walk, which was very near, then turned on his 
 heel and passed once more in front of the lovely girl. This 
 time, he was very pale. Moreover, all his emotions were dis- 
 agreeable. As he went further from the bench and the young 
 girl, and while his back was turned to her, he fancied that she 
 was gazing after him, and that made him stumble. 
 
 He did not attempt to approach' the bench again; he halted 
 near the middle of the walk, and there, a thing which he never 
 did, he sat down, and reflecting in the most profoundly indis- 
 tinct depths of his spirit, that after all, it was hard that per- 
 sons whose white bonnet and black gown he admired should be 
 absolutely insensible to his splendid trousers and his new 
 coat. 
 
 At the expiration of a quarter of an hour, he rose, as though 
 he were on the point of again beginning his march towards 
 that bench which was surrounded by an aureole. But he re- 
 mained standing there, motionless. For the first time in 
 fifteen months, he said to himself that that gentleman who sat 
 there every day with his daughter, had, on his side, noticed 
 him, and probably considered his assiduity singular. 
 
 For the first time, also, he was conscious of some irreverence
 
 152 MARWS 
 
 in designating that stranger, even in his secret thoughts, by the 
 sobriquet of M. le Blanc. 
 
 He stood thus for several minutes, with drooping he-id, 
 tracing figures in the sand, with the cane which he held in his 
 hand. 
 
 Then he turned abruptly in the direction opposite to the 
 bench, to M. Leblanc and his daughter, and went home. 
 
 That day he forgot to dine. At eight o'clock in the evening 
 he perceived this fact, and as it was too late to go down to the 
 Rue Saint-Jacques, he said: "Never mind!" and ate a bit of 
 bread. 
 
 He did not go to bed until he had brushed his coat and 
 folded it up with great care. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 DIVERS CLAPS OF THUNDER FALL ON MA'AM BOUGON 
 
 ON the following day, Ma'am Bougon, as Courfeyrac styled 
 the old portress-principal-tenant, housekeeper of the Gorbeau 
 hovel, Ma'am Bougon, whose name was, in reality, Madame 
 Burgon, as we have found out, but this iconoclast, Courfeyrac, 
 respected nothing, Ma'am Bougou observed, with stupefac- 
 tion, that M. Marius was going out again in his new coat. 
 
 He went to the Luxembourg again, but he did not proceed 
 further than his bench midway of the alley. He seated himself 
 there, as on the preceding day, surveying from a distance, and 
 clearly making out, the white bonnet, the black dress, and 
 above all, that blue light. He did not stir from it, and only 
 went home when the gates of the Luxembourg closed. He did 
 not see M. Leblanc and his daughter retiio. He concluded that 
 they had quitted the garden by the gate on the Rue do 1'Ouest. 
 Later on, several weeks afterwards, when he came to think it 
 over, he could never recall where he had dined that even- 
 ing. 
 
 On the following day, which was the third, Ma'am Bougon
 
 THE COXJUXCTIOX OF TWO XTAR8 153 
 
 was thunderstruck. Marius went out in his new coat. "Three 
 days in succession !" she exclaimed. 
 
 She tried to follow him, hut Marius walked hriskly, and with 
 immense strides; it was a hippopotamus undertaking the pur- 
 suit of a chamois. She lost sight of him in two minutes, and 
 returned breathless, three-quarters choked with asthma, and 
 furious. "If there is any sense," she growled, "in putting on 
 one's best clothes every day, and making people run like this!" 
 
 Marius betook himself to the Luxembourg. 
 
 The young girl was there with M. Leblane. Marius pn- 
 proached as near as he could, pretending tc be busy reading a 
 book, but he halted afar off, then returned and seated himself 
 on his bench, where he spent four hours in watching the house- 
 sparrows who were skipping about the walk, and who produced 
 on him the impression that they were making sport of him. 
 
 A fortnight passed thus. Marius went to the Luxembourg 
 no longer for the sake of strolling there, but to seat himself 
 always in the same spot, and that without knowing why. Once 
 arrived there, he did not stir. He put on his new coat every 
 morning, for the purpose of not showing himself, and he began 
 all over again on the morrow. 
 
 She was decidedly a marvellous beauty. The only remark 
 approaching a criticism, that could be made, wr.s, that the con- 
 tradiction between her gaze, which was melancholy, and her 
 smile, which was merry, gave a rather wild effect to her face, 
 which sometimes caused this sweet countenance to become 
 strange without ceasing to be charming. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 TAKEX PRISONER 
 
 Ox one of the last days of the second week, Marius was 
 seated on his bench, as usual, holding in his hand an open book, 
 of which he had not turned a page for the last two hours. All 
 at once he started. An event was taking place at the other
 
 154 MARIU8 
 
 extremity of the walk. Leblanc and his daughter had just 
 left their seat, and the daughter had taken her father's arm, 
 and both were advancing slowly, towards the middle of the 
 alley where Marius was. Marius closed his book, then opened 
 it again, then forced himself to read; he trembled ; the aureole 
 was coming straight towards him. "Ah! good Heavens!" 
 thought he, "I shall not have time to strike an attitude." 
 Still the white-haired man and the girl advanced. It seemed 
 to him that this lasted for a century, and that it was but a 
 second. "What are they coming in this direction for?" he 
 asked himself. "What! She will pass here? Her feet will 
 tread this sand, this walk, two paces from me?" He was ut- 
 terly upset, he would have liked to be very handsome, he would 
 have liked to own the cross. He heard the soft and measured 
 sound of their approaching footsteps. He imagined that M. 
 Leblanc was darting angry glances at him. "Is that gentle- 
 man going to address me?" he thought to himself. He dropped 
 his head ; when he raised it again, they were very near him. 
 The young girl passed, and as she passed, she glanced at him. 
 She gazed steadily at him, with a pensive sweetness which 
 thrilled Marius from head to foot. It seemed to him that she 
 was reproaching him for having allowed so long a time to 
 elapse without coming as far as her, and that she was saying to 
 him : "I am coming myself." Marius was dazzled by those eyes 
 fraught with rays and abysses. 
 
 He felt his brain on fire. She had come to him, what joy ! 
 And then, how she had looked at him ! She appeared to him 
 more beautiful than he had ever seen her yet. Beautiful with 
 a beauty which was wholly feminine and angelic, with a com- 
 plete beauty which would have made Petrarch sing and Dante 
 kneel. It seemed to him that he was floating free in the azure 
 heavens. At the same time, he was horribly vexed because 
 there was dust on his boots. 
 
 He thought he felt sure that she had looked at his boots 
 too. 
 
 He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared. Then 
 he started up and walked about the Luxembourg garden like a
 
 TEE CONJUNCTION OF TWO KTARS 155 
 
 madman. It is possible that, at times, he laughed to himself 
 and talked aloud. He was so dreamy when he came near the 
 children's nurses, that each one of them thought him in love 
 with her. 
 
 He quitted the Luxembourg, hoping to find her again in the 
 street. 
 
 He encountered Courfeyrac under the arcades of the Odeon, 
 and said to him : "Come and dine with me." They went off 
 to Rousseau's and spent six francs. Marius ate like an ogre. 
 He gave the waiter six sous. At dessert, he said to Cour- 
 feyrac. "Have you read the paper? What a fine discourse 
 Audry de Puyraveau delivered !" 
 
 He was desperately in love. 
 
 After dinner, he said to Courfeyrac: "I will treat you 
 to the play." They went to the Porte-Sainte-Martin to see 
 Frederick in I'Auberge des Adrets. Marius was enormously 
 amused. 
 
 At the same time, he had a redoubled attack of shyness. 
 On emerging from the theatre, he refused to look at the garter 
 of a modiste who was stepping across a gutter, and Cour- 
 feyrac, who said : "I should like to put that woman in my 
 collection," almost horrified him. 
 
 Courfeyrac invited him to breakfast at the Cafe Voltaire 
 on the following morning. Marius went thither, and ate even 
 more than on the preceding evening. He was very thoughtful 
 and very merry. One would have said that he was taking 
 advantage of every occasion to laugh uproariously. He ten- 
 derly embraced some man or other from the provinces, who 
 was presented to him. A circle of students formed round the 
 table, and they spoke of the nonsense paid for by the State 
 which was uttered from the rostrum in the Sorbonne, then the 
 conversation fell upon the faults and omissions in Guicherat's 
 dictionaries and grammars. Marius interrupted the discus- 
 sion to exclaim : "But it is very agreeable, all the same to have 
 the cross !" 
 
 "That's queer !" whispered Courfeyrac to Jean Prouvaire. 
 
 "No," responded Prouvaire, "that's serious."
 
 156 MARW8 
 
 It was serious ; in fact, Marius liad reached that first violent 
 and charming hour with which grand passions begin. 
 
 A glance had wrought all this. 
 
 When the mine is charged, when the conflagration is ready, 
 nothing is more simple. A glance is a spark. 
 
 It was all over with him. Marius loved a woman. His 
 fate was entering the unknown. 
 
 The glance of women resembles certain combinations of 
 wheels, which are tranquil in appearance yet formidable. You 
 pass close to them every day, peaceably and with impunity, and 
 without a suspicion of anything. A moment arrives when you 
 forget that the thing is there. You go and come, dream, speak, 
 laugh. All at once you feel yourself clutched; all is over. 
 The wheels hold you fast, the glance has ensnared you. It has 
 taught you, no matter where or how, by some portion of your 
 thought which was fluttering loose, by some distraction which 
 had attacked you. You are lost. The whole of you passes 
 into it. A chain of mysterious forces takes possession of you. 
 You struggle in vain; no more human succor is possible. You 
 go on falling from gearing to gearing, from agony to agony, 
 from torture to torture, you, your mind, your fortune, your 
 future, your soul ; and, according to whether you are in the 
 power of a wicked creature, or of a noble heart, you will not 
 escape from this terrifying machine otherwise than disfigured 
 with shame, or transfigured by passion. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ADVENTURES OF THE LETTER U DELIVERED OVER TO 
 CONJECTURES 
 
 ISOLATION, detachment, from everything, pride, indepen- 
 dence, the taste of nature, the absence of daily and material 
 activity, the life within himself, the secret conflicts of chastity, 
 a benevolent ecstasy towards all creation, had prepared Marius 
 for this possession which is called passion. His worship of his
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO NT A It N 157 
 
 father had gradually become a religion, and, like all religions, 
 it had retreated to the depths of his soul. -Something was 
 required in the foreground. Love came. 
 
 A full month elapsed, during which Marius went every day 
 to the Luxembourg. When the hour arrived, nothing could 
 hold him back. "He is on duty," said Courfeyrac. Marius 
 lived in a state of delight. It is certain that the young girl 
 did look at him. 
 
 He had finally grown bold, and approached the bench. 
 Still, he did not pass in front of it any more, in obedience to 
 the instinct of timidity and to the instinct of prudence com- 
 mon to lovers. He considered it better not to attract "the 
 attention of the father." He combined his stations behind 
 the trees and the pedestals of the statues with a profound 
 diplomacy, so that he might be seen as much as possible by 
 the young girl and as little as possible by the old gentleman. 
 Sometimes, he remained motionless by the half-hour together 
 in the shade of a Leonidas or a Spartacus, holding in his hand 
 a book, above which his eyes, gently raised, sought the beauti- 
 ful girl, and she, on her side, turned her charming profile 
 towards him with a vague smile. While conversing in the 
 most natural and tranquil manner in the world with the 
 white-haired man, she bent upon Marius all the reveries of a 
 virginal and passionate eye. Ancient and time-honored 
 manoeuvre which Eve understood from the very first day of 
 the world, and which every woman understands from the very 
 first day of her life ! her mouth replied to one, and her glance 
 replied to another. 
 
 It must be supposed, that M. Leblanc finally noticed some- 
 thing, for often, when Marius arrived, he rose and began to 
 walk about. He had abandoned their accustomed place and 
 had adopted the bench by the Gladiator, near the other end of 
 the walk, as though with the object of seeing whether Marhis 
 would pursue them thither. Marius did not understand, and 
 committed this error. "The father" began to grow inexact, 
 and no longer brought "his daughter" every day. Sometimes, 
 he came alone. Then Marius did not stay. Another blunder.
 
 158 MARIUS 
 
 Marius paid no heed to these symptoms. From the phase of 
 timidity, he had passed, by a natural and fatal progress, to the 
 phase of blindness. His love increased. He dreamed of it 
 every night. And then, an unexpected bliss had happened to 
 him, oil on the fire, a redoubling of the shadows over his eyes. 
 One evening, at dusk, he had found, on the bench which "M. 
 Leblanc and his daughter" had just quitted, a handkerchief, a 
 very simple handkerchief, without embroidery, but white, and 
 fine, and which seemed to him to exhale ineffable perfume. 
 He seized it with rapture. This handkerchief was marked 
 with the letters U. F. Marius knew nothing about this beauti- 
 ful child, neither her family name, her Christian name nor 
 her abode; these two letters were the first thing of her that 
 he had gained possession of, adorable initials, upon which he 
 immediately began to construct his scaffolding. U was evi- 
 dently the Christian name. "Ursule !" he thought, "what 
 a delicious name !" He kissed the handkerchief, drank it in, 
 placed it on his heart, on his flesh, during the day. and at 
 night, laid it beneath his lips that he might fall asleep on it. 
 
 "I feel that her whole soul lies within it !" he exclaimed. 
 
 This handkerchief belonged to the old gentleman, who had 
 simply let it fall from his pocket. 
 
 In the days which followed the finding of this treasure, he 
 only displayed himself at the Luxembourg in the act of kissing 
 the handkerchief and laying it on his heart. The beautiful 
 child understood nothing of all this, and signified it to him by 
 imperceptible signs. 
 
 "0 modesty !" said Marius. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE VETERANS THEMSELVES CAN BE HAPPY 
 
 SINCE we have pronounced the word modesty, and since we 
 conceal nothing, we ought to say that once, nevertheless, in 
 spite of his ecstasies, "his Ursule" caused him very serious 
 grief. It was on one of the days when she persuaded M.
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO STARS 159 
 
 Lcblanc to leave the bench and stroll along the walk. A brisk 
 May breeze was blowing, which swayed the crests of the 
 plaintain-trees. The father and daughter, arm in arm, had 
 just passed Harms' bench. Marius had risen to his feet 
 behind them, and was following them with his eyes, as was 
 fitting in the desperate situation of his soul. 
 
 All at once, a gust of wind, more merry than the rest, and 
 probably charged with performing the affairs of Springtime, 
 swept down from the nursery, flung itself on the alley, envel- 
 oped the young girl in a delicious shiver, worthy of Virgil's 
 nymphs, and the fawns of Theocritus, and lifted her dress, 
 the robe more sacred than that of Isis, almost to the height of 
 her garter. A leg of exquisite shape appeared. Marius saw it. 
 He was exasperated and furious. 
 
 The young girl had hastily thrust down her dress, with a 
 divinely troubled motion, but he was none the less angry for 
 all that. He was alone in the alley, it is true. But there 
 might have been some one there. And what if there had been 
 some one there! Can any one comprehend such a thing? 
 What she had just done is horrible ! Alas, the poor child had 
 done nothing; there had been but one culprit, the wind; but 
 Marius, in whom quivered the Bartholo who exists in Cheru- 
 bin, was determined to be vexed, and was jealous of his own 
 shadow. It is thus, in fact, that the harsh and capricious 
 jealousy of the flesh awakens in the human heart, and takes 
 possession of it, even without any right. Moreover, setting 
 aside even that jealousy, the sight of that charming leg had 
 contained nothing agreeable for him; the white stocking of 
 the first woman he chanced to meet would have afforded him 
 more pleasure. 
 
 When "his TJrsule," after having reached the end of the 
 walk, retraced her steps with M. Leblanc, and passed in front 
 of the bench on which Marius had seated himself once more, 
 Marius darted a sullen and ferocioTis glance at her. The 
 young girl gave way to that slight straightening up with a 
 backward movement, accompanied by a raising of the eyelids, 
 which signifies: "Well, what is the matter?"
 
 160 MARIVS 
 
 This was "their first quarrel." 
 
 Marius had hardly made this scene at her with his eyes, 
 when some one crossed the walk. It was a veteran, very much 
 bent, extremely wrinkled, and pale, in a uniform of the Louis 
 XV. pattern, bearing on his breast the little oval plaque of 
 red cloth, with the crossed swords, the soldier's cross of Saint- 
 Louis, and adorned, in addition, with a coat-sleeve, which had 
 no arm within it, with a silver chin and a wooden leg. Marius 
 thought he perceived that this man had an extremely well 
 satisfied air. It even struck him that the aged cynic, as he 
 hobbled along past him, addressed to him a very fraternal and 
 very merry wink, as though some chance had created an 
 understanding between them, and as though they had shared 
 some piece of good luck together. What did that relic of 
 Mars mean by being so contented ? What had passed between 
 that wooden leg and the other? Marius reached a paroxysm 
 of jealousy. "Perhaps he was there!" he said to himself; 
 "perhaps he saw !" And he felt a desire to exterminate the 
 veteran. 
 
 With the aid of time, all points grow dull. Marius' wrath 
 against "Ursule," just and legitimate as it was, passed off. 
 He finally pardoned her ; but this cost him a great effort ; he 
 sulked for three days. 
 
 Nevertheless, in spite of all this, and because of all this, his 
 passion augmented and grew to madness. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 ECLIPSE 
 
 THE reader has just seen how Marius discovered, or thought 
 that he discovered, that She was named Ursule. 
 
 Appetite grows with loving. To know that her name was 
 Ursule was a great deal ; it was very little. In three or four 
 weeks, Marius had devoured this bliss. He wanted another. 
 He wanted to know where she lived.
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO UTARU 
 
 He had committed his first blunder, by falling into the am- 
 bush of the bench by the Gladiator. He had committed a 
 second, by not remaining at the Luxembourg when M. 
 Leblanc came thither alone. He now committed a third, and 
 an immense one. He followed "TJrsule." 
 
 She lived in the Rue de 1'Ouest, in the most unfrequented 
 spot, in a new, three-story house, of modest appearance. 
 
 From that moment forth, Marius added to his happiness of 
 seeing her at the Luxembourg the happiness of following her 
 home. 
 
 His hunger was increasing. He knew her first name, at 
 least, a charming name, a genuine woman's name; he knew 
 where she lived; he wanted to know who she was. 
 
 One evening, after he had followed them to their dwelling, 
 and had seen them disappear through the carriage gate, he 
 entered in their train and said boldly to the porter : 
 
 "Is that the gentleman who lives on the first floor, who has 
 just come in?" 
 
 "No," replied the porter. "He is the gentleman on the 
 third floor." 
 
 Another step gained. This success emboldened Marius. 
 
 "On the front?" he asked. 
 
 "Parbleu !" said the porter, "the house is only built on 
 the street." 
 
 "And what is that gentleman's business?" began Marius 
 again. 
 
 "He is a gentleman of property, sir. A very kind man who 
 does good to the unfortunate, though not rich himself." 
 
 "What is his name?" resumed Marius. 
 
 The porter raised his head and said : 
 
 "Are you a police spy, sir?" 
 
 Marius went off quite abashed, but delighted. He was 
 getting on. 
 
 "Good," thought he, "I know that her name is Ursule, that 
 she is the daughter of a gentleman who lives on his income, 
 and that she lives there, on the third floor, in the Rue de 
 FOuest."
 
 162 MARIUS 
 
 On the following day, M. Leblanc and his daughter made 
 only a very brief stay in the Luxembourg; they went away 
 while it was still broad daylight. Marius followed them to 
 the Rue de 1'Ouest, as he had taken up the habit of doing. 
 On arriving at the carriage entrance M. Leblanc made his 
 daughter pass in first, then paused, before crossing the thresh- 
 old, and stared intently at Marius. 
 
 On the next day they did not come to the Luxembourg. 
 Marius waited for them all day in vain. 
 
 At nightfall, he went to the Rue de 1'Ouest, and saw a light 
 in the windows of the third story. 
 
 He walked about beneath the windows until the light was 
 extinguished. 
 
 The next day, no one at the Luxembourg. Marius waited 
 all day, then went and did sentinel duty under their windows. 
 This carried him on to ten o'clock in the evening. 
 
 His dinner took care of itself. Fever nourishes the sick 
 man, and love the lover. 
 
 He spent a week in this manner. M. Leblanc no longer 
 appeared at the Luxembourg. 
 
 Marius indulged in melancholy conjectures; he dared not 
 watch the porte cochere during the day ; he contented himself 
 with going at night to gaze upon the red light of the windows. 
 At times he saw shadows flit across them, and his heart began 
 to beat. 
 
 On the eighth day, when he arrived under the windows, there 
 was no light in them. 
 
 "Hello !" he said, "the lamp is not lighted yet. But it is 
 dark. Can they have gone out ?" He waited until ten o'clock. 
 Until midnight. Until one in the morning. Not a light 
 appeared in the windows of the third story, and no one entered 
 the house. 
 
 He went away in a very gloomy frame of mind. 
 
 On the morrow, for he only existed from morrow to mor- 
 row, there was, so to speak, no to-day for him, on the 
 morrow, he found no one at the Luxembourg ; he had expected 
 this. At dusk, he went to the house.
 
 THE CONJUNCTION OF TWO HTAR8 
 
 No light in the windows ; the shades were drawn ; the third 
 floor was totally dark. 
 
 Marius rapped at the porte cochere, entered, and said to 
 the porter: 
 
 "The gentleman on the third floor?" 
 
 "Has moved away," replied the porter. 
 
 Marius reeled and said feebly : 
 
 "How long ago ?" 
 
 "Yesterday." 
 
 "Where is he living now ?" 
 
 "I don't know anything about it." 
 
 "So he has not left his new address?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 And the porter, raising his eyes, recognized Marius. 
 
 "Come ! So it's you !" said he ; "but you are decidedly a 
 spy then?"
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. PATRON MINETTE 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MINES AND MINERS 
 
 HUMAN societies all have what is called in theatrical par- 
 lance, a third lower floor. The social soil is everywhere under- 
 mined, sometimes for good, sometimes for evil. These works 
 are superposed one upon the other. There are superior mines 
 and inferior mines. There is a top and a bottom in this 
 obscure sub-soil, which sometimes gives way beneath civiliza- 
 tion, and which our indifference and heedlessness trample 
 under foot. The Encyclopedia, in the last century, was a 
 mine that was almost open to the sky. The shades, those 
 sombre hatchers of primitive Christianity, only awaited an 
 opportunity to bring about an explosion under the Caesars and 
 to inundate the human race with light. For in the sacred 
 shadows there lies latent light. Volcanoes are full of a 
 shadow that is capable of flashing forth. Every form begins 
 by being night. The catacombs, in which the first mass was 
 said, were not alone the cellar of Rome, they were the vaults 
 of the world. 
 
 Beneath the social construction, that complicated marvel of 
 a structure, there are excavations of all sorts. There is the 
 religious mine, the philosophical mine, the economic mine, the 
 revolutionary mine. Such and such a pick-axe with the idea, 
 such a pick with ciphers. Such another with wrath. People 
 hail and answer each other from one catacomb to another. 
 Utopias travel about underground, in the pipes. There they 
 branch out in every direction. They sometimes meet, and frat- 
 ernize there. Jean-Jacques lends his pick to Diogenes, who
 
 PATRON MINETTE 
 
 lends him his lantern. Sometimes they enter into combat 
 there. Calvin seizes Socinhis by the hair. But nothing arrests 
 nor interrupts the tension of all these energies toward the 
 goal, and the vast, simultaneous activity, which goes and 
 comes, mounts, descends, and mounts again in these obscuri- 
 ties, and which immense unknown swarming slowly transforms 
 the top and the bottom and the inside and the outside. Society 
 hardly even suspects this digging which leaves its surface in- 
 tact and changes its bowels. There are as many different 
 subterranean stages as there are varying works, as there are 
 extractions. What emerges from these deep excavations ? The 
 future. 
 
 The deeper one goes, the more mysterious are the toilers. 
 The work is good, up to a degree which the social philosophies 
 are able to recognize; beyond that degree it is doubtful and 
 mixed; lower down, it becomes terrible. At a certain depth, 
 the excavations are no longer penetrable by the spirit of civili- 
 zation, the limit breathable by man has been passed; a begin- 
 ning of monsters is possible. 
 
 The descending scale is a strange one; and each one of the 
 rungs of this ladder corresponds to a stage where philosophy 
 can find foothold, and where one encounters one of these work- 
 men, sometimes divine, sometimes misshapen. Below John 
 Huss, there is Luther; below Luther, there is Descartes; below 
 Descartes, there is Voltaire; below Voltaire, there is Condor- 
 cet; below Condorcet, there is Robespierre; below Robespierre, 
 there is Marat; below Marat there is Babeuf. And so it goes 
 on. Lower down, confusedly, at the limit which separates the 
 indistinct from the invisible, one perceives other gloomy men, 
 who perhaps do not exist as yet. The men of yesterday are 
 spectres; those of to-morrow are forms. The eye of the spirit 
 distinguishes them but obscurely. The embryonic work of the 
 future is one of the visions of philosophy. 
 
 A world in limbo, in the state of fcetus, what an unheard-of 
 spectre ! 
 
 Saint-Simon, Owen, Fourier, are there also, in lateral gal- 
 leries.
 
 166 MARIU8 
 
 Surely, although a divine and invisible chain unknown to 
 themselves, binds together all these subterranean pioneers who, 
 almost always, think themselves isolated, and who are not so, 
 their works vary greatly, and the li^ht of some contrasts with 
 the blaze of others. The first are paradisiacal, the last are 
 tragic. Nevertheless, whatever may be the contrast, all these 
 toilers, from the highest to the most nocturnal, from the wisest 
 to the most foolish, possess one likeness, and this is it : disinter- 
 estedness. Marat forgets himself like Jesus. They throw 
 themselves on one side, they omit themselves, they think not of 
 themselves. They have a glance, and that glance seeks the 
 absolute. The first has the whole heavens in his eyes ; the last, 
 enigmatical though he may be, has still, beneath his eyelids, 
 the pale beam of the infinite. Venerate the man, whoever he 
 may be, who has this sign the starry eye. 
 
 The shadowy eye is the other sign. 
 
 With it, evil commences. Keflect and tremble in the pres- 
 ence of any one who has no glance at all. The social order has 
 its black miners. 
 
 There is a point where depth is tantamount to burial, and 
 where light becomes extinct. 
 
 Below all these mines which we have just mentioned, below 
 all these galleries, below this whole immense, subterranean, 
 venous system of progress and utopia, much further on in the 
 earth, much lower than Marat, lower than Babeuf, lower, much 
 lower, and without any connection with the upper levels, there 
 lies the last mine. A formidable spot. This is what we have 
 designated as the le troisieme dessous. It is the grave of shad- 
 ows. It is the cellar of the blind. Inferi. 
 
 This communicates with the abyss.
 
 PATROL MINETTE 167 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE LOWEST DEPTHS 
 
 THERE disinterestedness vanishes. The demon is vaguely 
 outlined; each one is for himself. The I in the eyes howls, 
 seeks, fumbles, and gnaws. The social Ugolino is in this gulf. 
 
 The wild spectres who roam in this grave, almost beasts, 
 almost phantoms, are not occupied with universal progress; 
 they are ignorant both of the idea and of the word ; they take 
 no thought for anything but the satisfaction of their indi- 
 vidual desires. They are almost unconscious, and there exists 
 within them a sort of terrible obliteration. They have two 
 mothers, both step-mothers, ignorance and misery. They have 
 a guide, necessity; and for all forms of satisfaction, appetite. 
 They are brutally voracious, that is to say, ferocious, not after 
 the fashion of the tyrant, but after the fashion of the tiger. 
 From suffering these spectres pass to crime; fatal affiliation, 
 dizzy creation, logic of darkness. That which crawls in the 
 social third lower level is no longer complaint stifled by the 
 absolute; it is the protest of matter. Man there becomes a 
 dragon. To be hungry, to be thirsty that is the point of de- 
 parture; to be Satan that is the point reached. From that 
 vault Lacenaire emerges. 
 
 We have just seen, in Book Fourth, one of the compartments 
 of the upper mine, of the great political, revolutionary, and 
 philosophical excavation. There, as we have just said, all is 
 pure, noble, dignified, honest. There, assuredly, one might be 
 misled ; but error is worthy of veneration there, so thoroughly 
 does it imply heroism. The work there effected, taken as a 
 whole, has a name : Progress. 
 
 The moment has now come when we must take a look at 
 other depths, hideous depths. There exists beneath society, 
 we insist upon this point, and there will exist, until that day 
 when ignorance shall be dissipated, the great cavern of evil. 
 
 This cavern is below all, and is the foe of all. It is hatred,
 
 168 MARW8 
 
 without exception. This cavern knows no philosophers; its 
 dagger has never cut a pen. Its blackness has no connection 
 with the sublime blackness of the inkstand. Never have the 
 fingers of night which contract beneath this stifling ceiling, 
 turned the leaves of a book nor unfolded a newspaper. Babeuf 
 is a speculator to Cartouche ; Marat is an aristocrat to Schin- 
 derhannes. This cavern has for its object the destruction of 
 everything. 
 
 Of everything. Including the upper superior mines, which 
 it execrates. It not only undermines, in its hideous swarming, 
 the actual social order; it undermines philosophy, it under- 
 mines human thought, it undermines civilization, it under- 
 mines revolution, it undermines progress. Its name is simply 
 theft, prostitution, murder, assassination. It is darkness, and 
 it desires chaos. Its vault is formed of ignorance. 
 
 All the others, those above it, have but one object to sup- 
 press it. It is to this point that philosophy and progress tend, 
 with all their organs simultaneously, by their amelioration of 
 the real, as well as by their contemplation of the absolute. 
 Destroy the cavern Ignorance and you destroy the lair Crime. 
 
 Let us condense, in a few words, a part of what we have just 
 written. The only social peril is darkness. 
 
 Humanity is identity. All men are made of the same clay. 
 There is no difference, here below, at least, in predestination. 
 The same shadow in front, the same flesh in the present, the 
 same ashes afterwards. But ignorance, mingled with the hu- 
 man paste, blackens it. This incurable blackness takes possess- 
 sion of the interior of a man and is there converted into evil. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 BABET, GUEULEMER, CLAQUESOUS, AND MONTPARNASSE 
 
 A QUARTETTE of ruffians, Claqucsous, Gueulemer, Babet, 
 and Montparnasse governed the third lower floor of Paris, 
 from 1830 to 1835.
 
 PATRON MINKTTE 
 
 Gueulemer was a Hercules of no defined position. For his 
 lair he had the sewer of the Arche-Marion. He was six feet 
 high, his pectoral muscles were of marble, his biceps of brass, 
 his breath was that of a cavern, his torso that of a colossus, 
 his head that of a bird. One thought one beheld the Farnese 
 Hercules clad in duck trousers and a cotton velvet waistcoat. 
 Gueulemer, built after this sculptural fashion, might have sub- 
 dued monsters; he had found it more expeditious to be one. 
 A low brow, large temples, less than forty years of age, but 
 with crow's-feet, harsh, short hair, cheeks like a brush, a beard 
 like that of a wild boar; the reader can see the man before 
 him. His muscles called for work, his stupidity would have 
 none of it. He was a great, idle force. He was an assassin 
 through coolness. He was thought to be a Creole. He had, 
 probably, somewhat to do with Marshal Brune, having been a 
 porter at Avignon in 1815. After this stage, he had turned 
 ruffian. 
 
 The diaphaneity of Babet contrasted with the grossness of 
 Gueulemer. Babet was thin and learned. He was transparent 
 but impenetrable. Daylight was visible through his bones, but 
 nothing through his eyes. He declared that he was a chemist. 
 He had been a jack of all trades. He had played in vaudeville 
 at Saint-Mihiel. He was a man of purpose, a fine talker, who 
 underlined his smiles and accentuated his gestures. His occu- 
 pation consisted in selling, in the open air, plaster busts arid 
 portraits of "the head of the State." In addition to this, he 
 extracted teeth. He had exhibited phenomena at fairs, and he 
 had owned a booth with a trumpet and this poster: ''Babet, 
 Dent; 1 .! Artist, Member of the Academies, makes physical ex- 
 periments on metals and metalloids, extracts teeth, undertakes 
 stumps abandoned by his brother practitioners. Price: one 
 tooth, one franc, fifty centimes ; two teeth, two francs ; three 
 teeth, two francs, fifty. Take advantage of this opportunity." 
 This Take advantage of this opportunity meant: Have as 
 many teeth extracted as possible. He had been married and 
 had had children. He did not know what had become of his 
 wife and children. He had lost them as one loses his handker-
 
 170 MARIU8 
 
 chief. Babet read the papers, a striking exception in the world 
 to which he belonged. One day, at the period when he had his 
 family with him in his booth on wheels, he had read in the 
 Messager, that a woman had just given birth to a child, who 
 was doing well, and had a calf's muzzle, and he exclaimed : 
 "There's a fortune ! my wife has not the wit to present me 
 with a child like that !" 
 
 Later on he had abandoned everything, in order to "under- 
 take Paris." This was his expression. 
 
 Who was Claquesous? He was night. He waited until the 
 sky was daubed with black, before he showed himself. At 
 nightfall he emerged from the hole whither he returned before 
 daylight. Where was this hole? No one knew. He only 
 addressed his accomplices in the most absolute darkness, and 
 with his back turned to them. Was his name Claquesous? 
 Certainly not. If a candle was brought, he put on a mask. 
 He was a ventriloquist. Babet said : "Claquesous is a noc- 
 turne for two voices." Claquesous was vague, terrible, and a 
 roamer. No one was sure whether he had a name, Claquesous 
 being a sobriquet; none was sure that he had a voice, as his 
 stomach spoke more frequently than his voice ; no one was sure 
 that he had a face, as he was never seen without his mask. He 
 disappeared as though he had vanished into thin air ; when he 
 appeared, it was as though he sprang from the earth. 
 
 A lugubrious being was Montparnasse. Montparnasse was a 
 child; less than twenty years of age, with a handsome face, 
 lips like cherries, charming black hair, the brilliant light of 
 springtime in his eyes; he had all vices and aspired to all 
 crimes. 
 
 The digestion of evil aroused in him an appetite for worse. 
 It was the street boy turned pickpocket, and a pickpocket 
 turned garroter. He was genteel, effeminate, graceful, robust, 
 sluggish, ferocious. The rim of his hat was curled up on the 
 left side, in order to make room for a tuft of hair, after the 
 style of 1829. He lived by robbery with violence. His coat 
 was of the best cut, but threadbare. Montparnasse was a 
 fashion-plate in misery and given to the commission of mur-
 
 PATRON MINETTE 
 
 ders. The cause of all this youth's crimes was the desire to he 
 well-dressed. The first grisette who had said to him : "You 
 are handsome!" had cast the stain of darkness into his heart, 
 and had made a Cain of this Abel. Finding that he was hand- 
 some, he desired to be elegant: now, the height of elegance is 
 idleness; idleness in a poor man means crime. Few prowlers 
 were so dreaded as Montparnasse. At eighteen, he had already 
 numerous corpses in his past. More than one passer-by lay 
 with outstretched arms in the presence of this wretch, with his 
 face in a pool of blood. Curled, pomaded, with laced waist, 
 the hips of a woman, the bust of a Prussian officer, the murmur 
 of admiration from the boulevard wenches surrounding him, 
 his cravat knowingly tied, a bludgeon in his pocket, a flower 
 in his buttonhole ; such was this dandy of the sepulchre. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 COMPOSITION OF THE TROUPE 
 
 THESE four ruffians formed a sort of Proteus, winding like 
 a serpent among the police, and striving to escape Vidocq's 
 indiscreet glances "under divers forms, tree, flame, fountain," 
 lending each other their names and their traps, hiding in their 
 own shadows, boxes with secret compartments and refuges for 
 each other, stripping off their personalities, as one removes his 
 false nose at a masked ball, sometimes simplifying matters to 
 the point of consisting of but one individual, sometimes mul- 
 tiplying themselves to such a point that Coco-Latour himself 
 took them for a whole throng. 
 
 These four men were not four men; they were a sort of 
 mysterious robber with four heads, operating on a grand scale 
 on Paris ; they were that monstrous polyp of evil, which inhab- 
 its the crypt of society. 
 
 Thanks to their ramifications, and to the network underly- 
 ing their relations, Babet, Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Mont- 
 parnasse were charged with the general enterprise of the
 
 MARIUS 
 
 ambushes of the department of the Seine. The inventors of 
 ideas of that nature, men with nocturnal imaginations, applied 
 to them to have their ideas executed. They furnished the 
 canvas to the four rascals, and the latter undertook the prep- 
 aration of the scenery. They labored at the stage setting. 
 They were always in a condition to lend a force proportioned 
 and suitable to all crimes which demanded a lift of the 
 shoulder, and which were sufficiently lucrative. When a crime 
 was in quest of arms, they under-let their accomplices. They 
 kept a troupe of actors of the shadows at the disposition of all 
 underground tragedies. 
 
 They were in the habit of assembling at nightfall, the hour 
 when they woke up, on the plains which adjoin the Salpetriere. 
 There they held their conferences. They had twelve black 
 hours before them; they regulated their employment accord- 
 ingly. 
 
 Patron-Minette, such was the name which was bestowed 
 in the subterranean circulation on the association of these four 
 men. In the fantastic, ancient, popular parlance, which is 
 vanishing day by day, Patron-Minette signifies the morning, 
 the same as entre chicn et loup between dog and wolf sig- 
 nifies the evening. This appellation, Patron-Minette, was 
 probably derived from the hour at which their work ended, 
 the dawn being the vanishing moment for phantoms and for 
 the separation of ruffians. These four men were known under 
 this title. When the President of the Assizes visited Lace- 
 naire in his prison, and questioned him concerning a misdeed 
 which Lacenaire denied. "Who did it?" demanded the Presi- 
 dent. Lacenaire made this response, enigmatical so far as 
 the magistrate was concerned, but clear to the police: "Per- 
 haps it was Patron-Minette." 
 
 A piece can sometimes be divined on the enunciation of the 
 personages; in the same manner a band can almost be judged 
 from the list of ruffians composing it. Here arc the appella- 
 tions to which the principal members of Patron-Minette 
 answered. for the names have survived in special memoirs. 
 
 Pane-baud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille.
 
 PATRON M1NETTE 173 
 
 Brujon. [There was a Brujon dynasty ; we cannot refrain 
 from interpolating this word.] 
 
 Boulatruelle, the road-mender already introduced. 
 
 Laveuve. 
 
 Finistere. 
 
 Homere-Hogu, a negro. 
 
 Mardisoir. (Tuesday evening.) 
 
 Depeche. (Make haste.) 
 
 Fauntleroy, alias Bouquetiere (the Flower Girl). 
 
 Glorieux, a discharged convict. 
 
 Barrecarrosse (Stop-carriage), called Monsieur Dupont. 
 
 L'Esplanade-du-Sud. 
 
 Poussagrive. 
 
 Carmagnolet. 
 
 Kruidcniers, called Bizarro. 
 
 Mangedentelle. (Lace-eater.) 
 
 Les-pieds-en-1'Air. (Feet in the air.) 
 
 Demi-Liard, called Deux-Milliards. 
 
 Etc., etc. 
 
 We pass over some, and not the worst of them. These 
 names have faces attached. They do not express merely 
 beings, but species. Each one of these names corresponds to 
 a variety of those misshapen fungi from the under side of 
 civilization. 
 
 Those beings, who were not very lavish with their counte- 
 nances, were not among the men whom one sees passing along 
 the streets. Fatigued by the wild nights which they passed, 
 they went off by day to sleep, sometimes in the lime-kilns, 
 sometimes in the abandoned quarries of Montmatre or Mont- 
 rouge, sometimes in the sewers. They ran to earth. 
 
 What became of these men? They still exist. They have 
 always existed. Horace speaks of them: Ambubaiarum 
 collegia, pharmacopeia;, mcndici, mimcc; and so long as society, 
 remains what it is, they will remain what they are. Beneath 
 the obscure roof of their cavern, they are continually born 
 again from the social ooze. They return, spectres, but always 
 identical ; only, they no longer bear the same names and they
 
 174 MARWS 
 
 are no longer in the same skins. The individuals extirpated, 
 the tribe subsists. 
 
 They always have the same faculties. From the vagrant to 
 the tramp, the race is maintained in its purity. They divine 
 purses in pockets, they scent out watches in fobs. Gold and 
 silver possess an odor for them. There exist ingenuous bour- 
 geois, of whom it might be said, that they have a "stealable" 
 air. These men patiently pursue these bourgeois. They ex- 
 perience the quivers of a spider at the passage of a stranger 
 or of a man from the country. 
 
 These men are terrible, when one encounters them, or 
 catches a glimpse of them, towards midnight, on a deserted 
 boulevard. They do not seem to be men, but forms composed 
 of living mists; one would say that they habitually constitute 
 one mass with the shadows, that they are in no wise distinct 
 from them, that they possess no other soul than the darkness, 
 and that it is only momentarily and for the purpose of living 
 for a few minutes a monstrous life, that they have separated 
 from the night. 
 
 What is necessary to cause these spectres to vanish ? Light. 
 Light in floods. Not a single bat can resist the dawn. Light 
 up society from below.
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. THE WICKED POOR MAN 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 MARIUS, WHILE SEEKING A GIRL IN A BONNET, ENCOUNTERS A 
 MAN IN A CAP 
 
 SUMMER passed, then the autumn; winter came. Neither 
 M. Leblanc nor the young girl had again set foot in the 
 Luxembourg garden. Thenceforth, Marius had hut one 
 thought, to gaze once more on that sweet and adorable face. 
 He sought constantly, he sought everywhere ; he found noth- 
 ing. He was no longer Marius, the enthusiastic dreamer, the 
 firm, resolute, ardent man, the bold defier of fate, the brain 
 which erected future on future, the young spirit encumbered 
 with plans, -with projects, with pride, with ideas and wishes ; 
 he was a lost dog. lie fell into a black melancholy. All was 
 over. Work disgusted him, walking tired him. Vast nature, 
 formerly so filled with forms, lights, voices, counsels, per- 
 spectives, horizons, teachings, now lay empty before him. It 
 seemed to him that everything had disappeared. 
 
 He thought incessantly, for he could not do otherwise ; but 
 he no longer took pleasure in his thoughts. To everything 
 that they proposed to him in a whisper, he replied in his 
 darkness : "What is the use ?" 
 
 He heaped a hundred reproaches on himself. "Why did I 
 follow her ? I was so happy at the mere sight of her ! She 
 looked at me; was not that immense? She had the air of 
 loving me. Was not that everything? I wished to have, 
 what? There was nothing after that. I have been absurd. It 
 is my own fault." etc., etc. Courfeyrac, to whom he confided 
 nothing, it was his nature, but who made some little guess
 
 176 MARIUS 
 
 at everything, that was his nature, had begun by congrat- 
 ulating him on being in love, though he was amazed at it; 
 then, seeing Marius fall into this melancholy state, he ended 
 by saying to him : "I see that you have been simply an 
 animal. Here, come to the Chaumiere." 
 
 Once, having confidence in a fine September sun, Marius 
 had allowed himself to be taken to the ball at Sceaux by Cour- 
 feyrac, Bossuet. and Grantaire, hoping, what a dream ! that he 
 might, perhaps, find her there. Of course he did not see the 
 one he sought. "But this is the place, all the same, where all 
 lost women are found," grumbled Grantaire in an aside. 
 Marius left his friends at the ball and returned home on foot, 
 alone, through the night, weary, feverish, with sad and 
 troubled eyes, stunned by the noise and dust of the merry 
 wagons filled with singing creatures on their way home from 
 the feast, which passed close to him, as he, in his discourage- 
 ment, breathed in the acrid scent of the walnut-trees, along 
 the road, in order to refresh his head. 
 
 He took to living more and more alone, utterly over- 
 whelmed, wholly given up to his inward anguish, going and 
 coming in his pain like the wolf in the trap, seeking the absent 
 one everywhere, stupefied by love. 
 
 On another occasion, he had an encounter which produced 
 on him a singular effect. He met, in the narrow streets in the 
 vicinity of the Boulevard des Invalidcs, a man dressed like a 
 workingman and wearing a cap with a long visor, which 
 allowed a glimpse of locks of very white hair. Marius was 
 struck with the beauty of this white hair, and scrutunized the 
 man, who was walking slowly and as though absorbed in pain- 
 ful meditation. Strange to say, he thought that he recognized 
 M. Leblanc. The hair was the same, also the profile, so far 
 as the cap permitted a view of it, the mien identical, only more 
 depressed. But why these workingman's clothes? What was 
 the meaning of this? What signified that disguise? Marius 
 was greatly astonished. When he recovered himself, his first 
 impulse was to follow the man ; who knows whether he did 
 not hold at last the clue which he was seeking? In any case,
 
 THE WICKED POOR MA A ^77 
 
 he must sec the man near at hand, and clear up the mystery. 
 But the idea occurred to him too late, the man was no longer 
 there. He had turned into some little side street, and Marius 
 could not find him. This encounter occupied his mind for 
 three days and then was effaced. "After all," he said to him- 
 self, "it was probably only a resemblance." 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 TREASURE TROVE 
 
 MARIUS had not left the Gorbeau house. He paid no atten- 
 tion to any one there. 
 
 At that epoch, to tell the truth, there were no other inhabi- 
 tants in the house, except himself and those Jondrettes whose 
 rent he had once paid, without, moreover, ever having spoken 
 to either father, mother, or daughters. The other lodgers had 
 moved away or had died, or had been turned out in default of 
 payment. 
 
 One day during that winter, the sun had shown itself a little 
 in the afternoon, but it was the 3d of February, that ancient 
 Candlemas day whose treacherous sun, the precursor of a six 
 weeks' cold spell, inspired Mathieu Laensberg with these two 
 lines, which have with justice remained classic: 
 
 Qu'il luise ou qu'il luiserne, 
 L'ours rentre dans en sa caverne. 1 
 
 Marius had just emerged from his: night was falling. It 
 was the hour for his dinner: for he had been obliged to take 
 to dining again, alas ! oh, infirmities of ideal passions ! 
 
 lie had just crossed his threshold, where Ma'am Rougon 
 was sweeping at the moment, as she uttered this memorable 
 monologue : 
 
 "What is there that is cheap now? Everything is dear. 
 
 'Whether the sun shines brightly or dim. the hear returns to his 
 cave.
 
 178 MARIU8 
 
 There is nothing in the world that is cheap except 
 trouble; you can get that for nothing, the trouble of the 
 world !" 
 
 Marius slowly ascended the boulevard towards the barrier, 
 in order to reach the Rue Saint-Jacques. He was walking 
 along with drooping head. 
 
 All at once, he felt some one elbow him in the dusk; he 
 wheeled round, and saw two young girls clad in rags, the one 
 tall and slim, the other a little shorter, who were passing 
 rapidly, all out of breath, in terror, and with the appearance 
 of fleeing; they had been coming to meet him, bad not seen 
 him, and had jostled him as they passed. Through the twi- 
 light, Marius could distinguish their livid faces, their wild 
 heads, their dishevelled hair, their hideous bonnets, their 
 ragged petticoats, and their bare feet. They were talking as 
 they ran. The taller said in a very low voice : 
 
 "The bobbies have come. They came near nabbing me at 
 the half-circle." The other answered: "I saw them. I 
 bolted, bolted, bolted!" 
 
 Through this repulsive slang, Marius understood that gen- 
 darmes or the police had come near apprehending these two 
 children, and that the latter had escaped. 
 
 They plunged among the trees of the boulevard behind him, 
 and there created, for a few minutes, in the gloom, a sort of 
 vague white spot, then disappeared. 
 
 Marius had halted for a moment. 
 
 He was about to pursue his way. when his eye lighted on a 
 little grayish package lying on the ground at his foot. He 
 stooped and picked it up. It was a sort of envelope which 
 appeared to contain papers. 
 
 "Good," he said to himself, "those unhappy girls dropped 
 it." 
 
 He retraced his steps, he called, he did not find them; he 
 reflected that they must already be far away, put the package 
 in his pocket, and went off to dine. 
 
 On the way, he saw in an alley of the Rue Mouffetard, a 
 child's coffin, covered with a black cloth, resting on three
 
 TUE WICKED POOR MAN 179 
 
 chairs, and illuminated by a candle. The two girls of the 
 twilight recurred to his mind. 
 
 "Poor mothers!" he thought. "There is one thing sadder 
 than to see one's children die ; it is to see them leading an evil 
 life." 
 
 Then those shadows which had varied his melancholy 
 vanished from his thoughts, and he fell back once more into 
 his habitual preoccupations. He fell to thinking once more 
 of his six months of love and happiness in the open air and 
 the broad daylight, beneath the beautiful trees of Luxem- 
 bourg. 
 
 "How gloomy my life has become !" he said to himself. 
 "Young girls are always appearing to me, only formerly they 
 were angels and now they are ghouls." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 QUADRIFRONS 
 
 THAT evening, as he was undressing preparatory to going 
 to bed, his hand came in contact, in the pocket of his coat, 
 with the packet which he had picked up on the boulevard. He 
 had forgotten it. He thought that it would be well to open 
 it, and that this package might possibly contain the address 
 of the young girls, if it really belonged to them, and, in any 
 case, the information necessary to a restitution to the person 
 who had lost it. 
 
 He opened the envelope. 
 
 It was not sealed, and contained four letters, also unsealed. 
 
 They bore addresses. 
 
 All four exhaled a horrible odor of tobacco. 
 
 The first was addressed: "To Madame, Madame la Mar- 
 quise dc Gruchcray, the place opposite the Chamber of Depu- 
 ties, No." 
 
 Marius said to himself, that he should probably find in it 
 the information which he sought, and that, moreover, the
 
 MARIUS 
 
 letter being open, it was probable that it could be read with- 
 out impropriety. 
 
 It was conceived as follows: 
 
 MADAME LA MARQUISE: The virtue of clemency and piety is that 
 which most closely unites sosiety. Turn your Christian spirit and 
 cast a look of compassion on this unfortunate Spanish victim of 
 loyalty and attachment to the sacred cause of legitimacy, who has 
 given with his blood, consecrated his fortune, evverything, to defer' 1 
 that cause, and to-day finds himself in the greatest missery. He 
 doubts not that your honorable person will grant succor to preserve 
 an existence exteremely painful for a military man of education and 
 honor full of wounds, counts in advance on the humanity which ani- 
 mates you and on the interest which Madame la Marquise bears 
 to a nation so unfortunate. Their prayer will not be in vain, and 
 their gratitude will preserve theirs charming souvenir. 
 
 My respectful sentiments, with which I have the honor to be 
 Madame, 
 
 DON ALVARfcs, Spanish Captain 
 of Cavalry, a royalist who 
 has take refuge in France, 
 who finds himself on travells 
 for his country, and the re- 
 sources are lacking him to 
 continue his travells. 
 
 No address was joined to the signature. Marius hoped to 
 find the address in the second letter, whose superscription 
 read: A Madame, Madame la Comtesse de Montvernei, Rue 
 Cassette, No. 9. This is what Marius read in it : 
 
 MADAME I.A COMTESSE: It is an unhappy mother of a family 
 of six children the last of which is only eight months old. I 
 sick since my last confinement, abandoned by my husband five 
 j::onths ago, haveing no resources in the world the most frightful 
 imligance. 
 
 In the hope of Madame la Comtesse, she has the honor to be, 
 Madame, with profound respect, 
 
 MISTRESS BALLZARD. 
 
 Marius turned to the third letter, which was a petition like 
 the preceding; he read: 
 
 Monsieur PABOURGEOT, Elector, wholesale stocking merchant, 
 
 Rue Saint-Denis on the corner of the Rue aux Fers. 
 I permit myself to address you this letter to beg you to grant 
 me the pretious favor of your simpatieu and to interest yourself
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN ]%] 
 
 in a man of letters who has just sent a drama to the ThCfttre- 
 Francais. The subject is historical, and the action takes place 
 in Auvergne in the time of the Empire; the style, I think, is 
 natural, laconic, and may have some merit. There are couplets 
 to be sung in four places. The comic, the serious, the unexpected, 
 are mingled in a variety of characters, and a tinge of romanti- 
 cism lightly spread through all the intrigue which proceeds mis- 
 teriously, and ends, after striking altarations, in the midst of 
 many beautiful strokes of brilliant scenes. 
 
 My principal object is to satisfi the desire which progressively 
 animates the man of our century, that is to say, the fashion, that 
 capritious and bizarre weathervane which changes at almost every 
 new wind. 
 
 In spite of these qualities I have reason to fear that jealousy, 
 the egotism of priviliged authors, may obtaine my exclusion from 
 the theatre, for I am not ignorant of the mortifications with which 
 new-comers are treated. 
 
 Monsiuer Pabourgeot, your just reputation as an enlightened 
 protector of men of litters emboldens me to send you my daughter 
 who will explain our indigant situation to you, lacking bread and 
 fire in this \vynter season. When I say to you that 1 beg you to 
 accept the dedication of my drama which J desire to make to you 
 and of all those that I shall make, is to prove to you how great is 
 my ambition to have the honor of sheltering myself under your 
 protection, and of adorning my writings with your name. If you 
 deign to honor me with the most modest offering, I shall imme- 
 diately occupy myself in making a piesse of verse to pay you my 
 tribute of gratitude. Which I shall endeavor to render this piesse 
 as perfect as possible, will be sent to you before it is inserted at 
 the beginning of the drama and delivered on the stage. 
 To Monsieur 
 
 and Madame PABOUKGEOT, 
 
 My most respectful complements, 
 
 (TENFLOT, man of letters. 
 
 P. S. Even if it is only forty sous. 
 
 Excuse me for sending my daughter and not presenting myself, 
 but sad motives connected with the toilet do not permit me, alas! 
 to go out. 
 
 Finally, Marius opened the fourth letter. The address ran : 
 To the benevolent Gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques- 
 du-haut-Pas. It contained the following lines: 
 
 BENEVOLENT MAN: If you deign to accompany my daughter, you 
 will behold a misserable calamity, and I will show you my cer- 
 tificates. 
 
 At the aspect of these writings your generous soul will be 
 moved with a sentiment of obvious benevolence, for true philoso- 
 phers always feel lively emotions.
 
 182 MARID8 
 
 Admit, compassionate man, that it is necessary to suffer the 
 most cruel need, and that it is very painful, for the sake of obtain- 
 ing a little relief, to get oneself attested by the authorities as 
 though one were not free to suffer and to die of inanition while 
 waiting to have our misery relieved. Destinies arc very fatal for 
 several and too prodigal or too protecting for others. 
 
 I await your presence or your offering, if you deign to make one, 
 and 1 beseech you to accept the respectful sentiments with which 
 I have the honor to be, 
 
 truly magnanimous man, 
 your very humble 
 and very obedient servant, 
 
 P. FABANTOU, dramatic artist. 
 
 After perusing these four letters, Marius did not find him- 
 self much further advanced than before. 
 
 In the first place, not one of the signers gave his address. 
 
 Then, they seemed to come from four different individuals, 
 Don Alveras, Mistress Balizard, the poet Genfiot, and 
 dramatic artist Fabantou ; but the singular thing about these 
 letters was, that all four were written by the same hand. 
 
 What conclusion was to be drawn from this, except that 
 they all come from the same person? 
 
 Moreover, and this rendered the conjecture all the more 
 probable, the coarse and yellow paper was the same in all four, 
 the odor of tobacco was the same, and. although an attempt 
 had boon made to vary the style, the same orthographical 
 faults were reproduced with the greatest tranquillity, and the 
 man of letters Genflot was no more exempt from them than 
 the Spanish captain. 
 
 It was waste of trouble to try to solve this petty mystery. 
 Had it not been a chance find, it would have borne the air of a 
 mystification. Marius was too melancholy to take even a 
 chance pleasantry well, and to lend himself to a game which 
 the pavement of the street seemed desirous of playing with 
 him. It seemed to him that he was playing the part of the 
 blind man in blind man's buff between the four letters, and 
 that they were making sport of him. 
 
 Nothing, however, indicated that these letters belonged to 
 the two young girls whom Marius had met on the boulevard. 
 After all, they were evidently papers of no value. Marius
 
 TtlK WICKED POOR MAN 183 
 
 replaced them in their envelope, flung the whole into a corner 
 and went to bed. About seven o'clock in the morning, he 
 had just risen and breakfasted, and was trying to settle down 
 to work, when there came a soft knock at his door. 
 
 As he owned nothing, he never locked his door, unless occa- 
 sionally, though very rarely, when he was engaged in some 
 pressing work. Even when absent he left his key in the lock. 
 "You will be robbed," said Ma'am Bougon. "Of what?" 
 said Marius. The truth is, however, that he had, one day, 
 been robbed of an old pair of boots, to the great triumph of 
 Ma'am Bougon. 
 
 There came a second knock, as gentle as the first. 
 
 "Come in," said Marius. 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 "What do you want, Ma'am Bougon?" asked Marius, with- 
 out raising his eyes from the books and manuscripts on his 
 table. 
 
 A voice which did not belong to Ma'am Bougon replied : 
 
 "Excuse me, sir 
 
 It was a dull, broken, hoarse, strangled voice, the voice of 
 an old man, roughened with brandy and liquor. 
 
 Marius turned round hastily, and beheld a young girl. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A ROSE IN MISERY 
 
 A VERY young girl was standing' in the half-open door. 
 The dormer window of the garret, through which the light 
 fell, was precisely opposite the door, and illuminated the 
 figure with a wan light. She was a frail, emaciated, slender 
 creature; there was nothing but a chemise and a petticoat 
 upon that chilled and shivering nakedness. Tier girdle was a 
 string, her head ribbon a string, her pointed shoulders 
 emerged from her chemise, a blond and lymphatic pallor, 
 earth-colored collar-bones, red hands, a half-open and d6-
 
 MARIUS 
 
 graded mouth, missing teeth, dull, bold, base eyes; she had 
 the form of a young girl who has missed her youth, and the 
 look of a corrupt old woman ; fifty years mingled with fifteen ; 
 one of those beings which are both feeble and horrible, and 
 which cause those to shudder whom they do not cause to weep. 
 
 Marius had risen, and was staring in a sort of stupor at 
 this being, who was almost like the forms of the shadows 
 which traverse dreams. 
 
 The most heart-breaking thing of all was, that this young 
 girl had not come into the world to be homely. In her early 
 childhood she must even have been pretty. The grace of her 
 age was still struggling against the hideous, premature 
 decrepitude of debauchery and poverty. The remains of 
 beauty were dying away in that face of sixteen, like the pale 
 sunlight which is extinguished under hideous clouds at dawn 
 on a winter's day. 
 
 That face was not wholly unknown to Marius. He thought 
 he remembered having seen it somewhere. 
 
 "What do you wish. Mademoiselle ?" he asked. 
 
 The young girl replied in her voice of a drunken convict : 
 
 "Here is a letter for you, Monsieur Marius." 
 
 She called Marius by his name ; he could not doubt that he 
 was the person whom she wanted; but who was this girl? 
 How did she know his name? 
 
 Without waiting for him to tell her to advance, she entered. 
 She entered resolutely, staring, with a sort of assurance that 
 made the heart bleed, at the whole room and the unmade bed. 
 Her feet were bare. Large holes in her petticoat permitted 
 glimpses of her long legs and her thin knees. She was 
 shivering. 
 
 She held a letter in her hand, which she presented to 
 Marius. 
 
 Marius, as he opened the letter, noticed that the enormous 
 wafer which sealed it was still moist. The message could not 
 have come from a distance. He read: 
 
 MY AMIABLE NEIGHBOR, YOUNG MAN: I have learned of your 
 goodness to me, that you paid my rent six months ago. I bless
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 185 
 
 you, young man. My eldest daughter will tell you that we have 
 been without a morsel of bread for two days, four persons and my 
 spouse ill. If I am not dcseaved in my opinion, I think I may hope 
 that your generous heart will melt at this statement and the 
 desire will subjugate you to be propitious to me by daigning to 
 lavish on me a slight favor. 
 
 I am with the distinguished consideration which is due to the 
 benefactors of humanity, 
 
 JONDRETTE. 
 
 P. S. My eldest daughter will await your orders, dear Monsieur 
 Marius. 
 
 This letter, coming in the very midst of the mysterious 
 adventure which had occupied Marius' thoughts ever since the 
 preceding evening, was like a candle in a cellar. All was 
 suddenly illuminated. 
 
 This letter came from the same place as the other four. 
 There was the same writing, the same style, the same orthog- 
 raphy, the same paper, the same odor of tobacco. 
 
 There were five missives, five histories, five signatures, and 
 a single signer. The Spanish Captain Don Alvares, the un- 
 happy Mistress Balizard, the dramatic poet Genflot, the old 
 comedian Fahantou, were all four named Jondrette, if, 
 indeed, Jondrette himself were named Jondrette. 
 
 Marius had lived in the house for a tolerably long time, 
 and he had had, as we have said, but very rare occasion to 
 see, to even catch a glimpse of, his extremely mean neighbors. 
 His mind was elsewhere, and where the mind is, there the 
 eyes are also. He had been obliged more than once to pass 
 the Jondrettes in the corridor or on the stairs ; but they were 
 mere forms to him ; he had paid so little heed to them, that, 
 on the preceding evening, he had jostled the Jondrotte girls 
 on the boulevard, without recognizing them, for it had evi- 
 dently been they, and it was wi v ;h great difficulty that the one 
 who had just entered his room nad awakened in him, in spite 
 of disgust and pity, a vague recollection of having met her 
 elsewhere. 
 
 Now he saw everything cleirly. He understood that his 
 neighbor Jondrette, in his distress, exercised the industry of 
 speculating on the charity of benevolent persons, that he pro-
 
 186 MAKIU8 
 
 cured addresses, and that he wrote under feigned names to 
 people whom he judged to be wealthy and compassionate, 
 letters which his daughters delivered at their risk and peril, 
 for this father had come to such a pass, that he risked his 
 daughters ; he was playing a game with fate, and he used them 
 as the stake. Marius understood that probably, judging from 
 their flight on the evening before, from their breathless condi- 
 tion, from their terror and from the words of slang which 
 he had overheard, these unfortunate creatures were plying 
 some inexplicably sad profession, and that the result of the 
 whole was. in the midst of human society, as it is now con- 
 stituted, two miserable beings who were neither girls nor 
 women, a species of impure and innocent monsters produced 
 by misery. 
 
 Sad creatures, without name, or sex, or age, to whom neither 
 good nor evil were any longer possible, and who, on emerging 
 from childhood, have already nothing in this world, neither 
 liberty, nor virtue, nor responsibility. Souls which blossomed 
 out yesterday, and are faded to-day, like those flowers let fall 
 in the streets, which are soiled with every sort of mire, while 
 waiting for some wheel to crush them. Nevertheless, while 
 Marius bent a pained and astonished gaze on her, the young 
 girl was wandering back and forth in the garret with the 
 audacity of a spectre. She kicked about, without troubling 
 herself as to her nakedness. Occasionally her chemise, which 
 was untied and torn, fell almost to her waist. She moved the 
 chairs about, she disarranged the toilet articles which stood 
 on the commode, she handled Marius' clothes, she rummaged 
 about to see what there was in the corners. 
 
 "Hullo !" said she, "you have a mirror !" 
 
 And she hummed scraps of vaudevilles, as though she had 
 been alone, frolicsome refrains which her hoarse and guttural 
 voice rendered lugubrious. 
 
 An indescribable constraint, weariness, and humiliation 
 were perceptible beneath this hardihood. Effrontery is a 
 disgrace. 
 
 Nothing could be more melancholy than to see her sport
 
 HULLO' SAID SHE, "YOU HAVE A M RROR '
 
 TEE WICKED POOR MAN }g7 
 
 about the room, and, so to speak, flit with the movements of a 
 bird which is frightened by the daylight, or which has broken 
 its wing. One felt that under other conditions of education 
 and destiny, the gay and over-free mien of this young girl 
 might have turned out sweet and charming. Never, even 
 among animals, does the creature born to be a dove change 
 into an osprey. That is only to be seen among men. 
 
 Marius reflected, and allowed her to have her way. 
 
 She approached the table. 
 
 "Ah !" said she, "books !" 
 
 A flash pierced her glassy eye. She resumed, and her accent 
 expressed the happiness which she felt in boasting of some- 
 thing, to which no human creature is insensible : 
 
 "I know how to read, I do !" 
 
 She eagerly seized a book which lay open on the table, and 
 read with tolerable fluency: 
 
 " General Bauduin received orders to take the chateau of 
 Hougomont which stands in the middle of the plain of Water- 
 loo, with five battalions of his brigade." 
 
 She paused. 
 
 "Ah ! Waterloo ! I know about that. It was a battle long 
 ago. My father was there. My father has served in the 
 armies. We are fine Bonapartists in our house, that we are ! 
 Waterloo was against the English." 
 
 She laid down the book, caught up a pen, and exclaimed: 
 
 "And I know how to write, too !" 
 
 She dipped her pen in the ink, and turning to Marius: 
 
 "Do you want to see? Look here, I'm going to write a 
 word to show you." 
 
 And before he had time to answer, she wrote on a sheet of 
 white paper, which lay in the middle of the table : "The bob- 
 bies are here." 
 
 Then throwing down the pen: 
 
 "There are no faults of orthography. You can look. We 
 have received an education, my sister and I. We have not 
 always been as we are now. We were not made 
 
 Here she paused, fixed her dull eyes on Marius, and burst
 
 1SS MARIUS 
 
 out laughing, saying, with an intonation which contained 
 every form of anguish, stifled by every form of cynicism: 
 
 "Bah !" 
 And she began to hum these words to a gay air : 
 
 "J'ai faim, mon pere. "I am hungry, father. 
 
 Pas dc fricot. I have no food. 
 
 J'ai froid, ma mere. I am cold, mother. 
 
 Pas dc tricot. I have no clothes. 
 
 Grelotte, Lolotte! 
 
 Lololtc! Shiver, 
 
 Santflote, Sob, 
 
 Jacquot!" Jacquot!" 
 
 She had hardly finished this couplet, when she ex- 
 exclaimed : 
 
 "Do you ever go to the play, Monsieur Marius? I do. I 
 have a little brother who is a friend of the artists, and who 
 gives me tickets sometimes. But I don't like the benches in 
 the galleries. One is cramped and uncomfortable there. 
 There are rough people there sometimes; and people who 
 smell bad." 
 
 Then she scrutinized Marius, assumed a singular air and 
 said : 
 
 "Do you know, Mr. Marius, that you are a very handsome 
 fellow ?" 
 
 And at the same moment the same idea occurred to them 
 both, and made her smile and him blush. She stepped up to 
 him, and laid her hand on his shoulder: "You pay no heed 
 to me, but I know you, Mr. Marius. I meet you here on the 
 staircase, and then I often see you going to a person named 
 Father Mabeuf who lives in the direction of Austerlitz, some- 
 times when I have been strolling in that quarter. It is very 
 becoming to you to have your hair tumbled thus." 
 
 She tried to render her voice soft, but only succeeded in 
 making it very deep. A portion of her words was lost in the 
 transit from her larynx to her lips, as though on a piano where 
 some notes are missing. 
 
 Marius had retreated gently.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, with his cool gravity, "I have hero 
 a package which belongs to you, I think. Permit me to return 
 it to you." 
 
 And lie held out the envelope containing the four letters. 
 
 She clapped her hands and exclaimed: 
 
 "We have been looking everywhere for that!" 
 
 Then she eagerly seized the package and opened the envel- 
 ope, saying as she did so: 
 
 "Dieu de Dieu ! how my sister and I have hunted! And it 
 was you who found it! On the boulevard, wa.s it not? It 
 must have been on the boulevard? You see, we let it fall 
 when we were running. It was that brat of a sister of mine 
 who was so stupid. "When we got home, we could not find it 
 anywhere. As we did not wish to be beaten, as that is useless, 
 as that is entirely useless, as that is absolutely useless, we said 
 that we had carried the letters to the proper persons, and that 
 they had said to us : 'Nix.' So here they are, those poor 
 letters! And how did you find out that they belonged to 
 me? Ah! yes, the writing. So it was you that we jostled 
 as we passed last night. We couldn't see. I said to my sister : 
 'Is it a gentleman?' My sister said to me: 'I think it is 
 a gentleman.' " 
 
 In the meanwhile, she had unfolded the petition addressed 
 to "the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint- Jacques- 
 du-Haut-Pas." 
 
 "Here!" said she, "this is for that old fellow who goes to 
 mass. By the way, this is his hour. I'll go and carry it to 
 him. Perhaps he will give us something to break fa. -4 on." 
 
 Then she began to laugh again, and added : 
 
 "Do you know what it will mean if we get a breakfast to- 
 day? It will mean that we shall have had our breakfast of the 
 day before yesterday, our breakfast of yesterday, our dinner of 
 to-day, and all that at once, and this morning. Come ! Par- 
 bleu ! if you are not satisfied, dogs, burst !" 
 
 This reminded Marius of the wretched girl's errand to him- 
 self. He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and found nothing 
 there.
 
 190 UARIUB 
 
 The young girl went on, and seemed to have no consciousness 
 of Marius' presence. 
 
 ''I often go off in the evening. Sometimes I don't come 
 home again. Last winter, before we came here, we lived under 
 the arches of the bridges. We huddled together to keep from 
 freezing. My little sister cried. How melancholy the water 
 is ! When I thought of drowning myself, I said to myself : 
 'No, it's too cold.' I go out alone, whenever I choose, I some- 
 times sleep in the ditches. Do you know, at night, when I 
 walk along the boulevard, I see the trees like forks, I see 
 houses, all black and as big as Notre Dame, I fancy that the 
 white walls are the river, I say to myself : 'Why, there's water 
 there!' The stars are like the lamps in illuminations, one 
 would say that they smoked and that the wind blew them out, 
 I am bewildered, as though horses were breathing in my ears ; 
 although it is night, I hear hand-organs and spinning-ma- 
 chines, and I don't know what all. I think people are flinging 
 stones at me, I flee without knowing whither, everything whirls 
 and whirls. You feel very queer when you have had no food." 
 
 And then she stared at him with a bewildered air. 
 
 By dint of searching and ransacking his pockets, Marius had 
 finally collected five francs sixteen sous. This was all he 
 owned in the world for the moment. "At all events," he 
 thought, "there is my dinner for to-day, and to-morrow we will 
 see." He kept the sixteen sous, and handed the five francs to 
 the young girl. 
 
 She seized the coin. 
 
 "Good !" said she, "the sun is shining !" 
 
 And, as though the sun had possessed the property of melt- 
 ing the avalanches of slang in her brain, she went on : 
 
 "Five francs! the shiner! a monarch! in this hole! Ain't 
 this fine! You're a jolly thief! I'm your humble servant! 
 Bravo for the good fellows ! Two days' wine ! and meat ! and 
 stew ! we'll have a royal feast ! and a good fill !" 
 
 She pulled her chemise up on her shoulders, made a low bow 
 to Marius, then a familiar sign with her hand, and went to- 
 wards the door, saying :
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 191 
 
 "Good morning, sir. It's all right. I'll go and find my old 
 man." 
 
 As she passed, she caught sight of a dry crust of bread on 
 the commode, which was moulding there amid the dust; she 
 flung herself upon it and bit into it, muttering : 
 
 "That's good ! it's hard ! it breaks my teeth !" 
 
 Then she departed. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A PROVIDENTIAL PEEP-HOLE 
 
 MARIUS had lived for five years in poverty, in destitution, 
 even in distress, but he now perceived that he had not known 
 real misery. True misery he had but just had a view of. It 
 was its spectre which had just passed before his eyes. In fact, 
 he who has only beheld the misery of man has seen nothing; 
 the misery of woman is what he must see; he who has seen 
 only the misery of woman has seen nothing; he must see the 
 misery of the child. 
 
 When a man has reached his last extremity, he has reached 
 his last resources at the same time. Woe to the defenceless 
 beings who surround him ! Work, wages, bread, fire, courage, 
 good will, all fail him simultaneously. The light of day seems 
 extinguished without, the moral light within; in these shadows 
 man encounters the feebleness of the woman and the child, and 
 bends them violently to ignominy. 
 
 Then all horrors become possible. Despair is surrounded 
 with fragile partitions which all open on either vice or 
 crime. 
 
 Health, youth, honor, all the shy delicacies of the young 
 body, the heart, virginity, modesty, that epidermis of the soul, 
 are manipulated in sinister wise by that fumbling which seeks 
 resources, which encounters opprobrium, and which accomo- 
 dates itself to it. Fathers, mothers, children, brothers, sisters. 
 men, women, daughters, adhere and become incorporated,
 
 192 MARIUS 
 
 almost like a mineral formation, in that dusky promiscuous- 
 ness of sexes, relationships, ages, infamies, and innocences. 
 They crouch, back to back, in a sort of hut of fate. They 
 exchange woe-begone glances. Oh, the unfortunate wretches I 
 How pale they are ! How cold they are ! It seems as though 
 they dwelt in a planet much further from the sun than 
 ours. 
 
 This young girl was to Marius a sort of messenger from the 
 realm of sad shadows. She revealed to him a hideous side of 
 the night. 
 
 Marius almost reproached himself for the preoccupations of 
 revery and passion which had prevented his bestowing a glance 
 on his neighbors up to that day. The payment of their rent 
 had been a mechanical movement, which any one would have 
 yielded to ; but he, Marius, should have done better than that. 
 What ! only a wall separated him from those abandoned beings 
 who lived gropingly in the dark outside the pale of the rest of 
 the world, he was elbow to elbow with them, he was, in some 
 sort, the last link of the human race which they touched, he 
 heard them live, or rather, rattle in the death agony beside 
 him, and he paid no heed to them ! Every day, every instant, 
 he heard them walking on the other side of the wall, he heard 
 them go, and come, and speak, and he did not even lend an 
 ear ! And groans lay in those words, and he did not even 
 listen to them, his thoughts were elsewhere, given up to 
 dreams, to impossible radiances, to loves in the air, to follies; 
 and all the while, human creatures, his brothers in Jesus 
 Christ, his brothers in the people, were agonizing in vain be- 
 side him ! He even formed a part of their misfortune, and he 
 aggravated it. For if they had had another neighbor who was 
 less chimerical and more attentive, any ordinary and charitable 
 man, evidently their indigence would have been noticed, their 
 signals of distress would have been perceived, and they would 
 have been taken hold of and rescued ! They appeared very 
 corrupt and very depraved, no doubt, very vile, very odious 
 even ; but those who fall without becoming degraded are rare; 
 besides, there is a point where the unfortunate and the in-
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 
 
 famous unite and are confounded in a single word, a fatal 
 word, the miserable; whose fault is this? And then should not 
 the charity be all the more profound, in proportion as the fall 
 is great? 
 
 While reading himself this moral lesson, for there were occa- 
 sions on which Marius, like all truly honest hearts, was his own 
 pedagogue and scolded himself more than he deserved, he 
 stared at the wall which separated him from the Jondrettes, as 
 though he were ahle to make his gaze, full of pity, penetrate 
 that partition and warm these wretched people. The wall wat; 
 a thin layer of plaster upheld by lathes and beams, and, as the 
 reader had just learned, it allowed the sound of voices and 
 words to be clearly distinguished. Only a man as dreamy as 
 Marius could have failed to perceive this long before. There 
 was no paper pasted on the wall, either on the side of the 
 Jondrettes or on that of Marius; the coarse construction was 
 visible in its nakedness. Marius examined the partition, al- 
 most unconsciously; sometimes revery examines, observes, and 
 scrutinizes as thought would. All at once he sprang up; he 
 had just perceived, near the top, close to the ceiling, a triangu- 
 lar hole, which resulted from the space between three lathes. 
 The plaster. which should have filled this cavity was missing, 
 and by mounting on the commode, a view could be had through 
 this aperture into the Jondrettes' attic. Commiseration has, 
 and should have, its curiosity. This aperture formed a sort of 
 peep-hole. It is permissible to gaze at misfortune like a trai mi- 
 ni order to succor it. 1 
 
 "Let us get some little idea of what these people are like," 
 thought Marius, "and in what condition they are." 
 
 .lie climbed upon the commode, put his eye to the crevice, 
 and looked. 
 
 'Tlio peep-hole is 11 Judas in French. Hence the half-punning 
 allusion.
 
 194: MARIUS 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE WILD MAN IN HIS LAIR 
 
 CITIES, like forests, have their caverns in which all the most 
 wicked and formidable creatures which they contain conceal 
 themselves. Only, in cities, that which thus conceals itself is 
 ferocious, unclean, and petty, that is to say, ugly; in forests, 
 that which conceals itself is ferocious, savage, and grand, that 
 is to say, beautiful. Taking one 1air with another, the beast's 
 is preferable to the man's. Caverns are better than hovels. 
 
 What Marius now beheld was a hovel. 
 
 Marius was poor, and his chamber was poverty-stricken, but 
 as his poverty was noble, his garret was neat. The den upon 
 which his eye now rested was abject, dirty, fetid, pestiferous, 
 mean, sordid. The only furniture consisted of a straw chair, an 
 infirm table, some old bits of crockery, and in two of the cor- 
 ners, two indescribable pallets; all the light was furnishd by 
 a dormer window of four panes, draped with spiders' webs. 
 Through this aperture there penetrated just enough light to 
 make the face of a man appear like the face of a phantom. 
 The walls had a leprous aspect, and were covered with seams 
 and scars, like a visage disfigured by some horrible malady ; a 
 repulsive moisture exuded from them. Obscene sketches 
 roughly sketched with charcoal could be distinguished upon 
 them. 
 
 The chamber which Marius occupied had a dilapidated brick 
 pavement; this one was neither tiled nor planked; its inhab- 
 itants stepped directly on the antique plaster of the hovel, 
 which had grown black under the long-continued pressure of 
 feet. Upon this uneven floor, where the dirt seemed to be 
 fairly incrustcd, and which possessed but one virginity, that of 
 the broom, were capriciously grouped constellations of old 
 shoes, socks, and repulsive rags ; however, this room had a fire- 
 place, so it was let for forty francs a year. There was every 
 sort of thing in that fireplace, a brazier, a pot, broken boards.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 195 
 
 rags suspended from nails, a bird-cage, ashes, and even a 
 little fire. Two brands were smouldering there in a melan- 
 choly way. 
 
 One thing which added still more to the horrors of this gar- 
 ret was, that it was large. It had projections and angles and 
 black holes, the lower sides of roofs, bays, and promontories. 
 Hence horrible, unfathomable nooks where it seemed as though 
 spiders as big as one's fist, wood-lice as large as one's foot, and 
 perhaps even who knows? some monstrous human beings, 
 must be hiding. 
 
 One of the pallets was near the door, the other near the win- 
 dow. One end of each touched the fireplace and faced Marius. 
 In a corner near the aperture through which Marius was gaz- 
 ing, a colored engraving in a black frame was suspended to a 
 nail on the wall, and at its bottom, in large letters, was the 
 inscription: THE DREAM. This represented a sleeping 
 woman, and a child, also asleep, the child on the woman's lap, 
 an eagle in a cloud, with a crown in his beak, and the woman 
 thrusting the crown away from the child's head, without awak- 
 ing the latter ; in the background, Napoleon in a glory, leaning 
 on a very blue column with a yellow capital ornamented with 
 this inscription: 
 
 MARINGO 
 AUSTERLITS 
 
 IENA 
 
 WAQRAMME 
 ELOT 
 
 Beneath this frame, a sort of wooden panel, which was no 
 longer than it was broad, stood on the ground and rested in a 
 sloping attitude against the wall. It had the appearance of a 
 picture with its face turned to the wall, of a frame probably 
 showing a daub on the other side, of some pier-glass detached 
 from a wall and lying forgotten there while waiting to be 
 rehung. 
 
 Near the table, upon which Marius descried a pen, ink, and 
 paper, sat a man about sixty years of age, small, thin, livid.
 
 MARIU8 
 
 haggard, with a cunning, cruel, and uneasy air; a hideous 
 scoundrel. 
 
 If Lavater had studied this visage, he would have found the 
 vulture mingled with the attorney there, the bird of prey and 
 the pettifogger rendering each other mutually hideous and 
 complementing each other; the pettifogger making the bird of 
 prey ignoble, the bird of prey making the pettifogger horrible. 
 
 This man had a long gray beard. He was clad in a woman's 
 chemise, which allowed his hairy breast and his bare arms, 
 bristling with gray hair, to be seen. Beneath this chemise, 
 muddy trousers and boots through which his toes projected 
 were visible. 
 
 He had a pipe in his mouth and was smoking. There was 
 no bread in the hovel, but there was still tobacco. 
 
 He was writing probably some more letters like those which 
 Marius had read. 
 
 On the corner of the table lay an ancient, dilapidated, red- 
 dish volume, and the size, which was the antique 12mo of read- 
 ing-rooms, betrayed a romance. On the cover sprawled the fol- 
 lowing title, printed in large capitals: GOD; THE KING; 
 HONOR AND THE LADIES; BY DUCRAY DUMINIL, 
 1814. 
 
 As the man wrote, he talked aloud, and Marius heard his 
 words : 
 
 "The idea that there is no equality, even when you are dead ! 
 Just look at Pere Lachaise ! The great, those who are rich, are 
 up above, in the acacia alley, which is paved. They can reach 
 it in a carriage. The little people, the poor, the unhappy, well, 
 what of them ? they are put down below, where the mud is up 
 to your knees, in the damp places. They are put there so that 
 they will decay the sooner ! You cannot go to see them with- 
 out sinking into the earth." 
 
 He paused, smote the table with his fist, and added, as he 
 ground his teeth : 
 
 "Oh ! I could eat the whole world !" 
 
 A big woman, who might be forty years of age, or a hundred, 
 was crouching near the fireplace on her bare heels.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX -|f)7 
 
 She, too, was clad only in a chemise and a knitted petticoat 
 patched with hits of old cloth. A coarse linen apron concealed 
 the half of her petticoat. Although this woman was doubled 
 up and bent together, it could he seen that she was of very 
 lofty stature. She was a sort of giant, beside her husband. 
 She had hideous hair, of a reddish blond which was turning 
 gray, and which she thrust back from time to time, with her 
 enormous shining hands, with their flat nails. 
 
 Beside her, on the floor, wide open, lay a book of the same 
 form as the other, and probably a volume of the same romance. 
 
 On one of the pallets, Marius caught a glimpse of a sort of 
 tall pale young girl, who sat there half naked and with pendant 
 feet, and who did not seem to be listening or seeing or living. 
 
 No doubt the younger sister of the one who had come to his 
 room. 
 
 She seemed to be eleven or twelve years of age. On closer 
 scrutiny it was evident that she really was fourteen. She was 
 the child who had said, on the boulevard the evening before : 
 "I bolted, bolted, bolted !" 
 
 She was of that puny sort which remains backward for a 
 long time, then suddenly starts up rapidly. It is indigence 
 which produces these melancholy human plants. These crea- 
 tures have neither childhood nor youth. At fifteen years of 
 age they appear to be twelve, at sixteen they seem twenty. 
 To-day a little girl, to-morrow a woman. One might say that 
 they stride through life, in order to get through with it the 
 more speedily. 
 
 At this moment, this being had the air of a child. 
 
 Moreover, no trace of work was revealed in that dwelling; 
 no handicraft, no spinning-wheel, not a tool. In one corner 
 lay some ironmongery of dubious aspect. It was the dull 
 listlessness which follows despair and precedes the death 
 agony. 
 
 Marius gazed for a while at this gloomy interior, more 
 terrifying than the interior of a tomb, for the human soul 
 could be felt fluttering there, and life was palpitating there. 
 The garret, the cellar, the lowly ditch where certain indigent
 
 198 MARIU8 
 
 wretches crawl at the very bottom of the social edifice, is not 
 exactly the sepulchre, but only its antechamber ; but, as the 
 wealthy display their greatest magnificence at the entrance 
 of their palaces, it seems that death, which stands directly 
 side by side with them, places its greatest miseries in that 
 vestibule. 
 
 The man held his peace, the woman spoke no word, the 
 young girl did not even seem to breathe. The scratching of 
 the pen on the paper was audible. 
 
 The man grumbled, without pausing in his writing. "Ca- 
 naille ! canaille ! everybody is canaille !" 
 
 This variation to Solomon's exclamation elicited a sigh 
 from the woman. 
 
 "Calm yourself, my little friend," she said. "Don't hurt 
 yourself, my dear. You are too good to write to all those 
 people, husband." 
 
 Bodies press close to each other in misery, as in cold, but 
 hearts draw apart. This woman must have loved this man, 
 to all appearance, judging from the amount of love within 
 her; but probably, in the daily and reciprocal reproaches of 
 the horrible distress which weighed on the whole group, this 
 had become extinct. There no longer existed in her anything 
 more than the ashes of affection for her husband. Neverthe- 
 less, caressing appellations had survived, as is often the case. 
 She called him : My dear, my little friend, my good man, etc., 
 with her mouth while her heart was silent. 
 
 The man resumed his writing. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 STRATEGY AND TACTICS 
 
 MARIUS, with a load upon his breast, was on the point of 
 descending from the species of observatory which he had 
 improvised, when a sound attracted his attention and caused 
 him to remain at his post.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 199 
 
 The door of the attic had just burst open abruptly. The 
 eldest girl made her appearance on the threshold. On her feet, 
 she had large, coarse, men's shoes, bespattered with mud, 
 which had splashed even to her red ankles, and she was 
 wrapped in an old mantle which hung in tatters. Marius had 
 not seen it on her an hour previously, but she had probably 
 deposited it at his door, in order that she might inspire the 
 more pity, and had picked it up again on emerging. She 
 entered, pushed the door to behind her, paused to take breath, 
 for she was completely breathless, then exclaimed with an 
 expression of triumph and joy : 
 
 "He is coming!" 
 
 The father turned his eyes towards her, the woman turned 
 her head, the little sister did not stir. 
 
 "Who?" demanded her father. 
 
 "The gentleman !" 
 
 "The philanthropist ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "From the church of Saint- Jacques ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "That old fellow?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And he is coming?" 
 
 "He is following me." 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 "I am sure." 
 
 "There, truly, he is coming?" 
 
 "He is coming in a fiacre." 
 
 "In a fiacre. He is Rothschild." 
 
 The father rose. 
 
 "How are you sure? If he is coming in a fiacre, how is it 
 that you arrive before him? You gave him our address at 
 least ? Did you tell him that it was the last door at the end of 
 the corridor, on the right? If he only does not make a mis- 
 take I So you found him at the church ? Did he read my 
 letter? What did he say to you?" 
 
 "Ta, ta, ta," said the girl, "how you do gallop on, my good
 
 200 MARIU8 
 
 man ! See here : I entered the church, he was in his usual 
 place, I made him a reverence, and I handed him the letter; he 
 read it and said to me : 'Where do you live, my child ?' I said : 
 'Monsieur, I will show you.' He said to me: 'No, give me 
 your address, my daughter has some purchases to make, I will 
 take a carriage and reach your house at the same time that 
 you do.' I gave him the address. When I mentioned the 
 house, he seemed surprised and hesitated for an instant, then 
 he said: 'Never mind, I will come.' When the mass was 
 finished, I watched him leave the church with his daughter, 
 and I saw them enter a carriage. I certainly did tell him 
 the last door in the corridor, on the right." 
 
 "And what makes you think that he will come?" 
 
 "I have just seen the fiacre turn into the Rue Petit- 
 Banquier. That is what made me run so." 
 
 "How do you know that it was the same fiacre?" 
 
 "Because I took notice of the number, so there 1" 
 
 "What was the number ?" 
 
 "440." 
 
 "Good, you are a clever girl." 
 
 The girl stared boldly at her father, and showing the shoes 
 which she had on her feet: 
 
 "A clever girl, possibly; but I tell you I won't put these 
 shoes on again, and that I won't, for the sake of my health, in 
 the first place, and for the sake of cleanliness, in the next. I 
 don't know anything more irritating than shoes that squelch, 
 and go ghi, ghi, ghi, the whole time. I prefer to go barefoot." 
 
 "You are right," said her father, in a sweet tone which 
 contrasted with the young girl's rudeness, "but then, you will 
 not be allowed to enter churches, for poor people must have 
 shoes to do that. One cannot go barefoot to the good God," 
 he added bitterly. 
 
 Then, returning to the subject which absorbed him : 
 
 "So you are sure that he will come?" 
 
 "He is following on my heels," said she. 
 
 The man started up. A sort of illumination appeared on 
 his countenance.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 201 
 
 "Wife !" he exclaimed, "you hear. Here is the philanthro- 
 pist. Extinguish the fire." 
 
 The stupefied mother did not stir. 
 
 The father, with the agility of an acrobat, seized a broken- 
 nosed jug which stood on the chimney, and flung the water on 
 the brands. 
 
 Then, addressing his eldest daughter: 
 
 "Here you ! Pull the straw off that chair !" 
 
 His daughter did not understand. 
 
 He seized the chair, and with one kick he rendered it seat- 
 less. His leg passed through it. 
 
 As he withdrew his leg, he asked his daughter: 
 
 "Is it cold?" 
 
 "Very cold. It is snowing." 
 
 The father turned towards the younger girl who sat on the 
 bed near the window, and shouted to her in a thundering 
 voice : 
 
 "Quick ! get off that bed. you lazy thing ! will you never do 
 anything? Break a pane of glass!" 
 
 The little girl jumped off the bed with a shiver. 
 
 "Break a pane !" he repeated. 
 
 The child stood still in bewilderment. 
 
 "Do you hear me ?" repeated her father, "I tell you to break 
 a pane !" 
 
 The child, with a sort of terrified obedience, rose on tiptoe, 
 and struck a pane with her fist. The glass broke and fell with 
 a loud clatter. 
 
 "Good," said the father. 
 
 He was grave and abrupt. His glance swept rapidly over 
 all the crannies of the garret. One would have said that he 
 was a general making the final preparation at the moment 
 when the battle is on the point of beginning. 
 
 The mother, who had not said a word so far, now rose and 
 demanded in a dull, slow, languid voice, whence her words 
 seemed to emerge in a congealed state : 
 
 "What do you mean to do, my dear ?" 
 
 "Get into bed," replied the man.
 
 202 MASIU8 
 
 His intonation admitted of no deliberation. The mother 
 obeyed, and threw herself heavily on one of the pallets. 
 
 In the meantime, a sob became audible in one corner. 
 
 "What's that ?" cried the father. 
 
 The younger daughter exhibited her bleeding fist, without 
 quitting the corner in which she was cowering. She had 
 wounded herself while breaking the window; she went off, 
 near her mother's pallet and wept silently. 
 
 It was now the mother's turn to start up and exclaim : 
 
 "Just see there ! What follies you commit ! She has cut 
 herself breaking that pane for you !" 
 
 "So much the better !" said the man. "I foresaw that." 
 
 "What? So much the better?" retorted his wife. 
 
 "Peace !" replied the father, "I suppress the liberty of the 
 press." 
 
 Then tearing the woman's chemise which he was wearing, 
 he made a strip of cloth with which he hastily swathed the 
 little girl's bleeding wrist. 
 
 That done, his eye fell with a satisfied expression on his 
 torn chemise. 
 
 "And the chemise too," said he, "this has a good ap- 
 pearance." 
 
 An icy breeze whistled through the window and entered the 
 room. The outer mist penetrated thither and diffused itself 
 like a whitish sheet of wadding vaguely spread by invisible 
 fingers. Through the broken pane the snow could be seen 
 falling. The snow promised by the Candlemas sun of the 
 preceding day had actually come. 
 
 The father cast a glance about him as though to make sure 
 that he had forgotten nothing. He seized an old shovel and 
 spread ashes over the wet brands in such a manner as to 
 entirely conceal them. 
 
 Then drawing himself up and leaning against the chimney- 
 piece : 
 
 "Now," said he, "we can receive the philanthropist."
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 203 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE RAY OF LIGHT IN THE HOVEL 
 
 THE big girl approached and laid her hand in her father's. 
 
 "Feel how cold I am," said she. 
 
 "Bah !" replied the father, "I am much colder than that." 
 
 The mother exclaimed impetuously: 
 
 "You always have something better than any one else, so 
 you do ! even bad things." 
 
 "Down with you !" said the man. 
 
 The mother, being eyed after a certain fashion, held her 
 tongue. 
 
 Silence reigned for a moment in the hovel. The elder girl 
 was removing the mud from the bottom of her mantle, with a 
 careless air ; her younger sister continued to sob ; the mother 
 had taken the latter's head between her hands, and was cover- 
 ing it with kisses, whispering to her the while: 
 
 "My treasure, I entreat you, it is nothing of consequence, 
 don't cry, you will anger your father." 
 
 "No !" exclaimed the father, "quite the contrary ! sob ! sob ! 
 that's right." 
 
 Then turning to the elder: 
 
 "There now! He is not coming! What if he were 
 not to come ! I shall have extinguished my fire, wrecked 
 my chair, torn my shirt, and broken my pane all for 
 nothing." 
 
 "And wounded the child !" murmured the mother. 
 
 "Do you know," went on the father, "that it's beastly cold 
 in this devil's garret! What if that man should not come! 
 Oh ! See there, you ! He makes us wait ! Tie says to him- 
 self: 'Well! they will wait for me! That's what they're 
 there for.' Oh! how I hate them, and witli what joy. jubila- 
 tion, enthusiasm, and satisfaction I could strangle all those 
 rich folks ! all those rich folks ! Those men who pretend to be 
 charitable, who put on airs, who go to mass, who make
 
 204 MARIUS 
 
 presents to the priesthood, preachy, preachy, in their skull- 
 caps, and who think themselves above us, and who come for 
 the purpose of humiliating us, and to bring us 'clothe?,' as 
 they say ! old duds that are not worth four sous ! And bread ! 
 That's not what I want, pack of rascals that they are, it's 
 money ! Ah ! money ! Never ! Because they say that we 
 would go off and drink it up, and that we are drunkards 
 and idlers ! And they ! What are they, then, and what have 
 they been in their time ! Thieves ! They never could have 
 become rich otherwise ! Oh ! Society ought to be grasped 
 by the four corners of the cloth and tossed into fhe air, all 
 of it ! It would all be smashed, very likely, but at least, no 
 one would have anything, and there would be that much 
 gained ! But what is that blockhead of a benevolent gentle- 
 man doing? Will he come? Perhaps the animal has for- 
 gotten the address! I'll bet that that old beast " 
 
 At that moment there came a light tap at the door, the man 
 rushed to it and opened it, exclaiming, amid profound bows 
 and smiles of adoration: 
 
 "Enter, sir ! Deign to enter, most respected benefactor, 
 and your charming young lady, also." 
 
 A man of ripe age and a young girl made their appearance 
 on the threshold of the attic. 
 
 Marius had not quitted his post. His feelings for the 
 moment surpassed the powers of the human tongue. 
 
 It was She ! 
 
 Whoever has loved knows all the radiant meanings con- 
 tained in those three letters of that word : She. 
 
 It was certainly she. Marius could hardly distinguish her 
 through the luminous vapor which had suddenly spread before 
 his eyes. It was that sweet, absent being, that star which had 
 beamed upon him for six months ; it was those eyes, that brow, 
 that mouth, that lovely vanished face which had created night 
 by its departure. The vision had been eclipsed, now it 
 reappeared. 
 
 It reappeared in that gloom, in that garret, in that mis- 
 shapen attic, in all that horror.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 
 
 205 
 
 Harms shuddered in dismay. What! It was she! The 
 palpitations of his heart troubled his sight. He felt that he 
 was on the brink of bursting into tears ! What ! He beheld 
 her again at last, after having sought her so long! It seemed 
 to him that he had lost his soul, and that he had just found it 
 again. 
 
 She was the same as ever, only a little pale; her delicate face 
 was framed in a bonnet of violet velvet, her figure was con- 
 cealed beneath a pelisse of black satin. Beneath her long 
 dress, a glimpse could be caught of her tiny foot shod in a 
 silken boot. 
 
 She was still accompanied by M. Leblanc. 
 
 She had taken a few steps into the room, and had deposited 
 a tolerably bulky parcel on the table. 
 
 The eldest Jondrette girl had retired behind the door, and 
 was staring with sombre eyes at that velvet bonnet, that silk 
 mantle, and that charming, happy face. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 JONDRETTE COMES NEAR WEEPING 
 
 THE hovel was so dark, that people coming from without 
 felt on entering it the effect produced on entering a cellar. 
 The two new-comers advanced, therefore, with a certain hesita- 
 tion, being hardly able to distinguish the vague forms sur- 
 rounding them, while they could be clearly seen and scruti- 
 nized by the eyes of the inhabitants of the garret, who were 
 accustomed to this twilight. 
 
 M. Leblanc approached, with his sad but kindly look, and 
 said to Jondrette the father : 
 
 "Monsieur, in this package you will find some new clothes 
 and some woollen stockings and blankets." 
 
 "Our angelic benefactor overwhelms us," said Jondrette, 
 bowing to the very earth. 
 
 Then, bending down to the ear of his oldest daughter, while
 
 206 MARIU8 
 
 the two visitors were engaged in examining this lamentable 
 interior, he added in a low and rapid voice: 
 
 "Hey ? What did I say ? Duds ! No money ! They are 
 all alike! By the way, how was the letter to that old block- 
 head signed ?" 
 
 "Fabantou," replied the girl. 
 
 "The dramatic artist, good !" 
 
 It was lucky for Jondrette, that this had occurred to him, 
 for at the very moment, M. Leblanc turned to him, and said to 
 him with the air of a person who is seeking to recall a 
 name : 
 
 "I see that you are greatly to be pitied, Monsieur ' 
 
 "Fabantou," replied Jondrette quickly. 
 
 "Monsieur Fabantou, yes, that is it. I remember." 
 
 "Dramatic artist, sir, and one who has had some success." 
 
 Here Jondrette evidently judged the moment propitious for 
 capturing the "philanthropist." He exclaimed with an accent 
 which smacked at the same time of the vainglory of the 
 mountebank at fairs, and the humility of the mendicant on the 
 highway : 
 
 "A pupil of Talma ! Sir ! I am a pupil of Talma ! For- 
 tune formerly smiled on me Alas! Now it is misfortune's 
 turn. You see, my benefactor, no bread, no fire. My poor 
 babes have no fire ! My only chair has no seat ! A broken 
 pane ! And in such weather ! My spouse in bed ! Ill !" 
 
 "Poor woman !" said M. Leblanc. 
 
 "My child wounded !" added Jondrette. 
 
 The child, diverted by the arrival of the strangers, had 
 fallen to contemplating "the young lady," and had ceased to 
 sob. 
 
 "Cry ! bawl !" said Jondrette to her in a low voice. 
 
 At the same time he pinched her sore hand. All this was 
 done with the talent of a juggler. 
 
 The little girl gave vent to loud shrieks. 
 
 The adorable young girl, whom Marius, in his heart, called 
 "his Ursule," approached her hastily. 
 
 "Poor, dear child !" said she.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 207 
 
 "You sec, my beautiful young lady," pursued Jondrette, 
 "her bleeding wrist ! It came tbrougb an accident while work- 
 ing at a machine to earn six sous a day. It may be necessary 
 to cut off her arm." 
 
 "Really?" said the old gentleman, in alarm. 
 
 The little girl, taking this seriously, fell to sobbing more 
 violently than ever. 
 
 "Alas! yes, my benefactor!" replied the father. 
 
 For several minutes, Jondrette had been scrutinizing "the 
 benefactor" in a singular fashion. As he spoke, he seemed to 
 be examining the other attentively, as though seeking to sum- 
 mon up his recollections. All at once, profiting by a moment 
 when the new-comers were questioning the child with interest 
 as to her injured hand, he passed near his wife, who lay in her 
 bed with a stupid and dejected air, and said to her in a rapid 
 but very low tone : 
 
 'Take a look at that man !" 
 
 Then, turning to M. Leblanc, and continuing his lamenta- 
 tions : 
 
 "You see, sir ! All the clothing that I have is my wife's 
 chemise! And all torn at tfiat! In the depths of winter! I 
 can't go out for lack of a coat. If I had a coat of any sort, I 
 would go and see Mademoiselle Mars, who knows me and is 
 very fond of me. Docs she not still reside in the Hue do la 
 Tour-des-Dames ? Do you know, sir? We played together in 
 the provinces. I shared her laurels. Celimene would come to 
 my succor, sir ! Elmire would bestow alms on Belisaire ! Hut 
 no, nothing! And not a sou in the house! My wife ill, and 
 not a sou! My daughter dangerously injured, not a sou! 
 My wife suffers from fits of suffocation. It comes from her 
 age, and besides, her nervous system is affected. She ought to 
 have assistance, and my daughter also ! But the doctor ! But 
 the apothecary! How am I to pay them? I would kneel to a 
 penny, sir! Such is the condition to which the arts are re- 
 duced. And do you know, my charming young l:uly, and you, 
 my generous protector, do you know, you who breathe forth 
 virtue and goodness, and who perfume that church where my
 
 208 MARIV8 
 
 daughter sees you every day when she says her prayers ? For 
 I have brought up my children religiously, sir. I did not want 
 them to take to the theatre. Ah ! the hussies ! If I catch them 
 tripping ! I do not jest, that I don't ! I read them lessons on 
 honor, on morality, on virtue ! Ask them ! They have got to 
 walk straight. They are none of your unhappy wretches who 
 begin by having no family, and end by espousing the public. 
 One is Mamselle Nobody, and one becomes Madame Every- 
 body. Deuce take it ! None of that in the Fabantou family ! 
 I mean to bring them up virtuously, and they shall be honest, 
 and nice, and believe in God, by the sacred name! Well, sir, 
 my worthy sir, do you know what is going to happen to-mor- 
 row ? To-morrow is the fourth day of February, the fatal day, 
 the last day of grace allowed me by my landlord ; if by this 
 evening I have not paid my rent, to-morrow my oldest daugh- 
 ter, my spouse with her fever, my child with her wound, we 
 shall all four be turned out of here and thrown into the street, 
 on the boulevard, without shelter, in the rain, in the snow. 
 There, sir. I owe for four quarters a whole year ! that is to 
 say, sixty francs." 
 
 Jondrette lied. Four quarters would have amounted to only 
 forty francs, and he could not owe four, because six months 
 had not elapsed since Marius had paid for two. 
 
 M. Leblanc drew five francs from his pocket and threw 
 them on the table. 
 
 Jondrette found time to mutter in the ear of his eldest 
 daughter : 
 
 "The scoundrel ! What does he think I can do with his five 
 francs ? That won't pay me for my chair and pane of glass ! 
 That's what comes of incurring expenses !" 
 
 In the meanwhile, M. Leblanc had removed the large brown 
 great-coat which he wore over his blue coat, and had thrown it 
 over the back of the chair. 
 
 "Monsieur Fabantou," he said, "these five francs are all that 
 I have about me, but I shall now take my daughter home, and I 
 will return this evening, it is this evening that you must pay, 
 isitnot?"
 
 TUK WICKED I'OOff AM A' 209 
 
 Jondrette's face lighted up with a strange expression. He 
 replied vivaciously: 
 
 "Yes, respected sir. At eight o'clock, I must be at my land- 
 lord's." 
 
 "I will be here at six, and I will fetch you the sixty francs." 
 
 "My benefactor!" exclaimed Jondrette, overwhelmed. And 
 he added, in a low tone : "Take a good look at him, wife !" 
 
 M. Leblanc had taken the arm of the young girl, once more, 
 and had turned towards the door. 
 
 "Farewell until this evening, my friends !" said he. 
 
 "Six o'clock ?" said Jondrette. 
 
 "Six o'clock precisely." 
 
 At that moment, the overcoat lying on the chair caught the 
 eye of the elder Jondrette girl. 
 
 "You are forgetting your coat, sir," said she. 
 
 Jondrette darted an annihilating look at his daughter, ac- 
 companied by a formidable shrug of the shoulders. 
 
 M. Leblanc turned back and said, with a smile: 
 
 "I have not forgotten it, I am leaving it." 
 
 "0 my protector !" said Jondrette, "my august benefactor, 
 I melt into tears ! Permit me to accompany you to your car- 
 riage." 
 
 "If you come out," answered M. Leblanc, "put on this coat. 
 It really is very cold." 
 
 Jondrette did not need to be told twice. He hastily donned 
 the brown great-coat. And all three went out, Jondrette pre- 
 ceding the two strangers. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 TARIFF OF LICENSED CABS: TWO FRANCS AN HOUR 
 
 MARIUS had lost nothing of this entire scene, and yet, in 
 reality, had seen nothing. His eyes had remained fixed on the 
 young girl, his heart had, so to speak, seized her and wholly 
 enveloped her from the moment of her very first step in that
 
 210 MAKW8 
 
 garret. During her entire stay there, he had lived that life of 
 ecstasy which suspends material perceptions and precipitates 
 the whole soul on a single point. He contemplated, not that 
 girl, but that light which wore a satin pelisse and a velvet bon- 
 net. The star Sirius might have entered the room, and he 
 would not have been any more dazzled. 
 
 While the young girl was engaged in opening the package, 
 unfolding the clothing and the blankets, questioning the sick 
 mother kindly, and the little injured girl tenderly, he watched 
 her every movement, he sought to catch her words. He knew 
 her eyes, her brow, her beauty, her form, her walk, he did not 
 know the sound of her voice. He had once fancied that he 
 had caught a few words at the Luxembourg, but he was not 
 absolutely sure of the fact. He would have given ten years of 
 his life to hear it, in order that he might bear away in his soul 
 a little of that music. But everything was drowned in the 
 lamentable exclamations and trumpet bursts of Jondrette. 
 This added a touch of genuine wrath to Harms' ecstasy. He 
 devoured her with his eyes. He could not believe that it really 
 was that divine creature whom he saw in the midst of those 
 vile creatures in that monstrous lair. It seemed to him that he 
 beheld a humming-bird in the midst of toads. 
 
 When she took her departure, he had but one thought, to fol- 
 low her, to cling to her trace, not to quit her until he learned 
 where she lived, not to lose her again, at least, after having so 
 miraculously re-discovered her. He leaped down from the 
 commode and seized his hat. As he laid his hand on the lock 
 of the door, and was on the point of opening it, a sudden 
 reflection caused him to pause. The corridor was long, the 
 staircase steep, Jondrette was talkative, M. L' i blanc had, no 
 doubt, not yet regained his carriage; if. on turning round in 
 the corridor, or on the staircase, he were to catch sight of him, 
 Harius, in that house, he would, evidently, take the alarm, and 
 find means to escape from him again, and this time it would be 
 final. What was he to do ? Should he wait a little? But while 
 he was waiting, the carriage might drive off. Marius was per- 
 plexed. At last he accepted the risk and quitted his room.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 211 
 
 There was no one in the corridor. He hastened to the 
 stairs. There was no one on the staircase. He descended in 
 all haste, and reached the boulevard in time to see a fiacre 
 turning the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, on its way 
 back to Paris. 
 
 Marius rushed headlong in that direction. On arriving at 
 the angle of the boulevard, he caught sight of the fiacre again, 
 rapidly descending the Rue Mouffetard; the carriage was 
 already a long way off, and there was no means of overtaking 
 it; what! run after it? Impossible; and besides, the people in 
 the carriage would assuredly notice an individual running at 
 full speed in pursuit of a fiacre, and the father would recognize 
 him. At that moment, wonderful and unprecedented good 
 luck, Marius perceived an empty cab passing along the boule- 
 vard. There was but one thing to be done, to jump into this 
 cab and follow the fiacre. That was sure, efficacious, and free 
 from danger. 
 
 Marius made the driver a sign to halt, and called to him : 
 
 "By the hour?" 
 
 Marius wore no cravat, he had on his working-coat, which 
 was destitute of buttons, his shirt was torn along one of the 
 plaits on the bosom. 
 
 The driver halted, winked, and held out his left hand to 
 Marius, rubbing his forefinger gently with his thumb. 
 
 "What is it ?" said Marius. 
 
 "Pay in advance," said the coachman. 
 
 Marius recollected that he had but sixteen sous about him. 
 
 "How much ?" he demanded. 
 
 "Forty sous." 
 
 "I will pay on my return." 
 
 The driver's only reply was to whistle the air of La Palisse 
 and to whip up his horse. 
 
 Marius stared at the retreating cabriolet with a bewildered 
 air. For the lack of four and twenty sous, lie was losing his 
 joy, his happiness, his love! He had seen, and he was becom- 
 ing blind again. He reflected bitterly, and it must be con- 
 fessed, with profound regret, on the five francs which he had
 
 212 MARIUS 
 
 bestowed, that very morning, on that miserable girl. If he had 
 had those five francs, he would have been saved, he would have 
 been born again, he would have emerged from the limbo and 
 darkness, he would have made his escape from isolation and 
 spleen, from his widowed state ; he might have re-knotted the 
 black thread of his destiny to that beautiful golden thread, 
 which had just floated before his eyes and had broken at the 
 same instant, once more ! He returned to his hovel in despair. 
 
 He might have told himself that M. Leblanc had promised 
 to return in the evening, and that all he had to do was to set 
 about the matter more skilfully, so that he might follow him 
 on that occasion ; but, in his contemplation, it is doubtful 
 whether he had heard this. 
 
 As he was on the point of mounting the staircase, he per- 
 ceived, on the other side of the boulevard, near the deserted 
 wall skirting the Rue De la Barriere-des-Gobelins, Jondrette, 
 wrapped in the "philanthropist's" great-coat, engaged in con- 
 versation with one of those men of disquieting aspect who have 
 been dubbed by common consent, prowlers of the barriers; 
 people of equivocal face, of suspicious monologues, who pre- 
 sent the air of having evil minds, and who generally sleep 
 in the daytime, which suggests the supposition that they work 
 by night. 
 
 These two men, standing there motionless and in conversa- 
 tion, in the snow which was falling in whirlwinds, formed a 
 group that a policeman would surely have observed, but which 
 Marius hardly noticed. 
 
 Still, in spite of his mournful preoccupation, he could not 
 refrain from saying to himself that this prowler of the barriers 
 with whom Jondrette was talking resembled a certain Pan- 
 chaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, whom Courfeyrac 
 had once pointed out to him as a very dangerous nocturnal 
 roamer. This man's name the reader has learned in the pre- 
 ceding book. This Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigre- 
 naille, figured later on in many criminal trials, and became 
 a notorious rascal. He was at that time only a famous rascal. 
 To-day he exists in the state of tradition among ruffians and
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 213 
 
 assassins. He was at the head of a school towards the end of 
 the last reign. And in the evening, at nightfall, at the hour 
 when groups form and talk in whispers, he was discussed at 
 La Force in the Fosse-aux-Lions. One might even, in that 
 prison, precisely at the spot where the sewer which served the 
 unprecedented escape, in broad daylight, of thirty prisoners, 
 in 1843, passes under the culvert, read his name, PAN- 
 CHAUD, audaciously carved by his own hand on the wall 
 of the sewer, during one of his attempts at flight. In 1832, 
 the police already had their eye on him, but he had not as 
 yet made a serious beginning. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 OFFERS OF SERVICE FROM MISERY TO WRETCHEDNESS 
 
 MARIUS ascended the stairs of the hovel with slow steps ; at 
 the moment when he was about to re-enter his cell, he caught 
 sight of the elder Jondrette girl following him through the 
 corridor. The very sight of this girl was odious to him ; it was 
 she who had his five francs, it was too late to demand them 
 back, the cab was no longer there, the fiacre was far away. 
 Moreover, she would not have given them back. As for 
 questioning her about the residence of the persons who had 
 just been there, that was useless ; it was evident that she did 
 not know, since the letter signed Fabantou had been addressed 
 "to the benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques- 
 du-Haut-Pas." 
 
 Marius entered his room and pushed the door to after him. 
 
 It did not close ; he turned round and beheld a hand which 
 held the door half open. 
 
 "What is it?" he asked, "who is there?" 
 
 It was the Jondrette girl. 
 
 "Is it you ?" resumed Marius almost harshly, "still you ! 
 What do you want with me?" 
 
 She appeared to be thoughtful and did not look at him.
 
 214 MARIUS 
 
 She DO longer had the air of assurance which had character- 
 ized her that morning. She did not enter, hut held back in 
 the darkness of the corridor, where Marius could see her 
 through the half-open door. 
 
 "Come now, will you answer?" cried Marius. "What do 
 you want with me ?" 
 
 She raised her dull eyes, in which a sort of gleam seemed to 
 flicker vaguely, and said : 
 
 "Monsieur Marius, you look sad. What is the matter with 
 you ?" 
 
 "With me !" said Harms. 
 
 "Yes, you." 
 
 "There is nothing the matter with me." 
 
 "Yes, there is !" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "I tell you there is !" 
 
 "Let me alone !" 
 
 Marius gave the door another push, but she retained her 
 hold on it. 
 
 "Stop," said she, "you are in the wrong. Although you are 
 not rich, you were kind this morning. Be so again now. You 
 gave me something to eat, now tell me what ails you. You are 
 grieved, that is plain. I do not want you to be grieved. What 
 can be done for it? Can I be of any service? Employ me. I 
 do not ask for } r our secrets, you need not tell them to me, but 
 I may be of use, nevertheless. I may be able to help you, 
 since I help my father. When it is necessary to carry letters, 
 to go to houses, to inquire from door to door, to find out an 
 address, to follow any one. I am of service. Well, you may 
 assuredly tell me what is the matter with you, and I will go 
 and speak to the persons; sometimes it is enough if some 
 one speaks to the persons, that suffices to let them understand 
 matters, and everything comes right. Make use of me." 
 
 An idea flashed across Marius' mind. What branch does 
 one disdain when one feels that one is falling? 
 
 He drew near to the Jondrette girl. 
 
 "Listen " he said to her.
 
 Tin: WICKED POOR MAN 215 
 
 She interrupted him with a gleam of joy in her eyes. 
 
 "Oh yes, do call me thou! I like that better." 
 
 "Well," he resumed, "thou hast brought hither that old 
 gentleman and his daughter!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Dost thou know their address?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Find it for me." 
 
 The Jondrette's dull eyes had grown joyous, and they now 
 became gloomy. 
 
 "Is that what you want?" she demanded. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Do you know them?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "That is to say," she resumed quickly, "you do not know 
 her, but you wish to know her." 
 
 This them, which had turned into her had something inde- 
 scribably significant and bitter about it. 
 
 "Well, can you do it?" said Marius. 
 
 "You shall have the beautiful lady's address." 
 
 There was dill a shade in the words "the beautiful lady" 
 which troubled Mr:ius. lie resumed: 
 
 "Never mind, after all, the address of the father and 
 daughter. Their address, indeed !" 
 
 She gazed fixedly at him. 
 
 "What will you give me?" 
 
 "Anything you like." 
 
 "Anything I like?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Yen shall have the address." 
 
 She dropped her head; then, with a brusque movement, she 
 pulled to the door, which closed behind her. 
 
 Marius found himself alone. 
 
 He dropped into a chair, with his head and both elbows on 
 his bed, absorbed in thoughts which he could not grasp, and as 
 though a prey to vertigo. All that had taken place since the 
 morning, the appearance of the angel, her disappearance,
 
 216 MARIU8 
 
 what that creature had just said to him, a gleam of hope 
 floating in an immense despair, this was what filled his brain 
 confusedly. 
 
 All at once he was violently aroused from his revery. 
 
 He heard the shrill, hard voice of Jondrette utter these 
 words, which were fraught with a strange interest for him : 
 
 "I tell you that I am sure of it, and that I recognized 
 him." 
 
 Of whom was Jondrette speaking? Whom had he recog- 
 nized? M. Leblanc? The father of "his Ursule"? What! 
 Did Jondrette know him? Was Marius about to obtain in 
 this abrupt and unexpected fashion all the information with- 
 out which his life was so dark to him ? Was he about to learn 
 at last who it was that he loved, who that young girl was? 
 Who her father was ? Was the dense shadow which enwrapped 
 them on the point of being dispelled ? Was the veil about to 
 be rent ? Ah ! Heavens ! 
 
 He bounded rather than climbed upon his commode, and 
 resumed his post near the little peep-hole in the partition wall. 
 
 Again he beheld the interior of Jondrette's hovel. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE USE MADE OF M. LEBLANC'S FIVE-FRANC PIECE 
 
 NOTHING in the aspect of the family was altered, except 
 that the wife and daughters had levied on the package and 
 put on woollen stockings and jackets. Two new blankets 
 were thrown across the two beds. 
 
 Jondrette had evidently just returned. He still had the 
 breathlessness of out of doors. His daughters were seated on 
 the floor near the fireplace, the elder engaged in dressing the 
 younger's wounded hand. His wife had sunk back on the bed 
 near the fireplace, with a face indicative of astonishment. 
 Jondrette was pacing up and down the garret with long 
 strides. His eyes were extraordinary.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 217 
 
 The woman, who seemed timid and overwhelmed with 
 stupor in the presence of her husband, turned to say : 
 
 "What, really? You are sure?" 
 
 "Sure ! Eight years have passed ! But I recognize him ! 
 Ah ! I recognize him . I knew him at once ! What ! Didn't 
 it force itself on you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "But I told you : Tay attention !' Why, it is his figure, it 
 is his face, only older. there are people who do not grow old, 
 I don't know how they manage it, it is the very sound of his 
 voice. He is better dressed, that is all ! Ah ! you mysterious 
 old devil, I've got you, that I have !" 
 
 He paused, and said to his daughters: 
 
 "Get out of here, you! It's queer that it didn't strike 
 you !" 
 
 They arose to obey. 
 
 The mother stammered: 
 
 "With her injured hand." 
 
 "The air will do it good," said Jondrette. "Be off." 
 
 It was plain that this man was of the sort to whom no one 
 offers to reply. The two girls departed. 
 
 At the moment when they were about to pass through the 
 door, the father detained the elder by the arm, and said to her 
 with a peculiar accent : 
 
 "You will be her > at five o'clock precisely. Both of you. 
 I shall need you." 
 
 Marius redoubled his attention. 
 
 On being left alone with his wife, Jondrette began to pace 
 the room again, and made the tour of it two or three times in 
 silence. Then he spent several minutes in tucking the lower 
 part of the woman's chemise which he wore into his trousers. 
 
 All at once, he turned to the female Jondrette, folded his 
 arms and exclaimed : 
 
 "And would you like to have me tell you something? The 
 young lady 
 
 "Well, what?" retorted his wife, "the young lady?" 
 
 Marius could not doubt that it was really she of whom thev
 
 218 MAPI US 
 
 were speaking. He listened with ardent anxiety. His whole 
 life was in his ears. 
 
 But Jondrette had bent over and spoke to his wife in a 
 whisper. Then he straightened himself up and concluded 
 aloud : 
 
 "It is she !" 
 
 "That one ?" said his wife. 
 
 "That very one," said the husband. 
 
 No expression can reproduce the significance of the mother's 
 words. Surprise, rage, hate, wrath, were mingled and com- 
 bined in one monstrous intonation. The pronunciation of a 
 few words, the name, no doubt, which her husband had 
 whispered in her ear, had sufficed to rouse this huge, som- 
 nolent woman, and from being repulsive she became terrible. 
 
 "It is not possible !" she cried. "When I think that my 
 daughters are going barefoot, and have not a gown to their 
 backs ! What ! A satin pelisse, a velvet bonnet, boots, and 
 everything ; more than two hundred francs' worth of clothes ! 
 so that one would think she was a lady ! No, you are mis- 
 taken ! Why, in the first place, the other was hideous, and 
 this one is not so bad-looking ! She really is not bad-looking ! 
 It can't be she !" 
 
 "I tell you that it is she. You will see." 
 
 At this absolute assertion, the Jondrette woman raised her 
 large, red, blonde face and stared at the ceiling with a 
 horrible expression. At that moment, she seemed to Marius 
 even more to be feared than her husband. She was a sow 
 with the look of a tigress. 
 
 "What !" she resumed, "that horrible, beautiful young lady, 
 who gazed at my daughters with an air of pity, she is that 
 beggar brat ! Oh ! I should like to kick her stomach in for 
 her!" 
 
 She sprang off of the bed, and remained standing for a 
 moment, her hair in disorder, her nostrils dilating, her mouth 
 half open, her fists clenched and drawn back. Then she fell 
 back on the bed once more. The man paced to and fro and 
 paid no attention to his female.
 
 THE WICKED POO]! MAN 219 
 
 After a silence lasting several minutes, he approached the 
 female Jondrette, and halted in front of her, with folded 
 arms, as he had done a moment before : 
 
 "And shall I tell you another thing?" 
 
 "What is it ?" she asked. 
 
 He answered in a low, curt voice: 
 
 "My fortune is made." 
 
 The woman stared at him with the look that signifies: "Ts 
 the person who is addressing me on the point of going mad ?" 
 
 He went on : 
 
 "Thunder ! It was not so very long ago that I was a parish- 
 ioner of the parish of die-of-hunger-if-you-have-a-fire,-die-of- 
 cold-if-you-have-bread ! I have had enough of misery ! my 
 share and other people's share ! I am not joking any longer. 
 I don't find it comic any more, I've had enough of puns, good 
 God ! no more farces, Eternal Father ! I want to eat till I am 
 full, I want to drink my fill ! to gormandize ! to sleep ! to do 
 nothing ! I want to have my turn, so I do, come now ! before 
 I die ! I want to be a bit of a millionnaire !" 
 
 He took a turn round the hovel, and added: 
 
 "Like other people." 
 
 "What do you mean by that ?" asked the woman. 
 
 He shook his head, winked, screwed up one eye, and raised 
 his voice like a medical professor who is about to make a dem- 
 onstration : 
 
 "What do I mean by that ? Listen !" 
 
 "Hush !" muttered the woman, "not so loud ! These are 
 matters which must not be overheard." 
 
 "Bah! Who's here? Our neighbor? I saw him go out a 
 little while ago. Besides, he doesn't listen, the big booby. And 
 I tell you that I saw him go out." 
 
 Nevertheless, by a sort of instinct, Jondrette lowered his 
 voice, although not sufficiently to prevent Marius hearing his 
 words. One favorable circumstance, which enabled Marius not 
 to lose a word of this conversation was the falling snow which 
 deadened the sound of vehicles on the boulevard. 
 
 This is what Marius heard :
 
 220 MARIV8 
 
 "Listen carefully. The Croesus is caught, or as good as 
 caught ! That's all settled already. Everything is arranged. 
 I have seen some people. He will come here this evening at 
 six o'clock. To bring sixty francs, the rascal ! Did you notice 
 how I played that game on him, my sixty francs, my landlord, 
 my fourth of February ? I don't even owe for one quarter ! 
 Isn't he a fool ! So he will come at six o'clock ! That's the 
 hour when our neighbor goes to his dinner. Mother Bougon is 
 off washing dishes in the city. There's not a soul in the house. 
 The neighbor never comes home until eleven o'clock. The 
 children shall stand on watch. You shall help us. He will 
 give in." 
 
 "And what if he does not give in?" demanded his wife. 
 
 Jondrette made a sinister gesture, and said : 
 
 "We'll fix him." 
 
 And he burst out laughing. 
 
 This was the first time Marius had seen him laugh. The 
 laugh was cold and sweet, and provoked a shudder. 
 
 Jondrette opened a cupboard near the fireplace, and drew 
 from it an old cap, which he placed on his head, after brushing 
 it with his sleeve. 
 
 "Now," said he, "I'm going out. I have some more people 
 that I must see. Good ones. You'll see how well the whole 
 thing will work. I shall be away as short a time as possible, 
 it's a fine stroke of business, do you look after the house." 
 
 And with both fists thrust into the pockets of his trousers, he 
 stood for a moment in thought, then exclaimed : 
 
 "Do you know, it's mighty lucky, by the way, that he didn't 
 recognize me ! If he had recognized me on his side, he would 
 not have come back again. He would have slipped through our 
 fingers ! It was my beard that saved us ! my romantic beard ! 
 my pretty little romantic beard !" 
 
 And again he broke into a laugh. 
 
 He stepped to the window. The snow was still falling, and 
 streaking the gray of the sky. 
 
 "What beastly weather !" said he. 
 
 Then lapping his overcoat across his breast:
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 221 
 
 "This rind is too large for me. Never mind," he added, 'Tie 
 did a devilish good thing in leaving it for me, the old scoun- 
 drel ! If it hadn't been for that, I couldn't have gone out, and 
 everything would have gone wrong ! What small points things 
 hang on, anyway !" 
 
 And pulling his cap down over his eyes, he quitted the room. 
 
 He had barely had time to take half a dozen steps from the 
 door, when the door opened again, and his savage but intelli- 
 gent face made its appearance once more in the opening. 
 
 "I came near forgetting," said he. "You are to have a bra- 
 zier of charcoal ready." 
 
 And he flung into his wife's apron the five-franc piece which 
 the "philanthropist" had left with him. 
 
 "A brazier of charcoal ?" asked his wife. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "How many bushels?" 
 
 " Two good ones." 
 
 "That will come to thirty sous. With the rest I will buy 
 something for dinner." 
 
 "The devil, no." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Don't go and spend the hundred-sou piece." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Because I shall have to buy something, too." 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Something." 
 
 "How much shall you need ?" 
 
 "Whereabouts in the neighborhood is there an ironmonger's 
 shop ?" 
 
 "Rue Mouffetard." 
 
 "Ah ! yes, at the corner of a street ; I can see the shop." 
 
 "But tell me how much you will need for what you have to 
 purchase ?" 
 
 "Fifty sous three francs." 
 
 "There won't be much left for dinner." 
 
 "Eating is not the point to-day. There's something better 
 to be done."
 
 222 MARIU8 
 
 "That's enough, my jewel." 
 
 At this word from his wife, Jondrette closed the door again, 
 and this time, Marius heard his step die away in the corridor of 
 the hovel, and descend the staircase rapidly. 
 
 At that moment, one o'clock struck from the church of 
 Saint-Medard. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 SOLUS CUM SOLO, IN LOCO REMOTO, NON COQITABUNTUR ORARE 
 PATER NOSTER 
 
 MARIUS, dreamer as he was, was, as we have said, firm and 
 energetic by nature. His habits of solitary meditation, while 
 they had developed in him sympathy and compassion, had, 
 perhaps, diminished the faculty for irritation, but had left 
 intact the power of waxing indignant; he had the kindliness 
 of a brahmin, and the severity of a judge; he took pity upon a 
 toad, but he crushed a viper. Now, it was into a hole of vipers 
 that his glance had just been directed, it was a nest of mon- 
 sters that he had beneath his eyes. 
 
 "These wretches must be stamped upon," said he. 
 
 Not one of the enigmas which he had hoped to see solved 
 had been elucidated; on the contrary, all of them had been 
 rendered more dense, if anything; he knew nothing more 
 about the beautiful maiden of the Luxembourg and the man 
 whom he called M. Leblanc, except that Jondrette was ac- 
 quainted with them. Athwart the mysterious words which had 
 been uttered, the only thing of which he caught a distinct 
 glimpse was the fact that an ambush was in course of prep- 
 aration, a dark but terrible trap ; that both of them were incur- 
 ring great danger, she probably, her father certainly; that they 
 must be saved ; that the hideous plots of the Jondrettes must 
 be thwarted, and the web of these spiders broken. 
 
 He scanned the female Jondrctte for a moment. She had 
 pulled an old sheet-iron stove from a corner, and she was rum- 
 maging among the old heap of iron.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 033 
 
 He descended from the commode as softly as possible, taking 
 care not to make the least noise. Amid his terror as to what 
 was in preparation, and in the horror with which the Jond- 
 rettes had inspired him, lie experienced a sort of joy at the idea 
 that it might he granted to him perhaps to render a service to 
 the one whom he loved. 
 
 But how was it to be done? How warn the persons threat- 
 ened? He did not know their address. They had reappeared 
 for an instant before his eyes, and had then plunged back 
 again into the immense depths of Paris. Should he wait for 
 M. Leblanc at the door that evening at six o'clock, at the mo- 
 ment of his arrival, and warn him of the trap? But Jond- 
 rette and his men would see him on the watch, the spot was 
 lonely, they were stronger than he, they would devise means 
 to seize him or to get him away, and the man whom Marius 
 was anxious to save would be lost. One o'clock had just struck, 
 the trap was to be sprung at six. Marius had five hours before 
 him. 
 
 There was but one thing to be done. 
 
 He put on his decent coat, knotted a silk handkerchief round 
 his neck, took his hat, and went out, without making any 
 more noise than if he had been treading on moss with bare 
 feet. 
 
 Moreover, the Jondrette woman continued to rummage 
 among her old iron. 
 
 Once outside of the house, he made for the Rue du Petit- 
 Banquier. 
 
 He had almost reached the middle of this street, near a very 
 low wall which a man can easily step over at certain points, 
 and which abuts on a waste space, and was walking slowly, in 
 consequence of his preoccupied condition, and the snow dead- 
 ened the sound of his steps; all at once he heard voices talking 
 very close by. He turned his head, the street was deserted, 
 there was not a soul in it, it was broad daylight, and yet he 
 distinctly heard voices. 
 
 Jt occurred to him to glance over the wall which he was 
 skirting.
 
 224 MARIUS 
 
 There, in fact, sat two men, flat on the snow, with their 
 backs against the wall, talking together in subdued tones. 
 
 These two persons were strangers to him ; one was a bearded 
 man in a blouse, and the other a long-haired individual in rags. 
 The bearded man had on a fez, the other's head was bare, and 
 the snow had lodged in his hair. 
 
 By thrusting his head over the wall, Marius could hear their 
 'emarks. 
 
 The hairy one jogged the other man's elbow and said : 
 
 " With the assistance of Patron-Minette, it can't fail." 
 
 "Do you think so ?" said the bearded man. 
 
 And the long-haired one began again : 
 
 "It's as good as a warrant for each one, of five hundred balls, 
 and the worst that can happen is five years, six years, ten years 
 at the most !" 
 
 The other replied with some hesitation, and shivering be- 
 neath his fez : 
 
 "That's a real thing. You can't go against such things." 
 
 "I tell you that the affair can't go wrong," resumed the long- 
 haired man. "Father What's-his-name's team will be already 
 harnessed." 
 
 Then they began to discuss a melodrama that they had seen 
 on the preceding evening at the Gaite Theatre. 
 
 Marius went his way. 
 
 It seemed to him that the mysterious words of these men, so 
 strangely hidden behind that wall, and crouching in the snow, 
 could not but bear some relation to Jondrette's abominable 
 projects. That must be the affair. 
 
 He directed his course towards the faubourg Saint-Marceau 
 and asked at the first shop he came to where he could find a 
 commissary of police. 
 
 He was directed to Rue de Pontoise, No. 14. 
 
 Thither Marius betook himself. 
 
 As he passed a baker's shop, he bought a two-penny roll, and 
 ate it, foreseeing that he should not dine. 
 
 On the way, he rendered justice to Providence. He reflected 
 that had he not given his five francs to the Jondrette girl in
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX go 5 
 
 the morning, he would have followed M. Leblanc's fiacre, and 
 consequently have remained ignorant of everything, and that 
 there would have been no obstacle to the trap of the Jondrettes 
 and that M. Leblanc would have been lost, and his daughter 
 with him, no doubt. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IN WHICH A POLICE AGENT BESTOWS TWO FI8TFULS ON A 
 LAWYER 
 
 ON arriving at No. 14, Rue de Pontoise, he ascended to the 
 first floor and inquired for the commissary of police. 
 
 "The commissary of police is not here," said a clerk ; "but 
 there is an inspector who takes his place. Would you like to 
 speak to him ? Are you in haste?" 
 
 "Yes," said Marius. 
 
 The clerk introduced him into the commissary's office. 
 There stood a tall man behind a grating, leaning against a 
 stove, and holding up with both hands the tails of a vast top- 
 coat, with three collars. His face was square, with a thin, firm 
 mouth, thick, gray, and very ferocious whiskers, and a look 
 that was enough to turn your pockets inside out. Of that 
 glance it might have been well said, not that it penetrated, but 
 that it searched. 
 
 This man's air was not much less ferocious nor less terrible 
 than Jondrette's ; the dog is, at times, no less terrible to meet 
 than the wolf. 
 
 "What do you want?" he said to Marius, without adding 
 "monsieur." 
 
 "Is this Monsieur le Commissaire de Police?" 
 
 "He is absent. I am here in his stead." 
 
 "The matter is very private." 
 
 "Then speak." 
 
 "And great haste is required." 
 
 "Then speak quick." 
 
 This calm, abrupt man was both terrifying and reassuring
 
 226 MARIU8 
 
 at one and the same time. He inspired fear and confidence. 
 Marius related the adventure to him: That a person with 
 whom he was not acquainted otherwise than by sight, was to 
 be inveigled into a trap that very evening ; that, as he occupied 
 the room adjoining the den, he, Marius Pontmercy, a lawyer, 
 had heard the whole plot through the partition; that the 
 wretch who had planned the trap was a certain Jondrette; that 
 there would be accomplices, probably some prowlers of the 
 barriers, among others a certain Panchaud, alias Printanier, 
 alias Bigrenaille; that Jondrette's daughters were to lie in 
 wait; that there was no way of warning the threatened man, 
 since he did not even know his name; and that, finally, all this 
 was to be carried out at six o'clock that evening, at the most 
 deserted point of the Boulevard de 1'Hopital, in house No. 
 50-52. 
 
 At the sound of this number, the inspector raised his head, 
 and said coldly: 
 
 "So it is in the room at the end of the corridor?" 
 
 "Precisely," answered Marius, and he added : "Are you 
 acquainted with that house?" 
 
 The inspector remained silent for a moment, then replied, 
 as he warmed the heel of his boot at the door of the stove : 
 
 "Apparently." 
 
 He went on, muttering between his teeth, and not address- 
 ing Marius so much as his cravat : 
 
 "Patron-Minette must have had a hand in this." 
 
 This word struck Marius. 
 
 "Patron-Minette," said he, "I did hear that word pro- 
 nounced, in fact." 
 
 And he repeated to the inspector the dialogue between the 
 long-haired man and the bearded man in the snow behind the 
 wall of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. 
 
 The inspector muttered : 
 
 "The long-haired man must be Brujon, and the bearded one 
 Demi-Liard, alias Deux-Milliards." 
 
 He had dropped his eyelids again, and became absorbed in 
 thought.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 227 
 
 "As for leather What's-his-namo, T think I recognize him. 
 Hero, I've burned my coat. They always have too much fire in 
 these cursed stoves. Number 50-52. Former property of 
 Gorbeau." 
 
 Then lie glanced at Marius. 
 
 "You saw only that bearded and that long-haired man?" 
 
 "And Panchaiid." 
 
 "You didn't see a little imp of a dandy prowling about the 
 premises ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor a big lump of matter, resembling an elephant in the 
 Jardin dcs Plantes ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Nor a scamp with the air of an old red tail?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "As for the fourth, no one sees him, not even his adjutants, 
 clerks, and employees. It is not surprising that you did not 
 see him." 
 
 "No. Who are all those persons?" asked Marius. 
 
 The inspector answered : 
 
 "Besides, this is not the time for them." 
 
 He relapsed into silence, then resumed : 
 
 "50-52. I know that barrack. Impossible to conceal our- 
 selves inside it without the artists seeing us, and then they will 
 get off simply by countermanding the vaudeville. They are so 
 modest ! An audience embarrasses them. None of that, none 
 of that. I want to hear them sing and make them dance/' 
 
 This monologue concluded, he turned to Marius, aiid de- 
 manded, gazing at him intently the while : 
 
 "Are you afraid ?" 
 
 "Of what?" said Marius. 
 
 "Of these men ?" 
 
 "No more than yourself !" retorted Marius rudely, who had 
 begun to notice that this police agent had not yet said "mon- 
 sieur" to him. 
 
 The inspector stared still more intently at Marius, and con- 
 tinued with sententious solemnitv :
 
 228 MARIUB 
 
 "There, you speak like a brave man, and like an honest 
 man. Courage does not fear crime, and honesty does not fear 
 authority." 
 
 Marius interrupted him : 
 
 "That is well, but what do you intend to do ?" 
 
 The inspector contented himself with the remark : 
 
 "The lodgers have pass-keys with which to get in at night. 
 You must have one." 
 
 "Yes," said Marius. 
 
 "Have you it about you ?" 
 
 "Yes."' 
 
 "Give it to me," said the inspector. 
 
 Marius took his key from his waistcoat pocket, handed it to 
 the inspector and added : 
 
 "If you will take my advice, you will come in force." 
 
 The inspector cast on Marius such a glance as Voltaire 
 might have bestowed on a provincial academician who had 
 suggested a rhyme to him; with one movement he plunged his 
 hands, which were enormous, into the two immense pockets of 
 his top-coat, and pulled out two small steel pistols, of the sort 
 called "knock-me-downs." Then he presented them to Marius, 
 saying rapidly, in a curt tone : 
 
 "Take these. Go home. Hide in your chamber, so that you 
 may be supposed to have gone out. They are loaded. Each 
 one carries two balls. You will keep watch; there is a hole in 
 the wall, as you have informed me. These men will come. 
 Leave them to their own devices for a time. When you think 
 matters have reached a crisis, and that it is time to put a 
 stop to them, fire a shot. Not too soon. The rest concerns me. 
 A shot into the ceiling, the air, no matter where. Above all 
 things, not too soon. Wait until they begin to put their project 
 into execution; you are a lawyer; you know the proper point." 
 Marius took the pistols and put them in the side pocket of his 
 coat. 
 
 "That makes a lump that can be seen," said the inspector. 
 "Put them in your trousers pocket." 
 
 Marius hid the pistols in his trousers pockets.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAJf 229 
 
 "Now," pursued the inspector, "there is not a minute more 
 to be lost by any one. What time is it? Half -past two. Seven 
 o'clock is the hour?" 
 
 "Six o'clock," answered Marius. 
 
 "I have plenty of time," said the inspector, "but no more 
 than enough. Don't forget anything that I have said to you. 
 Bang. A pistol shot." 
 
 "Rest easy," said Marius. 
 
 And as Marius laid his hand on the handle of the door on 
 his way out, the inspector called to him: 
 
 "By the way, if you have occasion for my services between 
 now and then, come or send here. You will ask for Inspector 
 Javert." 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 JONDRETTE MAKES HIS PURCHASES 
 
 A FEW moments later, about three o'clock, Courfeyrac 
 chanced to be passng along the Rue Mouffetard in company 
 with Bossuet. The snow had redoubled in violence, and filled 
 the air. Bossuet was just saying to Courfeyrac: 
 
 "One would say, to see all these snow-flakes fall, that there 
 was a plague of white butterflies in heaven." All at once, 
 Bossuet caught sight of Marius coming up the street towards 
 the barrier with a peculiar air. 
 
 "Hold !" said Bossuet. "There's Marius." 
 
 "I saw him," said Courfeyrac. "Don't let's speak to 
 him." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "He is busy." 
 
 "With what?" 
 
 "Don't vou see his air?" 
 
 "What air?" 
 
 "He has the air of a man who is following some one." 
 
 "That's true," said Bossuet. 
 
 "Just see the eyes he is making !" said Courfeyrac.
 
 230 MARIUS 
 
 "But who the deuce is he following?" 
 
 "Some fine, flowery bonneted wench ! He's in love." 
 
 "But," observed Bossuet, "I don't see any wench nor any 
 flowery bonnet in the street. There's not a woman 
 round." 
 
 Courfeyrac took a survey, and exclaimed: 
 
 "He's following a man !" 
 
 A man, in fact, wearing a gray cap, and whose gray beard 
 could be distinguished, although they only saw his back, was 
 walking along about twenty paces in advance of Marius. 
 
 This man was dressed in a great-coat which was perfectly 
 new and too large for him, and in a frightful pair of trousers 
 all hanging in rags and black with mud. 
 
 Bossuet burst out laughing. 
 
 "Who is that man?" 
 
 "He?" retorted Courfeyrac, 'Tie's a poet. Poets are very 
 fond of wearing the trousers of dealers in rabbit skins and the 
 overcoats of peers of France." 
 
 "Let's see where Marius will go," said Bossuet; "let's see 
 where the man is going, let's follow them, hey?" 
 
 "Bossuet !" exclaimed Courfeyrac, "eagle of Meaux ! You 
 are a prodigious brute. Follow a man who is following 
 another man, indeed !" 
 
 They retraced their steps. 
 
 Marius had, in fact, seen Jondrette passing along the Rue 
 Mouffetard, and was spying on his proceedings. 
 
 Jondrette walked straight ahead, without a suspicion that 
 he was already held by a glance. 
 
 He quitted the Rue Mouffetard, and Marius saw him enter 
 one of the most terrible hovels in the Rue Gracieu?e; he re- 
 mained there about a quarter of an hour, then returned to the 
 Rue Mouffetard. He halted at an ironmonger's shop, which 
 then stood at the corner of the Rue Pierre-Lombard, and a 
 few minutes later Marius saw him emerge from the shop, 
 holding in his hand a huge cold chisel with a white wood 
 handle, which he concealed beneath his great-coat. At the 
 top of the Rue Petit-Gentilly he turned to the left and pro-
 
 Till: WICKED POOR MAN 231 
 
 cecdcd rapidly to the Rue du Petit-Banquier. The day was 
 declining; the snow, which had ceased for a moment, had 
 just begun again. Marius posted himself on the watch at the 
 very corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, which was deserted, 
 a6 usual, and did not follow Jondrette into it. It was lucky 
 that he did so, for, on arriving in the vicinity of the wall 
 where Marius had heard the long-haired man and the bearded 
 man conversing, Jondrette turned round, made sure that no 
 one was following him, did not see him, then sprang across 
 the wall and disappeared. 
 
 The waste land bordered by this wall communicated with 
 the back yard of an ex-livery stable-keeper of bad repute, who 
 had failed and who still kept a few old single-seated berlins 
 under his sheds. 
 
 Marius thought that it would be wise to profit by Jon- 
 drctte's absence to return home ; moreover, it was growing 
 late; every evening, Ma'am Bougon when she set out for her 
 dish-washing in town, had a habit of locking the door, which 
 was always closed at dusk. Marius had given his key to the 
 inspector of police; it was important, therefore, that he should 
 make haste. 
 
 Evening had arrived, night had almost closed in; on the 
 horizon and in the immensity of space, there remained 
 but one spot illuminated by the sun, and that was the 
 moon. 
 
 It was rising in a ruddy glow behind the low dome of 
 Salpetriere. 
 
 Marius returned to No. 50-52 with great strides. The door 
 was still open when he arrived. He mounted the stairs on 
 tip-toe and glided along the wall of the corridor to his 
 chamber. This corridor, as the reader will remember, was 
 bordered on both sides by attics, all of which were, for the 
 moment, empty and to let. Ma'am Bougon was in the habit 
 of leaving all the doors open. As he passed one of these 
 attics, Marius thought he perceived in the uninhabited cell 
 the motionless heads of four men, vaguely lighted up by a 
 remnant of daylight, falling through a dormer window.
 
 232 MARIVS 
 
 Marius made no attempt to see, not wishing to be seen him- 
 self. He succeeded in reaching his chamber without being 
 seen and without making any noise. It was high time. A 
 moment later he heard Ma'am Bougon take her departure, 
 locking the door of the house behind her. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE WORDS TO AN ENGLISH AIR 
 WHICH WAS IN FASHION IN 1832 
 
 MARIUS seated himself on his bed. It might have been 
 half-past five o'clock. Only half an hour separated him from 
 what was about to happen. He heard the beating of his 
 arteries as one hears the ticking of a watch in the dark. He 
 thought of the double march which was going on at that 
 moment in the dark, crime advancing on one side, justice 
 coming up on the other. He was not afraid, but he could 
 not think without a shudder of what was about to take place. 
 As is the case with all those who are suddenly assailed by an 
 unforeseen adventure, the entire day produced upon him the 
 effect of a dream, and in order to persuade himself that he 
 was not the prey of a nightmare, he had to feel the cold 
 barrels of the steel pistols in his trousers pockets. 
 
 It was no longer snowing; the moon disengaged itself more 
 and more clearly from the mist, and its light, mingled with 
 the white reflection of the snow which had fallen, communi- 
 cated to the chamber a sort of twilight aspect. 
 
 There was a light in the Jondrette den. Marius saw the 
 hole in the wall shining with a reddish glow which seemed 
 bloody to him. 
 
 It was true that the light could not be produced by a candle. 
 However, there was not a sound in the Jondrette quarters, not 
 a soul was moving there, not a soul speaking, not a breath ; the 
 silence was glacial and profound, and had it not been for that 
 light, he might have thought himself next door to a sepulchre.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 233 
 
 Marius softly removed his boots and pushed them under 
 his bed. 
 
 Several minutes elapsed. Marius heard the lower door turn 
 on its hinges; a heavy step mounted the staircase, and 
 hastened along the corridor; the latch of the hovel was noisily 
 lifted; it was Jondrette returning. 
 
 Instantly, several voices arose. The whole family was in 
 the garret. Only, it had been silent in the master's absence, 
 like wolf whelps in the absence of the wolf. 
 
 "It's I," said he. 
 
 "Good evening, daddy," yelped the girls. 
 
 "Well?" said the mother. 
 
 "All's going first-rate," responded Jondrette, "but my feet 
 are beastly cold. Good! You have dressed up. You have 
 done well ! You must inspire confidence." 
 
 "All ready to go out." 
 
 "Don't forget what I told you. You will do everything 
 sure ?" 
 
 "Best easy." 
 
 "Because " said Jondrette. And he left the phrase un- 
 finished. 
 
 Marius heard him lay something heavy on the table, prob- 
 ably the chisel which he had purchased. 
 
 "By the way," said Jondrette, "have you been eating here ?" 
 
 "Yes," said the mother. "I got three large potatoes and 
 some salt. I took advantage of the fire to cook them." 
 
 "Good," returned Jondrette. "To-morrow I will take you 
 out to dine with me. We will have a duck and fixings. You 
 shall dine like Charles the Tenth ; all is going well !" 
 
 Then he added: 
 
 "The mouse-trap is open. The cats are there." 
 
 He lowered his voice still further, and said : 
 
 "Put this in the fire." 
 
 Marius heard a sound of charcoal being knocked with the 
 tongs or some iron utensil, and Jondrette continued : 
 
 "Have you greased the hinges of the- door so that they will 
 not squeak?"
 
 034 MARIU8 
 
 "Yes," replied the mother. 
 
 "What time is it?" 
 
 "Nearly six. The half-hour struck from Saint-Medard a 
 while ago." 
 
 "The devil!" ejaculated Jondrette; "the children must go 
 and watch. Come you. do you listen here." 
 
 A whispering ensued. 
 
 Jondrette's voice became audible again: 
 
 "Has old Bougon left?" 
 
 "Yes," said the mother. 
 
 "Are you sure that there is no one in our neighbor's 
 room ?" 
 
 "He has not been in all day, and you know very well that 
 this is his dinner hour." 
 
 "You are sure?" 
 
 "Sure." 
 
 "All the same," said Jondrette, "there's no harm in going 
 to see whether he is there. Here, my girl, take the candle and 
 go there." 
 
 Marius fell on his hands and knees and crawled silently 
 under his bed. 
 
 Hardly had he concealed himself, when he perceived a light 
 through the crack of his door. 
 
 "P'pa," cried a voice, "he is not in here." 
 
 He recognized the voice of the eldest daughter. 
 
 "Did you go in?" demanded her father. 
 
 "No," replied the girl, "but as his key is in the door, he 
 must be out." 
 
 The father exclaimed: 
 
 "Go in, nevertheless." 
 
 The door opened, and Marius saw the tall Jondrette come 
 in with a candle in her hand. She was as she had been in the 
 morning, only still more repulsive in this light. 
 
 She walked straight up to the bed. Marius endured an 
 indescribable moment of anxiety ; but near the bed there was 
 a mirror nailed to the wall, and it was thither that she was 
 directing her steps. She raised herself on tiptoe and looked
 
 THE WICKED POO If MAN 935 
 
 at herself in it. In the neighboring room, the sound of iron 
 articles being moved was audible. 
 
 She smoothed her hair with the palm of her hand, and 
 smiled into the mirror, humming with her cracked and sepul- 
 chral voice : 
 
 Nos amoura ont dure' toute une semaine, 1 
 Mais que du bonheur IPS instants sont courts! 
 S'adorer huit jours, c' f-tait bien la pcinc! 
 Le temps des amours devait durer toujours! 
 Devrait durer toujours! devrait durer toujours! 
 
 In the meantime, Marius trembled. It seemed impossible 
 to him that she should not hear his breathing. 
 
 She stepped to the window and looked out with the half- 
 foolish way she had. 
 
 "How ugly Paris is when it has put on a white chemise !" 
 said she. 
 
 She returned to the mirror and began again to put on airs 
 before it, scrutinizing herself full-face and three-quarters face 
 in turn. 
 
 "Well !" cried her father, "what are you about there?" 
 
 "I am looking under the bed and the furniture," she re- 
 plied, continuing to arrange her hair; "there's no one 
 here." 
 
 "Booby !" yelled her father. "Come here this minute ! 
 And don't waste any time about it !" 
 
 "Coming ! Coming !" said she. "One has no time for any- 
 thing in this hovel !" 
 
 She hummed: 
 
 Vous me quittez pour aller a la gloire; 1 
 Mon triste coeur suivra partout. 
 
 She cast a parting glance in the mirror and went out, 
 shutting the door behind her. 
 
 'Our love has lasted a whole week, but how short are the instants 
 of happiness! To adore each other for eight days was hardly worth 
 the while! The time of love should last forever. 
 
 2 You leave me to go to glory; my sad heart will follow you every- 
 where.
 
 936 MAKIU8 
 
 A moment more, and Marius heard the sound of the two 
 young girls' bare feet in the corridor, and Jondrette's voice 
 shouting to them : 
 
 "Pay strict heed ! One on the side of the barrier, the other 
 at the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. Don't lose sight 
 for a moment of the door of this house, and the moment you 
 see anything, rush here on the instant ! as hard as you can go ! 
 You have a key to get in." 
 
 The eldest girl grumbled : 
 
 "The idea of standing watch in the snow barefoot !" 
 
 "To-morrow you shall have some dainty little green silk 
 boots !" said the father. 
 
 They ran down stairs, and a few seconds later the shock of 
 the outer door as it banged to announced that they were 
 outside. 
 
 There now remained in the house only Marius, the Jon- 
 drettes and probably, also, the mysterious persons of whom 
 Marius had caught a glimpse in the twilight, behind the door 
 of the unused attic. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE USE MADE OF MARIOS' FIVE-FRANC PIECE 
 
 MARIUS decided that the moment had now arrived when he 
 must resume his post at his observatory. In a twinkling, 
 and with the agility of his age, he had reached the hole in 
 the partition. 
 
 He looked. 
 
 The interior of the Jondrette apartment presented a curious 
 aspect, and Marius found an explanation of the singular light 
 which he had noticed. A candle was burning in a candlestick 
 covered with verdigris, but that was not what really lighted the 
 chamber. The hovel was completely illuminated, as it were, by 
 the reflection from a rather large sheet-iron brazier standing in 
 the fireplace, and filled with burning charcoal, the brazier pre-
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 237 
 
 pared by the Jondrette woman that morning. The charcoal 
 was glowing hot and the brazier was red ; a blue flame flickered 
 over it, and helped him to make out the form of the chisel pur- 
 chased by Jondrette in the Rue Pierre- Lombard, where it had 
 been thrust into the brazier to heat. In one corner, near the 
 door, and as though prepared for some definite use, two heaps 
 were visible, which appeared to be, the one a heap of old iron, 
 the other a heap of ropes. All this would have caused the mind 
 of a person who knew nothing of what was in preparation, to 
 waver between a very sinister and a very simple idea. The 
 lair thus lighted up more resembled a forge than a mouth of 
 hell, but Jondrette, in this light, had rather the air of a demon 
 than of a smith. 
 
 The heat of the brazier was so great, that the candle on the 
 table was melting on the side next the chafing-dish, and was 
 drooping over. An old dark-lantern of copper, worthy of 
 Diogenes turned Cartouche, stood on the chimney-piece. 
 
 The brazier, placed in the fireplace itself, beside the nearly 
 extinct brands, sent its vapors up the chimney, and gave out 
 no odor. 
 
 The moon, entering through the four panes of the window, 
 cast its whiteness into the crimson and flaming garret ; and to 
 the poetic spirit of Marius, who was dreamy even in the 
 moment of action, it was like a thought of heaven mingled 
 with the misshapen reveries of earth. 
 
 A breath of air which made its way in through the open 
 pane, helped to dissipate the smell of the charcoal and to con- 
 ceal the presence of the brazier. 
 
 The Jondrette lair was, if the reader recalls what we have 
 said of the Gorbeau building, admirably chosen to serve as the 
 theatre of a violent and sombre deed, and as the envelope for 
 a crime. It was the most retired chamber in the most isolated 
 house on the most deserted boulevard in Paris. If the system 
 of ambush and traps had not already existed, they would have 
 been invented there. 
 
 The whole thickness of a house and a multitude of unin- 
 habited rooms separated this den from the boulevard, and the
 
 238 UARIU8 
 
 only window that existed opened on waste lands enclosed with 
 walls and palisades. 
 
 Jondrette had lighted his pipe, seated himself on the seatless 
 chair, and was engaged in smoking. His wife was talking to 
 him in a low tone. 
 
 If Marius had been Courfeyrac, that is to say, one of those 
 men who laugh on every occasion in life, he would have burst 
 with laughter when his gaze fell on the Jondrette woman. She 
 had on a black bonnet with plumes not unlike the hats of the 
 heralds-at-arms at the coronation of Charles X., an immense 
 tartan shawl over her knitted petticoat, and the man's shoes 
 which her daughter had scorned in the morning. It was this 
 toilette which had extracted from Jondrette the exclamation : 
 "Good ! You have dressed up. You have done well. You 
 must inspire confidence !" 
 
 As for Jondrette, he had not taken off the new surtout, 
 which was too large for him, and which M. Leblanc had given 
 him, and his costume continued to present that contrast of coat 
 and trousers which constituted the ideal of a poet in Courfey- 
 rac 's eyes. 
 
 All at once, Jondrette lifted up his voice : 
 
 "By the way ! Now that I think of it. In this weather, he 
 will come in a carriage. Light the lantern, take it and go 
 down stairs. You will stand behind the lower door. The very 
 moment that you hear the carriage stop, you will open the 
 door, instantly, he will come up, you will light the staircase 
 and the corridor, and when he enters here, you will go down 
 stairs again as speedily as possible, you will pay the coachman, 
 and dismiss the fiacre. 
 
 "And the money ?" inquired the woman. 
 
 Jondrette fumbled in his trousers pocket and handed her 
 five francs. 
 
 "What's this?" she exclaimed. 
 
 Jondrette replied with dignity : 
 
 "That is the monarch which our neighbor gave us this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 And he added :
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 230 
 
 "Do you know what? Two chairs will be needed here." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 "To sit on." 
 
 Marius felt a cold chill pass through his limbs at hearing 
 this mild answer from Jondrette. 
 
 "Pardicu ! I'll go and get one of our neighbor's." 
 
 And with a rapid movement, she opened the door of the den, 
 and went out into the corridor. 
 
 Marius absolutely had not the time to descend from the com- 
 mode, reach his bed, and conceal himself beneath it. 
 
 "Take the candle," cried Jondrette. 
 
 "No," said she, "it would embarrass me, I have the two 
 chairs to carry. There is moonlight." 
 
 Marius heard Mother Jondrette's heavy hand fumbling at 
 his lock in the dark. The door opened. He remained nailed 
 to the spot with the shock and with horror. 
 
 The Jondrette entered. 
 
 The dormer window permitted the entrance of a ray of 
 moonlight between two blocks of shadow. One of these blocks 
 of shadow entirely covered the wall against which Marius was 
 leaning, so that he disappeared within it. 
 
 Mother Jondrette raised her eyes, did not see Marius, took 
 the two chairs, the only ones which Marius possessed, and went 
 away, letting the door fall heavily to behind her. 
 
 She re-entered the lair. 
 
 "Here are the two chairs." 
 
 "And here is the lantern. Go down as quick as you can." 
 
 She hastily obeyed, and Jondrette was left alone. 
 
 He placed the two chairs on opposite sides of the table, 
 turned the chisel in the brazier, set in front of the fireplace an 
 old screen which masked the chafing-dish, then went to the 
 corner where lay the pile of rope, and bent down as though to 
 examine something. Marius then recognized the fact, that 
 what he had taken for a shapeless mass was a very well-made 
 rope-ladder, with wooden rungs and two hooks with which to 
 attach it. 
 
 This ladder, and some large tools, veritable masses of iron,
 
 040 MARIU8 
 
 which were mingled with the old iron piled up behind the door, 
 had not been in the Jondrette hovel in the morning, and had 
 evidently been brought thither in the afternoon, during Ma- 
 rius' absence. 
 
 "Those are the utensils of an edge-tool maker," thought 
 Marius. 
 
 Had Marius been a little more learned in this line, he would 
 have recognized in what he took for the engines of an edge-tool 
 maker, certain instruments which will force a lock or pick a 
 lock, and others which will cut or slice, the two families of 
 tools which burglars call cadets and fauchants. 
 
 The fireplace and the two chairs were exactly opposite Ma- 
 rius. The brazier being concealed, the only light in the room 
 was now furnished by the candle; the smallest bit of crockery 
 on the table or on the chimney-piece cast a large shadow. 
 There was something indescribably calm, threatening, and 
 hideous about this chamber. One felt that there existed in it 
 the anticipation of something terrible. 
 
 Jondrette had allowed his pipe to go out, a serious sign of 
 preoccupation, and had again seated himself. The candle 
 brought out the fierce and the fine angles of his countenance. 
 He indulged in scowls and in abrupt unfoldings of the right 
 hand, as though he were responding to the last counsels of a 
 sombre inward monologue. In the course of one of these dark 
 replies which he was making to himself, he pulled the table 
 drawer rapidly towards him, took out a long kitchen knife 
 which was concealed there, and tried the edge of its blade on 
 his nail. That done, he put the knife back in the drawer and 
 shut it. 
 
 Marius, on his side, grasped the pistol in his right pocket, 
 drew it out and cocked it. 
 
 The pistol emitted a sharp, clear click, as he cocked it. 
 
 Jondrette started, half rose, listened a moment, then began 
 to laugh and said : 
 
 "What a fool I am ! It's the partition cracking !" 
 
 Marius kept the pistol in his hand.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 241 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 MARIUS' TWO CHAIRS FORM A VI8-A-VI8 
 
 SUDDENLY, the distant and melancholy vibration of a clock 
 shook the panes. Six o'clock was striking from Saint- 
 Medard. 
 
 Jondrette marked off each stroke with a toss of his head. 
 When the sixth had struck, he snuffed the candle with his 
 fingers. 
 
 Then he began to pace up and down the room, listened at the 
 corridor, walked on again, then listened once more. 
 
 "Provided only that he comes !" he muttered, then he re- 
 turned to his chair. 
 
 He had hardly reseated himself when the door opened. 
 
 Mother Jondrette had opened it, and now remained in the 
 corridor making a horrible, amiable grimace, which one of the 
 holes of the dark-lantern illuminated from below. 
 
 "Enter, sir," she said. 
 
 "Enter, my benefactor," repeated Jondrette, rising hastily. 
 
 M. Leblanc made his appearance. 
 
 He wore an air of serenity which rendered him singularly 
 venerable. 
 
 He laid four louis on the table. 
 
 "Monsieur Fabantou," said he, "this is for your rent and 
 your most pressing necessities. We will attend to the rest here- 
 after." 
 
 "May God requite it to you, my generous benefactor !" said 
 -Jondrette. 
 
 And rapidly approaching his wife : 
 
 "Dismiss the carriage!" 
 
 She slipped out while her husband was lavishing salutes and 
 offering M. Leblanc a chair. An instant later she returned 
 and whispered in his ear : 
 
 " Tis done." 
 
 The snow, which had not ceased falling since the morning.
 
 242 MARIU8 
 
 was so deep that the arrival of the fiacre had not been audible, 
 and they did not now hear its departure. 
 
 Meanwhile, M. Leblanc had seated himself. 
 
 Jondrette had taken possession of the other chair, facing 
 M. Leblanc. 
 
 Now, in order to form an idea of the scene which is to fol- 
 low, let the reader picture to himself in his own mind, a cold 
 night, the solitudes of the Salpetriere covered with snow and 
 white as winding-sheets in the moonlight, the taper-like lights 
 of the street lanterns which shone redly here and there along 
 those tragic boulevards, and the long rows of black elms, not a 
 passer-by for perhaps a quarter of a league around, the Gor- 
 beau hovel, at its highest pitch of silence, of horror, and of 
 darkness ; in that building, in the midst of those solitudes, in 
 the midst of that darkness, the vast Jondrette garret lighted by 
 a single candle, and in that den two men seated at a table, M. 
 Leblanc tranquil, Jondrette smiling and alarming, the Jon- 
 drette woman, the female wolf, in one corner, and, behind the 
 partition, Marius, invisible, erect, not losing a word, not miss- 
 ing a single movement, his eye on the watch, and pistol in 
 hand. 
 
 However, Marius experienced only an emotion of horror, but 
 no fear. He clasped the stock of the pistol firmly and felt reas- 
 sured. "I shall be able to stop that wretch whenever I please," 
 he thought. 
 
 He felt that the police were there somewhere in ambuscade, 
 waiting for the signal agreed upon and ready to stretch out 
 their arm. 
 
 Moreover, he was in hopes, that this violent encounter be- 
 tween Jondrette and M. Leblanc would cast some light on all 
 the things which he was interested in learning.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 243 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 OCCUPYING ONE'S SELF WITH OBSCURE DEPTHS 
 
 HARDLY was M. Lcblanc seated, when he turned his eyes 
 towards the pallets, which were empty. 
 
 "How is the poor little wounded girl?" he inquired. 
 
 "Bad," replied Jondrette with a heart-broken and grateful 
 smile, "very bad, my worthy sir. Her elder sister has taken 
 her to the Bourbe to have her hurt dressed. You will see them 
 presently ; they will be back immediately." 
 
 "Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better," went on 
 M. Leblanc, casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the 
 Jondrette woman, as she stood between him and the door, as 
 though already guarding the exit, and gazed at him in an atti- 
 tude of menace and almost of combat. 
 
 "She is dying," said Jondrette. "But what do you expect, 
 sir ! She has so much courage, that woman has ! She's not a 
 woman, she's an ox." 
 
 The Jondrette, touched by his compliment, deprecated it 
 with the affected airs of a flattered monster. 
 
 "You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette !" 
 
 "Jondrette !" said M. Leblanc, "I thought your name was 
 Fabantou ?" 
 
 "Fabantou, alias Jondrette!" replied the husband hurriedly. 
 "An artistic sobriquet !" 
 
 And launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders which 
 M. Leblanc did not catch, he continued with an emphatic and 
 caressing inflection of voice: 
 
 "Ah! we have had a happy life together, this poor darling 
 and I ! What would there be left for us if we had not that? 
 We are so wretched, my respectable sir! We have arms, but 
 there is no work ! We have the will, no work ! I don't know 
 how the government arranges that, but, on my word of honor, 
 sir, I am not Jacobin, sir, I am not a bousingot. 1 I don't wish 
 
 *A democrat.
 
 244 MAKWH 
 
 them any evil, but if I were the ministers, on my most sacred 
 word, things would be different. Here, for instance, I wanted 
 to have my girls taught the trade of paper-box makers. You 
 will say to me: 'What! a trade?' Yes! A trade! A simple 
 trade ! A bread-winner ! What a fall, my benefactor ! What 
 a degradation, when one has been what we have been ! Alas ! 
 There is nothing left to us of our days of prosperity ! One 
 thing only, a picture, of which I think a great deal, but which 
 I am willing to part with, for I must live ! Item, one must 
 live !" 
 
 While Jondrette thus talked, with an apparent incoherence 
 which detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious 
 expression of his physiognomy, Marius raised his eyes, and 
 perceived at the other end of the room a person whom he had 
 not seen before. A man had just entered, so softly that the 
 door had not been heard to turn on its hinges. This man 
 wore a violet knitted vest, which was old, worn, spotted, cut 
 and gaping at every fold, wide trousers of cotton velvet, 
 wooden shoes on his feet, no shirt, had his neck bare, his bare 
 arms tattooed, and his face smeared with black. He had 
 seated himself in silence on the nearest bed, and, as he was 
 behind Jondrette, he could only be indistinctly seen. 
 
 That sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze, 
 caused M. Leblanc to turn round almost at the same moment 
 as Marius. He could not refrain from a gesture of surprise 
 which did not escape Jondrette. 
 
 "Ah ! I see !" exclaimed Jondrette, buttoning up his coat 
 with an air of complaisance, "you are looking at your over- 
 coat ? It fits me ! My faith, but it fits me !" 
 
 "Who is that man ?" said M. Leblanc. 
 
 "Him?" ejaculated Jondrette, "he's a neighbor of mine. 
 Don't pay any attention to him." 
 
 The neighbor was a singular-looking individual. However, 
 manufactories of chemical products abound in the Faubourg 
 Saint-Marceau. Many of the workmen might have black 
 faces. Besides this, M. Lcblanc's whole person was expressive 
 of candid and intrepid confidence.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 245 
 
 He went on: 
 
 "Excuse me; what were you saying, M. Fabantou?" 
 
 "I was telling you, sir, and dear protector," replied Jon- 
 drette, placing his elbows on the table and contemplating M. 
 Leblanc with steady and tender eyes, not unlike the eyes of 
 the boa-constrictor, "I was telling you, that I have a picture 
 to sell." 
 
 A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just 
 entered and seated himself on the bed, behind Jondrette. 
 
 Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink 
 or lampblack. 
 
 Although this man had, literally, glided into the room, he 
 had not been able to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight of 
 him. 
 
 "Don't mind them," said Jondrette, "they are people who 
 belong in the house. So I was saying, that there remains in 
 my possession a valuable picture. But stop, sir, take a look 
 at it." 
 
 He rose, went to the wall at the foot of which stood the 
 panel which we have already mentioned, and turned it round, 
 still leaving it supported against the wall. It really was some- 
 thing which resembled a picture, and which the candle illumi- 
 nated, somewhat. Marius could make nothing out of it, as 
 Jondrette stood between the picture and him; he only saw a 
 coarse daub, and a sort of principal personage colored with the 
 harsh crudity of foreign canvasses and screen paintings. 
 
 "What is that?" asked M. Leblanc. 
 
 Jondrette exclaimed: 
 
 "A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my bene- 
 factor ! I am as much attached to it as I am to my two 
 daughters ; it recalls souvenirs to me ! But I have told you, 
 and I will not take it back, that I am so wretched that I will 
 part with it." 
 
 Either by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawn- 
 ing uneasiness, M. Leblanc's glance returned to the bottom of 
 the room as he examined the picture. 
 
 There were now four men, three seated on the bed, one
 
 246 MARIU8 
 
 standing near the door-post, all four with bare arms and 
 motionless, with faces smeared with black. One of those on 
 the bed was leaning against the wall, with closed eyes, and 
 it might have been supposed that he was asleep. He was old ; 
 his white hair contrasting with his blackened face produced 
 a horrible effect. The other two seemed to be young; one 
 wore a beard, the other wore his hair long. None of them 
 had on shoes; those who did not wear socks were barefooted. 
 
 Jondrette noticed that M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on these 
 men. 
 
 "They are friends. They are neighbors," said he. "Their 
 faces are black because they work in charcoal. They are 
 chimney-builders. Don't trouble yourself about them, my 
 benefactor, but buy my picture. Have pity on my misery. 
 I will not ask you much for it. How much do you think it 
 is worth?" 
 
 "Well," said M. Leblanc, looking Jondrette full in the eye, 
 and with the manner of a man who is on his guard, "it is 
 some signboard for a tavern, and is worth about three francs." 
 
 Jondrette replied sweetly : 
 
 "Have you your pocket-book with you? I should be satis- 
 fied with a thousand crowns." 
 
 M. Leblanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and 
 cast a rapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on his 
 left, on the side next the window, and the Jondrette woman 
 and the four men on his right, on the side next the door. The 
 four men did not stir, and did not even seem to be looking 
 on. 
 
 Jondrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with 
 so vague an eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that M. 
 Leblanc might have supposed that what he had before him 
 was a man who had simply gone mad with misery. 
 
 "If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor," said 
 Joiidrt-tte, "I shall be left without resources ; there will be 
 nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river. When 
 I think that I wanted to have my two girls taught the middle- 
 class paper-box trade, the making of boxes for New Year's
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 247 
 
 gifts ! Well ! A table with a board at the end to keep the 
 glasses from falling off is required, then a special stove is 
 needed, a pot with three compartments for the different de- 
 grees of strength of the paste, according as it is to be used 
 for wood, paper, or stuff, a paring-knife to cut the cardboard, 
 a mould to adjust it, a hammer to nail the steels, pincers, how 
 the devil do I know what all? And all that in order to earn 
 four sous a day ! And you have to work fourteen hours a day ! 
 And each box passes through the workwoman's hands thirteen 
 times ! And you can't wet the paper ! And you mustn't spot 
 anything ! And you must keep the paste hot. The devil, I 
 tell you ! Four sous a day ! How do you suppose a man is to 
 live?" 
 
 As he spoke, Jondrette did not look at M. Leblanc, who was 
 observing him. M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on Jondrette, and 
 Jondrette's eye was fixed on the door. Marius' eager attention 
 was transferred from one to the other. M. Leblanc seemed to 
 be asking himself: "Is this man an idiot?" Jondrette re- 
 peated two or three distinct times, with all manner of varying 
 inflections of the whining and supplicating order: "There is 
 nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river! I 
 went down three steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz 
 the other day for that purpose." 
 
 All at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash ; the 
 little man drew himself up and became terrible, took a step 
 toward M. Leblanc and cried in a voice of thunder : "That 
 has nothing to do with the question ! Do you know me ?" 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE TRAP 
 
 THE door of the garret had just opened abruptly, and 
 allowed a view of throe men men clad in blue linen blouses, 
 and masked with masks of black paper. The first was thin, 
 and had a long, iron-tipped cudgel; the second, who was a
 
 048 MARIU8 
 
 sort of colossus, carried, by the middle of the handle, with the 
 blade downward, a butcher's pole-axe for slaughtering cattle. 
 The third, a man with thick-set shoulders, not so slender as 
 the first, held in his hand an enormous key stolen from the 
 door of some prison. 
 
 It appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jond- 
 rette had been waiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between 
 him and the man with the cudgel, the thin one. 
 
 "Is everything ready?" said Jondrette. 
 
 "Yes," replied the thin man. 
 
 "Where is Montparnasse ?" 
 
 "The young principal actor stopped to chat with your girl." 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 "The eldest." 
 
 "Is there a carriage at the door ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Is the team harnessed ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With two good horses?" 
 
 "Excellent." 
 
 "Is it waiting where I ordered?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Good," said Jondrette. 
 
 M. Leblanc was very pale. He was scrutinizing everything 
 around him in the den, like a man who understands what he 
 has fallen into, and his head, directed in turn toward all the 
 heads which surrounded him, moved on his neck with an 
 astonished and attentive slowness, but there was nothing in 
 his air which resembled fear. He had improvised an intrench- 
 mcnt out of the table ; and the man, who but an instant previ- 
 ously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly old man, 
 had suddenly become a sort of athlete, and placed his robust 
 fist on the back of his chair, with a formidable and surprising 
 gesture. 
 
 This old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence 
 of such a danger, seemed to possess one of those natures which 
 are as courageous as they are kind, both easily and simply.
 
 MY NAME IS THENAROIER'"
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 249 
 
 The father of a woman whom we love is never a stranger to 
 us. Marius felt proud of that unknown man. 
 
 Three of the men, of whom Jondrette had said : "They are 
 chimney-builders," had armed themselves from the pile of old 
 iron, one with a heavy pair of shears, the second with weigh- 
 ing-tongs, the third with a hammer, and had placed them- 
 selves across the entrance without uttering a syllable. The 
 old man had remained on the bed, and had merely opened 
 his eyes. The Jondrette woman had seated herself beside 
 him. 
 
 Marius decided that in a few seconds more the moment for 
 intervention would arrive, and he raised his right hand 
 towards the ceiling, in the direction of the corridor, in readi- 
 ness to discharge his pistol. 
 
 Jondrette having terminated his colloquy with the man 
 with the cudgel, turned once more to M. Leblanc, and repeated 
 his question, accompanying it with that low, repressed, and 
 terrible laugh which was peculiar to him : 
 
 "So you do not recognize me ?" 
 
 M. Leblanc looked him full in the face, and replied : 
 
 "No." 
 
 Then Jondratte advanced to the table. He leaned across the 
 candle, crossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious 
 jaw close to M. Leblanc's calm face, and advancing as far as 
 possible without forcing M. Leblanc to retreat, and, in this 
 posture of a wild beast who is about to bite, he exclaimed : 
 
 "My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette. my 
 name is Thenardier. I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil ! 
 Do you understand ? Thenardier ! Now do you know 
 me?" 
 
 An almost imperceptible flush crossed M. Leblanc's brow, 
 and he replied with a voice which neither trembled nor rose 
 above its ordinary level, with his accustomed placidity : 
 
 "No more than before." 
 
 Marius did not hear this reply. Any one who had seen him 
 at that moment through the darkness would have perceived 
 that he was haggard, stupid, thunder-struck. At the moment
 
 050 MAKIl'S 
 
 when Jondrette said : "My name is Th6nardicr," Marius had 
 trembled in every limb, and bad leaned against the wall, as 
 though he felt the cold of a steel blade through his heart. 
 Then his right arm, all ready to discharge the signal shot, 
 dropped slowly, and at the moment when Jondrette repeated, 
 "Thenardier. do you understand?" Marius's faltering fingers 
 had come near letting the pistol fall. Jondrette, by revealing 
 his identity, had not moved M. Leblanc, but he had quite 
 upset Marius. That name of Thenardier, with which M. 
 Leblanc did not seem to be acquainted, Marius knew well. 
 Let the reader recall what that name meant to him ! That 
 name he had worn on his heart, inscribed in his father's 
 testament ! He bore it at the bottom of his mind, in the 
 depths of his memory, in that sacred injunction : <f \ certain 
 Thenardier saved my life. If my son encounters him, he will 
 do him all the good that lies in his power." That name, it 
 will be remembered, was one of the pieties of his soul ; he 
 mingled it with the name of his father in his worship. What ! 
 This man was that Thenardier, that inn-keeper of Montfer- 
 meil whom he had so long and so vainly sought ! He had 
 found him at last, and how? His father's saviour was a 
 ruffian ! That man, to whose service Marius was burning to 
 devote himself, was a monster ! That liberator of Colonel 
 Pontmercy was on the point of committing a crime whose 
 scope Marius did not, as yet, clearly comprehend, but which 
 resembled an assassination ! And against whom, great God ! 
 what a fatality! What a bitter mockery of fate! His father 
 had commanded him from the depths of his coffin to do all 
 the good in his power to this Thenardier, and for four years 
 Marius had cherished no other thought than to acquit this 
 debt of his father's, and at the moment when he was on the 
 eve of having a brigand seized in the very act of crime by 
 justice, destiny cried to him: "This is Thenardier!" lie 
 could at last repay this man for his father's life, saved amid 
 a hail-storm of grape-shot on the heroic field of Waterloo, and 
 repay it with the scaffold! He had sworn to himself that if 
 ever he found that Thenardier, he would address him only by
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 251 
 
 throwing himself at his feet ; and now he actually had found 
 him, but it was only to deliver him over to the executioner ! 
 His father said to him : "Succor Thenardier !" And he re- 
 plied to that adored and sainted voice by crushing Thenardier ! 
 He was about to offer to his father in his grave the spectacle 
 of that man who had torn him from death at the peril of his 
 own life, executed on the Place Saint-Jacques through the 
 means of his son, of that Marius to whom he had entrusted 
 that man by his will ! And what a mockery to have so long 
 worn on his breast his father's last commands, written in 
 his own hand, only to act in so horribly contrary a sense ! 
 But, on the other hand, now look on that trap and not prevent 
 it ! Condemn the victim and to spare the assassin ! Could 
 one be held to any gratitude towards so miserable a wretch? 
 All the ideas which Marius had cherished for the last four 
 years were pierced through and through, as it were, by this 
 unforeseen blow. 
 
 He shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown 
 to themselves, he held in his hand all those beings who were 
 moving about there before his eyes. If he fired his pistol, M. 
 Leblanc was saved, and Thenardier lost ; if he did not fire, M. 
 Leblanc would be sacrificed, and, who knows? Thenardier 
 would escape. Should he dash down the one or allow the 
 other to fall? Remorse awaited him in either case. 
 
 What was he to do? What should he choose? Be false to 
 the most imperious souvenirs, to all those solemn vows to him- 
 self, to the most sacred duty, to the most venerated text ! 
 Should he ignore his father's testament, or allow the perpe- 
 tration of a crime ! On the one hand, it seemed to him that 
 he heard "his Ursule" supplicating for her father, and on the 
 other, the colonel commending Thenardier to his care. He 
 felt that he was going mad. His knees gave way beneath him. 
 And he had not even the time for deliberation. ?o great was 
 the fury with which the scene before his eye? was hastening 
 to its catastrophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he had 
 thought himself the master, and which was now sweeping him 
 away. He was on the verge of swooning.
 
 252 MARIUS 
 
 In the meantime, Thenardier, whom we shall henceforth call 
 by no other name, was pacing up and down in front of the 
 table in a sort of frenzy and wild triumph. 
 
 He seized the candle in his fist, and set it on the chimney- 
 piece with so violent a bang that the wick came near being 
 extinguished, and the tallow bespattered the wall. 
 
 Then he turned to M. Leblanc with a horrible look, and spit 
 out these words : 
 
 "Done for ! Smoked brown! Cooked! Spitchcocked !" 
 
 And again he began to march back and forth, in full erup- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ah !" he cried, "so I've found you again at last, Mister 
 philanthropist ! Mister threadbare millionnaire ! Mister giver 
 of dolls ! you old ninny ! Ah ! so you don't recognize me ! No, 
 it wasn't you who came to Montfermeil, to my inn, eight years 
 ago, on Christmas eve, 1823 ! It wasn't you who carried off 
 that Fantine's child from me ! The Lark ! It wasn't you who 
 had a yellow great-coat ! No ! Nor a package of duds in your 
 hand, as you had this morning here ! Say, wife, it seems to be 
 his mania to carry packets of woollen stockings into houses ! 
 Old charity monger, get out with you ! Are you a hosier, 
 Mister millionnaire? You give away your stock in trade to 
 the poor, holy man ! What bosh ! merry Andrew ! Ah ! and 
 you don't recognize me ? Well, I recognize you, that I do ! I 
 recognized you the very moment you poked your snout in here. 
 Ah ! you'll find out presently, that it isn't all roses to thrust 
 yourself in that fashion into people's houses, under the pretext 
 that they are taverns, in wretched clothes, with the air of a 
 poor man, to whom one would give a sou, to deceive persons, 
 to play the generous, to take away their means of livelihood, 
 and to make threats in the woods, and you can't call things 
 quits because afterwards, when people are ruined, you bring 
 a coat that is too large, and two miserable hospital blankets, 
 you old blackguard, you child-stealer !" 
 
 He paused, and seemed to be talking to himself for a mo- 
 ment. One would have said that his wrath had fallen into 
 some hole, like the Rhone; then, as though he were concluding
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 253 
 
 aloud the things which he had been saying to himself in a 
 whisper, he smote the table with his fist, and shouted : 
 
 "And with his goody-goody air !" 
 
 And, apostrophizing M. Leblanc: 
 
 "Parbleu ! You made game of me in the past ! You are the 
 cause of all my misfortunes ! For fifteen hundred francs you 
 got a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich 
 people, and who had already brought in a great deal of money, 
 and from whom I might have extracted enough to live on all 
 my life ! A girl who would have made up to me for everything 
 that I lost in that vile cook-shop, where there was nothing but 
 one continual row, and where, like a fool, I ate up my last 
 farthing ! Oh ! I wish all the wine folks drank in my house 
 had been poison to those who drank it! Well, never mind! 
 Say, now ! You must have thought me ridiculous when you 
 went off with the Lark ! You had your cudgel in the forest. 
 You were the stronger. Kevenge. I'm the one to hold the 
 trumps to-day ! You're in a sorry case, my good fellow ! Oh, 
 but I can laugh! Really, I laugh! Didn't he fall into the 
 trap ! I told him that I was an actor, that my name was 
 Fabantou, that I had played comedy with Mamselle Mars, with 
 Mamselle Muche, that my landlord insisted on being paid to- 
 morrow, the 4th of February, and he didn't even notice that 
 the 8th of January, and not the 4th of February is the time 
 when the quarter runs out ! Absurd idiot ! And the four mis- 
 erable Philippes which he has brought me! Scoundrel! He 
 hadn't the heart even to go as high as a hundred francs ! And 
 how he swallowed my platitudes ! That did amuse me. I said 
 to myself: 'Blockbead! Come, I've got you! I lick your paws 
 this morning, but I'll gnaw your heart this evening!' ' 
 
 Thenardier paused. He was out of breath. His little, nar- 
 row chest panted like a forge bellows. His eyes were full of 
 the ignoble happiness of a feeble, cruel, and cowardly creature, 
 which finds that it can, at last, harass what it has feared, ::!ul 
 insult what it has flattered, the joy of a dwarf who should bo 
 able to set his heel on the head of Goliath, the joy of a jackal 
 which is beginning to rend a sick bull, so nearly dead that he
 
 054 
 
 can no longer defend himself, but sufficiently alive to suffer 
 still. 
 
 M. Leblanc did not interrupt him, but said to him when he 
 paused : 
 
 "I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken 
 in me. I am a very poor man, and anything but a millionnaire. 
 I do not know you. You are mistaking me for some other 
 person." 
 
 "Ah!" roared Thenardier hoarsely, "a pretty lie! You 
 stick to that pleasantry, do you ! You're floundering, my old 
 buck ! Ah ! You don't remember ! You don't see who I 
 am?" 
 
 "Excuse me, sir," said M. Leblanc with a politeness of 
 accent, which at that moment seemed peculiarly strange and 
 powerful, "I see that you are a villain !" 
 
 \Vho has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess 
 a susceptibility of their own, that monsters are ticklish ! At 
 this word "villain," the female Thenardier sprang from the 
 bed, Thenardier grasped his chair as though he were about to 
 crush it in his hands. "Don't you stir !" he shouted to his 
 wife; and, turning to M. Leblanc: 
 
 "Villain ! Yes, I know that you call us that, you rich gen- 
 tlemen ! Stop ! it's true that I became bankrupt, that I am in 
 hiding, that I have no bread, that I have not a single sou, that 
 I am a villain! It's three days since I have had anything to 
 eat, so I'm a villain ! Ah ! you folks warm your feet, you have 
 Sakoski boots, you have wadded great-coats, like archbishops, 
 you lodge on the first floor in houses that have porters, you eat 
 truffles, you eat asparagus at forty francs the bunch in the 
 month of January, and green peas, you gorge yourselves, and 
 when you want to know whether it is cold, you look in the 
 papers to see what the engineer Chevalier's thermometer says 
 about it. We, it is we who are thermometers. We dont need 
 to go out and look on the quay at the corner of the Tour do 
 1'Horologe, to find out the number of degrees of cold; we feel 
 our blood congealing in our veins, and the ka forming round 
 our hearts, and we say: 'There is no God!' And you come
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 255 
 
 to our caverns, yes, our caverns, for the purpose of calling us 
 villains! But we'll devour you! But we'll devour you, poor 
 little things! Just see here. Mister millionnaire: 1 have been 
 a solid man, I have held a license, I have heen an elector, I am 
 a bourgeois, that I am ! And it's quite possible that you are 
 not !" 
 
 Here Thenardier took a step towards the men who stood near 
 the door, and added with a shudder : 
 
 "When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to 
 me like a cobbler !" 
 
 Then addressing M. Leblanc with a fresh outburst of 
 frenzy : 
 
 "And listen to this also, Mister philanthropist ! I'm not a 
 suspicious character, not a bit of it ! I'm not a man whose 
 name nobody knows, and who comes and abducts children from 
 houses ! I'm an old French soldier, I ought to have been deco- 
 rated ! I was at Waterloo, so I was ! And in the battle I saved 
 a general called the Comte of I don't know what. He told me 
 his name, but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn't hear. 
 All I caught was Merci [thanks]. I'd rather have had his 
 name than his thanks. That would have helped me to find him 
 again. The picture that you see here, and which was painted 
 by David at Bruqueselles, do you know what it represents? 
 It represents me. David wished to immortalize that feat of 
 prowess. I have that general on my back, and I am carrying 
 him through the grape-shot. There's the history of it ! That 
 general never did a single thing for me; he was no better than 
 the rest! But none the less, I saved his life at the risk of my 
 own, and I have the certificate of the fact in my pocket ! I am 
 a soldier of Waterloo, by all the furies ! And now that I have 
 had the goodness to tell you all this, let's have an end of it. I 
 want money, I want a deal of money, I must have an enormous 
 lot of money, or I'll exterminate you, by the thunder of the 
 good God !" 
 
 Marius had regained some measure of control over his an- 
 guish, and was listening. The last possibility of doubt had 
 just vanished. It certainly was the Thenardier of the will.
 
 256 MARIU8 
 
 Marius shuddered at that reproach of ingratitude directed 
 against his father, and which he was on the point of so fatally 
 justifying. His perplexity was redoubled. 
 
 Moreover, there was in all these words of Thenardier, in his 
 accent, in his gesture, in his glance which darted flames at 
 every word, there was, in this explosion of an evil nature dis- 
 closing everything, in that mixture of braggadocio and abject- 
 ness, of pride and pettiness, of rage and folly, in that chaos of 
 real griefs and false sentiments, in that immodesty of a mali- 
 cious man tasting the voluptuous delights of violence, in that 
 shameless nudity of a repulsive soul, in that conflagration of 
 all sufferings combined with all hatreds, something which was 
 as hideous as evil, and as heart-rending as the truth. 
 
 The picture of the master, the painting by David which he 
 had proposed that M. Leblanc should purchase, was nothing 
 else, as the reader has divined, than the sign of his tavern 
 painted, as it will be remembered, by himself, the only relic 
 which he had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermeil. 
 
 As he had ceased to intercept Marius' visual ray, Marius 
 could examine this thing, and in the daub, he actually did 
 recognize a battle, a background of smoke, and a man carrying 
 another man. It was the group composed of Pontmercy and 
 Thenardier ; the sergeant the rescuer, the colonel rescued. 
 Marius was like a drunken man; this picture restored his 
 father to life in some sort; it was no longer the signboard of 
 the wine-shop at Montfermeil, it was a resurrection ; a tomb 
 had yawned, a phantom had risen there. Marius heard his 
 heart beating in his temples, he had the cannon of Waterloo in 
 his ears, his bleeding father, vaguely depicted on that sinister 
 panel terrified him, and it seemed to him that the misshapen 
 spectre was gazing intently at him. 
 
 When Thenardier had recovered his breath, he turned his 
 bloodshot eyes on M. Leblanc, and said to him in a low, curt 
 voice : 
 
 "What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on 
 you ?" 
 
 M. Leblanc held his peace.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 257 
 
 In the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this 
 lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor : 
 
 "If there's any wood to be split, I'm there !" 
 
 It was the man with the axe, who was growing merry. 
 
 At the same moment, an enormous, bristling, and clayey 
 face made its appearance at the door, with a hideous laugh 
 which exhibited not teeth, but fangs. 
 
 It was the face of the man with the butcher's axe. 
 
 "Why have you taken off your mask ?" cried Thenardier in 
 a rage. 
 
 "For fun," retorted the man. 
 
 For the last few minutes M. Leblanc had appeared to be 
 watching and following all the movements of Thenardier, who, 
 blinded and dazzled by his own rage, was stalking to and fro 
 in the den with full confidence that the door was guarded, and 
 of holding an unarmed man fast, he being armed himself, of 
 being nine against one, supposing that the female Thenardier 
 counted for but one man. 
 
 During his address to the man with the pole-axe, he had 
 turned his back to M. Leblanc. 
 
 M. Leblanc seized this moment, overturned the chair with 
 his foot and the table with his fist, and with one bound, with 
 prodigious agility, before Thenardier had time to turn round, 
 he had reached the window. To open it, to scale the frame, 
 to bestride it, was the work of a second only. He was half 
 out when six robust fists seized him and dragged him back 
 energetically into the hovel. These were the three "chim- 
 ney-builders," who had flung themselves upon him. At the 
 same time the Thenardier woman had wound her hands in his 
 hair. 
 
 At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up 
 from the corridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under 
 the influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reel- 
 ing up, with a stone-breaker's hammer in his band. 
 
 One of the "chimney-builders," whose smirched face was 
 lighted up by the candle, and in whom Mnrius recognized, in 
 spitt of his daubing, Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigre-
 
 058 MAKWB 
 
 naille, lifted above M. Leblanc's head a sort of bludgeon made 
 of two balls of lead, at the two ends of a bar of iron. 
 
 Marius could not resist this sight. "My father," he thought, 
 "forgive me !" 
 
 And his finger sought the trigger of his pistol. 
 
 The shot was on the point of being discharged when Thenar- 
 dier's voice shoutdd : 
 
 ""Don't harm him !" 
 
 This desperate attempt of the victim, far from exasperating 
 Thenardier, had calmed him. There existed in him two men, 
 the ferocious man and the adroit man. Up to that moment, in 
 the excess of his triumph in the presence of the prey which had 
 been brought down, and which did not stir, the ferocious man 
 had prevailed; when the victim struggled and tried to resist, 
 the adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand. 
 
 "Don't hurt him !" he repeated, and without suspecting it, 
 his first success was to arrest the pistol in the act of being dis- 
 charged, and to paralyze Marius, in whose opinion the urgency 
 of the case disappeared, and who, in the face of this new phase, 
 saw no inconvenience in waiting a while longer. 
 
 Who knows whether some chance would not arise which 
 would deliver him from the horrible alternative of allowing 
 Ursule's father to perish, or of destroying the colonel's sa- 
 viour? 
 
 A herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in the 
 chest, M. Leblanc had sent the old man tumbling, rolling in 
 the middle of the room, then with two backward sweeps of his 
 hand he had overthrown two more assailants, and he held one 
 under each of his knees; the wretches were rattling in the 
 throat beneath this pressure as under a granite millstone; but 
 the other four had seized the formidable old man by both arms 
 and the back of his neck, and were holding him doubled up 
 over the two "chimney-builders" on the floor. 
 
 Thus, the master of some and mastered by the rest, crushing 
 those beneath him and stifling under those on top of him, en- 
 deavoring in vain to shake off all the efforts which were heaped 
 upon him, M. Leblanc disappeared under the horrible group of
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 259 
 
 ruffians like the wild boar beneath a howling pile of dogs and 
 hounds. 
 
 They succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest 
 the window, and there they held him in awe. The Thenar- 
 dier woman had not released her clutch on his hair. 
 
 "Don't you mix yourself up in this affair," said Thenardier. 
 "You'll tear your shawl." 
 
 The Thenardier obeyed, as the female wolf obeys the male 
 wolf, with a growl. 
 
 "Now," said Thenardier, "search him, you other fellows !" 
 
 M. Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance. 
 
 They searched him. 
 
 He had nothing on his person except a leather purse con- 
 taining six francs, and his handkerchief. 
 
 Thenardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket. 
 
 "What ! No pocket-book ?" he demanded. 
 
 "No, nor watch," replied one of the "chimney-builders." 
 
 "Never mind," murmured the masked man who carried the 
 big key, in the voice of a ventriloquist, "he's a tough old 
 fellow." 
 
 Thenardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a 
 bundle of ropes and threw them at the men. 
 
 "Tie him to the leg of the bed," said he. 
 
 And, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched 
 across the room by the blow from M. Leblanc's fist, and who 
 made no movement, he added : 
 
 "Is Boulatruelle dead ?" 
 
 "No," replied Bigrenaille, "he's drunk." 
 
 "Sweep him into a corner," said Thenardier. 
 
 Two of the "chimney-builders" pushed the drunken man 
 into the corner near the heap of old iron with their feet. 
 
 "Babet," said Thenardier in a low tone to the man with the 
 cudgel, "why did you bring so many ; they were not needed." 
 
 "What can you do?" replied the man with the cudgel, "they 
 all wanted to be in it. This is a bad season. There's no 
 business going on." 
 
 The pallet on which M. Leblanc had been thrown was a sort
 
 900 MARIU8 
 
 of hospital bed, elevated on four coarse wooden legs, roughly 
 hewn. 
 
 M. Leblanc let them take their own course. 
 
 The ruffians bound him securely, in an upright attitude, 
 with his feet on the ground at the head of the bed, the end 
 which was most remote from the window, and nearest to the 
 fireplace. 
 
 When the last knot had been tied, Thenardier took a chair 
 and seated himself almost facing M. Leblanc. 
 
 Thenardier no longer looked like himself ; in the course of 
 a few moments his face had passed from unbridled violence 
 to tranquil and cunning sweetness. 
 
 Marius found it difficult to recognize in that polished smile 
 of a man in official life the almost bestial mouth which had 
 been foaming but a moment before; he gazed with amaze- 
 ment on that fantastic and alarming metamorphosis, and he 
 felt as a man might feel who should behold a tiger converted 
 into a lawyer. 
 
 "Monsieur " said Thenardier. 
 
 And dismissing with a gesture the ruffians who still kept 
 their hands on M. Leblanc: 
 
 "Stand off a little, and let me have a talk with the gentle- 
 man." 
 
 All retired towards the door. 
 
 He went on : 
 
 "Monsieur, you did wrong to try to jump out of the 
 window. You might have broken your leg. Now, if you will 
 permit me, we will converse quietly. In the first place, I must 
 communicate to you an observation which I have made, which 
 is, that you have not uttered the faintest cry." 
 
 Thenardier was right, this detail was correct, although it 
 had escaped Marius in his agitation. M. Leblanc had barely 
 pronounced a few words, without raising his voice, and even 
 during his struggle with the six ruffians near the window 
 he had preserved the most profound and singular silence. 
 
 Thenardier continued : 
 
 "Mon Dieu ! You might have shouted 'stop thief a bit,
 
 THE WICKED POOH A/AA 201 
 
 and I should not have thought it improper. 'Murder !' That, 
 too, is said occasionally, and, so far as I am concerned, I 
 should not have taken it in bad part. It is very natural that 
 you should make a little row when you find yourself with 
 persons who don't inspire you with sufficient confidence. You 
 might have done that, and no one would have troubled you on 
 that account. You would not even have been gagged. And 
 I will tell you why. This room is very private. That's its 
 only recommendation, but it has that in its favor. You might 
 fire off a mortar and it would produce about as much noise 
 at the nearest police station as the snores of a drunken man. 
 Here a cannon would make a bourn, and the thunder would 
 make a pouf. It's a handy lodging. But, in short, you did 
 not shout, and it is better so. I present you my compliments, 
 and I will tell you the conclusion that I draw from that fact : 
 My dear sir, when a man shouts, who comes? The police. 
 And after the police? Justice. Well! You have not made 
 an outcry; that is because you don't care to have the police 
 and the courts come in any more than we do. It is because, 
 I have long suspected it, you have some interest in hiding 
 something. On our side we have the same interest. So we 
 can come to an understanding." 
 
 As he spoke thus, it seemed as though Thenardier, who kept 
 his eyes fixed on M. Leblanc, were trying to plunge the sharp 
 points which darted from the pupils into the very conscience 
 of his prisoner. Moreover, his language, which was stamped 
 with a sort of moderated, subdued insolence and crafty inso- 
 lence, was reserved and almost choice, and in that rascal, who 
 had been nothing but a robber a short time previously, one 
 now felt "the man who had studied for the priesthood." 
 
 The silence preserved by the prisoner, that precaution 
 which had been carried to the point of forgetting all anxiety 
 for his own life, that resistance opposed to the first impulse of 
 nature, which is to utter a cry, all this, it must be confessed, 
 now that his attention had been called to it, troubled Marius, 
 and affected him with painful astonishment. 
 
 Thenardier's well-grounded observation still further ob-
 
 262 MARIU8 
 
 soured for Marius the dense mystery which enveloped that 
 grave and singular person on whom Courfeyrac had bestowed 
 the sobriquet of Monsieur Leblanc. 
 
 But whoever he was, bound with ropes, surrounded with 
 executioners, half plunged, so to speak, in a grave which was 
 closing in upon him to the extent of a degree with every 
 moment that passed, in the presence of Thenardier's wrath, 
 as in the presence of his sweetness, this man remained impas- 
 sive; and Marius could not refrain from admiring at such a 
 moment the superbly melancholy visage. 
 
 Here, evidently, was a soul which was inaccessible to terror, 
 and which did not know the meaning of despair. Here was one 
 of those men who command amazement in desperate circum- 
 stances. Extreme as was the crisis, inevitable as was the 
 catastrophe, there was nothing here of the agony of the drown- 
 ing man, who opens his horror-filled eyes under the water. 
 
 Thenardier rose in an unpretending manner, went to the 
 fireplace, shoved aside the screen, which he leaned against the 
 neighboring pallet, and thus unmasked the brazier full of 
 glowing coals, in which the prisoner could plainly see the 
 chisel white-hot and spotted here and there with tiny scarlet 
 stars. 
 
 Then Thenardier returned to his seat beside M. Leblanc. 
 
 "I continue," said he. "We can come to an understanding. 
 Let us arrange this matter in an amicable way. I was wrong 
 to lose my temper just now, I don't know what I was thinking 
 of, I went a great deal too far, I said extravagant tilings. 
 For example, because you are a millionnaire. I told you that I 
 exacted money, a lot of money, a deal of money. That would 
 not be reasonable. Mon Dieu, in spite of your riches, you 
 have expenses of your own who has not? I don't want to 
 ruin you, I am not a greedy fellow, after all. I am not one 
 of those people who, because they have the advantage of the 
 position, profit by the fact to make themselves ridiculous. 
 Why- I'm taking things into consideration and making a 
 sacrifice on my side. I only want two hundred thousand 
 franca."
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 263 
 
 M. Leblanc uttered not a word. 
 
 Thenardier went on : 
 
 "You see that I put not a little water in my wine ; I'm very 
 moderate. I don't know the state of your fortune, but I do 
 know that you don't stick at money, and a benevolent man 
 like yourself can certainly give two hundred thousand francs 
 to the father of a family who is out of luck. Certainly, you 
 are reasonable, too; you haven't imagined that I should take 
 all the trouble I have to-day and organized this affair this 
 evening, which has been labor well bestowed, in the opinion 
 of these gentlemen, merely to wind up by asking you for 
 enough to go and drink red wine at fifteen sous and eat veal 
 at Desnoyer's. Two hundred thousand francs it's surely 
 worth all that. This trifle once out of your pocket, I guarantee 
 you that that's the end of the matter, and that you have no 
 further demands to fear. You will say to me : 'But I haven't 
 two hundred thousand francs about me.' Oh ! I'm not extor- 
 tionate. I don't demand that. I only ask one thing of you. 
 Have the goodness to write what I am about to dictate to 
 you." 
 
 Here Thenardier paused; then he added, emphasizing his 
 words, and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier: 
 
 "I warn you that I shall not admit that you don't know how 
 to write." 
 
 A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile. 
 
 Thenardier pushed the table close to M. Leblanc. and took 
 an inkstand, a pen, and a sheet of paper from the drawer 
 which he left half open, and in which gleamed the long blade 
 of the knife. 
 
 He placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc. 
 
 "Write," said he. 
 
 The prisoner spoke at last. 
 
 "How do you expect me to write? I am bound." 
 
 "That's true, excuse me!" ejaculated Thenardier, "you 
 are quite right." 
 
 And turning to Bigrenaille : 
 
 "LTntie the gentleman's right arm."
 
 264 MARIU8 
 
 Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, executed The- 
 nardier's order. 
 
 When the prisoner's right arm was free, Thenardier dipped 
 the pen in the ink and presented it to him. 
 
 "Understand thoroughly, sir, that you are in our power, at 
 our discretion, that no human power can get you out of this, 
 and that we shall be really grieved if we are forced to proceed 
 to disagreeable extremities. I know neither your name, nor 
 your address, but I warn you, that you will remain bound until 
 the person charged with carrying the letter which you are 
 about to write shall have returned. Now, be so good as to 
 write." 
 
 "What?" demanded the prisoner. 
 
 "I will dictate." 
 
 M. Leblanc took the pen. 
 
 Thenardier began to dictate: 
 
 "My daughter 
 
 The prisoner shuddered, and raised his eyes to Thenardier. 
 
 "Put down 'My dear daughter' " said Thenardier. 
 
 M. Leblanc obeyed. 
 
 Thenardier continued: 
 
 "Come instantly" 
 
 He paused : 
 
 "You address her as iliou, do you not?" 
 
 "Who?" asked M. Leblanc. 
 
 "Parbleu !" cried Thenardier, "the little one, the Lark." 
 
 M. Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emo- 
 tion : 
 
 "I do not know what you mean." 
 
 "Go on, nevertheless," ejaculated Thenardier, and he con- 
 tinued to dictate: 
 
 "Come immediately, T am in absolute need of thee. The 
 person who will deliver this note to thee is instructed to con- 
 duct thec to me. 1 am waiting for thee. Come with confi- 
 dence." 
 
 M. Leblanc had written the whole of this. 
 
 Tlu'nardier resumed:
 
 Tin; WICKED POO it .MAN 205 
 
 "Ah! erase 'come with confidence'; that might lead her to 
 suppose that everything was not as it should he, and that dis- 
 trust is possible." 
 
 M. Leblanc erased the three words. 
 
 "Now," pursued Thenardier, "sign it. What's your 
 name ?" 
 
 The prisoner laid down the pen and demanded: 
 
 "For whom is this letter?" 
 
 "You know well, retorted Thenardier, "for the little one 
 I just told you so." 
 
 It was evident that Thenardier avoided naming the young 
 girl in question. He said "the Lark," he said "the little 
 one," but he did not pronounce her name the precaution of a 
 clever man guarding his secret from his accomplices. To 
 mention the name was to deliver the whole "affair" into their 
 hands, and to tell them more about it than there was any need 
 of their knowing. 
 
 He went on : 
 
 "Sign. What is your name ?" 
 
 "Urbain Fabre," said the prisoner. 
 
 Thenardier, with the movement of a cat, dashed his hand 
 into his pocket and drew out the handkerchief which had been 
 seized on M. Leblanc. He looked for the mark on it, and held 
 it close to the candle. 
 
 "U. F. That's it. Urbain Fabre. Well, sign it U. F." 
 
 The prisoner signed. 
 
 "As two hands are required to fold the letter, give it to me, 
 I will fold it." 
 
 That done, Thenardier resumed : 
 
 "Address it, 'Mademoiselle Fabre,' at your house. T know 
 that you live a long distance from here, near Saint- Jacques- 
 du-Haut-Pas, because you go to mass there every day, but I 
 don't know in what street. I see that you understand your 
 situation. As you have not lied about your name, you will not 
 lie about your address. Write it yourself." 
 
 The prisoner paused thoughtfully for a moment, then he 
 took the pen and wrote :
 
 266 MAKIV8 
 
 "Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. ITrbain Fabre's. Rue Saint- 
 Dominique-D'P]nfer, No. 17." 
 
 Thenardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish con- 
 vulsion. 
 
 "Wife!" he cried. 
 
 The Thenardier woman hastened to him. 
 
 "Here's the letter. You know what you have to do. There 
 is a carriage at the door. Set out at once, and return 
 ditto." 
 
 And addressing the man with the meat-axe: 
 
 "Since you have taken off your nose-screen, accompany the 
 mistress. You will get up behind the fiacre. You know where 
 you left the team?" 
 
 "Yes," said the man. 
 
 And depositing his axe in a corner, he followed Madame 
 Thenardier. 
 
 As they set off, Thenardier thrust his head through the half- 
 open door, and shouted into the corridor : 
 
 "Above all things, don't lose the letter ! remember that you 
 carry two hundred thousand francs with you !" 
 
 The Thenardier's hoarse voice replied : 
 
 "Be easy. I have it in my bosom." 
 
 A minute had not elapsed, when the sound of the cracking of 
 a whip was heard, which rapidly retreated and died away. 
 
 "Good !" growled Thenardier. "They're going at a fine 
 pace. At such a gallop, the bourgeoise will be back inside 
 three-quarters of an hour." 
 
 He drew a chair close to the fireplace, folding his arms, and 
 presenting his muddy boots to the brazier. 
 
 "My feet are cold !" said he. 
 
 Only five ruffians now remained in the den with Thenardier 
 and the prisoner. 
 
 These men, through the black masks or paste which covered 
 their faces, and made of them, at fear's pleasure, charcoal- 
 burners, negroes, or demons, had a stupid and gloomy air, and 
 it could be felt that they perpetrated a crime like a bit of work, 
 tranquilly, without either wrath or mercy, with a sort of ennui.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 207 
 
 They were crowded together in one corner like brutes, and 
 remained silent. 
 
 Thenardier warmed his feet. 
 
 The prisoner had relapsed into his taciturnity. A sombre 
 calm had succeeded to the wild uproar which had filled the 
 garret but a few moments before. 
 
 The candle, on which a large "stranger" had formed, cast 
 but a dim light in the immense hovel, the brazier had grown 
 dull, and all those monstrous heads cast misshapen shadows 
 on the walls and ceiling. 
 
 No sound was audible except the quiet breathing of the old 
 drunken man, who was fast asleep. 
 
 Marius waited in a state of anxiety that was augmented 
 by every trifle. The enigma was more impenetrable than 
 ever. 
 
 Who was this "little one" whom Thenardier had called the 
 Lark ? Was she his "Ursule" ? The prisoner had not seemed 
 to be affected by that word, "the Lark," and had replied in the 
 most natural manner in the world : "I do not know what you 
 mean." On the other hand, the two letters U. F. were ex- 
 plained; they meant Urbain Fabre; and Ursule was no longer 
 named Ursule. This was what Marius perceived most clearly 
 of all. 
 
 A sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post, 
 from which he was observing and commanding this whole 
 scene. There he stood, almost incapable of movement or re- 
 flection, as though annihilated by the abominable things 
 viewed at such close quarters. He waited, in the hope of some 
 incident, no matter of what nature, since he could not collect 
 his thoughts and did not know upon what course to decide. 
 
 "In any case," he said, "if she is the Lark, I shall see her, 
 for the Thenardier woman is to bring her hither. That will 
 be the end, and then I will give my life and my blood if neces- 
 sary, but I will deliver her ! Nothing shall stop me." 
 
 Nearly half an hour passed in this manner. Thenardier 
 seemed to be absorbed in gloomy reflections, the prisoner did 
 not stir. Still, Marius fancied that at intervals, and for the
 
 268 MARW8 
 
 last few moments, lie had heard a faint, dull noise in the direc- 
 tion of the prisoner. 
 
 All at once, Thenardier addressed the prisoner : 
 
 "By the way, Monsieur Fabre, I might as well say it to you 
 at once." 
 
 These few words appeared to he the beginning of an explana- 
 tion. Marius strained his ears. 
 
 "My wife will be back shortly, don't get impatient. I think 
 that the Lark really is your daughter, and it seems to me quite 
 natural that you should keep her. Only, listen to me a bit. 
 My wife will go and hunt her up with your letter. I told my 
 wife to dress herself in the way she did, so that your young 
 lady might make no difficulty about following her. They will 
 both enter the carriage with my comrade behind. Somewhere, 
 outside the barrier, there is a trap harnessed to two very 
 good horses. Your young lady will be taken to it. She will 
 alight from the fiacre. My comrade will enter the other vehi- 
 cle with her, and my wife will come back here to tell us : 'It's 
 done.' As for the young lady, no harm will be done to her ; the 
 trap will conduct her to a place where she will be quiet, and 
 just as soon as you have handed over to me those little two 
 hundred thousand francs, she will be returned to you. If you 
 have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to 
 the Lark, that's all" 
 
 The prisoner uttered not a syllable. After a pause, Thenar- 
 dier continued : 
 
 "It's very simple, as you see. There'll be no harm done 
 unless you wish that there should be harm done. I'm telling 
 you how things stand. I warn you so that you may be pre- 
 pared." 
 
 He paused : the prisoner did not break the silence, and The- 
 nardier resumed: 
 
 "As soon as my wife returns and says to me: 'The Lark 
 is on the way,' we will release you, and you will be free to 
 go and sleep at home. You see that our intentions are not 
 evil." 
 
 Terrible images passed through Marius' mind. What ! That
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 269 
 
 young girl whom they were abducting was not to be brought 
 back ? One of those monsters was to bear her off into the dark- 
 ness? Whither? And what if it were she! 
 
 It was clear that it was she. Marius felt his heart stop 
 beating. 
 
 What was he to do? Discharge the pistol? Place all those 
 scoundrels in the hands of justice ? But the horrbile man with 
 the rneat-axe would, none the less, be out of reach with the 
 young girl, and Marius reflected on Thenardier's words, of 
 which he perceived the bloody significance: "If you have me 
 arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the 
 Lark." 
 
 Now, it was not alone by the colonel's testament, it was by 
 his own love, it was by the peril of the one he loved, that he 
 felt himself restrained. 
 
 This frightful situation, which had already lasted above half 
 an hour, was changing its aspect every moment. 
 
 Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succes- 
 sion all the most heart-breaking conjectures, seeking hope and 
 finding none. 
 
 The tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal 
 silence of the den. 
 
 In the midst of this silence, the door at the bottom of the 
 staircase was heard to open and shut again. 
 
 The prisoner made a movement in his bonds. 
 
 "Here's the bourgeoise," said Thenardier. 
 
 He had hardly uttered the words, when the Thenardier 
 woman did in fact rush hastily into the room, red, panting, 
 breathless, with flaming eyes, and cried, as she smote her huge 
 hands on her thighs simultaneously : 
 
 "False address !" 
 
 The ruffian who had gone with her made his appearance 
 Dehind her and picked up his axe again. 
 
 She resumed : 
 
 "Nobody there! Rue Saint-Dominique, No. 17, no Mon- 
 sieur Urbain Fabrc ! They kno .v not what it means !" 
 
 She paused, choking, then went on:
 
 270 MARIU8 
 
 "Monsieur Thenardier! That old fellow has duped you! 
 You are too good, you see ! If it had been me, I'd have 
 chopped the beast in four quarters to begin with ! And if he 
 had acted ugly, I'd have boiled him alive ! He would have 
 been obliged to speak, and say where the girl is and where he 
 keeps his shiners ! That's the way I should have managed 
 matters ! People are perfectly right when they say that men 
 are a deal stupider than women! Nobody at Xo. 17. It's 
 nothing but a big carriage gate ! No Monsieur Fabre in the 
 Rue Saint-Dominique ! And after all that racing and fee to 
 the coachman and all ! I spoke to both the porter and the 
 portress, a fine, stout woman, and they know nothing about 
 him!" 
 
 Marius breathed freely once more. 
 
 She, Ursule or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her, 
 was safe. 
 
 While his exasperated wife vociferated, Thenardier had 
 seated himself on the table. 
 
 For several minutes he uttered not a word, but swung his 
 right foot, which hung down, and stared at the brazier with an 
 air of savage revery. 
 
 Finally, he said to the prisoner, with a slow and singularly 
 ferocious tone: 
 
 "A false address? What did you expect to gain by that?" 
 
 "To gain time!" cried the prisoner in a thundering voice, 
 and at the same instant he shook off his bonds ; they were cut. 
 The prisoner was only attached to the bed now by one leg. 
 
 Before the seven men had time to collect their senses and 
 dash forward, he had bent down into the fireplace, had stretched 
 out his hand to the brazier, and had then straightened himself 
 up again, and now Thenardier, the female Thenardier, and the 
 ruffians, huddled in amazement at the extremity of the hovel, 
 stared at him in stupefaction, as almost free and in a formid- 
 able attitude, he brandished above his head the red-hot chisel, 
 which emitted a threatening glow. 
 
 The judicial examination to which the ambush in the Gor- 
 beau house eventually gave rise, established the fact that a
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 271 
 
 large sou piece, cut and worked in a peculiar fashion, was 
 found in the garret, when the police made their descent on it. 
 This sou piece was one of those marvels of industry, which are 
 engendered by the patience of the galleys in the shadows and 
 for the shadows, marvels which are nothing else than instru- 
 ments of escape. These hideous and delicate products of won- 
 derful art are to jewellers' work what the metaphors of slang 
 are to poetry. There are Benvenuto Cellinis in the galleys, just 
 as there are Villons in language. The unhappy wretch who 
 aspires to deliverance finds means sometimes without tools, 
 sometimes with a common wooden-handled knife, to saw a sou 
 into two thin plates, to hollow out these plates without affect- 
 ing the coinage stamp, and to make a furrow on the edge of 
 the sou in such a manner that the plates will adhere again. 
 This can be screwed together and unscrewed at will ; it is a box. 
 In this box he hides a watch-spring, and this watch-spring, 
 properly handled, cuts good-sized chains and bars of iron. The 
 unfortunate convict is supposed to possess merely a sou ; not at 
 all, he possesses liberty. It was a large sou of this sort which, 
 during the subsequent search of the police, was found under 
 the bed near the window. They also found a tiny saw of blue 
 steel which would fit the sou. 
 
 It is probable that the prisoner had this sou piece on his 
 person at the moment when the ruffians searched him, that he 
 contrived to conceal it in his hand, and that afterward, having 
 his right hand free, he unscrewed it, and used it as a saw to cut 
 the cords which fastened him, which would explain the faint 
 noise and almost imperceptible movements which Marius had 
 observed. 
 
 As he had not been able to bend down, for fear of betraying 
 himself, he had not cut the bonds of his left leg. 
 
 The ruflians had recovered from their first surprise. 
 
 "Be easy," said Bigrenaille to Thenardier. "He still holds 
 by one leg, and he can't get away. I'll answer for that. 1 
 tied that paw for him." 
 
 In the meanwhile, the prisoner had begun to speak : 
 
 "You are wretches, but my life is not worth the trouble of
 
 272 MARWS 
 
 defending it. When you think that you can make me speak, 
 that you can make me write what I do not choose to write, that 
 you can make me say what I do not choose to say 
 
 He stripped up his left sleeve, and added : 
 
 "See here." 
 
 At the same moment he extended his arm, and laid the 
 glowing chisel which he held in his left hand by its wooden 
 handle on his bare flesh. 
 
 The crackling of the burning flesh became audible, and the 
 odor peculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel. 
 
 Marius reeled in utter horror, the very ruffians shuddeied, 
 hardly a muscle of the old man's face contracted, and while the 
 red-hot iron sank into the smoking wound, impassive and al- 
 most august, he fixed on Thenardier his beautiful glance, in 
 which there was no hatred, and where suffering vanished in 
 serene majesty. 
 
 With grand and lofty natures, the revolts of the flesh and 
 the senses when subjected to physical suffering cause the soul 
 to spring forth, and make it appear on the brow, just as rebel- 
 lions among the soldiery force the captain to show himself. 
 
 "Wretches !" said he, "have no more fear of me than I 
 have for you !" 
 
 And, tearing the chisel from the wound, he hurled it 
 through the window, which had been left open; the horrible, 
 glowing tool disappeared into the night, whirling as it flew, 
 and fell far away on the snow. 
 
 The prisoner resumed: 
 
 "Do what you please with me." He was disarmed. 
 
 "Seize him !" said Thenardier. 
 
 Two of the ruffians laid their hands on his shoulder, and 
 the masked man with the ventriloquist's voice took up his sta- 
 tion in front of him, ready to smash his skull at the slightest 
 movement. 
 
 At the same time, Marius heard below him, at the base of the 
 partition, but so near that he could not see who was speaking, 
 this colloquy conducted in a low tone: 
 
 "There is only one thing left to do."
 
 TEE WICKED POOR MAN 273 
 
 "Cut his throat." 
 
 "That's it." 
 
 Tt was the husband and wife taking counsel together. 
 
 Thenardier walked slowly towards the table, opened the 
 drawer, and took out the knife. Marius fretted with the 
 handle of his pistol. Unprecedented perplexity! For the last 
 hour he had had two voices in his conscience, the one enjoining 
 him to respect his father's testament, the other crying to him 
 to rescue the prisoner. These two voices continued uninter- 
 ruptedly that struggle which tormented him to agony. Up to 
 that moment he had cherished a vague hope that he should find 
 some means of reconciling these two duties, but nothing within 
 the limits of possibility had presented itself. 
 
 However, the peril was urgent, the last bounds of delay had 
 been reached; Thenardier was standing thoughtfully a few 
 paces distant from the prisoner. 
 
 Marius cast a wild glance about him, the last mechanical 
 resource of despair. All at once a shudder ran through 
 him. 
 
 At his feet, on the table, a bright ray of light from the full 
 moon illuminated and seemed to point out to him a sheet of 
 paper. On this paper he read the following line written that 
 very morning, in large letters, by the eldest of the Thenardier 
 girls : 
 
 "THE BOBBIES ARE HERE." 
 
 An idea, a flash, crossed Marius' mind; this was the expe- 
 dient of which he was in search, the solution of that frightful 
 problem which was torturing him, of sparing the assassin and 
 saving the victim. 
 
 lie knelt down on his commode, stretched out his arm, seized 
 the sheet of paper, softly detached a bit of plaster from the 
 wall, wrapped the paper round it, and tossed the whole through 
 the crevice into the middle of the den. 
 
 It was high time. Thenardier had conquered his last fears 
 or his last scruples, and was advancing on the prisoner. 
 
 "Something is falling!" cried the Thenardier woman. 
 
 "What is it?" asked her husband.
 
 974 MARIDB 
 
 The woman darted forward and picked up the bit of plaster. 
 She handed it to her husband. 
 
 "Where did this come from ?" demanded Thenardier. 
 
 "Pardie!" ejaculated his wife, "where do you suppose it 
 came from ? Through the window, of course." 
 
 "I saw it pass/' said Bigrenaille. 
 
 Thenardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it close to 
 the candle. 
 
 "It's in fiponine's handwriting. The devil !" 
 
 He made a sign to his wife, who hastily drew near, and 
 showed her the line written on the sheet of paper, then he 
 added in a subdued voice : 
 
 "Quick ! The ladder ! Let's leave the bacon in the mouse- 
 trap and decamp !" 
 
 "Without cutting that man's throat ?" asked the Thenardier 
 woman. 
 
 "We haven't the time." 
 
 "Through what?" resumed Bigrenaille. 
 
 "Through the window/' replied Thenardier. "Since Ponine 
 has thrown the stone through the window, it indicates that the 
 house is not watched on that side." 
 
 The mask with the ventriloquist's voice deposited his huge 
 key on the floor, raised both arms in the air, and opened and 
 clenched his fists three times rapidly without uttering a word. 
 
 This was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks for 
 action on board ship. 
 
 The ruffians who were holding the prisoner released him ; in 
 the twinkling of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outside 
 the window, and solidly fastened to the sill by the two iron 
 hooks. 
 
 The prisoner paid no attention to what was going on around 
 him. He seemed to be dreaming or praying. 
 
 As soon as the ladder was arranged, Thenardier cried : 
 
 "Come ! the bourgeoise first !" 
 
 And he rushed headlong to the window. 
 
 But just as he was about to throw his leg over, Bigrenaille 
 seized him roughly by the collar.
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAX 275 
 
 "Not much, come now, you old dog, after us !" 
 
 "After us !" yelled the ruffians. 
 
 "You are children," said Thenardier, "we are losing time. 
 The police are on our heels." 
 
 "Well, said the ruffians, "let's draw lots to see who shall 
 go down first." 
 
 Thenardier exclaimed : 
 
 "Are you mad ! Are you crazy ! What a pack of boobies ! 
 You want to waste time, do you ? Draw lots, do you ? By a 
 wet finger, by a short straw ! With written names ! Thrown 
 into a hat ! 
 
 "Would you like my hat ?" cried a voice on the threshold. 
 
 All wheeled round. It was Javert. 
 
 He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them 
 with a smile. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 AT nightfall, Javert had posted his men and had gone into 
 ambush himself between the trees of the Rue de la Barriere- 
 des-Gobelins which faced the Gorbeau house, on the other side 
 of the boulevard. He had begun operations by opening "his 
 pockets," and dropping into it the two young girls who were 
 charged with keeping a watch on the approaches to the den. 
 But he had only "caged" Azelma. As for ftponine, she was 
 not at her post, she had disappeared, and he had not been able 
 to seize her. Then Javert had made a point and had bent his 
 ear to waiting for the signal agreed upon. The comings and 
 goings of the fiacres had greatly agitated him. At last, he had 
 grown impatient, and, sure that there was a nest there, sure of 
 being in "luck," having recognized many of the ruffians who 
 had entered, he had finally decided to go upstairs without wait- 
 ing for the pistol-shot. 
 
 It will be remembered that he had Marius' pass-key. 
 
 He had arrived just in the nick of time.
 
 276 MARIU8 
 
 The terrified ruffians flung themselves on the arms which 
 they had abandoned in all the corners at the moment of flight. 
 In less than a second, these seven men, horrible to behold, had 
 grouped themselves in an attitude of defence, one with his 
 meat-axe, another with his key, another with his bludgeon, the 
 rest with shears, pincers, and hammers. Thenardier had his 
 knife in his fist. The Thenardier woman snatched up an 
 enormous paving-stone which lay in the angle of the window 
 and served her daughters as an ottoman. 
 
 Javert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple of paces 
 into the room, with arms folded, his cane under one arm, his 
 sword in its sheath. 
 
 "Halt there," said he. "You shall not go out by the 
 window, you shall go through the door. It's less unhealthy. 
 There are seven of you, there are fifteen of us. Don't let's 
 fall to collaring each other like men of Auvergne." 
 
 Bigrenaille drew out a pistol which he had kept concealed 
 under his blouse, and put it in Thenardier's hand, whispering 
 in the latter's ear: 
 
 "It's Javert. I don't dare fire at that man. Do you dare?" 
 
 "Parbleu !" replied Thenardier. 
 
 "Well, then, fire." 
 
 Thenardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert. 
 
 Javert. who was only three paces from him, stared intently 
 at him and contented himself with saying: 
 
 "Come now, don't fire. You'll miss fire." 
 
 Thdnardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missed fire. 
 
 "Didn't I tell you so !" ejaculated Javert. 
 
 Bigrenaille flung his bludgeon at Javert's feet. 
 
 "You're the emperor of the fiends ! I surrender.'* 
 
 "And you?" Javert asked the rest of the ruffians. 
 
 They replied: 
 
 "So'do we." 
 
 Javert began again calmly: 
 
 "That's right, that's good, I said so, you are nice fellows." 
 
 "I only ask one thing," said Bigrenaille, "and that is, that 
 I mav not be denied tobacco while I am in confinement."
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 277 
 
 "Granted," said Javert. 
 
 And turning round and calling behind him: 
 
 "Come in now !" 
 
 A squad of policemen, sword in hand, and agents armed 
 with bludgeons and cudgels, rushed in at Javert's summons. 
 They pinioned the ruffians. 
 
 This throng of men, sparely lighted by the single candle, 
 filled the den with shadows. 
 
 "Handcuff them all!" shouted Javert. 
 
 "Come on !" cried a voice which was not the voice of a man, 
 but of which no one would ever have said: "It is a woman's 
 voice." 
 
 The Thenardicr woman had entrenched herself in one of 
 the angles of the window, and it was she who had just given 
 vent to this roar. 
 
 The policemen and agents recoiled. 
 
 She had thrown off her shawl, but retained her bonnet ; her 
 husband, who was crouching behind her, was almost hidden 
 under the discarded shawl, and she was shielding him with her 
 body, as she elevated the paving-stone above her head with 
 the gesture of a giantess on the point of hurling a rock. 
 
 "Beware !" she shouted. 
 
 All crowded back towards the corridor. A broad open space 
 was cleared in the middle of the garret. 
 
 The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians who 
 had allowed themselves to be pinioned, and muttered in hoarse 
 and guttural accents : 
 
 "The cowards!" 
 
 Javert smiled, and advanced across the open space which 
 the Thenardicr was devouring with her eyes. 
 
 "Don't come near me," she cried, "or I'll crush you." 
 
 "What a grenadier !" ejaculated Javert ; "you've got a 
 beard like a man, mother, but I have claws like a woman." 
 
 And he continued to advance. 
 
 The Thenardier, dishevelled and terrible, set her feet far 
 apart, threw herself backwards, and hurled the paving-stone 
 at Javert's head. Javert ducked, the stone passed over him,
 
 278 MARIV8 
 
 struck the wall behind, knocked off a huge piece of plastering, 
 and, rebounding from angle to angle across the hovel, now 
 luckily almost empty, rested at Javert's feet. 
 
 At the same moment, Javert reached the Thenardier couple. 
 One of his big hands descended on the woman's shoulder; the 
 other on the husband's head. 
 
 "The handcuffs !" he shouted. 
 
 The policemen trooped in in force, and in a few seconds 
 Javert's order had been executed. 
 
 The Thenardier female, overwhelmed, stared at her pin- 
 ioned hands, and at those of her husband, who had dropped 
 to the floor, and exclaimed, weeping: 
 
 "My daughters!" 
 
 "They are in the jug," said Javert. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the agents had caught eight of the 
 drunken man asleep behind the door, and were shaking 
 him: 
 
 He awoke, stammering: 
 
 "Is it all over, Jondrette ?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Javert. 
 
 The six pinioned ruffians were standing, and still preserved 
 their spectral mien ; all three besmeared with black, all three 
 masked. 
 
 "Keep on your masks." said Javert. 
 
 And passing them in review with a glance of a Frederick II. 
 at a Potsdam parade, he said to the three "chimney-build- 
 ers" : 
 
 "Good day, Bigrenaille ! good day, Brujon ! good day, Deux- 
 milliards !" 
 
 Then turning to the three masked men, he said to the man 
 with the meat-axe: 
 
 "Good day, Gueulemer!" 
 
 And to the man with the cudgel: 
 
 "Good day, Babet !" 
 
 And to the ventriloquist: 
 
 "Your health, Claquesous." 
 
 At that moment, he caught sight of the ruffians' prisoner,
 
 THE WICKED POOR MAN 279 
 
 who, ever since the entrance of the police, had not uttered a 
 word, and had held his head down. 
 
 "Untie the gentleman !" said Javert, "and let no one go 
 out !" 
 
 That said, he seated himself with sovereign dignity before 
 the table, where the candle and the writing-materials still 
 remained, drew a stamped paper from his pocket, and began 
 to prepare his report. 
 
 When he had written the first lines, which are formulas that 
 never vary, he raised his eyes : 
 
 "Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen bound step for- 
 ward." 
 
 The policemen glanced round them. 
 
 "Well," said Javert, "where is he?" 
 
 The prisoner of the ruffians, M. Leblanc, M. Urbain Fabre, 
 the father of Ursule or the Lark, had disappeared. 
 
 The door was guarded, but the window was not. As soon 
 as he had found himself released from his bonds, and while 
 Javert was drawing up his report, he had taken advantage of 
 confusion, the crowd, the darkness, and of a moment when the 
 general attention was diverted from him, to dash out of the 
 window. 
 
 An agent sprang to the opening and looked out. He saw no 
 one outside. 
 
 The rope ladder was still shaking. 
 
 "The devil !" ejaculated Javert between his teeth, "he must 
 have been the most valuable of the lot." 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE LITTLE ONE WHO WAS CRYING IN VOLUME TWO 
 
 ON the day following that on which these events took place 
 in the house on the Boulevard de I'Hopital, a child, who 
 seemed to be coming from the direction of the bridge of 
 Austerlitz, was ascending the side-alley on the right in the 
 direction of the Barriere de Fontainebleau.
 
 280 MARIUS 
 
 Night had fully come. 
 
 This lad was pale, thin, clad in rags, with linen trousers in 
 the month of February, and was singing at the top of his voice. 
 
 At the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. a bent old 
 woman was rummaging in a heap of refuse by the light of a 
 street lantern ; the child jostled her as he passed, then recoiled, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 "Hello ! And I took it for an enormous, enormous dog !" 
 
 He pronounced the word enormous the second time with a 
 jeering swell of the voice which might be tolerably well repre- 
 sented by capitals: "an enormous, ENORMOUS dog." 
 
 The old woman straightened herself up in a fury. 
 
 "Nasty brat !" she grumbled. "If I hadn't been bending 
 over, I know well where I would have planted my foot on 
 you." 
 
 The boy was already far away. 
 
 "Kisss ! kisss !" he cried. "After that, I don't think I was 
 mistaken !" 
 
 The old woman, choking with indignation, now rose com- 
 pletely upright, and the red gleam of the lantern fully lighted 
 tip her livid face, all hollowed into angles and wrinkles, with 
 crow's-feet meeting the corners of her mouth. 
 
 Her body was lost in the darkness, and only her head was 
 visible. One would have pronounced her a mask of Decrepi- 
 tude carved out by a light from the night. 
 
 The boy surveyed her. 
 
 "Madame," said he. "does not possess that style of beauty 
 which pleases me." 
 
 He then pursued his road, and resumed his song: 
 
 "Le roi Coupdesabot 
 S'en allait ft la chasse, 
 A la chasse aux corbenux " 
 
 At the end of these three lines he paused. He had arrived 
 in front of No. 50-52, and finding the door fastened, he began 
 to assault it with resounding and heroic kicks, which betrayed 
 rather the man's shoes that he was wearing than the child's 
 feet which he owned.
 
 TEE WICKED POOR MAN 281 
 
 In the meanwhile, the very old woman whom he had encoun- 
 tered at the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier hastened up 
 behind him, uttering clamorous cries and indulging in lavish 
 and exaggerated gestures. 
 
 "What's this? What's this? Lord God! He's battering 
 the door down ! He's knocking the house down." 
 
 The kicks continued. 
 
 The old woman strained her lungs. 
 
 "Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays?" 
 
 All at once she paused. 
 
 She had recognized the gamin. 
 
 "What! so it's that imp!" 
 
 "Why, it's the old lady," said the lad. "Good day, Bougon- 
 muche. I have come to see my ancestors." 
 
 The old woman retorted with a composite grimace, and a 
 wonderful improvisation of hatred taking advantage of feeble- 
 ness and ugliness, which was, unfortunately, wasted in the 
 dark : 
 
 "There's no one here." 
 
 "Bah!" retorted the boy, "where's my father?" 
 
 "At La Force." 
 
 "Come, now ! And my mother ?" 
 
 "At Saint-Lazare." 
 
 "Well! And my sisters?" 
 
 "At the Madelonettes." 
 
 The lad scratched his head behind his ear, stared at Ma'am 
 Bougon, and said: 
 
 "Ah !" 
 
 Then he executed a pirouette on his heel ; a moment later, 
 the old woman, who had remained on the door-step, heard 
 him singing in his clear, young voice, as he plunged under 
 the black elm-trees, in the wintry wind : 
 
 "Le roi Coupdesabot 1 
 S'en allait ft la chasse, 
 A la chasae aux corbeaux, 
 Mont sur deux e"chasses. 
 Quand on passait dessous, 
 On hii payait deux sous." 
 
 'King Bootkick went a-hunting after crows, mounted on two stilts. 
 When one passed beneath them, one paid him two sous.
 
 SAINT-DENIS.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1887. 
 Bv THOMAS Y. CROWKLL & Co
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER BOOK FIRST. A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY pAQE 
 
 I. Well Cut 1 
 
 II. Badly Sewed 7 
 
 III. Louis Philippe 11 
 
 IV. Cracks beneath the Foundation 18 
 
 V. Facts whence History springs and which History ignores 26 
 
 VI. Enjolras and his Lieutenants 39 
 
 BOOK SECOND. F^PONINE 
 
 I. The Lark's Meadow 45 
 
 II. Embryonic Formation of Crimes in the Incubation of 
 
 Prisons 51 
 
 III. Apparition to Father Mabeuf 56 
 
 IV. An Apparition to Marius 61 
 
 BOOK THIRD. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 
 
 I. The House with a Secret 67 
 
 II. Jean Valjean as a National Guard 72 
 
 III. Foliis ac Frondibus 75 
 
 IV. Change of Gate 79 
 
 V. The Rose perceives that it is an Engine of War . . 84 
 
 VI. The Battle Begun 89 
 
 VII. To One Sadness oppose a Sadness and a Half ... 93 
 
 VIII. The Chain-Gang 98 
 
 BOOK FOURTH. SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY TURN OUT 
 TO UK SUCCOR FROM OX HIGH 
 
 I. A Wound without. Healing within 110 
 
 II. Mother Plutaique finds no Difficulty in explaining a 
 
 Phenomenon ... 113
 
 ir CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK FIFTH. THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT RESEMBLE 
 CHAFTEB THE BEGINNING PAOE 
 
 I. Solitude and Barracks Combined 122 
 
 II. Cosette's Apprehensions 124 
 
 III. Enriched with Commentaries by Toussaint .... 128 
 
 IV. A Heart beneath a Stone 131 
 
 V. Cosette after the Letter 136 
 
 VI. Old People are made to go out opportunely .... 138 
 
 BOOK SIXTH. LITTLE GAVROCHE 
 
 I. The Malicious Playfulness of the Wind .... 143 
 II. In which Little Gavroche extracts Profit from Napoleon 
 
 the Great 147 
 
 III. The Vicissitudes of Flight 172 
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. SLANG 
 
 I. Origin 187 
 
 II. Roots 195 
 
 III. Slang which weeps and Slang which laughs .... 204 
 
 IV. The Two Duties: To Watch and to Hope .... 209 
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 
 
 I. Full Light 214 
 
 II. The Bewilderment of Perfect Happiness 220 
 
 III. The Beginning of Shadow 222 
 
 IV. A Cab runs in English and barks in Slang .... 226 
 V. Things of the Night 234 
 
 VI. Marius becomes Practical once more to the Extent of 
 
 Giving Cosette his Address 235 
 
 VII. The Old Heart and the Young Heart in the Presence 
 
 of Each Other 241 
 
 BOOK NINTH. WHITHER ARE THEY GOING? 
 
 I. Jean Valjean 256 
 
 II. Marius 258 
 
 III. M. Mabeuf .... 261
 
 CONTENTS T 
 
 CHAKfER BOOK TENTH. THE 5ra OF JUNE, 1832 pAQE 
 
 I. The Surface of the Question 266 
 
 II. The Root of the Matter 270 
 
 III. A Burial; an Occasion to be born again 276 
 
 IV. The Ebullitions of Former Days 282 
 
 V. Originality of Paris 288 
 
 BOOK ELEVENTH. THE ATOM FRATERNIZES WITH THE 
 HURRICANE 
 
 I. Some Explanations with Regard to the Origin of Gav- 
 roche's Poetry. The Influence of an Academician on 
 
 this Poetry 292 
 
 II. Gavroche on the March 295 
 
 III. Just Indignation of a Hair-dresser 299 
 
 IV. The Child is amazed at the Old Man 301 
 
 V. The Old Man 303 
 
 VI. Recruits 305 
 
 BOOK TWELFTH. CORINTHE 
 
 I. History of Corinthe from its Foundation .... 308 
 
 II. Preliminary Gayeties 314 
 
 III. Night begins to descend upon Grantaire 325 
 
 IV. An Attempt to console the Widow Hucheloup . . . 328 
 V. Preparations 332 
 
 VI. Waiting 335 
 
 VII. The Man recruited in the Rue des Billettes .... 338 
 VIII. Many Interrogation Points with Regard to a Certain 
 
 Le Cabuc, whose Name may not have been Le Cabuc 342 
 
 BOOK THIRTEENTH. MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW 
 
 I. From the Rue Plumet to the Quartier Saint-Denis . 348 
 
 II. An Owl's View of Paris 351 
 
 III. The Extreme Edge 354 
 
 BOOK FOURTEENTH. THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 
 
 I. The Flag: Act First 361 
 
 II. The Flag: Act Second 34
 
 ri CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 III. Gavroche would have done better to accept Enjolras' 
 
 Carbine 367 
 
 IV. The Barrel of Powder 369 
 
 V. End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire 372 
 
 VI. The Agony of Death after the Agony of Life . . . 374 
 
 VII. Gavroche as a Profound Calculator of Distances . . 379 
 
 BOOK FIFTEENTH. THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME 
 
 I. A Drinker is a Babbler 384 
 
 II. The Street Urchin an Enemy of Light 393 
 
 III. While Cosette and Toussaint are Asleep .... 398 
 
 IV. Gavroche's Excess of Zeal 400
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 THE IDYL IN THE RUE PLUMET AND THE EPIC IN THE RUE 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 BOOK FIRST. A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 WELL CUT 
 
 1831 and 1832, the two years which are immediately con 
 nected with the Revolution of July, form one of the most 
 peculiar and striking moments of history. These two years 
 rise like two mountains midway between those which precede 
 and those which follow them. They have a revolutionary 
 grandeur. Precipices are to be distinguished there. The 
 social masses, the very assizes of civilization, the solid group 
 of superposed and adhering interests, the century-old profiles 
 of the ancient French formation, appear and disappear in 
 them every instant, athwart the storm clouds of systems, of 
 passions, and of theories. These appearances and disappear- 
 ances have been designated as movement and resistance. At 
 intervals, truth, that daylight of the human soul, can be 
 descried shining there. 
 
 This remarkable epoch is decidedly circumscribed and is 
 beginning to be sufficiently distant from us to allow of our 
 grasping the principal lines even at the present day. 
 
 We shall make the attempt. 
 
 The Restoration had been one of those intermediate phases, 
 hard to define, in which there is fatigue, buzzing, murmurs, 
 sleep, tumult, and which are nothing else than the arrival of 
 a great nation at a halting-place.
 
 2 BAINT-DENIB 
 
 These epochs are peculiar and mislead the politicians who 
 desire to convert them to profit. In the beginning, the nation 
 asks nothing but repose; it thirsts for but one thing, peace; 
 it has but one ambition, to be small. Which is the translation 
 of remaining tranquil. Of great events, great hazards, great 
 adventures, great men, thank God, we have seen enough, we 
 have them heaped higher than our heads. We would exchange 
 Cassar for Prusias, and Napoleon for the King of Yvetot. 
 "What a good little king was he !" We have marched since 
 daybreak, we have reached the evening of a long and toilsome 
 day ; we have made our first change with Mirabeau, the second 
 with Robespierre, the third with Bonaparte ; we are worn out. 
 Each one demands a bed. 
 
 Devotion which is weary, heroism which has grown old, 
 ambitions which are sated, fortunes which are made, seek, 
 demand, implore, solicit, what? A shelter. They have it. 
 They take possession of peace, of tranquillity, of leisure; 
 behold, they are content. But, at the same time certain facts 
 arise, compel recognition, and knock at the door in their 
 turn. These facts are the products of revolutions and wars, 
 they arc, they exist, they have the right to install themselves 
 in society, and they do install themselves therein; and most 
 of the time, facts are the stewards of the household 
 and fouriers 1 who do nothing but prepare lodgings for 
 principles. 
 
 This, then, is what appears to philosophical politicians : 
 
 At the same time that weary men demand repose, accom- 
 plished facts demand guarantees. Guarantees are the same 
 to facts that repose is to men. 
 
 This is what England demanded of the Stuarts after the 
 Protector; this is what France demanded of the Bourbons 
 after the Empire. 
 
 These guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must 
 be accorded. Princes "grant" them, but in reality, it is the 
 force of things which gives them. A profound truth, and one 
 
 In olden times, fouriers were the officials who preceded the Court 
 and allotted the lodgings.
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 3 
 
 useful to know, which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1662, 
 and which the Bourbons did not even obtain a glimpse of in 
 1814. 
 
 The predestined family, which returned to France when 
 Napoleon fell, had the fatal simplicity to believe that it was 
 itself which bestowed, and that what it had bestowed it could 
 take back again ; that the House of Bourbon possessed the 
 right divine, that France possessed nothing, and that the 
 political right conceded in the charter of Louis XVIII. was 
 merely a branch of the right divine, was detached by the 
 House of Bourbon and graciously given to the people until 
 such day as it should please the King to reassume it. Still, 
 the House of Bourbon should have felt, from the displeasure 
 created by the gift, that it did not come from it. 
 
 This house was churlish to the nineteenth century. It put 
 on an ill-tempered look at every development of the nation. 
 To make use of a trivial word, that is to say, of a popular and 
 a true word, it looked glum. The people saw this. 
 
 It thought it possessed strength because the Empire had 
 been carried away before it like a theatrical stage-setting. It 
 did not perceive that it had, itself, been brought in in the 
 same fashion. It did not perceive that it also lay in that hand 
 which had removed Napoleon. 
 
 It thought that it had roots, because it was the past. It was 
 mistaken ; it formed a part of the past, but the whole past was 
 France. The roots of French society were not fixed in the 
 Bourbons, but in the nations. These obscure and lively roots 
 constituted, not the right of a family, but the history of a 
 people. They were everywhere, except under the throne. 
 
 The House of Bourbon was to France the illustrious and 
 bleeding knot in her history, but was no longer the principal 
 element of her destiny, and the necessary base of her politics. 
 She could get along without the Bourbons ; she had done with- 
 out them for two and twenty years; there had been a break 
 of continuity; they did not suspect the fact. And how should 
 they have suspected it, they who fancied that Louis XVII. 
 reigned on the 9th of Thermidor, and that Louis XVIII.
 
 4 8AIXTDENI8 
 
 was reigning at the battle of Marengo? Never, since the 
 origin of history, had princes been so blind in the presence 
 of facts and the portion of divine authority which facts con- 
 tain and promulgate. Never had that pretension here below 
 which is called the right of kings denied to such a point the 
 right from on high. 
 
 A capital error which led this family to lay its hand once 
 more on the guarantees "granted" in 1814, on the concessions, 
 as it termed them. Sad. A sad thing ! What it termed its 
 concessions were our conquests ; what it termed our encroach- 
 ments were our rights. 
 
 When the hour seemed to it to have come, the Restoration, 
 supposing itself victorious over Bonaparte and well-rooted in 
 the country, that is to say, believing itself to be strong and 
 deep, abruptly decided on its plan of action, and risked its 
 stroke. One morning it drew itself up before the face of 
 France, and, elevating its voice, it contested the collective title 
 and the individual right of the nation to sovereignty, of the 
 citizen to liberty. In other words, it denied to the nation that 
 which made it a nation, and to the citizen that which made 
 him a citizen. 
 
 This is the foundation of those famous acts which are called 
 the ordinances of July. The Restoration fell. 
 
 It fell justly. But, we admit, it had not been absolutely 
 hostile to all forms of progress. Great things had been accom- 
 plished, with it alongside. 
 
 Under the Restoration, the nation had grown accustomed to 
 calm discussion, which had been lacking under the Republic, 
 and to grandeur in peace, which had been wanting under the 
 Empire. France free and strong had offered an encouraging 
 spectacle to the other peoples of Europe. The Revolution had 
 had the word under Robespierre ; the cannon had had the word 
 under Bonaparte; it was under Louis XVIII. and Charles X. 
 that it was the turn of intelligence to have the word. The 
 wind ceased, the torch was lighted once more. On the lofty 
 heights, the pure light of mind could be seen flickering. A 
 magnificent, useful, and charming spectacle. For a space of
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 5 
 
 fifteen years, those great principles which arc so old for the 
 thinker, so new for the statesman, could be seen at work in 
 perfect peace, on the public square; equality before the law, 
 liberty of conscience, liberty of speech, liberty of the press, 
 the accessibility of all aptitudes to all functions. Thus it 
 proceeded until 1830. The Bourbons were an instrument of 
 civilization which broke in the hands of Providence. 
 
 The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, not on their 
 side, but on the side of the nation. They quitted the throne 
 with gravity, but without authority; their descent into the 
 night was not one of those solemn disappearances which leave 
 a sombre emotion in history ; it was neither the spectral calm 
 of Charles I., nor the eagle scream of Xapoleon. They de- 
 parted, that is all. They laid down the crown, and retained 
 no aureole. They were worthy, but they were not august. 
 They lacked, in a certain measure, the majesty of their mis- 
 fortune. Charles X. during the voyage from Cherbourg, 
 causing a round table to be cut over into a square table, 
 appeared to be more anxious about imperilled etiquette than 
 about the crumbling monarchy. This diminution saddened 
 devoted men who loved their persons, and serious men who 
 honored their race. The populace was admirable. The 
 nation, attacked one morning with weapons, by a sort of 
 royal insurrection, felt itself in the possession of so much 
 force that it did not go into a rage. It defended itself, 
 restrained itself, restored things to their places, the govern- 
 ment to law, the Bourbons to exile, alas! and then halted! 
 It took the old king Charles X. from beneath that dais which 
 had sheltered Louis XIV. and set him gently on the ground. 
 It touched the royal personages only with sadness and pre- 
 caution. It was not one man, it was not a few men, it was 
 France, France entire, France victorious and intoxicated with 
 her victory, who seemed to be coming to herself, and who 
 put into practice, before the eyes of the whole world, these 
 grave words of Guillaume du Vair after the day of the 
 Barricades : 
 
 "It is easv for those who are accustomed to skim the favors
 
 g BAIXT-DEXIB 
 
 of the great, and to spring, like a bird from bough to bough, 
 from an afflicted fortune to a flourishing one, to show them- 
 selves harsh towards their Prince in his adversity ; but as for 
 me, the fortune of my Kings and especially of my afflicted 
 Kings, will always be venerable to me." 
 
 The Bourbons carried away with them respect, but not 
 regret. As we have just stated, their misfortune was greater 
 than they were. They faded out in the horizon. 
 
 The Revolution of July instantly had friends and enemies 
 throughout the entire world. The first rushed toward her with 
 joy and enthusiasm, the others turned away, each according 
 to his nature. At the first blush, the princes of Europe, the 
 owls of this dawn, shut their eyes, wounded and stupefied, 
 and only opened them to threaten. A fright which can be 
 comprehended, a wrath which can be pardoned. This strange 
 revolution had hardly produced a shock ; it had not even paid 
 to vanquished royalty the honor of treating it as an enemy, 
 and of shedding its blood. In the eyes of despotic govern- 
 ments, who are always interested in having liberty calumniate 
 itself, the Revolution of July committed the fault of being 
 formidable and of remaining gentle. Nothing, however, was 
 attempted or plotted against it. The most discontented, the 
 most irritated, the most trembling, saluted it ; whatever our 
 egotism and our rancor may be. a mysterious respect springs 
 from events in which we are sensible of the collaboration of 
 gome one who is working above man. 
 
 The Revolution of July is the triumph of right overthrow- 
 ing the fact. A thing which is full of splendor. 
 
 Right overthrowing the fact. Hence the brilliancy of the 
 Revolution of 1830, hence, also, its mildness. Right trium- 
 phant has no need of being violent. 
 
 Right is the just and the true. 
 
 The property of right is to remain eternally beautiful and 
 pure. The fact, even when most necessary to all appearances, 
 even when most thoroughly accepted by contemporaries, if it 
 exist only as a fact, and if it contain only too little of right, or 
 none at all, is infallibly destined to become, in the course of
 
 A FEW PAGE? OF HISTORY Y 
 
 time, deformed, impure, perhaps, even monstrous. If one 
 desires to learn at one blow, to what degree of hidcousness the 
 fact can attain, viewed at the distance of centuries, let him 
 look at Machiavelli. Machiavelli is not an evil genius, nor a 
 demon, nor a miserable and cowardly writer; he is nothing 
 but the fact. And he is not only the Italian fact; he is the 
 European fact, the fact of the sixteenth century. He seems 
 hideous, and so he is, in the presence of the moral idea of the 
 nineteenth. 
 
 This conflict of right and fact has been going on ever since 
 the origin of society. To terminate this duel, to amalgamate 
 the pure idea with the humane reality, to cause right to pene- 
 trate pacifically into the fact and the fact into right, that is 
 the task of sages. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 BADLY SEWED 
 
 BUT the task of sages is one thing, the task of clever men 
 is another. The Revolution of 1830 came to a sudden halt. 
 
 As soon as a revolution has made the coast, the skilful make 
 haste to prepare the shipwreck. 
 
 The skilful in our century have conferred on themselves the 
 title of Statesmen; so that this word, statesmen, has ended 
 by becoming somewhat of a slang word. It must be borne in 
 mind, in fact, that wherever there is nothing but skill, there 
 is necessarily pettiness. To say "the skilful" amounts to 
 Baying "the mediocre." 
 
 In the same way, to say "statesmen" is sometimes equiv- 
 alent to saying "traitors." If, then, we are to believe the 
 skilful, revolutions like the Revolution of July aro severed 
 arteries; a prompt ligature is indispensable. The right, too 
 grandly proclaimed, is shaken. Also, right once firmly fixed, 
 the state must be strengthened. Liberty once assured, atten- 
 tion must be directed to power.
 
 g SAINT-DEXIS 
 
 Here the sages are not, as yet, separated from the skilful, 
 but they begin to be distrustful. Power, very good. But, in 
 the first place, what is power? In the second, whence comes 
 it ? The skilful do not seem to hear the murmured objection, 
 and they continue their manoeuvres. 
 
 According to the politicians, who are ingenious in putting 
 the mask of necessity on profitable fictions, the first require- 
 ment of a people after a revolution, when this people forms 
 part of a monarchical continent, is to procure for itself a 
 dynasty. In this way, say they, peace, that is to say, time to 
 dress our wounds, and to repair the house, can be had after a 
 revolution. The dynasty conceals the scaffolding and covers 
 the ambulance. Now, it is not always easy to procure a 
 dynasty. 
 
 If it is absolutely necessary, the first man of genius or even 
 the first man of fortune who comes to hand suffices for the 
 manufacturing of a king. You have, in the first case, Napo- 
 leon; in the second, Iturbide. 
 
 But the first family that comes to hand does not suffice to 
 make a dynasty. There is necessarily required a certain modi- 
 cum of antiquity in a race, and the wrinkle of the centuries 
 cannot be improvised. 
 
 If we place ourselves at the point of view of the "states- 
 men," after making all allowances, of course, after a revolu- 
 tion, what are the qualities of the king which result from it ? 
 He may be and it is useful for him to be a revolutionary; 
 that is to say, a participant in his own person in that revolu- 
 tion, that he should have lent a hand to it, that lie should 
 have cither compromised or distinguished himself therein, 
 that he should have touched the axe or wielded the sword 
 in it. 
 
 What are the qualities of a dynasty? It should be national; 
 that is to say, revolutionary at a distance, not through acts 
 committed, but by reason of ideas accepted. It should be 
 composed of past and be historic ; be composed of future and 
 be sympathetic. 
 
 All this explains why the early revolutions contented them-
 
 A FEW PAUEU OF U1BTOKY 
 
 selves with finding a man, Cromwell or Napoleon ; and why 
 the second absolutely insisted on finding a family, the House 
 of Brunswick or the House of Orleans. 
 
 Royal houses resemble tbose Indian fig-trees, each branch of 
 which, bending over to the earth, takes root and becomes a 
 fig-tree itself. Each branch may become a dynasty. On t he- 
 sole condition that it shall bend down to the people. 
 
 Such is the theory of the skilful. 
 
 Here, then, lies the great art: to make a little render to 
 success the sound of a catastrophe in order that those who 
 profit by it may tremble from it also, to season with fear every 
 step that is taken, to augment the curve of the transition to 
 the point of retarding progress, to dull that aurora, to de- 
 nounce and retrench the harshness of enthusiasm, to cut all 
 angles and nails, to wad triumph, to muffle up right, to envelop 
 the giant-people in flannel, and to put it to bed very speedily, 
 to impose a diet on that excess of health, to put Hercules on 
 the treatment of a convalescent, to dilute the event with the 
 expedient, to offer to spirits thirsting for the ideal that nectar 
 thinned out with a potion, to take one's precautions against too 
 much success, to garnish the revolution with a shade. 
 
 1830 practised this theory, already applied to England 
 by 1G88. 
 
 1830 is a revolution arrested midway. Half of progress, 
 quasi-right. Now, logic knows not the "almost," absolutely 
 as the sun knows not the candle. 
 
 Who arrests revolutions half-way? The bourgeoisie? 
 
 Why? 
 
 Because the bourgeoisie is interest which has readied satis- 
 faction. Yesterday it was appetite, to-day it is plenitude, 
 to-morrow it will be satiety. 
 
 The phenomenon of 1814 after Napoleon was reproduced in 
 1830 after Charles X. 
 
 The attempt has been made, and wrongly, to make a class of 
 the bourgeoisie. The bourgeoisie is simply the contented por- 
 tion of the people. The bourgeois is the man who now has 
 time to sit down. A chair is not a caste.
 
 10 
 
 But through a desire to sit down too soon, one may anest 
 the very march of the human race. This has often been the 
 fault of the bourgeoisie. 
 
 One is not a class because one has committed a fault. Self- 
 ishness is not one of the divisions of the social order. 
 
 Moreover, we must be just to selfishness. The state to which 
 that part of the nation which is called the bourgeoisie aspired 
 after the shock of 1830 was not the inertia which is compli- 
 cated with indifference and laziness, and which contains a 
 little shame; it was not the slumber which presupposes a 
 momentary forgetfulness accessible to dreams; it was the 
 halt. 
 
 The halt is a word formed of a singular double and almost 
 contradictory sense: a troop on the march, that is to say, 
 movement ; a stand, that is to say, repose. 
 
 The halt is the restoration of forces ; it is repose armed and 
 on the alert; it is the accomplished fact which posts sentinels 
 and holds itself on its guard. 
 
 The halt presupposes the combat of yesterday and the com- 
 bat of to-morrow. 
 
 It is the partition between 1830 and 1848. 
 
 What we here call combat may also be designated as 
 progress. 
 
 The bourgeoisie then, as well as the statesmen, required a 
 man who should express this word Halt. An Although- 
 Because. A composite individuality, signifying revolution 
 and signifying stability, in other terms, strengthening the 
 present by the evident compatibility of the past with the 
 future. 
 
 This man was "already found." His name was Louis Phi- 
 lippe d'Orleans. 
 
 The 221 made Louis Philippe King. Lafayette undertook 
 the coronation. 
 
 He called it the best of republics. The town-hall of Paris 
 took the place of the Cathedral of Rheims. 
 
 This substitution of a half-throne for a whole throne was 
 "the work of 1830."
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY H 
 
 When the skilful had finished, the immense vice of their 
 solution became apparent. All this had been accomplished 
 outside the bounds of absolute right. Absolute right cried : "I 
 protest !" then, terrible to say, it retired into the darkness. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 LOUIS PHILIPPE 
 
 REVOLUTIONS have a terrible arm and a happy hand, they 
 strike firmly and choose well. Even incomplete, even debased 
 and abused and reduced to the state of a junior revolution like 
 the Revolution of 1830, they nearly always retain sufficient 
 providential lucidity to prevent them from falling amiss. 
 Their eclipse is never an abdication. 
 
 Nevertheless, let us not boast too loudly; revolutions also 
 may be deceived, and grave errors have been seen. 
 
 Let us return to 1830. 1830, in its deviation, had good luck. 
 In the establishment which entitled itself order after the rev- 
 olution had been cut short, the King amounted to more than 
 royalty. Louis Philippe was a rare man. 
 
 The son of a father to whom history will accord certain 
 attenuating circumstances, but also as worthy of esteem as that 
 father had been of blame; possessing all private virtues and 
 many public virtues; careful of his health, of his fortune, of 
 his person, of his affairs, knowing the value of a minute and 
 not always the value of a year; sober, serene, peaceable, 
 patient; a good man and a good prince; sleeping with his 
 wife, and having in his palace lackeys charged with the duty 
 of showing the conjugal bed to the bourgeois, an ostentation of 
 the regular sleeping-apartment which had become useful after 
 the former illegitimate displays of the elder branch; know- 
 ing all the languages of Europe, and, what is more rare, all 
 the languages of all interests, and speaking them ; an admira- 
 ble representative of the "middle class," but outstripping it, 
 and in every way greater than it; possessing excellent sense,
 
 12 
 
 while appreciating the blood from which ho had sprung, count- 
 ing most of all on his intrinsic worth, and, on the question 
 of his race, very particular, declaring himself Orleans and 
 not Bourbon; thoroughly the first Prince of the Blood Royal 
 while he was still only a Serene Highness, but a frank bour- 
 geois from the day he became king ; diffuse in public, concise in 
 private; reputed, but not proved to be a miser; at bottom, one 
 of those economists who are readily prodigal at their own fancy 
 or duty; lettered, but not very sensitive to letters; a gentle- 
 man, but not a chevalier; simple, calm, and strong; adored by 
 his family and his household; a fascinating talker, an unde- 
 ceived statesman, inwardly cold, dominated by immediate in- 
 terest, always governing at the shortest range, incapable of 
 rancor and of gratitude, making use without mercy of superi- 
 ority on mediocrity, clever in getting parliamentary majorities 
 to put in the wrong those mysterious unanimities which mut- 
 ter dully under thrones; unreserved, sometimes imprudent in 
 his lack of reserve, but with marvellous address in that impru- 
 dence ; fertile in expedients, in countenances, in masks; mak- 
 ing France fear Europe and Europe France! Incontes- 
 tably fond of his country, but preferring his family; assuming 
 more domination than authority and more authority than 
 dignity, a disposition which has this unfortunate property, 
 t!:;it as it turns everything to success, it admits of ruse and 
 dor-s not absolutely repudiate baseness, but which has this 
 valuable side, that it preserves politics from violent shocks, the 
 state from fractures, and society from catastrophes; minute, 
 correct, vigilant, attentive, sagacious, indefatigable; contra- 
 dicting himself at times and giving himself the lie; bold 
 against Austria at Ancona, obstinate against England in 
 Spain, bombarding Antwerp, and paying off Pritchard ; sing- 
 ing the Marseillaise with conviction, inaccessible to despond- 
 ency, to lassitude, to the taste for the beautiful and the ideal, 
 to daring generosity, to Utopia, to chimeras, to wrath, to van- 
 ity, to fear; possessing all the forms of personal intrepidity; a 
 general at Valrny ; a soldier at Jemappes; attacked eight times 
 by regicides and always smiling; brave as a grenadier, cou-
 
 A FKW PAG EH OF HISTORY 13 
 
 rageous as a thinker; uneasy only in the face of the chances of 
 a European shaking up, and unfitted for great political adven- 
 tures; always ready to risk his life, never his work ; disguising 
 his will in influence, in order that he might he oheyed as an 
 intelligence rather than as a king; endowed with observation 
 and not with divination; not very attentive to minds, but 
 knowing men, that is to say, requiring to see in order to judge ; 
 prompt and penetrating good sense, practical wisdom, easy 
 speech, prodigious memory; drawing incessantly on this mem- 
 ory, his only point of resemblance with Caesar, Alexander, and 
 Napoleon; knowing deeds, facts, details, dates, proper names, 
 ignorant of tendencies, passions, the diverse geniuses of the 
 crowd, the interior aspirations, the hidden and obscure upris- 
 ings of souls, in a word, all that can be designated as the invisi- 
 ble currents of consciences; accepted by the surface, but little 
 in accord with France lower down ; extricating himself by dint 
 of tact; governing too much and not enough; his own first 
 minister; excellent at creating out of the pettiness of realities 
 an obstacle to the immensity of ideas; mingling a genuine 
 creative faculty of civilization, of order and organization, an 
 indescribable spirit of proceedings and chicanery, the founder 
 and lawyer of a dynasty; having something of Charlemagne 
 and something of an attorney ; in short, a lofty and original 
 figure, a prince who understood how to create authority in 
 spite of the uneasiness of France, and power in spite of the 
 jealousy of Europe. Louis Philippe will be classed among the 
 eminent men of his century, and would be ranked among the 
 most illustrious governors of history had he loved glory but a 
 little, and if he had had the sentiment of what is great to the 
 same degree as the feeling for what is useful. 
 
 Louis Philippe had been handsome, and in his old age he 
 remained graceful ; not always approved by the nation, he 
 always was so by the masses; he pleased. He had that gift 
 of charming. He lacked majesty ; he wore no crown, although 
 a king, and no white hair, although an old man ; his manners 
 belonged to the old regime and his habits to the new; a mix- 
 ture of the noble and the bourgeois which suited 1830; Louis
 
 14 8AIST-DEX18 
 
 Philippe was transition reigning; he had preserved the ancient 
 pronunciation and the ancient orthography which he placed at 
 the service of opinions modern ; he loved Poland and Hungary, 
 but he wrote les Polonois, and he pronounced Ics Hongrais. He 
 wore the uniform of the national guard, like Charles X., and 
 the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, like Napoleon. 
 
 He went a little to chapel, not at all to the chase, never to 
 the opera. Incorruptible by sacristans, by whippers-in, by 
 ballet-dancers; this made a part of his bourgeois popularity. 
 He had no heart. He went out with his umbrella under his 
 arm, and this umbrella long formed a part of his aureole. He 
 was a bit of a mason, a bit of a gardener, something of a doc- 
 tor ; he bled a postilion who had tumbled from his horse ; Louis 
 Philippe no more went about without his lancet, than did 
 Henri IV. without his poniard. The Royalists jeered at this 
 ridiculous king, the first who had ever shed blood with the ob- 
 ject of healing. 
 
 For the grievances against Louis Philippe, there is one de- 
 duction to be made; there is that which accuses royalty, that 
 which accuses the reign, that which accuses the King; three 
 columns which all give different totals. Democratic right con- 
 fiscated, progress becomes a matter of secondary interest, the 
 protests of the street violently repressed, military execution of 
 insurrections, the rising passed over by arms, the Rue Trans- 
 nonain, the counsels of war, the absorption of the real country 
 by the legal country, on half shares with three hundred thou- 
 sand privileged persons, these are the deeds of royalty ; Bel- 
 gium refused, Algeria too harshly conquered, and, as in the 
 case of India by the English, with more barbarism than 
 civilization, the breach of faith, to Abd-c!-Kader, Blaye, 
 Deutz bought, Pritchard paid, these.are the doings of the 
 reign ; the policy which was more domestic than national was 
 the doing of the King. 
 
 As will be seen, the proper deduction having been made, the 
 King's charge is decreased. 
 
 This is his great fault; he was modest in the name of 
 France.
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 15 
 
 Whence arises this fault? 
 
 We will state it. 
 
 Louis Philippe was rather too much of a paternal king ; that 
 incubation of a family with the object of founding a dynasty 
 is afraid of everything and does not like to be disturbed ; hence 
 excessive timidity, which is displeasing to the people, who 
 have the 14th of July in their civil and Austerlitz in their 
 military tradition. 
 
 Moreover, if we deduct the public duties which require to 
 be fulfilled first of all, that deep tenderness of Louis Philippe 
 towards his family was deserved by the family. That domestic 
 group was worthy of admiration. Virtues there dwelt side by 
 side with talents. One of Louis Philippe's daughters, Marie 
 d'Orleans, placed the name of her race among artists, as 
 Charles d'Orleans had placed it among poets. She made of her 
 soul a marble which she named Jeanne d'Arc. Two of Louis 
 Philippe's daughters elicited from Metternich this eulogium : 
 "They are young people such as are rarely seen, and princes 
 such as are never seen." 
 
 This, without any dissimulation, and also without any exag- 
 geration, is the truth about Louis Philippe. 
 
 To be Prince Equality, to bear in his own person the contra- 
 diction of the Restoration and the Revolution, to have that dis- 
 quieting side of the revolutionary which becomes reassuring in 
 governing power, therein lay the fortune of Louis Philippe in 
 1830 ; never was there a more complete adaptation of a man to 
 an event; the one entered into the other, and the incarnation 
 took place. Louis Philippe is 1830 made man. Moreover, he 
 had in his favor that great recommendation to the throne, 
 exile. He had been proscribed, a wanderer, poor. He had 
 lived by his own Tabor. In Switzerland, this heir to the richest 
 princely domains in France had sold an old horse in order to 
 obtain bread. At Reichenau, he gave lessons in mathematics, 
 while his sister Adelaide did wool work and sewed. These 
 souvenirs connected with a king rendered the bourgeoisie en- 
 thusiastic. He had, with his own hands, demolished the iron 
 cage of Mont-Saint-Michel, built by Louis XI, and used by
 
 16 8A1XT-DEM8 
 
 Louis XV. He was the companion of Dumouriez, he was the 
 friend of Lafayette; he had belonged to the Jacobins' club; 
 Mirabeau had slapped him on the shoulder; Danton had said 
 to him : ''Young man !" At the age of four and twenty, in '03, 
 being then M. de Chartres, he had witnessed, from the depth of 
 a box, the trial of Louis XVI., so well named that poor tyrant. 
 The blind clairvoyance of the Revolution, breaking royalty in 
 the King and the King with royalty, did so almost without 
 noticing the man in the fierce crushing of the idea, the vast 
 storm of the Assembly-Tribunal, the public wrath interrogat- 
 ing, Capet not knowing what to reply, the alarming, stupefied 
 vacillation by that royal head beneath that sombre breath, th; 1 
 relative innocence of all in that catastrophe, of those who con- 
 demned as well as of the man condemned, he had looked on 
 those things, he had contemplated that giddiness; he had seen 
 the centuries appear before the bar of the Assembly-Conven- 
 tion ; he had beheld, behind Louis XVI., that unfortunate 
 passer-by who was made responsible, the terrible culprit, the 
 monarchy, rise through the shadows; and there had lingered 
 in his soul the respectful fear of these immense justices of the 
 populace, which are almost as impersonal as the justice of God. 
 
 The trace left in him by the Revolution was prodigious. Its 
 memory was like a living imprint of those great years, minute 
 by minute. One day, in the presence of a witness whom we a:v 
 not permitted to doubt, he rectified from memory the whole o" 
 the letter A in the alphabetical list of the Constituent As- 
 sembly. 
 
 Louis Philippe was a king of the broad daylight. While he 
 reigned the press was free, the tribune was free, conscience 
 and speech were free. The laws of September are open to 
 sight. Although fully aware of the gnawing power of light on 
 privileges, he left his throne exposed to the light. History will 
 do justice to him for this loyalty. 
 
 Louis Philippe, like all historical men who have passed from 
 the scene, is to-day put on bis trial by the human conscience. 
 His case is, as yet, only in the lower court. 
 
 The hour when history speaks with its free and venerable
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 17 
 
 accent, h?,s not yet sounded for him ; the moment has not come 
 to pronounce a definite judgment on this king; the austere and 
 illustrious historian Louis Blanc has himself recently softened 
 his first verdict; Louis Philippe was elected by those two 
 almost* which are called the 221 and 1830, that is to say, 
 by a half-Parliament, and a half-revolution; and in any case, 
 from the superior point of view where philosophy must place 
 itself, we cannot judge him here, as the reader has seen above, 
 except with certain reservations in the name of the absolute 
 democratic principle; in the eyes of the absolute, outside these 
 two rights, the right of man in the first place, the right of the 
 people in the second, all is usurpation; but what we can say, 
 even at the present day, that after making these reserves is, 
 that to sum up the whole, and in whatever manner he is con- 
 sidered, Louis Philippe, taken in himself, and from the point 
 of view of human goodness, will remain, to use the antique 
 language of ancient history, one of the best princes who ever 
 sat on a throne. 
 
 What is there against him ? That throne. Take away Louis 
 Philippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is 
 good, lie is good at times even to the point of being admira- 
 ble. Often, in the midst of his gravest souvenirs, after a day 
 of conflict with the whole diplomacy of the continent, he re- 
 turned at night to his apartments, and there, exhausted with 
 fatigue, overwhelmed with sleep, what did he do? He took a 
 death sentence and passed the night in revising a criminal 
 suit, considering it something to hold his own against Europe, 
 but that it was a still greater matter to rescue a man from the 
 executioner. lie obstinately maintained his opinion against 
 his keeper of the seals ; he disputed the ground with the guillo- 
 tine foot by foot against the crown attorneys, those chatterers 
 of the luir, as he called them. Sometimes the pile of sentences 
 covered his table ; he examined them all : it was anguish to him 
 to abandon these miserable, condemned heads. One day, he 
 said to the same witness to whom we have recently referred: 
 "I won seven last night.'' During the early years of his reign, 
 the death penalty was as good as abolished, and the erection
 
 18 8AIXT-DESI8 
 
 of a scaffold was a violence committed against the King. The 
 Greve having disappeared with the elder branch, a bourgeois 
 place of execution was instituted under the name of the Bar- 
 riere-Saint-Jacques ; ''practical men" felt the necessity of a 
 quasi-legitimate guillotine; and this was one of the victories of 
 Casimir Perier, who represented the narrow sides of the bour- 
 geoisie, over Louis Philippe, who represented its liberal sides. 
 Louis Philippe annotated Beccaria with his own hand. After 
 the Fieschi machine, he exclaimed : "What a pity that I was 
 not wounded ! Then I might have pardoned !" On another 
 occasion, alluding to the resistance offered by his ministry, he 
 wrote in connection with a political criminal, who is one of the 
 most generous figures of our day: "His pardon is granted; it 
 only remains for me to obtain it." Louis Philippe was as gen- 
 tle as Louis IX. and as kindly as Henri IV. 
 
 Now, to our mind, in history, where kindness is the rarest 
 of pearls, the man who is kindly almost takes precedence of the 
 man who is great. 
 
 Louis Philippe having been severely judged by some, 
 harshly, perhaps, by others, it is quite natural that a man, 
 himself a phantom at the present day, who knew that king, 
 should come and testify in his favor before history; this depo- 
 sition, whatever else it may be, is evidently and above all 
 things, entirely disinterested; an epitaph penned by a dead 
 man is sincere; one shade may console another shade; the 
 sharing of the same shadows confers the right to praise it ; 
 it is not greatly to be feared that it will ever be said of two 
 tombs in exile: "This one flattered the other." 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 CRACKS BEXKATH THE FOUNDATION 
 
 AT the moment when the drama which we are narrating is 
 on the point of penetrating into the depths of one of the tragic 
 clouds which envelop the beginning of Louis Philippe's reign, 
 it was necessary that there should be no equivoque, and it
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 19 
 
 became requisite that this book should offer some explanation 
 with regard to this king. 
 
 Louis Philippe had entered into possession of his royal 
 authority without violence, without any direct action on his 
 part, by virtue of a revolutionary change, evidently quite 
 distinct from the real aim of the Revolution, but in which 
 he, the Due d'Orleans, exercised no personal initiative. He 
 had been born a Prince, and he believed himself to have been 
 elected King. He had not served this mandate on himself; 
 he had not taken it ; it had been offered to him, and he had 
 accepted it; convinced, wrongly, to be sure, but convinced 
 nevertheless, that the offer was in accordance with right and 
 that the acceptance of it was in accordance with duty. Hence 
 his possession was in good faith. Now, we say it in good 
 conscience, Louis Philippe being in possession in perfect good 
 faith, and the democracy being in good faith in its attack, 
 the amount of terror discharged by the social conflicts weighs 
 neither on the King nor on the democracy. A clash of prin- 
 ciples resembles a clash of elements. The ocean defends the 
 water, the hurricane defends the air, the King defends Roy- 
 alty, the democracy defends the people ; the relative, which 
 is the monarchy, resists the absolute, which is the republic; 
 society bleeds in this conflict, but that which constitutes its 
 suffering to-day will constitute its safety later on ; and, in 
 any case, those who combat are not to be blamed; one of the 
 two parties is evidently mistaken; the right is not, like the 
 Colossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once, with one foot on 
 the republic, and one in Royalty; it is indivisible, and all 
 on one side; but those who are in error are so sincerely; a 
 blind man is no more a criminal than a Vendean is a 
 ruffian. Let us, then, impute to the fatality of things alone 
 these formidable collisions. Whatever the nature of these 
 tempests may be, human irresponsibility is mingled with 
 them. 
 
 Let us complete this exposition. 
 
 The government of 1840 led a hard life immediately. Born 
 yesterday, it was obliged to fight to-day.
 
 20 8A1XT-DEXI8 
 
 Hardly installed, it was already everywhere conscious of 
 vague movements of traction on the apparatus of July so 
 recently laid, and so lacking in solidity. 
 
 Resistance was born on the morrow; perhaps even, it was 
 born on the preceding evening. From month to month the 
 hostility increased, and from being concealed it became 
 patent. 
 
 The Revolution of July, which gained but little accepUm 
 outside of France by kings, had been diversely interpreted in 
 France, as we have said. 
 
 God delivers over to men his visible will in events, an 
 obscure text written in a mysterious tongue. Men immedi- 
 ately make translations of it ; translations hasty, incorrect, 
 full of errors, of gaps, and of nonsense. Very few minds 
 comprehend the divine language. The most sagacious, the 
 calmest, the most profound, decipher slowly, and when they 
 arrive with their text, the task has long been completed; 
 there are already twenty translations on the public place. 
 From each remaining springs a party, and from each mis- 
 interpretation a faction: and each party thinks that it alone 
 has the true text, and each faction thinks that it possesses 
 the light. 
 
 Power itself is often a faction. 
 
 There are, in revolutions, swimmers who go against the 
 current ; they are the old parties. 
 
 For the old parties who clung to heredity by the grace of 
 God, think that revolutions, having sprung from the right to 
 revolt, one has the right to revolt against them. Error. For 
 in these revolutions, the one who revolts is not the people; 
 it is the king. Revolution is precisely the contrary of revolt. 
 Kvery revolution, being a normal outcome, contains within 
 itself its legitimacy, which false revolutionists sometimes dis- 
 honor, but which remains even when soiled, which survives 
 even when stained with blood. 
 
 Revolutions spring not from an accident, but from necessity. 
 A revolution is a return from the fictitious to the real. It is 
 because it must be that it is.
 
 A FEW PAGER OF HISTORY 21 
 
 None the less did the old legitimist parties assail the Revo- 
 lution of 1830 with all the vehemence which arises from 
 false reasoning. Errors make excellent projectiles. They 
 strike it cleverly in its vulnerable spot, in default of a cuirass, 
 in its lack of logic; they attacked this revolution in its royalty. 
 They shouted to it: "Revolution, why this king?" Factions 
 are blind men who aim correctly. 
 
 This cry was uttered equally by the republicans. But com- 
 ing from them, this cry was logical. What was blindness in 
 the legitimists was clearness of vision in the democrats. 1830 
 had bankrupted the people. The enraged democracy re- 
 proached it with this. 
 
 Between the attack of the past and the attack of the future, 
 the establishment of July struggled. It represented the 
 minute at loggerheads on the one hand with the monarchical 
 centuries, on the other hand with eternal right. 
 
 In addition, and beside all this, as it was no longer revolu- 
 tion and had become a monarchy, 1830 was obliged to take 
 precedence of all Europe. To keep the peace, was an increase 
 of complication. A harmony established contrary to sense is 
 often more onerous than a war. From this secret conflict, 
 always muzzled, but always growling, was born armed peace, 
 that ruinous expedient of civilization which in the harness of 
 the European cabinets is suspicious in itself. The Royalty of 
 July reared up, in spite of the fact that it caught it in the 
 harness of European cabinets. Metternich would gladly have 
 put it in kicking-straps. Pushed on in France by progress, it 
 pushed on the monarchies, those loiterers in Europe. After 
 having been towed, it undertook to tow. 
 
 Meanwhile, within her, pauperism, the proletariat, salarv, 
 education, penal servitude, prostitution, the fate of the 
 woman, wealth, misery, production, consumption, division, 
 exchange, coin, credit, the rights of capital, the rights of 
 labor, all these questions were multiplied above society, a 
 terrible slope. 
 
 Outside of political parties properly so called, another move- 
 ment became manifest. Philosophical fermentation replied to
 
 22 BAIXT-DEXIB 
 
 democratic fermentation. The elect felt troubled as well as 
 the masses; in another manner, but quite as much. 
 
 Thinkers meditated, while the soil, that is to say. the people, 
 traversed by revolutionary currents, trembled under them with 
 indescribably vague epileptic shocks. These dreamers, some 
 isolated, others united in families and almost in communion, 
 turned over social questions in a pacific but profound manner; 
 impassive miners, who tranquilly pushed their galleries 
 into the depths of a volcano, hardly disturbed by the 
 dull commotion and the furnaces of which they caught 
 glimpses. 
 
 This tranquillity was not the least beautiful spectacle of 
 this agitated epoch. 
 
 These men left to political parties the question of rights, 
 they occupied themselves with the question of happiness. 
 
 The well-being of man, that was what they wanted to ex- 
 tract from society. 
 
 They raised material questions, questions of agriculture, of 
 industry, of commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. 
 In civilization, such as it has formed itself, a little by the 
 command of God, a great deal by the agency of man, interests 
 combine, unite, and amalgamate in a manner to form a 
 veritable hard rock, in accordance with a dynamic law, 
 patiently studied by economists, those geologists of politics. 
 These men who grouped themselves under different appella- 
 tions, but who may all be designated by the generic title of 
 socialists, endeavored to pierce that rock and to cause it to 
 spout forth the living waters of human felicity. 
 
 From the question of the scaffold to the question of war, 
 their works embraced everything. To the rights of man, as 
 proclaimed by the French Revolution, they added the rights 
 of woman and the rights of the child. 
 
 The reader will not be surprised if, for various reasons, we 
 do not here treat in a thorough manner, from the theoretical 
 point of view, the questions raised by socialism. We confine 
 ourselves to indicating them. 
 
 All the problems that the socialists proposed to themselves,
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 23 
 
 cosmogonic visions, revery and mysticism being cast aside, can 
 be reduced to two principal problems. 
 
 First problem: To produce wealth. 
 
 Second problem: To share it. 
 
 The first problem contains the question of work. 
 
 The second contains the question of salary. 
 
 In the first problem the employment of forces is in 
 question. 
 
 In the second, the distribution of enjoyment. 
 
 From the proper employment of forces results public power. 
 
 From a good distribution of enjoyments results individual 
 happiness. 
 
 By a good distribution, not an equal but an equitable dis- 
 tribution must be understood. 
 
 From these two things combined, the public power without, 
 individual happiness within, results social prosperity. 
 
 Social prosperity means the man happy, the citizen free, the 
 nation great. 
 
 England solves the first of these two problems. She creates 
 wealth admirably, she divides it badly. This solution which 
 is complete on one side only leads her fatally to two extremes : 
 monstrous opulence, monstrous wretchedness. All enjoyments 
 for some, all privations for the rest, that is to say, for the 
 people; privilege, exception, monopoly, feudalism, born from 
 toil itself. A false and dangerous situation, which sates pub- 
 lic power or private misery, which sets the roots of the State 
 in the sufferings of the individual. A badly constituted 
 grandeur in which are combined all the material elements 
 and into which no moral element enters. 
 
 Communism and agrarian law think that they solve the 
 second problem. They are mistaken. Their division kills 
 production. Equal partition abolishes emulation; and con- 
 sequently labor. It is a partition made by the butcher, which 
 kills that which it divides. It is therefore impossible to pause 
 over these pretended solutions. Slaying wealth is not the 
 same thing as dividing it. 
 
 The two problems require to be solved together, to be well
 
 04 8AIXT-DEXI8 
 
 solved. The two problems must be combined and made but 
 one. 
 
 Solve only the first of the two problems; you will be Venice, 
 you will be England. You will have, like Venice, an artificial 
 power, or, like England, a material power; you will be the 
 wicked rich man. You will die by an act of violence, as 
 Venice died, or by bankruptcy, as England will fall. And 
 the world will allow to die and fall all that is merely selfish- 
 ness, all that does not represent for the human race either a 
 virtue or an idea. 
 
 It is well understood here, that by the words Venice, Eng- 
 land, we designate not the peoples, but social structures; the 
 oligarchies superposed on nations, and not the nations them- 
 selves. The nations always have our respect and our sym- 
 pathy. Venice, as a people, will live again; England, the 
 aristocracy, will fall, but England, the nation, is immortal. 
 That said, we continue. 
 
 Solve the two problems, encourage the wealthy, and protect 
 the poor, suppress misery, put an end to the unjust farming 
 out of the feeble by the strong, put a bridle on the iniquitous 
 jealousy of the man who is making his way against the man 
 who has reached the goal, adjust, mathematically and frater- 
 nally, salary to labor, mingle gratuitous and compulsory edu- 
 cation with the growth of childhood, and make of science the 
 base of manliness, develop minds while keeping arms busy, be 
 at one and the same time a powerful people and a family of 
 happy men, render property democratic, not by abolishing it, 
 but by making it universal, so that every eilixcn. without 
 exception, may be a proprietor, an easier matter than is gen- 
 erally supposed; in two words, learn how to produce wealth 
 and how to distribute it, and you will have at once moral and 
 material greatness; and you will be worthy to call yourself 
 France. 
 
 This is what socialism said outside and above a few sects 
 which have gone astray; that is what it sought in facts, that 
 is what it sketched out in minds. 
 
 Efforts worthy of admiration! Sacred attempts!
 
 A FEW PA.GEK OF HISTORY 25 
 
 These doctrines, these theories, these resistances, the unfore- 
 seen necessity for the statesman to take philosophers into 
 account, confused evidences of which we catch a glimpse, a 
 new system of politics to he created, which shall he in accord 
 with the old world without too much disaccord with the new 
 revolutionary ideal, a situation in which it became necessary 
 to use Lafayette to defend Polignac, the intuition of progress 
 transparent beneath the revolt, the chambers and streets, the 
 competitions to be brought into equilibrium around Rim, his 
 faith in the Revolution, perhaps an eventual indefinable resig- 
 nation born of the vague acceptance of a superior definitive 
 right, his desire to remain of his race, his domestic spirit, his 
 sincere respect for the people, his own honesty, preoccupied 
 Louis Philippe almost painfully, and there were moments 
 when, strong and courageous as he was, he was overwhelmed 
 by the difficulties of being a king. 
 
 He felt under his feet a formidable disaggregation, which 
 was not, nevertheless, a reduction to dust, France being more 
 France than ever. 
 
 Piles of shadows covered the horizon. A strange shade, 
 gradually drawing nearer, extended little by little over men, 
 over things, over ideas ; a shade which came from wraths and 
 systems. Everything which had been hastily stifled was mov- 
 ing and fermenting. At times the conscience of the honest 
 man resumed its breathing, so great was the discomfort of 
 that air in which sophisms were intermingled with truths. 
 Spirits trembled in the social anxiety like leaves at the 
 approach of a storm. The electric tension was such that at 
 certain instants, the first comer, a stranger, broiight light. 
 Then the twilight obscurity closed in again. At intervals, 
 deep and dull mutterings allowed a judgment to be formed as 
 to the quantity of thunder contained by the cloud. 
 
 Twenty months had barely elapsed since the Revolution of 
 July, the year 1832 had opened with an aspect of something 
 impending and threatening. 
 
 The distress of the people, the laborers without bread, the 
 last Prince de Conde engulfed in the shadows, Brussels expel-
 
 2tf SAINT-DENIS 
 
 ling the Nassaus as Paris did the Bourbons, Belgium offering 
 herself to a French Prince and giving herself to an English 
 Prince, the Russian hatred of Xicolas, behind us the demons of 
 the South, Ferdinand in Spain, Miguel in Portugal, the earth 
 quaking in Italy, Metternich extending his hand over Bologna, 
 Franco treating Austria sharply at Ancona, at the North no 
 one knew what sinister sound of the hammer nailing up Po- 
 land in her coffin, irritated glances watching France narrowly 
 all over Europe, England, a suspected ally, ready to give a 
 push to that which was tottering and to hurl herself on that 
 which should fall, the peerage sheltering itself behind Beccaria 
 to refuse four heads to the law, the fleurs-de-lys erased from 
 the King's carriage, the cross torn from Notre Dame, Lafay- 
 ette lessened, Laffitte ruined, Benjamin Constant dead in indi- 
 gence, Casimir Perier dead in the exhaustion of his power; 
 political and social malady breaking out simultaneously in the 
 two capitals of the kingdom, the one in the city of thought, the 
 other in the city of toil; at Paris civil war, at Lyons servile 
 war ; in the two cities, the same glare of the furnace ; a crater- 
 like crimson on the brow of the people; the South rendered 
 fanatic, the West troubled, the Duchesse de Berry in la Ven- 
 dee, plots, conspiracies, risings, cholera, added the sombre roar 
 of tumult of events to the sombre roar of ideas. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 PACTS WHENCE HISTORY SPRINGS AND WHICH HISTORY 
 IGNORES 
 
 TOWARDS the end of April, everything had become aggra- 
 vated. The fermentation entered the boiling state. Ever since 
 1830, petty partial revolts had been going on here and there, 
 which were quickly suppressed, but ever bursting forth afresh, 
 the sign of a vast underlying conflagration. Something terri- 
 ble was in preparation. Glimpses could be caught of the 
 features still indistinct and imperfectly lighted, of a possible
 
 A FEW PAGES OF FJIKTORY 27 
 
 revolution. France kept an eye on Paris; Paris kept an eye 
 on the Faubourg Saint-Antoine. 
 
 The Faubourg Saint-Antoine, which was in a dull glow, was 
 beginning its ebullition. 
 
 The wine-shops of the Rue de Charonne were, although the 
 union of the two epithets seems singular when applied to wine- 
 shops, grave and stormy. 
 
 The government was there purely and simply called in ques- 
 tion. There people publicly discussed the question of fighting 
 or of keeping quiet. There were back shops where workingmen 
 were made to swear that they would hasten into the street at 
 the first cry of alarm, and "that they would fight without 
 counting the number of the enemy." This engagement once 
 entered into, a man seated in the corner of the wine-shop "as- 
 sumed a sonorous tone," and said, "You understand ! You 
 have sworn !" 
 
 Sometimes they went up stairs, to a private room on the first 
 floor, and there scenes that were almost masonic were enacted. 
 They made the initiated take oaths to render service to 
 himself as well as to the fathers of families. That was the 
 formula. 
 
 In the tap-rooms, "subversive" pamphlets were read. They 
 treated the government with contempt., says a secret report of 
 that time. 
 
 Words like the following could be heard there: 
 
 "I don't know the names of the leaders. We folks shall not 
 know the day until two hours beforehand.'' One workman 
 said : "There are three hundred of us, let each contribute ten 
 sous, that will make one hundred and fifty francs with which 
 to procure powder and shot." 
 
 Another said : "I don't ask for six months, I don't ask for 
 even two. In less than a fortnight we shall be parallel with the 
 government. With twenty-five thousand men we can face 
 them." Another said : "I don't sleep at night, because I make 
 cartridges all night." From time to time, men "of bourgeois 
 appearance, and in good coats" came and "caused embarrass- 
 ment," and with the air of "command," shook hands with the
 
 28 8AIKT-DENI8 
 
 most important, and then went away. They never stayed more 
 than ten minutes. Significant remarks were exchanged in a 
 low tone: "The plot is ripe, the matter is arranged." "It was 
 murmured by all who were there," to borrow the very expres- 
 sion of one of those who were present. The exaltation was 
 such that one day, a workingman exclaimed, before the whole 
 wine-shop : "We have no arms !" One of his comrades replied : 
 "The soldiers have!" thus parodying without being aware of 
 the fact, Bonapnrte's proclamation to the army in Italy: 
 "When they had anything of a more secret nature on hand," 
 adds one report, "they did not communicate it to each other." 
 It is not easy to understand what they could conceal after 
 what they said. 
 
 These reunions were sometimes periodical. At certain ones 
 of them, there were never more than eight or ten persons pres- 
 ent, and they were always the same. In others, any one entered 
 who wished, and the room was so full that they were forced to 
 stand. Some went thither through enthusiasm and passion; 
 others because it was on their way to their work. As during 
 the Revolution, there were patriotic women in some of these 
 wine-shops who embraced new-comers. 
 
 Other expressive facts came to light. 
 
 A man would enter a shop, drink, and go his way with the 
 remark : "Wine-merchant, the revolution will pay what is due 
 to you." 
 
 Revolutionary agents were appointed in a wine-shop facing 
 the Rue de Charonne. The balloting was carried on in their 
 caps. 
 
 Workingmen met at the house of a fencing-master who gave 
 lessons in the Rue de Cotte. There there was a trophy of arms 
 formed of wooden broadswords, canes, clubs, and foils. One 
 day, the buttons were removed from the foils. 
 
 A workman said : "There are twenty-five of us, but they 
 don't count on me, because I am looked upon as a machine." 
 Later on, that machine became Quenisset. 
 
 The indefinite things which were brewing gradually acquired 
 a strange and indescribable notoriety. A woman sweeping off
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 29 
 
 her doorsteps said to another woman: "For a long time, there 
 has been a strong force busy making cartridges." In the open 
 street, proclamation could be seen addressed to the National 
 Guard in the departments. One of these proclamations was 
 signed: Burtot, wine-merchant. 
 
 One day a man with his beard worn like a collar and with an 
 Italian accent mounted a stone post at the door of a liquor- 
 seller in the Marche Lenoir, and read aloud a singular docu- 
 ment, which seemed to emanate from an occult power. Groups 
 formed around him, and applauded. 
 
 The passages which touched the crowd most deeply were 
 collected and noted down. " Our doctrines are trammelled, 
 our proclamations torn, our bill-stickers arc spied upon and 
 thrown into prison." ''The breakdown which has recently 
 taken place in cottons has converted to us many mediums. "- 
 "The future of nations is being worked out in our obscure 
 ranks." "Here are the fixed terms: action or reaction, revo- 
 lution or counter-revolution. For, at our epoch, we no longer 
 believe either in inertia or in immobility. For the people 
 against the people, that is the question. There is no other." 
 "On the day when we cease to suit you, break us, but up to that 
 day, help us to march on." All this in broad daylight. 
 
 Other deeds, more audacious still, were suspicious in the eyes 
 of the people by reason of their very audacity. On the 4th of 
 April, 1832, a passer-by mounted the post on the corner which 
 forms the angle of the Rue Sainte-Marguerite and shouted : 
 "I am a Babouvist !" But beneath Babeuf, the people scented 
 Gisquet. 
 
 Among other things, this man said : 
 
 "Down with property! The opposition of the left is cow- 
 ardly and treacherous. When it wants to be on the right sido. 
 it preaches revolution, it is democratic in order to escape being 
 beaten, and royalist so that it may not have to fight. The re- 
 publicans are beasts with feathers. Distrust the republicans, 
 citizens of the laboring classes." 
 
 "Silence, citizen spy !" cried an artisan. 
 
 This shout put an end to the discourse.
 
 30 
 
 Mysterious incidents occurred. 
 
 At nightfall, a workingman encountered near the canal a 
 "very well dressed man," who said to him : "Whither are you 
 bound, citizen?" "Sir," replied the workingman, "I have 
 not the honor of your acquaintance." "I know you very well, 
 however." And the man added : "Don't be alarmed, I am an 
 agent of the committee. You are suspected of not being quite 
 faithful. You know that if you reveal anything, there is an 
 eye fixed on you." Then he shook hands with the workingman 
 and went away, saying: "We shall meet again soon." 
 
 The police, who were on the alert, collected singular dia- 
 logues, not only in the wine-shops, but in the street. 
 
 "Get yourself received very soon," said a weaver to a cabi- 
 net-maker. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "There is going to be a shot to fire." 
 
 Two ragged pedestrians exchanged these remarkable replies, 
 fraught with evident Jacquerie : 
 
 "Who governs us ?" 
 
 "M. Philippe." 
 
 "No, it is the bourgeoisie." 
 
 The reader is mistaken if he thinks that we take the word 
 Jacquerie in a bad sense. The Jacques were the poor. 
 
 On another occasion two men were heard to say to each other 
 as they passed by : "We have a good plan of attack." 
 
 Only the following was caught of a private conversation be- 
 tween four men who were crouching in a ditch of the circle of 
 the Barriere du Trone: 
 
 "Everything possible will be done to prevent his walking 
 about Paris any more." 
 
 Who was the he ? Menacing obscurity. 
 
 "The principal leaders," as they said in the faubourg, held 
 themselves apart. It was supposed that they met for consulta- 
 tion in a wine-shop near the point Saint-Eustache. A certain 
 Aug , chief of the Society aid for tailors, Rue Mondetour, 
 had the reputation of serving as intermediary central between 
 the leaders and the Faubourg Saint-Antoine.
 
 A FEW PAGEH OF HISTORY 
 
 31 
 
 Nevertheless, there was always a great deal of mystery about 
 these leaders, and no certain fact can invalidate the singular 
 arrogance of this reply made later on by a man accused before 
 the Court of Peers : 
 
 "Who was your leader?" 
 
 "I knew of none and I recognized none." 
 
 There was nothing but words, transparent but vague ; some- 
 times idle reports, rumors, hearsay. Other indications cropped 
 up. 
 
 A carpenter, occupied in nailing boards to a fence around 
 the ground on which a house was in process of construction, 
 in the Rue dc Keuilly, found on that plot the torn fragment 
 of a letter on which were still legible the following lines: 
 
 The committee must take measures to prevent recruiting in the 
 sections for the different societies. 
 
 And, as a postcript : 
 
 We have learned that there are guns in the Rue du Faubourg- 
 Poissonniere, No. 5 [bis], to the number of five or six thousand, in 
 the house of a gunsmith in that court. The section owns no arms. 
 
 What excited the carpenter and caused him to show this 
 thing to his neighbors was the fact, that a few paces further 
 on he picked up another paper, torn like the first, and still 
 more significant, of which we reproduce a facsimile, because 
 of the historical interest attaching to these strange docu- 
 ments : 
 
 Q 
 
 c 
 
 D 
 
 E 
 
 Learn this list by heart. After so doing 
 you will tear it up. The men admitted 
 trill do the same u'hen you hare trans- 
 mitted their orders to them. 
 Health and Fraternity, 
 u og a' fe L. 
 
 It was only later on that the persons who were in the secret 
 of this find at the time, learned the significance of those four 
 capital letters: quinlurions, centurions, decurions, eclaireurs
 
 32 SAINT-DEyiS 
 
 [scouts], and the sense of the letters: u og a' fe, which was a 
 date, and meant April 15th, 1832. Under each capital letter 
 were inscribed names followed by very characteristic notes. 
 Thus: Q. Banncrel. 8 guns, 83 cartridges. A safe man. C. 
 Boubierc. 1 pistol, 40 cartridges. D. Rollet. 1 foil, 1 pis- 
 tol, 1 pound of powder. E. Tessier. 1 sword, 1 cartridge- 
 box. Exact. Terreur. 8 guns. Brave, etc. 
 
 Finally, this carpenter found, still in the same enclosure, a 
 third paper on which was written in pencil, but very legibly, 
 this sort of enigmatical list : 
 
 Unite: Blanchard: Arbre-Sec. 6. 
 
 Barra. Soize. Salle-au-Comte. 
 
 Kosciusko. Aubry the Butcher T 
 
 J. J. R. 
 
 Cains Gracchus. 
 
 Ripht of revision. Dufond. Four. 
 
 Fall of the Girondists. Derbac. Maubuee. 
 
 Washington. Pinson. 1 pistol, 86 cartridges. 
 
 Marseillaise. 
 
 Sovereignty of the people. Michel. Quincampoix. Sword. 
 
 Hoc- he. 
 
 Marceau. Plato. Arbre-Sec. 
 
 Warsaw. Tilly, crier of the Populaire. 
 
 The honest bourgeois into whose hands this list fell knew its 
 significance. It appears that this list was the complete nomen- 
 clature of the sections of the fourth arondissement of the 
 Society of the Rights of Man, with the names and dwellings of 
 the chiefs of sections. To-day, when all these facts which were 
 obscure are nothing more than history, we may publish them. 
 Tt should be added, that the foundation of the Society of the 
 Rights of Man seems to have been posterior to the date 
 when this paper was found. Perhaps this was only a rough 
 draft. 
 
 Still, according to all the remarks and the words, accord- 
 ing to written notes, material facts begin to make their 
 appearance. 
 
 In the Rue Popincourt, in the house of a dealer in brio-a- 
 brac, there were seized seven sheets of gray paper, all folded 
 alike lengthwise and in four; these sheets enclosed twenty-six
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 33 
 
 squares of this same gray paper folded in the form of a car- 
 tridge, and a card, on which was written the following : 
 
 Saltpetre 12 ounces. 
 
 Sulphur 2 ounces. 
 
 Charcoal 2 ounces and a half. 
 
 Water 2 ounces. 
 
 The report of the seizure stated that the drawer exhaled a 
 strong smell of powder. 
 
 A mason returning from his day's work, left behind him a 
 little package on a bench near the bridge of Austerlitz. This 
 package was taken to the police station. It was opened, and 
 in it were found two printed dialogues, signed Lahautiere, a 
 song entitled : "Workmen, band together," and a tin box full 
 of cartridges. 
 
 One artisan drinking with a comrade made the latter feel 
 him to see how warm he was ; the other man felt a pistol under 
 his waistcoat. 
 
 In a ditch on the boulevard, between Pere-Lachaise and the 
 Barriere du Trone, at the most deserted spot, some children, 
 while playing, discovered beneath a mass of shavings and 
 refuse bits of wood, a bag containing a bullet-mould, a wooden 
 punch for the preparation of cartridges, a wooden bowl, in 
 which there were grains of hunting-powder, and a little cast- 
 iron pot whoso interior presented evident traces of melted lead. 
 
 Police agents, making their way suddenly and unexpectedly 
 at five o'clock in the morning, into the dwelling of a certain 
 Pardon, who was afterwards a member of the Barricade- 
 Merry section and got himself killed in the insurection of 
 April, 1834, found him standing near his bed, and holding in 
 his hand some cartridges which he was in the act of pre- 
 paring. 
 
 Towards the hour when workingmen repose, two men were 
 seen to meet between the Barriere Picpus and the Barriere 
 Charenton in a little lane between two walls, near a wine-shop, 
 in front of which there was a "Jeu de Siam." 1 One drew a 
 
 'A game of ninepins, in which one side of the hall is smaller than 
 the other, so that it does not roll straight, but de.scribes a curve on 
 the ground.
 
 34 8AIXT-DEXI8 
 
 pistol from beneath his blouse and handed it to the other. As 
 he was handing it to him, he noticed that the perspiration of 
 his chest had made the powder damp. He primed the pistol 
 and added more powder to what was already in the pan. Then 
 the two men parted. 
 
 A certain Gallais, afterwards killed in the Rue Beaubourg 
 in the affair of April, boasted of having in his house seven 
 hundred cartridges and twenty-four flints. 
 
 The government one day received a warning that arms and 
 two hundred thousand cartridges had just been distributed in 
 the faubourg. On the following week thirty thousand car- 
 tridges were distributed. The remarkable point about it was, 
 that the police were not able to seize a single one. 
 
 An intercepted letter read: "The day is not far distant 
 when, within four hours by the clock, eighty thousand patriots 
 will be under arms." 
 
 All this fermentation was public, one might almost say 
 tranquil. The approaching insurrection was preparing its 
 storm calmly in the face of the government. No singularity 
 was lacking to this still subterranean crisis, which was already 
 perceptible. The bourgeois talked peaceably to the working- 
 classes of what was in preparation. They said : "How is the 
 rising coming along?" in the same tone in which they would 
 have said: "How is your wife?" 
 
 A furniture-dealer, of the Rue Moreau, inquired: "Well, 
 when are you going to make the attack?" 
 
 Another shop-keeper said: 
 
 "The attack will be made soon." 
 
 "I know it. A month ago, there were fifteen thousand of 
 you, now there are twenty-five thousand." He offered his gun, 
 and a neighbor offered a small pistol which he was willing to 
 sell for seven francs. 
 
 Moreover, the revolutionary fever was growing. Not a point 
 in Paris nor in France was exempt from it. The artery was 
 beating everywhere. Like those membranes which arise from 
 certain inflammations and form in the human body, the net- 
 work of secret societies began to spread all over the country.
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 35 
 
 From the associations of the Friends of the People, which 
 was at the same time public and secret, sprang the Society of 
 the Rights of Man, which also dated from one of the orders 
 of the day : Pluviose, Year 40 of the republican era, which was 
 destined to survive even the mandate of the Court of Assizes 
 which pronounced its dissolution, and which did not hesitate 
 to bestow on its sections significant names like the following : 
 
 Pikes. 
 
 Tocsin. 
 
 Signal cannon. 
 
 Phrygian cap. 
 
 January 21. 
 
 The beggars. 
 
 The vagabonds. 
 
 Forward march. 
 
 Robespierre. 
 
 Level. 
 
 Qa Ira. 
 
 The Society of the Rights of Man engendered the Society of 
 Action. These were impatient individuals who broke away 
 and hastened ahead. Other associations sought to recruit 
 themselves from the great mother societies. The members 
 of sections complained that they were torn asunder. Thus, 
 the Gallic Society, and the committee of organization of the 
 Municipalities. Thus the associations for the liberty of the 
 press, for individual liberty, for the instruction of the people 
 against indirect taxes. Then the Society of Equal Working- 
 men which was divided into three fractions, the levellers, the 
 communists, the reformers. Then the Army of the Bastilles, 
 a sort of cohort organized on a military footing, four men 
 commanded by a corporal, ten by a sergeant, twenty by a 
 sub-licHitcnant, forty by a lieutenant; there were never more 
 than five men who knew each other. Creation where precau- 
 tion is combined with audacity and which seemed stamped 
 with the genius of Venice. 
 
 The central committee, which was at the head, had two 
 arms, the Society of Action, and the Army of the Bastilles.
 
 36 SAl XT-DEN IS 
 
 A legitimist association, the Chevaliers of Fidelity, stirred 
 about among these the republican affiliations. It was de- 
 nounced and repudiated there. 
 
 The Parisian societies had ramifications in the principal 
 cities, Lyons, Xantes. Lille, Marseilles, and each had its 
 Society of the Rights of Man, the Charbonniere, and The 
 Free Men. All had a revolutionary society which was 
 called the Cougourde. We have already mentioned this 
 word. 
 
 In Paris, the Faubourg Saint-Marceau kept up an equal 
 buzzing with the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and the schools 
 were no less moved than the faubourgs. A cafe in the Rue 
 Saint-Hyacinthe and the wine-shop of the Seven Billiards, 
 Rue des Mathurins-Saint-Jacques, served as rallying points 
 for the students. The Society of the Friends of the ABC 
 affiliated to the Mutualists of Angers, and to the Cougourde 
 of Aix, met, as we have seen, in the Cafe Musain. These same 
 young men assembled also, as we have stated already, in a 
 restaurant wine-shop of the Rue Mondetour which was called 
 Corinthe. These meetings were secret. Others were as pub- 
 lic as possible, and the reader can judge of their boldness from 
 these fragments of an interrogatory undergone in one of the 
 ulterior prosecutions: "Where was this meeting held?" "In 
 the Rue de la Paix." "At whose house?" "In the street." 
 "What sections were there?" "Only one." "Which?" "The 
 Manuel section." "Who was its leader?" "I." "You are 
 too young to have decided alone upon the bold course of attack- 
 ing the government. Where did your instructions come 
 from?" "From the central committee." 
 
 The army was mined at the same time as the population, as 
 was proved subsequently by the operations of Beford, Lune- 
 ville, and fipinard. They counted on the fifty-second regi- 
 ment, on the fifth, on the eighth, on the thirty-seventh, and 
 on the twentieth light cavalry. In Burgundy and in the 
 southern towns they planted the liberty tree; that is to say, 
 a pole surmounted by a red cap. 
 
 Such was the situation.
 
 A FEW PAGER OF HIKTOftY 37 
 
 The Faubourg Saint-Antoine. more than any other group 
 of the population, as we stated in the beginning, accentuated 
 this situation and made it felt. That was the sore point. 
 This old faubourg, peopled like an ant-hill, laborious, coura- 
 geous, and angry as a hive of bees, was quivering with expecta- 
 tion and with the desire for a tumult. Everything was in a 
 state of agitation there, without any interruption, however, 
 of the regular work. It is impossible to convey an idea of 
 this lively yet sombre physiognomy. In this faubourg exists 
 poignant distress hidden under attic roofs; there also exist 
 rare and ardent minds. It is particularly in the matter of 
 distress and intelligence that it is dangerous to have extremes 
 meet. 
 
 The Faubourg Saint-Antoine had also other causes to trem- 
 ble ; for it received the counter-shock of commercial crises, of 
 failures, strikes, slack seasons, all inherent to great political 
 disturbances. In times of revolution misery is both cause and 
 effect. The blow which it deals rebounds upon it. This pop- 
 ulation full of proud virtue, capable to the highest degree of 
 latent heat, always ready to fly to arms, prompt to explode, 
 irritated, deep, undermined, seemed to be only awaiting the 
 fall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks float on the horizon, 
 chased by the wind of events, it is impossible not to think of 
 the Faubourg Saint-Antoine and of the formidable chance 
 which has placed at the very gates of Paris that powder-house 
 of suffering and ideas. 
 
 The wine-shops of the Faubourg Antoine, which have been 
 more than once drawn in the sketches which the reader has 
 just perused, possess historical notoriety. In troublous times 
 people grow intoxicated there more on words than on wine. A 
 sort of prophetic spirit and an atllatus of the future circulates 
 there, swelling hearts and enlarging souls. The cabarets of 
 the Faubourg Saint-Antoine resemble those taverns of Mont 
 Aventine erected on the cave of the Sibyl and communicating 
 with the profound and sacred breath ; taverns where the tables 
 were almost tripods, and where was drunk what Eimius calls 
 the sibylline wine.
 
 33 8AINT-DEXI8 
 
 The Faubourg Saint-Antoine is a reservoir of people. 
 Revolutionary agitations create fissures there, through which 
 trickles the popular sovereignty. This sovereignty may do 
 evil ; it can be mistaken like any other ; but, even when led 
 astray, it remains great. We may say of it as of the blind 
 cyclops, Ingens. 
 
 In '93, according as the idea which was floating about was 
 good or evil, according as it was the day of fanaticism or of 
 enthusiasm, there leaped forth from the Faubourg Saint- 
 Antoine now savage legions, now heroic bands. 
 
 Savage. Let us explain this word. When these bristling 
 men, who in the early days of the revolutionary chaos, tattered, 
 howling, wild, with uplifted bludgeon, pike on high, hurled 
 themselves upon ancient Paris in an uproar, what did they 
 want ? They wanted an end to oppression, an end to tyranny, 
 an end to the sword, work for men, instruction for the child, 
 social sweetness for the woman, liberty, equality, fraternity, 
 bread for all, the idea for all, the Edenizing of the world. 
 Progress ; and that holy, sweet, and good thing, progress, 
 they claimed in terrible wise, driven to extremities as they 
 were, half naked, club in fist, a roar in their mouths. They 
 were savages, yes ; but the savages of civilization. 
 
 They proclaimed right furiously ; they were desirous, if only 
 with fear and trembling, to force the human race to paradise. 
 They seemed barbarians, and they were saviours. They de- 
 manded light with the mask of night. 
 
 Facing these men, who were ferocious, we admit, and terri- 
 fying, but ferocious and terrifying for good ends, there are 
 other men. smiling, embroidered, gilded, beribboned, starred, 
 in silk stockings, in white plumes, in yellow gloves, in 
 varnished shoes, who, with their elbows on a velvet table, 
 beside a marble chimney-piece, insist gently on demeanor and 
 the preservation of the past, of the Middle Ages, of divine 
 right, of fanaticism, of innocence, of slavery, of the death 
 penalty, of war, glorifying in low tones and with politeness, 
 the sword, the stake, and the scaffold. For our part, if we 
 were forced to make a choice between the barbarians of civili-
 
 A. FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 39 
 
 zation and the civilized men of barbarism, we should choose 
 the barbarians. 
 
 But, thank Heaven, still another choice is possible. No 
 perpendicular fall is necessary, in front any more than in 
 the rear. 
 
 Neither despotism nor terrorism. We desire progress with 
 a gentle slope. 
 
 God takes care of that. God's whole policy consists in ren- 
 dering slopes less steep. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ENJOLRAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS 
 
 IT was about this epoch that Enjolras, in view of a possible 
 catastrophe, instituted a kind of mysterious census. 
 
 All were present at a secret meeting at the Cafe Musain. 
 
 Enjolras said, mixing his words with a few half-enigmatical 
 but significant metaphors: 
 
 "It is proper that we should know where we stand and on 
 whom we may count. If combatants are required, they must 
 be provided. It can do no harm to have something with which 
 to strike. Passers-by always have more chance of being gored 
 when there are bulls on the road than when there are none. 
 Let us, therefore, reckon a little on the herd. How many of us 
 are there? There is no question of postponing this task until 
 to-morrow. Revolutionists should always be hurried ; progress 
 has no time to lose. Let us mistrust the unexpected. Let us 
 not be caught unprepared. We must go over all the seams that 
 we have made and see whether they hold fast. This business 
 ought to be concluded to-day. Courfcyrac, you will see the 
 polytechnic students. It is their day to go out. To-day is 
 Wednesday. Feuilly, you will see those of the Glaciere, will 
 you not ? Combeferre has promised me to go to Picpus. 
 There is a perfect swarm and an excellent one there. Bahorel 
 will visit the Estrapade. Prouvaire, tho masons are growing
 
 40 SAINT-DEMS 
 
 lukewarm; you will bring us news from the lodge of the Rue 
 de Grenelle-Saint-Honore. Joly will go to Dupuytren's clini- 
 cal lecture, and feel the pulse of the medical school. Bossuet 
 will take a little turn in the court and talk with the young 
 law licentiates. I will take charge of the Cougourde myself." 
 
 "That arranges everything," said Courfeyrac. 
 
 "No." 
 
 "What else is there?" 
 
 "A very important thing." 
 
 "What is that?" asked Courfeyrac. 
 
 "The Barriere du Maine," replied Enjolras. 
 
 Enjolras remained for a moment as though absorbed in 
 reflection, then he resumed : 
 
 "At the Barriere du Maine there are marble-workers, paint- 
 ers, and journeymen in the studios of sculptors. They are an 
 enthusiastic family, but liable to cool off. I don't know what 
 has been the matter with the - n for some time past. They are 
 thinking of something else. They are becoming extinguished. 
 They pass their time playing dominoes. There is urgent need 
 that some one should go and talk with them a little, but with 
 firmness. They meet at Richefeu's. They are to be found 
 there between twelve and one o'clock. Those ashes must be 
 fanned into a glow. For that errand I had counted on that 
 abstracted Marius, who is a good fellow on the whole, but he 
 no longer comes to us. I need some one for the Barriere du 
 Miine. I have no one." 
 
 "What about me?" said Grantaire. "Here am I." 
 
 "You ?" 
 <ct }> 
 
 "You indoctrinate republicans ! you warm up hearts that 
 have grown cold in the name of principle !" 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Are you good for anything?" 
 
 "I have a vague ambition in that direction," said Grantaire. 
 "You do not believe in everything." 
 "I believe in you." 
 "Grantaire, will you do me a service?"
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 41 
 
 "Anything. I'll black your boots." 
 
 "Well, don't meddle with our affairs. Sleep yourself sober 
 from your absinthe." 
 
 "You are an ingrate, Enjolras." 
 
 "You the man to go to the Barriere du Maine ! You capable 
 of it!" 
 
 "I am capable of descending the Rue de Gres, of crossing 
 the Place Saint-Michel, of sloping through the Rue Mon- 
 sieur-le-Prince, of taking the Rue de Vaugirard, of passing 
 the Carmelites, of turning into the Rue d'Assas, of reaching 
 the Rue du Chcrche-Midi, of leaving behind me the Conseil 
 de Guerre, of pacing the Rue des Vielles Tuileries, of striding 
 across the boulevard, of following the Chaussee du Maine, of 
 passing the barrier, and entering Richefeu's. I am capable of 
 that. My shoes are capable of that." 
 
 "Do you know anything of those comrades who meet at 
 Richefeu's ?" 
 
 "Not much. We only address each other as thou." 
 
 "What will you say to them ?" 
 
 "I will speak to them of Robespierre, pardi ! Of Danton. 
 Of principles." 
 
 "You ?" 
 
 "I. But I don't receive justice. When T set about it, I am 
 terrible. I have read Prudhomme, I know the Social Contract, 
 I know my constitution of the year Two by heart. 'The 
 liberty of one citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen 
 begins.' Do you take mo for a brute? I have an old bank- 
 bill of the Republic in my drawer. The Rights of Man, the 
 sovereignty of the people, sapristi ! I am even a bit of a 
 Hebertist. I can talk the most superb twaddle for six hours 
 by the clock, watch in hand." 
 
 "Be serious," said Enjolras. 
 
 "I am wild," replied Grantaire. 
 
 Enjolras meditated for a few moments, and made the 
 gesture of a man who has taken a resolution. 
 
 "Grantaire," he said gravely, "I consent to try you. You 
 shall to the Barriere du Maine."
 
 42 8AIXT-r>K\I8 
 
 Grantaire lived in furnished lodgings very near the Cafe 
 Musain. He went out, and five minutes later he returned. 
 He had gone home to put on a Robespierre waistcoat. 
 
 "Red," said he as he entered, and he looked intently at 
 Enjolras. Then, with the palm of his energetic hand, he laid 
 the two scarlet points of the waistcoat across his breast. 
 
 And stepping up to Enjolras, he whispered in his ear: 
 
 "Be easy." 
 
 He jammed his hat on resolutely and departed. 
 
 A quarter of an hour later, the back room of the Cafe 
 Musain was deserted. All the friends of the A B C were 
 gone, each in his own direction, each to his own task. Enjol- 
 ras, who had reserved the Cougourde of Aix for himself, was 
 the last to leave. 
 
 Those members of the Cougourde of Aix who were in Paris 
 then met on the plain of Issy. in one of the abandoned 
 quarries which are so numerous in that side of Paris. 
 
 As Enjolras walked towards this place, he passed the whole 
 situation in review in his own mind. The gravity of events 
 was self-evident. When facts, the premonitory symptoms of 
 latent social malady, move heavily, the slightest complication 
 stops and entangles them. A phenomenon whence arises ruin 
 and new births. Enjolras descried a luminous uplifting be- 
 neath the gloomy skirts of the future. Who knows? Perhaps 
 the moment was at hand. The people were again taking 
 possession of right, and what a fine spectacle ! The revolu- 
 tion was again majestically taking possession of France and 
 saying to the world: "The sequel to-morrow!" Enjolras was 
 content. The furnace was being heated. He had at that 
 moment a powder train of friends scattered all over Paris. 
 He composed, in his own mind, with Comboferre's philosophi- 
 cal and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly's cosmopolitan enthusi- 
 asm, Courfcyrac's dash, Bahorel's smile, Jean Prouvaire's 
 melancholy, Joly's science, Bossuet's sarcasms, a sort of 
 electric spark which took fire nearly everywhere at once. All 
 hands to work. Surely, the result would answer to the effort. 
 This was well. This made him think of Grantaire.
 
 A FEW PAGES OF HISTORY 43 
 
 "Hold," said he to himself, "the Barriere du Maine will 
 not take me far out of my way. What if I were to go on as 
 far as Richefeu's? Let us have a look at what Grantaire is 
 about, and see how he is getting on." 
 
 One o'clock was striking from the Vaugirard steeple when 
 Enjolras reached the Richefeu smoking-room. 
 
 He pushed open the door, entered, folded his arms, letting 
 the door fall to and strike his shoulders, and gazed at that 
 room filled with tables, men, and smoke. 
 
 A voice broke forth from the mist of smoke, interrupted by 
 another voice. It was Grantaire holding a dialogue with an 
 adversary. 
 
 Grantaire was sitting opposite another figure, at a marble 
 Saint-Anne table, strewn with grains of bran and dotted with 
 dominos. He was hammering the table with his fist, and this 
 is what Enjolras heard : 
 
 "Double-six." 
 
 "Fours." 
 
 "The pig ! I have no more." 
 
 "You are dead. A two." 
 
 "Six." 
 
 "Three." 
 
 "One." 
 
 "It's my move." 
 
 "Four points." 
 
 "Not much." 
 
 "It's your turn." 
 
 "I have made an enormous mistake." 
 
 "You are doing well." 
 
 "Fifteen." 
 
 "Seven more." 
 
 "That makes me twenty-two." [Thoughtfully, "Twenty- 
 two !"] 
 
 "You weren't expecting that double-six. If 1 had placed 
 it at the beginning, the whole play would have been changed." 
 
 "A two again." 
 
 "One."
 
 44 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "One ! Well, five." 
 "I haven't any." 
 "It was your play, I believe?" 
 "Yes." 
 "Blank." 
 
 "What luck he has ! Ah ! You are lucky ! [Long revery.] 
 Two." 
 "One." 
 
 "Neither five nor one. That's bad for you." 
 "Domino." 
 "Plague take it !"
 
 BOOK SECOND. EPONINE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE LARK'S MEADOW 
 
 MARIUS had witnessed the unexpected termination of the 
 ambush upon whose track he had set Javert ; but Javert had 
 no sooner quitted the building, bearing off his prisoners in 
 three hackney-coaches, than Marius also glided out of the 
 house. It was only nine o'clock in the evening. Marius 
 betook himself to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac was no longer the 
 imperturbable inhabitant of the Latin Quarter, he had gone 
 to live in the Eue de la Verrerie "for political reasons" ; this 
 quarter was one where, at that epoch, insurrection liked to 
 install itself. Marius said to Courfeyrac: "I have come to 
 sleep with you." Courfeyrac dragged a mattress off his bed, 
 which was furnished with two, spread it out on the floor, and 
 said: "There." 
 
 At seven o'clock on the following morning, Marius returned 
 to the hovel, paid the quarter's rent which he owed to Ma'am 
 Bougon, had his books, his bed, his table, his commode, and 
 his two chairs loaded on a hand-cart and went off without 
 leaving his address, so that when Javert returned in the course 
 of the morning, for the purpose of questioning Marius as to 
 the events of the preceding evening, he found only Ma'am 
 Bougon, who answered: "Moved away!" 
 
 Ma'am Bougon was convinced that Marius was to some 
 extent an accomplice of the robbers who had been seized the 
 night before. "Who would ever have said it?" she exclaimed 
 to the portresses of the quarter, "a young man like that, who 
 had the air of a girl !"
 
 46 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Marius had two reasons for this prompt change of residence. 
 The first was, that he now had a horror of that house, where he 
 had beheld, so close at hand, and in its most repulsive and most 
 ferocious development, a social deformity which is, perhaps, 
 eren more terrible than the wicked rich man, the wicked poor 
 man. The second was, that he did not wish to figure in the 
 lawsuit which would insue in all probability, and be brought 
 in to testify against Thenardier. 
 
 Javert thought that the young man, whose name he had for- 
 gotten, was afraid, and had fled, or perhaps, had not even 
 returned home at the time of the ambush ; he made some 
 efforts to find him, however, but without success. 
 
 A month passed, then another. Marius was still with Cour- 
 feyrac. He had learned from a young licentiate in law, an 
 habitual frequenter of the courts, that Thenardier was in close 
 confinement. Every Monday, Marius had five francs handed 
 in to the clerk's office of La Force for Thenardier. 
 
 As Marius had no longer any money, he borrowed the five 
 francs from Courfeyrac. It was the first time in his life that 
 he had ever borrowed money. These periodical five francs 
 were a double riddle to Courfeyrac who lent and to Thenardier 
 who received them. "To whom can they go?" thought Cour- 
 feyrac. "Whence can this come to me?" Thenardier asked 
 himself. 
 
 Moreover, Marius was heart-broken. Everything had 
 plunged through a trap-door once more. He no longer saw 
 anything before him ; his life was again buried in mystery 
 where he wandered fumblingly. He had for a moment beheld 
 very close at hand, in that obscurity, the young girl whom he 
 loved, the old man who seemed to be her father, those unknown 
 beings, who were his only interest and his only hope in this 
 world ; and, at the very moment when he thought himself 
 on the point of grasping them, a gust had swept all these shad- 
 ows away. Not a spark of certainty and truth had been 
 emitted even in the most terrible of collisions. Xo conjecture 
 was possible. He no longer knew even the name that he 
 thought he knew. It certainly was not Ursule. And the Lark
 
 8PONINE 47 
 
 was a nickname. And what was he to think of the old man? 
 Was he actually in hiding from the police? The white-haired 
 workman whom Marius had encountered in the vicinity of 
 the Invalides recurred to his mind. It now seemed probable 
 that that workingman and M. Leblanc were one and the same 
 person. So he disguised himself? That man had his heroic 
 and his equivocal sides. Why had he not called for help ? Why 
 had he fled? Was he, or was he not, the father of the young 
 girl? Was he, in short, the man whom Thenardier thought 
 that he recognized ? Thenardier might have been mistaken. 
 These formed so many insoluble problems. All this, it is 
 true, detracted nothing from the angelic charms of the young 
 girl of the Luxembourg. Heart-rending distress; Marius bore 
 a passion in his heart, and night over his eyes. He was thrust 
 onward, he was drawn, and he could not stir. All had van- 
 ished, save love. Of love itself he had lost the instincts and the 
 sudden illuminations. Ordinarily, this flame which burns us 
 lights us also a little, and casts some useful gleams without. 
 But Marius no longer even heard these mute counsels of pas- 
 sion. He never said to himself: "What if I were to go to such 
 a place? What if I were to try such and such a thing?" The 
 girl whom he could no longer call Ursule was evidently some- 
 where; nothing warned Marius in what direction he should 
 seek her. His whole life was now summed up in two words; 
 absolute uncertainty within an impenetrable fog. To see her 
 once again; he still aspired to this, but he no longer expected 
 it. 
 
 To crown all, his poverty had returned. He felt that icy 
 breath close to him, on his heels. In the midst of his tor- 
 ments, and long before this, he had discontinued his work, and 
 nothing is more dangerous than discontinued work ; it is a 
 habit which vanishes. A habit which is easy to get rid of, and 
 diflicult to take up again. 
 
 A certain amount of dreaming is good, like a narcotic in dis- 
 creet doses. It lulls to sleep the fevers of the mind at labor, 
 which are sometimes severe, and produces in the spirit a soft 
 and fresh vapor which corrects the over-harsh contours of
 
 48 8AINT-DEXI8 
 
 pure thought, fills in gaps here and there, binds together and 
 rounds off the angles of the ideas. But too much dreaming 
 sinks and drowns. Woe to the brain-worker who allows him- 
 self to fall entirely from thought into revery ! He thinks that 
 he can re-ascend with equal ease, and he tells himself that, 
 after all, it is the same thing. Error ! 
 
 Thought is the toil of the intelligence, revery its voluptu- 
 ousness. To replace thought with revery is to confound a 
 poison with a food. 
 
 Marius had begun in that way, as the reader will remem- 
 ber. Passion had supervened and had finished the work of 
 precipitating him into chimaeras without object or bottom. 
 One no longer emerges from one's self except for the purpose 
 of going off to dream. Idle production. Tumultuous and 
 stagnant gulf. And, in proportion as labor diminishes, needs 
 increase. This is a law. Man, in a state of revery, is gener- 
 ally prodigal and slack; the unstrung mind cannot hold life 
 within close bounds. 
 
 There is, in that mode of life, good mingled with evil, for 
 if enervation is baleful, generosity is good and healthful. But 
 the poor man who is generous and noble, and who does not 
 work, is lost. Resources arc exhausted, needs crop up. 
 
 Fatal declivity down which the most honest and the firmest 
 as well as the most feeble and most vicious are drawn, and 
 which ends in one of two holds, suicide or crime. 
 
 By dint of going outdoors to think, the day comes when one 
 goes out to throw one's self in the water. 
 
 Excess of revery breeds men like Escousse and Lcbras. 
 
 Marius was descending this declivity at a slow pace, with 
 his eyes fixed on the girl whom he no longer saw. What we 
 have just written seems strange, and yet it is true. The mem- 
 ory of an absent being kindles in the darkness of the heart; 
 the more it has disappeared, the more it beams ; the gloom) 
 and despairing soul sees this light on its horizon : the star c 
 the inner night. She that was Marius' whole thought. P 
 meditated of nothing else; he was confusedly conscious th 
 his old coat was becoming an impossible coat, and that his n- 6
 
 &PONINE 49 
 
 coat was growing old, that his shirts were wearing out, that 
 his hat was wearing out, that his boots were giving out, and 
 he said to himself: "If I could but see her once again before 
 I die!" 
 
 One sweet idea alone was left to him, that she had loved 
 him, that her glance had told him so, that she did not know 
 his name, but that she did know his soul, and that, wherever 
 she was, however mysterious the place, she still loved him, 
 perhaps. Who knows whether she were not thinking of him 
 as he was thinking of her? Sometimes, in those inexplicable 
 hours such as are experienced by every heart that loves, though 
 he had no reasons for anything but sadness and yet felt an 
 obscure quiver of joy, he said to himself : "It is her thoughts 
 that are coming to me!" Then he added: "Perhaps my 
 thoughts reach her also." 
 
 This illusion, at which he shook his head a moment later, 
 was sufficient, nevertheless, to throw beams, which at times re- 
 sembled hope, into his soul. From time to time, especially at 
 that evening hour which is the most depressing to even the 
 dreamy, he allowed the purest, the most impersonal, the most 
 ideal of the reveries which filled his brain, to fall upon a note- 
 book which contained nothing else. He called this "writing 
 to her." 
 
 It must not be supposed that his reason was deranged. 
 Quite the contrary. He had lost the faculty of working and 
 of moving firmly towards any fixed goal, but he was endowed 
 with more clear-sightedness and rectitude than ever. Marina 
 surveyed by a calm and real, although peculiar light, what 
 passed before his eyes, even the most indifferent deeds and 
 men; he pronounced a just criticism on everything with a 
 sort of honest dejection and candid disinterestedness. His 
 judgment, which was almost wholly disassociated from hope, 
 held itself aloof and soared on high. 
 
 In this state of mind nothing escaped him, nothing de- 
 ' ived him, and every moment he was discovering the founda- 
 N >n of life, of humanity, and of destiny. Happy, even in the 
 
 !dst of anguish, is he to whom CJod has given a soul worthy
 
 50 8AIXT-DENI8 
 
 of love and of unhappiness! He who has not viewed tl 
 things of this world and the heart of man under this doul 
 light has seen nothing and knows nothing of the true. 
 
 The soul which loves and suffers is in a state 
 sublimity. 
 
 However, day followed day, and nothing new present*, 
 itself. It merely seemed to him, that the sombre space whic 
 still remained to be traversed by him was growing snorter witj 
 every instant. He thought that he already distinctly perceivec 
 the brink of the bottomless abyss. 
 
 "What !" he repeated to himself, "shall I not see her again 
 before then !" 
 
 When you have ascended the Rue Saint-Jacques, left the 
 barrier on one side and followed the old inner boulevard foi 
 some distance, you reach the Rue de la Sante, then the Gla 
 ciere, and, a little while before arriving at the little river of th( 
 Gobelins, you come to a sort of field which is the only spo' 
 in the long and monotonous chain of the boulevards of Pari* 
 where Ruysdeel would be tempted to sit down. 
 
 There is something indescribable there which exhales gra* 
 a green meadow traversed by tightly stretched lines, frc 
 which flutter rags drying in the wind, and an old market-gf 
 dener's house, built in the time of Louis XIII., with its grc 
 roof oddly pierced with dormer windows, dilapidated palisade 
 a little water amid poplar-trees, women, voices, laughter; 01 
 the horizon the Pantheon, the pole of the Deaf-Mutes, thi 
 Val-de-Grace, black, squat, fantastic, amusing, magnificent, 
 and in the background, the severe square crests of the towers of 
 Notre Dame. 
 
 As the place is worth looking at, no one goes thither. 
 Hardly one cart or wagoner passes in a quarter of an hour. 
 
 It chanced that Marius' solitary strolls led him to this plot 
 of ground, near the water. That day, there was a rarity on 
 the boulevard, a passer-by. Marius, vaguely impressed with 
 the almost savage beauty of the place, asked this passer-by: 
 "What is the name of this spot?" 
 
 The person replied : "It is the Lark's meadow."
 
 &PONINE 51 
 
 And he added: "It was here that Ulbach killed the shep- 
 ' srdess of Ivry." 
 But after the word "Lark" Marius heard nothing more. 
 
 hese sudden congealments in the state of revery, which a 
 .ngle word suffices to evoke, do occur. The entire thought is 
 ibruptly condensed around an idea, and it is no longer capable 
 of perceiving anything else. 
 
 The Lark was the appellation which had replaced Ursule in 
 the depths of Marius' melancholy. "Stop," said he with a 
 sort of unreasoning stupor peculiar to these mysterious asides, 
 "this is her meadow. I shall know where she lives now." 
 
 It was absurd, but irresistible. 
 
 And every day he returned to that meadow of the Lark. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 EMBRYONIC FORMATION OF CRIMES IN THE INCUBATION OP 
 
 PRISONS 
 
 JA VERT'S triumph in the Gorbeau hovel seemed complete, 
 ut had not been so. 
 
 In the first place, and this constituted the principal anxiety, 
 Javert had not taken the prisoner prisoner. The assassinated 
 man who flees is more suspicious that the assassin, and it is 
 probable that this personage, who had been so precious a cap- 
 ture for the ruffians, would be no less fine a prize for the au- 
 thorities. 
 
 And then, Montparnasse had escaped Javert. 
 
 Another opportunity of laying hands on that "devil's 
 dandy" must be waited for. Montparnasse had, in fact, en- 
 countered fiponine as she stood on the watch under the trees 
 of the boulevard, and had led her off, preferring to play Ne- 
 moriu with the daughter rather than Schinderhanues with 
 the father. It was well that he did so. He was free. As for 
 fiponine, Javert had caused her to be seized ; a mediocre con- 
 solation, fiponine had joined Azehna at Les Madelonettes.
 
 52 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 And finally, on the way from the Gorbeau house to La Force, ' 
 one of the principal prisoners, Claquesous, had been lost. It was 
 not known how this had been effected, the police agents and 
 the sergeants "could not understand it at all." He had con- 
 verted himself into vapor, he had slipped through the hand- 
 cuffs, he had trickled through the crevices of the carriage, the 
 fiacre was cracked, and he had fled; all that they were able 
 to say was, that on arriving at the prison, there was no Cla- 
 queeous. Either the fairies or the police had had a hand in 
 it. Had Claquesous melted into the shadows like a snow-flake 
 in water? Had there been unavowed connivance of the police 
 agents? Did this man belong to the double enigma of order 
 and disorder? Was he concentric with infraction and re- 
 pression? Had this sphinx his fore paws in crime and his ' 
 hind paws in authority? Javert did not accept such commi- 
 nations, and would have bristled up against such compromises ; 
 but his squad included other inspectors besides himself, who 
 were more initiated than he, perhaps, although they were his 
 subordinates in the secrets of the Prefecture, and Claquesous 
 had been such a villain that he might make a very good agent. 
 It is an excellent thing for ruffianism and an admirable thing 
 for the police to be on such intimate juggling terms with the 
 night. These double-edged rascals do exist. However that 
 may be, Claquesous had gone astray and was not found again. 
 Javert appeared to be more irritated than amazed at this. 
 
 As for Marius, "that booby of a lawyer/' who had probably 
 become frightened, and whose name Javert had forgotten, 
 Javert attached very little importance to him. Moreover, a 
 lawyer can be hunted up at any time. But was he a lawyer 
 after all ? 
 
 The investigation had begun. 
 
 The magistrate had thought it advisable not to put one of 
 these men of the band of Patron Minette in close confinement, 
 in the hope that he would chatter. This man was Brujon, the 
 long-baired man of the Rue du Petit-Banquier. He had been 
 let loose in the Charlemagne courtyard, and the eyes of the 
 watchers were fixed on him.
 
 tiPONINE 53 
 
 This name of Brujon is one of the souvenirs of La Force. 
 In that hideous courtyard, called the court of the Batirnent- 
 Neuf (Xew Building), which the administration called the 
 court Saint-Bernard, and which the robbers called the Fosse- 
 aux-Lions (The Lion's Ditch), on that wall covered with 
 scales and leprosy, which rose on the left to a level with the 
 roofs, near an old door of rusty iron which led to the ancient 
 chapel of the ducal residence of La Force, then turned in a 
 dormitory for ruffians, there could still be seen, twelve years 
 ago, a sort of fortress roughly carved in the stone with a nail, 
 and beneath it this signature: 
 
 BRtJJON, 1811. 
 
 The Brujon of 1811 was the father of the Brujon of 1832. 
 
 The latter, of whom the reader caught but a glimpse at the 
 Gorbeau house, was a very cunning and very adroit young 
 spark, with a bewildered and plaintive air. It was in conse- 
 quence of this plaintive air that the magistrate had released 
 him, thinking him more useful in the Charlemagne yard than 
 in close confinement. 
 
 Robbers do not interrupt their profession because they are 
 in the hands of justice. They do not let themselves be put out 
 by such a trifle as that. To be in prison for one crime is no 
 reason for not beginning on another crime. They are artists, 
 who have one picture in the salon, and who toil, none the less, 
 on a new work in their studios. 
 
 Brujon seemed to be stupefied by prison. He could some- 
 times be seen standing by the hour together in front of the 
 sutler's window in the Charlemagne yard, staring like an idiot 
 at the sordid list of prices which began with : t/arlic, (>'2 
 centimes, and ended with: cigar, 5 centimes. Or he passed 
 his time in trembling, chattering his teeth, saying that he 
 had a fever, and inquiring whether one of the eight and 
 twenty beds in the fever ward was vacant. 
 
 All at once, towards the end of February. 1S3'2, it was dis- 
 covered that Brujon, that somnolent fellow, had had three 
 different commissions executed by the errand-men of the
 
 54 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 establishment, not under his own name, but in the name of 
 three of his comrades; and they had cost him in all fifty 
 sous, an exorbitant outlay which attracted the attention of 
 the prison corporal. 
 
 Inquiries were instituted, and on consulting the tariff of 
 commissions posted in the convict's parlor, it was learned 
 that the fifty sous could be analyzed as follows : three commis- 
 sions : one to the Pantheon, ten sous ; one to Val-de-Grace, 
 fifteen sous; and one to the Barriere de Crenelle, twenty-five 
 sous. This last was the dearest of the whole tariff. Now, at 
 the Pantheon, at the Val-de-Grace. and at the Barriere de 
 Crenelle were situated the domiciles of the three very redoubt- 
 able prowlers of the barriers, Kruideniers, alias Bizarro, 
 Glorieux, an ex-convict, and Barre-Carosse, upon whom the 
 attention of the police was directed by this incident. It was 
 thought that these men were members of Patron Minette; 
 two of those leaders, Babet and Gueulemer, had been captured. 
 It was supposed that the messages, which had been addressed, 
 not to houses, but to people who were waiting for them in 
 the street, must have contained information with regard to 
 some crime that had been plotted. They were in possession 
 of other indications ; they laid hand on the three prowlers, 
 and supposed that they had circumvented some one or other 
 of Brujon's machinations. 
 
 About a week after these measures had been taken, one 
 night, as the superintendent of the watch, who had been 
 inspecting the lower dormitory in the Batiment-Neuf, was 
 about to drop his chestnut in the box this was the means 
 adopted to make sure that the watchmen performed their 
 duties punctually; every hour a chestnut must be dropped 
 into all the boxes nailed to the doors of the dormitories a 
 watchman looked through the peep-hole of the dormitory and 
 beheld Brujon sitting on his bed and writing something by the 
 light of the hall-lamp. The guardian entered, Brujon was 
 put in a solitary cell for a month, but they were not able to 
 seize what he had written. The police learned nothing fur- 
 ther about it.
 
 SPONINE 55 
 
 What is certain is, that on the following morning, a "postil- 
 ion" was flung from the Charlemagne yard into the Lions' 
 Ditch, over the five-story building which separated the two 
 court-yards. 
 
 What prisoners call a "postilion" is a pallet of bread artis- 
 tically moulded, which is sent into Ireland, that is to say, 
 over the roofs of a prison, from one courtyard to another. 
 Etymology: over England; from one land to another; into 
 Ireland. This little pellet falls in the yard. The man who 
 picks it up opens it and finds in it a note addressed to some 
 prisoner in that yard. If it is a prisoner who finds the treas- 
 ure, he forwards the note to its destination ; if it is a keeper, 
 or one of the prisoners secretly sold who are called sheep in 
 prisons and foxes in the galleys, the note is taken to .the office 
 and handed over to the police. 
 
 On this occasion, the postilion reached its address, although 
 the person to whom it was addressed was, at that moment, in 
 solitary confinement. This person was no other than Babet, 
 one of the four heads of Patron Minette. 
 
 The postilion contained a roll of paper on which only these 
 two lines were written: 
 
 "Babet. There is an affair in the Rue Plumet. A gate on 
 a garden." 
 
 This is what Brujon had written the night before. 
 
 In spite of male and female searchers, Babet managed to 
 pass the note on from La Force to the Salpetriere, to a "good 
 friend" whom he had and who was shut up there. This woman 
 in turn transmitted the note to another woman of her ac- 
 quaintance, a certain Magnon, who was strongly suspected by 
 the police, though not yet arrested. This Magnon, whose 
 name the reader has already seen, had relations with the 
 Thenardicr. which will be described in detail later on, and 
 she could, by going to see lilponine, serve as a bridge between 
 the Salpetriere and Les Madolonettes. 
 
 It happened, that at precisely that moment, as proofs were 
 wanting in the investigation directed against Thenardier in 
 the matter of his daughters, fiponine and Azelma were re-
 
 56 SAINT DEN 1 8 
 
 leased. When fiponine came out, Magnon, who was watching 
 the gate of the Madelonettes, handed her Brujon's note to 
 Babet, charging her to look into the matter. 
 
 fiponine went to the Rue Plumet, recognized the gate and 
 the garden, observed the house, spied, lurked, and, a few days 
 later, brought, to Magnon, who delivers in the Rue Cloche- 
 perce, a biscuit, which Magnon transmitted to Babet's mistress 
 in the Salpetriere. A biscuit, in the shady symbolism of 
 prisons, signifies: Nothing to be done. 
 
 So that in less than a week from that time, as Brujon and 
 Babet met in the circle of La Force, the one on his way to the 
 examination, the other on his way from it : 
 
 "Well?" asked Brujon, "the Rue P.?" 
 
 "Biscuit." replied Babet. Thus did the foetus of crime 
 engendered by Brujon in La Force miscarry. 
 
 This miscarriage had its consequences, however, which were 
 perfectly distinct from Brujon's programme. The reader will 
 see what they were. 
 
 Often when we think we are knotting one thread, we are 
 tying quite another. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 APPARITION TO FATHER MABEUP 
 
 MARICS no longer went to see any one, but he sometimes 
 encountered Father Mabcuf by chance. 
 
 While Marius was slowly descending those melancholy steps 
 vhich may be called the cellar stairs, and which lead to places 
 without light, where the happy can be heard walking over- 
 head, M. Mabouf was descending on hi? side. 
 
 The Flora of Cauteretz no longer sold at all. The experi- 
 ments on indigo had not been successful in the little garden of 
 Auptorlitz. which had a bad exposure. M. Mabeuf could 
 cultivate there only a few plants which love shade and damp- 
 ness. Nevertheless, he did not become discouraged. He had
 
 EPOXINE 57 
 
 obtained a corner in the Jardin des Plantes, with a good 
 exposure, to make his trials with indigo "at his own expense." 
 For this purpose he had pawned his copperplates of the Flora. 
 He had reduced his breakfast to two eggs, and he left one of 
 these for his old servant, to whom he had paid no wages for 
 the last fifteen months. And often his breakfast was his 
 only meal. He no longer smiled with his infantile smile, he 
 had grown morose and no longer received visitors. Marius 
 did well not to dream of going thither. Sometimes, at the 
 hour when M. Mabeuf was on his way to the Jardin des 
 Plantes, the old man and the young man passed each other 
 on the Boulevard de FHopital. They did not speak, and only 
 exchanged a melancholy sign of the hea/1. A heart-breaking 
 thing it is that there comes a moment when misery looses 
 bonds! Two men who have been friends become two chance 
 passers-by. 
 
 Royol the bookseller was dead. M. Mabeuf no longer knew 
 his books, his garden, or his indigo : these were the three forms 
 which happiness, pleasure, and hope had assumed for him. 
 This sufficed him for his living. He said to himself : <r \Vhen 
 I shall have made my balls of blueing, I shall be rich, I will 
 withdraw my copperplates from the pawn-shop, I will put my 
 Flora in vogue again with trickery, plenty of money, and 
 advertisements in the newspapers and I will buy, I know well 
 where, a copy of Pierre de Medine's Art dc Naviguer, with 
 wood-cuts, edition of 1655." In the meantime, he toiled all 
 day over his plot of indigo, and at night he returned home to 
 water his garden, and to read his books. At that epoch, M. 
 Mabeuf was nearly eighty years of age. 
 
 One evening he had a singular apparition. 
 
 He had returned home while it was still broad daylight. 
 Mother Plutarque, whose health was declining, was ill and in 
 bed. He had dined on a bone, on which a little meat lingered, 
 and a bit of bread that he had found on the kitchen table, and 
 had seated himself on an overturned stone post, which took 
 the place of a bench in his garden. 
 
 Near this bench there rose, after the fashion in orchard-
 
 58 
 
 gardens, a sort of largo chest, of beams and planks, much 
 dilapidated, a rabbit-hutch on the ground floor, a fruit-closet 
 on the first. There was nothing in the hutch, but there were 
 a few apples in the fruit-closet, the remains of the winter's 
 provision. 
 
 M. Mabeuf had set himself to turning over and reading, 
 with the aid of his glasses, two books of which he was passion- 
 ately fond and in which, a serious thing at his age, he was 
 interested. His natural timidity rendered him accessible to 
 the acceptance of superstitions in a certain degree. The first 
 of these books was the famous treatise of President Delancre, 
 De I'lnconstance des Demons; the other was a quarto by 
 Mutor de la Rubaudiere, Sur les Diablcs de Vauvert et les 
 Gobelins de la Bievre. This last-mentioned old volume inter- 
 ested him all the more, because his garden had been one of 
 the spots haunted by goblins in former times. The twilight 
 had begun to whiten what was on high and to blacken all 
 below. As he read, over the top of the book which he held in 
 his hand. Father Mabeuf was surveying his plants, and among 
 others a magnificent rhododendron which was one of his con- 
 solations; four days of heat, wind, and sun without a drop 
 of rain, had passed ; the stalks were bending, the buds droop- 
 ing, the leaves falling; all this needed water, the rhododen- 
 dron was particularly sad. Father Mabeuf was one of those 
 persons for whom plants have souls. The old man had toiled 
 all day over his indigo plot, he was worn out with fatigue, but 
 he rose, laid his books on the bench, and walked, all bent over 
 and with tottering footsteps, to the well, but when he had 
 grasped the chain, he could not even draw it sufficiently to 
 unhook it. Then he turned round and cast a glance of anguish 
 toward heaven which was becoming studded with stars. 
 
 The evening had that serenity which overwhelms the 
 troubles of man beneath an indescribably mournful and 
 eternal joy. The night promised to be as arid as the day 
 had been. 
 
 "Stars everywhere !" thought the old man ; "not the tiniesi 
 cloud ! Not a drop of water I"
 
 THE SOUND OF THE WATERING-POT ON THE LEAVES FILLED 
 FATHER MABEUF'S SOUL WITH ECSTASY.
 
 EPOXINE 59 
 
 And his head, which had been upraised for a moment, fell 
 back upon his breast. 
 
 He raised it again, and once more looked at the sky, mur- 
 muring : 
 
 "A tear of dew! A little pity !" 
 
 He tried again to unhook the chain of the well, and could 
 not. 
 
 At that moment, he heard a voice saying : 
 
 "Father Mabeuf, would you like to have me water your 
 garden for you?" 
 
 At the same time, a noise as of a wild animal passing 
 became audible in the hedge, and he beheld emerging from 
 the shrubbery a sort of tall, slender girl, who drew herself 
 up in front of him and stared boldly at him. She had less 
 the air of a human being than of a form which had just blos- 
 somed forth from the twilight. 
 
 Before Father Mabeiif, who was easily terrified, and who 
 was, as we have said, quick to take alarm, was able to reply by 
 a single syllable, this being, whose movements had a sort of 
 odd abruptness in the darkness, had unhooked the chain, 
 plunged in and withdrawn the bucket, and filled the watering- 
 pot, and the goodman beheld this apparition, which had bare 
 feet and a tattered petticoat, running about among the flower- 
 beds distributing life around her. The sound of the 
 watering-pot on the leaves filled Father Mabeuf's soul with 
 ecstasy. It seemed to him that the rhododendron was happy 
 now. 
 
 The first bucketful emptied, the girl drew a second, then a 
 third. She watered the whole garden. 
 
 There was something about her, as she thus ran about 
 among paths, where her outline appeared perfectly black, 
 waving her angular arms, and with her fichu all in rags, that 
 resembled a bat. 
 
 When she had finished. Father Mabeuf approached her with 
 tears in his eyes, and laid his hand on her brow. 
 
 "God will bless you," said he, "you are an angel since you 
 take care of the flowers."
 
 60 SAI\T-DI:\IS 
 
 "No." she replied. "I am the devil, but that's all the same 
 to me." 
 
 The old man exclaimed, without either waiting for or hear- 
 ing her response: 
 
 "What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and that I 
 can do nothing for you !" 
 
 "You can do something," said she. 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Tell me where M. Marius lives." 
 
 The old man did not understand. "What Monsieur 
 Marius ?" 
 
 He raised his glassy eyes and seemed to be seeking some- 
 thing that had vanished. 
 
 "A young man who used to come here." 
 
 In the meantime, M. Mabeuf had searched his memory. 
 
 "Ah ! yes " he exclaimed. "I know what you mean. Wait ! 
 Monsieur Marius the Baron Marius Pontmercy, par bleu ! He 
 lives, or rather, he no longer lives, ah well, I don't know." 
 
 As he spoke, he had bent over to train a branch of rhodo- 
 dendron, and he continued : 
 
 "Hold, I know now. He very often passes along the boule- 
 vard, and goes in the direction of the Glaciere, Rue Croule- 
 barbe. The meadow of the Lark. Go there. It is not hard 
 to meet him." 
 
 When M. Mabeuf straightened himself up, there was no 
 longer any one there ; the girl had disappeared. 
 
 He was decidedly terrified. 
 
 "Really," he thought, "if my garden had not been watered, 
 I should think that she was a spirit." 
 
 An hour later, when he was in bed, it came back to him, and 
 as he fell asleep, at that confused moment when thought, like 
 that fabulous bird which changes itself into a fish in order to 
 cross the sea, little by little assumes the form of a dream in 
 order to traverse slumber, he said to himself in a bewildered 
 way: 
 
 "In sooth, that greatly resembles what Rubaudiere narrates 
 of the goblins. Could it have been a goblin ?"
 
 EPONINE Qi 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN APPARITION TO MARIUS 
 
 SOME days after this visit of a "spirit" to Farmer Mabeuf, 
 one morning, it was on a Monday, the day when Marius 
 borrowed the hundred-sou piece from Courfeyrac for Thenar- 
 dier Marius had put this coin in his pocket, and before 
 carrying it to the clerk's office, he had gone "to take a little 
 stroll," in the hope that this would make him work on his 
 return. It was always thus, however. As soon as he rose, he 
 seated himself before a book and a sheet of paper in order to 
 scribble some translation; his task at that epoch consisted in 
 turning into French a celebrated quarrel between Germans, 
 the Gans and Savigny controversy ; he took Savigny, he took 
 Gans, read four lines, tried to write one, could not, saw a star 
 between him and his paper, and rose from his chair, saying: 
 "I shall go out. That will put me in spirits." 
 
 And off he went to the Lark's meadow. 
 
 There he beheld more than ever the star, and less than ever 
 Savigny and Gans. 
 
 He returned home, tried to take up his work again, and did 
 not succeed; there was no means of re-knotting a single one 
 of the threads which were broken in his brain ; then he said 
 to himself: "I will not go out to-morrow. It prevents my 
 working." And he went out every day. 
 
 He lived in the Lark's meadow more than in Courfeyrac's 
 lodgings. That was his real address: Boulevard de la Sante, 
 at the seventh tree from the Rue Croulebarbe. 
 
 That morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had 
 seated himself on the parapet of the River des Gobelins. A 
 cheerful sunlight penetrated the freshly unfolded and lumi- 
 nous leaves. 
 
 He was dreaming of "Her." And his meditation turning 
 to a reproach, fell back upon himself; he reflected dolefully on 
 his idleness, his paralysis of soul, which was gaining on him,
 
 62 8A1XT-DEXI8 
 
 and of that night which was growing more dense every mo- 
 ment before him, to such a point that he no longer even saw 
 the sun. 
 
 Nevertheless, athwart this painful extrication of indistinct 
 ideas which was not even a monologue, so feeble had action 
 become in him, and he had no longer the force to care to 
 despair, athwart this melancholy absorption, sensations from 
 without did reach him. He heard behind him, beneath him, 
 on both banks of the river, the laundresses of the Gobelins 
 beating their linen, and above his head, the birds chattering 
 and singing in the elm-trees. On the one hand, the sound of 
 liberty, the careless happiness of the leisure which has wings; 
 on the other, the sound of toil. What caused him to meditate 
 deeply, and almost reflect, were two cheerful sounds. 
 
 All at once, in the midst of his dejected ecstasy, he heard a 
 familiar voice saying : 
 
 "Come! Here he is!" 
 
 He raised his eyes, and recognized that wretched child who 
 had come to him one morning, the elder of the Thenardier 
 daughters, fiponine; he knew her name now. Strange to say, 
 she had grown poorer and prettier, two steps which it had not 
 seemed within her power to take. She had accomplished a 
 double progress, towards the light and towards distress. She 
 was barefooted and in rags, as on the day when she had so 
 resolutely entered his chamber, only her rags were two months 
 older now, the holes were larger, the tatters more sordid. It 
 was the same harsh voice, the same brow dimmed and wrink- 
 led with tan, the same free, wild, and vacillating glance. She 
 had besides, more than formerly, in her face that indescribably 
 terrified and lamentable something which sojourn in a prison 
 adds to wretchedness. 
 
 She had bits of straw and hay in her hair, not like Ophelia 
 through having gone mad from the contagion of Hamlet's 
 madness, but because she had slept in the loft of some 
 stable. 
 
 And in spite of it all, she was beautiful. What a star art 
 thou, youth !
 
 &PON1NE (53 
 
 In the meantime, she had halted in front of Marius with a 
 trace of joy in her livid countenance, and something which 
 resembled a smile. 
 
 She stood for several moments as though incapable of 
 speech. 
 
 "So I have met you at last !" she said at length. "Father 
 Mabeuf was right, it was on this boulevard ! How I have 
 hunted for you ! If you only knew ! Do you know ? I have 
 been in the jug. A fortnight ! They let me out ! seeing that 
 there was nothing against me, and that, moreover, I had not 
 reached years of discretion. I lack two months of it. Oh ! 
 how I have hunted for you ! These six weeks ! So you don't 
 live down there any more ?" 
 
 "No," said Marius. 
 
 "Ah ! I understand. Because of that affair. Those take- 
 downs are disagreeable. You cleared out. Come now ! Why 
 do you wear old hats like this ! A young man like you ought 
 to have fine clothes. Do you know, Monsieur Marius, Father 
 Mabeuf calls you Baron Marius, I don't know what. It isn't 
 true that you are a baron? Barons are old fellows, they go 
 to the Luxembourg, in front of the chateau, where there is 
 the most sun, and they read the Quotidienne for a sou. I once 
 carried a letter to a baron of that sort. He was over a hun- 
 dred years old. Say, where do you live now ?" 
 
 Marius made no reply. 
 
 "Ah !" she went on, "you have a hole in your shirt. I must 
 sew it up for you." 
 
 She resumed with an expression which gradually clouded 
 over : 
 
 "You don't seem glad to see me." 
 
 Marius held his peace; she remained silent for a moment, 
 then exclaimed : 
 
 "But if I choose, nevertheless, I could force you to look 
 glad !" 
 
 "What?" demanded Marius. "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Ah ! you used to call me i/tou," she retorted. 
 
 "Well, then, what dost thou me&ii ?"
 
 64 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 She bit her lips ; she seemed to hesitate, as though a prey to 
 some sort of inward conflict. At last she appeared to come to 
 a decision. 
 
 "So much the worse, I don't care. You have a melancholy 
 air, I want you to be pleased. Only promise me that you will 
 smile. I want to see you smile and hear you say: 'Ah, well, 
 that's good.' Poor Mr. Marius! you know? You promised 
 me that you would give me anything 1 liked 
 
 "Yes ! Only speak !" 
 
 She looked Marius full in the eye, and said : 
 
 "I have the address." 
 
 Marius turned pale. All the blood flowed back to his 
 heart. 
 
 "What address?" 
 
 "The address that you asked me to get !" 
 
 She added, as though with an effort : 
 
 "The address you know very well !" 
 
 "Yes!" stammered Marius. 
 
 "Of that young lady." 
 
 This word uttered, she sighed deeply. 
 
 Marius sprang from the parapet on which he had been sit- 
 ting and seized her hand distractedly. 
 
 "Oh ! Well ! lead me thither ! Tell me ! Ask of me any- 
 thing you wish ! Where is it ?" 
 
 "Come with me," she responded. "I don't know the street 
 or number very well ; it is in quite the other direction from 
 here, but I know the house well, I will take you to it." 
 
 She withdrew her hand and went on, in a tone which could 
 have rent the heart of an observer, but which did not even 
 graze Marius in his intoxicated and ecstatic state : 
 
 "Oh ! how glad you are !" 
 
 A cloud swept across Marius' brow. He seized fiponine 
 by the arm : 
 
 "Swear one thing to me !" 
 
 "Swear!" said she, "what does that mean? Come! You 
 want me to swear?" 
 
 And she laughed.
 
 &PONINE ^5 
 
 "Your father ! promise me, fiponine ! Swear to rne that 
 you will not give this address to your father!" 
 
 She turned to him with a stupefied air. 
 
 "fiponine ! I low do you know that my name is fiponine?" 
 
 "Promise what I tell you !" 
 
 But she did not seem to hear him. 
 
 "That's nice ! You have called me fiponine !" 
 
 Marius grasped both her arms at once. 
 
 "But answer me, in the name of Heaven ! pay attention to 
 what I am saying to you, swear to me that you will not tell 
 your father this address that you know !" 
 
 "My father !" said she. "Ah yes, my father ! Be at ease. 
 He's in close confinement. Besides, what do I care for my 
 father !" 
 
 "But you do not promise me !" exclaimed Marius. 
 
 "Let go of rne !" she said, bursting into a laugh, "how you 
 do shake me! Yes! Yes! I promise that! I swear that to 
 you! What is that to me? I will not toll my father the ad- 
 dress. There! Is that right? Is that it?" 
 
 "Nor to any one ?" said Marius. 
 
 "Nor to any one." 
 
 "Now," resumed Marius, "take me there." 
 
 "Immediately?" 
 
 "Immediately." 
 
 "Come along. Ah ! how pleased he is !" said she. 
 
 After a few steps she halted. 
 
 "You are following me too closely, Monsieur Marius. Let 
 me go on ahead, and follow me so, without seeming to do it. 
 A nice young man like you must not be seen with a woman 
 like me." 
 
 No tongue can express all that lay in that word, woman, 
 thus pronounced by that child. 
 
 She proceeded a do/on paces and then halted once more; 
 Marius joined her. She addressed him sideways, and without 
 turning towards him : 
 
 "By the way, you know that you promised me some- 
 thing?"
 
 QQ SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Marius fumbled in his pocket. All that he owned in the 
 world was the five francs intended for Thenardier the father. 
 He took them and laid them in fiponine's hand. 
 
 She opened her fingers and let the coin fall to the ground, 
 and gazed at him with a gloomy air. 
 
 "I don't want your money," said she.
 
 BOOK THIRD. THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE HOUSE WITH A SECRET 
 
 ABOUT the middle of the last century, a chief justice in 
 the Parliament of Paris having a mistress and concealing the 
 fact, for at that period the grand seignors displayed their mis- 
 tresses, and the bourgeois concealed them, had "a little house" 
 built in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in the deserted Rue 
 Blomet, which is now called Rue Plumet, not far from the 
 spot which was then designated as Combat des Animaux. 
 
 This house was composed of a single-storied pavilion; two 
 rooms on the ground floor, two chambers on the first floor, a 
 kitchen down stairs, a boudoir up stairs, an attic under the 
 roof, the whole preceded by a garden with a large gate open- 
 ing on the street. This garden was about an acre and a half 
 in extent. This was all that could be seen by passers-by; but 
 behind the pavilion there was a narrow courtyard, and at the 
 end of the courtyard a low building consisting of two rooms 
 and a cellar, a sort of preparation destined to conceal a child 
 and nurse in case of need. This building communicated in 
 the rear by a masked door which opened by a secret spring, 
 with a long, narrow, paved winding corridor, open to the sky, 
 hemmed in with two lofty walls, which, hidden with wonder- 
 ful art, and lost as it were between garden enclosures and 
 cultivated land, all of whose angles and detours it followed, 
 ended in another door, also with a secret lock which opened 
 a quarter of a league away, almost in another quarter, at the 
 solitary extremity of the Rue du Babylone. 
 
 Through this the chief justice entered, so that even those
 
 68 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 who were spying on him and following him would merely have 
 observed that the justice betook himself every day in a mys- 
 terious way somewhere, and would never have suspected that to 
 go to the Rue de Babylone was to go to the Rue Blomet. 
 Thanks to clever purchasers of land, the magistrate had been 
 able to make a secret, sewer-like passage on his own property, 
 and consequently, without interference. Later on, he had sold 
 in little parcels, for gardens and market gardens, the lots of 
 ground adjoining the corridor, and the proprietors of these 
 lots on both sides thought they had a party wall before their 
 eyes, and did not even suspect the long, paved ribbon winding 
 between two walls amid their flower-beds and their orchards. 
 Only the birds beheld this curiosity. It is probable that the 
 linnets and tomtits of the last century gossiped a great deal 
 about the chief justice. 
 
 The pavilion, built of stone in the taste of Mansard, wains- 
 coted and furnished in the Watteau style, rocaille on the inside, 
 old-fashioned on the outside, walled in with a triple hedge of 
 flowers, had something discreet, coquettish, and solemn about 
 it, as befits a caprice of love and magistracy. 
 
 This house and corridor, which have now disappeared, were 
 in existence fifteen years ago. In '93 a coppersmith had pur- 
 chased the house with the idea of demolishing it, but had not 
 been able to pay the price ; the nation made him bankrupt. So 
 that it was the house which demolished the coppersmith. After 
 that, the house remained uninhabited, and fell slowly to ruin, 
 as does every dwelling to which the presence of man does not 
 communicate life. It had remained fitted with its old furni- 
 ture, was always for sale or to let, and the ten or a dozen people 
 who passed through the Rue Plumet were warned of the fact 
 by a yellow and illegible bit of writing which had hung on the 
 garden wall since 1819. 
 
 Towards the end of the Restoration, these same passers-by 
 might have noticed that the bill had disappeared, and even 
 that the shutters on the first floor were open. The house was 
 occupied, in fact. The windows had short curtains, a sign that 
 there was a woman about.
 
 THE HOUSE /TV THE RUE PLUMET (59 
 
 In the month of October, 1829, a man of a certain age had 
 presented himself and had hired the house just as it stood, 
 including, of course, the back building and the lane which 
 ended in the Rue dc Babylone. He had had the secret open- 
 ings of the two doors to this passage repaired. The house, as 
 we have just mentioned, was still very nearly furnished with 
 the justice's old fitting; the new tenant had ordered some 
 repairs, had added what was lacking here and there, had 
 replaced the paving-stones in the yard, bricks in the floors, 
 steps in the stairs, missing bits in the inlaid floors and t he- 
 glass in the lattice windows, and had finally installed himself 
 there with a young girl and an elderly maid-servant, without 
 commotion, rather like a person who is slipping in than like 
 a man who is entering his own house. The neighbors did not 
 gossip about him, for the reason that there were no 
 neighbors. 
 
 This unobtrusive tenant was Jean Valjean, the young girl 
 was Cosette. The servant was a woman named Toussaint. 
 whom Jean Valjean had saved from the hospital and from 
 wretchedness, and who was elderly, a stammerer, and from the 
 provinces, three qualities which had decided Jean Valjean to 
 take her with him. lie had hired the house under the name 
 of M. Fauchelevent. independent gentleman. In all that has 
 been related heretofore, the reader has, doubtless, been no less 
 prompt than Thenardier to recognize Jean Valjean. 
 
 Why had Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the Petit- 
 Picpus? What had happened? 
 
 Nothing had happened. 
 
 It will be remembered that Jean Valjean was happy in the 
 convent, so happy that his conscience finally took the alarm. 
 He saw Cosette every day, he felt paternity spring up and 
 develop within him more and more, he brooded over the soul 
 of that child, he said to himself that she was his, that nothing 
 could take her from him, that this would last indefinitely, that 
 she would certainly become a nun, being thereto gently incited 
 every day, that thus the convent was henceforth the universe 
 for her as it was for him, that he should grow old there, and
 
 70 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 that she would grow up there, that she would grow old there, 
 and that he should die there ; that, in short, delightful hope, 
 no separation was possible. On reflecting upon this, he fell 
 into perplexity. He interrogated himself. He asked himself 
 if all that happiness were really his, if it were not composed 
 of the happiness of another, of the happiness of that child 
 which he, an old man, was confiscating and stealing; if that 
 were not theft? He said to himself, that this child had a 
 right to know life before renouncing it, that to deprive her 
 in advance, and in some sort without consulting her, of all 
 joys, under the pretext of saving her from all trials, to take 
 advantage of her ignorance of her isolation, in order to make 
 an artificial vocation germinate in her, was to rob a human 
 creature of its nature and to lie to God. And who knows if. 
 when she came to be aware of all this some day, and found 
 herself a nun to her sorrow, Cosette would not come to hate 
 him ? A last, almost selfish thought, and less heroic than the 
 rest, but which was intolerable to him. He resolved to quit 
 the convent. 
 
 He resolved on this; he recognized with anguish, the fact 
 that it was necessary. As for objections, there were none. 
 Five years' sojourn between these four walls and of disappear- 
 ance had necessarily destroyed or dispersed the elements of 
 fear. He could return tranquilly among men. He had grown 
 old, and all had undergone a change. Who would recognize 
 him now? And then, to face the worst, there was danger 
 only for himself, and he had no right to condemn Cosette 
 to the cloister for the reason that he had been condemned to 
 the galleys. Besides, what is danger in comparison with the 
 right? Finally, nothing prevented his being prudent and 
 taking his precautions. 
 
 As for Cosette's education, it was almost finished and 
 complete. 
 
 His determination once taken, he awaited an opportunity. 
 It was not long in presenting itself. Old Fauchelevent died. 
 
 Jean Valjean demanded an audience with the revered 
 prioress and told her that, having come into a little inheritance
 
 THE flOUSE IN THE RUE PLVMET 7} 
 
 at the death of his brother, which permitted him henceforth 
 to live without working, he should leave the service of the 
 convent and take his daughter with him; but that, as it was 
 not just that Cosette, since she had not taken the vows, should 
 have received her education gratuitously, he humbly begged 
 the Reverend Prioress to see fit that he should offer to the 
 community, as indemnity, for the five years which Cosette 
 had spent there, the sum of five thousand francs. 
 
 It was thus that Jean Valjean quitted the convent of the 
 Perpetual Adoration. 
 
 On leaving the convent, he took in his own arms the little 
 valise the key to which he still wore on his person, and would 
 permit no porter to touch it. This puzzled Cosette, because 
 of the odor of embalming which proceeded from it. 
 
 Let us state at once, that this trunk never quitted him more. 
 He always had it in his chamber. It was the first and only 
 thing sometimes, that he carried off in his moving when he 
 moved about. Cosette laughed at it, and called this valise his 
 inseparable, saying: "I am jealous of it." 
 
 Nevertheless, Jean Valjean did not reappear in the open air 
 without profound anxiety. 
 
 He discovered the house in the Rue Plumet, and hid himself 
 from sight there. Henceforth he was in the possession of the 
 name : Ultimo Fauchelevent. 
 
 At the same time, he hired two other apartments in Paris, 
 in order that he might attract less attention than if he were to 
 remain always in the same quarter, and so that he could, at 
 need, take himself off at the slightest disquietude which should 
 assail him, and in short, so that he might not again be caught 
 unprovided as on the night when he had so miraculously 
 escaped from Javert. These two apartments were very piti- 
 able, poor in appearance, and in two quarters which were far 
 remote from each other, the one in the Rue de 1'Ouest, the 
 other in the Rue de I'Homine Arme. 
 
 He went from time to time, now to the Rue de I'Homme 
 Arme, now to the Rue dc 1'Ouest, to pass a month or six weeks, 
 without taking Toussaint. He had himself served by the
 
 72 8AIXT-DKXI8 
 
 porters, and gave himself out as a gentleman from the sub- 
 urbs, living on his funds, and having a little temporary rest- 
 ing-place in town. This lofty virtue had three domiciles in 
 Paris for the sake of escaping from the police. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 JEAN VALJEAN AS A NATIONAL GUARD 
 
 HOWEVER, properly speaking, he lived in the Rue Plumet, 
 and he had arranged his existence there in the following 
 fashion : 
 
 Cosette and the servant occupied the pavilion ; she had the 
 big sleeping-room with the painted pier-glasses, the boudoir 
 with the gilded fillets, the justice's drawing-room furnished 
 with tapestries and vast arm-chairs ; she had the garden. Jean 
 Valjean had a canopied bed of antique damask in three colors 
 and a beautiful Persian rug purchased in the Rue du Figuier- 
 Saint-Paul at Mother Gaucher's, put into Cosette's chamber, 
 and, in order to redeem the severity of these magnificent old 
 things, he had amalgamated with this bric-a-brac all the gay 
 and graceful little pieces of furniture suitable to young girls, 
 an etagere, a bookcase filled with gilt-edged books, an ink- 
 stand, a blotting-book, paper, a work-table incrusted with 
 mother of pearl, a silver-gilt dressing-case, a toilet service in 
 Japanese porcelain. Long damask curtains with a red foun- 
 dation and three colors, like those on the bed. hung at the 
 windows of the first floor. On the groiind floor, the curtains 
 were of tapestry. All winter long, Cosette's little house was 
 heated from top to bottom. Jean Valjean inhabited the sort 
 of porter's lodge which was situated at the end of the back 
 courtyard, with a mattress on a folding-bed, a white wood 
 table, two straw chairs, an earthenware water-jug, a few old 
 volumes on a shelf, his beloved valise in one corner, and never 
 any fire. He dined with Cosette, and he had a loaf of black 
 bread on the table for his own use.
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE HUE PLUMET 73 
 
 When Toussaint came, ho had said to her: "It is the 
 young lady who is the mistress of this house." "And 
 you. monsieur?" Toussaint replied in amazement. - 
 am a much better thing than the master, I am 
 father." 
 
 Cosette had been taught housekeeping in the convent, and 
 she regulated their expenditure, which was very modest. 
 Every day, Jean Valjean put his arm through Colette's and 
 took her for a walk. He led her to the Luxembourg, to the 
 least frequented walk, and every Sunday he took her to mass 
 at Saint-Jacques-du-IIaut-Pas, because that was a long way 
 off. As it was a very poor quarter, lie bestowed alms largely 
 there, and the poor people surrounded him in church, which 
 had drawn down upon him Thenardicr's epistle: "To the 
 benevolent gentleman of the church of Saint-Jacques-du- 
 Haut-Pas." He was fond of taking Cosette to visit the poor 
 and the sick. No stranger ever entered the house in the Hue 
 Plumet. Toussaint brought their provisions, and Jean Val- 
 jean went himself for water to a fountain near by on the 
 boulevard. Their wood and wine were put into a half-sub- 
 terranean hollow lined with rock-work which lay near the 
 Rue de Babylone and which had formerly served the chief- 
 justice as a grotto; for at the epoch of follies and "Little 
 Houses" no love was without a grotto. 
 
 In the door opening on the Rue de Babylone, there was a 
 box destined for the reception of letters and papers ; only, as 
 the three inhabitants of the pavilion in the Rue Plumet 
 received neither papers nor letters, the entire usefulness of 
 that box. formerly the go-between of a love affair, and the 
 confidant of a love-lorn lawyer, was now limited to the tax- 
 collector's notices, and the summons of the guard. For 
 M. Fauchelevent, independent gentleman, belonged to the 
 national guard ; he had not been able to escape through the 
 fine meshes of the census of 1831. The municipal information 
 collected at that time had even reached the convent of the 
 Petit-Picpus, a sort of impenetrable and holy cloud, whence 
 Jean Valjean had emerged in venerable guise, aiid, conse-
 
 74 SAIXT-DEXIB 
 
 quently, worthy of mounting guard in the eyes of the town- 
 hall. 
 
 Three or four times a year, Jean Valjean donned his uni- 
 form and mounted guard; he did this willingly, however; it 
 was a correct disguise which mixed him with every one, and 
 yet left him solitary. Jean Valjean had just attained his 
 sixtieth birthday, the age of legal exemption ; but he did not 
 appear to be over fifty ; moreover, he had no desire to escape 
 his sergeant-major nor to quibble with Comte de Lobau; he 
 possessed no civil status, he was concealing his name, he was 
 concealing his identity, so he concealed his age, he concealed 
 everything; and, as we have just said, he willingly did his 
 duty as a national guard; the sum of his ambition lay in 
 resembling any other man who paid his taxes. This man had 
 for his ideal, within, the angel, without, the bourgeois. 
 
 Let us note one detail, however; when Jean Valjean went 
 out with Cosette, he dressed as the reader has already seen, 
 and had the air of a retired officer. When he went out alone, 
 which was generally at night, he was always dressed in a work- 
 ingman's trousers and blouse, and wore a cap which concealed 
 his face. Was this precaution or humility? Both. Cosette 
 was accustomed to the enigmatical side of her destiny, and 
 hardly noticed her father's peculiarities. As for Toussaint, 
 she venerated Jean Valjean, and thought everything he did 
 right. 
 
 One day, her butcher, who had caught a glimpse of Jean 
 Valjean, said to her: "That's a queer fish." She replied: 
 "He's a saint." 
 
 Neither Jean Valjean nor Cosette nor Toussaint ever 
 entered or emerged except by the door on the Rue de Baby- 
 lone. Unless seen through the garden gate it would have beon 
 difficult to guess that they lived in the Rue Plumet. That 
 gate was always closed. Jean Valjean had left the garden 
 uncultivated, in order not to attract attention. 
 
 In this, possibly, he made a mistake.
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 75 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 FOLKS AC FRONDIBD8 
 
 THE garden thus left to itself for more than half a century 
 had become extraordinary and charming. The passers-by of 
 forty years ago halted to gaze at it, without a suspicion of the 
 secrets which it hid in its fresh and verdant depths. More 
 than one dreamer of that epoch often allowed his thoughts and 
 his eyes to penetrate indiscreetly between the bars of that 
 ancient, padlocked gate, twisted, tottering, fastened to two 
 green and moss-covered pillars, and oddly crowned with a 
 pediment of undecipherable arabesque. 
 
 There was a stone bench in one corner, one or two mouldy 
 statues, several lattices which had lost their nails with time, 
 were rotting on the wall, and there were no walks nor turf; 
 but there was enough grass everywhere. Gardening had taken 
 its departure, and nature had returned. Weeds abounded, 
 which was a great piece of luck for a poor corner of land. 
 The festival of gilliflowers was something splendid. Nothing 
 in this garden obstructed the sacred effort of things towards 
 life; venerable growth reigned there among them. The trees 
 had bent over towards the nettles, the plant had sprung 
 upward, the branch had inclined, that which crawls on the 
 earth had gone in search of that which expands in the air, that 
 which floats on the wind had bent over towards that which 
 trails in the moss; trunks, boughs, leaves, fibres, clusters, 
 tendrils, shoots, spines, thorns, had mingled, crossed, married, 
 confounded themselves in each other; vegetation in a deep 
 and close embrace, had celebrated and accomplished there, 
 under the well-pleased eye of the Creator, in that enclosure 
 three hundred feet square, the holy mystery of fraternity, 
 symbol of the human fraternity. This garden was no longer 
 a garden, it was a colossal thicket, that is to say, something 
 as impenetrable as a forest, as peopled as a city, quivering
 
 76 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 like a nest, sombre like a cathedral, fragrant like a bouquet, 
 solitary as a tomb, living as a throng. 
 
 In Floreal 1 this enormous thicket, free behind its gate and 
 within its four walls, entered upon the secret labor of germi- 
 nation, quivered in the rising sun, almost like an animal which 
 drinks in the breaths of cosmic love, and which feels the sap of 
 April rising and boiling in its veins, and shakes to the wind 
 its enormous wonderful green locks, sprinkled on the damp 
 earth, on the defaced statues, on the crumbling steps of the 
 pavilion, and even on the pavement of the deserted street, 
 flowers like stars, dew like pearls, fecundity, beauty, life, joy, 
 perfumes. At midday, a thousand white butterflies took 
 refuge there, and it was a divine spectacle to see that living 
 summer snow whirling about there in flakes amid the shade. 
 There, in those gay shadows of verdure, a throng of innocent 
 voices spoke sweetly to the soul, and what the twittering 
 forgot to say the humming completed. In the evening, a 
 dreamy vapor exhaled from the garden and enveloped it; a 
 shroud of mist, a calm and celestial sadness covered it; the 
 intoxicating perfume of the honeysuckles and convolvulus 
 poured out from every part of it, like an exquisite and subtle 
 poison ; the last appeals of the woodpeckers and the wagtails 
 were audible as they dozed among the branches; one felt the 
 sacred intimacy of the birds and the trees ; by day the wings 
 rejoice the leaves, by night the leaves protect the wings. 
 
 In winter the thicket was black, dripping, bristling, 
 shivering, and allowed some glimpse of the house. Instead 
 of flowers on the branches and dew in the flowers, the long 
 silvery tracks of the snails were visible on the cold, thick car- 
 pet of yellow leaves; but in any fashion, under any aspect, at 
 all seasons, spring, winter, summer, autumn, this tiny enclos- 
 ure breathed forth melancholy, contemplation, solitude, lib- 
 erty, the absence of man, the presence of God ; and the rusty 
 old gate had the air of saying: "This garden belongs to me." 
 
 It was of no avail that the pavements of Paris were there 
 on every side, the classic and splendid hotels of the Hue de 
 'From April 19 to May 20.
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 77 
 
 Varennes a couple of paces away, the dome of the Invalides 
 close at hand, the Chamber of Deputies not far off; the car- 
 riages of the Rue de Bourgogne and of the Rue Saint- Domin- 
 ique rumbled luxuriously, in vain, in the vicinity, in vain did 
 the yellow, brown, white, and red omnibuses cross each other's 
 course at the neighboring cross-roads; the Rue Plumet was the 
 desert; and the death of the former proprietors, the revolution 
 which had passed over it, the crumbling away of ancient for- 
 tunes, absence, forgetfulness, forty years of abandonment and 
 widowhood, had sufficed to restore to this privileged spot ferns, 
 mulleins, hemlock, yarrow, tall weeds, great crimped plants, 
 with large leaves of pale green clotb, lizards, beetles, uneasy 
 and rapid insects; to cause to spring forth from the depths of 
 the earth and to reappear between those four walls a certain 
 indescribable and savage grandeur; and for nature, which dis- 
 concerts the petty arrangements of man, and which sheds her- 
 self always thoroughly where she diffuses herself at all, in the 
 ant as well as in the eagle, to blossom out in a petty little 
 Parisian garden with as much rude force and majesty as in a 
 virgin forest of the New World. 
 
 Nothing is small, in fact; any one who is subject to the 
 profound and penetrating influence of nature knows this. 
 Although no absolute satisfaction is given to philosophy, either 
 to circumscribe the cause or to limit the effect, the contem- 
 plator falls into those unfathomable ecstasies caused by these 
 decompositions of force terminating in unity. Everything 
 toils at everything. 
 
 Algebra is applied to the clouds; the radiation of the star 
 profits the rose; no thinker would venture to affirm that the 
 perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who, 
 then, can calculate the course of a molecule? How do we 
 know that the creation of worlds is not determined by the fall 
 of grains of sand? Who knows the reciprocal ebb and flow 
 of the infinitely great and the infinitely little, the reverber- 
 ations of causes in the precipices of being, and the avalanches 
 of creation? The tiniest worm is of importance; the great is 
 little, the little is great; everything is balanced in necessity;
 
 78 8A1ST-DEMS 
 
 alarming vision for the mind. There are marvellous relations 
 between beings and things ; in that inexhaustible whole, from 
 the sun to the grub, nothing despises the other ; all have need 
 of each other. The light does not bear away terrestrial per- 
 fumes into the azure depths, without knowing what it is 
 doing; the night distributes stellar essences to the sleeping 
 flowers. All birds that fly have round their leg the thread 
 of the infinite. Germination is complicated with the bursting 
 forth of a meteor and with the peck of a swallow cracking its 
 egg, and it places on one level the birth of an earthworm and 
 the advent of Socrates. Where the telescope ends, the micro- 
 scope begins. Which of the two possesses the larger field of 
 vision? Choose. A bit of mould is a pleiad of flowers; a 
 nebula is an ant-hill of stars. The same promiscuousness, 
 and yet more unprecedented, exists between the things of the 
 intelligence and the facts of substance. Elements and prin- 
 ciples mingle, combine, wed, multiply with each other, to such 
 a point that the material and the moral world are brought 
 eventually to the same clearness. The phenomenon is perpet- 
 ually returning upon itself. In the vast cosmic exchanges 
 the universal life goes and comes in unknown quantities, 
 rolling entirely in the invisible mystery of effluvia, employing 
 everything, not losing a single dream, not a single slumber, 
 sowing an animalcule here, crumbling to bits a planet there, 
 oscillating and winding, making of light a force and of 
 thought an element, disseminated and invisible, dissolving all, 
 except that geometrical point, the /; bringing everything back 
 to the soul-atom ; expanding everything in God, entangling all 
 activity, from summit to base, in the obscurity of a dizzy 
 mechanism, attaching the flight of an insect to the movement 
 of the earth, subordinating, who knows? Were it only by 
 the identity of the law, the evolution of the comet in the 
 firmament to the whirling of the infusoria in the drop of 
 water. A machine made of mind. Enormous gearing, the 
 prime motor of which is the gnat, and whose final wheel is the 
 zodiac.
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 79 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 CHANGE OF GATE 
 
 IT seemed that this garden, created in olden days to conceal 
 wanton mysteries, had been transformed and become fitted to 
 shelter chaste mysteries. There were no longer either arbors, 
 or bowling greens, or tunnels, or grottos; there was a mag- 
 nificent, dishevelled obscurity falling like a veil over all. Pa- 
 phos had been made over into Eden. It is impossible to say 
 what element of repentance had rendered this retreat whole- 
 some. This flower-girl now offered her blossom to the soul. 
 This coquettish garden, formerly decidedly compromised, had 
 returned to virginity and modesty. A justice assisted by a gar- 
 dener, a goodman who thought that he was a continuation of 
 Lamoignon, and another goodman who thought that he was a 
 continuation of Lenotre, had turned it about, cut, ruffled, 
 decked, moulded it to gallantry; nature had taken possession 
 of it once more, had filled it with shade, and had arranged it 
 for love. 
 
 There was, also, in this solitude, a heart which was quite 
 ready. Love had only to show himself; he had here a temple 
 composed of verdure, grass, moss, the sight of birds, tender 
 shadows, agitated branches, and a soul made of sweetness, of 
 faith, of candor, of hope, of aspiration, and of illusion. 
 
 Cosette had left the convent when she was still almost a 
 child; she was a little more than fourteen, and she was at the 
 "ungrateful age"; we have already said, that with the excep- 
 tion of her eyes, she was homely rather than pretty ; she had 
 no ungraceful feature, but she was awkward, thin, timid and 
 bold at once, a grown-up little girl, in short. 
 
 Her education was finished, that is to say, she has been 
 taught religion, and even and above all, devotion ; then "his- 
 tory," that is to say the thing that bears that name in 
 convents, geography, grammar, the participles, the kings of 
 France, a little music, a little drawing, etc. ; but in all other
 
 8 Al XT DEN 18 
 
 respects she was utterly ignorant, which is a great charm and 
 a great peril. The soul of a young girl should not be left in 
 the dark; later on, mirages that are too ahrupt and too lively 
 are formed there, as in a dark chamber. She shoald be gently 
 and discreetly enlightened, rather with the reflection of reali- 
 ties than with their harsh and direct light. A useful and gra- 
 ciously austere half-light which dissipates puerile fears and 
 obviates falls. There is nothing but the maternal instinct, 
 that admirable intuition composed of the memories of the vir- 
 gin and the experience of the woman, which knows how this 
 half-light is to be created and of what it should consist. 
 
 Nothing supplies the place of this instinct. All the nuns 
 in the world are not worth as much as one mother in the for- 
 mation of a young girl's soul. 
 
 Cosette had had no mother. She had only had many moth- 
 ers, in the plural. 
 
 As for Jean Valjean, he was, indeed, all tenderness, all so- 
 licitude; but he was only an old man and he knew nothing 
 at all. 
 
 Now, in this work of education, in this grave matter of 
 preparing a woman for life, what science is required to com- 
 bat that vast ignorance which is called innocence! 
 
 Nothing prepares a young girl for passions like the con- 
 vent. The convent turns the thoughts in the direction of the 
 unknown. The heart, thus thrown back upon itself, works 
 downward within itself, since it cannot overflow, and grows 
 deep, since it cannot expand. Hence visions, suppositions, 
 conjectures, outlines of romances, a desire for adventures, fan- 
 tastic constructions, edifices built wholly in the inner obscu- 
 rity of the mind, sombre and secret abodes where the passions 
 immediately find a lodgement as soon as the open gate per- 
 mits them to enter. The convent is a compression which, in 
 order to triumph over the human heart, should last during the 
 whole life. 
 
 On quitting the convent, Cosette could have found nothing 
 more sweet and more dangerous than the house in the Rue 
 Plumet. It was the continuation of solitude with the begin-
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE 1'LLUET Q\ 
 
 ning of liberty; a garden that was closed, but a nature that 
 was acrid, rich, voluptuous, and fragrant; the same dreams 
 as in the convent, but with glimpses of young men; a grating, 
 but one that opened on the street. 
 
 Still, when she arrived there, we repeat, she was only a 
 child. Jean Valjean gave this neglected garden over to her. 
 "Do what you like with it," he said to her. This amused 
 Cosette; she turned over all the clumps and all the stones, she 
 hunted for "beasts"; she played in it, while awaiting the time 
 when she would 'dream in it; she loved this garden for the in- 
 sects that she found beneath her feet amid the grass, while 
 awaiting the day when she would love it for the stars that she 
 would see through the boughs above her head. 
 
 And then, she loved her father, that is to say, .Jean Valjean, 
 with all her soul, with an innocent filial passion which made 
 the goodman a beloved and charming companion to her. It 
 will be remembered that M. Madeleine had been in the habit of 
 reading a great deal. Jean Valjean had continued this prac- 
 tice; he had come to converse well; he possessed the secret 
 riches and the eloquence of a true and humble mind which has 
 spontaneously cultivated itself. He retained just enough 
 sharpness to season his kindness; his mind was rough and his 
 heart was soft. During their conversations in the Luxem- 
 bourg, he gave her explanations of everything, drawing on 
 what he had read, and also on what he had suffered. As she 
 listened to him, Cosette's eyes wandered vaguely about. 
 
 This simple man sufficed for Cosette's thought, the same 
 as the wild garden sufficed for her eyes. When she had 
 had a good chase after the butterflies, she came panting 
 up to him and said: "Ah! How I have run!" He kissed her 
 brow. 
 
 Cosette adored the goodman. She was always at his heels. 
 Where Jean Valjean was, there happiness was. Jean Valjean 
 lived neither in the pavilion nor the garden; she took 
 greater pleasure in the paved back courtyard, than in the en- 
 closure filled with flowers, and in his little lodge furnished 
 with straw-seated chairs than in the great drawing-room hung
 
 82 
 
 with tapestry, against which stood tufted easy-chairs. Jean 
 Valjean sometimes said to her, smiling at his happiness in 
 being importuned : "Do go to your own quarters ! Leave me 
 alone a little !" 
 
 She gave him those charming and tender scoldings which 
 are so graceful when they come from a daughter to her 
 father. 
 
 "Father, I am very cold in your rooms ; why don't you have 
 a carpet here and a stove?" 
 
 "Dear child, there are so many people who are better than 
 I and who have not even a roof over their heads." 
 
 "Then why is there a fire in my rooms, and everything that 
 is needed ?" 
 
 "Because you are a woman and a child." 
 
 "Bah ! must men be cold and feel uncomfortable ?" 
 
 "Certain men." 
 
 "That is good, I shall come here so often that you will be 
 obliged to have a fire." 
 
 And again she said to him : 
 
 "Father, why do you eat horrible bread like that ?" 
 
 "Because, my daughter." 
 
 "Well, if you eat it, I will eat it too." 
 
 Then, in order to prevent Cosette eating black bread, Jean 
 Valjean ate white bread. 
 
 Cosette had but a confused recollection of her childhood. 
 She prayed morning and evening for her mother whom she 
 had never known. The Thenardiers had remained with her 
 as two hideous figures in a dream. She remembered that she 
 had gone "one day, at night," to fetch water in a forest. She 
 thought that it had been very far from Paris. It seemed to her 
 that she had begun to live in an abyss, and that it was Jean 
 Valjean who had rescued her from it. Her childhood pro- 
 duced upon her the effect of a time when there had been noth- 
 ing around her but millepeds, spiders, and serpents. When 
 she meditated in the evening, before falling asleep, as she 
 had not a very clear idea that she was Jean Valjean's daugh- 
 ter, and that he was her father, she fancied that the soul of her
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET S3 
 
 mother had passed into that good man and had come to dwell 
 near her. 
 
 When he was seated, she leaned her cheek against his white 
 hair, and dropped a silent tear, saying to herself: "Perhaps 
 this man is my mother." 
 
 Cosette, although this is a strange statement to make, in 
 the profound ignorance of a girl brought up in a convent, 
 maternity being also absolutely unintelligible to virginity, 
 had ended by fancying that she had had as little mother as 
 possible. She did not even know her mother's name. When- 
 ever she asked Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean remained silent. 
 If she repeated her question, he responded with a smile. Once 
 she insisted ; the smile ended in a tear. 
 
 This silence on the part of Jean Valjean covered Fantine 
 with darkness. 
 
 Was it prudence? Was it respect? Was it a fear that he 
 should deliver this name to the hazards of another memory 
 than his own? 
 
 So long as Cosette had been small, Jean Valjean had been 
 willing to talk to her of her mother ; when she became a young 
 girl, it was impossible for him to do so. It seemed to him 
 that he no longer dared. Was it because of Cosette? Was it 
 because of Fantine? He felt a certain religious horror 
 at letting that shadow enter Cosette's thought; and of 
 placing a third in their destiny. The more sacred this 
 shade was to him, the more did it seem that it was to be 
 feared. He thought of Fantine, and felt himself overwhelmed 
 with silence. 
 
 Through the darkness, he vaguely perceived something 
 which appeared to have its finger on its lips. Had all the 
 modesty which had been in Fantine, and which had violently 
 quitted her during her lifetime, returned to rest upon her after 
 her death, to watch in indignation over the peace of that dead 
 woman, and in its shyness, to keep her in her grave? Was 
 Jean Valjean unconsciously submitting to the pressure? We 
 who believe in death, are not among the number who will re- 
 ject this mysterious explanation.
 
 84 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Hence the impossibility of uttering, even for Cosette, that 
 name of Fantine. 
 
 One day Cosette said to him : 
 
 "Father, I saw my mother in a dream last night. She had 
 two big wings. My mother must have been almost a saint 
 during her life." 
 
 "Through martyrdom," replied Jean Valjean. 
 
 However, Jean Valjean was happy. 
 
 When Cosette went out with him, she leaned on his arm, 
 proud and happy, in the plenitude of her heart. Jean Valjean 
 felt his heart melt within him with delight, at all these sparks 
 of a tenderness so exclusive, so wholly satisfied with himself 
 alone. The poor man trembled, inundated with angelic joy ; 
 he declared to himself ecstatically that this would last all their 
 lives; he told himself that he really had not suffered suffi- 
 ciently to merit so radiant a bliss, and he thanked God, in the 
 depths of his soul, for having permitted him to be loved thus, 
 he, a wretch, by that innocent being. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT IT IS AN ENGINE OF WAR 
 
 ONE day, Cosette chanced to look at herself in her mirroc, 
 and she said to herself : "Really !" It seemed to her almost 
 that she was pretty. This threw her in a singularly troubled 
 state of mind. Up to that moment she had never thought of 
 her face. She saw herself in her mirror, but she did not look 
 at herself. And then, she had so often been told that she was 
 homely ; Jean Valjean alone said gently : "No indeed ! no 
 indeed !" At all events, Cosette had always thought herself 
 homely, and had grown up in that belief with the easy resigna- 
 tion of childhood. And here, all at once, was her mirror say- 
 ing to her, as Jean Valjean had said: "No indeed!" That 
 night, she did not sleep. "What if I were pretty !" she 
 thought. "How odd it would be if I were pretty !" And she 
 recalled those of her companions whose beauty had produced
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE I'LUMET $5 
 
 a sensation in the convent, and she said to herself : "What ! 
 Am I to be like Mademoiselle So-and-So?" 
 
 The next morning she looked at herself again, not by acci- 
 dent this time, and she was assailed with doubts: "Where 
 did I get such an idea?" said she; "no. I am ugly." She had 
 not slept well, that was all, her eyes were sunken and she wa-; 
 pale. She had not felt very joyous on the preceding evening 
 in the belief that she was beautiful, but it made her very sad 
 not to be able to believe in it any longer. She did not look at 
 herself again, and for more than a fortnight she tried to dress 
 her hair with her back turned to the mirror. 
 
 In the evening, after dinner, she generally embroidered in 
 wool or did some convent needlework in the drawing-room, 
 and Jean Valjean read beside her. Once she raised her eyes 
 from her work, and was rendered quite uneasy by the manner 
 in which her father was gazing at her. 
 
 On another occasion, she was passing along the street, and 
 it seemed to her that some one behind her, whom she did not 
 see, said: "A pretty woman! but badly dressed." "Bah!" 
 she thought, "he does not mean me. I am well dressed and 
 ugly." She was then wearing a plush hat and her merino 
 gown. 
 
 At last, one day when she was in the garden, she heard poor 
 old Toussaint saying: "Do you notice how pretty Cosette is 
 growing, sir?" Cosette did not hear her father's reply, but 
 Toussaint's words caused a sort of commotion within her. 
 She fled from the garden, ran up to her room, flew to the 
 looking-glass, it was three months since she had looked at 
 herself, and gave vent to a cry. She had just dazzled herself. 
 
 She was beautiful and lovely; she could not help agreeing 
 with Toussaint and her mirror. Her figure was formed, her 
 skin had grown white, her hair was lustrous, an unaccus- 
 tomed splendor had been lighted in her blue eyes. The con- 
 sciousness of her beauty burst upon her in an instant, like the 
 sudden advent of daylight; other people noticed it also. Tous- 
 saint had said so. it was evidently she of whom the passer-by 
 had spoken, there could no longer be any doubt of that; she
 
 86 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 descended to the garden again, thinking herself a queen, 
 imagining that she heard the birds singing, though it was 
 winter, seeing the sky gilded, the sun among the trees, flowers 
 in the thickets, distracted, wild, in inexpressible delight. 
 
 Jean Valjean, on his side, experienced a deep and 
 undefinable oppression at heart. 
 
 In fact, he had, for some time past, been contemplating 
 with terror that beauty which seemed to grow more radiant 
 every day on Cosette's sweet face. The dawn that was smiling 
 for all was gloomy for him. 
 
 Cosette had been beautiful for a tolerably long time before 
 she became aware of it herself. But, from the very first day, 
 that unexpected light which was rising slowly and enveloping 
 the whole of the young girl's person, wounded Jean Valjean's 
 sombre eye. He felt that it was a change in a happy life, a 
 life so happy that he did not dare to move for fear of disar- 
 ranging something. This man, who had passed through all 
 manner of distresses, who was still all bleeding from the 
 bruises of fate, who had been almost wicked and who had 
 become almost a saint, who, after having dragged the chain 
 of the galleys, was now dragging the invisible but heavy chain 
 of indefinite misery, this man whom the law had not released 
 from its grasp and who could be seized at any moment and 
 brought back from the obscurity of his virtue to the broad 
 daylight of public opprobrium, this man accepted all, excused 
 all, pardoned all, and merely asked of Providence, of man, of 
 the law, of society, of nature, of the world, one thing, that 
 Cosette might love him ! 
 
 That Cosette might continue to love him ! That God would 
 not prevent the heart of the child from coming to him, and 
 from remaining with him ! Beloved by Cosette. he felt that he 
 was healed, rested, appeased, loaded with benefits, recom- 
 pensed, crowned. Beloved by Cosette, it was well with him ! 
 He asked nothing more ! Had any one said to him : "Do you 
 want anything better?" he would have answered : "No." God 
 might have said to him: "Do you desire heaven?" and he 
 would have replied: "I should lose by it."
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 87 
 
 Everything which could affect this situation, if only on the 
 surface, made him shudder like the beginning of something 
 new. He had never known very distinctly himself what the 
 beauty of a woman means; but he understood, instinctively, 
 that it was something terrible. 
 
 He gazed with terror on this beauty, which was blossoming 
 out ever more triumphant and superb beside him, beneath his 
 very eyes, on the innocent and formidable brow of that child, 
 from the depths of her homeliness, of his old age, of his 
 misery, of his reprobation. 
 
 He said to himself : "How beautiful she is ! What is to be- 
 come of me?" 
 
 There, moreover, lay the difference between his tenderness 
 and the tenderness of a mother. What he beheld with anguish, 
 a mother would have gazed upon with joy. 
 
 The first symptoms were not long in making their appear- 
 ance. 
 
 On the very morrow of the day on which she had said to her- 
 self : "Decidedly I am beautiful !" Cosette began to pay atten- 
 tion to her toilet. She recalled the remark of thakpasser-by : 
 "Pretty, but badly dressed." the breath of an oracle which had 
 passed beside her and had vanished, after depositing in her 
 heart one of the two germs which are destined, later on, to fill 
 the whole life of woman, coquetry. Love is the other. 
 
 With faith in her beauty, the whole feminine soul expanded 
 within her. She conceived a horror for her merinos, and 
 shame for her plush hat. Her father had never refused her 
 anything. She at once acquired the whole science of the 
 bonnet, the gown, the mantle, the boot, the cuff, the stuff 
 which is in fashion, the color which is becoming, that science 
 which makes of the Parisian woman something so charming, 
 so deep, and so dangerous. The words heady woman were 
 invented for the Parisienne. 
 
 In less than a month, little Cosette, in that Thebaid of the 
 Rue de Babylone, was not only one of the prettiest, but one 
 of the "best dressed" women in Paris, which means a great 
 deal more.
 
 88 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 She would have liked to encounter her "passer-by," to see 
 what he would say, and to "teach him a lesson !" The truth 
 is, that she was ravishing in every respect, and that she distin- 
 guished the difference between a bonnet from Gerard and one 
 from Herbaut in the most marvellous way. 
 
 Jean Valjean watched these ravages with anxiety. He who 
 felt that he could never do anything but crawl, walk at the 
 most, beheld wings sprouting on Cosette. 
 
 Moreover, from the mere inspection of Cosette's toilet, a 
 woman would have recognized the fact that she had no mother. 
 Certain little proprieties, certain special conventionalities, 
 were not observed by Cosette. A mother, for instance, would 
 have told her that a young girl does not dress in damask. 
 
 The first day that Cosette went out in her black damask 
 gown and mantle, and her white crape bonnet, she took Jean 
 Valjean's arm, gay, radiant, rosy, proud, dazzling. "Father," 
 she said, "how do you like me in this guise ?" Jean Valjean re- 
 plied in a voice which resembled the bitter voice of an envious 
 man : "Charming !" He was the same as usual during their 
 walk. On their return home, he asked Cosette: 
 
 "Won't you put on that other gown and bonnet again, you 
 know the ones I mean?" 
 
 This took place in Cosette's chamber. Cosette turned 
 towards the wardrobe where her cast-off schoolgirl's clothes 
 were hanging. 
 
 "That disguise !" said she. "Father, what do you want me 
 to do with it ? Oh no, the idea ! I shall never put on those 
 horrors again. With that machine on my head. I have the air 
 of Madame Mad-dog." 
 
 Jean Valjean heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 From that moment forth, he noticed that Cosette, who had 
 always heretofore asked to remain at home, saying: "Father, 
 T enjoy myself more here with you," now was always asking 
 to go out. In fact, what is the use of having a handsome face 
 and a delicious costume if one does not display them? 
 
 He also noticed that Cosette had no longer the same taste 
 for the back garden. Now she preferred the garden, and did
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET g9 
 
 not dislike to promenade back and forth in front of the railed 
 fence. Jean Valjean, who was shy, never set foot in the 
 garden. He kept to his back yard, like a dog. 
 
 Cosette, in gaining the knowledge that she was beautiful, 
 lost the grace of ignoring it. An exquisite grace, for beauty 
 enhanced by ingenuousness is ineffable, and nothing is so 
 adorable as a dazzling and innocent creature who walks along, 
 holding in her hand the key to paradise without being con- 
 scious of it. But what she had lost in ingenuous grace, she 
 gained in pensive and serious charm. Her whole person, per- 
 meated with the joy of youth, of innocence, and of beauty, 
 breathed forth a splendid melancholy. 
 
 It was at this epoch that Marius, after the lapse of six 
 months, saw her once more at the Luxembourg. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE BATTLE BEGUN 
 
 COSETTE in her shadow, like Marius in his, was all ready to 
 take fire. Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, 
 slowly drew together these two beings, all charged and all 
 languishing with the stormy electricity of passion, these two 
 souls which were laden with love as two clouds arc laden 
 with lightning, and which were bound to overflow and mingle 
 in a look like the clouds in a flash of fire. 
 
 The glance has been so much abused in love romances that it 
 has finally fallen into disrepute. One hardly dares to say, 
 nowadays, that two beings fell in love because they looked at 
 each other. That is the way people do fall in love, neverthe- 
 less, and the only way. The rest is nothing, but the rest comes 
 afterwards. Nothing is more real than these great shocks 
 which two souls convey to each other by the exchange of that 
 spark. 
 
 At that particular hour when Cosette unconsciously darted 
 that glance which troubled Marius, Marius had no suspicion 
 that he had also launched a look which disturbed Cosette.
 
 90 
 
 He caused her the same good and the same evil. 
 
 She had been in the habit of seeing him for a long time, and 
 she had scrutinized him as girls scrutinize and see, while 
 looking elsewhere. Marius still considered Cosette ugly, when 
 she had already begun to think Marius handsome. But as he 
 paid no attention to her, the young man was nothing to her. 
 
 Still, she could not refrain from saying to herself that he 
 had beautiful hair, beautiful eyes, handsome teeth, a charm- 
 ing tone of voice when she heard him conversing with his 
 comrades, that he held himself badly when he walked, if you 
 like, but with a grace that was all his own, that he did not 
 appear to be at all stupid, that his whole person was noble, 
 gentle, simple, proud, and that, in short, though he seemed 
 to be poor, yet his air was fine. 
 
 On the day when their eyes met at last, and said to each 
 other those first, obscure, and ineffable things which the 
 glance lisps, Cosette did not immediately understand. She 
 returned thoughtfully to the house in the Rue de 1'Ouest, 
 where Jean Valjean, according to his custom, had come to 
 spend six weeks. The next morning, on waking, she thought 
 of that strange young man, so long indifferent and icy. who 
 now seemed to pay attention to her, and it did not appear to 
 her that this attention was the least in the world agreeable 
 to her. She was, on the contrary, somewhat incensed at this 
 handsome and disdainful individual. A substratum of war 
 stirred within her. It struck her, and the idea caused her a 
 wholly childish joy, that she was going to take her revenge 
 at last. 
 
 Knowing that she was beautiful, she was thoroughly con- 
 scious, though in an indistinct fashion, that she possessed a 
 weapon. Women play with their beauty as children do with a 
 knife. They wound themselves. 
 
 The reader will recall Marius' hesitations, his palpitations, 
 his terrors. He remained on his bench and did not approach. 
 This vexed Cosette. One day, she said to Jean Valjean: 
 "Father, let us stroll about a little in that direction." Seeing 
 that Marius did not come to her, she went to him. In such
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 91 
 
 cases, all women resemble Mahomet. And then, strange to 
 say, the first symptom of true love in a young man is timidity ; 
 in a young girl it is boldness. This is surprising, and yet 
 nothing is more simple. It is the two sexes tending to 
 approach each other and assuming, each the other's qualities. 
 
 That day, Cosette's glance drove Marius beside himself, and 
 Marius' glance set Cosette to trembling. Marius went away 
 confident, and Cosette uneasy. From that day forth, they 
 adored each other. 
 
 The first thing that Cosette felt was a confused and pro- 
 found melancholy. It seemed to her that her soul had become 
 black since the day before. She no longer recognized it. The 
 whiteness of soul in young girls, which is composed of coldness 
 and gayety, resembles snow. It melts in love, which is its sun. 
 
 Cosette did not know what love was. She had never heard 
 the word uttered in its terrestrial sense. On the books of 
 profane music which entered the convent, amour (love) was 
 replaced by tambour (drum) or pandoiir. This created enig- 
 mas which exercised the imaginations of the big girls, such as : 
 Ah, how delightful is the drum! or, Pity is not a pandour. 
 But Cosette had left the convent too early to have occupied 
 herself much with the "drum." Therefore, she did not know 
 what name to give to what she now felt. Is any one the less 
 ill because one does not know the name of one's malady ? 
 
 She loved with all the more passion because she loved 
 ignorantly. She did not know whether it was a good thing 01 
 a bad thing, useful or dangerous, eternal or temporary, allow- 
 able or prohibited ; she loved. She would have been greatly 
 astonished, had any one said to her : "You do not sleep ? 
 But that is forbidden! You do not eat? Why, that is very 
 bad! You have oppressions and palpitations of the heart? 
 That must not be! You blush and turn pale, when a certain 
 being clad in black appears at the end of a certain green 
 walk? But that is abominable !" She would not have under- 
 stood, and she would have replied: "What fault is there of 
 mine in a matter in which I have no power and of which I 
 know nothing?"
 
 92 8 Al XT-DENIS 
 
 It turned out that the love which presented itself was 
 exactly suited to the state of her soul. It was a sort of admira- 
 tion at a distance, a mute contemplation, the deification of a 
 stranger. It was the apparition of youth to youth, the dream 
 of nights become a reality yet remaining a dream, the longed- 
 for phantom realized and made flesh at last, but having as 
 yet, neither name, nor fault, nor spot, nor exigence, nor 
 defect ; in a word, the distant lover who lingered in the ideal, 
 a chimara with a form. Any nearer and more palpable meet- 
 ing would have alarmed Cosette at this first stage, when she 
 was still half immersed in the exaggerated mists of the 
 cloister. She had all the fears of children and all the fears 
 of nuns combined. The spirit of the convent, with which 
 she had been permeated for the space of five years, was still 
 in the process of slow evaporation from her person, and made 
 everything tremble around her. In this situation he was not 
 a lover, he was not even an admirer, he was a vision. She set 
 herself to adoring Marius as something charming, luminous, 
 and impossible. 
 
 As extreme innocence borders on extreme coquetry, she 
 smiled at him with all frankness. 
 
 Every day, she looked forward to the hour for their walk 
 with impatience, she found Marius there, she felt herself 
 unspeakably happy, and thought in all sincerity that she was 
 expressing her whole thought when she said to Jean Val- 
 jean : 
 
 "What a delicious garden that Luxembourg is !" 
 
 Marius and Cosette were in the dark as to one another. 
 They did not address each other, they did not salute each 
 other, they did not know each other ; they saw each other ; and 
 like stars of heaven which are separated by millions of leagues, 
 they lived by gazing at each other. 
 
 It was thus that Cosette gradually became a woman and 
 developed, beautiful and loving, with a consciousness of her 
 beauty, and in ignorance of her love. She was a coquette to 
 boot through her ignorance.
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 93 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 TO ONE SADNESS OPPOSE A SADNESS AND A HALF 
 
 ALL situations have their instincts. Old and eternal Mother 
 Nature warned Jean Valjean in a dim way of the presence of 
 Marius. Jean Valjean shuddered to the very bottom of his 
 soul. Jean Valjean saw nothing, knew nothing, and yet he 
 scanned with obstinate attention, the darkness in which he 
 walked, as though he felt on one side of him something in 
 process of construction, and on the other, something which 
 was crumbling away. Marius, also warned, and, in accord- 
 ance with the deep law of God, by that same Mother Nature, 
 did all he could to keep out of sight of "the father." Never- 
 theless, it came to pass that Jean Valjean sometimes espied 
 him. Marius' manners were no longer in the least natural. 
 He exhibited ambiguous prudence and awkward daring. He 
 no longer came quite close to them as formerly. He seated 
 himself at a distance and pretended to be reading; why did 
 he pretend that ? Formerly he had come in his old coat, now 
 he wore his new one every day; Jean Valjean was not sure 
 that he did not have his hair curled, his eyes were very queer, 
 he wore gloves; in short, Jean Valjean cordially detested this 
 young man. 
 
 Cosette allowed nothing to be divined. Without knowing 
 just what was the matter with her she was convinced that there 
 was something in it, and that it must be concealed. 
 
 There was a coincidence between the taste for the toilet 
 which had recently come to Cosette, and the habit of new 
 clothes developed by that stranger which was very repugnant 
 to Jean Valjean. It might be accidental, no doubt, certainly, 
 but it was a menacing accident. 
 
 He never opened his mouth to Cosette about this stranger. 
 One day, however, he could not refrain from so doing, 
 and, with that vague despair which suddenly casts the 
 lead into the depths of its despair, he said to her : "What a 
 very pedantic air that young man has !"
 
 Cosette, but a year before only an indifferent little girl, would 
 have replied : "Why, no, he is charming." Ten years later, 
 with the love of Marius in her heart, she would have answered : 
 U A pedant, and insufferable to the sight! You are right !"- 
 At the moment in life and the heart which she had then at- 
 tained, she contented herself with replying, with supreme 
 calmness: "That young man!" 
 
 As though she now beheld him for the first time in her life. 
 
 ''How stupid I am !" thought Jean Valjean. "She had not 
 noticed him. It is I who have pointed him out to her." 
 
 Oh, simplicity of the old ! oh, the depth of children ! 
 
 It is one of the laws of those fresh years of suffering and 
 trouble, of those vivacious conflicts between a first love and the 
 lirst obstacles, that the young girl does not allow herself to be 
 caught in any trap whatever, and that the young man falls 
 into every one. Jean Valjean had instituted an undeclared 
 war against Marius, which Marius, with the sublime stupidity 
 of his passion and his age, did not divine. Jean Valjean laid 
 a host of ambushes for him ; he changed his hour, he changed 
 his bench, he forgot his handkerchief, he came alone to the 
 Luxembourg; Marius dashed headlong into all these snares; 
 and to all the interrogation marks planted by Jean Valjean in 
 his pathway, he ingenuously answered "yes." But Cosette re- 
 mained immured in her apparent unconcern and in her im- 
 perturbable tranquillity, so that Jean Valjean arrived at the 
 following conclusion : "That ninny is madly in love with 
 Cosette, but Cosette does not even know that he exists." 
 
 None the less did he bear in his heart a mournful tremor. 
 The minute when Cosette would love might strike at any 
 moment. Does not everything begin with indifference? 
 
 Only once did Cosette make a mistake and alarm him. He 
 rose from his seat to depart, after a stay of three hours, and 
 she said : "What, already? 1 ' 
 
 Jean Valjean had not discontinued his trips to the Luxem- 
 bourg, as he did not wish to do anything out of the way, and 
 as, above all things, he feared to arouse Cosette; but during 
 the hours which were so sweet to the lovers, while Cosette was
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE HUE PLUUET 95 
 
 sending her smile to the intoxicated Marius, who perceived 
 nothing else now, and who now saw nothing in all the world hut 
 an adored and radiant face, Jean Valjean was fixing on Marius 
 flashing and terrible eyes. He, who had finally come to be- 
 lieve himself incapable of a malevolent feeling, experienced 
 moments when Marius was present, in which he thought he 
 was becoming savage and ferocious once more, and he felt the 
 old depths of his soul, which had formerly contained so much 
 wrath, opening once more and rising up against that young 
 man. It almost seemed to him that unknown craters were 
 forming in his bosom. 
 
 What ! he was there, that creature ! What was he there 
 for? He came creeping about, smelling out, examining, 
 trying! He came, saying: "Hey! Why not?" He came to 
 prowl about his, Jean Valjean's, life ! to prowl about his hap- 
 piness, with the purpose of seizing it and bearing it away ! 
 
 Jean Valjean added : "Yes, that's it ! What is he in search 
 of? An adventure! What does he want? A love affair ! A 
 love affair ! And I ? What ! I have been first, the most 
 wretched of men, and then the most unhappy, and I have tra- 
 versed sixty years of life on my knees, I have suffered every- 
 thing that man can suffer, I have grown old without having 
 been young, I have lived without a family, without relatives, 
 without friends, without life, without children, I have left 
 my blood on every stone, on every bramble, on every mile-post, 
 along every wall, I have been gentle, though others have been 
 hard to me, and kind, although others have been malicious, 
 I have become an honest man once more, in spite of every- 
 thing, I have repented of the evil that I have done and have 
 forgiven the evil that has been done to me, and at the moment 
 when I receive my recompense, at the moment when it is all 
 over, at the moment when I am just touching the goal, at the 
 moment when I have what I desire, it is well, it is good, I have 
 paid, I have earned it, all this is to take flight, all this will 
 vanish, and I shall lose Cosette, and 1 shall lose my life, my 
 joy, my soul, because it has pleased a great booby to come and 
 lounge at the Luxembourg.''
 
 96 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Then his eyes were filled with a sad and extraordinary 
 gleam. 
 
 It was no longer a man gazing at a man; it was no longer 
 an enemy surveying an enemy. It was a dog scanning a thief. 
 
 The reader knows the rest. Marius pursued his senseless 
 course. One day he followed Cosette to the Rue de 1'Ouest. 
 Another day he spoke to the porter. The porter, on his side, 
 spoke, and said to Jean Valjean : "Monsieur, who is that 
 curious young man who is asking for you ?" On the morrow 
 Jean Valjean bestowed on Marius that glance which Marius 
 at last perceived. A week later, Jean Valjean had taken his 
 departure. He swore to himself that he would never again 
 set foot either in the Luxembourg or in the Rue de 1'Ouest. 
 He returned to the Rue Plumet. 
 
 Cosette did not complain, she said nothing, she asked no 
 questions, she did not seek to learn his reasons; she had 
 already reached the point where she was afraid of being di- 
 vined, and of betraying herself. Jean Valjean had no ex- 
 perience of these miseries, the only miseries which are charm- 
 ing and the only ones with which he was not acquainted ; the 
 consequence was that he did not understand the grave signifi- 
 cance of Cosette's silence. 
 
 He merely noticed that she had grown sad, and he grew 
 gloomy. On his side and on hers, inexperience had joined 
 issue. 
 
 Once he made a trial. He asked Cosette : 
 
 "Would you like to come to the Luxembourg ?" 
 
 A ray illuminated Cosette's pale face. 
 
 "Yes," said she. 
 
 They went thither. Three months had elapsed. Marius no 
 longer went there. Marius was not there. 
 
 On the following day, Jean Valjean asked Cosette again: 
 
 "Would you like to come to the Luxembourg?" 
 
 She replied, sadly and gently : 
 
 "No." 
 
 Jean Valjean was hurt by this sadness, and heart-broken at 
 this jrentleness.
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLL'MET 97 
 
 What was going on in that mind which was so young and 
 yet already so impenetrable? What was on its way there 
 within ? What was taking place in Cosette's soul ? Some- 
 times, instead of going to bed, Jean Valjean remained seated 
 on his pallet, with his head in his hands, and he passed whole 
 nights asking himself: "What has Cosette in her mind?" and 
 in thinking of the things that she might be thinking about. 
 
 Oh ! at such moments, what mournful glances did he cast 
 towards that cloister, that chaste peak, that abode of angels, 
 that inaccessible glacier of virtue ! How he contemplated, 
 with despairing ecstasy, that convent garden, full of ignored 
 flowers and cloistered virgins, where all perfumes and all souls 
 mount straight to heaven ! How he adored that Eden forever 
 closed against him, whence he had voluntarily and madly 
 emerged ! How he regretted his abnegation and his folly in 
 having brought Cosette back into the world, poor hero of sac- 
 rifice, seized and hurled to the earth by his very self-devotion ! 
 How he said to himself, "What have I done ?" 
 
 However, nothing of all this was perceptible to Cosette. Xo 
 ill-temper, no harshness. His face was always serene and 
 kind. Jean Valjean's manners were more tender and more 
 paternal than ever. If anything could have betrayed his lack 
 of joy, it was his increased suavity. 
 
 On her side, Cosette languished. She suffered from the 
 absence of Marius as she had rejoiced in his presence, pecu- 
 liarly, without exactly being conscious of it. When Jean Ynl- 
 jean ceased to take her on their customary strolls, a feminine 
 instinct murmured confusedly, at the bottom of her heart, 
 that she must not seem to set store on the Luxembourg garden, 
 and that if this proved to be a matter of indifference to her, 
 her father would take her thither once more. But days, weeks, 
 months, elapsed. Jean Yuljenn had tacitly accepted Cosette's 
 tacit consent. She regretted it. It was too late. So Marius 
 had disappeared ; all was over. The day on which she returned 
 to the Luxembourg, Marius was no longer there. What was to 
 be done? Should she ever find him again? She felt an an- 
 guish at her heart, which nothing relieved, and which aug-
 
 98 8AIXT-DKNI8 
 
 mented every day; she no longer knew whether it was winter 
 or summer, whether it was raining or shining, whether the 
 birds were singing, whether it was the season for dahlias or 
 daisies, whether the Luxembourg was more charming than the 
 Tuileries, whether the linen which the laundress brought home 
 was starched too much or not enough, whether Toussaint had 
 done "her marketing" well or ill; and she remained dejected, 
 absorbed, attentive to but a single thought, her eyes vague 
 and staring as when one gazes by night at a black and fathom- 
 less spot where an apparition has vanished. 
 
 However, she did not allow Jean Valjean to perceive any- 
 thing of this, except her pallor. 
 
 She still wore her sweet face for him. 
 
 This pallor sufficed but too thoroughly to trouble Jean Val- 
 jean. Sometimes he asked her : 
 
 "What is the matter with you ?" 
 
 She replied : "There is nothing the matter with me." 
 
 And after a silence, when she divined that he was sad also, 
 she would add : 
 
 "And you, father is there anything wrong with you ?" 
 
 "With me ? Nothing," said he. 
 
 These two beings who had loved each other so exclusively, 
 and with so touching an affection, and who had lived so long 
 for each other, now suffered side by side, each on the other's 
 account; without acknowledging it to each other, without 
 anger towards each other, and with a smile. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE CHAIN-GANG 
 
 JEAN VALJEAN was the more unhappy of the two. Youth, 
 even in its sorrows, always possesses its own peculiar radiance. 
 
 At times, Jean Valjean suffered so greatly that he became 
 puerile. It is the property of grief to cause the childish side 
 of man to reappear. He had an unconquerable conviction that
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RLE PLIMET 99 
 
 Cosette was escaping from him. He would have liked to re- 
 sist, to retain her, to arouse her enthusiasm by some external 
 and brilliant matter. These ideas, puerile, as we have just 
 said, and at the same time senile, conveyed to him, by their 
 very childishness, a tolerably just notion of the influence of 
 gold lace on the imaginations of young girls. He once chanced 
 to see a general on horseback, in full uniform, pass along the 
 street, Comte Coutard, the commandant of Paris. He envied 
 that gilded man; what happiness it would be, he said to him- 
 self, if he could put on that suit which was an incontestable 
 thing; and if Cosette could behold him thus, she would be daz- 
 zled, and when he had Cosette on his arm and passed the gates 
 of the Tuileries, the guard would present arms to him, and 
 that would suflice for Cosette, and would dispel her idea of 
 looking at young men. 
 
 An unforeseen shock was added to these sad reflections. 
 
 In the isolated life which they led, and since they had come 
 to dwell in the Rue Plumet, they had contracted one habit. 
 They sometimes took a pleasure trip to sec the sun rise, a mild 
 species of enjoyment which befits those who are entering life 
 and those who are quitting it. 
 
 For those who love solitude, a walk in the early morning is 
 equivalent to a stroll by night, with the cheerfulness of nature 
 added. The streets are deserted and the birds arc .singing. 
 Cosette, a bird herself, liked to rise early. These matutinal 
 excursions were planned on the preceding evening. He pro- 
 posed, and she agreed. It was arranged like a plot, they set 
 out before daybreak, and these trips were so many small de- 
 lights for Cosette. These innocent eccentricities please young 
 people. 
 
 Jean Valjean's inclination led him, as we have seen, to the 
 least frequented spots, to solitary nooks, to forgotten places. 
 There then existed, in the vicinity of the barriers of Paris, a 
 sort of poor meadows, which were almost confounded with the 
 city, where grew in summer sickly grain, and which, in au- 
 tumn, after the harvest had been gathered, presented the ap- 
 pearance, not of having been reaped, but peeled. Jean Valjean
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 loved to haunt these fields. Cosette was not bored there. It 
 meant solitude to him and liberty to her. There, she became a 
 little girl once more, she could run and almost play ; she took off 
 her hat, laid it on Jean Valjean's knees, and gathered bunches 
 of flowers. She gazed at the butterflies on the flowers, but did 
 not catch them ; gentleness and tenderness are born with love, 
 and the young girl who cherishes within her breast a trem- 
 bling and fragile ideal has mercy on the wing of a butterfly. 
 She wove garlands of poppies, which she placed on her head, 
 and which, crossed and penetrated with sunlight, glowing until 
 they flamed, formed for her rosy face a crown of burning em- 
 bers. 
 
 Even after their life had grown sad, they kept up their cus- 
 tom of early strolls. 
 
 One morning in October, therefore, tempted by the serene 
 perfection of the autumn of 1831, they set out, and found 
 themselves at break of day near the Barriere du Maine. It 
 was not dawn, it was daybreak; a delightful and stern mo- 
 ment. A few constellations here and there in the deep, pale 
 azure, the earth all black, the heavens all white, a quiver amid 
 the blades of grass, everywhere the mysterious chill of twilight. 
 A lark, which seemed mingled with the stars, was carolling at 
 a prodigious height, and one would have declared that that 
 hymn of pettiness calmed immensity. In the East, the Val- 
 de-Grace projected its dark mass on the clear horizon with 
 the sharpness of steel ; Venus dazzlingly brilliant was rising 
 behind that dome and had the air of a soul making its escape 
 from a gloomy edifice. 
 
 All was peace and silence ; there was no one on the road ; a 
 few stray laborers, of whom they caught barely a glimpse, were 
 on their way to their work along the side-paths. 
 
 Jean Valjean was sitting in a cross-walk on some planks de- 
 posited at the gate of a timber-yard. His face was turned to- 
 wards the highway, his back towards the light; he had forgot- 
 ten the sun which was on the point of rising; he had sunk into 
 one of those profound absorptions in which the mind becomes 
 concentrated, which imprison even the eye, and which are
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE HUE P LU MET 
 
 equivalent to four walls. There are meditations which may 
 he called vertical ; when one is at the hottorn of them, time 
 is required to return to earth. Jean Valjean had plunged 
 into one of these reveries, lie was thinking of Cosette, of 
 the happiness that was possible if nothing came between 
 him and her, of the light with which she filled his life, a light 
 which was but the emanation of her soul. He was almost 
 happy in his revery. Cosette, who was standing beside him, 
 was gazing at the clouds as they turned rosy. 
 
 All at once Cosette exclaimed : "Father, I should think 
 some one was coming yonder." Jean Valjean raised his eyes. 
 
 Cosette was right. The causeway which leads to the ancient 
 Barriere du Maine is a prolongation, as the reader knows, of 
 the Rue de Sevres, and is cut at right angles by the inner bou- 
 levard. At the elbow of the causeway and the boulevard, at the 
 spot where it branches, they heard a noise which it was diffi- 
 cult to account for at that hour, and a sort of confused pile 
 made its appearance. Some shapeless thing which was coming 
 from the boulevard was turning into the road. 
 
 It grew larger, it seemed to move in an orderly manner, 
 though it was bristling and quivering; it seemed to be a ve- 
 hicle, but its load could not be distinctly made out. There 
 were horses, wheels, shouts; whips were cracking. By de- 
 grees the outlines became fixed, although bathed in shadows. 
 It was a vehicle, in fact, which had just turned from the bou- 
 levard into the highway, and which was directing its course 
 towards the barrier near which sat Jean Valjean ; a second, of 
 the same aspect, followed, then a third, then a fourth; seven 
 chariots made their appearance in succession, the heads of the 
 horses touching the rear of the wagon in front. Figures were 
 moving on these vehicles, flashes were visible through the dusk 
 as though there were naked swords there, a clanking became 
 audible which resembled the rattling of chains, and as this 
 something advanced, the sound of voices waxed louder, and it 
 turned into a terrible thing such as emerges from the cave of 
 dreams. 
 
 As it drew nearer, it assumed a form, and was outlined be-
 
 102 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 hind the trees with the pallid hue of an apparition; the mass 
 grew white; the day, which was slowly dawning, cast a wan 
 light on this swarming heap which was at once both sepulchral 
 and living, the heads of the figures turned into the faces of 
 corpses, and this is what it proved to be: 
 
 Seven wagons were driving in a file along the road. The 
 first six were singularly constructed. They resembled coopers' 
 drays; they consisted of long ladders placed on two wheels 
 and forming barrows at their rear extremities. Each dray, or 
 rather let us say, each ladder, was attached to four horses har- 
 nessed tandem. On these ladders strange clusters of men were 
 being drawn. In the faint light, these men were to be divined 
 rather than seen. Twenty-four on each vehicle, twelve on a 
 side, back to back, facing the passers-by, their legs dangling 
 in the air, this was the manner in which these men were trav- 
 elling, and behind their backs they had something which 
 clanked, and which was a chain, and on their necks something 
 which shone, and which was an iron collar. Each man had 
 his collar, but the chain was for all ; so that if these four and 
 twenty men had occasion to alight from the dray and walk, 
 they were seized with a sort of inexorable unity, and were 
 obliged to wind over the ground with the chain for a backbone, 
 somewhat after the fashion of millepeds. In the back and 
 front of each vehicle, two men armed with muskets stood erect, 
 each holding one end of the chain under his foot. The iron 
 necklets were square. The seventh vehicle, a huge rack-sided 
 baggage wagon, without a hood, had four wheels and six 
 horses, and carried a sonorous pile of iron boilers, cast-iron 
 pots, braziers, and chains, among which were mingled several 
 men who were pinioned and stretched at full length, and who 
 seemed to be ill. This wagon, all lattice-work, was garnished 
 with dilapidated hurdles which appeared to have served for 
 former punishments. These vehicles kept to the middle of 
 the road. On each side marched a double hedge of guards of 
 infamous aspect, wearing three-cornered hats, like the soldiers 
 under the Directory, shabby, covered with spots and holes, 
 muffled in uniforms of veterans and the trousers of under-
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLUMET 103 
 
 takers' men, half gray, half blue, which were almost hanging in 
 rags, with red epaulets, yellow shoulder belts, short sabres, 
 muskets, and cudgels; they were a species of soldier-black- 
 guards. These myrmidons seemed composed of the abjectness 
 of the beggar and the authority of the executioner. The one 
 who appeared to be their chief held a postilion's whip in his 
 hand. All these details, blurred by the dimness of dawn, be- 
 came more and more clearly outlined as the light increased. 
 At the head and in the rear of the convoy rode mounted gen- 
 darmes, serious and with sword in fist. 
 
 This procession was so long that when the first vehicle 
 reached the barrier, the last was barely debouching from the 
 boulevard. A throng, sprung, it is impossible to say whence, 
 and formed in a twinkling, as is frequently the case in Paris, 
 pressed forward from both sides of the road and looked on. 
 In the neighboring lanes the shouts of people calling to each 
 other and the wooden shoes of market-gardeners hastening up 
 to gaze were audible. 
 
 The men massed upon the drays allowed themselves to be 
 jolted along in silence. They were livid with the chill of 
 morning. They all wore linen trousers, and their bare feet 
 were thrust into wooden shoes. The rest of their costume was 
 a fantasy of wretchedness. Their accoutrements were horribly 
 incongruous; nothing is more funereal than the harlequin in 
 rags. Battered felt hats, tarpaulin caps, hideous woollen 
 nightcaps, and, side by side with a short blouse, a black coat 
 broken at the elbow ; many wore women's headgear, others had 
 baskets on their heads; hairy breasts were visible, and through 
 the rent in their garments tattooed designs could be descried ; 
 temples of Love, flaming hearts, Cupids; eruptions and un- 
 healthy red blotches could also be seen. Two or three had a 
 straw rope attached to the cross-bar of the dray, and sus- 
 pended under them like a stirrup, which supported their feet. 
 One of them held in his hand and raised to his mouth some- 
 thing which had the appearance of a black stone and which 
 he seemed to be gnawing; it was bread which he was eating. 
 There were no eyes there which were not either dry, dulled, or
 
 104 8AI\'T DEMS 
 
 flaming with an evil light. The escort troop cursed, the men 
 in chains did not utter a syllable; from time to time the sound 
 of a blow became audible as the cudgels descended on shoulder- 
 blades or skulls; some of these men were yawning; their rags 
 were terrible; their feet hung down, their shoulders oscillated, 
 their heads clashed together, their fetters clanked, their eyes 
 glared ferociously, their fists clenched or fell open inertly like 
 the hands of corpses ; in the rear of the convoy ran a band of 
 children screaming with laughter. 
 
 This file of vehicles, whatever its nature was, was mournful. 
 It was evident that to-morrow, that an hour hence, a pouring 
 rain might descend, that it might be followed by another and 
 another, and that their dilapidated garments would be 
 drenched, that once soaked, these men would not get dry 
 again, that once chilled, they would not again get warm, that 
 their linen trousers would be glued to their bones by the 
 downpour, that the water would fill their shoes, that no lashes 
 from the whips would be able to prevent their jaws from 
 chattering, that the chain would continue to bind them by 
 the neck, that their legs would continue to dangle, and it was 
 impossible not to shudder at the sight of these human beings 
 thus hound and passive beneath the cold clouds of autumn, 
 and delivered over to the rain, to the blast, to all the furies of 
 the air, like trees and stones. 
 
 Blows from the cudgel were not omitted even in the case 
 of the sick men, who lay there knotted with ropes and mo- 
 tionless on the seventh wagon, and who appeared to have been 
 tossed there like sacks filled with misery. 
 
 Suddenly, the sun made its appearance; the immense light 
 of the Orient burst forth, and one would have said that it had 
 set fire to all those ferocious heads. Their tongues were un- 
 loosed ; a conflagration of grins, oaths, and songs exploded. 
 The broad horizontal sheet of light severed the file in two 
 parts, illuminating heads and bodies, leaving feet and wheels 
 in the obscurity. Thoughts made their appearance on these 
 faces; it was a terrible moment; visible demons with their 
 masks removed, fierce souls laid bare. Though lighted up, this
 
 THE UOl'SK IX THE Kl'E PLl'UET 105 
 
 wild throng remained in gloom. Some, who were gay, had in 
 their mouths quills through which they blew vermin over the 
 crowd, picking out the women: the dawn accentuated these 
 lamentable profiles with the blackness of its shadows; there 
 was not one of these creatures who was not deformed by rea- 
 son of wretchedness: and the whole was so monstrous that one 
 would have said that the sun's brilliancy had been changed 
 into the glare of the lightning. The wagon-load which headed 
 the line had struck up a song, and were shouting at the top of 
 their voices with a haggard joviality, a pot-pourri by Desaug- 
 iers. then famous, called Thf Venial; the trees shivered 
 mournfully; in the cross-lanes, countenances of bourgeois 
 listened in an idiotic delight to these coarse strains droned by 
 spectres. 
 
 All sort* of distress met in this procession as in chaos: here 
 were to be found the facial angles of every sort of l>east. old 
 men. youths, bald heads, gray beards, cynical monstrosities. 
 sour resignation, savage grins, senseless attitudes, snouts sur- 
 mounted by caps, heads like those of young girls with cork- 
 screw curls on the temples, infantile visages, and by reason of 
 that, horrible thin skeleton faces, to which death alone was 
 lacking. On the first cart was a negro, who had l*vn a slave, 
 in all probability, and who could make a comparison of his 
 chains. The frightful leveller from Mow. shame, had passed 
 over these brows; at that degree of abasement, the last trans- 
 formations were suffered by all in their extremes! depths, and 
 ignorance, converted into dulness. was the equal of intelligence 
 converted into despair. There was no choice possible between 
 these men who appeared to the eye as the tlower of the mud. 
 It was evident that the person who had had the ordering of 
 that unclean procession had not classified them. These Iveings 
 had been fettered and coupled pell-mell, in alphabetical dis- 
 order, probably, and loaded hap-hazard on those carts. Never- 
 theless, horrors, when grouped together. alwa\s end bv evolv- 
 ing a result; all additions of wretched men gi\e a sum total, 
 each chain exhaled a common soul, and each dray -load had its 
 own physiognomy. By the side of the one where they were
 
 106 BAINT DENI8 
 
 singing, there was one where they were howling ; a third where 
 they were begging; one could be seen in which they were 
 gnashing their teeth ; another load menaced the spectators, an- 
 other blasphemed God; the last was as silent as the tomb. 
 Dante would have thought that he beheld his seven circles of 
 hell on the march. The march of the damned to their tor- 
 tures, performed in sinister wise, not on the formidable and 
 flaming chariot of the Apocalypse, but, what was more mourn- 
 ful than that, on the gibbet cart. 
 
 One of the guards, who had a hook on the end of his cudgel, 
 made a pretence from time to time, of stirring up this mass 
 of human filth. An old woman in the crowd pointed them 
 out to her little boy five years old, and said to him : ''Rascal, 
 let that be a warning to you !" 
 
 As the songs and blasphemies increased, the man who ap- 
 peared to be the captain of the escort cracked his whip, and 
 at that signal a fearful dull and blind flogging, which pro- 
 duced the sound of hail, fell upon the seven dray-loads ; many 
 roared and foamed at the mouth ; which redoubled the delight 
 of the street urchins who had hastened up, a swarm of flies on 
 these wounds. 
 
 Jean Valjean's eyes had assumed a frightful expression. 
 They were no longer eyes; they were those deep and glassy 
 objects which replace the glance in the case of certain wretched 
 men, which seem unconscious of reality, and in which flames 
 the reflection of terrors and of catastrophes. He was not look- 
 ing at a spectacle, he was seeing a vision. He tried to rise, to 
 flee, to make his escape; he could not move his feet. Some- 
 times, the things that you see seize upon you and hold you 
 fast. He remained nailed to the spot, petrified, stupid, asking 
 himself, athwart confused and inexpressible anguish, what this 
 sepulchral persecution signified, and whence had come that 
 pandemonium which was pursuing him. All at once, he raised 
 his hand to his brow, a gesture habitual to those whose mem- 
 ory suddenly returns; he remembered that this was, in fact, 
 the usual itinerary, that it was customary to make this detour 
 in order to avoid all possibility of encountering royalty on
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLVMET 107 
 
 the road to Fontainebleau, and that, five and thirty years 
 before, he had himself passed through that barrier. 
 
 Cosette was no less terrified, but in a different way. She 
 did not understand ; what she beheld did not seem to her to be 
 possible ; at length she cried : 
 
 "Father ! What are those men in those carts ?" 
 
 Jean Val jean replied : "Convicts." 
 
 "Whither are they going?" 
 
 "To the galleys." 
 
 At that moment, the cudgelling, multiplied by a hundred 
 hands, became zealous, blows with the flat of the sword were 
 mingled with it, it was a perfect storm of whips and clubs ; the 
 convicts bent before it, a hideous obedience was evoked by the 
 torture, and all held their peace, darting glances like chained 
 wolves. 
 
 Cosette trembled in every limb ; she resumed : 
 
 "Father, are they still men ?" 
 
 "Sometimes," answered the unhappy man. 
 
 It was the chain-gang, in fact, which had set out before 
 daybreak from Bicetre, and had taken the road to Mans in 
 order to avoid Fontainebleau, where the King then was. This 
 caused the horrible journey to last three or four days longer ; 
 but torture may surely be prolonged with the object of sparing 
 the royal personage a sight of it. 
 
 Jean Valjean returned home utterly overwhelmed. Such 
 encounters are shocks, and the memory that they leave behind 
 them resembles a thorough shaking up. 
 
 Nevertheless, Jean Valjean did not observe that, on his way 
 back to the Rue do Babylone with Cosette, the latter was ply- 
 ing him with other questions on the subject of what they had 
 just seen; perhaps he was too much absorbed in his own dejec- 
 tion to notice her words and reply to them. But when Cosette 
 was leaving him in the evening, to betake herself to bed, he 
 heard her say in a low voice, and as though talking to herself: 
 "It seems to me, that if I were to find one of those men in my 
 pathway, oh, my God, I should die merely from the sight of 
 him close at hand."
 
 108 8AIXT-DEM8 
 
 Fortunately, chance ordained that on the morrow of that 
 tragic day, there was some official solemnity apropos of I know 
 not what, fetes in Paris, a review in the Champ de Mars, 
 jousts on the Seine, theatrical performances in the Champs- 
 filysees, fireworks at the Arc de Pfitoile, illuminations every- 
 where. Jean Valjean did violence to his habits, and took 
 Cosette to see these rejoicings, for the purpose of diverting her 
 from the memory of the day before, and of effacing, beneath 
 the smiling tumult of all Paris, the abominable thing which 
 had passed before her. The review with which the festival was 
 spiced made the presence of uniforms perfectly natural ; Jean 
 Valjean donned his uniform of a national guard with the 
 vague inward feeling of a man who is betaking himself to 
 shelter. However, this trip seemed to attain its object. Co- 
 sette, who made it her law to please her father, and to whom, 
 moreover, all spectacles were a novelty, accepted this diversion 
 with the light and easy good grace of youth, and did not pout 
 too disdainfully at that flutter of enjoyment called a public 
 fete ; so that Jean Valjean was able to believe that he had suc- 
 ceeded, and that no trace of that hideous vision remained. 
 
 Some days later, one morning, when the sun was shining 
 brightly, and they were both on the steps leading to the gar- 
 den, another infraction of the rules which Jean Valjean 
 seemed to have imposed upon himself, and to the custom of re- 
 maining in her chamber which melancholy had caused Cosette 
 to adopt, Cosette, in a wrapper, was standing erect in that 
 negligent attire of early morning which envelops young girls 
 in an adorable way and which produces the effect of a cloud 
 drawn over a star; and, with her head bathed in light, rosy 
 after a good sleep, submitting to the gentle glances of the 
 tender old man, she was picking a daisy to 'pieces. Cosette 
 did not know the delightful legend, / love a little, passionately, 
 etc. who was there who could have taught her? She was 
 handling the flower instinctively, innocently, without a sus- 
 picion that to pluck a daisy apart is to do the same by a heart. 
 If there were a fourth, and smiling Grace called Melancholy, 
 she would have worn the air of that Grace. Jean Valjean
 
 COSET1E WAS PICKiNG
 
 THE HOUSE IN THE RUE PLVMET 109 
 
 was fascinated by the contemplation of those tiny fingers on 
 that flower, and forgetful of everything in the radiance emit- 
 ted by that child. A red-breast was warbling in the thicket, 
 on one side. White cloudlets floated across the sky, so gayly, 
 that one would have said that they had just been set at liberty. 
 Cosette went on attentively tearing the leaves from her flower ; 
 she seemed to be thinking about something; but whatever it 
 was, it must be something charming; all at once she turned her 
 head over her shoulder with the delicate languor of a swan, 
 and said to Jean Valjean : "Father, what are the galleys like ?"
 
 BOOK FOURTH. SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY TURN 
 OUT TO BE SUCCOR FROM ON HIGH 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A WOUND WITHOUT, HEALING WITHIN 
 
 THUS their life clouded over by degrees. 
 
 But one diversion, which had formerly been a happiness, 
 remained to them, which was to carry bread to those who 
 were hungry, and clothing to those who were cold. Cosette 
 often accompanied Jean Valjean on these visits to the poor, 
 on which they recovered some remnants of their former free 
 intercourse; and sometimes, when the day had been a good 
 one, and they had assisted many in distress, and cheered and 
 warmed many little children, Cosette was rather merry in the 
 evening. It was at this epoch that they paid their visit to 
 the Jondrette den. 
 
 On the day following that visit, Jean Valjean made his 
 appearance in the pavilion in the morning, calm as was his 
 wont, but with a large wound on his left arm which was 
 much inflamed, and very angry, which resembled a burn, and 
 which he explained in some way or other. This wound re- 
 sulted in his being detained in the house for a month with 
 fever. He would not call in a doctor. When Cosette urged 
 him, "Call the dog-doctor," said he. 
 
 Cosette dressed the wound morning and evening with so 
 divine an air and such angelic happiness at being of use 
 to him, that Jean Valjean felt all his former joy returning, 
 his fears and anxieties dissipating, and he gazed at Cosette, 
 saying : "Oh ! what a kindly wound ! Oh ! what a good mis- 
 fortune !"
 
 SUCCOR FROM BELOW 
 
 Cosette 011 perceiving that her father was ill, had deserted 
 the pavilion and again taken a fancy to the little lodging and 
 the back courtyard. She passed nearly all her days beside 
 Jean Valjean and read to him the books which he desired. 
 Generally they were books of travel. Jean Valjean was 
 undergoing a new birth; his happiness was reviving in these 
 ineffable rays; the Luxembourg, the prowling young stranger, 
 Cosette's coldness, all these clouds upon his soul were grow- 
 ing dim. He had reached the point where he said to him- 
 self: "I imagined all that. I am an old fool." 
 
 His happiness was so great that the horrible discovery of 
 the Thenardiers made in the Jondrette hovel, unexpected as 
 it was, had, after a fashion, glided over him unnoticed. He 
 had succeeded in making his escape ; all trace of him was lost 
 what more did he care for ! he only thought of those 
 wretched beings to pity them. "Here they are in prison, and 
 henceforth they will be incapacitated for doing any harm," he 
 thought, "but what a lamentable family in distress !" 
 
 As for the hideous vision of the Barriere du Maine, Cosette 
 had not referred to it again. 
 
 Sister Sainte-Mechtilde had taught Cosette music in the 
 convent; Cosette had the voice of a linnet with a soul, and 
 sometimes, in the evening, in the wounded man's humble 
 abode, she warbled melancholy songs which delighted Jean 
 Valjean. 
 
 Spring came ; the garden was so delightful at that season of 
 the year, that Jean Valjean said to Cosette : 
 
 "You never go there ; I want you to stroll in it." 
 
 "As you like, father." said Cosette. 
 
 And for the sake of obeying her father, she resumed her 
 walks in the garden, generally alone, for, as we have men- 
 tioned, Jean Valjean, who was probably afraid of being seen 
 through the fence, hardly ever went there. 
 
 Jean Valjean's wound had created a diversion. 
 
 When Cosette saw that her father was suffering less, that he 
 was convalescing, and that he appeared to be happy, she 
 experienced a contentment which she did not even perceive.
 
 FO gently and naturally had it come. Then, it was in the 
 month of March, the days were growing longer, the winter was 
 departing, the winter always bears away with it a portion of 
 our sadness ; then came April, that daybreak of summer, fresh 
 as dawn always is, gay like every childhood ; a little inclined 
 to weep at times like the new-born being that it is. In that 
 month, nature has charming gleams which pass from the sky, 
 from the trees, from the meadows and the flowers into the 
 heart of man. 
 
 Cosette was still too young to escape the penetrating influ- 
 ence of that April joy which bore so strong a resemblance to 
 herself. Insensibly, and without her suspecting the fact, the 
 blackness departed from her spirit. In spring, sad souls grow 
 light, as light falls into cellars at midday. Cosette was no 
 longer sad. However, though this was so, she did not account 
 for it to herself. In the morning, about ten o'clock, after 
 breakfast, when she had succeeded in enticing her father into 
 the garden for a quarter of an hour, and when she was pacing 
 up and down in the sunlight in front of the steps, supporting 
 his left arm for him, she did not perceive that she laughed 
 every moment and that she was happy. 
 
 Jean Valjean, intoxicated, beheld her growing fresh and 
 rosy once more. 
 
 "Oh ! What a good wound !" he repeated in a whisper. 
 
 And he felt grateful to the Thenardiers. 
 
 His wound once healed, he resumed his solitary twilight 
 strolls. 
 
 It is a mistake to suppose that a person can stroll alone in 
 that fashion in the uninhabited regions of Paris without meet- 
 ing with some adventure.
 
 SUCCOR FROM BELOW 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MOTHER PLUTARQUE FINDS NO DIFFICULTY IN EXPLAINING A 
 PHENOMENON 
 
 ONE evening, little Gavroche had had nothing to eat; he 
 remembered that he had not dined on the preceding day 
 either; this was becoming tiresome. He resolved to make an 
 effort to secure some supper. He strolled out beyond the 
 Salpetriere into deserted regions; that is where windfalls are 
 to be found; where there is no one, one always finds some- 
 thing. He reached a settlement which appeared to him to be 
 the village of Austerlitz. 
 
 In one of his preceding lounges he had noticed there an old 
 garden haunted by an old man and an old woman, and in that 
 garden, a passable apple-tree. Beside the apple-tree stood a 
 sort of fruit-house, which was not securely fastened, and 
 where one might contrive to get an apple. One apple is 
 a supper; one apple is life. That which was Adam's ruin 
 might prove Gavroche's salvation. The garden abutted on a 
 solitary, unpaved lane, bordered with brushwood while await- 
 ing the arrival of houses; the garden was separated from it 
 by a hedge. 
 
 Gavroche directed his steps towards this garden ; he found 
 the lane, he recognized the apple-tree, he verified the fruit- 
 house, he examined the hedge ; a hedge means merely one 
 stride. The day was declining, there was not even a cat in the 
 lane, the hour was propitious. Gavroche began the operation 
 of sealing the hedge, then suddenly paused. Some one was 
 talking in the garden. Gavroche peeped through one of the 
 breaks in the hedge. 
 
 A couple of paces distant, at the foot of the hedge on the 
 other side, exactly at the point where the gap which he was 
 meditating would have been made, there was a sort of recum- 
 bent stone which formed a bench, and on this bench was seated 
 the old man of the garden, while the old woman was standing
 
 H4. 8AIXT-DE1U8 
 
 in front of him. The old woman was grumbling. Gavroche, 
 who was not very discreet, listened. 
 
 "Monsieur Mabeuf !" said the old woman. 
 
 "Mabeuf!" thought Gavroche, "that name is a perfect 
 farce." 
 
 The old man who was thus addressed, did not stir. The 
 old woman repeated : 
 
 "Monsieur Mabeuf!" 
 
 The old man, without raising his eyes from the ground, 
 made up his mind to answer : 
 
 "What is it, Mother Plutarque?" 
 
 "Mother Plutarque !" thought Gavroche, "another farcical 
 name." 
 
 Mother Plutarque began again, and the old man was forced 
 to accept the conversation : 
 
 "The landlord is not pleased." 
 
 "Why ?" 
 
 "We owe three quarters rent." 
 
 "In three months, we shall owe him for four quarters." 
 
 "He says that he will turn you out to sleep." 
 
 "I will go." 
 
 "The green-grocer insists on being paid. She will no longer 
 leave her fagots. What will you warm yourself with this 
 winter? We shall have no wood." 
 
 "There is the sun." 
 
 "The butcher refuses to give credit ; he will not let us have 
 any more meat." 
 
 "That is quite right. I do not digest meat well. It is too 
 heavy." 
 
 "What shall we have for dinner?" 
 
 "Bread." 
 
 "The baker demands a settlement, and says, 'no money, no 
 bread.' " 
 
 "That is well." 
 
 "What will you eat?" 
 
 "We have apples in the apple-room." 
 
 "But, Monsieur, we can't live like that without money."
 
 SUCCOR FROM BELOW H5 
 
 "I have none." 
 
 The old woman went away, the old man remained alone. 
 He fell into thought. Gavroche became thoughtful also. It 
 was almost dark. 
 
 The first result of Gavroche's meditation was, that instead 
 of scaling the hedge, he crouched down under it. The 
 branches stood apart a little at the foot of the thicket. 
 
 "Come," exclaimed Gavroche mentally, "here's a nook !" 
 and he curled up in it. His back was almost in contact with 
 Father Mabeuf's bench. He could hear the octogenarian 
 breathe. 
 
 Then, by way of dinner, he tried to sleep. 
 
 It was a cat-nap, with one eye open. While he dozed, 
 Gavroche kept on the watch. 
 
 The twilight pallor of the sky blanched the earth, and the 
 lane formed a livid line between two rows of dark bushes. 
 
 All at once, in this whitish band, two figures made their 
 appearance. One was in front, the other some distance in the 
 rear. 
 
 "There come two creatures," muttered Gavroche. 
 
 The first form seemed to be some elderly bourgeois, who was 
 bent and thoughtful, dressed more than plainly, and who was 
 walking slowly because of his age, and strolling about in the 
 open evening air. 
 
 The second was straight, firm, slender. It regulated its pace 
 by that of the first ; but in the voluntary slowness of its gait, 
 suppleness and agility were discernible. This figure had also 
 something fierce and disquieting about it, the whole shape was 
 that of what was then called an elegant; the hat was of good 
 shape, the coat black, well cut, probably of fine cloth, and well 
 fitted in at the waist. The head was held erect with a sort of 
 robust grace, and beneath the hat the pale profile of a young 
 man could be made out in the dim light. The profile had a 
 rose in its mouth. This second form was well known to 
 Gavroche ; it was Montparnasse. 
 
 He could have told nothing about the other, except that he 
 was a respectable old man.
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Gavroche immediately began to take observations. 
 
 One of these two pedestrians evidently had a project con- 
 nected with the other. Gavroche was well placed to watch the 
 course of events. The bedroom had turned into a hiding-place 
 at a very opportune moment. 
 
 Montparnasse on the hunt at such an hour, in such a place, 
 betokened something threatening. Gavroche felt his gamin's 
 heart moved with compassion for the old man. 
 
 What was he to do? Interfere? One weakness coming 
 to the aid of another ! It would be merely a laughing matter 
 for Montparnasse. Gavroche did not shut his eyes to the fact 
 that the old man, in the first place, and the child in the second, 
 would make but two mouthfuls for that redoubtable ruffian 
 eighteen years of age. 
 
 While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack took place, 
 abruptly and hideously. The attack of the tiger on the wild 
 ass, the attack of the spider on the fly. Montparnasse 
 suddenly tossed away his rose, bounded upon the old man, 
 seized him by the collar, grasped and clung to him, and 
 Gavroche with difficulty restrained a scream. A moment later 
 one of these men was underneath the other, groaning, strug- 
 gling, with a knee of marble upon his breast. Only, it was 
 not just what Gavroche had expected. The one who lay on 
 the earth was Montparnasse ; the one who was on top was the 
 old man. All this took place a few paces distant from 
 Gavroche. 
 
 The old man had received the shock, had returned it, and 
 that in such a terrible fashion, that in a twinkling, the assail- 
 ant and the assailed had exchanged roles. 
 
 "Here's a hearty veteran !" thought Gavroche. 
 
 He could not refrain from clapping his hands. But it was 
 applause wasted. It did not reach the combatants, absorbed 
 and deafened as they were, each by the other, as their breath 
 mingled in the struggle. 
 
 Silence ensued. Montparnasse ceased his struggles. Gav- 
 roche indulged in this aside: "Can he be dead!" 
 
 The goodman had not uttered a word, nor given vent to a
 
 SUCCOR FROM BELOW H7 
 
 cry. Ho rose to his feet, and Gavroche heard him say to 
 Montparnasse : 
 
 "Get up." 
 
 Montparnasse rose, but the goodman held him fast. Mont- 
 parnasse's attitude was the humiliated and furious attitude of 
 the wolf who has been caught by a sheep. 
 
 Gavroche looked on and listened, making an effort to rein- 
 force his eyes with his ears. He was enjoying himself 
 immensely. 
 
 He was repaid for his conscientious anxiety in the character 
 of a spectator. He was able to catch on the wing a dialogue 
 which borrowed from the darkness an indescribably tragic 
 accent. The goodman questioned, Montparnasse replied. 
 
 "How old are you?" 
 
 "Nineteen." 
 
 "You are strong and healthy. Why do you not work ?" 
 
 "It bores me." 
 
 "What is your trade ?" 
 
 "An idler." 
 
 "Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you? What 
 would you like to be?" 
 
 "A thief." 
 
 A pause ensued. The old man seemed absorbed in profound 
 thought. He stood motionless, and did not relax his hold on 
 Montparnasse. 
 
 Every moment the vigorous and agile young ruffian indulged 
 in the twitchings of a wild bejjst caught in a snare. He gave 
 a jerk, tried a crook of the knee, twisted his limbs desper- 
 ately, and made efforts to escape. 
 
 The old man did not appear to notice it, and held both his 
 arms with one hand, with the sovereign indifference of abso- 
 lute force. 
 
 The old man's revery lasted for some time, then, looking 
 steadily at Montparnasse, he addressed to him in a gentle 
 voice, in the midst of the darkness where they stood, a solemn 
 harangue, of which Gavroche did not lose a single syllable : 
 
 "My child, you are entering, through indolence, on one
 
 118 8AINT-DEXI8 
 
 of the most laborious of lives. Ah ! You declare yourself to 
 be an idler ! prepare to toil. There is a certain formidable 
 machine, have you seen it? It is the rolling-mill. You must 
 be on your guard against it. it is crafty and ferocious; if it 
 catches hold of the skirt of your coat, you will be drawn in 
 bodily. That machine is laziness. Stop while there is yet 
 time, and save yourself ! Otherwise, it is all over with you ; in 
 a short time you will be among the gearing. Once entangled, 
 hope for nothing more. Toil, lazybones ! there is no more 
 repose for you ! The iron hand of implacable toil has seized 
 you. You do not wish to earn your living, to have a task, to 
 fulfil a duty ! It bores you to be like other men ? Well ! You 
 will be different. Labor is the law ; he who rejects it will find 
 ennui his torment. You do not wish to be a workingman, you 
 will be a slave. Toil lets go of you on one side only to grasp 
 you again on the other. You do not desire to be its friend, you 
 shall be its negro slave. Ah ! You would have none of the 
 honest weariness of men, you shall have the sweat of the 
 damned. Where others sing, you will rattle in your throat. 
 You will see afar off, from below, other men at work ; it will 
 seem to you that they are resting. The laborer, the harvester, 
 the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in glory like the 
 blessed spirits in paradise. What radiance surrounds the 
 forge ! To guide the plough, to bind the sheaves, is joy. The 
 bark at liberty in the wind, what delight ! Do you, lazy idler, 
 delve, drag on, roll, march ! Drag your halter. You are a 
 beast of burden in the team of hell ! Ah ! To do nothing 
 is your object. Well, not a week, not a day, not an hour shall 
 you have free from oppression. You will be able to lift 
 nothing without anguish. Every minute that passes will make 
 your muscles crack. What is a feather to others will be a rock 
 to you. The simplest things will become steep acclivities. 
 Life will become monstrous all about you. To go. to come, to 
 breathe, will be just so many terrible labors. Your lungs will 
 produce on you the effect of weighing a hundred pounds. 
 Whether you shall walk here rather than there, will become a 
 problem that must be solved. Any one who wants to go out
 
 8UCCOK FROM BELOW H9 
 
 simply gives his door a push, and there he is in the open air. 
 If you wish to go out, you will be obliged to pierce your wall. 
 What does every one who wants to step into the street do ? He 
 goes down stairs; you will tear up your sheets, little by little 
 you will make of them a rope, then you will climb out of your 
 window, and you will suspend yourself by that thread over an 
 abyss, and it will be night, amid storm, rain, and the hurri- 
 cane, and if the rope is too short, but one way of descending 
 will remain to you, to fall. To drop hap-hazard into the gulf, 
 from an unknown height, on what ? On what is beneath, on 
 the unknown. Or you will crawl up a chimney-flue, at the 
 risk of burning; or you will creep through a sewer-pipe, at 
 the risk of drowning; I do not speak of the holes that you 
 will be obliged to mask, of the stones which you will have to 
 take up and replace twenty times a day, of the plaster that 
 you will have to hide in your straw pallet. A lock presents 
 itself; the bourgeois has in his pocket a key made by a lock- 
 smith. If you wish to pass out, you will be condemned to 
 execute a terrible work of art ; you will take a large sou, you 
 will cut it in two plates ; with what tools ? You will have to 
 invent them. That is your business. Then you will hollow 
 out the interior of these plates, taking great care of the out- 
 side, and you will make on the edges a thread, so that they 
 can be adjusted one upon the other like a box and its cover. 
 The top and bottom thus screwed together, nothing will be 
 suspected. To the overseers it will be only a sou ; to you it 
 will be a box. What will you put in this box ? A small bit of 
 steel. A watch-spring, in which you will have cut teeth, and 
 which will form a saw. With this saw, as long as a pin, and 
 concealed in a sou, you will cut the bolt of the lock, you will 
 sever bolts, the padlock of your chain, and the bar at your 
 window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece fin- 
 ished, this prodigy accomplished, all these miracles of art. 
 address, skill, and patience executed, what will be your recom- 
 pense if it becomes known that you are the author? The 
 dungeon. There is your future. What precipices are idleness 
 and pleasure ! Do you know that to do nothing is a melan-
 
 120 SAIST-DENIS 
 
 choly resolution? To live in idleness on the property of 
 society ! to be useless, that is to say, pernicious ! This leads 
 straight to the depth of wretchedness. Woe to the man who 
 desires to be a parasite ! He will become vermin ! Ah ! So it 
 does not please you to work ? Ah ! You have but one thought, 
 to drink well, to eat well, to sleep well. You will drink water, 
 you will eat black bread, you will sleep on a plank with a 
 fetter whose cold touch you will feel on your flesh all night 
 long, riveted to your limbs. You will break those fetters, you 
 will flee. That is well. You will crawl on your belly through 
 the brushwood, and you will eat grass like the beasts of the 
 forest. And you will be recaptured. And then you will pass 
 years in a dungeon, riveted to a wall, groping for your jug 
 that you may drink, gnawing at a horrible loaf of darkness 
 which dogs would not touch, eating beans that the worms 
 have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a cellar. 
 Ah ! Have pity on yourself, you miserable young child, who 
 were sucking at nurse less than twenty years ago, and who 
 have, no doubt, a mother still alive ! I conjure you, listen 
 to me, I entreat you. You desire fine black cloth, varnished 
 shoes, to have your hair curled and sweet-smelling oils on your 
 locks, to please low women, to be handsome. You will be 
 shaven clean, and you will wear a red blouse and wooden 
 shoes. You want rings on your fingers, you will have an 
 iron necklet on your neck. If you glance at a woman, you 
 will receive a blow. And you will enter there at the age of 
 twenty. And you will come out at fifty ! You will enter 
 young, rosy, fresh, with brilliant eyes, and all your white 
 teeth, and your handsome, youthful hair; you will come out 
 broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, with white locks ! 
 Ah ! my poor child, you are on the wrong road ; idleness is 
 counselling you badly; the hardest of all work is thieving. 
 Believe me, do not undertake that painful profession of an 
 idle man. It is not comfortable to become a rascal. It is 
 less disagreeable to be an honest man. Now go, and ponder 
 on what I have said to you. By the way, what did you want 
 of me? My purse? Here it is."
 
 SUCCOR FROM UK LOW 
 
 And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, put his purse in 
 the latter's hand; Montparnasse weighed it for a moment, 
 after which he allowed it to slide gently into the back pocket 
 of his coat, with the same mechanical precaution as though 
 he had stolen it. 
 
 All this having been said and done, the goodman turned his 
 back and tranquilly resumed his stroll. 
 
 "The blockhead !" muttered Montparnasse. 
 
 Who was this goodman ? The reader has, no doubt, already 
 divined. 
 
 Montparnasse watched him with amazement, as he disap- 
 peared in the dusk. This contemplation was fatal to him. 
 
 While the old man was walking away, Gavroche drew near. 
 
 Gavroche had assured himself, with a sidelong glance, that 
 Father Mabeuf was still sitting on his bench, probably sound 
 asleep. Then the gamin emerged from his thicket, and began 
 to crawl after Montparnasse in the dark, as the latter stood 
 there motionless. In this manner he came up to Montpar- 
 nasse without being seen or heard, gently insinuated his hand 
 into the back pocket of that frock-coat of fine black cloth, 
 seized the purse, withdrew his hand, and having recourse once 
 more to his crawling, he slipped away like an adder through 
 the shadows. Montparnasse, who had no reason to be on his 
 guard, and who was engaged in thought for the first time in 
 his life, perceived nothing. When Gavroche had once more 
 attained the point where Father Mabeuf was, he flung the 
 purse over the hedge, and fled as fast as his legs would carry 
 him. 
 
 The purse fell on Father Mabeuf's foot. This commotion 
 roused him. 
 
 He bent over and picked up the purse. 
 
 He did not understand in the least, and opened it. 
 
 The purse had two compartments; in one of them there 
 was some small change ; in the other lay six napoleons. 
 
 M. Mabeuf, in great alarm, referred the matter to his house- 
 keeper. 
 
 "That has fallen from heaven," said Mother Plutarque.
 
 BOOK FIFTH. THE END OF WHICH DOES NOT 
 RESEMBLE THE BEGINNING 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SOLITUDE AND THE BARRACKS COMBINED 
 
 COSETTE'S grief, which had been so poignant and lively four 
 or five months previously, had, without her being conscious of 
 the fact, entered upon its convalescence. Nature, spring, 
 youth, love for her father, the gayety of the birds and flowers, 
 caused something almost resembling forgetfulness to filter 
 gradually, drop by drop, into that soul, which was so virgin 
 and so young. Was the fire wholly extinct there? Or 
 was it merely that layers of ashes had formed? The truth 
 is, that she hardly felt the painful and burning spot any 
 longer. 
 
 One day she suddenly thought of Marius: "Why!" said she, 
 "I no longer think of him." 
 
 That same week, she noticed a very handsome officer of 
 lancers, with a wasp-like waist, a delicious uniform, the cheeks 
 of a young girl, a sword under his arm, waxed mustaches, and 
 a glazed schapka, passing the gate. Moreover, he had light 
 hair, prominent blue eyes, a round face, was vain, insolent and 
 good-looking; quite the reverse of Marius. He had a cigar 
 in his mouth. Cosette thought that this officer doubtless 
 belonged to the regiment in barracks in the Rue dc Babylone. 
 
 On the following day, she saw him pass again. She took 
 note of the hour. 
 
 From that time forth, was it chance? she saw him pass 
 nearly every day. 
 
 The officer's comrades perceived that there was, in that
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE BEGINNING 
 
 "badly kept" garden, behind that malicious rococo fence, a 
 very pretty creature, who was almost always there when the 
 handsome lieutenant, who is not unknown to the reader, and 
 whose name was Theodule (Jillenormand, passed by. 
 
 "See here !" they said to him, "there's a little creature there 
 who is making eyes at you, look." 
 
 "Have I the time," replied the lancer, "to look at all the 
 girls who look at me?" 
 
 This was at the precise moment when Marius was descend- 
 ing heavily towards agony, and was saying: "If I could but 
 see her before I die!" Had his wish been realized, had he 
 beheld Cosette at that moment gazing at the lancer, he would 
 not have been able to utter a word, and he would have expired 
 with grief. 
 
 Whose fault was it ? No one's. 
 
 Marius possessed one of those temperaments which bury 
 themselves in sorrow and there abide; Cosette was one of 
 those persons who plunge into sorrow and emerge from it 
 again. 
 
 Cosette was, moreover, passing through that dangerous 
 period, the fatal phase of feminine revery abandoned to itself, 
 in which the isolated heart of a young girl resembles the ten- 
 drils of the vine which cling, as chance directs, to the capital 
 of a marble column or to the post of a wine-shop : A rapid 
 and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, be she rich 
 or poor, for wealth does not prevent a bad choice; misalliances 
 are made in very high circles, real misalliance is that of souls; 
 and as many an unknown young man, without name, without 
 birth, without fortune, is a marble column which bears up t. 
 temple of grand sentiments and grand ideas, so such and sm-h 
 a man of the world satisfied and opulent, who has polished 
 boots and varnished words, if looked at not outside, but 
 inside, a thing which is reserved for his wife, is nothing more 
 than a block obscurely haunted by violent, unclean, and vinous 
 passions; the post of a drinking-shop. 
 
 What did Cosette's soul contain ? Passion calmed or lulled 
 to sleep; something limpid, brilliant, troubled to a certain
 
 124 
 
 depth, and gloomy lower down. The image of the handsome 
 officer was reflected in the surface. Did a souvenir linger in 
 the depths? Quite at the bottom? Possibly. Cosette did 
 not know. 
 
 A singular incident supervened. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 COSETTE'S APPREHENSIONS 
 
 DURING the first fortnight in April, Jean Valjean took a 
 journey. This, as the reader knows, happened from time to 
 time, at very long intervals. He remained absent a day or 
 two days at the utmost. Where did he go ? No one knew, not 
 even Cosette. Once only, on the occasion of one of these de- 
 partures, she had accompanied him in a hackney-coach as 
 far as a little blind-alley at the corner of which she read : 
 Impasse de la Planchette. There he alighted, and the coach 
 took Cosette back to the Rue de Babylone. It was usually 
 when money was lacking in the house that Jean Valjean took 
 these little trips. 
 
 So Jean Valjean was absent. He had said : "I shall return 
 in three days." 
 
 That evening, Cosette was alone in the drawing-room. In 
 order to get rid of her ennui, she had opened her piano-organ, 
 and had begun to sing, accompanying herself the while, the 
 chorus from Euryanthe: "Hunters astray in the wood!" 
 which is probably the most beautiful thing in all the sphere 
 of music. When she had finished, she remained wrapped in 
 thought. 
 
 All at once, it seemed to her that she heard the sound of 
 footsteps in the garden. 
 
 It could not be her father, he was absent ; it could not be 
 Toussaint, she was in bed, and it was ten o'clock at night. 
 
 She stepped to the shutter of the drawing-room, which was 
 closed, and laid her ear against it.
 
 Tin: J:\D UNLIKE THE BEVI. \XIKO 125 
 
 It seemed to her that it was the tread of a man, and that he 
 was walking very softly. 
 
 She mounted rapidly to the first floor, to her own chamber, 
 opened a small wicket in her shutter, and peeped into the 
 garden. The moon was at the full. Everything could be seen 
 as plainly as by day. 
 
 There was no one there. 
 
 She opened the window. The garden was absolutely calm, 
 and all that was visible was that the street was deserted as 
 usual. 
 
 Cosette thought that she had been mistaken. She thought 
 that she had heard a noise. It was a hallucination produced 
 by the melancholy and magnificent chorus of Weber, which 
 lays open before the mind terrified depths, which trembles 
 before the gaze like a dizzy forest, and in which one hears the 
 crackling of dead branches beneath the uneasy tread of the 
 huntsmen of whom one catches a glimpse through the twilight. 
 
 She thought no more about it. 
 
 Moreover, Cosette was not very timid by nature. There 
 flowed in her veins some of the blood of the bohemian and 
 the adventuress who runs barefoot. It will be remembered 
 that she was more of a lark than a dove. There was a founda- 
 tion of wildness and bravery in her. 
 
 On the following day, at an earlier hour, towards nightfall, 
 she was strolling in the garden. In the midst of the con- 
 fused thoughts which occupied her, she fancied that she caught 
 for an instant a sound similar to that of the preceding evening, 
 as though some one were walking beneath the trees in the dusk, 
 and not very far from her; but she told herself that nothing so 
 closely resembles a step on the grass as the friction of two 
 branches which have moved from side to side, and she paid no 
 heed to it. Besides, she 1 could see nothing. 
 
 She emerged from "the thicket"; she had still to cross a 
 small lawn to regain the steps. 
 
 The moon, which had just risen behind her, cast Cosette's 
 shadow in front of her upon this lawn, as she came out from 
 the shrubbery.
 
 126 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Cosettc halted in alarm. 
 
 Beside her shadow, the moon outlined distinctly upon the 
 turf another shadow, which was particularly startling and ter- 
 rible, a shadow which had a round hat. 
 
 It was the shadow of a man, who must have been standing 
 on the border of the clump of shrubbery, a few paces in the 
 rear of Cosette. 
 
 She stood for a moment without the power to speak, or cry, 
 or call, or stir, or turn her head. 
 
 Then she summoned up all her courage, and turned round 
 resolutely. 
 
 There was no one there. 
 
 She glanced on the ground. The figure had disappeared. 
 
 She re-entered the thicket, searched the corners boldly, went 
 as far as the gate, and found nothing. 
 
 She felt herself absolutely chilled with terror. Was this an- 
 other hallucination? What! Two days in succession! One 
 hallucination might pass, but two hallucinations? The dis- 
 quieting point about it was, that the shadow had assuredly not 
 been a phantom. Phantoms do not wear round hats. 
 
 On the following day Jean Valjean returned. Cosette told 
 him what she thought she had heard and seen. She wanted to 
 be reassured and to see her father shrug his shoulders and say 
 to her : "You are a little goose." 
 
 Jean Valjean grew anxious. 
 
 "It cannot be anything," said he. 
 
 He left her under some pretext, and went into the garden, 
 and she saw him examining the gate with great attention. 
 
 During the night she woke up ; this time she was sure, and 
 she distinctly heard some one walking close to the flight of 
 steps beneath her window. She ran to her little wicket and 
 opened it. In point of fact, there was a man in the garden, 
 with a large club in his hand. Just as she was about to scream, 
 the moon lighted up the man's profile. It was her father. 
 She returned to her bed, saying to herself: "He is very 
 uneasy !" 
 
 Jean Valjean passed that night and the two succeeding
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE BEGINNING 197 
 
 nights in the garden. Cosette saw him through the hole in 
 her shut I or. 
 
 On the third night, the moon was on the wane, and had 
 hegun to rise later; at one o'clock in the morning, possibly, 
 she heard a loud burst of laughter and her father's voice 
 calling her: 
 
 "Cosette !" 
 
 She jumped out of bed, threw on her dressing-gown, and 
 opened her window. 
 
 Her father was standing on the grass-plot below. 
 
 "I have waked you for the purpose of reassuring you,'' said 
 he; "look, there is your shadow with the round hat." 
 
 And he pointed out to her on the turf a shadow cast by the 
 moon, and which did, indeed, bear considerable resemblance to 
 the spectre of a man wearing a round hat. It was the shadow 
 produced by a chimney-pipe of sheet iron, with a hood, which 
 rose above a neighboring roof. 
 
 Cosette joined in his laughter, all her lugubrious supposi- 
 tions were allayed, and the next morning, as she was at break- 
 fast with her father, she made merry over the sinister garden 
 haunted by the shadows of iron chimney-pots. 
 
 Jean Valjean became quite tranquil once more; as for Co- 
 eette, she did not pay much attention to the question whether 
 the chimney-pot was really in the direction of the shadow 
 which she had seen, or thought she had seen, and whether the 
 moon had been in the same spot in the sky. 
 
 She did not question herself as to the peculiarity of a chim- 
 ney-pot which is afraid of being caught in the act, and which 
 retires when some one looks at its shadow, for the shadow had 
 taken the alarm when Cosette had turned round, and Co- 
 sette had thought herself very sure of this. Cosette's serenity 
 was fully restored. The proof appeared to her to be complete, 
 and it quite vanished from her mind, whether there could pos- 
 sibly be any one walking in the garden during the evening or 
 at night. 
 
 A few days later, however, a fresh incident occurred.
 
 128 BAINT-DENIB 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 ENRICHED WITH COMMENTARIES BY TOUSSAINT 
 
 IN the garden, near the railing on the street, there was a 
 stone bench, screened from the eyes of the curious by a plan- 
 tation of yoke-elms, but which could, in case of necessity, be 
 reached by an arm from the outside, past the trees and the 
 gate. 
 
 One evening during that same month of April, Jean Val- 
 jean had gone out; Cosette had seated herself on this bench 
 after sundown. The breeze was blowing briskly in the trees, 
 Cosette was meditating; an objectless sadness was taking pos- 
 session of her little by little, that invincible sadness evoked by 
 the evening, and which arises, perhaps, who knows, from the 
 mystery of the tomb which is ajar at that hour. 
 
 Perhaps Fantine was within that shadow. 
 
 Cosette rose, slowly made the tour of the garden, walking 
 on the grass drenched in dew, and saying to herself, through 
 the species of melancholy somnanbulism in which she was 
 plunged : "Really, one needs wooden shoes for the garden at 
 this hour. One takes cold." 
 
 She returned to the bench. 
 
 As she was about to resume her seat there, she observed 
 on the spot which she had quitted, a tolerably large stone 
 which had, evidently, not been there a moment before. 
 
 Cosette gazed at the stone, asking herself what it meant. 
 All at once the idea occurred to her that the stone had not 
 reached the bench all by itself, that some one had placed it 
 there, that an arm had been thrust through the railing, and 
 this idea appeared to alarm her. This time, the fear was gen- 
 uine ; the stone was there. No doubt was possible ; she did 
 not touch it, fled without glancing behind her, took refuge 
 in the house, and immediately closed with shutter, bolt, and 
 bar the door-like window opening on the flight of steps. She 
 inquired of Toussaint:
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE BEGINNING 129 
 
 "Has my father returned yet ?" 
 
 "Not yet, Mademoiselle." 
 
 [We have already noted once for all the fact that Toussaint 
 stuttered. May we be permitted to dispense with it for the 
 future. The musical notation of an infirmity is repugnant 
 to us.] 
 
 Jean Valjcan, a thoughtful man, and given to nocturnal 
 strolls, often returned quite late at night. 
 
 "Toussaint," went on Cosette, "are you careful to thor- 
 oughly barricade the shutters opening on the garden, at least 
 with bars, in the evening, and to put the little iron things 
 in the little rings that close them?" 
 
 "Oh ! be easy on that score, Miss." 
 
 Toussaint did not fail in her duty, and Cosette was well 
 aware of the fact, but she could not refrain from adding: 
 
 "It is so solitary here." 
 
 "So far as that is concerned," said Toussaint, "it is true. 
 We might be assassinated before we had time to say ouf! And 
 Monsieur does not sleep in the house, to boot. But fear noth- 
 ing, Miss, I fasten the shutters up like prisons. Lone women ! 
 That is enough to make one shudder, I believe you ! Just 
 imagine, what if you were to see men enter your chamber at 
 night and say : 'Hold your tongue !' and begin to cut your 
 throat. It's not the dying so much ; you die, for one must 
 die, and that's all right ; it's the abomination of feeling those 
 people touch you. And then, their knives; they can't be able 
 to cut well with them! Ah, good gracious!" 
 
 "Be quiet," said Cosette. "Fasten everything thoroughly." 
 
 Cosette, terrified by the melodrama improvised by Tous- 
 saint, and possibly, also, by the recollection of the apparitions 
 of the past week, which recurred to her memory, dared not 
 even say to her: "Go and look at the stone which has been 
 placed on the bench!" for fear of opening the garden gate 
 and allowing "the men" to enter. She saw that all the doors 
 and windows were carefully fastened, made Toussaint go all 
 over the house from garret to cellar, locked herself up in her 
 own chamber, bolted her door, looked under her couch, went
 
 130 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 to bed and slept badly. All night long she saw that big stone, 
 as large as a mountain and full of caverns. 
 
 At sunrise, the property of the rising sun is to make us 
 laugh at all our terrors of the past night, and our laughter is 
 in direct proportion to our terror which they have caused, at 
 sunrise Cosette, when she woke, viewed her fright as a night- 
 mare, and said to herself: "What have 1 been thinking of? 
 It is like the footsteps that I thought I heard a week or two 
 ago in the garden at night ! It is like the shadow of the 
 chimney-pot ! Am I becoming a coward ?" The sun, which 
 was glowing through the crevices in her shutters, and turning 
 the damask curtains crimson, reassured her to such an extent 
 that everything vanished from her thoughts, even the stone. 
 
 "There was no more a stone on the bench than there was a 
 man in a round hat in the garden ; I dreamed about the stone, 
 as I did all the rest." 
 
 She dressed herself, descended to the garden, ran to the 
 bench, and broke out in a cold perspiration. The stone was 
 there. 
 
 But this lasted only for a moment. That which is terror by 
 night is curiosity by day. 
 
 "Bah !" said she, "come, let us see what it is." 
 
 She lifted the stone, which was tolerably large. Beneath it 
 was something which resembled a letter. It was a white 
 envelope. Cosette seized it. There was no address on one 
 side, no seal on the other. Yet the envelope, though unsealed, 
 was not empty. Papers could be seen inside. 
 
 Cosette examined it. It was no longer alarm, it was no 
 longer curiosity ; it was a beginning of anxiety. 
 
 Cosette drew from the envelope its contents, a little note- 
 book of paper, each page of which was numbered and bore a 
 few lines in a very fine and rather pretty handwriting, as 
 Cosette thought. 
 
 Cosette looked for a name ; there was none. To whom was 
 this addressed? To her, probably, since a hand had deposited 
 the packet on her bench. From whom did it come? An irre- 
 sistible fascination took possession of her; she tried to turn
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE BEGINNING 
 
 away her eyes from the leaflets which were trembling in her 
 hand, she gazed at the sky, the street, the acacias all bathed in 
 light, the pigeons fluttering over a neighboring roof, and then 
 her glance suddenly fell upon the manuscript, and she said to 
 herself that she must know what it contained. 
 This is what she read. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A HEART BENEATH A STONE 
 
 THE reduction of the universe to a single being, the expan- 
 sion of a single being even to God, that is love. 
 
 Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars. 
 
 How sad is the soul, when it is sad through love ! 
 
 What a void in the absence of the being who, by herself 
 alone fills the world ! Oh ! how true it is that the beloved 
 being becomes God. One could comprehend that God might 
 be jealous of this had not God the Father of all evidently 
 made creation for the soul, and the soul for love. 
 
 The glimpse of a smile beneath a white crape bonnet with a 
 lilac curtain is sufficient to cause the soul to enter into the 
 palace of dreams. 
 
 God is behind everything, but everything hides God. 
 Things are black, creatures are opaque. To love a being is to 
 render that being transparent. 
 
 Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when,
 
 132 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 whatever the attitude of the body may be, the soul is on its 
 knees. 
 
 Parted lovers beguile absence by a thousand chimerical 
 devices, which possess, however, a reality of their own. They 
 are prevented from seeing each other, they cannot write to 
 each other; they discover a multitude of mysterious means to 
 correspond. They send each other the song of the birds, the 
 perfume of the flowers, the smiles of children, the light of the 
 sun, the sighings of the breeze, the rays of stars, all creation. 
 And why not ? All the works of God are made to serve love. 
 Love is sufficiently potent to charge all nature with its mes- 
 sages. 
 
 Oh Spring ! Thou art a letter that I write to her. 
 
 The future belongs to hearts even more than it does to 
 minds. Love, that is the only thing that can occupy and fill 
 eternity. In the infinite, the inexhaustible is requisite. 
 
 Love participates of the soul itself. It is of the same nature. 
 Like it, it is the divine spark ; like it, it is incorruptible, indi- 
 visible, imperishable. It is a point of fire that exists within 
 us, which is immortal and infinite, which nothing can confine, 
 and which nothing can extinguish. We feel it burning even 
 to the very marrow of our bones, and we see it beaming in the 
 very depths of heaven. 
 
 Oh Love ! Adorations ! voluptuousness of two minds which 
 understand each other, of two hearts which exchange with 
 each other, of two glances which penetrate each other ! You 
 will come to me, will you not, bliss! strolls by twos in the 
 solitudes ! Blessed and radiant days ! I have sometimes 
 dreamed that from time to time hours detached themselves 
 from the lives of the angels and came here below to traverse 
 the destinies of men.
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE BEGINNING 133 
 
 God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, 
 except to give them endless duration. After a life of love, an 
 eternity of love is, in fact, an augmentation ; but to increase 
 in intensity even the ineffable felicity which love bestows on 
 the soul even in this world, is impossible, even to God. God 
 is the plenitude of heaven ; love is .he plenitude of man. 
 
 You look at a star for two reasons, because it is luminous, 
 and because it is impenetrable. You have beside you a sweeter 
 radiance and a greater mystery, woman. 
 
 All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. 
 We lack air and we stifle. Then we die. To die for lack of 
 love is horrible. Suffocation of the soul. 
 
 When love has fused and mingled two beings in a sacred and 
 angelic unity, the secret of life has been discovered so far as 
 they are concerned ; they are no longer anything more than the 
 two boundaries of the same destiny; they are no longer any- 
 thing but the two wings of the same spirit. Love, soar. 
 
 On the day when a woman as she passes before you emits 
 light as she walks, you are lost, you love. But one thing 
 remains for you to do : to think of her so intently that she is 
 constrained to think of you. 
 
 What love commences can be finished by God alone. 
 
 True love is in despair and is enchanted over a glove lost or 
 a handkerchief found, and eternity is required for its devotion 
 and its hopes. It is composed both of the infinitely great and 
 the iufinitelv little.
 
 134: SAIlfT-DEJfIB 
 
 If you are a stone, be adamant ; if you are a plant, be the 
 sensitive plant; if you are a man, be love. 
 
 Nothing suffices for love. We have happiness, we desire 
 paradise; we possess paradise, we desire heaven. 
 
 Oh ye who love each other, all this is contained in love. 
 Understand how to find it there. Love has contemplation as 
 well as heaven, and more than heaven, it has voluptuousness. 
 
 "Does she still come to the Luxembourg?" "No, sir." 
 "This is the church where she attends mass, is it not ?" "She 
 no longer comes here." "Does she still live in this house?" 
 "She has moved away." "Where has she gone to dwell?" 
 "She did not say/' 
 
 What a melancholy thing not to know the address of one's 
 soul ! 
 
 Love has its childishness, other passions have their petti- 
 nesses. Shame on the passions which belittle man ! Honor 
 to the one which makes a child of him ! 
 
 There is one strange thing, do you know it ? I dwell in the 
 night. There is a being who carried off my sky when she 
 went away. 
 
 Oh! would that we were lying side by side in the same 
 grave, hand in hand, and from time to time, in the darkness, 
 gently caressing a finger, that would suffice for my eternity ! 
 
 Ye who suffer because ye love, love yet more. To die of 
 love, is to live in it. 
 
 Love. A sombre and starry transfiguration is mingled with 
 this torture. There is ecstasy in agony.
 
 THE END UK LIKE THE BEGINNING 135 
 
 Oh joy of the birds ! It is because they have nests that 
 they sing. 
 
 Love is a celestial respiration of the air of paradise. 
 
 Deep hearts, sage minds, take life as God has made it ; it is 
 a long trial, an incomprehensible preparation for an unknown 
 destiny. This destiny, the true one, begins for a man with the 
 first step inside the tomb. Then something appears to him, 
 and he begins to distinguish the definitive. The definitive, 
 meditate upon that word. The living perceive the infinite ; 
 the definitive permits itself to be seen only by the dead. In 
 the meanwhile, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe, 
 alas ! to him who shall have loved only bodies, forms, appear- 
 ances ! Death will deprive him of all. Try to love souls, you 
 will find them again. 
 
 I encountered in the street, a very poor young man who was 
 in love. His hat was old, his coat was worn, his elbows were 
 in holes; water trickled through his shoes, and the stars 
 through his soul. 
 
 What a grand thing it is to be loved ! What a far grander 
 thing it is to love! The heart becomes heroic, by dint of 
 passion. It is no longer composed of anything but what is 
 pure ; it no longer rests on anything that is not elevated and 
 great. An unworthy thought can no more germinate in it, 
 than a nettle on a glacier. The serene and lofty soul, inac- 
 cessible to vulgar passions and emotions, dominating the 
 clouds and the shades of this world, its follies, its lies, its 
 hatreds, its vanities, its miseries, inhabits the blue of heaven, 
 and no longer feels anything but profound and subterranean 
 shocks of destiny, as the crests of mountains feel the shocks 
 of earthquake. 
 
 If there did not exist some one who loved, the sun would 
 become extinct.
 
 8A1XT-DENI8 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER 
 
 As Cosette read, she gradually fell into thought. At the 
 very moment when she raised her eyes from the last line of 
 the note-book, the handsome officer passed triumphantly in 
 front of the gate, it was his hour; Cosette thought him 
 hideous. 
 
 She resumed her contemplation of the book. It was written 
 in the most charming of chirography, thought Cosette; in the 
 same hand, but with divers inks, sometimes very black, again 
 whitish, as when ink has been added to the inkstand, and con- 
 sequently on different days. It was, then, a mind which had 
 unfolded itself there, sigh by sigh, irregularly, without order, 
 without choice, without object, hap-hazard. Cosette had never 
 read anything like it. This manuscript, in which she already 
 perceived more light than obscurity, produced upon her the 
 effect of a half-open sanctuary. Each one of these mysterious 
 lines shone before her eyes and inundated her heart with a 
 strange radiance. The education which she had received had 
 always talked to her of the soul, and never of love, very much 
 as one might talk of the firebrand and not of the flame. This 
 manuscript of fifteen pages suddenly and sweetly revealed to 
 her all of love, sorrow, destiny, life, eternity, the beginning, 
 the end. It was as if a hand had opened and suddenly flung 
 upon her a handful of rays of light. In these few lines she 
 felt a passionate, ardent, generous, honest nature, a sacred 
 will, an immense sorrow, and an immense despair, a suffering 
 heart, an ecstasy fully expanded. What was this manuscript ? 
 A letter. A letter without name, without address, without 
 date, without signature, pressing and disinterested, an enigma 
 composed of truths, a message of love made to be brought by 
 an angel and read by a virgin, an appointment made beyond 
 the bounds of earth, the love-letter of a phantom to a shade. 
 It was an absent one, tranquil and dejected, who seemed ready
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE HEGIXNING 137 
 
 to take refuge in death and who sent to the absent love, his 
 lady, the secret of fate, the key of life, love. This had been 
 written with one foot in the grave and one finger in heaven. 
 These lines, which had fallen one by one on the paper, were 
 what might be called drops of soul. 
 
 Xow, from whom could these pages come? Who could 
 have penned them? 
 
 Cosette did not hesitate a moment. One man only. 
 
 He! 
 
 Day had dawned once more in her spirit ; all had reap- 
 peared. She felt an unheard-of joy, and a profound anguish. 
 It was he ! he who had written ! he was there ! it was he whose 
 arm had been thrust through that railing ! While she was 
 forgetful of him, he had found her again ! But had she 
 forgotten him? No, never! She was foolish to have thought 
 so for a single moment. She had always loved him, always 
 adored him. The fire had been smothered, and had smoul- 
 dered for a time, but she saw all plainly now ; it had but made 
 headway, and now it had burst forth afresh, and had inflamed 
 her whole being. This note-book was like a spark which had 
 fallen from that other soul into hers. She felt the conflagra- 
 tion starting up once more. 
 
 She imbued herself thoroughly with every word of the 
 manuscript : "Oh yes !" said she. "how perfectly I recognize 
 all that ! That is what I had already read in his eyes." As 
 she was finishing it for the third time, Lieutenant Theodule 
 passed the gate once more, and rattled his spurs upon the pave- 
 ment. Cosette was forced to raise her eyes. She thought him 
 insipid, silly, stupid, useless, foppish, displeasing, impertinent, 
 and extremely ugly. The officer thought it his duty to smile 
 at her. 
 
 She turned away as in shame and indignation. She would 
 gladly have thrown something at his head. 
 
 She fled, re-entered the house, and shut herself up in her 
 chamber to peruse the manuscript once more, to learn it by 
 heart, and to dream. When she had thoroughly mastered it 
 she kissed it and put it in her bosom.
 
 138 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 All was over. Cosettc had fallen back into deep, seraphic 
 love. The abyss of Eden had yawned once more. 
 
 All day long, Cosette remained in a sort of bewilderment. 
 She scarcely thought, her ideas were in the state of a tangled 
 skein in her brain, she could not manage to conjecture any- 
 thing, she hoped through a tremor, what? vague things. She 
 dared make herself no promises, and she did not wish to 
 refuse herself anything. Flashes of pallor passed over her 
 countenance, and shivers ran through her frame. It seemed 
 to her, at intervals, that she was entering the land of chime- 
 ras ; she said to herself : "Is this reality ?" Then she felt of the 
 dear paper within her bosom under her gown, she pressed it 
 to her heart, she felt its angles against her flesh ; and if Jean 
 Valjean had seen her at the moment, he would have shuddered 
 in the presence of that luminous and unknown joy, which 
 overflowed from beneath her eyelids. "Oh yes !" she thought, 
 "it is certainly he ! This comes from him. and is for me !" 
 
 And she told herself that an intervention of the angels, a 
 celestial chance, had given him back to her. 
 
 Oh transfiguration of love ! Oh dreams ! That celestial 
 chance, that intervention of the angels, was a pellet of bread 
 tossed by one thief to another thief, from the Charlemagne 
 Courtyard to the Lion's Ditch, over the roofs of La Force. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 OLD PEOPLE ARE MADE TO GO OUT OPPORTUNELY 
 
 WHEN evening came, Jean Valjean went out; Cosette 
 dressed herself. She arranged her hair in the most becoming 
 manner, and she put on a dress whose bodice had received 
 one snip of the scissors too much, and which, through this 
 slope, permitted a view of the beginning of her throat, and 
 was, as young girls say, "a trifle indecent." It was not in the 
 least indecent, but it was prettier than usual. She made her 
 toilet thus without knowing why she did so.
 
 THE END UNLIKE THE BEGINNING 139 
 
 Did she mean to go out? No. 
 
 Was she expecting a visitor? No. 
 
 At dusk, she went down to the garden. Toussaint was busy 
 in her kitchen, which opened on the back yard. 
 
 She began to stroll about under the trees, thrusting aside 
 the branches from time to time with her hand, because there 
 were some which hung very low. 
 
 In this manner she reached the bench. 
 
 The stone was still there. 
 
 She sat down, and gently laid her white hand on this stone 
 as though she wished to caress and thank it. 
 
 All at once, she experienced that indefinable impression 
 which one undergoes when there is some one standing behind 
 one, even when she does not see the person. 
 
 She turned her head and rose to her feet. 
 
 It was he. 
 
 His head was bare. He appeared to have grown thin and 
 pale. His black clothes were hardly discernible. The twilight 
 threw a wan light on his fine brow, and covered his eyes in 
 shadows. Beneath a veil of incomparable sweetness, he had 
 something about him that suggested death and night. His 
 face was illuminated by the light of the dying day, and by the 
 thought of a soul that is taking flight. 
 
 He seemed to be not yet a ghost, and he was no longer a 
 man. 
 
 He had flung away his hat in the thicket, a few paces dis- 
 tant. 
 
 Cosette, though ready to swoon, uttered no cry. She re- 
 treated slowly, for she felt herself attracted. He did not stir. 
 By virtue of something ineffable and melancholy which envel- 
 oped him, she felt the look in his eyes which she could not see. 
 
 Cosette, in her retreat, encountered a tree and leaned 
 against it. Had it not been for this tree, she would have 
 fallen. 
 
 Then she heard his voice, that voice which she had really 
 never heard, barely rising above the rustle of the leaves, and 
 murmuring:
 
 BA1XT-DEKIS 
 
 "Pardon me, here I am. My heart is full. I could not live 
 on as I was living, and I have come. Have you read what I 
 placed there on the bench? Do you recognize me at all? 
 Have no fear of me. It is a long time, you remember the day, 
 since you looked at me at the Luxembourg, near the Gladiator. 
 And the day when you passed before me? It was on the IGth 
 of June and the 2d of July. It is nearly a year ago. I have 
 not seen you for a long time. I inquired of the woman who 
 let the chairs, and she told me that she no longer saw you. 
 You lived in the Rue de 1'Ouest, on the third floor, in the 
 front apartments of a new house, you see that I know ! I 
 followed you. What else was there for me to do? And then 
 you disappeared. I thought I saw you pass once, while I was 
 reading the newspapers under the arcade of the Odeon. I ran 
 after you. But no. It was a person who had a bonnet like 
 yours. At night I came hither. Do not be afraid, no one sees 
 me. I come to gaze upon your windows near at hand. I walk 
 very softly, so that you may not hear, for you might be 
 alarmed. The other evening I was behind you, you turned 
 round, I fled. Once, I heard you singing. I was happy. Did 
 it affect you because I heard you singing through the shutters? 
 That could not hurt you. No, it is not so? You see, you are 
 my angel ! Let me come sometimes; I think that I am going 
 to die. If you only knew ! I adore you. Forgive me, I speak 
 to you, but 1 do not know what I am saying; I may have dis- 
 pleased you ; have I displeased you ?" 
 
 "Oh! my mother!'' said she. 
 
 And she sank down as though on the point of death. 
 
 He grasped her, she fell, he took her in his arms, he pressed 
 her close, without knowing what he was doing. He supported 
 her, though he was tottering himself. It was as though bis 
 brain were full of smoke; lightnings darted between his lips; 
 his ideas vanished ; it seemed to him that he was accomplishing 
 some religious act, and that he was committing a profanation. 
 Moreover, he had not the least passion for this lovely woman 
 whose force he felt against his breast. He was beside himself 
 with love.
 
 THE END UNLIKE TUE BEGINNING 
 
 She took his hand and laid it on her heart. He felt the 
 paper there, he stammered : 
 
 "You love me, then ?" 
 
 She replied in a voice so low that it was no longer anything 
 more than a barely audible breath : 
 
 "Hush ! Thou knowest it !" 
 
 And she hid her blushing face on the breast of the superb 
 and intoxicated young man. 
 
 He fell upon the bench, and she beside him. They had no 
 words more. The stars were beginning to gleam. How did it 
 come to pass that their lips met? How comes it to pass that 
 the birds sing, that snow melts, that the rose unfolds, that 
 May expands, that the dawn grows white behind the black 
 trees on the shivering crest of the hills? 
 
 A kiss, and that was all. 
 
 Both started, and gazed into the darkness with sparkling 
 eyes. 
 
 They felt neither the cool night, nor the cold stone, nor the 
 damp earth, nor the wet grass; they looked at each other, and 
 their hearts were full of thoughts. They had clasped hands 
 unconsciously. 
 
 She did not ask him, she did not even wonder, how he had 
 entered there, and how he had made his way into the garden. 
 It seemed so simple to her that he should be there ! 
 
 From time to time, Marius' knee touched Cosette's knee, and 
 both shivered. 
 
 At intervals, Cosette stammered a word. Her soul fluttered 
 on her lips like a drop of dew on a flower. 
 
 Little by little they began to talk to each other. Effusion 
 followed silence, which is fulness. The night was serene and 
 splendid overhead. These two beings, pure as spirits, told 
 each other everything, their dreams, their intoxications, their 
 ecstasies, their chinueras, their weaknesses, how they had 
 adored each other from afar, how they had longed for each 
 other, their despair when the)' had ceased to see each other. 
 They confided to each other in an ideal intimacy, which noth- 
 ing could augment, their most secret and most mysterious
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 thoughts. They related to each other, with candid faith in 
 their illusions, all that love, youth, and the remains of child- 
 hood which still lingered about them, suggested to their minds. 
 Their two hearts poured themselves out into each other in such 
 wise, that at the expiration of a quarter of an hour, it was the 
 young man who had the young girl's soul, and the young girl 
 who had the young man's soul. Each became permeated with 
 the other, they were enchanted with each other, they dazzled 
 each other. 
 
 When they had finished, when they had told each other 
 everything, she laid her head on his shoulder and asked him : 
 
 "What is your name ?" 
 
 "My name is Marius," said he. "And yours?" 
 
 "My name is Cosette."
 
 BOOK SIXTH. LITTLE GAVROCHE 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE MALICIOUS PLAYFULNESS OF THE WIND 
 
 SINCE 1823, when the tavern of Montfermeil was on the 
 way to shipwreck and was being gradually engulfed, not in 
 the abyss of a bankruptcy, but in the cesspool of petty debts, 
 the Thenardier pair had had two other children ; both males. 
 That made five; two girls and three boys. 
 
 Madame Thenardier had got rid of the last two, while they 
 were still young and very small, with remarkable luck. 
 
 Got rid of is the word. There was but a mere fragment of 
 nature in that woman. A phenomenon, by the way, of which 
 there is more than one example extant. Like the Marechale de 
 La Mothe-Houdancourt, the Thenardier was a mother to her 
 daughters only. There her maternity ended. Her hatred of 
 the human race began with her own sons. In the direction of 
 her sons her evil disposition was uncompromising, and her 
 heart had a lugubrious wall in that quarter. As the reader 
 has seen, she detested the eldest ; she cursed the other two. 
 Why? Because. The most terrible of motives, the most un- 
 answerable of retorts Because. "I have no need of a litter of 
 squalling brats," said this mother. 
 
 Let us explain how the Thenardiers had succeeded in getting 
 rid of their last two children ; and even in drawing profit from 
 the operation. 
 
 The woman Magnon, who was mentioned a few pages fur- 
 ther back, was the same one who had succeeded in making old 
 Gillenormand support the two children which she had had. 
 She lived on the Quai des Celestins, at the corner of this an-
 
 cient street of the Petit-Muse which afforded her the oppor- 
 tunity of changing her evil repute into good odor. The reader 
 will remember the great epidemic of croup which ravaged the 
 river districts of the Seine in Paris thirty-five years ago, and 
 of which science took advantage to make experiments on a 
 grand scale as to the efficacy of inhalations of alum, so bene- 
 ficially replaced at the present day by the external tincture of 
 iodine. During this epidemic, the Magnon lost both her boys, 
 who were still very young, one in the morning, the other in the 
 evening of the same day. This was a blow. These children 
 were precious to their mother; they represented eighty francs 
 a month. These eighty francs were punctually paid in the 
 name of M. Gillenormand, by collector of his rents, M. Barge, 
 a retired tip-staff, in the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile. The children 
 dead, the income was at an end. The Magnon sought an ex- 
 pedient. In that dark free-masonry of evil of which she 
 formed a part, everything is known, all secrets are kept, and 
 all lend mutual aid. Magnon needed two children; the The- 
 nardiers had two. The same sex, the same age. A good ar- 
 rangement for the one, a good investment for the other. The 
 little Thenardiers became little Magnons. Magnon quitted 
 the Quai des Celestins and went to live in the Rue Clocheperce. 
 In Paris, the identity which binds an individual to himself is 
 broken between one street and another. 
 
 The registry office being in no way warned, raised no objec- 
 tions, and the substitution was effected in the most simple 
 manner in the world. Only, the Thenardier exacted for this 
 loan of her children, ten francs a month, which Magnon prom- 
 ised to pay, and which she actually did pay. It is unnecessary 
 to add that M. Gillenormand continued to perform his com- 
 pact. He came to see the children every six months. He did 
 not perceive the change. "Monsieur," Magnon said to him, 
 "how much they resemble you !" 
 
 Thenardier, to whom avatars were easy, seized this occa- 
 sion to become Jondrette. His two daughters and Gavroche 
 had hardly had time to discover that they had two little 
 brothers. When a certain degree of misery is reached, one is
 
 LITTLE UAVROCUK 145 
 
 overpowered with a sort of spectral indifference, and one re- 
 gards human beings as though they were spectres. Your near- 
 est relations are often no more for you than vague shadowy 
 forms, barely outlined against a nebulous background of life 
 and easily confounded again with the invisible. 
 
 On the evening of the day when she had handed over her 
 two little ones to Magnon, with express intention of re- 
 nouncing them forever, the Thenardier had felt, or had 
 appeared to feel, a scruple. She said to her husband: "But 
 this is abandoning our children !" Thenardier, masterful and 
 phlegmatic, cauterized the scruple with this saying: "Jean 
 Jacques Rousseau did even better!" From scruples, the 
 mother proceeded to uneasiness: "But what if the police 
 were to annoy us? Tell me, Monsieur Thenardier, is what 
 we have done permissible?" Thenardier replied: "Everything 
 is permissible. No one will see anything but true blue in it. 
 Besides, no one has any interest in looking closely after chil- 
 dren who have not a sou." 
 
 Magnon was a sort of fashionable woman in the sphere of 
 crime. She was careful about her toilet. She shared her 
 lodgings, which were furnished in an affected and wretched 
 style, with a clever gallicized English thief. This English 
 woman, who had become a naturalized Parisienne, recom- 
 mended by very wealthy relations, intimately connected with 
 the medals in the Library and Mademoiselle Mar's diamonds, 
 became celebrated later on in judicial accounts. She was 
 called Mamselle Miss. 
 
 The two little creatures who had fallen to Magnon had no 
 reason to complain of their lot. Recommended by the eighty 
 francs, they were well cared for, as is everything from which 
 profit is derived ; they were neither badly clothed, nor badly 
 fed; they were treated almost like "little gentlemen, "- 
 better by their false mother than by their real one. Mag- 
 non played the lady, and talked no thieves' slang in their 
 presence. 
 
 Thus passed several years. Thenardier augured well from 
 the fact. One day, he chanced to say to Magnon as she handed
 
 146 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 him his monthly stipend of ten francs : "The father must give 
 them some education." 
 
 All at once, these two poor children, who had up to that 
 time been protected tolerably well, even by their evil fate, 
 were abruptly hurled into life and forced to begin it for them- 
 selves. 
 
 A wholesale arrest of malefactors, like that in the Jondrette 
 garret, necessarily complicated by investigations and subse- 
 quent incarcerations, is a veritable disaster for that hideous 
 and occult counter-society which pursues its existence beneath 
 public society; an adventure of this description entails all 
 sorts of catastrophes in that sombre world. The Thenardier 
 catastrophe involved the catastrophe of Magnon. 
 
 One day, a short time after Magnon had handed to fiponine 
 the note relating to the Rue Plumet, a sudden raid was made 
 by the police in the Rue Clocheperce; Magnon was seized, as 
 was also Mamselle Miss; and all the inhabitants of the house, 
 which was of a suspicious character, were gathered into the 
 net. While this was going on, the two little boys were playing 
 in the back yard, and saw nothing of the raid. When they 
 tried to enter the house again, they found the door fastened 
 and the house empty. A cobbler opposite called them to him, 
 and delivered to them a paper which "their mother" had left 
 for them. On this paper there was an address : M. Barge, col- 
 lector of rents, Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, No. 8. The proprietor 
 of the stall said to them: "You cannot live here any longer. 
 Go there. It is near by. The first street on the left. Ask 
 your way from this paper." 
 
 The children set out, the elder leading the younger, and 
 holding in his hand the paper which was to guide them. It 
 was cold, and his benumbed little fingers could not close very 
 firmly, and they did not keep a very good hold on the paper. 
 At the corner of the Rue Clocheperce, a gust of wind tore it 
 from him, and as night was falling, the child was not able to 
 find it again. 
 
 They began to wander aimlessly through the streets.
 
 LITTLE OAVROCHE 147 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 IN WHICH LITTLE OAVROCHE EXTRACTS PROFIT FROM NAPO- 
 LEON THE GREAT 
 
 SPRING in Paris is often traversed by harsh and piercing 
 breezes which do not precisely chill but freeze one ; these north 
 winds which sadden the most beautiful days produce exactly 
 the effect of those puffs of cold air which enter a warm room 
 through the cracks of a badly fitting door or window. It 
 seems as though the gloomy door of winter had remained ajar, 
 and as though the wind were pouring through it. In the 
 spring of 1832, the epoch when the first great epidemic of this 
 century broke out in Europe, these north gales were more 
 harsh and piercing than ever. It was a door even more glacial 
 than that of winter which was ajar. It was the door of the 
 sepulchre. In these winds one felt the breath of the 
 cholera. 
 
 From a meteorological point of view, these cold winds pos- 
 sessed this peculiarity, that they did not preclude a strong 
 electric tension. Frequent storms, accompanied by thunder 
 and lightning, burst forth at this epoch. 
 
 One evening, when these gales were blowing rudely, to such 
 a degree that January seemed to have returned and that the 
 bourgeois had resumed their cloaks, Little Gavroche, who was 
 always shivering gayly under his rags, was standing as though 
 in ecstasy before a wig-maker's shop in the vicinity of the 
 Orme-Saint-Gervais. He was adorned with a woman's 
 woollen shawl, picked up no one knows where, and which he 
 had converted into a neck comforter. Little Gavroche ap- 
 peared to be engaged in intent admiration of a wax bride, in a 
 low-necked dress, and crowned with orange-flowers, who was 
 revolving in the windo v, and displaying her smile to passers- 
 by, between two argand lamps; but in reality, he was taking 
 an observation of the shop, in order to discover whether he 
 could not "prig" from the shop-front a cake of soap, which
 
 148 8 AI XT DEN 1 8 
 
 he would then proceed to sell for a sou to a "hair-dresser" in 
 the suburbs. He had often managed to breakfast off of such a 
 roll. He called his species of work, for which he possessed 
 special aptitude, "shaving barbers." 
 
 While contemplating the bride, and eyeing the cake of soap, 
 he muttered between his teeth : "Tuesday. It was not Tues- 
 day. Was it Tuesday ? Perhaps it was Tuesday. Yes, it was 
 Tuesday." 
 
 Xo one has ever discovered to what this monologue re- 
 ferred. 
 
 Yes, perchance, this monologue had some connection with 
 the last occasion on which he had dined, three days before, 
 for it was now Friday. 
 
 The barber in his shop, which was warmed by a good stove, 
 was shaving a customer and casting a glance from time to 
 time at the enemy, that freezing and impudent street urchin 
 both of whose hands were in his pockets, but whose mind was 
 evidently unsheathed. 
 
 While Gavroche was scrutinizing the shop-window and the 
 cakes of Windsor soap, two children of unequal stature, very 
 neatly dressed, and still smaller than himself, one apparently 
 about seven years of age, the other five, timidly turned the 
 handle and entered the shop, with a request for something or 
 other, alms possibly, in a plaintive murmur which resembled 
 a groan rather than a prayer. They both spoke at once, and 
 their words were unintelligible because sobs broke the voice 
 of the younger, and the teeth of the elder were chattering with 
 cold. The barber wheeled round with a furious look, and 
 without abandoning his razor, thrust back the elder with his 
 left hand and the younger with his knee, and slammed his 
 door, saying: "The idea of coming in and freezing everybody 
 for nothing !" 
 
 The two children resumed their march in tears. In the 
 meantime, a cloud had risen ; it had begun to rain. 
 
 Little Gavroche ran after them and accosted them : 
 
 "What's the matter with you, brats?" 
 
 "We don't know where we are to sleep," replied the elder.
 
 LITTLE OAVROCHE }4<) 
 
 "Is that all ?" said Gavroche. "A great matter, truly. The 
 idea of bawling about that. They must be greenies !" 
 
 And adopting, in addition to his superiority, which was 
 rather bantering, an accent of tender authority and gentle 
 patronage : 
 
 "Come along with me, young 'uns!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the elder. 
 
 And the two children followed him as they would have 
 followed an archbishop. They had stopped crying. 
 
 Gavroche led them up the Rue Saint-Antoine in the direc- 
 tion of the Bastille. 
 
 As Gavroche walked along, he cast an indignant backward 
 glance at the barber's shop. 
 
 "That fellow has no heart, the whiting," 1 he muttered. 
 "He's an Englishman." 
 
 A woman who caught sight of these three marching in a 
 file, with Gavroche at their head, burst into noisy laughter. 
 This laugh was wanting in respect towards the group. 
 
 "Good day, Mamselle Omnibus," said Gavroche to her. 
 
 An instant later, the wig-maker occurred to his mind once 
 more, and he added : 
 
 "I am making a mistake in the beast; he's not a whiting, 
 he's a serpent. Barber, I'll go and fetch a locksmith, and I'll 
 have a bell hung to your tail." 
 
 This wig-maker had rendered him aggressive. As he strode 
 over a gutter, he apostrophized a bearded portress who was 
 worthy to meet Faust on the Brocken, and who had a broom in 
 her hand. 
 
 "Madam," said he, "so you are going out with your horse?" 
 
 And thereupon, he spattered the polished boots of a pedes- 
 trian. 
 
 "You scamp !" shouted the furious pedestrian. 
 
 Gavroche elevated his nose above his shawl. 
 
 "Is Monsieur complaining?" 
 
 "Of you !" ejaculated the man. 
 
 l Mcrlan: a sobriquet given to hairdressers because they are white 
 with powder.
 
 150 8AWT-DENI8 
 
 "The office is closed," said Gavroche, "I do not receive any 
 more complaints." 
 
 In the meanwhile, as he went on up the street, he perceived 
 a beggar-girl, thirteen or fourteen years old, and clad in so 
 short a gown that her knees were visible, lying thoroughly 
 chilled under a porte-cochere. The little girl was getting to be 
 too old for such a thing. Growth does play these tricks. The 
 petticoat becomes short at the moment when nudity becomes 
 indecent. 
 
 "Poor girl !" said Gavroche. "She hasn't even trousers. 
 Hold on, take this." 
 
 And unwinding all the comfortable woollen which he had 
 around his neck, he flung it on the thin and purple shoulders 
 of the beggar-girl, where the scarf became a shawl once more. 
 
 The child stared at him in astonishment, and received the 
 shawl in silence. When a certain stage of distress has been 
 reached in his misery, the poor man no longer groans over evil, 
 no longer returns thanks for good. 
 
 That done : "Brrr !" said Gavroche, who was shivering more 
 than Saint Martin, for the latter retained one-half of his 
 cloak. 
 
 At this brrr! the downpour of rain, redoubled in its spite, 
 became furious. The wicked skies punish good deeds. 
 
 "Ah, come now !" exclaimed Gavroche, "what's the mean- 
 ing of this ? It's re-raining ! Good Heavens, if it goes on 
 like this, I shall stop my subscription." 
 
 And he set out on the march once more. 
 
 "It's all right," he resumed, casting a glance at the beggar- 
 girl, as she coiled up under the shawl, "she's got a famous 
 peel." 
 
 And looking up at the clouds he exclaimed: 
 
 "Caught !" 
 
 The two children followed close on his heels. 
 
 As they were passing one of these heavy grated lattices, 
 which indicate a baker's shop, for bread is put behind bars 
 like gold, Gavroche turned round : 
 
 "Ah, by the way, brats, have we dined?"
 
 LITTLE OAVROCHE 
 
 "Monsieur," replied the elder, "we have had nothing to eat 
 since this morning." 
 
 "So you have neither father nor mother?" resumed Gav- 
 roche majestically. 
 
 "Excuse us, sir, we have a papa and a mamma, but we 
 don't know where they are." 
 
 "Sometimes that's better than knowing where they are," 
 said Gavroche, who was a thinker. 
 
 "We have been wandering about these two hours," continued 
 the elder, "we have hunted for things at the corners of the 
 streets, but we have found nothing." 
 
 "I know," ejaculated Gavroche, "it's the dogs who eat 
 everything." 
 
 He went on, after a pause: 
 
 "Ah ! we have lost our authors. We don't know what we 
 have done with them. This should not be, gamins. It's stupid 
 to let old people stray off like that. Come now ! we must have 
 a snooze all the same." 
 
 However, he asked them no questions. What was more 
 simple than that they should have no dwelling place ! 
 
 The elder of the two children, who had almost entirely 
 recovered the prompt heedlessness of childhood, uttered this 
 exclamation : 
 
 "It's queer, all the same. Mamma told us that she would 
 take us to get a blessed spray on Palm Sunday." 
 
 "Bosh," said Gavroche. 
 
 "Mamma," resumed the elder, "is a lady who lives with 
 Mamselle Miss." 
 
 "Tanflute !" retorted Gavrocho. 
 
 Meanwhile he had halted, and for the last two minutes he 
 had been feeling and fumbling in all sorts of nooks which his 
 rags contained. 
 
 At last he tossed his head with an air intended to be merely 
 satisfied, but which was triumphant, in reality. 
 
 "Let us be calm, young 'uns. Here's supper for three." 
 
 And from one of his pockets he drew forth a sou. 
 
 Without allowing the two urchins time for amazement, he
 
 152 SAI XT-DEMS 
 
 pushed both of them before him into the baker's shop, and 
 flung his sou on the counter, crying: 
 
 "Boy ! five centimes' worth of bread." 
 
 The baker, who was the proprietor in person, took up a loaf 
 and a knife. 
 
 "In three pieces, my boy !" went on Gavroche. 
 
 And he added with dignity: 
 
 "There are three of us." 
 
 And seeing that the baker, after scrutinizing the three 
 customers, had taken down a black loaf, he thrust his finger 
 far up his nose with an inhalation as imperious as though 
 he had had a pinch of the great Frederick's snuff on the tip 
 of his thumb, and hurled this indignant apostrophe full in 
 the baker's face: 
 
 "Keksekga ?" 
 
 Those of our readers who might be tempted to espy in this 
 interpellation of Gavroche's to the baker a Russian or a Polish 
 word, or one of those savage cries which the Yoways and the 
 Botocudos hurl at each other from bank to bank of a river, 
 athwart the solitudes, are warned that it is a word which they 
 [our readers] utter every day, and which takes the place of the 
 phrase : "Qu'est-ce que c'est que cela ?" The baker under- 
 stood perfectly, and replied : 
 
 "Well ! It's bread, and very good bread of the second 
 quality." 
 
 "You mean larton brutal [black bread]!" retorted Gav- 
 roche, calmly and coldly disdainful. "White bread, boy ! white 
 bread [larton savonne] ! I'm standing treat." 
 
 The baker could not repress a smile, and as he cut the white 
 bread he surveyed them in a compassionate way which shocked 
 Gavroche. 
 
 "Come, now, baker's boy !" said he, "what are you taking 
 our measure like that for?" 
 
 All three of them placed end to end would have hardly made 
 a measure. 
 
 When the bread was cut, the baker threw the sou into his 
 drawer, and Gavroche said to the two children:
 
 LITTLE GAVROCBE 153 
 
 "Grub away." 
 
 The little boys stared at him in surprise. 
 
 Gavroche began to laugh. 
 
 "Ah ! hullo, that's so ! they don't understand yet, they're 
 too small." 
 
 And he repeated: 
 
 "Eat away." 
 
 At the same time, he held out a piece of bread to each of 
 them. 
 
 And thinking that the elder, who seemed to him the more 
 worthy of his conversation, deserved some special encourage- 
 ment and ought to be relieved from all hesitation to satisfy his 
 appetite, he added, as he handed him the largest share : 
 
 "Ram that into your muzzle." 
 
 One piece was smaller than the others ; he kept this for 
 himself. 
 
 The poor children, including Gavroche, were famished. As 
 they tore their bread apart in big mouthfuls, they blocked up 
 the shop of the baker, who, no\v that they had paid their 
 money, looked angrily at them. 
 
 "Let's go into the street again/' said Gavroche. 
 
 They set off once more in the direction of the Bastille. 
 
 From time to time, as they passed the lighted shop-windows, 
 the smallest halted to look at the time on a leaden watch which 
 was suspended from his neck by a cord. 
 
 "Well, he is a very green 'un," said Gavroche. 
 
 Then, becoming thoughtful, he muttered between his 
 teeth : 
 
 "All the same, if I had charge of the babes I'd lock 'em up 
 better than that." 
 
 Just as they were finishing their morsel of bread, and had 
 reached the angle of that gloomy Rue des Ballets, at the other 
 end of which the low and threatening wicket of La Force was 
 visible: 
 
 "Hullo, is that you, Gavroche?" said some one. 
 
 "Hullo, is that you, Montparnasse ?" said Gavroche. 
 
 A man had just accosted the street urchin, and the man was
 
 154 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 no other than Montparnasse in disguise, with blue spectacles, 
 but recognizable to Gavroche. 
 
 "The bow-wows !" went on Gavroche, "you've got a hide 
 the color of a linseed plaster, and blue specs like a doctor. 
 You're putting on style, 'pon my word !" 
 
 "Hush !" ejaculated Montparnasse, "not so loud." 
 
 And he drew Gavroche hastily out of range of the lighted 
 shops. 
 
 The two little ones followed mechanically, holding each 
 other by the hand. 
 
 When they were ensconced under the arch of a porte- 
 cochere, sheltered from the rain and from all eyes: 
 
 "Do you know where I'm going?" demanded Montparnasse 
 
 "To the Abbey of Ascend-with-Regret," 1 replied Gavroche. 
 
 "Joker !" 
 
 And Montparnasse went on : 
 
 "I'm going to find Babet." 
 
 "Ah!" exclaimed Gavroche, "so her name is Babet." 
 
 Montparnasse lowered his voice : 
 
 "Not she, he." 
 
 "Ah ! Babet." 
 
 "Yes, Babet." 
 
 "I thought he was buckled." 
 
 "He has undone the buckle," replied Montparnasse. 
 
 And he rapidly related to the gamin how, on the morning of 
 that very day, Babet, having been transferred to La Concier- 
 gerie, had made his escape, by turning to the left instead of to 
 the right in "the police office." 
 
 Gavroche expressed his admiration for this skill. 
 
 "What a dentist !" he cried. 
 
 Montparnasse added a few details as to Babet's flight, and 
 ended with: 
 
 "Oh ! That's not all." 
 
 Gavroche, as he listened, had seized a cane that Montpar- 
 nasse held in his hand, and mechanically pulled at the upper 
 part, and the blade of a dagger made its appearance. 
 l The scaffold.
 
 LITTLE AV ROC HE 155 
 
 "Ah !" he exclaimed, pushing the dagger back in haste, 
 "you have brought along your gendarme disguised as a bour- 
 geois." 
 
 Montparnasse winked. 
 
 "The deuce !" resumed Gavroche, "so you're going to have 
 a bout with the bobbies?" 
 
 "You can't tell," replied Montparnasse with an indifferent 
 air. "It's always a good thing to have a pin about one." 
 
 Gavroche persisted : 
 
 "What are you up to to-night?" 
 
 Again Montparnasse took a grave tone, and said, mouthing 
 every syllable: "Things." 
 
 And abruptly changing the conversation: 
 
 "By the way!" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "Something happened t'other day. Fancy. I meet a bour- 
 geois. He makes me a present of a sermon and his purse. I 
 put it in my pocket. A minute later, I feel in my pocket. 
 There's nothing there." 
 
 "Except the sermon," said Gavroche. 
 
 "But you," went on Montparnasse, "where are you bound 
 for now?" 
 
 Gavroche pointed to his two proteges, and said: 
 
 "I'm going to put these infants to bed." 
 
 "Whereabouts is the bed?" 
 
 "At my house." 
 
 "Where's your house?" 
 
 "At my house." 
 
 "So you have a lodging?" 
 
 "Yes, I have." 
 
 "And where is your lodging?" 
 
 "In the elephant," said Gavroche. 
 
 Montparnasse. though not naturally inclined to astonish- 
 ment, could not restrain an exclamation. 
 
 "In the elephant !" 
 
 "Well, yes, in the elephant!" retorted Gavroche. "Kek- 
 c.aa?"
 
 15G SAINT-DENIS 
 
 This is another word of the language which no one writes, 
 and which every one speaks. 
 
 Kekgaa signifies: Quest que c'est que cela a? [What's the 
 matter with that ?] 
 
 The urchin's profound remark recalled Montparnasse to 
 calmness and good sense. He appeared to return to better 
 sentiments with regard to Gavroche's lodging. 
 
 "Of course," said he, "yes, the elephant. Is it comfortable 
 there ?" 
 
 "Very," said Gavroche. "It's really bully there. There 
 ain't any draughts, as there are under the bridges." 
 
 "How do you get in?" 
 
 "Oh, I get in." 
 
 "So there is a hole?" demanded Montparnasse. 
 
 "Parbleu ! I should say so. But you mustn't tell. It's 
 between the fore legs. The bobbies haven't seen it." 
 
 "And you climb up? Yes, I understand." 
 
 "A turn of the hand, eric, crac. and it's all over, no one 
 there." 
 
 After a pause, Gavroche added: 
 
 "I shall have a ladder for these children." 
 
 Montparnasse burst out laughing: 
 
 "Where the devil did you pick up those young 'uns ?" 
 
 Gavroche replied with great simplicity : 
 
 "They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present 
 of." 
 
 Meanwhile, Montparnasse had fallen to thinking: 
 
 "You recognized me very readily," he muttered. 
 
 He took from his pocket two small objects which were noth- 
 ing more than two quills wrapped in cotton, and thrust one 
 up each of his nostrils. This gave him a different nose. 
 
 "That changes you," remarked Gavroche, "you are less 
 homely so, you ought to keep them on all the time." 
 
 Montparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gavroche was a 
 tease. 
 
 "Seriously," demanded Montparnaese, "how do you like me 
 so?"
 
 LITTLE GAVROCHE 157 
 
 The Bound of his voice was different also. In a twinkling, 
 Montparnasse had become unrecognizable. 
 
 "Oh ! Do play Porrichinelle for us !" exclaimed Gavroche. 
 
 The two children, who had not been listening up to this 
 point, being occupied themselves in thrusting their fingers up 
 their noses, drew near at this name, and stared at Montpar- 
 nasse with dawning joy and admiration. 
 
 Unfortunately, Montparnasse was troubled. 
 
 He laid his hand on Gavroche's shoulder, and said to him, 
 emphasizing his words : "Listen to what I tell you, boy ! if I 
 were on the square with my dog, my knife, and my wife, and 
 if you were to squander ten sous on me, I wouldn't refuse to 
 work, but this isn't Shrove Tuesday." 
 
 This odd phrase produced a singular effect on the gamin. 
 He wheeled round hastily, darted his little sparkling eyes 
 about him with profound attention, and perceived a police 
 sergeant standing with his back to them a few paces off. Gav- 
 roche allowed an : "Ah ! good !" to escape him, but immediately 
 suppressed it, and shaking Montparnasse's hand : 
 
 "Well, good evening," said he, "I'm going off to my ele- 
 phant with my brats. Supposing that you should need me 
 some night, you can come and hunt me up there. I lodge on 
 the entresol. There is no porter. You will inquire for Mon- 
 sieur Gavroche." 
 
 "Very good," said Montparnasse. 
 
 And they parted, Montparnasse betaking himself in the di- 
 rection of the Grevc, and Gavroche towards the Bastille. The 
 little one of five, dragged along by his brother who was dragged 
 by Gavroche, turned his head back several times to watch 
 "Porrichinelle" as he went. 
 
 The ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse 
 had warned Gavroche of the presence of the policeman, con- 
 tained no other talisman than the assonance dig repeated five 
 or six times in different forms. This syllable, dig, uttered 
 alone or artistically mingled with the words of a phrase, 
 means: "Take care, we can no longer talk freely." There was 
 besides, in Montparnasse's sentence, a literary beauty which
 
 BAIXT-DEXIB 
 
 was lost upon Gavroche, that is mon doguc, ma dague et ma 
 digue, a slang expression of the Temple, which signifies my 
 clog, my knife, and my wife, greatly in vogue among clowns 
 and the red-tails in the great century when Moliere wrote and 
 Callot drew. 
 
 Twenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the south- 
 west corner of the Place de la Bastille, near the basin of the 
 canal, excavated in the ancient ditch of the fortress-prison, a 
 singular monument, which has already been effaced from the 
 memories of Parisians, and which deserved to leave some trace, 
 for it was the idea of a "member of the Institute, the General- 
 in-chief of the army of Egypt." 
 
 We say monument, although it was only a rough model. But 
 this model itself, a marvellous sketch, the grandiose skeleton 
 of an idea of Napoleon's, which successive gusts of wind have 
 carried away and thrown, on each occasion, still further from 
 us, had become historical and had acquired a certain definite- 
 ness which contrasted with its provisional aspect. It was an 
 elephant forty feet high, constructed of timber and masonry, 
 bearing on its back a tower which resembled a house, formerly 
 painted green by some dauber, and now painted black by 
 heaven, the wind, and time. In this deserted and unprotected 
 corner of the place, the broad brow of the colossus, his trunk, 
 his tusks, his tower, his enormous crupper, his four feet, like 
 columns produced, at night, under the starry heavens, a sur- 
 prising and terrible form. It was a sort of symbol of popular 
 force. It was sombre, mysterious, and immense. It was 
 some mighty, visible phantom, one knew not what, standing 
 erect beside the invisible spectre of the Bastille. 
 
 Few strangers visited this edifice, no passer-by looked at it. 
 It was falling into ruins; every season the plaster which de- 
 tached itself from its sides formed hideous wounds upon it. 
 "The axlilcs," as the expression ran in elegant dialect, had 
 forgotten it ever since 1814. There it stood in its corner, 
 melancholy, sick, crumbling, surrounded by a rotten palisade, 
 soiled continually by drunken coachmen; cracks meandered 
 athwart its belly, a lath projected from its tail, tall grass
 
 LITTLE (1AVROCHE 
 
 flourished between its legs; and, as the level of the place had 
 been rising all around it for a space of thirty years, by that 
 slow and continuous movement which insensibly elevates the 
 soil of large towns, it stood in a hollow, and it looked as 
 though the ground were giving way beneath it. It was un- 
 clean, despised, repulsive, arid superb, ugly in the eyes of the 
 bourgeois, melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. There was 
 something about it of the dirt which is on the point of being 
 swept out, and something of the majesty which is on the point 
 of being decapitated. As we have said, at night, its aspect 
 changed. Night is the real element of everything that is dark. 
 As soon as twilight descended, the old elephant became trans- 
 figured; he assumed a tranquil and redoubtable appearance in 
 the formidable serenity of the shadows. Being of the past, he 
 belonged to night; and obscurity was in keeping with his 
 grandeur. 
 
 This rough, squat, heavy, hard, austere, almost mis-shapen, 
 but assuredly majestic monument, stamped with a sort of 
 magnificent and savage gravity, has disappeared, and left to 
 reign in peace, a sort of gigantic stove, ornamented with its 
 pipe, which has replaced the sombre fortress with its nine 
 towers, very much as the bourgeoisie replaces the feudal 
 classes. It is quite natural that a stove should be the symbol 
 of an epoch in which a pot contains power. This epoch will 
 pass away, people have already begun to understand that, if 
 there can be force in a boiler, there can be no force except in 
 the brain; in other words, that which leads and drags on the 
 world, is not locomotives, but ideas. Harness locomotives 
 to ideas, that is well done; but do not mistake the horse for 
 the rider. 
 
 At all events, to return to the Place do la Bastille, the arch- 
 itect of this elephant succeeded in making a grand tiling out 
 of plaster; the architect of the stove has succeeded in making a 
 pretty thing out of bronze. 
 
 This stove-pipe, which has been baptized by a sonorous 
 name, and called the column of July, this monument of a 
 revolution that miscarried, was still enveloped in 1832, in an
 
 1(50 8AIXT-DEXIS 
 
 immense shirt of woodwork, which we regret, for our part, 
 and by a vast plank enclosure, which completed the task of 
 isolating the elephant. 
 
 It was towards this corner of the place, dimly lighted by 
 the reflection of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided 
 his two "brats." 
 
 The reader must permit us to interrupt ourselves here and 
 to remind him that we are dealing with simple reality, and 
 that twenty years ago, the tribunals were called upon to 
 judge, under the charge of vagabondage, and mutilation 
 of a public monument, a child who had been caught asleep 
 in this very elephant of the Bastille. This fact noted, we 
 proceed. 
 
 On arriving in the vicinity of the colossus, Gavroche com- 
 prehended the effect which the infinitely great might produce 
 on the infinitely small, and said : 
 
 "Don't be scared, infants." 
 
 Then he entered through a gap in the fence into the ele- 
 phant's enclosure and helped the young ones to clamber 
 throujh the breach. The two children, somewhat frightened, 
 followed Gavroche without uttering a word, and confided 
 themselves to this little Providence in rags which had given 
 them bread and had promised them a shelter. 
 
 There, extended along the fence, lay a ladder which by day 
 served the laborers in the neighboring timber-yard. Gav- 
 roche raised it with remarkable vigor, and placed it against 
 one of the elephant's forelegs. Near the point where the 
 ladder ended, a sort of black hole in the belly of the colossus 
 could be distinguished. 
 
 Gavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests, 
 and said to them : 
 
 "Climb up and go in." 
 
 The two little boys exchanged terrified glances. 
 
 "You're afraid, brats!" exclaimed Gavroche. 
 
 And he added : 
 
 "You shall see !" 
 
 He clasped the rough leg of the elephant, and in a twinkling,
 
 LITTLE GAV ROCHE 
 
 without deigning to make use of the ladder, he had reached the 
 aperture. He entered it as an adder slips through a crevice, 
 and disappeared within, and an instant later, the two children 
 saw his head, which looked pale, appear vaguely, on the edge 
 of the shadowy hole, like a wan and whitish spectre. 
 
 "Well!" he exclaimed, "climb up, young 'uns ! You'll see 
 how snug it is here ! Come up, you !" he said to the elder, 
 "I'll lend you a hand." 
 
 The little fellows nudged each other, the gamin frightened 
 and inspired them with confidence at one and the same time, 
 and then, it was raining very hard. The elder one undertook 
 the risk. The younger, on seeing his brother climbing up, 
 and himself left alone between the paws of this huge beast, 
 felt greatly inclined to cry, but he did not dare. 
 
 The elder lad climbed, with uncertain steps, up the rungs of 
 the ladder; Gavroche, in the meanwhile, encouraging him with 
 exclamations like a fencing-master to his pupils, or a muleteer 
 to his mules. 
 
 "Don't be afraid ! That's it ! Come on ! Put your feet 
 there ! Give us your hand here ! Boldly !" 
 
 And when the child was within reach, he seized him sud- 
 denly and vigorously by the arm, and pulled him towards 
 him. 
 
 "Nabbed !" said he. 
 
 The brat had passed through the crack. 
 
 "Now," said Gavroche, "wait for me. Be so good as to take 
 a seat, Monsieur." 
 
 And making his way out of the hole as he had entered it, 
 he slipped down the elephant's leg with the agility of a 
 monkey, landed on his feet in the grass, grasped the child of 
 five round the body, and planted him fairly in the middle of 
 the ladder, then he began to climb up behind him, shouting to 
 the elder : 
 
 "I'm going to boost him, do you tug." 
 
 And in another instant, the small lad was pushed, dragged, 
 pulled, thrust, stuffed into the hole, before he had time to re- 
 cover himself, and Gavroche, entering behind him, and re-
 
 162 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 pulsing the ladder with a kick which sent it flat on the grass, 
 began to clap his hands and to cry: 
 
 "Here we are ! Long live General Lafayette !" 
 
 This explosion over, he added : 
 
 "Now, young 'uns, you are in my house." 
 
 Gavroche was at home, in fact. 
 
 Oh, unforeseen utility of the useless ! Charity of great 
 things ! Goodness of giants ! This huge monument, which 
 had embodied an idea of the Emperor's, had become the box 
 of a street urchin. The brat had been accepted and sheltered 
 by the colossus. The bourgeois- decked out in their Sunday 
 finery who passed the elephant of the Bastille, were fond of 
 saying as they scanned it disdainfully with their prominent 
 eyes : "What's the good of that ?" It served to save from the 
 cold, the frost, the hail, and rain, to shelter from the winds of 
 winter, to preserve from slumber in the mud which produces 
 fever, and from slumber in the snow which produces death, 
 a little being who had no father, no mother, no bread, no 
 clothes, no refuge. It served to receive the innocent whom 
 society repulsed. It served to diminish public crime. It was 
 a lair open to one against whom all doors were shut. It seemed 
 as though the miserable old mastodon, invaded by vermin and 
 oblivion, covered with warts, with mould, and ulcers, tottering, 
 worm-eaten, abandoned, condemned, a sort of mendicant co- 
 lossus, asking alms in vain with a benevolent look in the midst 
 of the cross-roads, had taken pity on that other mendicant, the 
 poor pygmy, who roamed without shoes to his feet, without a 
 roof over his head, blowing on his fingers, clad in rags, fed on 
 rejected scraps. That was what the elephant of the Bastille 
 was good for. This idea of Napoleon, disdained by men, had 
 been taken back by God. That which had been merely illus- 
 trious, had become august. In order to realize his thought, 
 the Emperor should have had porphyry, brass, iron, gold, mar- 
 ble ; the old collection of planks, beams and plaster sufficed for 
 God. The Emperor had had the dream of a genius; in that 
 Titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, with trunk uplifted, 
 bearing its tower and scattering on all sides its merry and
 
 LITTLE QAVROCUE 
 
 vivifying waters, he wished to incarnate the people. God 
 had done a grander thing with it, he had lodged a child there. 
 
 The hole through which Gavroche had entered was a hreach 
 which was hardly visible from the outside, being concealed, as 
 we have stated, beneath the elephant's belly, and so narrow 
 that it was only cats and homeless children who could pass 
 through it. 
 
 "Let's begin," said Gavroche, "by telling the porter that we 
 are not at home." 
 
 And plunging into the darkness with the assurance of a 
 person who is well acquainted with his apartments, he took a 
 plank and stopped up the aperture. 
 
 Again Gavroche plunged into the obscurity. The children 
 heard the crackling of the match thrust into the phosphoric 
 bottle. The chemical match was not yet in existence ; at that 
 epoch the Fumade steel represented progress. 
 
 A sudden light made them blink ; Gavroche had just man- 
 aged to ignite one of those bits of cord dipped in resin which 
 are called cellar rats. The cellar rat, which emitted more 
 smoke than light, rendered the interior of the elephant con- 
 fusedly visible. 
 
 Gavroche's two guests glanced about them, and the sensa- 
 tion which they experienced was something like that which one 
 would feel if shut up in the great tun of Heidelberg, or, better 
 still, like what Jonah must have felt in the biblical belly of 
 the whale. An entire and gigantic skeleton appeared envel- 
 oping them. Above, a long brown beam, whence started at 
 regular distances, massive, arching ribs, represented the ver- 
 tebral column with its sides, stalactites of plaster depended 
 from them like entrails, and vast spiders' webs stretching from 
 side to side, formed dirty diaphragms. Here and there, in 
 the corners, were visible large blackish spots which had the 
 appearance of being alive, and which changed places rapidly 
 with nn abrupt and frightened movement. 
 
 Fragments which had fallen from the elephant's back into 
 his belly had tilled up the cavity, so that it was possible to walk 
 upon it as on a floor.
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 The smaller child nestled up against his brother, and whis- 
 pered to him : 
 
 "It's black." 
 
 This remark drew an exclamation from Gavroche. The 
 petrified air of the two brats rendered some shock necessary. 
 
 "What's that you are gabbling about there?" he exclaimed. 
 "Are you scoffing at me ? Are you turning up your noses? Do 
 you want the Tuileries ? Are you brutes ? Come, say ! I warn 
 you that I don't belong to the regiment of simpletons. Ah, 
 come now, are you brats from the Pope's establishment?" 
 
 A little roughness is good in cases of fear. It is reassuring. 
 The two children drew close to Gavroche. 
 
 Gavroche, paternally touched by this confidence, passed 
 from grave to gentle, and addressing the smaller : 
 
 "Stupid." said he, accenting the insulting word, with a 
 caressing intonation, "it's outside that it is black. Outside 
 it's raining, here it does not rain; outside it's cold, here 
 there's not an atom of wind ; outside there are heaps of people, 
 here there's no one; outside there ain't even the moon, here 
 there's my candle, confound it !" 
 
 The two children began to look upon the apartment with 
 less terror; but Gavroche allowed them no more time for 
 contemplation. 
 
 "Quick," said he. 
 
 And he pushed them towards what we are very glad to be 
 able to call the end of the room. 
 
 There stood his bed. 
 
 Gavroche's bed was complete ; that is to say, it had a mat- 
 tress, a blanket, and an alcove with curtains. 
 
 The mattress was a straw mat, the blanket a rather large 
 strip of gray woollen stuff, very warm and almost new. This 
 is what the alcove consisted of: 
 
 Three rather long poles, thrust into and consolidated, with 
 the rubbish which formed the floor, that is to say, the belly 
 of the elephant, two in front and one behind, and united by 
 a rope at their summits, so as to form a pyramidal bundle. 
 This cluster supported a trellis-work of brass wire which was
 
 LITTLE GAV ROCHE 165 
 
 simply placed upon it, but artistically applied, and hold by 
 fastenings of iron wire, so that it enveloped all three holes. A 
 row of very .heavy stones kept this network down to the floor 
 so that nothing could pass under it. This grating was noth- 
 ing else than a piece of the brass screens with which aviaries 
 are covered in menageries. Gavroche's bed stood as in a cage, 
 behind this net. The whole resembled an Esquimaux tent. 
 
 This trellis-work took the place of curtains. 
 
 Gavroche moved aside the stones which fastened the net 
 down in front, and the two folds of the net which lapped over 
 each other fell apart. 
 
 "Down on all fours, brats !" said Gavroche. 
 
 He made his guests enter the cage with great precaution, 
 then he crawled in after them, pulled the stones together, and 
 closed the opening hermetically again. 
 
 All three had stretched out on the mat. Gavroche still had 
 the cellar rat in his hand. 
 
 "Now," said he, "go to sleep! I'm going to suppress the 
 candelabra." 
 
 "Monsieur," the elder of the brothers asked Gavroche, 
 pointing to the netting, "what's that for?" 
 
 "That," answered Gavroche gravely, "is for the rats. Go 
 to sleep !" 
 
 Nevertheless, he felt obliged to add a few words of instruc- 
 tion for the benefit of these young creatures, and he con- 
 tinued: 
 
 "It's a thing from the Jardin des Plantes. It's used for 
 fierce animals. There's a whole shopful of them there. All 
 you've got to do is to climb over a wall, crawl through a 
 window, and pass through a door. You can get as much as 
 you want." 
 
 As he spoke, he wrapped the younger one up bodily in a fold 
 of the blanket, and the little one murmured: 
 
 "Oh ! how good that is ! It's warm !" 
 
 Gavroche cast a pleased eye on the blanket. 
 
 "That's from the Jardin des Plantes, too," said he. "I 
 took that from the monkeys."
 
 1(56 8AIVT-DENIB 
 
 And, pointing out to the eldest the mat on which 
 he was lying, a very thick and admirably made mat, he 
 added : 
 
 "That belonged to the giraffe." 
 
 After a pause he went on : 
 
 "The beasts had all these things. I took them away from 
 them. It didn't trouble them. I told them: 'It's for the 
 elephant.' ' 
 
 He paused, and then resumed: 
 
 "You crawl over the walls and you don't care a straw for 
 the government. So there now !" 
 
 The two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on 
 this intrepid and ingenious being, a vagabond like themselves, 
 isolated like themselves, frail like themselves, who had some- 
 thing admirable and all-powerful about him, who seemed 
 supernatural to them, and whose physiognomy was composed 
 of all the grimaces of an old mountebank, mingled with the 
 most ingenuous and charming smiles. 
 
 "Monsieur," ventured the elder timidly, "you are not afraid 
 of the police, then ?" 
 
 Gavroche contented himself with replying: 
 
 "Brat ! Nobody says 'police,' they say 'bobbies/ ' ; 
 
 The smaller had his eyes wide open, but he said nothing. 
 As he was on the edge of the mat, the elder being in the 
 middle, Gavroche tucked the blanket round him as a mother 
 might have done, and heightened the mat under his head with 
 old rags, in such a way as to form a pillow for the child. Then 
 he turned to the elder : 
 
 "Hey! We're jolly comfortable here, ain't we?" 
 
 "Ah, yes !" replied the elder, gazing at Gavroche with the 
 expression of a saved angel. 
 
 The two poor little children who had been soaked through, 
 began to grow warm once more. 
 
 "Ah. by the way," continued Gavroche, "what were you 
 bawling about?" 
 
 And pointing out the little one to his brother: 
 
 "A mite like that, I've nothing to say about, but the idea of
 
 LITTLE UAVROCI1E 107 
 
 a big fellow like you crying! It's idiotic; you looked like a 
 calf." 
 
 "Gracious," replied the child, "we have no lodging." 
 
 "Bother !" retorted Gavroche, "you don't say 'lodgings,' you 
 say 'crib.' '' 
 
 "And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at 
 night." 
 
 "You don't say 'night,' you say 'darkmans.' " 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the child. 
 
 "Listen," went on Gavroche, "you must never bawl again 
 over anything. I'll take care of you. You shall see what 
 fun we'll have. In summer, we'll go to the Glaciere with 
 JSTavet. one of my pals, we'll bathe in the Gare, we'll run stark- 
 naked in front of the rafts on the bridge at Austerlitz, that 
 makes the laundresses raging. They scream, they get mad, 
 and if you only knew how ridiculous they are ! We'll go and 
 see the man-skeleton. And then I'll take you to the play. I'll 
 take you to see Frederick Lemaitre. I have tickets, I know 
 some of the actors, I even played in a piece once. There were 
 a lot of us fellers, and we ran under a cloth, and that made 
 the sea. I'll get you an engagement at my theatre. We'll go 
 to see the savages. They ain't real, those savages ain't. They 
 wear pink tights that go all in wrinkles, and you can see where 
 their elbows have been darned with white. Then, we'll go to 
 the Opera. We'll get in with the hired applauders. The 
 Opera claque is well managed. I wouldn't associate with the 
 claque on the boulevard. At the Opera, just fancy! some of 
 them pay twenty sous, but they're ninnies. They're called 
 dishclouts. And then we'll go to see the guillotine work. I'll 
 show you the executioner. He lives in the Rue dos Marais. 
 Monsieur Sanson. He has a letter-box at his door. Ah ! we'll 
 have famous fun !" 
 
 At that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche's finger, 
 and recalled him to the realities of life. 
 
 "The deuce!" said he. "there's the wick giving out. Atten- 
 tion ! I can't spend more than a sou a month on my lighting. 
 When a body goes to bed, he must sleep. We haven't the time
 
 168 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 to read M. Paul de Kock's romances. And besides, the light 
 might pass through the cracks of the porte-cochere, and all 
 the bobbies need to do is to see it." 
 
 "And then," remarked the elder timidly, he alone dared 
 talk to Gavroche, and reply to him, "a spark might fall 
 in the straw, and we must look out and not burn the house 
 down." 
 
 "People don't say 'burn the house down,' " remarked Gav- 
 roche, "they say 'blaze the crib.' ' : 
 
 The storm increased in violence, and the heavy downpour 
 beat upon the back of the colossus amid claps of thunder. 
 "You're taken in, rain!" said Gavroche. "It amuses me to 
 hear the decanter run down the legs of the house. Winter is a 
 stupid ; it wastes its merchandise, it loses its labor, it can't wet 
 us, and that makes it kick up a row, old water-carrier that 
 it is." 
 
 This allusion to the thunder, all the consequences of which 
 Gavroche, in his character of a philosopher of the nineteenth 
 century, accepted, was followed by a broad flash of lightning, 
 so dazzling that a hint of it entered the belly of the elephant 
 through the crack. Almost at the same instant, the thunder 
 rumbled with great fury. The two little creatures uttered a 
 shriek, and started up so eagerly that the network came near 
 being displaced, but Gavroche turned his bold face to them, 
 and took advantage of the clap of thunder to burst into a 
 laugh. 
 
 "Calm down, children. Don't topple over the edifice. 
 That's fine, first-class thunder; all right. That's no slouch 
 of a streak of lightning. Bravo for the good God ! Deuce 
 take it ! It's almost as good as it is at the Ambigu." 
 
 That said, he restored order in the netting, pushed the two 
 children gently down on the bed, pressed their knees, in order 
 to stretch them out at full length, and exclaimed : 
 
 "Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out 
 mine. Now, babes, now, my young humans, you must shut 
 your peepers. It's very bad not to sleep. It'll make you 
 swallow the strainer, or, as they say in fashionable society,
 
 LITTLE QAVROCnE 100 
 
 stink in the gullet. Wrap yourself up well in the hide! I'm 
 going to put out the light. Are you ready?" 
 
 "Yes." murmured the elder, "I'm all right. I seem to have 
 feathers under my head." 
 
 "People don't say 'head/ " cried Gavroche, "they say 'nut'." 
 
 The two children nestled close to each other. Gavroche 
 finished arranging them on the mat, drew the blanket up to 
 their very ears, then repeated, for the third time, his injunc- 
 tion in the hieratical tongue : 
 
 "Shut your peepers !" 
 
 And he snuffed out his tiny light. 
 
 Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar 
 trembling began to affect the netting under which the three 
 children lay. 
 
 It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced 
 a metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the 
 copper wire. This was accompanied by all sorts of little 
 piercing cries. 
 
 The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub over- 
 head, and chilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but 
 the elder brother had already shut his peepers, as Gavroche 
 had ordered. Then the little one. who could no longer control 
 his terror, questioned Gavroche, but in a very low tone, and 
 with bated breath: 
 
 "Sir ?" 
 
 "Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes. 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "It's the rats," replied Gavroche. 
 
 And he laid his head down on the mat again. 
 
 The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass 
 of the elephant, and who were the living black spots which we 
 have already mentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of 
 the candle, so long as it had been lighted; but as soon as the 
 cavern, which was the same as their city, had returned to 
 darkness, scenting what the good story-teller lYrrault calls 
 "fresh meat." they bad hurled themselves in throngs ou 
 Gavroche's tent, had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to
 
 170 
 
 bite the meshes as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled 
 trap. 
 
 Still the little one could not sleep. 
 
 "Sir?" he began again. 
 
 "Hey ?" said Gavroche. 
 
 "What are rats ?" 
 
 "They are mice." 
 
 This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen 
 white mice in the course of his life, and he was not afraid of 
 them. Nevertheless, he lifted up his voice once more. 
 
 "Sir?" 
 
 "Hey?" said Gavroche again. 
 
 "Why don't you have a cat?" 
 
 "I did have one," replied Gavroche, "I brought one here, 
 but they ate her." 
 
 This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the 
 little fellow began to tremble again. 
 
 The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for 
 the fourth time: 
 
 "Monsieur ?" 
 
 "Hey?" 
 
 "Who was it that was eaten?" 
 
 "The cat." 
 
 "And who ate the cat ?" 
 
 "The rats." 
 
 "The mice ?" 
 
 "Yes, the rats." 
 
 The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of 
 mice which ate cats, pursued : 
 
 "Sir, would those mice eat us?" 
 
 "Wouldn't they just !" ejaculated Gavroche. 
 
 The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche 
 added : 
 
 "Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides. I'm 
 here ! Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and 
 shut your peepers !" 
 
 At the same time Gavroche grasped the little fellow's hand
 
 LITTLE GAVROCHE 
 
 across his brother. The child pressed the hand close to him. 
 and felt reassured. Courage and strength have these myste- 
 rious ways of communicating themselves. Silence reigned 
 round them once more, the sound of their voices had fright- 
 ened off the rats; at the expiration of a few minutes, they 
 came raging hack, but in vain, the three little fellows were 
 fast asleep and heard nothing more. 
 
 The hours of the night fled away. Darkness covered the 
 vast Place de la Bastille. A wintry gale, which mingled with 
 the rain, blew in gusts, the patrol searched all the doorways, 
 alleys, enclosures, and obscure nooks, and in their search for 
 nocturnal vagabonds they passed in silence before the ele- 
 phant; the monster, erect, motionless, staring open-eyed into 
 the shadows, had the appearance of dreaming happily over 
 his good deed ; and sheltered from heaven and from men the 
 three poor sleeping children. 
 
 In order to understand what is about to follow, the reader 
 must remember, that, at that epoch, the Bastile guard-house 
 was situated at the other end of the square, and that what took 
 place in the vicinity of the elephant could neither be seen nor 
 heard by the sentinel. 
 
 Towards the end of that hour which immediately precedes 
 the dawn, a man turned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a run, 
 made the circuit of the enclosure of the column of July, and 
 glided between the palings until he was underneath the belly 
 of the elephant. If any light had illuminated that man. it 
 might have been divined from the thorough manner in which 
 he was soaked that he had passed the night in the rain. 
 Arrived beneath the elephant, he uttered a peculiar cry, which 
 did not belong to any human tongue, and which a paroquet 
 alone could have imitated. Twice he repeated this cry. of 
 whose orthography the following barely conveys an idea : 
 
 "Kirikikiou !" 
 
 At the second cry, a clear, young, merry voice responded 
 from the belly of the elephant : 
 
 "Yes !" 
 
 Almost immediately, the plank which closed the hole was
 
 372 BAIXT-DEMK 
 
 drawn aside, and gave passage to a child who descended the 
 elephant's leg, and fell briskly near the man. It was Gav- 
 roche. The man was Montparnasse. 
 
 As for his cry of Kirikikiou, that was, doubtless, what the 
 child had meant, when he said : 
 
 "You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche." 
 
 On hearing it, he had waked with a start, had crawled out 
 of his "alcove," pushing apart the netting a little, and care- 
 fully drawing it together again, then he had opened the trap, 
 and descended. 
 
 The man and the child recognized each other silently amid 
 the gloom : Montparnasse confined himself to the remark : 
 
 <r VVe need you. Come, lend us a hand." 
 
 The lad asked for no further enlightenment. 
 
 "I'm with you," said he. 
 
 And both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoine, 
 whence Montparnasse had emerged, winding rapidly through 
 the long file of market-gardeners' carts which descend towards 
 the markets at that hour. 
 
 The market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, in their 
 wagons, amid the salads and vegetables, enveloped to their 
 very eyes in their mufflers on account of the beating rain, did 
 not even glance at these strange pedestrians. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE VICISSITUDES OF FLIGHT 
 
 THIS is what had taken place that same night at the IA 
 Force : 
 
 An escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guele- 
 mer, and Thenardier, although Thenardier was in close con- 
 finement. Babet had arranged the matter for his own benefit, 
 on the same day, as the reader has seen from Montparnasse's 
 account to Gavroche. Montparnasse was to help them from 
 outside.
 
 LITTLE OAV ROCHE 173 
 
 Brujon, after having passed a month in the punishment cell, 
 had had time, in the first place, to weave a rope, in the second, 
 to mature a plan. In former times, those severe places where 
 the discipline of the prison delivers the convict into his own 
 hands, were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a 
 flagged pavement, a camp bed, a grated window, and a door 
 lined with iron, and were called dungeons; but the dungeon 
 was judged to be too terrible; nowadays they are composed 
 of an iron door, a grated window, a camp bed, a flagged pave- 
 ment, four stone walls, and a stone ceiling, and are called 
 chambers of punishment. A little light penetrates towards 
 mid-day. The inconvenient point about these chambers which, 
 as the reader sees, are not dungeons, is that they allow the per- 
 sons who should be at work to think. 
 
 So Brujon meditated, and he emerged from the chamber 
 of punishment with a rope. As he had the name of being 
 very dangerous in the Charlemagne courtyard, he was placed 
 in the New Building. The first thing he found in the New 
 Building was Guelemer, the second was a nail ; Guelemer, that 
 is to say, crime ; a nail, that is to say, liberty. Brujon, of whom 
 it is high time that the reader should have a complete idea, 
 was, with an appearance of delicate health and a profoundly 
 premeditated languor, a polished, intelligent sprig, and a 
 thief, who had a caressing glance, and an atrocious smile. His 
 glance resulted from his will, and his smile from his nature. 
 His first studies in his art had been directed to roofs. He had 
 made great progress in the industry of the men who tear oft* 
 lead, who plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the 
 process called double pickings. 
 
 The circumstance which put the finishing touch on the 
 moment peculiarly favorable for an attempt at escape, was that 
 the roofers were re-laying and re-jointing, at that very mo- 
 ment, a portion of the slates on the prison. The Saint-Ber- 
 nard courtyard was no longer absolutely isolated from the 
 Charlemagne and the Saint-Louis courts. I'p above there 
 were scaffoldings and ladders; in other words, bridges and 
 stairs in the direction of liberty.
 
 174 SAIST-DENIS 
 
 The New Building, which was the most cracked and de- 
 crepit thing to be seen anywhere in the world, was the weak 
 point in the prison. The walls were eaten by saltpetre to such 
 an extent that the authorities had been obliged to line the 
 vaults of the dormitories with a sheathing of wood, because 
 stones were in the habit of becoming detached and falling on 
 the prisoners in their beds. In spite of this antiquity, the au- 
 thorities committed the error of confining in the New Building 
 the most troublesome prisoners, of placing there "the hard 
 cases," as they say in prison parlance. 
 
 The New Building contained four dormitories, one above 
 the other, and a top story which was called the Bel- Air (Fine- 
 Air). A large chimney-flue, probably from some ancient 
 kitchen of the Dukes de la Force, started from the ground- 
 floor, traversed all four stories, cut the dormitories, where it 
 figured as a flattened pillar, into two portions, and finally 
 pierced the roof. 
 
 Guelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They 
 had been placed, by way of precaution, on the lower story. 
 Chance ordained that the heads of their beds should rest 
 against the chimney. 
 
 Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story 
 known as Fine- Air. The pedestrian who halts on the Rue Cul- 
 ture-Sainte-Catherine, after passing the barracks of the fire- 
 men, in front of the prote-cochere of the bathing establish- 
 ment, beholds a yard full of flowers and shrubs in wooden 
 boxes, at the extremity of which spreads out a little white 
 rotunda with two wings, brightened up with green shutters, 
 the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques. 
 
 Not more than ten years ago, there rose above that ro- 
 tunda an enormous black, hideous, bare wall by which it was 
 backed up. 
 
 This was the outer wall of La Force. 
 
 This wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through 
 Berquin. 
 
 Lofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker 
 roof, which could be seen beyond. This was the roof of the
 
 LITTLE QAVROCHE 175 
 
 New Building. There one could descry four dormer-win- 
 dows, guarded with bars; they were the windows of the Fine- 
 Air. 
 
 A chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which 
 traversed the dormitories. 
 
 The Bel-Air, that top story of the New Building, was a 
 sort of large hall, with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple 
 gratings and double doors of sheet iron, which were studded 
 with enormous bolts. When one entered from the north end, 
 one had on one's left the four dormer-windows, on one's right, 
 facing the windows, at regular intervals, four square, tolerably 
 vast cages, separated by narrow passages, built of masonry to 
 about the height of the elbow, and the rest, up to the roof, of 
 iron bars. 
 
 Thenardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these 
 cages since the night of the 3d of February. Xo one was 
 ever able to discover how, and by what connivance, he suc- 
 ceeded in procuring, and secreting a bottle of wine, invented, 
 so it is said, by Desrues, with which a narcotic is mixed, and 
 which the band of the Endormeurs, or Sleep-compellers, ren- 
 dered famous. 
 
 There are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half- 
 jailers, half-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the 
 police an unfaithful service, and who turn a penny whenever 
 they can. 
 
 On that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up 
 the two lost children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that 
 Babet, who had escaped that morning, was waiting for them 
 in the street as well as Montparnasse, rose softly, and with 
 the nail which Brujon had found, began to pierce the chimney 
 against which their beds stood. The rubbish fell on Brujon 's 
 bed, so that they were not heard. Showers mingled with thun- 
 der shook the doors on their hinges, and created in the prison 
 a terrible and opportune uproar. Those of the prisoners who 
 woke, pretended to fall asleep again, and left Guelemer and 
 Brujon to their own devices. Brujon was adroit; Guelemer 
 was vigorous. Before any sound had reached the watcher, who
 
 176 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 was sleeping in the grated cell which opened into the dormi- 
 tory, the wall had heen pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron 
 grating which barred the upper orifice of the flue forced, and 
 the two redoubtable ruffians were on the roof. The wind and 
 rain redoubled, the roof was slippery. 
 
 "What a good night to leg it !" said Brujon. 
 
 An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them 
 from the surrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyss, they 
 could see the musket of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom. 
 They fastened one end of the rope which Brujon had spun 
 in his dungeon to the stumps of the iron bars which they had 
 just wrenched off, flung the other over the outer wall, crossed 
 the abyss at one bound, clung to the coping of the wall, got 
 astride of it, let themselves slip, one after the other, along the 
 rope, upon a little roof which touches the bath-house, pulled 
 their rope after them, jumped down into the courtyard of the 
 bath-house, traversed it, pushed open the porter's wicket, be- 
 side which hung his rope, pulled this, opened the porte- 
 cochere, and found themselves in the street. 
 
 Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had 
 risen in bed in the dark, nail in hand, and their project in 
 their heads. 
 
 A few moments later they had joined Babet and Montpar- 
 nasse, who were prowling about the neighborhood. 
 
 They had broken their rope in pulling it after them, and 
 a bit of it remained attached to the chimney on the roof. 
 They had sustained no other damage, however, than that of 
 scratching nearly all the skin off their hands. 
 
 That night, Thenardier was warned, without any one being 
 able to explain how, and was not asleep. 
 
 Towards one o'clock in the morning, the night being very 
 dark, he saw two shadows pass along the roof, in the rain and 
 squalls, in front of the dormer-window which was opposite 
 his cage. One halted at the window, long enough to dart in a 
 glance. This was Brujon. 
 
 Thenardier recognized him, and understood. This was 
 enough.
 
 LITTLE GAVROCHE 177 
 
 Thenardier, rated as a burglar, and detained as a measure 
 of precaution under the charge of organizing a nocturnal am- 
 bush, with armed force, was kept in sight. The sentry, who 
 was relieved every two hours, marched up and down in front 
 of his cage with loaded musket. The Fine-Air was lighted by 
 a skylight. The prisoner had on his feet fetters weighing 
 fifty pounds. Every day, at four o'clock in the afternoon, a 
 jailer, escorted by two dogs, this was still in vogue at that 
 time, entered his cage, deposited beside his bed a loaf of black 
 bread weighing two pounds, a jug of water, a bowl filled with 
 rather thin bouillon, in which swam a few Mayagan beans, 
 inspected his irons and tapped the bars. This man and his 
 dogs made two visits during the night. 
 
 Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron 
 bolt which he used to spike his bread into a crack in the wall, 
 "in order to preserve it from the rats," as he said. As The- 
 nardier was kept in sight, no objection had been made to this 
 spike. Still, it was remembered afterwards, that one of the 
 jailers had said : "It would be better to let him have only a 
 wooden spike." 
 
 At two o'clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an old 
 soldier, was relieved, and replaced by a conscript. A few 
 moments later, the man with the dogs paid his visit, and went 
 off without noticing anything, except, possibly, the excessive 
 youth and "the rustic air" of the "raw recruit." Two hours 
 afterwards, at four o'clock, when they came to relieve the con- 
 script, he was found asleep on the floor, lying like a log near 
 Thenardier's cage. As for Thenardier, he was no longer there. 
 There was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and, above it, an- 
 other hole in the roof. One of the planks of his bed had been 
 wrenched off, and probably carried away with him, as it was 
 not found. They also seized in his cell a half-empty bottle 
 which contained the remains of the stupefying wine with 
 which the soldier had been drugged. The soldier's bayonet 
 had disappeared. 
 
 At the moment when this discovery was made, it was as- 
 sumed that Thenardier was out of reach. The truth is, that
 
 178 8AI \T-DENI8 
 
 he was no longer in the New Building, but that he was still in 
 great danger. 
 
 Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the New Building, had 
 found the remains of Brujon's rope hanging to the bars of the 
 upper trap of the chimney, but, as this broken fragment was 
 much too short, he had not been able to escape by the outer 
 wall, as Brujon and Guelemer had done. 
 
 When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du 
 Roi-de-Sicile, one almost immediately encounters a repulsive 
 ruin. There stood on that spot, in the last century, a house 
 of which only the back wall now remains, a regular wall of 
 masonry, which rises to the height of the third story between 
 the adjoining buildings. This ruin can be recognized by two 
 large square windows which are still to be seen there; the 
 middle one, that nearest the right gable, is barred with a 
 worm-eaten beam adjusted like a prop. Through these win- 
 dows there was formerly visible a lofty and lugubrious wall, 
 which was a fragment of the outer wall of La Force. 
 
 The empty space on the street left by the demolished house 
 is half-filled by a fence of rotten boards, shored up by five 
 stone posts. In this recess lies concealed a little shanty which 
 leans against the portion of the ruin which has remained 
 standing. The fence has a gate, which, a few years ago, was 
 fastened only by a latch. 
 
 It was the crest of this ruin that Thenardier had succeeded 
 in reaching, a little after one o'clock in the morning. 
 
 How had he got there ? That is what no one has ever been 
 able to explain or understand. The lightning must, at the 
 same time, have hindered and helped him. Had he made use 
 of the ladders and scaffoldings of the slaters to get from roof 
 to roof, from enclosure to enclosure, from compartment to 
 compartment, to the buildings of the Charlemagne court, then 
 to the buildings of the Saint-Louis court, to the outer wall, 
 and thence to the hut on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But in 
 that itinerary there existed breaks which seemed to render it 
 an impossibility. Had he placed the plank from his bed like 
 a bridge from the roof of the Fine-Air to the outer wall, and
 
 LITTLE GAV ROCHE 179 
 
 crawled flat on his belly on the coping of the outer wall the 
 whole distance round the prison as far as the hut? But the 
 outer wall of La Force formed a crenellated and unequal line; 
 it mounted and descended, it dropped at the firemen's bar- 
 racks, it rose towards the bath-house, it was cut in twain by 
 buildings, it was not even of the same height on the Hotel 
 Larnoignon as on the Rue Pavee; everywhere occurred falls 
 and right angles ; and then, the sentinels must have espied the 
 dark form of the fugitive; hence, the route taken by The- 
 nardier still remains rather inexplicable. In two manners, 
 flight was impossible. Had Thenardier, spurred on by that 
 thirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches, iron 
 bars into wattles of osier, a legless man into an athlete, a 
 gouty man into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into 
 intelligence, and intelligence into genius, had Thenardier in- 
 vented a third mode ? No one has ever found out. 
 
 The marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The 
 man who makes his escape, we repeat, is inspired; there is 
 something of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious 
 gleam of flight; the effort towards deliverance is no less 
 surprising than the flight towards the sublime, and one says 
 of the escaped thief : "How did he contrive to scale that wall ?" 
 in the same way that one says of Corneille : "Where did he find 
 the means of dying ?" 
 
 At all events, dripping with perspiration, drenched with 
 rain, with his clothes hanging in ribbons, his hands flayed, his 
 elbows bleeding, his knees torn, Thenardier had reached what 
 children, in their figurative language, call the edge of the wall 
 of the ruin, there he had stretched himself out at full length, 
 and there his strength had failed him. A steep escarpment 
 three stories high separated him from the pavement of the 
 street. 
 
 The rope which he had was too short. 
 
 There he waited, pale, exhausted, desperate with all the de- 
 spair which he had undergone, still hidden by the night, but 
 telling himself that the day was on the point of dawning, 
 alarmed at the idea of hearing the neighboring clock of Saint-
 
 180 8A1NT-DEXI8 
 
 Paul strike four within a few minutes, an hour when the sen- 
 tinel was relieved and when the latter would be found asleep 
 under the pierced roof, staring in horror at a terrible depth, 
 at the light of the street lanterns, the wet, black pavement, 
 that pavement longed for yet frightful, which meant death, 
 and which meant liberty. 
 
 He asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight 
 had succeeded, if they had heard him, and if they would 
 come to his assistance. He listened. With the exception of 
 the patrol, no one had passed through the street since he had 
 been there. Nearly the whole of the descent of the market- 
 gardeners from Montreuil, from Charonne, from Vincennes, 
 and from Bercy to the markets was accomplished through the 
 Hue Saint- Antoine. 
 
 Four o'clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A few mo- 
 ments later, that terrified and confused uproar which follows 
 the discovery of an escape broke forth in the prison. The 
 sound of doors opening and shutting, the creaking of gratings 
 on their hinges, a tumult in the guard-house, the hoarse shouts 
 of the turnkeys, the shock of musket-butts on the pavement 
 of the courts, reached his ears. Lights ascended and descended 
 past the grated windows of the dormitories, a torch ran along 
 the ridge-pole of the top story of the New Building, the fire- 
 men belonging in the barracks on the right had been sum- 
 moned. Their helmets, which the torch lighted up in the rain, 
 went and came along the roofs. At the same time, The- 
 nardier perceived in the direction of the Bastille a wan white- 
 ness lighting up the edge of the sky in doleful wise. 
 
 He was on top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out 
 under the heavy rains, with two gulfs to right and left, unable 
 to stir, subject to the giddiness of a possible fall, and to the 
 horror of a certain arrest, and his thoughts, like the pendulum 
 of a clock, swung from one of these ideas to the other : "Dead 
 if I fall, caught if I stay." In the midst of this anguish, he 
 suddenly saw, the street being still dark, a man who was glid- 
 ing along the walls and coming from the Rue Pavee, halt in 
 the recess above which Thenardier was, as it were, suspended.
 
 LITTLE GAV ROCHE 
 
 Here this man was joined by a second, who walked with the 
 same caution, then by a third, then by a fourth. When these 
 men were re-united, one of them lifted the latch of the gato 
 in the fence, and all four entered the enclosure in which the 
 shanty stood. They halted directly under Thenardier. These 
 men had evidently chosen this vacant space in order that they 
 might consult without being seen by the passers-by or by the 
 sentinel who guards the wicket of La Force a few paces dis- 
 tant. It must be added, that the rain kept this sentinel blocked 
 in his box. Thenardier, not being able to distinguish their 
 visages, lent an car to their words with the desperate attention 
 of a wretch who feels himself lost. 
 
 Thenardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash 
 before his eyes, these men conversed in slang. 
 
 The first said in a low but distinct voice: 
 
 "Let's cut. What are we up to here?" 
 
 The second replied : "It's raining hard enough to put out 
 the very devil's fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter. 
 There's a soldier on guard yonder. We shall get nabbed here." 
 
 These two words, id go and icicaille, both of which mean 
 id, and which belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the 
 second to the slang of the Temple, were flashes of light for 
 Thenardier. By the idgo he recognized Brujon, who was a 
 prowler of the barriers, by the icicaille he knew Babet, who, 
 among his other trades, had been an old-clothes broker at the 
 Temple. 
 
 The antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken 
 except in the Temple, and Babet was really the only person 
 who spoke it in all its purity. Had it not been for the 
 icicaille, Thenardier would not have recognized him. for he 
 had entirely changed his voice. 
 
 In the meanwhile, the third man had intervened. 
 
 "There's no hurry yet, let's wait a bit. How do we know 
 that he doesn't stand in need of us?" 
 
 By this, which was nothing but French, Thenardier recog- 
 nized Montparnasse, who made it a point in his elegapce to 
 understand all slangs and to speak none of them.
 
 182 SAI XT-DENIS 
 
 As for the fourth, ho held his peace, but his huge shoulders 
 betrayed him. Thenardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer. 
 
 Brujon replied almost impetuously, but still in a low tone: 
 
 "What are you jabbering about ? The tavern-keeper hasn't 
 managed to cut his stick. He don't tumble to the racket, 
 that he don't ! You have to be a pretty knowing cove to tear 
 up your shirt, cut up your sheet to make a rope, punch holes 
 in doors, get up false papers, make false keys, file your 
 irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself, and disguise yourself ! 
 The old fellow hasn't managed to play it, he doesn't under- 
 stand how to work the business." 
 
 Babet added, still in that classical slang which was spoken 
 by Poulailler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new, 
 highly colored and risky argot used by Brujon what the 
 language of Racine is to the language of Andre Chenier : 
 
 "Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. 
 You have to be knowing. He's only a greenhorn. He must 
 have let himself be taken in by a bobby, perhaps even by a 
 sheep who played it on him as his pal. Listen, Montparnasse, 
 do you hear those shouts in the prison? You have seen all 
 those lights. He's recaptured, there ! He'll get off with 
 twenty years. I ain't afraid, I ain't a coward, but there ain't 
 anything more to do, or otherwise they'd lead us a dance. 
 Don't get mad, come with us, let's go drink a bottle of old 
 wine together." 
 
 "One doesn't desert one's friends in a scrape," grumbled 
 Montparnasse. 
 
 "I tell you he's nabbed !" retorted Brujon. "At the present 
 moment, the inn-keeper ain't worth a ha'penny. We can't 
 do nothing for him. Let's be off. Every minute I think a 
 bobby has got me in his fist." 
 
 Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resist- 
 ance; the fact is, that these four men, with the fidelity of 
 ruffians who never abandon each other, had prowled all night 
 long about La Force, great as was their peril, in the hope of 
 seeing Thenardier make his appearance on the top of some 
 wall. But the night, which was really growing too fine, for
 
 LITTLE GAV ROCHE 
 
 the downpour was such as to render all the streets deserted, 
 the cold which was overpowering them, their soaked garments, 
 their hole-ridden shoes, the alarming noise which had just 
 burst forth in the prison, the hours which had elapsed, the 
 patrol which they had encountered, the hope which was vanish- 
 ing, all urged them to heat a retreat. Montparnasse himself, 
 who was, perhaps, almost Thenardier's son-in-law, yielded. 
 A moment more, and they would be gone. Thenardier was 
 panting on his wall like the shipwrecked sufferers of the 
 Meduse on their raft when they beheld the vessel which had 
 appeared in sight vanish on the horizon. 
 
 He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin 
 everything. An idea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of 
 inspiration ; he drew from his pocket the end of Brujon's rope, 
 which he had detached from the chimney of the N"cw Building, 
 and flung it into the space enclosed by the fence. 
 
 This rope fell at their feet. 
 
 "A widow," 1 said Babet. 
 
 "My tortouse !" 2 said Brujon. 
 
 "The tavern-keeper is there," said Montparnasse. 
 
 They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a 
 very little. 
 
 "Quick !" said Montparnasse, "have you the other end of 
 the rope, Brujon?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Knot the two pieces together, we'll fling him the rope, he 
 can fasten it to the wall, and he'll have enough of it to get 
 down with." 
 
 Thenardier ran the risk, and spoke: 
 
 *'I am paralyzed with cold." 
 
 "We'll warm you up." 
 
 "I can't budge." 
 
 "Let yourself slide, we'll catch you." 
 
 "My hands arc benumbed." 
 
 "Only fasten the rope to the wall." 
 
 "T can't." 
 *Argot of the Temple. 'Argot of the barriers.
 
 184 8AIXT-DEX18 
 
 "Then one of us must climb up." said Montparnasse. 
 
 "Three stories !" ejaculated Brujon. 
 
 An ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that 
 had been used in the shanty in former times, ran along the 
 wall and mounted almost to the very spot where they could 
 see Thenardier. This flue, then much damaged and full of 
 cracks, has since fallen, but the marks of it are still visible. 
 
 It was very narrow. 
 
 "One might get up by the help of that," said Montparnasse. 
 
 "By that flue ?" exclaimed Babet, "a grown-up cove, never ! 
 it would take a brat." 
 
 "A brat must be got," resumed Brujon. 
 
 "Where are we to find a young 'un?" said Guelemer. 
 
 "Wait," said Montparnasse. "I've got the very article." 
 
 He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that 
 no one was passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, 
 shut the gate behind him. and set off at a run in the direction 
 of the Bastille. 
 
 Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to 
 Thenardier; Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their 
 lips; at last the gate opened once more, and Montparnasse 
 appeared, breathless, and followed by Gavroche. The rain 
 still rendered the street completely deserted. 
 
 Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the 
 forms of these ruffians with a tranquil air. The water was 
 dripping from his hair. Guelemer addressed him : 
 
 "Are you a man, young 'un?" 
 
 Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied: 
 
 "A young 'un like me's a man, and men like you are babes.'* 
 
 "The brat's tongue's well hung !" exclaimed Babet. 
 
 "The Paris brat ain't made of straw," added Brujon. 
 
 "What do you want ?" asked Gavroche. 
 
 Montparnasse answered : 
 
 "Climb up that flue/' 
 
 "With this rope," said Babet. 
 
 "And fasten it," continued Brujon. 
 
 "To the top of the wall," went on Babet.
 
 LITTLE GAVROCHE 185 
 
 "To the cross-bar of the window," added Brujon. 
 
 "And then?" said Gavroche. 
 
 "There!" said Cuelemer. 
 
 The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the 
 windows, and made that indescribable and disdainful noise 
 with his lips which signifies: 
 
 "Is that all!" 
 
 "There's a man up there whom you are to save," resumed 
 Montparnasse. 
 
 "Will you ?" began Brujon again. 
 
 "Greenhorn !" replied the lad, as though the question ap- 
 peared a most unprecedented one to him. 
 
 And he took off his shoes. 
 
 Guelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the roof of 
 the shanty, whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin's 
 weight, and handed him the rope which Brujon had knotted 
 together during Montparnasso's absence. The gamin directed 
 his steps towards the flue, which it was easy to enter, thanks to 
 a large crack which touched the roof. At the moment when 
 he was on the point of ascending, Thenardier, who saw life 
 and safety approaching, bent over the edge of the wall; the 
 first light of dawn struck white upon his brow dripping with 
 sweat, upon his livid cheek-bones, his sharp and savage nose, 
 his bristling gray beard, and Gavroche recognized him. 
 
 "Hullo ! it's my father ! Oh, that won't hinder." 
 
 And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the 
 ascent. 
 
 He reached the summit of the hut, bestrode the old wall as 
 though it had been a horse, and knotted the rope firmly to the 
 upper cross-bar of the window. 
 
 A moment later, Thenardier was in the street. 
 
 As soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he found 
 himself out of danger, he was no longer either weary, or 
 chilled or trembling: the terrible things from which he had 
 escaped vanished like smoke, all that strange and ferocious 
 mind awoke once more, and stood erect and free, ready to 
 march onward.
 
 186 BAl \T-DKX IB 
 
 These were this man's first words: 
 
 "Now, whom are we to eat?" 
 
 It is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully trans- 
 parent remark, which signifies both to kill, to assassinate, and 
 to plunder. To eat, true sense: to devour. 
 
 ''Let's get well into a corner." said Brujon. "Let's settle 
 it in three words, and part at once. There was an affair that 
 promised well in the Rue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated 
 house, an old rotten gate on a garden, and lone women." 
 
 "Well ! why not ?" demanded Thenardier. 
 
 "Your girl, fiponine, went to see about the matter," replied 
 Babet. 
 
 "And she brought a biscuit to Magnon," added Guelemer. 
 "Nothing to be made there." 
 
 "The girl's no fool," said Thenardier. "Still, it must be 
 seen to." 
 
 "Yes. yes," said Brujon, "it must be looked up." 
 
 In the meanwhile, none of the men seemed to see Gavroche, 
 who, during this colloquy, had seated himself on one of the 
 fence-posts ; he waited a few moments, thinking that perhaps 
 his father would turn towards him, then he put on his shoes 
 again, and said: 
 
 "Is that all ? You don't want any more, my men ? Now 
 you're out of your scrape. I'm off. I must go and get my 
 brats out of bed." 
 
 And off he went. 
 
 The five men emerged, one after another, from the 
 enclosure. 
 
 When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue 
 des Ballets, Babet took Thenardier aside. 
 
 "Did you take a good look at that young 'un ?" he asked. 
 
 "What young 'un?" 
 
 "The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope." 
 
 "Not particularly." 
 
 "Well, I don't know, but it strikes me that it was your son." 
 
 "Bah !" said Thenardier, "do you think so ?"
 
 BOOK SEVENTH. SLANG 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 ORIGIN 
 
 Pigritia is a terrible word. 
 
 It engenders a whole world, la pegre, for which read 
 theft, and a hell, la pegrenne, for which read hunger. 
 
 Thus, idleness is the mother. 
 
 She has a son. theft, and a daughter, hunger. 
 
 Where are we at this moment ? In the land of slang. 
 
 What is slang? It is at one and the same time, a nation 
 and a dialect ; it is theft in its two kinds ; people and 
 language. 
 
 When, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave 
 and sombre history introduced into a work written with the 
 same aim as this 1 a thief who talked argot, there arose 
 amazement and clamor. "What ! How ! Argot ! Why, argot 
 is horrible ! It is the language of prisons, galleys, convicts, 
 of everything that is most abominable in society !" etc., etc. 
 
 We have never understood this sort of objections. 
 
 Since that time, two powerful romancers, one of whom is a 
 profound observer of the human heart, the other an intrepid 
 friend of the people, Balzac and Eugene Sue, having repre- 
 sented their ruth'ans as talking their natural language, as the 
 author of The Last Day of a Condemned Man did in 1828. 
 the same objections have been raised. People repeated : "What 
 do authors mean by that revolting dialect ? Slang is odious ! 
 Slang makes one shudder !" 
 
 Who denies that ? Of course it does. 
 
 'The Last Day of a Condemned Man.
 
 188 8AIXT-DEXI8 
 
 When it is a question of probing a wound, a gulf, a society, 
 since when has it been considered wrong to go too far ? to go to 
 the bottom ? We have always thought that it was sometimes a 
 courageous act, and, at least, a simple and useful deed, worthy 
 of the sympathetic attention which duty accepted and fulfilled 
 merits. Why should one not explore everything, and study 
 everything? Why should one halt on the way? The halt is a 
 matter depending on the sounding-line, and not on the leads- 
 man. 
 
 Certainly, too, it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to 
 undertake an investigation into the lowest depths of the social 
 order, where terra firma comes to an end and where mud 
 begins, to rummage in those vague, murky waves, to follow 
 up, to seize and to fling, still quivering, upon the pavement 
 that abject dialect which is dripping with filth when thus 
 brought to the light, that pustulous vocabulary each word of 
 which seems an unclean ring from a monster of the mire and 
 the shadows. Nothing is more lugubrious than the contem- 
 plation thus in its nudity, in the broad light of thought, of 
 the horrible swarming of slang. It seems, in fact, to be a sort 
 of horrible beast made for the night which has just been torn 
 from its cesspool. One thinks one beholds u frightful, living, 
 and bristling thicket which quivers, rustles, wavers, returns 
 to shadow, threatens and glares. One word resembles a claw, 
 another an extinguished and bleeding eye, such and such a 
 phrase seems to move like the claw of a crab. All this is alive 
 with the hideous vitality of things which have been organized 
 out of disorganization. 
 
 Now, when has horror ever excluded study? Since when 
 has malady banished medicine? Can one imagine a naturalist 
 refusing to study the viper, the bat, the scorpion, the centi- 
 pede, the tarantula, and one who would cast them back into 
 their darkness, saying : "Oh ! how ugly that is !" The thinker 
 who should turn aside from slang would resemble a surgeon 
 who should avert his face from an ulcer or a wart. He would 
 be like a philologist refusing to examine a fact in language, a 
 philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact in humanity. For,
 
 SLANG 189 
 
 it must be stated to those who are ignorant of the case, that 
 argot is both a literary phenomenon and a social result. What 
 is slang, properly speaking? It is the language of wretch- 
 edness. 
 
 We may be stopped ; the fact may be put to us in general 
 terms, which is one way of attenuating it ; we may bo told, that 
 all trades, professions, it may be added, all the accidents of 
 the social hierarchy and all forms of intelligence, have their 
 own slang. The merchant who says : "Montpellier not active, 
 Marseilles fine quality," the broker on 'change who says: 
 "Assets at end of current month," the gambler who says: 
 "Tiers et tout, refait de pique," the sheriff of the Norman Isles 
 who says : The holder in fee reverting to his landed estate 
 cannot claim the fruits of that estate during the hereditary 
 seizure of the real estate by the mortgagor," the playwright 
 who says: "The piece was hissed," the comedian who says: 
 "I've made a hit," the philosopher who says: "Phenomenal 
 triplicity," the huntsman who says: "Voileci allais, Voileci 
 -fuyant," the phrenologist who says : "Amativeness, combative- 
 ness, secretiveness," the infantry soldier who says : "My shoot- 
 ing-iron," the cavalry-man who says : "My turkey-cock," the 
 fencing-master who says : "Tierce, quarte, break," the printer 
 who says : "My shooting-stick and galley,'' all, printer, fenc- 
 ing-master, cavalry dragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist, 
 huntsman, philosopher, comedian, playwright, sheriff, gam- 
 bler, stock-broker, and merchant, speak slang. The painter 
 who says : "My grinder," the notary who says : "My Skip-the- 
 Gutter," the hairdresser who says : "My mealyback," the 
 cobbler who says : "My cub," talks slang. Strictly speaking, if 
 one absolutely insists on the point, all the different fashions 
 of saying the right and the left, the sailor's port and star- 
 loard, the scene-shifters court-side, and garden-side, the 
 beadle's Gospel-side and Epistle-side, are slang. There is the 
 slang of the affected lady as well as of the precieu-ses. The 
 Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the Cour des Miracles. 
 There is a slang of duchesses, witness this phrase contained in 
 a love-letter from a very great lady and a very pretty woman
 
 190 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 of the Restoration : "You will find in this gossip a f ultitude of 
 reasons why I should libertize." 1 Diplomatic ciphers are 
 slang; the pontifical chancellery by using 26 for Rome, 
 grkztntgzyal for despatch, and abfxustgrnugrkzu tu XL for 
 the Due de Modena, speaks slang. The physicians of the 
 Middle Ages who, for carrot, radish, and turnip, said Opopo- 
 nach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus, dracatholicum, angdorum, 
 postmegorum, talked slang. The sugar-manufacturer who 
 says: "Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common, burnt," this 
 honest manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of criti- 
 cism twenty years ago, which used to say: "Half of the works 
 of Shakespeare consists of plays upon words and puns,"- 
 talked slang. The poet, and the artist who, with profound 
 understanding, would designate M. de Montmorency as "a 
 bourgeois," if he were not a judge of verses and statues, speak 
 slang. The classic Academician who calls flowers "Flora," 
 fruits, "Pomona," the sea, "Neptune," love, "fires," beauty, 
 "charms," a horse, "a courser/' the white or tri-colored cock- 
 ade, "the rose of Bellona," the three-cornered hat, "Mars' 
 triangle," that classical Academician talks slang. Algebra, 
 medicine, botany, have each their slang. The tongue which 
 is employed on board ship, that wonderful language of the 
 sea, which is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken 
 by Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre, which mingles 
 with the whistling of the rigging, the sound of the speaking- 
 trumpets, the shock of the boarding-irons, the roll of the sea, 
 the wind, the gale, the cannon, is wholly a heroic and dazzling 
 slang, which is to the fierce slang of the thieves what the lion 
 is to the jackal. 
 
 No doubt. But say what we will, this manner of under- 
 standing the word slang is an extension which every one will 
 not admit. For our part, we reserve to the word its ancient 
 and precise, circumscribed and determined significance, and 
 we restrict slang to slang. The veritable slang and the slang 
 that is pre-eminently slang, if the two words can be coupled 
 
 l "Vous trouverez dans ces potains-lft, une foultitude de raisons pour 
 que je me libertise."
 
 SLANG 191 
 
 thus, the slang immemorial which was a kingdom, is nothing 
 else, wo repeat, than the homely, uneasy, crafty, treacherous, 
 venomous, cruel, equivocal, vile, profound, fatal tongue of 
 wretchedness. There exists, at the extremity of all abase- 
 ment and all misfortunes, a last misery which revolts and 
 makes up its mind to enter into conflict with the whole mass 
 of fortunate facts and reigning rights ; a fearful conflict, 
 where, now cunning, now violent, unhealthy and ferocious at 
 one and the same time, it attacks the social order with pin- 
 pricks through vice, and with cluh-blows through crime. To 
 meet the needs of this conflict, wretchedness has invented a 
 language of combat, which is slang. 
 
 To keep afloat and to rescue from oblivion, to hold above the 
 gulf, were it but a fragment of some language which man has 
 spoken and which would, otherwise, be lost, that is to say, one 
 of the elements, good or bad, of which civilization is composed, 
 or by which it is complicated, to extend the records of social 
 observation; is to serve civilization itself. This service Plautus 
 rendered, consciously or unconsciously, by making two Cartha- 
 ginian soldiers talk Phoenician; that service Moliere rendered, 
 by making so many of his characters talk Levantine and all 
 sorts of dialects. Here objections spring up afresh. Phoeni- 
 cian, very good ! Levantine, quite right ! Even dialect, let 
 that pass ! They are tongues which have belonged to nations 
 or provinces; but slang ! What is the use of preserving slang? 
 What is the good of assisting slang "to survive"? 
 
 To this we reply in one word, only. Assuredly, if the tongue 
 which a nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest, 
 the language which has been spoken by a misery is still more 
 worthy of attention and study. 
 
 It is the language which has been spoken, in France, for ex- 
 ample, for more than four centuries, not only by a misery, but 
 by every possible human misery. 
 
 And then, we insist upon it, the study of social deformities 
 and infirmities, and the task of pointing them out with a view 
 to remedy, is not a business in which choice is permitted. The 
 historian of manners and ideas has no less austere a mission
 
 192 
 
 than the historian of events. The latter has the surface of 
 civilization, the conflicts of crowns, the hirths of princes, the 
 marriages of kings, battles, assemblages, great public men, 
 revolutions in the daylight, everything on the exterior; the 
 other historian has the interior, the depths, the people who toil, 
 suffer, wait, the oppressed woman, the agonizing child, the 
 secret war between man and man, obscure ferocities, preju- 
 dices, plotted iniquities, the subterranean, the indistinct 
 tremors of multitudes, the die-of-hunger, the counter-blows of 
 the law, the secret evolution of souls, the go-bare-foot, the 
 bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans, the unhappy, and 
 the infamous, all the forms which roam through the darkness. 
 He must descend with his heart full of charity, and severity 
 at the same time, as a brother and as a judge, to those im- 
 penetrable casemates where crawl, pell-mell, those who bleed 
 and those who deal the blow, those who weep and those who 
 curse, those who fast and those who devour, those who endure 
 evil and those who inflict it. Have these historians of hearts 
 and souls duties at all inferior to the historians of external 
 facts ? Does any one think that Alighieri has any fewer things 
 to say than Machiavelli ? Is the under side of civilization any 
 less important than the upper side merely because it is deeper 
 and more sombre ? Do we really know the mountain well when 
 we are not acquainted with the cavern ? 
 
 Let us say, moreover, parenthetically, that from a few words 
 of what precedes a marked separation might be inferred be- 
 tween the two classes of historians which does not exist in our 
 mind. No one is a good historian of the patent, visible, strik- 
 ing, and public life of peoples, if he is not, at the same time, 
 in a certain measure, the historian of their deep and hidden 
 life; and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he 
 understands how, at need, to be the historian of the exterior 
 also. The history of manners and ideas permeates the history 
 of events, and this is true reciprocally. They constitute two 
 different orders of facts which correspond to each other, which 
 are always interlaced, and which often bring forth results. 
 All the lineaments which Providence traces on the surface
 
 SLANG 193 
 
 of a nation have their parallels, somhre but distinct, in their 
 depths, and all convulsions of the depths produce ebullitions 
 on the surface. True history being a mixture of all things, the 
 true historian mingles in everything. 
 
 Man is not a circle with a single centre; he is an ellipse 
 with a double focus. Facts form one of these, and ideas the 
 other. 
 
 Slang is nothing but a dressing-room where the tongue 
 having some bad action to perform, disguises itself. There it 
 clothes itself in word-masks, in metaphor-rags. In this guise 
 it becomes horrible. 
 
 One finds it difficult to recognize. Is it really the French 
 tongue, the great human tongue? Behold it ready to step 
 upon the stage and to retort upon crime, and prepared for all 
 the employments of the repertory of evil. It no longer walks, 
 it hobbles; it limps on the crutch of the Court of Miracles, a 
 crutch mctamorphosable into a club; it is called vagrancy; 
 every sort of spectre, its dressers, have painted its face, it 
 crawls and rears, the double gait of the reptile. Henceforth, 
 it is apt at all roles, it is made suspicious by the counterfeiter, 
 covered with verdigris by the forger, blacked by the soot of 
 the incendiary; and the murderer applies its rouge. 
 
 When one listens, by the side of honest men, at the portals 
 of society, one overhears the dialogues of those who are on 
 the outside. One distinguishes questions and replies. One 
 perceives, without understanding it, a hideous murmur, sound- 
 ing almost like human accents, but more nearly resembling a 
 howl than an articulate word. It is slang. The words are 
 misshapen and stamped with an indescribable and fantastic 
 bestiality. One thinks one hears hydras talking. 
 
 It is unintelligible in the dark. It gnashes and whispers, 
 completing the gloom with mystery. It is black in misfortune, 
 it is blacker still in crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated, 
 compose slang. Obscurity in the atmosphere, obscurity in acts, 
 obscurity in voices. Terrible, toad-like tongue which goes and 
 comes, leaps, crawls, slobbers, and stirs about in monstrous 
 wise in thai immense gray fog composed of rain and night, of
 
 194 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 hunger, of vice, of falsehood, of injustice, of nudity, of suf- 
 focation, and of winter, the high noonday of the miser- 
 able. 
 
 Let us have compassion on the chastised. Alas ! Who are 
 we ourselves ? Who am I who now address you ? Who are you 
 who are listening to me? And are you very sure that we 
 have done nothing before we were born? The earth is not 
 devoid of resemblance to a jail. Who knows whether man is 
 not a recaptured offender against divine justice? Look closely 
 at life. It is so made, that everywhere we feel the sense of 
 punishment. 
 
 Are you what is called a happy man ? Well ! you are sad 
 every day. Each day has its own great grief or its little care. 
 Yesterday you were trembling for i. health that is dear to you, 
 to-day you fear for your own ; to-morrow it will be anxiety 
 about money, the day after to-morrow the diatribe of a slan- 
 derer, the day after that, the misfortune of some friend ; then 
 the prevailing weather, then something that has been broken 
 or lost, then a pleasure with which your conscience and your 
 vertebral column reproach you ; again, the course of public 
 affairs. This without reckoning in the pains of the heart. And 
 so it goes on. One cloud is dispelled, another forms. There is 
 hardly one day out of a hundred which is wholly joyous and 
 sunny. And you belong to that small class who are happy ! 
 As for the rest of mankind, stagnating night rests upon them. 
 
 Thoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the 
 fortunate and the unfortunate. In this world, evidently the 
 vestibule of another, there are no fortunate. 
 
 The real human division is this: the luminous and the 
 shady. To diminish the number of the shady, to augment 
 the number of the luminous, that is the object. That is 
 why we cry: Education! science! To teacli reading, means 
 to light the fire; every syllable spelled out sparkles. 
 
 However, he who says light does not, necessarily, say joy. 
 People suffer in the light; excess burns. The flame is the 
 enemy of the wing. To burn without ceasing to fly, therein 
 lies the marvel of genius.
 
 8LANO 195 
 
 When you shall have learned to know, and to love, you will 
 still suffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep, 
 if only over those in darkness. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 ROOTS 
 
 SLANG is the tongue of those who sit in darkness. 
 
 Thought is moved in its most sombre depths, social philoso- 
 phy is bidden to its most poignant meditations, in the presence 
 of that enigmatic dialect at once so blighted and rebellious. 
 Therein lies chastisement made visible. Every syllable has 
 an air of being marked. The words of the vulgar tongue ap- 
 pear therein wrinkled and shrivelled, as it were, beneath the 
 hot iron of the executioner. Some seem to be still smoking. 
 Such and such a phrase produces upon you the effect of the 
 shoulder of a thief branded with the fleur-de-lys, which has 
 suddenly been laid bare. Ideas almost refuse to be expressed 
 in these substantives which are fugitives from justice. Meta- 
 phor is sometimes so shamele^, that one feels that it has worn 
 the iron neck-fetter. 
 
 Moreover, in spite of all this, and because of all this, this 
 strange dialect has by rights, its own compartment in that 
 great impartial case of pigeon-holes where there is room for 
 the rusty farthing as well as for the gold medal, and which 
 is called literature. Slang, whether the public admit the fact 
 or not, has its syntax and its poetry. It is a language. Yes, 
 by the deformity of certain terms, we recognize the fact that it 
 was c.-hewed by Mandrin, and by the splendor of certain 
 metonymies, we feel that Villon spoke it. 
 
 That exquisite and celebrated verse 
 
 Mais oil sont IPS neiges d'antan? 
 
 But where are the snows of years gone by? 
 
 is a verse of slang. Antarn ante annum as a word of
 
 196 SAIXT-DEItlB 
 
 Thunes slang, which signified the past year, and by extension, 
 formerly. Thirty-five years ago, at the epoch of the departure 
 of the great chain-gang, there could be read in one of the cells 
 at Bicetre, this maxim engraved with a nail on the wall by 
 a king of Thunes condemned to the galleys: Les dabs d'antan 
 irimaient siempre pour la pierre du Coesre. This means 
 Kings in days gone by always went and had themselves 
 anointed. In the opinion of that king, anointment meant the 
 galleys. 
 
 The word decarade, which expresses the departure of heavy 
 vehicles at a gallop, is attributed to Villon, and it is worthy 
 of him. This word, which strikes fire with all four of its feet, 
 sums up in a masterly onomatopoeia the whole of La Fontaine's 
 admirable verse : 
 
 Six forts chevaux tiraient un coche. 
 Six stout horses drew a coach. 
 
 From a purely literary point of view, few studies would 
 prove more curious and fruitful than the study of slang. It is 
 a whole language within a language, a sort of sickly excres- 
 cence, an unhealthy graft which has produced a vegetation, a 
 parasite which has its roots in the old Gallic trunk, and whose 
 sinister foliage crawls all over one side of the language. This 
 is what may be called the first, the vulgar aspect of slang. But, 
 for those who study the tongue as it should be studied, that is 
 to say, as geologists study the earth, slang appears like a 
 veritable alluvial deposit. According as one digs a longer or 
 shorter distance into it, one finds in slang, below tbe old pop- 
 ular French, Provengal, Spanish, Italian, Levantine, that lan- 
 guage of the Mediterranean ports, English and German, the 
 .Romance language in its three varieties, French, Italian, and 
 Romance Romance, Latin, and finally Basque and Celtic. A 
 profound and unique formation. A subterranean edifice 
 erected in common by all the miserable. Each accursed race 
 has deposited its layer, each suffering has dropped its stone 
 there, each heart has contributed its pebble. A throng of 
 evil, base, or irritated souls, who have traversed life and have
 
 8LANG 197 
 
 vanished into eternity, linger there almost entirely visible still 
 beneath the form of some monstrous word. 
 
 Do you want Spanish ? The old Gothic slang abounded in 
 it. Here is boffete, a box on the ear, which is derived from 
 bofr.ton; vantane, window (later on vantcrne), which comes 
 from vantana; gat, cat, which comes from gato; acite, oil, 
 which comes from aceytc. Do you want Italian? Here is 
 spade, sword, which comes from spada; carvel, boat, which 
 conies from caravella. Do you want English? Here is bichot. 
 which comes from bishop; raillc, spy, which conies from ras- 
 cal, rascalion; pilche, a case, which comes from pilch er, a 
 sheath. Do you want German? Here is the caleur, the waiter, 
 kellner; the hers, the master, herzog (duke). Do you want 
 Latin? Here is frangir, to break, frangere ; affurer, to steal, 
 fur; cadene, chain, catena. There is one word which crops up 
 in every language of the continent, with a sort of mysterious 
 power and authority. It is the word magnus; the Scotchman 
 makes of it his mac, which designates the chief of the clan ; 
 Mac-Farlane, Mac-Callumore, the great Farlane, the great 
 Callumore 1 ; slang turns it into meek and later le meg, that is 
 to say, God. Would you like Basque? Here is gahisto, the 
 devil, which comes from gaiztoa. evil ; sorgabon, good night, 
 which comes from gabon, good evening. Do you want Celtic? 
 Here is blavin, a handkerchief, which conies from bhtrcf. 
 gushing water; menessr., a woman (in a bad sense), which 
 comes from mcinec, full of stones; barant, brook, from banui- 
 ion, fountain; goffcur. locksmith, from goff. blacksmith; 
 guedouze, death, which comes from gue.nn-du. black-white. 
 Finally, would you like history? Slang calls crowns Ics mal- 
 teses, a souvenir of the coin in circulation on the galleys of 
 Malta. 
 
 In addition to the philological origins just indicated, slang 
 possesses other and still more natural roots, which spring, so 
 to speak, from the mind of man itself. 
 
 In the first place, the direct creation of words. Therein lies 
 the mystery of tongues. To paint with words, which cou- 
 'lt must be observed, however, that mc in Celtic means svn.
 
 198 8AWTDEXI8 
 
 tains figures one knows not how or why, is the primitive foun- 
 dation of all human languages, what may be called their 
 granite. 
 
 Slang abounds in words of this description, immediate 
 words, words created instantaneously no one knows either 
 where or by whom, without etymology, without analogies, 
 without derivatives, solitary, barbarous, sometimes hideous 
 words, which at times possess a singular power of expression 
 and which live. The executioner, le taule; the forest, le sabri; 
 fear, flight, taf ; the lackey, le larbin; the mineral, the prefect, 
 the minister, pharos; the devil, le rabouin. Nothing is 
 stranger than these words which both mask and reveal. Some, 
 le rabouin, for example, are at the same time grotesque and 
 terrible, and produce on you the effect of a cyclopean 
 grimace. 
 
 In the second place, metaphor. The peculiarity of a lan- 
 guage which is desirous of saying all yet concealing all is that 
 it is rich in figures. Metaphor is an enigma, wherein the thief 
 who is plotting a stroke, the prisoner who is arranging an 
 escape, take refuge. No idiom is more metaphorical than 
 slang : devisser le coco (to unscrew the nut), to twist the neck ; 
 tortiller (to wriggle), to eat; etre gerbe, to be tried; a rat, & 
 bread thief; il lansquine, it rains, a striking, ancient figure 
 which partly bears its date about it, which assimilates long ob- 
 lique lines of rain, with the dense and slanting pikes of the 
 lancers, and which compresses into a single word the popular 
 expression : it rains halberds. Sometimes, in proportion as 
 slang progresses from the first epoch to the second, words pass 
 from the primitive and savage sense to the metaphorical sense. 
 The devil ceases to be le rabouin, and becomes le boulanger 
 (the baker), who puts the bread into the oven. This is more 
 witty, but less grand, something like Racine after Cornel lie, 
 like Euripides after yEschylus. Certain slang phrases which 
 participate in the two epochs and have at once the barbaric 
 character and the metaphorical character resemble phantasma- 
 gories. Les sorgueuers vont solliciter des gails a la lune the 
 prowlers are going to steal horses by night, this passes before
 
 SLANG 199 
 
 the mind like a group of spectres. One knows not what 
 one sees. 
 
 In the third place, the expedient. Slang lives on the lan- 
 guage. It uses it in accordance with its fancy, it dips into it 
 hap-hazard, and it often confines itself, when occasion arises, 
 to alter it in a gross and summary fashion. Occasionally, with 
 the ordinary words thus deformed and complicated with words 
 of pure slang, picturesque phrases are formed, in which there 
 can be felt the mixture of the two preceding elements, the 
 direct creation and the metaphor : le cab jaspine, je marronne 
 que la roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri, the dog is bark- 
 ing, I suspect that the diligence for Paris is passing through 
 the woods. Le dab est sinve, la dabuge est merloussiere, la 
 fee est bative,i\\e bourgeois is stupid, the bonrgeoise is cunning, 
 the daughter is pretty. Generally, to throw listeners off the 
 track, slang confines itself to adding to all the words of the 
 language without distinction, an ignoble tail, a termination 
 in aille, in orgue, in iergue, or in uclie. Thus: Vousiergue 
 trouvaille bonorgue ce gigotmuche? Do you think that leg 
 of mutton good ? A phrase addressed by Cartouche to a turn- 
 key in order to find out whether the sum offered for his escape 
 suited him. 
 
 The termination in mar has been added recently. 
 
 Slang, being the dialect of corruption, quickly becomes cor- 
 rupted itself. Besides this, as it is always seeking conceal- 
 ment, as soon as it feels that it is understood, it changes its 
 form. Contrary to what happens with every other vegetation, 
 every ray of light which falls upon it kills whatever it touches. 
 Thus slang is in constant process of decomposition and recom- 
 position ; an obscure and rapid work which never pauses. It 
 passes over more ground in ten years than a language in ten 
 centuries. Thus le larton (bread) becomes le lartif : Je (jail 
 (horse) becomes le gaye ; la fertanche (straw) becomes la fer- 
 tille; le momignard (brat), le momacqne : leu fiques (duds), 
 frusques ; la ckiqnc (the church), I'egrugcoir; le colabre 
 (neck), le colas. The devil is at first, gainst o, then le rabouin, 
 then the baker; the priest is a raiichon, then the boar (le
 
 200 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 sanglier) ; the dagger is le vingt-deux (twenty-two), then le 
 surin, then le lingre; the police are rallies, then roussins, then 
 rousses, then marchands de lacets (dealers in stay-laces), then 
 coquers, then cognes; the executioner is le taulc, then Chariot, 
 I'atigeur, then le lecqiiillard. In the seventeenth century, to 
 fight was "to give each other snuff"; in the nineteenth it 
 is "to chew each other's throats." There have been twenty 
 different phrases between these two extremes. Cartouche's 
 talk would have been Hebrew to Lacenaire. All the words of 
 this language are perpetually engaged in flight like the men 
 who utter them. 
 
 Still, from time to time, and in consequence of this very 
 movement, the ancient slang crops up again and becomes new 
 once more. It has its headquarters where it maintains its 
 sway. The Temple preserved the slang of the seventeenth 
 century ; Bicetre, when it was a prison, preserved the slang of 
 Thunes. There one could hear the termination in anche of 
 the old Thuneurs. Boyanches-tu (bois-tu), do you drink? 
 But perpetual movement remains its law, nevertheless. 
 
 If the philosopher succeeds in fixing, for a moment, for 
 purposes of observation, this language which is incessantly 
 evaporating, he falls into doleful and useful meditation. No 
 study is more efficacious and more fecund in instruction. 
 There is not a metaphor, not an analogy, in slang, which does 
 not contain a lesson. Among these men, to beat means to 
 feign ; one beats a malady ; ruse is their strength. 
 
 For them, the idea of the man is not separated from the 
 idea of darkness. The night is called la sorgue; man, I'orgue. 
 Man is a derivative of the night. 
 
 They have taken up the practice of considering society in 
 the light of an atmosphere which kills them, of a fatal force, 
 and they speak of their liberty as one would speak of his 
 health. A man under arrest is a sick man; one who is con- 
 demned is a dead man. 
 
 The most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four 
 falls in which he is buried, is a sort of glacial chastity, and he 
 calls the dungeon the castus. In that funereal place, life out-
 
 SLANG 201 
 
 side always presents itself under its most smiling aspect. The 
 prisoner has irons on his feet; you think, perhaps, that his 
 thought is that it is with the feet that one walks? Xo; he 
 is thinking that it is with the feet that one dances ; so, when 
 he has succeeded in severing his fetters, his first idea is that 
 now he can dance, and he calls the saw the bastringue (public- 
 house ball). A name is a centre; profound assimilation. 
 The ruffian has two heads, one of which reasons out his actions 
 and leads him all his life long, and the other which he has 
 upon his shoulders on the day of his death ; he calls the head 
 which counsels him in crime la sorbonne, and the head which 
 expiates it la tranche. When a man has no longer anything 
 but rags upon his body and vices in his heart, when he has 
 arrived at that double moral and material degradation which 
 the word blackguard characterizes in its two acceptations, he 
 is ripe for crime ; he is like a well-whetted knife ; he has two 
 cutting edges, his distress and his malice; so slang does not 
 say a blackguard, it says un reguise. What are the galleys? 
 A brazier of damnation, a hell. The convict calls himself a 
 fagot. And finally, what name do malefactors give to their 
 prison? The college. A whole penitentiary system can be 
 evolved from that word. 
 
 Does the reader wish to know where the majority of the 
 songs of the galleys, those refrains called in the special vocab- 
 ulary lirlonfa, have had their birth? 
 
 Let him listen to what follows: 
 
 There existed at the Chatelet in Paris a large and long 
 cellar. This cellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. 
 It had neither windows nor air-holes, its only aperture was the 
 door ; men could enter there, air could not. This vault had for 
 ceiling a vault of stone, and for floor ten inches of mud. It 
 was flagged ; but the pavement had rotted and cracked under 
 the oozing of the water. Eight feet above the floor, a long 
 and massive beam traversed this subterranean excavation from 
 side to side; from this beam hung, at short distances apart, 
 chains three feet long, and at the end of these chains there 
 were rings for the neck. In this vault men who had been
 
 202 SAIXT-DEN1S 
 
 condemned to the galleys were incarcerated until the day of 
 their departure for Toulon. They were thrust under this 
 beam, where each one found his fetters swinging in the dark- 
 ness and waiting for him. 
 
 The chains, those pendant arms, and the necklet?, those 
 open hands, caught the unhappy wretches by the throat. They 
 were rivetted and left there. As the chain was too short, 
 they could not lie down. They remained motionless in that 
 cavern, in that night, beneath that beam, almost hanging, 
 forced to unheard-of efforts to reach their bread, jug, or their 
 vault overhead, mud even to mid-leg, filth flowing to their 
 very calves, broken asunder with fatigue, with thighs and 
 knees giving way, clinging fast to the chain with their hands 
 in order to obtain some rest, unable to sleep except when 
 standing erect, and awakened every moment by the strangling 
 of the collar; some woke no more. In order to eat. they 
 pushed the bread, which was flung to them in the mud. along 
 their leg with their heel until it reached their hand. 
 
 How long did they remain thus ? One month, two months, 
 six months sometimes ; one stayed a year. It was the ante- 
 chamber of the galleys. Men were put there for stealing a 
 hare from the king. In this sepulchre-hell, what did they 
 do? What man can do in a sepulchre, they went through the 
 agonies of death, and what can man do in hell, they sang; for 
 song lingers where there is no longer any hope. In the waters 
 of Malta, when a galley was approaching, the song could be 
 heard before the sound of the oars. Poor Survincent, the 
 poacher, who had gone through the prison-cellar of the Chate- 
 let, said : "It was the rhymes that kept me up." Uselessness 
 of poetry. What is the good of rhyme? 
 
 It is in this cellar that nearly all the slang songs had their 
 birth. It is from the dungeon of the Grand-Chatelet of Paris 
 that comes the melancholy refrain of the Montgomery galley : 
 "Timaloumisaine, timalonmison." The majority of these 
 songs are melancholy ; some are gay ; one is tender : 
 
 Icicaille est la theatre Here is the theatre 
 
 Du petit dardant. Of the little archer (Cupid).
 
 SLAtJO 203 
 
 Do what you will, you cannot annihilate that eternal relic 
 in the heart of man, love. 
 
 In this world of dismal deeds, people keep their secrets. 
 The secret is the thing above all others. The secret, in the 
 eyes of these wretches, is unity which serves as a base of 
 union. To betray a secret is to tear from each member of this 
 fierce community something of his own personality. To 
 inform against, in the energetic slang dialect, is called : "to 
 eat the bit." As though the informer drew to himself a little 
 of the substance of all and nourished himself on a bit of each 
 one's flesh. 
 
 What does it signify to receive a box on the ear? Common- 
 place metaphor replies: "It is to see thirty-six candles." 
 Here slang intervenes and takes it up: Candle, camoufle. 
 Thereupon, the ordinary tongue gives camouflct 1 as the syno- 
 nym for soufflct. Thus, by a sort of infiltration from below 
 upwards, with the aid of metaphor, that incalculable, trajec- 
 tory slang mounts from the cavern to the Academy ; and 
 Poulailler saying: "I light my camoufle," causes Voltaire to 
 write: "Langleviel La Beaumellc deserves a hundred camou- 
 flets." 
 
 Researches in slang mean discoveries at every step. Study 
 and investigation of this strange idiom lead to the mysterious 
 point of intersection of regular society with society which is 
 accursed. 
 
 The thief also has his food for cannon, stealable matter, 
 you, I, whoever passes by; le pantre. (Pan, everybody.) 
 
 Slang is language turned convict. 
 
 That the thinking principle of man be thrust down ever so 
 low, that it can be dragged and pinioned there by obscure 
 tyrannies of fatality, that it can be bound by no one knows 
 what fetters in that abyss, is sufficient to create consternation. 
 
 Oh, poor thought of miserable wretches ! 
 
 Alas ! will no one come to the succor of the human soul in 
 that darkness? Is it her destiny there to await forever the 
 mind, the liberator, the immense rider of Pegasi and hippo- 
 'Siuoke puffed in the face of a person asleep.
 
 griffs, the combatant of heroes of the dawn who shall descend 
 from the azure between two wings, the radiant knight of the 
 future? Will she forever summon in vain to her assistance 
 the lance of light of the ideal? Is she condemned to hear the 
 fearful approach of Evil through the density of the gulf, and 
 to catch glimpses, nearer and nearer at hand, beneath the 
 hideous water, of that dragon's head, that maw streaked with 
 foarn, and that writhing undulation of claws, swellings, and 
 rings? Must it remain there, without a gleam of light, with- 
 out hope, given over to that terrible approach, vaguely scented 
 out by the monster, shuddering, dishevelled, wringing its 
 arms, forever chained to the rock of night, a sombre Andro- 
 meda white and naked amid the shadows ! 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 SLANG WHICH WEEPS AND SLANG WHICH LAUGHS 
 
 As the reader perceives, slang in its entirety, slang of four 
 hundred years ago, like the slang of to-day, is permeated with 
 that sombre, symbolical spirit which gives to all words a mien 
 which is now mournful, now menacing. One feels in it the 
 wild and ancient sadness of those vagrants of the Court of 
 Miracles who played at cards with packs of their own, sonic 
 of which have come down to us. The eight of clubs, for 
 instance, represented a huge tree bearing eight enormous 
 trefoil leaves, a sort of fantastic personification of the forest. 
 At the foot of this tree a fire was burning, over which three 
 hares were roasting a huntsman on a spit, and behind him. 
 on another fire, hung a steaming pot, whence emerged the 
 head of a dog. Nothing can be more melancholy than these 
 reprisals in painting, by a pack of cards, in the presence of 
 stakes for the roasting of smugglers and of the cauldron for 
 the boiling of counterfeiters. The diverse forms assumed by 
 thought in the realm of slang, even song, even raillery, even 
 ineiiuc.-e, all partook of this powerless and dejected character.
 
 BLANO 205 
 
 All the songs, the melodies of some of which have been col- 
 lected, were humble and lamentable to the point of evoking 
 tears. The pegre is always the poor pegre, and he is always 
 the hare in hiding, the fugitive mouse, the flying bird. Pie 
 hardly complains, he contents himself with sighing; one of 
 liis moans has come down to us: "I do not understand how 
 (Jod, the father of men, can torture his children and his 
 grandchildren and hear them cry, without himself suffering 
 torture." 1 The wretch, whenever he has time to think, makes 
 himself small before the low, and frail in the presence of 
 .society ; he'lies down flat on his face, he entreats, he appeals 
 to the side of compassion; we feel that he is conscious of his 
 guilt. 
 
 Towards the middle of the last century a change took place, 
 prison songs and thieves' ritournelles assumed, so to speak, an 
 insolent and jovial mien. The plaintive inalure was replaced 
 by the larifla. We find in the eighteenth century, in nearh 
 all the songs of the galleys and prisons, a diabolical and enig- 
 matical gayety. We hear this strident and lilting refrain 
 which we should say had been lighted up by a phosphorescent 
 gleam, and which seems to have been flung into the forest by 
 a will-o'-the-wisp playing the fife: 
 
 Miralabi suslababo 
 Mirliton ribonribette 
 Surlababi niirlababo 
 Mirliton ribonribo. 
 
 This was sung in a cellar or in a nook of the forest while 
 cutting a man's throat. 
 
 A serious symptom. In the eighteenth century, the ancient 
 melancholy of the dejected classes vanishes. They began to 
 laugh. They rally the grand meg and the grand dnb. (liven 
 Louis XV. they call the King of France "le Marquis de 
 1'antin." And behold, they are almost gay. A sort of gleam 
 proceeds from these miserable wretches, as though their 
 
 Me n'cntrave que le dail comment meek, le damn des orpues. pent 
 ntijjer .ses mflmes et aes momignards et les locher criblant sans etre 
 agit6 lui-meme.
 
 206 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 consciences were not heavy within them any more. These 
 lamentable tribes of darkness have no longer merely the des- 
 perate audacity of actions, they possess the heedless audacity 
 of mind. A sign that they are losing the sense of their crimi- 
 nality, and that they feel, even among thinkers and dreamers, 
 some indefinable support which the latter themselves know not 
 of. A sign that theft and pillage are beginning to filter into 
 doctrines and sophisms, in such a way as to lose somewhat of 
 their ugliness, while communicating much of it to sophisms 
 and doctrines. A sign, in short, of some outbreak which is 
 prodigious and near unless some diversion shall arise. 
 
 Let us pause a moment. Whom are we accusing here? Is 
 it the eighteenth century? Is it philosophy? Certainly not. 
 The work of the eighteenth century is healthy and good and 
 wholesome. The encyclopedists, Diderot at their head ; the 
 physiocrates, Turgot at their head ; the philosophers, Voltaire 
 at their head; the Utopians, Rousseau at their head, these 
 are four sacred legions. Humanity's immense advance 
 towards the light is due to them. They are the four van- 
 guards of the human race, marching towards the four cardinal 
 points of progress. Diderot towards the beautiful, Turgot 
 towards the useful, Voltaire towards the true, Rousseau 
 towards the just. But by the side of and above the philoso- 
 phers, there were the sophists, a venomous vegetation mingled 
 with a healthy growth, hemlock in the virgin forest. While 
 the executioner was burning the great books of the liberators 
 of the century on the grand staircase of the court-house, 
 writers now forgotten were publishing, with the King's sanc- 
 tion, no one knows what strangely disorganizing writings, 
 which were eagerly read by the unfortunate. Some of these 
 publications, odd to say, which were patronized by a prince, 
 are to be found in the Secret Library. These facts, significant 
 but unknown, were imperceptible on the surface. Sometimes, 
 in the very obscurity of a fact lurks its danger. It is obscure 
 because it is underhand. Of all these writers, the one who 
 probably then excavated in the masses the most unhealthy 
 gallery was Restif de La Bretonne.
 
 NLANG 207 
 
 This work, peculiar to the whole of Europe, effected more 
 ravages in German}' than anywhere else. In Germany, during 
 a given period, summed up by Schiller in his famous drama 
 The Robbers, theft and pillage rose up in protest against 
 property and labor, assimilated certain specious and false 
 elementary ideas, which, though just in appearance, were 
 absurd in reality, enveloped themselves in these ideas, disap- 
 peared within them, after a fashion, assumed an abstract 
 name, passed into the state of theory, and in that shape circu- 
 lated among the laborious, suffering, and honest masses, 
 unknown even to the imprudent chemists who had prepared 
 the mixture, unknown even to the masses who accepted it. 
 Whenever a fact of this sort presents itself, the case is grave. 
 Suffering engenders wrath ; and while the prosperous classes 
 blind themselves or fall asleep, which is the same thing as 
 shutting one's eyes, the hatred of the unfortunate classes 
 lights its torch at some aggrieved or ill-made spirit which 
 dreams in a corner, and sets itself to the scrutiny of society. 
 The scrutiny of hatred is a terrible thing. 
 
 Hence, if the ill-fortune of the times so wills it, those fear- 
 ful commotions which were formerly called jacqueries, beside 
 which purely political agitations are the merest child's play, 
 which are no longer the conflict of the oppressed and the 
 oppressor, but the revolt of discomfort against comfort. Then 
 everything crumbles. 
 
 Jacqueries are earthquakes of the people. 
 
 It is this peril, possibly imminent towards the close of the 
 eighteenth century, which the French Revolution, that im- 
 mense act of probity, cut short. 
 
 The French Revolution, which is nothing else than the idea 
 armed with the sword, rose erect, and, with the same abrupt 
 movement, closed the door of ill and opened the door of good. 
 
 It put a stop to torture, promulgated the truth, expelled 
 miasma, rendered the century healthy, crowned the populace. 
 
 It may be said of it that it created mm a second time, by 
 giving him a second soul, the right. 
 
 The nineteenth century has inherited and profited by its
 
 208 SAI\T DKNIS 
 
 work, and to-day, the social catastrophe to which we lately 
 alluded is simply impossible. Blind is he who announces it! 
 Foolish is he who fears it ! Revolution is the vaccine of 
 Jacquerie. 
 
 Thanks to the Revolution, social conditions have changed. 
 Feudal and monarchical maladies no longer run in our blood. 
 There is no more of the Middle Ages in our constitution. We 
 no longer live in the days when terrible swarms within made 
 irruptions, when one heard beneath his feet the obscure course 
 of a dull rumble, when indescribable elevations from mole-like 
 tunnels appeared on the surface of civilization, where the soil 
 cracked open, where the roofs of caverns yawned, and where 
 one suddenly beheld monstrous heads emerging from the 
 earth. 
 
 The revolutionary sense is a moral sense. The sentiment of 
 right, once developed, develops the sentiment of duty. The 
 law of all is liberty, which ends where the liberty of others 
 begins, according to Robespierre's admirable definition. Since 
 '89, the whole people has been dilating into a sublime indi- 
 vidual ; there is not a poor man, who, possessing his right, has 
 not his ray of sun ; the die-of-hunger feels within him the 
 honesty of France ; the dignity of the citizen is an internal 
 armor; he who is free is scrupulous; he who votes reigns. 
 Hence incorruptibility; hence the miscarriage of unhealthy 
 lusts; hence eyes heroically lowered before temptations. The 
 revolutionary wholesomeness is such, that on a day of deliver- 
 ance, a 14th of July, a 10th of August, there is no longer 
 any populace. The first cry of the enlightened and increasing 
 throngs is: death to thieves! Progress is an honest man; 
 the ideal and the absolute do not filch pocket-handkerchiefs. 
 By whom were the wagons containing the wealth of the 
 Tuileries escorted in 1848? By the rag-pickers of the Fau- 
 bourg Saint-Antoine. Rags mounted guard over the treasure. 
 Virtue rendered these tatterdemalions resplendent. In those 
 wagons in chests, hardly closed, and some, even, half-open, 
 amid a hundred dazzling caskets, was that ancient crown of 
 France, studded with diamonds, surmounted by the carbuncle
 
 SLANG 209 
 
 of royalty, by the Regent diamond, which was worth thirty 
 millions. Barefooted, they guarded that crown. 
 
 Hence, no more Jacquerie. I regret it for the sake of the 
 skilful. The old fear lias produced its last effects in that 
 quarter; and henceforth it can no longer be employed in poli- 
 tics. The principal spring of the red spectre is broken. Every 
 one knows it now. The scare-crow scares no longer. The 
 birds take liberties with the mannikin, foul creatures alight 
 upon it, the bourgeois laugh at it. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE TWO DUTIES : TO WATCH AND TO HOPE 
 
 THIS being the case, is all social danger dispelled? Cer- 
 tainly not. There is no Jacquerie ; society may rest assured on 
 that point ; blood will no longer rush to its head. But let 
 society take heed to the manner in which it breathes. Apo- 
 plexy is no longer to be feared, but phthisis is there. Social 
 phthisis is called misery. 
 
 One can perish from being undermined as well as from 
 being struck by lightning. 
 
 Let us not weary of repeating, and sympathetic souls must 
 not forget that this is the first of fraternal obligations, and 
 selfish hearts must understand that the first of political ne- 
 cessities consists in thinking first of all of the disinherited and 
 sorrowing throngs, in solacing, airing, enlightening, loving 
 them, in enlarging their horizon to a magnificent extent, in 
 lavishing upon them education in every form, in oiTering them 
 the example of labor, never the example of idleness, in dimin- 
 ishing the individual burden by enlarging the notion of the 
 universal aim, in setting a limit to poverty without setting a 
 limit to wealth, in creating vast fields of public and popular 
 activity, in having, like Briareus, a hundred hands to extend in 
 all directions to the oppressed and the feeble, in employing 
 the collective power for that grand duty of opening workshops
 
 210 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 for all arms, schools for all aptitudes, and laboratories for all 
 degrees of intelligence, in augmenting salaries, diminishing 
 trouble, balancing what should be and what is, that is to say, 
 in proportioning enjoyment to effort and a glut to need ; in a 
 word, in evolving from the social apparatus more light and 
 more comfort for the benefit of those who suffer and those who 
 are ignorant. 
 
 And, let us say it, all this is but the beginning. The true 
 question is this : labor cannot be a law without being a right. 
 
 We will not insist upon this point; this is not the proper 
 place for that. 
 
 If nature calls itself Providence, society should call itself 
 foresight. 
 
 Intellectual and moral growth is no less indispensable than 
 material improvement. To know is a sacrament, to think is 
 the prime necessity, truth is nourishment as well as grain. A 
 reason which fasts from science and wisdom grows thin. Let 
 us enter equal complaint against stomachs and minds which 
 do not eat. If there is anything more heart-breaking than a 
 body perishing for lack of bread, it is a soul which is dying 
 from hunger for the light. 
 
 The whole of progress tends in the direction of solution. 
 Some day we shall be amazed. As the human race mounts 
 upward, the deep layers emerge naturally from the zone of 
 distress. The obliteration of misery will be accomplished by a 
 simple elevation of level. 
 
 We should do wrong were we to doubt this blessed con- 
 summation. 
 
 The past is very strong, it is true, at the present moment. 
 It censures. This rejuvenation of a corpse is surprising. Be- 
 hold, it is walking and advancing. It seems a victor ; this dead 
 body is a conqiieror. He arrives with his legions, superstitions, 
 with his sword, despotism, with his banner, ignorance; a while 
 ago, he won ten battles. He advances, he threatens, he laughs, 
 he is at our doors. Let us not despair, on our side. Let us 
 sell the field on which Hannibal is encamped. 
 
 What have we to fear, we who believe?
 
 SLANG 211 
 
 No such thing as a back-flow of ideas exists any more than 
 there exists a return of a river on its course. 
 
 But let those who do not desire a future reflect on this 
 matter. When they say "no" to progress, it is not the future 
 but themselves that they are condemning. They are giving 
 themselves a sad malady ; they are inoculating themselves with 
 the past. There is but one way of rejecting To-morrow, and 
 that is to die. 
 
 Now, no death, that of the body as late as possible, that of 
 the soul never, this is what we desire. 
 
 Yes, the enigma will utter its word, the sphinx will speak, 
 the problem will be solved. 
 
 Yes, the people, sketched out by the eighteenth century, will 
 be finished by the nineteenth. He who doubts this is an idiot ! 
 The future blossoming, the near blossoming forth of universal 
 well-being, is a divinely fatal phenomenon. 
 
 Immense combined propulsions direct human affairs and 
 conduct them within a given time to a logical state, that is to 
 say, to a state of equilibrium; that is to say, to equity. A 
 force composed of earth and heaven results from humanity 
 and governs it ; this force is a worker of miracles ; marvellous 
 issues are no more difficult to it than extraordinary vicissi- 
 tudes. Aided by science, which comes from one man, and 
 by the event, which comes from another, it is not greatly 
 alarmed by these contradictions in the attitude of problems, 
 which seem impossibilities to the vulgar herd. It is no less 
 skilful at causing a solution to spring forth from the recon- 
 ciliation of ideas, than a lesson from the reconciliation of facts, 
 and we may expect anything from that mysterious power of 
 progress, which brought the Orient and the Occident face to 
 face one fine day, in the depths of a sepulchre, and made the 
 irnaums converse with Bonaparte in the interior of the Great 
 Pyramid. 
 
 In the meantime, let there be no halt, no hesitation, no 
 pause in the grandiose onward march of minds. Social phi- 
 losophy consists essentially in science and pence. Its object is, 
 and its result mu^t bo, to dissolve wrath by the study of an-
 
 212 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 tagonisms. It examines, it scrutinizes, it analyzes; then it 
 puts together once more, it proceeds by means of reduction, 
 discarding all hatred. 
 
 More than once, a society has been seen to give way before 
 the wind which is let loose upon mankind; history is full of 
 the shipwrecks of nations and empires; manners, customs, 
 laws, religions, and some fine day that unknown force, the 
 hurricane, passes by and bears them all away. The civiliza- 
 tions of India, of Chaldea, of Persia, of Syria, of Egypt, have 
 disappeared one after the other. Why? We know not. What 
 are the causes of these disasters? We do not know. Could 
 these societies have been saved ? Was it their fault ? Did they 
 persist in the fatal vice which destroyed them? What is the 
 amount of suicide in these terrible deaths of a nation and a 
 race? Questions to which there exists no reply. Darkness 
 enwraps condemned civilizations. They sprung a leak, then 
 they sank. We have nothing more to say; and it is with a 
 sort of terror that we look on, at the bottom of that sea which 
 is called the past, behind those colossal waves, at the shipwreck 
 of those immense vessels, Babylon, Nineveh, Tarsus, Thebes, 
 Eome, beneath the fearful gusts which emerge from all the 
 mouths of the shadows. But shadows are there, and light is 
 here. We are not acquainted with the maladies of these 
 ancient civilizations, we do not know the infirmities of our 
 own. Everywhere upon it we have the right of light, we con- 
 template its beauties, we lay bare its defects. Where it is ill, 
 we probe; and the sickness once diagnosed, the study of the 
 cause leads to the discovery of the remedy. Our civilization, 
 the work of twenty centuries, is its law and its prodigy; it is 
 worth the trouble of saving. It will be saved. It is already 
 much to have solaced it; its enlightenment is yet another 
 point. All the labors of modern social philosophies must con- 
 verge towards this point. The thinker of to-day has a great 
 duty to auscultate civilization. 
 
 We repeat, that this auscultation brings encouragement; it 
 is by this persistence in encouragement that we wish to con- 
 clude these pages, an austere interlude in a mournful drama.
 
 BLAJfO 213 
 
 Beneath the social mortality, we feel human imperishablenes.s. 
 The globe does not perish, because it has these wounds, craters, 
 eruptions, sulphur pits, here and there, nor because of a vol- 
 cano which ejects its pus. The maladies of the people do not 
 kill man. 
 
 And yet, any one who follows the course of social clinics 
 shakes his head at times. The strongest, the tenderest, the 
 most logical have their hours of weakness. 
 
 Will the future arrive ? It seems as though we might almost 
 put this question, when we behold so much terrible darkness. 
 Melancholy face-to-face encounter of selfish and wretched. On 
 the part of the selfish, the prejudices, shadows of costly edu- 
 cation, appetite increasing through intoxication, a giddiness 
 of prosperity which dulls, a fear of suffering which, in some, 
 goes as far as an aversion for the suffering, an implacable sat- 
 isfaction, the / so swollen that it bars the soul ; on the side 
 of the wretched covetousness, envy, hatred of seeing others 
 enjoy, the profound impulses of the human beast towards as- 
 suaging its desires, hearts full of mist, sadness, need, fatality, 
 impure and simple ignorance. 
 
 Shall we continue to raise our eyes to heaven? is the lumi- 
 nous point which we distinguish there one of those which 
 vanish? The ideal is frightful to behold, thus lost in the 
 depths, small, isolated, imperceptible, brilliant, but sur- 
 rounded by those great, black menaces, monstrously heaped 
 around it; yet no more in danger than a star in the maw of 
 the clouds.
 
 BOOK EIGHTH. ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLA- 
 TIONS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FULL LIGHT 
 
 THE reader has probably understood that fiponine, having 
 recognized through the gate, the inhabitant of that Rue Plumet 
 whither Magnon had sent her, had begun by keeping the ruf- 
 fians away from the Rue Plumet, and had then conducted 
 Marius thither, and that, after many days spent in ecstasy 
 before that gate, Marius, drawn on by that force which draws 
 the iron to the magnet and a lover towards the stones of 
 which is built the house of her whom he loves, had finally 
 entered Cosette's garden as Romeo entered the garden of 
 Juliet. This had even proved easier for him than for Romeo; 
 Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, Marius had only to use a 
 little force on one of the bars of the decrepit gate which 
 vacillated in its rusty recess, after the fashion of old people's 
 teeth. Marius was slender and readily passed through. 
 
 As there was never any one in the street, and as Marius 
 never entered the garden except at night, he ran no risk of 
 being seen. 
 
 Beginning with that blessed and holy hour when a kiss be- 
 trothed these two souls, Marius was there every evening. If, 
 at that period of her existence, Cosette had fallen in love with 
 a man in the least unscrupulous or debauched, she would have 
 been lost; for there are generous natures which yield them- 
 selves, and Cosette was one of them. One of woman's mag- 
 nanimities is to yield. Love, at the height where it is abso- 
 lute, is complicated with some indescribably celestial blind-
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 215 
 
 ness of modesty. But what dangers you run, noble souls ! 
 Often you give the heart, and we take the body. Your heart 
 remains with you, you gaze upon it in the gloom with a shud- 
 der. Love has no middle course; it either ruins or it saves. 
 All human destiny lies in this dilemma. This dilemma, ruin, 
 or safety, is set forth no more inexorably by any fatality than 
 by love. Love is life, if it is not death. Cradle; also coffin. 
 The same sentiment says "yes" and "no" in the human heart. 
 Of all the things that God has made, the human heart is the 
 one which sheds the most light, alas ! and the most darkness. 
 
 God willed that Cosette's love should encounter one of the 
 loves which save. 
 
 Throughout the whole of the month of May of that year 
 1832, there were there, in every night, in that poor, neglected 
 garden, beneath that thicket which grew thicker and more 
 fragrant day by day, two beings composed of all chastity, all 
 innocence, overflowing with all the felicity of heaven, nearer 
 to the archangels than to mankind, pure, honest, intoxicated, 
 radiant, who shone for each other amid the shadows. It 
 seemed to Cosette that Marius had a crown, and to Marius that 
 Cosette had a nimbus. They touched each other, they gazed at 
 each other, they clasped each other's hands, they pressed close 
 to each other; but there was a distance which they did not 
 pass. Not that they respected it; they did not know of its 
 existence. Marius was conscious of a barrier, Cosette's inno- 
 cence; and Cosette of a support, Marius' loyalty. The first 
 kiss had also been the last. Marius, since that time, had not 
 gone further than to touch Cosette's hand, or her kerchief, or 
 a lock of her hair, with his lips. For him, Cosette was a per- 
 fume and not a woman. He inhaled her. She refused noth- 
 ing, and he asked nothing. Cosette was happy, and Marius 
 was satisfied. They lived in this ecstatic state which can be 
 described as the dazzling of one soul by another soul. It was 
 the ineffable first embrace of two maiden souls in the ideal. 
 Two swans meeting on the Jungfrau. 
 
 At that hour of love, an hour when voluptuousness is ab- 
 solutely mute, beneath the omnipotence of ecstasy, Marius, the
 
 pure and seraphic Marius, would rather have gone to a woman 
 of the town than have raised Cosette's robe to the height of 
 her ankle. Once, in the moonlight, Cosette stooped to pick up 
 something on the ground, her bodice fell apart and permitted 
 a glimpse of the beginning of her throat. Marius turned 
 away his eyes. 
 
 What took place between these two beings ? Nothing. They- 
 adored each other. 
 
 At night, when they were there, that garden seemed a living 
 and a sacred spot. All flowers unfolded around them and sent 
 them incense; and they opened their souls and scattered 
 them over the flowers. The wanton and vigorous vegetation 
 quivered, full of strength and intoxication, around these two 
 innocents, and they uttered words of love which set the trees 
 to trembling. 
 
 What words were these? Breaths. Nothing more. These 
 breaths sufficed to trouble and to touch all nature round about. 
 Magic power which we should find it difficult to understand 
 were we to read in a book these conversations which are made 
 to be borne away and dispersed like smoke wreaths by the 
 breeze beneath the leaves. Take from those murmurs of two 
 lovers that melody which proceeds from the soul and which 
 accompanies them like a lyre, and what remains is nothing 
 more than a shade; you say: "What! is that all!" eh! yes, 
 childish prattle, repetitions, laughter at nothing, nonsense, 
 everything that is deepest and most sublime in the world ! The 
 only things which are worth the trouble of saying and hearing ! 
 
 The man who has never heard, the man who has never 
 uttered these absurdities, these paltry remarks, is an imbecile 
 and a malicious fellow. Cosette said to Marius : 
 
 "Dost thou know?' 
 
 [In all this and athwart this celestial maidenliness, and 
 without either of them being able to say how it had come 
 about, they had begun to call each other thou.] 
 
 "Dost thou know? My name is Euphrasie." 
 
 "Euphrasie? Why, no, thy name is Cosette." 
 
 "Oh ! Cosette is a very ugly name that was given to me when
 
 ENCHA\TMENT8 AND DESOLATIONS 217 
 
 1 was a little thing. But my real name is Euphrasie. Dost 
 thou like that name Euphrasie?" 
 
 "Yes. But Cosette is not ugly." 
 
 "Do you like it better than Euphrasie?" 
 
 "Why, yes." 
 
 "Then I like it better too. Truly, it is pretty, Cosette. Call 
 me Cosette." 
 
 And the smile that she added made of this dialogue an 
 idyl worthy of a grove situated in heaven. On another occa- 
 sion she gazed intently at him and exclaimed: 
 
 "Monsieur, you are handsome, you are good-looking, you 
 are witty, you are not at all stupid, you are much more learned 
 than I am, but I bid you defiance with this word : I love you !" 
 
 And Marius, in the very heavens, thought he heard a strain 
 sung by a star. 
 
 Or she bestowed on him a gentle tap because he coughed, 
 and she said to him : 
 
 "Don't cough, sir; I will not have people cough on my do- 
 main without my permission. It's very naughty to cough and 
 to disturb me. I want you to be well, because, in the first 
 place, if you were not well, 1 should be very unhappy. What 
 should I do then?" 
 
 And this was simply divine. 
 
 Once Marius said to Cosette : 
 
 "Just imagine, I thought at one time that your name was 
 Ursule." 
 
 This made both of them laugh the whole evening. 
 
 In the middle of another conversation, he chanced to ex- 
 claim : 
 
 "Oh ! One day, at the Luxembourg, I had a good mind to 
 finish breaking up a veteran !" But he stopped short, and 
 went no further. He would have been obliged to speak to 
 Cosette of her garter, and that was impossible. This bordered 
 on a strange theme, the flesh, before which that immense and 
 innocent love recoiled with a sort of sacred fright. 
 
 Marius pictured life with Cosette to himself like this, with- 
 out anything else; to come every evening to the Rue Plumet,
 
 218 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 to displace the old and accommodating bar of the chief-jus- 
 tice's gate, to sit elbow to elbow on that bench, to gaze through 
 the trees at the scintillation of the on-coming night, to fit a 
 fold of the knee of his trousers into the ample fall of Cosette's 
 gown, to caress her thumb-nail, to call her tliou, to smell of 
 the same flower, one after the other, forever, indefinitely. 
 During this time, clouds passed above their heads. Every 
 time that the wind blows it bears with it more of the dreams 
 of men than of the clouds of heaven. 
 
 This chaste, almost shy love was not devoid of gallantry, 
 by any means. To pay compliments to the woman whom a man 
 loves is the first method of bestowing caresses, and he is half 
 audacious who tries it. A compliment is something like a 
 kiss through a veil. Voluptuousness mingles there with its 
 sweet tiny point, while it hides itself. The heart draws back 
 before voluptuousness only to love the more. Marius' blan- 
 dishments, all saturated with fancy, were, so to speak, of azure 
 hue. The birds when they fly up yonder, in the direction of 
 the angels, must hear such words. There were mingled with 
 them, nevertheless, life, humanity, all the positiveness of which 
 Marius was capable. It was what is said in the bower, a pre- 
 lude to what will be said in the chamber; a lyrical effusion, 
 strophe and sonnet intermingled, pleasing hyperboles of 
 cooing, all the refinements of adoration arranged in a bouquet 
 and exhaling a celestial perfume, an ineffable twitter of heart 
 to heart. 
 
 "Oh !" murmured Marius, "how beautiful you are ! I dare 
 not look at you. It is all over with me when I contemplate 
 you. You are a grace. I know not what is the matter with 
 me. The hem of your gown, when the tip of your shoe peeps 
 from beneath, upsets me. And then, what an enchanted gleam 
 when you open your thought even but a little ! You talk as- 
 tonishingly good sense. It seems to me at times that you are 
 a dream. Speak, I listen, I admire. Oh Cosette! how strange 
 it is and how charming! I am really beside myself. You are 
 adorable, Mademoiselle. I study your feet with the micro- 
 scope and your soul with the telescope."
 
 ENCHAXTMENTS AXD DEHOLAT10NS 219 
 
 And Coscttc answered : 
 
 "I have been loving a little more all the time that has 
 passed since this morning." 
 
 Questions and replies took care of themselves in this dia- 
 logue, which always turned with mutual consent upon love, as 
 the little pith figures always turn on their peg. 
 
 Cosette's whole person was ingenuousness, ingenuity, trans- 
 parency, whiteness, candor, radiance. It might have been said 
 of Cosette that she was clear. She produced on those who saw 
 her the sensation of April and dawn. There was dew in her 
 eyes. Cosette was a condensation of the auroral light in the 
 form of a woman. 
 
 It was quite simple that Marius should admire her, since he 
 adored her. But the truth is, that this little school-girl, fresh 
 from the convent, talked with exquisite penetration and ut- 
 tered, at times, all sorts of true and delicate sayings. Her 
 prattle was conversation. She never made a mistake about 
 anything, and she saw things justly. The woman feels and 
 speaks with the tender instinct of the heart, which is infal- 
 lible. 
 
 No one understands so well as a woman, how to say things 
 that are, at once, both sweet and deep. Sweetness and depth, 
 they are the whole of woman; in them lies the whole of 
 heaven. 
 
 In this full felicity, tears welled up to their eyes every in- 
 stant. A crushed lady-bug, a feather fallen from a nest, a 
 branch of hawthorn broken, aroused their pity, and their 
 ecstasy, sweetly mingled with melancholy, seemed to ask 
 nothing better than to weep. The most sovereign symptom of 
 love is a tenderness that is, at times, almost unbearable. 
 
 And, in addition to this, all these contradictions are the 
 lightning play of love, they were fond of laughing, they 
 laughed readily and with a delicious freedom, and so fa- 
 miliarly that they sometimes presented the air of two boys. 
 
 Still, though unknown to hearts intoxicated with purity, 
 nature is always present and will not be forgotten. She is 
 there with her brutal and sublime object ; and however great
 
 990 BAINT-DEXIH 
 
 may be the innocence of souls, one feels in the most modest 
 private interview, the adorable and mysterious shade which 
 separates a couple of lovers from a pair of friends. 
 
 They idolized each other. 
 
 The permanent and the immutable are persistent. People 
 live, they smile, they laugh, they make little grimaces with 
 the tips of their lips, they interlace their fingers, they call each 
 other thou, and that does not prevent eternity. 
 
 Two lovers hide themselves in the evening, in the twilight, 
 in the invisible, with the birds, with the roses; they fascinate 
 each other in the darkness with their hearts which they throw 
 into their eyes, they murmur, they whisper, and in the mean- 
 time, immense librations of the planets fill the infinite uni- 
 verse. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE BEWILDERMENT OF PERFECT HAPPINESS 
 
 THEY existed vaguely, frightened at their happiness. They 
 did not notice the cholera which decimated Paris precisely 
 during that very month. They had confided in each other as 
 far as possible, but this had not extended much further than 
 their names. Marius had told Cosette that he was an orphan, 
 that his name was Marius Pontmercy, that he was a lawyer, 
 that he lived by writing things for publishers, that his father 
 had been a colonel, that the latter had been a hero, and that 
 he, Marius, was on bad terms with his grandfather who was 
 rich. He had also hinted at being a baron, but this had pro- 
 duced no effect on Cosette. She did not know the meaning 
 of the word. Marius was Marius. On her side, she had con- 
 fided to him that she had been brought up at the Petit-Picpus 
 convent, that her mother, like his own, was dead, that her 
 father's name was M. Fauchelevent, that he was very good, 
 that he gave a great deal to the poor, but that he was poor him- 
 self, and that he denied himself everything though he denied 
 her nothing.
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND 'DESOLATfaJiS 221 
 
 Strange to say, in the sort of symphony which Marius had 
 lived since he had been in the habit of seeing Cosette, the 
 past, even the most recent past, had become so confused and 
 distant to him, that what Cosette told him satisfied him com- 
 pletely. It did not even occur to him to tell her about the 
 nocturnal adventure in the hovel, about Thenardier, about the 
 burn, and about the strange attitude and singular flight of her 
 father. Marius had momentarily forgotten all this; in the 
 evening he did not even know that there had been a morning, 
 what he had done, where he had breakfasted, nor who had 
 spoken to him ; he had songs in his ears which rendered him 
 deaf to every other thought ; he only existed at the hours when 
 he saw Cosette. Then, as he was in heaven, it was quite nat- 
 ural that he should forget earth. Both bore languidly the in- 
 definable burden of immaterial pleasures. Thus lived these 
 somnambulists who are called lovers. 
 
 Alas ! Who is there who has not felt all these things ? Why 
 does there come an hour when one emerges from this azure, 
 and why does life go on afterwards? 
 
 Loving almost takes the place of thinking. Love is an 
 ardent forgetfulness of all the rest. Then ask logic of passion 
 if you will. There is no more absolute logical sequence in the 
 human heart than there is a perfect geometrical figure in the 
 celestial mechanism. For Cosette and Marius nothing ex- 
 isted except Marius and Cosette. The universe around them 
 had fallen into a hole. They lived in a golden minute. There 
 was nothing before them, nothing behind. It hardly occurred 
 to Marius that Cosette had a father. His brain was dazzled 
 and obliterated. Of what did these lovers talk then? We 
 have seen, of the flowers, and the swallows, the setting sun and 
 the rising moon, and all sorts of important things. They had 
 told each other everything except everything. The everything 
 of lovers is nothing. But the father, the realities, that lair, the 
 ruffians, that adventure, to what purpose? And was he very 
 sure that this nightmare had actually existed? They were 
 two, and they adored each other, and beyond that there was 
 nothing. Nothing else existed. It is probable that this van-
 
 222 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 ishing of hell in our rear is inherent to the arrival of para- 
 dise. Have we beheld demons? Are there any? Have we 
 trembled ? Have we suffered ? We no longer know. A rosy 
 cloud hangs over it. 
 
 So these two beings lived in this manner, high aloft, with 
 all that improbability which is in nature; neither at the nadir 
 nor at the zenith, between man and seraphim, above the mire, 
 below the ether, in the clouds ; hardly flesh and blood, soul and 
 ecstasy from head to foot; already too sublime to walk the 
 earth, still too heavily charged with humanity to disappear in 
 the blue, suspended like atoms which are waiting to be pre- 
 cipitated; apparently beyond the bounds of destiny; ignorant 
 of that rut; yesterday, to-day, to-morrow; amazed, rapturous, 
 floating, soaring; at times so light that they could take their 
 flight out into the infinite ; almost prepared to soar away to all 
 eternity. They slept wide-awake, thus sweetly lulled. Oh ! 
 splendid lethargy of the real overwhelmed by the ideal. 
 
 Sometimes, beautiful as Cosette was, Marius shut his eyes in 
 her presence. The best way to look at the soul is through 
 closed eyes. 
 
 Marius and Cosette never asked themselves whither this was 
 to lead them. They considered that they had already arrived. 
 It is a strange claim on man's part to wish that love should 
 lead to something. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF SHADOW 
 
 JEAN VALJEAN suspected nothing. 
 
 Cosette, who was rather less dreamy than Marius, was gay, 
 and that sufficed for Jean Valjean's happiness. The thoughts 
 which Cosette cherished, her tender preoccupations, Marius' 
 image which filled her heart, took away nothing from the in- 
 comparable purity of her beautiful, chaste, and smiling brow. 
 She was at the age when the virgin bears her love as the angel
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 223 
 
 his lily. So Jean Valjcan was at case. And then, when two 
 lovers have come to an understanding, things always go well ; 
 the third party who might disturh their love is kept in a stab: 
 of perfect blindness by a restricted number of precautions 
 which are always the same in the case of all lovers. Thus, Co- 
 sette never objected to any of Jean Valjean's proposals. Did 
 she want to take a walk? "Yes, dear little father." Did she 
 want to stay at home? Very good. Did he wish to pass the 
 evening with Cosette ? She was delighted. As he always went 
 to bed at ten o'clock, Marius did not come to the garden on 
 such occasions until after that hour, when, from the street, 
 he heard Cosette open the long glass door on the veranda. Of 
 course, no one ever met Marius in the daytime. Jean Valjean 
 never even dreamed any longer that Marius was in existence. 
 Only once, one morning, he chanced to say to Cosette : "Why, 
 you have whitewash on your back !" On the previous evening, 
 Marius, in a transport, had pushed Cosette against the 
 wall. 
 
 Old Toussaint, who retired early, thought of nothing but 
 her sleep, and was as ignorant of the whole matter as Jean 
 Valjean. 
 
 Marius never set foot in the house. When he was with 
 Cosette, they hid themselves in a recess near the steps, in order 
 that they might neither be seen nor heard from the street, and 
 there they sat, frequently contenting themselves, by way of 
 conversation, with pressing each other's hands twenty times a 
 minute as they gazed at the branches of the trees. At such 
 times, a thunderbolt might have fallen thirty paces from them, 
 and they would not have noticed it, so deeply was the revery of 
 the one absorbed and sunk in the revery of the other. 
 
 Limpid purity. Hours wholly white; almost all alike. This 
 sort of love is a recollection of lily petals and the plumage of 
 the dove. 
 
 The whole extent of the garden lay between them and the 
 street. Every time that Marius entered and left, he carefully 
 adjusted the bar of the gate in such a manner that no dis- 
 placement was visible.
 
 224 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 He usually went away about midnight, and returned to 
 Courfeyrac's lodgings. Courfeyrac said to Bahorel : 
 
 "Would you believe it? Marius comes home nowadays at 
 one o'clock in the morning." 
 
 Bahorel replied : 
 
 "What do you expect? There's always a petard in a semi- 
 nary fellow." 
 
 At times, Courfeyrac folded his arms, assumed a serious air, 
 and said to Marius : 
 
 "You are getting irregular in your habits, young man." 
 
 Courfeyrac, being a practical man, did not take in good part 
 this reflection of an invisible paradise upon Marius; he was 
 not much in the habit of concealed passions ; it made him im- 
 patient, and now and then he called upon Marius to come back 
 to reality. 
 
 One morning, he threw him this admonition : 
 
 "My dear fellow, you produce upon me the effect of being 
 located in the moon, the realm of dreams, the province of illu- 
 sions, capital, soap-bubble. Come, be a good boy, what's her 
 name ?" 
 
 But nothing could induce Marius "to talk." They might 
 have torn out his nails before one of the two sacred syllables 
 of which that ineffable name, Cosette, was composed. True 
 love is as luminous as the dawn, and as silent as the tomb. 
 Only, Courfeyrac saw this change in Marius, that his tacitur- 
 nity was of the beaming order. 
 
 During this sweet month of May, Marius and Cosette 
 learned to know these immense delights. To dispute and to 
 say you for thou, simply that they might say thou the better 
 afterwards. To talk at great length with very minute details, 
 of persons in whom they took not the slightest interest in the 
 world ; another proof that in that ravishing opera called love, 
 the libretto counts for almost nothing; 
 
 For Marius, to listen to Cosette discussing finery; 
 
 For Cosette, to listen to Marius talk in politics ; 
 
 To listen, knee pressed to knee, to the carriages rolling along 
 the Rue de Babylone ;
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 225 
 
 To gaze upon the same planet in space, or at the same glow- 
 worm gleaming in the grass; 
 
 To hold their peace together; a still greater delight than 
 conversation ; 
 
 Etc., etc. 
 
 In the meantime, divers complications were approaching. 
 
 One evening, Marius was on his way to the rendezvous, by 
 way of the Boulevard des Invalides. He habitually walked 
 with drooping head. As he was on the point of turning the 
 corner of the Eue Plumet, he heard some one quite close to 
 him say: 
 
 "Good evening, Monsieur Marius." 
 
 He raised his head and recognized fiponine. 
 
 This produced a singular effect upon him. He had not 
 thought of that girl a single time since the day when she had 
 conducted him to the Rue Plumet, he had not seen her again, 
 and she had gone completely out of his mind. He had no 
 reasons for anything but gratitude towards her, he owed her 
 his happiness, and yet, it was embarrassing to him to meet her. 
 
 It is an error to think that passion, when it is pure and 
 happy, leads man to a state of perfection ; it simply leads him, 
 as we have noted, to a state of oblivion. In this situation, man 
 forgets to be bad, but he also forgets to be good. Gratitude, 
 duty, matters essential and important to be remembered, van- 
 ish. At any other time, Marius would have behaved quite dif- 
 ferently to fiponine. Absorbed in Cosette, he had not even 
 clearly put it to himself that thisfiponine was named Eponine 
 Thenardier, and that she bore the name inscribed in his 
 father's will, that name, for which, but a few months before, 
 he would have so ardently sacrificed himself. We show Marius 
 as he was. His father himself was fading out of his soul to 
 some extent, under the splendor of his love. 
 
 He replied with some embarrassment: 
 
 "Ah ! so it's you, fiponine?" 
 
 "Why do you call me you? Have I done anything to you?" 
 
 "No," he answered. 
 
 Certainly, he had nothing against her. Far from it. Only,
 
 926 8AI XT-DENIS 
 
 he felt that he could not do otherwise, now that he used thou 
 
 to Cosette, than say you to fiponine. 
 As he remained silent, she exclaimed: 
 ''Say- 
 Then she paused. It seemed as though words failed that 
 
 creature formerly so heedless and so bold. She tried to smile 
 
 and could not. Then she resumed : 
 "Well ?" 
 
 Then she paused again, and remained with downcast eyes. 
 "Good evening, Mr. Marius," said she suddenly and 
 
 abruptly; and away she went. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 A CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANO 
 
 THE following day was the 3d of June, 1832. a date which 
 it is necessary to indicate on account of the grave events which 
 at that epoch hung on the horizon of Paris in the state of 
 lightning-charged clouds. Marius, at nightfall, was pursuing 
 the same road as on the preceding evening, with the same 
 thoughts of delight in his heart, when he caught sight of 
 fiponine approaching, through the trees of the boulevard. 
 Two days in succession this was too much. He turned 
 hastily aside, quitted the boulevard, changed his course and 
 went to the Rue Plumet through the Rue Monsieur. 
 
 This caused fiponinc to follow him to the Rue Plumet, a 
 tiling which she had not yet done. Up to that time, she had 
 contented herself with watching him on his passage along the 
 boulevard without ever seeking to encounter him. It was only 
 on the evening before that she had attempted to address him. 
 
 So fiponinc followed him, without his suspecting the fact. 
 She saw him displace the bar and slip into the garden. 
 
 She approached the railing, felt of the bars one after the 
 other, and readily recognized the one which Marius had 
 moved.
 
 ENCI1ANTMENTU AND DESOLATIONS 227 
 
 She murmured in a low voice and in gloomy accents : 
 
 "None of that, Lisette !" 
 
 She seated herself on the underpinning of the railing, close 
 beside the bar, as though she were guarding it. It was pre- 
 cisely at the point where the railing touched the neighboring 
 wall. There was a dim nook there, in which fiponine was 
 entirely concealed. 
 
 She remained thus for more than an hour, without stirring 
 and without breathing, a prey to her thoughts. 
 
 Towards ten o'clock in the evening, one of the two or three 
 persons who passed through the Rue Plumet, an old, belated 
 bourgeois who was making haste to escape from this deserted 
 spot of evil repute, as he skirted the garden railings and 
 reached the angle which it made with the wall, heard a dull 
 and threatening voice saying: 
 
 "I'm no longer surprised that he comes here every evening." 
 
 The passer-by cast a glance around him, saw no one, dared 
 not peer into the black niche, and was greatly alarmed. He 
 redoubled his pace. 
 
 This passer-by had reason to make haste, for a very few 
 instants later, six men, who were marching separately and at 
 some distance from each other, along the wall, and who might 
 have been taken for a gray patrol, entered the Rue Plumet. 
 
 The first to arrive at the garden railing halted, and waited 
 for the others ; a second later, all six were reunited. 
 
 These men began to talk in a low voice. 
 
 "This is the place." said one of them. 
 
 "Is there a cab [dog] in the garden?" asked another. 
 
 "I don't know. In any case, I have fetched a ball that 
 we'll make him eat." 
 
 "Have you some putty to break the pane with ?" 
 
 "Yes." ' 
 
 "The railing is old," interpolated a fifth, who had the voice 
 of a ventriloquist. 
 
 "So much the better." said the second who had spoken. 
 "It won't screech under the saw, and it won't be hard to 
 cut."
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 The sixth, who had not yet opened his lips, now began to 
 inspect the gate, as fiponine had done an hour earlier, grasp- 
 ing each bar in succession, and shaking them cautiously. 
 
 Thus he came to the bar which Marius had loosened. As he 
 was on the point of grasping this bar, a hand emerged abruptly 
 from the darkness, fell upon his arm ; he felt himself vigor- 
 ously thrust aside by a push in the middle of his breast, and 
 a hoarse voice said to him, but not loudly : 
 
 "There's a dog." 
 
 At the same moment, he perceived a pale girl standing 
 before him. 
 
 The man underwent that shock which the unexpected always 
 brings. He bristled up in hideous wise ; nothing is so formid- 
 able to behold as ferocious beasts who are uneasy; their 
 terrified air evokes terror. 
 
 He recoiled and stammered: 
 
 "What jade is this ?" 
 
 "Your daughter." 
 
 It was, in fact, fiponine. who had addressed Thenardier. 
 
 At the apparition of fiponine, the other five, that is to say, 
 Claquesous, Guelemer, Babet, Brujon, and Montparnasse had 
 noiselessly drawn near, without precipitation, without utter- 
 ing a word, with the sinister slowness peculiar to these men 
 of the night. 
 
 Some indescribable but hideous tools were visible in their 
 hands. Guelemer held one of those pairs of curved pincers 
 which prowlers call f auctions. 
 
 "Ah, see here, what are you about there? What do you 
 want with us? Are you crazy?" exclaimed Thenardier. as 
 loudly as one can exclaim and still speak low ; "what have you 
 come here to hinder our work for?" 
 
 fiponine burst out laughing, and threw herself on his 
 neck. 
 
 "I am here, little father, because I am here. Isn't a person 
 allowed to sit on the stones nowadays? It's you who ought 
 not to be here. What have you come here for, since it's a 
 biscuit ? I told Magnon so. There's nothing to be done here.
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 229 
 
 But embrace me, my good little father ! It's a long time since 
 I've seen you ! So you're out ?" 
 
 Thenardier tried to disentangle himself from fiponine's 
 arms, and grumbled : 
 
 "That's good. You've embraced me. Yes, I'm out. I'm 
 not in. Now, get away with you." 
 
 But fiponine did not release her hold, and redoubled her 
 caresses. 
 
 "But how did you manage it, little pa? You must have 
 been very clever to get out of that. Tell me about it ! And 
 my mother? Where is mother? Tell me about mamma." 
 
 Thenardier replied : 
 
 "She's well. I don't know, let me alone, and be off, I tell 
 you." 
 
 "I won't go, so there now," pouted fiponine like a spoiled 
 child ; "you send me off, and it's four months since I saw you, 
 and I've hardly had time to kiss you." 
 
 And she caught her father round the neck again. 
 
 "Come, now, this is stupid !" said Babet. 
 
 "Make haste!" said Guelemer, "the cops may pass." 
 
 The ventriloquist's voice repeated his distich: 
 
 "Nous n' sommes pas le jour de Tan, "This isn't New Year's day 
 A be"eoter papa, niaman." To peck at pa and ma." 
 
 fiponine turned to the five ruffians. 
 
 "Why, it's Monsieur Brujon. Good day, Monsieur Babet. 
 Good day, Monsieur Claquesous. Don't you know me, Mon- 
 sieur Guelemer? How goes it, Montparnasse ?" 
 
 "Yes, they know you !" ejaculated Thenardier. "But good 
 day, good evening, sheer off ! leave us alone !" 
 
 "It's the hour for foxes, not for chickens," said Mont- 
 parnasse. 
 
 "You see the job we have on hand here," added Babet. 
 
 fiponine caught Montparnasse's hand. 
 
 "Take care," said he, "you'll cut yourself, I've a knife 
 open." 
 
 "My little Montparnasse," responded Eponine very gently,
 
 230 SAMT-DEJflB 
 
 "you must have confidence in people. I am the daughter of 
 my father, perhaps. Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Guelemer, 
 I'm the person who was charged to investigate this matter." 
 
 It is remarkable that fiponine did not talk slang. That 
 frightful tongue had become impossible to her since she had 
 known Marius. 
 
 She pressed in her hand, small, bony, and feeble as that of a 
 skeleton, Guelemer's huge, coarse fingers, and continued : 
 
 "You know well that I'm no fool. Ordinarily, I am be- 
 lieved. I have rendered you service on various occasions. 
 Well, I have made inquiries ; you will expose yourselves to no 
 purpose, you see. I swear to you that there is nothing in 
 this house." 
 
 "There are lone women," said Guelemer. 
 
 "No, the persons have moved away." 
 
 "The candles haven't, anyway !" ejaculated Babet. 
 
 And he pointed out to Sponine, across the tops of the trees, 
 a light which was wandering about in the mansard roof of the 
 pavilion. It was Toussaint, who had stayed up to spread out 
 some linen to dry. 
 
 fiponine made a final effort. 
 
 "Well," said she, "they're very poor folks, and it's a hovel 
 where there isn't a sou." 
 
 "Go to the devil !" cried Thenardier. "When we've turned 
 the house upside down and put the cellar at the top and the 
 attic below, we'll tell you what there is inside, and whether it's 
 francs or sous or half-farthings." 
 
 And he pushed her aside with the intention of entering. 
 
 "My good friend, Mr. Montparnasse," said fiponine, "I 
 entreat you. you are a good fellow, don't enter." 
 
 "Take care, you'll cut yourself," replied Montparnasse. 
 
 Thenardier resumed in his decided tone : 
 
 "Decamp, my girl, and leave men to their own affairs !" 
 
 Eponine released Montparnasse's hand, which she had 
 grasped again, and said : 
 
 "So you mean to enter this house?" 
 
 "Rather !" grinned the ventriloquist.
 
 ' 
 
 SHE SET HER BACK AGAINST THE GATE AND FACED THE RUFFIAN^
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 
 
 Then she set her back against the gate, faced the six ruffians 
 who were armed to the teeth, and to whom the night lent the 
 visages of demons, and said in a firm, low voice : 
 
 "Well, I don't mean that you shall." 
 
 They halted in amazement. The ventriloquist, however, 
 finished his grin. She went on: 
 
 "Friends ! Listen well. This is not what you want. Now 
 I'm talking. In the first place, if you enter this garden, if you 
 lay a hand on this gate, I'll scream, I'll beat on the door, I'll 
 rouse everybody, I'll have the whole six of you seized, I'll call 
 the police." 
 
 "She'd do it, too," said Thenardier in a low tone to Brujon 
 and the ventriloquist. 
 
 She shook her head and added : 
 
 "Beginning with my father !" 
 
 Thenardier stepped nearer. 
 
 "Not so close, my good man !" said she. 
 
 He retreated, growling between his teeth: 
 
 "Why, what's the matter with her?" 
 
 And he added: 
 
 "Bitch !" 
 
 She began to laugh in a terrible way: 
 
 "As you like, but you shall not enter here. I'm not the 
 daughter of a dog, since I'm the daughter of a wolf. There 
 are six of you, what matters that to me ? You are men. Well, 
 I'm a woman. You don't frighten me. I tell you that you 
 shan't enter this house, because it doesn't suit me. If you 
 approach, I'll bark. I told you, I'm the dog, and I don't care 
 a straw for you. Go your way, you bore me ! Go whore you 
 please, but don't come here, I forbid it ! You can use your 
 knives. I'll use kicks; it's all the same to me, come'on!" 
 
 She advanced a pace nearer the ruffians, she was terrible, 
 she burst out laughing: 
 
 "Pardine ! I'm not afraid. I shall be hungry this summer, 
 and I shall be cold this winter. Aren't they ridiculous, these 
 ninnies of men, to think they can scare a girl ! What ! Scare ? 
 Oh, yes, much ! Because you have finical poppets of mistresses
 
 232 SAINT-DEMS 
 
 who hide under the bed when you put on a big voice, forsooth ! 
 I ain't afraid of anything, that I ain't !" 
 
 She fastened her intent gaze upon Thenardier and said : 
 
 "Not even of you, father !" 
 
 Then she continued, as she cast her blood-shot, spectre-like" 
 eyes upon the ruffians in turn : 
 
 "What do I care if I'm picked up to-morrow morning on 
 the pavement of the Rue Plumet. killed by the blows of my 
 father's club, or whether I'm found a year from now in th T 
 nets at Saint-Cloud or the Isle of Swans in the midst of rotte* 
 old corks and drowned dogs?" 
 
 She was forced to pause ; she was seized by a dry cough, he 
 breath came from her weak and narrow chest like the death- 
 rattle. 
 
 She resumed : 
 
 "I have only to cry out, and people will come, and then slap, 
 bang ! There are six of you ; I represent the whole world." 
 
 Thenardier made a movement towards her. 
 
 "Don't approach !" she cried. 
 
 He halted, and said gently: 
 
 "Well, no; I won't approach, but don't speak so loud. So 
 you intend to hinder us in our work, my daughter? But we 
 must earn our living all the same. Have you no longer any 
 kind feeling for your father?" 
 
 "You bother me," said fiponine. 
 
 "But we must live, we must eat " 
 
 "Burst !" 
 
 So saying, she seated herself on the underpinning of the 
 fence and hummed: 
 
 "Mon bras si dodu, "My arm so plump, 
 
 Ma jambe bien faite My lep well formed, 
 
 Et le temps perdu." And time wasted." 
 
 She had set her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, 
 and she swung her foot with an air of indifference. Her tat- 
 tered gown permitted a view of her thin shoulder-blades. The 
 neighboring street lantern illuminated her profile and her
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 233 
 
 attitude. Nothing more resolute and more surprising could 
 be seen. 
 
 The six rascals, speechless and gloomy at being held in 
 ?heck by a girl, retreated beneath the shadow cast by the 
 antern, and held counsel with furious and humiliated shrugs. 
 
 In the meantime she stared at them with a stern but peace- 
 ful air. 
 
 "There's something the matter with her," said Babet. "A 
 
 eason. Is she in love with the dog? It's a shame to miss 
 
 his, anyway. Two women, an old fellow who lodges in the 
 
 ick-yard, and curtains that ain't so bad at the windows. The 
 
 Id cove must be a Jew. I think the job's a good one." 
 
 "Well, go in, then, the rest of you," exclaimed Montpar- 
 nasse. "Do the job. I'll stay here with the girl, and if she 
 fails us- 
 He flashed the knife, which he held open in his hand, in 
 the light of the lantern. 
 
 Thenardier said not a word, and seemed ready for what- 
 ever the rest pleased. 
 
 Brujon, who was somewhat of an oracle, and who had, as 
 the reader knows, "put up the job," had not as yet spoken. 
 He seemed thoughtful. He had the reputation of not sticking 
 at anything, and it was known that he had plundered a police 
 post simply out of bravado. Besides this he made verses and 
 songs, which gave him great authority. 
 
 Babet interrogated him : 
 
 "You say nothing, Brujon?" 
 
 Brujon remained silent an instant longer, then he shook his 
 head in various ways, and finally concluded to speak : 
 
 "See here; this morning I came across two sparrows fight- 
 ing, this evening I jostled a woman who was quarrelling. All 
 that's bad. Let's quit." 
 
 They went away. 
 
 As they went, Montparnasse muttered: 
 
 "Never mind ! if they had wanted, I'd have cut her throat." 
 
 Babet responded : 
 
 "I wouldn't. I don't hit a lady."
 
 234 8A1XT-DEXI8 
 
 At the corner of the street they halted and exchanged the 
 following enigmatical dialogue in a low tone: 
 
 "Where shall we go to sleep to-night?" 
 
 "Under Pantin [Paris]." 
 
 "Have you the key to the gate, Thenardier?" 
 
 "Pardi." 
 
 fiponine, who never took her eyes off of them, saw them 
 retreat by the road by which they had come. She rose and 
 began to creep after them along the walls and the houses. She 
 followed them thus as far as the boulevard. 
 
 There they parted, and she saw these six men plunge into 
 the gloom, where they appeared to melt away. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THINGS OF THE NIGHT 
 
 AFTER the departure of the ruffians, the Rue Plumet 
 resumed its tranquil, nocturnal aspect. That which had just 
 taken place in this street would not have astonished a forest. 
 The lofty trees, the copses, the heaths, the branches rudely 
 interlaced, the tall grass, exist in a sombre manner; the 
 savage swarming there catches glimpses of sudden apparitions 
 of the invisible; that which is below man distinguishes, 
 through the mists, that which is beyond man ; and the things 
 of which we living beings are ignorant there meet face to 
 face in the night. Nature, bristling and wild, takes alarm at 
 certain approaches in which she fancies that she feels the 
 supernatural. The forces of the gloom know each other, and 
 are strangely balanced by each other. Teeth and claws fear 
 what they cannot grasp. Blood-drinking bestiality, voracious 
 appetites, hunger in search of prey, the armed in>tincts of 
 nails and jaws which have for source and aim the belly, glare 
 and smell out uneasily the impassive spectral forms straying 
 beneath a shroud, erect in its vague and shuddering robe, and 
 which seem to them to live with a dead and terrible life.
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 2?>5 
 
 These brutalities, which are only matter, entertain a confused 
 fear of having to deal with the immense obscurity condensed 
 into an unknown being. A black figure barring the way stops 
 the wild beast short. That which emerges from the cemetery 
 intimidates and disconcerts that which emerges from the cave ; 
 the ferocious fear the sinister; wolves recoil when they 
 encounter a ghoul. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 MARIUS BECOMES PRACTICAL ONCE MORE TO THE EXTENT OP 
 GIVING COSETTE HIS ADDRESS 
 
 WHILE this sort of a dog with a human face was mounting 
 guard over the gate, and while the six ruffians were yielding 
 to a girl, Marius was by Cosette's side. 
 
 Never had the sky been more studded with stars and more 
 charming, the trees more trembling, the odor of the grass more 
 penetrating; never had the birds fallen asleep among the 
 leaves with a sweeter noise ; never had all the harmonies of 
 universal serenity responded more thoroughly to the inward 
 music of love; never had Marius been more captivated, more 
 happy, more ecstatic. 
 
 But he had found Cosette sad; Cosette had been weeping. 
 Her eyes were red. 
 
 This was the first cloud in that wonderful dream. 
 
 Marius' first word had been: "What is the matter?" 
 
 And she had replied : "This." 
 
 Then she had seated herself on the bench near the steps, and 
 while he tremblingly took his place beside her, she had con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "My father told me this morning to hold myself in readi- 
 ness, because he has business, and we may go away from here." 
 
 Marius shivered from head to foot. 
 
 When one is at the end of one's life, to die means to go 
 away ; when one is at the beginning of it, to go away means to 
 die.
 
 236 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 For the last six weeks. Marius had little by little, slowly, by 
 degrees, taken possession of Cosette each day. As we have 
 already explained, in the case of first love, the soul is taken 
 long before the body ; later on, one takes the body long before 
 the soul ; sometimes one does not take the soul at all ; the 
 Faublas and the Prudhommes add : "Because there is none" ; 
 but the sarcasm is, fortunately, a blasphemy. So Marius 
 possessed Cosette, as spirits possess, but he enveloped her with 
 all his soul, and seized her jealously with incredible convic- 
 tion. He possessed her smile, her breath, her perfume, the 
 profound radiance of her blue eyes, the sweetness of her skin 
 when he touched her hand, the charming mark which she had 
 on her neck, all her thoughts. Therefore, he possessed all 
 Cosette's dreams. 
 
 He incessantly gazed at, and he sometimes touched lightly 
 with his breath, the short locks on the nape of her neck, and 
 he declared to himself that there was not one of those short 
 hairs which did not belong to him, Marius. He gazed upon 
 and adored the things that she wore, her knot of ribbon, her 
 gloves, her sleeves, her shoes, her cuffs, as sacred objects of 
 which he was the master. He dreamed that he was the lord 
 of those pretty shell combs which she wore in her hair, and he 
 even said to himself, in confused and suppressed stammerings 
 of voluptuousness which did not make their way to the light, 
 that there was not a ribbon of her gown, not a mesh in her 
 stockings, not a fold in her bodice, which was not his. Beside 
 Cosette he felt himself beside his own property, his own thing, 
 his own despot and his slave. It seemed as though they had 
 so intermingled their souls, that it would have been impossible 
 to tell them apart had they wished to take them back again. 
 "This is mine." "No, it is mine." "I assure you that you are 
 mistaken. This is my property." "What you are taking as 
 your own is myself." Marius was something that made a 
 part of Cosette, and Cosette was something which made a part 
 of Marius. Marius felt Cosette within him. To have Cosette, 
 to possess Cosette, this, to him, was not to be distinguished 
 from breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, of this
 
 ENCIIA\TMENT8 AND DESOLATIONS 237 
 
 intoxication, of this virgin possession, unprecedented and 
 absolute, of this sovereignty, that these words : "We are going 1 
 away," fell suddenly, at a blow, and that the harsh voice of 
 reality cried to him : "Cosette is not yours !" 
 
 Marius awoke. For six weeks Marius had been living, as 
 we have said, outside of life; those words, going away! caused 
 him to re-enter it harshly. 
 
 He found not a word to say. Cosette merely felt that his 
 hand was very cold. She said to him in her turn : "What 
 is the matter?" 
 
 He replied in so low a tone that Cosette hardly heard 
 him: 
 
 "I did not understand what you said." 
 
 She began again : 
 
 "This morning my father told me to settle all my little 
 affairs and to hold myself in readiness, that he would give 
 me his linen to put in a trunk, that he was obliged to go on 
 a journey, that we were to go away, that it is necessary to 
 have a large trunk for me and a small one for him, and that 
 all is to be ready in a week from now, and that we might go to 
 England." 
 
 "But this is outrageous !" exclaimed Marius. 
 
 It is certain, that, at that moment, no abuse of power, no 
 violence, not one of the abominations of the worst tyrants, 
 no action of Busiris, of Tiberius, or of Henry VIII., could 
 have equalled this in atrocity, in the opinion of Marius; M. 
 Fauchelevent taking his daughter off to England because he 
 had business there. 
 
 He demanded in a weak voice: 
 
 "And when do you start?" 
 
 "He did not say when." 
 
 "And when shall you return?" 
 
 "He did not say when." 
 
 Marius rose and said coldly: 
 
 "Cosette, shall you go?" 
 
 Cosette turned toward him her beautiful eyes, all filled with 
 anguish, and replied in a sort of bewilderment :
 
 238 8AIXT-DENIB 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "To England. Shall you go?" 
 
 "Why do you say you to me ?" 
 
 "I ask you whether you will go?" 
 
 "What do you expect me to do?" she said, clasping her 
 hands. 
 
 "So, you will go?" 
 
 "If my father goes." 
 
 "So, you will go?" 
 
 Cosette took Marius' hand, and pressed it without re- 
 plying. 
 
 "Very well," said Marius, "then I will go elsewhere." 
 
 Cosette felt rather than understood the meaning of these 
 words. She turned so pale that her face shone white through 
 the gloom. She stammered : 
 
 "What do you mean ?" 
 
 Marius looked at her, then raised his eyes to heaven, and 
 answered : "Nothing." 
 
 When his eyes fell again, he saw Cosette smiling at him. 
 The smile of a woman whom one loves possesses a visible radi- 
 ance, even at night. 
 
 "How silly we are ! Marius, I have an idea." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "If we go away, do you go too ! I will tell you where ! 
 Come and join me wherever I am." 
 
 Marius was now a thoroughly roused man. He had fallen 
 back into reality. He cried to Cosette : 
 
 "Go away with you! Are you mad? Why, I should have 
 to have money, and I have none ! Go to England ? But I am 
 in debt now, I owe, I don't know how much, more than ten 
 louis to Courfeyrac, one of my friends with whom you are 
 not acquainted ! I have an old hat which is not worth three 
 francs, I have a coat which lacks buttons in front, my shirt 
 is all ragged, my elbows are torn, my boots let in the water; 
 for the last six weeks I have not thought about it, and I have 
 not told you about it. You only see me at night, and you give 
 me your love ; if you were to see me in the daytime, you would
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 239 
 
 give me a sou ! Go to England ! Eh ! I haven't enough to 
 pay for a passport !" 
 
 He threw himself against a tree which was close at hand, 
 erect, his brow pressed close to the hark, feeling neither the 
 wood which flayed his skin, nor the fever which was throbbing 
 in his temples, and there he stood motionless, on the point of 
 falling, like the statue of despair. 
 
 He remained a long time thus. One could remain for 
 eternity in such abysses. At last he turned round. He heard 
 behind him a faint stifled noise, which was sweet yet sad. 
 
 It was Cosette sobbing. 
 
 She had been weeping for more than two hours beside 
 Marius as he meditated. 
 
 He came to her, fell at her knees, and slowly prostrating 
 himself, he took the tip of her foot which peeped out from 
 beneath her robe, and kissed it. 
 
 She let him have his way in silence. There are moments 
 when a woman accepts, like a sombre and resigned goddess, 
 the religion of love. 
 
 "Do not weep," he said. 
 
 She murmured : 
 
 "Not when I may be going away, and you cannot come !" 
 
 He went on : 
 
 "Do you love me?" 
 
 She replied, sobbing, by that word from paradise which is 
 never more charming than amid tears : 
 
 "I adore you !" 
 
 He continued in a tone which was an indescribable caress : 
 
 "Do not weep. Tell me, will you do this for me, and cease 
 to weep?" 
 
 "Do you love me?" said she. 
 
 He took her hand. 
 
 "Cosette. I have never given my word of honor to any one, 
 because my word of honor terrifies me. I feel that my father 
 is by my side. Well, I give you my most sacred word of honor, 
 that if you go away I shall die." 
 
 In the tone with which he uttered these words there lav a
 
 240 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 melancholy so solemn and so tranquil, that Cosette trembled. 
 She felt that chill which is produced by a true and gloomy 
 thing as it passes by. The shock made her cease weeping. 
 
 "Now, listen," said he, "do not expect me to-morrow." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Do not expect me until the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "Oh! Why?" 
 
 "You will see." 
 
 "A day without seeing you ! But that is impossible !" 
 
 "Let us sacrifice one day in order to gain our whole lives, 
 perhaps." 
 
 And Marius added in a low tone and in an aside: 
 
 "He is a man who never changes his habits, and he has 
 never received any one except in the evening." 
 
 "Of what man are you speaking?" asked Cosette. 
 
 "I? I said nothing." 
 
 "What do you hope, then?" 
 
 "Wait until the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "You wish it?" 
 
 "Yes, Cosette." 
 
 She took his head in both her hands, raising herself on tip- 
 toe in order to be on a level with him. and tried to read his 
 hope in his eyes. 
 
 Marius resumed : 
 
 "Now that I think of it, you ought to know my address: 
 something might happen, one never knows ; I live with that 
 friend named Courfeyrac, Rue de la Verrerie, No. 16." 
 
 He searched in his pocket, pulled out his penknife, and 
 with the blade he wrote on the plaster of the wall : 
 
 "16 Rue de la Verrerie." 
 
 In the meantime, Cosette had begun to gaze into his eyes 
 once more. 
 
 "Tell me your thought, Marius ; you have some idea. Tell 
 it to me. Oh ! tell me, so that I may pass a pleasant night." 
 
 "This is my idea: that it is impossible that God should 
 mean to part us. Wait ; expect me the day after to-morrow." 
 
 "What shall I do until then ?" said Cosette. "You are out-
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 241 
 
 side, you go, and come ! How happy men are ! I shall re- 
 main entirely alone! Oh! How sad I shall he! What is it 
 that you are going to do to-morrow evening? tell me." 
 
 "I am going to try something." 
 
 "Then I will pray to God and I will think of you here, so 
 that you may be successful. I will question you no further, 
 since you do not wish it. You are my master. I shall pass 
 the evening to-morrow in singing that music from Euryanthe 
 that you love, and that you came one evening to listen to, 
 outside my shutters. But day after to-morrow you will come 
 early. I shall expect you at dusk, at nine o'clock precisely, I 
 warn you. Mon Dieu ! how sad it is that the days are so long'! 
 On the stroke of nine, do you understand, I shall be in the 
 garden." 
 
 "And I also." 
 
 And without having uttered it, moved by the same thought, 
 impelled by those electric currents which place lovers in con- 
 tinual communication, both being intoxicated with delight 
 even in their sorrow, they fell into each other's arms, without 
 perceiving that their lips met while their uplifted eyes, over- 
 flowing with rapture and full of tears, gazed upon the stars. 
 
 When Marius went forth, the street was deserted. This was 
 the moment when fiponine was following the ruffians to the 
 boulevard. 
 
 While Marius had been dreaming with his head pressed to 
 the tree, an idea had crossed his mind ; an idea, alas ! that he 
 himself judged to be senseless and impossible. He had come 
 to a desperate decision. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE OLD HEART AND THE YOUNG HEART IN THE PRESENCE OF 
 EACH OTHER 
 
 AT that epoch, Father Gillenormand was well past his 
 ninety-first birthday. He still lived with Mademoiselle Gille- 
 normand in the Kue des Fillea-du-Calvaire. No. 6, in the old
 
 242 8A1XT-DENI8 
 
 house which he owned. He was, as the reader will remember, 
 one of those antique old men who await death perfectly erect, 
 whom age bears down without bending, and whom even sorrow 
 cannot curve. 
 
 Still, his daughter had been saying for some time: "My 
 father is sinking." He no longer boxed the maids' ears; he 
 no longer thumped the landing-place so vigorously with his 
 cane when Basque was slow in opening the door. The Revo- 
 lution of July had exasperated him for the space of barely 
 six months. He had viewed, almost tranquilly, that coupling 
 of words, in the Moniteur: M. Humblot-Conte, peer of France. 
 The fact is, that the old man was deeply dejected. He did not 
 bend, he did not yield ; this was no more a characteristic of his 
 physical than of his moral nature, but he felt himself giving 
 way internally. For four years he had been waiting for 
 Marius, with his foot firmly planted, that is the exact word, 
 in the conviction that that good-for-nothing young scamp 
 would ring at his door some day or other ; now he had reached 
 the point, where, at certain gloomy hours, he said to himself, 
 that if Marius made him wait much longer It was not death 
 that was insupportable to him ; it was the idea that perhaps he 
 should never see Marius again. The idea of never seeing 
 Marius again had never entered his brain until that day; now 
 the thought began to recur to him, and it chilled him. Ab- 
 sence, as is always the case in genuine and natural sentiments, 
 had only served to augment the grandfather's love for the 
 ungrateful child, who had gone off like a flash. It is during 
 December nights, when the cold stands at ten degrees, that one 
 thinks oftenest of the son. 
 
 M. Gillenormand was, or thought himself, above all things, 
 incapable of taking a single step, he the grandfather, to- 
 wards his grandson ; "I would die rather," he said to himself. 
 He did not consider himself as the least to blame; but he 
 thought of Marius only with profound tenderness, and the 
 mute despair of an elderly, kindly old man who is about to 
 vanish in the dark. 
 
 He began to lose his teeth, which added to his sadness.
 
 ENCUA\TMENT8 AND DESOLATIONS 243 
 
 M. Gillenonnand, without however acknowledging it to him- 
 self, for it would have rendered him furious and ashamed, had 
 never loved a mistress as he loved Marius. 
 
 He had had placed in his chamber, opposite the head of his 
 hed, so that it should be the first thing on which his eyes fell 
 on waking, an old portrait of his other daughter, who was 
 dead, Madame Pontmercy, a portrait which had been taken 
 when she was eighteen. He gazed incessantly at that por- 
 trait. One day, he happened to say, as he gazed upon it: 
 
 "I think the likeness is strong." 
 
 "To my sister?" inquired Mademoiselle Gillenormand. 
 "Yes, certainly." 
 
 "The old man added : 
 
 "And to him also." 
 
 Once as he sat with his knees pressed together, and his eyes 
 almost closed, in a despondent attitude, his daughter ventured 
 to say to him : 
 
 "Father, are you as angry with him as ever?" 
 
 She paused, not daring to proceed further. 
 
 "With whom?" he demanded. 
 
 "With that poor Marius." 
 
 He raised his aged head, laid his withered and emaciated fist 
 on the table, and exclaimed in his most irritated and vibrating 
 tone : 
 
 "Poor Marius, do you say ! That gentleman is a knave, a 
 wretched scoundrel, a. vain little ingrate, a heartless, soulless, 
 haughty, and wicked man !" 
 
 And he turned away so that his daughter might not see the 
 tear that stood in his eye. 
 
 Three days later he broke a silence which had lasted four 
 hours, to say to his daughter point-blank : 
 
 "I had the honor to ask Mademoiselle Gillenormand never 
 to mention him to me." 
 
 Aunt Gillenormand renounced every effort, and pronounced 
 this acute diagnosis: "My father never cared very much for 
 my sister after her folly. It is clear that he detests 
 Marius."
 
 244 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "After her folly" meant : "after she had married the colonel." 
 
 However, as the reader has been able to conjecture, Made- 
 moiselle Gillenormand had failed in her attempt to substitute 
 her favorite, the officer of lancers, for Marius. The substitute, 
 Theodule, had not been a success. M. Gillenormand had not 
 accepted the quid pro quo. A vacancy in the heart does not 
 accommodate itself to a stop-gap. Theodule, on his side, 
 though he scented the inheritance, was disgusted at the task 
 of pleasing. The goodman bored the lancer; and the lancer 
 shocked the goodman. Lieutenant Theodule was gay, no 
 doubt, but a chatter-box, frivolous, but vulgar; a high liver, 
 but a frequenter of bad company ; he had mistresses, it is true, 
 and he had a great deal to say about them, it is true also ; but 
 he talked badly. All his good qualities had a defect. M. Gille- 
 normand was worn out with hearing him tell about the love 
 affairs that he had in the vicinity of the barracks in the Rue 
 de Babylone. And then, Lieutenant Gillenormand sometimes 
 came in his uniform, with the tri-colored cockade. This ren- 
 dered him downright intolerable. Finally, Father Gillenor- 
 mand had said to his daughter: "I've had enough of that 
 Theodule. I haven't much taste for warriors in time of peace. 
 Receive him if you choose. I don't know but I prefer slashers 
 to fellows that drag their swords. The clash of blades in battle 
 is less dismal, after all, than the clank of the scabbard on the 
 pavement. And then, throwing out your chest like a bully and 
 lacing yourself like a girl, with stays under your cuirass, is 
 doubly ridiculous. When one is a veritable man, one holds 
 equally aloof from swagger and from affected airs. He is 
 neither a blusterer nor a finnicky-hearted man. Keep your 
 Theodule for yourself." 
 
 It was in vain that his daughter said to him : "But he is 
 your grandnephew, nevertheless," it turned out that M. Gil- 
 lenormand, who was a grandfather to the very finger-tips, was 
 not in the least a grand-uncle. 
 
 In fact, as he had good sense, and as he had compared the 
 two, Theodule had only served to make him regret Marius all 
 the more.
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 245 
 
 One evening, it was the 24th of June, which did not pre- 
 vent Father Gillenormand having a rousing fire on the hearth, 
 he had dismissed his daughter, who was sewing in a neigh- 
 boring apartment. He was alone in his chamber, amid its pas- 
 toral scenes, with his feet propped on the andirons, half en- 
 veloped in his huge screen of coromandel lacquer, with its nine 
 leaves, with his elhow resting on a table where burned two 
 candles under a green shade, engulfed in his tapestry arm- 
 chair, and in his hand a book which he was not reading. He 
 was dressed, according to his wont, like an incroyable, and re- 
 sembled an antique portrait by Garat. This would have made 
 people run after him in the street, had not his daughter cov- 
 ered him up, whenever he went out, in a vast bishop's wadded 
 cloak, which concealed his attire. At home, he never wore a 
 dressing gown, except when he rose and retired. "It gives one 
 a look of age," said he. 
 
 Father Gillenormand was thinking of Marius lovingly and 
 bitterly ; and. as usual, bitterness predominated. His tenderness 
 once soured always ended by boiling and turning to indigna- 
 tion. He had reached the point where a man tries to make 
 up his mind and to accept that which rends his heart. He 
 was explaining to himself that there was no longer any reason 
 why Marius should return, that if he intended to return, he 
 should have done it long ago, that he must renounce the idea. 
 He was trying to accustom himself to the thought that all was 
 over, and that he should die without having beheld "that gen- 
 tleman" again. But his whole nature revolted; his aged pa- 
 ternity would not consent to this. "Well !" said he, this was 
 his doleful refrain, "he will not return!" His bald head had 
 fallen upon his breast, and he fixed a melancholy and irritated 
 gaze upon the ashes on his hearth. 
 
 In the very midst of his revery, his old servant Basque en- 
 tered, and inquired: 
 
 "Can Monsieur receive M. Marius?" 
 
 The old man sat up erect, pallid, and like a corpse which 
 rises under the influence of a galvanic shock. All his blood 
 had retreated to his heart. He stammered :
 
 24fi 8AIXT-DENI8 
 
 "M. Marius what?" 
 
 "I don't know," replied Basque, intimidated and put out 
 of countenance by his master's air; "I have not seen him. 
 Xicolette came in and said to me : 'There's a young man here ; 
 say that it is M. Marius.' ' 
 
 Father Gillenormand stammered in a low voice: 
 
 "Show him in." 
 
 And he remained in the same attitude, with shaking head, 
 and his eyes fixed on the door. It opened once more. A young 
 man entered. It was Marius. 
 
 Marius halted at the door, as though waiting to be bidden 
 to enter. 
 
 His almost squalid attire was not perceptible in the ob- 
 scurity caused by the shade. Nothing could be seen but his 
 calm, grave, but strangely sad face. 
 
 It was several minutes before Father Gillenormand, dulled 
 with amazement and joy, could see anything except a bright- 
 ness as when one is in the presence of an apparition. He was 
 on the point of swooning; he saw Marius through a dazzling 
 light. It certainly was he, it certainly was Marius. 
 
 At last ! After the lapse of four years ! He grasped him 
 entire, so to speak, in a single glance. He found him noble, 
 handsome, distinguished, well-grown, a complete man, with a 
 suitable mien and a charming air. He felt a desire to open 
 his arms, to call him, to fling himself forward ; his heart 
 melted with rapture, affectionate words swelled and overflowed 
 his breast; at length all his tenderness came to the light and 
 reached his lips, and, by a contrast which constituted the very 
 foundation of his nature, what came forth was harshness. He 
 said abruptly : 
 
 "What have you come here for ?" 
 
 Marius replied with embarrassment: 
 
 "Monsieur " 
 
 M. Gillenormand would have liked to have Marius throw 
 himself into his arms. He was displeased with Marius and 
 with himself. He was conscious that he was brusque, and that 
 Marius was cold. It caused the goodman unendurable and
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DEtiOLATIONR 247 
 
 irritating anxiety to feel so tender and forlorn within, and 
 only to be able to be hard outside;. Bitterness returned. He 
 interrupted Marius in a peevish tone: 
 
 "Then why did you come ?" 
 
 That "then" signified: // you do not come to embrace me. 
 Marius looked at his grandfather, whose pallor gave him a 
 face of marble. 
 
 "Monsieur 
 
 "Have you come to beg my pardon? Do you acknowledge 
 your faults?" 
 
 He thought he was putting Marius on the right road, and 
 that "the child" would yield. Marius shivered ; it was the 
 denial of his father that was required of him ; he dropped his 
 eyes and replied: 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 "Then," exclaimed the old man impetuously, with a grief 
 that was poignant and full of wrath, "what do you want of 
 me?" 
 
 Marius clasped his hands, advanced a step, and said in a 
 feeble and trembling voice : 
 
 "Sir, have pity on me." 
 
 These words touched M. Gillenormand ; uttered a little 
 sooner, they would have rendered him tender, but they came 
 too late. The grandfather rose; he supported himself with 
 both hands on his cane; his lips were white, his brow wavered, 
 but his lofty form towered above Marius as he bowed. 
 
 "Pity on you, sir ! It is youth demanding pity of the old 
 man of ninety-one! You are entering into life, I am leaving 
 it; you go to the play, to balls, to the cafe, to the billiard-hall ; 
 you have wit, you please the women, you are a handsome fel- 
 low; as for me, I spit on my brands in the heart of summer; 
 you are rich with the only riches that are really such, I pos- 
 sess all the poverty of ago; infirmity, isolation! You have 
 your thirty-two teeth, a good digestion, bright eyes, strength, 
 appetite, health, gayety, a forest of black hair; I have no 
 longer even white hair, I have lost my teeth, I am losing my 
 legs, I am losing my memory ; there are three names of streets
 
 048 SAINT-DEXI8 
 
 that I confound incessantly, the Rue Chariot, the Rue du 
 Chaume, and the Rue Saint-Claude, that is what I have come 
 to ; you have before you the whole future, full of sunshine, and 
 I am beginning to lose my sight, so far am I advancing into 
 the night; you are in love, that is a matter of course, I am 
 beloved by no one in all the world ; and you ask pity of me ! 
 Parbleu ! Moliere forgot that. If that is the way you jest at 
 the courthouse, Messieurs the lawyers, I sincerely compliment 
 you. You are droll." 
 
 And the octogenarian went on in a grave and angry 
 voice : 
 
 "Come, now, what do you want of me ?" 
 
 "Sir," said Marius, "I know that my presence is displeasing 
 to you, but I have come merely to ask one thing of you, and 
 then I shall go away immediately." 
 
 "You are a fool !" said the old man. "Who said that you 
 were to go away?" 
 
 This was the translation of the tender words which lay at 
 the bottom of his heart : 
 
 "Ask my pardon ! Throw yourself on my neck !" 
 
 M. Gillenormand felt that Marius would leave him in a few 
 moments, that his harsh reception had repelled the lad, that 
 his hardness was driving him away ; he said all this to himself, 
 and it augmented his grief; and as his grief was straightway 
 converted into wrath, it increased his harshness. He would 
 have liked to have Marius understand, and Marius did not 
 understand, which made the goodman furious. 
 
 He began again : 
 
 "What! you deserted me, your grandfather, you left my 
 house to go no one knows whither, you drove your aunt to 
 despair, you went off, it is easily guessed, to lead a bachelor 
 life; it's more convenient, to play the dandy, to come in at all 
 hours, to amuse yourself; you have given me no signs of life, 
 you have contracted debts without even telling me to pay them, 
 you have become a smasher of windows and a blusterer, and, 
 at the end of four years, you come to me, and that is all you 
 have to say to me !"
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 249 
 
 This violent fashion of driving a grandson to tenderness 
 was productive only of silence on the part of Marius. M. Gil- 
 lenormand folded his arms; a gesture which with him was 
 peculiarly imperious, and apostrophized Marius bitterly: 
 
 "Let us make an end of this. You have come to ask some- 
 thing of me, you say? Well, what? What is it? Speak !" 
 
 "Sir," said Marius, with the look of a man who feels that 
 he is falling over a precipice, "I have come to ask your per- 
 mission to marry." 
 
 M. Gillenorrnand rang the bell. Basque opened the door 
 half-way. 
 
 "Call my daughter." 
 
 A second later, the door was opened once more, Mad- 
 emoiselle Gillenormand did not enter, but showed herself ; 
 Marius was standing, mute, with pendant arms and the face 
 of a criminal ; M. Gillenormand was pacing back and forth in 
 the room. He turned to his daughter and said to her : 
 
 "Nothing. It is Monsieur Marius. Say good day to him. 
 Monsieur wishes to marry. That's all. Go away." 
 
 The curt, hoarse sound of the old man's voice announced 
 a strange degree of excitement. The aunt gazed at Marius 
 with a frightened air, hardly appeared to recognize him, did 
 not allow a gesture or a syllable to escape her, and disappeared 
 at her father's breath more swiftly than a straw before the 
 hurricane. 
 
 In the meantime, Father Gillenormand had returned and 
 placed his back against the chimney-piece once more. 
 
 "You marry ! At one and twenty ! You have arranged that ! 
 You have only a permission to ask ! a formality. Sit down, 
 sir. Well, you have had a revolution since I had the honor 
 to see you last. The Jacobins got the upper hand. You must 
 have been delighted. Are you not a Republican since you are 
 a Baron? You can make that agree. The Republic makes 
 a good sauce for the barony. Are you one of those decorated 
 by July? Have you taken the Louvre at all, sir? Quite near 
 here, in the Rue Saint-Antoine, opposite the Rue des Xonain- 
 dieres, there is a cannon-ball incrusted in the wall of the third
 
 050 KA i \r-DEy is 
 
 story of a house with this inscription : 'July 28th, 1830.' Go 
 take a look at that. It produces a good effect. Ah ! those 
 friends of yours do pretty things. By the way, aren't they 
 erecting a fountain in the place of the monument of M. le 
 Due de Berry? So you want to marry? Whom? Can one 
 inquire without indiscretion?" 
 
 He paused, and, before Marius had time to answer, he added 
 violently : 
 
 "Come now, you have a profession ? A fortune made ? How 
 much do you earn at your trade of lawyer ?" 
 
 "Nothing," said Marius, with a sort of firmness and resolu- 
 tion that was almost fierce. 
 
 "Nothing? Then all that you have to live upon is the 
 twelve hundred livres that I allow you?" 
 
 Marius did not reply. M. Gillenormand continued: 
 
 "Then I understand the girl is rich ?" 
 
 "As rich as I am." 
 
 "What! No dowry?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Expectations ?" 
 
 "I think not." 
 
 "Utterly naked! What's the father?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "And what's her name?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle Fauchelevent." 
 
 "Fauchewhat ?" 
 
 "Fauchelevent." 
 
 "Pttt !" ejaculated the old gentleman. 
 
 "Sir!" exclaimed Marius. 
 
 M. Gillenormand interrupted him with the tone of a man 
 who is speaking to himself: 
 
 "That's right, one and twenty years of age, no profession, 
 twelve hundred livres a year, Madame la Baronne de Pont- 
 mercy will go and purchase a couple of sous' worth of parsley 
 from the fruiterer." 
 
 "Sir," repeated Marius, in the despair at the last hope. 
 which was vanishing, "I entreat you ! I conjure you in the
 
 ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS 251 
 
 name of Heaven, with clasped hands, sir, T throw myself at 
 your feet, permit me to marry her!" 
 
 The old man burst into a shout of strident and mournful 
 laughter, coughing and laughing at the same time. 
 
 "Ah! ah! ah! You said to yourself: Tardine! I'll L r o 
 hunt up that old blockhead, that absurd numskull ! What a 
 shame that I'm not twenty-five ! How I'd treat him to a nice 
 respectful summons! How nicely I'd get along without him! 
 It's nothing to me. I'd say to him : "You're only too happy 
 to see me, you old idiot, I want to marry, I desire to wed Mam- 
 selle No-matter-whom, daughter of Monsieur No-matter-what, 
 I have no shoes, she has no chemise, that just suits ; I want to 
 throw my career, my future, my youth, my life to the dogs ; I 
 wish to take a plunge into wretchedness with a woman around 
 my neck, that's an idea, and you must consent to it !" and the 
 old fossil will consent.' Go, my lad, do as you like, attach your 
 paving-stone, marry your Pousselevent, your Coupelevent 
 Never, sir, never !" 
 
 "Father" 
 
 "Never !" 
 
 At the tone in which that "never" was uttered, Marius lost 
 all hope. He traversed the chamber with slow steps, with 
 bowed head, tottering and more like a dying man than like one 
 merely taking his departure. M. Gillenormand followed him 
 with his eyes, and at the moment when the door opened, and 
 Marius was on the point of going out, he advanced four paces, 
 with the senile vivacity of impetuous and spoiled old gentle- 
 men, seized Marius by the collar, brought him back energeti- 
 cally into the room, flung him into an arm-chair and sail*" 
 to him: 
 
 "Tell me all about it!" 
 
 "It was that single word "father" which had effected this 
 revolution. 
 
 Marius stared at him in bewilderment. M. Gillenormand's 
 mobile face was no longer expressive of anything but rough 
 and ineffable good-nature. The grandsire had given way 
 before the grandfather.
 
 252 
 
 "Come, see here, speak, tell me about your love affairs, 
 jabber, tell me everything ! Sapristi ! how stupid young folks 
 are !" 
 
 "Father " repeated Marius. 
 
 The old man's entire countenance lighted up with inde- 
 scribable radiance. 
 
 "Yes, that's right, call me father, and you'll see !" 
 
 There was now something so kind, so gentle, so open- 
 hearted, and so paternal in this brusqueness, that Marius, in 
 the sudden transition from discouragement to hope, was 
 stunned and intoxicated by it, as it were. He was seated 
 near the table, the light from the candles brought out the 
 dilapidation of his costume, which Father Gillenormand re- 
 garded with amazement. 
 
 "Well, father" said Marius. 
 
 "Ah, by the way," interrupted M. Gillenormand, "you 
 really have not a penny then? You are dressed like a pick- 
 pocket." 
 
 He rummaged in a drawer, drew forth a purse, which he 
 laid on the table : "Here are a hundred louis, buy yourself 
 a hat." 
 
 "Father," pursued Marius, "my good father, if you only 
 knew ! I love her. You cannot imagine it ; the first time I 
 saw her was at the Luxembourg, she came there ; in the begin- 
 ning, I did not pay much heed to her, and then, I don't know 
 how it came about, I fell in love with her. Oh ! how unhappy 
 that made me ! Now, at last. I see her every day, at her own 
 home, her father does not know it, just fancy, they are going 
 away, it is in the garden that we meet, in the evening, her 
 father means to take her to England, then I said to myself : Til 
 go and see my grandfather and tell him all about the affair. 
 I should go mad first. I should die, I should fall ill, I should 
 throw myself into the water. I absolutely must marry her, 
 since I should go mad otherwise.' This is the whole truth, 
 and I do not think that I have omitted anything. She lives 
 in a garden with an iron fence, in the Rue Plumet. It is in 
 the neighborhood of the Invalides."
 
 AND DESOLATIONS 253 
 
 Father Gillenormand had seated himself, with a beaming 
 countenance, beside Marius. As he listened to him and drank 
 in the sound of his voice, he enjoyed at the same time a pro- 
 tracted pinch of snuff. At the words "Rue Plumet" he inter- 
 rupted his inhalation and allowed the remainder of his snuff 
 to fall upon his knees. 
 
 "The Rue Plumet, the Rue Plumet, did you say? Let us 
 see! Are there not barracks in that vicinity? Why. yes, 
 that's it. Your cousin Theodule has spoken to me about it. 
 The lancer, the officer. A gay girl, my good friend, a gay girl ! 
 Pardieu, yes, the Rue Plumet. It is what used to be called 
 the Rue Blomet. It all comes back to me now. I have heard 
 of that little girl of the iron railing in the Rue Plumet. In a 
 garden, a Pamela. Your taste is not bad. She is said to be a 
 very tidy creature. Between ourselves, I think that simpleton 
 of a lancer has been courting her a bit. I don't know where 
 he did it. However, that's not to the purpose. Besides, he is 
 not to be believed. He brags, Marius ! I think it quite proper 
 that a young man like you should be in love. It's the right 
 thing at your age. I like you better as a lover than as a Jaco- 
 bin. I like you better in love with a petticoat, sapristi ! with 
 twenty petticoats, than with M. de Robespierre. For my part, 
 I will do myself the justice to say, that in the line of sans-cu- 
 lottes, I have never loved any one but women. Pretty girls are 
 pretty girls, the deuce ! There's no objection to that. As for 
 the little one. she receives you without her father's knowledge. 
 That's in the established order of things. I have had adven- 
 tures of that same sort myself. More than one. Do you know 
 what is done then ? One does not take the matter ferociously ; 
 one does not precipitate himself into the tragic; one does not 
 make one's mind to marriage and M. le Maire with hi? pcarf. 
 One simply behaves lilrn a fellow of spirit. One shows good 
 sense. Slip along, mortals ; don't marry. You come and look 
 up your grandfather, who is a good-natured fellow at bottom, 
 and who always has a few rolls of louis in an old drawer; 
 you say to him: 'See here, grandfather.' And the grand- 
 father says: 'That's a simple matter. Youth must amuse
 
 254 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 itself, and old age must wear out. I have been young, you 
 will be old. Come, my boy, you shall pass it on to your 
 grandson. Here are two hundred pistoles. Amuse yourself, 
 deuce take it!' Nothing better! That's the way the affair 
 should be treated. You don't marry, but that does no harm. 
 You understand me?" 
 
 Marius, petrified and incapable of uttering a syllable, made 
 a sign with his head that he did not. 
 
 The old man burst out laughing, winked his aged eye. gave 
 him a slap on the knee, stared him full in the face with a 
 mysterious and beaming air, and said to him, with the tender- 
 est of shrugs of the shoulder : 
 
 "Booby ! make her your mistress." 
 
 Marius turned pale. He had understood nothing of what 
 his grandfather had just said. This twaddle about the Rue 
 Blomett Pamela, the barracks, the lancer, had passed before 
 Marius like a dissolving view. Nothing of all that could bear 
 any reference to Cosette, who was a lily. The good man was 
 wandering in his mind. But this wandering terminated in 
 words which Marius did understand, and which were a mortal 
 insult to Cosette. Those words, "make her your mistress," 
 entered the heart of the strict young man like a sword. 
 
 He rose, picked up his hat which lay on the floor, and 
 walked to the door with a firm, assured step. There he turned 
 round, bowed deeply to his grandfather, raised his head erect 
 again, and said : 
 
 "Five years ago you insulted my father; to-day you have 
 insulted my wife. I ask nothing more of you, sir. Farewell." 
 
 Father Gillenormand, utterly confounded, opened his 
 mouth, extended his arms, tried to rise, and before he could 
 utter a word, the door closed once more, and Marius had 
 disappeared. 
 
 The old man remained for several minutes motionless and as 
 though struck by lightning, without the power to speak or 
 breathe, as though a clenched fist grasped his throat. At last 
 he tore himself from his arm-chair, ran, so far as a man can 
 run at ninety-one, to the door, opened it, and cried:
 
 ENCHANTMRXTR AND DKKOLATION8 255 
 
 "Help ! Help !" 
 
 His daughter made hor appearance, then the domestics. He 
 began again, with a pitiful rattle: "Run after him! Bring 
 him back ! What have I done to him ? He is mad ! He is 
 going away ! Ah ! my (Jod ! Ah ! my God ! This time he will 
 not come back !" 
 
 He went to the window which looked out on the street, 
 threw it open with his aged and palsied hands, leaned out 
 more than half-way, while Basque and Nicolette held him 
 behind, and shouted : 
 
 "Marius ! Marius ! Marius ! Marius !" 
 
 But Marius could no longer hear him. for at that moment 
 he was turning the corner of the Rue Saint-Louis. 
 
 The octogenarian raised his hands to his temples two or 
 three times with an expression of anguish, recoiled tottering, 
 and fell back into an arm-chair, pulseless, voiceless, tearless, 
 with quivering head and lips which moved with a stupid air, 
 with nothing in his eyes and nothing any longer in his heart 
 except a gloomy and profound something which resembled 
 night.
 
 BOOK NINTH. WHITHER ARE THEY GOING? 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 JEAN VALJEAN 
 
 THAT same day, towards four o'clock in the afternoon, Jean 
 Valjean was sitting alone on the back side of one of the most 
 solitary slopes in the Champ-de-Mars. Either from prudence, 
 or from a desire to meditate, or simply in consequence of one 
 of those insensible changes of habit which gradually introduce 
 themselves into the existence of every one, he now rarely went 
 out with Cosette. He had on his workman's waistcoat, and 
 trousers of gray linen ; and his long-visored cap concealed his 
 countenance. 
 
 He was calm and happy now beside Cosette; that which had, 
 for a time, alarmed and troubled him had been dissipated ; but 
 for the last week or two, anxieties of another nature had come 
 up. One day, while walking on the boulevard, he had caught 
 sight of Thenardier; thanks to his disguise, Thenardier had 
 not recognized him ; but since that day. Jean Valjean had 
 seen him repeatedly, and he was now certain that Thenardier 
 was prowling about in their neighborhood. 
 
 This had been sufficient to make him come to a decision. 
 
 Moreover, Paris was not tranquil: political troubles pre- 
 sented this inconvenient feature, for any one who had any- 
 thing to conceal in his life, that the police had grown very 
 uneasy and very suspicious, and that while seeking to ferret 
 out a man like Pepin or Morey, they might very readily dis- 
 cover a man like Jean Valjean. 
 
 Jean Valjean had made up his mind to quit Paris, and even 
 France, and go over to England.
 
 WHITHER ARE THEY OO/.VGf 257 
 
 He had warned Cosette. He wished to set out before the 
 end of the week. 
 
 He had seated himself on the slope in the Champ-de-Marg, 
 turning over all sorts of thoughts in his mind, Thenardier, 
 the police, the journey, and the difficulty of procuring a pass- 
 port. 
 
 He was troubled from all these points of view. 
 
 Last of all, an inexplicable circumstance which had just 
 attracted his attention, and from which he had not yet 
 recovered, had added to his state of alarm. 
 
 On the morning of that very day, when he alone of the 
 household was stirring, while strolling in the garden before 
 Cosette's shutters were open, he had suddenly perceived on 
 the wall, the following line, engraved, probably with a nail : 
 
 10 Rue do la Verrerie. 
 
 This was perfectly fresh, the grooves in the ancient black 
 mortar were white, a tuft of nettles at the foot of the wall was 
 powdered with the fine, fresh plaster. 
 
 This had probably been written on the preceding night. 
 
 What was this ? A signal for others ? A warning for him- 
 self? 
 
 In any case, it was evident that the garden had been 
 violated, and that strangers had made their way into it. 
 
 He recalled the odd incidents which had already alarmed 
 the household. 
 
 His mind was now filling in this canvas. 
 
 He took good care not to speak to Cosette of the line 
 written on the wall, for fear of alarming her. 
 
 In the midst of his preoccupations, he perceived, from a 
 shadow cast by the sun, that some one had halted on the crest 
 of the slope immediately behind him. 
 
 He was on the point of turning round, when a paper folded 
 in four fell upon his knees as though a hand had dropped it 
 over his head. 
 
 He took the paper, unfolded it, and read these words 
 written in large characters, with a pencil: 
 
 "MO VI-: AWAY FROM YOUR HOUSE."
 
 258 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Jean Yaljoan sprang hastily to his feet ; there was no one on 
 the slope ; he gazed all around him and perceived a creature 
 larger than a child, not so large as a man, clad in a gray blouse 
 and trousers of dust-colored cotton velvet, who was jumping 
 over the parapet and who slipped into the moat of the Champ- 
 de-Mars. 
 
 Jean Valjean returned home at once, in a very thoughtful 
 mood. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 MARIU8 
 
 MARIUS had left M. Gillenormand in despair. He had 
 entered the house with very little hope, and quitted it with 
 immense despair. 
 
 However, and those who have observed the depths of the 
 human heart will understand this, the officer, the lancer, the 
 ninny, Cousin Theodule, had left no trace in his mind. Not 
 the slightest. The dramatic poet might, apparently, expect 
 some complications from this revelation made point-blank by 
 the grandfather to the grandson. But what the drama would 
 gain thereby, truth would lose. Marius was at an age when 
 one believes nothing in the line of evil ; later on comes the 
 age when one believes everything. Suspicions are nothing else 
 than wrinkles. Early youth has none of them. That which 
 overwhelmed Othello glides innocuous over Candide. Suspect 
 Cosette ! There are hosts of crimes which Marius could sooner 
 have committed. 
 
 He began to wander about the streets, the resource of those 
 who suffer. He thought of nothing, so far as he could after- 
 wards remember. At two o'clock in the morning he returned 
 to Courfeyrac's quarters and flung himself, without un- 
 dressing, on his mattress. The sun was shining brightly when 
 he sank into that frightful leaden slumber which permits 
 ideas to go and come in the brain. When he awoke, he saw
 
 WHITHER ARE THEY GOINQT 259 
 
 Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Fcuilly, and Combeferre standing in the 
 room with their hats on and all ready to go out. 
 
 Courfeyrac said to him: 
 
 "Are you coming to General Lamarque's funeral?" 
 
 It seemed to him that Courfeyrac was speaking Chinese. 
 
 He went out some time after them. He put in his pocket 
 the pistols which .1 avert had given him at the time of the 
 adventure on the 3d of February, and which had remained in 
 his hands. These pistols were still loaded. It would be diffi- 
 cult to say what vague thought he had in his mind when he 
 took them with him. 
 
 All day long he prowled about, without knowing where he 
 was going; it rained at times, he did not perceive it; for his 
 dinner, he purchased a penny roll at a baker's, put it in his 
 pocket and forgot it. It appears that he took a bath in the 
 Seine without being aware of it. There are moments when a 
 man has a furnace within his skull. Marius was passing 
 through one of those moments. He no longer hoped for any- 
 thing; this step he had taken since the preceding evening. He 
 waited for night with feverish impatience, he had but one idea 
 clearly before his mind; this was, that at nine o'clock 
 he should see Cosette. This last happiness now consti- 
 tuted his whole future; after that, gloom. At intervals, 
 as he roamed through the most deserted boulevards, it 
 seemed to him that he heard strange noises in Paris. He 
 thrust his head out of his revery and said : "Is there fighting 
 on hand?" 
 
 At nightfall, at nine o'clock precisely, as he had promsied 
 Cosette, he was in the Rue Plumet. When he approached tlv 
 grating he forgot everything. It was forty-eight hours since 
 he had seen Cosette; he was about to behold her once more; 
 every other thought was effaced, and he felt only a profound 
 and unheard-of joy. Those minutes in which one lives cen- 
 turies always have this sovereign and wonderful property, that 
 at the moment when they are passing they fill the heart com- 
 pletely. 
 
 Marius displaced the bar, and rushed headlong into the
 
 260 8A1XT-DEXI8 
 
 garden. Cosctte was not at the spot where she ordinarily 
 waited for him. He traversed the thicket, and approached 
 the recess near the flight of steps: "She is waiting for me 
 there," said he. Cosette was not there. He raised his eyes, 
 and saw that the shutters of the house were closed. He made 
 the tour of the garden, the garden was deserted. Then he 
 returned to the house, and, rendered senseless by love, intoxi- 
 cated, terrified, exasperated with grief and uneasiness, like a 
 master who returns home at an evil hour, he tapped on the 
 shutters. He knocked and knocked again, at the risk of seeing 
 the window open, and her father's gloomy face make its ap- 
 pearance, and demand: "What do you want?" This was 
 nothining in comparison with what he dimly caught a glimpse 
 of. When he had rapped, he lifted up his voice and called 
 Cosette. "Cosette !" he cried ; "Cosette !" he repeated impe- 
 riously. There was no reply. All was over. Xo one in the 
 garden ; no one in the house. 
 
 Marius fixed his despairing eyes on that dismal house, which 
 was as black and as silent as a tomb and far more empty. He 
 gazed at the stone seat on which he had passed so many ador- 
 able hours with Cosette. Then he seated himself on the flight 
 of steps, his heart filled with sweetness and resolution, he 
 blessed his love in the depths of his thought, and he said to 
 himself that, since Cosette was gone, all that there was left 
 for him was to die. 
 
 All at once he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from 
 the street, and which was calling to him through the 
 trees : 
 
 "Mr. Marius !" 
 
 He started to his feet. 
 
 "Hey?" said he. 
 
 "Mr. Marius, are you there ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Mr. Marius," went on the voice, "your friends are waiting 
 for you at the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie." 
 
 This voice was not wholly unfamiliar to him. It resembled 
 the hoarse, rough voice of fiponine. Marius hastened to the
 
 WIIITIJER ARE THEY 00/.VGf 2C1 
 
 gate, thrust aside the movable bar, passed his head through the 
 aperture, and saw some one who appeared to him to be a 
 young man, disappearing at a run into the gloom. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 M. MABEUP 
 
 JEAN VALJEAN'S purse was of no use to M. Mabeuf. M. 
 Mabeuf, in his venerable, infantile austerity, had not accepted 
 the gift of the stars; he had not admitted that a star could 
 coin itself into louis d'or. He had not divined that what had 
 fallen from heaven had come from Gavroche. He had taken 
 the purse to the police commissioner of the quarter, as a lost 
 article placed by the finder at the disposal of claimants. The 
 purse was actually lost. It is unnecessary to say that no one 
 claimed it, and that it did not succor M. Mabeuf. 
 
 Moreover, M. Mabeuf had continued his downward course. 
 
 His experiments on indigo had been no more successful in 
 the Jardin des Plantes than in his garden at Austerlitz. The 
 year before he had owed his housekeeper's wages ; now, as 
 we have seen, he owed three quarters of his rent. The pawn- 
 shop had sold the plates of his Flora after the expiration of 
 thirteen months. Some coppersmith had made stewpans of 
 them. His copper plates gone, and being unable to complete 
 even the incomplete copies of his Flora which were in his pos- 
 session, he had disposed of the text, at a miserable price, as 
 waste paper, to a second-hand bookseller. Nothing now re- 
 mained to him of his life's work. He set to work to eat up the 
 money for these copies. When he saw that this wretched re- 
 source was becoming exhausted, he gave up his garden and 
 allowed it to run to waste. Before this, a long time before, 
 he had given up his two eggs and the morsel of beef which he 
 ate from time to time. He dined on bread and potatoes. He 
 had sold the last of his furniture, then all duplicates of his 
 bedding, his clothing and his blankets, then his herbariums
 
 262 8AINT-DEVIS 
 
 and prints ; but he still retained his most precious books, many 
 of which were of the greatest rarit} r , among others, Left Quad- 
 rins Historiques de la Bible, edition of 1560; La Concordance 
 des Bibles, by Pierre de Besse; Les Marguerites de la Marguer- 
 ite, of Jean de La Hayc, with a dedication to the Queen of 
 Navarre; the book de la Charge et Dignite de I'Ambassadeur, 
 by the Sieur de Villiers Hotman; a Florilegiurn Kabbinicum 
 of 1644 ; a Tibullus of 1567, with this magnificent inscription : 
 Venetiis, in cedibus Manutianis; and lastly, a Diogenes 
 Laertius, printed at Lyons in 1644, which contained the 
 famous variant of the manuscript 411, thirteenth century, of 
 the Vatican, and those of the two manuscripts of Venice, 393 
 and 394, consulted with such fruitful results by Henri 
 Estienne, and all the passages in Doric dialect which are only 
 found in the celebrated manuscript of the twelfth century 
 belonging to the Naples Library. M. Mabcuf never had any 
 fire in his chamber, and went to bed at sundown, in order not 
 to consume any candles. It seemed as though he had no longer 
 any neighbors : people avoided him when he went out ; he per- 
 ceived the fact. The wretchedness of a child interests a 
 mother, the wretchedness of a young man interests a young 
 girl, the wretchedness of an old man interests no one. It is, 
 of all distresses, the coldest. Still, Father Mabeuf had not 
 entirely lost his childlike serenity. His eyes acquired some 
 vivacity when they rested on his books, and he smiled when he 
 gazed at the Diogenes Laertius, which was a unique copy. His 
 bookcase with glass doors was the only piece of furniture which 
 he had kept beyond what was strictly indispensable. 
 
 One day, Mother Plutarque said to him : 
 
 "I have no money to buy any dinner." 
 
 What she called dinner was a loaf of bread and four or five 
 potatoes. 
 
 "On credit?" suggested M. Mabeuf. 
 
 "You know well that people refuse me." 
 
 M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase, took a long look at all his 
 books, one after another, as a father obliged to decimate his 
 children would gaze upon them before making a choice, then
 
 WHITHER ARE THEY GOING? 263 
 
 seized one hastily, put it in under his arm and went out. He 
 returned two hours later, without anything under his arm, 
 laid thirty sous on the table, and said : 
 
 "You will get something for dinner." 
 
 From that moment forth, Mother Plutarque saw a sombre 
 veil, which was never more lifted, descend over the old man's 
 candid face. 
 
 On the following day, on the day after, and on the day after 
 that, it had to be done again. 
 
 M. Mabeuf went out with a book and returned with a coin. 
 As the second-hand dealers perceived that he was forced to 
 sell, they purchased of him for twenty sous that for which he 
 had paid twenty francs, sometimes at those very shops. Vol- 
 ume by volume, the whole library went the same road. He 
 said at times : "But I am eighty;" as though he cherished some 
 secret hope that he should arrive at the end of his days before 
 reaching the end of h!.- books. His melancholy increased. 
 Once, however, he had a pleasure. He had gone out with a 
 liobert Estienne, which he had sold for thirty-five sous under 
 the Quai Malaquais, and he returned with an Aldus which he 
 had bought for forty sous in tho Hue des Gres. "I owe five 
 sous," he said, beaming on Mother Plutarque. That day he 
 had no dinner. 
 
 He belonged to the Horticultural Society. His destitution 
 became known there. The president of the society came to see 
 him, promised to speak to the Minister of Agriculture and 
 Commerce about him, and did so. "Why, what!" exclaimed 
 the Minister, "I should think so! An old savant! a botanist ! 
 an inoircnsive man! Something must be done for him !" On 
 the following day, M. Mabeuf received an invitation to dine 
 with the Minister. Trembling with joy, he showed the letter 
 to Mother Plutarque. "We are saved !" said he. On the day 
 appointed, he went to the Minister's house. He perceived that 
 his ragged cravat, his long, square coat, and his waxed shoes 
 astonished the ushers. No one spoke to him, not even the 
 Minister. About ten o'clock in the evening, while he was still 
 waiting for a word, he heard the Minister's wife, a beautiful
 
 264 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 woman in a low-necked gown whom he had not ventured to 
 approach, inquire : "Who is that old gentleman?" He returned 
 home on foot at midnight, in a driving rain-storm. He had 
 sold an Elzevir to pay for a carriage in which to go thither. 
 
 He had acquired the habit of reading a few pages in his 
 Diogenes Laertius every night, before he went to bed. He 
 knew enough Greek to enjoy the peculiarities of the text which 
 he owned. He had now no other enjoyment. Several weeks 
 passed. All at once, Mother Plutarque fell ill. There is one 
 thing sadder than having no money with which to buy bread 
 at the baker's, and that is having no money to purchase drugs 
 at the apothecary's. One evening, the doctor had ordered a 
 very expensive potion. And the malady was growing worse; 
 a nurse was required. M. Mabeuf opened his bookcase ; there 
 was nothing there. The last volume had taken its departure. 
 All that was left to him was Diogenes Laertius. He put this 
 unique copy under his arm, and went out. It was the 4th of 
 June, 1832; he went to the Porte Saint-Jacques, to Royal's 
 successor, and returned with one hundred francs. He laid the 
 pile of five-franc pieces on the old serving-woman's night- 
 stand, and returned to his chamber without saying a word. 
 
 On the following morning, at dawn, he seated himself on 
 the overturned post in his garden, and he could be seen over 
 the top of the hedge, sitting the whole morning motionless, 
 with drooping head, his eyes vaguely fixed on the withered 
 flower-beds. It rained at intervals; the old man did not seem 
 to perceive the fact. 
 
 In the afternoon, extraordinary noises broke out in Paris. 
 They resembled shots and the clamors of a multitude. 
 
 Father Mabeuf raised his head. He saw a gardener passing, 
 and inquired: 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 The gardener, spade on back, replied in the most uncon- 
 cerned tone: 
 
 "It is the riots." 
 
 "What riots?" 
 
 "Yes, they are fighting."
 
 WHITHER ARE THEY GOINGf 265 
 
 "Why are they fighting?" 
 
 "Ah, good Heavens !" ejaculated the gardener. 
 
 "In what direction?" went on M. Mabeuf. 
 
 "In the neighborhood of the Arsenal." 
 
 Father Mabeuf went to his room, took his hat, mechanically 
 sought for a book to place under his arm, found none, said : 
 "Ah ! truly !" and went off with a bewildered air.
 
 BOOK TENTH. THE 5TH OF JUNE, 1832 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION 
 
 OF what is revolt composed? Of nothing and of every- 
 thing. Of an electricity disengaged, little by little, of a flame 
 suddenly darting forth, of a wandering force, of a passing 
 breath. This breath encounters heads which speak, brains 
 which dream, souls which suffer, passions which burn, wretch- 
 edness which howls, and bears them away. 
 
 Whither ? 
 
 At random. Athwart the state, the laws, athwart prosperity 
 and the insolence of others. 
 
 Irritated convictions, embittered enthusiasms, agitated 
 indignations, instincts of war which have been repressed, 
 youthful courage which has been exalted, generous blindness; 
 curiosity, the taste for change, the thirst for the unexpected, 
 the sentiment which causes one to take pleasure in reading 
 the posters for the new play, and love, the prompter's whistle, 
 at the theatre; the vague hatreds, rancors, disappointments, 
 every vanity which thinks that destiny has bankrupted it ; 
 discomfort, empty dreams, ambitions that are hedged about, 
 whoever hopes for a downfall, some outcome, in short, at the 
 very bottom, the rabble, that mud which catches fire, such 
 are the elements of revolt. That which is grandest and that 
 which is basest; the beings who prowl outside of all bounds, 
 awaiting an occasion, bohemians, vagrants, vagabonds of the 
 cross-roads, those who sleep at night in a desert of houses 
 with no other roof than the cold clouds of heaven, those who, 
 each day, demand their bread from chance and not from toil,
 
 TEE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832 267 
 
 the unknown of poverty and nothingness, the bare-armed, the 
 bare-footed, belong to revolt. Whoever cherishes in his soul 
 a secret revolt against any deed whatever on the part of the 
 state, of life or of fate, is ripe for riot, and, as soon as it makes 
 its appearance, he begins to quiver, and to feel himself borne 
 away with the whirlwind. 
 
 Revolt is a sort of waterspout in the social atmosphere which 
 forms suddenly in certain conditions of temperature, and 
 which, as it eddies about, mounts, descends, thunders, tears, 
 razes, crushes, demolishes, uproots, bearing with it great 
 natures and small, the strong man and the feeble mind, the 
 tree trunk and the stalk of straw. Woe to him whom it bears 
 away as well as to him whom it strikes ! It breaks the one 
 against the other. 
 
 It communicates to those whom it seizes an indescribable 
 and extraordinary power. It fills the first-comer with the 
 force of events; it converts everything into projectiles. It 
 makes a cannon-ball of a rough stone, and a general of a 
 porter. 
 
 If we are to believe certain oracles of crafty political views, 
 a little revolt is desirable from the point of view of power. 
 System : revolt strengthens those governments which it does 
 not overthrow. It puts the army to the test; it consecrates 
 the bourgeoisie, it draws out the muscles of the police ; it 
 demonstrates the fo'rce of the social framework. It is an 
 exercise in gymnastics; it is almost hygiene. Power is in 
 better health after a revolt, as a man is after a good rubbing 
 down. 
 
 Revolt, thirty years ago, was regarded from still other points 
 of view. 
 
 There is for everything a theory, which proclaims itself 
 "good sense"; Philintus against Alcestis; mediation offered 
 between the false and the true ; explanation, admonition, 
 rather haughty extenuation which, because it is mingled with 
 blame and excuse, thinks itself wisdom, and is often only 
 pedantry. A whole political school called "the golden mean" 
 has been the outcome of this. As between cold water and
 
 26S SAINT-DENIS 
 
 hot water, it is the lukewarm water party. This school with 
 its false depth, all on the surface, which dissects effects with- 
 out going back to first causes, chides from its height of a 
 demi-science, the agitation of the public square. 
 
 If we listen to this school, "The riots which complicated the 
 affair of 1830 deprived that great event of a portion of its 
 purity. The Revolution of July had been a fine popular gale, 
 abruptly followed by blue sky. They made the cloudy sky 
 reappear. They caused that revolution, at first so remarkable 
 for its unanimity, to degenerate into a quarrel. In the Revo- 
 lution of July, as in all progress accomplished by fits and 
 starts, there had been secret fractures; these riots rendered 
 them perceptible. It might have been said : 'Ah ! this is 
 broken.' After the Revolution of July, one was sensible only 
 of deliverance; after the riots, one was conscious of a 
 catastrophe. 
 
 "All revolt closes the shops, depresses the funds, throws the 
 Exchange into consternation, suspends commerce, clogs busi- 
 ness, precipitates failures; no more money, private fortunes 
 rendered uneasy, public credit shaken, industry disconcerted, 
 capital withdrawing, work at a discount, fear everywhere ; 
 counter-shocks in every town. Hence gulfs. It has been cal- 
 culated that the first day of a riot costs France twenty 
 millions, the second day forty, the third sixty, a three days' 
 uprising costs one hundred and twenty millions, that is to 
 Bay, if only the financial result be taken into consideration, 
 it is equivalent to a disaster, a shipwreck or a lost battle, 
 which should annihilate a fleet of sixty ships of the line. 
 
 "No doubt, historically, uprisings have their beauty ; the 
 war of the pavements is no less grandiose, and no less pathetic, 
 than the war of thickets : in the one there is the soul of forests, 
 in the other the heart of cities ; the one has Jean Chouan, the 
 other has a Jeanne. Revolts have illuminated with a red glare 
 all the most original points of the Parisian character, generos- 
 ity, devotion, stormy gayety, students proving that bravery 
 forms part of intelligence, the National Guard invincible, 
 bivouacs of shopkeepers, fortresses of street urchins, contempt
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 18St 269 
 
 of death on the part of passers-by. Schools and legions clashed 
 together. After all, between the combatants, there was only 
 a difference of age; the race is the same; it is the same stoical 
 men who died at the age of twenty for their ideas, at forty 
 for their families. The army, always a sad thing in civil 
 wars, opposed prudence to audacity. Uprisings, while proving 
 popular intrepidity, also educated the courage of the bour- 
 geois. 
 
 "This is well. But is all this worth the bloodshed ? And to 
 the bloodshed add the future darkness, progress compromised, 
 uneasiness among the best men, honest liberals in despair, 
 foreign absolutism happy in these wounds dealt to revolution 
 by its own hand, the vanquished of 1830 triumphing and 
 saying : 'We told you so !' Add Paris enlarged, possibly, but 
 France most assuredly diminished. Add, for all must needs 
 be told, the massacres which have too often dishonored the 
 victory of order grown ferocious over liberty gone mad. To 
 sum up all, uprisings have been disastrous." 
 
 Thus speaks that approximation to wisdom with which the 
 bourgeoisie, that approximation to the people, so willingly con- 
 tents itself. 
 
 For our parts, we reject this word uprisings as too large, 
 and consequently as too convenient. We make a distinction 
 between one popular movement and another popular move- 
 ment. We do not inquire whether an uprising costs as much 
 as a battle. Why a battle, in the first place? Here the 
 question of war comes up. Is war less of a scourge than an 
 uprising is of a calamity? And then, are all uprising? calami- 
 ties? And what if the revolt of July did cost a hundred and 
 twenty millions? The establishment of Philip V. in Spain cost 
 France two milliards. Even at the same price, we should prefer 
 the 14th of July. However, we reject these figures, which 
 appear to be reasons and which are only words. An uprising 
 being given, we examine it by itself. In all that is said by 
 the doctrinarian objection above presented, there is no ques- 
 tion of anything but effect, we seek the cause. 
 
 We will be explicit.
 
 270 BAIXT-DENIB 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE ROOT OF THE MATTER 
 
 THERE is such a thing as an uprising, and there is such a 
 thing as insurrection; these are two separate phases of 
 wrath; one is in the wrong, the other is in the right. In 
 democratic states, the only ones which are founded on justice, 
 it sometimes happens that the fraction usurps ; then the whole 
 rises and the necessary claim of its rights may proceed as 
 far as resort to arms. In all questions which result from 
 collective sovereignty, the war of the whole against the frac- 
 tion is insurrection; the attack of the fraction against the 
 whole is revolt; according as the Tuileries contain a king or 
 the Convention, they are justly or unjustly attacked. The 
 same cannon, pointed against the populace, is wrong on the 
 10th of August, and right on the 14th of Vendemiaire. Alike 
 in appearance, fundamentally different in reality ; the Swiss 
 defend the false, Bonaparte defends the true. That which 
 universal suffrage has effected in its liberty and in its sov- 
 ereignty cannot be undone by the street. It is the same in 
 things pertaining purely to civilization ; the instinct of the 
 masses, clear-sighted to-day, may be troubled to-morrow. The 
 same fury legitimate when directed against Terray and absurd 
 when directed against Turgot. The destruction of machines, 
 the pillage of warehouses, the breaking of rails, the demolition 
 of docks, the false routes of multitudes, the refusal by the 
 people of justice to progress, Ramus assassinated by students, 
 Rousseau driven out of Switzerland and stoned, that is 
 revolt. Israel against Moses, Athens against Phocian. Rome 
 against Cicero, that is an uprising; Paris against the 
 Bastille, that is insurrection. The soldiers against Alex- 
 ander, the sailors against Christopher Columbus, this is the 
 same revolt; impious revolt; why? Because Alexander is 
 doing for Asia with the sword that which Christopher 
 Columbus is doing for America with the compass; Alexander
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832 271 
 
 like Columbus, is finding a world. These gifts of a world to 
 civilization are such augmentations of light, that all resist- 
 ance in that case is culpable. Sometimes the populace coun- 
 terfeits fidelity to itself. The masses are traitors to the 
 people. Is there, for example, anything stranger than that 
 long and bloody protest of dealers in contraband salt, a legiti- 
 mate chronic revolt, which, at the decisive moment, on the day 
 of salvation, at the very hour of popular victory, espouses the 
 throne, turns into chouannerie, and, from having been an 
 insurrection against, becomes an uprising for, sombre master- 
 pieces of ignorance ! The contraband salt dealer escapes the 
 royal gibbets, and with a rope's end round his neck, mounts 
 the white cockade. "Death to the salt duties," brings forth, 
 "Long live the King!" The assassins of Saint-Bartholemy, 
 the cut-throats of September, the manslaughterers of Avignon, 
 the assassins of Coligny, the assassins of Madam Lamballe, 
 the assassins of Brune, Miquolets, Verdets, Cadenettes, the 
 companions of Jehu, the chevaliers of Brassard, behold an 
 uprising. La Vendee is a grand, catholic uprising. The 
 sound of right in movement is recognizable, it does not always 
 proceed from the trembling of excited masses; there are mad 
 rages, there are cracked bells, all tocsins do not give out the 
 sound of bronze. The brawl of passions and ignorances is 
 quite another thing from the shock of progress. Show me 
 in what direction you are going. Rise, if you will, but let 
 it be that you may grow great. There is no insurrection 
 except in a forward direction. Any other sort of rising is 
 bad ; every violent step towards the rear is a revolt ; to retreat 
 is to commit a deed of violence against the human race. In- 
 surrection is a fit of rage on the part of truth ; the pavements 
 which the uprising disturbs give forth the spark of right. 
 These pavements bequeath to the uprising only their mud. 
 Danton against Louis XIV. is insurrection; Hebert against 
 Danton is revolt. 
 
 Hence it results that if insurrection in given cases may be, 
 as Lafayette says, the most holy of duties, an uprising may be 
 the most fatal of crimes.
 
 272 8 Al NT-DEM 8 
 
 There is also a difference in the intensity of heat; insur- 
 rection is often a volcano, revolt is often only a fire of straw. 
 
 Revolt, as we have said, is sometimes found among those in 
 power. Polignac is a rioter; Camille Desmoulins is one of 
 the governing powers. 
 
 Insurrection is sometimes resurrection. 
 
 The solution of everything by universal suffrage being an 
 absolutely modern fact, and all history anterior to this fact 
 being, for the space of four thousand years, filled with violated 
 right, and the suffering of peoples, each epoch of history 
 brings with it that protest of which it is capable. Under the 
 Caesars, there was no insurrection, but there was Juvenal. 
 
 The facit indignatio replaces the Gracchi. 
 
 Under the Caesars, there is the exile to Syene ; there is also 
 the man of the Annales. We do not speak of the immense 
 exile of Patmos who, on his part also, overwhelms the real 
 world with a protest in the name of the ideal world, who makes 
 of his vision an enormous satire and casts on Rome-Xineveh, 
 on Rome-Babylon, on Rome-Sodom, the flaming reflection of 
 the Apocalypse. John on his rock is the sphinx on its 
 pedestal ; we may understand him, he is a Jew, and it is 
 Hebrew; but the man who writes the Annales is of the Latin 
 race, let us rather say he is a Roman. 
 
 As the Neros reign in a black way, they should be painted to 
 match. The work of the graving-tool alone would be too pale ; 
 there must be poured into the channel a concentrated prose 
 which bites. 
 
 Despots count for something in the question of philosophers. 
 A word that is chained is a terrible word. The writer doubles 
 and trebles his style when silence is imposed on a nation by its 
 master. From this silence there arises a certain mysterious 
 plenitude which filters into thought and there congeals into 
 bronze. The compression of history produces conciseness in 
 the historian. The granite solidity of such and such a cele- 
 brated prose is nothing but the accumulation effected by the 
 tyrant. 
 
 Tyrannv constrains the writer to conditions of diameter
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832 273 
 
 which are augmentations of force. The Ciceronian period, 
 which hardly sufficed for Verres, would be blunted on Caligula. 
 The less spread of sail in the phrase, the more intensity in the 
 blow. Tacitus thinks with all his might. 
 
 The honesty of a great heart, condensed in justice and 
 truth, overwhelms as with lightning. 
 
 Be it remarked, in passing, that Tacitus is not historically 
 superposed upon Caesar. The Tiberii were reserved for him. 
 Caesar and Tacitus are two successive phenomena, a meeting 
 between whom seems to be mysteriously avoided, by the One 
 who, when lie sets the centuries on the stage, regulates the 
 entrances and the exits. Caesar is great, Tacitus is great ; God 
 spares these two greatnesses by not allowing them to clash 
 with one another. The guardian of justice, in striking Caesar, 
 might strike too hard and be unjust. God does not will it. 
 The great wars of Africa and Spain, the pirates of Sicily 
 destroyed, civilization introduced into Gaul, into Britanny, 
 into Germany, all this glory covers the Rubicon. There is 
 here a sort of delicacy of the divine justice, hesitating to let 
 loose upon the illustrious usurper the formidable historian, 
 sparing Caesar Tacitus, and according extenuating circum- 
 stances to genius. 
 
 Certainly, despotism remains despotism, even under the 
 despot of genius. There is corruption under all illustrious 
 tyrants, but the moral pest is still more hideous under 
 infamous tyrants. In such reigns, nothing veils the shame ; 
 and those who make examples, Tacitus as well as Juvenal, slap 
 this ignominy which cannot reply, in the face, more usefully 
 in the presence of all humanity. 
 
 Rome smells worse under Vitellius than under Sylla. 
 Under Claudius and under Domitian, there is a deformity 
 of baseness corresponding to the repulsiveness of the tyrant. 
 The villany of slaves is a direct product of the despot; a 
 miasma exhales from these cowering consciences wherein the 
 master is reflected; public powers are unclean; hearts are 
 small; consciences arc dull, souls are like vermin; thus it is 
 under Caracalla, thus it is under Commodus, thus it is under
 
 274 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Heliogabalus, while, from the Roman Senate, under Caesar, 
 there comes nothing but the odor of the dung which is peculiar 
 to the eyries of the eagles. 
 
 Hence the advent, apparently tardy, of the Tacituses and 
 the Juvenals; it is in the hour for evidence, that the demon- 
 strator makes his appearance. 
 
 But Juvenal and Tacitus, like Isaiah in Biblical times, like 
 Dante in the Middle Ages, is man ; riot and insurrection are 
 the multitude, which is sometimes right and sometimes wrong. 
 
 In the majority of cases, riot proceeds from a material fact ; 
 insurrection is always a moral phenomenon. Riot is Masani- 
 ello; insurrection, Spartacus. Insurrection borders on mind, 
 riot on the stomach ; Gaster grows irritated ; but Caster, as- 
 suredly, is not always in the wrong. In questions of famine, 
 riot, Buzangais, for example, holds a true, pathetic, and just 
 point of departure. Nevertheless, it remains a riot. Why? 
 It is because, right at bottom, it was wrong in form. Shy 
 although in the right, violent although strong, it struck at 
 random ; it walked like a blind elephant ; it left behind it the 
 corpses of old men, of women, and of children; it wished the 
 blood of inoffensive and innocent persons without knowing 
 why. The nourishment of the people is a good object ; to mas- 
 sacre them is a bad means. 
 
 All armed protests, even the most legitimate, even that of 
 the 10th of August, even that of July 14th, begin with the 
 same troubles. Before the right gets set free, there is foam 
 and tumult. In the beginning, the insurrection is a riot, just 
 as a river is a torrent. Ordinarily it ends in that ocean : revo- 
 lution. Sometimes, however, coming from those lofty moun- 
 tains which dominate the moral horizon, justice, wisdom, rea- 
 son, right, formed of the pure snow of the ideal, after a long 
 fall from rock to rock, after having reflected the sky in its 
 transparency and increased by a hundred affluents in the ma- 
 jestic mien of triumph, insurrection is suddenly lost in some 
 quagmire, as the Rhine is in a swamp. 
 
 All this is of the past, the future is another thing. Uni- 
 versal suffrage has this admirable property, that it dissolves
 
 THE FIFTH OF JINE, 1832 275 
 
 riot in its inception, and, by giving the vote to insurrection, 
 it deprives it of its arms. The disappearance of wars, of street 
 wars as well as of wars on the frontiers, such is the inevitable 
 progression. Whatever To-day may be, To-morrow will be 
 peace. 
 
 However, insurrection, riot, and points of difference be- 
 tween the former and the latter, the bourgeois, properly 
 speaking, knows nothing of such shades. In his mind, all is 
 sedition, rebellion pure and simple, the revolt of the dog 
 against his master, an attempt to bite whom must be punished 
 by the chain and the kennel, barking, snapping, until such day 
 as the head of the dog, suddenly enlarged, is outlined vaguely 
 in the gloom face to face with the lion. 
 
 Then the bourgeois shouts : "Long live the people !" 
 
 This explanation given, what does the movement of June, 
 1832, signify, so far as history is concerned? Is it a revolt? 
 Is it an insurrection?" 
 
 It may happen to us, in placing this formidable event on 
 the stage, to say revolt now and then, but merely to distinguish 
 superficial facts, and always preserving the distinction between 
 revolt, the form, and insurrection, the foundation. 
 
 This movement of 1832 had, in its rapid outbreak and in its 
 melancholy extinction, so much grandeur, that even those who 
 see in it only an uprising, never refer to it otherwise than with 
 respect. For them, it is like a relic of 1830. Excited imagi- 
 nations, say they, are not to be calmed in a day. A revolution 
 cannot be cut off short. It must needs undergo some undula- 
 tions before it returns to a state of rest, like a mountain sink- 
 ing into the plain. There are no Alps without their Jura, nor 
 Pyrenees without the Asturias. 
 
 This pathetic crisis of contemporary history which the mem- 
 ory of Parisians calls "the epoch of the riots," is certainly a 
 characteristic hour amid the stormy hours of this century. A 
 last word, before we enter on the recital. 
 
 The facts which we are about to relate belong to that dra- 
 matic and living reality, which the historian sometimes neg- 
 lects for lack of time and space. There, nevertheless, we in-
 
 276 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 sist upon it, is life, palpitation, human tremor. Petty details, 
 as we think we have already said, are, so to speak, the foliage 
 of great events, and are lost in the distance of history. The 
 epoch, surnamed "of the riots," abounds in details of this na- 
 ture. Judicial inquiries have not revealed, and perhaps have 
 not sounded the depths, for another reason than history. We 
 shall therefore bring to light, among the known and published 
 peculiarities, things which have not heretofore been known, 
 about facts over which have passed the forgetfulness of some, 
 and the death of others. The majority of the actors in these 
 gigantic scenes have disappeared ; beginning with the very next 
 day they held their peace; but of what we shall relate, we shall 
 be able to say: "We have seen this." We alter a few names, 
 for history relates and does not inform against, but the deed 
 which we shall paint will be genuine. In accordance with the 
 conditions of the book which we are now writing, we shall show 
 only one side and one episode, and certainly, the least known 
 at that, of the two days, the oth and the 6th of June, 1832, but 
 we shall do it in such wise that the reader may catch a glimpse, 
 beneath the gloomy veil which we are about to lift, of the real 
 form of this frightful public adventure. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 A BURIAL ; AX OCCASION TO BE BORN AGAIN 
 
 IN the spring of 1832, although the cholera had been 
 chilling all minds for the last three months and had cast over 
 their agitation an indescribable and gloomy pacification, Paris 
 had already long been ripe for commotion. As we have said, 
 the great city resembles a piece of artillery ; when it is 
 loaded, it suffices for a spark to fall, and the shot is dis- 
 charged. In June, 1832, the spark was the death of General 
 Lamarque. 
 
 Lamarque was a man of renown and of action. lie had 
 had in succession, under the Empire and under the Restora-
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832 277 
 
 tion, the sorts of bravery requisite for the two epochs, the 
 bravery of the battle-field and the bravery of the tribune. He 
 was as eloquent as he had been valiant; a sword was discernible 
 in his speech. Like Foy, his predecessor, after upholding the 
 command, he upheld liberty; he sat between the left and the 
 extreme left, beloved of the people because he accepted the 
 chances of the future, beloved of the populace Ixicause he had 
 served the Emperor well ; he was, in company with Comtes 
 Gerard and Drouet, one of Napoleon's marshals in petto. The 
 treaties of 1815 removed him as a personal offence. He hated 
 Wellington with a downright hatred which pleased the multi- 
 tude; and, for seventeen years, he majestically preserved the 
 sadness of Waterloo, paying hardly any attention to inter- 
 vening events. In his death agony, at his last hour, he 
 clasped to his breast a sword which had been presented to him 
 by the officers of the Hundred Days. Napoleon had died 
 uttering the word army, Lamarque uttering the word 
 country. 
 
 His death, which was expected, was dreaded by the people as 
 a loss, and by the government as an occasion. This death was 
 an affliction. Like everything that is bitter, affliction may turn 
 to revolt. This is what took place. 
 
 On the preceding evening, and on the morning of the oth of 
 June, the day appointed for Lamarque's burial, the Faubourg 
 Saint-Antoine, which the procession was to touch at, as- 
 sumed a formidable aspect. This tumultuous network of 
 streets was filled with rumors. They armed themselves as best 
 they might. Joiners carried off door- weights of their estab- 
 lishment "to break down doors." One of them had made him- 
 self a dagger of a stock ing- weaver's hook by breaking off the 
 hook and sharpening the stump. Another, who was in a fever 
 "to attack," slept wholly dressed for three days. A carpenter 
 named Lombier met a comrade, who asked him : "Whither 
 are you going?" "Eh! well, I have no weapons." "What 
 then?" "I'm going to my timber-yard to get my compasses." 
 "What for?" "1 don't know," said Lombier. A certain 
 Jacqueline, an expeditious man, accosted some passing arti-
 
 278 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 sans : "Come here, you !" He treated them to ten sous' worth of 
 wine and said : "Have you work ?" "No." "Go to Filspierre, 
 between the Barriere Charonne and the Barriere Montreuil, 
 and you will find work." At Filspierre's they found cartridges 
 and arms. Certain well-known leaders were going the rounds, 
 that is to say, running from one house to another, to collect 
 their men. At Barthelemy's, near the Barriere du Trone, at 
 Capel's, near the Petit-Chapeau, the drinkers accosted each 
 other with a grave air. They were heard to say : "Have you 
 your pistol?" "Under my blouse." "And you?" "Under 
 my shirt." In the Rue Traversiere, in front of the Bland 
 workshop, and in the yard of the Maison-Brulee, in front of 
 tool-maker Bernier's, groups whispered together. Among 
 them was observed a certain Mavot, who never remained more 
 than a week in one shop, as the masters always discharged him 
 "because they were obliged to dispute with him every day." 
 Mavot was killed on the following day at the barricade of the 
 Rue Menilmontant. Pretot, who was destined to perish also 
 in the struggle, seconded Mavot, and to the question: "What 
 is your object?" he replied: "Insurrection." Workmen as- 
 sembled at the corner of the Rue de Bercy, waited for a cer- 
 tain Lemarin, the revolutionary agent for the Faubourg 
 Saint-Marceau. Watchwords were exchanged almost pub- 
 licly. 
 
 On the 5th of June, accordingly, a day of mingled rain and 
 sun, General Lamarque's funeral procession traversed Paris 
 with official military pomp, somewhat augmented through pre- 
 caution. Two battalions, with draped drums and reversed 
 arms, ten thousand National Guards, with their swords at 
 their sides, escorted the coffin. The hearse was drawn by 
 young men. The officers of the Invalides came immediately be- 
 hind it, bearing laurel branches. Then came an innumerable, 
 strange, agitated multitude, the sectionaries of the Friends of 
 the People, the Law School, the Medical School, refugees of all 
 nationalities, and Spanish, Italian, German, and Polish flags, 
 tri colored horizontal banners, every possible sort of banner, 
 children waving green boughs, stone-cutters and carpenters
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832 279 
 
 who were on strike at the moment, printers who were recog- 
 nizable by their paper caps, marching two by two, three by 
 three, uttering cries, nearly all of them brandishing sticks, 
 some brandishing sabres, without order and yet with a single 
 soul, now a tumultuous rout, again a column. Squads chose 
 themselves leaders; a man armed with a pair of pistols in full 
 view, seemed to pass the host in review, and the files separated 
 before him. On the side alleys of the boulevards, in the 
 branches of the trees, on balconies, in windows, on the roofs, 
 swarmed the heads of men, women, and children; all eyes 
 were filled with anxiety. An armed throng was passing, and a 
 terrified throng looked on. 
 
 The Government, on its side, was taking observations. It 
 observed with its hand on its sword. Four squadrons of cara- 
 bineers could be seen in the Place Louis XV. in their saddles, 
 with their trumpets at their head, cartridge-boxes filled and 
 muskets loaded, all in readiness to march ; in the Latin country 
 and at the Jardin des Plantes, the Municipal Guard eche- 
 lonned from street to street ; at the Halle-aux-Vins, a squadron 
 of dragoons; at the Greve half of the 12th Light Infantry, the 
 other half being at the Bastille; the Gth Dragoons at the Ce- 
 lestins ; and the courtyard of the Louvre full of artillery. The 
 remainder of the troops were confined to their barracks, with- 
 out reckoning the regiments of the environs of Paris. Power 
 being uneasy, held suspended over the menacing multitude 
 twenty-four thousand soldiers in the city and thirty thousand 
 in the banlieuc. 
 
 Divers reports were in circulation in the cortege. Legit- 
 imist tricks were hinted at; they spoke of the Due de Reich- 
 stadt, whom God had marked out for death at that very mo- 
 ment when the populace were designating him for the Empire. 
 One personage, whose name has remained unknown, an- 
 nounced that at a given hour two overseers who had been won 
 over, would throw open the doors of a factory of arms to the 
 people. That which predominated on the uncovered brows of 
 the majority of those present was enthusiasm mingled with 
 dejection. Here and there, also, in that multitude given over
 
 280 BAIJfT-DENIS 
 
 to such violent but noble emotions, there were visible genuine 
 visages of criminals and ignoble mouths which said: "Let us 
 plunder !" There are certain agitations which stir up the bot- 
 toms of marshes and make clouds of mud rise through the 
 water. A phenomenon to which "well drilled" policemen are 
 no strangers. 
 
 The procession proceeded, with feverish slowness, from the 
 house of the deceased, by way of the boulevards as far as the 
 Bastille. It rained from time to time; the rain mattered 
 nothing to that throng. Many incidents, the cofTm borne 
 round the Vendome column, stones thrown at the Due dc Fitz- 
 James, who was seen on a balcony with his hat on his head, the 
 Gallic cock torn from a popular flag and dragged in the mire, 
 a policeman wounded with a blow from a sword at the Porte 
 Saint-Martin, an officer of the 12th Light Infantry saying 
 aloud : "I am a Republican," the Polytechnic School coming 
 up unexpectedly against orders to remain at home, the shouts 
 of: "Long live the Polytechnique ! Long live the Republic!" 
 marked the passage of the funeral train. At the Bastille, long 
 files of curious and formidable people who descended from the 
 Faubourg Saint-Antoine, effected a junction with the proces- 
 sion, and a certain terrible seething began to agitate the 
 throng. 
 
 One man was heard to say to another: "Do you see that 
 fellow with a red beard, he's the one who will give the word 
 when we are to fire." It appears that this red beard was pres- 
 ent, at another riot, the Quenisset affair, entrusted with this 
 same function. 
 
 The hearse passed the Bastille, traversed the small bridge, 
 and reached the esplanade of the bridge of Austerlitz. There 
 it halted. The crowd, surveyed at that moment with a bird's- 
 eye view, would have presented the aspect of a comet whose 
 head was on the esplanade and whose tail spread out over the 
 Quai Bourdon, covered the Bastille, and was prolonged on the 
 boulevard as far as the Porte Saint-Martin. A circle was 
 traced around the hearse. The vast rout held their peace. 
 Lafayette spoke and bade Lamarque farewell. This was a
 
 THE FIFTH Ob' JL'NK, 1832 281 
 
 touching and august instant, all heads uncovered, all hearts 
 beat high. 
 
 All at once, a man on horseback, clad in black, made his 
 appearance in the middle of the group with a red flag, others 
 say, with a pike surmounted with a red liberty-cap. Lafayette 
 turned aside his head. E.xelmans quitted the procession. 
 
 This red flag raised a storm, and disappeared in the midst 
 of it. From the Boulevard Bourdon to the bridge of Auster- 
 litz one of those clamors which resemble billows stirred the 
 multitude. Two prodigious shouts went up : "Lamarque to 
 the Pantheon ! Lafayette to the Town-hall !" Some young 
 men, amid the acclamations of the throng, harnessed them- 
 selves and began to drag Lamarque in the hearse across the 
 bridge of Austerlitz and Lafayette in a hackney-coach along 
 the Quai Morland. 
 
 In the crowd which surrounded and cheered Lafayette, it 
 was noticed that a German showed himself named Ludwig 
 Snyder, who died a centenarian afterwards, who had also been 
 in the war of 1776, and who had fought at Trenton under 
 Washington, and at Brandywine under Lafayette. 
 
 In the meantime, the municipal cavalry on the left bank had 
 been set in motion, and came to bar the bridge, on the right 
 bank the dragoons emerged from the Celestins and deployed 
 along the Quai Morland. The men who were dragging Lafay- 
 ette suddenly caught sight of them at the corner of the quay 
 and shouted : "The dragoons !" The dragoons advanced at a 
 walk, in silence, with their pistols in their holsters, their 
 swords in their scabbard?, their guns slung in their leather 
 sockets, with an air of gloomy expectation. 
 
 They halted two hundred paces from the little bridge. The 
 carriage in which sat Lafayette advanced to them, their ranks 
 opened and allowed it to pass, and then closed behind it. At 
 that moment the dragoons and the crowd touched. The 
 women fled in terror. What took place during that fatal 
 minute? No one can say. It is the dark moment when two 
 clouds come together. Some declare that a blast of trumpets 
 sounding the charge was heard in the direction of the Arsenal,
 
 282 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 others that a blow from a dagger was given by a child to a 
 dragoon. The fact is, that three shots were suddenly dis- 
 charged: the first killed Cholet, chief of the squadron, the 
 second killed an old deaf woman who was in the act of closing 
 her window, the third singed the shoulder of an officer; a 
 woman screamed : "They are beginning too soon !" and all at 
 once, a squadron of dragoons which had remained in the 
 barracks up to this time, was seen to debouch at a gallop 
 with bared swords, through the Rue Bassompierre and the 
 Boulevard Bourdon, sweeping all before them. 
 
 Then all is said, the tempest is loosed, stones rain down, a 
 fusillade breaks forth, many precipitate themselves to the bot- 
 tom of the bank, and pass the small arm of the Seine, now 
 filled in, the timber-yards of the Isle Louviers, that vast 
 citadel ready to hand, bristle with combatants, stakes are torn 
 up, pistol-shots fired, a barricade begun, the young men who 
 are thrust back pass the Austerlitz bridge with the hearse at 
 a run. and the municipal guard, the carabineers rush up, the 
 dragoons ply their swords, the crowd disperses in all direc- 
 tions, a rumor of war flies to all four quarters of Paris, men 
 shout : "To arms !" they run, tumble down, flee, resist. Wrath 
 spreads abroad the riot as wind spreads a fire. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE EBULLITIONS OF FORMER DATS 
 
 NOTHING is more extraordinary than the first breaking out 
 of a riot. Everything bursts forth everywhere at once. Was 
 it foreseen ? Yes. Was it prepared ? No. Whence comes it ? 
 From the pavements. Whence falls it? From the clouds. 
 Here insurrection assumes the character of a plot ; there of an 
 improvisation. The first comer seizes a current of the throng 
 and leads it whither he wills. A beginning full of terror, in 
 which is mingled a sort of formidable gayety. First come 
 clamors, the shops are closed, the displays of the merchants
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832 283 
 
 disappear; then come isolated shots; people flee; blows from 
 gun-stocks beat against portes cocheres, servants can be heard 
 laughing in the courtyards of houses and saying: "There's 
 going to be a row !" 
 
 A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when this is what was 
 taking place at twenty different spots in Paris at once. 
 
 In the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie, twenty young 
 men, bearded and with long hair, entered a dram-shop and 
 emerged a moment later, carrying a horizontal tricolored flag 
 covered with crape, and having at their head three men armed, 
 one with a sword, one with a gun, and the third with a pike. 
 
 In the Rue des Nonaindieres, a very well-dressed bourgeois, 
 who had a prominent belly, a sonorous voice, a bald head, a 
 lofty brow, a black beard, and one of these stiff mustaches 
 which will not lie flat, offered cartridges publicly to passers-by. 
 
 In the Rue Saint-Pierre-Montmartre, men with bare arms 
 carried about a black flag, on which could be read in white 
 letters this inscription : "Republic or Death !" In the Rue des 
 Jeuneurs. Rue du Cadran, Rue Montorgueil, Rue Mandar, 
 groups appeared waving flags on which could be distinguished 
 in gold letters, the word section with a number. One of these 
 flags was red and blue with an almost imperceptible stripe of 
 white between. 
 
 They pillaged a factory of small-arms on the Boulevard 
 Saint-Martin, and three armorers' shops, the first in the Rue 
 Beaubourg, the second in the Rue Michel-le-Comte, the other 
 in the Rue du Temple. In a few minutes, the thousand hands 
 of the crowd had seized and carried off two hundred and thirty 
 guns, nearly all doubled-barrelled, sixty-four swords, and 
 eighty-three pistols. In order to provide more arms, one man 
 took the gun, the other the bayonet. 
 
 Opposite the Quai de la Greve, young men armed with 
 muskets installed themselves in the houses of some women 
 for the purpose of firing. One of them had a flint-lock. 
 They rang, entered, and set about making cartridges. One 
 of these women relates : "I did not know what cartridges 
 were; it was my husband who told me."
 
 28-i 8AMT-DEN18 
 
 One cluster broke into a curiosity shop in the Rue des 
 Vielles Haudriettes, and seized yataghans and Turkish arms. 
 
 The body of a mason who had been killed by a gun-shot 
 lay in the Rue de la Perle. 
 
 And then, on the right bank, the left bank, on the quays, on 
 the boulevards, in the Latin country, in the quarter of the 
 Halles, panting men, artisans, students, members of section? 
 read proclamations and shouted : "To arms !" broke street 
 lanterns, unharnessed carriages, unpaved the streets, broke in 
 the doors of houses, uprooted trees, rummaged cellars, rolled 
 out hogsheads, heaped up paving-stones, rough slabs, furniture 
 and planks, and made barricades. 
 
 They forced the bourgeois to assist them in this. They 
 entered the dwellings of women, they forced them to hand 
 over the swords and guns of their absent husbands, and they 
 wrote on the door, with whiting: "The arms have been de- 
 livered"; some signed "their names" to receipts for the guns 
 and swords, and said : "Send for them to-morrow at the 
 Mayor's office." They disarmed isolated sentinels and Na- 
 tional Guardsmen in the streets on their way to the Town- 
 hall. They tore the epaulets from officers. In the Rue du 
 Cimitiere-Saint-Nicholas, an officer of the National Guard, 
 on being pursued by a crowd armed with clubs and foils, took 
 refuge with difficulty in a house, whence he was only able to 
 emerge at nightfall and in disguise. 
 
 In the Quartier Saint-Jacques, the students swarmed out of 
 their hotels and ascended the Rue Saint-Hyacinthe to the 
 Cafe du Progress, or descended to the Cafe des Sept-Billards. 
 in the Rue des Mathurins. There, in front of the door, young 
 men mounted on the stone corner-posts, distributed arms. 
 They plundered the timber-yard in the Rue Transnonain in 
 order to obtain material for barricades. On a single point the 
 inhabitants resisted, at the corner of the Rue Sainte-Avoye 
 and the Rue Simon-Le-Franc, where they destroyed the barri- 
 cade with their own hands. At a single point the insurgents 
 yielded ; they abandoned a barricade begun in the Rue de 
 Temple after having fired on a detachment of the National
 
 THE FIFTI1 OF JUNE, 1882 285 
 
 Guard, and fled through the Rue de la Corderie. The detach- 
 ment picked up in the barricade a red flag, a package of car- 
 tridges, and three hundred pistol-balls. The National Guards- 
 men tore up the flag, and carried off its tattered remains on 
 
 : the points of their bayonets. 
 
 All that we are here relating slowly and successively took 
 place simultaneously at all points of the city in the midst of 
 
 ' a vast tumult, like a mass of tongues of lightning in one clap 
 of thunder. In less than an hour, twenty-seven barricades 
 sprang out of the earth in the quarter of the Halles alone. 
 In the centre was that famous house Xo. 50, which was the 
 fortress of Jeanne and her six hundred companions, and 
 which, flanked on the one hand by a barricade at Saint-Merry, 
 and on the other by a barricade of the Rue Maubuee, com- 
 manded three streets, the Rue des Arcis, the Rue Saint-Martin, 
 and the Rue Aubry-le-Boucher, which it faced. The barri- 
 cades at right angles fell back, the one of the Rue Montor- 
 gueil on the Grande-Truanderie,the other of the Rue Geoff roy- 
 Langevin on the Rue Sainte-Avoye. Without reckoning 
 innumerable barricades in twenty other quarters of Paris, 
 in the Marais, at Mont-Sainte-Genevieve ; one in the Rue 
 Menilmontant, where was visible a porte cochere torn from its 
 hinges ; another near the little bridge of the Hotel-Dieu made 
 with an "ecossais," which had been unharnessed and over- 
 thrown, three hundred paces from the Prefecture of Police. 
 
 At the barricade of the Rue des Menetriers, a well-dressed 
 man distributed money to the workmen. At the barricade of 
 the Rue Grenetat, a horseman made his appearance and 
 handed to the one who seemed to be the commander of the 
 barricade what had the appearance of a roll of silver. "Here," 
 said he, "this is to pay expenses, wine, et camera." A light- 
 haired young man. without a cravat, went from barricade to 
 barricade, carrying pass-words. Another, with a naked sword, 
 a blue police cap on his head, placed sentinels. In the interior, 
 beyond the barricades, the wine-shops and porters' lodges were 
 converted into guard-houses. Otherwise the riot was con- 
 ducted after the most scientific military tactics. The narrow,
 
 2S6 8A1XT-DEXI8 
 
 uneven, sinuous streets, full of angles and turns, were admi- 
 rably chosen ; the neighborhood of the Halles. in particular, a 
 network of streets more intricate than a forest. The Society 
 of the Friends of the People had. it was said, undertaken to 
 direct the insurrection in the Quartier Sainte-Avoye. A man 
 killed in the Rue du Ponceau who was searched had on his 
 person a plan of Paris. 
 
 That which had really undertaken the direction of the up- 
 rising was a sort of strange impetuosity which was in the air. 
 The insurrection had abruptly built barricades with one hand, 
 and with the other seized nearly all the posts of the garrison. 
 In less than three hours, like a train of powder catching fire, 
 the insurgents had invaded and occupied, on the right bank, 
 the Arsenal, the Mayoralty of the Place Royale, the whole of 
 the Marais, the Popincourt arms manufactory, la Galiote, the 
 Chateau-d'Eau, and all the streets near the Halles ; on the 
 left bank, the barracks of the Veterans. Sainte-Pelagie, the 
 Place Maubert, the powder magazine of the Deux-Moulins, 
 and all the barriers. At five o'clock in the evening, they were 
 masters of the Bastille, of the Lingerie, of the Blancs-Man- 
 teaux; their scouts had reached the Place des Victoires, and 
 menaced the Bank, the Petits-Peres barracks, and the Post- 
 Office. A third of Paris was in the hands of the rioters. 
 
 The conflict had been begun on a gigantic scale at all points ; 
 and, as a result of the disarming, domiciliary visits, and 
 armorers' shops hastily invaded, was, that the combat which 
 had begun with the throwing of stones was continued with 
 gun-shots. 
 
 About six o'clock in the evening, the Passage du Saumon 
 became the field of battle. The uprising was at one end, the 
 troops were at the other. They 3red from one gate to the 
 other. An observer, a dreamer, the author of this book, who 
 had gone to get a near view of this volcano, found himself in 
 the passage between the two fires. All that he had to pro- 
 tect him from the bullets was the swell of the two half- 
 columns which separate the shops; he remained in this 
 delicate situation for nearly half an hour.
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1882 287 
 
 Meanwhile the call to arms was beaten, the National Guard 
 armed in haste, the legions emerged from the Mayoralties, the 
 regiments from their barracks. Opposite the passage de 
 PAncre a drummer received a blow from a dagger. Another, 
 in the Rue du Cygne, was assailed by thirty young men who 
 broke his instrument, and took away his sword. Another was 
 killed in the Rue Grenier-Saint-Lazare. In the Rue-Michel- 
 le-Comte. three officers fell dead one after the other. Many 
 of the Municipal Guards, on being wounded, in the Rue des 
 Lombards, retreated. 
 
 In front of the Cour-Batave, a detachment of National 
 Guards found a red flag bearing the following inscription: 
 Republican revolution, No. 127. Was this a revolution, in 
 fact? 
 
 The insurrection had made of the centre of Paris a sort of 
 inextricable, tortuous, colossal citadel. 
 
 There was the hearth; there, evidently, was the question. 
 All the rest was nothing but skirmishes. The proof that all 
 would be decided there lay in the fact that there was no fight- 
 ing going on there as yet. 
 
 In some regiments, the soldiers were uncertain, which added 
 to the fearful uncertainty of the crisis. They recalled the 
 popular ovation which had greeted the neutrality of the 53d 
 of the Line in July, 1830. Two intrepid men, tried in great 
 wars, the Marshal Lobau and General Bugeaud, were in com- 
 mand, Bugeaud under Lobau. Enormous patrols, composed 
 of battalions of the Line, enclosed in entire companies of the 
 National Guard, and preceded by a commissary of police wear- 
 ing his scarf of office, went to reconnoitre the streets in rebel- 
 lion. The insurgents, on their sidr, placed videttes at the 
 corners of all open spaces, and audaciously sent their patrols 
 outside the barricades. Each side was watching the other. The 
 Government, with an army in its hand, hesitated ; the night 
 was almost upon them, and the Saint-Merry tocsin began to 
 make itself heard. The Minister of War at that time. Marshal 
 Soult, who had seen Austerlitz, regarded this with a gloomy 
 air.
 
 288 8A1XT-DEXI8 
 
 These old sailors, accustomed to correct manoeuvres and 
 having as resource and guide only tactics, that compass of 
 battles, are utterly disconcerted in the presence of that im- 
 mense foam which is called public wrath. 
 
 The National Guards of the suburbs rushed up in haste and 
 disorder. A battalion of the 12th Light came at a run from 
 Saint-Denis, the 14th of the Line arrived from Courbevoie, 
 the batteries of the Military School had taken up their position 
 on the Carrousel ; cannons were descending from Yincennes. 
 
 Solitude was formed around the Tuileries. Louis Philippe 
 was perfectly serene. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ORIGINALITY OF PARIS 
 
 DURING the last two years, as we have said, Paris had wit- 
 nessed more than one insurrection. Nothing is, generally, 
 more singularly calm than the physiognomy of Paris during 
 an uprising beyond the bounds of the rebellious quarters. 
 Paris very speedily accustoms herself to anything. it is only 
 a riot, and Paris has so many affairs on hand, that she does 
 not put herself out for so small a matter. These colossal 
 cities alone can offer such spectacles. These immense enclos- 
 ures alone can contain at the same time civil war and an odd 
 and indescribable tranquillity. Ordinarily, when an insur- 
 rection commences, when the shop-keeper hears the drum, the 
 call to arms, the general alarm, he contents himself with the 
 remark : 
 
 "There appears to be a squabble in the Rue Saint-Martin." 
 
 Or: 
 
 "In the Faubourg Saint-Antoine." 
 
 Often he adds carelessly : 
 
 "Or somewhere in that direction." 
 
 Later on, when the heart-rending and mournful hubbub of 
 musketry and firing by platoons becomes audible, the shop- 
 keeper says :
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUX13, 183S 289 
 
 "It's getting hot ! Hullo, it's getting hot !" 
 
 A moment later, the riot approaches and gains in force, he 
 shuts up his shop precipitately, hastily dons his uniform, that 
 is to say, he places his merchandise in safety and risks his own 
 person. 
 
 Men fire in a square, in a passage, in a blind alley; they 
 take and re-take the barricade; blood flows, the grape-shot 
 riddles the fronts of the houses, the balls kill people in their 
 beds, corpses encumber the streets. A few streets away, the 
 shock of billiard-balls can be heard in the cafes. 
 
 The theatres open their doors and present vaudevilles; the 
 curious laugh and chat a couple of paces distant from these 
 streets filled with war. Hackney-carriages go their way; pas- 
 sers-by are going to a dinner somewhere in town. Sometimes 
 in the very quarter where the fighting is going on. 
 
 In 1831, a fusillade was stopped to allow a wedding party to 
 pass. 
 
 At the time of the insurrection of 1839, in the Rue Saint- 
 Martin, a little, infirm old man, pushing a hand-cart sur- 
 mounted by a tricolored rag, in which he had carafes filled 
 with some sort of liquid, went and came from barricade to 
 troops and from troops to the barricade, offering his glasses 
 of cocoa impartially, now to the Government, now to an- 
 archy. 
 
 Nothing can be stranger; and this is the peculiar character 
 of uprisings in Paris, which cannot be found in any other 
 capital. To this end, two things are requisite, the size of Paris 
 and its gayety. The city of Voltaire and Napoleon is neces- 
 sary. 
 
 On this occasion, however, in the resort to arms of June 
 25th, 1832, the great city felt something which was. perhaps, 
 stronger than itself. It was afraid. 
 
 Closed doors, windows, and shutters were to bo seen every- 
 where, in the most distant and most "disinterested" quarters. 
 The courageous took to arms, the poltroons hid. The busy and 
 heedless passer-by disappeared. Many streets were empty at 
 four o'clock in the morning.
 
 290 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Alarming details were hawked about, fatal news was dis- 
 seminated, that they were masters of the Bank ; that there 
 were six hundred of them in the Cloister of Saint-Merry alone, 
 entrenched and embattled in the church ; that the line was 
 not to be depended on; that Armand Carrel had been to see 
 Marshal Clausel and that the Marshal had said: "Get a regi- 
 ment first"; that Lafayette was ill, but that he had said to 
 them, nevertheless : "I am with you. I will follow you 
 wherever there is room for a chair" ; that one must be on one's 
 guard ; that at night there would be people pillaging isolated 
 dwellings in the deserted corners of Paris (there the imagi- 
 nation of the police, that Anne Radcliffe mixed up with the 
 Government was recognizable) ; that a battery had been estab- 
 lished in the Eue Aubry le Boucher ; that Lobau and Bugeaud 
 were putting their heads together, and that, at midnight, or 
 at daybreak at latest, four columns would march simulta- 
 neously on the centre of the uprising, the first coming from the 
 Bastille, the second from the Porte Saint-Martin, the third 
 from the Greve, the fourth from the Halles; that perhaps, 
 also, the troops would evacuate Paris and withdraw to the 
 Champ-de-Mars ; that no one knew what would happen, but 
 that this time, it certainly was serious. 
 
 People busied themselves over Marshal Soult's hesitations. 
 Why did not he attack at once ? It is certain that he was pro- 
 foundly absorbed. The old lion seemed to scent an unknown 
 monster in that gloom. 
 
 Evening came, the theatres did not open; the patrols cir- 
 culated with an air of irritation; passers-by were searched; 
 suspicious persons were arrested. By nine o'clock, more than 
 eight hundred persons had been arrested, the Prefecture of 
 Police was encumbered with them, so was the Conciergerie, so 
 was La Force. 
 
 At the Conciergerie in particular, the long vault which is 
 called the Rue de Paris was littered with trusses of straw 
 upon which lay a heap of prisoners, whom the man of Lyons, 
 Lagrange, harangued valiantly. All that stra\v rustled by all 
 these men, produced the sound of a heavy shower. Elsewhere
 
 THE FIFTH OF JUNK, 1832 291 
 
 prisoners slept in the open air in the meadows, piled on top of 
 each other. 
 
 Anxiety reigned everywhere, and a certain tremor which was 
 not habitual with Paris. 
 
 People barricaded themselves in their houses; wives and 
 mothers were uneasy; nothing was to be heard but this: "Ah! 
 my God ! He has not come home !" There was hardly even the 
 distant rumble of a vehicle to be heard. 
 
 People listened on their thresholds, to the rumors, the 
 shouts, the tumult, the dull and indistinct sounds, to the 
 things that were said: "It is cavalry," or: "Those are the 
 caissons galloping," to the trumpets, the drums, the firing, 
 and, above all, to that lamentable alarm peal from Saint- 
 Merry. 
 
 They waited for the first cannon-shot. Men sprang up at 
 the corners of the streets and disappeared, shouting: "Go 
 home !" And people made haste to bolt their doors. They 
 said : "How will all this end ?" From moment to moment, 
 in proportion as the darkness descended, Paris seemed to take 
 on a more mournful hue from the formidable flaming of the 
 revolt.
 
 BOOK ELEVENTH. THE ATOM FRATERNIZES 
 WITH THE HURRICANE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 SOME EXPLANATIONS WITH REGARD TO THE ORIGIN OF GAV- 
 ROCHE'S POETRY. THE INFLUENCE OF AN ACADEMICIAN ON 
 THIS POETRY 
 
 AT the instant when the insurrection, arising from the shock 
 of the populace and the military in front of the Arsenal, 
 started a movement in advance and towards the rear in the 
 multitude which was following the hearse and which, through 
 the whole length of the boulevards, weighed, so to speak, on 
 the head of the procession, there arose a frightful ebb. The 
 rout was shaken, their ranks were broken, all ran, fled, made 
 their escape, some with shouts of attack, others with the pallor 
 of flight. The great river which covered the boulevards di- 
 vided in a twinkling, overflowed to right and left, and spread 
 in torrents over two hundred streets at once with the roar of a 
 sewer that has broken loose. 
 
 At that moment, a ragged child who was coming down 
 through the Rue Menilmontant, holding in his hand a branch 
 of blossoming laburnum which he had just plucked on the 
 heights of Belleville, caught sight of an old holster-pistol in 
 the show-window of a bric-a-brac merchant's shop. 
 
 "Mother What's-your-name, I'm going to borrow your ma- 
 chine." 
 
 And off he ran with the pistol. 
 
 Two minutes later, a flood of frightened bourgeois who were
 
 T//A' ATOM AND THE HVRRWAXE 293 
 
 fleeing through the Rue Amelot and the Rue Basse, encoun- 
 tered the lad brandishing his pistol and singing: 
 
 La nuit on ne voit rien, 
 Lc jour on voit tres bien, 
 D'un o"crit apocryphe 
 IvO bourgeois nVhouriffe, 
 Pratique/ la vertu, 
 Tutu, chapeau pointu! 1 
 
 It was little Gavroche on his way to the wars. 
 
 On the boulevard he noticed that the pistol had no trigger. 
 
 Who was the author of that couplet which served to punctu- 
 ate his march, and of all the other songs which he was fond 
 of singing on occasion? We know not. Who does know? 
 Himself, perhaps. However, Gavroche was well up in all the 
 popular tunes in circulation, and he mingled with them his 
 own chirpings. An observing urchin and a rogue, he made a 
 potpourri of the voices of nature and the voices of Paris. He 
 combined the repertory of the birds with the repertory of the 
 workshops. He was acquainted with thieves, a tribe contig- 
 uous to his own. He had, it appears, been for three months 
 apprenticed to a printer. He had one day executed a commis- 
 sion for M. Baour-Lormian, one of the Forty. Gavroche was 
 a gamin of letters. 
 
 Moreover, Gavroche had no suspicion of the fact that when 
 he had offered the hospitality of his elephant to two brats on 
 that villanously rainy night, it was to his own brothers that 
 he had played the part of Providence. His brothers in the 
 evening, his father in the morning; that is what his night had 
 been like. On quitting the Rue des Ballets at daybreak, he had 
 returned in haste to the elephant, had artistically extracted 
 from it the two brats, had shared with them some sort of 
 breakfast which he had invented, and had then gone away, 
 confiding them to that good mother, the street, who had 
 brought him up, almost entirely. On leaving them, he had 
 appointed to meet them at the same spot in the evening, and 
 
 'At night one sees nothing, hy day one sees very well; the bourgeois 
 gets flurried over an apocryphal scrawl, practice virtue, tutu, 
 pointed hat!
 
 294 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 had left them this discourse by way of a farewell : "I break a 
 cane, otherwise expressed, I cut my stick, or, as they say at the 
 court, I file off. If you don't find papa and mamma, young 
 'uns, come back here this evening. I'll scramble you up some 
 supper, and I'll give you a shakedown." The two children, 
 picked up by some policeman and placed in the refuge, or 
 stolen by some mountebank, or having simply strayed off in 
 that immense Chinese puzzle of a Paris, did not return. The 
 lowest depths of the actual social world are full of these lost 
 traces. Gavroche did not see them again. Ten or twelve 
 weeks had elapsed since that night. More than once he had 
 scratched the back of his head and said : "Where the devil 
 are my two children?" 
 
 In the meantime, he had arrived, pistol in hand, in the Rue 
 du Pont-aux-Choux. lie noticed that there was but one shop 
 open in that street, and, a matter worthy of reflection, that 
 was a pastry-cook's shop. This presented a providential occa- 
 sion to eat another apple-turnover before entering the 
 unknown. Gavroche halted, fumbled in his fob, turned his 
 pocket inside out, found nothing, not even a sou, and began 
 to shout : "Help !" 
 
 It is hard to miss the last cake. 
 
 Nevertheless, Gavroche pursued his way. 
 
 Two minutes later he was in the Rue Saint-Louis. While 
 traversing the Rue du Parc-Royal, he felt called upon to make 
 good the loss of the apple-turnover which had been impossible, 
 and he indulged himself in the immense delight of tearing 
 down the theatre posters in broad daylight. 
 
 A little further on, on catching sight of a group of com- 
 fortable-looking persons, who seemed to be landed proprietors, 
 he shrugged his shoulders and spit out at random before him 
 this mouthful of philosophical bile as they passed : 
 
 "How fat those moneyed men are ! They're drunk ! They 
 just wallow in good dinners. Ask 'em what they do with their 
 money. They don't know. They eat it, that's what they do ! 
 As much as their bellies will hold."
 
 THE ATOM AND TI1E UURKWANE 205 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 OAVROCIIE ON THE MARCH 
 
 THE brandishing of a triggerless pistol, grasped in one's 
 hand in the open street, is so much of a public function that 
 Gavroche felt his fervor increasing with every moment. Amid 
 the scraps of the Marseillaise which he was singing, he 
 shouted : 
 
 "All goes well. I suffer a great deal in my left paw, I'm all 
 broken up with rheumatism, but I'm satisfied, citizens. All 
 that the bourgeois have to do is to bear themselves well, I'll 
 sneeze them out subversive couplets. What are the police 
 spies? Dogs. And I'd just like to have one of them at the 
 end of my pistol. I'm just from the boulevard, my friends. 
 It's getting hot there, it's getting into a little boil, it's sim- 
 mering. It's time to skim the pot. Forward march, men ! 
 Let an impure blood inundate the furrows ! I give my days 
 to my country, I shall never see my concubine more, Nini, 
 finished, yes, Nini? But never mind! Long live joy! Let's 
 fight, crebleu ! I've had enough of despotism." 
 
 At that moment, the horse of a lancer of the National 
 Guard having fallen, Gavroche laid his pistol on the pave- 
 ment, and picked up the man, then he assisted in raising the 
 horse. After which he picked up his pistol and resumed his 
 way. In the Rue do Thorigny, all was peace and silence. 
 This apathy, peculiar to the Marais, presented a contrast with 
 the vast surrounding uproar. Four gossips were chatting in 
 a doorway. 
 
 Scotland has trios of witches, Paris has quartettes of old 
 gossiping hngs ; and the "Thou shalt be King" could lie quite 
 as mournfully hurled at Bonaparte in the Onrrefour Baudoyer 
 as at Macbeth on the heath of Arinuyr. The croak would be 
 almost identical. 
 
 The gossips of the Rue dc Thorigny busied themselves only 
 with their own concerns. Three of them were portresses.
 
 296 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 and the fourth was a rag-picker with her basket on her 
 back. 
 
 All four of them seemed to be standing at the four corners 
 of old age, which are decrepitude, decay, ruin, and sadness. 
 
 The rag-picker was humble. In this open-air society, it is 
 the rag-picker who salutes and the portress who patronizes. 
 This is caused by the corner for refuse, which is fat or lean, 
 according to the will of the portresses, and after the fancy of 
 the one who makes the heap. There may be kindness in the 
 broom. 
 
 This rag-picker was a grateful creature, and she smiled, 
 with what a smile ! on the three portresses. Things of this 
 nature were said : 
 
 "Ah, by the way, is your cat still cross?" 
 
 "Good gracious, cats are naturally the enemies of dogs, you 
 know. It's the dogs who complain." 
 
 "And people also." 
 
 "But the fleas from a cat don't go after people." 
 
 "That's not the trouble, dogs are dangerous. I remember 
 one year when there were so many dogs that it was necessary 
 to put it in the newspapers. That was at the time when there 
 were at the Tuileries great sheep that drew the little carriage 
 of the King of Rome. Do you remember the King of 
 Rome?" 
 
 "I liked the Due de Bordeau better." 
 
 "I knew Louis XVIII. I prefer Louis XVIII." 
 
 "Meat is awfully dear, isn't it, Mother Patagon?" 
 
 "Ah ! don't mention it, the butcher's shop is a horror. A 
 horrible horror one can't afford anything but the poor cuts 
 nowadays." 
 
 Here the rag-picker interposed : 
 
 "Ladies, business is dull. The refuse heaps are miserable. 
 No one throws anything away any more. They eat every- 
 thing." 
 
 "There are poorer people than you, la VargoulOme." 
 
 "Ah, that's true," replied the rag-picker, with deference, 
 "I have a profession."
 
 THE ATOM AND THE HUKllICAXE 297 
 
 A pause succeeded, and the rag-picker, yielding to that 
 necessity for boasting which lies at the bottom of man, 
 added : 
 
 "In the morning, on my return home, I pick over my 
 basket, I sort my things. This makes heaps in my room. I 
 put the rags in a basket, the cores and stalks in a bucket, the 
 linen in my cupboard, the woollen stuff in my commode, the 
 old papers in the corner of the window, the things that are 
 good to eat in my bowl, the bits of glass in my fireplace, the 
 old shoes behind my door, and the bones under rny bed." 
 
 Gavroche had stopped behind her and was listening. 
 
 "Old ladies," said he, "what do you mean by talking 
 politics?" 
 
 He was assailed by a broadside, composed of a quadruple 
 howl. 
 
 "Here's another rascal." 
 
 "What's that he's got in his paddle? A pistol?" 
 
 "Well, I'd like to know what sort of a beggar's brat this 
 is?" 
 
 "That sort of animal is never easy unless he's overturning 
 the authorities." 
 
 Gavroche disdainfully contented himself, by way of reprisal, 
 with elevating the tip of his nose with his thumb and opening 
 his hand wide. 
 
 The rag-picker cried : 
 
 "You malicious, bare-pawed little wretch !" 
 
 The one who answered to the name of Patagon clapped her 
 hands together in horror. 
 
 "There's going to be evil doings, that's certain. The errand- 
 boy next door has a little pointed beard, I have seen him pass 
 every day with a young person in a pink bonnet on his arm ; 
 to-day I saw him pass, and he had a gun on his arm. Mame 
 Bacheux says, that last week there was a revolution at at 
 at where's the calf ! at Pontoise. And then, there you see 
 him, that horrid scamp, with his pistol ! Tt seems that the 
 Celestins are full of pistols. What do you suppose the Govern- 
 ment can do with good-for-nothings who don't know how to do
 
 298 BA1NT-DENIS 
 
 anything but contrive ways of upsetting the world, when we 
 had just begun to get a little quiet after all the misfortunes 
 that have happened, good Lord ! to that poor queen whom I 
 saw pass in the tumbril ! And all this is going to make 
 tobacco dearer. It's infamous ! And I shall certainly go to 
 see him beheaded on the guillotine, the wretch !" 
 
 "You've got the sniffles, old lady," said Gavroche. "Blow 
 your promontory." 
 
 And he passed on. When he was in the Rue Pavee, the rag- 
 picker occurred to his mind, and he indulged in this solilo- 
 quy : 
 
 "You're in the wrong to insult the revolutionists, Mother 
 Dust-Heap-Corner. This pistol is in your interests. It's 
 so that you may have more good things to eat in your 
 basket." 
 
 All at once, he heard a shout behind him ; it was the portress 
 Patagon who had followed him, and who was shaking her fist 
 at him in the distance and crying: 
 
 "Y. ou're nothing but a bastard." 
 
 "Oh ! Come now," said Oavroche, "I don't care a brass 
 farthing for that!" 
 
 Shortly afterwards, he passed the Hotel Lamoignon. There 
 he uttered this appeal : 
 
 "Forward march to the battle !" 
 
 And he was seized with a fit of melancholy. He gazed at 
 his pistol with an air of reproach which seemed an attempt to 
 appease it : 
 
 "I'm going off," saicl he, "but you won't go off!" 
 
 One dog may distract the attention from another dog. 1 A 
 very gaunt poodle came along at the moment. Gavroche felt 
 compassion for him. 
 
 "My poor doggy," said he, "you must have gone and 
 swallowed a cask, for all the hoops are visible." 
 
 Then he directed his course towards 1'Orme-Saint-Gervais. 
 
 l Chien, dog, trigger.
 
 THE ATOM AND THK HlKIflCANE 299 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 JUST INDIGNATION OF A IIAIR-DKESSER 
 
 THE worthy hair-dresser who had chased from his shop the 
 two little fellows to whom Gavroche had opened the paternal 
 interior of the elephant was at that moment in his shop 
 engaged in shaving an old soldier of the legion who had served 
 under the Empire. They were talking. The hair-dresser had, 
 naturally, spoken to the veteran of the riot, then of General 
 Lamarque, and from Lamarque they had passed to the 
 Emperor. Thence sprang up a conversation between harber 
 and soldier which Prudhomme, had he been present, would 
 have enriched with arabesques, and which he would have 
 entitled : "Dialogue between the razor and the sword." 
 
 "How did the Emperor ride, sir?" said the barber. 
 
 "Badly. He did not know how to fall so he never fell." 
 
 "Did he have fine horses? He must have had fine horses !" 
 
 "On the day when he gave me my cross, T noticed his beast. 
 It was a racing mare, perfectly white. Her ears were very 
 wide apart, her saddle deep, a fine head marked with a black 
 star, a very long neck, strongly articulated knees, prominent 
 ribs, oblique shoulders and a powerful crupper. A little more 
 than fifteen hands in height." 
 
 "A pretty horse," remarked the hair-dresser. 
 
 "It was His Majesty's beast." 
 
 The hair-dresser felt, that after this observation, a short 
 silence would be fitting, so he conformed himself to it, and 
 then went on : 
 
 "The Emperor was never wounded but once, was he, sir?" 
 
 The old soldier replied with the calm and sovereign tone of 
 a man who had been there : 
 
 "Tn the heel. At Ratisbon. I never saw him so well dressed 
 as on that day. He was as neat as a new sou." 
 
 "And you, Mr. Veteran, you must have been often 
 wounded ?"
 
 300 SAINT DENI8 
 
 "I ?" said the soldier, "ah ! not to amount to anything. 
 At Marengo, I received two sabre-blows on the back of my 
 neck, a bullet in the right arm at Austerlitz, another in the 
 left hip at Jena. At Friedland, a thrust from a bayonet, 
 there, at the Moskowa seven or eight lance-thrusts, no 
 matter where, at Lutzen a splinter of a shell crushed one of 
 my fingers. Ah ! and then at Waterloo, a ball from a biscai'en 
 in the thigh, that's all." 
 
 "How fine that is !" exclaimed the hair-dresser, in Pindaric 
 accents, "to die on the field of battle ! On my word of honor, 
 rather than die in bed, of an illness, slowly, a bit by bit each 
 day, with drugs, cataplasms, syringes, medicines, I should 
 prefer to receive a cannon-ball in my belly !" 
 
 "You're not over fastidious," said the soldier. 
 
 He had hardly spoken when a fearful crash shook the shop. 
 The show-window had suddenly been fractured. 
 
 The wig-maker turned pale. 
 
 "Ah, good God !" he exclaimed, "it's one of them !" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "A cannon-ball." 
 
 "Here it is," said the soldier. 
 
 And he picked up something that was rolling about the 
 floor. It was a pebble. 
 
 The hair-dresser ran to the broken window and beheld 
 Gavroche fleeing at the full speed, towards the Marche Saint- 
 Jean. As he passed the hair-dresser's shop Gavroche, who 
 had the two brats still in his mind, had not been able to 
 resist the impulse to say good day to him, and had flung a 
 stone through his panes. 
 
 "You see !" shrieked the hair-dresser, who from white had 
 turned blue, "that fellow returns and does mischief for the 
 pure pleasure of it. What has any one done to that gamin ?"
 
 THE ATOM AND THE HURRICANE 3Q1 
 
 CHAPTER TV 
 
 THE CHILD IS AMAZED AT THE OLD MAN 
 
 IN the meantime, in the Marche Saint-Jean, where the post 
 had already been disarmed, Gavroche had just "effected a 
 junction" with a hand led by Enjolras, Courfeyrac. Combe- 
 ferre, and '- uilly. They were armed after u fashion. 
 Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire had found them and swelled the 
 group. Enjolras had a double-barrelled hunting-gun, Combe- 
 ferre the gun of a National Guard bearing the number of his 
 legion, and in his belt, two pistols which his unbuttoned eoat 
 allowed to be seen, Jean Prouvaire an old cavalry musket, 
 Bahorel a rifle; Courfeyrac was brandishing an unsheathed 
 sword-cane. Feuilly, with a naked sword in his hand, marched 
 at their head shouting: "Long live Poland!" 
 
 They reached the Quai Morland. Cravatless, hatless, 
 breathless, soaked by the rain, with lightning in their eyes. 
 Gavroche accosted them calmly : 
 
 "Where are we going?" 
 
 "Come along," said Courfeyrac. 
 
 Behind Feuilly marched, or rather bounded, Bahorel, who 
 was like a fish in water in a riot. He wore a scarlet waistcoat, 
 and indulged in the sort of words which break everything. 
 His waistcoat astounded a passer-by, who cried in bewilder- 
 ment : 
 
 "Here are the reds !" 
 
 "The reds, the reds !" retorted Bahorel. "A queer kind of 
 fear, bourgeois. For my part I don't tremble before a poppy, 
 the little red hat inspires me with no alarm. Take my 
 advice, bourgeois, let's leave fear of the red to horned 
 cattle." 
 
 He caught sight of a corner of the wall on which was pla- 
 carded the most peaceable sheet of paper in the world, a per- 
 mission to eat, eggs, a Lenten admonition addressed by the 
 Archbishop of Paris to his "flock."
 
 302 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Bahorel exclaimed : 
 
 " 'Flock' ; a polite way of saying geese." 
 
 And he tore the charge from the nail. This conquered 
 Gavroche. From that instant Gavroche set himself to study 
 Bahorel. 
 
 "Bahorel," observed Enjolras, "you are wrong. You should 
 have let that charge alone, he is not the person with whom 
 we have to deal, you are wasting your wrath to no purpose. 
 Take care of your supply. One does not fire out of the ranks 
 with the soul any more than with a gun." 
 
 "Each one in his own fashion, Enjolras," retorted Bahorel. 
 "This bishop's prose shocks me; I want to eat eggs without 
 being permitted. Your style is the hot and cold ; I am amus- 
 ing myself. Besides, I'm not wasting myself, I'm getting a 
 start ; and if I tore down that charge, Hercle ! 'twas only to 
 whet my appetite." 
 
 This word, Hercle, struck Gavroche. He sought all occa- 
 sions for learning, and that tearer-down of posters possessed 
 his esteem. He inquired of him: 
 
 "What does Ilercle mean?" 
 
 Bahorel answered : 
 
 "It means cursed name of a dog, in Latin." 
 
 Here Bahorel recognized at a window a pale young man 
 with a black beard who was watching them as they 
 passed, probably a Friend of the ABC. He shouted to 
 him: 
 
 "Quick, cartridges, para bellum." 
 
 "A fine man ! that's true," said Gavroche, who now under- 
 etood Latin. 
 
 A tumultuous retinue accompanied them, students, artists, 
 young men affiliated to the Cougourde of Aix, artisans, long- 
 shoremen, armed with clubs and bayonets ; some, like Combe- 
 ferre, with pistols thrust into their trousers. 
 
 An old man, who appeared to be extremely aged, was walk- 
 ing in the band. 
 
 He had no arms, and he made great haste, so that he might 
 not be left behind, although he had a thoughtful air.
 
 THE ATOM AND THE HURRICANE 
 
 Gavroche caught sight of him : 
 "Keksekga?" said he to Courfeyrac. 
 "He's an old duffer." 
 It was M. Mabeuf. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 THE OLD MAN 
 
 LET us recount what had taken place. 
 
 Enjolras and his friends had been on the Boulevard Bour- 
 don, near the public storehouses, at the moment when the 
 dragoons had made their charge. Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and 
 Combeferrc were among those who had taken to the Rue 
 Bassompierre, shouting : "To the barricades !" In the Rue 
 Lesdiguieres they had met an old man walking along. What 
 had attracted their attention was. that the goodman was walk- 
 ing in a zig-zag, as though he were intoxicated. Moreover, he 
 had his hat in his hand, although it had been raining all the 
 morning, and was raining pretty briskly at the very time. 
 Courfeyrac had recognized Father Mabeuf. He knew him 
 through having many times accompanied Marius as far as his 
 door. As he was acquainted with the peaceful and more than 
 timid habits of the old beadle-book-collector, and was amazed 
 at the sight of him in the midst of that uproar, a couple of 
 paces from the cavalry charges, almost in the midst of a 
 fusillade, hatless in the rain, and strolling about among the 
 bullets, he had accosted him, and the following dialogue had 
 been exchanged between the rioter of fire and the octo- 
 genarian : 
 
 "M. Mabeuf, go to your home." 
 
 "Why ?" 
 
 "There's going to be a row." 
 
 "That's well." 
 
 "Thrusts with the sword and firing. M. Mabeuf." 
 
 "That is well."
 
 304 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "Firing from cannon." 
 
 "That is good. Where are the rest of you going?" 
 
 "We are going to fling the government to the earth." 
 
 "That is good." 
 
 And he had set out to follow them. From that moment 
 forth he had not uttered a word. His step had suddenly 
 become firm ; artisans had offered him their arms ; he had 
 refused with a sign of the head. He advanced nearly to the 
 front rank of the column, with the movement of a man who 
 is marching and the countenance of a man who is sleeping. 
 
 "What a fierce old fellow !" muttered the students. The 
 rumor spread through the troop that he was a former member 
 of the Convention, an old regicide. The mob had turned in 
 through the Rue de la A r errerie. 
 
 Little Gavroche marched in front with that deafening song 
 which made of him a sort of trumpet. 
 
 He sang: 
 
 "Voici la lune qui paralt, 
 Quand irons-nous dans la foret? 
 Demandait Chariot a Charlotte. 
 
 Tou tou tou 
 Pour Chatou. 
 Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un Hard, et qu'une bottc. 
 
 "Pour avoir bu de prand matin 
 La ros6e a meme le thym, 
 Deux moineaux elaient en ribotte. 
 
 Zi zi zi 
 Pour Passy. 
 Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un Hard, et qu'une botte. 
 
 "Et cjs deux pauvres petits loups, 
 Comme deux grives gtaient soflls; 
 Une tigre en riait dans sa grotte. 
 
 Don don don 
 Pour Meudon. 
 Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un Hard, et qu'une botte. 
 
 "L'un jurait et 1'autre sacrait. 
 Quand irons nous dans la forCt? 
 Demandait Chariot a Charlotte.
 
 THE ATOM AND THE UURKICANE 395 
 
 Tin tin tin 
 Pour Pantin. 
 Je n'ai qu'un Dieu, qu'un roi, qu'un Hard, et qu'une botte." 1 
 
 They directed their course towards Saint-Merry. 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 RECRUITS 
 
 THE band augmented every moment. Near the Rue des 
 Billettes, a man of lofty stature, whose hair was turning gray, 
 and whose bold and daring mien was remarked by Courfeyrac, 
 Enjolras, and Combeferre, but whom none of them knew, 
 joined them. Gavroche, who was occupied in singing, 
 whistling, humming, running on ahead and pounding on the 
 shutters of the shops with the butt of his triggerless pistol, 
 paid no attention to this man. 
 
 It chanced that in the Rue de la Yerrerie, they passed in 
 front of Courfeyrac's door. 
 
 "This happens just right," said Courfeyrac, "I have for- 
 gotten my purse, and I have lost my hat." 
 
 He quitted the mob and ran up to his quarters at full speed. 
 He seized an old hat and his purse. 
 
 He also seized a large square coffer, of the dimensions of a 
 large valise, which was concealed under his soiled linen. 
 
 As he descended again at a run, the portress hailed him : 
 
 "Monsieur de Courfeyrac !" 
 
 "What's your name, portress ?" 
 
 The portress stood bewildered. 
 
 'Here is the morn appearing. When shall we go to the forest, 
 Chariot asked Charlotte. Ton, tou, tou, for Chatou, 1 have but one 
 (Jod, one King, one half-farthing, and one boot. And these two poor 
 little wolves were as tipsy as sparrows from having drunk dew and 
 thyme very early in the morning. And these two poor little things 
 were as drunk as thrushes in a vineyard; a tiger laughed at them 
 in his cave. The one cursed, the other swore. When shall we go to 
 the forest? Chariot asked Charlotte.
 
 306 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "Why, you know perfectly well, I'm the concierge ; my name 
 is Mother Veuvain." 
 
 "Well, if you call me Monsieur de Courfeyrac again, I shall 
 call you Mother de Veuvain. Now speak, what's the matter? 
 What do you want ?" 
 
 "There is some one who wants to speak with you." 
 
 "Who is it?" 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 "Where is he?" 
 
 "In my lodge." 
 
 "The devil !" ejaculated Courfeyrac. 
 
 "But the person has been waiting your return for over an 
 hour," said the portress. 
 
 At the same time, a sort of pale, thin, small, freckled, and 
 youthful artisan, clad in a tattered blouse and patched 
 trousers of ribbed velvet, and who had rather the air of a girl 
 accoutred as a man than of a man, emerged from the lodge 
 and said to Courfeyrac in a voice which was not the least in 
 the world like a woman's voice : 
 
 "Monsieur Marius, if you please." 
 
 "He is not here." 
 
 "Will he return this evening ?" 
 
 "I know nothing about it." 
 
 And Courfeyrac added : 
 
 "For my part, I shall not return." 
 
 The young man gazed steadily at him and said : 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because." 
 
 "Where are you going, then?" 
 
 "What business is that of yours ?" 
 
 "Would you like to have me carry your coffer for you ?" 
 
 "I am going to the barricades." 
 
 "Would you like to have me go with you ?" 
 
 "If you like !" replied Courfeyrac. "The street is free, the 
 pavements belong to every one." 
 
 And he made his escape at a run to join his friends. When 
 he had rejoined them, he gave the coffer to one of them to
 
 THE ATOM AM) THE III URIC AN E 307 
 
 carry. It was only a quarter of an hour after this that he saw 
 the young man, who had actually followed them. 
 
 A mob does not go precisely where it intends. We have 
 explained that a gust of wind carries it away. They overshot 
 Saint-Merry and found themselves, without precisely knowing 
 how, in the Rue Saint-Denis.
 
 BOOK TWELFTH. CORINTHE 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 HISTORY OF CORINTHE FROM ITS FOUNDATION 
 
 THE Parisians who nowadays on entering on the Rue Ram- 
 buteau at the end near the Halles, notice on their right, op- 
 posite the Rue Mondetour, a basket-maker's shop having for its 
 sign a basket in the form of Napoleon the Great with this in- 
 scription : 
 
 NAPOLEON IS MADE 
 WHOLLY OF WILLOW, 
 
 have no suspicion of the terrible scenes which this very spot 
 witnessed hardly thirty years ago. 
 
 It was there that lay the Rue de la Chanvrerie, which ancient 
 deeds spell Chanverrerie, and the celebrated public-house 
 called Corinthe. 
 
 The reader will remember all that has been said about the 
 barricade effected at this point, and eclipsed, by the way, by 
 the barricade Saint-Merry. It was on this famous barricade 
 of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, now fallen into profound ob- 
 scurity, that we are about to shed a little light. 
 
 May we be permitted to recur, for the sake of clearness in 
 the recital, to the simple means which we have already em- 
 ployed in the case of Waterloo. Persons who wish to picture 
 to themselves in a tolerably exact manner the constitution of 
 the houses which stood at that epoch near the Pointe Saint- 
 Eustache, at the northeast angle of the Halles of Paris, where 
 to-day lies the embouchure of the Rue Rambuteau, have only 
 to imagine an N touching the Rue Saint-Denis with its sum-
 
 COR1NTHE 3Q9 
 
 mit and the Halles with its hase, and whose two vertical bars 
 should form the Rue de la Grande-Truanderie, and the Rue 
 de la Chanvrerie, and whose transverse bar should be formed 
 by the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie. The old Rue Mondetour 
 cut the three strokes of the N at the most crooked angles. So 
 that the labyrinthine confusion of these four streets sulliced 
 to form, on a space three fathoms square, between the Ilalles 
 and the Rue Saint-Denis on the one hand, and between the 
 Rue du Cygne and the Rue des Precheurs on the other, seven 
 islands of houses, oddly cut up, of varying sizes, placed cross- 
 wise and hap-hazard, and barely separated, like the blocks of 
 stone in a dock, by narrow crannies. 
 
 We say narrow crannies, and we can give no more just idea 
 of those dark, contracted, many-angled alleys, lined with eight- 
 story buildings. These buildings were so decrepit that, in the 
 Rue de la Chanvrerie and the Rue de la Petite-Truanderie, the 
 fronts were shored up with beams running from one house to 
 another. The street was narrow and the gutter broad, the 
 pedestrian there walked on a pavement that was always wet, 
 skirting little stalls resembling cellars, big posts encircled with 
 iron hoops, excessive heaps of refuse, and gates armed with 
 enormous, century-old gratings. The Rue Rarnbuteau has 
 devastated all that. 
 
 The name of Mondetour paints marvellously well the sin- 
 uosities of that whole set of streets. A little further on, they 
 are found still better expressed by the Rue Pirouette, which 
 ran into the Rue Mondetour. 
 
 The passer-by who got entangled from the Rue Saint-Denis 
 in the Rue de la Chanvrerie beheld it gradually close in before 
 him as though he had entered an elongated funnel. At the 
 end of this street, which was very short, he found further 
 passage barred in the direction of the Halles by a tall row 
 of houses, and he would have thought himself in a 1)1 ind alley, 
 had he not perceived on the right and left two dark cuts 
 through which he could make his escape. This was the Rue 
 Mondetour, which on one side ran into the Rue de Precheurs, 
 and on the other into the Rue du Cygne and the Petite-Truan-
 
 310 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 derie. At the bottom of this sort of cul-de-sac, at the angle 
 of the cutting on the right, there was to be seen a house which 
 was not so tall as the rest, and which formed a sort of cape in 
 the street. It is in this house, of two stories only, that an 
 illustrious wine-shop had been merrily installed three hundred 
 years before. This tavern created a joyous noise in the very 
 spot which old Theophilus described in the following 
 couplet : 
 
 Lft branle le squelette horrible 
 D'un pauvre amant qui se pendit. 1 
 
 The situation was good, and tavern-keepers succeeded each 
 other there, from father to son. 
 
 In the time of Mathurin Regnier, this cabaret was called the 
 Pot-aux-Roscs, and as the rebus was then in fashion, it had for 
 its sign-board, a post (poteau) painted rose-color. In the last 
 century, the worthy Natoire, one of the fantastic masters now- 
 adays despised by the stiff school, having got drunk many 
 times in this wine-shop at the very table where Regnier had 
 drunk his fill, had painted, by way of gratitude, a bunch of 
 Corinth grapes on the pink post. The keeper of the cabaret, 
 in his joy, had changed his device and had caused to be placed 
 in gilt letters beneath the bunch these words : "At the Bunch 
 of Corinth Grapes" ("Au Raisin de Corinthe"). Hence the 
 name of Corinthe. Nothing is more natural to drunken men 
 than ellipses. The ellipsis is the zig-zag of the phrase. Co- 
 rinthe gradually dethroned the Pot-aux-Roses. The last pro- 
 prietor of the dynasty, Father Hucheloup, no longer ac- 
 quainted even with the tradition, had the post painted blue. 
 
 A room on the ground floor, where the bar was situated, one 
 on the first floor containing a billiard-table, a wooden spiral 
 staircase piercing the ceiling, wine on the tables, smoke on the 
 walls, candles in broad daylight, this was the style of this 
 cabaret. A staircase with a trap-door in the lower room led to 
 the cellar. On the second floor were the lodgings of the 
 Hucheloup family. They were reached by a staircase which 
 
 'There swings the horrible skeleton of a poor lover who hung 
 himself.
 
 THE ATOM AND THE III R It IV AN E 
 
 was a ladder rather than a staircase, and had for their en- 
 trance only a private door in the large room on the first floor. 
 Under the roof, in two mansard attics, were the nests for the 
 servants. The kitchen shared the ground-floor with the tap- 
 room. 
 
 Father Hucheloup had, possibly, been born a chemist, but 
 the fact is that he was a cook; people did not confine them- 
 selves to drinking alone in his wine-shop, they also ate there. 
 Hucheloup had invented a capital thing which could be eaten 
 nowhere but in his house, stuffed carps, which he called carpes 
 au gras. These were eaten by the light of a tallow candle or 
 of a lamp of the time of Louis XVI., on tables to which were 
 nailed waxed cloths in lieu of table-cloths. People came 
 thither from a distance. Hucheloup, one fine morning, had 
 seen fit to notify passers-by of this "specialty" ; he had dipped 
 a brush in a pot of black paint, and as he was an or- 
 thographcr on his own account, as well as a cook after his 
 own fashion, he had improvised on his wall this remarkable 
 inscription : 
 
 CARPES HO QRAS. 
 
 One winter, the rain-storms and the showers had taken a 
 fancy to obliterate the S which terminated the first word, 
 and the G which began the third; this is what remained: 
 
 CARPE HO RAS. 
 
 Time and rain assisting, a humble gastronomical announce- 
 ment had become a profound piece of advice. 
 
 In this way it came about, that though he knew no French, 
 Father Hucheloup understood Latin, that he had evoked phi- 
 losophy from his kitchen, and that, desirous simply of effacing 
 Lent, he had equalled Horace. And the striking thing about 
 it was, that that also meant: "Enter my wine-shop." 
 
 Nothing of all this is in existence now. The Mondetour 
 labyrinth was disembowelled and widely opened in 1847, and 
 probably no longer exists at the present moment. The Rue
 
 312 8AIXT-DENI8 
 
 de la Chanvrcrie and Corinthe have disappeared beneath the 
 pavement of the Rue Rarabuteau. 
 
 As we have already said, Corinthe was the meeting-place if 
 not the rallying-point, of Courfeyrac and his friends. It was 
 Grantaire who had discovered Corinthe. He had entered it 
 on account of the Carpe Iwras, and had returned thither on 
 account of the Carpes au gras. There they drank, there they 
 ate, there they shouted ; they did not pay much, they paid 
 badly, they did not pay at all, but they were always welcome. 
 Father Hucheloup was a jovial host. 
 
 Hucheloup, that amiable man, as was just said, was a wine- 
 shop-keeper with a mustache; an amusing variety. He always 
 had an ill-tempered air, seemed to wish to intimidate his cus- 
 tomers, grumbled at the people who entered his establishment, 
 and had rather the mien of seeking a quarrel with them than 
 of serving them with soup. And yet, we insist upon the word, 
 people were always welcome there. This oddity had attracted 
 customers to his shop, and brought him young men, who said 
 to each other: "Come hear Father Hucheloup growl." He 
 had been a fencing-master. All of a sudden, he would burst 
 out laughing. A big voice, a good fellow. He had a comic 
 foundation under a tragic exterior, he asked nothing better 
 than to frighten you, very much like those snuff-boxes which 
 are in the shape of a pistol. The detonation makes one 
 sneeze. 
 
 Mother Hucheloup, his wife, was a bearded and a very 
 homely creature. 
 
 About 1830, Father Hucheloup died. With him disap- 
 peared the secret of stuffed carps. His inconsolable widow 
 continued to keep the wine-shop. But the cooking deterio- 
 rated, and became execrable; the wine, which had always been 
 bad, became fearfully bad. Nevertheless, Courfeyrac and his 
 friends continued to go to Corinthe, out of pity, as Bossuet 
 said. 
 
 The Widow Hucheloup was breathless and misshapen and 
 given to rustic recollections. She deprived thorn of their flat- 
 ness by her pronunciation. She had a way of her own of say-
 
 THE ATOM AND THE HUKKICANE 313 
 
 ing things, which spiced her reminiscences of the village and 
 of her springtime. It had formerly been her delight, so she 
 affirmed, to hear the loups-de-gorge (rouges-gorges) cliantcr 
 dans /c.s oyrepinc.s (aubepines) to hear the redbreasts sing 
 in the hawthorn-trees. 
 
 The hall on the first floor, where "the restaurant" was sit- 
 uated, was a large and long apartment encumbered with stools, 
 chairs, benches, and tables, and with a crippled, lame, old bil- 
 liard-table. It was reached by a spiral staircase which termi- 
 nated in the corner of the room at a square hole like the hatch- 
 way of a ship. 
 
 This room, lighted by a single narrow window, and by a 
 lamp that was always burning, had the air of a garret. All 
 the four-footed furniture comported itself as though it had 
 but three legs the whitewashed walls had for their only 
 ornament the following quatrain in honor of Mame Huche- 
 loup : 
 
 Elle ('tonne a dix pas, elle gpouvente a deux, 
 
 Une verrue habite en son nez hasardeux ; 
 
 On tremble a chaque instant qu'elle ne vous la mouche 
 
 Et qu'un beau jour son nez netombe dans sa bouche. 1 
 
 This was scrawled in charcoal on the wall. 
 
 Mame Hucheloup, a good likeness, went and came from 
 morning till night before this quatrain with the most perfect 
 tranquillity. Two serving-maids, named Matelote and 
 Gibelotte, 2 and who had never been known by any other names, 
 helped Mame Hucheloup to set on the tables the jugs of poor 
 wine, and the various broths which were served to the hungry 
 patrons in earthenware bowls. Matelote, large, plump, red- 
 haired, and noisy, the favorite ex-sultana of the defunct 
 Hucheloup, was homelier than any mythological monster, be 
 
 J She astounds at ten paces, she frightens at two, a wart inhabits 
 her hazardous nose; you tremble every instant lest she should blow 
 it at you, and lest, some fine day, her nose should tumble into her 
 mouth. 
 
 'Matelote: a culinary preparation of various fishes. Gibelotte: 
 stewed rabbits.
 
 314 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 it what it may ; still, as it becomes the servant to always keep 
 in the rear of the mistress, she was less homely than Mame 
 Hucheloup. Gibelotte, tall, delicate, white with a lymphatic 
 pallor, with circles round her eyes, and drooping lids, always 
 languid and weary, afflicted with what may be called chronic 
 lassitude, the first up in the house and the last in bed, waited 
 on every one, even the other maid, silently and gently, smiling 
 through her fatigue with a vague and sleepy smile. 
 
 Before entering the restaurant room, the visitor read on 
 the door the following line written there in chalk by Cour- 
 feyrac : 
 
 Rggale si tu peux et mange si tu 1'oses. 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 
 
 PRELIMINARY GAYETIES 
 
 LAIQLE DE MEAUX, as the reader knows, lived more with 
 Joly than elsewhere. He had a lodging, as a bird has one on 
 a branch. The two friends lived together, ate together, slept 
 together. They had everything in common, even Musichetta, 
 to some extent. They were, what the subordinate monks who 
 accompany monks are called, bini. On the morning of the 
 5th of June, they went to Corinthe to breakfast. Joly, who 
 was all stuffed up, had a catarrh which Laigle was beginning 
 to share. Laigle's coat was threadbare, but Joly was well 
 dressed. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock in the morning, when they opened 
 the door of Corinthe. 
 
 They ascended to the first floor. 
 
 Matelote and Gibelotte received them. 
 
 "Oysters, cheese, and ham," said Laigle. 
 
 And they seated themselves at a table. 
 
 The wine-shop was empty ; there was no one there but them- 
 selves. 
 
 'Treat if you can, and eat if you dare.
 
 CORINTH E 315 
 
 Gibclottc, knowing Joly and Laigle, set a bottle of wine on 
 the table. 
 
 While they were busy with their first oysters, a head 
 appeared at the hatchway of the staircase, and a voice 
 said : 
 
 "1 am passing by. I smell from the street a delicious odor 
 of Brie cheese. I enter." It was Grantaire. 
 
 Grantairc took a stool and drew up to the table. 
 
 At the sight of Grantaire, Gibelotte placed two bottles of 
 wine on the table. 
 
 That made three. 
 
 ""Are you going to drink those two bottles?" Laigle inquired 
 of Grantairc. 
 
 Grantaire replied : 
 
 "All are ingenious, thou alone art ingenuous. Two bottles 
 never yet astonished a man." 
 
 The others had begun by eating, Grantaire began by drink- 
 ing. Half a bottle was rapidly gulped down. 
 
 "So you have a hole in your stomach?" began Laigle 
 again. 
 
 "You have one in your elbow," said Grantaire. 
 
 And after having emptied his glass, he added : 
 
 "Ah, by the way, Laigle of the funeral oration, your coat 
 is old." 
 
 "I should hope so," retorted Laigle. "That's why we get 
 on well together, my coat and I. It has acquired all my folds, 
 it does not bind me anywhere, it is moulded on my deformities, 
 it falls in with all my movements, I am only conscious of it 
 because it keeps me warm. Old coats are just like old 
 friends." 
 
 "That's true," ejaculated Joly, striking into the dialogue, 
 "an old goat is an old abi" (ami, friend). 
 
 "Especially in the mouth of a man whose head is stuffed 
 up," said Grantaire. 
 
 "Grantaire," demanded Laigle, "have you just come from 
 the boulevard?" 
 
 "No."
 
 316 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "We have just seen the head of the procession pass, Joly 
 and I." 
 
 "It's a marvellous sight," said Joly. 
 
 "How quiet this street is !" exclaimed Laigle. "Who would 
 suspect that Paris was turned upside down? How plainly it 
 is to be seen that in former days there were nothing but 
 convents here ! In this neighborhood ! Du Breul and Sauval 
 give a list of them, and so does the Abbe Lebeuf. They were 
 all round here, they fairly swarmed, booted and barefooted, 
 shaven, bearded, gray, black, white, Franciscans, Minims, 
 Capuchins, Carmelites, Little Augustines. Great Augustines, 
 old Augustines there was no end of them." 
 
 "Don't let's talk of monks," interrupted Grantaire, "it 
 makes one want to scratch one's self." 
 
 Then he exclaimed: 
 
 "Bouh ! I've just swallowed a bad oyster. Now hypochon- 
 dria is taking possession of me again. The oysters are spoiled, 
 the servants are ugly. I hate the human race. I just passed 
 through the Rue Richelieu, in front of the big public library. 
 That pile of oyster-shells which is called a library is disgusting 
 even to think of. What paper ! What ink ! What scrawling ! 
 And all that has been written ! What rascal was it who said 
 that man was a featherless biped ? l And then, I met a pretty 
 girl of my acquaintance, who is as beautiful as the spring, 
 worthy to be called Floreal, and who is delighted, enraptured, 
 as happy as the angels, because a wretch yesterday, a frightful 
 banker all spotted with small-pox, deigned to take a fancy to 
 her ! Alas ! woman keeps on the watch for a protector as 
 much as for a lover; cats chase mice as well as birds. Two 
 months ago that young woman was virtuous in an attic, she 
 adjusted little brass rings in the eyelet-holes of corsets, what 
 do you call it? She sewed, she had a camp bed, she dwelt 
 beside a pot of flowers, she was contented. Now here she is a 
 bankeress. This transformation took place last night. 1 met 
 the victim this morning in high spirits. The hideous point 
 about it is, that the jade is as pretty to-day as she was yester- 
 l Bipde sans plume: biped without feathers or pen.
 
 COKINTHE 317 
 
 day. Her financier did not show in her face. Roses have this 
 advantage or disadvantage over women, that the traces left 
 upon them by caterpillars are visible. Ah ! there is no 
 morality on earth. I call to witness the myrtle, the symbol of 
 love, the laurel, the symbol of air, the olive, that ninny, the 
 symbol of peace, the apple-tree which came nearest rangling 
 Adam with its pips, and the fig-tree, the grandfather of petti- 
 coats. As for right, do you know what right is? The Gauls 
 covet Clusium, Rome protects Clusium, and demands what 
 wrong Clusium has done to them. Brennus answers: 'The 
 wrong that Alba did to you, the wrong that Fidenac did to you, 
 the wrong that the Eques, the Volsci, and the Sabines have 
 done to you. They were your neighbors. The Clusians are 
 ours. We understand neighborliness just as you do. You 
 have stolen Alba, we shall take Clusium.' Rome said : 'You 
 shall not take Clusium.' Brennus took Rome. Then he cried : 
 'Vae victis !' That is what right is. Ah ! what beasts of prey 
 there are in this world ! What eagles ! It makes my flesh 
 creep." 
 
 He held out his glass to Joly, who filled it, then he drank 
 and went on, having hardly been interrupted by this glass 
 of wine, of which no one, not even himself, had taken any 
 notice : 
 
 "Brennus, who takes Rome, is an eagle; the banker who 
 takes the grisette is an eagle. There is no more modesty in 
 the one case than in (he other. So we believe in nothing. 
 There is but one reality: drink. Whatever your opinion 
 may be in favor of the lean cock, like the Canton of Uri, or in 
 favor of the fat cock, like the Canton of Glaris, it matters 
 little, drink. You talk to me of the boulevard, of that pro- 
 cession, ct ccrtcra, et ca'tcra. Come now, is there going to be 
 another revolution ? This poverty of ineans on the part of the 
 good God astounds me. He has to keep greasing the groove 
 of events every moment. There is a hitch, it won't work. 
 Quick, a revolution ! The good God has his hands perpetually 
 black with that cart-grease. If I were in his place, I'd be 
 perfectly simple about it, I would not wind up my mechanism
 
 318 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 every minute, I'd lead the human race in a straightforward 
 way, I'd weave matters mesh by mesh, without breaking the 
 thread. I would have no provisional arrangements, I would 
 have no extraordinary repertory. What the rest of you call 
 progress advances by means of two motors, men and events. 
 But, sad to say, from time to time, the exceptional becomes 
 necessary. The ordinary troupe suffices neither for event 
 nor for men: among men geniuses are required, among events 
 revolutions. Great accidents are the law; the order of things 
 cannot do without them ; and, judging from the apparition 
 of comets, one would be tempted to think that Heaven itself 
 finds actors needed for its performance. At the moment when 
 one expects it the least, God placards a meteor on the wall of 
 the firmament. Some queer star turns up, underlined by an 
 enormous tail. And that causes the death of Ca?sar. Brutus 
 deals him a blow with a knife, and God a blow with a comet. 
 Crac, and behold an aurora borealis, behold a revolution, 
 behold a great man ; '93 in big letters, Napoleon on guard, the 
 comet of 1811 at the head of the poster. Ah ! what a beautiful 
 blue theatre all studded with unexpected flashes ! Bourn ! 
 Bourn ! extraordinary show ! Raise your eyes, boobies. Every- 
 thing is in disorder, the star as well as the drama. Good 
 God, it is too much and not enough. These resources, gath- 
 ered from exception, seem magnificence and poverty. My 
 friends, Providence has come down to expedients. What does 
 a revolution prove? That God is in a quandry. He effects a 
 coup d'etat because he, God, has not been able to make both 
 ends meet. In fact, this confirms me in my conjectures as to 
 Jehovah's fortune ; and when I see so much distress in heaven 
 and on earth, from the bird who has not a grain of millet to 
 myself without a hundred thousand livres of income, when I 
 see human destiny, which is very badly worn, and even royal 
 destiny, which is threadbare, witness the PrincedeConde hung, 
 when 1 see winter, which is nothing but a rent in the zenith 
 through which the wind blows, when I see so many rags even 
 in the perfectly new purple of the morning on the crests of 
 hills, when I see the drops of dew, those mock pearls, when
 
 CORINTH E 319 
 
 I see the frost, that paste, when I see humanity ripped apart 
 and events patched up, and so many spots on the sun and so 
 many holes in the rnoon, when I see so much misery every- 
 where, 1 suspect that God is not rich. The appearance exists, 
 it is true, but I feel that he is hard up. He gives a revolution 
 as a tradesman whose money-hox is empty gives a hall. God 
 must not be judged from appearances. Beneath the gilding 
 of heaven I perceive a poverty-stricken universe. Creation is 
 bankrupt. That is why I am discontented. Here it is the 
 4th of June, it is almost night ; ever since this morniYig I have 
 been waiting for daylight to come ; it has not come, and I bet 
 that it won't come all day. ('"'his is the inexactness of an ill- 
 paid clerk. Yes, everything is badly arranged, nothing fits 
 anything else, this old world is all warped, I take my stand 
 on the opposition, everything goes awry ; the universe is a 
 tease. It's like children, those who want them have none, 
 and those who don't want them have them. Total : I'm vexed. 
 Besides, Laigle de Meaux, that bald-head, offends my sight. 
 It humiliates me to think that I am of the same age as that 
 baldy. However, I criticise, but I do not insult. The universe 
 is what it is. I speak here without evil intent and to ease 
 my conscience. Receive, Eternal Father, the assurance of my 
 distinguished consideration. Ah ! by all the saints of Olympus 
 and by all the gods of paradise, I was not intended to be a 
 Parisian, that is to say, to rebound forever, like a shuttlecoek 
 between two battledores, from the group of the loungers to 
 the group of the roysterers. I was made to be a Turk, watch- 
 ing oriental houris all day long, executing those exquisite 
 Egyptian dances, as sensuous as the dream of a chaste man. 
 or a Beauccron peasant, or a Venetian gentleman surrounded 
 by gentlewomen, or a petty German prince, furnishing the 
 half of a foot-soldier to the Germanic confederation, and 
 occupying his leisure with drying his breeches on his hedge, 
 that is to say, his frontier. Those are the positions for which 
 I was born ! Yes, I have said a Turk, ami I will not retract. 
 I do not understand how people can habitually take Turks in 
 bad part ; Mohammed had his good points ; respect for the
 
 320 BAINT-DENI8 
 
 inventor of seraglios with houris and paradises with oda- 
 lisques ! Let us not insult Mohammedanism, the only religion 
 which is ornamented with a hen-roost ! Now, I insist on a 
 drink. The earth is a great piece of stupidity. And it appears 
 that they are going to fight, all those imbeciles, and to break 
 each other's profiles and to massacre each other in the heart 
 of summer, in the month of June, when they might go off 
 with a creature on their arm, to breathe the immense heaps 
 of new-mown hay in the meadows ! Really, people do commit 
 altogether' too many follies. An old broken lantern which I 
 have just seen at a bric-a-brac merchant's suggests a reflection 
 to my mind; it is time to enlighten the human race. Yes, 
 behold me sad again. That's what comes of swallowing an 
 oyster and a revolution the wrong way ! I am growing melan- 
 choly once more. Oh ! frightful old world. People strive, 
 turn each other out, prostitute themselves, kill each other, 
 and get used to it !" 
 
 And Grantaire, after this fit of eloquence, had a fit of cough- 
 ing, which was well earned. 
 
 "A propos of revolution," said Joly, "it is decidedly abba- 
 rent that Barius is in lub." 
 
 "Does any one know with whom?" demanded Laigle. 
 
 "Do." 
 
 "Xo ?" 
 
 "Do ! I tell you." 
 
 "Marius' love affairs !" exclaimed Grantaire. "I can im- 
 agine it. Marius is a fog. and he must have found a vapor. 
 Marius is of the race of poets. He who says poet, says fool, 
 madman, Tymbrcrus Apollo. Marius and his Marie, or his 
 Marion, or his Maria, or his Mariette. They must make a 
 queer pair of lovers. I know just what it is like. Ecstasies 
 in which they forget to kiss. Pure on earth, but joined in 
 heaven. They are souls possessed of senses. They lie among 
 the stars." 
 
 Grantaire was attacking his second bottle and, possibly, his 
 second harangue, when a new personage emerged from the 
 square aperture of the stairs. It was a boy less than ten years
 
 CORINTH E 321 
 
 of age, ragged, very small, yellow, with an odd phiz, a viva- 
 cious eye, an enormous amount of hair drenched with rain, 
 and wearing a contented air. 
 
 The child unhesitatingly making his choice among the three, 
 addressed himself to Laigle de Meaux. 
 
 "Arc you Monsieur Bossuet?" 
 
 "That is my nickname," replied Laigle. "What do you 
 want with me?" 
 
 "This. A tall blonde fellow on the boulevard said to me : 
 'Do you know Mother Hucheloup?' I said: 'Yes, Rue Chan- 
 vrerie, the old man's widow ;' he said to me : 'Go there. There 
 you will find M. Bossuet. Tell him from me : "A B C'V It's 
 a joke that they're playing on you, isn't it. He gave me 
 ten sous." 
 
 "Joly, lend me ten sous," said Laigle ; and, turning to 
 Grantaire : "Grantaire. lend me ten sous." 
 
 This made twenty sous, which Laigle handed to the lad. 
 
 "Thank you, sir," said the urchin. 
 
 "What is your name?" inquired Laigle. 
 
 "Navet, Gavroche's friend." 
 
 "Stay with us," said Laigle. 
 
 "Breakfast with us," said Grantaire. 
 
 The child replied : 
 
 "I can't, I belong in the procession, I'm the one to shout 
 'Down with Polignac !' ' ; 
 
 And executing a prolonged scrape of his foot behind him, 
 which is the most respectful of all possible salutes, he took 
 his departure. 
 
 The child gone, Grantaire took the word: 
 
 "That is the pure-bred gamin. There are a great many 
 varieties of the gamin species. The notary's gamin is called 
 Skip-the-Gutter, the cook's gamin is called a scullion, the 
 baker's gamin is called a mitron, the lackey's gamin is called a 
 groom, the marine gamin is called the cabin-boy, the soldier's 
 gamin is called the drummer-boy, the painter's gamin is called 
 paint-grinder, the tradesman's gamin is called an errand-boy, 
 the courtesan gamin is called the minion, the kingly gamin
 
 322 BAI XT-DEN IS 
 
 is called the dauphin, the god gamin is called the bam- 
 bino." 
 
 In the meantime, Laigle was engaged in reflection ; he said 
 half aloud: 
 
 "A B C, that is to say: the burial of Lamarque." 
 
 "The tall blonde," remarked Grantaire, "is Enjolras, who is 
 sending you a warning." 
 
 "Shall we go?" ejaculated Bossuet. 
 
 "It's raiding/' said Joly. "I have sworn to go through fire, 
 but not through water. I don't wand to gcd a gold." 
 
 "1 shall stay here," said Grantaire. "I prefer a breakfast 
 to a hearse." 
 
 "Conclusion : we remain," said Laigle. "Well, then, let us 
 drink. Besides, we might miss the funeral without missing 
 the riot." 
 
 "Ah ! the riot, I am with you !" cried Joly. 
 
 Laigle rubbed his hands. 
 
 "Now we're going to touch up the revolution of 1830. As 
 a matter of fact, it does hurt the people along the seam?." 
 
 "I don't think much of your revolution," said Grantaire. 
 "I don't execrate this Government. It is the crown tempered 
 by the cotton night-cap. It is a sceptre ending in an umbrella. 
 In fact, I think that to-day, with the present weather, Loais 
 Philippe might utilize his royalty in two direction?, he might 
 extend the tip of the sceptre end against the people, and open 
 the umbrella end against heaven." 
 
 The room was dark, large clouds had just finished the 
 extinction of daylight. There was no one in the wine-shop, 
 or in the street, every one having gone off "to watch events." 
 
 "Is it mid-day or midnight?" cried Bossuet. "You can't 
 see your hand before your face. Gibelotte, fetch a light." 
 
 Grantaire was drinking in a melancholy way. 
 
 "Enjolras disdains me," he muttered. "Enjolras said: 
 'Joly is ill, Grantaire is drunk.' It was to Bossuet that he 
 sent Navet. If he had come for me, I would have followed 
 him. So much the worse for Enjolras ! I won't go to his 
 funeral."
 
 CORINTHE 323 
 
 This resolution once arrived at, Bossuet, Joly, and Gran- 
 taire did not stir from the wine-shop. By two o'clock in the 
 afternoon, the table at which they sat was covered with empty 
 bottles. Two candles were burning on it, one in a flat copper 
 candlestick which was perfectly green, the other in the neck of 
 a cracked caraffe. Grantaire had seduced Joly and Bossuet to 
 wine; Bossuet and Joly had conducted Grantaire back towards 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 As for Grantaire, he had got beyond wine, that merely mod- 
 erate inspircr of dreams, ever since mid-day. Wine enjoys 
 only a conventional popularity with serious drinkers. There 
 is, in fact, in the matter of inebriety, white magic and black 
 magic; wine is only white magic. Grantaire was a daring 
 drinker of dreams. The blackness of a terrible fit of drunk- 
 enness yawning before him, far from arresting him, attracted 
 him. lie had abandoned the bottle and taken to the beer- 
 glass. The beer-glass is the abyss. Having neither opium nor 
 hashish on hand, and being desirous of filling his brain with 
 twilight, he had had recourse to that fearful mixture of 
 brandy, stout, absinthe, which produces the most terrible of 
 lethargies. It is of these three vapors, beer, brandy, and ab- 
 sinthe, that the lead of the soul is composed. They are three 
 grooms; the celestial butterfly is drowned in them; and there 
 are formed there in a membranous smoke, vaguely condensed 
 into the wing of the bat, three mute furies, Nightmare, Xight, 
 and Death, which hover about the slumbering Psyche. 
 
 Grantaire had not yet reached that lamentable phase; far 
 from it. He was tremendously gay, and Bossuet and Joly 
 retorted. They clinked glasses. Grantaire added to the eccen- 
 tric accentuation of words and ideas, a peculiarity of gesture; 
 he rested his left fist on his knee with dignity, his arm form- 
 ing a right angle, and, with cravat untied, seated astride a 
 stool, his full glass in his right hand, he hurled solemn words 
 at the big maid-servant Matelote: 
 
 "Let the doors of the palace be thrown open ! Let every 
 one be a member of the French Academy and have the right 
 to embrace Madame Hucheloup. Let us drink."
 
 394 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 And turning to Madame Hucheloup, he added : 
 
 "Woman ancient and consecrated by use, draw near that I 
 may contemplate thee !" 
 
 And Joly exclaimed : 
 
 "Matelote and Gibelotte, dod't gib Grantaire anything more 
 to drink. He has already devoured, since this bording, in wild 
 prodigality, two francs and ninety-five centibes." 
 
 And Grantaire began again : 
 
 "Who has been unhooking the stars without my permission, 
 and putting them on the table in the guise of candles ?" 
 
 Bossuet, though very drunk, preserved his equanimity. 
 
 He was seated on the sill of the open window, wetting his 
 back in the falling rain, and gazing at his two friends. 
 
 All at once, he heard a tumult behind him, hurried foot- 
 steps, cries of "To arms !" He turned round and saw in the Rue 
 Saint-Denis, at the end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Enjolras 
 passing, gun in hand, and Gavroche with his pistol, Feuilly 
 with his sword, Courfeyrac with his sword, and Jean Prouvaire 
 with his blunderbuss, Combeferre with his gun, Bahorel with 
 his gun, and the whole armed and stormy rabble which was 
 following them. 
 
 The Rue de la Chanvrerie was not more than a gunshot long. 
 Bossuet improvised a speaking-trumpet from his two hands 
 placed around his mouth, and shouted : 
 
 "Courfeyrac ! Courfeyrac ! Hohee !" 
 
 Courfeyrac heard the shout, caught sight of Bossuet, and 
 advanced a few paces into the Rue de la Chanvrerie, shout- 
 ing: "What do you want?" which crossed a "Where are you 
 going ?" 
 
 "To make a barricade," replied Courfeyrac. 
 
 "Well, here ! This is a good place ! Make it here !" 
 
 "That's true, Aigle," said Courfeyrac. 
 
 And at a signal from Courfeyrac, the mob flung themselves 
 into the Rue de la Chanvrerie.
 
 CORINTHE 325 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 NIGHT BEGINS TO DESCEND UPON GRANTAIRB 
 
 THE spot was, in fact, admirably adapted, the entrance to 
 the street widened out, the other extremity narrowed together 
 into a pocket without exit. Corinthe created an obstacle, the 
 Rue Mondetour was easily barricaded on the right and the 
 left, no attack was possible except from the Rue Saint-Denis, 
 that is to say, in front, and in full sight. Bossuet had the 
 comprehensive glance of a fasting Hannibal. 
 
 Terror had seized on the whole street at the irruption of 
 the mob. There was not a passer-by who did not get out 
 of sight. In the space of a flash of lightning, in the rear, to 
 right and left, shops, stables, area-doors, windows, blinds, 
 attic skylights, shutters of every description were closed, from 
 the ground floor to the roof. A terrified old woman fixed a 
 mattress in front of her window on two clothes-poles for dry- 
 ing linen, in order to deaden the effect of musketry. The 
 wine-shop alone remained open ; and that for a very good 
 reason, that the mob had rushed into it. "Ah my God ! Ah 
 my God !" sighed Mame Hucheloup. 
 
 Bossuet had gone down to meet Courfcyrac. 
 
 Joly, who had placed himself at the window, exclaimed: 
 
 "Courfeyrac, you ought to have brought an umbrella. You 
 will gatch gold." 
 
 In the meantime, in the space of a few minutes, twenty 
 iron bars had been wrenched from the grated front of the 
 wine-shop, ten fathoms of street had been impaved ; Gavroche 
 and Bahorel had seized in its passage, and overturned, the 
 dray of a lime-dealer named Anceau; this dray contained 
 three barrels of lime, which they placed beneath the piles of 
 paving-stones : Enjolras raised the cellar trap, and all the 
 widow Ilucheloup's empty casks were used to flank the barrels 
 of lime; Feuilly, with his fingers skilled in painting the deli- 
 cate sticks of fans, had backed up the barrels and the dray
 
 326 8AIXT-DEXI8 
 
 with two massive heaps of blocks of rough stone. Blocks 
 which were improvised like the rest and procured no one 
 knows where. The beams which served as props were torn 
 from the neighboring house-fronts and laid on the casks. 
 When Bossuet and Courfeyrac turned round, half the street 
 was already barred with a rampart higher than a man. There 
 is nothing like the hand of the populace for building every- 
 thing that is built by demolishing. 
 
 Matelote and Gibelotte had mingled with the workers. 
 Gibelotte went and came loaded with rubbish. Her lassitude 
 helped on the barricade. She served the barricade as she 
 would have served wine, with a sleepy air. 
 
 An omnibus with two white horses passed the end of the 
 street. 
 
 Bossuet strode over the paving-stones, ran to it, stopped 
 the driver, made the passengers alight, offered his hand to 
 "the ladies," dismissed the conductor, and returned, leading 
 the vehicle and the horses by the bridle. 
 
 "Omnibuses," said he, "do not pass the Corinthe. Non licet 
 omnibus adire Corinthum." 
 
 An instant later, the horses were unharnessed and went off 
 at their will, through the Rue Mondetour, and the omnibus 
 lying on its side completed the bar across the street. 
 
 Mame Hucheloup, quite upset, had taken refuge in the first 
 story. 
 
 Her eyes were vague, and stared without seeing anything, 
 and she cried in a low tone. Her terrified shrieks did not dare 
 to emerge from her throat. 
 
 "The end of the world has come," she muttered. 
 
 Joly deposited a kiss on Mame Hucheloup's fat, red, 
 wrinkled neck, and said to Grantaire: "My dear fellow, I 
 have always regarded a woman's neck as an infinitely delicate 
 thing." 
 
 But Grantaire attained to the highest regions of dithryamb. 
 Matelote had mounted to the first floor once more, Grantaire 
 seized her round her waist, and gave vent to long bursts of 
 laughter at the window.
 
 CORINTHE 397 
 
 "Matelote is homely !" he cried : "Matelote is of a dream 
 of ugliness ! Matelote is a chimaera. This is the secret of her 
 birth: a Gothic Pygmalion, who was making gargoyles for 
 cathedrals, fell in love with one of them, the most horrible, 
 one fine morning, lie besought Love to give it life, and this 
 produced Matelote. Look at her, citizens ! She has chromate- 
 of-lead-colored hair, like Titian's mistress, and she is a good 
 girl. I guarantee that she will fight well. Every good girl 
 contains a hero. As for Mother Hucheloup, she's an old war- 
 rior. Look at her moustaches ! She inherited them from her 
 husband. A hussar indeed ! She will fight too. These two 
 alone will strike terror to the heart of the banlieue. Com- 
 rades, we shall overthrow the government as true as there 
 are fifteen intermediary acids between margaric acid and 
 formic acid; however, that is a matter of perfect 
 indifference to me. Gentlemen, my father always detested me 
 because I could not understand mathematics. I understand 
 only love and liberty. I am Grantaire, the good fellow. 
 Having never had any money, I never acquired the habit of 
 it, and the result is that I have never lacked it; but, if I had 
 been rich, there would have been no more poor people ! You 
 would have seen ! Oh, if the kind hearts only had fat purses, 
 how much better things would go! I picture myself Jesus 
 Christ with Rothschild's fortune ! How much good he would 
 do! Matelote, embrace me! You are voluptuous and timid! 
 You have cheeks which invite the kiss of a sister, and lips 
 which claim the kiss of a lover." 
 
 "Hold your tongue, you cask !" said Courfeyrac. 
 
 Grantaire retorted : 
 
 "I am the capitoul 1 and the master of the floral games !" 
 
 Enjolras, who was standing on the crest of the barricade, 
 gun in hand, raised his beautiful, austere face. Enjolras. as 
 the reader knows, had something of the Spartan and of the 
 Puritan in his composition. He would have perished at 
 Thermopyl^ with Leonidas, and burned at Drogheda with 
 Cromwell. 
 
 'Municipal officer of Toulouse.
 
 308 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "Grantaire," he shouted, "go get rid of the fumes of your 
 wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for en- 
 thusiasm, not for drunkenness. Don't disgrace the barri- 
 cade !" 
 
 This angry speech produced a singular effect on Grantaire. 
 One would have said that he had had a glass of cold water 
 flung in his face. He seemed to be rendered suddenly sober. 
 
 He sat down, put his elbows on a table near the window, 
 looked at Enjolras with indescribable gentleness, and said 
 to him : 
 
 "Let me sleep here." 
 
 "Go and sleep somewhere else," cried Enjolras. 
 
 But Grantaire, still keeping his tender and troubled eyes 
 fixed on him, replied : 
 
 "Let me sleep here, until I die." 
 
 Enjolras regarded him with disdainful eyes : 
 
 "Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of 
 willing, of living, and of dying." 
 
 Grantaire replied in a grave tone : 
 
 "You will see." 
 
 He stammered a few more unintelligible words, then his 
 head fell heavily on the table, and, as is the usual effect of 
 the second period of inebriety, into which Enjolras had 
 roughly and abruptly thrust him, an instant later he had 
 fallen asleep. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 AN ATTEMPT TO CONSOLE THE WIDOW HUCHELOUP 
 
 BAIIOREL, in ecstasies over the barricade, shouted : 
 
 "Here's the street in its low-necked dress ! How well it 
 looks !" 
 
 Courfeyrac, as he demolished the wine-shop to some ex- 
 tent, sought to console the widowed proprietress. 
 
 "Mother Hucheloup, weren't you complaining the other
 
 OORMTBE 309 
 
 day because you had had a notice served on you for infringing 
 the law, because Gibelotte shook a counterpane out of your 
 window ?" 
 
 "Yes, my good Monsieur Courfeyrac. Ah ! good Heavens, 
 are you going to put that table of mine in your horror, too? 
 And it was for the counterpane, and also for a pot of flowers 
 which fell from the attic window into the street, that the 
 government collected a fine of a hundred francs. If that isn't 
 an abomination, what is !" 
 
 "Well, Mother Hucheloup, we are avenging you." 
 
 Mother Hucheloup did not appear to understand very 
 clearly the benefit which she was to derive from these reprisals 
 made on her account. She was satisfied after the manner of 
 that Arab woman, who, having received a box on the ear from 
 her husband, went to complain to her father, and cried for 
 vengeance, saying: "Father, you owe my husband affront for 
 affront." The father asked : "On which cheek did you receive 
 the blow?" "On the left cheek." The father slapped her 
 right cheek and said: "Now you are satisfied. Go tell your 
 husband that he boxed my daughter's ears, and that I have 
 accordingly boxed his wife's." 
 
 The rain had ceased. Recruits had arrived. Workmen had 
 brought under their blouses a barrel of powder, a basket con- 
 taining bottles of vitriol, two or three carnival torches, and 
 a basket filled with fire-pots, "left over from the King's fes- 
 tival." This festival was very recent, having taken place on 
 the 1st of May. It was said that these munitions came from 
 a grocer in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine named Pepin. They 
 smashed the only street lantern in the Rue de la Chanvrerie, 
 the lantern corresponding to one in the Rue Saint-Denis, and 
 all the lanterns in the surrounding streets, de Mondetour, du 
 Cygne, des Precheurs, and de la Grande and de la Petite- 
 Truanderie. 
 
 Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac directed everything. 
 Two barricades were now in process of construction at once, 
 both of them resting on the Corinthe house and forming a 
 right angle; the larger shut off the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the
 
 330 8AIXT DEXIS 
 
 other closed the Rue Mondetour, on the side of the Rue de 
 Cygne. This last barricade, which was very narrow, was con- 
 structed only of casks and paving-stones. There were about 
 fifty workers on it ; thirty were armed with guns; for, on their 
 way, they had effected a wholesale loan from an armorer's 
 shop. 
 
 Nothing could be more bizarre and at the same time more 
 motley than this troop. One had a round-jacket, a cavalry 
 sabre, and two holster-pistols, another was in his shirt-sleeves, 
 with a round hat, and a powder-horn slung at his side, a third 
 wore a plastron of nine sheets of gray paper and was armed 
 with a saddler's awl. There was one who was shouting : "Let 
 us exterminate them to the last man and die at the point 
 of our bayonet." This man had no bayonet. Another spread 
 out over his coat the cross-belt and cartridge-box of a Na- 
 tional Guardsman, the cover of the cartridge-box being orna- 
 mented with this inscription in red worsted : Public Order. 
 There were a great many guns bearing the numbers of the 
 legions, few hats, no cravats, many bare arms, some pikes. 
 Add to this, all ages, all sorts of faces, small, pale young men, 
 and bronzed longshoremen. All were in haste; and as they 
 helped each other, they discussed the possible chances. That 
 they would receive succor about three o'clock in the morning 
 that they were sure of one regiment, that Paris would rise. 
 Terrible sayings with which was mingled a sort of cordial 
 joviality. One would have pronounced them brothers, but 
 they did not know each other's names. Great perils have this 
 fine characteristic, that they bring to light the fraternity of 
 strangers. A fire had been lighted in the kitchen, and there 
 they were engaged in moulding into bullets, pewter mugs., 
 spoons, forks, and all the brass table-ware of the establish- 
 ment. In the midst of it all, they drank. Caps and buck- 
 shot were mixed pell-mell on the tables with glasses of wine. 
 In the billiard-hall, Mame Hucheloup, Matelote, and Gibe- 
 lotte, variously modified by terror, which had stupefied one, 
 rendered another breathless, and roused the third, were tear- 
 ing up old dish-cloths and making lint; three insurgents were
 
 CORINTHE 331 
 
 assisting them, three bushy-haired, jolly blades with beards 
 and moustaches, who plucked away at the linen with the fin- 
 gers of seamstresses and who made them tremble. 
 
 The man of lofty stature whom Courfoyrac, Combeferre, 
 and Enjolras had observed at the moment when he joined the 
 mob at the corner of the Rue des Billettes, was at work on the 
 smaller barricade and wa.3 making himself useful there. Gav- 
 roche was working on the larger one. As for the young man 
 who had been waiting for Courfeyrac at his lodging?, and who 
 had inquired for M. Marius. he had disappeared at about the 
 time when the omnibus had been overturned. 
 
 Gavroche, completely carried away and radiant, had under- 
 taken to get everything in readiness. He went, came, mounted, 
 descended, re-mounted, whistled, and sparkled. He seemed to 
 be there for the encouragement of all. Had he any incentive? 
 Yes, certainly, his poverty; had he wings? yes, certainly, his 
 joy. Gavroche was a whirlwind. He was constantly visible, 
 he was incessantly audible. He filled the air, as he was every- 
 where at once. He was a sort of almost irritating ubiquity ; 
 no halt was possible with him. The enormous barricade felt 
 him on its haunches. He troubled the loungers, he excited the 
 idle, he reanimated the weary, he grew impatient over the 
 thoughtful, he inspired gayety in some, and breath in others, 
 wrath in others, movement in all, now pricking a student, now 
 biting an artisan; he alighted, paused, flew off again, hovered 
 over the tumult, and the effort, sprang from one party to 
 another, murmuring and humming, and harassed the whole 
 company ; a fly on the immense revolutionary coach. 
 
 Perpetual motion was in his little arms and perpetual 
 clamor in his little lungs. 
 
 "Courage ! more paving-stones ! more casks ! more ma- 
 chines ! Where are you now? A hod of plaster for me to stop 
 this hole with ! Your barricade is very small. It must be 
 carried up. Put everything on it, fling everything there, stick 
 it all in. Break down the house. A barricade is Mother 
 Gibou's tea. Hullo, here's a glass door." 
 
 This elicited an exclamation from the workers.
 
 332 SAJ\TDE\I8 
 
 "A glass door? what do you eipect us to do with a glass 
 door, tubercle f" 
 
 "Hercules yourselves !" retorted Gavroche. "A glass door 
 is an excellent thing in a barricade. It does not prevent an 
 attack, but it prevents the enemy taking it. So you've never 
 prigged apples over a wall where there were broken bottles ? A 
 glass door cuts the corns of the National Guard when they try 
 to mount on the barricade. Pardi ! glass is a treacherous thing. 
 Well, you haven't a very wildly lively imagination, comrades." 
 
 However, he was furious over his triggerless pistol. He 
 weut from one to another, demanding: "A gun, I want a gun ! 
 Why don't you give me a gun ?"' 
 
 "Give you a gun !" said Combeferre. 
 
 "Come now!" said Gavroche. "why not? I had one in 
 1830 when we had a dispute with Charles X." 
 
 Enjolras shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 "When there are enough for the men. we will give some to 
 the children." 
 
 Gavroche wheeled round haughtily, and answered: 
 
 "If you are killed before me, I shall take yours." 
 
 "Gamin !" said Enjolras. 
 
 "Greenhorn !" said Gavroche. 
 
 A dandy who had lost his way and who lounged past the end 
 of the street created a diversion ! Gavroche shouted to him : 
 
 "Come with us. young fellow ! well now, don't we do any- 
 thing for this old country of ours?" 
 
 The dandv fled. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 PREPARATIONS 
 
 THE journals of the day which said that that nwrly imprtg- 
 nall? slruciurt, of the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie. 
 a= they call it. reached to the level of the first floor, were mis- 
 tak-:-n. The fact is. that it did not exceed an average height of
 
 333 
 
 six or seven feet. It was built in such a manner that the com- 
 batants could, at their will, either disappear behind it or domi- 
 nate the barrier and even scale its crest by means of a quad- 
 ruple row of paving-stones placed on top of each other and 
 arranged as steps in the interior. On the outside, the front of 
 the barricade, composed of piles of paving-stones and casks 
 bound together by beams and planks, which were entangled in 
 the wheels of Anceau's dray and of the overturned omnibus, 
 had a bristling and inextricable aspect. 
 
 An aperture large enough to allow a man to pass through 
 had been made between the wall of the houses and the extrem- 
 ity of the barricade which was furthest from the wine-shop, 
 so that an exit was possible at this point. The pole of the 
 omnibus was placed upright and held up with ropes, and a 
 red flag, fastened to this pole, floated over the barricade. 
 
 The little Mondetour barricade, hidden behind the wine- 
 shop building, was not visible. The two barricades united 
 formed a veritable redoubt. Enjolras and Courfeyrac had not 
 thought fit to barricade the other fragment of the Rue Monde- 
 tour which opens through the Rue des Precheurs an issue into 
 the Halles, wishing, no doubt, to preserve a possible communi- 
 cation with the outside, and not entertaining much fear of 
 an attack through the dangerous and difficult street of the 
 Rue des Precheurs. 
 
 With the exception of this issue which was left free, and 
 which constituted what Folard in his strategical style would 
 have termed a branch, and taking into account, also, the narrow 
 cutting arranged on the Rue de la Chanvrerie, the interior of 
 the barricade, where the wine-shop formed a salient angle, 
 presented an irregular square, closed on all sides. There 
 existed an interval of twenty paces between the grand barrier 
 and the lofty houses which formed the background of the 
 street, so that one might say that the barricade rested on these 
 houses, all inhabited, but closed from top to bottom. 
 
 All this work was performed without any hindrance, in less 
 than an hour, and without this handful of bold men seeing a 
 single bear-skin cap or a single bayonet make their appearance.
 
 334 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 The very bourgeois who still ventured at this hour of riot to 
 enter the Rue Saint-Denis cast a glance at the Rue de la 
 Chanvrerie, caught sight of the barricade, and redoubled their 
 pace. 
 
 The two barricades being finished, and the flag run up, a 
 table was dragged out of the wine-shop ; and Courfeyrac 
 mounted on the table. Enjolras brought the square coffer, 
 and Courfeyrac opened it. This coffer was filled with car- 
 tridges. When the mob saw the cartridges, a tremor ran 
 through the bravest, and a momentary silence ensued. 
 
 Courfeyrac distributed them with a smile. 
 
 Each one received thirty cartridges. Many had powder, and 
 set about making others with the bullets which they had run. 
 As for the barrel of powder, it stood on a table on one side, 
 near the door, and was held in reserve. 
 
 The alarm beat which ran through all Paris, did not cease, 
 but it had finally come to be nothing more than a monotonous 
 noise to which they no longer paid any attention. This noise 
 retreated at times, and again drew near, with melancholy 
 undulations. 
 
 They loaded the guns and carbines, all together, without 
 haste, with solemn gravity. Enjolras went and stationed three 
 sentinels outside the barricades, one in the Rue de la Chan- 
 vrerie. the second in the Rue des Precheurs, the third at the 
 corner of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie. 
 
 Then, the barricades having been built, the posts assigned, 
 the guns loaded, the sentinels stationed, they waited, alone in 
 those redoubtable streets through which no one passed any 
 longer, surrounded by those dumb houses which seemed dead 
 and in which no human movement palpitated, enveloped in the 
 deepening shades of twilight which was drawing on, in the 
 midst of that silence through which something could be felt 
 advancing, and which had about it something tragic and 
 terrifying, isolated, armed, determined, and tranquil.
 
 CORIXTHE 335 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 WAITING 
 
 DURING those hours of waiting, what did they do? 
 
 We must needs tell, since this is a matter of history. 
 
 While the men made bullets and the women lint, while a 
 large saucepan of melted brass and lead, destined to the bullet- 
 mould smoked over a glowing brazier, while the sentinels 
 watched, weapon in hand, on the barricade, while Enjolras, 
 whom it was impossible to divert, kept an eye on the sentinels, 
 Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, 
 Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and 
 united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in 
 their student life, and, in one corner of this wine-shop which 
 had been converted into a casement, a couple of paces distant 
 from the redoubt which they had built, with their carbines 
 loaded and primed resting against the backs of their chairs, 
 these fine young fellows, so close to a supreme hour, began 
 to recite love verses. 
 
 What verses ? These : 
 
 Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie, 
 
 Lorsquc nous e"tions si jeunes tous deux, 
 Et que nous n'avions au co-ur d'autre envie 
 
 Que d'etre bien mis et d'etre amoureux, 
 
 Lorsqu'en ajoutant votre age a mon age, 
 
 Nous ne comptions pas ft deux quarante ans, 
 
 Et que, dans notre humble et petit manage, 
 Tout, mCme 1'hiver, nous 6tait printempa? 
 
 Beaux jours! Manuel etait fier et sage, 
 
 Paris s'asseyait ft de saints banquets, 
 Foy languit la foudre, et votre corsage 
 
 Avait une Opingle ou je me piquais. 
 
 Tout vous contemplait. Avocat sans causes, 
 
 Quand je vous menais au Prado diner, 
 Vous etiez jolie au point que les roses 
 
 Me faisaient 1'effet de se retourner.
 
 336 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 Je les entendais dire: Est elle belle! 
 
 Comme elle sent bon! Quels cheveux & flots! 
 Sous son mantelet elle cache une aile, 
 
 Son bonnet charmant est 4 peine ecloa. 
 
 J'errais avec toi, pressant ton bras souple. 
 
 Les passants crovaient que 1'amour charm6 
 Avait marie", dans notre heureux couple, 
 
 Le doux mois d'avril au beau mois de mai. 
 
 Nous vivions caches, contents, porte close, 
 De"vorant 1'amour, bon fruit de"fendu, 
 
 Ma bouche n'avait pas dit une chose 
 Que de"ja ton cocur avait r<pondu. 
 
 La Sorbonne e"tait 1'endroit bucolique 
 
 Ou je t'adorais du soir au matin. 
 C'est ainsi qu'une aiue amoureuse applique 
 
 La carte du Tendre au pays Latin. 
 
 O place Maubert! 6 place Dauphine! 
 
 Quand, dans le taudis frais et printanier, 
 Tu tirais ton bas sur ton jambe fine, 
 
 Je voyais un astre au fond du grenier. 
 
 J'ai fort lu Platon, mais rien ne m'en reste; 
 
 Mieux que Malebranche et que Lamennais, 
 Tu me de*montrais la bonte" celeste 
 
 Avec une ileur que tu me donnais. 
 
 Je t'obissais, tu m' e"tais soumise; 
 
 O grenier dorC! te lacer! te voir 
 Aller et venir des 1'aube en chemise, 
 
 Mirant ton jeune front a ton vieux miroir. 
 
 Et qui done pourrait perde la me"moire 
 De ces temps d'aurore et de firmament, 
 
 De rubans, de fleurs, de gaze et de moire, 
 Ou 1'amour be"gaye un argot charmant? 
 
 Nos jardins taient un pot de tulipe; 
 
 Tu masquais la vitre avec un jupon; 
 Je prenais le bol de terre de pipe, 
 
 Et je te donnais le tasse en japon. 
 
 Et ces grands malheurs qui nous faisaient rire! 
 
 Ton manchon brllle", ton boa perdu! 
 Et ce cher portrait du divin Shakespeare 
 
 Qu'un soir pour souper nons avons vendul
 
 CORIXTIIE 337 
 
 mcndiant et toi charitable. 
 Je baisais au vol tes bras frais et ronda. 
 Dante in folio nous servait de table 
 
 Four manger gatment un cent de marroni. 
 
 La premiere fois qu'en mon joyeux bouge 
 
 Je pris un baiser a ton levre en feu, 
 Quand tu t'en allais de'coiffe'e et rouge, 
 
 Je restai tout pule et je crua en Dieu! 
 
 Te rappelles-tu nos bonheurs sans nombre, 
 
 Et tons ces fichus change's en chiffons? 
 Oh que de soupirs, de nos ca-urs pleins d'ombre, 
 
 Se sont envole's dans les cieux profonds!' 
 
 'Do you remember our sweet life, when we were both so young, and 
 when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well dressed and 
 in love? When, by adding your age to my age, we could not count 
 forty years between us, and when, in our humble and tiny house- 
 hold, everything was spring to us even in winter. Fair days! 
 Manuel was proud and wise, Paris sat at sacred banquet*, Foy 
 launched thunderbolts, and your corsage had a pin on which I 
 pricked myself. Everything gazed upon you. A briefless lawyer, 
 when 1 took you to the Prado to dine, you were so beautiful that 
 the roses seemed to me to turn round, and I heard them say: Is 
 she not beautiful! How good she smells! What billowing hair! 
 Beneath her mantle she hides a wing. Her charming bonnet id 
 hardly unfolded. I wandered with thee, pressing thy supple arm. 
 The passers-by thought that love bewitched had wedded, in our 
 happy couple, the gentle month of April to the fair month of May. 
 We lived concealed, content, with closed doors, devouring love, that 
 sweet forbidden fruit. My mouth had not uttered a thing when thy 
 heart had already responded. The Sorbonne was the bucolic spot 
 where I adored thee from eve till morn. Tis thus that an amorous 
 soul applies the chart of the Tender to the Latin country. <) 
 Place Maubert! O Place Dauphine! When in the fresh spring- 
 like hut thou didst draw thy stocking on thy delicate leg, I saw 
 a star in the depths of the garret. 1 have read a great deal of 
 Plato, but nothing of it remains by me; better than Malebranehe 
 and then Lamennais thou didst demonstrate to me celestial irood- 
 
 1 thee, thou 
 behold thee 
 t thy young 
 1 forego the 
 f llowcrs. of 
 
 gau/.e and of moire, when love stammers a charming slang? Our 
 gardens consisted of a pot of tulips; thou didst mask the window 
 with thy petticoat; I took the earthenware bowl and I gave thee 
 the Japanese cup. And those great misfortunes which made us 
 laugh! Thy cuff scorched, thy boa lost! And that dear portrait of 
 
 ness with a flower which thou pa vest to me. I obey( 
 didst submit to me; oh gilded garret! to lace thee! t( 
 going and coming from dawn in thy chemise, ga/.ing : 
 brow in thine ancient mirror! And who, then, woul 
 memory of those days of aurora and the firmament, <
 
 338 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 The hour, the spot, these souvenirs of youth recalled, a few 
 stars which began to twinkle in the sky, the funeral repose of 
 those deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable adven- 
 ture, which was in preparation, gave a pathetic charm to these 
 verses murmured in a low tone in the dusk by Jean Prouvaire, 
 who, as we have said, was a gentle poet. 
 
 In the meantime, a lamp had been lighted in the small 
 barricade, and in the large one, one of those wax torches such 
 as are to be met with on Shrove-Tuesday in front of vehicles 
 loaded with masks, on their way to la Courtille. These 
 torches, as the reader has seen, came from the Faubourg 
 Saint-Antoine. 
 
 The torch had been placed in a sort of cage of paving-stones 
 closed on three sides to shelter it from the wind, and disposed 
 in such a fashion that all the light fell on the flag. The street 
 and the barricade remained sunk in gloom, and nothing was to 
 be seen except the red flag formidably illuminated as by an 
 enormous dark-lantern. 
 
 This light enhanced the scarlet of the flag, with an inde- 
 scribable and terrible purple. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE MAN RECRUITED IN THE RUE DES BILLETTES 
 
 NIGHT was fully come, nothing made its appearance. All 
 that they heard was confused noises, and at intervals, fusil- 
 lades ; but these were rare, badly sustained and distant. This 
 respite, which was thus prolonged, was a sign that the Govern- 
 
 the divine Shakespeare which we sold one evening that we might 
 sup! I was a beggar and thou wert charitable. I kissed thy fresh 
 round arms in haste. A folio Danto served us as a table on which 
 to eat merrily a centime's worth of chestnuts. The first time that, 
 in my joyous den, I snatched a kiss from thy fiery lip, when thou 
 wontest forth, dishevelled and blushing, I turned deathly pale and 
 I believed in God. Dost thou recall our innumerable joys, and all 
 those fichus changed to rags? Oh! what sighs from our hearts full 
 of gloom fluttered forth to the heavenly depths!
 
 CORINTIIE 339 
 
 ment was taking its time, and collecting its forces. These fifty 
 men were waiting for sixty thousand. 
 
 Enjolras felt attacked by that impatience which seizes on 
 strong souls on the threshold of redoubtable events. He went 
 in search of Gavroche, who had set to making cartridges in the 
 tap-room, by the dubious light of two candles placed on the 
 counter by way of precaution, on account of the powder which 
 was scattered on the tables. These two candles cast no gleam 
 outside. The insurgents had, moreover, taken pains not to 
 have any light in the upper stories. 
 
 Gavroche was deeply preoccupied at that moment, but not 
 precisely with his cartridges. The man of the Rue des Bil- 
 lettes had just entered the tap-room and had seated himself 
 at the table which was the least lighted. A musket of large 
 model had fallen to his share, and he held it between his 
 legs. Gavroche. who had been, up to that moment, dis- 
 tracted by a hundred "amusing" things, had not even seen 
 this man. 
 
 When he entered, Gavroche followed him mechanically with 
 his eyes, admiring his gun ; then, all at once, when the man 
 was seated, the street urchin sprang to his feet. Any one who 
 had spied upon that man up to that moment, would have seen 
 that he was observing everything in the barricade and in the 
 band of insurgents, with singular attention; but, from the 
 moment when he had entered this room, he had fallen into a 
 sort of brown study, and no longer seemed to see anything 
 that was going on. The gamin approached this pensive 
 personage, and began to step around him on tiptoe, as one 
 walks in the vicinity of a person whom one is afraid of waking. 
 At the same time, over his childish countenance, which was, 
 at once so impudent and so serious, so giddy and so profound, 
 so gay and so heart-breaking, passed all those grimaces of an 
 old man which signify : Ah bah ! impossible ! My sight is bad ! 
 I am dreaming! can this be? no, it is not ! but yos ! why. no! 
 etc. Gavroche balanced on his heels, clenched both fists in his 
 pockets, moved his neck around like a bird, expended in a 
 gigantic pout all the sagacity of his lower lip. He was
 
 340 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 astounded, uncertain, incredulous, convinced, dazzled. He 
 had the mien of the chief of the eunuchs in the slave mart, 
 discovering a Venus among the blowsy females, and the air of 
 an amateur recognizing a Raphael in a heap of daubs. His 
 whole being was at work, the instinct which scents out, and 
 the intelligence which combines. It was evident that a great 
 event had happened in Gavroche's life. 
 
 It was at the most intense point of this preoccupation that 
 Enjolras accosted him. 
 
 "You are small," said Enjolras, "you will not be seen. Go 
 out of the barricade, slip along close to the houses, skirmish 
 about a bit in the streets, and come back and tell me what is 
 going on." 
 
 Gavroche raised himself on his haunches. 
 
 "So the little chaps are good for something! that's very 
 lucky ! I'l go ! In the meanwhile, trust to the little fellows, 
 and distrust the big ones." And Gavroche, raising his head 
 and lowering his voice, added, as he indicated the man of the 
 Rue des Billettes: 
 
 "Do you see that big fellow there?" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "He's a police spy." 
 
 "Are you sure of it ?" 
 
 "It isn't two weeks since he pulled me off the cornice of the 
 Port Royal, where I was taking the air, by my ear." 
 
 Enjolras hastily quitted the urchin and murmured a few 
 words in a very low tone to a longshoreman from the wine- 
 docks who chanced to be at hand. The man left the room, and 
 returned almost immediately, accompanied by three others. 
 The four men, four porters with broad shoulders, went and 
 placed themselves without doing anything to attract his atten- 
 tion, behind the table on which the man of the Rue des Bil- 
 lettes was leaning with his elbows. They were evidently ready 
 to hurl themselves upon him. 
 
 Then Enjolras approached the man and demanded o' 
 him: 
 
 "Who are you?"
 
 CORINTHE 341 
 
 At this abrupt query, the man started. He plunged his gaze 
 deep into Enjolras' clear eyes and appeared to grasp the 
 latter's meaning. He smiled with a smile than which nothing 
 more disdainful, more energetic, and more resolute could be 
 seen in the world, and replied with haughty gravity: 
 
 "I see what it is. Well, yes !" 
 
 "You are a police spy?" 
 
 "I am an agent of the authorities." 
 
 "And your name?" 
 
 "Javert." 
 
 Enjolras made a sign to the four men. In the twinkling of 
 an eye, before Javert had time to turn round, he was collared, 
 thrown down, pinioned and searched. 
 
 They found on him a little round card pasted between two 
 pieces of glass, and bearing on one side the arms of France, 
 engraved, and with this motto : Supervision and vigilance, and 
 on the other this note: "JAVEUT, inspector of police, aged 
 fifty-two," and the signature of the Prefect of Police of that 
 day, M. Gisquet. 
 
 Besides this, he had his watch and his purse, which con- 
 tained several gold pieces. They left him his purse and his 
 watch. Under the watch, at the bottom of his fob, they felt 
 and seized a paper in an envelope, which Enjolras unfolded, 
 and on which he read these five lines, written in the very 
 hand of the Prefect of Police: 
 
 "As soon as his political mission is accomplished, Inspector 
 Javert will make sure, by special supervision, whether it is 
 true that the malefactors have instituted intrigues on the 
 right bank of the Seine, near the Jena bridge." 
 
 The search ended, they lifted Javert to his feet, bound his 
 arms behind hi? back, and fastened him to that celebrated 
 post in the middle of the room which had formerly given the 
 wine-shop its name. 
 
 Gavroche, who had looked on at the whole of this scene and 
 had approved of everything with a silent toss of his head, 
 stepped up to Javert and said to him : 
 
 "It's the mouse who has caught the cat."
 
 342 8AIXT-DENIB 
 
 All this was so rapidly executed, that it was all over when 
 those about the wine-shop noticed it. 
 
 Javert had not uttered a single cry. 
 
 At the sight of Javert bound to the post. Courfeyrac, Bos- 
 suet, Joly, Combeferre, and the men scattered over the two 
 barricades came running up_ 
 
 Javert, with his back to the post, and so surrounded with 
 ropes that he could not make a movement, raised his head 
 with the intrepid serenity of the man who has never lied. 
 
 "He is a police spy/' said Enjolras. 
 
 And turning to Javert: "You will be shot ten minutes 
 before the barricade is taken." 
 
 Javert replied in his most imperious tone:- 
 
 "Why not at once ?" 
 
 "We are saving our powder." 
 
 "Then finish the business with a blow from a knife." 
 
 "Spy," said the handsome Enjolras, "we are judges and not 
 assassins." 
 
 Then he called Gavroche : 
 
 "Here you ! go about your business ! Do what I told you !'* 
 
 "I'm going !" cried Gavroche. 
 
 And halting as he was on the point of setting out : 
 
 "By the way, you will give me his gun !" and he added : "1 
 leave you the musician, but I want the clarionet." 
 
 The gamin made the military salute and passed gayly 
 through the opening in the large barricade. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 MANY INTERROGATION POINTS WITH REGARD TO A CERTAIN 
 LE CABUC WHOSE NAME MAY NOT HAVE BEEN LE CABUC 
 
 THE tragic picture which we have undertaken would not be 
 complete, the reader would not see those grand moments of 
 social birth-pangs in a revolutionary birth, which contain con- 
 vulsion mingled with effort, in their exact and real relief,
 
 CORINTHE 343 
 
 were we to omit, in the sketch here outlined, an incident full 
 of epic and savage horror which occurred almost immediately 
 after Gavroche's departure. 
 
 Mobs, as the reader knows, are like a snowball, and collect 
 as they roll along, a throng of tumultuous men. These men 
 do not ask each other whence they come. Among the passers- 
 by who had joined the rabble led by Enjolras, Combeferre, and 
 Courfeyrac, there had been a person wearing the jacket of a 
 street porter, which was very threadbare on the shoulders, who 
 gesticulated and vociferated, and who had the look of a 
 drunken savage. This man, whose name or nickname was 
 Le Cabuc, and who was, moreover, an utter stranger to those 
 who pretended to know him, was very drunk, or assumed the 
 appearance of being so, and had seated himself with several 
 others at a table which they had dragged outside of the wine- 
 shop. This Cabuc, while making those who vied with him 
 drunk, seemed to be examining with a thoughtful air the large 
 house at the extremity of the barricade, whose five stories 
 commanded the whole street and faced the Rue Saint-Denis. 
 All at once he exclaimed: 
 
 "Do you know, comrades, it is from that house yonder that 
 we must fire. When we are at the windows, the deuce is in it 
 if any one can advance into the street !" 
 
 "Yes, but the house is closed," said one of the drinkers. 
 
 "Let us knock !" 
 
 "They will not open/' 
 
 "Let us break in the door !" 
 
 Le Cabuc runs to the door, which had a very massive 
 knocker, and knocks. The door opens not. He strikes a 
 second blow. No one answers. A third stroke. The same 
 silence. 
 
 "Is there any one here?" shouts Cabuc. 
 
 Nothing stirs. 
 
 Then he seizes a gun and begins to batter the door with the 
 butt end. 
 
 It was an ancient alley door, low, vaulted, narrow, solid, 
 entirely of oak, lined on the inside with a sheet of iron and
 
 344 SA1XT-DENIS 
 
 iron stays, a genuine prison postern. The blows from the butt 
 end of the gun made the house tremble, but did not shake the 
 door. 
 
 Nevertheless, it is probable that the inhabitants were dis- 
 turbed, for a tiny, square window was finally seen to open on 
 the third story, and at this aperture appeared the reverend and 
 terrified face of a gray-haired old man, who was the porter, 
 and who held a candle. 
 
 The man who was knocking paused. 
 
 "Gentlemen," said the porter, "what do you want?" 
 
 "Open !" said Cabuc. 
 
 "That cannot be, gentlemen." 
 
 "Open, nevertheless." 
 
 "Impossible, gentlemen." 
 
 Le Cabuc took his gun and aimed at the porter; but as he 
 was below, and as it was very dark, the porter did not see him. 
 
 "Will you open, yes or no?" 
 
 "No, gentlemen." 
 
 "Do you say no?" 
 
 "I say no, my good " 
 
 The porter did not finish. The shot was fired; the ball 
 entered under his chin and came out at the nape of his neck, 
 after traversing the jugular vein. 
 
 The old man fell back without a sigh. The candle fell and 
 was extinguished, and nothing more was to be seen except a 
 motionless head lying on the sill of the small window, and a 
 little whitish smoke which floated off towards the roof. 
 
 "There !" said Le Cabuc, dropping the butt end of his gun 
 to the pavement. 
 
 lie had hardly uttered this word, when he felt a hand laid 
 on his shoulder with the weight of an eagle's talon, and he 
 heard a voice saying to him : 
 
 "On your knees." 
 
 The murderer turned round and saw before him Enjolras' 
 cold, white face. 
 
 Enjolras held a pistol in his hand. 
 
 He had hastened up at the sound of the discharge.
 
 CORIXTHE 345 
 
 He had seized Cabuc's collar, blouse, shirt, and suspender 
 with his left hand. 
 
 "On your knees !" he repeated. 
 
 And, with an imperious motion, the frail young man of 
 twenty years bent the thickset and sturdy porter like a reed, 
 and brought him to his knees in the mire. 
 
 Le Cabuc attempted to resist, but he seemed to have been 
 seized by a superhuman hand. 
 
 Enjolras, pale, with bare neck and dishevelled hair, and his 
 woman's face, had about him at that moment something of the 
 antique Themis. His dilated nostrils, his downcast eyes, gave 
 to his implacable Greek profile that expression of wrath and 
 that expression of Chastity which, as the ancient world viewed 
 the matter, befit Justice. 
 
 The whole barricade hastened up, then all ranged them- 
 selves in a circle at a distance, feeling that it was impossible 
 to utter a word in the presence of the thing which they were 
 about to behold. 
 
 Le Cabuc, vanquished, no longer tried to struggle, and 
 trembled in every limb. 
 
 Enjolras released him and drew out his watch. 
 
 "Collect yourself," said he. "Think or pray. You have 
 one minute." 
 
 "Mercy !" murmured the murderer ; then he dropped his 
 head and stammered a few inarticulate oaths. 
 
 Enjolras never took his eyes off of him : he allowed a minute 
 to pass, then he replaced his watch in his fob. That done, he 
 grasped Le Cabuc by the hair, as the latter coiled himself into 
 a ball at his knees and shrieked, and placed the muzzle of the 
 pistol to his ear. Many of those intrepid men, who had so 
 tranquilly entered upon the most terrible of adventures, 
 turned aside their heads. 
 
 An explosion was heard, the assassin fell to the pavement 
 face downwards. 
 
 Enjolras straightened himself up, and cast a convinced and 
 severe glance around him. Then he spurned the corpse with 
 his foot and said :
 
 346 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "Throw that outside." 
 
 Three men raised the body of the unhappy wretch, which 
 was still agitated by the last mechanical convulsions of the 
 life that had fled, and flung it over the little barricade into 
 the Eue Mondetour. 
 
 Enjolras was thoughtful. It is impossible to say what 
 grandiose shadows slowly spread over his redoubtable serenity. 
 All at once he raised his voice. 
 
 A silence fell upon them. 
 
 "Citizens," said Enjolras, "what that man did is frightful, 
 what I have done is horrible. He killed, therefore I killed 
 him. I had to do it, because insurrection must have its dis- 
 cipline. Assassination is even more of a crime here than 
 elsewhere; we are under the eyes of the Revolution, we 
 are the priests of the Republic, we are the victims of 
 duty, and must not be possible to slander our combat. 
 I have, therefore, tried that man, and condemned him to 
 death. As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I 
 have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself 
 also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned 
 myself." 
 
 Those who listened to him shuddered. 
 
 "We will share thy fate," cried Combeferre. 
 
 "So be it," replied Enjolras. "One word more. In exe- 
 cuting this man, I have obeyed necessity ; but necessity is a 
 monster of the old world, necessity's name is Fatality. Now, 
 the law of progress is, that monsters shall disappear before the 
 angels, and that Fatality shall vanish before Fraternity. It is 
 a bad moment to pronounce the word love. No matter, I tlo 
 pronounce it. And I glorify it. Love, the future is thine. 
 Death, I make use of thee, but I hate thee. Citizens, in the 
 future there will be neither darkness nor thunderbolts ; neither 
 ferocious ignorance, nor bloody retaliation. As there will be 
 no more Satan, there will be no more Michael. In the future 
 no one will kill any one else, the earth will beam with radi- 
 ance, the human race will love. The day will come, citizens, 
 when all will be concord, harmony, light, joy and life; it
 
 CORINTHE 347 
 
 will come, and it is in order that it may come that we are 
 about to die." 
 
 Enjolras ceased. His virgin lips closed; and he remained 
 for some time standing on the spot where he had shed blood, 
 in marble immobility. His staring eye caused those about him 
 to speak in low tones. 
 
 Jean Prouvaire and Combeferre pressed each other's hands 
 silently, and, leaning against each other in an angle of the 
 barricade, they watched with an admiration in which there was 
 some compassion, that grave young man, executioner and 
 priest, composed of light, like crystal, and also of rock. 
 
 Let us say at once that later on, after the action, when the 
 bodies were taken to the morgue and searched, a police agent's 
 card was found on Le Cabuc. The author of this book had in 
 his hands, in 1848, the special report on this subject made to 
 the Prefect of Police in 1832. 
 
 We will add, that if we are to believe a tradition of the 
 police, which is strange but probably well founded, Le Cabuc 
 was Claquesous. The fact is, that dating from the death of 
 Le Cabuc, there was no longer any question of Claquesous. 
 Claquesous had nowhere left any trace of his disappearance ; 
 he would seem to have amalgamated himself with the invisible. 
 His life had been all shadows, his end was night. 
 
 The whole insurgent group was still under the influence of 
 the emotion of that tragic case which had been so quickly 
 tried and so quickly terminated, when Courfeyrac again be- 
 held on the barricade, the small young man who had inquired 
 of him that morning for Marius. 
 
 This lad, who had a bold and reckless air, had come by 
 night to join the insurgents.
 
 BOOK THIRTEENTH. MARIUS ENTERS THE 
 SHADOW 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 FROM THE RUE PLUMET TO THE QUARTIER SAINT-DENIS 
 
 THE voice which had summoned Marius through the twi- 
 light to the barricade of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, had pro- 
 duced on him the effect of the voice of destiny. He wished 
 to die; the opportunity presented itself; he knocked at the 
 door of the tomb, a hand in the darkness offered him the key. 
 These melancholy openings which take place in the gloom 
 before despair, are tempting. Marius thrust aside the bar 
 which had so often allowed him to pass, emerged from the 
 garden, and said : "I will go." 
 
 Mad with grief, no longer conscious of anything fixed or 
 solid in his brain, incapable of accepting anything thenceforth 
 of fate after those two months passed in the intoxication of 
 youth and love, overwhelmed at once by all the reveries of 
 despair, he had but one desire remaining, to make a speedy 
 end of all. 
 
 He set out at rapid pace. He found himself most oppor- 
 tunely armed, as he had Javert's pistols with him. 
 
 The young man of whom he thought that he had caught a 
 glimpse, had vanished from his sight in the street. 
 
 Marius, who had emerged from the Rue Plumet by the 
 boulevard, traversed the Esplanade and the bridge of the 
 Invalides, the Champs filysees, the Place Louis XV., and 
 reached the Rue de Rivoli. The shops were open there, the 
 gas was burning under the arcades, women were making their 
 purchases in the stalls, people were eating ices in the Cafe
 
 MARIU8 ENTEKS THE KllADOW ,349 
 
 Laiter, and nibbling small cakes at the English pastry-cook's 
 shop. Only a few posting-chaises were setting out at a gallop 
 from the Hotel dos Princes and the Hotel Meurice. 
 
 Marius entered the Rue Saint-Honore through the Passage 
 Delorme. There the shops were closed, the merchants were 
 chatting in front of their half-open doors, people were walk- 
 ing about, the street lanterns were lighted, beginning with 
 the first floor, all the windows were lighted as usual. There 
 was cavalry on the Place du Palais-Royal. 
 
 Marius followed the Rue Saint-Honore. In proportion as 
 he left the Palais-Royal behind him, there were fewer lighted 
 windows, the shops were fast shut, no one was chatting on 
 the thresholds, the street grew sombre, and, at the same time, 
 the crowd increased in density. For the passers-by now 
 amounted to a crowd. No one could be seen to speak in this 
 throng, and yet there arose from it a dull, deep murmur. 
 
 Near the fountain of the Arbre-Sec, there were "assem- 
 blages" motionless and gloomy groups which were to those 
 who went and came as stones in the midst of running water. 
 
 At the entrance to the Rue des Prouvaires, the crowd no 
 longer walked. It formed a resisting, massive, solid, com- 
 pact, almost impenetrable block of people who were huddled 
 together, and conversing in low tones. There were hardly 
 any black coats or round hats now, but smock frocks, blouses, 
 caps, and bristling and cadaverous heads. This multitude 
 undulated confusedly in the nocturnal gloom. Its whisper- 
 ings had the hoarse accent of a vibration. Although not one 
 of them was walking, a dull trampling was audible in the 
 mire. Beyond this dense portion of the throng, in the Rue du 
 Roule, in the Rue des Prouvaires, and in the extension of the 
 Rue Saint-Honore, there was no longer a single window in 
 which a candle was burning. Only the solitary and dimin- 
 ishing rows of lanterns could be seen vanishing into the street 
 in the distance. The lanterns of that date resembled large 
 red stars, hanging to ropes, and shed upon the pavement a 
 shadow which had the form of a huge spider. These streets 
 were not deserted. There could be descried piles of guns,
 
 350 8AI\T-DEX18 
 
 moving bayonets, and troops bivouacking. No curious ob- 
 server passed that limit. There circulation ceased. There 
 the rabble ended and the army began. 
 
 Mar i us willed with the will of a man who hopes no more. 
 He had been summoned, he must go. He found a means to 
 traverse the throng and to pass the bivouac of the troops, he 
 shunned the patrols, he avoided the sentinels. He made a 
 circuit, reached the Rue de Bethisy, and directed his course 
 towards the Halles. At the corner of the Rue des Bourdon- 
 nais, there were no longer any lanterns. 
 
 After having passed the zone of the crowd, he had passed 
 the limits of the troops ; he found himself in something start- 
 ling. There was no longer a passer-by, no longer a soldier, 
 no longer a light, there was no one ; solitude, silence, night, I 
 know not what chill which seized hold upon one. Entering 
 a street was like entering a cellar. 
 
 He continued to advance. 
 
 He took a few steps. Some one passed close to him at a 
 run. Was it a man? Or a woman? Were there many of 
 them ? he could not have told. It had passed and vanished. 
 
 Proceeding from circuit to circuit, he reached a lane which 
 he judged to be the Rue de la Poterie ; near the middle of this 
 street, he came in contact with an obstacle. He extended 
 his hands. It was an overturned wagon; his foot recognized 
 pools of water, gullies, and paving-stones scattered and piled 
 up. A barricade had been begun there and abandoned. He 
 climbed over the stones and found himself on the other side of 
 the barrier. He walked very near the street-posts, and 
 guided himself along the walls of the houses. A little beyond 
 the barricade, it seemed to him that he could make out some- 
 thing white in front of him. He approached, it took on a 
 form. It was two white horses; the horses of the omnibus 
 harnessed by Bossuet in the morning, who had been straying 
 at random all day from street to street, and had finally halted 
 there, with the weary patience of brutes who no more under- 
 stand the actions of men, than man understands the actions of 
 Providence.
 
 MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW 35 
 
 Marius left the horses behind him. As he was approaching 
 a street which seemed to him to be the Rue du Contrat-Social, 
 a shot coming no one knows whence, and traversing the dark- 
 ness at random, whistled close by him, and the bullet pierced 
 a brass shaving-dish suspended above his head over a hair- 
 dresser's shop. This pierced shaving-dish was still to be seen 
 in 1848, in the Rue du Contrat-Social, at the corner of the 
 pillars of the market. 
 
 This shot still betokened life. From that instant forth he 
 encountered nothing more. 
 
 The whole of this itinerary resembled a descent of black 
 steps. 
 
 Nevertheless, Marius pressed forward. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 AN OWL'S VIEW OF PARIS 
 
 A BEING who could have hovered over Paris that night with 
 the wing of the bat or the owl would have had beneath his eyes 
 a gloomy spectacle. 
 
 All that old quarter of the Halles, which is like a city 
 within a city, through which run the Rues Saint-Denis and 
 Saint-Martin, where a thousand lanes cross, and of which the 
 insurgents had made their redoubt and their stronghold, 
 would have appeared to him like a dark and enormous cavity 
 hollowed out in the centre of Paris. There the glance fell 
 into an abyss. Thanks to the broken lanterns, thanks to the 
 closed windows, there all radiance, all life, all sound, all 
 movement ceased. The invisible police of the insurrection 
 were on the watch everywhere, and maintained order, that 
 is to say, night. The necessary tactics of insurrection are to 
 drown small numbers in a vast obscurity, to multiply every 
 combatant by the possibilities which that obscurity contains. 
 At dusk, every window where a candle was burning received a 
 shot. The light was extinguished, sometimes the inhabitant
 
 352 
 
 was killed. Hence nothing was stirring. There was noth- 
 ing but fright, mourning, stupor in the houses; and in the 
 streets, a sort of sacred horror. Not even the long rows of 
 windows and stores, the indentations of the chimneys, and the 
 roofs, and the vague reflections which are cast back by the 
 wet and muddy pavements, were visible. An eye cast upward 
 at that mass of shadows might, perhaps, have caught a glimpse 
 here and there, at intervals, of indistinct gleams which 
 brought out broken and eccentric lines, and profiles of sin- 
 gular buildings, something like the lights which go and come 
 in ruins; it was at such points that the barricades were sit- 
 uated. The rest was a lake of obscurity, foggy, heavy, and 
 funereal, above which, in motionless and melancholy out- 
 lines, rose the tower of Saint-Jacques, the church of Saint- 
 Merry, and two or three more of those grand edifices of which 
 man makes giants and the night makes phantoms. 
 
 All around this deserted and disquieting labyrinth, in the 
 quarters where the Parisian circulation had not been anni- 
 hilated, and where a few street lanterns still burned, the aerial 
 observer might have distinguished the metallic gleam of 
 swords and bayonets, the dull rumble of artillery, and the 
 swarming of silent battalions whose ranks were swelling from 
 minute to minute; a formidable girdle which was slowly 
 drawing in and around the insurrection. 
 
 The invested quarter was no longer anything more than 
 a monstrous cavern; everything there appeared to be asleep 
 or motionless, and, as we have just seen, any street which 
 one might come to offered nothing but darkness. 
 
 A wild darkness, full of traps, full of unseen and for- 
 midable shocks, into which it was alarming to penetrate, and 
 in which it was terrible to remain, where those who entered 
 shivered before those whom they awaited, where those who 
 waited shuddered before those who were coming. Invisible 
 combatants were intrenched at every corner of the street; 
 snares of the sepulchre concealed in the density of night. All 
 was over. No more light was to be hoped for, henceforth, 
 except the lightning of guns, no further encounter except
 
 AIAIUU8 ENTERS THE SHADOW 353 
 
 the abrupt and rapid apparition of death. Where? How? 
 When? No one knew, but it was certain and inevitable. In 
 this place which had been marked out for the struggle, the 
 Government and the insurrection, the National Guard, and 
 popular societies, the bourgeois and the uprising, groping 
 their way, were about to come into contact. The necessity 
 was the same for both. The only possible issue thenceforth 
 was to emerge thence killed or conquerors. A situation so 
 extreme, an obscurity so powerful, that the most timid felt 
 themselves seized with resolution, and the most daring with 
 terror. 
 
 Moreover, on both sides, the fury, the rage, and the deter- 
 mination were equal. For the one party, to advance meant 
 death, and no one dreamed of retreating; for the other, to 
 remain meant death, and no one dreamed of flight. 
 
 It was indispensable that all should be ended on the fol- 
 lowing day, that triumph should rest either here or there, that 
 the insurrection should prove itself a revolution or a skirmish. 
 The Government understood this as well as the parties; the 
 most insignificant bourgeois felt it. Hence a thought of an- 
 guish which mingled with the impenetrable gloom of this 
 quarter where all was at the point of being decided ; hence a 
 redoubled anxiety around that silence whence a catastrophe 
 was on the point of emerging. Here only one sound was 
 audible, a sound as heart-rending as the death rattle, as 
 menacing as a malediction, the tocsin of Saint-Merry. Noth- 
 ing could be more blood-curdling than the clamor of that 
 wild and desperate bell, wailing amid the shadows. 
 
 As it often happens, nature seemed to have fallen into 
 accord with what men were about to do. Nothing disturbed 
 the harmony of the whole effect. The stars had disappeared, 
 heavy clouds filled the horizon with their melancholy folds. 
 A black sky rested on these dead streets, as though an im- 
 mense winding-sheet were being outspread over this immense 
 tomb. 
 
 While a battle that was still wholly political was in prep- 
 aration in the same locality which had already witnessed so
 
 354 8AIST-DEXIB 
 
 many revolutionary events, while youth, the secret associa- 
 tions, the schools, in the name of principles, and the middle 
 classes, in the name of interests, were approaching prepara- 
 tory to dashing themselves together, clasping and throwing 
 each other, while each one hastened and invited the last and 
 decisive hour of the crisis, far away and quite outside of this 
 fatal quarter, in the most profound depths of the unfathom- 
 able cavities of that wretched old Paris which disappears 
 under the splendor of happy and opulent Paris, the sombre 
 voice of the people could be heard giving utterance to a dull 
 roar. 
 
 A fearful and sacred voice which is composed of the roar 
 of the brute and of the word of God, which terrifies the 
 weak arid which warns the wise, which comes both from 
 below like the voice of the lion, and from on high like the 
 voice of the thunder. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE EXTREME EDGE 
 
 MARIUS had reached the Halles. 
 
 There everything was still calmer, more obscure and more 
 motionless than in the neighboring streets. One would have 
 said that the glacial peace of the sepulchre had sprung forth 
 from the earth and had spread over the heavens. 
 
 Nevertheless, a red glow brought out against this black 
 background the lofty roofs of the houses which barred the 
 Rue de la Chanvrerie on the Saint-Eustache side. It was the re- 
 flection of the torch which was burning in the Corinthe barri- 
 cade. Marius directed his steps towards that red light. It had 
 drawn him to the Marche-aux-Poirees, and he caught a 
 glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Precheurs. He 
 entered it. The insurgents' sentinel, who was guarding the 
 other end, did not see him. He felt that he was very close 
 to that which he had come in search of, and he walked on tip-
 
 MARIUS ENTERS THE till A DOW 355 
 
 toe. In this manner he reached the elbow of that short sec- 
 tion of the Rue Mondetour which was, as the reader will re- 
 member, the only communication which Enjolras had pre- 
 served with the outside world. At the corner of the last 
 house, on his left, he thrust his head forward, and looked 
 into the fragment of the Rue Mondetour. 
 
 A little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la 
 Chanvrerie which cast a broad curtain of shadow, in which 
 he was himself engulfed, he perceived some light on the pave- 
 ment, a bit of the wine-shop, and beyond, a flickering lamp 
 within a sort of shapeless wall, and men crouching down with 
 guns on their knees. All this was ten fathoms distant from 
 him. It was the interior of the barricade. 
 
 The houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed 
 the rest of the wine-shop, the large barricade, and the flag 
 from him. 
 
 Marius had but a step more to take. 
 
 Then the unhappy young man seated himself on a post, 
 folded his arms, and fell to thinking about his father. 
 
 He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy. who had been 
 so proud a soldier, who had guarded the frontier of France 
 under the Republic, and had touched the frontier of Asia 
 under Napoleon, who had beheld Genoa, Alexandria, Milan, 
 Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who had 
 left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops of that 
 same blood, which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown 
 gray before his time in discipline and command, who had 
 lived with his sword-belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his 
 breast, his cockade blackened with powder, his brow furrowed 
 with his helmet, in barracks, in camp, in the bivouac, in 
 ambulances, and who, at the expiration of twenty years, had 
 returned from the great wars with a scarred chock, a smiling 
 countenance, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having 
 done everything for France and nothing against her. 
 
 He said to himself that his day had also come now, that 
 his hour had struck, that following his father, he too was 
 about to show himself brave, intrepid, bold, to run to meet
 
 356 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 the bullets, to offer his breast to bayonets, to shed his blood, 
 to seek the enemy, to seek death, that he was about to wage 
 war in his turn and descend to the field of battle, and that the 
 field of battle upon which he was to descend was the street, 
 and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil 
 war! 
 
 He beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him, and 
 into this he was about to fall. Then he shuddered. 
 
 He thought of his father's sword, which his grandfather had 
 sold to a second-hand dealer, and which he had so mournfully 
 regretted. He said to himself that that chaste and valiant 
 sword had done well to escape from him, and to depart in 
 wrath into the gloom ; that if it had thus fled, it was because 
 it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the future ; that 
 it had had a presentiment of this rebellion, the war of the 
 gutters, the war of the pavements, fusillades through cellar- 
 windows, blows given and received in the rear ; it was because, 
 coming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not wish to go 
 to the Rue de la Chanvrerie ; it was because, after what it 
 had done with the father, it did not wish to do this for the 
 son! He told himself that if that sword were there, if after 
 taking possession of it at his father's pillow, he had dared 
 to take it and carry it off for this combat of darkness between 
 Frenchmen in the streets, it would assuredly have scorched 
 his hands and burst out aflame before his eyes, like the sword 
 of the angel ! He told himself that it was fortunate that 
 it was not there and that it had disappeared, that that was 
 well, that that was just, that his grandfather had been the 
 true guardian of his father's glory, and that it was far better 
 that the colonel's sword should be sold at auction, sold to the 
 old-clothes man, thrown among the old junk, than that it 
 should, to-day, wound the side of his country. 
 
 And then he fell to weeping bitterly. 
 
 This was horrible. But what was he to do? Live without 
 Cosette he could not. Since she was gone, he must needs 
 die. Had he not given her his word of honor that he would 
 die ? She had gone knowing that ; this meant that it pleased
 
 MARWS ENTERS THE SHADOW 357 
 
 her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that she no 
 longer loved him, since she had departed thus without warn- 
 ing, without a word, without a letter, although she knew his 
 address! What was the good of living, and why should he 
 live now? And then, what! should he retreat after going so 
 far? should he flee from danger after having approached it? 
 should he slip away after having come and peeped into the 
 harricade? slip away, all in a tremble, saying: "After all, 
 I have had enough of it as it is. T have seen it. that suffices, 
 this is civil war, and T shall take my leave !" Should he 
 abandon his friends who were expecting him? Who were in 
 need of him possibly! who were a mere handful against an 
 army! Should ho be untrue at once to his love, to country, 
 to his word? Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of 
 patriotism? But this was impossible, and if the phantom 
 of his father was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreat- 
 ing, he would beat him on the loins with the flat of his sword, 
 and shout to him : "March on, you poltroon !" 
 
 Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, 
 he dropped his head. 
 
 All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had 
 just been effected in his mind. There is a widening of the 
 sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the 
 grave ; it makes one see clearly to be near death. The vision 
 of the action into which he felt that he was, perhaps, on the 
 point of entering, appeared to him no more as lamentable, 
 but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly trans- 
 figured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, 
 before the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interroga- 
 tion points of revery recurred to him in throngs, but without 
 troubling him. He left none of them unanswered. 
 
 Let us see, why should his father be indignant ? Are there 
 not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? 
 What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel 
 Pontmercy in the combat which was about to begin? It is 
 no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert : it is something quite 
 different. The question is no longer one of sacred territory,
 
 358 8AI\T-DEM8 
 
 but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, 
 but humanity applauds. But is it true that the country does 
 wail? France bleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence 
 of liberty's smile, France forgets her wound. And then if we 
 look at things from a still more lofty point of view, why do 
 we speak of civil war? 
 
 Civil war what does that mean? Is there a foreign war? 
 Is not all war between men war between brothers? War is 
 qualified only by its object. There is no such thing as foreign 
 or civil war ; there is only just and unjust war. Until that day 
 when the grand human agreement is concluded, war, that at 
 least which is the effort of the future, which is hastening on 
 against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be neces- 
 sary. What have we to reproach that war with? War does not 
 become a disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, 
 except when it is used for assassinating the right, progress, 
 reason, civilization, truth. Then war, whether foreign or 
 civil, is iniquitous ; it is called crime. Outside the pale of 
 that holy thing, justice, by what right does one form of man 
 despise another? By what right should the sword of Wash- 
 ington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas 
 against the stranger. Timoleon against the tyrant, which is 
 the greater? the one is the defender, the other the liberator. 
 Shall we brand every appeal to arms within a city's limits 
 without taking the object into a consideration ? Then note the 
 infamy of Brutus. Marcel, Arnould von Blankenheim, Coligny, 
 Hedgerow war? War of the streets? Why not? That was 
 the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde. of Marnix, of Pelngius. 
 But Ambiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France. 
 Marnix against Spain, Pelagius against the Moors ; all against 
 the foreigner. Well, the monarchy is a foreigner; oppression 
 is a stranger; the right divine is a stranger. Despotism 
 violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates the geographi- 
 cal frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the 
 English, in both cases, regaining possession of one's own 
 territory. There comes an hour when protestation no longer 
 suffices; after philosophy, action is required; live force finishes
 
 MARIU8 ENTERS THE SHADOW 359 
 
 what the idea has sketched out; Prometheus chained begins, 
 Arostogeiton ends; the encyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th 
 of August electrifies them. After ^Eschylus, Thrasybulus ; 
 after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept 
 the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A crowd is 
 easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up, 
 pushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliver- 
 ance, their eyes must be wounded by the true, light must be 
 hurled at them in terrible handfuls. They must be a little 
 thunderstruck themselves at their own well-being; this 
 dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity of tocsins and 
 wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations 
 with audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is 
 covered with gloom by the right divine, Cffisarian glory, force, 
 fanaticism, irresponsible power, and absolute majesty ; a 
 rabble stupidly occupied in the contemplation, in their twi- 
 light splendor, of these sombre triumphs of the night. Down 
 with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking? Do you call 
 Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. 
 Both of them are what history is in the habit of calling good 
 kings; but principles are not to be parcelled out, the logic of 
 the true is rectilinear, the peculiarity of truth is that it lacks 
 complaisance ; no concessions, then ; all encroachments on man 
 should be repressed. There is a divine right in Louis XVI., 
 there is because a Bourlon in Louis Philippe; both represent 
 in a certain measure the confiscation of right, and. in order to 
 clear away universal insurrection, they must be combated ; it 
 must be done, France being always the one to begin. When 
 the master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, what 
 cause is more just, and consequently, what war is greater, than 
 that which re-establishes social truth, restores her throne to 
 liberty, restores the people to the people, restores sovereignty 
 to man, replaces the purple on the head of France, restores 
 equity and reason in their plenitude, suppresses every germ of 
 antagonism by restoring each one to himself, annihilates the 
 obstacle which royalty presents to the whole immense universal 
 concord, and places the human race once more on a level with
 
 360 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 the right ? These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress 
 of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses, 
 violences, iniquities, and darkness still stands erect in this 
 world, with its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This 
 monstrous mass must be made to crumble. To conquer at 
 Austerlitz is grand ; to take the Bastille is immense. 
 
 There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case the 
 soul, and therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated 
 with ubiquity, has a strange aptitude for reasoning almost 
 coldly in the most violent extremities, and it often happens 
 that heartbroken passion and profound despair in the very 
 agony of their blackest monologues, treat subjects and discuss 
 theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of 
 the syllogism floats, without breaking, in the mournful storm 
 of thought. This was the situation of Marius' mind. 
 
 As he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in 
 every direction, and. in short, shuddering at what he was 
 about to do, his glance strayed to the interior of the barricade. 
 The insurgents were here conversing in a low voice, without 
 moving, and there was perceptible that quasi-silence which 
 marks the last stage of expectation. Overhead, at the small 
 window in the third story, Marius descried a sort of spectator 
 who appeared to him to be singularly attentive. This was the 
 porter who had been killed by Le Cabuc. Below, by the lights 
 of the torch, which was thrust between the paving-stones, this 
 head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be 
 stranger, in that sombre and uncertain gleam, than that livid, 
 motionless, astonished face, with its bristling hair, its eyes 
 fixed and staring, and its yawning mouth, bent over the street 
 in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that the 
 man who was dead was surveying those who were about to 
 die. A long trail of blood which had flowed from that head, 
 descended in reddish threads from the window to the height 
 of the first floor, where it stopped.
 
 BOOK FOURTEENTH. THE GRANDEURS OF 
 DESPAIR 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE FLAG : ACT FIRST 
 
 As yet, nothing had come. Ten o'clock had sounded from 
 Saint-Merry. Enjolras and Combeferre had gone and seated 
 themselves, carbines in hand, near the outlet of the grand 
 barricade. They no longer addressed each other, they listened, 
 seeking to catch even the faintest and most distant sound of 
 marching. 
 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the dismal calm, a clear, gay, 
 young voice, which seemed to come from the Rue Saint-Denis, 
 rose and began to sing distinctly, to the old popular air of 
 "By the Light of the Moon," this bit of poetry, terminated by 
 a cry like the crow of a cock : 
 
 Mon nez est en larmes, 
 Mon ami Bugeaud, 
 PrCte moi tes gendarmes 
 Pour leur dire un mot. 
 
 En capote hleue, 
 La poulo an shako, 
 Voici la banlieue! 
 Co-cocorieo! 1 
 
 They pressed each other's hands. 
 "That is Gavrochc," said Enjolras. 
 "He is warning us," said Combeferre. 
 
 *My nose is in tears, my friend Bugead, lend me thy gendarmes 
 that I may say a word to them. With a plue capote and a chicken 
 in his shako, here's the banlieue, co-cocorico.
 
 362 SAIXT-DEXIS 
 
 A hasty rush troubled the deserted street; they beheld a 
 being more agile than a clown climb over the omnibus, and 
 Gavroche bounded into the barricade, all breathless, saying: 
 
 "My gun ! Here they are !" 
 
 An electric quiver shot through the whole barricade, and the 
 sound of hands seeking their guns became audible. 
 
 "Would you like my carbine?'' said Enjolras to the lad. 
 
 "I want a big gun," replied Gavroche. 
 
 And he seized Javert's gun. 
 
 Two sentinels had fallen back, and had come in almost 
 at the same moment as Gavroche. They were the sentinels 
 from the end of the street, and the vidette of the Rue de la 
 Petite-Truanderie. The vidette of the Lane des Precheurs 
 had remained at his post, which indicated that nothing 
 was approaching from the direction of the bridges and 
 Halles. 
 
 The Rue de la Chanvrerie, of which a few paving-stones 
 alone were dimly visible in the reflection of the light projected 
 on the flag, offered to the insurgents the aspect of a vast black 
 door vaguely opened into a smoke. 
 
 Each man had taken up his position for the conflict. 
 
 Forty-three insurgents, among wliom were Enjolras, Combe- 
 ferre, Courfeyrac, Bossuet. Joly, Bahorel, and Gavroche. were 
 kneeling inside the large barricade, with their heads on a level 
 with the crest of the barrier, the barrels of their guns and 
 carbines aimed on the stones as though at loop-holes, attentive, 
 mute, ready to fire. Six, commanded by Fcuilly, had installed 
 themselves, with their guns levelled at their shoulders, at the 
 windows of the two stories of Corinthe. 
 
 Several minutes passed thus, then a sound of footsteps, 
 measured, heavy, and numerous, became distinctly audible in 
 the direction of Saint-Leu. This sound, faint at first, then 
 precise, then heavy and sonorous, approached slowly, without 
 halt, without intermission, with a tranquil and terrible conti- 
 nuity. Nothing was to he heard but this. Tt was that com- 
 bined silence and sound, of the statue of the commander, but 
 this stony step had something indescribably enormous and
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 3^3 
 
 multiple about it which awakened the idea of a throng, and, 
 at the same time, the idea of a spectre. One thought one 
 heard the terrible statue Legion marching onward. This tread 
 drew near; it drew still nearer, and stopped. It seemed as 
 though the breathing of many men could be heard at the 
 end of the street. Nothing was to be seen, however, but at 
 the bottom of that dense obscurity there could be distin- 
 guished a multitude of metallic threads, as fine as needles and 
 almost imperceptible, which moved about like those inde- 
 scribable phosphoric networks which one sees beneath one's 
 closed eyelids, in the first mists of slumber at the moment 
 when one is dropping off to sleep. These were bayonets and 
 gun-barrels confusedly illuminated by the distant reflection 
 of the torch. 
 
 A pause ensued, as though both sides were waiting. All at 
 once, from the depths of this darkness, a voice, which was all 
 the more sinister, since no one was visible, and which ap- 
 peared to be the gloom itself speaking, shouted : 
 
 "Who goes there ?" 
 
 At the same time, the click of guns, as they were lowered 
 into position, was heard. 
 
 Enjolras replied in a haughty and vibrating tone : 
 
 "The French Revolution !" 
 
 "Fire !" shouted the voice. 
 
 A flash empurpled all the fagades in the street as though 
 the door of a furnace had been flung open, and hastily closed 
 again. 
 
 A fearful detonation burst forth on the barricade. The 
 red flag fell. The discharge had been so violent and so dense 
 that it had cut the staff, that is to say, the very tip of the om- 
 nibus pole. 
 
 Bullets which had rebounded from the cornices of the 
 houses penetrated the barricade and wounded several men. 
 
 The impression produced by this first discharge was freez- 
 ing. The attack had been rough, and of a nature to inspire 
 reflection in the boldest. It was evident that they had to deal 
 with an entire regiment at the very least.
 
 364 8A1XT-DENI8 
 
 "Comrades !" shouted Courfeyrac, "let us not waste our 
 powder. Let us wait until they are in the street before re- 
 plying." 
 
 "And, above all/' said Enjolras, "let us raise the flag 
 again." 
 
 He picked up the flag, which had fallen precisely at his 
 feet. 
 
 Outside, the clatter of the ramrods in the guns could be 
 heard; the troops were re-loading their arms. 
 
 Enjolras went on : 
 
 "Who is there here with a bold heart ? Who will plant the 
 flag on the barricade again ?" 
 
 Not a man responded. To mount on the barricade at the 
 very moment when, without any doubt, it was again the 
 object of their aim, was simply death. The bravest hesitated 
 to pronounce his own condemnation. Enjolras himself felt 
 a thrill. He repeated : 
 
 "Does no one volunteer ?" 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE FLAG: ACT SECOND 
 
 SINCE they had arrived at Corinthe, and had begun the con- 
 struction of the barricade, no attention had been paid to 
 Father Mabeuf. M. Mabeuf had not quitted the mob, how- 
 ever; he had entered the ground-floor of the wine-shop and 
 had seated himself behind the counter. There he had, so to 
 speak, retreated into himself. He no longer seemed to look 
 or to think. Courfeyrac and others had accosted him two or 
 three times, warning him of his peril, beseeching him to 
 withdraw, but he did not hear them. When they were not 
 speaking to him, his mouth moved as though he were replying 
 to some one, and as soon as he was addressed, his lips became 
 motionless and his eyes no longer had the appearance of being 
 alive.
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DERPAIR 3(55 
 
 Several hours before the barricade was attacked, he had 
 assumed an attitude which he did not afterwards abandon, 
 with both fists planted on his knees and his head thrust for- 
 ward as though he were gazing over a precipice. Nothing had 
 been able to move him from this attitude; it did not seem as 
 though his rnind were in the barricade. When each had gone 
 to take up his position for the combat, there remained in the 
 tap-room where Javert was bound to the post, only a single 
 insurgent with a naked sword, watching over Javert, and him- 
 self, Mabeuf. At the moment of the attack, at the detonation, 
 the physical shock had reached him and had, as it were, awak- 
 ened him ; he started up abruptly, crossed the room, and at the 
 instant when Enjolras repeated his appeal : "Does no one vol- 
 unteer?" the old man was seen to make his appearance 
 on the threshold of the wine-shop. His presence produced 
 a sort of commotion in the different groups. A shout went 
 up: 
 
 "It is the voter ! It is the member of the Convention ! It 
 is the representative of the people !" 
 
 It is probable that he did not hear them. 
 
 He strode straight up to Enjolras, the insurgents withdraw- 
 ing before him with a religious fear; he tore the flag from En- 
 jolras, who recoiled in amazement, and then, since no one 
 dared to stop or to assist him, this old man of eighty, with 
 shaking head but firm foot, began slowly to ascend the stair- 
 case of paving-stones arranged in the barricade. This was so 
 melancholy and so grand that all around him cried : "Off with 
 your hats!" At every step that he mounted, it was a fright- 
 ful spectacle; his white locks, his decrepit face, his lofty, bald, 
 and wrinkled brow, his amazed and open mouth, his aged arm 
 upholding the red banner, rose through the gloom and were 
 enlarged in the bloody light of the torch, and the bystanders 
 thought that they beheld the spectre of '93 emerging from the 
 earth, with the flag of terror in his hand. 
 
 When he had reached the last step, when this trembling and 
 terrible phantom, erect on that pile of rubbish in the presence 
 of twelve hundred invisible guns, drew himself up in the face
 
 366 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 of death and as though he were more powerful than it, the 
 whole barricade assumed amid the darkness, a supernatural 
 and colossal form. 
 
 There ensued one of those silences which occur only in the 
 presence of prodigies. In the midst of this silence, the old 
 man waved the red flag and shouted : 
 
 "Long live the Revolution ! Long live the Republic ! Fra- 
 ternity ! Equality ! and Death !" 
 
 Those in the barricade heard a low and rapid whisper, like 
 the murmur of a priest who is despatching a prayer in haste. 
 It was probably the commissary of police who was making 
 the legal summons at the other end of the street. 
 
 Then the same piercing voice which had shouted: "Who 
 goes there ?'' shouted : 
 
 "Retire !" 
 
 M. Mabeuf, pale, haggard, his eyes lighted up with the 
 mournful flame of aberration, raised the flag above his head 
 and repeated : 
 
 "Long live the Republic !" 
 
 "Fire !" said the voice. 
 
 A second discharge, similar to the first, rained down upon 
 the barricade. 
 
 The old man fell on his knees, then rose again, dropped 
 the flag and fell backwards on the pavement, like a log, at full 
 length, with outstretched arms. 
 
 Rivulets of blood flowed beneath him. His aged head, pale 
 and sad, seemed to be gazing at the sky. 
 
 One of those emotions which are superior to man, which 
 make him forget even to defend himself, seized upon the in- 
 surgents, and they approached the body with respectful awe. 
 
 "What men these regicides were!" said Enjolras. 
 
 Courfeyrac bent down to Enjolras' ear : 
 
 "This is for yourself alone, I do not wish to dampen the 
 enthusiasm. But this man was anything rather than a regi- 
 cide. I knew him. His name was Father Mabeuf. I do not 
 know what was the matter with him to-day. But he was a 
 brave blockhead. Just look at his head."
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 3(57 
 
 "The head of a blockhead and the heart of a Brutus," re- 
 plied Enjolras. 
 
 Then he raised his voice: 
 
 "Citizens ! This is the example which the old give to the 
 young. We hesitated, he came ! We were drawing back, he 
 advanced! This is what those who are trembling with ago 
 teach to those who tremble with fear! This aged man is 
 august in the eyes of his country. He has had a long life and 
 a magnificent death ! Now, let us place the body under cover, 
 that each one of us may defend this old man dead as he 
 would his father living, and may his presence in our midst 
 render the barricade impregnable !" 
 
 A murmur of gloomy and energetic assent followed these 
 words. 
 
 Enjolras bent down, raised the old man's head, and fierce 
 as he was, he kissed him on the brow, then, throwing wide 
 his arms, and handling this dead man with tender precaution, 
 as though he feared to hurt it, he removed his coat, showed 
 the bloody holes in it to all, and said : 
 
 "This is our flag now." 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 GAVROCHE WOULD HAVE DONE BETTER TO ACCEPT ENJOLRAS' 
 
 CARBINE 
 
 THEY threw a long black shawl of Widow Hucheloup's over 
 Father Mabeuf. Six men made a litter of their guns; on 
 this they laid the body, and bore it, with bared heads, with 
 solemn slowness, to the large table in the tap-room. 
 
 These men, wholly absorbed in the grave and sacred task 
 in which they were engaged, thought no more of the perilous 
 situation in which they stood. 
 
 When the corpse passed near Javert, who was still impas- 
 sive, Enjolras said to the spy: 
 
 "It will be your turn presently !"
 
 368 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 During all this time, Little Gavroche, who alone had not 
 quitted his post, but had remained on guard, thought he 
 espied some men stealthily approaching the barricade. All at 
 once he shouted: 
 
 "Look out !" 
 
 Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Jean Prouvaire, Combeferre, Joly, 
 Bahorel, Bossuet, and all the rest ran tumultuously from the 
 wine-shop. It was almost too late. They saw a glistening 
 density of bayonets undulating above the barricade. Munici- 
 pal guards of lofty stature were making their way in, some 
 striding over the omnibus, others through the cut, thrusting 
 before them the urchin, who retreated, but did not flee. 
 
 The moment was critical. It was that first, redoubtable mo- 
 ment of inundation, when the stream rises to the level of the 
 levee and when the water begins to filter through the fissures 
 of dike. A second more and the barricade would have been 
 taken. 
 
 Bahorel dashed upon the first municipal guard who was 
 entering, and killed him on the spot with a blow from his gun ; 
 the second killed Bahorel with a blow from his bayonet. An- 
 other had already overthrown Courfeyrac, who was shouting: 
 "Follow me !" The largest of all, a sort of colossus, marched 
 on Gavroche with his bayonet fixed. The urchin took in his 
 arms Javert's immense gun, levelled it resolutely at the giant, 
 and fired. No discharge followed. Javert's gun was not 
 loaded. The municipal guard burst into a laugh and raised 
 his bayonet at the child. 
 
 Before the bayonet had touched Gavroche, the gun slipped 
 from the soldier's grasp, a bullet had struck the municipal 
 guardsman in the centre of the forehead, and he fell over on 
 his back. A second bullet struck the other guard, who had 
 assaulted Courfeyrac in the breast, and laid him low on the 
 pavement. 
 
 This was the work of Marius, who had just entered the 
 barricade.
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE BARREL OF POWDER 
 
 MARIUS, still concealed in the turn of the Rue Mondetour, 
 had witnessed, shuddering and irresolute, the first phase of 
 the combat. But he had not long been able to resist that 
 mysterious and sovereign vertigo which may be designated as 
 the call of the abyss. In the presence of the imminence of the 
 peril, in the presence of the death of M. Mabeuf, that melan- 
 choly enigma, in the presence of Bahorel killed, and Courfey- 
 rac shouting: "Follow me!" of that child threatened, of his 
 friends to succor or to avenge, all hesitation had vanished, 
 and he had flung himself into the conflict, his two pistols in 
 hand. With his first shot he had saved Gavroche, and with 
 the second delivered Courfeyrac. 
 
 Amid the sound of the shots, amid the cries of the assaulted 
 guards, the assailants had climbed the entrenchment, on whose 
 summit Municipal Guards, soldiers of the line and National 
 Guards from the suburbs could now be seen, gun in hand, 
 rearing themselves to more than half the height of their 
 bodies. 
 
 They already covered more than two-thirds of the barrier, 
 but they did not leap into the enclosure, as though wavering 
 in the fear of some trap. They gazed into the dark barricade 
 as one would gaze into a lion's den. The light of the torch 
 illuminated only their bayonets, their bear-skin caps, and the 
 upper part of their uneasy and angry faces. 
 
 Marius had no longer any weapons; he had flung away 
 his discharged pistols after firing them ; but lie had caught 
 sight of the barrel of powder in the tap-room, near the 
 door. 
 
 As he turned half round, gazing in that direction, a soldier 
 took aim at him. At the moment when the soldu-r was sight- 
 ing Marius, a hand was laid on the muzzle of the gun and 
 obstructed it. This was done by some one who bad darted
 
 370 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 forward, the young workman in velvet trousers. The shot 
 sped, traversed the hand and possibly, also, the workman, 
 since he fell, but the ball did not strike Marius. All this, 
 which was rather to be apprehended than seen through the 
 smoke, Marius, who was entering the tap-room, hardly no- 
 ticed. Still, he had, in a confused way, perceived that gun- 
 barrel aimed at him, and the hand which had blocked it, and 
 he had heard the discharge. But in moments like this, the 
 things which one sees vacillate and are precipitated, and one 
 pauses for nothing. One feels obscurely impelled towards 
 more darkness still, and all is cloud. 
 
 The insurgents, surprised but not terrified, had rallied. 
 Enjolras had shouted : "Wait ! Don't fire at random !" In the 
 first confusion, they might, in fact, wound each other. The 
 majority of them had ascended to the window on the first 
 story and to the attic windows, whence they commanded the 
 assailants. 
 
 The most determined, with Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean 
 Prouvaire, and Combeferre, had proudly placed themselves 
 with their backs against the houses at the rear, unsheltered 
 and facing the ranks of soldiers and guards who crowned the 
 barricade. 
 
 All this was accomplished without haste, with that 
 strange and threatening gravity which precedes engage- 
 ments. They took aim, point blank, on both sides: they 
 were so close that they could talk together without raising 
 their voices. 
 
 When they had reached this point where the spark is on the 
 brink of darting forth, an officer in a gorget extended his 
 sword and said: 
 
 "Lay down your arms !" 
 
 "Fire!" replied Enjolras. 
 
 The two discharges took place at the same moment, and all 
 disappeared in smoke. 
 
 An acrid and stifling smoke in which dying and wounded 
 lay with weak, dull groans. When the smoke cleared away, the 
 combatants on both sides could be seen to be thinned out, but
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 371 
 
 still in the same positions, reloading in silence. All at once, 
 a thundering voice was heard, shouting: 
 
 "Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade !" 
 
 All turned in the direction whence the voice proceeded. 
 
 Marius had entered the tap-room, and had seized the barrel 
 of powder, then he had taken advantage of the smoke, and the 
 sort of obscure mist which filled the entrenched enclosure, to 
 glide along the barricade as far as that cage of paving-stones 
 where the torch was fixed. To tear it from the torch, to 
 replace it by the barrel of powder, to thrust the pile of stones 
 under the barrel, which was instantly staved in, with a sort 
 of horrible obedience, all this had cost Marius but the time 
 necessary to stoop and rise again ; and now all. National 
 Guards, Municipal Guards, officers, soldiers, huddled at the 
 other extremity of the barricade, gazed stupidly at him, as he 
 stood with his foot on the stones, his torch in his hand, hia 
 haughty face illuminated by a fatal resolution, drooping the 
 flame of the torch towards that redoubtable pile where they 
 could make out the broken barrel of powder, and giving vent 
 to that startling cry : 
 
 "Be off with you, or I'll blow up the barricade !" 
 
 Marius on that barricade after the octogenarian was the 
 vision of the young revolution after the apparition of the old. 
 
 "Blow up the barricade!" said a sergeant, "and yourself 
 with it !" 
 
 Marius retorted: "And myself also." 
 
 And he dropped the torch towards the barrel of powder. 
 
 But there was no longer any one on the barrier. The assail- 
 ants, abandoning their dead and wounded, flowed back pell- 
 mell and in disorder towards the extremity of the street, and 
 there were again lost in the night. It was a headlong 
 flight. 
 
 The barricade was free
 
 372 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 END OF THE VERSES OF JEAN PROUVAIRB 
 
 ALL flocked around Marius. Courfeyrac flung himself on 
 his neck. 
 
 "Here you are!" 
 
 "What luck !" said Combeferre. 
 
 "You came in opportunely !" ejaculated Bossuet. 
 
 "If it had not been for you, I should have been dead!" 
 began Courfeyrac again. 
 
 "If it had not been for you, I should have been gobbled 
 up !" added Gavroche. 
 
 Marius asked: 
 
 "Where is the chief?" 
 
 "You are he !" said Enjolras. 
 
 Marius had had a furnace in his brain all day long ; now it 
 was a whirlwind. This whirlwind which was within him, pro- 
 duced on him the effect of being outside of him and of bearing 
 him away. It seemed to him that he was already at an im- 
 mense distance from life. His two luminous months of joy 
 and love, ending abruptly at that frightful precipice, Cosette 
 lost to him, that barricade, M. Mabeuf getting himself killed 
 for the Republic, himself the leader of the insurgents, all 
 these things appeared to him like a tremendous nightmare. 
 He was obliged to make a mental effort to recall the fact that 
 all that surrounded him was real. Marius had already seen too 
 much of life not to know that nothing is more imminent than 
 the impossible, and that what it is always necessary to foresee 
 is the unforeseen. He had looked on at his own drama as a 
 piece which one does not understand. 
 
 In the mists which enveloped his thoughts, ho did not 
 recognize Javert, who, bound to his post, had not so much as 
 moved his head during the whole of the attack on the barri- 
 cade, and who had gazed on the revolt seething around him 
 with the resignation of a martyr and the majesty of a judge. 
 Marius had not even seen him.
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 373 
 
 Tn the meanwhile, the assailants did not stir, they could be 
 heard inarching and swarming through at the end of the 
 street, but they did not venture into it, either because they 
 were awaiting orders or because they were awaiting reinforce- 
 ments before hurling themselves afresh on this impregnable 
 redoubt. The insurgents had posted sentinels, and some of 
 them, who were medical students, set about caring for the 
 wounded. 
 
 They had thrown the tables out of the wine-shop, with the 
 exception of the two tables reserved for lint and cartridges, 
 and of the one on which lay Father Mabeuf ; they had added 
 them to the barricade, and had replaced them in the tap-room 
 with mattresses from the bed of the widow Hucheloup and her 
 servants. On these mattresses they had laid the wounded. As 
 for the three poor creatures who inhabited Corinthe, no one 
 knew what had become of them. They were finally found, 
 however, hidden in the cellar. 
 
 A poignant emotion clouded the joy of the disencumbered 
 barricade. 
 
 The roll was called. One of the insurgents was missing. 
 And who was it? One of the dearest. One of the most 
 valiant. Jean Prouvaire. He was sought among the 
 wounded, he was not there. He was sought among the dead, 
 he was not there. He was evidently a prisoner. Combeferre 
 said to Enjolras : 
 
 "They have our friend; we have their agent. Are you set 
 on the death of that spy?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Enjolras; "but less so than on the life of 
 Jean Prouvaire." 
 
 This took place in the tap-room near Javert's post. 
 
 "Well," resumed Combeferre, "I am going to fasten my 
 handkerchief to my cane, and go as a flag of truce, to offer to 
 exchange our man for theirs." 
 
 "Listen," said Enjolras, laying his hand on Combeferre's 
 arm. 
 
 At the end of the street there was a significant clash of 
 arms.
 
 374 8 AJ NT-DEN 18 
 
 They heard a manly voice shout: 
 "Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the 
 future !" 
 
 They recognized the voice of Prouvaire. 
 
 A flash passed, a report rang out. 
 
 Silence fell again. 
 
 "They have killed him," exclaimed Combeferre. 
 
 Enjolras glanced at Javert, and said to him: 
 
 "Your friends have just shot you." 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 THE AGONY OF DEATH AFTER THE AGONY OF LIFE 
 
 A PECULIARITY of this species of war is, that the attack of 
 the barricades is almost always made from the front, and that 
 the assailants generally abstain from turning the position, 
 either because they fear ambushes, or because they are afraid 
 of getting entangled in the tortuous streets. The insurgents' 
 whole attention had been directed, therefore, to the grand 
 barricade, which was, evidently, the spot always menaced, and 
 there the struggle would infallibly recommence. But Marius 
 thought of the little barricade, and went thither. It was 
 deserted and guarded only by the fire-pot which trembled 
 between the paving-stones. Moreover, the Mondetour alley, 
 and the branches of the Rue de la Petite Truanderie and the 
 Rue du Cygne were profoundly calm. 
 
 As Marius was withdrawing, after concluding his inspec- 
 tion, he heard his name pronounced feebly in the darkness. 
 
 "Monsieur Marius !" 
 
 He started, for he recognized the voice which had called to 
 him two hours before through the gate in the Rue Plumet. 
 
 Only, the voice now seemed to be nothing more than a 
 breath. 
 
 He looked about him. but saw no one. 
 
 Marius thought he had been mistaken, that it was an illu-
 
 THE (JRANDEURS OF DESPAIR 375 
 
 sion added by his mind to the extraordinary realities which 
 were clashing around him. He advanced a step, in order to 
 quit the distant recess where the barricade lay. 
 
 "Monsieur Marius !" repeated the voice. 
 
 This time he could not doubt that he had heard it distinctly ; 
 he looked and saw nothing. 
 
 "At your feet," said the voice. 
 
 He bent down, and saw in the darkness a form which was 
 dragging itself towards him. 
 
 It was crawling along the pavement. It was this that had 
 spoken to him. 
 
 The fire-pot allowed him to distinguish a blouse, torn 
 trousers of coarse velvet, bare feet, and something which 
 resembled a pool of blood. Marius indistinctly made out a 
 pale head which was lifted towards him and which was say- 
 ing to him : 
 
 "You do not recognize me?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "fiponine." 
 
 Marius beni hastily down. It was, in fact, that unhappy 
 child. She was dressed in men's clothes. 
 
 "How come yo^ here? What are you doing here?" 
 
 "I am dying," ^aid she. 
 
 There are words and incidents which arouse dejected beings. 
 Marius cried out with a start: 
 
 "You are wounded ! Wait, I will carry you into the room ! 
 They will attend to you there. Is it serious? How must I 
 take hold of you in order not to hurt you? Where do you 
 suffer ? Help ! My God ! But why did you come hither ?" 
 
 And he tried to pass his arm under her, in order to raise her. 
 
 She uttered a feeble 1 cry. 
 
 "Have I hurt you?" asked Marius. 
 
 "A little." 
 
 "But I only touched \our hand." 
 
 She raised her hand to Marius, and in the middle of that 
 hand Marius saw a black hole. 
 
 "What is the matter with your hand?" said he.
 
 376 8AINT-DENI8 
 
 "It is pierced." 
 
 "Pierced?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What with?" 
 
 "A bullet." 
 
 "How ?" 
 
 "Did you see a gun aimed at you?" 
 
 "Yes, and a hand stopping it." 
 
 "It was mine." 
 
 Marius was seized with a shudder. 
 
 "What madness ! Poor child ! But so much the better, if 
 that is all, it is nothing, let me carry you to a bed. They will 
 dress your wound ; one does not die of a pierced hand." 
 
 She murmured : 
 
 "The bullet traversed my hand, but it came out through my 
 back. It is useless to remove me from this spot. I will tell 
 you how you can care for me better than any surgeon. Sit 
 down near me on this stone." 
 
 He obeyed; she laid her head on Marius' knees, and, with- 
 out looking at him, she said : 
 
 "Oh ! How good this is ! How comfortable this is ! There ; 
 I no longer suffer." 
 
 She remained silent for a moment, then she turned her face 
 with an effort, and looked at Marius. 
 
 "Do you know what, Monsieur Marius? It puzzled me 
 because you entered that garden ; it was stupid, because it was 
 I who showed you that house ; and then, I ought to have said 
 to myself that a young man like you " 
 
 She paused, and overstepping the sombre transitions that 
 undoubtedly existed in her mind, she resumed with a heart- 
 rending smile: 
 
 "You thought me ugly, didn't you?" 
 
 She continued : 
 
 "You see, you are lost ! Now, no one can get out of the 
 barricade. It was I who led you here, by the way ! You are 
 going to die, I count upon that. And yet, when I saw them 
 taking aim at you, I put my hand on the muzzle of the gun.
 
 AM DYING." SAID SHE
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DEHPAIR 377 
 
 How queer it is ! But it was because I wanted to die before 
 you. When I received that bullet, I dragged myself here, no 
 one saw me, no one picked me up, I was waiting for you, I 
 said: 'So he is not coming!' Oh, if you only knew. I bit 
 my blouse, I suffered so ! Now I am well. Do you remember 
 the day I entered your chamber and when I looked at myself 
 in your mirror, and the day when I came to you on the boule- 
 vard near the washerwomen ? How the birds sang ! That was 
 a long time ago. You gave me a hundred sous, and I said to 
 you : 'I don't want your money.' I hope you picked up your 
 coin ? You are not rich. I did not think to tell you to pick it 
 up. The sun was shining bright, and it was not cold. Do 
 you remember, Monsieur Marius ? Oh ! How happy I am ! 
 Every one is going to die." 
 
 She had a mad, grave, and heart-breaking air. Her torn 
 blouse disclosed her bare throat. 
 
 As she talked, she pressed her pierced hand to her breast, 
 where there was another hole, and whence there spurted from 
 moment to moment a stream of blood, like a jet of wine from 
 an open bung-hole. 
 
 Marius gazed at this unfortunate creature with profound 
 compassion. 
 
 "Oh !" she resumed, "it is coming again, I am stifling !" 
 
 She caught up her blouse and bit it, and her limbs stiffened 
 on the pavement. 
 
 At that moment the young cock's crow executed by little 
 Gavroche resounded through the barricade. 
 
 The child had mounted a table to load his gun, and was 
 singing gayly the song then so popular: 
 
 "En voyant Lafayette, "On beholding Lafayette, 
 Le gendarme rf-pMe: The gendarme repeats: 
 
 Sauvons nous! sauvons nous! Let us flee! let us flee! 
 
 sauvons nous!" let us flee!" 
 
 fiponine raised herself and listened ; then she murmured : 
 
 "It is he." 
 
 And turning to Marius:
 
 378 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "My brother is here. He must not see me. He would 
 scold me." 
 
 "Your brother?" inquired Marius, who was meditating in 
 the most bitter and sorrowful depths of his heart on the duties 
 to the Thenardiers which his father had bequeathed to him ; 
 "who is your brother ?" 
 
 "That little fellow." 
 
 "The one who is singing?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Marius made a movement. 
 
 "Oh ! don't go away," said she, "it will not be long now." 
 
 She was sitting almost upright, but her voice was very low 
 and broken by hiccoughs. 
 
 At intervals, the death rattle interrupted her. She put her 
 face as near that of Marius as possible. She added with a 
 etrange expression : 
 
 "Listen, I do not wish to play you a trick. I have a letter 
 in my pocket for you. I was told to put it in the post. I kept 
 it. I did not want to have it reach you. But perhaps you 
 will be angry with me for it when we meet again presently? 
 Take your letter." 
 
 She grasped Marius' hand convulsively with her pierced 
 hand, but she no longer seemed to feel her sufferings. She 
 put Marius' hand in the pocket of her blouse. There, in fact, 
 Marius felt a paper. 
 
 "Take it," said she. 
 
 Marius took the letter. 
 
 She made a sign of satisfaction and contentment. 
 
 "Now, for my trouble, promise me " 
 
 And she stopped. 
 
 "What ?" asked Marius. 
 
 "Promise me!" 
 
 "I promise." 
 
 "Promise to give me a kiss on my brow when I am dead. 
 I shall feel it." 
 
 She dropped her head again on Marius' knees, and her eye- 
 lids closed. He thought the poor soul had departed, fiponine
 
 THE GRANDEURS OF DKKPAIR 379 
 
 remained motionless. All at once, at the very moment when 
 Marius fancied her asleep forever, she slowly opened her eyus 
 in which appeared the sombre profundity of death, and 
 said to him in a tone whose sweetness seemed already to pro- 
 ceed from another world : 
 
 "And by the way, Monsieur Marius, I believe that I was a 
 little bit in love with you." 
 
 She tried to smile once more and expired. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 GAVROCHE AS A PROFOUND CALCULATOR OF DISTANCES 
 
 MARIUS kept his promise. He dropped a kiss on that livid 
 brow, where the icy perspiration stood in beads. 
 
 This was no infidelity to Cosette; it was a gentle and pen- 
 sive farewell to an unhappy soul. 
 
 It was not without a tremor that he had taken the letter 
 which fiponine had given him. He had immediately felt that 
 it was an event of weight. He was impatient to read it. The 
 heart of man is so constituted that the unhappy child had 
 hardly closed her eyes when Marius began to think of unfold- 
 ing this paper. 
 
 He laid her gently on the ground, and went away. Some- 
 thing told him that he could not peruse that letter in the 
 presence of that body. 
 
 He drew near to a candle in the tap-room. It was a small 
 note, folded and sealed with a woman's elegant care. The 
 address was in a woman's hand and ran : 
 
 "To Monsieur, Monsieur Marius Pontmercy, at M. Courfey- 
 rac's, Rue de la Verrerie. No. 16." 
 
 He broke the seal and read : 
 
 "My dearest, alas ! my father insists on our setting out 
 immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de rilomme 
 Arme, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. 
 June 4th."
 
 380 8A1NT DENI8 
 
 Such was the innocence of their love that Harms was not 
 even acquainted with Cosette's handwriting. 
 
 What had taken place may be related in a few words, 
 fiponine had been the cause of everything. After the evening 
 of the 3d of June she had cherished a double idea, to defeat 
 the projects of her father and the ruffians on the house of the 
 Rue Plumet, and to separate Marius and Cosette. She had 
 exchanged rags with the first young scamp she came across 
 who had thought it amusing to dress like a woman, while 
 fiponine disguised herself like a man. It was she who had 
 conveyed to Jean Valjean in the Champ de Mars the expres- 
 sive warning : "Leave your house." Jean Valjean had, in fact, 
 returned home, and had said to Cosette: "We set out this 
 evening and we go to the Rue de l'Homme Arme with Tous- 
 saint. Next week, we shall be in London." Cosette, utterly 
 overwhelmed by this unexpected blow, had hastily penned a 
 couple of lines to Marius. But how was she to get the letter 
 to the post? She never went out alone, and Toussaint, 
 surprised at such a commission, would certainly show the 
 letter to M. Fauchelevent. In this dilemma, Cosette had 
 caught sight through the fence of fiponine in man's clothes, 
 who now prowled incessantly around the garden. Cosette 
 had called to "this young workman" and had handed him five 
 francs and the letter, saying: "Carry this letter immediately 
 to its address." fiponine had put the letter in her pocket. 
 The next day, on the 5th of June, she went to Courfeyrac's 
 quarters to inquire for Marius, not for the purpose of deliver- 
 ing the letter, but, a thing which every jealous and loving 
 soul will comprehend, "to see." There she had waited for 
 Marius, or at least for Courfeyrac, still for the purpose of 
 seeing. When Courfeyrac had told her : "We are going to the 
 barricades." an idea flashed through her mind, to fling herself 
 into that death, as she would have done into any other, and to 
 thrust Marius into it also. She had followed Courfeyrac, had 
 made sure of the locality where the barricade was in process 
 of construction ; and, quite certain, since Marius had received 
 no warning, and since she had intercepted the letter, that he
 
 777 K GRANDEURS OF DENPAIR 
 
 would go at dusk to his trysting place for every evening, 
 she had betaken herself to the Rue Plumet, had there 
 awaited Marius, and had sent him, in the name of his 
 friends, the appeal which would, she thought, lead him to 
 the barricade. She reckoned on Marius' despair when he 
 should fail to find Cosette; she was not mistaken. She 
 had returned to the Rue de la Chanvrerie herself. What 
 she did there the reader has just seen. She died with 
 the tragic joy of jealous hearts who drag the beloved being 
 into their own death, and who say: "No one shall have 
 him !" 
 
 Marius covered Cosette's letter with kisses. So she loved 
 him ! For one moment the idea occurred to him that he ought 
 not to die now. Then he said to himself: "She is going away. 
 Her father is taking her to England, and my grandfather 
 refuses his consent to the marriage. Nothing is changed in 
 our fates." Dreamers like Marius are subject to supreme 
 attacks of dejection, and desperate resolves are the result. 
 The fatigue of living is insupportable ; death is sooner over 
 with. Then he reflected that he had still two duties to fulfil : 
 to inform Cosette of his death and send her a final farewell, 
 and to save from the impending catastrophe which was in 
 preparation, that poor child, fiponine's brother and Thenar- 
 dier's son. 
 
 lie had a pocket-book about him ; the same one which had 
 contained the note-book in which he had inscribed so many 
 thoughts of love for Cosette. He tore out a leaf and wrote on 
 it a few lines in pencil : 
 
 "Our marriage was impossible. I asked my grandfather, 
 he refused ; T have no fortune, neither hast thou. T hastened 
 to Ihee, thou wert no longer there. Thou knowest the promise 
 that I gave thee, I shnll keep it. T die. T love thee. When 
 thou readest this, my soul will he near thee. and thou wilt 
 smile." 
 
 Having nothing wherewith to seal this letter, he contented 
 himself with folding the paper in four, and added the 
 address :
 
 382 SA1XT-DEM8 
 
 "To Mademoiselle Cosette Fauchelevent, at M. Fauchele- 
 vent's, Rue de 1'Homme Arme. Xo. 7." 
 
 Having folded the letter, he stood in thought for a 
 moment, drew out his pocket-book again, opened it, and 
 wrote, with the same pencil, these four lines on the first 
 page : 
 
 "My name is Marius Pontmercy. Carry my body to my 
 grandfather, M. Gillenormand, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, 
 No. 6, in the Marais." 
 
 He put his pocket-book back in his pocket, then he called 
 Gavroche. 
 
 The gamin, at the sound of Marius' voice, ran up to him 
 with his merry and devoted air. 
 
 "Will you do something for me?" 
 
 "Anything," said Gavroche. "Good God! if it had not 
 been for you, I should have been done for." 
 
 "Do you see this letter?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Take it. Leave the barricade instantly" (Gavroche began 
 to scratch his ear uneasily) "and to-morrow morning, you will 
 deliver it at its address to Mademoiselle Cosette, at M. Fauche- 
 levent's, Rue de 1'Homme Arme, No. 7." 
 
 The heroic child replied : 
 
 "Well, but ! in the meanwhile the barricade will be taken, 
 and I shall not be there." 
 
 "The barricade will not be attacked until daybreak, accord- 
 ing to all appearances, and will not be taken before to-morrow 
 noon." 
 
 The fresh respite which the assailants were granting to the 
 barricade had, in fact, been prolonged. It was one of those 
 intermissions which frequently occur in nocturnal combats, 
 which are always followed by an increase of rage. 
 
 "Well," said Gavroche, "what if I were to go and carry 
 your letter to-morrow?" 
 
 "It will be too late. The barricade will probably be block- 
 aded, all the streets will be guarded, and you will not be able 
 to get out. Go at once."
 
 THE (1RANDEUR8 OF DESPAIR 333 
 
 Gavrochc could think of no reply to this, and stood there in 
 indecision, scratching his ear sadly. 
 
 All at once, he took the letter with one of those birdlike 
 movements which were common with him. 
 
 "All right," said he. 
 
 And he started off at a run through Mondetour lane. 
 
 An idea had occurred to Gavroche which had brought him 
 to a decision, but he had not mentioned it for fear that Marius 
 might offer some objection to it. 
 
 This was the idea : 
 
 "It is barely midnight, the Rue de l'Homme Arme is not 
 far off ; I will go and deliver the letter at once, and I shall get 
 back in time."
 
 BOOK FIFTEENTH. THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 A DRINKER IS A BABBLER 
 
 WHAT are the convulsions of a city in comparison with the 
 insurrections of the soul ? Man is a depth still greater than 
 the people. Jean Valjean at that very moment was the prey 
 of a terrible upheaval. Every sort of gulf had opened again 
 within him. He also was trembling, like Paris, on the brink 
 of an obscure and formidable revolution. A few hours had 
 sufficed to bring this about. His destiny and his conscience 
 had suddenly been covered with gloom. Of him also, as well 
 as of Paris, it might have been said : "Two principles are face 
 to face. The white angel and the black angel are about to 
 seize each other on the bridge of the abyss. Which of the two 
 will hurl the other over? Who will carry the day?" 
 
 On the evening preceding this same 5th of June, Jean Val- 
 jean, accompanied by Cosette and Toussaint had installed 
 himself in the Rue de 1'Homme Arme. A change awaited him 
 there. 
 
 Cosette had not quitted the Rue Plumet without making an 
 effort at resistance. For the first time since they had lived 
 side by side, Cosette's will and the will of Jean Valjean had 
 proved to be distinct, and had been in opposition, at least, if 
 they had not clashed. There had been objections on one side 
 and inflexibility on the other. The abrupt advice : "Leave 
 your house," hurled at Jean Valjean by a stranger, had 
 alarmed him to the extent of rendering him peremptory. He 
 thought that he had been traced and followed. Cosette had 
 been obliged to give way.
 
 THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME 335 
 
 Both had arrived in the Rue de 1'Homme Arme without 
 opening their lips, and without uttering a word, each being 
 absorbed in his own personal preoccupation ; Jean Valjean so 
 uneasy that he did not notice Cosette's sadness, Cosette so 
 sad that she did not notice Jean Valjean's uneasiness. 
 
 Jean Valjean had taken Toussaint with him, a thing which 
 he had never done in his previous absences. He perceived the 
 possibility of not returning to the Rue Plumet, and he could 
 neither leave Toussaint behind nor confide his secret to her. 
 Besides, he felt that she was devoted and trustworthy. 
 Treachery between master and servant begins in curiosity. 
 Now Toussaint, as though she had been destined to be Jean 
 Valjean's servant, was not curious. She stammered in her 
 peasant dialect of Barneville : "I am made so ; I do my work ; 
 the rest is no affair of mine." 
 
 In this departure from the Rue Plumet, which had been 
 almost a flight, Jean Valjean had carried away nothing but 
 the little embalmed valise, baptized by Cosette "the insepa- 
 rable." Full trunks would have required porters, and 
 porters are witnesses. A fiacre had been summoned to the 
 door on the Rue de Babylone, and they had taken their 
 departure. 
 
 It was with difficulty that Toussaint had obtained per- 
 mission to pack up a little linen and clothes and a few toilet 
 articles. Cosette had taken only her portfolio and her 
 blotting-book. 
 
 Jean Valjean, with a view to augmenting the solitude and 
 the mystery of this departure, had arranged to quit the 
 pavilion of the Rue Plumet only at dusk, which had allowed 
 Cosette time to write her note to Marius. They had arrived 
 in the Rue de 1'Homme Arme after night had fully fallen. 
 
 They had gone to bed in silence. 
 
 The lodgings in the Rue do 1'Homme Arme were situated on 
 a back court, on the second floor, and were composed of two 
 sleeping-rooms, a dining-room and a kitchen adjoining the 
 dining-room, with a garret where there was a folding-bed, and 
 which fell to Toussaint's share. The dining-room was an
 
 386 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 antechamber as well, and separated the two bedrooms. The 
 apartment was provided with all necessary utensils. 
 
 People re-acquire confidence as foolishly as they lose it; 
 human nature is so constituted. Hardly had Jean Valjean 
 reached the Rue de 1'Homme Arme when his anxiety was 
 lightened and by degrees dissipated. There are soothing spots 
 which act in some sort mechanically on the mind. An obscure 
 street, peaceable inhabitants. Jean Valjean experienced an 
 indescribable contagion of tranquillity in that alley of ancient 
 Paris, which is so narrow that it is barred against carriages 
 by a transverse beam placed on two posts, which is deaf and 
 dumb in the midst of the clamorous city, dimly lighted at 
 mid-day, and is, so to speak, incapable of emotions between 
 two rows of lofty houses centuries old, which hold their peace 
 like ancients as they are. There was a touch of stagnant 
 oblivion in that street. Jean Valjean drew his breath once 
 more there. How could he be found there? 
 
 His first care was to place the inseparable beside him. 
 
 He slept well. Night brings wisdom; we may add, night 
 soothes. On the following morning he awoke in a mood that 
 was almost gay. He thought the dining-room charming, 
 though it was hideous, furnished with an old round table, a 
 long sideboard surmounted by a slanting mirror, a dilapidated 
 arm-chair, and several plain chairs which were encumbered 
 with Toussaint's packages. In one of these packages Jean 
 Valjean's uniform of a National Guard was visible through 
 a rent. 
 
 As for Cosette, she had had Toussaint take some broth to 
 her room, and did not make her appearance until evening. 
 
 About five o'clock, Toussaint, who was going and coming 
 and busying herself with the tiny establishment, set on the 
 table a cold chicken, which Cosette, out of deference to her 
 father, consented to glance at. 
 
 That done, Cosette, under the pretext of an obstinate sick 
 headache, had bade Jean Valjean good night and had shut 
 herself up in her chamber. Jean Valjean had eaten a wing 
 of the chicken with a good appetite, and with his elbows on
 
 THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME 337 
 
 the table, having gradually recovered his serenity, had re- 
 gained possession of his sense of security. 
 
 While he was discussing this modest dinner, he had, twice 
 or thrice, noticed in a confused way, Toussaint's stammering 
 words as she said to him : "Monsieur, there is something going 
 on, they are fighting in Paris." But absorbed in a throng of 
 inward calculations, he had paid no heed to it. To tell the 
 truth, he had not heard her. Pie rose and began to pace from 
 the door to the window and from the window to the door, 
 growing ever more serene. 
 
 With this calm, Cosette, his sole anxiety, recurred to his 
 thoughts. Not that he was troubled by this headache, a little 
 nervous crisis, a young girl's fit of sulks, the cloud of a 
 moment, there would be nothing left of it in a day or two; 
 but he meditated on the future, and, as was his habit, he 
 thought of it with pleasure. After all, he saw no obstacle 
 to their happy life resuming its course. At certain hours, 
 everything seems impossible, at others everything appears 
 easy ; Jean Valjean was in the midst of one of these good 
 hours. They generally succeed the bad ones, as day follows 
 night, by virtue of that law of succession and of contrast which 
 lies at the very foundation of nature, and which superficial 
 minds call antithesis. In this peaceful street where he had 
 taken refuge, Jean Valjean got rid of all that had been 
 troubling him for some time past. This very fact, that he 
 had seen many shadows, made him begin to perceive a little 
 azure. To have quitted the Kue Plumet without complications 
 or incidents was one good step already accomplished. Per- 
 haps it would be wise to go abroad, if only for a few months, 
 and to set out for London. Well, they would go. What 
 difference did it make to him whether he was in France or in 
 England, provided he had Cosette beside him? Cosette was 
 his nation. Cosette sufficed for his happiness; the idea that 
 he, perhaps, did not suffice for Cosette's happiness, that idea 
 which had formerly been the cause of his fever and sleepless- 
 ness, did not even present itself to his mind. He was in a 
 state of collapse from all his past sufferings, and he was fully
 
 388 8AIXT-DEN18 
 
 entered on optimism. Cosette was by his side, she seemed to 
 be his; an optical illusion which every one has experienced. 
 He arranged in his own mind, with all sorts of felicitous 
 devices, his departure for England with Cosette, and he 
 beheld his felicity reconstituted wherever he pleased, in the 
 perspective of his revery. 
 
 As he paced to and fro with long strides, his glance suddenly 
 encountered something strange. 
 
 In the inclined mirror facing him which surmounted the 
 sideboard, he saw the four lines which follow : 
 
 "My dearest, alas ! my father insists on our setting out 
 immediately. We shall be this evening in the Rue de 1'Homme 
 Anne, No. 7. In a week we shall be in England. COSETTE. 
 June 4th." 
 
 Jean Valjean halted, perfectly haggard. 
 
 Cosette on her arrival had placed her blotting-book on the 
 sideboard in front of the mirror, and, utterly absorbed in her 
 agony of grief, had forgotten it and left it there, without even 
 observing that she had left it wide open, and open at precisely 
 the page on which she had laid to dry the four lines which she 
 had penned, and which she had given in charge of the young 
 workman in the Rue Plumet. The writing had been printed 
 off on the blotter. 
 
 The mirror reflected the writing. 
 
 The result was, what is called in geometry, the symmetrical 
 image; so that the writing, reversed on the blotter, was righted 
 in the mirror and presented its natural appearance; and Jean 
 Valjean had beneath his eyes the letter written by Cosette to 
 Marius on the preceding evening. 
 
 It was simple and withering. 
 
 Jean Valjean stepped up to the mirror. He read the four 
 lines again, but he did not believe them. They produced on 
 him the effect of appearing in a flash of lightning. It was 
 a hallucination, it was impossible. It was not so. 
 
 Little by little, his perceptions became more precise; he 
 looked at Cosette's blotting-book, and the consciousness of 
 the reality returned to him. He caught up the blotter and
 
 THE RUB DE L'HOMME ARME 339 
 
 said: "It comes from there." He feverishly examined the 
 four lines imprinted on the blotter, the reversal of the letters 
 converted into an odd scrawl, and he saw no sense in it. Then 
 he said to himself : "But this signifies nothing ; there is nothing 
 written here." And he drew a long breath with inexpressible 
 relief. Who has not experienced those foolish joys in hor- 
 rible instants? The soul does not surrender to despair until 
 it has exhausted all illusions. 
 
 He held the blotter in his hand and contemplated it in 
 stupid delight, almost ready to laugh at the hallucination of 
 which he had been the dupe. All at once his eyes fell upon 
 the mirror again, and again he beheld the vision. There were 
 the four lines outlined with inexorable clearness. This time 
 it was no mirage. The recurrence of a vision is a reality; it 
 was palpable, it was the writing restored in the mirror. He 
 understood. 
 
 Jean Valjean tottered, dropped the blotter, and fell into the 
 old arm-chair beside the buffet, with drooping head, and 
 glassy eyes, in utter bewilderment. He told himself that it 
 was plain, that the light of the world had been eclipsed for- 
 ever, and that Cosette had written that to some one. Then 
 he heard his soul, which had become terrible once more, give 
 vent to a dull roar in the gloom. Try then the effect of taking 
 from the lion the dog which he has in his cage ! 
 
 Strange and sad to say, at that very moment, Marius had 
 not yet received Cosette's letter ; chance had treacherously 
 carried it to Jean Valjean before delivering it to Marius. Up 
 to that day, Jean Valjean had not been vanquished by 
 trial. He had been subjected to fearful proofs; no violence 
 of bad fortune had been spared him; the ferocity of fate, 
 armed with all vindictiveness and all social scorn, had taken 
 him for her prey and had raged against him. lie had ac- 
 cepted every extremity when it had been necessary : he had 
 sacrificed his inviolability as a reformed man, had yielded up 
 his liberty, risked his head, lost everything, suffered every- 
 thing, and he had remained disinterested and stoical to such 
 a point that he might have been thought to be absent from
 
 8AIXT-DEXI8 
 
 himself like a martyr. His conscience inured to every assault 
 of destiny, might have appeared to be forever impregnable. 
 Well, any one who had beheld his spiritual self would have 
 been obliged to concede that it weakened at that moment. It 
 was because, of all the tortures which he had undergone in 
 the course of this long inquisition to which destiny had 
 doomed him, this was the most terrible. Never had such 
 pincers seized him hitherto. He felt the mysterious stirring 
 of all his latent sensibilities. He felt the plucking at the 
 strange chord. Alas ! the supreme trial, let us say rather, the 
 only trial, is the loss of the beloved being. 
 
 Poor old Jean Valjean certainly did not love Cosette other- 
 wise than as a father; but we have already remarked, above, 
 that into this paternity the widowhood of his life had intro- 
 duced all the shades of love ; he loved Cosette as his daughter, 
 and he loved her as his mother, and he loved her as his sister ; 
 and, as he had never had either a woman to love or a wife, as 
 nature is a creditor who accepts no protest, that sentiment 
 also, the most impossible to lose, was mingled with the rest, 
 vague, ignorant, pure with the purity of blindness, uncon- 
 scious, celestial, angelic, divine; less like a sentiment than 
 like an instinct, less like an instinct than like an imperceptible 
 and invisible but real attraction ; and love, properly speaking, 
 was, in his immense tenderness for Cosette, like the thread of 
 gold in the mountain, concealed and virgin. 
 
 Let the reader recall the situation of heart which we have 
 already indicated. No marriage was possible between them; 
 not even that of souls; and yet, it is certain that their des- 
 tinies were wedded. With the exception of Cosette, that is to 
 say, with the exception of a childhood, Jean Valjean had 
 never, in the whole of his long life, known anything of that 
 which may be loved. The passions and loves which succeed 
 each other had not produced in him those successive green 
 growths, tender green or dark green, which can be seen in 
 foliage which passes through the winter and in men who pass 
 fifty. In short, and we have insisted on it more than once, 
 all this interior fusion, all this whole, of which the sum total
 
 THE RUE DE UHOMME ARME 391 
 
 was a lofty virtue, ended in rendering Jean Valjean a father 
 to Cosette. A strange father, forged from the grandfather, 
 the son, the brother, and the husband, that existed in Jean 
 Valjean; a father in whom there was included even a mother; 
 a father who loved Cosette and adored her, and who held that 
 child as his light, his home, his family, his country, his para- 
 dise. 
 
 Thus when he saw that the end had absolutely come, that 
 she was escaping from him, that she was slipping from his 
 hands, that she was gliding from him, like a cloud, like 
 water, when he had before his eyes this crushing proof: "an- 
 other is the goal of her heart, another is the wish of her life; 
 there is a dearest one, I am no longer anything but her father, 
 I no longer exist" ; when he could no longer doubt, when he 
 said to himself : "She is going away from me !" the grief 
 which he felt surpassed the bounds of possibility. To have 
 done all that he had done for the purpose of ending like this ! 
 And the very idea of being nothing ! Then, as we have just 
 said, a quiver of revolt ran through him from head to foot. 
 He felt, even in the very roots of his hair, the immense re- 
 awakening of egotism, and the / in this man's abyss howled. 
 
 There is such a thing as the sudden giving way of the in- 
 ward subsoil. A despairing certainty does not make its way 
 into a ruan without thrusting aside and breaking certain pro- 
 found elements which, in some cases, are the very man him- 
 self. Grief, when it attains this shape, is a headlong flight of 
 all the forces of the conscience. These are fatal crises. Few 
 among us emerge from them still like ourselves and firm in 
 duty. When the limit of endurance is overstepped, the most 
 imperturbable virtue is disconcerted. Jean Valjean took the 
 blotter again, and convinced himself afresh : he remained 
 bowed and as though petrified and with staring oyos, over 
 those four unobjectionable lines; and there arose within him 
 such a cloud that one might have thought that everything in 
 this soul was crumbling away. 
 
 He examined this revelation, athwart the exaggerations of 
 revery, with an apparent and terrifying calmness, for it is a
 
 392 8A1VT-DENI8 
 
 fearful thing when a man's calmness reaches the coldness of 
 the statue. 
 
 He measured the terrible step which his destiny had taken 
 without his having a suspicion of the fact; he recalled his 
 fears of the preceding summer, so foolishly dissipated; he 
 recognized the precipice, it was still the same; only, Jean 
 Yaljean was no longer on the brink, he was at the bottom 
 of it. 
 
 The unprecedented and heart-rending thing about it was 
 that he had fallen without perceiving it. All the light of his 
 life had departed, while he still fancied that he beheld the 
 sun. 
 
 His instinct did not hesitate. He put together certain 
 circumstances, certain dates, certain blushes and certain 
 pallors on Cosette's part, and he said to himself: "It is he." 
 
 The divination of despair is a sort of mysterious bow 
 which never misses its aim. He struck Marius with his first 
 conjecture. He did not know the name, but he found the man 
 instantly. He distinctly perceived, in the background of the 
 implacable conjuration of his memories, the unknown prowler 
 of the Luxembourg, that wretched seeker of love adventures, 
 that idler of romance, that idiot, that coward, for it is cow- 
 ardly to come and make eyes at young girls who have beside 
 them a father who loves them. 
 
 After he had thoroughly verified the fact that this young 
 man was at the bottom of this situation, and that everything 
 proceeded from that quarter, he, Jean Yaljean, the regener- 
 ated man, the man who had so labored over his soul, the man 
 who had made so many efforts to resolve all life, all misery, 
 and all unhappiness into love, looked into his own breast and 
 there beheld a spectre, Hate. 
 
 Great griefs contain something of dejection. They dis- 
 courage one with existence. The man into whom they enter 
 feels something within him withdraw from him. In his 
 youth, their visits are lugubrious; later on they are sinister. 
 Alas, if despair is a fearful thing when the blood is hot, when 
 the hair is black, when the head is erect on the body like the
 
 THE RUE DE L'HOMME A KM 6 393 
 
 flame on the torch, when the roll of destiny still retains itj 
 full thickness, when the heart, full of desirable love, stil\ 
 possesses heats which can be returned to it, when one lias time 
 for redress, when all women and all smiles and all the future 
 and all the horizon are before one, when the force of life is 
 complete, what is it in old age, when the years hasten on, 
 growing ever paler, to that twilight hour when one begins to 
 behold the stars of the tomb ? 
 
 While he was meditating, Toussaint entered. Jean Val- 
 jean rose and asked her : 
 
 "In what quarter is it? Do you know?" 
 
 Toussaint was struck dumb, and could only answer him : 
 
 "What is it, sir?" 
 
 Jean Valjean began again: "Did you not tell me that just 
 now that there is fighting going on?" 
 
 "Ah ! yes, sir," replied Toussaint. "It is in the direction of 
 Saint-Merry." 
 
 There is a mechanical movement which comes to us, un- 
 consciously, from the most profound depths of our thought. 
 It was, no doubt, under the impulse of a movement of this 
 sort, and of which he was hardly conscious, that Jean Valjean, 
 five minutes later, found himself in the street. 
 
 Bareheaded, he sat upon the stone post at the door of his 
 house. He seemed to be listening. 
 
 Night had come. 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 THE STREET URCHIN AN ENEMY OF LIGHT 
 
 How long did he remain thus? What was the ebb and flow 
 of this tragic meditation? Did he straighten up? Did he 
 remain bowed? Had he been bent to breaking? Could he 
 still rise and regain his footing in his conscience upon some- 
 thing solid? He probably would not have been able to tell 
 himself.
 
 394 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 The street was deserted. A few uneasy bourgeois, who 
 were rapidly returning home, hardly saw him. Each one for 
 himself in times of peril. The lamp-lighter came as usiul 
 to light the lantern which was situated precisely opposite th " 
 door of No. 7, and then went away. Jean Valjean would nol 
 have appeared like a living man to any one who had exam- 
 ined him in that shadow. He sat there on the post of his door, 
 motionless as a form of ice. There is congealment in despair. 
 The alarm bells and a vague and stormy uproar were audible. 
 In the midst of all these convulsions of the bell mingled with 
 the revolt, the clock of Saint-Paul struck eleven, gravely and 
 without haste; for the tocsin is man; the hour is God. The 
 passage of the hour produced no effect on Jean Valjean ; Jean 
 Valjean did not stir. Still, at about that moment, a brusque 
 report burst forth in the direction of the Hallos, a second yet 
 more violent followed; it was probably that attack on the 
 barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie which we have just 
 seen repulsed by Marius. At this double discharge, whose 
 fury seemed augmented by the stupor of the night, Jean 
 Valjean started; he rose, turning towards the quarter whence 
 the noise proceeded; then he fell back upon the post again, 
 folded his arms, and his head slowly sank on his bosom 
 again. 
 
 He resumed his gloomy dialogue with himself. 
 
 All at once, he raised his eyes; some one was walking in 
 the street, he heard steps near him. He looked, and by the 
 light of the lanterns, in the direction of the street which 
 ran into the Rue-aux-Archives, he perceived a young, livid, 
 and beaming face. 
 
 Gavroche had just arrived in the Rue 1'Homme Arme. 
 
 Gavroche was staring into the air, apparently in search of 
 something. He saw Jean Valjean perfectly well but he took 
 no notice of him. 
 
 Gavroche after staring into the air, stared below ; he raised 
 himself on tiptoe, and felt of the doors and windows of the 
 ground floor ; they were all shut, bolted, and padlocked. After 
 having authenticated the fronts of five or six barricaded houses
 
 THE HUE DK L'HOMMV ARM$ 395 
 
 in this manner, the urchin shrugged his shoulders, and took 
 himself to task in these terms : 
 
 "Pardi !" 
 
 Then he began to stare into the air again. 
 
 Jean Valjean, who, an instant previously, in his then state 
 of mind, would not have spoken to or even answered any one, 
 felt irresistibly impelled to accost that child. 
 
 "What is the matter with you, my little fellow?" he said. 
 
 "The matter with me is that I am hungry," replied Gav- 
 roche frankly. And he added: "Little fellow yourself." 
 
 Jean Valjean fumbled in his fob and pulled out a five-franc 
 piece. 
 
 But Gavroche, who was of the wagtail species, and who 
 skipped vivaciously from one gesture to another, had just 
 picked up a stone. lie had caught sight of the lantern. 
 
 "See here," said he, "you still have your lanterns here. You 
 arc disobeying the regulations, my friend. This is disorderly. 
 Smash that for me." 
 
 And he flung the stone at the lantern, whose broken glass 
 fell with such a clatter that the bourgeois in hiding behind 
 their curtains in the opposite house cried: "There is 'Ninety- 
 three' come again." 
 
 The lantern oscillated violently, and went out. The street 
 had suddenly become black. 
 
 "That's right, old street," ejaculated Gavroche, "put on 
 your night-cap." 
 
 And turning to Jean Valjean : 
 
 "What do you call that gigantic monument that you have 
 there at the end of the street? It's the Archives, isn't it? I 
 must crumble up those big stupids of pillars a bit and make 
 a nice barricade out of them." 
 
 Jean Valjean stepped up to Gavroche. 
 
 "Poor creature," he said in a low tone, and speaking to 
 himself, "he is hungry." 
 
 And he laid the hundred-sou piece in his hand. 
 
 Gavroche raised his face, astonished at the size of this sou; 
 he stared at it in the darkness, and the whiteness of the big
 
 306 
 
 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 sou dazzled him. He knew five-franc pieces by hearsay ; their 
 reputation was agreeable to him; he was delighted to see one 
 close to. He said : 
 
 "Let us contemplate the tiger." 
 
 He gazed at it for several minutes in ecstasy; then, turn- 
 ing to Jean Valjean, he held out the coin to him, and said 
 majestically to him : 
 
 "Bourgeois, I prefer to smash lanterns. Take back your 
 ferocious beast. You can't bribe me. That has got five claws ; 
 but it doesn't scratch me." 
 
 "Have you a mother?" asked Jean Valjean. 
 
 Gavroche replied : 
 
 "More than you have, perhaps." 
 
 "Well," returned Jean Valjean, "keep the money for your 
 mother !" 
 
 Gavroche was touched. Moreover, he had just noticed that 
 the man who was addressing him had no hat, and this in- 
 spired him with confidence. 
 
 "Truly," said he, "so it wasn't to keep me from breaking 
 the lanterns?" 
 
 "Break whatever you please." 
 
 "You're a fine man," said Gavroche. 
 
 And he put the five-franc piece into one of his pockets. 
 
 His confidence having increased, he added: 
 
 "Do you belong in this street ?" 
 
 "Yes, why?" 
 
 "Can you tell me where No. 7 is ?" 
 
 "What do you want with No. 7 ?" 
 
 Here the child paused, he feared that he had said too much ; 
 he thrust his nails energetically into his hair and contented 
 himself with replying : 
 
 "Ah ! Here it is." 
 
 An idea flashed through Jean Valjean's mind. Anguish 
 does have these gleams. He said to the lad : 
 
 "Are you the person who is bringing a letter that I am ex- 
 pecting ?" 
 
 "You ?" said Gavroche. "You are not a woman."
 
 THE RUE DE UHOUME ARME 397 
 
 "The letter is for Mademoiselle Cosette, is it not?" 
 
 "Cosette," muttered Gavroche. "Yes, I believe that is the 
 queer name." 
 
 "Well," resumed Jean Valjean, "I am the person to whom 
 you are to deliver the letter. Give it here." 
 
 "In that case, you must know that I was sent from the 
 barricade." 
 
 "Of course," said Jean Valjean. 
 
 Gavroche engulfed his hand in another of his pockets and 
 drew out a paper folded in four. 
 
 Then he made the military salute. 
 
 "Respect for despatches," said he. "It comes from the 
 Provisional Government." 
 
 "Give it to me," said Jean Valjean. 
 
 Gavroche held the paper elevated above his head. 
 
 "Don't go and fancy it's a love letter. It is for a woman, 
 but it's for the people. We men fight and we respect the fair 
 sex. We are not as they are in fine society, where there are 
 lions who send chickens 1 to camels." 
 
 "Give it to me." 
 
 "After all," continued Gavroche, "you have the air of an 
 honest man." 
 
 "Give it to me quick." 
 
 "Catch hold of it." 
 
 And he handed the paper to Jean Valjean. 
 
 "And make haste, Monsier What's-your-name, for Mam- 
 sellc Cosette is waiting." 
 
 Gavroche was satisfied with himself for having produced 
 this remark. 
 
 Jean Valjean began again: 
 
 "Is it to Saint-Merry that the answer is to be sent?" 
 
 "There you are making some of those bits of pastry vul- 
 garly called brioches [blunders]. This letter conies from the 
 barricade of the Hue de la Chanvrerie, and I'm going back 
 there. Good evening, citizen." 
 
 That said, Gavroche took himself off, or, to describe it 
 'Love letters.
 
 398 8AINT Dl-MS 
 
 more exactly, fluttered away in the direction whence he had 
 come with a flight like that of an escaped bird. He plunged 
 back into the gloom as though he made a hole in it, with 
 the rigid rapidity of a projectile; the alley of FHomme Arme 
 became silent and solitary once more; in a twinkling, that 
 strange child, who had about him something of the shadow 
 and of the dream, had buried himself in the mists of the rows 
 of black houses, and was lost there, like smoke in the dark; 
 and one might have thought that he had dissipated and van- 
 ished, had there not taken place, a few minutes after his dis- 
 appearance, a startling shiver of glass, and had not the 
 magnificent crash of a lantern rattling down on the pavement 
 once more abruptly awakened the indignant bourgeois. It 
 was Gavroche upon his way through the Kue du Chaume. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WHILE COSETTE AXD TOUSSAINT ARE ASLEEP 
 
 JEAN VALJEAN went into the house with Marius' letter. 
 
 He groped his way up the stairs, as pleased with the dark- 
 ness as an owl who grips his prey, opened and shut his door 
 softly, listened to see whether he could hear any noise, 
 made sure that, to all appearances, Cosette and Toussaint were 
 asleep; and plunged three or four matches into the bottle of 
 the Fumade lighter before he could evoke a spark, so greatly 
 did his hand tremble. What he had just done smacked of 
 theft. At last the candle was lighted; he leaned his elbows 
 on the table, unfolded the paper, and read. 
 
 In violent emotions, one does not read, one flings to the 
 earth, so to speak, the paper which one holds, one clutches 
 it like a victim, one crushes it, one digs into it the nails of 
 one's wrath, or of one's joy; one hastens to the end, one 
 leaps to the beginning; attention is at fever heat; it takes up 
 in the gross, as it were, the essential points; it seizes on one
 
 THE RUE DE L'lIOMME ARM& 399 
 
 point, and the rest disappears. In Marius' note to Cosette, 
 Jean Valjean saw only these words: 
 
 "I die. When thou readest this, my soul will be near 
 thee." 
 
 In the presence of these two lines, he was horribly daz- 
 zled; he remained for a moment, crushed, as it were, by the 
 change of emotion which was taking place within him, he 
 stared at Marius' note with a sort of intoxicated amazement, 
 he had before his eyes that splendor, the death of a hated 
 individual. 
 
 lie uttered a frightful cry of inward joy. So it was all 
 over. The catastrophe had arrived sooner than he had dared 
 to hope. The being who obstructed his destiny was disappear- 
 ing. That man had taken himself off of his own accord, 
 freely, willingly. This man was going to his death, and he, 
 Jean Valjean, had had no hand in the matter, and it was 
 through no fault of his. Perhaps, even, he is already dead. 
 Here his fever entered into calculations. Xo, he is not dead 
 yet. The letter had evidently been intended for Cosette to 
 read on the following morning ; after the two discharges that 
 were heard between eleven o'clock and midnight, nothing 
 more has taken place; the barricade will not be attacked se- 
 riously until daybreak; but that makes no difference, from 
 the moment when "that man" is concerned in this war, he is 
 lost; he is caught in the gearing. Jean Valjean felt himself 
 delivered. So he was about to find himself alone with Cosette 
 once more. The rivalry would cease; the future was be- 
 ginning again. He had but to keep this note in his pocket. 
 Cosette would never know what had become of that man. All 
 that there requires to be done is to let things take their own 
 course. This man cannot escape. If he is not already 
 dead, it is certain that he is about to die. What good 
 fortune ! 
 
 Having said all this to himself, he became gloomy. 
 
 Then he went down stairs and woke up the porter. 
 
 About an hour later, Jean Valjean went out in the com- 
 plete costume of a National Guard, and with his arms. The
 
 400 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 porter had easily found in the neighborhood the wherewithal 
 to complete his equipment. He had a loaded gun and a car- 
 tridge-box filled with cartridges. 
 
 He strode off in the direction of the markets. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 GAVROCHE'S EXCESS OF ZEAL 
 
 IN the meantime, Gavroche had had an adventure. 
 
 Gavroche, after having conscientiously stoned the lantern 
 in the Rue du Chaume, entered the Rue des Vielles-Hau- 
 driettes, and not seeing "even a cat" there, he thought the op- 
 portunity a good one to strike up all the song of which he 
 was capable. His march, far from being retarded by his sing- 
 ing, was accelerated by it. He began to sow along the sleeping 
 or terrified houses these incendiary couplets: 
 
 "L'oiseau me"dit dans les charmilles, 
 Et pretend qu'hier Atala 
 Avec un Russe s'en alia. 
 
 OH vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Mon ami Pierrot, tu babilles, 
 Parce que 1'autre jour Mila 
 Cogna sa vitre et m'appela, 
 Oil vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Les drfllesses sont fort gentilles, 
 Leur poison qui m'ensorcela 
 Griserait Monsieur Orfila. 
 Ou vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "J'aime 1'amour et les bisbilles, 
 
 J'aime Agnes, j'aime Pamela, 
 
 Lise en m'allumant se brQla. 
 
 Ou vont les belles fillea, 
 
 Lon la.
 
 THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME 
 
 "Jadis, quand je vis les mantilles 
 De Suzette et de Z6ila, 
 Mon ame aleurs plis se mCla, 
 Oil vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Amour, quand dans Pombre oil tu brilles, 
 Tu coiffes de roses Lola, 
 Je me damnerais pour cela. 
 Oil vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Jeanne a ton miroir tu t'habilles! 
 
 Mon coeur un beau jour s'envola. 
 
 Je crois que c'est Jeanne qui 1'a. 
 
 Oil vont les belles filles, 
 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Le soir, en sortant des quadrilles, 
 Je montre aux toiles Stella, 
 Et je leur dis: 'Re"gardez-la.' 
 Ou vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la." 1 
 
 Gavroche, as he sang, was lavish of his pantomime. Ges- 
 ture is the strong point of the refrain. His face, an inex- 
 haustible repertory of masks, produced grimaces more con- 
 vulsing and more fantastic than the rents of a cloth torn in a 
 high gale. Unfortunately, as he was alone, and as it was 
 
 'The bird slanders in the elms, 
 And pretends that yesterday, Atala 
 Went off with a Russian, 
 Where fair maids go. 
 Lon la. 
 
 My friend Pierrot, thou pratest, because Mila knocked at her pane 
 the other day and called me. The jades are very charmnig, their poison 
 which bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila. I'm fond of 
 love and its bickerings, I love Agnes, I love Pamela, Lise buriied 
 herself in setting me aflame. In former days when I saw the man- 
 tillas of Suzette and of Zila, my soul mingled with their folds. 
 Love, when thou gleamest in the dark thou crownest Lola with roses, 
 1 would lose my soul for that. Jeanne, at thy mirror thou deekest 
 thyself! One fine day, my heart flew forth. I think that it is 
 Jeanne who has it. At night, when 1 come from the quadrilles, 
 1 show Stella to the stars, and I say to them: "Behold her." Where 
 fair maids go, Ion la.
 
 402 SAINT-DEMS 
 
 night, this was neither seen nor even visible. Such wastes of 
 riches do occur. 
 
 All at once, he stopped short. 
 
 "Let us interrupt the romance," said he. 
 
 His feline eye had just descried, in the recess of a carriage 
 door, what is called in painting, an ensemble, that is to say, 
 a person and a thing; the thing was a hand-cart, the person 
 was a man from Auvergene who was sleeping therein. 
 
 The shafts of the cart rested on the pavement, and the 
 Auvergnat's head was supported against the front of the cart. 
 His body was coiled up on this inclined plane and his feet 
 touched the ground. 
 
 Gavroche, with his experience of the things of this world, 
 recognized a drunken man. He was some corner errand-man 
 who had drunk too much and was sleeping too much. 
 
 "There now," thought Gavroche, "that's what the summer 
 nights are good for. We'll take the cart for the Republic, 
 and leave the Auvergnat for the Monarchy." 
 
 His mind had just been illuminated by this flash of 
 light :- 
 
 "How bully that cart would look on our barricade !" 
 
 The Auvergnat was snoring. 
 
 Gavroche gently tugged at the cart from behind, and at the 
 Auvergnat from the front, that is to say, by the feet, and at 
 the expiration of another minute the imperturbable Auvergnat 
 was reposing flat on the pavement. 
 
 The cart was free. 
 
 Gavroche, habituated to facing the unexpected in all quar- 
 ters, had everything about him. He fumbled in one of his 
 pockets, and pulled from it a scrap of paper and a bit of red 
 pencil filched from some carpenter. 
 
 He wrote : 
 
 "French Republic" 
 
 "Received thy cart." 
 
 And he signed it : "GAVROCIIE." 
 
 That done, he put the paper in the pocket of the still
 
 THE RUE DE L'HOMME ARME 493 
 
 snoring Auvergnat's velvet vest, seized the cart shafts in both 
 hands, and set off in the direction of the Hallos, pushing the 
 cart before him at a hard gallop with a glorious and trium- 
 phant uproar. 
 
 This was perilous. There was a post at the Royal Printing 
 Establishment. Gavroche did not think of this. This post 
 was occupied by the National Guards of the suburbs. The 
 squad began to wake up, and heads were raised from camp 
 beds. Two street lanterns broken in succession, that ditty 
 sung at the top of the lungs. This was a great deal for those 
 cowardly streets, which desire to go to sleep at sunset, and 
 which put the extinguisher on their candles at such an early 
 hour. For the last hour, that boy had been creating an uproar 
 in that peaceable arrondissement, the uproar of a fly in a 
 bottle. The sergeant of the banlieue lent an ear. He waited. 
 He was a prudent man. 
 
 The mad rattle of the cart, filled to overflowing the possible 
 measure of waiting, and decided the sergeant to make a recon- 
 naisance. 
 
 "There's a whole band of them there !" said he, "let us pro- 
 ceed gently." 
 
 It was clear that the hydra of anarchy had emerged from 
 its box and that it was stalking abroad through the quarter. 
 
 And the sergeant ventured out of the post with cautious 
 tread. 
 
 All at once, Gavroche, pushing his cart in front of him, and 
 at the very moment when he was ,bout t turn into the Rue 
 des Vielles-Haudriettes, found himself face to face with a 
 uniform, a shako, a plume, and a gun. 
 
 For the second time, he stopped short. 
 
 "Hullo," said he, "it's him. Good day, public order." 
 
 Gavroche's amazement was always brief and speedily 
 thawed. 
 
 "Where are you going, you rascal?" shouted the 
 sergeant. 
 
 "Citizen," retorted Gavroche, "I haven't called you 'bour- 
 geois' yet. Why do you insult me ?"
 
 404 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "Where are you going, you rogue ?" 
 
 "Monsieur," retorted Gavroche, "perhaps you were a 
 man of wit yesterday, but you have degenerated this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "I ask you where are you going, you villain?" 
 
 Gavroche replied : 
 
 "You speak prettily. Keally, no one would suppose you 
 as old as you are. You ought to sell all your hair at a 
 hundred francs apiece. That would yield you five hundred 
 francs." 
 
 "Where are you going? Where are you going? Where 
 are you going, bandit ?" 
 
 Gavroche retorted again : 
 
 "What villainous words ! You must wipe your mouth better 
 the first time that they give you suck." 
 
 The sergeant lowered his bayonet. 
 
 "Will you tell me where you are going, you wretch ?" 
 
 "General," said Gavroche, "I'm on my way to look for a 
 doctor for my wife who is in labor." 
 
 "To arms !" shouted the sergeant. 
 
 The master-stroke of strong men consists in saving them- 
 selves by the very means that have ruined them; Gavroche 
 took in the whole situation at a glance. It was the cart 
 which had told against him, it was the cart's place to protect 
 him. 
 
 At the moment when the sergeant was on the point of 
 making his descent on Gavroche, the cart, converted into a 
 projectile and launched with all the latters might, rolled 
 down upon him furiously, and the sergeant, struck full in 
 the stomach, tumbled over backwards into the gutter while 
 his gun went off in the air. 
 
 The men of the post had rushed out pell-mell at the ser- 
 geant's shout; the shot brought on a general random dis- 
 charge, after which they reloaded their weapons and began 
 again. 
 
 This blind-man's-buff musketry lasted for a quarter of an 
 hour and killed several panes of glass.
 
 THE RUE DE L'HOMME A.RUE 405 
 
 In the meanwhile, Gavroche, who had retraced his steps at 
 full speed, halted five or six streets distant and seated himself, 
 panting, on the stone post which forms the corner of the En- 
 fants-Rouges. 
 
 He listened. 
 
 After panting for a few minutes, he turned in the 
 direction where the fusillade was raging, lifted his left 
 hand to a level with his nose and thrust it forward 
 three times, as he slapped the back of his head with his 
 right hand; an imperious gesture in which Parisian 
 street-urchindom has condensed French irony, and which 
 is evidently efficacious, since it has already lasted half a 
 century. 
 
 This gayety was troubled by one bitter reflection. 
 
 "Yes," said he, "I'm splitting with laughter, I'm twisting 
 with delight, I abound in joy, but I'm losing my way, I shall 
 have to take a roundabout way. If I only reach the barricade 
 in season !" 
 
 Thereupon he set out again on a run. 
 
 And as he ran : 
 
 "Ah, by the way, where was I?" said he. 
 
 And he resumed his ditty, as he plunged rapidly through 
 the streets, and this is what died away in the gloom: 
 
 "Mais il reste encore des bastilles, 
 Et je vais niettre le hola 
 Dans 1'orde public que voila. 
 Oil vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Quelqu'un veut-il jouer aux quilles? 
 Tout 1'ancien monde sVcroula 
 Quand la grosse boule roula. 
 Ou vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la. 
 
 "Vieux bon peuple, a coups de bequilles, 
 Cassons ce Louvre on s'elala 
 La monarchie en falbala. 
 Ou vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la.
 
 406 SAINT-DENIS 
 
 "Nous en avons force" les grilles, 
 Le roi Charles-Dix ce jour la, 
 Tenait mal et se d^colla. 
 Ou vont les belles filles, 
 Lon la." 1 
 
 The post's recourse to arms was not without result. The 
 cart was conquered, the drunken man was taken prisoner. 
 The first was put in the pound, the second was later on 
 somewhat harassed before the councils of war as an ac- 
 complice. The public ministry of the day proved its inde- 
 fatigable zeal in the defence of society, in this instance. 
 
 Gavroche's adventure, which has lingered as a tradition in 
 the quarters of the Temple, is one of the most terrible souve- 
 nirs of the elderly bourgeois of the Marais, and is entitled in 
 their memories: "The nocturnal attack by the post of the 
 Royal Printing Establishment." 
 
 'But some prisons still remain, and I am going to put a stop to 
 this sort of public order. Does any one wish to play at skittles? 
 The whole ancient world fell in ruin, when the big ball rolled. 
 Good old folks, let us smash with our crutches that Louvre where 
 the monarchy displayed itself in furbelows. We have forced its 
 gates. On that day, King Charles X. did not stick well and came 
 unglued.
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 . j, 
 
 iU'^419b5 
 
 
 
 JftN ^c 
 
 
 
 
 MAP. 14^ 
 
 R 
 
 
 
 I! 
 
 
 
 
 APR 
 
 5 1988 
 
 
 
 * MAR 2 
 
 A 1988 n 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 CAVLORO 
 
 
 
 PRINTCOIN U I A.
 
 "I I II 
 
 A 
 
 3 1210 00514 7291