THE ETHEL CARR PEACOCK MEMORIAL COLLECTION Matris amori monumentum TRINITY COLLEGE LIBRARY DURHAM, N. C. 1903 Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Dred Peacock Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2017 with funding from Duke University Libraries https://archive.org/details/lesmisrables41hugo LIBRARY EDITION. Part Fourth. THE IDYLL AND THE EPIC. ‘ One morning when the sun was shining, and both were on the garden steps. " Les Mislrabies, IV Frontispiece 13 LES MISERABLES. By victor HUGO. Part Fourth. •THE IDYLL AND THE EPIC. a54-iS BOSTON: LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 1893 - Copyright, 18S7, By Little, Brown, and Company University Press: John \Vilson and Son, Cambridge. TABLE OF CONTEXTS, THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL AND THE RUE ST. DENIS EPIC. 15oo!v I. SOME PAGES OF HISTORY. Chapter Page I. Well Cut Oct 1 II. Badlt Stitched 9 III. Louis Philippe 14 IV. Cracks ix the Eouxdatiox 25 y. Facts from which History is Derived but WHICH History Ignores 35 ■ VI. Enjolras and his Lieutenants 50 Book II. E PO NINE. I. The Lark’s Field 57 II. Crimes in Embryo incubated in Prisons . 65 III. Father Mabceuf has an Apparition ... 71 IV. Marius has an App.arition ....... 77 TABLE OF CONTENTS. viii Boofe IX. WHERE ARE THEY GOING? Chapter Page I. Jean A^aljean 329 II. Marius 332 III. M. Mabceuf 336 Booli X. THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832. 1. The Surface of the Question .... 342 II. The Bottom of the Question 347 III. A Burial gives Opportunity for a Re- vival 3.56 IV. The Ebullitions of Other Days . . . 364 V. Originality of Paris 372 Boofe XI. THE ATOM FRATERNIZES AVITH THE HURRICANE. I. The Origin of the Poetry of Gavroche AND the Influence of an Academician UPON it 376 II. Gavroche on the March 380 III. Just Indignation of a Barber .... 385 lA’. The Child astonishes the Old Man . . 388 AL The Old Man 391 VI. Recruits 394 TABLE OF CONTENTS. ix Booh XII. CORINTH. Chapter Page I. History of Corixth froji its Foundation 397 II. Preliminary Gayeties 405 HI. The Night begins to fall on Grantaire 419 IV. An Endeavor to console the Widow Hdchelodp 424 V. Preparations 429 VI. Waiting 432 VH. The Recruit of the Rue des Billettes 436 VHI. Was his Name Le Cabuc ? 441 Booh XIII. MARIUS ENTERS THE SHADOW. I. From the Rue Plumet to the Quartier St. Denis 448 H. An Owl’s-Eye View of Paris 452 HI. The Extreme Brink 456 Bnoit XIV. THE GRANDEUR OF DESPAIR. I. The Flag : Act First 465 II. The Flag: Act Second 469 HI. Gavroche had better have accepted the Carbine of En.iolras 473 IV. The Barrel of Gunpowder 475 V. End of the Verses of Jean Prouvaire . 479 VI. Death’s Agony after Life's Agony . . 482 VH. Gavroche calculates Distances . . . 489 X TABLE OF CONTENTS. Book XV. THE RUE HE L’HOMME ARME. CnAPTEK Page I. Blotting, Blabbing 494 II. The Gamin the Enemy of Lamps . . . . 506 III. While Cosette and Toussaint Sleep . . 512 IV. Gavroche’s Excess of Zeal 515 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL AND THE RUE ST. DENIS EPIC. BOOK I SOME PAGES OF HISTORY. CHAPTER I. WELL CUT OUT. 1831 and 1832, the two years immediately attached to the revolution of July, contain the most peculiar and striking moments of history ; and these two years, amid those that precede and follow them, stand out like mountains. They possess the true revolutionary grandeur, and precipices may be traced in them. The social masses, the foundations of ciwlization, the solid group of superimposed and adherent in- terests, and the secular profiles of the ancient Gal- lic formations, appear and disappear every moment tlirough the stormy clouds of systems, passions, and theories. These apparitions and disappearances were called resistance and movement, but at intervals * truth, the daylight of the human soul, flashes through all VOL. IV. 1 2 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. This remra’kable epoch is so circumscribed, aud is beginning to become so remote from us, that we are able to seize its principal outlines. We will make the attempt. The Restoration was one of those inter- mediate phases which are so difficult to define, in which are fatigue, buzzing, murmurs, sleep, and tumult, and which, after all, are nought but the arrival of a great nation at a halting-place. These epochs are peculiar, and deceive the politician Avho tries to take advantage of them. At the outset the nation only demands repose ; there is but one thirst, for peace, and only one ambition, to be small, — which is the translation of keeping quiet. “ Great events, great accidents, great adventures, great men, — 0 Lord ! we have had enough of these, and more than enough.” Caesar would be given for Prusias, and Napoleon for the Roi d’Yvetot, who was “ such a merry little king.” Folk have been marching since daybreak and arrive at the evening of a long and rough journey ; they made their first halt with Mira- beau, the second with Robespierre, and the third with Napoleon, and they are exhausted. Everybody insists on a bed. Worn-out devotions, crying heroisms, gorged am- bitions, and made fortunes, seek, claim, implore, and solicit, — what ? A resting-place, and they have it. They take possession of peace, tranquillity, and lei- sure, and feel satisfied. Still, at the same time certain facts arise, demand recognition, and knock at doors on their side. These facts have emerged from revo- lutions and wars ; they exist, they live, and have the right, — the right of installing themselves in society, WELL CUT OUT. 3 which they do; and in the majority of instances facts are the quarter-masters that only prepare a billet for principles. In such a case, this is what occurs to political philosophers : at the same time as wearied men claim rest, accomplished facts demand guarantees, for guar- antees for facts are the same thing as repose for men. It is this that England asked of the Stuart after the Protector, and what France asked of the Bourbons after the Empire. These guarantees are a necessity of the times, and they must be granted. The Princes concede them, but in reality it is the force of things that gives them. This is a profound truth and worth knowing, which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1662, and of which the Bourbons did not even gain a glimpse in 1814. The predestined family which returned to France when Xapoleon collapsed had the fatal simplicity of belie^’ing that it gave, and that it coidd take back what it had once given ; that the Bourbon family possessed the right dmne, and France possessed nothing, and that the political right conceded in the . charter of Louis XYIII. was nothing else but a branch of the dhdne right, detached by the House of Bourbon and graciously permitted to the people up to the day when the king thought proper to clutch it again. Still, from the displeasure which the gift caused it, the Bourbon family ought to have felt that it did not emanate from it. It behaved in a grudging way to the l9th century, and looked ■with an ugly smile at every expansion of the na- tion. To employ a trivial, that is to say, a popular 4 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. and true phrase, it was crabbed, and the people no- ticed it. The Government believed that it had strength because the Empire had been removed before it, like a stage scene ; but it did not perceive that it had been produced in the same way, nor see that it was held in the same hand which had removed Napoleon. It believed that it had roots, because it was the past, and was mistaken : it formed a portion of the past, but the whole of the past was France ; and the roots of French society were not in the Bourbons, but in the nation. These obscure and tenacious roots did not constitute the right of a family, but the history of a people, and were everywhere, except under the throne. The House of Bourbon had been for France the illustrious and blood-stained knot of her history, but was no longer the principal element of her des- tiny or the necessary basis of her policy. She could do without the Bourbons as she had done for two- and-twenty years : there was a solution of continuity, but they did not suspect it. And how could they suspect it, when they imagined that Louis XVII. reigned at the 9th Thermidor, and that Louis XVIII. was reigning at the day of hlarengo ? Never, since the origin of history, have princes been so blind in the presence of history and that portion of the divine authority which facts contain and promulgate. Never had the nether claim, which is called the right of kings, denied to such a condition the supreme right. It was a capital error that led this family to lay their hand again on the “granted” guarantees in 1814, or on the concessions, as they entitled them. It is a WELL CUT OUT. 5 sad thing that what they called their concessions were our conquests, and what they called our encroach- ments were our rights. When the hour appeared to have arrived, the Restoration, supposing itself vic- torious over Bonaparte, and rooted in the country, that is to say, believing itself strong and profound, suddenly made up its miud, and risked its stake. One morning it rose in the face of France, and, rais- ing its voice, contested the collective title, and the indi\ddual title, the sovereignty of the nation, and the liberty of the citizen. In other terms, it denied the nation what made it a nation, and the citizen what made him a citizen. This is the substratum of those famous decrees which are called the “ Ordoii- nances ” of July. The Restoration fell, and fell justly. Still, let us add, it was not absolutely hostile to all the forms of progress, and grand things were accom- plished while it stood aloof. During the Restoration the nation had grown accustomed to calm discussion, which the Republic had been deficient in, and to grandeur in peace, which was not known under the Empire. France, strong and free, had been an en- couraging example for the other nations of Europe. Under Robespierre the Revolution ruled; under Bon- aparte, cannon; while in the reigns of Louis XVIII. and Charles X. the turn arrived for intellect to speak. The wind ceased, and the torch was re-illumined, while a pure mental light played round the serene crests. It was a magnificent, useful, and delightful spectacle ; and for fifteen years those great principles, which are so old for the thinker, so new for the statesman, — equality before the law, liberty of con- 6 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. science, freedom of the press and speech, and the accessibility of all fitting men to office, — could be seen at work in a reign of peace, and publicly. Things went on thus till 1830, and the Bourbons were an instrument of civilization which broke in the hands of Pro^ddence. The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, not on their side, but on that of the nation. They left the throne with gravity, but without authority ; their descent into night was not one of those solemn dis- appearances which impart a sombre emotion to his- tory, and it was neither the spectral calmness of Charles I. nor the eagle cry of ISTapoleon. They went away, that was all ; they deposited the crown and did not retain the glory, and though they were dignified, they were not august, and they were to a certain extent false to the majesty of their misfor- tune. Charles X., haAung a round table cut square during the Cherbourg voyage, seemed more anxious about the imperilled etiquette than the crumbling monarchy. This diminution saddened the devoted men who were attached to the Bourbons personally, and the serious men who honored their race. The people behaved admirably, however, and the nation, attacked one morning by a species of royalist insur- rection, felt themselves so strong that they displayed no anger. They defended themselves, restrained themselves, and restored things to their place ; the government in the law, the Bourbons in exile, alas ! and stopped there. They took the old King Charles X. off the dais which had sheltered Louis XIV., and gently placed him on the ground, and they only WELL CUT OUT. 7 touched the royal persons cautiously and sorrowfully. It was not one man, or a few men, but France, united France, France victorious, and intoxicated by its victory, which appeared to remember, and practised in the eyes of the whole world, the serious remarks of Guillaume du Vair after the day of the Barri- cades. “ It is easy for those who have been accus- tomed to obtain the favors of the great, and leap like a bird from branch to branch, from a low to a flourishing fortune, to show themselves bold against tlieir prince in his misfortunes ; but for my part the fortune of my kings will be ever venerable to me, and principally of those who are in affliction.” The Bourbons bore away with them respect, but not regret ; as we have said, their misfortune was greater than themselves, and they faded away on the horizon. The revolution of July at once found friends and enemies in the whole world ; the former rushed to- ward it enthusiastically and joyfully, while the latter turned away, each according to its nature. The princes of Europe, the owls of this dawn, at the first moment closed their eyes, which were hurt and stupefied, and only opened them again to menace, — it is a terror easy to understand and a pardonable anger. This strange revolution had scarcely required a blow, and had not even done conquered royalty the honor of treating it as an enemy and shedding its blood. In the sight of despotic governments which also have an interest in liberty calumniating itself, the revolution of July had the fault of being for- midable and remaining gentle, but no attempt was 8 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. made or prepared against it. The most dissatisfied and irritated persons saluted it ; for -whatever their selfishness or rancor may be, men feel a mysterious respect issue from events in which they feel the co- operation of some one who labors higher than man. The revolution of July is the triumph of right overthrowing fact, and is a thing full of splendor. Hence came the brilliancy of the revolution of 1830, and at the same time their mildness, for right that triumphs has no need to be violent. Right is justice and truth, and it is the property of right to remain eternally beautiful and pure. Fact, even the most necessary in appearance and best accepted by contemporaries, if it only exist as fact, and contain too little right, is no right at all, and is infallibly des- tined to become, with the duration of time, mis- shapen, foul, and perhaps even monstrous. If we wish to discover at one glance what a degree of ugliness fact can attain, when looked at through the distance of centuries, let us regard Machiavelli. He is not an evil genius, a demon, or a cowardly and servile writer : he is nothing but the fact, and not merely the Italian fact, but the European fact, the fact of the sixteenth century. He appears hideous, and is so in the presence of the moral idea of the 19th century. This struggle between right and fact has endured since the origin of societies. It is the task of wise men to terminate the duel, amalgamate the pure idea with human reality, and to make right penetrate fact and fact right pacifically. X CHAPTER II. BADLY STITCHED. But the task of wise men differs greatly from that of clever men, and the revolution of 1830 quickly stopped ; for when a revolution has run ashore, the clever men plunder the wreck. Clever men in our century have decreed themselves the title of states- men, so that the phrase has eventually become a bit of slang. For it must not be forgotten that where there is only cleverness, littleness necessarily exists, and to say “ the clever ” is much like saying the “ mediocrities.” In the same way the word “ states- man ” is often equivalent to saying “ traitor.” If we believe clever men, then revolutions like that of July are severed arteries, and a rapid ligature is required. Right, if too loudly proclaimed, threatens a general overthrow. Hence the right once secured, the gov- ernmeut must be strengthened. As soon as liberty is assured we must turn our attention to power. Here wise men, though they have not yet separated from clever men, begin to distrust them. Power, very good ! But, in the first place, wdiat is power ; and secondly, whence does it come ? The clever men do not appear to hear the muttered objection and continue their ma- noeuvres. According to politicians who ingeniously 10 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. place a mask of necessity upon profitable fiction, the first want of a people after a revolution, if that people form part of a monarchical continent, is to obtain a dynasty. In this way they say peace is secured after the revolution, that is to say, the neces- sary time for repairing the house and dressing the wounds. A dynasty hides the scaffolding and covers the hospital. Now, it is not always easy to obtain a dynasty, although the first man of genius or the first adventurer met with is sufficient to make a king. You have in the first case Bonaparte, and in the second Iturbide. But the first family come across is not sufficient to form a dynasty, for there is ne- cessarily a certain amount of antiquity required as a race, and the wrinkle of centuries cannot be improvised. If we place ourselves at the standpoint of states- men, with all due reserves of course, what are the qualities of a king who issues from a revolution ? He may be, and it is useful that he should be, revo- lutionary ; that is to say, have played a personal part in the revolution, have become either compromised or renowned in it, and have wielded the axe or drawn the sword. What are the qualities of a dy- nasty ? It must be national ; that is to say, distantly revolutionary, not through acts done, but through ideas accepted. It must be composed of the past and be historical, and of the future and be sympa^ thetic. All this explains why the first revolutions are satisfied with finding a man, Napoleon or Crom- well, while the second are determined on finding a family, like the House of Brunswick or the House BADLY STITCHED. 11 of Orleans. Royal houses resemble those Indian fig-trees, each branch of which bends down, becomes rooted in the ground, and grows into a fig-tree. Each branch of the family may become a dynasty, on the sole condition that it bends down to the people. Such is the theory of clever men. This, then, is the great art, — to give success tlie sound of a catastrophe, so that those who profit by it may also tremble at it ; to season every step taken with fear ; to increase the curve of the transition until progress is checked ; to spoil this daybreak, denounce and retrench the roughness of enthusiasm ; to cut angles and nails ; to pad the triumph, muffle the right, roll the giant people in flannel, and put it to bed at full speed ; to place this excess of health under medical treatment, and regard Hercules as a con- valescent ; to dilute the event in expediency, and offer to minds thirsting for the ideal this weak nectar ; to take precautions against extreme success, and pro- \’ide the revolution with a sunshade. 1830 practised this theory, which had already been applied to Eng- land by 1688, 1830 is a revolution arrested half- way, and a moiety of progress is almost right. Xow, logic ignores this as absolutely as the sun ignores a rush-light. Who check revolutions half-way? The bourgeoisie, ^Tliy ? Because the bourgeoisie repre- sent satisfied self-interest. Yesterday appetite was felt, to-day fulness, and to-morrow satiety. The phenomenon of 1814, after Napoleon, was reproduced in 1830 after Charles X. Attempts have been made, though wrongly, to convert the bourgeoisie into a class, but they are merely the contented portion of 12 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. the population. The bourgeois is a man who has at last time to sit clown, and a chair is not a caste. But through a desire to sit down too soon, the pro- gress of the human race may be arrested, and this has frequently been the fault of the bourgeoisie ; and people are not a class because they commit a fault, and selfishness is not one of the divisions of the social order. However, as we must be just even towards selfishness, the condition for which that por- tion of the nation called the bourgeoisie yearned after the shock of 1830 was not inertness, which is com- plicated with indifference and sloth, and contains a little shame ; nor was it sleep, which presupposes a momentary oblivion accessible to dreams, but it was a halt. This word contains a double, singular, and almost contradictory meaning, for it implies troops on the march, that is to say, movement, and a stop- page, that is to say, rest. A halt is the restoration of strength, it is repose armed and awake, it is the accomplished fact, posting its sentries and standing on guard. A halt presupposes a combat yesterday and a combat to-morrow, — it is the interlude be- tween 1830 and 1848. What we here call combat may also be called progress. Hence the bourgeoisie as well as the statesmen required a man who expressed the idea of a halt, an “ although-because,” a composite individ- uality signifying revolution and stability ; in other words, strengthening the present by the evident com- patibility of the j)ast with the future. This man was found “ ready-made,” and his name was Louis Philippe d’Orleans. The 221 made Louis Philippe BADLY STITCHED. 13 king, and Lafayette undertook the coronation. He named him “ the best of Republics,” and the Town Hall of Paris was substituted for the Cathedral of Rheims. Tliis substitution of a half-throne for a complete throne was “the work of 1830.” When the clever men had completed their task, the im- mense faidt of their solution was apparent ; all this had been done beyond the pale of absolute right, wluch shouted, “ I protest ! ” and then, formidable thing, receded into the darkness. CHAPTER III. LOUIS PHILIPPE. Revolutions have a terrible arm and a lucky hand ; they hit hard and choose well. Even when incomplete, bastardized, and reduced to the state of a younger revolution, like that of 1830, they nearly always retain sufficient providential light not to fall badly, and their eclipse is never an abdication. Still, we must not boast too loudly, for revolutions them- selves are mistaken, and grave errors have been witnessed ere now. Let us return to 1830, which was fortunate in its deviation. In the establishment which was called order after the revolution was cut short, the king was worth more than the Royalty. Louis Philippe was a rare man. Son of a father to whom history will certainly grant extenuating circumstances, but as worthy of esteem as his father was of blame ; possessing all the jirivate virtues and several of the public virtues ; careful of his health, his fortune, his person, and his business affairs ; knowing the value of a minute, but not al- ways the value of a, year; sober, serious, peaceful, and patient ; a good man and a good prince ; sleep- ing with his wife, and having in his palace lackeys LOUIS PHILIPPE. 15 whose business it was to show the conjugal couch to the cits, — a regular ostentation which had grown useful after tlie old illegitimate displays of the elder branch ; acquainted with all the languages of Europe, and, what is rarer still, with all the languages of all the interests, and speaking them ; an admirable rep- resentative of the “ middle classes,” but surpassing them, and in every way gi’eater ; possessing the ex- cellent sense, while appreciating the blood from which he sprang, of claiming merit for his personal value, and very particular on the question of his race by declaring himself an Orleans and not a Bourbon ; a thorough first prince of the blood, so long as he had only been Most Serene Highness, but a frank bourgeois on the day when he became His Majesty ; diffuse in public, and concise in private life ; branded as a miser, but not proved to be one ; in reality, one of those saving men who are easily prodigal to satisfy their caprices or their duty ; well read and caring but little for literature ; a gentleman but not a cavalier ; simple, calm, and strong ; adored by his family and his household ; a seductive speaker, a statesman who had lost his illusions, cold-hearted, swayed by the imme- diate interest, governing from hand to mouth ; inca- pable of rancor and of gratitude ; pitilessly employing superiorities upon mediocrities, and clever in con- founding by parliamentary majorities those mysterious unanimities which growl hoarsely beneath thrones ; expansive, at times imprudent in his expansiveness, but displaying marv'ellous skill in his imprudence ; fertile in expedients, faces, and masks ; terrifying France by Europe, and Europe by France ; loving 16 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. his country undeniably, but preferring his family ; valuing domination more than authority, and au- thority more than dignity ; a temperament which has this mournful feature about it, that by turning every- thing to suceess it admits of craft and does not absolutely repudiate baseness, but at the same time has this advantage, that it preserves politics from violent shocks, the State from fraeturcs, and society from catastrophes ; minute, correct, vigilant, attentive, sagaeious, and indefatigable ; contradicting himself at times, and belying himself ; bold against Austria at Ancona, obstinate against England in Spain, bom- barding Antwerp and paying Pritchard ; singing the Marseillaise with conviction ; inaccessible to despond- ency, to fatigue, to a taste for the beautiful and ideal, to rash generosity, to Utopias, chimeras, anger, vanity, and fear ; possessing every form of personal bravery ; a general at Valmy, a private at Jemmappes ; eight • times attacked by regicides, and always smiling ; brave as a grenadier, and courageous as a thinker ; merely anxious about the chances of a European eon- vulsion, and unfitted for great political adventures ; ever ready to risk his life, but not his work ; disguis- ing his will in influence for the sake of being obeyed as an intellect rather than as king ; gifted wdth ob- servation and not with divination ; paying but slight attention to minds, but a good judge of men, — that is to say, requiring to see ere he could judge ; endowed with prompt and penetrating sense, practical wisdom, fluent tongue, and a prodigious memory, and inees- santly drawing on that memory, his sole similitude with CiBsar, Alexander, and Napoleon ; knowing LOUIS PHILIPPE. 17 facts, details, dates, and proper names, but ignorant of the various passions and tendencies of the crowd, the internal aspirations and concealed agitation of minds, — in one wordj of all that may be called the in^dsible currents of consciences ; accepted by the surface, but agreeing little with the lower strata of French society ; getting out of scrapes by skill ; gov- erning too much and not reigning sufficiently ; his owTi Prime jMinister ; excellent in the art of setting up the littleness of realities as an obstacle to the immensity of ideas ; mingling with a true creative faculty of ciffilization, order, and organization, I do not know what pettifogging temper and chicanery ; the founder of a family and at the same time its man- of-law ; having something of Charlemagne and some- thing of an attorney in him ; but, on the whole, as a lofty and original figure, as a prince who managed to acquire power in spite of the anxiety of France, and influence in spite of the jealousy of Europe, — Louis Philippe would be ranked among the eminent men of his age, and among the most illustrious governors known in history, if he had loved glory a little, and had a feeling for what is grand to the same extent that he had a feeling for what is useful. Louis Philippe had been handsome, and when aged, remained graceful : though not always ad- mired by the nation he was always so by the mob, for he had the art of pleasing and the gift of charm. He was deficient in majesty, and neither wore a crown though king, nor displayed white hair though an old man. His manners belonged to the ancient 2 VOL. IV. 18 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. r(^gime, and his habits to the new, — a mixture of the noble and the citizen which siuted 1830. Louis Philippe was transition on a throne, and retained the old pronunciation and orthography, which he placed at the service of modern opinions : he was fond of Poland and Hungary, but he wrote “ les Polonois,” and pronounced, “ les Hongrais.” He wore the uni- form of the National Guard like Charles X., and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor like Napoleon. He went but rarely to Mass, not at all to the chase, and never to the opera : he was incorruptible by priests, whippers-iu, and ballet girls, and this formed part of his citizen popularity. He had no Court, and went out with an umbrella under his arm, and this umbrella for a long time formed part of his nimbus. He was a bit of a mason, a bit of a gar- dener, and a bit of a surgeon: he bled a postilion who had fallen from his horse, and no more thought of going out without his lancet than Henry HI. would without his dagger. The Royalists ridiculed this absurd king, the first who shed blood in order to cure. A deduction must be made in the charges which history brings against Louis Philippe, and they formed three different columns, each of which gives a different total, — one accusing royalty, the second the reign, and the third the king. Democratic right confiscated, progress made the second interest, the protests of the streets violently repressed, the mili- tary execution of insurrections, revolt made to run the gauntlet, the Rue Transnonain, the councils of war, the absorption of the real country in the legal LOUIS PHILIPPE. 19 country, and the government on joint account with three hundred thousand privileged persons — are the deeds of royalty : Belgium refused, Algeria too harshly conquered wdth more of barbarity than civi- lization, like India by the English, the breach of faith to Abd-el-Kader, Blaye, Deutz bought and Pritchard paid — are chargeable to the reign ; while the policy which cares more for the family than the nation belongs to the king. As we see, when the deduc- tions have been made, the charge against the king is reduced ; but his great fault was that he was modest in the name of France. Whence comes this fault ? Louis Philippe wms a king who was too much a father, and this incubation of a family which is in- tended to produce a dynasty is frightened at every- thing, and does not like to be disturbed. Hence arises excessive timidity, which is offensive to a nation which has July 14th in its civil traditions and Austerlitz in its military annals. How'ever, when we abstract public duties, which should ever be first ful- filled, the family deserved Louis Philippe’s profound tenderness for it. This domestic group was admira- ble, and combined Hrtue with talent. One of the daughters of Louis Philippe, jMarie d’Orl^ans, placed the name of her race among artists as Charles d'Orleans had done among the poets, and she created from her soul a statue -which she called Joan of Arc. Two of Louis Philippe’s sons drew fi’om Metternich this demagogic praise : “ They are young men whose like can be found nowhere, and such princes as were never seen before.” Here is the tnith, without ex- 20 THE RUE P LUMET IDYLL. teiluating or setting down aught in malice, about Louis Philippe. It was his good fortune to be in 1830 the Prince Egalit4, to bear within him the con- tradiction between the Restoration and the Revolu- tion, to possess that alarming revolutionary side which becomes reassuring in the governor : and there was never a more complete adaptation of the man to the event, for one entered the other and the incarnation took place. Louis Philippe is 1830 made man, and he had also on his side that great designa- tion to a throne, exile. He had been proscribed, wandering, and poor, and had lived by his own labor. In Switzerland, this heir to the richest princely domains of France was obliged to sell a horse, in order to eat ; at Reichenau, he had given mathematical lessons while his sister Adelaide was embroidering and sewing. These souvenirs blended with a king rendered the bourgeoisie enthusiastic. With his own hands he had demolished the last iron cage at Mont St. Michel, erected by Louis XL and employed by Louis XV. He was the companion of Dumouriez and the friend of Lafayette ; he had belonged to the Jacobin Club, and Mirabeau had tapped him on the shoulder, and Danton said to him, “ Young man.” At the age of twenty-four in ’93, when IM. de Chartres, he had witnessed from an ob- scure gallery in the Convention, the trial of Louis XVL, so well named “ that poor tyrant.” The blind clairvoyance of the revolution breaking royalty in the king, and the king with royalty, while hardly observing the man in the fierce crushing of the idea ; the vast storm of the Convention Tribune ; Capet LOUIS PHILIPPE. 21 not kno’wing what to answer ; the frightful and stupefied vacillation of this royal head before the raging blast ; the relative innocence of all mixed up in this catastrophe, of those who condemned as well as of him who was condemned, — he, Louis Philippe, had looked at these things and contemplated these vertigos ; he had seen centuries appear at the bar of the Convention ; he had seen behind Louis XYI., that unfortunate and responsible victim, the real culprit, monarchy, emerging from the darkness, and he retained in his soul a respectful terror of this im- mense justice of the people which is almost as imper- sonal as the justice of God. The traces which the revolution left upon him were prodigious, and his memory was a liGng imprint of these great years, minute by minute. One day, in the presence of a witness whose statements we cannot doubt, he cor- rected from memory the entire letter A in the list of the Constituent Assembly. Louis Philippe was an open-ai r king ; during his reign the press was free, debates were free, conscience and speech were free. The Laws of September had a clear track. Though he knew the corrosive power of light upon privileges, he left his throne exposed to the light, and history will give him credit for this honorable beha^’ior. Louis Philippe, like all historic men who have quitted the stage, is at the present day being tried by the human conscience, but this trial has not yet gone through its first stage. The hour when history speaks with its venerable and free accent has not yet arrived for him ; the moment has not yet come for the final judgment. Even the stern and 22 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. illustrious historian, Louis Blanc, has recently toned down his first verdict. Louis Philippe was elected by the two hundred and twenty-oue deputies in 1830, that is to say, by a seini-Parliament and a semi- revolution ; and, in any case, we cannot judge him here philosophically, without making some reser- vations in the name of the absolute democratic prin- ciple. In the eyes of the absolute, everything is usurpation which is outside of these two rights, — first, the right of man and in the next place the right of the people ; but what we are able to say at present is, that in whatever way we may regard him, Louis Philippe, taken by himself, and looked at from the stand-point of human goodness, will remain, to employ the old language of old history, one of the best princes that ever sat on a throne. What has he against him ? This throne ; take the king away from Louis Philippe and the man remains. This man is good, at times so good as to be admirable. Often in the midst of the gravest cares, after a day’s struggle, after the whole diplomacy of the Continent, he re- turned to his apartments at night ; and then, though exhausted by fatigue and want of sleep, what did he ? He would take up a list of sentenees and spend the night in revising a criminal trial, considering that it was something to hold his own against Europe, but even greater to tear a culprit from the hands of the executioner. He obstinately resisted his keeper of the seals, and disputed the seaffold inch by inch with his attorney-generals, those “ chatterers of the law,” as he called them. At times piles of sentences cov- ered his table, and he examined them all, and felt an LOUIS PHILIPPE. 23 agony at the thought of abandoning these wretched condemned heads. One day he said to the witness whom we just now quoted, “ I gained seven of them last night,” During the earlier years of his reign the penalty of death ^vas, as it were, abolished, and the re-erection of the scaffold was a violence done to the king. As the Grfeve disappeared with the elder branch, a bourgeois Grfeve was established under the name of the Barrifere St. Jacques, for practical men” felt the necessity of a quasi-legitimate guillotine. This was one of the victories of Casimir Perier, who represented the narrow side of the bourgeoisie, over Louis Philippe, wdio represented the liberal side. The king annotated Beccaria wdth his own hand, and after the Fieschi machine he exclaimed, “What a pity that I was not wounded, for then I could have shown mercy ! ” Another time, alluding to the re- sistance offered by his ministers, he wrote with refer- ence to a political culprit, who is one of the most illustrious men of the day, “ His pardon is granted, and all that I have to do now is to obtain it.” Louis Philippe was as gentle as Louis IX., and as good as Henri IV., and in our opinion, in history, where good- ness is the rare pearl, to have been good is almost better than to have been great. As Louis Philippe has been sternly judged by some, and perhaps harshly by others, it is very simple that a man, himself a phantom at the present day, who knew that king, should offer his testimony for him in the presence of history ; this testimony, whatever its value may be, is evidently, and before all, dis- interested. An epitaph written by a dead man is 24 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. sincere ; one shadow may console another shadow, for sharing the same darkness gives the right to praise, and there is no fear that it will ever be said of two tombs in exile, — this man flattered the other. CHAPTER IV. CRACKS IX THE EOErXDATIOX. At this moment, ivhen the drama we are recount- ins: is about to enter one of those tras;ic clouds which coyer the beginning of the reign of Louis Philippe, it is quite necessary that this book should give an explanation about that king. Louis Philippe had entered upon the royal authority without \’io- lence or direct action on his part, through a revolu- tionary change of wind, which was e\'idently very distinct from the real object of the revolution, but in which he, the Due d’Orleans, had no personal initiative. He was born a prince, and believed him- self elected king; he had not given himself these functions, nor had he taken them ; they were offered to him and he accepted, comnneed — WTongly as we think, but still comdneed — that the offer was in accordance with right, and the acceptance in har- mony Avith duty. Hence came an honest possession, and we say in all conscience that, as Louis Philippe Avas honest in the possession, and democracy honest in its attack, the amount of terror disengaged from social struggles caunot be laid either on the king or the democracy. A collision of principles resembles a collision of elements ; ocean defends the water 26 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. and the hurricane the air ; the king defends royalty, democracy defends the people ; the relative, which is monarchy, resists the absolute, which is the republic ; society bleeds from this conflict, but what is its suf- fering to-day will be its salvation at a later date ; and in any case those who struggle must not be blamed, for one party must be mistaken. Eight does not stand, like the Colossus of Rhodes, on two shores at once, with one foot in the republic, the other in royalty, but is indivisible, and entirely on one side ; those who are mistaken are honestly mis- taken, and a blind man is no more a culprit than a Vendean is a brigand. We must, therefore, only impute these formidable collisions to the fatality of things, and, whatever these tempests may be, human irresponsibility is mixed up with them. Let us finish our statement : The Government of 1830 had a hard life of it from the beginning, and born yesterday it was obliged to combat to-day. Scarce installed, it felt everywhere the vague move- ments of faction beneath the foundation of Jidy, which had so recently been laid, and was still any- thing but solid. Resistance sprang up on the mor- row, and might, perhaps, have been born on the day before, and from month to month the hostility in- creased, and instead of being dull became patent. The revolution of July, frowned upon by kings out of France, was diversely interpreted in France. God imparts to men His will visible in events, an obscure text written in a mysterious language. Men at once make themselves translations of it, — hasty, incorrect translations, full of errors, gaps, and misunderstand- CRACKS IK THE FOUNDATION. 27 iiigs. Very few minds comprehend the di^’ine lan- guage ; the more sagacious, the calmer, and the more profound decipher slowly, and when they arrive with their version, the work has been done long before ; there are already twenty translations offered for sale. From each translation springs a party, and fi’om each misunderstanding a failure, and each party believes that it has the only true text, and each fac- tion believes that it possesses the light. Often enough power itself is a faction, and there are in revolutions men who swim against the current ; they are the old parties. As revolutions issue from the right to revolt, the old parties that cling to heir- dom by grace of God fancy that they have a right to revolt against them; but this is an error, for in revo- lutions the rebel is not the people but the king. Revolution is precisely the contrary of revolt ; every revolution, being a normal accomplishment, contains its legitimacy within itself, which false revolutionists sometimes dishonor, but which endures even when sullied, and sur\dves even when bleeding. Revolu- tions issue, not from an accident, but a necessity ; for they are a return from the factitious to the real, and they take place because they must take place. The old legitimist parties did not the less assail the revolution of 1830 with all the violence which springs from false reasoning. Errors are excellent projectiles, and they skilfully struck it at the spot where it was vulnerable, — the flaw in its cuirass, its want of logic, — and they attacked this revolution in its royalty. They cried to it, “Revolution, why this king? ” Factions are blind men who aim accu- 28 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. rately. This cry the revolutionists also raised, but coming from them it was logical. What was blun- dering in the legitimists was clear-sightedness in the democrats ; 1830 had made the people bankrupt, and indignant democracy reproached it with the deed. The establishment of July struggled between these attacks, made by the past and the future ; it repre- sented the minute contending on one side with mon- archical ages, on the other with eternal right and then, again, 1830, no longer a revolution, and becom- ing a monarchy, was obliged to take precedence of Europe, and it was a further difficulty to maintain peace, for a harmony desired against the grain is often more onerous than a war. From this sullen conflict, ever muzzled but ever grumbling, emerged armed peace, that ruinous expedient of civilization suspect- ing itself. The royalty of July reared in the team of European cabinets, although Metternich would have liked to put a kicking-strap upon it. Impelled by progress in France, it impelled in its turn the slowly- moving European monarchies, and while towed, it towed too. At home, however, pauperism, beggary, wages, edu- cation, the penal code, prostitution, the fall of woman, wealth, misery, production, consumption, division, ex- change, money, capital, the rights of capital, and the rights of labor, — all these questions were multiplied above society, and formed a crushing weight. Outside of political parties, properly so called, another move- ment became manifest, and a philosophic fermenta- tion responded to the democratic fermentation, and chosen minds felt troubled like the crowd, — differ- CRACKS IN THE FOUNDATION. 29 eiitlv, but quite as much. Thiuking men meditated, while the soil, that is to say, the people, traversed by revolutionary currents, trembled beneath them -with vague epileptic shocks. These thinkers, some isolated, but others assembled in families and almost in com- munities, stirred up social questions peacefully but deeply; they were impassive miners, who quietly hol- lowed their galleries beneath volcanoes, scarce dis- turbed by the dull commotions and the fires of which they caught a glimpse. This tranquillity was not the least beautiful spectacle of this agitated epoch, and these men left to political parties the question of rights, to trouble themselves about the question of happiness. ^Yhat they wished to extract from society was the welfare of man ; hence they elevated material questions, and questions about agriculture, trade, and commerce, almost to the dignity of a religion. In ciWli- zation, such as it has been constituted a little by God and a great deal by man, instincts are combined, aggregated, and amalgamated so as to form a real hard rock, by virtue of a law of dynamics which is carefully studied by social economists, those geolo- gists of politics. These meu, Avho grouped them- selves under different appellations, but who may all be designated by the generic title of socialists, tried to pierce this rock and cause the living waters of human felicity to gush forth ; their labors embraced all questions, from that of the scaffold to that of war, and they added to the rights of man as proclaimed by the French revolutions, the rights of the woman and the child. For various reasons we cannot thoroughly discuss 30 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. here, from the theoretieal point of view, the questions raised by socialism, and we limit ourselves to an indica^ tion of them. All the questions which the socialists proposed — laying aside cosmogonic visions, reverie, and mysticism — may be carried back to two original problems, the first of which is, to produce wealth, and the second, to distribute it. The first problem contains the question of labor, the second the ques- tion of wages ; in the first, the point is the employ- ment of strength, and in the second, the distribution of enjoyments. From a good employment of strength results public power, and from a good distribution of enjoyments individual happiness. By good distribu- tion we mean, not equal, but equitable, distribution, for the first equality is equity. From these two things — combined public power abroad and individual happiness at home — results social prosperity ; that is to say, man happy, the citizen free, and the nation great. England solves the first of these two problems, — she creates wealth admirably, bnt distributes it badly. This solution, which is completely on one side, fatally leads her to these two extremes,— monstrous opulence and monstrous misery ; all the enjoyments belong to the few, all the privations to the rest, that is to say, to the people, and privileges, exceptions, monopoly, and feudalism spring up from labor itself. It is a false and dangerous situation to base public power on private want, and to root the grandeur of the state in the sufferings of the individual ; it is a badly composed grandeur, in which all the material ele- ments are combined, in which no moral element CRACKS IN THE FOUNDATION. 31 enters. Communism and the agrarian law fancy that they solve the second question, but they are mistaken. Their distribution kills production, and equal diwsion destroys emulation and consequently labor. It is a distribution made by the butcher who slaughters what he divides. Hence it is impossible to be satis- fied with these pretended solutions, for killing riches is not distributing them. The two joroblems must be solved together in order to be properly solved ; the two solutions demand to be combined, and only form one. If you solve but the first of these problems you will be Venice, you will be England ; you will have, like V enice, an artificial power, like England, a material power, and you will be the wicked rich man ; you will perish by \fiolence, as Venice died, or by bankruptcy, as England will fall ; and the world mil leave you to die and fall, because it allows every- thing to die and fall which is solely selfishness, and everything which does not represent a virtue or an idea to the human race. Of course it will be under- stood that by the words Venice and England we do not mean the peoples, but the social constructions ; the oligarchies that weigh down the nations, but not the nations themselves. Nations ever have our re- spect and sympathy. Venice, as a people, will live again; England, as the aristocracy, wiU fall, but England the nation is immortal. This said, let us continue. Solve the two problems, encourage the rich and protect the poor, suppress misery, put an end to the unjust exhaustion of the weak by the strong, bridle the iniquitous jealousy which the man still 32 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. on the road feels for him who has reached tlie journey’s end, adjust mathematically and paternally the wage to the labor, blend gratuitous and en- forced education with the growth of childhood and render science the basis of manhood, develop in- telligence while occupying the arms, be at once a powerful people and a family of happy men, democ- ratize property, not by abolishing but by univer- salizing it, so that every citizen without exception may be a land-owner, — an easier task than it may be supposed, — in two words, know how to j^roduce wealth and to distribute it, and you will possess at once material greatness and moral greatness, and be worthy to call yourself France. Such was what socialism, above and beyond a few mistaken sects, said ; this is what it sought in facts and stirred up in minds : they were admirable efforts and sacred attempts ! These doctrines, theories, and resistances ; the un- expected necessity for the statesman of settling with the philosophers ; glimpses caught of confused evi- dences ; a new policy to create, agreeing with the old world, while not disagreeing too greatly from the revo- lutionary ideal, a situation in which Lafayette must be used to defend Polignac, the intuition of progress apparent behind the riots, the chambers, and the street ; the king’s faitli in the revolution ; rivalries to be balanced around him, possibly some eventual resignation sprung from the vague acceptance of a definite and superior right ; his wish to remain here, his race, his family affections, his sincere respect for the people, and his own honesty, — all these painfully CRACKS IN THE FOUNDATION. 33 affected liouis Philippe, and at times, though he was so strong and courageous, crushed him beneath the difficulty of being a king. He felt beneath his feet a formidable disintegration, which, however, was not a crumbling to dust, as France was more France than ever. Dark storm-clouds were collected on the hori- zon ; a strange, gradually increasing shadow was ex- tended over men, things, and ideas ; it was a shadow that sprang from anger and systems. Everything that had been hastily suppressed stirred and fer- mented, and at times the conscience of the honest man held its breath, as there was such an uneasy feeling produced by this atmosphere, in which soph- isms were mixed with truths. Minds trembled in the social anxiety, like leaves on the approach of a storm, and the electric tension was such that at some moments the first-comer, a stranger, would pro- duce a flash, but then the twilight obscurity fell over the whole scene again. At intervals, deep and mut- tered rolling allowed an opinion to be formed of the * amount of lightning which the cloud must contain. Twenty months had scarce elapsed since the revo- lution of July, and the year 1832 opened with an imminent and menacing appearance. The distress of the people, workmen without bread ; the Prince of Cond^ suddenly departed from the world ; Brus- sels expelling the Nassaus, as Paris had done the Bourbons ; Belgium offering itself to a French prince and given to an English prince ; the Russian hatred of Nicholas ; behind us two demons of the South, Ferdinand in Spain and Miguel in Portugal ; the earth trembling in Italy ; Metternich stretching out VOL. IV. 34 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. his hand over Bologna ; France confronting Austria at Ancona ; in the North the sinister sound of a ham- mer, enclosing Poland again in its coffin ; throughout Europe angry eyes watching France; England, a sus- picious ally, prepared to push any one who staggered and to throw herself on him who fell ; the Peerage taking refuge behind Beccaria to refuse four heads to the law ; the fleurs-de-lys erased from the king’s coaches; the cross dragged from Notre Dame; La- fayette enfeebled, Laffitte ruined ; Benjamin Constant dead in poverty ; Casimir Perier dead in the exhaus- tion of power ; a political and a social disease de- claring themselves simultaneously in the two capitals of the kingdom, — one the city of thought, the other the city of toil ; in Paris a civil war, in Lyons a ser- vile war ; and in both cities the same furnace-glow, a volcanic purple on the brow of the people ; the South fanaticized, the West troubled, the Duchesse de Berry in the Vendee ; plots, conspiracies, insurrec- * tions, and cholera adding to tlie gloomy rumor of ideas the gloomy tumult of events. CHAPTER V. FACTS FROM WHICH HISTORY IS DERIVED BUT WHICH HISTORY IGNORES. Toward the end of April matters became aggra- vated, and the fermentation assumed the proportions of an ebullition. Since 1830 there had been small partial revolts, quickly suppressed, but breaking out again, which were the sign of a vast subjacent con- flagration, and of something terrible smouldering. A glimpse could be caught of the lineaments of a possible revolution, though it was still indistinct and badly lighted. France was looking at Paris, and Paris at the Faubourg St. Antoine. The Faubourg St. Antoine, noiselessly heated, had begun to boil. The wine-shops in the Rue de Charonne were grave and stormy, though the conjunction of these two epithets aiiplied to wine-shops appears singular. The Government was purely and simply put upon its trial on this, and men publicly discussed whether “ they should fight or remain quiet.” There were back- rooms in which workmen swore to go into the streets at the first cry of alarm, “ and fight without counting their enemies.” Once they had taken the pledge, a man seated in a corner of the wine-shop shouted in a sonorous voice, “ You hear ! Y^ou have sworn ! ” Sometimes they went up to a private room on the 36 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. first floor, where scenes almost resembling masonic ceremonies took place, and the no\'ice took oaths, “ in order to render a seridce to himself as well as to the fathers of families,” — such was the formula. In the tap-rooms, “ subversive ” pamphlets were read, and, as a secret report of the day says, “ they spurned the Government.” Remarks like the following could be heard : “ I do not know the names of the chief, we shall not know the day till two hours before- hand.” A workman said, “ We are three hundred, let us each subscribe ten sous, and we shall have one hundred and fifty francs, with which to manufacture bullets and gunpowder.” Another said, “ I do not ask for six months, I do not ask for two. Within a fortnight we shall be face to face with the govern- ment, for it is possible to do so with twenty-five thousand men.” Another said, “ I do not go to bed at nights now, for I am making cartridges.” From time to time well-dressed men came, feigning em- barrassment and having an air of command, and shook hands with the more important and then went away, never staying longer than ten minutes ; sig- nificant remarks were exchanged in whispers, “ The plot is ripe, the thing is ready,” — to borrow the re- mark of one of the audience, “ this was buzzed by all present.” The excitement was so great that one day a workman said openly in a udne-shop, “ But Ave have no weapons,” to which a comrade replied, “ The soldiers have them,” unconsciously parodying Bonaparte’s proclamation to the army of Italy. “ When they had any very great secret,” a report adds, “ they did not communicate it,” though Ave do FACTS WHICH HISTOKY IGNOEES. 37 not understand what they could conceal after what they had said. The meetings were sometimes peri- odical ; at certain ones there were never more than eight or ten members present, and they were always the same, but at others any one who liked went in, and the room was so crowded that they were obliged to stand ; some went there through enthusiasm and uassion, others “ because it was the road to their work.” In the same way as during the revolution, there were female patriots in these wine-shops, wdio kissed the new-comers. Other expressive facts were collected : thus a man went into a wine-shop, drank, and went away, saying, “ Wine-dealer, the revolution will pay wiiat is due.” Revolutionary agents were nominated at a -wine-shop opposite the Rue de Charonne, and the ballot was made in caps. Workmen assembled at a fencing- master’s who gave lessons in the Rue de Cotte. There was a trophy of arms, made of Avooden sabres, canes, cudgels, and foils. One day the buttons were removed from the foils, and a workman said, “ We are five-and-tAventy, but they do not reckon upon me, as they consider me a machine.” This man was at a later date Quenisset. Things that w^ere premedi- tated gradually assumed a strange notoriety ; a Avoman Avho w'as SAveeping her door said to another woman, “ They have been making cartridges for a long time past.” In the open streets proclamations addressed to the Xational Guards of the departments AA^ere read aloud, and one of them Avas signed, “ Burtot, AA-ine-dealer.” One day a man wdth a large beard and an Italian 38 THE ETJE PLUMET IDYLL. accent leaped on a bench at the door of a dram-shop in the March4 Lenoir, and began reading a singular document, which seemed to emanate from some oc- cult power. Groups assembled around him and ap- plauded, and the passages which most excited the mob were noted down at the time. “ Our doctrines are impeded, our proclamations are torn down, our bill-posters watched and thrown into prison. . . . The collapse in cottons has brought over to us a good many conservatives. . . . The future of the people is being worked out in our obscure ranks. . . . These are the terms laid down, action or reaction, revolu- tion or counter-revolution, for in our age no one still believes in inertia or immobility. For the people, or against the people, that is the question, and there is no other. . . . On the day when we no longer please you, break us, but till then aid us to progress.” All this took place in broad daylight. Other facts, of even a more audacious nature, appeared suspicious to the people, owing to their very audacity. On April 4, 1832, a passer-by leaped on the bench at the corner of the Rue Sainte Marguerite, and shouted, “ I am a Babouviste,” but under Baboeuf the people scented Gisquet. Among other things this man said ; “ Down with property ! The opposition of the Left is cowardly and treacherous : when they wish to be in tlie right, they preach the revolution ; they are dem- ocratic that they may not be defeated, and royalist so that they need not fight. The republicans are feathered beasts ; distrust the republicans, citizen- workmen ! ” “ Silence, citizen-spy ! ” a workman shouted, and this put an end to the speech. FACTS WHICH HISTOEY IGNORES. 39 ^Mysterious events occurred. At niglitfall a u'ork- raan met a “ well-dressed ” man near the canal, who said to him, “ "SMiere art thou going, citizen ? ” “ Sir,” the workman answered, “ I have not the honor of knowing you ” — “I know thee, though ; ” and the man added, “ Fear nothing, I am the agent of the committee, and it is suspected that thou art not to be trusted. But thou knowest that there is an eye upon thee, if thou darest to reveal anything.” Then he shook the workman’s hand and went away, saying, “ We shall meet again soon.” The police, who were listening, overheard singular dialogues, not only in the wine-shops but in the streets. “ Get yourself ready soon,” said a weaver to a cabinet-maker. “ Why so ? ” “ There will be shots to fire.” Two passers- by in rags exchanged the following peculiar remarks, which were big with an apparent Jacquerie ; “ Who governs us ? ” “ It is ^lousieur Philippe.” “ Xo, the bourgeoisie.” It would be au error to siqqiose that we attach a bad sense to the word “ Jacquerie ; ” the Jacques were the poor. Another time a man was heard saying to his companion, We have a famous plan of attack.” Of a private conversation between four men seated in a ditch near the Barri^re du Trone only the following was picked up : “ Every- thing possible will be done to prevent him walking about Paris any longer.” “ Who is the he ? ” there is a menacing obscurity about it. The “principal chiefs,” as they were called in the faubourg, kept aloof, but were supposed to assemble to arrange mat- ters at a wine-shop near tlie Point St. Eustache, A man of the name of Aug, chief of the society for the 40 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. relief of tailors, was supposed to act as central inter- mediary between the chiefs and the Faubourg St. Antoine. Still, a eonsiderable amount of obscurity hangs over these chiefs, and no fact could weaken the singular pride iu the answer made at a later date, by a prisoner brought before the Court of Peers. “ Who was your chief? ” “ I did not know any, and I did not recognize any.” As yet they were but words, transparent but vague, at times mere rumors and hearsays, but other signs arrived ere long. A carpenter, engaged in the Rue de Rueilly in nailing up a fenee round a block of ground on which a house was being built, found on the ground a piece of a torn letter, on which the following lines were still legible The Com- mittee must take measures to prevent recruiting in the sections for the different societies ; ” and as a postscript, “ We have learned that there are guns at No. 5, Rue du Faubourg, Poissonuihre, to the number of five or six thousand, at a gunmaker’s in the yard. The Seetion possesses no arms.” What startled the carpenter, and induced him to show the thing to his neighbors, was that a few paces farther on he found another paper, also torn, and even more significant, of which jve reproduce the shape, owing to the historic interest of these strange documents. Q C D E Apprenez cette liste par cceur. Apres, vous la dechirerez : Les liommes ad- inis en feront aataut lorsque vous leur aurez transmis dcs ordres. Salut et Frateniite. u og a‘ fe L. FACTS WHICH HISTOEY IGNORES. 41 Persons at that time on the scent of this discovery did not learn till a later date the meaning of the four capitals, — Qiiintiirions, Centurions, Deciirions, and ^cla ireurs, or the sense of the letters ii og d fe, which were a date, and indicated “this 15th April, 1832.” Under each capital letter were written names followed by very characteristic remarks. Thus, “ Q. Baimerel, 8 guns, 83 cartridges. A safe man. — C. Boubifere, 1 pistol, 40 cartridges. — D. Rollet, 1 foil, 1 pistol, 1 lb, gunpowder. — E. Tessin, 1 sabre, 1 cartouche-box. Punctual. — Terreur, 8 guns. Brave,” etc. Lastly, this carpenter found in the same en- closure a third paper, on which was written in pen- cil, but very legibly, this enigmatical list. Unite. Blanchard : Arbre sec. 6. Barra. Sixteen. Sail au Comte. Koseiusko. Aubry the butcher ? J. J. R. Gains Graccus. Right of reUsion, Dufond. Four, Downfall of the Girondists. Derbac. Maubuee. Washington. Pinson. 1 pist. 86 cart. IMarseillaise. Sovereignty of the people. Michel. Quincampoix. Sabre. Hoche. Marceau. Plato. Arbre Sec. Warsaw, Tilly, crier of the Populaire. The honest citizen in whose hands this list re- mained learned its purport. It seems that the list was the complete nomenclature of the sections of the fourth arrondissement of the Society of the 42 THE RUE PLUJIET IDYLL. Rights of ]\Ian, with the names and addresses of the chiefs of sections. At the present day, when these obscure facts have become historic, they may be pub- lished. We may add that the foundation of the Society of the Rights of INIan seems to have been posterior to the date on which this paper was found, and so it was possibly only a sketch. After proposi- tions and words and written information, material facts began to pierce through. In the Rue Popin- court, at the shop of a broker, seven pieces of jiaper, all folded alike, were found in a drawer ; these papers contained twenty-six squares of the same gray paper, folded in the shape of cartridges, and a card on which was written : — Saltpetre 12 oz. Sulphur 2 “ Charcoal 2^ “ Water 2 “ Tlie report of the seizure showed that there was a strong smell of gunpowder in the drawer. A mason, returning home after his day’s work, left a small parcel on the bench near the bridge of Aus- terlitz. It was carried to the guard-house and opened, and from it were taken two jirinted dia- logues signed “ Lahautiere,” a song called “Workmen, combine ! ” and a tin box full of cartridges. A workman drinking t\ath his comrade bade him feel how hot he was ; and the other noticed a pistol under his jacket. In a ditch on the boulevard be- tween Pbre Lachaise and the Barribre du Trone, some children, playing at the most deserted spot, FACTS WHICH HISTORY IGNORES. 43 discovered under a heap of rubbish a bag containing a bullet mould, a mandrel for making cartridges, a pouch in which there Avere some grains of gun- powder, and an iron ladle on Avhich were evident signs of melted lead. Some police agents suddenly entering at five A.M. the room of one Pardon, Avho was at a later date a sectionist belonging to the Barricade Merry section, found him sitting on his bed with cartridges in his hand, which he Avas in the act of making. At the hour Avhen Avorkmen are generally resting, two men Avere noticed to meet betAveen the Picpus and Charenton barribres, in a lane running betAveen tAvo Avails. One took a pistol from under his blouse, Avhich he handed to the other; as he gave it him he noticed that the per- spiration on his chest had dampened the gunpowder, he therefore filled the pan afresh, and the tAvo men thereupon parted. A man of the name of Gallas, afterwards killed in the April affair in the Rue Beau- bourg, used to boast that he had at home seven hundred cartridges and twenty-four gun Hints. One day the Government received information that arms and tAvo hundred thousand cartridges had just been distributed in the faubourg, and the next Aveek thirty thousand more cartridges Avere given out. The re- markable thing AAms that the police could not seize any of them ; but an intercepted letter stated : “ The day is not far distant Avhen eighty thousand patriots AA’ill be under arms in four hours.” All this fermentation Avas public, Ave might almost say calm, and the impending insurrection prepared its storm quietly in the face of the Government. No 44 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. singularity was lacking in this crisis, which was still subterranean, but already perceptible. The citizens spoke peacefully to the workmen of what was pre- paring. They said, “ How is the revolt going on ? ” in the same tone as they could have said, “ How is your wife ? ” A furniture broker in the Rue Moreau asked, “Well, when do you attack? ’’and another shop-keeper said, “ They will attack soon, I know it. A month ago there were fifteen thousand of you, and now there are twenty-five thousand.” He offered his gun, and a neighbor offered a pocket pistol which was marked for sale at seven franes. The revolutionary fever spread, and no point of Paris or of France escaped it. The artery throbbed every- where, and the network of secret societies began spreading over the country like the membranes which spring up from certain inflammations, and are formed in the human body. From the Association of the Friends of the People, which was at the same time public and secret, sprang the Society of the Rights of ]\Ian, which dated one of its orders of the day, “ Pluviose, year 40 of the republican era,” which was destined even to survive the decrees of the Court of Assizes pronouncing its dissolution, and did not hesitate to give to its sections significant titles like the following : “ Pikes. The Tocsin. The Alarm Gun. The Phrygian Cap. January 21. The Beg- gars. The Vagrants. March forward. Robespierre. The Level. The Society of the Rights of Man engendered the Society of Action, composed of impatient men who detached themselves and hurried forward. Other FACTS WHICH HISTORY IGNORES. 45 associations tried to recruit themselves in the great mother societies : and the sectionists complained of being tormented. Such were the “ Gaulish Society ” and the “Organizing Committee of the Municipali- ties ; ” sueh the associations for the “ Liberty of the Press,” for “ Indmdual Liberty,” for the “ Instruction of the People,” and “ Against Indirect Taxes.” Next we have the Society of Equalitarian Workmen di- ’V’ided into three fractions, — the Equalitarians, the Communists, and the Reformers. Then, again, the Army of the Bastilles, a cohort possessing military organization, four men being commanded by a cor- poral, ten by a sergeant, twenty by a sub-lieutenant, and forty by a lieutenant ; there were never more than five men who knew each other. This is a erea- tion where preeaution is combined with audacity, and which seems to be stamped with the genius of Veniee. The eentral committee which formed the head, had two arms, — the Society of Action and the Army of the Bastilles. A legitimist association, the “ Knights of Fidelity,” agitated among these republican affiliations, but was denounced and re- pudiated. The Parisian soeieties ramified through the principal cities. Lyons, Nantes, Lille, and Mar- seilles, had their Soeiety of the Rights of INIan, The Charbonnihre, and the Free jMen. Aix had a revo- lutionary society ealled the Cougourde. We have already mentioned that name. At Paris the Faubourg Marceau buzzed no less than the Faubourg St. Antoine, and the schools were quite as excited as the faubourgs. A coffee-shop in the Rue Saint Hyacinthe, and the Estaminet des 46 THE EUE FLUHET IDYLL. Sept Billards in the Rue des Matliurins St, Jacques, served as the gathering-place for the students. The Society of the Friends of the A. B. C. affiliated with the Mutualists of Angers, and the Cougourde of Ais assembled, as we have seen, at the Cafe IMusain, The same young men met, as we have also said, at a wine- shop and eating-house near the Rue IMontdetour, called Corinthe. These meetings were secret, but others were as public as possible, and we may judge of their boldness by this fragment from an exami- nation that was held in one of the ulterior trials. “ Where was the meeting held ? ” “ In the Rue de la Paix.” “ At whose house ? ” “ In the street,” “ What sections were there ? ” “ Only one.” “ Which one ? ” “ The Manuel section.” “ Who was the chief?” “Myself.” “You are too young to have yourself formed this serious resolve of attacking the Government, Whence came your instructions ? ” “ From the central committee,” The army was un- dermined at the same time as the population, as was proved at a later date by the movements of B4ford, Luneville, and Epiual. Hopes were built on the 5 2d, 5th, 8th, and 37th regiments, and on the 20th light infantry. In Burgundy and the southern towns the tree of liberty was planted, that is to say, a mast surmounted by a red cap. Such was the situation. This situation, as we said at the commencement, the Faubourg St. Antoine rendered keen and marked more than any other group of the population. This was the stitch in the side. This old faubourg, peopled like an ant-heap, laborious, courageous, and FACTS WHICH HISTORY IGNORES. 47 passionate as a hive of bees, quivered in expecta- tion and the desire of a commotion. All was agi- tation there, but labor was not suspended on that account. Nothing could give an idea of these sharp and sombre faces ; there were in this faubourg crushing distress hidden under the roofs of houses, and also ardent and rare minds. It is especially in the case of distress and intelligence that it is dangerous for extremes to meet. The Faubourg St. Antoine had other causes for excitement, as it re- ceived the counter-stroke of commercial crisis, bank- ruptcies, stojipages, and cessation of work, which are inherent in all political convulsions. In revo- lutionary times misery is at once the cause and the effect, and the blow which it deals falls upon it- self again. This population, full of haughty vh’tue, capable of the highest amount of latent caloric, ever ready to take up arms, prompt to explode, irritated, profound, and undermined, seemed to be only waiting for the fall of a spark. Whenever certain sparks float about the horizon, driven by the wind of events, we cannot help thinking of the Faubourg St. Antoine and the formidable chance which has placed at the gates of Paris this powder-magazine of sufferings and ideas. The wine-shops of the Antoine suburb, which have been more than once referred to iii this sketch, possess an historic notoriety. In times of trouble people grow intoxicated in them more on words than wine ; and a species of prophetic spirit and an efflu- \dum of the future circulates there, s^velling hearts and ennobling minds. These wme-shops resemble 48 THE RUE PLUMET PDYLL. the taverns on the Mons Aveiitinus, built over the Sibyl’s cave and communicating with the sacred blasts of the depths, — taverns in which the tables were al- most tripods, and people drank what Ennius calls the Sibylline wine. The Faubourg St, Antoine is a reser- voir of the people, in which the revolutionary earth- quake makes fissures, through which the sovereignty of the people flows. This sovereignty can act badly, it deceives itself like other things, but even when led astray it remains grand. We may say of it, as of the blind Cyclops, “ Ingens.” In ’93, according as the idea that floated was good or bad, or accord- ing as it was the day of fanaticism or enthusiasm, savage legions or heroic bands issued from this fau- bourg. Savage, — let us explain that word. What did these bristling men want, who, in the Genesis of the revolutionary chaos, rushed upon old over- thrown Paris in rags, yelling and ferocious, with uplifted clubs and raised pikes ? Tliey wanted the end of oppression, the end of tyranny, the end of the sword, work for the man, instruction for the child, social gentleness for the woman, liberty, equal- ity, fraternity, bread for all, the idea for all, the Eden- ization of the Avorld, and progress ; and this holy, good, and sweet thing called progress, they, driven to exasperation, claimed terribly with upraised weap- ons and curses. They were savages, we grant, but the savages of civilization. They proclaimed the right furiously, and wished to force the human race into Paradise, even were it through trembling and horror. They seemed barbarians, and were saviors ; they demanded light while wearing the mask of FACTS WHICH HISTOEY IGNORES. 49 night. Oijposite these men, — stern and frightful we admit, but stern and frightfid for good, — there are other men, smiling, embroidered, gilded, be-ribboned, in silk stockings, with white feathers, yellow gloves, and kid shoes, who, leaning upon a velvet-covered table near a marble chimney-piece, gently insist on the maintenance and j^reservation of the past, of the middle ages, of di\ine right, of fanaticism, of igno- rance, of slavery, of the punishment of death, and of war ; and who glorify in a low voice and with great politeness the sabre, the pyre, and the scaffold. For our part, were we compelled to make a choice be- tween the barbarians of ci^rilization and the civilized of barbarism, we would choose the barbarians. But, thanks be to Heaven, another choice is possible ; no fall down an abyss is required, either in front or behind, neither despotism nor terrorism. We udsh for progress on a gentle incline, and God provides for this. Reducing inclines is the whole policy of God. VOL. IV. 4 CHAPTER VL ENJOLRAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS. Shortly after this period, Enjolras made a sort of mysterious census, as if in the view of a possible event. All were assembled in council at the Cafe jMusain. Enjolras spoke, mingling a few half-enig- matical but significant metaphors with his words ; “ It behooves us to know where we are, and on whom we can count. If we want combatants we must make them ; and there is no harm in liaving weapons to strike with. Passers-by always run a greater chance of being gored when there are bulls in the road than when there are none. So, suppose Ave count the herd. How many are there of us ? This task must not be deferred till to-morrow, for revolutionists must always be in a hurry, as progress has no time to lose. Let us distrust the unexpected, and not allow ourselves to be taken unawares ; we have to go over all the seams which Ave have scAAni, and see Avhether they hold , and the job must be done to-day. Courfeyrac, you Avill see the Polytechnic students, for this is their day for going out. Feuilly, you Avill see those of La Glacihre, and Combeferre has promised to go to the Picpus. Bahorel will ENJOLEAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS. 51 ^'isit the Estrapade. Prouvaire, the masons are grow- ing lukewarm, so you will obtain us news from the lodge in the Rne de Grenelle St. Honored. Joly will go to Dupuytren’s clinical lecture, and feel the pulse of the medical scholars, while Bossuet will stroll round the courts and talk with the law students. I take the Congo urde myself.” “ That is all settled,” said Courfeyrac. “ Xo. There is another very important matter.” “ What is it ? ” Combeferre asked. “ The Barrifere du Maine.” Enjolras was absorbed in thought for a moment, and then continued, - — “ At the Barrifere du Maine are stone-cutters and painters, an enthusiastic body, but subject to chiUs. I do not know what has been the matter with them for some time past, but they are thinking of other things. They are dying out, and they spend their time in playing at dominoes. It is urgent to go and talk to them rather seriously, and they meet at Richefeu’s, where they may be found between twelve and one o’clock. Those ashes must be blown up, and I had intended to intrust the task to that absent fellow Marius, who is all right, but no longer comes here. I need some one for the Barrifere du hlaine, and have no one left.” “ Wliy, I am here,” said Grantaire. “You?” J “You indoctrinate republicans? you warm up chilled hearts in the name of principles ? ” “ Why not ? ” 52 THE RUE PLUJIET IDYLL. “ Can you possibly be fit for anything ? ” “ Well, I have a vague ambition to be so.” “ You believe in nothing.” “ I believe in you.” “ Grantaire, will you do a service ? ” “ Any one ; clean your boots.” “Well, do not meddle in our affairs, sleep off your absinthe.” “ You are an ungrateful fellow, Enjolras ! ” “ A’ou be the man capable of going to the Barribre du Maine ! ” “ I am capable of going down the Rue des Grfes, crossing St. Michael’s Square, cutting through the Rue Monsieur le Prince, taking the Rue de Vaugirard, passing the Carmelites, turning into the Rue d’Assas, arriving at the Rue Cherche Midi, leaving behind me the Council of War, stepping across the Rue des Vieilles-Tuileries, following the main road, going through the gate and entering Richefeu’s. I am ca- pable of all that, and so are my shoes.” “ Do you know the men at Richefeu’s ? ” “Not much.” , “ What will you say to them ? ” “ Talk to them about Robespierre, Danton, and principles.” “A^ou!” “ I. You really do not do me justice, for when I make up my mind to it I am terrible. I have read Prudhomme, I know the social contract, and have by heart my constitution of the year II. ‘ The liberty of the citizen ends where the liberty of another citizen begins.’ Do you take me for a brute ? I have an EXJOLKAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS. 53 old assignat in my draw, — The Rights of Man, the sovereignty of the people, sapristi ! I am a bit of a Hebertist myself. I can discourse splendid things for six hours at a stretch, watch in hand.” “ Be serious,” said Enjolras. “ I am stern,” Grantaire answered. Enjolras reflected for a few seconds, and then seemed to have made up his mind. “Grantaire,” he said gravely, “I consent to try you. You shall go to the Barrifere du Maine.” Grantaire lodged in a furnished room close to the Cafe Musain. He went away and returned five minutes after — he had been home to put on a waist- coat of the Robespierre cut. “ Red,” he said on entering, and looked intently at Enjolras. Then he energetically turned back on his chest the two scarlet points of the waistcoat, and, walking up to Enjolras, whispered in his ear, “ Never fear ! ” He boldly cocked his hat, and went out. A quarter of an hour after, the back-room of the Cafe iNIusain was deserted, and all the Friends of the A. B. C. were going in various directions about their busi- ness. Enjolras, who had reserved the Cougourde for himself, was the last to leave. The iNIembers of the Aix Cougourde who were in Paris assem- bled at that period on tlie plain of Issy, in one of the abandoned quarries so numerous on that side of Paris. Enjolras, while walking toward the meeting-place, took a mental reHew of the situation. The gra\dty of the events was Hsible, for when the facts which 54 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. are the forerunners of latent social disease move heavily, the slightest complication checks and im- pedes their action. It is a phenomenon from which collapse and regeneration issue. Enjolras caught a glimpse of a luminous upheaving behind the dark clouds of the future. Who knew whether the mo- ment might not be at hand when the people would seize their rights once again ? What a splendid spectacle ! the revolution majestically taking posses- sion of France once more, and saying to the world, “ To be continued to-morrow ! ” Enjolras was satisfied, for the furnace was aglow, and he had at that self- same moment a gunpowder train of friends scattered over Paris. He mentally compared Combeferre’s philosophic and penetrating eloquence, Feuilly’s cos- mopolitan enthusiasm, Courfeyrac’s humor, Bahorel’s laugh, Jean Prouvaire’s melancholy, Joly’s learning, and Bossuet’s sarcasms, to a species of electrical flash, which produced fire everywhere simultane- ously. All were at work, and most certainly the result would respond to the effort. That was good, and it made him think of Grantaire. “Ah,” he said to himself, “ the Barrihre du INIaine is hardly at all out of my way, so suppose I go on to Richefeu’s and see what Grantake is doing, and how far he has got.” It was striking one by the Vaugirard church when Enjolras reached Richefeu’s. He pushed open the door, went in, folded his arms, and looked about the room, which was full of tables, men, and tobacco smoke. A voice was audible in this fog, sharply interrupted by another voice, — it was Grantaire EXJOLRAS AND HIS LIEUTENANTS. 00 talking with some opponent of his. Graiitaire was seated opposite another man, at a marble table covered mth sawdust and studded with dominoes. He smote the marble with his fist, and this is what Enjolras heard : — “ Double six.” “ A four.” “ The pig ! I have n’t any left.” “ You are dead. A two.” “A six.” “ A three.” “ An ace.” “ Hy set.” “ Four points.” “ With difficulty.” “ It is yours.” “ I made an enormous mistake.” “ You are getting on all right.” “ Fifteen.” ‘‘Seven more.” “ That makes me twenty-two [pensively]. Twenty- two ! ” “ You did not expect the double six. Had I played it at first it would have changed the whole game.” “ Double two.” “An ace.” “ An ace ! well, a five ! ” “ I have n’t one.” “ You played first, I believe ? ” “ Yes.” “ A blank.” 56 THE RUE PLUME T IDYLL. “ What luck he has ! Ah ! you have luck ; [a loug reverie] a two.” “ All ace.” “ I 've neither a five nor au ace. It is stupid for you.” “ Domino ! ” “ Ohi the deuce ! ” BOOK IL £ P 0 N I N E. CHAPTER 1. THE lark’s field. • Marius ■witnessed the unexpected denouement of the snare upon 'svhose track he had placed Javert, but the Inspector had scarce left the house, taking his prisoners with him in three hackney coaches, ere ]\Iarius stepped out of the house in his turn. It was only nine in the evening, and Marius went to call on Conrfeyrac, who was no longer the imperturbable in- habitant of the Pays Latin. He had gone to live in the Rue de la Verrihre, “ for political reasons ; ” and this district was one of those in which insurrection- ists of the day were fond of installing themselves. jMarius said to Courfeyrac, “ I am going to sleep here,” and Courfeyrac pulled off one of his two mat- tresses, laid it on the ground, and said, “ There you are ! ” At seven o’clock the next morning Marius returned to No. 50-52, paid his quarter’s rent, and ■what he owed to Marne Bougon, had his books, bed, table, chest-of-drawers, and two chairs, placed on a truck, and went away without lea^^ng his address ; 58 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. SO that, when Javert returned in the morning to question Marius about the events of the previous evening, he only found Maine Bougon, who said to him, “ Gone away,” Marne Bougon was convinced that Marius was in some way an accomplice of the robbers arrested the previous evening. “ Who would have thought it ! ” she exclaimed to the jiorteresses of the quarter, “ a young man whom you might have taken for a girl ! ” Marius had two reasons for moving so promptly, the first was that he now felt a horror of this house, in which he had seen so closely, and in fdl its most repulsive and ferocious development, a social ugliness more frightful still, perhaps, than the wicked rich man, — the wicked poor man. The second was that he did not wish to figure at the trial, — which would in all probability ensue, — and be obliged to give e^^dence against Th^iar- dier. Javert believed that the young man, whose name he forgot, had been frightened and had run away, or else had not even returned home ; he made some efforts, however, to find him, which were un- successful. A month elapsed, then another. Marius was still living with Courfeyrac, and had learned from a young barrister, an habitual walker of the Salle des Pas Perdus, that Th4nardier was in solitary confinement, and every INIonday he left a five-fi’anc piece for him at the wicket of La Force, Marius, having no money left, borrowed the five francs of Courfeyrac ; it was the first time in his life that he borrowed money. These periodical five francs were a double enigma for Courfeyrac who gave them, and THE LARK’S FIELD. 59 for Theuardier wdio received them. “Where can they go to ? ” ConrfejTac thought. “ Where can they come from ? ” Theuardier asked himself. iMarius, however, was heart-broken, for everything had disappeared again through a trap-door. He saw nothing ahead of him, and his life was once more plunged into the mystery in which he had been groping. He had seen again momentarily and very closely the girl whom he loved, the old man who ap- peared her father, — the strange beings who were his only interest and sole hope in this world, — and at the moment when he fancied that he should grasp them, a breath had carried off all these shadows. Xot a spark of certainty and truth had flashed even from that most terrific collision, and no conjecture was possible. He no longer knew the name of which he had felt so certain, and it certainly was not Ursule, and the Lark was a nickname ; and then, what must he think of the old man ? Did he really hide himself from the police ? The white-haired work- man whom Marius had met in the \dcinity of the Invalides reverted to his mind, and it now became probable that this workman and M. Leblanc were one and the same. He disguised himself then, and this man had his heroic side and his equivocal side. Why did he not call for help ? why did he fly ? was he, yes or no, the father of the girl ? and, lastly, was he really the man whom Theuardier fancied he recognized ? Theuardier might have been mistaken. These were all so many insoluble problems. All this, it is true, in no way lessened the angelic charm of the maiden of the Luxembourg. Poignant dis- 00 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. tress, — Marius had a passion in his heart, and night over his eyes. He was impelled, he was attracted, and he could not stir ; all had vanished, except love, and he had lost the sudden instincts and illumina- tions of even that love. Usually, this flame which burns us enlightens us a little, and casts some useful light without, but Marius no longer even heard the dumb counsel of passion. He never said to himself. Suppose I were to go there, or try this thing or the other? She whom he could no longer call Ursule was evidently somewhere, but nothing ad- Hsed Marius in what direction he should seek her. All his life was now summed up in two words, — absolute uncertainty, in an impenetrable fog, — and though he still longed to see her, he no longer hoped it. As a climax, want returned, and he felt its icy breath close to him and behind him. (^In all these torments, and for a long time, he had discontinued his work, and nothing is more dangerous than dis- continued work ; for it is a habit which a man loses, — a habit easy to give up, but difficult to re-acquire. A certain amount of reverie is good, like a naf^ cotic taken in discreet doses. It lulls to sleep the at times harsh fevers of the working brain, and pro- duces in the mind a soft and fresh vapor which cor- rect the too sharp outlines of pure thought, fills up gaps and spaces here and there, and rounds the angles of ideas. But excess of reverie submerges and drowns, and woe to the mental workman who allows himself to fall entirely from thinking into reverie ! He believes that he can easily rise again, and says that, after all, it is the same thing. Error ! THE LARK’S FIELD. 61 Thought is the labor of the intellect, and reverie its voluptuousness ; substituting reverie for thought is confounding poison with wholesome food. Marius, it will be remembered, began with that ; passion arrived, and finished by hurling him into object- less and bottomless chimeras. In such a state a man only leaves his home to go and dream, and it is an indolent childishness, a tumultuous and stag- nant gulf, and in proportion as work diminishes, necessities increase. This is a law ; man in a dreamy state is naturally lavish and easily moved, and the relaxed mind can no longer endure the contracted life. There is, in this mode of existence, good mingled with evil, for if the softening be mourn- ful, the generosity is healthy and good. But the poor, generous, and noble-minded man who does not work is ruined; the resources dry up, and neces- sity arises. This is a fatal incline, on which the most honest and the strongest men are dragged down like the weakest and the most vicious, and which leads to one of two holes, ■ — ■ suicide or crime. Through going out to dream, a day arrives when a man goes out to throw himself into the water. Ex- cess of dreaminess produces such men as Escousse and Libras. Marius went down this incline slowly, with his eyes fixed upon her whom he no longer saw. What we have just written seems strange, and yet it is true, — the recollection of an absent being is illu- mined in the gloom of the heart ; the more it disap- pears the more radiant it appears, and the despairing and obscure soul sees this light on its horizon, the star of its inner night. She was Marius’s entire 62 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. thought, he dreamed of nothing else. He felt con- fusedly that his old coat was becoming an outrageous coat, and that his new coat was growing an old coat, that his boots were wearing out, that his hat was wearing out, that his shirts were wearing out, — that is to say, that his life was wearing out ; and he said to himself. Could I but see her again before I die ! One sole sweet idea was left him, and it was that she had loved him, that her glance had told him so ; and that she did not know his name but that she knew his soul, and that howmver mysterious the spot might be wdiere she now was, she loved him still. jMight she not be dreaming of him as he was dream- ing of her? At times in those inexplicable hours which every loving heart knows, as he had only reason to be sad, and yet felt within him a certain quivering of joy, he said to himself, “Her thoughts are visiting me,” and then added, “ Perhaps my thoughts also go to her.” This illusion, at which he shook his head a moment after, sometimes, liowever, contrived to cast rays which resembled hope into his soul at intervals. Now and then, especially at “that evening hour which most saddens dreamers, he poured out upon virgin paper the pure, impersonal, and ideal reveries with which love filled his brain. He called this “ writing to her.” We must not suppose, however, that his reason was in disorder, quite the contrary. He had lost the faculty of w^orking and going firmly toAvard a determined object, but he retained clear-sightedness and rectitude more fully than ever. Marius saw by a calm and real, though singular, light, all that was taking place before him, even the most indifferent THE LARK’S FIELD. 63 men and facts, and spoke correctly of everything with a sort of honest weariness and candid disinterested- ness. His judgment, almost detached from hope, soared far above him. In this state of mind nothing escaped him, nothing deceived him, and he discovered at each moment the bases of life, — humanity and destiny. (JIappy, even in agony, is the man to whom God has granted a soul worthy of love and misfor- tune !^flle who has not seen the things of this world and the heart of man in this double light has seen nothing of the truth and knows notlung^ soul that loves and suffers is in a sublime Days succeeded each other, and nothing new oc- curred ; it really seemed to him that the gloomy space which he still had to traverse was becoming daily reduced. He fancied that he could already see distinctly the brink of the bottomless abyss. “ What ! ” he repeated to himself, “ shall I not sec 'her again before that takes place? ” After going up the Rue St. Jacques, leaving the barribre on one side, and following for some distance the old inner boulevard, you reach the Rue de la Saute, then the Glacifere, and just before coming to the small stream of the Gobelins, you notice a sort of field, the only spot on the long and monotonous belt of Parisian boulevards, where Ruysdael would be tempted to sit down. I know not whence the pic- turesque aspect is obtained, for ybu merely see a green field crossed by ropes, on which rags hang to dry ; an old house built in the time of Louis XIII., with its high-pitched roof quaintly pierced with. 64 THE RUE PLCMET IDYLL. garret-windows ; broken-down grating ; a little water between poplar trees ; women’s laughter and voices ; on the horizon you see the Pantheon, the tree of the Sourds-Muets, the Val de Gr^ce, black, stunted, fan- tastic, amusing, and magnificent, and far in the back- ground the stern square towers of Notre Dame. As the place is worth the trouble of visiting, no one goes there ; scarce a cart or a wagon passes in a quarter of an hour. It once happened that JMarius’s solitary rambles led him to this field, and on tliat day there was a rarity on the boulevard, a passer-by. Marius, really struck by the almost savage grace of the field, asked him : “ What is the name of this spot ? ” The passer-by answered, “ It is the Lark’s field ; ” and added, “ It was here that Ulbach killed the shepherdess of Ivry.” But, after the words “ the Lark,” Marius heard no more, for a word at times suffices to produce a con- gelation in a man’s dreamy condition : the whole thought is condensed round an idea, and is no longer ‘ capable of any other perception. The Lark, that was the appellation which had taken the place of Ursule in the depths of Marius’s melancholy. “ Stay,” he said, with that sort of unreasoning stupor peculiar to such mysterious asides, “ this is her field, I shall learn here where she lives.” This was absurd but irresis- tible, and he came daily to this Lark’s field. CHAPTER 11. CRIMES IX EMBRYO INCUBATED IN PRISONS, Javert’s triumph at the Maison Gorbeau had seemed complete, but was not so. In the first place, and that was his chief anxiety, Javert had not been able to make a prisoner of the prisoner ; the assas- sinated man who escapes is more suspicious than the assassin, and it was probable that this personage, such a precious capture for the bandits, might be an equally good prize for the authorities. Next, Mont- parnasse slipped out of Javert’s clutches, and he must wait for another opportunity to lay hands on that “ cursed dandy.” Montparnasse, in fact, having met Eponine on the boulevard, keeping watch, went off with her, preferring to play the Nemorino wdth the daughter rather than Schinderhannes ivith the father, and it was lucky for him that he did so, as he was now free. As for Eponine, Javert “ nailed ” her, but it was a poor consolation, and sent her to join Azelma at the jMadelonnettes, Lastly, in the drive from No. 50-52 to La Force, one of the chief men arrested, Claquesous, had disappeared. No one knew how he did it, and the sergeants and agents did not at all understand it ; he had turned into vapor, slipped through the handcuffs, and passed through a crack. VOL. IV. 5 66 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. in the coach ; but no one could say anything except that on reaching the prison there was no Claquesous. There was in this either enchantment or a police trick. Had Claquesous melted away in the darkness like a snow-flake in the water? Was there an un- avowed connivance on the part of the agents ? Did this man belong to the double enigma of disorder and order? Had this Sphynx its front paws in crimes, and its hind paws in the police ? Javert did not accept these combinations, and struggled against such compromises; but his squad contained other inspectors besides himself, and though his subordi- nates, perhaps more thoroughly initiated in the secrets of the Prefecture, and Claquesous was such a villain that he might be a very excellent agent. To be on such intimate juggling relations with the night is excellent for plunder and admirable for the police, and there are double-edged rogues of the sort. How- ever this might be, Claquesous was lost and could not be found, and Javert seemed more irritated than surprised. As for Marius, “that scrub of a lawyer who was probably frightened,” and whose name he had forgotten, Javert did not trouble himself much about him, and besides, a lawyer can always be found. But, was he only a lawyer ? The examination began, and the magistrate thought it advisable not to put one of the members of the Patron Minette band in solitary confinement, as it was hoped he might chatter. This was Brujon, the hairy man of the Rue du Petit Banquier ; he was turned into the Charlemagne Court, and the eyes of the spies were kept upon him. This name of Brujon CRIMES IN EMBRYO INCUBATED IN PRISONS. 67 is one of the recollections of La Force. In the hide- ous yard called the Batiment Neuf, — which the gover- nor named the Court of St. Bernard, and the robbers christened the Lion’s Den, — and on the wall covered with scars and leprosy, that rose on the left to the height of the roof, and close to a rusty old iron gate which led to the old chapel of the ducal house of La Force, converted into a sleeping-ward for prisoners, there might have been seen, twelve years ago, a species of Bastille, clumsily engraved with a nail in the stone, and beneath it this signature, — Brujon, 1811. The Brujon of 1811 was the father of the Brujon of 1832. The latter, of whom we could only catch a glimpse in the Gorbeau trap, was a veiT crafty and artful young fellow, with a downcast and plaintive air. It was in consequence of this air that the mag- istrate turned him loose, believing him more useful in the Charlemagne yard than in a secret cell. Robbers do not interrupt their labors because they are, in the hands of justice, and do not trouble them- selves about such a trifle. Being in prison for one crime does not prevent another being commenced. There are artists who have a picture in the Exhibi- tion, but for all that work at a new one in their studio. Brujon seemed stupefied by prison; he might be seen standing for hours in the yard near the canteen man’s stall, contemplating like an idiot the mean tariff of prices of the canteen which began with “garlic, fifty-two centimes,” and ended with “cigar, 68 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. five centimes.” Or else he passed his time in trem- bling, shaking his teeth, declaring he had the fever, and inquiring whether one of the twenty-six beds in the Infirmary were vacant. All at once, toward the second half of February, 1832, it was discovered that Brujon, the sleepy- looking man, had had three messages delivered, not in his own name, but in those of his comrades, by the prison porters. These messages had cost him fifty sous altogether, an exorbitant sum, which at- tracted the sergeant’s attention. After making in- quiries and consulting the tariff of messages hung up in the prisoners’ visiting room, this authority found out that the fifty sous were thus divided, — one message to the Pantheon, ten sous ; one to Val de Grfice, fifteen sous ; and one to the Barribre de Grenelle, twenty-five sous, the latter being the dearest in the whole list. Now at these very places resided these very dangerous prowlers at the barribre; Krui- deniers alias Bizarro, Glorious an ex-convict, and Stop-the-coach, and the attention of the police was directed to these through this incident. It was as- sumed that these men belonged to Patron Minette, of which band two chiefs, Babet and Gueulemer, were locked up. It was supposed that Brujon’s messages, which were not delivered at the houses, but to persons waiting in the street, contained infor- mation about some meditated crime. The three ruffians were arrested, and the police believed they had scented some machination of Brujon’s. A week after these measures had been taken, a night watchman who was inspecting the ground-floor CRIMES IN EMBRYO INCUBATED IN PRISONS. 69 sleeping ward of the Bfitiment Neuf, was just placing his chestnut in the box (this was the method em- ployed to make sure that the watchmen did their duty properly ; every hour a chestnut must be dropped into all the boxes nailed on the doors of the sleeping wards), when he saw through the peep-hole Brujon sitting up ill bed and writing something. The watch- man went in, Brujon was placed in solitary confine- ment for a month, but what he had written could not be found. Hence the police were just as wise as before. One thing is certain, that on the next day a “ postilion ” was thrown from Charlemagne into the Lion’s Den over the five-storied building that sepa- rated the two yards. Prisoners give the name of “ postilion ” to a ball of artistically moulded bread, which is sent to “ Ireland,” that is to say, thrown from one yard into another. This ball falls into the yard, the man who picks it up opens it and finds in it a note addressed to some prisoner in the yard. If it be a prisoner who finds the note he delivers it to the right address ; if it be a guard, or one of those secretly-bought prisoners, called “ sheep ” in prisons, and “ foxes ” at the galleys, the note is carried to the wicket and delivered to the police. This time the postilion reached its address, although the man for whom it was intended was at the time in a separate cell. This person was no other than Babet, one of the four heads of Patron IMinette. It contained a rolled-up paper, on which only two lines were written. “Babet, there’s a job to be done in the Eue Plumet, a gate opening on the garden.” 70 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. It was what Brujon had written during the night. In spite of male and female searchers, Babet contrived to send the note from La Force to the Salpetrifere to a “ lady friend ” of his locked up there. She in her turn handed the note to a girl she knew, of the name of Magnon, whom the police were actively seeking, but had not yet arrested. Tins Magnon, of whose name the reader has already caught a glimpse, was closely connected with the Th^nardiers, as we shall show presently, and by going to see ^Iponine was able to serve as a bridge between the Salpe- tribre and the Madelonnettes. At this very period Eponine and Azelma were discharged for want of evidence, and when Eponine went out, Magnon, who was watching for her at the gate of the Madelon- nettes, handed her the note from Brujon to Babet, with instructions to look into the affair. Eponine went to the Rue Plumet, recognized the grating and the garden, observed the house, watched for some days, and then carried to Magnon a biscuit, which the latter sent to Babet’s mistress at the Salpetrifere. A biscuit, in the dark language of prisons, means, “ Nothing to be done.” In less than a week from this, Babet and Brujon happened to meet, as one was going before the magistrate, the other returning. “ Well,” Brujon asked, “ the Rue P. ? ” “ Biscuit,” Babet answered. Thus the foetus of crime engendered by Brujon at La Force became abortive ; but this abortion had consequences, for all that, perfectly foreign to Brujon’s plans, as ^vill be seen. In fancying we are tying one thread we often tie another. CHAPTER III. FATHER MABCEUF HAS AX APPARITIOX. Marius no longer called on any one, but at times he came across Father Maboeuf. While Marius was slowly descending the mournful steps which might be called the cellar stairs, and lead to places without light, on which you hear the footsteps of the prosper- ous above your head, M. iMaboeuf was also descend- ing. The Flora of Cauteretz did not sell at all now, and the indigo experiments had not been successful in the little garden of Austerlitz, which was badly situated. M. Maboeuf could only cultivate in it a few rare plants which are fond of moisture and shade. For all that, though, he was not discour- aged ; he had obtained a strip of gi’ound at the Jar- din des Plantes in a good situation, for making “ at his own charge ” experiments on indigo. To do this he pledged the plates of his Flora, and he reduced his breakfast to two eggs, of which he left one for his old servant, whose wages he had not paid for fifteen months past. And very frequently his break- fast was his sole meal. He no longer laughed -with his childish laugh, he had grown morose, and de- clined to receive visitors, and Marius did well not to call on him. At times, at the hour when M. 72 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. Maboeuf proceeded to the Jardia des Plantes, the old man and the young man passed each other on the Boulevard de I’Hopital ; they did not speak, and merely shook their heads sorro’wfully. It is a sad thing that there comes a moment when misery un- knots friendships. There were two friends : there are two passers-by I Royol the publisher was dead, and now M. Maboeuf knew nothing but his books, his garden, and his indigo ; these were the three shapes which happiness, pleasure, and hope had assumed for him. They were sufficient to live for, and he would say to him- self ; “ When I have made my blue-balls, I shall be rich ; I will redeem my plates from the Mont de Piet4, bring my Flora into fashion again with char- latanism, the big drum, and advertisements in the papers, and buy, I know where, a copy of Pierre de Medine’s “Art of Navigation,” with woodcuts, edition 1539.” In the mean while, he toiled all day at his indigo patch, and at night went home to water his garden and read his books. M. Maboeuf at this period was close on eighty years of age. One evening he had a strange apparition. He had returned home while it was still daylight, and found that Mother Plutarch, whose health was not so good as it might be, had gone to bed. He dined upon a bone on which a little meat remained and a lump of bread which he had found on the kitchen table, and was seated on a stone post which acted as a bench in his garden. Near this bench there was, after the fashion of old kitchen-gardens, a sort of tall build- ing of planks in a very rickety condition, a hutch on FATHER MABGEUF HAS AN APPARITION. 73 the ground-floor, and a store-room on the first floor. There were no rabbits in the hutch, but there wei’e a few apples, the remnant of the winter stock, in the store-room. M. Maboeuf was reading, with the help of his spectacles, two books which interested him greatly, and also, a thing more serious at his age, preoccupied him. His natural timidity ren- dered him prone to accept superstitions. The first of these books was the celebrated treatise of Pres- ident Delancre, “ On the Inconstancy of Spirits,” and the other was the quarto work of Mutor de la Rubaudibre, “ On the Devils of Vauvert and the Goblins of la Bibvre.” The latter book interested him the more, because his garden had been in olden times one of the places haunted by the goblins. Twilight was beginning to whiten what is above and blacken what is below. While reading, IM. Maboeuf looked over the book which he held in his hand at his plants, and among others at a magnificent rhodo- dendron which was one of his consolations. Four days of wiud and sun had passed without a drop of rain, the stems were bending, the buds drooping, the leaves falling, and they all required watering ; this rhododendron especially looked in a very sad way. M. Maboeuf was one of those men for whom plants have souls ; he had been at work all day in his indigo patch, and was worn out with fatigue, but for all that he rose, laid his books on the bench, and walked in a bent posture and with tottering steps, up to the well. But when he seized the chain he had not suf- ficient strength to unhook it ; he then turned and took a glance of agony at the sky, which was glit- 74 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. tering ^Yitll stars. The evening had that serenity which crusiies human sorrow under a lugubrious and eternal joy. The night promised to be as dry as the day had been. “ Stars everywhere ! ” the old man thought, “ not the smallest cloud ! not a drop of water ! ” And his head, which had been raised a moment before, fell again on his chest, then he looked once more at the sky, murmuring, — “ A little dew ! a little pity ! ” He tried once again to unhook the well-chain, but could not succeed ; at this moment he heard a voice, saying, — “Father Maboeuf, shall I water the garden for you? ” At the same time a sound like that of a wild beast breaking through was heard in the hedge, and he saw a tall thin girl emerge, who stood before him, looking at him boldly. She looked less like a human being than some form engendered of the darkness. Before Father Maboeuf, whom, as we said, a trifle terrified, found time to answer a syllable, this creature, whose movements had in the gloom a sort of strange sud- denness, had unhooked the chain, let down and drawn up the bucket, and filled the watering-pot ; and the old gentleman saw this apparition, which was barefooted and wore a ragged skirt, running along the flower-beds and distributing life around her. The sound of the water patteiing on the leaves filled M. Maboeuf ’s soul with ravishment, and the rhododendron now seemed to him to be happy. The first bucket emptied, the girl drew a second, then a third, and watered the whole garden. To see her FATHEE MABCEUF HAS AN APPARITION. 75 moving thus along the walks in which her outline appeared quite black, and waving on her long thin arms her ragged shawl, she bore a striking resem- blance to a bat. When she had finished. Father INIaboeuf went up to her with tears in his eyes, and laid his hand on her forehead. “ God mil bless you,” he said, “ you are an angel, since you take care of fiowers.” “ No,” she replied, “ I am the Devil, but I don’t care.” The old man continued, without waiting for or hearing the reply, — “ What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and can do nothing for you ! ” “You can do something,” she said. “ AVhat is it ! ” “ Tell me where M. Marius lives.” The old man did not understand. “ What Monsieur Marius ? ” He raised his glassy eyes and seemed seeking something which had vanished, “ A young man who used to come here.” “ Ah, yes ! ” he exclaimed, “ I know whom you mean. . Wait a minute ! Monsieur Marius, Baron IMarius Pontmercy, pardieu ! lives, or rather he does not live — well, I do not know.” While speaking, he had stooped to straighten a rhododendron branch, and continued, — “ Ah yes, I remember now. He passes very fre- quently along the boulevard, and goes in the direc- tion of the Lark’s field in the Rue Croulebarbe. Look for him there, he will not be difficult to find.” 7G THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. When M. Maboeuf raised his head again, he was alone, and the girl had disappeared. He was de- cidedly a little frightened. “ Really,” he thought, “ if my garden were not watered, I should fancy that it was a ghost.” An hour after, when he was in bed, this idea re- turned to him, and while falling asleep, he said to himself confusedly at the disturbed moment when thought gradually assumes the form of dream in order to pass through sleep, like the fabulous bird which metamorphoses itself into a fish to cross the sea, — “ Really now, this affair greatly resembles what La Rubaudihre records about the goblins. Could it have been a ghost ? ” -X CHAPTER IV. MARIUS HAS AX APPARITIOX. A FEW clays after this wsit of a ghost to Father IMaboeuf, — it was on a iMonday, the day of the five- franc piece which IMarius borrowed of Courfeyi’ac for Thenardier, — Marius placed the coin in his pocket, and before carrying it to the prison, resolved to “take a little walk,” hoping that on his return this would make him work. It was, however, eternally thus. As soon as he rose, he sat down before a book and paper to set about some translation, and his work at this time was the translation into French of a cele- brated German quarrel, the controversy betw'een Gans and Savigny. He took up Gans, he took up Savigny, read four pages, tried to write one but could not, saw a star between his paper and himself, and got up from his chair, saying, “ I will go out, that will put me in the humor,” and he proceeded to the Lark’s field, where he saw the star more than ever, and Gans and Savigny less. He went home, tried to resume his task, and did not succeed ; he could not join a single one of the threads broken in his brain, and so said to himself, “ I will not go out to-morrowq for it prevents me from working.” But he went out every day. V4v THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. ,78 He lived in the Lark’s field more than at Cour- ^ feyrac’s lodging, and his right address was Boulevard de la Sante, at the seventh tree past the Rue Croule- ) barbe. On this morning he had left the seventh tree and was seated on the parapet of the bridge over the little stream. The merry sunbeams were flashing through the expanded and luminous leaves. He thought of “ Her,” and his reverie, becoming a re- proach, fell back on himself ; he thought bitterly of the indolence and mental paralysis which were gain- ing on him, and of the night which constantly grew denser before him, so that he could no longer even Nsfc. see the sup?} Still, through this painful evolution of indistinct ideas which was not even a soliloquy, as action was so weak in him, and he had no longer the strength to try to feel sad ; through this melancholy absorption, we say, sensations from without reached him. He heard behind, below, and on both sides of him, the washerwomen of the Gobelins beating their linen, and above him the birds twittering and singing in the elms. On one side the sound of liberty, happy carelessness, and winged leisure, on the other the sound of labor. Two joyous sounds made him think deeply and almost reflect. All at once he heard amid his depressed esctasy a voice he knew, that said, — “ Ah, here he is ! ” He raised his eyes and recognized the unhappy girl who had come to him one morning, Eponine, the elder of Thenardier’s daughters ; he now knew what her name was. Strange to say, she had grown poorer and more beautiful, two things which he had not MARIUS HAS AH APPARITION. 79 thought possible. She had accomplished a double progress, toward light and toward distress. Her feet were bare and her clothes torn, as on the day when she so boldly entered his room, but the tatters were two months older, the holes larger, and the rags filthier. She had the same hoarse voice, the same forehead VTinkled and bronzed by exposure, the same free, absent, and wandering look, but she had, in addition, on her countenance, something startled and lamentable, which passing through prisons adds to misery. She had pieces of straw and hay in her h^iir, not that, like Ophelia, she had gone mad through contagion with Hamlet’s lunacy, but because she had slept in some stable-loft. And with all that she was beautiful. What a star thou art, 0 youth ! She had stopped in front of Marius with a little joy on her livid face, and something like a smile, and it was some minutes ere she could speak. “ I have found you ! ” she said at last. “ Father IMaboeuf was right, it was in this boulevard ! How I have sought you, if you only knew ! Do you know that I have been in quod for a fortnight ? They let me go as there was no charge against me, and be- sides I had not attained years of discretion by two months. Oh, how I have looked for you the last six weeks ! So you no longer live down there ? ” “No,” said Marius. “ Ah, I understand, on account of that thing ; well, such disturbances are unpleasant, and you moved, [^illoh, why do you wear an old hat like that ? A young man like you ought to be hand- 80 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. soniely dressed. Do you know, Monsieur Marius, that M. Maboeuf calls you Baron Marius, • — I forget what, but you are not a Baron, are you ? Barons are old swells, who walk in front of the Luxembourg Palace, where there is the most sun, and read the Qnotidienne for a sou. I went once with a letter for a Baron who was like that, and more than a hundred years of age. Tell me, where do you live now ? ” jMarius did not answer. “ Ah,” she added, “ you have a hole in your shirt- front, I must mend it for you.” ~1 Then she continued with an expression which, gradually grew gloomier, — “ You do not seem pleased to see me ? ” Marius held his tongue. She was also silent for a moment, and then exclaimed, — “ If I liked, I could compel you to look pleased.” “ What do you mean ? ” Marius asked. She bit her lip, and apparently hesitated, as if suffering from some internal struggle. At length she seemed to make up her mind. “ All the worse, but no matter, you look sad and I wish you to be pleased, only promise me, though, that you will laugh, for I want to see you laugh and hear you say, ‘Ah! that is famous!’ Poor Monsieur Marius ! you know you promised you would give me all I wanted.” “ Y’es, but speak, can’t you ? ” She looked at Marius intently and said, “ I have the address.” Marius turned pale, and all his blood flowed to his heart. MARIUS HAS AN APPARITION. 81 “ What address ? ” “ The address which you asked me for ; ” and she added, as if with a great effort, “ tlie address, — you surely understand ? ” “ Yes,” stammered Marius. “ The young lady’s.” These words uttered, she heaved a deep sigh. iNIarius leaped from the parapet on which he was sitting, and wildly seized her hand. “ Oh, lead me to it ! Tell me ! Ask of me what you please ! YTiere is it ? ” “ Come with me,” she answered ; “ I don’t exactly know the street or the number, and it is quite on the other side of town ; but I know the house Avell, and will take you to it.” ^She withdrew' her hand, and continued in a tone which would have made an observer’s heart bleed, but did not at all affect the intoxicated and trans- ported lover, — “ Oh, how pleased you are ! ” A cloud passed over IMarius’s forehead, and he clutched Eponine’s arm. “ Swear one thing.” “ Swear ? ” she said. “ \Yiat do you mean by that ? Indeed, you w'ant me to swmar ? ” And she burst into a laugh. “Your father! Promise me, Eponine, — swear to me that you will never tell your father that address.” She turned to him with an air of stupefaction. “ Eponine ! how do you know that is my name ? ” “ Promise me what I ask you.” VOL. IV. 6 82 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. But she did not seem to hear him. “ That is nice ! You called me Eponine ! ” Marius seized both her arms. “ Answer me in Heaven’s name ! Pay attention to what I am saying, — swear to me that you will not tell your father the address which you know.” “ ]\Iy father ? ” she remarked, “ oh, yes, my father. He ’s all right in a secret cell. Besides, what do I care for my father ? ” “ But you have not promised ! ” Marius exclaimed. “ Let me go ! ” she said, as she burst into a laugh ; “ how you are shaking me ! Yes, yes, I promise it ; I swear it ! How does it concern me ? I will not tell my father the address. There, does that suit you ; is that it ? ” “ And no one else ? ” said Marius. “ And no one else.” “ Now,” Marius continued, “ lead me there.” “ At once ? ” “ Yes.” “ Come on ! Oh, how glad he is ! ” she said. A few yards farther on she stopped. “You are following me too closely, Monsieur Marius ; let me go on in front and do you follow me, as if you were not doing so. A respectable young man like you must not be seen with such a woman as I am.” No language could render all that was contained in the word “ woman,” thus pronounced by this child^ She went a dozen paces and stopped again. Marius rejoined her, and she said to him aside with- out turning to him, — MARIUS HAS AN APPARITION. 83 “ By the bye, you know that you promised me something ? ” Marius felt in his pocket ; he had nothing in the world but the five-franc piece [destined for Father Thenardier, but he laid the coin in Eponine’s hand. She let it slip through her fingers on the ground, and looking at him frowningly said, — “ I do not want your money.” BOOK III. THE HOUSE OF THE RUE PLUMET. CHAPTER I. THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE. About the middle of the last century a president of the Parliament of Paris who kept a mistress under the rose -E-lfor at that day the nobility displayed their mistresses and the bourgeois concealed theirs_^ had “line petite niaison ” built in the Faubourg St. Ger- main, in the deserted Rue Blomet, which is now called Rue Plumet,|and not far from the spot which was formerly known as the “ Combat des Aniniaux.^ This house consisted of a pavilion only one story in height, there were two sitting-rooms on the ground- floor, two bedrooms on the first, a kitchen below, a boudoir above, an attic beneath the roof, and the whole was surrounded by a large garden with rail- ings looking out on the street. This was all that passers-by could see. But behind the pavilion was a narrow yard, with an outhouse containing two rooms, (^here a nurse and a child could be concealed if necessaryj^ In the back of this outhouse was a THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE. 85 secret door leading into a long, paved, winding pas- sage, open to the sky, and bordered by two lofty walls. This passage, concealed with prodigious art, and, as it were, lost between the garden walls, whose every turn and winding it followed, led to another secret door, which opened about a quarter of a mile olf almost in another quarter, at the solitary end of' the Rue de Babyloue. |The president went in by tliis door, so that even those who might have watched him, and observed that he mysteriously went some- where every day, could not have suspected that going to the Rue de Babyloue was going to the Rue Blomet, By clever purchases of ground, the in- genious magistrate had been enabled to make this hidden road upon his own land, and consequently uncontrolled. At a later date he sold the land bor- t:lering the passage in small lots for gardens, and the owners of these gardens on either side believed that they had a parting-wall before them, and did not even suspect the existence of this long strip of pave- ment winding between two walls among their flower- beds and orchards. The birds alone saw this curiosity, and it is probable that the linnets and tomtits of the last century gossiped a good deal about the President. The paxdlion, built of stone, in the IMansard taste, and panelled and furnished in the Watteau style, rock-work outside, old-fashioned within, and begirt by a triple hedge of flowers, had something discreet, coquettish, and solemn about it, befitting the caprices of love and a magistrate. This house and this pas- sage, which have now disappeared, still existed fifteen 8G THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. years ago. In 1/93 a brazier bought the house for the purpose of demolishing it, but as he could not pay, the nation made him bankrupt, and thus it was the house that demolished the brazier. Since then the house had remained uniuhabited, and fell slowly into ruins, like every residence to which the presence of man no longer communicates life. The old fur- niture was left in it, and the ten or tw'elve persons who pass along the Rue Plumet were informed that it was for sale or lease by a yellow and illegible placard wdiich had been fastened to the garden gate since 1810. Toward the end of the Restoration the same passers-by might have noticed that the bill had disappeared, and even that the first-floor shutters ■were open. The house was really occupied, and there were short curtains at the windows, a sign that there ^vas a lady iu the house^ In October, 1829,* a middle-aged man presented himself and took the house as it stood, including of course the outhouse and the passage leading to the Rue de Babylone, and he had the two secret doors of this passage put in repair. The house was still furnished much as the president had left it, so the new tenant merely ordered a few necessary articles, had the leaving of the yard put to rights, new stairs put in, and the Avindows mended, and eventually installed himself there Avith a young girl and an old Avoinau, Avithout any disturbance, and rather like a man slipping iu than one entering his OAvn house. \lThe neighbors, hoAvever, did not chatter, for the simple reason that he had nonell The tenant was in reality Jean Valjean, and the THE MYSTEBIOUS HOUSE. 87 girl was Cosette. The domestic was a female of the name of Toussaint, whom Jean Valjean had saved from the hospital and wretchedness, and who was old, rustic, and stammered, — three qualities which determined Jean Valjean on taking her with him. He hired the house in the name of M. Fauchelevent, annuitant, jjn all we have recently recorded, the reader wall have doubtless recognized Valjean even sooner than Th^nardier did.__. 1 Why had he left the convent of the Little Picpus, and what had occurred there ? Nothing had occurred. It wdll be borne in mind that Jean Valjean was happy in the convent, so happy that his conscience at last became disturbed by it. He saw Cosette daily, he felt paternity spring- ing up and being developed in him more and more ; he set his whole soul on the girl ; he said to himself that she was his, that no power on earth could rob him of her, that it would be so indefinitely, that she would certainly become a nun, as she was daily gently urged to it,lthat henceforth the convent was the world for him as for her, that he would grow old in it and she grow up, that she would grow old and he die there ; and that, finally, no separation was possible^ While reflecting on this, he began falling into per- plexities : he asked himself if all this happiness were really his, if it were not composed of the happiness of this child, which he confiscated and deprived her of, and whether this were not a robbery ? He said to himself that this child had the right to know life before renouncing it, that depriving her beforehand, and wdthout consulting her, of all joys under the pretext of sa\dng her from all trials, land profiting 88 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. by lier ignorance and isolation to make an artificial vocation spring up in her^was denaturalizing a human creature and being false to God. And who knew whether Cosette, some day meditating on this, and feeling herself a reluctant nun, might not grow to hate him ? It was a last thought, almost selfish and less heroic than the others, but it was insupportable to him. He resolved to leave the convent. CJde resolved, and recognized with a breaking heart that he must do so. As for objections, there were none, for six years of residence between these walls, and of disappearance, had necessarily destroyed or dispersed the element of fear. He could return to human society at his ease, for he had grown old and all had changed. Who would recognize him now ? And then, looking at the worst, there was only dan- ger for himself, and he had not the right to condemn Cosette to a cloister, for the reason that he had been condemned to the galleys; besides, what is danger in the presence of duty ? Lastly, nothing prevented him from being prudent and taking precautions ; and as for Cosette’s education, it was almost completed and terminated^ Once the resolution was formed, he awaited the opportunity, which soon offered : old Fauchel event died. Jean Valjean requested an au- dience of the reverend prioress, and told her that as he had inherited a small property by his brother’s death, which would enable him to live without work- ing, he was going to leave the convent, and take his daughter with him ; but as it was not fair that Co- sette, who was not going to profess, should have THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE. 89 been educated gratuitously, be implored the reverend prioress to allow him to offer the community, for the five years which Cosette had passed among them, the sum of five thousand fi'aucs. It was thus that Jean Yaljean quitted the Convent of the Perpetual Adoration. On leaving: it he carried with his own hands, and would not intrust to any porter, the small valise, of which he always had the key about him. This valise perplexed Cosette, owing to the aromatic smell which issued from it. Let us say at once that this trunk never quitted him again, he always had it in his bed- room, and it was the first and at times the only thing which he carried away in his removals. Co- sette laughed, called this valise “the inseijarable,” and said, “I am jealous of it.” Jean Valjean, how- ever, felt a profound anxiety when he returned to tlie outer air. He discovered the house in the Rue Plumet, and hid himself in it, henceforth remaining in possession of the name of Ultimo Fauchelevent. At the same time he hired two other lodgings in Paris, so that he might attract less attention than if he had always remained in the same quarter ; that he might, if necessary, absent himself for a while if anything alarmed him ; and, lastly, that he might not be taken unaware, as on the night . when he so miraculously escaped from Javert. These two lodg- ings were of a very mean appearance, and in two quarters very distant from each other, one being in the Rue de I'Ouest, the other in the Rue de THomme- arm4. He spent a few weeks now and then at one or the other of these lodgings, taking Cosette with 90 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. him and leaving Toussaint behind, uHe was waited on by the porters, and represented himself as a per- son living in the country, who had a lodging in town. This lofty virtue had three domiciles in Paris in order to escape the police. CHAPTER II. JEAX YALJEAN A NATIONAL GUARD. Properly speaking, however, ^ean Valjean’^ house was at the Rue Plumet, and he had arranged his existence there in the following fashion ; Cosette and the servant occupied the pavilion, she had the best bedroom, with the painted press, (|he boudoir with the gilt beading, the president’s drawing-room with its hangings and vast easy chairs, and the garden. Jean Yaljean placed in Cosette’s room a bed with a canopy of old damask in three colors, and an old and handsome Persian carpet, purchased at Mother Gaucher’s in the Rue Figuier St. Paul ; while, to correct the sternness of these old splendors, he added all the light gay furniture of girls, an 4tagfere, book- shelves with gilt books, a desk and blotting-case, a work-table inlaid with • mother-of-pearl, a silver dressing-case, and toilet articles of Japanese porce- lain. Long damask curtains of three colors, like those on the bed, festooned the first-floor windows, while on the ground-floor they were of tapestr^ All through tlie Yunter Cosette’s small house was Y^armed from top to bottom, while Jean Yaljean himself lived in the sort of porter’s lodge at the end of the back yard, which was fui’nished with a mattress and com- 92 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. Ill on bedstead, a deal table, two straw-bottomed chairs, an earthenware water-jug, a few books on a plank, and his dear valise in a corner, but he never had any fire. He dined with Cosette, and black bread was put on the table for him ; and he had said to Toussaint, when she came, “ This young lady is mistress of the house.” “ And you, sir ? ” Tous- saint replied, quite stupefied. “ Oh ! I am much better than the master, — I am the father.” I^Cosette had been taught house-keeping in the con- vent, and checked the expenses, which were very small. Daily Jean Valjean took Cosette for a walk, leading to the most sequestered path of the Luxem- bourg, and every Sunday they attended IMass at the Church of St. Jacques du Haut-pas, because it was a long distance ofi". As it is a very poor district, he gave away a considerable amount of alms, and the wretched flocked around him in the church, which produced the letter from Th^nardier, “ To the Benevolent Gentleman of the Church of St. Jacques du Haut-pas.” He was fond of taking Cosette to visit the indigent and the sick, but no stranger ever entered the house in the Rue Plumet. Toussaint bought the provision, and Jean Valjean himself fetched the water from a fountain close by, on the boulevard. The wood and wine were kept in a semi-subterranean building covered with rock-work, near the door in the Rue de Babylone, wdiich had formerly served the president as a grotto, for in the age of Follies and Petites Maisons, love was not possible without a grotto. In the door opening on the Rue de Babylone there was a letter-box, JEAN VALJEAN A NATIONAL GUARD. 93 but, as the inhabitants of the house in the Rue Pluniet received no letters, this box, once on a time the go-between in amourettes, and the confidant of a love-sick laAvyer, was now only of service to re- ceive the tax-papers and the guard-noticeSjJ] For M, Fauchelevent, annuitant, belonged to the National Guard, [and had been unable to escape the close meshes of the census of 1831. The municipal in- quiries made at that period extended even to the convent of the Little Picpus, whence Jean Valjean emerged venerable in the eyes of the mayoralty, and consequently worthy of mounting guard.^ Three or four times a year Jean Valjean donned iTis uniform and went on duty, and did so readily enough, for it was a disguise Avhich enabled him to mix with every- body, while himself remaining solitary. Jean Val- jean had attained his ^ixtieth year, or the age of legal exemption ; but he did not look more than fifty ; besides, he had no wish to escape his sergeant- major and cheat Count Lobau. He had no civil status, hid his name, his identity, his age, every- thing, and, as we just said, he was a willing National Guard, — all his ambition was to resemble the first- comer who pays taxes. The ideal of this man was internally an angel, externally a bourgeois. ■jjLet us mention one fact, by the way. When Jean Valjean went out with Cosette he dressed himself in the way we have seen, and looked like a retired officer ; but when he went out alone, and he did so usually at night, he was attired in a workman’s jacket and tronsers, and a cap whose peak was pulled deej) over his eyes. Was this precaution or humility? 94 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. Both at once. Cosette was accustomed to the enig- matical side of her destiny, and hardly noticed her father’s singularities ; as for Toussaint, she revered Jean Valjcau, and considered everytliing he did right. One day her butcher, who got a glimpse of her mas- ter, said, “ He ’s a queer looking stick,” and she re- plied, “He’s a — a — a — saint. All three never left the house except by the gate in the Rue de Baby- lone ; and unless they were noticed through the gar- den gate it would be difficult to guess that they lived in the Rue Plumet. This gate was always locked, and Jean Valjean left the garden untended that it might not be noticed. In this, perhaps, he deceived himself. CHAPTER III. FOLIIS AC FROXDIBUS. This garden, left to itself for more than half a century, had become extraordinaiy and charming : pas- sers-by forty years ago stopped in the street to gaze at it, without suspecting the secrets which it hid behind its fresh green screen. More than one dreamer at that day allowed his eyes and thoughts indiscreetly to penetrate the bars of the old locked, twisted, shaky gate, which hung from two mould- covered pillars and was surmounted by a pediment covered with undecipherable arabesques. There was a stone bank in a corner, there were one or two mouldering statues, and some trellis-work, unnailed by time, was rotting against the walls ; there was no turf or walk left, but there was dog’s-grass everywhere. The artificiality of gardening had de- parted, and nature had I’eturned ; weeds were abundant, and the festival of the gilly-fiowers was splendid there. Nothing in this garden impeded the sacred efforts of things toward life, and growth was at home there and held high holiday. The trees had bent down to the briars, the briars had mounted toward the trees ; the plants had clam- bered up, the branches had bent down. What 96 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. crawls on the ground had gone to meet Avhat expands in the air, and Avhat floats in the wind stooped doAvn to Avhat drags along the moss ; brambles, branches, leaves, fibres, tufts, tAvigs, ten- drils, and thorns Avere mixed together, Avedded and confounded ; A^egetation had celebrated and accom- plished here, in a close and profound embrace, and beneath the satisfied eye of the Creator, the holy mystery of its fraternity, Avhich is a symbol of human paternity. This garden AA^as no longer a garden, but a colossal thicket ; that is to say, something Avhich is as impenetrable as a forest, as populous as a city, as rustling as a nest, as dark as a cathedral, as fragrant as a bouquet, as solitary as a tomb, and as liA^ely as a croAvd. In spring this enormous thicket, at liberty Avithin its four Avails, played its part in the dull task of uni- A’ersal germination, and quiA^ered in the rising sun almost like an animal that inhales the effluvia of cosmic love and feels the sap of April ascending and boiling in its veins, and shaking iu the Aviud its pro- digious green foliage, scattered over the damp ground, over the Aveather-beaten statues, over the crumbling steps of the pavilion, and even over the paA^ement of the deserted street, constellations of flowers, pearls of deAV, fecundity, beauty, life, joy, and perfumes, xkt midday thousands of white butterflies took ref- uge in it, and it Avas a divine sight to Avatch this living snoAV of summer falling in flakes through the shadoAvs. In the pleasant gloom of the foliage a multitude of soft voices gently addressed the soul, and what the tAvitteriug forgot to say, the buzzing FOLIIS AC FROXDIBUS. 97 completed. At night a dreamy vapor rose from the garden and enveloped it ; a cere-cloth of mist, a celestial and calm melancholy, covered it ; the in- toxicating smell of the honeysuckle and the bind- weed ascended from all sides like an exquisite and subtle poison ; the last appeals of the woodpeckers and the goldfinches could be heard, ere they fell asleep under the branches, and the sacred intimacy between the bird and the trees was felt, for by day, wings gladden the leaves, and at night the leaves protect the wings. In winter, the thicket was black, dank, bristling, and shivering, and allowed a glimpse at the house to be taken. Instead of flowers among the stalks and dew upon the flowers, the long silvery trail of the snails could be seen on the cold thick bed of yellow leaves ; but in any case, under any aspect, and at all seasons, spring, summer, autumu, and winter, this little enclosure exhaled melancholy contemplation, solitude, liberty, the absence of man and the presence of God, and the old rusty railings had an air of saying, “ This garden is mine.” Although the pavement of Paris was all around^ the classical and splendid mansions of the Rue de Varennes two yards off, the dome of the Invalides close by, and the Chamber of Deputies at no great distance, although the carriages from the Rues de Bourgogne and St. Dominique rolled along luxuri- ously in the \’iciuity, and yellow, brown, white, and red omnibuses crossed the adjoining square, — the Rue Plumet was a desert ; and the death of the old proprietors, a revolution which had passed, the over- throw of old fortunes, absence, forgetfulness, and VOL. IV. 7 98 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. forty years of desertion and widowhood, had sufficed to bring back to this privileged spot ferns, torch- weeds, hemlock, ragwort, tall grass, dock-leaves, lizards, beetles, and restless and rapid insects. A savage and stern grandeur had re-appeared between these four walls, and nature, who disconcerts all the paltry arrangements of man, and is as perfect in the ant as in the man, had displayed herself in a poor little Parisian garden with as much roughness and majesty as in a virgin forest of the New World. Nothing, in fact, is small, and any one who is affected by the profound penetrations of nature is aware of this fact. Although no absolute satisfaction is granted to philosophy, and though it can no more circumscribe the cause than limit the effect, the con- templator falls into unfathomable ecstasy when he watches all those decompositions of force which result in unity. Everything labors for everything ; algebra is applied to the clouds, the irradiation of the planet benefits the rose, and no thinker would dare to say that the perfume of the hawthorn is useless to the constellations. Who can calculate the passage of a molecule ? Who among us knows whether the crea- tions of worlds are not determined by the fall of grains of sand ? Who is acquainted with the reciprocal ebb and flow of the infinitely great and the infinitely little ? A maggot is of importance, the little is great and the great little, all is in a state of equilibrium in nature. This is a terrific vision for the mind. There are prodigious relations between beings and things ; and in this inexhaustible total, from the flea to the sun, nothing despises the other, for all have rOLIIS AC FRONDIBUS. 99 need of each other. Light does not bear into the skj terrestrial perfumes unthout knowing what to do with them, and night distributes tlie planetary es- sence to the sleepy flowers. Every bird that flies has round its foot the thread of infinity ; germination is equally displayed in the outburst of a meteor and the peck of the swallow breaking the egg, and it places the birth of a worm and the advent of Socrates in the same parallel. Where the telescope ends the microscope begins, and wliich of the two has the grandest sight? you can choose. A patch of green mould is a pleiad of flowers, and a nebula is an ant-hill of stars. There is the same and even a more extraordinary promiscuity of the things of the intellect and the facts of the substance ; elements and principles are mingled, combined, wedded to- gether, and multiply each other till they lead both the moral and the material world into the same light. In the vast eosmic exchanges universal life comes and goes in unknown quantities, revolving everything in the iimsible mystery of efiiu\’ia, employing every- thing, losing not a single dream of a sleep, sowing an animalcule here, crumbling away a star there, oscil- lating and winding, making of light a force, and of thought an element, disseminated and invisible, and dissolving everything save that geometrical point, the Ego ; bringing back everything to the atom soul, expanding everything in God ; entangling all acti\'ities from the highest to the lowest in the ob- scurity of a vertiginous mechanism ; attaching the flight of an insect to the movement of the earth, and subordinating, perhaps, if only through the 100 THE RUE RLUMET IDYLL. identity of the law, the evolution of the comet in the firmament to the rotary movement of the Infuso- ria in the drop of water, — a machine made of soul ; an enormous gearing of which the prime mover is the gnat, and the last wheel is the Zodiac. CHAPTER IV. CHANGE OF GRATING. II \ It seemed as if this garden, created in former times to conceal libertine mysteries, had been transformed and become fitting to shelter chaste mysteries. There were no longer any cradles, bowling-greens, covered walks, or grottos ; but there was a magnificent tangled obscurity which fell all around, and Paphos was changed into Eden. A penitent feeling had refreshed this retreat, and the coquettish garden, once on a time so compromised, had returned to virginity and modesty. A president assisted by a gardener, a good fellow who believed himself the successor of La- moignon, and another good fellow who fancied himself the successor of Lenotre, had turned it about, clipped it, and prepared it for purposes of gallantry, but na- ture had seized it again, filled it with shadow, and prepared it for love. There was, too, in this solitude a heart which was quite ready, and love had only to show itself ; for there were here a temple composed of verdure, grass, moss, the sighs of birds, gentle shadows, waving branches, and a sold formed of gen- tleness, faith, candor, hope, aspirations, and illusion J Cosette left the convent while still almost a child. She was but little more than fourteen, |and at the “unpromising age,” as we have said. With the 102 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. exception of her eyes, she seemed rather ugly than pretty ; still she had no ungraceful feature, but she was awkward, thin, timid and bold at the same time, in short, a grown-up little giij^ Her education was finished, that is to say, she had been taught religion, and more especially devotion, also “ history,” that is to say, the thing so called in a convent; geograjdiy, grammar, the participles, the kings of France, and a little music, drawing, etc. ; but in other respects she was ignorant of everything, which is at once a charm and a peril. The mind of a young girl ought not to be left in darkness, for at a later date, mirages too sudden and vivid are produced in it as in a camera obscura. She should be gently and discreetly en- lightened, rather by the reflection of realities than by their direct and harsh light ; for this is a useful and gracefully obscure semi-light which dissipates childish fears and prevents falls. There is only the maternal instinct, -^hat admirable intuition into which the recollections of the virgin and the experience of the wife enter, that knows how or of what this semi- light should be composed. i^othiiig can take the place of this instiiu^ and in forming a girl’s mind, all the nuns in the world are not equal to one mother. Cosette had had no mother, she had only had a great many mothers: as for Jean Yaljean, he had within him every possible tenderness and every possible anxiety ; but he was only an old man who knew nothing at all. Wow, in this work of education, in this serious matter of preparing a woman for life, what knowledge is needed to contend against the other great ignorance which is called innocence ! CHANGE OF GRATING 103 Xotliing prepares a girl for passions like tlie convent, for it directs her thoughts to the unknovu. The lieart is driven back on itself, and hence come visions, suppositions, conjectures, romances sketched, adven- tures longed for, fantastic constructions, and edifices built entirely on the inner darkness of the mind, — gloomy and secret dwellings in which the passions alone find a lodging so soon as passing through the convent gate allows it. Tlie convent is a compres- sion which must last the whole life, if it is to triumph over the human hea rt. ^ On lea\'ing the convent, Cosette could not have found anything sweeter or more dangerous than the house in the Rue Plumet. It was the commencement of solitude with the com- mencement of liberty, a closed garden, but a sharp, kind, rich, voluptuous, and odorous nature ; there were the same dreams as in the convent, but glimpses could be caught of young men, — it was a grating, but it looked on the street. Still, we repeat, when Cosette first came here, she was but a cluld. Jean Valjean gave over to her this uncultivated garden, and said to her, “ Do what you like with it.” This amused Cosette, she moved all the tufts and all the stones in search of “ beasts ; ” she played about while waiting tdl the time came to think, and she loved this garden for the sake of the insects which she found in the grass under her feet, while waiting till she should love it for the sake of the stars she could see through the branches above her head. ^nd then, too, she loved her father, that is to say, Jean Valjean, with all her soul, with a simple filial passion, which rendered the worthy man a desired 104 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. and deliglitful companion to her. Our readers will remember that IM. Madeleine was fond of readiuo:, and Jean Valjean continued in the same track ; he had learned to speak well, and he possessed the secret wealth and the eloquence of a humble, true, and self-cultivated intellect. He had retained just sufficient roughness to season his kindness, and he had a rough mind and a soft heart. During their Ute-ci-Utes in the Luxembourg garden he gave her long explanations about all sorts of things, deriving his information from what he had read, and also from what he had suffered. While Cosette was listening to him, her eyes vaguely wandered around. This simple man Avas sufficient for Cosette’s thoughts, in the same way as the wild garden was for her eyes. When she had chased the butterflies for a Avhile she would run up to him panting, and say, “ Oh ! how tired I am ! ” and he would kiss her forehead. Cosette adored this good man, and she was ever at his heels, for wherever Jean Valjean Avas, happiness Avas. As he did not live either in the pavilion or the garden, Pshe was more attached to the paved back-yard than I to the flower-laden garden, and preferred the little outhouse Avith the straAV chairs to the large dravAung- room hung Avith tapestry, along which silk-covered chairs Avere arranged. Jean Valjean at times said to her Avith a smile of a man who is delighted to be annoyed : “ Come, go to your own rooms ! leave me at peace for a little while.” She scolded him in that charming tender way Avhich is so graceful when addressed by a daughter to a parent. CHANGE OF GEATING. 105 “ Father, I feel very cold in your room ; why don’t you have a carpet and a stove ? ” “ My dear child, there are so many persons more deserving than myself who have not even a roof to cover them.” “ Then, why is there fire in my room and every- thing that I want ? ” “ Because you are a woman and a child.” “ Nonsense ! then men must be cold and hungry ? ” “ Some men.” “Very good! I’ll come here so often that you will be obliged to have a fire.” Or else it was, — “ Father, why do you eat such wretched bread as that ? ” “ Because I do, my daughter.” “ Well, if you eat it I shall eat it too.” And so to prevent Cosette from eating black Jbread Jean Valjean ate whitejl Cosette remembered her childhood but confusedly, and she prayed night and morning for the mother whom she had never known. The Thdnardiers were like two hideous beings seen in a dream, and she merely remembered that she had gone “ one day at night ” to fetch water in a wood, — she thought that it was a long distance from Paris. It seemed to her as if she had com- menced life in an abyss, and that Jean Valjean had drawn her out of it, and her childhood produced on her the effect of a time when she had had nought .but centipedes, spiders, and snakes around her. When she thought at night before she fell asleep, as she had no very clear idea of being Jean Valjean’s daughter, 106 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. she imagined that her mother’s soul had passed into this good man, and had come to dwell near her. When he was sitting down she rested her cheek on his white hair, and silently dropped a tear, while saying to herself, “ Perhaps this man is my mother ! ” £Cosette, strange though it is to say, in her profound ignorance as a girl educated in a convent, and as, too, maternity is absolutely unintelligible to virginity, eventually imagined that she had had as little of a mother as was possible. This mother’s name she did not know, and whenever it happened that she spoke to Jean Valjean on the subject he held his tongue. If she repeated her question he answered by a smile, and once, when she pressed him, the smile terminated in a tear. This silence on his part cast a night over Fantine. Was it through prudence ? Was it through respect ? Or was it through a fear of intrusting this name to the chances of another memory besides his ownj^ So long as Cosette was young Jean Valjean readily talked to her about her mother ; but when she grew up it was impossible for him to do so, — he felt as if he dared not do it. Was it on account of Cosette or of Fantine ? He felt a species of religious horror at making this shadow enter Cosette’s thoughts, and rendering a dead woman a third person in their society. The more sacred this shade was to him, the more formidable was it. He thought of Fantine, and felt himself overwhelmed by the silence. CHo saw vaguely in the darkness something that resembled a finger laid on a lip. Had all the modesty which was in Fantine, and which during her life quitted CHANGE OF GRATING. 107 her with Aniolence, returned after her death, to watch indignantly over the dead woman’s peace, and sternly guard her in the tomb ? Was Jean Yaljean himself unconsciously oppressed by it ? We who believe in death are not prepared to reject tliis mysterious ex- planation, and hence arose the impossibility of pro- nouncing, even to Cosette, the name of Fant ine.^ One day Cosette said to him, — “ Fathei’, I saw my mother last night in a dream. She had two large wings, and in life she must have been a sainted woman.” “ Through martyrdom,” Jean Yaljean replied. Alto- gether, though, he was happy ; when Cosette went out with him she leaned on his arm, proudly and happily, in the fulness of her heart, Jean Yaljean felt his thoughts melt into delight at all these marks of a tenderness so exclusive and so satisfied with himself alone. The poor WTetch, inundated wfith an angelic joy, trembled ; he assured himself with trans- port that this would last his w’hole life ; he said to himself that he had not really suffered enough to deserve such radiant happiness, and he thanked God in the depths of his soul for having allowed him — the wretched — to be thus loved by this innocent being. CHAPTER V. THE ROSE PERCEIVES THAT SHE IS AN IMPLEMENT OF WAR. One clay Cosette happened to look at herself in the glass, and said, “ Good gracious ! ” She fancied that slie was almost pretty, and this threw her into a singular trouble. Up to this moment she had not thought of her face, and though she saw lierself in the mirror she did not look at herself. And, then, she had often been told that she was ugly ; Jean Valjean alone would say gently, “ Oh, no, oh, no ! ’’ However this might be, Cosette had always believed herself ugly, and had grown up in this idea ivith the facile resignation of childhood. And now all at once her looking-glass said to her, as Jean Valjean had done, “ Oh, no ! ” She did not sleep that night. “ Suppose I were pretty,” she thought, “ how droll it would be if I were pretty ! ” and she remembered those of her companions whose beauty produced an effect in the convent, and said to herself, “ What ! I might be like Mademoiselle So-and-so ! ” COn the next day she looked at herself, hut not accidentally, and doubted. “ Where was my sense ? ” she said ; ‘‘ No, I am ugly.” She had simply slept badly, her eyes were heavy and her cheeks pale. THE ROSE AN IMPLEMENT OF WAR. 109 She had not felt very joj^ous on the previous clay when she fancied herself pretty ; but was sad at no longer believing it. She did not look at herself again, and for upwards of a fortnight tried to dress her hair with her back to the glas^ In the evening, after dinner, she usually worked II her embroidery in the drawing-room, while Jean Valjean read by her side. Once she raised her eyes from her work, and was greatly surprised by the anxious way in which her father was gazing at her. Another time she was walking along the street, and fancied she heard some one behind her, whom she did not see, say, “ A pretty woman, but badly dressed.” “ Non- sense,” she thought, “ it is not I, for I am well- dressed and ugly.” At that time she wore her plush bonnet and merino dress. One day, at last, she was in the garden, and heard poor old Toussaint saying, “ Master, do you notice how pretty our young lady is growing ? ” Cosette did not hear her father’s answer, for Toussaint’s words produced a sort of commotion in her. She ran out of the garden up to her room, looked in the glass, which she had not done for three months, and uttered a cry, — she dazzled herself. She was beautiful and pretty, and could not refrain from being of the same opinion as Toussaint and her glass. Her figure was formed, her skin had grown white, her hair was glossy, and an unknown splen- dor was kindled in her blue eyes. The consciousness of her beauty came to her fully in a minute, like the sudden dawn of day ;[]others, besides, noticed her, Toussaint said so ; it was evidently to her that the no THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. passer-by alluded, and doubt AYas no longer possible. She returned to the garden, believing herself a queen, hearing the birds sing, though it was winter, seeing the golden sky, the sun amid the trees, flowers on the shrubs; she was Avild, distraught, and in a state of ineffable ravishmentj On his side, Jean Valjean experienced a profound and inexplicable contraction of the heart ; for some time past, in truth, he had contemplated with terror the beauty which daily appeared more radiant in Cosette’s SAveet face. It Avas a laughing daAAui for all, but most mournful for him. Cosette had been for a long time beautiful ere she perceived the fact, but, from the first day, this un- expected light Avhich sloAvly rose and gradually en- A^eloped the girl’s entire person hurt Jean Valjean’s sombre eyes. He felt that it Avas a change in a happy life, so happy that he did not dare stir in it, for fear of deranging it someAvhere. This inaji, who had passed through every possible distress,^ho Avas still bleeding from the Avounds dealt him by his destiny, Avho had been almost Avicked, and had be- come almost a saint, Avho, after dragging the galley chain, Avas noAv dragging the invisible but Aveighty chain of indefinite infamy ; tliis man Avhom the law had not liberated, and who might at any moment be recaptured and taken from the obscurity of Aurtue to the broad daylight of further opprobrium, — this ma ^ accepted CA^erything, excused everything, pardoned everything, blessed everything, Avished CA^erything Avell, and only asked one thing of Providence, of men, of the laAvs, of society, of nature, of the Avorld, THE ROSE AN IMPLEMENT OF WAR. Ill — that Cosette should love him, that Cosette might continue to love him ; that God would not prevent the heart of this child turning to him and remaining with him ! Loved by Cosette he felt cured, at rest, appeased, overwhelmed, rewarded, and crowned. With Cosette’s love all was well, and he asked no more, l^ad any one said to him, “Would you like to be Letter off?” he would have answered, “No.” Had God said to him, “ Do you wish for heaven ? ” he would have answered, “ I should lose by it.^ All that could affect this situation, even on the surface, appeared to him the beginning of something else. [He had never known thoroughly what a woman’s Deauty was, but he understood instinctively that it was terrible. This beauty, which continually ex- panded more triumphantly and superbly by his side upon the ingenuous and formidable brow of the child, from the depths of his ugliness, old age, misery, rep- robation, and despondency, terrified him, an^he said to himself, “ How beautiful she is ! what will become of me ? ” Here lay the difference between his ten- derness and that of a mother, — what he saw with agony a mother would have seen with joy. The first symptoms speedily manifested themselves. From the day when Cosette said to herself, “ I am decidedly good-looking,” she paid attention to her toilet. She remembered the remark of the passer-by, — pretty, but badly dressed, — a blast of the oracle which passed by her and died out, after depositing in her heart one of those two germs which are des- tined at a later period to occupy a woman’s entire life, — coquettishness. The other is love. With 112 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. faith in her beauty, all her feminine soul was ex- panded within her ; she had a horror of merinos, and felt ashamed of plush. Her father never refused her anything/and she knew at once the whole science of the hat, the dress, the mantle, the slipper, and the sleeve, of the fabric that suits, and the color that is becoming, — the science which makes the Parisian woman something so charming, profound, and dan- gerous. The expression “ femme capi tense ” was invented for the Parisian^ In less than a month little Cosette was in this Thebais of the Rue de Babylone, not only one of the prettiest women, which is something, but one of the begt dressed in Paris, which is a great deal more. |She would have liked to meet her “ passer-by,” to see what he would say, and teach him a lesson. The fact is, that she was in every respect ravishing, and could admirably dis- tinguish a bonnet of Gerard’s from one of Herbaut’s^ Jean Valjean regarded these ravages with anxiety, and while feeling that he could never do more than crawl or walk at the most, he could see Cosette’s wings growing. |However, by the simple inspection of Cosette’s toilet, a woman would have seen that she had no mother. Certain small proprieties and social conventionalisms were not observed by Cosette ; a mother, for instance, would have told her that an unmarried girl does not wear brocaded The first day that Cosette went out in her dress and cloak of black brocade, and her white crape bonnet, she took Jean Valjean’s arm, gay, radiant, blushing, proud, and striking. “ Father,” she said, “ how do you think I look ? ” Jean Valjean replied, THE KOSE AN BIPLEMENT OF WAR. 113 ill a voice wliich resembled the bitter voice of an eniious person, “ Charming.” During the walk he was as usual, but when he returned home he asked Cosette, — “ Will you not put on that dress and bonnet, you know which, again ? ” ghis took place in Cosette’s room ; she returned to the wardrobe in which her boarding-school dress was hanging."] “ That disguise ? ” she said, “ how can you expect it, father ? Oli, no, indeed, I shall never put on those horrors again ; with that thing on my head I look like a regular dowdy.” Jean Valjeau heaved a deep sigh. From that moment he noticed that Cosette, who hitherto had wished to stay at home, saying, “Father, I amuse myself much better here with you,” now constantly asked to go out. In truth, what good is it for a girl to have a pretty face and a delicious toilet if she does not show them ? "^He also noticed that Cosette no longer had the same liking for the back-yard, and at present preferred remaining in the garden, where she walked, without displeasure, near the railings. Jean Valjean never set foot in the garden, but remained in the back-yard, like the dog. Cosette, knowing herself to be beautiful, lost the gi’ace of being ignorant of the fact, an exquisite grace, for beauty heightened by simplicity is ineffable, and nothing is so adorable as a beauteous innocent maiden who walks along unconsciously, holding in her hand the key of a Paradise. But what she lost in ingenuous grace she regained in a pensive and VOL. IV. 8 114 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. serious charm. Her whole person, impregnated with tlie joys of youth, innocence, and beauty, exhaled a splendid melancholy It was at this period that Marius saw her again at the Luxemboui’g, after an interval of six months. CHAPTER VI. THE BATTLE BEGINS. CosETTE was in her shadow, as Marius was in his, all ready to be kindled. Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, brought slowly to- gether these two beings, all charged iHth, and pining in, the stormy electricity of passion, — these two souls which bore love as the clouds bore thunder, and were destined to come together and be blended in a glance like the clouds in a storm. The power of a glanee has been so abused in love-romances that it has been discredited in the end, and a writer dares hardly assert nowadays that two beings fell in love because they looked at each other. And yet, that is the way, and the sole way, in which people fall in love ; the rest is merely the rest, and comes after- wards. Nothing is more real than the mighty shocks which two souls give each other by exchanging this spark. At the hour when Cosette unconsciously gave that glance which troubled Marius, IMarius did not suspect that he too gave a glance which troubled Cosette. For a long time she had seen and examined him in the way girls see and examine, while looking elsewhere. IMarius was still thinking Cosette ugly, when Cosette had already considered ^larius handsome, but as the young man paid no 116 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. attention to her he was an object of indifference, |]Still she could not refrain from saying to herself that he had silky hair, fine eyes, regular teeth, an agree- able voice, when she heard him talking with his com- panions ; that he perhaps walked badly, but with a grace of his own, that he did not appear at all silly, that his whole person was noble, gentle, simple, and proud ; and, lastly, that though he seemed poor, he had the bearing of a gentleman!]’ On the day when their eyes met, and at length suddenly said to each other the first obscure and ineffable things which the eye stammers, Cosette did not understand it at first, ^he returned pen- sively to the house in the Rue de I’Ouest, where Jean Valjean was spending six weeks, according to his wontj Wlien she awoke the next morning she thought of the young stranger, so long indifferent and cold, who now seemed to pay attention to her, and this attention did not appear at all agreeable to . her ; on the contrary, she felt a little angry with the handsome disdainful man. IlA. warlike feeling was arouse^ and she felt a very childish joy at the thought that she was at length about to be avenged ; knowing herself to be lovely, she felt, though in an indistinct way, that she had a weapon. Women play with their beauty as lads do with their knife, and cut themselves with it. Our readers will remember Marius’s hesitations, palpitations, and terrors ; he remained on his bench, and did not approach, and this vexed Cosette. One day she said to Jean Valjean, “Father, suppose we take a walk in that direction ? ” Seeing that Marius did THE BATTLE BEGINS. 117 not come to lier, she went to him, for in such cases, every woman resembles hlahomet. |And then, strange it is, the first symptom of true love in a young man is timidity ; in a girl it is boldness. This ^vill surprise, and yet nothing is more simple ; the two sexes have a tendency to approach, and each assumes the qualities of the othej;^ On this day Cosette’s glance drove Marius mad, while his glance made Cosette tremble. Marius went away confiding, and Cosette restless. Now they adored each other. Efhe first thing that Cosette experienced was a con- fused and deep sorrow ; it seemed to her that her soul had become black in one day, and she no longer recognized herself. The whiteness of the soul of maidens, which is composed of eoldness and gayety, resembles snow ; it melts before love, which is its sun.~l Cosette knew not what love was, and she had never heard the word uttered in its earthly sense. In the books of profane musie which entered the convent, tambour or pandoiir was substituted for amour. This produced enigmas, which exercised the imagination of the big girls, such as ; “ Ah ! how agreeable the drummer is ! ” or, “ Pity is not a pan- dour ! ” But Cosette left the convent at too early an age to trouble herself much about the “ drummer,” and hence did not know what name to give to that which now troubled her. But are we the less ill through being ignorant of the name of our disease ? |She loved with the more passion, because she loved in ignorance ; she did not know whether it was good or bad, useful or dangerous, neeessary or mortal, eternal or transient, permitted or prohibited, — she 118 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. loved. She would have been greatly surjjrised had any one said to her, “ You do not sleep ? that is for- bidden. You do not eat ? that is very wrong. You have an oppression and beating of the heart ? that cannot be tolerated. You blush and turn pale when a certain person dressed in black appears at tlie end of a certain green walk ? why, that is abominable ! She would not have understood, and would have replied, “ How can I be to blame in a matter in which I can do nothing, and of which I know notliing ? ” It happened that the love which presented itself was the one most in harmony with the state of her soul ; it was a sort of distant adoration, a dumb con- templation, the deification of an unknown man. It was the apparition of youth to youth, the dream of nights become a romance and remaining a dream, the wished-for phantom at length realized and in- carnated, but as yet ha\’ing no name, or wrong, or flaAV, or claim, or defect ; in a word, the distant lover who remained idealized, a chimera which assumed a shape. Any more palpable and nearer meeting would at this first stage have startled Cosette, who was still half plunged in the magnifying fog of the cloister. She had all the fears of children and all the fears of nuns blended together, and the essence of the con- vent, with which she had been impregnated for five years, was still slowly evaporating from her whole person,, and making evei’ything tremble around her. In this situation, it was not a lover she wanted, not even an admirer, but a vision, and she began ador- ing hlarius as something charming, luminous, and impossible. THE BATTLE BEGINS. 119 As extreme simplicity trenches on extreme coquetry, she smiled upon him most frank lyTj She daily awaited impatiently the hour for the walk ; she saw jMarius, she felt indescribably happy, and sincerely believed that she was expressing her entire thoughts when she said to Jean Yaljean, “What a delicious garden the Luxembourg is ! ” Marius and Cosette existed for one another in the night : they did not speak, they did not bow, they did not know each other, but they met ; and like the stars in the heavens, which are millions of leagues separate, they lived by looking at each other. £it is thus that Cosette gradually became a woman, and was developed into a beautiful and loving woman, con- scious of her beauty and ignorant of her love. She was a coquette into the bargain, through her innocence. "I CHAPTER VIL JEAN VALJEAN IS VERT SAD. All situations have their instincts, and old and eternal mother Nature warned Jean Valjean darkly of the presence of Marius. Jean Valjean trembled in the depth of his mind ; he saw nothing, knew nothing, and yet regarded with obstinate attention the darkness in which he was, as if he felt on one side something being built up, on the other some- thing crumbling away. Marius, who was also warned by the same mother Nature, did all in his power to conceal himself from the father, but for all that, Jean Valjean sometimes perceived him. Marius’s manner was no longer wise ; he displayed clumsy prudence and awkward temerity. He no longer came quite close to them, as he had formerly done, he sat down at a distance, and remained in an ecstasy : he had a book, and pretended to read it ; Avhy did he pretend ? Formerly he came in an old coat, and now he came every day in his new one. Jean Valjean was not quite sure whether he did not have his hair dressed ; he had a strange way of roll- ing his eyes, and wore gloves, — in short, Jean Valjean cordially detested the young man. £]Cosette did not allow anything to be guessed. Without knoAving ex- actly what was the matter with her, she had a feel- JEAN VAUEAN IS VERY SAD. 121 ing that it was something which must be hidden^ There was a parallelism which annoyed Jean Valjean between the taste for dress which had come to Co- sette, and the habit of wearing new clothes displayed by this stranger. It was an accident, perhaps, — of course it was, — but a menacing accident. He never opened his mouth to Cosette about this stranger. One day, however, he could not refrain, and said, with that vague despair which suddenly thrusts the probe into its own misfortune, “ That young man looks like a pedant.” Cosette, a year pre^■iously, when still a careless little girl, would have answered, “ Oh, no, he is very good-looking.” Ten years later, with the love of Marius in her heart, she would have replied, “An insufferable pedant, you are quite right.” At the present moment of her life and heart, she restricted herself to saying, with supreme calmness, “ That young man ! ” as if she looked at him for the first time in her life. “ How stupid I am,” Jean Valjean thought, “she had not even noticed him, and now I have pointed him out to her.” Oh, simplicity of old people ! oh, depth of children ! jit is another law of these first years of suffering and care, of these sharp struggles of first love with first obstacles, that the maiden cannot be caught in any snare, while the young man falls into all. Jeau Valjean had begun a secret war against IMarius, which Marius, iii the sublime stupidity of his passion and his age, did not guess. Jean Valjean laid all sorts of snares for him. He changed his hours, he changed his bench, he left his handkerchief, he went alone to the Luxembourg : and Marius went headlong 122 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. into the trap, and to all these notes of interrogation which Jean Valjean planted in the road, ingenuously answered, “ Yes.” Cosette, however, remained im- mured in her apparent carelessness and imperturbable tranquillity, so that Jean Yaljean arrived at this con- clusion : “ That humbug is madly in love with Cosette, but Cosette doe? not even know that he exists.” For all that, though, he had a painful tremor in his heart, for the minute when Cosette would love might arrive at any instant. Does not all this com- mence with indifference ? Only once did Cosette commit an error and startle him ; he arose from his bench to go home after three hours’ sitting, and she said, “What, already £3 Jean Valjean did not give up his walks at the Luxembourg, as he did not wish to do anything singular, or arouse Cosette’s attention ; but during the hours so sweet for the two lovers, while Cosette whs sending her smile to the intoxi- cated iSIarius, who only perceived this, and now saw nothing more in the world than a radiant adored face, Jean Valjean fixed on Marius flashing and ter- rible eyes. He who had ended by no longer be- lie^■ing himself capable of a malevolent feeling, had moments when he felt, if JMarius were present, as if he were growing savage and ferocious ; and those old depths of his soul which had formerly contained so much anger opened again against this young man. It seemed to him as if unkno^vn craters were again being formed within him, What ! the fellow was there ! What did he come to do ? he came to sniff, examine, and attempt ; he came to say. Well, why not? he came to prowl round his, Jean Valjean’s, JEAN VALJEAN IS VERY SAD. 123 life, to prowl round) his happiness, and carry it away from him. Jean Yaljean added, “Yes, that is it! What does Fe come to seek ? An adventure. What does he want ? A love-atfair. A love-affair ? and 1 1 Ydiat? I was first the most wretched of men, and then the most unhappy. I have spent sixty years on my knees, I have suffered all that a man can suffer, I have grown old without ever having been young. I have lived without family, parents, friends, chil- dren, or wife. I have left some of my blood on every stone, on every bramble, on every w^all. I have been gentle, though men were harsh to me, and good though they were wicked. I have become an honest man again, in spite of everything ; I have repented of the evil I did, and pardoned the evil done to me, and at the moment when I am rewarded, when all is fin- ished, when I touched my object, when I have what I wish, — and it is but fair as I have paid for it and earned it, — all this is to fade away, and I am to lose Cosette, my love, my joy, my soul, because it has pleased a long-legged ass to saunter about the Luxembourg garden ll^l Then his eyeballs were filled with a mournful and extraordinary brilliancy ; he was no longer a man looking at a man, no longer an enemy looking at an enemy, he was a dog watching a robber. Our readers know the rest. Marius continued to be foolish, and one day followed Cosette to the Rue de I’Ouest. Another day he spoke to the porter, and the porter spoke in his turn, and said to Jean Yaljean, “Do you happen to know, sir, a curious young man, who has been making inquiries about you ? ” The next 124 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. day Jean Valjean gave ]\Iarius that look -which Marius at length noticed, and a week later Jean Valjean went away. He made a vow that he would never again set foot in the Rue de I’Ouest or the Luxem- bourg, and returned to the Rue Plumet. Cosette did not complain, she said nothing, she asked no questions, she did not attempt to discover any motive, for she had reached that stage when a girl fears that her thoughts may be perused, or she may betray herself. Jean Valjean had no experience of these miseries, the only ones which are charming, and the only ones he did not know, and on this account he did not comprehend the grave significance of Cosette’s silence. Still, he noticed that she became sad, and he became gloomy. Inexperience was contending on both sides. Once he made an essay, by asking Cosette, “ Will you go to the Luxembourg ? ” A beam illuminated Co- sette’s pale face ; “ Yes,” she said. They went there, but three months had elapsed, and Marius no longer went there, — there was no Marius present. The next day Jean Valjean again asked Cosette, “ Will you go to the Luxembourg ? ” She answered sadly and gently, “No.” Jean Valjean was hurt by the sadness, and heart-broken by the gentleness. What was taking place in this young and already so impenetrable mind ? What was going to be accom- plished ? What was happening to Cosette’s soul ? Sometimes, instead of going to bed, Jean Valjean would remain seated by his bedside with his head between his hands, and spent whole nights in asking himself, “ What has Cosette on her mind ? ” and in thinkiijg of the things of which she might be thinking. JEAN VALJEAN IS VEEY SAD. 125 (bh, at such moments what sad glances he turned tow- ard the convent, that chaste summit, that abiding-place of angels, that inaccessible glacier of virtue ! With what despairing ra\dshment did he contemplate that garden, full of ignored flowers and immured virgins, where all the perfumes and all the souls ascend direct to heaven ! How he adored that Eden, now closed against him forever, and which he had volun- tarily and madly left ! How he lamented his self- denial and his madness in bringing Cosette back to the world ! He was the poor hero of the sacrifice, seized and hurled down by his own devotion. How he said to himself. What have I done ? However, nothing of this was visible to Cosette, — neither tem- per nor roughness, — it was ever the same serene kind face. Jean Yaljean’s manner was even more tender and paternal than before ; and if anything could have shown that he was less joyous, it was his greater gentleness. On her side, Cosette was pining ; she suffered fi’om Marius’s absence, as she had revelled in his presence, singularly, and not exactly knowing why. When Jean Valjean ceased taking her for her usual walk, a feminine instinct had whispered to her heart that she must not appear to be attached to the Luxembourg, and that if she displayed indifference in the matter her father would take her back to it. But days, weeks, and months succeeded each other, for Jean Valjean had tacitly accepted Cosette’s tacit consent. She regretted it, but it was too late, and on the day when they returned to the Luxembourg, Marius was no longer there. He had disappeared. 126 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. then, it was all over. What eould she do? Would she ever see him again ? She felt a contraction of the heart which nothing dilated and which daily in- creased ; she no longer knew whether it were sum- mer or winter, sunshine or rain, whether the birds were singing, whether it was the dahlia or the daisy season, 's^diether the Luxembourg was more charm- ing than the Tuileries, whether the linen brought home by the washerwoman was too much or insuffi- ciently starched, or if Toussaint had gone to market well or dl;' and she remained crushed, absorbed, atten- tive to one thought alone, with a vague and fixed eye, like a person gazing through the darkness at the deep black spot where a phantom has just vanished. Still, she did not allow Jean Valjean to see anything but her pallor, |and her face Avas ever gentle to him. This pallor, though, was more than sufficient to render Jean Valjean anxious, and at times he would ask her : “ What is the matter with you ? ” And she answered, — “ Nothing.” After a silence, she Avould add, as if guessing that he was sad too, — “ And, father, is there anything the matter with you ? ” With me ? Oh, nothing,” he Avould r» (( These two beings Avho had loved each other so exclusively, and one of them with such a touching loAT, and had lived for a long time one through the other, Avere noAv suffering side by side, one on account of the other, Avithout confessing it, AAdthout anger, and Avith a smile. X CHAPTER VIIL THE CHAIN-GANG. The more unhappy of the two was Jean Valjean ; for youth, even in its sorrow, has always a brilliancy of its own. At certain moments Jean Valjean suf- fered so intensely that he became childish, for it is the peculiarity of grief to bring out a man’s childish side. He felt inwncibly that Cosette was slipping from him ; and he would have liked to struggle, hold her back, and excite her by some external and brilliant achievement. These ideas, childish, as we said, but at the same time senile, gave him through their very childishness a very fair notion of the influence of gold lace upon the imagination of girls. One day Count Coutard, Commandant of Paris, passed along the street on horseback, and in fidl-dress uni- form. He en'vded this gilded man, and said to him- self : What a happiness it would be to be able to put on that coat, which was an undeniable thing ; that if Cosette saw him in it it would dazzle her, and when he passed before the Tuileries gates the sentinels would present arms to him, and that would be sufficient for Cosette, and prevent her looking at young men. An unexpected shock was mingled with his sad 128 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. thoughts. In the isolated life they led, and since they had gone to reside in the Rue Plumet, they had one habit. They sometimes had the pleasure of going to see the sun rise, a species of sweet joy, which is agreeable to those who are entering life and those who are leaving it. To walk about at daybreak is equivalent, with the man who loves solitude, to walking about at night with the gayety of natnre added. The streets are deserted and the birds sing. Cosette, herself a bird, generally woke at an early hour. These morning excursions were arranged on the previous evening ; he proposed and she accepted. This was arranged like a plot ; they went out before day, and it was a delight for Cosette, as these innocent eccentricities please youth. Jean Valjean had, as we know, a liking to go to but little frequented places, — to solitary nooks, and forgotten spots. There were at that time, in the vicinity of the gates of Paris, poor fields, almost forming part of the city, where sickly wheat grew in summer, and which in autumn, after the harvest was got in, did not look as if they had been reaped, but skinned. Jean Valjean had a predilection for these fields, and Cosette did not feel wearied there ; it was solitude for him and liberty for her. There she became a little girl again ; she ran about and almost played ; she took off her bonnet, laid it on Jean Valjean’s knees, and plucked flowers. She watched the but- terflies, but did not catch them ; for humanity and tenderness spring up with love, and the maiden who has in her heart a trembling and fragile ideal feels pity for the butterfly’s wing. She twined poppies THE CHAIN-GANG. 129 into 'nreatlis, which she placed on her head, and when the sun poured its beams on them and ren- dered them almost purple, they formed a fiery crown for her fresh pink face. Even after their life had grown saddened they kept up their habit of early walks. One October moiTiing, then, tempted by the perfect serenity of the autumn of 1831, tliey went out, and found themselves just before daybreak near the Barribre du Maine. It was not quite morning yet, but it was dawn, a ravish- ing and wild minute. There were a few stars in the pale azure sky, the earth was all black, the heavens all white, a shiver ran along the grass, and all around displayed the mysterious influence of twilight. A lark, which seemed mingled with the stars, was singing at a prodigious height, and it seemed as if this hymn of littleness to infinitude calmed the im- mensity. In the east the dark mass of Yal de Gr&ce stood out against the bright steel-blue horizon, and glittering Yenus rose behind the dome and looked like a soul escaping from a gloomy edifice. All was peace and silence, there was no one in the highway ; and a few workmen, going to their daily toil, could be indistinctly seen in the distance. Jean Yaljean was seated on some planks deposited at the gate of a timber-yard ; his face was turned to the road, and his back to the light. He forgot all about the sunrise, for he had fallen into one of those profound reveries in which the mind is concentrated, which imprison even the glance and are equivalent to four walls. There are meditations which may be called wells, and when you are at the bottom it takes. VOL. IV. 9 130 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. some time to reach the ground again. Jean Valjean had descended into one of these reveries ; he was thinking of Cosette, of the possible happiness if noth- ing came betwixt him and her, of that light with which she filled his life, and which was the breath of his soul. He was almost happy in this reverie ; and Cosette, standing by his side, was watching the clouds turn pink. All at once Cosette exclaimed, “ Father, there is something coming down there ! ” Jean Yaljean raised his eyes ; Cosette was correct. The road which leads to the old Barribre du IMaine is a prolongation of the Rue de Sevres, and is inter- sected at right angles by the inner boulevard. At the spot where the roads cross, a sound difficult to explain at such an hour could be heard, and a sort of confused mass appeared. Some shapeless thing coming along the boulevard was turning into the main road. It grew larger, and seemed to be moving in an orderly way ; although it shook and heaved, it seemed to be a vehicle, but its load could not be distinguished. There were horses, wheels, shouts, and the cracking of whips. By degrees the linea- ments became fixed, though drowned in darkness. It was really a vehicle coming toward the bai’rifere near which Jean Valjean was seated ; a second resembling it followed, then a third, then a fourth ; seven carts debouched in turn, the heads of the horses touching the back of the vehicles. Figures moved on these carts ; sparks could be seen in the gloom, looking like bare sabres, and a clang coidd be heard resembling chains being shaken. All this advanced, the voices became louder, and it was a THE CHAIN-GAXG. 131 formidable thing, such as issues from the cavern of dreams. On drawing nearer, this thing assumed a shape, and stood out behind the trees with the lividness of an apparition. The mass grew whiter, and the grad- ually dauming day threw a ghastly gleam over this mass, which was at once sepulchral and alive, — the heads of the shadows became the faces of corpses, and this is what it was. Seven vehicles were mov- ing in file along the road, and the first six had a singular shape ; they resembled brewers’ drays, and consisted of long ladders laid upon two wheels, and forming a shaft at the front end. Each dray, or, to speak more correctly, each ladder, was drawn by a team of four horses, and strange clusters of men were dragged along upon these ladders. In the faint light these men could not be seen, so much as di\'ined. Twenty-four on each ladder, twelve on either side, leaning against each other, had their faces tmmed to the passers-by, and their legs hanging down ; and they had behind their back something Avhich rang and was a chain, and something that glistened, which was a collar. Each man had his collar, but the chain was for all ; so that these twen- ty-four men, if obliged to get down from the dray and walk, were seized by a species of inexorable unity, and were obliged to wind on the ground with the chain as backbone, very nearly like centipedes. At the front and back of each cart stood two men armed with guns, who stood with their feet on the end of the chain. The seventh vehicle, a vast four- gon with rack sides but no hood, had four wheels 132 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL, and six horses, and carried a resounding mass of coppers, boilers, chafing-dishes, and chains, among which were mingled a few bound men lying their full length, who seemed to be ill. This fourgon, which was quite open, was lined with broken-down hurdles, which seemed to have been used for old punishments. These vehicles held the crown of the causeway ; and on either side marched a double file of infamous- lookiug guards, wearing three-cornered hats, like the soldiers of the Directory, and dirty, torn, stained uniforms, half gi’ay and blue, a coat of the Invalides and the trousers of the undertaker’s men, red epau- lettes and yellow belts, and were armed with short sabres, muskets, and sticks. These sbirri seemed compounded of the abjectness of the beggar and the authority of the hangman ; and the one who appeared their leader held a postilion’s whip in his hands. All these details grew more and more distinct in the advancing daylight; and at the head and rear of the train marched mounted gendarmes with di’awn sabres. The train was so long that at the moment when the first vehicle reached the barrifere the last had scarce turned out of the boulevard. A crowd, which came no one knew whence and formed in a second, as is so common in Paris, lined both sides of the road, and looked. In the side-lanes could be heard the shouts of people calling to each other, and the wooden shoes of the kitchen-gardeners running up to have a peep. The men piled up on the drays allowed themselves to be jolted in silence, and were livid with the THE CHAIN-GANG. 133 morning chill. They all wore canvas trousers, and their naked feet were thrust into wooden shoes; but the rest of their attire was left to the fancy of VTetchedness. Their accoutrements were hideously disaccordant, for nothing is more mournfnl than the harlequin garb of rags. There were crushed hats, oilskin caps, frightful woollen night-caps, and side by side with the blouse, an out-at-elbow black coat. Some wore women’s bonnets, and others had baskets, as head-gear ; hairy chests were visible, and through the rents of the clothes tattooing could be dis- tinguished, — temples of love, bm-ning hearts, and cupids, — but ringworm and other unhealthy red spots might also be noticed. Two or three had passed a straw rope through the side rail of the dray, which hung down like a stirrup and supported their feet ; while one of them held in his hand and raised to his mouth something like a black stone, which he seemed to be gnawing, — it was bread he was eating. All the eyes were dry, and either dull or luminous with a wicked light. The escort cursed, but the chained men did not breathe a syllable ; from time to time the sound of a blow dealt with a stick on shoulder-blades or heads could be heard. Some of these men yawned ; the rags were terrible ; their feet hung down, their shoulders oscillated, their heads struck against each other, their irons rattled, their eyeballs flashed ferociously, their fists clenched or opened inertly like the hands of death, and in the rear of the chain a band of children burst into a laugh. This file of vehicles, whatever their nature might 134 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. be, was lugubrious. It was plain that withiu an hour a shower might fall, that it might be followed by another, and then another, that the ragged cloth- ing wmuld be drenched ; and that once Avet through, these men Avould not dry again, and once chilled, Avould never groAV Avarm any more ; that then- canvas trousers Avonld be glued to their bones by the rain, that water Avoidd fiU their Avooden shoes, that lashes could not prevent the chattering of teeth, that the chain Avould continue to hold them by the neck, and their feet Avould continue to hang ; and it Avas im- possible not to shudder on seeing these human crea- tures thus 'bound and passive beneath the cold autumnal clouds, and surrendered to the rain, the breezes, and all the furies of the atmosphere, like trees and stones. The bloAvs Avere not even spared the sick Avho lay bound Avith ropes and motionless in the seA’enth v’ehicle, and AA^ho seemed to have been throAvn doAvn there like sacks filled Avith wretchedness. All at once the sun appeared, the immense beam of the east flashed forth ; and it seemed as if it set fire to all these ferocious heads. Tongues became untied, and a storm of furies, oaths, and songs ex- ploded. The wide horizontal light cut the whole file in tAvo, illumining the heads and bodies, and leaA’ing the feet and Avheels in obscurity. Thoughts ap- peared on faces, and it Avas a fearful thing to see demons with their masks thrown away, and ferocious souls laid bare. Some of the merrier ones had in their mouths quills, through Avhich they bleAV A'ermin on the croAvd, selecting Avomen. The daAAm caused THE CHAIN-GANG. 135 their lamentable faces to stand out in the darkness of the shadows. Not one of these beings but was misshapen through wretchedness j and it was so mon- strous that it seemed to change the light of the sun into the gleam of a lightning flash. The first cart- load had struck up, and were droning out at -the top of their voices, with a haggard joviality, a potpourri of Desaugiers, at that time famous under the title of La Vestale. The trees shook mournfully, while in the side-walks bourgeois faces were listening with an idiotic beatitude to these comic songs chanted by spectres. In the chaos of this train were all kinds of wretchedness; there were there the facial angles of all animals, old men, youths, naked skulls, gray beards, cynical monstrosities, srdky resignation, savage grins, mid attitudes, youth, girlish heads with corkscrew curls on the temples, infantine, and for that reason horrible, faces, and then countenances of skeletons which only lacked death. On the first dray could be seen a negro, who had been a slave probably, and was enabled to compare the chains. The frightful leveller, shame, had passed over all these foreheads. At this stage of abasement the last transformations were undergone by all in the lowest depths ; and ignorance, changed into dulness, was the equal of intellect changed into despair. No choice was pos- sible among these men, who appeared to be the pick of the mud ; and it was clear that the arranger of this unclean procession had not attempted to classify them. These beings had been bound and coupled pell-mell, probably in alphabetical disorder, and loaded haphazard on the vehicles. Still, horrors. 136 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. when grouped, always end by disengaging a resultant. Every addition of wretched men produces a total ; a common soul issued from each chain, and each dray- load had its physiognomy. By the side of the man who sang was one who yelled ; a third begged ; another- could be seen gnashing his teeth ; another threatened the passers-by ; another blasphemed God, and the last was silent as the tomb. Dante would have fancied that he saw the seven circles of the Inferno in motion. It was the march of the damned to the torture, performed in a sinister way, not upon the formidable flashing car of the Apocalypse, but, more gloomy still, in the hangman’s cart. One of the keepers, who had a hook at the end of his stick, from time to time attempted to stir up this heap of human ordure. An old woman in the crowd pointed them to a little boy of five years of age, and said to him, “ You scamp, that will teach you ! ” As the songs and blasphemy grew louder, the man who seemed the captain of the escort cracked his whip ; and at this signal a blind, indiscriminate bastinado fell with the sound of hail upon the seven cart-loads. Many yelled and foamed at the lips, which redoubled the joy of the gamins who had come up like a cloud of flies settling upon wounds. Jean Valjean’s eye had become frightful; it was no longer an eyeball, but that profound glass bulb which takes the place of the eye in some unfortunate men, which seems unconscious of reality, and in which tlie reflection of horrors and catastrophes flashes. He was not look- ing at a spectacle, but going through a vision ; he had to rise, fly, escape, but could not move his foot. At THE CHAIX-GANG. 137 times things which you see seize you and root you in the ground. He remained petrified and stupid, ask- ing himself through a confused and inexpressible agony what was the meaning of this sepulchral per- secution, and whence came this Pandemonium that pursued him. All at once he raised his hand to his forehead, — the usual gesture of those to whom mem- ory suddenly returns ; he remembered that this was substantially the road, that this detour was usual to avoid any meeting with royalty, — which was always possible on the Fontaineblean road, — and that five- and-thirty years before he had passed through that barrihre. Cosette was not the less horrified, though in a different way ; she did not understand, her breath failed her, and what she saw did not appear to her possible. At length she exclaimed, — “ Father ! what is there in those vehicles ? ” Jean Valjean answered, — “ Comficts.” “ Where are they going ? ” “ To the galleys.” At this moment the bastinado, multiplied by a hundred hands, became tremendous ; strokes of the flat of the sabre were mingled with it, and it resem- bled a tornado of whips and sticks. The galley- slaves bowed their heads ; a hideous obedience was produced by the punishment, and all were silent, with the looks of chained wolves. Cosette, trem- bling in all her limbs, continued, — “ Father, are they stdl men ? ” “ Sometimes,” the miserable man replied. It was, in fact, the Chain, wliich, leaving Bicetre 138 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. before daybreak, was taking the Mans road, to avoid Fontainebleau, where the king then was. This detour made the fearful journey last three or four days longer ; but it surely may be prolonged to save a royal personage the sight of a punishment ! Jean Valjean went home crushed; for such encounters are blows, and the recollections they leave behind re- semble a concussion. While walking along the Rue de Babylone, Jean Valjean did not notice that Cosette asked' him other questions about what they had just seen ; perhaps he was himself too absorbed in his despondency to notice her remarks and answer them. At night, however, when Cosette left him to go to bed, he heard her say in a low voice, and as if speaking to herself : “ I feel that if I were to meet one of those men in the street, I should die only from being so close to him.” Luckily, the next day after this tragic interlude, there were festivals in Paris on account of some official solemnity which I have forgotten, a review at the Champ de Mars, a quintain on the Seine, theatres in the Champs Elys^es, fireworks at the Etoile, and illuminations everywhere. Jean Valjean, breaking through his habits, took Cosette to these rejoicings in order to make her forget the scene of the previous day, and efface, beneath the laughing tumult of all Paris, the abominable thing which had passed before her. The review, which seasoned the fete, rendered uniforms very natural ; hence Jean Valjean put on his National Guard coat, with the vague inner feeling of a man who is seeking a ref- uge. However, the object of this jaunt seemed to THE CHAIN-GAHG. 139 be attained ; Cosette, Avho made it a law to please her father, and to whom any festival was a novelty, accepted the distraction \nth the . easy and light good-will of adolescents, and did not make too dis- dainful a pout at the porringer of joy which is called a public holiday. Hence Jean Yaljeau might believe that he had succeeded, and that no trace of the hid- eous vision remained. A few days after, one morn- ing when the sun was shining, and both were on the garden steps, — another infraction of the rides which Jean Yaljean seemed to have imposed on himself, and that habit of remaining in her chamber which sadness had caused Cosette to assume, — the girl, wearing a combing jacket, was standing in that morning neglige which adorably envelops maidens, and looks hke a cloud over a star ; and with her head in the light, her cheeks pink from a good night’s rest, and gazed at softly by the old man, she was plucking the petals of a daisy. She did not know the deli- cious legend of, “ I love you, a little, passionately,” etc., —for who could have taught it to her? She handled the flower instinctively and innocently, with- out suspecting that plucking a daisy to pieces is ques- tioning a heart. If there were a fourth Grace called INlelanchoIy, she had the air of that Grace when smiling. Jean Yaljean was fascinated by the con- templation of these little fingers on this flower, for- getting everything in the radiance which surrounded the child. A red-breast was twittering in a bush hard by; and while clouds crossed the sky so gayly that you might have said that they had just been set at liberty, Cosette continued to pluck her flower 140 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. attentively. She seemed to be thinking of something, but that something must be charming. All at once she turned her head on her shoulder, with the delicate slowness of a swan, and said to Jean Valjeau, “ Tell me, father, what the galleys are.” BOOK IV. SUCCOR FROM BELOW MAY BE SUCCOR FROM ON HIGH. CHAPTER I. AH’ EXTERNAL WOUXD AND AN INTERNAL CURE. Their life thus gradually became overcast ; only one amusement was left them which had fonnerly been a happiness, and that was to carry bread to those who were starving, and clothes to those who were cold. In these visits to the poor, in which Cosette frequently accompanied Jean Valjean, they found again some portion of their old expansiveness ; and at times, when the day had been good, when a good deal of distress had been relieved, and many children warmed and re-animated, Cosette displayed a little gayety at night. It was at this period that they paid the visit to Jondrette’s den. The day after that visit, Jean Valjean appeared at an early hour in the pavilion, calm as usual, but with a large wound in his left arm, which was very inflamed and venomous, which resembled a burn, and which he ac- counted for in some way or other. This wound kept him at home with a fever for more than a month, 142 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. for he would not see any medical man, and when Cosette pressed him, he said, “ Call in the dog- doctor.” Cosette dressed his wound morning and night with an air of such divine and angelic happi- ness at being useful to him, that Jean Valjean felt all his old joy return, his fears and anxieties dissi- pated ; and he gazed at Cosette, saying, “ Oh, the excellent wound ! the good hurt ! ” Cosette, seeing her father ill, had deserted the pavilion, and regained her taste for the little out- house and the back court. She spent nearly the whole day by the side of Jean Valjean, and read to him any books he chose, which were generally trav- els. Jean Valjean was regenerated. His happiness returned Avith ineffable radiance ; the Luxembourg, the young unknown prowler, Cosette’s coldness, — all these soul-clouds disappeared, and he found himself saying, “ I imagined all that ; I am an old fool ! ” His happiness was such that the frightful discovery of the Thdnardiers made iu Jondrette’s den, which was so unexpected, had to some extent glided over him. He had succeeded in escaping, his trail was lost, and what did he care for the rest ? He only thought of it to pity those wretches. They were iu prison, and henceforth incapable of mischief, he thought, but what a lamentable family in distress ! ^-i^s for the hideous vision of the Barrifere du Maine, Cosette had not spoken again about it. In the convent. Sister Sainte IMechtilde had taught Cosette music ; she had a voice such as a linnet would have if it pos- sessed a soul ; and at times she sang sad songs in the wounded man’s obscure room, which enlivened Jean AX EXTERNAL WOUND AND INTERNAL CURE. 143 Valjeap. ^ Spring arrived, anfl the garden was so de- licious at that season of the year, that Jean Valjean said to Cosette, “ You never go out, and I vdsh you to take a stroll.” “ As you please, father,” said Cosette. And to obey her father, she resumed her walks in the garden, generally alone, for, as we have mentioned, Jean Valjean, who was probably afraid of being seen from the gate, hardly ever entered it. Jean Valjean’s wound had been a diversion ; when Cosette saw that her father suffered less, and was recovering and seemed happy, she felt a satisfaction which she did not even notice, for it came so softly and naturally. Then, too, it was the month of March ; the days were drawing out, winter was de- parting, and it always takes with it some portion of our sorrow ; then came April, that daybreak of sum- mer, fresh as every dawn, and gay like all childhoods, and somewhat tearful at times like the new-born babe it is. Nature in that month has charming beams which pass from the sky, the clouds, tlie trees, the fields, and the flowers into the human heart. Co- sette was still too young for this April joy, which re- sembled her, not to penetrate her; insensibly, and without suspecting it, the dark cloud departed from her mind. In spring there is light in sad souls, as there is at midday in cellars. | Cosette was no longer so very sad ; it was so, but she did not attempt to account for it. In the morning, after breakfast, when she succeeded in drawdng her father into the garden for a quarter of an hour, and walked him up and down while supporting his bad arm, she did not notice that she laughed every moment and 144 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. was happy. Jean Valj(*an was delighted to see her become ruddy-cheeked and fresh once more. “ Oh, the famous wound ! ” he repeated to him- self, in a low voice. And he was grateful to the Th^nardiers. So soon as his wonnd was cured he recommenced his solitary night-rambles ;^nd it would be a mistake to sup- pose that a man can walk about alone in the unin- habited regions of Paris without meeting mth some adventure. ^ CHAPTER II. MOTHER PLUTARCH ACCOUNTS FOR A PHENOMENON. One evening little Gavroclie had eaten nothing ; he remembered that he had not dined either on the preGous day, and that was becoming ridiculous ; so he formed the resolution to try and sup. He went prowling about at the deserted spots beyond the Salpetriere, for there are good windfalls there ; where there is nobody, something may be found. He thus reached a suburb which seemed to him to be the rtllage of Austerlitz. In one of his previous strolls he had noticed tliere an old garden frequented by an old man and an old woman, and in this garden a passable apple-tree. By the side of this tree was a sort of badly closed fruibloft, whence an apple might be obtained. An apple is a supper, -an apple is life ; and what ruined Adam might save Gavroche. The garden skirted a solitary uupaved lane, bordered by shrubs while waiting for houses, and a hedge sepa- rated it from the lane. Gavroche proceeded to the garden. He found the lane again, he recognized the apple-tree, and examined the hedge ; a hedge is but a stride. Day was declining ; there was not a cat in the lane, and the hour was good. Ga\Toche was preparing to clamber over the hedge, when he stopped VOL. IV. 10 146 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. short, — some people were talking in the garden. Gavroche looked through one of the interstices in the hedge. Two paces from him, at the foot of the hedge on the other side, at precisely the point where the hole he had intended to make would have opened, lay a stone which formed a species of bench ; and on this bench the old man of the garden was seated with the old woman standing in front of him. The old woman was grumbling, and Gavroche, who was not troubled with too much discretion, listened. “ INIonsieur Maboeuf ! ” the old woman said. “ Maboeuf ! ” Gavroche thought, “ that ’s a rum name.” The old man thus addressed did uot stir, and the old woman repeated, — “ Monsieur Maboeuf ! ” The old man, without taking his eyes off the ground, decided to answer, — “ Well, Mother Plutarch ! ” “ Mother Plutarch ! ” Gavroche thought, “ that ’s another rum name.” hlother Plutarch continued, and the old gentleman was compelled to submit to the conversation, “ The landlord is not satisfied.” “ Why so ? ” “ There are three quarters owing.” “ In three months more we shall owe four.” “ He says that he will turn you out.” “ I will go.” “ The green-grocer wants to be paid, or she will supply no more fagots. How shall we warm our- selves this winter if we have no wood ? ” ACCOUNTS FOR A PHENOMENON. 147 “ There is the sun.” “ The butcher has stopped our credit, and will not supply any more meat.” “ That is lucky, for I cannot digest meat ; it is hea\")".” “ But what shall we have for dinner ? ” “ Bread.” “ The baker insists on receiving something on account ; no money, no bread, he says.” “ Very good.” “ What will you eat ? ” “ We have apples.” “ But, really, sir, we cannot live in that way with- out money.” “ I have none.” The old woman went away, and left the old gen- tleman alone. He began thinking, and Gavroche thought too ; it was almost night. The first result of Gavroche’s reflection was, that instead of climbing over the hedge, he lay down under it. The branches parted a little at the bottom. “ Hilloh,” said Gav- roche to himself, “ it ’s an alcove,” and he crept into it. His back was almost against the octogenarian’s bench, and he could hear him breathe. Then, in lieu of dining, Gavroche tried to sleep, but it was the sleep of cat, with one eye open. While dozing, Gavroche watched. The whiteness of the twilight sky lit up the ground, and the lane formed a livid line between two rows of dark streets. All at once two figures appeared on this white stripe ; one was in front and the other a little distance behind. “ Here are two coves,” Gavroche growled. 148 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. The first figure seemed to be some old bowed citi- zen, more than simply attired, who walked slowly, ow- ing to his age, and was strolling about in the starlight. The second was straight, firm, and slim. He regu- lated his steps by those of the man in front ; but suppleness and agility could be detected in his volun- tary slowness. This figure had something ferocious and alarming about it, and the appearance of what was called a dandy in those days ; the hat was of a good shape, and the coat was black, well cut, proba- bly of fine cloth, and tight at the waist. He held his head up with a sort of robust grace ; and under the hat a glimpse could be caught of a pale youthful profile in the twilight. This profile had a rose in its mouth, and was familiar to Gavroche, for it was iSIontpar- nasse ; as for the other, there was nothing to be said save that he was a respectable old man. Gavroche at once began observing, for it was eHdent that one of these men had projects upon the other. Gavroche was well situated to see the finale ; and the alcove had opportunely become a hiding-place. IVIontpar- nasse, hunting at such an hour in such a spot, — that was menacing. Gavi’oche felt his gamin entrails moved 'with pity for the old gentleman. What should he do, — interfere ? One weakness helping another ! Montparnasse would have laughed at it ; for Gavroche did not conceal from himself that the old man first, and then the boy, would be only two mouthfuls for this formidable bandit of eighteen. While Gavroche was deliberating, the attack — a sud- den and hideous attack — took place ; it was the attack of a tiger on an onager, of a spider on a fly. ACCOUNTS FOR A PHENOMENON. 149 iSIontparnasse threw away the rose, leaped upon tlie old man, grappled him and clung to him ; and Gav- roche had difficulty in repressing a cry. A moment after, one of these men was beneath the other, crushed, gasping, and struggling with a knee of marble on his chest. But it was not exactly what Gavroche had anticipated; the man on the ground was IMontpar- nasse, the one at the top the citizen. All this took place a few yards from Gavroche. The old man received the shock, and repaid it so terribly that in an instant the assailant and the assailed changed parts. “ That ’s a tough invalid,” Gavroche thought. And he could not refrain from clapping his hands, but it was thrown away ; it was not heard by the two com- batants, who deafened one another, and mingled their breath in the struggle. At length there was a silence, and Montparnasse ceased writhing. Gav- roehe muttered this aside, “ Is he dead ? ” The worthy man had not uttered a word or given a cry ; he rose, and Gavroche heard him say to Montparnasse, “ Get up.” Montparnasse did so, but the citizen still held him. Montparnasse had the humiliated and furious attitude of a wolf snapped at by a sheep. Gavroche looked and listened, making an effort to double his eyes with his ears ; he was enormously amused. He was rewarded for his conscientious anxiety, for he Avas able to catch the following dialogue, which borroAved fr’om the darkness a sort of tragic ac- cent. The gentleman questioned, and Montparnasse ansAvered, — 150 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. “ What is your age ? ” “ Nineteen.” “ You are strong and healthy, why do you not work ? ” “ It is a bore.” “ What is your trade ? ” “ Idler.” “ Speak seriously. Can anything be done for you ? What do you wish to be ? ” “ A robber.” There was a silence, and the old gentleman seemed in profound thought ; but he did not loose his hold of Montparnasse. Every now and tlien the young bandit, who Avas vigorous and active, gave starts like a wild beast eaught in a snare ; he shook him- self, attempted a trip, Avildly wu’ithed his limbs, and tried to escape. The old gentleman did not appear to notice it, and held the ruffian’s two arms in one hand with the sovereign indifference of absolute strength. The old man’s reverie lasted some time ; then, gazing fixedly at Montparnasse, he mildly raised his voice and addressed to him, in the darkness where they stood, a sort of solemn appeal, of which Gav- roche did not lose a syllable. “ My boy, you are entering by sloth into the most laborious of existences. Ah ! you declare yourself an idler, then prepare yourself for laboi’. Have you ever seen a formidable machine Avhich is called a rolling-mill ? You must be on your guard against it ; for it is a crafty and ferocious thing, and if it catch you by the skirt of the coat it drags you under it entirely. Such a machiue is indolence. Stop ACCOUNTS FOE A PHENOMENON. 151 while there is yet time, and save yourself, otherwise it is all over with you, and ere long you will be among the cog-wheels. Once caught, hope for noth- ing more. You will be forced to fatigue yourself, idler ; and no rest will be allowed you, for the iron hand of implacable toil has seized you. You refuse to earn your livelihood, have a calling, and accomplish a duty. It bores you to be like the rest ; well, you will be different. Labor is the law, and whoever repulses it as a bore must have it as a punishment. You do not wish to be a laborer, and you vdll be a slave. Toil only lets you loose on one side to seize you again on the other ; you do not tvish to be its friend, and you will be its negro. Ah, you did not care for the honest fatigue of men, and you are about to know the sweat of the damned ; while others sing you wdll groan. You will see other men working in the distance, and they will seem to you to be resting. The laborer, the reaper, the sailor, the blacksmith, will appear to you in the light like the blessed inmates of a paradise. What a radiance there is in the anvil ! What joy it is to guide the plough, and tie up the sheaf ! What a holiday to fly before the wind in a boat ! But you, idler, will have to dig and drag, and roll and walk. Pull at your halter, for you are a beast of burden in the service of hell ! So your desire is to do nothing ? Well, you will not have a week, a day, an hour without feeling crushed. You will not be able to lift anytliing vdthout agony, and every passing minute will make your muscles crack. YTrat is a feather for others ■will be a rock for you, and the most simple 152 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. things will become steep. Life will become a mon- ster around you, and coming,' going, breathing, will be so many terrible tasks for you. Your lungs will produce in you the effect of a hundred-pound weight ; and going there sooner than here will be a problem to solve. Any man who wishes to go out, merely opens his door and finds himself in the street ; but if you wish to go out you must pierce through your wall. What do honest men do to reach the street ? They go downstairs ; but you will tear up your sheets, make a cord of them fibre by fibre, then pass through your window and hang by this thread over an abyss. And it will take place at night, in the storm, the rain, or the hurricane ; and if the cord be too short you will have but one way of descend- ing, by falling — falling haphazard into the gulf, and from any height, and on what ? On some unknown thing beneath. Or you will climb up a chimney at the risk of burning yourself ; or crawl through a sewer at the risk of drowning. I will say nothing of the holes which must be masked ; of the stones which you will have to remove and put back twenty times a day, or of the plaster you must hide under your mattress. A lock presents itself, and the citi- zen has in his pocket the key for it, made by the locksmith ; but you, if you wish to go out, are con- demned to make a terrible masterpiece. Y’ou will take a double sou and cut it asunder. With what tools ? T'ou will invent them ; that is your busi- ness. Then you will hollow out the interior of the two parts, being careful not to injure the outside, and form a thread all round the edge, so that the ACCOUNTS FOR A PHENOMENON. 153 two parts may fit closely like a box and its cover. "Wheu they are screwed together there will be noth- ing suspicious to the watchers, — for you will be watched. It udll be a double sou, but for yourself a box. Wdiat will you place in this box ? A small piece of steel, a watch-spring in which you have made teeth, and which will be a saw. With this saw, about the length of a pin, you will be obliged to cut through the bolt of the lock, the padlock of your chain, the bar at your window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece done, this prodigy accomplished, all the miracles of art, skill, clever- ness, and patience executed, what will be your re- ward if you are detected ? A dungeon. Such is the future. ' What precipices are sloth and pleasure ! To do nothing is a melancholy resolution, are you aware of that ? To live in indolence on the social substance ; to be useless, that is to say, injurious, — this leads straight to the bottom of misery. AYoe to the man who wishes to be a parasite, for he will be vermin ! Ah ! it does not please you to work. Ah ! you have only one thought, to drink well, eat well, and sleep well. You will drink water ; you Avill eat black bread ; you will sleep on a plank, with fetters riveted to your limbs, and feel their coldness at night in your flesh ! You vdll break these fetters and fly ; very good. You will drag yourself ou your stomach into the shrubs and eat grass like the beasts of the field ; and you will be re-captured, and then you will pass years in a dungeon, chained to the wall, groping in the dark for your water-jug, biting at frightful black bread which dogs 'would refuse, 154 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. and eating beans which maggots have eaten before you. You will be a wood-louse in a cellar. Ah, ah ! take pity on yourself, wretched boy, still so young, Avho were at your nurse’s breast not twenty years ago, and have doubtless a mother still ! I implore you to listen to me. You want fine black cloth, polished shoes, to scent your head with fra- grant oil, to please bad women, and be a pretty fellow ; you will have your hair close shaven, and wear a red jacket and wooden shoes. You want a ring on your finger ; and will wear a collar on your neck, and if you look at a woman you will be beaten. And you will go in there at twenty and come out at fifty years of age. You ■will go in young, red-cheeked, healthy, with yom’ sparkling eyes and all your white teeth, and your curly locks ; and you will come out again broken, bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible, and gray- headed ! Ah, my jDoor boy, you are on the wrong road, and indolence is a bad adAuser ; for robbery is the hardest of labors. Take my ad\dce, and do not undertake the laborious task of being an idler. To become a rogue is inconvenient, and it is not nearly so hard to be an honest man. Yoav go, and think over Avhat I have said to you. By the bye, Avhat did you want of me ? My purse ? Here it is.” And the old man, releasing Montparnasse, placed his purse in his hand, Avhich Montparnasse weighed for a moment ; after which, ■with the same mechanical precaution as if he had stolen it, Montparnasse let it glide gently into the back-pocket of his coat. All this said and done, the old gentleman turned his back and quietly resumed his walk. ACCOUNTS FOR A PHENOMENON. 155 “ Old humbug ! ” IMontparnasse muttered. Who was the old gentleman ? The reader has doubtless guessed. IMontparnasse, in his stupefaction, watched him till he disappeared in the gloom, and this con- templation was fatal for him. While the old gen- tleman retired, Gavroche advanced. He had assured himself by a glance that Father Maboeuf was still seated on his bench, and was probably asleep ; then the gamin left the bushes, and began crawling in the shadow behind the motionless Montparnasse. He thus got up to the young bandit unnoticed, gently insinuated his hand into the back-pocket of the fine black cloth coat, seized the purse, withdrew his hand, and crawled back again into the shadow like a lizard. IMontparnasse, who had no reason to be on his guard, and who was thinking for the first time in his life, perceived nothing ; and Ga^Toche, when he had re- turned to the spot where Father Maboeuf was sitting, threw the purse over the hedge and ran off at full speed. The purse fell on Father Maboeuf’s foot and awoke him. He stooped down and picked up the purse, which he opened without comprehending any- thing. It was a purse, with two compartments ; in one was some change, in the other were six napo- leons. M. IMaboeuf, greatly startled, carried the thing to his housekeeper. “ It has fallen from heaven,” said Mother Plutarch. BOOK V. m WHICH THE END DOES NOT RESEMBLE THE BEGIXXIXG. CHAPTER 1. SOLITUDE AND THE BAKRACKS COMBINED. Cosette’s sorrow, so poignant and so sharp four or five months previously, liad "without her knowl- edge attained the convalescent stage. Nature, spring, youth, love for her father, the gayety of the flowers and birds filtered gradually, day by day and drop by drop, something that almost resembled obliv- ion into her virginal and young soul. Was the fire entirely extinguished ; or were layers of ashes merely formed ? The fact is, that she hardly felt now the painful and burning point. One day she suddenly thought of Marius ; “ Why,” she said, “ I had almost forgotten him.” This same week she noticed, while passing the garden gate, a very handsome officer in the Lancers, mth a wasp-like waist, a delightful uni- form, the cheeks of a girl, a sabre under his arm, waxed mustaches, and lacquered schapska. In other respects, he had light hair, blue eyes flush mth his head, a round, vain, insolent, and pretty fiice ; he was exactly the contrary of Marius. He SOLITUDE AND THE BARRACKS COMBINED. 157 had a cigar iu his mouth, and Cosette supposed tliat he belonged to the regiment quartered iu the barracks of the Rue de Babylone. The next day she saw him pass again, and remarked the hour. From this moment — was it an accident ? — she saw him pass nearly every day. The officer’s comrades perceived that there was in this badly kept gar- den, and behind this poor, old-fashioned railing, a very pretty creature who was nearly always there when the handsome lieutenant passed, who is no stranger to the reader, as his name was Theodule Gillenormand. “ Hilloh ! ” they said to him, “ there ’s a little girl making eyes at you, just look at her.” “ Have I the time,” the Lancer replied, “ to look at all the girls who look at me ? ” It was at this identical time that iMarius was slowly descending to the abyss, and said, “ If I could only see her again before I die ! ” If his wish had been realized, if he had at that moment seen Cosette looking at a Lancer, he would have been un- able to utter a word, but expired of grief. Whose fault would it have been ? Nobody’s. Marius pos- sessed oue of those temperaments which bury them- selves in chagrin and abide in it : Cosette was one of those who plunge into it and again emerge. Cosette, however, was passing through that dan- gerous moment, — the fatal phase of feminine reverie left to itself, in which the heart of an isolated maiden resembles those \dne tendrils which cling, according to chance, to the capital of a marble column or to the sign-post of an inn. It is a rapid 158 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. and decisive moment, critical for every orphan, whether she be poor or rich ; for wealth does not prevent a bad choice, and misalliances take place in very high society. But the true misalliance is that of souls ; and in the same way as many an unknown young man, without name, birth, or fortune, is a marble capital supporting a temple of grand sen- timents and grand ideas, so a man of the world, satisfied and opulent, who has polished boots and varnished words, if we look not at the exterior but at the interior, — that is to say, what is reserved for the wife, — is nought but a stupid log obscurely haunted by violent, unclean, and drunken passions, — the inn sign-post. What was there in Cosette’s soul ? Passion calmed or lulled to sleep, love in a floating state ; something which was limpid and brilliant, perturbed at a cer- tain depth, and sombre lower still. The image of the handsome officer was reffected on the surface, but was there any reminiscence at the bottom, quite at the bottom ? Perhaps so, but Cosette did not know. A singular incident occurred. CHAPTER II. cosette’s feaes. In the first fortnight of April Jean Valjean went on a journey ; this, as we know, occurred from time to time at very lengthened intervals, and he remained away one or two days at the most. .Where did he go? Xo one knew, not even Cosette ; once only she had accompanied him in a hackney coach, upon the occasion of one of these absences, to the corner of a little lane which was called, “ Impasse de la Plan- chette.” He got out there, and the coach carried Cosette back to the Rue de Babylon e. It was gen- erally when money ran short in the house that Jean Valjean took these trips. Jean Valjean, then, was absent ; and he had said, “ I shall be back in three days.” At night Cosette was alone in the drawing- room, and in order to while away the time, she opened her piano and began singing to her own accompaniment the song of Euryanthe, “ Hunters wandering in the wood,” which is probably the finest thing we possess in the shape of music. When she had finished she remained passive. Suddenly she fancied she heard some one walking in the garden. It could not be her father, for he was away ; and it could not be Touissant, as she was in bed, for it was 160 THE RUE PLUxMET IDYLL. ten o’clock at night, Cosette was near the drawing- room shutters, which were closed, and put her ear to them ; and it seemed to her that it was the foot- fall of a man who was walking very gently. She hurried up to her room on the first floor, opened a Venetian frame in her shutter, and looked out into the garden. The moon was shining bright as day, and there was nobody in it. She opened her win- dow ; the garden was perfectly calm, and all that could be seen of the street was as deserted as usual. Cosette thought that she was mistaken, and she had supposed that she heard the noise. It was an hallucination produced by Weber’s gloomy and won- derful chorus, which opens before the mind bewil- dering depths ; which trembles before the eye like a dizzy forest in which we hear the cracking of the dead branches under the restless feet of the hunters, of whom we catch a glimpse in the obscurity. She thought no more of it. Moreover, Cosette was not naturally very timid : she had in her veins some of the blood of the gypsy, and the adventurer who goes about barefooted. As we may remember, she was rather a lark than a dove, and she had a stem and brave temper. The next evening, at nightfall, she was walking about the garden. In the midst of the confused thoughts which occupied her mind, she fancied she could dis- tinguish now and then a noise like that of the pre- vious night, as if some one were walking in the gloom under the trees not far from her ; but she said to her- self that nothing so resembles the sound of a foot- fall on grass as the grating of two branches together, COSETTE’S EEAES. 161 and she took no heed of it, — besides, she saw noth- ing. She left the “ thicket,” and had a small grass- plat to cross ere she reached the house. The moon, which had just risen behind her, projected Cosette’s shadow, as she left the clump of bushes, upon the grass in front of her, and she stopped in terror. By the side of her shadow the moon distinctly traced on the grass another singularly startling and terrible shadow, — a shadow with a hat ou its head. It was like the shadow of a man standing at the edge of the clump a few paces behind Cosette. For a moment she was unable to speak or cry, or call out, or stir, or turn her head ; but at last she collected all her courage and boldly turned round. There was nobody; she looked on the ground and the shadow had dis- appeared. She went back into the shrubs, bravely searched in every corner, went as far as the railings, and discovered nothing. She felt really chilled. Was it again an hallucination ? What ! two days in suc- cession ? One hallucination might pass, but two ! The alarming point was, that the shadow was most certainly not a ghost, for ghosts never wear round hats. The next day Jean Valjean returned, and Cosette told him what she fancied she had seen and heard. She expected to be reassured, and that her father would shrug his shoulders and say, “ You are a little goose ; ” but Jean Valjean became anxious. “ Perhaps it is nothing,” he said to her. He left her with some excuse, and went into the garden, where she saw him examine the railings with con- siderable attention. In the night she woke up. This VOL. IV. 1 1 162 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. time she was certain, and she distinctly heard some one walking just under her windows. She walked to her shutter and opened it. There was in the gar- den really a man holding a large stick in his hand. At the moment when she was going to cry out, the moon lit up the man’s face, — it was her father. She went to bed again saying, “ He seems really very anxious ! ” Jean Valjean passed that and the two following nights in the garden, and Cosette saw him throngh the hole in her shutter. On the third night the moon was beginning to rise later, and it might have been about one in the morning when she heard a hearty burst of laughter, and her father’s voice calling her : — “ Cosette ! ” She leaped out of bed, put on her dressing-gown, and opened her window ; her father was standing on the grass-plat below. “ I have woke you up to reassure you,” he said ; “ look at this, — here ’s your shadow iu the round hat.” And he showed her on the grass a shadow which the moon designed, and which really looked rather like the spectre of a man wearing a round hat. It was an outline produced by a zinc chimney-pot with a cowl, which rose above an adjoining roof. Cosette also began laughing, all her mournful suppositions fell away, and the next morning at breakfast she jested at the ill-omened garden, haunted by the ghost of chimney-pots. Jean Valjean quite regained his ease ; as for Cosette, she did not notice particu- larly whether the chimney-pot were really in the COSETTE’S FEARS. 163 direction of the shadow which she had seen or fan- cied she saw, and whether the moon were in the same part of the heavens. She did not cross-ques- tion lierself as to tlie singularity of a chimney-pot Avhich is afraid of being caught in the act, and re- tires when its shadow is looked at ; for the shadoAV chd retire Avhen Cosette turned round, and she fancied herself quite certain of that fact. Cosette became quite reassured, for the demonstration seemed to her perfect, and the thought left her brain that there could have been any one walking about the garden by night. A few days after, however, a fresh inci- dent occurred. CHAPTER III. ENRICHED TTITH THE COMMENTS OF TOHSSAINT. In the garden, near the railings looking out on the street, tliere was a stone bench, protected from the gaze of passers-by by a hedge, but it would have been an easy task to reach it by thrusting an arm through the railings and the hedge. One evening in this same month of April, Jean Yaljean had gone out, and Cosette, after sunset, was seated on this bench. The wind was freshening in the trees,{and Cosette was reflecting ; an objectless sorrow was gradually gaining on her, the invincible sorrow which night produces, and which comes perhaps — for who knows ? — from the mystery of the tomb which is yawning at the moment. Possibly Fautiue was in that shadow^ Cosette rose, and slowly went round the garden, walking on the dew-laden grass [and saying to her- self through the sort of melancholy somnambulism in wdiich she was plunged : “ I ought to have wooden shoes to walk in the garden at this hour ; I shall catch cold.jj She returned to the bench; but at the moment when she was going to sit doum, she noticed at the place she had left a rather large stone, which had evidently not been there a moment before. THE COMMENTS OF TOUSSAINT, 165 Cosette looked at the stone, asking herself what it meant. All at once the idea that the stone had not reached the bench of itself, that some one had placed it there, and that an arm had been passed through Jie grating, occurred to her and friglitened her. Lihis time it was a real fear, for there was the stone. No doubt was possible. She did not touch it, but fled without daring to look behind besought refuge in the house, and at once shuttered, barred, and bolted the French window opening on the steps. Then she asked Toussaint, — /[Has my father come in ? ” “No, Miss.” (We have indicated once for all Toussaint’s stam- mering, and we ask leave no longer to accentuate it, as we feel a musical notation of an infirmity to be repulsive.) Jean Yaljean, a thoughtful man, and stroller by night, often did not return till a late hour. “ Toussaint,” Cosette continued, “ be careful to put up the bars to the shutters looking on the gar- den, and to place the little iron things in the rings that close them.” “ Oh, I am sure I will. Miss.” Toussaint did not fail, and Cosette was well aware of the fact, but she could not refrain from adding, — “ For it is so desolate here.” “Well, that’s true,” said Toussaint; “we might be murdered before we had the time to say, Ouf ! and then, too, master does not sleep in the house. But don’t be frightened, iSIiss. I fasten up the win- dows like Bastilles. Lone women ! I shoidd think 166 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. that is enough to make a body shudder. Only think ! to see men coming into your bedroom and hear them say, ^ Be quiet, you ! ’ and then they begin to cut your throat. It is not so much the dying, for everybody dies, and we know that we must do so ; but it is the abomination of feeling those fellows touch you ; and then their knives are not sharp, i)cr- haps ; oh. Lord ! ” “ Hold your tongue,” said Cosette, “ and fasten up everything securely.” Cosette, terrified by the drama improvised by Toussaiut, and perhaps too by the apparitions of the last week, which returned to her mind, did not even dare to say to her, “Just go and look at the stone laid on the bench ; ” for fear of having to open the garden gate again, and the men might walk ii^ She had all the doors and windows carefully closed, made Toussaint examine the whole house from cellar to attic, locked herself in her bedroom, looked under the bed, and slept badly. The whole night through, she saw the stone as large as a mountain and full of caverns. At sunrise — the peculiarity of sunrise is to make us laugh at all our terrors of the night, and our laughter is always proportioned to the fear we have felt — at sunrise, Cosette, on waking, saw her terror like a nightmare, and said to herself : “ What could I be thinking about ! fit was like the steps wdiich I fancied I heard last week in the garden at night ! It is like the shadow of the chimney- pot. Am I going to turn coward now ? ” The sun, which poured through the crevices of her shutters and made the damask curtains one mass of purple. THE COMMENTS OE TOUSSAINT. 16 ; re-assured her so fully that all faded away in her mind, even to the stonej “ There was no more a stone on the bench than there was a man in a round hat in the garden. I dreamed of the stone like the rest.” She dressed herself, went down into the garden, and felt a cold perspiration all over her, • — the stone was there. But this only lasted for a moment, for what is terror by night is curiosity by day. “ Xonsense ! ” she said, “ I ’ll see.” She raised the stone, which was of some size, and there was something under it that resembled a letter; it was an envelope of white paper. Cosette seized it ; /There was no address on it, and it was not sealed up. Still, the envelope, though open, was not empty, for papers could be seen inside. Cosette no longer suffered from terror, nor was it curiosity ; it was a commencement of anxietyT] Cosette took out a small quire of paper, each page of which was numbered, and bore several lines 'written in a very nice and delicate hand, so Cosette thought. She looked for a name, but there was none; for a signature, but there was none either. For whom was the packet intended ? Probably for herself, as a hand had laid it on the bench. Q^rom whom did it come ? An irre- sistible fascination seized upon her ; she tried to turn her eyes away from these pages, which trembled in her hand. She looked at the sky, the street, the acacias all bathed in light, the pigeons circling round an adjoining roof, and then her eye settled on the manuscript, and she said to herself that she must know what was inside it. This is what she read. CHAPTER IV. A HEART UNDER A STONE. The reduction of the Universe to a single being, the expansion of a single being as far as God, — such is love. Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars. How sad the soul is when it is sad through love ! What a void is the absence of the being who of her own self fills the world ! Oh, how true it is that the beloved being becomes God ! We might under- stand how God might be jealous, had not the Father of all evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for love. The soul only needs to see a smile in a white crape bonnet in order to enter the palace of dreams. God is behind everything, but everything conceals God. Things are black and creatures are opaque, but to love a being is to render her transparent. Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when the soul is kneeling, no matter what the atti- tude of the body may be. A HEART UNDER A STONE. 169 Separated lovers cheat absence bj a thousand chimerical things, which, however, have then’ reality. They are prevented seeing each other, and they can- not write, but they find a number of mysterious ways to correspond. They send to each other the song of birds, the light of the sun, the sighs of the breeze, the rays of the stars, and the whole of creation ; and why should they not ? All the works of God are made to serve love. Love is sufficiently powerful to interest all nature in its messages. Oh, Spring, thou art a letter which I write to her. The future belongs even more to hearts than to minds. Loving is the only thing which can occupy and fill the immensity, for the infinite needs the inexhaustible. Love is a portion of the soul itself, and is of the same nature as it. Like it, it is the divine spark ; like it, it is incorruptible, indi\’isible, and imperish- able. It is a point of fire within us, which is immortal and infinite ; which nothing can limit, and nothing extinguish. We feel it burning even in the marrow of our bones, and see its flashing in the depths of the heavens. Oh, love ! adoration ! voluptuousness of two minds which comprehend each other, of two hearts which are exchanged, of two glances that penetrate one another ! You will come to me, oh happiness, will you not ? Lovers’ walks in the solitudes, blest and radiant days ! I have dreamed that from time to 170 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. time hours were detached from the lives of the angels, and came down here to traverse the destinies of men. God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, except giving them endless duration. After a life of love, an eternity of love is in truth an aug- mentation ; but it is impossible even for God to in- crease in its intensity the ineffable felicity which love gives to the soul in this world. God is the fulness of heaven, love is the fulness of man. You gaze at a star for two motives, because it is luminous and because it is impenetrable. You have by your side a sweeter radiance and greater mystery, — woman. All of us, whoever we may be, have our respirable beings. If they fail us, air fails us, and we stifle and die. Dying through want of love is frightful, for it is the asphyxia of the soul. When love has blended and moulded two beings in an angelic and sacred union, they have found the secret of life ; henceforth they are only the two terms of the same destiny, the two wings of one mind. Love and soar ! On the day when a woman who passes before you emits light as she walks, you are lost, for you love. You have from that moment but one thing to do ; think of her so intently that she will be compelled to think of you. A HEART UNDER A STONE. 171 That which love begins, God alone can finish. True love is in despair, or enchanted by a lost glove or a found handkerchief, and it requires eternity for its devotion and its hopes. It is composed at once of the infinitely great and the infinitely little. If you are a stone, be a magnet ; if you are a plant, be sensitive ; if you are a man, be love. Nothing is sufficient for love. You have happi- ness and you wish for Paradise. You have Paradise, and you crave for heaven. Oh, ye who love each other, all this is in love, contrive to find it there. Love has, equally with heaven, contemplation, and more than heaven, voluptuousness. Does she still go to the Luxembourg? No, sir. — Does she attend mass in that church ? She does not go there any longer. — Does she still live in this house ? She has removed. — ^Miere has she gone to live ? She did not leave her address. What a gloomy thing it is not to know where to find one’s soul. Love has its childishness, and other passions have their littleness. Shame on the passions that make a man little ! Honor to the one that makes him a child ! It is a strange thing, are you aware of it? I am in the night. There is a being who vanished and took heaven with her. 1/2 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. Oh ! to lie side bj side in the same tomb, hand in hand, and to gently caress a finger from time to time in the darkness, would suffice for my eternity. You who suffer because you love, love more than ever. To die of love is to live through it. Love, a gloomy starry transfiguration, is mingled vdth this punishment, and there is ecstasy in the agony. Oh, joy of birds ! they sing because they have the nest. Love is the celestial breathing of the atmosphere of Paradise. Profound hearts, wise minds, take life as God makes it ; it is a long trial, an unintelligible prepara- tion for the unknown destiny. This destiny, the true one, begins for man with the first step in the interior of the tomb. Then something ajjpears to him, and he begins to distinguish the definite. The definite, re- flect on that word. The living see the infinite, but the definite only shows itself to the dead. In the mean while, love and suffer, hope and contemplate. Woe, alas, to the man who has only loved bodies, shapes, and appearances ! Death will strip him of all that. Try to love souls, and you wiU meet them again. I have met in the street a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn. A HEART UNDER A STONE. 173 the elbows in holes ; the water passed through his shoes, and the stars through his soul. What a grand thing it is to be loved ! What a grander thing still to love ! The heart becomes heroic by the might of passion. Henceforth it is composed of nought but what is pm’e, and is only supported by what is elevated and great. An un- worthy thought can no more germinate in it than a nettle on a glacier. The lofty and serene soul, inac- cessible to emotions and vulgar passions, soaring above the clouds and shadows of the world, — follies, falsehoods, hatreds, vanities, and miseries, — dwells in the azure of the sky, and henceforth only feels the profound and subterranean heavings of destiny as the summit of the mountains feels earthquakes. If there were nobody who loved, the sun would be extinguished. CHAPTER V. COSETTB AFTER THE LETTER. While reading these lines Cosette gradually fell into a reverie, and at the moment when she raised her eyes from the last page the handsome officer passed triumphantly in front of the gate ; for it was his hour. Cosette found him hideous. She began gazing at the roll of paper again ; it was in an ex- quisite hand-writing, Cosette thought, all written by the same hand, but with different inks, some very black, others pale, as when ink is put in the stand, and consequently on different days. It was, there- fore, a thought expanded on the paper, sigh by sigh, irregularly, without order, without choice, without purpose, accidentally. Cosette had never read any- thing like it ; this mannscript, in which she saw more light than obscurity, produced on her the effect of the door of a shrine left ajar. Each of these myste- rions lines flashed in her eyes, and flooded her heart with a strange light. The edncation which she had received had always spoken to her of the soul, and not of love, much as if a person were to speak of the burning log and say nothing about the flame. This manuscript of fifteen pages suddenly and gently re- vealed to her the whole of love, sorrow, destiny, life, COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER. 175 eternity, the beginning and the end. It was like a hand which opened and threw upon her a galaxy of beams. She felt in these lines an impassioned, ardent, generous, and honest nature, a sacred will, an immense grief and an immense hope, a contracted heart, and an expanded ecstasy/} What was the ?nanuscript? A letter. A letter without address, name, or signature, pressing and disinterested, an enigma composed of truths, a love-message fit to be borne by an angel and read by a virgin ; a rendezvous appointed olf the world, a sweet love-letter written by a phantom to a shadow. It was a tranquil and crushed absent man, who seemed ready to seek a refuge in death, and who sent to his absent love the secret of destiny, the key of life. [It had been written with one foot in the grave and the hand in heaven, and these lines, which had fallen one by one on the paper, were what might be called drops of the souQ And now, from whom could these pages come ? Who could have written them? Cosette did not hesitate for a moment, — only from one man, from him ! Daylight had returned to her mind and every- thing reappeared. t^She experienced an extraordinary joy and a profound agonj^ It was he ! He who wrote to her ; he had been there ; his arm had been passed through the railings ! While she was forgetting him he had found her again ! But had she forgotten him ? Ho, never ! she was mad to have thought so for a moment ; for she had ever loved, ever adored him. \The fire was covered, and had smouldered for a while, but, as she now plainly saw, it had spread its ravages, and again burst into a flame which 176 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. entirely kindled her. This letter was like a spark that had fallen from the other soul into hers ; she felt the fire begin again, and she was penetrated by every word of the manuscript. “ Oh, yes,” she said to herself, “ how well I recognize all this ! I had read it all already in his eyes.” As she finished reading it for the third time. Lieu- tenant Theodule returned past the railings, and clanked his spurs on the pavement. Cosette was obliged to raise her eyes, and she found him insipid, silly, stupid, useless, fatuous, displeasing, imperti- nent, and very ugly. The officer thought himself bound to smile, and she turned away ashamed and indignant ; she would have gladly thrown something at his hea^ She ran away, re-entered the house, and locked herself in her bedroom, to re-read the letter, learn it by heart, and dream. When she had read it thoroughly, she kissed it and hid it in her bosom. It was all over. Cosette had fallen back into the profound seraphic love ; the Paradisaic abyss had opened again. The whole day through, Cosette was in a state of bewilderment ; she hardly thought, and her ideas were confused in her brain ; she could not succeed in forming any conjectures, and she hoped through a tremor, what ? Vague things. She did not dare promise herself anything, and she would not refuse herself anything. A pallor passed over her face, and a quiver over her limbs ;Qind she fancied at moments that it was all a chimera, and said to her- self, “Is it real ? ” Then she felt the well-beloved paper under her dress, pressed it to her heart, felt the corners against her flesh, and if Jean Valjean had COSETTE AFTER THE LETTER. 1/7 seen her at that moment he would have shuddered at the luminous and strange joy which overflowed from her eyelids. “ Oh, yes,” she thought, “ it is cer- tainly his ! This comes from him for me ! ” And she said to herself that an intervention of the angels, a celestial accident, had restored him to her. Oh, trans- flguration of love ! oh, dreams ! this celestial accident, this intervention of angels, was the ball of bread cast by one robber to another from the Charlemagne yard to the Lions’ den, over the buildings of La Force. VOL. IV. 12 CHAPTER VI. THE OLD PEOPLE ARE OPPORTUNELY OBLIGED TO GO OUT. When night came Jean Valjean went out, and Cosette dressed herself. She arranged her hair in the way that best became her, and put on a dress whose body, /being cut a little too low^lisplayed the whole of the neck,/and was therefore, as girls say, “ rather indecent.” It was not the least in the world indecent, but it was prettier than the former fashioul) She dressed herself in this way without knowing why. Was she going out? No. Did she expect a visitor ? No. She went down into the garden as it grew dark ; Toussaint was engaged in her kitchen, which looked out on the back-yard. Cosette began walking under the branches, removing them from time to time with her hand, as some were very low, and thus reached the bench. The stone was still there, and she sat down and laid her beautiful white hand on the stone, as if to caress and thank it. All at once she had that indescribable feeling which people experience even without seeing, when some one is standing behind them. She turned her head and rose, — it was he. |JHe was bareheaded, and seemed pale and thin, and his black clothes could scarcely be distinguished. The twilight rendered his THE OLD PEOPLE OPPORTUNELY GO OUT. 179 glorious forehead livid, and covered his eyes with darkness ; and he had, beneath a veil of incomparable gentleness, something belonging to death and night. His face was lit up by the flush of departing day, and by the thoughts of an expiring soul. He seemed as if he were not yet a spectre, but was no longer a man. His hat was thrown among the shrubs a few paces from him."! Cosette, though ready to ftiint, did not utter a cry ; she slowly recoiled, as she felt her- self attracted, but he did not stir. Through the inef- fable sadness that enveloped him she felt the glance of the eyes which she could not see. Cosette, in recoiling, came to a tree, and leaned against it ; had it not been for this tree she would have fallen. Then she heal’d his voice, that voice which she had really nev’er heard before, scarce louder than the rustling of the foliage, as he murmured, — “ Pardon me for being here ; my heart is swollen. I could not live as I was, and I have come. Have you read what I placed on that bench ? Do you recognize me at all ? Do not be frightened at me. Do you remember that day when you looked at me, now so long ago ? It was in the Luxembourg gar- den ipear the Gladiator^and the days on which you passed before me were June 16 and July 2 ; it is nearly a year ago. I have not seen you again for a very long time. !j inquired of the woman who lets out chairs, and she said that you no longer came there. You lived in the Rue de I’Ouest on the third- floor front of a new house. You see that I know. I followed you, what else could I do ? And then you disappeared. I fancied that I saw you pass once as 180 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. I was reading the papers under tlie Odeon Arcade, and ran after you, but no, it was a person wearing a bonnet like youi’s. At night I come here — fear no- thing, no one sees me. I come to gaze and be near your windows, and I walk very softly that you may not hear me, for you might be alarmed. The other evening I was behind you ; you turned round, and I fled. Once I heard you sing ; I was happy. Does it harm you that I shoukl^ listen to you through the shutters while singing ? No, it cannot harm you3 You see, you are my angel, so let me come now and then. I believe that I am going to die. If you only knew how I adore you ! Forgive me for speaking to you. I know not what I am saying, perhaps I offend you — do I offend you ? — ” “ Oh, my mother ! ” said she. And she sank down as if she were dying. He seized her in his arms and pressed her to his heart, not knowing what he did. Though reeling himself, he supported her. He felt as if his head were full of smoke ; flashes passed between his eye-lashes. His ideas left him; and it seemed to him as if he were accomplishing a religious act, and yet committing a profanation. fHowever, he had not the least desire for this ra\dshing creature, whose form he felt against his bosoiiT] he was distractedly in love. She took his hand, and laid it on her heart ; he felt the paper there, and stammered, — “ You love me, then ? ” She answered in so low a voice that it was almost an inaudible breath, — “ Silence ! you know I do.” THE OLD PEOPLE OPPOETUNELY GO OUT. 181 And she hid her blushing face in the bosom of the proud and intoxicated young man. He fell on to the bench, and she by his side. They no longer found Avords, and the stars w^ere beginning to tAA'inkle. Hoaa" came it that their lips met ? How comes it that the bird sings, the snoAV melts, the rose opens, ]\Iay bursts into life, and the daAvn grows AA'hite behind the black trees on the rustling tops of the hills ? jjOne kiss, and that AA’as all. Both trembled and gazed at each other in the darkness Avith flashing eyes. They neither felt the fresh night nor the cold stone, nor the damp grass, nor the moist soil, — they looked at each other, and their hearts AA^ere full of thought. Their hands AA^ere clasped Avithout their cognizance. She did not ask him, did not eA"en think of it, hoAV he had managed to enter the garden ; for it seemed to her so simple that he should be there. From time to time Marius’s knee touched Cosette’s knee, and both quiA’ered. At in- teiwals Cosette stammered a Avord ; her soul trembled on her lips like tlie deAA^drop on a floAA"ei\3 Gradually they conA-ersed, ]and expansiA'eness suc- ceeded the silence Avhich is plenitude. The, night was serene and splendid aboA^e their heads, autUthese two beings, pure as spirits, told each other eA^ery- thiug, — their dreams, their intoxication, their ecs- tasy, their chimeras, their depressions, hoAV they had adored and longed for each other at a distance, and their mutual despair Avhen they ceased to meet. Ijhey confided to each other in an ideal intimacy, AA'hich nothing henceforth could increase, all their most hidden and mysterious thoughts. They told 182 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. each other, with a candid faith in their illusions, all that love, youth, and the remnant of childhood which they still had, brought to their minds. Their two hearts were poured into each other ; so that at the end of an hour the young man had the maiden^’s soul and the maiden his. They were mutually penetrated, enchanted, and dazzled^ When they had finished, wheu they had told each other everything, she laid her head on his shoulder and asked him, — “ What is your name ? ” “ Marius,” he said ; “ and yours ? ” “ Mine is Cosette.” BOOK VI. LITTLE GAVROCHE. CHAPTER I. A MALICIOUS TRICK OF THE IVIKD, Since 1823, while the public-house at 'iMontfer- meil was sinking and gradually being swallowed up, not in the abyss of a bankruptcy, but in the seiver of small debts, the Thenardiers had had two more children, both male. These made five, two daugh- ters and three boys, and they were a good many. The mother had got rid of the latter while still babies by a singular piece of good luck. Got rid of, that is exactly the term, for in this woman there was only a fragment of nature ; it is a phenomenon, how- ever, of which there is more than one instance. Like the Marechale de Lamothe-Houdancourt, the Thenardier was only a mother as far as her daughters, and her maternity ended there. Her hatred of the human race began vdth her boys ; on the side of her sons her cruelty was pei’pendicular, and her heart had in this respect a dismal steepness. As we have seen, she detested the eldest, and execrated the two others. Why ? Because she did. The most terrible 184 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. of motives and most indisputable of answers is, Because. “ I do not want a pack of squalling brats,” this mother said. Let us now explain how the Th^nardicrs managed to dispose of their last two children, and even make a profit of them. That Magnon, to whom we referred a few pages back, was the same who con- tinued to get an annuity out of old Gillenormand for the two children she had. She lived on the Quai des C^lestins, at the corner of that ancient Rue du Petit-Musc, which has done all it could to change its bad reputation into a good odor. Our readers will remember the great croup epidemic, which, thirty-five years ago, desolated the banks of the Seine in Paris, and of which science took advan- tage to make experiments on a grand scale as to the efficacy of inhaling alum, for which the external ap- plication of tincture of iodine has been so usefully substituted in our day. In this epidemic Magnon lost her two boys, still very young, on the same day, one in the morning, the other in the evening. It was a blow, for these children were precious to their mother, as they represented eighty francs a month. These eighty francs were very punctually paid by the receiver of M. Gillenormand’s rents, a M. Barge, a retired bailiff who lived in the Rue de Sicile. When the children were dead the annuity was buried, and so Magnon sought an expedient. In the dark free- masonry of evil of which she formed part everything is known, secrets are kept, and people help each other. Magnon wanted two children, and Madame Thdnardier had two of the same size and age ; it A MALICIOUS TRICK OF THE WIND. 185 was a good arrangement for one, and an excellent investment for the other. The little Thenardiers became the little hlagnons, and Magnon left the Quai des C^lestins, and went to live in the Rue Cloche-Perce. In Paris the identity which attaches an individual to himself is broken by moving from one street to the others. The authorities, not being warned by anything, made no objections, and the substitution was effected in the simplest way in the world. Thenardier, however, demanded for this loan of children ten francs a month, which iMagnon pro- mised, and even paid. We need not say that M. Gillenormand continued to sacrifice himself, and went every six months to see the children. He did not notice the change, “ Oh, sir,” Magnon would say to him, “ how like you they are, to be sure.” Thenardier, to whom avatars were an easy task, seized this opportunity to become Jondrette. His two daughters and Gavroche had scarcely had time to perceive that they had two little brothers ; for in a certain stage of misery people are affected by a sort of spectral indifierence, and regard human beings as ghosts. Your nearest relatives are often to you no more than vague forms of the shadow, hardly to be distinguished from the nebulous back-ground of life, and which easily become blended again with the invisible. On the evening of the day when Mother Thenardier handed over her two babes to Magnon, with the well-expressed will of renouncing them for- ever, she felt, or pretended to feel, a scruple, and said to her husband, “ ^Yhy, that is deserting one’s chil- dren ! ” But Thenardier, magisterial and phlegmatic. 186 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. cauterized the scruple 's^ith this remark, “ Jean Jacques Rousseau did better.” From scruple the mother passed to auxiety : “ But suppose the police Avere to trouble us ? Tell me, iMonsieur Tluiuardier, Avhether what we have done is permitted ? ” The- nardier replied : “ Everything is permitted. Nobody will see through it out of the blue. Besides, no one has any interest in inquiring closely after children that have not a sou.” IMagnon Avas a sort of she- dandy in crime, and dressed liandsoiuely. She shared her rooms, Avhich Avere furnished in a conventional and miserable Avay, Avith a very cleA’er Gallicized English thief. This EnglisliAvoman, a naturalized Parisian, respectable through her poAverful and rich connections, A\dio was closely connected Avith medals of the library and the diamonds of Mademoiselle JMars, AA'as at a later date celebrated in the annals of crime. She AA^as called “ Mamselle Miss.” The two little ones aaJio had fallen into Magnon’s clutches had no cause to complain ; recommended by the eighty francs, they Avere taken care of, like eA'ery- thing which brings in a profit. They Avere not badly clothed, not badly fed, treated almost like “little gentlemen,” and better off AAfith their false mother than the true one. Magnon acted the lady, and ne\’er talked slang in their presence. They spent seA^eral years there, and Thenardier augured Avell of it. One day he happened to say to IMagnon as she handed him the monthly ten francs, “ The ‘ father ’ must giA'e them an education.” All at once these tAvo poor little creatures, hitherto tolerably Avell protected, even by their eAnl destiny. A MALICIOUS TRICK OF THE WIND. 187 were suddenly hurled into life, and forced to begin it. An arrest of criminals en masse, like that in the Jondrette garret, being necessarily complicated AAuth researches and ulterior incarcerations, is a ver- itable disaster for that hideous and occult counter- society which lives beneath public society ; and an adventure of this nature produces aU sorts of con- \Tilsions in this gloomy world. The catastrophe of the Thenardiers was the catastrophe of Magnon. One day, a little while after jMagnon had given Eponine the note relating to the Rue Plumet, the police made a sudden descent on the Rue Cloche- Perce. IMagnon was arrested, as Avas iVIaniselle Miss, and all the inhabitants of the house AA^hich Avere suspected were caught in the haul. The tAvo little boys Avere playing at the time in the back-yard, and saAV nothing of the raid ; but Avhen they tried to go in they found the door locked and the house empty. A cobbler Avhose stall Avas opposite called to them and gaA^e them a paper which “their mother” had left for them. On the paper Avas this address, “ M. Barge, receiver of rents, No. 8, Rue du Roi de Sicile.” The cobbler said to them : “A^ou no longer lAe here. Go there, it is close by, the first street on your left. Ask your way Avith that paper.” The boys set off, the elder leading the younger, and hold- ing in his hand the paper Avhich was to serve as their guide. It Avas cold, and his little numbed fingers held the paper badly, and at the corner of a lane a puff of Avind tore it from him ; and as it Avas night the boy could not find it again. They began AA’andering about the streets haphazard. CHAPTER II. GAVKOCHE HEAPS ADVANTAGE FROM NAPOLEON THE GREAT. Spring in Paris is very frequently traversed by sliarp, violent breezes which, if they do not freeze, chill. These breezes, which sadden the brightest days, produce exactly the same effect as the blasts of cold wind which enter a warm room through the crevices of a badly closed door or window. It seems as if the gloomy gate of winter has been left ajar, and that the wind comes from there. In the sirring of 1832, the period when the first great epidemic of this century broke out in Europe, these breezes were sharper and more cutting than ever, and some door even more icy than that of winter had been left ajar. It was the door of the sepulchre, and the breath of cholera could be felt in these breezes. From a meteorological point of view these cold winds had the peculiarity that they did not exclude a powerful electric tension. Frequent storms, ac- companied by thunder and lightning, broke out at this period. One evening, when these breezes were blowing sharply, so sharply that January seemed to have returned, and the citizens had put on their cloaks again, little Gavroche, still shivering gayly under his GAVEOCHE TO THE EESCUE. 189 rasrs, was standing as if in ecstasy in front of a hair- dresser’s shop in the yicinity of the Orme-Saint Gervais. He was adorned with a woman’s woollen shawl, picked up no one knew where, of which he had made a muffler. Little Gavi'oche appeared to be lost in admiration of a waxen image of a bride, wearing a very low-necked dress, and a wreath of orange-flowers in her hair, which revolved between two lamps, and lavished its smiles on the passers-by ; but in reality he was watching the shop to see whether he could not “ prig ” a cake of soap, which he would afterwards sell for a sou to a barber in the suburbs. He frequently breakfasted on one of these cakes, and he called this style of work, for which he had a talent, ‘‘ shaving the barbers.” While regarding the bride, and casting sheep’s eyes on the cake of soap, he growled between his teeth : “ Tues- day ; this is not Tuesday. Is it Tuesday ? Perhaps it is Tuesday ; yes, it is Tuesday.” What this soliloquy referred to was never known ; but if it was to the last time he had dined, it was three days ago, for the present day was a Friday. The barber, in his shop warmed with a good stove, was sha\dng a customer and taking every now and then a side- glance at this enemy, — this shivering and impudent gamin who had his two hands in his pockets, but his mind e\'idently elsewhere. While Ga\Toche was examining the bride, the 'window', and the Windsor soap, two boys of unequal height, very decently dressed, and younger than him- self, one apparently seven, the other live years of age, timidly turned the handle and entered the shop, 190 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. asking for something, charity possibly, in a plaintive murmur which was more like a sob than a prayer. They both spoke together, and their words were unintelligible, because sobs choked the voice of the younger boy, and cold made the teeth of the elder rattle. The barber turned with a furious face, and without laying down his razor drove the older boy into the street with his left hand, and the little one with his knee, and closed the door again, saying, — “ To come and chill people for nothing ! ” The two lads set out again, crying. A cloud had come up in the mean while, and it began raining, liittle Gavroche ran up to them, and accosted them thus, — “ What ’s the matter with you, brats ? ” “ We don’t know where to sleep,” the elder replied. “ Is that all ? ” said Gavroche ; “ that ’s a great thing. Is that anything to cry about, simpletons ? ” And assuming an accent of tender affection and gentle protection, which was visible through his somewhat pompous superiority, he said, — “ Come with me, kids.” “ Yes, sir,” said the elder boy. And the two children followed him as they would have done an archbishop, and left off crying. Gav- roche led them along the Rue St. Antoine, in the direction of the Bastille, and while going off took an indignant and retrospective glance at the barber’s shop. “ That whiting has no heart,” he growled ; “ he ’s an Englishman.” GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 191 A girl, seeing the three walking in file, Gavroche at the head, burst into a loud laugh. This laugh was disrespectful to the party. “ Good day, Mamselle Omnibus,” Gavroche said to her. A moment after the hair-dresser returning to his mind, he added, — “ I made a mistake about the brute ; he. is not a whiting, but a snake. Barber, I ’ll go and fetch a locksmith, aud order him to put a bell on your tail.” This barber had made him aggressive ; as he stepped across a gutter, he addressed a bearded porteress, worthy to meet Faust on the Brocken, and who was holding her broom in her hand, — “ Madame,” he said to her, “ I see that you go out with your horse.” Aud after this he plashed the varnished boots of a passer-by. “ Scoundrel ! ” the gentleman said furiously. Ga\TOche raised his nose out of the shawl. “ Have you a complaint to make, sir ? ” “ Yes, of you,” said the gentleman. “ The office is closed,” Gavroche remarked. “ I don’t receive any more complaints to-day.” As he went along the street he noticed a girl of thirteen or fourteen, shivering in a gateway, in such short petticoats that she showed her knees. But the little girl was beginning to get too tall a girl for that. Growth plays you such tricks, and the petti- coat becomes short the moment that nudity becomes indecent. 192 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. “ Poor girl,” said Gavroche, “ she has n’t even a pair of breeehes. Here, collar this.” And taking off all the good wool which he had round his neck he threw it over the thin violet shoulders of the beggar-girl, when the muffler be- came once again a shawl. The little girl looked at him with an astonished air, and received the shawl in silence. At a certain stage of distress a poor man in his stupor no longer groans at evil, and gives no thanks for kindness. This done, — “B-r-r!” said Gavroche, colder than Saint Martin, who, at any rate, retained one half his cloak. On hearing this “ Brr,” the shower, redoubling its passion, poured down ; those wicked skies punish good actions. “ Hilloh ! ” Gavroche shouted, “ what ’s the mean- ing of this ? It is raining again. Bon Dieu ! if this goes on, I shall withdraw my subscription.” And he set out again. “ No matter,” he said as he took a glance at the beggar-girl crouching under her shawl, “ she ’s got a first-rate skin.” And, looking at the clouds, he cried, — “ Sold you are ! ” The two children limped after him, and as they passed one of those thick close gratings which indi- cate a baker’s, for bread, like gold, is placed behind a grating, Gavroche turned round. “ By the bye, brats, have you dined ? ” “ We have had nothing to eat, sir, since early this morning,” the elder answered. “ Then you have n’t either father or mother ? ” Gavroche continued magisterially. GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 193 “ I beg your pardon, sir ; we liave a pa and a nia, but we don’t know where they are.” “ Sometimes that is better than knowing,” said GaxToche, who was a philosopher in his small way. “ "We have been walking about for two honrs,” the lad continued, “ and looked for things at the cor- ners of the streets, but found nothing.” “ I know,” said Gavroche ; “ the dogs eat every- thing.” He resumed after a pause, — “ And so we have lost our authors. We don’t know what we have done with them. That isn’t right, gamins. It is foolish to mislay grown-up peo- ple. Well, one must swig, for all that.” He did not ask them any more questions, for what could be more simple than to have no domicile ? The elder of the boys, who had almost entirely re- covered the happy carelessness of childhood, made this remark ; “ It is funny all the same. IMamma said she would take us to look for blessed box, on Palm Sunday. Mamma is a lady who lives with Mamselle Miss.” “ Tanflute ! ” added Ga^Toche. He stopped, and for some minutes searched all sorts of corners which he had in his rags : at length he raised his head with an air which only meant to represent satisfactfon, but whieh was in reality triumphant, — “ Calm yourselves, kids ; here is supper for three.” And he drew a sou from one of his pockets ; with- out giving the lads time to feel amazed, he pushed VOL. IV. 1 3 194 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. them both before him into the baker’s shop, and laid his sou on the counter, exclaiming, — “ Gargon, five centimes’ worth of bread.” The baker, who was the master in person, took up a loaf and a knife. “ In three pieces, gar^on,” remarked Gavroche, and he added with dignity, — “ We are three.” And seeing that the baker, after examining the three suppers, had taken a loaf of black bread, he thrust his finger into his nose, with as imperious a sniff as if he had the great Frederick’s pinch of snuff on his thumb, and cast in the baker’s face this indig- nant remark, — “ Keksekca ? ” Those of our readers who might be tempted to see in this remark of Gavroche’s to the baker a Russian or Polish word, or one of the savage cries which the loways or the Botocudos hurl at each other across the deserted streams, are warned that this is a word which they (our readers) employ daily, and which signifies, qa’est ce que e’est que cela ? The baker perfectly comprehended, and replied, — “ Why, it is bread, very good seconds bread.” “ You mean black bread,” Gavroche remarked, with a calm and cold disdain. “ White bread, my lad ; I stand treat.” The baker could not refrain from smiling, and while cutting some white bread gazed at them in a compassionate way which offended Gavroche. “ Well, baker’s man,” he said, “ what is there about us that you measure us in that way ? ” GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 195 When the bread was cut, the baker put the sou in the till, and Gavroche said to the two boys, — “ Grub away.” The boys looked at him in surprise, and Gavroche burst into a laugh. “ Oh, yes, that ’s true, they don’t understand yet, they are so little.” And he continued, “ Eat.” At the same time he gave each of them a lump of bread. Thinking that the elder, who appeared to him more worthy of his conversation, merited some special encouragement, and ought to have any hesita- tion about satisfying his hunger removed, he added, as he gave him the larger lump, — “ Shove that into your gun.” There was one piece smaller than the two others, and he took that for himself. The poor boys, Gav- roche included, were starving; while tearing the bread vsdth their teeth, they blocked up the baker’s shop, who, now that he was paid, looked at them angrily. “ Let us return to the street,” said Gavi’oche. They started again in the direction of the Bastille ; and from time to time as they passed lighted shops, the younger boy stopped to see what o’clock it was by a leaden watch hung round his neck by a string. “ Well, he is a great fool,” said Gavroche. Then he thoughtfully growled between his teeth, “No matter, if I had kids of my own I woidd take more care of them than that.” As they were finishing their bread, they reached the comer of that gloomy Rue de Ballet at the end 196 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. of which the low and hostile wicket of La Force is visible. “ Hilloh, is that you, Gavroche ? ” some one said. “ Hilloh, is that you, Montparnasse ? ” said Gav- roche. It was a man who accosted Gavroche, no other than Montparnasse disguised with blue spectacles, but Gavroche was able to recognize him. “ My eye ! ” Gavroche went on, “ you have a skin of the color of a linseed poultice and blue spectacles like a doctor. That ’s your style, on the word of an old man ! ” “ Silence,” said Montparnasse, “ not so loud ; ” and he quickly dragged Gavroche out of the light of the shops. The two little boys followed mechanically, holding each other by the hand. When they were under the black arch of a gateway, protected from eyes and rain, Montparnasse remarked, — “ Do you know where I am going ? ” “ To the abbey of Go-up-with-regret ” (the scaffold), said Gavroche. “ Joker ! ” And Montparnasse added, — “ I am going to meet Babet.” “ Ah !” said Gavroche, “ her name is Babet, is it ?” JMontparnasse lowered his voice, — “ It is not a she, but a he.” “ I thought he was buckled up.” “He has unfastened the buckle,” Montparnasse replied. And he hurriedly told the boy that on that very morning Babet, while being removed to the Con- GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 197 ciergerie, escaped by turning to the left instead of the right in the “ police-office' passage.” Gavroche admired his skill. “ What a dentist ! ” said he. Montparnasse added a few details about Babet’s escape, and ended with, “ Oh, that is not all.” Gavroche, while talking, had seized a cane which Montparnasse held in his hand; he mechanically pulled at the upper part, and a dagger blade became visible. “ Ah ! ” he said as he quickly thrust it back, “you have brought your gendarme with you disguised as a civilian.” jNIontparnasse winked. “The deuce! ” Gavroche continued, “are you going to have a fight with some one ? ” “ There ’s no knowing,” Montparnasse answered carelessly ; “ it ’s always as well to have a pin about you.” Gavroche pressed him. “ What are you going to do to-night ? ” jMontparnasse again became serious, and said, mincing his words, — “ Some things.” And he suddenly changed the conversation. “ By the bye — ” “What?” “Something that happened the other day. Just fancy. I meet a bourgeois, and he makes me a present of a sermon, and a purse. I put it in my pocket, a moment later I feel for it, and there was nothing there.” 198 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL “ Only the sennon,” said Gavroche. “ But where are you’ going now? ” Montparnasse continued. Gavroche pointed to his two proteges, and said, — - “ I am going to put these two children to bed.” “ Where ? ” “ At my house.” “ Have you a lodging ? ” ‘‘ Yes.” “ Where ? ” “ Inside the elephant,” said Gavroche. Montparnasse, though naturally not easy to as- tonish, could not refrain from the exclamation, — “ Inside the elephant ? ” “ Well, yes, kekcaa ? ” This is another word belonging to the language which nobody reads and everybody speaks ; kekcaa signifies, qiC est-ce-que cela a ? The gamin’s profound remark brought jSIoutparnasse back to calmness and good sense : he seemed to entertain a better opinion of Gavroche’s lodgings. “ Ah, yes,” he said, “ the ‘ elephant.’ Are you comfortable there ? ” “Very,” Gavroche replied. “Most comfortable. There are no draughts as there are under the bridges.” “ How do you get in ? Is there a hole ? ” Of course there is, but you have no need to men- tion it ; it ’s between the front legs, and the police- spies don’t know it.” “And you climb in ? yes, I understand.” “ A turn of the hand, cric crac, it ’s done ; and there ’s no one to be seen.” GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 199 After a pause Gavroche added, — “ I shall have a ladder for these young ones.” jNIontpai’nasse burst into a laugh. “ Where the de^'il did you pick up those kids ? ” “ A barber made me a present of them.” In the mean while Montparnasse had become pensive. “T’ou recognized me very easily,” he said. He took from his pocket two small objects, which were quills wrapped in cotton, and thrust one into each nostril ; they made him quite a different nose. “ That changes you,” said Gavroche ; “ you are not so ugly now, and you ought to keep them in for good.” INIontparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gav- roche was fond of a joke. “ Without any humbug,” Montparnasse asked ; “ what do you think of me now ? ” It was also a different sound of voice : in a second Montparnasse had become unrecognizable. “ Oh ! play Porrichinelle for us ! ” Gavroche exclaimed. The two lads, who had heard nothing up to this moment, engaged as they were themselves in thrusting their fingers up their noses, drew nearer on hearing this name, and gazed at hlontparnasse with a begin- ning of joy and admiration. Unhappily Montparnasse was in no humor for jesting ; he laid his hand on Gavroche’s shoulder, and sai’d, with a stress on each word, — “ Listen to what I tell you, boy ; if I were on the spot, with my dog, my knife, and my wife, and you 200 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. ■were to oflFer me ten double sous I would not refuse to work, but we are not at Mardi Gras.” ^ This strange sentence produced a singular effect ou the gamin; he turned around sharply, looked with his little bright eyes all around, and noticed a few yards off a policeman with his back turned to them. Gavroclie let an “ all-right ” slip from him, which he at once repressed, and shook Montparnasse’s hand. “ Well, good-night,” he said ; “ I am off to my elephant with my brats. Should you happen to want me any night you ’ll find me there. I lodge in the entresol, and there ’s no porter ; ask for JMonsieur Gavroche.” “ All right,” said Montparnasse. And they parted, Montparnasse going toward the Grhve, and Gavroche toward the Bastille. The youngest boy, dragged on by his brother, whom Gavroche dragged along in his turn, looked round several times to watch “ Porrichinelle ” go away. The enigmatical sentence by which IMontparnasse informed Gavroche of the presence of the policeman contained no other talisman but the sound dig re- peated five or six times under various forms. This syllable, not pronounced separately, but artistically mingled with the words of a sentence, means, “ Take care, we cannot speak freely.” There was also in Montparnasse’s remark a literary beauty which escaped Gavroche’s notice, that is, mon dogiie, ma % ^ ficoute ce que je te dis, garqon, si j’etais sur la place, avec mon dogue, ma dague, et ma digue, et si vous me prodiguiez dix gros sous, je ne refuserais pas d’y goupiuer, mais nous ne sommes pas le Mardi Gras. GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 201 dague, et ma digue, — a phrase of the Tenij)le slang greatly in use among the merry-andrews and queues rouges of the great age in whieh Molifere wrote and Callot designed. Twenty years back there might have been seen in the southeastern corner of the square of the Bastille near the canal dock, dug in the old moat of the citadel-prison, a quaint monument, which has already been eftaced from the memory of Parisians, and which should have left some trace, as it was an idea of the “ Member of the Institute, Commander-in- Chief of the army of Egypt.” We say monument, though it was only a plaster cast; but this cast itself, a prodigious sketch, the grand corpse of a Napoleonic idea which two or three successive puffs of wind carried away each time farther from us, had become historic, and assumed something definitive, which formed a contrast with its temporary a2')pearance. It was an elephant, forty feet high, constructed of carpentry and masonry, bearing on its back a castle which resembled a house, once painted green by some plasterer, and now painted black by the heav- ens, the rain, and time. In this deserted and un- covered corner of the square the wide forehead of the colossus, its trunk, its tusks, its castle, its enor- mous back, and its four feet like columns, produced at night upon the starlit sky a surprising and terrible outline. No one knew what it meant, and it seemed a sort of symbol of the popular strength. It was gloomy, enigmatical, and immense ; it looked like a powerful phantom visible and erect by the side of the invisible spectre of the Bastille. Few strangers 202 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. visited this edifice, and no passer-by looked at it. It was falling in ruins, and each season plaster becoming detached from its flanks, made horrible wounds upon it. The “ Ediles,” as they were called in the fashionable slang, had forgotten it since 1814. It stood there in its corner, gloomy, sickly, crumbling away, surrounded by rotting palings, which were sullied every moment by drunken drivers. There were yawning cracks in its stomach, a lath issued from its tail, and tall grass grew between its legs ; and as the level of the square had risen during the last thirty years through that slow and continuous movement which insensibly elevates the soil of great cities, it was in a hollow, and it seemed as if the earth were gi^'ing way beneath it. It was unclean, despised, repulsive, and superb ; ugly in the eyes of cits, but melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. It had something about it of the ordure which is swept away, and something of the majesty which is decapitated. As we said, at night its appearance changed ; for night is the real medium of everything which is shadow. So soon as twilight set in the old elephant was transfigured ; and it assumed a placid and re- doubtable appearance in the formidable serenity of the darkness. As it belonged to the past it belonged to night, and this obscurity suited its grandeur. This monument, rude, broad, heavy, rough, austere, and almost shapeless, but most assuredly majestic, and imprinted with a species of magnificent and savage gravity, has disappeared to allow the sort of gigantic stove adorned with its pipe to reign in peace, which GAVKOCHE TO THE EESCUE. 203 was substituted, for the frowning fortaliee with its nine towers much in the same way as the bourgeoisie are substituted for feudalism. It is very simple that a stove should be the symbol of an epoch in which a copper contains the power. This period will pass away ; it is already passing away. People are begin- ning to understand that if there may be strength in a boiler there can only be power in a brain ; in other words, that what leads and carries away the world is not locomotives, but ideas. Attach locomotives to ideas, and then it is all right ; but do not take the horse for the rider. However this may be, to return to the Bastille square, the architect of the elephant managed to pro- duce something grand with plaster, while the archi- tect of the stove-pipe has succeeded in making some- thing little out of bronze. This stove-pipe, which was christened a sonorous name and called the Column of July, this spoiled monument of an abortive revolution, was still wrapped up, in 1832, in an im- mense sheet of carpentry-work, — which we regret for our paid, — and a vast enclosure of planks, which com- pleted the isolation of the elephant. It was to this corner of this square, which was scarce lighted by the reflection of a distant oil-lamp, that the gamin led the t\vo urchins. (Allow us to interrupt our narrative here, and re- mind our readers that we are recording the simple truth ; and that twenty years ago a boy, who was caught sleeping in the inside of the elephant of the* Bastille, was brought before the police on the charge of vagabondage and breaking a public monument.) 204 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. On coming near the colossus, Gavroche understood the effect 'which the infinitely great may produce on the infinitely little, and said, — “ Don’t be frightened, brats.” Then he went through a hole in the palings into the ground round the elephant, and helped the chil- dren to pass through the breach. The lads, a little frightened, followed Gavroche without a word, and confided in this little Providence in rags who had given them bread and promised them a bed. A lad- der, employed by workmen at the column by day, was lying along the palings ; Gavroche raised it with singular vigor, and placed it against one of the ele- phant’s fore legs. At the point where the ladder ended, a sort of black hole could be distinguislied in the belly of the colossus. Gavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests, and said, “ Go up, and go in.” The two little boys looked at each other in terror. “ You are frightened, kids ! ” Ga'vroche exclaimed, and added, “ you shall see.” He clung round the elephant’s ■wrinkled foot, and in a twinkling, without deigning to employ the lad- dei’, he reached the hole. He went in like a lizard gliding into a crevice, and a moment after the boys saw his head vaguely ajjpear, like a white livid form, on the edge of the hole, which was full of darkness. “ Well,” he cried, “ come up, my blessed babes. You will see how snug it is. Come up, you,” he ‘said to the elder. “ I will hold your hand.” Tlie little boys nudged each other, for the gamin at once frightened and reassured them ; and then it GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 205 was raining very hard. The elder boy ventured, and the younger, on seeing his brother ascending and himself left alone between the feet of this great beast, felt greatly inclined to cry, but did not dare. The elder climbed up the rungs of the ladder in a very tottering way, and as he did so Gavroche encouraged him by exclamations of a fencing-master to his pupils, or of a muleteer to his mules. “ Don ’t be frightened ! That is it — keep on mov- ing ; set your foot there ; now, your hand here — bravo ! ” And when he was within reach he quickly and powerfully seized him by the arm, and drew him to him. “ Swallowed ! ” he said. The boy had passed through the crevice. “ Now,” said Ga\Toche, “ wait for me. Pray sit down, sir.” And leaving the hole in the same way as he had entered it, he slid down the elephant’s leg with the agility of a monkey, fell on his feet in the grass, seized the youngest boy round the waist and planted him on the middle of the ladder ; then he began ascending behind him, shouting to the elder boy, — “ I ’ll push him and you ’ll pull him.” In a second the little fellow was pushed up, dragged, pulled, and drawn through the hole before he knew where he was ; and Gavroche, entering after him, kicked away the ladder, which fell in the grass, and clapped his hands as he shouted, “ There we are ! Long live General Lafayette ! ” This explosion over, he added, “ Brats, you are in my house.” 206 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. Gavroclie was, in fact, at home. Oh, unexpected utility of tlie useless ! Oh, charity of great things ! Oh, goodness of the giants ! This liuge monument, wliich had contained a thought of the Emperor, had become the lodging of a gamin. The brat had been accepted and sheltered by the colossus. The cits in their Sunday clothes who passed by the elephant of the Bastille were prone to say, as they measured it with a contemptuous look from the eyes flush with their head. Of what service is that ? It served to save from cold, from frost, from damp and rain ; to protect from the winter wind ; to preserve from sleeping in the mud, which entails fevei’, and from sleeping in the snow, which causes death, a little fatherless and motherless boy without bread, clothes, or shelter. It served to shelter the innocent boy whom society repulsed. It served to diminish the public wrong. It was a lair opened to him against Avhom all doors were closed. It seemed as if the old wretched mastodon, attacked by vermin and oblivion, covered with warts, mould, and ulcers, tottering, crumbling, abandoned, and condemned, — a species of colossal mendicant asking in vain the alms of a benevolent glance in the midst of the highway, — had taken pity on this other beggar, the poor pj’^gmy who walked about without shoes on his feet, without a ceiling over his head, blowing his Angers, dressed in rags, and supporting life on what was thrown away. This is of what use the elephant of the Bas- tille was ; and this idea of Napoleon, disdained by men, had been taken up again by God. What had only been illustrious had become august. The Em- GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 207 pcror would have needed, in order to realize what he meditated, porphyry, bronze, iron, gold, and mar- ble ; but for God the old collection of j^lanks, beams, and plaster was sufficient. The Emperor had had a dream of genius. In this Titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, raising its trunk, and spouting all around glad and living waters, he wished to incarnate the people ; and God had made a greater thing of it, for lie lodged a child in it. The hole by which Gavroche entered was a breach scarce visible from the outside, as it was concealed, as we said, under the elephant’s belly, and so narrow that only cats and boys could pass through it. “ Let us begin,” said Gavroche, “ by telling the porter that we are not at home.” And plunging into the darkness with certainty like a man who knows every corner of the room, he took a plank and stopped uji the hole. Gavroche plunged again into the darkness ; the children hoard the fizzing of a match dipped into the bottle of phosphorus, — for lucifer matches did not yet exist, and the Fumade fire-producer represented progress at that day. A sudden light made them wink. Gavroche had lit one of those bits of string dipped in pitch which are called “ cellar rats ; ” and this thing, which smoked more than it illumined, ren- dered the inside of the elephant indistinctly visible. Gavroche’s two guests looked around them, and had much such a feeling as any one would have if shut up in the Heidelberg tun, or, better still, what Jonas must have experienced in the biblical belly of the whale. An entire gigantic skeleton was \usible to 208 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. them and enveloped them ; above their heads a long brovn beam, from which sprang at regular distances massive cross-bars, represented the spine with the ribs ; stalactites of plaster hung down like viscera, and vast spider webs formed from one side to the other dusty diaphragms. Here and there in corners could be seen large black spots which, seemed alive, and changed places rapidly with a quick and startled movement. The pieces which had fallen from the elephant’s back on its belly had filled up the con- caHty, so that it was possible to walk on it as on a flooring. The youngest lad nudged his brother and said, — “ It is black.” This remark made Gavroche cry out, for the petri- fied air of the two lads rendered a check necessary. “ What ’s that you give me ? ” he shouted ; “ do you gab ? You have dislikes, eh ! I suppose you want the Tuilcries ? Are you brutes ? Tell me, but I warn you that I do not belong to the regiment of spoonies. Weil, to hear you talk one would think that your father was a prince of the blood.” A little roughness is good in terror, for it reas- sures ; the two children drew nearer to Gavroche, who, affected paternally by this confidence, passed from sternness to gentleness, and addressing the younger lad, — “ Blockhead,” he said, toning down the insult with a caressing inflection of the voice, “ it is out- side that it ’s black. Outside it rains, aud here it does not rain ; outside it is cold, and here there is uot a breath of wind ; outside there is a heap of GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 209 people, and here tliere ’s nobody ; outside there ’s not even the moon, and here there ’s a candle, the deuce take it all ! ” The two lads began looking round the apartment with less terror, but Gavroche did not allow them any leisure for contemplation. “ Quick,’ he said. And he thrust them toward what we are very happy to call tlie end of the room, where his bed was. Gavi’oche’s bed was perfect, that is to say, there was a mattress, a coverlet, and an alcove with curtains. The mattress was a straw mat, and the coverlet was a rather wide wrapper of coarse gray wool, very warm, and nearly new. This is what the alcove was, — three long props were driven securely into the plaster soil, that is to say, the elephant’s belly, two in front and one behind, and were fas- tened by a cord at the top, so as to foi-m a hollow pyramid. These props supported a grating of brass udre, simply laid upon them, but artistically fastened with iron wire, so that it entirely surrounded the three poles. A row of large stones fastened the lattice-work down to the ground, so that nothing could pass ; and this lattice was merely a piece of the brass-work put up in aviaries in menageries. Gavroche’s bed was under the wire-work as in a cage, and the whole resembled an Esquimaux’s tent. Ga\Toche moved a few of the stones that held down the lattice-work in front, and shouted to the lads, — “ Now then, on all fours.” He made his guests enter the cage cautiously, VOL. IV. 14 V 210 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. tlien went in after them, brought the stones together again, and hermetically closed the opening. They lay down all three on the mat, and though they were all so short, not one of them could stand upright in the alcove. Gavroche still held the “cellar rat” in his hand. “Now,” he said, “to roost; I am going to sup- press the chandelier.” “What is that, sir? ” the elder of the lads asked Gavroche, pointing to the brass grating. “ That,” said Gavroche, gravely, “ is on account of the rats. Go to roost ! ” Still he thought himself obliged to add a few words of instruction for these young creatures, and continued, — “ It comes from the Jardin des Plantes, and is em- ployed to guard ferocious animals. There is a whole store-house full ; you have only to climb over a wall, crawl through a window, and pass under a door, and you can have as much as you like.” While speaking he wrapped up the little boy in the blanket, who murmured, — “ Oh, that is nice, it ’s so warm ! ” Gavroche took a glance of satisfaction at the coverlet. “ That also comes from the Jardin des Plantes,” he said, “ I took it from the monkeys.” And pointing out to the elder one the straw mat on which he was lying, which was very thick and admirably made, he added, — “ That belonged to the giraffe.” After a pause he continued, — GAVKOCHE TO THE RESCUE. 211 “ The beasts had all those things, and I took them from them ; they were not at all angry, for I told them that I wanted them for the elephant.” There was another interval of silence, after which he continued, “ You climb over walls and snap your fingers at the Government.” The two lads gazed wdth a timid and stupefied respect at this intrepid and inventive being, a vaga- bond like them, isolated like them, weak like them, who had something admirable and omnipotent about him, who appeared to them supernatural, and whose face was composed of all the grimaces of an old mountebank, mingled with the simplest and most charming smile. “ Then, sir,” the elder lad said timidly, “ you are not afraid of the policemen ? ” Gavroche limited himself to answering, — “Brat ! we don’t say ‘policemen,’ we say ‘slops.’” The younger had his eyes wide open, but said nothing ; as he was at the edge of the mat, the elder being in the centre, Gavroche tucked in the coverlet around him as a mother would have done, and raised the mat under his head with old rags, so as to make him a pillow. Then he turned to the elder boy, — • “ Well ! it is jolly here, eh ? ” “ Oh, yes ! ” the lad answered, as he looked at Gavroche with the expression of a saved angel. The two poor little fellows, who Avere wet through, began to grow warm again. “ By the bye,” Gavroche went on, “ why were you blubbering ? ” 212 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. And pointing to the younger boy he said to his brother, — “ A baby like that, I don’t say no ; but for a tall chap like you to cry is idiotic, you look like a calf.” “ Well, sir,” the lad said, “ we hadn’t any lodging to go to.” “ Brat,” Gavroche remarked, “ we don’t say ‘ lodg- ing,’ but “ crib.’ ” “And then we felt afraid of being all alone like that in the night.” “ We don’t say ‘ night,’ but ‘ sorgue.’ ” “ Thank you, sir,” said the boy. “ Listen to me,” Gavroche went on. “ You must never blubber for anything. I ’ll take care of you, and you ’ll see what fun we shall have. In summer we ’ll go to the Glacihre with Navet, a pal of mine ; we ’ll bathe in the dock, and run about naked on the timber floats in front of the bridge of Austerlitz, for that makes the washerwomen rage. They yell, they kick, and. Lord ! if you only knew how ridiculous they are ! We’ll go and see the skeleton man; he ’s alive at the Champs Elys^es, and the cove is as thin as blazes. And then I will take you to the play, and let you see Frederick Lemaitre ; I get tickets, for I know some actors, and even performed myself once in a piece. We were a lot of boys who ran about under a canvas, and that made the sea. I will get you an engagement at my theatre. AVe will go and see the savages, but they ain’t real savages, they wear pink fleshing which forms creases, and you can see repairs made at their elbows with white tliread. After that GAVKOCHE TO THE RESCUE. 213 we will go to the Opera, and enter with the claquers. The claque at the Opera is very well selected, though I would n’t care to be seen with the claque on the boulevard. At the Opera, just fancy, they ’re people who pay their twenty sous, but they are asses, and we call them dish-clouts. And then we will go and see a man guillotined, and I ’ll point out the execu- tioner to you. Monsieur Sanson ; he lives in the Rue de iMarais, and he ’s got a letter-box at his door. Ah ! we shall amuse ourselves famously.” At this moment a drop of pitch fell on Gavroche’s hand, and recalled him to the realities of life. “ The devil,” he said, “ the match is wearing out. Pay attention ! I can’t afford more than a sou a month for lighting, and when people go to bed they are expected to sleep. We have n’t the time to read M. Paul de Kock’s romances. Besides, the light might pass through the crevices of the gate, and the slops might see it.” “And then,” timidly observed the elder lad, who alone dared to speak to Gavroche and answer him, “ a spark might fall on the straw, and we must be careful not to set the house on fire.” “ You must n’t say ‘ set the house on fire,’ ” Gavroche remarked, “ but ' blaze the crib.’ ” The storm grew more furious, and through the thunder-peals the rain could be heard pattering on the back of the colossus. “ The rain ’s sold ! ” said GavToche. “ I like to hear the eontehts of the water-bottle running down the legs of the house. Winter ’s an ass ; it loses its time, it loses its trouble ; it can’t drown us, and so 214 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. that is the reason why the old water-carrier is so growling with us.” This allusion to the thunder, whose consequences Gavroche, in his quality as a nineteenth-century phi- losopher, accepted, was followed by a lengthened flash, so dazzling that a portion of it passed through the hole in the elephant’s belly. Almost at the same moment the thunder roared, and very furiously. The two little boys uttered a cry, and rose so quickly that the brass grating was almost thrown down ; but Gavroche turned toward them his bold face, and profited by the thunder-clap to burst into a laugh. “ Be calm, children, and do not upset the edifice. That ’s fine thunder of the right sort, and it is n’t like that humbugging lightning. It ’s almost as fine as at the ‘ Ambigu.’ ” This said, he restored order in the grating, softly pushed tlic two lads on to the bed, pressed their knees to make them lie full length, and cried, — “ Since le Bon Dieu is lighting his candle, I can put out mine. Children, my young humans, we must sleep, for it ’s very bad not to sleep. It makes you stink in the throat, as people say in fashionable society. Wrap yourselves Avell up in the blanket, for I am going to put the light out ; are you all right ? ” “ Yes,” said the elder boy, “ I ’m all right, and feel as if I had a feather pillow under my head.” “You mustn’t say ‘head,’” Gavroche cried, “but ‘ nut.’ ” The two lads crept close together ; Gavroche made them all right on the mat, and pulled the blanket up GAVEOCHE TO THE RESCUE. 215 to their ears ; then he repeated for the tliird time in the hieratic language, “ Roost.” And he blew out the rope’s end. The light was scarce extinguished ere a singular trembling began to shake the trellis-work under which the three children were lying. It was a multitude of dull rubbings which produced a metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were assailing the copper wire, and this was accompanied by all sorts of little shrill cries. The little boy of five years of age, hearing this noise above his head, and chilled with terror, nudged his elder brother, but he was “ roosting ” already, as Gavroche had ordered him ; then the little one, unable to hold out any longer for fright, dared to address Gavroche-, but in a very low voice and holding his breath. “Sir?” “ Hill oh ! ” said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes. “ What is that ? ” “ It ’s the rats,” Gavroche answered. And he laid his head again on the mat. The rats, which, were really by thousands in the elephant’s car- cass, and were the live black spots to which we have alluded, had been held in check by the flame of the link so long as it was alight; but as soon as this cav- ern, which was, so to speak, their city, had been restored to night, sniffing what that famous story- teller, Perrault, calls “ fresh meat,” they rushed in bands to Gavroche’s tent, climbed to the top, and were biting the meshes, as if trying to enter this novel sort of trap. In the mean while the little one did not sleep. 216 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. “ Sir ? ” he began again. “ Well ? ” Gavroche asked. “ What are rats ? ” “ They ’re mice.” This explanation slightly reassured the child, for he had seen white mice in his life, and had not been afraid of them ; still, he raised his voice again. “ Sir?” “ Well ? ” Gavroche repeated. “ Why don’t you keep a cat ? ” “ I had one,” Gavroche answered ; “ I brought it here, but they ate it for me.” This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the child began trembling once more ; the dialogue between him and Gavroche was resumed for the fourth time. ‘‘Sir?” “Well?” “ What was eaten ? ” “ The cat.” “ What ate the cat ? ” “ The rats.” “ The mice ? ” “ Yes, the rats.” The child, terrified by these mice which ate the cats, continued, — “ Would those mice eat us ? ” “ Oh, Lord, yes ! ” Gavroche said. The child’s terror was at its height, but Gavroche added, — • “Don’t be frightened, they can’t get in. And GAVROCHE TO THE RESCUE. 217 then, I am here. Stay ; take my hand, hold your tongue, and sleep.” Gavroche at the same time took the boy’s hand across his brother, and the child pressed the hand against his body and felt reassured ; for courage and strength have mysterious communications. Silence had set in again around them, the sound of voices had startled and driven away the rats ; and when they returned a few minutes later and furiously at- tacked, the three boys, plunged in sleep, heard noth- ing more. The night hours passed away ; darkness covered the immense Bastille Square. A winter wind, which was mingled with the rain, blew in gusts. The patrols examined doors, enclosures, and dark corners, and, while searching for nocturnal vaga- bonds, passed silently before the elephant ; the mon- ster, erect and motionless, with its eyes open in the darkness, seemed to be dreaming, as if satisfied at its good deed, and sheltered from the sky and from man the three poor sleeping children. In order to under- stand what is going to follow, it must be remembered that at this period the main-guard of the Bastille was situated at the othei‘ end of the square, and that what took place near the elephant could neither be prevented nor heard by the sentry. Toward the end of the hour which immediately precedes daybreak, a man came running out of the Rue St. Antoine, crossed the square, went round the great enclos- ure of the Column of July, and slipped through the palings under the elephant’s belly. If any light had fallen on this man, it might have been guessed from his thoroughly drenched state that he had passed the 218 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. iiiglit in the rain. On getting under the elephant he uttered a peculiar cry, which belongs to no human language, and which a parrot alone could reproduce. He repeated twice this cry, of which the following orthography scarce supplies any idea, “ Kirikikiou ! ’ At the second cry a clear, gay, and young voice answered from the elephant’s belly, “ Yes ! ” Almost immediately the plank that closed the hole was re- moved, and left a passage for a lad, who slid down the elephant’s leg and fell at the man’s feet. It was Gavroche, and the man was Montparnasse. As for the cry of “ Kirikikiou,” it was doubtless what the lad meant to say by, “ You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche.” On hearing it, he jumped up with a start, crept out of his alcove by moving the grating a little, and then carefully closing it again, after which he opened the trap and went down. The man and the child silently recognized each other in the night, and Montparnasse confined himself to saying, — “ We want you, come and give us a lift.” The gamin asked for no other explanation. ‘‘ Here I am,” he said. And the pair proceeded toward the Rue St. Antoine, whence Montparnasse had come, winding rapidly through the long file of market-carts which were coming into town at the time. The gardeners, lying on their wagons among their salads and vegetables, half asleep, and rolled up to the eyes in their great- coats, owing to the beating rain, did not even look at these strange passers-by. CHAPTER III. I^rCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. This is wliat occurred on this same night at La Force. An escape had been concerted between Babet, Brujon, Gueulemer, and Th^nardier, although Thenardier was iu secret confinement. Babet had managed the affair on his own account during the day, as we heard from Montparnasse’s narrative to Gavroche, and Montparnasse was to help them out- side. Brujon, while spending a month in a punish- ment room, had time, first, to make a rope, and, secondly, to ripen a plan. Formerly, these severe places, in which prison discipline leaves the prisoner to himself, were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a brick pavement, a camp-bed, a grated sky- light, and a gate lined with iron, and were called dun- geons ; but the dungeon was considered too horrible, so now it is composed of an iron gate, a grated sky- light, a camp-bed, a brick pavement, a stone ceiling, four stone walls, and it is called a “ punishment room.” A little daylight is visible about midday. The inconvenience of these rooms, which, as we see, are not dungeons, is to leave beings to think who ought to be set to work. Brujon therefore reffected, and he left the punishment room with a cord. As 220 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. lie Avas considered very dangerous in the Charle- magne yard, he was placed in the Batinient Neuf, and the first thing he found there Avas Guenleiner, the second a nail, — Guenleiner, that is to say, crime ; and a nail, that is to say, liberty. Brujon, of Avhom it is time to form a complete idea, was, Avith the appearance of a delicate complexion and a deeply premeditated languor, a polished, intelli- gent robber, who possessed a caressing look and an atrocious smile. His look was the result of his will, and his smile the result of his nature. His first studies in his art were directed to roofs ; and he had given a great impulse to the trade of lead-stealers, who strip roofs and carry aAvay gutters by the process called tm gras double. What finally rendered the moment favorable for an attempted escape Avas that workmen were at this very moment engaged in re- laying and re-tipping a part of the prison slates. The St. Bernard was not absolutely isolated from the Charlemagne and St. Louis yards, for there Avere on the roof scaffolding and ladders, — in other words, bridges and staircases, on the side of deliverance. The Batiment Neuf, Avhich was the most cracked and decrepit affair possible to imagine, was the weak point of the prison. Saltpetre had so gnawed the Avails that it had been found necessary to prop up and shore the ceilings of the dormitories ; because stones became detached and fell on the prisoners’ beds. In spite of this antiquity, the error was com- mitted of confining in there the most dangerous pris- oners, and placing in it the “ heaA’y cases,” as is said in the prison jargon. The Batiment Neuf contained four INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 221 sleeping-wards, one above the other, and a garret- floor called “Le Bel Air.” A large chimney-flue, probably belonging to some old kitchen of the Dues de la Force, started from the ground-floor, passed through the four stories, cut in two the sleeping- wards, in which it figured as a sort of flattened pillar, and issued through a hole in the roof. Gueulemer and Brujon were in the same ward, and had been placed through precaution on the ground-floor. Acci- dent willed it that the head of their beds rested against the chimney-flue. Thenardier w'as exactly above their heads in the garret called Bel Air. The i^asser-by who stops in the Rue Culture Sainte Catherine, after passing the fire-brigade station, and in front of the bath-house gateway, sees a court-yard full of flowers and shrubs in boxes, at the end of which is a small white rotunda with two wings, en- livened by green shutters, - — the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques. Not ten years ago there rose above this rotunda a black, enormous, frightful, naked wall, which was the outer wall of La Force. This wall be- hind this rotunda was like a glimpse of Milton caught behind Berquin. High though it was, this wall was surmounted by an even blacker roof, which could be seen beyond, — it was the roof of the BhtimentNeuf. Four dormer-windows protected by bars could be seen in it, and they were the windows of Bel Air ; and a chimney passed through the roof, which was the chimney of the sleeping-wards. Bel Aii', the attic-floor of the Batiment Neuf, was a species of large hall, closed with triple gratings and iron-lined doors, starred with enormous nails. When you 222 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. entered by the north end, you had on your Jeft the four dormers, and on your right facing these, four square and spacious cages, separated by narrow pas- sages, built up to breast-height of masonry, and the rest to the roof of iron bars. Thenardier had been confined in solitary punishment since the night of February 3. It was never discovered how, or by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring and concealing a bottle of that prepared wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues, in which a narcotic is mixed, and which the band of the Endormeurs rendered celebrated. There are in many prisons treacherous turnkeys, half jailers, half robbers, who assist in escapes, sell to the police a faithless domesticity, and “ make the handle of the salad-basket dance.” On this very night, then, when little Gavroche picked up the two straying children, Brujon and Gueulemer, who knew that Babet, who had escaped that same morning, was waiting for them in the street with Montparnasse, gently rose, and began breaking open with a nail which Brujon had found the stove-pipe against which their beds were. The rubbish fell on Brujon’s bed, so that it was not heard ; and the gusts of wind mingled with the thun- der shook the doors on their hinges, and produced a frightful and hideous row in the prison. Those pris- oners who awoke pretended to fall asleep again, and left Brujon and Gueulemer to do as they pleased ; and Brujon was skilful, and Gueulemer was vigo- rous. Before any sound had reached the watchman sleeping in the grated cell which looked into the ward, the wall was broken through, the chimney escaladed, INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 223 the iron trellis-work which closed the upper opening of the flue forced, and the two formidable bandits were on the roof. The rain and the wind were tre- mendous, and the roof was slippery. . “ What a fine sorgue [night] for a bolt ! ” said Brujon. An abyss of six feet in width and eighty feet deep separated them from the surrounding wall, and at the bottom of this abyss they could see a sentry’s musket gleaming in the darkness. They fastened to the ends of the chimney-bars which they had just broken the rope which Brujon had woven in the cell, threw the other end over the outer wall, crossed the abyss at a bound, clung to the coping of the wall, be- straddled it, glided in turn along the rope to a little roof which joins the bath-house, pulled their rope to them, jumped into the yard of the bath-house, pushed open the porter’s casement, close to which hung his cord, pulled the cord, opened the gate, and found themselves in the street. Not three quarters of an hour had elapsed since they were standing on the bed, nail in hand, and with their plan in their heads ; a few minutes after, they had rejoined Babet and Montparnasse, who were prowling in the neigh- borhood. On drawing the cord to them they broke it, and a piece had remained fastened to the chimney on the roof, but they had met with no other accident be- yond almost entirely skinning their fingers. On this night Th^nardier was warned, though it was impos- sible to discover how, and did not go to sleep. At about one in the morning, when the night was very black, he saw two shadows passing, in the rain and 224 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. gusts, the windo\Y opposite his cage. One stopped just long enough to give a look; it was Brujon. Thenardier saw him, and understood, — that was enough for him. Thenardier, reported to be a burg- lar, and detained on the charge of attempting to ob- tain money at night by violence, was kept under constant watch ; and a sentry, relieved every two hours, walked in front of his cage with a loaded musket. Bel Air was lighted by a sky-light, and the prisoner had on his feet a pair of fetters weighing fifty pounds. Every day at four in the afternoon, a turnkey, escorted by two mastiffs, — such things still happened at that day, — entered his cage, placed near his bed a black loaf of two pounds’ weight, a water- jug, and a bowl of very weak broth in which a few beans floated, inspected his fetters, and tapped the bars. This man with his dogs returned twice during the night. Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron pin which he used to nail his bread to the wall, in order, as he said, “ to preserve it from the rats.” As Thenardier was under a constant watch, this pin did not seem dangerous ; still it was re- membered at a later day that a turnkey said, “ It would have been better oidy to leave him a wooden skewer.” At two in the morning the sentry, who was an old soldier, was changed, and a recruit sub- stituted for him. A few minutes after, the man with the dogs paid his visit, and went away without having noticed anything, except the youthful and peasant look of the “ tourlourou.” Two hours after, when they came to relieve this conscript, they found INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 225 him asleep, and lying like a log by the side of Th^nardier’s cage. As for the prisoner, he was no longer there ; his severed fetters lay on the ground, and there was a hole in the ceiling of his cage, and another above it in the roof. A plank of his bed had been torn out and carried off ; for it could not be found. In the cell was also found the half empty bottle, containing the rest of the drugged wine with which the young soldier had been sent to sleep. The soldier’s bayonet had disappeared. At the moment when all this was discovered, Thenardier was sup- posed to be out of reach ; the truth was, that he was no longer in the Batiment Neuf, but was still in great danger. Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the Batiment Neuf, found the remainder of Brujon’s rope hanging from the chimney-bars ; but as the broken cord was much too short, he was unable to cross the outer wall as Brujon and Gueulemer had done. When you turn out of the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du Roi de Sicile, you notice almost directly on your right a dirty hollow. In the last century a house stood here, of which only the back wall exists, a perfect ruin of a wall which rises to the height of a third story between the adjacent buildings. This ruin can be recognized by two large square windows, still \isible. The centre one, the one nearest the right-hand gable, is barred by a worm-eaten joist adjusted in the supporting rafter; and through these windows could be seen, formerly, a lofty lugubrious wall, which was a portion of the outer wall of La Force. The gap which the demolished house has left in the street is half filled up with a palisade of VOL. IV. 15 226 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. rotten planks, supported by five stone pillars, and inside is a small but built against the still standing ruin. The boarding has a door in it which a few years ago was merely closed with a latcli. It was the top of this ruin which Th^nardier had attained a little after three in the morning. How did he get there ? This was never explained or understood. The lightning-flashes must at once have impeded and helped him. Did he employ the ladders and scaf- folding of the slaters to pass from I’oof to roof, over the buildings of the Charlemagne yard, those of the St. Louis yard, the outer, and thence reach the ruined wall in the Rue dii Roi de Sicile ? But there were in this passage breaks of continuity, which seemed to render it impossible. Had he laid the plank from his bed as a bridge from the roof of Bel Air to the outer wall, and crawled on his stom- ach along the coping, all round the prison till he reached the ruin ? But the outer wall of La Force Avas very irregular ; it rose and sank ; it was low at the fire-brigade station, and rose again at the bath- house ; it was intersected by buildings, and had everywhere drops and right angles ; and then, too, the sentries must have seen the fugitive’s dark out- line, — and thus the road taken by Thenardicr re- mains almost inexplicable. Had he, illumined by that frightful thirst for liberty which changes preci- pices into ditches, iron bars into reeds, a cripple into an athlete, a gouty patient into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intellect, and intellect into genius, invented and improvised a third mode of escape ? No one ever knew. IXCIDE2vTS OF AN ESCAPE. 227 It is not always possible to explain the marvels of an escape ; the man who breaks prison is, we repeat, inspired. There is something of a star, of the light- ning, in the mysterious light of the flight. The effort made for deliverance is no less surprising than the soaring toward the sublime, and people say of an escaped robber, “ How did he manage to scale that roof ? ” in the same way as they say of Corneille, “ ^^^lere did he find his gii’il mouriit ? ” However this may be, Th^nardier, dripping with perspiration, wet through with rain, with his clothes in rags, his hands skinned, his elbows bleeding, and his knees lacerated, reached the ruin-wall, lay down full length on it, and then his strength failed him. A perpen- dicular wall as high as a three-storied house separated him from the street, and the rope he had was too short. He waited there, pale, exhausted, despairing, though just now so hopeful, still covered by night, but saying to himself that day would soon come ; horrified at the thought that he should shortly hear it strike four from the neighboring clock of St. Paul, the hour when the sentry would be changed, and be found asleep under the hole in the roof. He regarded with stupor the wet black pavement, in the light of the lamps, and at such a terrible depth, — that desired and terrific pavement which was death and which was liberty. He asked himself whether his three accomplices had succeeded in escaping, whether they were waiting for him, and if they would come to his help ? He listened : excepting a patrol, no one had passed through the street since he had been lying there. Nearly all the market carts from iMontreuil, 228 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. Cliaroiiiie, Vincennes, and Bercy came into town by the Rue St. Antoine. Four o’clock struck, and Th^nardier trembled. A few minutes after, the startled and confused noise which follows the discovery of an escape broke out in the prison. The sound of doors being opened and shut, the creaking of gates on their hinges, the tumult at the guard-room, and the clang of musket butts on the pavement of the yards, reached his ear's. Lights flashed past the grated windows of the sleep- ing wai’ds ; a torch ran along the roof of the Brlti- ment Neuf, and the firemen wei-e called out. Three caps, which the torch lit up in the rain, came and went along the roofs, and at the same time Th^nardier saw, in the direction of the Bastille, a livid gleam mournfully whitening the sky. He was on the top of a wall ten inches wide, lying in the pitiless rain, with a gulf on his right hand and on his left, unable to stir, suffering from the dizziness of a possible fall and the horror of a certain arrest, and his mind, like the clapper of a bell, went from one of these ideas to the other : “ Dead if I fall ; caught if I remain.” In this state of agony he sud- denly saw in the still perfectly dark street a man, who glided along the walls and came from the Rue Pav4e, stop in the gap over which Th(5nardier was, as it were, suspended. This man was joined by a second, who walked with similar caution, then by a third, and then by a fourth. When these men were together, one of them raised the latch of the paling gate, and all four entered the enclosure where the hut is, and stood exactly under Th^nardier. INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 229 These men had evidently selected this place to con- sult in, in order not to be seen by passers-by, or the sentry guarding the wicket of La Force a few paces distant. We must say, too, that the rain kept this sentry confined to his box. Tluinardier, unable to distinguish their faces, listened to their remarks with the desperate attention of a wretch who feels him- self lost. He felt something like hope pass before his eyes, when he heard these men talking slang. The first said, in a low voice, but distinctly, some- thing which we had better translate : - — “ Let us be off. What are we doing here ? ” The second replied, — “ It is raining hard enough to put out the fire of hell. And then the police will pass soon ; besides, there is a sentry on. We shall get ourselves arrested here.” Two words eiuployed, icigo and icicaillc, wliich both mean “ here,” and which belong, the first to the flash language of the barrihres, and the second to that of the Temple, were rays of light for Thdnardier. By the icigo he recognized Brujon, wflio was a prowler at the barrihres, and by icicaille Babct, who, among all his other trades, had been a second-hand clothes- dealer at the Temple. The anti(iuc slang of the great century is only talked now at the Temple, and Babet was the oidy man who spoke it in its purity. Had it not been for the icicaille, Thenardier could not have recognized him, for he had completely altered his voice. In the mean while the third man had interfered. “ There is nothing to hurry us, so let us wait a 230 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. little. Wliat is there to tell us that he does not want us ? ” Through this, which was only French, Thenarclier recognized iNIontparnasse, who.se pride it was to understand all the slang dialects and not speak one of them. As for the fourth man, he held his tongue, but his wide shoulders denounced him, and Th^nardier did not hesitate, — it Avas Giieulemer. Brujon replied almost impetuously, but still in a low voice ; — “ What is that you are saying ? The innkeeper has not been able to bolt. He does n’t understand the dodge. A man must be a clever hand to tear up his shirt and cut his sheets in slips to make a rope ; to make holes in doors ; manufacture false papers ; make false keys ; file his fetters through ; hang his rope out of the window ; hide and disguise himself. The old man cannot have done this, for he does not knoAV how to work.” Babet added, still in the correct classic slang which Poiailler and Cartouche spoke, and which is to the new, bold, and colored slang which Brujon employed what tlie language of Racine is to that of Andr^ Chenier, — “ Your friend the innkeeper must have been taken in the attempt. One ought to be wide awake. He is a flat. He must have been bamboozled by a de- tective, perhaps even by a prison spy, who played the simpleton. Listen, Montparnasse ; do you hear those shouts in the prison ? Y^ou saw all those candles ; he is caught again, and will get off with twenty years. I am not fr’ightened. I am no coward. INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 231 as is well known ; but the only thing to be done now is to bolt, or we shall be trapped. Do not feel offended ; but come with us, and let us drink a bottle of old wine together.” “ Friends must not be left in a difficulty,” Mont- parnasse growled, ‘‘ I tell you he is caught again,” Brujon resumed, “ and at this moment the landlord is not ivorth a farthing. We can do nothing for him, so let us be off. I feel at every moment as if a policeman were holding me in his hand.” Montparnasse resisted but feebly ; the truth is, that these four men, with the fidelity which bandits have of never deserting each other, had 2ii’owled the whole night aronnd La Force, in spite of the jjeril they incurred, in the hope of seeing Thenardier af)- pear on the tojD of some wall. But the night, which became really too favorable, for the rain rendered all the streets deserted, the cold which attacked them, their dripping clothes, their worn-out shoes, the alarming noises which had broken out in the prison, the hours which had elapsed, the patrols they had met, the hope which departed, and the fear that re- turned, — all this nrged them to retreat. Montpar- nasse himself, who was perhaps Th^nardier’s son-in- law in a certain sense, yielded, and in a moment they would be gone. Thenardier gasped on his wall as the shipwrecked crew of the “ M^duse ” did on their raft, when they watched the ship which they had sighted fade away on the horizon. He did not dare call to them, for a cry overheard might ruin every- thing ; but he had an idea, a last idea, an inspiration. 232 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. — he took from his pocket the end of Brujon’s rope which he had detached from the chimney of the Batiment Neuf, and threw it at their feet. “ A cord ! ” said Babet, “ My cord ! ” said Brujon. “ The landlord is there,” said Montparnasse. They raised their eyes and Thenardier thrust out his head a little. “Quiet,” said Montparnasse. “Have you the other end of the rope, Brujon? ” “ Yes.” “ Fasten the two ends together. We will throw the rope to him ; he will attach it to the wall, and it will be long enough for him to come down.” Thdnardier ventured to raise his voice, — “ I am wet through.” “We ’ll warm you.” “ I cannot stir.” “You will slip down, and we will catch you.” “ My hands are swollen.” “ Only just fasten the rope to the wall.” “ I can’t.” “ One of us must go up,” said Montparnasse. “ Three stories ! ” Brujon ejaculated. An old plaster conduit pipe, which had served for a stove formerly, lit in the hut, ran along the wall almost to the spot where Thenardier was lying. This pipe, which at that day was full of cracks and holes, has since fallen down, but its traces may be seen. It was very narrow. “ It would be possible to mount by that,” said IMontparnasse. INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 233 “ By that pipe ? ” Babet exclaimed, “ A man ? Oh no, a boy is required.” “Yes, a boy,” Brujon said in affirmative, “ Where can we find one ? ” Gueulemer said. “Wait a miuute,” Montparnasse said; “I have it.” He gently opened the door of the paling, assured himself that there was no passer-by in the street, went out, shut the gate cautiously after him, and ran off in the direction of the Bastille. Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries for Tlffinardier ; Babet, Brujon, and Gueidemer did not open their lips ; the door opened again, and Montparnasse came in, panting and leading Gavroche, The rain con- tinued to make the street completely deserted. Little Gavroche stepped into the enclosure and looked calmly at the faces of the bandits. The rain was dripping from his hair, and Gueulemer said to him, — “ Brat, are you a man ? ” Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied, — “ A child like me is a man, and men like you are children.” “ What a well-hung tongue the brat has ! ” Babet exclaimed. “The boy of Paris is not made of wet paste,’ Brujon added. “ What do you want of me ? ” said Gavroche. Montparnasse answered, — “ Climb up that pipe.” “ With this rope,” Babet remarked. “ And fasten it,” Brujon continued. 234 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. “At the top of the wall,” Babct added. “ To the cross-bar of the window,” Brujon said, finally. “ What next ? ” asked Gavroche. “ Here it is,” said Gueulemer. The gamin examined the rope, the chimney, the wall, and the window, and gave that indescribable and disdainful smack of the lips which signifies, “What is it?” “ There is a man up there whom you will save,” Montparnasse continued. “ Are you willing ? ” Brujon asked. “ Ass ! ” the lad replied, as if the question seemed to him extraordinary, and took off his shoes. Gueulemer seized Gavroche by one arm, placed him on the roof of the pent-houses, where mouldering planks bent under the boy’s weight, and handed him the rope which Brujon had joined again during the absence of IMontparnasse. The gamin turned to the chimney, which it was an easy task to enter by a large crevice close to the roof. At the moment when he was going to ascend, Th^nardier, who saw safety and life approaching, leaned over the edge of the wall. The first gleam of day whitened his dark fore- head, his livid cheek-bones, his sharp savage nose, and his bristling gray beard, and Gavroche recognized him. “ Hilloh ! ” he said, “it’s my father. Well, that won’t stop me.” And taking the rope between his teeth, he reso- lutely commenced his ascent. He reached the top of the wall, straddled across it like a horse, and INCIDENTS OF AN ESCAPE. 235 securely fastened the rope to tlie topmost cross-bar of the window, A moment after, Th^nardier was ill the street. So soon as he touched tlie pavement, so soon as he felt himself out of dangei’, he was no longer wearied, cliilled, or trembling. The terrible things he had passed through were dissipated like smoke, and all his strange and ferocious intellect was re-arouscd, and found itself erect and free, ready to march onward. The first remark this man made was, — “ Well, whom are we going to eat ? ” It is unnecessary to explain the meaning of this frightfully transparent sentence, which signifies at once killing, assassinating, and robbing. The real meaning of “ to eat ” is “ to devour.” “We must get into hiding,” said Brujon. “We ivill understand each other in three words, and then separate at once. There was an affair that seemed good in the Rue Plumet, — a deserted street ; an iso- lated house ; old rust-eaten radings looking on a garden, and lone women,” “ Well, why not try it ? ” Thenardier asked. “ Your daughter Eponiue went to look at the thing,” Babet answered, “And has told Magnon it is 'a biscuit,’” Brujon added ; “ there ’s nothing to be done there.” “ The girl ’s no fool,” said Thenardier ; “ still we must see.” “ Yes, yes,” Brujon remarked ; “ we must see.” Not one of the men seemed to notice Ga'VToche, who, during this colloquy, was sitting on one of the posts. He waited some minutes, perhaps in the hope 236 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. that his father would turn to him, and then put on his shoes again, saying, — “ Is it all over ? Yon men don’t want me any more, I suppose, as I ’ve got you out of the scrape ? I ’m off, for I must go and wake my cubs.” And he went off. The five men left the enclosure in turn. When Gavroche had disappeared round the corner of the Rue des Ballets, Babet took Th^nardier on one side. “ Do you notice that kid ? ” he asked him. “ What kid ? ” “ The one who climbed up the wall and handed you the rope.” “ Not particularly.” “ Well, I don’t know ; but I fancy it ’s your son.” “ Bah ! ” said Thenardier ; “ do you think so ? ” BOOK VIL SLANG. CHAPTER 1. THE ORIGIN OF SLANG. “ PiGRiTiA ” is a terrible word. It engenders a world, la pegre, for which read, robbery ; and a Hades, la pdgrenne, for which read, hunger. Hence indolence is a mother, and has a son, robbery, and a daughter, hunger. Where are we at this moment ? In slang. What is slang ? It is at once the nation and the idiom ; it is robbery in its two species, people and language. Four-and-thirty years ago, when the narrator of this grave and sombre history introduced into the middle of a work written with the same ob- ject as this one ^ a robber speaking slang, there was amazement and clamor. “ Why ! what ! slang ! why, it is frightful ; it is the language of the chain-gang, of hulks and prisons, of everything that is the most abominable in society,” etc. We could never under- stand objections of this nature. Since that period two powerful romance-writers, of whom one was a profound observer of humanity, the other an intrepid ^ Le dernier Jour d’un Condamne. 238 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. friend of the people, — Balzac and Eugene Sue, — having made bandits talk in tlieir natural tongue, as the author of “Le dernier Jour d’un Condamnd” did in 1828, the same objections were raised, and people repeated : “ What do writers want with this repulsive patois ? Slang is odious, and produces a shudder.” Who denies it ? Of course it does. When the object is to probe a wound, a gulf, or a society, when did it become a fault to drive the probe too deep? We have always thought that it was some- times an act of courage and at the very least a simple and useful action, worthy of the sympathetic atten- tion which a duty accepted and carried out deserves. Why should we not explore and study everything, and why stop on the way ? Stopping is the function of the probe, and not of the prober. Certainly it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to seek in the lowest depths of social order, where the earth leaves off and mud begins, to grope in these vague densities, to pursue, seize, and throw quivering on the pavement that abject idiom which drips with filth when thus brought to light, that pustulous vo- cabulary of which each word seems an unclean ring of a monster of the mud and darkness. Nothing is more mournful than thus to contemplate, by the light of thought, the frightful vermin swarm of slang in its nudity. It seems, in fact, as if you have just drawn from its sewer a sort of horrible beast made for the night, and you fancy you see a frightful, living, and bristling polype, which shivers, moves, is agitated, demands the shadow again, menaces, and looks. One word resembles a claw, another a lustreless and THE ORIGIN OF SLANG. 239 bleeding eye, and some phrases seem to snap like the pincers of a crab. All this lives with the hideous ■STtality of things which are organized in disorganiza- tion. Now, let us ask, when did horror begin to exclude study ; or the malady drive away the physi- cian ? Can we imagine a naturalist who would refuse to examine a ^^per, a bat, a scorpion, a scolo- pendra, or a tarantula, and throw them into the darkness, saying, “Fie, how ugly they are!” The thinker who turned away from slang would resemble a surgeon who turned away from an ulcer or a wart. He would be a philologist hesitating to examine a fact of language, a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact of humanity. For we must tell all those igno- rant of the fact, that slang is at once a literary phe- nomenon and a social result. What is slang, properly so called ? It is the language of misery. Here we may, perhaps, be stopped ; the fact may be generalized, which is sometimes a way of palliat- ing it ; it may be observed that every trade, every profession, we might also say all the accidents of the social hierarchy, and all the forms of intelligence, have their slang. The merchant who says “IMont- pellier in demand, Marseille fine quality ; ” the broker who says, “amount brought forward, premium at end of month ; ” the gambler who says, “ pique, repique, and capot ; ” the bailiff of the Norman Isles who says, “ the holder in fee cannot make any claim on the products of the land during the hereditary seizure of the property of the re-lessor ; ” the play- wright who says, “ the piece was goosed ; ” the actor who says, “ I made a hit;” the philosopher who says. 240 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. ‘'phenomenal triplicity;” the sportsman Avho says, “a covey of partridges, a leash of woodcocks ; ” the phre- nologist who says, “ amativeness, combativeness, se- cretiveness ; ” the infantry soldier who says, “ my clarionette ; ” the dragoon who says, “ my turkey- cock ; ” the fencing-master who says, “ tierce, carte, disengage ; ” the printer who says, “ hold a chapel ; ” all — printer, fencing-master, dragoon, infantry man, phrenologist, siDortsman, philosopher, actor, play- wright, gambler, stock-broker, and merchant — talk slang. The painter who says, “ my grinder ; ” the attorney who says, “ my gutter-skipper ; ” the barber who says, “ my clerk ; ” and the cobbler who says, " my scrub,” — all talk slang. Rigorously taken, all the different ways of saying right and left, the sailor's larboard and starboard, the scene-shifter’s off-side and prompt-side, and the verger’s Epistle-side and Gospel-side, are slang. There is the slang of affected girls as there was the slang of the pr^cieuses, and the Hotel de Rambouillet bordered to some slight ex- tent the Cour des Miracles. There is the slang of duchesses, as is proved by this sentence, written in a note by a very great lady and very pretty woman of the Restoration : “Yous trouverez dans ces potains-la une foultitude de raisons pour que je me libertise.” ^ Dijdomatic ciphers are slang, and the Pontifical Chancery, writing 26 for “ Rome,” grkztntgzyal for “Envoy,” and ahfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI. for “the Duke of Modena,” talk slang. The mediaeval physi- cians who, in order to refer to carrots, radishes, and ^ “ You will find in that tittle-tattle a multitude of reasons why I should take my liberty.” THE ORIGIN OF SLANG. 241 turnips, said, opoponacli, perfroschinum, reptitalinus, (Iracatliolicum, angeloriim, and postmegonnn, talk slang. The sugar-refiner who says, “ clarified syrup, molasses, bastard, common, burned, loaf-sugar,” — this honest manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of critics, who twenty years ago said, ‘‘one half of Shakespeare is puns and playing on words,” spoke slang. The poet and artist who with profound feeling would call M. de Montmorency a bourgeois, if he were not a connoisseur in verses and statues, talk slang. The classic academician who calls flowers Flora, the fruits Pomona, the sea Xeptune, love the flames, beauty charms, a horse a charger, the white or tricolor cockade the rose of Bellona, the three- cornered hat the triangle of Mars, — that classic aca- demician talks slang. Algebra, medicine, and botany have their slang. The language employed on ship- board — that admirable sea-language so complete and picturesque, which Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre spoke, which is mingled with the straining of the rigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets, the clang of boarding-axe, the rolling, the wind, the gusts, and the cannon — • is an heroic and brilliant slang, which is to the ferocious slang of robbers what the lion is to the jackal. All this is perfectly true, but whatever people may say, this mode of comprehending the word “ slang ” is an extension which everj-body will not be prepared to admit. For our part, we perceive the precise cir- cumscribed and settled acceptation of the word, and restrict slang to slang. The true slang, the slang par excellence, if the two words can be coupled, the VOL. IV. 16 242 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. immemorial slang which was a kingdom, is nothing else, we repeat, than the ugly, anxious, cunning, treacherous, venomous, cruel, blear-eyed, vile, pro- found, and fatal language of misery. There is at the extremity of all abasements and all misfortunes a last misery, which revolts a)id resolves to contend Avith the ensemble of fortunate facts and reigning rights, — a frightful struggle, in Avhich, at one mo- ment crafty, at another violent, at once unhealthy and ferocious, it attacks the social order with pin- pricks by vice, and with heavy blows by crime. For the necessities of. this struggle, misery has invented a fighting language, which is called slang. To hold up on the surface and keep from forgetfulness, from the gulf, only a fragment of any language which man has spoken, and which would be lost, — that is to say, one of the elements, good or bad, of which civiliza- tion is composed and complicated, — is to extend the data of social observation and serve civilization itself. Plautus rendered this service, Avhether voluntarily or involuntarily, by making two Carthaginian soldiers speak Phoenician ; Molifere rendered it also by mak- ing so many of his characters talk Levantine and all sorts of patois. Here objections crop out afresh : Phoenician, excellent ; Levantine, very good ; and even patois may be allowed, for they are languages which have belonged to nations or provinces — but slang ? Of what service is it to preserve slang and help it to float on the surface ? To this we will only make one remark. Assuredly, if the language which a nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest, there is a thing still THE ORIGIN OF SLANG. 243 more worthy of attention and study, and that is the language which a wretchedness has spoken. It is the language which has been spoken in France, for instance, for more than four centuries, not only by a wretchedness, but by every VTetchedness, by every human ^^Tetchedness possible. And then, we insist upon the fact, to study social deformities and infirm- ities, and point them out for cure, is not a task in which choice is permissible. The historian of morals and ideas has a mission no less austere than the his- torian of events. The latter has the surface of cmli- zation, the struggles of crowned heads, the births of princes, the marriages of kings, assemblies, great pub- lic men and revolutions, — all the external part ; the other historian has the interior, • — - the basis, the people that labors, suffers, and waits, the crushed woman, the child d}ing in agony, the dull warfare of man with man, obscene ferocities, prejudices, allowed in- iquities, the subterranean counter-strokes of the law, the secret revolutions of minds, the indistinct shiver- ing of multitudes, those who die of hunger, the bare- footed, the bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans, the unhappy, the infamous, and all the ghosts that wander about in obscurity. He must go down with his heart full of charity and severity, at once as a brother and as a judge, into the impenetrable dun- geons in which crawl pell-mell those who bleed and those who wound, those who weep and those who cure, those who fast and those who devour, those that endure e\dl, and those who commit it. Are the duties of the historians of hearts and souls inferior to those of the historians of external facts ? Can we believe 244 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. that Aligliieri has less to say than Machiavelli ? Is the lower part of civilization, because it is deeper and more gloomy, less important than the upper ? Do we know the mountain thoroughly if we do not know the caverns ? We will notice, by the way, that from our previous remarks a marked separation, which does not exist in our mind, might be inferred between the two classes of historians. No one is a good historian of the patent, visible, glistening, and public life of a people, unless he is at the same time to a certain extent the historian of their profound and hidden life ; and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he can be, whenever it is required, historian of the ex- terior. The history of morals and ideas penetrates the history of events, and vice versd ; they are two orders of different facts which answer to each other, are always linked together, and often engender one another. All the lineaments which Providence traces on the surface of a nation have their gloomy, but distinct, parallels at the base, and all the convulsions of the interior produce up-heavings on the surface. As true history is a medley of everything, the real historian attends to everything. Man is not a circle with only one centre ; he is an ellipse with two foci, facts being the one, and ideas the other. Slang is nothing but a vestibule in which language, having some wicked action to commit, disguises itself. It puts on these masks of words and rags of metaphors. In this way it becomes horrible, and can scarce be re- cognized. Is it really the French language, the great human tongue ? It is ready to go on the stage and THE ORIGIN OF SLANG. 245 take up the cue of crime, and suited for all the parts iu the repertory of evil. It no longer walks, but shambles ; it limps upon the crutch of the Cour des iMiracles, which may be metamorphosed into a club. All the spectres, its dressers, have daubed its face, aud it crawls along and stands erect with the double movement of the reptile. It is henceforth ready for any part, for it has been made to squint by the forger, has been verdigrised by the poisoner, blackened by the soot of the incendiary, and the murderer has given it his red. When you listen at the door of society, on the side of honest men, you catch the dialogue of those out- side. You distinguish questions and answers, aud notice, without comprehending it, a hideous murmur sounding almost like the human accent, but nearer to a yell than to speech. It is slang ; the words are deformed, wild, imprinted with a species of fantastic bestiality. You fancy that you hear hydras convers- ing. It is uuintelligibility in darkness ; it gnashes its teeth and talks iii whispers, supplementing the gloom by enigmas. There is darkness in misfortune, aud greater darkness still in crime, and these two dark- nesses amalgamated compose slang. There is ob- scurity in the atmosphai’e, obscurity in the deeds, obscurity in the voices. It is a horrifying, frog-like language, which goes, comes, hops, crawls, slavers, and moves monstrously in that common gray mist composed of crime, night, hunger, vice, falsehood, injustice, nudity, asphyxia, and winter, which is the high noon of the wretched. Let us take compassion on the chastised, for, alas ! 246 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. what are we ourselves ? Who am I, who am speaking to you ? Who are you, who are listening to me ? Whence do we come ? And is it quite sure that we did nothing before we were born ? The earth is not without a resemblance to a prison, and who kuows whether man is not the ticket-of-leave of Divine jus- tice ? If we look at life closely we find it so made that there is punishment everywhere to be seen. Are you what is called a happy man? Well, you are sad every day, and each of them has its great grief or small anxiety. Yesterday, you trembled for a health which is dear to you, to-day you are frightened about your own, to-morrow it will be a monetary anxiety, and the day after the diatribe of a calumniator, and the day after that again the misfortune of some friend ; then the weather, then something broken or lost, or a pleasure for which your conscience and your backbone reproach you ; or, another time, the pro- gress of imblic affairs, and we do not take into account heart-pangs. And so it goes on ; one cloud is dissi- pated, another forms, and there is hardly one day in one hundred of real joy and bright sunshine. And you are one of that small number ivlio are happy ; as for other men, the stagnation of night is around them. Reflecting minds rarely use the expressions “ the happy ” and the “ unhappy,” for in this world, which is e^^dently the vestibule of another, there are no happy beings. The true human di\dsion is into the luminous and the dark. To diminish the number of the dark, and augment that of the luminous, is the object ; and that is why we cry, “ Instruction and learning ! ” Learning to read is lighting the fire. THE ORIGIN OF SLANG. 247 aiul every syllable spelled is a spark. However, when we say light, we do not necessarily mean joy ; for men suffer in light, and excess of light burns. Flame is the enemy of the wings, and to burn without ceasing to fly is the v prodigy of genius. When you know and when you love, you will still suffer, for the day is born in tears, and the luminous weep, be it only for the sake of those in darkness. CHAPTER II. ROOTS. Slang is the language of the dark. Thought is affected in its gloomiest depths, and social philoso- phy is harassed in its most poignant undulations, in the presence of this enigmatical dialect, Avhich is at once branded and in a state of revolt. There is in this a visible chastisement, and each syllable looks as if it were marked. The words of the common lan- guage appear in it, as if branded and hardened by the hangman’s red-hot irons, and some of them seem to be still smoking ; some phrases produce in you the effect of a robber’s fleur-de-lysed shoulder sud- denly exposed, and ideas almost refuse to let them- selves be represented by these convict substantives. The metaphors are at times so daring that you feel that they have worn fetters. Still, in spite of all this, and in consequence of all this, this strange patois has by right its compartment in that great impartial museum, in which there is room for the oxydized sou as well as the gold medal, and which is called toleration. Slang, whether people allow it or no, has its syntax and poetry. It is a language. If, by the deforming of certain vocables, we perceive that it has been chewed by Mandrin, we feel from HOOTS. 249 certain inetonyms that Villon spoke it. That line so exquisite and so celebrated, — “ Mais ou sent les ueiges d’antan ? (But where are the snows of yester-year ?) ” is a line of slang. Antau, ante annum, is a slang word of Thunes, which signified the past year, and, by extension, formerly. Five-and-thirty years ago, on the departure of the great chain-gang, in 1827> there might be read in one of the dungeons of Bic^tre this maxim, engraved with a nail upon the wall by a king of Thunes condemned to the galleys, “ Les dabs d’antan trimaient siempre pour la pierre du Coesre,” which means, “ The kings of former days used always to go to be consecrated.” In the thought of that king, the consecration was the galleys. The word d^carade, which expresses the departure of a hea^’y coach at a gallop, is attributed to Villon, and is worthy of him. This word, which strikes fire, contains in a masterly onomatopoeia the whole of Lafontaine’s admirable line, — “ Six forts ehevaux tiraient un coche.” From a purely literary point of view, few studies would be more curious or fertile than that of slang. It is an entire language within a language, a sort of sickly grafting which has produced a vegetation, a parasite which has its roots in the old Gaulish trunk, and whose sinister foliage crawls up the whole of one side of the language. This is what might be called the first or common notion of slang, but to those who study the language as it should be 250 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. studied, that is to say, as geologists study the earth, slang appears like a real alluvium. According as we dig more or less deeply, we find in slang, beneath the old popular French, Provencal, Spanish, Italian, Levantine, that language of the jNIediterranean ports, English, and German, Romanic, — in its three varieties of French, Italian, and Roman, — Latin, and finally, Basque and Celtic. It is a deep and strange forma- tion, a subterranean edifice built up in common by all scoundrels. Each accursed race has deiiosited its stratum, each suffering has let its stone fall, each heart has given its pebble. A multitude of wicked, low, or irritated souls who passed through life, and have faded away in eternity, are found there almost entire, and to some extent still visible, in the shape of a monstrous word. Do you want Spanish ? The old Gothic slang swarms with it. Thus we have boffette, a box on the ears, whicli comes from hofeton ; vcmtane, a win- dow (afterwards vanterue), from vantana ; gat, a cat, from gato ; acite, oil, from aceyte. Do you want Italian ? We have spade, a sword, which comes from spada, and carvel, a boat, which comes from carcv- vella. From the English we have bichot, the bishop ; raille, a spy, from rascal, rascalion, roguish ; and pilche, a case, from 2>ilcher, a scabbard. Of German origin are caleur, the waiter, from kellner ; hers, the master, from herzog, or duke. In Latin we find frangir, to break, from frangere ; affarer, to steal, from fur ; and cadene, a chain, from catena. There is one word which is found in all continental lan- guage with a sort of mysterious power and authority. BOOTS. 251 and that is the word magnus : Scotland makes mac of it, which designates the chief of the clan, IMac Farlane, Mac Callumore, the great Farlane, the great Callumore ; slang reduces it to wiecA’, afterwards meg, that is to say, the Deity. Do you wish for Basque ? Here is gahisto, the devil, which is derived from gaiztoa, bad, and sorgabon, good-night, which comes from gahon, good-evening. In Celtic we find blavin, a handkerchief, derived from blavet, running water ; m^nesse, a woman (in a bad sense), from meinec, full of stones ; barant, a stream, from baranton, a fountain ; goffeur, a locksmith, from goff, a black- smith ; and giMouze, death, which comes from guenn-du, white and black. Lastly, do you wish jfor history ? Slang calls crowns “ the Maltese,” in memory of the coin which was current aboard the Maltese galleys. In addition to the philological origins which we have indicated, slang has other and more natural roots, which issue, so to speak, directly from the human mind. In the firet place, there is the direct creation of words, for it is the mystery of language to paint with words which have, we know not how or why, faces. This is the primitive foundation of every human language, or what might be called the granite. Slang swarms with words of this nature, immediate words created all of one piece ; it is im- possible to say when, or by whom, without etymolo- gies, analogies, or derivatives, — solitary, barbarous, and at times hideous words, which have a singu- lar power of expression, and are alive. The execu- tioner, le taule (the amfil’s face) ; the forest, le sabri 252 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL, (cudgels); fear or flight, taf ; the footman, le larhin ; the general, prefect, or minister, pharos (head man) ; and the devil, le rabouin (the one nith the tail). Nothing can be stranger than these words, which form transparent masks ; some of them, le rabouin, for instance, are at the same time grotesque and terrible, and produce the effect of a Cyclopean grim- ace. In the second place, there is metaphor, and it is the peculiarity of a language which wishes to say everything and conceal everything, to abound in figures. Metaphor is an enigma in which the robber who is scheming a plot, or the prisoner arranging an escape, takes the refuge. No idiom is more meta- phorical than slang ; d^visser (to unscrew) le coco (the cocoa-nut), to twist the neck ; tortiller (to wind up), to eat ; etre gerb4 (sheaved), to be tried ; im rat, a stealer of bread ; il lansquine, it rains, — an old striking figure, which bears to some extent its date with it, assimilates the long oblique lines of rain to the serried sloping pikes of the lansquenets, and contains in one word the popular adage, “ It is raining halberts.” At times, in proportion as slang passes from the first to the second stage, words pass from the savage and primitive state to the meta- phorical sense. The devil ceases to be le rabouin, and becomes “ the baker,” or he who puts in the oven. This is wittier but not so grand ; something like Racine after Corneille, or Euripides after iEschy- lus. Some slang phrases which belong to both periods, and have at once a barbarous and a metaphorical character, resemble phantasmagorias : Les sorgueurs font sollicer des gails d la lune (the prowlers are ROOTS. 253 going to steal horses at night). This passes before the mind like a group of spectres, and we know not what we see. Thii'dly, there is expediency : slang lives upon the language, uses it as it pleases, and when the necessity arises limits itself to denatural- izing it summarily and coarsely. At times, with the ordinary words thus deformed and complicated with pure slang, picturesque sentences are composed, in which the admission of the two previous elements, direct creation and metaphor, is visible, — le cab jaspine, je marronne que la ronlotte cle Pantin trime dans le sabri, (the dog barks, I suspect that the Paris diligence is passing through the wood) ; le dab est sinve, la dabuge est merloussiere, la fee est bative, (the master is stupid, the mistress is cunning, and the daughter pretty). JMost frequently, in order to throw out listeners, slang confines itself to adding indis- tinctly to all the words of the language, a species of ignoble tail, a termination in aille, orgue, iergue, or nclie. Thus : Vouziergue trouvaille bonorgue ce gigotmuche ? (Do you find that leg of mutton good?) This was a remark made by Cartouche to a jailer, iir order to learn whether the sum offered him for an escape suited him. The termination in mar has been very recently added. Slang, being the idiom of corruption, is itself quickly corrupted. Moreover, as it always tries to hide itself so soon as it feels that it is understood, it transforms itself. Exactly opposed to all other vegetables, every sunbeam kills what it falls on in it. Hence slang is being constantly decomposed and re-composed ; and this is an obscure and rapid labor 254 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. wiiicli never ceases, and it makes more way in ten years than language does in ten centuries. Thus Icirton (head) becomes lartif ; gail (horse) gciye ; fer- tanche (straw) fertille ; monvignard (the child) mo- macque ; fiqiies (clothes) friisqiies ; chiqiie (the church) V^grugeoir ; and colabre (the neck) colas. The devil is first gahisto, then le rabouiii, and next “ the baker ; ” a priest is the ratichon, and then the sanglier ; a dagger is the vingt-deux, next the sitrin, and lastly the lingre ; the police are rallies, then roussins, then marclumds de lacet (handcuff dealers), then coqueurs, and lastly cognes ; the executioner is the taule, then Chariot, then the atigeur, and then the becquillard. In the seventeenth centui’y to fight was to “ take snuff ; ” in the nineteenth it is “ to break the jaw ; ” but twenty different names have passed away between these two extremes, and Cartouche would speak Hebrew to Lacenaire. All the words of this language are perpetually in flight, like the men who employ them. Still, from time to time, and owing to this very movement, the old slang reappears and becomes new again. It has its headquarters where it holds its ground. The Temple preserved the slang of the seventeenth century, and Bicetre, when it was a prison, that of Thunes. There the termination in anche of the old Thuners could be heard : Boy- anches-tu ? .(do you drink ?) ; il croyanche (he believes). But perpetual motion does not the less remain the law. If the philosopher succeeds in momentarily fixing, for the purpose of observation, this language, which is necessarily evaporating, he falls into sorrow- ful and useful meditations, and no study is more BOOTS. 255 efficacious, or more fertile and instructive. There is not a metaphor or an etymology of slang which does not contain a lesson. Among these men “fighting” means “pretending: ” they “ fight ” a disease, for cunning is their strength. With them the idea of man is not separated from the idea of a shadow. Night is called la sorgue and man Vorgiie: man is a derivative of night. They have formed the habit of regarding society as an atmosphere which kills them, as a fatal force, and they speak of their liberty as one speaks of his health. A man arrested is a “ patient ; ” a man sen- tenced is a “ corpse.” The most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four stone walls which form his sepnlchre is a sort of freezing chastity, and hence he always calls the dungeon the castiis. In this funereal place external life will appear under its most smiling aspect. The prisoner has irons on his feet, and you may perhaps fancy that he thinks how peo- ple walk Avith their feet : no, he thinks that they dance with them, hence, if he succeed in cutting through his fetters, his first idea is that he can now dance, and he calls the saw a hastringue. A name is a centre, a profound assimilation. The bandit has two heads, — the one which revolves his deeds and guides him through life, the other which he has on his shoulders on the day of his death ; he calls the head which counsels him in crime, the sorhonne, and the one that expiates it the tronche. When a man has nothing but rags on his body and vices in his heart, when he has reached that double moral and material degradation which the word gueux 256 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. characterizes in its two significations, he is ripe for crime ; he is like a well-sharpened blade ; he has two edges, his distress and his villany, and lienee slang does not call him a giieux but a rdgais^. What is the bagne ? A furnace of damnation, a hell, and the convict calls himself a “ fagot.” Lastly, what name do malefactors give to the prison ? The “ college.” A whole penitentiary system might issue from this word. Would you like to know whenee came most of the galley songs, — those choruses called in the special vocabularies the Urlonfa ? Listen to this : There was at the Chatelet of Paris a large long cellar, which was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had neither windows nor gratings, and the sole opening was the door ; men covdd enter it, but air not. This cellar had for ceiling a stone arch, and for floor ten inches of mud ; it had been paved, but, owing to the leakage of the water, the paving had rotted and fallen to pieees. Eight feet above the ground, a long massive joist ran from one end to the other of this vault ; from this joist hung at regular distances chaijis, three feet long, and at the end of these chains ■were eollars. In this cellar men condemned to the galleys were kept until the day of their departure for Toulon ; they were thrust under this beam, where each had his fetters oscillating in the darkness and waiting for him. The chains, like pendant arms, and the collars, like open hands, seized tliese wretches by the neck ; they were riveted and left there. As the chain was too short, they could not lie down ; they remained motionless in this cellar. ROOTS. ■I'iJ in this night, under this beam, almost hung, forced to make extraordinary eftbrts to reach their loaf or water-jug, with the vault above their heads and mud up to their knees, drawn and quartered by fatigue, giving way at the hips and knees, hanging on by their hands to the chain to rest themselves, only able to sleep standing, and awakened every moment by the chokins: of the collar — some did not awake. To eaf they were compelled to draw up their bread, which was thrown into the mud, with the heel all along the thigh to their hand. How long did they remain in this state ? One month, two months, some- times six months ; one man remained a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys, and men were put in it for stealing a hare from the king. In this hellish sepulchre what did they ? They died by inches, as people can do in a sepulchre, and sang, which they can do in a hell ; for when there is no longer hope, song remains, — in the Maltese waters, when a gal- ley was approaching, the singing was heard before the sound of the oars. The poor poacher Surviiicent, who passed through the cellar-prison of the Cluttelet, said, “ Rhymes sustained me.” Poetry is useless ; what is the good of rhymes ? In this cellar nearly all the slang songs were born, and it is from the dungeon of the Great Chjitelet of Paris that comes the melancholy chorus of Montgomery’s galley : Ti- maloumisaine, timoulamison. Most of the songs are sad, some are gay, and one is tender : — “ Icicaille est le theatre Du petit darJant.” ^ 1 The archer Cupid. 17 VOL. IV. 258 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. Do you what you Avill, you cannot destroy that eternal relic of man’s heart, love. In this world of dark deeds secrets are kept ; for secrets are a thing belonging to all, and with these wretehes secrecy is the unity which serves as the basis of union. To break secrecy is to tear from each member of this ferocious community something of himself. To denounce is called in the energetic language of slang “ to eat the piece,” as if the de- nouncer took a little of the substance of eaeh, and supported himself on a piece of the flesh of each. What is receiving a buffet ? The conventional meta- phor answers, “ It is seeing six-and-thirty candles.” Here slang interferes and reads camoufle for eandle ; life in its ordinary language takes camoi(flet as a synonym for a box on the ears. Hence, by a sort of penetration from bottom to top, and by the aid of metaphor, that incalculable trajectory, slang ascends from the cellar to the academy, and Poulailler say- ing, “ I light my camoufle,” makes Voltaire write, “ Langleviel la Beaumelle deserves a hundred camou- flets.” Searehing in slang is a discovery at every step, and the study and investigation of this strange idiom lead to the point of intersection of regular with accursed society. The robber has also his food for powder, or stealable matter in you, in me, in the first passer-by, the pantre {pan, everybody). Slang is the word converted into a conviet. It produces a eonsternation to refleet that the thinking principle of man ean be hurled down so deep that it can be dragged there and bound by the obscure tyranny of fatality, and be fastened to some unknown rivets on this preci- EOOTS. 259 pice. Alas ! will no one come to the help of the human soul in this darkness ? Is it its destiny ever to await the mind, the liberator, the immense tamer of Pegasuses and hippogriffs, the dawn-colored com- batant, who descends from the azure sky between two "wings, the radiant knight of the future ? Will it ever call in vain to its help the lance of the light of idealism ? Is it condemned always to look down into the gulf of e\'il and see closer and closer to it be- neath the hideous water the demoniac head, this slavering mouth, and this serpentine undulation of claws, swellings, and rings ? Must it remain there without a gleam of hope, left to the horror of this formidable and vaguely smelt approach of the mon- ster, shuddering, mth dishevelled hair, wringing its arms, forever chained to the rock of night, a sombre Andromeda white and naked in the darkness ? CHAPTER III. SLANG THAT CRIES AND SLANG THAT LAUGHS. As we see, the whole of slang, the slang of four hundred years ago, as well as that of the present day, is penetrated by that gloomy symbolic spirit which gives to every word at one moment a piteous tone, at another a menacing air. We see in it the old ferocious sorrow of those beggars of the Cour des Miracles, who played at cards with packs of their own, some of which have been preserved for us. The eight of clubs, for instance, represented a large tree bearing eight enormous clover leaves, a so)-t of fantastic personification of the forest. At the foot of this tree could be seen a lighted fire, at which three hares were roasting a game-keeper on a spit, and behind, over another fire, a steaming cal- dron from which a dog’s head emerged. Nothing can be more lugubrious than these reprisals in painting upon a pack of cards, in the face of the pyres for smugglers, and the caldron for coiners. The various forms which thought assumed in the kingdom of slang, singing, jests, and menaces, all had this impo- tent and crushed character. All the songs of which a few melodies have come down to us were humble and lamentable enough to draw tears. The LAUGHES'G SLANG AND CRYING SLANG. 261 (thief) calls himself the poor p'egre ; for he is ahvajs the hare that hides itself, the mouse that escapes, or the bird that flies away. He hardly protests, but restricts himself to sighing, aud one of his groaus has reached us : Je rientrave que le dail comment meek, le daron des orgues, pent atiger ses monies et ses momignards, et les locher crihlant sans itre agite lid meme. (I do uot uuderstaud how God, the Father of men, can torture His children and His grandchildren, aud hear them cry, without being tor- tured Himself.) The UTetch, whenever he has time to think, makes himself little before the law and paltry before society ; he lies down on his stomach, supplicates, and implores pity, and we can see that he knows himself to be in the wi’ong. Toward the middle of the last century a change took place ; the prison songs, and choruses of the robbers assumed, so to speak, an insolent and jovial gesture. The larifla was substituted for the plain- tive malurd, aud we find in nearly all the songs of the galleys, the hulks, and the chain-gangs, a diaboli- cal and enigmatical gayety. We hear in them that shrill and leaping chorus which seems illumined by a phosphorescent gleam, and appears cast into the forest by a will-o’-the-wisp playuig the fife : — “ Mirlababi surlababo Mirliton riboniibette Surlababi mirlababo Mirliton ribonribo.” They sang this while cutting a man’s throat in a cellar or a thicket. It is a serious symptom that in 262 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. the eighteenth century the old melancholy of these desponding classes is dissipated, and they begin to laugh ; they mock the great “ meg ” and the great "■dab” (governor), and Louis XV. being given they call the King of France the Marquis de Pantin. The wretches are nearly gay, and a sort of dancing light issues from them, as if their conscience no longer weighed them down. These lamentable tribes of darkness no longer possess the despairing audacity of deeds, but the careless audacity of the mind ; this is a sign that they are losing the feeling of their criminality, and finding some support, of which they are themselves ignorant, among the thinkers and dreamers. It is a sign that robbery and plunder are beginning to be filtered even into doctrines and sophisms, so as to lose a little of their ugliness, and give a good deal of it to the sophisms and the doc- trine. Lastly, it is a sign of a prodigious and speedy eruption, unless some diversion arise. Let us halt here for a moment. Whom do we accuse ? Is it the eighteenth century ? Is it her philosophy ? Certainly not. The work of the eighteenth century is healthy and good ; and the Encyclopaedists with Diderot at their head, the physicists under Turgot, the philoso- phers led by Voltaire, and the Utopists commanded by Rousseau, are four sacred legions. The immense advance of humanity toward the light is due to them, and they are the four advance guards of the hu- man races, going toward the four cardinal points of progress, — Diderot toward the beautiful, Turgot toward the useful, Voltaire toward truth, and Rous- seau toward justice. But by the side of and below LAUGHING SLANG AND CRYING SLANG. 263 the philosophers were the sophists, — a venomous vegetation mingled with a healthy growth, a hemlock in the virgin forest. While the hangman was burning on the gi-and staircase of the Palace of Justice the grand liberating books of the age, writers now for- gotten were publishing, with the royal privilege, strangely disorganizing books, which were eagerly read by the scoundrels. Some of these publications, patronized, strange to say, by a prince, will be found in the “ Bibliothfeque secrete.” These facts, pro- found but unknown, were unnoticed on the surface ; but at times the very obscurity of a fact constitutes its danger, and it is obscure because it is subterranean. Of all the writers, the one who perhaps dug the most unhealthy gallery at that day in the masses was Restif de la Bretonne. This work, peculiar to all Europe, produced greater ravages in Germany than anywhere else. In Ger- many, during a certain period, which was summed up by Schiller in his famous drama of The Robbers, robbery and plunder were raised into a protest against property and labor. They appropriated certain ele- mentary ideas, specious and false, apparently just, and in reality absurd, wrapped themselves up in these ideas, and to some extent disappeared in them, assumed an abstract name, and passed into a theo- retical state, and in this way circulated among the laborious, suffering, and honest masses, without even the cognizance of the imprudent chemists who pre- pared the mixture, and the masses that accepted it. Whenever a fact of this nature is produced it is seri- ous. Suffering engenders passion ; and while the pros- 264 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. pevous blind tbeniselves, or go to sleep, the hatred of the unfortunate classes kindles its torch at some sullen or ill-constituted mind which is dreaming in a corner, and sets to work examining society. The ex- amination of hatred is a terrible thing. Hence come, if the misfortune of the age desires it, those frightful commotions, formerly called Jacqueries, by the side of which purely political commotions are child’s-play, and which arc no longer the struggle of the oppressed with the oppressor, but the revolt of want against comfort. Everything is overthrown at such a time. Insurrections are the earthquakes of nations. The French Revolution, that immense act of pro- bity, cut short this peril, which was perhaps immi- nent in Europe toward the close of the eighteenth century. The French Revolution, which was nothing but the ideal armed with a sword, rose, and by the same sudden movement closed the door of e\il and opened the door of good. It disengaged the question, pro- mulgated the truth, expelled the miasma, ventilated the age, and crowned the people. We may say that it created man a second time by giving him a second soul, — justice. The nineteenth century inherits and profits by its work, and at the present day the social catastrophe which we just now indicated is simply impossible. Blind is lie who denounces it, a fool who fears it, for the Revolution is the vaccine of insurrection. Thanks to the Revolution, the social conditions are altered, and the feudal and monarchi- cal diseases are no longer in our blood. There is no middle age left in our constitution, and we are no longer at the time when formidable internal commo- LAUGHING SLANG AND CRYING SLANG. 265 tioiis broke out ; when the obseure eourse of a dull sound eould be heard beneath the feet ; when the earth thrown out from the mole-holes appeared on the surface of civilization ; when the soil cracked ; when the roof of caverns opened, and monstrous heads suddenly emerged from the ground. The revolutionary sense is a moral sense, and the feeling of right being developed, develops the feeling of duty. The law of all is liberty, which ends where the liberty of another begins, according to Robes- pierre’s admirable definition. Since 1789 the whole people has been dilated in the sublimated individual. There is no poor man who, having his riglit, has not his radius ; tlie man, dying of hunger, feels within himself the honesty of France. The dignity of the citizen is an internal armor ; the man who is free is scrupu- lous, and the voter reigns. Hence comes incorrup- tibility ; hence comes the abortiv'eness of unhealthy covetousness, and hence eyes heroically lowered be- fore temptation. The revolutionary healthiness is so great, that on a day of deliverance, a 14th of July, or a 10th of August, there is no populace, and the first cry of the enlightened and progressing crowds is, “ Death to the robbers ! ” Progress is an honest man, and the ideal and the absolute do not steal pocket-handkerchiefs. By whom were the carriages containing the wealth of the Tuileries escorted in 1848? By the rag-pickers of the Faubourg St. Antoine. The rag mounted guard over the treasure. Virtue rendered these ragged creatures resplendent. In these carts, in barely closed chests, — some, indeed, still opened, — there was, amid a hundred dazzling 266 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. cases, that old crown of France, all made of diamonds, surmounted by the royal carbuncle and the Regent diamonds, worth thirty millions of francs ; barefooted they guarded this crown. Hence Jacquerie is no longer possible, and I feel sorry for the clever men ; it is an old fear which has made its last effort, and could no longer be employed in politics. The great spring of the red spectre is now broken. Every- body understands this now. The scarecrow no longer horrifies. The birds treat the manikin fa- miliarly, and deposit their guano upon it, and the bourgeois laugh at it. I CHAPTER IV. TTVO DUTIES : TO WATCH AXD TO HOPE. This being the case, is every social danger dissi- pated ? Certainly not. There is no Jacquerie, and society may be reassured on that side ; the blood will not again rush to its head, but it must pay attention to the way in which it breathes. Apoplexy is no longer to be apprehended, but there is consumption, and social consumption is called wretchedness. Peo- ple die as well when undermined as when struck by lightning. AYe shall never grow weary of repeating, that to think first of all of the disinherited and sor- rowful classes, to relieve, ventilate, enlighten, and love them, to magnificently enlarge their horizon, to la\ish upon them education in every shape, to offer them the example of labor, and never that of indolence, to lessen the weight of the iudmdual bur- den by increasing the notion of the universal object, to limit poverty without limiting wealth, to create vast fields of public and popular actmty, to have, like Briareus, a hundred hands to stretch out on all sides to the crushed and the weak, to employ the collective power in opening workshops for every arm, schools for every aptitude, and laboratories for every intellect, to increase wages, diminish the toU, and 268 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. balance the debit and credit, that is to say, propor- tion the enjoyment to the effort, and the satisfaction to the ■wants, — in a word, to evolve from the social machine, on behalf of those -who suffer and those ■who are ignorant, more light and more comfort, — is, and sympathetic souls must not forget it, the first of brotherly obligations, and, let egotistic hearts learn the fact, the first of political necessities. And all this, we are bound to add, is only a beginning, and the true question is this, labor cannot be law, with- out being a right. But this is not the place to dwell on such a subject. If nature is called Prowdence, society ought to call itself foresight. Intellectual and moral growth is no less indispensable than physical improvement ; knowledge is a viaticum ; thinking is a primary ne- cessity, and truth is nourishment, like wheat. A reason fasting for knowledge and wisdom grows thin, and we must pity minds that do not eat quite as much as stomachs. If there be anything more poignant than a body pining away for want of bread, it is a mind that dies of hunger for enlightenment. The whole of our progress tends toward the solution, and some day people will be stupefied. As the human race ascends, the deepest strata will naturally emerge from the zone of distress, and the effacement of wretchedness Avill be effected by a simple elevation of the level. We would do ■wrong to doubt this blessed solution. The past, we grant, is very power- fnl at the present hour, and is beginning again. This rejuvenescence of a corpse is surprising. It seems ■victorious ; this dead man is a conqueror. TWO DUTIES ; TO WATCH AND TO HOPE. 269 Behold hiui advancing and arriving ! he ai-rives with his legion, superstitions ; with his sword, despotism ; with his barrier, ignoranpe ; and during some time past he has gained ten battles. advances, he threatens, he laughs, he is at our gates. But we have no reason to despair ; let us sell the field on which Hannibal is encamped. What can we, who believe, fear ? A recoil of ideas is no more possible than it is for a river to flow up a hill. But those who desire no future ought to reflect ; by saying no to progress they do not condemn the future, but themselves ; and they give themselves a deadly dis- ease by inoculating themselves with the past. There is only one way of refusing to-morrow, and that is, by dying. We wish for no death, — that of the body as late as possible, and that of the soul never. Yes, the sphinx will speak, and the problem will be solved ; the people sketched by the eighteenth cen- tury will be finished by the nineteenth. He is an idiot who doubts it. The future, the speedy burst- ing into flower of universal welfare, is a divinely fatal phenomenon. Immense and combined impul- sions pushing together govern human facts, and lead them all within a given time to the logical state, that is to say, to equilibrium, or in other words, to equity. A force composed of earth and heaven results from humanity and governs it ; this force is a performer of miracles, and marvellous denouements are as easy to it as extraordinary incidents. Aided by science, which comes from man, and the event, which comes from another source, it is but little frightened by those contradictions in the posture of problems which 270 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. seera to the vulgar herd impossibilities. It is no less skilful in producing a solution from the approxima- tion of ideas than in producing instruction from the approximation of facts, and we may expect anything and everything from the mysterious power of pro- gress, which, some fine day, confronts the East and the West in a sepulchre, and makes the Imans hold conference with Bonaparte in the interior of the Great Pyramid. In the meanwhile, there is no halt, no hesitation, no check, in the grand forward march of minds. Social philosophy is essentially the science of peace ; it has for its object, and must have as result, the dissolution of passions by the study of antago- nisms. It examines, scrutinizes, and analyzes, and then it recomposes ; and it proceeds by the reducing process, by removing hatred from everything. It has more than once occurred, that a society has been sunk by the wind which is let loose on men. History is full of the shipwrecks of peoples and em- pires ; one day, that stranger, the hurricane, passes, and carries away manners, laws, and religions. The civilizations of India, Chaldma, Persia, Assyria, and Egypt have disappeared in turn ; why ? We are ignorant. What are the causes of these disasters ? We do not know. Could those societies have been saved ? Was it any fault of their own ? Did they obstinately adhere to some fatal vice which destroyed them ? What amount of suicide is there in these terrible deaths of a nation and a race ? These are unanswerable questions, for darkness covers the con- demned civilizations. They have been under water since they sank, and we have no more to say ; and it TWO DUTIES : TO WATCH AND TO HOPE. 271 is with a species of terror that we see in the back- ground of that sea which is called the past, and behind those gloomy waves, centuries, those immense vessels, — Babylon, Nineveh, Tarsus, Thebes, and Rome, — sunk by the terrific blast which blows from all the mouths of the darkness. But there was darkness then, and we have light ; and if we are ignorant of the diseases of ancient civilizations, we know the infirmities of our own, and we contemplate its beauties and lay bare its deformities. Wherever it is wounded we probe it ; and at once the suffering is decided, and the study of the cause leads to the discovery of the remedy. Our civilization, the work of twenty centuries, is at once the monster and the prodigy, and is worth saving ; it will be saved. To aid it is much, and to enlighten it is also something. All the labors of modern social pliilosophy ought to converge to this object; and the thinker of the pres- ent day has a grand duty to apply the stethoscope to civilization. We repeat it, this auscultation is encouraging ; and we intend to finish these few pages, which are an austere interlude in a mournful drama, by laying a stress on this encouragement. Beneath the social mortality the human imperish- ableness is felt. The globe does not die because of wounds here and there in the shape of craters and eruptions of sulphur, nor of a volcano that bursts forth and scatters purulent matter. The diseases of the people do not kill man. And yet, whoever follows the social clinics will shake his head at times ; and the strongest, the most tender, and the most logical, have their hours 2/2 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. of despondency. Will the future arrive ? It seems as if we may almost ask this question on seeing so much terrible shadow. There is a sombre, face- to-face meeting of the egotists and the wretched. In the egotist we trace prejudices, the cloudiness of a caste education, appetite growing with intoxication, and prosperity that stuns, a fear of suffering which in some goes so far as an aversion to the sufferers, an implacable satisfaction, and the feeling of self so swollen that it closes the soul. In the wretched we find covetousness, eny, the hatred of seeing others successful, the great bounds of the human beast toward gorging, hearts full of mist, sorrow, want, fatality, and foul and common ignorance. IMust we still raise our eyes to heaven ? Is the luminous point which we notice there one of those which die out ? The ideal is frightful to look on thus lost in the depths, small, isolated, imperceptible, and bril- liant, but surrounded by all those great black men- aces monstrously collected around it ; for all that, though, it is in no more danger than a star in the yawning throat of the clouds. BOOK VIII. ENCHANTMENTS AND DESOLATIONS. CHAPTER 1. BRIGHT LIGHT. The reader has of course understood that Eponine, on recognizing tlirough the railings the inhabitant of the house in the Rue Plumet, to which Magnon sent her, began by keeping the bandits aloof from the house, then led Marius to it ; and that after several days of ecstasy before the railings, Marius, impelled by that force which attracts iron to the loadstone, and the lover toward the stones of the house in which she whom he loves resides, had eventually entered Cosette’s garden, as Romeo did Juliet’s. This had even been an easier task for him than for Romeo ; for Romeo was obliged to scale a wall, while Marius had merely to move one of the bars of the decrepit railing loose in its rusty setting, after the fashion of the teeth of old people. As Marius was thin, he easily passed. As there never was anybody in the street, and as IMarius never entered the garden save at night, he ran no risk of being seen. 1 From that blessed and holy hour when a kiss affianced these two souls, VOL. IV. 18 274 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. INIarius went to tlie garden every night. w, at this moment of her life, Cosette had fallen in love with an unscrupulous libertine, she would have been lost; for there are generous natures that surrender them- selves, and Cosette was one of them. One of the magnanimities of a woman is to yield ; and love, at that elevation where it is absolute, is complicated by a certain celestial blindness of modesty. But what dangers you incur, ye noble souls ! You often give the heart and we take the body ; your heart is left you, and you look at it in the darkness with a shud- der. Love has no middle term : it either saves or destroys, and this dilemma is tlie whole of human destiny. No fatality offers this dilemma of ruin or salvation more inexorably than does love, for love is life, if it be not death ; it is a cradle, but also a coffin. The same feeling says yes and no in the human heart, and of all the things which Cod has made, the human heart is the one which evolves the most light, and, alas ! the most darkness. God willed it that the love which Cosette encountered was one of those loves which save. So long as the month of May of that year, 1832, lasted, there were every night in this poor untrimined gar- den, and under this thicket, which daily becaine more fragrant and more thick, two beings composed of all the chastities and all the innocences, overflow- ing with all the felicities of heaven, nearer to the archangels than to man, pure, honest, intoxicated, and radiant, and who shone for each other in the darkness. It seemed to Cosette as if INIarius had a crown, and to Marius as if Cosette had a glory. BRIGHT LIGHT. 2/5 They touched each other, tliey looked at each other, they took each other by the hand, they drew close to each other ; but tliere was a distance which they never crossed. Not that they respected it, but they were ignorant of it. INIarius felt a barrier in Cosette’s purity, and Cosette felt a support in the loyalty of Marius. The first kiss had also been the last ; since then INIarius had never gone beyond touching Cosette’s hand or neck-handkerchief, or a curl with his lips. Cosette was to him a peifume, and not a woman, and he inhaled her. She refused nothing, and he asked for nothing ; Cosette was happy and Marius satisfied. They lived in that ravishing state which might be called the dazzling of a soul by a soul ; it was the ineffable first em- brace of two \irginities in the ideal, two swans meeting on the Jungfrau. At this hour of love, the hour when voluptuousness is absolutely silenced by the omnipotence of ecstasy, INIarius, the pure and seraphic Marius, would have sooner been able to go home with a street-walker than raise Cosette’s gown as high as her ankle. Once in the moonlight Cosette stooped to pick up something on the ground, and her dress opened and displayed her neck. INIarius turned his eyes away. What passed between these two lovers ? Nothing ; they adored each other. At night, wiien they w’ere there, this garden seemed a living and sacred spot. All the flowers opened around them and sent them their incense ; and they opened their souls and spread them over the flowers. The wanton and vigorous vegetation quivered, full of sap and intoxication. 276 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. around these two innocents, and they uttered words of love at which the trees shivered. What were these words ? Breathings, nothing more ; but they were sufficient to trouble and affect all this nature. It is a magic power which it would be difficult to understand, were we to read in a book this conver- sation made to be cariied away and dissipated like smoke beneath the leaves by the wind. Take away from these whispers of two lovers the melody wliich issues from the soul, and accompanies them like a lyre, and what is left is only a shadow, and you say, “ What ! is it only that ? ” Well, yes, child’s-play, repetitions, laughs at nothing, absurdities, foolish- ness, — all that is the most sublime and profound in the world ! the only things which are worth the trouble of being said and being listened to. The man who has never heard, the man who has never uttered these absurdities and poor things is an imbecile and a wicked man. Said Cosette to Marius, — “ Do you know that my name is Euphrasie ? ” “ Euphrasie ? No, it is Cosette.” “ Oh, Cosette is an ugly name, which was given me when I was little ; but my real name is Euphrasie, Don’t you like that name ? ” ■ ‘ Yes ; but Cosette is not ugly.” “ Do you like it better than Euphrasie ? ” “ Well — yes.” “ In that case, I like it better too. That is true, Cosette is pretty. Call me Cosette.” Another time she looked at him intently, and exclaimed, — BRIGHT LIGHT. 277 “ You are handsome, sir ; you are good-looking ; you have wit ; you are not at all stupid ; you are much more learned than I ; but I challenge you with, ‘ I love you.’ ” And Marius fancied that he heard a strophe sung by a star. Or else she gave him a little tap when he coughed, and said, — “ Do not cough, sir ; I do not allow anybody to cough in my house without permission. It is very wrong to cough and frighten me. I wish you to be in good health, because if you were not I should be very unhappy, and what would you have me do?” And this was simply dhune. Once Marius said to Cosette, — “ Just fancy ; I supposed for a while that your name was Ursule.” This made them laugh the whole evening. In the middle of another conversation he happened ■ to exclaim, — “ Oh ! one day at the Luxembourg I felt disposed to finish breaking an invalid ! ” But he stopped short, and did not complete the sentence, for he would have been obliged to aUude to Cosette’s garter, and that was impossible. There was a strange feeling connected with the flesh, before which this immense innocent love recoiled with a sort of holy terror. Marius imagined life wdth Cosette like this, without anything else, — to come every even- ing to the Rue Plumet, remove the old complacent bar of the president’s railings, sit down elbow to elbow on this bench, look through the trees at the 278 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. scintillation of the commencing night, bring the fold in his trouser-knee into cohabitation with Cosette’s ample skirts, to caress her thumb-nail, and to inhale the same flower in turn forever and indeflnitely. During this time the clouds passed over their heads ; and each time the wind blows it carries off more of a man’s thoughts than of clouds from the sky. We cannot affirm that this chaste, almost stern love was absolutely without gallantry. “ Paying com- pliments ” to her whom we love is the first way of giving caresses and an attempted semi-boldness. A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil, and pleasure puts its sweet point upon it, while con- cealing itself. In the presence of the delight the heart recoils to love more. The cajoleries of Marius, all saturated with chimera, were, so to speak, of an azure blue. The birds when they fly in the direction of the angels must hear words of the same nature, still, life, humanity, and the whole amount of posi- tivism of which Marius was capable were mingled with it. It was what is said in the grotto, as a prelude to what will be said in the alcove, — a lyrical effusion, the strophe and the sonnet commingled, the gentle hyperboles of cooing, all the refinements of adoration arranged in a posy, and exhaling a subtle and celestial perfume, an ineffable prattling of heart to heart. “ Oh ! ” Marius muttered, “ how lovely you are ! I dare not look at you, and that is the reason why I contemplate you. You are a grace, and I know not what is the matter with me. The hem of your dress, where the end of your slipper passes through. BRIGHT LIGHT. 279 u2Dsets me. And then, what an enchanting light when your thoughts become visible, for your reason astonishes me, and you apjjear to me for instants to be a dream. Speak, I am listening to you, and admiring you. Oh, Cosette, how strange and charm- ing it is ; I am really mad. You are adorable, and I study your feet in the microscojDe and your soul with the telescope.” And Cosette made answer, — • “ And I love you a little more through all the time which has passed since this morning.” Questions and answers went on as they could in ‘this dialogue, which always agreed in the subject of love, like the elder-pith balls on the nail. Cosette’s entire person was simplicity, ingenuousness, whiteness, candor, and radiance ; and it might have been said of her that she was transparent. She produced on every one who saw her a sensation of April and day- break, and she had dew in her eyes. Cosette was a condensation of the light of dawn in a woman’s form. It was quite simple that ^Marius, as he adored, should admire. But the truth is, that this little boarding-school Miss, just freshly turned out of a convent, talked with exqnisite penetration, and made at times aU sorts of true and delicate remarks. Her chattering was conversation ; and she was never mistaken about anything, and conversed correctly. Woman feejs and speaks vdth the infallibility which is the tender instinct of the heart. No one knows like a woman how to say things which are at once gentle and deep. Gentleness and depth, in those things the whole of woman is contained, and it is 280 THE RUE PLUxMET IDYLL. hea ven. And in this perfect felicity tears welled in then eyes at every moment. A iady-bird crushed, a feather that fell from a nest, a branch of hawthorn broken, moved their pity, and then ecstasy, gently drowned by melancholy, seemed to ask for nothing better than to weep. The most sovereign symptom of love is a tenderness which becomes at times almost insupportable. And by the side of all this — for con- tradictions are the lightning sport of love — they were fond of laughing with a ravishing liberty, and so familiarly that, at times, they almost seemed like two lads. Still, even without these two hearts intoxi- cated with chastity being conscious of it, unforgettable nature is ever there, ever there with its brutal and sub- lime object ; and whatever the innocence of souls may be, they feel in the most tete-a-tete the mys- terious and adorable distinction which separates a couple of lovers from a pair of friends. They idolized each other. The permanent and the immutable exist, — a couple love, they laugh, they make little pouts with their lips, they intertwine their fingers, and that does not prevent eternity. Two lovers conceal themselves in a garden in the twilight, in the invisible, with the birds and the roses ; they fascinate each other in the darkness with their souls which they place in their eyes ; they mut- ter, they whisper, and during this period immense constellations of planets fill infinity. ^ CHAPTER II. THE GIDDINESS OF PERFECT BLISS. CosETTE and Marius lived vaguely in the intoxi- cation of their madness, and they did not notice the cholera which w'as decimating Paris in that very month. They had made as many confessions to each other as they could ; but they had not extended very far beyond their names. Marius had told Cosette that he was an orphan, Pontmercy by name, a lawyer by profession, and gaining a livelihood by writing things for publishers ; his father was a colonel, a hero, and he, IMarius, had quarrelled with his grand- father, who was very rich. He also incidentally re- marked that he was a baron ; but this did not produce much effect on Cosette. Marius a baron ? She did not understand it, and did not know' wdiat the word meant, and Marius was Marius to her. For her part, she confided to him that she had been edu- cated at the convent of the Little Picpus ; that her mother was dead, like his ; that her father’s name Avas Fauchelevent, that he was very good and gave a great deal to the poor, but was himself poor, and deprived himself of everything, while depriving her of nothing. Strange to say, in the kind of symphony w'hich Marius had lived iu since he found Cosette 282 THE EUE PLUxMET IDYLL. again, the past, even the most recent, had become so confused and distant to him that what Cosette told him completely satisfied him. He did not even dream of talking to her about the nocturnal adventure in the garret, the Thenardiers, the burning, the strange attitude and singular flight of her father. Marius momentarily forgot all this ; he did not know at night what he had done in the morning, where he had breakfasted, or Avho had spoken to him ; he had a song in his ears which rendered him deaf to every other thought, and he only existed during the hours when he saw Cosette. As he was in heaven at that ‘time, it was perfectly simple that he should forget the earth. Both of them bore languidly the undefinable weight of immaterial joys ; that is the way in which those somnambulists called lovers live. Alas ! who is there that has not experienced these things ? Why does an hour arrive when we emerge from this azure, and why does life go on afterwards ? Love almost takes the place of thought. Love is, indeed, an ardent forgetfulness. It is absurd to ask passion for logic ; for there is no more an absolute logical concatenation in the human heart than there is a perfect geometric figure in the celestial mecha- nism. For Cosette and Marius nothing more existed than Marius aud Cosette ; the whole universe around them had fallen into a gulf, and they lived in a golden moment, with nothing before them, noth- ing behind them. IMarius hardly remembered that Cosette had a father. It was blotted from his brain by his bedazzlement. Of what did these lovers THE GIDDINESS OF PERFECT BLISS. 283 talk ? As we have seen, of flowers, swallows, the setting sun, the rising moon, and all the important things. They had told themselves everything except everything ; for the everything of lovers is nothing. Of what use would it be to talk of her father, the realities, that den, those bandits, that adventure ? Aud was it quite certain that the nightmare liad existed ? They were two, they adored each other, aud there was only that, there was nothing else. It is probable that this obliteration of hell behind us is essential to the arrival in Paradise. Have we seen demons ? Are there any ? Have we trembled ? Have we suffered ? We no longer know, and there is a roseate cloud over it all. Hence these two beings lived in this way, very high up, and with all the unverisimilitude which there is in nature ; neither at the nadir nor at the zenith, but between man and the seraphs, above the mud and below the ether, in the clouds. They were not so much flesh and bone, as soul and ecstasy from head to foot, already too sublimated to walk on earth, and still too loaded with humanity to disap- pear in ether, aud held in suspense like atoms which are waiting to be precipitated ; apparently beyond the pale of destiny, and ignorant of that rut, yester- day, to-day, and to-morrow ; amazed, transported, and floatmg at moments with a lightness sufficient for a flight in the infinitude, and almost ready for the eternal departure. They slept awake in this sweet lulling ; oh, splendid lethargy of the real over- powered by the ideal ! At times Cosette was so beautiful that IMarius closed his eyes before her. 284 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. The best wav of gazing at the soul is with closed eyes. Marius and Cosette did not ask themselves to what this would lead them, and looked at each other as if they had already arrived. It is a strange claim on the part of men to wish that love should lead them somewhere. CHAPTER III. THE BEGINNING OF THE SHADOW. Jean Valjean suspected nothing ; for Cosette, not quite sucii a dreamer as Marius, was gay, and that sufficed to render Jean Valjean happy. Cosette’s thoughts, her tender preoccupations, and the image of jMarius which filled her soul, removed none of the incomparable purity of her splendid, chaste, and smiling forehead. She was at the age when the virgin wears her love as the angel wears its lily. Jean Valjean was, therefore, happy ; and, besides, when two lovers understand each other, things always go well, and any third party who might trouble their love is kept in a perfect state of blindness by a small number of precautions, which are always the same ivith aU lovers. Hence Cosette never made any objections ; if he wished to take a walk, “ Very good, my little papa,” and if he stayed at home, very good, and if he wished to spend the evening with Cosette, she was enchanted. As he always retired at ten o’clock at night, on those occa- sions ^larius did not reach the garden till after that hour, when he heard from the street Cosette opening the door. We need hardly say that IMarius was never visible by day, and Jean Valjean did not even 286 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. remember that INIarius existed. One morning, how ever, he happened to say to Cosette, “ Why, the back of your dress is all white ! ” On the pre^dous evening IMarius in a transport had pressed Cosette against the wall. Old Toussaint, who went to bed at an early hour, only thought of sleeping so soon as her work was finished, and was ignorant of every- thing, like Jean Valjean. Marius never set foot in the house when he was with Cosette ; they concealed themselves in a niche near the steps so as not to be seen or heard from the street, and sat there, often contenting themselves with the sole conversation of pressing hands twenty times a minute, and gazing at the branches of the trees. At such moments, had a thunderbolt fallen Avithin thirty feet of them, they would not have noticed it, so profoundly Avas the revery of the one absorbed and plunged in the revery of the other. Limpid purities, and spotless hours of almost un- broken similarity ! This species of loA^e is a collec- tion of lily leaA^es and dove’s feathers. The whole garden Avas betAveen them and the street, and each time that JMarius came in and out he carefully restored the bar of the railings, so that no disar- rangement Avas visible. He went aAvay generally at midnight, and went back to Courfeyrac’s lodgings. Courfeyrac said to Bahorel, — “ Can you believe it ? Marius returns home at present at one in the morning.” Bahorel answered, — “ What Avould you have ? There is always a bomb- shell inside a seminarist.” THE BEGINNING OF THE SHADOW. 287 At times Courfeyrac crossed lus arms, assumed a stern air, and said to iNIarius, — “ Young man, you are becoming irregular in your habits.” Courfeyrac, who was a practical man, was not pleased with this reflection of an invisible Paradise cast on Marius ; he was but little accustomed to un- published passions, hence he grew impatient, and at times summoned IMarius to return to reality. One moniing he cast this admonition to him, — “ My dear fellow, you produce on me the effect at present of being a denizen of the moon, in the king- dom of dreams, the prownce of illusion, whose chief city is soap-bubble. Come, don’t jDlay the prude, - — what is her name ? ” But nothing could make Marius speak, and his nails could have been dragged from him more easily than one of the three sacred syllables of which the ineffable name Cosette was composed. True love is luminous as the dawn, and silent as the tomb. Still Courfeyrac found this change in jMarius, that he had a beaming taciturnity. During the sweet month of May, Marius and Cosette knew this immense happi- ness, — to quarrel and become reconciled, to talk for a long time, and with the most minute details, about people who did not interest them the least in the world, — a further proof that in that rarfshing opera which is called love, the libretto is nothing. For ]\Iarius it was heaven to listen to Cosette talking of dress ; for Cosette to listen to Marius talking politics, to listen, knee against knee, to the vehicles passing along the Rue de Babylone, to look at the same 288 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. planet in space, or the same worm glistening in the grass, to be silent together, a greater pleasure still than talking, etc. Still various complications were approaching. One evening Marius was going to the rendezvous along the Boulevard des Invalides ; he was walking as usual ^vith his head down, and as he was turning the corner of the Rue Plumet, he heard some one say close to him, — “ Good-evening, Monsieur Marius.” He raised his head and recognized Eponine. This produced a singular effect ; he had not once thought of this girl since the day when she led him to the Rue Plumet ; he had not seen her again, and she had entirely left his mind. He had oidy motives to be grateful to her, he owed her his present happiness, and yet it annoyed him to meet her. It is an error to believe that passion, when it is happy and pure, leads a man to a state of perfection ; it leads him simply, as we have shown, to a state of forgetfulness. In this situation, man forgets to be wicked, but he also forgets to be good, and gratitude, duty, and es- sential and material recollections, fade away. At any other time Marius would have been very different to Eponine, but, absorbed by Cosette, he had not very clearly comprehended that this Eponine was Eponine Th^nardier, and that she bore a name written in his father’s will, — that name to which he would have so ardently devoted himself a few months pre- viously. We show Marius as he was, and his father himself slightly disappeared in his mind beneath the splendor of his love. Hence he replied with some embarrassment, — THE BEGINNING OE THE SHADOW. 289 “ All, is it you, Eponine ? ” “ Why do you treat me so coldly ? Have I done you any injury ? ” “ Xo,” he answered. Certainly he had nothing against her ; far from it. Still he felt that he could not but say “you” to Eiionine, now that he said “ thou ” to Cosette. As he remained silent, she exclaimed, — “ Tell me — ” Then she stopped, and it seemed as if words failed this creature, who was formerly so impudent and bold. She tried to smile and could not, so con- tinued, — “ Well ? ” Then she was silent again, and looked down on the ground. “ Good-night, Monsieur Marius,” she suddenly said, and went away. VOL. IV. 19 CHAPTER IV. CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG. The next day — it was June 3, 1832, a date to which we draw attention owing to the grave events which were at that moment hanging over the horizon of Paris in the state of lightning-charged clouds — Marius at nightfall was following the same road as on the previous evening, with the same ravishing thoughts in his heart, when he saw between the boulevard trees Eponine coming toward him. Two days running, — that was too much ; so he sharply turned back, changed his course, and went to the Rue Plumet by the Rue Monsieur. This caused Eponine to follow him as far as the Rue Plumet, a thing she had never done before ; hitherto, she had contented herself with watching him as he passed along the bou- levard, without attempting to meet him : last evening was the first time that she ventured to address him. Eponine followed him, then, without his suspecting it : she saw him move the railing-bar aside and step into the garden. “ Hilloh ! ” she said, “ he enters the house.” She went up to the railing, felt the bars in turn, and easily distinguished the one which Marius had CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG. 291 removed ; and she muttered in a low voice, and with a lugubrious accent, — “None of that, Lisette ! ” She sat down on the stone-work of the railing, close to the bar, as if she were guarding it. It was exactly at the spot where the railings joined the next wall, and there was there a dark corner, in which Eponine entirely disappeared. She remained thus for more than an hour without stirring or breathing, absorbed in thought. About ten o’clock at night, one of the two or three passers along the Rue Plumet, an old belated citizen, who was hurrying along the deserted and ill-famed street, while passing the rail- ing, heard a dull menacing voice saying, — “ I am not surprised now that he comes every evening.” The passer-by looked ai’ound him, saw nobody, did not dare to peer into this dark corner, and felt hor- ribly alarmed. He redoubled his speed, and was quite right in doing so, for in a few minutes six men, who were walking separately, and at some dis- tance from each other, under the walls, and who might have been taken for a drunken patrol, entered the Rue Plumet : the first who reached the railings stopped and waited for the rest, and a second after, all six were together, and began talking in whispered slang. “ It ’s here,” said one of them. “ Is there a cab [dog] in the garden ? ” another asked. “ I don’t know. In any case I have brought a bullet which we •udll make it eat.” “ Have you got some mastic to break a pane ? ” 292 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. “Yes,” “ The railings are old,” remarked the fifth man, who seemed to have the voice of a ventriloquist. “ All the better,” said the second speaker ; “ it will make no noise when sawn, and won’t be so hard to cut through.” The sixth, who had not yet opened his mouth, be- gan examining the railings as Eponine had done an hour ago, and thus reached the bar which Marius had unfastened. Just as he was about to seize this bar, a hand suddenly emerging from the darkness clutched his arm ; he felt himself roughly thrust back, and a hoarse voice whispered to him, “ There ’s a cab.” At the same time he saw a pale girl stand- ing in front of him. The man had that emotion which is always produced by things unexpected ; his hair stood hideously on end. Nothing is more formidable to look at than startled wild beasts. Their affrighted look is hideous. He fell back and stammered, — “ Who is this she-devil ? ” “ Your daughter.” It was, in truth, Eponine speaking to Th^nardier. Upon her apparition, the other five men, that is to say, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet, Montparnasse, and Brujon, approached noiselessly, without hurry or saying a word, but with the sinister slowness peculiar to these men of the night. Some hideous tools could be distinguished in their hands, and Gueule- mer held a pair of those short pincers which burglars call fauchons (small scythes). “Well, what are you doing here? What do you CAB EIINS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG. 293 Avant ? Are you mad ? ” Tli^nardier exclaimed, as far as is possible to exclaim in a whisper. “ Have you come to prevent us from working ? ” Eponine burst into a laugh and leaped on his neck. “ I am here, my little papa, because I am here; are not people allowed to sit down on the stones at present ? It is you who ought n’t to be here ; and what have you come to do, since it is a biscuit ? I told Magnon so, and there is nothing to be done here. But embrace me, my good little papa, it is such a time since I saw you. You are out, then ? ” Thenardier tried to free himself from Eponine’s arms, and growled, — “ There, there, you have embraced me. Yes, I am out, and not in. Noav be off.” But Eponine did not loose her hold, and redoubled her caresses. “My dear papa, how ever did you manage? You must have been very clever to get out of that scrape, so tell me all about it. And where is mamma? Gh’e me some news of her,” Thenardier answered, — “ She ’s all right. I don’t know ; leave me and be off, I tell you.” “ I do not exactly want to go off,” Eponine said Avith the pout of a spoiled child ; “ you send me away, though I haA^e n’t seen you now for four months, and I have scarce had time to embrace you.” And she caught her father again round the neck. “ Oh, come, this is a bore,” said Babet. 294 THE KUE ELUMET IDYLL. “ JNIake haste,” said Gueulemer, “ the police may pass.” The ventriloquial voice hummed, — “ Nous n’soinmes pas le jour de Fan, A becoter papa, maman.” Eponine turned to the five bandits : — “ Why, that ’s Monsieur Brujon. Good-evening, Monsieur Babet; good-evening. Monsieur Claquesous. What, don’t you know me. Monsieur Gueulemer ? How are you, Montparnasse ? ” “ Yes, they know you,” said Th^nardier ; “ but now good-night, and be off ; leave us alone.” “ It is the hour of the foxes, and not of the chick- ens,” said Montparnasse. “ Don’t you see that we have work here ? ” Babet added. Eponine took Montparnasse by the hand. “ Mind,” he said, “ you will cut yourself, for I have an open knife.” “ My dear Montparnasse,” Eponine replied very gently, ‘'confidence ought to be placed in people, and I am my father’s daughter, perhaps. Monsieur Babet, Monsieur Gueulemer, I was ordered to ex- amine into this affair.” It is remarkable that Eponine did not speak slang ; ever since she had known Marius that frightful lan- guage had become impossible to her. She pressed Gueulemer’s great coarse fingers in her little bony hand, which was as weak as that of a skeleton, and continued, — “ You know very well that I am no fool, and people generally believe me. I have done CAB EUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG. 295 you a service now and tlien ; well, I have made in- quiries, and you would run a needless risk. I swear to you that there is nothing to be done in this house.” “ There are lone women,” said Gueulemer. “ No, they have moved away.” ‘‘Well, the candles haven’t,” Babet remarked; and he pointed over the trees to a light which was moving about the garret. It was Toussaint, who was up so late in order to hang up some linen to dry. Eponine made a final effort. “ Well,” she said, “ they are very poor people, and there is n’t a penny piece in the house.” “ Go to the de\dl,” cried Thenardier ; “ when we have turned the house topsy-turvy, and placed the cellar at top and the attics at the bottom, we udll tell you what there is inside, and whether they are halles, ronds, or broques [francs, sous, or liards].” And he thrust her away that he might pass. “ My kind M. Montparnasse,” Eponine said, “ I ask you, who are a good fellow, not to go in.” “ Take care, you ’ll cut yourself,” ISIontparnasse replied. Thenardier remarked, udth that decisive accent of his, — “ Decamp, fairy, and leave men to do their business.” Eponine let go Montparnasse’s hand, which she had seized again, and said, — “ So you intend to enter this house ? ” “ A little,” the ventriloquist said with a grin. 296 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. She leaned against the railings, faced these six men armed to the teeth, to whom night gave demo- niac faces, and said in a firm, low voice, — “ Well, I will not let you ! ” They stopped in stupefaction, but the ventriloquist completed his laugh. She continued, — “Friends, listen to me, for it’s now my turn to speak. If you enter this garden or touch this railing I will scream, knock at doors, wake people ; I will have you all six seized, and call the police.” “ She is capable of doing it,” Thenardier w'his- pered to the ventriloquist and Brujon. She shook her head, and added, — “ Beginning with my father.” Thenardier approached her. “ Not so close, my good man,” she said. He fell back, growling between his teeth, “ Why, what is the matter ? ” and added, “ chienne.” She burst into a terrible laugh. “ As you please, but you shall not enter ; but I am not the daughter of a dog, since I am the whelp of a wolf. You are six, but what do I care for that? You are men and I am a woman. You won’t frighten me, I can tell you, and you shall not enter this house because it does not please me. If you come nearer I bark ; I told you there was a dog, and I am it. I do not care a farthing for you, so go your way, for you annoy me ! Go Avhere you like, but don’t come here, for I oppose it. Come on, then, you with your stabs and I with my feet.” She advanced a step toward the bandits and said, with the same frightful laugh, — CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG. 297 “ Confound it ! I ’m not frightened. This summer I shall be hungry, and this winter I shall be cold, AVhat asses these men must be to think they can frighten a girl ! Afraid of what ? You have got dolls of mistresses who crawl under the bed when you talk big, but I am afraid of nothing ! ” She fixed her eye on Th^nardier, and said, — “^i^ot even of you, father.” Then she continued, as she turned her spectral, bloodshot eyeballs on each of the bandits in turn, — “ What do I care whether I am picked up to-mor- row on the pavement of the Rue Plumet stabbed by my father, or am found within a year in the nets of St. Cloud, or on Swan’s Island, among old rotting corks and drowned dogs ? ” She was compelled to break off, for she was attacked by a dry cough, and her breath came from her weak, narrow chest like the death-rattle. She continued, — “ I have only to cry out and people will come, patatras. You are six, but I am the whole world.” Thenardier moved a step toward her. “ Don’t come near me,” she cried. He stopped, and said gently, — “ Well, no ; I will not approach you ; but do not talk so loud. Do you wish to prevent us from work- ing, my daughter ? And yet we must earn a liveli- hood. Do you no longer feel any affection for your father ? ” “ You bore me,” said Eponine. “ Still we must live ; we must eat — ” “ Burst ! ” 298 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. This said, she sat down on the coping of the railings and sang, — “ Mon bras si dodu, Ma jainbe bien faite,^ Et le temps perdu.” She had her elbow on her knee, and her chin in her hand, and balanced her foot with a careless air. Her ragged gown displayed her thin shoulder-blades, and the neighboring lamp lit up her profile and attitude. Nothing more resolute or more surprising could well be imagined. The six burglars, amazed and savage at being held in check by a girl, went under the shadow of the lamp and held council, with humiliated and furious shrugs of their shoulders. She, however, looked at them witli a peaceful and stern air. “ There ’s something the matter with her,” said Babet ; “ some reason for it. Is she fond of the cab ? It ’s a pity to miss the affair. There are two women who live alone, an old cove who lives in a yard, and very decent curtains up to the windows. The old swell must be a sheney, and I consider the affair a good one.” “ Well, do you fellows go in,” Montparnasse ex- claimed, “ and do the trick. I will remain here with the girl, and if she stirs — ” He let the knife which he held in his hand glisten in the lamp-light. Th^nardier did not say a word, and seemed ready for anything they pleased. Brujon, who was a bit of an oracle, and who, as we know, “ put up the job,” had not yet spoken, and seemed thoughtful. He was supposed to recoil at nothing. CAB RUNS IN ENGLISH AND BARKS IN SLANG. 299 and it was notorious that he had plundered a police office through sheer bravado. INIoreover, he wrote verses and songs, which gave him a great authority. Babet questioned him. “ Have you nothing to say, Brujon ? ” Brujon remainecb silent for a moment, then tossed his head in several different ways, and at length decided on speaking, — t “ Look here. I saw this morning two sparrows fighting, and to-night I stumble over a quarrelsome woman : all that is bad, so let us be off.” They went away, and while doing so Montparnasse muttered, — “ No matter ; if you had been agreeable I would have cut her throat.” Babet replied, — “ I would n’t ; for I never strike a lady.” At the corner of the street they stopped, and exchanged in a low voice this enigmatical dialogue. “ Where shall we go and sleep to-night ? ” “ Under Pantin [Paris].” “ Have you your key about you, Th^nardier ? ” “ Of course.” Eponine, who did not take her eyes off them, saw them return by the road along which they had come. She rose and crawled after them, along the walls and the houses. She followed them thus along the boulevard ; there they separated, and she saw the six men bury themselves in the darkness, where they seemed to fade away. CHAPTER y. THINGS OF THE NIGHT. After the departure of the bandits the Rue Plumet resumed its calm, nocturnal aspect. What had just taken place in this street would not have astonished a forest, for the thickets, the coppices, the heather, the interlaced branches, and the tall grass, exist in a sombre way ; the savage crowd catches glimpses there of the sudden apparitions of the invisi- ble world ; what there is below man distinguishes there through the mist what is beyond man, and things unknown to us living beings confront each other there in the night. Bristling and savage nature is startled by certain approaches, in which it seems to feel the supernatural ; the forces of the shadow know each other and maintain a mysterious equilib- rium between themselves. Teeth and claws fear that which is unseizable, and blood-drinking bestiality, voracious, star\dng appetites in search of prey, the instincts armed with nails and jaws, which have for their source and object the stomach, look at and sniff anxiously the impassive spectral lineaments prowling about in a winding-sheet or standing erect in this vaguely-rustling robe, and which seems to them to live a dead and terrible life. These brutalities, which THINGS OF THE NIGHT. 301 are only physical, have a confused fear of dealing witli an immense obscurity condensed in an un- known being. A black figure barring the passage stops the wild beast short ; what comes fi’om the cemetery intimidates and disconcerts what comes from the den ; ferocious things are afraid of sinister things, and wolves recoil on coming across a ghoul. CHAPTER VI. MARIUS ACTUALLY GIVES COSETTE HIS ADDRESS. While this sort of human-faced dog was mount- ing guard against the railing, and six bandits fled be- fore a gi^ Marius was by Cosette’s side. /The sky had never been more star-spangled and more charm- ing, the trees more rustling, or the smell of the grass more penetrating ; never had the birds fallen asleep beneath the foliage with a softer noise ; never had all the harmonies of universal serenity responded better to the internal music of lovejJ never had Marius been more enamoured, happier, or in greater ecstasy. But he had found Cosette sad, she had been crying, and her eyes were red. It was the first eloud in this admirable dream. Marius’s first remark was, — “ What is the matter with you ? ” And she replied, — “ I will tell you.” Then she sat down on the beneh near the house, and while he took his seat, all trembling, by her side, she continued, — “ My father told me this morning to hold myself in readiness, for he had business to attend to, and we were probably going away.” Marius shuddered from head to foot. When we IvIAElUS GIVES COSETTE HIS ADDRESS. 303 reach the end of life, death signifies a departure, but at the beginning, departure means death. pFor six weeks past INIarius had slowly and gradually taken possession of Cosette ; it was a perfectly ideal but profound possession. As we have explained, in first love men take the soul long before the body ; at a later date they take the body before the soul, and at times they do not take the soul at all, — the Faublas and Prudhommes add, because there is none to take ; but the sarcasm is fortunately a blasphemy. Marius, then, possessed Cosette in the way that minds pos- sess ; but he enveloped her with his entire soul, and jealously seized her with an incredible comfiction. He possessed her touch, her breath, her perfume, the deep flash of her blue eyes, the softness of her skin when he touched her hand, the charming mark which she had on her neck, and all her thoughts. They had agreed never to sleep without dreaming of each other, and had kept their word. He, therefore, possessed all Cosette’s dreams. He looked at her incessantly, and sometimes breathed on the short hairs which she had on the back of her neck, and said to himself that there was not one of those hairs which did not belong to him. He contemplated and adored the things she wore, her bows, — her cuffs, her gloves, and slippers, — like sacred objects of which he was the master. He thought that he was the lord of the small tortoise-shell combs which she had in her hair; and he said to himself, in the confused stammering of delight that came on, that there was not a seam of her dress, not a mesh of her stockings, not a wrinkle in her bodice, which was not his. By the side of 304 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. Cosette he felt close to his property, close to his creat- ure, close to his despot and his slave. It seemed that they had so blended their souls that if they had wished to take them back it would have been impos- sible for them to recognize them. This is mine — no, it is mine — I assure you that you are mistaken. This is really I — what you take for yourself is my- self ; jMarius was something which formed part of Cosette, and Cosette was something that formed part of INIarius. Maims felt Cosette live in him ; to have Cosette, to possess Cosette, was to him not very differ- ent from breathing. It was in the midst of this faith, this intoxication, this virgin, extraordinary, and abso- lute possession, and this sovereignty, that the words “ We are going away” suddenly fell on him, and the stern voice of reality shouted to him, “ Cosette is not thine.” JMarius awoke. For six weeks, as we said, he had been living out of life, and the word “ depart ” made him roughly re-enter it. He could not find a word to say, and Cosette merely noticed that his hand was very cold. She said to him in her turn, — “ What is the matter with yo u?*^ He answered, in so low a voice that Cosette could scarce hear him, — “ I do not understand what you said.” She continued, — “ This morning my father told me to prepare my clothes and hold myself ready ;[that he would give me his linen to put in a portmantea^ that he was obliged to make a journey; that we were going away ; that we must have a large trunk for myself and a small one for him; to get all this ready within MARIUS GIVES COSETTE HIS ADDRESS. 305 a week, and that we should probably go to England.” “ Why, it is monstrous ! ” jVIarius exclaimed. It is certain that at this moment, in Marius’s mind, no abuse of power, no Aiolence, no abomina- tion of the most prodigious tyi’ants, no deed of Busiris, Tiberius, or Henry YIII., equalled in fero- city this one, — IM. Fauchelevent taking his daughter _^o England because he had business to attend to. Tie asked, in a faint voice, — “ And when Avill you start ? ” “ He did not say when.” “ And when will youj’eturn ? ” “ He did not tell me.”| And Marius rose and said coldly, — “ Will you go, Cosette ? ” Cosette turned to him, her beautifid eyes full of agony, and answered, with a species of wildness, — “ Where ? ” “ To England ; will you go ? ” “ MTiat can I do ? ” she said, clasping her hands. “ Then you will go ? ” “ If my father goes.” “ So you are determined to go ? ” Cosette seized Marius’s hand and pressed it as sole reply. “ Very well,” said Marius ; “ in that case I shall go elsewhere.” Rosette felt the meaning of this remark even more than she comprehended it ; she turned so pale_ that her face became white in the darkness, an^i. stammered, — VOL. IV. 20 30G THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. “ What do you mean ? ” Marius looked at her, then slowly raised his eyes to heaven, and replied, — “Nothing.” When he looked down again he saw Cosette smiling at him ; the smile of the woman whom we love has a brilliancy which is visible at night. “ How foolish we are ! Marius, I have an idea.” “What is it?” “Follow us if we go away! I will tell you whither, and you can join me where I am.” [Alarius was now a thoroughly wide-awake man, and had fallen back into reality ; hence he cried to Cosette, .=^ “ Go with you ! Are you mad ? Why, it would require money, and I have none ! Go to Eng- land ! Why, I already owe more than ten louis to Courfeyrac, one of my friends, whom you do not know ! I have an old hat, which is not worth three francs, a coat with buttons missing in front, my shirt is all torn, my boots let in water, I am out at elbows, but I have not thought of it for six weeks, and did not tell you. Cosette, I am a wretch ; you only see me at night and give me your love : were you to see me by day you would give me a sou. Go to Eng- land! Why, I have not enough to pay for the passport ! ” He threw himself against a tree, with his arms over his head and his forehead pressed to the bark, neither feeling the wood that grazed his skin nor the fever which spotted his temples, motionless and ready to fall, like the statue of despair. He re- MARIUS GIVES COSETTE HIS ADDRESS. 307 mained for a long time in this state — people would remain for an eternity in such abysses. At length he turned and heard behind a little stifled, soft, and sad sound ; it was Cosette sobbing ; J^he had been crying for more than two hours by the side of Marius, who was reflecting. He went up to her, fell on his knees, seized her foot, which peeped out from under her skirt, and kissed it. She let him do so in silence, for there are moments when a woman ac- cepts, like a sombre and resigned duty, the worship of love. “ Do not weep,” he said. She continued, — “ But I am perhaps going away, and you are not able to come with me.” He said, “ Do you love me ? ” She replied by sobbing that Paradisaic word, which is never more charming than through tears, “ I adore you.” He pursued, with an accent which was an inex- pressible caress, — “ Do not weep. Will you do so much for me as to check your tears ? ” ^ “ Do you love me ? ” she said. . He took her hand. “ Cosette, I have never pledged my word of honor to any one, because it frightens me, and I feel that my father is by the side of it. Well, I pledge you my most sacred word of honor that if you go away I shall die.” There was in the accent with which he uttered these words such a solemn and calm melancholy that 308 THE HUE PLUMET IDYLL. Cosette trembled, and she felt that chill which is produced by the passing of a sombre and true thing. In her terror she ceased to weep. “Now listen to me,” he said ; “ do not expect me to-morrow.” “ Why not ? ” “ Do not expect me till the day after.” “ Oh, why ? ” “ You will see.” Ij^A day without your coming ! — oh, it is im- possible ! ” “ Let us sacrifice a day, to have, perhaps, one whole life.” And Marius added in a low voice and aside, — “ He is a man who makes no change in his habits, and he never received anybody before the evening.” “ What man are you talking about ? ” Cosette asked. “I? I did not say anything.” “ What do you hope for, then ? ” “Wait till the day after to-morrow.” “ Do you desire it ? ” “Yes, Cosette.” He took her head between his two hands, as she stood on tiptoe to reach him and tried to see his hopes in his eyes. Marius added, — “ By the bye, you must know my address, for something might happen ; I live with my fi’iend Courfeyrac, at No. 16, Rue de la Verrerie.” He felt in his pockets, took out a knife, and scratched the address on the plaster of the wall. MARIUS GIVES COSETTE HIS ADDRESS. 309 In the mean while Cosette had begun looking in his eyes again, ULTqW me your thought, INIarius, for you have one. Tell it to me. Oh, tell it to me, so that I may pass a good night ! ” “ My thought is this : it is impossible that God can wish to separate us. Expect me the day after to-morrow.” “ What shall I do till then ? ” Cosette said. “ You are in the world, and come and go ; how happy men are ! but I shall remain all alone. Oh, I shall be so sadj] What ■will you do to-morrow night, tell me ? ” “ I shall try something.” “ In that case I shall pray to Heaven, and think of you, so that you may succeed. I will not question you any more, as you do not wish it^and you are my master. I Avill spend my evening in singing the song from ‘ Euryanthe,’ of which you are so fond, and which you heard one night under my shutters. But you ■will come eai^the next evening, and I shall ex- pect you at nine o’clock exactly. warn you. Oh, good Heaven ! how sad it is that the days are so long! You hear; I shall be in the garden as it is striking nine.” _ “ And I too.” And without saying a word, moved by the same thought, carried away by those electric currents which place two lovers in continual communication, both intoxicated with voluptuousness, even in their grief, fell into each other’s arms without noticing that their lips were joined together, while their up- raised eyes, overflowing -with ^stasy and full of 310 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. tears, contemplated the stars. When jMarius left, the street was deserted, for it was the moment when Eponine followed the bandits into the boulevard. While Marius dreamed with his head leaning against a tree an idea had crossed his mind, — an idea, alas ! w'hich himself eonsidered mad and impossible. He had formed a violent resolution. % CHAPTER VIL AX OLD HEART AXD A TOUXG HEART FACE TO FACE. Father Gillexormaxd at tliis period had just passed his uinety-first birthday, aud still lived with his daughter at No. 6, Rue des Filles-de-Calvaire, in the old house which was his own property. He was, it -will be remembered, one of those antique old men whose age falls on without bending them, and whom even sorrow cannot bow. Still, for some time past his daughter had said, “ My father is break- ing.” He no longer slapped the servants, or rapped so ^■iolently with his cane the staircase railing where Basque kept him waiting. The Revolution of July had not exasperated him for more than six months, and he had seen almost with tranquillity in the Moniteur this association of words, M. Humblot- Conte, Peer of France. The truth is, that the old man was filled with grief ; he did not bend, he did not surrender, for that was not possible either with his moral or physical nature ; but he felt himself failing in- wardly. For four years he had been awaiting Marius with a firm foot, — that is really the expression, ■ — with the con\dction that the wicked young scape- grace would ring his bell some day ; and now he had begun to say to himself, when depressed, that Marius 312 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. might remain away a little too long. It was not death that was insupportable to him, but the idea tliat perhaps he might not see Marius again. This idea had never occurred to him till one day, and at present it rose before him constantly, and chilled him to death. Absence, as ever happens in natural and true feelings, had only heightened the grandfather’s love for the ungrateful boy who had gone away like that. It is on December nights, when the thermome- ter is almost down at zero, that people tliink most of the sun. M. Gillenormand was, or fancied him- self, utterly incapable of taking a step toward his grandson ; “ I would rot first,” he said to himself. He did not think himself at all in the wrong, but lie only thouglit of Marius with profound tenderness, and the dumb despair of an old man who is going down into the valley of the shadows. He was be- ginning to lose his teeth, which added to his sorrow. M. Gillenormand, without confessing it to himself, however, for he would have been furious and ashamed of it, had never loved a mistress as he loved Marius, He had hung up in his room, as the first thing he might see on awaking, an old portrait of his other daughter, the one who was dead, Madame de Pont- mercy, taken when she was eighteen. He incessantly regarded this portrait, and happened to say one day, while gazing at it, — “ I can notice a likeness.” “To my sister?” Mile, Gillenormand remarked; “ oh, certainly,” The old man added, “ And to him too.” When he was once sitting, with his knees against AN OLD HEAKT AND A YOUNG HEART. 313 each other, aud liis eyes almost closed in a melan- choly posture, his daughter ventured to say to him, — “ Father, are you still so furious against — ” She stopped, not daring to go further. “ Against whom ? ” he asked. “ That poor Marius.” He raised his old head, laid his thin wrinkled fist on the table, and cried, in his loudest and most irritated accent, — “ Poor Marius, you say ! That gentleman is a scoundrel, a scamp, a little vain uigrate, without heart or soul, a proud and wicked man ! ” And he turned away, so that his daughter might not see a tear which he had in his eyes. Three days later he interrupted a silence which had lasted four hours to say to his daughter gruffly, — “ I had had the honor of begging Mademoiselle GiUenormand never to mention his name to me.” Aunt GiUenormand gave up all attempts, and formed this profound diagnostic : “ My father was never very fond of my sister after her folly. It is clear that he detests Marius.” “ After her folly ” meant, “ since she married the Colonel.” Still, as may be conjectured. Mademoiselle GiUenormand failed in her attempt to substitute her favorite, the officer of lancers, in Marius’s place. Theodule had met with no success, and iM. GiUenormand refused to accept the qid pro quo ; for the vacuum in the heart cannot be stopped by a bung. Theodule, on his side, while sniffing the inheritance, felt a repug- nance to the labor of pleasing, and the old gentle- 314 THE RUE RLUMET IDYLL. man annoyed the lancer, while the lancer offended the old gentleman. Lieutenant Theodule was cer- tainly gay but gossiping, frivolous but vulgar, a good liver but bad company ; he had mistresses, it is true, and he talked a good deal about them, it is also true, but then he talked badly. All his qualities had a defect, and M, Gillenormand was worn out with listening to the account of the few amours he had had round his barracks in the Rue de Babylone. And then Lieutenant Theodule called sometimes in uni- form with the tricolor cockade, which rendered him simply impossible. M. Gillenormand eventually said to his daughter, “ I have had enough of Theodule, for I care but little for a warrior in peace times. You can receive him if you like, but for my part I do not know whether I do not prefer the sabrers to the trailing of sabres, and the clash of blades in a battle is less wretched, after all, than the noise of scabbards on the pavement. And then, to throw up one’s head like a king of clubs, and to lace one’s self like a woman, to wear stays under a cuirass, is doubly ridiculous. When a man is a real man he keeps himself at an equal distance from braggadocio and foppishness. So keep your Theodule for your- self.” Though his daughter said to him, “After all, he is your grand-nephew,” it happened that M. Gillenormand, who was grandfather to the end of his nails, was not a grand-uncle at all ; the fact is, that as he was a man of sense and comparison, Theodule only served to make him regret Marius the more. One evening, it was the 4th of June, which did not AN OLD HEART AND A YOUNG HEART. 315 prevent Father Gillenorniand from having an excellent fire in his chimney, he had dismissed his daughter, who was sewing in the adjoining room. He was alone in his apartment with the pastoral hangings, with his feet on the andirons, half enveloped in his nine-leaved Coromandel screen, sitting at a table on which two candles burned under a green shade, swallowed up in his needle-worked easy-chair, and holding a book in his hand, which he was not read- ing. He was dressed, according to his mode, as an “ Incroyable,” and resembled an old portrait of Carat. This would have caused him to be followed in the streets ; but whenever he went out, his daughter wrapped him up iu a sort of episcopal wadded coat, which hid his clothing. At home he never wore a dressing-gown, save when he got up and went to bed. “ It gives an old look,” he was wont to say. Father Gillenormand was thinking of IMarius bitterly and loHngly, and, as usual, bitterness gained the upper hand. His savage tenderness always ended by boiling over and turning into indignation, and he was at the stage when a man seeks to make up his mind and accept that which lacerates. He was explaining to himself that there was no longer any reason for Marius’s return, that if he had meant to come home he would have done so long before, and all idea of it must be given up. He tried to form the idea that it was all over, and that he should die without seeing that “ gentleman ” again. But his whole nature revolted, and his old paternity could not consent. “ Mliat,” he said, and it was his mournful burden, “he will not come back!” and 316 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. liis old bald head fell on his chest, and he vaguely fixed a lamentable and irritated glance upon the ashes on his hearth. In the depth of this reverie his old servant Basque came in and asked, — “ Can you receive M. Marius, sir ? ” The old man sat up, livid, and like a corpse which is roused by a galvanic shock. All his blood flowed to his heart, and he stammered, — “ M. Marius ! Who ? ” “ I do not know,” Basque replied, intimidated and disconcerted by his master’s air, “ for I did not see him. It was JSTicolette who said to me just now, ‘ There is a young man here ; say it is M. Marius.’ ” Father Gillenormand stammered in a low voice, “ Show him in.” And he remained in the same attitude, with hang- ing head and eye fixed on the door. It opened, and a young man appeared ; it was Marius, who stopped in the doorway as if waiting to be asked in. His almost wretched clothes could not be seen in the obscurity produced by the shade, and only his calm, grave, but strangely sorrowful face could be distin- guished. Father Gillenormand, as if stunned by stupor and joy, remained for a few minutes seeing nothing but a brilliancy, as when an apparition rises before us. He was ready to faint, and perceived Marius through a mist. It was really he, it was really Marius ! At length, after four years ! He took him in entirely, so to speak, at a glance, and found him handsome, noble, distinguished, grown, a thorough man, with a proper attitude and a charm- ing air. He felt inclined to open his arms and call an old heart and a young heart. 317 the boy to him, his bowels were swelled with ravish- ment, aifectionate words welled np and overflowed his bosom. At length all this tenderness burst forth and reached his lips, and through the contrast which formed the basis of his character a harshness issued from it. He said roughly, — “ What do you want here ? ” Marius replied with an embarrassed air, — “ Sir — ” Monsieur Gillenormand would have liked for Marius to throw himself into his arms, and he was dissatisfied both with IVIarius and himself. He felt that he w^as rough and Marius cold, and it was an insupportable and irritating anxiety to the old gen- tleman to feel himself so tender and imploring within, and unable to be otherwise than harsh ex- ternally. His bitterness returned, and he abruptly interrupted IMarius. “ In that case, why do you come ? ” The “ in that case ” meant “ if you have not come to embrace me.” Marius gazed at his ancestor’s marble face. “Sir—” The old gentleman resumed in a stern voice, — “ Have you come to ask my pardon ? Have you recognized your error ? ” He believed that he was putting Marius on the right track, and that “ the boy ” was going to give way. Marius trembled, for it was a disavowal of his father that was asked of him, and he lowered his eyes and replied, “ No, sir.” “Well, in that case,” the old man exclaimed im- 318 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. petuously, and with a sharp sorrow full of anger, “ what is it you want of me ? ” INIarius clasped his hands, advanced a step, and said, in a w'eak, trembling voice, — “ Take pity on me, sir.” This word moved M. Gillenormand ; had it come sooner it would have softened him, but it came too late. The old gentleman rose, and rested both liands on his cane ; his lips were white, his forehead shook, but his lofty stature towered over the stooping Mariiis. “ Pity on you, sir ! The young man asks pity of an old man of ninety-one ! You are entering life, and I am lea\'ing it ; you go to the play, to balls, to the coffeediouse, the billiard-table ; you are witty, you please women, you are a pretty fellow, while I spit on my logs in the middle of summer ; you are rich with the only wealth there is, while I have all the poverty of old age, infirmity, and isolation. You have your two-and-thirty teeth, a good stomach, a quick eye, strength, appetite, health, gayety, a forest of black hair, while I have not even my white hair left. I have lost my teeth, I am losing my legs, I am losing my memory, for there are three names of streets which I incessantly confound, — the Rue Chariot, the Rue du Chaume, and the Rue St. Claude. Such is my state ; you have a whole future before you, full of sunshine, while I am beginning to see nothing, as I have advanced so far into night. You ax’e in love, that is a matter of course, while I am not beloved by a soul in the world, and yet you ask me for pity ! By Jove ! Molifere forgot that. If that AN OLD HEART AND A YOUNG HEART. 319 is tlie way in whicli you lawyers jest at the palais, I compliment yon most sincerely upon it, for you are droll fellows.” And the octogenarian added, in a serious and wrathful voice, — “ Well ; what is it you want of me ? ” “ I am aware, sir,” said Marius, “ that my jwesence here displeases you ; but I have only come to ask one thing of you, and then I shall go away at once.” “ You are a fool ! ” the old man said. “ Who told you to go away ? ” This was the translation of the tender words which he had at the bottom of his heart. “ Ask my pardon, why don’t you ? and throw your arms round my neck.” M. Gillenormand felt that Marius was going to leave him in a few moments, that his bad reception offended him, and that his harshness expelled him ; he said all this to himself, and his grief was aug- mented by it, and as his grief immediately turned into passion his harshness grew the greater. He had wished that Marius should understand, and Marius did not understand, which rendered the old gentleman furious. He continued, — “ What ! you insulted me, your grandfather ; you left my house to go the Lord knows whither ; you broke your aunt’s heart ; you went away to lead a bachelor’s life, — of course that ’s more convenient, — to play the fop, come home at all hours, and amuse yourself ; you have given me no sign of life ; you have incurred debts without even asking me to pay them ; you have been a breaker of windows and a brawler ; and at the end of four years you return to 320 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. my house and have nothing more to say to me than that ! ” This violent way of forcing the grandson into tenderness only produced silence on the part of Marius, M. Gillenorinand folded his arms, — a ges- ture which with him was peculiarly imperious, — and bitterly addressed Marius, — “ Let us come to an end. You have come to ask something of me, you say. Well, what is it ? Speak!” “ Sir,” said Marius, with the look of a man who feels that he is going to fall over a precipice, “ I have come to ask your permission to marry.” M. Gillenormand rang the bell, and Basque poked his head into the door. “ Send my daughter here.” A second later the door opened again, and Mile. Gillenormand did not enter, but showed herself. Marius was standing silently, with drooping arms and the face of a criminal, while M, Gillenormand walked up and down the room. He turned to his daughter and said to her, — “ It is nothing. This is M. Marius ; wish him good-evening. This gentleman desires to marry. That will do. Be off ! ” The sound of the old man’s sharp, hoarse voice announced a mighty fury raging within him. The aunt looked at Marius in terror, seemed scarce to recognize him, did not utter a syllable, and dis- appeared before her father’s breath like a straw before a hurricane. In the mean while M. Gillenor- mand had turned back, and was now leaning against the mantel-piece. AN OLD HEART AND A YOUNG HEART. 321 ‘‘ You many ! at the age of one-and-twenty ! You have settled all that, aud have ouly a permission to ask, a mere formality ! Sit down, sir. Well, you have had a revolution since I had the honor of seeing you last ; the Jacobins had the best of it, and you are of course pleased. Are you not a republican since you became a baron ? Those two things go famously together, and the republic is a sauce fof the barony. Are you one of the decorated of July ? Did you give your small aid to take the Louvi’e, sir ? Close by, in the Rue St. Antoine, opposite the Rue des Nonaindiferes, there is a cannon-ball imbedded in tlie wall of a house three stories up, with the in- scription, ‘July 28, 1830.’ Go and look at it, for it produces a famous elfect. Ah ! your friends do very pretty things ! By the way, are they not erecting a fountain on the site of the Due de Berry’s monu- ment ? So you wish to marry ? May I ask, without any indiscretion, who the lady is ? ” He stopped, and before JMarius had time to answer, he added violently, — “ Ah ! have you a profession, a fortune ? How much do you earn by your trade as a lawyer ? ” “ Nothing,” said Marius, with a sort of fierceness and almost stern resolution. “ Nothing ? Then you have ouly the twelve hun- dred livres which I allow you to live on ? ” Marius made no reply, and M. Gillenormand continued, — “ In that case, I presume that the young lady i.5 wealthy ? ” “ Like myself.” VOL. IV. 21 322 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. “ What ! no dowry ? ” “No.” “ Any expectations ? ” “ I do not think so.” “ Quite naked ! And what is the father ? ” “ I do not know.” “ And what is her name ? ” “ Mademoiselle Fauchelevent.” “ Mademoiselle Fauchewhat ? ” “ Fauchelevent.” “ Ptt ! ” said the old gentleman. “ Monsieur ! ” Marius exclaimed. M. Gillenormand interrupted him, with the air of a man who is talking to himself, — “ That is it, one-aud-twenty, no profession, twelve hundred livres a year, and the Baroness Pontmercy mil go and buy two sous’ worth of parsley at the green-grocer’s ! ” “ Sir,” Marius replied in the wildness of the last vanishing hope, “ I implore you, I conjure you in Heaven’s name, with clasped hands I throw myself at your feet, — sir, permit me to marry her ! ” The old man burst into a sharp, melancholy laugh, through which he coughed and spoke, — “ Ah, ah, ah ! you said to yourself, ‘ I ’ll go and see that old periwig, that absurd ass ! What a pity that I am not five-and-twenty yet ! how I would send him a respectful summons ! Old fool, you are too glad to see me ; I feel inclined to marry Mamselle Lord- knows-who, the daughter of Monsieur Lord-knows- what. She has no shoes and I have no shirt ; that matches. I am inclined to throw into the river my AN OLD HEART AND A YOUNG HEART. 323 career, my youth, my future, my life, and take a plunge into m'etchedness with a wife round my neck — that is my idea, and you must consent : ’ and the old fossil will consent. Go in, my lad, fasten your paving- stone round your neck, marry your Pousselevent, your Coupeleveut, — never, sir, never ! ” “ Father — ” “ Never ! ” « Marius lost all hope through the accent with which this “ never ” was pronounced. He crossed the room slowly, with hanging head, tottering, and more like a man that is dying than one who is going away. M. Gillenormand looked after him, and at the moment Avhen the door opened and Marius was about to leave the room he took four strides with the senile vivacity of an impetuons and spoiled old man, seized Marius by the collar, pulled him back energetically into the room, threw him into an easy-chair, and said, — ‘‘ Tell me all about it.” The word which had escaped from Marius’s lips produced this revolution. Marius looked at M. Gillenormand haggardly, but his inflexible face expressed nought now but a rough and ineffable goodness. The ancestor had made way for the grandfather. “ Well, speak ; tell me of your love episodes, tell me all. Sapristi ! how stupid young men are ! ” “ My father ! ” iSIarius resumed. The old gentleman’s entire face was lit up with an indescribable radiance. “Yes, that is it, call me father, and you ’ll see.” 324 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. There was now something so gentle, so good, so open, and so paternal in this sharpness, that Marius, in this sudden passage from discouragement to hope, was, as it were, stunned and intoxicated. As he was seated near the table tlie light of the candles fell on his seedy attire, wliich Father Gillenormand studied mth amazement. “Well, father,” said Marius. “ What ! ” M. Gillenormand interrupted him, “ have you really no money ? You are dressed like a thief.” He felt in a drawer and pulled out a purse, which he laid on the table. “ Here are one hundred louis to buy a hat with.” “My father,” Marius continued, “my kind father. If you only knew how I love her ! You cannot im- agine it. The first time I saw her was at the Lux- embourg, where she came to walk. At the begin- ning I paid no great attention to her, and then I know not how it happened, but I fell in love with her. Oh, how wretched it made me ! I see her now every day at her own house, and her father knows nothing about it. Just fancy, they are going away ; we see each other at night in the garden ; her father means to take her to England ; and then I said to myself, ‘ I will go and see my grandfather and tell him about it.’ I should go mad first, I should die, I should have a brain fever, I should throw myself into the water. I must marry her, or else I shall go mad. That is the whole truth, and I do not believe that I have forgotten anything. She lives in a garden with a railing to it, in the Rue Plumet : it is on the side of the Invalides.” AN OLD HEART AND A YOUNG HEART. 325 Father Gillenormand was sitting radiantly by ]Ma- rius’s side : while listening and enjoying the sound of his voice he enjoyed at the same time a lengthened pinch of snuff. At the words “ Rue Plumet ” he broke off inhaling, and allowed the rest of the snuff to fall on his knees. “ Rue Plumet ! Did you say Rue Plumet ? Only think ! Is there not a barrack down there ? Oh yes, of course there is ; your cousin Theodtde, the officer, the lancer, told me about it — a little girl, my dear fellow, a bttle girl ! By Jove ! yes. Rue Plumet, which used formerly to be called Rue Blomet. I remember it all now, and I have heard about the petite behind the railings in the Rue Plumet. In a garden, a Pa- mela. Your taste is not bad. I am told she is very tidy. Between ourselves, I believe that ass of a lancer has courted her a little ; I do not exactly know how far matters have gone, but, after all, that is of no consequence. Besides, there is no belie\'ing him ; he boasts. Marius, I think it very proper that a young man like you should be in love, for it be- comes your age, and I would sooner have you in love than a Jacobin. I would rather know you caught by a petticoat, ay, by twenty petticoats, than by Monsieur de Robespierre. For my part, I do myself the justice of saying that, as regards sans-culottes, I never loved any but women. Pretty girls are pretty girls, hang it all ! and there is no harm in that. And so she receives you behind her father’s back, does she ? That ’s all right, and I had affairs of the same sort, more than one. ^ Do you know what a man does in such cases ? He does not regard the 326 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. matter ferociously, lie does not liurl himself into matrimony, or conclude with marriage and M. le JVIaire in his scarf. No, he is, although foolish, a youth of spirits and of good sense. Glide, mortals, but do not marry. Such a young man goes to his grandfather, who is well inclined after all, and who has always a few rolls of louis in an old drawer, and he says to him, ‘ Grandpapa, that ’s how matters stand ; ’ and grandpapa says, ‘ It is very simple ; youth must make and old age break, I have been young and you will be old. All right, my lad, you will re- quite it to your grandson. Here are two hundred pistoles ; go and amuse yourself, confound you ! ’ That is the way in which the matter should be arranged ; a man does not marry, but that is no obstacle : do you understand ? ” Marius, petrified and incapable of uttering a word, shook his head in the negative. The old gentleman burst into a laugh, winked his aged eyelid, tapped him on the knee, looked at him in both eyes with a mysterious and radiant air, and said with the tender- est shrug of the shoulders possible, — “ Yoii goose ! make her your mistress ! ” Marius turned pale ; he had understood nothing of what his grandfather had been saying, and this maundering about the Rue Blomet, Pamela, the bar- racks, the lancer, had passed before Marius like a phantasmagoria. Nothing of all this could affect Cosette, who was a lily, and the old gentleman was wandering. But this divagation had resulted in a sentence which Marius understood, and which was a mortal insult to Cosette, and the words. Make her AN OLD HEART AND A YOUNG HEART. 327 your mistress, passed through the pure young man’s heart like a sword-blade. He rose, picked up his hat which was on the gTOund, and walked to the door with a firm, assured step. Then he turned, gave his grandfather a low bow, drew himself up again, and said, — “ Five years ago you outraged my father ; to-day you outrage my wife. 1 have uothing more to ask of you, sir ; farewell ! ” Father Gillenormaud, who was stupefied, opened his mouth, stretched out his arms, strove to rise, and ere he was able to utter a word, the door had closed again, and Marius had disappeared. The old gentle- man remained for a few minutes motionless, and as if thunderstruck, unable to speak or breathe, as though a garroter’s hand were compressing his throat. At length he tore himself out of his easy-chair, ran to the door as fast as a man can run at ninety-one, opened it, and cried, — ‘‘Help! help!” His daughter appeared, and then his serv^ants ; he went on with a lamentable rattle in his throat, — “ Run after him ! catch him up ! How did I offend him ? He is mad and going away ! Oh Lord, oh Lord ! this time he will not return.” He went to the wdndow which looked on the street, opened it with his old trembling hands, bent half his body out of it, while Basque and Nicolette held his skirts, and cried, — “ Marius ! Marius ! Marius ! Marius ! ” But Marius could not hear him, for at this very moment he was turning the corner of the Rue St. 328 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. Louis. The nonagenarian raised his hands twice or thrice to his temples with an expression of agony, tottered back, and sank into an easy-chair, pulseless, voiceless, and tearless, shaking his head and moving his lips with a stupid air, and having nothing left in his eyes or heart but a profound and gloomy rigidity which resembled night. BOOK IX. WHERE ARE THEY GOING? CHAPTER I. JEAN VALJEAN. That same day, about four in the afternoon, Jean Valjean was seated on one of the most solitary slopes of the Champ de Mars. (Either through prudence, a desire to reflect, or simply in consequence of one of those insensible changes of habits which gradually introduce themselves into all existences, he now went out very rarely Avith Cosette. He had on his work- man’s jacket and gray canvas trousers, and his long peaked cap concealed his face. He Avas at present calm and happy by Cosette’s side ; what had startled and troubled him for a Avhile Avas dissipated ; but during the last week or fortnight anxieties of a fresh nature had sprung up. One day, Avhile Avalking along the bouleA'ard, he noticed Th^nardier ; thanks to his disguise, Thenardier did not recognize him, but after that Jean Valjean saAV him several times again, and noAV felt a certainty that Thenardier Avas prowling about the quarter. This Avas sufficient to make him form a grand resolution, for Thenardier 330 THE HUE PLUMET lUTLL. jjreseiit was every peril at once ; moreover, Paris was not quiet, and political troubles offered this in- convenience to any man who had something in his life to hide, — that the police had become very restless and suspicious, and when trying to find a man like Pepin or iMorey, might very easily discover a man like Jean Valjean. He therefore resolved to leave Paris, even France, and go to England ; he had warned Cosette, and hoped to be off within a week. He was sitting on the slope, revolving in his mind all sorts of thoughts, ■ — Tlninardier, the police, the jour- ney, and the difficulty of obtaining a passport. From all these points of view he was anxious : and lastly, an inexplicable fact, which had just struck him, and from which he Avas still hot, added to his alarm. On the morning of that very day he, the only person up in the house, and walking in the garden before Cosette’s shutters were opened, suddenly perceived this line on the Avail, probably scratched with a nail, 16 Rue de la Verrerie. It was quite recent ; the lines were Avhite on the old black mortar, and a bed of nettles at the foot of the Avail was poAvdered Avith fine fresh plasterr\ This had probably been inscribed dm’ing the nighfT What Avas it, — an address, a signal for others, or a warn- ing for himself? In any case, it Avas CAudent that the secrecy of the garden was violated, and that stran- gers entered it. d3e remembered the strange incidents Avhich had already alarmed the house,'" and his mind Avas at work on this subject ; but he Avas careful not to say a Avord to Cosette about the line Avritten on the Avail, for fear of alarming her. In the midst of JEAN VALJEAN. 331 his troubled thoughts he perceived, from a shadow which the sun threw, that some one was standing on the crest of the slope immediately behind him. He was just going to turn, when a folded paper fell on his knees, as if a hand had thrown it over his head ; he opened the paper and read these words, written in large characters, and in pencil ; Leave your HOUSE. Jean Valjean rose smartly, but there was no longer any one on the slope ; he looked round him, and perceived a person, taller than a child and shorter than a man, dressed in a gray blouse and dust- colored cotton-velvet trousers, bestriding the para- pet, and slipping down into the moat of the Champ de Mars. Jean Valjean at once went home very thoughtfully. CHAPTER II. MARIUS. Marius had left M, Gillenormand’s house in a wretched state ; he had gone in with very small hopes, and came out with an immense despair. However, — • those who have watched the beginnings of the human heart will comprehend it, — the lancer, the officer, the fop, cousin Th^odule, had left no shado-H^ on his mind, not the slightest. The dramatic poet might apparently hope for some complications to be produced by this revelation, so coarsely made to the grandson by the grandfather ; but what the drama would gain by it truth would lose. Marius was at that age when a man believes nothing that is wrong ; later comes the age when he believes everything. Suspicions are only wrinkles, and early youth has none ; what o’erthrows Othello glides over Candide. Suspect Cosette ? Marius could have com- mitted a multitude of crimes more easily. He began walking about the streets, the resource of those who suffer, and he thought of nothing which he might have remembered. At two in the morning he went to Courfeyrac’s lodging and threw himself on his mattress full dressed ; it was bright sunshine when he fell asleep, with that frightful oppressive sleep MARIUS. 333 which allows ideas to come and go in the brain. When he awoke he saw Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Feuilly, and Conibeferre, all ready to go ont, and extremely busy. Courfeyrac said to him, — “Are you coming to General Lamarque’s funeral?” It seemed to him as if Courfeyrac were talking Chinese. He went out shortly after them, and put in his pockets the pistols which Javert had intrusted to him at the affair of February 3, and which still remained in his possession. They were still loaded, and it woidd be difficult to say Avhat obscure notion he had in his brain when lie took them The whole day he wandered about, without knowing where ; it rained at times, but he did not perceive it ; he bought for his dinner a halfpenny roll, put it in his pocket, and forgot it. It appears that he took a bath in the Seine without being conscious of it, for there are moments when a man has a furnace under his skull, and Marius had reached one of those moments. He hoped for nothing, feared nothing now, and had taken this step since the previous day. He awaited the evening with a feverish impatience, for he had but one clear idea left, that at nine o’clock he should see Cosette. This last happiness was now his sole future ; after that came the shadow. At times, while walking along the most deserted boule- vards, he imagined that he could hear strange noises in Paris ; then he thrust his head out of his reverie, and said, — “ Can they be fighting ? ” At nightfall, at nine o’clock precisely, he was at the Rue Plumet, as he had promised Cosette. He had not seen her for eight-aud-forty hours ; he was about to see her 334 THE RUE PLUMET IDYLL. again. Every other thought was effaced, and he only felt an extraordinary and profound joy. Those minutes in which men live ages have this sovereign and admirable thing about them, that at the moment when they pass they entirely occupy the heart. Marius removed the railing and rushed into the garden. Cosette was not at the place where she usually waited for him, and he crossed the garden and went to the niche near the terrace. “ She is waiting for me there,” he said; but Cosette was not there. He raised his eyes and saw that the shutters of the house were closed ; he walked round the gar- den, and the garden was deserted^ Then he returned to the garden, and, mad with love, terrified, exas- perated with grief and anxiety, he rapped at the shutters, like a master who returns home at a late hour. He rapped, he rapped again, at the risk of seeing the window open and the father’s frowning face appear and ask him, — “ What do you want ? ” This was nothing to what he caught a glimpse of. When he had rapped, he raised his voice, and called Cosette. “ Cosette ! ” he cried : “ Cosette ! ” he re- peated imperiously. There was no answer. It was all over ; there was no one in the garden, no one in the house. Marius fixed his desperate eyes on this mournful house, which was as black, as silent, and more empty, than a tomb. He gazed at the stone bench on which he had spent so many adorable hours by Cosette’s side; then he sat down on the garden steps, with his heart full of gentleness and resolution ; he blessed his love in his heart, and said to himself that since Cosette was gone all left him MARIUS. 335 vras to die.^ All at once he heard a voice whicli seemed to come from the street, crying through the trees, — “ Monsieur Marius ! ” He drew himself up. “ Hilloh ! ” he said. “ Monsieur Marius, are you there ? ” 1 es. “ Monsieur Marius,” the voice resumed, “ your friends are waiting for you at the barricade in the Rue de la Chanvrerie.” This voice was not entirely strange to him, and resembled Eponine’s rough, hoarse accents. Marius ran to the railings, pulled aside the shifting bar, passed his head through, and saw some one, who seemed to be a young man, running away in the gloaming. CHAPTER III. M, MABCEUF. Jean Valjean’s purse was useless to M. Mabceuf, wlio in his venerable childish austerity had not accepted the gift of the stars ; he had not allowed that a star could coin itself into louis d’or, and he had not guessed that what fell from heaven came from Gavroche. Hence he carried the purse to the police commissary of the district, as a lost object, placed by the finder at the disposal of the claimants. The purse was really lost ; we need hardly say that no one claimed it, and it did not help M, IMaboeuf. In other respects M. Mabceuf had continued to de- scend : and the indigo experiments had succeeded no better at the Jardin des Plantes than in his garden of Austerlitz, The previous year he owed his house- keeper her wages ; and now, as we have seen, he owed his landlord his rent. The Government pawn- brokers’ office sold the copper-plates of his Flora, at the expiration of thirteen months, and a copper- smith had made stewpans of them. When his plates had disappeared, as he could no longer com- plete the unbound copies of his Flora, which he still possessed, he sold off plates and text to a second- hand bookseller as defective. Nothing was then left him of the labor of his whole life, and he began M. MABCEDF. 337 eating the money produced by these copies. When he saw that this poor resource was growing exhausted he gave up his garden, and did not attend to it ; before, and long before, lie had given up the two esrjirs and the slice of beef which he ate from time to time, and now dined on bread and potatoes. He had sold his last articles of furniture, then everything he had in duplicate, in linen, clothes, and coverlids, and then his herbals and plates ; but he still had his most precious books, among them being several of great rarity, such as the “ Les Quadrins Historiques de la Bible,” the edition of 1560 ; “ La Concordance des Bibles, ’ of Pierre de Besse ; “ Les Marguerites de la iMarguerite,” of Jean de la Haye, with a dedi- cation to the Queen of Navarre ; the work on the “ Duties and Dignity of an Ambassador,” by the Sieur de Yilliers Hotmail ; a “ Florilegium Rabbinicum,” of 1644 ; a Tibullus, of 1567, with the splendid im- print “ Venetiis, in aedibus Manutianis ; ” and lastly a Diogenes Laertius, printed at Lyons in 1644, in which were tlie famous various readings of the Vatican manuscript 411, of the thirteenth century, and those of the two Venetian codices 393 and 394, so usefully consulted by Henri Estienne, and all the passages in the Doric dialect, only to be found in the cele- brated twelfth century manuscript of the Naples library. M. Maboeuf never lit a fire in his room, and went to bed with the sun, in order not to burn a candle : it seemed as if he no longer had neighbors, for they shunned him when he went out, and he noticed it. The wretchedness of a child interests a mother, the wretchedness of a youth interests an old VOL. IV. 22 338 THE EUE PLUMET IDYLL. mau, but the wretchedness of an old mau interests nobody, and it is the coldest of all distresses. Still M. Maboeuf had not entirely lost his childlike seren- ity ; his eye acquired some vivacity when it settled on his books, and he smiled when he regarded the Diogenes Laertius, which was a unique copy. His glass case was the only furniture which he had retained beyond what was indispensable. One day Mother Plutarch said to him, — “ I have no money to buy dinner with.” What she called dinner consisted of a loaf and four or five potatoes. “ Can’t you get it on credit ? ” said M. Maboeuf. “ You know very well that it is refused me.” M. JMaboeuf opened his bookcase, looked for a long time at all his books in turn, as a father, obliged to decimate his children, would look at them before selecting, then took one up quickly, put it under his arm, and went out. He returned two hours after with nothing under his arm, laid thirty sous on the table, and said, — “ You will get some dinner.” From this moment IM other Plutarch saw a dark veil, which was not raised again, settle upon the old gentleman’s candid face. The next day, the next after that, and every day, IM. JMaboeuf had to begin again ; he went out with a book and returned with a i^iece of silver. As the second-hand booksellers saw that he was compelled to sell, they bought for twenty sous books for Avhich he had paid twenty francs, and frequently to the same dealers. Volume by volume his whole library passed away, and he M. MABCEUF. 339 said at times, “ And yet I am eighty years of age,” as if he had some lurking hope that he should reach the end of his days ere he reached the end of his books. His sorrow grew, but once he had a joy : he went out with a Robert Estienne, which he sold for thirty-five sous on the Quai Malaquais, and came home with an Aldus which he had bought for forty sous in the Rue de Grbs. “ I owe five sous,” he said quite radiantly to Mother Plutarch, but that day he did not dine. He belonged to the Horticul- tural Society, and his poverty was knovm. The President of the Society called on him, promised to speak about him to the Minister of Commerce and Agriculture, and did so. “ What do you say ? ” the minister exclaimed. “ I should think so ! an old savant ! a botanist ! an inoffensive man ! we must do something for him.” The next day M. Maboeuf received an inHtation to dine with the minister, and, trembling with joy, showed the letter to Mother Plutarch. “ We are saved ! ” he said. On the ap- pointed day he went to the minister’s, and noticed that his ragged cravat, his long, square-cut coat, and shoes varnished with white of egg, astounded the footman. No one spoke to him, not even the min- ister, and at about ten in the evening, while still waiting for a word, he heard the minister’s ^\dfe, a handsome lady in a low-necked dress, whom he had not dared to approach, ask, “ Who can that old gentleman be ? ” He went home afoot at midnight through tlie pouring rain ; he had sold an Elzevir to pay his hackney coach in going. Every evening, before going to bed, he had fallen 340 THE KUE PLUMET IDYLL. into the habit of reading a few pages of his Diogenes Laertius ; for he knew enough of Greek to enjoy the peculiarities of the text which he possessed, and had no other joy now left him. A few weeks passed away, and all at once Mother Plutarch fell ill. There is one thing even more sad than having no money to buy bread at a baker’s, and that is, not to have money to buy medicine at the chemist’s. One night the doctor had ordered a most expensive potion, and tlien the disease grew worse, and a nurse was necessary. M. ISIaboeuf opened his bookcase, but there was nothing left in it ; the last volume had departed, and the only thing left him was the Diogenes Laertius. He placed the unique copy under his arm and went out, — it was June 4, 1832 ; he proceeded to Royol's successor at the Porte St. Jacques, and returned with one hundred francs. He placed the pile of five-franc pieces on the old servant’s table, and entered his bedroom without uttering a syllable. At dawn of the next day he seated himself on the overturned post in his garden, and over the hedge he might have been seen the whole moniing, motion- less, with drooping head, and eyes vaguely fixed on the faded flower-beds. It rained every now and then, but the old man did not seem to notice it ; but in the afternoon extraordinary noises broke out in Paris, resembling musket-shots, and the clamor of a mul- titude. Father Maboeuf raised his head, noticed a gardener passing, and said, — “ What is the matter ? ’’ The gardener replied, with the spade on his back, and with the most peaceful accent, — M. JIABCEUF. 3ll “ It ’s the riots.” “ ^yhat ! Riots ? ” “ Yes ; they are fighting.” “ Why are they fighting ? ” “ The Lord alone knows,” said the gardener. “ In what direction ? ” “ Over by the arsenal.” Father iNIaboeuf went into his house, took his hat, mechanically sought for a book to place under his arm, found none, said, “ Ah, it is true ! ” and went out with a wandering look. BOOK X. THE FIFTH OF JUNE, 1832. CHAPTER 1. THE SURFACE OP THE QUESTION. Op what is a revolt composed ? Of nothing and of everything, of an electricity released by degrees, of a flame which suddenly breaks out, of a wandering strength and a passing breath. This breath meets with heads that talk, brains that dream, souls that suffer, passions that burn, and miseries which yell, and carries them off with it. Whither ? It is chance work ; through the State, through the laws, through prosperity and the insolence of others. Irritated con- victions, embittered enthusiasms, aroused indigna- tions, martial instincts suppressed, youthful courage exalted, and generous blindnesses ; curiosity, a taste for a change, thirst for something unexpected, the feeling which causes us to find pleasure in reading the announcement of a new piece, or on hearing the machinist’s whistle ; vague hatreds, rancors, disap- pointments, every vanity which believes that destiny has been a bankrupt to it ; straitened circumstances, empty dreams, ambitions surrounded with escarp- THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION. 343 ments, every man who hopes for an issue from an overthrow, and, lastly, at the very bottom, the mob, that mud which takes fire, — such ^ire the elements of riot. The greatest and the most infamous, beings who prowl about beyond the pale of everything while awaiting an opportunity, gypsies, nameless men, highway vagabonds, the men who sleep o’ nights in a desert of houses with no other roof but the cold clouds of heaven, those who daily ask their bread of chance and not of toil ; the unknown men of wretched- ness and nothingness, bare arms and bare feet, be- long to the riot. Every man who has in his soul a secret revolt against any act of the State, of life, or of destiny, borders on riot ; and so soon as it ap- pears he begins to quiver and to feel himself lifted by the whirlwind. Riot is a species of social atmospheric Avaterspout, which is suddenly formed in certain conditions of temperature, and which in its revolutions mounts, runs, thunders, tears up, razes, crushes, demolishes, and uproots, bearing AAnth it grand and paltry natures, the strong man and the weak mind, the trunk of a tree and the wisp of straw. Woe to the man whom it carries as Avell as to the one it dashes at, for it breaks one against the other. It communicates to those whom it seizes a strange and extraordinary power ; it fills the first comer Avith the force of eA^ents and conA’erts eA’erything into projectiles ; it makes a cannon-ball of a stone, and a general of a porter. If we may belieA^e certain oracles of the crafty policy, a little amount of riot is desirable from the governing point of A’iew. The system is, that riot strengthens 344 THE RUE ST. DENIS EPIC. those governments which it does not ovcrtlirow ; it tries the army ; it concentrates the bourgeoisie, strengthens the muscles of the police, and displays the force of the social framework. It is a lesson in gymnastics, and almost hygiene ; and power feels better after a riot, as a man does after a rubbing down. Riot, thirty years ago, was also regarded from other stand-points. There is for everything a theory which proclaims itself as “ common sense,” a mediation offered between the true and the false : explanation, admonition, and a somewhat haughty extenuation which, because it is composed of blame and apology, believes itself wisdom, and is often nothing but pedantry. An entire political school, called the “ Juste milieu,” emanated from this, and between cold water and hot water there is the luke- warm-water party. This school, with its false depth entirely superficial, which dissects effects without going back to causes, scolds, from the elevation of semi-science, the agitations of the juiblic streets. If we listen to this school we hear: “Theriots which complicated the deed of 1830 deprived that grand event of a portion of its purity. The revolu- tion of July was a fine blast of the popular wind, suddenly followed by a blue sky, and the riot caused a cloudy sky to reappear, and compelled the revolu- tion, originally so remarkable through unanimity, to degenerate into a quarrel. In the revolution of July, as in every progress produced by a shock, there were secret fractures ; the riot rendered them perceptible. After the revolution of July only the deliverance was felt, but after the riots the catastrophe Avas felt. THE SURFACE OF THE QUESTION. 345 Every riot closes shops, depresses the funds, conster- uixtes the Stock Exchange, suspends trade, checks business, and entails bankruptcies; there is no money, trade is disconcerted, capital is Avithdrawn, labor is at a discount, there is fear everyAAdiere, and counter- strokes take place in e\'ery city, whence come gulfs. It is calculated that the^first day of riot costs France twenty millions of francs, the second forty, and the third sixty. Hence a riot of three days costs one hun- dred and tAventy millions ; that is to say, if Ave only regard the financial result, is equi\’aleut to a disaster, shipAvreck, or lost action, Avhich might annihilate a fieet of sixty A'essels of the line. Indubitably, riots, historically regarded, had their beauty; the Avar of the paving-stones is no less grand or pathetic than the war of thickets ; in the one there is the soul of forests, in the other the heart of cities ; one has Jean Chouan, the other has Jeanne. Riots lit up luridly but splendidly all the most original features of the Parisian cliaracter, — generosity, devotion, stormy gayety, students proving that bravery forms a part of intellect, the National Guard unswerAung, biAmuacs formed by shop-keepers, fortresses held by gamins, and contempt of death in the passers-by. Schools and legions came into collision, but, after all, there was only the difierence of age betAveen the combat- ants, and they are the same race ; the same stoical men who die at the age of twenty for their ideas, and at forty for their families ; the army, eA^er sad in cml wars, opposed prudence to audacity ; and the riots, Avhile manifesting the popular intrepidity, Avere the education of the bourgeois courage. That is all 346 THE EUE ST. DENIS EPIC- very well, but is all this worth the blood shed ? And then add to the bloodshed the future darkened, pro- gress compromised, anxiety among the better classes, honest liberals despairing, foreign absolutism de- lighted at these wounds dealt to revolution by itself, and the conquered of 1830 triumphing and shouting, ‘ Did we not say so ? ’ Add Paris possibly aggran- dized, France assuredly diminished. Add — for we must tell the whole truth — ■ the massacres which too often dishonored the victory of order, which became ferocious, over liberty which went mad, and we must arrive at the conclusion that riots have been fatal.” Thus speaks that wisdom, almost, with which the bourgeoisie, that people, almost, are so readily con- tented. For our part, we regret the word riots as being too wide, and consequently too convenient, and make a distinction between one popular move- ment and another ; jve do not ask ourselves Avhether a riot costs as much as a battle. In the first place, why a battle ? Here the question of war arises. Is war less a scourge than riot is a calamity ? And then, are all riots calamities ? And even supposing that July 14 cost one hundred and twenty millions, the establishment of Philip V. in Spain cost France two billions, and even were the price equal we should Ijrefer the 14th July. Besides, we reject these fig- ures, which seem reasons and are only words, and a riot being given, we examine it in itself. In all that the doctrinaire objection we have just reproduced says, the only question is the effect, and we seek for the cause. CHAPTER II. THE BOTTOM OF THE QUESTION. There is riot, and there is insurrection ; they are two passions, one of which is just, the other unjust. In democratic States, the only ones based on justice, it sometimes happens that the fi'action usurps power ; in that case the whole people rises, and the necessary demand for its rights may go so far as taking up arms. In all the questions which result from collec- tive sovereignty, the war of all against the fraction is insurrection, and the attack of the fraction on the masses is a riot ; according as the Tuileries contain the king or the convention, they are justly or unjustly attacked. The same guns pointed at the mob are in the wrong on August 14, and in the right on the 14th Vend^miaire. Their appearance is alike, but the base is different ; the Svdss defend what is false, and Bonaparte what is true. What universal suf- frage has done in its liberty and its sovereignty cannot be undone by the street. It is the same in matters of pure cmlization, and the instinct of the masses, clear-sighted yesterday, may be perturbed to-morrow. The same fury is legitimate against Terray and ab- surd against Turgot. Smashing engines, pillaging store-houses, tearing up rails, the demolition of docks. 348 THE RUE ST. DENIS EPIC. the wrong ways of multitudes, the denial of popular justice to progress, Ramus assassinated by the schol- ars, and Rousseau expelled from Switzerland by stones, — all this is riot. Israel rising against Moses, Athens against Phocion, Rome against Scipio, are riots, while Paris attacking the Bastille is insurrec- tion. The soldiers opposing Alexander, the sailors mutinying against Christopher Columbus, are the same revolt, — an impious revolt ; why ? Because Alexander does for Asia with the sword what Colum- bus does for America with the compass ; Alexander, like Columbus, finds a world. These gifts of a world to civilization are such increments of light, that any resistance in such a case is culpable. At times the people breaks its fidelity to itself, and the mob be- haves treacherously to the people. Can anything, for instance, be stranger than the long and sangui- nary protest of the salt smugglers, a legitimate chronic revolt which at the decisive moment, on the day of salvation, and in the hour of the popular victory, espouses the throne, turns royalist, and in- stead of an insurrection against the government be- comes a riot for it ? These are gloomy masterpieces of ignorance. The salt smuggler escapes from the royal gallows, and with the noose still round his neck mounts the white cockade. “ Death to the salt taxes ” brings into the world, “ Long live the king.” The killers of St. Bartholomew, the murderers of September, the massacrers of Avignon, the assassins of Coligny, of Madame de Lamballe, the assassins of Brune, the Miquelets, the Verdets, and the Caden- ettes, the Companions of Jehu, and the Chevaliers du THE BOTTOM OE THE QUESTION. 349 Brassard, — all this is riot. The Vendee is a grand Catliolic riot. The sound of right in motion can be recognized, and it does not always come from the trembling of the overthrown masses ; there are mad furies and cracked bells, and all the tocsins do not give the sound of bronze. The commotion of pas- sions and ignorances differs from the shock of pro- gress. Rise, if you like, but oidy to grow, and show me in what direction you are going, for insurrection is only possible Muth a forward movement. Any other uprising is bad, every violent step backwards is riot, and recoiling is an assault upon the human race. Insurrection is the outburst of tlie fury of truth ; the paving-stones which insurrection tears up emit the spark of right, and they only leave to riot their mud. Daiiton rising against Louis XVI. is in- surrection ; Hebert against Danton is riot. Hence it comes that if insurrection in given cases may be, as Lafayette said, the most holy of duties, riot may be the most fatal of attacks. There is also some difference in the intensity of caloric ; insurrec- tion is often a volcano, a riot often a straw fire. Revolt, as we have said, is sometimes found in the power. Polignac is a rioter, and Camille Desmoulins is a government. At times insurrection is a resurrec- tion. The solution of everything by universal suffrage being an absolutely modern fact, and all history an- terior to that fact being for four thousand years filled with violated right and the suffering of the peoples, each epoch of history brings with it the protest which is possible to it. Under the Caesars there was no insurrection, but there was Juvenal. Ihafacit indiy^ 350 THE RUE ST. DENIS EPIC. natio takes the place of the Gracchi. Under the Caesars there is the Exile of Syene, and there is also the man of the “ Annals.” We will not refer to the immense Exile of Patinos, who also crushes the real world with a protest in the name of the ideal world, converts a vision into an enormous satire, and casts on Rome-Niueveh, Rome-Babylon, and Rome-Sodom the flashing reflection of the Apocalypse. John on his rock is the- sphinx on its pedestal. We cannot under- stand him, for he is a Jew, and writes in Hebrew ; but the man who writes the “ Annals ” is a Latin, or, to speak more correctly, a Roman. As the Neros reign in the black manner, they must be painted in the same. Work produced by the graver alone would be pale, and so a concentrated biting prose must be poured into the lines. Despots are of some service to thinkers, for chained language is terrible language, and the writer doubles and triples his style when silence is imposed by a master on the people. There issues from this silence a certain mysterious fulness which filters