and fresh, the moment of the sun’s great gayety, the gardens which
surrounded the windows of Marius and Cosette felt the emotion of
waking, the hawthorn was on the point of budding, a jewelled garniture
of gillyflowers spread over the ancient walls, snapdragons yawned
through the crevices of the stones, amid the grass there was a charming
beginning of daisies, and buttercups, the white butterflies of the year
were making their first appearance, the wind, that minstrel of the
eternal wedding, was trying in the trees the first notes of that grand,
auroral symphony which the old poets called the springtide,—Marius said
to Cosette:—“We said that we would go back to take a look at our garden
in the Rue Plumet. Let us go thither. We must not be ungrateful.”—And
away they flitted, like two swallows towards the spring. This garden of
the Rue Plumet produced on them the effect of the dawn. They already
had behind them in life something which was like the springtime of
their love. The house in the Rue Plumet being held on a lease, still
belonged to Cosette. They went to that garden and that house. There
they found themselves again, there they forgot themselves. That
evening, at the usual hour, Jean Valjean came to the Rue des
Filles-du-Calvaire.—“Madame went out with Monsieur and has not yet
returned,” Basque said to him. He seated himself in silence, and waited
an hour. Cosette did not return. He departed with drooping head.
Cosette was so intoxicated with her walk to “their garden,” and so
joyous at having “lived a whole day in her past,” that she talked of
nothing else on the morrow. She did not notice that she had not seen
Jean Valjean.
“In what way did you go thither?” Jean Valjean asked her.”
“On foot.”
“And how did you return?”
“In a hackney carriage.”
For some time, Jean Valjean had noticed the economical life led by the
young people. He was troubled by it. Marius’ economy was severe, and
that word had its absolute meaning for Jean Valjean. He hazarded a
query:
“Why do you not have a carriage of your own? A pretty coupé would only
cost you five hundred francs a month. You are rich.”
“I don’t know,” replied Cosette.
“It is like Toussaint,” resumed Jean Valjean. “She is gone. You have
not replaced her. Why?”
“Nicolette suffices.”
“But you ought to have a maid.”
“Have I not Marius?”
“You ought to have a house of your own, your own servants, a carriage,
a box at the theatre. There is nothing too fine for you. Why not profit
by your riches? Wealth adds to happiness.”
Cosette made no reply.
Jean Valjean’s visits were not abridged. Far from it. When it is the
heart which is slipping, one does not halt on the downward slope.
When Jean Valjean wished to prolong his visit and to induce
forgetfulness of the hour, he sang the praises of Marius; he pronounced
him handsome, noble, courageous, witty, eloquent, good. Cosette outdid
him. Jean Valjean began again. They were never weary. Marius—that word
was inexhaustible; those six letters contained volumes. In this manner,
Jean Valjean contrived to remain a long time.
It was so sweet to see Cosette, to forget by her side! It alleviated
his wounds. It frequently happened that Basque came twice to announce:
“M. Gillenormand sends me to remind Madame la Baronne that dinner is
served.”
On those days, Jean Valjean was very thoughtful on his return home.
Was there, then, any truth in that comparison of the chrysalis which
had presented itself to the mind of Marius? Was Jean Valjean really a
chrysalis who would persist, and who would come to visit his butterfly?
One day he remained still longer than usual. On the following day he
observed that there was no fire on the hearth.—“Hello!” he thought. “No
fire.”—And he furnished the explanation for himself.—“It is perfectly
simple. It is April. The cold weather has ceased.”
“Heavens! how cold it is here!” exclaimed Cosette when she entered.
“Why, no,” said Jean Valjean.
“Was it you who told Basque not to make a fire then?”
“Yes, since we are now in the month of May.”
“But we have a fire until June. One is needed all the year in this
cellar.”
“I thought that a fire was unnecessary.”
“That is exactly like one of your ideas!” retorted Cosette.
On the following day there was a fire. But the two armchairs were
arranged at the other end of the room near the door. “—What is the
meaning of this?” thought Jean Valjean.
He went for the armchairs and restored them to their ordinary place
near the hearth.
This fire lighted once more encouraged him, however. He prolonged the
conversation even beyond its customary limits. As he rose to take his
leave, Cosette said to him:
“My husband said a queer thing to me yesterday.”
“What was it?”
“He said to me: ‘Cosette, we have an income of thirty thousand livres.
Twenty-seven that you own, and three that my grandfather gives me.’ I
replied: ‘That makes thirty.’ He went on: ‘Would you have the courage
to live on the three thousand?’ I answered: ‘Yes, on nothing. Provided
that it was with you.’ And then I asked: ‘Why do you say that to me?’
He replied: ‘I wanted to know.’”
Jean Valjean found not a word to answer. Cosette probably expected some
explanation from him; he listened in gloomy silence. He went back to
the Rue de l’Homme Armé; he was so deeply absorbed that he mistook the
door and instead of entering his own house, he entered the adjoining
dwelling. It was only after having ascended nearly two stories that he
perceived his error and went down again.
His mind was swarming with conjectures. It was evident that Marius had
his doubts as to the origin of the six hundred thousand francs, that he
feared some source that was not pure, who knows? that he had even,
perhaps, discovered that the money came from him, Jean Valjean, that he
hesitated before this suspicious fortune, and was disinclined to take
it as his own,—preferring that both he and Cosette should remain poor,
rather than that they should be rich with wealth that was not clean.
Moreover, Jean Valjean began vaguely to surmise that he was being shown
the door.
On the following day, he underwent something like a shock on entering
the ground-floor room. The armchairs had disappeared. There was not a
single chair of any sort.
“Ah, what’s this!” exclaimed Cosette as she entered, “no chairs! Where
are the armchairs?”
“They are no longer here,” replied Jean Valjean.
“This is too much!”
Jean Valjean stammered:
“It was I who told Basque to remove them.”
“And your reason?”
“I have only a few minutes to stay to-day.”
“A brief stay is no reason for remaining standing.”
“I think that Basque needed the chairs for the drawing-room.”
“Why?”
“You have company this evening, no doubt.”
“We expect no one.”
Jean Valjean had not another word to say.
Cosette shrugged her shoulders.
“To have the chairs carried off! The other day you had the fire put
out. How odd you are!”
“Adieu!” murmured Jean Valjean.
He did not say: “Adieu, Cosette.” But he had not the strength to say:
“Adieu, Madame.”
He went away utterly overwhelmed.
This time he had understood.
On the following day he did not come. Cosette only observed the fact in
the evening.
“Why,” said she, “Monsieur Jean has not been here today.”
And she felt a slight twinge at her heart, but she hardly perceived it,
being immediately diverted by a kiss from Marius.
On the following day he did not come.
Cosette paid no heed to this, passed her evening and slept well that
night, as usual, and thought of it only when she woke. She was so
happy! She speedily despatched Nicolette to M. Jean’s house to inquire
whether he were ill, and why he had not come on the previous evening.
Nicolette brought back the reply of M. Jean that he was not ill. He was
busy. He would come soon. As soon as he was able. Moreover, he was on
the point of taking a little journey. Madame must remember that it was
his custom to take trips from time to time. They were not to worry
about him. They were not to think of him.
Nicolette on entering M. Jean’s had repeated to him her mistress’ very
words. That Madame had sent her to inquire why M. Jean had not come on
the preceding evening. ”—It is two days since I have been there,” said
Jean Valjean gently.
But the remark passed unnoticed by Nicolette, who did not report it to
Cosette.
CHAPTER IV—ATTRACTION AND EXTINCTION
During the last months of spring and the first months of summer in
1833, the rare passers-by in the Marais, the petty shopkeepers, the
loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black, who
emerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall, from the Rue de
l’Homme Armé, on the side of the Rue Sainte-Croix-de-la-Bretonnerie,
passed in front of the Blancs Manteaux, gained the Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherine, and, on arriving at the Rue de l’Écharpe,
turned to the left, and entered the Rue Saint-Louis.
There he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing
nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which
seemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no other
than the corner of the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire. The nearer he
approached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up; a sort
of joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora, he had a
fascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in obscure
movements, as though he were talking to some one whom he did not see,
he smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible. One would have
said that, while desirous of reaching his destination, he feared the
moment when he should be close at hand. When only a few houses remained
between him and that street which appeared to attract him his pace
slackened, to such a degree that, at times, one might have thought that
he was no longer advancing at all. The vacillation of his head and the
fixity of his eyeballs suggested the thought of the magnetic needle
seeking the pole. Whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to
arrive at last; he reached the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; then he
halted, he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy
timidity round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that
street, and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the
dazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise
that was closed to him. Then a tear, which had slowly gathered in the
corner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall, trickled down
his cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth. The old man tasted its
bitter flavor. Thus he remained for several minutes as though made of
stone, then he returned by the same road and with the same step, and,
in proportion as he retreated, his glance died out.
Little by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the
Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire; he halted half way in the Rue Saint-Louis;
sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer.
One day he stopped at the corner of the Rue Culture-Sainte-Catherine
and looked at the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire from a distance. Then he
shook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing himself
something, and retraced his steps.
Soon he no longer came as far as the Rue Saint-Louis. He got as far as
the Rue Pavée, shook his head and turned back; then he went no further
than the Rue des Trois-Pavillons; then he did not overstep the
Blancs-Manteaux. One would have said that he was a pendulum which was
no longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing shorter before
ceasing altogether.
Every day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook the
same trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without himself
being aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it. His whole
countenance expressed this single idea: What is the use?—His eye was
dim; no more radiance. His tears were also exhausted; they no longer
collected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful eye was dry.
The old man’s head was still craned forward; his chin moved at times;
the folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold. Sometimes, when the
weather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm, but he never opened
it.
The good women of the quarter said: “He is an innocent.” The children
followed him and laughed.
BOOK NINTH—SUPREME SHADOW, SUPREME DAWN
CHAPTER I—PITY FOR THE UNHAPPY, BUT INDULGENCE FOR THE HAPPY
It is a terrible thing to be happy! How content one is! How
all-sufficient one finds it! How, being in possession of the false
object of life, happiness, one forgets the true object, duty!
Let us say, however, that the reader would do wrong were he to blame
Marius.
Marius, as we have explained, before his marriage, had put no questions
to M. Fauchelevent, and, since that time, he had feared to put any to
Jean Valjean. He had regretted the promise into which he had allowed
himself to be drawn. He had often said to himself that he had done
wrong in making that concession to despair. He had confined himself to
gradually estranging Jean Valjean from his house and to effacing him,
as much as possible, from Cosette’s mind. He had, in a manner, always
placed himself between Cosette and Jean Valjean, sure that, in this
way, she would not perceive nor think of the latter. It was more than
effacement, it was an eclipse.
Marius did what he considered necessary and just. He thought that he
had serious reasons which the reader has already seen, and others which
will be seen later on, for getting rid of Jean Valjean without
harshness, but without weakness.
Chance having ordained that he should encounter, in a case which he had
argued, a former employee of the Laffitte establishment, he had
acquired mysterious information, without seeking it, which he had not
been able, it is true, to probe, out of respect for the secret which he
had promised to guard, and out of consideration for Jean Valjean’s
perilous position. He believed at that moment that he had a grave duty
to perform: the restitution of the six hundred thousand francs to some
one whom he sought with all possible discretion. In the meanwhile, he
abstained from touching that money.
As for Cosette, she had not been initiated into any of these secrets;
but it would be harsh to condemn her also.
There existed between Marius and her an all-powerful magnetism, which
caused her to do, instinctively and almost mechanically, what Marius
wished. She was conscious of Marius’ will in the direction of “Monsieur
Jean,” she conformed to it. Her husband had not been obliged to say
anything to her; she yielded to the vague but clear pressure of his
tacit intentions, and obeyed blindly. Her obedience in this instance
consisted in not remembering what Marius forgot. She was not obliged to
make any effort to accomplish this. Without her knowing why herself,
and without his having any cause to accuse her of it, her soul had
become so wholly her husband’s that that which was shrouded in gloom in
Marius’ mind became overcast in hers.
Let us not go too far, however; in what concerns Jean Valjean, this
forgetfulness and obliteration were merely superficial. She was rather
heedless than forgetful. At bottom, she was sincerely attached to the
man whom she had so long called her father; but she loved her husband
still more dearly. This was what had somewhat disturbed the balance of
her heart, which leaned to one side only.
It sometimes happened that Cosette spoke of Jean Valjean and expressed
her surprise. Then Marius calmed her: “He is absent, I think. Did not
he say that he was setting out on a journey?”—“That is true,” thought
Cosette. “He had a habit of disappearing in this fashion. But not for
so long.” Two or three times she despatched Nicolette to inquire in the
Rue de l’Homme Armé whether M. Jean had returned from his journey. Jean
Valjean caused the answer “no” to be given.
Cosette asked nothing more, since she had but one need on earth,
Marius.
Let us also say that, on their side, Cosette and Marius had also been
absent. They had been to Vernon. Marius had taken Cosette to his
father’s grave.
Marius gradually won Cosette away from Jean Valjean. Cosette allowed
it.
Moreover that which is called, far too harshly in certain cases, the
ingratitude of children, is not always a thing so deserving of reproach
as it is supposed. It is the ingratitude of nature. Nature, as we have
elsewhere said, “looks before her.” Nature divides living beings into
those who are arriving and those who are departing. Those who are
departing are turned towards the shadows, those who are arriving
towards the light. Hence a gulf which is fatal on the part of the old,
and involuntary on the part of the young. This breach, at first
insensible, increases slowly, like all separations of branches. The
boughs, without becoming detached from the trunk, grow away from it. It
is no fault of theirs. Youth goes where there is joy, festivals, vivid
lights, love. Old age goes towards the end. They do not lose sight of
each other, but there is no longer a close connection. Young people
feel the cooling off of life; old people, that of the tomb. Let us not
blame these poor children.
CHAPTER II—LAST FLICKERINGS OF A LAMP WITHOUT OIL
One day, Jean Valjean descended his staircase, took three steps in the
street, seated himself on a post, on that same stone post where
Gavroche had found him meditating on the night between the 5th and the
6th of June; he remained there a few moments, then went upstairs again.
This was the last oscillation of the pendulum. On the following day he
did not leave his apartment. On the day after that, he did not leave
his bed.
His portress, who prepared his scanty repasts, a few cabbages or
potatoes with bacon, glanced at the brown earthenware plate and
exclaimed:
“But you ate nothing yesterday, poor, dear man!”
“Certainly I did,” replied Jean Valjean.
“The plate is quite full.”
“Look at the water jug. It is empty.”
“That proves that you have drunk; it does not prove that you have
eaten.”
“Well,” said Jean Valjean, “what if I felt hungry only for water?”
“That is called thirst, and, when one does not eat at the same time, it
is called fever.”
“I will eat to-morrow.”
“Or at Trinity day. Why not to-day? Is it the thing to say: ‘I will eat
to-morrow’? The idea of leaving my platter without even touching it! My
lady-finger potatoes were so good!”
Jean Valjean took the old woman’s hand:
“I promise you that I will eat them,” he said, in his benevolent voice.
“I am not pleased with you,” replied the portress.
Jean Valjean saw no other human creature than this good woman. There
are streets in Paris through which no one ever passes, and houses to
which no one ever comes. He was in one of those streets and one of
those houses.
While he still went out, he had purchased of a coppersmith, for a few
sous, a little copper crucifix which he had hung up on a nail opposite
his bed. That gibbet is always good to look at.
A week passed, and Jean Valjean had not taken a step in his room. He
still remained in bed. The portress said to her husband:—“The good man
upstairs yonder does not get up, he no longer eats, he will not last
long. That man has his sorrows, that he has. You won’t get it out of my
head that his daughter has made a bad marriage.”
The porter replied, with the tone of marital sovereignty:
“If he’s rich, let him have a doctor. If he is not rich, let him go
without. If he has no doctor he will die.”
“And if he has one?”
“He will die,” said the porter.
The portress set to scraping away the grass from what she called her
pavement, with an old knife, and, as she tore out the blades, she
grumbled:
“It’s a shame. Such a neat old man! He’s as white as a chicken.”
She caught sight of the doctor of the quarter as he passed the end of
the street; she took it upon herself to request him to come upstairs.
“It’s on the second floor,” said she. “You have only to enter. As the
good man no longer stirs from his bed, the door is always unlocked.”
The doctor saw Jean Valjean and spoke with him.
When he came down again the portress interrogated him:
“Well, doctor?”
“Your sick man is very ill indeed.”
“What is the matter with him?”
“Everything and nothing. He is a man who, to all appearances, has lost
some person who is dear to him. People die of that.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He told me that he was in good health.”
“Shall you come again, doctor?”
“Yes,” replied the doctor. “But some one else besides must come.”
CHAPTER III—A PEN IS HEAVY TO THE MAN WHO LIFTED THE FAUCHELEVENT’S
CART
One evening Jean Valjean found difficulty in raising himself on his
elbow; he felt of his wrist and could not find his pulse; his breath
was short and halted at times; he recognized the fact that he was
weaker than he had ever been before. Then, no doubt under the pressure
of some supreme preoccupation, he made an effort, drew himself up into
a sitting posture and dressed himself. He put on his old workingman’s
clothes. As he no longer went out, he had returned to them and
preferred them. He was obliged to pause many times while dressing
himself; merely putting his arms through his waistcoat made the
perspiration trickle from his forehead.
Since he had been alone, he had placed his bed in the antechamber, in
order to inhabit that deserted apartment as little as possible.
He opened the valise and drew from it Cosette’s outfit.
He spread it out on his bed.
The Bishop’s candlesticks were in their place on the chimney-piece. He
took from a drawer two wax candles and put them in the candlesticks.
Then, although it was still broad daylight,—it was summer,—he lighted
them. In the same way candles are to be seen lighted in broad daylight
in chambers where there is a corpse.
Every step that he took in going from one piece of furniture to another
exhausted him, and he was obliged to sit down. It was not ordinary
fatigue which expends the strength only to renew it; it was the remnant
of all movement possible to him, it was life drained which flows away
drop by drop in overwhelming efforts and which will never be renewed.
The chair into which he allowed himself to fall was placed in front of
that mirror, so fatal for him, so providential for Marius, in which he
had read Cosette’s reversed writing on the blotting book. He caught
sight of himself in this mirror, and did not recognize himself. He was
eighty years old; before Marius’ marriage, he would have hardly been
taken for fifty; that year had counted for thirty. What he bore on his
brow was no longer the wrinkles of age, it was the mysterious mark of
death. The hollowing of that pitiless nail could be felt there. His
cheeks were pendulous; the skin of his face had the color which would
lead one to think that it already had earth upon it; the corners of his
mouth drooped as in the mask which the ancients sculptured on tombs. He
gazed into space with an air of reproach; one would have said that he
was one of those grand tragic beings who have cause to complain of some
one.
He was in that condition, the last phase of dejection, in which sorrow
no longer flows; it is coagulated, so to speak; there is something on
the soul like a clot of despair.
Night had come. He laboriously dragged a table and the old armchair to
the fireside, and placed upon the table a pen, some ink and some paper.
That done, he had a fainting fit. When he recovered consciousness, he
was thirsty. As he could not lift the jug, he tipped it over painfully
towards his mouth, and swallowed a draught.
As neither the pen nor the ink had been used for a long time, the point
of the pen had curled up, the ink had dried away, he was forced to rise
and put a few drops of water in the ink, which he did not accomplish
without pausing and sitting down two or three times, and he was
compelled to write with the back of the pen. He wiped his brow from
time to time.
Then he turned towards the bed, and, still seated, for he could not
stand, he gazed at the little black gown and all those beloved objects.
These contemplations lasted for hours which seemed minutes.
All at once he shivered, he felt that a child was taking possession of
him; he rested his elbows on the table, which was illuminated by the
Bishop’s candles and took up the pen. His hand trembled. He wrote
slowly the few following lines:
“Cosette, I bless thee. I am going to explain to thee. Thy husband was
right in giving me to understand that I ought to go away; but there is
a little error in what he believed, though he was in the right. He is
excellent. Love him well even after I am dead. Monsieur Pontmercy, love
my darling child well. Cosette, this paper will be found; this is what
I wish to say to thee, thou wilt see the figures, if I have the
strength to recall them, listen well, this money is really thine. Here
is the whole matter: White jet comes from Norway, black jet comes from
England, black glass jewellery comes from Germany. Jet is the lightest,
the most precious, the most costly. Imitations can be made in France as
well as in Germany. What is needed is a little anvil two inches square,
and a lamp burning spirits of wine to soften the wax. The wax was
formerly made with resin and lampblack, and cost four livres the pound.
I invented a way of making it with gum shellac and turpentine. It does
not cost more than thirty sous, and is much better. Buckles are made
with a violet glass which is stuck fast, by means of this wax, to a
little framework of black iron. The glass must be violet for iron
jewellery, and black for gold jewellery. Spain buys a great deal of it.
It is the country of jet . . .”
Here he paused, the pen fell from his fingers, he was seized by one of
those sobs which at times welled up from the very depths of his being;
the poor man clasped his head in both hands, and meditated.
“Oh!” he exclaimed within himself [lamentable cries, heard by God
alone], “all is over. I shall never see her more. She is a smile which
passed over me. I am about to plunge into the night without even seeing
her again. Oh! one minute, one instant, to hear her voice, to touch her
dress, to gaze upon her, upon her, the angel! and then to die! It is
nothing to die, what is frightful is to die without seeing her. She
would smile on me, she would say a word to me, would that do any harm
to any one? No, all is over, and forever. Here I am all alone. My God!
My God! I shall never see her again!” At that moment there came a knock
at the door.
CHAPTER IV—A BOTTLE OF INK WHICH ONLY SUCCEEDED IN WHITENING
That same day, or to speak more accurately, that same evening, as
Marius left the table, and was on the point of withdrawing to his
study, having a case to look over, Basque handed him a letter saying:
“The person who wrote the letter is in the antechamber.”
Cosette had taken the grandfather’s arm and was strolling in the
garden.
A letter, like a man, may have an unprepossessing exterior. Coarse
paper, coarsely folded—the very sight of certain missives is
displeasing.
The letter which Basque had brought was of this sort.
Marius took it. It smelled of tobacco. Nothing evokes a memory like an
odor. Marius recognized that tobacco. He looked at the superscription:
“To Monsieur, Monsieur le Baron Pommerci. At his hotel.” The
recognition of the tobacco caused him to recognize the writing as well.
It may be said that amazement has its lightning flashes.
Marius was, as it were, illuminated by one of these flashes.
The sense of smell, that mysterious aid to memory, had just revived a
whole world within him. This was certainly the paper, the fashion of
folding, the dull tint of ink; it was certainly the well-known
handwriting, especially was it the same tobacco.
The Jondrette garret rose before his mind.
Thus, strange freak of chance! one of the two scents which he had so
diligently sought, the one in connection with which he had lately again
exerted so many efforts and which he supposed to be forever lost, had
come and presented itself to him of its own accord.
He eagerly broke the seal, and read:
“Monsieur le Baron:—If the Supreme Being had given me the talents, I
might have been baron Thénard, member of the Institute [acadenmy of
ciences], but I am not. I only bear the same as him, happy if this
memory recommends me to the eccellence of your kindnesses. The benefit
with which you will honor me will be reciprocle. I am in possession of
a secret concerning an individual. This individual concerns you. I
hold the secret at your disposal desiring to have the honor to be
huseful to you. I will furnish you with the simple means of driving
from your honorabel family that individual who has no right there,
madame la baronne being of lofty birth. The sanctuary of virtue cannot
cohabit longer with crime without abdicating.
“I awate in the entichamber the orders of monsieur le baron.
“With respect.”
The letter was signed “Thénard.”
This signature was not false. It was merely a trifle abridged.
Moreover, the rigmarole and the orthography completed the revelation.
The certificate of origin was complete.
Marius’ emotion was profound. After a start of surprise, he underwent a
feeling of happiness. If he could now but find that other man of whom
he was in search, the man who had saved him, Marius, there would be
nothing left for him to desire.
He opened the drawer of his secretary, took out several bank-notes, put
them in his pocket, closed the secretary again, and rang the bell.
Basque half opened the door.
“Show the man in,” said Marius.
Basque announced:
“Monsieur Thénard.”
A man entered.
A fresh surprise for Marius. The man who entered was an utter stranger
to him.
This man, who was old, moreover, had a thick nose, his chin swathed in
a cravat, green spectacles with a double screen of green taffeta over
his eyes, and his hair was plastered and flattened down on his brow on
a level with his eyebrows like the wigs of English coachmen in “high
life.” His hair was gray. He was dressed in black from head to foot, in
garments that were very threadbare but clean; a bunch of seals
depending from his fob suggested the idea of a watch. He held in his
hand an old hat! He walked in a bent attitude, and the curve in his
spine augmented the profundity of his bow.
The first thing that struck the observer was, that this personage’s
coat, which was too ample although carefully buttoned, had not been
made for him.
Here a short digression becomes necessary.
There was in Paris at that epoch, in a low-lived old lodging in the Rue
Beautreillis, near the Arsenal, an ingenious Jew whose profession was
to change villains into honest men. Not for too long, which might have
proved embarrassing for the villain. The change was on sight, for a day
or two, at the rate of thirty sous a day, by means of a costume which
resembled the honesty of the world in general as nearly as possible.
This costumer was called “the Changer”; the pickpockets of Paris had
given him this name and knew him by no other. He had a tolerably
complete wardrobe. The rags with which he tricked out people were
almost probable. He had specialties and categories; on each nail of his
shop hung a social status, threadbare and worn; here the suit of a
magistrate, there the outfit of a Curé, beyond the outfit of a banker,
in one corner the costume of a retired military man, elsewhere the
habiliments of a man of letters, and further on the dress of a
statesman.
This creature was the costumer of the immense drama which knavery plays
in Paris. His lair was the green-room whence theft emerged, and into
which roguery retreated. A tattered knave arrived at this
dressing-room, deposited his thirty sous and selected, according to the
part which he wished to play, the costume which suited him, and on
descending the stairs once more, the knave was a somebody. On the
following day, the clothes were faithfully returned, and the Changer,
who trusted the thieves with everything, was never robbed. There was
one inconvenience about these clothes, they “did not fit”; not having
been made for those who wore them, they were too tight for one, too
loose for another and did not adjust themselves to any one. Every
pickpocket who exceeded or fell short of the human average was ill at
his ease in the Changer’s costumes. It was necessary that one should
not be either too fat or too lean. The Changer had foreseen only
ordinary men. He had taken the measure of the species from the first
rascal who came to hand, who is neither stout nor thin, neither tall
nor short. Hence adaptations which were sometimes difficult and from
which the Changer’s clients extricated themselves as best they might.
So much the worse for the exceptions! The suit of the statesman, for
instance, black from head to foot, and consequently proper, would have
been too large for Pitt and too small for Castelcicala. The costume of
a statesman was designated as follows in the Changer’s catalogue; we
copy:
“A coat of black cloth, trowsers of black wool, a silk waistcoat, boots
and linen.” On the margin there stood: _ex-ambassador_, and a note
which we also copy: “In a separate box, a neatly frizzed peruke, green
glasses, seals, and two small quills an inch long, wrapped in cotton.”
All this belonged to the statesman, the ex-ambassador. This whole
costume was, if we may so express ourselves, debilitated; the seams
were white, a vague button-hole yawned at one of the elbows; moreover,
one of the coat buttons was missing on the breast; but this was only
detail; as the hand of the statesman should always be thrust into his
coat and laid upon his heart, its function was to conceal the absent
button.
If Marius had been familiar with the occult institutions of Paris, he
would instantly have recognized upon the back of the visitor whom
Basque had just shown in, the statesman’s suit borrowed from the
pick-me-down-that shop of the Changer.
Marius’ disappointment on beholding another man than the one whom he
expected to see turned to the newcomer’s disadvantage.
He surveyed him from head to foot, while that personage made
exaggerated bows, and demanded in a curt tone:
“What do you want?”
The man replied with an amiable grin of which the caressing smile of a
crocodile will furnish some idea:
“It seems to me impossible that I should not have already had the honor
of seeing Monsieur le Baron in society. I think I actually did meet
monsieur personally, several years ago, at the house of Madame la
Princesse Bagration and in the drawing-rooms of his Lordship the
Vicomte Dambray, peer of France.”
It is always a good bit of tactics in knavery to pretend to recognize
some one whom one does not know.
Marius paid attention to the manner of this man’s speech. He spied on
his accent and gesture, but his disappointment increased; the
pronunciation was nasal and absolutely unlike the dry, shrill tone
which he had expected.
He was utterly routed.
“I know neither Madame Bagration nor M. Dambray,” said he. “I have
never set foot in the house of either of them in my life.”
The reply was ungracious. The personage, determined to be gracious at
any cost, insisted.
“Then it must have been at Chateaubriand’s that I have seen Monsieur! I
know Chateaubriand very well. He is very affable. He sometimes says to
me: ‘Thénard, my friend . . . won’t you drink a glass of wine with
me?’”
Marius’ brow grew more and more severe:
“I have never had the honor of being received by M. de Chateaubriand.
Let us cut it short. What do you want?”
The man bowed lower at that harsh voice.
“Monsieur le Baron, deign to listen to me. There is in America, in a
district near Panama, a village called la Joya. That village is
composed of a single house, a large, square house of three stories,
built of bricks dried in the sun, each side of the square five hundred
feet in length, each story retreating twelve feet back of the story
below, in such a manner as to leave in front a terrace which makes the
circuit of the edifice, in the centre an inner court where the
provisions and munitions are kept; no windows, loopholes, no doors,
ladders, ladders to mount from the ground to the first terrace, and
from the first to the second, and from the second to the third, ladders
to descend into the inner court, no doors to the chambers, trap-doors,
no staircases to the chambers, ladders; in the evening the traps are
closed, the ladders are withdrawn, carbines and blunderbusses trained
from the loopholes; no means of entering, a house by day, a citadel by
night, eight hundred inhabitants,—that is the village. Why so many
precautions? because the country is dangerous; it is full of cannibals.
Then why do people go there? because the country is marvellous; gold is
found there.”
“What are you driving at?” interrupted Marius, who had passed from
disappointment to impatience.
“At this, Monsieur le Baron. I am an old and weary diplomat. Ancient
civilization has thrown me on my own devices. I want to try savages.”
“Well?”
“Monsieur le Baron, egotism is the law of the world. The proletarian
peasant woman, who toils by the day, turns round when the diligence
passes by, the peasant proprietress, who toils in her field, does not
turn round. The dog of the poor man barks at the rich man, the dog of
the rich man barks at the poor man. Each one for himself.
Self-interest—that’s the object of men. Gold, that’s the loadstone.”
“What then? Finish.”
“I should like to go and establish myself at la Joya. There are three
of us. I have my spouse and my young lady; a very beautiful girl. The
journey is long and costly. I need a little money.”
“What concern is that of mine?” demanded Marius.
The stranger stretched his neck out of his cravat, a gesture
characteristic of the vulture, and replied with an augmented smile.
“Has not Monsieur le Baron perused my letter?”
There was some truth in this. The fact is, that the contents of the
epistle had slipped Marius’ mind. He had seen the writing rather than
read the letter. He could hardly recall it. But a moment ago a fresh
start had been given him. He had noted that detail: “my spouse and my
young lady.”
He fixed a penetrating glance on the stranger. An examining judge could
not have done the look better. He almost lay in wait for him.
He confined himself to replying:
“State the case precisely.”
The stranger inserted his two hands in both his fobs, drew himself up
without straightening his dorsal column, but scrutinizing Marius in his
turn, with the green gaze of his spectacles.
“So be it, Monsieur le Baron. I will be precise. I have a secret to
sell to you.”
“A secret?”
“A secret.”
“Which concerns me?”
“Somewhat.”
“What is the secret?”
Marius scrutinized the man more and more as he listened to him.
“I commence gratis,” said the stranger. “You will see that I am
interesting.”
“Speak.”
“Monsieur le Baron, you have in your house a thief and an assassin.”
Marius shuddered.
“In my house? no,” said he.
The imperturbable stranger brushed his hat with his elbow and went on:
“An assassin and a thief. Remark, Monsieur le Baron, that I do not here
speak of ancient deeds, deeds of the past which have lapsed, which can
be effaced by limitation before the law and by repentance before God. I
speak of recent deeds, of actual facts as still unknown to justice at
this hour. I continue. This man has insinuated himself into your
confidence, and almost into your family under a false name. I am about
to tell you his real name. And to tell it to you for nothing.”
“I am listening.”
“His name is Jean Valjean.”
“I know it.”
“I am going to tell you, equally for nothing, who he is.”
“Say on.”
“He is an ex-convict.”
“I know it.”
“You know it since I have had the honor of telling you.”
“No. I knew it before.”
Marius’ cold tone, that double reply of “I know it,” his laconicism,
which was not favorable to dialogue, stirred up some smouldering wrath
in the stranger. He launched a furious glance on the sly at Marius,
which was instantly extinguished. Rapid as it was, this glance was of
the kind which a man recognizes when he has once beheld it; it did not
escape Marius. Certain flashes can only proceed from certain souls; the
eye, that vent-hole of the thought, glows with it; spectacles hide
nothing; try putting a pane of glass over hell!
The stranger resumed with a smile:
“I will not permit myself to contradict Monsieur le Baron. In any case,
you ought to perceive that I am well informed. Now what I have to tell
you is known to myself alone. This concerns the fortune of Madame la
Baronne. It is an extraordinary secret. It is for sale—I make you the
first offer of it. Cheap. Twenty thousand francs.”
“I know that secret as well as the others,” said Marius.
The personage felt the necessity of lowering his price a trifle.
“Monsieur le Baron, say ten thousand francs and I will speak.”
“I repeat to you that there is nothing which you can tell me. I know
what you wish to say to me.”
A fresh flash gleamed in the man’s eye. He exclaimed:
“But I must dine to-day, nevertheless. It is an extraordinary secret, I
tell you. Monsieur le Baron, I will speak. I speak. Give me twenty
francs.”
Marius gazed intently at him:
“I know your extraordinary secret, just as I knew Jean Valjean’s name,
just as I know your name.”
“My name?”
“Yes.”
“That is not difficult, Monsieur le Baron. I had the honor to write to
you and to tell it to you. Thénard.”
“—Dier.”
“Hey?”
“Thénardier.”
“Who’s that?”
In danger the porcupine bristles up, the beetle feigns death, the old
guard forms in a square; this man burst into laughter.
Then he flicked a grain of dust from the sleeve of his coat with a
fillip.
Marius continued:
“You are also Jondrette the workman, Fabantou the comedian, Genflot the
poet, Don Alvarès the Spaniard, and Mistress Balizard.”
“Mistress what?”
“And you kept a pot-house at Montfermeil.”
“A pot-house! Never.”
“And I tell you that your name is Thénardier.”
“I deny it.”
“And that you are a rascal. Here.”
And Marius drew a bank-note from his pocket and flung it in his face.
“Thanks! Pardon me! five hundred francs! Monsieur le Baron!”
And the man, overcome, bowed, seized the note and examined it.
“Five hundred francs!” he began again, taken aback. And he stammered in
a low voice: “An honest rustler.”69
Then brusquely:
“Well, so be it!” he exclaimed. “Let us put ourselves at our ease.”
And with the agility of a monkey, flinging back his hair, tearing off
his spectacles, and withdrawing from his nose by sleight of hand the
two quills of which mention was recently made, and which the reader has
also met with on another page of this book, he took off his face as the
man takes off his hat.
His eye lighted up; his uneven brow, with hollows in some places and
bumps in others, hideously wrinkled at the top, was laid bare, his nose
had become as sharp as a beak; the fierce and sagacious profile of the
man of prey reappeared.
“Monsieur le Baron is infallible,” he said in a clear voice whence all
nasal twang had disappeared, “I am Thénardier.”
And he straightened up his crooked back.
Thénardier, for it was really he, was strangely surprised; he would
have been troubled, had he been capable of such a thing. He had come to
bring astonishment, and it was he who had received it. This humiliation
had been worth five hundred francs to him, and, taking it all in all,
he accepted it; but he was nonetheless bewildered.
He beheld this Baron Pontmercy for the first time, and, in spite of his
disguise, this Baron Pontmercy recognized him, and recognized him
thoroughly. And not only was this Baron perfectly informed as to
Thénardier, but he seemed well posted as to Jean Valjean. Who was this
almost beardless young man, who was so glacial and so generous, who
knew people’s names, who knew all their names, and who opened his purse
to them, who bullied rascals like a judge, and who paid them like a
dupe?
Thénardier, the reader will remember, although he had been Marius’
neighbor, had never seen him, which is not unusual in Paris; he had
formerly, in a vague way, heard his daughters talk of a very poor young
man named Marius who lived in the house. He had written to him, without
knowing him, the letter with which the reader is acquainted.
No connection between that Marius and M. le Baron Pontmercy was
possible in his mind.
As for the name Pontmercy, it will be recalled that, on the battlefield
of Waterloo, he had only heard the last two syllables, for which he
always entertained the legitimate scorn which one owes to what is
merely an expression of thanks.
However, through his daughter Azelma, who had started on the scent of
the married pair on the 16th of February, and through his own personal
researches, he had succeeded in learning many things, and, from the
depths of his own gloom, he had contrived to grasp more than one
mysterious clew. He had discovered, by dint of industry, or, at least,
by dint of induction, he had guessed who the man was whom he had
encountered on a certain day in the Grand Sewer. From the man he had
easily reached the name. He knew that Madame la Baronne Pontmercy was
Cosette. But he meant to be discreet in that quarter.
Who was Cosette? He did not know exactly himself. He did, indeed, catch
an inkling of illegitimacy, the history of Fantine had always seemed to
him equivocal; but what was the use of talking about that? in order to
cause himself to be paid for his silence? He had, or thought he had,
better wares than that for sale. And, according to all appearances, if
he were to come and make to the Baron Pontmercy this revelation—and
without proof: “Your wife is a bastard,” the only result would be to
attract the boot of the husband towards the loins of the revealer.
From Thénardier’s point of view, the conversation with Marius had not
yet begun. He ought to have drawn back, to have modified his strategy,
to have abandoned his position, to have changed his front; but nothing
essential had been compromised as yet, and he had five hundred francs
in his pocket. Moreover, he had something decisive to say, and, even
against this very well-informed and well-armed Baron Pontmercy, he felt
himself strong. For men of Thénardier’s nature, every dialogue is a
combat. In the one in which he was about to engage, what was his
situation? He did not know to whom he was speaking, but he did know of
what he was speaking, he made this rapid review of his inner forces,
and after having said: “I am Thénardier,” he waited.
Marius had become thoughtful. So he had hold of Thénardier at last.
That man whom he had so greatly desired to find was before him. He
could honor Colonel Pontmercy’s recommendation.
He felt humiliated that that hero should have owned anything to this
villain, and that the letter of change drawn from the depths of the
tomb by his father upon him, Marius, had been protested up to that day.
It also seemed to him, in the complex state of his mind towards
Thénardier, that there was occasion to avenge the Colonel for the
misfortune of having been saved by such a rascal. In any case, he was
content. He was about to deliver the Colonel’s shade from this unworthy
creditor at last, and it seemed to him that he was on the point of
rescuing his father’s memory from the debtors’ prison. By the side of
this duty there was another—to elucidate, if possible, the source of
Cosette’s fortune. The opportunity appeared to present itself. Perhaps
Thénardier knew something. It might prove useful to see the bottom of
this man.
He commenced with this.
Thénardier had caused the “honest rustler” to disappear in his fob, and
was gazing at Marius with a gentleness that was almost tender.
Marius broke the silence.
“Thénardier, I have told you your name. Now, would you like to have me
tell you your secret—the one that you came here to reveal to me? I have
information of my own, also. You shall see that I know more about it
than you do. Jean Valjean, as you have said, is an assassin and a
thief. A thief, because he robbed a wealthy manufacturer, whose ruin he
brought about. An assassin, because he assassinated police-agent
Javert.”
“I don’t understand, sir,” ejaculated Thénardier.
“I will make myself intelligible. In a certain arrondissement of the
Pas de Calais, there was, in 1822, a man who had fallen out with
justice, and who, under the name of M. Madeleine, had regained his
status and rehabilitated himself. This man had become a just man in the
full force of the term. In a trade, the manufacture of black glass
goods, he made the fortune of an entire city. As far as his personal
fortune was concerned he made that also, but as a secondary matter, and
in some sort, by accident. He was the foster-father of the poor. He
founded hospitals, opened schools, visited the sick, dowered young
girls, supported widows, and adopted orphans; he was like the guardian
angel of the country. He refused the cross, he was appointed Mayor. A
liberated convict knew the secret of a penalty incurred by this man in
former days; he denounced him, and had him arrested, and profited by
the arrest to come to Paris and cause the banker Laffitte,—I have the
fact from the cashier himself,—by means of a false signature, to hand
over to him the sum of over half a million which belonged to M.
Madeleine. This convict who robbed M. Madeleine was Jean Valjean. As
for the other fact, you have nothing to tell me about it either. Jean
Valjean killed the agent Javert; he shot him with a pistol. I, the
person who is speaking to you, was present.”
Thénardier cast upon Marius the sovereign glance of a conquered man who
lays his hand once more upon the victory, and who has just regained, in
one instant, all the ground which he has lost. But the smile returned
instantly. The inferior’s triumph in the presence of his superior must
be wheedling.
Thénardier contented himself with saying to Marius:
“Monsieur le Baron, we are on the wrong track.”
And he emphasized this phrase by making his bunch of seals execute an
expressive whirl.
“What!” broke forth Marius, “do you dispute that? These are facts.”
“They are chimæras. The confidence with which Monsieur le Baron honors
me renders it my duty to tell him so. Truth and justice before all
things. I do not like to see folks accused unjustly. Monsieur le Baron,
Jean Valjean did not rob M. Madeleine and Jean Valjean did not kill
Javert.”
“This is too much! How is this?”
“For two reasons.”
“What are they? Speak.”
“This is the first: he did not rob M. Madeleine, because it is Jean
Valjean himself who was M. Madeleine.”
“What tale are you telling me?”
“And this is the second: he did not assassinate Javert, because the
person who killed Javert was Javert.”
“What do you mean to say?”
“That Javert committed suicide.”
“Prove it! prove it!” cried Marius beside himself.
Thénardier resumed, scanning his phrase after the manner of the ancient
Alexandrine measure:
“Police-agent-Ja-vert-was-found-drowned-un-der-a-boat-of-the-Pont-au-
Change.”
“But prove it!”
Thénardier drew from his pocket a large envelope of gray paper, which
seemed to contain sheets folded in different sizes.
“I have my papers,” he said calmly.
And he added:
“Monsieur le Baron, in your interests I desired to know Jean Valjean
thoroughly. I say that Jean Valjean and M. Madeleine are one and the
same man, and I say that Javert had no other assassin than Javert. If I
speak, it is because I have proofs. Not manuscript proofs—writing is
suspicious, handwriting is complaisant,—but printed proofs.”
As he spoke, Thénardier extracted from the envelope two copies of
newspapers, yellow, faded, and strongly saturated with tobacco. One of
these two newspapers, broken at every fold and falling into rags,
seemed much older than the other.
“Two facts, two proofs,” remarked Thénardier. And he offered the two
newspapers, unfolded, to Marius.
The reader is acquainted with these two papers. One, the most ancient,
a number of the _Drapeau Blanc_ of the 25th of July, 1823, the text of
which can be seen in the first volume, established the identity of M.
Madeleine and Jean Valjean.
The other, a _Moniteur_ of the 15th of June, 1832, announced the
suicide of Javert, adding that it appeared from a verbal report of
Javert to the prefect that, having been taken prisoner in the barricade
of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, he had owed his life to the magnanimity of
an insurgent who, holding him under his pistol, had fired into the air,
instead of blowing out his brains.
Marius read. He had evidence, a certain date, irrefragable proof, these
two newspapers had not been printed expressly for the purpose of
backing up Thénardier’s statements; the note printed in the _Moniteur_
had been an administrative communication from the Prefecture of Police.
Marius could not doubt.
The information of the cashier-clerk had been false, and he himself had
been deceived.
Jean Valjean, who had suddenly grown grand, emerged from his cloud.
Marius could not repress a cry of joy.
“Well, then this unhappy wretch is an admirable man! the whole of that
fortune really belonged to him! he is Madeleine, the providence of a
whole countryside! he is Jean Valjean, Javert’s savior! he is a hero!
he is a saint!”
“He’s not a saint, and he’s not a hero!” said Thénardier. “He’s an
assassin and a robber.”
And he added, in the tone of a man who begins to feel that he possesses
some authority:
“Let us be calm.”
Robber, assassin—those words which Marius thought had disappeared and
which returned, fell upon him like an ice-cold shower-bath.
“Again!” said he.
“Always,” ejaculated Thénardier. “Jean Valjean did not rob Madeleine,
but he is a thief. He did not kill Javert, but he is a murderer.”
“Will you speak,” retorted Marius, “of that miserable theft, committed
forty years ago, and expiated, as your own newspapers prove, by a whole
life of repentance, of self-abnegation and of virtue?”
“I say assassination and theft, Monsieur le Baron, and I repeat that I
am speaking of actual facts. What I have to reveal to you is absolutely
unknown. It belongs to unpublished matter. And perhaps you will find in
it the source of the fortune so skilfully presented to Madame la
Baronne by Jean Valjean. I say skilfully, because, by a gift of that
nature it would not be so very unskilful to slip into an honorable
house whose comforts one would then share, and, at the same stroke, to
conceal one’s crime, and to enjoy one’s theft, to bury one’s name and
to create for oneself a family.”
“I might interrupt you at this point,” said Marius, “but go on.”
“Monsieur le Baron, I will tell you all, leaving the recompense to your
generosity. This secret is worth massive gold. You will say to me: ‘Why
do not you apply to Jean Valjean?’ For a very simple reason; I know
that he has stripped himself, and stripped himself in your favor, and I
consider the combination ingenious; but he has no longer a son, he
would show me his empty hands, and, since I am in need of some money
for my trip to la Joya, I prefer you, you who have it all, to him who
has nothing. I am a little fatigued, permit me to take a chair.”
Marius seated himself and motioned to him to do the same.
Thénardier installed himself on a tufted chair, picked up his two
newspapers, thrust them back into their envelope, and murmured as he
pecked at the _Drapeau Blanc_ with his nail: “It cost me a good deal of
trouble to get this one.”
That done he crossed his legs and stretched himself out on the back of
the chair, an attitude characteristic of people who are sure of what
they are saying, then he entered upon his subject gravely, emphasizing
his words:
“Monsieur le Baron, on the 6th of June, 1832, about a year ago, on the
day of the insurrection, a man was in the Grand Sewer of Paris, at the
point where the sewer enters the Seine, between the Pont des Invalides
and the Pont de Jéna.”
Marius abruptly drew his chair closer to that of Thénardier. Thénardier
noticed this movement and continued with the deliberation of an orator
who holds his interlocutor and who feels his adversary palpitating
under his words:
“This man, forced to conceal himself, and for reasons, moreover, which
are foreign to politics, had adopted the sewer as his domicile and had
a key to it. It was, I repeat, on the 6th of June; it might have been
eight o’clock in the evening. The man hears a noise in the sewer.
Greatly surprised, he hides himself and lies in wait. It was the sound
of footsteps, some one was walking in the dark, and coming in his
direction. Strange to say, there was another man in the sewer besides
himself. The grating of the outlet from the sewer was not far off. A
little light which fell through it permitted him to recognize the
newcomer, and to see that the man was carrying something on his back.
He was walking in a bent attitude. The man who was walking in a bent
attitude was an ex-convict, and what he was dragging on his shoulders
was a corpse. Assassination caught in the very act, if ever there was
such a thing. As for the theft, that is understood; one does not kill a
man gratis. This convict was on his way to fling the body into the
river. One fact is to be noticed, that before reaching the exit
grating, this convict, who had come a long distance in the sewer, must,
necessarily, have encountered a frightful quagmire where it seems as
though he might have left the body, but the sewermen would have found
the assassinated man the very next day, while at work on the quagmire,
and that did not suit the assassin’s plans. He had preferred to
traverse that quagmire with his burden, and his exertions must have
been terrible, for it is impossible to risk one’s life more completely;
I don’t understand how he could have come out of that alive.”
Marius’ chair approached still nearer. Thénardier took advantage of
this to draw a long breath. He went on:
“Monsieur le Baron, a sewer is not the Champ de Mars. One lacks
everything there, even room. When two men are there, they must meet.
That is what happened. The man domiciled there and the passer-by were
forced to bid each other good-day, greatly to the regret of both. The
passer-by said to the inhabitant:—“You see what I have on my back, I
must get out, you have the key, give it to me.” That convict was a man
of terrible strength. There was no way of refusing. Nevertheless, the
man who had the key parleyed, simply to gain time. He examined the dead
man, but he could see nothing, except that the latter was young, well
dressed, with the air of being rich, and all disfigured with blood.
While talking, the man contrived to tear and pull off behind, without
the assassin perceiving it, a bit of the assassinated man’s coat. A
document for conviction, you understand; a means of recovering the
trace of things and of bringing home the crime to the criminal. He put
this document for conviction in his pocket. After which he opened the
grating, made the man go out with his embarrassment on his back, closed
the grating again, and ran off, not caring to be mixed up with the
remainder of the adventure and above all, not wishing to be present
when the assassin threw the assassinated man into the river. Now you
comprehend. The man who was carrying the corpse was Jean Valjean; the
one who had the key is speaking to you at this moment; and the piece of
the coat . . .”
Thénardier completed his phrase by drawing from his pocket, and
holding, on a level with his eyes, nipped between his two thumbs and
his two forefingers, a strip of torn black cloth, all covered with dark
spots.
Marius had sprung to his feet, pale, hardly able to draw his breath,
with his eyes riveted on the fragment of black cloth, and, without
uttering a word, without taking his eyes from that fragment, he
retreated to the wall and fumbled with his right hand along the wall
for a key which was in the lock of a cupboard near the chimney.
He found the key, opened the cupboard, plunged his arm into it without
looking, and without his frightened gaze quitting the rag which
Thénardier still held outspread.
But Thénardier continued:
“Monsieur le Baron, I have the strongest of reasons for believing that
the assassinated young man was an opulent stranger lured into a trap by
Jean Valjean, and the bearer of an enormous sum of money.”
“The young man was myself, and here is the coat!” cried Marius, and he
flung upon the floor an old black coat all covered with blood.
Then, snatching the fragment from the hands of Thénardier, he crouched
down over the coat, and laid the torn morsel against the tattered
skirt. The rent fitted exactly, and the strip completed the coat.
Thénardier was petrified.
This is what he thought: “I’m struck all of a heap.”
Marius rose to his feet trembling, despairing, radiant.
He fumbled in his pocket and stalked furiously to Thénardier,
presenting to him and almost thrusting in his face his fist filled with
bank-notes for five hundred and a thousand francs.
“You are an infamous wretch! you are a liar, a calumniator, a villain.
You came to accuse that man, you have only justified him; you wanted to
ruin him, you have only succeeded in glorifying him. And it is you who
are the thief! And it is you who are the assassin! I saw you,
Thénardier Jondrette, in that lair on the Rue de l’Hôpital. I know
enough about you to send you to the galleys and even further if I
choose. Here are a thousand francs, bully that you are!”
And he flung a thousand franc note at Thénardier.
“Ah! Jondrette Thénardier, vile rascal! Let this serve you as a lesson,
you dealer in second-hand secrets, merchant of mysteries, rummager of
the shadows, wretch! Take these five hundred francs and get out of
here! Waterloo protects you.”
“Waterloo!” growled Thénardier, pocketing the five hundred francs along
with the thousand.
“Yes, assassin! You there saved the life of a Colonel. . .”
“Of a General,” said Thénardier, elevating his head.
“Of a Colonel!” repeated Marius in a rage. “I wouldn’t give a ha’penny
for a general. And you come here to commit infamies! I tell you that
you have committed all crimes. Go! disappear! Only be happy, that is
all that I desire. Ah! monster! here are three thousand francs more.
Take them. You will depart to-morrow, for America, with your daughter;
for your wife is dead, you abominable liar. I shall watch over your
departure, you ruffian, and at that moment I will count out to you
twenty thousand francs. Go get yourself hung elsewhere!”
“Monsieur le Baron!” replied Thénardier, bowing to the very earth,
“eternal gratitude.” And Thénardier left the room, understanding
nothing, stupefied and delighted with this sweet crushing beneath sacks
of gold, and with that thunder which had burst forth over his head in
bank-bills.
Struck by lightning he was, but he was also content; and he would have
been greatly angered had he had a lightning rod to ward off such
lightning as that.
Let us finish with this man at once.
Two days after the events which we are at this moment narrating, he set
out, thanks to Marius’ care, for America under a false name, with his
daughter Azelma, furnished with a draft on New York for twenty thousand
francs.
The moral wretchedness of Thénardier, the bourgeois who had missed his
vocation, was irremediable. He was in America what he had been in
Europe. Contact with an evil man sometimes suffices to corrupt a good
action and to cause evil things to spring from it. With Marius’ money,
Thénardier set up as a slave-dealer.
As soon as Thénardier had left the house, Marius rushed to the garden,
where Cosette was still walking.
“Cosette! Cosette!” he cried. “Come! come quick! Let us go. Basque, a
carriage! Cosette, come. Ah! My God! It was he who saved my life! Let
us not lose a minute! Put on your shawl.”
Cosette thought him mad and obeyed.
He could not breathe, he laid his hand on his heart to restrain its
throbbing. He paced back and forth with huge strides, he embraced
Cosette:
“Ah! Cosette! I am an unhappy wretch!” said he.
Marius was bewildered. He began to catch a glimpse in Jean Valjean of
some indescribably lofty and melancholy figure. An unheard-of virtue,
supreme and sweet, humble in its immensity, appeared to him. The
convict was transfigured into Christ.
Marius was dazzled by this prodigy. He did not know precisely what he
beheld, but it was grand.
In an instant, a hackney-carriage stood in front of the door.
Marius helped Cosette in and darted in himself.
“Driver,” said he, “Rue de l’Homme Armé, Number 7.”
The carriage drove off.
“Ah! what happiness!” ejaculated Cosette. “Rue de l’Homme Armé, I did
not dare to speak to you of that. We are going to see M. Jean.”
“Thy father! Cosette, thy father more than ever. Cosette, I guess it.
You told me that you had never received the letter that I sent you by
Gavroche. It must have fallen into his hands. Cosette, he went to the
barricade to save me. As it is a necessity with him to be an angel, he
saved others also; he saved Javert. He rescued me from that gulf to
give me to you. He carried me on his back through that frightful sewer.
Ah! I am a monster of ingratitude. Cosette, after having been your
providence, he became mine. Just imagine, there was a terrible quagmire
enough to drown one a hundred times over, to drown one in mire.
Cosette! he made me traverse it. I was unconscious; I saw nothing, I
heard nothing, I could know nothing of my own adventure. We are going
to bring him back, to take him with us, whether he is willing or not,
he shall never leave us again. If only he is at home! Provided only
that we can find him, I will pass the rest of my life in venerating
him. Yes, that is how it should be, do you see, Cosette? Gavroche must
have delivered my letter to him. All is explained. You understand.”
Cosette did not understand a word.
“You are right,” she said to him.
Meanwhile the carriage rolled on.
CHAPTER V—A NIGHT BEHIND WHICH THERE IS DAY
Jean Valjean turned round at the knock which he heard on his door.
“Come in,” he said feebly.
The door opened.
Cosette and Marius made their appearance.
Cosette rushed into the room.
Marius remained on the threshold, leaning against the jamb of the door.
“Cosette!” said Jean Valjean.
And he sat erect in his chair, his arms outstretched and trembling,
haggard, livid, gloomy, an immense joy in his eyes.
Cosette, stifling with emotion, fell upon Jean Valjean’s breast.
“Father!” said she.
Jean Valjean, overcome, stammered:
“Cosette! she! you! Madame! it is thou! Ah! my God!”
And, pressed close in Cosette’s arms, he exclaimed:
“It is thou! thou art here! Thou dost pardon me then!”
Marius, lowering his eyelids, in order to keep his tears from flowing,
took a step forward and murmured between lips convulsively contracted
to repress his sobs:
“My father!”
“And you also, you pardon me!” Jean Valjean said to him.
Marius could find no words, and Jean Valjean added:
“Thanks.”
Cosette tore off her shawl and tossed her hat on the bed.
“It embarrasses me,” said she.
And, seating herself on the old man’s knees, she put aside his white
locks with an adorable movement, and kissed his brow.
Jean Valjean, bewildered, let her have her own way.
Cosette, who only understood in a very confused manner, redoubled her
caresses, as though she desired to pay Marius’ debt.
Jean Valjean stammered:
“How stupid people are! I thought that I should never see her again.
Imagine, Monsieur Pontmercy, at the very moment when you entered, I was
saying to myself: ‘All is over. Here is her little gown, I am a
miserable man, I shall never see Cosette again,’ and I was saying that
at the very moment when you were mounting the stairs. Was not I an
idiot? Just see how idiotic one can be! One reckons without the good
God. The good God says:
“‘You fancy that you are about to be abandoned, stupid! No. No, things
will not go so. Come, there is a good man yonder who is in need of an
angel.’ And the angel comes, and one sees one’s Cosette again! and one
sees one’s little Cosette once more! Ah! I was very unhappy.”
For a moment he could not speak, then he went on:
“I really needed to see Cosette a little bit now and then. A heart
needs a bone to gnaw. But I was perfectly conscious that I was in the
way. I gave myself reasons: ‘They do not want you, keep in your own
course, one has not the right to cling eternally.’ Ah! God be praised,
I see her once more! Dost thou know, Cosette, thy husband is very
handsome? Ah! what a pretty embroidered collar thou hast on, luckily. I
am fond of that pattern. It was thy husband who chose it, was it not?
And then, thou shouldst have some cashmere shawls. Let me call her
thou, Monsieur Pontmercy. It will not be for long.”
And Cosette began again:
“How wicked of you to have left us like that! Where did you go? Why
have you stayed away so long? Formerly your journeys only lasted three
or four days. I sent Nicolette, the answer always was: ‘He is absent.’
How long have you been back? Why did you not let us know? Do you know
that you are very much changed? Ah! what a naughty father! he has been
ill, and we have not known it! Stay, Marius, feel how cold his hand
is!”
“So you are here! Monsieur Pontmercy, you pardon me!” repeated Jean
Valjean.
At that word which Jean Valjean had just uttered once more, all that
was swelling Marius’ heart found vent.
He burst forth:
“Cosette, do you hear? he has come to that! he asks my forgiveness! And
do you know what he has done for me, Cosette? He has saved my life. He
has done more—he has given you to me. And after having saved me, and
after having given you to me, Cosette, what has he done with himself?
He has sacrificed himself. Behold the man. And he says to me the
ingrate, to me the forgetful, to me the pitiless, to me the guilty one:
Thanks! Cosette, my whole life passed at the feet of this man would be
too little. That barricade, that sewer, that furnace, that
cesspool,—all that he traversed for me, for thee, Cosette! He carried
me away through all the deaths which he put aside before me, and
accepted for himself. Every courage, every virtue, every heroism, every
sanctity he possesses! Cosette, that man is an angel!”
“Hush! hush!” said Jean Valjean in a low voice. “Why tell all that?”
“But you!” cried Marius with a wrath in which there was veneration,
“why did you not tell it to me? It is your own fault, too. You save
people’s lives, and you conceal it from them! You do more, under the
pretext of unmasking yourself, you calumniate yourself. It is
frightful.”
“I told the truth,” replied Jean Valjean.
“No,” retorted Marius, “the truth is the whole truth; and that you did
not tell. You were Monsieur Madeleine, why not have said so? You saved
Javert, why not have said so? I owed my life to you, why not have said
so?”
“Because I thought as you do. I thought that you were in the right. It
was necessary that I should go away. If you had known about that
affair, of the sewer, you would have made me remain near you. I was
therefore forced to hold my peace. If I had spoken, it would have
caused embarrassment in every way.”
“It would have embarrassed what? embarrassed whom?” retorted Marius.
“Do you think that you are going to stay here? We shall carry you off.
Ah! good heavens! when I reflect that it was by an accident that I have
learned all this. You form a part of ourselves. You are her father, and
mine. You shall not pass another day in this dreadful house. Do not
imagine that you will be here to-morrow.”
“To-morrow,” said Jean Valjean, “I shall not be here, but I shall not
be with you.”
“What do you mean?” replied Marius. “Ah! come now, we are not going to
permit any more journeys. You shall never leave us again. You belong to
us. We shall not loose our hold of you.”
“This time it is for good,” added Cosette. “We have a carriage at the
door. I shall run away with you. If necessary, I shall employ force.”
And she laughingly made a movement to lift the old man in her arms.
“Your chamber still stands ready in our house,” she went on. “If you
only knew how pretty the garden is now! The azaleas are doing very well
there. The walks are sanded with river sand; there are tiny violet
shells. You shall eat my strawberries. I water them myself. And no more
‘madame,’ no more ‘Monsieur Jean,’ we are living under a Republic,
everybody says _thou_, don’t they, Marius? The programme is changed. If
you only knew, father, I have had a sorrow, there was a robin redbreast
which had made her nest in a hole in the wall, and a horrible cat ate
her. My poor, pretty, little robin red-breast which used to put her
head out of her window and look at me! I cried over it. I should have
liked to kill the cat. But now nobody cries any more. Everybody laughs,
everybody is happy. You are going to come with us. How delighted
grandfather will be! You shall have your plot in the garden, you shall
cultivate it, and we shall see whether your strawberries are as fine as
mine. And, then, I shall do everything that you wish, and then, you
will obey me prettily.”
Jean Valjean listened to her without hearing her. He heard the music of
her voice rather than the sense of her words; one of those large tears
which are the sombre pearls of the soul welled up slowly in his eyes.
He murmured:
“The proof that God is good is that she is here.”
“Father!” said Cosette.
Jean Valjean continued:
“It is quite true that it would be charming for us to live together.
Their trees are full of birds. I would walk with Cosette. It is sweet
to be among living people who bid each other ‘good-day,’ who call to
each other in the garden. People see each other from early morning. We
should each cultivate our own little corner. She would make me eat her
strawberries. I would make her gather my roses. That would be charming.
Only . . .”
He paused and said gently:
“It is a pity.”
The tear did not fall, it retreated, and Jean Valjean replaced it with
a smile.
Cosette took both the old man’s hands in hers.
“My God!” said she, “your hands are still colder than before. Are you
ill? Do you suffer?”
“I? No,” replied Jean Valjean. “I am very well. Only . . .”
He paused.
“Only what?”
“I am going to die presently.”
Cosette and Marius shuddered.
“To die!” exclaimed Marius.
“Yes, but that is nothing,” said Jean Valjean.
He took breath, smiled and resumed:
“Cosette, thou wert talking to me, go on, so thy little robin
red-breast is dead? Speak, so that I may hear thy voice.”
Marius gazed at the old man in amazement.
Cosette uttered a heartrending cry.
“Father! my father! you will live. You are going to live. I insist upon
your living, do you hear?”
Jean Valjean raised his head towards her with adoration.
“Oh! yes, forbid me to die. Who knows? Perhaps I shall obey. I was on
the verge of dying when you came. That stopped me, it seemed to me that
I was born again.”
“You are full of strength and life,” cried Marius. “Do you imagine that
a person can die like this? You have had sorrow, you shall have no
more. It is I who ask your forgiveness, and on my knees! You are going
to live, and to live with us, and to live a long time. We take
possession of you once more. There are two of us here who will
henceforth have no other thought than your happiness.”
“You see,” resumed Cosette, all bathed in tears, “that Marius says that
you shall not die.”
Jean Valjean continued to smile.
“Even if you were to take possession of me, Monsieur Pontmercy, would
that make me other than I am? No, God has thought like you and myself,
and he does not change his mind; it is useful for me to go. Death is a
good arrangement. God knows better than we what we need. May you be
happy, may Monsieur Pontmercy have Cosette, may youth wed the morning,
may there be around you, my children, lilacs and nightingales; may your
life be a beautiful, sunny lawn, may all the enchantments of heaven
fill your souls, and now let me, who am good for nothing, die; it is
certain that all this is right. Come, be reasonable, nothing is
possible now, I am fully conscious that all is over. And then, last
night, I drank that whole jug of water. How good thy husband is,
Cosette! Thou art much better off with him than with me.”
A noise became audible at the door.
It was the doctor entering.
“Good-day, and farewell, doctor,” said Jean Valjean. “Here are my poor
children.”
Marius stepped up to the doctor. He addressed to him only this single
word: “Monsieur? . . .” But his manner of pronouncing it contained a
complete question.
The doctor replied to the question by an expressive glance.
“Because things are not agreeable,” said Jean Valjean, “that is no
reason for being unjust towards God.”
A silence ensued.
All breasts were oppressed.
Jean Valjean turned to Cosette. He began to gaze at her as though he
wished to retain her features for eternity.
In the depths of the shadow into which he had already descended,
ecstasy was still possible to him when gazing at Cosette. The
reflection of that sweet face lighted up his pale visage.
The doctor felt of his pulse.
“Ah! it was you that he wanted!” he murmured, looking at Cosette and
Marius.
And bending down to Marius’ ear, he added in a very low voice:
“Too late.”
Jean Valjean surveyed the doctor and Marius serenely, almost without
ceasing to gaze at Cosette.
These barely articulate words were heard to issue from his mouth:
“It is nothing to die; it is dreadful not to live.”
All at once he rose to his feet. These accesses of strength are
sometimes the sign of the death agony. He walked with a firm step to
the wall, thrusting aside Marius and the doctor who tried to help him,
detached from the wall a little copper crucifix which was suspended
there, and returned to his seat with all the freedom of movement of
perfect health, and said in a loud voice, as he laid the crucifix on
the table:
“Behold the great martyr.”
Then his chest sank in, his head wavered, as though the intoxication of
the tomb were seizing hold upon him.
His hands, which rested on his knees, began to press their nails into
the stuff of his trousers.
Cosette supported his shoulders, and sobbed, and tried to speak to him,
but could not.
Among the words mingled with that mournful saliva which accompanies
tears, they distinguished words like the following:
“Father, do not leave us. Is it possible that we have found you only to
lose you again?”
It might be said that agony writhes. It goes, comes, advances towards
the sepulchre, and returns towards life. There is groping in the action
of dying.
Jean Valjean rallied after this semi-swoon, shook his brow as though to
make the shadows fall away from it and became almost perfectly lucid
once more.
He took a fold of Cosette’s sleeve and kissed it.
“He is coming back! doctor, he is coming back,” cried Marius.
“You are good, both of you,” said Jean Valjean. “I am going to tell you
what has caused me pain. What has pained me, Monsieur Pontmercy, is
that you have not been willing to touch that money. That money really
belongs to your wife. I will explain to you, my children, and for that
reason, also, I am glad to see you. Black jet comes from England, white
jet comes from Norway. All this is in this paper, which you will read.
For bracelets, I invented a way of substituting for slides of soldered
sheet iron, slides of iron laid together. It is prettier, better and
less costly. You will understand how much money can be made in that
way. So Cosette’s fortune is really hers. I give you these details, in
order that your mind may be set at rest.”
The portress had come upstairs and was gazing in at the half-open door.
The doctor dismissed her.
But he could not prevent this zealous woman from exclaiming to the
dying man before she disappeared: “Would you like a priest?”
“I have had one,” replied Jean Valjean.
And with his finger he seemed to indicate a point above his head where
one would have said that he saw some one.
It is probable, in fact, that the Bishop was present at this death
agony.
Cosette gently slipped a pillow under his loins.
Jean Valjean resumed:
“Have no fear, Monsieur Pontmercy, I adjure you. The six hundred
thousand francs really belong to Cosette. My life will have been wasted
if you do not enjoy them! We managed to do very well with those glass
goods. We rivalled what is called Berlin jewellery. However, we could
not equal the black glass of England. A gross, which contains twelve
hundred very well cut grains, only costs three francs.”
When a being who is dear to us is on the point of death, we gaze upon
him with a look which clings convulsively to him and which would fain
hold him back.
Cosette gave her hand to Marius, and both, mute with anguish, not
knowing what to say to the dying man, stood trembling and despairing
before him.
Jean Valjean sank moment by moment. He was failing; he was drawing near
to the gloomy horizon.
His breath had become intermittent; a little rattling interrupted it.
He found some difficulty in moving his forearm, his feet had lost all
movement, and in proportion as the wretchedness of limb and feebleness
of body increased, all the majesty of his soul was displayed and spread
over his brow. The light of the unknown world was already visible in
his eyes.
His face paled and smiled. Life was no longer there, it was something
else.
His breath sank, his glance grew grander. He was a corpse on which the
wings could be felt.
He made a sign to Cosette to draw near, then to Marius; the last minute
of the last hour had, evidently, arrived.
He began to speak to them in a voice so feeble that it seemed to come
from a distance, and one would have said that a wall now rose between
them and him.
“Draw near, draw near, both of you. I love you dearly. Oh! how good it
is to die like this! And thou lovest me also, my Cosette. I knew well
that thou still felt friendly towards thy poor old man. How kind it was
of thee to place that pillow under my loins! Thou wilt weep for me a
little, wilt thou not? Not too much. I do not wish thee to have any
real griefs. You must enjoy yourselves a great deal, my children. I
forgot to tell you that the profit was greater still on the buckles
without tongues than on all the rest. A gross of a dozen dozens cost
ten francs and sold for sixty. It really was a good business. So there
is no occasion for surprise at the six hundred thousand francs,
Monsieur Pontmercy. It is honest money. You may be rich with a tranquil
mind. Thou must have a carriage, a box at the theatres now and then,
and handsome ball dresses, my Cosette, and then, thou must give good
dinners to thy friends, and be very happy. I was writing to Cosette a
while ago. She will find my letter. I bequeath to her the two
candlesticks which stand on the chimney-piece. They are of silver, but
to me they are gold, they are diamonds; they change candles which are
placed in them into wax-tapers. I do not know whether the person who
gave them to me is pleased with me yonder on high. I have done what I
could. My children, you will not forget that I am a poor man, you will
have me buried in the first plot of earth that you find, under a stone
to mark the spot. This is my wish. No name on the stone. If Cosette
cares to come for a little while now and then, it will give me
pleasure. And you too, Monsieur Pontmercy. I must admit that I have not
always loved you. I ask your pardon for that. Now she and you form but
one for me. I feel very grateful to you. I am sure that you make
Cosette happy. If you only knew, Monsieur Pontmercy, her pretty rosy
cheeks were my delight; when I saw her in the least pale, I was sad. In
the chest of drawers, there is a bank-bill for five hundred francs. I
have not touched it. It is for the poor. Cosette, dost thou see thy
little gown yonder on the bed? dost thou recognize it? That was ten
years ago, however. How time flies! We have been very happy. All is
over. Do not weep, my children, I am not going very far, I shall see
you from there, you will only have to look at night, and you will see
me smile. Cosette, dost thou remember Montfermeil? Thou wert in the
forest, thou wert greatly terrified; dost thou remember how I took hold
of the handle of the water-bucket? That was the first time that I
touched thy poor, little hand. It was so cold! Ah! your hands were red
then, mademoiselle, they are very white now. And the big doll! dost
thou remember? Thou didst call her Catherine. Thou regrettedest not
having taken her to the convent! How thou didst make me laugh
sometimes, my sweet angel! When it had been raining, thou didst float
bits of straw on the gutters, and watch them pass away. One day I gave
thee a willow battledore and a shuttlecock with yellow, blue and green
feathers. Thou hast forgotten it. Thou wert roguish so young! Thou
didst play. Thou didst put cherries in thy ears. Those are things of
the past. The forests through which one has passed with one’s child,
the trees under which one has strolled, the convents where one has
concealed oneself, the games, the hearty laughs of childhood, are
shadows. I imagined that all that belonged to me. In that lay my
stupidity. Those Thénardiers were wicked. Thou must forgive them.
Cosette, the moment has come to tell thee the name of thy mother. She
was called Fantine. Remember that name—Fantine. Kneel whenever thou
utterest it. She suffered much. She loved thee dearly. She had as much
unhappiness as thou hast had happiness. That is the way God apportions
things. He is there on high, he sees us all, and he knows what he does
in the midst of his great stars. I am on the verge of departure, my
children. Love each other well and always. There is nothing else but
that in the world: love for each other. You will think sometimes of the
poor old man who died here. Oh my Cosette, it is not my fault, indeed,
that I have not seen thee all this time, it cut me to the heart; I went
as far as the corner of the street, I must have produced a queer effect
on the people who saw me pass, I was like a madman, I once went out
without my hat. I no longer see clearly, my children, I had still other
things to say, but never mind. Think a little of me. Come still nearer.
I die happy. Give me your dear and well-beloved heads, so that I may
lay my hands upon them.”
Cosette and Marius fell on their knees, in despair, suffocating with
tears, each beneath one of Jean Valjean’s hands. Those august hands no
longer moved.
He had fallen backwards, the light of the candles illuminated him.
His white face looked up to heaven, he allowed Cosette and Marius to
cover his hands with kisses.
He was dead.
The night was starless and extremely dark. No doubt, in the gloom, some
immense angel stood erect with wings outspread, awaiting that soul.
[Illustration: Darkness]
CHAPTER VI—THE GRASS COVERS AND THE RAIN EFFACES
In the cemetery of Père-Lachaise, in the vicinity of the common grave,
far from the elegant quarter of that city of sepulchres, far from all
the tombs of fancy which display in the presence of eternity all the
hideous fashions of death, in a deserted corner, beside an old wall,
beneath a great yew tree over which climbs the wild convolvulus, amid
dandelions and mosses, there lies a stone. That stone is no more exempt
than others from the leprosy of time, of dampness, of the lichens and
from the defilement of the birds. The water turns it green, the air
blackens it. It is not near any path, and people are not fond of
walking in that direction, because the grass is high and their feet are
immediately wet. When there is a little sunshine, the lizards come
thither. All around there is a quivering of weeds. In the spring,
linnets warble in the trees.
This stone is perfectly plain. In cutting it the only thought was the
requirements of the tomb, and no other care was taken than to make the
stone long enough and narrow enough to cover a man.
No name is to be read there.
Only, many years ago, a hand wrote upon it in pencil these four lines,
which have become gradually illegible beneath the rain and the dust,
and which are, to-day, probably effaced:
Il dort. Quoique le sort fût pour lui bien étrange,
Il vivait. Il mourut quand il n’eut plus son ange.
La chose simplement d’elle-même arriva,
Comme la nuit se fait lorsque le jour s’en va.70
LETTER TO M. DAELLI
Publisher of the Italian translation of _Les Misérables_ in Milan.
HAUTEVILLE-HOUSE, October 18, 1862.
You are right, sir, when you tell me that _Les Misérables_ is written
for all nations. I do not know whether it will be read by all, but I
wrote it for all. It is addressed to England as well as to Spain, to
Italy as well as to France, to Germany as well as to Ireland, to
Republics which have slaves as well as to Empires which have serfs.
Social problems overstep frontiers. The sores of the human race, those
great sores which cover the globe, do not halt at the red or blue lines
traced upon the map. In every place where man is ignorant and
despairing, in every place where woman is sold for bread, wherever the
child suffers for lack of the book which should instruct him and of the
hearth which should warm him, the book of _Les Misérables_ knocks at
the door and says: “Open to me, I come for you.”
At the hour of civilization through which we are now passing, and which
is still so sombre, the _miserable’s_ name is Man; he is agonizing in
all climes, and he is groaning in all languages.
Your Italy is no more exempt from the evil than is our France. Your
admirable Italy has all miseries on the face of it. Does not banditism,
that raging form of pauperism, inhabit your mountains? Few nations are
more deeply eaten by that ulcer of convents which I have endeavored to
fathom. In spite of your possessing Rome, Milan, Naples, Palermo,
Turin, Florence, Sienna, Pisa, Mantua, Bologna, Ferrara, Genoa, Venice,
a heroic history, sublime ruins, magnificent ruins, and superb cities,
you are, like ourselves, poor. You are covered with marvels and vermin.
Assuredly, the sun of Italy is splendid, but, alas, azure in the sky
does not prevent rags on man.
Like us, you have prejudices, superstitions, tyrannies, fanaticisms,
blind laws lending assistance to ignorant customs. You taste nothing of
the present nor of the future without a flavor of the past being
mingled with it. You have a barbarian, the monk, and a savage, the
lazzarone. The social question is the same for you as for us. There are
a few less deaths from hunger with you, and a few more from fever; your
social hygiene is not much better than ours; shadows, which are
Protestant in England, are Catholic in Italy; but, under different
names, the _vescovo_ is identical with the _bishop_, and it always
means night, and of pretty nearly the same quality. To explain the
Bible badly amounts to the same thing as to understand the Gospel
badly.
Is it necessary to emphasize this? Must this melancholy parallelism be
yet more completely verified? Have you not indigent persons? Glance
below. Have you not parasites? Glance up. Does not that hideous
balance, whose two scales, pauperism and parasitism, so mournfully
preserve their mutual equilibrium, oscillate before you as it does
before us? Where is your army of schoolmasters, the only army which
civilization acknowledges?
Where are your free and compulsory schools? Does every one know how to
read in the land of Dante and of Michael Angelo? Have you made public
schools of your barracks? Have you not, like ourselves, an opulent
war-budget and a paltry budget of education? Have not you also that
passive obedience which is so easily converted into soldierly
obedience? military establishment which pushes the regulations to the
extreme of firing upon Garibaldi; that is to say, upon the living honor
of Italy? Let us subject your social order to examination, let us take
it where it stands and as it stands, let us view its flagrant offences,
show me the woman and the child. It is by the amount of protection with
which these two feeble creatures are surrounded that the degree of
civilization is to be measured. Is prostitution less heartrending in
Naples than in Paris? What is the amount of truth that springs from
your laws, and what amount of justice springs from your tribunals? Do
you chance to be so fortunate as to be ignorant of the meaning of those
gloomy words: public prosecution, legal infamy, prison, the scaffold,
the executioner, the death penalty? Italians, with you as with us,
Beccaria is dead and Farinace is alive. And then, let us scrutinize
your state reasons. Have you a government which comprehends the
identity of morality and politics? You have reached the point where you
grant amnesty to heroes! Something very similar has been done in
France. Stay, let us pass miseries in review, let each one contribute
his pile, you are as rich as we. Have you not, like ourselves, two
condemnations, religious condemnation pronounced by the priest, and
social condemnation decreed by the judge? Oh, great nation of Italy,
thou resemblest the great nation of France! Alas! our brothers, you
are, like ourselves, _Miserables_.
From the depths of the gloom wherein you dwell, you do not see much
more distinctly than we the radiant and distant portals of Eden. Only,
the priests are mistaken. These holy portals are before and not behind
us.
I resume. This book, _Les Misérables_, is no less your mirror than
ours. Certain men, certain castes, rise in revolt against this book,—I
understand that. Mirrors, those revealers of the truth, are hated; that
does not prevent them from being of use.
As for myself, I have written for all, with a profound love for my own
country, but without being engrossed by France more than by any other
nation. In proportion as I advance in life, I grow more simple, and I
become more and more patriotic for humanity.
This is, moreover, the tendency of our age, and the law of radiance of
the French Revolution; books must cease to be exclusively French,
Italian, German, Spanish, or English, and become European, I say more,
human, if they are to correspond to the enlargement of civilization.
Hence a new logic of art, and of certain requirements of composition
which modify everything, even the conditions, formerly narrow, of taste
and language, which must grow broader like all the rest.
In France, certain critics have reproached me, to my great delight,
with having transgressed the bounds of what they call “French taste”; I
should be glad if this eulogium were merited.
In short, I am doing what I can, I suffer with the same universal
suffering, and I try to assuage it, I possess only the puny forces of a
man, and I cry to all: “Help me!”
This, sir, is what your letter prompts me to say; I say it for you and
for your country. If I have insisted so strongly, it is because of one
phrase in your letter. You write:—
“There are Italians, and they are numerous, who say: ‘This book, _Les
Misérables_, is a French book. It does not concern us. Let the French
read it as a history, we read it as a romance.’”—Alas! I repeat,
whether we be Italians or Frenchmen, misery concerns us all. Ever since
history has been written, ever since philosophy has meditated, misery
has been the garment of the human race; the moment has at length
arrived for tearing off that rag, and for replacing, upon the naked
limbs of the Man-People, the sinister fragment of the past with the
grand purple robe of the dawn.
If this letter seems to you of service in enlightening some minds and
in dissipating some prejudices, you are at liberty to publish it, sir.
Accept, I pray you, a renewed assurance of my very distinguished
sentiments.
VICTOR HUGO.
FOOTNOTES:
1 (return) [ Patois of the French Alps: _chat de maraude_, rascally
marauder.]
2 (return) [ Liège: a cork-tree. Pau: a jest on _peau_, skin.]
3 (return) [ She belonged to that circle where cuckoos and carriages
share the same fate; and a jade herself, she lived, as jades live, for
the space of a morning (or jade).]
4 (return) [ An ex-convict.]
5 (return) [ This parenthesis is due to Jean Valjean.]
6 (return) [ A bullet as large as an egg.]
7 (return) [ Walter Scott, Lamartine, Vaulabelle, Charras, Quinet,
Thiers.]
8 (return) [ This is the inscription:—D. O. M. CY A ETE ÉCRASÉ PAR
MALHEUR SOUS UN CHARIOT, MONSIEUR BERNARD DE BRYE MARCHAND A BRUXELLE
LE [illegible] FEVRIER 1637.]
9 (return) [ A heavy rifled gun.]
10 (return) [ “A battle terminated, a day finished, false measures
repaired, greater successes assured for the morrow,—all was lost by a
moment of panic, terror.”—Napoleon, Dictées de Sainte Hélène.]
11 (return) [ Five winning numbers in a lottery]
12 (return) [ Literally “made cuirs”; _i. e._, pronounced a _t_ or an
_s_ at the end of words where the opposite letter should occur, or used
either one of them where neither exists.]
13 (return) [ Lawyer Corbeau, perched on a docket, held in his beak a
writ of execution; Lawyer Renard, attracted by the smell, addressed him
nearly as follows, etc.]
14 (return) [ This is the factory of Goblet Junior: Come choose your
jugs and crocks, Flower-pots, pipes, bricks. The Heart sells Diamonds
to every comer.]
15 (return) [ On the boughs hang three bodies of unequal merits: Dismas
and Gesmas, between is the divine power. Dismas seeks the heights,
Gesmas, unhappy man, the lowest regions; the highest power will
preserve us and our effects. If you repeat this verse, you will not
lose your things by theft.]
16 (return) [ Instead of _porte cochère_ and _porte bàtarde_.]
17 (return) [ Jesus-my-God-bandy-leg—down with the moon!]
18 (return) [ _Chicken: _ slang allusion to the noise made in calling
poultry.]
19 (return) [ Louis XVIII. is represented in comic pictures of that day
as having a pear-shaped head.]
20 (return) [ Tuck into your trousers the shirt-tail that is hanging
out. Let it not be said that patriots have hoisted the white flag.]
21 (return) [ In order to re-establish the shaken throne firmly on its
base, soil (Des solles), greenhouse and house (Decazes) must be
changed.]
22 (return) [ _Suspendu_, suspended; _pendu_, hung.]
23 (return) [ _L’Aile_, wing.]
24 (return) [ The slang term for a painter’s assistant.]
25 (return) [ If Cæsar had given me glory and war, and I were obliged
to quit my mother’s love, I would say to great Cæsar, “Take back thy
sceptre and thy chariot; I prefer the love of my mother.”]
26 (return) [ Whether the sun shines brightly or dim, the bear returns
to his cave.]
27 (return) [ The peep-hole is a _Judas_ in French. Hence the
half-punning allusion.]
28 (return) [ Our love has lasted a whole week, but how short are the
instants of happiness! To adore each other for eight days was hardly
worth the while! The time of love should last forever.]
29 (return) [ You leave me to go to glory; my sad heart will follow you
everywhere.]
30 (return) [ A democrat.]
31 (return) [ King Bootkick went a-hunting after crows, mounted on two
stilts. When one passed beneath them, one paid him two sous.]
32 (return) [ In olden times, fouriers were the officials who preceded
the Court and allotted the lodgings.]
33 (return) [ A game of ninepins, in which one side of the ball is
smaller than the other, so that it does not roll straight, but
describes a curve on the ground.]
34 (return) [ From April 19 to May 20.]
35 (return) [ _Merlan:_ a sobriquet given to hairdressers because they
are white with powder.]
36 (return) [ The scaffold.]
37 (return) [ Argot of the Temple.]
38 (return) [ Argot of the barriers.]
39 (return) [ The Last Day of a Condemned Man.]
40 (return) [ “Vous trouverez dans ces potains-là, une foultitude de
raisons pour que je me libertise.”]
41 (return) [ It must be observed, however, that _mac_ in Celtic means
_son_.]
42 (return) [ Smoke puffed in the face of a person asleep.]
43 (return) [ Je n’entrave que le dail comment meck, le daron des
orgues, peut atiger ses mômes et ses momignards et les locher criblant
sans être agité lui-meme.]
44 (return) [ At night one sees nothing, by day one sees very well; the
bourgeois gets flurried over an apocryphal scrawl, practice virtue,
tutu, pointed hat!]
45 (return) [ _Chien_, dog, trigger.]
46 (return) [ Here is the morn appearing. When shall we go to the
forest, Charlot asked Charlotte. Tou, tou, tou, for Chatou, I have but
one God, one King, one half-farthing, and one boot. And these two poor
little wolves were as tipsy as sparrows from having drunk dew and thyme
very early in the morning. And these two poor little things were as
drunk as thrushes in a vineyard; a tiger laughed at them in his cave.
The one cursed, the other swore. When shall we go to the forest?
Charlot asked Charlotte.]
47 (return) [ There swings the horrible skeleton of a poor lover who
hung himself.]
48 (return) [ She astounds at ten paces, she frightens at two, a wart
inhabits her hazardous nose; you tremble every instant lest she should
blow it at you, and lest, some fine day, her nose should tumble into
her mouth.]
49 (return) [ _Matelote:_ a culinary preparation of various fishes.
_Gibelotte:_ stewed rabbits.]
50 (return) [ Treat if you can, and eat if you dare.]
51 (return) [ _Bipède sans plume:_ biped without feathers—pen.]
52 (return) [ Municipal officer of Toulouse.]
53 (return) [ Do you remember our sweet life, when we were both so
young, and when we had no other desire in our hearts than to be well
dressed and in love? When, by adding your age to my age, we could not
count forty years between us, and when, in our humble and tiny
household, everything was spring to us even in winter. Fair days!
Manuel was proud and wise, Paris sat at sacred banquets, Foy launched
thunderbolts, and your corsage had a pin on which I pricked myself.
Everything gazed upon you. A briefless lawyer, when I took you to the
Prado to dine, you were so beautiful that the roses seemed to me to
turn round, and I heard them say: Is she not beautiful! How good she
smells! What billowing hair! Beneath her mantle she hides a wing. Her
charming bonnet is hardly unfolded. I wandered with thee, pressing thy
supple arm. The passers-by thought that love bewitched had wedded, in
our happy couple, the gentle month of April to the fair month of May.
We lived concealed, content, with closed doors, devouring love, that
sweet forbidden fruit. My mouth had not uttered a thing when thy heart
had already responded. The Sorbonne was the bucolic spot where I adored
thee from eve till morn. ’Tis thus that an amorous soul applies the
chart of the Tender to the Latin country. O Place Maubert! O Place
Dauphine! When in the fresh spring-like hut thou didst draw thy
stocking on thy delicate leg, I saw a star in the depths of the garret.
I have read a great deal of Plato, but nothing of it remains by me;
better than Malebranche and then Lamennais thou didst demonstrate to me
celestial goodness with a flower which thou gavest to me, I obeyed
thee, thou didst submit to me; oh gilded garret! to lace thee! to
behold thee going and coming from dawn in thy chemise, gazing at thy
young brow in thine ancient mirror! And who, then, would forego the
memory of those days of aurora and the firmament, of flowers, of gauze
and of moire, when love stammers a charming slang? Our gardens
consisted of a pot of tulips; thou didst mask the window with thy
petticoat; I took the earthenware bowl and I gave thee the Japanese
cup. And those great misfortunes which made us laugh! Thy cuff
scorched, thy boa lost! And that dear portrait of the divine
Shakespeare which we sold one evening that we might sup! I was a beggar
and thou wert charitable. I kissed thy fresh round arms in haste. A
folio Dante served us as a table on which to eat merrily a centime’s
worth of chestnuts. The first time that, in my joyous den, I snatched a
kiss from thy fiery lip, when thou wentest forth, dishevelled and
blushing, I turned deathly pale and I believed in God. Dost thou recall
our innumerable joys, and all those fichus changed to rags? Oh! what
sighs from our hearts full of gloom fluttered forth to the heavenly
depths!]
54 (return) [ My nose is in tears, my friend Bugeaud, lend me thy
gendarmes that I may say a word to them. With a blue capote and a
chicken in his shako, here’s the banlieue, co-cocorico.]
55 (return) [ Love letters.]
56 (return) [
“The bird slanders in the elms,
And pretends that yesterday, Atala
Went off with a Russian,
Where fair maids go.
Lon la.
My friend Pierrot, thou pratest, because Mila knocked at her pane the
other day and called me. The jades are very charming, their poison
which bewitched me would intoxicate Monsieur Orfila. I’m fond of love
and its bickerings, I love Agnes, I love Pamela, Lise burned herself in
setting me aflame. In former days when I saw the mantillas of Suzette
and of Zéila, my soul mingled with their folds. Love, when thou
gleamest in the dark thou crownest Lola with roses, I would lose my
soul for that. Jeanne, at thy mirror thou deckest thyself! One fine
day, my heart flew forth. I think that it is Jeanne who has it. At
night, when I come from the quadrilles, I show Stella to the stars, and
I say to them: “Behold her.” Where fair maids go, lon la.]
57 (return) [ But some prisons still remain, and I am going to put a
stop to this sort of public order. Does any one wish to play at
skittles? The whole ancient world fell in ruin, when the big ball
rolled. Good old folks, let us smash with our crutches that Louvre
where the monarchy displayed itself in furbelows. We have forced its
gates. On that day, King Charles X. did not stick well and came
unglued.]
58 (return) [ Steps on the Aventine Hill, leading to the Tiber, to
which the bodies of executed criminals were dragged by hooks to be
thrown into the Tiber.]
59 (return) [ Mustards.]
60 (return) [ From _casser_, to break: break-necks.]
61 (return) [ “Jeanne was born at Fougère, a true shepherd’s nest; I
adore her petticoat, the rogue.” “Love, thou dwellest in her; For ’tis
in her eyes that thou placest thy quiver, sly scamp!” “As for me, I
sing her, and I love, more than Diana herself, Jeanne and her firm
Breton breasts.”]
62 (return) [ In allusion to the expression, _coiffer
Sainte-Catherine_, “to remain unmarried.”]
63 (return) [ “Thus, hemming in the course of thy musings, Alcippus, it
is true that thou wilt wed ere long.”]
64 (return) [ _Tirer le diable par la queue_, “to live from hand to
mouth.”]
65 (return) [ “Triton trotted on before, and drew from his conch-shell
sounds so ravishing that he delighted everyone!”]
66 (return) [ “A Shrove-Tuesday marriage will have no ungrateful
children.”]
67 (return) [ A short mask.]
68 (return) [ In allusion to the story of Prometheus.]
69 (return) [ _Un fafiot sérieux. Fafiot_ is the slang term for a
bank-bill, derived from its rustling noise.]
70 (return) [ He sleeps. Although his fate was very strange, he lived.
He died when he had no longer his angel. The thing came to pass simply,
of itself, as the night comes when day is gone.]