Part 24 out of 36
"What are you up to to-night?"
Again Montparnasse took a grave tone, and said, mouthing
every syllable: "Things."
And abruptly changing the conversation:--
"By the way!"
"Something happened t'other day. Fancy. I meet a bourgeois.
He makes me a present of a sermon and his purse. I put it in my pocket.
A minute later, I feel in my pocket. There's nothing there."
"Except the sermon," said Gavroche.
"But you," went on Montparnasse, "where are you bound for now?"
Gavroche pointed to his two proteges, and said:--
"I'm going to put these infants to bed."
"Whereabouts is the bed?"
"At my house."
"Where's your house?"
"At my house."
"So you have a lodging?"
"Yes, I have."
"And where is your lodging?"
"In the elephant," said Gavroche.
Montparnasse, though not naturally inclined to astonishment,
could not restrain an exclamation.
"In the elephant!"
"Well, yes, in the elephant!" retorted Gavroche. "Kekcaa?"
This is another word of the language which no one writes,
and which every one speaks.
Kekcaa signifies: Quest que c'est que cela a? [What's the matter
The urchin's profound remark recalled Montparnasse to calmness
and good sense. He appeared to return to better sentiments
with regard to Gavroche's lodging.
"Of course," said he, "yes, the elephant. Is it comfortable there?"
"Very," said Gavroche. "It's really bully there. There ain't
any draughts, as there are under the bridges."
"How do you get in?"
"Oh, I get in."
"So there is a hole?" demanded Montparnasse.
"Parbleu! I should say so. But you mustn't tell. It's between
the fore legs. The bobbies haven't seen it."
"And you climb up? Yes, I understand."
"A turn of the hand, cric, crac, and it's all over, no one there."
After a pause, Gavroche added:--
"I shall have a ladder for these children."
Montparnasse burst out laughing:--
"Where the devil did you pick up those young 'uns?"
Gavroche replied with great simplicity:--
"They are some brats that a wig-maker made me a present of."
Meanwhile, Montparnasse had fallen to thinking:--
"You recognized me very readily," he muttered.
He took from his pocket two small objects which were nothing more than
two quills wrapped in cotton, and thrust one up each of his nostrils.
This gave him a different nose.
"That changes you," remarked Gavroche, "you are less homely so,
you ought to keep them on all the time."
Montparnasse was a handsome fellow, but Gavroche was a tease.
"Seriously," demanded Montparnasse, "how do you like me so?"
The sound of his voice was different also. In a twinkling,
Montparnasse had become unrecognizable.
"Oh! Do play Porrichinelle for us!" exclaimed Gavroche.
The two children, who had not been listening up to this point,
being occupied themselves in thrusting their fingers up their noses,
drew near at this name, and stared at Montparnasse with dawning joy
Unfortunately, Montparnasse was troubled.
He laid his hand on Gavroche's shoulder, and said to him,
emphasizing his words: "Listen to what I tell you, boy! if I
were on the square with my dog, my knife, and my wife, and if you
were to squander ten sous on me, I wouldn't refuse to work,
but this isn't Shrove Tuesday."
This odd phrase produced a singular effect on the gamin.
He wheeled round hastily, darted his little sparkling eyes about him
with profound attention, and perceived a police sergeant standing
with his back to them a few paces off. Gavroche allowed an:
"Ah! good!" to escape him, but immediately suppressed it, and shaking
"Well, good evening," said he, "I'm going off to my elephant
with my brats. Supposing that you should need me some night,
you can come and hunt me up there. I lodge on the entresol.
There is no porter. You will inquire for Monsieur Gavroche."
"Very good," said Montparnasse.
And they parted, Montparnasse betaking himself in the direction
of the Greve, and Gavroche towards the Bastille. The little one
of five, dragged along by his brother who was dragged by Gavroche,
turned his head back several times to watch "Porrichinelle" as he went.
The ambiguous phrase by means of which Montparnasse had warned Gavroche
of the presence of the policeman, contained no other talisman than
the assonance dig repeated five or six times in different forms.
This syllable, dig, uttered alone or artistically mingled with the
words of a phrase, means: "Take care, we can no longer talk freely."
There was besides, in Montparnasse's sentence, a literary beauty
which was lost upon Gavroche, that is mon dogue, ma dague et ma digue,
a slang expression of the Temple, which signifies my dog, my knife,
and my wife, greatly in vogue among clowns and the red-tails in the
great century when Moliere wrote and Callot drew.
Twenty years ago, there was still to be seen in the southwest corner
of the Place de la Bastille, near the basin of the canal, excavated in
the ancient ditch of the fortress-prison, a singular monument,
which has already been effaced from the memories of Parisians,
and which deserved to leave some trace, for it was the idea of
a "member of the Institute, the General-in-chief of the army of Egypt."
We say monument, although it was only a rough model. But this
model itself, a marvellous sketch, the grandiose skeleton of an idea
of Napoleon's, which successive gusts of wind have carried away
and thrown, on each occasion, still further from us, had become
historical and had acquired a certain definiteness which contrasted
with its provisional aspect. It was an elephant forty feet high,
constructed of timber and masonry, bearing on its back a tower
which resembled a house, formerly painted green by some dauber,
and now painted black by heaven, the wind, and time. In this deserted
and unprotected corner of the place, the broad brow of the colossus,
his trunk, his tusks, his tower, his enormous crupper, his four feet,
like columns produced, at night, under the starry heavens, a surprising
and terrible form. It was a sort of symbol of popular force.
It was sombre, mysterious, and immense. It was some mighty,
visible phantom, one knew not what, standing erect beside the invisible
spectre of the Bastille.
Few strangers visited this edifice, no passer-by looked at it.
It was falling into ruins; every season the plaster which detached
itself from its sides formed hideous wounds upon it. "The aediles,"
as the expression ran in elegant dialect, had forgotten it ever
since 1814. There it stood in its corner, melancholy, sick, crumbling,
surrounded by a rotten palisade, soiled continually by drunken coachmen;
cracks meandered athwart its belly, a lath projected from its tail,
tall grass flourished between its legs; and, as the level of the
place had been rising all around it for a space of thirty years,
by that slow and continuous movement which insensibly elevates
the soil of large towns, it stood in a hollow, and it looked
as though the ground were giving way beneath it. It was unclean,
despised, repulsive, and superb, ugly in the eyes of the bourgeois,
melancholy in the eyes of the thinker. There was something about it
of the dirt which is on the point of being swept out, and something
of the majesty which is on the point of being decapitated.
As we have said, at night, its aspect changed. Night is the real
element of everything that is dark. As soon as twilight descended,
the old elephant became transfigured; he assumed a tranquil and
redoubtable appearance in the formidable serenity of the shadows.
Being of the past, he belonged to night; and obscurity was in keeping
with his grandeur.
This rough, squat, heavy, hard, austere, almost misshapen,
but assuredly majestic monument, stamped with a sort of magnificent
and savage gravity, has disappeared, and left to reign in peace,
a sort of gigantic stove, ornamented with its pipe, which has replaced
the sombre fortress with its nine towers, very much as the bourgeoisie
replaces the feudal classes. It is quite natural that a stove
should be the symbol of an epoch in which a pot contains power.
This epoch will pass away, people have already begun to understand that,
if there can be force in a boiler, there can be no force except in
the brain; in other words, that which leads and drags on the world,
is not locomotives, but ideas. Harness locomotives to ideas,--
that is well done; but do not mistake the horse for the rider.
At all events, to return to the Place de la Bastille, the architect
of this elephant succeeded in making a grand thing out of plaster;
the architect of the stove has succeeded in making a pretty thing
out of bronze.
This stove-pipe, which has been baptized by a sonorous name, and called
the column of July, this monument of a revolution that miscarried,
was still enveloped in 1832, in an immense shirt of woodwork,
which we regret, for our part, and by a vast plank enclosure,
which completed the task of isolating the elephant.
It was towards this corner of the place, dimly lighted by the reflection
of a distant street lamp, that the gamin guided his two "brats."
The reader must permit us to interrupt ourselves here and to remind
him that we are dealing with simple reality, and that twenty
years ago, the tribunals were called upon to judge, under the charge
of vagabondage, and mutilation of a public monument, a child
who had been caught asleep in this very elephant of the Bastille.
This fact noted, we proceed.
On arriving in the vicinity of the colossus,
Gavroche comprehended the effect which
the infinitely great might produce on the infinitely small, and said:--
"Don't be scared, infants."
Then he entered through a gap in the fence into the elephant's
enclosure and helped the young ones to clamber through the breach.
The two children, somewhat frightened, followed Gavroche without
uttering a word, and confided themselves to this little Providence
in rags which had given them bread and had promised them a shelter.
There, extended along the fence, lay a ladder which by day
served the laborers in the neighboring timber-yard. Gavroche
raised it with remarkable vigor, and placed it against one of
the elephant's forelegs. Near the point where the ladder ended,
a sort of black hole in the belly of the colossus could be distinguished.
Gavroche pointed out the ladder and the hole to his guests,
and said to them:--
"Climb up and go in."
The two little boys exchanged terrified glances.
"You're afraid, brats!" exclaimed Gavroche.
And he added:--
"You shall see!"
He clasped the rough leg of the elephant, and in a twinkling,
without deigning to make use of the ladder, he had reached
the aperture. He entered it as an adder slips through a crevice,
and disappeared within, and an instant later, the two children
saw his head, which looked pale, appear vaguely, on the edge
of the shadowy hole, like a wan and whitish spectre.
"Well!" he exclaimed, "climb up, young 'uns! You'll see how snug
it is here! Come up, you!" he said to the elder, "I'll lend you
The little fellows nudged each other, the gamin frightened and
inspired them with confidence at one and the same time, and then,
it was raining very hard. The elder one undertook the risk.
The younger, on seeing his brother climbing up, and himself left alone
between the paws of this huge beast, felt greatly inclined to cry,
but he did not dare.
The elder lad climbed, with uncertain steps, up the rungs of the ladder;
Gavroche, in the meanwhile, encouraging him with exclamations
like a fencing-master to his pupils, or a muleteer to his mules.
"Don't be afraid!--That's it!--Come on!--Put your feet there!--
Give us your hand here!--Boldly!"
And when the child was within reach, he seized him suddenly
and vigorously by the arm, and pulled him towards him.
"Nabbed!" said he.
The brat had passed through the crack.
"Now," said Gavroche, "wait for me. Be so good as to take
a seat, Monsieur."
And making his way out of the hole as he had entered it, he slipped
down the elephant's leg with the agility of a monkey, landed on
his feet in the grass, grasped the child of five round the body,
and planted him fairly in the middle of the ladder, then he began
to climb up behind him, shouting to the elder:--
"I'm going to boost him, do you tug."
And in another instant, the small lad was pushed, dragged, pulled,
thrust, stuffed into the hole, before he had time to recover himself,
and Gavroche, entering behind him, and repulsing the ladder with a
kick which sent it flat on the grass, began to clap his hands and to cry:--
"Here we are! Long live General Lafayette!"
This explosion over, he added:--
"Now, young 'uns, you are in my house."
Gavroche was at home, in fact.
Oh, unforeseen utility of the useless! Charity of great things!
Goodness of giants! This huge monument, which had embodied
an idea of the Emperor's, had become the box of a street urchin.
The brat had been accepted and sheltered by the colossus.
The bourgeois decked out in their Sunday finery who passed the
elephant of the Bastille, were fond of saying as they scanned it
disdainfully with their prominent eyes: "What's the good of that?"
It served to save from the cold, the frost, the hail, and rain,
to shelter from the winds of winter, to preserve from slumber
in the mud which produces fever, and from slumber in the snow
which produces death, a little being who had no father, no mother,
no bread, no clothes, no refuge. It served to receive the innocent
whom society repulsed. It served to diminish public crime.
It was a lair open to one against whom all doors were shut.
It seemed as though the miserable old mastodon, invaded by vermin
and oblivion, covered with warts, with mould, and ulcers, tottering,
worm-eaten, abandoned, condemned, a sort of mendicant colossus,
asking alms in vain with a benevolent look in the midst of the
cross-roads, had taken pity on that other mendicant, the poor pygmy,
who roamed without shoes to his feet, without a roof over his head,
blowing on his fingers, clad in rags, fed on rejected scraps.
That was what the elephant of the Bastille was good for.
This idea of Napoleon, disdained by men, had been taken back by God.
That which had been merely illustrious, had become august.
In order to realize his thought, the Emperor should have had porphyry,
brass, iron, gold, marble; the old collection of planks, beams and
plaster sufficed for God. The Emperor had had the dream of a genius;
in that Titanic elephant, armed, prodigious, with trunk uplifted,
bearing its tower and scattering on all sides its merry and vivifying
waters, he wished to incarnate the people. God had done a grander
thing with it, he had lodged a child there.
The hole through which Gavroche had entered was a breach which was
hardly visible from the outside, being concealed, as we have stated,
beneath the elephant's belly, and so narrow that it was only cats
and homeless children who could pass through it.
"Let's begin," said Gavroche, "by telling the porter that we are
not at home."
And plunging into the darkness with the assurance of a person who is
well acquainted with his apartments, he took a plank and stopped
up the aperture.
Again Gavroche plunged into the obscurity. The children heard
the crackling of the match thrust into the phosphoric bottle.
The chemical match was not yet in existence; at that epoch the Fumade
steel represented progress.
A sudden light made them blink; Gavroche had just managed to
ignite one of those bits of cord dipped in resin which are called
cellar rats. The cellar rat, which emitted more smoke than light,
rendered the interior of the elephant confusedly visible.
Gavroche's two guests glanced about them, and the sensation
which they experienced was something like that which one would
feel if shut up in the great tun of Heidelberg, or, better still,
like what Jonah must have felt in the biblical belly of the whale.
An entire and gigantic skeleton appeared enveloping them. Above, a long
brown beam, whence started at regular distances, massive, arching ribs,
represented the vertebral column with its sides, stalactites of
plaster depended from them like entrails, and vast spiders'
webs stretching from side to side, formed dirty diaphragms.
Here and there, in the corners, were visible large blackish spots
which had the appearance of being alive, and which changed places
rapidly with an abrupt and frightened movement.
Fragments which had fallen from the elephant's back into his belly
had filled up the cavity, so that it was possible to walk upon it
as on a floor.
The smaller child nestled up against his brother, and whispered
This remark drew an exclamation from Gavroche. The petrified air
of the two brats rendered some shock necessary.
"What's that you are gabbling about there?" he exclaimed.
"Are you scoffing at me? Are you turning up your noses?
Do you want the tuileries? Are you brutes? Come, say! I warn you
that I don't belong to the regiment of simpletons. Ah, come now,
are you brats from the Pope's establishment?"
A little roughness is good in cases of fear. It is reassuring.
The two children drew close to Gavroche.
Gavroche, paternally touched by this confidence, passed from grave
to gentle, and addressing the smaller:--
"Stupid," said he, accenting the insulting word, with a caressing
intonation, "it's outside that it is black. Outside it's raining,
here it does not rain; outside it's cold, here there's not an atom
of wind; outside there are heaps of people, here there's no one;
outside there ain't even the moon, here there's my candle,
The two children began to look upon the apartment with less terror;
but Gavroche allowed them no more time for contemplation.
"Quick," said he.
And he pushed them towards what we are very glad to be able to call
the end of the room.
There stood his bed.
Gavroche's bed was complete; that is to say, it had a mattress,
a blanket, and an alcove with curtains.
The mattress was a straw mat, the blanket a rather large strip
of gray woollen stuff, very warm and almost new. This is what
the alcove consisted of:--
Three rather long poles, thrust into and consolidated, with the rubbish
which formed the floor, that is to say, the belly of the elephant,
two in front and one behind, and united by a rope at their summits,
so as to form a pyramidal bundle. This cluster supported
a trellis-work of brass wire which was simply placed upon it,
but artistically applied, and held by fastenings of iron wire,
so that it enveloped all three holes. A row of very heavy stones kept
this network down to the floor so that nothing could pass under it.
This grating was nothing else than a piece of the brass screens
with which aviaries are covered in menageries. Gavroche's bed stood
as in a cage, behind this net. The whole resembled an Esquimaux tent.
This trellis-work took the place of curtains.
Gavroche moved aside the stones which fastened the net down in front,
and the two folds of the net which lapped over each other fell apart.
"Down on all fours, brats!" said Gavroche.
He made his guests enter the cage with great precaution, then he
crawled in after them, pulled the stones together, and closed
the opening hermetically again.
All three had stretched out on the mat. Gavroche still had
the cellar rat in his hand.
"Now," said he, "go to sleep! I'm going to suppress the candelabra."
"Monsieur," the elder of the brothers asked Gavroche, pointing to
the netting, "what's that for?"
"That," answered Gavroche gravely, "is for the rats. Go to sleep!"
Nevertheless, he felt obliged to add a few words of instruction
for the benefit of these young creatures, and he continued:--
"It's a thing from the Jardin des Plantes. It's used for fierce animals.
There's a whole shopful of them there. All you've got to do is to
climb over a wall, crawl through a window, and pass through a door.
You can get as much as you want."
As he spoke, he wrapped the younger one up bodily in a fold
of the blanket, and the little one murmured:--
"Oh! how good that is! It's warm!"
Gavroche cast a pleased eye on the blanket.
"That's from the Jardin des Plantes, too," said he. "I took
that from the monkeys."
And, pointing out to the eldest the mat on which he was lying,
a very thick and admirably made mat, he added:--
"That belonged to the giraffe."
After a pause he went on:--
"The beasts had all these things. I took them away from them.
It didn't trouble them. I told them: `It's for the elephant.'"
He paused, and then resumed:--
"You crawl over the walls and you don't care a straw for the government.
So there now!"
The two children gazed with timid and stupefied respect on this
intrepid and ingenious being, a vagabond like themselves,
isolated like themselves, frail like themselves, who had something
admirable and all-powerful about him, who seemed supernatural
to them, and whose physiognomy was composed of all the grimaces
of an old mountebank, mingled with the most ingenuous and charming smiles.
"Monsieur," ventured the elder timidly, "you are not afraid
of the police, then?"
Gavroche contented himself with replying:--
"Brat! Nobody says `police,' they say `bobbies.'"
The smaller had his eyes wide open, but he said nothing.
As he was on the edge of the mat, the elder being in the middle,
Gavroche tucked the blanket round him as a mother might have done,
and heightened the mat under his head with old rags, in such a way
as to form a pillow for the child. Then he turned to the elder:--
"Hey! We're jolly comfortable here, ain't we?"
"Ah, yes!" replied the elder, gazing at Gavroche with the expression
of a saved angel.
The two poor little children who had been soaked through,
began to grow warm once more.
"Ah, by the way," continued Gavroche, "what were you bawling about?"
And pointing out the little one to his brother:--
"A mite like that, I've nothing to say about, but the idea of a big
fellow like you crying! It's idiotic; you looked like a calf."
"Gracious, replied the child, "we have no lodging."
"Bother!" retorted Gavroche, "you don't say `lodgings,' you say
"And then, we were afraid of being alone like that at night."
"You don't say `night,' you say `darkmans.'"
"Thank you, sir," said the child.
"Listen," went on Gavroche, "you must never bawl again over anything.
I'll take care of you. You shall see what fun we'll have.
In summer, we'll go to the Glaciere with Navet, one of my pals,
we'll bathe in the Gare, we'll run stark naked in front of the rafts
on the bridge at Austerlitz,--that makes the laundresses raging.
They scream, they get mad, and if you only knew how ridiculous they are!
We'll go and see the man-skeleton. And then I'll take you to the play.
I'll take you to see Frederick Lemaitre. I have tickets, I know
some of the actors, I even played in a piece once. There were a lot
of us fellers, and we ran under a cloth, and that made the sea.
I'll get you an engagement at my theatre. We'll go to see the savages.
They ain't real, those savages ain't. They wear pink tights
that go all in wrinkles, and you can see where their elbows have
been darned with white. Then, we'll go to the Opera. We'll get
in with the hired applauders. The Opera claque is well managed.
I wouldn't associate with the claque on the boulevard. At the Opera,
just fancy! some of them pay twenty sous, but they're ninnies.
They're called dishclouts. And then we'll go to see the guillotine work.
I'll show you the executioner. He lives in the Rue des Marais.
Monsieur Sanson. He has a letter-box at his door. Ah! we'll have
At that moment a drop of wax fell on Gavroche's finger, and recalled
him to the realities of life.
"The deuce!" said he, "there's the wick giving out. Attention!
I can't spend more than a sou a month on my lighting. When a body
goes to bed, he must sleep. We haven't the time to read M. Paul de
Kock's romances. And besides, the light might pass through the cracks
of the porte-cochere, and all the bobbies need to do is to see it."
"And then," remarked the elder timidly,--he alone dared talk
to Gavroche, and reply to him, "a spark might fall in the straw,
and we must look out and not burn the house down."
"People don't say `burn the house down,'" remarked Gavroche,
"they say `blaze the crib.'"
The storm increased in violence, and the heavy downpour
beat upon the back of the colossus amid claps of thunder.
"You're taken in, rain!" said Gavroche. "It amuses me to hear
the decanter run down the legs of the house. Winter is a stupid;
it wastes its merchandise, it loses its labor, it can't wet us,
and that makes it kick up a row, old water-carrier that it is."
This allusion to the thunder, all the consequences of which Gavroche,
in his character of a philosopher of the nineteenth century, accepted,
was followed by a broad flash of lightning, so dazzling that a
hint of it entered the belly of the elephant through the crack.
Almost at the same instant, the thunder rumbled with great fury.
The two little creatures uttered a shriek, and started up so eagerly
that the network came near being displaced, but Gavroche turned
his bold face to them, and took advantage of the clap of thunder
to burst into a laugh.
"Calm down, children. Don't topple over the edifice. That's fine,
first-class thunder; all right. That's no slouch of a streak
of lightning. Bravo for the good God! Deuce take it! It's almost
as good as it is at the Ambigu."
That said, he restored order in the netting, pushed the two children
gently down on the bed, pressed their knees, in order to stretch
them out at full length, and exclaimed:--
"Since the good God is lighting his candle, I can blow out mine.
Now, babes, now, my young humans, you must shut your peepers.
It's very bad not to sleep. It'll make you swallow the strainer,
or, as they say, in fashionable society, stink in the gullet.
Wrap yourself up well in the hide! I'm going to put out the light.
Are you ready?"
"Yes," murmured the elder, "I'm all right. I seem to have feathers
under my head."
"People don't say `head,'" cried Gavroche, "they say `nut'."
The two children nestled close to each other, Gavroche finished arranging
them on the mat, drew the blanket up to their very ears, then repeated,
for the third time, his injunction in the hieratical tongue:--
"Shut your peepers!"
And he snuffed out his tiny light.
Hardly had the light been extinguished, when a peculiar trembling
began to affect the netting under which the three children lay.
It consisted of a multitude of dull scratches which produced a
metallic sound, as if claws and teeth were gnawing at the copper wire.
This was accompanied by all sorts of little piercing cries.
The little five-year-old boy, on hearing this hubbub overhead,
and chilled with terror, jogged his brother's elbow; but the elder
brother had already shut his peepers, as Gavroche had ordered.
Then the little one, who could no longer control his terror,
questioned Gavroche, but in a very low tone, and with bated breath:--
"Hey?" said Gavroche, who had just closed his eyes.
"What is that?"
"It's the rats," replied Gavroche.
And he laid his head down on the mat again.
The rats, in fact, who swarmed by thousands in the carcass of
the elephant, and who were the living black spots which we have
already mentioned, had been held in awe by the flame of the candle,
so long as it had been lighted; but as soon as the cavern,
which was the same as their city, had returned to darkness,
scenting what the good story-teller Perrault calls "fresh meat,"
they had hurled themselves in throngs on Gavroche's tent,
had climbed to the top of it, and had begun to bite the meshes
as though seeking to pierce this new-fangled trap.
Still the little one could not sleep.
"Sir?" he began again.
"Hey?" said Gavroche.
"What are rats?"
"They are mice."
This explanation reassured the child a little. He had seen white
mice in the course of his life, and he was not afraid of them.
Nevertheless, he lifted up his voice once more.
"Hey?" said Gavroche again.
"Why don't you have a cat?"
"I did have one," replied Gavroche, "I brought one here, but they
This second explanation undid the work of the first, and the little
fellow began to tremble again.
The dialogue between him and Gavroche began again for the fourth time:--
"Who was it that was eaten?"
"And who ate the cat?"
"Yes, the rats."
The child, in consternation, dismayed at the thought of mice
which ate cats, pursued:--
"Sir, would those mice eat us?"
"Wouldn't they just!" ejaculated Gavroche.
The child's terror had reached its climax. But Gavroche added:--
"Don't be afraid. They can't get in. And besides, I'm here!
Here, catch hold of my hand. Hold your tongue and shut your peepers!"
At the same time Gavroche grasped the little fellow's hand
across his brother. The child pressed the hand close to him,
and felt reassured. Courage and strength have these mysterious
ways of communicating themselves. Silence reigned round them
once more, the sound of their voices had frightened off the rats;
at the expiration of a few minutes, they came raging back, but in vain,
the three little fellows were fast asleep and heard nothing more.
The hours of the night fled away. Darkness covered the vast
Place de la Bastille. A wintry gale, which mingled with
the rain, blew in gusts, the patrol searched all the doorways,
alleys, enclosures, and obscure nooks, and in their search for
nocturnal vagabonds they passed in silence before the elephant;
the monster, erect, motionless, staring open-eyed into the shadows,
had the appearance of dreaming happily over his good deed;
and sheltered from heaven and from men the three poor sleeping children.
In order to understand what is about to follow, the reader must
remember, that, at that epoch, the Bastille guard-house was situated
at the other end of the square, and that what took place in the
vicinity of the elephant could neither be seen nor heard by the sentinel.
Towards the end of that hour which immediately precedes the dawn,
a man turned from the Rue Saint-Antoine at a run, made the circuit
of the enclosure of the column of July, and glided between
the palings until he was underneath the belly of the elephant.
If any light had illuminated that man, it might have been divined
from the thorough manner in which he was soaked that he had passed
the night in the rain. Arrived beneath the elephant, he uttered
a peculiar cry, which did not belong to any human tongue, and which
a paroquet alone could have imitated. Twice he repeated this cry,
of whose orthography the following barely conveys an idea:--
At the second cry, a clear, young, merry voice responded from
the belly of the elephant:--
Almost immediately, the plank which closed the hole was drawn aside,
and gave passage to a child who descended the elephant's leg, and fell
briskly near the man. It was Gavroche. The man was Montparnasse.
As for his cry of Kirikikiou,--that was, doubtless, what the child
had meant, when he said:--
"You will ask for Monsieur Gavroche."
On hearing it, he had waked with a start, had crawled out of his
"alcove," pushing apart the netting a little, and carefully drawing
it together again, then he had opened the trap, and descended.
The man and the child recognized each other silently amid the gloom:
Montparnasse confined himself to the remark:--
"We need you. Come, lend us a hand."
The lad asked for no further enlightenment.
"I'm with you," said he.
And both took their way towards the Rue Saint-Antoine, whence
Montparnasse had emerged, winding rapidly through the long file
of market-gardeners' carts which descend towards the markets at that hour.
The market-gardeners, crouching, half-asleep, in their wagons,
amid the salads and vegetables, enveloped to their very eyes in
their mufflers on account of the beating rain, did not even glance
at these strange pedestrians.
THE VICISSITUDES OF FLIGHT
This is what had taken place that same night at the La Force:--
An escape had been planned between Babet, Brujon, Guelemer,
and Thenardier, although Thenardier was in close confinement.
Babet had arranged the matter for his own benefit, on the same day,
as the reader has seen from Montparnasse's account to Gavroche.
Montparnasse was to help them from outside.
Brujon, after having passed a month in the punishment cell,
had had time, in the first place, to weave a rope, in the second,
to mature a plan. In former times, those severe places where the
discipline of the prison delivers the convict into his own hands,
were composed of four stone walls, a stone ceiling, a flagged pavement,
a camp bed, a grated window, and a door lined with iron, and were
called dungeons; but the dungeon was judged to be too terrible;
nowadays they are composed of an iron door, a grated window,
a camp bed, a flagged pavement, four stone walls, and a stone ceiling,
and are called chambers of punishment. A little light penetrates
towards mid-day. The inconvenient point about these chambers which,
as the reader sees, are not dungeons, is that they allow the persons
who should be at work to think.
So Brujon meditated, and he emerged from the chamber of punishment
with a rope. As he had the name of being very dangerous in
the Charlemagne courtyard, he was placed in the New Building.
The first thing he found in the New Building was Guelemer, the second
was a nail; Guelemer, that is to say, crime; a nail, that is
to say, liberty. Brujon, of whom it is high time that the reader
should have a complete idea, was, with an appearance of delicate health
and a profoundly premeditated languor, a polished, intelligent sprig,
and a thief, who had a caressing glance, and an atrocious smile.
His glance resulted from his will, and his smile from his nature.
His first studies in his art had been directed to roofs. He had
made great progress in the industry of the men who tear off lead,
who plunder the roofs and despoil the gutters by the process called
The circumstance which put the finishing touch on the moment
peculiarly favorable for an attempt at escape, was that the roofers
were re-laying and re-jointing, at that very moment, a portion of
the slates on the prison. The Saint-Bernard courtyard was no longer
absolutely isolated from the Charlemagne and the Saint-Louis courts.
Up above there were scaffoldings and ladders; in other words,
bridges and stairs in the direction of liberty.
The New Building, which was the most cracked and decrepit thing
to be seen anywhere in the world, was the weak point in the prison.
The walls were eaten by saltpetre to such an extent that the
authorities had been obliged to line the vaults of the dormitories
with a sheathing of wood, because stones were in the habit of
becoming detached and falling on the prisoners in their beds.
In spite of this antiquity, the authorities committed the error
of confining in the New Building the most troublesome prisoners,
of placing there "the hard cases," as they say in prison parlance.
The New Building contained four dormitories, one above the other,
and a top story which was called the Bel-Air (FineAir). A large
chimney-flue, probably from some ancient kitchen of the Dukes de
la Force, started from the groundfloor, traversed all four stories,
cut the dormitories, where it figured as a flattened pillar,
into two portions, and finally pierced the roof.
Guelemer and Brujon were in the same dormitory. They had been placed,
by way of precaution, on the lower story. Chance ordained that
the heads of their beds should rest against the chimney.
Thenardier was directly over their heads in the top story
known as Fine-Air. The pedestrian who halts on the Rue
Culture-Sainte-Catherine, after passing the barracks of the firemen,
in front of the porte-cochere of the bathing establishment,
beholds a yard full of flowers and shrubs in wooden boxes, at the
extremity of which spreads out a little white rotunda with two wings,
brightened up with green shutters, the bucolic dream of Jean Jacques.
Not more than ten years ago, there rose above that rotunda
an enormous black, hideous, bare wall by which it was backed up.
This was the outer wall of La Force.
This wall, beside that rotunda, was Milton viewed through Berquin.
Lofty as it was, this wall was overtopped by a still blacker roof,
which could be seen beyond. This was the roof of the New Building.
There one could descry four dormer-windows, guarded with bars;
they were the windows of the Fine-Air.
A chimney pierced the roof; this was the chimney which traversed
The Bel-Air, that top story of the New Building, was a sort of
large hall, with a Mansard roof, guarded with triple gratings and
double doors of sheet iron, which were studded with enormous bolts.
When one entered from the north end, one had on one's left the four
dormer-windows, on one's right, facing the windows, at regular intervals,
four square, tolerably vast cages, separated by narrow passages,
built of masonry to about the height of the elbow, and the rest,
up to the roof, of iron bars.
Thenardier had been in solitary confinement in one of these cages
since the night of the 3d of February. No one was ever able to
discover how, and by what connivance, he succeeded in procuring,
and secreting a bottle of wine, invented, so it is said, by Desrues,
with which a narcotic is mixed, and which the band of the Endormeurs,
or Sleep-compellers, rendered famous.
There are, in many prisons, treacherous employees, half-jailers,
half-thieves, who assist in escapes, who sell to the police
an unfaithful service, and who turn a penny whenever they can.
On that same night, then, when Little Gavroche picked up the two
lost children, Brujon and Guelemer, who knew that Babet, who had
escaped that morning, was waiting for them in the street as well
as Montparnasse, rose softly, and with the nail which Brujon had found,
began to pierce the chimney against which their beds stood.
The rubbish fell on Brujon's bed, so that they were not heard.
Showers mingled with thunder shook the doors on their hinges,
and created in the prison a terrible and opportune uproar.
Those of the prisoners who woke, pretended to fall asleep again,
and left Guelemer and Brujon to their own devices. Brujon was adroit;
Guelemer was vigorous. Before any sound had reached the watcher,
who was sleeping in the grated cell which opened into the dormitory,
the wall had, been pierced, the chimney scaled, the iron grating which
barred the upper orifice of the flue forced, and the two redoubtable
ruffians were on the roof. The wind and rain redoubled, the roof
"What a good night to leg it!" said Brujon.
An abyss six feet broad and eighty feet deep separated them from
the surrounding wall. At the bottom of this abyss, they could
see the musket of a sentinel gleaming through the gloom.
They fastened one end of the rope which Brujon had spun in his dungeon
to the stumps of the iron bars which they had just wrenched off,
flung the other over the outer wall, crossed the abyss at one bound,
clung to the coping of the wall, got astride of it, let themselves slip,
one after the other, along the rope, upon a little roof which
touches the bath-house, pulled their rope after them, jumped down
into the courtyard of the bath-house, traversed it, pushed open
the porter's wicket, beside which hung his rope, pulled this,
opened the porte-cochere, and found themselves in the street.
Three-quarters of an hour had not elapsed since they had risen
in bed in the dark, nail in hand, and their project in their heads.
A few moments later they had joined Babet and Montparnasse,
who were prowling about the neighborhood.
They had broken their rope in pulling it after them, and a bit
of it remained attached to the chimney on the roof. They had
sustained no other damage, however, than that of scratching
nearly all the skin off their hands.
That night, Thenardier was warned, without any one being able
to explain how, and was not asleep.
Towards one o'clock in the morning, the night being very dark,
he saw two shadows pass along the roof, in the rain and squalls,
in front of the dormer-window which was opposite his cage.
One halted at the window, long enough to dart in a glance.
This was Brujon.
Thenardier recognized him, and understood. This was enough.
Thenardier, rated as a burglar, and detained as a measure of precaution
under the charge of organizing a nocturnal ambush, with armed force,
was kept in sight. The sentry, who was relieved every two hours,
marched up and down in front of his cage with loaded musket.
The Fine-Air was lighted by a skylight. The prisoner had on his
feet fetters weighing fifty pounds. Every day, at four o'clock
in the afternoon, a jailer, escorted by two dogs,--this was still
in vogue at that time,--entered his cage, deposited beside his bed
a loaf of black bread weighing two pounds, a jug of water, a bowl
filled with rather thin bouillon, in which swam a few Mayagan beans,
inspected his irons and tapped the bars. This man and his dogs made
two visits during the night.
Thenardier had obtained permission to keep a sort of iron bolt
which he used to spike his bread into a crack in the wall, "in order
to preserve it from the rats," as he said. As Thenardier was kept
in sight, no objection had been made to this spike. Still, it was
remembered afterwards, that one of the jailers had said:
"It would be better to let him have only a wooden spike."
At two o'clock in the morning, the sentinel, who was an old soldier,
was relieved, and replaced by a conscript. A few moments later,
the man with the dogs paid his visit, and went off without
noticing anything, except, possibly, the excessive youth and "the
rustic air" of the "raw recruit." Two hours afterwards, at four
o'clock, when they came to relieve the conscript, he was found
asleep on the floor, lying like a log near Thenardier's cage.
As for Thenardier, he was no longer there. There was a hole in
the ceiling of his cage, and, above it, another hole in the roof.
One of the planks of his bed had been wrenched off, and probably
carried away with him, as it was not found. They also seized
in his cell a half-empty bottle which contained the remains
of the stupefying wine with which the soldier had been drugged.
The soldier's bayonet had disappeared.
At the moment when this discovery was made, it was assumed that
Thenardier was out of reach. The truth is, that he was no longer
in the New Building, but that he was still in great danger.
Thenardier, on reaching the roof of the New Building, had found
the remains of Brujon's rope hanging to the bars of the upper trap
of the chimney, but, as this broken fragment was much too short,
he had not been able to escape by the outer wall, as Brujon and
Guelemer had done.
When one turns from the Rue des Ballets into the Rue du
Roi-de-Sicile, one almost immediately encounters a repulsive ruin.
There stood on that spot, in the last century, a house of which only
the back wall now remains, a regular wall of masonry, which rises
to the height of the third story between the adjoining buildings.
This ruin can be recognized by two large square windows which are
still to be seen there; the middle one, that nearest the right gable,
is barred with a worm-eaten beam adjusted like a prop. Through these
windows there was formerly visible a lofty and lugubrious wall,
which was a fragment of the outer wall of La Force.
The empty space on the street left by the demolished house is
half-filled by a fence of rotten boards, shored up by five stone posts.
In this recess lies concealed a little shanty which leans against
the portion of the ruin which has remained standing. The fence
has a gate, which, a few years ago, was fastened only by a latch.
It was the crest of this ruin that Thenardier had succeeded
in reaching, a little after one o'clock in the morning.
How had he got there? That is what no one has ever been able
to explain or understand. The lightning must, at the same time,
have hindered and helped him. Had he made use of the ladders
and scaffoldings of the slaters to get from roof to roof,
from enclosure to enclosure, from compartment to compartment,
to the buildings of the Charlemagne court, then to the buildings
of the Saint-Louis court, to the outer wall, and thence to the hut
on the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile? But in that itinerary there existed
breaks which seemed to render it an impossibility. Had he placed
the plank from his bed like a bridge from the roof of the Fine-Air
to the outer wall, and crawled flat, on his belly on the coping of the
outer wall the whole distance round the prison as far as the hut?
But the outer wall of La Force formed a crenellated and unequal line;
it mounted and descended, it dropped at the firemen's barracks,
it rose towards the bath-house, it was cut in twain by buildings,
it was not even of the same height on the Hotel Lamoignon as on
the Rue Pavee; everywhere occurred falls and right angles; and then,
the sentinels must have espied the dark form of the fugitive; hence,
the route taken by Thenardier still remains rather inexplicable.
In two manners, flight was impossible. Had Thenardier, spurred on
by that thirst for liberty which changes precipices into ditches,
iron bars into wattles of osier, a legless man into an athlete, a gouty
man into a bird, stupidity into instinct, instinct into intelligence,
and intelligence into genius, had Thenardier invented a third mode?
No one has ever found out.
The marvels of escape cannot always be accounted for. The man
who makes his escape, we repeat, is inspired; there is something
of the star and of the lightning in the mysterious gleam of flight;
the effort towards deliverance is no less surprising than the
flight towards the sublime, and one says of the escaped thief:
"How did he contrive to scale that wall?" in the same way that one
says of Corneille: "Where did he find the means of dying?"
At all events, dripping with perspiration, drenched with rain,
with his clothes hanging in ribbons, his hands flayed, his elbows
bleeding, his knees torn, Thenardier had reached what children,
in their figurative language, call the edge of the wall of the ruin,
there he had stretched himself out at full length, and there his
strength had failed him. A steep escarpment three stories high
separated him from the pavement of the street.
The rope which he had was too short.
There he waited, pale, exhausted, desperate with all the despair
which he had undergone, still hidden by the night, but telling
himself that the day was on the point of dawning, alarmed at the idea
of hearing the neighboring clock of Saint-Paul strike four within
a few minutes, an hour when the sentinel was relieved and when the
latter would be found asleep under the pierced roof, staring in
horror at a terrible depth, at the light of the street lanterns,
the wet, black pavement, that pavement longed for yet frightful,
which meant death, and which meant liberty.
He asked himself whether his three accomplices in flight had succeeded,
if they had heard him, and if they would come to his assistance.
He listened. With the exception of the patrol, no one had passed
through the street since he had been there. Nearly the whole of
the descent of the market-gardeners from Montreuil, from Charonne,
from Vincennes, and from Bercy to the markets was accomplished
through the Rue Saint-Antoine.
Four o'clock struck. Thenardier shuddered. A few moments later,
that terrified and confused uproar which follows the discovery
of an escape broke forth in the prison. The sound of doors opening
and shutting, the creaking of gratings on their hinges, a tumult
in the guard-house, the hoarse shouts of the turnkeys, the shock
of musket-butts on the pavement of the courts, reached his ears.
Lights ascended and descended past the grated windows of the dormitories,
a torch ran along the ridge-pole of the top story of the New Building,
the firemen belonging in the barracks on the right had been summoned.
Their helmets, which the torch lighted up in the rain, went and came
along the roofs. At the same time, Thenardier perceived in the
direction of the Bastille a wan whiteness lighting up the edge
of the sky in doleful wise.
He was on top of a wall ten inches wide, stretched out under the
heavy rains, with two gulfs to right and left, unable to stir,
subject to the giddiness of a possible fall, and to the horror
of a certain arrest, and his thoughts, like the pendulum of a clock,
swung from one of these ideas to the other: "Dead if I fall,
caught if I stay." In the midst of this anguish, he suddenly saw,
the street being still dark, a man who was gliding along the walls
and coming from the Rue Pavee, halt in the recess above which
Thenardier was, as it were, suspended. Here this man was joined
by a second, who walked with the same caution, then by a third,
then by a fourth. When these men were re-united, one of them lifted
the latch of the gate in the fence, and all four entered the enclosure
in which the shanty stood. They halted directly under Thenardier.
These men had evidently chosen this vacant space in order that they
might consult without being seen by the passers-by or by the
sentinel who guards the wicket of La Force a few paces distant.
It must be added, that the rain kept this sentinel blocked in
his box. Thenardier, not being able to distinguish their visages,
lent an ear to their words with the desperate attention of a wretch
who feels himself lost.
Thenardier saw something resembling a gleam of hope flash before
his eyes,--these men conversed in slang.
The first said in a low but distinct voice:--
"Let's cut. What are we up to here?"
The second replied: "It's raining hard enough to put out the
very devil's fire. And the bobbies will be along instanter.
There's a soldier on guard yonder. We shall get nabbed here."
These two words, icigo and icicaille, both of which mean ici,
and which belong, the first to the slang of the barriers, the second
to the slang of the Temple, were flashes of light for Thenardier.
By the icigo he recognized Brujon, who was a prowler of the barriers,
by the icicaille he knew Babet, who, among his other trades, had been
an old-clothes broker at the Temple.
The antique slang of the great century is no longer spoken except
in the Temple, and Babet was really the only person who spoke it in
all its purity. Had it not been for the icicaille, Thenardier would
not have recognized him, for he had entirely changed his voice.
In the meanwhile, the third man had intervened.
"There's no hurry yet, let's wait a bit. How do we know that he
doesn't stand in need of us?"
By this, which was nothing but French, Thenardier recognized
Montparnasse, who made it a point in his elegance to understand
all slangs and to speak none of them.
As for the fourth, he held his peace, but his huge shoulders
betrayed him. Thenardier did not hesitate. It was Guelemer.
Brujon replied almost impetuously but still in a low tone:--
"What are you jabbering about? The tavern-keeper hasn't managed
to cut his stick. He don't tumble to the racket, that he don't!
You have to be a pretty knowing cove to tear up your shirt, cut up
your sheet to make a rope, punch holes in doors, get up false papers,
make false keys, file your irons, hang out your cord, hide yourself,
and disguise yourself! The old fellow hasn't managed to play it,
he doesn't understand how to work the business."
Babet added, still in that classical slang which was spoken
by Poulailler and Cartouche, and which is to the bold, new,
highly colored and risky argot used by Brujon what the language
of Racine is to the language of Andre Chenier:--
"Your tavern-keeper must have been nabbed in the act. You have
to be knowing. He's only a greenhorn. He must have let himself be
taken in by a bobby, perhaps even by a sheep who played it on him as
his pal. Listen, Montparnasse, do you hear those shouts in the prison?
You have seen all those lights. He's recaptured, there! He'll get
off with twenty years. I ain't afraid, I ain't a coward, but there
ain't anything more to do, or otherwise they'd lead us a dance. Don't
get mad, come with us, let's go drink a bottle of old wine together."
"One doesn't desert one's friends in a scrape," grumbled Montparnasse.
"I tell you he's nabbed!" retorted Brujon. "At the present moment,
the inn-keeper ain't worth a ha'penny. We can't do nothing for him.
Let's be off. Every minute I think a bobby has got me in his fist."
Montparnasse no longer offered more than a feeble resistance;
the fact is, that these four men, with the fidelity of ruffians who
never abandon each other, had prowled all night long about La Force,
great as was their peril, in the hope of seeing Thenardier make
his appearance on the top of some wall. But the night, which was
really growing too fine,--for the downpour was such as to render
all the streets deserted,--the cold which was overpowering them,
their soaked garments, their hole-ridden shoes, the alarming noise
which had just burst forth in the prison, the hours which had elapsed,
the patrol which they had encountered, the hope which was vanishing,
all urged them to beat a retreat. Montparnasse himself, who was,
perhaps, almost Thenardier's son-in-law, yielded. A moment more,
and they would be gone. Thenardier was panting on his wall like the
shipwrecked sufferers of the Meduse on their raft when they beheld
the vessel which had appeared in sight vanish on the horizon.
He dared not call to them; a cry might be heard and ruin everything.
An idea occurred to him, a last idea, a flash of inspiration;
he drew from his pocket the end of Brujon's rope, which he had detached
from the chimney of the New Building, and flung it into the space
enclosed by the fence.
This rope fell at their feet.
"A widow," said Babet.
 Argot of the Temple.
"My tortouse!" said Brujon.
 Argot of the barriers.
"The tavern-keeper is there," said Montparnasse.
They raised their eyes. Thenardier thrust out his head a very little.
"Quick!" said Montparnasse, "have you the other end of the rope, Brujon?"
"Knot the two pieces together, we'll fling him the rope, he can
fasten it to the wall, and he'll have enough of it to get down with."
Thenardier ran the risk, and spoke:--
"I am paralyzed with cold."
"We'll warm you up."
"I can't budge."
"Let yourself slide, we'll catch you."
"My hands are benumbed."
"Only fasten the rope to the wall."
"Then one of us must climb up," said Montparnasse.
"Three stories!" ejaculated Brujon.
An ancient plaster flue, which had served for a stove that had
been used in the shanty in former times, ran along the wall and
mounted almost to the very spot where they could see Thenardier.
This flue, then much damaged and full of cracks, has since fallen,
but the marks of it are still visible.
It was very narrow.
"One might get up by the help of that," said Montparnasse.
"By that flue?" exclaimed Babet, "a grown-up cove, never! it would
take a brat."
"A brat must be got," resumed Brujon.
"Where are we to find a young 'un?" said Guelemer.
"Wait," said Montparnasse. "I've got the very article."
He opened the gate of the fence very softly, made sure that no one
was passing along the street, stepped out cautiously, shut the gate
behind him, and set off at a run in the direction of the Bastille.
Seven or eight minutes elapsed, eight thousand centuries to Thenardier;
Babet, Brujon, and Guelemer did not open their lips; at last the gate
opened once more, and Montparnasse appeared, breathless, and followed
by Gavroche. The rain still rendered the street completely deserted.
Little Gavroche entered the enclosure and gazed at the forms of these
ruffians with a tranquil air. The water was dripping from his hair.
Guelemer addressed him:--
"Are you a man, young 'un?"
Gavroche shrugged his shoulders, and replied:--
"A young 'un like me's a man, and men like you are babes."
"The brat's tongue's well hung!" exclaimed Babet.
"The Paris brat ain't made of straw," added Brujon.
"What do you want?" asked Gavroche.
"Climb up that flue."
"With this rope," said Babet.
"And fasten it," continued Brujon.
"To the top of the wall," went on Babet.
"To the cross-bar of the window," added Brujon.
"And then?" said Gavroche.
"There!" said Guelemer.
The gamin examined the rope, the flue, the wall, the windows,
and made that indescribable and disdainful noise with his lips
"Is that all!"
"There's a man up there whom you are to save," resumed Montparnasse.
"Will you?" began Brujon again.
"Greenhorn!" replied the lad, as though the question appeared
a most unprecedented one to him.
And he took off his shoes.
Guelemer seized Gavroche by one arm, set him on the roof of the shanty,
whose worm-eaten planks bent beneath the urchin's weight,
and handed him the rope which Brujon had knotted together during
Montparnasse's absence. The gamin directed his steps towards
the flue, which it was easy to enter, thanks to a large crack
which touched the roof. At the moment when he was on the point
of ascending, Thenardier, who saw life and safety approaching,
bent over the edge of the wall; the first light of dawn struck white
upon his brow dripping with sweat, upon his livid cheek-bones, his sharp
and savage nose, his bristling gray beard, and Gavroche recognized him.
"Hullo! it's my father! Oh, that won't hinder."
And taking the rope in his teeth, he resolutely began the ascent.
He reached the summit of the hut, bestrode the old wall as though
it had been a horse. and knotted the rope firmly to the upper
cross-bar of the window.
A moment later, Thenardier was in the street.
As soon as he touched the pavement, as soon as he found himself out
of danger, he was no longer either weary, or chilled or trembling;
the terrible things from which he had escaped vanished like smoke,
all that strange and ferocious mind awoke once more, and stood erect
and free, ready to march onward.
These were this man's first words:--
"Now, whom are we to eat?"
It is useless to explain the sense of this frightfully transparent remark,
which signifies both to kill, to assassinate, and to plunder.
To eat, true sense: to devour.
"Let's get well into a corner," said Brujon. "Let's settle it
in three words, and part at once. There was an affair that promised
well in the Rue Plumet, a deserted street, an isolated house,
an old rotten gate on a garden, and lone women."
"Well! why not?" demanded Thenardier.
"Your girl, Eponine, went to see about the matter," replied Babet.
"And she brought a biscuit to Magnon," added Guelemer. "Nothing to
be made there."
"The girl's no fool," said Thenardier. "Still, it must be seen to."
"Yes, yes," said Brujon, "it must be looked up."
In the meanwhile, none of the men seemed to see Gavroche, who,
during this colloquy, had seated himself on one of the fence-posts;
he waited a few moments, thinking that perhaps his father would
turn towards him, then he put on his shoes again, and said:--
"Is that all? You don't want any more, my men? Now you're out
of your scrape. I'm off. I must go and get my brats out of bed."
And off he went.
The five men emerged, one after another, from the enclosure.
When Gavroche had disappeared at the corner of the Rue des Ballets,
Babet took Thenardier aside.
"Did you take a good look at that young 'un?" he asked.
"What young 'un?"
"The one who climbed the wall and carried you the rope."
"Well, I don't know, but it strikes me that it was your son."
"Bah!" said Thenardier, "do you think so?"
Pigritia is a terrible word.
It engenders a whole world, la pegre, for which read theft,
and a hell, la pegrenne, for which read hunger.
Thus, idleness is the mother.
She has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger.
Where are we at this moment? In the land of slang.
What is slang? It is at one and the same time, a nation and a dialect;
it is theft in its two kinds; people and language.
When, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave
and sombre history introduced into a work written with the same
aim as this a thief who talked argot, there arose amazement
and clamor.--"What! How! Argot! Why, argot is horrible!
It is the language of prisons, galleys, convicts, of everything
that is most abominable in society!" etc., etc.
 The Last Day of a Condemned Man.
We have never understood this sort of objections.
Since that time, two powerful romancers, one of whom is a profound
observer of the human heart, the other an intrepid friend of
the people, Balzac and Eugene Sue, having represented their ruffians
as talking their natural language, as the author of The Last Day
of a Condemned Man did in 1828, the same objections have been raised.
People repeated: "What do authors mean by that revolting dialect?
Slang is odious! Slang makes one shudder!"
Who denies that? Of course it does.
When it is a question of probing a wound, a gulf, a society,
since when has it been considered wrong to go too far? to go
to the bottom? We have always thought that it was sometimes a
courageous act, and, at least, a simple and useful deed, worthy of
the sympathetic attention which duty accepted and fulfilled merits.
Why should one not explore everything, and study everything?
Why should one halt on the way? The halt is a matter depending
on the sounding-line, and not on the leadsman.
Certainly, too, it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to
undertake an investigation into the lowest depths of the social order,
where terra firma comes to an end and where mud begins, to rummage
in those vague, murky waves, to follow up, to seize and to fling,
still quivering, upon the pavement that abject dialect which is dripping
with filth when thus brought to the light, that pustulous vocabulary
each word of which seems an unclean ring from a monster of the mire
and the shadows. Nothing is more lugubrious than the contemplation
thus in its nudity, in the broad light of thought, of the horrible
swarming of slang. It seems, in fact, to be a sort of horrible beast
made for the night which has just been torn from its cesspool.
One thinks one beholds a frightful, living, and bristling thicket
which quivers, rustles, wavers, returns to shadow, threatens and glares.
One word resembles a claw, another an extinguished and bleeding eye,
such and such a phrase seems to move like the claw of a crab.
All this is alive with the hideous vitality of things which have been
organized out of disorganization.
Now, when has horror ever excluded study? Since when has malady
banished medicine? Can one imagine a naturalist refusing to study
the viper, the bat, the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula,
and one who would cast them back into their darkness, saying: "Oh! how
ugly that is!" The thinker who should turn aside from slang would
resemble a surgeon who should avert his face from an ulcer or a wart.
He would be like a philologist refusing to examine a fact in language,
a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a fact in humanity.
For, it must be stated to those who are ignorant of the case,
that argot is both a literary phenomenon and a social result.
What is slang, properly speaking? It is the language of wretchedness.
We may be stopped; the fact may be put to us in general terms,
which is one way of attenuating it; we may be told, that all trades,
professions, it may be added, all the accidents of the social
hierarchy and all forms of intelligence, have their own slang.
The merchant who says: "Montpellier not active, Marseilles fine quality,"
the broker on 'change who says: "Assets at end of current month,"
the gambler who says: "Tiers et tout, refait de pique," the sheriff
of the Norman Isles who says: The holder in fee reverting to his landed
estate cannot claim the fruits of that estate during the hereditary
seizure of the real estate by the mortgagor," the playwright who says:
"The piece was hissed," the comedian who says: "I've made a hit,"
the philosopher who says: "Phenomenal triplicity," the huntsman
who says: "Voileci allais, Voileci fuyant," the phrenologist
who says: "Amativeness, combativeness, secretiveness," the infantry
soldier who says: "My shooting-iron," the cavalry-man who says:
"My turkey-cock," the fencing-master who says: "Tierce, quarte, break,"
the printer who says: "My shooting-stick and galley,"--all, printer,
fencing-master, cavalry dragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist,
huntsman, philosopher, comedian, playwright, sheriff, gambler,
stock-broker, and merchant, speak slang. The painter who says:
"My grinder," the notary who says: "My Skip-the-Gutter,"
the hairdresser who says: "My mealyback," the cobbler who says:
"My cub," talks slang. Strictly speaking, if one absolutely insists on
the point, all the different fashions of saying the right and the left,
the sailor's port and starboard, the scene-shifter's court-side, and
garden-side, the beadle's Gospel-side and Epistle-side, are slang.
There is the slang of the affected lady as well as of the precieuses.
The Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the Cour des Miracles. There is
a slang of duchesses, witness this phrase contained in a love-letter
from a very great lady and a very pretty woman of the Restoration:
"You will find in this gossip a fultitude of reasons why I should
libertize." Diplomatic ciphers are slang; the pontifical
chancellery by using 26 for Rome, grkztntgzyal for despatch,
and abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI. for the Due de Modena, speaks slang.
The physicians of the Middle Ages who, for carrot, radish, and turnip,
said Opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus, dracatholicum, angelorum,
postmegorum, talked slang. The sugar-manufacturer who says:
"Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common, burnt,"--this honest
manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of criticism twenty years ago,
which used to say: "Half of the works of Shakespeare consists of plays
upon words and puns,"--talked slang. The poet, and the artist who,
with profound understanding, would designate M. de Montmorency
as "a bourgeois," if he were not a judge of verses and statues,
speak slang. The classic Academician who calls flowers "Flora," fruits,
"Pomona," the sea, "Neptune," love, "fires," beauty, "charms," a horse,
"a courser," the white or tricolored cockade, "the rose of Bellona,"
the three-cornered hat, "Mars' triangle,"--that classical Academician
talks slang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have each their slang.
The tongue which is employed on board ship, that wonderful language
of the sea, which is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken
by Jean Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre, which mingles with
the whistling of the rigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets,
the shock of the boarding-irons, the roll of the sea, the wind,
the gale, the cannon, is wholly a heroic and dazzling slang, which
is to the fierce slang of the thieves what the lion is to the jackal.
 "Vous trouverez dans ces potains-la, une foultitude de raisons
pour que je me libertise."
No doubt. But say what we will, this manner of understanding
the word slang is an extension which every one will not admit.
For our part, we reserve to the word its ancient and precise,
circumscribed and determined significance, and we restrict slang
to slang. The veritable slang and the slang that is pre-eminently
slang, if the two words can be coupled thus, the slang immemorial
which was a kingdom, is nothing else, we repeat, than the homely,
uneasy, crafty, treacherous, venomous, cruel, equivocal, vile, profound,
fatal tongue of wretchedness. There exists, at the extremity of all
abasement and all misfortunes, a last misery which revolts and makes
up its mind to enter into conflict with the whole mass of fortunate
facts and reigning rights; a fearful conflict, where, now cunning,
now violent, unhealthy and ferocious at one and the same time,
it attacks the social order with pin-pricks through vice, and with
club-blows through crime. To meet the needs of this conflict,
wretchedness has invented a language of combat, which is slang.
To keep afloat and to rescue from oblivion, to hold above the gulf,
were it but a fragment of some language which man has spoken and
which would, otherwise, be lost, that is to say, one of the elements,
good or bad, of which civilization is composed, or by which it
is complicated, to extend the records of social observation;
is to serve civilization itself. This service Plautus rendered,
consciously or unconsciously, by making two Carthaginian soldiers
talk Phoenician; that service Moliere rendered, by making so many
of his characters talk Levantine and all sorts of dialects.
Here objections spring up afresh. Phoenician, very good!
Levantine, quite right! Even dialect, let that pass! They are
tongues which have belonged to nations or provinces; but slang!
What is the use of preserving slang? What is the good of assisting
slang "to survive"?
To this we reply in one word, only. Assuredly, if the tongue
which a nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest,
the language which has been spoken by a misery is still more worthy
of attention and study.
It is the language which has been spoken, in France, for example,
for more than four centuries, not only by a misery, but by every
possible human misery.
And then, we insist upon it, the study of social deformities
and infirmities, and the task of pointing them out with a view
to remedy, is not a business in which choice is permitted.
The historian of manners and ideas has no less austere a mission than
the historian of events. The latter has the surface of civilization,
the conflicts of crowns, the births of princes, the marriages of kings,
battles, assemblages, great public men, revolutions in the daylight,
everything on the exterior; the other historian has the interior,
the depths, the people who toil, suffer, wait, the oppressed woman,
the agonizing child, the secret war between man and man,
obscure ferocities, prejudices, plotted iniquities, the subterranean,
the indistinct tremors of multitudes, the die-of-hunger,
the counter-blows of the law, the secret evolution of souls,
the go-bare-foot, the bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans,
the unhappy, and the infamous, all the forms which roam through
the darkness. He must descend with his heart full of charity,
and severity at the same time, as a brother and as a judge, to those
impenetrable casemates where crawl, pell-mell, those who bleed
and those who deal the blow, those who weep and those who curse,
those who fast and those who devour, those who endure evil and those
who inflict it. Have these historians of hearts and souls duties
at all inferior to the historians of external facts? Does any one
think that Alighieri has any fewer things to say than Machiavelli?
Is the under side of civilization any less important than the upper
side merely because it is deeper and more sombre? Do we really
know the mountain well when we are not acquainted with the cavern?
Let us say, moreover, parenthetically, that from a few words
of what precedes a marked separation might be inferred between
the two classes of historians which does not exist in our mind.
No one is a good historian of the patent, visible, striking,
and public life of peoples, if he is not, at the same time,
in a certain measure, the historian of their deep and hidden life;
and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he
understands how, at need, to be the historian of the exterior also.
The history of manners and ideas permeates the history of events,
and this is true reciprocally. They constitute two different orders
of facts which correspond to each other, which are always interlaced,
and which often bring forth results. All the lineaments which
providence traces on the surface of a nation have their parallels,
sombre but distinct, in their depths, and all convulsions of the
depths produce ebullitions on the surface. True history being
a mixture of all things, the true historian mingles in everything.
Man is not a circle with a single centre; he is an ellipse with
a double focus. Facts form one of these, and ideas the other.
Slang is nothing but a dressing-room where the tongue having some
bad action to perform, disguises itself. There it clothes itself
in word-masks, in metaphor-rags. In this guise it becomes horrible.
One finds it difficult to recognize. Is it really the French tongue,
the great human tongue? Behold it ready to step upon the stage
and to retort upon crime, and prepared for all the employments
of the repertory of evil. It no longer walks, it hobbles; it limps
on the crutch of the Court of Miracles, a crutch metamorphosable
into a club; it is called vagrancy; every sort of spectre,
its dressers, have painted its face, it crawls and rears, the double
gait of the reptile. Henceforth, it is apt at all roles, it is made
suspicious by the counterfeiter, covered with verdigris by the forger,
blacked by the soot of the incendiary; and the murderer applies its rouge.
When one listens, by the side of honest men, at the portals of society,
one overhears the dialogues of those who are on the outside.
One distinguishes questions and replies. One perceives, without
understanding it, a hideous murmur, sounding almost like human accents,
but more nearly resembling a howl than an articulate word.
It is slang. The words are misshapen and stamped with an indescribable
and fantastic bestiality. One thinks one hears hydras talking.
It is unintelligible in the dark. It gnashes and whispers,
completing the gloom with mystery. It is black in misfortune,
it is blacker still in crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated,
compose slang. Obscurity in the atmosphere, obscurity in acts,
obscurity in voices. Terrible, toad-like tongue which goes
and comes, leaps, crawls, slobbers, and stirs about in monstrous
wise in that immense gray fog composed of rain and night, of hunger,
of vice, of falsehood, of injustice, of nudity, of suffocation,
and of winter, the high noonday of the miserable.
Let us have compassion on the chastised. Alas! Who are we ourselves?
Who am I who now address you? Who are you who are listening to me?
And are you very sure that we have done nothing before we were born?
The earth is not devoid of resemblance to a jail. Who knows
whether man is not a recaptured offender against divine justice?
Look closely at life. It is so made, that everywhere we feel the sense
Are you what is called a happy man? Well! you are sad every day.
Each day has its own great grief or its little care. Yesterday you
were trembling for a health that is dear to you, to-day you fear
for your own; to-morrow it will be anxiety about money, the day
after to-morrow the diatribe of a slanderer, the day after that,
the misfortune of some friend; then the prevailing weather, then something
that has been broken or lost, then a pleasure with which your
conscience and your vertebral column reproach you; again, the course
of public affairs. This without reckoning in the pains of the heart.
And so it goes on. One cloud is dispelled, another forms.
There is hardly one day out of a hundred which is wholly joyous
and sunny. And you belong to that small class who are happy!
As for the rest of mankind, stagnating night rests upon them.
Thoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the fortunate
and the unfortunate. In this world, evidently the vestibule
of another, there are no fortunate.
The real human division is this: the luminous and the shady.
To diminish the number of the shady, to augment the number
of the luminous,--that is the object. That is why we cry:
Education! science! To teach reading, means to light the fire;
every syllable spelled out sparkles.
However, he who says light does not, necessarily, say joy.
People suffer in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy
of the wing. To burn without ceasing to fly,--therein lies the
marvel of genius.
When you shall have learned to know, and to love, you will
still suffer. The day is born in tears. The luminous weep,
if only over those in darkness.
Slang is the tongue of those who sit in darkness.
Thought is moved in its most sombre depths, social philosophy
is bidden to its most poignant meditations, in the presence
of that enigmatic dialect at once so blighted and rebellious.
Therein lies chastisement made visible. Every syllable has
an air of being marked. The words of the vulgar tongue appear
therein wrinkled and shrivelled, as it were, beneath the hot iron
of the executioner. Some seem to be still smoking. Such and such
a phrase produces upon you the effect of the shoulder of a thief
branded with the fleur-de-lys, which has suddenly been laid bare.
Ideas almost refuse to be expressed in these substantives which
are fugitives from justice. Metaphor is sometimes so shameless,
that one feels that it has worn the iron neck-fetter.
Moreover, in spite of all this, and because of all this, this strange
dialect has by rights, its own compartment in that great impartial
case of pigeon-holes where there is room for the rusty farthing
as well as for the gold medal, and which is called literature.
Slang, whether the public admit the fact or not has its syntax
and its poetry. It is a language. Yes, by the deformity of
certain terms, we recognize the fact that it was chewed by Mandrin,
and by the splendor of certain metonymies, we feel that Villon spoke it.
That exquisite and celebrated verse--
Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan?
But where are the snows of years gone by?
is a verse of slang. Antam--ante annum--is a word of Thunes slang,
which signified the past year, and by extension, formerly.
Thirty-five years ago, at the epoch of the departure of the great
chain-gang, there could be read in one of the cells at Bicetre,
this maxim engraved with a nail on the wall by a king of Thunes
condemned to the galleys: Les dabs d'antan trimaient siempre pour
la pierre du Coesre. This means Kings in days gone by always
went and had themselves anointed. In the opinion of that king,
anointment meant the galleys.
The word decarade, which expresses the departure of heavy vehicles
at a gallop, is attributed to Villon, and it is worthy of him.
This word, which strikes fire with all four of its feet, sums up in a
masterly onomatopoeia the whole of La Fontaine's admirable verse:--
Six forts chevaux tiraient un coche.
Six stout horses drew a coach.
From a purely literary point of view, few studies would prove more
curious and fruitful than the study of slang. It is a whole language
within a language, a sort of sickly excrescence, an unhealthy graft
which has produced a vegetation, a parasite which has its roots
in the old Gallic trunk, and whose sinister foliage crawls all over
one side of the language. This is what may be called the first,
the vulgar aspect of slang. But, for those who study the tongue as it
should be studied, that is to say, as geologists study the earth,
slang appears like a veritable alluvial deposit. According as one digs
a longer or shorter distance into it, one finds in slang, below the old
popular French, Provencal, Spanish, Italian, Levantine, that language
of the Mediterranean ports, English and German, the Romance language
in its three varieties, French, Italian, and Romance Romance, Latin,
and finally Basque and Celtic. A profound and unique formation.
A subterranean edifice erected in common by all the miserable.
Each accursed race has deposited its layer, each suffering has
dropped its stone there, each heart has contributed its pebble.
A throng of evil, base, or irritated souls, who have traversed
life and have vanished into eternity, linger there almost entirely
visible still beneath the form of some monstrous word.
Do you want Spanish? The old Gothic slang abounded in it.
Here is boffete, a box on the ear, which is derived from bofeton;
vantane, window (later on vanterne), which comes from vantana;
gat, cat, which comes from gato; acite, oil, which comes from aceyte.
Do you want Italian? Here is spade, sword, which comes from spada;
carvel, boat, which comes from caravella. Do you want English?
Here is bichot, which comes from bishop; raille, spy, which comes from
rascal, rascalion; pilche, a case, which comes from pilcher, a sheath.
Do you want German? Here is the caleur, the waiter, kellner; the hers,
the master, herzog (duke). Do you want Latin? Here is frangir,
to break, frangere; affurer, to steal, fur; cadene, chain, catena.
There is one word which crops up in every language of the continent,
with a sort of mysterious power and authority. It is the word magnus;
the Scotchman makes of it his mac, which designates the chief
of the clan; Mac-Farlane, Mac-Callumore, the great Farlane,
the great Callumore; slang turns it into meck and later le meg,
that is to say, God. Would you like Basque? Here is gahisto,
the devil, which comes from gaiztoa, evil; sorgabon, good night,
which comes from gabon, good evening. Do you want Celtic?
Here is blavin, a handkerchief, which comes from blavet, gushing water;
menesse, a woman (in a bad sense), which comes from meinec, full
of stones; barant, brook, from baranton, fountain; goffeur, locksmith,
from goff, blacksmith; guedouze, death, which comes from guenn-du,
black-white. Finally, would you like history? Slang calls crowns les
malteses, a souvenir of the coin in circulation on the galleys of Malta.
 It must be observed, however, that mac in Celtic means son.
In addition to the philological origins just indicated, slang possesses
other and still more natural roots, which spring, so to speak,
from the mind of man itself.
In the first place, the direct creation of words. Therein lies
the mystery of tongues. To paint with words, which contains
figures one knows not how or why, is the primitive foundation
of all human languages, what may be called their granite.
Slang abounds in words of this description, immediate words,
words created instantaneously no one knows either where or by whom,
without etymology, without analogies, without derivatives, solitary,
barbarous, sometimes hideous words, which at times possess a singular
power of expression and which live. The executioner, le taule;
the forest, le sabri; fear, flight, taf; the lackey, le larbin;
the mineral, the prefect, the minister, pharos; the devil, le rabouin.
Nothing is stranger than these words which both mask and reveal.
Some, le rabouin, for example, are at the same time grotesque
and terrible, and produce on you the effect of a cyclopean grimace.
ln the second place, metaphor. The peculiarity of a language which
is desirous of saying all yet concealing all is that it is rich
in figures. Metaphor is an enigma, wherein the thief who is plotting
a stroke, the prisoner who is arranging an escape, take refuge.
No idiom is more metaphorical than slang: devisser le coco (to
unscrew the nut), to twist the neck; tortiller (to wriggle), to eat;
etre gerbe, to be tried; a rat, a bread thief; il lansquine, it rains,
a striking, ancient figure which partly bears its date about it,
which assimilates long oblique lines of rain, with the dense and
slanting pikes of the lancers, and which compresses into a single word
the popular expression: it rains halberds. Sometimes, in proportion
as slang progresses from the first epoch to the second, words pass
from the primitive and savage sense to the metaphorical sense.
The devil ceases to be le rabouin, and becomes le boulanger (the
baker), who puts the bread into the oven. This is more witty,
but less grand, something like Racine after Corneille, like Euripides
after AEschylus. Certain slang phrases which participate in the two
epochs and have at once the barbaric character and the metaphorical
character resemble phantasmagories. Les sorgueuers vont solliciter
des gails a la lune--the prowlers are going to steal horses by night,--
this passes before the mind like a group of spectres. One knows not
what one sees.
In the third place, the expedient. Slang lives on the language.
It uses it in accordance with its fancy, it dips into it hap-hazard,
and it often confines itself, when occasion arises, to alter it
in a gross and summary fashion. Occasionally, with the ordinary
words thus deformed and complicated with words of pure slang,
picturesque phrases are formed, in which there can be felt the mixture
of the two preceding elements, the direct creation and the metaphor:
le cab jaspine, je marronne que la roulotte de Pantin trime dans le sabri,
the dog is barking, I suspect that the diligence for Paris is passing
through the woods. Le dab est sinve, la dabuge est merloussiere,
la fee est bative, the bourgeois is stupid, the bourgeoise is cunning,
the daughter is pretty. Generally, to throw listeners off the track,
slang confines itself to adding to all the words of the language
without distinction, an ignoble tail, a termination in aille,
in orgue, in iergue, or in uche. Thus: Vousiergue trouvaille
bonorgue ce gigotmuche? Do you think that leg of mutton good?
A phrase addressed by Cartouche to a turnkey in order to find out
whether the sum offered for his escape suited him.
The termination in mar has been added recently.
Slang, being the dialect of corruption, quickly becomes corrupted itself.
Besides this, as it is always seeking concealment, as soon as it feels
that it is understood, it changes its form. Contrary to what happens
with every other vegetation, every ray of light which falls upon
it kills whatever it touches. Thus slang is in constant process
of decomposition and recomposition; an obscure and rapid work which
never pauses. It passes over more ground in ten years than a language
in ten centuries. Thus le larton (bread) becomes le lartif; le gail
(horse) becomes le gaye; la fertanche (straw) becomes la fertille;
le momignard (brat), le momacque; les fiques (duds), frusques;
la chique (the church), l'egrugeoir; le colabre (neck), le colas.
The devil is at first, gahisto, then le rabouin, then the baker;
the priest is a ratichon, then the boar (le sanglier); the dagger is
le vingt-deux (twenty-two), then le surin, then le lingre; the police
are railles, then roussins, then rousses, then marchands de lacets
(dealers in stay-laces), then coquers, then cognes; the executioner
is le taule, then Charlot, l'atigeur, then le becquillard.
In the seventeenth century, to fight was "to give each other snuff";
in the nineteenth it is "to chew each other's throats."
There have been twenty different phrases between these two extremes.
Cartouche's talk would have been Hebrew to Lacenaire. All the words
of this language are perpetually engaged in flight like the men
who utter them.
Still, from time to time, and in consequence of this very movement,
the ancient slang crops up again and becomes new once more. It has
its headquarters where it maintains its sway. The Temple preserved
the slang of the seventeenth century; Bicetre, when it was a prison,
preserved the slang of Thunes. There one could hear the termination
in anche of the old Thuneurs. Boyanches-tu (bois-tu), do you drink?
But perpetual movement remains its law, nevertheless.
If the philosopher succeeds in fixing, for a moment, for purposes
of observation, this language which is incessantly evaporating,
he falls into doleful and useful meditation. No study is more
efficacious and more fecund in instruction. There is not a metaphor,
not an analogy, in slang, which does not contain a lesson.
Among these men, to beat means to feign; one beats a malady;
ruse is their strength.
For them, the idea of the man is not separated from the idea
of darkness. The night is called la sorgue; man, l'orgue. Man
is a derivative of the night.
They have taken up the practice of considering society in the
light of an atmosphere which kills them, of a fatal force,
and they speak of their liberty as one would speak of his health.
A man under arrest is a sick man; one who is condemned is a dead man.
The most terrible thing for the prisoner within the four walls
in which he is buried, is a sort of glacial chastity, and he calls
the dungeon the castus. In that funereal place, life outside
always presents itself under its most smiling aspect. The prisoner
has irons on his feet; you think, perhaps, that his thought
is that it is with the feet that one walks? No; he is thinking
that it is with the feet that one dances; so, when he has succeeded
in severing his fetters, his first idea is that now he can dance,
and he calls the saw the bastringue (public-house ball).--A name
is a centre; profound assimilation.--The ruffian has two heads,
one of which reasons out his actions and leads him all his life long,
and the other which he has upon his shoulders on the day of his death;
he calls the head which counsels him in crime la sorbonne,
and the head which expiates it la tronche.--When a man has no
longer anything but rags upon his body and vices in his heart,
when he has arrived at that double moral and material degradation
which the word blackguard characterizes in its two acceptations,
he is ripe for crime; he is like a well-whetted knife; he has
two cutting edges, his distress and his malice; so slang does
not say a blackguard, it says un reguise.--What are the galleys?
A brazier of damnation, a hell. The convict calls himself a fagot.--
And finally, what name do malefactors give to their prison?
The college. A whole penitentiary system can be evolved from
Does the reader wish to know where the majority of the songs of
the galleys, those refrains called in the special vocabulary lirlonfa,
have had their birth?
Let him listen to what follows:--
There existed at the Chatelet in Paris a large and long cellar.
This cellar was eight feet below the level of the Seine. It had
neither windows nor air-holes, its only aperture was the door;
men could enter there, air could not. This vault had for ceiling
a vault of stone, and for floor ten inches of mud. It was flagged;
but the pavement had rotted and cracked under the oozing of the water.
Eight feet above the floor, a long and massive beam traversed this
subterranean excavation from side to side; from this beam hung,
at short distances apart, chains three feet long, and at the end
of these chains there were rings for the neck. In this vault,
men who had been condemned to the galleys were incarcerated until the
day of their departure for Toulon. They were thrust under this beam,
where each one found his fetters swinging in the darkness and waiting
The chains, those pendant arms, and the necklets, those open hands,
caught the unhappy wretches by the throat. They were rivetted and
left there. As the chain was too short, they could not lie down.
They remained motionless in that cavern, in that night, beneath
that beam, almost hanging, forced to unheard-of efforts to reach
their bread, jug, or their vault overhead, mud even to mid-leg,
filth flowing to their very calves, broken asunder with fatigue,
with thighs and knees giving way, clinging fast to the chain with
their hands in order to obtain some rest, unable to sleep except
when standing erect, and awakened every moment by the strangling
of the collar; some woke no more. In order to eat, they pushed
the bread, which was flung to them in the mud, along their leg
with their heel until it reached their hand.
How long did they remain thus? One month, two months, six months
sometimes; one stayed a year. It was the antechamber of the galleys.
Men were put there for stealing a hare from the king. In this
sepulchre-hell, what did they do? What man can do in a sepulchre,