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Les Miserables by Victor Hugo, trans. Isabel F. Hapgood

Part 20 out of 36

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winding-sheets in the moonlight, the taper-like lights of the street
lanterns which shone redly here and there along those tragic boulevards,
and the long rows of black elms, not a passer-by for perhaps
a quarter of a league around, the Gorbeau hovel, at its highest
pitch of silence, of horror, and of darkness; in that building,
in the midst of those solitudes, in the midst of that darkness,
the vast Jondrette garret lighted by a single candle, and in that den
two men seated at a table, M. Leblanc tranquil, Jondrette smiling
and alarming, the Jondrette woman, the female wolf, in one corner,
and, behind the partition, Marius, invisible, erect, not losing
a word, not missing a single movement, his eye on the watch,
and pistol in hand.

However, Marius experienced only an emotion of horror, but no fear.
He clasped the stock of the pistol firmly and felt reassured.
"I shall be able to stop that wretch whenever I please,"
he thought.

He felt that the police were there somewhere in ambuscade,
waiting for the signal agreed upon and ready to stretch out their arm.

Moreover, he was in hopes, that this violent encounter between
Jondrette and M. Leblanc would cast some light on all the things
which he was interested in learning.



Hardly was M. Leblanc seated, when he turned his eyes towards
the pallets, which were empty.

"How is the poor little wounded girl?" he inquired.

"Bad," replied Jondrette with a heart-broken and grateful smile,
"very bad, my worthy sir. Her elder sister has taken her to the
Bourbe to have her hurt dressed. You will see them presently;
they will be back immediately."

"Madame Fabantou seems to me to be better," went on M. Leblanc,
casting his eyes on the eccentric costume of the Jondrette woman,
as she stood between him and the door, as though already guarding
the exit, and gazed at him in an attitude of menace and almost
of combat.

"She is dying," said Jondrette. "But what do you expect, sir!
She has so much courage, that woman has! She's not a woman,
she's an ox."

The Jondrette, touched by his compliment, deprecated it with the
affected airs of a flattered monster.

"You are always too good to me, Monsieur Jondrette!"

"Jondrette!" said M. Leblanc, "I thought your name was Fabantou?"

"Fabantou, alias Jondrette!" replied the husband hurriedly.
"An artistic sobriquet!"

And launching at his wife a shrug of the shoulders which M. Leblanc
did not catch, he continued with an emphatic and caressing inflection
of voice:--

"Ah! we have had a happy life together, this poor darling and I!
What would there be left for us if we had not that? We are so wretched,
my respectable sir! We have arms, but there is no work! We have
the will, no work! I don't know how the government arranges that,
but, on my word of honor, sir, I am not Jacobin, sir, I am not a
bousingot.[30] I don't wish them any evil, but if I were the ministers,
on my most sacred word, things would be different. Here, for instance,
I wanted to have my girls taught the trade of paper-box makers.
You will say to me: `What! a trade?' Yes! A trade! A simple trade!
A bread-winner! What a fall, my benefactor! What a degradation,
when one has been what we have been! Alas! There is nothing
left to us of our days of prosperity! One thing only, a picture,
of which I think a great deal, but which I am willing to part with,
for I must live! Item, one must live!"

[30] A democrat.

While Jondrette thus talked, with an apparent incoherence which
detracted nothing from the thoughtful and sagacious expression
of his physiognomy, Marius raised his eyes, and perceived at
the other end of the room a person whom he had not seen before.
A man had just entered, so softly that the door had not been heard
to turn on its hinges. This man wore a violet knitted vest,
which was old, worn, spotted, cut and gaping at every fold,
wide trousers of cotton velvet, wooden shoes on his feet, no shirt,
had his neck bare, his bare arms tattooed, and his face smeared
with black. He had seated himself in silence on the nearest bed,
and, as he was behind Jondrette, he could only be indistinctly seen.

That sort of magnetic instinct which turns aside the gaze,
caused M. Leblanc to turn round almost at the same moment as Marius.
He could not refrain from a gesture of surprise which did not
escape Jondrette.

"Ah! I see!" exclaimed Jondrette, buttoning up his coat with an air
of complaisance, "you are looking at your overcoat? It fits me!
My faith, but it fits me!"

"Who is that man?" said M. Leblanc.

"Him?" ejaculated Jondrette, "he's a neighbor of mine. Don't pay
any attention to him."

The neighbor was a singular-looking individual. However, manufactories
of chemical products abound in the Faubourg Saint-Marceau. Many
of the workmen might have black faces. Besides this, M. Leblanc's
whole person was expressive of candid and intrepid confidence.

He went on:--

"Excuse me; what were you saying, M. Fabantou?"

"I was telling you, sir, and dear protector," replied Jondrette
placing his elbows on the table and contemplating M. Leblanc with
steady and tender eyes, not unlike the eyes of the boa-constrictor,
"I was telling you, that I have a picture to sell."

A slight sound came from the door. A second man had just entered
and seated himself on the bed, behind Jondrette.

Like the first, his arms were bare, and he had a mask of ink
or lampblack.

Although this man had, literally, glided into the room, he had
not been able to prevent M. Leblanc catching sight of him.

"Don't mind them," said Jondrette, "they are people who belong
in the house. So I was saying, that there remains in my possession
a valuable picture. But stop, sir, take a look at it."

He rose, went to the wall at the foot of which stood the panel which we
have already mentioned, and turned it round, still leaving it supported
against the wall. It really was something which resembled a picture,
and which the candle illuminated, somewhat. Marius could make
nothing out of it, as Jondrette stood between the picture and him;
he only saw a coarse daub, and a sort of principal personage colored
with the harsh crudity of foreign canvasses and screen paintings.

"What is that?" asked M. Leblanc.

Jondrette exclaimed:--

"A painting by a master, a picture of great value, my benefactor!
I am as much attached to it as I am to my two daughters; it recalls
souvenirs to me! But I have told you, and I will not take it back,
that I am so wretched that I will part with it."

Either by chance, or because he had begun to feel a dawning uneasiness,
M. Leblanc's glance returned to the bottom of the room as he
examined the picture.

There were now four men, three seated on the bed, one standing near
the door-post, all four with bare arms and motionless, with faces smeared
with black. One of those on the bed was leaning against the wall,
with closed eyes, and it might have been supposed that he was asleep.
He was old; his white hair contrasting with his blackened face
produced a horrible effect. The other two seemed to be young;
one wore a beard, the other wore his hair long. None of them had
on shoes; those who did not wear socks were barefooted.

Jondrette noticed that M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on these men.

"They are friends. They are neighbors," said he. "Their faces
are black because they work in charcoal. They are chimney-builders.
Don't trouble yourself about them, my benefactor, but buy my picture.
Have pity on my misery. I will not ask you much for it. How much
do you think it is worth?"

"Well," said M. Leblanc, looking Jondrette full in the eye,
and with the manner of a man who is on his guard, "it is some
signboard for a tavern, and is worth about three francs."

Jondrette replied sweetly:--

"Have you your pocket-book with you? I should be satisfied
with a thousand crowns."

M. Leblanc sprang up, placed his back against the wall, and cast
a rapid glance around the room. He had Jondrette on his left,
on the side next the window, and the Jondrette woman and the four men
on his right, on the side next the door. The four men did not stir,
and did not even seem to be looking on.

Jondrette had again begun to speak in a plaintive tone, with so vague an
eye, and so lamentable an intonation, that M. Leblanc might have supposed
that what he had before him was a man who had simply gone mad with misery.

"If you do not buy my picture, my dear benefactor," said Jondrette,
"I shall be left without resources; there will be nothing left
for me but to throw myself into the river. When I think that I
wanted to have my two girls taught the middle-class paper-box trade,
the making of boxes for New Year's gifts! Well! A table with a
board at the end to keep the glasses from falling off is required,
then a special stove is needed, a pot with three compartments
for the different degrees of strength of the paste, according as it
is to be used for wood, paper, or stuff, a paring-knife to cut
the cardboard, a mould to adjust it, a hammer to nail the steels,
pincers, how the devil do I know what all? And all that in order
to earn four sous a day! And you have to work fourteen hours a day!
And each box passes through the workwoman's hands thirteen times!
And you can't wet the paper! And you mustn't spot anything! And you
must keep the paste hot. The devil, I tell you! Four sous a day!
How do you suppose a man is to live?"

As he spoke, Jondrette did not look at M. Leblanc, who was observing him.
M. Leblanc's eye was fixed on Jondrette, and Jondrette's eye was fixed on
the door. Marius' eager attention was transferred from one to the other.
M. Leblanc seemed to be asking himself: "Is this man an idiot?"
Jondrette repeated two or three distinct times, with all manner
of varying inflections of the whining and supplicating order:
"There is nothing left for me but to throw myself into the river!
I went down three steps at the side of the bridge of Austerlitz
the other day for that purpose."

All at once his dull eyes lighted up with a hideous flash;
the little man drew himself up and became terrible, took a step
toward M. Leblanc and cried in a voice of thunder: "That has
nothing to do with the question! Do you know me?"



The door of the garret had just opened abruptly, and allowed a view
of three men clad in blue linen blouses, and masked with masks
of black paper. The first was thin, and had a long, iron-tipped cudgel;
the second, who was a sort of colossus, carried, by the middle
of the handle, with the blade downward, a butcher's pole-axe for
slaughtering cattle. The third, a man with thick-set shoulders,
not so slender as the first, held in his hand an enormous key
stolen from the door of some prison.

It appeared that the arrival of these men was what Jondrette had
been waiting for. A rapid dialogue ensued between him and the man
with the cudgel, the thin one.

"Is everything ready?" said Jondrette.

"Yes," replied the thin man.

"Where is Montparnasse?"

"The young principal actor stopped to chat with your girl."


"The eldest."

"Is there a carriage at the door?"


"Is the team harnessed?"


"With two good horses?"


"Is it waiting where I ordered?"


"Good," said Jondrette.

M. Leblanc was very pale. He was scrutinizing everything around
him in the den, like a man who understands what he has fallen into,
and his head, directed in turn toward all the heads which surrounded him,
moved on his neck with an astonished and attentive slowness,
but there was nothing in his air which resembled fear. He had
improvised an intrenchment out of the table; and the man, who but
an instant previously, had borne merely the appearance of a kindly
old man, had suddenly become a sort of athlete, and placed his robust
fist on the back of his chair, with a formidable and surprising gesture.

This old man, who was so firm and so brave in the presence
of such a danger, seemed to possess one of those natures which
are as courageous as they are kind, both easily and simply.
The father of a woman whom we love is never a stranger to us.
Marius felt proud of that unknown man.

Three of the men, of whom Jondrette had said: "They are
chimney-builders," had armed themselves from the pile of old iron,
one with a heavy pair of shears, the second with weighing-tongs, the third
with a hammer, and had placed themselves across the entrance without
uttering a syllable. The old man had remained on the bed, and had merely
opened his eyes. The Jondrette woman had seated herself beside him.

Marius decided that in a few seconds more the moment for intervention
would arrive, and he raised his right hand towards the ceiling,
in the direction of the corridor, in readiness to discharge his pistol.

Jondrette having terminated his colloquy with the man with the cudgel,
turned once more to M. Leblanc, and repeated his question,
accompanying it with that low, repressed, and terrible laugh
which was peculiar to him:--

"So you do not recognize me?"

M. Leblanc looked him full in the face, and replied:--


Then Jondrette advanced to the table. He leaned across the candle,
crossing his arms, putting his angular and ferocious jaw close
to M. Leblanc's calm face, and advancing as far as possible without
forcing M. Leblanc to retreat, and, in this posture of a wild beast
who is about to bite, he exclaimed:--

"My name is not Fabantou, my name is not Jondrette,
my name is Thenardier. I am the inn-keeper of Montfermeil!
Do you understand? Thenardier! Now do you know me?"

An almost imperceptible flush crossed M. Leblanc's brow, and he
replied with a voice which neither trembled nor rose above its
ordinary level, with his accustomed placidity:--

"No more than before."

Marius did not hear this reply. Any one who had seen him at
that moment through the darkness would have perceived that he
was haggard, stupid, thunder-struck. At the moment when Jondrette said:
"My name is Thenardier," Marius had trembled in every limb,
and had leaned against the wall, as though he felt the cold of
a steel blade through his heart. Then his right arm, all ready
to discharge the signal shot, dropped slowly, and at the moment
when Jondrette repeated, "Thenardier, do you understand?"
Marius's faltering fingers had come near letting the pistol fall.
Jondrette, by revealing his identity, had not moved M. Leblanc,
but he had quite upset Marius. That name of Thenardier, with which
M. Leblanc did not seem to be acquainted, Marius knew well.
Let the reader recall what that name meant to him! That name
he had worn on his heart, inscribed in his father's testament!
He bore it at the bottom of his mind, in the depths of his memory,
in that sacred injunction: "A certain Thenardier saved my life.
If my son encounters him, he will do him all the good that lies
in his power." That name, it will be remembered, was one of the
pieties of his soul; he mingled it with the name of his father in
his worship. What! This man was that Thenardier, that inn-keeper
of Montfermeil whom he had so long and so vainly sought! He had
found him at last, and how? His father's saviour was a ruffian!
That man, to whose service Marius was burning to devote himself,
was a monster! That liberator of Colonel Pontmercy was on the
point of committing a crime whose scope Marius did not, as yet,
clearly comprehend, but which resembled an assassination!
And against whom, great God! what a fatality! What a bitter mockery
of fate! His father had commanded him from the depths of his coffin
to do all the good in his power to this Thenardier, and for four
years Marius had cherished no other thought than to acquit this
debt of his father's, and at the moment when he was on the eve
of having a brigand seized in the very act of crime by justice,
destiny cried to him: "This is Thenardier!" He could at last repay
this man for his father's life, saved amid a hail-storm of grape-shot
on the heroic field of Waterloo, and repay it with the scaffold!
He had sworn to himself that if ever he found that Thenardier,
he would address him only by throwing himself at his feet; and now
he actually had found him, but it was only to deliver him over to
the executioner! His father said to him: "Succor Thenardier!"
And he replied to that adored and sainted voice by crushing Thenardier!
He was about to offer to his father in his grave the spectacle of
that man who had torn him from death at the peril of his own life,
executed on the Place Saint-Jacques through the means of his son,
of that Marius to whom he had entrusted that man by his will!
And what a mockery to have so long worn on his breast his father's
last commands, written in his own hand, only to act in so horribly
contrary a sense! But, on the other hand, now look on that trap
and not prevent it! Condemn the victim and to spare the assassin!
Could one be held to any gratitude towards so miserable a wretch?
All the ideas which Marius had cherished for the last four years
were pierced through and through, as it were, by this unforeseen

He shuddered. Everything depended on him. Unknown to themselves,
he held in his hand all those beings who were moving about there
before his eyes. If he fired his pistol, M. Leblanc was saved,
and Thenardier lost; if he did not fire, M. Leblanc would be sacrificed,
and, who knows? Thenardier would escape. Should he dash down the
one or allow the other to fall? Remorse awaited him in either case.

What was he to do? What should he choose? Be false to the most
imperious souvenirs, to all those solemn vows to himself, to the
most sacred duty, to the most venerated text! Should he ignore
his father's testament, or allow the perpetration of a crime!
On the one hand, it seemed to him that he heard "his Ursule"
supplicating for her father and on the other, the colonel commending
Thenardier to his care. He felt that he was going mad. His knees
gave way beneath him. And he had not even the time for deliberation,
so great was the fury with which the scene before his eyes was
hastening to its catastrophe. It was like a whirlwind of which he
had thought himself the master, and which was now sweeping him away.
He was on the verge of swooning.

In the meantime, Thenardier, whom we shall henceforth call by no
other name, was pacing up and down in front of the table in a sort
of frenzy and wild triumph.

He seized the candle in his fist, and set it on the chimney-piece
with so violent a bang that the wick came near being extinguished,
and the tallow bespattered the wall.

Then he turned to M. Leblanc with a horrible look, and spit out
these words:--

"Done for! Smoked brown! Cooked! Spitchcocked!"

And again he began to march back and forth, in full eruption.

"Ah!" he cried, "so I've found you again at last, Mister philanthropist!
Mister threadbare millionnaire! Mister giver of dolls! you old ninny!
Ah! so you don't recognize me! No, it wasn't you who came
to Montfermeil, to my inn, eight years ago, on Christmas eve, 1823!
It wasn't you who carried off that Fantine's child from me!
The Lark! It wasn't you who had a yellow great-coat! No!
Nor a package of duds in your hand, as you had this morning here!
Say, wife, it seems to be his mania to carry packets of woollen
stockings into houses! Old charity monger, get out with you!
Are you a hosier, Mister millionnaire? You give away your stock
in trade to the poor, holy man! What bosh! merry Andrew!
Ah! and you don't recognize me? Well, I recognize you, that I do!
I recognized you the very moment you poked your snout in here.
Ah! you'll find out presently, that it isn't all roses to thrust
yourself in that fashion into people's houses, under the pretext
that they are taverns, in wretched clothes, with the air of a
poor man, to whom one would give a sou, to deceive persons,
to play the generous, to take away their means of livelihood,
and to make threats in the woods, and you can't call things quits
because afterwards, when people are ruined, you bring a coat that is
too large, and two miserable hospital blankets, you old blackguard,
you child-stealer!"

He paused, and seemed to be talking to himself for a moment.
One would have said that his wrath had fallen into some hole,
like the Rhone; then, as though he were concluding aloud the things
which he had been saying to himself in a whisper, he smote the table
with his fist, and shouted:--

"And with his goody-goody air!"

And, apostrophizing M. Leblanc:--

"Parbleu! You made game of me in the past! You are the cause
of all my misfortunes! For fifteen hundred francs you got
a girl whom I had, and who certainly belonged to rich people,
and who had already brought in a great deal of money, and from whom
I might have extracted enough to live on all my life! A girl who
would have made up to me for everything that I lost in that vile
cook-shop, where there was nothing but one continual row, and where,
like a fool, I ate up my last farthing! Oh! I wish all the wine
folks drank in my house had been poison to those who drank it!
Well, never mind! Say, now! You must have thought me ridiculous
when you went off with the Lark! You had your cudgel in the forest.
You were the stronger. Revenge. I'm the one to hold the trumps
to-day! You're in a sorry case, my good fellow! Oh, but I
can laugh! Really, I laugh! Didn't he fall into the trap!
I told him that I was an actor, that my name was Fabantou,
that I had played comedy with Mamselle Mars, with Mamselle Muche,
that my landlord insisted on being paid tomorrow, the 4th of February,
and he didn't even notice that the 8th of January, and not the 4th
of February is the time when the quarter runs out! Absurd idiot!
And the four miserable Philippes which he has brought me! Scoundrel!
He hadn't the heart even to go as high as a hundred francs! And how
he swallowed my platitudes! That did amuse me. I said to myself:
`Blockhead! Come, I've got you! I lick your paws this morning,
but I'll gnaw your heart this evening!'"

Thenardier paused. He was out of breath. His little, narrow chest
panted like a forge bellows. His eyes were full of the ignoble
happiness of a feeble, cruel, and cowardly creature, which finds
that it can, at last, harass what it has feared, and insult what it
has flattered, the joy of a dwarf who should be able to set his heel
on the head of Goliath, the joy of a jackal which is beginning to rend
a sick bull, so nearly dead that he can no longer defend himself,
but sufficiently alive to suffer still.

M. Leblanc did not interrupt him, but said to him when he paused:--

"I do not know what you mean to say. You are mistaken in me. I am
a very poor man, and anything but a millionnaire. I do not know you.
You are mistaking me for some other person."

"Ah!" roared Thenardier hoarsely, "a pretty lie! You stick
to that pleasantry, do you! You're floundering, my old buck!
Ah! You don't remember! You don't see who I am?"

"Excuse me, sir," said M. Leblanc with a politeness of accent,
which at that moment seemed peculiarly strange and powerful, "I see
that you are a villain!"

Who has not remarked the fact that odious creatures possess a
susceptibility of their own, that monsters are ticklish! At this
word "villain," the female Thenardier sprang from the bed, Thenardier
grasped his chair as though he were about to crush it in his hands.
"Don't you stir!" he shouted to his wife; and, turning to M. Leblanc:--

"Villain! Yes, I know that you call us that, you rich gentlemen!
Stop! it's true that I became bankrupt, that I am in hiding, that I
have no bread, that I have not a single sou, that I am a villain!
It's three days since I have had anything to eat, so I'm a villain!
Ah! you folks warm your feet, you have Sakoski boots, you have
wadded great-coats, like archbishops, you lodge on the first floor
in houses that have porters, you eat truffles, you eat asparagus
at forty francs the bunch in the month of January, and green peas,
you gorge yourselves, and when you want to know whether it is cold,
you look in the papers to see what the engineer Chevalier's
thermometer says about it. We, it is we who are thermometers.
We don't need to go out and look on the quay at the corner of the
Tour de l'Horologe, to find out the number of degrees of cold;
we feel our blood congealing in our veins, and the ice forming
round our hearts, and we say: `There is no God!' And you come to
our caverns, yes our caverns, for the purpose of calling us villains!
But we'll devour you! But we'll devour you, poor little things!
Just see here, Mister millionnaire: I have been a solid man,
I have held a license, I have been an elector, I am a bourgeois,
that I am! And it's quite possible that you are not!"

Here Thenardier took a step towards the men who stood near the door,
and added with a shudder:--

"When I think that he has dared to come here and talk to me
like a cobbler!"

Then addressing M. Leblanc with a fresh outburst of frenzy:--

"And listen to this also, Mister philanthropist! I'm not a
suspicious character, not a bit of it! I'm not a man whose name
nobody knows, and who comes and abducts children from houses!
I'm an old French soldier, I ought to have been decorated!
I was at Waterloo, so I was! And in the battle I saved a general
called the Comte of I don't know what. He told me his name,
but his beastly voice was so weak that I didn't hear. All I caught
was Merci [thanks]. I'd rather have had his name than his thanks.
That would have helped me to find him again. The picture that you
see here, and which was painted by David at Bruqueselles,--do you know
what it represents? It represents me. David wished to immortalize
that feat of prowess. I have that general on my back, and I am
carrying him through the grape-shot. There's the history of it!
That general never did a single thing for me; he was no better
than the rest! But none the less, I saved his life at the risk
of my own, and I have the certificate of the fact in my pocket!
I am a soldier of Waterloo, by all the furies! And now that I have
had the goodness to tell you all this, let's have an end of it.
I want money, I want a deal of money, I must have an enormous
lot of money, or I'll exterminate you, by the thunder of the
good God!"

Marius had regained some measure of control over his anguish,
and was listening. The last possibility of doubt had just vanished.
It certainly was the Thenardier of the will. Marius shuddered
at that reproach of ingratitude directed against his father,
and which he was on the point of so fatally justifying. His perplexity
was redoubled.

Moreover, there was in all these words of Thenardier, in his accent,
in his gesture, in his glance which darted flames at every word,
there was, in this explosion of an evil nature disclosing everything,
in that mixture of braggadocio and abjectness, of pride and pettiness,
of rage and folly, in that chaos of real griefs and false sentiments,
in that immodesty of a malicious man tasting the voluptuous
delights of violence, in that shameless nudity of a repulsive soul,
in that conflagration of all sufferings combined with all hatreds,
something which was as hideous as evil, and as heart-rending as
the truth.

The picture of the master, the painting by David which he had
proposed that M. Leblanc should purchase, was nothing else,
as the reader has divined, than the sign of his tavern painted,
as it will be remembered, by himself, the only relic which he
had preserved from his shipwreck at Montfermeil.

As he had ceased to intercept Marius' visual ray, Marius could
examine this thing, and in the daub, he actually did recognize
a battle, a background of smoke, and a man carrying another man.
It was the group composed of Pontmercy and Thenardier; the sergeant
the rescuer, the colonel rescued. Marius was like a drunken man;
this picture restored his father to life in some sort; it was no longer
the signboard of the wine-shop at Montfermeil, it was a resurrection;
a tomb had yawned, a phantom had risen there. Marius heard his heart
beating in his temples, he had the cannon of Waterloo in his ears,
his bleeding father, vaguely depicted on that sinister panel
terrified him, and it seemed to him that the misshapen spectre was
gazing intently at him.

When Thenardier had recovered his breath, he turned his bloodshot
eyes on M. Leblanc, and said to him in a low, curt voice:--

"What have you to say before we put the handcuffs on you?"

M. Leblanc held his peace.

In the midst of this silence, a cracked voice launched this
lugubrious sarcasm from the corridor:--

"If there's any wood to be split, I'm there!"

It was the man with the axe, who was growing merry.

At the same moment, an enormous, bristling, and clayey face made
its appearance at the door, with a hideous laugh which exhibited
not teeth, but fangs.

It was the face of the man with the butcher's axe.

"Why have you taken off your mask?" cried Thenardier in a rage.

"For fun," retorted the man.

For the last few minutes M. Leblanc had appeared to be watching and
following all the movements of Thenardier, who, blinded and dazzled
by his own rage, was stalking to and fro in the den with full
confidence that the door was guarded, and of holding an unarmed
man fast, he being armed himself, of being nine against one,
supposing that the female Thenardier counted for but one man.

During his address to the man with the pole-axe, he had turned
his back to M. Leblanc.

M. Leblanc seized this moment, overturned the chair with his foot and
the table with his fist, and with one bound, with prodigious agility,
before Thenardier had time to turn round, he had reached the window.
To open it, to scale the frame, to bestride it, was the work
of a second only. He was half out when six robust fists seized
him and dragged him back energetically into the hovel. These were
the three "chimney-builders," who had flung themselves upon him.
At the same time the Thenardier woman had wound her hands in his hair.

At the trampling which ensued, the other ruffians rushed up
from the corridor. The old man on the bed, who seemed under the
influence of wine, descended from the pallet and came reeling up,
with a stone-breaker's hammer in his hand.

One of the "chimney-builders," whose smirched face was lighted up by the
candle, and in whom Marius recognized, in spite of his daubing, Panchaud,
alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, lifted above M. Leblanc's head a sort
of bludgeon made of two balls of lead, at the two ends of a bar of iron.

Marius could not resist this sight. "My father," he thought,
"forgive me!"

And his finger sought the trigger of his pistol.

The shot was on the point of being discharged when Thenardier's
voice shouted:--

"Don't harm him!"

This desperate attempt of the victim, far from exasperating Thenardier,
had calmed him. There existed in him two men, the ferocious man
and the adroit man. Up to that moment, in the excess of his triumph
in the presence of the prey which had been brought down, and which did
not stir, the ferocious man had prevailed; when the victim struggled
and tried to resist, the adroit man reappeared and took the upper hand.

"Don't hurt him!" he repeated, and without suspecting it, his first
success was to arrest the pistol in the act of being discharged,
and to paralyze Marius, in whose opinion the urgency of the
case disappeared, and who, in the face of this new phase,
saw no inconvenience in waiting a while longer.

Who knows whether some chance would not arise which would deliver him
from the horrible alternative of allowing Ursule's father to perish,
or of destroying the colonel's saviour?

A herculean struggle had begun. With one blow full in the chest,
M. Leblanc had sent the old man tumbling, rolling in the middle of
the room, then with two backward sweeps of his hand he had overthrown
two more assailants, and he held one under each of his knees;
the wretches were rattling in the throat beneath this pressure
as under a granite millstone; but the other four had seized the
formidable old man by both arms and the back of his neck, and were
holding him doubled up over the two "chimney-builders" on the floor.

Thus, the master of some and mastered by the rest, crushing those
beneath him and stifling under those on top of him, endeavoring in
vain to shake off all the efforts which were heaped upon him,
M. Leblanc disappeared under the horrible group of ruffians
like the wild boar beneath a howling pile of dogs and hounds.

They succeeded in overthrowing him upon the bed nearest the window,
and there they held him in awe. The Thenardier woman had not released
her clutch on his hair.

"Don't you mix yourself up in this affair," said Thenardier.
"You'll tear your shawl."

The Thenardier obeyed, as the female wolf obeys the male wolf,
with a growl.

"Now," said Thenardier, "search him, you other fellows!"

M. Leblanc seemed to have renounced the idea of resistance.

They searched him.

He had nothing on his person except a leather purse containing
six francs, and his handkerchief.

Thenardier put the handkerchief into his own pocket.

"What! No pocket-book?" he demanded.

"No, nor watch," replied one of the "chimney-builders."

"Never mind," murmured the masked man who carried the big key,
in the voice of a ventriloquist, "he's a tough old fellow."

Thenardier went to the corner near the door, picked up a bundle
of ropes and threw them at the men.

"Tie him to the leg of the bed," said he.

And, catching sight of the old man who had been stretched across
the room by the blow from M. Leblanc's fist, and who made no movement,
he added:--

"Is Boulatruelle dead?"

"No," replied Bigrenaille, "he's drunk."

"Sweep him into a corner," said Thenardier.

Two of the "chimney-builders" pushed the drunken man into the corner
near the heap of old iron with their feet.

"Babet," said Thenardier in a low tone to the man with the cudgel,
"why did you bring so many; they were not needed."

"What can you do?" replied the man with the cudgel, "they all wanted
to be in it. This is a bad season. There's no business going on."

The pallet on which M. Leblanc had been thrown was a sort
of hospital bed, elevated on four coarse wooden legs, roughly hewn.

M. Leblanc let them take their own course.

The ruffians bound him securely, in an upright attitude, with his
feet on the ground at the head of the bed, the end which was most
remote from the window, and nearest to the fireplace.

When the last knot had been tied, Thenardier took a chair and seated
himself almost facing M. Leblanc.

Thenardier no longer looked like himself; in the course of a few
moments his face had passed from unbridled violence to tranquil
and cunning sweetness.

Marius found it difficult to recognize in that polished smile
of a man in official life the almost bestial mouth which had
been foaming but a moment before; he gazed with amazement
on that fantastic and alarming metamorphosis, and he felt
as a man might feel who should behold a tiger converted into a lawyer.

"Monsieur--" said Thenardier.

And dismissing with a gesture the ruffians who still kept their
hands on M. Leblanc:--

"Stand off a little, and let me have a talk with the gentleman."

All retired towards the door.

He went on:--

"Monsieur, you did wrong to try to jump out of the window.
You might have broken your leg. Now, if you will permit me,
we will converse quietly. In the first place, I must communicate
to you an observation which I have made which is, that you have not
uttered the faintest cry."

Thenardier was right, this detail was correct, although it had
escaped Marius in his agitation. M. Leblanc had barely pronounced
a few words, without raising his voice, and even during his
struggle with the six ruffians near the window he had preserved
the most profound and singular silence.

Thenardier continued:--

"Mon Dieu! You might have shouted `stop thief' a bit, and I
should not have thought it improper. `Murder!' That, too, is said
occasionally, and, so far as I am concerned, I should not have taken
it in bad part. It is very natural that you should make a little
row when you find yourself with persons who don't inspire you
with sufficient confidence. You might have done that, and no one
would have troubled you on that account. You would not even have
been gagged. And I will tell you why. This room is very private.
That's its only recommendation, but it has that in its favor.
You might fire off a mortar and it would produce about as much noise
at the nearest police station as the snores of a drunken man.
Here a cannon would make a boum, and the thunder would make a pouf.
It's a handy lodging. But, in short, you did not shout, and it
is better so. I present you my compliments, and I will tell
you the conclusion that I draw from that fact: My dear sir,
when a man shouts, who comes? The police. And after the police?
Justice. Well! You have not made an outcry; that is because you don't
care to have the police and the courts come in any more than we do.
It is because,--I have long suspected it,--you have some interest
in hiding something. On our side we have the same interest.
So we can come to an understanding."

As he spoke thus, it seemed as though Thenardier, who kept his eyes
fixed on M. Leblanc, were trying to plunge the sharp points which
darted from the pupils into the very conscience of his prisoner.
Moreover, his language, which was stamped with a sort of moderated,
subdued insolence and crafty insolence, was reserved and almost choice,
and in that rascal, who had been nothing but a robber a short time
previously, one now felt "the man who had studied for the priesthood."

The silence preserved by the prisoner, that precaution which had
been carried to the point of forgetting all anxiety for his
own life, that resistance opposed to the first impulse of nature,
which is to utter a cry, all this, it must be confessed,
now that his attention had been called to it, troubled Marius,
and affected him with painful astonishment.

Thenardier's well-grounded observation still further obscured for
Marius the dense mystery which enveloped that grave and singular
person on whom Courfeyrac had bestowed the sobriquet of Monsieur Leblanc.

But whoever he was, bound with ropes, surrounded with executioners,
half plunged, so to speak, in a grave which was closing in upon him
to the extent of a degree with every moment that passed, in the
presence of Thenardier's wrath, as in the presence of his sweetness,
this man remained impassive; and Marius could not refrain from
admiring at such a moment the superbly melancholy visage.

Here, evidently, was a soul which was inaccessible to terror,
and which did not know the meaning of despair. Here was one
of those men who command amazement in desperate circumstances.
Extreme as was the crisis, inevitable as was the catastrophe,
there was nothing here of the agony of the drowning man, who opens
his horror-filled eyes under the water.

Thenardier rose in an unpretending manner, went to the fireplace,
shoved aside the screen, which he leaned against the neighboring
pallet, and thus unmasked the brazier full of glowing coals,
in which the prisoner could plainly see the chisel white-hot
and spotted here and there with tiny scarlet stars.

Then Thenardier returned to his seat beside M. Leblanc.

"I continue," said he. "We can come to an understanding.
Let us arrange this matter in an amicable way. I was wrong to lose
my temper just now, I don't know what I was thinking of, I went
a great deal too far, I said extravagant things. For example,
because you are a millionnaire, I told you that I exacted money,
a lot of money, a deal of money. That would not be reasonable.
Mon Dieu, in spite of your riches, you have expenses of your own--
who has not? I don't want to ruin you, I am not a greedy fellow,
after all. I am not one of those people who, because they
have the advantage of the position, profit by the fact to make
themselves ridiculous. Why, I'm taking things into consideration
and making a sacrifice on my side. I only want two hundred
thousand francs."

M. Leblanc uttered not a word.

Thenardier went on:--

"You see that I put not a little water in my wine; I'm very moderate.
I don't know the state of your fortune, but I do know that you don't
stick at money, and a benevolent man like yourself can certainly give
two hundred thousand francs to the father of a family who is out
of luck. Certainly, you are reasonable, too; you haven't imagined
that I should take all the trouble I have to-day and organized
this affair this evening, which has been labor well bestowed,
in the opinion of these gentlemen, merely to wind up by asking you
for enough to go and drink red wine at fifteen sous and eat veal at
Desnoyer's. Two hundred thousand francs--it's surely worth all that.
This trifle once out of your pocket, I guarantee you that that's
the end of the matter, and that you have no further demands to fear.
You will say to me: `But I haven't two hundred thousand francs
about me.' Oh! I'm not extortionate. I don't demand that.
I only ask one thing of you. Have the goodness to write what I am
about to dictate to you."

Here Thenardier paused; then he added, emphasizing his words,
and casting a smile in the direction of the brazier:--

"I warn you that I shall not admit that you don't know how to write."

A grand inquisitor might have envied that smile.

Thenardier pushed the table close to M. Leblanc, and took an inkstand,
a pen, and a sheet of paper from the drawer which he left half open,
and in which gleamed the long blade of the knife.

He placed the sheet of paper before M. Leblanc.

"Write," said he.

The prisoner spoke at last.

"How do you expect me to write? I am bound."

"That's true, excuse me!" ejaculated Thenardier, "you are quite right."

And turning to Bigrenaille:--

"Untie the gentleman's right arm."

Panchaud, alias Printanier, alias Bigrenaille, executed
Thenardier's order.

When the prisoner's right arm was free, Thenardier dipped the pen
in the ink and presented it to him.

"Understand thoroughly, sir, that you are in our power, at our discretion,
that no human power can get you out of this, and that we shall be really
grieved if we are forced to proceed to disagreeable extremities.
I know neither your name, nor your address, but I warn you, that you
will remain bound until the person charged with carrying the letter which
you are about to write shall have returned. Now, be so good as to write."

"What?" demanded the prisoner.

"I will dictate."

M. Leblanc took the pen.

Thenardier began to dictate:--

"My daughter--"

The prisoner shuddered, and raised his eyes to Thenardier.

"Put down `My dear daughter'--" said Thenardier.

M. Leblanc obeyed.

Thenardier continued:--

"Come instantly--"

He paused:--

"You address her as thou, do you not?"

"Who?" asked M. Leblanc.

"Parbleu!" cried Thenardier, "the little one, the Lark."

M. Leblanc replied without the slightest apparent emotion:--

"I do not know what you mean."

"Go on, nevertheless," ejaculated Thenardier, and he continued
to dictate:--

"Come immediately, I am in absolute need of thee. The person who
will deliver this note to thee is instructed to conduct thee to me.
I am waiting for thee. Come with confidence."

M. Leblanc had written the whole of this.

Thenardier resumed:--

"Ah! erase `come with confidence'; that might lead her to suppose
that everything was not as it should be, and that distrust is possible."

M. Leblanc erased the three words.

"Now," pursued Thenardier, "sign it. What's your name?"

The prisoner laid down the pen and demanded:--

"For whom is this letter?"

"You know well," retorted Thenardier, "for the little one I just
told you so."

It was evident that Thenardier avoided naming the young girl
in question. He said "the Lark," he said "the little one,"
but he did not pronounce her name--the precaution of a clever man
guarding his secret from his accomplices. To mention the name
was to deliver the whole "affair" into their hands, and to tell
them more about it than there was any need of their knowing.

He went on:--

"Sign. What is your name?"

"Urbain Fabre," said the prisoner.

Thenardier, with the movement of a cat, dashed his hand into his pocket
and drew out the handkerchief which had been seized on M. Leblanc.
He looked for the mark on it, and held it close to the candle.

"U. F. That's it. Urbain Fabre. Well, sign it U. F."

The prisoner signed.

"As two hands are required to fold the letter, give it to me,
I will fold it."

That done, Thenardier resumed:--

"Address it, `Mademoiselle Fabre,' at your house. I know that you
live a long distance from here, near Saint-Jacquesdu-Haut-Pas, because
you go to mass there every day, but I don't know in what street.
I see that you understand your situation. As you have not lied about
your name, you will not lie about your address. Write it yourself."

The prisoner paused thoughtfully for a moment, then he took the pen
and wrote:--

"Mademoiselle Fabre, at M. Urbain Fabre's, Rue Saint-Dominique-D'Enfer,
No. 17."

Thenardier seized the letter with a sort of feverish convulsion.

"Wife!" he cried.

The Thenardier woman hastened to him.

"Here's the letter. You know what you have to do. There is
a carriage at the door. Set out at once, and return ditto."

And addressing the man with the meat-axe:--

"Since you have taken off your nose-screen, accompany the mistress.
You will get up behind the fiacre. You know where you left
the team?"

"Yes," said the man.

And depositing his axe in a corner, he followed Madame Thenardier.

As they set off, Thenardier thrust his head through the half-open door,
and shouted into the corridor:--

"Above all things, don't lose the letter! remember that you carry
two hundred thousand francs with you!"

The Thenardier's hoarse voice replied:--

"Be easy. I have it in my bosom."

A minute had not elapsed, when the sound of the cracking of a whip
was heard, which rapidly retreated and died away.

"Good!" growled Thenardier. "They're going at a fine pace.
At such a gallop, the bourgeoise will be back inside three-quarters
of an hour."

He drew a chair close to the fireplace, folding his arms,
and presenting his muddy boots to the brazier.

"My feet are cold!" said he.

Only five ruffians now remained in the den with Thenardier
and the prisoner.

These men, through the black masks or paste which covered their faces,
and made of them, at fear's pleasure, charcoal-burners, negroes,
or demons, had a stupid and gloomy air, and it could be felt that they
perpetrated a crime like a bit of work, tranquilly, without either
wrath or mercy, with a sort of ennui. They were crowded together
in one corner like brutes, and remained silent.

Thenardier warmed his feet.

The prisoner had relapsed into his taciturnity. A sombre calm had
succeeded to the wild uproar which had filled the garret but a few
moments before.

The candle, on which a large "stranger" had formed, cast but a dim
light in the immense hovel, the brazier had grown dull, and all
those monstrous heads cast misshapen shadows on the walls and ceiling.

No sound was audible except the quiet breathing of the old drunken man,
who was fast asleep.

Marius waited in a state of anxiety that was augmented by every trifle.
The enigma was more impenetrable than ever.

Who was this "little one" whom Thenardier had called the Lark?
Was she his "Ursule"? The prisoner had not seemed to be affected
by that word, "the Lark," and had replied in the most natural manner
in the world: "I do not know what you mean." On the other hand,
the two letters U. F. were explained; they meant Urbain Fabre;
and Ursule was no longer named Ursule. This was what Marius perceived
most clearly of all.

A sort of horrible fascination held him nailed to his post,
from which he was observing and commanding this whole scene.
There he stood, almost incapable of movement or reflection, as though
annihilated by the abominable things viewed at such close quarters.
He waited, in the hope of some incident, no matter of what nature,
since he could not collect his thoughts and did not know upon what
course to decide.

"In any case," he said, "if she is the Lark, I shall see her,
for the Thenardier woman is to bring her hither. That will be
the end, and then I will give my life and my blood if necessary,
but I will deliver her! Nothing shall stop me."

Nearly half an hour passed in this manner. Thenardier seemed
to be absorbed in gloomy reflections, the prisoner did not stir.
Still, Marius fancied that at intervals, and for the last few moments,
he had heard a faint, dull noise in the direction of the prisoner.

All at once, Thenardier addressed the prisoner:

"By the way, Monsieur Fabre, I might as well say it to you at once."

These few words appeared to be the beginning of an explanation.
Marius strained his ears.

"My wife will be back shortly, don't get impatient. I think that
the Lark really is your daughter, and it seems to me quite natural
that you should keep her. Only, listen to me a bit. My wife will go
and hunt her up with your letter. I told my wife to dress herself
in the way she did, so that your young lady might make no difficulty
about following her. They will both enter the carriage with my
comrade behind. Somewhere, outside the barrier, there is a trap
harnessed to two very good horses. Your young lady will be taken to it.
She will alight from the fiacre. My comrade will enter the other
vehicle with her, and my wife will come back here to tell us:
`It's done.' As for the young lady, no harm will be done to her;
the trap will conduct her to a place where she will be quiet,
and just as soon as you have handed over to me those little two
hundred thousand francs, she will be returned to you. If you have
me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark,
that's all."

The prisoner uttered not a syllable. After a pause,
Thenardier continued:--

"It's very simple, as you see. There'll be no harm done unless you wish
that there should be harm done. I'm telling you how things stand.
I warn you so that you may be prepared."

He paused: the prisoner did not break the silence, and Thenardier

"As soon as my wife returns and says to me: `The Lark is on the way,'
we will release you, and you will be free to go and sleep at home.
You see that our intentions are not evil."

Terrible images passed through Marius' mind. What! That young
girl whom they were abducting was not to be brought back?
One of those monsters was to bear her off into the darkness?
Whither? And what if it were she!

It was clear that it was she. Marius felt his heart stop beating.

What was he to do? Discharge the pistol? Place all those
scoundrels in the hands of justice? But the horrible man
with the meat-axe would, none the less, be out of reach with
the young girl, and Marius reflected on Thenardier's words,
of which he perceived the bloody significance: "If you
have me arrested, my comrade will give a turn of his thumb to the Lark."

Now, it was not alone by the colonel's testament, it was by his
own love, it was by the peril of the one he loved, that he felt
himself restrained.

This frightful situation, which had already lasted above half an hour,
was changing its aspect every moment.

Marius had sufficient strength of mind to review in succession all
the most heart-breaking conjectures, seeking hope and finding none.

The tumult of his thoughts contrasted with the funereal silence
of the den.

In the midst of this silence, the door at the bottom of the staircase
was heard to open and shut again.

The prisoner made a movement in his bonds.

"Here's the bourgeoise," said Thenardier.

He had hardly uttered the words, when the Thenardier woman did in fact
rush hastily into the room, red, panting, breathless, with flaming eyes,
and cried, as she smote her huge hands on her thighs simultaneously:--

"False address!"

The ruffian who had gone with her made his appearance behind her
and picked up his axe again.

She resumed:--

"Nobody there! Rue Saint-Dominique, No. 17, no Monsieur Urbain Fabre!
They know not what it means!"

She paused, choking, then went on:--

"Monsieur Thenardier! That old fellow has duped you! You are
too good, you see! If it had been me, I'd have chopped the beast
in four quarters to begin with! And if he had acted ugly, I'd have
boiled him alive! He would have been obliged to speak, and say
where the girl is, and where he keeps his shiners! That's the way I
should have managed matters! People are perfectly right when they
say that men are a deal stupider than women! Nobody at No. 17.
It's nothing but a big carriage gate! No Monsieur Fabre in the Rue
Saint-Dominique! And after all that racing and fee to the coachman
and all! I spoke to both the porter and the portress, a fine,
stout woman, and they know nothing about him!"

Marius breathed freely once more.

She, Ursule or the Lark, he no longer knew what to call her,
was safe.

While his exasperated wife vociferated, Thenardier had seated
himself on the table.

For several minutes he uttered not a word, but swung his right foot,
which hung down, and stared at the brazier with an air of savage revery.

Finally, he said to the prisoner, with a slow and singularly
ferocious tone:

"A false address? What did you expect to gain by that?"

"To gain time!" cried the prisoner in a thundering voice,
and at the same instant he shook off his bonds; they were cut.
The prisoner was only attached to the bed now by one leg.

Before the seven men had time to collect their senses and dash forward,
he had bent down into the fireplace, had stretched out his hand
to the brazier, and had then straightened himself up again,
and now Thenardier, the female Thenardier, and the ruffians,
huddled in amazement at the extremity of the hovel, stared at him
in stupefaction, as almost free and in a formidable attitude,
he brandished above his head the red-hot chisel, which emitted
a threatening glow.

The judicial examination to which the ambush in the Gorbeau house
eventually gave rise, established the fact that a large sou piece,
cut and worked in a peculiar fashion, was found in the garret,
when the police made their descent on it. This sou piece was
one of those marvels of industry, which are engendered by the
patience of the galleys in the shadows and for the shadows,
marvels which are nothing else than instruments of escape.
These hideous and delicate products of wonderful art are to jewellers'
work what the metaphors of slang are to poetry. There are Benvenuto
Cellinis in the galleys, just as there are Villons in language.
The unhappy wretch who aspires to deliverance finds means sometimes
without tools, sometimes with a common wooden-handled knife,
to saw a sou into two thin plates, to hollow out these plates without
affecting the coinage stamp, and to make a furrow on the edge
of the sou in such a manner that the plates will adhere again.
This can be screwed together and unscrewed at will; it is a box.
In this box he hides a watch-spring, and this watch-spring,
properly handled, cuts good-sized chains and bars of iron.
The unfortunate convict is supposed to possess merely a sou; not at all,
he possesses liberty. It was a large sou of this sort which,
during the subsequent search of the police, was found under the bed
near the window. They also found a tiny saw of blue steel which would
fit the sou.

It is probable that the prisoner had this sou piece on his person
at the moment when the ruffians searched him, that he contrived
to conceal it in his hand, and that afterward, having his right
hand free, he unscrewed it, and used it as a saw to cut the cords
which fastened him, which would explain the faint noise and almost
imperceptible movements which Marius had observed.

As he had not been able to bend down, for fear of betraying himself,
he had not cut the bonds of his left leg.

The ruffians had recovered from their first surprise.

"Be easy," said Bigrenaille to Thenardier. "He still holds by one leg,
and he can't get away. I'll answer for that. I tied that paw
for him."

In the meanwhile, the prisoner had begun to speak:--

"You are wretches, but my life is not worth the trouble
of defending it. When you think that you can make me speak,
that you can make me write what I do not choose to write,
that you can make me say what I do not choose to say--"

He stripped up his left sleeve, and added:--

"See here."

At the same moment he extended his arm, and laid the glowing chisel
which he held in his left hand by its wooden handle on his bare flesh.

The crackling of the burning flesh became audible, and the odor
peculiar to chambers of torture filled the hovel.

Marius reeled in utter horror, the very ruffians shuddered, hardly a
muscle of the old man's face contracted, and while the red-hot iron
sank into the smoking wound, impassive and almost august, he fixed
on Thenardier his beautiful glance, in which there was no hatred,
and where suffering vanished in serene majesty.

With grand and lofty natures, the revolts of the flesh and the senses
when subjected to physical suffering cause the soul to spring forth,
and make it appear on the brow, just as rebellions among the soldiery
force the captain to show himself.

"Wretches!" said he, "have no more fear of me than I have for you!"

And, tearing the chisel from the wound, he hurled it through the window,
which had been left open; the horrible, glowing tool disappeared
into the night, whirling as it flew, and fell far away on the snow.

The prisoner resumed:--

"Do what you please with me." He was disarmed.

"Seize him!" said Thenardier.

Two of the ruffians laid their hands on his shoulder, and the masked
man with the ventriloquist's voice took up his station in front
of him, ready to smash his skull at the slightest movement.

At the same time, Marius heard below him, at the base of the partition,
but so near that he could not see who was speaking, this colloquy
conducted in a low tone:--

"There is only one thing left to do."

"Cut his throat."

"That's it."

It was the husband and wife taking counsel together.

Thenardier walked slowly towards the table, opened the drawer,
and took out the knife. Marius fretted with the handle of his pistol.
Unprecedented perplexity! For the last hour he had had two
voices in his conscience, the one enjoining him to respect his
father's testament, the other crying to him to rescue the prisoner.
These two voices continued uninterruptedly that struggle which
tormented him to agony. Up to that moment he had cherished a vague
hope that he should find some means of reconciling these two duties,
but nothing within the limits of possibility had presented itself.

However, the peril was urgent, the last bounds of delay had
been reached; Thenardier was standing thoughtfully a few paces
distant from the prisoner.

Marius cast a wild glance about him, the last mechanical resource
of despair. All at once a shudder ran through him.

At his feet, on the table, a bright ray of light from the full
moon illuminated and seemed to point out to him a sheet of paper.
On this paper he read the following line written that very morning,
in large letters, by the eldest of the Thenardier girls:--


An idea, a flash, crossed Marius' mind; this was the expedient
of which he was in search, the solution of that frightful problem
which was torturing him, of sparing the assassin and saving the victim.

He knelt down on his commode, stretched out his arm, seized the
sheet of paper, softly detached a bit of plaster from the wall,
wrapped the paper round it, and tossed the whole through the crevice
into the middle of the den.

It was high time. Thenardier had conquered his last fears or his
last scruples, and was advancing on the prisoner.

"Something is falling!" cried the Thenardier woman.

"What is it?" asked her husband.

The woman darted forward and picked up the bit of plaster.
She handed it to her husband.

"Where did this come from?" demanded Thenardier.

"Pardie!" ejaculated his wife, "where do you suppose it came from?
Through the window, of course."

"I saw it pass," said Bigrenaille.

Thenardier rapidly unfolded the paper and held it close to the candle.

"It's in Eponine's handwriting. The devil!"

He made a sign to his wife, who hastily drew near, and showed her the
line written on the sheet of paper, then he added in a subdued voice:--

"Quick! The ladder! Let's leave the bacon in the mousetrap
and decamp!"

"Without cutting that man's throat?" asked, the Thenardier woman.

"We haven't the time."

"Through what?" resumed Bigrenaille.

"Through the window," replied Thenardier. "Since Ponine has
thrown the stone through the window, it indicates that the house
is not watched on that side."

The mask with the ventriloquist's voice deposited his huge key
on the floor, raised both arms in the air, and opened and clenched
his fists, three times rapidly without uttering a word.

This was the signal like the signal for clearing the decks
for action on board ship.

The ruffians who were holding the prisoner released him; in the
twinkling of an eye the rope ladder was unrolled outside the window,
and solidly fastened to the sill by the two iron hooks.

The prisoner paid no attention to what was going on around him.
He seemed to be dreaming or praying.

As soon as the ladder was arranged, Thenardier cried:

"Come! the bourgeoise first!"

And he rushed headlong to the window.

But just as he was about to throw his leg over, Bigrenaille seized
him roughly by the collar.

"Not much, come now, you old dog, after us!"

"After us!" yelled the ruffians.

"You are children," said Thenardier, "we are losing time.
The police are on our heels."

"Well, said the ruffians, "let's draw lots to see who shall go
down first."

Thenardier exclaimed:--

"Are you mad! Are you crazy! What a pack of boobies! You want
to waste time, do you? Draw lots, do you? By a wet finger,
by a short straw! With written names! Thrown into a hat!--"

"Would you like my hat?" cried a voice on the threshold.

All wheeled round. It was Javert.

He had his hat in his hand, and was holding it out to them with
a smile.



At nightfall, Javert had posted his men and had gone into ambush
himself between the trees of the Rue de la Barrieredes-Gobelins
which faced the Gorbeau house, on the other side of the boulevard.
He had begun operations by opening "his pockets," and dropping
into it the two young girls who were charged with keeping a watch
on the approaches to the den. But he had only "caged" Azelma.
As for Eponine, she was not at her post, she had disappeared,
and he had not been able to seize her. Then Javert had made a
point and had bent his ear to waiting for the signal agreed upon.
The comings and goings of the fiacres had greatly agitated him.
At last, he had grown impatient, and, sure that there was a nest there,
sure of being in "luck," having recognized many of the ruffians who
had entered, he had finally decided to go upstairs without waiting for
the pistol-shot.

It will be remembered that he had Marius' pass-key.

He had arrived just in the nick of time.

The terrified ruffians flung themselves on the arms which they
had abandoned in all the corners at the moment of flight. In less
than a second, these seven men, horrible to behold, had grouped
themselves in an attitude of defence, one with his meat-axe, another
with his key, another with his bludgeon, the rest with shears,
pincers, and hammers. Thenardier had his knife in his fist.
The Thenardier woman snatched up an enormous paving-stone which lay
in the angle of the window and served her daughters as an ottoman.

Javert put on his hat again, and advanced a couple of paces into
the room, with arms folded, his cane under one arm, his sword
in its sheath.

"Halt there," said he. "You shall not go out by the window,
you shall go through the door. It's less unhealthy. There are seven
of you, there are fifteen of us. Don't let's fall to collaring
each other like men of Auvergne."

Bigrenaille drew out a pistol which he had kept concealed under his
blouse, and put it in Thenardier's hand, whispering in the latter's ear:--

"It's Javert. I don't dare fire at that man. Do you dare?"

"Parbleu!" replied Thenardier.

"Well, then, fire."

Thenardier took the pistol and aimed at Javert.

Javert, who was only three paces from him, stared intently at him
and contented himself with saying:--

"Come now, don't fire. You'll miss fire."

Thenardier pulled the trigger. The pistol missed fire.

"Didn't I tell you so!" ejaculated Javert.

Bigrenaille flung his bludgeon at Javert's feet.

"You're the emperor of the fiends! I surrender."

"And you?" Javert asked the rest of the ruffians.

They replied:--

"So do we."

Javert began again calmly:--

"That's right, that's good, I said so, you are nice fellows.

"I only ask one thing," said Bigrenaille, "and that is, that I
may not be denied tobacco while I am in confinement."

"Granted," said Javert.

And turning round and calling behind him:--

"Come in now!"

A squad of policemen, sword in hand, and agents armed with bludgeons
and cudgels, rushed in at Javert's summons. They pinioned the ruffians.

This throng of men, sparely lighted by the single candle,
filled the den with shadows.

"Handcuff them all!" shouted Javert.

"Come on!" cried a voice which was not the voice of a man,
but of which no one would ever have said: "It is a woman's voice."

The Thenardier woman had entrenched herself in one of the angles
of the window, and it was she who had just given vent to this roar.

The policemen and agents recoiled.

She had thrown off her shawl. but retained her bonnet;
her husband, who was crouching behind her, was almost hidden under
the discarded shawl, and she was shielding him with her body,
as she elevated the paving-stone above her head with the gesture
of a giantess on the point of hurling a rock.

"Beware!" she shouted.

All crowded back towards the corridor. A broad open space was
cleared in the middle of the garret.

The Thenardier woman cast a glance at the ruffians who had allowed
themselves to be pinioned, and muttered in hoarse and guttural accents:--

"The cowards!"

Javert smiled, and advanced across the open space which the Thenardier
was devouring with her eyes.

"Don't come near me," she cried, "or I'll crush you."

"What a grenadier!" ejaculated Javert; "you've got a beard like
a man, mother, but I have claws like a woman."

And he continued to advance.

The Thenardier, dishevelled and terrible, set her feet far apart,
threw herself backwards, and hurled the paving-stone at Javert's head.
Javert ducked, the stone passed over him, struck the wall behind,
knocked off a huge piece of plastering, and, rebounding from angle
to angle across the hovel, now luckily almost empty, rested at
Javert's feet.

At the same moment, Javert reached the Thenardier couple.
One of his big hands descended on the woman's shoulder; the other
on the husband's head.

"The handcuffs!" he shouted.

The policemen trooped in in force, and in a few seconds Javert's
order had been executed.

The Thenardier female, overwhelmed, stared at her pinioned hands,
and at those of her husband, who had dropped to the floor,
and exclaimed, weeping:--

"My daughters!"

"They are in the jug," said Javert.

In the meanwhile, the agents had caught sight of the drunken man
asleep behind the door, and were shaking him:--

He awoke, stammering:--

"Is it all over, Jondrette?"

"Yes," replied Javert.

The six pinioned ruffians were standing, and still preserved their
spectral mien; all three besmeared with black, all three masked.

"Keep on your masks," said Javert.

And passing them in review with a glance of a Frederick II.
at a Potsdam parade, he said to the three "chimney-builders":--

"Good day, Bigrenaille! good day, Brujon! good day, Deuxmilliards!"

Then turning to the three masked men, he said to the man with
the meat-axe:--

"Good day, Gueulemer!"

And to the man with the cudgel:--

"Good day, Babet!"

And to the ventriloquist:--

"Your health, Claquesous."

At that moment, he caught sight of the ruffians' prisoner. who,
ever since the entrance of the police, had not uttered a word,
and had held his head down.

"Untie the gentleman!" said Javert, "and let no one go out!"

That said, he seated himself with sovereign dignity before the table,
where the candle and the writing-materials still remained, drew a
stamped paper from his pocket, and began to prepare his report.

When he had written the first lines, which are formulas that never vary,
he raised his eyes:--

"Let the gentleman whom these gentlemen bound step forward."

The policemen glanced round them.

"Well," said Javert, "where is he?"

The prisoner of the ruffians, M. Leblanc, M. Urbain Fabre,
the father of Ursule or the Lark, had disappeared.

The door was guarded, but the window was not. As soon as he had
found himself released from his bonds, and while Javert was drawing
up his report, he had taken advantage of confusion, the crowd,
the darkness, and of a moment when the general attention was diverted
from him, to dash out of the window.

An agent sprang to the opening and looked out. He saw no one outside.

The rope ladder was still shaking.

"The devil!" ejaculated Javert between his teeth, "he must have
been the most valuable of the lot."



On the day following that on which these events took place in the
house on the Boulevard de l'Hopital, a child, who seemed to be coming
from the direction of the bridge of Austerlitz, was ascending the
side-alley on the right in the direction of the Barriere de Fontainebleau.

Night had fully come.

This lad was pale, thin, clad in rags, with linen trousers
in the month of February, and was singing at the top of his voice.

At the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier, a bent old woman was
rummaging in a heap of refuse by the light of a street lantern;
the child jostled her as he passed, then recoiled, exclaiming:--

"Hello! And I took it for an enormous, enormous dog!"

He pronounced the word enormous the second time with a jeering swell
of the voice which might be tolerably well represented by capitals:
"an enormous, ENORMOUS dog."

The old woman straightened herself up in a fury.

"Nasty brat!" she grumbled. "If I hadn't been bending over,
I know well where I would have planted my foot on you."

The boy was already far away.

"Kisss! kisss!" he cried. "After that, I don't think I was mistaken!"

The old woman, choking with indignation, now rose completely upright,
and the red gleam of the lantern fully lighted up her livid face,
all hollowed into angles and wrinkles, with crow's-feet meeting the
corners of her mouth.

Her body was lost in the darkness, and only her head was visible.
One would have pronounced her a mask of Decrepitude carved out by a
light from the night.

The boy surveyed her.

"Madame," said he, "does not possess that style of beauty which
pleases me."

He then pursued his road, and resumed his song:--

"Le roi Coupdesabot
S'en allait a la chasse,
A la chasse aux corbeaux--"

At the end of these three lines he paused. He had arrived in front
of No. 50-52, and finding the door fastened, he began to assault it
with resounding and heroic kicks, which betrayed rather the man's
shoes that he was wearing than the child's feet which he owned.

In the meanwhile, the very old woman whom he had encountered at
the corner of the Rue du Petit-Banquier hastened up behind him,
uttering clamorous cries and indulging in lavish and exaggerated gestures.

"What's this? What's this? Lord God! He's battering the door down!
He's knocking the house down."

The kicks continued.

The old woman strained her lungs.

"Is that the way buildings are treated nowadays?"

All at once she paused.

She had recognized the gamin.

"What! so it's that imp!"

"Why, it's the old lady," said the lad. "Good day, Bougonmuche.
I have come to see my ancestors."

The old woman retorted with a composite grimace, and a wonderful
improvisation of hatred taking advantage of feebleness and ugliness,
which was, unfortunately, wasted in the dark:--

"There's no one here."

"Bah!" retorted the boy, "where's my father?"

"At La Force."

"Come, now! And my mother?"

"At Saint-Lazare."

"Well! And my sisters?"

"At the Madelonettes."

The lad scratched his head behind his ear, stared at Ma'am Bougon,
and said:--


Then he executed a pirouette on his heel; a moment later, the old woman,
who had remained on the door-step, heard him singing in his clear,
young voice, as he plunged under the black elm-trees, in the wintry wind:--

"Le roi Coupdesabot[31]
S'en allait a la chasse,
A la chasse aux corbeaux,
Monte sur deux echasses.
Quand on passait dessous,
On lui payait deux sous."

[31] King Bootkick went a-hunting after crows, mounted on two stilts.
When one passed beneath them, one paid him two sous.

[The end of Volume III. "Marius"]







1831 and 1832, the two years which are immediately connected with
the Revolution of July, form one of the most peculiar and striking
moments of history. These two years rise like two mountains midway
between those which precede and those which follow them. They have
a revolutionary grandeur. Precipices are to be distinguished there.
The social masses, the very assizes of civilization, the solid group
of superposed and adhering interests, the century-old profiles of the
ancient French formation, appear and disappear in them every instant,
athwart the storm clouds of systems, of passions, and of theories.
These appearances and disappearances have been designated as movement
and resistance. At intervals, truth, that daylight of the human soul,
can be descried shining there.

This remarkable epoch is decidedly circumscribed and is beginning
to be sufficiently distant from us to allow of our grasping
the principal lines even at the present day.

We shall make the attempt.

The Restoration had been one of those intermediate phases, hard to define,
in which there is fatigue, buzzing, murmurs, sleep, tumult, and which
are nothing else than the arrival of a great nation at a halting-place.

These epochs are peculiar and mislead the politicians who desire
to convert them to profit. In the beginning, the nation asks nothing
but repose; it thirsts for but one thing, peace; it has but one ambition,
to be small. Which is the translation of remaining tranquil.
Of great events, great hazards, great adventures, great men, thank God,
we have seen enough, we have them heaped higher than our heads. We would
exchange Caesar for Prusias, and Napoleon for the King of Yvetot.
"What a good little king was he!" We have marched since daybreak,
we have reached the evening of a long and toilsome day; we have
made our first change with Mirabeau, the second with Robespierre,
the third with Bonaparte; we are worn out. Each one demands a bed.

Devotion which is weary, heroism which has grown old, ambitions which
are sated, fortunes which are made, seek, demand, implore, solicit,
what? A shelter. They have it. They take possession of peace,
of tranquillity, of leisure; behold, they are content. But, at the
same time certain facts arise, compel recognition, and knock at
the door in their turn. These facts are the products of revolutions
and wars, they are, they exist, they have the right to install
themselves in society, and they do install themselves therein;
and most of the time, facts are the stewards of the household
and fouriers[32] who do nothing but prepare lodgings for principles.

[32] In olden times, fouriers were the officials who preceded
the Court and allotted the lodgings.

This, then, is what appears to philosophical politicians:--

At the same time that weary men demand repose, accomplished facts
demand guarantees. Guarantees are the same to facts that repose
is to men.

This is what England demanded of the Stuarts after the Protector;
this is what France demanded of the Bourbons after the Empire.

These guarantees are a necessity of the times. They must be accorded.
Princes "grant" them, but in reality, it is the force of things
which gives them. A profound truth, and one useful to know,
which the Stuarts did not suspect in 1662 and which the Bourbons
did not even obtain a glimpse of in 1814.

The predestined family, which returned to France when Napoleon fell,
had the fatal simplicity to believe that it was itself which bestowed,
and that what it had bestowed it could take back again; that the House
of Bourbon possessed the right divine, that France possessed nothing,
and that the political right conceded in the charter of Louis XVIII.
was merely a branch of the right divine, was detached by the House
of Bourbon and graciously given to the people until such day as it
should please the King to reassume it. Still, the House of Bourbon
should have felt, from the displeasure created by the gift, that it
did not come from it.

This house was churlish to the nineteenth century. It put on an
ill-tempered look at every development of the nation. To make use
of a trivial word, that is to say, of a popular and a true word,
it looked glum. The people saw this.

It thought it possessed strength because the Empire had been carried
away before it like a theatrical stage-setting. It did not perceive
that it had, itself, been brought in in the same fashion. It did
not perceive that it also lay in that hand which had removed Napoleon.

It thought that it had roots, because it was the past. It was mistaken;
it formed a part of the past, but the whole past was France.
The roots of French society were not fixed in the Bourbons,
but in the nations. These obscure and lively roots constituted,
not the right of a family, but the history of a people.
They were everywhere, except under the throne.

The House of Bourbon was to France the illustrious and bleeding knot
in her history, but was no longer the principal element of her destiny,
and the necessary base of her politics. She could get along without
the Bourbons; she had done without them for two and twenty years;
there had been a break of continuity; they did not suspect the fact.
And how should they have suspected it, they who fancied that Louis XVII.
reigned on the 9th of Thermidor, and that Louis XVIII. was reigning
at the battle of Marengo? Never, since the origin of history,
had princes been so blind in the presence of facts and the portion
of divine authority which facts contain and promulgate. Never had
that pretension here below which is called the right of kings denied
to such a point the right from on high.

A capital error which led this family to lay its hand once more
on the guarantees "granted" in 1814, on the concessions, as it
termed them. Sad. A sad thing! What it termed its concessions
were our conquests; what it termed our encroachments were our rights.

When the hour seemed to it to have come, the Restoration,
supposing itself victorious over Bonaparte and well-rooted in
the country, that is to say, believing itself to be strong and deep,
abruptly decided on its plan of action, and risked its stroke.
One morning it drew itself up before the face of France, and, elevating
its voice, it contested the collective title and the individual
right of the nation to sovereignty, of the citizen to liberty.
In other words, it denied to the nation that which made it a nation,
and to the citizen that which made him a citizen.

This is the foundation of those famous acts which are called
the ordinances of July. The Restoration fell.

It fell justly. But, we admit, it had not been absolutely hostile
to all forms of progress. Great things had been accomplished,
with it alongside.

Under the Restoration, the nation had grown accustomed to calm discussion,
which had been lacking under the Republic, and to grandeur in peace,
which had been wanting under the Empire. France free and strong
had offered an encouraging spectacle to the other peoples of Europe.
The Revolution had had the word under Robespierre; the cannon
had had the word under Bonaparte; it was under Louis XVIII.
and Charles X. that it was the turn of intelligence to have
the word. The wind ceased, the torch was lighted once more.
On the lofty heights, the pure light of mind could be seen flickering.
A magnificent, useful, and charming spectacle. For a space of
fifteen years, those great principles which are so old for the thinker,
so new for the statesman, could be seen at work in perfect peace,
on the public square; equality before the law, liberty of conscience,
liberty of speech, liberty of the press, the accessibility of
all aptitudes to all functions. Thus it proceeded until 1830.
The Bourbons were an instrument of civilization which broke in the
hands of Providence.

The fall of the Bourbons was full of grandeur, not on their side,
but on the side of the nation. They quitted the throne with gravity,
but without authority; their descent into the night was not one of
those solemn disappearances which leave a sombre emotion in history;
it was neither the spectral calm of Charles I., nor the eagle scream
of Napoleon. They departed, that is all. They laid down the crown,
and retained no aureole. They were worthy, but they were not august.
They lacked, in a certain measure, the majesty of their misfortune.
Charles X. during the voyage from Cherbourg, causing a round table
to be cut over into a square table, appeared to be more anxious
about imperilled etiquette than about the crumbling monarchy.
This diminution saddened devoted men who loved their persons, and serious
men who honored their race. The populace was admirable. The nation,
attacked one morning with weapons, by a sort of royal insurrection,
felt itself in the possession of so much force that it did not go
into a rage. It defended itself, restrained itself, restored things
to their places, the government to law, the Bourbons to exile, alas! and
then halted! It took the old king Charles X. from beneath that dais
which had sheltered Louis XIV. and set him gently on the ground.
It touched the royal personages only with sadness and precaution.
It was not one man, it was not a few men, it was France,
France entire, France victorious and intoxicated with her victory,
who seemed to be coming to herself, and who put into practice,
before the eyes of the whole world, these grave words of Guillaume
du Vair after the day of the Barricades:--

"It is easy for those who are accustomed to skim the favors
of the great, and to spring, like a bird from bough to bough,
from an afflicted fortune to a flourishing one, to show themselves
harsh towards their Prince in his adversity; but as for me,
the fortune of my Kings and especially of my afflicted Kings,
will always be venerable to me."

The Bourbons carried away with them respect, but not regret.
As we have just stated, their misfortune was greater than they were.
They faded out in the horizon.

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